The landlord grinned, and proved his observation by a somewhat close description.
"I get asked such questions sometimes," he said, "when a mistress runs away, or a rebel makes hastily for the sea-coast and safety. It is well to be observant."
Sir John laughed, and having demanded that the post-boys supplied to-morrow should not be of the sort who see a highwayman in every broken tree trunk by the wayside, he departed.
The conversation had been overheard by a crowd of loafers in the adjoining room, who had suspended their drinking to watch this fine gentleman to whom the landlord was so attentive. Then the clatter and conversation began again, and only one man was interested enough to seek further information. He had only entered a few moments ago; now he approached the landlord.
"I heard your description just now; it interested me."
The landlord looked at Fairley from head to foot, and then brought his eyes to bear keenly on his face.
"You are not known to me."
"But I am to the lady, unless I mistake not. You spoke of runaway mistresses, and truly I think that shot at a venture found its mark."
"You would follow her?"
"If your answer to a question or two satisfies me, I will ride without delay the best horse you have."
The questions were asked, and Martin was so satisfied that he was impatient to be gone.
"So that I am well paid it's no odds to me," said the landlord. "I made the lady no promise, and she's not the first who has grown tired of her husband, nor will she be the last."
"She may thank you for giving me the information," Fairley answered."Ink and paper quickly, landlord; I must write a letter before I go."
By the time the horse was ready the letter was written.
"Find a messenger for this, landlord, and see that it is delivered without delay. There is payment for the messenger; tell him he will receive a like sum from the gentleman to whom this is addressed."
There was a certain awkwardness about Martin Fairley as he rode out of the yard, enough to show that he was not so accomplished a horseman as some men; yet he had improved in his riding since he had borne Gilbert Crosby company from "The Jolly Farmers" that night.
The letter was delivered to Sydney Fellowes before Fairley had gone many miles upon his journey.
"I believe Mistress Lanison is on her way to Dorchester, and I am following," Fellowes read. "What plan is in her mind I cannot tell, but since it seems to give Sir John much satisfaction, I argue that some trap lies in the way. It is possible that I may be mistaken, so will you go to Lady Bolsover's to-night and make sure that Mistress Lanison has gone. If she has, and you can come, make all haste to Dorchester. There is a little tavern called 'The Anchor' in West Street. No one of consequence would use it, so you shall find word of me there."
Not many hours later Sydney Fellowes was also riding towards the West.
There was an atmosphere of unrest about the inn at Witley this evening. An hour ago a coach had arrived, and the best rooms were in requisition for the travellers, a lady and her maid. It was whispered amongst the loungers in the common room that she was a great lady, in spite of the fact that she travelled in a hired coach, but this idea was perhaps due to the fact that the maid was imperious, and demanded attention in a manner that carried weight. The servant of an ordinary person would hardly have been so dictatorial.
Even before the arrival of the coach the inn had been far more alive than usual, for a company of troopers had galloped up to it late in the afternoon making inquiry concerning a fugitive. He might be alone, but probably had a companion with him. Both men were minutely described, and it would seem that the capture of the companion would be likely to give the greater satisfaction.
No one at the inn had either seen or heard anything of them, and the troop had given up the pursuit. After refreshment, and a noisy halt of half an hour, the men had returned by the way they had come, leaving two of their company behind. These two were in the common room when the coach arrived, and, like everyone else in the house, were mightily interested in the lady and her maid. When the bustle had subsided a little they called for more ale and settled themselves comfortably in a corner.
"Well, for my part I'm not sorry the fellow got away," said one man, stretching out his legs easily. "We've enough prisoners to make examples of already."
"One more or less makes no matter," was the answer, "but it's wonderful how many have managed to slip through our fingers by the help of this fellow Crosby. I'd give something to lay him by the heels."
"Aye, that would mean gold enough in our pockets to jingle."
"And we shall get him presently," the other went on. "He is known to many of us now that he does not always hide himself behind the brown mask."
"If there were no money in it, I wouldn't raise a hand against him," said his companion, "for I've a sneaking fondness for the fellow. He's got courage and brains, and they've got the better of us up to now. Mark me, we shan't take him easily when the opportunity does offer. He'll make a corpse of one or two of us in the doing it."
"More guineas for those who are left," was the answer. "The other affair trots nicely," and he winked slowly over the tilted edge of his tankard.
"Wait!" said the other. "The netting of such fish may be sport enough, but there are handsome fish which are the devil to handle, and the taste of them is poison. Hist!"
His companion turned quickly at the warning, and through the open door saw the maid, who attended the great lady, in the passage without. She inquired for the landlord, who came quickly, and at the same time the trooper got up and crossed the room, giving no explanation to his companion.
"Must we start early to reach Dorchester to-morrow?" the maid inquired of the landlord.
"Yes, very early. The roads—"
"The roads are good, mistress," volunteered the trooper. "I have ridden over them to-day."
"You may be able to tell me better than the landlord, then," said the girl, and for some minutes they talked in a low tone as they stood in the doorway of the inn.
"A fine night, mistress," said the man as the girl was about to leave him. "With the moon up like this, lovers should be abroad. It's but a hundred yards to the open fields; will you come?"
"With you!" exclaimed the girl scornfully, looking him up slowly from his boots to his eyes.
"Why not?" The maid's eyes were attractive, her figure was neat, and the man had sufficient ale in him to make him bold. For an instant they looked at each other; then the girl laughed derisively.
