“Aye, of a cell in the Fleet if you persist in your insolence!” cried the merchant.
“Thanks,” quietly said the beggar. “And you, Master Samson?”
“’Tis a sweet pretty lass,” said Samson, ruefully; “and pity of her too, but you see a man like me must look to his credit. I’ll give her twenty marks to help her to a husband, Hal, only let her keep out of my sight for ever and a day.”
“I thought I heard another voice,” said the beggar. “I trow the third suitor has made off without further ado.”
“Not so, fair Sir,” said a voice close to him, thick and choked with feeling. “Your daughter is too dear to me for me thus to part, even were mine honour not pledged.”
“Sir knight,” interfered the merchant, “you will get into a desperate coil with your friends.”
“I am my own master,” answered the knight. “My parents are dead. I am of age, and, Sir, I offer myself and all that is mine to your fair daughter, as I did at Saint Winifred’s Well, as one bound both by honour and love.”
“It is spoken honourably,” said Hal; “but, Sir, canst thou answer me with her dowry? Tell down coin for coin.”
He held up a heavy leathern bag. The knight, who had come prepared, took down another such bag from his saddle-bow. Down went one silver piece from the knight. Down went another from the beggar.
“Stay, stay,” cried Samson. “I can play at that game too.”