Chapter VI: Part 6

As she turned to go back into the kitchen, her foot caught in the slanting leg of a rough stool just inside the little room. It jerked on the stones. Marion stood still, her heart thumping so loudly that she felt that the men whose voices came dimly down the passage must be hearing its beat where they sat. Something moved overhead. In an agony of fear Marion waited. Should she get out of the kitchen at once before those steps came downstairs? Better anything than be caught indoors in this fashion. For close on a minute she stood, the throbbing pulse in her brow measuring out the seconds.

The sounds did not recur. She crept towards the fireplace. With her ears straining for any sound she plunged the knife into the glowing embers, and took her handkerchief to protect her hand from any heat which the handle might catch. Not until the blade was red did she allow herself to withdraw the knife.

Hastily she darted out at the open kitchen door. A second later she was in the harness room. At the doorway she turned and peeped up at the house. From the small window of an upper chamber came the gleam of candle light: the bedroom of the inn-keeper's wife, she guessed.

With the rapidly cooling knife in one hand Marion cast an experienced eye on the saddles, bridles and general gear hanging on the walls of the harness room. On a shelf above stood the only saddle whose bags were packed and buckled. Desperately she struggled with the first buckle. If the document proved to be in the second bag she knew she would have to go back and heat the knife afresh.

Tears of relief blinked in her eyes as she opened the bag and drew out a folded paper sealed with a large red seal. Now for the knife. Never before had she tried such an experiment. Was the knife hot enough? Gently she slid the blade under the wax. The seal came easily away. Bearing the letter to the half-open door she glanced hurriedly over its contents.

The letter was written in a bold, legal hand, and was easily read. It was inscribed, with many flourishes, to the Lord High Chancellor of the realm. Marion's eyes ran down the lines. She caught her breath painfully and went on.... 'The question being of one Roger Trevannion of the parish of Garth, Esquire. Whereas the prisoner now in the County gaol, Exeter, hath been found guilty of lending aid and sustenance to the King's enemies in that he did privily and treasonably forewarn one Richard Merrion Hooper of the parish ...' Marion looked farther down the page ... 'which crime should assuredly merit death; but inasmuch that the prisoner be a man of note, indeed a lord of the manor in his own parts, we lay the case before your Illustrious Highness in the hope that your well-known clemency may dictate terms of mercy.

'Given under our hand and seal....'

With hands that seemed turned to stone Marion folded the letter. Mechanically she pressed the knife to the under surface of the seal. The blade was almost cold. For a few moments she stood, her hand on the doorpost for support. An owl hooting in his soundless flight across the yard made her start and drop the knife. Her head swam as she stooped and picked it up. Without any further delay, her teeth on her white, trembling lip, she stole across the yard into the kitchen and thrust the blade once more into the glowing embers. Cold beads stood on her forehead. She knew she was fast losing control of herself. But the hideous task must be finished. It seemed an hour before the steel yielded to the heat. Mechanically she wrapped the handkerchief round the handle again. As she went out she heard a chair grate loudly on the floor in the dining-room beyond. The men were moving.

A minute later and the seal was pressed home and the letter replaced.

As she buckled the saddlebag a wave of faintness overcame her and she leaned against the wall. She struggled for breath. Then stepping to the door, a new thought seized her.

Why allow that document to go? There were sheets of paper in her box upstairs. Why not risk the enterprise still further, carry the letter upstairs and transfix the seal? Yonder logs in the kitchen would be hot an hour or more.

Her hand to her forehead, Marion strove desperately to summon judgment and reason to the aid of her distracted thoughts. But as she stood, round and round in her head, like a clanging bell, sounded the phrases she had read. She closed her eyes. Immediately before her vision came the words _Roger Trevannion of the parish of Garth, Esquire_.

She opened her eyes with a start. Yonder men had been moving in the dining-room when she left the kitchen. As she rallied herself, voices sounded in the still night across the fields. There came the distant, quick bark of a dog. The men were returning from the blacksmith's. She stood between two dangers of detection.

With every nerve tense, trembling from head to foot, Marion worked out the problem. If she destroyed the paper and the courier did not find out the substitution, the hand of the law might be stayed. She would gain time. On the other hand, the messenger evidently knew something of the nature of his mission. He would supply certain facts; and Jeffreys' wrath at being duped would immediately result in a swift condemnation.

The girl started and clutched the door as the quick bark sounded again, this time much nearer.

If she let the letter go there was a faint hope of pardon, in any case she would gain a few days--four perhaps--while the man was going to London and back. It was better so. The letter should go.

Just as the men opened the outer gate of the farm, Marion ran back across the kitchen and stood in the passage. The innkeeper, in the middle of the dining-room, his back to the girl, was yawning loudly. The courier was emptying his last glass. Like a ghost Marion stole past the door and up the stairs.

*CHAPTER XVI*

*EXETER*

Simone was waiting on the landing, and as her mistress crept into the room she noiselessly barred the door. Marion sank on the bed, breathing unevenly, her face showing the strain she had undergone. Simone held a glass of water to her lips. She drank eagerly, then buried her face in the coverlet.

Along the passage without went the heavy steps of the courier. Simone was seized with a sudden horror as she realised how near success had run to failure. Success? She looked at the bowed head. Gently she took up the trembling hands.

