"Troth," went on the poet, miserably, "it hath been ill upon ill, e'er since I ran away with her. If such a night be the beginning of our marriage, what shall be the end of it, in God's name?"
"There shall be no end of it," retorted Millicent; "and no beginning, either. Last night, say you? Ay, you showed bravely then. You are well suited in a woman's gown, I think. A fine husband you would be, to protect a wife!"
The scholar's face cleared somewhat; turning to Ravenshaw, he said:
"Give me my puppet-play. I'll go back to London. You see she will not have me."
"Softly, softly!" cried the captain. "Would you mar all at the last, mistress? Reflect, I pray; your only true safety lies in marriage ere your father finds you. You will not bring all my plans to nothing? I do entreat you—"
He stopped at a sudden parting of her lips; he looked around to see what alarmed her. There, coming from the house to the orchard, were Master Etheridge the goldsmith, Sir Peregrine Medway, and a ruddy, irascible-looking country gentleman.
"Plague take it!" muttered Uncle Bartlemy to Millicent; "this comes of not watching."
As Sir Peregrine was the embodiment of lagging weariness, and the goldsmith was himself well fagged, their companion was first within speaking distance. With scant greeting for the elderly couple, he turned fierce eyes on the scholar.
"How now?" he burst out. "Thou unthrift! thou ne'er-do-well! thou good-for-naught! Wouldst run away with my old friend's daughter? I'll teach thee, knave!"
But the captain stepped between the elder Holyday and the son, for he felt the quarrel to be his own, and saw his painfully reared structure of events ready to fall about him.