He did not suffer so much, however, as to lose all his good spirits, or fail in his part of a conversation composed chiefly of what we now call chaff, both of them for a time avoiding all such topics as might lead to dispute, the one from a sense of wrong already done, the other from a vague feeling that he was under the protection of the foregone injury.
'Have you known my cousin Dorothy long ?' asked Scudamore.
'Longer than I can remember,' answered Richard.
'Then you must be more like brother and sister than lovers.' 'That, I fear, is her feeling,' replied Richard, honestly.
'You need not think of me as a rival,' said Scudamore.

'I never saw the young woman in my life before, and although anything of yours, being a roundhead's, is fair game--' 'Your humble servant, sir Cavalier!' interjected Richard.

'Pray use your pleasure.' 'I tell you plainly,' Scudamore went on, without heeding the interruption, 'though I admire my cousin, as I do any young woman, if she be but a shade beyond the passable--' 'The ape! The coxcomb!' said Richard to himself.
'I am not, therefore, dying for her love; and I give you this one honest warning that, though I would rather see mistress Dorothy in her winding-sheet than dame to a roundhead, I should be--yes, I MAY be a more dangerous rival in respect of your mare, than of any lady YOU are likely to set eyes upon.' 'What do you mean ?' said Richard gruffly.
'I mean that, the king having at length resolved to be more of a monarch and less of a saint--' 'A saint!' echoed Richard, but the echo was rather a loud one, for it startled his mare and shook her rider.
'Don't shout like that!' cried the cavalier, with an oath.

'Saint or sinner, I care not.

He is my king, and I am his soldier.