"Two hundred guineas!!! Good lack, Sir Humphrey, I hope you've got

those letters safe!"

"Aye! safe enough for the present!"

"About your person?"

"Nay! you idiot! about my person? With so cunning a rascal as Beau

Brocade at my heels!"

"Then in your valise, Sir Humphrey?"

"What? in a strange inn? Think you the fellow would be above breaking

into my room? How do I know that mine host is not one of his boon

companions? The rascal has many friends hereabouts."

"B ... b ... but what have you done with them, Sir Humphrey?" queried

the attorney, in despair.

"In your ear, Master Mittachip," quoth his Honour, instinctively

lowering his voice, lest the walls of the old inn had ears. "I thought

the best plan was to hide the letters there, where Lady Patience and her

chivalrous highwayman would least expect to find them."

"How so, good Sir Humphrey?"

"I was hard pressed, mind you, and had but a few seconds in which to

make up my mind. I dismounted, then lashed my horse into a panic. As I

expected he made straight for his own stables, at anyrate, he galloped

off like mad in the direction of Aldwark, whilst I remained cowering in

the dense scrub, grateful for the mist, which was very dense in the

hollow. There I remained hidden for about half an hour, until all sound

died away on the Heath. What happened to that damned highwayman or to

John Stich I know not, but I did not feel that the letters were safe

whilst they were about my person. I knew that I was some distance from

this village, and still further from Aldwark, and feared that I should

be pursued and overtaken. At any rate, I crept out of my hiding-place

and presently found myself close to a wooden hut, not far from the

roadside: and there, underneath some bramble and thorny stuff, I hid the

letters well out of sight."

"Oh! but they won't be safe there, Sir Humphrey," moaned Mittachip, who

seemed to see the golden vision of two hundred guineas vanishing before

his eyes. "Think of it. Any moment they might be unearthed by some

dolt of a shepherd!"

"'Sdeath! I know that, you fool! They're in a dry place now, but I

only mean them to remain there until you can take them to your own house

at Wirksworth, and put them in your strong room till I have need of

them."

But this suggestion so alarmed Master Mittachip that he lost his balance

and nearly fell off the edge of his chair.

"I, Sir Humphrey? .... I ... cross that lonely Heath again? ... and with

those letters about my person?..."

"Tush, man! the footpads wouldn't take letters from you, and Beau

Brocade will be keeping an eye on me, and wouldn't again molest you..."

"Aye! but he knows I enjoy the honour of your confidence, good Sir

Humphrey! Believe me, the letters would not be safe with me."

"Adsbud!" said his Honour, firmly, "then I'll have to find someone else

to take care of those letters for me, and," he added significantly, "to

earn the two hundred guineas."

Master Mittachip gave an anxious gasp. That two hundred guineas!!! the

ultimate ambition of his sordid, miserable existence! No! he would not

miss that! ... and yet he dreaded the Heath ... and was in terror of

Beau Brocade ... and he dreaded his Honour's anger ten thousand times

more than either: that anger would be terrible if, having taken charge

of the letters, he should be robbed of them.

The alternative was an awful one! He racked his tortuous brain for a

likely issue. Sir Humphrey had risen, kicked his chair to one side, and

made as if he would go.

"Now, harkee, friend Mittachip," he said firmly, "I want those letters

placed somewhere in absolute safety, where neither Lady Patience's

influence nor her chivalrous highwayman could possibly get at them. If

you find a way and means of doing this for me, the two hundred guineas

are yours. But if I have to manage this business myself, if I have to

take the almost certain risk of being robbed of the letters, if I carry

them about my own person, then you shall not get another shilling from

me. Now you can think this matter over. I'll across to speak to Squire

West, and see if I can't get that rascally highwayman captured and

clapped into jail before the day is done."

He took up his hat, and threw his coat over his arm. The situation was

getting desperate.

Then suddenly Master Mittachip had an idea.

"I have it, Sir Humphrey," he cried excitedly. "I have it! A perfectly

safe way of conveying those letters to my strong room at Wirksworth!"

"Let's have it, then."

"I have bought some sheep of a farmer from over Aldwark way, for a

client at Wirksworth. Here," he added, pulling a paper out of his

pocket and handing it up to Sir Humphrey, "is the receipt and tally for

them. Jock Miggs--Master Crabtree's shepherd--is taking the sheep to

the town to-day. He'll most likely put up for the night on the Heath."

"Well?" queried Sir Humphrey.

"Well! Jock Miggs can neither read nor write."

"Of course not."

"Let us send _him_ to Wirksworth and tell him to leave the packet of

letters at my house in charge of my clerk, Master Duffy, who will put it

in the strong room until you want them. Duffy started for Wirksworth at

daybreak this morning, and should be there by nightfall."

"Pshaw, man! would you have me trust such valuable letters to a fool of

a shepherd?"

"Nay, Sir Humphrey, but that is our safeguard. Beau Brocade never

touches the poor or the peasantry, and certainly would never suspect

Jock Miggs of being in your Honour's confidence, whilst the ordinary

footpads would take no count of him. He is worth neither powder nor

shot."

"That's true enough!"

"I should tell Miggs that the papers are accounts for the sheep, and

promise him a silver crown if he delivers them safely at my door. We

can put the letters in a sealed packet; no one would ever suspect him."

There was silence in the inn parlour for awhile. His Honour stood with

legs apart, opposite the tiny leaded window, gazing out into vacancy,

whilst Master Mittachip fixed his eyes meditatively on the broad back of

his noble patron. What a deal depended on what was going on at the

present moment in Sir Humphrey's active brain.

Suddenly his Honour turned on his heel.

"Odd's fish, Master Mittachip," he said, "but your plan is none so bad

after all."

The attorney heaved a deep sigh of relief, and began mopping his beady

forehead. The tension had been acute. This lengthy, agitating

interview had been extremely trying. So much hung in the balance, and

so much had depended upon that very uncertain quantity, his Honour's

temper. But now the worst was over. Sir Humphrey was a man of

determination, who never changed his mind once that mind was made up,

and who carried any undertaking through with set purpose and unflinching

will.

"Well! and when can I see that shepherd you speak of?" he asked.

"If your Honour would ride over on the Heath with me this afternoon,"

suggested the attorney, "I doubt not but we should come across Jock

Miggs and his sheep, and in any case he would be at the hut by

nightfall."

"Very good!" rejoined his Honour. "Do you see that a couple of horses

be ready for us. We can start as soon as I have spoken with Squire West

and laid my information against that d--d Beau Brocade. With a posse of

soldiers at his heels he's less likely to worry us, eh, old scarecrow?"

"We shall not be safe, your Honour," assented worthy Master Mittachip,

"until the rascal is dangling six feet above the ground. In the

meanwhile," he added, seeing that Sir Humphrey was making for the door,

"your Honour will be pleased to give me back that receipt and tally for

the sheep I showed you just now."

But already his Honour was hurrying down the narrow passage, eager to

get through the business that would lay his enemy by the heels, and

render him safe in the possession of the important letters which were to

secure him Lady Patience's hand and fortune.

"All right!" he shouted back lustily, "it's safe enough in my pocket.

I'll give it you back on my return."

Left alone in the dingy, black-raftered parlour, Master Mittachip sat

pondering for awhile, his pale, watery eyes blinking at times with the

intensity of his satisfaction. Now for a little good luck--and he had

no cause to fear the reverse--and that glorious vision of two hundred

golden guineas would become a splendid reality. The advice he had given

Sir Humphrey was undoubtedly the safest which he could offer. Beau

Brocade, even with a posse of soldiers at his heels, was still a potent

personality on the Heath, and it certainly looked as if her ladyship had

cajoled him into her service. No one knew really who his friends and

accomplices were: on and about Brassing Moor he could reckon on the help

of most of the poorer villagers.

But Jock Miggs at any rate was safe, alike from the daring highwayman

and the more humble footpad. The former would not suspect him, and the

latter would leave a poor shepherd severely alone. The footpath from the

hut by the roadside to the town of Wirksworth was but a matter of three

or four miles, and for a silver crown the shepherd would be ready enough

to take a sealed packet to the house of Master Mittachip in Fulsome

Street.

Yes! it was all going to be for the best, in this best possible world,

and as Master Mittachip thought over it all, he rubbed his thin,

claw-like hands contentedly together.

CHAPTER XXII

AN INTERLUDE

The Packhorse Inn, lower down the village, was not nearly so frequented

as was the Royal George. Its meagre, dilapidated appearance frightened

most customers away. A few yokels only patronised it to the extent of

sipping their small ale there, in the parlour when it was wet, or

outside the porch when it was fine.

The few--very few--travellers, whom accident mostly brought to

Brassington, invariably preferred the more solid, substantial inn on the

green, but when it was a question of finding safe shelter for his

wounded friend, John Stich unhesitatingly chose the Packhorse. He had

improvised a rough kind of stretcher, with the help of the cushions from

Lady Patience's coach, and on this, with the aid of Timothy the groom,

he had carried Bathurst all the way across two miles of Heath into

Brassington. The march had been terribly wearisome: the wounded man,

fevered with past excitement, had become light-headed, and during

intervals of lucidity was suffering acutely from his wound.

Lady Patience could not bring herself to leave him. A feeling she could

not have described seemed to keep her enchained beside this man, whom

but a few hours ago she had never seen, but in whom she felt now that

all her hopes had centred. He had asked her to trust him, and since

then had only recovered consciousness to plead to her with mute, aching

eyes not to take away that trust which she had given him.

Fortunately, the noted bad state of the roads on Brassing Moor, which at

any time might prove impassable for the coach, had caused her to take

her own saddle as part of her equipment for her journey to London. This

John Stich had fixed for her on Jack o' Lantern's back, and the faithful

beast, as if guessing the sad plight of his master, carried her

ladyship, with Mistress Betty clinging on behind, with lamb-like

gentleness down the narrow bridle-path to Brassington.

