e no scath. It is you yourself who have erred."

"I know it," she cried, "I am a most wicked woman. But it is bad enough
that one should misuse you. Ma foi! I will see that there is not a
second one."

"Nay, nay, no one has misused me," he answered. "But the fault lies
in your hot and bitter words. You have called her a baggage and a
lack-brain, and I know not what."

"And you are he who taught me to speak the truth," she cried. "Now I
have spoken it, and yet I cannot please you. Lack-brain she is, and
lack-brain I shall call her."

Such was a sample of the sudden janglings which marred the peace of that
little class. As the weeks passed, however, they became fewer and less
violent, as Alleyne's firm and constant nature gained sway and influence
over the Lady Maude. And yet, sooth to say, there were times when he had
to ask himself whether it was not the Lady Maude who was gaining sway
and influence over him. If she were changing, so was he. In drawing her
up from the world, he was day by day being himself dragged down towards
it. In vain he strove and reasoned with himself as to the madness of
letting his mind rest upon Sir Nigel's daughter. What was he--a younger
son, a penniless clerk, a squire unable to pay for his own harness--that
he should dare to raise his eyes to the fairest maid in Hampshire? So
spake reason; but, in spite of all, her voice was ever in his ears and
her image in his heart. Stronger than reason, stronger than cloister
teachings, stronger than all that might hold him back, was that old, old
tyrant who will brook no rival in the kingdom of youth.

And yet it was a surprise and a shock to himself to find how deeply
she had entered into his life; how completely those vague ambitions and
yearnings which had filled his spiritual nature centred themselves now
upon this thing of earth. He had scarce dared to face the change which
had come upon him, when a few sudden chance words showed it all up hard
and clear, like a lightning flash in the darkness.

He had ridden over to Poole, one November day, with his fellow-squire,
Peter Terlake, in quest of certain yew-staves from Wat Swathling, the
Dorsetshire armorer. The day for their departure had almost come, and
the two youths spurred it over the lonely downs at the top of their
speed on their homeward course, for evening had fallen and there was
much to be done. Peter was a hard, wiry, brown faced, country-bred lad
who looked on the coming war as the