“I doubt it. The colonel is a Birmingham man and a powerful swearer, who knows nothing of this church--or any other, I think. The men will not remember the back door until it is too late, and then I pity them; they will hear language from the colonel.” The two made their way to the farther end of the cathedral, where the horses were stalled. The vast nave was dark and would soon be black as a cellar until the moon rose. It was used as a military storehouse, as a stable, and as a dormitory for troops when the accommodation in the town was overtaxed. As Armstrong and his companion stumbled over obstructions toward the horses, the spacious chamber rang with the impact of timber against the stubborn doors. Frances, knowing the geography of the place, led the way with her horse, and Armstrong followed with his. Once outside, there was more light than he wished for, but their way to the rear was clear, and, mounting, he took the lead, crossing an alpine ridge which had done duty during the siege, and taking a somewhat terrifying leap down to the greensward of the field at the back of the cathedral. Then they ran north through a slight valley, and, for the moment, were safe from observation. “The moon will be up soon,” said the young man, “and I do n’t know whether to welcome it or fear it.” “We shall do neither, as we have no influence one way or another, and must bear its disadvantages or the reverse, as chance wills. Now tell me what happened. How did you escape?” The tale was soon told, half humorously, as if it were an escapade rather than an escape, and the narrator wound up with a determination to avoid the main road in future. “There I do not agree with you,” she said. “I have been alone in that cathedral some three hours or more, and have had time to think. You said we blundered into the ambuscade, and so we did. You have hewn your way out by a marvellous combination of luck and prowess, but such exploits are not to be depended upon. You must use your mind, as well as your right arm and the swiftness of your horse, if you are to win Scotland.” “Frances, you discourage me: I looked upon my escape rather as a triumph of wit than of muscle. The setting of the Roundheads at each other’s throats in the mist seemed an inspiration, and the cry of ‘Sanctuary’ gave me just the moment of time that was needed. Your estimate of me is that of the Reverend Henderson of Edinburgh, who held I had barely sense enough to direct a stout blow.”