Thomas, the driver, had been left in charge of the coach, with orders to

find his way as quickly as may be along the road to Wirksworth.

It had been Bathurst's firmly-expressed wish that they should put up at

Brassington, at any rate for the night. Besides being the nearest

point, it was also the most central, whence a sharp lookout could be

kept on Sir Humphrey Challoner's movements. Everything depended now on

how serious the young man's wound turned out to be.

Patience felt that without his help she was indeed powerless to fight

her cunning enemy. She was never for one moment in doubt as to the

motive which prompted Sir Humphrey Challoner to steal the letters. He

meant to hold them as a weapon over her to enforce the acceptance of his

suit; this she knew well enough. Her instincts, rendered doubly acute

by the imminence of the peril, warned her that the Squire of Harrington

meant to throw all scruples to the wind, and would in wanton revenge

sacrifice Philip by destroying the letters, if she fought or defied him

openly.

Patience bethought her of the scene at the forge, when Bathurst's ready

wit had saved her brother from the officious and rapacious soldiers: now

that the terrible situation had to be met with keenness and cunning, she

once more turned, with hope in her heart, to the one man who could save

Philip again: but he, alas! lay helpless. And all along the weary way

to Brassington she was listening with aching heart and throbbing temples

to his wild, delirious words and occasional, quickly-suppressed moans.

However, they reached the Packhorse at last in the small hours of the

morning: money, lavishly distributed by Lady Patience, secured the one

comfortable room in the inn for the wounded man.

As soon as the day broke John Stich went in quest of Master Prosser, the

leech, a gentleman famed for his skill and learning. Already the rest

on a good bed, and Lady Patience's cool hand and gentle words, had done

much to soothe the patient. Youth and an iron constitution quickly did

the rest.

The leech pronounced the wound to be neither deep nor serious, and the

extraction of the ball caused the sufferer much relief.

Within an hour after the worthy man's visit, Jack Bathurst had fallen

into a refreshing sleep, and at John Stich's earnest pleading, Lady

Patience had thrown herself on a bed in the small room which she had

secured for herself and Mistress Betty, and had at last managed to get

some rest.

The sun was already well up in the heavens when Jack awoke. His eyes,

as soon as they opened, sought anxiously for her dear presence in the

room.

"Feel better, Captain?" asked John Stich, who had been watching

faithfully by his side.

"I feel a giant, honest friend," replied the young man. "Help me up,

will you?"

"The leech said you ought to keep quiet for a bit, Captain," protested

the smith.

"Oho! he did, did he?" laughed Jack, gaily. "Well! go tell him, friend,

from me, that he is an ass."

"Where is she, John?" he asked quietly, after a slight pause.

"In the next room, Captain."

"Resting?"

"Aye! she never left your side since you fainted on the Heath."

"I know--I know, friend," said Jack, with a short, deep sigh; "think you

I could not feel her hand..."

He checked himself abruptly, and with the help of John Stich raised

himself from the bed. He looked ruefully at his stained clothes, and a

quaint, pleasant smile chased away the last look of weariness and

suffering from his face.

"Nay! what a plight for Beau Brocade in which to meet the lady of his

dreams, eh, John? Here, help me to make myself presentable! Run down

quickly to mine host, borrow brushes and combs, and anything you can lay

hands on. I am not fit to appear before her eyes."

"Then will you keep quite still, Captain, until I return? And keep your

arm quietly in the sling? The leech said..."

"Never mind what the leech said, run, John ... the sight of myself in

that glass there causes me more pain than this stupid scratch. Run

quickly, John, for I hear her footstep in the next room.... I'll not

move from the edge of this bed, I swear it, if you'll only run."

He kept his word and never stirred from where he sat; but he strained

his ears to listen, for through the thin partition wall he could just

hear her footstep on the rough wooden floor, and occasionally her voice

when she spoke to Betty.

Half an hour later, when John Stich had done his best to valet and dress

him, he waited upon her ladyship at breakfast in the parlour downstairs.

She came forward to greet him, her dainty hand outstretched, her eyes

anxiously scanning his face.

"You should not have risen yet, sir," she said half shyly as he pressed

her finger-tips to his lips, "your poor wounded shoulder..."

"Nay, with your pardon, madam," he said lightly, "'tis well already

since your sweet hand has tended it."

"'Twas my desire to nurse you awhile longer, and not allow you to risk

your life for me again."

"My life? Nay! I'll trust that to mine old enemy, Fortune: she has

ta'en care of it all these years, that I might better now place it at

your service."

She said nothing, for she felt unaccountably shy. She, who had had half

the gilded youth of England at her feet, found no light bantering word

with which to meet this man; and beneath his ardent gaze she felt

herself blushing like a school miss at her first ball.

"Will you honour me, sir," she said at last, "by partaking of breakfast

with me?"

All cares and troubles seemed forgotten. He sat down at the table

opposite to her, and together they drank tea, and ate eggs and bread and

butter: and there was so much to talk about that often they would both

become quite silent, and say all there was to say just with their eyes.

He told her about the Heath which he knew and loved so well, the beauty

of the sunrise far out behind the Tors, the birds and beasts and their

haunts and habits, the heron on the marshy ground, the cheeky robins on

the branches of the bramble, the lizards and tiny frogs and toads: all

that enchanting world which peopled the Moor and had made it a home for

him.

And she listened to it all, for he had a deep, tender, caressing voice,

which was always good to hear, and she was happy, for she was young, and

the world in which she dwelt was very beautiful.

Yet she found this happiness which she felt, quite incomprehensible: she

even chid herself for feeling it, for the outside world was still the

same, and her brother still in peril. He, the man, alone knew whither

he was drifting; he knew that he loved her with every fibre of his

being, and that she was as immeasurably beyond him as the stars.

He knew what this happiness meant, and that it could but live a day, an

hour. Therefore he drained the cup to its full measure, enjoying each

fraction of a second of this one glorious hour, watching her as she

smiled, as she sipped her tea, as she blushed when she met his eyes.

And sometimes--for he was clumsy with his one arm in a sling--sometimes

as she helped him in the thousand and one little ways of which women

alone possess the enchanting secret, her hand would touch his, just for

one moment, like a bird on the wing, and he, the poor outlaw, saw heaven

open before him, and seeing it, was content.

Outside an early September sun was flooding the little village street

with its golden light. They did not dare to show themselves at the

window, lest either of them should be recognised, so they had drawn the

thin muslin curtain across the casement, and shut out the earth from

this little kingdom of their own.

Only at times the bleating of a flock of sheep, or the melancholy lowing

of cattle would come to them from afar, or from the window-sill the

sweet fragrance of a pot of mignonette.

CHAPTER XXIII

A DARING PLAN

It was close on ten o'clock when they came back to earth once more.

A peremptory knock at the door had roused them both from their dreams.

Bathurst rose to open, and there stood John Stich and Mistress Betty,

both looking somewhat flurried and guilty, and both obviously brimming

over with news.

"My lady! my lady!" cried Betty, excitedly, as soon as she caught her

mistress's eye, "I have just spied Sir Humphrey Challoner at the window

of the Royal George, just over the green yonder."

"Give me leave, Captain," added John Stich, who was busy rolling up his

sleeves above his powerful arms, "give me leave, and I'll make the rogue

disgorge those letters in a trice."

"You'd not succeed, honest friend," mused Bathurst, "and might get

yourself in a devil of a hole to boot."

"Nay, Captain," asserted John, emphatically, "'tis no time now for the

wearing of kid gloves. I was on the green a moment ago, and spied that

ravenous scarecrow, Mittachip, conversing with the beadle outside the

Court House, where Squire West is sitting."

"Well?"

"When the beadle had gone, Master Mittachip walked across the green and

went straight to the Royal George. Be gy! what does that mean,

Captain?"

"Oho!" laughed Jack, much amused at the smith's earnestness, "it means

that Sir Humphrey Challoner intends to lay information against one Beau

Brocade, the noted highwayman, and to see how nice he'll look with a

rope round his neck and dangling six foot from the ground."

An involuntary cry from Lady Patience, however drowned the laughter on

his lips.

"Tush, man!" he added seriously, "here's a mighty fine piece of work

we're doing, frightening her ladyship..."

But John Stich was scowling more heavily than ever.

"If the scoundrel should dare..." he muttered, clenching his huge fists.

His attitude was so threatening, and his expression so menacing, that in

the midst of her new anxiety Lady Patience herself could not help

smiling. Beau Brocade laughed outright.

"Dare?..." he said lightly. "Why, of course he'll dare. He's eager

enough in the pursuit of mischief, and must save the devil all the

trouble of showing him the way. But now," he added more seriously, and

turning to Mistress Betty, "tell me, child, saw you Sir Humphrey

clearly?"

"Aye! clear as daylight," she retorted, "the old beast..."

"How was he dressed?"

"Just like he was yesterday, sir. A brown coat, embroidered waistcoat,

buff breeches, riding-boots, three-cornered hat, and he had in his hand

a gold-headed riding-crop."

"Child!--child!" cried Bathurst, joyfully, "an those bright eyes of

yours have not deceived you, yours'll be the glory of having saved us

all."

"What are you going to do?" asked Patience, eagerly.

"Pit my poor wits against those of Sir Humphrey Challoner," he replied

gaily.

"I don't quite understand."

He came up quite close to her and tried to meet her eyes.

"But you trust me?" he asked.

And she murmured,--

"Absolutely."

"May Heaven bless you for that word!" he said earnestly. "Then will you

deign to do as I shall direct?"

"Entirely."

"Very well! Then whilst friend Stich will fetch my hat for me, will you

write out a formal plaint, signed with your full name, stating that last

night on the Heath you were waylaid and robbed by a man, whom I, your

courier, saw quite plainly, and whom you have desired me to denounce?"

