Chapter V: Part 5

He had next sought out the governor, hoping an exception might be made in favour of so staunch a Tory as himself, but the governor informed him, courteously enough, that such a favour was impossible. Hitherto a visit to the prisoners had been an easy matter to compass, but in consequence of the escape of some of the prisoners who accompanied the train of the chief justice on the road to Exeter, an order had been issued that no access should be allowed to the prisoners on any pretext whatever. The governor expressed his regret at being obliged to refuse the request, but he could make no exceptions. He consented, however, to convey a hamper of fruits and other dainties to Mistress Winslow, and promised to do all in his power to promote her comfort.

So Master Lane was obliged to content himself by despatching a consignment of delicacies to relieve the ordinary prison fare, which, however, owing to the occupation of the governor, busy with a thousand prisoners on his hands, and the venality of gaolers, never reached its destination.

It had been with a twinge of remorse that he had ascertained, amongst other details, that Barbara was confined in the very shed which he had himself lent to the government; still he had done his utmost to prove his interest in her cause and having brought Cicely news of his mission with a further promise to do what he could to influence the authorities in Barbara's behalf, he went to his work leaving her to pass the day as best she could.

Long and wearisome were the hours to the tender heart of Cicely as she sat over Mistress Lane's tambour frame, seeking by such occupation to drive from her mind the ever rising fear of what the morrow might bring.

Mistress Lane was busy about her household duties, Deborah helping her, but Prudence brought her work to the window-seat where Cicely had seated herself and soon her busy tongue broke through the thin veneer of shyness which she felt towards this lady, so beautiful, so unhappy, and in her eyes, so eminently interesting, and she was presently chattering busily, her work neglected on her lap.

Her eagerness and admiration banished Cicely's reserve, poor Cicely, so anxious for sympathy, and Prudence had soon learned the whole story of the betrothal to Sir Rupert, of their last meeting, and of Barbara's daring escapade.

Prudence was charmed. 'Twas so romantic, so venturesome, so brave. She listened eagerly to Cicely's description of her lover, of his reckless daring and his tenderness. With all the ready passion of an emotional nature she worshipped the heroine of so distressful a love-story and with the eagerness of a romantic child espoused her cause.

Cicely was grateful for this ready sympathy and the mutual confidence thus inspired induced her companion to tell her story too.

"Yes--'tis true, Robert saith he loves me, and though he be but a 'prentice, he is brave and--and splendid, and methinks I care for him also, though 'twould not do to let him know how dearly. He is not as the others. You marked him, perchance, at supper yester e'en. How he spake his mind! He would be a soldier, an he had his way, he but bides here to please my father, and and----"

"Perchance to see thee at times?" questioned Cicely, smiling.

"It may be so," was the demure answer. "But he will not be a wool-merchant all his days, Lady Cicely. He means to be a great man, perchance to be in the Parliament; think on't, to rule the kingdom, and he could do it well, though I would not tell him so. But, indeed, I care not what he be, so that he love me truly," she added naively.

"And what saith Master Lane to this?"

"Oh, dad likes him well, I doubt not. But we have not thought fit to trouble him with the matter yet."

Cicely shook her head, but could not find it in her heart to be severe with such an outspoken admirer of Rupert. She won Prue's heart more completely still by her kindly wishes for the future, and a few commendatory remarks concerning Master Wilcox's appearance, and the younger girl's tongue once loosened on the subject she chattered busily until they were joined by Mistress Lane, who cast a severe glance at her daughter's neglected work.

The morning passed slowly away, but noon brought a visitor for Cicely in the person of Peter Drew, the smith. He had ridden that morning from Durford to offer his services to his ladies, and Cicely could not but rejoice to see his honest, friendly face, though she was conscious of the dangers of so sturdy a supporter of her family wandering unrestrained in the streets of Taunton, and doubtless speaking his mind to whomsoever he met. Indeed, a large bruise on his forehead and a certain dishevelled appearance about his garments, betokened that he had already met with a dissentient acquaintance.

Cicely questioned him closely on the subject and he reluctantly confessed that such had indeed been the case.

"'Twere but a mon at Inn where I left Black Beauty," he explained calmly. "Muzt needs ask my biznez, which I told un, arl vair and pleazant. But a muzt needz zay 'twere waizer to keep fra mixing wi' rebels and zuch laike, zo I told un my lady were no rebel. And a zaying it appeared her were, I gaaeve un a tap on head to quiet un. But host and others, zo plaize your ladyship, coom at me thereupon wi' bezoms, whereat I knocked two flat, and others zhowing little ztomach to teaeste my cudgel, I oop on Black Beauty and rid awai. 'Twere but a mizunderztanding, zee, and none hurt, but a zhould laive an honest mon to do her biznez in pace."

Though fain to laugh at the smith's bold narrative, Cicely saw clearly that she could not keep him in Taunton without hourly risk of the recurrence of such an episode. She therefore gently told him that, grateful though she was for his visit, he would yet serve her better by remaining quietly at Durford and helping Phoebe to look after the Manor House. And she prayed him return thither as speedily as possible, and remain there till she sent for his assistance.

Peter was terribly disappointed. He shook his head, sighed, moved restlessly in his seat. Then he rose and made a slow tour of the room, peering cautiously behind every curtain and under every article of furniture, and having ascertained to his satisfaction that he and Cicely were alone, he approached her with an air of deep mystery, and exclaimed in a loud whisper:

"An't plaize your ladyship, carn't her ezcaaepe."

