The candles were still burning in the library when the dawn came creeping into the east. Wilson, rubbing his eyes as he woke from a short sleep, heard the rumbling of wheels as the great coach was drawn out of the coach-house into the stable-yard. There was the jingling of harness being cleaned, the sound of rough voices gossiping together, an occasional coarse laugh bursting out upon the misty air. The grooms were discussing their master’s love affair. Wilson yawned and stretched his limbs, climbed up out of his chair, snuffed the candles, and went out into the hall. He met Jeffray coming down the oak stairs, a cloak over one arm, his sword under the other. As the men shook hands there was the sound of a door opening in the gallery above. Light footsteps came down the stairway; Bess, with her gray cloak over her shoulders, descended slowly towards the hall. She looked fresh and pure after her night’s rest, her eyes soft and dewy, her red lips parted in a smile. Jeffray waited for her at the foot of the stairs. He took her hand and kissed it, and led her into the dining-room, looking into her eyes. “You are rested?” he asked her, with a pressure of the hand. “Yes—quite.” “We shall start in an hour or two. We have much to do at Lewes.” Bess looked at her clothes, her short skirt and green petticoat, and then glanced at Jeffray. “I have thought of all that,” he said, smiling. “Ah—” “You shall look as fine a lady as any in Sussex. Silks and brocades, Bess, you shall have them all.” In the midst of all the bustle of preparation, a trooper of the Light-Horse Regiment came cantering through the park with a letter for Richard Jeffray tucked under his white belt. Wilson saw the speck of scarlet from the terrace, and, walking down the drive, met the man as he reined up before the iron gates closing the garden. The trooper produced his letter and explained that he had been told, to deliver it into Mr. Jeffray’s hands. Jeffray himself appeared on the terrace at the same moment, and the painter, beckoning to him, turned back with the soldier. “A letter for you, sir,” he said, as Jeffray came up to them. The trooper saluted, and delivered the despatch. Jeffray ordered him to ride round to the stable and have his horse watered, and rubbed down with straw. “From your cornet, I presume?” he asked. The man nodded and rode on in the direction of the stables. Jeffray and the painter went back to the terrace and leaned against the balustrade. There was an anxious frown on Jeffray’s face as he broke the seal, and spread the letter on the stone coping before him. He ran his eyes over the straggling and ill-formed sentences, his face clearing as he neared the end.