Chapter VI: Part 6

"To the White Hart! Not, surely, to see----"

"Yes, to see my Lord Jeffreys. I have----I have information to give him."

"But Lady Cicely, you cannot go alone. 'Tis impossible. Wait at least till dad can bear you company. Nay, you must, indeed."

Cicely put her aside firmly.

"No, Prue, I cannot wait. That which I have to do I must do at once, or perchance 'twill never be accomplished. Leave me to go my way."

She passed out into the street. Prudence stared after her in hesitation. Despite her youth, her quick burgher-wit taught her, far more clearly than Cicely, the dangers of such an errand undertaken alone. She knew, far better than did the elder girl, with her sheltered life and breeding, the nature of such men as bore the chief justice company in his nightly carouses at the White Hart Inn.

"No, no," she muttered. "She cannot go alone, alone among those devils."

Quickly she snatched up hood and cloak and followed Cicely into the quiet street.

Cicely scarce noted the presence of her companion. She hurried forward rapidly through the half-deserted streets, looking neither to right nor left, heedless of those terrible signs of butchery which greeted them at every corner, and at sight of which Prudence shrank and shuddered with horror.

At the inn the chief justice sat at supper with the circle of boon-companions whom he had collected from among the followers of his circuit.

At the door of the inn a sentry barred the girl's entrance, and to Cicely's request for audience with the lord chief justice, his reply was that the business must wait, seeing that his lordship was at dinner.

In vain Cicely pleaded for an interview however brief, in vain she protested that her business was urgent, her information of the utmost importance, even in vain she offered him money, the man was obdurate.

From the row of open windows above came the clink of glasses, the murmur of men's voices, at times a loud burst of laughter. Cicely glanced from the unmoved face of the sentry up to the open windows of the room in which was the man she sought. She had carried her resolution so far, she could not endure the thought of failure now.

As she glanced upward an officer lounged into view at one of the windows and stared carelessly down on the group below.

"By Mahomet!" he exclaimed. "A petticoat. Two, i' faith, and main pretty baggages into the bargain."

He turned and said something to his comrades, and the jest was greeted by a burst of coarse laughter.

Other men crowded to the windows and stared down curiously at the two girls, and as the first speaker turned away, the babble of voices in the room grew, louder.

Presently the officer appeared in the doorway of the inn, and with a bow of mock politeness requested the ladies to honour him by placing their difficulties in his hands, and telling him the nature of their business with the lord chief justice.

Shrinking involuntarily before the bold appraising looks with which the man surveyed her face and figure, Cicely nevertheless answered bravely enough that she possessed certain information concerning a rebel, but could confide her knowledge to none save Lord Jeffreys himself.

"'Tis not his lordship's custom to deal with any business at so late an hour," answered the officer. "Yet a request from those fair lips can never go ungranted, so, an you will permit me, I will act as your advocate, and plead with him for an interview. He would scarce refuse, did he know what a pleasure his consent would afford him."

He led the girls into the inn, and with another low bow, and a last critical survey left them in the passage and mounted to the room above with his report.

Evidently the report gave complete satisfaction. It was received with roars of laughter and a burst of eager questioning, and in a very short space of time the officer reappeared below, and requested Cicely, with a great show of politeness, to accompany him to the presence of the lord justice.

"I have so favourably reported to his lordship, madame, that he is as eager to see you as ever you can be to see him; indeed, 'tis yourself should be the most powerful advocate."

"You are very kind, sir," faltered Cicely.

The man's manner made her shudder, but as she turned to accompany him upstairs, followed by the reluctant Prudence, her heart leaped in triumph at having so easily overcome the first obstacle in her path. Surely now she was on the road to success. But when her companion flung wide the door, and bowed her elaborately into the room above, she stopped with a low cry of astonishment and fear, and the glad triumph died within her. For then only did she understand that her interview was not to be, as she had supposed, with the lord chief justice alone, in the privacy of his chamber, but that it was in the presence of these half-drunken roysterers, whose coarse laughter heard in the street below had stung her cheeks to crimson; it was before these drinking, jesting, pitiless men that she must tell her tale, and urge her plea.

It was too late then to retreat, but as she stood in the doorway, and surveyed with anxious eyes the room and the company assembled there, a vague, inexplicable fear took possession of her heart, and involuntarily she groped for Prue's hand, and drew the girl closer to her side.

Down the centre of the room ran a long table, plentifully furnished with meats and wines, at which were seated some of the officers of the troops quartered in the town, the judges, and a sprinkling of the officials of the circuit, and several pliable Tory gentlemen of the neighbourhood. Candles were lighted on the table, and as their rays illumined the faces of those who sat at meat they revealed no face that did not bear the clear stamp of debauchery and wickedness. For even in that callous and licentious age it would have been hard to find in all the length and breadth of the realm a viler and more despicable coterie than this company of noted officers, honoured judges, and highborn satellites who sat at the board of the lord chief justice of England.

At the head of the table sat my Lord Jeffreys, the very picture now, despite his ailment, of jovial good-humour. He had laid aside alike the severity of the judge and the ferocity of the man, and as he lounged at ease while the wine circulated freely, he warmed in the flattery of his comrades, and cracking jests and capping stories, was himself the leader and head-spring of their boisterous mirth.

