Staring at Acour, and remembering that he, too, loved Red Eve, Hugh grew suddenly ashamed.  How could a mere merchant compare himself with this magnificent lord, this high-bred, many-titled favourite of courts and of fortune?  How could he rival him, he who had never yet travelled a hundred miles from the place where he was born, save once, when he sailed on a trading voyage to Calais?  As well might a hooded crow try to match a peregrine that swooped to snatch away the dove from beneath its claws.  Yes, he, Hugh, was the grey crow, Eve was the dove whom he had captured, and yonder shifty-eyed Count was the fleet, fierce peregrine who soon would tear out his heart and bear the quarry far away.  Hugh shivered a little as the thought struck him, not with fear for himself, but at the dread of that great and close bereavement.

The girl at his side felt the shiver, and her mind, quickened by love and peril, guessed its purport.  She said nothing, for words were dangerous; only turning her beautiful face she pressed her lips upon her lover’s hand.  It was her message to him; thereby, as he knew well, humble as he might be, she acknowledged him her lord forever.  I am with you, said that kiss.  Have no fear; in life or in death none shall divide us.  He looked at her with grateful eyes, and would have spoken had she not placed her hand upon his mouth and pointed.

Acour was speaking in English, which he used with a strong French accent.

“Well, we do not find your beautiful runaway, Sir John,” he said, in a clear and cultivated voice; “and although I am not vain, for my part I cannot believe that she has come to such a place as this to meet a merchant’s clerk, she who should company with kings.”

“Yet I fear it is so, Sir Edmund,” answered Sir John Clavering, a stout, dark man of middle age.  “This girl of mine is very heady, as I give warning you will find out when she is your wife.  For years she has set her fancy upon Hugh de Cressi; yes, since they were boy and girl together, as I think, and while he lives I doubt she’ll never change it.”

“While he lives—­then why should he continue to live, Sir John?” asked the Count indifferently.  “Surely the world will not miss a chapman’s son!”

“The de Cressis are my kin, although I hate them, Sir Edmund.  Also they are rich and powerful, and have many friends in high places.  If this young man died by my command it would start a blood feud of which none can tell the end, for, after all, he is nobly born.”

“Then, Sir John, he shall die by mine.  No, not at my own hands, since I do not fight with traders.  But I have those about me who are pretty swordsmen and know how to pick a quarrel.  Before a week is out there will be a funeral in Dunwich.”

“I know nothing of your men, and do not want to hear of their quarrels, past or future,” said Sir John testily.

“Of course not,” answered the Count.  “I pray you, forget my words.  Name of God! what an accursed and ill-omened spot is this.  I feel as though I were standing by my own grave—­it came upon me suddenly.”  And he shivered and turned pale.