ere nothing to
show the lady's name or rank?"

"There's no mark of any kind," answered Marmaduke. "'Tis a white horse
with a black star between the eyes, and the trappings are of scarlet.
That is all I can tell you, your honor. In all likelihood some stable
boy'll be along shortly to claim the creature."

The young men were again sitting about the table, and Ashley called
for another round of wine.

"I, for one, have had wine enough and to spare," declared Treadway.
"The Lady Barbara must be here soon, and, to my thinking, ten minutes
of sleep would not be amiss. You, too, my lord, could you not meet the
lady with a better grace after at least forty winks?" He linked his
arm in Lord Farquhart's and led him toward a door at the side of the
room. "Come to my room and we'll pretend to imitate the lad with the
good conscience and the good wine atop of it. Why, the lad's gone!
Slipped away like a frightened shadow, doubtless, when he found the
company he'd waked into. Unless the Lady Barbara comes, give us
fifteen minutes, Marmaduke. Not a second more, on your life. Fifteen
minutes will unfuddle a brain that's--that's not as clear as it might
be, but more than that will make it dull."

Together the two men entered Treadway's room, caroling aloud the love
song that had been writ to Sylvia and changed to Barbara.

Ashley and Lindley, left alone over the table, sat for a moment in
silence. Then the latter, forgetting his resentment toward Ashley as
easily as it had been roused, spoke in a laughing, rallying voice.

"Cheer up, Hal! A fortnight's a goodly time in which a slip may come
between unwilling lips and a lagging cup. It seems to me that for a
lover's heart, yours is a faint heart. The Lady Barbara is unwon
yet--by Percy, I mean." The last words were added with a laugh at
Ashley's gloomy countenance.

"Yes, the lips are unwilling enough," Ashley agreed, in a grudging
voice, "and the cup lags, undoubtedly, but there'll be no slip; old
Gordon will force the lips, and old Gordon holds the handle of the
cup. Mistress Barbara is but wax in her father's hands, and as for
Farquhart--well, unless he marries the Lady Barbara, Lord Gordon will
ruin him. The old man has sworn that he will have his way, and have it
he will, or I'm much mistaken."

"But," remonstrated Lindley, "wax can be molded by any hand that holds
it. If the lady is wax in her father's hands through fear, 'twould
seem to me that--why, that love is hotter