“Which I trow he never will be,” answered Philip warmly, as he laid his hand on Kate’s shoulder.

Those two were very near akin in spirit and in sympathy.  Kate knew all his love for Petronella, and his anxiety for her since her flight (though he fully believed her to be in hiding with Cuthbert in the forest, albeit he had not been able to discover them), and he had strong fellow feeling with the impulsive lovers.

“He has never loved any but thee, my sister, since the days we played together as children.  Save that concealment ever leads to trouble, and that wedlock vows are too sacred to be made playthings of, I could find it in my heart to wish that Petronella and I were wed in like fashion.  But our mother is sorely grieved at what thou hast done—­going before a tonsured priest, with none of thine own kindred by, to take vows which should have had the sanction of thy parents before they passed thy lips, and should have been made in different fashion and in a different place.  Howbeit no doubt time will soften her anger, and she will grow reconciled to the thought.  When we have made all inquiries anent this priest and his ways, my father and I will to London to speak with Lord Andover of this business.  I trust all will end well for thee, sister.  But thou must learn in thy captivity to be a patient and discreet maiden, that they do not fear to give thee to Culverhouse at last, since it must needs be so.”

Kate looked up gratefully, comforted by the kind tone of her brother’s words.

“In very sooth I will try, Philip.  I thank thee for thy good counsel.  I will be patient and discreet towards my great aunts.  I will strive to show them all due reverence, that they may satisfy my mother when she makes inquiry of them.”

Kate long remembered the ride with her father and brother through the forest and across the heath that day.  Her father was stern and grave, and scarcely addressed a single word to her.  Philip and she talked a little, but were affected by this silence of displeasure, and observed a befitting decorum and quietness.  Sir Richard made his daughter take him to the spot of her troth plight, and show him exactly how and where it had taken place.  As they stopped to bait the horses at the little hostelry, he made various inquiries concerning the priest and his annual visitation to the wake on May Day, and his face looked none the less severe as he heard the replies.

“Methinks the knot hath been something tightly tied—­too tight for it to be easily unloosed,” whispered Philip to his sister as he lifted her to the saddle after the noontide halt; and she could not but answer by a bright smile, which she saw reflected in his face.

The day, which had been bright and fine, turned dull and lowering as the riders neared the Cross Way House, as the residence of Lady Humbert was called; and Kate looked curiously at the house as they approached it, wondering what sort of a life its inmates led.