They had proceeded thus for some few hours on their way, when the sound of a horse’s feet behind, made Master Field turn his head. Sir Philip Dacre was riding in haste after them, considerably in advance of his attendants. He was a young man of moderately good looks, with a mien more scholar-like than courtly. Edith had heard his name mentioned only in the must cursory manner before this day; but it seemed from the conversation that ensued, that her father knew him. “Master Field,” said Sir Philip, eagerly, as he joined them, “you also must have heard of this scourge which has entered London. I pray you tell me if those who are flying from it do not aggravate its terrors. Is it indeed as fatal as men say?” “I fear me, Sir Philip,” was the grave answer, “that men know not yet a tithe of those terrors they speak of; but it is true that a universal panic hath seized the city, and without doubt the servile passion of fear is one of its many allies, and doth prepare its way.” “I am hastening thither,” said Dacre. “I fear over-boldness more than panic--and I must endeavor to bring my mother away.” The Puritan made no answer; Edith felt a slight thrill through his strong frame, and he quickened his horse’s pace. “Master Field,” said Sir Philip, with emotion, “long ago, when I met with you at Oxford, you returned good for evil; now, in the face of death, shall we not be at peace? Yonder hostess told me you were bound for London. I divine your errand; you go to face this Plague. Ah, sir! shall I bid you then forget what your magnanimous heart forgave so nobly, when the power to protect and help was on your side? Since that time, I have seen other laws than those of England. Evil deeds of men to whose party I belong by inheritance and hereditary right, I repudiate heartily and with sincerity. I have no share with this impure court, this arbitrary government. Your personal wrong, Master Field--” “Mention it not--mention it not!” said the minister, waving his hand; “I am a man, Sir Philip, subject to like temptations of passion as other men. Heartily, and in all humbleness, I have endeavored to forgive; but try me not again by bringing my first bitterness to my remembrance--my personal wrong is a dead wrong--disturb not the oblivion of its peace.” “And yet,” said the young man, gently, “and yet I have wept for it ere I well knew what sorrow meant. Yonder old walls of Thornleigh could bear me witness how bitterly the boy lamented over that cruel deed; but, to speak of other matters less private than this--I have no sympathy, Master Field, with the injustice which has banished you from your place. My desires and hopes are more with you than against you. We are both on our way to face death--it may be we shall never see these hills again; let us go together, and in peace.”