Merrylips lay with her head upon Lady Sybil's bosom, and she felt that bosom shaken with sobbing.
"Oh, Roger! My good Roger!" said a broken voice, which, Merrylips felt, could only in a dream be Lady Sybil's voice. "What shall I do? What can I do? This child—my little lass! She hath fallen ill. I cannot take her with me in my flight. Yet I cannot leave her."
Old Roger answered in a voice that rang through the dream.
"'Tis a sweet little lady and winsome,—ay, and dear unto mine old heart, your Ladyship! But the king's cause is dearer than any child unto us, who are your father's poor servants. Your Ladyship, 'tis to save your wealth for the good cause you go. 'Tis for the king you ride to-night!"
"The king!" whispered Merrylips. "God save him!"
"Hath not the child herself said it?" cried old Roger. "Come, your Ladyship!"
For one instant Merrylips felt on her forehead the touch of Lady Sybil's lips. For one instant she heard that dear voice in her ear.
"For the king, my little true heart—to bear him aid—only for that I leave thee! And oh! God keep thee, Merrylips, till I may come to thee again! God keep thee!"
But Merrylips heard the voice now, drowsily and far off. Far off, too, she heard the sound of footsteps hurrying from the room, and the sound of some one—was it Mawkin?—sobbing. Fainter, still farther off, she heard a ringing of horse-hoofs—a ringing sound that soon died away. She saw the slit of a moon and the candle at the bedside shrink till they were dim dreamlights.
Once again she was climbing the long hill that never had an end. But as she struggled on and on, with breath that failed and feet that were so tired, she told herself that it was all a dream, and nothing but a dream. The hill was a dream, and the terror that followed her a dream, and oh! most surely of all, it was a black and not-to-be-believed-in dream that Lady Sybil could have gone from Larkland and left her there alone.