“No, sir, not after what you said.”

“Well, then, I am a magistrate, and I wish to administer an oath to you.”

“Very well, sir, I’ll swear whatever you like.”

“Then listen—­take the book in your right hand—­you shall swear the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God!  You swear to execute whatever duty I may happen to require at your hands, and to keep the performance of that duty a secret from every living mortal, and besides to keep secret the fact that I am in any way connected with it—­you swear this?”

“I do, sir,” replied the other, kissing the book.

The baronet paused a little.

“Very well,” he added, “consider yourself solemnly sworn, and pray recollect that if you violate this oath—­in other words, if you commit perjury, I shall have you transported as sure as your name is Gillespie.”

“But your honor has sworn me to secrecy, and yet I don’t know the secret.”

“Neither shall you—­for twenty-four hours longer.  I am not and shall not be in a condition to mention it to you sooner, but I put you under the obligation now, in order that you may have time to reflect upon its importance.  You may go.”

Gillespie felt exceedingly puzzled as to the nature of the services about to be required at his hands, but as every attempt to solve this difficulty was fruitless, he resolved to await the event in patience, aware that the period between his anxiety on the subject and a knowledge of it was but short.

We need not hesitate to assure our readers, that if Lucy Gourlay had been apprised, or even dreamt for a moment, that the stranger and she were on that night to be fellow-travellers in the same coach, she would unquestionably have deferred her journey to tha metropolis, or, in other words, her escape from the senseless tyranny of her ambitious father.  Fate, however, is fate, and it is precisely the occurrence of these seemingly incidental coincidences that in fact, as well as in fiction, constitutes the principal interest of those circumstances which give romance to the events of human life and develop its character.

The “Fly” started from Ballytrain at the usual hour, with only two inside passengers—­to wit, our friend the stranger and a wealthy stock-farmer from the same parish.  He was a large, big-boned, good-humored fellow, dressed in a strong frieze outside coat or jock, buckskin breeches, top-boots, and a heavy loaded whip, his inseparable companion wherever he went.

The coach, on arriving at the white gate, pulled up, and two females, deeply and closely veiled, took their seats inside.  Of course, the natural politeness of the stranger prevented him from obtruding his conversation upon ladies with whom he was not acquainted.  The honest farmer, however, felt no such scruples, nor, as it happened, did one at least of the ladies in question.

“This is a nice affair,” he observed, “about the Black Baronet’s daughter.”