“Nay, sir, Miss Joan will not suffer my civility or my gratitude. She, who is so proud herself, will not allow me to acquit my own debt to her even by a word of thanks.” “Tut-tut, there is no need!” said the parson. “And the less, sir,” put in Joan, quickly, “since I own I had some hand in bringing about your discomfiture before, at the hands of the—h’m—‘free-traders.’ Father,” she went on quickly, turning to the vicar, “I’ll never do aught for Ann or her friends again! ’Twas she put them on our track; and they had a mind to murder Mr. Tregenna, I verily believe!” She was speaking very quickly, with a certain frivolous air which was new in her, and less becoming than her usual straightforward simplicity. Tregenna, who was too inexperienced in the ways of women to understand the cause of this change in her, was hurt and grieved by it. He could not understand how strong her anxiety must be to try to efface from his mind the remembrance of her action in so boldly declaring to the smugglers that it was for love she protected him. Chagrined on the one hand, yet still shaken to the very depths by the adoration he felt for the beautiful girl whose touch he seemed still to feel on his breast, Tregenna stammered out again some hesitating words of thanks, as he held out his hand to Parson Langney, with a shy sidelong glance at his daughter. “I must hasten back to my ship,” said he. “And in the morning I shall hope to pay my respects to you, and to induce Miss Joan to give me a better hearing than she will grant to-night.” At these words, Joan, who had been moving restlessly from the horse to her father and back again, apparently unable to keep still one moment now that the tension of the evening’s events was over, became suddenly as motionless as a statue. Then, in a voice which was as earnest as a moment before it had been affectedly gay, she said quickly— “Father, bid Mr. Tregenna stay here till the morning. These fellows may still be on the watch for him.” “Sh-sh!” said her father, raising his hand to enforce silence. In the pause which followed, both Joan and Tregenna were aware of a loud, rumbling noise in the village street below, coming gradually nearer. And in a few minutes, during which they all stood silent and wondering, without exchanging a word, they perceived a huge black mass, dim, shadowy, like some mammoth beast whose bulk makes rapid motion impossible, creeping slowly by in the obscurity of the trees at the bottom of the hill. Slow, phantom-like, it crept along with no sound but the rumbling and creaking that had at first arrested the vicar’s attention. Tregenna, on the alert at once, would have descended the hill to find out what the monster was. But at a sign from his daughter, Parson Langney laid a restraining hand upon the young man’s arm.