Cold and careless as the moon is of all the sorrow’s she looks down on, no lover could ever resist the fascinations of her mysterious light. He thought he would look to-night for the last time at that grassy glade and at the old stone bench by the sweetbriar, where Hilary had been singing to her guitar on the day he first realised his love. Quietly opening the wicket-gate, he walked with sad steps over the soaking turf, wondering--as the young always must wonder--how it was possible that a joy such as theirs had been could have turned to such bitter anguish. And then all at once the invincible hopefulness of youth came to his aid. It could not all be over! This love that he knew to be pure and true, was it possible that it should be wasted--cast away as a thing of little worth? To think that it could end would be to doubt God the Giver. In this world or the next they would yet be united. He went to the bush of sweetbriar and gathered a spray, recalling as he did so the old folk-tale of the prince who at the right time had fought his way through the thorn hedge, and how the thorns had turned to roses, and the sleeping princess had been wakened at length by his kiss of love. Perhaps Hilary’s love was, after all, not dead, but only sleeping; perhaps his Princess Briar-rose would be wakened one day by a love which would fight its way to her, be the obstacles never so great. At that moment screams coming distinctly from the direction of Mrs. Unett’s house fell upon his ear. He knew well that Hilary and her mother were still at Whitbourne, and fearing that something must have gone amiss during their absence, he walked up to the door which led to the back premises, and knocked. At this, however, the screams only grew more piercing. He called to Mrs. Durdle, asking what was the matter, and at last she was persuaded to open the door a few inches, and to peer cautiously out, her fat face almost the colour of the guttering tallow candle which she grasped in her capacious hand. “Oh, Master Gabriel! I be glad to see you, we be _that_ frightful!” She used the Herefordshire phrase for being frightened, but Gabriel could hardly restrain a smile, for her terror had certainly not improved her looks. “What has frightened you?” he asked, following her into the house. “And who in the world is making that noise?” “Aw, sir, ’tis naught but Maria, she’s always timbersome, and to-night there’s good cause with the soldiers clamouring at Byster’s Gate.” “What soldiers?” exclaimed Gabriel in astonishment. “I had heard naught.” “Parliament soldiers, sir,” said Durdle, trembling. “Mick Thompson, my Valentine, he told me they’ve been standing outside these two hours, and he do think Price, the mayor, be going to let ’em in. Peace, you hussy!” she added, turning to shake the hysterical maid who had come out into the passage at the sound of a man’s voice. “Oh, sir! Oh, sir!” cried Maria, “don’t let ’em kill us!”