"They? Who, child?" said the father, quickly.

"Sir Mark--Gilbert Carr. I fear they will quarrel."

"Have they cause?" said the father, inquiringly. "Here is Master Peasegood. He was to meet me. Well met, Brother Joseph," he said, as the stout clerk waddled up. "Leave it to us, dear child, and we will bring these mad boy's to their senses."

"Mad boys--senses!" cried Master Peasegood, mopping his face. "What is wrong? You don't mean that this Sir Mark and the Captain--? Oh fie, Mace, my child, fie!"

"Master Peasegood, if you have any feeling for me," cried Mace, in hot indignation, "go and interpose before there is mischief done."

"Phew!" whistled the clerk. "Brother Brisdone, come along."

It was time they started, especially as Master Peasegood's bravest pace was a very slow one, for no sooner had Mace hurried away than, with his anger and jealousy completely mastering him, Gil strode towards Sir Mark, who, on seeing him approach, far from attempting to avoid the meeting, leaned back against the gate, and stared at his rival with a cool exasperating mien.

Gilbert Carr had been a fighting-man from the time he had first learned to handle a sword; he had also been in command of a ship in many a perilous time, and the result of his training had been to teach him the necessity of coolness in danger. This was a perilous time, and from old custom he began at once to master his excitement, and prepare himself for the encounter that he felt must take place. He was as hot and determined as ever, but he felt that he must gain the mastery over this court gallant, or he would never feel happy more. It would result in his increasing Mace's displeasure perhaps, but in his cooler moments he might feel the deepest sorrow for having caused her pain.

All the same, though, the thought came upon him that Mace's name must be left out of the quarrel. It would be cruel in the extreme to have it known far and wide that he and this knight had fought about Mace Cobbe.

It would be like a blow at her reputation, and, besides, whatever he might know in his heart of hearts, Sir Mark should not have the satisfaction of jeering at him as the successful lover.

No, there should be some other cause for the fight that would ensue, and it was easy to find one.

Easier than Gilbert Carr expected, for Sir Mark, stung by disappointment and the cold manner in which Mace had received his declaration, after he had, as he thought, carefully laid siege to and won her, was just in the humour to quarrel with a fly. From where he stood he had seen Gil stop and speak to the maiden, and it seemed to him that she had sent Gil on to chastise him for his insolence.

"A confounded little rustic coquette!" he muttered; "and now she sends her bully to me. Curse him, he thinks I am weak with illness and easily managed. Let him mind, or I may deal differently with him to what I did with the old founder."

As Gil came nearer, asking himself how he should commence the quarrel, Sir Mark's rage was ready to master him, for he began to feel that all his courtly adulation had been thrown away; that the founder's daughter had listened in her calm, self-contained way, while he had fooled himself into the belief that he was moulding her, like soft wax, to his will; and all the time this Carr held the key of her heart, and was preferred.

"Curse him, let him mind," he muttered. "I know one or two stoccatos that he can never have learned; and if I had him at my feet, run through the body, why it would be a service to King James, for the fellow is no better than a buccaneer."

Gil came steadily up, towards the gate, still at a loss what to say, when Sir Mark insolently faced him, drew himself up, and, staring from his crown to his feet and back again, said sharply,--

"Were you sent to talk to me?"

"No," said Gil, sharply, "I was not."

"Oh!" replied Sir Mark, caressing his pointed beard; "I thought, perhaps, the young lady of--"

"Hold that prating tongue," cried Gil, angrily, "or I may slit it, to teach it manners. I was not sent to talk to you, but I came to seek and know more of the man who has thought proper to settle himself down here.

Hark ye! my good knight and follower of King James, the Solomon, the wise hater of tobacco, I want to know your business?"

"Let us see," replied Sir Mark, insolently. "Are you authorised to inquire? Recollect, fellow, that you are addressing one of his Majesty's officers."

"I authorise myself," said Gil, quietly, as he fought hard to keep down his rage and be cool. "As for his Majesty and his officers, tell him that down here in the south are some staunch men, who care no more for him, his laws, and his thick-tongued utterances, than they do for his messengers, however gaily they may be clad."

"You know, I suppose, that I could have you seized, good fellow, and laid by the heels in prison till such time as it pleased his Majesty to have you tried for sedition, and then hung or shot for the peace of his land."

"A way that would seem most meet to you, I presume," said Gil, quietly.

