CHAPTER XVII

Barbara opened her eyes wonderingly and gazed upwards into a maze of soft shimmering green. She had slept long and soundly on her improvised couch, and some moments passed ere she could collect her thoughts, and solve the mystery of her surroundings. But gradually the events of the previous night took shape from the mist of dreams that clouded her brain, and she awoke to the new day. With a prayer of thankfulness for her safety she sprang from her couch, and stepped out of her bower into the wider enclosure beyond.

But there she paused, with a quick gasp of wonder and delight at the scene which met her eyes.

She was alone in a strange, green world. The ground was carpeted with thick, springy moss. The walls were of green leafy bushes, and intertwining branches festooned with trails of creepers hanging from tree to tree. Far overhead the giants of the forest greeted each other in a close embrace, each tree trunk arching high to meet its neighbour, and all veiled in the delicate shimmer of the ever-moving leaves. Here and there a shaft of green light pierced through the branches and lit up to a brilliant sparkle the emerald dewdrops which lay thickly encrusted on the moss.

"Sure it must be even thus under the sea," murmured Barbara, "except that there, men say, is ever silence, and here is ever sound."

She paused again to hearken with wondering delight to the thousand voices of the forest, the never ceasing whisper of the leaves, the ripple of water, the songs of the birds, clear among them the trill of the robin, even then beginning his winter serenade, all the mysterious sounds heard only in the heart of woodland life.

Close at hand a spring bubbled up and trickled away in a tiny silver stream. Barbara plunged face and hands into the clear, cold water, and the blood went tingling through her veins. She hesitated a moment, glancing round to make sure she was alone. Then with a half defiant toss of her head, she drew off shoes and stockings, and sitting on the soft moss, dabbled her feet in the stream.

The fresh air of the morning blew upon her face. She was gay with freedom, with health, joy, sheer animal happiness. She laughed aloud, and flinging back her head burst into a wild song of life and love which she had heard Rupert sing a score of times, but which she had never until now fully understood.

But as she sang she stopped abruptly and sprang to her feet, crimsoning with blushes, for the bushes where she sat were parted, and Captain Protheroe stepped out and stood before her, on the other side of the tiny stream.

"Good-morning, Mistress Barbara," he cried gaily. "Is it you indeed, or has some nymph of the forest sought haven in our glade?"

Barbara looked down at her bare feet guiltily, and then as her glance travelled slowly up her figure, she gave a sudden gasp of helpless dismay.

The bottom of her skirt hung limply about her, in veritable shreds and tatters; it was covered with green and brown stains and was torn in a score of places. Her bodice was equally dishevelled, one sleeve had been pulled right out of the gathers, and her dainty lawn fichu hung round her neck in a long draggled string.

For a moment she was filled with consternation, then gradually the ridiculous in the situation tickled her humour, and after one minute's pause her face dimpled into mischief and she broke into a merry laugh.

As for Captain Protheroe, he vowed to himself that never before had she looked so lovely. Her cheeks glowed with health and freshness, and her eyes danced, her pretty feet and slender ankles peeped from beneath her skirt, and her face and figure seemed infinitely attractive, a harmonious part of the beauty around her. She was adorable, and he longed to tell her so; aye, more, he longed to tell her of his new-born love, to plead for her mercy, to lay his life, his worship in homage at her feet.

But he dared not speak his thoughts, he dared not let himself be carried away by her beauty, lest losing for a moment his self-restraint, he lose it forever, and destroy at once his honour and the hope of her love.

So with an effort he turned his gaze aside and assumed once more his customary manner of careless raillery.

"Ah! Mistress Barbara," he cried gaily, again glancing at her garments disarranged and travel-stained, "I vow 'tis too bad of me. I knew it was no path of roses we followed last night, but I little dreamed the journey was so severe an one as this betokens. It was indeed careless of me, and yet I knew no other way. I pray your forgiveness."

"Indeed, there is nought to forgive. Is it not ever a path of thorns that leads to Paradise, and methinks e'en Paradise can scarce be more lovely than this."

He flushed with pleasure.

"You like our camp, madame!"

"'Tis perfection. I have never seen aught so lovely. The forest is a new world to me."

"A new world, and you the queen on't."

"A pretty queen i' faith, in rags and tatters. More like a beggar-maid methinks."

"An all beggar-maids were so, madame, one would judge King Cophetua a man of infinite discernment, and wisest choice."

