John was at his wit’s end.  He must quickly do or say something to persuade this stubborn fellow to leave.  If Dorothy should come and see two persons at the gate she, of course, would return to the Hall.  Jennie Faxton, who knew that the garments were finished, had told Sir John that he might reasonably expect to see Dorothy at the gate on that evening, for Sir George had gone to Derby-town, presumably to remain over night.

In sheer desperation John said, “I was here first, and I claim the ground.”

“That is not true,” replied the other.  “I have been waiting here for you—­I mean for the person I am to meet—­” Dorothy thought she had betrayed herself, and that John would surely recognize her.  “I had been waiting full five minutes before you arrived.”

John’s blindness in failing to recognize Dorothy is past my understanding.  He explained it to me afterward by saying that his eagerness to see Dorothy, and his fear, nay almost certainty, that she could not come, coupled with the hope which Jennie Faxton had given him, had so completely occupied his mind that other subjects received but slight consideration.

“But I—­I have been here before this night to meet—­”

“And I have been here to meet—­quite as often as you, I hope,” retorted Dorothy.

They say that love blinds a man.  It must also have deafened John, since he did not recognize his sweetheart’s voice.

“It may be true that you have been here before this evening,” retorted John, angrily; “but you shall not remain here now.  If you wish to save yourself trouble, leave at once.  If you stalk about in the forest, I will run you through and leave you for the crows to pick.”

“I have no intention of leaving, and if I were to do so you would regret it; by my beard, you would regret it,” answered the girl, pleased to see John in his overbearing, commanding mood.  His stupidity was past comprehension.

“Defend yourself,” said John, drawing his sword.

“Now he will surely know the truth,” thought Dorothy, but she said:  “I am much younger than you, and am not so large and strong.  I am unskilled in the use of a sword, and therefore am I no match for Sir John Manners than whom, I have heard, there is no better swordsman, stronger arm, nor braver heart in England.”

“You flatter me, my friend,” returned John, forced into a good humor against his will; “but you must leave.  He who cannot defend himself must yield; it is the law of nature and of men.”

John advanced toward Dorothy, who retreated stepping backward, holding her arm over her face.

“I am ready to yield if you wish.  In fact, I am eager to yield—­more eager than you can know,” she cried.

“It is well,” answered John, putting his sword in sheath.

“But,” continued Dorothy, “I will not go away.”

“Then you must fight,” said John.

“I tell you again I am willing, nay, eager to yield to you, but I also tell you I cannot fight in the way you would have me.  In other ways perhaps I can fight quite as well as anybody.  But really, I am ashamed to draw my sword, since to do so would show you how poorly I am equipped to defend myself under your great laws of nature and of man.  Again, I wish to assure you that I am more than eager to yield; but I cannot fight you, and I will not go away.”