"When the master grows tired, the man may prove useful, and the man has a fancy for sampling the wares forthwith," said the trooper as he caught hold of the girl and would have kissed her. Perhaps he did not expect any great resistance, and was unprepared, but at any rate she slipped from his embrace, dealing him a resounding box upon the ears as she did so.
"You shall be punished further before many hours are over," said the girl as she ran lightly up the stairs.
The man growled an oath as he stood with his hand to his assaulted ear.
"Did I not say that some were the devil to handle?" remarked his companion, who had come to the common-room door, and was smiling grimly.
"I grant she takes first trick, and with a heavy hand for so small a person, but the game is only commencing. One more draught of ale to drink success to the end of it, and then to horse."
As the troopers rode out of Witley presently a horseman drew back into the shadow of some trees by the roadside to let them pass.
"The remaining two," he murmured. "That's well; they have given up the pursuit," and he turned and went at a brisk canter across country.
The maid said nothing about the trooper to her mistress; she only told her that an early start would have to be made.
"Very well, Harriet, I shall want nothing more to-night, and will put myself to bed."
But Barbara Lanison was in no haste to seek sleep. She was tired, bodily tired, but mentally she was wakeful. There were some hours still before she could reach Dorchester, and many more hours might elapse before she could get speech with Judge Marriott. Having determined to make the sacrifice, she was eager that it should be over and done with, that she should know the full extent of the sacrifice. And perhaps, at the back of her mind, there was a little fear of herself. The question would arise, again and again, no matter how she tried to suppress it, was she justified in acting as she intended to do? Who was this man for whom she was prepared to give so much? A notorious highwayman, upon whose head there was a price. Yes, it was true, but he was also Gilbert Crosby, the man who had taken possession of her thoughts since the first moment she had seen him, the man who had sheltered and helped the peasantry fleeing from an inhuman persecution, and who must now pay for his courage with his life unless she pleaded for him. Was she justified? The question sounded in her ears when she fell asleep; she heard it when she awoke next morning. Yes, and mentally she flung back the answer, yes, for to her Gilbert Crosby was something more than a brave man, and was dear to her in spite of everything. He was the man who had set an ideal in her heart, he was the man she loved. Hardly to herself would she admit it, but it was love that sent her to the West.
It was still early when the coach rolled out of Witley, but it was not early enough, nor was the pace fast enough, to satisfy Barbara. She became suddenly fearful of pursuit which might stop her from reaching Dorchester. She began to dread some breakdown which might delay her and cause her to arrive too late.
"Shall we be in time?" she asked more than once, turning to HarrietPayne.
"Yes, madam, you need have no fear. The assizes have not yet begun inDorchester."
Pursuit was behind, but it was the pursuit of a friend. Whether it was the fault of the horseman or his mounts, disaster rode with Martin Fairley. To begin with, his horse cast a shoe, and by the time a smith was found and his work done, an hour had been wasted. Before the end of the first stage the horse collapsed; there was considerable difficulty in getting a remount, and the animal procured was a sorry beast for pace. Martin fretted at the delay, and cursed the adverse fates which so hindered him. Once he was within three miles of the coach, and then his horse went dead lame. Hours were lost before he could get another horse and resume the journey, and during those hours much might have happened.
The coach had left only an hour when he arrived at the inn at Witley.
"Yes, the travellers were a lady and her maid," the landlord told him.
"Going to Dorchester?" Martin asked.
"Yes. They started early."
"Has anyone inquired for them?"
"No."
"Some breakfast, landlord—ale and bread and cheese will do—and a horse at once."
"Yes, sir."
"And for heaven's sake give me a horse with four sound legs and with wind enough in its bellows to stand a gallop."
Fairley was soon in the saddle again, and this time with a better horse under him. His spirits rose as the miles were left rapidly behind, and as he turned each bend in the road he looked eagerly for a dust cloud before him proclaiming that his pursuit was nearly at an end.
Barbara sat silently in the corner of the carriage, Harriet Payne sat upright, looking from the window. It was Harriet who first noticed that the post-boy was suddenly startled, and that, in looking back, he had almost allowed the horses to swerve from the roadway.
"What is it?" she called from the window, as she looked back along the road they had come.
The post-boy pointed with his whip. Barbara looked hastily from the other window. There was much dust from their own wheels, but, beyond, there was another cloud surrounding and half concealing a horseman who was fast overtaking them.
"Looks like a highwayman," said the post-boy.
"Better a highwayman than some others who might have followed us," said Barbara, leaning back in her corner again. "Tell the boy to go on quietly, Harriet. This may be a very worthy gentleman who has need of haste."
A few minutes later the horseman galloped up to the window.
"Martin! You!" Barbara exclaimed.
"Had I not been delayed upon the journey I should have caught you before this. I wish I had."
"Why, Martin? Do you suppose I am to be turned from my purpose?"
Fairley rode beside the open window, and Barbara leaned forward to talk with him.
"I do not know your purpose," he said, "but I fear a trap has been set for you."
"A trap!" Harriet exclaimed.
"Why do you think so, Martin?" Barbara asked.
Fairley told her how he had followed Sir John to the hostelry in theHaymarket.
"You see, mistress, he knew where you would hire. He went direct to this place and made his inquiries as though he knew beforehand what answers he would receive. His smile was so self-satisfied that I scented danger."
"And you see we are safe, nothing has happened."
"Not yet," was the answer. "There is presently a by-road I know of, and by your leave we will take it."
Barbara felt a little quick tug at her sleeve, and turned to Harriet.
"Do not give him leave. I do not trust him," whispered the girl.
"Why not?"
"Some who seem to be your friends are no friends to Mr. Crosby."
