Mace looked at him half-wounded, half-amused.
“When did you know me guilty of such follies, father?” she asked.
“Never till now, when thy head was filled with love-nonsense by that scoundrel, Gil.”
“Father, you hurt me when you speak thus of Gil,” she cried sadly; “and when you doubt my truth.”
“Thou hast been to Mother Goodhugh, like some silly wench, to ask her for love-charms; worse still, thou hast, the moment Sir Mark has gone, run off to keep tryst with a man I forbid thee to see.”
The pained look grew deeper in Mace’s eyes as she laid both her hands upon the broad chest of the founder, and gazed full in his eyes.
“Father, dear,” she said, simply, “why should I go to bid a foolish old woman mutter silly spells, when I know that Gil loves me with all his heart.”
“Out upon his love. As he loves Anno Beckley, and every woman he meets. Shame on thee, girl—for shame!”
She smiled sadly as she still gazed up in his face.
“You don’t mean this, father, dear,” she said. “You don’t think I should be so silly as to go to Mother Goodhugh for what you say?”