Something moved in the dark, sunken room, sc.r.a.ping and sliding.

"Martin!"

Sir John could hear the sound of his footsteps quickly lessening in the distance, but there was no answer to his call.

"Martin!"

Still no answer, and the sound of the footsteps had gone. Sir John, with his hands stretched out before him, crossed to the corner where he had come down. His hands came in contact with a tangle of creepers, hanging loose, from the wall. The ladder was broken!

Martin Fairley went swiftly to the terrace and on to one of the stone bridges over the stream. Then he paused and listened.

"He will have to cry loudly to be heard to-night. Grant that he may find no escape until morning."

Then he crossed the bridge and went swiftly through the woods.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE FLIGHT

Dorchester was in mourning. If there had been any hope that Mercy and Justice would go hand in hand, if there were a lingering belief that Judge Jeffreys might not be so cruel as it was said, such hopes and beliefs were quickly dispelled the moment that court with its scarlet hangings was opened. Even Judge Marriott shrank a little as his learned brother bullied and laughed and swore at the prisoners, bidding them plead guilty as their only hope of escape, and then condemning them to the gibbet with the ferocity of a drunken fiend. Pity crept into the hard faces of rough soldiers; the devilishness of this judge appalled even them.

Since she had no maid to attend to her, Watson took Barbara her food; but, although he had received no instructions to discontinue his efforts to break her courage by detailing the horrors of the punishment which was being administered to rebels, he spoke of them no more. He pitied this fair woman, and was deeply impressed with her bravery. He was not wholly in his master's confidence, and believed that his prisoner was in grave danger. He did not doubt that under certain conditions she might be saved, but she was not the woman from whom promises could be forced, and no one could know better than Watson did how ruthless his master was in clearing obstacles out of his path, how cruel he was when he became revengeful. He knew that Gilbert Crosby had been allowed an interview with Barbara Lanison, but was ignorant of the purpose. He did not know that her escape had been arranged for, nor that he was to have a part in it; and there were times when he weighed against each other his pity for the woman and his fear of Lord Rosmore, finding it so difficult to tell which outbalanced the other that he went a step further and thought out plans for getting Mistress Lanison away from Dorchester. Not one of his schemes could possibly have succeeded, but the trooper found a satisfaction in making them.

Barbara was speedily aware of the change in Watson's manner towards her, but she was not astonished. It was natural under the changed conditions of her imprisonment. Every hour brought her freedom nearer, and the man knew this, she supposed, and treated her accordingly. Concerning her escape she did not question him, but she did ask him whether Judge Jeffreys had arrived, and if the a.s.sizes had begun.

"Truth, madam, my duty keeps me in this house, and I know little of what is happening in the town."

"Nor how the prisoners will be treated?" Barbara asked.

"Some say this and some say that," Watson replied evasively, "and I have enough to do without thinking about the lawyer's work. When I hear lawyers talk I can't tell right from wrong. You have to be trained to understand the jargon."

So Barbara Lanison heard nothing of the mourning that was in the town, and had naught to do during the long waiting hours but think of the future and all that it meant to her. She was going with Gilbert Crosby, but he had promised that, once they were in safety, she should choose her own way. Would she take his road? She loved him. The fact was so absorbing that nothing else seemed to matter; yet she had many lonely hours for thought, and it would have been strange indeed if none of the circ.u.mstances of her life, of her position, had demanded her consideration. To trust this lover with her future meant the snapping of every tie which bound her to the past; it must mean, in the world's eyes, bringing contempt upon her name. She faced the truth bravely. It seemed an impossible thing that Barbara Lanison of Aylingford should marry Galloping Hermit the highwayman. Such a thing might appeal as a romantic tale, but in the real world it meant disgrace. In another land love might be hers, such love, perchance, as few women have ever had, but could it obliterate the past? Would she ever be able to forget that the man beside her, his face hidden behind the brown mask, had waited, pistol in hand, upon the high road, to rob pa.s.sing travellers? All men were not cowards, nor did they travel unprepared for danger; there must have been times when the pistols had spoken in the silence of the night, when some hapless traveller had died upon the roadside. Surely there was blood upon the hands of the man she loved! The thought bowed her head, and her hands clasped as if a spasm of sudden pain had seized her. No repentance in the long years to come, not all the good that might be done in them, could wipe out the past. And then she tried to find excuses for that past, some reason that could justify the life he had chosen. Some very definite reason there must have been. The artificial glamour of the life would not attract such a man as Gilbert Crosby. He must have imagined that justice was on his side, that there was some wrong to right, to make him defy all the laws of life and property and become a menace and a terror to his fellows.

