CHAPTER IXIt was with many a sigh and much inward misgiving that the Reverend Marmaduke Peters ascended his pulpit steps in the little church of Durford and prepared to deliver his discourse to his flock on the morning of Sunday, September 15, in the year of grace, 1685.The Reverend Marmaduke was stout and placid in person, kind-hearted and nervously sensitive to a degree; and having as his aim in life the threefold longing to satisfy his superiors, to breed the best poultry in the country-side, and to live at peace with all men, he wondered what cruel humour of fate had placed him in such a hot-bed of rebellion as was the little village of Durford.A while ago, with sorrow and amazement, he beheld his flock straying wilfully towards the abhorred wilderness of rebellion, but his doubts then lest possibly the rebellion might prove successful, forbade the cautious soul to use what influence he might have had in holding their allegiance firm to the king.Now, however, when the rebellion had failed, and the rebels had been scattered, the same caution forbade him to display openly the deep sympathy which his kind heart could not but feel for the sufferers, many of whom were personally dear to him.Truly his was a delicate position, and the ingenuity with which hitherto he had maintained a neutral position, and in both his Sabbath discourses and his week-day intercourse with his flock had succeeded in ignoring the very existence of the rebellion, displayed an amount of thoughtfulness and steady perseverance which would have done justice to a nobler effort.But the most far-sighted prophet may be o'erthrown by circumstances.During the few weeks in which Captain Protheroe and his men had occupied the village a severe and inexplicable malady had kept the worthy minister prisoner in his house, and had prevented any untoward collision between himself and these representatives of the Royal cause.With the withdrawal of the soldiery on the previous Wednesday, however, he had once again recovered full health and strength, and had resumed his duties.But the week was not out when, to his dismay, six troopers under the command of Corporal Crutch returned, and he received a polite but firm intimation from the corporal that as he himself proposed to attend the service on the morrow, a discourse upon the sinfulness of rebellion would be regarded by the authorities as a satisfactory proof of the preacher's loyalty and submission. The intimation was accompanied by a clear hint that the Reverend Marmaduke's loyalty was regarded in certain quarters as of a questionable quality.The Reverend Marmaduke was dumbfounded.In vain did he represent to the corporal that sermons could not be prepared on the instant, that a discourse worthy of such a theme would require days of careful thought and study; in vain did he endeavour by every device in his power to escape the ordeal thus set unexpectedly before him, but escape was impossible; for the worthy corporal, finding himself in a position of unquestioned authority, was once more minded to enjoy it to the full. He could not enter the pulpit himself, but he was resolved to cause such a discourse to be delivered as should bitterly condemn all rebels, and surround with a halo of glory his loyal, law-preserving self. A few judiciously suggested threats concerning the suspected disloyalty of the minister were sufficient; the worthy doctor recognised his helplessness and he submitted.Not, however, until he ascended his pulpit on the morning of the Sabbath had he fully realised the enormity of the task he had undertaken.Beneath him stretched row after row of benches, well filled with the parishioners who loved and trusted him, and the majority of whom had sent their best-beloved to aid the rebellion which he was to condemn. To his left sat Corporal Crutch, attended by two troopers, sitting as judges upon the loyalty and fervour of his discourse. While immediately below the pulpit sat "the quality," as represented by Lady Cicely and Mistress Barbara Winslow, and when his glance fell upon the face of the latter, he knew that the ordeal before him was desperate indeed.He had chosen for his text the words of the psalmist, "Kings with their armies shall flee before Him," hoping that the allegorical allusion to Monmouth as a king might soothe the feelings of those who believed in their hero's title. The delivery of these words, applicable as they were to recent events, instantly aroused the attention of his hearers. The worthy preacher groaned inwardly; would they but sleep or allow their attention to wander, as was ordinarily the custom, all might yet be well; this unwonted interest was but another cruel jest of Fate. Barbara, after a sharp glance in the direction of the corporal, whose presence she had noted with surprise and anxiety, settled herself to follow the discourse with a defiant light in her dark eyes, and even Lady Cicely looked up with unusual interest.The Reverend Marmaduke mopped his brow, sipped his glass of water, and sighed deeply. Then summoning all his resolution to the task, he plunged into his subject and wandered for some time among the ramifications of the history of the Israelites, until an impatient movement from Corporal Crutch warned him that it was inadvisable longer to delay the application of his text to current topics.Thereupon he fixed his glance resolutely upon the countenance of the corporal and burst forth into an eloquent reference to the triumph of the supporters of the Lord's Anointed, as represented by the king's troops in the late battle, and the downfall of his enemies.Presently he became uncomfortably aware that Lady Cicely Winslow was weeping silently into her kerchief, while many of his parishioners at the back of the building were giving vent more noisily to their grief. The faces of the men were dark with anger, and below him the figure of Mistress Barbara grew more and more erect, her head thrown back, her lips pressed tightly together, and her eyes flashing upon him glances of indignation and scorn.The preacher hastily diverted the flow of his discourse into a cautious condemnation of rebellion in general, but was again driven forward by the threatening glances of the corporal to particularise and condemn more thoroughly.Now, however, he was interrupted by a sharp fit of coughing from Barbara, loud and aggressive, which ceased when he paused, and when he continued broke out with new vehemence. For full three minutes the struggle continued, till Cicely's whispered entreaties induced Barbara to allow the unfortunate preacher to proceed in peace.Alas! his nerves were now unstrung, his thoughts hopelessly astray. Desperately he grasped at a last straw and sought to compromise.Truly, he protested, rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft, and rebels are ever to be abhorred. (This to soothe the corporal.) But had not many rebelled in ignorance, led astray by misrepresentations, by wolves in sheep's clothing, and for such there was not condemnation, but pity.This appeared to the worthy doctor an excellent position to adopt, and for the remainder of his discourse this position he maintained, endeavouring by appreciative references to the noble supporters of justice on the one hand, and by an attitude of tender consolation towards the rebels on the other, to satisfy both sections of his congregation.But to Mistress Barbara Winslow such a compromise appeared nothing short of direct insult. Condemnation as a rebel she could endure, but pity as an ignorant fool incapable of judging her own path, she felt was more than any maid should be called upon to accept in silence, and but for Cicely's restraining hand and entreating whispers she would have left the church. In deference to her cousin's feelings she remained, but her indignation was so apparent that the unfortunate pastor could not continue, and bringing his discourse to an abrupt and bewildered conclusion he withdrew from the pulpit.When Barbara rose to leave the church she was a confirmed rebel. Hitherto she had taken but small interest in the great rising, except in so far as it concerned her brother, and had certainly been no ardent supporter of Monmouth, but the worthy doctor's discourse had aroused in her a keen feeling of anger and opposition.Now 'tis with a woman as with a stream; endeavour to resist or to direct her course with argument or reason, and the current of her actions will but flow the stronger in the ever-narrowing channel.Barbara's first impulse was to waylay the Reverend Marmaduke in the churchyard, and there, outside the sacred edifice, pour forth upon his offending head the vials of her wrath. But discretion and a lengthened indulgence in the seclusion afforded by the vestry secured the peace-loving occupant from an encounter not wholly unanticipated. In ignorance of the exact nature of the events which had passed in the churchyard during the interval, but satisfied at last that his congregation had dispersed, he made his way to the safe haven of the rectory.Disappointed of her intention, Barbara looked round in search of some other victim, but there appeared only the corporal, and she would not demean herself to bandy words with him. Throwing a disdainful glance in his direction, she swept haughtily down the grass-grown path to the lych-gate. Here she was perforce delayed. Her cousin had paused to speak a few words of hope and sympathy to an old woman whose only son lay in Taunton gaol, awaiting his fate, and as she waited Barbara glanced carelessly around her.On the green near the church she noted a couple of mounted dragoons in charge of four spare troop-horses saddled and bridled, and a third in charge of a rough-looking cart. She noted these preparations for departure with satisfaction, and wondered what had been the reason for such a short and sudden visit.As the crowd in the churchyard parted, and the corporal, followed by his two attendant troopers, came down the path to the gate, she was soon to be enlightened, however.The corporal advanced and laying his hand on her shoulder, cried in a voice wherein pompous dignity and elation strove for the mastery:"Mistress Barbara Winslow, I attaint you as a rebel, and arrest you in the name of his Majesty."Too much astonished to speak, Barbara was conscious, however, of a murmur of anger and surprise from the crowd of villagers and of Cicely's voice enquiring sharply:"What is the matter? What means this?""There is no call to answer questions," replied the corporal pompously. "But an ye must know, it means that this woman is attainted as a rebel, and I hold a warrant for her arrest, with orders to conduct her instantly to Taunton gaol to await trial.""But it is impossible! she is no rebel.""She is known to have sheltered rebels, many have been hanged for less," answered the corporal, with a sinister glance of triumph at his prisoner."Yet surely it cannot be as ye say?" cried Cicely helplessly. "Taunton gaol! Why she is a woman, ye cannot. Nay, she is but a child. Oh! 