“It is three miles to the White Lodge. The swainmote court is held after the next new moon.”

“My friend, I shall not be there.”

“Good lady, I judge you will.”

He saw her give an angry flirt of the head.

“By my troth, to be pulled down by a Sussex badger and rolled on the grass! Pah! What manner of clown are you to stand there and talk of the swainmote?”

He grew the colder as she grew the more fierce.

“I am Lord of the Deer.”

She laughed and clapped her hands together.

“Listen to the lousel! Lord of the Deer! Lord of the Swine more likely. Now, Sir Legion, old Roger Ferrers is master of this forest, and you——”

He cut her short, chin in air.