Part 15

''Tis the little maid I be thinking of now,' said Zacchary abruptly. 'If so be her's taken too, what be I to say to the Admur'l? Her was left in my care in Lunnon. 'Tis a hundred to one Master Roger will go just the same, and liker than not her'll be in gaol at the end on 't.'

'Give her the hundredth chance. And remember, she is a quick-witted, brave woman, playing a woman's game. You are always thinking of her as a little child. And,' added the lady, with an outward show that arrogantly hid her feelings, 'leave her safety to me. Do you think my niece, Admiral Penrock's daughter, will easily be imprisoned?'

Zacchary glanced at the old lady. 'You'm some like the Admur'l, Mistress. Well. How'm you going to hide the lad?'

'We are not going to hide him. To-morrow morning, early, you will take out two horses and wait outside the town. If you are seen, why, you are taking one of my greys up to the Stows. They are for travelling a spell, and one of their chestnuts has fallen lame. That is clear?'

Zacchary nodded gravely. 'And then? Be the lad going to take refuge on the moor?'

'Mistress Marion and Master Roger are going to ride to Garth.'

'To Garth!' The old man's voice showed his consternation. He stared at Mistress Keziah, as if unable to believe his own ears. 'To Garth? To the one place where every man, woman and child knows un? 'Tis sheer folly, Mistress!'

'That is just the reason why he will be safer there than anywhere. Because, as you say, it is sheer folly. They will search Exeter. They will beat the coast and the river. They will expect him to take to sea. Garth is the one place where they will never dream of looking for him.'

On Zacchary's slow mind there dawned the realisation that by its madness there was hope in the project laid down. Mistress Keziah, watching his face, knew that the time was come to drive hard. She looked at the clock.

'You have been here an hour and a half while you should have been at work. Leave all the rest. We will talk of it again later. Mistress Marion is out just now, seeking some purchase she needs. You can speak with her afterwards if you wish. Say nothing in the kitchen. Go first into the inn on the street. Get into conversation, and learn if there is any one who makes bows and arrows in Exeter. There must be some such, although archery has become but an idle pastime. And remember there are only a few hours. If only I could make you understand, Zacchary----' Mistress Keziah's voice broke, and tears stood in her eyes, 'you are the only help and hope we have. You, and no other, stand in between Master Roger and his death.'

Zacchary straightened himself. 'If there's one to be found, I'll find un, Mistress.'

'There is one to be found somewhere. But I have never been directly interested in archery. And the servants, who might know, being native to the town, I dare not send urgently without exciting curiosity. Mistress Marion went as far as she dared last night that way. We have to think of afterwards, of protecting her from any shadow of suspicion.'

'Ay,' said Zacchary. 'I heard on 't. Her turned William's head and no mistake. A's talked of nothing but bows and arrows and the mistress's eyes since. A little thought what the little maid was up to.'

Mistress Keziah went to a drawer, and took out her purse. 'Here is money. Spare nothing. But do not show any need of urgency. And above all, be careful in the kitchen.'

Zacchary went out without further words, and Mistress Keziah sank back in her chair.

It was close on eleven o'clock. She looked out into the garden, where, in the earlier part of the morning, Marion had been spending, to all appearance, an idle hour wandering to and fro with Simone at her side. Secretly Marion had counted the yards in the trim walks and grassy stretches until she had fixed on two slender trees as a target. The trunks stood close together, twin growths from one root. A certain spot, which Marion and Simone committed to memory, not daring to set a sign there, lest the servants should be watching, marked the distance of a hundred yards from the trees. Marion knew that if she could shoot at that distance into the crevice between the rising stems, she could shoot between the bars of Roger's cell. She determined to practise both by day and at night, when the servants were in bed; in the daylight shooting casually at any mark; in the dark or half light aiming at her target.

