"Nay, nay," cried Griffith, all in a flutter, "I'll go without more words; as I am a gentleman, I will sleep at Bolton this night, and will do my duty to the dead and the living. Don't you cry, sweetest; I give in. I find I have no will but yours."
The next moment they were cantering side by side, and never drew rein till they reached the cross-roads.
"Now tell me one thing," stammered Griffith, with a most ghastly attempt at cheerful indifference. "How—do you—happen to be—on George Neville's horse?"
Kate had been expecting this question for some time; yet she colored high when it did come. However, she had her answer pat. The horse was in the stable-yard, and fresh; her own was tired.
"What was I to do, Griffith? And now," added she, hastily, "the sun will soon set, and the roads are bad; be careful. I wish I could ask you to sleep at our house; but—there are reasons"—
She hesitated; she could not well tell him George Neville was to dine and sleep there.
Griffith assured her there was no danger; his mare knew every foot of the way.
They parted: Griffith rode to Bolton, and Kate rode home.
It was past dinner-time. She ran up stairs, and hurried on her best gown and her diamond comb. For she began to quake now at the prank she had played with her guest's horse; and Nature taught her that the best way to soften censure is—to be beautiful.
"On pardonne tout aux belles."