. "Even as a traveller
may well be that hath but another furlong of his journey."

Another furlong! Was it more than another step? Barbara went upstairs
with him, to relieve him of the light burden of the candle.

"Good night, Master! Metrusteth your sleep shall give you good
refreshing."

"Good night, my maid," said he. "I wish thee the like. There shall be
good rest up yonder."

Her eyes filled with tears as she turned away. Was it selfish that her
wish was half a prayer,--that he might be kept a little longer from
_that_ rest?

She waited longer than usual before she tapped at his door the next
morning. It was seven o'clock--a very late hour for rising in the
sixteenth century--when, receiving no answer, Barbara went softly into
the room and unfastened the shutters as quietly as she could. No need
for the care and the silence! There was good rest up yonder.

The shutters were drawn back, and the April sunlight streamed brightly
in upon a still, dead face.

Deep indeed was the mourning: but it was for themselves, not for him.
He was safe in the Golden Land, with his children and his Isoult--all
gone before him to that good rest. What cause could there be for grief
that the battle was won, and that the tired soldier had laid aside his
armour?

But there was need enough for grief as concerned the two survivors,--for
Barbara and little Clare, left alone in the cold, wide world, with
nothing before them but a mournful and wearisome journey, and Enville
Court the dreaded end of it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. So lately as 1601, an Act of Parliament forbade men to ride in
coaches, as an effeminate practice.

Note 2. This was "His Holiness' sentence," of which the Armada was "in
execution." See note, p.

Note 3. The names, and date of marriage, of Walter Avery and Orige
Williams, are taken from the Bodmin Register. In every other respect
they are fictitious characters.

CHAPTER TWO.

ON THE BORDER OF MARTON MERE.

"Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way
Thorny, and bitter, and cold, and grey."

_Miss Muloch_.

It was drawing towards the dusk of a bright day early in May. The
landscape was not attractive, at least to a tired traveller. It was a
dreary waste of sandhills, diversified by patches of rough grass, and a
few stunted bushes, all leaning away from the sea, as though they wanted
to get as far from it as their sma