“No, no, no, no!” cried Mary.  “Betty, how can you propose anything so impossible, so unfeminine!  Are not men our natural protectors?” and she threw a languishing glance at the cattle-breeder.  “Shall we usurp their rights?”

“It is quite true; it is impossible,” said Barnes.

“You are foolish to throw away the chance,” said Betty calmly.

“I cannot see why you should not accept her offer,” said the parson restlessly; he was accustomed to yield to his daughter’s judgment in everything.  “Betty is a bold girl, and she is generally in the right.”

“Come, yield the point, Mr. Barnes,” said Betty, with a light laugh, holding out her hand for the pocket-book.

“Remember I have no part or parcel in it,” cried Mary, shrinking farther and farther away.  “I would not for the whole world!  Why, Betty,” she whimpered, “they might even search you.”

“Wild Jack is a gentleman,” answered the girl; then with a sudden flash of scorn, “but even had I not such faith in his honourable dealing, I should know how to take care of myself.  Give me the papers, Mr. Barnes.”

Very unwillingly, as if he despised himself for so doing, Barnes gave them into her hands.  The notes were smoothed and laid flat, they occupied the smallest space possible.

Betty Ives placed the papers within the bosom of her tight-fitting riding-habit, and leant back as if she had done with the subject.

Mr. Ives looked with anxious eyes through the window.

The mail was passing along a wide fair unsheltered road, on each side spread away treeless tracts of country, flat and wide, over which the fresh cold wind blew listlessly.  To the left the horizon was bounded by the wide expanse of the grassy Berkshire downs.  They rose and fell, a vast undulating plain, covered with short fine herbage.

It was growing very dark; the parson drew in his head, and thanked Heaven that the country was so fine and open, that he could even in the gathering gloom see far behind and before, and could perceive no suspicious object.

“We are all right here,” said Mr. Barnes, his voice becoming more and more dismal.  “But a mile farther on, and we come to a small wood—­the road dips down there suddenly, it is a first-rate place for an ambush.”

“Mercy! mercy!” cried Mary Jones in a voice half-strangled by the anguish of her terror.

“We have yet a mile of safety,” said Betty kindly “—­a whole mile, Mary; and going at this pace, we need not prepare our terrors for another hour.”

“Heaven grant that the moon may be up,” cried Barnes.

“Sir,” said Betty slowly, “I imagine that you carry arms?”

“I am not unarmed,” he answered hastily, “I have pistols and a sword.”

“I should have them in readiness, as I myself intend to do,” said Betty, and she drew out a tiny silver-mounted pistol.  “See, it is prepared for use.  My father is a clergyman and must eschew firearms; Mary Jones is a woman—­”