Part 13

This was but the consummation of her scheme. But that she should have wheedled him to spare this man, and, when danger threatened have betrayed him coolly, hoping thereby to save herself! He raged at the thought, at the black ingratitude of the action. And a woman with eyes as true as heaven, whom he would have trusted even to death! Where then could a man repose his faith, if she were worthless? Better indeed to die, and be out of a world where women could be guilty of such baseness.

Then a softer mood asserted itself. He recalled her face, the strong, proud face with the deep eyes, earnest and sincere behind the mask of mischief. He thought of her look when she had stood against him, sword in hand, to fight for her good name, fearless, resolute, even when driven to a stand with death seemingly staring her in the face. Here was no cowardice, no treachery. And she had risked her safety to give her brother an hour's happiness.

No, it was past belief that such a woman could be guilty of such devil's work. She must be innocent. There might be others--a woman always chattered---he knew well she had a glib and hasty tongue. Or perchance they forced the story from her, tricked her to the telling of it. No, come what might, he would not believe that she had of set purpose brought him to this pass. And even if she had, if she had in a moment of weakness betrayed her benefactor, bartering his life for hers, even then----

Passionately he drew out the knot of ribbon and pressed it to his lips.

"God bless her!" he murmured tenderly. "Strong or weak, true or faithless, God bless her."

And still with that strange density which at times overclouds the instinct, a thought of the real culprit never crossed his mind.

Again he strove to turn his thoughts back to his own position, to weigh the prospects of release; but with scant ardour. Life had little to offer if he must stand by and see her suffer, and in face of his present disgrace, he realised his helplessness to assist her.

He continued to gaze moodily before him, idly watching a ray of moonlight steal across the floor of the shed. To his surprise he saw it reveal the foot of a woman, and as it climbed to her knee he marked the desperate tension of the clasped white hands that lay thereon:

"Poor soul," he muttered. "There is trouble there."

Higher still crept the beam of light till the whole figure was illumined, and then, as at the drawing aside of a curtain of darkness, the face of Barbara Winslow emerged slowly from the black shadow, and appeared before him bathed in a glory of light.

Barbara! Yes, though at first sight he barely knew her, barely recognised those pallid cheeks, the dropped jaw, the fixed, staring eyes wide with fear, all the agony of her terrified spirit written on her face.

He sprang forward with a cry and crossed the room to her side. She turned to him quickly and seized his outstretched hand, all other feelings submerged in the great terror that held her.

"Oh! I am frightened, I am frightened," she sobbed in utter abandonment. "Indeed I cannot bear it. Sure they cannot truly carry out the sentence? I could not endure it, it would kill me, and I cannot die yet. Help me, help me. Do not let them scourge me. I am so frightened, help me."

What could he do? He held both her hands tightly in his own, and passed his arm round her as though to shield her from all hurt. And she, forgetting all else in the face of this fear which she felt for the first time in her life, crouched against him in a paroxysm of trembling and sobbing.

"Oh! I know I am a base coward, but what can I do? For I was so happy, and life was so good, and now I--I, Barbara Winslow, must be scourged openly in the market-place by the common hangman, month after month, till assuredly I must die of the shame. Think! The troopers will watch and laugh, and I shall be---- Oh! no, no, indeed I cannot bear it; what shall I do!"

He ground his teeth in helpless, desperate rage. Wild vague assertions of help and protection rose to his lips and died away unuttered, for he knew himself powerless. His heart surged with impotent fury, while she sobbed in his arms in the very abandonment of fear and misery, the natural reaction after the proud restraint of the past few days.

But it was only for a little space; the firm clasp of his hands, the pressure of his arm, gave her the sense of human support and strength that she lacked. In a few minutes the cold terror left her, she was herself again save for backward shudderings at the remembrance of the emotions through which she had passed.

Drawing her hands gently from his grasp, she lifted her white, tear-stained face to his with a smile.

"Thank you," she said simply. "I know not what ailed me. 'Twas mighty foolish and yet 'twas terrible enow," she added with a shudder.

He laid his hand on hers again firmly, and she did not withdraw it. For a few minutes they sat in silence.

Presently Barbara's glance wandered to the far end of the shed, where the group of drinkers sat.

