Marion shook her head. 'The silk I bought is tough, but very fine.'

'But,' said Simone, her brows puckered, 'I do not understand,

Mademoiselle. How will you dispose of the silk so that it will run

easily?'

'I see you are not a sailor, Simone,' remarked Marion.

Simone looked puzzled. Mistress Keziah smiled.

'In which storey is Roger's cell?'

'The first.'

'Are you sure the boundary wall of the gaol will not be in your way?'

'Quite sure, Aunt Keziah. This house is much loftier than the prison,

and the little window is under the eaves.'

''Tis a hare-brained scheme, and would e'en seem hopeless,' remarked

Mistress Keziah, 'had I not a lurking feeling that fortune favours the

brave. I must think it over. But, dear, you have been some months at

least without any great practice. Are you sure of your aim? It will be

in the dark, I suppose?'

'At dawn; just before three o'clock.'

Mistress Keziah nodded. 'Better so. But as I said, 'tis a good

distance for a shot.'

'Close on a hundred yards,' said Marion. 'I measured this morning. And

to-morrow I shall practise in the garden.'

'Suppose there is a wind, Mademoiselle,' said Simone presently.

Marion clasped her hands. 'I pray not,' she said simply. 'That would

be difficult. But,' brightening again, 'I have certainly shot in a wind

before now. Do not let us think of----'

'And in all this,' burst in Simone, laying her hand on her mistress's

knee, 'you have forgotten the sentry!'

Marion stroked back a strand of the glossy dark hair.

'I have forgotten nothing, _mon amie_. The sentry at night will, I

expect--we will ascertain presently--patrol the yard as his comrade does

by day. The sentry is of course the greatest difficulty. I shall have

to time my venture when he is at the far end of the yard. That,' added

Marion naively, 'is where the speed of an arrow is a fortunate thing.

Once the arrow is in the cell', the cord and rope can be drawn in while

the sentry is walking round the buildings.'

'And should he hear, Mademoiselle?'

'He shall not hear.'

Simone glanced at Mistress Keziah. Marion intercepted the look. 'Dear

aunt,' she said gently, 'I cannot deny that there is danger of

detection. But--his need is greater than any peril we run. And should

the plan fail, and be discovered, 'tis I alone who am the culprit. I

shall make a full avowal. You shall not suffer, Aunt Keziah!'

'Hoity toity!' said Mistress Keziah. 'What happens in my house is my

business, I trow! And who in Exeter, do you suppose, is going to lay a

finger on me?'

Remembering the lady's words of warning to herself on the previous day,

Simone was mute. She sat folding and unfolding a pleat in her gown,

tears welling into her eyes again. There was something that would not

bear thinking about in these two, one old and one young, who thus vied

with each other for the honour of taking blame. To Simone's relief, for

her control was fast weakening, William's step was heard in the gallery.

'Here comes a dish of tea,' said Mistress Keziah tranquilly. 'Open the

door, Simone. And fetch me the cards from my chamber,' she added as the

footman entered. 'Will you join me in a game, my dear?'

'I have been wanting to,' said Marion. 'Aunt Constance taught me a new

one in Kensington. I should like to show you.'

Mistress Keziah dealt the cards, and Marion arranged her own share on

the little table William had drawn close to their chairs. Simone seated

herself at a distance with her needlework. When William returned later

for the tray, to all appearance a lively game was afoot.

'He will not come back?' asked Marion, after William had departed.

'Not unless I should ring. You were saying?'

'I was saying, Aunt Keziah, that I should feel vastly more comfortable

if you would go away. Go down to Garth, to my father.'

'For one so quick-witted, you are singularly stupid,' remarked the lady,

with a touch of the imperiousness that reminded Marion of the personage

she had first known and feared. 'I must stay here to cover your sudden

departure with the lad. No, leave my comings and goings to me, my fair

general. See you to your own and Roger's. Simone and I will follow you

to Garth.'

Marion rose and bade her aunt good-night without any further argument,

and accompanied by Simone stole along the gallery to the little chamber

under the eaves. The moon was breaking from a bank of golden haze in

the eastern sky as Marion gently put back the shutter and peered out.

The silence of the night lay about the garden, and save for one lighted

niche the gaol was in darkness. As Marion had surmised, Roger was

playing his part in the game whose nature he could only guess. A candle

stood on his table, which he had drawn out of vision so that its flame

should not blind the eyes of the watcher to the disposition of the room.

He himself, sitting at the table, reading, was partly visible to

Marion's eager eyes. But what she had longed to see, and was comforted

to behold, was the end of the plank bed half way along the bare wall.

She had been secretly haunted by the possibility that her arrow might

alight on the sleeper, should he be sleeping. The corner of the room

which was her target was empty.

Cautiously Marion withdrew her head. The heavy footsteps of the unseen

sentry sounded, making the corner of the buildings. Like his comrade

during the day, he steadily patrolled the wide stretch of yard, coming

from time to time round the gable end to take in the narrow patch at the

south front of the gaol. Knowing that soon the moon must lie full both

on that side of the prison and on the little eastward casement, and

fearing the eyes of the sentry, Marion half closed the little shutter.

There was a sharp creak she could not avoid, and watching through the

crack she saw that Roger had heard the noise. He rose and looked upward

through his bars. Then, either fearful of the sentry's comments on his

candle, or, as Marion guessed, content that he had been seen, he put out

the light just as the sentry turned the corner.

Marion watched the dark form of the sentry as he walked the length of

the building, turned, and heavily stamped back. He disappeared;

presently the measured beat was heard in the yard beyond. A minute

later the moon swung clear of the curtain of haze.

More cautiously this time Marion moved the shutter back, then thrust out

her head in the clear light. Immediately a hand stole from between the

bars across the way, and waved a stealthy greeting. Marion raised her

own hand and pointed to the moon. Her finger travelled in a mimic

motion of the moon crossing the sky, once--twice. Then swiftly she gave

the gesture of warning which she had mentioned to her aunt. She

repeated the motion. The hand across made the signal of assent. Then,

greatly daring, after a rapid survey of the gaol yard where the

invisible sentry was still tramping, Marion gave in dumb show the action

of shooting an arrow.

The moon was full on her face as she moved. Simone caught her breath.

There were other cells in the south front of the gaol: other eyes might

well be watching the little play. The hand across waved again. In the

gloom of the building Roger's face, a white patch crossed by the bars,

was clearly visible. The sound of the sentry came nearer. Again Marion

closed the shutter.

'He understood,' she whispered. 'He nodded. Did you see?'

Simone gripped her arm. 'Come away, Mademoiselle. Do not attempt to

look again. The moon is on this window as clear as day. I am afraid.

There may be other eyes yonder, as well as Master Roger's.

'Not so,' replied her companion. 'But we will go now. 'Tis better,

perhaps.'

The two crept back along the passage to Marion's chamber. In the light

of the sconces Simone looked anxiously at her mistress. Marion smiled.

'You are over nervous, Simone. Think of those men we saw brawling and

fighting in the yard to-day. Are they the kind, think you, to watch the

rising of the moon at an hour when all the town is sleeping? They are

more likely to be snoring on their plank beds.' She stopped abruptly as

she thought of Roger's couch in the dark little cell. 'Still,' she

said, commenting on her own thoughts, 'a plank couch is no matter when

one's sojourn is short. Now we are going to bed, Simone. My aunt said

there was no need for you to attend her to-night. There is much to do

to-morrow. Above all, do not forget to oil the joints and hinges of the

shutters, yonder, early in the morning.'

Marvelling at her mistress's light-spiritedness, Simone went through her

usual nightly duties. Soon the two were in their beds. Marion's

hopeful mood, which assured her of victory and overlooked the hazards of

the battle, carried her across the spell of silence and thoughtfulness

which came when she laid her head upon the pillow, safely into the

unconsciousness of sleep.

Simone, wide-eyed, listened to the steady breathing through the open

door of her own room, and marvelled again. And in the next chamber

Mistress Keziah lay, conscious of the dull weight of age pressing on

body and soul alike. An hour's quiet consideration had roused in her a

strong doubt of the wisdom of Marion's plan, a deep scepticism of its

success. She was oppressed by the sense of the risks the girl ran, but

could think of no measure that would make her desist from the attempt.

It was Marion's safety against a slender chance of Roger's life; and

Marion was not the one to be deterred by a thought of peril for herself.

Of her own share she thought little; she had lived her life, and

Marion's was hardly begun.

What she had been able to do, she had done. A letter addressed to Lady

Fairfax lay on her table. With the early light it should be despatched

to London. It was not only for Roger that a reprieve might be wanted.

*CHAPTER XX*

*ZACCHARY'S QUEST*

Zacchary was standing by Mistress Keziah's chair, tears running down his

cheeks. He had at last learned the secret of Marion's visit to Exeter.

For some time Mistress Keziah allowed him to talk, easing himself thus,

she knew, of his grief and distress concerning Roger; and as she waited,

Zacchary poured out a string of broken reminiscences from which the old

lady unconsciously built up a picture of Marion's and Roger's childhood

on the hillside at Garth.

She could well have wept herself. The morning had shown her no grounds

for any reasonable hope; Zacchary's instant scorn for Marion's plans had

secretly added to her own misgivings. Zacchary had scarcely, indeed,

paid any heed to the scheme for Roger's release. In his mind it was a

foregone failure: to him Master Roger was beyond all human redeeming.

When at last he paused in his jumbled tale, and was staring sorrowfully

out into the garden, Mistress Keziah brought her attention to the point

at issue.

'I sent for you, Zacchary, because you are the only one we can trust

with this secret. And also, you are the only one who can search for the

bow and arrows.

'A bean't for doing aught of the kind, Mistress,' Zacchary rejoined, a

stubbornness in his manner. ''Tis clean gone foolishness, the like as a

never heard. More seemly 'twould be to set the horses to the coach and

take the little maid home. Arrows, indeed! 'Tis the wild fancy of a

maid who've set herself to do a man's work. 'Tain't no job for Mistress

Marion. If you'd told me two days gone, Mistress, me and yonder Tony

would have done something, and Reuben.'

Mistress Keziah controlled her rising impatience. She had not dreamed

that Zacchary would rebel. At once she realised that the old man would

have to be argued with, not commanded. His very virtues on which she

had counted, his loyalty, his love for Marion and Roger, his fifty

years' service at Garth, became a barrier that threatened the

advancement of Marion's hopes.

'Don't you see, Zacchary, Master Roger is suffering this fate because he

tried to help? Would the lad himself like it, think you, that strangers

should be imperilled for his sake? Would he not rather die thrice over

than allow Tony and Reuben to be drawn into gaol? And to leave that

side of the question, what chance of safety has a secret shared with two

such men? How much opportunity have you had of judging their

characters? They are not of your county: a Londoner is never trusted by

West country folk. A week you have passed in their company; they have

proved able grooms on the road, they are mightily pleasant in the

kitchen. Is that a reason why they should be entrusted with a mission

which means life or death to a man they have never seen, and is of such

exceeding danger, that should it fail, they might hang at the next

assize? 'Tis a job for a man's friends.'

Zacchary, convinced on the point, but unwilling to own it, was silent.

His slow peasant brain was working.

'If a body had ever heard of such a thing afore as bows and arrows to

get a man out of gaol,' he said, after a while, 'I'd have some patience

thinking on it.'

'By the mercy of Providence,' retorted the old lady, her eyes flashing

in her angular old face, ''tis not every day in the week that a lad like

Roger Trevannion lies within an hour of death, as you might say, and no

help forthcoming. Extreme cases need extreme measures. For my part, I

am willing to take all risks to help my niece. I had not expected to

find an enemy in you, Zacchary. One might think you were unwilling to

hold out to Master Roger a slender chance of life.'

''Tis the little maid I be thinking of now,' said Zacchary abruptly.

'If so be her's taken too, what be I to say to the Admur'l? Her was

left in my care in Lunnon. 'Tis a hundred to one Master Roger will go

just the same, and liker than not her'll be in gaol at the end on 't.'

'Give her the hundredth chance. And remember, she is a quick-witted,

brave woman, playing a woman's game. You are always thinking of her as

a little child. And,' added the lady, with an outward show that

arrogantly hid her feelings, 'leave her safety to me. Do you think my

niece, Admiral Penrock's daughter, will easily be imprisoned?'

Zacchary glanced at the old lady. 'You'm some like the Admur'l,

Mistress. Well. How'm you going to hide the lad?'

