"Since when have you turned sentimental?"

"I think I was born with a horror of wholesale injustice."

Marriott laughed, then grew serious.

"We are old friends, Rosmore, and there is no danger in free speech between us, but it would not be wise to say such things in the hearing of Jeffreys."

"Even Jeffreys may have a weak spot to touch which would be to compel him to silence. Most men have."

"They hide it successfully as a rule."

"Or think so," said Rosmore. "Amongst these three hundred prisoners are there any of importance?"

The judge shrugged his shoulders.

"Not in our world. I dare say in this neighbourhood there are a few with some standing."

"You have had no personal appeals made to you?"

"Many, but none which counted," and then Marriott dropped his voice to a whisper. "The escape of anyone you are interested in might be arranged."

"I might even contrive that without your assistance, eh, Marriott," laughed Rosmore. "He who holds the key can easiest open the door. Don't look so astonished, man. It is an open secret that, from the King downwards, personal aims enter into this rebellion. Jeffreys has his, a stretching out towards power; you have yours, which are no concern of mine; I have mine, which are nothing to you."

"You are too honest, and perhaps you bark too loudly," said the judge, glancing round the room.

"I take care to examine walls well before I live between them," said Rosmore; "but see for yourself. This curtain hangs before the door of my bedroom, this before a window looking into a side street," and he drew the curtains aside for a moment to show that he spoke truly.

Marriott nodded and drank more wine.

"We can talk quite freely," said Rosmore, seating himself again at the table opposite to his guest. "There is a woman you have promised to help should she ask you."

"No; you are mistaken."

"Think, Marriott. The promise may have been made at Aylingford Abbey."

"Do you mean Mistress Lanison?"

Rosmore nodded his head slowly.

"Ah, yes, I did make some kind of promise," said Marriott. "A gallantry, Rosmore, and I would make my words good if I had the chance."

"And the bribe?" Rosmore asked.

"As you have just said, that can be no concern of yours."

"That is not so certain. It happens that you have the chance. Mistress Lanison is in Dorchester—a prisoner."

Marriott sprang to his feet.

"The devil! Who had her arrested?"

Rosmore shrugged his shoulders.

"I do not know, but the fact remains, she is a prisoner. This I can tell you, she journeyed to the West to appeal to you on behalf of Gilbert Crosby, and was arrested on the way."

"But Crosby has not been captured?"

"Don't you think you and I could make up our minds that he has?" said Rosmore.

"I do not see the necessity. My influence will have to be exerted to procure her release. I shall have kept my word, and—"

"And the reward?" asked Rosmore.

"It will not be so great that it will be beyond her power to pay," was the answer.

"Shall I make a guess?" said Rosmore. "If your influence is exerted, Barbara Lanison becomes the wife of Judge Marriott. Ah! I see I have hit near the mark. I have another plan. You shall write me two orders, one for the release of Mistress Lanison, the other for the release of Gilbert Crosby. The execution of these orders shall be at my discretion as to time. They may be given because of your love for her, if you will, but you must be self-sacrificing and claim no reward."

"My dear Rosmore, if you are serious, your impudence is colossal, if you are in jest, I fail to see the point of it."

"I have not come to the point, for jest it is, and one you may profit by. Sit down again and fill your glass—we can enjoy the joke together. Although you do not ask for any reward, you get one—five hundred or a thousand guineas, the exact amount we can decide, but at any rate a goodly sum for two scraps of paper. I should advise you to close with such an offer."

"Still the jest does not appeal to me."

"No?"

"You want Mistress Lanison—"

"Released," Rosmore interrupted sharply.

"She shall be, but in my own fashion."

"In mine, I think," said Rosmore quietly.

Marriott rose to his feet again, his face purple with anger. A string of oaths and invectives poured suddenly from his lips.

"You are not in court, Marriott, and I am not a prisoner," said Rosmore quietly. "Do you happen to remember a prisoner who was tried some months ago? Was his name Josiah Popplewell?"

The judge was suddenly silent, and his purple face became livid.

"He was a rich merchant in the City, I fancy, full of crime and treason, and, moreover, very wealthy. His wealth was tempting to—let us say to those in high authority, and there was plenty of evidence against him, manufactured, perhaps, but still apparently irrefutable. At the crucial moment, however, there came forward a witness who, in the clearest manner, was able to prove that the evidence was false, and Popplewell got off. That is the case from the world's point of view. But there was another side to it. This witness was well paid, and by whom do you think? By the judge himself, who accepted an immense bribe from the prisoner. I wonder what the King would have to say if he knew, or in what estimation Judge Jeffreys would hold his learned brother? Do you remember the case?"

"A pretty story. I wonder if you could prove it?"

"Easily. The witness named Tarrant is in my employment. He declares that the judge made an effort to have him accidentally killed, not unwisely, perhaps, for the man has in his possession a scrap of writing which would ruin the judge."

"It is a lie."

"I have seen the writing," said Rosmore. "I could lay the case before Jeffreys whilst he is in Dorchester. That might make a sensation. Amongst the gibbeted wretches we might see hanging one of the judges who had been sent to punish them; that would be more original than a court hung with scarlet."

Marriott sat down slowly.

"Your glass is empty, let me fill it," said Rosmore. "Shall we say five hundred guineas for the two orders, no further questions asked, and presently, when the prisoners are in safety, the return of that incriminating scrap of paper?"

"You swear that—"

"My dear Marriott, I have not mentioned the name of the judge, why tell me what you chance to know of the story?"

"You shall have the orders," Said Marriott.

"Here are paper, ink, and pen."

Rosmore watched him as he wrote.

"Will that suffice?" Marriott asked.

"It is worded exactly as I would have it."

"So Mistress Lanison—"

"Did we not say no further questions?" asked Rosmore, smiling. "What should you say if I made a match between her and this notorious highwayman, Gilbert Crosby?"

"You must catch him first."

"Should you see him in Dorchester, you will do me a service by having him arrested. With this paper I can have him released at a convenient time. You are going? There is still wine in the bottle."

"Just enough for you to drink to the success of your night's work," said Marriott savagely.

"And to your health," Rosmore answered as he crossed the room with his guest.

As the door was closed, Harriet Payne took hold of the curtain to draw it aside, but paused in the act of doing so. Her eyes, wide open and fixed, stared at the curtains which hung on the opposite wall across the window. A hand, a man's hand, grasped them. Then they parted silently, and fell together again, slowly and silently.

Rosmore did not wish to be disturbed again, but the lock was stiff and the key difficult to withdraw. With a sigh of satisfaction he turned presently, but the Sigh became a sudden gasp of astonishment.

Against the background of the window curtains stood Gilbert Crosby!



CHAPTER XXII

THE LUCK OF LORD ROSMORE

Harriet Payne did not move. The curtain over the door concealed her, but it hung a little apart at one side, and she could see into the room, could see both men as they stood facing each other. For a while there was absolute silence, then Rosmore made a quick movement towards a side table on which lay a pistol.

"Stop, or you are a dead man!" said Crosby.

Rosmore stopped. He knew too much about his unwelcome guest to imagine that he would not be as good as his word. He paused a moment, then went to the table on which were the remains of the supper.

"I have no fear that you will shoot an unarmed man, Mr. Crosby," he said quietly. "I have heard many things against you, but never that you were a coward. I marvel that you have the courage to walk abroad in Dorchester, and wonder, even more, that you come into this room."

Crosby also walked to the table, and so they stood erect on either side of it, face to face, man to man, deadly enemies feeling each other's strength.

"We may come to the point at once, Lord Rosmore. Where is Mistress Barbara Lanison?"

"I hear that she is a prisoner in Dorchester."

"By your contriving."

"It is natural you should think so, seeing the position I hold in the West Country at the present time."

"I do not think, I know," Crosby answered. "By a trick, and through a lying messenger, you induced her to travel to Dorchester and had her arrested on the journey."

"Let us suppose this to be the case, is it not just possible that there may be a legitimate reason for such a trick?"

"I am ready to listen," said Crosby.

"Always supposing that your knowledge is correct, is it not possible that Mistress Lanison may foolishly believe herself enamoured of a certain somewhat notorious person, and that those who have her well-being at heart think it necessary to protect her from this notorious person until she becomes more sensible?"

Harriet Payne watched him as he spoke. There was a smile upon his handsome face such as any honest man's might wear when dealing with an excitable and imaginative opponent. Then, as Crosby spoke, she looked at him.

"I will tell you the truth," he said, speaking in a low, clear, and incisive tone. "You would yourself marry Barbara Lanison, and, having established a hold over her guardian, you have attempted to force her to such an alliance by threats. At every turn in the game you have been foiled. You have failed to impress Mistress Lanison; you failed in a villainous endeavour to defend her against a drunken man who was acting on your suggestion; you failed to capture me at Lenfield when you had no warrant but your own will for attempting such a capture."

"You have sat at the feet of an excellent taleteller, sir, or else you have a prodigious imagination of your own."

Harriet Payne's eyes were fixed upon Rosmore. She watched him, and looked no more at Crosby.

"Failing in these endeavours, you made other schemes," Crosby went on. "Having taken a servant girl from Lenfield, you make use of her. She was an honest girl, I believe, not ill-intentioned towards me, but in your hands she was as clay. How you have deceived her, or what promises you have made to her, I do not know, I can only guess, but, to serve your own purposes, you have made a liar and a cheat of her. She has brought Mistress Lanison to Dorchester for you, that you may once more attempt to force a marriage which is distasteful to the lady. That is the story up to this moment."

"You appear to know the lady's secrets as well as mine."

"No, not as well as I know yours," Crosby answered. "Had I done so, I might have outwitted you and have prevented her coming to Dorchester."

