“Was seeking thee, Jack,” he bawled: “learn’d from Sir Bevill where belike I might find thee. Left his lodging at Launceston this mornin’, and trudged ivery foot o’ the way. A thirsty land, Jack—neither horse’s meat nor man’s meat therein, nor a chair to sit down on: an’ three women only have I kiss’d this day!” He broke off and look’d at Joan. “Beggin’ the lady’s pardon for sea manners and way o’ speech.” “Joan,” said I, “this is Billy Pottery, a good mariner and friend of mine: and as deaf as a haddock.” Billy made a leg; and as I pointed to the road where the cavalry had just disappeared, went on with a nod— “That’s so: old Sir G’arge Chudleigh’s troop o’ horse sent off to Bodmin to seize the High Sheriff and his _posse_ there. Two hour agone I spied ’em, and ha’ been ever since playin’ spy.” “Then where be the King’s forces?” I made shift to enquire by signs. “March’d out o’ Launceston to-day, lad—an’ but a biscuit a man between ’em, poor dears—for Stratton Heath, i’ the nor’-east, where the rebels be encamp’d. Heard by scouts o’ these gentry bein’ sent to Bodmin, and were minded to fight th’ Earl o’ Stamford whiles his dragooners was away. An’ here’s the long an’ short o’t: thou’rt wanted, lad, to bear a hand wi’ us up yonder—an the good lady here can spare thee.” And here we both look’d at Joan—I shamefacedly enough, and Billy with a puzzled air, which he tried very delicately to hide. She put her hand in mine. “To fight, lad?” I nodded my head. “Then go,” she said without a shade in her voice; and as I made no answer, went on—“Shall a woman hinder when there’s fightin’ toward? Only come back when thy wars be over, for I shall miss thee, Jack.” And dropping my hand she led the way down to the cottage. Now Billy, of course, had not heard a word of this: but perhaps he gathered some import. Any way, he pull’d up short midway on the slope, scratched his head, and thunder’d— “What a good lass!” Joan, some paces ahead, turn’d at this and smil’d: whereat, having no idea he’d spoken above a whisper, Billy blush’d red as any peony. ’Twas but a short half hour when, the mare being saddled and Billy fed, we took our leave of Joan. Billy walked beside one stirrup, and the girl on the other side, to see us a few yards on our way. At length she halted— “No leave-takin’s, Jack, but ‘Church and King!’ Only do thy best and not disgrace me.” And “Church and King!” she call’d thrice after us, standing in the road. For me, as I rode up out of that valley, the drums seem’d beating and the bugles calling to a new life ahead. The last light of day was on the tors, the air blowing fresher as we mounted: and with Molly’s every step the past five months appear’d to dissolve and fall away from me as a dream. On the crest, I turn’d in the saddle. Joan was yet standing there, a black speck on the road. She waved her hand once. Billy had turn’d too, and, uncovering, shouted so that the hilltops echoed.