proceeded far, when upon turning a corner they ran almost into the arms
of Captain Protheroe. He had been absent from Taunton since the previous
day upon a mission in the west, and was now on his way to the White Hart
Inn in search of Colonel Kirke to make his report.
Cicely recoiled from him with a cry of remorseful horror, but he stepped
eagerly towards her. Though they had never spoken together, he knew her
well by sight.
"Lady Cicely Winslow!" he exclaimed in glad astonishment. "What brings
you to Taunton at such a time? 'Tis no ill news, I trust. And Mistress
Barbara? Is she here likewise?"
Cicely stared at him, her eyes wide with a momentary terror.
"You know, you must know," she exclaimed in a low, hard voice. "No! I
will not believe but 'twas you who betrayed her. I dare not. I should
go mad else at what I have done. No! 'tis true, you are but mocking
me."
Her words had almost a ring of entreaty in them. She could not, would
not believe his innocence; would not be deprived of this last plea in
justification.
He stared down at her in amazement.
"On my soul, Lady Cicely, I do not understand one word of what you are
saying," he exclaimed.
Cicely remained sullenly silent. He turned to Prue for an explanation.
"What means all this? Where is Mistress Barbara Winslow?"
"In prison, sir, for harbouring rebels, sentenced for two years, and to
be scourged every month in the open market-place. If, as her ladyship
says, this is your doing, you may be proud of your work." She tossed
her head defiantly.
"In prison! Here in Taunton! Impossible, girl. You must be mad to say
it," he urged in desperate eagerness.
Prudence would have responded with an outburst of scorn, but Cicely
seized her by the arm and dragged her down the street. Indeed the poor
lady was half demented. The sudden appearance of Captain Protheroe had
brought vividly before her mind the full significance of what she had
done, and with that strange stubbornness which possesses those worn out
in mind and body, she sought to shelter herself from the stings of
conscience behind the plea of justification in view of the criminal and
despicable nature of the man she had betrayed. As she herself said, she
dared not believe in his innocence. Her only comfort lay in convincing
herself that he was even as those to whom she had betrayed him.
Captain Protheroe stared after their retreating figures in the deepest
astonishment, but his astonishment quickly gave place to horror as he
realised the meaning of their words.
To be imprisoned, scourged by the brutal soldiery, this girl, so young,
so tender, so beautiful! He ground his teeth with rage as he hurried
forward.
"This is one of Jeffreys' deviltries, I doubt not," he muttered.
He had heard of many such, had heard of them with a shudder of loathing,
and passed on in disgust. But that she--that they should dare to lay
hands on her! Instinctively his hand went to his breast, where lay
concealed the knot of scarlet ribbon. He trembled at the sudden, awful
horror of the thought.
But he was a soldier, a man of action, not one to waste time in futile
imaginings while there was work that might, that must be done. With an
effort he pulled his thoughts together and reviewed the situation, while
he strode rapidly towards the White Hart Inn.
"There is but one thing to be done," he muttered. "An appeal from me to
Jeffreys or to Kirke were worse than useless. I must to London.
General Churchill will refuse me nothing, and he is high in favour with
the King. He can procure a pardon--he shall do so. I will get leave at
once, and start to-night. When she is free and safe, _then_ to find the
man who has informed against her. But before all she must be released."
So he determined, as he went rapidly on his way.
Meanwhile in the upper chamber of the White Hart Inn the carouse
continued. The babble of tongues and roars of laughter once more
disturbed the peaceful silence of the evening.
After Cicely's departure Lord Jeffreys exercised his wits sharply upon
the subject of his late applicant's visit, and his companions joined in
his humour.
But despite the boisterous merriment an air of depression hung over many
members of the company. This sudden accusation levelled at one of their
comrades, for an affair so trivial in their eyes, and yet adjudged by
the chief justice as worthy of death, roused an anxious terror in their
hearts that would not be stilled. For if this man indeed be brought to
punishment, upon whom might not the next thunderbolt fall; who could be
accounted safe? Were they not all equally guilty, and equally open to
betrayal? They eyed the judge nervously, and trembled while they
laughed.
Only Colonel Kirke made no attempt to hide his preoccupation, though it
sprang from another cause. He sat grave, silent, biting his lips in
thought, while that strange gleam of ferocity deepened in his eyes.
At length Lord Jeffreys turned to his neighbour, and rallied him
good-humouredly.