"But..."

"I entreat you there's not a moment to be lost," he urged, taking pen,

ink and paper from the old-fashioned desk close by, and placing them

before her.

"I'll do as you wish, of course," she said, "but what is your purpose?"

"For the present to take your ladyship's plaint over to his Honour,

Squire West, at the Court House."

"You'll be seen and recognised and..."

"Not I. One or two of the yokels may perhaps guess who I am, but they'd

do me no harm. I entreat you, do as I bid you. Every second wasted may

imperil our chance of safety."

He had such an air of quiet command about him that she instinctively

obeyed him and wrote out the plaint as he directed, then gave it in his

charge. He seemed buoyant and full of hope, and though her heart

misgave her, she managed to smile cheerfully when he took leave of her.

"I humbly beg of you," he said finally, as having kissed her finger-tips

he prepared to go, "to wait here against my return, and on no account to

take heed of anything you may see or hear for the next half-hour. An I

mistake not," he added with a merry twinkle in his grey eyes, "there'll

be strange doings at Brassington this noon."

"But you...?" she cried anxiously.

"Nay! I pray you have no fear for me. In your sweet cause I would

challenge the world, and, if you desired it, would remained unscathed."

When he had gone, she sighed, and obedient to his wish, sat waiting

patiently for his return in the dingy little parlour which awhile ago

his presence had made so bright.

It was at this moment that Master Mittachip, after his interview with

the beadle, was in close conversation with Sir Humphrey Challoner at the

Royal George.

Outside the inn, Bathurst turned to John Stich, who had closely followed

him.

"How's my Jack o' Lantern?" he asked quickly.

"As fresh as a daisy, Captain," replied the smith. "I've rubbed him down

myself, and he has had a lovely feed."

"That's good. You have my saddle with you?"

"Oh, aye! I knew you'd want it soon enough. Jack o' Lantern carried it

for you himself, bless 'is 'eart, along with her ladyship and Mistress

Betty."

"Then do you see at once to his being saddled, friend, and bring him

along to the Court House as soon as may be. Hold him in readiness for

me, so that I may mount at a second's notice. You understand?"

"Yes, Captain. I understand that you are running your head into a

d----d noose, and..."

"Easy, easy, friend! Remember..."

"Nay! I'll not forget for whose sake you do it. But you are at a

disadvantage, Captain, with only one good arm."

"Nay, friend," rejoined Bathurst, lightly, "there's many a thing a man

can do with one arm: he can embrace his mistress ... or shoot his

enemy."

The sleepy little village of Brassington lay silent and deserted in the

warmth of the noon-day sun, as Bathurst, having parted from John Stich,

hurried across its narrow streets. As he had passed quickly through the

outer passage of the Packhorse he had caught sight of a few red coats at

the dingy bar of the inn, and presently, when he emerged on the green,

he perceived another lot of them over at the Royal George yonder.

But at this hour the worthy soldiers of His Majesty, King George, were

having their midday rest and their customary glasses of ale, and were

far too busy recounting their adventure with the mysterious stranger at

the forge to the gaffers of Brassington, to take heed of anyone hurrying

along its street.

And thus Bathurst passed quickly and unperceived; the one or two yokels

whom he met gave him a rapid glance. Only the women turned round, as he

went along, to have another look at the handsome stranger with one arm

in a sling.

Outside the Court House he came face to face with Master Inch, whose

pompous dignity seemed at this moment to be severely ruffled.

"Hey, sir! Hey!" he was shouting, and craning his fat neck in search of

Master Mittachip, who had incontinently disappeared, "the Court is

determinating--Squire West will grant you the interview which you

seek.... Lud preserve me!" he added in noble and gigantic wrath, "I do

believe the impious malapert was trying to fool me ... sending me on a

fool's errand ... _me_ ... Jeremiah Inch, beadle of this parish!..."

Bathurst waited a moment or two until the worst of the beadle's anger

had cooled down a little, then he took a silver crown from his pocket,

and pushed past the worthy into the precincts of the house.

"The interview you've arranged for, friend," he said quietly; "will do

equally well for her ladyship's courier."

Master Inch was somewhat taken off his balance. Mittachip's

disappearance and this stranger's impertinence had taken his breath

away. Before he had time to recover it, Bathurst had pressed the silver

crown into his capacious palm.

"Now tell Squire West, friend," he said with that pleasant air of

authority which he knew so well how to assume, "that I am here by the

command of Lady Patience Gascoyne and am waiting to speak with him."

Master Inch was so astonished that he found no word either of protest or

of offended dignity. He looked doubtfully at the crown for a second or

two, weighed it in his mind against the problematical half-crown

promised by the defaulting attorney, and then said majestically,--

"I will impart her ladyship's cognomen to his Honour myself."

The next moment Jack Bathurst found himself alone in a small private

room of the Court House, looking forward with suppressed excitement to

the interview with Squire West, which in a moment of dare-devil, madcap

frolic, yet with absolute coolness and firm determination, he had

already arranged in his mind.

CHAPTER XXIV

HIS HONOUR, SQUIRE WEST

Squire West was an elderly man, with a fine military presence and a

pleasant countenance beneath his bob-tail wig: in his youth he had been

reckoned well-favoured, and had been much petted by the ladies at the

county balls. Owing to this he had retained a certain polish of manner

not often met with in the English country gentry of those times.

He came forward very politely to greet the courier of Lady Patience

Gascoyne.

"What hath procured to Brassington the honour of a message from Lady

Patience Gascoyne?" he asked, motioning Bathurst to a chair, and seating

himself behind his desk.

"Her ladyship herself is staying in the village," replied Jack, "but

would desire her presence to remain unknown for awhile."

"Oh, indeed!" said the Squire, a little flurried at this unexpected

event, "but ... but there is no inn fitting to harbour her ladyship in

this village, and ... and ... if her ladyship would honour me and my

poor house..."

"I thank you, sir, but her ladyship only remains here for an hour or so,

and has despatched me to you on an important errand which brooks of no

delay."

"I am entirely at her ladyship's service."

"Lady Patience was on her way from Stretton Hall, your Honour,"

continued Bathurst, imperturbably, "when her coach was stopped on the

Heath, not very far from here, and her jewels, money, and also certain

valuable papers were stolen from her."

Squire West hemmed and hawed, and fidgeted in his chair: the matter

seemed, strangely enough, to be causing him more annoyance than

surprise.

"Dear! dear!" he muttered deprecatingly.

"Her ladyship has written out her formal plaint," said Jack, laying the

paper before his Honour. "She has sent her coach on to Wirksworth, but

thought your Honour's help here at Brassington would be more useful in

capturing the rogue."

"Aye!" murmured the worthy Squire, still somewhat doubtfully, and with a

frown of perplexity on his jovial face. "We certainly have a posse of

soldiers--a dozen or so at most--quartered in the village just now,

but..."

"But what, your Honour?"

"But to be frank with you, sir, I fear me that 'twill be no good. An I

mistake not, 'tis another exploit of that rascal, Beau Brocade, and the

rogue is so cunning! ... Ah!" he added with a sigh, "we shall have no

peace in this district until we've laid him by the heels."

It was certainly quite obvious that the Squire was none too eager to

send a posse of soldiers after the notorious highwayman. He had himself

enjoyed immunity on the Heath up to now, and feared that it would be his

turn to suffer if he started an active campaign against Beau Brocade.

But Bathurst, from where he sat, had a good view through the casement

window of the village green, and of the Royal George beyond it. Every

moment he expected to see Sir Humphrey Challoner emerging from under the

porch and entering this Court House, when certainly the situation would

become distinctly critical. The Squire's hesitancy nearly drove him

frantic with impatience, yet perforce he had to keep a glib tongue in

his head, and not to betray more than a natural interest in the subject

which he was discussing.

"Aye!" he said gaily, "an it was that rogue Beau Brocade, your Honour,

he's the most daring rascal I've ever met. The whole thing was done in

a trice. Odd's fish! but the fellow would steal your front tooth whilst

he parleyed with you. He fired at me and hit me," he added ruefully,

pointing to his wounded shoulder.

"You were her ladyship's escort on the Heath, sir?"

"Aye! and would wish to be of assistance in the recovery of her

property: more particularly of a packet of letters on which her ladyship

sets great store. If the rogue were captured now, these might be found

about his person."

"Ah! I fear me," quoth his Honour, with singular lack of enthusiasm,

"that 'twill not be so easy, sir, as you imagine."

"How so?"

"Beau Brocade is in league with half the country-side and..."

"Nay! you say you have a posse of soldiers quartered here! Gadzooks! if

I had the chance with these and a few lusty fellows from the village,

I'd soon give an account of any highwayman on this Heath!"

"Dear! dear!" repeated Squire West, sorely puzzled, "a very regrettable

incident indeed."

"Can I so far trespass on your Honour's time," queried Bathurst, with a

slight show of impatience, "as to ask you at least to take note of her

ladyship's plaint?"

"Certainly ... sir, certainly ... hem! ... er.... Of course we must

after the rogue ... the beadle shall cry him out on the green at once,

and..."

It was easy to see that the worthy Squire would far sooner have left the

well-known hero of Brassing Moor severely alone; still, in his official

capacity he was bound to take note of her ladyship's plaint, and to act

as justice demanded.

"'Tis a pity, sir," he said, whilst he sat fidgeting among his papers,

"that you, or perhaps her ladyship, did not see the rogue's face. I

suppose he was masked as usual?"

"Faix! he'd have frightened the sheep on the Heath, maybe, if he was

not. But her ladyship and I noted his hair and stature, and also the

cut and colour of his clothes."

"What was he like?"

"Tall and stout of build, with dark hair turning to grey."

"Nay!" ejaculated Squire West, in obvious relief, "then it was not Beau

Brocade, who is young and slim, so I'm told, though I've never seen him.

