At his side knelt the man who had felled him, and who was endeavouring to ascertain if he still breathed. Everell essayed to grasp his sword-hilt, but the other caught his wrist with a powerful hand.

“Softly, master,” said a gruff but apparently pacific voice. “’Tis all a mistake, belike, and, if so be it is, I ask your pardon humbly. I make you out to be a gentleman, sir, and in that case not what I supposed. But you appeared so sudden, I took it you’d been lying in wait for me. I struck out first, and thought afterwards, which was maybe the wrong way about. So I stayed to see what hurt was done, and lend a hand if need be.—Nay, you’ll find I haven’t touched your pockets, sir.”

Forgetting the injury in the chivalrous after-conduct—for nine men out of ten would have run away, whether the blow had been mistaken or not—Everell replied as heartily as he could:

“Why, friend, you seem a very brave fellow, and I forgive you the mistake. As for harm, I do begin to feel something like a cracked crown; but my wits are whole enough, so the damage can’t be very great. I can tell better if you will allow me to rise—which you can safely do, as I assure you I’m not your enemy, nor was I lying in wait.”

Everell then explained his concealment among the bracken, relating exactly what he had seen. “I thought you must have got far away, to judge from your speed down yonder slope.”

“Nay, sir,” said the man, stepping back so that Everell might rise, “I had no need to run further. I was already off the land of them that were chasing me—the boundary is just beyond the glade: you could see the fence among the trees if ’twere daylight—but I kept running lest they might send a shot after me. As soon as I found covert on this side the glade, I stopped to get my breath. Now, sir, I’ve been as frank with you as you’ve been with me; and I’m glad to see, by the way you stand and step, that no lasting injury is done, after all.”

Everell, whose hat had saved his skull, and who could feel only a little blood, and that already coagulating, was able to stand without other unpleasant symptoms than a thumping ache of the head. His new acquaintance seemed ready to go about his own business, but Everell was loth to part with him so soon. He was a short, thick-set, long-armed fellow, with a broad face, whose bold, rugged features would by ignorant people be termed ugly, and whose scowling, defiant look would by the same people be called wicked. But something in his speech or manner, or even in his appearance as far as could be made out in the comparative darkness, stamped him in Everell’s mind as an honest rascal, worthy of confidence.

“No injury, I assure you,” replied Everell. “Indeed I must thank you for a lesson. Henceforth I shall look before I leap, in any similar case; with my hand on my sword, too.”

“’Tis a wise resolve, master. Though I for one am glad your hand was not on your sword to-night: for then I should have felt sure you were in league with them yonder, and worse might have happened.”

“By ‘them yonder,’ I take it you mean gamekeepers.”

“Ay, sir, Squire Thornby’s men. ’Tis his wood, yon enclosure. Here on the Foxwell land a fellow is safe enough, so long as it be only a rabbit or pheasant now and then. Sure the more fool I for not thinking of that when you appeared—I might ’a’ known the Foxwell people would never stop a man them Thornby keepers was down upon.”

“Then the shot I heard awhile ago was fired at you by the Thornby keepers?”

“No need to speak of that, sir. If so be you heard a shot, why, you heard it, and there’s an end.” While he spoke, the man fingered with the flap of a well-stuffed pocket in his coat. “How I knew it was the Thornby people was by their voices, sir, whereby I saw fit to run. Not that I’m afeard of e’er a body of them all, but I hold it ’ud be fool’s work to shorten my own life or another man’s. And right glad I be to know I didn’t shorten your honour’s, especially now I see what sort of gentleman your honour is.”

“’Twould have been an odd twist of luck indeed,” returned Everell, good-humouredly. “I am much in your own case, friend: far from desiring to trip up another man, I must look to it that I’m not tripped up myself. My fellow-feeling at present is with the fox rather than the hounds.”

“Then belike you are seeking cover hereabouts?” inquired the poacher, in a tone of friendly interest.

“At all events, I wish to remain in this neighbourhood a few days, without encountering a great degree of publicity. I say as much to an honest rogue like yourself—I mightn’t be as free with a more respectable man.”

“You’re not far wrong there, sir,” replied the fellow, not at all displeased, but, on the contrary, gratified at the justice done him. “I don’t ask to know anything; I have secrets enough of my own. But if I can be of any small service, in the way of information about the lay o’ the land or such a matter—for I see you’re a stranger hereabouts, and I know these parts well—better than they know me, by a great deal—why, then, I’m your servant to command. But, if not, I’ll bid ye good night and safe lying wherever you may lodge.”

