“Nay, but, Master Lindley——”
Cecil’s brain sprang to the sound, and all at once he seemed to recognize a perfume familiar, yet all unfamiliar.
But then there fell upon their ears a clash of swords in the court. Lindley and the girl, standing near the window, were thrust aside by Master Ogilvie and the innkeeper.
“Mr. Ashley and his servant are quartered here,” sputtered the latter, “and like as not ’tis one of them. The man’s as quarrelsome as his master.”
“Aie!” cried Judith, suddenly, “’tis Johan, the player’s boy, and Johan cannot fight. He will be killed! Stop it, good Marmaduke. Have a care, boy! Protect yourself! Hit under! Ay, now, to the left! ’Fend yourself, Johan!”
“But if ’tis Johan, the player’s boy,” cried Lindley, “he needs no instructions. He’s master of the art of fighting.”
But Judith was heedless of the meaning in his words.
“He knows not one end of the sword from t’other,” she cried, impetuously, the hot blood in her cheeks. Leaning far from the window, it seemed almost as though she fought with Johan’s sword, so fast her instructions followed one the other, so exactly her motions portrayed what he should do.
The fight in the yard was summarily stopped by the intervention of Marmaduke and Master Ogilvie. Then Judith, drawing back into the room, met Lindley’s eyes for just a second.
“Ah, what have I done?” she cried.