"No. Won't you tell it to me?"

"You must look into the Nun's Room first, Lord Rosmore," said Barbara, and she was so interested in the legend that she forgot to ask herself whether she liked or disliked her companion as she led the way to the sunken stone chamber. "Be careful you do not stumble and fall into it, for it is said that death comes to such a stumbler within the year."

"A fable, of course?" he laughed.

"I have only known one man who fell in. He was helped out unhurt, but he died within the week. I should not like to fall."

"Give me your hand," he said.

"For your safety or for mine?" she returned. "I am used to this place, have loved it since I was a child; besides, it is said that the curse applies only to men. You see, the Nun had pity on her own s.e.x."

Lord Rosmore's hand was still extended, but she did not take it.

"For thirteen years a woman lived in this dungeon. Under the creeper on yonder wall you can see the stone slab which was her bed. The floor of the hall shut her up almost in darkness, and from the hour she stepped down into this room she saw no human face, heard no human voice."

"You stand too close to the opening, Mistress Lanison. I pray you come back or take my hand."

Barbara stepped back and stood by the wall, facing him.

"Her story is a sad one, sad and cruel," she went on. "She had a lover, and an enemy who said he loved her. The lover--a knight of prowess--went to the wars, and on his return was told that the woman he worshipped was false. He sought for her from one end of the land to the other, still believing in her, until by some artifice he was brought to believe in her unfaithfulness. Life had lost all zest for him, and he came here at last, to Aylingford Abbey, to seek consolation in a life of religion. It was the enemy who had contrived to keep the lovers apart, telling the girl also that the knight in whom she trusted was untrue. How she discovered the lie I do not know, nor does it matter, but when she did she sought for him as he had sought for her. She heard at last that he had become a monk, and she presently came to seek him at Aylingford.

Dressed in a monk's gown, she asked for him. They met, and were discovered by the Abbot just at the moment when she had almost persuaded him to forsake his vows for love of her. Religion had claimed him because a lie had deceived him, she argued; therefore no vow could really bind him. She argued in this way with the Abbot, too, who was a shrewd man and as cruel as death. The monk, he knew, was no longer a monk at heart; the woman had penetrated into the Abbey under a false guise--as a man. No punishment was too severe for such a sin, he said, and he used religious arguments which could certainly never find an echo in a merciful heaven. The woman was condemned and lowered into that room--a nun by force--and there for thirteen years she existed. Once a day sufficient food to keep her alive was given her through the trap, in such a manner that she should see no one, and never a word was spoken.

The monk fought for her release in vain, and soon died, raving mad, it is said. When the nun died, she was carried to the woods beyond the stream and buried. Village legend has marked a tree, which they call 'Nun's Oak,' as her burying-place, but probably this is fancy. Ever since that time there has been a curse on this part of the Abbey, and that is why it has been allowed to go to ruin."

"A sad tale most sweetly told," said Lord Rosmore; "a tale to appeal to a lover."

"Or it may be to warn a woman how cruel men can be," Barbara answered.

"Some men, not all," he said gently. "The monk in the story went mad for love. Still, there is a warning, too, not to trust men over easily. The greatest villains have often good looks to recommend them and can deceive most easily."

"I think I could tell," said Barbara.

"I wonder," Rosmore answered slowly. "There is often a vein of romance in a woman which makes her blind. I have thought of this more than once when thinking of you."

"It would seem I have troubled you a great deal in one way or another, Lord Rosmore."

"Some day, when you have forgotten that you were inclined to hate me, I may tell you how much. Yet there is one thing I might tell you now, as a friend, in case there should be much of this vein of romance in you."

"Yes, as a friend."

"Newgate--the trial day of the highwayman, Galloping Hermit."

He spoke abruptly, after a moment's pause, and had his intention been to startle her he could hardly have employed a better method.

"I see you remember it," he said. "Lady Bolsover should not have taken you, it was no place for a woman--indeed, she and I almost quarrelled about it afterwards. You may remember I was with Lady Bolsover when that--that gentleman brought you out of the crowd, the mysterious person who did not want to be seen."

"Yes, I remember," she said quietly.

"A good-looking man, yet--"

"You knew him, Lord Rosmore?"

"Well enough to follow him; but I failed to find him."

"Why should you follow him?"

"You would hardly understand," he returned. "It is a matter concerned with politics. This you know, however, that the King has enemies.

Monmouth plots in Holland, the Duke of Argyll is being defeated in Scotland. Well, Mistress Lanison, there are traitors and traitors--those that one may at least recognise as brave men, and others who are cowardly curs. Of the first is Argyll and, perhaps, Monmouth; of the second are those who promote rebellion from safe hiding-holes, and never show themselves to take a hand in the fighting. There is a rascal hiding from the officers of justice now--one Danvers--who is of this second kind, a scurrilous fellow who is willing to barter the lives of better men, but dares nothing himself. He is one of a gang. The man who came to your rescue at Newgate is a companion of his. I have wondered whether you have seen him since."

"At least it was courteous of him to come to my rescue," Barbara said.

"Never was there a man yet who had not a good instinct on occasion.

Besides, the basest of men would not fail to grasp the opportunity of doing a service to a beautiful woman."

"I was almost crying, and in that condition I am positively repulsive,"

she answered, almost as if she were angry at being spoken of as a beautiful woman. "What is the name of this man?"

"He calls himself Crosby--Gilbert Crosby. Probably he has no right to the name. He is a dangerous and a clever man--dangerous because he plots and schemes while other men act, clever because he skilfully manages to evade the law. Many people find it difficult to believe ill of him, for he has all the appearance of a courageous gentleman."

"I am among those people difficult to convince," said Barbara.

"Exactly, hence my warning," said Rosmore. "You noted how quickly he disappeared. He saw me, and had no desire to face a man who knows him for what he is. Those grey eyes of his were sharper than mine or he would not have escaped so easily."

Barbara glanced at him quickly, wondering how much of their conversation her uncle had repeated, but Lord Rosmore did not appear to notice her look.

"And if you had found him?" she asked.

"I should have forced a quarrel on some pretext or other, and so contrived that he could not have run away without giving me satisfaction. By killing him I should have done a public service, and, for my own honour, I should have snapped the sword I had been compelled to stain with the blood of so contemptible a person. You smile, Mistress Lanison. Why?"

"At your vindictiveness, and at a thought which came into my mind."

"May I know it?"

"I was wondering what this Mr.--did you say the name was Crosby?--would have done with his sword had he proved equal to reversing the issue of the quarrel."

"Ah! I wonder," and Lord Rosmore laughed, but not good-naturedly. "I have faith enough in my skill to believe that it can successfully defend you whenever you may have need of it."

She turned towards the doorway opening on to the terrace, but having taken two or three hasty steps, as if desirous of bringing the interview to a speedy end, she stopped and faced him:

"Lord Rosmore, this highwayman, this Galloping Hermit; he is not dead, you know that?"

"Judge Marriott will not allow us to forget it," he laughed. "Give him the slightest opportunity, and he will tell of his adventure on Burford Heath half a dozen times in the day."

"Who is this Galloping Hermit?" Barbara asked, almost as though she expected a definite answer to the question.

"Could I satisfy that curiosity I should be quite a famous person," he said. "Scores of men envy him his reputation and half the women of fashion are in love with him."

"Is he this Gilbert Crosby, think you?"

"Why should you suggest such a thing?" Rosmore asked sharply. "Were they grey eyes which peeped through the brown mask that night?"