Trelyon looked to his companion.  She put her hand on his arm, and said, in a trembling whisper, “Oh yes:  pray let us go back.”

“You know what you are going to, then?” said he coldly.

She trembled still more.

“Come, come,” said her father:  “you mustn’t stop here all night.  You may thank me for preventing your becoming the talk of the whole country.”

“I shouldn’t have minded that much,” Mabyn said ruefully, and very like to cry indeed, as the horses set out upon their journey back to Eglosilyan.

It was not a pleasant journey for any of them—­least of all for Wenna Rosewarne, who, having been bewildered by one wild glimpse of liberty, felt with terror and infinite sadness and despair the old manacles closing round her life again.  And what although the neighbors might remain in ignorance of what she had done?  She herself knew, and that was enough.

“You think no one will know?” Mabyn called out spitefully to her father.  “Do you think old Job at the gate has lost either his tongue or his nasty temper?”

“Leave Job to me,” the father replied.

When they got to Paddock’s Gate the old man had again to be roused, and he came out grumbling.

“Well, you discontented old sinner!” Rosewarne called to him, “don’t you like having to earn a living?”

“A fine livin’ to wait on folks that don’t knaw their own mind, and keep comin’ and goin’ along the road o’ nights like a weaver’s shuttle.  Hm!”

“Well, Job, you sha’n’t suffer for it this time,” Rosewarne said.  “I’ve won my bet.  If you made fifty pounds by riding a few miles out, what would you give the gatekeeper?”

Even that suggestion failed to inveigle Job into a better humor.

“Here’s a sovereign for you, Job.  Now go to bed.  Good-night!”

How long the distance seemed to be ere they saw the lights of Eglosilyan again!  There were only one or two small points of red fire, indeed, where the inn stood.  The rest of the village was buried in darkness.

“Oh, what will mother say?” Wenna said in a low voice to her sister.

“She will be very sorry we did not get away altogether,” Mabyn answered.  “And of course it was Mr. Roscorla who spoiled it.  Nobody knew anything about it but himself.  He must have run on to the inn and told some one.  Wasn’t it mean, Wenna?  Couldn’t he see that he wasn’t wanted?”

“Are you talking of Mr. Roscorla?” Trelyon said:  George Rosewarne was a bit ahead at this moment.  “I wish to goodness I had gagged him and slung him below the phaeton.  I knew he would be coming down there:  I expected him every moment.  Why were you so late, Mabyn?”

“Oh, you needn’t blame me, Mr. Trelyon,” said Mabyn, rather hurt.  “You know I did everything I could for you.”

“I know you did, Mabyn:  I wish it had turned out better.”

What was this, then, that Wenna heard as she sat there bewildered, apprehensive and sad-hearted?  Had her own sister joined in this league to carry her off?  It was not merely the audacity of young Trelyon that had led to their meeting.  But she was altogether too frightened and wretched to be angry.