"No, madam." She sprang out of bed, tumbling the hay in all directions. "Master Wheatman, I will not pretend to misunderstand you, and indeed, I thank you, but you are going to put your bed here," stamping her foot, "so that we can talk without raising our voices. I am much more willing to sleep in the same barn with you than in the same town with my Lord Brocton. Where's your share of the sacks?" I did without sacks, but I fetched more chunks of hay, and she helped me strew a bed for myself close up to her own. I tucked her up once more, and then made myself cosy. I was miserable lest I should snore. Yokels so often do. Joe Braggs, for instance, would snore till the barn door rattled. I remembered the cordial, and we each had a good pull at the flask. I felt for days the touch of her smooth, soft fingers on mine as she took it. "It certainly does warm you up," she said. "I feel all aglow without and within." "Then I may take it that you are comfortable?" "If it were not for two things, I should say this was a boy-and-girl escapade of ours, every moment of which was just pure enjoyment." "Naturally you are uneasy about your father, but I cannot think he will come to any immediate harm. Why Brocton should send him north instead of south is, I confess, a mystery, but to-morrow will solve it. And what else makes you uneasy?" "You," she replied, very low and brief. "I? And pray, madam, what have I done to make you uneasy?" "Met me." Still the same tone. "I am not able to talk to you in the modish manner, nor do I think you would wish me to try to ape my betters, so I say plainly that our meeting has not made me uneasy. Why then you?" "Had you not met me, you would now be asleep at the Hanyards, a free and happy country gentleman. Instead you are here, a suspect, a refugee, an outlaw, one tainted with rebellion, the jail for certain if you are caught, and then--" She broke off abruptly, and I think I heard a low sob. "And then?" "Perhaps the gibbet." "It's true that the thieving craft is a curst craft for the gallows, but to-morrow's trouble is like yesterday's dinner, not worth thinking on. We are here, safe and comfortable. Let that suffice. And to-day, so far from doing harm at which you must needs be uneasy, you have wrought a miracle." "Wrought a miracle? What do you mean?" "You have found a cabbage, and made a man. Good night, Mistress Waynflete." "Good night, Master Wheatman." I imitated the regular breathing of a tired, sleeping man. In a few minutes it became clear that she was really asleep, and I pretended no longer, but stretched out comfortably in the fragrant hay and soon slept like a log. CHAPTER VIII THE CONJURER'S CAP