“It is the dear Madonna’s colour; and I think you ride for faith,” she said, with a child’s simplicity. “Rupert, I do not know how or why, but I let you go very willingly. I did not understand until to-night how--how big a man’s love for a woman is.” They were not easy days that followed. Rupert was among the Midlothian hills--farther afield sometimes--snatching sleep and food when he could, shepherding the broken gentry, leaving nothing undone that a man’s strength and single purpose could accomplish. And in the house near Holyrood Lady Royd and Nance were helping the fugitives he sped forward to get on shipboard. And ever, as they plied this trade of separation under peril, a knowledge and a trust went up and down between Edinburgh and the northern hills--a trust that did not go on horseback or on foot, because its wings were stretched for flight above ground. And near the year’s end, with an easterly haar that made the town desolate, the last fugitive came to the house that lay near Holyrood. He should have been spent with well-doing, foot-sore and saddle-sore with journeyings among the hills; but, instead he carried himself as if he had found abundant health. “I’ve done my work, mother,” he said, stooping to Lady Royd’s hand. “It’s as well, my dear. Nance and I were nearly tired of playing at ships.” That night they got aboard at Leith; and, after a contrary and troubled crossing, they came into harbour on the French coast. The night was soft and pleasant, like the promises that France had made the Stuart--the promises made and broken a score of times before ever the Prince landed in the Western Isles. A full moon was making a track of amethyst and gold across the gentle seas, and a faint, salt breeze was blowing. “Are you content?” asked Nance. “Content? My dear, what else?” And yet she saw his glance rove out across the moonlit track that led to England; and a jealous trouble, light as the sea-breeze, crossed her happiness; and she conquered it, because she had learned in Edinburgh the way of a man’s heart. “You’re dreaming of the next Rising?” she said, with a low, tranquil laugh. “I shall forgive you--so long as you let me share your dreams.” FINIS TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized. Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original. End of Project Gutenberg's The Lone Adventure, by Halliwell Sutcliffe