“Mistress Marion?” cried a groom, showing his face at the door of the chamber, “Sir Marm’duke be mounted. They’re only waitin’ for you, and Miss Lora!”
The man, after delivering his message, retired.
“Lora!” whispered Marion, as they issued forth from the room; “not a word of what you know—not to anyone! Promise me that; and I may give you the satisfaction you have asked for.”
During the conversation between the cousins, the two men, who were the chief subjects of it, were engaged in a dialogue of a somewhat kindred character. Scarthe’s sitting apartment was the scene; though neither of the speakers was seated. Both were on their feet; and in costume for the saddle—not military—but merely booted and spurred, with certain equipments covering their dresses, that betokened an intention of going forth upon the sport of falconry.
A splendid jer-falcon—perched upon the back of a chair, and wearing his hood—gave further evidence of this intention; while their gloves drawn on, and their beavers held in hand, told that, like the two ladies, they were only awaiting a summons to sally forth.
Scarthe, following a favourite habit, was pacing the floor; while the cornet stood watching him with attention: as if he had asked counsel from his superior, and was waiting to receive it.
“And so, my gay cornet;” said Scarthe, addressing the subaltern in his usual bantering way, “you’re determined to try her again?”
“Yes, by Ged!—that is if you approve of it.”
“Oh! as to my approval, it don’t need that. It’s not a military matter. You may propose to every woman in the county for aught I care; twenty times to each, if you think fit.”
“But I want your advice, captain. Suppose she should refuse me a second time?”