When I try to write that part of my story that should here immediately ensue, I find the attempt at first more destructive of the feather than the nib of my pen. If I close my eyes and seek to live again in memory the hour that followed upon what I have last related, the result is always the same: I find myself awaking, as it were, from a kind of inner dream to the outward consciousness of heavily pouring rain, the rhythmic jingle of bridles, and the discordant squeaking of wet saddle under wetter boots.  
For Ned and I are out in the foulest night of that foul November, and Roan Charley beneath me makes brave use of his tired limbs to come the sooner at his own stable. And then the sound of Ned's voice speaking to his horse in some manner brings back to me a few incidents of our passing from my Lady Mary's withdrawing-room to this wet and pitiless night; things which at this time of writing I do not clearly nor directly recall, but merely remember that I did then recollect; how His Highness had turned his back upon us, and departed in company of Mr. Bentinck and Count Schomberg; how Ned had sworn he would not leave his own house, saying they should hang him in the morning if they would; how M. de Rondiniacque and I had between us well-nigh forced him from the house; and how, with the Frenchman's help, I had gotten the two of us to horse; and how this good friend had, ere we left, said many things; but not one word of his could I recall.
 
So, having gathered out of my stupor the remnants of the nearer past, I was already again in my mind busily at work with divers plots and plannings to bring out of this dismal present a glorious and golden future. This change had been indeed brought to pass; nor was Dame Fate's change of front tedious of accomplishment; but I feel it is due to any that reads me to confess at once that the passage from evil fortune to good was the work rather of the hand of God and the goodness of men, than brought about by any skill or wit of the poor maid that would gladly have foregone all merriment here and hereafter to see once more a smile on the lips of the man she loved.
 
I have said that the present was dismal; to my companion, indeed, it could be no otherwise; yet to me the awful gloom of disfavor and disgrace was somewhat lightened by a little throb of joy, trembling and intermittent indeed, but growing in force, and of decreasing interval, as the horses swung, splashing through rain and mud, and their riders spoke never a word. I was a woman; and I was out alone in the darkest night of our two lives with the man who to me was all men since God gave me memory; I had him to myself, to cherish, to comfort, and, if it might be, to serve; what else should I do, but, woman-like, yearn over him with bowels of compassion, and rejoice that I was the angler that should, if it pleased Heaven, fish his soul from the dark and turbid waters of despair?
 
At length—"Ned!" I cried, but had no answer; and again, "Ned! dear Ned!" with no better luck. So I pushed my horse over against his till our knees came together, and laid my hand on his arm. And then somehow I knew, dark as pitch though it was, that he turned his head to me.
 
"Though you be unhappy," I said, letting of set purpose the catch of a small sob come into my voice, "you do not need to flout your little friend. 'T is very like you think it all my fault, but all I could, since Philip left us, I have done,—all, I would say, that you would let me do."
 
"More!" he cried in answer; "you have done far more than I would have had you do; for I believe you did save my life. If I thank you now," he added, with great bitterness, "I do fear my words will lack the ring of truth."
 
"Nay," I said, as coldly as I might, in hope to engage his interest, "there is but one owes thanks for that; and it is not you."
 
"Who then?" he asked, but languidly, as having little care for an answer.
 
"Who but the person," I replied, "in whose sole interest it was saved?"
 
"You speak in riddles, lad," he said, and then at once burst into a very hearty laugh at his own mistake; at which my heart danced within me to a tune very sweet; for laughter was at least a step in the way I would have him walk. "My wits have gone browsing like sheep," he went on. "Life is sweet, I do suppose, and soon I shall thank you. Even now I feel the savor of it coming back to me. Let us push on," he said, and put spurs to his horse.
 
When I was once again by his side—"Ah!" he cried, "one is a man again with a horse between his knees."
 
"I do not know," I replied. "Was it for that you called me lad, Captain?"
 
And so for a mile or more we talked. There was indeed but a poor heart in what gaiety we used, but it served to lead at last to matter more important. And then I found his purpose was but to escort me in safety to my father's house, and himself pass on; whither, he would not say, and at length confessed he did not know. And I vowed in my heart he should go no further than Drayton, but bided my time. There followed, in a bad part of the way, a little silence. And now the rain, for some time slackening, ceased altogether, and a little pale light from the moon struggling through the clouds, we drew together again. This time it was Ned did break the silence, and his words showed me he had begun to review that night's work.
 
"That was bold juggling you did with His Highness and the sword, mistress," he said. "Wherefore did you break it?"
 
"Because I hold men should keep faith, even princes," I answered, "and I will make him fulfil his word, up to the hilt—I would say down to the point, which I keep until it is earned." And I felt for the fragment of His Highness's sword in the place where I had it safe hidden. And then I drew rein on Charley, catching at my comrade's rein with the other hand. "O Ned!" I cried, "how am I to do all this, if you will leave me? Take me and your story to my father, and among us we shall find a way."
 
In the pale moonlight I could see his pale face, and on it I read the bitterness and sorrow of a conflict that he deemed finished.
 
"Sweet mistress," he said, "you must not tempt me. This thing is the fault of no man, but the hand of fate is heavy upon me. Since we were children together, it is somewhere written that only in danger and disgrace may I meet you. I do believe that in your heart you know much that, but for what has happened this day to part us, I would say to you. I will not say it, and because I will not, I must leave you when I have brought you to your father. Do not urge me again."
 
"If all the world cried out upon Philippa," I replied, feeling in my heart as those must feel who take their lives in their hands to carry through some desperate enterprise, or to die in default of success, "and would have her guilty of all the crimes a woman could guiltily do, I would laugh them all to scorn while you held me innocent and dear."
 
"Comfort you might find in my faith," he said, "even as I find much in yours. But you would not company with me, nor let your name go with mine in men's mouths; and much less would you wed me before your name was cleared. It is perhaps the last time we shall speak together, little Phil, and my despair shall bring me one good thing: because I have no hope, I will tell you now very fully and frankly what has been in my mind to say since my weight on a horse's back was less than is now your own. When I left Oxford to come into the west in those days of Monmouth's trouble, my tongue was ready and my heart hot to tell you my love, and, having told, to ask yours, and with it the sweetest wife in all England. Now, I must tell and not ask. I say, then, Philippa, that I love you, that I shall love you, and that I have loved you, for how long it is hard to know, but truly I believe my love began when you sat in the dust and looked to me for comfort, stretching up your little arms, tremulous and appealing. Ah!" he cried, "with what an urgent and tender clinging they held me as we fled from pursuing Betty."
 
"I did then think, Ned," I murmured, "that the little horse had wings, and that we fled together from Betty and all troubles forever."
 
"It was only Betty then," he answered, with a little laugh that hurt me to hear.
 
"And it is no worse than Betty now, dear," I cried, "if you will but keep me with you. I have but just gotten you again. Three years is very long and lonesome. Do not leave me."
 
Our horses were standing, and the moon showed me his face and the great struggle that there was in him between tenderness of love and insistence of duty. And I saw the softness die out of his countenance, and the features grow set in resolve.
 
"I forget," he said, drawing the reins short through his fingers. "Let us press on; 't is six good miles yet to Drayton." At which his horse broke into a canter.
 
But, when Charley would have followed, I ............