his shoulders in token of indifference.
"Quite so, quite so, good master," he said suavely, "do ye not waste your breath in speaking thus loudly. I understand that your sentiments towards me do not partake of that Christian charity of which ye and yours do prate at times so loudly. But I'll not detain you. Doubtless worthy Mistress Lambert will be awaiting you, or is it the sick mare down Minster way that hath first claim on your amiability? I'll not detain you."
He turned as if to go, but Adam's hard grip was on his shoulder in an instant.
"Nay! thou'lt not detain me — 'tis I am detaining thee!" said the blacksmith hoarsely, "for I desired to tell thee that thy ugly French face is abhorrent to me . . . I do not hold with princes. . . . For a prince is none better than another man nay, he is worse an he loafs and steals after heiresses and their gold . . . and will not do a bit of honest work. . . . Work makes the man. . . . Work and prayer . . . not your titles and fine estates. This is a republic now . . . understand? . . . no king, no House of Lords — please the Lord neither clergymen nor noblemen soon. . . . I work with my hands . . . and am not ashamed. The Lord Saviour was a carpenter and not a prince. . . . My brother is a student and a gentleman — as good as any prince — understand? Ten thousand times as good as thee."
He relaxed his grip which had been hard as steel on Sir Marmaduke's shoulder. It was evident that he had been nursing hatred and loathing against his lodger for some time, and that to-night the floodgates of his pent-up wrath had been burst asunder through the mysterious prince's taunts, and insinuations anent the cloud and secrecy which hung round the Lamberts' parentage.
Though his shoulder was painful and bruised under the pressure of the blacksmith's rough fingers, Sir Marmaduke did not wince. He looked his avowed enemy boldly in the face, with no small measure of contempt for the violence displayed.
His own enmity towards those who thwarted him was much more subtle, silent and cautious. He would never storm and rage, show his enmity openly and caution his antagonist through an outburst of rage. Adam Lambert still glaring into his lodger's eye, encountered nothing therein but irony and indulgent contempt.
Religion forbade him to swear. Yet was he sorely tempted, and we may presume that he cursed inwardly, for his enemy refused to be drawn into wordy warfare, and he himself had exhausted his vocabulary of sneering abuse, even as he had exhausted his breath.
Perhaps in his innermost heart he was ashamed of his outburst. After all, he had taken this man's money, and had broken bread with him. His hand dropped to his side, and his head fell forward on his breast even as with a pleasant laugh the prince carelessly turned away, and with an affected gesture brushed his silken doublet, there where the blacksmith's hard grip had marred the smoothness of the delicate fabric.
Had Adam Lambert possessed that subtle sixth sense, which hears and sees that which goes on in the mind of others, he had perceived a thought in his lodger's brain cells which might have caused him to still further regret his avowal of open enmity.
For as the blacksmith finally turned away and walked off through the park, skirting the boundary wall, Sir Marmaduke looked over his shoulder at the ungainly figure which was soon lost in the gloom, and muttered a round oath between his teeth.
"An exceedingly unpleasant person," he vowed within himself, "you will have to be removed, good master, an you get too troublesome."
CHAPTER XI
SURRENDER
But this interview with the inimical Quaker had more than strengthened Sir Marmaduke's design to carry his bold scheme more rapidly to its successful issue.
The game which he had played with grave risks for over three months now had begun to be dangerous. The mysterious patriot from France could not afford to see prying enemies at his heels.
Anon when the graceful outline of Lady Sue's figure emerged from out the surrounding gloom, Sir Marmaduke went forward to meet her, and clasped her to him in a passionate embrace.
"My gracious lady . . . my beautiful Sue . . ." he murmured whilst he covered her hands, her brow, her hair with ardent kisses, "you have come so late — and I have been so weary of waiting . . . waiting for you."
He led her through the gardens to where one gigantic elm, grander than its fellows, had thrown out huge gnarled roots which protruded from out the ground. One of these, moss-covered, green and soft, formed a perfect resting place. He drew her down, begging her to sit. She obeyed, scared somewhat as was her wont when she found him so unfettered and violent.
He stretched himself at full length at her feet, extravagant now in his acts and gestures like a man who no longer can hold turbulent passion in check. He kissed the edge of her kirtle, then her cloak and the tips of her little shoes:
"It was cruel to keep me waiting . . . gracious lady — it was cruel," he murmured in the intervals between these ardent caresses.
"I am so sorry, Amédé," she repeated, grieving to see him so sorrowful, not a little frightened at his vehemence, — trying to withdraw her hands from his grasp. "I was detained . . ."
"Detained," he rejoined harshly, "detained by someone else . . . someone who had a greater claim on your time than the poor exile . . ."
"Nay! 'tis unkind thus to grieve me," she said with tender reproach as she felt the hot tears gather in her eyes. "You know — as I do — that I am not my own mistress yet."
"Yes! yes! forgive me — my gracious, sweet, sweet lady. . . . I am mad when you are not nigh me. . . . You do not know — how could you? . . . what torments I endure, when I think of you so beautiful, so exquisite, so adorable, surrounded by other men who admire you . . . desire you, mayhap. . . . Oh! my God! . . ."
"But you need have no fear," she protested gently, "you know that I gave my whole heart willingly to you . . . my prince . . ."
"Nay, but you cannot know," he persisted violently, "sweet, gentle creature that you are, you cannot guess the agonies which a strong man endures when he is gnawed by ruthless insane jealousy . . ."
She gave a cry of pain.
"Amédé!" for she felt hurt, deeply wounded by his mistrust of her, when she had so wholly, so fully trusted him.
"I know . . . I know," he said with quick transition of tone, fearful that he had offended her, striving to master his impatience, to find words which best pleased her young, romantic temperament, "Nay! but you must think me mad. . . . Mayhap you despise me," he added with a gentle note of sadness. "Oh, God! . . . mayhap you will turn from me now. . . ."
"No! no!"
"Yet do I worship you . . . my saint . . . my divinity . . . my Suzanne. . . . You are more beautiful, more adorable than any woman in the world . . . and I am so unworthy."
"You unworthy!" she retorted, laughing gayly through her tears. "You, my prince, my king! . . ."
"Say that once more, my Suzanne," he murmured with infinite gentleness, "oh! the exquisite sweetness of your voice, which is like dream-music in mine ears. . . . Oh! to hold you in my arms thus, for ever . . . until death, sweeter than life . . . came to me in one long passionate kiss."
She
