"I know not where I go," I answered, turning with my hand upon the door-latch; "but much may happen ere the Duke rides forth. In the meantime I will not lose sight of you; rely on that." With that I would have gone, but Coram stopped me. "Stay! one moment, friend," said he, raising his blinking eyes no higher than my waist-belt. "That small affair about thy horse last night. Is it forgiven me?" "Forgiven and forgotten," I replied. He heaved a mighty sigh; and I went forth to seek the "godly chaplain". *CHAPTER XII* *How I was Saved from Rashness* Turning down a stone-flagged passage, I made for a small, snug parlour, where I had oft held private converse with the landlord and his daughter Miriam, especially the latter. I found the door wide open and the room deserted, but that did not prevent my entering, for indeed the house had ever been a sort of second home to me; and, as things were just then, I did not crave for any company, and silence seemed a blessed thing. So, standing with my hands behind me, and back towards the empty fire-place, I took swift thought, if thought it could be called--for what a medley filled my brain! John Coram’s words had let in such a blinding light upon the question nearest to my heart that I was fairly dazzled and bewildered by it. Thus, there was the mischief-working demon with two names; his meeting on the previous night with Ferguson, not a stone-throw from the spot where I was standing; their slinking by the very man who was as zealous to kill Ammon as I was myself; and, finally, the mocking thought that, in his ignorance, John Coram looked on the murderous chaplain as a thing of spotless righteousness--fit company for angels. A bitter laugh escaped me when I thought of that, and what the ale-soaked trooper would have said and looked like if I had told him all I knew about his saintly reverence. This led me to consider whether I could trust myself so far as to look on Ferguson just then--supposing Coram had been right in stating he was with the Duke. For might I not, in spite of cooler, better judgment, be constrained to fire a pistol at him, and thereby bring swift death upon me? Yes, in my then fierce, desperate state, it seemed most likely that I should thus lose myself. What then? Why, to begin with, Tubal Ammon would live on, unless John Coram found and settled with him--which I doubted, for indeed there seemed in him no sort of match for Ammon’s wriggling craftiness. Thus, in attempting to kill Ferguson (and such a wild excited shot might easily miss its mark!) I should be foiled of doing that which lay still nearer to my heart’s desire. Again, my father must be buried on the morrow, and that he should be laid to rest without his son to mourn him was unthinkable.