Captain Ravenshaw 7

	Captain Ravenshaw 7

Master Burney's shout of mirth was cut short by a curse, and a slap in the face, both from Lady Greensleeves's lover, who had leaped to his feet and was the picture of fury. The struck man, with a loud roar of anger, sprang up instantly; and both had their rapiers in hand in a moment. The two other gentlemen and the brunette rushed in to keep the angry gallants asunder; Lady Greensleeves sat like one helpless, and began to scream like a frightened child; the fiddlers broke off their tune of a sudden; the hound fled to the empty fireplace, and barked. The two opponents struggled fiercely to shake off the would-be peacemakers, and were for killing each other straightway. "Gentlemen, gentlemen," shouted Ravenshaw above the tumult; "not before ladies! not indoors! There be the fields behind the tavern, and a good moonlight." With this, he caught the brunette by the wrists, and drew her from the fray. Holding her with his left arm, he pushed Master Burney's enemy violently toward the door. "To the fields, then!" cried the little gentleman. "To the fields an he dare follow!" Master Burney's reply was drowned by the cries of the ladies, as he dashed after the other. The two neutral gentlemen, yielding to the trend of the incident, accompanied the angry ones forth. The captain, instead of following, slammed the door after them, released the brunette, and stood with his back to the closed door to stop any one else from leaving the room. The brunette, shrieking threats, tried again and again to pass him, but he pushed her back each time until she sank exhausted on a chair by the table; and all the while poor Lady Greensleeves wailed as if her heart would break. "'Tis not for ladies to interfere in these matters," said Ravenshaw, when he could make himself heard. "A blow has been struck, and men of honour have but one course. Their friends will see all fitly done. Despair not, mistress: your gallant has great vantage in size and strength." "Then you think he will win?" cried the brunette. "Heaven be praised!" "Oh, God! oh, God!" moaned Lady Greensleeves. "Then my dear servant is a dead man. Woe's me! woe's me! I'll turn nun; nay, I'll take poison, that I will!" "Why, madam," said Ravenshaw, "your gentleman will acquit himself well, be sure of it. He is so quick; and the other's bulk is in your man's favour." It was now the brown beauty's turn to be dismayed. "Oh, thank heaven!" cried Lady Greensleeves, smiling gratefully through her tears. "Yes, indeed, he is quick; he will give that big Burney a dozen thrusts ere the great fellow can move." At this the dark woman started up for another struggle with Ravenshaw, but he stayed her with the words: "Nay, the small gentleman is too light to thrust hard. Think of Master Burney's weight; when he does touch, 'twill go home, no doubt of that." All this time the captain was on tenter-hooks lest the fight had really begun; a moment's loss of time would be fatal to his purpose; he must bring matters to a point. "In very truth," he said, "as a man acquainted with these things, if I were to wager which of the two is like to be killed--" "Which?" cried the women together, as he paused. "Both!" Even Greensleeves sprang up this time, and Ravenshaw found himself confronted by two desperate, sobbing creatures. "Back, ladies!" he shouted, quickly. "I will stop their fighting!" They stood still, regarding him with wondering inquiry. "If you will stay in this room," he continued. "We will not stir a step," cried Lady Greensleeves. "Make haste, for God's sake!" "And if you will give me a handful of those yellow boys yonder," he added. With a cry of joy, Greensleeves swept up a handful of the two little piles of gold, and held it out to him. "Stay," said the brown lady, closing her palm over the gold in the other's hand. "He shall have it--when he brings the two gentlemen back to us, friends and unscathed." "That's fair," said Ravenshaw; "so that you give it to me privately, ere they take note." "Yes, yes!" panted the brunette; and "God's name, haste!" cried Greensleeves; and the captain, without another word, dashed out of the room, and down the stairs. He ran through the garden behind the tavern, and so by a gate, which the gentlemen had left open, to the fields, which stretched northward to Clerkenwell and Islington. He descried the four gallants near at hand, where they had chosen a clean, level piece of turf. Fortunately, the many noises in the tavern, noises of music, laughter, gaming, and singing, had kept attention from being drawn to the tumult of this affair, and so no one had followed the four gentlemen out. The two who had tried to make peace had now fallen naturally into the place of seconds, and were finishing the preliminaries of the fight, while the adversaries stood with their doublets off, waiting for the time to begin. Just as their weapons met, with a musical ring of steel, the captain dashed in and struck up the rapiers with his own. "Gentlemen, I am defrauded here," he said, as the combatants stood back in surprise. "I was the first to offend, in the house yonder, and the first to be offended. 