“Pardon me, madam,” said the stranger in the most musical voice she had ever heard, “I only wish to apologise for the impertinence of my men, who deserve to be thrashed for so rudely troubling you with their ill-bred staring and admiration.” She glanced up at him quickly, and was relieved to find that he was unmistakably the Governor of the new garrison at Canon Frome so graphically described in Frances Hopton’s farewell letter. “It was of no consequence, sir,” she said with a stately little bow, which delighted him. “I was chiefly annoyed because it will vex my uncle, and he may forbid me to visit the farm again.” “Let me see him,” pleaded Norton, boldly, “and express my regrets at what passed. Doth he live far from here?” “No, at Bosbury Vicarage,” said Hilary. “’Tis not far.” Without directly asking to accompany her, Norton moved quietly on, talking as he went, so that it seemed perfectly natural, and, indeed, inevitable that they should walk together. Even Don, after a subdued growl and a disdainful sniff at the officer’s riding boots, accepted the situation with philosophical calm. “I fear you, like most people, have suffered great inconvenience from the war?” said Norton, “but ere long we shall have crushed the rogues and all will be well. Have you many friends and kinsfolk in arms?” “No kinsfolk,” replied Hilary. “We know several gentlemen serving under my Lord Hopton, and in truth almost all our Herefordshire friends are for the King, save two of Sir Richard Hopton’s sons and Mr. Hall and Mr. Freeman, near Ledbury, and two or three gentlemen in Hereford who sided with the Parliament.” “One of the most staunch Parliamentarians I ever met hailed from Hereford,” said Norton. “I came across him when Waller’s army was in Gloucestershire--my own county. However, this young Lieutenant Harford, though as keen on sermons as the rest of his comrades, had, nevertheless, time to carry on a most promising love affair with the pretty daughter of a Puritan squire whose estate adjoins mine.” He avoided looking at his companion, but from the tone of her voice he knew that his arrow had gone home. “Mr. Harford’s sympathies have ever been with the Puritans,” she said, haughtily. “’Tis long since he was in Herefordshire, but I learn that he is now a prime favourite with Cromwell.” “He would be a man after his own heart,” said Norton. “Prince Rupert dubbed Cromwell ‘Ironside’ at Marston Moor, and from all accounts there never was a more unyielding, stubborn fighter. They say his power over all whom he comes across is amazing--men are like wax in his hands.”