It did not remain solitary long. Unawares, the steps of Halfman and Evander had been dogged ever since they crossed the moat and set out on their pilgrimage through the gardens. Crouching behind hedges, lingering in coppices, peeping through thickets, two persistent trackers had pursued the unconscious quarry. Scarcely had the shadows of Evander and his companion vanished from the grasses of the pleasaunce than the pursuers emerged from the shelter of a yew screen and ran into the open, staring after the departing pair. Yet these pursuers were no stealthy enemies, but merely creatures spurred by an irresistible curiosity. One was stout and red faced and inclined to breathe hard after the fatigues of the chase. The other was slim and smooth, with ripe cheeks and bright eyes, lodgings for the insolence of youth. In a word, the hunters were Mistress Satchell and pretty Tiffany, who had found their Puritan prisoner and visitor a being of considerable interest. Mistress Satchell turned a damp, shining face and a questioning eye upon Tiffany. "Is not he a dashing lad for a Puritan?" she gasped, patting her ample chest with both hands as if to fondle her newly recovered breath. Tiffany, who was bearing her mistress's lute, shrugged and pouted. "I see little to like in him," she snapped. This was not at all true, but she was not going to admit as much to Mistress Satchell, or, for that matter, to herself. Mistress Satchell snorted fiercely, like an offended war-horse. "Because he has not clipped you round the waist, pinched you in the cheek, kissed you on the lips--such liberties as our rufflers use. But he is a man for my money." She spoke with vehemence. Pretty Tiffany made a dainty grimace as she answered: "I think I am pleasing enough to behold, yet he gave me no more than a glance when he gave me good-day." Mistress Satchell's ample bulk swayed with indignation. "He is a lad of taste, I tell you. Why should he waste his gaze on such small goods when there was nobler ware anigh? He smiled all over his face when he greeted me." Tiffany was sorely tempted to smile all over her face as she listened, but Mistress Satchell's temper was short and her arm long, so she kept her countenance as she answered, shortly: "He is little." This Mistress Satchell swiftly countered with the affirmation: "He is great." Tiffany thrust again. "He is naught." Again Dame Satchell parried. "He is much," she screamed, and her face was poppy-red with passion, but Tiffany, retreating warily and persistent to tease, was about to start some fresh disclaimer of the Puritan's merits when she caught sight through a yew arch vista of a gown of gold and gray, and her tongue faltered. "Our lady," she whispered to Mistress Satchell, who had barely time to compose her ruffled countenance when Brilliana came through the yew arch and paused on the edge of the pleasaunce surveying the belligerents with an amused smile.