John had no need to be told twice. He seized the horse’s bridle and swung himself into the saddle as quickly as he could. But these few seconds had given the horseman a sufficient start. Although the moon was bright the mist was thick, and the bracken and thorn bushes very dense on the other side of the road. Already he had disappeared from view, and John’s ears and eyes were not so keen as those of Beau Brocade, the highwayman, the wounded monarch of the Heath. CHAPTER XIX HIS OATH Patience’s first thought as soon as she reached the road was for Betty; she helped the poor girl to her feet and tried to get some coherent explanation from her. "I was listening to the tune, my lady, and leaning my head out of the window," moaned Mistress Betty, who was more frightened than hurt, "when suddenly the carriage door was torn open, I was dragged out and left screaming on the ground.... That’s all I know." But one glance at the interior of the coach had revealed the whole awful truth. It had been ransacked, and the receptacle beneath the cushions, where had lain the all-important letters, was now obviously empty. "The letters! oh, the letters!" moaned Patience in an agony of misery and remorse. "Philip, my dear, dear one, you entrusted your precious life in my hands, and I have proved unworthy of the trust." Her spirit wholly broken by the agony of this cruel thought, she cowered on the step of the carriage, her head buried in her hands, in a passion of heart-broken tears. "My lady..." She looked down, and by the dim light of the moon she saw a figure on its knees, dragging itself with a visibly painful effort slowly towards her. In a moment she was on her feet, tall, haughty, a world of scorn in her eyes; she looked down with horror at the prostrate figure before her. "Nay, sir," she said with icy contempt, "an you have a spark of honour left in you, take off that mask, let me at least see who you are." The agony of shame was more than she could bear. She who had deemed herself so proud, so strong, that she should have been thus fooled, duped, tricked, and by this man! this thief! this low class robber who had dared to touch her hand! All the pride of race and caste rose in revolt within her. Who was he that he should dare to have spoken to her as he did? Her cheeks glowed with shame at the memory of that voice which she had loved to hear, the tender accent in it, and oh! she had been his plaything, his tool, for this infamous trick which had placed her dear, dear brother’s life in peril worse than before. Meekly he had obeyed her, his own proud spirit bent before her grief. His face—ashy pale now and drawn with pain and weakness—looked up in mute appeal for forgiveness. "A poor wretch," he murmured feebly, "whose mad and foolish whim..."