You saw him plainly, sir, did you say?"

"Aye! quite plainly, your Honour! And what's more," added Jack,

emphatically, "her ladyship and I both caught sight of him in

Brassington this very morning."

"In Brassington?"

"Outside the Royal George," asserted Bathurst, imperturbably.

"Nay, sir!" cried Squire West, who seemed to have quite lost his air of

indecision, now that he no longer feared to come in direct conflict with

Beau Brocade, "why did you not say this before? Here, Inch! Inch!" he

added, going to the door and shouting lustily across the passage, "where

is that cursed beadle? In Brassington, did you say, sir?"

"I'd almost swear to it, your Honour."

"Nay! then with a bit of good luck, we may at least lay _this_ rascal by

the heels. I would I could rid this neighbourhood of these rogues.

Here, Inch," he continued, as soon as that worthy appeared in the

doorway, "do you listen to what this gentleman has got to say. There's

a d----d rascal in this village and you'll have to cry out his

description at once, and then collar him as soon as may be."

Master Inch placed himself in a posture that was alike dignified and

expectant. His Honour, Squire West, too, was listening eagerly, whilst

Jack Bathurst with perfect _sang-froid_ gave forth the description of

the supposed highwayman.

"He wore a brown coat," he said calmly, "embroidered waistcoat, buff

breeches, riding-boots and three-cornered hat. He is tall and stout of

build, has dark hair slightly turning to grey, and was last seen

carrying a gold-headed riding-crop."

"That's clear enough, Inch, is it not?" queried his Honour.

"It is marvellously pellucid, sir," replied the beadle.

"You may add, friend Beadle," continued Jack, carelessly, "that her

ladyship offers a reward of twenty guineas for that person's immediate

apprehension."

And Master Inch, beadle of the parish of Brassington, flew out of the

door, and out of the Court House, bell in hand, for with a little bit of

good luck it might be that he would be the first to lay his hand on the

tall, stout rascal in a brown coat, and would be the one to earn the

twenty guineas offered for his immediate apprehension.

Squire West himself was over pleased. It was indeed satisfactory to

render service to so great a lady as Lady Patience Gascoyne without

interfering over much with that dare-devil Beau Brocade. The

depredations on Brassing Moor had long been a scandal in the county: it

had oft been thought that Squire West had not been sufficiently active

in trying to rid the Heath of the notorious highwayman, whose exploits

now were famed far and wide. But here was a chance of laying a cursed

rascal by the heels and of showing his zeal in the administration of the

county.

The Squire, in the interim, busied himself with his papers, whilst

Bathurst, who was vainly trying to appear serious and only casually

interested, stood by the open window, watching Master Inch's progress

across the green.

Outside the Court House faithful John Stich stood waiting, with Jack o'

Lantern pawing the ground by his side.

CHAPTER XXV

SUCCESS AND DISAPPOINTMENT

Thus it was that when Sir Humphrey Challoner, after his lengthy

interview with Mittachip, stepped out of the porch of the Royal George

on his way to the Court House, he found the village green singularly

animated.

A number of yokels, including quite a goodly contingent of women and

youngsters, were crowding round Master Inch, the beadle, who was ringing

his bell violently and shouting at the top of his lusty voice,--

"Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! Take note that a robber, vagabond and thief is in

hiding in this village."

Interested in the scene, Sir Humphrey had paused a moment, watching the

pompous beadle and the crowd of gaffers and women. He still carried his

riding-crop, and flicked it with a certain pleasurable satisfaction

against his boot, eagerly anticipating the moment when the village crier

would be giving forth in the same stentorian tones the description of

Beau Brocade, the highwayman.

"Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!" continued Master Inch, with ever-increasing

vigour. "Take note that this vagabond is apparelled in a brown coat,

embroidered waistcoat, buff nether garments and riding-boots. Oyez!

Oyez! Oyez! take note that he carried with him this morning a

gold-headed riding-whip, that he is tall and slightly rotund in his

corporation and has raven hair slightly attenuated with grey.

"Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! take note that if any of you observate such a

person as I have just descriptioned, you are to apprise me of this

instantaneously, so that I may take him by force and violence even into

the presence of his Honour.

"Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!"

The gaffers were putting their heads together, whilst the young ones

whispered eagerly,--

"Brown coat! ... embroidered waistcoat! ... a gold-headed whip!..."

Nay, 'twas often enough that Master Inch had to cry out the description

of some wretched vagabond in hiding in the village, but it was not usual

that such an one was attired in the clothes of a gentleman.

It even struck Sir Humphrey as very strange, and he pushed through the

group of yokels to hear more clearly Master Inch's renewed description

of the rogue.

"Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!"

At first the interest in Master Inch's pompous words was so keen that

Sir Humphrey remained practically unnoticed. One or two villagers,

noting that a gentleman was amongst them, respectfully made way for him,

then one youngster, struck by a sudden idea, stared at him and whispered

to his neighbour,--

"He's got a brown coat on..."

"Aye!" whispered the other in reply, "and an embroiderated waistcoat

too."

Some of them began crowding around Sir Humphrey, so that he raised his

whip and muttered angrily,--

"What the devil are ye all staring at?"

It was at this very moment that Master Inch suddenly caught sight of

him, just in the very middle of a stentorian,--

"Oyez!"

He gave one tremendous gasp, the bell dropped out of his hand, his jaw

fell, his round, beady eyes nearly bulged out of his head.

"'Tis him!" murmured the yokel, who stood close to his ear.

This remark brought back Master Inch to his senses and to the importance

of his position. He raised his large hand above his head and brought it

down with a tremendous clap on Sir Humphrey Challoner's shoulder.

"Aye! 'tis him!" he shouted lustily, "and be gy! he's got guilt writ all

over his face, and 'tis a mighty ugly surface!"

Sir Humphrey, taken completely by surprise, was positively purple with

rage.

"Death and hell!" he cried, clutching his riding-whip significantly.

"What's the meaning of this?"

But already the younger men, full of excitement and eagerness, had

closed round him, impeding his movements, whilst two more lusty fellows

incontinently seized him by the collar. They felt neither respect nor

sympathy for a vagabond attired in gentleman's clothes.

Sir Humphrey tried to shake himself free, whilst the beadle majestically

replied,--

"You'll have it explanated to you, friend, before his Honour!"

The excitement and lust of capture was growing apace.

"Got him!" shouted most of the men.

"Showin' his ugly face in broad daylight!" commented the women.

"Hold him tight, beadle," was the universal admonition.

"You rascal! you dare!..." gasped Sir Humphrey, struggling violently,

and shaking a menacing fist in the beadle's face.

"Silence!" commanded Master Inch, with supreme dignity.

"I'll have you whipped for this!"

But this aroused the beadle's most awesome ire.

"To the stocks with him!" he ordered, "he insultates the Majesty of the

Law!"

"You low-born knave! Aye! you'll hang for this!"

It was all this clamour that at last aroused Master Mittachip in the

parlour of the Royal George from the happy day-dreams in which he was

indulging. At first he took no count of it, then he quietly strolled up

to the window and undid the casement, to ascertain what all the tumult

was about.

What he did see nearly froze the thin blood within his veins. He would

have cried out, but his very throat contracted with the horror of the

spectacle which he beheld.

There! across the village green, he saw Sir Humphrey Challoner, his

noble patron, the Squire of Hartington, being clapped into the village

stocks, whilst a crowd of yokels, the clumsy, ignorant d----d louts!

were actually pelting his Honour with carrots, turnips and potatoes!

Oh! was the world coming to an end? There! a peck of peas hit Sir

Humphrey straight in the eye. No wonder his Honour was purple, he would

have a stroke of apoplexy for sure within the next five minutes.

At last Master Mittachip recovered the use of his limbs. With one bound

he was out of the inn parlour, and had pushed past mine host and

hostess, who, as ignorant as were all the other villagers of their

guest's name and quality, were watching the scene from the porch, and

holding their sides with laughter.

Jack Bathurst had watched it all from the window of the Court House: his

dare-devil, madcap scheme had succeeded beyond his most sanguine hopes.

When he saw Sir Humphrey Challoner actually clapped in the village

stocks, with the pompous beadle towering over him, like the sumptuous

Majesty of the Law, he could have cried out in wild merry glee.

But Jack was above all a man of prompt decision and quick action. For

his own life he cared not one jot, and would gladly have laid it down

for the sake of the woman he loved with all the passionate ardour of his

romantic temperament, but with him, as with every other human being,

self-preservation was the greatest and most irresistible law. He had

readily imperilled his safety in order to obtain possession of the

letters, which meant so much happiness to his beautiful white rose: but

this done, he was ready to do battle for his own life, and to sell his

freedom as dearly as may be.

He hoped that he had effectually accomplished his purpose through the

arrest of Sir Humphrey Challoner, whose pockets Master Inch was even now

deliberately searching, in spite of vigorous protests and terrible

language from his Honour. His heart gave a wild leap of joy when he saw

the beadle presently hurrying across the green and holding a paper in

his hand. It looked small enough--not a packet, only a single letter:

but if it were the momentous one, then indeed would all risks, all

perils seem as nothing when weighed against the happiness of having

rendered _her_ this service.

But Jack also saw Master Mittachip darting panic-stricken out of the inn

opposite. He knew of course that within the next few moments--seconds

perhaps--the fraud would be discovered and Sir Humphrey Challoner

liberated, amidst a shower of abject apologies from the Squire and

parish of Brassington combined. What the further consequences of it all

would be to himself was not difficult to foresee.

He looked behind him. The Squire was sitting at his desk, apparently

taking no notice of the noise and shouting outside. Down below, John

Stich, who had been watching the scene on the green with the utmost

delight, stood ready, holding Jack o' Lantern by the bridle. In a

moment, with a few courteous words to the Squire, Bathurst had hurried

out of the Court House. He met the beadle at the door, who, paper in

hand, conscious of his own importance and flurried with wrath, was

hurrying to report the important arrest to Squire West.

