Meanwhile, Sir Mark had entered the old parlour, and gladly, like Sir Thomas, availed himself of the founder’s hospitality after a long, hot, and dusty ride. The exciting finish, too, had begotten thirst. He had a dozen gallant sayings to bestow upon Mace, whose mind was full of the insult he had thrown at Gil; and her heart beat with pleasure as she recalled her lover’s calm sense of contempt for the gaily-dressed fly who had stung him in the breast.
“This is not a bad glass of wine, Master Cobbe,” said Sir Thomas, who was drinking his third.
“I’m glad you like it,” said the founder, who kept glancing at Sir Mark and his child in an uneasy way; “it’s part of a cask brought me from the south of Spain itself.”
“Ah, yes,” said the worthy justice; “it is not bad.”
“The days have seemed weeks since I have been away, Mistress Cobbe,” whispered Sir Mark; “and I have tried so earnestly to come.”
“Is it on business to my father?” said Mace, who felt that she must say something, “That depends, sweet,” he said in a low voice. “I come as a friend or as an enemy, as he will, and as the fair Mistress Mace may will. His Majesty has charged me with a mission to Master Cobbe, that means—shall I speak plainly?”
“If you please, Sir Mark,” she replied. “I do not understand you else.”
“Then I will speak out, even at the risk of offending—nay, I would say hurting, one who, I hope, is very glad to welcome me back.”
“You said you would speak plainly, Sir Mark,” replied Mace.
“Ay, and so I will,” he said; “but surely I may prolong our discourse. Think how many weary weeks it is since I heard thy voice.”