“Why ... why did you fight—that beast?” she questioned breathlessly.
“’Faith, Rose, you heard! ’Twas in the matter of post-horses.”
“Horses!” she repeated. “And naught else?”
“Naught i’ the world, child.”
“Horses!” she panted, in sudden vehement scorn. “And you saw how he would have shamed me! You saw! But then, to be sure, I am but a country wench of none account.... I am merely a poor, friendless girl ... but horses you can fight for, peril your life for, because——”
“Because horses are—horses, child, and the horse, you’ll remember, is a noble animal, man’s faithful friend and servant——”
“Oh!” she cried, between clenched teeth. “Oh, I hate—despise you—Sir John Dering!”
“Ah, Rose child!” sighed he. “Hast found me out so soon? ‘What’s in a name?’ quoth the bard. Alack, a vasty deal! say I. For, ‘Give a dog a bad name and hang him!’ runs the proverb, and methinks ’tis true. So alack for poor Sir John Dering, whose name and reputation are beyond repair and might hang a thousand dogs. But thou’rt hungry, child, and so is poor Sir John. Come, then, haste we to breakfast!”
But she never stirred, only she turned her back suddenly.