“Why,” says I, “I see no prospect of relief, cousin. These fellows will doubtless be reinforced, and they will then make a desperate assault upon us. However,” I says, seeing her grow pale at the thought, “we will hold out as long as we can, and we will do our best to contrive some way of escape for you and Sir Nicholas. Faith!” I says, “I don’t see how it’s to be done, seeing that we are hemmed in; but I’ll talk it over with John and Humphrey--the three of us may contrive something. As for myself,” I says, dolefully, my thoughts going back in their original direction, “I am a dead man already, and so naught that concerns myself matters.” “A dead man?” she says, staring at me. “What do you mean by applying such a term to yourself?” “Why,” says I, “I mean what I say. You see, cousin, I was sent north with a despatch from Cromwell to Fairfax, and----” “Sir,” she says, suddenly clothing herself with a great dignity; “I should prefer to know naught of your rene----” But there she checked herself. “I think you are loyally serving my uncle,” she says, “and myself,” she adds, after a pause; “and I--I thank you for it, Master Coope; but----” “But I am still a renegade, eh, cousin?” says I, bitterly. “Why, so I am, I daresay, in your eyes. But, egad! a bit o’ sympathy comes amiss to no man; and if one may not expect it from a relation--but I’ll not intrude my confidence upon you,” I says, and I swung round on my musket, and looked out of the window. I think her eyes must have followed me, for after a moment she spoke, and when I turned she was looking at me with some curiosity and concern. “If you put it in that way,” she says, meditatively, and she looked at me again. “I should be sorry to appear unkind to--to anyone who had done me a service,” she says slowly. “Oh, no thanks, cousin!” says I. “I should have done the same for any woman. Faith, you did not think that I came here to save you from insult because you happened to be my mother’s sister’s daughter?” Now, beshrew me if I did not see her catch her pretty lips together between her teeth as if in a sudden vexation! “I am aware that I am naught to Master Richard Coope,” she says, cold and icy. “I should have done it for any woman,” says I. “So no thanks, if you please, mistress.” And I looked out of the window again. The dawn was come by that time, and the east was covered with a broad belt of dun-coloured light. When I looked round again I could see her face quite plainly under the hood of her cloak. “But this danger of yours?” she says, looking at me and then away from me. “I think I--perhaps it might be well--will you tell me what it is?” she says, turning her eyes full on mine again.