The Black Arrow

The young duke passed them for a moment under a severe review.

“Good,” he said. “Hang them.”

And he turned the other way to watch the progress of the fight.

“My lord,” said Dick, “so please you, I have found my reward. Grant me the life and liberty of yon old shipman.”

Gloucester turned and looked the speaker in the face.

“Sir Richard,” he said, “I make not war with peacock’s feathers, but steel shafts. Those that are mine enemies I slay, and that without excuse or favour. For, bethink ye, in this realm of England, that is so torn in pieces, there is not a man of mine but hath a brother or a friend upon the other party. If, then, I did begin to grant these pardons, I might sheathe my sword.”

“It may be so, my lord; and yet I will be overbold, and at the risk of your disfavour, recall your lordship’s promise,” replied Dick.

Richard of Gloucester flushed.

“Mark it right well,” he said, harshly. “I love not mercy, nor yet mercymongers. Ye have this day laid the foundations of high fortune. If ye oppose to me my word, which I have plighted, I will yield. But, by the glory of heaven, there your favour dies!

“Mine is the loss,” said Dick.

“Give him his sailor,” said the duke; and wheeling his horse, he turned his back upon young Shelton.

Dick was nor glad nor sorry. He had seen too much of the young duke to set great store on his affection; and the origin and growth of his own favour had been too flimsy and too rapid to inspire much confidence. One thing alone he feared — that the vindictive leader might revoke the offer of the lances. But here he did justice neither to Gloucester’s honour (such as it was) nor, above all, to his decision. If he had once judged Dick to be the right man to pursue Sir Daniel, he was not one to change; and he soon proved it by shouting after Catesby to be speedy, for the paladin was waiting.

In the meanwhile, Dick turned to the old shipman, who had seemed equally indifferent to his condemnation and to his subsequent release.

“Arblaster,” said Dick, “I have done you ill; but now, by the rood, I think I have cleared the score.”

But the old skipper only looked upon him dully and held his peace.

“Come,” continued Dick, “a life is a life, old shrew, and it is more than ships or liquor. Say ye forgive me; for if your life be worth nothing to you, it hath cost me the beginnings of my fortune. Come, I have paid for it dearly; be not so churlish.”

“An I had had my ship,” said Arblaster, “I would ‘a’ been forth and safe on the high seas — I and my man Tom. But ye took my ship, gossip, and I’m a beggar; and for my man Tom, a knave fellow in russet shot him down. ‘Murrain!’ quoth he, and spake never again. ‘Murrain’ was the last of his words, and the poor spirit of him passed. ‘A will never sail no more, will my Tom.’”

Dick was seized with unavailing penitence and pity; he sought to take the skipper’s hand, but Arblaster avoided his touch.

“Nay,” said he, “let be. Y’ have played the devil with me, and let that content you.”

The words died in Richard’s throat. He saw, through tears, the poor old man, bemused with liquor and sorrow, go shambling away, with bowed head, across the snow, and the unnoticed dog whimpering at his heels, and for the first time began to understand the desperate game that we play in life; and how a thing once done is not to be changed or remedied, by any penitence.

But there was no time left to him for vain regret.

Catesby had now collected the horsemen, and riding up to Dick he dismounted, and offered him his own horse.

“This morning,” he said, “I was somewhat jealous of your favour; it hath not been of a long growth; and now, Sir Richard, it is with a very good heart that I offer you this horse — to ride away with.”

“Suffer me yet a moment,” replied Dick. “This favour of mine — whereupon was it founded?”

“Upon your name,” answered Catesby. “It is my lord’s chief superstition. Were my name Richard, I should be an earl to-morrow.”

“Well, sir, I thank you,” returned Dick; “and since I am little likely to follow these great fortunes, I will even say farewell. I will not pretend I was displeased to think myself upon the road to fortune; but I will not pretend, neither, that I am over-sorry to be done with it. Command and riches, they are brave things, to be sure; but a word in your ear — yon duke of yours, he is a fearsome lad.”

Catesby laughed.

“Nay,” said he, “of a verity he that rides with Crooked Dick will ride deep. Well, God keep us all from evil! Speed ye well.”

Thereupon Dick put himself at the head of his men, and giving the word of command, rode off.

He made straight across the town, following what he supposed to be the route of Sir Daniel, and spying around for any signs that might decide if he were right.

