Part 11 (1/2)

”I warrant many a grand gentleman would envy him that business,” said the Dame, smiling.

Debora gave a little laugh--short and hard. Her eyes, of a blue that was almost black, shone like stars.

”Dost think so?” she said. ”Nay, then, thou art a flatterer. I will to my room. My hair is roughened, is't not?”

”Thou art rarely beautiful as thou art; there be little rings o' curls about thy ears. I would not do aught to them. Thy face hath no colour, yet ne'er saw I thee more comely.”

”Now, that is well,” she answered. ”That giveth my faint heart courage, an' marry! 'tis what I need. I would not look woe-begone, or of a cast-down countenance, not I! but would bear me bravely, an' there be cause. Go thou now, good Mistress Blossom; the faintness hath quite pa.s.sed.”

It seemed but a moment before Debora heard the Dame's voice again at the door.

”He hath come,” she said, in far-reaching whisper fraught with burden of unrelieved curiosity.

”He doth wait below, Mistress Deb. Beshrew me! but he is as goodly a gentleman as any i' London! His doublet is brocaded an' o'er brave with silver lacings, an' he wear'th a fluted ruff like the quality at Court. Moreover, he hold'th himself like a very Prince.”

”Doth he now?” said Debora, going down the hallway. ”Why, then he hath fair captivated thee. Thou, at thy age! Well-a-day! What think'st o'

his voice,” she asked, pausing at the head of the stairs. ”What think'st o' his voice, Mistress Blossom?”

”Why, that 'twould be fine an' easy for him to persuade one to his way o' thinking with it--even against their will,” answered the woman, smiling.

”Ah! good Dame, I agree not with thee in that,” said Debora. ”I think he hath bewitched thee, i' faith.” So saying, she went below, opened the little parlour door, and entered.

Sherwood was standing in the centre of the room, which was but dimly lit by the high candles. Deb did not speak till she had gone to a window facing the deserted common-land, pulled back the curtains and caught them fast. A flood of white moonlight washed through the place and made it bright.

The player seemed to realise there was something strange about the girl, for he stood quite still, watching her quick yet deliberate movement anxiously.

As she came toward him from the window he held out his hands.

”Sweetheart!” he said, unsteadily. ”Sweetheart!”

”Nay,” she answered, with a little shake of her head and clasping her hands behind. ”Not thine.”

”Ay!” he cried, pa.s.sionately, ”thou art--all mine. Thine eyes, so truthful, so wondrous; the gold-flecked waves of thine hair; the white o' thy throat that doth dazzle me; the sweetness of thy lips; the little hands behind thee.”

”So,” said the girl, with a catch of the breath, ”so thou dost say, but 'tis not true. As for my body, such as it is, it is my own.”

Sherwood leaned toward her, his eyes dark and luminous. ”'Fore Heaven, thou art wrong,” he said. ”Thou dost belong to me.”

”What o' my soul?” she asked, softly. ”What o' my soul, Sir Romeo? Is that thine, too?”

”Nay,” he answered, looking into her face, white from some inward rebellion. ”Nay, then, sweetheart, for I think that is G.o.d's.”

”Then, thou hast left me nothing,” she cried, moving away.

”Oh!”--throwing out her hands--”hark thee, Master Sherwood. 'Tis a far cry since thou did'st leave me by the steps at sundown. A far, far cry. The world hath had time to change. I did not know thee then.

Now I do.”

”Why, I love thee,” he answered, not understanding. ”I love thee, thou dost know that surely. Come, tell me. What else dost know, sweetheart? See! I am but what thou would'st have--bid me by what thou wilt. I will serve thee in any way thou dost desire. I have given my life to thee--and by it I swear again thou art mine.”

”That I am not,” she said, standing before him still and unyielding.