'Tis my right to fight one of you first--I care not which--and, by this hand, you shall not proceed till my quarrel is settled!" "Oh, pish, man!" said the little gallant; "we have no quarrel with you. Our fight is begun; I pray, stand aside, and let us have it out." "Upon one condition, then," said Ravenshaw. The two gallants raised their points, to rush at each other. "That the survivor shall fight me afterward," he finished. The two gallants lowered their points, and hesitated. "Troth, I have taken no offence of you, sir," said Master Burney; "and given none, I think." "But your ladies yonder gave me offence; and to whom shall I look for reparation, if not to you two?" "Faith," said the small gallant, "a man who undertook to give reparation for every foolish word a woman spoke, would have no time to eat, drink, or sleep." "I see how it is," said Ravenshaw, with a shrug. "I may not hope for satisfaction unless I force you to self-defence; and that would be murder. But, by the foot of a soldier, if I must go without reparation, I'll not be the only one! If I forego, so must you both. How like you that, Master Burney?" "How can I? He struck me a blow." "Well, no doubt, if I pray him, he will withdraw the blow. Will you not, sir?" "I do not like to," answered the little man; "but if he will withdraw his laughter--" "Why, forsooth, a man of known courage may withdraw anything, and no harm to his reputation," said the captain. "To prove it I will withdraw all offence I have given, and will take it that you two, on behalf of the ladies, withdraw all offence they have done me. Saviolo himself, I swear, could not adjust a quarrel more honourably. What say you, shall we go back now in peace and friendship to bring joy to the hearts of the ladies who are dying of fear? Come, gentlemen, my sword is the first to be put up, look you." Somewhat sheepishly, the adversaries followed his example, to the amusement of the seconds, who would doubtless have acted with similar prudence had they been exposed to the risk of having to fight Captain Ravenshaw. The captain then took Master Burney and the little gentleman each by an arm, and started for the tavern, followed by the other two. The song of the three inns-of-court men returned to his mind, and he and the two fighters marched back to the ladies, singing at the top of their voices:   "For three merry men, and three merry men,     And three merry men we be." Lady Greensleeves folded the little gentleman in her arms till he grimaced with discomfort; the brown beauty leaped up and clung around Master Burney's neck; but, as she did so, she dangled behind his back a purse, in the face of Captain Ravenshaw, to whose hand she relinquished it a moment later. The captain stepped out into the passage, made sure that the purse really contained a handful of gold, and then fled down the stairs ere any but the brunette knew he was gone. The fiddlers, who had waited through all the suspense of the women, now struck up a merry love tune, and Master Burney bawled for a drawer to bring some more wine, declaring he must drink the health of Captain Ravenshaw; but the captain was hastening to his lodging in Smithfield, grinning to himself, and fingering the heavy round pieces in the purse. [Illustration: "ONE HAND GESTICULATING, WHILE THE OTHER HELD HIS NEW-WRITTEN MANUSCRIPT."] CHAPTER XII. MASTER HOLYDAY IN FEAR AND TREMBLING.     "If I know what to say to her now   In the way of marriage, I'm no graduate."     --_A Chaste Maid in Cheapside._ As Ravenshaw climbed the narrow stairs to his room in darkness, he heard the voice of his fellow lodger in loud and continued denunciation. Wondering at this, for the scholar was wont to speak little and never vehemently, the captain hastened his upward steps, thinking to rescue Master Holyday from some quarrel with the landlord or other person. But when he burst into the chamber he found the poet alone, pacing the floor in the flickering light of an expiring candle, his hair tumbled, his eyes wild, one hand gesticulating, while the other held his new-written manuscript. At sight of Ravenshaw the poet stopped short a moment, then finished the passage he had been spouting, dropped the manuscript on the table, and, coming back to the present with a kind of tired shiver, sank exhaustedly upon a joint stool. "Excellent ranting," said the captain, "and most suitable to what I have to say." He threw his hat and sword-girdle on a bed in a corner of the room, filled and lighted a pipe of tobacco, and took up his stand before the chimney as one who had weighty matters to propound. "How suitable?" queried Master Holyday, with a languor consequent upon his long stretch of poetic fervour. "As thus," replied the captain, with a puff. "Your play there concerns the carrying away of a lady." "Of Helen by Paris; yes. But that is only a little part--" "'Tis a part that you have conducted properly and well, no doubt." "Why, without boasting, I profess some slight skill in these matters." "Well, now, look you. Your carrying away this lady in the spirit is well; 'tis a fit preparation for your carrying away a lady in the flesh." Master Holyday broke off in the middle of a yawn and stared. "You shall carry away this goldsmith's daughter to-morrow night. Now mark how all is to be done--" "God's name, are you mad?" cried the scholar, roused from his lassitude into a great astonishment. "No more mad than to have planned all this for the saving of that maid from dire calamities, and the making of your joy and fortune." "My joy?" "Ay, indeed; for to possess that maid--" "Oh, the maid--hang all maids!" exclaimed Holyday, with a kind of shudder, and falling into perturbation. "I'll none of 'em!" "And as to your fortune, how often have you told me what welcome and comfort wait you at your father's house the day you come to him with a wife?" "Wife!" echoed Master Holyday, and first paled with horror, and then gave forth a ghastly laugh. "Ay," said the captain, "and such a wife, your father will bless the day that made her his daughter! E'en though she come without dowry, he cannot choose but take her to his heart. Her father will not hold out for ever, perchance, when he finds her married to his old friend's son. But if he does, she hath an uncle who is like to make her his heir, I take it. And so, man, there's an end to this beggary for you. And now mark what is to be done--" "No, no, no! I have not the stomach for it. I have not!" "We must be stirring early in the morning," went on the captain, "for all must be arranged ere I leave London at noon. And first, how you are to call upon the goldsmith's family, and secretly get the girl's consent." "Get her consent! Never, never! I'll do no wooing; not I!" "By God, and you will that, and 'tis I that say so!" The scholar looked wildly at the captain a moment, then rose and made for the door, as if to escape a fearful doom. Ravenshaw quickly caught up the manuscript of the puppet-play, and held it ready to tear it across. The poet stopped, with a sharp cry of alarm, and came back holding out his hand for the freshly covered sheets of paper. But the captain pushed him to a seat, and retained the manuscript. "I'll tear it into fifty pieces, and burn 'em before your face," said Ravenshaw, "if you listen not quietly to what you must do." Poor Holyday, keeping his eyes anxiously upon the precious work, gave a piteous groan, and sat limp and helpless. "At daybreak," began Ravenshaw, "we shall go together and bespeak the boat that shall carry you and the maid, and your attendants, down the river in the evening. It shall be your business next to visit the goldsmith as if you came newly to London from your father in the country. Tell Master Etheridge you intend to marry a lady in Kent, and that you will be purchasing jewels and plate." "But, God's sake!" objected the scholar, dismally, and as if he partly doubted the captain's sanity, "have you not passed yourself off to him as me? And how, then, will he believe that I am I?" "Troth, I have been discovered to him as my true self." "Well, then, as he has been once imposed on, he will treat me as an impostor, too," urged Holyday, desperately ready to find impediments. "No, for if he makes any question, you need but stand upon your likeness to your mother. And then you can mention a thousand things that his memory must share with yours, where I could mention but the few you told me. And there was a mistake I made, saying it was a terrier that bit him in the leg the last time he was at your house, whereas it was a water-spaniel, as you had told me. If you speak of the spaniel biting him, you will prove yourself the true Holyday, and confirm it that I was a false one." "Ne'ertheless," moaned the scholar, in despair at the whole matter, "'twill seem a dubious thing, two men appearing within three