The streets were strewn with the dead and the wounded, whose fate, in the bitter frost, was far the more pitiable. Gangs of the victors went from house to house, pillaging and stabbing, and sometimes singing together as they went.

From different quarters, as he rode on, the sounds of violence and outrage came to young Shelton’s ears; now the blows of the sledge-hammer on some barricaded door, and now the miserable shrieks of women.

Dick’s heart had just been awakened. He had just seen the cruel consequences of his own behaviour; and the thought of the sum of misery that was now acting in the whole of Shoreby filled him with despair.

At length he reached the outskirts, and there, sure enough, he saw straight before him the same broad, beaten track across the snow that he had marked from the summit of the church. Here, then, he went the faster on; but still, as he rode, he kept a bright eye upon the fallen men and horses that lay beside the track. Many of these, he was relieved to see, wore Sir Daniel’s colours, and the faces of some, who lay upon their back, he even recognised.

About half-way between the town and the forest, those whom he was following had plainly been assailed by archers; for the corpses lay pretty closely scattered, each pierced by an arrow. And here Dick spied among the rest the body of a very young lad, whose face was somehow hauntingly familiar to him.

He halted his troop, dismounted, and raised the lad’s head. As he did so, the hood fell back, and a profusion of long brown hair unrolled itself. At the same time the eyes opened.

“Ah! lion driver!” said a feeble voice. “She is farther on. Ride — ride fast!”

And then the poor young lady fainted once again.

One of Dick’s men carried a flask of some strong cordial, and with this Dick succeeded in reviving consciousness. Then he took Joanna’s friend upon his saddlebow, and once more pushed toward the forest.

“Why do ye take me?” said the girl. “Ye but delay your speed.”

“Nay, Mistress Risingham,” replied Dick. “Shoreby is full of blood and drunkenness and riot. Here ye are safe; content ye.”

“I will not be beholden to any of your faction,” she cried; “set me down.”

“Madam, ye know not what ye say,” returned Dick. “Y’ are hurt” -

“I am not,” she said. “It was my horse was slain.”

“It matters not one jot,” replied Richard. “Ye are here in the midst of open snow, and compassed about with enemies. Whether ye will or not, I carry you with me. Glad am I to have the occasion; for thus shall I repay some portion of our debt.”

For a little while she was silent. Then, very suddenly, she asked:

“My uncle?”

“My Lord Risingham?” returned Dick. “I would I had good news to give you, madam; but I have none. I saw him once in the battle, and once only. Let us hope the best.”

CHAPTER V — NIGHT IN THE WOODS: ALICIA RISINGHAM

It was almost certain that Sir Daniel had made for the Moat House; but, considering the heavy snow, the lateness of the hour, and the necessity under which he would lie of avoiding the few roads and striking across the wood, it was equally certain that he could not hope to reach it ere the morrow.

There were two courses open to Dick; either to continue to follow in the knight’s trail, and, if he were able, to fall upon him that very night in camp, or to strike out a path of his own, and seek to place himself between Sir Daniel and his destination.

Either scheme was open to serious objection, and Dick, who feared to expose Joanna to the hazards of a fight, had not yet decided between them when he reached the borders of the wood.

At this point Sir Daniel had turned a little to his left, and then plunged straight under a grove of very lofty timber. His party had then formed to a narrower front, in order to pass between the trees, and the track was trod proportionally deeper in the snow. The eye followed it under the leafless tracery of the oaks, running direct and narrow; the trees stood over it, with knotty joints and the great, uplifted forest of their boughs; there was no sound, whether of man or beast — not so much as the stirring of a robin; and over the field of snow the winter sun lay golden among netted shadows.

“How say ye,” asked Dick of one of the men, “to follow straight on, or strike across for Tunstall?”

“Sir Richard,” replied the man-at-arms, “I would follow the line until they scatter.”

“Ye are, doubtless, right,” returned Dick; “but we came right hastily upon the errand, even as the time commanded. Here are no houses, neither for food nor shelter, and by the morrow’s dawn we shall know both cold fingers and an empty belly. How say ye, lads? Will ye stand a pinch for expedition’s sake, or shall we turn by Holywood and sup with Mother Church? The case being somewhat doubtful, I will drive no man; yet if ye would suffer me to lead you, ye would choose the first.”

The men answered, almost with one voice, that they would follow Sir Richard where he would.

