"Mad boys--senses!" cried Master Peasegood, mopping his face. "What is wrong? You don't mean that this Sir Mark and the Captain--? Oh fie, Mace, my child, fie!" "Master Peasegood, if you have any feeling for me," cried Mace, in hot indignation, "go and interpose before there is mischief done." "Phew!" whistled the clerk. "Brother Brisdone, come along." It was time they started, especially as Master Peasegood's bravest pace was a very slow one, for no sooner had Mace hurried away than, with his anger and jealousy completely mastering him, Gil strode towards Sir Mark, who, on seeing him approach, far from attempting to avoid the meeting, leaned back against the gate, and stared at his rival with a cool exasperating mien. Gilbert Carr had been a fighting-man from the time he had first learned to handle a sword; he had also been in command of a ship in many a perilous time, and the result of his training had been to teach him the necessity of coolness in danger. This was a perilous time, and from old custom he began at once to master his excitement, and prepare himself for the encounter that he felt must take place. He was as hot and determined as ever, but he felt that he must gain the mastery over this court gallant, or he would never feel happy more. It would result in his increasing Mace's displeasure perhaps, but in his cooler moments he might feel the deepest sorrow for having caused her pain. All the same, though, the thought came upon him that Mace's name must be left out of the quarrel. It would be cruel in the extreme to have it known far and wide that he and this knight had fought about Mace Cobbe. It would be like a blow at her reputation, and, besides, whatever he might know in his heart of hearts, Sir Mark should not have the satisfaction of jeering at him as the successful lover. No, there should be some other cause for the fight that would ensue, and it was easy to find one. Easier than Gilbert Carr expected, for Sir Mark, stung by disappointment and the cold manner in which Mace had received his declaration, after he had, as he thought, carefully laid siege to and won her, was just in the humour to quarrel with a fly. From where he stood he had seen Gil stop and speak to the maiden, and it seemed to him that she had sent Gil on to chastise him for his insolence. "A confounded little rustic coquette!" he muttered; "and now she sends her bully to me. Curse him, he thinks I am weak with illness and easily managed. Let him mind, or I may deal differently with him to what I did with the old founder."