On his right hand sat the commanding officer of the district, Colonel Kirke. And it was at sight of the latter's face that Cicely first realised to the full what manner of men were these before whom she stood. For nature is not to be gainsaid, and now, even as in the days of Cain, she imprints upon a man's features the sure tokens of his sins. But no longer, as in that age of the world's innocence, do men flee forth into the wilderness to hide their shame, rather they walk abroad, regardless of the mark upon their foreheads, knowing well that none will dare to call them to account.

And surely, in all the annals of our history, never was there a man more hardened in cruelty, more steeped in licentiousness than this same Percy Kirke. Yet the man was a great soldier, an able commander, fearless as death itself. But withal one whom no man could hold in honour, whom no woman could trust, for he would accept a bribe or betray a woman with the same ease and satisfaction as he would toss off a cup of wine.

As Cicely and her companion were ushered into the room the colonel was leaning across the table whispering a story into the ear of the lord chief justice. The rest of the company turned silent as the two girls remained timidly in the doorway shrinking from the cold gaze of so many pairs of eyes.

At length, the story ended, Lord Jeffreys burst into a roar of laughter, turned slowly in his chair, and after eyeing the two trembling women for a moment in silence, snarled:

"Come, girl! 'Tis damned wearisome to be troubled with affairs of state at this hour of the night, but since ye are here, say your say. What do you want with me, eh?"

"I entreat your lordship's pardon for this intrusion," began Cicely timidly. "An I might see your lordship alone----"

"What? An assignation! Oh! fie, madame," cried the chief justice, glancing round at his companions with a mocking smile. Then he continued sharply, "Nonsense, girl. Say what you want here and now, or leave it unsaid and begone."

Seeing no escape Cicely called up all her courage and proceeded to urge her plea.

"I have come hither on behalf of my cousin, Mistress Barbara Winslow, who was to-day sentenced to----to a most cruel punishment. I am here to beg your lordship to think mercifully of the matter and to grant me her pardon."

Lord Jeffreys glanced at the speaker with a quick scowl.

"How's this?" he cried sharply. "What means this? Am I never to hear the end of this pestilent woman? Is all the world mad concerning her? But we will have no pleading here. You have come, I am told, to lay information against a rebel. Beware, madame! If you have no such errand, if you have tricked us, the worse for you."

"Nay, my lord," answered Cicely, trembling. "I have not deceived you. I have information, not indeed of a rebel, but of one who hath connived at an escape. But I will give it only in return for my cousin's free pardon. On no other consideration."

"Say you so, indeed. And who may you be, madame, who dares to dictate terms to his Majesty's representatives? Have a care, madame, have a care."

"It matters little who I am, my lord," answered Cicely with some spirit, "save only this. I am no spy, no common tale-bearer. I would not willingly lay information against any man, and I vow that, do what ye may, I will not speak a word further on the subject till I have your assurance of my cousin's pardon."

Lord Jeffreys scowled savagely, but she met his glance unflinchingly, and he turned away with an oath and swallowed a glass of wine.

"Well! Well!" he exclaimed testily. "Out with thy story, girl. Who is this rebel?"

"You swear to me my cousin shall be pardoned?"

"Aye, aye. You shall have her pardon, an the affair prove serious enow to merit it--a hanging matter. Now, the name of your rebel, and be speedy, madame."

"'Tis--'tis Captain Miles Protheroe."

"Miles Protheroe!"

A shout of astonishment from the officers present greeted the name, all eyes were turned on the informer. Only Colonel Kirke remained silent, but he turned in his chair, and leaned forward with an eager glint in his eyes, and his teeth gleamed white behind his black beard.

Then Cicely told her story. The silence, the universal attention frightened her. She stammered, broke down, struggled on again. Only the thought of Barbara nerved her to a finish. Jeffreys helped her by an occasional sharp question, the rest of her audience sat in silence.

When she had finished her tale she turned to the lord chief justice eagerly.

"Is--is that a hanging matter, my lord?" she asked, shuddering involuntarily at the question.

"Oh, aye, 'twill serve, I doubt not."

"Then the pardon, my lord," she urged timidly.

"Pardon? Eh, what? What pardon?"

"For my cousin, Mistress Winslow. You swore she should be pardoned, if I spoke."

Jeffreys looked round the table with a low laugh of amusement. Then he slowly drained his glass.

"To be sure," he said. "To be sure. She shall be pardoned, freely pardoned--when her sentence has been executed."

Cicely's heart grew suddenly cold.

"My lord! What mean you?" she gasped. "Surely--you cannot----No! No! You swore to me she should have a free pardon."

"So she shall, so she shall," assented the judge. "A full and free pardon, two years from to-day. I'll answer for it."

Cicely held out her hands in helpless entreaty.

"Ah! no, my lord. Surely you are jesting with me," she cried.

"Tut, you fool," he answered impatiently. "Do you deem a pardon is so easily won? Jesting, forsooth; aye, 'tis a jest, i' faith," he laughed brutally, "but I doubt if Mistress Winslow will find it so. They shall tell her on't after her first taste of the whip, and see if her wits can mark the humour on't."

He laughed heartily at this suggestion, some of his comrades and satellites joining in his mirth.

But Cicely gave way utterly. She fell at his feet; she sobbed out desperate entreaties to pitiless deaf ears.

"Ah! no, no, my lord, it cannot be, you cannot mean it. Say you do but jest. Surely it is enough, this thing that I have done. For I have told you, told you all I know. Ah! tell me what more I can do, what more to win her pardon. Indeed I will do anything--anything, an you will but pardon. Ah! my lord, my lord!"

