Chapter IV: Part 4

They greeted Peter's harangue with a wild shout of triumph, and closed in round the corporal and his men with gestures which threatened every moment to develop into a fierce attack.

Barbara's face flushed and her eyes glittered with triumph. Wild projects flashed through her brain. To overpower the half-dozen troopers, then to fortify the Manor House, and hold it against all comers; to rally round her the many secret supporters of the late rebellion, to recall the exiles from Holland, and to succeed in establishing justice and the Protestant Religion, or die fighting for the Cause. Had not other women done as much! These men, she knew, would cheerfully fight to the death for her; the country was still full of malcontents; one failure could not be regarded as the death of the Cause. Hope was high, all things seemed possible. Who shall say what mad dreams passed through her thoughts during those few moments while she stood there, the centre of that enthusiastic mob?

But it was not to be. From out the crowd there pressed forward an old woman, who flung herself trembling at Barbara's feet.

"Eh; Miztress Barbara, dearie," she cried, seizing her hand, "don't-ee, don't-ee, then. A'll swing for it, for zure a wull if a faight. And zee there," pointing with her trembling hand at a tall stalwart fellow, prominent amongst the throng, "thiccy's arl I've left now. Three others have been taaeken. If they taaek un I maun die, for zure I maun. Don't-ee, now."

"Vor shaaeme, mother," cried the lad referred to. "Would ee have un taaek the young Miztress to Taunton? Vor shaaeme."

But the dreams had passed. Barbara's eyes were opened and she recognised the hopelessness of any resistance. She could not, she must not sacrifice these lives.

Gently disengaging herself from the clinging hands of the old crone, she sprang on to the wall at Peter's side and caught his uplifted arm.

"No, no, friends!" she urged; "it won't do. We could not hope for more than a short-lived victory. She is right, there would be vengeance and ye would all swing for it. This fellow saith he hath the Royal Warrant for my arrest, an that be so I must e'en go with him. Be assured they cannot harm me; I have done no wrong. Besides," she added proudly, "I would not have them think me afeared to go. Peter, be silent. Nay, I thank you indeed, but there must be no resistance. Go home quietly. You women, look to your men folk. No harm shall come to you for my sake, and none must think I fear to go."

Thus she stood upon the wall, a bright figure in her dainty muslin gown, smiling down upon them, until with reluctance, and many incoherent mutterings, the crowd, somewhat reassured by her words, slowly dispersed. Then turning she addressed the corporal:

"So that is ended. Now, an you will permit me first to return to the Manor House to collect some necessaries, I am ready to go with you to Taunton."

"I am rejoiced, mistress," he assured her pompously, "that you have decided to submit peaceably to my orders."

"Aye, corporal," answered Barbara, with a smile at his perturbed countenance. "I do not doubt but you are indeed rejoiced. But come, I must to the Manor House, to prepare for the journey. I presume you will allow me so much grace?"

"The escort will accompany you thither."

"I had thought my submission had been proof enough of my good faith, but as you will," answered Barbara carelessly, passing through the gate.

"Barbara, I must with you to Taunton, indeed I must," pleaded Cicely, as she hastened after her cousin. "'Tis monstrous that you should go alone with these men."

"Thou, Cicely? Impossible! What could'st thou do there? Where could'st thou lodge? Not i' the gaol indeed."

"There be many kindly folk in the town who would house me, and they will perchance advise too what 'twere best to do for thee. There is good Mistress Lane, the wool-merchant's wife, I will seek her out. But go with you I must indeed."

"In truth, Cicely," answered Barbara with a quick sigh, "I would fain have thee near, if 'twere only to teach myself the folly of my fears by laughing at thine."

With a tyranny born of his newly acquired importance, Corporal Crutch refused to allow his prisoner more than a few minutes' preparation before her journey to Taunton, but having resigned herself to fate Barbara had no mind to delay, and in less than half an hour after their return to the house the two enforced travellers were ready for departure.

Barbara's resolution was by no means strengthened at sight of the ramshackle cart provided to convey her to Taunton.

"To what low estate our fortunes have fallen!" she muttered with a wry face.

"Rebels cannot expect to be treated like honest folk," remarked the Corporal complacently.

"Set a watch on thy tongue, Master Corporal," retorted she angrily. "I am no rebel till I be proved such, therefore I warn thee 'twere best be more careful of thy words," and turning abruptly from the startled man she took her seat in the cart.

For the first few miles of their journey each of the girls devoted all her efforts to the difficult task of cheering the other. Upon leaving the village and their friends behind them, some sense of the utter helplessness of her position filled Barbara's mind, and she was but a sorry comforter.

But hers was not a nature to sigh long, and soon the fresh air, the bright sunshine, and the interest and amusement she found in watching her escort, had their effect. The result of this reaction from her former depression was a mood of high spirits and brighter hopes.

"In truth, Cicely," she broke out suddenly with a laugh, "we are both fools. At worst 'tis but a matter of a night or two in gaol, where I doubt not I shall meet much good company; an interview with Lord Jeffreys (I would fain see him, they say he is a right handsome man, for all he has such a tongue); then perchance a fine, and so home. Why 'tis not worth a sigh. 'Tis but an adventure, and thou knowest I love such."

