‘A woman, sir?’
‘I didn’t want to confess it; but ’tis a woman. Strange that I should be drawn so entirely against my natural wish to rush at ’em!’
Cripplestraw, seeing which way the wind blew, found it advisable to blow in harmony. ‘Ah, now at last I see, sir! Spite that few men live that be worthy to command ye; spite that you could rush on, marshal the troops to victory, as I may say; but then—what of it? there’s the unhappy fate of being smit with the eyes of a woman, and you are unmanned! Maister Derriman, who is himself, when he’s got a woman round his neck like a millstone?’
‘It is something like that.’
‘I feel the case. Be you valiant?—I know, of course, the words being a matter of form—be you valiant, I ask? Yes, of course. Then don’t you waste it in the open field. Hoard it up, I say, sir, for a higher class of war—the defence of yer adorable lady. Think what you owe her at this terrible time! Now, Maister Derriman, once more I ask ye to cast off that first haughty wish to rush to Budmouth, and to go where your mis’ess is defenceless and alone.’
‘I will, Cripplestraw, now you put it like that!’
‘Thank ye, thank ye heartily, Maister Derriman. Go now and hide with her.’
‘But can I? Now, hang flattery!—can a man hide without a stain? Of course I would not hide in any mean sense; no, not I!’
‘If you be in love, ’tis plain you may, since it is not your own life, but another’s, that you are concerned for, and you only save your own because it can’t be helped.’
‘’Tis true, Cripplestraw, in a sense. But will it be understood that way? Will they see it as a brave hiding?’