Alleyne said nothing, but his heart seemed to turn to a lump of ice in his bosom.
“My father has broad acres,” the other continued, “from Fareham Creek to the slope of the Portsdown Hill. There is filling of granges, hewing of wood, malting of grain, and herding of sheep as much as heart could wish, and I the only son. Sure am I that Sir Nigel would be blithe at such a match.”
“But how of the lady?” asked Alleyne, with dry lips.
“Ah, lad, there lies my trouble. It is a toss of the head and a droop of the eyes if I say one word of what is in my mind. 'Twere as easy to woo the snow-dame that we shaped last winter in our castle yard. I did but ask her yesternight for her green veil, that I might bear it as a token or lambrequin upon my helm; but she flashed out at me that she kept it for a better man, and then all in a breath asked pardon for that she had spoke so rudely. Yet she would not take back the words either, nor would she grant the veil. Has it seemed to thee, Alleyne, that she loves any one?”
“Nay, I cannot say,” said Alleyne, with a wild throb of sudden hope in his heart.
“I have thought so, and yet I cannot name the man. Indeed, save myself, and Walter Ford, and you, who are half a clerk, and Father Christopher of the Priory, and Bertrand the page, who is there whom she sees?”
“I cannot tell,” quoth Alleyne shortly; and the two squires rode on again, each intent upon his own thoughts.
Next day at morning lesson the teacher observed that his pupil was indeed looking pale and jaded, with listless eyes and a weary manner. He was heavy-hearted to note the grievous change in her.
“Your mistress, I fear, is ill, Agatha,” he said to the tire-woman, when the Lady Maude had sought her chamber.
The maid looked aslant at him with laughing eyes. “It is not an illness that kills,” quoth she.