'tis monstrous, monstrous.""No words, no words," cried the corporal fussily. "You will learn, madame, that in such affairs of state, least said is soonest mended. Now, mistress," he continued roughly, turning to Barbara, "we'd best be moving."But a growl of anger broke from the still lingering crowd, and Peter Drew, the blacksmith, sprang upon the low wall of the churchyard."Hey, lads!" he cried; "they red-cöats be vor taäkin oor young Miztrez to Taunton gaol. Zhall her be taäken, lads? Zhall her go? Hey lads, we be vaive to one. Zhall her go, lads?"Peter was no orator, but eloquence was not needed. Love for Barbara, that old feudal love for their lord; resentment for the many acts of ill-treatment sustained at the hands of the troopers during their occupation of the village; and lastly, the spirit of revolt against injustice and opposition which lurks secretly in every heart, all combined to rouse his hearers to fury, and it needed no words of the smith to fan the flame.They greeted Peter's harangue with a wild shout of triumph, and closed in round the corporal and his men with gestures which threatened every moment to develop into a fierce attack.Barbara's face flushed and her eyes glittered with triumph. Wild projects flashed through her brain. To overpower the half-dozen troopers, then to fortify the Manor House, and hold it against all comers; to rally round her the many secret supporters of the late rebellion, to recall the exiles from Holland, and to succeed in establishing justice and the Protestant Religion, or die fighting for the Cause. Had not other women done as much! These men, she knew, would cheerfully fight to the death for her; the country was still full of malcontents; one failure could not be regarded as the death of the Cause. Hope was high, all things seemed possible. Who shall say what mad dreams passed through her thoughts during those few moments while she stood there, the centre of that enthusiastic mob?But it was not to be. From out the crowd there pressed forward an old woman, who flung herself trembling at Barbara's feet."Eh; Miztress Barbara, dearie," she cried, seizing her hand, "don't-ee, don't-ee, then. A'll swing for it, for zure a wull if a faight. And zee there," pointing with her trembling hand at a tall stalwart fellow, prominent amongst the throng, "thiccy's arl I've left now. Three others have been taäken. If they taäk un I maun die, for zure I maun. Don't-ee, now.""Vor shaäme, mother," cried the lad referred to. "Would ee have un taäk the young Miztress to Taunton? Vor shaäme."But the dreams had passed. Barbara's eyes were opened and she recognised the hopelessness of any resistance. She could not, she must not sacrifice these lives.Gently disengaging herself from the clinging hands of the old crone, she sprang on to the wall at Peter's side and caught his uplifted arm."No, no, friends!" she urged; "it won't do. We could not hope for more than a short-lived victory. She is right, there would be vengeance and ye would all swing for it. This fellow saith he hath the Royal Warrant for my arrest, an that be so I must e'en go with him. Be assured they cannot harm me; I have done no wrong. Besides," she added proudly, "I would not have them think me afeared to go. Peter, be silent. Nay, I thank you indeed, but there must be no resistance. Go home quietly. You women, look to your men folk. No harm shall come to you for my sake, and none must think I fear to go."Thus she stood upon the wall, a bright figure in her dainty muslin gown, smiling down upon them, until with reluctance, and many incoherent mutterings, the crowd, somewhat reassured by her words, slowly dispersed. Then turning she addressed the corporal:"So that is ended. Now, an you will permit me first to return to the Manor House to collect some necessaries, I am ready to go with you to Taunton.""I am rejoiced, mistress," he assured her pompously, "that you have decided to submit peaceably to my orders.""Aye, corporal," answered Barbara, with a smile at his perturbed countenance. "I do not doubt but you are indeed rejoiced. But come, I must to the Manor House, to prepare for the journey. I presume you will allow me so much grace?""The escort will accompany you thither.""I had thought my submission had been proof enough of my good faith, but as you will," answered Barbara carelessly, passing through the gate."Barbara, I must with you to Taunton, indeed I must," pleaded Cicely, as she hastened after her cousin. "'Tis monstrous that you should go alone with these men.""Thou, Cicely? Impossible! What could'st thou do there? Where could'st thou lodge? Not i' the gaol indeed.""There be many kindly folk in the town who would house me, and they will perchance advise too what 'twere best to do for thee. There is good Mistress Lane, the wool-merchant's wife, I will seek her out. But go with you I must indeed.""In truth, Cicely," answered Barbara with a quick sigh, "I would fain have thee near, if 'twere only to teach myself the folly of my fears by laughing at thine."With a tyranny born of his newly acquired importance, Corporal Crutch refused to allow his prisoner more than a few minutes' preparation before her journey to Taunton, but having resigned herself to fate Barbara had no mind to delay, and in less than half an hour after their return to the house the two enforced travellers were ready for departure.Barbara's resolution was by no means strengthened at sight of the ramshackle cart provided to convey her to Taunton."To what low estate our fortunes have fallen!" she muttered with a wry face."Rebels cannot expect to be treated like honest folk," remarked the Corporal complacently."Set a watch on thy tongue, Master Corporal," retorted she angrily. "I am no rebel till I be proved such, therefore I warn thee 'twere best be more careful of thy words," and turning abruptly from the startled man she took her seat in the cart.For the first few miles of their journey each of the girls devoted all her efforts to the difficult task of cheering the other. Upon leaving the village and their friends behind them, some sense of the utter helplessness of her position filled Barbara's mind, and she was but a sorry comforter.But hers was not a nature to sigh long, and soon the fresh air, the bright sunshine, and the interest and amusement she found in watching her escort, had their effect. The result of this reaction from her former depression was a mood of high spirits and brighter hopes."In truth, Cicely," she broke out suddenly with a laugh, "we are both fools. At worst 'tis but a matter of a night or two in gaol, where I doubt not I shall meet much good company; an interview with Lord Jeffreys (I would fain see him, they say he is a right handsome man, for all he has such a tongue); then perchance a fine, and so home. Why 'tis not worth a sigh. 'Tis but an adventure, and thou knowest I love such.""Aye, Barbara, you speak truly," answered her companion, with a desperate attempt at cheerfulness. "They would not dare to harm a woman. I make no doubt these tales of my Lord Jeffreys' punishment and—and of Lady Alice Lisle, are gross exaggerations." This last she added with a tentative air—Cicely longed for corroboration of that statement.At mention of Lady Lisle Barbara's face fell slightly, but she resolutely dismissed her fears."There is not a doubt of it, sweet. Yet even an it were not so, they could prove nought against me. They have no testimony to show that we housed or aided either Rupert or Sir Peter.""That is so," assented Cicely joyously. "And in justice none could punish us for what is unproven.""Oh! Cicely, look at yon red-headed trooper, didst ever behold so scarlet a poll?""Aye. And mark how he sits his horse. I wager he will be over its head ere he sees Taunton. Note his face when the creature pricks his ears; 'tis a very picture of terror.""Didst note the corporal as we passed trough the village?" laughed Barbara. "The poor fool feared an ambuscade at every corner, and well-nigh fell from his horse with fright when old Mother Gilkin's pot fell down as we reached her cottage. I hate the fellow, yet I cannot but laugh at his antics."Thus for a while the two chattered bravely as they clattered and bumped along the rough country roads to Taunton. But as night drew on the sky became overcast with clouds, and a cold wind and drizzling rain added to the discomfort of the journey. Their conversation became more and more desultory, and finally ceased altogether.Only once again did Barbara break the silence."Cis," she asked with some slight hesitation, "thinkest thou that Captain Protheroe knows aught of my arrest?""Knows aught!" cried Cicely in astonishment. "Why, Barbara, child, who else hath accused thee?""Nay, nay; I will not believe that of him," answered Barbara stoutly."Believe what thou wilt, I tell thee it is the truth. Thinkest thou he would tamely endure to be duped as thou hast duped him, without some revenge? Oh! I tell thee as I have ever done, the fellow is to be mistrusted, and to take such revenge on thee were but his nature.""In truth, Cicely, you do not know him," pleaded Barbara. "He is not—I would trust him.""Why, Barbara! Hath the man bewitched thee that thou art so ready in his defence?" cried Cicely, looking at her curiously. "What hath he done to win such trust? Or dost thou deem, perchance, that thou hast bewitched him, and so bound him to thy cause? I' faith, coz, I warn thee, trust not too much to the power of thine eyes; all men be not so easily ensnared."But Barbara answered not, only sighed lightly and stared thoughtfully into the gathering darkness, her eyes wide with wonder and with doubt.The distance from Durford to Taunton is scarce twelve miles, and 'twas little past noon when they set out on their journey, but the progress of the cart was slow, owing to the bad roads.A horse, too, cast a shoe, and they must needs stop at the next village to seek a smith. The escort halted more than once for refreshment, and in fine it was night before they reached their destination.Perhaps the darkness was not without its compensation. At the cross roads were scenes ill-suited to a woman's eyes, traces of that wholesale butchery which for many weeks had devastated the fairest county of the West. Gaunt figures swinging in their chains from the sign-posts, tokens of the merciless punishment meted out to those even suspected of rebellion, had been no cheering welcome to such travellers as they.When they entered Taunton the streets were almost deserted, and the dwelling houses closed and in darkness, but the windows of the White Hart Inn, the headquarters of the royal troops, blazed with light, and the shouts of laughter and snatches of song from within indicated that the soldiery were holding revelry, heedless alike of the hallowedness of the Sabbath, of the misery of the townsfolk, and of the despair of hundreds of prisoners who lay awaiting their doom in the crowded gaols of the town.As the cavalcade passed before the Inn an officer lounged into the light of the doorway, and stared carelessly at the passing company. Barbara with a gasp of astonishment half rose to her feet, but Cicely's hand restrained her, and reluctantly she sank down beside her cousin.The cart passed, leaving Captain Protheroe to continue his inspection of the night all unconscious of whom the vehicle conveyed.CHAPTER X"So! Now am I in prison. Well, I had as lief be elsewhere," muttered Barbara when she awoke after her first night in gaol, and proceeded philosophically to take stock of her surroundings, which she had been too weary to notice on the previous night.She was not confined in the regular gaol of the town; for nigh two months past that had been filled to overflowing. Those arrested within the last few weeks, together with the unfortunates sent on from Exeter in the van of the dread-inspiring Jeffreys, were lodged in convenient sheds and storehouses, situated in various parts of the town; bare, dreary places with little or no suitable accommodation for the wretches herded within their walls, but affording enough shelter in the opinion of the authorities for rebels during the short interval which must elapse before their trial.The building wherein Barbara awoke was a large wooden shed, originally a storehouse for wool, some few bales of which still remained piled in the corners. A large door closely guarded and windows high in the roof were the only means of egress, and no provision for the accommodation of the inmates had been made beyond a few straw pallet-beds for the women prisoners, roughly screened from the rest of the shed by a dilapidated piece of sacking. Even in the most hopeless moments since her arrest Barbara had calculated on nothing so dismal as this.She had slept late after the fatigues of the previous day, and when at length she awoke, the other occupants of her corner had already risen, and