"What, Peter!" exclaimed Cicely, astonished.

"Beggin' your ladyzhip's pardon, but 'twere last naight at the Royal Jaaemes. A were there, a-talkin' o' Mistress Barbara i' gaol, and 'twere zaid, why couldn't her ezcaaepe? If it be but a matter o' boltz and barz, I be a zmith by traaede, and they be zoon broken. I would na interfere wi' king's justice i' the main, but vor Mistress Barbara, 'tiz but raight her be freed at once. And zo I be coom hither to do it."

"'Twas very kind of you, Peter," answered Cicely, repressing a smile; "but I fear it could not be done. You see there be sentinels guarding the prison. We could not elude them."

Peter's face fell; he scratched his head for some moments in dubious silence. Suddenly he slapped his leg in delight.

"A boggart!" he cried; "a boggart. 'Tis the very thing. I mind wull my vayther tull me that when a were clapped i' gaol over te Cannington vor--vor zome matter of stalin' a pig, brother skeered gaoler wi' a boggart and a coom awai. Now an thee wull be a boggart and skeer t'zentinels, I wull look to barz and boltz and Miztress Barbara will be vree by mud-naight."

Cicely gasped. She pictured herself dressed as a ghost, hopping about the streets of Taunton, a terror to the soldiery, while Peter in the meanwhile broke patiently thro' the bars that shut in Barbara from freedom. She broke into hysterical laughter. Peter was crestfallen at this reception of his plan.

"I zim to think of nought elze," he muttered disconsolately. "There be many weays o' ezcaaepe, Miztress Barbara herzell a told me, could I but bring un to maind. There have been zome as pazzed vor prizoners to let un ezcaaepe, but I could zcarce paz vor Mistress Barbara, and you, 'twere zmall good to vree her if your ladyship were left behaind. Then there be a taael o' a mon let down i' a bazket, but I zee not raightly how to do that. And there be birds wi' paaepers under wings, and loaves o' bread wi' a rope inzaide. My waife could baaeke one, if your ladyship thinks well on't. Tho' fai," he added doubtfully, "'twould need be a maighty big one."

But Cicely could not allow the loyal fellow further to tax his inventive powers, she knew it was indeed kinder at once to crush his hopes.

"No, Peter, it will not do. 'Tis true such plans have succeeded once, but they could little avail us now. We must wait. Wait till to-morrow, I doubt not she will then be freed. If she be not," she added with a sudden shudder, as the fear of the alternative rose in her breast, "why, Peter, if she be not, I will send for thee, and together we will free her somehow, tho' it cost us our lives."

Peter begged to be allowed to stay in Taunton till the morrow, but Cicely dared not risk it. She was firm in her resolution that he must return, and return at once, and at length he reluctantly departed, still mourning over his shattered dream of rescuing his beloved lady from her prison, and bearing her back to Durford in triumph, even as did the heroes of old whose deeds she so admired, and with stories of whom she had so often dazzled his bewildered brain.

The day passed, and as evening drew near, Cicely was seized with an irresistible fit of restlessness. This patient waiting was straining her nerves past endurance; she longed to be doing something, anything so it be definite action towards the release of her cousin. She could tolerate the quiet house no longer, she must out.

Hearing that the lord chief justice and his suite were to enter the town that evening, she expressed her intention of going into the streets to see them pass. She longed to see this man of whom she had heard so much, the man upon whose lips hung the fate of her cousin, the fate of the thousand prisoners who lay that evening in the city awaiting their trial.

Mistress Lane opposed the wish, but Cicely was resolved; she was obstinate, even irritable, in combating the good lady's arguments against such a course. She scarce understood herself this eagerness to see the judge's entry, she only knew that she must go out, must be interested, distracted, or she should go mad with the thoughts she could not banish from her brain.

So Mistress Lane left her to go her way, and allowed Prudence to accompany her, tho' 'twas with many misgivings that she watched them set out.

The two girls went their way and took up their position in the East street.

The streets were very full, many people having come out to see the entry of the judges. Groups stood at the corners, gravely discussing the impending trial, men and women wandered aimlessly up and down waiting--waiting, they knew not for what. Everywhere was a spirit of restlessness, of suspense, and over all hung the great hush of expectation. Men spake for the most part in subdued voices, nowhere sounded the customary cries and cheerful noises of the streets. There were few outward tokens of grief; sorrow and anxiety had so long oppressed the people they had grown accustomed to their burden.

To-night, however, the thought of the dark morrow looming threateningly before their sight had driven them out into the streets to wander restlessly to and fro seeking to escape from that fear which would not be shaken off, but followed ever behind them, whispering in the ear its dread suggestions. The spirit of that terrible tribunal moved on before; already the shadow of its presence darkened their hearts.

As they waited in the East street, acquaintances of Prudence passed the girls, but none stopped to speak. Despite their kindness of heart the Lanes were not popular with their fellow-townsmen, who, perhaps naturally, felt suspicious of this prosperous Tory merchant.

Presently Robert Wilcox approached and encouraged by a smile from Cicely he joined them, and the three strolled up and down the street together.