days' time, both calling themselves Francis Holyday's son." "'Tis easily made clear. Say that, travelling to London three days ago, you fell in with that rascal, Ravenshaw, but knew not what a knave he was. Say that he won upon your confidence, you being free of mistrust, so that you told him many things of yourself, and your intended marriage, and your purpose in coming to London, and of Master Etheridge. And say that you both took lodgings for the night at an inn in Southwark; when you woke in the morning you found yourself ill, and two nights and a day had passed while you slept, so that Ravenshaw must have given you a draught in your wine, and gone to counterfeit you in the goldsmith's house, thinking to make some use of his freedom therein. Oh, they will swallow that without a sniff! And, look you, call me a thousand ill names, and say 'tis your dearest wish to kill the scurvy rogue that cozened you so." Holyday uttered a deep sigh, and shook his head lugubriously. "And note this," pursued Ravenshaw, "no word to any but the maid that she is the lady you came to marry. They are hot upon tying her to an old withered ass, a knight of Berkshire. That she may escape him, I have planned this good fortune for you; but all must be done to-morrow, for he is already in town for the wedding, and there is another danger threatens her, too, if she tarries in London. So, when you have been admitted to the family, you must find, or contrive, some time alone with Mistress Millicent, and speedily open the matter to her." Holyday visibly trembled, and was the picture of woe. "Good God!" he exclaimed; "how I shall find voice to speak to her, and words to say, I know not!" "One thing will make all easy in a trice. Her Uncle Bartlemy, whom you know, would serve her an he saw the way; and even to the last she has looked for some secret help from him. You shall therefore begin by saying you come from her Uncle Bartlemy, who bids her accept you as a husband. Say that his description of her beauty, and of her unhappy plight, hath so wrought upon your mind that you were deep in love ere you e'en saw her. And then say the reality so far outshines the description, your love is a thousand times confirmed and multiplied. She cannot but believe you are from her uncle, knowing you live in his part of the country. After that, if you have time for a few love speeches of a poetical nature, such as, no doubt, this work is full of" (he held up the manuscript)-- "Troth," said the poet, "'twere easier for me to write whole folios of love than speak a line of it to a real maid!" "Oh, heart up, man!" said Ravenshaw. "'Twill be smooth sailing, once a start is made. But you will not have to say much. Your youth and figure will speak for you when she contrasts them with Sir Peregrine. In her present mind, any man were a sweet refuge from that old kex. I remember she said she would prefer a good swordman; tell her you are a good swordman, therefore. And then bid her meet you at her garden gate in Friday Street at dusk, ready for a journey. Not earlier, look you, for the men who will attend you may not be in waiting at the White Horse till sunset, and 'twere dangerous to miss them." The scholar breathed fast and hard, as if a burden were being forced upon him, under which he must surely faint, and his eyes roved about as if seeking a way of evasion. "Now all this must be agreed upon betwixt you and the maid a full hour before noon," proceeded Ravenshaw, "so that you may come to me with the news ere I set out from London. I wish to go to my new affairs with an easy mind. The place I go to is not far from that to which you and the maid shall go, and I will meet you in proper time. But take note of one thing. She is not to know that I have the least hand in this business; if she did, she would not stir a step in it, for she abhors the very name of Ravenshaw. Therefore, when you are with her, if my name comes up, be sure you vilify me roundly." "I could vilify you now, for pushing me into this business!" "Very like; and think not to get out of it till it's done; for, mark well, I shall not be far from you while you are in the goldsmith's house. I shall bring you in sight of the house, and shall wait in sight of it till you come out; and if you come not out by eleven o'clock, and with word that all is planned, then, by these two hands, I know not what will happen!" The poor scholar shrank at the captain's fierce manner. "And now, for your flight and marriage," resumed Ravenshaw, after an impressive pause; and he set forth particulars as to their being joined by Cutting Tom and his men, their taking boat, their trip down the river with the