"Ulceby!" she cried. "You here! Do you know there are soldiers about?"
"That is not my name," I answered. "Don't you know me, Bess?"
She rose from the stone, stepped closely up to me, and looked wonderingly into my face, with one hand fluttering about her breast. Then she sank back upon the tombstone, still keeping her eyes fixed on me, and said—
"Oh yes; I know your voice; I know your eyes. But where have you been? And who lies there?"—pointing to a new-made grave. "Your servant swore it was you. Your father swore so. Speak again. Let me touch you."
She rose, trembling all over, and reached out her hand. I took hold of it, and drew her down to the stone, seating myself beside her.
"Who has done that hellish work on your face? No; don't tell me, not yet."
She hid her face in her hands, shuddering.
"That has been done to give me the semblance of the man you named just now. And this too," I said, baring my chest, showing a crown and anchor, and the letters J.U.
"Who is Ulceby?" I asked.
"A soldier, who escaped from Lincoln, after striking one of the officers, and being condemned to be sent to the plantations. He came to us for hiding. He had the ague badly, and was taken to safer and better quarters, so I was told. That was just before I was sent to Horncastle fair, and on to Corby, and Spalding, and Stamford, because my father must stay to attend to Ulceby. And he seemed to be so much concerned about the deserter, that I thought no evil could be brewing against you just then, and so I was far away when mischief was doing. But I don't understand. Where were you?"