“This is no occasion for jesting, Nicholas,” interrupted the lady, sharply.

“Nay, I but threw out a hint,” rejoined the squire.  “It would set the question of the land for ever at rest.”

“It is set at rest—­for ever!” replied the lady, with a side look at the magistrate.

“‘May I become subject to the Fiend if I fail in my promise,’” repeated Nowell to himself.  “Those words bind me like a chain of iron.  I must get out of this accursed house as fast as I can.”

As if his thoughts had been divined by Mistress Nutter, she here observed to him, “To make our reconciliation complete, Master Nowell, I must entreat you to pass the day with me.  I will give you the best entertainment my house affords—­nay, I will take no denial; and you too, Nicholas, and you, Richard, you will stay and keep the worthy magistrate company.”

The two Asshetons willingly assented, but Roger Nowell would fain have been excused.  A look, however, from his hostess enforced compliance.

“The proposal will be highly agreeable, I am sure, to Master Potts,” remarked Nicholas, with a laugh; “for though much better, in consequence of the balsam applied by Blackadder, he is scarcely in condition for the saddle.”

“I will warrant him well to-morrow morning,” said Mistress Nutter.

“Where is he?” inquired Nowell.

“In the library with Parson Holden,” replied Nicholas; “making himself as comfortable as circumstances will permit, with a flask of Rhenish before him.”

“I will go to him, then,” said Nowell.

“Take care what you say to him,” observed Mistress Nutter, in a low tone, and raising her finger to her lips.

Heaving a deep sigh, the magistrate then repaired to the library, a small room panelled with black oak, and furnished with a few cases of ancient tomes.  The attorney and the divine were seated at a table, with a big square-built bottle and long-stemmed glasses before them, and Master Potts, with a wry grimace, excused himself from rising on his respected and singular good client’s approach.

“Do not disturb yourself,” said Nowell, gruffly; “we shall not leave Rough Lee to-day.”

“I am glad to hear it,” replied Potts, moving the cushions on his chair and eyeing the square-built bottle affectionately.

“Nor to-morrow, it may be—­nor the day after—­nor at all, possibly,” said Nowell.

“Indeed!” exclaimed Potts, starting, and wincing with pain.  “What is the meaning of all this, worthy sir?”

“‘May I become the subject of the Fiend if I fail in my promise,’” rejoined Nowell, with a groan.

“What promise, worshipful sir?” cried Potts, staring with surprise.

The magistrate got out the words, “My promise to—­” and then he stopped suddenly.

“To Mistress Nutter?” suggested Potts.

“Don’t ask me,” exclaimed Nowell, fiercely.  “Don’t draw any erroneous conclusions, man.  I mean nothing—­I say nothing!”