"Come, Percy," he cried, "you don't drink. Why, what ails you, man?
Have you lost your heart to yon fair fool, eh?"
"No, my lord. I' faith, I have clean forgot her."
"But not her story, eh?" asked the judge, glancing at him with a
sinister smile, for he was quick to read men's thoughts, and guessed at
the anxiety in his companion's thoughts. "Come, about this rebel
officer of yours. What of him? Shall we wink at the matter?"
His lordship was no hypocrite; that which he did, justly or unjustly, he
made little attempt to hide, and certainly among his boon-companions,
the taking of a bribe, or the winking at a fault were subjects for free
discussion.
Kirke pushed aside his glass, and leaned across the table, speaking in a
low voice:
"This is my affair, my lord. This is a matter for court-martial. Let
me try the man."
Jeffreys laughed good-humouredly.
"What! you dog. You want to handle the crowns, eh! Is it a rich
prize?"
"There'll be no crowns in this case," said Kirke with a grim smile.
"This is a matter for punishment."
"What, colonel! Turned honest, eh! Why, man, if all reports are true
you've done the same yourself, a thousand times, tho' certes you've more
frequently pocketed the reward than spared the life."
"Maybe. But they have grown restive on the subject at Whitehall of
late, damn them! My Lord Sunderland has been pleased to complain.
Well, we'll make an example of this one."
"Tut! man. Have your way, court-martial an you will, but never hang the
fellow. His friends won't pay for his carcase. There are enough and to
spare for hanging; this fellow should yield a goodly profit."
"Years ago, my lord," answered the colonel grimly. "this man and I were
in France together. We quarrelled concerning a slip of a girl; he
professed to mislike my methods of dealing with her and laid his cane
across my cheek in public. When I cried for satisfaction he refused,
saying he did not measure swords with a bully. He is a swordsman, curse
him; it was useless to brand him as a coward; I had no redress. That
was twelve years ago. I feel the stroke of his cane on my cheek again
to-night and here at last is a salve to the bruise. I've watched and
waited, knowing that my chance would come, and now at last he is in my
power. No, my lord, crowns will be of no avail; he shall be tried at
sunrise to-morrow, and shot like a dog at noon."
Throughout this speech the colonel's tone had grown ever louder, and as
he uttered the last words with a savage ferocity, the door opened, and
Captain Protheroe walked into the room.
"Hullo! colonel, another victim?" he exclaimed. "Who is the wretched
devil who is to be shovelled out of the world so speedily?"
There was deep silence. Captain Protheroe gazed round in astonishment
at the circle of grave faces, all turned eagerly towards him. Only Lord
Jeffreys gave a sudden short laugh, as he lay back in his chair and
watched the scene. For he loved to watch human comedies, if tragedy
lurked behind them.
Then Colonel Kirke spoke:
"Captain Protheroe, you are under arrest. You will give your sword to
Captain Harrington, and accompany him at once to the guard-house. I
refuse your parole."
The Captain faced the speaker in astonishment.
"I! Arrested! What devil's foolishness is this?" he cried. "On what
charge?"
"Set a watch on your words," answered Kirke shortly. "You are charged
with connivance at the escape of a noted rebel, Sir Rupert Winslow."
Captain Protheroe started. So there was ground after all for the
accusation; it was no imaginary charge, easy to refute; it was a serious
affair, an affair he saw well that might cost him dear. He hesitated a
moment, then:
"I claim at least to have the matter referred to the General," he said
resolutely. Neither Churchill nor Feversham, he knew well, would be
severe upon him.
"You are at present under my command, Captain Protheroe," answered Kirke
shortly. "You will be tried by me. Captain Harrington, remove your
prisoner."
The Colonel had risen to his feet, and for a full minute the two men
faced each other in silence. Then Captain Protheroe smiled. He knew
his enemy's inveterate hatred, he read the full significance of that
glance. And yet he smiled. It was too simple, too obvious. Not a man
in that room, he knew well, but had been guilty a dozen times of the
same breach of duty as that of which he stood accused, yet they went
free, unpunished, while for himself he saw well there would be no mercy.
The malice was too palpable, he laughed in his enemy's face.
Not, though it were for his life, would he urge one plea before this
man; his pride forbade him to stoop to entreat the favour of one whose
vengeance he so utterly despised. Without a word he handed his sword to
Captain Harrington, and turned to accompany him from the room.
