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planned. And as her head sank into the shaft of sunlight, his advance stopped abruptly, and he stood staring.
    “God’s Grace!” he said softly. “God’s Grace!”
    Deliberately she did not rise. She knew she was set to advantage; there would be nothing lost by waiting. So, for a moment, they stayed, he looking down at her and she looking up at him. Then he flung hat and whip to the window-seat and began peeling off his gloves.
    “Get up, little cousin.”
    His voice was bantering, and of a sudden he broke into a smile that lit his face and changed his whole aspect; and it was Margery’s turn to stare as she saw the odd crinkle of the forehead that came with the smile.
    “You are little cousin, not a doubt of it. How do they call you?”
    “Margery Whitaker, by your leave sir.” He flung his gloves after his hat.
    “If you’d said Margery Nowell, you’d still have had my leave--or any man’s. None would deny it you while you look so. However....“
    His smile came again, and it was infectious. It called hers out m response, and she felt her forehead crinkle. He stopped short in the act of loosening his cloak.
    “God’s Grace!” he said again. “None indeed! And I had thought to see....“
    He broke off, and his face grew thoughtful as he walked to the window.
    Margery, watching in silence, asked herself why this man stood so far apart from other men. That he did stand apart was clear; why, was not so clear. Certainly it was not his clothes. His leather jerkin, serge breeches, and cloak of russet frieze were homely enough, and his beaver was almost shabby. There was nothing to distinguish him from the yeomen she had seen in the street except the bright steel sword-hilt in the folds of his cloak--that, and his eyes. And then she understood. For in this man’s eyes, unmistakably and in full measure, was that nameless force which in all times and places has been authority; and Margery, who had never seen it before, knew it on the instant for what it was.
    He was smiling again now, and curiosity was raging in Margery. She decided to risk it.
    “Pray sir,” she said, “what was it that you thought to see? Or whom?”
    “That? Why, nothing at all....“ But his smile was broadening, and something impish was creeping into it. “Nay, if you will have it, I thought to see some pudding-faced wench, with hair free from curl, and flanks like a Flemish mare.”
    Margery nearly choked. She was not used to this sort of thing. It flouted all she had been taught; and because it delighted her, it lured her. into archness. She made her curtsey again, most formally and deliberately, and she looked up at her cousin with lifting eyebrows and a smile that had an inviting touch of impudence.
    “Must I then regret it, sir, that I do not match your expectations?”
    She was still sunk in her curtsey, poised gracefully and delicately; she was pleased with that riposte, and her eyes showed it as she waited for his answer. It came instantly, and it was not what she had expected. He had slipped his cloak from his shoulders, and it was hanging loosely from his arm; now, with a speed that gave no warning, he swung it by the collar, and its fast-moving folds, sweeping low across the floor, took her by the ankles; her delicate balance broke at once, and she went down with an undignified thump.
    “Here’s impudence!” said Roger Nowell. And Margery, sitting on the floor and looking ruefully up at him, saw his grin and went helplessly into laughter.
     

Chapter 3: THE BROODING HILL
     
    Half an hour later, after he had shown what a sharp-set man can do to beef and ale, and Margery had shown what a healthy girl can do in emulation, they were in the saddle. He had mounted her on a lively grey mare and was beside her on a big chestnut. Her bags followed on a pack-horse led by a mounted servant.
    It was high noon when they came from the inn yard into the Friargate, and Margery gave thanks to Fortune as they trotted the length of the