on with his explanations, till the King,
wearying of him, called out--

"Come here, Master Smith."

Jacob advanced, bowing, and stood still.

"Now, Master Smith, the Lord Cromwell tells me that if I sign these
papers, you, on behalf of the Lady Harflete, will loan me L1000 without
interest, which as it chances I need. Where, then, is this L1000?--for
I will have no promises, not even from you, who are known to keep them,
Master Smith."

Jacob thrust his hand beneath his robe, and from various inner pockets
drew out bags of gold, which he set in a row upon the table.

"Here they are, your Grace," he said quietly. "If you should wish for
them they can be weighed and counted."

"God's truth! I think I had better keep them, lest some accident should
happen to you on the way home, Master Smith. You might fall into the
Thames and sink."

"Your Grace is right, the parchments will be lighter to carry, even," he
added meaningly, "with your Highness's name added."

"I can't sign," said the King doubtfully, "all the ink is spilt."

Jacob produced a small ink-horn, which like most merchants of the day he
carried hung to his girdle, drew out the stopper and with a bow set it
on the table.

"In truth you are a good man of business, Master Smith, too good for
a mere king. Such readiness makes me pause. Perhaps we had better meet
again at a more leisured season."

Jacob bowed once more, and stretching out his hand slowly lifted the
first of the bags of gold as though to replace it in his pocket.

"Cromwell, come hither," said the King, whereon Jacob, as though in
forgetfulness, laid the bag back upon the table.

"Repeat the heads of this matter, Cromwell."

"My Liege, the Lady Harflete seeks justice on the Spaniard Maldon,
Abbot of Blossholme, who is said to have murdered her father, Sir John
Foterell, and her husband, Sir Christopher Harflete, though rumour has
it that the latter escaped his clutches and is now in Spain. Item:
the said Abbot has seized the lands which this Dame Cicely should have
inherited from her father, and demands their restitution."

"By God's wounds! justice she shall have and for nothing if we can give
it her," answered the King, letting his heavy fist fall upon the table.
"No need to waste time in setting out her wrongs. Why, 'tis the same
Spanish knave Maldon who stirs up all this hell's broth in the north.
Well, he shall boil in his own pot, for against him our score is long.
What more?"