Everything was ready. The rope had been found by Marion in the harness room where her aunt had directed her; the file she had taken from the coachman's tool box. A note to Roger, directing him to scale the wall and run along the road to the courtyard gate, where she would be waiting him, was written and locked in her box, ready to be tied to the rope, with the file, later on. To please her mistress, Simone had laid out her riding habit. Her cloak was rolled into a bundle, to be strapped to the saddle. Everything was ready, so Marion had said, when she had kissed her aunt before setting out to buy a length of cord to take the place of the unsatisfactory piece she had found in her aunt's boxes. It only remained now for Mistress Keziah to send Zacchary to find a bow and arrows, a task which Zacchary could perform without any suspicion. He only needed to go to the New Inn for a pint of ale and get into conversation with mine host. All was quite clear in Marion's mind.

Mistress Keziah could still feel the girl's caress, could still see the suppressed eagerness in her face. The old woman sat motionless, only glancing at the clock from time to time. Already the day seemed interminable. The June sunshine bore too hotly into the room; she drew the shutter half way across and sat down again. There was a tension in the air of the house which, added to the languor of the day, weighed on her spirits. She dreaded Marion's return, dreaded Zacchary's return. As she had said, archery was merely a pastime, the implements of the craft not being found easily like the contents of the gunsmith's rooms. Quite likely William might unearth a bow and arrows in the course of the week--everything would happen just too late. And she was afraid to speak to William lest, later on, he should begin to think and remember. As she had said to Zacchary, Marion had gone as far in that direction as she dared.

All too soon the door opened, and Marion entered.

'Has he got it, Aunt Keziah?'

Mistress Keziah looked up at the face bending over her. Marion had thrown aside her hood. Her white muslin dress seemed to wrap her in a cool serenity. It seemed incredible, thought Mistress Keziah, looking from the eyes to the hair, and back to the serious, sweet mouth, that misfortune should lay its blight on that countenance.

'He has not yet returned,' quietly said the old lady.

Marion's eyes grew wide. 'But there has been time,' she faltered.

'He is scarcely an hour gone, my child. Sit down.' Mistress Keziah related the story of her conversation with Zacchary. Before the two had finished talking midday struck, and the servant came to announce dinner.

'Already?' said Marion dully.

Mistress Keziah said nothing. There was nothing to be said, nothing to be done.

Marion sat on the arm of her aunt's chair, and laid her golden head beside the grey one. 'May we not wait for dinner till Zacchary returns? I could not eat anything. I was hungry before, but not now.'

All the life had gone out of her voice. The reaction Mistress Keziah had dreaded was upon her. Marion had found it comparatively easy to pass the morning, her thoughts and activities engaged in the immediate moment. Now she found herself once more faced by the ordeal of waiting in suspense.

Mistress Keziah roused herself. 'You must eat, and eat well. Otherwise your nerves will weaken. Come along! A battle lies ahead. This is but a game. You played it well enough last night.'

Presently aunt and niece faced each other across the board, and Marion struggled to recover something of her everyday speech from that deep place of silence into which all her faculties had seemed to fall. Mistress Keziah played her own part well. When Marion, suddenly finding words drying on her lips, ceased to speak, Mistress Keziah took up some tale or anecdote. William, watching his two ladies, was unaware of anything amiss. Mistress Marion was quiet, certainly, but that was the way of maids, all bubble and froth one day, a dark pool the next. Dish after dish came on the table, and Mistress Keziah failed not to pile her niece's plate.

Slowly the meal wore itself out. A casual question from Mistress Keziah concerning the stables elicited from the unsuspecting William the news that Zacchary was still abroad in the town.

As Marion followed her aunt upstairs, half-past one chimed from the church near by. Marion went to her own room. Simone, according to her habit, had eaten her dinner upstairs, and was waiting for her mistress. Marion stood still in the middle of the room, her hands pressing back the hair from her forehead.

'Is it possible,' she said, 'possible, that in all Exeter there is no such thing as a bow and arrow?'

Simone felt tongue-tied. 'Surely not, Mademoiselle,' was all she could find to say.