"Where is he to be lodged, Colonel?" inquired Captain Harrington
doubtfully. "In the guard-house?"
Colonel Kirke hesitated.
"No," he muttered to himself. "'Tis not secure enough. The fellow is
too devilish popular with the men. I scarce think my lambs would dare
to revolt, but yet there might be an escape. I'll not risk it. I must
ask you to keep the prisoner for me till to-morrow," he added aloud,
turning to the governor of the prison, who was seated among the officers
at the lower end of the table.
The governor shrugged his shoulders.
"I' faith, we are full enough," he muttered. "Tho' his lordship has
cleared us out a little to-day," he added with a laugh.
"Any hole or corner will serve till morning," persisted the Colonel, "so
it be secure."
"Secure enough; I'll answer for that," answered the governor as he
scribbled an order for imprisonment.
He tossed the paper to Captain Harrington, an escort was called, and in
a few minutes Captain Protheroe was marching through the silent streets
to his prison.
He was no coward, yet no man in his inmost heart can jest when he finds
himself face to face with a prospect of meeting death. And as he passed
by the swinging corpses and trunkless faces hoisted on poles in the
market-place, and reflected that in twelve hours he might be even such
as they, he was seized with a wild impotent fury against the fate which
had brought him to such a helpless pass. Only his soldier's pride held
him from throwing himself desperately upon his guards, and making one
last, vain, hopeless struggle for freedom.
The distance from the inn to the gaol was not great, and having arrived
at their destination, Captain Protheroe was duly handed over to the
charge of the head-gaoler, who in the governor's absence consigned him
to one of the large sheds situated near the castle.
Then Captain Harrington, having fulfilled his commission, paused to bid
his prisoner good-night.
"I am grieved about this, Miles," he said anxiously, for the two had
been comrades. "But keep up your heart; the Colonel cannot really mean
to treat seriously such an affair. Why, zounds, man, none of us have an
over-clean record in that respect. He is bound to take some notice of
the accusation, of course, and he bears a grudge against you, we know,
but it can't mean more than a night or so in prison."
"Do you think so, Will?" answered the prisoner, pressing his
outstretched hand. "No, Kirke and I have met before, we know each
other. He's not the man to forgive an injury, and I'll be hanged if I
ask him to; tho'," he added with a smile--"there's not a doubt on't I'll
be shot if I don't."
"Tut, man, it's never so bad as that. Keep up your spirits. And
anything I can do----"
"There are one or two commissions---- But there will be time enough in
the morning to speak of them. You'd best return now and report to the
colonel, or you will get a lick of the rough side of his tongue
yourself, as my Lord Jeffreys hath it. Good-night.--And Will, here's a
word of advice from a dying man, beware of women, and it may be you'll
live to be drowned after all. Now, my man, I am ready," he added,
turning to the gaoler, and with a final nod to his friend, he passed
into the shed.
Captain Harrington stood for some minutes in thought. But despite the
colonel's threats, he could not believe that he would carry out sentence
of death for so trivial a matter, on one of his own officers. So with a
shrug and a whistle he turned away, and strode back to the White Hart
Inn.
*CHAPTER XIV*
Captain Protheroe leant against the wall, and gazed round his prison
with an expression of deep disgust.
In a corner sat a noisy group of men, seeking as he judged by the dismal
light of a flickering oil lamp, to drown their fears in drink. For the
rest, the place was silent, and as it seemed to him, deserted, the
prevailing darkness being broken only in places where the moonlight
filtered through the high windows, and fell in splashes of brilliance
upon the floor.
It was in truth a dreary place and one not calculated to raise the
spirits of the new occupant, who stared moodily before him, cursing his
luck. For he saw no hopeful prospect in the situation and he was by no
means resigned to death now, when he was but beginning to realise the
full joy of living. Two months ago, he told himself, it had been
different; the world had not so much to offer then, indeed he had not
known that it held so much. And now, with the new sense of this
knowledge of the world's gifts teeming in his brain, to go forth and be
shot down like vermin with never a fight for life! A man should not be
called upon to endure so much.
And then, with a rush, his thoughts turned to Barbara. He could do
nothing for her now. He could not even save himself, far less afford
protection to another. He groaned aloud as he pictured her suffering,
and again he bitterly cursed his utter helplessness.
