And spite of John’s entreaties he would go to the entrance which faced the lonely Heath, and with burning eyes look out across the wilderness of furze and bracken towards that distant horizon where lay his home, where waited his patient, loving sister. "I beg you, my lord, come away from the door, it isn’t safe, not really safe," urged John Stich again and again. "Then why will you not tell me who took my letter to Stretton Hall?" said the boy with feverish impatience. "My lord..." "Some stupid dolt mayhap, who has lost his way ... or ... perchance betrayed me..." "My lord," pleaded the smith, "have I not sworn that your letter went by hands as faithful, as trusty as my own?" "But I’ll not rest an you do not tell me who took it. I wish to know," he added with that sudden look of command which all the Strettons have worn for many generations past. The old habitual deference of the retainer for his lord was strong in the heart of John. He yielded. "Nay, my lord, an you’ll not be satisfied," he said with a sigh, "I’ll tell you, though Heaven knows that his safety is as dear to me as yours—both dearer than my own." "Well, who was it?" asked the young man, eagerly. "I entrusted your letter for Lady Patience to Beau Brocade, the highwayman—" In a moment Philip was on his feet: danger, amazement, horror, robbed him of speech for a few seconds, but the next he had gripped the smith’s arm and like a furious, thoughtless, unreasoning child, he gasped,— "Beau Brocade!! ... the highwayman!!! ... My life, my honour to a highwayman!!! Are you mad or drunk, John Stich?" "Neither, my lord," said John with great respect, but looking the young man fearlessly in the face. "You don’t know Beau Brocade, and there are no safer hands than his. He knows every inch of the Moor and fears neither man nor devil." Touched in spite of himself by the smith’s earnestness, Philip’s wrath abated somewhat; still he seemed dazed, not understanding, vaguely scenting danger, or treachery. "But a highwayman!" he repeated mechanically. "Aye! and a gentleman!" retorted John with quiet conviction. "A gentleman if ever there was one! Aye! and not the only one who has ta’en to the road these hard times," he added under his breath. "But a thief, John! A man who might sell my letter, betray my whereabouts!..." "A man, my lord, who would die in torture sooner than do that." The smith’s quiet and earnest conviction seemed to chase away the last vestige of Philip’s wrath. Still he seemed unconvinced. "A hero of romance, John, this highwayman of yours," he laughed bitterly. Honest John scratched the back of his curly black head. "Noa!" he said, somewhat puzzled. "I know nought about that or what’s a ... a hero of romance. But I do know that Beau Brocade is a friend of the poor, and that our village lads won’t lay their hands on him, even if they could. No! not though the Government have offered a hundred guineas as the price of his head."