They found themselves in a dimly lighted hall, at the farther end of which was a door matching that by which they had entered. There was the stairway usual to such houses, beginning along one side of the hall, crossing at the end, and finishing the ascent along the other side in the return direction. Having closed the door, the servant asked by what name he might announce my lord and her ladyship to his master. “Tell him a gentleman and lady,” said Everell, “who are in great haste, and will not trouble him long.” “A gentleman and lady, sir,” repeated the servant, obediently. “Begging your lordship’s pardon, but master, being in his cups, may wish to know—I mean to say, master is main hard to draw from his comforts at this time o’ night—though I dare say when I tell him you be friends of his—” “Friends? Certainly—unless I am mistaken as to the house. But that’s easily set right:—who is your master?” “Squire Thornby, sir; and this house is Thornby Hall.” From Everell’s look, the servant concluded that the gentleman probably _was_ mistaken as to the house. “But how can that be?” cried Everell. “Thornby Hall is on the other road.” “’Tis on both roads, so to speak, sir. The two run near together just hereaways; the house looks on each. There’s two gates, you know, sir, and two lodges; the gardener lives in one, and Jenkins in t’other.” Everell took a moment’s thought. Resolution appeared on his face. “’Tis just as well,” he said. “Mr. Thornby is known to me by reputation. Tell him I am here, and must needs beg he will see me without delay.” This was spoken with such an air that the servant conceived it best to carry the message at once, without a second attempt to elicit the speaker’s name. As soon as the man was gone, Everell said to Georgiana: “I must brave it out with this Squire Thornby, there’s nothing else for it. We must have horses, and soon: ’twere folly to go on afoot, heaven knows how far, till we found another house. As well solicit this gentleman’s help as another’s—’tis all one, he may be no harder to persuade. He has never seen me, and now he shall not see you. Take good heed you don’t show your face, nor shift the cloak, nor let your voice be heard: or ’twill go ill, I promise you.” Georgiana made no answer, nor gave any sign of existence save to draw a long breath. Was it of helpless resignation to the compulsion she was under? was it to brace herself for resistance to that compulsion? or to steady herself against anxiety as to the outcome? Did she really see through his show of dark threat? Was her scrupulosity of conscience so great, that so much intimidation was required to keep her from opposing her abductor, in the interests alike of her given promise and of maidenly propriety? Oh, woman, woman!—