Lauren called, “Mr. Fitch! Where are we going? I demand an answer!” she screamed. Fitch turned in his saddle and stated simply, “The interior.” “The interior!” shrieked Lauren. “Only voyageurs and women of bad character go to the interior!” “Oh, I had forgotten that you are a woman of good character,” Fitch mumbled sarcastically. Suddenly he jerked up on the reigns of his horse. “What is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong?” “Shut up!” he barked, throwing his leg over the front of his steed and jumping to the ground. Lauren was shocked that a man of his years could move that quickly. He tore off his cloak and stuffed it in the hollow of a large tree then yanked off his topcoat and waistcoat stuffing those into the tree as well. Clad only in his linen shirt, breeches and boots he continued to watch the trail as if someone was coming. “What are you doing?” hissed Lauren, her heart pounding. “What’s going on?” He pulled off his white periwig and much to her surprise Mr. Fitch was not gray at all. He had long, smoky blond hair which was tied back in a leather strap. Next he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face makeup off. Once more Lauren was thunderstruck. Underneath the orris root and lampblack lay the face of a man much younger in years. Fitch rolled up his sleeves and quickly grabbed a musket. Like a miracle, the stooped, frail old gentleman was gone replaced by a tall, robust, man in the prime of his life. “Get down!” he ordered. Lauren continued to stare in amazement. Fitch’s voice was no longer harsh and raspy but smooth and commanding, and for the first time she noticed finely defined muscles under his linen shirt. Too impatient to wait for her to collect her wits, he stepped over and yanked her off the horse. As she tumbled to the ground, he shook her saying, “Run!"