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begged you to stay with me. I won't be to blame if something happens,"

    Til only be gone one night or possibly two."
    Til miss you."
    "No more than I'll miss you," he said. "You couldn't possibly care for me more than I care for you. Think of that, Rosalind." His hands cupped her face, his eyes soft and dark-brown. Think of how I love you."
    Her eyes held his for a moment; then she looked away. "I don't know if I can, Peter. It's different with me. I'm not . . . I'm not the same person when you're gone. I need you here beside me. I can't stand being left alone."
    He kissed her good-bye, his mouth lingering as he whispered his love to her again. There was no more he could say. Reassurances would only degenerate into an argument, and they had been having too many of those lately. He left her with a feeling of dissatisfaction and knew that she felt no better than he did.
    James greeted him at the foot of the stairs with a scowl. "By Jupiter, Peter. Sometimes I think you want Albert to put a noose around your neck. Damn! We'll be lucky if Stephen can get us to the morning coach."
    Peter hurried from the house with his father still scolding. The two men climbed into the buggy. Stephen's young face was pale with concern as he looked at Peter. His stormy blue eyes were filled with love and admiration, but he was all business as he touched the whip lightly to the horse's flank. When they were on the road to Seven Oaks he turned to ask the questions that were all but choking him. But Peter's eyes were closed, his head cushioned against the side of the buggy. Stephen remained silent and concentrated on the road, watching more carefully for potholes and ruts.
    Stephen brought them to the station just as the coach pulled in. James was out on the road waving to the driver before Stephen had the horse reined in. Pe-

    ter got down more slowly. Unable to stand it any longer, Stephen said, "I know we can't talk now, Peter, but tell me you are all right. They aren't out looking for you?"
    Peter smiled at him. "No. No one is looking for me, and I'm fine." He grinned more broadly. "Nearly fine."
    'Til see to things at home while you're gone. Pa said you're going to fetch Ma's cousin . . . what's her name? Callie something?"
    "Dawson."
    "Well, I have a story about Miss Dawson that will fill Albert's ears. I can count on Ma to help me. Albert won't learn a thing about you. I told Pa I'd burn the clothes, and I'll see to the roan too. I may have to sell her, Peter. If the wound is too bad, we won't be able to hide it. I'm sorry."
    "There's nothing for you to be sorry about, Stephen. Whatever happened was my doing. You'll have to take the horse a fair distance for news of the sale not to get back to Albert."
    "Oh, I'll be careful. I'm getting good at covering your tracks."
    Peter placed his hand on the plane of Stephen's cheek. He began to speak, then turned away and joined his father.
    James and Peter took the yellow bounder into London, a C-spring coach that boasted of the speed with which it traveled. They careered along the road, jolting from side to side in mortal danger when the wheels hit a rut. The trip was a misery for Peter. He was jostled and bumped against the other passengers. His arm ached and his head throbbed. They arrived

    in London sore and exhausted, and unprepared to find the city ringing with the sounds of festival.
    'What in the devil?" James muttered. He stopped a man on-the street. 'What is going on? It's no holiday "
    "A hanging," the man said gleefully. "They're hanging John Robinson, the highwayman. Caught him on the Kent Road, him and two of his fellows."
    James growled a reply, then looked at Peter. A mass of people moving toward the festivities swept down on them. James and Peter were caught in the pressing flow of unwashed bodies moving like a gurgling, noisy brook toward the Newgate Prison grounds. James shoved his way to the street and, battling to keep his footing, craned in all directions looking for a cab. It