I wish to set out at once!" "But your wound ?" cried Cynthia.

"You are still faint." "Faint! Not I.I am awake and strong.

My wound is no wound, for a scratch may not be given that name.

So there, sweetheart." He laughed, and drawing down her head, he whispered the words: "Your father." Then turning again to Foster.

"Now, sir," he continued, "there are four tolerable posthorses of mine below, on which you can follow tomorrow to Harwich, there exchanging them again for your own, which you shall find awaiting you, stabled at the Garter Inn.