“Oh, as for that, I lodge at the ale-house in the village, for to-night, at least. I told the landlord I would ride on to-morrow; I shall have to find some pretext for staying.”

“Well, sir, you know your own wishes—but ’tis not the most private place, that there ale-house, and they be inquisitive folk, them in the village.”

“What other lodging would you recommend?” asked Everell, for the first time seriously awake to the curiosity that his presence must arouse in so remote a place. “I certainly desire to go and come unobserved: I have no mind that my motions should be watched and discussed.”

“Why, that’s a question,” said the other, frankly nonplussed.

“You ought to know the answer,” said Everell. “Surely you are able to go and come without witnesses, when upon such amusements as brought you out this evening.”

“Be sure I don’t live at the village ale-house, master. Nor at any village, neither; nor in sight of one.”

“Where, then, do you live?”

“I have my cottage, and my patch o’ ground that I contrive to coax a livin’ out of—with a little assistance from outside.” He scarce consciously laid his palm against the fat pocket. “’Tis a poor place, sir, but has the recommendation of privacy. ’Tis so lost in the woods, so to speak, and closed round by hillocks and thickets, I doubt you could ever find it if I told you the way.”

“Who lives with you?”

“Nobody at present, since my last son was took by the press-gang—he was in Newcastle to visit his brother, who’s a porter there. They would go out to see the world, them lads!”

“Then you have room for a lodger,” said Everell, tentatively.

“Fine lodgings for a gentleman like you, sir!”

“Never mind; I’ve had worse,” Everell replied, thinking of Scotland; “and not so long since, either.”

“And the food, sir,—with your tender stomach?”

“Man, I’ve lived two days on a wet oatcake.”

The poacher was not the sort of fellow to offer the same objections over again, nor to be upset by the novelty of the suggestion. The two being circumstanced as they were, and intuitively trusting each other, no proposal could have been more natural. So far from hemming and hawing, therefore, the man merely enumerated such further disadvantages as a gentleman must encounter in sharing his abode and larder, and, these being made light of, gave his assent. The question immediately arose as to how Everell should transfer his residence from the ale-house to the poacher’s cottage without leaving a trace. It was important that he should depart from the ale-house in regular fashion, lest it be supposed that he had met with foul play, and a search be made. Moreover, he must have his belongings—for the cloak-bag contained his clean linen, stockings, razor, and other necessaries of decent living: though he desired to be visible to but one person while in the neighbourhood, he desired that to her he should appear at no disadvantage. After some discussion, a course was planned, which Everell and his intended host—who gave his name as John Tarby—immediately set out upon.

John Tarby led the way through that part of the wood which Everell had lately traversed. They came, at length, to the verge of the glen; but, instead of keeping to the edge, the guide descended the bracken-covered side into the deeper gloom of the thickly timbered bottom. Here, indeed, Everell found what was to him complete darkness, and he had to clutch his companion’s coat-skirt for guidance. John Tarby, however, proceeded without hesitation or doubt, deviating this way or that to avoid tree or thicket, the music of the stream rising or falling as the two men moved more or less close to its border. At last they emerged from the glen’s mouth, at the foot of the steep incline that rose to the old sunken garden of Foxwell Court. Here John Tarby concealed his gun by laying it across the boughs of a young oak. Where the glen and the timber ceased, the walkers were encountered by the high palings which served to enclose the park on that side except where wooden bars spanned the stream. By using the bars as a bridge, Everell and his guide crossed the stream. Tarby led the way a few rods farther, stopped, and carefully removed a loose paling or two. They squeezed themselves through the opening, and stood in the field. Tarby replaced the palings in their former apparently secure position, and then the two rapidly skirted the field, keeping close to the fence so as to profit by the dark background it afforded their bodies. Turning at the angle of the field, and skulking along a rough stone wall, they finally reached the village end, meeting their former companion, the stream, just in time for a momentary greeting ere it passed under the bridge. Leaving the poacher to lie unseen in the shadowed corner of the field, Everell clambered over a wooden barrier and up a low bank, and, having thus gained the road, went on alone to the ale-house.

The village street was deserted, but the ale-house windows showed light; and the sound of slow, broad voices, mingled in chaffing disputation, indicated that ale was flowing in the general room. Everell went by way of the passage to his own chamber, where a lighted candle awaited him. He rang for the landlord.

