"Oh yes," said Mabyn cheerfully: "nothing easier. I shall tell her she's afraid, and then she would walk down the face of Black Cliff. By the way, Mr. Trelyon, I must bring something to eat with me, and some wine--she will be so nervous, and the long journey will tire her." "You will be at Mr. Trewhella's, Mabyn: you can't go carrying things about with you." "I could bring a bit of cake in my pocket," Mabyn suggested, but this seemed even to her so ludicrous that she blushed and laughed, and agreed that Mr. Harry should bring the necessary provisions for the wild night-ride to Plymouth. "Oh, it does so please me to think of it!" she said with a curious anxious excitement as well as gladness in her face. "I hope I have not forgotten to arrange anything. Let me see: we start at ten; then down through the wood to the road in the hollow--oh, I hope there will be nobody coming along just then!--then you light the lamps; then you come forward to persuade Wenna. By the way, Mr. Trelyon, where must I go? Shall I not be dreadfully in the way?" "You? You must stand by the horses' heads. I sha'n't have my man with me. And yet they're not very fiery animals: they'll be less fiery, the unfortunate wretches! when they get to Plymouth." "At what time?" "About half-past three in the morning if we go straight on," said he. "Do you know a good hotel there?" said the practical Mabyn. "The best one is by the station; but if you sleep in the front of the house, you have the whistling of engines all night long, and if you sleep in the back, you overlook a barracks, and the confounded trumpeting begins about four o'clock, I believe." "Wenna and I won't mind that--we shall be too tired," Mabyn said. "Do you think they could give us a little hot coffee when we arrive?" "Oh yes. I'll give the night-porter a sovereign a cup: then he'll offer to bring it to you in buckets. Now, don't you think the whole thing is beautifully arranged, Mabyn?" "It is quite lovely!" the girl said joyously, "for we shall be off with the morning train to London, while Mr. Roscorla is pottering about Launceston Station at midday. Then we must send a telegram from Plymouth, a fine dramatic telegram; and my father, he will swear a little, but be quite content; and my mother--do you know, Mr. Trelyon, I believe my mother will be as glad as anybody. What shall we say?--'To Mr. Rosewarne, Eglosilyan: We have fled. Not the least good pursuing us. May as well make up your mind to the inevitable. Will write to-morrow.' Is that more than the twenty words for a shilling?" "We sha'n't grudge the other shilling if it is," the young man said. "Now you must go on with your cake, Mabyn. I am off to see after the horses' shoes. Mind, as soon after ten as you can--just where the path from the wood comes into the main road."