So summer days glided past, and Sir Henry, hearing first of one mischievous prank, then another, swore again and again that the devil himself must be in his grandson, and urged on Master Timothy Parblett to spare not the rod.
But Master Timothy, though he talked boastfully before Sir Henry, was a very lamb in the presence of his pupil, for Michael had muscle in his long arms, and a breadth of chest which made the worthy tutor tremble as he viewed it.
But the devil had gone out of the lad, it seemed, when he scaled the wall of Langton Hall and greeted the little Brown Fairy who waited there for him.
There was no one to love Gawky Mike, with his impish pranks, at Berrington Manor; and so dewy kisses from sweet, childish lips were the more cherished, and the very thought of them stirred unknown depths in the boy's soul.
And Gabrielle—little coquette—knew her power. The sauciness of the pretty baby! What a tyrant she was, refusing him any grace till he had done her will—sometimes treating him with disdain, at others with a friendliness which was enchanting; Michael, great booby, taking it all in deadliest earnest.
Then, one day, her lips pouted in earnest. "Morice is coming to-day," she confided to her loyal knight. "Bah! I am not glad, although Nursie says it is wicked, seeing that he is my only brother. But then he should not pull my hair and call me Mistress Mouse. I do not like it; and he is very rough. He is not like you, Michael."
And Michael, rough, dare-devil Michael, smiled triumphantly into approving brown eyes. He had ever been gentle knight on this side of the old wall.
The next day found Gabrielle in tears, nursing a black bruise on a dimpled arm.
It is true the tears had been squeezed into evidence as soon as she heard a certain voice humming a merry tune in the road yonder.
But sympathy is welcome balm in trouble. The Brown Fairy told a harrowing tale of how Morry had caught her arm because she stole his peach at breakfast.
Michael vowed vengeance hot and strong.
The opportunity came sooner than they expected, for, at this moment, who should come down the path but Morry himself! A fine young cockerel, this, of nearly seventeen summers, attired according to the latest mode, and flicking, with a little ebony cane, at the heads of yellow marigolds. 'Twas a flaunting flower he should have cherished.
Full gape he stood at sight of Gabrielle being comforted by a dust-begrimed youth in plum-coloured coat and breeches, and with a face grim set at sight of him.
"An' who the devil are you, sir?" he cried, with a mighty fashionable oath to set seal to his aping manhood. "Be off on the instant if you don't want my cane about your shoulders."
But Michael did not waste time in words. Two soft brown eyes had been swimming in tears as a round, white wrist was raised for his inspection of a certain ugly mark on it.
With a wild snort he leapt across the marigolds and snatched the dainty cane out of its owner's clasp.
"Now fight me like a man," he roared, bull-like in his rage, "or else sure you'll take the soundest thrashing you've tasted yet, for a coward born."
Mr. Morice St. Just Conyers was not accustomed to such a challenge. It shocked his delicate sensibilities, yet, after all, he had fight in him.
Little Gabrielle watched them from the shelter of the old medlar-tree, sobbing in very terror as she saw the raining of hard blows and the blood on Michael's face.
But the lads paid no heed to her sobs and prayers, for their blood was up, and they were as hard set to their work as game cockerels in the pit.
And Michael was the winner, though he panted vigorously as he stood over his fallen adversary.
"And if ye want more at any time, sir," quoth he, with immense dignity, "you'll find Michael Berrington ready enough to teach you another lesson."
Young Conyers' face had not been pretty before, but, at sound of his enemy's name, it became uglier still.
"Michael Berrington," he screamed. "What! the son of that foul coward, Stephen Berrington? Faugh! I would have sent the lackeys to beat you from the place had I known it."
The colour crept up in a dull flush under Michael's tan. "I can't hit a man who is down," he growled; "but be careful of your words, sir, or I'll cram them down your throat another day."
But Morice Conyers had risen slowly to his feet, white of cheek, swollen of feature, but scornful-eyed.
"I'll not waste words with the son of a traitor and murderer," said he slowly, and beckoned to his little sister.
"Come, Gay," he said; "there will be a talking for you when we reach home, an' a whipping into the bargain if you do not promise amendment of such ways. Fie on you for a naughty chit."
But Gabrielle's eyes were glowing as she looked from her brother to the blood-stained countenance of her true knight.
Had he not fought for her?
With a defiant toss of brown curls she had flown to Michael's side.
"I hate Morry," she cried, flinging warm arms around his neck. "And … and I love you, Michael."
The words rang in the boy's ears as he stood alone amongst trampled marigolds long after an indignant brother had dragged off to summary justice a sobbing and rebellious sister.
CHAPTER III
A TRAITOR'S SON
"So you fought Morice Conyers?"
Michael nodded.
He had found that the shorter his answers the better pleased his grandfather was.
The old man's hand, resting idly on his knee, clenched and unclenched.
Outside the birds were singing carols of love to the roses after the joy of a summer shower. The scent of wet, brown earth was alluring to Michael, yet he sat still, knowing that something momentous stirred in the evening air.
The lines round Sir Henry's mouth were hardening.
"Who won?"
"I, sir."
"Ah!"
It was an enigmatical sound.
Michael plucked up courage and met the stare of cold blue eyes steadily.
"He had used his little sister roughly."
"What was that to you?"
"She is a playmate of mine, sir."
"Playmate of yours!"
"Yes, sir."
"A Conyers playmate to your father's son? What do you mean, boy?"
Michael drew himself up stiffly and told the tale in brief. He had played with little Gabrielle Conyers—and fought for her. He did not say how he was for ever and ever her true knight.
Yet when he had finished, the old man opposite was sneering.
"It was well for you her father knew nought of such play," said he sourly, "or I might have had to look farther for an heir."
Michael's eyes blazed.
"May I speak, sir?" he asked huskily, and never waited even for the curt nod of acquiescence.
"I would know about my father," he said slowly and very steadily. "My mother wept when I spoke of him, but she would say no word save that I should know well enough one day. Neither would she tell me whether he were alive or dead. But I am a child no longer, and will