Stories concerning Galloping Hermit had already pa.s.sed into legend. His greatest exploits always seemed to be against those who were cruel in their dealings with others, who were unjust, or those whose lives were notoriously bad; and there were many tales of courtesy, of consideration, of help, which were totally out of keeping with the ordinary career of a highwayman. Barbara remembered his treatment of Judge Marriott, remembered what he had said. He was, the world said it, quite apart from all other highwaymen; nevertheless, there was a price upon his head, and the shadow of Tyburn lay dark across his path. And yet he was Gilbert Crosby, the man she loved, the man who was blessed and nightly prayed for in many a humble home in this West Country. What did the world hold for her that she should thrust such a man out of her life? Which way was she to choose--that which led Lack in her uncle's world, with its Rosmores, its Branksomes, its Marriotts, its Mistress Dearmers, and its shams of love which was vice, and of life which was moral death; or that which led to quiet obscurity with the man she loved, a sinner, but repentant, in whose worship she could trust, and whose touch thrilled her very soul? Had she not almost promised already--to take her way with him?

The second day of her waiting had ended, darkness had come; to-morrow night she would go. At about this hour galloping horses would be hurrying her away from Dorchester. Her thoughts were full of to-morrow, when the key turned quietly in the lock and Watson entered.

"Good news, madam. I only heard it an hour ago, and was never more pleased in my life."

"What news?"

"That you are to leave Dorchester, and with Mr. Crosby. Craving your pardon, madam, I know something of your reason for coming to the West; and, for all I'm so rough a fellow, I'm fond o' lovers."

"Thank you," said Barbara, for the man was evidently pleased.

"And it comes sooner than you expected," said Watson. "The road is safe, and you are to go to-night."

"To-night!"

"Yes, now. Mr. Crosby will already be waiting on the road which leads down to the river. I am to see you safely there."

"But to-night? Are you sure there is no mistake?"

"Quite sure. We must go at once."

Barbara went quickly into the inner room, and in a few moments returned closely wrapped in an ample cloak.

"Draw the hood down over your head," said Watson. "The less left for prying eyes to see the better. You have the papers signed by Judge Marriott?"

"Yes."

"One word, madam. No one will hinder us in this house. At the door into the street turn to the right. I shall walk close behind you. Do not hurry. Do not stop if anyone should speak to you, and do not answer them. Walk forward as if I had nothing to do with you."

"I understand."

"Pardon, but the hood does not quite hide your hair. Such hair might betray you if we should meet enemies to-night, for I never saw its like."

Barbara readjusted the hood, and wondered if Gilbert Crosby admired her hair as this trooper did.

Watson opened the door, and they went down the pa.s.sage together. Two men on the top of the stairs stood aside to let them pa.s.s; the street door was open, and Barbara turned to the right, walking alone, the soldier close behind her.

It was a narrow street, and dark, only a light gleaming out here and there from an unshuttered window; but there were many people abroad, whispering together, and Barbara heard sobbing, once coming through an open window, once from a woman who pa.s.sed her quickly.

"Twenty-nine," she heard one man say in hoa.r.s.e tones, "the first fruits of this b.l.o.o.d.y vengeance."

"Curse him! May h.e.l.l reward him," said his companion.

Barbara shuddered as she pa.s.sed on, although she did not realise what the words meant.

Then a man stood in her path for a moment.

"A fine night, mistress," he cried. "Twenty-nine of them by the roadside, the chains creaking and the moonlight touching the white faces. Never such a thing in Dorchester before. A d.a.m.ned judge, but what a show!" And then, with a laugh, he ran past her. The voice and the laughter were those of a maniac.

Barbara knew now. Judge Jeffreys had commenced his work. Must she pa.s.s those hideous signs of it?

"Turn to the right," said Watson behind her.

She turned, as she was told, into a quieter street, and hurried a little. To be free from this horrible place, it was her only thought.

Before she had gone far the houses began to straggle; she was at the edge of the town. The moon was just rising, and by its misty light Barbara saw that the open country was before her. A little further on, the road began to dip, and there, in the shadow of a belt of trees, stood a carriage. There were no gibbets with their twenty-nine victims along this road; that sight she was spared.

Watson came to a standstill.

"Mr. Crosby waits, madam. Good fortune go with you."

"Thank you," she said, and pressed some coins into the man's hand. "Some day, perhaps, I may thank you better."