By the time the coach was at the door Hilary had contrived to wash away all traces of her tears, and only a very careful observer would have noticed that her smile was forced, and that her laugh did not ring true. Great rejoicings were going on in the city, and the cheers of the crowd excited her, until suddenly the shouting began to form itself into actual words, and a man who had been loyally drinking himself drunk in honour of the victory of Powick Bridge, hung on to the coach door, wildly waving his hat and bawling at the top of his voice, “God save King Charles, and hang up the Roundheads!” Hilary, in deep disgust, promptly drew the leathern curtain across the window, but though she could thus shut out the hideous leering face of the pseudo-patriot, she could not banish his words, which persistently rang in her ears as the coach lumbered out through Byster’s Gate and along the rough road to Whitbourne; nor could she shut out the mental picture which the words conjured up, the picture of Gabriel Harford with a rope about his neck. “I wish I had not used the term ‘Roundhead’ this morning; ’tis only fit for such people as that drunken wretch in Bye-street,” she thought. And, having once begun to see something amiss in her words, she continued the salutary, but depressing, occupation all through the drive, ending with the humiliating perception that she had defended the cause she believed to be right in the wrong way, and that although nothing would induce her to be betrothed to a rebel, she had certainly by her harshness done much to confirm him in his convictions. It was quite dusk when they arrived at the Bishop’s country residence, the evening air had grown cold, and the two ladies, stiff and weary with their drive, were glad to see the lights within the pretty gabled house, and the door flung wide to welcome them. The Bishop’s surprise and pleasure at their unexpected arrival touched Hilary, who was always at her best when with her grandfather, and Mrs. Unett’s explanation that she had come to talk over a family matter, having been made, the Bishop, possibly guessing from his grandchild’s face what the “family matter” was, deferred the talk till the morning. They supped quietly with Bishop Coke and his chaplain, and the name of Harford was never once mentioned, but the talk turned inevitably to the news of Powick Fight, until the Bishop, with a sigh, used the very same words which Gabriel had used in the morning as to hoping that all would be swiftly decided by one great battle. Then, rising from table, he led the way to the hall, where the household assembled for evening prayers, read by the chaplain, after which Hilary, in a much softened mood, was glad to go to bed. She woke the next morning with an aching head and a sore heart, wondering whether every future awakening would be so full of misery and desolation.