“Nothing,” was the reply, “for Sir Thomas has sent a spare horse for my service. Good Master Cobbe, hearken to me. Come: you will accept me as your son-in-law of the future?”
“Go back to the fine madams of the court, my lad, and you’ll forget my little lass in a week.”
“Nay, by Heaven, I never shall.”
“And we shall never see thee more.”
“You consent?”
“No,” said the founder, sternly. “Good-bye, my lad, and I hope thou forgivest me the prick in the shoulder I gave thee.”
“Forgive? I bless you for it,” cried Sir Mark, enthusiastically; “and as to our never meeting again, why, man, I shall be back here ere a month has gone by.”
“Harkye,” cried the founder, laying his hand on the other’s arm, “this can only be by some trick or other of thine in thy report. Sir Mark Leslie, if thou play’st me false, look well to thyself.”
“Play thee false, Master Cobbe! Nay, I’ll only play to win sweet Mace—and your money,” he added to himself. “I shall be back, I tell you, and before long. Now to make my adieux to your daughter.”
But Mace returned for answer through Janet that she was too ill to see Sir Mark; and the message was conveyed to him when he was alone.