ngers; "if
they should discover who we are," said Constantia, "and deliver us into
the power of Morgan!"--Eustace begged her not to be frightened, for he
would die sooner than see her exposed to any insult. "You are always so
ready to die!" observed Isabel; "what good would it do us to have you
killed? But indeed I have no fear of being discovered, for we are so
muffled up in our camlet riding-hoods, that we shall pass for
country-girls going to market. Courage! dear Constance. Come, whip your
horse on with spirit, and talk to me about eggs and poultry."

"Your brown face and red arms will pass well enough," said Eustace; "but
they must be blind idiots, who mistake our pretty Constance for a market
girl." "I will bind up my face as if I had the tooth-ache," said she;
"and talk broad Lancashire, till I come to the Marquis's quarters."
Williams observed that their danger would then begin.

The girls started, saying, they hoped they should then be in safety.
"You know not, my dear mistresses," said Williams, "the habits of camps,
nor the licence of gay, dissipated cavaliers, conscious of conferring
obligations on their King, and claiming from their occasional hardships
a right to indulgence. It is a bad situation for handsome young women,
but I have it in charge, in case I cannot deliver you into the care of
my old master, to take you on to Oxford, and place you with an old
college-friend of Dr. Beaumont's."

Eustace, whose heart had exulted at the idea of being fixed in the scene
of action, and of being permitted to endeavour to remove the prohibition
of his taking arms, strenuously opposed the plan of an Oxford residence,
as still more improper for young ladies, protesting that the flatteries
of a court and a university were more dangerous than the free licence of
military manners. He then began to caution Constantia, assuring her she
must not believe all that would be told her about the power of her eyes
to make men miserable, and about Venus and Hebe, and a great many more
nonsensical comparisons. "If I do," returned she, "it will do me no
harm. A woman is not more beloved for being handsome. There is our dear
aunt Mellicent; her face, you know, is the colour of a cowslip, and all
seamed and puckered, yet we could not love her better than we do, if she
were ever so beautiful."

Eustace allowed that she was a very good woman, though he could well
spare her putting him to rights, as she called it, quite so often. He