''Tis he,' came the broken whisper. 'He is in Exeter gaol--condemned. 'Twas to Jeffreys, yonder letter, saying that the prisoner, Roger Trevannion--' Marion's whisper became almost inaudible--'had been found guilty of lending aid and sustenance to the King's enemies and should rightly be hanged. But I can't remember the exact words--the Governor said that seeing the prisoner was a man of note ... he wondered if--if--' Marion's words stumbled, and Simone bent low. 'If,' finished the girl with a sudden burst of bitter, contemptuous anger, 'my lord Jeffreys' well-known clemency would not dictate another--another sentence. I can't remember the rest. Already I would that I could forget what I have remembered.'

The flame died away as Marion's voice sank into silence. The russet gold head drooped forward. For several minutes neither moved.

After a time Simone knelt down and gently examined her mistress's feet. The stockings were cut here and there, but the skin was unbroken. Presently she coaxed Marion to allow herself to be undressed. Marion got up and sat down mechanically as the deft hands did their work, and finally crept into the sweet, lavender-scented bed.

'Try to sleep, Mademoiselle,' said Simone, bending over the pillow to stroke the waving hair from the forehead. 'You will need all your strength.'

'Ay,' said Marion dully, 'all my strength and yours, and all my wits and yours. I have not time to sleep. I must think. There is one thing for which we cannot be sufficiently thankful: we are nearing Exeter. To-morrow night, with speed, should see us there, at the end of the journey, but,' she continued in a voice that matched her haggard face, 'at the beginning of a worse thing--a race with time. Get you to bed, Simone, and to-morrow----'

'Hist!' whispered the other, as a heavy stockinged tread sounded in the passage and the boards creaked outside the door, 'yonder comes our bodyguard. We had best be silent.'

Soon the steady snores came to their ears. The innkeeper moved about in a further room; then silence fell on the house.

Presently, Marion sat up in bed, her arms round her knees. Simone still crouched by her side.

'Have I ever said aught of my Aunt Keziah?' she whispered.

'No, Mademoiselle.'

'She lives in Exeter.'

Simone's face lighted up. Her hands clasped each other. 'Oh, Mademoiselle, what amazing good fortune!'

'Why? I had rather lodged at the New Inn. Being in my aunt's house I shall be obliged to tell her everything. But I dare not go to the inn; she would find out, it being almost next door to my aunt's house. It all depends whether she will be friend or foe.'

'Is Madame your aunt at all like Lady Fairfax?'

'In looks, yes.'

'A second Lady Fairfax had been an ally, Mademoiselle. But--but--Madame your aunt may have influential friends.'

A ghost of a smile flickered over Marion's face.

'Or enemies. She makes rare enemies, my Aunt Keziah. I have only been to the house once, when I was eight. 'Twas the first coach ride I had ever had. Then my aunt quarrelled with my father about my upbringing, and I never saw her again until this year when she came to Garth. I remember the house, in the High Street, near the East Gate.'

A question burned on Simone's lips. Presently Marion unconsciously answered it. 'I do not in the least know where--where the gaol is.'

For close on an hour the two whispered together, Marion finding a temporary relief in going over and over again the possibilities of the situation. Presently she fell silent, her face showing haggard in the candle-light.

'There's one thing,' she said at the last. 'Now something has got to be done. Only one more day in that hateful coach, sitting idle. I have thought and thought and thought; for four days I have sat thinking. There will be to-morrow for thinking again. Then----'

Presently, Marion lay quiet and Simone put out the candle and turned to her own little pallet bed. The moon swung clear above the sloping land, the silver beams creeping through the cracks of the shuttered window. Out in the lane rose suddenly the full-throated song of the nightingale, answering another across the valley. With a stifled moan Marion buried her face in the pillow.

Simone, undressing in the darkness, shed bitter tears, and for a long time she crouched by her chair, summoning remembrance of those two, one near and one distant, to a Presence where remembrance would be availing. The June night went up in beauty; the world lay bathed in an exceeding peace. But Marion tossed to and fro in the darkness, counting the minutes of each endless hour.

Just about sunset the following evening the coach wound down the valley and entered Exeter by the East Gate. Zacchary's reluctance to speed up the horses had been overborne, not so much by Marion's words as her looks. It dawned on the old man that his beloved mistress must be ailing. Tony the watchful confirmed his suspicions. If the mistress had an aunt in Exeter, said the Londoner, 'twas nothing short of a providence they should be so near to the town, for to his way of thinking the young lady was sickening for a fever. Zacchary said no more.

Mistress Keziah was sitting down to supper in the low, lattice-windowed room that looked out on the courtyard. Beyond the flagged stretch rose high, creeper-covered walls, in which the great oaken entrance doors were set. The house was a rambling, gabled building, with a garden at the rear, which was only kept in order because of Mistress Keziah's sense of duty to her forbears. Rarely she walked therein; only part of the large house was inhabited, Mistress Keziah loving to spend the greater part of her income on her visits to Bath, where she lived some months of each year in state and splendour.

The sound of horses and wheels, and the clang of the courtyard bell, roused in her a lively curiosity. Quickly she thought of the few folk in the neighbourhood who might pay her an evening visit in a coach drawn by at least four horses. When the footman opened the courtyard door and a tall young lady walked in, wearing a travelling cloak and hood which bore the unmistakable mark of a London tailor, Mistress Keziah was filled with amazement.

A minute later the footman entered the room and stood aside to allow the visitor to pass.

'Mistress Marion Penrock.'

'Marion! My child!'

The lady stepped forward with open arms. Any doubt Marion had as to her welcome was swept away in a close embrace.

