All my life I had been a philosopher, and as I rode from Haddon, beneath all my gloominess there ran a current of amusement which brought to my lips an ill-formed, half-born laugh when I thought of the plight and condition in which I, by candid self-communion, found myself.  Five years before that time I had left France, and had cast behind me all the fair possibilities for noble achievement which were offered to me in that land, that I might follow the fortunes of a woman whom I thought I loved.  Before my exile from her side I had begun to fear that my idol was but a thing of stone; and now that I had learned to know myself, and to see her as she really was, I realized that I had been worshipping naught but clay for lo, these many years.  There was only this consolation in the thought for me:  every man at some time in his life is a fool—­made such by a woman.  It is given to but few men to have for their fool-maker the rightful queen of three kingdoms.  All that was left to me of my life of devotion was a shame-faced pride in the quality of my fool-maker.  “Then,” thought I, “I have at last turned to be my own fool-maker.”  But I suppose it had been written in the book of fate that I should ride from Haddon a lovelorn youth of thirty-five, and I certainly was fulfilling my destiny to the letter.

I continued to ride up the Lathkil until I came to a fork in the road.  One branch led to the northwest, the other toward the southwest.  I was at a loss which direction to take, and I left the choice to my horse, in whose wisdom and judgement I had more confidence than in my own.  My horse, refusing the responsibility, stopped.  So there we stood like an equestrian statue arguing with itself until I saw a horseman riding toward me from the direction of Overhaddon.  When he approached I recognized Sir John Manners.  He looked as woebegone as I felt, and I could not help laughing at the pair of us, for I knew that his trouble was akin to mine.  The pain of love is ludicrous to all save those who feel it.  Even to them it is laughable in others.  A love-full heart has no room for that sort of charity which pities for kinship’s sake.

“What is the trouble with you, Sir John, that you look so downcast?” said I, offering my hand.

“Ah,” he answered, forcing a poor look of cheerfulness into his face, “Sir Malcolm, I am glad to see you.  Do I look downcast?”

“As forlorn as a lover who has missed seeing his sweetheart,” I responded, guessing the cause of Sir John’s despondency.

“I have no sweetheart, therefore missing her could not have made me downcast,” he replied.

“So you really did miss her?” I queried.  “She was detained at Haddon Hall, Sir John, to bid me farewell.”

“I do not understand—­” began Sir John, growing cold in his bearing.

“I understand quite well,” I answered.  “Dorothy told me all to-day.  You need keep nothing from me.  The golden heart brought her into trouble, and made mischief for me of which I cannot see the end.  I will tell you the story while we ride.  I am seeking my way to Chester, that I may, if possible, sail for France.  This fork in the road has brought me to a standstill, and my horse refuses to decide which route we shall take.  Perhaps you will direct us.”