"What hath befallen you?" asked my father anxiously, as we crossed the threshold of the house. "Ye are both as pale as ghosts, and your clothes, Clifford, are smothered in dust. Hath Trotter thrown you?"
For answer, Constance sat down upon a settle and sobbed hysterically, while my father, stopping abruptly his task of questioning us, bestirred himself to comfort her.
"Two dragoons have molested us," I announced. "They were in pursuit of Captain Miles."
"Have they hurt you?" he asked.
"Nay, but little--thanks to the Captain." In a few words I related the incidents that had terminated in the death of the two villains. My father looked grave.
"And Jeremy?" he asked. "Hath he gone to Lymington?"
"Nay, he awaits me by the Beaulieu bridle path."
"'Tis well for him, though I am loath to risk His Majesty's displeasure in succouring rebels. Yet, especially as he did befriend you, I'll do my best to repay Jeremy's kindness. He must not go to Lymington, Clifford."
"He doth not intend to do so," said I. "He is making for Pitt's Deep."
"Equally as rash as if he journeyed to Lymington. I, too, heard the news this morning soon after you left. The dragoons watch every mile of this part of the coast, and at every little port a watch is set, so that no strangers dare set foot on shipboard without being closely questioned. My son, I take the risk even of harbouring a rebel. I'll go with thee and speak my mind with friend Jeremy."