But an end must come at last to all hesitations, and a
familiar verse repeated itself in his brain with the persistent iteration
of cathedral chimes--
"He either fears his fate too much,
Or his desert is small,
Who fears to put it to the touch,
And win or lose it all."
Sir John pushed him towards his fate with affectionate urgency.
"Never be dastardised by a girl's refusal, man," said the Knight, warm with
his morning draught, on that last day, when the guest's horses had been
fed for a journey, and the saddle-bags packed. "Don't let a simpleton's
coldness cow your spirits. The wench likes you; else she would scarce have
endured your long sermons upon weeds and insects, or been smiling and
contented in your company all these weeks. Take heart of grace, man; and
remember that though I am no tyrannical father to drag an unwilling bride
to the altar, I have all a father's authority, and will not have my dearest
wishes baulked by the capricious humours of a coquette."
"Not for worlds, sir, would I owe to authority what love cannot freely
grant--"
"Don't chop logic, Denzil. You want my daughter; and by God you shall have
her! Win her with pretty speeches if you can.
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