When Prue, after the first mile or so, put her head out of the window and surveyed the long stretch of road, with dense woods on one hand and a desolate vastness of uncultivated common on the other, she rather wished that she too had taken the better part of valor and broken her journey at Seven Oaks, instead of risking the worst part in the declining day. However, looking back, she saw another carriage at no great distance, and the sense of companionship relieved her fears so thoroughly that she once more settled herself in her corner and fell into a pleasant train of thought.
Planning how to exercise her most winning arts upon the queen, who for a whole week of semi-invalidism would be chiefly dependent upon her for amusement, Prue mentally acted half-a-dozen charming little scenes in which she would relate Robin's adventures in so moving and pathetic a fashion that the queen would be only too ready to applaud the climax and bestow her sanction and blessing upon the romantic pair. Robin would be recalled and pardoned, and perhaps his devotion, combined with her own eloquence, would bring about a reconciliation between the queen and her half-brother, who, in gratitude, would shower honors upon his loyal follower in the happy days when King James the Third was come into his own.
Prue was roused out of these pleasant fancies by the rough jolting of the chaise. She looked out on the desolate landscape, rendered still more dreary by the rising mist that veiled the sinking sun. On one hand was a vast common, stretching away into the vague distance, on the other rose a steep incline, thickly wooded and already gloomy with twilight shadows, though all else was still bright. No habitation was in sight, nor any sign of life except the carriage she had previously observed and which, she remarked with some surprise, kept almost within hailing distance without any apparent haste to overtake her. She reflected that perhaps the occupant was timid and even more anxious for company than herself.
The jolting and rocking of the chaise increased so much that at last Prue let down the front window and remonstrated with the postboys.
"Pray drive a little less recklessly," she cried; "I can not keep my seat and I fear you will land me in a ditch."
"'Tis a bad piece of road, my Lady," replied the senior, bringing his horses to a standstill. "'Ere, Jimmie," he added to his assistant; "'old the 'orses while I looks to that near hind wheel; 'tain't none too staunch and this cursed cross-road is enough to shake the Lord Mayor's coach to splinters."
"Cross-road!" cried Prue. "Have you left the highway—? in the dusk—?" she was about to descend, scarcely knowing what she did in her sudden alarm.
"Keep your seat, Lady," the man replied; "'tis but a bit of a short-cut I took, to save 'alf-an-hour 'cos it's growin' late." He fumbled a little with the hind wheel and then remounted his horse.
Meanwhile the carriage which had followed passed and went ahead in leisurely fashion.
Prue's post-chaise resumed the journey, more shaky and jerky than before, although scarcely moving at a walking pace. Very wide-awake now, and extremely uneasy with vivid recollections of postboys in league with robbers, and other perils to unprotected females, Prue sat as quiet as the rough jolting would allow and tried to comfort herself with the assurance that the next post-house could not be far distant, and that she could certainly find means there to have the wheels looked to or get another chaise if this one were unsafe.