Immediately after Sedgemoor, a small detachment had been sent under Captain Fogg to Tavistock from the Royal Army to seek out and arrest, and deal summarily with, such volunteers as had joined the rebels from thence. Not only so, but the officer was enjoined to do his utmost to obtain evidence as to what gentlemen were disaffected to the King in that district; and to discover how far they were compromised in the attempt of Monmouth. Mr. Crymes's papers had been secured in his coach. They contained correspondence, but, for the most part, letters of excuse and evasion of his attempt to draw other men of position into the rebellion. With the letters were lists of the volunteers, and names of those who, it was thought, might be induced later to join the movement.

There existed in the mind of James and his advisers a suspicion that the Earl of Bedford, angry at the judicial murder of his son, was a favourer of Monmouth, and Captain Fogg was particularly ordered to find out, if such existed, proofs of his complicity.

The part Anthony had taken was too well known for him to remain neglected; and Fogg had been enjoined to seize and make short work of him.

Between two of the tors or granite crags that tower above the gorge of the Tavy where it bursts from the moor, at the place called The Cleave, are to be seen at the present day the massive remains of an oblong structure connecting the rocks, and forming a parallelogram. This was standing unruined at the time of our story. For whatever purpose it may have served originally, it had eventually been converted into a shelter-hut for cattle and for shepherds.

There was a doorway, and there were narrow loophole windows; the roof was of turf. At one end, against the rock, a rude fireplace had been constructed; but there was no proper chimney—the smoke had to find its way as best it might out of a hole in the roof above, which also admitted some light and a good deal of rain. A huge castle of rock in horizontal slabs walled off the hut from the north, and gave it some shelter from the storms that blew thence. There was a door to the opening that could be fastened, which was well, as it faced the southwest, whence blew the prevailing wind laden with rain; but the windows were unglazed—they were mere slots, through which the wind entered freely. The floor was littered with bracken, and was dry. The crushed fern exhaled a pleasant odour.

Outside the hut, in early morning, sat Anthony with Urith among the rocks, looking down into the gorge. The valley was full of white mist, out of which occasionally a grey rock thrust its head. Above the mist the moor-peaks and rounded hills glittered in the morning sun.

Anthony sat with his arm about Urith; he had drawn her head upon his breast, and every moment he stooped to kiss it. Tears were in her eyes—tears sparkling as the dewdrops on bracken and heather—tears of happiness. The dusky shadows of the past had rolled away: a shock had thrown her mind off its balance, and a shock had restored it. What led to that brief period of darkness, what occurred during it, was to her like a troubled dream of which no connected story remained—only a reminiscence of pain and terror. She knew now that Anthony loved her, and there was peace in her soul. He loved her. She cared for nothing else. That was to her everything. That he was in danger she knew. How he had got into it she did not dare to inquire. But one thought filled her mind and soul, displacing every other—he loved her.

It was so. Anthony did love her, and loved her alone. When he was away—in the camp, on the march, in the battle-field—his mind had turned to Urith and his home. Filled with anxiety about her from what he had heard from Mr. Crymes, he had become a prey to despair; and, if he had fought in the engagement of Sedgemoor with desperate valour, it had been in the hopes of falling, for he believed that no more chance of happiness remained to him.

After his escape, an irresistible longing to see Urith once more, and learn for certain how she was, and how she regarded him, had drawn him to Willsworthy. And now, that she was restored to him in mind and heart, he stood, perhaps, in as great peril as at any time since he had joined the insurgents. He knew this, but was sanguine. The vast extent of the moor was before him, where he could hide for months, and it would be impossible for an enemy to surprise him. Where he then was, on the cliffs above the Tavy, he was safe, and safe within reach of home. No one could approach unobserved, and opportunities of escape lay ready on all sides—a thousand hiding-places among the piles of broken rock, and bogs that could be put between himself and a pursuer. Nevertheless, he could not remain for ever thus hiding. He must escape across the seas, as he was certain to be proscribed, and a price set on his head. That he must be with Urith but for a day or two he was well aware, and every moment that she was with him was to him precious. She did not know this: she thought she had recovered him for ever, and he did not undeceive her.

Now he began to tell her of his adventures—of how he had joined the Duke, and been appointed Captain of the South Devon band; of how they had been received in Taunton; how they had marched to Bristol, and almost attacked it; and then of the disastrous day at Sedgemoor.

"Come!" said Anthony, "let us have a fire. With the mists of the morning rising, the smoke from the hut will escape notice."

The air of morning was cold.

Holding Urith still to his side, he went with her into the hut. It was without furniture of any sort. Blocks of stones served as seats; but there was a crook over the hearth, and an iron pot hanging from it. A little collection of fuel stood in a corner—heather, furze-bushes, dry turf—that had been piled there by a shepherd in winter, and left unconsumed.

Urith set herself to work to make a fire and prepare. They were merry as children on a picnic, getting ready for a breakfast. Urith had brought up what she could in a basket from Willsworthy, and soon a bright and joy-inspiring fire was blazing on the hearth.

Anthony rolled a stone beside it and made Urith sit thereon, whilst he threw himself in the fern at her feet, and held her hand. They talked watching and feeding the fire, and expecting the pot to boil. They did not laugh much, they had no jokes with each other. Love had ceased to be a butterfly, and was rather the honey-bearing bee, and the honey it brought was drawn out of the blossoms of sorrow.