vantage of tide and moonlight, their landing at whatever point Holyday, in his knowledge of the country, should deem best. "You will then find your way as fast as may be," he continued, "to the house of your friend Sir Nicholas, the parson. Prevail upon him to keep you hid there till he can marry you by license, which can be quickly had of the bishop's commissary of Rochester. Being so much your friend, Sir Nicholas will wink at little shortcomings,--such as the consent of the girl's parents being omitted, and that of her friends sufficing. The maid can swear she is not precontracted; there is truly no consanguinity, and for names to a bond, the parson can scrape up another besides your own. And so, safely tied, you shall bear her to your father's house, and defy the world." Master Holyday looked as if he fancied himself bound to the seat of a galley for life. "The parson must lodge your attendants till the next day," added Ravenshaw, "when I will come and dismiss them. Stable room will do. Belike I will see you when I come; but she must not set eyes on me. When all's done, you may tell her what you will. Her uncle will stand your friend, I think. And so, a rascal's blessing on you both!" The poet was silent and miserable. But after a time he looked up, and, stretching forth his hand, said, in a supplicating way: "Give me back my puppet-play, then. 'Tis my masterwork, I think." "You shall have it back when you are married," replied Ravenshaw, placing it carefully inside his doublet. Master Holyday groaned, as one who gives himself up for lost. CHAPTER XIII. A RIOT IN CHEAPSIDE.   "Down with them! Cry clubs for prentices!"     --_The Shoemaker's Holiday._ Wan and tremulous, after a night of half-sleep varied by ominous dreams, Master Holyday was led by the captain, in the early morning, to the wharf where was to be found the waterman whom Ravenshaw knew he could trust. The scholar attended in a kind of dumb trance to the interview between Ravenshaw and the boatman, who was a powerful, leather-faced fellow, one that listened intently, scrutinised keenly, and expressed himself in quick nods and short grunts. Even the unwonted sight of gold in the captain's hands did not stir the unhappy poet to more than a transient look of faint wonder. Ravenshaw pulled him by the sleeve to a cook's shop in Thames Street, but the wretched graduate had difficulty in gulping down his food, and scarce could have told whether it was hot pork pie or cold pease porridge. It went differently with the ale which the captain caused to be set before them afterward. Holyday poured this down his throat with feverish avidity, and pushed forth his pot for more. At last Ravenshaw, considering it time for the goldsmith's family to be up, grasped his companion firmly by the crook of the arm, and said, curtly: "Come!" The poor scholar, limp and sinking, turned gray in the face, and went forth with the look of a prisoner dragged to execution. The captain had to exert force to keep him from lagging behind, as the two went northward through Bread Street. They stopped once, to buy a cheap sword, scabbard, and hanger; which Holyday dreamily suffered the shopman to attach to his girdle. Nearing Cheapside, the doomed bachelor hung back more and more, and when finally they turned into that thoroughfare, his face all terror, he suddenly jerked from Ravenshaw's hold, and made a bolt toward Cornhill. But the captain, giving chase, caught him by the collar, in front of Bow church, seized his neck as in a vice, turned him about toward the goldsmith's house, took a tighter hold of his arm, and impelled him relentlessly forward. From his affrighted eyes, ashen cheeks, and dragging gait, people in the street supposed he was being taken to Newgate prison by a queen's officer. "Now, look you," said the captain, with grim earnestness, as they approached Master Etheridge's shop, "I durst not go too near the place. I shall leave you in a moment; but I shall go over the way, and take my post behind the cross, where I can watch the house in safety. Mark this: my hand shall be upon my sword-hilt, and if you try flight, or come forth unsuccessful, you shall find yourself as dead a poet as Virgil--what though I swing for you, I care not! Come forth not later than the stroke of eleven; walk toward the Poultry, and I will join you. Keep me not waiting, or, by this hand--Go; and remember!" He gave the scholar a parting push, and strode across the street; a few seconds later he was peering around the corner of the cross, and Master Holyday was lurching into the goldsmith's shop. The shop, as has been said, extended back to where a passage separated it from domestic