“Why, that’s the p’int—­that’s the very noos as I’ve got to tell ’ee,” chuckled the Ancient, as he seated himself in the corner.  “You must know, then,” he began, with an impressive rap on the lid of his snuffbox, “’bout three o’clock ’s arternoon I were sittin’ on the stile by Simon’s five-acre field when along the road comes a lady, ‘an’some an’ proud-looking, an’ as fine as fine could be, a-ridin’ of a ‘orse, an’ wi’ a servant ridin’ another ’orse be’ind ’er.  As she comes up she gives me a look out o’ ‘er eyes, soft they was, an’ dark, an’ up I gets to touch my ‘at.  All at once she smiles at me, an’ ’er smile were as sweet an’ gentle as ‘er eyes; an’ she pulls up ’er ’orse.  ’W’y, you must be the Ancient!’ says she.  ’W’y, so Peter calls me, my leddy,’ says I.  ‘An’ ‘ow is Peter?’ she says, quick-like; ’’ow is Peter?’ says she.  ‘Fine an’ ‘earty,’ says I; ‘eats well an’ sleeps sound,’ says I; ‘’is arms is strong an’ ’is legs is strong, an’ ‘e aren’t afeared o’ nobody—­like a young lion be Peter,’ says I. Now, while I’m a-sayin’ this, she looks at me, soft an’ thoughtful-like, an’ takes out a little book an’ begins to write in it, a-wrinklin’ ‘er pretty black brows over it an’ a-shakin’ ’er ’ead to ‘erself.  An’ presently she tears out what she’s been a-writin’ an’ gives it to me.  ’Will you give this to Peter for me?’ says she.  ‘That I will, my leddy!’ says I.  ’Thank ‘ee!’ says she, smilin’ again, an’ ‘oldin’ out ’er w’ite ‘an’ to me, which I kisses.  ‘Indeed!’ says she,’ I understand now why Peter is so fond of you.  I think I could be very fond of ’ee tu!’ says she.  An’ so she turns ’er ‘orse, an’ the servant ’e turns ‘is an’ off they go; an’ ’ere, Peter—­’ere be the letter.”  Saying which, the Ancient took a slip of paper from the cavernous interior of his hat and tendered it to me.

With my head in a whirl, I crossed to the door, and leaned there awhile, staring sightlessly out into the summer evening; for it seemed that in this little slip of paper lay that which meant life or death to me; so, for a long minute I leaned there, fearing to learn my fate.  Then I opened the little folded square of paper, and, holding it before my eyes, read: 

“Charmian Brown presents” (This scratched out.) “While you busied yourself forging horseshoes your cousin, Sir Maurice, sought and found me.  I do not love him, but—­ Charmian.

“Farewell” (This also scored out.)

Again I stared before me with unseeing eyes, but my hands no longer trembled, nor did I fear any more; the prisoner had received his sentence, and suspense was at an end.

And, all at once, I laughed, and tore the paper across, and laughed and laughed, till George and the Ancient came to stare at me.

“Don’t ’ee!” cried the old man; “don’t ’ee, Peter—­you be like a corp’ laughin’; don’t ’ee!” But the laugh still shook me while I tore and tore at the paper, and so let the pieces drop and flutter from my fingers.