The coach in which the prisoner had been conveyed was already broken to pieces, and the driver was glad to escape with life. Don’t be afraid that I shall stunt it. ‘Have no fear,’ he uttered soothingly, reaching out to pat her free hand. She cried out his name in ecstasy. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. Not with the unavoidable explanations, and the need to secrete the sword and hide it before returning the priest’s horse to its stable—which had been her excuse for running from Martha’s protestations. Part 4 MY DEAR VEE, he wrote.
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