Her mistress moved about restlessly for a while, then sat down, and taking up the needlework with which Simone had been busied, stitched for a short time. The French girl quietly found other occupation, and made no remark when Marion flung down the sheet and went into the next room. There she turned over her riding habit. Again she passed through her fingers the long line of silk which Simone had bound on to the cord in such a way that no roughness of joining was left which might catch on any surface. With the same dexterity Simone had attached the cord to the rope. Lifelessly Marion laid down the lengths. To and fro she paced the little room. A fever was slowly mounting to her brain. She dared not trust herself to seek the eastward window. To wait: to do nothing but wait, within a few hours of doom--could she endure it?

She went back into her own chamber, and silently held out a hand to Simone. Together the two passed out into the garden. To and fro under the trees they paced, and from time to time they fell within the line of the shutter niche of Mistress Keziah's window. Looking down on the girl's face, Mistress Keziah suddenly felt herself to be an old, old woman. Wiping away a few tears, she strove to consider afresh the problem of the necessities for Marion's plan. Failing the main road, were there no by-paths?

A little later she opened the casement, and called down to Marion.

'I have just thought, my dear,' she said, when the girl entered her room, 'that I should like to drive out to see Mrs. Burroughs. Her house is but three miles out of the town. There are children there,' she added diffidently. 'Would you care to accompany me?' The rest she left unsaid, but Marion understood. She rang her aunt's bell, and Mistress Keziah ordered the coach.

Half an hour later the horses were climbing the steep lane out of Exeter.

At the house they descended, and were welcomed by a pleasant-faced woman, the daughter of a girl friend of Mistress Keziah's. Very soon the visitor mentioned the children, and a boy and girl of ten and twelve years were summoned to the room.

Marion devoted herself to the newcomers with such friendliness that presently she was borne off to see the stables and the ponies, the trout brook at the bottom of the field, then back to the house to the play-room to look at their treasures. By dint of adroit questioning she learnt the favourite pastime of the two. The boy, talking eagerly to his guest, told her proudly of his skill in archery. At thirty yards he had hit the target. His sister, standing by Marion's side, obviously lost in admiration of such a visitor as rarely came her way, noted Marion's changing colour.

'I used to shoot once upon a time,' she said. 'Let me see your bow. I should like to try again.'

Then the little girl, amazed, saw the 'beautiful lady' suddenly stiffen. She could not think what had happened: merely that her brother had explained that his bow was broken, and another was promised by his father for his birthday.

Later on, with a child at either hand, Marion descended to the sitting-room. Mistress Keziah's glance read the story in her face. Soon she rose to bid her hostess adieu, Marion's cold lips framing what answers she could to the lady's genial parting words.

As the coach rolled up to the courtyard gate, the old woman laid her hand on Marion's. She had forborne to question her, and the girl had remained silent on the homeward drive. Marion returned the pressure without speaking: she recognised the challenge in her aunt's touch.

In the hall, Mistress Keziah turned and spoke indifferently to the servant who opened the door, asking had there been visitors in her absence. Then, as she set foot on the stairs, Marion walking behind, the old lady paused. 'Has Zacchary returned yet?'

'Not yet, Mistress.'

In the stillness, the churches in the town chimed six. Marion went to her own room, and closed the door. A kind of stupor seemed to fall on the house.

Just before supper time, Zacchary walked heavily up the stairs and knocked at Mistress Keziah's door. Hearing the lady's voice, he entered.

'No good, Mistress,' he blurted out.

Mistress Keziah gripped the arms of her chair as Zacchary told the tale of his fruitless search. After much talk he had heard from mine host of the New Inn the name of a man--a friend of the innkeeper--who was the possessor of a fine bow. Saying nothing to the innkeeper, Zacchary had found out the man, only to learn that the 'fine bow' was a valued heirloom, not at any price to be sold or lent. From the possessor he had heard of another: a similar result. Then he was told of a man whose father used to make bows and arrows, and who, it was believed, occasionally carried on the work himself. By that time several hours had passed. The man in question now lived on a farm some five miles out of the town. Thither Zacchary had dragged his old legs. The man was ill in his bed: an ague, Zacchary said. There was no bow to be bought. Nor did the man's wife know of any other maker. Archery was little thought of in these days save for children's play. True enough, there must be bows in some one's possession in Exeter. But the day was gone.

