’And in truth, sir Rowland, it seemeth to me then as if the God of truth heard me.  Then say I to my mare, “Come, Lady, all is well now.  Let us go.  And good will come of it to thee also, for how should the Father think of his sparrows and forget his mares?  Doubtless there are of thy kind in heaven, else how should the apostle have seen them there?  And if any, surely thou, my Lady!” So ride we to the battle, merry and strong, and calm, as if we were but riding to the rampart of the celestial city.’

Rowland lay gazing at Richard for a few moments, then said: 

’By heaven, but it were a pity you should not come together!  Surely the same spirit dwelleth in you both!  For me, I should show but as the shadow cast from her brightness.  But I tell thee, roundhead, I love her better than ever roundhead could.’

’I know not, Scudamore.  Nor do I mean to judge thee when I say that no man who loves not the truth can love a woman in the grand way a woman ought to be loved.’

’Tell me not I do not love her, or I will rise and kill thee.  I love her even to doing what my soul hateth for her sake.  Damned roundhead, she loves thee.’

The last words came from him almost in a shriek, and he fell back panting.

Richard sat silent for a few moments, his heart surging and sinking.  Then he said quietly:—­

’It may be so, sir Rowland.  We were boy and girl together—­fed rabbits, flew kites, planted weeds to make flowers of them, played at marbles; she may love me a little, roundhead as I am.’

’By heaven, I will try her once more!  Who knows the heart of a woman?’ said Rowland through his teeth.

’If thou should gain her, Scudamore, and afterward she should find thee unworthy?’

‘She would love me still.’

’And break her heart for thee, and leave thee young to marry another—­while I—­’

He laughed a low, strangely musical laugh, and ceased—­then resumed:—­

’But what if, instead of dying, she should learn to despise thee, finding thou hadst not only deceived her, but deceived thy better self, and should turn from thee with loathing, while thou didst love her still—­as well as thy nature could?—­what then, sir Rowland?’

‘Then I should kill her.’

’And thou lovest her better than any roundhead could!  I will find thee man after man from amongst Ireton’s or Cromwell’s horse—­I know not the foot so well:—­fanatic enough they are, God knows! and many of them fools enough to boot!—­but I will find thee man after man who is fanatic or fool enough, which thou wilt, to love better than thou, thou poor atom of solitary selfishness!’

Rowland half flung himself from the bed, seized Richard by the throat, and with all the strength he could summon did his best to strangle him.  For a time Richard allowed him to spend his rage, then removed his grasp as gently as he could, and holding both his wrists in his left hand, rose and stood over him.