'We are not going to hide him. To-morrow morning, early, you will take

out two horses and wait outside the town. If you are seen, why, you are

taking one of my greys up to the Stows. They are for travelling a

spell, and one of their chestnuts has fallen lame. That is clear?'

Zacchary nodded gravely. 'And then? Be the lad going to take refuge on

the moor?'

'Mistress Marion and Master Roger are going to ride to Garth.'

'To Garth!' The old man's voice showed his consternation. He stared at

Mistress Keziah, as if unable to believe his own ears. 'To Garth? To

the one place where every man, woman and child knows un? 'Tis sheer

folly, Mistress!'

'That is just the reason why he will be safer there than anywhere.

Because, as you say, it is sheer folly. They will search Exeter. They

will beat the coast and the river. They will expect him to take to sea.

Garth is the one place where they will never dream of looking for him.'

On Zacchary's slow mind there dawned the realisation that by its madness

there was hope in the project laid down. Mistress Keziah, watching his

face, knew that the time was come to drive hard. She looked at the

clock.

'You have been here an hour and a half while you should have been at

work. Leave all the rest. We will talk of it again later. Mistress

Marion is out just now, seeking some purchase she needs. You can speak

with her afterwards if you wish. Say nothing in the kitchen. Go first

into the inn on the street. Get into conversation, and learn if there is

any one who makes bows and arrows in Exeter. There must be some such,

although archery has become but an idle pastime. And remember there are

only a few hours. If only I could make you understand, Zacchary----'

Mistress Keziah's voice broke, and tears stood in her eyes, 'you are the

only help and hope we have. You, and no other, stand in between Master

Roger and his death.'

Zacchary straightened himself. 'If there's one to be found, I'll find

un, Mistress.'

'There is one to be found somewhere. But I have never been directly

interested in archery. And the servants, who might know, being native

to the town, I dare not send urgently without exciting curiosity.

Mistress Marion went as far as she dared last night that way. We have

to think of afterwards, of protecting her from any shadow of suspicion.'

'Ay,' said Zacchary. 'I heard on 't. Her turned William's head and no

mistake. A's talked of nothing but bows and arrows and the mistress's

eyes since. A little thought what the little maid was up to.'

Mistress Keziah went to a drawer, and took out her purse. 'Here is

money. Spare nothing. But do not show any need of urgency. And above

all, be careful in the kitchen.'

Zacchary went out without further words, and Mistress Keziah sank back

in her chair.

It was close on eleven o'clock. She looked out into the garden, where,

in the earlier part of the morning, Marion had been spending, to all

appearance, an idle hour wandering to and fro with Simone at her side.

Secretly Marion had counted the yards in the trim walks and grassy

stretches until she had fixed on two slender trees as a target. The

trunks stood close together, twin growths from one root. A certain

spot, which Marion and Simone committed to memory, not daring to set a

sign there, lest the servants should be watching, marked the distance of

a hundred yards from the trees. Marion knew that if she could shoot at

that distance into the crevice between the rising stems, she could shoot

between the bars of Roger's cell. She determined to practise both by

day and at night, when the servants were in bed; in the daylight

shooting casually at any mark; in the dark or half light aiming at her

target.

Everything was ready. The rope had been found by Marion in the harness

room where her aunt had directed her; the file she had taken from the

coachman's tool box. A note to Roger, directing him to scale the wall

and run along the road to the courtyard gate, where she would be waiting

him, was written and locked in her box, ready to be tied to the rope,

with the file, later on. To please her mistress, Simone had laid out

her riding habit. Her cloak was rolled into a bundle, to be strapped to

the saddle. Everything was ready, so Marion had said, when she had

kissed her aunt before setting out to buy a length of cord to take the

place of the unsatisfactory piece she had found in her aunt's boxes. It

only remained now for Mistress Keziah to send Zacchary to find a bow and

arrows, a task which Zacchary could perform without any suspicion. He

only needed to go to the New Inn for a pint of ale and get into

conversation with mine host. All was quite clear in Marion's mind.

Mistress Keziah could still feel the girl's caress, could still see the

suppressed eagerness in her face. The old woman sat motionless, only

glancing at the clock from time to time. Already the day seemed

interminable. The June sunshine bore too hotly into the room; she drew

the shutter half way across and sat down again. There was a tension in

the air of the house which, added to the languor of the day, weighed on

her spirits. She dreaded Marion's return, dreaded Zacchary's return.

As she had said, archery was merely a pastime, the implements of the

craft not being found easily like the contents of the gunsmith's rooms.

Quite likely William might unearth a bow and arrows in the course of the

week--everything would happen just too late. And she was afraid to

speak to William lest, later on, he should begin to think and remember.

As she had said to Zacchary, Marion had gone as far in that direction as

she dared.

All too soon the door opened, and Marion entered.

'Has he got it, Aunt Keziah?'

Mistress Keziah looked up at the face bending over her. Marion had

thrown aside her hood. Her white muslin dress seemed to wrap her in a

cool serenity. It seemed incredible, thought Mistress Keziah, looking

from the eyes to the hair, and back to the serious, sweet mouth, that

misfortune should lay its blight on that countenance.

'He has not yet returned,' quietly said the old lady.

Marion's eyes grew wide. 'But there has been time,' she faltered.

'He is scarcely an hour gone, my child. Sit down.' Mistress Keziah

related the story of her conversation with Zacchary. Before the two had

finished talking midday struck, and the servant came to announce dinner.

'Already?' said Marion dully.

Mistress Keziah said nothing. There was nothing to be said, nothing to

be done.

Marion sat on the arm of her aunt's chair, and laid her golden head

beside the grey one. 'May we not wait for dinner till Zacchary returns?

I could not eat anything. I was hungry before, but not now.'

All the life had gone out of her voice. The reaction Mistress Keziah

had dreaded was upon her. Marion had found it comparatively easy to

pass the morning, her thoughts and activities engaged in the immediate

moment. Now she found herself once more faced by the ordeal of waiting

in suspense.

Mistress Keziah roused herself. 'You must eat, and eat well. Otherwise

your nerves will weaken. Come along! A battle lies ahead. This is but

a game. You played it well enough last night.'

Presently aunt and niece faced each other across the board, and Marion

struggled to recover something of her everyday speech from that deep

place of silence into which all her faculties had seemed to fall.

Mistress Keziah played her own part well. When Marion, suddenly finding

words drying on her lips, ceased to speak, Mistress Keziah took up some

tale or anecdote. William, watching his two ladies, was unaware of

anything amiss. Mistress Marion was quiet, certainly, but that was the

way of maids, all bubble and froth one day, a dark pool the next. Dish

after dish came on the table, and Mistress Keziah failed not to pile her

niece's plate.

Slowly the meal wore itself out. A casual question from Mistress Keziah

concerning the stables elicited from the unsuspecting William the news

that Zacchary was still abroad in the town.

As Marion followed her aunt upstairs, half-past one chimed from the

church near by. Marion went to her own room. Simone, according to her

habit, had eaten her dinner upstairs, and was waiting for her mistress.

Marion stood still in the middle of the room, her hands pressing back

the hair from her forehead.

'Is it possible,' she said, 'possible, that in all Exeter there is no

such thing as a bow and arrow?'

Simone felt tongue-tied. 'Surely not, Mademoiselle,' was all she could

find to say.

Her mistress moved about restlessly for a while, then sat down, and

taking up the needlework with which Simone had been busied, stitched for

a short time. The French girl quietly found other occupation, and made

no remark when Marion flung down the sheet and went into the next room.

There she turned over her riding habit. Again she passed through her

fingers the long line of silk which Simone had bound on to the cord in

such a way that no roughness of joining was left which might catch on

any surface. With the same dexterity Simone had attached the cord to the

rope. Lifelessly Marion laid down the lengths. To and fro she paced

the little room. A fever was slowly mounting to her brain. She dared

not trust herself to seek the eastward window. To wait: to do nothing

but wait, within a few hours of doom--could she endure it?

She went back into her own chamber, and silently held out a hand to

Simone. Together the two passed out into the garden. To and fro under

the trees they paced, and from time to time they fell within the line of

the shutter niche of Mistress Keziah's window. Looking down on the

girl's face, Mistress Keziah suddenly felt herself to be an old, old

woman. Wiping away a few tears, she strove to consider afresh the

problem of the necessities for Marion's plan. Failing the main road,

were there no by-paths?

A little later she opened the casement, and called down to Marion.

'I have just thought, my dear,' she said, when the girl entered her

room, 'that I should like to drive out to see Mrs. Burroughs. Her house

is but three miles out of the town. There are children there,' she

added diffidently. 'Would you care to accompany me?' The rest she left

unsaid, but Marion understood. She rang her aunt's bell, and Mistress

Keziah ordered the coach.

Half an hour later the horses were climbing the steep lane out of

Exeter.

At the house they descended, and were welcomed by a pleasant-faced

woman, the daughter of a girl friend of Mistress Keziah's. Very soon

the visitor mentioned the children, and a boy and girl of ten and twelve

years were summoned to the room.

Marion devoted herself to the newcomers with such friendliness that

presently she was borne off to see the stables and the ponies, the trout

brook at the bottom of the field, then back to the house to the

play-room to look at their treasures. By dint of adroit questioning she

learnt the favourite pastime of the two. The boy, talking eagerly to

his guest, told her proudly of his skill in archery. At thirty yards he

had hit the target. His sister, standing by Marion's side, obviously

lost in admiration of such a visitor as rarely came her way, noted

Marion's changing colour.

'I used to shoot once upon a time,' she said. 'Let me see your bow. I

should like to try again.'

Then the little girl, amazed, saw the 'beautiful lady' suddenly stiffen.

She could not think what had happened: merely that her brother had

explained that his bow was broken, and another was promised by his

father for his birthday.

Later on, with a child at either hand, Marion descended to the

sitting-room. Mistress Keziah's glance read the story in her face.

Soon she rose to bid her hostess adieu, Marion's cold lips framing what

answers she could to the lady's genial parting words.

As the coach rolled up to the courtyard gate, the old woman laid her

hand on Marion's. She had forborne to question her, and the girl had

remained silent on the homeward drive. Marion returned the pressure

without speaking: she recognised the challenge in her aunt's touch.

In the hall, Mistress Keziah turned and spoke indifferently to the

servant who opened the door, asking had there been visitors in her

absence. Then, as she set foot on the stairs, Marion walking behind,

the old lady paused. 'Has Zacchary returned yet?'

'Not yet, Mistress.'

In the stillness, the churches in the town chimed six. Marion went to

her own room, and closed the door. A kind of stupor seemed to fall on

the house.

Just before supper time, Zacchary walked heavily up the stairs and

knocked at Mistress Keziah's door. Hearing the lady's voice, he entered.

'No good, Mistress,' he blurted out.

Mistress Keziah gripped the arms of her chair as Zacchary told the tale

of his fruitless search. After much talk he had heard from mine host of

the New Inn the name of a man--a friend of the innkeeper--who was the

possessor of a fine bow. Saying nothing to the innkeeper, Zacchary had

found out the man, only to learn that the 'fine bow' was a valued

heirloom, not at any price to be sold or lent. From the possessor he

had heard of another: a similar result. Then he was told of a man whose

father used to make bows and arrows, and who, it was believed,

occasionally carried on the work himself. By that time several hours

had passed. The man in question now lived on a farm some five miles out

of the town. Thither Zacchary had dragged his old legs. The man was

ill in his bed: an ague, Zacchary said. There was no bow to be bought.

Nor did the man's wife know of any other maker. Archery was little

thought of in these days save for children's play. True enough, there

must be bows in some one's possession in Exeter. But the day was gone.

'What be I to say to the little maid?' queried Zacchary, his voice

husky. He was worn out with sorrow, and the fatigue of walking in the

hot day.

'I will tell her,' said Mistress Keziah from her chair. 'You may go,

Zacchary. You need rest and food. Tell them to keep supper waiting till

I ring.'

Zacchary turned, to find Marion standing in the doorway.

'I heard, Aunt Keziah,' she said. 'Thank you very much, Zacchary.' She

walked quietly back to her room.

At the peculiar, calm tones of her niece's voice, Mistress Keziah

shivered as if a cold wind had struck her. She got up stiffly from her

chair, and walked slowly into Marion's chamber. The girl was standing,

her hands locked, staring dully out into the garden. Without speaking,

Mistress Keziah sat down by the window. She did not look at the

motionless figure. After a while she held out a hand. Slowly Marion

came, and sinking on the floor, buried her face in the old woman's lap.

