“Will you go?” Gregory repeated.
“Oh, a pox on it,” broke out Joseph, rising suddenly. “I'll go since naught else will quiet you. I'll start to-morrow.”
“Joseph, I am grateful. I shall be more grateful yet if you will start to-day.”
“No, sink me, no.”
“Yes, sink me, yes,” returned Gregory. “You must, Joseph.”
Joseph spoke of the wind again; the sky, he urged, was heavy with rain. “What signifies a day?” he whined.
But Gregory stood his ground until almost out of self-protection the other consented to do his bidding and set out as soon as he could make ready.
This being determined, Joseph left his brother, and cursing Master Stewart for the amount of discomfort which he was about to endure on his behoof, he went to prepare for the journey.
Gregory lingered still in the chamber where they had dined, and sat staring moodily before him at the table-linen. Anon, with a half-laugh of contempt, he filled a glass of muscadine, and drained it. As he set down the glass the door opened, and on the threshold stood a very dainty girl, whose age could not be more than twenty. Gregory looked on the fresh, oval face, with its wealth of brown hair crowning the low, broad forehead, and told himself that in his daughter he had just cause for pride. He looked again, and told himself that his brother was right; she had not the air of a maid whose lover returns not from the wars. Her lips were smiling, and the eyes—low-lidded and blue as the heavens—were bright with mirth.
“Why sit you there so glum,” she cried, “whilst my uncle, they tell me, is going on a journey?”