“And with reason,” replied another. “Mabel Lyndwood is the comeliest lass in Berkshire.”
“Ay, marry is she,” rejoined the first speaker; “and, to my thinking, she is a fairer and sweeter flower than any that blooms in yon stately castle—the flower that finds so much favour in the eyes of our royal Hal not excepted.”
“Have a care, Gabriel Lapp,” observed another keeper. “Recollect that Mark Fytton, the butcher, was hanged for speaking slightingly of the Lady Anne Boleyn; and you may share his fate if you disparage her beauty.”
“Na I meant not to disparage the Lady Anne,” replied Gabriel. “Hal may marry her when he will, and divorce her as soon afterwards as he pleases, for aught I care. If he marries fifty wives, I shall like him all the better. The more the merrier, say I. But if he sets eyes on Mab Lyndwood it may somewhat unsettle his love for the Lady Anne.”
“Tush, Gabriel!” said Morgan Fenwolf, darting an angry look at him. “What business have you to insinuate that the king would heed other than the lady of his love?”
“You are jealous, Morgan Fenwolf,” rejoined Gabriel, with a malignant grin. “We all know you are in love with Mabel yourself.”
“And we all know, likewise, that Mabel will have nothing to say to you!” cried another keeper, while the others laughed in chorus. “Come and sit down beside us, Morgan, and finish your breakfast.”
But the keeper turned moodily away, and hied towards Tristram Lyndwood and his granddaughter. The old forester shook him cordially by the hand, and after questioning him as to what had taken place, and hearing how he had managed to drive the hart royal into the haye, clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Thou art a brave huntsman, Morgan. I wish Mab could only think as well of thee as I do.”
To this speech Mabel not only paid no attention, but looked studiously another way.
“I am glad your grandfather has brought you out to see the chase to-day, Mabel,” observed Morgan Fenwolf.