"By God, sir, you are a daring rogue!" cried Albemarle.

Sir Rowland's eyes blazed. "Anon, Your Grace, when, having failed of your proofs, you shall be constrained to restore me to liberty, I shall ask Your Grace to unsay that word."

Albemarle stared, confounded, and in that moment the door opened, and Trenchard sauntered in, cane in hand, his hat under his arm, a wicked smile on his wizened face.

Leaving Blake's veiled threat unanswered, the Duke turned to the old rake. "These rogues," said he, pointing to the prisoners, "demand proofs ere they will admit the truth of the impeachment."

"Those proofs," said Trenchard, "are already in Your Grace's hands."

"Aye, but they have asked to be confronted with their accuser."

Trenchard bowed. "Is it your wish, then, that I recite for them the counts on which I have based the accusation I laid before Your Grace?"

"If you will condescend so far," said Albemarle.

"Blister me...!" roared Blake, when the Duke interrupted him.

"By God, sir!" he cried, "I'll have no such disrespectful language here. You'll observe the decency of speech and forbear from profanities, you damned rogue, or by God! I'll commit you forthwith."

"I will endeavour," said Blake, with a sarcasm lost on Albemarle, "to follow Your Grace's lofty example."

"You will do well, sir," said the Duke, and was shocked that Trenchard should laugh at such a moment.

"I was about to protest, sir," said Blake, "that it is monstrous I should be accused by Mr. Trenchard. He has but the slightest acquaintance with me."

Trenchard bowed to him across the chamber. "Admitted, sir," said he. "What should I be doing in bad company?" An answer this that set Albemarle bawling with laughter. Trenchard turned to the Duke. "I will begin, an it please Your Grace, with the expressions used last night in my presence at the Bell Inn at Bridgwater by Mr. Richard Westmacott, and I will confine myself strictly to those matters on which my testimony can be corroborated by that of other witnesses."

Colonel Luttrell interrupted him to turn to Richard. "Do you recall those expressions, sir?" he asked him.

Richard winced under the question. Nevertheless, he braced himself to make the best defence he could. "I have not yet heard," said he, "what those expressions were; nor when I hear them must it follow that I recognize them as my own. I must admit to having taken more wine, perhaps, than... than..." Whilst he sought the expression that he needed Trenchard cut in with a laugh. "In vino veritas, gentlemen," and His Grace and Sir Edward nodded sagely; Luttrell preserved a stolid exterior. He seemed less prone than his colleagues to forejudging.

"Will you repeat the expressions used by Mr. Westmacott?" Sir Edward begged.

"I will repeat the one that, to my mind, matters most." Mr. Westmacott, getting to his feet and in a loud voice, exclaimed, "God save the Protestant Duke!"

"Do you admit it, sir?" thundered Albemarle, his eyes glowering upon Richard hesitated a moment, pale and trembling.

"You will waste breath in denying it," said Trenchard suavely, "for I have a drawer from the Bell Inn, and two gentlemen who overheard you waiting outside."

"I'faith, sir," cried Blake, "what treason was therein that? If he..."

"Silence!" thundered Albemarle. "Let Mr. Westmacott speak for himself."

Richard, inspired by the defence Blake had begun, took the same line of argument. "I admit that in the heat of wine I may have used such words," said he. "But I deny their intent to be treasonable. There are many men who drink to the prosperity of the late Kings's son..."

"Natural son, sir; natural son," Albemarle amended. "It is treason to speak of him otherwise."

"It will be a treason presently to draw breath," sneered Blake.

"If it be," said Trenchard, "it is a treason you'll not be long committing."

"Faith, you are right, Mr. Trenchard," said the Duke with a laugh. Indeed, he found Mr. Trenchard a most pleasant and facetious gentleman.

"Still," insisted Richard, endeavouring in spite of these irrelevancies to make good his point, "there be many men who drink daily to the prosperity of the late King's natural son."

"Aye, sir," answered Albemarle; "but not his prosperity in horrid plots against the life of our beloved sovereign."

"True, Your Grace; very true," purred Sir Edward. "It was not so I meant to toast him," cried Richard. Albemarle made an impatient gesture, and took up a sheet of paper. "How, then," he asked, "comes this letter—this letter which makes plain the treason upon which the Duke of Monmouth is embarked, just as it makes plain your participation in it—how comes this letter to be found in your possession?" And he waved the letter in the air.

Richard went the colour of ashes. He faltered a moment, then took refuge in the truth, for all that he knew beforehand that the truth was bound to ring more false than any lie he could invent.

"That letter was not addressed to me," he stammered.

Albemarle read the subscription, "To my good friend W., at Bridgwater." He looked up, a heavy sneer thrusting his heavy lip still further out. "What do you say to that? Does not 'W' stand for Westmacott?"

"It does not."

"Of course not," said Albemarle with heavy sarcasm. "It stands for Wilkins, or Williams, or...or... What-not."

"Indeed, I can bear witness that it does not," exclaimed Sir Rowland.

"Be silent, sir, I tell you!" bawled the Duke at him again. "You shall bear witness soon enough, I promise you. To whom, then," he resumed, turning again to Richard, "do you say that this letter was addressed?"

"To Mr. Wilding—Mr. Anthony Wilding," Richard answered.

"I would have Your Grace to observe," put in Trench ard quietly, "that Mr. Wilding, properly speaking, does not reside in Bridgwater."

"Tush!" cried Albemarle; "the rogue but mentions the first name with a 'W' that occurs to him. He's not even an ingenious liar. And how, sir," he asked Richard, "does it come to be in your possession, having been addressed, as you say, to Mr. Wilding?"

"Aye, sir," said Sir Edward, blinking his weak eyes. "Tell us that."

Richard hesitated again, and looked at Blake. Blake, who by now had come to realize that his friend's affairs were not mended by his interruptions, moodily shrugged his shoulders, scowling.

"Come, sir," said Colonel Luttrell, engagingly, "answer the question."

"Aye," roared Albemarle; "let your invention have free rein."

Again poor Richard sought refuge in the truth. "We—Sir Rowland here and I—had reason to suspect that he was awaiting such a letter."

"Tell us your reasons, sir, if we are to credit you," said the Duke, and it was plain he mocked the prisoner. It was, moreover, a request that staggered Richard. Still, he sought to find a reason that should sound plausible.

"We inferred it from certain remarks that Mr. Wilding let fall in our presence."

"Tell us the remarks, sir," the Duke insisted.

"Indeed, I do not call his precise words to mind, Your Grace. But they were such that we suspicioned him."

"And you would have me believe that hearing words which awoke in you such grave suspicions, you kept your suspicions and straightway forgot the words. You're but an indifferent liar."

Trenchard, who was standing by the long table, leaned forward now.

"It might be well, an it please Your Grace," said he, "to waive the point, and let us come to those matters which are of greater moment. Let him tell Your Grace how he came by the letter."

"Aye," said Albemarle. "We do but waste time. Tell us, then, how came the letter into your hands?"

"With Sir Rowland, here, I robbed the courier as he was riding from Taunton to Bridgwater."

Albemarle laughed, and Sir Edward smiled. "You robbed him, eh?" said His Grace. "Very well. But how did it happen that you knew he had the letter upon him, or was it that you were playing the hightobymen, and that in robbing him you hoped to find other matters?"

"Not so, sir," answered Richard. "I sought but the letter."

"And how knew you that he carried it? Did you learn that, too, from Mr. Wilding's indiscretion?"

"Your Grace has said it."

"'Slife! What an impudent rogue have we here!" cried the angry Duke, who conceived that Richard was purposely dealing in effrontery. "Mr. Trenchard, I do think we are wasting time. Be so good as to confound them both with the truth of this matter."

"That letter," said Trenchard, "was delivered to them at the Hare and Hounds, here at Taunton, by a gentleman who put up at the inn, and was there joined by Mr. Westmacott and Sir Rowland Blake. They opened the conversation with certain cant phrases very clearly intended as passwords. Thus: the prisoners said to the messenger, as they seated themselves at the table he occupied, 'You have the air, sir, of being from overseas,' to which the courier answered, 'Indeed, yes. I am from Holland. 'From the land of Orange,' says one of the prisoners. 'Aye, and other things,' replies the messenger. 'There is a fair wind blowing,' he adds; to which one of the prisoners, I believe it was Sir Rowland, makes answer, 'Mayit prosper the Protestant Duke and blow Popery to hell.' Thereupon the landlord caught some mention of a letter, but these plotters, perceiving that they were perhaps being overheard, sent him away to fetch them wine. A half-hour later the messenger took his leave, and the prisoners followed a very few minutes afterwards."

Albemarle turned to the prisoners. "You have heard Mr. Trenchard's story. How do you say—is it true or untrue?"

"You will waste breath in denying it," Trenchard took it again upon himself to admonish them. "For I have with me the landlord of the Hare and Hounds, who will corroborate, upon oath, what I have said."

"We do not deny it," put in Blake. "But we submit that the matter is susceptible to explanation."

"You can keep your explanations till your trial, then," snapped Albemarle. "I have heard more than enough to commit the pair of you to gaol."

