UNDER a gray sky and over moors, brown with the frost, rode Mistress Betty Carew upon her first journey into the great world. She and her uncle were escorted by Master Raby and a few stout retainers, all being well armed, for travellers encountered some perils upon those lonely roads. The young girl, going out upon an unknown errand and feeling herself almost a stranger even to Sir William, spoke but little, her mind being full of many thoughts and fancies. She had as yet no intuition of her destination, and marvelled not a little at the peremptory summons coming to one so little known as she was. Happily for her, she had been bred up in the school of misfortune and had profited by its early and sharp lessons. Naturally imperious in temper, she had learned to submit to the inevitable, and accepted this sudden and unwelcome change as part of her uncertain destiny, knowing that her poverty and dependence made her a plaything in the hands of fate. She had learned also in that early school to be a close observer of men and women, and was not unskilful in reading character, although so young. Therefore she smiled a little when she heard her uncle’s sharp comment on Simon Raby’s groom. “What hangdog knave is that thou hast there, Raby?” Sir William asked, when they were leaving an inn where they had stopped for a few moments. “You mean not my groom surely, Sir William?” said Raby, smiling; “an honest fellow, who has served me two years or more.” “I marvel that he stayed so long out of gaol,” Carew answered dryly; “a crop-eared villain, who will hang some day at Tyburn.” The younger man laughed gayly. “A sorry prophecy, sir,” he said lightly; “the man has served me faithfully, as far as I know, and seems free enough of bad habits,--drinks less, thieves less, and quarrels less than most.” “Ay,” retorted Sir William, with a grim smile, “he would not quarrel openly, but keep a knife for your back at midnight; I would give him short shrift if he were mine.” “Verily, I must look for another knave,” Raby answered, still laughing. “I shall scarce ride in comfort after this with the fellow at my heels.” “Take my word for it,” Carew returned; “I have been magistrate and provost and chief executioner--as it would seem--here in Devon, for all things are shifted on my shoulders, and it is such-looking rogues as that one who keep the hangman from forgetting his trade.” “Your uncle is a hard judge, Mistress Carew,” Raby remarked; “I should not wish to stand trial at his hands unless, perchance, he liked my face. Here is my poor groom, Thaxter, already doomed to hang for his.” “To speak truth, he has an evil countenance, Master Raby,” she answered quietly, but with a smiling glance at her uncle. “You are prejudiced by Sir William,” Raby declared. “I am willing to wager that the poor fellow is as honest as many with a fair exterior.”