Bathurst stopped him with a quick,--

"'Twas well done, Master Inch!"

And pressing a couple of guineas into the beadle's hand, he added,--

"Her ladyship will further repay when you've found the rest of her

property. In the meanwhile, these, I presume, are the letters she

lost."

"Only one letter, sir," said Master Inch, as somewhat taken off his

pompous guard he allowed Jack to take the paper from him.

There was not a minute to be lost. Master Mittachip, having vainly

tried to harangue the yokels, who were still pelting his Honour with

miscellaneous vegetables, was now hurrying to the Court House as fast as

his thin legs would carry him.

Bathurst took one glance at the paper which Master Inch had given him.

A cry of the keenest disappointment escaped his lips.

"What is it, Captain?" asked John Stich, who had anxiously been watching

his friend's face.

"Nothing, friend," replied Bathurst, "only a receipt and tally for some

sheep."

John Stich uttered a violent oath.

"And the scoundrel'll escape with a shower of potatoes and no more

punishment than the stocks. And you've risked your life, Captain, for

nothing!"

"Nay! not for nothing, honest friend," said Jack, in a hurried whisper,

as he mounted Jack o' Lantern with all the speed his helpless arm would

allow. "Do you go back to her ladyship as fast as you can. Beg her

from me not to give up hope, but to feign an illness and on no account

speak to anyone about the events of to-day until she has seen me again.

You understand?"

"Aye! aye! Captain!"

At this moment there came a wild cry from the precincts of the Court

House, and Master Mittachip, accompanied by Squire West himself, and

closely followed by the beadle, were seen tearing across the green

towards the village stocks.

"The truth is out, friend," shouted Jack, as pressing his knees against

Jack o' Lantern's sides, and giving the gallant beast one cry of

encouragement, he galloped away at break-neck speed out towards the

Moor.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE MAN HUNT

By the time Squire West and the whole of the parish of Brassington had

realised what a terrible practical joke had been perpetrated on them by

the stranger, the latter was far out of sight, with not even a cloud of

dust to mark the way he went.

But the hue-and-cry after him had never ceased the whole of that day.

Squire West, profuse and abject in his apologies, had told off all the

soldiers who were quartered in the village to scour the Heath day and

night, until that rogue was found and brought before him. The Sergeant,

who was in command of the squad, and the Corporal too, had a score of

their own to settle with the mysterious stranger, whom the general

consensus of opinion declared to have been none other than that

scoundrel unhung, the notorious highwayman, Beau Brocade.

Master Inch, as soon as he had recovered his breath, distinctly

recollected now seeing a beautiful chestnut horse pawing the ground

outside the Court House during the course of the morning: he blamed

himself severely for not having guessed the identity of the creature, so

closely associated in every one's mind with the exploits of the

highwayman.

The yokels, however, at this juncture, entrenched themselves behind a

barrier of impenetrable density. In those days, just as even now, it is

beyond human capacity to obtain information from a Derbyshire countryman

if he do not choose to give it. Whether some of those who had pelted

Sir Humphrey Challoner with vegetables had or had not known who his

Honour was, whether some of them had or had not guessed Beau Brocade's

presence in the village, remained, in spite of rigorous

cross-examination a complete mystery to the perplexed Squire and to his

valiant henchman, the beadle.

Promises, threats, bribes were alike ineffectual.

"I dunno!" was the stolid, perpetual reply to every question put on

either subject.

Her ladyship, on the other hand, overcome with fatigue, was too ill to

see anyone.

The posse of soldiers, a score or so by now, had however been reinforced

as the day wore on by a contingent of Squire West's own indoor and

outdoor servants, also by a few loafers from Brassington itself, of the

sort that are to be found in every corner of the world where there is an

ale-house, the idlers, the toadies, those who had nothing to lose and

something to gain by running counter to popular feeling and taking up

cudgels against Beau Brocade, for the sake of the reward lavishly

promised by Squire West and Sir Humphrey Challoner.

The latter's temper had not even begun to simmer down at this late hour

of the day when, all arrangements for the battue after the highwayman

being completed, he at last found himself on horseback, ambling along

the bridle-path towards the shepherd's hut, with Master Mittachip beside

him.

It had been a glorious day, and the evening now gave promise of a balmy

night to come, but the Heath's majestic repose was disturbed by the

doings of man. Beneath the gorse and bracken lizards and toads had gone

to rest in the marshy land beyond, waterhen and lapwing were asleep, but

all the while on the great Moor, through the scrub and blackthorn, along

path and ravine, man was hunting man and finding enjoyment in the sport.

As Sir Humphrey Challoner and the attorney rode slowly along, they could

hear from time to time the rallying cry of the various parties stalking

the Heath for their big game. The hunt was close on the heels of Beau

Brocade. Earlier in the afternoon his horse had been seen to make its

way, riderless, towards the forge of John Stich.

The quarry was on foot, he was known to be wounded, he must fall an easy

prey to his trackers soon enough: sometimes in the distance there would

come a shout of triumph, when the human blood-hounds had at last found a

scent, then Sir Humphrey would rouse himself from his moody silence, a

look of keen malice would light up his deep-set eyes, and reining in his

horse, he would strain his ears to hear that shout of triumph again.

"He'll not escape this time, Sir Humphrey," whispered Mittachip, falling

obsequiously into his employer's mood.

"No! curse him!" muttered his Honour with a string of violent oaths, "I

shall see him hang before two days are over, unless these dolts let him

escape again."

"Nay, nay, Sir Humphrey! that's not likely!" chuckled Master Mittachip.

"Squire West has pressed all his own able-bodied men into the service,

and the posse of soldiers were most keen for the chase. Nay, nay, he'll

not escape this time."

"'Sdeath!" swore his Honour under his breath, "but I do feel stiff!"

"A dreadful indignity," moaned the attorney.

"Nay! but Squire West was most distressed, and his apologies were

profuse! Indeed he seemed to feel it as much as if it had happened to

himself."

"Aye! but not in the same place, I'll warrant! Odd's life, I had no

notion how much a turnip could hurt when flung into one's eye," added

his Honour, with one of those laughs that never boded any good.

"A most painful incident, Sir Humphrey!" sighed Mittachip, brimming over

with sympathy.

"'Twas not the incident that was painful! Zounds! I am bruised all

over. But I'll have the law of every one of those dolts, aye! and make

that fool West administer it on all of them! As for that ape, the

beadle, he shall be publicly whipped. Death and hell! they'll have to

pay for this!"

"Aye! aye! Sir Humphrey! your anger is quite natural, and Squire West

assured me that that rascal Beau Brocade, who played you this impudent

trick, cannot fail to be caught. The hunt is well organised, he cannot

escape."

As if to confirm the attorney's words, there rose at this moment from

afar a weird and eerie sound, which caused Master Mittachip's shrivelled

flesh to creep along his bones.

"What was that?" he whispered, horror-struck.

"A blood-hound, the better to track that rascal," muttered Sir Humphrey,

savagely.

The attorney shivered; there had been so much devilish malice in his

Honour's voice, that suddenly his puny heart misgave him. He took to

wishing himself well out of this unmanly business. The horror of it

seemed to grip him by the throat: he was superstitious too, and firmly

believed in a material hell; the sound of that distant snarl, followed

by the significant yelping of a hound upon the scent, made him think of

the cries the devils would utter at sight of the damned.

"The dog belongs to one of Squire West's grooms," remarked his Honour,

carelessly, "a savage beast enough, by the look of him. Luck was in our

favour, for our gallant highwayman had carried Lady Patience's plaint

inside his coat for quite a long time, and then left it on his Honour's

table ... quite enough for any self-respecting blood-hound, and this one

is said to be very keen on the scent.... Squire West tried to protest,

but set a dog to catch a dog, say I."

Master Mittachip tried to shut his ears to the terrible sound.

Fortunately it was getting fainter now, and Sir Humphrey did not give

him time for much reflection.

His Honour had stopped for awhile listening, with a chuckle of intense

satisfaction, to the yelping of the dog straining on the leash, then

when the sound died away, he said abruptly,--

"Are we still far from the hut?"

"No, Sir Humphrey," stammered Mittachip, whose very soul was quaking

with horror.

"We'll find the shepherd there, think you?"

"Y ... y ... yes, your Honour!"

"Harkee, Master Mittachip. I'll run no risk. That d----d highwayman

must be desperate to-night. We'll adhere to our original plan, and let

the shepherd take the letters to Wirksworth."

"You ... you ... you'll not let them bide to-night where they are, Sir

Humphrey?"

"No, you fool, I won't. They are but just below the surface, under

cover of some bramble, and once those fellows come scouring round the

hut, any one of them may unearth the letters with a kick of his boot.

There's been a lot of talk of a reward for the recovery of a packet of

letters! ... No, no, no! I'll not risk it."

Sir Humphrey Challoner had thought the matter well out, and knew that he

ran two distinct risks in the matter of the letters. To one he had

alluded just now when he spoke of the probability--remote perhaps--of

the packet being accidentally unearthed by one of the scouring parties.

Any man who found it would naturally at once take it to Squire West, in

the hope of getting the reward promised by her ladyship for its

recovery. The idea, therefore, of leaving the letters in their

hiding-place for awhile did not commend itself to him. On the other

hand, there was the more obvious risk of keeping them about his own

person. Sir Humphrey thanked his stars that he had not done so the day

before, and even now kept in his mind a certain superstitious belief

that Beau Brocade--wounded, hunted and desperate--would make a final

effort, which might prove successful, to wrench the letters from him on

the Heath.

