“Silly child, are you so deceived? Know you not what all the town rings with? That the farmer’s son is no other than Lacy, Earl of Lincoln, and that his friend, for whom he sues, is Edward, Prince of Wales, and heir of England?”
“By all a maiden’s faith, I did not know it,” cried Margaret in dismay. And sinking at the friar’s feet, she burst into such tears that even his cold heart was touched at her grief.
“Has he won you to love the prince?” he asked, bending to raise her from her knees, and seat her upon the knoll under the oak where Lacy was approaching to meet her.
“No, no,” said Margaret sadly, “not him,—not the friend of the false earl. It was Lacy— (if it be indeed Lacy, as thou sayest))—that I have suffered myself to look on with such thoughts as now I must not think again.”
“Hush thy sighs,” returned the friar, under his breath. “Even now the recreant earl comes hither. Dismiss him at once. His suit, whether for himself or his friend, can only bring dishonor to a simple maiden such as thee. Send him away, and forget that thou hast ever seen him;” and so saying, the priest hastily departed, leaving Lacy to draw near the maid.
“What ill news has found thee out, sweet girl?” asked Lacy anxiously, as he marked the traces of tears on her cheeks.