"For a man who so easily believes every tale he hears, you are an exceedingly self-reliant person."

"And fortunate, too," said Crosby, "since I have an opportunity of showing you the end of the story."

"A prophet, by gad!" exclaimed Rosmore.

"I entered this room in time to hear your transaction with Judge Marriott," said Crosby. "Now the story ends in one of two ways. You have two orders of release, one for Mistress Lanison, one for me. I know their value, or you would not have been so anxious to get them, and I have at least one friend in Dorchester who can execute those orders without any question being raised. Those orders you will deliver to me, here and now."

"May I know how else the story might end?" Rosmore asked contemptuously.

"With your death," was the quiet answer. "Oh, no, not murder; death in fair fight. You are hardly likely to scream for help, I take it; you have yourself carefully locked the door, and no one is likely to pass along the alley outside that window. You may choose which way the story shall end."

"You so nearly make me laugh at you, Mr. Crosby, that I find the utmost difficulty in quarrelling with you. The orders I shall not part with, and I am half minded to call for help."

"You would not need it when it arrived," Crosby answered.

"And you would hang to-morrow."

"You have worked so secretly that I hardly think suspicion would fall upon me. I could go as quietly as I came, and no one be any the wiser."

"You shall be humoured, Mr. Crosby. I never thought to cross blades with a man ripe for Tyburn Tree, but the blade can be snapped afterwards."

"It is the way I should prefer the story to end," Crosby returned.

Rosmore pushed back the table, then the swords rang from their scabbards.

The girl behind the curtain did not move. She had watched Rosmore's face to try and learn whether Crosby's story were true. She travelled from doubt to belief, then back to doubt again, and now as the swords crossed she was fascinated, held there, it seemed, by some power outside herself, unable to move, powerless to cry out. She knew not what to believe. Lord Rosmore had not admitted the truth of the story, still he had not denied it. He had fenced with it. Harriet Payne had been at Lenfield long enough to understand the estimation in which her master, Gilbert Crosby, was held; he was not a man to lie deliberately, and she dared not face him, knowing the part she had played. She had played it because she loved this other man, but, dispassionately described as Crosby had told it, the offence she had committed seemed far greater than she had imagined. If Rosmore had deceived her! The thought burnt into her soul and sent the hot blood to her cheeks. Was she merely a silly wench, as were hundreds of others, won by a smooth tongue, stepping easily down into shame at the bidding of the first man whose words had enough flattery in them? Was there truth in what the trooper Watson had suggested? So, with her hand strained against her side, and leaning forward a little, she watched the play of the swords.

Rosmore was not smiling now. He was a master of fence, had proved it a dozen times, more than once had sent his man to his account. He had never yet faced an antagonist whose skill was quite equal to his own. Even to-night he would not admit to himself that he had found his equal. He remembered that he had drunk much wine, yet, before this, he had not fought the worse upon such a quantity. He had known sudden encounters over dice and cards when the settlement followed hard upon the quarrel, as well as more formal duels, and in none had he been beaten. Truly this Crosby was no mean opponent, but no glow of satisfaction at meeting a worthy foeman came to Lord Rosmore. This must be a fight to the death, and twice in quick succession he attempted a thrust, a famous thrust of his, which had so often carried death with it. Now it was parried, easily it seemed, and barely could he turn aside the answering point which flashed towards him. For a few moments he was entirely on the defensive, with never an opening to attack.

Gilbert Crosby's actual experience was not equal to his skill. Once only had he fought a duel, and had wounded his man on that occasion. He was confident of his skill as he faced Lord Rosmore, but he knew that he must lack something of that assurance which comes to the persistent duellist, that detachment of self which so often helps to victory. He was conscious of a certain anxiety which made him more than usually cautious. He fought as a man who must, not as one who glories in it, and it was well for Rosmore, perhaps, that it was so. It was for Barbara Lanison that he fought, the conviction in his mind that now or never must she be saved. No other way seemed open. It was of her he thought—of all she must have suffered, of the despicable trickery which had been practised upon her, of the fate which awaited her if she were not rescued. He loved her, that was as sure as that he lived, but it was not his love he thought of just then. As Rosmore once more attacked him fiercely the idea of defeat came to him for an instant. For himself he cared not, but what would it mean for her! The fight must end. It should end soon in the only possible way, honesty triumphant over villainy.

Lord Rosmore's thoughts wandered, too. The end did not really trouble him; he had never known defeat—why should it come to him now? Other men had parried a difficult thrust twice, and had failed to do so the third time; yet he remembered Barbara Lanison's speculation when he had spoken of breaking his sword after killing the highwayman. What would the highwayman do, she had wondered, if he should prove the victor, and Rosmore found himself wondering what Crosby would do in the event of such an end. Then he remembered Harriet Payne. What was the girl doing behind the curtain? Why had she not rushed into the room, as he had fully expected she would do? Had she swooned at the sight of the fighting? That he fought in an unrighteous cause he did not think about. For him right meant the attainment of what he desired, and his head was scheming as he parried Crosby's attack. The fight must end quickly. It was very certain that the wine he had taken was telling upon his endurance. He almost wished that the girl would scream for help; he was half inclined to call for it himself. It would be an easy way to bring the end. Lord Rosmore was not himself to-night.

Harriet stood motionless and watched. In her ignorance she thought that each thrust must end it, so impossible did it seem to turn aside, now this flashing blade, now that; but presently it was evident, even to her, that the fight was fiercer. The panting breaths came quicker, the blades rang more sharply. She wondered that the house had not been aroused, wondered that those passing in the streets had not heard this quarrel of steel with steel, and sought to know the reason. Then for the first time through long, long minutes her eyes wandered. The power which held her immovable and speechless was lessening, but the tension was not gone yet. Her eyes wandered, and her ears heard something besides the ringing steel. The curtains over the window shook a little, stirred by a breath of wind from the alley without. Then the window must have been left open! How was it no one without had heard the noise?

Crosby's back was to the window; he could not see that the curtains stirred, his ear caught no sound to startle him.

Rosmore, although he faced the window, saw nothing, heard nothing. His eyes were fixed upon those of his enemy, who was growing fiercer, more deadly every moment. The end was coming. Rosmore knew it, and felt weary. Every moment his enemy's point came nearer. It was parried this time and that, and again; but still it came. It touched him that time, not enough to scratch even, still it touched him! Next time! No, once more it was turned aside, and then it touched him again. It was nothing, but there was blood on his arm. In a moment that blade which had begun to dazzle him would be in his heart.

The curtains stirred again, floating out slightly into the room. Harriet's eyes turned to Rosmore, and saw the blood on his arm. She knew that this was the end. Then the curtains parted swiftly, and Crosby's blade fell with a clatter to the floor. For an instant he was struggling in the grasp of two men who had rushed upon him from behind, and was then borne to the ground. It was at this moment, too, that Harriet flung back the curtain from the door and stood in the room. Perhaps she expected Rosmore to make one late thrust at the falling man.

For a moment there was silence.

"Tie this handkerchief round my arm, mistress," said Rosmore; "the honours have gone against me."

She did as she was told.

"Shall we secure him, sir?"

"Yes, Sayers, but gently. I would not have him hurt. Forgive me, Crosby, I had no hand in this interruption; but, since it comes, I am glad to take advantage of it. What brought you here, Sayers?"

"Chance," was the answer. "We were wondering where the alley led to, saw the window unfastened, and heard the steel."

"Thank you, Harriet," said Rosmore, as she finished binding up his arm. "Help Mr. Crosby to a chair, Sayers. Give me that pistol on the table yonder. Here is the key of the door—catch; shut the window, one of you. Now go, and wait in the passage until I call you."

"Shall I go?" said Harriet.

"No; stay."

"You may well want to go, girl," said Crosby. "You have betrayed an innocent woman into the hands of her enemies, and for reward—what has this man promised you for reward?"

"Will you listen to me a moment, Mr. Crosby?" said Rosmore.

"Your confederates have made it impossible for me to refuse."

"That is unworthy of you," Rosmore answered. "I assure you I had no knowledge of their presence until I had made up my mind that your point was in my heart. I am glad they came for my own sake. I should have been a dead man had they been a moment later. I admit my defeat. Technically I am in your debt. If these bottles on the table are some excuse for me, I yet own that to-night the better man won."

"It hardly looks like it, does it?"

"Life is full of queer chances," said Rosmore, smiling. "You could find only two ways of ending your story. You see there is at least a third."

"It but delays the true ending," Crosby answered.

"No; believe me, I see in it a happy ending to the tale, but the tale is not quite as you imagine it. It is true that I take a sincere interest in Mistress Lanison, and I grieve to think that she has somewhat misjudged me, even as you have. You have also spoken some hard words against my valued companion here, Mistress Payne. Few men can see eye to eye, Crosby. You know Mistress Payne only as in your service—an honourable service, I know, yet one she was not intended for. I have seen her in different circumstances. Will you favour me by taking back the hard words you have said?"

"Yes, when she can prove her innocence, when she can prove that she has not betrayed another woman into your hands."

"I think I can prove that," said Rosmore. "Finding Mistress Payne here to-night may lead you to surmise many things. Strange to say, I was beginning to explain matters to her when we were interrupted, first by Judge Marriott, then by you. That is so, is it not?"

"Yes," Harriet answered in a whisper.

"The explanation may be made for your benefit, too, Mr. Crosby, but first let me assure you that Barbara Lanison is a woman I would befriend, and is nothing more to me. Mistress Payne has done me the honour to see in me a worthy man. As soon as this detestable work of taking inhuman revenge on poor peasants is over, Mistress Payne will become Lady Rosmore—my wife."