passed beyond the partition into the shed.Barbara seated herself on the edge of her bed and stared forlornly at the bare wall opposite."Well! Many better women have been in worse plights, there is not a doubt. I must e'en comfort myself with that," was her verdict after musing some minutes upon her situation. "Now let me see. Rupert would say that the duty of every woman under every circumstance is to look her fairest, but there seemeth little scope for that maxim here, and I see not wherein lies the vantage of tending one's looks when here is no mirror to show the result. However, for lack of other advice I'll e'en follow Rupert's."Having come to this laudable conclusion, Barbara opened her bundle and proceeded to arrange her curls, and make such improvements in her toilet as the scanty means at her disposal allowed. This done she drew aside the partition and stepped into the room beyond.It was a curious sight that met her eyes. The shed was totally destitute of furniture, unless as such might be designated the few bales of wool and some bundles of straw, used by the prisoners indiscriminately as couch, chair, or table.The place served as lodging for about fifty prisoners, many of whom had been from two to three weeks in captivity. The majority of them were rough, ignorant peasants, who, having faithfully followed their leaders into a quarrel which they themselves but half comprehended, now awaited their doom with that same half-puzzled, stolid patience and dogged courage which had helped them already to face death on the fatal field of Sedgemoor.There were some, too, of the yeoman class, some of the richer townsfolk, and here and there a noncomformist divine, but save perhaps in a certain intelligence and eagerness of expression, there was nothing to distinguish the man of learning or station from the poorest peasant. All alike were dirty, ragged, and dishevelled; unshaven, unwashed, with ill-kempt beards and hair. Existence in such a prison, following in many cases upon days of homeless wanderings, had wrought this levelling effect upon them all. Their money, what little they once possessed, was long ago exhausted. They could pay their gaolers for neither books, amusements, nor drink. They talked little; what was there to talk of? For the most part they were plunged in the deepest apathy. They had fought, they had failed; now they awaited what was to come in silence. They showed no fear, no despair, no hope, only a great patience.Barbara gazed on the scene with the utmost astonishment and indignation. Were these men, indeed, the same wild enthusiasts who a while ago had so eagerly cheered Monmouth through the streets of Taunton? Aye, and not only cheered him, but aided him loyally, leaving work, home, wife, children, and all, that they might follow him and strike a blow for the Cause. Were these indeed those who, armed but with stake or scythe, had made such a gallant stand against the best disciplined troops of the country; those who (men were forced to confess) would but for an accident, undoubtedly have won an unprecedented victory? Could these indeed be the same? She stared with anger and scorn at their silence, their apathy, their unkempt looks. Her ardent young nature had no understanding of this submission to the Inevitable; she had not yet learned that an Inevitable might exist.Her birth and breeding afforded her no comprehension of the stolid bravery of the peasantry. The farther man is removed from the natural state, the greater the advance he has made in civilisation, so much the more does he deem it necessary to hide his emotions beneath an artificial mask, to seem to be that which he is not. A century later in the massacres in Paris the victims were for the most part nobles and gentlemen; they went to their doom bravely, with a smile in their eyes, a jest upon their lips. In this great Rebellion of the West the victims were the poorest of the peasantry; they faced their doom no less bravely, but they faced it gravely, in silence.Barbara's family traditions had taught her nothing of this. She had expected her fellow prisoners to be a company of merry dare-devils such as her brother Rupert, or Sir Peter Dare, men who laughed at danger, mocked their gaolers, and turned misfortune, nay, death itself, into a subject for jest. Men, too, who could fight fiercely and endure bravely on occasion, yet would scorn to appear serious in any circumstances (save perchance when discussing the set of a doublet or the colour of a bow), and who looked upon gravity as a sign of cowardice. Such were the rebels she knew, the rebels she had dreamed of, gay, careless, defiant to the end; not such as these, silent, sunk in a helpless submission to their fate. She could not understand. She looked round upon them in indignation, her lips curled in scorn.But while she stood there surveying the scene she had herself been the subject of observation; presently one of the prisoners approached her and interrupted her meditations."What are you doing in this place, my child?" he asked gently.The speaker was a small, spare man, with bushy white hair and beard, a face seamed and lined with age, yet full of kindliness and humour, with a pair of bright, piercing eyes; a face calculated to win friends or to daunt foes.Barbara turned to him at once as to an old friend; his voice invited confidence."I was arrested but yesterday, sir, on a charge of sheltering rebels, and I am here, as the rest of the company, to await my trial.""You are very young, but you have a stout heart," he said, smiling kindly."Why, sir, I hope so," answered Barbara cheerfully. "I am Barbara Winslow of Durford Manor, and no Winslow yet was ever written coward," she added proudly, with a scornful glance round the shed."Noblesse oblige," he quoted, smiling at her sadly. "Ah, child, your strength may seem great, but trust not in it too wholly, lest in the hour of darkness it prove but a broken reed."Barbara was puzzled. "What mean you, sir? Sure, 'tis not sinful to be brave for a name's sake.""Nay, I say not that," he answered gently. "There be three qualities that have power to beget a courage unto death—Faith, Love, and Pride. But of these three only the courage born of Faith has never been known to fail. Yet whencesoever it springs, courage is the gift of God and a blessing to man, and as such must be honoured."Barbara looked at him curiously."You are a divine, sir, are you not?""Yes, I am indeed a servant of the Lord, though for many years I have been withheld from openly preaching His word. For fifty years I have lived and worked secretly among the miners of the Mendip Hills, and when they marched to support the defender of our religion, I followed to give them the comfort of my words. I thank God that I shall follow them to the end. Ah, child," he continued earnestly, "you cannot understand what it is to be silenced, to be dumb, as 'twere, for twenty-three years; to be torn to pieces 'twixt the burning in my heart to speak the Word, the fear in my breast of meeting the punishment. It is worth a thousand deaths to have had at last this chance of testifying once again to the truth."Barbara looked at him gravely."No," she said, "I do not understand."His earnestness vanished. He gave a soft resigned sigh and smiled at her, as at a child."No, you do not understand; you are young and fearless.""It should be easy to me to be courageous," she answered lightly. "I have nought to fear. 'Tis for me but some few days in prison, and then perchance a fine. In justice they can do no more."He smiled at her a trifle sadly."Aye, child, as you say,in justicethey could do no more."She looked up at him doubtfully, but forbore to question further the meaning of his words."But these folk," she continued, looking round, "have doubtless more to fear.""There is indeed little hope for them this side the grave," he answered calmly, "save for a speedy and merciful death."Barbara was startled."Surely not so—and yet—I had not thought on't," she muttered. "Verily, sir, if this be true, my scorn was ill-timed, they have courage. They are but rude peasants, with neither pride of birth nor name to strengthen their hearts, yet they await death as calmly as any noble. How comes this?""So thou deemest courage a monopoly of gentle folk, eh?" he asked, laughing softly. "Ah, child, thou art young. But indeed," he continued more seriously, "these men have fought in the Lord's cause, there is no fear but He will send them strength to fight their battle bravely to the end.""How can it be God's cause when it hath failed?" asked Barbara bluntly."Failed, child? What mean you?""Why, call you not this failure?" she asked, glancing round."This! In good sooth, no; this is but the beginning of success, only the times were unripe for rebellion, the leaders were unworthy of the cause. Think you these men will die in vain? In God's name I tell you, no. A cause strengthened by such devotion cannot but succeed; for every drop of blood shed to-day there will spring up seeds of justice and resolution in the hearts of the survivors which shall blossom forth into a mighty power. I shall not see it, but thou mayest, for the day is not far off when justice, toleration and true religion shall once more flourish in this kingdom. Failure! Never! We are but the necessary martyrs, the runners of success. The cause of justice was never yet won save by a path of blood and tears."His enthusiasm communicated itself to Barbara. Her face glowed with eagerness; at that moment she had resolution to face block or scaffold that she also might die for the Cause."Ah!" she cried, "this is the courage of which you spoke, the courage born of Faith."He bowed his head in assent, and there was silence between them while Barbara pondered on his words. Presently she continued:"And the third, the courage of Love? What mean you by that?" she asked.Instantly his face was transfigured by a smile of great tenderness."I will show you," he answered gently. "Look."Barbara followed the direction of his eyes. In a far corner of the shed, apart from the rest of the prisoners, sat a man and a woman. She lay in the circle of his arm, her head dropped back upon his shoulder, and oblivious to all around them they sat gazing in one another's eyes. Pale, ragged and unkempt, as were all the prisoners, yet beautiful in each other's eyes, and transfigured by the light of perfect happiness, by the glory of their love."It is their wedding-day," he continued softly. "I married them at seven o'clock this morning.""But who are they?" asked Barbara in bewilderment."He is the son of the squire of Hardon, and an officer in Monmouth's army; she, the daughter of a rich cloth-maker of Taunton, who joined the army and met his death at Sedgemoor. He lodged in her father's house when the army was first quartered here. Later, she was attainted a rebel, and they met again, in prison. See now how mighty is love, that it will even force its way into such a desert as this. They have lived here together for three weeks as in a Paradise, and yesterday, feeling the time of separation draw near, they besought me to join them forever in God's sight, as man and wife. I know not whether I rightly consented, yet who could refuse?""And the future?" whispered Barbara eagerly.He shook his head."She has money, the charge against her is but slight, her friends will buy her freedom. But for him, an officer in the rebel army, there can be little doubt—— Is it not wonderful?" he continued softly, as though to himself. "Thus they sit hour by hour. Hopes and fears alike have faded in the great light of their love, and for to-day at least they live as in the Garden of Eden, where there is neither past nor future; nought but the present and themselves."Barbara gazed silently at the couple, until suddenly a great sense of loneliness overcame her, and her eyes darkened with a mist of tears. She turned to her companion with a pathetic gesture of