’Twas the moor of Temple spread below like a map, the low sun striking on the ruin’d huts to the left of us, on the roof of Joan’s cottage, on the scar of the high road, and the sides of the tall tor above it. “In ten minutes,” said I, “we may be safe.” So down into the plain we hurried: and I thought for the first time of the loyal girl waiting in the cottage yonder; of my former ride into Temple; and (with angry shame) of the light heart with which I left it. To what had the summoning drums and trumpets led me? Where was the new life, then so carelessly prevented? But two days had gone, and here was I running to Joan for help, as a child to his mother. Past the peat-ricks we struggled, the sheep-cotes, the straggling fences—all so familiar; cross’d the stream and rode into the yard. “Jump down,” I whisper’d: “we have time, and no more.” Glancing back, I saw a couple of dragoons already coming over the heights. They had spied us. Dismounting I ran to the cottage door and flung it open. A stream of light, flung back against the sun, blazed into my eyes. I rubbed them and halted for a moment stock-still. For Joan stood in front of me, dress’d in the very clothes I had worn on the day we first met—buff-coat, breeches, heavy boots, and all. Her back was toward me, and at the shoulder, where the coat had been cut away from my wound, I saw the rents all darn’d and patch’d with pack thread. In her hand was the mirror I had given her. At the sound of my step on the threshold she turn’d with a short cry—a cry the like of which I have never heard, so full was it of choking joy. The glass dropp’d to the floor and was shatter’d. In a second her arms were about me, and so she hung on my neck, sobbing and laughing together. “’Twas true—’twas true! Dear, dear Jack—dear Jack to come to me: hold me tighter, tighter—for my very heart is bursting!” And behind me a shadow fell on the doorway: and there stood Delia regarding us. “Good lad—all yesterday I swore to be strong and wait for years, if need be. Fie on womankind, to be so weak! All day I sat an’ sat, an’ did never a mite o’ work—never set hand to a tool: an’ by sunset I gave in an’ went, cursing mysel’, over the moor to Warleggan, to Alsie Pascoe, the wise woman—an’ she taught me a charm—an’ bless her, bless her, Jack, for’t hath brought thee!” “Joan,” said I, hot with shame, taking her arms gently from my neck: “listen: I come because I am chased. Once more the dragooners are after me—not five minutes away. You must lend me a horse, and at once.” “Nay,” said a voice in the doorway, “the horse, if lent, is for _me!_” Joan turn’d, and the two women stood looking at each other;—the one with dark wonder, the other with cold disdainfulness—and I between them scarce lifting my eyes. Each was beautiful after her kind, as day and night: and though their looks cross’d for a full minute like drawn blades, neither had the mastery. Joan was the first to speak. “Jack, is thy mare in the yard?”