'What be I to say to the little maid?' queried Zacchary, his voice husky. He was worn out with sorrow, and the fatigue of walking in the hot day.

'I will tell her,' said Mistress Keziah from her chair. 'You may go, Zacchary. You need rest and food. Tell them to keep supper waiting till I ring.'

Zacchary turned, to find Marion standing in the doorway.

'I heard, Aunt Keziah,' she said. 'Thank you very much, Zacchary.' She walked quietly back to her room.

At the peculiar, calm tones of her niece's voice, Mistress Keziah shivered as if a cold wind had struck her. She got up stiffly from her chair, and walked slowly into Marion's chamber. The girl was standing, her hands locked, staring dully out into the garden. Without speaking, Mistress Keziah sat down by the window. She did not look at the motionless figure. After a while she held out a hand. Slowly Marion came, and sinking on the floor, buried her face in the old woman's lap. The wrinkled hands passed slowly to and fro over the shining hair.

The sun sank low behind the trees. Mistress Keziah's tears had stayed. Marion still crouched, dry-eyed, her face hidden, motionless save for a convulsive shudder which shook her from time to time.

Neither heard the sound of light footsteps in the gallery. The door burst open and closed again.

'Mademoiselle!'

There was a new ring in Simone's voice. Slowly Marion raised her blanched face. Simone was pouring out a story in mixed French and English, plentifully watered with hysterical tears. The name of the good William ran in and out of the story. Marion scarcely heeded her. She was staring at a bow and a sheaf of arrows Simone had laid at her feet.

*CHAPTER XXI*

*DAWN*

The gaol buildings and yard showed dim in the diffused light. A cluster of small clouds clung to the face of the moon, and down in the west lay a grey bank which rose imperceptibly, its edges caught by the hidden glow. From time to time a cat's-paw of wind tapped the branches in Mistress Keziah's garden, breaking the dead calm of night with the rustle of the leaves. The storm was coming. For days the heavy heat had been gathering for a break.

In Marion's room there were whispering voices. Mistress Keziah, fully dressed, herself was superintending the robing of Marion for a long and arduous ride. The light of the candles on the dressing-table fell on the dark, shapely form, the bodice buttoned close, the wide skirt falling away. The gleaming hair was securely bound in a long plait, and then knotted at the nape of the neck. On the bed, beside the gloves and whip, lay the cavalier riding hat with its long, soft plume, which Lady Fairfax had given to her niece. The habit adjusted, Simone knelt and drew on the long riding boots, reaching almost to the knee, wide in the leg, tapering down to the foot.

Simone rose, and surveyed her mistress from head to heel. Her teeth caught on her trembling lip.

'Are you sure your arms are not held in any way, my dear?' asked Mistress Keziah. 'You have enough freedom of movement?'

'Quite, I think,' said Marion gently. 'Now do let me go, Aunt Keziah.'

''Tis not yet the dawn.'

Simone blew out the candles, and threw the shutters and casements wide. A sweet air crept into the room. At first, after the light of the interior, the garden seemed filled with the gloom of midnight. But soon the three at the window were aware of the shapes of trees, softly grey; of the diffused radiance of the sinking moon.

Marion leaned far out of the casement, and looked towards the east. A faint bar of light lay on the horizon. Over the sleeping land that rose beyond the town a breathing motion seemed to pass, as if Nature were stirring in her sleep. Again came the fitful breeze tossing the leaves in the garden.

'Hark!' said Marion. 'The cocks are crowing on the hill. Dearest, dearest Aunt Keziah, bless me, and let me go!'

There was a tremor in the clear voice, but outwardly Marion was calm. Simone had already stolen away.

Mistress Keziah wrapped her arms about the comely figure and pressed trembling kisses on the soft face. A few broken words fell from her lips; then she dropped her arms and turned away. With one backward look, Marion went out of the room. The old woman sat down and hid her face. She dared not follow to that little eastward room; she dared not witness the speeding of that silken thread.

