It seemed for a moment as though he must fall from his horse; but by a great effort he recovered himself, and, with the blood streaming from his mouth, grasped his riding-whip and dug spurs into his horse as though to spring at my father. What followed was the strangest part of all. Although his assailant was within a yard of him, with his heavy riding-whip lifted high in the air to strike, my father never moved a muscle, but simply sat still as a statue upon his pony. But at the last moment, when the whip was quivering in the air, he quietly raised his hand and lifted his hat from his head. There he sat motionless, with the faint moon which had just struggled out from a bank of clouds shining on his handsome, delicate face, and with his clear, firm eyes fixed steadily upon the stranger. Like a _tableaux vivant_, burnt into my memory, I shall carry that scene with me until I die. The moment my father removed his hat his would-be assailant evidently recognised him. His whip dropped heavily to the ground, and into his ghastly face there leaped such an expression of horrified surprise as my pen could never dissect and set down in words. "My God! Herbert! Is this possible!" "Keep back, keep away from me," muttered my father in a low suppressed tone, as though he were striving to control some violent passion. "Keep out of my reach lest I do you a mischief. Thank God, we are not alone. Speak! What are you doing here?" The fierce restraint which he seemed to be putting upon his words made them come forth slowly with a monotonous sing-song which sounded more terrible than the wildest outburst. I was shivering all over with dread of what might come of this. The stranger answered hoarsely, and I could tell that he, too, had felt the peculiar effect of my father's strange tone. "I am staying with Sir Frederick Lawson at Luccombe Hall for a few days only. I had no----" My father raised his hand. "Swear on what remains of your honour--swear by anything that is dearest to you--that you do not seek to discover my dwelling-place, or the name under which I choose to live. Swear that you never mention this meeting to living man or woman." The stranger raised his hat. "I swear," he said. There was a dead silence for a full minute. Then my father gathered up his reins, and motioned us to ride on. "You are fortunate as ever, Rupert Devereux," were his last words as he turned to follow us, "for, sure as there is a God above us, if I had met you here alone to-night, nay, if any other had been with me than my son, I should have killed you." We rode home almost in silence, and, though I listened often, I never once heard the sound of horse's hoofs behind us. Whoever this man might be whom we had so strangely met, he evidently preferred to risk losing his way again, rather than chance another meeting with us.