“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.”
“Frightened,” she said scornfully, “you
frightened, you who leaped unarmed on the best swordsman
in London? No, don’t mock me, Master Wheatman,
forgive me.”
“Of course I do, and thank you for your kind
words. And we’ve both got some one to forgive.”
She smiled radiantly—“Whom?
And what for?”
I leaped over the wall, and put my arms around her
to lift her down.
“Marry-me-quick, for dropping the rabbit-stew.”
THE RESULTS OF LOSING MY VIRGIL
We slipped down the blind alley and came out in the
street leading to the East Gate. There was still
great plenty of people strolling up and down, for
night had not yet killed off the novelty and excitement
caused by the arrival of the army. The smaller
houses were crowded with soldiery, hob-nobbing with
the folk on whom they were billeted, and all were yelling
out, “Let the cannakin clink!” and other
rowdy ditties in the intervals of drinking. At
the East Gate itself, a fire blazed, and pickets warmed
themselves round it, while along the street late-coming
baggage and ammunition wagons were trailing wearily.
It was idle to expect to pass unseen, so we plunged
into the throng, threaded through the wagons, and
skirted leftward till we arrived at a quieter street
running down to the line of the wall.
Here every brick and stone was as a familiar friend,
for the little grammar school backed on to the wall
at the very spot where the main street led through
the old north gate of the town. Old Master Bloggs
lived in a tiny house on the side of the school away
from the gate. There were the candles flickering
in the untidy den in which the old man passed all
his waking hours out of school-time, and there, I doubted
not, they would be guttering away if the Highlanders
sacked the town. I led the way across the little
fore-court, paled off from the street by wooden railings,
gently opened the door, and walked in to the dark passage.
