“I see naught,” said the student, reining in his horse. “There below us be summat dark,” said Abigail, pointing. As she spoke, the calling for help broke forth again not a stone’s throw from them. This time the voice was unmistakably Lord Christopher’s. “Halloo!” cried Master Ronald, riding forward, “what’s the matter there?” “Don’t come so near,” came the reply, “there is quicksand. Lord have mercy on my soul!” Master Ronald dismounted and ran toward Lord Christopher, relapsing into a cautious walk as he neared him. “May Satan take the knaves that left me in this plight!” groaned his lordship. And, although it was but a sorry time for laughter, Master Ronald, perceiving that his lordship was in no immediate danger, must needs clap his hands to his knees and double up with merriment. For while most of the chair rested on the solid earth, the back and one side tilted toward a strip of quicksand in such fashion that the invalid did not dare move, lest in his struggles to free himself, he tip the chair completely over and be swallowed up. He smiled at Master Ronald’s convulsed figure. “’Tis a merry jest, I wot, young sir,” he said dryly, “but it so haps I be in no position to observe the marvellous humour of the situation.” “Sir,” said Master Ronald, “I beg your pardon. Take a good grip of my hand. Now out with your best foot—the ground is solid here—wait till I brace myself. Ah-h-h!” and he tumbled over backwards, nearly pulling the invalid with him. The chair, thus lightened, rose slightly from the quicksand. The young man seized the shafts and with a vigorous jerk had the chair on good, hard sand. But he pulled it over yet some way. “What became of the Moors, sir?” he asked. Poor Lord Christopher leant heavily on the student’s slender frame. “My lad,” he said, “I wot not what I should have done had you not followed after. Those cowardly knaves, startled by a wolf crossing our path, dropped the shafts of my chair, and with a howl, fitter to issue from brutish throats than human, took to their heels without a thought of me.” “But what has become of the Governor?” asked the student. “He and his soldiers had been a fair distance ahead of us, until my bearers, trying to find the smoothest path at my direction, lost their way,” he answered, groaning. “Bide you here,” said the student, tenderly assisting him into his chair, “whilst I go and halloo to those rascals. They cannot be far off.” Turning, he called to Abigail, “Be not afeared, Mistress Brewster, I will be back in a minute.” And he ran on and vanished in the forest beyond. The Cavalier and Abigail waited. “My little maid,” he called, breaking the silence between them, “come nearer.” Abigail crept over into the saddle and took the reins. “Get up,” she said, shaking them. Her steed obediently stepped out into the strip of moonlit sand and she guided him over to the chair, the rich colouring of which in crimson and gold was to be faintly discerned.