"Is he dead?" she whispered, with white lips, coming forward and looking shudderingly down on him with troubled eyes.

"No such luck," said I. "He may be round in five minutes, but that's enough, though poor little Marry-me-quick will have to be left to fend for herself." I helped her into the domino, pulled the hood over the wonderful hair, and seized my own hat.

"Now, Mistress Waynflete," said I, "the northern halt of Staffordshire is before us, and the sooner some of it is behind us the better." With these words I led her to the door, which I closed carefully behind me, and into the street.

A little explanation will make our subsequent movements clearer. The eastern side of Stafford is roughly bow-shaped. The main street is the straight string and the wood is the curve of the wall, now mostly fallen down and in ruins, the line of which was followed by the street we were in, and only some fifty yards from the southern end of the string. The marksman's thumb represents the market square, and the arrow the line of the east gate street.

No cat in the town knew it better than I did, or could travel it better in the dark. Indeed, our only danger now came from the moon, but, fortunately, she had not yet climbed very high. Mistress Waynflete placed her arm in mine and we turned to the right, away from the still noisy and crowded main street. We pa.s.sed an ale-house bursting with customers, the central figure among whom, plainly visible from the street, was Pippin Pat, an Irishman with so huge a head that he had become a celebrity under this name for miles around. He had made himself rolling drunk and, suitably to the occasion, had been made into a Highlander by the simple process of robbing him of his breeches and rubbing his head with ruddle.

He was a sorry sight enough, but, the main thing, he had attracted an enormous company. I rejoiced to see him, for it meant that the wicket of his master's tanyard, half a stone's throw ahead, would be unbolted. This would save us a longish detour and lessen the danger of being observed.

Arrived at the tanyard gate, I tried the wicket. It was unbolted, as I had antic.i.p.ated, and we were soon in the quiet and obscurity of the tanyard. The far side of the yard was separated by a low stone wall from the end of a blind alley leading into Eastgate Street. I guided my companion safely by the edges of the tan-pits, and on arriving at the wall, I made no apology but lifted her on to it. As she sat there a shaft of moonlight lit up her fine, brave face. I feasted my eyes upon it for a moment, and then made to leap over to a.s.sist her to the other side, but she stayed me with a hand on each shoulder.

"I will go no farther, Master Wheatman," she said in a low, troubled voice, "till you forgive me."

"Forgive you?" I cried, astounded. "Forgive you? What for?"

"For thinking meanly of you. I thought you were afraid of Brocton. Not until that lion leap of yours did I realize how cleverly and n.o.bly you had sat there through his insults, foreseeing the exact moment when you could master him. My only explanation, I do not offer it as an excuse, is that the utter beast in Brocton makes it hard for me to think well of any man.

Oh, believe me, I am ashamed, confounded, and miserable. Say you forgive me!"

"Madam," I said laughingly, "the next time I play the knight-errant, may G.o.d send me a less observant damsel. There's nothing to forgive. The plain truth is that I was frightened, a little bit. But I'm new to this sort of thing, and I hope to improve." Then, after a pause, I met her eyes full with mine and added, "As we go on."

"Frightened," she said scornfully, "you frightened, you who leaped unarmed on the best swordsman in London? No, don't mock me, Master Wheatman, forgive me."

"Of course I do, and thank you for your kind words. And we've both got some one to forgive."

She smiled radiantly--"Whom? And what for?"

I leaped over the wall, and put my arms around her to lift her down.

"Marry-me-quick, for dropping the rabbit-stew."

CHAPTER VII

THE RESULTS OF LOSING MY VIRGIL

We slipped down the blind alley and came out in the street leading to the East Gate. There was still great plenty of people strolling up and down, for night had not yet killed off the novelty and excitement caused by the arrival of the army. The smaller houses were crowded with soldiery, hob-n.o.bbing with the folk on whom they were billeted, and all were yelling out, "Let the cannakin clink!" and other rowdy ditties in the intervals of drinking. At the East Gate itself, a fire blazed, and pickets warmed themselves round it, while along the street late-coming baggage and ammunition wagons were trailing wearily. It was idle to expect to pa.s.s unseen, so we plunged into the throng, threaded through the wagons, and skirted leftward till we arrived at a quieter street running down to the line of the wall.

Here every brick and stone was as a familiar friend, for the little grammar school backed on to the wall at the very spot where the main street led through the old north gate of the town. Old Master Bloggs lived in a tiny house on the side of the school away from the gate. There were the candles flickering in the untidy den in which the old man pa.s.sed all his waking hours out of school-time, and there, I doubted not, they would be guttering away if the Highlanders sacked the town. I led the way across the little fore-court, paled off from the street by wooden railings, gently opened the door, and walked in to the dark pa.s.sage.