Jeffreys looked down at her and laughed. Then he poured himself another glass of wine, and pushed the bottle on to his neighbour.

"Take her away! Take her away," he said testily, pushing her with his foot.

Cicely would have renewed her plea, but Prudence Lane, realising that any such effort would be useless, and apprehending that to remain longer in such dissolute and abandoned company might be to court insult even of a more degrading character, leaned down to her companion, and with a whispered entreaty, drew her to her feet. The door was flung open for their departure and the two girls, Cicely clinging to her friend's arm for support, were ushered from the room, and thence into the High street.

In heavy silence they retraced their steps homeward, but had not proceeded far, when upon turning a corner they ran almost into the arms of Captain Protheroe. He had been absent from Taunton since the previous day upon a mission in the west, and was now on his way to the White Hart Inn in search of Colonel Kirke to make his report.

Cicely recoiled from him with a cry of remorseful horror, but he stepped eagerly towards her. Though they had never spoken together, he knew her well by sight.

"Lady Cicely Winslow!" he exclaimed in glad astonishment. "What brings you to Taunton at such a time? 'Tis no ill news, I trust. And Mistress Barbara? Is she here likewise?"

Cicely stared at him, her eyes wide with a momentary terror.

"You know, you must know," she exclaimed in a low, hard voice. "No! I will not believe but 'twas you who betrayed her. I dare not. I should go mad else at what I have done. No! 'tis true, you are but mocking me."

Her words had almost a ring of entreaty in them. She could not, would not believe his innocence; would not be deprived of this last plea in justification.

He stared down at her in amazement.

"On my soul, Lady Cicely, I do not understand one word of what you are saying," he exclaimed.

Cicely remained sullenly silent. He turned to Prue for an explanation.

"What means all this? Where is Mistress Barbara Winslow?"

"In prison, sir, for harbouring rebels, sentenced for two years, and to be scourged every month in the open market-place. If, as her ladyship says, this is your doing, you may be proud of your work." She tossed her head defiantly.

"In prison! Here in Taunton! Impossible, girl. You must be mad to say it," he urged in desperate eagerness.

Prudence would have responded with an outburst of scorn, but Cicely seized her by the arm and dragged her down the street. Indeed the poor lady was half demented. The sudden appearance of Captain Protheroe had brought vividly before her mind the full significance of what she had done, and with that strange stubbornness which possesses those worn out in mind and body, she sought to shelter herself from the stings of conscience behind the plea of justification in view of the criminal and despicable nature of the man she had betrayed. As she herself said, she dared not believe in his innocence. Her only comfort lay in convincing herself that he was even as those to whom she had betrayed him.

Captain Protheroe stared after their retreating figures in the deepest astonishment, but his astonishment quickly gave place to horror as he realised the meaning of their words.

To be imprisoned, scourged by the brutal soldiery, this girl, so young, so tender, so beautiful! He ground his teeth with rage as he hurried forward.

"This is one of Jeffreys' deviltries, I doubt not," he muttered.

He had heard of many such, had heard of them with a shudder of loathing, and passed on in disgust. But that she--that they should dare to lay hands on her! Instinctively his hand went to his breast, where lay concealed the knot of scarlet ribbon. He trembled at the sudden, awful horror of the thought.

But he was a soldier, a man of action, not one to waste time in futile imaginings while there was work that might, that must be done. With an effort he pulled his thoughts together and reviewed the situation, while he strode rapidly towards the White Hart Inn.

"There is but one thing to be done," he muttered. "An appeal from me to Jeffreys or to Kirke were worse than useless. I must to London. General Churchill will refuse me nothing, and he is high in favour with the King. He can procure a pardon--he shall do so. I will get leave at once, and start to-night. When she is free and safe, _then_ to find the man who has informed against her. But before all she must be released."

So he determined, as he went rapidly on his way.

Meanwhile in the upper chamber of the White Hart Inn the carouse continued. The babble of tongues and roars of laughter once more disturbed the peaceful silence of the evening.

After Cicely's departure Lord Jeffreys exercised his wits sharply upon the subject of his late applicant's visit, and his companions joined in his humour.

But despite the boisterous merriment an air of depression hung over many members of the company. This sudden accusation levelled at one of their comrades, for an affair so trivial in their eyes, and yet adjudged by the chief justice as worthy of death, roused an anxious terror in their hearts that would not be stilled. For if this man indeed be brought to punishment, upon whom might not the next thunderbolt fall; who could be accounted safe? Were they not all equally guilty, and equally open to betrayal? They eyed the judge nervously, and trembled while they laughed.

Only Colonel Kirke made no attempt to hide his preoccupation, though it sprang from another cause. He sat grave, silent, biting his lips in thought, while that strange gleam of ferocity deepened in his eyes.

At length Lord Jeffreys turned to his neighbour, and rallied him good-humouredly.

"Come, Percy," he cried, "you don't drink. Why, what ails you, man? Have you lost your heart to yon fair fool, eh?"

"No, my lord. I' faith, I have clean forgot her."

"But not her story, eh?" asked the judge, glancing at him with a sinister smile, for he was quick to read men's thoughts, and guessed at the anxiety in his companion's thoughts. "Come, about this rebel officer of yours. What of him? Shall we wink at the matter?"