"They are to die to-morrow. I would I were a man, and knew no fear," she murmured enviously.

He smiled.

"Think you they know no fear? That is the very height of fear that dare not face the morrow, but seeks forgetfulness thus."

"Could I forget thus?" she asked.

"I would not have thee try, Mistress Barbara: 'tis but a coward's way."

"Yet 'tis but for one night," she cried hurriedly. "And I cannot bear this torture of waiting and thinking. Let me not be a coward again. Let me not think. Ah! when I think I see it all; the troopers and the prison and the post, month after month till---- Ah, no, I will not think. Talk to me--tell me--tell me why you are here," she continued, for the first time filled with curiosity as to the reason of his presence.

His heart leaped gladly at her question.

"Do you not know, madame?"

"Indeed no; it cannot assuredly be that you too are a prisoner?"

"Yes. A prisoner even as yourself, condemned for treason."

"You--a traitor. Impossible!" she exclaimed naively.

"I thank you for the compliment, Mistress Barbara," he answered with a smile.

"And the sentence?"

"Imprisonment--until to-morrow," he answered lightly.

"And to-morrow you will be free?" she questioned doubtfully.

"Aye, free from every fetter."

Something in his tone startled her.

"It is not so," she cried quickly. "You are deceiving me."

"Nay, madame. Is not freedom the supreme gift of death?"

"Then you are to die to-morrow?" she asked in a tone full of awe.

"Court-martial at sunrise, shot like a dog at noon. That is my sentence. Come, will you not wish me a pleasant voyage? I confess myself no good sailor, and do heartily trust they have no storms on the Styx."

He spoke lightly, but she turned from him suddenly with a choking sob.

"Oh!" she cried bitterly. "How you must despise me for a true coward."

He laughed tenderly.

"Nay, Mistress Barbara, we be all cowards at heart, I warrant, only some have learned the trick of hiding it. And indeed to one who has faced him many times, death loses somewhat of his grim aspect. Besides--" he continued cheerily, "when a man bethinks him how many of his fellows in past ages have faced death unflinching, it seemeth but a small matter for him to follow in their footsteps. I doubt not we shall meet with gallant company across the bourne."

"And have you no regrets?" she asked wonderingly.

He looked down at her and his face clouded.

"Aye, madame, one." He hesitated, then continued in the strange hurried tones of one who has at last resolved to speak his thoughts, and risk the consequence.

"Men on their death-beds make strange confessions, madame; here is mine. For fifteen years I have asked and expected little of life save to win a name in my profession, and for the rest, to enjoy to the full all the pleasures that the world had to offer. I deemed that I had succeeded fairly in both these, my ambitions, and I was content. But--two months since, on a certain sweet night in July, I met a woman. Not such an one as the courtesans of Whitehall, not such as are they whom a soldier most often meets in his way thro' the world, but such a woman as a man might dream his mother was, such as he would wish to be the mother of his sons. And when I looked into that woman's eyes I understood for the first time that all I have sought and won from life was worthless, and tho' I have drunk deep of the cup of pleasure, yet all my days I have been but as a child playing contentedly in the desert, while the door of an enchanted garden lay unnoticed at my side."

"Were the woman's eyes indeed so beautiful?" asked Barbara softly.

"Madame, they are as the clear depths of the heavens, wherein a man may read all the perfection of life. I have seen her but thrice since first we met, yet one look into her eyes has taught me more of the reality of life, of happiness, of love than I ever dreamed of even in the age of a man's most golden hopes. And so, madame, I cannot die without one regret, the regret that I may not live to deserve the pressure of that woman's hand, nor hope to make myself worthy to feel the touch of her pure lips."

He paused, looking down upon her doubtfully; she did not meet his glance, but he heard her sigh softly, as she gazed before her into the darkness. At length she spoke.

"Then you had been happier had you never seen the woman? Is it not so?"

"Happier! No, Mistress Barbara, is it not better for a man to die, having gazed once upon the glories of the heavens, than to live a thousand thousand years, nor lift his eyes from earth?"

There was silence between them.

Then Barbara rose from her seat.

