"
"In truth, yes!" cried Nigel, and in a flash the dark eyes of Mary
Buttesthorn rose before him, and he heard her low, sweet, earnest
voice as he had heard it that night when they brought her frailer
sister back from Shalford Manor, a voice which made all that was
best and noblest in a man thrill within his soul. "Yet, bethink
you, archer, that what a woman loves in man is not his gross body,
but rather his soul, his honor, his fame, the deeds with which he
has made his life beautiful. Therefore you are winning love as
well as glory when you turn to the wars."
"It may be so," said Aylward; "but indeed it goes to my heart to
see the pretty dears weep, and I would fain weep as well to keep
them company. When Mary--or was it Dolly?--nay, it was Martha,
the red-headed girl from the mill--when she held tight to my
baldric it was like snapping my heart-string to pluck myself
loose."
"You speak of one name and then of another," said Nigel. "How is
she called then, this maid whom you love?"
Aylward pushed back his steel cap and scratched his bristling head
with some embarrassment. "Her name," said he, "is Mary Dolly
Martha Susan Jane Cicely Theodosia Agnes Johanna Kate."
Nigel laughed as Aylward rolled out this prodigious title. "I had
no right to take you to the wars," said he; "for by Saint Paul!
it is very clear that I have widowed half the parish.
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