Burge, who had been sitting in a somnolent condition before the fire, woke up, and stared in surprise mingled with alarm at the white-robed giant who advanced threateningly towards him through the dusk. ‘Why, what does this mean?’ he stammered. ‘What does this mean?’ repeated the farmer in thundering tones. ‘It means that you’re a rascal, young fellow.’ And Isaac qualified the statement with one or two specimens of ‘language’ of the very choicest kind. ‘What do you mean, eh,’ he pursued, standing opposite the chair where Andrew sat blinking, ‘by running arter young females on them there lonesome downs, when you was not fit for nothin’ but a public bar, frightenin’ her, and insultin’ her till she was very near took with a fit on my doorstep? What do ye mean, ye villain, eh? If ye was n’t so drunk that ye could n’t stand up to me for a minute I’d have ye out in that there yard and I’d give ye summat!’ Mr. Burge shrank as far back in his chair as was compatible with a kind of tipsy dignity, and inquired mildly: ‘Why, what business is it of yours, Mr. Sharpe?’ ‘It’s my business that I won’t have ’Lias Fiander’s widow insulted nor yet put upon, nor yet bothered by folks as she don’t want to ha’ nothin’ to say to.’ ‘Mr. Sharpe,’ protested Andrew—‘Mr. Sharpe, I cannot permit such interference. My intentions was honourable. I meant matrimony, and I will not allow any stranger to come between this lady and me.’ ‘Ye meant matrimony, did ye?’ said Isaac, exchanging his loud, wrathful tone for one of withering scorn. ‘Mrs. Fiander does n’t mean matrimony, though—not wi’ the likes o’ you. Come, you clear out o’ this; and don’t you never go for to show your ugly mug here again, or my cluster o’ five will soon be no stranger to it, I promise you!’ He held up a colossal hand as he spoke, first extending the fingers in illustration of his threat, and then clenching it into a redoubtable fist. Andrew sat upright in the elbow-chair, his expressionless eyes staring stolidly at his assailant, but without attempting to move. Through the open door the sound of whispers and titters could have been heard had either of the men been in a condition to notice such trivial matters. ‘Now, then!’ repeated Sharpe threateningly. Andrew Burge drew himself up. ‘This contumacious behaviour, Mr. Sharpe, sir,’ he said, ‘has no effect upon me whatever. My intentions is to make an equivocal offer of marriage to Mrs. Fiander, and from her lips alone will I take my answer. I shall sit in this chair,’ he continued firmly, ‘until the lady comes in person to give me her responsory.’ ‘You will, will ye?’ bellowed Isaac. ‘Ye be a-goin’ to sit there, be ye? Ye bain’t, though! That there chair’s my chair I’d have ye know, and I’ll soon larn ye who have got the right to sit in it.’