Prince Amede d’Orleans—­as he styled himself—­with his fantastic clothes, his airs and graces and long, curly hair was an object of special aversion to the Quaker, even though the money which the despised foreigner paid for his lodgings was passing welcome these hard times.

Adam resolutely avoided speech with the Prince, whenever possible, but the latter’s provocative and sarcastic speech roused his dormant hatred; like a dog who has been worried, he now turned abruptly round and faced Sir Marmaduke, stepping close up to him, his eyes glaring with vindictive rage, a savage snarl rising in his throat.

“Take notice, friend,” he said hoarsely, “that I’ll not bear thine impudence.  Thou mayest go and bully the old woman at the cottage when I am absent—­Oh!  I’ve heard thee!” he added with unbridled savagery, “ordering her about as if she were thy serving wench ... but let me tell thee that she is no servant of thine, nor I ... so have done, my fine prince ... dost understand?”

“Prithee, friend, do not excite yourself,” said Sir Marmaduke blandly, drawing back against the wall as far as he could to avoid close proximity with his antagonist.  “I have never wished to imply that Mistress Lambert was aught but my most obliging, most amiable landlady—­nor have I, to my certain knowledge, overstepped the privileges of a lodger.  I trust that your worthy aunt hath no cause for complaint.  Mistress Lambert is your aunt?” he added superciliously, “is she not?”

“That is nothing to thee,” muttered the other, “if she be my aunt or no, as far as I can see.”

“Surely not.  I asked in a spirit of polite inquiry.”

But apparently this subject was one which had more than any other the power to rouse the blacksmith’s savage temper.  He fought with it for a moment or two, for anger is the Lord’s, and strict Quaker discipline forbade such unseemly wrangling.  But Adam was a man of violent temperament which his strict religious training had not altogether succeeded in holding in check:  the sneers of the foreign prince, his calm, supercilious attitude, broke the curb which religion had set upon his passion.

“Aye! thou art mighty polite to me, my fine gentleman,” he said vehemently.  “Thou knowest what I think of thy lazy foreign ways ... why dost thou not do a bit of honest work, instead of hanging round her ladyship’s skirts? ...  If I were to say a word to Sir Marmaduke, ’twould be mightily unpleasant for thee, an I mistake not.  Oh!  I know what thou’rt after, with thy fine ways, and thy romantic, lying talk of liberty and patriotism! ... the heiress, eh, friend?  That is thy design....  I am not blind, I tell thee....  I have seen thee and her ...”

Sir Marmaduke laughed lightly, shrugging his shoulders in token of indifference.

“Quite so, quite so, good master,” he said suavely, “do ye not waste your breath in speaking thus loudly.  I understand that your sentiments towards me do not partake of that Christian charity of which ye and yours do prate at times so loudly.  But I’ll not detain you.  Doubtless worthy Mistress Lambert will be awaiting you, or is it the sick mare down Minster way that hath first claim on your amiability?  I’ll not detain you.”