Anne Beckley rode on in silence for some time, thinking. Her betrothed laughed and chatted gaily, and truly they were a handsome pair; but the girl’s heart was ill at ease, and at last, being bantered by Sir Mark upon her silence, she leaned towards him in a quiet glade of the forest, and, laying her hand upon his shoulder, offered her lips to his long clinging kiss.
“I have a favour to ask, love,” she said.
“Ask favours from now till night, and thou shalt have them all,” he cried.
“It is but one,” faltered Anne; “our wedding.”
“I would it were over,” cried Sir Mark, eagerly; “but what of it, bright eyes?”
“I like not the day,” said Anne, checking her horse’s pace so that she could cling to her companion.
“And why not?” he asked.
“I like it not for my sake and thine,” she said in a low tone.
“Let’s hear the reason on thy part,” said Sir Mark, laughing.
“It is the day they burn that wicked woman; and it troubles me that we should go to church at such a time.”