E. R. Punshon

“ Alas! Alas!” she wailed despairingly. “How have I blundered, then?”
“Robert Merton am I,” said he of the inn, standing lightly, his sword drawn and held across his body, ready to flash and thrust at a moment's need. “Robert Merton am I, as sure as thou art Roger Tring and a proscribed traitor to the King's Majesty—yea, Robert Merton am I, and our most humble servant, Mistress Qualtrough,” he added, bowing to her.
“Ah, but it is not possible,” she cried loudly; “sure, I took thee for Master Tring; sure, it is not possible, or thou wouldst never have followed me.” ”

“ The men waited motionless, each with his sword-arm tense and ready, each with eyes alert.
“Give up the letter,” cried the woman, “and go safe.”
“Nay,” answered Merton simply, “but you were unjust when you called me traitor. No traitor am I.”
She drew back, making an angry gesture with her hand. Tring thrust and Merton parried. The swords clashed and clashed again, the points flickering with light deadliness in the moon's uncertain rays. Already Merton's point had lingered lovingly on Tring's breast, lingered but failed to strike home. ”

“ Round it a small stream flowed, and across this a bridle path led, its passage of the shallow stream marked by a patch of black and filthy mud, half a yard deep and like a sponge with water. High above, the full moon raced through a turmoil of scurrying clouds, the wind howled mournfully above the huge old rock that for so many ages had defied it; the labouring oaks quivered and moaned without ceasing, and, when the moon shone out, threw a network of moving shadows on the green turf of the glade. ”

“ He handled it reluctantly, half drawing it, half sheathing it.
“No,” he said abruptly.
“Ah,” she cried; “art traitor, then—traitor?”
“Why, traitor is a good word,” he told her; “human, living men are traitors; traitor smacks homely, and I hope there's no worse word between us.”
“No worse word than traitor?” she cried amazed, for she had no inkling of the weird superstitious fears the hour and the place and her own strange personality had wrought in him. “What! art thou a traitor, then?” ”

“ I see you take me,” she flashed with eagerness, slightly disarranging her cloak with the quick movement she made, so that he had vision of a tangle of loose dark hair and two bright, eager eyes beneath.
“D. E. F.,” she went on, drawing a step or two nearer to him.
“D. E. F., with all my heart,” said the stranger. “Down Every Foreigner, must always be the true Englishman's heartiest wish—always except those who would aid her in her present need.”
“Sir,” she said, “I have heard this toast drunk with fewer words. ”

“ Looking at the woman, Merton said, speaking with difficulty:
“'Twas ill done.”
“Search him for the letter,” she said.
“Spare the trouble,” smiled Merton. “The letter went to Newcastle by another and perchance a surer hand.”
“Thou liest,” cried Sophy, furiously “thou liest—a Whig lies as naturally as he breathes. Search him quickly.”
But though Tring searched he found nothing, and Robert Merton smiled again. ”

“ Is it a traitor's part to hesitate to slay a man; who and why he knows not?”
“You drank the toast,” she said fiercely: “Q. R. S.—Quickly Restore Stuart—those who drink that must be ready with their swords for the cause.”
“Q. R. S.,” he said, and bowed low. “Rare Sophy Qualtrough—R. S. Q.—'twas at Newcastle I heard that toast drunk—a bumper to every letter.”
“You know me?” she muttered, evidently much disturbed, and drew her cloak closer round her, as if still to preserve a secret already betrayed. “Well, then, if you know so much, you know your errand ”