Then, as he reviewed the events of the preceding hours, the question
flashed across his brain: "Who had betrayed him? Who?" And quick as an
answering flash came the reply, though he strove vainly to deny it
entrance to his thoughts, "Who, but this girl herself, this girl who led
him to the deed, for whose sake he was to die?" For to none but to her
had he confessed his interview with Sir Rupert, none but she and himself
knew of her appeal to his mercy or of her disclosure to him of her
brother's hiding-place. Clear as day the facts lay before him, they
would not be denied; she alone in all the world had the knowledge to
betray him. And had she not already twice tricked him? Had she not
plainly refused his friendship, denied him her trust?
This was but the consummation of her scheme. But that she should have
wheedled him to spare this man, and, when danger threatened have
betrayed him coolly, hoping thereby to save herself! He raged at the
thought, at the black ingratitude of the action. And a woman with eyes
as true as heaven, whom he would have trusted even to death! Where then
could a man repose his faith, if she were worthless? Better indeed to
die, and be out of a world where women could be guilty of such baseness.
Then a softer mood asserted itself. He recalled her face, the strong,
proud face with the deep eyes, earnest and sincere behind the mask of
mischief. He thought of her look when she had stood against him, sword
in hand, to fight for her good name, fearless, resolute, even when
driven to a stand with death seemingly staring her in the face. Here
was no cowardice, no treachery. And she had risked her safety to give
her brother an hour's happiness.
No, it was past belief that such a woman could be guilty of such devil's
work. She must be innocent. There might be others--a woman always
chattered---he knew well she had a glib and hasty tongue. Or perchance
they forced the story from her, tricked her to the telling of it. No,
come what might, he would not believe that she had of set purpose
brought him to this pass. And even if she had, if she had in a moment
of weakness betrayed her benefactor, bartering his life for hers, even
then----
Passionately he drew out the knot of ribbon and pressed it to his lips.
"God bless her!" he murmured tenderly. "Strong or weak, true or
faithless, God bless her."
And still with that strange density which at times overclouds the
instinct, a thought of the real culprit never crossed his mind.
Again he strove to turn his thoughts back to his own position, to weigh
the prospects of release; but with scant ardour. Life had little to
offer if he must stand by and see her suffer, and in face of his present
disgrace, he realised his helplessness to assist her.
He continued to gaze moodily before him, idly watching a ray of
moonlight steal across the floor of the shed. To his surprise he saw it
reveal the foot of a woman, and as it climbed to her knee he marked the
desperate tension of the clasped white hands that lay thereon:
"Poor soul," he muttered. "There is trouble there."
Higher still crept the beam of light till the whole figure was
illumined, and then, as at the drawing aside of a curtain of darkness,
the face of Barbara Winslow emerged slowly from the black shadow, and
appeared before him bathed in a glory of light.
Barbara! Yes, though at first sight he barely knew her, barely
recognised those pallid cheeks, the dropped jaw, the fixed, staring eyes
wide with fear, all the agony of her terrified spirit written on her
face.
He sprang forward with a cry and crossed the room to her side. She
turned to him quickly and seized his outstretched hand, all other
feelings submerged in the great terror that held her.
"Oh! I am frightened, I am frightened," she sobbed in utter
abandonment. "Indeed I cannot bear it. Sure they cannot truly carry out
the sentence? I could not endure it, it would kill me, and I cannot die
yet. Help me, help me. Do not let them scourge me. I am so frightened,
help me."
What could he do? He held both her hands tightly in his own, and passed
his arm round her as though to shield her from all hurt. And she,
forgetting all else in the face of this fear which she felt for the
first time in her life, crouched against him in a paroxysm of trembling
and sobbing.
"Oh! I know I am a base coward, but what can I do? For I was so happy,
and life was so good, and now I--I, Barbara Winslow, must be scourged
openly in the market-place by the common hangman, month after month,
till assuredly I must die of the shame. Think! The troopers will watch
and laugh, and I shall be---- Oh! no, no, indeed I cannot bear it; what
shall I do!"
He ground his teeth in helpless, desperate rage. Wild vague assertions
of help and protection rose to his lips and died away unuttered, for he
knew himself powerless. His heart surged with impotent fury, while she
sobbed in his arms in the very abandonment of fear and misery, the
natural reaction after the proud restraint of the past few days.
But it was only for a little space; the firm clasp of his hands, the
pressure of his arm, gave her the sense of human support and strength
that she lacked. In a few minutes the cold terror left her, she was
herself again save for backward shudderings at the remembrance of the
emotions through which she had passed.
