rough his stout heart. Was it the
chill of the evening air, or was it that some inner voice had whispered
to him of the day when he also might lie bound on such a rock and have
such a blood-stained pagan crew howling around him.

An instant later the rock and his vague fear and all things else had
passed from his mind, for there, down the yellow sandy path, the setting
sun gleaming on her golden hair, her lithe figure bending and swaying
with every heave of the cantering horse, was none other than the same
fair Edith, whose face had come so often betwixt him and his sleep. His
blood rushed hot to his face at the sight, for fearless of all else, his
spirit was attracted and yet daunted by the delicate mystery of woman.
To his pure and knightly soul not Edith alone, but every woman, sat high
and aloof, enthroned and exalted, with a thousand mystic excellencies
and virtues which raised her far above the rude world of man. There
was joy in contact with them; and yet there was fear, fear lest his own
unworthiness, his untrained tongue or rougher ways should in some way
break rudely upon this delicate and tender thing. Such was his thought
as the white horse cantered toward him; but a moment later his vague
doubts were set at rest by the frank voice of the young girl, who waved
her whip in merry greeting.

"Hail and well met, Nigel!" she cried. "Whither away this evening? Sure
I am that it is not to see your friends of Cosford, for when did you
ever don so brave a doublet for us? Come, Nigel, her name, that I may
hate her for ever."

"Nay, Edith," said the young Squire, laughing back at the laughing girl.
"I was indeed coming to Cosford."

"Then we shall ride back together, for I will go no farther. How think
you that I am looking?"

Nigel's answer was in his eyes as he glanced at the fair flushed face,
the golden hair, the sparkling eyes and the daintily graceful figure
set off in a scarlet-and-black riding-dress. "You are as fair as ever,
Edith."

"Oh, cold of speech! Surely you were bred for the cloisters, and not for
a lady's bower, Nigel. Had I asked such a question from young Sir George
Brocas or the Squire of Fernhurst, he would have raved from here to
Cosford. They are both more to my taste than you are, Nigel."

"It is the worse for me, Edith," said Nigel ruefully.

"Nay, but you must not lose heart."

"Have I not already lost it?" said he.

"That is better," she cried, laughing. "You can be quick enough