he would bid me seek Carford
without delay and protest that the last thing in her mind was to detain
me. I cursed myself for an awkward fool. But to my amazement she did
nothing of what I looked for, but cried out in great agitation and, as
it seemed, fear:

"You mustn't see Lord Carford."

"Why not?" I asked. "He won't hurt me." Or at least he should not, if my
sword could stop his.

"It is not that. It is--it is not that," she murmured, and flushed red.

"Well, then, I will seek him."

"No, no, no," cried Barbara in a passion that fear--surely it was that
and nothing else--made imperious. I could not understand her, for I knew
nothing of the confession which she had made, but would not for the
world should reach my ears. Yet it was not very likely that Carford
would tell me, unless his rage carried him away.

"You are not so kind as to shield me from Lord Carford's wrath?" I asked
rather scornfully.

"No," she said, persistently refusing to meet my eyes.

"What is he doing here?" I asked.

"He desires to conduct me to my father."

"My God, you won't go with him?"

For the fraction of a moment her dark eyes met mine, then turned away in
confusion.

"I mean," said I, "is it wise to go with him?"

"Of course you meant that," murmured Barbara.

"M. de Fontelles will trouble you no more," I remarked, in a tone as
calm as though I stated the price of wheat; indeed much calmer than
such a vital matter was wont to command at our village inn.

"What?" she cried. "He will not----?"

"He didn't know the truth. I have told him. He is an honourable
gentleman."

"You've done that also, Simon?" She came a step nearer me.

"It was nothing to do," said I. Barbara fell back again.

"Yet I am obliged to you," said she. I bowed with careful courtesy.

Why tell these silly things. Every man has such in his life. Yet each
counts his own memory a rare treasure, and it will not be denied
utterance.

"I had best seek my Lord Carford," said I, more for lack of another
thing to say than because there was need to say that.

"I pray you----" cried Barbara, again in a marked agitation.

It was a fair soft evening; a breeze stirred the tree-tops, and I could
scarce tell when the wind whispered and when Barbara spoke, so like were
the caressing sounds. She was very different from the lady of our
journey, yet like to her who had for a moment spoken to me from her
chamber-door at Canterbury.

"You haven't sent for me,"