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.

Down the centre of the room ran a long table, plentifully furnished with meats and wines, at which were seated some of the officers of the troops quartered in the town, the judges, and a sprinkling of the officials of the circuit, and several pliable Tory gentlemen of the neighbourhood. Candles were lighted on the table, and as their rays illumined the faces of those who sat at meat they revealed no face that did not bear the clear stamp of debauchery and wickedness. For even in that callous and licentious age it would have been hard to find in all the length and breadth of the realm a viler and more despicable coterie than this company of noted officers, honoured judges, and highborn satellites who sat at the board of the lord chief justice of England.

At the head of the table sat my Lord Jeffreys, the very picture now, despite his ailment, of jovial good-humour. He had laid aside alike the severity of the judge and the ferocity of the man, and as he lounged at ease while the wine circulated freely, he warmed in the flattery of his comrades, and cracking jests and capping stories, was himself the leader and head-spring of their boisterous mirth.

On his right hand sat the commanding officer of the district, Colonel Kirke. And it was at sight of the latter's face that Cicely first realised to the full what manner of men were these before whom she stood. For nature is not to be gainsaid, and now, even as in the days of Cain, she imprints upon a man's features the sure tokens of his sins. But no longer, as in that age of the world's innocence, do men flee forth into the wilderness to hide their shame, rather they walk abroad, regardless of the mark upon their foreheads, knowing well that none will dare to call them to account.

And surely, in all the annals of our history, never was there a man more hardened in cruelty, more steeped in licentiousness than this same Percy Kirke. Yet the man was a great soldier, an able commander, fearless as death itself. But withal one whom no man could hold in honour, whom no woman could trust, for he would accept a bribe or betray a woman with the same ease and satisfaction as he would toss off a cup of wine.

As Cicely and her companion were ushered into the room the colonel was leaning across the table whispering a story into the ear of the lord chief justice. The rest of the company turned silent as the two girls remained timidly in the doorway shrinking from the cold gaze of so many pairs of eyes.

At length, the story ended, Lord Jeffreys burst into a roar of laughter, turned slowly in his chair, and after eyeing the two trembling women for a moment in silence, snarled:

"Come, girl! 'Tis damned wearisome to be troubled with affairs of state at this hour of the night, but since ye are here, say your say. What do you want with me, eh?"

"I entreat your lordship's pardon for this intrusion," began Cicely timidly. "An I might see your lordship alone——"

"What? An assignation! Oh! fie, madame," cried the chief justice, glancing round at his companions with a mocking smile. Then he continued sharply, "Nonsense, girl. Say what you want here and now, or leave it unsaid and begone."

Seeing no escape Cicely called up all her courage and proceeded to urge her plea.

"I have come hither on behalf of my cousin, Mistress Barbara Winslow, who was to-day sentenced to——to a most cruel punishment. I am here to beg your lordship to think mercifully of the matter and to grant me her pardon."

Lord Jeffreys glanced at the speaker with a quick scowl.

"How's this?" he cried sharply. "What means this? Am I never to hear the end of this pestilent woman? Is all the world mad concerning her? But we will have no pleading here. You have come, I am told, to lay information against a rebel. Beware, madame! If you have no such errand, if you have tricked us, the worse for you."

"Nay, my lord," answered Cicely, trembling. "I have not deceived you. I have information, not indeed of a rebel, but of one who hath connived at an escape. But I will give it only in return for my cousin's free pardon. On no other consideration."

"Say you so, indeed. And who may you be, madame, who dares to dictate terms to his Majesty's representatives? Have a care, madame, have a care."

"It matters little who I am, my lord," answered Cicely with some spirit, "save only this. I am no spy, no common tale-bearer. I would not willingly lay information against any man, and I vow that, do what ye may, I will not speak a word further on the subject till I have your assurance of my cousin's pardon."

Lord Jeffreys scowled savagely, but she met his glance unflinchingly, and he turned away with an oath and swallowed a glass of wine.

"Well! Well!" he exclaimed testily. "Out with thy story, girl. Who is this rebel?"

"You swear to me my cousin shall be pardoned?"

"Aye, aye. You shall have her pardon, an the affair prove serious enow to merit it—a hanging matter. Now, the name of your rebel, and be speedy, madame."

"'Tis—'tis Captain Miles Protheroe."

"Miles Protheroe!"

A shout of astonishment from the officers present greeted the name, all eyes were turned on the informer. Only Colonel Kirke remained silent, but he turned in his chair, and leaned forward with an eager glint in his eyes, and his teeth gleamed white behind his black beard.

