The English queen well knew that Sir George Vernon was her friend, therefore his house and his friendship were my sanctuary, without which my days certainly would have been numbered in the land of Elizabeth, and their number would have been small.  I was dependent on Sir George not only for a roof to shelter me, but for my very life.  I speak of these things that you may know some of the many imperative reasons why I desired to please and conciliate my cousin.  In addition to those reasons, I soon grew to love Sir George, not only because of his kindness to me, but because he was a lovable man.  He was generous, just, and frank, and although at times he was violent almost to the point of temporary madness, his heart was usually gentle, and was as easily touched by kindness as it was quickly moved to cruelty by injury, fancied or actual.  I have never known a more cruel, tender man than he.  You will see him in each of his natures before you have finished this history.  But you must judge him only after you have considered his times, which were forty years ago, his surroundings, and his blood.

During those two months remarkable changes occurred within the walls of Haddon, chief of which were in myself, and, alas! in Dorothy.

My pilgrimage to Haddon, as you already know, had been made for the purpose of marrying my fair cousin; for I did not, at the time I left Scotland, suppose I should need Sir George’s protection against Elizabeth.  When I met Dorothy at Rowsley, my desire to marry her became personal, in addition to the mercenary motives with which I had originally started.  But I quickly recognized the fact that the girl was beyond my reach.  I knew I could not win her love, even though I had a thousand years to try for it; and I would not accept her hand in marriage solely at her father’s command.  I also soon learned that Dorothy was the child of her father, gentle, loving, and tender beyond the naming, but also wilful, violent, and fierce to the extent that no command could influence her.

First I shall speak of the change within myself.  I will soon be done with so much “I” and “me,” and you shall have Dorothy to your heart’s content, or trouble, I know not which.

Soon after my arrival at Haddon Hall the sun ushered in one of those wonderful days known only to the English autumn, when the hush of Nature’s drowsiness, just before her long winter’s sleep, imparts its soft restfulness to man, as if it were a lotus feast.  Dorothy was ostentatiously busy with her household matters, and was consulting with butler, cook, and steward.  Sir George had ridden out to superintend his men at work, and I, wandering aimlessly about the hail, came upon Madge Stanley sitting in the chaplain’s room with folded hands.

“Lady Madge, will you go with me for a walk this beautiful morning?” I asked.

“Gladly would I go, Sir Malcolm,” she responded, a smile brightening her face and quickly fading away, “but I—­I cannot walk in unfamiliar places.  I should fail.  You would have to lead me by the hand, and that, I fear, would mar the pleasure of your walk.”