His lordship was no hypocrite; that which he did, justly or unjustly, he made little attempt to hide, and certainly among his boon-companions, the taking of a bribe, or the winking at a fault were subjects for free discussion.

Kirke pushed aside his glass, and leaned across the table, speaking in a low voice:

"This is my affair, my lord. This is a matter for court-martial. Let me try the man."

Jeffreys laughed good-humouredly.

"What! you dog. You want to handle the crowns, eh! Is it a rich prize?"

"There'll be no crowns in this case," said Kirke with a grim smile. "This is a matter for punishment."

"What, colonel! Turned honest, eh! Why, man, if all reports are true you've done the same yourself, a thousand times, tho' certes you've more frequently pocketed the reward than spared the life."

"Maybe. But they have grown restive on the subject at Whitehall of late, damn them! My Lord Sunderland has been pleased to complain. Well, we'll make an example of this one."

"Tut! man. Have your way, court-martial an you will, but never hang the fellow. His friends won't pay for his carcase. There are enough and to spare for hanging; this fellow should yield a goodly profit."

"Years ago, my lord," answered the colonel grimly. "this man and I were in France together. We quarrelled concerning a slip of a girl; he professed to mislike my methods of dealing with her and laid his cane across my cheek in public. When I cried for satisfaction he refused, saying he did not measure swords with a bully. He is a swordsman, curse him; it was useless to brand him as a coward; I had no redress. That was twelve years ago. I feel the stroke of his cane on my cheek again to-night and here at last is a salve to the bruise. I've watched and waited, knowing that my chance would come, and now at last he is in my power. No, my lord, crowns will be of no avail; he shall be tried at sunrise to-morrow, and shot like a dog at noon."

Throughout this speech the colonel's tone had grown ever louder, and as he uttered the last words with a savage ferocity, the door opened, and Captain Protheroe walked into the room.

"Hullo! colonel, another victim?" he exclaimed. "Who is the wretched devil who is to be shovelled out of the world so speedily?"

There was deep silence. Captain Protheroe gazed round in astonishment at the circle of grave faces, all turned eagerly towards him. Only Lord Jeffreys gave a sudden short laugh, as he lay back in his chair and watched the scene. For he loved to watch human comedies, if tragedy lurked behind them.

Then Colonel Kirke spoke:

"Captain Protheroe, you are under arrest. You will give your sword to Captain Harrington, and accompany him at once to the guard-house. I refuse your parole."

The Captain faced the speaker in astonishment.

"I! Arrested! What devil's foolishness is this?" he cried. "On what charge?"

"Set a watch on your words," answered Kirke shortly. "You are charged with connivance at the escape of a noted rebel, Sir Rupert Winslow."

Captain Protheroe started. So there was ground after all for the accusation; it was no imaginary charge, easy to refute; it was a serious affair, an affair he saw well that might cost him dear. He hesitated a moment, then:

"I claim at least to have the matter referred to the General," he said resolutely. Neither Churchill nor Feversham, he knew well, would be severe upon him.

"You are at present under my command, Captain Protheroe," answered Kirke shortly. "You will be tried by me. Captain Harrington, remove your prisoner."

The Colonel had risen to his feet, and for a full minute the two men faced each other in silence. Then Captain Protheroe smiled. He knew his enemy's inveterate hatred, he read the full significance of that glance. And yet he smiled. It was too simple, too obvious. Not a man in that room, he knew well, but had been guilty a dozen times of the same breach of duty as that of which he stood accused, yet they went free, unpunished, while for himself he saw well there would be no mercy. The malice was too palpable, he laughed in his enemy's face.

Not, though it were for his life, would he urge one plea before this man; his pride forbade him to stoop to entreat the favour of one whose vengeance he so utterly despised. Without a word he handed his sword to Captain Harrington, and turned to accompany him from the room.

"Where is he to be lodged, Colonel?" inquired Captain Harrington doubtfully. "In the guard-house?"

Colonel Kirke hesitated.

"No," he muttered to himself. "'Tis not secure enough. The fellow is too devilish popular with the men. I scarce think my lambs would dare to revolt, but yet there might be an escape. I'll not risk it. I must ask you to keep the prisoner for me till to-morrow," he added aloud, turning to the governor of the prison, who was seated among the officers at the lower end of the table.

The governor shrugged his shoulders.

"I' faith, we are full enough," he muttered. "Tho' his lordship has cleared us out a little to-day," he added with a laugh.

"Any hole or corner will serve till morning," persisted the Colonel, "so it be secure."

"Secure enough; I'll answer for that," answered the governor as he scribbled an order for imprisonment.

He tossed the paper to Captain Harrington, an escort was called, and in a few minutes Captain Protheroe was marching through the silent streets to his prison.

He was no coward, yet no man in his inmost heart can jest when he finds himself face to face with a prospect of meeting death. And as he passed by the swinging corpses and trunkless faces hoisted on poles in the market-place, and reflected that in twelve hours he might be even such as they, he was seized with a wild impotent fury against the fate which had brought him to such a helpless pass. Only his soldier's pride held him from throwing himself desperately upon his guards, and making one last, vain, hopeless struggle for freedom.

The distance from the inn to the gaol was not great, and having arrived at their destination, Captain Protheroe was duly handed over to the charge of the head-gaoler, who in the governor's absence consigned him to one of the large sheds situated near the castle.

