by his wealth and cunning, had lately succeeded in getting himself for the first time elevated to the dignity of an Assistant, had always appeared to be a friend, and indeed had truly been so, until he sought to pluck the apple of discord, the too fascinating Prudence, out of the soldier’s hand.  So deep was the impression of the Assistant’s good-will to him, and so long had he been in the habit of regarding the magistrate as a patron, that without exactly disbelieving, he found it difficult to give full credence to the jailer’s representations.  His mind was so confused that he hardly knew what to do.  He wanted to see Prudence before he departed for the knight’s residence, and yet, with a vague dread of Spikeman’s power for mischief, wished to avoid him.

Meditating upon these embarrassments, Philip mechanically took his way in the direction of the Assistant’s house, unconsciously obeying the hope that some kind chance would enable him to see his mistress without being discovered.  With this view, and as if believing that she would be able to see through a disguise impenetrable to others, and with some sense of shame at having been confined in a dungeon, Philip drew his slouched hat over his eyes, and muffling his face in the folds of his short cloak, walked in front of the dwelling, casting frequent glances at the windows.  It was in vain, however; and fearful of attracting an attention which he desired to shun, he started at last for the forest, through which he was obliged to pass on his way to the knight’s place.  Wearily he dragged his steps along, for the confinement he had suffered, and the irons he had worn, had diminished his strength and chafed his limbs.  Pondering sadly his unfortunate fate, he was slowly advancing, and had only just entered the wood, when he was saluted by a well-known voice, that made him start with a joyful surprise.  It was that of Prudence, who was following him.  She had seen him whom it would have been difficult to disguise from her, pass the house, and had allowed him to suppose himself undiscovered, and then pursued, in order to enjoy, undisturbed, a meeting which she desired as much as he.  She was so overjoyed and confused at seeing him again, that somehow she stumbled as she came near, and would have fallen had not Philip caught her in his arms—­for which benevolent deed he rewarded himself with a couple of smacks like the report of a pistol.

“Fie, for shame, Philip,” cried Prudence, all in a glow, and looking wonderfully, as if she wanted the offence repeated; at any rate the soldier so understood it, and clasping her again in his arms, refused to release her till her lips had paid the penalty of their sweetness.  “Oh, fie,” said she, once more; “what would folk say if they saw thee?”

“There’s only birds or a chance deer to see us,” said Philip, “and it can do them no harm to take a lesson,” and he attempted to renew his demonstrations of affection.

“Be quiet now,” said Prudence, pushing him away.  “I must soon hurry back, or I shall be missed, and I want, first, to hear all about thee, and then I have something to say on my part.”