“When my father comes here and questions you,” said Dorothy to Jennie Faxton, “tell him that the man whom he attacked was your sweetheart.”

“Never fear, mistress,” responded Jennie.  “I will have a fine story for the master.”

Dorothy crouched inside the wall under the shadow of a bush, and Jennie waited on the top of the stile.  Sir George, thinking the girl was Dorothy, lost no time in approaching her.  He caught her roughly by the arm and turned her around that he might see her face.

“By God, Guild,” he muttered, “I have made a mistake.  I thought the girl was Doll.”

He left instantly and followed Guild and the servant to the kitchen door.  When Sir George left the stile, Dorothy hastened back to the postern of which she had the key, and hurried toward her room.  She reached the door of her father’s room just in time to see Sir George and Guild enter it.  They saw her, and supposed her to be myself.  If she hesitated, she was lost.  But Dorothy never hesitated.  To think, with her, was to act.  She did not of course know that I was still in her apartments.  She took the chance, however, and boldly followed Sir John Guild into her father’s room.  There she paused for a moment that she might not appear to be in too great haste, and then entered Aunt Dorothy’s room where I was seated, waiting for her.

“Dorothy, my dear child,” exclaimed Lady Crawford, clasping her arms about Dorothy’s neck.

“There is no time to waste in sentiment, Aunt Dorothy,” responded the girl.  “Here are your sword and cloak, Malcolm.  I thank you for their use.  Don them quickly.”  I did so, and walked into Sir George’s room, where that worthy old gentleman was dressing a slight wound in the hand.  I stopped to speak with him; but he seemed disinclined to talk, and I left the room.  He soon went to the upper court, and I presently followed him.

Dorothy changed her garments, and she, Lady Crawford, and Madge also came to the upper court.  The braziers in the courtyard had been lighted and cast a glare over two score half-clothed men and women who had been aroused from their beds by the commotion of the conflict on the hillside.  Upon the upper steps of the courtyard stood Sir George and Jennie Faxton.

“Who was the man you were with?” roughly demanded Sir George of the trembling Jennie.  Jennie’s trembling was assumed for the occasion.

“I will not tell you his name,” she replied with tears.  “He is my sweetheart, and I will never come to the Hall again.  Matters have come to a pretty pass when a maiden cannot speak with her sweetheart at the stile without he is set upon and beaten as if he were a hedgehog.  My father is your leal henchman, and his daughter deserves better treatment at your hands than you have given me.”

“There, there!” said Sir George, placing his hand upon her head.  “I was in the wrong.  I did not know you had a sweetheart who wore a sword.  When I saw you at the stile, I was sure you were another.  I am glad I was wrong.”  So was Dorothy glad.