The afternoon of the day following the terrible scene between Sir George and his daughter at the supper table, Dorothy rode forth alone upon her mare Dolcy.  From the window of my room in Eagle Tower I saw her go down the west side of the Wye toward Rowsley.  I ascended to the roof of the tower, and from that elevation I saw her cross the river, and soon she was lost to sight in the forest.  At that time I knew nothing of the new trysting-place, but I felt sure that Dorothy had gone out to seek John.  The sun shone brightly, and its gentle warmth enticed me to remain upon the tower battlements, to muse, and to dream.  I fetched my pipe and tobacco from my room.  I had been smoking at intervals for several months, but had not entirely learned to like the weed, because of a slight nausea which it invariably caused me to feel.  But I thought by practice now and again to inure myself to the habit, which was then so new and fashionable among modish gentlemen.  While I smoked I mused upon the past and present, and tried to peer into the future—­a fruitless task wherein we waste much valuable time; a vain striving, like Eve’s, after forbidden knowledge, which, should we possess it, would destroy the little remnant of Eden still existing on earth.  Could we look forward only to our joys, a knowledge of the future might be good to have; but imagine, if you can, the horror of anticipating evils to come.

After a short time, a lotuslike dreaminess stole over me, and past and future seemed to blend in a supreme present of contentment and rest.  Then I knew I had wooed and won Tobacco and that thenceforth I had at hand an ever ready solace in time of trouble.  At the end of an hour my dreaming was disturbed by voices, which came distinctly up to me from the base of the tower.  I leaned over the battlements to listen, and what I heard gave me alarm and concern such as all the tobacco in the world could not assuage.  I looked down the dizzy heights of Eagle Tower and saw Sir George in conversation with Ben Shaw, a woodman.  I had not heard the words first spoken between them.

“Ay, ay, Sir George,” said Ben, “they be there, by Bowling Green Gate, now.  I saw them twenty minutes since,—­Mistress Vernon and a gentleman.”

“Perhaps the gentleman is Sir Malcolm,” answered my cousin.  I drew back from the battlements, and the woodman replied, “Perhaps he be, but I doubt it.”

There had been a partial reconciliation—­sincere on Sir George’s part, but false and hollow on Dorothy’s—­which Madge had brought about between father and daughter that morning.  Sir George, who was sober and repentant of his harshness, was inclined to be tender to Dorothy, though he still insisted in the matter of the Stanley marriage.  Dorothy’s anger had cooled, and cunning had taken its place.  Sir George had asked her to forgive him for the hard words he had spoken, and she had again led him to believe that she would be dutiful and obedient.  It is hard to determine, as a question