“She is, my lord,” faltered Alleyne.
“Of a knightly house?”
“Yes.”
“Have a care, Alleyne, have a care!” said Sir Nigel, kindly. “The higher the steed the greater the fall. Hawk not at that which may be beyond thy flight.”
“My lord, I know little of the ways and usages of the world,” cried Alleyne, “but I would fain ask your rede upon the matter. You have known my father and my kin: is not my family one of good standing and repute?”
“Beyond all question.”
“And yet you warn me that I must not place my love too high.”
“Were Minstead yours, Alleyne, then, by St. Paul! I cannot think that any family in the land would not be proud to take you among them, seeing that you come of so old a strain. But while the Socman lives——Ha, by my soul! if this is not Sir Oliver's step I am the more mistaken.”
As he spoke, a heavy footfall was heard without, and the portly knight flung open the door and strode into the room.
“Why, my little coz,” said he, “I have come across to tell you that I live above the barber's in the Rue de la Tour, and that there is a venison pasty in the oven and two flasks of the right vintage on the table. By St. James! a blind man might find the place, for one has but to get in the wind from it, and follow the savory smell. Put on your cloak, then, and come, for Sir Walter Hewett and Sir Robert Briquet, with one or two others, are awaiting us.”