She hangs her head; raises it proudly; wishes she had him at a distance, and so, leave to swing her train and use her fan indifferent.
“My beloved,” cries he, “answer me! ’Tis your own Percy, him that worships the ground you tread upon; who has never had a thought apart from you; to whom every other lady on God’s earth’s but a puppet—that asks—eh, Peg, for whom, who?” coaxes he with eyes, lips, hands, heart-beats.
“For your sake, Sir, and none other,” she answers. “’Twas because I knew I’d done wrong and sent you from me careless; I would not give in; but, you up in town, Ken writin’ me as he did—I could abide it no longer—and I went.”
“Now the God above us, bless you,” says he, taking her in his arms, and at the same instant pulling from his waistcoat pocket the scrap of a note she’d written him in the eye of the scaffold.
“Peg, Peg! I’m not worthy to mate with you, and when I learned of all your hairbreadth ’scapes, your twice saving of my life—when I read this, ’slife! My Lady, what’s a man like me to such as you!”
“I’ll tell you,” says she, laying her head on his shoulder, “he’s the man she loves.”
“Will you marry me in a fortnight, Peggy?” asks he, rapturous.
“Nay!” answers she, laughing. “I’ve another suitor to consider, Sir.”
“And who is he?”
“Sir Robin McTart! He was over yesterday to ask my hand from Daddy.”