Part 21

"It is all over, good mine host; ’twas but a friendly bout; no one is the worse for it by so much as a cut finger," laughed Robin. "Steve, pick up Sir Geoffrey’s sword and restore it to him. Escort him into the inn and treat him courteously until I call for you." As they disappeared, he turned to Prue, who had watched the duel with mingled fear and joy, and now hurried to his outstretched arms.

"Oh! Robin; why didn’t you kill him?" she cried.

"Why, ’twas a duel, dearest Prue, not an assassination—" he began.

"He would have killed you if he could, I’ll be sworn," she protested. "I saw murder in his eye when he rushed upon us, and surely you would avenge the treachery that brought me to this lonely place with a man I detest, who desired to force or shame me into marrying him?"

"I am almost grateful to him," murmured Robin, with his lips to hers, "that he brought you here and procured me the inestimable happiness of seeing you once more and bidding you farewell."

"Is it indeed happiness for you to bid me farewell?" pouted Prue reproachfully.

"Almost—compared to the unutterable anguish of leaving you, perhaps for ever, without."

Prue drew herself away just far enough to look into his eyes with bewitching tenderness. "Does it grieve you so much to leave me, Robin?" she said softly.

"Can you ask, Heart of my heart?" he replied. "You little know how sorely I am torn in twain by the duty that separates me from you."

"Then why should we separate?" she cajoled, nestling against him.

"Oh! tempt me not, Beloved!" he implored, feeling himself melting like wax under her touch. "Honor and loyalty call me to France—

"Then take me with you!" she cried, in ringing tones.

A hand was laid on Robin’s shoulder with no gentle emphasis. "What folly is this?" demanded a harsh voice. "De Cliffe, I have overheard the wiles of this enchantress, and although I believe your loyalty is beyond reproach, I can not allow her to test your powers of resistance too far. Can you really believe that she wishes to accompany you? Bah! ’tis but another coil to bind you more securely and make your escape more difficult. But it shall not avail, I swear on the bones of St. Anthony! Viscountess Brooke, do you wish to have this man’s death on your conscience? If so, use your arts on him and you will soon be gratified; for I myself will run my sword through his heart, rather than see him a traitor to his king."

"Your grace misjudges me," said Prue proudly. "I come, as you should know, of right loyal stock, and nothing is further from my wishes than to hinder his departure. I but claim the right to go wherever he goes."

"The right! What right?" sneered the duke.

"The right, in the sight of God and man, of a wife to follow her husband," said Prue unflinchingly.

As she stood there so beautiful and undaunted, the love-light in her glorious eyes seemed to irradiate her whole face with indescribable tenderness and dignity. Even the angry duke dropped his eyes, abashed, and his tone was sensibly lowered when he exclaimed, "Wife? Husband? De Cliffe, what is the meaning of this midsummer madness?"

"Oh! Prue," cried Robin, "you know not what you say; how could you dream of sharing the fortunes of an exile—an outlaw?"

She raised her eyes to his, brimming with tears. "Because I love you, Robin," she sighed pathetically but bravely, "and life without you is worthless to me." Then, with a sudden change to petulance, "Oh! why do you leave me to do all the love-making? Is it not shame enough that I was a petitioner for your hand, but that now I must come as a beggar for your heart? Sure, I did think you loved me—a little," and she buried her face in her hands.

"Sweetheart, it is because I love you so dearly that I am loath to let you throw away your beauty and sweetness on a poor soldier of fortune," said Robin, scarcely less agitated than she.

"Who is apparently ready to ruin himself for the idle caprice of a frivolous coquette!" interposed the duke, with asperity.

The carriage which had followed Sir Geoffrey’s had arrived while the duel was in progress, and drawn up unnoticed at the bend of the road. Its sole occupant alighted, and lingering in the shadow of the trees, became an interested spectator, himself unobserved.

"De Cliffe," continued the duke, "time presses and you must not linger. Think only of your duty and be firm."

There was a brief silence, which Prue broke, addressing her husband, "I will not force myself upon you, Robin. Tell me what you wish and I will obey, even if it breaks my heart. But if you do not take me away, what will you do with me? You can not escort me yourself—you can hardly return me on Sir Geoffrey’s hands!—Am I to return to Tunbridge on foot and alone?"

"I will charge myself with your ladyship’s safe conduct," interposed the duke impatiently.