CHAPTER XXIII

LORD ROSMORE AS A FRIEND

A wave of colour swept into Harriet's face as Rosmore turned to her with a smile. Doubt and uncertainty had been hers a moment ago, and the sting of Crosby's words had hurt her; now this open declaration clothed her with a pleasant confusion, vindicated her presence in these rooms, and it was natural, perhaps, that there should be gratification in her heart that her former master should understand how important a person she had become.

Crosby remained silent. Was Rosmore speaking the truth? Could such a man marry such a woman? It seemed impossible, and yet where love rules the impossible constantly happens. He had grown so used to seeing Harriet Payne a serving maid at his manor at Lenfield that he had thought of her in no other position. As he looked at her now, standing with her hand in Rosmore's, he was bound to admit that she made a pretty figure, that many an eye might turn upon her with pleasure, that she certainly looked something more than a mere serving maid.

"Have you no congratulations to offer, Mr. Crosby?" said Rosmore. "Will you not withdraw some of the hard words you have spoken against this lady?"

"I cannot forgive even your future wife for deceiving Mistress Lanison."

"You will presently, when you understand that Mistress Lanison has been saved from the intrigues of her uncle and guardian. For the rest, her happiness lies chiefly in your hands, and you may find me more useful as a living friend than I should have proved as a dead enemy. Gad! you look as if you doubted it. No man is such a villain as he is painted, and, being a lover myself, I sympathise with all lovers. Perhaps you are right to be cautious, wise not to trust me until I have proved myself. For a day or two you must be my guest, and you will forgive me if I, too, am cautious. You know my position in the West, and, truth to tell, I have used it in somewhat unwarrantable fashion on Mistress Lanison's behalf. I cannot afford to let you loose in Dorchester while you still think me an enemy. You must not blame me, then, if I have you guarded so that you must remain my guest even against your will. It will only be for a day or two. To-morrow we will go into my scheme in detail, and in the meanwhile I would remind you that your capture would rejoice the hearts of many. You will be wise to accept quietly the asylum I offer you in this house."

"I hope I shall live to thank you for your generosity," said Crosby.

"Indeed, I hope so," Rosmore answered, and he called to the men who were waiting without. "Make Mr. Crosby comfortable in one of the rooms upstairs. He is my guest, Sayers, and is to be well treated. That I have such a visitor is not to be spoken of, but you must see that he remains my guest. I do not ask for your parole, Mr. Crosby, because I do not believe you would give it, but I ask you to be wise for—for the sake of Mistress Lanison. Unfasten those bonds, Sayers—we do not keep prisoners here."

"I do not understand you, Lord Rosmore," said Crosby, standing up. "It may be that I shall know you better to-morrow."

"You will have slept, I trust, and clearer vision often comes with the new day. Good-night."

With a slight inclination of the head Crosby left the room with his two gaolers, for gaolers they surely were, although he had been called a guest. One of the triple alliance had grievously failed in his endeavour to help the woman who was in such sore distress; would the others fail as ignominiously?

"Are you satisfied?" asked Rosmore, turning to Harriet. "This pretty head of yours must have thought of hating me as you heard my character so basely spoken of."

"I am a woman, and was suspicious."

"And now, though still a woman, have no evil thoughts about me. I warrant you, this fellow Crosby will hardly be gracious enough to thank me when I place the woman he loves in his arms."

"You have not told me your scheme." "Scheme!" Rosmore exclaimed. "My head is full of schemes, and one comes uppermost at this moment. It is natural since it concerns you. I cannot let you serve another any longer. There are many rooms in this house; you shall stay here. Nay, let this kiss stop all remonstrance. I will send at once for some decent woman in the town who shall be your maid for the present, and Mistress Lanison shall have someone to wait on her in your place. I cannot have the lady who is to be my wife stooping even to serve Mistress Lanison. Rosmores ever looked eye to eye with their fellows, and long ancestry and loyalty have given them privileges even in the presence of the King. Are you angry that I already teach you something of what my love means?"

"Angry? No; proud."

"Come, then. Let us see what is the best this house can do for you."

"Am I to be guarded like your other guest?" she asked demurely.

"Aye, far more strongly guarded, for at every exit Love shall stand sentinel."

She leaned towards him, and he kissed her again, even as a man will kiss the woman he worships. Then they went out.

Barbara Lanison was sorely troubled when Harriet Payne did not return. The girl had gone to try once more to get speech with Judge Marriott, and her mistress waited for her impatiently. So much depended on her success, and never for a single instant had Barbara doubted her loyalty. As the hours passed and the girl did not return she grew anxious. The town was in the hands of rough soldiers, whose licence, if even half the stories she had heard were true, had gone unpunished. The officers were no better than their men, and there must be a thousand dangers for a girl like Harriet Payne in the streets of Dorchester. Barbara blamed herself for letting her run into such danger, and, as she thought more of her, thought less of the mission upon which she had sent her.

It was late when the door opened and Watson came in. Barbara had crossed the room hurriedly, supposing that it was Harriet, but stopped, seeing who her visitor was.

"I have just heard that your maid will not return," Said Watson.

"Where is she?"

The man shrugged his shoulders.

"How can I know? She has probably found freedom more attractive than this place."

"Tell me the truth," said Barbara.

"I know no more than that she will not return. That was the bald message she sent, with a suggestion that someone else must be found to serve you. To-night, it is too late to search the town for a woman willing to undertake the duty, but to-morrow—"

"I want no other maid," said Barbara. "There is some reason why the girl does not return to me, and you know that reason."

"I can guess."

"It is easy to understand," Barbara returned. "The streets of Dorchester are not safe for any honest woman to-day."

"That may be so, madam, but I do not think it is the reason of Mistress Payne's desertion. I think fear has stepped in. At the best she did not seem to me a courageous person, at the worst she would be an easy coward. At any moment Judge Jeffreys may arrive in the town, and it would seem that he has less pity on those who help rebels than on the rebels themselves; I think that is why your maid does not return."

Barbara did not answer. The coming of Judge Jeffreys must seal the fate of Gilbert Crosby. So important a prisoner would be quickly tried and speedily executed. Her mission had failed.

"Yes, I believe that is the reason," Watson went on after a pause. His conscience awoke for a moment and pricked him sharply, but the breaking of this woman's spirit meant money in his pocket, and his manner of life had made him an easy victim to such a temptation. Had Barbara shown fear and pleaded with him, she might have prevailed and gained a friend; as she did not, the man found a certain brutal satisfaction in doing his best to destroy her courage by carrying out his master's instructions. "I have no doubt that is the reason," he repeated with some emphasis, "and I hardly care to blame her. It is a good thing to keep out of the way of Judge Jeffreys. Have you heard about Lady Alice Lisle and what they did to her lately at Winchester?"

"I have heard of her," said Barbara.

"She was no rebel, I take it," said Watson, "She only assisted a couple of fugitives, and for that paid the penalty."

Barbara looked at him questioningly, and he entered into details, sparing her nothing of the history of this fiendish judicial murder, and contrived to let her see that her own case was not unlike Lady Lisle's. Barbara did not move, uttered no sound during the recital. When Watson had finished she looked at him.

"It is a marvel to me that rebellion has been confined to the West," she said quietly. "Were I a strong man, I should be in revolt at such injustice."

"You would be as others, afraid to speak."

"There are some who are not afraid," she answered.

"Aye, and will dangle from a gibbet for their pains. May a rough trooper give you a word of advice?"

She bowed her head slowly.

"If you have friends, make petition to them," said Watson. "Be humble, and endeavour to escape standing before Judge Jeffreys."

"Can you tell me of what I shall be accused?" Barbara asked.

"No, but means will be found to destroy you. I hear the gossip, and I draw my conclusions."

"Can you suggest anyone to whom I can apply?"

Watson had no suggestion to make, but he promised that any message she might send should be delivered.

"I thank you for the advice and for the promise," said Barbara. "I can think of no friend in Dorchester, and I am not sure that being a rebel is not the more honourable position to-day."

"It means death."

"Well? Are there not worse things than death?"

"Truly, I think not. From all other ills a man may perchance recover, but from death—never."

Barbara smiled. It was not likely that this man would understand.

"Think over my advice to-night," said Watson. "There are many in Dorchester who might help you. Think to-night, and give me the names of some friends to-morrow. I shall know whether they are in the town, and would help you. To-morrow also I will seek for a new maid to serve you."

"Spare yourself that trouble," Barbara said as he went to the door. "So short a service as I shall require is not worth anyone's taking."

Watson was a soldier, and in his way a good soldier. He would have faced death at a moment's notice so long as he was well paid for doing so, and would be loyal to those he served, unless perchance a very heavy bribe were offered him and there was a reasonable probability of safety in accepting it. He had risen to some authority amongst his fellows, and did not think meanly of himself. He was convinced that his treatment of Barbara Lanison had been diplomatic, whereas his whole manner and conversation had put her upon her guard. He had succeeded in convincing her that he was laying a trap for her indiscretion, and that to trust him would be only playing into the hands of her enemies. In the morning she had thought of no friend to mention to him, and had decided not to trust him even with a message to Judge Marriott. Such a message was more likely to be used against her than on her behalf. Shrugging his shoulders, Watson departed, and did not disturb her again until the evening. Then he entered the room quietly, and dropped his voice to a whisper.

"I have found you a friend," he said, "a powerful friend who runs some risk to serve you. Take my advice, and treat him courteously."

"Who is he?"

Watson did not answer, but went to the door. A closely-cloaked figure entered, and Watson went out, closing the door. Then the cloak was thrown back.

"Lord Rosmore!" Barbara exclaimed.

