“Sir,” cried Gil, proudly, “I am the son of one of the band of brave men who went out with that injured knight, and who look with the most utter contempt upon the north-country faithless puppet who sent him to the block. Pah; he and his followers stink in the nostrils of all good men and true. Let me see,” cried Gil, seizing his opportunity, “by your broad speech, sir, you are one of the paltry, ragged Scots who came south with Solomon to seek a home.”
“You lie, you scurrilous knave,” said Sir Mark, stung to the quick by this last; “I am the son of a gentleman, who knows how to avenge an insult.”
As he spoke he sprang forward and struck Gil in the chest with the back of his hand.
The blow was sharply given, and with all the young man’s force; but Gil did not budge an inch. This was what he sought, and, drawing back from the gate, he made way for the knight to pass.
Sir Mark, evidently fearing treachery, drew his sword, but Gil had no thought of foul play.
“I make way for you, Sir Mark,” he said, grimly. “Walk on first, sir, while you can.”
Sir Mark started at the grim significance of his companion’s words; and then, full of doubt in the other’s honesty, he strode along a path pointed out by his rival, fighting hard to keep from looking back to see if he were in danger of a treacherous blow.
“Turn to the left, Sir Mark,” said Gil, suddenly; “I presume you do not wish our meeting to be interrupted, and it may be if we stay within the wood.”
“Where would you go, then?” cried Sir Mark, sharply, for he felt his courage fail somewhat in the presence of a man who grew cooler each moment.
“The lower furnace-house seems the likeliest spot to me,” said Gil, quickly. “It will be deserted at this hour; there will be a good light from the roasting ore, and the clash of our swords will be unheard. Moreover, there will be a shorter distance to carry the body of the man who falls.”