Eager as Arthur was to return home to Magdalen, he knew that his authority and his purse would go farther in Oxford than Anthony’s.  It was needful for him to be there in person; but it might be just as well for Anthony to keep away from the town at that juncture.  Dalaber did not himself think of or fear any peril, but Arthur’s other arguments prevailed with him; and shortly after dawn, at the parting of the ways, the two friends separated, Arthur and the servants riding direct to Oxford, whilst Dalaber took his solitary way towards Poghley.

His heart beat high as he began to trace the familiar outline of wood and hill.  When he rode away a week ago, it was with a very strong presentiment that he would never see the place again.  So resolved had he been to make confession of such of his beliefs as were accounted heresy that he had not dared to believe he could escape.  Yet here he was, safe and sound, and rid at last of that haunting fear and remorse which had eaten into his very soul.

True, he had not said much, yet he knew that the cardinal had understood, and had, as it were, declined a further and fuller revelation.  He had understood, on his side, that the church did not desire to push matters to extremity, and to lose the love and adherence of its most promising sons.  He was willing, for his part, to avoid publicity for a time, to resume his interrupted studies, and to wait in patience for what would come out of this movement within and without the church.

But the sense of sailing under false colours had now been taken away.  He had relieved his soul; he had spoken the truth; he had offered himself as a victim; he no longer stood condemned as a coward and a denier of his faith.

With a glad heart he rode onward through the rosy glow of a red and golden dawn.  All nature seemed in harmony with his joy and triumph.  The birds shouted their morning songs, and the budding trees and waving grass seemed silently to voice a happy answer.  Primroses gemmed the banks, and the frail white anemones carpeted the twinkling woodlands, where sunbeams and shadows chased each other through a maze of tender green leaves.  Then the horse beneath him, though somewhat wearied from the long journey, knew his homeward way, pricked forward his ears, and broke into a canter, bravely bearing his rider up the gentle incline, and through the gate that led towards the moated house.

Suddenly a white figure seemed to emerge from the thickets of shrubs, and a joyous voice exclaimed: 

“Anthony, Anthony! is it thou?”

He was on his feet in an instant.  The horse set off riderless for his own stable.  Anthony’s arms were about her, his kisses on her face.

“Freda! my beloved! my wife!”

“Anthony, O Anthony!  And thou art free!”

“I am free, and the load has fallen.  I am free and forgiven, and at peace with God and man.  And, Freda, we must hasten to the house with the news; for Arthur has gone forward to obtain the release of Clarke and Sumner and Radley, and as soon as possible—­it may even be today—­he will bring them here to be cared for.”