And Dick, setting spur to his horse, began once more to go forward.

The snow in the trail had been trodden very hard, and the pursuers had thus a great advantage over the pursued. They pushed on, indeed, at a round trot, two hundred hoofs beating alternately on the dull pavement of the snow, and the jingle of weapons and the snorting of horses raising a warlike noise along the arches of the silent wood.

Presently, the wide slot of the pursued came out upon the high road from Holywood; it was there, for a moment, indistinguishable; and, where it once more plunged into the unbeaten snow upon the farther side, Dick was surprised to see it narrower and lighter trod. Plainly, profiting by the road, Sir Daniel had begun already to scatter his command.

At all hazards, one chance being equal to another, Dick continued to pursue the straight trail; and that, after an hour’s riding, in which it led into the very depths of the forest, suddenly split, like a bursting shell, into two dozen others, leading to every point of the compass.

Dick drew bridle in despair. The short winter’s day was near an end; the sun, a dull red orange, shorn of rays, swam low among the leafless thickets; the shadows were a mile long upon the snow; the frost bit cruelly at the finger-nails; and the breath and steam of the horses mounted in a cloud.

“Well, we are outwitted,” Dick confessed. “Strike we for Holywood, after all. It is still nearer us than Tunstall — or should be by the station of the sun.”

So they wheeled to their left, turning their backs on the red shield of sun, and made across country for the abbey. But now times were changed with them; they could no longer spank forth briskly on a path beaten firm by the passage of their foes, and for a goal to which that path itself conducted them. Now they must plough at a dull pace through the encumbering snow, continually pausing to decide their course, continually floundering in drifts. The sun soon left them; the glow of the west decayed; and presently they were wandering in a shadow of blackness, under frosty stars.

Presently, indeed, the moon would clear the hilltops, and they might resume their march. But till then, every random step might carry them wider of their march. There was nothing for it but to camp and wait.

Sentries were posted; a spot of ground was cleared of snow, and, after some failures, a good fire blazed in the midst. The men-at-arms sat close about this forest hearth, sharing such provisions as they had, and passing about the flask; and Dick, having collected the most delicate of the rough and scanty fare, brought it to Lord Risingham’s niece, where she sat apart from the soldiery against a tree.

She sat upon one horse-cloth, wrapped in another, and stared straight before her at the firelit scene. At the offer of food she started, like one wakened from a dream, and then silently refused.

“Madam,” said Dick, “let me beseech you, punish me not so cruelly. Wherein I have offended you, I know not; I have, indeed, carried you away, but with a friendly violence; I have, indeed, exposed you to the inclemency of night, but the hurry that lies upon me hath for its end the preservation of another, who is no less frail and no less unfriended than yourself. At least, madam, punish not yourself; and eat, if not for hunger, then for strength.”

“I will eat nothing at the hands that slew my kinsman,” she replied.

“Dear madam,” Dick cried, “I swear to you upon the rood I touched him not.”

“Swear to me that he still lives,” she returned.

“I will not palter with you,” answered Dick. “Pity bids me to wound you. In my heart I do believe him dead.”

“And ye ask me to eat!” she cried. “Ay, and they call you ‘sir!’ Y’ have won your spurs by my good kinsman’s murder. And had I not been fool and traitor both, and saved you in your enemy’s house, ye should have died the death, and he — he that was worth twelve of you — were living.”

“I did but my man’s best, even as your kinsman did upon the other party,” answered Dick. “Were he still living — as I vow to Heaven I wish it! — he would praise, not blame me.”

“Sir Daniel hath told me,” she replied. “He marked you at the barricade. Upon you, he saith, their party foundered; it was you that won the battle. Well, then, it was you that killed my good Lord Risingham, as sure as though ye had strangled him. And ye would have me eat with you — and your hands not washed from killing? But Sir Daniel hath sworn your downfall. He ’tis that will avenge me!”

The unfortunate Dick was plunged in gloom. Old Arblaster returned upon his mind, and he groaned aloud.

“Do ye hold me so guilty?” he said; “you that defended me — you that are Joanna’s friend?”

“What made ye in the battle?” she retorted. “Y’ are of no party; y’ are but a lad — but legs and body, without government of wit or counsel! Wherefore did ye fight? For the love of hurt, pardy!”

“Nay,” cried Dick, “I know not. But as the realm of England goes, if that a poor gentleman fight not upon the one side, perforce he must fight upon the other. He may not stand alone; ’tis not in nature.”