The wrinkled hands passed slowly to and fro over the shining hair.

The sun sank low behind the trees. Mistress Keziah's tears had stayed.

Marion still crouched, dry-eyed, her face hidden, motionless save for a

convulsive shudder which shook her from time to time.

Neither heard the sound of light footsteps in the gallery. The door

burst open and closed again.

'Mademoiselle!'

There was a new ring in Simone's voice. Slowly Marion raised her

blanched face. Simone was pouring out a story in mixed French and

English, plentifully watered with hysterical tears. The name of the

good William ran in and out of the story. Marion scarcely heeded her.

She was staring at a bow and a sheaf of arrows Simone had laid at her

feet.

*CHAPTER XXI*

*DAWN*

The gaol buildings and yard showed dim in the diffused light. A cluster

of small clouds clung to the face of the moon, and down in the west lay

a grey bank which rose imperceptibly, its edges caught by the hidden

glow. From time to time a cat's-paw of wind tapped the branches in

Mistress Keziah's garden, breaking the dead calm of night with the

rustle of the leaves. The storm was coming. For days the heavy heat

had been gathering for a break.

In Marion's room there were whispering voices. Mistress Keziah, fully

dressed, herself was superintending the robing of Marion for a long and

arduous ride. The light of the candles on the dressing-table fell on

the dark, shapely form, the bodice buttoned close, the wide skirt

falling away. The gleaming hair was securely bound in a long plait, and

then knotted at the nape of the neck. On the bed, beside the gloves and

whip, lay the cavalier riding hat with its long, soft plume, which Lady

Fairfax had given to her niece. The habit adjusted, Simone knelt and

drew on the long riding boots, reaching almost to the knee, wide in the

leg, tapering down to the foot.

Simone rose, and surveyed her mistress from head to heel. Her teeth

caught on her trembling lip.

'Are you sure your arms are not held in any way, my dear?' asked

Mistress Keziah. 'You have enough freedom of movement?'

'Quite, I think,' said Marion gently. 'Now do let me go, Aunt Keziah.'

''Tis not yet the dawn.'

Simone blew out the candles, and threw the shutters and casements wide.

A sweet air crept into the room. At first, after the light of the

interior, the garden seemed filled with the gloom of midnight. But soon

the three at the window were aware of the shapes of trees, softly grey;

of the diffused radiance of the sinking moon.

Marion leaned far out of the casement, and looked towards the east. A

faint bar of light lay on the horizon. Over the sleeping land that rose

beyond the town a breathing motion seemed to pass, as if Nature were

stirring in her sleep. Again came the fitful breeze tossing the leaves

in the garden.

'Hark!' said Marion. 'The cocks are crowing on the hill. Dearest,

dearest Aunt Keziah, bless me, and let me go!'

There was a tremor in the clear voice, but outwardly Marion was calm.

Simone had already stolen away.

Mistress Keziah wrapped her arms about the comely figure and pressed

trembling kisses on the soft face. A few broken words fell from her

lips; then she dropped her arms and turned away. With one backward

look, Marion went out of the room. The old woman sat down and hid her

face. She dared not follow to that little eastward room; she dared not

witness the speeding of that silken thread.

Across the gallery Marion stole, her wide skirt gathered up on her arm.

She listened awhile, leaning over the rail. There was no sound in the

dark, sleeping house. For fully an hour the servants would be abed.

Marion gently opened the double doors. A pitch darkness lay on the

narrow passage. She groped her way by the wall, and presently climbed

the dusty stair.

Simone was crouching by the little window, the grey of the coming dawn

on her face and hair. Without a word she gave place to Marion, and

stepping back, took up the bow, and held an arrow ready in her trembling

fingers.

On the window ledge, where there was nothing to impede its run, lay the

silk thread coiled as sailors coil a cable in the bows of a boat. Its

upper end was attached to the arrow Simone held in readiness; the lower

end ran to a corner of the room where the fine cord was similarly coiled

atop the rope.

Marion examined the coils afresh, tested the knot that tied the silk to

the arrow, then, giving the shaft back to Simone, knelt at the casement.

A dusky light touched the gaol chimneys. The niches of the casements

were still dark, but Marion imagined she saw a white patch behind

Roger's bars.

'Where is the sentry?' she whispered.

'I do not think he is there, Mademoiselle. But he must be, somewhere.'

Simone crouched behind her mistress, and the two pairs of eyes searched,

inch by inch, the dark patches of the gaol buildings. Nowhere could

they descry any shape that could be construed into the form of a man.

'Perhaps he is resting at the other side, Mademoiselle. There must be a

bench or something there.'

'He is certainly not in sight,' decided Marion. 'Please God he is asleep

on the bench, as you say.' She glanced anxiously at the sky. 'I dare

not wait.'

Her hand shot out of the window, making the gesture of warning. She

waited. A dim movement from the cell showed that her surmise was

correct. Roger was awake and ready.

Freeing her knees from any constraint of her dress, Marion took her

position just inside the casement a little to the right. With

deliberation that seemed unending to Simone she fitted the arrow, drew

the bowstring taut, once, twice, thrice. Then she gathered herself and

rested motionless. A second later there was a flashing gleam in the

grey air. Then a sharp tap. Aghast, Marion peered forward. The arrow

had fallen wide, striking the masonry of the wall.

Simone gave a low cry of dismay, and stared at her mistress. Deathly

white, Marion laid down the bow, and drew gently on the silken strand.

Somehow the arrow must be retrieved.

There was a faint scraping noise as the shaft was drawn backward up the

face of the wall. Twice it stuck in the masonry. Marion had a

sickening fear that the silk would not carry the light burden she eased

the length a little, then, with a swift lunge, played the silk outward,

and jerked the arrow up above the wall. Rapidly she drew in the silk,

hand over hand. On the wall of her aunt's garden the arrow stuck again.

Less carefully Marion drew at it. The arrow caught on its point, and

dropped sharply down inside the garden. At the next tug the silk broke.

'No matter,' said Marion. ''Tis safe. Another.'

Carefully the two coiled up the silk again. Marion dared not hurry.

Should the length not run easily, the direction of the arrow would be

warped.

Just as she knotted the line to the second arrow, there was a sound of

scraping feet in the gaol yard. The girls looked at each other in the

dim light.

Peering through the casement, Marion saw a dark figure detach itself

from the buildings on the north side. With his arms wide, the sentry

wearily stretched his body. He gave himself a little shake, and yawned.

The watchers could plainly hear his loud 'Ha-ho!' Then he took up his

carbine. A few notes of a tavern song came to their ears. The sentry

was waking up. He shouldered his gun, and marched up and down the yard.

A minute later he appeared on the south side, tramped the narrow space

between the gaol and the wall, retraced his steps. As he turned, Marion

was already fitting the arrow to the bow. His shuffling feet echoed in

the silence of the enclosure. There would be about thirty seconds

before he would turn again.

With hands clasped, shaking from head to foot, Simone watched the second

arrow speed. Was it home? Yes. No. Again came the sickening tap. The

shaft had struck the middle of the central bar in the grating, half an

inch wide of the mark.

Once more Marion hauled in the silk. A deadly chill gripped her heart.

The sentry's feet sounded nearer. A little puff of breeze came again.

The silk shook as the arrow was drawn up the wall. Would it stick in a

crevice this time? For a few seconds, during which Marion seemed not to

breathe, and the room spun round her, the arrow caught on the stones.

Round the corner came the sound of the sentry's feet. Marion leaned far

out, and with a swift sideways motion played out the silk and drew the

arrow over the coping of the wall. Just as the sentry appeared in view

the shaft fell into the road that bordered the gaol.

'Never mind,' said Simone, through chattering teeth. 'I will go and get

it later.'

As Simone snapped the silk and tied the broken end to the third arrow,

Marion sank back on the floor. She closed her eyes, and leaned against

the wall. A faintness had assailed her. If her courage once fled,

failure would be certain. Twice she had missed the mark.

The man below trod noisily to and fro on the south side. Again came the

snatches of the ditty. Drawing a long breath, Marion rallied herself,

and peered out of the window. A white patch showed dimly between the

bars of Roger's cell, immediately over the sentry's head. In the grey

light, Marion imagined that she saw Roger's face. He seemed to be

smiling up at the little window. To Marion's wild fancy the look was

plain to be seen. It seemed to say, 'Bravely, little Mawfy!' as he had

said of old when she had just failed of the mark.

Some quickening influence ran through the girl's blood. Her dread and

fear fell away. She looked searchingly down at the cell grating; then,

as the man below swung round, her fingers flashed the signal. The white

patch behind the bars disappeared.

'How many arrows are there, Simone?'

'Twelve.'

'I shall win on the twelfth,' said Marion calmly, fitting the barb as

she spoke.

Marion, kneeling, drew the bowstring taut. Simone held herself ready to

draw in the silk, her ears strained for the fall of the arrow on the

stones of the yard. Could either of them bear the strain of the twelve?

Would not the sentry hear the faint sounds? His footsteps paused in the

yard beyond. Marion held her breath and waited. The tramping steps

began once more. Again came the lightning streak through the dim air.

The silk ran out. There was no tap of the falling shaft.

Marion leaned forward. The bow dropped from her nerveless hand. With a

low cry, Simone brushed the girl aside out of the way of the shining

strands. Roger was hauling in the silk. Gently the length passed

through Simone's fingers.

'Hist!' said Marion. She laid a steadying hand on the line. The

sentry's footsteps sounded again. His clumsy form swung round the

corner, the light gleaming on his barrels. He paced the length of the

south wall, and stood still: then, laying down his carbine, he looked

searchingly round, and groping in his pocket, drew out pipe and flint

and tinderbox. Leaning against the wall, directly under the slender

line, he proceeded to fill and light his pipe. From time to time he

glanced nervously about.

Again the wave of faintness stole over Marion. Her eyes, wide with

horror, stared at the man below. Simone gently took the silk from her.

The sentry was fumbling with his tinderbox. Would he look up and see

that fine strand, grey as the sky, stretched over his head?

The world was waking to the dawn. Thrushes piped their first notes in

the garden. Puffing at his pipe, the sentry turned and scanned the

eastward horizon. Lines of rosy clouds showed themselves, forerunners

of the storm. Marion clutched Simone's hands, waiting for the man's

eyes to sweep the sky. She was struggling with an overpowering desire to

scream aloud. Another minute ticked by. Three o'clock struck from the

churches in the town. With a grunt the man lazily took up his carbine.

He looked idly at the trees across. It seemed to Marion's distorted

vision that he stared straight into their little casement. For another

space he lingered, his legs wide, leaning against the wall. Then he

straightened himself. He shouldered his carbine, and turned away. There

was a stifled cry from Marion as she took the line with trembling

fingers, and gently paid it out. For a second it slackened over the

trees. Then the hand at the other side drew in again; and more and more

rapidly as silk gave way to cord. Before the sentry had time to pass

the corner again, Roger had secured the package tied on the rope, and

drawn in the trailing end.

There was a dead silence in the little room. Unheeded the sentry paced

the south front, unheeded tramped out to the wider stretch of the yard.

Simone said something her companion scarcely noted, and the next minute

Marion was alone.

The first act was over; the second, containing a still more perilous

movement, was about to be played; of the third--the headlong flight to

the west--Marion did not think at all.

What was going on in the cell yonder? She fancied she could see Roger's

kneeling figure at the grating; he was evidently filing the iron near to

the base. The bars were not very close together; when two were gone,

Roger should be able to get out. There was a drop of about fifteen

feet. With the help of the rope he should be able to let himself

noiselessly down.

In reality only a few minutes had passed since the arrow had reached its

mark, but to Marion it seemed already an hour. She looked anxiously at

the eastern sky, now suffused with stronger light. In another half hour

the daylight would be making very plain all the features of town and

country alike. A few hoarse notes came to her ears, punctuated by the

heavy footfall of the sentry in the yard. ''Tis a cheerful soul!' mused

Marion, with a wry smile. A minute later the dark form loomed round the

corner.

The first drops of rain were falling. The fitful breeze of the early

morning had strengthened into a westerly wind. Instinctively Marion's

thoughts began to dwell on the prospect of the ride over the border in

the face of such a storm as was brewing.

Something moving in the road caught her eye, and switched back her

thoughts to the present. Simone's noiseless figure was creeping along

in front of the gaol wall. The blood rushed to Marion's face. She had

forgotten that arrow. Her eyes went alternately from the sentry's

steady movement to the fluttering figure in the road. Suppose he should

open the wicket?

