“I met you in the inn,” said Jerome looking up. “And I had seen you before—in a dream—I might have known.” She stared at him dumbly; the rain on the roof of the coach made a light sound. “Some one will warn the Prince,” continued Jerome. “I am content that this is in vain.” She lifted her hand to her breast. “Take him away,” she said in Gaelic. She saw the look on his face; she saw his hands clench, look and movement passed and he walked off quietly between the two huge figures into the darkness. With a stifled cry she sank back onto the seat and wrung her hands. The bitter air streamed in through the open door and she saw the black heath and the lighter sky in which the moon seemed to swing and dance behind the clouds like a lantern held unsteadily. She dragged at her hair with a curious aimless gesture and crouched far into the corner, hiding her face in the cushions. From the darkness no sound save the gentle one of the rain and the jingle of harness as one of the horses moved. Then suddenly footsteps, and in the open door one of her Highlanders with blood on his face. “Ah—so soon! So soon!” “He has a knife in his pocket—he is fighting for his life like a devil.” The man put his hand to his bleeding forehead. “What do you want?” she asked in a quick horror, yet resolute still. “Something to tie his hands—” Her fingers go to her cravat; she loosens it and flings it through the door; it is all she has—why does he fight—she thought he was unarmed, she wanted this to be swift and sudden. The Highlander catches the twist of lace and is gone. She stands there staring across the heath, upright in the coach door. All her senses are quickened; she fancies that she can see even through the darkness, one man struggling with two, defending himself with a clasp-knife—she sees them slip a lace scarf over his head, tighten it round his throat—she sees blood—scarlet as flame, before her eyes and shakes her hands as if she felt it running from them; then she looks at the peaceful, tired, white horses standing with drooping heads in the circle of misty lantern-light; she sees the patches of wet lying on the clay under their hoofs; the bare thorn-tree behind them, the dim hurrying clouds above and the whole scene is impressed on her as something strange and terrible, every little detail to the slender line of the whip on the empty coachman’s seat stands out clearly, never to be forgotten while she shall live. Up out of the black mystery of the heath come her two Highlanders. “Is it done—is—sh!—done?” They answer her that it is done; they are in no way moved; they have been sent on fiercer deeds even than this in the Highlands; one is twisting a rag round his hand. She takes up the sword from the floor; it feels strange and heavy in her hands. “Put that beside him—drawn—as if he died fighting—highwaymen are common here.” She gives it to them; then picks up her gray fur and puts it about her shoulders.