Young Lord Stretton, torn between memories of his boyhood and the duties of his new position, feared to be inveigled into breaking his allegiance to King George. The malevolent fairy who at his birth had given him that weak mouth and softly rounded chin, had stamped his worst characteristic on the young handsome face. Philip’s one hope at this juncture was to flee from temptation; he knew that Charles Edward, remembering his past ardour, would demand his help and his adherence, and that he, Philip, might be powerless to refuse. So he fled from the county: despising himself as a coward, yet boyishly clinging to the idea that he would keep the oath he had sworn to King George. He wished to put miles of country between himself and the possible breaking of that oath, the possible yielding to the "bonnie Prince" whom none could resist. He left his sister, Lady Patience, at Stretton Hall, well cared for by old retainers, and he, a loyal subject to his King, became a fugitive. Then came the catastrophe: that miserable retreat from Derby; the bedraggled remains of a disappointed army; finally Culloden and complete disaster; King George’s soldiers scouring the country for rebels, the bills of attainder, the quick trials and swift executions. Soon the suspicion grew into certainty that the fugitive Earl of Stretton was one of the Pretender’s foremost adherents. On his weary way from Derby Prince Charles Edward had asked and obtained a night’s shelter at Stretton Hall. When Philip tried to communicate with his sister, and to return to his home, he found that she was watched, and that he was himself attainted by Act of Parliament. Yet he felt himself guiltless and loyal. He _was_ guiltless and loyal: how his name came to be included in the list of rebels was still a mystery to him: someone must have lodged sworn information against him. But who?—Surely not his old friends—the adherents of Charles Edward—out of revenge for his half-heartedness? In the meanwhile, he, a mere lad, became an outcast, condemned to death by Act of Parliament. Presently all might be cleared, all would be well, but for the moment he was like a wild beast, hiding in hedges and ditches, with his life at the mercy of any grasping Judas willing to sell his fellow-creature for a few guineas. It was horrible! horrible! Philip vainly tried all the day to rouse himself from his morbid reverie. At intervals he would grasp the kind smith’s hand and mutter anxiously,— "My letter to my sister, John?—You are sure she had it?" And patient John would repeat a dozen times the day,— "I am quite sure, my lord." But since the Corporal’s visit Philip’s mood had become more feverish. "My letter," he repeated, "has Patience had my letter? Why doesn’t she come?"