“'Rogue,' in thy teeth, Churchman!” growled Sir Pertinax.
“Secondly,” continued Friar John, nothing abashed, “because this rogue-fellow is a runagate roysterer, a nameless knave, a highway-haunter, a filching flick-o'-the-gibbet and a—”
“Friar,” snorted Sir Pertinax, “thou 'rt but a very fat man scant o' breath, moreover thou 'rt a friar, so needs must I leave thee alive to make pestilent the air yet a little until thou chokest of an epithet. Meantime perform now one gracious act in thy so graceless life and wed me with this forest maiden.”
“Forest maiden, forsooth!” cried Friar John. “O Saints! O Martyrs! Forest maid, quotha! And wed her—and unto thee, presumptuous malapert! Ho, begone, thy base blood and nameless rank forbid—”
“Hold there, shaveling!” quoth Sir Pertinax, scowling. “Now mark me this! Though I, being very man, do know myself all unworthy maid so sweet and peerless, yet, and she stoop to wed me, then will I make her lady proud and dame of divers goodly manors and castles, of village and hamlet, pit and gallows, sac and soc, with powers the high, the middle and the low and with ten-score lances in her train. For though in humble guise I went, no nameless rogue am I, but Knight of Shene, Lord of Westover, Framling, Bracton and Deepdene—”
“How!” cried Melissa, pouting rosy lip and frowning a little. “O Pertinax, art indeed a great lord?”
“Why, sooth—forsooth and indeed,” he stammered, “I do fear I am.”
“Then thou 'rt no poor, distressful, ragged, outlaw-soldier?”
“Alack—no!” he groaned, regardful of her frown.
“Then basely hast thou tricked me—O cruel!”