Then Cicely told her story. The silence, the universal attention frightened her. She stammered, broke down, struggled on again. Only the thought of Barbara nerved her to a finish. Jeffreys helped her by an occasional sharp question, the rest of her audience sat in silence.

When she had finished her tale she turned to the lord chief justice eagerly.

"Is—is that a hanging matter, my lord?" she asked, shuddering involuntarily at the question.

"Oh, aye, 'twill serve, I doubt not."

"Then the pardon, my lord," she urged timidly.

"Pardon? Eh, what? What pardon?"

"For my cousin, Mistress Winslow. You swore she should be pardoned, if I spoke."

Jeffreys looked round the table with a low laugh of amusement. Then he slowly drained his glass.

"To be sure," he said. "To be sure. She shall be pardoned, freely pardoned—when her sentence has been executed."

Cicely's heart grew suddenly cold.

"My lord! What mean you?" she gasped. "Surely—you cannot——No! No! You swore to me she should have a free pardon."

"So she shall, so she shall," assented the judge. "A full and free pardon, two years from to-day. I'll answer for it."

Cicely held out her hands in helpless entreaty.

"Ah! no, my lord. Surely you are jesting with me," she cried.

"Tut, you fool," he answered impatiently. "Do you deem a pardon is so easily won? Jesting, forsooth; aye, 'tis a jest, i' faith," he laughed brutally, "but I doubt if Mistress Winslow will find it so. They shall tell her on't after her first taste of the whip, and see if her wits can mark the humour on't."

He laughed heartily at this suggestion, some of his comrades and satellites joining in his mirth.

But Cicely gave way utterly. She fell at his feet; she sobbed out desperate entreaties to pitiless deaf ears.

"Ah! no, no, my lord, it cannot be, you cannot mean it. Say you do but jest. Surely it is enough, this thing that I have done. For I have told you, told you all I know. Ah! tell me what more I can do, what more to win her pardon. Indeed I will do anything—anything, an you will but pardon. Ah! my lord, my lord!"

Jeffreys looked down at her and laughed. Then he poured himself another glass of wine, and pushed the bottle on to his neighbour.

"Take her away! Take her away," he said testily, pushing her with his foot.

Cicely would have renewed her plea, but Prudence Lane, realising that any such effort would be useless, and apprehending that to remain longer in such dissolute and abandoned company might be to court insult even of a more degrading character, leaned down to her companion, and with a whispered entreaty, drew her to her feet. The door was flung open for their departure and the two girls, Cicely clinging to her friend's arm for support, were ushered from the room, and thence into the High street.

In heavy silence they retraced their steps homeward, but had not proceeded far, when upon turning a corner they ran almost into the arms of Captain Protheroe. He had been absent from Taunton since the previous day upon a mission in the west, and was now on his way to the White Hart Inn in search of Colonel Kirke to make his report.

Cicely recoiled from him with a cry of remorseful horror, but he stepped eagerly towards her. Though they had never spoken together, he knew her well by sight.

"Lady Cicely Winslow!" he exclaimed in glad astonishment. "What brings you to Taunton at such a time? 'Tis no ill news, I trust. And Mistress Barbara? Is she here likewise?"

Cicely stared at him, her eyes wide with a momentary terror.

"You know, you must know," she exclaimed in a low, hard voice. "No! I will not believe but 'twas you who betrayed her. I dare not. I should go mad else at what I have done. No! 'tis true, you are but mocking me."

Her words had almost a ring of entreaty in them. She could not, would not believe his innocence; would not be deprived of this last plea in justification.

He stared down at her in amazement.

"On my soul, Lady Cicely, I do not understand one word of what you are saying," he exclaimed.

Cicely remained sullenly silent. He turned to Prue for an explanation.

"What means all this? Where is Mistress Barbara Winslow?"

"In prison, sir, for harbouring rebels, sentenced for two years, and to be scourged every month in the open market-place. If, as her ladyship says, this is your doing, you may be proud of your work." She tossed her head defiantly.

"In prison! Here in Taunton! Impossible, girl. You must be mad to say it," he urged in desperate eagerness.

Prudence would have responded with an outburst of scorn, but Cicely seized her by the arm and dragged her down the street. Indeed the poor lady was half demented. The sudden appearance of Captain Protheroe had brought vividly before her mind the full significance of what she had done, and with that strange stubbornness which possesses those worn out in mind and body, she sought to shelter herself from the stings of conscience behind the plea of justification in view of the criminal and despicable nature of the man she had betrayed. As she herself said, she dared not believe in his innocence. Her only comfort lay in convincing herself that he was even as those to whom she had betrayed him.

Captain Protheroe stared after their retreating figures in the deepest astonishment, but his astonishment quickly gave place to horror as he realised the meaning of their words.

