Chapter VIII: Part 8

And then she remembered, with a sudden hot rush of blood to her cheeks, that it was she herself who had brought this about.

For he had not offered to take her with him, rather had he advised her to seek out the Lanes and take shelter with them; but she in her heedlessness had refused his advice, had forced her company upon him. And he could not in courtesy refuse, but was bound by his honour to undertake the task, to provide for her, and protect her, even at the risk of his life.

No, she had thrust herself, unwelcome, upon him, and had now no hope save in him.

So she mused, growing each moment more ashamed, more angry, her pride stinging her afresh at each recollection of his kindness and her dependence on it.

For this dependence, which might once perchance have been a sweet thought to her, was now turned to gall and bitterness by the shadow of another, the aforetime queen of the forest, whose presence seemed to her to haunt the little glade, the girl who had claimed his homage, whom he had loved with all his heart.

For if he loved the girl of whom he spoke so tenderly, then she, Barbara, could be nothing to him, save that perchance her beauty gratified his eyes; her presence was but an aggravation of his distresses, her helplessness a burden, unwelcome as unsought.

Her first impulse, nay, her firm intention was to flee from him at once, relieve him from his forced task, and win or lose her safety for herself. Thus her pride urged her to act.

But more gentle thoughts held sway. For Barbara was practical, and above all things, just. She saw clearly that to leave him now, in secret, would but add to his troubles, since he would without doubt seek her again, nor rest until he found her, fearing for her safety. Further, to urge him to leave her were useless; such a man as he did not lightly relinquish a task he had once taken in hand.

No, clearly she could not escape from the position in which she had thrust herself, her punishment must be to remain with him, dependent on his care. Nor must she accept his kindness grudgingly, but with a free heart, simply, confidently, else her conduct were indeed unjust. For since she had imposed the task upon him, she must not make it bitter by any act of hers.

So she resolved, though it hurt her pride sorely to accept his favours, deeming that she had nought to give in turn. For the Winslows were ever proud folk, giving gift for gift, blow for blow, in fair exchange, and Barbara had by no means consented to give nought and receive all at the hands of any man, save that her wonderful sense of fairness (no such common attribute of her sex), forced her to give his feelings the consideration she felt was but his due.

But for that other woman! The woman who had once sat there, enthroned, accepting his homage, perchance in the very spot where new she lay. She rose abruptly and walked to the far side of the hollow, where she seated herself stiffly on a fallen tree, and glanced distastefully at the soft bank of moss that had lately formed her couch.

Presently she grew restless, and so to escape from the folly of her thoughts, she resolved to make a short voyage of exploration on her own account.

She had no difficulty in discovering the opening in the bushes which enclosed the hollow, and passing through she found herself on a narrow green path leading through the forest. The brambles crept close to her side, and at times even stretched their long arms across her path, but in the clear light of day she had no great difficulty in making her way along a road which in the darkness of the previous night had appeared fraught with almost insuperable difficulty.

She tripped along at a fair pace beneath the towering branches, pausing ever and anon to gaze with wondering delight at some newly opening scene of woodland beauty.

Now she would pass a stretch of bracken, higher than her head, through which the sunlight streamed in a blaze of emerald fire. Anon she came to pause in a grove of beeches, gazing up in awe at the giant branches above her, curving in graceful arches far above her head; or she stooped in delight over some gnarled old tree-stump, alive with feathery ferns and delicately coloured lichens; and once she came to a wide, green bank o'ercovered quite with delicate cobwebs, dew-flecked, shimmering like silken gauze, beneath which swayed the tender lily-plants, like the slender forms of eastern beauties, dancing in their jewelled veils.

It was a world of magic delight, and as she wandered on, she fell again beneath the forest spell, and forgot her cares in the sheer joy of beauty. For the forest has a magic charm for all who will yield to its influence. The song of the sea is restlessness; the teaching of the hills is aspiration, but the spell of the forest is peace.

But suddenly she stopped, with a quick indrawing of the breath, for close beside her, separated only by a leafy screen, she heard a deep, shuddering sigh.

Her first impulse was to flee at once along the road she had come, back to the safe shelter of the hollow. But her curiosity stayed her, and she waited, hand on heart, for what should follow.

Again came the groan, and this time she could distinguish some muttered words.

"My God! I will endure no more. It must end now."

Barbara had been no true woman had she turned back now. But it was perhaps as much pity as curiosity that prompted her to push gently aside the branches, and peer through them at the speaker of these despairing words.

Before her, on a fallen tree sat the dismallest figure of a man she had ever seen. Pale, emaciated, with haggard face half concealed by a tangle of matted hair, and clad in that most melancholy of apparels--soiled and tattered finery. His right arm hung limply at his side, a pistol in the hand. His head was bowed upon his breast, but even as Barbara looked, he raised it, and she marked his desperate glance, his eyes hardened in despair.

As she looked upon his face the beauty of the forest vanished, it showed but as a drear wilderness of thorn and bramble, a fit setting to the desperate figure of the man before her; even so does the sight of a drowned corpse rob the sea of all its glory.

The man raised his face for a minute to the heavens, as though he would fling a look of defiance at the pitiless gods; then slowly lifted the pistol in his hand and turned the muzzle towards his temple, curling his finger round the trigger.

Without thought of aught save that the deed must be prevented, Barbara did not pause to consider her best course of action; she sprang through the bushes and confronted the sufferer, holding out her hands entreatingly towards him, and, with a sudden flash of instinct, crying in half-pleading, half-commanding tones:

"Hold, sir, hold. I require your protection."

