a word; which, indeed, was true, as events proved.

He bade them serve the dinner; and, as the visitor had withdrawn since
the news of the battle, prepared to take a platter to him upstairs. But
he preferred to come down and dine with the family.

During the afternoon more fugitives passed through the village, but
Christopher Swetman, his visitor, and his family kept indoors. In the
evening, however, Swetman came out from his gate, and, harkening in
silence to these tidings and more, wondered what might be in store for
him for his last night's work.

He returned homeward by a path across the mead that skirted his own
orchard. Passing here, he heard the voice of his daughter Leonard
expostulating inside the hedge, her words being: 'Don't ye, sir; don't! I
prithee let me go!'

'Why, sweetheart?'

'Because I've a-promised another!'

Peeping through, as he could not help doing, he saw the girl struggling
in the arms of the stranger, who was attempting to kiss her; but finding
her resistance to be genuine, and her distress unfeigned, he reluctantly
let her go.

Swetman's face grew dark, for his girls were more to him than himself. He
hastened on, meditating moodily all the way. He entered the gate, and
made straight for the orchard. When he reached it his daughter had
disappeared, but the stranger was still standing there.

'Sir!' said the yeoman, his anger having in no wise abated, 'I've seen
what has happened! I have taken 'ee into my house, at some jeopardy to
myself; and, whoever you be, the least I expected of 'ee was to treat the
maidens with a seemly respect. You have not done it, and I no longer
trust you. I am the more watchful over them in that they are motherless;
and I must ask 'ee to go after dark this night!'

The stranger seemed dazed at discovering what his impulse had brought
down upon his head, and his pale face grew paler. He did not reply for a
time. When he did speak his soft voice was thick with feeling.

'Sir,' says he, 'I own that I am in the wrong, if you take the matter
gravely. We do not what we would but what we must. Though I have not
injured your daughter as a woman, I have been treacherous to her as a
hostess and friend in need. I'll go, as you say; I can do no less. I
shall doubtless find a refuge elsewhere.'

They walked towards the house in silence, where Swetman insisted that his
guest should have supper before departing. By the time this was eaten it
was dusk