"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."