should say as much to me, Sir Ralph,” rejoined Nicholas somewhat haughtily; “but you are under a misapprehension. It is not I who have been fighting, though I should have acted in precisely the same manner as our cousin Dick, if I had received the same affront, and so I make bold to say would you. Our name shall suffer no discredit from me; and as a gentleman, I assert, that Sir Thomas Metcalfe has only received due chastisement, as you yourself will admit, cousin, when you know all.”
“I know him to be overbearing,” observed Sir Ralph.
“Overbearing is not the word, cousin,” interrupted Nicholas; “he is as proud as a peacock, and would trample upon us all, and gore us too, like one of the wild bulls of Bowland, if we would let him have his way. But I would treat him as I would the bull aforesaid, a wild boar, or any other savage and intractable beast, hunt him down, and poll his horns, or pluck out his tusks.”
“Come, come, Nicholas, this is no very gentle language,” remarked Sir Ralph.
“Why, to speak truth, cousin, I do not feel in any very gentle frame of mind,” rejoined the squire; “my ire has been roused by this insolent braggart, my blood is up, and I long to be doing.”
“Unchristian feelings, Nicholas,” said Sir Ralph, severely, “and should be overcome. Turn the other cheek to the smiter. I trust you bear no malice to Sir Thomas.”
“I bear him no malice, for I hope malice is not in my nature, cousin,” replied Nicholas, “but I owe him a grudge, and when a fitting opportunity occurs—”
“No more of this, unless you would really incur my displeasure,” rejoined Sir Ralph; “the matter has gone far enough, too far, perhaps for amendment, and if you know it not, I can tell you that Sir Thomas’s claims to Raydale will be difficult to dispute, and so our uncle Robinson has found since he hath taken counsel on the case.”
“Have a care, Sir Ralph,” said Nicholas, noticing that Master Potts was approaching them, with his ears evidently wide open, “there is that little London lawyer hovering about. But I’ll give the cunning fox a double. I’m glad to hear you say so, Sir Ralph,” he added, in a tone calculated to reach Potts, “and since our uncle Robinson is so sure of his cause, it may be better to let this blustering knight be. Perchance, it is the certainty of failure that makes him so insensate.”
“This is meant to blind me, but it shall not serve your turn, cautelous squire,” muttered Potts; “I caught enough of what fell just now from Sir Ralph to satisfy me that he hath strong misgivings. But it is best not to appear too secure.—Ah, Sir Ralph,” he added, coming forward, “I was right, you see, in my caution. I am a man of peace, and strive to prevent quarrels and bloodshed. Quarrel if you please—and unfortunately men are prone to anger—but always settle your disputes in a court of law; always in a court of law, Sir Ralph. That is the only arena where a sensible man should ever fight. Take good advice, fee your counsel well, and the chances are ten to one in your favour. That is what I say to my worthy and singular good client, Sir Thomas; but he is somewhat headstrong and vehement, and will not listen to me. He is for settling matters by the sword, for making forcible entries and detainers, and ousting the tenants in possession, whereby he would render himself liable to arrest, fine, ransom, and forfeiture; instead of proceeding cautiously and decorously as the law directs, and as I advise, Sir Ralph, by writ of ejectione firmæ or action of trespass, the which would assuredly establish his title, and restore him the house and lands. Or he may proceed by writ of right, which perhaps, in his case, considering the long absence of possession, and the doubts supposed to perplex the title—though I myself have no doubts about it—would be the most efficacious. These are your only true weapons, Sir Ralph—your writs of entry, assise, and right—your pleas of novel disseisin, post-disseisin, and re-disseisin—your remitters, your præcipes, your pones, and your recordari faciases. These are the sword, shield, and armour of proof of a wise man.”
“Zounds! you take away one’s breath with this hail-storm of writs and pleas, master lawyer!” cried Nicholas. “But in one respect I am of your ‘worthy and singular good’ client’s, opinion, and would rather trust to my own hand for the defence of my property than to the law to keep it for me.”
“Then you would do wrong, good Master Nicholas,” rejoined Potts, with a smile of supreme contempt; “for the law is the better guardian and the stronger adversary of the two, and so Sir Thomas will find if he takes my advice, and obtains, as he can and will do, a perfect title juris et seisinæ conjunctionem.”
“Sir Thomas is still willing to refer the case to my arbitrament, I believe, sir?” demanded Sir Ralph, uneasily.
“He was so, Sir Ralph,” rejoined Potts, “unless the assaults and batteries, with intent to do him grievous corporeal hurt, which he hath sustained from your relatives, have induced a change of mind in him. But as I premised, Sir Ralph, I am a man of peace, and willing to intermediate.”
“Provided you get your fee, master lawyer,” observed Nicholas, sarcastically.
“Certainly, I object not to the quiddam honorarium, Master Nicholas,” rejoined Potts; “and if my client hath the quid pro quo, and gaineth his point, he cannot complain.—But what is this? Some fresh disturbance!”
“Something hath happened to the May Queen,” cried Nicholas.
“I trust not,” said Sir Ralph, with real concern. “Ha! she has fainted. They are bringing her this way. Poor maid! what can have occasioned this sudden seizure?”
“I think I could give a guess,” muttered Nicholas. “Better remove her to the Abbey,” he added aloud to the knight.
“You are right,” said Sir Ralph. “Our cousin Dick is near her, I observe. He shall see her conveyed there at once.”
At this moment Lady Assheton and Mrs. Nutter, with some of the other ladies, came up.
“Just in time, Nell,” cried the knight. “Have you your smelling-bottle about you? The May Queen has fainted.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Lady Assheton, springing towards Alizon, who was now sustained by young Richard Assheton; the forester having surrendered her to him. “How has this happened?” she inquired, giving her to breathe at a small phial.
“That I cannot tell you, cousin,” replied Richard Assheton, “unless from some sudden fright.”
“That was it, Master Richard,” cried Robin Hood; “she cried out on hearing the clashing of swords just now, and, I think, pronounced your name, on finding you engaged with Sir Thomas, and immediately after turned pale, and would have fallen if I had not caught her.”
“Ah, indeed!” exclaimed Lady Assheton, glancing at Richard, whose eyes fell before her inquiring gaze. “But see, she revives,” pursued the lady. “Let me support her head.”
As she spoke Alizon opened her eyes, and perceiving Richard Assheton, who had relinquished her to his relative, standing beside her, she exclaimed, “Oh! you are safe! I feared”—And then she stopped, greatly embarrassed.
“You feared he might be in danger from his fierce adversary,” supplied Lady Assheton; “but no. The conflict is happily over, and he is unhurt.”
“I am glad of it,” said Alizon, earnestly.
“She had better be taken to the Abbey,” remarked Sir Ralph, coming up.
“Nay, she will be more at ease at home,” observed
