“No, madam,” replied Joscelyn Heyworth, with a little gleam of amusement in his eyes. “I learn that this is a carpenter from a village in _your_ neighbourhood who was driven half demented by Dr. Laud’s cruelty to his father. We come across a good many of these victims up and down the country.” The recollection of a day long ago in the first brief happiness of their betrothal came back overpoweringly to Hilary. Oh! how she longed to be sitting once more with Gabriel on the steps of Bosbury Cross before the parting of the ways! ‘Joscelyn saw the more gentle look dawning in her face, and hazarded a word on Gabriel’s behalf. “’Tis a pity, madam,” he said, “if you will allow me to speak frankly with you, that you so grievously pained my friend just now.” But at this plain speaking Hilary’s pride was at once up in arms. “’Tis a pity, sir, that you presume to speak on matters about which you know absolutely nothing.” “Pardon me, I know much as to Gabriel Harford’s past story,” said Joscelyn, not in the least disconcerted by her snub. “What!” she exclaimed, angrily. “He had the effrontery to tell you, a perfect stranger, that we had been betrothed--when even my own uncle was not admitted to the secret? Oh, it is unbearable! I did well to refuse him a greeting.” “No, madam,” said Joscelyn, bluntly. “In my opinion you did a very cruel thing. And you misjudge him now as you evidently have done in the past. He has never breathed your name to me. I found him almost in the last extremity on the battlefield, the morning after Edgehill--only begging to be allowed to die and quit a world that had dealt harshly with him. I bore him back to Kineton, refused to let him give up his life, and all through the next night kept watch over him. There are revelations, madam, that come before the day of judgment, and in the feverish ravings of a wounded soldier lying at death’s door, you may learn strange truths. I learnt then the agony of a man who has been jilted by the only woman he has ever loved.” Hilary had grown white to the lips, but pride still held her love in chains. Though this knowledge of what Gabriel had passed through, sent a pang to her inmost heart, her self-love was ruffled and agitated by the fearless, outspoken words which this Parliamentary Captain had dared to speak. “I thought, sir,” she said, with cold arrogance, “that one of the conditions specially guaranteed by your General, was that all gentlewomen should have honourable usage.” “Madam, it is because I honour you and love my friend that I venture to speak as I would fain have any other man speak to my sister were she in like case,” said Joscelyn, marvelling at her hardness, but quite failing to understand that she was strenuously keeping back her better nature, which only longed to yield to his arguing.