er journey. Cheer up, love, and do not lie weeping all
night, but believe that your prayers to God and man must prevail one
way or another."

CHAPTER XXXI: ELF-LAND

"Three ruffians seized me yestermorn,
Alas! a maiden most forlorn;
They choked my cries with wicked might,
And bound me on a palfrey white."

S. T. COLERIDGE.

Yet after the night it was with more hope than despondency, Anne, in
the February morning, mounted en croupe behind Mr. Fellowes's
servant, that being decided on as the quickest mode of travelling.
She saw the sunrise behind St. Catherine's Hill, and the gray mists
filling the valley of the Itchen, and the towers of the Cathedral
and College barely peeping beyond them. Would her life rise out of
the mist?

Through hoar-frosted hedges, deeply crested with white, they rode,
emerging by and by on downs, becoming dully green above, as the sun
touched them, but white below. Suddenly, in passing a hollow,
overhung by two or three yew-trees, they found themselves surrounded
by masked horsemen. The servant on her horse was felled, she
herself snatched off and a kerchief covered her face, while she was
crying, "Oh sir, let me go! I am on business of life and death."

The covering was stuffed into her mouth, and she was borne along
some little way; then there was a pause, and she freed herself
enough to say, "You shall have everything; only let me go;" and she
felt for the money with which Sir Philip had supplied her, and for
the watch given her by King James.

"We want you; nothing of yours," said a voice. "Don't be afraid.
No one will hurt you; but we must have you along with us."

Therewith she was pinioned by two large hands, and a bandage was
made fast over her eyes, and when she shrieked out, "Mr. Fellowes!
Oh! where are you?" she was answered--

"No harm has been done to the parson. He will be free as soon as
any one comes by. 'Tis you we want. Now, I give you fair notice,
for we don't want to choke you; there's no one to hear a squall. If
there were, we should gag you, so you had best be quiet, and you
shall suffer no hurt. Now then, by your leave, madam."

She was lifted on horseback again, and a belt passed round her and
the rider in front of her. Again she strove, in her natural voice,
to plead that to stop her would imperil a man's life, and to implore
for release. "We know all that," she was told. It was not rudely
said. The voice was not that of a clown;