"Aye, Barbara, you speak truly," answered her companion, with a desperate attempt at cheerfulness. "They would not dare to harm a woman. I make no doubt these tales of my Lord Jeffreys' punishment and--and of Lady Alice Lisle, are gross exaggerations." This last she added with a tentative air--Cicely longed for corroboration of that statement.

At mention of Lady Lisle Barbara's face fell slightly, but she resolutely dismissed her fears.

"There is not a doubt of it, sweet. Yet even an it were not so, they could prove nought against me. They have no testimony to show that we housed or aided either Rupert or Sir Peter."

"That is so," assented Cicely joyously. "And in justice none could punish us for what is unproven."

"Oh! Cicely, look at yon red-headed trooper, didst ever behold so scarlet a poll?"

"Aye. And mark how he sits his horse. I wager he will be over its head ere he sees Taunton. Note his face when the creature pricks his ears; 'tis a very picture of terror."

"Didst note the corporal as we passed trough the village?" laughed Barbara. "The poor fool feared an ambuscade at every corner, and well-nigh fell from his horse with fright when old Mother Gilkin's pot fell down as we reached her cottage. I hate the fellow, yet I cannot but laugh at his antics."

Thus for a while the two chattered bravely as they clattered and bumped along the rough country roads to Taunton. But as night drew on the sky became overcast with clouds, and a cold wind and drizzling rain added to the discomfort of the journey. Their conversation became more and more desultory, and finally ceased altogether.

Only once again did Barbara break the silence.

"Cis," she asked with some slight hesitation, "thinkest thou that Captain Protheroe knows aught of my arrest?"

"Knows aught!" cried Cicely in astonishment. "Why, Barbara, child, who else hath accused thee?"

"Nay, nay; I will not believe that of him," answered Barbara stoutly.

"Believe what thou wilt, I tell thee it is the truth. Thinkest thou he would tamely endure to be duped as thou hast duped him, without some revenge? Oh! I tell thee as I have ever done, the fellow is to be mistrusted, and to take such revenge on thee were but his nature."

"In truth, Cicely, you do not know him," pleaded Barbara. "He is not--I would trust him."

"Why, Barbara! Hath the man bewitched thee that thou art so ready in his defence?" cried Cicely, looking at her curiously. "What hath he done to win such trust? Or dost thou deem, perchance, that thou hast bewitched him, and so bound him to thy cause? I' faith, coz, I warn thee, trust not too much to the power of thine eyes; all men be not so easily ensnared."

But Barbara answered not, only sighed lightly and stared thoughtfully into the gathering darkness, her eyes wide with wonder and with doubt.

The distance from Durford to Taunton is scarce twelve miles, and 'twas little past noon when they set out on their journey, but the progress of the cart was slow, owing to the bad roads.

A horse, too, cast a shoe, and they must needs stop at the next village to seek a smith. The escort halted more than once for refreshment, and in fine it was night before they reached their destination.

Perhaps the darkness was not without its compensation. At the cross roads were scenes ill-suited to a woman's eyes, traces of that wholesale butchery which for many weeks had devastated the fairest county of the West. Gaunt figures swinging in their chains from the sign-posts, tokens of the merciless punishment meted out to those even suspected of rebellion, had been no cheering welcome to such travellers as they.

When they entered Taunton the streets were almost deserted, and the dwelling houses closed and in darkness, but the windows of the White Hart Inn, the headquarters of the royal troops, blazed with light, and the shouts of laughter and snatches of song from within indicated that the soldiery were holding revelry, heedless alike of the hallowedness of the Sabbath, of the misery of the townsfolk, and of the despair of hundreds of prisoners who lay awaiting their doom in the crowded gaols of the town.

As the cavalcade passed before the Inn an officer lounged into the light of the doorway, and stared carelessly at the passing company. Barbara with a gasp of astonishment half rose to her feet, but Cicely's hand restrained her, and reluctantly she sank down beside her cousin.

The cart passed, leaving Captain Protheroe to continue his inspection of the night all unconscious of whom the vehicle conveyed.

*CHAPTER X*

"So! Now am I in prison. Well, I had as lief be elsewhere," muttered Barbara when she awoke after her first night in gaol, and proceeded philosophically to take stock of her surroundings, which she had been too weary to notice on the previous night.

She was not confined in the regular gaol of the town; for nigh two months past that had been filled to overflowing. Those arrested within the last few weeks, together with the unfortunates sent on from Exeter in the van of the dread-inspiring Jeffreys, were lodged in convenient sheds and storehouses, situated in various parts of the town; bare, dreary places with little or no suitable accommodation for the wretches herded within their walls, but affording enough shelter in the opinion of the authorities for rebels during the short interval which must elapse before their trial.

The building wherein Barbara awoke was a large wooden shed, originally a storehouse for wool, some few bales of which still remained piled in the corners. A large door closely guarded and windows high in the roof were the only means of egress, and no provision for the accommodation of the inmates had been made beyond a few straw pallet-beds for the women prisoners, roughly screened from the rest of the shed by a dilapidated piece of sacking. Even in the most hopeless moments since her arrest Barbara had calculated on nothing so dismal as this.

She had slept late after the fatigues of the previous day, and when at length she awoke, the other occupants of her corner had already risen, and passed beyond the partition into the shed.

Barbara seated herself on the edge of her bed and stared forlornly at the bare wall opposite.

