Upon this I put the key in the door, and to my delight it opened wide. A moment later I stood within the woman's prison house.

Dim as was the light of the candle, for a moment it dazzled her eyes, so that she could not see plainly, but ere long she made out who I was, and then I saw that she was overcome with astonishment.

"Master Rashcliffe!" she said in a frightened whisper.

"Yes," I made answer.

"How came you here?"

"To deliver you--if I can."

For a moment she seemed too overwhelmed for further speech, but presently I saw that she conquered her astonishment, and I thought I saw that half-angry half-defiant look which I had detected when I first overtook her on the road outside Folkestone.

"Do you know you run great danger?" she asked.

"Perhaps," I replied, for somehow her presence seemed to make me slow of speech.

"Then what led you to enter these walls?"

"I have told you," I replied.

"But how could you gain entrance?"

"Another time I will tell you, but there is no time now. Once outside the town I can tell you concerning this and many other matters, but now your liberty is my chief concern."

She looked up into my face as though she would read the story of my life therein, and as she did so I was able to see her more plainly than ever it had been my lot to do. I saw now what the man at the inn had meant when he said she was fair to look upon, for she possessed a beauty such as I had never seen before. And yet she was different from the beauties of Charles' Court, concerning whom I had heard my father speak. Hers was the beauty of a woman who was as pure as the angels. Concerning this many may smile, and say that I saw her with the eyes of foolish boyhood.

Yet although many years have pa.s.sed since then, and although many harsh judgments have been formed concerning the deed of which she was accused, I hold fast to what I say. Her eyes had all the innocence of the eyes of a child. Her face was as free from marks of pa.s.sion and guilt as were the faces of which artists dreamt when they painted pictures of the Mother of Christ. Nevertheless, hers was not the face of a child. It was strong and resolute. There was neither fear nor shrinking in her gaze as she turned her eyes to my face. Wonder there was, even amounting to astonishment, but there was more. I saw that this woman with such a beauteous face was capable of deeds of daring and sacrifice. That Joan of Arc, the story of whose deeds had so inspired my imagination years before, was not capable of greater daring than she, and that this woman would follow the call of G.o.d as faithfully as did the Maid of Orleans more than two hundred years before. Moreover, her presence suggested no weakness. I saw that though barely twenty years of age, she was not weak, nor of delicate appearance. The blood of health coursed through her veins. Her hands were firm, the light of her eyes burned steadily.

Moreover, she was not cast in a small mould, rather she was taller than most women, and was perfectly proportioned.

All this I saw at a glance even although it has taken me some time to set it down on paper, and if I had ever hesitated in my determination to save her from the doom which awaited her, it had now flown to the winds.

For I knew that her life was not worth a silver groat. General Monk had determined on her death, and in spite of all talk about the king's clemency, it was freely said that he would shew no mercy on those who had aught to do with his father's death. Moreover, as it was given out that both Sir Charles Denman and Master Leslie were much implicated in this matter, the woman who was so closely connected with them both could expect no mercy.

"You know the meaning of what I told you when we stood together outside Pycroft Hall," she said quietly. "You know of what I am accused now?"

"Yes."

"And you believe it?"

"I believe nothing unworthy of you."

"But you have heard of the proofs?"

"Ay, I have heard; but I know nought of them. They are nothing to me. I promised to befriend you, and I have come to fulfil my promise."

"But can you?"

"Ay, I can."

I meant what I said, for at that moment all difficulties appeared as nothing.

"You can take me outside these prison walls?"

"Ay."

"And after that?"

"After that I know not. Perhaps you have plans in your own mind, but if you have not I can save you."

Perhaps the confident way in which I spoke gave her courage; moreover, I saw by the flash in her eyes that she comprehended what to many other women would have seemed mysterious. For she was no woman of dull intelligence, but one who thought quickly and to purpose.

"If I can reach my father's house I am safe," she said.

"Your father's house? That surely is the first place men will go when they hear of your escape from here."

"Nay, it is not. They will never believe that I should go thither now.

If they do, it will not matter; I shall be safe there, and even my father will not know of my presence."

"You have trusty servants, and there are secret places at Goodlands," I said.

She gave me a glance which made my heart burn, although I knew not why.

"But for an accident I should have taken refuge there," she said. "While I was at Pycroft it was given out that I had been recognized in the neighbourhood, and endeavours were made to capture me. So I made my way to Dorking, where I made myself known to those whose business it was to take me. But I escaped from there, leaving no trace behind, and hoped to reach my father's house."

"But how did you do this?"

"I have many friends."

"But why did you make yourself known at Dorking?"

She looked at me steadily and seemed on the point of speaking; but no word escaped her lips.

"And did Sir Charles Denman accompany you?" I said.

"No," she replied, and there was, as I thought, anger in her tones. "No, he did not."

Why it was I did not know, but I rejoiced at this.

"And you do not know where he is now?"

"No, I do not know," she answered.

She paused a moment, and although it was a joy beyond the telling to be with her and hear her speak, it came to me that not a moment was to be lost if I was to lead her to liberty.

CHAPTER XVI

THE ESCAPE