"Call me rogue, thief, murderer--what ye will, 'tis all one. But
as for you," quoth I, lifting my head, "'tis time you were gone--
see yonder!" and I pointed where a light winked through the
trees, a light that danced to and fro, coming slowly nearer until
it stopped all at once, then rose a shout answered by other
shouts and a roar of dismayed blasphemy. At this my companion
pressed nearer so that I felt her shiver again.

"Let us be gone!" she whispered. "Marjorie, come, child, let us
haste." So we went on together at speed, and ever as we went
that small, soft hand was upon the hand that held the knife. So
we sped on through the dark, these two maids and I, unseeing and
unseen, speaking little by reason of our haste.

Presently the rain ceased, the wind abated its rage and the
thunder pealed faint with distance, while ever and anon the gloom
gave place to a vague light, where, beyond the flying cloud-
wrack, a faint moon peeped.

Guided by that slender hand, so soft and yet instinct with warm
and vigorous life, I stumbled on through leafy ways, traversed a
little wood, on and ever on until, the trees thinning, showed
beyond a glimmer of the great high road. Here I stayed.

"Madam," says I, making some ado over the unfamiliar word. "You
should be safe now--and, as I do think, your road lieth yonder."

"Pembury is but a mile hence," says she, "and there we may get
horses. Come, at least this night you shall find comfort and