"At your service, but speak low. I come secretly. This trooper found me out, but I had already been scheming on your behalf. He was able to help me in my one remaining difficulty."

She drew back from him.

"I have not asked for your help," she said.

"I know. You have misunderstood me, Mistress Lanison, and I grant you have had some reason. I would have won you if I could, and, as many another lover has done, I have thought all ways honest. I was wrong. I ask your pardon."

"What is the purpose of this visit?" she asked. She knew that she was a helpless prisoner, she knew that this man was powerful in the West, yet she stood before him, looking straight into his eyes, defying him to frighten her or to bend her to his will.

"To help you."

"I have no need of your help," she answered.

"I have more than words to prove my sincerity, yet I would justify myself a little. I have loved you; even now I may think that your coming to the West was foolish, that the man you have jeopardised yourself to save is hardly worthy, but—"

"You have beaten me, Lord Rosmore," said Barbara quietly. "I am convinced that I owe my position here in Dorchester to you and to my uncle. It may save you trouble and time if I tell you that your success ends here. I would rather die the death of a traitor than marry you."

"I know that," he returned just as quietly. "Love plays the fool with us all, even making Mistress Lanison of Aylingford Abbey fall a victim to the worship of a highwayman. To help him you are even willing to sacrifice yourself to a brute like Judge Marriott."

"I have indeed been betrayed by those I trusted," said Barbara.

"It is the common fortune, and help conies, as it often does, from those we distrust and hate," was the answer. "Marriott would have let you sacrifice yourself, but he would have done little else. It makes me sick to think that I should have a rival in such a man. But let that pass. You were doomed to failure, for it is my business to know everything that happens in the West just now."

"Again I say, Lord Rosmore, that between us there can be no terms."

"Still, you must listen to me; so far you are in my power. Your infatuation for Galloping Hermit seemed to me so impossible a thing that I confess I have done my utmost to save you. You are not to be saved; therefore I will help you. What your sacrifice could never have done, my knowledge of Marriott's vile character has accomplished. I have in my possession two orders—one for your release, one for the release of Gilbert Crosby."

A quick intake of her breath showed Barbara's sudden excitement. For an instant the good news was everything, the next moment she remembered from whom it came. Either the news was untrue, or there would be conditions.

"I can see that you do not trust me," said Rosmore, reading the look in her eyes. "These are the orders signed by Judge Marriott."

She looked at the papers which he held out.

"Even these shall not tempt me to make terms."

"There are no conditions except that you and your lover leave Dorchester—together," he said with a short laugh. "He will probably hasten to get out of the country as soon as possible, since he has become too notorious to live in it in safety, unless he still prefers the excitement of the road to the quiet peacefulness of your love."

"Is this some new trickery?" she asked.

"Perhaps there is some little revenge in it," he answered. "There comes a time when a scorned lover may cease to care for the woman who flouts him, and will remember that the world holds fairer women. When he finds this fairer love he is happy, but a spirit of retaliation may remain. I think this is my case. To be the wife of a notorious highwayman would not appeal to many women; most women would prefer to be Lady Rosmore, whatever the drawbacks to such a position might be. Mistress Lanison will go her own way, and I should be more than human if I did not hope that she may live to regret it. There is no trickery, and no condition except that you leave Dorchester together. Once safely in his hands, I can trust Gilbert Crosby not to let you escape him."

"I ought to thank you, Lord Rosmore, but—"

"But you may live to curse me for my help. It is possible, probable even. You have three days to think it over. Escape will not be possible until then."

"There is some scheme against me," said Barbara passionately. "You and my guardian have—"

"I said I had more than words to prove my sincerity," said Rosmore, going to the door. He went out. "I will give you an hour," Barbara heard him say, and then another closely-cloaked figure entered and the door was shut and locked.

"Gilbert!" she cried, and the next moment she was sobbing in his arms.



CHAPTER XXIV

LOVE AND FEAR

Gilbert!

It was the first time she had called him by his name, and surely on her lips there was unexpected music in it. She had come into his arms and, with a sob, had nestled there as if she had found safety and content. Her face was hidden against him, and he kissed her hair reverently, not daring to attempt to turn her face to him. His possession of her was so sudden that he was as a man who dreams a dream, half conscious that it is a dream, which he would not have broken. Until he was in the room Crosby could not believe that the promise which Rosmore had made would be fulfilled. He could not believe that Barbara was close to him, that he would see her. He had listened to Rosmore as he unfolded his scheme for their escape, trying to detect the direction of his villainy, never for an instant believing that he was sincere; and, after all, he had done as he had promised, he had brought him to Barbara Lanison. The woman he loved was in his arms. It was wonderful, wonderfully true! The rest would happen in its due time. Life with love in it was to be his. The man he hated had proved a friend. So he kissed the beautiful fair hair and waited for Barbara to look up, that he might read her heart through her eyes and kiss her lips.

Barbara did not look up. Almost unasked she had crept into the arms that opened to her, quickly and without question. From the first moment she had seen Gilbert he had been more to her than any other man, and, if she had not dared to admit it even to herself, she knew she loved him. Had she not come to the West to save him? Had she not been ready to sacrifice herself for him? She, too, had placed no trust in Lord Rosmore, yet the unexpected had happened. He had brought Gilbert Crosby to her. They were to escape together. She and Galloping Hermit, the notorious wearer of the brown mask, were to go together! He was a man, a true man, she had said it, she meant it, but—Ah, strive to forget them as she would, Rosmore's words had left a sting behind them. For all he was a man, he was a highwayman, and she was Barbara Lanison, of Aylingford Abbey! She did not look up as she gently disengaged herself from his arms.

"Tell me everything," she said quietly. "We have only an hour. I heard him tell you so when you came in."

If Crosby was disappointed, if at that moment the desire to hold her in his arms and kiss her lips was almost beyond his control, he let her go without protest. It was for him to do her will, and how should he, who had never squandered spurious love, know the ways of a woman with a man. She sat down, leaning a little forward in her chair, her hands clasped in her lap. She did not look at him as he stood beside her, telling her shortly and quickly what he had done in the West. He told her how Martin Fairley had found him in the wood, and how they had come to Dorchester on the night of her capture.

"You had not been a prisoner at all?" she asked.

"No, you were brought to the West by a lie; but I shall never forget that you came, and why you came. What did you think you could do?"

"I thought I could help you."

"How?"

"Judge Marriott had once made me a promise that if I asked him he would contrive the escape of anyone I—anyone I was interested in."

"Such a man would not make a promise for nothing."

"No."

"What was his reward to be?"

"I hoped he would let me off," Barbara said, covering her face with her hands, "but he wanted me to marry him. That would have been his price, and I should have paid it."

"Oh, my dear, don't you know I would rather have died a score of deaths?"

"And then, when you came to Dorchester?" she asked. She did not look at him; her head was lowered and her hands clasped in her lap again.

"We tried to find you, Martin and Fellowes and I."

"Sydney Fellowes?" she said.

"It was a triple alliance," said Crosby. "What the others have done since I parted with them I do not know. I sought out Rosmore," and then he told her of the duel and of Harriet Payne. "I should have killed him that night had we been undisturbed a moment longer, and then I might never have found you."

"Harriet Payne to be Lady Rosmore, is it possible?" said Barbara. "Do you suppose Lord Rosmore is honest with her or with us?"

"How can I think otherwise now? He has brought me to you when he could so easily have kept us apart. Why should he not fulfil the rest of his promise?"

"Has he told you his scheme?" she asked.

"Yes. In three days we are to leave Dorchester together. I shall wait with a coach just outside the town, on the road which leads down to the River Frome, and you are to join me there. It is not far from this house, and you will be safely guarded on your way to me. Then—"

Crosby paused, hoping to see her look up with the light of love in her eyes. She remained with her head lowered.

"Then we shall be free," he said. "And it is for you to command which road we take, and how far we journey upon it together."

She moved a little restlessly. In this one short hour, which was slipping away so fast, she had to decide upon what her future was to be. She loved, but she was the daughter of a proud race, whose blood mingled with the best blood of which England could boast. The man beside her was more to her than any other man could ever be, yet he was the highwayman, "Galloping Hermit," the notorious wearer of the brown mask, the man upon whose head a price was set, and who would surely perish miserably at Tyburn if he fell into the hands of his enemies. Great provocation might have made him a knight of the road, romance had succeeded in setting him apart from his brethren, but was she justified in loving such a man, could she give herself into his keeping? And she dared not tell him all that was in her heart, for she knew instinctively how he would answer her. She knew that he would sacrifice himself for her without a moment's hesitation; she believed that, without her, life would be of little worth to him. Their love was a strange thing, binding them together in silence. He had never said that he loved her; knowing what he was he had not dared to speak, perhaps, yet he had opened his arms and she had gone to him without a question. What words were needed to tell such a love as this? Her lover must be saved at any cost, and afterwards—

The silence seemed long as these thoughts sped through her mind. She was conscious that his eyes were fixed upon her, felt that he understood something of the doubts which troubled her.

"I do not trust Lord Rosmore," she said.

"Nor should I if I could conceive any advantage he could gain from his present action," Crosby answered. "He knows that I am a valuable prisoner. He might reasonably hope that he is now in a position to bring pressure upon you. He and I have stood face to face, letting cold steel settle our quarrel. I say it not boastingly, but I should have killed him. He admitted defeat, although I was robbed of victory. Under all the evil that is in him may there not be some generosity? I am inclined to think this is his reason for helping us."

"He gave me another reason," said Barbara quietly.

"Tell me."