'I can scarce believe my eyes,' said Mistress Keziah, holding her guest at arm's length for a survey.

'But you have grown, I declare! You look mighty different.'

The stern look Marion had remembered disappeared from the angular features. The old lady was secretly overjoyed that Marion had elected of her own free will to make a visit to her house. 'But why such a pale, worn face? How far have you come? Are you alone? Take the saddle of mutton back, Thomas, and keep it hot while my niece prepares for supper. Tell Mercian to see to the guest chamber. How many servants have you, my dear?'

'Three men and my waiting woman, Simone. I should like you to speak to Simone, Aunt Keziah,' said Marion dropping her voice. 'She is more companion than servant. Where are you, Simone?'

Simone stepped forward from the hall. Her faultless slow curtsey, the grave dignity with which she responded to the lady's greetings, pleased Mistress Keziah mightily. Just such a servant would she have chosen herself.

The two girls followed their hostess up the oaken stair, across the gallery and into her own room, where Simone hastily prepared her mistress for supper. The old lady would not allow a change of dress. She had already remarked on Marion's pallor. When she heard how far they had driven since daybreak, and the speed with which the party had come from London, she decided that food and rest were more necessary than fair raiment.

'_D'ailleurs_,' was Simone's inward comment, 'she wants to know all about it. But she has a store of kindness somewhere under a crust of something. How beautiful she must have been in her youth!'

Marion never quite knew how that seemingly interminable meal passed. In the presence of the servants she talked of London and her aunt, the queen's illness and visit to the Wells, trying meanwhile to eat a little of the food piled on her plate. But her aunt's shrewd eye was on her, 'Why has she come?' her unspoken question. She knew at once that the girl was under the spell of some unhappiness. When the servants withdrew, Mistress Keziah looked inquiringly at the pale face across the table, where the candlelight picked out the shadows under the eyes and the gold of the hair.

Marion responded to the look. 'Forgive me, Aunt Keziah, I can't talk to-night. My head aches so. Will you bear with my silence till to-morrow?'

'How she has changed!' mused the lady as she strove to soften the habitual rigour of her speech--about which she was quite conscious and in fact complacent--and set the girl at her ease. 'No longer a child. What is it? Has some gallant yonder bruised her simple, unprepared heart? Oh, that brother of mine, and his upbringing!' Thus, running back to her old grievance, Mistress Keziah's face hardened again. Then recollecting herself, she presently rose and took the girl to her room.

'I am very sorry, Aunt Keziah,' faltered Marion, as her aunt bid her good-night.

'So am I, if you are going to be poorly, my dear child, but for no other reason. Are you sure you will not take a dose of my herb tea?'

Marion made a slight grimace. 'I could never abide the idea of physicking. For that matter, I have never been ill, except for childish complaints.'

'Just like your father,' commented Mistress Keziah. 'But,' she added, 'don't be afraid of me. I am not an ogre.'

Marion smiled faintly. 'I was terrified of you at Garth, Aunt Keziah.'

'But you have seen a little of the world since then,' drily commented the lady. 'The same kind of fear should never recur. Good-night, my dear. Sleep well.'

But darkness brought no relief to Marion. With morning she was feverish, wild-eyed, more awake than ever. A new horror seized Simone when, in response to her mistress's call, she sprang up from a troubled sleep and drew the curtains wide. If the girl could not sleep, she would soon be really ill. And what then?

Presently Simone took her courage in both hands and, saying nothing to Marion, sought Mistress Keziah. The gaunt face in its frilled nightcap, and the many wrappings by which the lady imagined she warded off rheumatism, made in their way the most awe-inspiring sight Simone had yet encountered. But, as Marion said, Simone never made a mistake. After a few minutes' conversation, Mistress Keziah pulled the bell-rope at the head of her bed. 'I must get up,' she said.

'If Madame will pardon me,' ventured Simone, 'Mademoiselle is a little strained. This is to my knowledge two full nights that she has not slept. Since we left London, in fact, she has slept very little. And--Mademoiselle is accustomed to my nearness.'

'And you think I should frighten her?' grimly demanded the old woman. 'Well, well. The point is, she must sleep. And sleep well; whatever her trouble may be--'twill not be eased by a fever! You say she lies and stares and plucks at the sheets? I will cure her.'

Here the servant entered, and Mistress Keziah gave minute directions concerning a particular bundle of herbs in the still room. 'Brew it thrice the strength, Alison,' she concluded.

Presently Simone came to Marion's side with a steaming cup.

'If you care at all for the success of your journey, Mademoiselle, you will drink this.'

'I must get up,' said Marion wildly. 'Do you know yonder courier is now within a day of London? Another day, and he will be thinking of return; three more, and he will be here, in Exeter. Have you thought of it?'

'I have thought of everything, Mademoiselle. But you will be tossing in a fever, soon, and the week will go by none the less. Drink this.'

With her distracted gaze on Simone, Marion took the cup and drained it. Anxiously the French girl sat by the bed, watching and soothing the restless hands. She dared not think of the result should the potion prove to be ineffectual. But presently the weary, purple eyelids drooped, the strained lines on the pallid face relaxed. Marion sank into a heavy, motionless sleep.

*CHAPTER XVII*

*AN EAST WINDOW*

As the day wore on, Mistress Keziah came several times into the room, nodding with grim satisfaction as she noted the steady breathing, and the natural look on the sleeper's face. The afternoon sunlight was sloping through the trees when, after the hour's rest she always took in her chamber at this time, she again opened her niece's door. Simone rose quickly from her seat by the bed, and joined the lady where she stood.

