“Yes. But lookee here. The girl says Tuke accuses her brother of some villainy, and hath shut him up in the ‘Priest’s Hole.’” “He can do as he likes with his own, I presume.” Darda broke into a mad outcry. “Shame on you!” she screamed--“that can lock your woman’s breast from pity with a key of gold! He’s poor and friendless, or such as you would never dare to speak so!” “Silence, girl!” said Sir David sternly; but his sister had flushed up a very stormy red. “The fellow hath no more than his deserts, I’ll warrant,” she said loudly. “It must be ill managing a craven and an idiot.” Sir David vaulted from his saddle. Miss Angel’s fingers were nervous with her little riding-whip, and her pale eyes glinted like broken flints. “Have reason, Angel,” he said quickly. “What if I _have_ small ground to interfere? Dennis is my old friend; and, by cock, I can’t believe him guilty of aught but weakness at the worst. There must be some mistake. At least I can do no harm by seein’ the master.” Darda caught his hand and kissed it passionately. “You will let him free!” she cried. “Come, come, come! Every minute maddens him that he lies among the shadows. You don’t know what that is. Put my fine lady there and cure her of the vapours.” Her fingers crooked with desire to mangle the fair face near her. “Come!” she shrieked again--“or that devil will have his own. I tried to stab him, but he saw and struck the knife out of my hand.” Sir David started back. “Oh!” he cried, with a fallen face. “What’s that? I must ride over in good truth. Follow, you, Darda; and keep those wicked fingers out of the fire.” Miss Royston stepped forward haughtily. The groom, a passive but greatly interested spectator of this pretty scene, touched his cap and held down his hand for stirrup. “If you really intend it,” said the lady, making, on a sudden thought, a virtue of inclination, “I will come with you. There may be bad blood fired, where one interferes unwarrantably with the actions of another.” “I think not,” said Sir David quietly; “if Mr. Tuke is the man I take him to be. But, come, Angel. You may serve as an argument where none of mine would carry.” She gave a light laugh as she was lifted into her saddle. “You flatter me, brother,” she said. “I will persuade in the language of flowers, and you by club-law. We will see which hath the better wit.” She flicked up her horse, and, whether by accident or design, drove it brushing against Darda as she stood near. The girl sprang back, almost with an oath on her lips. “Some day, perhaps,” she muttered in her teeth--“some day, perhaps, you shall set your wit against bright steel, mistress, and see which is the sharper.” She caught sight of Sir David turning in his saddle and beckoning her to follow, and waved to him and cried wildly, “I am coming!” “To ’a view hulloa!” said the attentive groom, with a grin. “Run un to earth, gal, in the ‘Priest’s Hoal.’”