"But, Your Grace," cried Sir Rowland, so fiercely that one of the tything-men set a restraining hand upon his shoulder, "I am ready to swear that what I did, and what my friend Mr. Westmacott did, was done in the interests of His Majesty. We were working to discover this plot."

"Which, no doubt," put in Trenchard slyly, "is the reason why, having got the letter, your friend Mr. Westmacott locked it in a desk, and you kept silence on the matter."

"You see," exclaimed Albemarle, "how your lies do but serve further to bind you in the toils. It is ever thus with traitors."

"I do think you are a damned traitor, Trenchard," began Blake; "a foul..."

But what more he would have said was checked by Albemarle, who thundered forth an order for their removal, and then, scarce were the words uttered than the door at the far end of the hall was opened, and through it came a sound of women's voices. Richard started, for one was the voice of Ruth.

An usher advanced. "May it please Your Grace, there are two ladies here beg that you will hear their evidence in the matter of Mr. Westmacott and Sir Rowland Blake."

Albemarle considered a moment. Trenchard stood very thoughtful.

"Indeed," said the Duke, at last, "I have heard as much as I need hear," and Sir Phelips nodded in token of concurrence.

Not so, however, Colonel Luttrell. "Still," said he, "in the interests of His Majesty, perhaps, we should be doing well to receive them."

Albemarle blew out his cheeks like a man wearied, and stared an instant at Luttrell. Then he shrugged his shoulders.

"Admit them, then," he commanded almost peevishly, and Ruth and Diana were ushered into the hall. Both were pale, but whilst Diana was fluttered with excitement, Ruth was calm and cool, and it was she who spoke in answer to the Duke's invitation. The burden of her speech was a clear, succinct recitation—in which she spared neither Wilding nor herself—of how the letter came to have remained in her hands and silence to have been preserved regarding it. Albemarle heard her very patiently.

"If what you say is true, mistress," said he, "and God forbid that I should be so ungallant as to throw doubt upon a lady's word, it certainly explains—although most strangely—how the letter was not brought to us at once by your brother and his friend Sir Rowland. You are prepared to swear that this letter was intended for Mr. Wilding?"

"I am prepared to swear it," she replied.

"This is very serious," said the Duke.

"Very serious," assented Sir Edward Phelips.

Albemarle, a little flustered, turned to his colleagues. "What do you say to this? Were it perhaps well to order Mr. Wilding's apprehension, and to have him brought hither?"

"It were to give yourselves useless trouble, gentlemen," said Trenchard, with so much assurance that it was plain Albemarle hesitated.

"Beware of Mr. Trenchard, Your Grace," cried Ruth. "He is Mr. Wilding's friend, and if there is a plot he is sure to be in it."

Albemarle, startled, looked at Trenchard. Had the accusation come from either of the men the Duke would have silenced him and abused him; but coming from a woman, and so comely a woman, it seemed to His Grace worthy at least of consideration. But nimble Mr. Trenchard was easily master of the situation.

"Which, of course," he answered, with fine sarcasm, "is the reason why I have been at work for the past four-and-twenty hours to lay proofs of this plot before Your Grace."

Albemarle was ashamed of his momentary hesitation.

"For the rest," said Trenchard, "it is perfectly true that I am Mr. Wilding's friend. But the lady is even more intimately connected with him. It happens that she is his wife."

"His... his wife!" gasped the Duke, whilst Phelips chuckled, and Colonel Luttrell's face grew dark.

Trenchard's wicked smile flickered upon his mobile features. "There are rumours current of court paid her by Sir Rowland, there. Who knows?" he questioned most suggestively, arching his brows and tightening his lips. "Wives are strange kittle-kattle, and husbands have been known before to grow inconvenient. Upon reflection, Your Grace will no doubt discern the precise degree of faith to attach to what this lady may tell you against Mr. Wilding."

"Oh!" exclaimed Ruth, her cheeks flaming crimson. "But this is monstrous!"

"Tis how I should myself describe it," answered Trenchard without shame.

Spurred to it thus, Ruth poured out the entire story of her marriage, and so clear and lucid was her statement that it threw upon the affair a flood of light, whilst so frank and truthful was her tone, her narrative hung so well together, that the Bench began to recover from the shock to its faith, and was again in danger of believing her. Trenchard saw this and trembled. To save Wilding for the Cause he had resorted to this desperate expedient of betraying that Cause. It must be observed, however, that he had not done so save under the conviction that betrayed it was bound to be, and that since that was inevitable the thing had better come from him—for Wilding's sake—than from Richard Westmacott. He had taken the bull by the horns in a most desperate fashion when he had determined to hoist Richard and Blake with their own petard, hoping that, after all, the harm would reach no further than the destruction of these two—a purely defensive measure. But now this girl threatened to wreck his scheme just as it was being safely steered to harbour. Suddenly he swung round, interrupting her.

"Lies, lies, lies!" he clamoured, and his interruption coming at such a time served to impress the Duke most unfavourably—as well it might.

"It is our wish to hear this lady out, Mr. Trenchard," the Duke reproved him.

But Mr. Trenchard was undismayed. Indeed, he had just discovered a hitherto neglected card, which should put an end to this dangerous game.

"I do abhor to hear Your Grace's patience thus abused," he exclaimed with some show of heat. "This lady makes a mock of you. If you'll allow me to ask two questions—or perhaps three—I'll promise finally to prick this bubble for you. Have I Your Grace's leave?"

"Well, well," said Albemarle. "Let us hear your questions." And his colleagues nodded.

Trenchard turned airily to Ruth. Behind her Diana sat—an attendant had fetched a chair for her—in fear and wonder at what she saw and heard, her eyes ever and anon straying to Sir Rowland's back, which was towards her.

"This letter, madam," said he, "for the possession of which you have accounted in so... so... picturesque a manner, was intended for and addressed to Mr. Wilding, you say. And you are prepared to swear to it?"

Ruth turned indignantly to the Bench. "Must I answer this man's questions?" she demanded.

"I think, perhaps, it were best you did," said the Duke, still showing her all deference.

She turned to Trenchard, her head high, her eyes full upon his wrinkled, cynical face. "I swear, then..." she began, but he—consummate actor that he was and versed in tricks that impress an audience—interrupted her, raising one of his gnarled, yellow hands.

"Nay, nay," said he. "I would not have perjury proved against you. I do not ask you to swear. It will be sufficient if you pronounce yourself prepared to swear."

She pouted her lip a trifle, her whole expression manifesting her contempt of him. "I am in no fear of perjuring myself," she answered fearlessly. "And I swear that the letter in question was addressed to Mr. Wilding."

"As you will," said Trenchard, and was careful not to ask her how she came by her knowledge. "The letter, no doubt, was in an outer wrapper, on which there would be a superscription—the name of the person to whom the letter was addressed?" he half questioned, and Luttrell, who saw the drift of the question, nodded gravely.

"No doubt," said Ruth.

"Now you will acknowledge, I am sure, madam, that such a wrapper would be a document of the greatest importance, as important, indeed, as the letter itself, since we could depend upon it finally to clear up this point on which we differ. You will admit so much, I think?"

"Why, yes," she answered, but her voice faltered a little, and her glance was not quite so fearless. She, too, saw at last the pit he had dug for her. He leaned forward, smiling quietly, his voice impressively subdued, and launched the bolt that was to annihilate the credibility of the story she had told.

"Can you, then, explain how it comes that that wrapper has been suppressed? Can you tell us how—the matter being as you state it—in very self-defence against the dangers of keeping such a letter, your brother did not also keep that wrapper?"

Her eyes fell away from his face, they turned to Albemarle, who sat scowling again, and from him they flickered unsteadily to Phelips and Luttrell, and lastly, to Richard, who, very white and with set teeth, stood listening to the working of his ruin.

"I... I do not know," she faltered at last.

"Ah!" said Trenchard, drawing a deep breath. He turned to the Bench. "Need I suggest what was the need—the urgent need—for suppressing that wrapper?" quoth he. "Need I say what name was inscribed upon it? I think not. Your Grace's keen insight, and yours, gentlemen, will determine what was probable."

Sir Rowland now stood forward, addressing Albemarle. "Will Your Grace permit me to offer my explanation of this?"

Albemarle banged the table. His patience was at an end, since he came now to believe—as Trenchard had earlier suggested—that he had been played upon by Ruth.

"Too many explanations have I heard already, sir," he answered. He turned to one of his secretaries. In his sudden access of choler he forgot his colleagues altogether. "The prisoners are committed for trial," said he harshly, and Trenchard breathed freely at last. But the next instant he caught his breath again, for a ringing voice was heard without demanding to see His Grace of Albemarle at once, and the voice was the voice of Anthony Wilding.