helplessness."Alas! ere I came here I had believed myself so strong, so fearless. And here I find all others are brave, and I but a helpless fool."There was something bewitching in this sudden confession of weakness, and her companion's face softened for an instant as he looked at her. Then he laughed, and his laughter was wise, for it stung her pride, and recalled her former resolution."In truth, this discovery is to be deeply regretted, Mistress Winslow," he answered lightly, "seeing I had hoped to enlist the services of one so stout-hearted in the work of cheering the weary hours of some of our unfortunate comrades.""My services! Why, what think you I can do?" asked Barbara eagerly. "Wouldest have me clamber on a bale of wool and harangue these men upon the duty and virtue of courage?" she added merrily."Nay, that were hardly woman's work. And 'tis not for men your help is needed.""For whom, then?""There is a poor girl, she is scarce more than a child, who was brought hither yesterday with her younger sister. They were among those maids of Taunton who presented to the Duke his banners, and for this innocent action they have been arrested. I think, indeed, there is little fear for them; they have rich friends, people of influence, who can save them at a price. But the poor child is fragile. Terror hath gripped her by the heart, and if she be not roused and cheered 'tis to be feared her brain may give way.""Take me to her, I will try.""Come, then. Her sister is beside her, but the poor child is very young and can do but little. It may be that you will be able to cheer her."Barbara gathered up her dainty skirts and followed her companion. As she passed along she was greeted by many a look of surprise and admiration, but so intent was she upon her errand she scarce noted the interest she aroused.They found the two ill-fated children—they were both little more—crouched against the wall in the darkest corner of the shed. Near them sat a poor peasant woman weeping bitterly, while a second woman offered rough attempts at comfort. Close beside the latter was a thin, elderly woman, with the severe mouth and narrow forehead of a fanatic, who stared straight before her, muttering rapidly to herself, oblivious to her surroundings. These few, with Barbara and the young bride, were the only female prisoners in the shed.Barbara paused a moment, surveying the group curiously, then she advanced slowly towards the two sisters. The elder of the two was scarce sixteen, fragile and pale. She crouched beside the wall, her chin sunk on her breast, silent, immovable, but when Barbara, touched her on the shoulder she raised her head suddenly, and displayed a face so frozen with despair and eyes so wild with terror that the girl was horrified. In an instant all other considerations vanished before the great pity and tenderness that filled her heart."My poor, poor child," she exclaimed gently, "what have they done to thee? Nay, look not thus, none shall hurt thee, I promise it. See, I will sit thus beside thee. Come, now thou art safe and hast nought to fear."She sank down beside her, drew the child close and encircled her tenderly with her strong young arms.The bright face, cheery smile, and gentle voice, all tended to excite confidence, as did also the firm pressure of human touch. The child gazed at her for a few moments in doubt and bewilderment, then suddenly clung to her fiercely and burst into wild tears."Oh! they will kill me," she sobbed. "Do not let them. Do not let them take me away.""No, no, they shall not, I swear they shall not harm thee," answered Barbara soothingly, though with more rashness than conviction. "Only look cheerily, sweetheart, and be brave and all will be well.""Will you take me home? Prithee, take me home," she begged, sobbing."Nay, we must bide here for a day or two, but what of that? It will not harm you, and 'tis for a great cause. Bethink you of the saints, of the martyrs; they suffered even death without fear. Bethink you, childie, how many women have striven and suffered manfully for their cause, and be you courageous and proud to suffer thus little for yours.""Tell me of those women," whispered the younger child, creeping near to their new-found protector. She was stronger; she did not suffer as did her sister, but her poor puzzled brain could not understand why this imprisonment had befallen them; she grasped eagerly at the reference to martyrs. 'Tis easier to be brave in paths which others have trod before us.So Barbara settled herself between the two children and bent all her efforts to recollecting and relating to the best effect every tale of heroism she had ever read, heard, or imagined, incidents culled from the histories of many nations, from romances, ballads, and legends. From her earliest childhood she had loved to listen to all such tales of prowess and brave endurance; her store seemed unlimited, she had a clear memory, and above all, she possessed that rarest of all gifts, the art of story-telling.The two children were soon listening with deep interest. She raised her voice, that beautiful voice, not the least of her many charms, and presently the woman sitting near them ceased her sobbing to listen; some of the men even raised themselves from their lethargic musings and drew near, so that she became in time the centre of a large group of prisoners. Cheered with this success, Barbara braced herself to an increased effort. She related story after story of the heroes of many countries and times, stories of love and tenderness, of fierce passions, of high devotion to a worthy cause, till her audience were infected with the enthusiasm and followed her words with startling eagerness. For a time prison walls faded away, trial, punishment, death were forgotten, they lived again in the past.It is a wonderful power, the art of story-telling, and is given to few, especially among Western peoples, but it is a power which, when combined with the magnetism of a beautiful presence, is irresistible.Thus intermittently for several hours Barbara continued, and to her hearers the long day passed quickly, until late in the afternoon the pealing of bells and a roll of drums were heard from without. These sounds betokened, as some guessed, the expected arrival of the king's judges. On the morrow, therefore, would commence the Assize trial, which was to decide for each whether he, too, was destined to follow in the footsteps of the long line of martyrs and heroes who had suffered and died in the cause of freedom.The charm cast around them by Barbara was broken, and she finished her narrative lamely, as her audience grew inattentive and relapsed into moody restlessness. As the darkening shadows gathered in the wool-shed a silence fell, the silence of an overhanging doom.Suddenly and with startling effect the silence was broken by a clear voice which rang through the room. "Be strong and He shall 'stablish your hearts, all ye that put your trust in the Lord."The words seemed to echo like a battle-clarion, an incentive to lead all men to victory.It was Barbara's friend of the morning, Mr. Hardcastle, the noncomformist divine.When other comfort had failed he was at hand to show these untutored peasants the true source of strength in danger, of consolation in affliction, the promise of their God. Few and simple were his words, yet charged with the fervour of belief, they served their purpose well. Again the courage of Faith strengthened them, the peace of God filled their hearts, and when at the close of his address he besought all to sing with him the eighty-sixth psalm, they joined him with a cheerful heartiness which made the rafters of the barn ring again.So night drew down upon them, but there was light in their hearts, and they settled to rest in peace.Barbara carried off her children to their pallet bed in the corner. With the darkness the poor child Katherine's terror had revived somewhat, and for a time she could not be induced to lie down. But gradually Barbara soothed her, talking hopefully of her probable return home on the morrow, and crooning tender child ballads such as her mother sang. Nature was merciful; clinging to the hand of her protectress she sank at last to sleep.Barbara herself lay long awake listening to the heavy breathing of the sleepers around her and to the dull tramp of the sentries in the street without.Sleep! the very thought of it seemed ill-timed with the lives of all these men at stake, and some way, surely some way was to be found, could she but think of it, to save them. To her active spirit it seemed past belief that escape should be impossible; intolerable to think that these forty or more around her, strong and healthy men, should go quietly to their deaths without one bid for freedom.She tossed from side to side upon her mattress, racking her brains to devise a plan. Had she not wit and cleverness more than common? Sure she could find some way! But in vain; her thoughts wandered round and round in a circle, a circle she could not break. At length she sprang to her feet in desperation."'Tis no use," she exclaimed, "I can think of nothing. But he hath brains and he cares for their safety, I will go to him. Together surely we may devise some means of escape."Softly she stepped out into the shed, and picked her way carefully among the sleepers, looking right and left for the face she sought. The moonlight poured in through the windows high in the room so that her passage was not difficult. She came at length upon the man she sought, the Reverend Mr. Hardcastle. Half the night he had spent at the side of one or another of his weaker comrades, cheering and strengthening each by his sympathy. Now at last he had found time for repose, and lay sleeping quietly, his Bible still open at his side. His slumbers were light, for he awoke at her slightest touch, and raised himself to his feet, instantly alert."What is the matter, child, do you need me?" he cried.Barbara's face was pale in the moonlight, her eyes gleamed strangely and she clutched his arm with desperate eagerness."Surely something can be done to save them all," she cried confusedly. "It cannot be impossible.""What mean you, child?""Why, here are fifty brave men, at most but half a dozen guards. Can we not break prison, rush the door, devise some mode of escape? 'Tis intolerable to sit here in idleness while the lives of all these are at stake. 'Tis monstrous. Sure, something can be done!""Peace, child," he answered sternly; "you know nought of the matter. We be fifty to six, 'tis true, but those six are armed and behind them are many more. If the door were passed we could not escape the town, or if perchance we won from the town where could we hide? The royal troops are everywhere. 'Twere but a hopeless venture which must cost the lives of all.""Yet, sure, 'twere better to venture some effort than to sit thus helplessly awaiting their fate," she pleaded impatiently."Ah! Mistress Barbara, you have yet to learn that the highest courage may lie in such waiting. And I charge you, child, say nought of this to the men. They are nerved now to meet their fate, I will not have them distressed by false hopes. You have played your part well to-day, your place is with yon poor children. Go to them now, and leave these men to me."Unaccustomed though she was to contradiction, Barbara was yet too strongly awed by his air of command to disobey. Reluctantly she turned away and with a glance of hopeless pity at the sleepers around her, passed beyond the partition and again took her place beside the weary children.So the long night hours passed slowly away and the first morning of the Bloody Assize of Taunton grew rosy in the east.
CHAPTER IX
It was with many a sigh and much inward misgiving that the Reverend Marmaduke Peters ascended his pulpit steps in the little church of Durford and prepared to deliver his discourse to his flock on the morning of Sunday, September 15, in the year of grace, 1685.