"He is beside himself with rage, and yet trying to madden me, but I'll keep cool and urge him on," thought Sir Mark.

"I shall strike him directly, if he talks to me like that," thought Gil.

"Let me see," said Sir Mark, gazing at his rival with half-closed eyes; "I have pretty well mastered your life, my good fellow; and the country would be purified if you were away. You are one of Raleigh's crew of buccanneering rufflers."

"Sir," cried Gil, proudly, "I am the son of one of the band of brave men who went out with that injured knight, and who look with the most utter contempt upon the north-country faithless puppet who sent him to the block. Pah; he and his followers stink in the nostrils of all good men and true. Let me see," cried Gil, seizing his opportunity, "by your broad speech, sir, you are one of the paltry, ragged Scots who came south with Solomon to seek a home."

"You lie, you scurrilous knave," said Sir Mark, stung to the quick by this last; "I am the son of a gentleman, who knows how to avenge an insult."

As he spoke he sprang forward and struck Gil in the chest with the back of his hand.

The blow was sharply given, and with all the young man's force; but Gil did not budge an inch. This was what he sought, and, drawing back from the gate, he made way for the knight to pass.

Sir Mark, evidently fearing treachery, drew his sword, but Gil had no thought of foul play.

"I make way for you, Sir Mark," he said, grimly. "Walk on first, sir, while you can."

Sir Mark started at the grim significance of his companion's words; and then, full of doubt in the other's honesty, he strode along a path pointed out by his rival, fighting hard to keep from looking back to see if he were in danger of a treacherous blow.

"Turn to the left, Sir Mark," said Gil, suddenly; "I presume you do not wish our meeting to be interrupted, and it may be if we stay within the wood."

"Where would you go, then?" cried Sir Mark, sharply, for he felt his courage fail somewhat in the presence of a man who grew cooler each moment.

"The lower furnace-house seems the likeliest spot to me," said Gil, quickly. "It will be deserted at this hour; there will be a good light from the roasting ore, and the clash of our swords will be unheard.

Moreover, there will be a shorter distance to carry the body of the man who falls."

Sir Mark shuddered, but he made no sign; and, following the direction pointed out by Gil, the two young men came out of the wood below the wheel, crossed the stream by a plank bridge, and then, passing through two or three thick plantations, surrounding as many powder-sheds, they entered a wide stone building, whose floor was of furnace-cinder and charcoal; and, as they stood face to face, the place was far more light than the wood.

Without another word, Gil divested himself of cap and doublet, drawing his sword, and throwing down belt and sheath, in all of which he was imitated by Sir Mark, who, now that he was face to face with the peril, seemed to lose a good deal of his nervousness, though the coolness of his enemy staggered him.

"Your sword, sir," said Gil, holding out his hand; but Sir Mark shrank back, and stood upon his defence.

"I merely wished to measure them," said Gil, contemptuously, as he threw his own upon the charcoal floor. "Measure them yourself."

Shamed by his rival's greater show of confidence, Sir Mark made an effort over his suspicious nature, picked up Gil's sword, and, holding both by the blades as they flashed in the warm red glow of the furnace, he handed them to Gil.

"Nay," he said; "measure them yourself."

Gil smiled as he took the weapons, laid the blades together, and finding his own to be fully three inches the longer, he handed it by the blade to Sir Mark.

"That is not my weapon," said the latter, suspiciously. "Give me my own sword, fellow."

"Not I," said Gil; "mine is three inches longer in the blade, and I am not going to have it said that I killed thee by taking a foul advantage.

We have no seconds, sir."

Sir Mark hesitated for a few moments, and then, with the longer weapon, placed himself on guard with a good deal of the ceremony taught in the fencing-schools, while Gil quietly crossed swords with him, and the fight began.

It was a curious sight in that black-floored building, lit by the ruddy glow of the charcoal-furnace, whose illuminating powers sufficed to produce a ruddy twilight--nothing more--through which the figures of the contending men could be seen in rapid motion, as their flashing blades gritted edge against edge, and passes were rapidly exchanged.

Both fenced well, and at the end of a couple of minutes they fell back by mutual consent. No advantage had been obtained on either side. Each of them had, however, fully awakened to the fact that he had no contemptible enemy to deal with; and as with recovered breath they crossed swords once more it was with increased caution, and pass and parry followed with each exerting all his skill.