“The day of a good deed, love,” he said. “Now the other, for my sake.”
“Have you not thought,” she said, pressing closer to him, heedless of the fact that they were watched.
“I thought? Yes, that it is the most blessed day in the calendar.”
“Nay; but have you not thought what day it is?”
“Not I. Saint Somebody-or-another’s—some Christian martyr’s, perhaps; and we’ll give him a burnt sacrifice of bad witch to satisfy his manes.”
“Mark, it is the anniversary of the day that was to have seen you a husband; me a broken-hearted girl.”
Sir Mark started and changed colour. He was troubled, for it seemed a bad augury that such a day should have been chosen, but he lightly put it aside.
“Never mind, love; it was an accident, and can make no difference now. Besides, the matter is settled, and if we picked the days over we should find each the anniversary of some troubled time.”
Anne Beckley was disappointed, but she made no more objection, and they rode soon after through the avenue and over the bridge, beneath which the great carp gaped and stared with their big round eyes in unconscious imitation of their master, the wise dispenser of King James’s justice, and keeper of the peace.