roads. After a
long wait I rode a little down the hill, from sheer anxiety. I pulled
up in a bank of cloud, through which I could see dimly, in the growing
light, for about a dozen yards. I was leaning well forward, listening
for the sound of shooting, when something made me look down. Someone
was standing at my side, slipping something into my pocket. It gave me a
start. I clutched at the person. It was the old lame puppet-man who
had been at Lyme the day before. "Latter for ee," he said in a whisper.
"Read en, unless you'm a fool." His hand pressed lightly on my bridle
hand for an instant; then he ducked sideways swiftly into the wilderness
of ferny gorse at the side of the road, where I could not hope to
follow him, even if the mist had not hidden him. Something in the voice,
something in the lightness of the touch startled me into the knowledge.
As he ducked, it came over me that this old man was Aurelia disguised,
come to spy upon us, but bent, also, on giving me a warning, some little
kind word of advice, at the beginning of my lord's war. I ought to have
recognized her before. I had been blind. She had been under my eyes the
whole day, yet I had never once suspected, no one, of all that army, had
suspected. She had been disguised by a master-hand. She had played her
part like a great actress. It was terrible to think of the risk she was
running. One man's suspicion, in a time of war, would have been enough
to give her to a horrible death. I tried to follow her into the jungle
into which she had vanished; but my horse would not face the furze. I
tried hard to see her, but it was no use; the tangle was too thick; she
had gone. I called out to her softly; but I got no answer; only, at some
little distance away, I heard a twig snap under a passer's foot.

In a momentary clearing of the mist, I pulled out my letter. It was
written in a fine, firm hand, with signature. It was a short, purposeful
letter, which kept sharply to the point. It only contained two lines.
"Your Duke's cause is hopeless. He has no possible chance. Take the
Axminster road to safety." That was the whole letter. It gave me a
feeling of uneasiness; but it did not tempt me to desert. I thought that
if I deserted I might very well be tortured into betraying all that I
knew of the Duke's plans, while I doubted very much whether the Duke's
body-servant would find mercy from the merciless, frightened King. What
was I to do, even if I escaped from the Kin