The Reverend Marmaduke was stout and placid in person, kind-hearted and nervously sensitive to a degree; and having as his aim in life the threefold longing to satisfy his superiors, to breed the best poultry in the country-side, and to live at peace with all men, he wondered what cruel humour of fate had placed him in such a hot-bed of rebellion as was the little village of Durford.
A while ago, with sorrow and amazement, he beheld his flock straying wilfully towards the abhorred wilderness of rebellion, but his doubts then lest possibly the rebellion might prove successful, forbade the cautious soul to use what influence he might have had in holding their allegiance firm to the king.
Now, however, when the rebellion had failed, and the rebels had been scattered, the same caution forbade him to display openly the deep sympathy which his kind heart could not but feel for the sufferers, many of whom were personally dear to him.
Truly his was a delicate position, and the ingenuity with which hitherto he had maintained a neutral position, and in both his Sabbath discourses and his week-day intercourse with his flock had succeeded in ignoring the very existence of the rebellion, displayed an amount of thoughtfulness and steady perseverance which would have done justice to a nobler effort.
But the most far-sighted prophet may be o'erthrown by circumstances.
During the few weeks in which Captain Protheroe and his men had occupied the village a severe and inexplicable malady had kept the worthy minister prisoner in his house, and had prevented any untoward collision between himself and these representatives of the Royal cause.
With the withdrawal of the soldiery on the previous Wednesday, however, he had once again recovered full health and strength, and had resumed his duties.
But the week was not out when, to his dismay, six troopers under the command of Corporal Crutch returned, and he received a polite but firm intimation from the corporal that as he himself proposed to attend the service on the morrow, a discourse upon the sinfulness of rebellion would be regarded by the authorities as a satisfactory proof of the preacher's loyalty and submission. The intimation was accompanied by a clear hint that the Reverend Marmaduke's loyalty was regarded in certain quarters as of a questionable quality.
The Reverend Marmaduke was dumbfounded.
In vain did he represent to the corporal that sermons could not be prepared on the instant, that a discourse worthy of such a theme would require days of careful thought and study; in vain did he endeavour by every device in his power to escape the ordeal thus set unexpectedly before him, but escape was impossible; for the worthy corporal, finding himself in a position of unquestioned authority, was once more minded to enjoy it to the full. He could not enter the pulpit himself, but he was resolved to cause such a discourse to be delivered as should bitterly condemn all rebels, and surround with a halo of glory his loyal, law-preserving self. A few judiciously suggested threats concerning the suspected disloyalty of the minister were sufficient; the worthy doctor recognised his helplessness and he submitted.
Not, however, until he ascended his pulpit on the morning of the Sabbath had he fully realised the enormity of the task he had undertaken.
Beneath him stretched row after row of benches, well filled with the parishioners who loved and trusted him, and the majority of whom had sent their best-beloved to aid the rebellion which he was to condemn. To his left sat Corporal Crutch, attended by two troopers, sitting as judges upon the loyalty and fervour of his discourse. While immediately below the pulpit sat "the quality," as represented by Lady Cicely and Mistress Barbara Winslow, and when his glance fell upon the face of the latter, he knew that the ordeal before him was desperate indeed.
He had chosen for his text the words of the psalmist, "Kings with their armies shall flee before Him," hoping that the allegorical allusion to Monmouth as a king might soothe the feelings of those who believed in their hero's title. The delivery of these words, applicable as they were to recent events, instantly aroused the attention of his hearers. The worthy preacher groaned inwardly; would they but sleep or allow their attention to wander, as was ordinarily the custom, all might yet be well; this unwonted interest was but another cruel jest of Fate. Barbara, after a sharp glance in the direction of the corporal, whose presence she had noted with surprise and anxiety, settled herself to follow the discourse with a defiant light in her dark eyes, and even Lady Cicely looked up with unusual interest.
The Reverend Marmaduke mopped his brow, sipped his glass of water, and sighed deeply. Then summoning all his resolution to the task, he plunged into his subject and wandered for some time among the ramifications of the history of the Israelites, until an impatient movement from Corporal Crutch warned him that it was inadvisable longer to delay the application of his text to current topics.
Thereupon he fixed his glance resolutely upon the countenance of the corporal and burst forth into an eloquent reference to the triumph of the supporters of the Lord's Anointed, as represented by the king's troops in the late battle, and the downfall of his enemies.
Presently he became uncomfortably aware that Lady Cicely Winslow was weeping silently into her kerchief, while many of his parishioners at the back of the building were giving vent more noisily to their grief. The faces of the men were dark with anger, and below him the figure of Mistress Barbara grew more and more erect, her head thrown back, her lips pressed tightly together, and her eyes flashing upon him glances of indignation and scorn.
The preacher hastily diverted the flow of his discourse into a cautious condemnation of rebellion in general, but was again driven forward by the threatening glances of the corporal to particularise and condemn more thoroughly.
Now, however, he was interrupted by a sharp fit of coughing from Barbara, loud and aggressive, which ceased when he paused, and when he continued broke out with new vehemence. For full three minutes the struggle continued, till Cicely's whispered entreaties induced Barbara to allow the unfortunate preacher to proceed in peace.
Alas! his nerves were now unstrung, his thoughts hopelessly astray. Desperately he grasped at a last straw and sought to compromise.
Truly, he protested, rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft, and rebels are ever to be abhorred. (This to soothe the corporal.) But had not many rebelled in ignorance, led astray by misrepresentations, by wolves in sheep's clothing, and for such there was not condemnation, but pity.
This appeared to the worthy doctor an excellent position to adopt, and for the remainder of his discourse this position he maintained, endeavouring by appreciative references to the noble supporters of justice on the one hand, and by an attitude of tender consolation towards the rebels on the other, to satisfy both sections of his congregation.
But to Mistress Barbara Winslow such a compromise appeared nothing short of direct insult. Condemnation as a rebel she could endure, but pity as an ignorant fool incapable of judging her own path, she felt was more than any maid should be called upon to accept in silence, and but for Cicely's restraining hand and entreating whispers she would have left the church. In deference to her cousin's feelings she remained, but her indignation was so apparent that the unfortunate pastor could not continue, and bringing his discourse to an abrupt and bewildered conclusion he withdrew from the pulpit.
When Barbara rose to leave the church she was a confirmed rebel. Hitherto she had taken but small interest in the great rising, except in so far as it concerned her brother, and had certainly been no ardent supporter of Monmouth, but the worthy doctor's discourse had aroused in her a keen feeling of anger and opposition.
Now 'tis with a woman as with a stream; endeavour to resist or to direct her course with argument or reason, and the current of her actions will but flow the stronger in the ever-narrowing channel.
Barbara's first impulse was to waylay the Reverend Marmaduke in the churchyard, and there, outside the sacred edifice, pour forth upon his offending head the vials of her wrath. But discretion and a lengthened indulgence in the seclusion afforded by the vestry secured the peace-loving occupant from an encounter not wholly unanticipated. In ignorance of the exact nature of the events which had passed in the churchyard during the interval, but satisfied at last that his congregation had dispersed, he made his way to the safe haven of the rectory.
Disappointed of her intention, Barbara looked round in search of some other victim, but there appeared only the corporal, and she would not demean herself to bandy words with him. Throwing a disdainful glance in his direction, she swept haughtily down the grass-grown path to the lych-gate. Here she was perforce delayed. Her cousin had paused to speak a few words of hope and sympathy to an old woman whose only son lay in Taunton gaol, awaiting his fate, and as she waited Barbara glanced carelessly around her.
On the green near the church she noted a couple of mounted dragoons in charge of four spare troop-horses saddled and bridled, and a third in charge of a rough-looking cart. She noted these preparations for departure with satisfaction, and wondered what had been the reason for such a short and sudden visit.
As the crowd in the churchyard parted, and the corporal, followed by his two attendant troopers, came down the path to the gate, she was soon to be enlightened, however.
The corporal advanced and laying his hand on her shoulder, cried in a voice wherein pompous dignity and elation strove for the mastery:
"Mistress Barbara Winslow, I attaint you as a rebel, and arrest you in the name of his Majesty."
Too much astonished to speak, Barbara was conscious, however, of a murmur of anger and surprise from the crowd of villagers and of Cicely's voice enquiring sharply:
"What is the matter? What means this?"
"There is no call to answer questions," replied the corporal pompously. "But an ye must know, it means that this woman is attainted as a rebel, and I hold a warrant for her arrest, with orders to conduct her instantly to Taunton gaol to await trial."
"But it is impossible! she is no rebel."
"She is known to have sheltered rebels, many have been hanged for less," answered the corporal, with a sinister glance of triumph at his prisoner.
"Yet surely it cannot be as ye say?" cried Cicely helplessly. "Taunton gaol! Why she is a woman, ye cannot. Nay, she is but a child. Oh! 'tis monstrous, monstrous."
"No words, no words," cried the corporal fussily. "You will learn, madame, that in such affairs of state, least said is soonest mended. Now, mistress," he continued roughly, turning to Barbara, "we'd best be moving."
But a growl of anger broke from the still lingering crowd, and Peter Drew, the blacksmith, sprang upon the low wall of the churchyard.
"Hey, lads!" he cried; "they red-cöats be vor taäkin oor young Miztrez to Taunton gaol. Zhall her be taäken, lads? Zhall her go? Hey lads, we be vaive to one. Zhall her go, lads?"
Peter was no orator, but eloquence was not needed. Love for Barbara, that old feudal love for their lord; resentment for the many acts of ill-treatment sustained at the hands of the troopers during their occupation of the village; and lastly, the spirit of revolt against injustice and opposition which lurks secretly in every heart, all combined to rouse his hearers to fury, and it needed no words of the smith to fan the flame.
They greeted Peter's harangue with a wild shout of triumph, and closed in round the corporal and his men with gestures which threatened every moment to develop into a fierce attack.
