“Don’t!” he admonished. “Your weariness I can endure with an effort, but your tears—— There, take my arm, child, lean on me—so!” “An’ I don’t know where you’m a-takin’ me.” “To England, sure!” he answered encouragingly. “To Sussex, to the gentle Down-country—home!” “You can’t!” she sighed. “Ye see, I ha’ no home.” “Your mother—father?” “I—I’m an orphan wi’ no one in the world—except a grandmother.” “Then your grandmother be it.” “Her’ll only clout me for leaving my lady an’ losing a good place. And you—you’d be glad to be quit o’ me already.” “My poor child,” said he in changed tone, becoming aware how painfully she limped, “you are worn out!” “And your voice sounded kind!” she answered, turning to look at him; and he saw the cold, austere beauty of her face transfigured by a sudden tenderness so new and unexpected that he was amazed. “Why—why, Rose,” he stammered, “you can be more—much more than merely handsome.” “See,” she whispered, “the moon’s a’most down—’twill be dark soon!” “Nay, child, in a little ’twill be dawn; you have walked with me all night. And this is the most desolate part of the road as I remember—never an inn, or cottage or bed for you, my poor girl!” “The ditch will serve,” she sighed, “for indeed I can go no farther.” “Nay, I will lodge you better than that ... there’s a haystack i’ the field yonder, if you can walk so far?” “I’ll try!” said she between her teeth; but, catching her foot in a wheel rut, she staggered and uttered a cry of pain. And then Sir John had caught her up in his arms and bore her, albeit very unsteadily, across the stretch of meadow. Reeling and stumbling, he reached the haystack at last, and, setting her down, leaned to gasp and catch his breath. “A goddess is ... an awkward burden ... for a ... mere human man!” he panted. “Especially if she be ‘buxom!’” she added, with a little unsteady laugh. “Oh, but you are kind! And stronger than you look! I shouldn’t ha’ let you ... but me so tired ... and the pain! I think I shall cry!” “Aye, do!” he pleaded, and reached for her hands. But she laughed instead, and bade him show her where she must sleep. Therefore Sir John tossed off his cloak, and by dint of some labour had soon burrowed a niche in the stack where she might lie softly couched on fragrant hay. Being within this niche and Sir John going to cover her with his long riding-cloak, she would have none of it unless he shared it with her; so at last down they lay side by side. “Close your eyes and go to sleep, child!” he murmured. “Sleep you secure ... for I ... will watch ... awhile....” But, even as he spoke, his eyes closed and he sank to heavenly slumber. Yet after some while he awoke, conscious of an intolerable unease, and, groping for the cause, found himself lying upon a pistol. The day was breaking, and by the gathering light he saw this pistol for none of his; a small, silver-mounted weapon, very apt for concealment—say in the folds of a long grey cloak.