‘There is here no question of who I am,’ I replied.  ’I may be the devil or the Archbishop of Canterbury for what you know, or need know.  The point is that I can help you—­it appears that nobody else can; and I will tell you how I propose to do it.  I will give the lady a seat in my chaise, if you will return the compliment by allowing my servant to ride one of your horses.’

I thought he would have sprung at my throat.

’You have always the alternative before you:  to wait here for the arrival of papa,’ I added.

And that settled him.  He cast another haggard look down the road, and capitulated.

‘I am sure, sir, the lady is very much obliged to you,’ he said, with an ill grace.

I gave her my hand; she mounted like a bird into the chaise; Rowley, grinning from ear to ear, closed the door behind us; the two impudent rascals of post-boys cheered and laughed aloud as we drove off; and my own postillion urged his horses at once into a rattling trot.  It was plain I was supposed by all to have done a very dashing act, and ravished the bride from the ravisher.

In the meantime I stole a look at the little lady.  She was in a state of pitiable discomposure, and her arms shook on her lap in her black lace mittens.

‘Madam—­’ I began.

And she, in the same moment, finding her voice:  ’O, what you must think of me!’

‘Madam,’ said I, ’what must any gentleman think when he sees youth, beauty and innocence in distress?  I wish I could tell you that I was old enough to be your father; I think we must give that up,’ I continued, with a smile.  ’But I will tell you something about myself which ought to do as well, and to set that little heart at rest in my society.  I am a lover.  May I say it of myself—­for I am not quite used to all the niceties of English—­that I am a true lover?  There is one whom I admire, adore, obey; she is no less good than she is beautiful; if she were here, she would take you to her arms:  conceive that she has sent me—­that she has said to me, “Go, be her knight!"’

‘O, I know she must be sweet, I know she must be worthy of you!’ cried the little lady.  ’She would never forget female decorum—­nor make the terrible erratum I’ve done!’

And at this she lifted up her voice and wept.

This did not forward matters:  it was in vain that I begged her to be more composed and to tell me a plain, consecutive tale of her misadventures; but she continued instead to pour forth the most extraordinary mixture of the correct school miss and the poor untutored little piece of womanhood in a false position—­of engrafted pedantry and incoherent nature.

‘I am certain it must have been judicial blindness,’ she sobbed.  ’I can’t think how I didn’t see it, but I didn’t; and he isn’t, is he?  And then a curtain rose . . .  O, what a moment was that!  But I knew at once that you were; you had but to appear from your carriage, and I knew it, O, she must be a fortunate young lady!  And I have no fear with you, none—­a perfect confidence.’