regions of the house; but it was, itself, in two parts,--a front part, open to the street, and a more private part, where the master usually stayed, with his most valuable wares. In entering the outer shop, Holyday had to pass the end of a case, at which a flat-capped, snub-nosed, solid-bodied apprentice was arranging gold cups, chains, and trinkets. "What is't you lack?" demanded this youth, squaring up to the scholar. "God knows," thought Holyday. "My wits, I think." And then he found voice to say that he desired speech of Master Etheridge. The shopman pointed to the open door leading to the farther apartment, and thither Holyday went. The place was mainly lighted by a side window; the poet could not fail to distinguish the master, by his rich cloth doublet and air of authority, from the journeymen who sat working upon shining pieces of plate. "What is it you lack, sir?" inquired Master Etheridge. "Sir," replied Holyday, in a small, trembling voice, "I must pray you, bear with me if I speak wildly. I am sick from a sleeping-drug that a villain abused me with three days ago,--one Captain Ravenshaw--" At this name the goldsmith, who had received elaborate accounts from Sir Peregrine of last night's incident in the garden, suddenly warmed out of his air of coldness and distrust, and began to show a sympathetic curiosity which made it easier for Holyday to proceed with his tale. When the scholar announced who he was, the goldsmith lapsed for a moment into a hard incredulity; but this passed away as Holyday, not daring to stop now that he had so good an impetus, deftly alluded to his father,--"whom, they say, I scarce resemble, being all my mother in face," quoth he parenthetically,--and hoped that Master Etheridge had forgiven him his water-spaniel's bite the last time the two had met. "Aha! I knew it was a water-spaniel," said Master Etheridge, triumphantly. "The rogue would have it a terrier." This hasty speech required that the goldsmith should relate how the impostor had played upon him and his household; at which news Master Holyday had to open his eyes, and feign great astonishment and indignation. He found this kind of acting easier than he had supposed, and was beginning to feel like a live, normal creature; when suddenly his mind was brought back to the real task before him by Master Etheridge, saying: "Well, the rascal failed of his purpose here, whatever it was; and now 'twill please the women to see the true after the counterfeit. This way, pray--what, art so ill? Tom, Dickon, hold him up!" "Nay, I can walk, I thank ye," said poor Holyday, faintly, and accompanied his host into the passage, and up the stairs to the large room overlooking Cheapside. No one being there, the goldsmith went elsewhere in search of his wife, leaving the scholar to a discomfiting solitude. He gazed out of the window at the cross, and fancied he saw the edge of a hat-brim that he knew, protruding from the other side. He cursed the hour when he had fallen in with Ravenshaw, and wished an earthquake might swallow the goldsmith's house. When he heard Master Etheridge returning, and the swish of a feminine gown, he felt that the awful moment had come. But it was only the goldsmith's wife, and she proved such a motherly person that he found it quite tolerable to sit answering her questions. Presently Master Etheridge was called down to the shop, and his wife had some sewing brought to her, at which she set to work, keeping up with Holyday a conversation oft broken by many long pauses. Each time the door opened, the scholar trembled for fear Mistress Millicent would enter. But as time passed and she came not, a new fear assailed him,--that he might not be able to see her at all, and that the dread stroke of eleven should bring some catastrophe not to be imagined. He was now as anxious for her arrival on the scene as he had first dreaded it. His heart went up to his throat when the door opened again; and down to his shoes when it let in nobody but Sir Peregrine Medway. The old knight inspected Holyday for a moment with the curiosity due to genuine ware after one has been imposed upon by spurious; and then he dropped the youth from attention as a person of no consequence, and asked for Mistress Millicent. "Troth," said Mistress Etheridge, "the baggage must needs be keeping her bed two hours or so; said she was not well. She has missed her lesson on the virginals. I know not what ails her of late. I'm sure 'twas not so with me when I was toward marriage,--but she sha'n't mope longer in her chamber. Lettice!" she called, going to the door, and gave orders to the woman. Holyday breathed fast, and stared at the door. After