in person."

Thus you see the influence of Mary's beauty reached from Edinburgh to
London. A few months only were to pass till this conversation was to be
recalled by each of us, and the baneful influence of Mary's beauty upon
all whom it touched was to be shown more fatally than had appeared even in
my own case. In truth, my reason for speaking so fully concerning the,
Scottish queen and myself will be apparent to you in good time.

When we were about to part for the night, I asked Sir John, "What road do
you travel to-morrow?"

"I am going to Rutland Castle by way of Rowsley," he answered.

"I, too, travel by Rowsley to Haddon Hall. Shall we not extend our truce
over the morrow and ride together as far as Rowsley?" I asked.

"I shall be glad to make the truce perpetual," he replied laughingly.

"So shall I," was my response.

Thus we sealed our compact and knitted out of the warp and woof of enmity
a friendship which became a great joy and a sweet grief to each of us.

That night I lay for hours thinking of the past and wondering about the
future. I had tasted the sweets--all flavored with bitterness--of court
life. Women, wine, gambling, and fighting had given me the best of all the
evils they had to offer. Was I now to drop that valorous life, which men
so ardently seek, and was I to take up a browsing, kinelike existence at
Haddon Hall, there to drone away my remaining days in fat'ning, peace, and
quietude? I could not answer my own question, but this I knew: that Sir
George Vernon was held in high esteem by Elizabeth, and I felt that his
house was, perhaps, the only spot in England where my head could safely
lie. I also had other plans concerning Sir George and his household which
I regret to say I imparted to Sir John in the sack-prompted outpouring of
my confidence. The plans of which I shall now speak had been growing in
favor with me for several months previous to my enforced departure from
Scotland, and that event had almost determined me to adopt them. Almost, I
say, for when I approached Haddon Hall I wavered in my resolution.

At the time when I had last visited Sir George at Haddon, his daughter
Dorothy--Sir George called her Doll--was a slipshod girl of twelve. She
was exceedingly plain, and gave promise of always so remaining. Sir
George, who had no son, was anxious that his vast estates should remain
in the Vernon name. He had upon the occasion of my last visit intimated to
me that when Doll sh