Her eyes danced in recognition of the compliment, but meeting his glance she deemed it wiser to bring him back to earth.

"An I be queen, prithee, fair subject, give me my breakfast, for I am hungry as a trooper."

"'Twill be a somewhat cheerless meal, I fear," he muttered discontentedly; "I have been abroad in search of something better to offer than the cold bacon and pasty we purloined from the inn, but I met with little success. Here are all my spoils."

He unfolded two large leaves filled with wild plums and berries, and together they sat down to the meal. Barbara laughed lightly at the extraordinary collection of viands her companion produced from his bundle, but Captain Protheroe regarded the food scattered about on the ground with a rueful countenance.

"'Tis poor fare indeed, Mistress Barbara. But that foul witch, Misfortune, has driven us forth into the wilderness, and we must needs endure the distresses she showers on us with as bold a heart as we may."

"Fie, fie! sir," answered Barbara gaily, devouring her bread and blackberries with infinite gusto. "Where are your eyes? This is no wilderness, but a sweet enchanted isle. Some gentle enchantress hath led us hither, and now encloses us with a hundred magic spells safely guarded from the malice of our foes."

"And here we shall dwell happily ever after. Runs not the story so? For my part I should be well content," he added softly.

Again Barbara ignored the tenderness in his voice.

"This is no pasty, neither is it mere greasy bacon that you eat," she continued her parable calmly, "though to your eyes so it may appear. 'Tis magic food that our enchantress hath supplied. While this water," she added, stooping with cupped hand to drink from the spring, "sure no ordinary water could have so sweet a taste. 'Tis the nectar of the gods, and whosoever drinks it shall remain forever young."

"I' faith, madame, you are a lesson in contentment. For myself, hard fare is nothing, but I feared for you. I went fishing also this morning, but with ill success, my hand has lost its cunning since boyhood. But you shall have trout for supper, or I will drown in the attempt."

Barbara laughed brightly.

"Tell me of your camp here when you were a boy," she commanded.

So he told her of his boyhood, becoming boy again as he talked. Told of his games, adventures, beliefs, of life in those golden days when the forest had been to him a place of magic, each rock a fortress, each rotting tree-trunk a fearsome beast of prey, each flower-clad glade a dwelling for the fairies. And she listened to all with a sweet eagerness, a ready comprehension, a quick sympathy which led him to another and yet another tale, till his whole boyhood lay open before her like a book, and through the boy she learned to know the man, the man as he really was beneath his veneer of careless gallantry, brave, honest, simple, and chivalrous. For the man who looks back with love to the days of his childhood preserves one treasure in his heart which the world may never sully.

Thus they talked, these two, cut off from all their world. Naturally, openly they talked, disclosing to one another their deepest, purest thoughts, for the spell of the forest was upon them, and for the nonce the man and the woman met face to face, simple and unashamed The sunlight played about them, the leaves danced and whispered, and the air thrilled with the song of the birds.
"THUS THEY TALKED, THESE TWO, CUT OFF FROM ALL THEIR WORLD"
"THUS THEY TALKED, THESE TWO, CUT OFF FROM ALL THEIR WORLD"

"And were there no women in your camp?" asked Barbara at last, smiling.

"Yes, one. We would have appointed her our cook, our slave, as is the manner of lads towards most maids of their age. But not she! How that chit of a maiden ruled us, and how presently we worshipped her! She would sit here, our queen, enthroned and crowned, while we must scour the forest for fruit and flowers, rare gifts for her Majesty. We must wait upon her pleasure, fight for her favours, be in all things her slaves. Young as she was, she knew her power well, she tyrannised over us even then, and we—we loved her for it with all our hearts."

His voice was soft and tender, and a shadow fell on Barbara's heart.

"Where is she now?" she asked, with eager, too eager, Interest.

Again he hesitated, and answered in a cold, slightly restrained voice:

"She hath been, for some years, at the court of his Majesty, King Louis."

Then there fell a silence between them, but no longer the silence of sympathy, for he was lost in recollection, and she in wondering doubt.

Presently he rose abruptly to his feet.

"I think, Mistress Barbara, 'twere well I should go and reconnoitre. I will soon return; but I would fain see, if possible, what our enemies are about. Are you afraid to stay here alone?"

"Afraid?" she asked in astonishment, "why, what should harm me?"

