"And why are you here? Who are you? What is your name?" cried she a little breathlessly, and I wondered at the fixed intensity of her gaze.
"Gregory," says I, taking my foot from his middle but threatening him with my staff, "I am come for no traffic with maids, so rise up and bring me to your master."
"Nay," groans the fellow, turning up his eyes, "'tis thing impossible, here's only my lady—"
"And I seek your master—is he within?"
"Nay," says Gregory, flinching beneath my staff, "as my lady shall tell 'ee—he is not here."
"Ha!" quoth I. "That will I see for myself." But as I turned to stride up the avenue, my lady wheeled her horse, barring my way.
"Whither go you?" she demanded, her eyes holding mine.
"To the house for Sir Richard. I have been at some small pains to gain speech with him."
"To what end?"
"Why truly," I answered, leaning upon my staff and viewing her eye to eye, "'tis a matter of vital moment, aye—in a manner of speaking—'tis a matter of life and death betwixt us." Now as I stood thus I could not but be conscious of her glowing, vigorous beauty, her body's noble shape and the easy grace of her as she sat her fretting horse, swaying to his every movement. And to me, in my rags, she seemed no woman but a goddess rather, proud, immaculate and very far removed; and yet these proud lips could (mayhap) grow soft and tender, these clear eyes that met mine so fearlessly—