All alone there he had taken out his Prayer-book, a little black clasped book with my father’s coat-of-arms and one blood-stain on it —­he loved it as we love our Book of the Hours, and indeed, it is much the very same, for which reason it was then forbidden in England—­and was kneeling in prayer, joining in spirit with the rest of his Church, when a soft step and a rustle of garments made him look up, and he beheld the white face and trembling figure of poor Millicent.

‘Sir,’ she said, as he rose, ’I ask your pardon.  I should not have interrupted your devotions, but now is your time.  My servant’s riding-dress is in a closet by the buttery hatch, his horse is in the stable, there is no sentry in the way, for I have looked all about.  No one will return to the house for at least two hours longer; you will have full time to escape.’

I can see the smile of sadness with which my brother looked into her face as he thanked her, and told her that he was on his parole of honour.  At that answer she sank down into a chair, hiding her face and weeping—­weeping with such an agony of self-abandonment and grief as rent my brother’s very heart, while he stood in grievous perplexity, unable to leave her alone in her sorrow, yet loving her too well and truly to dare to console her.  One or two broken words made him think she feared for his life, and he made haste to assure her that it was in no danger, since Mr. Merrycourt was assured of bearing him safely through.  She only moaned in answer, and said presently something about living with such a sort of people as made her forget what a cavalier’s truth and honour were.

He were sorely shaken, but he thought the best and kindest mode of helping her to recover herself would be to go on where he was in the morning prayer, and, being just in the midst of their Litany, he told her so, and read it aloud.  She knelt with her head on the cushions and presently sobbed out a response, growing calmer as he went on.

When it was ended she had ceased weeping, though Eustace said it was piteous to see how changed she was, and the startled pleading look in the dark eyes that used to look at him with such confiding love.

She said she had not heard those prayers since one day in the spring, when she had stolen out to a house in town where there was a gathering round one of the persecuted minister, and alas! her stepdaughters had suspected her, and accused her to their father.  He pursued her, caused the train-bands to break in on the congregation and the minister to be carried off to prison.  It was this that had brought on the sickness of which she declared that she hoped to have died.

When Eustace would have argued against this wish, it brought out all that he would fain never have heard nor known.