Part 16

Once more Marion hauled in the silk. A deadly chill gripped her heart. The sentry's feet sounded nearer. A little puff of breeze came again. The silk shook as the arrow was drawn up the wall. Would it stick in a crevice this time? For a few seconds, during which Marion seemed not to breathe, and the room spun round her, the arrow caught on the stones. Round the corner came the sound of the sentry's feet. Marion leaned far out, and with a swift sideways motion played out the silk and drew the arrow over the coping of the wall. Just as the sentry appeared in view the shaft fell into the road that bordered the gaol.

'Never mind,' said Simone, through chattering teeth. 'I will go and get it later.'

As Simone snapped the silk and tied the broken end to the third arrow, Marion sank back on the floor. She closed her eyes, and leaned against the wall. A faintness had assailed her. If her courage once fled, failure would be certain. Twice she had missed the mark.

The man below trod noisily to and fro on the south side. Again came the snatches of the ditty. Drawing a long breath, Marion rallied herself, and peered out of the window. A white patch showed dimly between the bars of Roger's cell, immediately over the sentry's head. In the grey light, Marion imagined that she saw Roger's face. He seemed to be smiling up at the little window. To Marion's wild fancy the look was plain to be seen. It seemed to say, 'Bravely, little Mawfy!' as he had said of old when she had just failed of the mark.

Some quickening influence ran through the girl's blood. Her dread and fear fell away. She looked searchingly down at the cell grating; then, as the man below swung round, her fingers flashed the signal. The white patch behind the bars disappeared.

'How many arrows are there, Simone?'

'Twelve.'

'I shall win on the twelfth,' said Marion calmly, fitting the barb as she spoke.

Marion, kneeling, drew the bowstring taut. Simone held herself ready to draw in the silk, her ears strained for the fall of the arrow on the stones of the yard. Could either of them bear the strain of the twelve? Would not the sentry hear the faint sounds? His footsteps paused in the yard beyond. Marion held her breath and waited. The tramping steps began once more. Again came the lightning streak through the dim air. The silk ran out. There was no tap of the falling shaft.

Marion leaned forward. The bow dropped from her nerveless hand. With a low cry, Simone brushed the girl aside out of the way of the shining strands. Roger was hauling in the silk. Gently the length passed through Simone's fingers.

'Hist!' said Marion. She laid a steadying hand on the line. The sentry's footsteps sounded again. His clumsy form swung round the corner, the light gleaming on his barrels. He paced the length of the south wall, and stood still: then, laying down his carbine, he looked searchingly round, and groping in his pocket, drew out pipe and flint and tinderbox. Leaning against the wall, directly under the slender line, he proceeded to fill and light his pipe. From time to time he glanced nervously about.

Again the wave of faintness stole over Marion. Her eyes, wide with horror, stared at the man below. Simone gently took the silk from her.

The sentry was fumbling with his tinderbox. Would he look up and see that fine strand, grey as the sky, stretched over his head?

The world was waking to the dawn. Thrushes piped their first notes in the garden. Puffing at his pipe, the sentry turned and scanned the eastward horizon. Lines of rosy clouds showed themselves, forerunners of the storm. Marion clutched Simone's hands, waiting for the man's eyes to sweep the sky. She was struggling with an overpowering desire to scream aloud. Another minute ticked by. Three o'clock struck from the churches in the town. With a grunt the man lazily took up his carbine. He looked idly at the trees across. It seemed to Marion's distorted vision that he stared straight into their little casement. For another space he lingered, his legs wide, leaning against the wall. Then he straightened himself. He shouldered his carbine, and turned away. There was a stifled cry from Marion as she took the line with trembling fingers, and gently paid it out. For a second it slackened over the trees. Then the hand at the other side drew in again; and more and more rapidly as silk gave way to cord. Before the sentry had time to pass the corner again, Roger had secured the package tied on the rope, and drawn in the trailing end.

There was a dead silence in the little room. Unheeded the sentry paced the south front, unheeded tramped out to the wider stretch of the yard. Simone said something her companion scarcely noted, and the next minute Marion was alone.

