"Not if you don't wish it, sir." Response that should have made him withhold the information, if not driven him from her presence. A very rebuff it was; and yet Reginald Trevor looked not on it in this light. Instead, still strong in his false faith and foolish hope, he persisted, saying,-- "But I do wish it, and will tell you; though you may little care to know. I cannot help the confession. She I love is yourself--yourself, Vaga Powell; and 'tis with all my heart, all my soul!" The avowal, full and passionate, affected her no more than the hints he had already thrown out. In the same calm tone, firm, and with the words measured, she made response,-- "Captain Trevor, you've told me almost as much before. And if I never gave you answer to say the feeling you profess for me was not reciprocated, I say it now. It is not--never can be. Friends, if you wish, let us remain; but for the other--" "You needn't go on!" he interrupted, impatiently, almost rudely. "I've heard enough; and now know what's the obstacle between us. Not your father, as I once supposed, but my cousin. Well, have him, if you can get him. As for myself, I'm consoled by thinking there are as good fish in the sea as ever were caught out of it, and I go to catch one of them. Adieu, Mistress Vaga Powell!" Saying which, he strode off in true Cavalier swagger, humming a gay _chanson_; having left her alone in the darkness of night, and the gloom of despair. Only for an instant was she thus. Then she felt arms flung around her, tenderly, lovingly, while listening to speech which promised to relieve her of her misery. "I was so glad, Vag," said Sabrina, "hearing what you said. And I've heard something said by another, at which you'll be glad, when I tell it you." Almost at the same instant of time, though in a different part of the grounds, Sir Richard Walwyn was in like manner promising to let light into the heart of Eustace Trevor. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. AFTER ROUNDWAY DOWN. An hundred horsemen riding at their hardest--not in any military formation, but strung out in a straggled ruck--horsemen steel-clad from crown to hip, some with helmets battered; others bare-headed, the head-piece gone; cuirasses showing dints, as from stroke of halberd or thrust of pike; on back and breastplate blood splashes, dried and turned purple-black; boots, mud-bespattered and _delabre_--this damaged cohort all that remained of "William the Conqueror's" army! They were the remnant of Hesselrig's Horse, the "Lobsters" in retreat from Roundway Down, where the chivalrous, but too reckless, too confident Waller, had given battle to the outnumbering enemy under Byron and Wilmot; been defeated, and put to utter rout.