"Hark thee, Dick," de Claverlok whispered. "I'll be a-tilting with the devil by to-morrow, ... eh!" whereupon he smiled, a wan, brave smile. Then, looking soberly up into the young knight's eyes—"Dick, ... friend, ... I have a confession to make ere I lay down my last lance," he said. "God's sake! To think that I should play the fool at my age, ... two score and four, come the seventeenth day of next month—" he paused for a space, drooping his dimmed eyes. "But to my confession: I meant no harm, ... God wot, my boy, and I intended not to do it, Dick; ... but I loved the maid with whom your troth is plighted from the moment her dainty foot stepped across yon sill.... I ask your forgiveness——"
"De Claverlok, ... dear old friend, ... are you serious?"
"Serious, ... eh?"
"God of my fathers! Do you mean it?" Sir Richard fervently exclaimed. "An this be imperiling your precious life, take her, man, and let health return upon you."
Thereupon the grizzled knight discovered a strength wherewith to frown.
"'Tis most unseemly this, ... most unseemly, ... eh! And you, Dick, with your troth but fresh——"
"De Claverlok," interrupted Sir Richard firmly, "no promises have passed. She thinks me but a silly youth—which is true.... I am. Isabel cares not a fig for me, nor, by my faith, do I for her! We shall never wed. Get you back inside your coat of mail and make her happy, for she loves you, my friend. I read it in her sad eyes but this moment gone."
"Say you truly, Dick? God's sake, boy, you—you, ... but when I get me inside my harness I'll have a lance at you, Dick, for saying somewhat against her."
Sir Richard pressed then the fevered hand that the sick man tried to lift within his. Whereupon de Claverlok smiled, and, sighing happily, seemed to fall into a deep and peaceful sleep.
When the young knight stepped lightly through the door he saw Tyrrell seated upon his horse, with Isabel pleading at his stirrup for him to dismount and wait upon the sick man.