Scrivener had ordered was forgot, though I take all the saints to witness that

to blame me for that miscarriage were like holding the unborn babe to

judgment for sins com —'

'Out of my sight, idiot! Thy prating drives me mad! Hold! whither art flying?

Canst not bide still an instant? Went they toward Southwark?'

'Even so, your worship — for, as I said before, as to that detestable joint, the

babe unborn is no whit more blameless than —'

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'Art here yet! And prating still? Vanish, lest I throttle thee!' The servitor

Vanished. Hendon followed after him, passed him, and plunged down the

stairs two steps at a stride, muttering, ''Tis that scurvy villain that claimed he

Was his son. I have lost thee, my poor little mad master — it is a bitter thought

— and I had come to love thee so! No! by book and bell, not lost! Not lost, for

I will ransack the land till I find thee again. Poor child, yonder is his breakfast

— and mine, but I have no hunger now — so, let the rats have it — speed,

speed! that is the word!' As he wormed his swift way through the noisy

Multitudes upon the Bridge, he several times said to himself — clinging to the

thought as if it were a particularly pleasing one: 'He grumbled but he went —

He went, yes, because he thought Miles Hendon asked it, sweet lad — he would

ne'er have done it for another, I know it well!'