a short while Millicent entered, with pouting lips, crimson cheeks, and angry eyes; she came forward in a reluctant way, and submitted to the tremulous embrace of the old knight. Not until she was free of his shaking arms did she take note of Master Holyday, and then she looked at him with the faintest sign of inquiry. As for the scholar, a single glance had given him a sweeping sense of her beauty; daunted by it, he had dropped his eyes, and he dared not raise them from the tips of her neatly shod feet, which showed themselves beneath the curtain of her pink petticoat. "'Tis my daughter, Master Holyday," said Mistress Etheridge, "and soon to be Sir Peregrine's lady." Holyday bowed vaguely at the pretty shoes, and cast a vacuous smile upon the old knight. "What, another Master Holyday?" said Millicent, in an ironical manner suited to her perverse mood. "The true one," replied her mother; "that rogue cozened him as he did us. Well, 'twas a lesson, Master Holyday, not to prate of your affairs to strangers." "The rogue shall pay for giving me the lesson," ventured Holyday, bracing himself to play his part. Mistress Millicent looked as if she doubted this. "I know he is a much-vaunted swordman," added Holyday, catching her expression; "but I have some acquaintance with steel weapons myself." His small, unnatural voice was at such variance with his words, that Millicent looked amused as well as doubting. He felt he was not getting on well, and was for sinking into despair; but the thought of Ravenshaw waiting behind the cross, hand on hilt, acted as a goad, and raised the wretched poet to a desperate alertness. Master Etheridge came in, holding out his hollowed palm. At sight of its contents Mistress Millicent turned pale, and caught the back of a chair. Sir Peregrine bent his eyes over them gloatingly, and took them up in his lean fingers. "The wedding-ring, sooth," he said. "Good lack, 'twas speedy work, father. But which of the two is it?" "Which you choose," replied the goldsmith. "They are like as twins. I had the two made to the same measurement; 'tis so small, one of them will be a pretty thing to keep in the shop for show. Belike there may be another bride's finger in London 'twill fit." "Troth now, my first wife had just such another finger," said the knight. "I know not which to take; 'tis a pity both cannot be used." Master Holyday was suddenly inspired with an impish thought, the very conception of which brought courage with it. "An you please, Master Etheridge," he said, "the lady I wish to marry hath such another hand, in size, as your sweet daughter here can boast of. It were a pleasant thing, now, an I might buy one of these rings." "Nay, by my knighthood," quoth Sir Peregrine, with a burst of that magniloquent generosity which went with his vanity, "buy it thou shalt not, but have it thou shalt. I buy 'em both, father; see 'em both put down to me. Here, young sir; and let thy bride know what 'tis the mate of." And he tossed one of the rings to Holyday, not graciously, but as one throws a bone to a dog. "She will hold herself much honoured," said Holyday, coolly, picking up the little circlet from among the rushes, and inwardly glad to make a fool of such a supercilious old fop. Noticing that Millicent observed his irony and approved it, he went on: "Of a truth, though, I am somewhat beforehand in the matter; the maid's consent yet hangs fire." And he cast her a look which he thought would set her thinking. "Troth, then," said the goldsmith, good-humouredly, "you go the right way to carry her by storm. Show her the wedding-ring, and tell her 'tis for her, and I warrant all's done." "I will take your counsel," said Holyday, glancing from the ring to Millicent's finger. "She might be afflicted with a worse husband, I tell her." "Ay, young man," put in Sir Peregrine, for the sake of showing his wisdom in such matters, "be not afraid to sound your own praises to her. If you do not so yourself, who will?--except, of course, your merits were such as show without being spoken for." The knight unconsciously glanced down at himself. "Oh, I have those to recommend me that have authority with her," said the scholar. "She hath an uncle will plead my suit; and truly he ought to, for 'twas he set me to wooing her, and from his account I became her servant ere ever I had seen her." "Hath the lady no parents, then?" queried Master Etheridge. "Oh, yes; they are well inclined to me, too; I spoke of the uncle because 'twas his word made me first seek her out." "And did you find her all he had said?" asked Mistress Etheridge. "Oh, even more beautiful. 