“Dearest,” he said, drawing her nearer to him, “you are not the first who in a moment of peril has lost faith. Though silence would have been best, who would dare to judge you?” “And yet silence might often betray--might seem to give consent,” she said, musingly. “God has charge of consequences,” he said, quietly. “And I suppose we always do amiss when we take into human hands the guidance that belongs to Him alone.” “You mean that at all costs we must be true?” “Yes, dear heart. But a truce to disputations.” “You and I have done with disputes,” she said, tenderley. “Love and danger and the shadow of death have lifted us above our old arguings.” “We are somewhat nearer than the day you suggested that we might be friendly foes,” said Gabriel, putting his arm round her. She laughed softly. “The day when Mistress Helena roused my jealousy! No; you shall be a friendly foe to every honourable Royalist, but to me you are--_all the world!_ “Dearest, then must I share your troubles, but I fear you are keeping them back from me. Zachary tells me the Vicarage hath been searched!” “Yes, the Governor of Canon Frome sent to search for you, but that was no great matter. He did not dare to come himself.” “There is something else, then, that makes you anxious. What is it?” “Only that on Saturday an order came from the High Sheriff for my uncle to go to-day to Hereford and sign Prince Rupert’s Protestation. Of course he refuses to go, but I fear it may lead to trouble.” “I trust not,” said Gabriel, gravely. “We seem so nearly through our difficulties. To-morrow night my father and mother coming, and on Wednesday our marriage and escape. By-the-bye, what of Waghorn?” “He has been quite quiet since the Directory was adopted. My uncle cannot make him out.” Even as they spoke of him, Peter Waghorn, in the tiled cottage by the churchyard, was musing over the Vicar’s words the last time he had heard him preach. Against his will the man had been impressed by the way in which Dr. Coke had behaved during the past few weeks under great provocation; and now as he sat carving the delicate pattern of vine leaves on the cupboard door, he remembered how on the previous day the Vicar had made his carving into a parable, and had shown in the sermon that just as no two branches, and even no two leaves were precisely alike, yet all grew from the parent vine, so it was with Christians. This was an astonishing notion to Waghorn; he doubted whether it was sound doctrine, yet it haunted him curiously. As he sat brooding over it that Monday afternoon, there came a peremptory knock, and his door was flung open by no less a person than the Governor of Canon Frome. Norton was now quite recovered, and evidently in a very bad humour; the wood-carver noticed that the lines of cruelty about his mouth were much more clearly marked. “Well, scarecrow,” he observed, flinging himself into a chair. “You have news, I hope, at last of Captain Harford.”