A sense of loneliness oppressed Cicely as she watched the covert glances and whispers of the lovers. She tried to forget her own sorrows, tried not to listen to the dismal conversations of the passers by, but in vain. She could not escape from her thoughts, could not dismiss from her mind that dreaded verdict, heard on the lips, written on the faces of all around her, "There is no hope."

But at length a roll of kettle-drums announced the approach of the judges; and as the procession turned into East street, everyone paused instinctively to watch it pass.

Dragoons, halberdiers, and carriages all went slowly past, and last of all came the great coach of the Chief Justice, Lord Jeffreys himself reclining carelessly on his cushions within.

Cicely leaned forward eagerly to gaze at the man of whom she had heard so much, and gave an exclamation of astonishment when her eyes rested on his face. Where was the brutal, the ferocious judge of whom so many terrible rumours had reached her ears? Where was that monster of cruelty at whose name even the rough soldiers trembled? Surely not here. This man so wonderfully handsome, this man with the lofty brow, the noble expression, the sad, weary eyes, this could not be the terrible Jeffreys. Yet if it were indeed he, if it were---- Why surely then---- Her heart leaped high with hope. Surely then these stories must be false, base calumnies of the rebels even such as those which were told of Duke Monmouth by the supporters of the King.

And then a confusion at the street corner, a trooper's horse down upon the cobbles, caused the procession to halt, the coach of the chief justice was stationary but two yards from where she stood.

With a sudden wild impulse, born of new hope in her breast, Cicely darted into the roadway, pushing to right and left the astonished men, who would have barred her passage: darted quickly to the side of the coach and laid her hand on the shoulder of Lord Jeffreys as he reclined among his scarlet cushions.

"Mercy, my lord, mercy for my cousin," she cried, scarce knowing what she did.

The occupant of the coach started from his reverie and turned to her, bewildered for the moment at the suddenness of her address. He had, in truth, been almost asleep, worn out with his painful journey over the rough country roads.

"What is it, woman? What did you say?" he snarled sharply.

"Mercy, my lord, I entreat," she gasped nervously. "'Tis for one of the prisoners, my cousin, Mistress Barbara Winslow. She is indeed innocent enough, and, oh! my lord, she is so young."

The judge gave a sudden harsh laugh, a laugh so full of needless cruelty that Cicely shuddered. She looked in his face and shrank back in dread, wondering could this be indeed the same man whose noble expression had so melted her, he was on a sudden so hideously transformed. All the ferocity of his violent nature, all the brutality of a pitiless heart were stamped upon his features. He was, indeed, at that moment, suffering acutely from the effects of his journey, and his mind, at no time tending greatly towards mercy and tenderness, was now warped and disfigured by weakness and pain into a very hell of cruelty.

"Mercy!" he jeered. "Mercy! Nay, there shall be no mercy. They shall all suffer, not one shall escape, not one. I will exterminate them all. Verily, I will make an example of these turbulent townsfolk, I will teach them a lesson they shall not soon forget. Mercy, aye, they shall have mercy, even such mercy as they have deserved. A merciful death."

"Ah, no, my lord! But for this girl," pleaded Cicely; desperately, "surely for her."

"Drive on," shouted Jeffreys fiercely. Then seeing the coachman hesitate and glance doubtfully at Cicely, who clung to the coach door, he rapped out a string of oaths and roared to the man to whip up his horses and proceed.

The coach moved on.

But Cicely, desperate, still clung to the door of the coach, sobbing out her appeal.

"Ah, no, my lord! on this one at least have pity. No no, not death, my lord, not death."

Then the chief justice, livid with fury, rose in his coach, and shouted to his coachman to lash at her with his whip, and drive her away. Terrified, the man obeyed, striking at her blindly. The lash stung across her hands and with a sharp cry she sank on to her knees on the road as the coach rolled onwards, Jeffreys lying back shuddering on his pillows, his face livid with agony, but the bitter smile still upon his lips.

*CHAPTER XII*

The morning of the 16th broke bright and fresh from the thin September mists. The sunbeams shot across the rosy sky, and sparkled in the clear dewdrops, the late roses raised their glowing heads to meet the light, and the birds in the woods chorused joyously their Autumn serenade. But in the City of Taunton the morning light revealed the grey and careworn faces of many who, hoping little from the morrow, had watched throughout the night in an anguish of doubt and suspense, and a passion of hopeless prayer. Be the morning sunbeams never so bright, they could not dispel the darkness of that day for Taunton.

The sun climbed over the roofs, and peered into the high windows of the prisons, where the captives roused themselves and prepared to stand their trial.

The newly wedded bride lay sleeping in the arms of her husband, who for many hours had watched in silence, till the pale grey dawn had stolen into the wool-shed, to light the face he loved. She had fallen asleep in the happiness of the present, but when she awoke and looked into his face she knew that the dream had passed, and stern reality was before them. She sat up with a start, gazed despairingly around her, then turned again to meet the hopeless glance of the eyes that yesterday had looked but love. With a deep sob of bitterness she flung her arms around him, and buried her face on his shoulder; for now it seemed that the angel of doom stood at the gate of their Eden to drive them forth into the outer darkness, where each must wander alone. And he had no comfort for her pain.

Barbara was ever strangely susceptible to the influence of sunshine. The depression of the previous night had moderated and her spirits danced lightly as the flickering sunbeams. The freshness of the morning was in her glance and she looked as much out of place in those gloomy surroundings as a delicate wild rose dropped in the mire of a city street. Her cheerful spirits were infectious, the men warmed at sight of her bright glances, and for a moment a sense of happiness gleamed faintly in their hearts.

