“Never fear, father!” rejoined Walter, hurrying down the slope. “And if that drunken cornet dare to interfere,” continued he, half speaking to himself—“I’ll give him a taste of my temper, very different from what he had last night.”
As he gave utterance to this threat, the ex-courtier passed through the crowd, followed by several other gentlemen; who, from different motives, were also hastening towards the scene of contention.
“Come, Mistress Marion Wade!” whispered Dorothy, in a significant way. “It is not your wont to be thus tender-hearted. What is it to us, whether they fight or no? It isn’t your quarrel. This elegant cavalier, who seems to set everybody beside themselves, is not your champion, is he? If any one has reason to be interested in his fate, by my trow, I should say it was the Maid Marian—alias Bet Dancey. And certes, she does seem to take interest in him. See! What’s she doing now, the modest creature? By my word, I believe the wench is about to throw herself upon his breast, and embrace him!”
These words entered the ears of Marion Wade with stinging effect. Suddenly turning she looked down upon the sea of faces, that had thickened, and was swerving around the two men; who were expected soon to become engaged in deadly strife. Many of the cuirassiers had arrived upon the ground, and their steel armour now glittered conspicuously among the more sombre vestments of the civilian spectators.
Marion took no note of these; nor of aught else, save the half score figures that occupied the centre of the ring. Scarthe and his cornet, Henry Holtspur, Robin Hood, Little John, and the Friar were there; and there, too, was Maid Marian! What was she doing in the midst of the men? She had thrown herself in front of the cavalier—between him and his adversary. Her hands were upraised—one of them actually resting upon Holtspur’s shoulder! She appeared to be speaking in earnest appeal—as if dissuading him from the combat!
“In what way could the daughter of Dick Dancey be interested in the actions of Henry Holtspur?”
The question came quickly before the mind of Marion Wade, though it rose not to her lips.
“Bravo!” cried Dorothy Dayrell, as she saw that the cavalier was being equipped. “It’s going to go on! A combat in full armour! Won’t that be fine? It reminds one of the good old times of the troubadours!”
“O Dorothy!” said Lora, “to be merry at such a moment!”
“Hush!” commanded Marion, frantically grasping the jester by the arm, and looking angrily into her eye. “Another word, Mistress Dayrell—another trifling speech—and you and I shall cease to be friends.”