Barbara's face flushed and her eyes glittered with triumph. Wild projects flashed through her brain. To overpower the half-dozen troopers, then to fortify the Manor House, and hold it against all comers; to rally round her the many secret supporters of the late rebellion, to recall the exiles from Holland, and to succeed in establishing justice and the Protestant Religion, or die fighting for the Cause. Had not other women done as much! These men, she knew, would cheerfully fight to the death for her; the country was still full of malcontents; one failure could not be regarded as the death of the Cause. Hope was high, all things seemed possible. Who shall say what mad dreams passed through her thoughts during those few moments while she stood there, the centre of that enthusiastic mob?
But it was not to be. From out the crowd there pressed forward an old woman, who flung herself trembling at Barbara's feet.
"Eh; Miztress Barbara, dearie," she cried, seizing her hand, "don't-ee, don't-ee, then. A'll swing for it, for zure a wull if a faight. And zee there," pointing with her trembling hand at a tall stalwart fellow, prominent amongst the throng, "thiccy's arl I've left now. Three others have been taäken. If they taäk un I maun die, for zure I maun. Don't-ee, now."
"Vor shaäme, mother," cried the lad referred to. "Would ee have un taäk the young Miztress to Taunton? Vor shaäme."
But the dreams had passed. Barbara's eyes were opened and she recognised the hopelessness of any resistance. She could not, she must not sacrifice these lives.
Gently disengaging herself from the clinging hands of the old crone, she sprang on to the wall at Peter's side and caught his uplifted arm.
"No, no, friends!" she urged; "it won't do. We could not hope for more than a short-lived victory. She is right, there would be vengeance and ye would all swing for it. This fellow saith he hath the Royal Warrant for my arrest, an that be so I must e'en go with him. Be assured they cannot harm me; I have done no wrong. Besides," she added proudly, "I would not have them think me afeared to go. Peter, be silent. Nay, I thank you indeed, but there must be no resistance. Go home quietly. You women, look to your men folk. No harm shall come to you for my sake, and none must think I fear to go."
Thus she stood upon the wall, a bright figure in her dainty muslin gown, smiling down upon them, until with reluctance, and many incoherent mutterings, the crowd, somewhat reassured by her words, slowly dispersed. Then turning she addressed the corporal:
"So that is ended. Now, an you will permit me first to return to the Manor House to collect some necessaries, I am ready to go with you to Taunton."
"I am rejoiced, mistress," he assured her pompously, "that you have decided to submit peaceably to my orders."
"Aye, corporal," answered Barbara, with a smile at his perturbed countenance. "I do not doubt but you are indeed rejoiced. But come, I must to the Manor House, to prepare for the journey. I presume you will allow me so much grace?"
"The escort will accompany you thither."
"I had thought my submission had been proof enough of my good faith, but as you will," answered Barbara carelessly, passing through the gate.
"Barbara, I must with you to Taunton, indeed I must," pleaded Cicely, as she hastened after her cousin. "'Tis monstrous that you should go alone with these men."
"Thou, Cicely? Impossible! What could'st thou do there? Where could'st thou lodge? Not i' the gaol indeed."
"There be many kindly folk in the town who would house me, and they will perchance advise too what 'twere best to do for thee. There is good Mistress Lane, the wool-merchant's wife, I will seek her out. But go with you I must indeed."
"In truth, Cicely," answered Barbara with a quick sigh, "I would fain have thee near, if 'twere only to teach myself the folly of my fears by laughing at thine."
With a tyranny born of his newly acquired importance, Corporal Crutch refused to allow his prisoner more than a few minutes' preparation before her journey to Taunton, but having resigned herself to fate Barbara had no mind to delay, and in less than half an hour after their return to the house the two enforced travellers were ready for departure.
Barbara's resolution was by no means strengthened at sight of the ramshackle cart provided to convey her to Taunton.
"To what low estate our fortunes have fallen!" she muttered with a wry face.
"Rebels cannot expect to be treated like honest folk," remarked the Corporal complacently.
"Set a watch on thy tongue, Master Corporal," retorted she angrily. "I am no rebel till I be proved such, therefore I warn thee 'twere best be more careful of thy words," and turning abruptly from the startled man she took her seat in the cart.
For the first few miles of their journey each of the girls devoted all her efforts to the difficult task of cheering the other. Upon leaving the village and their friends behind them, some sense of the utter helplessness of her position filled Barbara's mind, and she was but a sorry comforter.
But hers was not a nature to sigh long, and soon the fresh air, the bright sunshine, and the interest and amusement she found in watching her escort, had their effect. The result of this reaction from her former depression was a mood of high spirits and brighter hopes.
"In truth, Cicely," she broke out suddenly with a laugh, "we are both fools. At worst 'tis but a matter of a night or two in gaol, where I doubt not I shall meet much good company; an interview with Lord Jeffreys (I would fain see him, they say he is a right handsome man, for all he has such a tongue); then perchance a fine, and so home. Why 'tis not worth a sigh. 'Tis but an adventure, and thou knowest I love such."
"Aye, Barbara, you speak truly," answered her companion, with a desperate attempt at cheerfulness. "They would not dare to harm a woman. I make no doubt these tales of my Lord Jeffreys' punishment and—and of Lady Alice Lisle, are gross exaggerations." This last she added with a tentative air—Cicely longed for corroboration of that statement.
At mention of Lady Lisle Barbara's face fell slightly, but she resolutely dismissed her fears.
"There is not a doubt of it, sweet. Yet even an it were not so, they could prove nought against me. They have no testimony to show that we housed or aided either Rupert or Sir Peter."
"That is so," assented Cicely joyously. "And in justice none could punish us for what is unproven."
"Oh! Cicely, look at yon red-headed trooper, didst ever behold so scarlet a poll?"
"Aye. And mark how he sits his horse. I wager he will be over its head ere he sees Taunton. Note his face when the creature pricks his ears; 'tis a very picture of terror."
"Didst note the corporal as we passed trough the village?" laughed Barbara. "The poor fool feared an ambuscade at every corner, and well-nigh fell from his horse with fright when old Mother Gilkin's pot fell down as we reached her cottage. I hate the fellow, yet I cannot but laugh at his antics."
Thus for a while the two chattered bravely as they clattered and bumped along the rough country roads to Taunton. But as night drew on the sky became overcast with clouds, and a cold wind and drizzling rain added to the discomfort of the journey. Their conversation became more and more desultory, and finally ceased altogether.
Only once again did Barbara break the silence.
"Cis," she asked with some slight hesitation, "thinkest thou that Captain Protheroe knows aught of my arrest?"
"Knows aught!" cried Cicely in astonishment. "Why, Barbara, child, who else hath accused thee?"
"Nay, nay; I will not believe that of him," answered Barbara stoutly.
"Believe what thou wilt, I tell thee it is the truth. Thinkest thou he would tamely endure to be duped as thou hast duped him, without some revenge? Oh! I tell thee as I have ever done, the fellow is to be mistrusted, and to take such revenge on thee were but his nature."
"In truth, Cicely, you do not know him," pleaded Barbara. "He is not—I would trust him."
"Why, Barbara! Hath the man bewitched thee that thou art so ready in his defence?" cried Cicely, looking at her curiously. "What hath he done to win such trust? Or dost thou deem, perchance, that thou hast bewitched him, and so bound him to thy cause? I' faith, coz, I warn thee, trust not too much to the power of thine eyes; all men be not so easily ensnared."
But Barbara answered not, only sighed lightly and stared thoughtfully into the gathering darkness, her eyes wide with wonder and with doubt.
The distance from Durford to Taunton is scarce twelve miles, and 'twas little past noon when they set out on their journey, but the progress of the cart was slow, owing to the bad roads.
A horse, too, cast a shoe, and they must needs stop at the next village to seek a smith. The escort halted more than once for refreshment, and in fine it was night before they reached their destination.
Perhaps the darkness was not without its compensation. At the cross roads were scenes ill-suited to a woman's eyes, traces of that wholesale butchery which for many weeks had devastated the fairest county of the West. Gaunt figures swinging in their chains from the sign-posts, tokens of the merciless punishment meted out to those even suspected of rebellion, had been no cheering welcome to such travellers as they.
When they entered Taunton the streets were almost deserted, and the dwelling houses closed and in darkness, but the windows of the White Hart Inn, the headquarters of the royal troops, blazed with light, and the shouts of laughter and snatches of song from within indicated that the soldiery were holding revelry, heedless alike of the hallowedness of the Sabbath, of the misery of the townsfolk, and of the despair of hundreds of prisoners who lay awaiting their doom in the crowded gaols of the town.
As the cavalcade passed before the Inn an officer lounged into the light of the doorway, and stared carelessly at the passing company. Barbara with a gasp of astonishment half rose to her feet, but Cicely's hand restrained her, and reluctantly she sank down beside her cousin.
The cart passed, leaving Captain Protheroe to continue his inspection of the night all unconscious of whom the vehicle conveyed.
CHAPTER X
"So! Now am I in prison. Well, I had as lief be elsewhere," muttered Barbara when she awoke after her first night in gaol, and proceeded philosophically to take stock of her surroundings, which she had been too weary to notice on the previous night.
She was not confined in the regular gaol of the town; for nigh two months past that had been filled to overflowing. Those arrested within the last few weeks, together with the unfortunates sent on from Exeter in the van of the dread-inspiring Jeffreys, were lodged in convenient sheds and storehouses, situated in various parts of the town; bare, dreary places with little or no suitable accommodation for the wretches herded within their walls, but affording enough shelter in the opinion of the authorities for rebels during the short interval which must elapse before their trial.
The building wherein Barbara awoke was a large wooden shed, originally a storehouse for wool, some few bales of which still remained piled in the corners. A large door closely guarded and windows high in the roof were the only means of egress, and no provision for the accommodation of the inmates had been made beyond a few straw pallet-beds for the women prisoners, roughly screened from the rest of the shed by a dilapidated piece of sacking. Even in the most hopeless moments since her arrest Barbara had calculated on nothing so dismal as this.