'Is it well that my mistress should sleep on thus, Madame? She has scarcely stirred since you were here before!' Simone spoke in undisguised anxiety.

'Excellent! Excellent!' said Mistress Keziah. 'The potion was a secret of my grandmother's. I have never known it fail. The brew your mistress drank would make a strong man sleep for twelve hours. In her case, youth will assist in the fight. Once the clock turns, mark my words, she will sleep for another twelve hours, and will wake like a little child.'

Simone started. 'Another twelve hours! Oh! what shall I do?'

The words slipped from her before she quite realised their import, and as she met Mistress Keziah's look of amazement she changed colour.

'Well,' said Mistress Keziah, 'and why should she not sleep?'

Simone held a swift parley with herself as she stood with downcast eyes before the old woman who was so like, yet so unlike, her sister. With Lady Fairfax, Simone would have known at once what course to take.

'I am waiting,' said Mistress Keziah.

Simone looked up at her, her dark lashes heavy with tears; her lips trembled.

'You are yourself scarcely fit to be out of bed,' said Mistress Keziah. 'Come into my chamber a minute. Alison will stay here.'

'But,' faltered Simone, 'if Mademoiselle should wake?'

'When Mademoiselle does wake, she will be herself again. And Alison is a comely maid. I understand 'tis from my own face you would protect her.'

A smile broke over the angular features, and to Simone's amazement, Mistress Keziah passed her arm round her shoulders, and drew her across the gallery. The comely Alison, sitting at the needlework table, was sent to Marion's chamber. With her own hands Mistress Keziah poured out a glass of cordial and tendered it to Simone. She took a seat in a high-backed chair by the window, and beckoned Simone to a stool at her side. The girl's fingers trembled as she held the glass.

'You are in trouble,' said Mistress Keziah, a gentleness in her voice which Simone had not heard before, 'and so is my niece. A burden shared is a burden eased. Can you not tell me? I should not have asked for your confidence, but Mistress Marion said she would tell me to-day, and I gather there is a question of urgency. If you think 'twould be better for me to know to-day--if I could do anything---- Do not be afraid of me, _mon enfant_. I am an old woman and quite--quite harmless,' she finished with a smile that lay warmly on her wintry face.

Simone buried her face in her slim, fine hands. Then looking up, brushing away the tears, she spoke. 'I think I must tell you, Madame. I--I cannot bear it. I know Mademoiselle intended to tell you everything, and I will risk her displeasure in speaking myself.' She glanced towards the closed door, and dropped her voice. ''Tis thus----' she hesitated a moment, then made a sudden plunge. 'Master Roger Trevannion is here, a prisoner, in Exeter. He warned a friend--an old school friend, Madame--that he was in danger of arrest by Jeffreys' men. Master Roger was betrayed. The friend got away, but Master Roger was taken. A girl of the village wrote a letter to Kensington, warning Mademoiselle that she feared trouble was coming, before this happened. Then another letter to say Master Roger was arrested. On the journey here we learned that he is condemned to death, and there are but a few days of grace.'

Not a muscle stirred in Mistress Keziah's face as Simone went from sentence to sentence of her story. When the girl paused, she sat looking fixedly through the window for several minutes. Simone watching her, saw an expression of mingled sorrow and scorn settle on her features. Simone's heart sank. A sense of unutterable foreboding assailed her. Was the worst still to come--Mistress Keziah's enmity?

'You will see, Madame,' she presently ventured in trembling tones, stating the case for her dear lady as best she might, 'Mademoiselle felt she was the only one who might be able to help. Monsieur the Admiral she dared not appeal to. A magistrate has but to see the course of the law fulfilled. And Mademoiselle has a sore heart for her playmate. There is no one she can trust. Hence Mademoiselle has come herself. You knew Master Roger, Madame?'

Mistress Keziah looked hastily down at the girl. 'I have no blame for my niece,' she said abruptly. 'I was thinking of her father.' Simone remembered Marion's words: 'She quarrelled with my father on the question of my upbringing.'

For some time neither spoke. Then Simone ventured again: 'You knew Master Roger, Madame?'

The hard old face softened. Before Mistress Keziah's eyes was a vision of the tall youth of whom she had heard so much. He had never come to the house while she was at Garth; she had never spoken with him save once, when she was walking with the Admiral, and Roger had ridden by. In her heart of hearts the old lady had liked the boy, but she had chosen to lecture her brother on the foolishness of allowing Marion to have such a playmate: precisely the same word as Simone had used had come from the Admiral in describing the boy. And now the playmate was in the dark shadow, and Marion was heart-broken.

All Mistress Keziah's theories and denunciations fell away. The sense of romance which had been sleeping for a generation stirred, reminding her of other days, of her own youth, when some one else, just such another, had come her way and gone his way, banished by her pride. The storm that had sunk his vessel had made shipwreck of her own happiness, but no one had ever known. She saw the years of her life as they had gone by. Should such a fate be Marion's? She sighed. Simone, watching her face, saw the expression changing, and knew the day was won. She lifted the wrinkled hand to her lips. 'You will be kind to her, Madame? You will not be angry?' she implored. 'You are the only friend she--she has.'

Mistress Keziah brought herself back to the present. She smiled down at the wistful face, and Simone was comforted. Mistress Keziah fell into deep thought.