CHAPTER XXVII

JOCK MIGGS'S ERRAND

Master Mittachip had tried to utter one or two feeble protests, but Sir

Humphrey had interrupted him emphatically,--

"The rascal may hope to win his pardon through the Gascoyne influence,

by rendering her ladyship this service. Where'er he may be at this

moment, I am quite sure that his eye is upon me and my doings."

Mittachip shuddered and closed his eyes: he dared not peer into the dark

scrub beside him, and drew his horse in as close to Sir Humphrey's as he

could.

"If you're afraid, you lumbering old coward," added his Honour, "go back

and leave me in peace. I'll arrange my own affairs as I think best."

But the prospect of returning to Brassington alone across this awful

Heath sent Master Mittachip into a renewed agony of terror: though his

noble patron seemed suddenly to have become uncanny in this inordinate

lust for revenge, he preferred his Honour's company to his own, and

therefore made a violent effort to silence his worst fears. The Moor

just now was comparatively calm: the shouts of the hunters and the

yelping of the hound had altogether ceased; perhaps they had lost the

scent.

Another half-hour's silent ride brought them to the spur of the hill,

along the top of which ran the Wirksworth Road, and as they left the

steep declivity behind them, their ears were pleasantly tickled by the

welcome and bucolic sound of the bleating of sheep.

"Your friend the shepherd seems to be at his post," quoth Sir Humphrey

with a sigh of satisfaction.

They were close to the point where on the previous night Lady Patience's

coach had come to a halt, and the next moment brought them in sight of

the shepherd's hut, with the pen beyond it, vaguely discernible in the

gloom.

Sir Humphrey gave the order to dismount. Master Mittachip, feeling more

dead than alive, had perforce to obey. They tied their horses loosely

to a clump of blackthorn by the roadside and then crept cautiously

towards the hut.

It suited their purpose well that the night was a dark one. The moon

was not yet high in the heavens, and was still half-veiled by a thin

film of fleecy clouds, leaving the whole vista of the Moor wrapped in

mysterious grey-blue semitones.

"You have brought the lanthorn," whispered Sir Humphrey, hurriedly.

"Y ... y ... y ... yes, your Honour," stammered Mittachip.

"Then quick's the word," said his Honour, pointing to a thick clump of

gorse and bramble quite close to the shed. "The letters are in the very

centre of that clump, and only just below the surface. Do you creep in

there and get them."

There was nothing for Master Mittachip to do but to obey, and that with

as much alacrity as his terror would allow. His teeth were chattering

in his head, and his hands were trembling so violently that he was some

time in striking a light for the lanthorn.

Sir Humphrey suppressed an oath of angry impatience.

"Lud preserve me," murmured the poor attorney, "if that highwayman

should come upon me whilst I am engaged in the task! ... You ... you'll

not leave me, Sir Humphrey?..."

"I'll lay my stick across your cowardly shoulders if you don't hurry,"

was his Honour's only comment.

He watched Mittachip crawling on his hands and knees underneath the

bramble, and his deep stertorous breathing testified to the anxiety

which was raging within him. A few moments of intense suspense, and

then Master Mittachip reappeared from beneath the scrub, covered with

wet earth, still trembling, but holding the packet of letters

triumphantly in his hand.

Sir Humphrey snatched it from him.

"Quick! find the shepherd now! Don't waste time!" he whispered, pushing

the cowering attorney roughly before him. "One feels as if every blade

of grass had a pair of ears on this damned Heath!" he muttered under his

breath.

Jock Miggs, the shepherd, had counted over his sheep, closed the gate of

the pen, and was just turning into the hut for the night, when he was

hailed by Master Mittachip.

"Shepherd! hey! shepherd!"

Miggs looked about him, vaguely astonished.

Since his adventure of the previous night, when he had been made to play

a tune for mad folks to dance to, he felt that nothing would seriously

surprise him.

When therefore he felt himself seized by the arm without more ado and

dragged into the darkest corner of the hut, he did not even protest.

"Did you wish to speak with me, sir?" he asked plaintively, rubbing his

arm, for Sir Humphrey's impatient grip had been very strong and hard.

"Yes!" said the latter, speaking in a rapid whisper, "here's Master

Mittachip, attorney-at-law, whom you know well, eh?"

"Aye, aye," murmured Jock Miggs, pulling at his forelock, "t' sheep

belong to his Honour Oi believe."

"Exactly, Miggs," interposed Master Mittachip, spurred to activity by a

vigorous kick from Sir Humphrey, "and I have come out here on purpose to

see you, for it is very important that you should go at once on to

Wirksworth for me, with a packet and a note for Master Duffy, my clerk."

"What, now? This time o' night?" quoth Jock, vaguely.

"Aye, aye, Miggs ... you are not afraid, are you?"

Sir Humphrey had taken up his stand outside the hut, leaving Mittachip

to arrange this matter with the shepherd. He had leaned his powerful

frame against the wall of the shed, and was grasping his

heavily-weighted riding-crop, ready and alert in case of attack. The

darkness round him at this moment was intense, and his sharp eyes vainly

tried to pierce the gloom, which seemed to be closing in upon him, but

his ears were keenly alive to every sound which came to him out of the

blackness of the night.

And all the while he tried not to lose one word of the conversation

between Mittachip and the shepherd.

"That's true, Jock," the attorney was saying. "Well! then if you'll go

to Wirksworth for me, now, at once, there'll be a guinea for you."

"A guinea!" came in bewildered accents from the worthy shepherd, "Lordy!

Lordy! but these be 'mazing times!"

"All I want you to do, Jock, is to take a packet for me to my house in

Fulsome Street. You understand?"

But here there was a pause. Miggs was evidently hesitating.

"Well?" queried Mittachip.

"Oi'm thinking, sir..."

"What?"

"How can Oi go on your errand when Oi've got to guard this 'ere sheep

for you?"

"Oh, damn the sheep!" quoth Master Mittachip, emphatically.

"Well, sir! if you be satisfied..."

"You know my house at Wirksworth?"

"Aye, aye, sir."

"I'll give you a packet. You are to take it to Wirksworth now at once,

and to give it to my clerk, Master Duffy, at my house in Fulsome Street.

You are quite sure you understand?"

"I dunno as I do!" quoth Jock, vaguely.

But with an impatient oath Sir Humphrey turned into the hut: matters

were progressing much too slowly for his impatient temperament. He

pushed Mittachip aside, and said peremptorily,--

"Look here, shepherd, you want to earn a guinea, don't you?"

"Aye, sir, that I do."

"Well, here's the packet, and here's a letter for Master Duffy at Master

Mittachip's house in Fulsome Street. When Master Duffy has the packet

and reads the letter he will give you a guinea. Is that clear?"

And he handed the packet of letters, and also a small note, to Jock

Miggs, who seemed to have done with hesitation, for he took them with

alacrity.

"Oh! aye! that's clear enough," he said, "'tis writ in this paper that

I'm to get the guinea?"

"In Master Mittachip's own hand. But mind! no gossiping, and no

loitering. You must get to Wirksworth before cock-crow."

Jock Miggs slipped the packet and the note into the pocket of his smock.

The matter of the guinea having been satisfactorily explained to him, he

was quite ready to start.

"Noa, for sure!" he said, patting the papers affectionately. "Mum's the

word! I'll do your bidding, sir, and the papers'll be safe with me,

seeing it's writ on them that I'm to get a guinea."

"Exactly. So you mustn't lose them, you know."

"Noa! noa! I bain't afeeard o' that, nor of the highwaymen; and Beau

Brocade wouldn't touch the loikes o' me, bless 'im. But Lordy! Lordy!

these be 'mazing times."

Already Sir Humphrey was pushing him impatiently out of the hut.

"And here," added his Honour, pressing a piece of money into the

shepherd's hand, "here's half-a-crown to keep you on the go."

"Thank 'ee, sir, and if you think t' sheep will be all right..."

"Oh, hang the sheep!..."

"All right, sir ... if Master Mittachip be satisfied ... and I'll leave

t' dog to look after t' sheep."

He took up his long, knotted stick, and still shaking his head and

muttering "Lordy! Lordy!" the worthy shepherd slowly began to wend his

way along the footpath, which from this point leads straight to

Wirksworth.

Sir Humphrey watched the quaint, wizened figure for a few seconds, until

it disappeared in the gloom, then he listened for awhile.

All round him the Heath was silent and at peace, the plaintive bleating

of the sheep in the pen added a note of subdued melancholy to the vast

and impressive stillness. Only from far there came the weird echo of

hound and men on the hunt.

His Honour swore a round oath.

"Zounds!" he muttered, "the rogue must be hard pressed, and he's not

like to give us further trouble. Even if he come on us now, eh, you old

scarecrow? ... the letters are safe at last! What?"

"Lud preserve me!" sighed the attorney, "but I hope so."

"Back to Brassington then," quoth Sir Humphrey, lustily. "Beau Brocade

can attack us now, eh? Ha! ha! ha!" he laughed in his wonted boisterous

way, "methinks we have outwitted that gallant highwayman after all."

"For sure, Sir Humphrey," echoed Mittachip, who was meekly following his

Honour's lead across the road to where their horses were in readiness

for them.

"As for my Lady Patience! ... Ha!" said his Honour, jovially, "her

brother's life is ... well! ... in my hands, to save or to destroy,

according as she will frown on me or smile. But meseems her ladyship

will have to smile, eh?"

He laughed pleasantly, for he was in exceedingly good temper just now.

"As for that chivalrous Beau Brocade," he added as he hoisted himself

into the saddle, "he shall, an I mistake not, dangle on a gibbet before

another nightfall."

"Hark!" he added, as the yelping of the bloodhound once more woke the

silent Moor with its eerie echo.

Mittachip's scanty locks literally stood up beneath his bob-tail wig.

Even Sir Humphrey could not altogether repress a shudder as he listened

to the shouts, the cries, the snarls, which were rapidly drawing nearer.