The first act was over; the second, containing a still more perilous movement, was about to be played; of the third--the headlong flight to the west--Marion did not think at all.

What was going on in the cell yonder? She fancied she could see Roger's kneeling figure at the grating; he was evidently filing the iron near to the base. The bars were not very close together; when two were gone, Roger should be able to get out. There was a drop of about fifteen feet. With the help of the rope he should be able to let himself noiselessly down.

In reality only a few minutes had passed since the arrow had reached its mark, but to Marion it seemed already an hour. She looked anxiously at the eastern sky, now suffused with stronger light. In another half hour the daylight would be making very plain all the features of town and country alike. A few hoarse notes came to her ears, punctuated by the heavy footfall of the sentry in the yard. ''Tis a cheerful soul!' mused Marion, with a wry smile. A minute later the dark form loomed round the corner.

The first drops of rain were falling. The fitful breeze of the early morning had strengthened into a westerly wind. Instinctively Marion's thoughts began to dwell on the prospect of the ride over the border in the face of such a storm as was brewing.

Something moving in the road caught her eye, and switched back her thoughts to the present. Simone's noiseless figure was creeping along in front of the gaol wall. The blood rushed to Marion's face. She had forgotten that arrow. Her eyes went alternately from the sentry's steady movement to the fluttering figure in the road. Suppose he should open the wicket?

The light form glided noiselessly back, and Marion glued her eyes again to the grating of the cell.

As the sentry passed round the corner, Marion bent forward and listened for the sound of the grinding of the file. But not by straining her ears to the utmost could she hear anything save the steady tramp of the soldier. Surely there had been time to file through those two bars! In her impatience she forgot that the prisoner was bound to restrict his efforts to the time the sentry spent at the back of the building.

As she sat motionless, her whole forces divided between watching and listening, there was a movement at her elbow. Simone was there with her hat and gloves. Behind her stood Mistress Keziah, her face grey in the dawn.

The clocks in the town chimed half-past three. Marion started. Half an hour Roger had been filing those bars.

'Had you not better go down to the gate and be ready?' said the old lady.

Marion, pulling on her gloves, shook her head. She crouched down again, no eyes for the others in the room, and was unaware that Simone, at a glance from Mistress Keziah, had quietly stolen away.

Marion felt a cold terror grip her heart. Could some one have entered the cell and seen Roger working--seen the arrow and the silk and the cord?

There was the sentry again, idly walking the south front. It seemed hours before he retraced his steps.

As he turned the corner, Roger's face appeared at the grating. He was ready. First knotting the rope to one of the side bars, he pressed his knee against the stone sill, and pulled with both hands first one bar and then another. Slowly the bars yielded. Roger flung out the rope.

What was that? The step of the sentry returning already? Marion leaned out to wave a warning. It was too late. Roger had thrust head and shoulders through the gap. He drew one foot up on to the ledge, then leaning out, caught the rope and bore on it while he freed the other foot. He slid down. Just as he landed on the ground, the sentry swung round the building.

Roger was the first to see the man. For one paralysing instant he stood still. The sentry started and stared, dumb with amazement. Before he had time to level his carbine, before he had the wit to shout, Roger leaped at him, his fists clenched. Out flashed his right hand, and caught the man a crashing upward blow on the jaw. The sentry fell like a log. Roger darted to the wall. Marion only waited to see him spring from the coping into the road. With a swift word to her aunt, she ran along the passage and down the gallery into the hall. The door stood wide open. She sped down to the courtyard gate.

Roger was already there, wrapping himself in the coachman's cloak. Simone was holding his hat and crop. Roger gave a swift look at Marion.

'We have to pass the gaol for the east gate,' said she. 'Can we? Have we time? Shall we make for the west?

'The man will be a good five minutes at least. Then another five remembering what has happened,' said Roger quietly. 'Come!'

