Part 11

But ere the chief justice pronounced sentence, a protest came from an unexpected quarter on Barbara's behalf. Sir William Montague, leaning forward in his seat, addressed the judge in low earnest tones which could not fail to arrest his attention.

"My lord, I anticipate what sentence you purpose to pronounce upon the prisoner, even such an one as was passed upon the late Lady Lisle. But bethink you, my lord, the cases are very different. For Lady Alice Lisle was the widow of a noted rebel, she was advanced in years; both her age and her experience should have warned her of the full significance of the offence she committed. Moreover, my lord, there are those who consider that even in her case, the sentence erred in severity. But this is but a girl, too young indeed to realise the criminality of her actions. She hath pleaded guilty it is true, but thereby has thrown herself upon the mercy of the court. That she hath incurred the penalty of the law by sheltering rebels, 'twere idle to deny, but she did so from motives of humanity, and in no way from a desire to further the cause of rebellion. For the rest, my lord, you cannot condemn the prisoner because she hath, as indeed what woman hath not, an over-free tongue, and hath on this occasion, it must be confessed, used it most ill-advisedly. Further, I would remind your lordship," he added in a meaning tone, "that there be occasions when to show mercy is not only a divine action, but also an expedient one."

Lord Jeffreys sat for some moments in silence, gazing sullenly at the prisoner. The words of the chief baron had not been without their effect. He knew well what universal indignation his condemnation of Lady Lisle had aroused, and he judged that in face of the interest the affair had excited in high quarters, to pass another such severe sentence upon a woman were not politic. For however much the orders of the King might demand seventy, Jeffreys knew well that his master was not one to screen his servants from the general opprobrium attendant upon the committal of an unpopular act, even were that act the outcome of his express commands.

Meanwhile a deep hush of expectation had fallen upon the court while the judges had conferred together, broken at length by the harsh tones of the chief justice.

"Mistress Barbara Winslow, you have been found guilty of the crime of harbouring rebels, and of interference with the lawful actions of the agents of his Majesty, the King. Yet as the tender heart of his Majesty, our most gracious sovereign, doth ever incline to pity and leniency, you shall, in consideration of your youth, meet with a mercy you have in no wise deserved." Here he paused and scowled vindictively upon Barbara.

"The sentence of the court is that you shall be imprisoned for the space of two years in the common gaol of this city. Furthermore, ye shall to-morrow, and once every month in the two years of your imprisonment, be scourged publicly by the common hangman, in the open market-place. By this discipline it may be that the hardness of your heart shall be melted, and you shall recognise the power of that justice which you have dared to condemn."

A shudder of horror went round the court at the pronouncement of this brutal sentence; but Barbara controlled herself; indeed, she did not yet fully realise what had befallen her.

She raised her head defiantly and returned the judge's glance of triumph with a calm smile.

"Farewell, my Lord Jeffreys," she cried, "and may God prosper you as you deserve."

She walked proudly from the chamber and still scarce realising the horror of her sentence, she passed from the court house, surrounded by her guards, and emerged into the street.

In the centre of the market-place stood a crowd of loafers, rough fellows, and troopers of Kirke's horse, to whom, however, she gave but little heed. But as she was being escorted by the outskirts of the crowd, a sudden sharp cry rent the air, followed by horrible shrieks of pain. The crowd parted for an instant, and she beheld a woman, one of the peasant-women who had shared her sleeping-room the previous night, bound to the whipping-post, her back bare, and streaming with blood, her face distorted with suffering. Then the shrieks were smothered in a shout of coarse laughter from the troopers, the crowd closed round the scene, and her guards hurried her forward.

It was but the glimpse of an instant, but in that instant Barbara realised her own doom; it was as though she had beheld a vision of her own fate, and at length she understood.

She reached the shed, still to be her temporary prison, giddy with horror, the shrieks of the woman still resounding in her ears, and worse than these, that sickening shout of brutal laughter which made her blush and tingle with shame as she pictured the coarse jest that had doubtless given rise to the merriment.

With clenched teeth and drawn face, she hurried into the shed, struggling to master this fear which clutched her heart. She knew that she must not think of it. She must talk, work, do anything, anything; but think of it she dared not. But, alas! what else remained for her. The company in the shed was reduced to a few stolid peasants, who could not have comprehended her fears, and some half-dozen rough soldiers, mercenaries in Monmouth's army, who sought to while away the hours and drown their cares with dice and drink procured, no doubt, by the corruption of an indulgent sentry.

All her friends of the previous day had been removed. The only other female occupant of the shed was the strange old woman, the fanatic, who, when the girl timidly approached her, gazed upon her with unseeing eyes and continued to mutter and gabble her tests.

Nowhere was there comfort for Barbara; she was utterly alone. In vain she strode about the shed, tried to fix her mind upon the past, upon the traditions of her family, upon the boasted courage of the Winslows. In vain she repeated verses, recalled stories, anything to distract her mind, she could not control her thoughts, could not drive the face of the tortured woman from before her eyes, nor banish from her ears the terror of her cries.