“They that have no judgment should not draw the sword,” replied the young lady. “Ye that fight but for a hazard, what are ye but a butcher? War is but noble by the cause, and y’ have disgraced it.”

“Madam,” said the miserable Dick, “I do partly see mine error. I have made too much haste; I have been busy before my time. Already I stole a ship — thinking, I do swear it, to do well — and thereby brought about the death of many innocent, and the grief and ruin of a poor old man whose face this very day hath stabbed me like a dagger. And for this morning, I did but design to do myself credit, and get fame to marry with, and, behold! I have brought about the death of your dear kinsman that was good to me. And what besides, I know not. For, alas! I may have set York upon the throne, and that may be the worser cause, and may do hurt to England. O, madam, I do see my sin. I am unfit for life. I will, for penance sake and to avoid worse evil, once I have finished this adventure, get me to a cloister. I will forswear Joanna and the trade of arms. I will be a friar, and pray for your good kinsman’s spirit all my days.”

It appeared to Dick, in this extremity of his humiliation and repentance, that the young lady had laughed.

Raising his countenance, he found her looking down upon him, in the fire-light, with a somewhat peculiar but not unkind expression.

“Madam,” he cried, thinking the laughter to have been an illusion of his hearing, but still, from her changed looks, hoping to have touched her heart, “madam, will not this content you? I give up all to undo what I have done amiss; I make heaven certain for Lord Risingham. And all this upon the very day that I have won my spurs, and thought myself the happiest young gentleman on ground.”

“O boy,” she said — “good boy!”

And then, to the extreme surprise of Dick, she first very tenderly wiped the tears away from his cheeks, and then, as if yielding to a sudden impulse, threw both her arms about his neck, drew up his face, and kissed him. A pitiful bewilderment came over simple-minded Dick.

“But come,” she said, with great cheerfulness, “you that are a captain, ye must eat. Why sup ye not?”

“Dear Mistress Risingham,” replied Dick, “I did but wait first upon my prisoner; but, to say truth, penitence will no longer suffer me to endure the sight of food. I were better to fast, dear lady, and to pray.”

“Call me Alicia,” she said; “are we not old friends? And now, come, I will eat with you, bit for bit and sup for sup; so if ye eat not, neither will I; but if ye eat hearty, I will dine like a ploughman.”

So there and then she fell to; and Dick, who had an excellent stomach, proceeded to bear her company, at first with great reluctance, but gradually, as he entered into the spirit, with more and more vigour and devotion: until, at last, he forgot even to watch his model, and most heartily repaired the expenses of his day of labour and excitement.

“Lion-driver,” she said, at length, “ye do not admire a maid in a man’s jerkin?”

The moon was now up; and they were only waiting to repose the wearied horses. By the moon’s light, the still penitent but now well-fed Richard beheld her looking somewhat coquettishly down upon him.

“Madam” — he stammered, surprised at this new turn in her manners.

“Nay,” she interrupted, “it skills not to deny; Joanna hath told me, but come, Sir Lion-driver, look at me — am I so homely — come!”

And she made bright eyes at him.

“Ye are something smallish, indeed” — began Dick.

And here again she interrupted him, this time with a ringing peal of laughter that completed his confusion and surprise.

“Smallish!” she cried. “Nay, now, be honest as ye are bold; I am a dwarf, or little better; but for all that — come, tell me! — for all that, passably fair to look upon; is’t not so?”

“Nay, madam, exceedingly fair,” said the distressed knight, pitifully trying to seem easy.

“And a man would be right glad to wed me?” she pursued.

“O, madam, right glad!” agreed Dick.

“Call me Alicia,” said she.

“Alicia,” quoth Sir Richard.

“Well, then, lion-driver,” she continued, “sith that ye slew my kinsman, and left me without stay, ye owe me, in honour, every reparation; do ye not?”

“I do, madam,” said Dick. “Although, upon my heart, I do hold me but partially guilty of that brave knight’s blood.”

“Would ye evade me?” she cried.

“Madam, not so. I have told you; at your bidding, I will even turn me a monk,” said Richard.

“Then, in honour, ye belong to me?” she concluded.

“In honour, madam, I suppose” — began the young man.

“Go to!” she interrupted; “ye are too full of catches. In honour do ye belong to me, till ye have paid the evil?”

