THE DAISY OF THE DALE. 
97 
He reached her bower or tiring-room, and saw the 
velvet cushion, the open missal, and the ivory cru¬ 
cifix, the coif adorned with Daisies, which, in her 
haste, she had thrown upon the floor, while over 
all was suspended the portrait of her mother. And 
as he sat down in the high-backed and heavy oaken 
chair, he rested with one hand on the hilt of his 
ponderous sword, and pressing to his brow the 
gauntleted palm of the other, exclaimed, “Pretty 
sweeting! I have done thee grievous wrong thus to 
drive thee from thy bower, even at the very moment, 
perchance, when thou wert at thy devotions. Well, 
well! after all he has but done as I myself would— 
I have won the empty casket, and he has carried off 
the prize ; and to have won it, the brave young dog 
would no more have minded cracking my old crown 
with the scaling-ladder, than a red squirrel minds 
splitting open a ripe hazel-nut to get at the kernel 
within. By Saint Swithin ! how the mailed rascals 
tumbled into the moat! I could have laughed if I 
had not been an angered, to have seen Black Ralph 
swimming like a duck in his heavy armour ; and as 
for Hubert, my henchman, I scarce could draw the 
helmet off his ears, so tightly was it fitted on when 
he pitched with his head upon the drawbridge. By 
our Lady! he is a bold and a daring knave, and 
hath as great a love for this Daisy as ever Chaucer 
had, tHaugre all the choice rhymes he hath made 
H 
