“Nan!” he cried again. It was all that he could say; but he said it with singular eloquence. Something slapped softly down upon the withers of his horse. His hand shot out to clutch it ere it fell thence, and he found himself holding a little tasselled glove. There was a little scream from above. “My glove!” she cried. “I’ve dropped it. Randal, please!” She was leaning far out, reaching down a beseeching hand. But she was still too far above him to render possible the glove’s return. Besides, this time she did not deceive him with her comedy. He took off his hat, and passed the glove through the band. “I’ll wear it as a favour till I come to claim the hand it has covered,” he told her in a sort of exaltation. He kissed the glove, bowed low, covered himself with a flourish, and touched the horse with his spurs. As he rode away her voice floated after him, faintly mocking, yet with a choking quaver that betrayed her secret tears. “Don’t forget to bring the world back with you.” And that was the last of her voice that he had ever heard. Five years passed before the day when next he came to Potheridge. Again the cherry trees were in blossom; again he saw them, tossed by the breeze, above the grey wall of the rectory orchard, as he rode forward with high-beating heart, a lackey trotting at his heels. The elder Holles, who had removed himself permanently to London shortly after his son’s going to Monk, had been dead these two years. If Randal had not accomplished his proud boast of conquering the world, at least he had won himself an important place in it, a fine position in the army, that should be a stepping-stone to greater things. He was the youngest colonel in the service, thanks to his own talents as well as to Monk’s favour--for Monk could never so have favoured him had he not been worthy and so proved himself--a man of mark, of whom a deal was expected by all who knew him. All this he now bore written plainly upon him: his air of authority; his rich dress; the handsome furniture of his splendid horse; the servant following; all advertised the man of consequence. And he was proud of it all for the sake of her who had been his inspiration. From his heart he thanked God for these things, since he might offer them to her. What would she look like, he wondered, as he rode amain, his face alight and eager. It was three years since last he had heard from her; but that was natural enough, for the constant movements demanded by his soldier’s life made it impossible that letters should reach him often. To her he had written frequently. But one letter only had he received in all those years, and that was long ago, written to him after Dunbar in answer to his announcement that he had won himself a captaincy and so advanced a stage in his conquest of the world.