The whole scene had passed so quickly, though it takes so long to describe (some of us never _can_ succeed in stenography), that Cecil felt perfectly lost in a whirl of conflicting emotions, till she saw the face in life before her that she had been fancying ever since last night. A great fear came over her, but she overcame it, and her woman's instinct told her what to do. She laid her little hand upon Keene's arm before he was aware that she was near, and whispered so that only he could hear, "For _my_ sake." Only these three simple words; but the exorcism was complete. Again a shiver ran all through the hardy frame, and for once Love was more powerful than Hate. He loosed his hold--slowly though, and reluctantly--and rose to his feet, passing his hand over his eyes in a strange, bewildered way; but in five seconds his wonderful self-command asserted itself, and he spoke as coolly as ever. "A thousand pardons. One does forget one's self sometimes when the _canaille_ are provoking, but I ought to have remembered what was due to _you_." Though she could not speak, she tried to smile; but strong reaction had come on. In the pale woman that trembled so painfully it was hard to recognize proud Cecil Tresilyan. Royston was watching her narrowly, and his tone softened till it made his simple words a caress. "Don't make me more angry with myself than I deserve. Indeed, there is nothing more to alarm or distress you. If you would only forgive me!" He helped her into the saddle as he spoke, and she submitted passively. But the happy feeling of perfect trust in him was coming back fast. Jean Duchesne had somewhat recovered from his stupor, and was leaning on one arm, panting heavily, still in great pain; but he was inured to all sorts of broils, and evidently he would soon recover from the effects of this one, though he had never been so roughly handled. It was sheer terror that made him lie so still: he dared move no more than a whipped hound while in the presence of his late opponent. The others turned slowly homeward, for it is needless to say the wild-flowers and the rendezvous were forgotten. As they turned the corner which cut off the view of Duchesne's ground, Royston looked back once, longingly. It was well for Cecil's nerves, in their disturbed state, that she did not catch that Parthian glance. Ah, those ungovernable eyes! They were gleaming with the expression that Kirkpatrick's may have worn when he turned into the chapel where the Red Comyn lay, growling, "_I_ mak sicker." None of the party were much disposed for conversation; for even Mr. Fullarton did not feel equal to "improving the occasion" just then. Cecil broke the silence at last: it was where the road was so narrow that only two could walk abreast: Royston never left her bridle-rein. "You must fancy that I have thanked you; I can not do so properly now. It is strange, though, that you should have come up so very opportunely. Was it a presentiment that made you follow us?"