The Cavalier flung back his head. His laughter rang out scornfully. “Ho, ho,” he mocked, “afeared of witches, lest they carry off his black heart! He be indeed a lily-livered scoundrel! Ay, care not how much you do fright him. At first he will doubtless pretend not to hear you, still I should not be surprised and he pause and demand where you heard such words, but you must say naught of all this, e’en though he torment you with much questioning. I am on my way now to Boston Town. In a few days I shall return.” He tapped her arm. “Ay, I shall return in state, in state, next time, little mistress. Meanwhile, you must keep faith with me. Let him not suspicion this meeting in the forest with me.” He bent his head and whispered several sentences in her ear. “Good sir,” said the little maid, solemnly, when he had finished, “my King be next to God and I will keep the faith. But now and ye will be pleased to excuse me, as it be past the supper hour, I will hasten home.” Saying which, she slipped down from the trunk of the tree and bobbed him a courtesy. “Nay, not so fast, not so fast away,” he cried. “I would show you a picture of my sweetest daughter, Elizabeth, of whom you mind me, giving me a great heart-sickness for her bonny face far across the seas in Merry England.” From inside his doublet he drew forth a locket, swung on a slender gold chain, and opened it. Within was a miniature on ivory of a young girl in court dress, with dark curls falling about a face which smiled back at them in the soft twilight. “She be good to look upon and has a comely smile, I wot,” said the little Puritan maid; “haps it she has seen as many summers as I, who be turned fourteen and for a year past a teacher in the Dame School.” “Sixteen summers has she lived,” answered the Cavalier. “Eftsoons, she will count in gloomier fashion, for with years come woes and we say so many winters have we known. But how comes it you are a teacher in the Dame School?” “A fair and flowing hand I write,” she replied, “though I be no great for spelling. My father has instilled a deal o’ learning into my pate, but I be not puffed up with vanity on that account.” “’Tis well,” said the Cavalier; “I like not an unread maid. Neither do I fancy one too much learned.” He glanced again at the miniature. From smiling he fell to sighing. “Into what great girls do our daughters grow,” he murmured; “but yesterday, methinks, I dandled her on my knee and sang her nursery rhymes.” He opened a leathern bag strapped around his waist. Within it the little maid caught a glimpse of a gleaming array of knives both large and small. This quite startled her. “Where did I put them?” he frowned; “but wait, but wait—” He felt in his pockets, and at last drew forth a chain of gold beads wrapped in silk. “My Elizabeth would give you these were she here,” he said, “but she is far across the seas.”