"What you shall see that you shall see," said I, lightly, for I had an acquaintance with women and knew what way was best to take them.
"Sir," says she to me on that, "I have no doubt that you are a man of honour."
"Ay, so it is there you would tickle me?" I cried, laughing. "Gadzooks, so I am, and one to keep my word whenever it is given."
"Then 'tis given against me?" she said, after a moment's silence, and very gravely.
"Faith, but you talk too much," I cried, in an irritation at her persistence. "You shall neither cajole nor trick me, and that's plain enough for you. I have shut my ears afore to many pleading tongues that wagged in dainty mouths. You are none so sweet as to dissuade me, madam, fair though you be."
She was silent again for a time, and then she spoke bitterly. "Ay," said she, "yet 'tis my fairness that has pulled this ruin upon me."
"Why, you gabble of ruin," said I, with a sneer, "as one that wears the buskin. I warrant there is that in you that knows well enough and laments not. I care not what ye think or what ye wish. You shall do my will and no other."
She made no answer, and now we were come to a hamlet upon the back parts of Milford, where a stream ran under a bridgeway and by high cliffs. 'Twas a place called Eashing. Here was an inn that I had once visited, with an old goose-neck for a landlord, and, taking pity on Mrs Barbara (if she were so called) and her white face, I stopped before the door and, demanding to be shown into a privy room, led her thither.
"You will have a glass of wine against your faintness," said I, quickly, "but I will have no speaking. Raise your voice and you shall learn the worst, and what it is to offend Dick Ryder."