Indeed, so thoroughly was I recover’d that, waking early next morning, and finding my sweet nurse asleep from sheer weariness, in a corner of the hut, I stagger’d up from my bed of dried bracken, and out into the pure air. Rare it was to stand and drink it in like wine. A footstep arous’d me. ’Twas Mistress Delia: and turning, I held out my hand.
“Now this is famous,” said she: “a day or two will see you as good a man as ever.”
“A day or two? Tomorrow at latest, I shall make trial to start.” I noted a sudden change on her face, and added: “Indeed, you must hear my reasons before setting me down for an ingrate;” and told her of the King’s letter that I carried. “I hoped that for a while our ways might lie together,” said I; and broke off, for she was looking me earnestly in the face.
“Sir, as you know, my brother Anthony was to have met me—nay, for pity’s sake, turn not your face away! I have guess’d—the sword you carry—I mark’d it. Sir, be merciful, and tell me!”
I led her a little aside to the foot of a tall pine; and there, though it rung my heart, told her all; and left her to wrestle with this final sorrow. She was so tender a thing to be stricken thus, that I who had dealt the blow crept back to the hut, covering my eyes. In an hour’s time I look’d out. She was gone.
At nightfall she return’d, white with grief and fatigue; yet I was glad to see her eyes red and swol’n with weeping. Throughout our supper she kept silence; but when ’twas over, look’d up and spoke in a steady tone—
“Sir, I have a favor to ask, and must risk being held importunate—”
“From you to me,” I put in, “all talk of favors had best be dropp’d.”
“No—listen. If ever it befell you to lose father or mother or dearly loved friend, you will know how the anguish stuns—Oh sir! today the sun seem’d fallen out of heaven, and I a blind creature left groping in the void. Indeed, sir, ’tis no wonder: I had a father, brother, and servant ready to die for me—three hearts to love and lean on: and today they are gone.”
I would have spoken, but she held up a hand.
“Now when you spoke of Anthony—a dear lad!—I lay for some time dazed with grief. By little and little, as the truth grew plainer, the pain grew also past bearing. I stood up and stagger’d into the woods to escape it. I went fast and straight, heeding nothing, for at first my senses were all confus’d: but in a while the walking clear’d my wits, and I could think: and thinking, I could weep: and having wept, could fortify my heart. Here is the upshot, sir—though ’tis held immodest for a maid to ask even far less of a man. We are both bound for Cornwall—you on an honorable mission, I for my father’s estate of Gleys, wherefrom (as your tale proves) some unseen hands are thrusting me. Alike we carry our lives in our hands. You must go forward: I may not go back. For from a King who cannot right his own affairs there is little hope; and in Cornwall I have surer friends than he. Therefore take me, sir—take me for a comrade! Am I sad? Do you fear a weary journey? I will smile—laugh—sing—put sorrow behind me. I will contrive a thousand ways to cheat the milestones. At the first hint of tears, discard me, and go your way with no prick of conscience. Only try me—oh, the shame of speaking thus!”
Her voice had grown more rapid toward the close: and now, breaking off, she put both hands to cover her face, that was hot with blushes. I went over and took them in mine:
“You have made me the blithest man alive,” said I. She drew back a pace with a frighten’d look, and would have pull’d her hands away.
“Because,” I went on quickly, “you have paid me this high compliment, to trust me. Proud was I to listen to you; and merrily will the miles pass with you for comrade. And so I say—Mistress Killigrew, take me for your servant.”
To my extreme discomposure, as I dropp’d her hands, her eyes were twinkling with laughter.
“Dear now; I see a dull prospect ahead if we use these long titles!”
“But—”
“Indeed, sir, please yourself. Only as I intend to call you ‘Jack’ perhaps ‘Delia’ will be more of a piece than ‘Mistress Killigrew.’ ” She dropp’d me a mock curtsey. “And now, Jack, be a good boy, and hitch me this quilt across the hut. I bought it yesterday at a cottage below here—”
She ended the sentence with the prettiest blush imaginable; and so, having fix’d her screen, we shook hands on our comradeship, and wish’d each other good night.
VIII
I Lose the King’s Letter; and Am Carried to Bristol
Almost before daylight we were afoot, and the first ray of cold sunshine found us stepping from the woods into the plain, where now the snow was vanished and a glistening coat of rime spread over all things. Down here