“In honour, I do,” said Dick.

“Hear, then,” she continued; “Ye would make but a sad friar, methinks; and since I am to dispose of you at pleasure, I will even take you for my husband. Nay, now, no words!” cried she. “They will avail you nothing. For see how just it is, that you who deprived me of one home, should supply me with another. And as for Joanna, she will be the first, believe me, to commend the change; for, after all, as we be dear friends, what matters it with which of us ye wed? Not one whit!”

“Madam,” said Dick, “I will go into a cloister, an ye please to bid me; but to wed with anyone in this big world besides Joanna Sedley is what I will consent to neither for man’s force nor yet for lady’s pleasure. Pardon me if I speak my plain thoughts plainly; but where a maid is very bold, a poor man must even be the bolder.”

“Dick,” she said, “ye sweet boy, ye must come and kiss me for that word. Nay, fear not, ye shall kiss me for Joanna; and when we meet, I shall give it back to her, and say I stole it. And as for what ye owe me, why, dear simpleton, methinks ye were not alone in that great battle; and even if York be on the throne, it was not you that set him there. But for a good, sweet, honest heart, Dick, y’ are all that; and if I could find it in my soul to envy your Joanna anything, I would even envy her your love.”

CHAPTER VI — NIGHT IN THE WOODS (concluded): DICK AND JOAN

The horses had by this time finished the small store of provender, and fully breathed from their fatigues. At Dick’s command, the fire was smothered in snow; and while his men got once more wearily to saddle, he himself, remembering, somewhat late, true woodland caution, chose a tall oak and nimbly clambered to the topmost fork. Hence he could look far abroad on the moonlit and snow-paven forest. On the south-west, dark against the horizon, stood those upland, heathy quarters where he and Joanna had met with the terrifying misadventure of the leper. And there his eye was caught by a spot of ruddy brightness no bigger than a needle’s eye.

He blamed himself sharply for his previous neglect. Were that, as it appeared to be, the shining of Sir Daniel’s camp-fire, he should long ago have seen and marched for it; above all, he should, for no consideration, have announced his neighbourhood by lighting a fire of his own. But now he must no longer squander valuable hours. The direct way to the uplands was about two miles in length; but it was crossed by a very deep, precipitous dingle, impassable to mounted men; and for the sake of speed, it seemed to Dick advisable to desert the horses and attempt the adventure on foot.

Ten men were left to guard the horses; signals were agreed upon by which they could communicate in case of need; and Dick set forth at the head of the remainder, Alicia Risingham walking stoutly by his side.

The men had freed themselves of heavy armour, and left behind their lances; and they now marched with a very good spirit in the frozen snow, and under the exhilarating lustre of the moon. The descent into the dingle, where a stream strained sobbing through the snow and ice, was effected with silence and order; and on the further side, being then within a short half mile of where Dick had seen the glimmer of the fire, the party halted to breathe before the attack.

In the vast silence of the wood, the lightest sounds were audible from far; and Alicia, who was keen of hearing, held up her finger warningly and stooped to listen. All followed her example; but besides the groans of the choked brook in the dingle close behind, and the barking of a fox at a distance of many miles among the forest, to Dick’s acutest hearkening, not a breath was audible.

“But yet, for sure, I heard the clash of harness,” whispered Alicia.

“Madam,” returned Dick, who was more afraid of that young lady than of ten stout warriors, “I would not hint ye were mistaken; but it might well have come from either of the camps.”

“It came not thence. It came from westward,” she declared.

“It may be what it will,” returned Dick; “and it must be as heaven please. Reck we not a jot, but push on the livelier, and put it to the touch. Up, friends — enough breathed.”

As they advanced, the snow became more and more trampled with hoof-marks, and it was plain that they were drawing near to the encampment of a considerable force of mounted men. Presently they could see the smoke pouring from among the trees, ruddily coloured on its lower edge and scattering bright sparks.

And here, pursuant to Dick’s orders, his men began to open out, creeping stealthily in the covert, to surround on every side the camp of their opponents. He himself, placing Alicia in the shelter of a bulky oak, stole straight forth in the direction of the fire.

