"Ha!" said Stich, carelessly, "What are they after?"
"I dunno," commented Miggs, imperturbably. "Some say they're after that chap Beau Brocade. There was a coach stopped on the Heath 'gain last night. Fifty guineas he took out of it, he did...." And Jock Miggs chuckled feebly with apparent but irresponsible delight. "Some folk say it were Sir Humphrey Challoner's coach over from Hartington, and no one's going to break their hearts over that! he! he! he! ... but I dunno," he added with sudden frightened vagueness.
"Be they cavalry soldiers over at the Royal George, Miggs?" asked John.
"I dunno ... I seed no horses ... looks more like foot soldiers ... but I dunno. The Corporal he read out something just now about our getting twenty guineas if we shoot one o' them rebels. I'd be mighty glad to get twenty guineas, Master Stich," he said reflectively, "but I dunno as how I could handle a musket rightly ... and folks say them traitors are mighty desperate fellows ... but I dunno..."
Then with sudden resolution Jock Miggs turned to the doorway.
"Morning, Master Stich," he said decisively. "Morning, lad! ... morning."
"Morning, Miggs."
However, it seemed that Jock Miggs's visit to the forge was not so purposeless as it at first appeared.
"He! he! he!" he chuckled, as if suddenly recollecting his errand. "I'd almost forgot why I came. Farmer Crabtree wanted to know, Master Stich, if you'm got the wether's collar mended yet?"
"Oh, yes, to be sure," replied the smith, pointing to a rough bench on which lay a number of metal articles. "You'll find it on that there bench, Jock. Farmer Crabtree sold his sheep yet?"
Jock toddled up to the bench and picked up the wether's collar.
"Noa!" he muttered, "not yet, worse luck! And his temper is that hot! So don't 'ee charge him too much for the collar, Master Stich, or it's me that'll have to suffer."
And Miggs rubbed his shoulder significantly. Stich laughed. Philip himself, in spite of his anxiety, could not help being amused at the quaint figure of the little shepherd with his wizened face and gentle, vaguely fatalistic manner.
Thus it was that no one in the forge had perceived the patter of small feet on the mud outside, and when Jock Miggs, with more elaborate "Mornings" and final leave-takings, once more reached the doorway, he came in violent collision with a short, be-cloaked and closely-hooded figure that was picking its way on very small, very high-heeled shoes, through the maze of puddles which guarded the entrance to the forge.
The impact sent Jock Miggs, scared and apologetic, stumbling in one direction, whilst the grey hood flew off the head of its wearer and disclosed in the setting of its shell-pink lining a merry, pretty, impudent little face, with brown eyes sparkling and red lips pouting in obvious irritation.
"Lud, man!" said the dainty young damsel, withering the unfortunate shepherd with a scornful glance, "why don't you look where you're going?"
"I dunno," replied Jock Miggs, with his usual humble vagueness. "Morning, miss ... morning, Master Stich ... morning."
And still scared, still in obvious apology for his existence, he pulled at his forelock, re-adjusted his hat over his yellow curls, took his final leave, and presently began to wend his way slowly back towards the Heath.
But within the forge, at first bound of the young girl's voice, Stretton had started in uncontrollable excitement.
"Betty!" he whispered, eagerly clutching John Stich's arm.
"Aye! aye!" replied the cautious smith, "but I beg you, my lord, keep in the background until I find out if all is safe."
Mistress Betty's saucy brown eyes followed Jock Miggs's quaint, retreating figure.
"Well! you're a pretty bit of sheep's wool, ain't ye?" she shouted after him, with a laugh and a shrug of her plump shoulders.
Then she peered into the forge.
"Lud love you, Master Stich!" she said, "how goes it with you?"
In obedience to counsels of prudence, Stretton had retired into the remote corner of the forge. John Stich too was masking the entrance with his burly figure.
"All the better, Mistress Betty," he said, "for a sight of your pretty face."
He had become very red, had honest John, and his rough manner seemed completely to have deserted him. In fact, not to put too fine a point upon it, the worthy smith looked distinctly shy and sheepish.
She looked up at him and laughed a pleased, coquettish little laugh, the laugh of a woman who has oft been told that she is pretty, and has not tired of the hearing. John Stich, moreover, was so big and burly, folks called him hard and rough, and it vastly entertained the young damsel to see him standing there before her, as awkward and uncomfortable as Jock Miggs himself.
"Am I not to step inside, Master Stich?" she asked.
"Yes, yes, Mistress Betty," murmured John, who seemed to have lost himself in admiration of a pair of tiny buckled shoes muddy to the ankles — such ankles! — which showed to great advantage beneath Betty's short green kirtle.
An angry, impatient movement behind him, however, quickly recalled his scattered senses.
"Did her ladyship receive a letter, mistress?" he asked eagerly.
"Oh, yes! a stranger brought it," replied Betty, with a pout, for she preferred John's mute appreciation of her small person to his interest in other matters. However, the demon of mischief no doubt whispered something in her ear for the further undoing of the worthy smith, for she put on a demure, mysterious little air, turned up her brown eyes, sighed with affectation, and murmured ecstatically, —
"Oh! such a stranger! the fine eyes of him, Master Stich! and such an air, and oh!" added little madam with unction, "such clothes!"
But though no doubt all these fine airs and graces wrought deadly havoc in poor John's heart, he concealed it well enough under a show of eager impatience.
"Yes! yes! the stranger," he said, casting a furtive glance behind him, "he gave you a letter for my lady?"
"La! you needn't be in such a hurry, Master Stich!" retorted Mistress Betty, adding with all the artifice of which she was capable, "the stranger wasn't."
But this was too much for John. There had been such a wealth of meaning in Betty's brown eyes.
"Oh! he wasn't? was he?" he asked with a jealous frown, "and pray what had he to say to you? There was no message except the letter."
But the demon of mischief was satisfied and Betty was disposed to be kind, even if slightly mysterious.
"Oh, never mind!" she rejoined archly, "he gave me a letter which I gave to my lady. That was early this morning."
"Well? ... and?"
But matters were progressing too slowly at anyrate for one feverish, anxious heart. Philip had tried to hold himself in check, though he was literally hanging on pretty Mistress Betty's lips. Now he could contain himself no longer. Lady Patience had had his letter. The mysterious highwayman had not failed in his trust, and the news Betty had brought meant life or death to him.
Throwing prudence to the winds, he pushed John Stich aside, and seizing the young girl by the wrist, he asked excitedly, —
"Yes? this morning, Betty? ... then ... then ... what did her ladyship do?"
Betty was frightened, and like a child was ready to drown her fright in tears. She had not recognised my lord in those dirty clothes.
"Don't you know me, Betty?" asked Philip, a little more quietly.
Betty cast a timid glance at the two men before her, and smiled through the coming tears.
"Of course, my lord ... I ..." she murmured shyly.
"'Tis