“Ay, Sir Philip has been in foreign parts,” said the hostess, “traveling here-away, there-away. I can scarce tell you where: in France and a long away further off than France: in the countries, I reckon, where snow lies summer and winter, where they have that queen that is so wise, like the Queen of Sheba in the old times; and wonderful tales Master Fenton was telling of them, when you came in, Mistress Edith. So, from thence, the young knight came in a ship to Scotland, and after he had tarried awhile there (and Master Fenton do say it be dreadful to see how they torture decent folk yonder, for hearing a preaching or singing a psalm) he traveled up through the country, and came to Thornleigh last night--and this morning he was for starting again, but because his men could get naught decent from the old crazed housekeeper, he came to get them a right meal afore they should start on their journey. Does any thing ail you, Mistress Edith?” Edith had risen from the table, and stood at the window. “No, no,” she said, fastening her hood and mantle, nervously; “but yonder comes my father.” A stout horse, with a pillion attached to its saddle, was led out as she spoke. Master Field crossed the court-yard hastily, and ascended the stairs. When he entered the room he drew his daughter to the window, and pointing to where an hostler led the animal about, made a last attempt to dissuade her from accompanying him. Edith said nothing in return: she only slid her hand through her father’s arm, and holding by him firmly, bade her kind friends farewell. “Now father, I am ready; let us go.” And after another very brief delay, they went forth upon their perilous journey. The strange cavalier, with his train, rode from the gate at the same time--a singular contrast. The much-lauded, gay, graceful, gallant cavalier, with his noble blood, his inheritance of chivalrous feeling, and honor, his peculiar attribute of personal bravery, on prancing steed and with clang of spur and warlike sword, went out, holding his noble head high, a fugitive flying before the Plague. And beside him rode forth the grave man and the delicate girl, traveling with their lives in their hands, for their Lord’s sake, and their people’s, to meet the great enemy in its stronghold; making no vaunt of their resolve, having no presumption in their stout hearts--grave, heroic, silent--loyal to a king who hath more thrones in his wide dominion than that of England. The father and the daughter conversed little; it was a solemn journey. Along those peaceful highways, past those homely cottages, in the abundance of their rude health and security, skirting the draped feet of those serene and everlasting hills, while perchance this same May sunshine should fall upon some fearful indiscriminate grave in yonder distant city, which alone could record that there they died. It was no time for speech--in awe and grave valor they traveled on.