The Countess swooped upon him in one of her ungovernable furies—­one of those of which even Gilbert Talbot avoided writing the particulars to his father—­abusing his whole household in general, and his son in particular, in the most outrageous manner, for thus receiving the favour she had done to their beggarly, ill-favoured, ill-nurtured daughter.  Richard stood still and grave, his hat in his hand, as unmoved and tranquil as if he had been breasting a stiff breeze on the deck of his ship, with good sea-room and confidence in all his tackle, never even attempting to open his lips, but looking at the Countess with a steady gaze which somehow disconcerted her, for she demanded wherefore he stared at her like one of his clumsy hinds.

“Because her Ladyship does not know what she is saying,” he replied.

“Darest thou!  Thou traitor, thou viper, thou unhanged rascal, thou mire under my feet, thou blot on the house!  Darest thou beard me—­ me?” screamed my Lady.  “Darest thou—­I say—­”

If the sailor had looked one whit less calm and resolute, my Lady would have had her clenched fist on his ear, or her talons in his beard, but he was like a rock against which the billows expended themselves, and after more of the tempest than need stain these pages, she deigned to demand what he meant or had to say for his son.

“Solely this, madam, that my son had never even heard of Babington’s suit, far less that he had your Ladyship’s good-will.  He found him kneeling to Cicely in the garden, and the girl, distressed and dismayed at his importunity.  There were hot words and drawn blades.  That was the whole.  I parted them and saw them join hands.”

“So saith Master Babington.  He is willing to overlook the insult, so will I and my Lord, if you will atone for it by instantly consenting to this espousal.”

“That, madam, I cannot do.”

She let him say no more, and the storm had begun to rage again, when Babington took advantage of an interval to take breath, and said, “I thank you, madam, and pray you peace.  If a little space be vouchsafed me, I trust to show this worthy gentleman cause wherefore he should no longer withhold his fair damsel from me.”

“Indeed!” said the Countess.  “Art thou so confident?  I marvel what better backer thou wouldst have than me!  So conceited of themselves are young men now-a-days, they think, forsooth, their own merits and graces should go farther in mating them than the word and will of their betters.  There, you may go!  I wash my hands of the matter.  One is as ingrate as the other.”

Both gentlemen accepted this amiable dismissal, each hoping that the Countess might indeed have washed her hands of their affairs.  On his departure Richard was summoned into the closet of the Earl, who had carefully kept out of the way during the uproar, only trusting not to be appealed to.  “My good cousin,” he asked, “what means this broil between the lads?  Hath Babington spoken sooth?”