d leagues from Cosford House. Ever since the Prince's battle--"

"Good father, I beg you--"

"Nay, Mary, none can hear me, save your own confessor, Father Matthew.
Ever since the Prince's battle, I say, when we heard that young Nigel
had won such honor she is brain-wode, and sits ever--well, even as you
see her now."

An intent look had come into Mary's eyes; her gaze was fixed upon the
dark rain-splashed window. It was a face carved from ivory, white-lipped
and rigid, on which the old priest looked.

"What is it, my daughter? What do you see?"

"I see nothing, father."

"What is it then that disturbs you?"

"I hear, father."

"What do you hear?"

"There are horsemen on the road."

The old knight laughed. "So it goes on, father. What day is there that a
hundred horsemen do not pass our gate, and yet every clink of hoofs sets
her poor heart a-trembling. So strong and steadfast she has ever been,
my Mary, and now no sound too slight to shake her to the soul! Nay,
daughter, nay, I pray you!"

She had half-risen from her chair, her hands clenched and her dark,
startled eyes still fixed upon the window. "I hear them, father! I hear
them amid the wind and the rain! Yes, yes, they are turning--they have
turned! My God, they are at our very door!"

"By Saint Hubert, the girl is right!" cried old Sir John, beating his
fist upon the board. "Ho, varlets, out with you to the yard! Set the
mulled wine on the blaze once more! There are travelers at the gate,
and it is no night to keep a dog waiting at our door. Hurry, Hannekin!
Hurry, I say, or I will haste you with my cudgel!"

Plainly to the ears of all men could be heard the stamping of the
horses. Mary had stood up, quivering in every limb. An eager step at
the threshold, the door was flung wide, and there in the opening stood
Nigel, the rain gleaming upon his smiling face, his cheeks flushed with
the beating of the wind, his blue eyes shining with tenderness and love.
Something held her by the throat, the light of the torches danced up and
down; but her strong spirit rose at the thought that others should see
that inner holy of holies of her soul. There is a heroism of women to
which no valor of man can attain. Her eyes only carried him her message
as she held out her hand.

"Welcome, Nigel!" said she.

He stooped and kissed it.

"Saint Catharine has brought me home," said he.

A merry supper it was at Cosford Manor that night, with Nigel at the
head betwi