“Whom I have forbidden to him,” grumbled Sir John, swinging himself from the saddle.

“Forbid him not,” answered Jeffrey, as he took his horse.  “Christopher Harflete may yet be a good friend to a maid in need, and I think that need is nigh.”

“Mind your business, knave,” shouted Sir John.  “Am I to be set at naught in my own house by a chit of a girl and a gallant who would mend his broken fortunes?”

“If you ask me, I think so,” replied the imperturbable Jeffrey, as he led away the horses.

Sir John strode into the house by the backway, which opened on to the stable-yard.  Taking the lantern that stood by the door, he went along galleries and upstairs to the sitting-chamber above the hall, which, since her mother’s death, his daughter had used as her own, for here he guessed that he would find her.  Setting down the lantern upon the passage table, he pushed open the door, which was not latched, and entered.

The room was large, and, being lighted only by the great fire that burned upon the hearth and two candles, all this end of it was hid in shadow.  Near to the deep window-place the shadow ceased, however, and here, seated in a high-backed oak chair, with the light of the blazing fire falling full upon her, was Cicely Foterell, Sir John’s only surviving child.  She was a tall and graceful maiden, blue-eyed, brown-haired, fair-skinned, with a round and child-like face which most people thought beautiful to look upon.  Just now this face, that generally was so arch and cheerful, seemed somewhat troubled.  For this there might be a reason, since, seated upon a stool at her side, was a young man talking to her earnestly.

He was a stalwart young man, very broad about the shoulders, clean-cut in feature, with a long, straight nose, black hair, and merry black eyes.  Also, as such a gallant should do, he appeared to be making love with much vigour and directness, for his face was upturned pleading with the girl, who leaned back in her chair answering him nothing.  At this moment, indeed, his copious flow of words came to an end, perhaps from exhaustion, perhaps for other reasons, and was succeeded by a more effective method of attack.  Suddenly sinking from the stool to his knees, he took the unresisting hand of Cicely and kissed it several times; then, emboldened by his success, threw his long arms about her, and before Sir John, choked with indignation, could find words to stop him, drew her towards him and treated her red lips as he had treated her fingers.  This rude proceeding seemed to break the spell that bound her, for she pushed back the chair and, escaping from his grasp, rose, saying in a broken voice——­

“Oh!  Christopher, dear Christopher, this is most wrong.”

“May be,” he answered.  “So long as you love me I care not what it is.”

“That you have known these two years, Christopher.  I love you well, but, alas! my father will have none of you.  Get you hence now, ere he returns, or we both shall pay for it, and I, perhaps, be sent to a nunnery where no man may come.”