us quarry. Scarcely had the shadows
of Evander and his companion vanished from the grasses of the
pleasaunce than the pursuers emerged from the shelter of a yew screen
and ran into the open, staring after the departing pair. Yet these
pursuers were no stealthy enemies, but merely creatures spurred by an
irresistible curiosity. One was stout and red faced and inclined to
breathe hard after the fatigues of the chase. The other was slim and
smooth, with ripe cheeks and bright eyes, lodgings for the insolence
of youth. In a word, the hunters were Mistress Satchell and pretty
Tiffany, who had found their Puritan prisoner and visitor a being of
considerable interest.

Mistress Satchell turned a damp, shining face and a questioning eye
upon Tiffany.

"Is not he a dashing lad for a Puritan?" she gasped, patting her
ample chest with both hands as if to fondle her newly recovered
breath. Tiffany, who was bearing her mistress's lute, shrugged and
pouted.

"I see little to like in him," she snapped. This was not at all true,
but she was not going to admit as much to Mistress Satchell, or, for
that matter, to herself. Mistress Satchell snorted fiercely, like an
offended war-horse.

"Because he has not clipped you round the waist, pinched you in the
cheek, kissed you on the lips--such liberties as our rufflers use.
But he is a man for my money."

She spoke with vehemence. Pretty Tiffany made a dainty grimace as she
answered:

"I think I am pleasing enough to behold, yet he gave me no more than
a glance when he gave me good-day."

Mistress Satchell's ample bulk swayed with indignation.

"He is a lad of taste, I tell you. Why should he waste his gaze on
such small goods when there was nobler ware anigh? He smiled all over
his face when he greeted me."

Tiffany was sorely tempted to smile all over her face as she
listened, but Mistress Satchell's temper was short and her arm long,
so she kept her countenance as she answered, shortly:

"He is little."

This Mistress Satchell swiftly countered with the affirmation:

"He is great."

Tiffany thrust again.

"He is naught."

Again Dame Satchell parried.

"He is much," she screamed, and her face was poppy-red with passion,
but Tiffany, retreating warily and persistent to tease, was about to
start some fresh disclaimer of the Puritan's merits when she caught
sight through a yew arch vista of a gown of gold and gray, and her
tongue faltered.

"Our lady," she whispered t