“Ha—Paris!” quoth he and scowled. “Alas, child, you shall find there no fragrance of wild thyme, no dancing scabious flowers.... And your mistress drags you to Paris, because she is a fine lady, an exotic, blooming best in an atmosphere that for thee ... ah, child ... alas, sweet Rose! Heaven send a clean wind to cherish thee lest thy sweetness languish ... fade and wither.... Ha, the devil! Why must she drag you to Paris?” “O, your worship, ’tis on a matter o’ life an’ death. We should be a-galloping at this moment but that the coach broke down, and my lady in a mighty pet—such tantrums! So after I’d put her to bed—and such a bed! I crept out o’ the inn—and such an inn! And lost my way ... and a man ... ran after me and so I ... I found you, sir. An’ now I must be a-goin’ back an’t please you, sir, for I must be on my road to Paris, along o’ my lady an’ all to stop two gentlemen fightin’ each other!” “Ha, a duel, child? Do you chance to know these gentlemen’s names?” “For sure, sir, my lady talks o’ naught beside! One’s Viscount Templemore, an’ t’other’s Sir John Dering—‘the Wicked Dering,’ as they call him at home.” “Humph!” said Sir John, staring up at the moon again. “Ha!” And in a little, turning to regard his companion, he found her watching him bright-eyed from the shadow of her hood. “So they call him ‘the Wicked Dering’ at home, do they, Rose?” “Oh yes, sir, ever an’ always.” “Ah, well!” sighed Sir John. “Howbeit, child, you can assure your lady that her journey to Paris is wholly unnecessary.” “How, sir.... Oh, d’ye mean she is ... too late? Have they fought already?” “I mean they cannot fight, because Sir John Dering hath run away.” “Run away ... Sir John Dering? Without fighting?” she questioned breathlessly. “Oh, ’tis impossible!” “’Tis very truth—upon my honour.” “You ... you are sure, sir?” “Absolutely, child! I happen to know Sir John Dering and something of his concerns.” “Oh ... you are ... his friend, sir?” “Nay, hardly that, Rose,” sighed Sir John; “indeed, some might call me his most inveterate enemy.... But for Sir John Dering I might have been a ... happier man.” “And so ... you hate him?” “Let us rather say—I grieve for him.” “But they say he is very wicked—a devil!” “Nay, child, he is merely a very human man and something melancholy.” After this they sat side by side in silence for a while, Sir John gazing up at the moon and she at him. “However,” said he suddenly, “your lady need no longer drag you to Paris, seeing her journey is unnecessary. So soon as we reach the inn, I myself will make this sufficiently manifest to her.” “You—you will see my lady, sir?” “Aye, I will, child.” “Then an’t please your honour—’tis time I found the inn.” “Found it, child?” “Alack, yes, sir, for I’ve lost it! But if your honour will only help me find it ... your honour is so marvellous clever!”