"This is no friend to be afraid of," laughed Barbara. "Were you not told to seek a fiddler at Aylingford if you failed to find me? This is he!"
"A fiddler!" Harriet exclaimed. She had evidently not expected the fiddler to be a man of this sort, and was not satisfied.
Barbara turned to the window again. "Tell me what you fear, Martin. I must not be hindered in reaching Dorchester, but take this by-road you talk of if you think it safer."
"It will be a wise precaution, and will not delay us long upon the journey." He rode forward a little, and spoke to the post-boy.
"He will delay us, I know he will," said Harriet. "I have no faith in him, and it may just make the difference in saving my master."
"Don't be foolish, girl. Your master has no better friend in the world."
"I cannot help it, but I do not believe it," sobbed the girl.
"You have told me the assizes have not begun in Dorchester. We shall not be too late."
"But they have hanged and shot men without waiting for a trial. I know; I have seen them. They hate my master, and were they to learn you were hurrying to his rescue, they would kill him before you came."
"I am doing my best," said Barbara.
"Keep to the high road, mistress," urged the girl.
Barbara turned from her impatiently, and Martin came back to the window.
"What is your purpose when you arrive in Dorchester?" he asked.
"I cannot tell you."
Martin made a little gesture to indicate Harriet Payne.
"I have told no one, and shall not do so until my purpose is accomplished," said Barbara.
"Mistress, I have some knowledge of things in the West. My fiddle and I hear many things, and I might give you useful news."
"You cannot help me in this, Martin."
"I am under no oath not to thwart you should the price you are prepared to pay be too large."
"That is why I do not tell you, Martin."
Fairley asked no further question, but rode on by the carriage in silence. He believed that she was going to bargain with Lord Rosmore, and his brain was full of schemes to frustrate her, or at least to prevent her fulfilling the bargain, even if it were made. It was not necessary to be honest in dealing with such a scoundrel, he argued, and even if it were wise to let the bargain be struck, he would see to it that Lord Rosmore should not profit by it.
"This is the road," he said to the post-boy, and the carriage swung round into what was little more than a lane.
Harriet Payne gave a little cry, and looked from the window.
"I thought we were over, but we are off the road. Forbid this way, mistress; I pray you forbid it."
For an instant Barbara wondered whether this was a scheme of Martin's to keep her from her purpose but the idea was absurd. He was as anxious that Gilbert Crosby should be rescued as she was. She commanded Harriet to keep quiet.
Progress was slower now, for this side road was heavy, and the coach came near to being overturned more than once.
"It will be better presently," said Martin, but it was a long time before his prophecy came true, and when it did, the improvement was not very great.
"I wouldn't have come if I had known," growled the post-boy.
"You'll go where you're told," said Martin, "and the more words about it, the less pay."
They had travelled slowly for an hour or more, along a winding road between thick copses and high-hedged fields, when Martin suddenly brought his horse to a standstill and listened.
"Stop!" he said to the post-boy, and immediately the grinding wheels were still.
There was the quick thud of hoofs behind them, coming so rapidly that there was no hope of escape if they were pursued. Barbara leaned forward, looking at Martin as he unfastened the holster and half drew out a pistol; but Harriet Payne had thrust her head from the other window.
"I knew it! He has betrayed us!" she said shrilly.
"The devil take that wench!" growled Martin.
Two men rode round the bend in the road, then two more, then others, a score of them at least. With an oath Martin let the pistol fall back into the holster. The odds were too great. His head sunk a little, and he looked strangely limp in his saddle.
"Fire at them! Be a man and defend us!" shrieked Harriet, but Martin did not move.
Barbara looked at him with wondering eyes; she was still looking at him when the coach was surrounded.
"Your servants, Mistress Lanison," said a man at the door. "We are sent to bring you to Dorchester."
"By whom?"
"I had my orders from my superior; I cannot say who first gave them."
"I am travelling to Dorchester."
"We must be your escort, madam."
"Am I a prisoner?"
"One that shall be well treated by us and by all, I trust. This rogue here has led you off the road. A little further from the highway and I suppose you would have robbed them, you scoundrel."
"No, sir, I only thought the dust would be less this way," Fairley answered meekly.
Another man looked keenly at Martin, and then laughed.
"Surely this is that fiddler fellow we know something of?"
"Yes, sir," said Martin, crooking his arm as though a fiddle were in it, and in a timid voice he sang a few notes, like a wail, but they had often seemed a laugh to Barbara. She could not tell which they were now. "My fiddle is lost, or I would play for you, so long, so sweetly, that you would see flagons of ale around you, and think you tasted them too."
"I would the fiddle were found, then," said one.
"Having lost it, you carry pistols instead."
"Yes, sir, every gentleman does so, but there's many dare not use them. I didn't use them. You'll remember that, for it's to my credit, and let me go."
The man removed the pistols from his holster.
"They're dangerous toys for a fool."
"Truly, I feel much happier without them," said Martin.
"Coward!" said Harriet Payne from the window as the coach was turned."Coward!"
Barbara said nothing.
"Please let me ride by the other window," pleaded Martin. "This wench has no music in her soul, and does not like me."
"You shall ride behind," was the answer.
"Thank you, sir; I shall not see her then. She is not beautiful to look at."
The man laughed.
"Look to this fool, some of you, and give him a cuff if he grows sleepy."
"Sleepy! Never in good company," said Martin.
The post-boy whipped up the horses, and the carriage went slowly back towards the main road, surrounded by its escort.
