"How, great wrong?" said the baron. "What do you mean by great wrong?
Would you have had her married to a wild fly-by-night, that accident
made an earl and nature a deer-stealer? that has not wit enough to eat
venison without picking a quarrel with
monarchy? that flings away his
own lands into the clutches of rascally friars, for the sake of
huntingin other men's grounds, and feasting vagabonds that wear Lincoln green,
and would have flung away mine into the
bargain if he had had my daughter?
What do you mean by great wrong?"
"True," said the friar, "great right, I meant."
"Right!" exclaimed the baron: "what right has any man to do my daughter
right but myself? What right has any man to drive my daughter's
bridegroom out of the
chapel in the middle of the marriage
ceremony,
and turn all our merry faces into green wounds and
bloody coxcombs,
and then come and tell me he has done us great right?"
"True," said the friar: "he has done neither right nor wrong."
"But he has," said the baron, "he has done both, and I will
maintain it
with my glove."
"It shall not need," said Sir Ralph; "I will
concede any thing in honour."
"And I," said the baron, "will
concede nothing in honour:
I will
concede nothing in honour to any man."
"Neither will I, Lord Fitzwater," said Sir Ralph, "in that sense:
but hear me. I was commissioned by the king to apprehend
the Earl of Huntingdon. I brought with me a party of soldiers,
picked and tried men,
knowing that he would not
lightly yield.
I sent my
lieutenant with a
detachment to surprise the earl's
castle in his
absence, and laid my measures for intercepting
him on the way to his intended nuptials; but he seems to
have had intimation of this part of my plan, for he brought
with him a large armed retinue, and took a circuitous route,
which made him, I believe, somewhat later than his appointed hour.
When the lapse of time showed me that he had taken another track,
I pursued him to the
chapel; and I would have awaited the close
of the
ceremony, if I had thought that either yourself or your
daughter would have felt
desirous that she should have been
the bride of an outlaw."
"Who said, sir," cried the baron, "that we were
desirous of any such thing?
But truly, sir, if I had a mind to the devil for a son-in-law, I would fain
see the man that should
venture to interfere."
"That would I," said the friar; "for I have
undertaken to make
her
renounce the devil."
"She shall not
renounce the devil," said the baron, "unless I please.
You are very ready with your undertakings. Will you
undertake to make
her
renounce the earl, who, I believe, is the devil incarnate?
Will you
undertake that?"
"Will I
undertake," said the friar, "to make Trent run westward,
or to make flame burn
downward, or to make a tree grow with its head
in the earth and its root in the air?"
"So then," said the baron, "a girl's mind is as hard to change as nature and
the elements, and it is easier to make her
renounce the devil than a lover.
Are you a match for the devil, and no match for a man?"
"My warfare," said the friar, "is not of this world.
I am militant not against man, but the devil, who goes about
seeking what he may devour."
"Oh! does he so?" said the baron: "then I take it that makes you look for him
so often in my buttery. Will you cast out the devil whose name is Legion,
when you cannot cast out the imp whose name is Love?"
"Marriages," said the friar, "are made in heaven. Love is God's work,
and
therewith I
meddle not."
"God's work, indeed!" said the baron, "when the
ceremony was
cut short in the church. Could men have put them asunder,
if God had joined them together? And the earl is now no earl,
but plain Robert Fitz-Ooth:
therefore, I'll none of him."
"He may atone," said the friar, "and the king may mollify.
The earl is a
worthy peer, and the king is a
courteous king."