But not for long. The shadow of the king of terrors lay too heavy to be effaced. The gleam of light grew fainter and more distant, until it vanished in the dark mists of grim reality.

The sitting of the court was postponed till noon, owing to the indisposition of the chief justice, but when the trial at length opened, the work went busily forward. These first days of the Assize were devoted to the trial of the more notable prisoners, the bulk of the peasants taken at, or soon after Sedgemoor fight, being reserved for trial in batches of from fifty to a hundred, later in the week.

One of the first to be called was Mistress Mary Dale, the poor young bride. The lovers parted in silence, all eternity in their glance. When she was summoned from the prison he took up his station by the door, to await her return. He waited in vain. In her case--the one instance perhaps in which it was unsolicited--mercy was shown. Her fine was paid and she was free, free to go whither she would, save only back to the prison where she had left her heart. Free, when freedom was banishment, alive when life had nothing to offer save utter loneliness.

Throughout the day the dreary exodus of the prisoners continued. For some there was no return, punishment following close upon conviction, others returned calm and quiet in the certain expectation of death on the morrow, or of that yet more terrible death in life which lay in the sentence of banishment to the Plantations.

The pathos of the scene struck Barbara deeply, and the sense of her helplessness in sight of injustice and wrong awoke in her a state of subdued fury.

But she had her work to do. The morning had brought new terror to the heart of the delicate child, Katherine Keene, and strive as Barbara would, by all means in her power, to soothe and cheer the terrified girl, her panic but increased as the day drew on, and when at last she and her sister were summoned before the court, she clung passionately to her protectress, sobbing in a very frenzy of terror, imploring her not to allow them to take her away.

Even Barbara's firmness gave way under the strain, she wept out of pure pity for a terror which as yet she could not comprehend.

"Brutes!" she muttered between her clenched teeth, when at last the terrified children were marched away. "Brutes! devils! Can they not see the child is half demented. Ah, were I but king for one day, I would teach them a lesson they should not forget."

But later in the day, when a compassionate gaoler brought her news of the children's fate, her indignation rose to fury. For Judge Jeffreys, recognising in the panic-stricken girls a fit object for an exhibition of his fiercest passion, had so bullied and tormented them, so raged, so sworn, so threatened them, that the delicate Katherine could endure no more. Scarcely had she reached the door of the court house, after her trial, when she fell fainting to the ground, and an hour later died from sheer excess of terror. Her younger sister was freed indeed, after payment of a heavy fine, but she never recovered from the shock and fear of that day. Thus suffered these innocents whose sole offence had been in the embroidering of a banner for the Duke of Monmouth, under the direction of their school-mistress.

Barbara having no longer an object on which to lavish her protecting tenderness, there remained nothing for her to do save to sit in idleness, watching that silent procession of prisoners passing ever through the prison door, while the heart within her breast burned and raged with impotent fury.

The day passed slowly on, and at length, towards six o'clock in the evening, the summons came for Mistress Barbara Winslow to attend court. She was the last prisoner for trial that day.

Barbara rose to her feet with alacrity on hearing her name, and throwing on her cloak, made haste to follow her guards. Here at length was something to be done, some change from impotent watching and waiting. Now, at length, she was to meet face to face with these tyrant judges, to whom she might at least speak her thoughts. All concern for her own case, her own danger, had fled, prudence had no place in her thoughts, her mind was filled with a wild hatred of the perpetrators of this barbarous cruelty, with a mad desire to fling defiance at their threats, and to cry aloud to their faces what she, Barbara Winslow, thought of their sentences.

Escorted by a file of soldiers she was marched rapidly across the market-square and into the court house. There was no great concourse of people in the streets. The majority of the townsfolk sympathised with the prisoners, but dared not openly show their sympathy lest they, too, be accounted rebels; they deemed it more prudent, therefore, to remain quietly within doors, while such as sought merely to derive sensational amusement from the trial had found places within the crowded court.

While Barbara waited in the hall outside the chamber where the court was sitting, a prisoner passed her, hurried along between his guards. He was a young man scarcely twenty years of age, slenderly built, with delicate handsome features, but the look on his face made the girl start back with an exclamation of horror.

"In Heaven's name, what hath befallen him? Who is he?" she gasped.

"'Tis young Master Tutchin," answered one of her guards carelessly. "A hard sentence, for sure, 'tis scarce likely he will live to see the end o't."

"What is it?" questioned Barbara in horror.

"To be imprisoned seven years, and once a year to be flogged through every market town of Dorset, which by calculation should be a flogging twice a month. Aye, aye, 'tis a hard sentence," he continued, meeting her glance; "but what would you? He is a proved rebel."

"Oh! that such devils of judges should go unpunished," was Barbara's fierce rejoinder. It was with a heart burning with rage that she entered the court.

And yet, so strange and uncontrollable are the feelings of women that her first thought, when she found herself face to face with the dreaded chief justice, was one of astonishment and pity.