"I am weary," she said softly. "I think I could sleep now, and I would fain be rested for to-morrow. I must be strong then; they shall not think I fear them. I must rest. But not in there," she added, gazing shudderingly at the dark corner behind the screen. "Not in there, lest I wake."

Near them lay a pile of straw and loose wisps of wool. These he gathered together, and spread his cloak upon them.

"It is not much," he muttered discontentedly; "yet it is better than the bare boards."

"It is perfect," answered Barbara, snuggling down into the warmth of the cloak.

He knelt to draw it more closely round her.

"Good-bye, Mistress Barbara," he said, raising her hand to his lips.

But she, suddenly raising herself upon her elbow, drew his head down towards her and kissed him on the lips.

"Good-night--good-bye--and thank you," she whispered simply.

Then she lay down peacefully, and drew the cloak once more around her.

The moon dipped behind a bank of clouds and the prison was in darkness.

Captain Protheroe rose to his feet, and stood for some time gazing before him, as one half-dazed. Then he recovered himself with a start, his eyes flashed, he looked round quickly, his whole body alert for action.

Die! No surely not now, he could not die now. It was impossible; there must be some way of escape for them both. If he could but think of it!

But the more he thought thereon, recalling all the tales of prison breaking and rescue that he had read or heard of, picturing the security of the shed, the disposition of the sentries, the surer did the knowledge of his utter helplessness overwhelm him, and yet the more persistently did he fight against this knowledge, assuring himself continually that death must be impossible now.

*CHAPTER XV*

Prudence sat on a stone seat at the bottom of the high-walled garden behind her father's house. Around her fell the soft moonlight, clothing the daisied grass and the shimmering trees in a veil of glory. The air was full of rich scents, remembrances of the dying sweetness of the roses, the noises of the street were hushed, and there rested over all a soft whispering silence, broken occasionally by the rapturous notes of the nightingale, as he poured forth his soul in an ecstasy of love. The scene was redolent of the sweet witchery of love, and Prue with her soft eyes, her glittering hair, and the mischievous dimples deepening in her cheeks, seemed in the moonlight like some fair enchantress weaving the spell of her sweet beauty over all around.

There were no traces on her fair face of the horrible scenes of which but half an hour since she had been a witness, no indication on her smooth brow of the strain of the last two days. She had not forgotten Cicely's misery and how she lay so still, so silent in the room above; but the weight of a sorrow which did not touch her personally lay but lightly upon her young heart, and she had been conscious of a feeling of relief when she left her friend to the tender care of Mistress Lane and crept out into the silent, peaceful garden.

A thorough child of nature, she sat calm and happy, her spirits in harmony with the scene immediately around her, though in the streets without the drying corpses of innocent men waved their limbs weirdly in the breeze, and women, their hearts breaking with despair, sat silent in a grief too deep for tears.

Prudence sat deep in thought. She had an enterprise in view for the furtherance of which she foresaw the necessity of laying resolute siege to the will of Master Robert Wilcox. She would require his co-operation, and as she traced out the lines of her campaign, her eyes glistened brightly, and her lips curved into a roguish smile. For Prue was one to scorn an easy dominion, else had she never given her heart to so resolute a lover as Robert.

So intent was she upon her thoughts that she did not notice the approach of Master Wilcox himself, walking with rapid step down the trim garden path; in fact he had been watching her for some minutes in a lover's rapture, before she raised her eyes and noted his presence. Then he sprang eagerly to her side.

"Ah! Prue; sweetheart," he cried, with outstretched arms. "I hoped I might chance on you here, and yet indeed I scarce dared to hope it."

Prue slipped quickly aside from the proffered embrace. "Good-evening, Master Robert," she answered with a demure assumption of indifference. "And pray what may be your errand to me?"

Robert's hands fell to his side; he stared at her in amazement.

"Why, Prue, my darling," he exclaimed.

Prudence eyed him coldly.

"'Tis a fine evening, Master Robert, and I was enjoying the silence and solitude of the garden. Prithee then--your errand?"

Robert hesitated a moment, then he seated himself upon the bench beside her, and laid his hand on hers.

"Come sweetheart, what is wrong?" he demanded resolutely.

"Nought that I know of," she answered calmly, withdrawing her hand, "saving only that methinks you are somewhat free with your 'sweetheart' and 'darling,' Master Wilcox."

