"Yes," she replied, in a scarcely audible whisper.

"It's throwing in five hundred acres of land each of which my father
values at a Jew's eye, let me tell you, but, egad, Margaret, you're not
dear even at that. Run away home, Farmer Wheatman, and don't be fool
enough to play the rebel again."

I sat still and silent. Speech was useless, and action not yet possible.
That keen swordsman's eye must be diverted somehow. There was a God in
heaven, and the rabbit-stew would be ready soon. It was useless to attempt
to force matters. And as for his taunts, well, he was but feathering my
arrows. So I sat on like a stone.

"Go, Master Wheatman," she urged faintly, but I did not even turn to look
at her. My heart was thumping on my ribs, my nerves tingling, my muscles
involuntarily tightening for a spring.

"These yokels are so dull and lifeless, Margaret. He cannot understand
our impatience." Out of the corner of my eye I saw her crimson to the
roots of her hair at this vicious insult. "Off, my man," he added to me,
"or I'll prick your bull's hide." He thrust out his rapier to give point
to the threat. Nothing moved me. My eyes were glued to his.

And now the door on his right hand opened, and little Mistress
Marry-me-quick appeared with our supper. She saw the sword directed at the
breast of the one man on earth she loved with all the fervour of her
honest, womanly heart. The sight scattered her senses. With a
nerve-racking shriek she flopped heavily to the floor, and the rabbit-stew
flew from her hands and crashed loudly at his feet. It was too much for his
wine-sodden nerves. His eyes turned, his body slackened, the point of his