But Nature at last would have her will with him, the wild, brave spirit that had kept him up all this while was like to break at last. He fell back dizzy and faint against faithful John’s stout breast. Then only did she understand and realise. She saw his young face, once so merry and boyish, now pale with a hue almost of death; she saw his once laughing eyes now dimmed with the keenness of his suffering. Her woman’s heart went out to him, she loathed herself for her cruelty, her heart, overburdened with grief, nearly broke at the thought of what she had done. "You are hurt, sir," she said, as she bent over him, her eyes swimming in tears, "and I ... I knew it not." The spell of her voice brought his wandering spirit back to earth and to her. "Aye, hurt, sweet dream!" he murmured feebly, "deeply wounded by those dear lips, which spoke such cruel words; but for the rest ’tis naught. See!" he added, trying to raise himself and stretching a yearning hand towards her, "the moon has hid her face behind that veil of mist ... and I can no longer see the glory of your hair! ... my eyes are dim, or is it that the Heath is dark? ... I would fain see your blue eyes once again.... By the tender memory of my dream born this autumn afternoon, I swear, sweet lady, that your brother’s life shall be safe! ... Whilst I have one drop of blood left in my veins, I will protect him." With trembling hand he sought the white rose which still lay close to her breast: she allowed him to take it, and he pressed it to his lips. Then, with a final effort he drew himself up once more, and said loudly and clearly,— "By this dear token I swear that I will get those letters back for you before the sun has risen twice o’er our green-clad hills." "Sir ... I..." "Tell me but once that you believe me ... and I will have the strength that moves the mountains." "I believe you, sir," she said simply. "I believe you absolutely." "Then place your dear hand in mine," he whispered, "and trust in me." And the last thought of which he was conscious was of her cool, white fingers grasping his fevered hand. Then the poor aching head fell back on John’s shoulder, the burning eyes were closed, kindly Nature had taken the outlaw to her breast and spread her beneficent mantle of oblivion over his weary senses at last. PART III BRASSINGTON CHAPTER XX A THRILLING NARRATIVE Mr Inch, beadle of the parish of Brassington, was altogether in his element. Dressed in his gold-laced coat, bob-tail wig and three-cornered hat, his fine calves encased in the whitest of cotton stockings, his buckled shoes veritable mirrors of shiny brilliancy, he was standing, wand of office in hand, outside the door of the tiny Court House, where Colonel West, Squire of Brassington, was sitting in judgment on the poachers and footpads of the neighbourhood.