"We must not tarry here. Horses are waiting at the south end of the footbridge. Let us hasten away at once." Then happened the strangest of all the strange things I have had to record of this strange, fierce, tender, and at time almost half-savage girl. Dorothy for months had longed for that moment. Her heart had almost burst with joy when a new-born hope for it was suggested by the opportunities of the ball and her father's desire touching my lord of Leicester. But now that the longed-for moment was at hand, the tender heart, which had so anxiously awaited it, failed, and the girl broke down weeping hysterically. "Oh, John, you have forgiven so many faults in me," she said between sobs, "that I know you will forgive me when I tell you I cannot go with you to-night. I thought I could and I so intended when I came out here to meet you. But oh, John, my dearest love, I cannot go; I cannot go. Another time I will go with you, John. I promise that I will go with you soon, very soon, John; but I cannot go now, oh, I cannot. You will forgive me, won't you, John? You will forgive me?" "No," cried John in no uncertain tones, "I will not forgive you. I will take you. If you cry out, I will silence you." Thereupon he rudely took the girl in his arms and ran with her toward the garden gate near the north end of the stone footbridge. "John, John!" she cried in terror. But he placed his hand over her mouth and forced her to remain silent till they were past the south wall. Then he removed his hand and she screamed and struggled against him with all her might. Strong as she was, her strength was no match for John's, and her struggles were in vain. John, with his stolen bride, hurriedly crossed the footbridge and ran to the men who were holding the horses. There he placed Dorothy on her feet and said with a touch of anger:-- "Will you mount of your own will or shall I put you in the saddle?" "I'll mount of my own will, John," she replied submissively, "and John, I--I thank you, I thank you for--for--" she stopped speaking and toyed with the tufts of fur that hung from the edges of her cloak. "For what, my love? For what do you thank me?" asked John after a little pause. "For making--me--do--what I--I longed to do. My conscience would not let me do it of my own free will." Then tears came from her eyes in a great flood, and throwing her arms about John's neck she gave him herself and her heart to keep forever and forever. And Leicester was shivering at the stile! The girl had forgotten even the existence of the greatest lord in the realm.