“My child!” answered the beggar. “Mine own lawful child.” There was a silence. Presently Samson growled, “I mind me he used to have a little black-eyed brat with him.” “Caitiff!” exclaimed the merchant; “I’ll have thy old vagabond bones in the Fleet for daring so to cheat his Grace’s lieges.” “If you can prove a cheat against me I will readily abye it, Sir,” returned the beggar. “Palming a beggar’s brat off for a noble dame.” “So please you, Sir,” interrupted the beggar, “keep truth with you. What did the child or I ever profess, save what we were? No foul words here. I trysted you to meet me here, anent her marriage. Have you any offers to make me?” “Aye, of a cell in the Fleet if you persist in your insolence!” cried the merchant. “Thanks,” quietly said the beggar. “And you, Master Samson?” “’Tis a sweet pretty lass,” said Samson, ruefully; “and pity of her too, but you see a man like me must look to his credit. I’ll give her twenty marks to help her to a husband, Hal, only let her keep out of my sight for ever and a day.” “I thought I heard another voice,” said the beggar. “I trow the third suitor has made off without further ado.” “Not so, fair Sir,” said a voice close to him, thick and choked with feeling. “Your daughter is too dear to me for me thus to part, even were mine honour not pledged.” “Sir knight,” interfered the merchant, “you will get into a desperate coil with your friends.” “I am my own master,” answered the knight. “My parents are dead. I am of age, and, Sir, I offer myself and all that is mine to your fair daughter, as I did at Saint Winifred’s Well, as one bound both by honour and love.” “It is spoken honourably,” said Hal; “but, Sir, canst thou answer me with her dowry? Tell down coin for coin.” He held up a heavy leathern bag. The knight, who had come prepared, took down another such bag from his saddle-bow. Down went one silver piece from the knight. Down went another from the beggar. “Stay, stay,” cried Samson. “I can play at that game too.” “No, no, Master Samson,” said the beggar; “your pretensions are resigned. Your chance is over.” Mark after mark—crown after crown—all the Dunster rents; all the old hoards, with queer figures of Saxon kings, lay on the grass, still for each the beggar had rained down its fellow, and inexhaustible seemed the bags that he sat upon. Samson bit his lips, and the merchant muttered with vexation. It could not be fairly come by: he must be the president of a den of robbers; it should be looked to. The last bag of the knight lay thin and exhausted; the beggar clutched one bursting with repletion. “I could not put the lands and castle of Dunster into a bag and add thereto,” said the knight, at last. “Would that I could, my sword, my spurs, and knightly blood to boot, and lay them at your daughter’s feet.” “Let them weigh in the balance,” said the beggar; “and therewith thy truth to thy word.”