"We should have waited to be in at the death," he said, with enforced

gaiety. "Meseems our fox is being run to earth at last."

He tried to laugh, but his laughter sounded eerie and unnatural, and

suddenly it was interrupted by the loud report of a pistol shot,

followed by what seemed like prolonged yells of triumph.

Master Mittachip could bear it no longer; with the desperation of

intense and unreasoning terror he dug his spurs into his horse's flanks,

and like a madman galloped at breakneck speed down the hillside into the

valley below.

Sir Humphrey followed more leisurely. He had gained his end and was

satisfied.

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE QUARRY

Some few minutes before this the hunted man had emerged upon the road.

As, worn-out, pallid, aching in every limb, he dragged himself wearily

forward on hands and knees, it would have been difficult to recognise in

this poor, suffering fragment of humanity the brilliant, dashing

gentleman of the road, the foppish, light-hearted dandy, whom the

countryside had nicknamed Beau Brocade.

The wound in his shoulder, inflamed and throbbing after the breakneck

ride from the Court House to the Heath, had caused him almost

unendurable agony, against which he had at first resolutely set his

teeth. But now his whole body had become numb to every physical

sensation. Covered with mud and grime, his hair matted against his damp

forehead, the lines of pain and exhaustion strongly marked round his

quivering mouth, he seemed only to live through his two senses: his

sight and his hearing.

The spirit was there though, indomitable, strong, the dogged obstinacy

of the man who has nothing more to lose. And with it all the memory of

the oath he had sworn to her.

All else was a blank.

Hunted by men, and with a hound on his track, he had--physically--become

like the beasts of the Moor, alert to every sound, keen only on eluding

his pursuers, on putting off momentarily the inevitable instant of

capture and of death.

Early in the day he had been forced to part from his faithful companion.

Jack o' Lantern was exhausted and might have proved an additional source

of danger. The gallant beast, accustomed to every bush and every corner

of the Heath, knew its way well to its habitual home: the forge of John

Stich. Jack Bathurst watched it out of sight, content that it would look

after itself, and that being riderless it would be allowed to wend its

way unmolested whither it pleased, on the Moor.

And thus he had seen the long hours of this glorious September afternoon

drag on their weary course; he had seen the beautiful day turn to late,

glowing afternoon, then the sun gradually set in its mantle of purple

and gold, and finally the grey dusk throw its elusive and mysterious

veil over Tors and Moor. And he, like the hunted beast, crept from

gorse bush to scrub, hiding for his life, driven out of one stronghold

into another, gasping with thirst, panting with fatigue, determined in

spirit, but broken down in body at last.

By instinct and temperament Jack Bathurst was essentially a brave man.

Physical fear was entirely alien to his nature: he had never known it,

never felt it. During the earlier part of the afternoon, with a score

of men at his heels, some soldiers, others but indifferently-equipped

louts, he had really enjoyed the game of hide-and-seek on the Heath: to

him, at first, it had been nothing more. It was but a part of that

wild, mad life he had chosen, the easily-endured punishment for the

breaking of conventional laws.

He knew every shrub and crag on this wild corner of the earth which had

become his home, and could have defied a small army, when hidden in the

natural strongholds known only to himself.

But when he first heard the yelping of the bloodhound set upon his track

by the fiendish cunning of an avowed enemy, an icy horror seemed to

creep into his very marrow: a horror born of the feeling of

powerlessness, of the inevitableness of it all. His one thought now was

lest his hand, trembling and numb with fatigue, would refuse him service

when he would wish to turn the muzzle of his pistol against his own

temple, in time to evade actual capture.

The dog would not miss him. It was practically useless to hide: flight

alone, constant, ceaseless flight, might help him for a while, but it

was bound to end one way, and one way only: the scent of blood would

lead the cur on his track, and his pursuers would find and seize him!

bind him like a felon, and hang him! Aye! hang him like a common thief!

He had oft laughed and joked with John Stich about his ultimate probable

fate. He knew that his wild, unlawful career would come to an end

sooner or later, but he always carried pistols in his belt, and had not

even remotely dreamt of capture.

... Until now!

But now he was tired, ill, half-paralysed with pain and exhaustion. His

trembling hand crept longingly round the heavy silver handle of the

precious weapon. Every natural instinct in him clamoured for death, now,

at this very moment before that yelping cur drew nearer, before those

shouts of triumph were raised over his downfall.

Only ... after that ... what would happen? He would be asleep and at

peace ... but she? ... what would she think? ... that like a coward he

had deserted his post ... like a felon he had broken his oath, whilst

there was one single chance of fulfilling it ... that he had left her at

the mercy of that same enemy who had already devised so much cruel

treachery.

And like a beast he crept back within his lair, and watched and listened

for that one chance of serving her before the end.

He had seen Sir Humphrey Challoner and Mittachip ambling up the

hillside. He tried not to lose sight of them, and, if possible, to keep

within earshot, but he was driven back by a posse of his pursuers, close

upon his heels, and now having succeeded in reaching the road at last,

he had the terrible chagrin of seeing that he was too late; the two men

were remounting their horses and turning back towards Brassington.

"Methinks we have outwitted that gallant highwayman after all," Sir

Humphrey was saying with one of those boisterous outbursts of merriment,

which to Bathurst's sensitive ears had a ring of the devil's own glee in

it.

"What hellish mischief have those two reprobates been brewing, I

wonder?" he mused. "If those fellows at my heels hadn't cut me off I

might have known..."

He crept nearer to the two men, but they set their horses at a sharp

trot down the road: Jack vainly strained his ears to hear their talk.

For the last eight hours he had practically covered every corner of the

Heath, backwards and forwards, across boulders and through morass; the

hound had had some difficulty in finding and keeping the trail, but now

it seemed suddenly to have found it, the yelping drew nearer, but the

shouts had altogether ceased.

What was to be done? God in heaven, what was to be done?

It was at this moment that the plaintive bleating of one or two of the

penned-up sheep suddenly aroused every instinct of vitality in him.

"The sheep!..." he murmured. "A receipt and tally for some sheep!..."

Fresh excitement had in the space of a few seconds given him a new lease

of strength. He dragged himself up to his feet and walked almost

upright as far as the hut.

There certainly was a flock of sheep in the pen: the dog was watching

close by the gate, but the shepherd was nowhere to be seen.

"The sheep! ... A receipt and tally for some sheep! ... In Sir Humphrey

Challoner's coat pocket! ..."

Oh! for one calm moment in which to think ... to think!

"The sheep!..." This one thought went on hammering in the poor tired

brain, like the tantalising, elusive whisper of a mischievous sprite.

And with it all there was scarce a second to be lost.

The hound, yelping and straining on the leash, was not half a mile away;

the next ten or perhaps fifteen minutes would see the end of this awful

man-hunt on the Moor. And yet there close by, behind those clumps of

gorse and the thickset hedge of bramble, was the clearing, where just

twenty-four hours ago he had danced that mad rigadoon, with her almost

in his arms.

Instinctively, in the wild agony of this supreme moment, Beau Brocade

turned his steps thither. This clearing had but two approaches, there

where the tough branches of furze had once been vigorously cut into.

Last night he had led her through the one whilst Jock Miggs sat beside

the other, piping the quaint sad tune.

For one moment the hunted man seemed to live that mad, merry hour again,

and from out the darkness fairy fingers seemed to beckon: and her

face--just for one brief second--smiled at him out of the gloom.

Surely this was not to be the end! Something would happen, something

_must_ happen to enable him to render her the great service he had sworn

to do.

Oh! if that yelping dog were not quite so close upon his track! Within

the next few minutes, seconds even, he would surely think of something

that would guide him towards that great goal: _her service_. Oh! for

just a brief respite in which to think! a way to evade his captors for a

short while--a means to hide! a disguise! anything.

But for once the Moor--his happy home, his friend, his mother--was

silent, save for the sound of hunters on his trail, of his doom drawing

nearer and nearer, whilst he stood and remembered his dream.

It was madness surely, or else a continuance of that fairy vision, but

now it seemed to him, as he stood just there, where yesterday her foot

had plied the dear old measure, that his ear suddenly caught once more

the sound of that self-same rigadoon.

It was a dream of course. He knew that, and paused awhile, although

every second now meant life or death to him.

The tune seemed to evade him. It had been close to his ear a moment

ago, now it was growing fainter and fainter, gradually vanishing away:

soon he could scarce hear it, yet it seemed something tangible,

something belonging to her: it was the tune which she had loved, to

which her foot had danced so gladsomely, so he ran after it, ran as fast

as his weary body would take him, to the further end of the clearing,

whither the sweet, sad tune was leading him with its tender, plaintive

echo.

There, just where the clearing debouched upon the narrow path which

leads to Wirksworth, he overtook Jock Miggs who was slowly wending his

way along, and who just now must have passed quite close to him, blowing

on his tiny pipe, as was his wont.

"The shepherd! ... Chorus of angels in paradise lend me your aid now!"

With a supreme effort he pulled his scattered senses together: the

mighty fever of self-defence was upon him, that tower of strength which

some overwhelming danger will give to a brave man once perhaps in his

lifetime. The veil of semi-consciousness, of utter physical

prostration, was lifted from his dull brain for this short brief while.

The exhausted, suffering, hunted creature had once more given place to

the keen, alert son of the Moor, the mad, free child of Nature, with a

resourceful head and a daring hand. And for that same brief while the

great and mighty power whom men have termed Fate, but whom saints have

called God, allowed his untamed spirit to conquer his body and to hold

it in bondage, chasing pain away, trampling down exhaustion, whilst

disclosing to his burning eyes, amidst the dark and deadly gloom, the

magic, golden vision of a newly-awakened hope.

