"To join Monmouth?"

"To try and do what is right," Fellowes answered, "and find a worthy death, if possible, to atone for an unworthy life."

"A new day will change your mood," said Martin.

"Think so if you will, only keep the paper, and save her from Rosmore."

As he turned away Martin caught his arm.

"There was once a man like you," he said, "a man who loved like you, who was a scoundrel like you. Suddenly an angel touched him, and in great pain he turned aside into a rugged, difficult path. At the end of it he shrank back at the sound of a voice, shrank back until he knew that the voice spoke words of praise and confidence and honour; and a hand, clean as men's hands seldom are, grasped his in friendship."

The madman's hand was stretched out to him, and Fellowes took it.

"The eyes of a fool often see into the future," said Martin. "I am grasping the hand of the man you are to be. I shall keep the paper."

Fellowes went along the terrace without another word, and Martin went to the deep-set door in the tower by the Nun's Room. It was not locked to-night, and he climbed the narrow, winding stair quickly.

A dim light was burning in the circular chamber, and as Martin entered Barbara rose from a chair to meet him. Swiftly he drew the bow across the fiddle strings.

"The fiddle laughs at your trouble, child."

"It must not be laughed at so easily, Martin. Your news to-night--"

"Was just in time to save a very foolish man from my Lord Rosmore. I can guess what happened. The one insults you, the other pretends to defend you and--"

"And my uncle wishes me to marry him; but that is not the trouble, Martin."

"I should have called that trouble enough."

"But listen," said Barbara, "this news of Monmouth's landing distresses me for a very strange reason."

"Tell me," said Martin.

Barbara told him of the man who had come to her rescue at Newgate, and repeated all that Lord Rosmore had said of him.

"Do you think he can be such a man as that, Martin?"

"If Lord Rosmore knows him then--"

"If--but does he?"

"Lord Rosmore knows a great many scoundrels, I have been told. What was the name of this one?"

"He is not a scoundrel, Martin, I am sure, quite sure. A woman knows--how, I cannot tell, but she does. And then, even if he be a scoundrel, I would do him a service, if he can be found. That Monmouth is in England will be an excuse for taking him, even if he is innocent."

"Still you do not tell me his name."

"Gilbert Crosby," said Barbara.

Martin sat in a corner where the shadows fell, and Barbara did not notice his sudden start of interest.

"Crosby, Crosby," he said slowly. "There are Crosbys in Northamptonshire, and here in Hampshire, close by the borders of Wilts and Dorset, there is one; but a Gilbert Crosby--what is he like?"

"I cannot tell. He made me ashamed to be in such a place, and I did not look much into his face. He had grey eyes, and a voice that was stern but kind."

"An excellent picture!" cried Martin. "He should be as easy to find as a cat in winter time. Cats always go towards the fire, you know, and blink the dreamy hours away in the warmth of the blaze. Oh, we'll find this Gilbert Crosby, never fear; and when we find him, what shall we say? Our Lady of Aylingford is in love. Come with us."

"You are foolish, Martin."

"I was born so, they say, and therefore cannot help it, but, being a fool, I am convinced that folly is sometimes better than wisdom.

To-night, like a fool, I will dream of this Gilbert Crosby, and learn in what direction he must be sought for; but now I must be wise and tell you that the hour grows late and that children should be in bed."

"I fear that childhood, and with it happiness, is being left far behind me, Martin," Barbara said with a sigh.

She could not see him clearly in the shadows, could not discern the strange light in his eyes, nor catch the hushed echo to her sigh which came from her crazy companion.

"No, no; we are all children right to the end," he said suddenly. "There are moments when we know it and feel it, and, alas! there are times, too, when we are blind and feel quite old. Open your eyes and you'll know that childhood has you always by the hand, keeping love and purity and fair dreams blossoming in your heart. Come, I will take you along the terrace lest Mr. Fellowes or my Lord Rosmore or--Ah! how many more are there who would not give half their years and most of their fortune to stand in the shoes of this fool to-night."

"Peace, Martin."

"Do you hear her little fiddle?" and he laid his hand lovingly on the polished wood for a moment.

"You must not laugh while I am away. Maybe we'll have a laugh together when I return, for the moon is too bright to go out on to my roof and get wisdom from the stars. Come, mistress."

And they went down the narrow, winding stair together.

CHAPTER VII

KING MONMOUTH

The day was dying slowly, the west still aglow after the sinking of the sun. Thin wreaths of mist were rising from the wide, deep trenches, or "rhines," as the country folk called them, which intersected and drained this moorland, making cultivation possible where once had been a great marshy pool with shifting islands here and there, and rush-covered swamps.

Silence was over the land, broken now and again by the call of a bird, and presently by the quick beating of hoofs. A solitary horseman came rapidly along a road which skirted the edge of the moor. He was dusty with a long journey, and his horse came to a standstill at the first tightening of the rein. The rider had been in the saddle since early morning, and although he had not loitered on his journey, his eyes and ears had been keenly set all day, and, whenever practicable, he had chosen by-paths in preference to the main road. His was a mission which might bring him many dangers, and enemies even amongst those he sought to befriend.

Before him lay the moorland, growing mistier and a little unreal in the failing light. To his left, cl.u.s.tering roofs round a church tower, was a village, so silent that none but the dead might have been its inhabitants. Not a labourer plodded homewards from his toil in the fields; not a horse, freed from its harness, grazed in the fields. To his right, sharply cutting the distant sky-line, rose a tall spire, a landmark for miles round.

"The end of our journey," he murmured, patting the horse's neck, "and they won't thank us for coming."

The horse appeared to understand, and started forward again, shaking himself as though to throw off his weariness. His rider had smiled a little sadly as he spoke, but now his face was set again, as one who rides upon an unpleasant mission but is not to be turned aside from fulfilling it, no matter what the cost may be.

It was not long before he entered Bridgwater, and, had he not known that it was so, the aspect of the town would have shown him that he was in the midst of some great event. At no time would he be a man to pa.s.s unnoticed, but here his coming caused excitement. Words of welcome were flung at him, and anxious questions shouted after him. There was a feverish eagerness in the atmosphere, and if some faces which he saw at windows and in doorways had a look of fear in them, they were in the minority, and were not anxious to invite attention to themselves.

"Duke!" one man exclaimed in answer to the rider's question. "He is no duke who is at the castle, but a king--King Monmouth. Yesterday, in the market-place at Taunton, they proclaimed him."