The man sprang to his feet, and stood for a moment staring in amazement at this unexpected apparition. Then he fell on his knees before her, his eyes fixed adoringly upon her eager face.

"Barbara," he whispered, "Barbara! You! You!"

It was the girl's turn to be astonished. She drew back a step, and regarded the speaker with a frown of bewilderment.

"Do you not know me, Barbara?" he whispered again. "You can't have forgotten me, Ralph Trevellyan."

"Ralph!" she cried in amazement. "Is it possible?" It was indeed difficult to recognise in this haggard figure the gay debonair youth she had known in former days, her brother's boon companion, and a favourite playmate of her childhood.

"Ralph Trevellyan!" she repeated again doubtfully.

Then glancing down quickly at the pistol still in his hand, she cried reproachfully, "Oh, Ralph!"

He understood her meaning, and flushed hotly.

"And why not, Barbara?" he questioned defiantly. "What else remained to do? I am sick of this life, and here in this cursed forest is neither food nor shelter. It had to be death one way or another, better thus than on the scaffold."

"But not now, Ralph," she pleaded; "surely not now."

He took her hand and kissed it.

"Not now, Barbara, if you have need of me."

"Oh! indeed I have great need," she answered quickly. "For I am a fugitive even as thou, a rebel tried and condemned, and but yesterday escaped from Taunton gaol."

His face gleamed with anger.

"What! Did they dare! The fiends! But tell me how it befell, Barbara."

"No, I will have your story first. Tell me---- But stay, I had forgot. You are worn and hungry. Come. I know where there is food in plenty. Come!"

So she led him back to the hollow, and on the way he told her his story. How he had been left for dead on the field of Sedgemoor, but was saved by some pitiful peasants, who hid him in their cottage and nursed him back to life. But a few days since, while his strength was still but half-restored, a raid was made upon his hiding-place, he having been betrayed, and he had but just escaped to the wood in safety. There he had lurked for three days, feeding upon berries and such wild fruits as he could find, until at last, his strength well-nigh spent, and his spirit hopeless, he had resolved to give up the struggle and end his life.

As he finished his story, to which the girl listened with eager sympathy, they reached the enclosure, and parting the bushes, Barbara led him proudly into the hollow.

"Here is our camp, Ralph, is it not a Paradise? And now sit, and I will fetch you food."

"But tell me, Barbara," he asked suddenly. "You are not alone here. Surely you cannot have wandered all night alone in this wilderness."

Now Barbara hesitated, wondering how best to explain the apparent inconsistency of her conduct in having declared herself in urgent need of his protection, when she was provided with a most capable protector already. And while she paused, choosing her words, Captain Protheroe himself suddenly appeared at the entrance and stopped in wonder, gazing questioningly at the intruder.

Then a strange thing happened. Before Barbara could explain matters to either of her companions, Ralph turned, and saw the cause of her sudden silence. He stared wildly at the captain for one moment, then springing to his feet, he drew his sword, and rushed full pace to throw himself upon the intruder.

Captain Protheroe was unarmed, and the attack was utterly unexpected, but he was a man of ever ready wit, quick to meet all turns and shifts of fortune, and was accordingly in no wise overthrown by the onslaught. He stepped back a pace, into the shelter of the bushes, and pulling down a large leafy branch, he entrenched himself behind it, as behind a shield, and peered cautiously through the twigs at his opponent.

As for Ralph, he stopped dead for a moment in absolute amazement at this manoeuvre, then with a new rush of anger at what he deemed the cowardice of the fellow, he flew fiercely to the attack, slashing aside the leaves, and thrusting through the branches in a fury of rage. But Captain Protheroe's spirits rose to the fight, and he on his part did good work with his branch, swinging it from side to side, warding off the blows of his opponent, and occasionally getting in a thrust on his own account with the leafy mass, at his enemy's face.

The twigs snapped, the branches cracked, the leaves flew round them in a wild shower at the sweeping strokes of Ralph's sword. Sure never before was such a mad confusion.

Barbara stood for some minutes transfixed with astonishment at the strange turn of events, then with a quick cry she rushed to Ralph's side, and seized his arm firmly with both hands.

"Patience, patience," she cried. "Ralph, this is my good friend, Captain Protheroe, through whose help I have escaped from prison."

The two men eyed one another angrily for a moment, then Captain Protheroe cautiously lowered his branches, and Ralph sheathed his sword.

"Your pardon, Barbara," muttered the latter; "I did not recognise the gentleman as one of your friends. I had thought from his dress----"

"Captain Protheroe was indeed an officer of the royal army. But he hath been imprisoned---- You have never told me wherefore you were imprisoned," she interrupted suddenly, turning to the captain.

He turned to her in amazement.

"Why, madame, do you not know?"

"I!" she cried. "What mean you? Is it possible you were condemned for the affair at Durford! Indeed I knew nought of it! I am sorry--I----"

He turned the subject quickly.

"Then this gentleman, madame----?" he queried doubtfully.

"This is Sir Ralph Trevellyan; an old, a very dear friend of Rupert's--and of mine. He was wounded at Sedgemoor, and is now a fugitive as we are. He hath agreed to join our company, and we will all three travel together."

Captain Protheroe bowed stiffly, and glanced jealously at the newcomer.

"I am sorry, madame," he muttered sulkily. "You do not consider my protection sufficient."

"Hoots!" exclaimed Barbara crossly. "Two are ever better than one."

