Marion sat in the corner of the coach, wondering why the roads had become so much more uneven, the vehicle itself so comfortless, the sturdy greys so slow seeming, since she had travelled that same course with her father not more than two months ago. And she had not the consolation that pleasanter riding lay ahead; ruefully she thought of the waggon tracks of the west country, compared with which the narrow lanes, deeply rutted, through which the coach now rocked and jolted, made easy going.

On the first day, after Beckenham had left the party, and the coach had settled down to a steady pace, the sense of slowness had been intolerable to the girl. Her fear and dread sped backwards and forwards between Roger in his gaol and herself crawling snailwise over the intervening space, and taunted her with her helplessness. The enforced inaction left her a prey to mental maladies that otherwise she would have shaken off. Moody and irritable, she had words for none.

At the outset, she had been forced to recognise one drag on her speed: she dare not press the greys beyond their strength, nor dare she leave them at some posting-house and take fresh horses for the succeeding stages of the journey. That she risked her father's displeasure in any case, in returning thus, she was certain. She saw her position from his point of view: merely because she could not bear to stay behind, she had come home; but that was no reason why she should ruin the horses. Therefore it was needless for Zacchary to preach rest and caution. At the inn where they stopped for the night, Marion saw to it that the weight of her purse and the new-born authority of her manner ensured the best stabling and food the house afforded. She had done all she could. Everything now depended on the coach and the animals. But in the meantime only some few hours had passed since she left London, and long days lay ahead during which she must perforce sit idle.

The morrow found her in the same gloomy condition, her desperate fancy dwelling on each coming stage of the interminable road. One day pressed on to another without any incident to ease her unhappy mood. Slowly the sun rose, and slowly sank to rest; the young moon over her casement mocked her restless sleep; and for Marion the incomparable beauty of the green summer turned into the spite of prison walls.

Simone, unobtrusively watching her young mistress, began to be concerned for her state, and would have almost welcomed an accident, a stray highwayman, if only the face in the corner would lose its set look.

But so far no such ill hap had occurred. Travelling only by daylight, and so well guarded, and, as the men on the box averred, protected by a special fate, the coach had gone on its way unmolested. Tony the valiant, as Simone had dubbed him, was indeed worth the three men of his master's boast, and his splendid horsemanship and elegant livery had called for no few admiring glances from the farm lads and rosy-cheeked wenches who stood at times to watch the coach and its outrider go by. The travellers had done almost half the journey before Simone found out that while Zacchary and Reuben slept in a hayloft above the horses' stalls, Tony chose for his bed the boards of the landing outside the ladies' bedchamber. Simone herself, water jug in hand, had come suddenly upon this unexpected barricade one morning when Master Tony had overslept himself. She had all but fallen headlong over the prostrate body, and her exclamation finding its way into his dreams, the young man had become aware of a slippered foot within reach of his hand. At once his fingers closed on the foot, while he wriggled into a position that would enable him to see who was daring to pass so close to the door behind which his fair charges were sleeping. Scarcely had he brought his drowsy eyes to rest on Simone's dainty face before the few drops of water left in the ewer trickled on to his own. Her foot released, Simone stood back with a smile. 'So 'tis thyself who snores so loudly that my mistress and I have feared our walls were but thin boards! Snore on, valiant warrior,' said Simone over her shoulder, as she went along the passage. 'Henceforth the sound of thy slumbers shall be music to our ears.'

In the late afternoon of the fourth day the coach was making a rather slow progress along the Ilminster Road. Zacchary had discovered, or imagined, as Marion asserted, a slight lameness in the inside leader. Nothing would induce him to hurry his pace, and Marion had been obliged to bow to his will.

To Simone's unbounded relief, Marion's attack of depression had worn itself out. The consciousness that in a few more days, granted no ill fortune, she would cross the boundary into Cornwall, lent an added buoyancy to her reacting mood.

The sound of the broad Dorset speech, which had induced a home-coming sensation in Marion, had greatly diverted Simone. Marion, giving her a lesson in west country dialect, did not notice the narrow lane, deep ditched at one side, into which they had passed, and was unaware of any danger until, with a sickening heave, the coach slanted down into the hollow, and rested there.