'Does Lady Fairfax know of this?'

'No, Madame. She is at Tunbridge with Her Majesty; there was not time for us to go or to send. Mademoiselle wrote to her, though, telling her why she had left London in such haste. She must have had the letter ere this.'

'Who betrayed him?' presently asked the old lady.

''Twas said by the fisher girl that a Mademoiselle----'

'Elise!' cried Mistress Keziah, and her hand smote the arm of her chair. 'I knew it! I knew it!'

Simone looked perplexed as Mistress Keziah got up.

'Go and lie down, Simone,' she said, her old brusque manner returning. 'I must think. Stay! Has any one any inkling of the reason of your mistress's visit to this house?'

'No one, Madame. The menservants think Mademoiselle is ailing, and would rest here a few days.'

'Excellent. You know, of course,' said Mistress Keziah, falling back into the whispering tones, 'that should this be noised abroad, the fate that overtook poor Master Roger will fall on your mistress.'

Simone shivered. 'No one knows, Madame, I assure you.'

'And on myself, and on you,' relentlessly pursued the lady. 'There is no mercy to temper justice in these days. Well, well, no need to say more on that.'

'Madame--just one thing--where--where is the prison?'

'Ah! I bethink me of another thing. How did you learn the lad was condemned?'

Simone hesitated, and her colour rose. But there was no retreat. In a few words she told of Marion's search in the courier's saddlebags, contriving to get into her short story a sense of the danger the girl had run. Mistress Keziah's eyes gleamed, but the bolt of wrath Simone dreaded did not fall.

'She is her father's daughter!' she said abruptly. 'As foolish as she is fearless. Tell me the exact words: was it Exeter gaol, or the Castle?'

'Gaol, Madame.'

Mistress Keziah leaned back in her chair. 'Ah!'

Simone waited.

'If you would just tell me, Madame?'

'From the most easterly chamber yonder, leaving the gallery and going along the far passage, into a room that is rarely entered, you will get a glimpse of the gaol and the yard. Now go. Go quietly. Do not arouse the servants' curiosity, and when you have satisfied your own, remember I told you to rest.'

Simone gave one hasty glance into Marion's room, then set out to explore. With the doors opening on to the gallery she was by this time familiar: Mistress Keziah's bedroom, dressing-room and sitting-room occupied one side, on the other came Marion's two rooms, another bedroom, another sitting-room. In the corner of the gallery were the double doors that led into the passage Mistress Keziah had mentioned.

With a hasty glance around that told her she was unobserved, Simone quietly slipped through the double doors. The unmistakable odour of tenantless rooms greeted her as she went along, glancing into the chambers she passed. The passage ran almost due east. On one hand the windows looked cheerlessly out on to stables and coach-houses, and the wall which divided the grounds from the road beyond. Behind the wall rose the slope of Castle Hill, with its grey stone walks and cluster of buildings at the summit. The rooms on the southern side were filled with the afternoon sun, and caught the green of the garden trees.

Simone entered the last room, paused, then looked back along the landing. Mistress Keziah had said that the end chamber faced the east: the single, half-shuttered window of this room looked north. Could there be another passage branching off?

She looked round the room again. Behind the door was a smaller one, looking like that of a closet. With difficulty Simone forced the door open, and saw in the dim light a narrow winding flight of steps. With her skirts tucked round her knees, Simone climbed the uneven dusty stair, and presently stood in a small dark chamber under the eaves. It was empty, dusty, foul from non-usage. Light streaming in through the crevices of a shutter outlined a single tiny window set low--the eastward wall. Gasping a little in the closeness of the air, Simone struggled with the rusty bolts, and presently shot back the shutters and opened the pane. It was not more than a foot wide and two feet deep.

As she knelt down and peered through, Simone could scarcely breathe for the quickness of her heart beats. Directly below her ran the length of the rambling garden, ending in thick, tall trees. A little to the left, Simone caught sight of a grim-looking building which needed no explaining. She leaned forward, putting her head through the little opening. The south and west parts of the gaol were clearly visible, being indeed not more than a hundred yards away, only separated from Mistress Keziah's garden by the cobbled road. A thick high wall ran close up to the south side, on the west and north widening to enclose a bare foul patch, strewn with refuse, on which the sun fell with baking heat: the gaol yard. A faint odour seemed to strike the girl's nostrils, and she shivered as she remembered the dark stories of prison life, of uncleanness and gaol fever which from time to time had come to her ears. She no longer wondered why Mistress Keziah lived in the west wing of her house.

Over several grated windows Simone looked, one by one, but could see no signs of the life of the interior. Then, realising there might be a guard-room down there, whose windows looked out on the yard, and whence to a curious observer she might be visible, she withdrew her head. Crouching on the worm-eaten boards, she found a position that enabled her, unseen from without, to watch the prison and the yard.

As Simone waited, wondering if the prisoners would come out, there was the sound of shuffling feet, and from the shadow at the end of the building a man came in sight, carbine on shoulder. He paced the length of the gaol, turned, and was again lost in the shade. Presently Simone saw him walking the length of the yard. Then the footsteps were silent awhile.

Simone crouched until her limbs were aching and she dared stay no longer, lest Alison should seek her in her own room. But no face or form rewarded her vigil; only the gaunt walls and mocking bars showed, hideously bare in the sunlight. Behind which of those narrow apertures was the condemned youth hidden?