Barbara was still bound for Dorchester, but a prisoner. Would she now be able to get speech with Judge Marriott?
The grinding of wheels, the sharp stroke of horses' hoofs, and the voices of men lessened and died into silence. No sound disturbed the narrow, winding lane which twisted its way now between neglected and forlorn looking fields, presently through woods of larch and pine, again across some deserted piece of common land. One might have followed the lane for hours without meeting a soul, without hearing a human sound beyond the echoes of one's own footsteps sent back from the depth of a copse. For miles it went, turning now this way, now that, until a stranger would wonder whither it was leading him, and speculate whether, at the end, he might not find himself on the same high road which he had left long ago. At one part, for a mile or more, the lane skirted a forest, where, down short vistas, could be seen deeper depths beyond, solemn gloom which might serve to hide in, or might contain lurking danger. Old cart ruts here and there made short incursions into it, their limit marked by a small clearing and a few tree stumps, showing that timber had been brought out; but no such track gave any sign of penetrating far, and offered little temptation to explore. There was a track, however, so casual in its departure from the lane that a stranger would hardly have noticed it, which ran deeply into the forest, losing itself at intervals in a small clearing, but going on again, although anyone but those who had knowledge of it might miss it a score of times, and wander hopelessly amongst tangled undergrowths and into swampy depressions. This track presently crossed a larger clearing, where was a hut set up by charcoal burners long ago. Time had cracked and warped its planks, but pieces had been nailed across weak places, giving the hut a botched and tumble-down appearance but keeping it weather-tight. The hut was divided into a shed for tools and storage, or perhaps for stabling a horse upon occasion, and a larger chamber which served as a dwelling. From a hole in the roof of this part a thin wreath of smoke was curling upwards towards the overhanging trees, losing itself in their foliage. Twilight came early here, and the great world seemed shut out altogether.
Presently the door of the hut opened, but he was no charcoal-burner who stood on the threshold, listening and looking up at the sky above the clearing. His hair was white, his figure a little bent, and there was an anxious look upon his face, a permanent expression rather than one caused by any tardy arrival this evening. The man he waited for was too erratic in his goings and comings to make a few hours', or even a day's, delay a cause of wonder.
He went back into the hut, but in half an hour or so came to the door again. He was not a woodsman used to distinguishing sounds at a long distance, and the sound that presently reached him was close by. In another moment a man, leading a horse, came out of the gloomy shadows into the clearing.
"Master Gilbert! Master Gilbert! You're late. Thank God you're back once more. I've a hare in the pot which begins to smell excellently."
"I'll do justice to your cooking, Golding, never fear. I'll look to the mare first; she's had a trying day."
He led the animal into the small shed, and for some time was busy making her comfortable for the night.
"Ah! the smell is appetising," he said as he joined Golding, "and I am ravenous."
"And in good spirits, surely."
"Yes, we baulked them again, Golding. Yesterday afternoon we made in the direction of Witley, and had as narrow a squeak of capture as I want to experience. A troop was before us on the road, and one fellow with the eyes of a lynx sighted us. The poor fellow I was helping was a bit of a coward—no, I won't call him that, but constantly being hunted had taken the heart out of him, and he was inclined to give up the struggle. I urged him on, and we made for Witley, openly, and as if we were confident of a hiding-place in the town. Fortune favoured us, and we pulled up short in a hollow, the troop riding by us in desperate haste. Hot footed they poured into Witley, but for some reason which I did not understand they went no further. Half an hour afterwards they came back, all but two of them. I had counted them as they passed. Those two remained in Witley until long after nightfall, then they rode back, and my man had a free country before him."
"You'll run the risk once too often, Master Gilbert."
"That is probable, but, by Jove! I shall have done some good with my life. This was the thirty-eighth man I've helped out of the clutches of these devils."
"And I was the first," said Golding. "It's wonderful how you schemed to get me out of Dorchester, Master Gilbert."
"And it's marvellous how you manage to make this hut a home that one is glad to get back to, Golding."
"Maybe we'll get back to Lenfield presently, Master Gilbert, and you'll then shudder at the thought of what you had to put up with here."
"It will be some time before there will be safety for me at Lenfield," said Crosby.
"And meanwhile a hare's no such bad fare, if the preparing and cooking of it does present some difficulties in a place like this," said Golding as he replenished his master's plate.
Crosby had eaten little in the last twenty-four hours, and was silent for some time.
"Thirty-eight is something, but it's a drop in the ocean," he said presently. "I wish I could open the prison doors in Dorchester before the assizes commence. There'll be murder enough done there in a few days, Golding."
"That is beyond your power, Master Gilbert," and the old man said it as if he feared his master would make the attempt.
"Yes, I am powerless. I wonder what became of that girl, Golding."
"Do you mean Harriet Payne?"
"I had forgotten her name for the moment," said Crosby. "When I came toDorchester after they had arrested you, I found out where you were, butI could hear nothing about her. I would give a great deal to set herfree."
"Yes, Master Gilbert."
"It is frightful for a woman to be in the clutches of these devils, and when that fiend Jeffreys comes to Dorchester, God help the women he judges! I wonder what has become of the girl."
"She may have been released."
"Why should they release her when they would think it was within her power to betray me?"
Golding shrugged his shoulders. "It was only a suggestion," he said.
"What is in your mind?" Crosby asked.
"An unjust thought, Master Gilbert. Since thirty years ago the one woman I ever thought of jilted me, I've had no love for any woman. I'm afraid of them and unjust in my thoughts of them. My opinion concerning women is of no value."
"What were you thinking about Harriet Payne?"
