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servant
    Darwentwater.
    “And so,” said Lady Constable anxiously when they had all heard the letter, “it won’t be long before he comes, but I wonder when! Will it be for Christmas? Dear, oh dear, I’m sure I don’t know how to plan. All those people -- the bedrooms in a shocking state too, and I must find another cook, the only thing this one can properly make is that disgusting mess of entrails they call haggis.”
    The men quickly vanished, Sir Marmaduke to worried consultation with the steward, the priest to his austere little room in the gatehouse, Charles in quest of his mare, while passionately wishing that it were Sunday and he could see Meg. He had dreamed of her each night, startling virile dreams of a kind he had not had before, and from which he awoke sweating, excited, and somewhat ashamed.
    On Sunday morning Charles arose before five and slipped out of the castle before anyone awoke. He would miss Mass and there would be a fearful hullabaloo, but no matter. Later he would gracefully accept whatever penance Mr. Brown gave him. He avoided the wood where the thief hung in the gibbet, and cantered fifteen miles along tracks and muddy lanes towards the trysting place. He crossed the Derwent River, then began to look for the abandoned windmill Meg had told him of. He found it easily. It had been abandoned because of its situation next to a way-leave on which ran tracks from Sir Henry Liddell’s colliery near Ravensworth to his staith three miles away on the Tyne. The farmer had exacted enough rent for the way-leave across his property to enable him to buy a new farm he coveted.
    On weekdays the clear morning air would have been acrid with smoke from a dozen nearby pits, a line of coal wagons would have been trundling by to the waiting keelboats. But today there was no danger of being seen. It was quiet around the crumbling mill, except for a blackbird singing in the branches of a scarlet-berried rowan tree which had escaped the hatchet.
    Charles had barely time to tether the mare and begin to worry as to whether Meg had changed her mind before he saw her coming. She sped across a field in her bare feet, having left her shoes home. They would have hampered her for the two miles of running from the Wilsons’ cottage. Otherwise she wore her Sunday clothes-- faded blue wool and a fresh-laundered white kerchief. Her brown hair was tied back with a bit of tape, for she owned no ribbons.
    Charles went to meet her and then they both stopped dead, struck with embarrassment. “ ‘Tis a fine day, sir,” said Meg. “I thought it might be yestere’en -- the sun so red, I’m early, mebbe, the bells havena rung yet, Nanny thinks I’m off to see the minister in town, I divven’t lie though, she just thought it. Dick, Geordie, an’ Robbie went to their ould mother--” She knew she was gabbling, but Charles, of whom she too had dreamed, now seemed a stranger.
    He wore fawn-colored breeches, there were silver buttons on his riding coat, white ruffles at his throat and wrists, his black cocked hat was gold-laced, and a small sword dangled from his hip. He resembled the gallants she had seen riding haughtily through the Newcastle streets, and tears came into her eyes as she realized her wicked folly in coming. “I wouldna’ve knawn ye --” she faltered, in answer to his look of concern.
    “Oh,” said Charles, not displeased. He had dressed up to impress her. His shyness passed as he saw hers; he put his arm around her waist and, laughing, pulled her to the mill. It was dark and quiet inside beneath the huge millstones. And there was a pile of old sacks on the rotting floor. “Let’s sit and talk,” Charles said, drawing her down onto the sacks beside him. “Have you breakfasted?”
    She shook her head and Charles pulled a flask of port and some marchpane cakes from his pocket. He had found both in the dining hall on his way out, since he dared not go to the larders.
    Meg was entranced by the sticky sweetness of