"Possibly. I doubt not this gentleman is also of that opinion," he answered with a slight sneer.

But here Ralph broke in hotly.

"If this gentleman like not my company, Barbara, I will right willingly rid myself of his."

"Certainly not!" cried Barbara, thoroughly exasperated, fearful also lest, removed from her influence, Ralph might again attempt his life. "If Captain Protheroe like not my friends, he may e'en journey alone."

Captain Protheroe looked up in astonishment.

"Do you desire me to leave you, madame?" he demanded coldly.

"As you please. An you care to do so, of a certainty I would not prevent you," she answered angrily, but her voice faltered. Here was the opportunity she had told herself she desired, the opportunity to free him from her dependence. But now her pride wavered, and despite her angry words, she prayed he might not go.

But he also had pride, pride now stung by jealousy. Without a word he turned on his heel, and strode from the glade.

Barbara stared after his retreating figure in dismay, but she could not call him back. She turned fiercely upon Sir Ralph.

"And pray what right had you, Ralph, to quarrel with Captain Protheroe?" she cried in a fury.

"Tut! Barbara," he answered coaxingly. "We shall do better without him. I doubt not the fellow is but a spy."

"He is no spy," she answered, stamping her foot in her rage. "He is a most brave, a most chivalrous gentleman. And--and I would to Heaven he had not left me."

She turned angrily away from her astonished companion--and found herself face to face with the captain himself.

The gloom had vanished from his face, and he looked down at her with a smile in his eyes.

"I pray you pardon me, Mistress Barbara," he began; "I did not willingly play the eavesdropper. I returned to fetch my cloak. But now----" he paused, and looked down at her whimsically. "Now, may I stay?"

In vain Barbara endeavoured to preserve her anger, gazing back haughtily into his laughing eyes; she was too delighted to see him again, and presently her lips twitched, and the dimple appeared.

"You--you are very troublesome," she answered, turning away.

Being a wise man and well versed in the ways of women Captain Protheroe sought for no more definite expression of relenting, but seated himself cheerfully on a fallen tree, and awaited her pleasure.

Presently Barbara continued, as though nothing had occurred.

"Come, you two must be friends. Give Captain Protheroe your hand, Ralph, and crave pardon for your rough welcome."

She accompanied the words with a glance in the direction of the discomfited Ralph, and he dared not refuse, but he complied with the request in a somewhat sulky fashion.

"Believe me, sir," he said, with the slightest curl of his lips, "I deeply regret that in my eagerness to protect this lady, I did not observe that you have been--er--deprived of your sword."

Captain Protheroe flushed at the implied insult, but accepted the extended hand.

Barbara hastily continued:

"That is well," she said cheerfully, affecting to ignore the rising quarrel. "Now will we be all friends together. And now, Captain Protheroe, the result of your expedition?"

"I fear I have but little to tell. One patrol indeed passed on the road to the south, but for the rest the country looks quiet enough. Yet we can scarce hope to pass another day here in safety; if you are ready we should move on to-night."

"Whither, then?"

"Aye, that is the question. We--" then interrupting himself with a bitter laugh--"I had forgot, 'tis we no longer,--they, the King's troops, are guarding the coast from Watchet to Parret mouth, since so many have escaped thence; there is small hope to the north. We might turn south, and lie hid among the Blackdown Hills, yet there is little to be gained by that; 'twill be some months ere the country be quiet, and you cannot lie all that time in the open. My plan, an it meet your pleasure, is to strike eastward to-night, skirt Bridgewater, and so make for Wells. There lives in that city an old woman who was my foster-nurse. She's a faithful soul, and would do aught for me, I verily believe. I could bestow you safely enow with her, indeed 'tis like enough the three of us could lie hid there a day or so, until we hear of some means of escape to Holland. There you can rejoin your brother, and we can take service with Brunswick."

"But how to reach Wells?" queried Barbara.

"We must journey by dark, and lie hid in the day-time in whatsoever corner it pleases fate to lead us to. We must press on rapidly, and should be there in three marches at most. I confess to the risk, but know no better plan. What say you?"

"I know nought of the matter," answered Barbara somewhat helplessly. "Do what you think wisest."

"To Wells be it then. I know the disposition of our--the troops, and the search is like to be less stringent there than elsewhere."

"We will leave the matter in your hands," continued Barbara. "But I must go to Durford before we start for Holland, if you please."

"To Durford, madame! Impossible! 'Tis the one place where you would be in greatest danger. What in Heaven's name would you at Durford?"

"Why, marry, collect my gowns of course. Do you dream I would leave them behind for any trollop to flaunt her person in them? My French silk, and the blue taffeta, and--oh! my new gold brocade. I cannot go away and leave my new gold brocade. I must have it; 'tis a matter of absolute necessity."

"But it is impossible," he cried desperately.

"Yet I can't go to Holland in these tatters," she persisted in exasperation.

"Indeed, madame, I see not how the effect could be improved," he answered, smiling at her admiringly. "But an it be indeed a matter of absolute necessity, tho' it seemeth at present an utter impossibility, I will bear the matter in mind when I lay my plans."

"That is kind," answered Barbara, with an approving smile.

Then she turned to Ralph with a sudden exclamation of distress.

"Oh! you poor boy," she exclaimed, "I had forgotten you entirely; you must be famished. See, here is our store. Eat what you will, and then rest; you must be wearied out with fatigue."