The light form glided noiselessly back, and Marion glued her eyes again

to the grating of the cell.

As the sentry passed round the corner, Marion bent forward and listened

for the sound of the grinding of the file. But not by straining her

ears to the utmost could she hear anything save the steady tramp of the

soldier. Surely there had been time to file through those two bars! In

her impatience she forgot that the prisoner was bound to restrict his

efforts to the time the sentry spent at the back of the building.

As she sat motionless, her whole forces divided between watching and

listening, there was a movement at her elbow. Simone was there with her

hat and gloves. Behind her stood Mistress Keziah, her face grey in the

dawn.

The clocks in the town chimed half-past three. Marion started. Half an

hour Roger had been filing those bars.

'Had you not better go down to the gate and be ready?' said the old

lady.

Marion, pulling on her gloves, shook her head. She crouched down again,

no eyes for the others in the room, and was unaware that Simone, at a

glance from Mistress Keziah, had quietly stolen away.

Marion felt a cold terror grip her heart. Could some one have entered

the cell and seen Roger working--seen the arrow and the silk and the

cord?

There was the sentry again, idly walking the south front. It seemed

hours before he retraced his steps.

As he turned the corner, Roger's face appeared at the grating. He was

ready. First knotting the rope to one of the side bars, he pressed his

knee against the stone sill, and pulled with both hands first one bar

and then another. Slowly the bars yielded. Roger flung out the rope.

What was that? The step of the sentry returning already? Marion leaned

out to wave a warning. It was too late. Roger had thrust head and

shoulders through the gap. He drew one foot up on to the ledge, then

leaning out, caught the rope and bore on it while he freed the other

foot. He slid down. Just as he landed on the ground, the sentry swung

round the building.

Roger was the first to see the man. For one paralysing instant he stood

still. The sentry started and stared, dumb with amazement. Before he

had time to level his carbine, before he had the wit to shout, Roger

leaped at him, his fists clenched. Out flashed his right hand, and

caught the man a crashing upward blow on the jaw. The sentry fell like

a log. Roger darted to the wall. Marion only waited to see him spring

from the coping into the road. With a swift word to her aunt, she ran

along the passage and down the gallery into the hall. The door stood

wide open. She sped down to the courtyard gate.

Roger was already there, wrapping himself in the coachman's cloak.

Simone was holding his hat and crop. Roger gave a swift look at Marion.

'We have to pass the gaol for the east gate,' said she. 'Can we? Have

we time? Shall we make for the west?

'The man will be a good five minutes at least. Then another five

remembering what has happened,' said Roger quietly. 'Come!'

With a fleeting glance for Simone, Marion followed him out. The two ran

lightly back along the road, past the gaol gates. There was not a sound

from the building. No one was in the road. The whole town seemed

deserted. Through the old east gate they went, and turned up towards

the castle scarp.

Just beyond the ridge, in the shadow of some trees, Zacchary was waiting

with the greys. Roger lifted Marion into her saddle, and leapt into his

own. Then he looked down at Zacchary, and said a husky word of

farewell.

Zacchary was staring as at a ghost. He had never believed the plan

would succeed. Before he had time to consider was it really Master

Roger, in Mistress Keziah's livery, the two were on a narrow track that

led by a round-about course to join the westward road some miles farther

on.

For several minutes Zacchary stood still. The sound of the horses'

hoofs on the soft turf died away. He stared about the quiet green

fields and down into the town. The day had come.

Mistress Keziah had ordered Zacchary to make a wide detour among the

country lanes, and enter the streets later by the west gate when folk

were stirring and the business of the day was afoot. For a couple of

miles Zacchary followed the track of the horses. On the summit of the

hill he stood and looked round.

Through a straggling copse to the right, that shielded the path the

fugitives had taken, the high road from Honiton was visible, winding

down into the valley. A solitary horseman was riding towards the town.

In the shelter of the trees Zacchary stood and watched. There seemed to

be something familiar in the man's head and shoulders. Then he

remembered.

It was the messenger whose horse had cast a shoe the day the coach

foundered in the lane.

*CHAPTER XXII*

*THE ROAD TO THE WEST*

After close on two hours' hard riding the fugitives drew rein. They had

not spoken except once to confer on direction, Marion having simply

stated that they were returning to Garth. Roger had pointed out the

cross-country track where he thought it most likely they would escape

detection.

They were on the edge of a spur of the moor, and from its advantage they

wheeled to scan the countryside. There was no sign of life save the

cattle and ponies grazing in the rough grass.

Soon Marion became aware that Roger had turned his gaze on herself.

Fingering her crop, she sat tongue-tied and helpless. She had dreamed

of this moment, when she and Roger would find themselves riding

homeward, the shadow of the gaol left behind, and a long chapter in

their lives to recall, each for the other. The moment having come, she

could do nothing but stare at her horse's head and run her crop in and

out of his mane.

Roger's hand fell abruptly on hers. Marion raised her eyes and dropped

them again. The hand tightened.

'I cannot say it,' said Roger huskily. 'I cannot.'

Marion glanced at the pale, worn face.

'Don't try,' she faltered, her composure breaking before the look in his

eyes. 'I know just what you would say.'

'No one can,' said Roger in a low voice, 'who has not been at the very

edge of the grave.'

Marion's hand gently touched Roger's. Tears shone on her lashes.

'I do believe,' she said tremulously, acting on a swift inspiration, 'I

do believe I am hungry.'

Roger dropped his hand and turned his head away, and leaning over,

Marion tried to unbuckle one of his saddlebags. Soon her companion

became aware of her action. Hastily he dismounted. From the bag he

drew out a flask of wine and a wallet of food.

'Venison pasty!' said he, staring at the piece Marion offered him. He

snatched at it with an eagerness that went to her heart. Half-way to

his lips he withdrew it. 'I am a brute!' he said. 'Forgive me. Where

is yours?'

'Here. We have one each. Now I shall give you just five minutes, sir.'

Marion smiled down at the upturned face, but her hint brought Roger back

to the present. He mounted again, and the two moved forward at a gentle

pace, eating and talking as they rode. In a few words Marion explained

her plans on his behalf.

'So you are going to banish me to the high seas,' said Roger at the end.

Marion was silent a minute. Then, rousing herself: ''Tis strange by

what crooked means a man's fate overtakes him. Do you remember that day

on the headland when the _Fair Return_ set sail? My father always said

that being a sailor bred and born you would in the end go to sea.'

The slight meal finished, they set their horses at a trot over the

springing turf.

'What about my mother?' said Roger. 'Can I not see her before I sail,

think you?'

'If we get down to Garth untroubled, perhaps yes. But we may have a

close run for it.'

'I think we have not been seen yet,' said Roger.

'Except for the old woman.'

Roger was silent a while. About five miles out of the city they had

come face to face with a small apple-cheeked dame setting out from her

cottage with her basket of butter. The little low building, tucked in a

fold of the moor, had been unnoticed by them, and they had reduced their

speed, hoping that their headlong flight had not already been noted by

some one within the cottage walls.

Marion had bidden the dame good morning and talked of the weather. The

wind was steadily gathering, and every few minutes came fleeting squalls

of rain. The old woman was not in a good temper. A wet market day in

Exeter meant poor money for her butter. She feared a heavy storm was

brewing. Then she added, not without several motherly glances for the

pale-faced groom who rode just behind the lady: 'If so be you'm for

Mortonhampstead, Mistress, 'twere best to take to the left down along

and find the waggon track. Folk do sure lose themselves easily on they

moors, and there be terr'ble danger of bogs up over. Only yesterday a

gentleman got off the track. Mighty near to sinking in Tinker's Cup a'd

been, with bog muck up to the horse's knees. 'Twas as fine a gentleman

as ever a clapped eyes on. And a crown her gave me, as cool as day, for

setting of un right.'

'Here's another to keep it company,' smiled Marion. 'Good day.'

In case she should be watching, the two had made a show of returning to

the track she had pointed out, then branched to the north again, leaving

Mortonhampstead, its chimneys beaten by driving smoke, away to the left.

'I don't think she noticed anything,' said Roger. 'And as you say,

they'll be searching the river and the seaward country.'

After a time Roger reined in and looked about. They were out on the open

moor. As he scanned the hills and gullies, the fair green bog

stretches, he was seized by a conviction that they were not making the

speed they should. In avoiding the dangers of the moor, they had been

obliged to take a winding course. A landmark which should have been left

miles behind lay at his shoulder.

'Marion,' he said suddenly, 'we must take to the waggon track if we wish

to reach Garth to-day. We have lost half an hour wandering among these

hummocks. Better make a rush for it that way than get hopelessly bogged

or lost.'

Marion looked relieved. ''Twill be vastly easier to ride straight on

so. And this heavy land is bound to weary the horses.'

By tacit consent the two spared no energy or time in speech. In a short

time they gained the track. An hour later they passed through

Postbridge. There they decided to feed the horses. While the greys

were being attended to, Roger playing the part of groom among the stable

men, Marion was entertained by the innkeeper with the news of the

countryside. Among other details the host gave a description of a

gentleman who had passed through on the previous evening, wishful to lie

at Princetown. Listening, Marion mused a little on the coincidence:

twice that morning she had heard of the stranger westward bound.

At the crest of the steep rise out of Postbridge Roger turned in his

saddle and cast a keen eye over the Exeter road. With a swift gesture

he pulled up his horse and remained motionless. Instantly on the alert,

Marion stopped and followed the direction of his gaze. There was a lull

in the storm; the sky had lightened over the east. A bar of watery

sunlight fell across the hills that lay between Mortonhampstead and

Postbridge. A couple of men on horseback showed against the skyline,

minute figures only visible to those who had been trained from childhood

to scan far distances. For a few seconds their horses showed clear.

Then a driving cloud swathed the sunlight, and the moor lay misty and

uncertain again.

'Did you see?' asked Roger quietly. 'Or did I imagine it?'

Marion nodded, and settling herself in her saddle raised her crop. An

unexpected, heavy blow startled the grey into a canter that soon became

a gallop. The second horse came easily alongside, Roger looking into

his holsters as he rode. Before they had gone half a mile the storm on

the height of the moor redoubled its fury. Rain lashed their faces.

Bending sideways to the blast they drove the greys mercilessly on, only

slightly slacking their speed as Princetown was reached and passed.

There the track dropped into the valley. As the steaming animals picked

their way down the slope, Marion turned to Roger.

'Do you think we should try to change horses at Tavistock?'

Roger shook his head. ''Tis but another thirty miles to Garth. These

brutes will soon know, if they don't know now, that they are nearing

home. They can do it. 'Twould mean at least ten minutes to change.'

Marion took what ease she could from the slackened pace. Her cloak and

habit were soaked and hung limply about her. Wearily she drooped in the

saddle, thankful for the respite from the storm that beat the heights.

'I am not worth it, Mawfy,' said Roger suddenly.

Marion smiled and straightened herself a little, but she made no reply.

The bed of the valley passed, the greys trotted slowly up the slope.

'Now for it!' said Roger, as they gained comparatively level land. Soon

they were at a straining gallop again, their heads bent to the wind and

rain. From time to time they looked back, but the valley had swallowed

their pursuers.

After a few more miles Marion became aware that her horse was a neck

ahead of Roger's; then a length. Roger drove his heels into the grey's

flanks. For a few yards they speeded alongside, then Marion found

herself ahead again. She slightly checked her pace and glanced at her

companion. There was a queer look on Roger's face. He slowed to a

trot, leaning over to examine the action of his horse's feet.

'Wait a minute, Mawfy,' he said quietly. Hastily dismounting, he

examined his horse's shoes and knees. 'I can see nothing,' he said,

springing up again. 'It is perhaps a tendon that does not show any

swelling yet.'

The horse, urged into speed, ran unevenly, jerking on the off hind.

With crop and heel Roger pressed the brute to his utmost, but both the

riders knew his miles were numbered. Neither spoke. Each had the same

cold dread at heart.

'How far are we from Liskeard?' asked Marion faintly.

'Close on ten miles, I should think. But there should be an inn

half-way.'

Mercilessly Roger forced the pace of the limping grey. 'It grieves me,'

he said abruptly, 'but 'tis his life against mine.'

From time to time Marion looked fearfully over her shoulder. She knew

that the wind, driving against them, would make it impossible for them

to hear their pursuers till they were close at hand. Another quarter of

an hour, at this rate, should bring them within hail.

