“—Know, Rose, O Rose, love doth with thee go, Rose.”
“Love, Sir John?” she questioned mockingly. “Indeed, and whose? And whither doth it go, pray?”
“Here and there, everywhere, this I vow to thee and swear—‘For though thou flee, Rose, learn of me, Rose—what is to be will surely be, Rose——’”
“Oh, ha’ done with your silly rhymes!” she cried in angry impatience.
“O Petulance!” he sighed reproachfully. “Why must you interrupt the prophetic muse?”
“Prophetic?” she exclaimed scornfully. “Is this another o’ your marvellous guesses?”
“Even so, Rose. And here’s yet another! Regarding Sir Hector, his offer, ‘to be or not to be’—your mind is made up. Here, then, steal I away leaving you to wake and tell him aye or no.” Saying which, Sir John arose, tiptoed from the chamber with elaborate care and closed the door softly behind him before she could find a suitable retort.
It was perhaps some half-hour later that Sir Hector found him busied inditing a letter; and Sir Hector’s wig was very much askew and his eyes heavy with sleep.
“Whaur is she, John?” he inquired, staring about the room. “Whaur’s the lassie Rose?”
“’Faith,” answered Sir John, glancing up from his writing, “she should be safe enough. I left her with you.”