CHAPTER XI. THE MARPLOT

Mr. Wilding's appearance produced as many different emotions as there were individuals present. He made the company a sweeping bow on his admission by Albemarle's orders, a bow which was returned by a stare from one and all. Diana eyed him in amazement, Ruth in hope; Richard averted his glance from that of his brother-in-law, whilst Sir Rowland met it with a scowl of enmity—they had not come face to face since the occasion of that encounter in which Sir Rowland's self-love had been so rudely handled. Albemarle's face expressed a sort of satisfaction, which was reflected on the countenances of Phelips and Luttrell; whilst Trenchard never thought of attempting to dissemble his profound dismay. And this dismay was shared, though not in so deep a measure, by Wilding himself. Trenchard's presence gave him pause; for he had been far, indeed, from dreaming that his friend had a hand in this affair. At sight of him all was made clear to Mr. Wilding. At once he saw the role which Trenchard had assumed on this occasion, saw to the bottom of the motives that had inspired him to take the bull by the horns and level against Richard and Blake this accusation before they had leisure to level it against himself.

His quick wits having fathomed Trenchard's motive, Mr. Wilding was deeply touched by this proof of friendship, and for a second, as deeply nonplussed, at loss now how to discharge the task on which he came.

"You are very choicely come, Mr. Wilding," said Albemarle. "You will be able to resolve me certain doubts which have been set on foot by these traitors."

"That," said Mr. Wilding, "is the purpose for which I am here. News reached me of the arrest that had been made. May I beg that Your Grace will place me in possession of the facts that have so far transpired."

It was one of his secretaries who, at Albemarle's bidding, gave Wilding the information that he craved. He listened gravely; then, before Albemarle had time to question him on the score of the name that might have been upon the enfolding wrapper of the letter, he begged that he might confer apart a moment with Mr. Trenchard.

"But Mr. Wilding," said Colonel Luttrell, surprised not to hear the immediate denial of the imputation they had expected, "we should first like to hear..."

"By your leave, sirs," Wilding interrupted, "I should prefer that you ask me nothing until I have consulted with Mr. Trenchard." He saw Luttrell's frown, observed Sir Edward shift his wig to scratch his head in sheer perplexity, and caught the fore-shadowing of denial on the Duke's face. So, without giving any of them time to say him nay, he added quickly and very seriously, "I am begging this in the interests of justice. Your Grace has told me that some lingering doubt still haunts your mind upon the subject of this letter—the other charges can matter little, apart from that treasonable document. It lies within my power to resolve such doubts most clearly and finally. But I warn you, sirs, that not one word will I utter in this connection until I have had speech with Mr. Trenchard."

There was about his mien and voice a firmness that forewarned Albemarle that to insist would be worse than idle. A slight pause followed his words, and Luttrell leaned across to whisper in His Grace's ear; from the Duke's other side Sir Edward bent his head forward till it almost touched those of his companions. Blake watched, and was most foolishly impatient.

"Your Grace will never allow this!" he cried.

"Eh?" said Albemarle, scowling at him.

"If you allow those two villains to consort together we are all undone," the baronet protested, and ruined what chance there was of Albemarle's not consenting.

It was the one thing needed to determine Albemarle. Like the stubborn man he was, there was naught he detested so much as to have his course dictated to him. More than that, in Sir Rowland's anxiety that Wilding and Trenchard should not be allowed to confer apart, he smoked a fear on Sir Rowland's part, based upon the baronet's consciousness of his own guilt. He turned from him with a sneering smile, and without so much as consulting his associates he glanced at Wilding and waved his hand towards the door.

"Pray do as you suggest, Mr. Wilding," said he. "But I depend upon you not to tax our patience."

"I shall not keep Mr. Trenchard a moment longer than is necessary," said Wilding, giving no hint of the second meaning in his words.

He stepped to the door, opened it himself, and signed to Trenchard to pass out. The old player obeyed him readily, if in silence. An usher closed the door after them, and in silence they walked together to the end of the passage.

"Where is your horse, Nick?" quoth Wilding abruptly.

"What a plague do you mean, where is my horse?" flashed Trenchard. "What midsummer frenzy is this? Damn you for a marplot, Anthony! What a pox are you thinking of to thrust yourself in here at such a time?"

"I had no knowledge you were in the affair," said Wilding. "You should have told me." His manner was brisk to the point of dryness. "However, there is still time to get you out of it. Where is your horse?"

"Damn my horse!" answered Tren chard in a passion. "You have spoiled everything!"

"On the contrary," said Mr. Wilding tartly, "it seems you had done that very thoroughly before I arrived. Whilst I am touched by the regard for me which has misled you into turning the tables on Blake and Westmacott, yet I do blame you for this betrayal of the Cause."

"There was no help for it."

"Why, no; and that is why you should have left matters where they stood."

Trenchard stamped his foot; indeed, he almost danced in the excess of his vexation. "Left them where they stood!" he echoed. "Body o' me! Where are your wits? Left them where they stood! And at any moment you might have been taken unawares as a consequence of this accusation being lodged against you by Richard or by Blake. Then the Cause would have been betrayed, indeed."

"Not more so than it is now.

"Not less, at least," snapped the player. "You give me credit for no more wit than yourself. Do you think that I am the man to do things by halves? I have betrayed the plot to Albemarle; but do you imagine I have made no provision for what must follow?"

"Provision?" echoed Wilding, staring.

"Aye, provision. God lack! What do you suppose Albemarle will do?"

"Dispatch a messenger to Whitehall with the letter within an hour."

"You perceive it, do you? And where the plague do you think Nick Trenchard'll be what time that messenger rides?"

Mr. Wilding understood. "Aye, you may stare," sneered Trenchard. "A letter that has once been stolen may be stolen again. The courier must go by way of Walford. I had in my mind arranged the spot, close by the ford, where I should fall upon him, rob him of his dispatches, and take him—bound hand and foot if necessary—to Vallancey's, who lives close by; and there I'd leave him until word came that the Duke had landed."

"That the Duke had landed?" cried Wilding. "You talk as though the thing were imminent."

"And imminent it is. For aught we know he may be in England already."

Mr. Wilding laughed impatiently. "You must forever be building on these crack-brained rumours, Nick," said he.

"Rumours!" roared the other. "Rumours? Ha!" He checked his wild scorn, and proceeded in a different key. "I was forgetting. You do not know the Contents of that stolen letter."

Wilding started. Underlying his disbelief in the talk of the countryside, and even in the military measures which by the King's orders were being taken in the West, was an uneasy dread lest they should prove to be well founded, lest Argyle's operations in Scotland should be but the forerunner of a rash and premature invasion by Monmouth. He knew the Duke was surrounded by such reckless, foolhardy counsellors as Grey and Ferguson—and yet he could not think the Duke would ruin all by coming before he had definite word that his friends were ready. He looked at Trenchard now with anxious eyes.

"Have you seen the letter, Nick?" he asked, and almost dreaded the reply.

"Albemarle showed it me an hour ago," said Trenchard.

"And it contains?"

"The news we fear. It is in the Duke's own hand, and intimates that he will follow it in a few days—in a few days, man in person."

Mr. Wilding clenched teeth and hands. "God help us all, then!" he muttered grimly.

"Meanwhile," quoth Trenchard, bringing him back to the point, "there is this precious business here. I had as choice a plan as could have been devised, and it must have succeeded, had you not come blundering into it to mar it all at the last moment. That fat fool Albemarle had swallowed my impeachment like a draught of muscadine. Do you hear me?" he ended sharply, for Mr. Wilding stood bemused, his thoughts plainly wandering.

He let his hand fall upon Trenchard's shoulder. "No," said he, "I wasn't listening. No matter; for even had I known the full extent of your scheme I still must have interfered."

"For the sake of Mistress Westmacott's blue eyes, no doubt," sneered Trenchard. "Pah! Wherever there's a woman there's the loss of a man."

"For the sake of Mistress Wilding's blue eyes," his friend corrected him. "I'll allow no brother of hers to hang in my place."

"It will be interesting to see how you will rescue him."

"By telling the truth to Albemarle."

"He'll not believe it."

"I shall prove it," said Wilding quietly. Trenchard swung round upon him in mingled anger and alarm for him. "You shall not do it!" he snarled. "It is nothing short of treason to the Duke to get yourself laid by the heels at such a time as this."

"I hope to avoid it," answered Wilding confidently.

"Avoid it? How?" "Not by staying longer here in talk. That will ruin all. Away with you, Trenchard!"

"By my soul, no!" answered Trenchard. "I'll not leave you. If I have got you into this, I'll help to get you out again, or stay in it with you."

"Bethink you of Monmouth?" Wilding admonished him.

"Damn Monmouth!" was the vicious answer. "I am here, and here I stay."

"Get to horse, you fool, and ride to Walford as you proposed, there to ambush the messenger. The letter will go to Whitehall none the less in spite of what I shall tell Albemarle. If things go well with me, I shall join you at Vallancey's before long."

"Why, if that is your intention," said Trenchard, "I had better stay, and we can ride together. It will make it less uncertain for you."

"But less certain for you."

"The more reason why I should remain."

The door of the hall was suddenly flung open at the far end of the corridor, and Albemarle's booming voice, impatiently raised, reached them where they stood.

"In any case," added Trenchard, "it seems there is no help for it now."

Mr. Wilding shrugged his shoulders, but otherwise dissembled his vexation. Up the passage floated the constable's voice calling them.

Side by side they moved down, and side by side they stepped once more into the presence of Christopher Monk and his associates.

