Still Dorothy could not utter a word, seeming to be in a dream, while the powerful gray flew along the deserted streets that somehow looked new and strange to her eyes. And now she felt the broad breast pillowing her head, and she could feel distinctly the beating of his heart, as if his pulse and her own were one and the same.
And so they rode along in silence until they reached the house of Master Weeks, where the young man pulled up his horse, and without dismounting, pounded fiercely with his sword-hilt upon the door.
An upper window was soon raised, and a man's querulous voice demanded to know what was wanted.
"Make haste, and come down to see," was the impatient answer. "It is Cornet Southorn who wishes to speak with you."
The window was closed hastily, and a light soon flickered in the lower part of the house; and then came the noise of the door being unbarred.
The young man sprang to the ground and held out his arms.
"Come, sweetheart," he said, "let me lift you down, and I will fasten the horse to a ring in the step here. He has been fastened there before, but," with a soft laugh, "scarce for a like purpose."
Dorothy clung to the pommel. "I'll not,—I'll not!" she declared. "You shall not dare do so wicked a thing, and Master Weeks will never dare listen to you."
"We'll see to that," he laughed, and lifted her from the saddle. Then, as she reached the ground, he kissed her, as he had that day in the wood.
"Be good to me, and true to yourself, my sweet little rebel," he whispered, "and fight no longer with truth and your own heart. Own that you love me, and know that I love you,—aye, better than my life."