She wondered why she troubled herself to answer, when it was nothing but a dream.
Before her eyes flashed a candle, as bright as if it were real. Round her she seemed to see the wainscotted walls of her little chamber, and the carved chair by the bedside, on which her clothes were laid. She seemed to see Mawkin bending over her, with her hair disordered and her eyes wild—so clear and lifelike had this dream become!
"'Tis the soldiers!" Mawkin was saying. "The loyal folk at Rofield have sent to warn us. The wicked Roundheads will be down on Larkland this same night. You must forth at once, little mistress, with no staying for coaches. You must go a-horseback, you and her Ladyship, and Roger to guard you. You must go, and without more staying. Waken, waken, little slug-abed, if you be fain to see Walsover!"
"I know! I know!" moaned Merrylips. "I've this long hill to climb."
Then, in her dream, she felt hands laid upon her.
"Quickly, quickly, you must don your clothes!" Mawkin was crying.
With all her strength Merrylips struggled against her and struck with her hands.
"Oh, thou art cruel," she sobbed, "so to hold me back from this hill! Thou art cruel—cruel! Let me go, Mawkin! Let me go!"
She heard Mawkin crying and coaxing, and at last calling for help, but she heard her far off in the dream. Once more she was struggling up the long hill to Walsover, and the time, she knew, ran every moment shorter.
For one instant the dream was at a standstill. Heavy-headed and weak and sick, Merrylips found herself. She lay in her own bed, in her own chamber. On the table close by shone a candle, which made strange shadows on the wall, and through the casement she saw a thin moon riding down the sky. At the foot of the bed, stood Mawkin, and, just as she had done in the dream, she was wringing her hands and talking and crying.