There was a tenderness in her voice and actions as she hovered over her old playmate seeing to his wants, a tenderness that sounded bitterly in the ears of Captain Protheroe. It was after all only the 'mother' feeling, natural in all women towards one whom they instinctively know to be weaker than themselves, but it was capable of a very different interpretation, and small blame to her companions did they thus interpret it, the one with a quick gladness, the other with a sudden pang.

When Ralph's wants had been supplied, and he had at last stretched himself out to sleep, Barbara came slowly and seated herself by Captain Protheroe's side.

"Captain Protheroe," she began hesitatingly, "were you indeed imprisoned solely on account of what you did for Rupert?"

"Nay, madame," he assured her quickly; "that was but the pretext I was imprisoned on account of an old grudge."

"Yet had there not been that pretext," she began.

"They had invented another, madame."

"But none save I knew of it. How could they hear it?" she questioned wonderingly.

"That, Mistress Barbara, is what I have been wondering ever since my arrest."

She looked at him curiously.

"And did you ever, in the midst of your wondering, suspect me, Captain Protheroe?"

He dropped his eyes before her clear glance.

"I am ashamed to confess that I did."

"That was unjust," she exclaimed quickly. "Despite all testimony, I never believed that you had betrayed me."

"I betray you!" he cried indignantly. "Why, how could you dream it, madame?"

"And how should you then deem it possible in me?"

"Oh; that was different."

"I do not see it," she answered with a smile. "But you know now that I am no traitor?"

"My faith upon it, Mistress Barbara," he cried earnestly. "I knew it the instant I looked again upon your face."

"And yet----" she mused, "'tis passing strange. It would seem we have a mutual enemy. I would I knew who had betrayed us."

"And I," he answered grimly.

"You would be revenged?" she questioned curiously.

"There should be a reckoning, Mistress Barbara."

"You believed me a traitor when we were together in prison?"

"I deemed it possible. Consider, Mistress Barbara, I knew no other who could have----"

"And yet, believing that, you saved me?"

"And yet, I saved you," he answered, smiling.

"Was that then your revenge?"

"Revenge! On you! Ah! Mistress Barbara, that were indeed different. Is not my life yours to do with as you wish?"

"The forest is no place for compliment, sir," she rebuked. "This pure air puts such empty words to shame."

"I know it, madame," he answered quietly. "'Twas indeed for that reason I dared to speak the words, trusting that you would know them to be true."

She had no answer to his words. Her heart trembled with gladness, but she despised herself for the weakness. "His life was hers." Aye, but might not a man speak so, look so, a hundred times, and mean no more than empty courtesy? And in her heart she cursed this cruel art of compliment, the meaningless gallantry towards her sex which permits a man to stale his homage at every maiden's feet, and forbids a woman to place credence in aught a man may say, lest she shame herself by seeming to take that which was never offered.

For Barbara had met too many such light gallants, men who, in all innocence doubtless, yet with deep cruelty, juggle with maiden's hearts as lightly as they throw a main; and she had already learned to don her armour, and enchain her free heart in the heavy fetters of her pride.

So she answered him nothing, wotting not what to say. And he, fearing to displease her, spoke no further.

Silence hung about them, the heavy stillness of the noonday hour accentuated by the drowsy hum of insects.

Presently Captain Protheroe glanced up at the sun shining high above their heads, and looked across at Barbara with a smile.

"Noon, Mistress Barbara," he said in a meaning tone.

She understood instantly the drift of the allusion, and shuddered fearfully.

"Ah! we are not yet far enough from Taunton," she cried anxiously.

"On the contrary, we should rejoice that we are already so far. Tho' I suppose," he added with a sudden smile, "had we waited, in a few minutes from this hour I for one should have journeyed much further."

"Indeed we should be greatly thankful," continued Barbara seriously. "For here we are, free and"--glancing at the loveliness around her--"one would almost say in Paradise. Why only last night I bade you farewell, and----"

She stopped abruptly, their eyes met, and her face crimsoned with blushes; for as she spoke the words, she remembered, on a sudden, the manner of that farewell.

He understood the cause of her confusion and pitied it. With a sudden impulsive movement he leaned forward and laid his hand upon her knee.

"Nay, Mistress Barbara," he began hurriedly. "I beg of you not to be so distressed about so small an act of charity. The events of yesterday are as a bad dream; we will look upon all we said and did as the acts of delirium."

To his surprise Barbara sprang to her feet, her face crimson, her breast heaving with anger.

"Indeed, Captain Protheroe," she answered in the coldest tones, "you need have no fear I should otherwise have understood your words. The whole affair was but a jest."

She strode haughtily past him and disappeared into her bower.

Captain Protheroe looked after her with a long, low whistle of astonishment and dismay. Then he shook his head solemnly and drew out his pipe.

"The longer a man lives," he remarked to that trusty confidant, "the more surely he learns that the only safe method of dealing with women is to preserve an absolute silence. Thus only may he chance to escape offence, for they can interpret it as they will."

*CHAPTER XVIII*

Not until evening did Barbara emerge from her retirement. She found Sir Ralph seated by the spring, mightily refreshed with his sleep, but gazing somewhat gloomily at his surroundings.

He greeted her appearance, however, enthusiastically.

"Ah! Barbara, that is well," he cried joyously. "Methought you had vanished entirely. Come, sit here and talk. I have a thousand things to say to thee, now we are alone. This is like old times again, is it not?"

Barbara assented absently. She was wondering whither Captain Protheroe had vanished. She paid small heed to the look of admiration in her companion's eyes.

