“Nay, this I must discover,” he answered, and loosed her hands, for now, plain to hear, was a faint rustling amid the brush.... And then she had leapt between Sir John and this scarce-heard, unseen thing, had twined strong arms about him, holding him so close that he might sense all the fragrant warmth of the soft and pliant body that shielded his; thus stood they awhile, her soft cheek against his, and now he could feel the heavy beating of her heart against his own. The stealthy rustling came again, crept nearer, paused, crept past them, died away, and nothing to be heard except the melodious murmur of the brook hard by. And then my lady spoke, her voice low but undismayed: “’Tis gone, I think, and.... O John!” His arms were about her, straining her closer yet, and when he spoke his voice was strangely hoarse and shaken: “O thou dear, brave soul! Thou very woman!... Yon creeping terror hath shown thee greater, nobler than I dared dream thee!... When, when wilt marry me?” “Nay, John,” she answered gently, “how may I tell thee this till thou ask Herminia?... Go to her, John, seek and woo the poor, despised, solitary soul.” “Aye, I will—but when? Where?” “To-morrow afternoon, John, at the cottage ... and come as Sir John Dering.” CHAPTER XXXIX HOW THEY WARNED CAPTAIN SHARKIE NYE Dusk was falling as Sir John paused beside the old cross whose worn base chanced to be propping divers and sundry brawny backs: Mr. Muddle leaned there side by side with Mr. Pursglove; there also were Messrs. Godby, Unstead and Comfort, each and all of whom seemed extremely wide awake and more than usually talkative notwithstanding the pervading drowsiness of the warm, stilly air. “G’d evenin’, Mus’ Derwent; tur’ble waarm it do ha’ been to-day sure-lye,” quoth Mr. Muddle. “Though theer was a bit o’ wind stirrin’ ’bout ’leven o’clock ’s marnin’,” added Mr. Pursglove. “Aye, but it doied awaay it did, afore twalve,” said Mr. Godby. “Rackon my peas’ll do naun good ’appen it doan’t rain,” opined Mr. Comfort. And yet Sir John knew instinctively that it was neither to discuss the unusual heat of the weather nor Mr. Comfort’s languishing peas that had brought them hither in murmurous conclave. And surely it was no very extraordinary sight to behold Parson Hartop ambling up the street on his plump steed, even though Mr. Pym strode at his stirrup, and yet the four worthies seemed vaguely uneasy none the less. Reaching the cross, Mr. Hartop drew rein and Mr. Pym, grounding the long musket he carried, wiped perspiring brow. “Is George Potter hereabouts?” he inquired in accents discreetly modulated. “No, Mus’ Pym.” “Then you must find him—at once!” “Aye, Mus’ Pym ... but whoy, sir, an’ wherefore?” “Tell ’em, Hartop!” said the painter.