It was now dark and her nerves were overstrung, worn out completely with the excitement of what she had passed through. The thing had come upon her so unexpectedly she had no resistance to offer, and now in the silence and loneliness of the night the full horror of the future gradually dawned upon her mind. She pictured with all the vividness of a strong imagination every detail of the life before her; death itself seemed easier to face than this nightmare of shame and torture. She sobbed with terror. Fear took possession of her soul, and she suffered as only those of strong will and high courage can suffer in their moments of weakness.

*CHAPTER XIII*

Lady Cicely, who was overcome with the effects of her encounter with Jeffreys and the attendant incidents of the previous evening, had not the courage to attend the sitting of the court, although Master Lane had ascertained that her cousin's trial might be expected to take place during the day. She sat hour by hour in the quiet house waiting for her host to bring her news of the verdict.

Prudence was unusually silent and depressed. She had been severely blamed by her mother for her share in the expedition of the previous evening; moreover, the sight of her friend's misery sobered her into a quite unwonted gravity. Deborah, on the contrary, passed the day in a state of hysterical excitement. Like so many otherwise kind-hearted women she possessed in a large degree that morbid love of horrors, which is erroneously considered to be an attribute of the uneducated classes alone.

At intervals during that terrible day, she darted in with some fresh tale of misery, culled from the gossip of the neighbours or the chatter of the maids. She poured forth these stories with an air of eager excitement, nay, more, of intense enjoyment, ill-concealed beneath a grave head-shaking and copious exclamations of pity and horror.

"They have built up a scaffold in the market-place," she announced rapturously. "Oh! 'tis terrible to see it. Martha Hemming saith she could not sleep for the sound of the hammering, and thinking of all the poor creatures to be hanged there. 'Tis said they mostly go straight from their trial to be hanged. Think on't. They may be hanging now, the poor fellows. 'Tis said, down Dorchester way, the judges sent three hundred to be hanged, and my Lord Jeffreys hath said it will not be his fault if he doth not depopulate this place. 'Tis terrible. 'Tis as it was in July. Dost mind it, Prudence, after the fight at Sedgemoor, when Colonel Kirke first came here? They hanged them on the signpost of the Inn. Oh! 'twas too horrible. Joan Marlow saw it. 'Twas said that one wretch was strung up and cut down again four times ere he died. Think on't. And the troopers jesting at him the while. 'Twas a fearsome time! I doubt not 'twill be yet more dreadful now. 'Tis a wonder such things should be. One can but pity them though they be rebels."

So she rattled on, while Cicely sat by shuddering with horror.

Later in the day Deborah became still more profuse and detailed in her narratives.

"They say my Lord Jeffreys is fair raging. Some say he is mad or drunk, for he laughs and jests, and then again bellows with fury. What a man it is! But, oh! Prudence, I had nigh forgot. Philip Harke is hanged. Straight from court they took him, hanged him till he was well-nigh spent, then cut him down and quartered him. The horror of it! And none dare tell his wife; but she was out ere they knew, and saw his head on a pole in High Street, and has turned silly, they say. And small wonder too; I shall not dare to walk the streets for a month. Praise be to God we have no friends among them, saving, of course, your cousin, Lady Cicely, yet 'tis terrible to see the heads and corpses. And the market-place must be a shambles, they say."

"Peace, peace, Deb. 'Tis too horrible."

"Aye, is't not indeed so? They say there be a thousand prisoners, all told. Yet belike 'twill not be death to all, though his lordship has vowed to show no mercy. And the women; there be many among the victims. 'Tis truly awful. Mistress Brown from over by Lyme, I know not rightly of what she is accused, yet I think 'tis but a matter of some rash words, as that she would pay the excise dues to King Monmouth, or some such folly, but she is condemned to be scourged through every market-place in the country. And they say she as like not to be the only one to meet with such a sentence. But to think on't.--A woman--and but for a rash tongue. Why, who is safe? To be scourged! Oh! 'tis brutal."

"Child! Child! Will you drive me mad?" cried Cicely, unable to endure more. "Be silent."

Deborah stared at her in amazement.

"Indeed, I am sorry I have offended your ladyship," she murmured somewhat sulkily; "though I see not how. 'Tis but natural to feel pity for such misery, though they be but rebels and doubtless deserving of their fate. Yet 'tis horrible for all that. Martha Hemming saith she had seen----"

"Be silent, girl, I will hear no more," cried Cicely, springing to her feet in desperation.

And then she stopped, and her heart leaped in terror, for she heard in the hallway without the voice of Master Lane, calling to his wife, and she divined by his tone that the news he brought was ill.

She went out calmly to meet him.

"Prithee, tell me, sir, tell me all," she asked in a strange, quiet voice.

Master Lane started at sight of her. He hesitated, looking for his wife to come to his aid. Then, meeting the agonised look in her eyes he paused no longer, but stepped forward to take her hand between his own, and told her gently, tenderly, the terrible sentence passed upon her cousin.