"Yes, 'twas a foolish question to ask you, Mistress Barbara, I might have known the answer," he replied admiringly.

He paused a moment, smiling down at her, turned with a nod, and vanished into the wood.

For some time after his departure Barbara lay still, nestling in the luxurious couch of moss, wrapt in dreams. But the fresh joy of the morning had passed, and her dreams grew less bright.

She remembered now for the first time the helplessness of her position; an outcast, with no shelter save such as Captain Protheroe might provide, no escape save through his contrivance, no protection save his arm; she was utterly dependent upon him.

And then she remembered, with a sudden hot rush of blood to her cheeks, that it was she herself who had brought this about.

For he had not offered to take her with him, rather had he advised her to seek out the Lanes and take shelter with them; but she in her heedlessness had refused his advice, had forced her company upon him. And he could not in courtesy refuse, but was bound by his honour to undertake the task, to provide for her, and protect her, even at the risk of his life.

No, she had thrust herself, unwelcome, upon him, and had now no hope save in him.

So she mused, growing each moment more ashamed, more angry, her pride stinging her afresh at each recollection of his kindness and her dependence on it.

For this dependence, which might once perchance have been a sweet thought to her, was now turned to gall and bitterness by the shadow of another, the aforetime queen of the forest, whose presence seemed to her to haunt the little glade, the girl who had claimed his homage, whom he had loved with all his heart.

For if he loved the girl of whom he spoke so tenderly, then she, Barbara, could be nothing to him, save that perchance her beauty gratified his eyes; her presence was but an aggravation of his distresses, her helplessness a burden, unwelcome as unsought.

Her first impulse, nay, her firm intention was to flee from him at once, relieve him from his forced task, and win or lose her safety for herself. Thus her pride urged her to act.

But more gentle thoughts held sway. For Barbara was practical, and above all things, just. She saw clearly that to leave him now, in secret, would but add to his troubles, since he would without doubt seek her again, nor rest until he found her, fearing for her safety. Further, to urge him to leave her were useless; such a man as he did not lightly relinquish a task he had once taken in hand.

No, clearly she could not escape from the position in which she had thrust herself, her punishment must be to remain with him, dependent on his care. Nor must she accept his kindness grudgingly, but with a free heart, simply, confidently, else her conduct were indeed unjust. For since she had imposed the task upon him, she must not make it bitter by any act of hers.

So she resolved, though it hurt her pride sorely to accept his favours, deeming that she had nought to give in turn. For the Winslows were ever proud folk, giving gift for gift, blow for blow, in fair exchange, and Barbara had by no means consented to give nought and receive all at the hands of any man, save that her wonderful sense of fairness (no such common attribute of her sex), forced her to give his feelings the consideration she felt was but his due.

But for that other woman! The woman who had once sat there, enthroned, accepting his homage, perchance in the very spot where new she lay. She rose abruptly and walked to the far side of the hollow, where she seated herself stiffly on a fallen tree, and glanced distastefully at the soft bank of moss that had lately formed her couch.

Presently she grew restless, and so to escape from the folly of her thoughts, she resolved to make a short voyage of exploration on her own account.

She had no difficulty in discovering the opening in the bushes which enclosed the hollow, and passing through she found herself on a narrow green path leading through the forest. The brambles crept close to her side, and at times even stretched their long arms across her path, but in the clear light of day she had no great difficulty in making her way along a road which in the darkness of the previous night had appeared fraught with almost insuperable difficulty.

She tripped along at a fair pace beneath the towering branches, pausing ever and anon to gaze with wondering delight at some newly opening scene of woodland beauty.

Now she would pass a stretch of bracken, higher than her head, through which the sunlight streamed in a blaze of emerald fire. Anon she came to pause in a grove of beeches, gazing up in awe at the giant branches above her, curving in graceful arches far above her head; or she stooped in delight over some gnarled old tree-stump, alive with feathery ferns and delicately coloured lichens; and once she came to a wide, green bank o'ercovered quite with delicate cobwebs, dew-flecked, shimmering like silken gauze, beneath which swayed the tender lily-plants, like the slender forms of eastern beauties, dancing in their jewelled veils.

It was a world of magic delight, and as she wandered on, she fell again beneath the forest spell, and forgot her cares in the sheer joy of beauty. For the forest has a magic charm for all who will yield to its influence. The song of the sea is restlessness; the teaching of the hills is aspiration, but the spell of the forest is peace.

