‘Then will I answer thee, Richard,’ she said, with a strange trembling in her voice. ‘—­I come from Raglan.’

‘And whither art going, Dorothy?’

‘To Wyfern.’

‘On what business?’

’Were it then so wonderful, Richard, if I should desire to be at home, seeing Wyfern is now safer than Raglan?  It was for safety I went thither, thou knowest.’

’It might not be wonderful in another, Dorothy, but in thee it were truly wonderful; for now are they of Raglan thy friends, and thou art a brave woman, and lovest thy friends.  I would not believe it of thee even from the mouth of thy mother.  Confess—­thou bearest about thee that thou wouldst not willingly show me.’

Dorothy, as if in embarrassment, drew from her pocket her handkerchief, and with it a comb, which fell on the ground.

‘Prithee, Richard, pick me up my comb,’ she said; then, answering his question, continued, ’—­No, I have nothing about me I would not show thee, Richard:  wilt thou take my word for it?’

When she had spoken, she held out her hand, and receiving from him the comb, replaced it in her pocket.  But a keen pang of remorse went through her heart.

‘I am a man under authority,’ said Richard, ’and my orders will not allow me.  Besides thou knowest, Dorothy, although it involves such questions in casuistry as I cannot meet, men say thou art not bound to tell the truth to thine enemy.’

‘An’ thou be mine enemy, Richard, then must thou satisfy thyself,’ said Dorothy, trying to speak in a tone of offence.  But while she sat there looking at him, it seemed as if her heart were floating on the top of a great wave out somewhere in the moonlight.  Yet the conscience-dog was awake in his kennel.

Richard stood for a moment in silent perplexity.

‘Wilt thou swear to me, Dorothy,’ he said at length, ’that thou hast no papers about thee, neither art the bearer of news or request or sign to any of the king’s party?’

‘Richard,’ returned Dorothy, ’thou hast thyself taken from my words the credit:  I say to thee again, satisfy thyself.’

‘Dorothy, what am I to do?’ he cried.

‘Thy duty, Richard,’ she answered.

‘My duty is to search thee,’ he said.

Dorothy was silent.  Her heart was beating terribly, but she would see the end of the path she had taken ere she would think of turning.  And she would trust Richard.  Would she then have him fail of his duty?  Would she have the straight-going Richard swerve?  Even in the face of her maidenly fears, she would encounter anything rather than Richard should for her sake be false.  But Richard would not turn aside.  Neither would he shame her.  He would find some way.

‘Do then thy duty, Richard,’ she said, and sliding from her saddle, she stood before him, one hand grasping Dick’s mane.

There was no defiance in her tone.  She was but submitting, assured of deliverance.