"An you’ll accept my escort, sir," he said cheerfully to Philip, "I’ll show you a sheltered spot known only to myself ... and to Jack o’ Lantern," he added, giving a passing tender tap to his beautiful horse. "He and I are very fond of the Moor, eh, Jack, old friend? ... We are the two Jacks, you see, sir, and seldom are seen apart. Together we discovered the spot which I will show you, sir, and where you can lie _perdu_ until nightfall. ’Tis safe and lonely and but a step from this forge." Philip accepted the offer gratefully. Like his sister, he too felt that he could trust Jack Bathurst. As he walked by his side along the unbeaten track on the Heath, he viewed with some curiosity, not unmixed with boyish admiration, the tall, well-knit figure of his gallant rescuer. He tried to think of him as the notorious highwayman, Beau Brocade, on whose head the Government had put the price of a hundred guineas. A hero of romance he was in the hearts of the whole country-side, yet a felon in the eyes of the law. Philip could just see his noble profile, with the well-cut features, the boyish, sensitive mouth, firm chin and straight, massive brow, over which a mass of heavy brown curls clustered in unruly profusion. A brave man, surely—Philip had experienced that; a wise one too in spite of his youth. Stretton guessed his companion to be still under thirty years of age, and yet there was at times, in spite of the inherently sunny disposition below, a look of melancholy, of disappointment, in the deep, grey eyes, which spoke of a wasted life, of opportunities lost perhaps, or of persistent adverse fate. Through it all there was that quaint air of foppishness, the manners and appearance of a dandy about the Court. The caped coat was dark and serviceable, but it was of the finest cloth and of the latest, most fashionable cut, and beneath it peeped a dainty silk waistcoat, delicately embroidered. The lace at throat and wrists was of the finest Mechlin, and the boots, though stout and heavy, betrayed the smallness and the arch of the foot. Though Jack Bathurst had obviously been riding, he carried neither whip nor cane. All that Philip observed in this rapid walk to the place of shelter which Bathurst had thought out for him, Patience, with a woman’s quick perception, had noted from the first. To her, of course, the Captain was but a gallant stranger, good to look at and replete with all the chivalrous attributes this troublous century called forth in the hearts of her sons. She knew naught of Beau Brocade the highwayman, and probably would have recoiled in horror at thought of connecting the name of a thief with that of her newly-found hero of romance. She stood in the doorway for some time, watching with glowing eyes the figures of the two men, until they disappeared behind a high clump of gorse: then with a curious little sigh she turned and went within.