“I ask your pardon,” said I, panting hard. “But for God’s mercy say what all this means?”
“It means,” said he, “that you are mightily concerned with this same little waiting lass.”
“She is my sweetheart,” said I, “and is to be my wife.”
It was his turn to look blank now, and catch his breath. He whistled, and stared at me from head to foot, and whistled again. Then he found words, and held out his hand.
“If she be thy sweetheart, she is none of mine. I go halves with no man.”
“And this Merriman?” I asked, scarce heeding what he said.
“This Merriman!” said he; “why, take a shame on yourself that you stand skulking here, and leave the defence of those two fair maids to a crack-brained poet and a swashbuckling soldier. I tell you, Humphrey Dexter, those two fellows, little as I love them, are your friends and your master’s; and, if the maids be still safe, they owe it to them, and not to your idle whimpering here.”
“Heaven bless them!” said I. “But, Tom Price, how can I, who have scarce shoes to stand in, or food for one day, go to them?”
“This way,” said he; “I am here to engage men for my master’s troop—join us.”
“What!” I exclaimed; “serve that villain? I had as soon serve the devil himself.”