Marina gently passed the swaddled infant to his mother, who sat down on the bed proudly to nurse the baby, extracting a fat breast from her heavy gown. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. Having secured this,—for he was almost famished,—he said that he had lost a hammer and wished to purchase one. For her it was sufficient to know that somebody wanted her, that never again would she be alone, that always this boy with the dreams would be depending upon her. Her father intercepted her, and for a moment she and he struggled with their hands upon the latch.
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