‘Yes, I know you, Lord Harrogate,’ returned Ethel, trying to rise, but sinking back fainting and giddy on her rocky seat. ‘I am sorry to give you trouble, but’‒‒ Her voice failed her, and her eyes seemed to be darkened. The quick revulsion of feeling, from what was all but sheer despair to the consciousness of being saved, had intensified the effects of great physical fatigue. She heard the young man’s voice addressing herself, but could not distinguish the words because of the low droning sound that filled her ears as she sat passive on the rock. Who he was she quite well knew. It was not possible for the member of a small congregation such as that in High Tor church to be ignorant of the features of so notable an occupant of Lord Wolverhampton’s pew as the Earl’s son and heir. Tall, handsome, and manly, Lord Harrogate was worth looking at for his own sake; but Ethel had never thus looked upon him until she found herself thus confronted with him in the mist, as her rescuer from certain suffering, perhaps from death. ‘If you are able to walk, Miss Gray,’ said Lord Harrogate earnestly, ‘will you take my arm and lean on me? My servant will charge himself with the child here; indeed I do not think he can do better than to set her on the pony, as she seems so tired. We must all of us rely on Bates’s guidance to get clear of the waste. Happily, he is a thorough moorman, and can pick his way where I should be at fault.’ ‘Ay, ay, my Lord,’ returned Bates, flattered by the compliment, but honestly unwilling to be pranked in borrowed plumage. ‘But if we were t’ other side o’ Pinkney Ridge or Cranmere way, I’d not be so gey ready to take the lead in a fog like this one. I’ve heard of moormen straying round and round, and lying down to die in a drift within gunshot o’ their own house-door. But we were on the hard path just now, so if we can but strike it again, we’re safe.’ They started, Betty Mudge perched sideways on the pony, which the keeper led; while Ethel, in spite of her protestation that she could walk unaided, was glad to avail herself of the support of Lord Harrogate’s arm. It was not all plain sailing, for so dense was the fog that even the experienced keeper was puzzled for a time, until his sharp ear caught the well-known babble of a brook. ‘’Tis running water!’ cried Bates in triumph. ‘Safest plan on the moor is to follow running water, for that won’t deceive. We’ll win through it.’ And indeed a short half-hour brought the party to the firm high-road, with the gates of High Tor Park, topped by their stone wyverns, within sight. Betty Mudge, who announced herself as having an aunt in the village at whose cottage she could pass the night, was despatched under convoy to that relative’s abode. But Ethel Grey looked so worn and ill, that Lord Harrogate insisted on her retaining his arm up the carriage-drive leading to the house, where she could receive the attention her state required.