Then Captain Harrington, having fulfilled his commission, paused to bid his prisoner good-night.

"I am grieved about this, Miles," he said anxiously, for the two had been comrades. "But keep up your heart; the Colonel cannot really mean to treat seriously such an affair. Why, zounds, man, none of us have an over-clean record in that respect. He is bound to take some notice of the accusation, of course, and he bears a grudge against you, we know, but it can't mean more than a night or so in prison."

"Do you think so, Will?" answered the prisoner, pressing his outstretched hand. "No, Kirke and I have met before, we know each other. He's not the man to forgive an injury, and I'll be hanged if I ask him to; tho'," he added with a smile--"there's not a doubt on't I'll be shot if I don't."

"Tut, man, it's never so bad as that. Keep up your spirits. And anything I can do----"

"There are one or two commissions---- But there will be time enough in the morning to speak of them. You'd best return now and report to the colonel, or you will get a lick of the rough side of his tongue yourself, as my Lord Jeffreys hath it. Good-night.--And Will, here's a word of advice from a dying man, beware of women, and it may be you'll live to be drowned after all. Now, my man, I am ready," he added, turning to the gaoler, and with a final nod to his friend, he passed into the shed.

Captain Harrington stood for some minutes in thought. But despite the colonel's threats, he could not believe that he would carry out sentence of death for so trivial a matter, on one of his own officers. So with a shrug and a whistle he turned away, and strode back to the White Hart Inn.

*CHAPTER XIV*

Captain Protheroe leant against the wall, and gazed round his prison with an expression of deep disgust.

In a corner sat a noisy group of men, seeking as he judged by the dismal light of a flickering oil lamp, to drown their fears in drink. For the rest, the place was silent, and as it seemed to him, deserted, the prevailing darkness being broken only in places where the moonlight filtered through the high windows, and fell in splashes of brilliance upon the floor.

It was in truth a dreary place and one not calculated to raise the spirits of the new occupant, who stared moodily before him, cursing his luck. For he saw no hopeful prospect in the situation and he was by no means resigned to death now, when he was but beginning to realise the full joy of living. Two months ago, he told himself, it had been different; the world had not so much to offer then, indeed he had not known that it held so much. And now, with the new sense of this knowledge of the world's gifts teeming in his brain, to go forth and be shot down like vermin with never a fight for life! A man should not be called upon to endure so much.

And then, with a rush, his thoughts turned to Barbara. He could do nothing for her now. He could not even save himself, far less afford protection to another. He groaned aloud as he pictured her suffering, and again he bitterly cursed his utter helplessness.

Then, as he reviewed the events of the preceding hours, the question flashed across his brain: "Who had betrayed him? Who?" And quick as an answering flash came the reply, though he strove vainly to deny it entrance to his thoughts, "Who, but this girl herself, this girl who led him to the deed, for whose sake he was to die?" For to none but to her had he confessed his interview with Sir Rupert, none but she and himself knew of her appeal to his mercy or of her disclosure to him of her brother's hiding-place. Clear as day the facts lay before him, they would not be denied; she alone in all the world had the knowledge to betray him. And had she not already twice tricked him? Had she not plainly refused his friendship, denied him her trust?

This was but the consummation of her scheme. But that she should have wheedled him to spare this man, and, when danger threatened have betrayed him coolly, hoping thereby to save herself! He raged at the thought, at the black ingratitude of the action. And a woman with eyes as true as heaven, whom he would have trusted even to death! Where then could a man repose his faith, if she were worthless? Better indeed to die, and be out of a world where women could be guilty of such baseness.

Then a softer mood asserted itself. He recalled her face, the strong, proud face with the deep eyes, earnest and sincere behind the mask of mischief. He thought of her look when she had stood against him, sword in hand, to fight for her good name, fearless, resolute, even when driven to a stand with death seemingly staring her in the face. Here was no cowardice, no treachery. And she had risked her safety to give her brother an hour's happiness.

No, it was past belief that such a woman could be guilty of such devil's work. She must be innocent. There might be others--a woman always chattered---he knew well she had a glib and hasty tongue. Or perchance they forced the story from her, tricked her to the telling of it. No, come what might, he would not believe that she had of set purpose brought him to this pass. And even if she had, if she had in a moment of weakness betrayed her benefactor, bartering his life for hers, even then----

Passionately he drew out the knot of ribbon and pressed it to his lips.

"God bless her!" he murmured tenderly. "Strong or weak, true or faithless, God bless her."

And still with that strange density which at times overclouds the instinct, a thought of the real culprit never crossed his mind.

Again he strove to turn his thoughts back to his own position, to weigh the prospects of release; but with scant ardour. Life had little to offer if he must stand by and see her suffer, and in face of his present disgrace, he realised his helplessness to assist her.

He continued to gaze moodily before him, idly watching a ray of moonlight steal across the floor of the shed. To his surprise he saw it reveal the foot of a woman, and as it climbed to her knee he marked the desperate tension of the clasped white hands that lay thereon:

"Poor soul," he muttered. "There is trouble there."

Higher still crept the beam of light till the whole figure was illumined, and then, as at the drawing aside of a curtain of darkness, the face of Barbara Winslow emerged slowly from the black shadow, and appeared before him bathed in a glory of light.