"Well! Many better women have been in worse plights, there is not a doubt. I must e'en comfort myself with that," was her verdict after musing some minutes upon her situation. "Now let me see. Rupert would say that the duty of every woman under every circumstance is to look her fairest, but there seemeth little scope for that maxim here, and I see not wherein lies the vantage of tending one's looks when here is no mirror to show the result. However, for lack of other advice I'll e'en follow Rupert's."

Having come to this laudable conclusion, Barbara opened her bundle and proceeded to arrange her curls, and make such improvements in her toilet as the scanty means at her disposal allowed. This done she drew aside the partition and stepped into the room beyond.

It was a curious sight that met her eyes. The shed was totally destitute of furniture, unless as such might be designated the few bales of wool and some bundles of straw, used by the prisoners indiscriminately as couch, chair, or table.

The place served as lodging for about fifty prisoners, many of whom had been from two to three weeks in captivity. The majority of them were rough, ignorant peasants, who, having faithfully followed their leaders into a quarrel which they themselves but half comprehended, now awaited their doom with that same half-puzzled, stolid patience and dogged courage which had helped them already to face death on the fatal field of Sedgemoor.

There were some, too, of the yeoman class, some of the richer townsfolk, and here and there a noncomformist divine, but save perhaps in a certain intelligence and eagerness of expression, there was nothing to distinguish the man of learning or station from the poorest peasant. All alike were dirty, ragged, and dishevelled; unshaven, unwashed, with ill-kempt beards and hair. Existence in such a prison, following in many cases upon days of homeless wanderings, had wrought this levelling effect upon them all. Their money, what little they once possessed, was long ago exhausted. They could pay their gaolers for neither books, amusements, nor drink. They talked little; what was there to talk of? For the most part they were plunged in the deepest apathy. They had fought, they had failed; now they awaited what was to come in silence. They showed no fear, no despair, no hope, only a great patience.

Barbara gazed on the scene with the utmost astonishment and indignation. Were these men, indeed, the same wild enthusiasts who a while ago had so eagerly cheered Monmouth through the streets of Taunton? Aye, and not only cheered him, but aided him loyally, leaving work, home, wife, children, and all, that they might follow him and strike a blow for the Cause. Were these indeed those who, armed but with stake or scythe, had made such a gallant stand against the best disciplined troops of the country; those who (men were forced to confess) would but for an accident, undoubtedly have won an unprecedented victory? Could these indeed be the same? She stared with anger and scorn at their silence, their apathy, their unkempt looks. Her ardent young nature had no understanding of this submission to the Inevitable; she had not yet learned that an Inevitable might exist.

Her birth and breeding afforded her no comprehension of the stolid bravery of the peasantry. The farther man is removed from the natural state, the greater the advance he has made in civilisation, so much the more does he deem it necessary to hide his emotions beneath an artificial mask, to seem to be that which he is not. A century later in the massacres in Paris the victims were for the most part nobles and gentlemen; they went to their doom bravely, with a smile in their eyes, a jest upon their lips. In this great Rebellion of the West the victims were the poorest of the peasantry; they faced their doom no less bravely, but they faced it gravely, in silence.

Barbara's family traditions had taught her nothing of this. She had expected her fellow prisoners to be a company of merry dare-devils such as her brother Rupert, or Sir Peter Dare, men who laughed at danger, mocked their gaolers, and turned misfortune, nay, death itself, into a subject for jest. Men, too, who could fight fiercely and endure bravely on occasion, yet would scorn to appear serious in any circumstances (save perchance when discussing the set of a doublet or the colour of a bow), and who looked upon gravity as a sign of cowardice. Such were the rebels she knew, the rebels she had dreamed of, gay, careless, defiant to the end; not such as these, silent, sunk in a helpless submission to their fate. She could not understand. She looked round upon them in indignation, her lips curled in scorn.

But while she stood there surveying the scene she had herself been the subject of observation; presently one of the prisoners approached her and interrupted her meditations.

"What are you doing in this place, my child?" he asked gently.

The speaker was a small, spare man, with bushy white hair and beard, a face seamed and lined with age, yet full of kindliness and humour, with a pair of bright, piercing eyes; a face calculated to win friends or to daunt foes.

Barbara turned to him at once as to an old friend; his voice invited confidence.

"I was arrested but yesterday, sir, on a charge of sheltering rebels, and I am here, as the rest of the company, to await my trial."

"You are very young, but you have a stout heart," he said, smiling kindly.

"Why, sir, I hope so," answered Barbara cheerfully. "I am Barbara Winslow of Durford Manor, and no Winslow yet was ever written coward," she added proudly, with a scornful glance round the shed.

"Noblesse oblige," he quoted, smiling at her sadly. "Ah, child, your strength may seem great, but trust not in it too wholly, lest in the hour of darkness it prove but a broken reed."

Barbara was puzzled. "What mean you, sir? Sure, 'tis not sinful to be brave for a name's sake."

"Nay, I say not that," he answered gently. "There be three qualities that have power to beget a courage unto death--Faith, Love, and Pride. But of these three only the courage born of Faith has never been known to fail. Yet whencesoever it springs, courage is the gift of God and a blessing to man, and as such must be honoured."

Barbara looked at him curiously.

"You are a divine, sir, are you not?"

