“Nay,” said the founder, “only once. We’ll wait here and see if they come.”
The words had scarcely left his lips before he uttered an exclamation, and ran towards the house, just in time to catch a dark figure stealing towards the door.
“Quick!” he whispered to Sir Mark, who had followed him; and, half-carrying the captive within doors, the founder tore aside the hood, exclaiming against his daughter for her wanton ways.
“What will Sir Mark think of you?” he cried angrily. “He will—Why, curse the girl; it’s Janet!”
Janet it was, who on the spur of the moment had masqueraded as her mistress, gone down the garden, and with throbbing heart thrown herself as she believed in Gil’s way. For he suddenly seized her in his arms, and, though she uttered a faint cry and escaped, she took care not to go beyond his vision, but led him a Will-o’-the-Wisp kind of dance from walk to walk, till, thinking she had been sufficiently coy, she stopped short, quite out of breath, and allowed herself to be caught.
He who captured her was sharper of eyesight, and, in spite of the cloak and hood, not for a moment deceived. He had made too much use of his eyes by night for them to play him false; and, as once more he caught the girl in his arms, he held her tightly, exclaiming—
“Why, Janet, you pretty little witch, have I caught thee at last?”
The girl no sooner felt the rough face of her captor against hers than she struggled vigorously, though in vain.
“Why, it be Mas’ Wat Kilby,” she panted.
“Wat Kilby it is, my darling,” he replied in an amorous growl. “Who did you think it was?”