The rest of the morning Richard spent in choosing a headpiece, and mail plates for breast, back, neck, shoulders, arms, and thighs.  The next thing was to set the village tailor at work upon a coat of that thick strong leather, dressed soft and pliant, which they called buff, to wear under his armour.  After that came the proper equipment of Lady, and that of the twenty men whom his father expected to provide from amongst his own tenants, and for whom he had already a full provision of clothing and armour; they had to be determined on, conferred with, and fitted, one by one, so as to avoid drawing attention to the proceeding.  Hence both Mr. Heywood and Richard had enough to do, and the more that Faithful Stopchase, on whom was their chief dependence, had not yet recovered sufficiently from the effects of his fall to be equal to the same exertion as formerly—­of which he was the more impatient that he firmly believed he had been a special object of Satanic assault, because of the present value of his counsels, and the coming weight of his deeds on the side of the well-affected.  Thus occupied, the weeks passed into months.

During this time Richard called again and again upon Dorothy, ostensibly to inquire after her mother.  Only once, however, did she appear, when she gave him to understand she was so fully occupied, that, although obliged by his attention, he must not expect to see her again.

‘But I will be honest, Richard,’ she added, ’and let you know plainly that, were it otherwise in respect of my mother, I yet should not see you, for you and I have parted company, and are already so far asunder on different roads that I must bid you farewell at once while yet we can hear each other speak.’

There was no anger, only a cold sadness in her tone and manner, while her bearing was stately as towards one with whom she had never had intimacy.  Even her sadness seemed to Richard to have respect to the hopeless condition of her mother’s health, and not at all to the changed relation between him and her.

‘I trust, at least, mistress Dorothy,’ he said, with some bitterness, ’you will grant me the justice that what I do, I do with a good conscience.  After all that has been betwixt us I ask for no more.’

‘What more could the best of men ask for?’

‘I, who am far from making any claim to rank with such—­’

‘I am glad to know it,’ interjected Dorothy.

’—­am yet capable of hoping that an eye at once keener and kinder than yours may see conscience at the very root of the actions which you, Dorothy, will doubtless most condemn.’

Was this the boy she had despised for indifference?

‘Was it conscience drove you to sprain my cousin Rowland’s knee?’ she asked.

Richard was silent for a moment.  The sting was too cruel.

‘Pray hesitate not to say so, if such be your conviction,’ added Dorothy.

‘No,’ replied Richard, recovering himself.  ’I trust it is not such a serious matter as you say; but any how it was not conscience but jealousy and anger that drove me to that wrong.’