"She was a bit flighty, Master Gilbert, and rather given to look down on the other servants. That kind of girl is open to flattery."
"And then, Golding?"
"Then! Well, I'm no judge of women, but it seems to me that once they're fond of flattery you can make them do almost anything. She was a good-looking girl, was Harriet Payne, and if some young slip of a dandy got hold of her—well, she might make a bargain with him and get released that way."
"Was she that kind of girl?"
"I'm not saying so; I'm only putting it as a possibility," Golding answered. "Such bargains have been made, Master Gilbert, if the tales they tell be true."
Crosby clenched his teeth suddenly, and struck his fist irritably on his knee. One such tale he had heard, told of the brutal Colonel Kirke, a woman's honour sacrificed to save her lover, and sacrificed in vain. He was prepared to believe any villainy of such a man, and there were many, little better than Kirke, free to work their will in the West Country to-day. He was conscious of the ribbon about his neck, he remembered that handclasp in the hidden chamber below Aylingford Abbey, and thanked Heaven that the fair woman who had done so much to help him was in London.
"Such thoughts make me sick, Golding," he said after a long pause. "I feel that I must rush into the midst of such villains and strike, strike until I am cut down. Sometimes there comes the belief that if a man had the courage to charge boldly into such iniquity, God Himself would fight beside him and give him victory."
"There peeps out the Puritan faith of your fathers, Master Gilbert. It's a good faith, but over confident of miracles. You'd be foolish throwing your life away trying the impossible when there is so much you are able to do well."
"I argued like that only a few hours since," said Crosby. "But, for all that, there's a taste of cowardice left behind in the mouth. I should have been back early this afternoon but for the fact that this troop I spoke of was still hanging about the highway yonder."
"They did not see you!" Golding said in alarm. "They will not track you here?"
"They were not watching for me. I take it the men were ordered not to follow us beyond Witley, but to wait for other prey that was expected. I did not see how it happened, nor where, only the result. They had captured a coach, and were guarding it on the way to Dorchester. What unfortunate travellers it contained I do not know, I was at too great a distance to see. But in the midst of the villains there was a captured horseman, and they seemed to be ill-treating him. I touched the mare with the spur, thinking to go to his aid, but drew rein again immediately. There was at least a score of men to 'do battle with."
"A wise second thought," said Golding.
"Leaving a taste in my mouth," said Crosby. "I thought I heard something, Golding."
"It was the mare in the shed."
"I heard her, but something else besides, I fancy," and, with Golding at his heels, he went out of the hut to listen. There were stars in the sky over the clearing. The night had fallen, and strange sounds came from the gloomy depths of the forest, sounds which might well set an unaccustomed ear intent to catch their meaning. Gilbert Crosby may not have been able to account for all of them, but they did not trouble him. It was another sound he waited and listened for.
"There is nothing, Master Gilbert," Golding whispered.
"Wait."
Golding saw that a pistol was in his master's hand, so he took one slowly from his pocket and tried to look into the darkness.
It was well that Gilbert Crosby saw the coach from such a distance, that he could not catch a glimpse of the travellers. Had he known who the travellers were, the spurs would have been driven deep into the mare's flanks and there would have been no drawing rein; had he even recognised the horseman who was being ill-treated he would not have paused to count the cost. A trooper or two might have gone down before his fierce attack, but a score of men, trained in fighting and on the alert, cannot be scattered by one. Gilbert Crosby would have been flung lifeless on the roadside, or overpowered and carried a prisoner to Dorchester.
The two women sat silently in the coach. Harriet Payne sobbed quietly. She was tired of abusing Martin, weary of telling her mistress that they ought to have kept to the high road and safety. At first she had broken out at intervals with her wailing, and Barbara's commands to be silent had not much effect.
Barbara did not answer her, did not look at her. Her own thoughts and fears were trouble enough. A trap had been laid for her, doubtless it was of her uncle's contriving, and it was unlikely that she would be able to send even a message to Judge Marriott. Her mission was doomed to failure, and she was in the hands of her enemies. What could they compel her to do? Was marriage with Lord Rosmore the only way out? She would never take that way. Though they accused her of treason, though death threatened her, she would never marry him. To Judge Marriott she was prepared to sacrifice herself, but to Lord Rosmore never, not even to save the life of the man she loved. There had been moments when an alliance with Rosmore had not appeared so dreadful to her, moments when her disappointment concerning Gilbert Crosby had helped to make Rosmore less repugnant to her; but from the moment she had determined to sacrifice herself these two men stood in clear and definite antagonism. The one she loved, the other she hated. Why she should so love and so hate she could not have explained fully, but the love and hate were facts, and she made no attempt to reason about them.
She heard Martin's voice at intervals, complaining, garrulous, and then suddenly jesting, jests not meant for her ears, but fitted to the rough company in the midst of which he rode. Poor Martin, she thought, Mad Martin. This might make him mad indeed, drive from him entirely that strange wit he had and which he used so wonderfully at times. He had been her playfellow, and her teacher, too, in many things, yet he was one of God's fools. There was compensation in that surely.
Barbara winced presently when Martin's voice was raised in higher complaint.
"What are you trying to do, you fool?" cried a gruff voice.
"I want to see that my mistress is happy. She would like me to ride beside her window; and I will, too."
It was probably at this moment that Gilbert Crosby caught sight of the cavalcade, and thought the prisoner was being vilely ill-used. Well might he think so, for Martin attempted to force his way through the troopers and get to the window.