At last, through an opening of the wood, his eye embraced the scene of the encampment. The fire had been built upon a heathy hummock of the ground, surrounded on three sides by thicket, and it now burned very strong, roaring aloud and brandishing flames. Around it there sat not quite a dozen people, warmly cloaked; but though the neighbouring snow was trampled down as by a regiment, Dick looked in vain for any horse. He began to have a terrible misgiving that he was out-manoeuvred. At the same time, in a tall man with a steel salet, who was spreading his hands before the blaze, he recognised his old friend and still kindly enemy, Bennet Hatch; and in two others, sitting a little back, he made out, even in their male disguise, Joanna Sedley and Sir Daniel’s wife.

“Well,” thought he to himself, “even if I lose my horses, let me get my Joanna, and why should I complain?”

And then, from the further side of the encampment, there came a little whistle, announcing that his men had joined, and the investment was complete.

Bennet, at the sound, started to his feet; but ere he had time to spring upon his arms, Dick hailed him.

“Bennet,” he said — “Bennet, old friend, yield ye. Ye will but spill men’s lives in vain, if ye resist.”

“’Tis Master Shelton, by St. Barbary!” cried Hatch. “Yield me? Ye ask much. What force have ye?”

“I tell you, Bennet, ye are both outnumbered and begirt,” said Dick. “Caesar and Charlemagne would cry for quarter. I have two score men at my whistle, and with one shoot of arrows I could answer for you all.”

“Master Dick,” said Bennet, “it goes against my heart; but I must do my duty. The saints help you!” And therewith he raised a little tucket to his mouth and wound a rousing call.

Then followed a moment of confusion; for while Dick, fearing for the ladies, still hesitated to give the word to shoot, Hatch’s little band sprang to their weapons and formed back to back as for a fierce resistance. In the hurry of their change of place, Joanna sprang from her seat and ran like an arrow to her lover’s side.

“Here, Dick!” she cried, as she clasped his hand in hers.

But Dick still stood irresolute; he was yet young to the more deplorable necessities of war, and the thought of old Lady Brackley checked the command upon his tongue. His own men became restive. Some of them cried on him by name; others, of their own accord, began to shoot; and at the first discharge poor Bennet bit the dust. Then Dick awoke.

“On!” he cried. “Shoot, boys, and keep to cover. England and York!”

But just then the dull beat of many horses on the snow suddenly arose in the hollow ear of the night, and, with incredible swiftness, drew nearer and swelled louder. At the same time, answering tuckets repeated and repeated Hatch’s call.

“Rally, rally!” cried Dick. “Rally upon me! Rally for your lives!”

But his men — afoot, scattered, taken in the hour when they had counted on an easy triumph — began instead to give ground severally, and either stood wavering or dispersed into the thickets. And when the first of the horsemen came charging through the open avenues and fiercely riding their steeds into the underwood, a few stragglers were overthrown or speared among the brush, but the bulk of Dick’s command had simply melted at the rumour of their coming.

Dick stood for a moment, bitterly recognising the fruits of his precipitate and unwise valour. Sir Daniel had seen the fire; he had moved out with his main force, whether to attack his pursuers or to take them in the rear if they should venture the assault. His had been throughout the part of a sagacious captain; Dick’s the conduct of an eager boy. And here was the young knight, his sweetheart, indeed, holding him tightly by the hand, but otherwise alone, his whole command of men and horses dispersed in the night and the wide forest, like a paper of pins in a bay barn.

“The saints enlighten me!” he thought. “It is well I was knighted for this morning’s matter; this doth me little honour.”

And thereupon, still holding Joanna, he began to run.

The silence of the night was now shattered by the shouts of the men of Tunstall, as they galloped hither and thither, hunting fugitives; and Dick broke boldly through the underwood and ran straight before him like a deer. The silver clearness of the moon upon the open snow increased, by contrast, the obscurity of the thickets; and the extreme dispersion of the vanquished led the pursuers into wildly divergent paths. Hence, in but a little while, Dick and Joanna paused, in a close covert, and heard the sounds of the pursuit, scattering abroad, indeed, in all directions, but yet fainting already in the distance.

“An I had but kept a reserve of them together,” Dick cried, bitterly, “I could have turned the tables yet! Well, we live and learn; next time it shall go better, by the rood.”

“Nay, Dick,” said Joanna, “what matters it? Here we are together once again.”

He looked at her, and there she was — John Matcham, as of yore, in hose and doublet. But now he knew her; now, even in that ungainly dress, she smiled upon him, bright with love; and his heart was transported with joy.