And then a voice—a fresh, young, happy voice—was suddenly heard to sing, "My beautiful white rose." It was not very distant: but twenty yards at most, and even now seemed to be making for the forge, drawing nearer and nearer. Instinctively—what else could they do?—soldiers and Sergeant turned to look out upon the Heath. There was such magic in that merry, boyish voice, clear as that of the skylark, singing the quaint old ditty. They looked and saw a stranger dressed in elegant, almost foppish fashion, his brown hair free from powder, tied with a large bow at the nape of the neck, dainty lace at his throat and wrists, scarce a speck of mud upon his fine, well-cut coat. He was leading a beautiful chestnut horse by the bridle and had been singing as he walked. Patience, too, catching at this happy interruption like a drowning man does at a straw, turned to look at the approaching stranger. Her eyes were the first to meet his as he reached the entrance of the forge, and with an elaborate, courtly gesture he raised his three-cornered hat and made her a respectful bow. Then he burst out laughing. "Ho! ho! ho! but here’s a pretty to-do. Why, John Stich, my friend, you look a bit out of temper." He stood there framed in the doorway, with the golden light of the afternoon sun throwing into bold silhouette his easy, graceful stature, and the pleasant picture of him, with one arm round the beautiful horse’s neck and his slender fingers gently fondling its soft, quivering nose. John Stich, at first sound of the stranger’s voice, had relaxed from his defiant attitude, and a ray of hope had chased away the threatening look in his eyes. "So would you be, Captain," he said gruffly, "with these red coats inside your house, and all their talk of rebels." "Captain?" murmured the Sergeant. "Aye, Captain Bathurst, my man, of His Majesty’s White Dragoons," said the stranger, carelessly, as without more ado he led his horse within the forge and tethered it close to the entrance. Then he came forward and slapped the Sergeant vigorously on the back. "And I’ll go bail, Sergeant, that John Stich is no rebel. He’s far too big a fool!" he added in an audible whisper, and with a merry twinkle in his grey eyes. Patience still stood rigid, expectant, terrified in the darker corner of the shed. She had not yet realised whether she dared to hope, whether this young stranger, with his pleasant, boyish voice and debonnair manner, would have the power to stay the hand of Fate, which was even now raised against her brother. Betty, behind her mistress, was too terrified to speak. But already the Sergeant had recovered from his momentary surprise. At mention of the stranger’s military rank he had raised his hand to his tricorne hat. Now he was ready to perform his duty, and gladly noted the smith’s less aggressive attitude. "At your service, Captain," he said, "and now I have my orders. I’ve a right o’ search and..."