"Comfort you might find in my faith," he said, "even as I find much in yours. But you would not company with me, nor let your name go with mine in men's mouths; and much less would you wed me before your name was cleared. It is perhaps the last time we shall speak together, little Phil, and my despair shall bring me one good thing: because I have no hope, I will tell you now very fully and frankly what has been in my mind to say since my weight on a horse's back was less than is now your own. When I left Oxford to come into the west in those days of Monmouth's trouble, my tongue was ready and my heart hot to tell you my love, and, having told, to ask yours, and with it the sweetest wife in all England. Now, I must tell and not ask. I say, then, Philippa, that I love you, that I shall love you, and that I have loved you, for how long it is hard to know, but truly I believe my love began when you sat in the dust and looked to me for comfort, stretching up your little arms, tremulous and appealing. Ah!" he cried, "with what an urgent and tender clinging they held me as we fled from pursuing Betty." "I did then think, Ned," I murmured, "that the little horse had wings, and that we fled together from Betty and all troubles forever." "It was only Betty then," he answered, with a little laugh that hurt me to hear. "And it is no worse than Betty now, dear," I cried, "if you will but keep me with you. I have but just gotten you again. Three years is very long and lonesome. Do not leave me." Our horses were standing, and the moon showed me his face and the great struggle that there was in him between tenderness of love and insistence of duty. And I saw the softness die out of his countenance, and the features grow set in resolve. "I forget," he said, drawing the reins short through his fingers. "Let us press on; 't is six good miles yet to Drayton." At which his horse broke into a canter.