which had not been good? But scarcely was it because
of that that doubts assailed her. Rather was it because of his cool
deliberateness which argued not the great love wherewith she fain would
fancy him inspired.

For consolation she recalled a line that had it great fires were soon
burnt out, and she sought to reassure herself that the flame of his
love, if not all-consuming, would at least burn bright and steadfastly
until the end of life. And so she fell asleep, betwixt hope and fear,
yet no longer with any hesitancy touching the morrow's course.

In the morning she took her woman into her confidence, and scared her
with it out of what little sense the creature owned. Yet to such purpose
did she talk, that when that evening, as Crispin waited by the coach he
had taken, in the hollow of the road, he saw approaching him a portly,
middle-aged dame with a valise. This was Cynthia's woman, and Cynthia
herself was not long in following, muffled in a long, black cloak.

He greeted her warmly--affectionately almost yet with none of the
rapture to which she held herself entitled as some little recompense for
all that on his behalf she left behind.

Urbanely he handed her into the coach, and, after her, her woman. Then
seeing that he made shift to close the door:

"How is this?" she cried. "Do you not ride with us?"

He pointed to a saddled horse standing by the roadside, and which she
had not noticed.

"It will be better so. You will be at more comfort in the carriage
without me. Moreover, it will travel the lighter and the swifter, and
speed will prove our best friend."

He closed the door, and stepped back with a word of command to the
driver. The whip cracked, and Cynthia flung herself back almost in a
pet. What manner of lover, she asked herself, was thin and what manner
of woman she, to let herself be borne away by one who made so little use
of the arts and wiles of sweet persuasion? To carry her off, and yet not
so much as sit beside her, was worthy only of a man who described such a
journey as tedious. She marvelled greatly at it, yet more she marvelled
at herself that she did not abandon this mad undertaking.

The coach moved on and the flight from Sheringham was begun.

CHAPTER XXV. CYNTHIA'S FLIGHT

Throughout the night they went rumbling on their way at a pace whose
sluggishness elicited many an oath from Crispin as he rode a few yards
in the rear, ever watchful of the possibility of pursuit. Bu