“A very Paradise,” continued Sir Mark eagerly; “and look, Sir Thomas, over yonder. Who is the maiden? Look! Out there!”
Sir Thomas glanced nervously at his daughter, whose cheeks were very red, and whose eyes flashed no longer a soft and timid light.
“It is the founder’s daughter, Sir Mark. Sweet Mace they call her here,” and he wiped his forehead and gave his feather-padded breeches another hitch as he caught his daughter’s eyes once more.
“Sweet Mace!” said the King’s messenger, inquiringly. “Mace—nutmeg—spice!”
“Nay, Sir Mark, it was her father’s fancy, so they say. Mace or meadow-sweet, it is the same: the creamy-scented blossom that grows beside the Pool.”
“A forest fairy!” cried the young man, eagerly; “and the man, Sir Thomas?”
“Hush, pray, Sir Mark,” whispered the baronet; “the water carries sound.”
“Who is it, sir, I say?” cried the visitor, with an imperious stamp, as the object of his question turned his head.
“It’s he, himself, Sir Mark,” groaned the wretched man, glancing helplessly at the speaker; “the man of whom we spake.”
“What! Jeremiah Cobbe?”