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Macfarren had never before been ashamed of his name, but he wished he could have said he was a Cecil, a Fairfax, a Beauclerk, or any other proud Elizabethan name. He could only say, with a kind of proud humility:

"My name is Macfarren, and I and all that is mine are at your service."

"Well said!" cried Marian. "But tell me, whose roof doth now shelter me? Whose house is this?"

"It is an ho—an inn," answered Macfarren.

"And a good hostelry, I do think," said Marian, glancing around, "though not like the inns of Suffolk. But, since thou wast in London lately, we can not be far from there."

"Only seven days," replied Macfarren, with nervous audacity.

"But seven days! Then can my father come for me, if thou wilt send a messenger by post!"

"Indeed I will," responded Macfarren, with a sinking heart and a guilty conscience as he uttered this last colossal falsehood.

"And now," said Marian, as if entirely satisfied with the proposed arrangement, "let us see what victual mine host can provide. Beshrew me if I have tasted aught since we dined, at an hour before noon."