To Urith it gave satisfaction to see how changed Anthony was from the spoiled, wayward, dissatisfied fellow who had thought only of himself, to a man resolute, tender, and strong. As she looked at him, pride swelled in her heart, and her dark eyes told what she felt. But a little time had passed over both their heads, and yet in that little while much had been changed in both. How much in herself she did not know, but she marked and was glad to recognise the change in him.

As they talked, intent in each other, almost unable to withdraw their eyes from each other, the door opened, and Mr. Solomon Gibbs entered.

"There!—there!" said he, "a pretty sharp watch you keep. You might have been surprised for aught of guard you kept."

"Come here," said Anthony; "sit by the fire and tell me what is being done below."

Mr. Solomon Gibbs shook his head. "You cannot remain here, Tony; you must be off—over the seas—and I will take care of Urith, and have the windows patched at Willsworthy."

"I know I must," said Anthony, gloomily, and he took Urith's hand and drew it round his neck; never had she been dearer to him than now, when he must part from her.

"Oh! uncle!" exclaimed Urith, "he must not indeed go hence now that he has returned to me."

"I am safe here for a while," said Anthony, and he pressed his lips to Urith's hand.

"Can you say that, with the rare look-out you keep?" asked Mr. Gibbs. Then he gazed into the fire, putting up his hand and scratching his head under the wig. He said no more for a minute, but presently, without looking at Anthony, he went on. "Those fellows under their Captain—Fogg is his name—are turning the place upside down; they have visited pretty nigh every house and hovel in quest of rebels, as they call them. The confounded nuisance is that they have a list of the young fellows who went from these parts. As fast as any of them come home, if they have escaped the battle, they drop into the hands of the troopers."

Anthony said nothing, he was troubled. Urith's large dark eyes were fixed on her uncle.

"The Duke of Monmouth has been taken, I hear; he hid in a field, in a ditch among the nettles. No chance for him. His Majesty, King James, will have no bowels of compassion for such a nephew. For the Protestants of England there is now no hope save in the Prince of Orange."

Then Uncle Solomon put his hand round behind Anthony and nudged him, so as not to attract the attention of Urith.

"And whilst we are waiting we may be consumed," said Anthony.

Then Solomon nudged Anthony again, and winked at him, and made a sign that he desired to have a word with him outside the door.

"'Fore Heaven, Tony!" said he, "we are as careless as before. I who bade you keep a watch have forgotten myself in talking with you. Go forth, lad, and cast a look about thee."

Anthony rose from the fern, and went to the door. He stood in it a moment, looking from side to side, then closed the door, and went further.

Mr. Gibbs took off his wig and rubbed his head. "The mist in the valley has taken the curl out, Urith. I wish you would dry my wig by the blaze, and I will clap my hat on and go out and help Anthony to see from which quarter the wind blows, and whether against the wind mischief comes."

Then he also went forth.

Urith at once set herself to prepare the food for breakfast; her heart was heavy at the thought of losing Anthony again as soon as she had recovered him, when all the love of their first passion had rebloomed with, if not greater beauty, yet with more vigour.

When Anthony re-entered the hut, he was alone, very pale, and graver than before; Urith saw him as he passed the ray of light that entered from one of the loop-holes, and she judged at once that some graver tidings had been given him than Uncle Sol had cared to communicate in her presence.

She uttered a half-stifled cry of fear, and started to her feet. "O Anthony! What is it? Are the soldiers drawing near?"

"No, my darling, no one is in sight."

"But what is it, then? Must I lose you? Must you go from hence?"

She threw herself on his breast and clung to him.

"Yes, Urith, I must go. You must be prepared to lose me."

"But I shall see you again—soon?"

"We shall certainly meet again."

She understood that he was no longer safe there, that he must fly further, and that she could not accompany him on his flight; but her heart could not reconcile itself to this conviction.

He spoke to her with great affection, he stroked her head, and kissed her, and bade her take courage and gather strength to endure what must be borne.

"But, Tony!—for how long?"

"I cannot say."

"And must you cross the seas?"

He hesitated before he answered. "I must go to a strange land," he replied in a low tone, and bowed his head over hers. She felt that his hand that held her head was trembling. She knew it was not from fear, but from the agony of parting with her. She strove to master her despair when she saw what it cost him to say "Farewell" to her. If she might not share his fate, she could save it from being made more heavy and bitter by her tears and lamentations.

"Tony," she said, "you gave me that other half-token, take it again; hang it about your neck as a remembrance of me, and I will wear the other half—wherever we may be, you or I, it is to each only a half, a broken life, an imperfect life, and life can never be full and complete to either again till we meet."

"No," he said, and took the token, "no, only a half life till we meet."

He hung the ribbon round his neck, and placed the half token in his breast. Then he said:

"I must go at once, Urith. Come with me a part of the way. Uncle Sol will take you from me."

They left the hut together. Urith pointed to the food, but Anthony's appetite was gone. He drew her to his side, and so, silently, folded together with interlaced arms, they walked over the dewy short grass without speaking. After a while they reached a point where Solomon Gibbs was awaiting them, a point at which their several ways parted.

There Anthony staved his feet. Overcome by her grief Urith again cast herself into his arms. He put his hands to her head and thrust it back, that he might look into her eyes.

"Urith!" he said.

"Yes, Anthony!" She raised her eyes to his.

He was pale as death.

"Urith, your forgiveness for all the sorrow I have caused you."

"Oh, Anthony!" she clung to him, quivering with emotion. "It is I—it is I—who must——"

"We have been neither of us free from blame. One kiss—a last—in token of perfect reconciliation."

A kiss that was long—which neither liked to conclude—but Anthony at length drew his lips away.

"We shall meet again," he said, "and then to part no more."