"Sirs, you have not been in haste," was the Duke's ill-humoured greeting.

"We have tarried a little that we might make an end the sooner," answered Trenchard dryly, and this was the first indication he gave Mr. Wilding of how naturally—like the inimitable actor that he was—he had slipped into his new role.

Albemarle waved the frivolous rejoinder aside. "Come, Mr. Wilding," said he, "let us hear what you may have to say. You are not, I take it, about to urge any reasons why these rogues should not be committed?"

"Indeed, Your Grace," said Wilding, "that is what I am about to urge."

Blake and Richard looked at him suddenly, and from him to Trenchard; but it was only Ruth whose eyes were shrewd enough to observe the altered demeanour of the latter. Her hopes rose, founded upon this oddly assorted pair. Already in anticipation she was stirred by gratitude towards Wilding, and it was in impatient and almost wondering awe that she waited for him to proceed.

"I take it, sir," he said, without waiting for Albemarle to express any of the fresh astonishment his countenance manifested, "that the accusation against these gentlemen rests entirely upon the letter which you have been led to believe was addressed to Mr. Westmacott."

The Duke scowled a moment before replying. "Why," said he, "if it could be shown—irrefutably shown—that the letter was not addressed to either of them, that would no doubt establish the truth of what they say—that they possessed themselves of the letter in the interests of His Majesty." He turned to Luttrell and Phelips, and they nodded their concurrence with his view of the matter. "But," he continued, "if you are proposing to prove any such thing, I think you will find it difficult."

Mr. Wilding drew a crumpled paper from his pocket. "When the courier whom they robbed, as they have correctly informed you," said he quietly, "suspected their design upon the contents of his wallet, he bethought him of removing the wrapper from the letter, so that in case the letter were seized by them it should prove nothing against any man in particular. He stuffed the wrapper into the lining of his hat, preserving it as a proof of his good faith against the time when he should bring the letter to its destination, or come to confess that it had been taken from him. That wrapper the courier brought to me, and I have it here. The evidence it will give should be more than sufficient to warrant your restoring these unjustly accused gentlemen their liberty."

"The courier took it to you?" echoed Albemarle, stupefaction in his glance. "But why to you?"

"Because," said Wilding, and with his left hand he placed the wrapper before Albemarle, whilst his right dropped again to his pocket, "the letter, as you may see, was addressed to me."

The quiet manner in which he made the announcement conveyed almost as great a shock as the announcement itself.

Albemarle took up the wrapper; Luttrell and Phelips craned forward to join him in his scrutiny of it. They compared the two, paper with paper, writing with writing. Then Monk flung one and the other down in front of him.

"What lies have I been hearing, then?" he demanded furiously of Trenchard. "'Slife I'll make an example of you. Arrest me that rogue—arrest them both," and he half rose from his seat, his trembling hand pointing to Wilding and Trenchard.

Two of the tything-men stirred to do his bidding, but in the same instant Albemarle found himself looking into the round nozzle of a pistol.

"If," said Mr. Wilding, "a finger is laid upon Mr. Trenchard or me I shall have the extreme mortification of being compelled to shoot Your Grace."

His pleasantly modulated voice was as deliberate and calm as if he were offering the Bench a pinch of snuff. Albemarle's dark visage crimsoned; his eyes became at once wicked and afraid. Sir Edward's cheeks turned pale, his glance grew startled. Luttrell alone, vigilant and dangerous, preserved his calm. But the situation baffled even him.

Behind the two friends the tything-men had come to a terror-stricken halt. Diana had risen from her chair in the excitement of the moment and had drawn close to Ruth, who looked on with parted lips and bosom that rose and fell. Even Blake could not stifle his admiration of Mr. Wilding's coolness and address. Richard, on the other hand, was concerned only with thoughts for himself, wondering how it would fare with him if Wilding and Trenchard succeeded in getting away.

"Nick," said Mr. Wilding, "will you desire those catchpolls behind us to stand aside? If Your Grace raises your voice to call for help, if, indeed, any measures are taken calculated to lead to our capture, I can promise Your Grace—notwithstanding my profound reluctance to use violence—that they will be the last measures you will take in life. Be good enough to open the door, Nick, and to see that the key is on the outside."

Trenchard, who was by way of enjoying himself now, stepped briskly down the hall to do as his friend bade him, with a wary eye on the tything-men. But never so much as a finger did they dare to lift. Mr. Wilding's calm was too deadly; they had seen a man in earnest before this, and they knew his appearance now. From the doorway Trenchard called Mr. Wilding.

"I must be going, Your Grace," said the latter very courteously, "but I shall not be so wanting in deference to His Majesty's august representatives as to turn my back upon you." Saying which, he walked backwards, holding his pistol level, until he had reached Trenchard and the door. There he paused and made them a deep bow, his manner the more mocking in that there was no tinge of mockery perceptible. "Your very obedient servant," said he, and stepped outside. Trenchard turned the key, withdrew it from the lock, and, standing on tiptoe, thrust it upon the ledge of the lintel.

Instantly a clamour arose within the chamber. But the two friends never stayed to listen. Down the passage they sped at the double, and out into the courtyard. Here Ruth's groom, mounted himself, was walking his mistress's and Diana's horses up and down whilst he waited; yonder one of Sir Edward's stable-boys was holding Mr. Wilding's roan. Two or three men of the Somerset militia, in their red and yellow liveries, lounged by the gates, and turned uninterested eyes upon these newcomers.

Wilding approached his wife's groom. "Get down," he said, "I need your horse—on the King's business. Get down, I say," he added impatiently, upon noting the fellow's stare, and, seizing his leg, he helped him to dismount by almost dragging him from the saddle. "Up with you, Nick," said he, and Nick very promptly mounted. "Your mistress will be here presently," Wilding told the groom, and, turning on his heel, strode to his own mare. A moment later Trenchard and he vanished through the gateway with a tremendous clatter, just as the Lord-Lieutenant, Colonel Luttrell, Sir Edward Phelips, the constable, the tything-men, Sir Rowland, Richard, and the ladies made their appearance.

Ruth pushed her way quickly to the front. She feared lest her horse and her cousin's being at hand might be used for the pursuit; so urging Diana to do the same, she snatched her reins from the hands of the dumbfounded groom and leapt nimbly to the saddle.

"After them!" roared Albemarle, and the constable with two of his men made a dash for the gateway to raise the hue and cry, whilst the militiamen watched them in stupid, inactive wonder. "Damnation, mistress!" thundered the Duke in ever-increasing passion, "hold your nag! Hold your nag, woman!" For Ruth's horse had become unmanageable, and was caracoling about the yard between the men and the gateway in such a manner that they dared not attempt to win past her.

"You have scared him with your bellowing," she panted, tugging at the bridle, and all but backed into the constable who had been endeavouring to get round behind her. The beast continued its wild prancing, and the Duke abated nothing in his furious profanity, until suddenly the groom, having relinquished to Diana the reins of the other horse, sprang to Ruth's assistance and caught her bridle in a firm grasp which brought the animal to a standstill.

"You fool!" she hissed at him, and half raised her whip to strike, but checked on the impulse, bethinking her in time that, after all, what the poor lad had done he had done thinking her distressed.

The constable and a couple of his fellows won through; others were rousing the stable and getting to horse, and in the courtyard all was bustle and commotion. Meanwhile, however, Mr. Wilding and Trenchard had made the most of their start, and were thundering through the town.



CHAPTER XII. AT THE FORD

As Mr. Wilding and Nick Trenchard rode hell-to-leather through Taunton streets they never noticed a horseman at the door of the Red Lion Inn. But the horseman noticed them. He looked up at the sound of their wild approach, started upon recognizing them, and turned in his saddle as they swept past him to call upon them excitedly to stop.

"Hi!" he shouted. "Nick Trenchard! Hi! Wilding!" Then, seeing that they either did not hear or did not heed him, he loosed a volley of oaths, wheeled his horse about, drove home the spurs, and started in pursuit. Out of the town he followed them and along the road towards Walford, shouting and clamouring at first, afterwards in a grim and angry silence.

Now, despite their natural anxiety for their own safety, Wilding and Trenchard had by no means abandoned their project of taking cover by the ford to await the messenger whom Albemarle and the others would no doubt be sending to Whitehall; and this mad fellow thundering after them seemed in a fair way to mar their plan. As they reluctantly passed the spot they had marked out for their ambush, splashed through the ford and breasted the rising ground beyond, they took counsel. They determined to stand and meet this rash pursuer. Trenchard calmly opined that if necessary they must shoot him; he was, I fear, a bloody-minded fellow at bottom, although, it is true he justified himself now by pointing out that this was no time to hesitate at trifles. Partly because they talked and partly because the gradient was steep and their horses needed breathing, they slackened rein, and the horseman behind them came tearing through the water of the ford and lessened the distance considerably in the next few minutes.

He bethought him of using his lungs once more. "Hi, Wilding! Hold, damn you!"

"He curses you in a most intimate manner," quoth Trenchard.