Barbara! Yes, though at first sight he barely knew her, barely recognised those pallid cheeks, the dropped jaw, the fixed, staring eyes wide with fear, all the agony of her terrified spirit written on her face.

He sprang forward with a cry and crossed the room to her side. She turned to him quickly and seized his outstretched hand, all other feelings submerged in the great terror that held her.

"Oh! I am frightened, I am frightened," she sobbed in utter abandonment. "Indeed I cannot bear it. Sure they cannot truly carry out the sentence? I could not endure it, it would kill me, and I cannot die yet. Help me, help me. Do not let them scourge me. I am so frightened, help me."

What could he do? He held both her hands tightly in his own, and passed his arm round her as though to shield her from all hurt. And she, forgetting all else in the face of this fear which she felt for the first time in her life, crouched against him in a paroxysm of trembling and sobbing.

"Oh! I know I am a base coward, but what can I do? For I was so happy, and life was so good, and now I--I, Barbara Winslow, must be scourged openly in the market-place by the common hangman, month after month, till assuredly I must die of the shame. Think! The troopers will watch and laugh, and I shall be---- Oh! no, no, indeed I cannot bear it; what shall I do!"

He ground his teeth in helpless, desperate rage. Wild vague assertions of help and protection rose to his lips and died away unuttered, for he knew himself powerless. His heart surged with impotent fury, while she sobbed in his arms in the very abandonment of fear and misery, the natural reaction after the proud restraint of the past few days.

But it was only for a little space; the firm clasp of his hands, the pressure of his arm, gave her the sense of human support and strength that she lacked. In a few minutes the cold terror left her, she was herself again save for backward shudderings at the remembrance of the emotions through which she had passed.

Drawing her hands gently from his grasp, she lifted her white, tear-stained face to his with a smile.

"Thank you," she said simply. "I know not what ailed me. 'Twas mighty foolish and yet 'twas terrible enow," she added with a shudder.

He laid his hand on hers again firmly, and she did not withdraw it. For a few minutes they sat in silence.

Presently Barbara's glance wandered to the far end of the shed, where the group of drinkers sat.

"They are to die to-morrow. I would I were a man, and knew no fear," she murmured enviously.

He smiled.

"Think you they know no fear? That is the very height of fear that dare not face the morrow, but seeks forgetfulness thus."

"Could I forget thus?" she asked.

"I would not have thee try, Mistress Barbara: 'tis but a coward's way."

"Yet 'tis but for one night," she cried hurriedly. "And I cannot bear this torture of waiting and thinking. Let me not be a coward again. Let me not think. Ah! when I think I see it all; the troopers and the prison and the post, month after month till---- Ah, no, I will not think. Talk to me--tell me--tell me why you are here," she continued, for the first time filled with curiosity as to the reason of his presence.

His heart leaped gladly at her question.

"Do you not know, madame?"

"Indeed no; it cannot assuredly be that you too are a prisoner?"

"Yes. A prisoner even as yourself, condemned for treason."

"You--a traitor. Impossible!" she exclaimed naively.

"I thank you for the compliment, Mistress Barbara," he answered with a smile.

"And the sentence?"

"Imprisonment--until to-morrow," he answered lightly.

"And to-morrow you will be free?" she questioned doubtfully.

"Aye, free from every fetter."

Something in his tone startled her.

"It is not so," she cried quickly. "You are deceiving me."

"Nay, madame. Is not freedom the supreme gift of death?"

"Then you are to die to-morrow?" she asked in a tone full of awe.

"Court-martial at sunrise, shot like a dog at noon. That is my sentence. Come, will you not wish me a pleasant voyage? I confess myself no good sailor, and do heartily trust they have no storms on the Styx."

He spoke lightly, but she turned from him suddenly with a choking sob.

"Oh!" she cried bitterly. "How you must despise me for a true coward."

He laughed tenderly.

"Nay, Mistress Barbara, we be all cowards at heart, I warrant, only some have learned the trick of hiding it. And indeed to one who has faced him many times, death loses somewhat of his grim aspect. Besides--" he continued cheerily, "when a man bethinks him how many of his fellows in past ages have faced death unflinching, it seemeth but a small matter for him to follow in their footsteps. I doubt not we shall meet with gallant company across the bourne."

"And have you no regrets?" she asked wonderingly.

He looked down at her and his face clouded.

"Aye, madame, one." He hesitated, then continued in the strange hurried tones of one who has at last resolved to speak his thoughts, and risk the consequence.

"Men on their death-beds make strange confessions, madame; here is mine. For fifteen years I have asked and expected little of life save to win a name in my profession, and for the rest, to enjoy to the full all the pleasures that the world had to offer. I deemed that I had succeeded fairly in both these, my ambitions, and I was content. But--two months since, on a certain sweet night in July, I met a woman. Not such an one as the courtesans of Whitehall, not such as are they whom a soldier most often meets in his way thro' the world, but such a woman as a man might dream his mother was, such as he would wish to be the mother of his sons. And when I looked into that woman's eyes I understood for the first time that all I have sought and won from life was worthless, and tho' I have drunk deep of the cup of pleasure, yet all my days I have been but as a child playing contentedly in the desert, while the door of an enchanted garden lay unnoticed at my side."

"Were the woman's eyes indeed so beautiful?" asked Barbara softly.

