But at the word Mistress Alison steps out o’ the gloom, and in the glare of the firelight I saw her cheek aflame with the rarest crimson. “I crave your pardon, cousin!” says she—’egad, ’twas the first time she had so styled me since I entered the house—“I have forgotten my duty because of all this trouble. Barbara, see that Master Coope is served—nay,” she says, “I will see to it myself,” and she bustles about, and brings me meat and drink, and sets it with her own fair hands on the table before me. “Cousin,” says I, looking hard at her, “I thank you. I am sorry,” I says, and then stops, not knowing what more, nor what I had meant, to say. “But I thank you,” I says. “Indeed, I am both hungry and thirsty.”
“I am sorry, too,” she says—but she did not look at me, her eyes being fixed on the fire—“I should have invited you to eat.” She stood there, lingering, and still she would not look at me. “I fear,” she says at last, and faith, there was a still brighter crimson in her cheeks, “I fear I have been somewhat hasty—and—and—I thank you for—for what you are doing for Sir Nicholas, cousin Richard,”—and suddenly she turned, and gave me one shamefaced sort o’ look, and fled up the stairs.
Heigh-ho! I believe it was then that I fell in love with thee, my sweet! Lord! what a colour, and what eyes she had!
II.
Being now considerably refreshed, and having reviewed my situation as I sat at meat, with the result that I made up my mind to attend to the business of the moment, and leave all thoughts of the future until such time as they must perforce be settled with, I arose from the table and went the round of my men, whom I found very vigilant and ready to discharge their several duties when need arose. It was then close on midnight and we had been invaded for nearly two hours, but so far, the enemy had remained quiescent, and had not so much as re-demanded our submission. He continued very peaceful, and appeared to have temporarily withdrawn his forces. When I reached the window at which I had posted Gregory, I found that the courtyard was empty, and that all was so still and peaceful, save for the sighing of a somewhat angry wind, that no one would have guessed we were withstanding a siege. But there was naught to reassure us in that.
“What are they after, think you?” says I, as I peered over Gregory’s shoulder into the darkness without. “They seem to have drawn off altogether at this present moment.”
“I warrant me they are not far away,” says he. “They put their heads together and talked awhile after Mistress French had spoken with them out of the window, and then they wheeled about and passed the gate. And it’s my firm opinion, Master Richard,” he says, “that at this moment they’re foddering their horses in our stables, though being appointed to stand here,” he says, “I can’t decide that matter for myself.”
“I’ll go round to the east side o’ the house,” says I, and set off along the corridors to the window at which I had stationed Peter and Benjamin. “Now, lads,” says I, coming up to them, “any signs of the enemy?”
“They’re in the stables, Master Richard,” says Peter. “We watched them come in at the gate from the lane an hour ago. First, there was four came together, and then three more followed after them. And they’ve turned out our horses,” says he, pointing to some dark shapes that stood disconsolate enough in the middle of the stable-yard, “and put their own beasts in the stalls.”
The door of the stable stood opposite the window at which we were watching. It was one of those doors that have two halves, and the upper one they had left open, so that we had an excellent view into the stable. They had lighted the lanthorn that hung from the roof, and I could just see the candle that swealed and sputtered in it. Now and then, one or other of Anthony’s gang passed and repassed the square of light. They were evidently making their cattle comfortable on my uncle’s provender, and the thought of it raised within me a roguish desire, such as a lad might have felt, to spoil their sport. The swinging lanthorn and its glare of yellow light gave me a thought. “Isn’t Master John Stirk a famous hand with his gun?” says I to the lads. “I have surely heard something o’ the sort in bygone times,” I says. “A rare hand, surely,” says Peter. “A’ can hit——”