“Popish practices! I, of all men in the world! But my people—who will take charge of them?”
“A reverend gentleman is on his way, sir,” was the reply.
Master Peasegood read the document, bowed his head, and hastened his few preparations, standing at last finally with Mace’s hand clasped in his.
“Tell Father Brisdone I commend thee to his charge, my child, and bid him from me take thee away from thy father’s care sooner than let thee become the wife of this man. Tell him, too, that I am puzzled about this seizure of my person. I know not what it means, unless it be for consorting with him.”
“I know, Master Peasegood,” said Mace, pressing his great hand. “You have an enemy who has done this thing.”
“Ay, child, and who may that be?”
“The man who asked a service of thee, which thou did’st refuse.”
“Sir Mark? Yes, thou art right. Good-bye, my child, good-bye.”
Mace’s heart sank as she saw the stout figure of her old friend go towards where a great lumbering, open vehicle was standing, and as it disappeared she felt that she had one friend the less. It was, then, with a mute feeling of despair that she turned down the narrow, winding lane to meet a little further on three men, who, at a short distance, seemed to be the same she had so lately seen depart.
On a nearer approach, however, she found that it was their uniform, or livery, only that was the same.