"She's used to me," he literally screamed. "See what an ugly fellow is beside the window now! Truth, I never saw so many ugly men together. Let me pass!"
"Peace, Martin, I am all right!" Barbara called from the window, fearful that these men might do him an injury.
"Take that idiot further back!" roared the voice of the man in command of the troop. "He does naught but frighten the lady."
Martin received a cuff on the head, and was hustled to the rear, a man riding on either side of him.
"Who was the gentleman who struck me?" whined Martin, rubbing his head.
"Sayers. His is a good hand for dusting off flies," laughed one of the men beside him, willing to get some sport out of this madman.
"Flies! To judge by my head he must have fancied he saw a bullock before him. Lucky I dodged somewhat, or I'd have no head for flies to settle on. And who is the gentleman with the voice of thunder?"
"That's Watson."
"It's a good voice, but there's no music in it. You have never heard him sing, eh?"
"Aye, but I have. He can roar a fine stave about wine and women."
"I'll go and ask him to favour us," said Martin, jerking his horse forward.
"Stay where you are," and the man's hand shot out to the horse's bridle.
"Very well, very well, if you like my company so much. It's a strange thing that they should put wine and women into the same song."
"Strange, you fool! Strong enough and beautiful enough, are they not both intoxicating?"
"I know not," Martin answered. "I have no experience of strong women."
"Strong wine and beautiful women," I said.
"Did you. I am rather dull of hearing."
"You're a dull-witted fellow altogether to my thinking."
"It is most true, sir. I am so dull that I cannot see the wit in your conversation."
"I can cuff almost as vigorously as Sayers," said the man a little angrily, when his companion on the other side of Martin laughed.
"I will believe it without demonstration," said Martin, cringing in his saddle. "You frighten me, and now I have lost my stirrups. I am no rider to get on without them. I shall fall. Of your kindness, gentlemen, find me my stirrups."
"Plague on you for a fool," said one.
"A blessing on you if you get my feet into the stirrups."
"Stop, then, a moment."
Martin pulled up, and the cavalcade went on. The two men, one on either side, brought their horses close to Martin's, and bent down to find the stirrups. Martin suddenly gave both horses the spur in the flanks with a backward fling of his heels, and at the same time struck each man a heavy blow on his lowered head. The horses sprang aside, one rider falling in the roadway, the other stumbling with his animal into the ditch by the roadside. The next instant Martin had whipped round his own horse, and was galloping back along the road.
It had been the work of a few seconds, and a few seconds more elapsed before the cavalcade came to a standstill.
Then a voice roared orders, half a dozen shots sang about the fugitive, and there were galloping horses quickly in pursuit.
Expecting the shots, Martin had flung himself low on the horse's neck. The animal, frightened by the swinging stirrups and driven by the spur, plunged madly along the road. So long as the road was straight, Martin let the horse go, but at the first bend, when there was no chance of his pursuers seeing him, he checked the animal a little, slipped from his back, and with a blow sent him careering riderless along the road.
"He'll make a fine chase for them, and should find his way back to Witley," said Martin as he crouched down in a ditch which divided the road from a wood. Cracking branches might have betrayed him had he entered the wood just then. Half a dozen horsemen passed him, galloping in pursuit, and when the sounds had died away, and he was convinced that no others followed, he crawled from the ditch and went straight before him into the wood. At a clearing he stopped and looked at the stars, then continued his way along a narrow track that went towards the south-west, in which direction lay Dorchester. He had no mind to enter the town as a prisoner, but he meant to reach it all the same, and as soon as possible.
For an hour he pushed forward, and then came suddenly to the edge of a clearing of some size. He stopped. He saw nothing, he was not sure that he heard anything, but the air seemed to vibrate with some presence besides his own.
Perhaps he had heard the low sound which the opening door of the hut made.
"You're a dead man if you move," said a voice out of the darkness.
Fairley started and made a step forward, but stopped in time.
"I should know that voice. I am Martin Fairley."
"Fairley!"
Crosby hurried forward to meet him.
"Have you been a prisoner in Dorchester?" Martin asked.
"A prisoner! No."
"The devil take that wench!"
"What wench?" Crosby asked.
"Give me something to drink and a mouthful of food. The story may be told in a few words, and then we must get to Dorchester."
"Martin! Why? Surely she—"
"Yes; she will be there within an hour or so. That is why we go toDorchester to-night."
Barbara's prison was an old house in a narrow street of Dorchester, the ground floor of which had been turned into temporary barracks for soldiers and militiamen. The prisoner passed to rooms on the upper floor through a rough, gaping crowd, and in some faces pity shone through brutality for a moment. Something worse than death might await so fair a traitor.
The rooms to which she was taken were sparsely furnished and rather dark, the windows looking out upon a blank wall, two rooms communicating, but with only a single entrance from the passage without. The most hopeful would have seen little prospect of escape, and the most spirited might wonder if depression could be successfully conquered in such surroundings. Half a dozen soldiers had followed them up the stairs, but only Watson, whose stentorian voice seemed to fit him to command a troop of ruffians, entered the room with them.
"There are so many prisoners in Dorchester that we have to make shift to find room for them," he said, as though to make apology for the accommodation.
"Indeed, I might be much worse lodged," Barbara answered.
Harriet Payne looked round the rooms in dismay, but said nothing.
"May I know what charge is brought against me?" asked Barbara.
"With that I have naught to do," Watson answered. "I'm a soldier, not a lawyer, madam. My orders are to keep you in safe custody until your presence is required, and I am told to see that you have everything in reason to make you comfortable."
"It would appear that I have friends in Dorchester."