"Revenge. I should live to regret leaving Dorchester with Gilbert Crosby, who would never let me go, once I was in his hands. I have scorned him for a—"

"For me," said Crosby. "True, I have no such name as Rosmore has, I cannot offer you a tithe of what he can give you. My most precious possession is my love, but in love he is bankrupt beside my wealth. True, too, that I will not easily let you go, but you shall choose your own path. We will seek safety together, and then—then if along the road I would have you take you see difficulties and dangers, if in your mind there stands a single shadow which you fear, you shall take your own way unhindered and alone. If you will it, I will pass out of your life and you shall never hear of me again. Can you not trust me?"

"You know I do; you should not even ask the question, but—ah, Gilbert, cannot you understand the trouble that is mine?"

"Yes, dearest; I know, I know," he said, falling on his knees beside her. "Chance brought me into your life, chance gave us a few sweet hours together, yet how little can you know of me. We are not like other lovers who have told each other their secrets, who have dreamed long dreams together. Only to-night you have been in my arms for the first time. I have never told you that I love you, yet you know it."

"Yes, I know it," she whispered.

"And yet you are afraid. I do not blame you, my dearest; you know so little about me, but you shall question me once we are free."

"And you will answer all my questions?"

"All of them, even if the answer should bring a blush of shame to my cheek," he said.

"And if—if I asked you to give up something, to begin a new life, to forsake old friends, old associations?"

"I shall live only for you," he said.

Then for the first time she looked straight into his eyes. What was the question in them? She was waiting, for some answer—what was it?

"You must be lenient with me," he said. "When a man answers all a woman's questions, it is because he worships her, only because of that, and then he understands how poor a thing, how unworthy he is. I shall answer them all, you must be lenient and forgive."

She still looked at him, but did not speak.

"I may argue with you, use all the power I have to win your forgiveness, use all the depths of my love to show you that our way henceforth must be together. Be sure I shall not easily let you go. Rosmore was wrong, you shall be free to choose; but I will use every artifice I have to make you choose to stay with me. It has never seemed to me that words were necessary. Love came to me as the sunshine and the wind come, given to me, a free gift from Heaven. One moment I was without it, ignorant of it, and the next it was a part of my life. Before, to live had seemed a great thing, to be a man, to do a man's work was enough; afterwards, life could not be life without love. Rob me of love now, and you leave me nothing."

"When was the moment, Gilbert?"

"When I saw you shrinking from the crowd as it poured out of Newgate," he whispered.

"Even then?" she said.

"Yes; and I did not know who you were, Barbara. It did not seem to matter. Love had come—I thought to us both. I could not understand that it should come to me so suddenly, so wonderfully, and not come to you also. A little waiting, and then you would be mine. It must happen so. And then came my token and talisman. See how close it has clung to me."

With fingers that trembled a little, he drew out the white ribbon which was fastened about his neck. She touched it, looked at it and at him.

"It fell from your throat, or waist, when you moved to come with me. I caught it as it fluttered to the ground and hid it. I have worn it ever since. I have kissed it night and morning, and it has brought the vision of you to my waking eyes and into my dreams. I have seen you going from room to room in my old home at Lenfield, I have seen you descending the stairs, so vividly that I have found myself holding out my arms to you. Sometimes when the days were dark, and I was troubled, an awful sadness has crept into my soul. Doubts have come. Should I ever see you in those rooms, on those stairs? And then, dearest, I have touched this ribbon and hope has come again like sunshine after storm. Aye, you shall question me as you will, but be very sure I shall not easily let you go."

Barbara stood up suddenly. Her hands were in his, and she made him rise from his knees. She stood before him, her eyes looking into his.

"And, Gilbert, when you have ridden in the night, alone, have you thought of me then?"

"Since love came I have never ridden alone," he answered. "No matter if the stars were clear, or the night had wind and rain in it, you have been beside me. At times, lately, a hundred difficulties have stood in my path. It seemed impossible that I could win safety for some poor wretch of a fugitive, so impossible that I might have given up the task in despair only that you seemed to speak to me, encouraging me. No; I have never been alone since love came."

"I am glad," she said.

"And you love me, Barbara?"

"Yes—yes, I must love you, I cannot help it, but—" and then she stopped, for there were sounds of footsteps in the passage. "Is the hour gone so soon? Kiss me, Gilbert; I love you. No matter who you are, or what you have done, I love you. I am yours, always; no other shall kiss me or hold me in his arms. But, remember, I have your promise, I may take which road I choose, alone and unhindered if I will it so," and then, as the door opened, she pushed him gently from her, and they were standing apart when Rosmore entered.

"It has seemed a long hour, Mistress Lanison, to a waiting man. To you—"

"Long enough to hear the plan you have made for my escape," said Barbara.

"For your escape and Mr. Crosby's," said Rosmore, laying some stress upon his words.

"For which we both thank you," she went on. "For my part I have had, perhaps, unjust thoughts concerning you, your present generosity makes me understand that in many ways I have misjudged you. Please forgive me."

"You certainly have misjudged me in many ways, Mistress Lanison, and, as I have said, you may not have much cause to thank me for what I do now."

"I have decided to run the risk."

"You have yet three days in which to alter your decision if you so wish," Rosmore returned. "The delay is necessary. The road will be freer and safer then, and the town too much occupied with Judge Jeffreys to pay much attention to anyone else. Mr. Crosby has told you the place of meeting. The trooper Watson will follow you and see you safely into Mr. Crosby's company, and then freedom and happiness. Until then you must not meet. I must think of myself, and bringing Mr. Crosby here is a risk. Should you, even at the eleventh hour, change your mind, I will let Mr. Crosby know. Once upon the road, no one is likely to stop you, especially if you go southwards, as I presume you will; but in case of accident, there is Judge Marriott's order for your release. With that in your possession, I know of none who would refuse to let you pass."

Barbara took the paper.

"And there is your order, Mr. Crosby. It is time we went. Your servant, Mistress Lanison," and Rosmore bent low over her hand.

"Thank you," she said in a whisper. Crosby in his turn bent over her hand, his lips touching it.

"Until you come to me," he said, "God keep you."

A swift pressure of his fingers was her only answer. Then the door opened and shut again, the key was turned in the lock, and she was alone.

As Gilbert Crosby had been brought there, in a coach and blindfolded, so he left, and went back with Lord Rosmore to his lodgings.

"In view of your kindness in helping us, the bandage hardly seemed necessary," said Crosby, as he took it off, when they had entered Rosmore's room, the same room in which they had fought.

"You might grow weary of waiting, and attempt to see her. Lovers are like that, and often spoil the best-laid schemes," Rosmore laughed. "Oh, I am thinking chiefly of myself. Jeffreys has no profound love for me, and would rejoice to catch me tripping. You are no longer my guest, Mr. Crosby. I have done my part, and your presence here is a danger to me. You are free to go. Perhaps you had better tell me where you are to be found during the next three days. Women are sometimes as changeful as a gusty wind, and Mistress Lanison might alter her decision."

Although astonished at being set at liberty at once, Crosby was not so off his guard as to mention "The Anchor" in West Street. He gave the address of Fellowes' lodging. It was the only other place he knew where a message could reach him.

"Good-bye, then," said Rosmore. "You will be wise to keep within doors until you leave Dorchester for good. There are many who know Gilbert Crosby, and once in the hands of Jeffreys you would have short shrift."

"Thank you. I shall take care. I believe you have proved a friend, Lord Rosmore," and Crosby held out his hand.

For a moment Rosmore hesitated.

"No; we will not shake hands," he said. "If I have found consolation, I cannot forget who you are and that you have robbed me of Mistress Lanison. To clasp your hand would mean to wish you good luck, and I cannot do that. I want her to know that she has chosen badly. You and I could never be friends, Mr. Crosby."

"As you will; yet I would repay your kindness if ever the opportunity should offer."

Rosmore shrugged his shoulders as he crossed the room and Crosby went out, Sayers joining him in the passage and seeing that no one hindered his going.

For a few minutes Rosmore remained in deep thought, and then Harriet Payne came in.

"You look strangely ill-tempered," was her greeting.

"My face must be a poor index to my thoughts," he answered, with quick yet forced gaiety. "I have just finished a good work."

"What is that?"

"Making two people happy. Come and kiss me, and I'll tell you all about it." Yet all her kisses and arts of pleasing could not keep the thoughtfulness out of his face as he told her how Barbara Lanison and Gilbert Crosby were to leave Dorchester together.



CHAPTER XXV

THE TRIPLE ALLIANCE

There was little danger of anyone recognising Gilbert Crosby as he passed through the streets of the town. A swinging lantern might illumine his face for a moment, or the beam of light from some unshuttered window might have betrayed him to some watching enemy, but everyone in the houses and in the streets had enough to think about to-night. Judge Jeffreys had come to Dorchester. To-morrow his ferocious voice would be dooming dozens to death in that court with the scarlet hangings. The Bloody Assizes would have commenced in earnest, and there were few families in Dorchester which had not one relative or friend waiting in the prisons to be tried for rebellion. There was already mourning in the city, and the soldiers were in readiness lest desperation should drive to riot. Crosby might have gone with less care than he did and yet passed unnoticed.

In the upper room at "The Anchor" he found Fellowes, who sprang up at his entrance.

"Gad! I had lost all hope," he exclaimed. "I have been searching the town for you. I thought Rosmore must have caught you."

"He did. A miracle has happened. Where is Fairley?"

"I have not seen him since we parted the other night," Fellowes answered. "I have picked up some information, but have had no one to tell it to."

"And I have seen Mistress Lanison."

"Seen her!"