Across the gallery Marion stole, her wide skirt gathered up on her arm. She listened awhile, leaning over the rail. There was no sound in the dark, sleeping house. For fully an hour the servants would be abed. Marion gently opened the double doors. A pitch darkness lay on the narrow passage. She groped her way by the wall, and presently climbed the dusty stair.

Simone was crouching by the little window, the grey of the coming dawn on her face and hair. Without a word she gave place to Marion, and stepping back, took up the bow, and held an arrow ready in her trembling fingers.

On the window ledge, where there was nothing to impede its run, lay the silk thread coiled as sailors coil a cable in the bows of a boat. Its upper end was attached to the arrow Simone held in readiness; the lower end ran to a corner of the room where the fine cord was similarly coiled atop the rope.

Marion examined the coils afresh, tested the knot that tied the silk to the arrow, then, giving the shaft back to Simone, knelt at the casement.

A dusky light touched the gaol chimneys. The niches of the casements were still dark, but Marion imagined she saw a white patch behind Roger's bars.

'Where is the sentry?' she whispered.

'I do not think he is there, Mademoiselle. But he must be, somewhere.'

Simone crouched behind her mistress, and the two pairs of eyes searched, inch by inch, the dark patches of the gaol buildings. Nowhere could they descry any shape that could be construed into the form of a man.

'Perhaps he is resting at the other side, Mademoiselle. There must be a bench or something there.'

'He is certainly not in sight,' decided Marion. 'Please God he is asleep on the bench, as you say.' She glanced anxiously at the sky. 'I dare not wait.'

Her hand shot out of the window, making the gesture of warning. She waited. A dim movement from the cell showed that her surmise was correct. Roger was awake and ready.

Freeing her knees from any constraint of her dress, Marion took her position just inside the casement a little to the right. With deliberation that seemed unending to Simone she fitted the arrow, drew the bowstring taut, once, twice, thrice. Then she gathered herself and rested motionless. A second later there was a flashing gleam in the grey air. Then a sharp tap. Aghast, Marion peered forward. The arrow had fallen wide, striking the masonry of the wall.

Simone gave a low cry of dismay, and stared at her mistress. Deathly white, Marion laid down the bow, and drew gently on the silken strand. Somehow the arrow must be retrieved.

There was a faint scraping noise as the shaft was drawn backward up the face of the wall. Twice it stuck in the masonry. Marion had a sickening fear that the silk would not carry the light burden she eased the length a little, then, with a swift lunge, played the silk outward, and jerked the arrow up above the wall. Rapidly she drew in the silk, hand over hand. On the wall of her aunt's garden the arrow stuck again. Less carefully Marion drew at it. The arrow caught on its point, and dropped sharply down inside the garden. At the next tug the silk broke.

'No matter,' said Marion. ''Tis safe. Another.'

Carefully the two coiled up the silk again. Marion dared not hurry. Should the length not run easily, the direction of the arrow would be warped.

Just as she knotted the line to the second arrow, there was a sound of scraping feet in the gaol yard. The girls looked at each other in the dim light.

Peering through the casement, Marion saw a dark figure detach itself from the buildings on the north side. With his arms wide, the sentry wearily stretched his body. He gave himself a little shake, and yawned. The watchers could plainly hear his loud 'Ha-ho!' Then he took up his carbine. A few notes of a tavern song came to their ears. The sentry was waking up. He shouldered his gun, and marched up and down the yard. A minute later he appeared on the south side, tramped the narrow space between the gaol and the wall, retraced his steps. As he turned, Marion was already fitting the arrow to the bow. His shuffling feet echoed in the silence of the enclosure. There would be about thirty seconds before he would turn again.

With hands clasped, shaking from head to foot, Simone watched the second arrow speed. Was it home? Yes. No. Again came the sickening tap. The shaft had struck the middle of the central bar in the grating, half an inch wide of the mark.