“It is not many who get that chance, if report speaks truth,” said Cale; “Sir James Montacute is reckoned a notable swordsman.”

“He is no mean antagonist, truly,” answered Tom, with a slight smile; “yet I have seen a better.”

The day following was Sunday, and eagerly did Tom await the arrival of Rosamund, whom her father had set out betimes to fetch.  But he had promised to keep the secret of Tom’s return for a surprise to meet her on her arrival; and so, when she turned the corner of the street upon her father’s arm, laughing and chattering to him in her brightest fashion, there was Tom standing in the doorway, clad in one of his finest suits (left behind in the care of Cale), smiling bravely, hat in hand, and looking altogether so grand and finished a gentleman that at the first moment Rosamund could scarce make sure if it was he himself.

But when convinced of this, her pleasure was pretty to see.  She made him stand by the window where she could see him; she looked him all over, clapping her hands, and declaring that he had grown so grand and handsome that she was quite afraid of him.  But her dancing eyes and laughing lips belied her words, and soon she was chattering away in the old free style; and Tom sat looking at her, thinking how pretty she was, and what a pleasant thing it was to be home again after such a period of peril and adventure.

Of course he had to tell his story over again, whilst Rosamund’s face turned red and pale by turns, and her breath came fitfully between her lips.  She clung to her father’s hand in a tremor of sympathetic fear as she heard of the doings of that memorable night in the rude hut amid the snows of the Little St. Bernard; but that Tom was a greater hero than ever in her eyes, after she had heard all, could not for a moment be doubted, and perhaps that was why she felt that in him she could safely confide a secret fear which was troubling her own mind.

She waited till her father had gone down to set the dinner upon the table; but when once she and Tom were alone together she was not long in opening her trouble.

“Do you remember those four ill men who set upon you in the street that day when first you walked abroad with us?”

“Yes, I know them well—­a set of cowardly braggarts and bullies!  Sure, Mistress Rose, they are not troubling you yet?”

“I fear me they are,” she answered, with a shadow of fear in her eyes.  “I saw nought of them through the dark winter months.  Indeed, I had well-nigh forgotten that any such creatures lived.  Then when the spring days began to come, and the streets of the city became gayer, I thought once or twice that I saw them in the throngs as we walked hither and thither; but they never accosted us, and I gave the matter little heed.”

“Until when?”