By the Rood, Sir Guy, you choose this instant between me and your foul peasant.

A daughter of Beaumanoir does not share her lover with a crack-brained virago." The young man had also gone pale beneath his sunburn.

"I will not listen," he cried.

"You blaspheme a holy angel." "But listen you shall," and her voice quivered with passion.

She marched up to him and faced him, her slim figure as stiff as a spear.