“Come,” said Spikeman, pursuing and bringing her back, “name not the presumptuous varlet.  On one condition I will tell thee, even though it ruin me.”

“What may that be?” inquired the girl.

“I have long solicited an interview where we should not be liable to interruption.  Grant me that, and I will conceal nothing.”

“Thou dost grant nothing without a condition.  I do not know,” she added, tossing her head, “whether I care anything, after all, about this mystery.  I dare say there is nothing in it, and, as you say, it concerns me not.”

“Be not angry, sweet Prudence.  Ask, and I will answer all thy questions.”

“You know, too, how much I would do to pleasure you,” sighed Prudence.  “Ah! me, how weak a thing is a woman’s heart.”

“Then you will not deny me?  Know then that letters have arrived from England, charging this knight, or pretended knight, with diverse grave offences.”

“And what may they be?” inquired the girl.

“He is complained of as a fugitive from justice,” answered Spikeman, who meant to communicate no more information than he was obliged to.

“The sweet, handsome gentleman!  I do not believe he ever harmed any one.  But what did he?”

“Of that I am not positively informed, not having seen the epistles, they being addressed to private persons.”

“Have they anything against Master Miles, too?” asked Prudence.

“I doubt not that he is the worse of the two, if all were known.”

“These be dreadful lies about the nicest and properest men in the country,” cried Prudence.  “And what will be done with them when they come back?”

“That I cannot tell; but be sure we shall find some means of getting rid of them.  And now, Prudence—­”

“I do not know that I made any promise,” she said, archly; “and you have told me very little, after all.”

“I have told thee all I know.  Keep now equal good faith with me.”

“It would be very improper,” said the girl, turning away her face, “to invite a man to a secret meeting; but I sometimes wander on the edge of the forest to gather wild flowers, and hear the birds sing, and if you should come thither by accident, at the same time, nobody, I suppose, would find fault.”

“But when—­but when, lovely Prudence?  Ah! you comprehend not the longing of my soul.”

“That I cannot say now.  I am only a servant girl, and must obey the directions of my mistress, which are often very unreasonable, and order not my time.”

“Would I were a king, for your sake!  But shall it be soon?”

“As soon as may be, and I will let you know the time and place.”  So saying, she broke away from the enamored Spikeman, and ran to acquaint her young mistress with all that had happened.

The young lady felt seriously alarmed at the communication of her confidante—­an alarm increased by the vagueness of the information, as in a dark night the fearful imagination invests with terrors some object, which, in the light of day, proves to be a harmless bush or stump—­and the two young women consulted together if any thing could be done to avert the threatened danger.  They could think of nothing better than to acquaint Arundel with it, which Prudence took upon herself to do.