"You haven't forgotten the old days, have you, Barbara?" he questioned, with a suspicion of tenderness in his voice.

"Of course not," she answered gaily. "My memory is scarce so short. Why 'tis but five years since you were with us."

"And I have thought on you every day since we parted, Barbara," he continued softly.

Barbara started, there was no doubt as to the tenderness of the tone. She was on her guard.

"Indeed, a most profitless proceeding," she answered sharply.

There was a pause during which Ralph feasted his eyes upon his companion's face. Then he continued in a meditative voice.

"Do you remember, Barbara, how Rupert and I were wont to play we were knights tilting for our lady's favour? You were ever my mistress then."

"You had no choice," she answered laughing. "Rupert took all others unto himself."

"Yet had you still been mine, Barbara, were there a thousand others, you alone. I wore your favour, and vowed to serve thee all my days. You have not forgotten that, Barbara? The day I took my vow?"

"Alack-a-day," murmured Barbara to herself. "Here now is Ralph gone crazy. Ah, me! what shall I do? And 'tis five years since we met. Can a man indeed remain so faithful?"

She looked at him doubtfully, but the look in his eyes left no room for doubt. Then she grew angry at the folly and the wilfulness of man, who seeks ever for love where it may not be found. Yet her anger was slight, seeing no woman is ever angry at love, however unsought, and she pitied him and liked him the more for his love.

So she answered lightly, striving to drive him from his course.

"We played many games in those days, Ralph, I cannot mind them all."

But he leaned across and laid his hand upon hers. "'Twas not merely a game to me, Barbara, surely you know that? You knew that when we parted, Barbara."

Then springing to his feet, he burst out eagerly: "Oh! Barbara, I swear I have thought on you each day these five long years. And now to find you again! You were lovely as a child, and I loved you. You are ten times more lovely now; why may I not love you still? And loving you, why may I not tell you so, as in the old days."

"Because--because--Oh! 'tis folly. We were but children then, and----"

"Then let us be children again, Bab," he answered softly. "See, the forest has brought us together again, and----"

But Barbara sprang to her feet, too angry with herself and shamed for having conjured up, in former days, this love which she could not still, and womanlike, angry with him for persisting in a love which pained her. For even the best of women look upon the heart of man as an unbreakable toy. They tread upon it unthinkingly.

"Indeed the forest has done nothing of the sort," she retorted angrily. "Do not be so foolish, Ralph, or I will talk with you no more. 'Tis unfair to tease me with matters that are past and done with."

He looked at her gravely.

"I am not foolish, Bab, and 'tis not past and done with yet," he answered stubbornly.

"Then, 'tis high time it was. Look you, Ralph, I am glad you are here, 'tis good to see you again, but an you pester me with such talk, I shall--I shall---- I won't have it, Ralph; 'tis unfair."

He looked at her doubtfully, not knowing what to make of her anger. Then he submitted with a quietness that surprised her. Yet he deemed his cause not hopeless, only unripe.

"I am sorry I angered you, Barbara," he answered quietly. "We will talk no more on the matter. Yet, perchance I seemed somewhat sudden. But I have always longed for you, Barbara, and when you came to me suddenly, in the wood, 'twas as tho' Paradise had opened to me again."

Barbara answered nothing. She had seated herself again by the stream and was now plucking the grass and dropping it bit by bit into the rippling water, pondering the while why love may not beget love, and blaming herself for her ungracious acceptance of a constancy of homage a woman should be proud to win.

Presently Ralph sat down again by her side, and eyeing her for a minute doubtfully, he began with some hesitation:

"Barbara!"

"Well?"

"Who is this fellow?"

"What fellow, pray?"

"Why, this Protheroe. Where did you meet with him, eh!"

"I--I knew him first at Durford. He was quartered there with some troops, and rendered us some courtesy."

"Hum! I like him not."

"'Tis a pity," she answered drily.

"No," he continued gravely; "and I like not that you should be wandering thus in his company. Why not send him away now, Barbara?"

"Certainly not."

"But wherefore not?" he urged.

"Because I do not choose," she answered tartly. "Besides 'twould be foul ingratitude. He saved me from prison."

"That is no reason why you should burden him with your protection now I am here. Indeed, Barbara, 'twere wiser to--to thank him, and leave him now."

"I will not. 'Twere most ungracious. And, prithee, how should we fare without him?"

"Well enow, I warrant. See here, Barbara, he may be honourable enow----"

"He is."

"Yes, but he is not one of us. He is but a soldier of fortune, and I like not that you should have to do with such an one. 'Twas vastly unseemly that you and he should be trapesing the country alone together, and I only hope no harm comes o't."

"And 'tis vastly impertinent of you, Ralph Trevellyan, to suppose that I cannot guard my honour and my own good name," she broke out hotly; for the suggestion in his words startled her, and stung her to the quick. "How dare you speak thus? Upon my word, Ralph, you may be an old friend, but, certes, you presume on the fact."

"Good Heavens! Barbara. What is the matter? I only suggested----"

"Then do not do so again. Captain Protheroe is a most honourable gentleman. 'Tis base of you to distrust him."

"Well! Don't be angry, Barbara," he pleaded quickly. "You know in Rupert's absence----"

"You put yourself in Rupert's place, eh? It suits you ill. Rupert hath both greater knowledge of me, and greater trust in me than thou hast, it would appear."

"Now, Barbara, dear---- _Damnation!_"

He dropped her hand and turned aside angrily, for a rustling of leaves and crackling of twigs announced the return of the third member of the party.

