“Yes, to frighten off that marauding kite, Gil Carr, who was getting far too sweet upon my simple child.”
“Scarecrow! Serpent! Nay, Master Cobbe, I am neither,” cried Sir Mark, whose eyes had rested upon Mace as her father spoke, and gained such an access of passion as they had lit bee-like on the honey-scented blossom that he was ready to speak out plainly now.
“As I said before, how do I know that?”
“Because I tell you now, as a gentleman of his Majesty King James’s household, that I love Mistress Mace with all my heart.”
“And I tell thee flat again, Sir Mark, that, gentleman of his Majesty King James’s household though you be, I would sooner believe the words as coming from some simple gentleman of our parts.”
“What am I to say to you, then?” said Sir Mark, excitedly.
“Nothing at all,” replied the founder, bluntly. “Of course you love the girl—everyone does who sees her; but what of that?”
“What of that? Why, Master Cobbe, I would fain make her my dear wife.”
“Thy wife? My little Mace—my simple-hearted child, wife of a gay spark of a courtier—a knight of King James. Nonsense, man; nonsense! Trash!”
“It does take thee by surprise, no doubt,” said Sir Mark, with a little hauteur; “but it would not be the first time that a knight of my position had stooped to many a worthy yeoman’s daughter.”