But suddenly she stopped, with a quick indrawing of the breath, for close beside her, separated only by a leafy screen, she heard a deep, shuddering sigh.

Her first impulse was to flee at once along the road she had come, back to the safe shelter of the hollow. But her curiosity stayed her, and she waited, hand on heart, for what should follow.

Again came the groan, and this time she could distinguish some muttered words.

"My God! I will endure no more. It must end now."

Barbara had been no true woman had she turned back now. But it was perhaps as much pity as curiosity that prompted her to push gently aside the branches, and peer through them at the speaker of these despairing words.

Before her, on a fallen tree sat the dismallest figure of a man she had ever seen. Pale, emaciated, with haggard face half concealed by a tangle of matted hair, and clad in that most melancholy of apparels—soiled and tattered finery. His right arm hung limply at his side, a pistol in the hand. His head was bowed upon his breast, but even as Barbara looked, he raised it, and she marked his desperate glance, his eyes hardened in despair.

As she looked upon his face the beauty of the forest vanished, it showed but as a drear wilderness of thorn and bramble, a fit setting to the desperate figure of the man before her; even so does the sight of a drowned corpse rob the sea of all its glory.

The man raised his face for a minute to the heavens, as though he would fling a look of defiance at the pitiless gods; then slowly lifted the pistol in his hand and turned the muzzle towards his temple, curling his finger round the trigger.

Without thought of aught save that the deed must be prevented, Barbara did not pause to consider her best course of action; she sprang through the bushes and confronted the sufferer, holding out her hands entreatingly towards him, and, with a sudden flash of instinct, crying in half-pleading, half-commanding tones:

"Hold, sir, hold. I require your protection."

The man sprang to his feet, and stood for a moment staring in amazement at this unexpected apparition. Then he fell on his knees before her, his eyes fixed adoringly upon her eager face.

"Barbara," he whispered, "Barbara! You! You!"

It was the girl's turn to be astonished. She drew back a step, and regarded the speaker with a frown of bewilderment.

"Do you not know me, Barbara?" he whispered again. "You can't have forgotten me, Ralph Trevellyan."

"Ralph!" she cried in amazement. "Is it possible?" It was indeed difficult to recognise in this haggard figure the gay debonair youth she had known in former days, her brother's boon companion, and a favourite playmate of her childhood.

"Ralph Trevellyan!" she repeated again doubtfully.

Then glancing down quickly at the pistol still in his hand, she cried reproachfully, "Oh, Ralph!"

He understood her meaning, and flushed hotly.

"And why not, Barbara?" he questioned defiantly. "What else remained to do? I am sick of this life, and here in this cursed forest is neither food nor shelter. It had to be death one way or another, better thus than on the scaffold."

"But not now, Ralph," she pleaded; "surely not now."

He took her hand and kissed it.

"Not now, Barbara, if you have need of me."

"Oh! indeed I have great need," she answered quickly. "For I am a fugitive even as thou, a rebel tried and condemned, and but yesterday escaped from Taunton gaol."

His face gleamed with anger.

"What! Did they dare! The fiends! But tell me how it befell, Barbara."

"No, I will have your story first. Tell me—— But stay, I had forgot. You are worn and hungry. Come. I know where there is food in plenty. Come!"

So she led him back to the hollow, and on the way he told her his story. How he had been left for dead on the field of Sedgemoor, but was saved by some pitiful peasants, who hid him in their cottage and nursed him back to life. But a few days since, while his strength was still but half-restored, a raid was made upon his hiding-place, he having been betrayed, and he had but just escaped to the wood in safety. There he had lurked for three days, feeding upon berries and such wild fruits as he could find, until at last, his strength well-nigh spent, and his spirit hopeless, he had resolved to give up the struggle and end his life.

As he finished his story, to which the girl listened with eager sympathy, they reached the enclosure, and parting the bushes, Barbara led him proudly into the hollow.

"Here is our camp, Ralph, is it not a Paradise? And now sit, and I will fetch you food."

"But tell me, Barbara," he asked suddenly. "You are not alone here. Surely you cannot have wandered all night alone in this wilderness."

Now Barbara hesitated, wondering how best to explain the apparent inconsistency of her conduct in having declared herself in urgent need of his protection, when she was provided with a most capable protector already. And while she paused, choosing her words, Captain Protheroe himself suddenly appeared at the entrance and stopped in wonder, gazing questioningly at the intruder.

