Peggy slipped from her saddle and opening the bags brought out the bread and meat and wine. Cornwaleys spitted the birds upon his sword, and Anne twirled them before the fire, seasoning them as they cooked. The men sat on the logs, and Peggy laughed and sang and poured forth a flood of mirth and gaiety which beguiled the anxious men about her from all thought of care and worriment, while she herself was like a meadow lark intoxicated with its own music.
"Is it all your fancy painted—this ride through the forest?" asked Governor Brent, smiling as he seated himself beside Peggy.
"I should say so!—all and more—the very happiest day I have ever known. I feel as if I were a snow-bird picking up crumbs here in the desert. I think I will never live in a house more. I would we were all going back together," added Peggy, after a little pause.
"But going back you will have my sister Margaret, and she is worth us all."
"Shall I not be afraid of her?"
"No-o," answered Brent, conscious that he had known times when he was. Then, loyal to kinship, he continued, "Margaret is a fine fellow. She lives out the motto of Lord Baltimore, 'Deeds are masculine, words feminine.'"
"Oh, I am sure I should be afraid with her!"
"No, you will not. Margaret's words have both weight and wit, and her wit bites sometimes; but it is like a blooded dog and will not hurt a friend. How often I have wished for her trenchant common-sense when we were sitting round the council table and the men droning folly. If she came in it would be like a north wind clearing the air of dulness."
"Ah, Huntoon is coming this way with a cup of sack. I like that youth. There is meat in his discourse."