Now for the first time, there broke upon him the stunning fact of inevitable decay and, being a self-indulgent man, he had for the moment nothing more dignified than petulant despair with which to meet this sudden apprehension of mortality. "'Tis monstrous," he declared, "a fearful thought that you and I should ever grow old and die. I cannot bear to think of your brown hair growing white. Phyllida, you cannot grow old." Love had made a woman of Phyllida and already, with gentle touch, she soothed his anguish. "Dear Amor, I know that if we love each other truly, we shall never grow old to each other." "Phyllida, I love you," and clasping her lissome body breathless to his, he defied the lightning of the Gods. And now a new fear assailed him. 'We shan't be followed,' he had contemptuously informed old Mother Mawhood at Blackhart Farm. In sudden dread he leaned out of the window of the chariot, and strained his eyes to pierce the darkness. He could see nothing save the shadows of the postillions against the hedge, hear nothing save the clatter of the horses. The loneliness and gloom affected his spirits and with a shudder he sought again the musty interior of the vehicle. He caught his love to his heart. "What did you see?" she asked. "Nothing, but I was afraid, I could not bear to lose you now." "You saw nothing?" "Nothing." "And heard nothing?" "Nothing. Why do you ask?" "Oh, Amor, I thought I saw the shadow of a man on horseback." "Fancy, my sweet, fancy." Then, with a sinking fear, he remembered he had told Mother Mawhood of the pearls. He called to mind the postboys' insolence, the look that passed between Charlie and Dickie when he told them he would ride in the chariot. He sprang in alarm to open the window, but the carriage pulled up with a jerk which flung him back against Phyllida. The glass crashed to the heavy butt of a pistol and, as he stretched out for his own fire-arms, he saw the postboys resting long barrels on the sill and, by the lamp which one of them held, a masked face that with thick brutal voice demanded their money. "Hand 'em over." "Hand what over?" said Vernon, in a futile attempt to delay his humiliation. "The pops first," said one of the Maggs, winking humorously in the direction of Vernon's pistols that in leathern holsters lay harmless on the dusty floor of the chariot.