Presently the girl rose, and cautiously crept back along the passage. She waited several minutes behind the double doors, and looked carefully along the gallery and into the hall below before she gained her own room. Then, bathing her face and hands, and removing all traces of dust from her dress, she went into Marion's chamber. Alison rose with a smile, and beckoned her past the sleeping figure to the farther door.

'My mistress has gone to make a visit,' she informed Simone. 'Have you rested well?'

'Very well, thank you.'

'The young mistress is sleeping bravely. Her'll be fresh as a daisy come the morning.'

With her usual gentle politeness, Simone thanked the girl for her services, and closed the door as she went across the gallery to the servants' stairs. Taking up her old position by the bed, Simone looked sorrowfully at the face on the pillow.

Marion was in the same position. Her breathing was that of a child; the strained lines had gone from her face. Simone could have cried aloud on the unkind kindness of fate in ordering her healing so. By the morrow there would be only two clear days left, the third should see the courier returned. As she thought of the gaol, with its impassable walls hiding the sinister, watching shadow, the stout-barred window niches, Simone felt sick at heart. Who could break through such barriers? Two frail girls and an old woman?

Sitting idle was intolerable. Simone stole into Mistress Keziah's empty room, and taking up the sheet Alison had been stitching, bore it back to Marion's chamber. For a couple of hours she sat thus, and it seemed, as each quarter chimed from the church beyond, that the next would be unbearable.

A kitchen-maid brought in her supper, with a message from Mistress Keziah that she would speak with Simone the next morning. So that was the end of another day.

The westering sunlight sloped across the hill, and the golden radiance fell on Simone's pale face as she sat before the generously piled dishes. She drank some milk, and ate a little bread and honey, afterwards resting motionless in a kind of mental and physical apathy. Presently she roused herself, and in unutterable weariness and despondency sought her own bed. For the first time she understood fully just what the strain of waiting had been to Marion. Rather than wait another day, Simone vowed, she would scale those prison walls herself. Her desperate fancy dwelt on the picture until, towards midnight, a restless sleep stole over her. She dreamed of horsemen innumerable bearing down towards her, each carrying a warrant of death. As they neared, the lane down which they rode--the same lane where the coach had foundered--broke into prison yards and opened again. All through her sleep the dream seemed to come and go, making a lifetime of its passing. At length, in a sudden access of horror, she saw that one of the riders charged into her room. She woke with a scream in the grey dawn, to find Marion standing by her bed, shaking her arm.

*CHAPTER XVIII*

*THE SIGNAL*

It was almost three o'clock. Marion and Simone, crouched by the window in the little room over the east landing, were watching for the prisoners to come out into the yard. Mistress Keziah had said that it was the custom for them to be given an hour's exercise at that time.

Marion, fully recovered, was strangely quiet. Her anger at the method of her aunt's cure had soon worn itself out. The knowledge that the prisoner was almost within hail absorbed all her thoughts, and she was secretly thankful to find that the day which had passed so idly had not only spared her the ordeal of an explanation to her aunt, but had brought great gain in the way of restored mental and physical strength. Forgetting all that lay behind, she now drove her whole energies forward in one channel.

The morning had passed in speculations indoors and a drive round the Castle and the town, during which the horses had, strangely enough, halted to rest near the gates of the gaol. While Mistress Keziah's coachman had exchanged friendly remarks on the health of the inmates with the sentry peering through the wicket, Marion's eyes had taken in the exact height of the prison wall, its character, its distance from the eastward bounds of her aunt's garden across the way.

'No need to stay here, Tom,' sharply called Mistress Keziah a minute later, and the coachman had driven on, remarking on the increasing ill-temper and contrariness of his mistress. Had she not called a halt just there? As if the horses needed resting, forsooth! Down the road that bordered the gaol the coach had gone, passing Mistress Keziah's own gate and thence into the town. Marion had thus a first-hand knowledge of the respective positions of the two buildings. During the drive in the streets she had remained silent. On the homeward way she turned to her aunt.

'Have you a long rope or cord in the house, Aunt Keziah?'

'Plenty, I should think, my dear. I will find out. The chief trouble, you know, is the servants' curiosity. Mercifully, yonder London men, Reuben and Tony, are completely turning the heads of the kitchen wenches. There is no fear of their having an idle hour to watch your movements. My greatest difficulty is Alison, who spends quite half her time above-stairs, and Josiah, who is her shadow when she descends.'

'Has she not a mother or a father, Madame?' inquired Simone.

Mistress Keziah made no reply. But afterwards when Alison was arranging her gown for dinner, Mistress Keziah said with her usual abruptness: 'You are looking pale, Alison. I think 'tis well you should take a rest. The day is fine. The walk will be pleasant. Get you to your home and stay there a week. Yonder Simone will manage my hair and gowns, I trow.' Then, when Alison's face had darkened in jealousy, the old lady had added indifferently, 'Unless, of course, you too are held by the company and amusement of the men in the kitchen.'

Alison tossed her head. The goad to her pride served its purpose. She said no more, but soon after dinner she set out on the five-mile walk to her father's farm, escorted by Josiah, who was carrying her small bundles and had been given a hint by his mistress that if he truly loved the comely Alison, here was a chance of prospering his suit.

The old lady sat for a long time thinking, alone in her room. The two girls, she knew, were at the little window, hoping for a sight of Roger. Mistress Keziah's face was stern and fixed. During the conversation of the morning she had judged it best to withhold two facts from the knowledge of her guests. The first was her discovery that her old friend the governor of the castle was still away in the north country, where he had gone to visit the governor of York. The deputy-governor was a man whom Mistress Keziah held in open dislike because of his truckling politics when Jeffreys was in the West. (As Marion had said, she made rare enemies.) There was therefore no chance of an appeal. She knew of no other quarter whence any influence could be brought to bear on the doings of Jeffreys' men.