Barbara greeted him brightly; she was relieved at his return.

"Whither have you wandered, sir? You have been absent for hours."

"I have been fishing, madame; behold my success."

He crossed to her side, and with an air of deep pride laid before her three tiny trout.

"Is that all?" she asked doubtfully, fearing lest a smile might hurt his feelings.

"All!" he cried indignantly. "Why, what would you more? There is one apiece."

"Assuredly, but----" then she noted the twinkle in his eyes and burst into a merry laugh.

"Indeed, sir; you have kept your promise nobly. Yet I think we must thank the fates that we are not entirely dependent for our supper upon your skill."

"Ingratitude, thy name is woman! Here have I lain, arm deep in water, for three mortal hours, to catch these--er--tempting morsels, and all I meet with is contempt. Never again, Mistress Barbara."

"And have you not even the story of some monster who hath escaped you, to comfort your heart?" she queried solemnly. "I believe Rupert ever derived much solace from such illusions when he could produce no more substantial triumph."

"Alas, madame, I fear illusions are but little to my taste. But since you scorn my offerings, we had best make as good a meal as we can of the somewhat stale viands which remain to us, and then if you are rested, we ought to make a move."

So they supped, and bidding farewell to the hollow, presently set out on their tramp.

Their way led for some time through the wood, and when they finally emerged in the open country the night had already fallen.

But Captain Protheroe knew the country well, he led them unerringly through meadows and along lonely and deserted bye-lanes, never pausing to doubt his path.

They were, in truth, an ill-assorted party, these three, so strangely thrown together by Fortune, to tramp the night through. For the two men were divided by every difference of life, rank, opinion, and character; they were followers of different leaders, supporters of widely opposed causes, and but two months before they had been adversaries in one of the bloodiest battles of their time. And to this was yet added that fatal gulf twixt man and man, which even a lifelong friendship can scarce hope to bridge across--love for the same woman.

By all tokens they should have hated each other, and assuredly they did.

And Barbara? She had in hand a task which called for all the gentleness and tact of her nature. For with her lay the task of keeping these two at least in outward friendship, seeing from the one she could not, from the other she would not part. And yet, with neither, was her heart at ease. She could not rebuff Ralph, lest he in despair be again driven to desperate ends; moreover, the affection of a lifelong friendship, the gratitude for a constant love, above all, the loneliness of her position, forbade her be ungracious to one who loved so well. Yet even while she showed him kindness, her heart reproached her, knowing she was but leading him to hope for more. For 'tis ever so with women, their tenderness towards all misery leading them to be kind when they should be cruel, far more often than cruel when they should be kind.

'Twixt Captain Protheroe and herself, checking the free flow of her spirit, lay the ever-widening barrier of her pride. For when she discerned the tenderness in his voice, or worship in his eyes, while her heart leaped towards him in the sweet simplicity of her love, her pride cried to her to beware, telling her that it was nought but pity for her weakness. The words of Ralph had done their part, bringing, like the words of the serpent, evil to the breast of Eve. For an it were in truth so unseemly, this wandering with him alone which before had seemed to her so sweet, so natural, what then would men say of that embrace in the prison, given, indeed, in all simplicity, yet given unsought? Nay, but what mattered it what men said? what would he think? Would he think her light o' love? Her heart burned at the thought. So she mused ever, growing morbid in her weariness, with the strain of those last fearful days. So she mused, scorning him in a fierce defiance lest perchance he deem her simple, shrinking from him in a fierce shame, lest he deem her unashamed.

Thus her troubled thoughts strove within her brain, but to all outward seeming she was as before, gay, gracious, natural as a child.

Only in her terror lest she seem to ask for love, she devoted herself more and more to Sir Ralph, whose love was assured, chatting with him of days gone by, laughing over the remembrance of childish mischiefs.

And for a time Captain Protheroe submitted to be set aside, striding on ahead in gloomy silence, thinking on the journey of the previous night, and cursing the Fates for sending them this interloper to part their company.

But after a while his heart accused him of cowardice, thus to stand aside and leave to a mere foolish boy, so he deemed their guest, the winning of a treasure that he yearned to make his own.

Truly he had not over-many pleasant recollections to recall to her mind, yet one he had sweet to him, since the knowledge of it lay between their two hearts alone. So suddenly, as they walked, he fell back a pace or two, and in a pause turned to her with the question:

"Where learned you the art of fence, Mistress Barbara?"

She started and blushed. Then answered with a spice of mischief:

"My master is beside me. Ralph initiated me in the art, and hath even greater skill than I, but we cannot all be experts," with a saucy glance. "Of late years I have practised mostly with Rupert."

He saw the mischief in her face, but forgave it freely.

"Methought I recognised a trick or two of Jules Berin when we crossed blades. Has your brother studied with him?"

"No, but of his pupil. What know you of Jules Berin?" she asked quickly, a note of suspicion in her voice.

He laughed, and answered unheeding:

"Faith, I have been often to Paris, and we always have a bout together. For a soldier picks up many tricks in his wanderings, and, indeed, I have studied the art both in France, Italy, and the Low Countries. 'Tis one of the finest pleasures in the world"--he continued with enthusiasm--"to be pitted against a skilled adversary, straining every effort of wrist, eye and nerve."

There was a moment's silence. Then Barbara demanded quietly:

"Then where learned you the trick of disarming yourself, sir?"

He started.

"Madame?"

