Will’s face brightened up marvellously.

“Then you think she cares?”

“Why, of course she does.  She’s forever talking of you and all you have done, and what a wonderful Will you are.  When she sits at her wheel and chatters to me as I lounge by the fire, she is always telling of you and your sayings and doings.  Why, man, did you not know that for yourself?  Did you think all the love was on your side?”

“I daresay I was a fool,” said Will, getting fiery red.  “But I thought, perhaps, she would not care for a clumsy fellow like me after she had seen a gentleman like you.  You saved her life, you know, and it seemed natural like that you should care for each other afterward.  I know I’m nothing like you.”

“No, indeed.  I’m a mere wanderer—­here today and gone tomorrow; a soldier and an outcast, who could never ask any woman to share his lot.  My good sword is my bride.  I follow a different mistress from you.  I may never know rest or peace till the House of Lancaster is restored to its ancient rights.  You need not fear me as a rival, good Will; for no thought of marriage has ever entered my head, and sometimes methinks it never will.”

The smith’s face was a study as he listened to these welcome words, and Paul laughed as he read the meaning of those changing expressions.

“Give me the basket, and get you gone to Figeon’s, and make your peace with your offended lady,” he said, laughing.  “You are but a sorry wooer if you yield so soon to depression and despair.  But I warrant she will forgive you this time; and if you will but plead your cause in good earnest, it may be that I shall yet have the pleasure of treading a measure at your wedding feast.”

The blushing smith was easily persuaded to this course, and bade farewell to his companion in eager haste.  He was clad only in his working apron, and his hands were grimy from his toil; but his open face was comely and honest enough to please the fancy of any maiden, and Paul thought to himself that Mistress Joan would scarce reject so stalwart a champion after the fright and the shock of the previous week but one.  As Will Ives’s wife she would be safer and better protected than as Farmer Devenish’s unwedded daughter.

As for himself, thoughts of love and marriage had seldom entered his mind, and had always been dismissed with a light laugh.  As he had said to Will, he was wedded to a cause, to a resolute aim and object, and nothing nearer or dearer had ever yet intruded itself upon him to wean away his first love from the object upon which it had been so ardently bestowed.  The little prince—­as in his thoughts he still called him sometimes—­was the object of his loving homage.  King Henry was too little the man, and Queen Margaret too much, for either of them to fulfil his ideal or win the unquestioning love and loyalty of his heart; but in Edward, Prince of Wales, as he always called him, he had an object worthy of his admiration and worship.