"It is not unlikely, madam; as for this young person," he went on, looking at Harriet, "she will see to your wants and may pass in and out. I suppose, therefore, that nothing is known against her beyond the fact that she is found in your company."
"Your temporary mistress is evidently a dangerous person, Harriet," Barbara said with a smile. "Had I not forced you to make this perilous journey with me, you would have been better off."
This deliberate attempt to dissociate her from any treasonable intention rather startled Harriet Payne.
"At least you shall find the comfort of having a maid with you, madam," she said quickly.
"If the young person will come with me, I will show her where certain things you may require can be found," said Watson. "There will be a sentry constantly in the passage, madam, so if you hear footsteps in the night you need not fear."
Barbara made no answer to this indirect warning that any thought of flight was hopeless, and Harriet followed Watson out of the room.
"It was well done," he whispered as they went down the passage, leaving a sentry by the locked door.
"I was not looking for your praise."
"It is given gratis," the man answered, "and in the same spirit I'll give you a warning: don't attempt the impossible, whatever happens. A woman like her yonder might succeed in wheedling any man, or woman."
"I want neither your praise nor your warning," said Harriet.
"And I'm not looking for another clout on the ear, mistress, such as you gave me at Witley, though, for that matter, I like a woman of spirit. If you're in want of a comforter later on, you may reckon on Sam Watson."
"And Sam Watson had best be careful, or he may find himself in hot water with his master," Harriet answered with a toss of her head.
For herself, Barbara Lanison had little thought, but her fears for others troubled her. As a prisoner her power to help Gilbert Crosby was grievously lessened. Doubtless she herself was to be accused of treason, and Judge Marriott might be afraid to say a word at her bidding, or perchance he would refuse if the power to make the sacrifice she intended were taken from her. Death might be her punishment for treason, and if so, where was Judge Marriott's reward? There was another contingency: he might be able to save her, and he would certainly use his efforts to this end instead of troubling about Crosby, no matter what pleading she might use. As a prisoner she was, indeed, of little use to Gilbert Crosby. She must see Judge Marriott and do her best, but her hope of success was small. Who had brought this disaster upon her? Surely her guardian, and Barbara's hands clenched in impotent rage to think that he had outwitted her. Yet he could not be alone in the matter, for it was not probable that he had openly accused her himself. Had Rosmore anything to do with it? It was a new thought to Barbara. She knew her uncle for a villain, but about Lord Rosmore she was undecided. True, he had threatened her, but he also loved her, she could not doubt that in his own fashion he did so. Would a man place the woman he loved in such jeopardy as that in which she was placed? Barbara could not believe it possible; besides, how should Lord Rosmore know that she was on her way to Dorchester? The coming of Harriet Payne to Aylingford had aroused Sir John's suspicions, but there was no circumstance which would lead Rosmore to suppose that she intended journeying to the West.
Martin Fairley also troubled her. Had he made good his escape, or had he been retaken and confined somewhere else in the town? She had asked the man Watson as the cavalcade had started again, and his gruff reply was that the fool would be left dead in the ditch by the roadside. She did not believe Martin was dead; in fact, Martin puzzled her. He could not have had a hand in her betrayal, yet, at the very moment when courage was most needed, he had been a coward. Probably he had saved himself, but he had deserted her. The one person upon whose fidelity she would have staked her honour had utterly forsaken her at a supreme moment. Full as her mind was of Gilbert Crosby, the failure of this half-witted companion depressed her as, perhaps, nothing else could have done.
Had he really deserted her? The question came through the long, wakeful hours of the night. It came with the memory of that little cadence of notes, the same notes in which his fiddle laughed. He had sung them in a foolish fashion when the men surrounded the coach; had he meant to speak to her by them? The thought brought hope and sleep, sleep giving strength, hope bringing new courage when the day came.
"To help Mr. Crosby I must Speak with Judge Marriott, who is in Dorchester," she told Harriet Payne. "You must find him and ask him to come to me."
"Will he come, madam?"
"I think so."
"Alas, you have need of help yourself now."
"Perhaps not such need as may appear. To arrest me does not prove me guilty of treason."
"It is not only the guilty who are suffering."
"Out upon you, girl, for whining so easily," said Barbara. "Courage lends help against every ill, even against death itself. You will find where Judge Marriott is lodged, and tell him where I am."
"They may not let me have speech with the judge."
"You must contrive, use art, use—Ah, you are a woman, and need no lesson from me."
So Harriet Payne went upon her mission, and Barbara was impatient until her return. Disappointment was upon the girl's face when she came back. It had been easy to find out the judge's lodgings, but impossible to get speech with him. He was too engaged to see anyone that day.
"I must try again to-morrow," said the girl.
"Yes, and the next day and the next," said Barbara. "Did anyone carry a message for you?"
"I contrived so far, but whether it came to the judge's ears or not I cannot tell."
"I'll ask this man Watson to take a message," said Barbara.
"Not yet," said the girl. "That might be dangerous. Wait until I have entirely failed"; and, to prove how dangerous it might be, she began to tell her mistress some of the gloomy forebodings which were whispered about the town.
Dorchester was in terror, and spoke its fears with bated breath. There were three hundred prisoners awaiting judgment, and the dreaded Jeffreys was coming; the cruel, the brutal, the malignant judge whose fame, like an evil angel, came before him, speaking of death. There was to be no pity, no mercy. If Alice Lisle, for no greater fault than compassion for two fugitives, was condemned with all the barbarity that the inhuman law could render possible; if the appeal of clergy, of ladies of high degree, of counsellors at Whitehall, of Feversham himself, could only move the King to grant that she should be beheaded instead of burned alive, what hope for the prisoners in Dorchester who would have no such powerful appeal made in their favour?
