She admitted with a sob that it was so; that Sophia was alone.
The moonlight lay on the road; as she tripped by his side, he turned and scanned her. He took her for my lady's woman, as the mistress at the alehouse had taken her. He had caught the name of Coke, but he knew no Lady Coke; he had not heard of Sir Hervey's marriage, and, to be truthful, his mind was more concerned for the maid than the mistress. Through the disorder of Betty's hair and dress, her youth and something of her beauty peeped out; it struck him how brave she had been to come for help, through the night, alone; how much more brave she was to be willing to return, seeing that he was but one to three, and there was smallpox to face. As he considered this he felt a warmth at his heart which he had not felt for days. And he sighed.
Presently her steps began to lag; she stood. "Where are we?" she cried, fear in her voice. "We should be there!"
"We've come about a mile," he said, peering forward through the moonlight. "Is it on a hill, did you say?"
"Yes, and I see no hill."
"No," he answered, "but perhaps the fall this way is gentle."
She muttered a word of relief. "That is so," she said. "It's above the water, on the farther side, that it is steep. Come on, please come on! I think I see a house."
But the house she saw proved to be only a deserted barn, at the junction of two roads; and they stood dismayed. "Did you pass this?" he asked.
"I don't know," she cried. "Yes, I think so."
"On your right or your left?"