'Tis her beauty makes me bashful in commending myself to her." "Oh, never be afraid," said Mistress Etheridge. "You have a good figure, for one thing, and a modest mien." "So her mother says," acquiesced Holyday, innocently. "Your father hath a good estate," said Master Etheridge, "and that speaks louder for you than modesty or figure." "That is what her father hath the goodness to say for me. I hope she will take her parents' words to mind. But I doubt not, in her heart she thinks me better than some." "Well, her parents are the best judges," said Master Etheridge. "I must go down to the shop; you will eat dinner with us, friend Ralph?" "I thank you, sir; but I must meet a gentleman elsewhere at eleven o'clock." If Mistress Millicent had taken his meaning, he thought, she would now see the necessity of speedily having a word with him alone. After the goldsmith had left the room, Sir Peregrine directed the conversation into such channels that Holyday was perforce out of it. The old knight evidently thought that enough talk had gone to the affairs of this young gentleman from Kent. The scholar, wondering how matters would go, agitated within but maintaining a kind of preternatural calm without, ventured to scan Millicent's face for a sign. She was regarding him furtively, as if she apprehended, yet feared to find herself deceived; in truth, her experience with Captain Ravenshaw had made it difficult for her to hope, or trust, anew. But surely fate could not twice abuse her so; this must indeed be Ralph Holyday,--her father was not likely to be deceived a second time,--and the Holydays were neighbours of her uncle, from whom she had not entirely ceased to look for aid. In any case, there, in the shape of Sir Peregrine, was a horrible certainty, to which a new risk was preferable. With a swift motion, therefore, she put her finger to her lip; and Master Holyday felt a great load lifted from his mind. While Sir Peregrine was entertaining Mistress Etheridge with a minute account of how he had once cured himself of a calenture, Millicent suddenly asked: "What is the posy in your wedding-ring, Master Holyday?" The scholar screwed up his eyes to see the rhyme traced within the circlet. "Nay, let me look," she demanded, impatiently. "I have better eyes, I trow." He handed her the ring; she walked to the window, to examine it in good light; the casement was open, to let in the soft May air. Suddenly she turned to the others, with a cry: "Mercy on me! I have dropped Master Holyday's ring into the street." "Oh, thou madcap child!" exclaimed Mistress Etheridge. "Oh, 'tis nothing," said Holyday, confusedly, not yet seeing his way. "I can soon find it." "Nay, I saw where it fell," said Millicent, quickly. "'Tis right I fetch it back." Ere any one could say nay, she ran from the room. Holyday, understanding, called out, "Nay, trouble not yourself!" and hastened after her as if to forestall her in recovering the ring. He was upon the stairs in time to see that she went out, not through the shop, but through the door from the passage into Friday Street. He followed, wondering what Ravenshaw would think on seeing the two. When they came into Cheapside she began to search a little at one side of the open shop-front, so as not to be seen from within. Glancing up, however, Holyday saw that Mistress Etheridge and Sir Peregrine were looking down from the window above. He dared not turn his eyes toward the cross, for fear of meeting those of Ravenshaw. Both he and the maid searched the cobble paving, within whispering space of each other. "'Tis safe in my hand," she said; "so we may be as long finding it as need be. What mean you with this talk of a maid's uncle?" "I mean thine Uncle Bartlemy," said he, heartened up at the easy turn his task had taken. "He sent me to save you from wedding this old knight. The only escape is by wedding me instead. If you are willing, be at your garden gate in Friday Street this nightfall, ready for a journey by boat. The rest is in my hands." Thank Heaven, she reflected, it needed but a word from her to settle the matter. She could have swooned for joy at the unexpected prospect of escape. But she was not flattered by this young stranger's unloverlike manner. The word could wait a moment. "What, does my uncle think I will take the first husband he sends, and go straight to marriage without even a wooing beforehand?" "Why," said Holyday, thrown back into his agitation, "there's no time for wooing before this marriage. It must wait till after." "Troth, how do I know 'twill be to my liking, then, without ever a sample of it first?""Did I not say within," he faltered, feeling very red and foolish,"that your charms overpower my tongue?"