He held out his hand and together they ran, the bruised leaves of the bog myrtle as they sped over the moor sending their clean aromatic odour into the night air. "Better than last time," he said, with a laugh. "By Jove, I did get deep into the bog that time! It's better in couples." So, once again those two, caught by the glamour of pure life, raced on almost forgetful of past danger and present discomfort. The light proved to be from a shepherd's hut, where they found warmth and shelter, a sup of porridge, and some milk. It was four good miles to Girvan by a bad road, and that made a retreat thither impossible in the teeth of such a furious gale as was now raging; so the old shepherd, after providing Marrion with a petticoat of his dead wife's and a plaid of his own, proposed to retreat to an outhouse and leave the cottage to his uninvited guests. Marmaduke, however, negatived the proposal. His wife, he said, would be the better of a good sleep, while he must be off at daybreak to Girvan in order to get a conveyance; so she could lie down in the bed-place and he and the shepherd could just snoozle by the fire. Which they did. Marrion, wide awake at first, her nerves all athrill, listened to their even voices for a time, then watched them asleep in their chairs, the firelight on their placid faces, and finally fell asleep herself, to wake with bright sunlight streaming into the little cottage. A scribbled note in pencil awaited her from Marmaduke. He might be away some time; she was not to expect him till she saw him. It was early afternoon when he did return in an open chaise and four with postillions. "The road is very bad," he explained airily, "and I've brought you some clothes. You'd better go and put them on, as we ought to start at once." "You ought not----" she began hastily at her first glance at the milliner's box. "You really----" "My dear girl," he replied, with a charming smile, "mayn't I see you dressed for once as you ought to be dressed!" There was no alternative with the postillions waiting, and as she put on the things he had brought she was forced into admitting he had good taste. "You do look nice!" he cried, joyous as a child, as he handed her into the chaise. The next instant they were off, the grey horses with their red-coated postillions lending quite a bridal appearance to the couple behind them, for Marmaduke was also very spruce, though he was wearing his left hand tucked into the roll collar of his coat. Something in the look of the arm, now she had time for observation, made Marrion say suddenly-- "You hurt yourself?" He nodded. "Dislocated my wrist--you see that first wave was an awful jerk. So I had to get back to the regimental surgeon to get it sorted and get my three days' leave." She looked at him startled. "What for?" she asked quickly.