All this was a part of Fate’s mischievous prank.  Sir Marmaduke was not afraid of meeting the old Quakeress, nor yet the surly smith; Richard being out of the way, he had no misgivings in his mind when he retraced his steps towards the cottage.

It was close on eight o’clock then, in fact the tiny bell in Acol church struck the hour even as Sir Marmaduke lifted the latch of the little garden gate.

The old woman was in the parlor, busy as usual with her dusting-cloth.  Without heeding her, Sir Marmaduke strode up to the table and pushing the crockery, which now littered it, aside, he searched for his tinder-box.

It was not there.  With an impatient oath, he turned to Mistress Martha, and roughly demanded if she had seen it.

“Eh? ...  What?” she queried, shuffling a little nearer to him, “I am somewhat hard of hearing ... as thou knowest....”

“Have you seen my tinder-box?” he repeated with ever-growing irritation.

“Ah, yea, the fog!” she said blandly, “’tis damp too, of a truth, and ...”

“Hold your confounded tongue!” he shouted wrathfully, “and try and hear me.  My tinder-box....”

“Thy what?  I am a bit ...”

“Curse you for an old fool,” swore Sir Marmaduke, who by now was in a towering passion.

With a violent gesture he pushed the old woman aside and turning on her in an uncontrolled access of fury, with both arms upraised, he shouted: 

“If you don’t hear me now, I’ll break every bone in your ugly body....  Where is my ...”

It had all happened in a very few seconds:  his entrance, his search for the missing box, the growing irritation in him which had caused him to lose control of his temper.  And now, even before the threatening words were well out of his mouth, he suddenly felt a vigorous onslaught from the rear, and his own throat clutched by strong and sinewy fingers.

“And I’ll break every bone in thy accursed body!” shouted a hoarse voice close to his ear, “if thou darest so much as lay a finger on the old woman.”

The struggle was violent and brief.  Sir Marmaduke already felt himself overmastered.  Adam Lambert had taken him unawares.  He was rough and very powerful.  Sir Marmaduke was no weakling, yet encumbered by his fantastic clothes he was no match for the smith.  Adam turned him about in his nervy hands like a puppet.

Now he was in front and above him, glaring down at the man he hated with eyes which would have searched the very depths of his enemy’s soul.

“Thou damned foreigner!” he growled between clenched teeth, “thou vermin! ...  Thou toad!  Thou ... on thy knees! ... on thy knees, I say ... beg her pardon for thy foul language ... now at once ... dost hear? ... ere I squeeze the breath out of thee....”

Sir Marmaduke felt his knees giving way under him, the smith’s grasp on his throat had in no way relaxed.  Mistress Martha vainly tried to interpose.  She was all for peace, and knew that the Lord liked not a fiery temper.  But the look in Adam’s face frightened her, and she had always been in terror of the foreigner.  Without thought, and imagining that ’twas her presence which irritated the lodger, she beat a hasty retreat to her room upstairs, even as Adam Lambert finally succeeded in forcing Sir Marmaduke down on his knees, not ceasing to repeat the while: