having gazed once upon the glories of the heavens, than to live a
thousand thousand years, nor lift his eyes from earth?"
There was silence between them.
Then Barbara rose from her seat.
"I am weary," she said softly. "I think I could sleep now, and I would
fain be rested for to-morrow. I must be strong then; they shall not
think I fear them. I must rest. But not in there," she added, gazing
shudderingly at the dark corner behind the screen. "Not in there, lest
I wake."
Near them lay a pile of straw and loose wisps of wool. These he gathered
together, and spread his cloak upon them.
"It is not much," he muttered discontentedly; "yet it is better than the
bare boards."
"It is perfect," answered Barbara, snuggling down into the warmth of the
cloak.
He knelt to draw it more closely round her.
"Good-bye, Mistress Barbara," he said, raising her hand to his lips.
But she, suddenly raising herself upon her elbow, drew his head down
towards her and kissed him on the lips.
"Good-night--good-bye--and thank you," she whispered simply.
Then she lay down peacefully, and drew the cloak once more around her.
The moon dipped behind a bank of clouds and the prison was in darkness.
Captain Protheroe rose to his feet, and stood for some time gazing
before him, as one half-dazed. Then he recovered himself with a start,
his eyes flashed, he looked round quickly, his whole body alert for
action.
Die! No surely not now, he could not die now. It was impossible; there
must be some way of escape for them both. If he could but think of it!
But the more he thought thereon, recalling all the tales of prison
breaking and rescue that he had read or heard of, picturing the security
of the shed, the disposition of the sentries, the surer did the
knowledge of his utter helplessness overwhelm him, and yet the more
persistently did he fight against this knowledge, assuring himself
continually that death must be impossible now.
*CHAPTER XV*
Prudence sat on a stone seat at the bottom of the high-walled garden
behind her father's house. Around her fell the soft moonlight, clothing
the daisied grass and the shimmering trees in a veil of glory. The air
was full of rich scents, remembrances of the dying sweetness of the
roses, the noises of the street were hushed, and there rested over all a
soft whispering silence, broken occasionally by the rapturous notes of
the nightingale, as he poured forth his soul in an ecstasy of love. The
scene was redolent of the sweet witchery of love, and Prue with her soft
eyes, her glittering hair, and the mischievous dimples deepening in her
cheeks, seemed in the moonlight like some fair enchantress weaving the
spell of her sweet beauty over all around.
There were no traces on her fair face of the horrible scenes of which
but half an hour since she had been a witness, no indication on her
smooth brow of the strain of the last two days. She had not forgotten
Cicely's misery and how she lay so still, so silent in the room above;
but the weight of a sorrow which did not touch her personally lay but
lightly upon her young heart, and she had been conscious of a feeling of
relief when she left her friend to the tender care of Mistress Lane and
crept out into the silent, peaceful garden.
A thorough child of nature, she sat calm and happy, her spirits in
harmony with the scene immediately around her, though in the streets
without the drying corpses of innocent men waved their limbs weirdly in
the breeze, and women, their hearts breaking with despair, sat silent in
a grief too deep for tears.
Prudence sat deep in thought. She had an enterprise in view for the
furtherance of which she foresaw the necessity of laying resolute siege
to the will of Master Robert Wilcox. She would require his
co-operation, and as she traced out the lines of her campaign, her eyes
glistened brightly, and her lips curved into a roguish smile. For Prue
was one to scorn an easy dominion, else had she never given her heart to
so resolute a lover as Robert.
So intent was she upon her thoughts that she did not notice the approach
of Master Wilcox himself, walking with rapid step down the trim garden
path; in fact he had been watching her for some minutes in a lover's
rapture, before she raised her eyes and noted his presence. Then he
sprang eagerly to her side.
"Ah! Prue; sweetheart," he cried, with outstretched arms. "I hoped I
might chance on you here, and yet indeed I scarce dared to hope it."
Prue slipped quickly aside from the proffered embrace. "Good-evening,
Master Robert," she answered with a demure assumption of indifference.
"And pray what may be your errand to me?"
Robert's hands fell to his side; he stared at her in amazement.
"Why, Prue, my darling," he exclaimed.
Prudence eyed him coldly.
"'Tis a fine evening, Master Robert, and I was enjoying the silence and
solitude of the garden. Prithee then--your errand?"
Robert hesitated a moment, then he seated himself upon the bench beside
her, and laid his hand on hers.
"Come sweetheart, what is wrong?" he demanded resolutely.
"Nought that I know of," she answered calmly, withdrawing her hand,
"saving only that methinks you are somewhat free with your 'sweetheart'
and 'darling,' Master Wilcox."
"What! Must I not call thee sweetheart then, my dearest?"
"In truth I had as lief you did not," she answered curtly.
Robert eyed her a minute doubtfully: then he plunged boldly into the
subject.
"See here, Prue, what is the matter; for what art thou so angry with me?
An it be concerning Janie Medlar, 'tis mere foolishness. I met her down
by the river, 'tis true, yet 'twas but by chance, and then I could not,
in courtesy, refuse to walk home with her. Now could I? And the
rose--she asked for it herself--I swear she did. But no more passed
between us, save the merest--er--nothing whatever. 'Tis utter
foolishness, Prue."
Prudence smiled to herself; she was learning secrets. But she answered
coldly enough:
"I' faith, Master Robert, and what is it to me what passes betwixt you
and Mistress Medlar? 'Tis much, indeed, if I am to call her
rival--pale-faced chit."
"'Tis not that? Then in Heaven's name, Prue, what is it? What have I
done?"
Prue turned and faced him:
"Ah, well said. What hast thou done, Master Robert? What hast thou done
all thy life save sort wool and enter ledgers? And yet you would be one
to call a maid 'sweetheart' and kiss her on the lips. I tell you, you
must seek elsewhere then, Master Robert, I am not for such as you. I
will have nought to do with any, save brave men, men proved by action,
not swollen with boasts."
Robert groaned aloud.
"Lord, Prue," he muttered; "not that all over again."
"And wherefore not, Master Robert? Has a man nought to do save sit till
the apples fall into his lap? Thinkest thou a girl can be wooed by words
alone? I tell thee thou art mightily mistaken. If a maid be worthy of
love she is worthy of winning, and winning by deeds, not by empty vows
and foolish boastings."
"Perchance thou wouldst have me join Kirke's band then, and win thee by
such deeds as those in the market-place yonder," muttered Robert
angrily.
"Indeed that were better than nothing," answered the girl with a mocking
toss of her head. "Better be one of Kirke's Lambs, brutes tho' they be,
than a white-livered wadcomber, caring for neither king nor country so
he have a full belly and a whole skin."
"Now by Heaven, Prue, this is too bad. 'Tis unfair to taunt me thus
when thou knowest I had ridden gladly with the Duke if I had but been
given the chance, and that I do but bide here at the work to please thy
father, and so clear my way to winning thee."
"Is't verily so?" laughed the girl scornfully. "Truly I marvel what men
would do, if they had not women's petticoats to hide behind."
But this was too much for Robert to endure with patience. Though he
more than half suspected she was playing with him, for he had watched
her smile as she sat on the bench alone, yet he felt that no man should
be called upon to endure such mockery; for the sake of future peace he
resolved to teach her a lesson.
Roughly dropping the hand which he had taken again to strengthen his
plea, he moved to the far end of the bench, and turned an angry shoulder
to his tormentor.
"So be it, Mistress Prue," he answered. "An those be your opinions,
'tis useless to talk further on the matter. I am sorry that my actions
fail to please thee, but on my honour, I do not see that I am in any
wise bound to alter them to suit every whim and fancy of thine. The
evening is chill; would you not be wiser to go indoors?"
Prue gasped, and gazed at the sulky shoulder with eyes wide open in
astonishment. The affair had taken a sadly different turn from that
which she had contemplated. It looked greatly as though this attack
upon the fortress would prove a failure, nay more, as though it would
turn to a defeat and rout of the attacking party itself, did she not
with all speed change her tactics.
Accordingly, with a celerity worthy of a great general, she changed,
upon the instant, her whole plan of campaign, abandoned this frontal
attack, and devised a more subtle method of overcoming such unexpected
resistance.
She tried first the effect of silence; but experience had taught her
that Robert was better skilled in the use of that weapon than she
herself, and indeed it was a struggle to her to keep silence for five
minutes at any time. She abandoned this course after a very short
trial.
Then she sighed. Twice, thrice, with the suspicion of a sob in the last
sigh, which she felt must sound infinitely pathetic. She looked eagerly
for signs of relenting in that stubborn shoulder; Robert was resolute.
The affair was beginning to assume a most serious aspect. If it
continued thus much longer, she would be forced to haul down her colours
and abandon the siege entirely. And then what would become of her
schemes?
No. She must bring all her forces to the attack, and--and--Robert could
not see her where she sat.
She rose and stepped quietly into the deep glow of the moonlight,
standing full before the gaze of her offended lover.
She stood first with her back towards him, plucking nervously at the
petals of a withered rose. Robert looked at the trim, white figure
outlined against the darker trees, at the soft curve of the averted
cheek. He looked and wavered.
Suddenly she turned and faced him, standing before him in all the charm
of her saucy beauty. She shook out her curls till the gold glistened in
the moonlight, she turned her eyes full upon him, and she smiled, a
smile full of mischievous invitation that lurked in her eyes and curved
round her rosy dimpling lips.
It was enough. Robert stared at her for a moment in silence, then he
sprang towards her and seized her in his arms.
"Ah, Prue, you witch! You witch!" he cried. "How could I resist thee?
Say what you want, sweetheart. I will do it, aye, that I will."
"Wilt thou really promise that, Rob?" she asked, nestling into his arms.
"Aye, sweetheart."
"Anything, Rob?"
"Anything you ask," he answered, gazing into her eyes.
"Then, oh, Rob; help Mistress Winslow to escape."
He stared in astonishment.
"What sayest thou? Prue! Prue! 'Tis impossible, 'Tis madness to dream
on't," he cried.
"You promised to do anything I asked," she complained reproachfully,
straining against his embrace.
"Aye, sweetheart, so I will, so I will." He pledged himself rashly to
keep her in his arms. "But this---- How is't possible? Would you have
me break into the castle and bear her out by force?"
"She is not in the castle; she is lodged in one of the temporary sheds,"
corrected Prue reproachfully.
"Well, 'tis the same thing, sweet. Gaol or shed, 'tis prison enow, and
i' faith, I see not how it be possible to fetch her out."
"Pooh! What is the use of thy wits, Rob, if thou canst not get the
better of father's old wool-shed."
"Master Lane's shed, sayest thou?"
"Aye, truly, she is there. Dad told me so this morning. The door bolted
and barred, sentries in the street without, and many more in the
guardhouse opposite. I saw them there last Sunday when I passed. But
what of them. You can surely outwit such fudge-heads as they."
"Master Lane's shed," cried Robert again, a strange note of excitement
in his voice. "Art certain she is there?"
"Aye, certain, Rob. What then?"
"Prue, who guards the little door in Blind Man's alley?"
Prue looked at him eagerly.
"What door, Rob? I mind it not."
"Yes, thou knowest it. The master's private door at the near end of the
shed. They say 'twas put there years ago for old Master Lane, thy
grandfather, to enter secretly and count his bales; maybe for the
entrance of other sorts of goods,--folks say. For 'tis known he hid
arms and ammunition for the king's troops in the last war. It has not
been used for years, and on the inside 'tis still hid behind a pile of
sacks, I doubt not. But 'tis there."
"Oh, Rob! I had forgot it entirely. And oh, I doubt not they have
forgot it too, for I passed thro' Blind Man's alley last Sunday even,
and there was no sentry stationed there."
"No, sentry, Prue? And the key hangs on thy father's chain."
His voice was hoarse with excitement, he stared before him in dawning
thought.
Prue clasped her hands eagerly.
"Oh, Rob," she whispered. "What shall we do? What shall we do?"
He turned his head slowly and looked down at her.
"Ah! sweetheart, it's madness, madness!"
