For a time Dorothy and Manners walked on in perfect silence, the one preparing to pour out the story of his love, and the other waiting and expecting the declaration.

“We had better retrace our steps now,” exclaimed Dorothy at length.

They turned round and began to wend their way again towards the Hall, in a silence that was positively painful to both.

“You are dreaming, Master Manners,” she exclaimed, as they neared the narrow bridge which spans the Wye just outside the gates of Haddon.

“Come, sir, declare your thoughts; let me be your confessor, for I will shrive thee right easily, and the penance shall be pleasant enough, I assure thee.  Now confess!”

“I was thinking of—­of love,” he stammered out.

“Love! then I forgive thee,” she exclaimed with a beating heart, “’tis a common sin.  Proceed, my son.”

“I was thinking of a little poem.”

“Oh!” That was a disappointing continuation.

“’Twas a verse of Sir Thomas Wyatt’s.  Shall I tell it thee?”

“‘Hide nothing from me,’ as Father Philip says,” replied Doll, brightening up again, for she was well acquainted with the verse of that unfortunate nobleman, which was almost all on the subject of love.  She thought she knew the verse which he would tell her, nor was she mistaken.  Almost everyone knew that verse, even if they knew none other.

The young esquire fixed his eyes upon her, and began—­

  A face that should content me wondrous well. 
  Should not be fair, but lovely to behold;
  Of lively look, all grief for to repel,
  With right good grace as would I that it should
  Speak, without words, such words as none can tell,
  Her tress also should be of crisped gold;
  With wit, and these, I might perchance be tried,
  And knit again with knot that should not slide.

“Then I perceive you are difficult to please, my son,” she replied.

“Listen, stay Dorothy,” he said, quickly, as she stepped upon the footbridge, “surely that means you.  Oh, Dorothy, let me speak.  I must tell you.  I cannot let you depart yet.  I love you.  I have loved you ever since I saw you first.”

He paused, but as the maiden did not speak, he continued.

“Ever since the hawking party I have loved you.  Do you remember that?”

“I do,” she demurely replied.

“Nay, stay, leave me not thus,” he cried, as Dorothy unconsciously moved.  “You must stay, you must listen.  Dorothy, I cannot flatter you like some; I speak the truth.  I cannot live without you make me happy.  Will you be mine?”

“But, sir knight—­”

“Nay,” he interrupted, “say it is so.  I am no knight, I am but a simple esquire, but though you be the daughter of the rich King of the Peak—­”

“Nay, do not talk like that,” she interrupted quickly.

“Let me do something to show the vastness of my love,” he went on.  “What shall it be?  Bid me do aught, or go anywhere; command me what you will, but say you love me.”