To be imprisoned, scourged by the brutal soldiery, this girl, so young, so tender, so beautiful! He ground his teeth with rage as he hurried forward.

"This is one of Jeffreys' deviltries, I doubt not," he muttered.

He had heard of many such, had heard of them with a shudder of loathing, and passed on in disgust. But that she—that they should dare to lay hands on her! Instinctively his hand went to his breast, where lay concealed the knot of scarlet ribbon. He trembled at the sudden, awful horror of the thought.

But he was a soldier, a man of action, not one to waste time in futile imaginings while there was work that might, that must be done. With an effort he pulled his thoughts together and reviewed the situation, while he strode rapidly towards the White Hart Inn.

"There is but one thing to be done," he muttered. "An appeal from me to Jeffreys or to Kirke were worse than useless. I must to London. General Churchill will refuse me nothing, and he is high in favour with the King. He can procure a pardon—he shall do so. I will get leave at once, and start to-night. When she is free and safe, then to find the man who has informed against her. But before all she must be released."

So he determined, as he went rapidly on his way.

Meanwhile in the upper chamber of the White Hart Inn the carouse continued. The babble of tongues and roars of laughter once more disturbed the peaceful silence of the evening.

After Cicely's departure Lord Jeffreys exercised his wits sharply upon the subject of his late applicant's visit, and his companions joined in his humour.

But despite the boisterous merriment an air of depression hung over many members of the company. This sudden accusation levelled at one of their comrades, for an affair so trivial in their eyes, and yet adjudged by the chief justice as worthy of death, roused an anxious terror in their hearts that would not be stilled. For if this man indeed be brought to punishment, upon whom might not the next thunderbolt fall; who could be accounted safe? Were they not all equally guilty, and equally open to betrayal? They eyed the judge nervously, and trembled while they laughed.

Only Colonel Kirke made no attempt to hide his preoccupation, though it sprang from another cause. He sat grave, silent, biting his lips in thought, while that strange gleam of ferocity deepened in his eyes.

At length Lord Jeffreys turned to his neighbour, and rallied him good-humouredly.

"Come, Percy," he cried, "you don't drink. Why, what ails you, man? Have you lost your heart to yon fair fool, eh?"

"No, my lord. I' faith, I have clean forgot her."

"But not her story, eh?" asked the judge, glancing at him with a sinister smile, for he was quick to read men's thoughts, and guessed at the anxiety in his companion's thoughts. "Come, about this rebel officer of yours. What of him? Shall we wink at the matter?"

His lordship was no hypocrite; that which he did, justly or unjustly, he made little attempt to hide, and certainly among his boon-companions, the taking of a bribe, or the winking at a fault were subjects for free discussion.

Kirke pushed aside his glass, and leaned across the table, speaking in a low voice:

"This is my affair, my lord. This is a matter for court-martial. Let me try the man."

Jeffreys laughed good-humouredly.

"What! you dog. You want to handle the crowns, eh! Is it a rich prize?"

"There'll be no crowns in this case," said Kirke with a grim smile. "This is a matter for punishment."

"What, colonel! Turned honest, eh! Why, man, if all reports are true you've done the same yourself, a thousand times, tho' certes you've more frequently pocketed the reward than spared the life."

"Maybe. But they have grown restive on the subject at Whitehall of late, damn them! My Lord Sunderland has been pleased to complain. Well, we'll make an example of this one."

"Tut! man. Have your way, court-martial an you will, but never hang the fellow. His friends won't pay for his carcase. There are enough and to spare for hanging; this fellow should yield a goodly profit."

"Years ago, my lord," answered the colonel grimly. "this man and I were in France together. We quarrelled concerning a slip of a girl; he professed to mislike my methods of dealing with her and laid his cane across my cheek in public. When I cried for satisfaction he refused, saying he did not measure swords with a bully. He is a swordsman, curse him; it was useless to brand him as a coward; I had no redress. That was twelve years ago. I feel the stroke of his cane on my cheek again to-night and here at last is a salve to the bruise. I've watched and waited, knowing that my chance would come, and now at last he is in my power. No, my lord, crowns will be of no avail; he shall be tried at sunrise to-morrow, and shot like a dog at noon."

Throughout this speech the colonel's tone had grown ever louder, and as he uttered the last words with a savage ferocity, the door opened, and Captain Protheroe walked into the room.

"Hullo! colonel, another victim?" he exclaimed. "Who is the wretched devil who is to be shovelled out of the world so speedily?"

There was deep silence. Captain Protheroe gazed round in astonishment at the circle of grave faces, all turned eagerly towards him. Only Lord Jeffreys gave a sudden short laugh, as he lay back in his chair and watched the scene. For he loved to watch human comedies, if tragedy lurked behind them.

