where the crowd made
way for them right and left, seeing well the purpose for which
these gentlefolks had come. It pleased them mightily that this fine
young forester with his air of noble birth, and this high-born
maiden in her costly riding dress, should condescend to come before
the priest here in their own little church porch, and plight their
troth as their own young folks were doing.

A hush of eager expectation fell upon the crowd as Culverhouse led
his betrothed love before the priest; and when the ring, bought
from an old peddler who always attended at such times and found
ready sale for his wares, was placed on Kate's slim finger, a
murmur of applause and sympathy ran through the crowd, and Kate
quivered from head to foot at the thought of her own daring.

The thing was done. She and Culverhouse had plighted themselves in
a fashion solemn enough to hinder any person from trying to make
light of their betrothal. Right or wrong, the deed was done, and
neither looked as though he or she wished the words unsaid.

But Kate dared not linger longer. Cuthbert fetched her palfrey, and
Culverhouse lifted her to the saddle; and hiring a steed from a
farmer for a brief hour, promising to bring it back in time for the
good man to jog home again at dusk, the newly-plighted pair rode
off into the forest together, he promising to see her to within
sight of her own home before taking a last adieu.

Cuthbert stood looking after them with a smile on his lips.

"Now, if Heaven will but speed my quest and give me happy success,
I trow those twain may yet be wed again, no man saying them nay;
for if sweet Mistress Kate can but bring with her the dower the
treasure will afford, none will forbid the union: she will be
welcomed by Lord Andover as a fitting wife for his son and heir!"

Chapter 13: The Gipsy's Tryst.

"This is surely the spot. Methinks she will not fail me. Moonrise
was the hour she named. I will wait with what patience I may till
she comes to keep the tryst."

So said Cuthbert to himself as, at the close of that long and
varied day, he stood at the mouth of a natural cave, half hidden by
tangled undergrowth, which had been appointed months ago by Joanna
the gipsy as the place where on May Day evening she would meet him,
and tell him more of the matter so near to his heart.

Culverhouse and he had parted company when the former had escorted
towards her home the lady of his choice, to whom his troth had