There was but one thing that comforted me in this sore pass and that was the thought of Alison’s own fearlessness. She was one of those women that are accustomed--faith, there are precious few of them that I have seen during fifty years of life!--to think and act for themselves, and I could readily imagine her to be more than a match for Anthony Dacre, so long as natural wit was the only weapon employed by both. It might be that she, finding herself in his hands, would contrive means for her safe progress to her father’s house and even delude him into procuring them. Thus, I was somewhat comforted, and yet it was a hateful thought to me that the woman I loved was in the company of a man whom I heartily despised. It was not that I had any jealous feeling--though she had teased me about him as we sat under the bridge, saying that he was a handsome man, a devoted cavalier, and so forth, which was her woman’s way of professing what she didn’t believe for very sport--but that I had so much respect and affection for her that I would have done aught--aye, and had done so much as to lose my own life by it--to keep her unsmirched even by the mere company of villainy. But caged as I was what could I do?--and so I hoped for the best, and sat me down to write letters to my cousin, having arranged with Merciful Wiggleskirk that he would use his utmost endeavour to have the packet delivered. Now of what I then wrote I have at this time but the least knowledge, for the packet came into Alison’s hands--though not after the fashion that I had intended--and she has since taken the strictest care of it, and values it so much that she will not permit it to pass out of her keeping even for a moment. However, what I do remember is that I spent all that afternoon and evening in writing--with some intervals wherein Merciful Wiggleskirk rubbed his balm of Gilead into my foot, much to its great benefit--and that in the end I used all the paper that the trooper had brought me, and so was obliged to lay down my pen unsatisfied. It was then close upon midnight, and being sore fatigued, I lay down on the bed, sleepy enough, in spite of the fate that was but some seven hours distant. Merciful Wiggleskirk mounted guard over me, rarely satisfied with the result of his ministrations to my injury. “Faith!” says I, “I think I shall sleep well,” and I bade him good-night. But there was much about to happen, and since I had naught to do with that which brought it about, I shall here present to you the account of it that was written down afterwards by Alison herself. II. A TRUE NARRATIVE OF THE TRANSACTION BETWEEN ALISON FRENCH AND ANTHONY DACRE, NOW SET DOWN AFTER A PLAIN FASHION BY THE FORMER.--A. F.