"Was it a trick or no? I had not deemed it so before, yet now I fear---- Confess, sir."

He laughed softly. "Alas, madame, you have entrapped me. I must confess to the trick. I learned it then, madame, when I learned many other matters 'twould scarce interest you to hear of."

Barbara sighed and smiled.

"See how we poor women may be deceived by our own vanity. For ever since our meeting I have deemed myself a most excellent swordswoman, and gloried in my skill."

"But so indeed you are," he protested eagerly. "And when we have the opportunity, I will teach you passes that perchance none save I and half a dozen others understand."

But here Barbara must turn again to Ralph, who was listening jealously to the conversation which he could in no wise comprehend. Skilfully she drew him on to talk, and presently the two men were engaged in a deep discussion of their favourite pastime, waxing for the nonce almost friendly over their eager comparison of rival styles of fence.

So they talked, merrily enough, well-nigh forgetting they were fugitives in fear of their lives. For brave hearts do not brood on distresses, but rather despise them, defying the oppressions of crabbed Fortune, and reaping gladness even from the sorrows she has sown.

They walked the night through, halting at times to rest, jet for the most part pushing on as rapidly as possible, that their wanderings might be the sooner ended. Many a time, when the night had grown old, and the silence of weariness had fallen upon them, did Captain Protheroe glance anxiously at the girl at his side, for he knew nothing of the powers of a woman, and doubted whether he were not pushing her strength too far. But she answered him ever with a bright smile and quickened pace, though her limbs ached and her body was heavy with fatigue. For she would in no wise endure to be a drag upon his purpose, and he, marvelling at her endurance, let her be. Yet he was very tender towards her, wrapping her in his cloak whenever they halted for a rest, fetching her fresh water to drink, doing all in his power to ease her journey; and all without question or explanation, but with a gentle, quiet courtesy that softened even her pride, and led her to submit to his ministrations with a sweet gladness.

Onward they journeyed, until with the first grey tinge of morning light they found themselves upon a wide moor, intersected by deep ditches, stretching wild and drear before them in the cold light of the dawning. Here and there on the wide expanse loomed dark and shadowy the outline of some village, the clustering houses pressing round the sheltering tower of the church. Here and there the light gleamed coldly on the dead waters of some still dank morass; it was a scene well suited to the corpse-like grey of dawn, a scene of utter desolation.

The two men glanced quickly at one another as the growing light revealed each minute more distinctly their surroundings.

Then with one accord they turned to Barbara.

She was gazing about her in astonishment.

"What place is this?" she questioned. "'Tis like a field of the dead."

"And so it is, Barbara," answered Ralph quietly. "This is Sedgemoor."

She shuddered fearfully.

"Truly a scene well fitted to the death of such a cause," she muttered. "One would call it the haunt of devils. Why did you bring me here?"

Captain Protheroe shrugged his shoulders. "It lay upon our way, madame, and I fear I thought no more on the matter. The world has many battlefields----"

"But none as this one--to us." Then she continued more brightly, "Whither go we, then?"

Captain Protheroe pointed across the plain to one oil the villages just emerging from the mist.

"Yonder is our destination, Mistress Barbara. 'Tis the village of Chedzey. In that village is an inn, an inn so atrocious that neither officer nor man of the royal troops would ever willingly put head inside the door. I lay there once, in ignorance, and had hoped never again to be so led astray. But times have changed, and it must be our refuge."

"But how? Surely the folk will suspect. Our dress----"

"I purpose to go there as an officer of the royal army, who hath made an important capture of two desperate rebels, yourself and Sir Ralph, to wit. The capture was made this morning before daybreak. I have sent my men on to Wells to fetch an escort; we remain all day at the inn, and at night, our escort not arriving, we set out to meet them on foot. What think you of the scheme?"

"'Tis a mighty lame story," muttered Sir Ralph scornfully.

"Zounds, man, then devise a better," was the angry retort. "What matter the story an we carry it off with a high hand? These rustics are simple enow, and they know better than to carp or question the words of an officer of the king. Besides, we cannot lie out here all day, and Mistress Barbara requires rest and food before she set off on another tramp."

"As you will then," answered Ralph somewhat sulkily, "But the danger is great."

"Of course the danger is great. What then? In a great game a man must play high if he stands in to win. What say you, madame?"

"That I fear you are a gambler, sir," she answered quickly, eager to dispel the quarrel. "But since there seems no alternative, why talk further? Let us to Chedzey and trust to fortune."

"We must needs wait a little space. 'Tis somewhat early hours for calling."

So they sat to rest, and watched the golden light sweep up the sky and shade softly into the pale rose of the sunrise.

Presently Barbara turned to Captain Protheroe.

"Tell me a little how the battle was ordered," she commanded.

"Faith, madame, that is no easy task," he laughed. "A man hath little time to note much of a fight save his own men and those immediately opposing him. And the greater part was fought in darkness, to boot. But--yonder at Chedzey lay our camp, the militia was at Middlezey and the cavalry with the general over there at Western Zeyland. 'Twas a night attack, you must know, and should have been a surprise, but the Duke's army, being stopped by the Bussex Rhine--yonder it lies."

"What! That little ditch to stop an army?"