With a fleeting glance for Simone, Marion followed him out. The two ran lightly back along the road, past the gaol gates. There was not a sound from the building. No one was in the road. The whole town seemed deserted. Through the old east gate they went, and turned up towards the castle scarp.

Just beyond the ridge, in the shadow of some trees, Zacchary was waiting with the greys. Roger lifted Marion into her saddle, and leapt into his own. Then he looked down at Zacchary, and said a husky word of farewell.

Zacchary was staring as at a ghost. He had never believed the plan would succeed. Before he had time to consider was it really Master Roger, in Mistress Keziah's livery, the two were on a narrow track that led by a round-about course to join the westward road some miles farther on.

For several minutes Zacchary stood still. The sound of the horses' hoofs on the soft turf died away. He stared about the quiet green fields and down into the town. The day had come.

Mistress Keziah had ordered Zacchary to make a wide detour among the country lanes, and enter the streets later by the west gate when folk were stirring and the business of the day was afoot. For a couple of miles Zacchary followed the track of the horses. On the summit of the hill he stood and looked round.

Through a straggling copse to the right, that shielded the path the fugitives had taken, the high road from Honiton was visible, winding down into the valley. A solitary horseman was riding towards the town. In the shelter of the trees Zacchary stood and watched. There seemed to be something familiar in the man's head and shoulders. Then he remembered.

It was the messenger whose horse had cast a shoe the day the coach foundered in the lane.

*CHAPTER XXII*

*THE ROAD TO THE WEST*

After close on two hours' hard riding the fugitives drew rein. They had not spoken except once to confer on direction, Marion having simply stated that they were returning to Garth. Roger had pointed out the cross-country track where he thought it most likely they would escape detection.

They were on the edge of a spur of the moor, and from its advantage they wheeled to scan the countryside. There was no sign of life save the cattle and ponies grazing in the rough grass.

Soon Marion became aware that Roger had turned his gaze on herself. Fingering her crop, she sat tongue-tied and helpless. She had dreamed of this moment, when she and Roger would find themselves riding homeward, the shadow of the gaol left behind, and a long chapter in their lives to recall, each for the other. The moment having come, she could do nothing but stare at her horse's head and run her crop in and out of his mane.

Roger's hand fell abruptly on hers. Marion raised her eyes and dropped them again. The hand tightened.

'I cannot say it,' said Roger huskily. 'I cannot.'

Marion glanced at the pale, worn face.

'Don't try,' she faltered, her composure breaking before the look in his eyes. 'I know just what you would say.'

'No one can,' said Roger in a low voice, 'who has not been at the very edge of the grave.'

Marion's hand gently touched Roger's. Tears shone on her lashes.

'I do believe,' she said tremulously, acting on a swift inspiration, 'I do believe I am hungry.'

Roger dropped his hand and turned his head away, and leaning over, Marion tried to unbuckle one of his saddlebags. Soon her companion became aware of her action. Hastily he dismounted. From the bag he drew out a flask of wine and a wallet of food.

'Venison pasty!' said he, staring at the piece Marion offered him. He snatched at it with an eagerness that went to her heart. Half-way to his lips he withdrew it. 'I am a brute!' he said. 'Forgive me. Where is yours?'

'Here. We have one each. Now I shall give you just five minutes, sir.'

Marion smiled down at the upturned face, but her hint brought Roger back to the present. He mounted again, and the two moved forward at a gentle pace, eating and talking as they rode. In a few words Marion explained her plans on his behalf.

'So you are going to banish me to the high seas,' said Roger at the end.

Marion was silent a minute. Then, rousing herself: ''Tis strange by what crooked means a man's fate overtakes him. Do you remember that day on the headland when the _Fair Return_ set sail? My father always said that being a sailor bred and born you would in the end go to sea.'

The slight meal finished, they set their horses at a trot over the springing turf.

'What about my mother?' said Roger. 'Can I not see her before I sail, think you?'

'If we get down to Garth untroubled, perhaps yes. But we may have a close run for it.'

'I think we have not been seen yet,' said Roger.

'Except for the old woman.'