"Seen her and spoken to her. It is a miracle, I tell you." And Crosby gave him the history of his dealings with Lord Rosmore, omitting no detail from the moment he had stepped into the room and overheard part of the conversation with Judge Marriott to his leaving Rosmore's lodging less than an hour ago.

"It is well that you did not tell him of this place," said Fellowes.

"You do not trust him?"

"No. Do you?"

"I cannot see how he is possibly to profit out of such a plan," said Crosby.

"The devil tempts in the same way," answered Fellowes. "If we could always see through the devil's plans we should less often fall a victim to his wiles. If an angel came and bid me trust Rosmore, I should have no faith in the angel."

"Let us find the weak places in the scheme if we can," said Crosby.

"There is one I see at once," said Fellowes. "You are taken blindfold to Mistress Lanison's prison. You do not know in what part of the town she is. You cannot watch the house. Why the delay of three days?"

"I am inclined to think Rosmore has been generous this time," Crosby persisted.

"If by some strange chance he has, there are three days in which he may repent of his generosity," was the answer. "I have seen Marriott. He told me of his interview with Rosmore, and that the orders had been stolen from him, he did not explain how. Rosmore has no fiercer enemy at the moment than the judge. Marriott knew nothing of Mistress Lanison's capture; indeed, he declared that he did not believe she was in Dorchester. One thing he was certain of, that Rosmore intended to force her to marry him."

"How?"

"Perhaps by letting her appear before Jeffreys, allowing her to be accused and condemned, and then rescuing her at his own price. This is Marriott's idea."

"She would not pay the price."

"And I fear Marriott would not be powerful enough to save her, although he says he could, if Rosmore took this course. The outlook is black, man, black as hell, and only one feeble ray of light can I bring into it. Marriott has promised to help me to open her prison doors should she be condemned. To his own undoing I believe he will keep that promise, so great is his hatred of Rosmore."

"What can we do?" said Crosby, pacing the room with short, nervous strides. "It is damnable to be so helpless."

"Wait; there is nothing else to do. Marriott is doing his best to find out where Mistress Lanison is imprisoned. He is to let me know. If we can find that out we may yet beat this devil Rosmore."

"He may be honest in this," said Crosby.

"We will have the coach waiting," Fellowes answered, "but I do not believe Rosmore is ever going to help you to use it. I wish Martin were here."

"Where can he have gone?"

"Working somewhere for his mistress," said Fellowes. "That is certain unless he is dead. You recollect he said he had a half-formed scheme in his mind. Next morning I found a message here that he might be absent for a day or two."

"Some forlorn hope," said Crosby.

"Perhaps, but Martin's forlorn hopes have a way of proving useful. You will lie low here, I suppose, Crosby? I will get back to my lodgings, and if I hear from Marriott I will come to you at once—or from Rosmore. It may be part of his design to make you think Mistress Barbara has changed her mind."

"If he sent such a message I should know he was lying."

"Don't leave here, Crosby. Much may depend on my being able to find you at a moment's notice, and Martin may return at any time. You and I have only discovered how great our difficulties are. Let us hope Martin will have found the way out of them."

Would he? Crosby wondered, when he was left alone. In what direction could Martin be seeking a solution to the problem? Not in Dorchester, surely, or he would have come to the "Anchor" tavern. Where else? In London? At Aylingford? Yes, perhaps at Aylingford; an appeal to Barbara's guardian. If Martin Fairley had attempted such a forlorn hope as this it was unlikely that he would bring much help with him when he returned. Hour after hour Crosby sat there alone, now staring vacantly at the opposite wall, now pacing the narrow room like a caged and impotent animal. The dawn found him asleep in his chair.

News travelled slowly. Messengers, with instructions not to spare their horses, might ride to London, to the King at Whitehall, yet Lady Lisle had been executed at Winchester before the story of her trial was known in parts of Hampshire even. If one were far from the main road, where news might be had from the driver or guard of a coach, information could only come from some wandering pedlar to a remote village, and might or might not be true. Vague stories were told, and forgotten as soon as told. Men and women, with a hard living to earn, cared little what was happening fifty or a hundred miles away, unless a son or brother or friend had had part in the rebellion. At the village of Aylingford no one appeared to have this personal interest, and they were ignorant of the fact that at least one messenger had ridden to the Abbey with news for Sir John. He had come at nightfall, had been with Sir John for an hour, and had then departed. He had not lingered in the servants' quarters to whisper something of his news, nor had Sir John mentioned his coming to his guests. There were not many guests at Aylingford just now, and Mrs. Dearmer yawned openly, and confessed herself bored. She seemed to have taken up her abode permanently at the Abbey, playing the hostess, and to some extent ruling Sir John.

"I vow, Abbot, you're less lively than a ditch in a dry summer," she said to him the day after the messenger had been.

"What shall we do to make us merry? You have only to command," he answered.

"Plague on it, I am at a loss to know. In all our present company there's not a wit worth listening to, nor a woman with sufficient vice or virtue to make her interesting. I feel like turning saint for the sake of a new sensation."

"There are some things even you cannot do, and turning saint is one of them."

"I would have said as much for you," she returned. "But this morning your face has already begun to play the part. It might belong to the painted window of a chapel."

"Is it so uninteresting?" laughed Sir John. "Truly, you and I must devise some wickedness to pass the time until kindred spirits return to the Abbey. Half the monks of Aylingford are in the West, and the nuns find it dull without them."

"Next week we will go to town," said Mrs. Dearmer. "I love you, Abbot John, with all the wickedness that is in me, but truly you have grown dull lately."

No one was better qualified to pass judgment on Sir John than Mrs. Dearmer. To her he was dull, perhaps the worst crime a man can be guilty of in the eyes of such a woman, yet the accusation did not trouble him now as much as it would have done at another time. He was restless, and if his conscience was too moribund to have the power of pricking, he had become introspective. Fear and superstition took hold of him, and he could not shake himself free. The news which the messenger had brought him was good news, yet, even as the man had delivered it, a candle had guttered and gone out, and Sir John saw a warning of disaster in the fact. He was constantly on the watch for such omens, and saw them within the house and without. He met a new kitchen wench who looked at him with eyes askew, sure sign of evil. Three crows with flapping wings settled at dusk upon the terrace wall and called to him as he passed. A vase of quaint workmanship, brought from the East Indies by his brother, Barbara's father, split suddenly in twain, and Sir John trembled as with an ague at so sure a premonition of evil as this. There were moments when he could not bear to be shut in a room, when the confinement between four walls seemed to stifle him, and like a half suffocated man he would stagger on to the terrace and gasp for breath.

He promised Mrs. Dearmer that next week he would go with her to town, and all that day he tried to prove that he was not dull. The effort was successful until the evening, and then came the feeling of suffocation and the need for deep draughts of air. With a muttered excuse he left his guests to their play and laughter, and hurried to the terrace.

The night was still, not a breeze stirred in the trees, and the light of a young moon was upon the terrace, casting faint, motionless shadows over greensward and stone flags. For a little while Sir John stood looking down into the stream, which seemed asleep to-night. Upon it the shadows quivered, but scarce a ripple of music came from underneath its banks. A man might well feel some regrets for the past on such a night of peace, might well hear the small voice of conscience distinctly, but with Sir John there was only superstition and fear.

Motionless shadows on the terrace, and yet Sir John turned suddenly, as though he were conscious of movement, and his eyes rested upon a shadow in the angle of a wall. He had not noticed it before; now for a little space it seemed like other shadows, but Sir John was not deceived. It moved, coming out from the wall and towards him, and a man stood there.

"Martin!"

Sir John was not a coward, but a sigh of relief escaped him when he realised that this was no phantom, but a thing of flesh and blood—only Mad Martin.

"I have waited for you, Sir John."

"The doors were not locked against you, though they well might have been. Where do you spring from to-night, and what have you been doing?"

"Wandering and dreaming."

"In a mad mood, eh?"

"Yes, when I see things and hear voices," said Martin in a sing-song tone, as though he were dreaming now and unconscious of the words his lips uttered. "I heard my mistress calling me. Where is she, Sir John?"

"In London, Martin."

"No; she was, but not now. She was calling from a dark room, and the door was locked. I could see the room, a miserable room, but I could not see her, only hear her. She was in the power of Lord Rosmore."

Sir John bent forward to see Fairley's face more clearly in the moonlight. He had known him in this mood before, known him to give strange but good advice while in this state. He was satisfied that Martin was unconscious now, and was eager to question him.

"What will happen, Martin?"

"I cannot see."

"But why come to the Abbey?"

"She sent me to you. I know not why, but I have waited. I heard her say that I must not be seen. She thought you could save her."

"How?"

Martin put his arm across his eyes for a moment.

"It is all a mist, and the voices are muffled," he said. "You would know what Lord Rosmore would do, and would tell me."

"It will be good for her to marry Lord Rosmore," said Sir John.

"Not good for her, but good for you," was the answer; "she said that. She said you were afraid of him, that you must do as he willed. It was very clear in my dreams."

"Why should I fear him?"

"So many questions give me pain. I was dreaming; I cannot remember everything. One thing is clear. She called to me that you might be free from Lord Rosmore if you knew a secret which the Abbey holds."

"Do you know it, Martin?"

"Yes; she told me, and it is a secret."

"What is it, Martin?"

"A secret, but I was to tell you if you helped her."

"Stop this foolery!" said Sir John, seizing his arm sharply. "You shall be locked up until this wayward niece of mine is safely married."

"Married! Would you die, master?"

"Die?"

"Surely. The stars showed it me long ago. Two planets in conjunction, that was the marriage, and then across the night sky the flash of a meteor, dead and cold in a moment."

"Curse your dreams and the stars!"

