Arrived at the tanyard gate, I tried the wicket. It was unbolted, as I
had anticipated, and we were soon in the quiet and obscurity of the
tanyard. The far side of the yard was separated by a low stone wall from
the end of a blind alley leading into Eastgate Street. I guided my
companion safely by the edges of the tan-pits, and on arriving at the
wall, I made no apology but lifted her on to it. As she sat there a shaft
of moonlight lit up her fine, brave face. I feasted my eyes upon it for a
moment, and then made to leap over to assist her to the other side, but
she stayed me with a hand on each shoulder.

"I will go no farther, Master Wheatman," she said in a low, troubled
voice, "till you forgive me."

"Forgive you?" I cried, astounded. "Forgive you? What for?"

"For thinking meanly of you. I thought you were afraid of Brocton. Not
until that lion leap of yours did I realize how cleverly and nobly you had
sat there through his insults, foreseeing the exact moment when you could
master him. My only explanation, I do not offer it as an excuse, is that
the utter beast in Brocton makes it hard for me to think well of any man.
Oh, believe me, I am ashamed, confounded, and miserable. Say you forgive
me!"

"Madam," I said laughingly, "the next time I play the knight-errant, may
God send me a less observant damsel. There's nothing to forgive. The plain
truth is that I was frightened, a little bit. But I'm new to this sort of
thing, and I hope to improve." Then, after a pause, I met her eyes full
with mine and added, "As we go on."