'Take my horse and go on,' said Marion suddenly. 'They would not dare

shoot me, and if they took me back to gaol Aunt Keziah would get me

out.'

Roger's answer was a look from which Marion turned her face away. They

trotted on in silence. The road had turned into a winding waggon track

that curled round the hillside. Beeches topped the steep, unbroken

hedges bordering the way. Behind the hedges on the one hand the ground

fell away steeply, on the other climbing to a ridge that was the last

outpost of the moor.

Roger stood in his stirrups. 'I think I can see some sort of a

building, a couple of miles or so farther on where this lane ends.'

Marion's heart sank. Another couple of miles would mean at least a

quarter of an hour at the pace they were going. She had a mental vision

of the devouring stride of the pursuers' horses.

'And should they come before that,' added Roger, 'you are to ride on out

of reach of shot. Remember now.'

Marion flashed a withering glance at the speaker. 'I should of course

do that, should I not? Give me one of those pistols. Ah. I hear

voices. Where are they?'

'There is nothing,' said Roger. All his attention was given to the

grey.

Marion looked swiftly over her shoulder. Through a gap in the trees she

imagined that she caught a fleeting glimpse of red. Making a swift

calculation, she knew the soldiers were but three miles away. She cast

a despairing look at Roger's horse.

'Give me one of those pistols, Roger,' she pleaded. 'I shall not leave

you.'

Roger's answer was lost in a sudden cry from Marion. She was riding

slightly ahead, and could command a curve in the road. Roger saw her

speed on. Stumblingly his horse followed.

A cart and horse were slowly making their way along the deeply rutted

track. In the cart a boy sat, talking to a horseman who rode at the

rear. The rider's face was turned to meet the sound of approaching

hoofs.

'Colonel Sampson!' called Marion, her voice breaking. 'Colonel Sampson!

Oh, thank God!'

The traveller wheeled round and stared in amazement from Marion to the

horseman at her heels.

'Roger's grey has fallen lame,' cried Marion, 'and the soldiers are

almost on us.'

Sampson glanced keenly at the boy, who, still more amazed than he was,

made a courteous salute. In his face he saw the marks of prison

durance. So this was the Roger whose fate had made a criss-cross track

through so many lives!

In an instant he saw his course plain. With a gesture bidding the two

to follow, he set his horse at the narrow space left between the waggon

and the hedge. When all three were ahead of the vehicle, Sampson

dismounted.

'Take my horse, sir,' he said quietly, 'and ride on. My friend and I

here will arrange a barricade. Pull your mare over so as to block the

lane, my lad. Get the wheel into the ditch, so. A golden guinea for

you if you keep yonder soldiers back for half an hour and hold your

tongue about this exchange. We must head them off on another scent.'

The farm boy's eyes shone. With alacrity he obeyed the gentleman's

orders.

'Quick!' said Marion. 'Quick! I can hear their hoofs. I can almost

see them!' She was dazed by the way life and death tossed their

alternate greetings in her ears.

'But you, sir,' said Roger, hesitating.

'I am an old soldier,' smiled Sampson. 'I fought behind barricades

before you were born. Apart from that, there will be no need to fight.

'Tis not myself they are after.'

With her fingers clenched on her crop, watching for the gleam of red

through the trees, Marion listened in an agony. The encounter had

really not taken a minute's time, but to the girl the talk seemed idle

and useless.

'Quick, Roger!' she cried again.

Roger sprang on to the Colonel's horse, a powerful roan, and Sampson

mounted the limping grey.

'Now no one is any the wiser,' said Sampson. 'And we have not even seen

you, have we, my lad?'

The farm boy grinned. It was an encounter after his own green heart.

'A bean't be seeing nought, sir,' he said.

'And this wretched waggon is in a devil of a mess,' pursued Sampson,

stroking his moustache. 'Yonder kind-hearted soldiers will surely help

straighten it. Good luck, sir. Good-bye, Marion, my dear. I will

follow you to Garth.'

Roger rode on and Marion held a trembling hand to Sampson, her eyes

shining through tears. As she trotted away Sampson called: 'Where is

Simone?'

Marion stayed a second to answer. 'With my Aunt Keziah in Exeter.'

There was a reply from Sampson she failed to understand. She broke into

a canter and the roan and the grey were lost to sight. The lane ended

abruptly in open land, and the track curved down along the flank of the

hill. Just as they bore round, the fugitives turned once more and

caught the gleam of the uniforms half way down the lane.

'Just in time!' said Roger. 'We can see them because of their colour,

but 'tis unlikely they can have seen us since we left the open land.'

Side by side the two tore along the track, Marion bringing to bear on

her horse the extreme pressure which so far had been unnecessary.

Except when the nature of the track compelled, the two did not relax

their speed until Liskeard was reached. Midday struck from the steeple

as they rode through the town.

They broke into a gallop again, keeping a ceaseless watch for their

pursuers. It was touch and go now. The land was so uneven that they

could not see the track for more than half a mile at a time. At any

moment the soldiers might gallop round the last hummock.

No words passed between the two, until, half an hour later, Marion

suddenly pulled up, her eyes dim. She looked about.

'I remember that hill,' she said tremulously, 'and through yonder gap on

a fine day we should see the sea. Oh Roger! we are nearly there!'

Roger looked over his shoulder. 'That mysterious Colonel of yours is a

clever man. You must tell me some day how he did it. There, at that

clump of trees, we turn off for a smugglers' bridle path. I know it

well. It runs down to the coast and spares the hill outside Garth. If

no one sees us for the next five minutes we are safe.'

Marion followed Roger, and leaving the grey to pick his own footing,

fixed her eye on the backward track till a copse of wind-blown oaks hid

it from their view. The path wound perilously down a stony gully,

difficult to ride save for the moorland-bred. The wind was wearing

away, a steady fine rain falling in place of the gusts and clamour of

the morning. The realisation that the end of the perilous journey was

in sight was slowly dawning on the girl's shaken senses. Another couple

of miles, and they would sight the cottages and banks of Garth.

A few minutes later Roger slowed his horse and waited for her. The

track had fallen to the river bed, and there was room for the two to

ride side by side. Roger looked keenly at the girl's face.

'Do you know,' said he, 'we have ridden all this time and I have not

said a word of all that is in my mind. Somehow 'twas enough to have you

by my side and be riding to freedom. Nothing else matters. And now in

a few minutes we shall be at the village. Mawfy, I cannot,--I--my mind

is fevered. To say thank you to some one who has saved your life sounds

like foolishness.'

'I told you this morning not to try,' said Marion, lifting her grey eyes

to his.

Roger looked a long look at the pale face framed in the wet clinging

hair.

'And I am going to sea,' he said suddenly. 'But I shall find some means

of hearing of you. You and my mother. You will see my mother and tell

her?'

'She shall know at once,' said Marion gently.

'See,' cried Roger, 'yonder on the hill is Mother Poole's cottage. Do

you remember?'

'Ay,' said Marion. 'I remember.' She bit her lip, and looked straight

ahead. Then, realising that village eyes would soon be on her, she

straightened herself in the saddle.

'Mawfy!' Roger leaned over and took her hand.

She glanced at the warm dark eyes and looked hastily away again. A wave

of colour wiped out the whiteness of cheek and throat. Roger was

pulling the damp glove from her hand. The fingers lay limply between

his own.

'It is good-bye, just for a little time,' said Roger, and caressingly he

passed the trembling hand across his bent face.

Struggling for composure, Marion withdrew her fingers. The village lay

before them. She dimly noted that a child had run out from a cottage,

seen them, and run in again, shouting something. She dimly saw groups

of sailors on the quay shading their eyes and staring up the valley.

Then next minute a girl ran bareheaded to meet them and stood with

clasped hands. It was Charity Borlase.

'Jack said as how you'd do it, Mistress,' she said simply, her eyes

shining. 'The boat's waiting down along, Master Roger, and tide's

running grand. Silas be going to row you out.'

Roger dismounted and lifted Marion from the saddle. 'Take Mistress

Marion home, Charity, up the short path, and look after her well. She

is very, very tired.'

He bared his head as his eyes sought Marion's, and once more, careless

of Charity's presence, he lifted her fingers to his lips. The next

minute he was striding down the beach. He leaped into a boat pointed

out by a waiting youth and took an oar. As the boat shot out into the

estuary hoarse cheers rose from the quay. The valley rocked with the

sound. Women and children clustered by the water, waving their hands

and crying. Charity's apron was at her eyes.

'God bless 'ee, Master Roger!' came voice after voice to Marion's ears.

Marion stood motionless on the beach. The last she saw was Roger's hand

waving as the boat pitched into the heavy seas about the harbour mouth.

*CHAPTER XXIII*

*HOME*

The wind had fallen, and a soft mist lay about the house next day, when

Marion opened her eyes. She lay for a long while in drowsy content,

lost between sleep and waking, opening her eyes and closing them again

on the dear delight of home. The sense of peace that had fallen on her

spirit the previous night when she had returned from the Manor and

stolen straight to her own chamber, seemed still more to fill the place

where she lay. It was as if she had sailed into a familiar haven after

long tossing on strange seas. All the dear associations of her

childhood leapt from nook and shelf to greet her. She lay and smiled at

roof and window, rug and chair. And behind her warm feeling of content

lay a thought that was like a caress: Roger was safe; Roger was happy at

sea; Roger was coming back soon. A rosy flush tinted her face as she

remembered--would she ever forget? 'Good-bye just for a little time,

Mawfy!'

While she was still half dreaming, the housekeeper gently opened the

door.

'Come in, Curnow, dear!' called Marion. 'I know 'tis you. I have never

known any one come into a room quite so gently as you do.' She smiled

at the old woman. ''Tis good to see you again, Curnow. What is that?

Bread and milk? Fie, fie, Curnow! Do you suppose I have become an

elegant old lady like Aunt Keziah, already? I cannot abide food in bed.

It makes the whole chamber taste queer.'

There were tears in Mrs. Curnow's eyes as she threw a covering over

Marion's shoulders and handed her the bowl. If only the Admiral would

return, her cup of joy would be full. The same thought was passing

through Marion's mind as she obediently began to drink the milk.

'I wish Father were home. I felt wretched last night when you said he

was away. But he will soon be back. He must have left London for Exeter

by this time.'

Mrs. Curnow watched her young mistress in silence for a time; then she

began moving restlessly about the room, putting a chair here and a stool

there.

'Come and sit down, Curnow,' said Marion. 'You will be tired before

dinner time.'

''Tis past dinner time already,' said the housekeeper, looking at her

indulgently.

'What! How could you let me sleep so, and all that there is to be

done?'

'There bean't no tur'ble call for 'ee to get up, Mistress Marion.'

'But there is much to be done. There are the guest chambers to be got

ready for Colonel Sampson and my Aunt Keziah. My aunt said she would

follow in the coach with Simone. Most likely they lay at Tavistock last

night. They should be here this afternoon, if nothing has delayed them.

I do want my Aunt Keziah's chamber to look beautiful, Curnow.'

The housekeeper smiled fondly at the girl she had tended from babyhood.

Indeed, she had lain awake most of the night pondering on Marion's

story, and trying to see her 'little maid' in the light of its

revelation.

'You will like Simone, Curnow,' Marion continued. 'I told you I am going

to persuade my father to let me keep her here with us, did I not? She

is French, you know, but very different from----' Marion stopped

abruptly.

The smile on her hearer's face gave way to the grave, unhappy look the

old woman had worn of late.

'What is it, Curnow?'

'I ought to tell you, Mistress Marion. I scarce know what to do,' the

housekeeper slowly began. ''Tis Mademoiselle.'

Marion handed the speaker her bowl, and lay back on the pillow. 'I know

all about that,' she said quietly. Mrs. Curnow stared.

'I did not tell you last night,' pursued Marion. 'There were so many

other things to tell.'

'You know----'

'I know she betrayed Roger, if that is what you mean. Charity Borlase

told me in a letter. Does my father know?'

'Not of my telling. 'Tis now,' the housekeeper counted on her fingers,

'eight days since the Admur'l came home, changed the horses, and

straight up over for London. The Admur'l had heard down along about

Master Roger, and with the look on his face no one dared speak to

un--leastways not me. Mayhap Silas have told. And there be other

things too,' wearily added the old woman. 'I scarce do know where to

begin.'

'Leave it till my father comes, Curnow. It is all over now--all the

trouble, I mean. The rest is for him to settle. Where--where is

Mademoiselle?' Marion spoke with an effort.