"Listen!" said Fairley. "Cannot you hear the music of chinking money? Look, master! I see gems like eyes—white and red and blue—diamonds, rubies, and sapphires. That is all part of the secret, that and the Nun's Room."

"Tell me the secret," said Sir John.

"If you help my mistress."

"I know nothing."

"I have forgotten the secret," Martin whispered.

He moved away slowly and then stopped.

"Master, why not be rich? What is it to you and me what happens to Mistress Barbara, so we can be rich? I would be rich, too. If Lord Rosmore has power over you, money and jewels will buy freedom. It is true, somewhere in the Abbey the wealth of the Indies has been buried. I know it."

"Then tell me, Martin."

"You fool, you fool, you have made me forget, but I shall remember if you will only let me. In dreams, when we promise and do not fulfil, we forget everything. You must help my mistress, or I cannot remember. See, I have a proof. Once, long ago, I found that in the Nun's Room; I thought it was glass, but Mistress Barbara's voice says it is a diamond. Take it, master, you will know."

It was a diamond which Sir John held between his finger and thumb. In the moonlight the colours sparkled, such deep, clear colours as never came from glass. It was a stone that had been set; how had it come into the Nun's Room? Sir John's pulses quickened. If he told what he knew, what harm would be done?

"It is a diamond, Martin."

"One among hidden hundreds. Help the mistress, master, and let us be rich. You must give me a little of all we find, so that I may always have a fire in winter and can eat and drink when I like; that is to be rich, indeed."

"I will tell you what I know, Martin, but how can it help Barbara?"

"She has command of my thoughts, as you speak she will hear; but a warning, master—you must speak the truth. I shall not know the truth from a lie, but she will, and if you lie we shall not find the treasure."

"Barbara went to Dorchester to try and save the highwayman, Gilbert Crosby," said Sir John. "It was Rosmore's device to send her word that Crosby was a prisoner, and on the way she was captured, not by the King's troops as a rebel, but by men in Rosmore's pay. She is in no real danger, but she does not know this. She will not be brought before Jeffreys or any other judge, but she will be treated as though this were to be her fate. Rosmore will save her, do you understand, and in her gratitude she will give him his reward."

"How will he save me?" came the question in a monotonous voice, and Sir John started, for it did not seem as if Martin had asked it.

"The day of the trial will be fixed—it may be to-day or to-morrow, I cannot tell; but the night before she will be smuggled into a waiting coach and driven here to Aylingford."

"Must she promise to marry Lord Rosmore first?"

"Probably. Yes, he will certainly make her promise that before he helps her. It is not a hard promise to make, Martin; Lord Rosmore is a better mate than 'Galloping Hermit.'"

Martin sighed and rubbed his eyes. He looked round him and then at Sir John.

"I thought I was speaking to Mistress Barbara," he said. "Ah, I remember, I was. We have helped her, Sir John. How she will use that help does not matter. Is she to give a promise to Rosmore? I wonder what will happen if she will not give it?"

"I do not know. Such is Lord Rosmore's plan, but circumstances might make him alter it."

"And if he fails he may denounce her and leave her to her fate," said Martin. "She won't be the only woman to suffer, and, whichever way it ends, we have something else to think of—riches."

"Is it true about this treasure, Martin?" said Sir John.

"True! As true as that Lady Lisle was foully executed at Winchester for just such a crime as Mistress Barbara may be accused of if she will make no promise to Lord Rosmore."

"That is a horrible thought," said Sir John, shrinking from him.

"We mustn't think. Those who would get rich quickly must act. Come."

He led the way along the terrace towards the ruins, and Sir John followed him almost as if he expected to see movement in the motionless shadows about him. The prospect of finding this hidden wealth, and all it would mean to him, shut out every other thought. The legend of buried treasure at the Abbey was not a new one. The monks who had lived in it had grown wealthy—why should they not have left their wealth behind them? Martin was mad, but in his madness he had strange visions; Sir John was satisfied that he had had many proofs of this, and he followed him now, never doubting that the treasure existed and would be found.

They came to the opening of the Nun's Room.

"The creepers in this corner are a natural ladder, Sir John."

"But we cannot go down into it, Martin."

"How else shall we get the riches?"

"Those who enter the Nun's Room die within the year," said Sir John, trembling.

"A tale made to keep the curious from looking for the treasure," Martin answered. "I have gone down many times, but I searched in vain, not having the key to the secret. To-night I have it. I will go first," and, kneeling down, he grasped the creepers, which grew strongly here, and lowered himself quickly.

Sir John was not so agile, but he went down after him. He would have accomplished a far more difficult feat rather than remain behind.

"I wonder whether Mistress Barbara will make that promise?" said Martin, as Sir John came to the floor beside him.

"I wonder."

"If she doesn't, death. If she does, Rosmore will have a wife; the poor highwayman will doubtless hang at Tyburn; but we shall be rich. That matters, nothing else does."

"Nothing else, Martin," and, indeed, Sir John was too excited to be troubled by any other thought.

Martin guided him across the room.

"Feel, Sir John. This is the ledge where they say the Nun slept; creepers hang over it, and behind these creepers—listen, Sir John, listen!" and he knocked sharply against the stone wall. "Hollow! It's true! This is no solid wall as it seems. Feel, Sir John, your finger on the edge of this great slab. A doorway built up, and not so long ago. Listen! Hollow! It's true, it's true!" and Martin jumped and clapped his hands like a child.

"Yes, it's hollow, sure enough," said Sir John.

"Light and a pick. We'll be in the treasure chamber before morning. Wait, Sir John, I'll get them."

"Stop, Martin; where are you going?"

"For a light and a pick," and he climbed out by the creepers in the corner. "I know the treasure has been hidden there. I have seen it in my dreams."

"Be quick, Martin."

"I shall make more haste than I have ever done in my life before," he answered, bending over the edge by the corner. "Poor Rosmore! poor highwayman! Only a wife and a gibbet for them. But for us—"

"Stop talking, Martin, and let us get to work," came the answer from below.

"I wonder whether Mistress Barbara will make a promise?" And Martin cut and wrenched at the creepers where they clung to the stone floor and fallen masonry at the top.

"What are you doing?" said Sir John.

"Freeing myself from the creepers. That's done. I'll hasten, Sir John, never fear."

Something moved in the dark, sunken room, scraping and sliding.

"Martin!"

Sir John could hear the sound of his footsteps quickly lessening in the distance, but there was no answer to his call.

"Martin!"

Still no answer, and the sound of the footsteps had gone. Sir John, with his hands stretched out before him, crossed to the corner where he had come down. His hands came in contact with a tangle of creepers, hanging loose, from the wall. The ladder was broken!

Martin Fairley went swiftly to the terrace and on to one of the stone bridges over the stream. Then he paused and listened.

"He will have to cry loudly to be heard to-night. Grant that he may find no escape until morning."

Then he crossed the bridge and went swiftly through the woods.



CHAPTER XXVI

THE FLIGHT

Dorchester was in mourning. If there had been any hope that Mercy and Justice would go hand in hand, if there were a lingering belief that Judge Jeffreys might not be so cruel as it was said, such hopes and beliefs were quickly dispelled the moment that court with its scarlet hangings was opened. Even Judge Marriott shrank a little as his learned brother bullied and laughed and swore at the prisoners, bidding them plead guilty as their only hope of escape, and then condemning them to the gibbet with the ferocity of a drunken fiend. Pity crept into the hard faces of rough soldiers; the devilishness of this judge appalled even them.

Since she had no maid to attend to her, Watson took Barbara her food; but, although he had received no instructions to discontinue his efforts to break her courage by detailing the horrors of the punishment which was being administered to rebels, he spoke of them no more. He pitied this fair woman, and was deeply impressed with her bravery. He was not wholly in his master's confidence, and believed that his prisoner was in grave danger. He did not doubt that under certain conditions she might be saved, but she was not the woman from whom promises could be forced, and no one could know better than Watson did how ruthless his master was in clearing obstacles out of his path, how cruel he was when he became revengeful. He knew that Gilbert Crosby had been allowed an interview with Barbara Lanison, but was ignorant of the purpose. He did not know that her escape had been arranged for, nor that he was to have a part in it; and there were times when he weighed against each other his pity for the woman and his fear of Lord Rosmore, finding it so difficult to tell which outbalanced the other that he went a step further and thought out plans for getting Mistress Lanison away from Dorchester. Not one of his schemes could possibly have succeeded, but the trooper found a satisfaction in making them.

Barbara was speedily aware of the change in Watson's manner towards her, but she was not astonished. It was natural under the changed conditions of her imprisonment. Every hour brought her freedom nearer, and the man knew this, she supposed, and treated her accordingly. Concerning her escape she did not question him, but she did ask him whether Judge Jeffreys had arrived, and if the Assizes had begun.

"Truth, madam, my duty keeps me in this house, and I know little of what is happening in the town."

"Nor how the prisoners will be treated?" Barbara asked.

"Some say this and some say that," Watson replied evasively, "and I have enough to do without thinking about the lawyer's work. When I hear lawyers talk I can't tell right from wrong. You have to be trained to understand the jargon."