“I’ve found a conveyance to Burndale to-night,” said Everell, when the old man appeared. “A belated carrier, I believe, whom I met at the bridge yonder, where he’s waiting for me. But as I took this room for the night, you must allow me to pay for it, and the price of breakfast, too.”

The landlord, whose face had lengthened at the first words, now resumed his serenity, and he amiably gathered in the silver that Everell had laid on the table. This seemed to warm him into solicitude for the departing guest’s convenience, and he expressed the hope that the wagoner was at the door to carry the bag.

“Nay, he wouldn’t turn back,” said Everell; “nor could he leave his horses. But ’tis not far to the bridge.” And he took up the bag to bear it himself.

“Nay, then, your pardon, sir, I’ll carry it,” interposed the landlord.

“My good man, I wouldn’t think of taking you from your house and customers.”

“’Tis not far, as you say, sir, and my daughter—”

But Everell had gone, and the obliging old fellow was left to scratch his head and wonder. The more he wondered, the more reason there seemed for doing so. He had not heard anything like a carrier’s wagon pass, as it must have done if it was now at the bridge and bound for Burndale. It was strange enough that a carrier’s wagon should travel that road at such an hour, and stranger still that it should do so without its custodian stopping for a cup of good cheer. And the gentleman’s unwillingness to have his baggage carried!

The ale-house keeper was not so old as to have outlived curiosity. He slipped out, crossed the green, and stood in the middle of the road, peering through the starlit night. Yes, there was the figure of the gentleman, truly enough, swiftly retreating down the village street that led to the bridge. The landlord slunk after him, keeping close to the walls and hedges, and stepping silently. He was soon sufficiently near the bridge to perceive that no conveyance waited there. The assurance of this acted so upon his mind as to make him stop and consider whether it was safe to go further. As he stood gaping, the form of the strange gentleman suddenly vanished. The old man stared for another moment: then, assailed with a feeling that here was mystery nothing short of devil’s work, he turned and fled in a panic to his ale-house.

Everell, who had not once looked back, had passed from the old man’s view by turning from the road to rejoin the waiting poacher. Without a word, Tarby arose, relieved Everell of the cloak-bag, and led the way over the route by which they had come from the park. The palings were again removed and replaced, the stream was again crossed by means of the bars. The two entered the blackness of the glen, Tarby repossessing himself of his fowling-piece. By the time they had ascended to the general level of the park, the moon had risen, and, as they proceeded in a Northwesterly direction, the more open spaces, whether clothed in green sward or in bracken of autumnal brown, wore a beauty which Everell associated in his mind with the young lady not far away, and thus the silent woods and glades seemed to him a forest of enchantment.

Tarby spoke only to call Everell’s attention to landmarks by which he might know the course again. He indicated the whereabouts of the keeper’s lodge without passing near it. They left the park by means of another such weak place in the barrier as had served them before, the poacher remarking that he preferred that kind of egress even when barred gates were near at hand. They now traversed a deserted bit of heath, covered with gorse, and plunged into a rough wood, much thicker and gloomier than the park behind them. Following a ditch, or bed of a dried-up stream, they emerged at last upon some partly clear, rugged land which rose gradually before them. This they ascended, and so came to a region of bare, rocky hills and deep wooded hollows. Tarby kept mainly to the hollows, until at last, having crossed a little ridge, he descended to a vale lying in the shape of a crescent, and seeming in the moonlight to be covered with timber; but a narrow patch of clearing ran diagonally across, watered by a little stream. Everell and his guide came into this clearing at the end by which the brook left it. Near the stream—so near, indeed, that they had barely room to walk between—was a thick mass of tall gorse bushes, threatening scratches to any intruder. Tarby turned in among these at a narrow opening, followed close by his wondering guest. In a moment Everell discovered that the bushes, instead of constituting a solid thicket, formed but a hollow circle, within which was a low cottage of timber and rough plaster.

“Here us be,” said John Tarby, dropping bag and gun to respond to the leaping caresses of a mongrel hound that had sprung up from the door-stone. “He won’t hurt you, sir; ’tis a ’bedient animal. When I tells him to stop here, ’tis here he stops, and won’t come out even to meet me, unless I call or whistle.”

The dog transferred his attentions to Everell on perceiving him to be an approved visitor, while the poacher opened the door and lighted a candle within. Entering, Everell found a combination of kitchen, sleeping-chamber, and living-room, the whole giving an impression of comfort far exceeding that of the bothy he had for a time inhabited in Scotland.

“So this is your castle,” said Everell, looking around with approbation.

