As he spoke he caught the descending blade in his hand, turned it aside, and it passed into the charcoal floor, while, before Sir Mark could repeat his thrust, he was sent staggering back as Gil sprang to his feet. Then, sharply striking aside a fresh thrust, Gil closed with his adversary; there was a brief struggle; with one hand holding Sir Mark’s sword-wrist, the other raised on high, he was about to strike with his short keen dagger, when a loud cry arrested him, and Mace, followed by her father and his foreman Croftly, ran in.
“Shame on thee, Gilbert Carr,” cried Mace, as she rushed between the adversaries. “Is this thy conduct towards my father’s guest?”
“Thy father’s guest would have run me through, mistress,” he said, curtly. “I did but fight for life.”
“I’ll have no more of this,” cried the founder, fiercely. “Gilbert Carr, there have been too much of thy swashbuckling ways.”
“Nay, Master Cobbe, you are too hard upon me,” said Gil. “It was a fair fight, fairly provoked.”
“I’ll not have my child made the prize for any fighting,” cried the founder, hotly. “Mace, this is your doing.”
“If Gilbert Carr made me the object for which his sword was bared,” cried Mace, coldly, “he might have left it in its sheath.”
“I have not deserved this at your hands, Mace,” whispered Gil. “It is cruel, indeed.”
Mace spoke not, but as she saw her lover’s emotion she felt that she would rather bite out her tongue than say such words again.
“I forbade you my place, Gil Carr,” cried the founder. “You are no friend to me. Sir Mark is my guest, and an officer of the King, whom you have assailed, so get you gone ere the officers of justice lay you by the heels.”