"What! Must I not call thee sweetheart then, my dearest?"

"In truth I had as lief you did not," she answered curtly.

Robert eyed her a minute doubtfully: then he plunged boldly into the subject.

"See here, Prue, what is the matter; for what art thou so angry with me? An it be concerning Janie Medlar, 'tis mere foolishness. I met her down by the river, 'tis true, yet 'twas but by chance, and then I could not, in courtesy, refuse to walk home with her. Now could I? And the rose--she asked for it herself--I swear she did. But no more passed between us, save the merest--er--nothing whatever. 'Tis utter foolishness, Prue."

Prudence smiled to herself; she was learning secrets. But she answered coldly enough:

"I' faith, Master Robert, and what is it to me what passes betwixt you and Mistress Medlar? 'Tis much, indeed, if I am to call her rival--pale-faced chit."

"'Tis not that? Then in Heaven's name, Prue, what is it? What have I done?"

Prue turned and faced him:

"Ah, well said. What hast thou done, Master Robert? What hast thou done all thy life save sort wool and enter ledgers? And yet you would be one to call a maid 'sweetheart' and kiss her on the lips. I tell you, you must seek elsewhere then, Master Robert, I am not for such as you. I will have nought to do with any, save brave men, men proved by action, not swollen with boasts."

Robert groaned aloud.

"Lord, Prue," he muttered; "not that all over again."

"And wherefore not, Master Robert? Has a man nought to do save sit till the apples fall into his lap? Thinkest thou a girl can be wooed by words alone? I tell thee thou art mightily mistaken. If a maid be worthy of love she is worthy of winning, and winning by deeds, not by empty vows and foolish boastings."

"Perchance thou wouldst have me join Kirke's band then, and win thee by such deeds as those in the market-place yonder," muttered Robert angrily.

"Indeed that were better than nothing," answered the girl with a mocking toss of her head. "Better be one of Kirke's Lambs, brutes tho' they be, than a white-livered wadcomber, caring for neither king nor country so he have a full belly and a whole skin."

"Now by Heaven, Prue, this is too bad. 'Tis unfair to taunt me thus when thou knowest I had ridden gladly with the Duke if I had but been given the chance, and that I do but bide here at the work to please thy father, and so clear my way to winning thee."

"Is't verily so?" laughed the girl scornfully. "Truly I marvel what men would do, if they had not women's petticoats to hide behind."

But this was too much for Robert to endure with patience. Though he more than half suspected she was playing with him, for he had watched her smile as she sat on the bench alone, yet he felt that no man should be called upon to endure such mockery; for the sake of future peace he resolved to teach her a lesson.

Roughly dropping the hand which he had taken again to strengthen his plea, he moved to the far end of the bench, and turned an angry shoulder to his tormentor.

"So be it, Mistress Prue," he answered. "An those be your opinions, 'tis useless to talk further on the matter. I am sorry that my actions fail to please thee, but on my honour, I do not see that I am in any wise bound to alter them to suit every whim and fancy of thine. The evening is chill; would you not be wiser to go indoors?"

Prue gasped, and gazed at the sulky shoulder with eyes wide open in astonishment. The affair had taken a sadly different turn from that which she had contemplated. It looked greatly as though this attack upon the fortress would prove a failure, nay more, as though it would turn to a defeat and rout of the attacking party itself, did she not with all speed change her tactics.

Accordingly, with a celerity worthy of a great general, she changed, upon the instant, her whole plan of campaign, abandoned this frontal attack, and devised a more subtle method of overcoming such unexpected resistance.

She tried first the effect of silence; but experience had taught her that Robert was better skilled in the use of that weapon than she herself, and indeed it was a struggle to her to keep silence for five minutes at any time. She abandoned this course after a very short trial.

Then she sighed. Twice, thrice, with the suspicion of a sob in the last sigh, which she felt must sound infinitely pathetic. She looked eagerly for signs of relenting in that stubborn shoulder; Robert was resolute.

The affair was beginning to assume a most serious aspect. If it continued thus much longer, she would be forced to haul down her colours and abandon the siege entirely. And then what would become of her schemes?