Her first thought had been to seek the governor and pray for time; not knowing whether he was returned or not she had refrained from visiting the castle, but had sought the house of a friend overnight through whose rooms as in a living stream poured all the news of the county. Once the governor's compliance won, she had determined to send her fastest rider to Lady Fairfax in order to seek a royal pardon, if, indeed, her sister had not already taken that course.

With the discovery that the governor was away, the old lady's solitary hope had fallen. She could not think of any possible means by which, in less than three days, the fortress could be won. When it came to the moment, prison bars and walls were mightily inaccessible: it was only in Biblical days that the stones fell down.

On any other save a question of time she could have won the day. But Exeter was three days' ride--two in an extremity--from London. And while Royal Pardons were being sought, yonder courier, fresh from his audience with Jeffreys, was bringing back the word of doom. Of Jeffreys' clemency Mistress Keziah had not the slightest hope. She remembered too vividly that red Assize in Exeter. She also knew the deputy-governor well enough to surmise that 'twas not in hopes of mercy he had sent the courier, but rather to show in what faithful stewardship the affairs of Devon reposed. Roger Trevannion was no ordinary prisoner: a very long feather in the cap of justice.

The second item that she had sorrowfully withheld had also been learned in her friend's house. Admiral Penrock had been seen, two days previously, riding in his coach at a gallop, London bound. Another futile errand. She knew from Marion that her father had been much abroad in the far west on magisterial affairs. Evidently the news of Roger's arrest had at last reached him. He had posted off to London and would arrive in the presence of the Lord Chancellor, Mistress Keziah estimated, about a day after the courier had left for Exeter.

With these sad thoughts for company, Mistress Keziah had spent most of the night. Secretly convinced that the quest was hopeless, she had nevertheless humoured her niece to the utmost, taking her where she would, sending her servants out of the way so that no hint of Marion's strange doings should become common to the household. And now she sat, slowly gathering her strength for the ordeal of the day after to-morrow, when Marion, pale, sweet Marion, with her childhood's loyalty and unavowed, growing woman's-feelings would find herself beaten down, helpless, broken-hearted.

There was still a great store of fighting strength in the old woman, and when she pondered on the comings and goings, Marion and Simone here, her brother urging his horses to London, her sister--the more she thought the more she was sure--using every ounce of power and influence to obtain a Royal Pardon, and all one day--two days--too late, she knotted her thin hands together in fury at her own helplessness. When she thought of Marion, hot tears scorched her eyelids. When she thought of Roger, she buried her face in her hands and prayed. _In the hour of death, and in the Day of Judgement..._

Meanwhile Marion and Simone crouched by the window. There was just room inside the tiny casement for the two, unseen from without, to watch the door that led into the gaol yard, Marion to the front, Simone peering over her shoulder.

'What are you going to do, Mademoiselle?' queried Simone.

'I do not in the least know. But I have a feeling that when the hour comes I shall do something.'

Simone said nothing. The revelation of Marion's quiet strength was nothing new to her. She prepared herself to serve in whatever way might lie in her power. But Simone's eyes were shrewd, and she had read the expression in Mistress Keziah's face as she watched Marion's eyes counting the yards and feet outside the gaol. She knew that in her inmost heart Mistress Keziah had no hope. But she had said 'Yes, my dear,' her grim face unusually gentle, when Marion had asked for a rope; 'Yes, my dear,' when Marion had asked was there a well-ground file handy, and perhaps a ladder to be left carelessly in the garden: 'Yes, my dear.' Everything that Marion wanted in the way of properties and personal help would be hers until the hopeless game was played out. Simone saw it all very plainly.

What was going on behind that calm, pale face whose cheek, softly curving, was so near her own?

As Simone, sorely cramped, was moving her limbs, Marion suddenly cried, 'They come!' Simone craned forward. In the quiet afternoon rose a sound of shuffling feet and voices. Out into the sunshine lurched a number of men.

Marion caught her breath painfully as she looked at them. They were rough, ill-clad, foul-featured. There was evidently some quarrel among them, for they settled in a group, their voices rising. One held his fists clenched. But where? Ah! Marion's sudden movement told Simone who was yonder tall, broad-shouldered youth who strolled idly out to the yard. He leaned against the prison wall and looked up at the sky, across at the trees of Mistress Keziah's garden. In a flash Marion saw her opportunity. No other face was turned her way. She thrust her head out of the tiny window. The sunlight, falling over the eaves, made a halo of the shining, gold hair. Roger's eyes caught the glow. He started perceptibly. For a second he stared up; his eyes held hers. Then Marion withdrew, and Roger turned and walked away.

Marion's breath came and went. She sank back on the floor.

'He saw me!' she panted. 'Has any one noted his glance? Look, quickly.'

'No one has turned this way. He walks up and down. He does not glance up at all.'

'Let me come.' Marion crouched forward again, her trembling hand resting on Simone's. That sight of Roger, his face so pale, his eyes sunk under the brows, had almost unnerved her. Tears blinded her vision as she looked down at her old playmate pacing the prison yard. The last time she had seen him, he had been arguing with her, in his old masterful way, on the folly of her going to London; had made her promise to send to him should she need help. And now!

