Robin sprang forward and extended his arms in time to prevent her from falling to the floor.
“I am a very fool,” he said, bitterly reproaching himself—“a dolt, an idiot—a mere wearer of the motley doublet—a jingler of the belled cap would have known better. St. Withold, but I am an ass!”
Having his own reasons for not calling assistance from the ante-room, he used all kinds of expedients to restore the Ladye Annabel to consciousness. He chafed the fair and delicate hands, he deluged the brow as white as snow, with perfumed liquids contained in silver flagons standing upon the table; and after a lapse of a quarter of an hour he had the gratification of seeing her eyes unclose, and feeling her heart beat as he held her form in his arms.
The Ladye Annabel faintly spoke—“I have had a fearful—fearful dream. The Virgin save me from the dark spirits that inspire such fancies. I thought of thee—of thee, my father!”
She paused suddenly as she caught a view of the yeoman’s face.
“Thou here!” she exclaimed in surprise, “wherefore is this?”
“St. Withold!” muttered the confused Robin, fearful of again referring to the late subject of horror. “Why Ladye, in truth I am here—because I am—not here—that is to say—s’death Ladye, I came here to serve ye.”
“To serve me?” said Annabel wonderingly, “how wouldst thou serve me?”
“Ladye,” cried the yeoman in utter despair of his ability to convey his ideas in a circuitous manner. “Ladye would you wed this Duke of Florence?”
“Sooner would I die!”