No. She must bring all her forces to the attack, and--and--Robert could not see her where she sat.

She rose and stepped quietly into the deep glow of the moonlight, standing full before the gaze of her offended lover.

She stood first with her back towards him, plucking nervously at the petals of a withered rose. Robert looked at the trim, white figure outlined against the darker trees, at the soft curve of the averted cheek. He looked and wavered.

Suddenly she turned and faced him, standing before him in all the charm of her saucy beauty. She shook out her curls till the gold glistened in the moonlight, she turned her eyes full upon him, and she smiled, a smile full of mischievous invitation that lurked in her eyes and curved round her rosy dimpling lips.

It was enough. Robert stared at her for a moment in silence, then he sprang towards her and seized her in his arms.

"Ah, Prue, you witch! You witch!" he cried. "How could I resist thee? Say what you want, sweetheart. I will do it, aye, that I will."

"Wilt thou really promise that, Rob?" she asked, nestling into his arms.

"Aye, sweetheart."

"Anything, Rob?"

"Anything you ask," he answered, gazing into her eyes.

"Then, oh, Rob; help Mistress Winslow to escape."

He stared in astonishment.

"What sayest thou? Prue! Prue! 'Tis impossible, 'Tis madness to dream on't," he cried.

"You promised to do anything I asked," she complained reproachfully, straining against his embrace.

"Aye, sweetheart, so I will, so I will." He pledged himself rashly to keep her in his arms. "But this---- How is't possible? Would you have me break into the castle and bear her out by force?"

"She is not in the castle; she is lodged in one of the temporary sheds," corrected Prue reproachfully.

"Well, 'tis the same thing, sweet. Gaol or shed, 'tis prison enow, and i' faith, I see not how it be possible to fetch her out."

"Pooh! What is the use of thy wits, Rob, if thou canst not get the better of father's old wool-shed."

"Master Lane's shed, sayest thou?"

"Aye, truly, she is there. Dad told me so this morning. The door bolted and barred, sentries in the street without, and many more in the guardhouse opposite. I saw them there last Sunday when I passed. But what of them. You can surely outwit such fudge-heads as they."

"Master Lane's shed," cried Robert again, a strange note of excitement in his voice. "Art certain she is there?"

"Aye, certain, Rob. What then?"

"Prue, who guards the little door in Blind Man's alley?"

Prue looked at him eagerly.

"What door, Rob? I mind it not."

"Yes, thou knowest it. The master's private door at the near end of the shed. They say 'twas put there years ago for old Master Lane, thy grandfather, to enter secretly and count his bales; maybe for the entrance of other sorts of goods,--folks say. For 'tis known he hid arms and ammunition for the king's troops in the last war. It has not been used for years, and on the inside 'tis still hid behind a pile of sacks, I doubt not. But 'tis there."

"Oh, Rob! I had forgot it entirely. And oh, I doubt not they have forgot it too, for I passed thro' Blind Man's alley last Sunday even, and there was no sentry stationed there."

"No, sentry, Prue? And the key hangs on thy father's chain."

His voice was hoarse with excitement, he stared before him in dawning thought.

Prue clasped her hands eagerly.

"Oh, Rob," she whispered. "What shall we do? What shall we do?"

He turned his head slowly and looked down at her.

"Ah! sweetheart, it's madness, madness!"

"Yes, Rob, dear, but--let us be mad. Ah! do, do."

He hesitated, but his inborn love of adventure tempted him as much as her eyes. He yielded to her pleading, and sealed the bargain with a kiss.

Then they sat down on the bench, hand in hand, and proceeded to mature their plan.

"Now, sweetheart, we must think with all our wits."

"It must be to-night, Rob," Prue urged. "They might carry out the sentence to-morrow. It must be to-night."

"To-night be it."

"And what shall we do?"

"There is but the one way that I can think of. Enter the shed by the hidden door, and fetch her out thence."

"Oh, Rob, that sounds so easy," cried Prue, a note of disappointment in her voice.

"Does it indeed, madame?" he laughed. "And what if the door be barred within, or I meet with a sentry, or the other prisoners should betray me, or I cannot find the lady, or she will not come?"

Prue gasped in dismay at this terrible list of possibilities.