She had expected, like Cicely on the previous evening, to behold a coarse, brutal ruffian, ferocity and hatred stamped on every feature. When, in place of such a creature, she beheld the handsome face and noble bearing of her judge, she gave a gasp of surprise. Pity also filled her heart, for his eyes were half closed, and there were traces of suffering on his face, as he lay back in his chair with an air of extreme exhaustion. The terrible malady to which he was a victim tortured him, and the long day in court had tried him severely; but no amount of physical suffering could overcome the iron will, or prevent him even for a day from pursuing that strange course of relentless cruelty which he had elected to follow.

When Barbara took her place in the dock he roused himself with an effort, and looked at her with a sharp piercing glance.

"What!" he exclaimed. "Yet another of these women rebels. Are we never to have an end of them? Can they not find mischief enow to do in their own homes, but they must needs interfere in affairs of state? What is the prisoner's name?"

"Mistress Barbara Winslow, my lord."

"Winslow! Winslow!"

"Aye, my lord," answered one of the crown lawyers. "Her brother followed the rebel duke, but through her connivance, so it is submitted, he hath escaped the country."

"Ah, ha! so she comes of a fine rebel stock, eh?"

The several counts in the indictment were furnished by Barbara's participation in the escape of Sir Peter Dare, her interference with the whipping of the boy at Durford, and other incidents of a trifling character in themselves, but of which the prosecuting counsel did not fail to take full advantage. The first witness called Corporal Crutch, who took no pains to conceal his malignant satisfaction in prejudicing the chances of the prisoner by every means in his power. Barbara's pride, and her contempt for the man forbade her to question the corporal's evidence, even though she was urged to do so by Sir William Montague, the chief baron of the court; and after corroboration of the corporal's story by other troopers the case for the crown being closed, Barbara was asked whether she had anything to say in her defence before the jury considered their verdict and the court pronounced sentence.

"So please you, my lords," answered Barbara, ignoring Jeffreys pointedly, and addressing herself to the three judges who sat with him, "that I am a traitor I deny utterly. As for the stories these men tell of me, why, they are true enough I must admit. But what then? I did but give food and assistance to those in dire distress and misery, I did no more than we are e'en commanded in the Gospels."

"The Gospels! The Gospels!" interrupted Jeffreys scornfully.

"Aye, my lord," answered Barbara, turning on him sharply. "The Gospels. In which books methinks your lordship hath made but scant study."

Judge Jeffreys started forward, and stared at her in astonishment, then his face grew purple and distorted with fury, and his eyes gleamed horribly as he broke into a fierce tirade.

"What! What! I am to be browbeaten, contradicted in my own court, am I? What! You shall learn that the majesty of the law, the representative of our gracious sovereign is not to be thus lightly answered. Gospels, forsooth! 'Tis ever the same excuse, the same prating of Gospels and conscience and I know not what. Is this yet another of these pestilent dissenters? Do these wretched creatures deem they may rebel with impunity against his gracious Majesty, can plot and scheme against such a loving, such a merciful, king, and then shelter themselves behind such a babble of Gospels and conscience. Faugh! 'Tis monstrous. 'Tis beyond endurance! The prisoner pleads guilty to the charges brought against her but appeals to the Gospels for evidence in her favour, eh? 'Tis but little evidence she will find there in justification of rebellion."

Barbara's anger had risen during the foregoing scene, and was now beyond her control. Twice she had endeavoured to interrupt the judge's comments, and now when at length he paused, she burst forth in almost as great a frenzy as the judge himself.

"And I must needs say this much more--not indeed in mine own cause, for that I care nothing, but rather in the cause of the many poor wretches whom ye have to-day tortured and slain, of the ignorant and helpless peasants whom ye have condemned without fair hearing, of the delicate women whom ye have threatened, of the innocent children whom ye have terrified even to death. Nay, I will _not_ be silent, I _must_ speak. Ye who are judges, what judgments are these wherein is neither truth nor mercy? Ye prate of the law, what law is this that knows no justice? Ye speak of his Majesty. Oh! an ye be in truth the representatives of his Majesty, the workers of his will, then do I say he is no true king, and 'twould be a good day indeed for England were such a king overthrown."

She ceased speaking. She had said her say, she had poured forth all the pent-up fury of her thoughts, she had defied the judge to his face, and in the dead silence that followed her words, the first grip of terror at what she had said clutched at her heart.

The court gasped in horrified amazement, but the face of Judge Jeffreys was terrible to behold. Always strangely, morbidly sensitive to opposition, or to rebuke from whatever source, the judge lost all control over himself. His eyes seemed starting from his head and glared horribly; his face grew purple and swollen, his lips were drawn back in a fierce snarl. He ground his teeth, and rolled from side to side in his chair, partly in rage and partly in the agony which such rage caused him. His unrestrained fury was horrible to witness. It was as though some fit were upon him, and Barbara shrank involuntarily at the sight of such appalling ferocity. At length he regained some measure of his self-control.

"What! Heaven help us," he exclaimed. "Why, this is the very incarnation of rebellion, a very headspring and source of treason. Oh! that such a woman, so young, should be so far gone in iniquity. Beware, madame, beware! I see death standing beside thee----"

"Then, my lord, I doubt not 'tis an infinitely preferable vision to that which mine eyes behold," she answered, staring full at him, and goaded into recklessness by an awakening sense of her own danger.

For an instant it seemed as if the judge would give way to another paroxysm of rage, but he restrained himself with a supreme effort, and with a calmness that boded even worse for the prisoner than his former fury he turned to the jury and continued:

"What say you, sirs? Methinks you can find but one answer as to the prisoner's guilt."