"Even now I know not truly how it befell," he continued sadly. "The poor child was overwrought. She bandied words with the chief justice, she defied him. He is not a man to brook defiance, and he revenged himself. But 'tis not likely they will carry out their sentence. Money can do much, influence more. We will talk it over together. Perchance you might go to London, 'tis not to be doubted but his Majesty will have pity upon her youth. You must see the Queen; she will surely show mercy to a woman. I will do what I can to work upon my Lord Jeffreys; I have friends who have some influence over his lordship, and they say money can do much; I doubt not she shall soon be pardoned. Come, my child, we must be brave; we must not despair."

He patted her hand kindly, full of pity for her misery. Cicely listened to all in a strange apathy.

"No," she muttered dully, "no, we must not despair, not despair."

Then she turned from him slowly and mounted the stairs to her room in perfect silence.

Master Lane looked after her anxiously.

"Poor thing! Poor thing!" he muttered, his eyes glistening with tears. "'Tis hard indeed for her. Very hard."

Then he turned to find his wife, feeling his helplessness in the face of this strange, silent misery, and seeking to ease his mind of the burden of a sorrow he could neither grapple with nor relieve.

Cicely paced her room dry-eyed, trembling, striving to realise this horror which had befallen them, striving to picture the execution of such a sentence upon her tender, beautiful young cousin. She could not do so. She repeated the words of the sentence again and again till they jangled through her brain, yet she could not believe it, she remained unmoved.

Then suddenly there flashed across her mind the question: "How shall I face Rupert and tell him this?"

And on the instant her strange apathy vanished, on the instant she understood the full horror of the sentence.

Oh! how could she face Rupert? Rupert whose love for his sister and whose pride in that sister had almost excited her jealousy; Rupert, whose last words to herself had been: "Take care of Barbara, and keep her out of mischief." How could she face him, see the love and trust in his eyes, the bright, brave smile upon his lips, and tell him that Barbara had suffered shame, imprisonment, torture, and she had done nothing, nothing to save her? No! rather let her die than face her lover with that tale upon her lips.

She flung herself upon her bed in a passion of weeping.

But what could she do? The Winslows were not rich, she had little money to offer these brutal judges, if indeed a reprieve were to be bought. She had few relations, their influence at court was but small. It would take much time even to gain access to the King, and in the meanwhile----she shuddered at the thought.

She had made one appeal to the chief justice, alas! how vain an one; even yet the remembrance of it filled her with terror. She could not, dared not again face that terrible man, again kneel to him for mercy.

Aye, but for Barbara? for Rupert? Truly for their sakes she would do even this. But the hopelessness of the attempt, the impossibility of moving, by an appeal of hers, that pitiless heart! The conviction of it crushed her brain.

And yet, surely, there must be one influence to move him, one road to his favour. Surely, no man living can be absolutely immovable, absolutely indifferent. Ah! could she but discover the key to his mercy how eagerly would she sacrifice all to win it!

She opened her window, and leaned her hot temples against the casement, breathing the cool evening air. Two men passed in the street below, discussing gravely the events of the trial. Their words floated up to her on the breeze. She caught the name of the lord chief justice.

"Ah!" said one, "the only sure road to his favour is by the informing of a rebel. He hath been known to extend a pardon, if he may thereby gain information of a more profitable victim. He is drunk with blood, and crazy for gold."

They passed on, their footsteps echoing down the empty street.

"The only sure road to his favour is by the informing of a rebel."

The words rang in her ears, repeated again and again.

So therein lay the secret to win him.

Well, and surely that were easy. Did she not know of many a rebel, in hiding near her own village of Durford? It needed but a word to unearth them all.

"But it must be a more profitable victim," not a poor peasant who could pay no penalty save death.

Well, and could she not supply that information also? While Captain Protheroe went free, was there not a rebel to be apprehended, a rebel or protector of rebels, surely much the same? For had he not himself confessed to Barbara that he had connived at Rupert's escape, though knowing well his hiding place? That surely was enough to hang a man, and a man indeed deserving to be hanged, seeing 'twas undoubtedly he who had betrayed Barbara!

Ah! what was this horrible temptation seizing upon her? She shuddered at the power of it. To betray a man to his death, a man, moreover, who had protected Rupert! She could not--she could not. There was dishonour in the very thought. A Winslow a traitor! traitor to the hand that helped him!

"Oh, God!" she wailed, "what can I do? And how shall I live if I do it?"

And yet that Captain Protheroe had betrayed Barbara in the end, she firmly believed. And Barbara had risked so much for Rupert's sake, and Barbara was in danger, and must be saved. What mattered it then though she, Cicely, were guilty of this treachery, at the despicable thought of which she shuddered? The shame would lie hidden in her own heart, the loss of self-respect would be hers alone to bear, the matter would lie between herself and her conscience. Barbara would be saved, and what was her own peace of mind compared with the life of Rupert's sister?

Impulsively she donned her hat and cloak. She dared not pause lest her resolution should fail her, lest her terror of the man to whom she was going should sap her resolve, or her horror of the treachery weaken her determination.

She descended the stairs softly, unobserved. The house was very silent.

But at the door she encountered Prudence, who hurried forward eagerly to know whither she was bound.

"Do not stop me, Prue," she answered in a strange, cold voice. "I am going to the White Hart Inn."

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

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

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

Cicely put her aside firmly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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