Wilding reined in and turned in the saddle. "His voice has a familiar sound," said he. He shaded his eyes with his hand, and looked down the slope at the pursuer, who came on crouching low upon the withers of his goaded beast.

"Wait!" the fellow shouted. "I have news—news for you!"

"It's Vallancey!" cried Wilding suddenly. Trenchard too had drawn rein and was looking behind him. Instead of expressing relief at the discovery that this was not an enemy, he swore at the trouble to which they had so needlessly put themselves, and he was still at his vituperations when Vallancey came up with them, red in the face and very angry, cursing them roundly for the folly of their mad career, and for not having stopped when he bade them.

"It was no doubt discourteous," said Mr. Wilding "but we took you for some friend of the Lord-Lieutenant's."

"Are they after you?" quoth Vallancey, his face of a sudden very startled.

"Like enough," said Trenchard, "if they have found their horses yet."

"Forward, then," Vallancey urged them in excitement, and he picked up his reins again. "You shall hear my news as we ride."

"Not so," said Trenchard. "We have business here down yonder at the ford."

"Business? What business?"

They told him, and scarce had they got the words out than he cut in impatiently. "That's no matter now.

"Not yet, perhaps," said Mr. Wilding; "but it will be if that letter gets to Whitehall."

"Odso!" was the impatient retort, "there's other news travelling to Whitehall that will make small-beer of this—and belike it's well on its way there already."

"What news is that?" asked Trenchard. Vallancey told them. "The Duke has landed—he came ashore this morning at Lyme."

"The Duke?" quoth Mr. Wilding, whilst Trenchard merely stared. "What Duke?"

"What Duke! Lord, you weary me! What dukes be there? The Duke of Monmouth, man."

"Monmouth!" They uttered the name in a breath. "But is this really true?" asked Wilding. "Or is it but another rumour?"

"Remember the letter your friends intercepted," Trenchard bade him.

"I am not forgetting it," said Wilding.

"It's no rumour," Vallancey assured them. "I was at White Lackington three hours ago when the news came to George Speke, and I was riding to carry it to you, going by way of Taunton that I might drop word of it for our friends at the Red Lion."

Trenchard needed no further convincing; he looked accordingly dismayed. But Wilding found it still almost impossible—in spite of what already he had learnt—to credit this amazing news. It was hard to believe the Duke of Monmouth mad enough to spoil all by this sudden and unheralded precipitation.

"You heard the news at Whitp Lackington?" said he slowly. "Who carried it thither?"

"There were two messengers," answered Vallancey, with restrained impatience, "and they were Heywood Dare—who has been appointed paymaster to the Duke's forces—and Mr. Chamberlain."

Mr. Wilding was observed for once to change colour. He gripped Vallancey by the wrist. "You saw them?" he demanded, and his voice had a husky, unusual sound. "You saw them?"

"With these two eyes," answered Vallancey, "and I spoke with them."

It was true, then! There was no room for further doubt.

Wilding looked at Trenchard, who shrugged his shoulders and made a wry face. "I never thought but that we were working in the service of a hairbrain," said he contemptuously.

Vallancey proceeded to details. "Dare and Chamberlain," he informed them, "came off the Duke's own frigate at daybreak to-day. They were put ashore at Seatown, and they rode straight to Mr. Speke's with the news, returning afterwards to Lyme."

"What men has the Duke with him, did you learn?" asked Wilding.

"Not more than a hundred or so, from what Dare told us."

"A hundred! God help us all! And is England to be conquered with a hundred men? Oh, this is midsummer frenzy."

"He counts on all true Protestants to flock to his banner," put in Trenchard, and it was not plain whether he expressed a fact or sneered at one.

"Does he bring money and arms, at least?" asked Wilding.

"I did not ask," answered Vallancey. "But Dare told us that three vessels had come over, so that it is to be supposed he brings some manner of provision with him."

"It is to be hoped so, Vallancey; but hardly to be supposed," quoth Trenchard, and then he touched Wilding on the arm and pointed with his whip across the fields towards Taunton. A cloud of dust was rising from between tall hedges where ran the road. "I think it were wise to be moving. At least, this sudden landing of James Scott relieves my mind in the matter of that letter."

Wilding, having taken a look at the floating dust that announced the oncoming of their pursuers, was now lost in thought. Vallancey, who, beyond excitement at the news of which he was the bearer, seemed to have no opinion of his own as to the wisdom or folly of the Duke's sudden arrival, looked from one to the other of these two men whom he had known as the prime secret agents in the West, and waited Trenchard moved his horse a few paces nearer the hedge, whence he "Whither now, Anthony?" he asked suddenly.

"You may ask, indeed!" exclaimed Wilding, and his voice was as bitter as ever Trenchard had heard it. "'S heart! We are in it now! We had best make for Lyme—if only that we may attempt to persuade this crack-brained boy to ship back to Holland again, and ship ourselves with him."

"There's sense in you at last," grumbled Trenchard. "But I misdoubt me he'll turn back after having come so far. Have you any money?" he asked. He could be very practical at times.

"A guinea or two. But I can get money at Ilminster."

"And how do you propose to reach Ilminster with these gentlemen by way of cutting us off?"

"We'll double back as far as the cross-roads," said Wilding promptly, "and strike south over Swell Hill for Hatch. If we ride hard we can do it easily, and have little fear of being followed. They'll naturally take it we have made for Bridgwater."

They acted on the suggestion there and then, Vallancey going with them; for his task was now accomplished, and he was all eager to get to Lyme to kiss the hand of the Protestant Duke. They rode hard, as Wilding had said they must, and they reached the junction of the roads before their pursuers hove in sight. Here Wilding suddenly detained them again. The road ahead of them ran straight for almost a mile, so that if they took it now they were almost sure to be seen presently by the messengers. On their right a thickly grown coppice stretched from the road to the stream that babbled in the hollow. He gave it as his advice that they should lie hidden there until those who hunted them should have gone by. Obviously that was the only plan, and his companions instantly adopted it. They found a way through a gate into an adjacent field, and from this they gained the shelter of the trees. Trenchard, neglectful of his finery and oblivious of the ubiquitous brambles, left his horse in Vallancey's care and crept to the edge of the thicket that he might take a peep at the pursuers.

They came up very soon, six militiamen in lobster coats with yellow facings, and a sergeant, which was what Mr. Trenchard might have expected. There was, however, something else that Mr. Trenchard did not expect; something that afforded him considerable surprise. At the head of the party rode Sir Rowland Blake—obviously leading it—and with him was Richard Westmacott. Amongst them went a man in grey clothes, whom Mr. Trenchard rightly conjectured to be the messenger riding for Whitehall. He thought with a smile of what a handful he and Wilding would have had had they waited to rob that messenger of the incriminating letter that he bore. Then he checked his smile to consider again how Sir Rowland Blake came to head that party. He abandoned the problem, as the little troop swept unhesitatingly round to the left and went pounding along the road that led northwards to Bridgwater, clearly never doubting which way their quarry had sped.

As for Sir Rowland Blake's connection with this pursuit, the town gallant had by his earnestness not only convinced Colonel Luttrell of his loyalty and devotion to King James, but had actually gone so far as to beg that he might be allowed to prove that same loyalty by leading the soldiers to the capture of those self-confessed traitors, Mr. Wilding and Mr. Trenchard. From his knowledge of their haunts he was confident, he assured Colonel Luttrell, that he could be of service to the King in this matter. The fierce sincerity of his purpose shone through his words; Luttrell caught the accent of hate in Sir Rowland's tense voice, and, being a shrewd man, he saw that if Mr. Wilding was to be taken, an enemy would surely be the best pursuer to accomplish it. So he prevailed, and gave him the trust he sought, in Spite of Albemarle's expressed reluctance. And never did bloodhound set out more relentlessly purposeful upon a scent than did Sir Rowland follow now in what he believed to be the track of this man who stood between him and Ruth Westmacott. Until Ruth was widowed, Sir Rowland's hopes of her must lie fallow; and so it was with a zest that he flung himself into the task of widowing her.

As the party passed out of view round the angle of the white road, Trenchard made his way back to Wilding to tell him what he had seen and to lay before him, for his enucleation, the problem of Blake's being the leader of it. But Wilding thought little of Blake, and cared little of what he might be the leader.

"We'll stay here," said he, "until they have passed the crest of the hill."

This, Trenchard told him, was his own purpose; for to leave their concealment earlier would be to reveal themselves to any of the troopers who might happen to glance over his shoulder.

And so they waited some ten minutes or so, and then walked their horses slowly and carefully forward through the trees towards the road. Wilding was alongside and slightly ahead of Trenchard; Vallancey followed close upon their tails. Suddenly, as Wilding was about to put his mare at the low stone wall, Trenchard leaned forward and caught his bridle.

"Ss!" he hissed. "Horses!"

And now that they halted they heard the hoofbeats clear and close at hand; the crackling of undergrowth and the rustle of the leaves through which they had thrust their passage had deafened their ears to other sounds until this moment. They checked and waited where they stood, barely screened by the few boughs that still might intervene between them and the open, not daring to advance, and not daring to retreat lest their movements should draw attention to themselves. They remained absolutely still, scarcely breathing, their only hope being that if these who came should chance to be enemies they might ride on without looking to right or left. It was so slender a hope that Wilding looked to the priming of his pistols, whilst Trenchard, who had none, loosened his sword in its scabbard. Nearer came the riders.

