"No. My instructions came from a woman." "A woman!" "Yes, and one who is evidently interested in your affairs," Fairley answered. "Does your memory not serve to remind you of such a woman?" Crosby did not answer the question. In the darkness of the road before him he seemed to see a vision. "What is this woman like?" He did not turn to look at his companion as he asked the question; he hardly seemed to know that he had spoken. "I cannot tell you; there are no words," said Fairley, in that curious monotone which the recital of verse may give, or which constant singing may leave in a minstrel's ordinary speech. "I cannot tell, but my fiddle might play her to you in a rhapsody that should set the music in your soul vibrating. There are women whose image cunning fingers may catch with brush and pigment and limn it on canvas; there are women whose image may be traced in burning words so that a vision of her rises before the reader or the hearer; and there are women whose beauty can only be told in music--the subtle music that lies in vibrating strings, music into which a man can pour his whole soul and so make the world understand. Such a woman is she who bid me find Gilbert Crosby and bring him into safety." "I know no such woman," Crosby answered. "It may seem strange to you, Master Fairley, but women have not entered much into my world. Tell me this woman's name." "Nay, I had no instructions to do so." "Shall I see her at the end of this journey?" "She hath caprices like all women; how can I tell?" "At least tell me whither we go." "If you can read the stars you may know our direction," was the answer. "Yonder is the Wain and the North Star, and low down eastwards is the first light of a new day. We may mend our pace a little if only this poor beast of mine has it in him to do so." It was no great pace they travelled even when they endeavoured to hasten. The fiddler's lean nag, either from ill-condition or over-work, or perchance both, could do little more than amble along, falling back into a walking pace at every opportunity. Perhaps it was as well, Crosby thought, for the fiddler seemed strangely uneasy in the saddle, and more than once apologised for his want of dexterity when he noticed his companion glance at him. "He's a sorry beast to my way of thinking, but to his thinking maybe I'm a sorry rider. Those who have great souls to carry often have poor knees for the gripping of a saddle."