Then a strange thing happened. Before Barbara could explain matters to either of her companions, Ralph turned, and saw the cause of her sudden silence. He stared wildly at the captain for one moment, then springing to his feet, he drew his sword, and rushed full pace to throw himself upon the intruder.

Captain Protheroe was unarmed, and the attack was utterly unexpected, but he was a man of ever ready wit, quick to meet all turns and shifts of fortune, and was accordingly in no wise overthrown by the onslaught. He stepped back a pace, into the shelter of the bushes, and pulling down a large leafy branch, he entrenched himself behind it, as behind a shield, and peered cautiously through the twigs at his opponent.

As for Ralph, he stopped dead for a moment in absolute amazement at this manoeuvre, then with a new rush of anger at what he deemed the cowardice of the fellow, he flew fiercely to the attack, slashing aside the leaves, and thrusting through the branches in a fury of rage. But Captain Protheroe's spirits rose to the fight, and he on his part did good work with his branch, swinging it from side to side, warding off the blows of his opponent, and occasionally getting in a thrust on his own account with the leafy mass, at his enemy's face.

The twigs snapped, the branches cracked, the leaves flew round them in a wild shower at the sweeping strokes of Ralph's sword. Sure never before was such a mad confusion.

Barbara stood for some minutes transfixed with astonishment at the strange turn of events, then with a quick cry she rushed to Ralph's side, and seized his arm firmly with both hands.

"Patience, patience," she cried. "Ralph, this is my good friend, Captain Protheroe, through whose help I have escaped from prison."

The two men eyed one another angrily for a moment, then Captain Protheroe cautiously lowered his branches, and Ralph sheathed his sword.

"Your pardon, Barbara," muttered the latter; "I did not recognise the gentleman as one of your friends. I had thought from his dress——"

"Captain Protheroe was indeed an officer of the royal army. But he hath been imprisoned—— You have never told me wherefore you were imprisoned," she interrupted suddenly, turning to the captain.

He turned to her in amazement.

"Why, madame, do you not know?"

"I!" she cried. "What mean you? Is it possible you were condemned for the affair at Durford! Indeed I knew nought of it! I am sorry—I——"

He turned the subject quickly.

"Then this gentleman, madame——?" he queried doubtfully.

"This is Sir Ralph Trevellyan; an old, a very dear friend of Rupert's—and of mine. He was wounded at Sedgemoor, and is now a fugitive as we are. He hath agreed to join our company, and we will all three travel together."

Captain Protheroe bowed stiffly, and glanced jealously at the newcomer.

"I am sorry, madame," he muttered sulkily. "You do not consider my protection sufficient."

"Hoots!" exclaimed Barbara crossly. "Two are ever better than one."

"Possibly. I doubt not this gentleman is also of that opinion," he answered with a slight sneer.

But here Ralph broke in hotly.

"If this gentleman like not my company, Barbara, I will right willingly rid myself of his."

"Certainly not!" cried Barbara, thoroughly exasperated, fearful also lest, removed from her influence, Ralph might again attempt his life. "If Captain Protheroe like not my friends, he may e'en journey alone."

Captain Protheroe looked up in astonishment.

"Do you desire me to leave you, madame?" he demanded coldly.

"As you please. An you care to do so, of a certainty I would not prevent you," she answered angrily, but her voice faltered. Here was the opportunity she had told herself she desired, the opportunity to free him from her dependence. But now her pride wavered, and despite her angry words, she prayed he might not go.

But he also had pride, pride now stung by jealousy. Without a word he turned on his heel, and strode from the glade.

Barbara stared after his retreating figure in dismay, but she could not call him back. She turned fiercely upon Sir Ralph.

"And pray what right had you, Ralph, to quarrel with Captain Protheroe?" she cried in a fury.

"Tut! Barbara," he answered coaxingly. "We shall do better without him. I doubt not the fellow is but a spy."

"He is no spy," she answered, stamping her foot in her rage. "He is a most brave, a most chivalrous gentleman. And—and I would to Heaven he had not left me."

She turned angrily away from her astonished companion—and found herself face to face with the captain himself.

The gloom had vanished from his face, and he looked down at her with a smile in his eyes.

"I pray you pardon me, Mistress Barbara," he began; "I did not willingly play the eavesdropper. I returned to fetch my cloak. But now——" he paused, and looked down at her whimsically. "Now, may I stay?"

