“You are wounded!” she cried, her tone as full of emotion as he could desire; “what have you done?”
“’Tis but a scratch,” he answered lightly; “a little water will soon remove the traces of it.”
But she was not to be put off so easily.
“You have been fighting with Henge!” she exclaimed. “I felt it, and I am thankful that it is no worse.”
“You do not inquire into his fate,” Raby rejoined, smiling, “yet you know not what it is.”
“Nor care,” she answered, her eyes sparkling with anger; “sir, he was unworthy of your steel.”
“That I know now, Mistress Carew,” Simon said heartily; “until a few hours ago I believed him, after his own fashion, a gentleman, save for his pursuit of you, and for that—except the manner of it—there is an excuse.”
“He is too base a man to be aught but a coward,” said Betty, scornfully. “But that cut upon your forehead,” she added in a changed tone, “I grieve to see it; you must call a leech.”
Raby looked at her with a smile, and his expression brought the color to her cheeks.
“Mistress Carew,” he said softly, “you told me the prophecy, and was it not natural I should strive for a scar?”