"Yes, I am indeed a servant of the Lord, though for many years I have been withheld from openly preaching His word. For fifty years I have lived and worked secretly among the miners of the Mendip Hills, and when they marched to support the defender of our religion, I followed to give them the comfort of my words. I thank God that I shall follow them to the end. Ah, child," he continued earnestly, "you cannot understand what it is to be silenced, to be dumb, as 'twere, for twenty-three years; to be torn to pieces 'twixt the burning in my heart to speak the Word, the fear in my breast of meeting the punishment. It is worth a thousand deaths to have had at last this chance of testifying once again to the truth."

Barbara looked at him gravely.

"No," she said, "I do not understand."

His earnestness vanished. He gave a soft resigned sigh and smiled at her, as at a child.

"No, you do not understand; you are young and fearless."

"It should be easy to me to be courageous," she answered lightly. "I have nought to fear. 'Tis for me but some few days in prison, and then perchance a fine. In justice they can do no more."

He smiled at her a trifle sadly.

"Aye, child, as you say, _in justice_ they could do no more."

She looked up at him doubtfully, but forbore to question further the meaning of his words.

"But these folk," she continued, looking round, "have doubtless more to fear."

"There is indeed little hope for them this side the grave," he answered calmly, "save for a speedy and merciful death."

Barbara was startled.

"Surely not so--and yet--I had not thought on't," she muttered. "Verily, sir, if this be true, my scorn was ill-timed, they have courage. They are but rude peasants, with neither pride of birth nor name to strengthen their hearts, yet they await death as calmly as any noble. How comes this?"

"So thou deemest courage a monopoly of gentle folk, eh?" he asked, laughing softly. "Ah, child, thou art young. But indeed," he continued more seriously, "these men have fought in the Lord's cause, there is no fear but He will send them strength to fight their battle bravely to the end."

"How can it be God's cause when it hath failed?" asked Barbara bluntly.

"Failed, child? What mean you?"

"Why, call you not this failure?" she asked, glancing round.

"This! In good sooth, no; this is but the beginning of success, only the times were unripe for rebellion, the leaders were unworthy of the cause. Think you these men will die in vain? In God's name I tell you, no. A cause strengthened by such devotion cannot but succeed; for every drop of blood shed to-day there will spring up seeds of justice and resolution in the hearts of the survivors which shall blossom forth into a mighty power. I shall not see it, but thou mayest, for the day is not far off when justice, toleration and true religion shall once more flourish in this kingdom. Failure! Never! We are but the necessary martyrs, the runners of success. The cause of justice was never yet won save by a path of blood and tears."

His enthusiasm communicated itself to Barbara. Her face glowed with eagerness; at that moment she had resolution to face block or scaffold that she also might die for the Cause.

"Ah!" she cried, "this is the courage of which you spoke, the courage born of Faith."

He bowed his head in assent, and there was silence between them while Barbara pondered on his words. Presently she continued:

"And the third, the courage of Love? What mean you by that?" she asked.

Instantly his face was transfigured by a smile of great tenderness.

"I will show you," he answered gently. "Look."

Barbara followed the direction of his eyes. In a far corner of the shed, apart from the rest of the prisoners, sat a man and a woman. She lay in the circle of his arm, her head dropped back upon his shoulder, and oblivious to all around them they sat gazing in one another's eyes. Pale, ragged and unkempt, as were all the prisoners, yet beautiful in each other's eyes, and transfigured by the light of perfect happiness, by the glory of their love.

"It is their wedding-day," he continued softly. "I married them at seven o'clock this morning."

"But who are they?" asked Barbara in bewilderment.

"He is the son of the squire of Hardon, and an officer in Monmouth's army; she, the daughter of a rich cloth-maker of Taunton, who joined the army and met his death at Sedgemoor. He lodged in her father's house when the army was first quartered here. Later, she was attainted a rebel, and they met again, in prison. See now how mighty is love, that it will even force its way into such a desert as this. They have lived here together for three weeks as in a Paradise, and yesterday, feeling the time of separation draw near, they besought me to join them forever in God's sight, as man and wife. I know not whether I rightly consented, yet who could refuse?"

"And the future?" whispered Barbara eagerly.

He shook his head.

"She has money, the charge against her is but slight, her friends will buy her freedom. But for him, an officer in the rebel army, there can be little doubt---- Is it not wonderful?" he continued softly, as though to himself. "Thus they sit hour by hour. Hopes and fears alike have faded in the great light of their love, and for to-day at least they live as in the Garden of Eden, where there is neither past nor future; nought but the present and themselves."

Barbara gazed silently at the couple, until suddenly a great sense of loneliness overcame her, and her eyes darkened with a mist of tears. She turned to her companion with a pathetic gesture of helplessness.

"Alas! ere I came here I had believed myself so strong, so fearless. And here I find all others are brave, and I but a helpless fool."

There was something bewitching in this sudden confession of weakness, and her companion's face softened for an instant as he looked at her. Then he laughed, and his laughter was wise, for it stung her pride, and recalled her former resolution.

"In truth, this discovery is to be deeply regretted, Mistress Winslow," he answered lightly, "seeing I had hoped to enlist the services of one so stout-hearted in the work of cheering the weary hours of some of our unfortunate comrades."

"My services! Why, what think you I can do?" asked Barbara eagerly. "Wouldest have me clamber on a bale of wool and harangue these men upon the duty and virtue of courage?" she added merrily.

