ered little save
the momentary delight of feeling his fists get home on the men's faces.

He had nerved himself now with memories and conquered his qualms. He
felt that it would be easy work and pleasant to drag James Finlay to
earth and trample the life out of him. The thought of the insults of
the brutal men who held Una and his own impotent struggles with the belt
which bound him made him fierce enough. But the mood passed. His mind
reverted to the subject which had never, all day, been far from his
thoughts. He recalled each detail of his walk back to Dun-severic with
Una, her words of praise for his bravery, the resting of her hand in his
as they crossed stiles and ditches, the times when it rested in his hand
longer than it need have rested, the great moment when he had ventured
to clasp and keep it fast. He thrilled as he recollected holding her
in his arms, the telling of his love, and Una's wonderful reply to
him. Emotion flooded him. Una loved him as he loved her. The future was
impossible, unthinkable. At the best of times he could not hope that
proud Lord Dunseveric would consent to let him marry Una; and now, of
all times, now, when he was engaged in a dangerous conspiracy, pledged
to a fight which he felt already to be hopeless; when he had the
hangman's ladder to look forward to, or, at best, the life of a hunted
outlaw and exile to some foreign land; what could he expect now to come
of his love for Una? His mind refused to dwell on such thoughts for
long. It went back to the simple fact, the glorious, incredible thing
which he had learned. Una loved him. That was sufficient for him then.
He was happy.

The door of a room somewhere within the house closed noisily. There
were footsteps on the stairs and then in the passage. Neal was alert.
He quenched the light which hung on the wall and stood in the darkness
looking out of the door. He saw three men pass him--James Finlay and
the other two. They stood at the street door speaking last words in low
voices. Neal sped down the passage to the tap-room. His uncle sat in
a cloud of tobacco smoke, with a tumbler in his hand. Round him was
gathered a knot of admirers, most of them somewhat tipsy. Donald was
telling them stories of the American war. At the sight of Neal he rose
quickly and laid down his tumbler. It was evident that he, at least, had
drunk no more than he could stand.

"Well, has he moved?" he whispered.

"Yes," said Neal. "He and the second man