‘Hundreds of them, Mr. Beamish !’

’That is a holocaust of squires reduced to make an incense for me, though you have not performed Druid rites and packed them in gigantic osier ribs.  Be philosophical, but accept your personal dues.  Grant us ours too.  I have a serious intention to preserve this young duchess, and I expect my task to be severe.  I carry the banner aforesaid; verily and penitentially I do.  It is an error of the vulgar to suppose that all is dragon in the dragon’s jaws.’

‘Men are his fangs and claws.’

’Ay, but the passion for his fiery breath is in woman.  She will take her leap and have her jump, will and will!  And at the point where she will and she won’t, the dragon gulps and down she goes!  However, the business is to keep our buttercup duchess from that same point.  Is she near?’

‘I can see her,’ said Chloe.

Beau Beamish requested a sketch of her, and Chloe began:  ’She is ravishing.’

Upon which he commented, ’Every woman is ravishing at forty paces, and still more so in imagination.’

’Beautiful auburn hair, and a dazzling red and white complexion, set in a blue coif.’

‘Her eyes?’

‘Melting blue.’

‘’Tis an English witch!’ exclaimed the beau, and he compassionately invoked her absent lord.

Chloe’s optics were no longer tasked to discern the fair lady’s lineaments, for the chariot windows came flush with those of the beau on the broad plateau of the hill.  His coach door was opened.  He sat upright, levelling his privileged stare at Duchess Susan until she blushed.

‘Ay, madam,’ quoth he, ‘I am not the first.’

‘La, sir!’ said she; ‘who are you?’

The beau deliberately raised his hat and bowed.  ’He, madam, of whose approach the gentleman who took his leave of you on yonder elevation informed you.’

She looked artlessly over her shoulder, and at the beau alighting from his carriage.  ‘A gentleman?’

‘On horseback.’

The duchess popped her head through the window on an impulse to measure the distance between the two hills.

‘Never!’ she cried.

‘Why, madam, did he deliver no message to announce me?’ said the beau, ruffling.

‘Goodness gracious!  You must be Mr. Beamish,’ she replied.

He laid his hat on his bosom, and invited her to quit her carriage for a seat beside him.  She stipulated, ‘If you are really Mr. Beamish?’ He frowned, and raised his head to convince her; but she would not be impressed, and he applied to Chloe to establish his identity.  Hearing Chloe’s name, the duchess called out, ’Oh! there, now, that’s enough, for Chloe’s my maid here, and I know she’s a lady born, and we’re going to be friends.  Hand me to Chloe.  And you are Chloe?’ she said, after a frank stride from step to step of the carriages.  ’And don’t mind being my maid?  You do look a nice, kind