“No, no, Master Samson,” said the beggar; “your pretensions are resigned. Your chance is over.”
Mark after mark—crown after crown—all the Dunster rents; all the old hoards, with queer figures of Saxon kings, lay on the grass, still for each the beggar had rained down its fellow, and inexhaustible seemed the bags that he sat upon. Samson bit his lips, and the merchant muttered with vexation. It could not be fairly come by: he must be the president of a den of robbers; it should be looked to.
The last bag of the knight lay thin and exhausted; the beggar clutched one bursting with repletion.
“I could not put the lands and castle of Dunster into a bag and add thereto,” said the knight, at last. “Would that I could, my sword, my spurs, and knightly blood to boot, and lay them at your daughter’s feet.”
“Let them weigh in the balance,” said the beggar; “and therewith thy truth to thy word.”
“And will you own me?” exclaimed the knight. “Will you take me to your daughter?”
“Nay, I said not so,” returned Blind Hal. “I am not in such haste. Come back on this day week, when I shall have learnt whether thou art worthy to match with my child.”
“Worthy!” John of Dunster chafed and bit his lips at such words from a beggar.
“Ay, worthy,” repeated the beggar, guessing his irritation. “I like thee well, as a man of thy word, so far, but I must know more of him who is to mate with my pretty Bessee.”
It was that evening that a page entered the royal apartments, and giving a ring to the King, informed him that a blind beggar had sent it in, and entreated to speak with him.