charming, melancholy lad. Even I, that had a more romantic temper than the silliest miss at an academy, felt bound to draw the line at the sons of bakers.
"But at least, Captain," I persisted with, I suppose, the tenacity of my sex, "you can recall some purple thread in his disposition or behaviour that shall consort with the poetic colour in which my mind hath painted him? He must be brave, I'm sure? Or virtuous? Or wise? But bravery for choice, Captain, for a deed of courage or a noble enterprise speaks to the spirit of us women like a song. Come, Captain, tell me, he is brave?"
"He is a baker's son, my Lady Barbara."
"I heard once of a chimney sweeper who embraced death in preference to dishonour," was my rejoinder. "Must I command you, Captain?"
"The whim of madam is the law of every man that breathes," says the soldier, with a not discreditable agility. "And as for the courage of your rebel, the worst I can say of it is this: he hath been told to choose between death and the betrayal of his friends. He hath chosen death."
"Bravo!" was the applause I gave the boy; "and now that you have proved this pretty lad to be worthy of a thought, I should like his name."
"He is called Anthony Dare," the Captain said.
"A good name, a brave name, and far too good to perish at Tyburn in the cart," says I, whilst I am sure my eyes were warmly sparkling.
The Captain and his lordship laughed at this