Roger was silent a while. About five miles out of the city they had come face to face with a small apple-cheeked dame setting out from her cottage with her basket of butter. The little low building, tucked in a fold of the moor, had been unnoticed by them, and they had reduced their speed, hoping that their headlong flight had not already been noted by some one within the cottage walls.

Marion had bidden the dame good morning and talked of the weather. The wind was steadily gathering, and every few minutes came fleeting squalls of rain. The old woman was not in a good temper. A wet market day in Exeter meant poor money for her butter. She feared a heavy storm was brewing. Then she added, not without several motherly glances for the pale-faced groom who rode just behind the lady: 'If so be you'm for Mortonhampstead, Mistress, 'twere best to take to the left down along and find the waggon track. Folk do sure lose themselves easily on they moors, and there be terr'ble danger of bogs up over. Only yesterday a gentleman got off the track. Mighty near to sinking in Tinker's Cup a'd been, with bog muck up to the horse's knees. 'Twas as fine a gentleman as ever a clapped eyes on. And a crown her gave me, as cool as day, for setting of un right.'

'Here's another to keep it company,' smiled Marion. 'Good day.'

In case she should be watching, the two had made a show of returning to the track she had pointed out, then branched to the north again, leaving Mortonhampstead, its chimneys beaten by driving smoke, away to the left.

'I don't think she noticed anything,' said Roger. 'And as you say, they'll be searching the river and the seaward country.'

After a time Roger reined in and looked about. They were out on the open moor. As he scanned the hills and gullies, the fair green bog stretches, he was seized by a conviction that they were not making the speed they should. In avoiding the dangers of the moor, they had been obliged to take a winding course. A landmark which should have been left miles behind lay at his shoulder.

'Marion,' he said suddenly, 'we must take to the waggon track if we wish to reach Garth to-day. We have lost half an hour wandering among these hummocks. Better make a rush for it that way than get hopelessly bogged or lost.'

Marion looked relieved. ''Twill be vastly easier to ride straight on so. And this heavy land is bound to weary the horses.'

By tacit consent the two spared no energy or time in speech. In a short time they gained the track. An hour later they passed through Postbridge. There they decided to feed the horses. While the greys were being attended to, Roger playing the part of groom among the stable men, Marion was entertained by the innkeeper with the news of the countryside. Among other details the host gave a description of a gentleman who had passed through on the previous evening, wishful to lie at Princetown. Listening, Marion mused a little on the coincidence: twice that morning she had heard of the stranger westward bound.

At the crest of the steep rise out of Postbridge Roger turned in his saddle and cast a keen eye over the Exeter road. With a swift gesture he pulled up his horse and remained motionless. Instantly on the alert, Marion stopped and followed the direction of his gaze. There was a lull in the storm; the sky had lightened over the east. A bar of watery sunlight fell across the hills that lay between Mortonhampstead and Postbridge. A couple of men on horseback showed against the skyline, minute figures only visible to those who had been trained from childhood to scan far distances. For a few seconds their horses showed clear. Then a driving cloud swathed the sunlight, and the moor lay misty and uncertain again.

'Did you see?' asked Roger quietly. 'Or did I imagine it?'

Marion nodded, and settling herself in her saddle raised her crop. An unexpected, heavy blow startled the grey into a canter that soon became a gallop. The second horse came easily alongside, Roger looking into his holsters as he rode. Before they had gone half a mile the storm on the height of the moor redoubled its fury. Rain lashed their faces. Bending sideways to the blast they drove the greys mercilessly on, only slightly slacking their speed as Princetown was reached and passed. There the track dropped into the valley. As the steaming animals picked their way down the slope, Marion turned to Roger.

'Do you think we should try to change horses at Tavistock?'

Roger shook his head. ''Tis but another thirty miles to Garth. These brutes will soon know, if they don't know now, that they are nearing home. They can do it. 'Twould mean at least ten minutes to change.'

Marion took what ease she could from the slackened pace. Her cloak and habit were soaked and hung limply about her. Wearily she drooped in the saddle, thankful for the respite from the storm that beat the heights.

