"All this but bewilders and perplexes me the more. Would it had been the gift of the other! Ah, Master Posset, I have but one dread."
"Come," said the physician, laughing, "that is fortunate—lovers usually have many."
"One ever present dread, common to every lover—that she does not love me in return, but may be playing with my affection to prove the power of her own charms."
"Take courage—you have seen no rival."
"No; yet she must have many admirers of her beauty, and more aspirants to her hand and wealth; and one of these might soon become a formidable rival."
"Then you have your sword."
"In such a case a poor resource."
"But one that never fails," responded the warlike apothecary, turning his horse; and, after reiterating their adieux, they separated, and in a short space Florence Fawside found himself cantering up the steep crowned by the church of St. Michael, and thence by a narrow bridle-road that led up the hill-side to his mother's tower.
Fourteen nights had elapsed since last we saw her sitting lonely by her hearth; and now she had long since learned to weep for her only son as for one who was numbered with the dead.