"Yes--respect; and who pays any respect to me?" said the haughty
young lord. "A miserable artisan and his daughter, too much honoured
by my slightest notice, have the insolence to tell me that my notice
dishonours them. Well, my princess of white doe skin and blue silk,
I will teach you to rue this."

As he murmured thus, the glover and his daughter entered the
Dominican church, and their attendant, Conachar, in attempting to
follow them closely, jostled, it may be not unwillingly, the young
nobleman. The gallant, starting from his unpleasing reverie, and
perhaps considering this as an intentional insult, seized on the
young man by the breast, struck him, and threw him from him. His
irritated opponent recovered himself with difficulty, and grasped
towards his own side, as if seeking a sword or dagger in the place
where it was usually worn; but finding none, he made a gesture of
disappointed rage, and entered the church. During the few seconds
he remained, the young nobleman stood with his arms folded on his
breast, with a haughty smile, as if defying him to do his worst.
When Conachar had entered the church, his opponent, adjusting his
cloak yet closer about his face, made a private signal by holding
up one of his gloves. He was instantly joined by two men, who,
disguised like himself, had waited his motions at a little distance.
They spoke together earnestly, after which the young nobleman retired
in one direction, his friends or followers going off in another.

Simon Glover, before he entered the church, cast a look towards the
group, but had taken his place among the congregation before they
separated themselves. He knelt down with the air of a man who has
something burdensome on his mind; but when the service was ended,