The study door was ajar, and we peeped in. There the old, familiar figure was, eyesight feebler, shoulders rounder, hair whiter, and clothing shabbier than of yore, crumpled over a ma.s.sive folio. He was reading aloud, in a monotonous, squeaky half-pitch. Latin hexameters they were, for even his voice could not hide all the music in them, and as I listened it became clear that the old man had that night been moved to select something appropriate to the occasion, for he was going through the account of the fall of Troy in the second Aeneid.

I put my fingers on my lips and crept on, followed by Mistress Waynflete.

In the little back room I whispered, "My old school and schoolmaster. We will not disturb the old man. Poor little Marry-me-quick may have to suffer on our account, and old Bloggs shall at any rate have the excuse of knowing nothing about us. He's happy enough over the fall of Troy. Nothing that he can do can help us. Let him be."

She nodded a.s.sent and I looked round. Opening a cupboard, I found half a loaf of bread, a nipperkin of milk, and a rind of cheese. "Eat," said I, "and think it's rabbit-stew." I made her take all the milk, but shared the bread and cheese. Troy went on falling steadily meanwhile, and when we had finished our scanty nuncheon I once more led the way, and we pa.s.sed out into the little yard behind the schoolhouse, and gained the playground, the outer boundary of which was the town wall, here some twelve feet high and in a fair state of preservation. Many generations of schoolboys had cut and worn a series of big notches on each side of the wall, and by long practice I could run up and down in a trice to fetch ball or tipcat which had been knocked over.

From the bridge at the Hanyards onwards, Mistress Waynflete had always acted promptly and exactly to my wish. I felt a boor, and was in truth a boor, in comparison with her. Brocton's 'yokel blood' gibe had put murder into my blows, but it had truth enough in it to make it rankle like a poisoned arrow. Yet here was this wonder-woman, trustful as a child and meeker than a milkmaid. My work was new, but at any rate I had sometimes dreamed that I could do a man's work when I got my chance, and I had limbs of leather and steel to do it with. My thoughts, however, were newer still, and had no background of daydreams to stand against. Moreover, things had gone with such a rush that I had had no time to shake and sift them into order. At the foot of that wall all I knew, and that but dimly, was that there were thoughts that made a man's work the one thing worth living for.

"Get your breath, madam," said I. "You want it all now, and there's no need to hurry."

She leaned easily against the wall, and peered round to make out her surroundings. The only result could be to give her the impression that she was cooped up like a rat in a trap, but with characteristic indifference for herself, she only said:

"And this was your school?"

"For many years, seven or more."

She was silent for a time and then went on.

"You have led a quiet life, Master Wheatman?"

"Ha," thought I, "she's gauging my capacity to help her," and added aloud, bitterly reminiscent, "The life of a yokel, madam."

"You have read much?"

"Yes, I'm fond of reading. It pa.s.ses the long winter nights."

"And no doubt you know by heart the merry gests of Robin Hood and the admirable exploits of Claude Duval?"

I felt her eyes on me in the dark, and longed for the sun so that I could see the blue glint in them.

"No such rubbish, indeed," said I hotly. It was a slight on Master Bloggs, droning away yonder at the fall of Troy, not to say the sweet old vicar.

"What then?"

"Livy and Caesar, and stuff like that, but mainly Virgil."

"Then it's very, very curious," she whispered emphatically.

No doubt yokel blood ought not to run like wine under the mighty pulse of Virgil, and I sourly asked, "What's curious, madam? Old Bloggs has nothing to teach except Latin, and I happened to take to it. Why curious?"

"Really, Master Wheatman, not curious? Here we are in a narrow yard at the foot of a high wall. I'm perfectly certain that within five minutes I shall be whisked over to the other side. And you got that out of Virgil?"

"Straight out of Virgil, madam. Stafford was our Troy, and this the wall thereof. I've got in and out thousands of times."

She peered comically around the dark playground and said gaily, "I see no wooden horse. There should be one, I know. Master Dryden says so, and he knows all about Virgil."

"Poof," said I. "If old Bloggs heard you, he'd tingle to thrash you black and blue."

"He couldn't now I've got my breath again," she laughed.

"I'm glad of that. Let me explain. Here is a ladder of notches in the wall, left and right alternately. Feel for them." She did so, and I went on: "They are roughly three feet apart on each side. I'll climb up first and a.s.sist you up the last few. Your skirts will trouble you, I fear."

"Not much, for I'll turn them up." She promptly did so, and fastened the edges round her waist. She also discarded the long, c.u.mbrous domino, and I took it from her.

"Watch me," said I, "and follow when I give the word. I'll have a look round first."