“Whereas I have known full well that you, most illustrious Mistress Margery, have ever vouchsafed your gracious friendship to Mistress Ann Spiesz—­and indeed I myself hold her in the highest respect, as a lady rich in all virtue—­I would beseech her to put away from her heart all thought of my gracious master as soon as may be, and to strive no more to keep his troth, forasmuch as it can do no good:  Better had she look for some other suitor who is more honest in his intent, that so she may not wholly waste her maiden days—­which sweet Saint Katharine forbid!  Yet, most worshipful Mistress Margery, I entreat you with due submission not to take this amiss in your beloved brother, nor to withdraw from him any share of your precious love, whereas my gracious master may rightly look higher for his future wife.  And as touching his doings now in his unmarried state, of us the saying is true:  Like master, like man.  And whereas I, who am but a poor and simple serving man, have never been fain to set my heart on one only maid, no less is to be looked for in my gracious master, who is rich and of noble birth.”

This epistle would of a certainty have moved me to laughter at any other time but, as things stood, the matter and manner of the low varlet’s letter in daring to write thus of Ann, roused me to fury.  And yet he was a brave fellow, and of rare faithfulness to his master; for when the Marchese’s nephew had fallen upon Herdegen, he had wrenched the sword out of the young nobleman’s hand at the peril of his own life and had thereafter modestly held his peace as to that brave deed.  It was, in truth, hard not to betray the coming of this letter, even by a look; yet did I hide it; but when another letter was brought, not long after, all care and secrecy were vain.

Oh! that dreadful letter.  I could not hide the matter of it; but I let pass her mother’s wedding before I confessed to Ann what my brother had written to me.

That cruel letter lies before me now.  It is longer than any he had written me heretofore, and I will here write it fair, for indeed I could not, an I would, copy the writing, so wild and reckless as it is.

“All must be at an end, Margery, betwixt Ann and me”—­and those first words stung me like a whip-lash.  “There.  ’Tis written, and now you know it.  I was never worthy of her, for I have sold my heart’s love for money, as Judas sold the Lord.

“Not that my love or longing are dead.  Even while I write I feel dragged to her; a thousand voices cry to me that there is but one Ann, and when a few weeks ago the young Sieur de Blonay made so bold as to vaunt of his lady and her rose-red as above all other ladies and colors, my sword compelled him to yield the place of honor to blue—­for whose sake you know well.