Drawing her hands gently from his grasp, she lifted her white,
tear-stained face to his with a smile.
"Thank you," she said simply. "I know not what ailed me. 'Twas mighty
foolish and yet 'twas terrible enow," she added with a shudder.
He laid his hand on hers again firmly, and she did not withdraw it. For
a few minutes they sat in silence.
Presently Barbara's glance wandered to the far end of the shed, where
the group of drinkers sat.
"They are to die to-morrow. I would I were a man, and knew no fear,"
she murmured enviously.
He smiled.
"Think you they know no fear? That is the very height of fear that dare
not face the morrow, but seeks forgetfulness thus."
"Could I forget thus?" she asked.
"I would not have thee try, Mistress Barbara: 'tis but a coward's way."
"Yet 'tis but for one night," she cried hurriedly. "And I cannot bear
this torture of waiting and thinking. Let me not be a coward again. Let
me not think. Ah! when I think I see it all; the troopers and the prison
and the post, month after month till---- Ah, no, I will not think.
Talk to me--tell me--tell me why you are here," she continued, for the
first time filled with curiosity as to the reason of his presence.
His heart leaped gladly at her question.
"Do you not know, madame?"
"Indeed no; it cannot assuredly be that you too are a prisoner?"
"Yes. A prisoner even as yourself, condemned for treason."
"You--a traitor. Impossible!" she exclaimed naively.
"I thank you for the compliment, Mistress Barbara," he answered with a
smile.
"And the sentence?"
"Imprisonment--until to-morrow," he answered lightly.
"And to-morrow you will be free?" she questioned doubtfully.
"Aye, free from every fetter."
Something in his tone startled her.
"It is not so," she cried quickly. "You are deceiving me."
"Nay, madame. Is not freedom the supreme gift of death?"
"Then you are to die to-morrow?" she asked in a tone full of awe.
"Court-martial at sunrise, shot like a dog at noon. That is my sentence.
Come, will you not wish me a pleasant voyage? I confess myself no good
sailor, and do heartily trust they have no storms on the Styx."
He spoke lightly, but she turned from him suddenly with a choking sob.
"Oh!" she cried bitterly. "How you must despise me for a true coward."
He laughed tenderly.
"Nay, Mistress Barbara, we be all cowards at heart, I warrant, only some
have learned the trick of hiding it. And indeed to one who has faced him
many times, death loses somewhat of his grim aspect. Besides--" he
continued cheerily, "when a man bethinks him how many of his fellows in
past ages have faced death unflinching, it seemeth but a small matter
for him to follow in their footsteps. I doubt not we shall meet with
gallant company across the bourne."
"And have you no regrets?" she asked wonderingly.
He looked down at her and his face clouded.
"Aye, madame, one." He hesitated, then continued in the strange hurried
tones of one who has at last resolved to speak his thoughts, and risk
the consequence.
"Men on their death-beds make strange confessions, madame; here is mine.
For fifteen years I have asked and expected little of life save to win a
name in my profession, and for the rest, to enjoy to the full all the
pleasures that the world had to offer. I deemed that I had succeeded
fairly in both these, my ambitions, and I was content. But--two months
since, on a certain sweet night in July, I met a woman. Not such an one
as the courtesans of Whitehall, not such as are they whom a soldier most
often meets in his way thro' the world, but such a woman as a man might
dream his mother was, such as he would wish to be the mother of his
sons. And when I looked into that woman's eyes I understood for the
first time that all I have sought and won from life was worthless, and
tho' I have drunk deep of the cup of pleasure, yet all my days I have
been but as a child playing contentedly in the desert, while the door of
an enchanted garden lay unnoticed at my side."
"Were the woman's eyes indeed so beautiful?" asked Barbara softly.
"Madame, they are as the clear depths of the heavens, wherein a man may
read all the perfection of life. I have seen her but thrice since first
we met, yet one look into her eyes has taught me more of the reality of
life, of happiness, of love than I ever dreamed of even in the age of a
man's most golden hopes. And so, madame, I cannot die without one
regret, the regret that I may not live to deserve the pressure of that
woman's hand, nor hope to make myself worthy to feel the touch of her
pure lips."
He paused, looking down upon her doubtfully; she did not meet his
glance, but he heard her sigh softly, as she gazed before her into the
darkness. At length she spoke.
"Then you had been happier had you never seen the woman? Is it not so?"