The sound of angry voices rose again in the quiet air. The prisoners were still quarrelling. Inside an eager ring a couple of men set on each other, watched on the one hand by Roger, idle, aloof, and on the other by the gaolers, greedy of bloodshed. While the fists were flying, Roger allowed himself one more glance at the little casement, taking in its position in a lingering sweeping look at the sky. A hoarse chuckle came from the shadow in the buttressed wall. 'Thinking of heaven already, my lad?'

Marion shuddered.

'Don't listen,' urged Simone. 'Don't look. Come away, Mademoiselle. He has seen you. You have gained your end.'

Marion shook her head. For a seemingly endless time the two crouched by the window, watching the fight in the gaol yard.

'His window must be visible from here,' presently said Marion. 'See there, just behind, where there is another cluster of chimneys close to the back of the building. There cannot be cells on that side.'

'Except dark cells,' assented Simone. 'And those would be for murderers. Ah! they are going in.'

The two were silent as the gaolers drove in their charges. Roger did not turn his head, much less venture a look.

'You watch the south side and I the west,' said Marion. 'He will wait for one second when the sentry is not looking, and will let us know. He must realise we are here to help.'

The minutes idled by. Neither stirred. Marion sick at heart, was beginning to think of condemned cells, when Simone gave a cry.

'I saw it! His hand for one second through the bars! There is the window, Mademoiselle, the third from the end, the south side.'

As she spoke both Marion and Simone uncurled themselves from their cramped position and sat side by side on the floor. Simone winced as her aching muscles asserted themselves, but she soon scrambled to her feet. 'We have been here for hours, Mademoiselle. I am still afraid of the curiosity of the servants.'

Unseen, the two regained the gallery. Marion sank in a chair by the window of her room, her brows knitted, deep in thought. Presently she raised her head...

'It is simple enough,' she whispered. 'He just needs a file and a rope. With two of those bars gone, and a rope, he could let himself down to the ground. That rough boundary wall he could easily climb. What can we do? Oh, what _can_ we do?'

'If we had any friends in the gaoler's house,' said Simone after a time, 'we might send in something--a pie, a dumpling with the file inside. But to arrange that takes a long time and much management. Still, if you think it worth while, Mademoiselle, I will disguise myself as a cook. I will seek the gaoler and--win his regard,' finished Simone.

'Then I should lose you both. No--such a plot--I had already thought of it in the coach on the way--as you said, needs a network of conspiracy. It would involve the kitchen here, and my aunt. It needs knowledge of the interior of the prison, of the particular kind of character of the gaoler. An ordinary gaoler would eat the pie himself. No, the risk that is run must be mine. Above all, my aunt must not suffer. It looks so simple,' Marion added desperately, 'just to get that file and rope into his cell.'

'That is the trouble with most prisons,' said Simone naively.

Marion did not hear her. Her head had fallen on her hand again. An hour passed by. The girl seemed to be turned to stone. Just as Simone, busy with her needle, was about to break the oppressive silence, Marion raised her head. There was a strange look in her face, as if she were greeting some one unknown at a distance.

'Don't speak to me,' she said. 'I think--I think I have found a way.' She drew a long breath. The wide grey eyes resting on Simone slowly came back to the measure of the room. 'Yes.' She rose. 'Get my cloak and hood, Simone. I must ask my aunt if we may walk down into the town.'

Marion had barely finished her sentence before Mistress Keziah herself opened the door. She heard in silence Marion's request.

'Had you not better drive?' she said, after a minute's thought.

'I think not, Aunt Keziah. A person can go unnoticed where a coach cannot. And there is not time to explain just now. Do not, I pray you, Aunt Keziah, deny me this hour's liberty.'

'My dear child,' said the old woman, her voice breaking, 'I have but one wish, and that is to help you.'

Marion looked at the speaker. In her hardly suppressed eagerness and excitement, her hands on her cloak, she had scarcely noted her. Now she saw traces of tears. Her arms went suddenly round her aunt's neck in a mute embrace. Then she withdrew herself with a gesture Simone understood. There was no time for weeping.

Mistress Keziah sat down. 'Listen. I can't let you go alone. You must take old Zacchary. He is the most to be trusted, the least inclined to chatter. Ring the bell, Simone--better still, go down and fetch him: say I wish to speak to him.'

'I did want to keep Zacchary out of the way of any possible suspicion, now or later, Aunt Keziah. He is an old man.'

'We are all either old or young,' remarked Mistress Keziah drily.

As Marion tied on her hood Zacchary appeared at the door. His wrinkled face lighted up at the sight of his 'little maid.'

'Come here, Zacchary,' said Mistress Keziah.

The old groom stepped awkwardly forward. He was always at a loss what to do with his feet, save in the stable yard or on the box. His fingers tugged at his hair.

'Mistress Marion and Simone wish to take a walk in the town, Zacchary. You are to follow them close behind. If they enter any house or shop, wait.'

Zacchary nodded.

'There is no need to say anything in the kitchen, Zacchary,' said Marion.

Zacchary pulled his hat from under his arm.

'Her told me' (with a look at Simone), ''twas to go down along. There hain't no call to go to the kitchen. Here a be.'

'You understand, Zacchary, that should you at any time be questioned as to the doings of your mistress while in Exeter, you know nothing.'

'A don't be knowing in any case, Mistress.'

'Continue not to know. Otherwise there will be danger for Mistress Marion.'