But Barbara's youth, beauty and courage had not been without effect upon the minds of the jury. Slavish time-servers though they were, they could not without protest see condemnation passed upon a young girl whose only real offence lay in a too-unrestrained tongue. This feeling was readily apparent to the practised eye of the judge and lest it should serve to balk his purpose he added: "The prisoner is young it is true, but what of that? Rebellion must be crushed in the bud, must be slain in the shell or 'twill grow to a most pernicious monster. Come, what is the verdict? Do you find the prisoner guilty or no? Beware, gentlemen, how ye condone guilt; lend no cloak to protect treason."

The jury, thus admonished, held out no longer. They found the prisoner guilty, but salved their consciences by commending her to mercy.

But ere the chief justice pronounced sentence, a protest came from an unexpected quarter on Barbara's behalf. Sir William Montague, leaning forward in his seat, addressed the judge in low earnest tones which could not fail to arrest his attention.

"My lord, I anticipate what sentence you purpose to pronounce upon the prisoner, even such an one as was passed upon the late Lady Lisle. But bethink you, my lord, the cases are very different. For Lady Alice Lisle was the widow of a noted rebel, she was advanced in years; both her age and her experience should have warned her of the full significance of the offence she committed. Moreover, my lord, there are those who consider that even in her case, the sentence erred in severity. But this is but a girl, too young indeed to realise the criminality of her actions. She hath pleaded guilty it is true, but thereby has thrown herself upon the mercy of the court. That she hath incurred the penalty of the law by sheltering rebels, 'twere idle to deny, but she did so from motives of humanity, and in no way from a desire to further the cause of rebellion. For the rest, my lord, you cannot condemn the prisoner because she hath, as indeed what woman hath not, an over-free tongue, and hath on this occasion, it must be confessed, used it most ill-advisedly. Further, I would remind your lordship," he added in a meaning tone, "that there be occasions when to show mercy is not only a divine action, but also an expedient one."

Lord Jeffreys sat for some moments in silence, gazing sullenly at the prisoner. The words of the chief baron had not been without their effect. He knew well what universal indignation his condemnation of Lady Lisle had aroused, and he judged that in face of the interest the affair had excited in high quarters, to pass another such severe sentence upon a woman were not politic. For however much the orders of the King might demand seventy, Jeffreys knew well that his master was not one to screen his servants from the general opprobrium attendant upon the committal of an unpopular act, even were that act the outcome of his express commands.

Meanwhile a deep hush of expectation had fallen upon the court while the judges had conferred together, broken at length by the harsh tones of the chief justice.

"Mistress Barbara Winslow, you have been found guilty of the crime of harbouring rebels, and of interference with the lawful actions of the agents of his Majesty, the King. Yet as the tender heart of his Majesty, our most gracious sovereign, doth ever incline to pity and leniency, you shall, in consideration of your youth, meet with a mercy you have in no wise deserved." Here he paused and scowled vindictively upon Barbara.

"The sentence of the court is that you shall be imprisoned for the space of two years in the common gaol of this city. Furthermore, ye shall to-morrow, and once every month in the two years of your imprisonment, be scourged publicly by the common hangman, in the open market-place. By this discipline it may be that the hardness of your heart shall be melted, and you shall recognise the power of that justice which you have dared to condemn."

A shudder of horror went round the court at the pronouncement of this brutal sentence; but Barbara controlled herself; indeed, she did not yet fully realise what had befallen her.

She raised her head defiantly and returned the judge's glance of triumph with a calm smile.

"Farewell, my Lord Jeffreys," she cried, "and may God prosper you as you deserve."

She walked proudly from the chamber and still scarce realising the horror of her sentence, she passed from the court house, surrounded by her guards, and emerged into the street.

In the centre of the market-place stood a crowd of loafers, rough fellows, and troopers of Kirke's horse, to whom, however, she gave but little heed. But as she was being escorted by the outskirts of the crowd, a sudden sharp cry rent the air, followed by horrible shrieks of pain. The crowd parted for an instant, and she beheld a woman, one of the peasant-women who had shared her sleeping-room the previous night, bound to the whipping-post, her back bare, and streaming with blood, her face distorted with suffering. Then the shrieks were smothered in a shout of coarse laughter from the troopers, the crowd closed round the scene, and her guards hurried her forward.

It was but the glimpse of an instant, but in that instant Barbara realised her own doom; it was as though she had beheld a vision of her own fate, and at length she understood.

She reached the shed, still to be her temporary prison, giddy with horror, the shrieks of the woman still resounding in her ears, and worse than these, that sickening shout of brutal laughter which made her blush and tingle with shame as she pictured the coarse jest that had doubtless given rise to the merriment.

With clenched teeth and drawn face, she hurried into the shed, struggling to master this fear which clutched her heart. She knew that she must not think of it. She must talk, work, do anything, anything; but think of it she dared not. But, alas! what else remained for her. The company in the shed was reduced to a few stolid peasants, who could not have comprehended her fears, and some half-dozen rough soldiers, mercenaries in Monmouth's army, who sought to while away the hours and drown their cares with dice and drink procured, no doubt, by the corruption of an indulgent sentry.

All her friends of the previous day had been removed. The only other female occupant of the shed was the strange old woman, the fanatic, who, when the girl timidly approached her, gazed upon her with unseeing eyes and continued to mutter and gabble her tests.

