“No, lad,” answered the old knight bluntly; “but since you will have it, here it is.  Within that year or two your uncle whose heir you were has married and bred a son, and now you are but a gentleman of good name, and little to float it on.  That big house of yours must go to the hammer, Christopher.  You’ll never stow a bride in it.”

“Ah!  I thought as much.  Christopher Harflete with the promise of the Lesborough lands was one man; Christopher Harflete without them is another—­in your eyes.  Yet, sir, I hold you foolish.  I love your daughter and she loves me, and those lands and more may come back, or I, who am no fool, will win others.  Soon there will be plenty going up there at Court, where I am known.  Further, I tell you this:  I believe that I shall marry Cicely, and earlier than you think, and I would have had your blessing with her.”

“What!  Will you steal the girl away?” asked Sir John furiously.

“By no means, sir.  But this is a strange world of ours, in which from hour to hour top becomes bottom, and bottom top, and there—­I think I shall marry her.  At least I am sure that Despard the sot never will, for I’ll kill him first, if I hang for it.  Sir, sir, surely you will not throw your pearl upon that muckheap.  Better crush it beneath your heel at once.  Look, and say you cannot do it,” and he pointed to the pathetic figure of Cicely, who stood by them with clasped hands, panting breast, and a face of agony.

The old knight glanced at her out of the corners of his eyes, and saw something that moved him to pity, for at bottom his heart was honest, and though he treated her so roughly, as was the fashion of the times, he loved his daughter more than all the world.

“Who are you, that would teach me my duty to my bone and blood?” he grumbled.  Then he thought a while, and added, “Hear me, now, Christopher Harflete.  To-morrow at the dawn I ride to London with Jeffrey Stokes on a somewhat risky business.”

“What business, sir?”

“If you would know—­that of a quarrel with yonder Spanish rogue of an Abbot, who claims the best part of my lands, and has poisoned the ear of that upstart, the Vicar-General Cromwell.  I go to take the deeds and prove him a liar and a traitor also, which Cromwell does not know.  Now, is my nest safe from you while I am away?  Give me your word, and I’ll believe you, for at least you are an honest gentleman, and if you have poached a kiss or two, that may be forgiven.  Others have done the same before you were born.  Give me your word, or I must drag the girl through the snows to London at my heels.”

“You have it, sir,” answered Christopher.  “If she needs my company she must come for it to Cranwell Towers, for I’ll not seek hers while you are away.”

“Good.  Then one gift for another.  I’ll not answer my Lord of Despard’s letter till I get back again—­not to please you, but because I hate writing.  It is a labour to me, and I have no time to spare to-night.  Now, have a cup of drink and be off with you.  Love-making is thirsty work.”