The morning wore away in a sore discomfort until it came near to noon. Upon several occasions we heard folks pass along the road above our heads, and now and then a cart rumbled by, or a horseman made our hiding-place echo with the ring of his beast’s feet. But we heard no more of the cannon nor anything in the neighbouring meadows of our pursuers. As for my lame foot it was so damaged that I could see there was no chance of our going onward that day. The plentiful doses of cold water which I had administered to it had seemed to keep down the inflammation, but the swelling was still so great and the stiffness so stubborn that I could make no use of my leg from the knee downwards. “Cousin,” says I, “look upon me as done for. I am winged as absolutely as a partridge that can only use its feet. It will be days before I can walk,” I says, groaning more with chagrin than with pain, though I had enough and to spare of that. “Well?” says she. “I don’t know what we’re to do next,” says I, sore perplexed. “There isn’t a house nearer than Darrington Mill, and you musn’t go there. If you go along the road to Wentbridge you’ll be seen. But when night falls you might try it, cousin. Dare you travel alone?” I says. She looked round at me and laughed. “Dare!” says she. “Dare, indeed!” “Then will you?” says I. “No,” says she, prompt enough. “And why not?” says I. “Because I shall not leave you,” says she. “Why,” says I, “that’s very kind of you, cousin, but I wish I could see you in safety.” “’Tis not my fashion to run away when things come to the worst,” says she. “’Gad, mistress!” says I, somewhat nettled. “I don’t know which smarts the more--your tongue or this plaguey leg of mine. But you might be more civil,” I says. “Was I uncivil?” says she, making a great show of innocence with her eyes. “I know what you meant,” I says, turning surly again. “Well,” she says, speaking very polite and gentle, “confess, cousin, that if you hadn’t persuaded me to leave the house, we should not have been burrowing in this ditch, half-starved to death.” “No,” says I, “that’s true enough. But I would rather burrow in a ditch and have my life, than swing to the branch of a tree, or stand before a file of troopers with my kerchief tied about my eyes. And I think,” says I, regarding her narrowly, “that you would prefer your liberty even in a hole like this to being handed over to Anthony Dacre.” She gave me a cool stare. “And what harm would there be in that?” says she. “What?” says I. “I say what harm would there be in that?” she says. “Oh, you did say so, did you?” says I. “Faith, I thought you did, but then I thought you didn’t.” “And why shouldn’t I?” says she. “Nay,” says I, “how do I know? I have given up trying to understand women.” “Anthony Dacre,” says she, musingly, “is a handsome man, and a most devoted cavalier.” “I wish I had my fingers at his throat!” says I.