While these lover-like thoughts were passing through his brain,
the armourer loitered in his pace, often turning his eyes eastward,
and eyeing the firmament, in which no slight shades of grey were
beginning to flicker, to announce the approach of dawn, however
distant, which, to the impatience of the stout armourer, seemed
on that morning to abstain longer than usual from occupying her
eastern barbican. He was now passing slowly under the wall of St.
Anne's Chapel (not failing to cross himself and say an ace, as he
trode the consecrated ground), when a voice, which seemed to come
from behind one of the flying buttresses of the chapel, said, "He
lingers that has need to run."

"Who speaks?" said the armourer, looking around him, somewhat
startled at an address so unexpected, both in its tone and tenor.

"No matter who speaks," answered the same voice. "Do thou make
great speed, or thou wilt scarce make good speed. Bandy not words,
but begone."

"Saint or sinner, angel or devil," said Henry, crossing himself,
"your advice touches me but too dearly to be neglected. St. Valentine
be my speed!"

So saying, he instantly changed his loitering pace to one with which
few people could have kept up, and in an instant was in Couvrefew
Street. He had not made three steps towards Simon Glover's, which
stood in the midst of the narrow street, when two men started from
under the houses on different sides, and advanced, as it were by
concert, to intercept his passage. The imperfect light only permitted