"Aye! But 'twas flooded then, full twenty feet across. And they made such a to-do being held up by a strange river that our outposts discovered them and we soon turned out. We couldn't get across at them, but drew up our men on the far side of the ditch and fired across. We were twenty feet apart, mind you, but their fellows fired too high and there was small slaughter on our side the ditch. Later we bridged the Rhine and got fairly at them, and then our cavalry came round from Western Zeyland and then 'twas soon over. There was no doubt of victory from the beginning, and but for the darkness and some confusion at first the fight had not lasted so long. The peasants fought bravely enow, I confess,--I would I had the training of some of them,--but the attack was bungled. Nothing was provided for, their guides led them astray, their ammunition was lost, they had no competent leaders, and not knowing whether to advance or retire, they stood still and were cut down like grass. The leadership was a disgrace. Lord Grey and the cavalry ran away, at the first shot, and the Duke and most of his officers directly after."

"By Heavens, sir! I will endure no more."

Sir Ralph stood beside them, his hand clapped to his sword-hilt, his face crimson, his eyes blazing with fury.

"I will endure no more o' this!" he cried. "Is it not enough, sir, that you force yourself upon this lady's company, but you must needs poison her ears with lies concerning your damned victory, with dastardly slanders against myself and my friends? By Heaven, sir, but you shall answer for those words ere the world be a day older."

Captain Protheroe stared for a moment in amazement. Then he gave a quick exclamation of annoyance and embarrassment.

"Peste!" he muttered. "I had entirely forgotten you were o' the other party."

"Maybe, sir, but that is no excuse for your words."

The officer rose to his feet, looking annoyed and troubled.

"My words! I am sorry they offend you. Had I but remembered your presence I had not spoken so rashly, perchance. But--the words are spoken, and"--with a shrug, "i' faith, I cannot alter facts."

"Facts! The whole story is a dastardly lie."

"Sir!"

"And you shall give me satisfaction."

"With the greatest pleasure, sir, as soon as I can come by a sword. I shall enjoy nothing more."

Barbara gazed desperately from one angry man to the other, hesitating what best to do. Then she stepped between them with quiet dignity.

"Ralph! Captain Protheroe! Gentlemen! You forget yourselves, I think."

Captain Protheroe flushed and bowed stiffly. "Your pardon, madame," he said coldly.

Sir Ralph looked moodily at the girl.

The danger was not yet past.

"Captain Protheroe," she continued, with the same quiet air of command, "I have dropped my--my kerchief in yonder ditch, I think. Will you have the goodness to go in search of it."

He stared at the audacity of the request, for as Barbara had never approached the place she indicated, his search promised to be a somewhat fruitless one. But meeting her resolute glance he turned without a word, and strode down into the deep tangle of gorse and bracken that covered the bottom of that dried-up ditch.

Then Barbara turned to Ralph, and used all her arts to bring him to a more peaceable frame of mind.

"Indeed, Ralph," she urged, "'tis sheer folly to be so enraged; you could scarce be more so had you run away in good truth. He meant not to offend thee, I am sure on't. He spoke but what he knew. Doubtless all the royal side think thus of the fight."

"But 'tis a sheer lie to say we ran away at the first shot, or for that matter, ran away at all. A foul, dastardly lie."

"Oh, hush, Ralph. He speaks but as he has heard, and doubtless he believes it to be true. Anyhow, 'tis nought to fight about."

"You don't understand, Barbara," persisted the enraged man impatiently. "What should you know of a man's honour, and when it behooves him to fight for it? I tell you he must answer for his words."

"And I tell you you must not fight. Think, Ralph, suppose you killed each other, I should be alone."

There were tears of desperation in her eyes; he was moved to pity.

"There, there! Barbara, don't you be troubled," he said, patting her hand with an air of humouring kindness. "I promise you we will not fight yet, not at least till you are in safety. I doubt not 'twill need both our wits to get out of this pother. A quarrel does not stale with delay, we'll postpone it till more favourable date."

And with that Barbara was for the present content. She had staved off the fight; who could tell what the future might bring?

So they turned to seek Captain Protheroe, but he was not in sight, neither did he answer to their call. But hurrying to the edge of the fosse they peered down and saw him, on his knees, in a tangle of bracken, all his attention riveted upon a small packet which he held in his hands.

Barbara called to him eagerly.

"I have found my kerchief, 'tis needless to seek further. What have you there?"

Then he rose to his feet, and climbed up to her side. The two on the bank stared at him in amazement; his eyes blazed with a strange light, and his voice trembled with excitement.

"Mistress Barbara! Sir Ralph! What think you I have found? Nay, you would never dream it. 'Tis a miracle of wonder. 'Tis well-nigh inconceivable."

"But what is it? What mean you?" they cried in amaze.

His hand shook with eagerness as he held out his prize. 'Twas a small letter-case in green silk, richly embroidered in gold; a maze of scrolls, in the centre of which were the letters J. M. entwined beneath a coronet sewn with pearls. Barbara looked at it in doubt; what might be there to cause such desperate eagerness.

"J. M.," she questioned. "That is----"

"James, Duke of Monmouth, madame, who else? And were there a doubt, the contents dispel it."

"The contents?"

"Aye. I have already searched it. It contains five letters, so precious, madame, that it would seem he bore them ever about his person. How they came here is a mystery; he must have lost them in the hurry of his flight. 'Twas indeed irony of fate that he should lose them just in the time of need."

"But what are these letters?" interrupted Ralph impatiently.

"Three are from Lady--from a woman."

"You did not read them!" interposed Barbara quickly.

"Nay, madame, they are sacred. We will leave them to the grave Nature herself has prepared."

He tore them in pieces and scattered them slowly into the ditch. Then as the last scrap of paper settled into the shadow of the gorse, he muttered softly: