Meditating on these things, he rode on for about a couple of miles; but then suddenly recollected that in all the agitation of the moment, and the painful discussion he had under gone, he had totally forgotten to tell the Duke either the arrest of Sir John Fenwick, or the tidings which he had heard more immediately affecting himself.  He again checked his weary horse, and asked himself, “Shall I ride back?” But then he thought, “No, I will not.  I will stop at the first farm-house or inn that I may find, where I can get shelter for myself and food for my horses during the night, and thence I will write him the intelligence, take it how he will.  I will not expose myself to fresh contumely by going back this night.”

He accordingly rode on upon his way, full of sad and melancholy thoughts, and with the bright but unsubstantial hopes which Laura’s letter had given him fading away again rapidly under causes of despondency that were but too real.  It was an hour in which gloom was triumphant over all other feelings; one of those hours when even the heart of youth seems to lose its elastic bound; when hope itself, like some faint light upon a dark night, makes the sombre colours of our fate look even blacker than before, and when we feel like mariners who see the day close upon them in the midst of a storm, as if the sun of happiness had sunk from view for ever.  Such feelings and such thoughts absorbed him entirely as he rode along, and he marked not at all how far he went, though, from the natural impulse of humanity, he spared the tired horse which carried him, and proceeded at a slow pace.

About three miles from the Duke’s gates, his servant rode up, saying, “I see a light there, sir.  I should not wonder if that were the little inn of the village which one passes on the right.”

“We had better keep our straight-forward way,” replied Wilton.  “We cannot be very far from the Three Cups, which, though a poor place enough, may serve me for a night’s lodging.”

The man fell back again, and Wilton was proceeding slowly when he perceived three men riding towards him at an easy pace.  The night was clear and fine, and the hour was so early, that he anticipated no evil, though he had come unarmed, expecting to reach Somersbury, as he did, before dark.

He rode on quietly, then, till he met them, when he was forced suddenly to stop, one of the three presenting a pistol at his breast, and exclaiming, “Stand!  Who are you?”

“Is it my money you want, gentlemen?” demanded Wil ton; “for if it be, there is but little of it:  but as much as I have is at your service.”

“I ask, who are you?” replied the other.  “I did not ask you for your money.  Are you a King’s officer?  And which King’s?”

“I am no King’s officer,” replied Wilton, “but a true subject of King William.”

“Pass on,” replied the other man, dropping his pistol “you are not the person we want.”