"There are not more than three," whispered Trenchard, who had been listening intently, and Mr. Wilding nodded, but said nothing.

Another moment and the little party was abreast of those watchers; a dark brown riding-habit flashed into their line of vision, and a blue one laced with gold. At sight of the first Mr. Wilding's eyelids flickered; he had recognized it for Ruth's, with whom rode Diana, whilst some twenty paces or so behind came Jerry, the groom. They were returning to Bridgwater.

They came along, looking neither to right nor to left, as the three men had hoped they would, and they were all but past, when suddenly Wilding gave his roan a touch of the spur and bounded forward. Diana's horse swerved so that it nearly threw her. Ruth, slightly ahead, reined in at once; so, too, did the groom in the rear, and so violently in his sudden fear of highwaymen that he brought his horse on to its hind legs and had it prancing and rearing madly about the road, so that he was hard put to it to keep his seat.

Ruth looked round as Mr. Wilding's voice greeted her.

"Mistress Wilding," he called to her. "A moment, if I may detain you."

"You have eluded them!" she cried, entirely off her guard in her surprise at seeing him, and there echoed through her words a note of genuine gladness that almost disconcerted her husband for a moment. The next instant a crimson flush overspread her pale face, and her eyes were veiled from him, vexation in her heart at having betrayed the lively satisfaction it afforded her to see him safe when she feared him captured already or at least upon the point of capture.

She had admired him almost unconsciously for his daring at the town hall that day, when his strong calm had stood out in such sharp contrast to the fluster and excitement of the men about him; of them all, indeed, it had seemed to her in those stressful moments that he was the only man, and she was—although she did not realize it—in danger of being proud of him. Then again the thing he had done. He had come deliberately to thrust his head into the lion's maw that he might save her brother. It was possible that he had done it in answer to the entreaties which she had earlier feared she had poured into deaf ears; or it was possible that he had done it spurred by his sense of right and justice, which would not permit him to allow another to suffer in his stead—however much that other might be caught in the very toils that he had prepared for Mr. Wilding himself. Her admiration, then, was swelled by gratitude, and it was a compound of these that had urged her to hinder the tything-men from winning past her until he and Trenchard should have got well away.

Afterwards, when with Diana and her groom—on a horse which Sir Edward Phelips insisted upon lending them—she rode homeward from Taunton, there was Diana to keep alive the spark of kindness that glowed at last for Wilding in Ruth's breast. Miss Horton extolled his bravery, his chivalry, his nobility, and ended by expressing her envy of Ruth that she should have won such a man amongst men for her husband, and wondered what it might be that kept Ruth from claiming him for her own as was her right. Ruth had answered little, but she had ridden very thoughtful; there was that in the past she found it hard to forgive Wilding. And yet she would now have welcomed an opportunity of thanking him for what he had done, of expressing to him something of the respect he had won in her eyes by his act of selfdenunciation to save her brother. This chance, it seemed, was given her, for there he stood, with head bared before her; and already she thought no longer of seizing the chance, vexed as she was at having been surprised into a betrayal of feelings whose warmth she had until that moment scarce estimated.

In answer to her cry of "You have eluded them!" he waved a hand towards the rising ground and the road to Bridgwater.

"They passed that way but a few moments since," said he, "and by the rate at which they were travelling they should be nearing Newton by now. In their great haste to catch me they could not pause to look for me so close at hand," he added with a smile, "and for that I am thankful."

She sat her horse and answered nothing, which threw her cousin out of all patience with her. "Come, Jerry," Diana called to the groom. "We will walk our horses up the hill."

"You are very good, madam," said Mr. Wilding, and he bowed to the withers of his roan.

Ruth said nothing; expressed neither approval nor disapproval of Diana's withdrawal, and the latter, with a word of greeting to Wilding, went ahead followed by Jerry, who had regained control by now of the beast he bestrode. Wilding watched them until they turned the corner, then he walked his mare slowly forward until he was alongside Ruth.

"Before I go," said he, "there is something I should like to say." His dark eyes were sombre, his manner betrayed some hesitation.

The diffidence of his tone proved startling to her by virtue of its unusualness. What might it portend, she wondered, and sought with grave eyes to read his baffling countenance; and then a wild alarm swept into her and shook her spirit in its grip; there was something of which until this moment she had not thought—something connected with the fateful matter of that letter. It had stood as a barrier between them, her buckler, her sole defence against him. It had been to her what its sting is to the bee—a thing which if once used in self-defence is self-destructive. Not, indeed, that she had used it as her sting; it had been forced from her by the machinations of Trenchard; but used it had been, and was done with; she had it no longer that with it she might hold him in defiance, and it did not occur to her that he was no longer in case to invoke the law.

Her face grew stony, a dry glitter came to her blue eyes; she cast a glance over her shoulder at Diana and her servant. Wilding observed it and read what was passing in her mind; indeed, it was not to be mistaken, no more than what is passing in the mind of the recruit who looks behind him in the act of charging. His lips half smiled.

"Of what are you afraid?" he asked her.

"I am not afraid," she answered in husky accents that belied her.

Perhaps to reassure her, perhaps because he thought of his companions lurking in the thicket and cared not to have them for his audience, he suggested they should go a little way in the direction her cousin had taken. She wheeled her horse, and, side by side, they ambled up the dusty road.

"The thing I have to tell you," said he presently, "concerns myself."

"Does it concern me?" she asked him coldly, and her coolness was urged partly by her newborn fears, partly to counterbalance such impression as her illjudged show of gladness at his safety might have made upon his mind. He flashed her a sidelong glance, the long white fingers of his right hand toying thoughtfully with a ringlet of the dark brown hair that fell upon the shoulders of his scarlet coat.

"Surely, madam," he answered dryly, "what concerns a man may well concern his wife."

She bowed her head, her eyes upon the road before her. "True," said she, her voice expressionless. "I had forgot."

He reined in and turned to look at her; her horse moved on a pace or two, then came to a halt, apparently of its own accord.

"I do protest," said he, "you treat me less kindly than I deserve." He urged his mare forward until he had come up with her again, and then drew rein once more. "I think that I may lay some claim to—at least—your gratitude for what I did to-day."

"It is my inclination to be grateful," said she. She was very wary of him. "Forgive me, if I am still mistrustful."

"But of what?" he cried, a thought impatiently.

"Of you. What ends did you seek to serve? Was it to save Richard that you came?"

"Unless you think that it was to save Blake," he said ironically. "What other ends do you conceive I could have served?" She made him no answer, and so he resumed after a pause. "I rode to Taunton to serve you for two reasons; because you asked me, and because I would have no innocent men suffer in my stead—not even though, as these men, they were but caught in their own toils, hoist with the petard they had charged for me. Beyond these two motives, I had no other thought in ruining myself."

"Ruining yourself?" she cried. Yes, it was true; but she had not thought of it until this moment; there had been so much to think of.

"Is it not ruin to be outlawed, to have a price set upon your head, as will no doubt a price be set on mine when Albemarle's messenger shall have reached Whitehall? Is it not ruin to have my lands and all I own made forfeit to the State, to find myself a beggar, hunted and proscribed? Forgive me that I harass you with this catalogue of my misfortunes. You'll say, no doubt, that I have brought them upon myself by compelling you against your will to marry me.

"I'll not deny that it is in my mind," said she, and of set purpose stifled pity.

He sighed and looked at her again, but she would not meet his eye, else its whimsical expression might have intrigued her. "Can you deny my magnanimity, I wonder?" said he, and spoke almost as one amused. "All I had I sacrificed to do your will, to save your brother from the snare of his own contriving against me. I wonder do you yet realize how much I sacrificed to-day at Taunton! I wonder!" And he paused, looking at her and waiting for some word from her; but she had none for him.

"Clearly you do not, else I think you would show me if only a pretence of kindness." She was looking at him at last, her eyes less hard. They seemed to ask him to explain. "When you came this morning with the tale of how the tables had been turned upon your brother, of how he was caught in his own springe, and the letter found in his keeping was before the King's folk at Taunton with every appearance of having been addressed to him, and not a tittle of evidence to show that it had been meant for me, do you know what news it was you brought me?" He paused a second, looking at her from narrowing eyes. Then he answered his own question. "You brought me the news that you were mine to take whensoe'er I pleased. Whilst that letter was in your hands it gave you the power to make me your obedient slave. You might blow upon me as you listed whilst you held it, and I was a vane that must turn to your blowing for my honour's sake and for the sake of the cause in which I worked. Through no rashness of mine must that letter come into the hands of the King's friends, else was I dishonoured. It was an effective barrier between us. So long as you possessed that letter you might pipe as you pleased, and I must dance to the tune you set. And then this morning what you came to tell me was that things were changed; that it was mine to call the tune. Had I had the strength to be a villain, you had been mine now, and your brother and Sir Rowland might have hanged on the rope of their own weaving."