In vain Barbara endeavoured to preserve her anger, gazing back haughtily into his laughing eyes; she was too delighted to see him again, and presently her lips twitched, and the dimple appeared.

"You—you are very troublesome," she answered, turning away.

Being a wise man and well versed in the ways of women Captain Protheroe sought for no more definite expression of relenting, but seated himself cheerfully on a fallen tree, and awaited her pleasure.

Presently Barbara continued, as though nothing had occurred.

"Come, you two must be friends. Give Captain Protheroe your hand, Ralph, and crave pardon for your rough welcome."

She accompanied the words with a glance in the direction of the discomfited Ralph, and he dared not refuse, but he complied with the request in a somewhat sulky fashion.

"Believe me, sir," he said, with the slightest curl of his lips, "I deeply regret that in my eagerness to protect this lady, I did not observe that you have been—er—deprived of your sword."

Captain Protheroe flushed at the implied insult, but accepted the extended hand.

Barbara hastily continued:

"That is well," she said cheerfully, affecting to ignore the rising quarrel. "Now will we be all friends together. And now, Captain Protheroe, the result of your expedition?"

"I fear I have but little to tell. One patrol indeed passed on the road to the south, but for the rest the country looks quiet enough. Yet we can scarce hope to pass another day here in safety; if you are ready we should move on to-night."

"Whither, then?"

"Aye, that is the question. We—" then interrupting himself with a bitter laugh—"I had forgot, 'tis we no longer,—they, the King's troops, are guarding the coast from Watchet to Parret mouth, since so many have escaped thence; there is small hope to the north. We might turn south, and lie hid among the Blackdown Hills, yet there is little to be gained by that; 'twill be some months ere the country be quiet, and you cannot lie all that time in the open. My plan, an it meet your pleasure, is to strike eastward to-night, skirt Bridgewater, and so make for Wells. There lives in that city an old woman who was my foster-nurse. She's a faithful soul, and would do aught for me, I verily believe. I could bestow you safely enow with her, indeed 'tis like enough the three of us could lie hid there a day or so, until we hear of some means of escape to Holland. There you can rejoin your brother, and we can take service with Brunswick."

"But how to reach Wells?" queried Barbara.

"We must journey by dark, and lie hid in the day-time in whatsoever corner it pleases fate to lead us to. We must press on rapidly, and should be there in three marches at most. I confess to the risk, but know no better plan. What say you?"

"I know nought of the matter," answered Barbara somewhat helplessly. "Do what you think wisest."

"To Wells be it then. I know the disposition of our—the troops, and the search is like to be less stringent there than elsewhere."

"We will leave the matter in your hands," continued Barbara. "But I must go to Durford before we start for Holland, if you please."

"To Durford, madame! Impossible! 'Tis the one place where you would be in greatest danger. What in Heaven's name would you at Durford?"

"Why, marry, collect my gowns of course. Do you dream I would leave them behind for any trollop to flaunt her person in them? My French silk, and the blue taffeta, and—oh! my new gold brocade. I cannot go away and leave my new gold brocade. I must have it; 'tis a matter of absolute necessity."

"But it is impossible," he cried desperately.

"Yet I can't go to Holland in these tatters," she persisted in exasperation.

"Indeed, madame, I see not how the effect could be improved," he answered, smiling at her admiringly. "But an it be indeed a matter of absolute necessity, tho' it seemeth at present an utter impossibility, I will bear the matter in mind when I lay my plans."

"That is kind," answered Barbara, with an approving smile.

Then she turned to Ralph with a sudden exclamation of distress.

"Oh! you poor boy," she exclaimed, "I had forgotten you entirely; you must be famished. See, here is our store. Eat what you will, and then rest; you must be wearied out with fatigue."

There was a tenderness in her voice and actions as she hovered over her old playmate seeing to his wants, a tenderness that sounded bitterly in the ears of Captain Protheroe. It was after all only the 'mother' feeling, natural in all women towards one whom they instinctively know to be weaker than themselves, but it was capable of a very different interpretation, and small blame to her companions did they thus interpret it, the one with a quick gladness, the other with a sudden pang.

When Ralph's wants had been supplied, and he had at last stretched himself out to sleep, Barbara came slowly and seated herself by Captain Protheroe's side.

"Captain Protheroe," she began hesitatingly, "were you indeed imprisoned solely on account of what you did for Rupert?"