Then Colonel Kirke spoke:

"Captain Protheroe, you are under arrest. You will give your sword to Captain Harrington, and accompany him at once to the guard-house. I refuse your parole."

The Captain faced the speaker in astonishment.

"I! Arrested! What devil's foolishness is this?" he cried. "On what charge?"

"Set a watch on your words," answered Kirke shortly. "You are charged with connivance at the escape of a noted rebel, Sir Rupert Winslow."

Captain Protheroe started. So there was ground after all for the accusation; it was no imaginary charge, easy to refute; it was a serious affair, an affair he saw well that might cost him dear. He hesitated a moment, then:

"I claim at least to have the matter referred to the General," he said resolutely. Neither Churchill nor Feversham, he knew well, would be severe upon him.

"You are at present under my command, Captain Protheroe," answered Kirke shortly. "You will be tried by me. Captain Harrington, remove your prisoner."

The Colonel had risen to his feet, and for a full minute the two men faced each other in silence. Then Captain Protheroe smiled. He knew his enemy's inveterate hatred, he read the full significance of that glance. And yet he smiled. It was too simple, too obvious. Not a man in that room, he knew well, but had been guilty a dozen times of the same breach of duty as that of which he stood accused, yet they went free, unpunished, while for himself he saw well there would be no mercy. The malice was too palpable, he laughed in his enemy's face.

Not, though it were for his life, would he urge one plea before this man; his pride forbade him to stoop to entreat the favour of one whose vengeance he so utterly despised. Without a word he handed his sword to Captain Harrington, and turned to accompany him from the room.

"Where is he to be lodged, Colonel?" inquired Captain Harrington doubtfully. "In the guard-house?"

Colonel Kirke hesitated.

"No," he muttered to himself. "'Tis not secure enough. The fellow is too devilish popular with the men. I scarce think my lambs would dare to revolt, but yet there might be an escape. I'll not risk it. I must ask you to keep the prisoner for me till to-morrow," he added aloud, turning to the governor of the prison, who was seated among the officers at the lower end of the table.

The governor shrugged his shoulders.

"I' faith, we are full enough," he muttered. "Tho' his lordship has cleared us out a little to-day," he added with a laugh.

"Any hole or corner will serve till morning," persisted the Colonel, "so it be secure."

"Secure enough; I'll answer for that," answered the governor as he scribbled an order for imprisonment.

He tossed the paper to Captain Harrington, an escort was called, and in a few minutes Captain Protheroe was marching through the silent streets to his prison.

He was no coward, yet no man in his inmost heart can jest when he finds himself face to face with a prospect of meeting death. And as he passed by the swinging corpses and trunkless faces hoisted on poles in the market-place, and reflected that in twelve hours he might be even such as they, he was seized with a wild impotent fury against the fate which had brought him to such a helpless pass. Only his soldier's pride held him from throwing himself desperately upon his guards, and making one last, vain, hopeless struggle for freedom.

The distance from the inn to the gaol was not great, and having arrived at their destination, Captain Protheroe was duly handed over to the charge of the head-gaoler, who in the governor's absence consigned him to one of the large sheds situated near the castle.

Then Captain Harrington, having fulfilled his commission, paused to bid his prisoner good-night.

"I am grieved about this, Miles," he said anxiously, for the two had been comrades. "But keep up your heart; the Colonel cannot really mean to treat seriously such an affair. Why, zounds, man, none of us have an over-clean record in that respect. He is bound to take some notice of the accusation, of course, and he bears a grudge against you, we know, but it can't mean more than a night or so in prison."

"Do you think so, Will?" answered the prisoner, pressing his outstretched hand. "No, Kirke and I have met before, we know each other. He's not the man to forgive an injury, and I'll be hanged if I ask him to; tho'," he added with a smile—"there's not a doubt on't I'll be shot if I don't."

"Tut, man, it's never so bad as that. Keep up your spirits. And anything I can do——"

"There are one or two commissions—— But there will be time enough in the morning to speak of them. You'd best return now and report to the colonel, or you will get a lick of the rough side of his tongue yourself, as my Lord Jeffreys hath it. Good-night.—And Will, here's a word of advice from a dying man, beware of women, and it may be you'll live to be drowned after all. Now, my man, I am ready," he added, turning to the gaoler, and with a final nod to his friend, he passed into the shed.

Captain Harrington stood for some minutes in thought. But despite the colonel's threats, he could not believe that he would carry out sentence of death for so trivial a matter, on one of his own officers. So with a shrug and a whistle he turned away, and strode back to the White Hart Inn.