The contempt in his words stirred the gall in my liver, but I neither
spoke nor shifted, and he continued, addressing her, but with cold, amused
eyes fixed on me, "You see, sweet Margaret, how yokel blood means yokel
mood. Your turnip-knight freezes at the sight of steel."

In part at least he spoke truth. I had rarely seen a naked sword, other
than our time-worn and useless relic of the doughty Smite-and-spare-not,
and had never sat thus at the point of one drawn in earnest on myself. It
is easy to blame me, and at the back of my own mind I was blaming and
cursing myself, as I sat helpless there. I was keen as the blade he bore
to help her, for here was her hour of uttermost need, but I did not see
that I should be capable of much service with a hole in my heart, and he
had me at his mercy beyond a doubt, so long as he had me in his eye. No,
galling as it was, there was nothing to do but to wait the turn of events.
Something might divert his attention. One second was all I wanted, and I
sat there praying for it and ready for it. Meanwhile the scene, the talk,
and she were full of interest.

Marry-me-quick's cottage was no hovel, either for size or appointments.
Brocton was standing with his back to a dresser. On his left was the outer
door, and on his right, between him and Mistress Waynflete, the door in
the party wall leading to the back room where the rabbit-stew was now
being dished up. Madam and I sat on opposite sides of the large hearth, a
small round table, drawn close to the fire for comfort and covered with
the supper things, occupied part of the space between us, but there was
plenty of room for action. When Brocton had stretched out his rapier
towards me in threat and command, the point was perhaps three feet from my
breast, and he could master my slightest movement.