“Diccon!” she cried. “The old woman in the kitchen hath told me tales of Diccon! Diccon Bravo! Diccon Gamester! Diccon Cutthroat!”

“Granted,” I said. “But Diccon Faithful as well. I can trust him.”

“But I do not trust him!” she retorted. “And I wish to go to Jamestown. This forest wearies me.” Her tone was imperious.

“I must think it over,” I said coolly. “I may take you, or I may not. I cannot tell yet.”

“But I desire to go, sir!”

“And I may desire you to stay.”

“You are a churl!”

I bowed.