What could two men do in Dorchester at the
present moment, with the town full of soldiers, and Jeffreys at hand to
deal out summary justice? The brown mask no longer hid a person of
mystery; the features of Gilbert Crosby were known to dozens of men who
had been outwitted by him. He would not dare to walk the streets by day.
As for this fiddler fellow, what power had he to cajole rough soldiery?
He might work upon the superstition of Sir John Lanison at Aylingford,
might play upon the heartstrings of a woman, but these hard-drinking,
hard-swearing men were not likely to fall victims to his fooleries. Even
if he discovered where his mistress was lodged, he would not be able to
come near her.
"I have played the trump card and taken the trick," laughed Rosmore.
"Now comes the taming of Mistress Lanison. I should hate her for defying
me did I not desire her so much."
What he chose to think love was perhaps not far removed from hate. He
longed to possess, to bend to his will, to have the woman who stood for
so much in the estimation of so many men. Self-gratification controlled
him, the desire that men should once again know how useless it was to
attempt rivalry with him.
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