The Court was already prepared, its hangings of scarlet. Judge Marriott, busily awaiting his learned brother, chuckled at the innovation. It was like Jeffreys—an original thing, a stroke of genius. Men quaked because of those scarlet hangings; this was to be no ordinary assizes, but a marked occasion which should put fear into the souls of all who should even think upon rebellion. Some man, in an awed undertone, spoke of it as a bloody assizes, and the name passed from lip to lip until it reached Judge Marriott's lodging. He chuckled still more, and said to those about him that Jeffreys would act up to the name, here and wherever else in this cursed West Country there were prisoners to be punished.
Bloody Assizes! It was almost the first articulate sound that Lord Rosmore heard as he galloped into the town, a troop of men about him, and those who watched him pass knew that the judge must be on his way from Winchester. Rosmore laughed, but his thoughts were complex, schemes ran riot in his brain. Immediately upon entering his lodging he sent for Watson and Sayers, and was restless until they came.
He looked quickly towards the door as it opened.
"The lady is safe in Dorchester," said Watson.
"And the fugitive?"
"We followed him to Witley. We should have run him to earth, only your orders were not to go beyond Witley."
"This cursed fellow Crosby, what of him?"
"He was with this fugitive."
"And you let him go!" exclaimed Rosmore, stamping his foot passionately.
"We obeyed orders, sir, and it is well we did so. We, Sayers and I, were in Witley when the coach arrived. I had speech with Mistress Payne."
A grim smile overspread Sayers' face as he remembered the box on the ear his companion had received, but he saw that Lord Rosmore was in no mood to relish such a tale just now, and held his tongue.
"I told her something of what was to happen, and the place," said Watson, "but had I not known at what hour the coach was to start, and when we might expect it at the spot chosen, we should have been outwitted. In the morning that fiddler from Aylingford caught the coach, and in some manner had got wind that a trap was set. He persuaded the lady to take a by-road. I waited, and then, marvelling at the delay, ordered the troop to ride forward to meet the coach. At the corner where this by-way turns from the high road, we found a handkerchief lying on the grass—Mistress Payne's handkerchief. Had it not been for such a signal we had ridden past, and might have failed to catch them."
"Fairley! Then you have him too?"
"We had, sir, but he escaped."
"Escaped!"
"I have the two men who let him go under arrest," Watson answered. "One so badly hurt by the fall from his horse that it will be weeks before he can fling his leg across saddle again."
"You fools! The girl has more sense in her finger than you can muster in the whole of your carcasses. How did he get away?"
"By a trick," said Sayers. "He was taken to the rear to keep him from his mistress, and, on pretence of losing his stirrups, got the men beside him to come close, when he spurred their horses, striking the men at the same time. He was round in a minute and galloping back upon the road. Half a dozen of us went in pursuit, when the shots fired after him failed to stop him. We went the whole way back to Witley, and there, at the inn, found the horse lathered with foam. The animal had entered the yard riderless!"
"What fools I have to serve me!" said Rosmore, laughing derisively. "Apart from the woman, it would have been failure from beginning to end."
The derision hurt Watson.
"Care must be taken even of her, my lord."
"What do you mean?"
"There is generally a tender spot in a woman somewhere, and MistressLanison may chance to find it in Harriet Payne."
"Mistress Payne is to be trusted, Watson. I'll see to that."
"She would turn her wits against you, my lord, if she thought she were deceived. That's as sure as the coming of the Sabbath."
"Do you suppose, Watson, I throw away the skin before I have used all the fruit? Send the girl to me to-night."
The men saluted and turned.
"And Watson, you might put a little misery into your face and commiserate with Mistress Lanison on her position. It might interest her to hear the story of Alice Lisle of Winchester. She is high-spirited, and I would have that spirit broken."
"I will play Jeremiah, sir, like any Puritan."
"And Sayers, keep your eyes open in Dorchester. Crosby and this fiddler are too cunning not to be dangerous. I warrant they are not far away from Mistress Lanison. By Heaven! if you let her slip through your fingers now, you shall suffer for it!"
Bloody Assizes! Along West Street the name travelled to the "Anchor Inn," that hostelry of mean repute in Dorchester, and to a small upper room where three men sat. They leaned towards each other as they spoke.
"I have failed to find out where they have taken her." said one. "It must have been dark when they entered Dorchester; I can find no one who remembers such a cavalcade in the streets. I am at a loss how to discover her prison."
"Think, Martin."
"I have never been so barren of schemes as I am how. Have you no suggestion, Crosby?"
"I want to kill Rosmore."
"And you, Mr. Fellowes?"
"Here I may be of service. I am known as a soldier and a King's man," he answered. "My presence in Dorchester will not be called in question, and I may learn what is the real plot on foot. Until we know it, we can hardly scheme to prevent it."
"An excellent plan," said Martin. "There is another scheme half-born within me. I will let it mature to-night. Courage, comrades. Three honest men are worth many scoundrels. Three lovers of one woman, for so we are in our different fashions."
"That is true," said Crosby.
"Quite true," murmured Fellowes.
"And we strive together," said Martin, letting his hand fall on the table. It was covered immediately by the other men's hands.
"Heart and soul for Mistress Lanison," said Fellowes.
"Heart and soul," said Crosby.
"Three honest and true men," murmured Fairley, and tears were in his eyes. "A triple alliance."