dear friend--as I am his."

"But you?" she queried. "Were you my friend, as well, is this as you
would have it?"

My look went past her through the lead-rimmed window-panes to the great
oaks and hickories on the lawn; to these and to the white road winding
in and out among them. While yet I sought for words in which to give her
unreservedly to my dear lad, two horsemen trotted into view. One of them
was a king's man; the other a civilian in sober black. The redcoat rode
as English troopers do, with a firm seat, as if the man were master of
his mount; but the smaller man in black seemed little to the manner
born, and daylight shuttled in and out beneath him, keeping time to the
jog-trot of his beast.

I thought it passing strange that with all good will to answer her,
these coming horsemen seemed to hold me silent. And, indeed, I did not
speak until they came so near that I could make them out.

"I am your friend, Margery mine; as good a friend as you will let me be.
And as between Richard Jennifer and another, I should be a sorry friend
to Dick did I not--"

She heard the clink of horseshoes on the gravel and turned, signing to
me for silence while she looked below. The window overhung the entrance
on that side, and through the opened air-casement I heard some
babblement of voices, though not the words.

"I must go down," she said. "'Tis company come, and my father is away."

She passed behind my chair, and, hearing her hand upon the latch, I had
thought her gone--gone down to welcome my enemy and his riding mate, the
factor. But while I was cursing my unready tongue and repenting that I
had not given her some small word of warning, she spoke again.

"You say 'Richard Jennifer or another.' What know you of any other,
Monsieur John?"

"Nay, I know nothing save what you have told me; and from that I have
been hoping there was no other."

"But if I say there may be?"

My heart went sick at that. True, I had thought to give her generously
to Dick, whose right was paramount; but to another--

"Margery, come hither where I may see you." And when she stood before me
like a bidden child: "Tell me, little comrade, who is that other?"

But now her mood was changed again, and from standing sweet and pensive
she fell a-laughing.

"What impudence!" she cried. "_Ma foi_! You should borrow Pere
Matthieu's cassock and breviary; then, mayhap, I might confess to you.
But not before."

But still I pressed her.

"Tell