There was a joyful flash in Raby’s eyes which brought a softer blush to Betty’s cheek.
“’Twould be a sacrifice to make angels weep!” he said in a low tone, his radiant glance making her eyes seek the ground; “the man is a knave to claim it against your will.”
“’Tis prophesied that I will wed a man so scarred,” she said, in a troubled voice, for superstition had stirred in her heart ever since she first saw Sir Barton’s brow.
Simon Raby laughed as he took her hand, which offered but a poor resistance.
“Mistress Carew,” he whispered, “may not another man be so scarred? Truly, there are many who would bear a greater cut for thy sake.”
A roguish smile curved Betty’s lips, but she averted her face.
“But I like not the scar, sir,” she said demurely.
“Then I swear that thou shalt not wed a scarred face,” Raby answered; and he kissed the embroidered glove that she had left between his fingers, having slipped her hand out of it.
“My uncle says a dowerless maid is not soon wedded, sir,” she retorted, with a flash of pride in her brown eyes; “the scarred and battered remnants are for the portionless, I take it.”
This sudden outburst took Master Raby by surprise. Unconscious of the wound in the young girl’s heart, he could not understand the bitterness of her tone. But he had a frank and generous nature, and it kindled in quick sympathy for the beautiful orphan.