"Nay, madame," he assured her quickly; "that was but the pretext I was imprisoned on account of an old grudge."

"Yet had there not been that pretext," she began.

"They had invented another, madame."

"But none save I knew of it. How could they hear it?" she questioned wonderingly.

"That, Mistress Barbara, is what I have been wondering ever since my arrest."

She looked at him curiously.

"And did you ever, in the midst of your wondering, suspect me, Captain Protheroe?"

He dropped his eyes before her clear glance.

"I am ashamed to confess that I did."

"That was unjust," she exclaimed quickly. "Despite all testimony, I never believed that you had betrayed me."

"I betray you!" he cried indignantly. "Why, how could you dream it, madame?"

"And how should you then deem it possible in me?"

"Oh; that was different."

"I do not see it," she answered with a smile. "But you know now that I am no traitor?"

"My faith upon it, Mistress Barbara," he cried earnestly. "I knew it the instant I looked again upon your face."

"And yet——" she mused, "'tis passing strange. It would seem we have a mutual enemy. I would I knew who had betrayed us."

"And I," he answered grimly.

"You would be revenged?" she questioned curiously.

"There should be a reckoning, Mistress Barbara."

"You believed me a traitor when we were together in prison?"

"I deemed it possible. Consider, Mistress Barbara, I knew no other who could have——"

"And yet, believing that, you saved me?"

"And yet, I saved you," he answered, smiling.

"Was that then your revenge?"

"Revenge! On you! Ah! Mistress Barbara, that were indeed different. Is not my life yours to do with as you wish?"

"The forest is no place for compliment, sir," she rebuked. "This pure air puts such empty words to shame."

"I know it, madame," he answered quietly. "'Twas indeed for that reason I dared to speak the words, trusting that you would know them to be true."

She had no answer to his words. Her heart trembled with gladness, but she despised herself for the weakness. "His life was hers." Aye, but might not a man speak so, look so, a hundred times, and mean no more than empty courtesy? And in her heart she cursed this cruel art of compliment, the meaningless gallantry towards her sex which permits a man to stale his homage at every maiden's feet, and forbids a woman to place credence in aught a man may say, lest she shame herself by seeming to take that which was never offered.

For Barbara had met too many such light gallants, men who, in all innocence doubtless, yet with deep cruelty, juggle with maiden's hearts as lightly as they throw a main; and she had already learned to don her armour, and enchain her free heart in the heavy fetters of her pride.

So she answered him nothing, wotting not what to say. And he, fearing to displease her, spoke no further.

Silence hung about them, the heavy stillness of the noonday hour accentuated by the drowsy hum of insects.

Presently Captain Protheroe glanced up at the sun shining high above their heads, and looked across at Barbara with a smile.

"Noon, Mistress Barbara," he said in a meaning tone.

She understood instantly the drift of the allusion, and shuddered fearfully.

"Ah! we are not yet far enough from Taunton," she cried anxiously.

"On the contrary, we should rejoice that we are already so far. Tho' I suppose," he added with a sudden smile, "had we waited, in a few minutes from this hour I for one should have journeyed much further."

"Indeed we should be greatly thankful," continued Barbara seriously. "For here we are, free and"—glancing at the loveliness around her—"one would almost say in Paradise. Why only last night I bade you farewell, and——"

She stopped abruptly, their eyes met, and her face crimsoned with blushes; for as she spoke the words, she remembered, on a sudden, the manner of that farewell.

He understood the cause of her confusion and pitied it. With a sudden impulsive movement he leaned forward and laid his hand upon her knee.

"Nay, Mistress Barbara," he began hurriedly. "I beg of you not to be so distressed about so small an act of charity. The events of yesterday are as a bad dream; we will look upon all we said and did as the acts of delirium."

To his surprise Barbara sprang to her feet, her face crimson, her breast heaving with anger.

"Indeed, Captain Protheroe," she answered in the coldest tones, "you need have no fear I should otherwise have understood your words. The whole affair was but a jest."

She strode haughtily past him and disappeared into her bower.

Captain Protheroe looked after her with a long, low whistle of astonishment and dismay. Then he shook his head solemnly and drew out his pipe.

"The longer a man lives," he remarked to that trusty confidant, "the more surely he learns that the only safe method of dealing with women is to preserve an absolute silence. Thus only may he chance to escape offence, for they can interpret it as they will."