When I came to, a little girl was kneeling by me, and rubbing my forehead tenderly with a dock-leaf.

“Oh, I am glad!” she said.  “Now you will try to be better, won’t you?”

I had never heard so sweet a sound as came from her red lips; neither had I ever seen anything so beautiful as the large, dark eyes intent upon me, in pity and wonder.  Her long black hair fell on the grass, and among it—­like an early star—­was the first primrose of the year.  And since that day, I think of her whenever I see an early primrose.

“How you are looking at me!” I said.  “I have never seen anyone like you before.  My name is John Ridd.  What is your name?”

“My name is Lorna Doone,” she replied, in a low voice, and hanging her head.

Young and harmless as she was, her name made guilt of her.  Yet I could not help looking at her tenderly.  And when she began to cry, what did I do but kiss her.  This made her angry, but we soon became friends again, and fell to talking about ourselves.  Suddenly a shout rang through the valley, and Lorna trembled, and put her cheek close to mine.

“Oh, they will find us together and kill us,” she said.

“Come with me,” I whispered.  “I can carry you down the waterfall.”

“No, no!” she cried, as I took her up.  “You see that hole in the rock there?  There is a way out from the top of it.”

I hid myself just in time, and a dozen tall, fierce-looking men found Lorna seemingly lying asleep on the grass.  One of them took her tenderly in his arms and carried her away.  I then waited until it was full dark, and crept to the hole that Lorna had pointed out.

The fright I had taken that night satisfied me for a long time thereafter; not that I did not think of Lorna and wish very often to see her.  But I was only a boy, and inclined, therefore, to despise young girls.  Besides, our farm of five hundred acres was the largest in Oare, and I had to work very hard on it.  But the work did me good; I grew four inches longer every year, and two inches wider, until there was no man of my size to be seen elsewhere upon Exmoor, and I also won the belt of the championship for wrestling in the West Counties.

II.—­John Ridd Goes A-Wooing

Seven years went by before I climbed up Glen Doone again.  The occasion was a strange one.  My uncle, Ben Huckaback, was robbed by the Doones on his way to our farm, and he was mighty vexed with their doings.  This time the outlaws met their match, for Uncle Ben was one of the richest men in the West Counties, and, moreover, he was well acquainted with the most powerful and terrible man in England.  I mean the famous Lord Chief Justice Jeffreys.

“I am going to London, my boy,” he said to me, “to get these scoundrel Doones shot or hanged.  I want you, while I am gone, to go to the place where they live, and see how the troops I shall bring can best attack them.”