give to whom I will. Peter
Sanghurst shall be thy lord whether thou wilt or no. I have said it; let
that be enough. It is thy part to obey."

Joan sat quite still and answered nothing. Her eyes were fixed upon the
dancing flames rushing up the wide chimney. She must have heard her
father's words, yet she gave no sign of having done so. But for that Sir
Hugh cared little. He was only too glad to be spared a weary battle of
words, or a long struggle with his high-spirited daughter, whose force
of character he had come to know. That she had yielded her will to his
at last seemed only right and natural, and of course she must have been
by this time aware that if her father was really resolved upon the
match, she was practically helpless to prevent it.

She was no longer a child; she was a woman who had seen much of the
world for the times she lived in. Doubtless she had begun to see that
she must now marry ere her beauty waned; and having failed to make a
grander match during her years of wandering, was glad enough to return
to her former lover, whose fidelity had doubtless touched her heart.

"Thou wilt have a home and a dowry, and a husband who has loved thee
long and faithfully," added Sir Hugh, who felt that he might now adopt a
more paternal tone, seeing he had not to combat foolish resistance.
"Thou hast been a good daughter, Joan; doubtless thou wilt make a good
wife too."

Still no reply, though a faint smile seemed to curve Joan's lips. She
presently rose to her feet, and making a respectful reverence to her
father -- for daily embraces were not the order of the day -- glided
from the room as if to seek her couch.

"That is a thing well done!" breathed the knight, when he found himself
once more alone, "and done easier than I had looked for. Well, well, it
is a happy thing the wench has found her right senses. Methinks good
Peter must have been setting his charms to work, for she never could be
brought to listen to him of old. He has tamed her to some purpose now."

Meantime Joan had glided up the staircase of the hall, along several
winding passages, and up and down several irregular flights of narrow
steps, till she paused at the door of a room very dim within, but just
lighted by the gleam of a dying fire. As she stepped across the
threshold a voice out of the darkness accosted her.

"My ladybird, is it thou, and at such an hour? Tell me what has befallen
thee."

"The thing that thou and I have talked