She looked at him in a startled, almost shamefaced manner. This was an aspect of the case she had not considered.

"You realize it, I see," he said, and smiled wistfully. "Then perhaps you realize why you found me so unwilling to do the thing you craved. Having treated me ungenerously, you came to cast yourself upon my generosity, asking me—though I scarcely think you understood—to beggar myself of life itself with all it held for me. God knows I make no pretence to virtue, and yet I think I had been something more than human had I not refused you and the bargain you offered—a bargain that you would never be called upon to fulfil if I did the thing you asked."

At last she interrupted him; she could bear it no longer.

"I had not thought of it!" she cried. It was a piteous wail that broke from her. "I swear I had not thought of that. I was all distraught for poor Richard's sake. Oh, Mr. Wilding," she turned to him, holding out a hand; her eyes shone, filmed with moisture, "I shall have a kindness for you.., all my days for your... generosity to-day." It was lamentably weak, far from the hot expressions which she forced it to replace.

"Yes, I was generous," he admitted. "We will move on as far as the cross-roads." Again they ambled gently forward. Up the slope from the ford Diana and Jerry were slowly climbing; not another human being was in sight ahead or behind them. "After you left me," he continued, "your memory and your entreaties lingered with me. I gave the matter of our position thought, and it seemed to me that all was monstrously ill-done. I loved you, Ruth, I needed you, and you disdained me. My love was aster of me. But 'neath your disdain it was transmuted oddly." He checked the passion that was vibrating in his voice and resumed after a pause, in the calm, slow tones, soft and musical, that were his own. "There is scarce the need for so much recapitulation. When the power was mine I bent you unfairly to my will; you did as much by me when the power suddenly became yours. It was a strange war between us, and I accepted its conditions. To-day, when the power was mine again, mine to bring you at last to subjection, behold, I have capitulated at your bidding, and all that I held—including your own self—have I relinquished. It is perhaps fitting. Haply I am punished for having wed you before I had wooed you." Again his tone changed, it grew more cold, more matter-of-fact. "I rode this way a little while ago a hunted man, my only hope to reach home and collect what moneys and valuables I could carry, and make for the coast to find a vessel bound for Holland. I have been engaged, as you know, in stirring up rebellion to check the iniquities and persecutions that are toward in a land I love. I'll not weary you with details. Time was needed for this as for all things, and by next spring, perhaps, had matters gone well, this vineyard that so carefully and secretly I have been tending, would have been, maybe, in condition to bear fruit. Even now, in the hour of my flight, I learn that others have come to force this delicate growth into sudden maturity. There! Soon ripe, soon rotten. The Duke of Monmouth has landed at Lyme this morning. I am riding to him."

"To what end?" she cried, and he saw in her face a dismay that amounted almost to fear, and he wondered was it for him.

"To place my sword at his service. Were I not encompassed by this ruin, I should not have stirred a foot in that direction—so rash, so foredoomed to failure is this invasion. As it is,"—he shrugged and laughed—"it is the only hope—all forlorn though it may be—for me."

The trammels she had imposed upon her soul fell away at that like bonds of cobweb. She laid her hand upon his wrists, tears stood in her eyes; her lips quivered.

"Anthony, forgive me," she besought him. He trembled under her touch, under the caress of her voice, and at the sound of his name for the first time upon her lips.

"What have I to forgive?" he asked.

"The thing that I did in the matter of that letter."

"You poor child," said he, smiling gently upon her, "you did it in self-defence."

"Yet say that you forgive me—say it before you go!" she begged him.

He considered her gravely a moment. "To what end," he asked, "do you imagine that I have talked so much? To the end that I might show you that however I may have wronged you I have at the last made some amends; and that for the sake of this, the truest proof of penitence, I may have your forgiveness ere I go."

She was weeping softly. "It was an ill day on which we met," she sighed.

"For you—aye."

"Nay—for you.

"We'll say for both of us, then," he compromised. "See, Ruth, your cousin grows weary, and I have a couple of comrades who are no doubt impatient to be gone. It may not be good for us to tarry in these parts. Some amends I have made; but there is one crowning wrong which I have done you for which there is but one amend to make." He paused. He steadied himself before continuing. In his attempt to render his voice cold and commonplace he went near to achieving harshness. "It may be that this crackbrained rebellion of which the torch is already alight will, if it does no other good in England, at least make a widow of you. When that has come to pass, when I have thus repaired the wrong I did you, I hope you'll bear me as kindly as may be in your thought. Good-bye, my Ruth! I would you might have loved me. I sought to force it." He smiled ever so wanly. "Perhaps that was my mistake. It is an ill thing to eat one's hay while it is grass." He raised to his lips the little gloved hand that still rested on his wrist. "God keep you, Ruth!" he murmured.

She sought to answer him, but something choked her; a sob was all she achieved. Had he caught her to him in that moment there is little doubt but that she had yielded. Perhaps he knew it; and knowing it kept the tighter rein upon desire. She was as metal molten in the crucible, to be moulded by his craftsman's hands into any pattern that he chose. But the crucible was the crucible of pity, not of love; that, too, he knew, and, knowing it, forbore.

He dropped her hand, doffed his hat, and, wheeling his horse about, touched it with the spur and rode back towards the thicket where his friends awaited him. As he left her, she too wheeled about, as if to follow him. She strove to command her voice that she might recall him; but at that same moment Trenchard, hearing his returning hoofs, thrust out into the road with Vallancey following at his heels. The old player's harsh voice reached her where she stood, and it was querulous with impatience.

"What a plague do you mean, dallying here at such a time, Anthony?" he cried, to which Vallancey added: "In God's name, let us push on."

At that she checked her impulse—it may even be that she mistrusted it. She paused, lingering undecided for an instant; then, turning her horse once more, she ambled up the slope to rejoin Diana.



CHAPTER XIII. "PRO RELIGIONE ET LIBERTATE"

The evening was far advanced when Mr. Wilding and his two companions descended to Uplyme Common from the heights whence as they rode they had commanded a clear view of the fair valley of the Axe, lying now under a thin opalescent veil of evening mist.

They had paused at Ilminster for fresh horses, and there Wilding had paid a visit to one of his agents from whom he had procured a hundred guineas. Thence they had come south at a sharp pace, and with little said. Wilding was moody and thoughtful, filled with chagrin at this unconscionable rashness of the man upon whom all his hopes were centred. As they cantered briskly across Uplyme Common in the twilight they passed several bodies of countrymen, all heading for the town, and one group sent up a shout of "God save the Protestant Duke!" as they rode past him.

"Amen to that," muttered Mr. Wilding grimly, "for I am afraid that no man can."

In the narrow lane by Hay Farm a horseman, going in the opposite direction, passed them at the gallop; but they had met several such since leaving Ilminster, for indeed the news was spreading fast, and the whole countryside was alive with messengers, some on foot and some on horseback, but all hurrying as if their lives depended on their haste.

They made their way to the Market-Place where Monmouth's declaration—that remarkable manifesto from the pen of Ferguson—had been read some hours before. Thence, having ascertained where His Grace was lodged, they made their way to the George Inn.

In Coombe Street they found the crowd so dense that they could but with difficulty open out a way for their horses through the human press. Not a window but was open, and thronged with sight-seers—mostly women, indeed, for the men were in the press below. On every hand resounded the cries of "A Monmouth! A Monmouth! The Protestant Religion! Religion and Liberty," which latter were the words inscribed on the standard Monmouth had set up that evening on the Church Cliffs.

In truth, Wilding was amazed at what he saw, and said as much to Trenchard. So pessimistic had been his outlook that he had almost expected to find the rebellion snuffed out by the time they reached Lyme-of-the-King. What had the authorities been about that they had permitted Monmouth to come ashore, or had Vallancey's information been wrong in the matter of the numbers that accompanied the Protestant Champion? Wilding's red coat attracted some attention. In the dusk its colour was almost all that could be discerned of it.

"Here's a militia captain for the Duke!" cried one, and others took up the cry, and if it did nothing else it opened a way for them through that solid human mass and permitted them to win through to the yard of the George Inn. They found the spacious quadrangle thronged with men, armed and unarmed, and on the steps stood a tall, well-knit, soldierly man, his hat rakishly cocked, about whom a crowd of townsmen and country fellows were pressing with insistence. At a glance Mr. Wilding recognized Captain Venner—raised to the rank of colonel by Monmouth on the way from Holland.

Trenchard dismounted, and taking a distracted stable-boy by the arm, bade him see to their horses. The fellow endeavoured to swing himself free of the other's tenacious grasp.

"Let me go," he cried. "I am for the Duke!"

"And so are we, my fine rebel," answered Trenchard, holding fast.

"Let me go," the lout insisted. "I am going to enlist."

"And so you shall when you have stabled our nags. See to him, Vallancey; he is brainsick with the fumes of war."

The fellow protested, but Trenchard's way was brisk and short; and so, protesting still, he led away their cattle in the end, Vallancey going with him to see that he performed this last duty as a stable-boy ere he too became a champion militant of the Protestant Cause. Trenchard sped after Wilding, who was elbowing his way through the yokels about the steps. The glare of a newly lighted lamp from the doorway fell full upon his long white face as he advanced, and Venner espied and recognized him.

