When we were about to part for the night, I asked Sir John, “What road do you travel to-morrow?”

“I am going to Rutland Castle by way of Rowsley,” he answered.

“I, too, travel by Rowsley to Haddon Hall.  Shall we not extend our truce over the morrow and ride together as far as Rowsley?” I asked.

“I shall be glad to make the truce perpetual,” he replied laughingly.

“So shall I,” was my response.

Thus we sealed our compact and knitted out of the warp and woof of enmity a friendship which became a great joy and a sweet grief to each of us.

That night I lay for hours thinking of the past and wondering about the future.  I had tasted the sweets—­all flavored with bitterness—­of court life.  Women, wine, gambling, and fighting had given me the best of all the evils they had to offer.  Was I now to drop that valorous life, which men so ardently seek, and was I to take up a browsing, kinelike existence at Haddon Hall, there to drone away my remaining days in fat’ning, peace, and quietude?  I could not answer my own question, but this I knew:  that Sir George Vernon was held in high esteem by Elizabeth, and I felt that his house was, perhaps, the only spot in England where my head could safely lie.  I also had other plans concerning Sir George and his household which I regret to say I imparted to Sir John in the sack-prompted outpouring of my confidence.  The plans of which I shall now speak had been growing in favor with me for several months previous to my enforced departure from Scotland, and that event had almost determined me to adopt them.  Almost, I say, for when I approached Haddon Hall I wavered in my resolution.

At the time when I had last visited Sir George at Haddon, his daughter Dorothy—­Sir George called her Doll—­was a slipshod girl of twelve.  She was exceedingly plain, and gave promise of always so remaining.  Sir George, who had no son, was anxious that his vast estates should remain in the Vernon name.  He had upon the occasion of my last visit intimated to me that when Doll should become old enough to marry, and I, perchance, had had my fill of knocking about the world, a marriage might be brought about between us which would enable him to leave his estates to his daughter and still to retain the much-loved Vernon name for his descendants.

Owing to Doll’s rusty red hair, slim shanks, and freckled face, the proposition had not struck me with favor, yet to please Sir George I had feigned acquiescence, and had said that when the time should come, we would talk it over.  Before my flight from Scotland I had often thought of Sir George’s proposition made six or seven years before.  My love for Mary Stuart had dimmed the light of other beauties in my eyes, and I had never married.  For many months before my flight, however, I had not been permitted to bask in the light of Mary’s smiles to the extent of my wishes.  Younger men, among them Darnley, who was but eighteen years of