'In her chamber. Her've never left un since the day Charity came up to

have a few words, private-like, with she. Fear of what folk may do to

un, may be. Zora have been telling that Victoire do say----'

'Victoire!' There was a curious look on Marion's face. 'When did

Victoire come home?'

'The very day afore you did, Mistress Marion. That is to say, the night

before last, when the house was abed. All unbeknownst her came in a

coach from Plymouth. Seemingly the old woman in France yonder do be

better. And yesterday--' a grim smile came on the housekeeper's

face--'heart-sore and sick as I was, with the thought of dear Master

Roger pressing on me, as 'ee might say, I couldn't forbear a smile when

I saw Victoire eagerlike to talk to the wenches in the kitchen, and me

having forbade they, most severe, to say one word to she.'

Marion got out of bed and began to dress. 'Curnow,' she said abruptly,

'I was never so thankful for anything in my life as that my Aunt Keziah

is coming. Until Father returns, Aunt Keziah will see to Victoire and

Mademoiselle. Don't let us talk of it, Curnow. I am trying not to think

of it, even. It is horrible. Master Roger is safe. That is all that

matters.'

The housekeeper presently went below, and Marion finished her dressing

with a sober look on her face. The early joy and peace of the waking had

vanished. For Marion, the last fortnight had been too much filled with

immediate action to leave room for plans about the prime defaulter in

the sorry affair. What should she say or do if she met Elise?

At length, feeling as uncomfortable as if she had to walk about alone in

a haunted house, Marion went out of her chamber and set about the

supervision of rooms for the coming guests.

In the meantime, Victoire sat talking by Elise's bed, talking softly,

rapidly, in what the domestics called her heathen tongue. Victoire was

angry, and Elise trembled as she listened. Just so, all her life, had

that quiet, angry voice dominated her.

It had needed far less insight than Victoire possessed to learn that

there was a new and bitter and unexplained feud between the household

and herself and her young mistress.

She had found Elise in bed on the night of her arrival, and a feigned

drowsiness on the girl's part had postponed any conversation till the

morrow. With the morrow, however, a strange Elise had met her eyes, an

Elise thin, worn, with a hunted, frightened look that perplexed

Victoire. Elise was suffering from the old enemy, _migraine_, and

preferred not to leave her bed. The waiting woman had descended to the

kitchen, and at once became aware of the ban imposed by Mrs. Curnow.

The serving girls answered her in yea and nay, and that was the sum of

their speech. Neither did they talk in her presence, being only too

pleased to carry out to the letter the housekeeper's instructions.

Victoire, baffled, ascended to her mistress's room again. Elise's

sufferings were not feigned, and she only prayed to be left alone till

the pain became easier to bear. She would tell Victoire all the news

later on.

Victoire, watching, saw that underlying the girl's physical suffering

was the mental strain of some overpowering dread. Elise insisted on

keeping the bolts of the chamber drawn; watched the door as footsteps

passed without. In vain Victoire prayed for an explanation; at length

she lapsed into sullen silence. In the late afternoon, while Elise was

dozing Victoire crept downstairs. The kitchen was rocking with joyous

sounds; laughter and tears, it would seem, and mid hilarious voices

crying out on some unforeseen tremendous event. Victoire listened at

the door long enough to disentangle the story wherein Marion's name and

Roger's were freely tossed about. The waiting woman had known nothing

of the happenings in Garth during the past month. Wrath at Elise's

reticence, and amazement at the story she had heard sent her hot-foot to

the girl's room. She strode noisily to the bedside, and Elise, waking

from a slight doze, started up in speechless terror.

'What is this,' cried Victoire, 'about Roger Trevannion being rescued

from gaol by Marion?'

She got no farther. Elise gave a low cry, and sank fainting on her

pillow.

The rest of the evening Victoire spent in real anxiety by the girl's

bed. With the morning Elise rallied under the effects of the medicine

given her, and while Mrs. Curnow and Marion were discussing her in

Marion's chamber, Elise gave a faithful history of the neighbourhood

during Victoire's absence in Brittany. And Victoire was angry; not, it

appeared, because Elise had done Roger a grievous wrong, but because she

had made a fatal blunder. Elise's poignant remorse she brushed aside as

being of no moment; Elise's terror of Charity Borlase's threat of

vengeance she passed by in contempt.

'It is monstrous, inconceivable,' she went on, her voice becoming softer

and softer as rage consumed her. 'Here fate has worked in the kindest

possible way. That stupid, inquisitive old lawyer Lebrun who might have

ruined our plans, has by a merciful Providence been allowed to die. For

young Lebrun I do not care a straw. The anxiety of years has been

removed. Your inheritance lies clear before you, the d'Artois estates

only waiting for a mistress. And just when we could have departed in

friendliness from that fool, the Admiral, you have committed this

indescribable folly. Why could you not leave Roger Trevannion alone?'

'Did I not tell you,' said Elise sulkily, 'that he spied on me, that he

had found out all about the cove and the man?'

'Nonsense! He just happened to pass that way, and he saw you.'

'He would have told.'

'Nonsense, again! You do not know the world. Had it been a woman, a

village girl, there might have been danger--even then supposing the

Admiral would have listened to one word from a village girl concerning

his guest. But a young man like Roger Trevannion! Roger is

_gentilhomme, vois-tu?--gentilhomme_. He might have given evidence if

asked, and only then if he had thought it was his honourable duty. They

mind their own business, _ces gens-la_! You have judged him as if he

were a fisher lad. And if you had wanted to get rid of him--and I

should not have had anything to say about that if you had been

successful and done it properly'--Elise shuddered--'why, could you not

have gone down to the cove and signalled to the man to do it for you?

He would do anything for money, and you had plenty of money. But to go

yourself to Bodmin! I am speechless! You have ruined us, do you hear?'

'I wish from the bottom of my heart,' suddenly said Elise, her face

mottled yellow and white, 'that I had never seen Garth. The whole thing

has been monstrous. For my part, I am willing to confess.'

Victoire stood and looked at the girl, and laughed. Elise sank back in

bed, and hid her face.

'We will talk about that later,' went on the mocking, silky voice. 'In

the meantime, prepare for a long walk, my good girl. As soon as dusk

falls to-night, we set out.'

For a long time no more was said. Victoire busied herself with certain

preparations, sewing money and jewels into the folds of her dress. The

girl made no effort to rise and help her. She lay with closed eyes,

from time to time falling into convulsive weeping whose sounds she

stifled in the bed clothes. Her companion, busy among the garments

hanging in the press in the inner room, failed to note, for all her

caution, the dull sound of wheels, and if Elise heard, she made no

comment.

'Listen to that!' said Victoire presently, emerging from her closet with

a length of priceless lace on her arm. 'There is the kitchen still

uproarious. They will be singing and dancing all night because of this

escape. But--ah, good! while they are amusing themselves, I will get

into the buttery for food for our journey. If I go through the hall,

the wenches will not see me.'

'Marion may,' faltered Elise.

'And do you suppose the Princess Royal will speak to me?'

With a little laugh, Victoire went boldly downstairs, and entered the

hall, one door of which gave access to the butler's pantry and the

buttery. Too late she realised her mistake. Several people were

sitting there, and Mrs. Curnow was carrying a tray of wine and cake from

guest to guest. The open door in her hand, ready to retrace her steps,

Victoire paused long enough to note the new arrivals. Her beady black

eyes ran from face to face. There was a gentleman whom she did not

recognise, standing by the window; in the big chair sat Mistress Keziah

Penrock. Victoire had scarcely time to feel alarmed at the sight of the

lady, for on the instant she caught sight of another figure, that of a

young girl who was talking eagerly with Marion. Victoire's other hand

clutched at the door post, and at the same moment Marion caught sight of

her. A sudden pause in the conversation made Simone look curiously

round. She gave a sharp cry, and passing her hand over her eyes, stared

about the room, then seized Marion's arm with both hands. From that

support she turned her head slowly, like a frightened child, and looked

again at the woman clinging to the door. Across the room two pairs of

eyes stared, each at a ghost. Simone dropped Marion's arm, and stepped

forward. Suddenly the face at the door became distorted, the hand shot

out to ward off Simone's approach, a broken gabble fell from the ashen

lips. Then silence again.

Simone stepped quite close, and looked steadfastly at her.

'_Victoire!_'

*CHAPTER XXIV*

*ELISE PASSES OUT*

'Pray, sit down, Simone.'

It was Colonel Sampson's voice, even and decorous, that broke in on the

strained silence. He drew a chair up to the oaken table as he spoke.

Simone obeyed, holding a hand out as if for support. Marion took the

hand and held it, gently passing her own palm across the trembling

fingers. Motioning Victoire into the room, Mrs. Curnow quietly shot the

bolt and latched the other door that gave on to the kitchen passages.

Mistress Keziah looked curiously from face to face, then with a slight

gesture she turned to Colonel Sampson.

Bending over Simone, whose eyes never left the woman at the door,

Sampson spoke.

'Tell us, if you can, my dear, who this woman is.'

'My nurse,' instantly replied Simone.

'Your nurse?' repeated Mistress Keziah in a clear, steady voice. 'You

are not mistaken?' She looked from Marion who, speechless, was staring

at Victoire, to Sampson. The Colonel nodded once or twice, with a

smile. Simone leaned her brow on her hand for a minute, then looked up

at him. Her whole face was transformed.

'I can remember!' she cried, springing up. 'Oh, I can remember!' She

pressed her fingers to her cheeks, staring beyond the room into the

past.

'Remember what, Simone dear?' said Marion in a trembling voice, forcing

the girl gently into her chair.

Simone's low voice broke on a hysterical note. 'But,' she cried, 'I am

not Simone. Did I not say I have just remembered? I have been trying

all my life to remember. I am not Simone. I am Elise.'

Marion stepped back, her grey eyes wide. She looked appealingly at her

aunt; but that lady, her gaze bent on Simone, appeared to be making a

reckoning and a remembrance on her own account. Sampson still smiled

from the window seat.

Marion looked again from Simone to the woman who stood, her mouth closed

tight, by the door. What could have happened to affect Simone's mind

thus?

'But,' she faltered, 'Elise is upstairs in her room. Are there two

Elises?'

'I told my brother,' rang out Mistress Keziah's clear voice, 'I told my

brother yonder girl was not a de Delauret. Had your nurse a child, my

dear?' she asked, turning to Simone.

'Why, yes,' said Simone slowly. 'Let me see now. What was she called?

Wait a minute. I have it! Suzanne Marie. We used to play together.

How clear it is all growing!'

There was a curious pause. Marion stepped forward, a strange look on

her colourless face.

'Then Suzanne Marie is upstairs,' triumphantly said Mistress Keziah.

'The whole thing is clear.'

A wail broke from Marion's lips. 'I cannot understand it. Aunt Keziah,

are we all going mad?'

Simone, staring across at Victoire, seemed not to hear, and Sampson,

watching the girl, saw that she was slowly linking together the

scattered chain of her memories.

'The woman Victoire will doubtless explain,' said Mistress Keziah. 'I

told your father there was some hideous mystery. The whole village

knew. Any one else but my brother would have known. The woman just put

her own child in Simone's place.'

Again a stupefied silence fell on the room. There was no word from the

woman at the door.

Quite suddenly Marion burst into tears.

'It is horrible,' she said. 'Horrible! Have I been all these years

playing and sleeping and eating with some one called Suzanne Marie, and

the real Elise starving in London? Simone,'--she threw her arms round

the girl's neck,--'forgive me, forgive us.'

Mistress Keziah's old eyes watered as she looked at the girl who had

always been so self-controlled. 'My darling,' she said, 'it was not

your fault.'

'I cannot bear it!' cried Marion. 'And I care not who sees me weep.

Romaine says she found Simone in a fearful state in a gutter in Crutched

Friars. She had been so dreadfully treated that she nearly died. Then

when Romaine had nursed her back to health she could not remember

anything.'

'No,' broke in Simone's toneless voice. 'No. But I remember now. Dear

Marion, do not be unhappy.'

'I cannot help but be unhappy,' said Marion, drying her eyes. 'We ought

to have found out. Somebody ought to have done something. Think of it,

Aunt Keziah, Simone working in London, stitching all day for a bit of

food. I cannot bear it.' Marion sat down and buried her face in her

hands.

'My lamb,' said Mrs. Curnow gently, 'doan't 'ee take on so, doan't 'ee

now.'

