How could a mere merchant compare himself with this magnificent lord, this high-bred, many-titled favourite of courts and of fortune?
How could he rival him, he who had never yet travelled a hundred miles from the place where he was born, save once, when he sailed on a trading voyage to Calais?
As well might a hooded crow try to match a peregrine that swooped to snatch away the dove from beneath its claws.

Yes, he, Hugh, was the grey crow, Eve was the dove whom he had captured, and yonder shifty-eyed Count was the fleet, fierce peregrine who soon would tear out his heart and bear the quarry far away.

Hugh shivered a little as the thought struck him, not with fear for himself, but at the dread of that great and close bereavement.
The girl at his side felt the shiver, and her mind, quickened by love and peril, guessed its purport.

She said nothing, for words were dangerous; only turning her beautiful face she pressed her lips upon her lover's hand.

It was her message to him; thereby, as he knew well, humble as he might be, she acknowledged him her lord forever.