She inclined her head toward the
window and watched the handsome figure of Sir Julian with a new
interest. His form, so like that of Cedric, she began to compare with
ancient warriors she had read about and seen pictures of,--then his
tender and meaning hand pressure recurred to her, and she flushed
mightily. After awhile she fell to thinking of the Duke of Monmouth,
the tender thoughts of whom she had not yet resigned,--such were the
vacillations of the mind of strong, warm, youthful Mistress Penwick.
The storm grew furious, and the wind blew such a gale it appeared at
times as if the trees swept the earth. They bended and swung rudely,
brushing hard against the windows. In the midst of its severity the
coach came to a stand-still and Lord Cedric threw open the door. Janet
leant quickly toward him,--
"I pray thee not to go forth in the storm, my lord; 'tis enough to
give thee thy death."
"Nay, nay, Janet, 'twill not be summer rain that will kill me, but
cold looks and threatening mien." And he stepped out into the night.
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