“Doubtless,” said Barton. “But I mistake if she carrieth not a high brow that will be ill to bend. Her doting father hath been ever too foolishly fond of her to thwart her will, till it hath waxed too strong for his opposing. She will never yield, I promise thee.”
“Then hath our Bishop lost his travel,” said Foster. “But when returneth our Reverend Lord homeward?”
“His present orders are for to-morrow,” replied Barton.
“How sayst thou, Assueton?” said Hepborne, in a whisper to his friend, after the conversation between the two strangers had dropped; “how sayst thou now? Did I right, think ye, to yield to thine importunity, to shun the hospitality of Norham Castle, that we might hostel it so vilely here i’ the nale of the Norham Tower? Dost thou not grieve for thy folly?”
“Why, faith,” replied Assueton, “to thee it may be cause of some regret; and I may grieve for thee, seeing that thou, an idolater of woman’s beauty, hast missed worshipping before the footstool of this haughty damsel. Thou mightest have caught a shred of ribbon from her fair hand, perchance, to have been treasured and worn in thy helmet; but, for mine own particular part, I despise such toys. Rough, unribboned steel, and the joyous neighing of my war-steed, are to me more pleasing than the gaudy paraments and puling parlance of love-sick maidens.”
“Nay, then, I do confess that my desire to behold this rare beauty hath much grown by what I have heard,” replied Hepborne. “Would that thou hadst been less indolently disposed, my friend. We might have been even now in the Castle; and ere we should have left it, who knows but we might have rescued this distressed damosel from an alliance she detesteth. Even after all these protestations to the contrary, thine icy heart mought have been thawed by the fire of her eyes, and the adventure mought have been thine own.”
“St. Andrew forbid!” replied Assueton. “I covet no such emprise. I trust my heart is love-proof. Have I not stood before the lightning-glances of the demoiselles of Paris, and may I not hold my breastplate to be good armour against all else?”
“Nay, boast not of this unknightly duresse of thine, Assueton,” replied Hepborne. “Trust me, thou wilt fall when thine hour cometh. But, by St. Baldrid, I would give this golden [[28]]chain from my neck—nay, I would give ten times its worth, to be blessed with but a sight of her.”
“Ay,” said Assueton, “thou art like the moth, and wouldst hover round the lamp-fire till thy wings were singed.”
“Pshaw, Sir Adamant,” said Hepborne, “thou knowest I have skimmed through many a festal hall, blazing with bright eyes, and yet are my opinions as whole as thine. But I am not insensible to woman’s charms as thou art; and to behold so bright a star, perdie, I should care little to risk being scorched by coming within the range of its rays.”