"Nay, that were hardly woman's work. And 'tis not for men your help is needed."

"For whom, then?"

"There is a poor girl, she is scarce more than a child, who was brought hither yesterday with her younger sister. They were among those maids of Taunton who presented to the Duke his banners, and for this innocent action they have been arrested. I think, indeed, there is little fear for them; they have rich friends, people of influence, who can save them at a price. But the poor child is fragile. Terror hath gripped her by the heart, and if she be not roused and cheered 'tis to be feared her brain may give way."

"Take me to her, I will try."

"Come, then. Her sister is beside her, but the poor child is very young and can do but little. It may be that you will be able to cheer her."

Barbara gathered up her dainty skirts and followed her companion. As she passed along she was greeted by many a look of surprise and admiration, but so intent was she upon her errand she scarce noted the interest she aroused.

They found the two ill-fated children--they were both little more--crouched against the wall in the darkest corner of the shed. Near them sat a poor peasant woman weeping bitterly, while a second woman offered rough attempts at comfort. Close beside the latter was a thin, elderly woman, with the severe mouth and narrow forehead of a fanatic, who stared straight before her, muttering rapidly to herself, oblivious to her surroundings. These few, with Barbara and the young bride, were the only female prisoners in the shed.

Barbara paused a moment, surveying the group curiously, then she advanced slowly towards the two sisters. The elder of the two was scarce sixteen, fragile and pale. She crouched beside the wall, her chin sunk on her breast, silent, immovable, but when Barbara, touched her on the shoulder she raised her head suddenly, and displayed a face so frozen with despair and eyes so wild with terror that the girl was horrified. In an instant all other considerations vanished before the great pity and tenderness that filled her heart.

"My poor, poor child," she exclaimed gently, "what have they done to thee? Nay, look not thus, none shall hurt thee, I promise it. See, I will sit thus beside thee. Come, now thou art safe and hast nought to fear."

She sank down beside her, drew the child close and encircled her tenderly with her strong young arms.

The bright face, cheery smile, and gentle voice, all tended to excite confidence, as did also the firm pressure of human touch. The child gazed at her for a few moments in doubt and bewilderment, then suddenly clung to her fiercely and burst into wild tears.

"Oh! they will kill me," she sobbed. "Do not let them. Do not let them take me away."

"No, no, they shall not, I swear they shall not harm thee," answered Barbara soothingly, though with more rashness than conviction. "Only look cheerily, sweetheart, and be brave and all will be well."

"Will you take me home? Prithee, take me home," she begged, sobbing.

"Nay, we must bide here for a day or two, but what of that? It will not harm you, and 'tis for a great cause. Bethink you of the saints, of the martyrs; they suffered even death without fear. Bethink you, childie, how many women have striven and suffered manfully for their cause, and be you courageous and proud to suffer thus little for yours."

"Tell me of those women," whispered the younger child, creeping near to their new-found protector. She was stronger; she did not suffer as did her sister, but her poor puzzled brain could not understand why this imprisonment had befallen them; she grasped eagerly at the reference to martyrs. 'Tis easier to be brave in paths which others have trod before us.

So Barbara settled herself between the two children and bent all her efforts to recollecting and relating to the best effect every tale of heroism she had ever read, heard, or imagined, incidents culled from the histories of many nations, from romances, ballads, and legends. From her earliest childhood she had loved to listen to all such tales of prowess and brave endurance; her store seemed unlimited, she had a clear memory, and above all, she possessed that rarest of all gifts, the art of story-telling.

The two children were soon listening with deep interest. She raised her voice, that beautiful voice, not the least of her many charms, and presently the woman sitting near them ceased her sobbing to listen; some of the men even raised themselves from their lethargic musings and drew near, so that she became in time the centre of a large group of prisoners. Cheered with this success, Barbara braced herself to an increased effort. She related story after story of the heroes of many countries and times, stories of love and tenderness, of fierce passions, of high devotion to a worthy cause, till her audience were infected with the enthusiasm and followed her words with startling eagerness. For a time prison walls faded away, trial, punishment, death were forgotten, they lived again in the past.

It is a wonderful power, the art of story-telling, and is given to few, especially among Western peoples, but it is a power which, when combined with the magnetism of a beautiful presence, is irresistible.

Thus intermittently for several hours Barbara continued, and to her hearers the long day passed quickly, until late in the afternoon the pealing of bells and a roll of drums were heard from without. These sounds betokened, as some guessed, the expected arrival of the king's judges. On the morrow, therefore, would commence the Assize trial, which was to decide for each whether he, too, was destined to follow in the footsteps of the long line of martyrs and heroes who had suffered and died in the cause of freedom.

The charm cast around them by Barbara was broken, and she finished her narrative lamely, as her audience grew inattentive and relapsed into moody restlessness. As the darkening shadows gathered in the wool-shed a silence fell, the silence of an overhanging doom.

Suddenly and with startling effect the silence was broken by a clear voice which rang through the room. "Be strong and He shall 'stablish your hearts, all ye that put your trust in the Lord."

The words seemed to echo like a battle-clarion, an incentive to lead all men to victory.

It was Barbara's friend of the morning, Mr. Hardcastle, the noncomformist divine.