So Barbara Lanison heard nothing of the mourning that was in the town, and had naught to do during the long waiting hours but think of the future and all that it meant to her. She was going with Gilbert Crosby, but he had promised that, once they were in safety, she should choose her own way. Would she take his road? She loved him. The fact was so absorbing that nothing else seemed to matter; yet she had many lonely hours for thought, and it would have been strange indeed if none of the circumstances of her life, of her position, had demanded her consideration. To trust this lover with her future meant the snapping of every tie which bound her to the past; it must mean, in the world's eyes, bringing contempt upon her name. She faced the truth bravely. It seemed an impossible thing that Barbara Lanison of Aylingford should marry Galloping Hermit the highwayman. Such a thing might appeal as a romantic tale, but in the real world it meant disgrace. In another land love might be hers, such love, perchance, as few women have ever had, but could it obliterate the past? Would she ever be able to forget that the man beside her, his face hidden behind the brown mask, had waited, pistol in hand, upon the high road, to rob passing travellers? All men were not cowards, nor did they travel unprepared for danger; there must have been times when the pistols had spoken in the silence of the night, when some hapless traveller had died upon the roadside. Surely there was blood upon the hands of the man she loved! The thought bowed her head, and her hands clasped as if a spasm of sudden pain had seized her. No repentance in the long years to come, not all the good that might be done in them, could wipe out the past. And then she tried to find excuses for that past, some reason that could justify the life he had chosen. Some very definite reason there must have been. The artificial glamour of the life would not attract such a man as Gilbert Crosby. He must have imagined that justice was on his side, that there was some wrong to right, to make him defy all the laws of life and property and become a menace and a terror to his fellows.

Stories concerning Galloping Hermit had already passed into legend. His greatest exploits always seemed to be against those who were cruel in their dealings with others, who were unjust, or those whose lives were notoriously bad; and there were many tales of courtesy, of consideration, of help, which were totally out of keeping with the ordinary career of a highwayman. Barbara remembered his treatment of Judge Marriott, remembered what he had said. He was, the world said it, quite apart from all other highwaymen; nevertheless, there was a price upon his head, and the shadow of Tyburn lay dark across his path. And yet he was Gilbert Crosby, the man she loved, the man who was blessed and nightly prayed for in many a humble home in this West Country. What did the world hold for her that she should thrust such a man out of her life? Which way was she to choose—that which led Lack in her uncle's world, with its Rosmores, its Branksomes, its Marriotts, its Mistress Dearmers, and its shams of love which was vice, and of life which was moral death; or that which led to quiet obscurity with the man she loved, a sinner, but repentant, in whose worship she could trust, and whose touch thrilled her very soul? Had she not almost promised already—to take her way with him?

The second day of her waiting had ended, darkness had come; to-morrow night she would go. At about this hour galloping horses would be hurrying her away from Dorchester. Her thoughts were full of to-morrow, when the key turned quietly in the lock and Watson entered.

"Good news, madam. I only heard it an hour ago, and was never more pleased in my life."

"What news?"

"That you are to leave Dorchester, and with Mr. Crosby. Craving your pardon, madam, I know something of your reason for coming to the West; and, for all I'm so rough a fellow, I'm fond o' lovers."

"Thank you," said Barbara, for the man was evidently pleased.

"And it comes sooner than you expected," said Watson. "The road is safe, and you are to go to-night."

"To-night!"

"Yes, now. Mr. Crosby will already be waiting on the road which leads down to the river. I am to see you safely there."

"But to-night? Are you sure there is no mistake?"

"Quite sure. We must go at once."

Barbara went quickly into the inner room, and in a few moments returned closely wrapped in an ample cloak.

"Draw the hood down over your head," said Watson. "The less left for prying eyes to see the better. You have the papers signed by Judge Marriott?"

"Yes."

"One word, madam. No one will hinder us in this house. At the door into the street turn to the right. I shall walk close behind you. Do not hurry. Do not stop if anyone should speak to you, and do not answer them. Walk forward as if I had nothing to do with you."

"I understand."

"Pardon, but the hood does not quite hide your hair. Such hair might betray you if we should meet enemies to-night, for I never saw its like."

Barbara readjusted the hood, and wondered if Gilbert Crosby admired her hair as this trooper did.

Watson opened the door, and they went down the passage together. Two men on the top of the stairs stood aside to let them pass; the street door was open, and Barbara turned to the right, walking alone, the soldier close behind her.

It was a narrow street, and dark, only a light gleaming out here and there from an unshuttered window; but there were many people abroad, whispering together, and Barbara heard sobbing, once coming through an open window, once from a woman who passed her quickly.

"Twenty-nine," she heard one man say in hoarse tones, "the first fruits of this bloody vengeance."

"Curse him! May hell reward him," said his companion.

Barbara shuddered as she passed on, although she did not realise what the words meant.

Then a man stood in her path for a moment.

"A fine night, mistress," he cried. "Twenty-nine of them by the roadside, the chains creaking and the moonlight touching the white faces. Never such a thing in Dorchester before. A damned judge, but what a show!" And then, with a laugh, he ran past her. The voice and the laughter were those of a maniac.

Barbara knew now. Judge Jeffreys had commenced his work. Must she pass those hideous signs of it?

"Turn to the right," said Watson behind her.

She turned, as she was told, into a quieter street, and hurried a little. To be free from this horrible place, it was her only thought. Before she had gone far the houses began to straggle; she was at the edge of the town. The moon was just rising, and by its misty light Barbara saw that the open country was before her. A little further on, the road began to dip, and there, in the shadow of a belt of trees, stood a carriage. There were no gibbets with their twenty-nine victims along this road; that sight she was spared.

Watson came to a standstill.

"Mr. Crosby waits, madam. Good fortune go with you."

"Thank you," she said, and pressed some coins into the man's hand. "Some day, perhaps, I may thank you better."

The soldier saluted as she went forward, watching her, but not following her.

The post-boy was already in his place, and it was evident that the horses were impatient to be gone. A groom stood beside the carriage.

"Mr. Crosby is here, madam," the man said as he opened the door. "There is no time to lose."

Barbara entered the coach quickly, and literally fell into the arms of the man who was awaiting her, for as the door was shut the horses bounded forward.

"Gilbert!"

The hood had fallen from her fair hair as she turned and leaned towards him, and at this moment there was no doubt in her mind which way she would choose. Then with a cry she shrank back into the corner of the coach. It was not Gilbert Crosby beside her, but Lord Rosmore!



CHAPTER XXVII

OUT OF DORCHESTER

Watson went back into Dorchester humming the chorus of a tavern song. It mattered not to him that twenty-nine rebels swung on their gibbets, but it was an intense relief to him that Mistress Barbara Lanison was safely out of the town. He doubted whether he could have seen her condemned in silence, and to speak might have meant that he would speedily swing by the roadside, so he was glad for himself as well as for her. Watson was totally unconscious that he had helped to deliver his prisoner into the hands of Lord Rosmore. He had received definite instructions to see that she safely reached the coach in which Gilbert Crosby was awaiting her; he was not to attend her to the door of the coach lest the post-boy and groom should become suspicious, but to wait and see that she drove away in safety. These instructions he had fulfilled to the letter, and glad to have been concerned in such a happy escape, he went back singing.

From first to last Lord Rosmore had carefully matured his scheme. He had entrusted Watson with one part of it, Sayers with another, and drew a veil over the whole by openly showing and avowing his love for Harriet Payne. He might have enemies in the town, but what power had they? Fear closed Judge Marriott's mouth; the fiddler, Martin Fairley, had vanished into some hole to hide himself; Crosby was waiting patiently for the fulfilment of his promise; and Sydney Fellowes, who, to his surprise, he learnt was also in Dorchester, could do little against him. Still, it is ever the little weaknesses which are the danger-points in great enterprises, and Rosmore realised that Fellowes' presence in Dorchester might bring all his plans to the ground. Great was his satisfaction, therefore, when Barbara entered the coach and the horses started on their journey.

At that moment Fellowes was listening to Martin Fairley's account of his visit to Aylingford. Martin had entered the town half an hour before, and had gone straight to Fellowes' lodging. During his absence the meeting-place at "The Anchor" in West Street might have been discovered, and Martin could not afford to run any risk to-night. To both men it seemed evident that Crosby's reliance in Rosmore's promise was futile. It was possible, even probable, that Sir John Lanison might not know all Rosmore's plans, or might not have told everything he knew, but all faith in Rosmore must fall like a building of cards.

"That road to the river must be watched, Fellowes," said Martin.

"I'll go at once."

"And I will get to 'The Anchor' and see Crosby."

They were leaving the house when a woman met them, inquiring for Mr. Gilbert Crosby.

"What do you want with him?" Martin asked.

"Ah, you are the fiddler, but you are a coward." And Harriet Payne's cloak fell apart as she turned to Fellowes. "Are you Mr. Crosby's friend?"

Martin gave him a quick sign.

"Yes. Is he in danger? Come in and tell me."

"Did you know that he was to have escaped from Dorchester with Mistress Lanison to-morrow night?" said Harriet as Fellowes closed the door.

"Yes."

"He's fooled—fooled from first to last. She has gone to-night. She left Dorchester, not an hour ago, with Lord Rosmore. He has lied to her and to me," and the girl's eyes blazed with fury as she spoke.

"Gone! Willingly, do you mean?"

"Willingly!" exclaimed the girl. "She hates him; she was wiser than I was. I loved him. She is in his power to-night."

"Which road did they take?" asked Fellowes.

"That which goes towards the river, afterwards I do not know. If you are men follow him. Avenge Mistress Lanison and me."

"You have lied before this," said Martin quietly. "With a lie you brought Mistress Lanison to the West. You played Lord Rosmore's game for him. How do we know that you are speaking the truth now?"

"I hate him! Love turned to hate—do you know what that means?" said the girl, turning upon him like some wild animal. "To-night I waited for him and he did not come. Servants saw me and laughed; then one man, jeering at me, told me the truth. He has gone with her, and every moment you waste he is speeding from you. More, to make himself doubly secure, men will come here at midnight asking for Mr. Crosby. They will pretend to come from Mistress Lanison, and then capture him. A hasty trial, and then the gibbet."