'Please you, my lady,' answered Tom, 'I am in mortal terror of my
lord Herbert.'
'Then hast thou been doing amiss, Tom? for no well-doer ever yet was
afeard of my lord. Comest thou because thou wouldst confess the
truth?'
'Ah, my lady,' faltered Tom.
'Come, then; I will lead thee to my lord.'
'No, no, an't please you, my lady!' cried Tom, trembling yet more.
'I will confess to you, my lady, and then do you confess to my lord,
so that he may forgive me.'
'Well, I will venture so far for thee, Tom,' returned her ladyship;
'that is, if thou be honest, and tell me all.'
Thus encouraged, Tom cleansed his stuffed bosom, telling all the
part he had borne in Richard's escape, even to the disclosure of the
watchword to his mother.
Is there not this peculiarity about the fear of the supernatural,
even let it be of the lowest and most slavish kind, that under it
men speak the truth, believing that alone can shelter them?
Lady Margaret dismissed him with hopes of forgiveness, and going
straight to her husband in his secret chamber, amused him largely
with her vivid representation, amounting indeed to no sparing
mimicry of Tom's looks and words as he made his confession.
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