When other comfort had failed he was at hand to show these untutored peasants the true source of strength in danger, of consolation in affliction, the promise of their God. Few and simple were his words, yet charged with the fervour of belief, they served their purpose well. Again the courage of Faith strengthened them, the peace of God filled their hearts, and when at the close of his address he besought all to sing with him the eighty-sixth psalm, they joined him with a cheerful heartiness which made the rafters of the barn ring again.

So night drew down upon them, but there was light in their hearts, and they settled to rest in peace.

Barbara carried off her children to their pallet bed in the corner. With the darkness the poor child Katherine's terror had revived somewhat, and for a time she could not be induced to lie down. But gradually Barbara soothed her, talking hopefully of her probable return home on the morrow, and crooning tender child ballads such as her mother sang. Nature was merciful; clinging to the hand of her protectress she sank at last to sleep.

Barbara herself lay long awake listening to the heavy breathing of the sleepers around her and to the dull tramp of the sentries in the street without.

Sleep! the very thought of it seemed ill-timed with the lives of all these men at stake, and some way, surely some way was to be found, could she but think of it, to save them. To her active spirit it seemed past belief that escape should be impossible; intolerable to think that these forty or more around her, strong and healthy men, should go quietly to their deaths without one bid for freedom.

She tossed from side to side upon her mattress, racking her brains to devise a plan. Had she not wit and cleverness more than common? Sure she could find some way! But in vain; her thoughts wandered round and round in a circle, a circle she could not break. At length she sprang to her feet in desperation.

"'Tis no use," she exclaimed, "I can think of nothing. But he hath brains and he cares for their safety, I will go to him. Together surely we may devise some means of escape."

Softly she stepped out into the shed, and picked her way carefully among the sleepers, looking right and left for the face she sought. The moonlight poured in through the windows high in the room so that her passage was not difficult. She came at length upon the man she sought, the Reverend Mr. Hardcastle. Half the night he had spent at the side of one or another of his weaker comrades, cheering and strengthening each by his sympathy. Now at last he had found time for repose, and lay sleeping quietly, his Bible still open at his side. His slumbers were light, for he awoke at her slightest touch, and raised himself to his feet, instantly alert.

"What is the matter, child, do you need me?" he cried.

Barbara's face was pale in the moonlight, her eyes gleamed strangely and she clutched his arm with desperate eagerness.

"Surely something can be done to save them all," she cried confusedly. "It cannot be impossible."

"What mean you, child?"

"Why, here are fifty brave men, at most but half a dozen guards. Can we not break prison, rush the door, devise some mode of escape? 'Tis intolerable to sit here in idleness while the lives of all these are at stake. 'Tis monstrous. Sure, something can be done!"

"Peace, child," he answered sternly; "you know nought of the matter. We be fifty to six, 'tis true, but those six are armed and behind them are many more. If the door were passed we could not escape the town, or if perchance we won from the town where could we hide? The royal troops are everywhere. 'Twere but a hopeless venture which must cost the lives of all."

"Yet, sure, 'twere better to venture some effort than to sit thus helplessly awaiting their fate," she pleaded impatiently.

"Ah! Mistress Barbara, you have yet to learn that the highest courage may lie in such waiting. And I charge you, child, say nought of this to the men. They are nerved now to meet their fate, I will not have them distressed by false hopes. You have played your part well to-day, your place is with yon poor children. Go to them now, and leave these men to me."

Unaccustomed though she was to contradiction, Barbara was yet too strongly awed by his air of command to disobey. Reluctantly she turned away and with a glance of hopeless pity at the sleepers around her, passed beyond the partition and again took her place beside the weary children.

So the long night hours passed slowly away and the first morning of the Bloody Assize of Taunton grew rosy in the east.

*CHAPTER XI*

When Cicely Winslow was parted from her cousin she went at once to seek a lodging in the house of Master Thomas Lane, one of the most flourishing wool-merchants of Taunton. For many years the Winslows had purchased their stuffs from the house of Lane, in fact ever since the time when the founder after a long and devoted service at the Manor House had established himself in business at Taunton. Therefore, when Cicely presented herself at the house of the worthy merchant she met with a hearty though respectful welcome, and felt confident of all possible assistance.

But though comforted by the warmth of her welcome, Cicely was not slow to perceive that while the long business connection betwixt the two families assured to her every consideration and respect, yet the political opinions of her family met with anything but approval from her host.

For, indeed, the Lanes, unlike the majority of the townsfolk of Taunton, were the staunchest of Tories. They had ever stood firm for the King, and having suffered considerably for their opinions during Monmouth's brief reign of power in the West, it was perhaps but natural that now they should feel harshly disposed towards those who had favoured the Duke in his rebellion against their lawful sovereign.

The household was about to sit down to supper when Cicely arrived, but they waited respectfully until she was ready to join them in the large lofty room, where, according to the fashion of the day, it was the custom for master and family to sup in company with the apprentices and others forming the household.

Knowing well the differences of opinion which existed between themselves and their guest, Master Lane and his good wife endeavoured to avoid all reference to current events, but the all-pervading topic would not be stayed from creeping into the conversation, and so at length Master Lane deemed it best boldly to set their relations on a more definite and clear footing.

"You are heartily welcome, Lady Cicely," he began gravely, "and I will gladly render you what help I can; at the same time I cannot disguise from you, indeed it were not right to do so, how heartily I disapprove of the step young Sir Rupert has taken. So much opposed to what I am sure his father would have wished. Sir Rupert in thus wilfully aiding rebellion against his lawful sovereign has proved himself unworthy of his noble name, and of the high and honourable position he should hold in the country."