“Ay, sir, with the gorse for wall and the brook for moat. And I don’t lack a postern to escape by, if so be I was ever hard pressed in front.” He opened a small square shutter in the back of the room. “’Tis all gorse out there, sir, and only me and the dog knows the path through to the rocks.”

There was at one end of the room a pallet bed, which Tarby assigned to his guest, saying he would shake down some heather for his own use at the opposite end. He went out, and returned with a sackful of this, having borrowed from the reserve supply of his cow, which he housed in a shed on the other side of the stream. He informed Everell that he kept a few fowls also, though the great part of his clearing was made to serve as a vegetable-garden. He asked what Everell would like for supper, and named three or four possibilities besides the rabbit he drew from his large pocket. But Everell had supped at the ale-house, and, as he was now quite fatigued, he went to bed, leaving his host to partake of bread and cheese, while the dog munched a cold bone in the corner.

When Everell awoke, bright day was shining in through the single window and the open doorway, and John Tarby was preparing a breakfast of eggs and bacon. Everell, despite his now eager appetite and his impatience to be about his purpose, dressed himself with care, performing his toilet with the aid of the stream, and putting on fresh linen and stockings. He then ate heartily, and, having given his host a sufficient idea of where he wished to spend his day, set forth in Tarby’s company, that the poacher might show him the way by daylight. Taking care to note every landmark, Everell arrived finally in that portion of the Foxwell park which lay near the mansion. Tarby here took his leave, to attend to his own affairs, making a rendezvous with his guest in case the latter should not have returned to the cottage by nightfall—for it was not certain that he could find his way after dark at the first attempt.

Everell strolled on till the gables of Foxwell Court appeared through the trees. He found a convenient spot where he could sit and observe the terrace that stretched between the house and the park. His highest hope was that the young lady would, sooner or later, come to take the air upon the terrace and extend her walk into the park.

He sat amidst bracken, peering out through countless small openings among the browning leaves and stems. A hundred times he changed his position, and a hundred sighs of impatience escaped him, before anything occurred to break the monotony of his watch. And when, toward noon, the great door of the house opened, and figures in feminine garb appeared, they proved to be only the two ladies in whom he was not interested. They sauntered along the terrace, arm in arm, talking and laughing, making a graceful picture against the broken balustrade, or on the wide steps between the moss-covered, crumbling flower-pots. They were joined presently by the stouter gentleman, and at last by the taller. Finally, after a half-hour of mirthful chatter, the four went indoors again, and left the terrace empty for another long time of waiting.

In the afternoon the same four appeared on horseback in the lane which served as the bridle-path from the courtyard side of the house to the park. Entering the park at some distance from Everett’s hiding-place, they were soon lost to his view among the trees. If she should appear now, while they were absent! As time lengthened, he meditated going boldly to the house and asking for her. But he forced himself to patience, only moving to another watching-place a few yards away. He had scarcely done so, and resumed his gaze, when he beheld her standing upon the steps of the house.

He sat perfectly still, as if the least alarm might frighten her away. She advanced slowly down the terrace, looked West, then East, then into the park. Would that those inviting shades might lure her!—would that she might feel and obey the beckoning of his heart! But she turned and walked to the Western end of the terrace, and stood for awhile in admiration of the soft landscape and distant mountains. Presently he saw her look sharply toward the park, as if her attention had been suddenly, and not pleasantly, drawn that way. He heard the riders, who were doubtless coming back, and would pass near her in going through the lane. She turned and moved toward the opposite end of the terrace—evidently to avoid them. She did not stop till she was looking on the neglected garden from the top of the steps descending to it. There she stood for a few moments, contemplating the scene; then passed down the steps, disappearing from view.

Everell took his resolution: sprang from his place, and, bending his body forward, dashed through bracken and behind trees to the glen-side. He darted along the crest, reached the gate in the wall, and saw the young lady sauntering amidst the trees and shrubbery. He glided swiftly forth, and was on his knee, pressing her hand to his lips, ere she could do more than utter a low cry of astonishment.

The surprise in her face was quickly followed by pleasure; but consciousness came a moment later, with a rush of scarlet to her cheeks and a look of faint reproof and vague apprehension to her eyes.

“Good heaven, sir,” she said, in a low voice, “I never dreamed of seeing you again!”

“Fear nothing,” he replied, in a tone as guarded as hers; “we cannot be observed here—the shrubbery is all around us.—I have come to thank you for the warning you gave me at the inn yesterday.”