From blazing noon to twilight, from twilight to dusky eve, the lumbering coach had lurched and jolted its slow, laborious way, the ponderous wheels now rumbling over some bridge or culvert, now rattling upon loose, stony ways, now ploughing, well-nigh silent, through muffling dust. And my Lady Herminia Barrasdaile, pushing back the hood of her grey cloak, yawned frequently and unashamedly, for she was weary of it all and more especially of her slumberous and annoyingly silent companion; the whole adventure was become disappointingly ordinary, and she heartily wished herself done with it. At last, from his shadowy corner, Sir John spoke, and his voice sounded surprisingly wide awake: “Art still asleep, child?” “Is your honour pleased to be awake at last?” she retorted in bitter irony. “Nay, Rose, whilst you slept I have sat here musing upon the mutability o’ human affairs. We are straws i’ the wind, child, leaves a-whirl upon the stream of life, borne hither and yon at Fate’s irrevocable decree. What is to be, will be, let us strive and struggle how we will. And ’twill soon be dark, so ha’ your pistol ready——” “I—I do not fear the dark!” she answered, quite forgetting to yawn. “Nay, ’tis not of the dark I warn you but of myself, child!” he sighed. “Great pity is it you should ha’ found me out so soon, for as John Derwent I was in every sense a gentle, worthy and reverent soul, but—as Sir John Dering, ’tis a vastly different matter, for the censorious world expects me to live up to, or down to, my reputation, so ha’ your pistol ready, girl!” “I do not—fear you either!” she retorted. “Aha, Rose? You think this bad dog’s bark is worse than his bite? You mayhap think of me as——” “Of you, sir?” she exclaimed. “Nay, indeed, I think of—of my grandmother!” “Her grandmother!” murmured Sir John. “Stupendous! In a dark coach, on a solitary road and with Iniquity threatening to pounce, she thinks of her grandmother! Oh, admirable Rose! And a grandmother, moreover, who will perchance clout the poor child! And yet the poor child should benefit thereby, for a clout in time saves nine. And yet—her grandmother! Iniquity, hide thy diminished head! Wickedness, abase thyself! John Dering, thou merciless profligate, forget thy so innocent, trembling victim and go to sleep; thy base designs are foiled by Innocence and a grandmother! So droop Depravity, despair Debauchery—sleep, John, sleep!” And Sir John yawned, stretched his legs, drew his cloak and, settling himself to his comfort, forthwith composed himself to slumber.