Nowhere was there comfort for Barbara; she was utterly alone. In vain she strode about the shed, tried to fix her mind upon the past, upon the traditions of her family, upon the boasted courage of the Winslows. In vain she repeated verses, recalled stories, anything to distract her mind, she could not control her thoughts, could not drive the face of the tortured woman from before her eyes, nor banish from her ears the terror of her cries.

It was now dark and her nerves were overstrung, worn out completely with the excitement of what she had passed through. The thing had come upon her so unexpectedly she had no resistance to offer, and now in the silence and loneliness of the night the full horror of the future gradually dawned upon her mind. She pictured with all the vividness of a strong imagination every detail of the life before her; death itself seemed easier to face than this nightmare of shame and torture. She sobbed with terror. Fear took possession of her soul, and she suffered as only those of strong will and high courage can suffer in their moments of weakness.

*CHAPTER XIII*

Lady Cicely, who was overcome with the effects of her encounter with Jeffreys and the attendant incidents of the previous evening, had not the courage to attend the sitting of the court, although Master Lane had ascertained that her cousin's trial might be expected to take place during the day. She sat hour by hour in the quiet house waiting for her host to bring her news of the verdict.

Prudence was unusually silent and depressed. She had been severely blamed by her mother for her share in the expedition of the previous evening; moreover, the sight of her friend's misery sobered her into a quite unwonted gravity. Deborah, on the contrary, passed the day in a state of hysterical excitement. Like so many otherwise kind-hearted women she possessed in a large degree that morbid love of horrors, which is erroneously considered to be an attribute of the uneducated classes alone.

At intervals during that terrible day, she darted in with some fresh tale of misery, culled from the gossip of the neighbours or the chatter of the maids. She poured forth these stories with an air of eager excitement, nay, more, of intense enjoyment, ill-concealed beneath a grave head-shaking and copious exclamations of pity and horror.

"They have built up a scaffold in the market-place," she announced rapturously. "Oh! 'tis terrible to see it. Martha Hemming saith she could not sleep for the sound of the hammering, and thinking of all the poor creatures to be hanged there. 'Tis said they mostly go straight from their trial to be hanged. Think on't. They may be hanging now, the poor fellows. 'Tis said, down Dorchester way, the judges sent three hundred to be hanged, and my Lord Jeffreys hath said it will not be his fault if he doth not depopulate this place. 'Tis terrible. 'Tis as it was in July. Dost mind it, Prudence, after the fight at Sedgemoor, when Colonel Kirke first came here? They hanged them on the signpost of the Inn. Oh! 'twas too horrible. Joan Marlow saw it. 'Twas said that one wretch was strung up and cut down again four times ere he died. Think on't. And the troopers jesting at him the while. 'Twas a fearsome time! I doubt not 'twill be yet more dreadful now. 'Tis a wonder such things should be. One can but pity them though they be rebels."

So she rattled on, while Cicely sat by shuddering with horror.

Later in the day Deborah became still more profuse and detailed in her narratives.

"They say my Lord Jeffreys is fair raging. Some say he is mad or drunk, for he laughs and jests, and then again bellows with fury. What a man it is! But, oh! Prudence, I had nigh forgot. Philip Harke is hanged. Straight from court they took him, hanged him till he was well-nigh spent, then cut him down and quartered him. The horror of it! And none dare tell his wife; but she was out ere they knew, and saw his head on a pole in High Street, and has turned silly, they say. And small wonder too; I shall not dare to walk the streets for a month. Praise be to God we have no friends among them, saving, of course, your cousin, Lady Cicely, yet 'tis terrible to see the heads and corpses. And the market-place must be a shambles, they say."

"Peace, peace, Deb. 'Tis too horrible."

"Aye, is't not indeed so? They say there be a thousand prisoners, all told. Yet belike 'twill not be death to all, though his lordship has vowed to show no mercy. And the women; there be many among the victims. 'Tis truly awful. Mistress Brown from over by Lyme, I know not rightly of what she is accused, yet I think 'tis but a matter of some rash words, as that she would pay the excise dues to King Monmouth, or some such folly, but she is condemned to be scourged through every market-place in the country. And they say she as like not to be the only one to meet with such a sentence. But to think on't.--A woman--and but for a rash tongue. Why, who is safe? To be scourged! Oh! 'tis brutal."

"Child! Child! Will you drive me mad?" cried Cicely, unable to endure more. "Be silent."

Deborah stared at her in amazement.

"Indeed, I am sorry I have offended your ladyship," she murmured somewhat sulkily; "though I see not how. 'Tis but natural to feel pity for such misery, though they be but rebels and doubtless deserving of their fate. Yet 'tis horrible for all that. Martha Hemming saith she had seen----"

"Be silent, girl, I will hear no more," cried Cicely, springing to her feet in desperation.

And then she stopped, and her heart leaped in terror, for she heard in the hallway without the voice of Master Lane, calling to his wife, and she divined by his tone that the news he brought was ill.

She went out calmly to meet him.

"Prithee, tell me, sir, tell me all," she asked in a strange, quiet voice.

Master Lane started at sight of her. He hesitated, looking for his wife to come to his aid. Then, meeting the agonised look in her eyes he paused no longer, but stepped forward to take her hand between his own, and told her gently, tenderly, the terrible sentence passed upon her cousin.

