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Updated: June 10, 2025
"Marry come up, thou scrap of a chirping canary!" answered the gaoler, half roughly and half amused. "If babes like this be in such minds, 'tis no marvel their fathers and mothers stand to it." "But I'm not a baby, Mr Wastborowe!" said Cissy, rather affronted. "Will and Baby are both younger than me. I'm going in ten, and I takes care of Father."
The gaoler's men, who were accustomed to see every body in the prison appear afraid of him, were evidently much amused by the perfect fearlessness of Cissy. Wastborowe himself seemed to think it a very good joke. "And who takes care of thee?" asked he. Cissy gave her usual answer. "God takes care of me." "And not of thy father?" said Wastborowe with a sneer.
"An't please you, Mistress Clere, black serge for a girdle." "Suit yourself," answered Mistress Clere, giving three pieces of serge, which were lying on the counter, a push towards Rose. "Well, Audrey Wastborowe, what are you standing there for? Ben't you a-going to that Tomkins?" "Well, nay, I don't think I be, if you'll let me have that stuff at elevenpence the ell.
The gaoler came back to shut the door, and then, returning to the dungeon, showed himself so excessively surly and overbearing, that his men whispered to one another that "he'd been having it out with his mistress." Before he recovered his equanimity, the Bailiff returned and called him into the courtyard. "Hearken, Wastborowe: how many of these have you now in ward? Well-nigh all, methinks."
"Audrey, do you know aught of one Elizabeth Foulkes?" "Liz'beth What-did-you-say?" inquired Mrs Wastborowe, hastily drying her arms on her apron, and coming forward. "Elizabeth Foulkes," repeated the Bailiff. "What, yon lass o' Clere's the clothier? Oh, ay, you'll find her in Balcon Lane, at the Magpie. A tall, well-favoured young maid she is might be a princess, to look at her.
Cissy heard him, and felt insulted, as a young woman of her age naturally would. "Please, Sir, I'm not a baby! Baby's a baby, but Will's six, and I'm going in ten. And we are going to be as good as we can, and mind all Father said to us." "Take them away take them away!" cried Sir John. Wastborowe lifted Will down. "But please " said Cissy piteously "isn't nothing to be done to us?
"And what dost thou believe?" asked the Commissioner, half scornfully, half amused. "Please, we believe what Father told us." "Who is their father?" was asked of the gaoler. "Johnson, worshipful Sirs: Alegar, of Thorpe, that you have sentenced this morrow." "Gramercy!" said Sir John. "Take them down, Wastborowe, take them down, and carry them away. Have them up another day. Such babes!"
The gaoler turned round and stared at his questioner. "Thou aren't like to be burned, I reckon," said he with a laugh. "I must, if Father is," was Cissy's calm response. "It'll hurt a bit, I suppose; but you see when we get to Heaven afterwards, every thing will be so good and pleasant, I don't think we need care much. Do you, please, Mr Wastborowe?"
Mayn't we go 'long of Father?" "Ay, for the present," answered Wastborowe, as he took a hand of each to lead them back. "But isn't Father to be burned?" "Come along! I can't stay," said the gaoler hastily. Even his hard heart shrank from answering yes to that little pleading face. "But please, oh please, they mustn't burn Father and not us! We must go with Father." "Wastborowe!"
Satan would not want them, you know; and Jesus will want them, for He died for them. He'll look after us, I expect. Don't you think so, Mr Wastborowe?" "Hold thy noise!" said the gaoler, rising, with the empty jug in his hand. He wanted some more ale, and he was tired of amusing himself with Cissy. "Hush thee, my little maid!" said her father, laying his hand on her head.
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