'Poor Simone,' said Marion in a strangled voice as she wrestled for

composure, 'and left in a gutter to die! And that hard life! And she

would have been so happy at Garth.'

Simone's low voice here broke in; Simone had grown curiously still. One

would have said she was a detached spectator of affairs that concerned

other people.

'Why did you do it, Victoire?'

Victoire's mouth tightened to a still harder line.

'Why did you do it?' repeated Simone. 'Were you not well treated as my

nurse?'

'I can tell you that,' said Sampson. 'Victoire wanted the estates for

her own child.'

Simone turned round in her chair.

'What estates, M. le Colonel? It is all quite clear to me now--my

memory, I mean. My father told me when he was very ill, just before he

died, that I was to go to England with Victoire and live with a very

dear friend of his until I was grown up. He said nothing of estates.

In fact, I always thought we were poor. But then, I was only a child of

eight.'

'Your mother inherited lands from her father's family, my dear. Your

grandfather's direct heir died. You are the inheritor of his estate.

Victoire knew that.'

'I see,' said Simone. 'I can see it all. So that was why my nurse, to

my great delight, brought little Suzanne Marie with us. I was so

pleased. She was my playmate. I remember how nice it was to have

Suzanne Marie going with me to the strange place. I remember the ship

and the sea. I remember the queer English voices when we landed and got

into the coach to go to London.' Simone spoke slowly as she called up

the minute details of the distant day. 'There was a place Victoire took

us to, to lodge until my guardian came. We had queer sort of meat for

dinner, and a pudding with plums in it. Then we went out into the

street to find a shop. Victoire was going to buy me a new ribbon for my

hair. Probably you remember too, Victoire. "A nice black ribbon," you

said. Then you--you left me in the street. I walked and walked and

cried until I was sick. And then----' Simone stopped. 'I don't think

I want to remember any more, M. le Colonel,' she said, in that quiet

composed voice which drew from Mistress Keziah and Sampson cross-glances

of admiration. 'That is all. And so Suzanne Marie came here and was the

kind Admiral's ward.'

'But was there no one all these years who saw Victoire or Elise?' asked

Colonel Sampson, his voice breaking in on the silence that had followed

Simone's speech. 'No one of the family?'

The figure by the door stirred, and was still again. Marion raised her

head. There was something uncanny in this trying of a silent prisoner.

'Do you know, Marion?' continued the Colonel

'I remember my father told me,' said Marion in a low voice, 'that the

only person left was M. Lebrun the lawyer.'

'Ah!' The exclamation came from Mrs. Curnow. 'So now us do be knowing.

Mistress Penrock and you, Sir, I can tell 'ee. Victoire here have had

as you might say a secret messenger all these years, a man as do be

known for the vilest wretch in the waters. Her's gone to France and come

back, many a time a year, putting into Haunted Cove down along and

making a signal. A foul place that, Sir, such as no God-fearing man

would step into. And they two Victoire and Mademoiselle, have gone down

secret-like, to talk to un and leave messages belike. Always when there

was rough weather or a thick mist, so as they thought, I suppose, no one

would know. But the village knew. The village have known for years

there was something tur'ble wrong. I see it now, plain as my hand. The

only danger for they two was the old lawyer. And when at last the

Admiral arranges for the old gentleman to be a-coming over, Victoire

finds out, and her suddenly learns her dear mother be sick unto death,

and needs a daughter's care.'

'Why?' queried Mistress Keziah. 'Having done all this, why should she

fear meeting the lawyer? In ten years a child alters out of

recognition. Elise and Simone are of the same complexion.'

Simone was watching the face by the door. 'She was afraid,' she said.

'Oh yes,' remarked Sampson. 'She was afraid of the old lawyer, afraid

that in spite of her care a whisper of her secret might have been heard.

It was very clever of her to go away. A lawyer is of an inquiring turn

of mind, as a rule, given to asking questions. And this old gentleman

who, I fear, must be dead, or Victoire would not be with us (I remember

now your talking of him in London, Marion--he was ailing, and his

journey had to be postponed), this old gentleman might have had the wit

to question the two, Victoire and Elise, separately. There might not

have been an exact correspondence in replies. And so Victoire goes out

of the way and leaves Elise to manage the old gentleman herself.'

'And now us do be knowing another thing,' burst out the old housekeeper.

'Us knows why Mademoiselle swore away dear Master Roger's life. Master

Roger had found out about the doings in Haunted Cove.'

Victoire made a sudden movement. At last she spoke.

'Lies!' she snapped out. 'All lies. Mademoiselle did nothing of the

sort. 'Tis all nothing but lies and hatred. You have hated us all the

time, you and you'--nodding from Mrs. Curnow to Marion. She fixed her

beady eyes on Simone. 'You know as well as I know that yonder poor girl

lying upstairs is Elise de Delauret, and you are a playmate of hers whom

I brought over in the kindness of my heart. How could I help it if you

strayed away in London? Did I not seek and seek----'

Colonel Sampson stepped forward. 'If I were you I should say nothing

more.'

'Would you? But I've more to say. Who is there to believe what that

upstart'--she pointed to Simone--'chooses to say? There is no one

living but myself who knows who is Elise de Delauret. I have proof.

Where is yours?'

'This is really very fine,' said Mistress Keziah, her eyes gleaming.

'But quite wasted. Curnow--take----'

'Your proof!' cried Victoire again. 'Her word against mine and

Mademoiselle's upstairs.'

Colonel Sampson was fumbling in his pocket, and drew out a miniature

portrait, a pretty thing, framed in pearls. He handed it to Mistress

Keziah with a significant glance towards Simone, who, apparently

unconcerned, but with a strained look growing on her face, was watching

Victoire. Mistress Keziah looked from the face in the portrait to the

face opposite her. Victoire darted forward and peered over the lady's

shoulder. She caught a quick breath. Just as Victoire's hand clutched

at the miniature Sampson cried out a word of warning. Mrs. Curnow swung

her heavy weight on the woman and bore her aside.

'Take her out,' said Mistress Keziah to the housekeeper. 'Put her in a

chamber by herself and have door and window guarded.'

'I'll put her in the kitchen, if it please you, Mistress,' said Mrs.

Curnow grimly. 'There be plenty there glad and willing to watch what

her does.'

Colonel Sampson opened the door and himself watched Victoire firmly

escorted into the kitchen by Mrs. Curnow.

*CHAPTER XXV*

*A FAMILY PARTY*

'She will be quite safe there,' said Colonel Sampson, returning. 'From

the looks of yonder maids I'll warrant they'll make excellent jailors.'

Simone was still sitting staring at the door by which Victoire had

stood. Her face had grown white, and Marion's arm was around her.

Mistress Keziah held a glass to her lips, and Colonel Sampson opened the

outer door, letting in a breath of sweet air from the Channel.

Presently Marion drew her outside on to the terrace, and the two began

to walk slowly up and down. The sunlight was breaking through the mist,

falling gently on the black and gold heads as the girls passed and

repassed the window of the hall.

'They will be best left alone,' said Mistress Keziah. 'It has been

terrible for them both. Marion has only just found out how much she is

attached to Simone, and she has had over much strain of late. What a

warm heart beats under that quiet exterior of hers! As for Simone!

Well, if I know my brother and my niece, they will endeavour to atone

for the past.' She looked at Sampson. 'What are we to do?' she asked

abruptly.

Sampson strolled over to the hearth, his hands under the lapels of his

coat.

'I am afraid,' said the old woman suddenly.

'Lest Victoire might seek for vengeance?'

'Just that.'

'It is your brother's affair, really, you know,' said Sampson after a

pause.

'Tush! My brother! Has he not been hopelessly blind? Oh!'--a flash of

anger dyed the old woman's cheek. Her eyes gleamed. She looked at the

moment curiously like the old Salt Eagle. 'I told him,' she said

quietly, 'a woman would have known at once that there was something

wrong. He chose his own course. I came back to Garth too late. I am

not going to be too late a second time.'

Sampson paced the hall in silence for a while.

'What do you suggest?' he asked, stopping in his walk.

'I should suggest sending the two at once under escort to Plymouth.

There are plenty of men to spare--my servants and my brother's. The men

must not lose sight of them till they are safely embarked.'

'It is really a case for the law. They should be imprisoned.'

Mistress Keziah shook her head. 'My brother would never do that--for

Marion's sake--for Simone's sake. Once he has got over his wrath, he

will only have one desire, and that to end the whole contemptible story.

If I thought he was coming back to-morrow, I would counsel waiting. But

I know he can only just have left London. I will take the risk of his

displeasure,' continued the old woman, 'but I am too much afraid of that

terrible woman to let her stay under the same roof with Simone and my

niece. Let us send them away, Colonel. And the whole thing will be

done with.'

For some time the two talked together. Colonel Sampson, who had a man's

dislike of meddling with another man's affairs, presently was convinced

that Mistress Keziah was right.

'I will see them safely embarked myself, I think, or lodge them

somewhere in Plymouth until the Admiral returns. Perhaps that will be

the best.'

'I care not,' said Mistress Keziah, 'so long as they leave Garth this

day.'

After a time Mistress Keziah picked up the miniature again, and looked

at Sampson. 'I am an old woman,' she said, 'and a mighty curious one.'

Sampson made a low bow. 'To gratify your curiosity is a pleasure.

Elise d'Artois was the most beautiful woman in France. For a spell she

did me the honour to accept me among her acquaintance. Then de Delauret

came along.... Years passed--more than I care to remember. Then, at

Lady Fairfax's house, I was confronted by Simone. Her face began to

haunt me. One afternoon, in the coach with Marion she suddenly turned

on me with her mother's smile, and I vow I thought the years had turned

back, and I was speaking to the peerless Elise d'Artois. Not dreaming

that that very night our dear Marion and Elise's daughter would have

sore need of me, I took horse and rode into Hertfordshire to my house

there. In a secret drawer in my cabinet was the miniature. My plan was

to show it to Sir John, and then confer as to what steps should be

taken. When I got back after two days, I found the Fairfax house

deserted, a letter awaiting me. The rest you know.'

'It is a vastly strange world,' commented Mistress Keziah. She sat

musing, turning over the miniature.

'Why do you smile?' queried Sampson.

'I was thinking of my sister Constance, and many things. She has a way

of saying that Garth is a wigwam in a forest, where nothing happens save

that the sun rises and sets; a desert island where the tide comes in and

the tide goes out. I'll wager she will consider attendance on Her

Majesty a poor exchange for this day's work.'

Mistress Keziah rose as she spoke, and passed out on to the terrace,

while Sampson sought the stables, to arrange details of the unpleasant

journey that awaited him.

It happened that at that moment Lady Fairfax was sitting at the

dinner-table of the same inn at Postbridge where Marion and Roger had

halted in the course of their ride. Captain Beckenham faced her across

the board, and the two were listening to mine host's recital of events

which had, in his eyes, lent the same importance to the Cornwall Road

that marks a field of battle on the morrow of the fight. The fact that

the innkeeper had been unaware at the time of the significance of the

appearance of the headlong riders, the pursuing soldiers, the chariots

and horsemen stopping at his door, and was thus distinctly a day behind

the fair, did not in the least take from his powers as a story teller.

The lady and gentleman hearkened as they ate, and forbore to explain

that they themselves were, in a manner of speaking, a belated rearguard

of the procession, the epilogue to the play. Lady Fairfax listened with

a grave expression thoroughly appreciated by her companion across the

table. For a considerable distance now, at each inn where they had

stopped for food or sleep, they had been regaled with the story which

was at heart the same, but disguised according to the particular fancy

of each succeeding narrator. The entertainment afforded them was thus

akin to an air with variations, each variation a little more tortured

than the last, so that it was a matter for considerable skill on the

hearers' part to beat out the original tune.

Until she had heard at Exeter from the Governor himself that the

prisoner was safe from the reach of justice, Lady Fairfax had been too

anxious to pay much heed to the rumours that had run to meet her on her

way. Once that assurance gained, however, she gave herself up to a more

leisurely journey, and failed not to profit by its diversions.

Mine host, having at length satisfied himself that he had done his duty

as a story teller: shown the prisoner bearing marks of severe

punishment, with bandaged head and broken arm, scarcely able to sit in

the saddle; the lady accompanying him so unearthly pale and wrung with

anguish that one might have thought she had got out of her coffin that

morning, instead of out of her bed; after these two unfortunates a whole

regiment, bloodthirsty and hot for vengeance, riding upon the wings of

the wind; a broken-hearted father dead on the way beyond Salisbury; and

innumerable relatives wearing the track into ditches in their haste to

hear the reading of the will: after all this, I say, mine host retired

to the kitchen with the bottle of his own wine to which Lady Fairfax had

invited him, and left his travellers to sup in peace. As he closed the

door, the eyes of the two guests met in undisguised merriment.

