Part 4 (2/2)

Elinor sat by the fire with a piece of embroidery in her hand. Her thoughts were evidently not upon it, for ever and anon she would lay down the work and sink into deep meditation, which ended in sighs; then, recollecting herself, the busy fingers would once more resume their task. The sound of footsteps echoing in the corridor without, caused her to turn toward the door, through which a man presently entered, who exclaimed in a petulant voice, as he ineffectually endeavored to fasten a sword belt: ”Come, my daughter, lay down thy pretty work for a moment, and aid thy father to gird this cursed baldric about him, for the ends be as coy as an old maid and her lover.” She arose to comply with his request, and quickly fastened the desired buckle, then inquired, on noting his attire:

”Dost thou go abroad to-night?”

”Verily, I do, if Sir Thomas doth keep his appointment. 'Tis past the hour of nine, and much I marvel that he hath not yet arrived.”

”Then I will now bid thee good night,” she answered, approaching and about to kiss him, when hearing one coming up the steps caused her to delay.

”There, by St. Paul, he is at last,” as a knock sounded on the door.

”Run, my daughter, and open to Sir Thomas.”

The girl hesitated a moment as if loth to comply, then stepped into the hall and withdrew the bolt. Soon the tones of a man's voice could be heard exclaiming: ”A good evening to thee, Mistress Elinor. It is but fitting that an angel should unbar the door of Paradise, for I deem the house naught else wherein thou dwellest.” Kissing the reluctant hand which he held, then observing Fawkes, who had advanced to greet him, ”Well, well, friend Guido; thou lookest fit for a battle royal, with thy long war rapier girded by thy side. But,” he continued with a laugh, ”it would ill become thee to go abroad poorly armed in my company, for we do in truth seem to invite attack when together. Did thy father tell thee, Mistress Elinor, of his adventure yester-night, which had for its intent the rescuing me again from dire straits?”

”Nay, he did not; for my father's brave deeds need not his tongue to set them forth, and he is much too modest to narrate his exploits, even though they had so worthy an object as the saving of thy life,”

she replied with a little courtesy.

”Marry,” broke in Fawkes, ”I was marveling why thou didst not come, and was thinking perchance 'twould be better to go outside and listen for the sound of a distant brawl.” Then observing the small court sword which hung by the other's side, he continued, pointing toward it: ”Thou art but lightly equipped. I wonder much that thou dost go so poorly prepared; but,” he added, loosening his long rapier from its scabbard, ”thy purse is safe to-night at least. Wilt come for a moment to the fire, and warm thyself?”

”I cannot, though much I regret that precious time forbids; if thou art ready, methinks we had best depart.”

”I am ever at thy service,” cried Fawkes, and turning towards his daughter, who had thrown a long cloak over his shoulders, ”I'll wish thee a good repose, sweet one, for 'twill be late ere I return.”

Embracing her, then going toward Winter, he continued: ”'Tis most pleasing to have a pretty face on which to kiss a sad good-bye, and know that loving arms await to greet a happy return.”

”Aye, that it is,” he responded, biting his lip and watching the two; ”but we poor single men have no such bliss, and must be content to watch the happiness of others. Still, there is left me the sweet sorrow of saying good night.” He extended his hand to the girl, who let hers rest for an instant within his. ”Now, if thou art ready, Master Fawkes, I will follow.”

The two pa.s.sed out into the night, both turning, however, when half way down the path to wave a parting adieu to the fair figure standing within the door. For some little distance the men continued on in silence, each engrossed in thought. At length, Winter observing that Fawkes seemed well aware as to the direction they were taking, exclaimed with some little surprise: ”Master Guido, one would think the way to my residence an old traveled road to thee, but if I recollect aright, this to my knowledge is the first time thou hast gone over it.”

”Marry, but I have a guide, Sir Thomas,” pointing to the dome of St.

Paul's church, which reared itself dark against the star-studded sky.

”Beshrew my heart, doth some angel of heaven fly before thee?” as just at the moment Fawkes turned sharply down another street leading to their destination.

”Nay, I have not that to point the way, but a friend of thine gave me the direction. I did not think to tell thee the first night of our meeting, for we had other matters of more pointed nature to engross our thoughts,” he added with a laugh, striking his sword; ”and it did slip my tardy mind that I was the bearer of a message from him to thee.”

”I can but illy guess who he may be; but, pray, say on, by what name went he?”

”Giles Martin; and he did wish I would convey his best respects and wishes for thy good welfare.”

”By St. Peter! Where didst thou run across the man? I had deemed him long dead, for naught have I seen of him these many years.”

”The truth is, Sir Winter, he wished no mention made of his present whereabouts; but I deemed thou hadst a st.u.r.dy friend in him, and,”

continued Fawkes, looking at the other significantly, ”he did seem well informed on divers topics concerning these troubled times.”

”What dost thou mean, friend Guido?” asked Winter, turning a quick glance toward Fawkes.

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