Cicely's eyes filled with tears at this unexpected attack. She had not Barbara's spirit, and could not enter into eager discussion with her sedate and solemn host, as her cousin would doubtless have done under similar circumstances. She had no full knowledge of the questions which stirred men's hearts at the time, only to her, what Rupert did was right, and now in her loneliness it tried her sadly to hear his actions thus ruthlessly condemned, and that, moreover, by one whose opinions she could not but respect.

But the good merchant was quite oblivious to her distress. He knew nothing of the close relations between her and Sir Rupert, and was intent only upon removing any misapprehension on her part as to what were his real feelings, while at the same time he deeply pitied the misfortunes which had overtaken the family with which he had been long honourably associated.

"The late Duke of Monmouth," he continued solemnly, "set foot in this realm in open rebellion; not only so, but he and those under him deliberately invented and spread abroad scandal concerning the religion, the honourable intentions, and the virtue of our noble sovereign. Moreover, he had the effrontery actually to declare himself, here at Taunton, lawful King of Britain, thereby seeking to depose his own uncle. Furthermore, he hath since proved himself coward, not alone by his conduct upon the field of Sedgemoor, but also by the manner of his meeting death. That men should be so ready to turn from allegiance to their king, to support the claims of such an one, so worthless and so base, betrays a condition of mind unstable and untrustworthy. For howsoever they may choose to prate of religion and justice, they show but shallow reasoning. For religion and justice are protected by our lord, the King, and need no other defender, and the alleged dangers threatening the Protestant Church are but the inventions of fools. 'Tis no regard for religion and justice which directs such men, but a love of excitement or a hope to escape from patient, honest toil by a chance turn of events in the fortune of war." Here he cast a severe glance down the table in the direction of his apprentices. "For Mistress Barbara," he continued, "I will, if only for her honoured father's sake, do what I can, and I have small fear but that all severe punishment may be averted. But a woman hath no reason to interfere in such affairs, and she must not be surprised if she meet her reward. I rejoice, for his sake, that Sir Rupert hath escaped, and pray that his misfortunes and hardships may tame his hot blood. 'Tis indeed a sad business."

So the old man droned on solemnly, his wife from time to time nodding approval, till Cicely choked over her meat, and felt she could endure no more, but must scream aloud to stop this dreary tirade, every word of which was a sword-thrust in her over-wrought heart.

But diversion came from an unexpected quarter.

Among the apprentices at the lower end of the table sat a broad-shouldered, long-legged youth, whose sharp, eager face was surmounted by a shock of fiery red hair. Throughout this discourse he had evinced the utmost restlessness, shaking his head, clenching his fists, half-rising from his seat, and showing all the signs of entire dissension from the speaker. At length he could restrain himself no longer, but bidding defiance to all custom and etiquette at his master's table, he leaned forward eagerly and broke into the conversation.

"An it please you, sir, 'tis not so, and I must speak," he exclaimed desperately. "'Tis unjust to talk thus of those who fought for Monmouth, unjust and untrue. We--they--'twas not a search merely for excitement; 'twas not for evasion of lawful duties, but was to uphold the sacred cause of justice; 'tis--'tis a slander to say else. Indeed, sir, would men risk their lives, their homes, for a jest? Would they fight, as the Duke's men fought, for a mere whimsey? 'Tis false to say they had no reason, nor grievance. When religion is endangered and when justice is o'erthrown men have grievance enow! You urge the King's justice," he continued with scorn. "We hear enow of the King's justice in these times from Exeter or from Dorchester. We shall watch it this week in Taunton an I mistake not. But for the Duke's men, 'tis unfair to speak of them as though they had been a band of rowdies. They were true men, gallant men, and I would I had been among them."

He stopped as suddenly as he had begun, crimsoned to the roots of his flaming hair, and glanced around him with a look of dogged recklessness, as of one who had said his say and cared nothing for what should befall him.

There had been a sudden astonished silence, all eyes fixed upon the lad who had dared thus to beard Master Lane at his own table.

The elders regarded him with horror, the younger apprentices with awe not untouched with a certain admiration. For Master Robert Wilcox's opinions were well known. It was also well known that he had intended to join the rebel army had he not been forcibly detained by his godfather, Master Lane, who at the first sign of rebellion had packed the fiery lad off to Portsmouth, where he had remained safe under the sharp eye of his uncle, a retired shipmaster, till the danger had passed. But despite the fact that Master Robert was a somewhat privileged person and, notwithstanding his turbulent spirit, a favourite with his godfather, that he should have dared to enter into public discussion with his master, and upon such a subject, passed the bounds of previous belief. All held their breath in expectation of the sharp reprimand which they knew must follow, and which was, indeed, hovering on Master Lane's lips, when he was once again interrupted, this time by a member of his own family, a traitor, so it seemed to him, on his very hearth.

The Lanes had two daughters. The elder, Deborah, was the image of her mother, a solemn, staid, and eminently practical maiden, not, indeed, without a certain love of excitement, but yet in most points a typical burgher maid. Of the younger girl, Prudence, 'twas a matter of constant wonder how such a madcap could spring from a family so grave, so unemotional, as were the Lanes. Pretty, spoiled, saucy, mischievous, she was the delight of her father; adventurous and romantic to a degree, she was the plague of her mother; and in every respect she was a constant alarm and puzzle to her duller-witted sister Deborah.