'I am not worth it, Mawfy,' said Roger suddenly.

Marion smiled and straightened herself a little, but she made no reply. The bed of the valley passed, the greys trotted slowly up the slope.

'Now for it!' said Roger, as they gained comparatively level land. Soon they were at a straining gallop again, their heads bent to the wind and rain. From time to time they looked back, but the valley had swallowed their pursuers.

After a few more miles Marion became aware that her horse was a neck ahead of Roger's; then a length. Roger drove his heels into the grey's flanks. For a few yards they speeded alongside, then Marion found herself ahead again. She slightly checked her pace and glanced at her companion. There was a queer look on Roger's face. He slowed to a trot, leaning over to examine the action of his horse's feet.

'Wait a minute, Mawfy,' he said quietly. Hastily dismounting, he examined his horse's shoes and knees. 'I can see nothing,' he said, springing up again. 'It is perhaps a tendon that does not show any swelling yet.'

The horse, urged into speed, ran unevenly, jerking on the off hind. With crop and heel Roger pressed the brute to his utmost, but both the riders knew his miles were numbered. Neither spoke. Each had the same cold dread at heart.

'How far are we from Liskeard?' asked Marion faintly.

'Close on ten miles, I should think. But there should be an inn half-way.'

Mercilessly Roger forced the pace of the limping grey. 'It grieves me,' he said abruptly, 'but 'tis his life against mine.'

From time to time Marion looked fearfully over her shoulder. She knew that the wind, driving against them, would make it impossible for them to hear their pursuers till they were close at hand. Another quarter of an hour, at this rate, should bring them within hail.

'Take my horse and go on,' said Marion suddenly. 'They would not dare shoot me, and if they took me back to gaol Aunt Keziah would get me out.'

Roger's answer was a look from which Marion turned her face away. They trotted on in silence. The road had turned into a winding waggon track that curled round the hillside. Beeches topped the steep, unbroken hedges bordering the way. Behind the hedges on the one hand the ground fell away steeply, on the other climbing to a ridge that was the last outpost of the moor.

Roger stood in his stirrups. 'I think I can see some sort of a building, a couple of miles or so farther on where this lane ends.'

Marion's heart sank. Another couple of miles would mean at least a quarter of an hour at the pace they were going. She had a mental vision of the devouring stride of the pursuers' horses.

'And should they come before that,' added Roger, 'you are to ride on out of reach of shot. Remember now.'

Marion flashed a withering glance at the speaker. 'I should of course do that, should I not? Give me one of those pistols. Ah. I hear voices. Where are they?'

'There is nothing,' said Roger. All his attention was given to the grey.

Marion looked swiftly over her shoulder. Through a gap in the trees she imagined that she caught a fleeting glimpse of red. Making a swift calculation, she knew the soldiers were but three miles away. She cast a despairing look at Roger's horse.

'Give me one of those pistols, Roger,' she pleaded. 'I shall not leave you.'

Roger's answer was lost in a sudden cry from Marion. She was riding slightly ahead, and could command a curve in the road. Roger saw her speed on. Stumblingly his horse followed.

A cart and horse were slowly making their way along the deeply rutted track. In the cart a boy sat, talking to a horseman who rode at the rear. The rider's face was turned to meet the sound of approaching hoofs.

'Colonel Sampson!' called Marion, her voice breaking. 'Colonel Sampson! Oh, thank God!'

The traveller wheeled round and stared in amazement from Marion to the horseman at her heels.

'Roger's grey has fallen lame,' cried Marion, 'and the soldiers are almost on us.'

Sampson glanced keenly at the boy, who, still more amazed than he was, made a courteous salute. In his face he saw the marks of prison durance. So this was the Roger whose fate had made a criss-cross track through so many lives!

In an instant he saw his course plain. With a gesture bidding the two to follow, he set his horse at the narrow space left between the waggon and the hedge. When all three were ahead of the vehicle, Sampson dismounted.