'I vow I am beginning to be sorry,' said Lady Fairfax, 'that to-morrow

we arrive at Garth. 'Twill be an end of these Iliads. Had my brother

only lived fifty miles farther west, why, my niece might have finished

the journey with the dead body of the prisoner strapped across her

saddle-bow. There is still one mystery,' she added, 'and with time we

might have solved it. No one has told us anything about Colonel

Sampson.'

'He is part of the pursuing army, I should imagine,' said Beckenham.

'That is but the outside of the affair, of course,' retorted the lady.

'The inmost heart thereof is the reason for his mysterious riding into

the country just when my husband was away, and he had promised a

father's care to my niece. Men are a faithless breed.'

'There will doubtless be some reason,' Beckenham replied.

'Doubtless! Doubtless!' mocked Lady Fairfax. 'He may have gone to count

the milestones on the Oxford Road, or write a sonnet to the moon.' She

yawned behind her pretty hand as she spoke, and presently rising, bade

her companion good-night.

Lady Fairfax's curiosity was not destined to consume her outright. The

travellers being early on their way in the morning, it happened that the

coach had covered most of the distance to Garth, and its fair occupant

was looking with secret exultation for old landmarks, when Captain

Beckenham rode up to announce the approach of another vehicle just a

little distance behind.

Lady Fairfax put her head out of the coach door.

'It cannot be the heart-broken father of our host's story,' she said,

'for I see my own servant, Reuben, on the box. Let us wait, Captain

Beckenham. It would appear that at last something is going to happen. I

am weary of riding ever on the morrow of the event.'

The vehicle proved to be the Penrock coach, returning from Plymouth.

There, on the previous evening, Colonel Sampson had escorted Victoire

and Elise, leaving them with a bodyguard of Mistress Keziah's providing

until her brother should return. Nothing loth, Mr. Sampson accepted

Lady Fairfax's invitation to enter her own coach, and Beckenham,

suddenly finding he was weary of the saddle, gave his horse to Reuben

and followed the Colonel.

'Tell them to drive more slowly,' ordered Lady Fairfax. 'My ears have

of late been shaken into my boots. Now, Sir, and what have you to say?'

The Colonel, it appeared, had much to say. The story so absorbed his

fair hearer's attention that the landmarks of the homecoming journey

were left ungreeted. Lady Fairfax listened to the history of Roger's

escape in growing amazement.

'My little niece!' she exclaimed from time to time. 'Who would have

thought it possible?'

Before she had realised the extent of her wonder at Marion's activities,

she found herself out of her depth, speechless, confounded, at Sampson's

revelations concerning Madame Romaine's little sempstress.

From Simone back to Marion, from Marion and the unknown Roger back to

Simone, Lady Fairfax's thoughts ran when at last Sampson paused in his

recital. The Colonel, watching her face, was secretly amused. The

anger which had been stored up for him on account of his 'desertion' of

Marion never even found voice; the dismay and disappointment Lady

Fairfax had felt in the manner of her niece's departure from Kensington

was entirely swallowed up in the thought of this new, strange Marion.

'My little niece,' she murmured again.

While she was still pondering, the two coaches drove into Garth. A

minute later, Marion's arms were round her, Marion's lips on her cheek.

'Dear, dear Aunt Constance,' she cried, 'I never dreamed you would come

all this way to Cornwall.'

'I suppose you thought I should be content to sit in Tunbridge playing

"I love my Love with an A,"' retorted the lady, her eyes nevertheless

suspiciously moist as she kissed her niece. She held the girl at arm's

length. 'Dear heart,' she said gently, 'I have feared for you greatly,

all these days.'

'There was no other way,' said Marion, in tremulous tones. 'Do not be

angered with me, Aunt Constance.'

'And a fine story you have left behind,' grumbled Lady Fairfax,

recovering her old manner. 'Rumours of runaway marriages flying round

Kensington, and the Court not quite certain whether it can any longer

tolerate the aunt of such a niece.'

Marion's smiling eyes ran beyond the lady to two figures just emerging

from the courtyard.

'Why, there is Captain Beckenham,' she cried. 'Welcome to Garth, Sir.'

Then as she rose from her curtsey, 'Simone is on the terrace,' she added

gravely.

'Oho!' said Lady Fairfax softly, with a quick look at her niece as,

followed by Sampson and Beckenham, the two walked round into the garden.

'Blows the wind from that quarter? Faith! 'Tis an uncertain world.

And not a stone of this old place altered,' she mused as she went on.

'But how it has shrunk! It seemed to me, when I was a child playing in

this garden, to be as big as the Tower of London.' She stopped and

looked at the grey gabled house. 'Not a stone altered,' she repeated.

'And I declare if that isn't my elder sister Keziah sitting yonder.

Dear, dear, I hope I'm not going to be whipped. And where is---- Ah!

Simone, come here at once!'

Simone, glancing from Lady Fairfax to the gentleman behind her, was very

glad to hide her sudden confusion under cover of a curtsey directed to

both new comers at once. Lady Fairfax passed her arm affectionately

round the girl, and with Marion on the other side walked across to the

terrace.

'I was always terrified of your Aunt Keziah,' she murmured. 'I shall

look to you two for protection. Ten years since we met.'

She nevertheless gently disengaged her arms as the three crossed the

stone flags, and by mutual consent, while the sisters greeted each

other, the two girls turned to talk to Sampson and Beckenham.

'It is over,' called Lady Fairfax presently. 'You may approach. Come

and sit down. I want to hear the whole story again.'

Marion gently placed Simone in the spare seat of the stone bench and

herself stood with one hand gently resting on Mistress Keziah's

shoulder. The bond between herself and her Aunt Constance was a very

tender one, but there was now another presence in her little shrine of

loved ones. Mistress Keziah's face was wearing a hard look which Marion

rightly guessed was only a mask. And the old lady was tired. The marks

of the vigils she had kept on Marion's account could not at once be

effaced.

'Have you not already heard it all, Aunt Constance?' asked Marion.

'A repetition would be good for one's pride, my dear,'

'How so?' queried Marion.

'How so? Thus. Here I come, after sleepless nights, after completely

undoing the peace and quiet of the Court and setting Her Majesty at her

wits' end by reason of the loss of her waiting woman and the most

important officer in her suite; here I come, I say, with a Royal Pardon

in my pocket. And it is of no consequence whatever. All I do is to sit

and hear what happened the day before. I feel as if I simply were not

here. I might just as well have stayed in Tunbridge and--ah! there is

that dear soul Curnow. I must go and speak to her. Would the Admiral

but arrive now, we should feel like Moses and all the prophets.'

'Constance, Constance!' remonstrated her sister.

Lady Fairfax shot a glance at the two girls as she went towards the

door. 'I told you,' she said, 'just what...' The rest of her sentence

was drowned in Mrs. Curnow's greeting.

The household of Garth now gave itself up to an unaccustomed hilarity: a

joy that was all the more heartfelt because of the secure, quiet

happiness that underlay the merriment. Lady Fairfax's presence

successfully bridged the gap between the old and the new; she made

Simone feel that her place must always have been at Garth, made Marion

look away from the uneasy yesterdays to the ever-brightening morrows.

Mistress Keziah, it is true, wore still her old severity, but at times

there were hints of the gentleness and love underlying her hard

exterior. Even the Admiral, arriving weary and shaken, was fain to

throw off with the dusty apparel of his journey the sorrow and grief of

the last few weeks.

After one roaring fit of rage at his own folly, and one grim day spent

at Plymouth, the old man wisely put the past behind him and settled down

at the head of the merry company with supreme content. While seeking

from Jeffreys a pardon which he was informed had already been granted by

the King, the Admiral had seized the moment to lay down the burden of

office as the special magistrate of the Lord Chancellor. And although

Lady Fairfax and her brother failed not each to rate the other on the

subject of the uselessness of Royal Pardons, there was an unspoken

thanksgiving in their hearts; for the Deputy Governor's special courier,

who had entered the gates of Exeter an hour after Marion and Roger had

ridden out, had carried a death warrant in his saddlebag.

When Sir John Fairfax at last arrived bearing a summons for his wife to

return to Her Majesty's service--a summons which included the unwilling

Beckenham,--Lady Fairfax begged the Admiral to be allowed to carry her

niece back to resume her interrupted visit. But the Admiral professed

himself fearful of what might happen. Kensington was a place where

one's peace of mind was insecure, and where, moreover, a 'little niece'

was apt to change overmuch for her father's liking. When Lady Fairfax

asserted that the 'little niece' was merely growing up, the Admiral

pished and pshawed. Marion should stay where she was, he said, until

Simone could be induced to go over and visit the d'Artois estates. When

that happened--the Admiral looked as he spoke at Beckenham walking in

the garden with Simone--why, then, he would come and bring Marion

himself, perhaps; but he made no promises. And with that Lady Fairfax

was obliged to be content.

*CHAPTER XXVI*

*'SUMER IS A-COMEN IN'*

_Sumer is a comen in,_

_Loud sing cuccu._

_Groweth seed and bloweth mead_

_And springeth the wood nu._

_Sing cuccu._

Another spring had come to the West Country, crying over hill and dale

its clear song of joy. Once more salt airs came up from the Channel,

once more a delicious unrest filled the hearts of men.

Marion walked out of the house alone and sought the headland crowned

with furze whence she and Roger, a year before, had seen the _Fair

Return_ sail out of the harbour. The year had made a difference to

Marion, adding an indefinable shade of resolution to lip and brow; there

was a touch of gravity in the quiet grey eyes, a hint of ripening in the

girlish figure.

Something more than the restlessness of spring had driven Marion to the

solitude of the cliff side, something more than the emptiness of the

house which Simone had just left for a visit to her French home,

something more than the realisation that soon she would be in Kensington

again with her aunt.

Marion walked idly about the headland, pacing to and fro along the

grassy stretch. From time to time her eyes swept the sunlit Channel.

Presently she climbed to a higher ridge of the slope and sat down on the

stone ledge that gave a view of the harbour.

A soft haze clung to the river mouth, and through it the spikes of the

masts rose with a gentle motion. Suddenly Marion sprang to her feet and

ran along a few yards to a higher point of the headland. Among the

small fishing boats of the Garth men she could clearly discern the lines

of a larger vessel. With her hand shading her eyes she studied the rig

of the newcomer. Men were still busy on her decks. She had clearly

just sailed into port.

As Marion stood, there was the sound of approaching footsteps on the

hillside. She dropped her hand, turned, and remained motionless, her

fingers plucking at the fold of her gown. A tall, bronzed figure,

walking with a seaman's roll, was bearing round the cliff.

A wave of colour ran over Marion's face as the figure approached, and

for a few seconds she struggled with a wild desire to turn and flee.

Then she heard her own voice speaking, and only a slight tremor, a

deeper tone, betrayed her feeling.

'You always were a very sudden person, Roger,' she said.

Roger tossed his seaman's cap on the ground and gently took her hands.

The dark eyes, with gold lights dancing in the brown, looked merrily

into the steady grey ones. The look sobered, and Marion's glance fell.

She did not see the brown eyes run over her face and shining, red-gold

hair.

For a long second they stood thus. Then Roger suddenly dropped his face

into the hands he held.

With a tremulous laugh Marion withdrew her fingers and lightly touched

the dark head.

'There's that patch of hair as stiff as ever,' she said.

Roger ran his hand over his head with the old, rueful expression.

'I know,' he said. 'And I shall grow bald all round it, and it will

stand up so to the end. I knew a sailor's who stood up, harder than

mine. But never mind my hair, Mawfy. Let me look at you again.'

Marion turned away in silence, and they walked along a few yards and

then sat down on the rocky ledge. Soft airs circled the headland; sea

gulls flashed over the sapphire bar of the sea. The sunlight, glancing

over the cliff, fell on the gold and black heads, on the fair face and

the dark face, on the slender fingers held in the firm, brown hand. Out

in the copses the spring song joyously rang again.

_Sumer is a comen in,_

_Loud sing cuccu._

_Groweth seed and bloweth mead_

_And springeth the wood nu._

_Sing cuccu._