“Aye, I do!” nodded Sir John, his interest deepening. “I’ve heard he has ‘been out’ rather frequently——” “Losh, man, he has that! A wild, desp’rit, duelling body wi’ reputation as unsavoury as—as y’r ain, John, but wi’ this difference—he fights tae kill an’ generally pinks his man. He’s ane o’ y’r gentlemanly rapscallions wha’ll insult ye vera politely, y’ ken, an’ kill ye vera genteelly into the bargain if ye dare tae tak’ offence.” “So I’ve heard; and what then, Hector?” “John, the man’s leeving within half an hour’s ride o’ y’r ain park gates. After killing the young Marquis of Torwood last year, London grew too hot, so my lord marched bag and baggage to his Sussex estate, and there he’s lived ever since—aye, and a place of unholy riot he keeps there, as I hear. An’ what’s more, John, what wi’ his desp’rit proneness tae bluidshed, there’s few tae gainsay him, y’ ken—his will is law in the South Country these days.” “’S bud!” murmured Sir John. “’S life, but begin to yearn for the country more than ever!” “Hoot, laddie, hoot-toot, ye’ll no’ be sic a fule tae pick a quarrel juist for y’r ain vanity an’ vainglory, Johnnie? The man’s good a sworder as ye’sel’——” Sir John laughed and, reaching up, straightened Sir Hector’s periwig that had worked itself rather more askew than usual. “Tush, man!” said he. “Sure you know that your true duellists take most particular pains to avoid each other. Shall dog eat dog? And I detest bloodshed, Hector. I prefer pen to sword—and that reminds me we have not as yet determined on an apt rhyme to ‘soul!’” And out came Sir John’s unfinished script. “The work is in ode form, and, so far as it goes, is well enough. Pray sit down, Hector; the night is young—listen and judge for yourself.” “Na, na, John!” answered Sir Hector, retreating to the door. “I hae no ear for po’try, ye ken—so I’ll awa’ tae bed and leave ye to’t, lad. But dinna sit too long—for we maun be up betimes. Guid-night.” Left alone, Sir John tossed the unfinished ode into the fire and, having watched it flare to ash and vanish up the wide chimney, sat awhile in thought. Gradually the place above and around him grew hushed, voices died away, busy feet grew still; the inn sank to rest. But Sir John sat on staring into the dying fire, deep-plunged in brooding thought. So lost was he that he heard no sound of opening door, of light footstep, until roused by a soft touch; he started and glanced up, to behold her of whom he was thinking. Meekly she stood before him, clad for the road in a long, hooded cloak, with a bundle in her hand, a very small bundle tied up in a neckerchief. “Rose!” he murmured. “Here I be, sir,” she answered timidly. “An’ now what will your honour please to do wi’ me?” Instinctively Sir John arose, but stood mumchance, for once in his life speechlessly perplexed; perceiving which, she continued demurely: “If your honour is ready to go, I am.” “To go?” he repeated. “Aye, but whither, child?”