"A thousand thanks," returned Prue, sweeping a profound curtsey. "Your grace’s courage has not been overrated, yet methinks, if you reflect upon what might happen when some one told your charming duchess that you rode into Tunbridge at break of day with the Widow Brooke on the pillion, you will be grateful for my rejection of your offer." She turned to Robin with a submissive air that made at least one onlooker smile, "I will plead no more with you, Robin, but if I must leave you, swear to return to me and I will be true to you if I have to wait fifty years."

She threw her arms round his neck and drawing his face down to her, kissed him with passionate abandon, then bursting into tears, sobbed out, "If you can leave me now, Robin, farewell!"

There is a limit to the powers of endurance of the most resolute, and Robin could stand no more. He clasped her in his arms and soothed her with the tenderest caresses. "I will never leave you, my wife," he declared; "no one shall take you from me. You are mine and only Death shall rob me of the dearest treasure on earth. Say no more, my lord Duke; it is settled. My wife will go to France with me. The king will welcome the daughter of his father’s friend as the bride of his own faithful servant."

"If your mind is made up I have no more to say," returned the other, with a look of deep annoyance, "except that if the Viscountess Brooke—"

"Pardon me—the Lady Prudence de Cliffe," interposed a bland voice, and Lord Beachcombe stepped out of the shadow, and taking Prue’s hand, pressed a respectful salute upon it. "Permit me, Captain, to congratulate you on your marriage and to welcome your fair bride into the family of which I am the head. I had reason, dear Lady Prue, to fear that you might be molested on your journey, so took the liberty of following Sir Geoffrey’s carriage, to be at hand in case the road to Tunbridge might lead to—just such a breakdown as you suffered a while ago, and just such a romantic rescue as our gallant friend had prepared for you. I rejoice that I arrived in time to witness the reunion of husband and wife—such a delightful surprise for all of us!—and to wish them a happy future—beyond the sea!"

At the approach of Lord Beachcombe, the duke had pulled his hat lower over his face and drawn his mantle more closely about him. With a sign to Robin, he glided away among the trees, and only the sound of hoof-beats on the road marked his retreat. Percival, who had been too much engrossed in hunting out a water-tight boat to take notice of what was passing within a few yards of him, now approached, but stopped short at the sight of so many unexpected figures.

"This is my wife, Percival, who has decided at the last moment, to accompany me to France," said Robin. "Is there room for her in that boat or shall we need a bigger one?"

"Plenty of room," cried Percival, taking in the scene with eyes bulging with bewilderment. "But, Lady Prudence! ’tis impossible for you to brave the night in an open boat and the perils of crossing the Channel in a fishing smack!"

"Why, there ’tis!" she laughed, with saucy confidence; "if ’twere possible, ’twould scarcely be worth the doing! Steve, will you help Sir Geoffrey’s varlets carry my valises on board? Within the carriage you will find my jewel-box and other trifles! ’Tis not much in the way of wedding-equipage for a court-lady, but ’tis more than I had when I was waylaid on Bleakmoor and the highwayman could find nothing—at least, nothing portable—to rob me of," and she threw Robin a glance of irresistible drollery.

"This will indeed be a racy dish of scandal for your friends, madam," said Sir Geoffrey, from the inn-door.

"It will lose none of its spice in passing through your hands, Sir Geoffrey," she retorted, with asperity. "Pray do not forget to give yourself full credit for your share in the escapade."

"I will take good care of your reputation, Lady Prudence, and also of Sir Geoffrey’s," interposed Beachcombe. At his voice, Sir Geoffrey started and turned livid.

"’Od’s Death!’" he exclaimed. "What brings you here of all men?"

"Why, just a trifling wager; I think you’ll own I’ve won it fairly!" returned the earl, as Sir Geoffrey strode away, and calling to his men with curses, flung himself into his carriage and drove off at a gallop. Lord Beachcombe, scarcely waiting to press a hurried kiss on Prue’s hand and wish her long life and happiness, followed him with no less speed.

"The sail is hoisted and the baggage aboard," Steve announced. "Will it please your ladyship to hasten; we should be halfway to Rochester by now."

Robin carried his bride over the rough causeway and made her as comfortable as circumstances would permit, in the stern of the boat. With his ample cloak he covered her from the chill night air, and taking his place beside her, gave the word to push off.

Steve guided the boat into mid-stream, then set himself to steer by the sail that pulled and strained from the mast under a favoring wind. Percival, in the bow, kept a keen watch for any sign of danger to his precious freight, and behind, in the darkness, Prue lay in the arms of her lover-husband.

THE END

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