"Even now I know not truly how it befell," he continued sadly. "The poor child was overwrought. She bandied words with the chief justice, she defied him. He is not a man to brook defiance, and he revenged himself. But 'tis not likely they will carry out their sentence. Money can do much, influence more. We will talk it over together. Perchance you might go to London, 'tis not to be doubted but his Majesty will have pity upon her youth. You must see the Queen; she will surely show mercy to a woman. I will do what I can to work upon my Lord Jeffreys; I have friends who have some influence over his lordship, and they say money can do much; I doubt not she shall soon be pardoned. Come, my child, we must be brave; we must not despair."

He patted her hand kindly, full of pity for her misery. Cicely listened to all in a strange apathy.

"No," she muttered dully, "no, we must not despair, not despair."

Then she turned from him slowly and mounted the stairs to her room in perfect silence.

Master Lane looked after her anxiously.

"Poor thing! Poor thing!" he muttered, his eyes glistening with tears. "'Tis hard indeed for her. Very hard."

Then he turned to find his wife, feeling his helplessness in the face of this strange, silent misery, and seeking to ease his mind of the burden of a sorrow he could neither grapple with nor relieve.

Cicely paced her room dry-eyed, trembling, striving to realise this horror which had befallen them, striving to picture the execution of such a sentence upon her tender, beautiful young cousin. She could not do so. She repeated the words of the sentence again and again till they jangled through her brain, yet she could not believe it, she remained unmoved.

Then suddenly there flashed across her mind the question: "How shall I face Rupert and tell him this?"

And on the instant her strange apathy vanished, on the instant she understood the full horror of the sentence.

Oh! how could she face Rupert? Rupert whose love for his sister and whose pride in that sister had almost excited her jealousy; Rupert, whose last words to herself had been: "Take care of Barbara, and keep her out of mischief." How could she face him, see the love and trust in his eyes, the bright, brave smile upon his lips, and tell him that Barbara had suffered shame, imprisonment, torture, and she had done nothing, nothing to save her? No! rather let her die than face her lover with that tale upon her lips.

She flung herself upon her bed in a passion of weeping.

But what could she do? The Winslows were not rich, she had little money to offer these brutal judges, if indeed a reprieve were to be bought. She had few relations, their influence at court was but small. It would take much time even to gain access to the King, and in the meanwhile----she shuddered at the thought.

She had made one appeal to the chief justice, alas! how vain an one; even yet the remembrance of it filled her with terror. She could not, dared not again face that terrible man, again kneel to him for mercy.

Aye, but for Barbara? for Rupert? Truly for their sakes she would do even this. But the hopelessness of the attempt, the impossibility of moving, by an appeal of hers, that pitiless heart! The conviction of it crushed her brain.

And yet, surely, there must be one influence to move him, one road to his favour. Surely, no man living can be absolutely immovable, absolutely indifferent. Ah! could she but discover the key to his mercy how eagerly would she sacrifice all to win it!

She opened her window, and leaned her hot temples against the casement, breathing the cool evening air. Two men passed in the street below, discussing gravely the events of the trial. Their words floated up to her on the breeze. She caught the name of the lord chief justice.

"Ah!" said one, "the only sure road to his favour is by the informing of a rebel. He hath been known to extend a pardon, if he may thereby gain information of a more profitable victim. He is drunk with blood, and crazy for gold."

They passed on, their footsteps echoing down the empty street.

"The only sure road to his favour is by the informing of a rebel."

The words rang in her ears, repeated again and again.

So therein lay the secret to win him.

Well, and surely that were easy. Did she not know of many a rebel, in hiding near her own village of Durford? It needed but a word to unearth them all.

"But it must be a more profitable victim," not a poor peasant who could pay no penalty save death.

Well, and could she not supply that information also? While Captain Protheroe went free, was there not a rebel to be apprehended, a rebel or protector of rebels, surely much the same? For had he not himself confessed to Barbara that he had connived at Rupert's escape, though knowing well his hiding place? That surely was enough to hang a man, and a man indeed deserving to be hanged, seeing 'twas undoubtedly he who had betrayed Barbara!

Ah! what was this horrible temptation seizing upon her? She shuddered at the power of it. To betray a man to his death, a man, moreover, who had protected Rupert! She could not--she could not. There was dishonour in the very thought. A Winslow a traitor! traitor to the hand that helped him!

"Oh, God!" she wailed, "what can I do? And how shall I live if I do it?"

And yet that Captain Protheroe had betrayed Barbara in the end, she firmly believed. And Barbara had risked so much for Rupert's sake, and Barbara was in danger, and must be saved. What mattered it then though she, Cicely, were guilty of this treachery, at the despicable thought of which she shuddered? The shame would lie hidden in her own heart, the loss of self-respect would be hers alone to bear, the matter would lie between herself and her conscience. Barbara would be saved, and what was her own peace of mind compared with the life of Rupert's sister?

Impulsively she donned her hat and cloak. She dared not pause lest her resolution should fail her, lest her terror of the man to whom she was going should sap her resolve, or her horror of the treachery weaken her determination.

She descended the stairs softly, unobserved. The house was very silent.

But at the door she encountered Prudence, who hurried forward eagerly to know whither she was bound.

"Do not stop me, Prue," she answered in a strange, cold voice. "I am going to the White Hart Inn."