“I think, Master Marvel, as yours is like to be a story of some moment, I will send this fellow back to my lodgings. He’s a long-ear’d dog that I am saving from the gallows for so long as my conscience allows me. The shower is done, I see; so if you know of a retir’d spot, we will talk there more at our leisure.” He dismiss’d his lackey, and stroll’d off with me to the Trinity Grove, where, walking up and down, I told him all I had heard and seen the night before. “And now,” said I, “can you tell me if you have any such enemy as this white-hair’d man, with the limping gait?” He had come to a halt, sucking in his lips and seeming to reflect— “I know one man,” he began: “but no—’tis impossible.” As I stood, waiting to hear more, he clapp’d his hand in mine, very quick and friendly: “Jack,” he cried;—“I’ll call thee Jack—’twas an honest good turn thou hadst in thy heart to do me, and I a surly rogue to think of fighting—I that could make mincemeat of thee.” “I can fence a bit,” answer’d I. “Now, say no more, Jack: I love thee.” He look’d in my face, still holding my hand and smiling. Indeed, there was something of the foreigner in his brisk graceful ways—yet not unpleasing. I was going to say I had never seen the like—ah, me! that both have seen and know the twin image so well. “I think,” said I, “you had better be considering what to do.” He laugh’d outright this time; and resting with his legs cross’d, against the trunk of an elm, twirl’d an end of his long lovelocks, and looked at me comically. Said he: “Tell me, Jack, is there aught in me that offends thee?” “Why, no,” I answered. “I think you’re a very proper young man—such as I should loathe to see spoil’d by Master Settle’s knife.” “Art not quick at friendship, Jack, but better at advising; only in this case fortune has prevented thy good offices. Hark ye,” he lean’d forward and glanc’d to right and left, “if these twain intend my hurt—as indeed ’twould seem—they lose their labor: for this very night I ride from Oxford.” “And why is that?” “I’ll tell thee, Jack, tho’ I deserve to be shot. I am bound with a letter from His Majesty to the Army of the West, where I have friends, for my father’s sake—Sir Deakin Killigrew of Gleys, in Cornwall. ’Tis a sweet country, they say, tho’ I have never seen it.” “Not seen thy father’s country?”