“Oh!” he chirped, “what a noble sacrifice you would make of your friends”--and he kicked up his little hoofs and scampered like a colt. Tuke, who was tailing in the rear, called to Dennis and fell somewhat behind with him. “Is this necessary?” he said. “Indeed, yes, sir.” “She lives remote on these wild downs?” “For nigh a year, sir, now.” “With none to neighbour or assist her?” “None. Deep in these wastes she bides, secret and alone, and not a soul within miles, did she need succour. It is her whim--her craze, sir, if you will. She hath led a strange, solitary life--for years apart from her fellows--for years hating the world so, that she would deign to draw but the meagrest sustenance from it.” “Meagre indeed in these solitudes. She must browse like the sheep.” “She traps the birds and little game of the open. Those are for feast days. In general she can make much of a few dried berries.” “Together with what you give her?” The man hung his head in silence. “Are you the only one that knows of her eyrie?” “The only one, master.” “She hath suffered some great wrong?” “A great, great wrong.” Tuke looked keenly at his servant. “I am neither curious nor insolent,” he said; “but if it would ever relieve your mind to acquaint me of the truth, I am your friend to counsel and help, Dennis.” Whimple flushed round, the tears sprung to his eyes. “Oh!” he cried, “do you think I don’t know it? Do you think I haven’t suffered to tell you all? You would have learnt long ago, but that the confidence is not mine to give while she lives.” “Well, well,” said his master; “go to the front again, my good fellow, and lead.” The wind whipped the slopes, planing the fallen snow from them in ringlets like wood-shavings. Now and again a lashed clump of trees would seem to swerve at them through the blinding flakes, or the thud of tumbling chalk, sprung by the frost in some neighbouring quarry, would sound startlingly in their ears. These were the only scattered phrases on an else blank page, and the desolation made them expressive as words of comfort. By and by Tuke moved forward to his companions. “The snow thickens,” he cried. “I shall be easier when our faces are turned westwards.” He shouted to Dennis: “You are not wandering afield? You are sure of your way?” And: “Quite,” the man answered. “We are nigh upon the place now, sir.” It seemed full time, if any prospect remained to them of getting back to lunch and to the invited guests. Blythewood groaned at the very thought of being late. “I have sinned enough already,” said he. “Angel will be ready to bite me.”