CHAPTER XXIX

THE DAWN

A while ago, in an agony of longing, he had cried out for a moment's

respite! for a disguise! and now there stood before him Jock Miggs in

smock and broad-brimmed hat, with pipe and shepherd's staff. His

pursuers, headed by the yelping dog, were still a quarter of a mile

away. Five minutes in which to do battle for his life, for his freedom,

for the power to keep his oath! The plan of action had surged in his

mind at first sight of the wizened little figure of the shepherd beside

the further approach to the clearing.

Beau Brocade drew himself up to his full height, sought and found in the

pocket of his coat the black mask which he habitually wore; this he

fixed to his face, then drawing a pistol from his belt, he overtook Jock

Miggs, clapped him vigorously on the shoulder, and shouted lustily,--

"Stand and deliver!"

Jock Miggs, aroused from his pleasant meditations, threw up his hands in

terror.

"The Lud have mercy on my soul!" he ejaculated as he fell on his knees.

"Stand and deliver!" repeated Beau Brocade, in as gruff a voice as he

could command.

Jock Miggs was trying to collect his scattered wits.

"B ... b ... but ... kind sir!" he murmured, "y ... y ... you wouldn't

harm Jock Miggs, the shepherd ... would you?"

"Quick's the word! Now then..."

"But, good sir ... Oi ... Oi ... Oi've got nowt to deliver..."

Jock Miggs was pitiful to behold: at any other moment of his life

Bathurst would have felt very sorry for the poor, scared creature, but

that yelping hound was drawing desperately near and he had only a few

minutes at his command.

"Naught to deliver?" he said with a great show of roughness, and seizing

poor Jock by the collar.

"Look at your smock!"

"My smock, kind sir?..."

"Aye! I've a fancy for your smock ... so off with it ... quick!"

Jock Miggs struggled up to his feet, he was beginning to gather a small

modicum of courage. He had lived all his life on Brassing Moor and it

was his first serious encounter with an armed gentleman of the road.

Whether 'twas Beau Brocade or no he was too scared to conjecture, but he

had enough experience of the Heath to know that poor folk like himself

had little bodily hurt to fear from highwaymen.

But of course it was always wisest to obey. As to his old smock...

"He! he! he! my old smock, sir!" he laughed vaguely and nervously,

"why..."

"I don't want to knock the poor old cuckoo down," murmured Bathurst to

himself, "but I've just got three minutes before that cur reaches the

top of the clearing and ... Off with your smock, man, or I fire," he

added peremptorily, and pointing the muzzle of his pistol at the

trembling shepherd.

Miggs had in the meanwhile fully realised that the masked stranger was

in deadly earnest. Why he should want the old smock was more than any

shepherd could conceive, but that he meant to have it was very clear.

Jock uttered a final plaintive word of protest.

"Kind sir ... but if Oi take off my smock ... I sha'nt be quite d ... d

... decent ... sir ... wi' only my shirt."

"You shall have my coat," replied Bathurst, decisively.

"Lud preserve me! ... Your coat, sir!"

"Yes! it's old and shabby, and my waistcoat too.... Now off with that

smock, or..."

Once more the muzzle of the pistol gleamed close to Jock Miggs's head.

Without further protest he began to divest himself of his smock. The

process was slow and laborious, and Jack set his teeth not to scream

with the agony of the suspense.

He himself had had little difficulty in taking off his own coat and

waistcoat, for earlier in the day, before he had been so hard pressed,

the pain in his shoulder had caused him to slip his left arm out of its

sleeve.

Moreover, the excitement of these last fateful moments kept him at fever

pitch: he was absolutely unconscious of aught save of the rapid flight

of the seconds and the steady approach of dog and men towards the

clearing.

Even Jock Miggs, who up to now had been too intent on his own adventure

to take much heed of what went on in the gloom beyond, even he perceived

that something unusual was happening on the Moor.

"What's that?" he asked with renewed terror.

"A posse of soldiers at my heels," said Beau Brocade, decisively,

"that's why I want your smock, my man, and if I don't get it there'll be

just time to blow out your dull brains before I fall into their hands."

This last argument was sufficiently convincing. Miggs thought it

decidedly best to obey; he helped his mysterious assailant on with his

own smock, cap and kerchief, and not unwillingly attired himself in Beau

Brocade's discarded coat and waistcoat.

"A pistol in your belt in case you need it, friend," whispered Bathurst,

rapidly, as he slipped one of the weapons in Miggs's belt, keeping the

other firmly grasped in his own hand.

There was no doubt that the hound was on the scent now: the men had

ceased shouting but their rapid footsteps could be heard following

closely upon the dog, whose master was muttering a few words of

encouragement.

Anon there came a whisper, louder than the rest,--

"This way!..."

Then another,--

"There's a path here!"

"Be gy! this confounded darkness!"

"Steady, Roy! steady, old man! Eh? What?"

"This way!"

"Can't you find the trail, old Roy?"

And the gorse was crackling beneath rapid and stealthy footsteps. There

was now just the width of the clearing between Beau Brocade and his

pursuers.

"This way, Sergeant. Roy's got the trail again."

Neither Jock Miggs nor yet Beau Brocade could see what was going on at

the further end of the clearing. The dog, wildly straining against the

leash, was quivering with intense excitement, his master hanging on to

him with all his might.

Miggs, scared like some sheep lost among a herd of cows, was standing

half-dazed, smoothing down with appreciative fingers the fine cloth of

his new apparel, terrified every time his hand came in contact with the

pistol in his belt.

But Beau Brocade had crept underneath a heavy clump of gorse and

bramble, and with his finger on the trigger of his weapon he cowered

there, ready for action, his eyes fixed upon the blackness before him.

The next moment the outline of the hound's head and shoulders became

faintly discernible in the gloom. With nose close to the ground,

powerful jaws dropping and parched tongue hanging out of its mouth, it

was heading straight for the clump of gorse where cowered the hunted

man.

Beau Brocade took rapid aim and fired. The dog, without a howl, rolled

over on its side, whilst Jock Miggs uttered a cry of terror.

Then there was an instant's pause. The pursuers, silenced and awed, had

stopped dead, for they had been taken wholly unawares, and for a second

or two waited, expecting and dreading yet another shot.

Then a mild, trembling voice came to them from the darkness.

"There 'e is, Sergeant! Just afore you--standing ... see!..."

The Sergeant and soldiers had no need to be told twice. Their pause had

only been momentary and already they had perceived the outline of Jock

Miggs's figure, standing motionless not far from the body of the dead

dog.

With a shout of triumph Sergeant and soldiers fell on the astonished

shepherd, whilst the same mild, trembling voice continued to pipe

excitedly,--

"Hold 'un tight, Sergeant! Jump on 'im! Tie 'is legs! Sure, an' 'tis

he, the rascal!"

Jock Miggs had had no chance of uttering one word of protest, for one of

the soldiers, remembering a lesson learnt the day before at the smithy,

had thrown his own heavy coat right over the poor fellow's head,

effectually smothering his screams. Another man had picked up the still

smoking pistol from the ground close to Miggs's feet.

"Pistols!" said the Sergeant, excitedly. "The pair o' them too," he

added, pulling the other silver-mounted weapon out of Miggs's belt, and

the black mask out of the pocket of his coat: "and silver-mounted, be

gy! ... And his mask! ... Now, my men, off with him.... Tie his legs

together--off with your belts, quick! ... and you, Corporal, keep that

coat tied well over his head ... the rascal's like an eel, and'll

wriggle out of your hands if you don't hold him tight.... Remember

there's a hundred guineas reward for the capture of Beau Brocade."

Poor old Miggs, smothered within the thick folds of the soldier's coat,

could scarce manage to breathe. The men were fastening his knees and

ankles together with their leather belts, his arms too were pinioned

behind his back. Thus trussed and spitted like a goose ready for

roasting, he felt himself being hauled up on the shoulders of some of

the men and then borne triumphantly away.

"We've gotten Beau Brocade!"

"Hip! hip! hurray!"

And so they marched away, shouting lustily, whilst Beau Brocade remained

alone on the Heath.

The excitement was over now. He was safe for the moment and free. But

the hour of victory seemed like the hour of death; as the last shouts of

triumph, the last cry of "Hurrah!" died away in the distance, he fell

back against the wet earth; his senses were reeling, the very ground

seemed to be giving way beneath his feet, a lurid, red film to be rising

before his closing lids, blotting out the darkness of the Moor, and that

faint, very faint, streak of grey which had just appeared in the east.

God, to whom he had cried out in his agony, had given him the respite

for which he had craved. He was safe and free to think ... to think of

her ... and yet now his one longing seemed to be to lie down and rest

... and rest ... and sleep...

Many a night he had lain thus on the open Moor, with the soft,

sweet-scented earth for his bed, and the tender buds of heather as a

pillow for his head. But to-night he was only conscious of infinite

peace, and his trembling hands drew the worthy shepherd's smock closer

round him.

His wandering spirit paused awhile to dwell on poor Miggs in his sorry

plight.... Ah, well! the morning would see Jock free again, but in the

meanwhile...

Then all of a sudden the spirit was back on earth, back to life and to a

mad, scarce understandable hope. His hand had come in contact with a

packet of letters in the pocket of Miggs's smock.

Far away in the sky the eastern stars had paled before the morning

light. One by one the distant peaks of the Derbyshire hills emerged

from the black mantle of the night, and peeped down on the valley below,

blushing a rosy red. Upon the Heath animal life began to be astir--in

the morass beyond a lazy frog started to croak.

Beau Brocade had clasped the letters with cold, numb fingers: he drew

them forth and held them before his dimmed eyes.

"The letters!..." he murmured, trembling with the agony of this great

unlooked-for joy. "The letters!..."

How they came there, he could not tell. He was too weary, too ill to

guess. But that they were her letters he could not for a moment doubt.

He had found them! God and His angels had placed them in his hands!