She had slept late after the fatigues of the previous day, and when at length she awoke, the other occupants of her corner had already risen, and passed beyond the partition into the shed.
Barbara seated herself on the edge of her bed and stared forlornly at the bare wall opposite.
"Well! Many better women have been in worse plights, there is not a doubt. I must e'en comfort myself with that," was her verdict after musing some minutes upon her situation. "Now let me see. Rupert would say that the duty of every woman under every circumstance is to look her fairest, but there seemeth little scope for that maxim here, and I see not wherein lies the vantage of tending one's looks when here is no mirror to show the result. However, for lack of other advice I'll e'en follow Rupert's."
Having come to this laudable conclusion, Barbara opened her bundle and proceeded to arrange her curls, and make such improvements in her toilet as the scanty means at her disposal allowed. This done she drew aside the partition and stepped into the room beyond.
It was a curious sight that met her eyes. The shed was totally destitute of furniture, unless as such might be designated the few bales of wool and some bundles of straw, used by the prisoners indiscriminately as couch, chair, or table.
The place served as lodging for about fifty prisoners, many of whom had been from two to three weeks in captivity. The majority of them were rough, ignorant peasants, who, having faithfully followed their leaders into a quarrel which they themselves but half comprehended, now awaited their doom with that same half-puzzled, stolid patience and dogged courage which had helped them already to face death on the fatal field of Sedgemoor.
There were some, too, of the yeoman class, some of the richer townsfolk, and here and there a noncomformist divine, but save perhaps in a certain intelligence and eagerness of expression, there was nothing to distinguish the man of learning or station from the poorest peasant. All alike were dirty, ragged, and dishevelled; unshaven, unwashed, with ill-kempt beards and hair. Existence in such a prison, following in many cases upon days of homeless wanderings, had wrought this levelling effect upon them all. Their money, what little they once possessed, was long ago exhausted. They could pay their gaolers for neither books, amusements, nor drink. They talked little; what was there to talk of? For the most part they were plunged in the deepest apathy. They had fought, they had failed; now they awaited what was to come in silence. They showed no fear, no despair, no hope, only a great patience.
Barbara gazed on the scene with the utmost astonishment and indignation. Were these men, indeed, the same wild enthusiasts who a while ago had so eagerly cheered Monmouth through the streets of Taunton? Aye, and not only cheered him, but aided him loyally, leaving work, home, wife, children, and all, that they might follow him and strike a blow for the Cause. Were these indeed those who, armed but with stake or scythe, had made such a gallant stand against the best disciplined troops of the country; those who (men were forced to confess) would but for an accident, undoubtedly have won an unprecedented victory? Could these indeed be the same? She stared with anger and scorn at their silence, their apathy, their unkempt looks. Her ardent young nature had no understanding of this submission to the Inevitable; she had not yet learned that an Inevitable might exist.
Her birth and breeding afforded her no comprehension of the stolid bravery of the peasantry. The farther man is removed from the natural state, the greater the advance he has made in civilisation, so much the more does he deem it necessary to hide his emotions beneath an artificial mask, to seem to be that which he is not. A century later in the massacres in Paris the victims were for the most part nobles and gentlemen; they went to their doom bravely, with a smile in their eyes, a jest upon their lips. In this great Rebellion of the West the victims were the poorest of the peasantry; they faced their doom no less bravely, but they faced it gravely, in silence.
Barbara's family traditions had taught her nothing of this. She had expected her fellow prisoners to be a company of merry dare-devils such as her brother Rupert, or Sir Peter Dare, men who laughed at danger, mocked their gaolers, and turned misfortune, nay, death itself, into a subject for jest. Men, too, who could fight fiercely and endure bravely on occasion, yet would scorn to appear serious in any circumstances (save perchance when discussing the set of a doublet or the colour of a bow), and who looked upon gravity as a sign of cowardice. Such were the rebels she knew, the rebels she had dreamed of, gay, careless, defiant to the end; not such as these, silent, sunk in a helpless submission to their fate. She could not understand. She looked round upon them in indignation, her lips curled in scorn.
But while she stood there surveying the scene she had herself been the subject of observation; presently one of the prisoners approached her and interrupted her meditations.
"What are you doing in this place, my child?" he asked gently.
The speaker was a small, spare man, with bushy white hair and beard, a face seamed and lined with age, yet full of kindliness and humour, with a pair of bright, piercing eyes; a face calculated to win friends or to daunt foes.
Barbara turned to him at once as to an old friend; his voice invited confidence.
"I was arrested but yesterday, sir, on a charge of sheltering rebels, and I am here, as the rest of the company, to await my trial."
"You are very young, but you have a stout heart," he said, smiling kindly.
"Why, sir, I hope so," answered Barbara cheerfully. "I am Barbara Winslow of Durford Manor, and no Winslow yet was ever written coward," she added proudly, with a scornful glance round the shed.
"Noblesse oblige," he quoted, smiling at her sadly. "Ah, child, your strength may seem great, but trust not in it too wholly, lest in the hour of darkness it prove but a broken reed."
Barbara was puzzled. "What mean you, sir? Sure, 'tis not sinful to be brave for a name's sake."
"Nay, I say not that," he answered gently. "There be three qualities that have power to beget a courage unto death—Faith, Love, and Pride. But of these three only the courage born of Faith has never been known to fail. Yet whencesoever it springs, courage is the gift of God and a blessing to man, and as such must be honoured."
Barbara looked at him curiously.
"You are a divine, sir, are you not?"
"Yes, I am indeed a servant of the Lord, though for many years I have been withheld from openly preaching His word. For fifty years I have lived and worked secretly among the miners of the Mendip Hills, and when they marched to support the defender of our religion, I followed to give them the comfort of my words. I thank God that I shall follow them to the end. Ah, child," he continued earnestly, "you cannot understand what it is to be silenced, to be dumb, as 'twere, for twenty-three years; to be torn to pieces 'twixt the burning in my heart to speak the Word, the fear in my breast of meeting the punishment. It is worth a thousand deaths to have had at last this chance of testifying once again to the truth."
Barbara looked at him gravely.
"No," she said, "I do not understand."
His earnestness vanished. He gave a soft resigned sigh and smiled at her, as at a child.
"No, you do not understand; you are young and fearless."
"It should be easy to me to be courageous," she answered lightly. "I have nought to fear. 'Tis for me but some few days in prison, and then perchance a fine. In justice they can do no more."
He smiled at her a trifle sadly.
"Aye, child, as you say,in justicethey could do no more."
She looked up at him doubtfully, but forbore to question further the meaning of his words.
"But these folk," she continued, looking round, "have doubtless more to fear."
"There is indeed little hope for them this side the grave," he answered calmly, "save for a speedy and merciful death."
Barbara was startled.
"Surely not so—and yet—I had not thought on't," she muttered. "Verily, sir, if this be true, my scorn was ill-timed, they have courage. They are but rude peasants, with neither pride of birth nor name to strengthen their hearts, yet they await death as calmly as any noble. How comes this?"
"So thou deemest courage a monopoly of gentle folk, eh?" he asked, laughing softly. "Ah, child, thou art young. But indeed," he continued more seriously, "these men have fought in the Lord's cause, there is no fear but He will send them strength to fight their battle bravely to the end."
"How can it be God's cause when it hath failed?" asked Barbara bluntly.
"Failed, child? What mean you?"
"Why, call you not this failure?" she asked, glancing round.
"This! In good sooth, no; this is but the beginning of success, only the times were unripe for rebellion, the leaders were unworthy of the cause. Think you these men will die in vain? In God's name I tell you, no. A cause strengthened by such devotion cannot but succeed; for every drop of blood shed to-day there will spring up seeds of justice and resolution in the hearts of the survivors which shall blossom forth into a mighty power. I shall not see it, but thou mayest, for the day is not far off when justice, toleration and true religion shall once more flourish in this kingdom. Failure! Never! We are but the necessary martyrs, the runners of success. The cause of justice was never yet won save by a path of blood and tears."
His enthusiasm communicated itself to Barbara. Her face glowed with eagerness; at that moment she had resolution to face block or scaffold that she also might die for the Cause.
"Ah!" she cried, "this is the courage of which you spoke, the courage born of Faith."
He bowed his head in assent, and there was silence between them while Barbara pondered on his words. Presently she continued:
"And the third, the courage of Love? What mean you by that?" she asked.
Instantly his face was transfigured by a smile of great tenderness.
"I will show you," he answered gently. "Look."
Barbara followed the direction of his eyes. In a far corner of the shed, apart from the rest of the prisoners, sat a man and a woman. She lay in the circle of his arm, her head dropped back upon his shoulder, and oblivious to all around them they sat gazing in one another's eyes. Pale, ragged and unkempt, as were all the prisoners, yet beautiful in each other's eyes, and transfigured by the light of perfect happiness, by the glory of their love.
"It is their wedding-day," he continued softly. "I married them at seven o'clock this morning."
"But who are they?" asked Barbara in bewilderment.
"He is the son of the squire of Hardon, and an officer in Monmouth's army; she, the daughter of a rich cloth-maker of Taunton, who joined the army and met his death at Sedgemoor. He lodged in her father's house when the army was first quartered here. Later, she was attainted a rebel, and they met again, in prison. See now how mighty is love, that it will even force its way into such a desert as this. They have lived here together for three weeks as in a Paradise, and yesterday, feeling the time of separation draw near, they besought me to join them forever in God's sight, as man and wife. I know not whether I rightly consented, yet who could refuse?"
"And the future?" whispered Barbara eagerly.
He shook his head.
