“Drink, I tell you.  You’ve robbed me, and you shall drink!”

“I haven’t, I haven’t,” Anthony whined.

“Drink, and be silent.  You’ve robbed me, and you shall drink! and by heaven! if you resist, I’ll hand you over to bluer imps than you’ve ever dreamed of, old gentleman!  You’ve robbed me, Mr. Hackbut.  Drink!  I tell you.”

Anthony wept into his glass.

“That’s a trick I could never do,” said Robert, eyeing the drip of the trembling old tear pitilessly.  “Your health, Mr. Hackbut.  You’ve robbed me of my sweetheart.  Never mind.  Life’s but the pop of a gun.  Some of us flash in the pan, and they’re the only ones that do no mischief.  You’re not one of them, sir; so you must drink, and let me see you cheerful.”

By degrees, the wine stirred Anthony’s blood, and he chirped feebly, as one who half remembered that he ought to be miserable.  Robert listened to his maundering account of his adventure with the Bank money, sternly replenishing his glass.  His attention was taken by the sight of Dahlia stepping forth from a chemist’s shop in the street nearly opposite to the inn.  “This is my medicine,” said Robert; “and yours too,” he addressed Anthony.

The sun had passed its meridian when they went into the streets again.  Robert’s head was high as a cock’s, and Anthony leaned on his arm; performing short half-circles headlong to the front, until the mighty arm checked and uplifted him.  They were soon in the fields leading to Wrexby.  Robert saw two female figures far ahead.  A man was hastening to join them.  The women started and turned suddenly:  one threw up her hands, and darkened her face.  It was in the pathway of a broad meadow, deep with grass, wherein the red sorrel topped the yellow buttercup, like rust upon the season’s gold.  Robert hastened on.  He scarce at the moment knew the man whose shoulder he seized, but he had recognised Dahlia and Rhoda, and he found himself face to face with Sedgett.

“It’s you!”

“Perhaps you’ll keep your hands off; before you make sure, another time.”

Robert said:  “I really beg your pardon.  Step aside with me.”

“Not while I’ve a ha’p’orth o’ brains in my noddle,” replied Sedgett, drawling an imitation of his enemy’s courteous tone.  “I’ve come for my wife.  I’m just down by train, and a bit out of my way, I reckon.  I’m come, and I’m in a hurry.  She shall get home, and have on her things—­ boxes packed, and we go.”

Robert waved Dahlia and Rhoda to speed homeward.  Anthony had fallen against the roots of a banking elm, and surveyed the scene with philosophic abstractedness.  Rhoda moved, taking Dahlia’s hand.

“Stop,” cried Sedgett.  “Do you people here think me a fool?  Eccles, you know me better ’n that.  That young woman’s my wife.  I’ve come for her, I tell ye.”

“You’ve no claim on her,” Rhoda burst forth weakly, and quivered, and turned her eyes supplicatingly on Robert.  Dahlia was a statue of icy fright.