"Madame, they are as the clear depths of the heavens, wherein a man may read all the perfection of life. I have seen her but thrice since first we met, yet one look into her eyes has taught me more of the reality of life, of happiness, of love than I ever dreamed of even in the age of a man's most golden hopes. And so, madame, I cannot die without one regret, the regret that I may not live to deserve the pressure of that woman's hand, nor hope to make myself worthy to feel the touch of her pure lips."

He paused, looking down upon her doubtfully; she did not meet his glance, but he heard her sigh softly, as she gazed before her into the darkness. At length she spoke.

"Then you had been happier had you never seen the woman? Is it not so?"

"Happier! No, Mistress Barbara, is it not better for a man to die, having gazed once upon the glories of the heavens, than to live a thousand thousand years, nor lift his eyes from earth?"

There was silence between them.

Then Barbara rose from her seat.

"I am weary," she said softly. "I think I could sleep now, and I would fain be rested for to-morrow. I must be strong then; they shall not think I fear them. I must rest. But not in there," she added, gazing shudderingly at the dark corner behind the screen. "Not in there, lest I wake."

Near them lay a pile of straw and loose wisps of wool. These he gathered together, and spread his cloak upon them.

"It is not much," he muttered discontentedly; "yet it is better than the bare boards."

"It is perfect," answered Barbara, snuggling down into the warmth of the cloak.

He knelt to draw it more closely round her.

"Good-bye, Mistress Barbara," he said, raising her hand to his lips.

But she, suddenly raising herself upon her elbow, drew his head down towards her and kissed him on the lips.

"Good-night--good-bye--and thank you," she whispered simply.

Then she lay down peacefully, and drew the cloak once more around her.

The moon dipped behind a bank of clouds and the prison was in darkness.

Captain Protheroe rose to his feet, and stood for some time gazing before him, as one half-dazed. Then he recovered himself with a start, his eyes flashed, he looked round quickly, his whole body alert for action.

Die! No surely not now, he could not die now. It was impossible; there must be some way of escape for them both. If he could but think of it!

But the more he thought thereon, recalling all the tales of prison breaking and rescue that he had read or heard of, picturing the security of the shed, the disposition of the sentries, the surer did the knowledge of his utter helplessness overwhelm him, and yet the more persistently did he fight against this knowledge, assuring himself continually that death must be impossible now.

*CHAPTER XV*

Prudence sat on a stone seat at the bottom of the high-walled garden behind her father's house. Around her fell the soft moonlight, clothing the daisied grass and the shimmering trees in a veil of glory. The air was full of rich scents, remembrances of the dying sweetness of the roses, the noises of the street were hushed, and there rested over all a soft whispering silence, broken occasionally by the rapturous notes of the nightingale, as he poured forth his soul in an ecstasy of love. The scene was redolent of the sweet witchery of love, and Prue with her soft eyes, her glittering hair, and the mischievous dimples deepening in her cheeks, seemed in the moonlight like some fair enchantress weaving the spell of her sweet beauty over all around.

There were no traces on her fair face of the horrible scenes of which but half an hour since she had been a witness, no indication on her smooth brow of the strain of the last two days. She had not forgotten Cicely's misery and how she lay so still, so silent in the room above; but the weight of a sorrow which did not touch her personally lay but lightly upon her young heart, and she had been conscious of a feeling of relief when she left her friend to the tender care of Mistress Lane and crept out into the silent, peaceful garden.

A thorough child of nature, she sat calm and happy, her spirits in harmony with the scene immediately around her, though in the streets without the drying corpses of innocent men waved their limbs weirdly in the breeze, and women, their hearts breaking with despair, sat silent in a grief too deep for tears.

Prudence sat deep in thought. She had an enterprise in view for the furtherance of which she foresaw the necessity of laying resolute siege to the will of Master Robert Wilcox. She would require his co-operation, and as she traced out the lines of her campaign, her eyes glistened brightly, and her lips curved into a roguish smile. For Prue was one to scorn an easy dominion, else had she never given her heart to so resolute a lover as Robert.

So intent was she upon her thoughts that she did not notice the approach of Master Wilcox himself, walking with rapid step down the trim garden path; in fact he had been watching her for some minutes in a lover's rapture, before she raised her eyes and noted his presence. Then he sprang eagerly to her side.

"Ah! Prue; sweetheart," he cried, with outstretched arms. "I hoped I might chance on you here, and yet indeed I scarce dared to hope it."

Prue slipped quickly aside from the proffered embrace. "Good-evening, Master Robert," she answered with a demure assumption of indifference. "And pray what may be your errand to me?"

Robert's hands fell to his side; he stared at her in amazement.

"Why, Prue, my darling," he exclaimed.

Prudence eyed him coldly.

"'Tis a fine evening, Master Robert, and I was enjoying the silence and solitude of the garden. Prithee then--your errand?"

Robert hesitated a moment, then he seated himself upon the bench beside her, and laid his hand on hers.

"Come sweetheart, what is wrong?" he demanded resolutely.

"Nought that I know of," she answered calmly, withdrawing her hand, "saving only that methinks you are somewhat free with your 'sweetheart' and 'darling,' Master Wilcox."

"What! Must I not call thee sweetheart then, my dearest?"

"In truth I had as lief you did not," she answered curtly.

Robert eyed her a minute doubtfully: then he plunged boldly into the subject.