"Mr. Wilding!" he cried, and there was a glad ring in his voice, for though cobblers, tailors, deserters from the militia, pot-boys, stable-boys, and shuffling yokels had been coming in in numbers during the past few hours since the Declaration had been read, this was the first gentleman that arrived to welcome Monmouth. The soldier stretched out a hand to grasp the newcomer's. "His Grace will see you this instant, not a doubt of it." He turned and called down the passage. "Cragg!" A young man in a buff coat came forward, and to him Venner delivered Wilding and Trenchard that he might announce them to His Grace.

In the room that had been set apart for him abovestairs, Monmouth still sat at table. He had just supped, with but an indifferent appetite, so fevered was he by the events of his landing. He was excited with hope—inspired by the readiness with which the men of Lyme and its neighbourhood had flocked to his banner—and fretted by anxiety that none of the gentry of the vicinity should yet have followed the example of the meaner folk, in answer to the messages dispatched at dawn from Seaton. The board at which he sat was still cumbered with some glasses and platters and vestiges of his repast. Below him on his right sat Ferguson—that prince of plotters—very busy with pen and ink, his keen face almost hidden by his great periwig; opposite were Lord Grey, of Werke, and Andrew Fletcher, of Saltoun, whilst, standing at the foot of the table barely within the circle of candlelight from the branch on the polished oak, was Nathaniel Wade, the lawyer, who had fled to Holland on account of his alleged complicity in the Rye House plot and was now returned a major in the Duke's service. Erect and soldierly of figure, girt with a great sword and with the butt of a pistol protruding from his belt, he had little the air of a man whose methods of contention were forensic.

"You understand, then, Major Wade," His Grace was saying, his voice pleasant and musical. "It is decided that the guns had best be got ashore forthwith and mounted."

Wade bowed. "I shall set about it at once, Your Grace. I shall not want for help. Have I Your Grace's leave to go?"

Monmouth nodded, and as Wade passed out, Ensign Cragg entered to announce Mr. Wilding and Mr. Trenchard. The Duke rose to his feet, his glance suddenly brightening. Fletcher and Grey rose with him; Ferguson paid no heed, absorbed in his task, which he industriously continued.

"At last!" exclaimed the Duke. "Admit them, sir."

When they entered, Wilding coming first, his hat under his arm, the Duke sprang to meet him, a tall young figure, lithe and slender as a blade of steel, and of a steely strength for all his slimness. He was dressed in a suit of purple that became him marvellously well, and on his breast a star of diamonds flashed and smouldered like a thing of fire. He was of an exceeding beauty of face, wherein he mainly favoured that "bold, handsome woman" that was his mother, without, however, any of his mother's insipidity; fine eyes, a good nose, straight and slender, and a mouth which, if sensual and indicating a lack of strength, was beautifully shaped. His chin was slightly cleft, the shape of his face a delicate oval, framed now in the waving masses of his brown wig. Some likeness to his late Majesty was also discernible, in spite of the wart, out of which his uncle James made so much capital.

There was a slight flush on his cheeks, an added lustre in his eye, as he took Wilding's hand and shook it heartily before Wilding had time to kiss His Grace's.

"You are late," he said, but there was no reproach in his voice. "We had looked to find you here when we came ashore. You had my letter?"

"I had not, Your Grace," answered Wilding, very grave. "It was stolen."

"Stolen?" cried the Duke, and behind him Grey pressed forward, whilst even Ferguson paused in his writing to raise his piercing eyes and listen.

"It is no matter," Wilding reassured him. "Although stolen, it has but gone to Whitehall to-day, when it can add little to the news that is already on its way there."

The Duke laughed softly, with a flash of white teeth, and looked past Wilding at Trenchard. Some of the light faded out of his eyes. "They told me Mr. Trenchard..." he began, when Wilding, half turning to his friend, explained.

"This is Mr. Nicholas Trenchard—John Trenchard's cousin.

"I bid you welcome, sir," said the Duke, very agreeably, "and I trust your cousin follows you."

"Alas," said Trenchard, "my cousin is in France," and in a few brief words he related the matter of John Trenchard's home-coming on his acquittal and the trouble there had been connected with it.

The Duke received the news in silence. He had expected good support from old Speke's son-in-law. Indeed, there was a promise that when he came, John Trenchard would bring fifteen hundred men from Taunton. He took a turn in the room deep in thought, and there was a pause until Ferguson, rubbing his great Roman nose, asked suddenly had Mr. Wilding seen the Declaration. Mr. Wilding had not, and thereupon the plotting parson, who was proud of his composition, would have read it to him there and then, but that Grey sourly told him the matter would keep, and that they had other things to discuss with Mr. Wilding.

This the Duke himself confirmed, stating that there were matters on which he would be glad to have their opinion.

He invited the newcomers to draw chairs to the table; glasses were called for, and a couple of fresh bottles of Canary went round the board. The talk was desultory for a few moments, whilst Wilding and Trenchard washed the dust from their throats; then Monmouth broke the ice by asking them bluntly what they thought of his coming thus, earlier than was at first agreed.

Wilding never hesitated in his reply. "Frankly, Your Grace," said he, "I like it not at all."

Fletcher looked up sharply, his clear intelligent eyes full upon Wilding's calm face, his countenance expressing as little as did Wilding's. Ferguson seemed slightly taken aback. Grey's thick lips were twisted in a sneering smile.

"Faith," said the latter with elaborate sarcasm, "in that case it only remains for us to ship again, heave anchor, and back to Holland."

"It is what I should advise," said Wilding slowly and quietly, "if I thought there was a chance of my advice being taken." He had a calm, almost apathetic way of uttering startling things which rendered them doubly startling. The sneer seemed to freeze on Lord Grey's lips; Fletcher continued to stare, but his eyes had grown more round; Ferguson scowled darkly. The Duke's boyish face—it was still very youthful despite his six-and-thirty years—expressed a wondering consternation. He looked at Wilding, and from Wilding to the others, and his glance seemed to entreat them to suggest an answer to him. It was Grey at last who took the matter up.

"You shall explain your meaning, sir, or we must hold you a traitor," he exclaimed.

"King James does that already," answered Wilding with a quiet smile.

"D'ye mean the Duke of York?" rumbled Ferguson's Scottish accent with startling suddenness, and Monmouth nodded approval of the correction. "If ye mean that bloody papist and fratricide, it were well so to speak of him. Had ye read the Declaration..."

But Fletcher cropped his speech in mid-growth. He was ever a short-tempered man, intolerant of irrelevancies.

"It were well, perhaps," said he, his accent abundantly proclaiming him a fellow countryman of Ferguson's, "to keep to the matter before us. Mr. Wilding, no doubt, will state the reasons that exist, or that he fancies may exist, for giving advice which is hardly worthy of the cause to which he stands committed."

"Aye, Fletcher," said Monmouth, "there is sense in you. Tell us what is in your mind, Mr. Wilding."

"It is in my mind, Your Grace, that this invasion is rash, premature, and ill-advised."

"Odds life!" cried Grey, and he swung angrily round fully to face the Duke, the nostrils of his heavy nose dilating. "Are we to listen to this milksop prattle?"

Nick Trenchard, who had hitherto been silent, cleared his throat so noisily that he drew all eyes to himself.

"Your Grace," Mr. Wilding pursued, his air calm and dignified, and gathering more dignity from the circumstance that he proceeded as if there had been no interruption, "when I had the honour of conferring with you at The Hague two months ago, it was agreed that you should spend the summer in Sweden—away from politics and scheming, leaving the work of preparation to your accredited agents here. That work I have been slowly but surely pushing forward. It was not to be hurried; men of position are not to be won over in a day; men with anything to lose need some guarantee that they are not wantonly casting their possessions to the winds. By next spring, as was agreed, all would have been ready. Delay could not have hurt you. Indeed, with every day by which you delayed your coming you did good service to your cause, you strengthened its prospects of success; for every day the people's burden of oppression and persecution grows more heavy, and the people's temper more short; every day, by the methods that he is pursuing, King James brings himself into deeper hatred. This hatred is spreading. It was the business of myself and those others to help it on, until from the cottage of the ploughman the infection of anger should have spread to the mansion of the squire. Had Your Grace but given me time, as I entreated you, and as you promised me, you might have marched to Whitehall with scarce the shedding of a drop of blood; had Your Grace but waited until we were ready, England would have so trembled at your landing that your uncle's throne would have toppled over 'neath the shock. As it is..." He shrugged his shoulders, sighed and spread his hands, leaving his sentence uncompleted.

Monmouth sat sobered by these sober words; the intoxication that had come to him from the little measure of success that had attended the opening of the listing on Church Cliffs, deserted him now; he saw the thing stark and in its true proportions, and not even the shouting of the folk in the streets below, crying his name and acclaiming him their champion, served to lighten the gloom that Wilding's words cast like a cloud over his volatile heart. Alas, poor Monmouth! He was ever a weathercock, and even as Wilding's words seemed to strike the courage out of him, so did Grey's short contemptuous answer restore it.