It was the first mention of her approaching journey. The merry, boyish look went out of Roger's face. 'I hate the idea of your going,' he said moodily. 'Who is going to look after you in London, and see that you don't ride Starlight?' A smile came and went, but there was a lingering sadness in his eyes.
'There won't be any chance of riding, I suppose,' said Marion.
'And I hate London, too,' added the young countryman. 'All the troubles in England are brewed first of all in Whitehall.' He looked hard at his companion for a moment, and then back to the distant sea. 'How long are you going to stay?' he asked abruptly.
'I don't know,' said Marion lightly. 'A long time—years perhaps.'
Roger's brows drew together. 'And you have never seen your Aunt Constance. What is Sir John Fairfax like? Who is going to look after you?' he said again.
'I don't know—Roger!' Marion turned in her saddle to face him. 'The point is much more: who is going to look after you!'
Roger smiled. 'I do need leading strings and a pinafore, of course.'
Marion's glance ran affectionately over the young giant. 'But really, you know, Roger, I have been rather unhappy about you since the other day at Poole's cottage. If it hadn't been for me, you'd have been in Bodmin gaol now.'
'As well there as anywhere,' replied the youth, his gaze out to sea.
'The nearest road to a vessel of your own lies not through Bodmin gaol. See, Roger, will you promise me to—to be careful?'