“You cannot misunderstand his wishes, father,” said Aveline.

“Let him speak for himself,” Hugh Calveley exclaimed angrily.  “Jocelyn Mounchensey!” he continued, folding his arms upon his breast, and regarding the young man fixedly as before, “son of my old friend! son of him who died in my arms! son of him whom I committed to the earth! if thou hast aught of thy father’s true spirit, thou wilt rigidly adhere to a pledge voluntarily given, and which, uttered as it was uttered by thee, has all the sanctity, all the binding force of a vow before Heaven, where it is registered, and approved by him who is gone before us.”

Greatly moved by this appeal, Jocelyn might have complied with it, but Aveline again interposed.

“Not so, father,” she cried.  “The spirits of the just made perfect—­and of such is the friend you mention—­would never approve of the design with which you would link this young man, in consequence of a promise rashly made.  Discharge him from it, I entreat you.”

Her energy shook even the Puritan’s firmness.

“Be it as thou wilt, daughter,” he said, after the pause of a few moments, during which he waited for Jocelyn to speak; but, as the young man said nothing, he rightly interpreted his silence,—­“be it as thou wilt, since he, too, wills it so.  I give him back his promise.  But let me see him no more.”

“Sir, I beseech you—­” cried Jocelyn.

But he was cut short by the Puritan, who, turning from him contemptuously, said to his daughter—­“Let him depart immediately.”

Aveline signed to the young man to go; but finding him remain motionless, she took him by the hand, and led him some way along the terrace.  Then, releasing her hold, she bade him farewell!

“Wherefore have you done this?” inquired Jocelyn reproachfully.

“Question me not; but be satisfied I have acted for the best,” she replied.  “O Jocelyn!” she continued anxiously, “if an opportunity should occur to you of serving my father, do not neglect it.”

“Be assured I will not,” the young man replied.  “Shall we not meet again?” he asked, in a tone of deepest anxiety.

“Perhaps,” she answered.  “But you must go.  My father will become impatient.  Again farewell!”

On this they separated:  the young man sorrowfully departing, while her footsteps retreated in the opposite direction.

Meanwhile the May games went forward on the green with increased spirit and merriment, and without the slightest hinderance.  More than once the mummers had wheeled their mazy rounds, with Gillian and Dick Taverner footing it merrily in the midst of them.  More than once the audacious ’prentice, now become desperately enamoured of his pretty partner, had ventured to steal a kiss from her lips.  More than once he had whispered words of love in her ear; though, as yet, he had obtained no tender response.  Once—­and once only—­had he taken her hand; but then he had never quitted it afterwards.