"She has money, the charge against her is but slight, her friends will buy her freedom. But for him, an officer in the rebel army, there can be little doubt—— Is it not wonderful?" he continued softly, as though to himself. "Thus they sit hour by hour. Hopes and fears alike have faded in the great light of their love, and for to-day at least they live as in the Garden of Eden, where there is neither past nor future; nought but the present and themselves."
Barbara gazed silently at the couple, until suddenly a great sense of loneliness overcame her, and her eyes darkened with a mist of tears. She turned to her companion with a pathetic gesture of helplessness.
"Alas! ere I came here I had believed myself so strong, so fearless. And here I find all others are brave, and I but a helpless fool."
There was something bewitching in this sudden confession of weakness, and her companion's face softened for an instant as he looked at her. Then he laughed, and his laughter was wise, for it stung her pride, and recalled her former resolution.
"In truth, this discovery is to be deeply regretted, Mistress Winslow," he answered lightly, "seeing I had hoped to enlist the services of one so stout-hearted in the work of cheering the weary hours of some of our unfortunate comrades."
"My services! Why, what think you I can do?" asked Barbara eagerly. "Wouldest have me clamber on a bale of wool and harangue these men upon the duty and virtue of courage?" she added merrily.
"Nay, that were hardly woman's work. And 'tis not for men your help is needed."
"For whom, then?"
"There is a poor girl, she is scarce more than a child, who was brought hither yesterday with her younger sister. They were among those maids of Taunton who presented to the Duke his banners, and for this innocent action they have been arrested. I think, indeed, there is little fear for them; they have rich friends, people of influence, who can save them at a price. But the poor child is fragile. Terror hath gripped her by the heart, and if she be not roused and cheered 'tis to be feared her brain may give way."
"Take me to her, I will try."
"Come, then. Her sister is beside her, but the poor child is very young and can do but little. It may be that you will be able to cheer her."
Barbara gathered up her dainty skirts and followed her companion. As she passed along she was greeted by many a look of surprise and admiration, but so intent was she upon her errand she scarce noted the interest she aroused.
They found the two ill-fated children—they were both little more—crouched against the wall in the darkest corner of the shed. Near them sat a poor peasant woman weeping bitterly, while a second woman offered rough attempts at comfort. Close beside the latter was a thin, elderly woman, with the severe mouth and narrow forehead of a fanatic, who stared straight before her, muttering rapidly to herself, oblivious to her surroundings. These few, with Barbara and the young bride, were the only female prisoners in the shed.
Barbara paused a moment, surveying the group curiously, then she advanced slowly towards the two sisters. The elder of the two was scarce sixteen, fragile and pale. She crouched beside the wall, her chin sunk on her breast, silent, immovable, but when Barbara, touched her on the shoulder she raised her head suddenly, and displayed a face so frozen with despair and eyes so wild with terror that the girl was horrified. In an instant all other considerations vanished before the great pity and tenderness that filled her heart.
"My poor, poor child," she exclaimed gently, "what have they done to thee? Nay, look not thus, none shall hurt thee, I promise it. See, I will sit thus beside thee. Come, now thou art safe and hast nought to fear."
She sank down beside her, drew the child close and encircled her tenderly with her strong young arms.
The bright face, cheery smile, and gentle voice, all tended to excite confidence, as did also the firm pressure of human touch. The child gazed at her for a few moments in doubt and bewilderment, then suddenly clung to her fiercely and burst into wild tears.
"Oh! they will kill me," she sobbed. "Do not let them. Do not let them take me away."
"No, no, they shall not, I swear they shall not harm thee," answered Barbara soothingly, though with more rashness than conviction. "Only look cheerily, sweetheart, and be brave and all will be well."
"Will you take me home? Prithee, take me home," she begged, sobbing.
"Nay, we must bide here for a day or two, but what of that? It will not harm you, and 'tis for a great cause. Bethink you of the saints, of the martyrs; they suffered even death without fear. Bethink you, childie, how many women have striven and suffered manfully for their cause, and be you courageous and proud to suffer thus little for yours."
"Tell me of those women," whispered the younger child, creeping near to their new-found protector. She was stronger; she did not suffer as did her sister, but her poor puzzled brain could not understand why this imprisonment had befallen them; she grasped eagerly at the reference to martyrs. 'Tis easier to be brave in paths which others have trod before us.
So Barbara settled herself between the two children and bent all her efforts to recollecting and relating to the best effect every tale of heroism she had ever read, heard, or imagined, incidents culled from the histories of many nations, from romances, ballads, and legends. From her earliest childhood she had loved to listen to all such tales of prowess and brave endurance; her store seemed unlimited, she had a clear memory, and above all, she possessed that rarest of all gifts, the art of story-telling.
The two children were soon listening with deep interest. She raised her voice, that beautiful voice, not the least of her many charms, and presently the woman sitting near them ceased her sobbing to listen; some of the men even raised themselves from their lethargic musings and drew near, so that she became in time the centre of a large group of prisoners. Cheered with this success, Barbara braced herself to an increased effort. She related story after story of the heroes of many countries and times, stories of love and tenderness, of fierce passions, of high devotion to a worthy cause, till her audience were infected with the enthusiasm and followed her words with startling eagerness. For a time prison walls faded away, trial, punishment, death were forgotten, they lived again in the past.
It is a wonderful power, the art of story-telling, and is given to few, especially among Western peoples, but it is a power which, when combined with the magnetism of a beautiful presence, is irresistible.
Thus intermittently for several hours Barbara continued, and to her hearers the long day passed quickly, until late in the afternoon the pealing of bells and a roll of drums were heard from without. These sounds betokened, as some guessed, the expected arrival of the king's judges. On the morrow, therefore, would commence the Assize trial, which was to decide for each whether he, too, was destined to follow in the footsteps of the long line of martyrs and heroes who had suffered and died in the cause of freedom.
The charm cast around them by Barbara was broken, and she finished her narrative lamely, as her audience grew inattentive and relapsed into moody restlessness. As the darkening shadows gathered in the wool-shed a silence fell, the silence of an overhanging doom.
Suddenly and with startling effect the silence was broken by a clear voice which rang through the room. "Be strong and He shall 'stablish your hearts, all ye that put your trust in the Lord."
The words seemed to echo like a battle-clarion, an incentive to lead all men to victory.
It was Barbara's friend of the morning, Mr. Hardcastle, the noncomformist divine.
When other comfort had failed he was at hand to show these untutored peasants the true source of strength in danger, of consolation in affliction, the promise of their God. Few and simple were his words, yet charged with the fervour of belief, they served their purpose well. Again the courage of Faith strengthened them, the peace of God filled their hearts, and when at the close of his address he besought all to sing with him the eighty-sixth psalm, they joined him with a cheerful heartiness which made the rafters of the barn ring again.
So night drew down upon them, but there was light in their hearts, and they settled to rest in peace.
Barbara carried off her children to their pallet bed in the corner. With the darkness the poor child Katherine's terror had revived somewhat, and for a time she could not be induced to lie down. But gradually Barbara soothed her, talking hopefully of her probable return home on the morrow, and crooning tender child ballads such as her mother sang. Nature was merciful; clinging to the hand of her protectress she sank at last to sleep.
Barbara herself lay long awake listening to the heavy breathing of the sleepers around her and to the dull tramp of the sentries in the street without.
Sleep! the very thought of it seemed ill-timed with the lives of all these men at stake, and some way, surely some way was to be found, could she but think of it, to save them. To her active spirit it seemed past belief that escape should be impossible; intolerable to think that these forty or more around her, strong and healthy men, should go quietly to their deaths without one bid for freedom.
She tossed from side to side upon her mattress, racking her brains to devise a plan. Had she not wit and cleverness more than common? Sure she could find some way! But in vain; her thoughts wandered round and round in a circle, a circle she could not break. At length she sprang to her feet in desperation.
"'Tis no use," she exclaimed, "I can think of nothing. But he hath brains and he cares for their safety, I will go to him. Together surely we may devise some means of escape."
Softly she stepped out into the shed, and picked her way carefully among the sleepers, looking right and left for the face she sought. The moonlight poured in through the windows high in the room so that her passage was not difficult. She came at length upon the man she sought, the Reverend Mr. Hardcastle. Half the night he had spent at the side of one or another of his weaker comrades, cheering and strengthening each by his sympathy. Now at last he had found time for repose, and lay sleeping quietly, his Bible still open at his side. His slumbers were light, for he awoke at her slightest touch, and raised himself to his feet, instantly alert.
"What is the matter, child, do you need me?" he cried.
Barbara's face was pale in the moonlight, her eyes gleamed strangely and she clutched his arm with desperate eagerness.
"Surely something can be done to save them all," she cried confusedly. "It cannot be impossible."
"What mean you, child?"
"Why, here are fifty brave men, at most but half a dozen guards. Can we not break prison, rush the door, devise some mode of escape? 'Tis intolerable to sit here in idleness while the lives of all these are at stake. 'Tis monstrous. Sure, something can be done!"
"Peace, child," he answered sternly; "you know nought of the matter. We be fifty to six, 'tis true, but those six are armed and behind them are many more. If the door were passed we could not escape the town, or if perchance we won from the town where could we hide? The royal troops are everywhere. 'Twere but a hopeless venture which must cost the lives of all."
"Yet, sure, 'twere better to venture some effort than to sit thus helplessly awaiting their fate," she pleaded impatiently.
"Ah! Mistress Barbara, you have yet to learn that the highest courage may lie in such waiting. And I charge you, child, say nought of this to the men. They are nerved now to meet their fate, I will not have them distressed by false hopes. You have played your part well to-day, your place is with yon poor children. Go to them now, and leave these men to me."
Unaccustomed though she was to contradiction, Barbara was yet too strongly awed by his air of command to disobey. Reluctantly she turned away and with a glance of hopeless pity at the sleepers around her, passed beyond the partition and again took her place beside the weary children.
So the long night hours passed slowly away and the first morning of the Bloody Assize of Taunton grew rosy in the east.