Now she chose to electrify her family by taking up the theme where Master Wilcox had left it. First casting a bright, approving glance in his direction, which caused that ardent youth to blush more crimson than before, she proceeded to expound her views upon the subject with a directness that amused the apprentices mightily and horrified her mother and sister.

"Rob is right, dad. 'Tis mighty unfair to speak thus of the Duke's men because they fell into the Bussex Rhine instead of winning the victory. For all the world knows they had won if--if they had not been defeated. For my part, I am for the Duke and for all who rode with him. And I think 'twas splendid of Sir Rupert," she added, with a bright glance at Lady Cicely, who could not resist a grateful smile in return, at her saucy defender.

Mistress Lane frowned sharply, but the merchant only shook his head indulgently at his spoiled daughter.

"What! here is a traitor indeed. Has my little Prue turned political?"

"Nay, dad, I care naught for politics, I only say 'tis finer to risk life and fortune and all for--for principles, whatever they be, than to sit year in and year out among ledgers and wool bales and to care nothing for country and church, but think only how to keep a whole skin and get money enow to live at ease and grow fat. 'Tis contemptible. Nay, daddie, I meant not you," she added penitently. "You have fought, I know well. I spake but of younger men who had as lief see their country go to rack and ruin as risk a crown of their wealth or a scratch to their finger to set it to rights."

She paused out of breath with her torrent of indignation. Her father laid his hand on hers tenderly and shook his head gravely at her words.

"Nay, Prudence, Robert, children both, you know nought of the matter. Perchance I spake unkindly of the rebels. I would not be unjust. But I am growing an old man, I have passed through one civil war, and I pray Heaven night and day that England may never see another. Had you been living as was I through those terrible years, had you seen the country devastated, families divided, brother against brother, aye, father even drawing sword upon his own son; homes ruined, wives widowed, children left fatherless through the whole length and breadth of the land--had you seen these things, my children, you would understand better why I speak thus harshly of those who raise the standard of rebellion within our fair realm. Men may use all just, all peaceful means of redressing their grievances, but should they fail, then, I say, 'twere better to endure those grievances, aye, even injustice, in silence, than bring the curse of civil war upon their country."

There was silence for a space. Then Prudence, whom no solemnity could long depress, again broke out merrily:

"For all that, daddie, the Duke's a main handsome man, and one worthy to be followed."

"Why, Prue?" exclaimed her sister teasingly, "methought you cared for none save brave men. How canst speak thus of such a proved coward?"

"The Duke is no coward," exclaimed Prue hotly. "They be but lying knaves who say otherwise. He is worthy to be followed and," with a saucy glance at her father, "when he comes again I'll follow him myself."

"When he comes again!" cried Deborah in blank astonishment. "La! child, where be thy wits? Dost not know he was beheaded on Tower Hill, two months since?"

"Aye, so they say in London," answered the little rebel scornfully. "But what should they know on't there? Here in the West 'tis known that the Duke escaped, and that 'twas his servant, dressed in his coat, and as like him as pea to pea, whom the soldiers took. He died in his master's place as would many another, and the Duke will return again to venge himself upon this bloody King."

Deborah stared in blank astonishment at the exposition of this astounding theory which, notwithstanding its extravagance, did not lack many believers other than the pretty Prudence. But Mistress Lane would endure no more, and interrupted her daughter sharply.

"Prudence, you give your tongue too much license, as I have told you oft. Go to your room and rest there till you be of a better mind. Nay, Thomas, 'tis for the child's own good; who can say what trouble may befall her if she will not curb that saucy spirit? To your room instantly, Prudence; three days with bread and water will tame you, let us hope, and let us hear no more of this nonsense."

Prudence rose slowly with pouting lips, and cast glances of entreaty in the direction of her father, who resolutely refused, however, to meet the eyes of the daughter whom as he knew too well he spoiled.

Robert Wilcox's countenance assumed terrible contortions in its endeavour to express at the same time admiration of Prue's bravery and indignation at Mistress Lane's severity, but he dared make no more outspoken remonstrance.

Prue saw no escape and was leaving the room to go to her imprisonment when Cicely intervened.

"Prithee, Mistress Lane," she pleaded gently, "forgive her. I make no doubt 'twas but consideration for me made her speak so rashly, she will be more careful hereafter. Nay, an you will forgive her, I will be her surety for the next three days that no word of folly pass her lips. You will grant me this, else shall I feel that I have brought dissension into your household, and that would grieve me indeed."

She pleaded gently, but urgently, and Mistress Lane could not refuse so honoured a guest. So Prudence was forgiven, after receiving a lecture upon the virtue of silence in the presence of her elders.

But so ardent were the looks of gratitude for her interference which Cicely received from the red-headed apprentice, that she learned at least one secret that evening, and intercepting a glance or two 'twixt him and the pretty Prudence, she suspected that she had learned yet another.

The Lanes were an early household, and when Cicely rose in the morning, having slept late after her journey of the previous day, she found they had long been about their duties of the day. Nor had her affairs been forgotten. Master Lane had been early to the prison to ascertain of Mistress Barbara's comfort, but discovered, to his chagrin, that admission was strictly forbidden.