"See here, Prue, what is the matter; for what art thou so angry with me? An it be concerning Janie Medlar, 'tis mere foolishness. I met her down by the river, 'tis true, yet 'twas but by chance, and then I could not, in courtesy, refuse to walk home with her. Now could I? And the rose--she asked for it herself--I swear she did. But no more passed between us, save the merest--er--nothing whatever. 'Tis utter foolishness, Prue."

Prudence smiled to herself; she was learning secrets. But she answered coldly enough:

"I' faith, Master Robert, and what is it to me what passes betwixt you and Mistress Medlar? 'Tis much, indeed, if I am to call her rival--pale-faced chit."

"'Tis not that? Then in Heaven's name, Prue, what is it? What have I done?"

Prue turned and faced him:

"Ah, well said. What hast thou done, Master Robert? What hast thou done all thy life save sort wool and enter ledgers? And yet you would be one to call a maid 'sweetheart' and kiss her on the lips. I tell you, you must seek elsewhere then, Master Robert, I am not for such as you. I will have nought to do with any, save brave men, men proved by action, not swollen with boasts."

Robert groaned aloud.

"Lord, Prue," he muttered; "not that all over again."

"And wherefore not, Master Robert? Has a man nought to do save sit till the apples fall into his lap? Thinkest thou a girl can be wooed by words alone? I tell thee thou art mightily mistaken. If a maid be worthy of love she is worthy of winning, and winning by deeds, not by empty vows and foolish boastings."

"Perchance thou wouldst have me join Kirke's band then, and win thee by such deeds as those in the market-place yonder," muttered Robert angrily.

"Indeed that were better than nothing," answered the girl with a mocking toss of her head. "Better be one of Kirke's Lambs, brutes tho' they be, than a white-livered wadcomber, caring for neither king nor country so he have a full belly and a whole skin."

"Now by Heaven, Prue, this is too bad. 'Tis unfair to taunt me thus when thou knowest I had ridden gladly with the Duke if I had but been given the chance, and that I do but bide here at the work to please thy father, and so clear my way to winning thee."

"Is't verily so?" laughed the girl scornfully. "Truly I marvel what men would do, if they had not women's petticoats to hide behind."

But this was too much for Robert to endure with patience. Though he more than half suspected she was playing with him, for he had watched her smile as she sat on the bench alone, yet he felt that no man should be called upon to endure such mockery; for the sake of future peace he resolved to teach her a lesson.

Roughly dropping the hand which he had taken again to strengthen his plea, he moved to the far end of the bench, and turned an angry shoulder to his tormentor.

"So be it, Mistress Prue," he answered. "An those be your opinions, 'tis useless to talk further on the matter. I am sorry that my actions fail to please thee, but on my honour, I do not see that I am in any wise bound to alter them to suit every whim and fancy of thine. The evening is chill; would you not be wiser to go indoors?"

Prue gasped, and gazed at the sulky shoulder with eyes wide open in astonishment. The affair had taken a sadly different turn from that which she had contemplated. It looked greatly as though this attack upon the fortress would prove a failure, nay more, as though it would turn to a defeat and rout of the attacking party itself, did she not with all speed change her tactics.

Accordingly, with a celerity worthy of a great general, she changed, upon the instant, her whole plan of campaign, abandoned this frontal attack, and devised a more subtle method of overcoming such unexpected resistance.

She tried first the effect of silence; but experience had taught her that Robert was better skilled in the use of that weapon than she herself, and indeed it was a struggle to her to keep silence for five minutes at any time. She abandoned this course after a very short trial.

Then she sighed. Twice, thrice, with the suspicion of a sob in the last sigh, which she felt must sound infinitely pathetic. She looked eagerly for signs of relenting in that stubborn shoulder; Robert was resolute.

The affair was beginning to assume a most serious aspect. If it continued thus much longer, she would be forced to haul down her colours and abandon the siege entirely. And then what would become of her schemes?

No. She must bring all her forces to the attack, and--and--Robert could not see her where she sat.

She rose and stepped quietly into the deep glow of the moonlight, standing full before the gaze of her offended lover.

She stood first with her back towards him, plucking nervously at the petals of a withered rose. Robert looked at the trim, white figure outlined against the darker trees, at the soft curve of the averted cheek. He looked and wavered.

Suddenly she turned and faced him, standing before him in all the charm of her saucy beauty. She shook out her curls till the gold glistened in the moonlight, she turned her eyes full upon him, and she smiled, a smile full of mischievous invitation that lurked in her eyes and curved round her rosy dimpling lips.

It was enough. Robert stared at her for a moment in silence, then he sprang towards her and seized her in his arms.

"Ah, Prue, you witch! You witch!" he cried. "How could I resist thee? Say what you want, sweetheart. I will do it, aye, that I will."

"Wilt thou really promise that, Rob?" she asked, nestling into his arms.

"Aye, sweetheart."

"Anything, Rob?"

"Anything you ask," he answered, gazing into her eyes.

"Then, oh, Rob; help Mistress Winslow to escape."

He stared in astonishment.

"What sayest thou? Prue! Prue! 'Tis impossible, 'Tis madness to dream on't," he cried.

"You promised to do anything I asked," she complained reproachfully, straining against his embrace.

"Aye, sweetheart, so I will, so I will." He pledged himself rashly to keep her in his arms. "But this---- How is't possible? Would you have me break into the castle and bear her out by force?"

"She is not in the castle; she is lodged in one of the temporary sheds," corrected Prue reproachfully.