“I know all that,” he said.  “Every story have I heard, and, egad! they but fire my blood.  She is high mettled, but I have dealt with termagants before—­and brought them down, by God!—­and brought them down!  There is a way to tame a woman—­and I know it.  Begin with a light soft hand and a melting eye—­all’s fair in love; and the spoils are to the victor.  When I come back from Gloucestershire with my lock of raven hair”—­he lifted a goblet of wine and tossed it off at a draught—­“I shall leave her as such beauties should be left—­on her knees.”  And his laugh rang forth like a chime of silver.  Roxholm sprang up with a smothered oath.

“Come!” he said to Warbeck.  “Come away, in God’s name.”

Warbeck had been his fellow-soldier abroad and knew well the dangerous spirit which hid itself beneath his calm.  He had seen him roused to fury once before (’twas when in Flanders after a skirmish he found some drunken soldiers stripping a poor struggling peasant woman of her garments, while her husband shrieked curses at them from the tree where he was tied)—­and on that occasion he had told himself ’twould be safer to trifle with a mine of powder than with this man’s anger.  He rose hurriedly and followed him outside.  In the street he could scarce keep pace with his great stride, and the curses that broke from him brought back hot days of battle.

“I would not enter into a pot-house brawl with a braggart boy,” he cried.  “The blackguard, dastard knave!  Drag me away, Hal, lest I rush back like a fool and run him through!  I have lost my wits.  ’Tis the fashion for dandies to pour forth their bestial braggings, but never hath a man made my blood so boil and me so mad to strike him.”

“’Tis not like thee so to lose thy wits, Roxholm,” Warbeck said, his hand on his arm, “but thou hast lost them this once surely.  ’Tis no work for the sword of a gentleman pinking foul-mouthed boasters in a coffee-house.  Know you who he is?”

“Damnation, No!” thundered Roxholm, striding on more fiercely still.

“’Tis the new dandy, Sir John Oxon,” said Warbeck.  “And the beauty he makes his boast on is the Gloucestershire Wildairs handsome madcap—­the one they call Mistress Clo.”

CHAPTER X

My Lord Marquess rides to Camylott.

When he went home my lord sate late over his books before he went to his chamber, yet he read but little, finding his mood disturbed by thoughts which passed through it in his despite.  His blood had grown hot at the coffee-house, and though ’twas by no means the first time it had heated when he heard the heartless and coarse talk of woman which it was the habit of most men of the day to indulge in, he realised that it had never so boiled as when he listened to the brutal and significant swagger of Sir John Oxon.  His youth and beauty and cruel, confident air had made it seem devilish in its suggestion of what his past almost boyish years might have held of pitiless pleasures and pitiless indifference to the consequences, which, while they were added triumphs to him, were ruin and despair to their victims.