'Bide where you be, Mistress,' came Zacchary's call. 'Us'll shift un all right!'

For a few seconds the men struggled at the horses' heads, the Cornishman's cries to the struggling greys running into a high falsetto and an affectionate reviling that made even Marion smile.

''Tis nothing,' she said to Simone, as the two balanced themselves against the list of the coach floor. 'We toppled into a ditch coming down, and were soon on the road again. Zacchary must have been careless for once. There! 'Twas a splendid pull. Ah—stay! What was that?'

The coach, almost balanced, had fallen back slanting-wise, and with the movement had come the sound of a snap, and a struggling of horses' feet. The voices of the men ceased.

'Something has happened,' said Marion, 'and I can't open this villainous door! Reuben!' she called.

The footman was already climbing on to the coach step, which appeared to be poised in mid-air, and in a moment the two girls were lifted to the ground.

Zacchary was bending over a broken trace.

'Oh!' said Marion in a relieved tone, 'I thought the pole had gone.'

Zacchary's mouth twisted under his beard. 'My lady would sing a different song by and by, when she saw the time it would take to mend the break.'

'You have all your tools, have you not?' asked Marion.

Zacchary straightened himself. 'There bean't nawt in yonder box at all, Mistress. A wor that struck at the sudden hurry of coming away a' clean forgot.'

Marion stood in silent dismay.

Meanwhile, Tony had been scouting ahead, and now trotted down the lane with the news that a likely inn was perched in a hollow over the next hill.

'Didst see aught of a cobbler's bench perched by un?' demanded Zacchary, his wrath rising. 'Streak off now, tha girt gawk! And if thou should light on a few sheep up over—and us allows tha'll be some scared—there bean't no call to trot back to tell the Mistress. A body would ha' thought—but thy head's too full o' Lunnon impidence for aught else.'

Not waiting to hear the end of the speech, Tony wheeled round.

'Will it take long to mend it, Zacchary?' inquired Marion.

'Maybe, maybe. 'Tis a bad split. Easy, now there,' called Zacchary, watching Reuben freeing the wheelers. 'So. Let un graze quiet-like.'

Marion sighed. 'Do your best, Zacchary,' she said gently. 'We will walk on a bit, and wait at the inn till you come.'

After a short walk between the steep flower-grown hedges, the two reached the little hostelry which Tony had espied from the crest of the hill. A smiling, rosy-cheeked innkeeper, with a smiling, rosy-cheeked wife at his side, stood on the steps as the two came up, their approach having been noted from the kitchen windows. The woman smoothed her apron and dropped a series of curtseys as her husband greeted the travellers.

'Thank you,' said Marion. 'We should like to wait awhile, but 'twould be more pleasure to walk about in the garden yonder than to sit indoors. We have had over much sitting in the coach these days past. But,' she added, rather anxiously, 'did not our man come up to ask for an awl and some leather for mending the trace?'

'He has but now gone up over, Madam,' said the innkeeper. 'The cobbler's cottage is that you see yonder, next the blacksmith's.'

As he spoke, the man pointed out the few dwellings of a tiny hamlet across the fields.

'If you would see that the cobbler comes himself,' began Marion:—then she broke off, smiling. 'Tony is indeed worth three men,' she said to Simone. 'See yonder where he comes with the cobbler riding behind.'

'A don't allow but that his horse be tired some,' remarked the innkeeper as, in a few minutes, Tony's chestnut went by at a canter with her double burden. 'Would it not be best to lie here and go on to-morrow?'

Here the wife chimed in. 'There be a dish o' trout from the brook, caught this morning, a fine ham up the chimney ready for cutting, Mistress, and sheep's kidneys, and a venison pasty, and a good fat fowl hanging yonder. Killed yesterday, 'twas.'

Marion shook her head. 'We want to get to Ilminster to-night.'

'Ilminster! For pity's sake, Mistress, think of the horses!' cried the innkeeper. 'But in any case, wife, get the ladies a pot of cider.'

For close on an hour Marion and Simone walked in the garden and to and fro along the lane, waiting for the rest of the party to reappear. Towards the end of the time Marion fell silent, and Simon............