"Yes, Rob, dear, but--let us be mad. Ah! do, do."
He hesitated, but his inborn love of adventure tempted him as much as
her eyes. He yielded to her pleading, and sealed the bargain with a
kiss.
Then they sat down on the bench, hand in hand, and proceeded to mature
their plan.
"Now, sweetheart, we must think with all our wits."
"It must be to-night, Rob," Prue urged. "They might carry out the
sentence to-morrow. It must be to-night."
"To-night be it."
"And what shall we do?"
"There is but the one way that I can think of. Enter the shed by the
hidden door, and fetch her out thence."
"Oh, Rob, that sounds so easy," cried Prue, a note of disappointment in
her voice.
"Does it indeed, madame?" he laughed. "And what if the door be barred
within, or I meet with a sentry, or the other prisoners should betray
me, or I cannot find the lady, or she will not come?"
Prue gasped in dismay at this terrible list of possibilities.
"Oh! it is too dangerous, Rob," she urged with a sudden shrinking
terror.
"Nay, but we'll e'en try it. For indeed I do not think any such
misadventure likely to befall us."
"Then let us set about it at once, Robert."
"Nay, there is much to think on yet. Where shall I hide her when she is
free of the prison?"
"Bring her here, Rob, by the garden door. I can hide her in the old
attic for a night or so, and they will never dream of seeking in
father's house for an escaped rebel, and in a few days Lady Cicely may
win her pardon. But I am coming with you, Rob."
"Certes, no. Why, I had as lief have my Lord Jeffreys. No, Prue, I mean
it. If I cannot go alone, I go not at all."
"Oh, but Rob. I must do something."
"Ay, i' faith, thou must. 'Tis for thee to get the key."
"The key!"
"Aye, the key of the shed. It hangs, as I said, on Master Lane's chain,
tho' he hath doubtless forgot the fact, it has been so seldom used. But
I know it well. Now, how wilt thou get it for me?"
"Oh! Rob, I know not, i' faith. How is't possible?"
"Pooh! Where are thy wits, Prue?" he asked teasingly.
"You shall not mock me," she panted. "But in good earnest, Rob, 'tis
impossible."
"Come, Prue, no despair. Why, I have seen him hand thee his keys a
hundred times."
"Aye, but that was for the cellar, when he fancied a certain wine at
supper, or maybe for his bureau in the counting-house, to fetch papers
or moneys. Not--not--Rob!"
"Well!"
"Thinkest thou not, perchance that a glass of hot port wine might help
my Lady Cicely to sleep."
"Prue! Thou has hit on the very plan. And once the chain is in my
hands, the key of the shed is ours. But go to thy father quickly, sweet,
or 'twill be too late, and Lady Cicely will fall asleep before her drink
be prepared."
"Oh! Rob, I shall laugh when I ask him; I know I shall."
"Not you, Prue. I've too good cause to know your powers of acting a
part."
Prue laughed and blushed at this reference to the evening's quarrel.
Then she sprang quickly to her feet.
"Well, I must do my best. Do you wait here, Rob, and in ten minutes
I'll be with you."
She darted across the grass and disappeared into the shadow of the
trees.
Robert awaited her return in a frenzy of impatience. So much depended
upon the success of the girl's errand, so many obstacles presented
themselves before his mind. For Master Lane might hand her the cellar
key alone instead of the chain, though that were never his way. Or
Mistress Lane might be with her husband and disapprove of her daughter's
request. Or Deb might accompany her sister to the cellar, or Prue
herself, in her excitement, might betray the plot. Of the danger, the
madness of the undertaking he thought not at all. Once embarked upon
the enterprise he was carried along by the excitement of the adventure
it promised. Like Prue, he lost sight of other considerations in view
of the daring of the attempt.
Presently he saw her coming towards him, her white dress gleaming
through the trees, and as he darted to meet her, he heard the jingle of
the keys. She had succeeded in her quest.
"Here they are," she whispered, her eyes dancing with triumph. "Take it
quickly, I must not keep Dad waiting. He was alone. He gave them
without a question. 'The whole cellar full if 'twill aid Lady Cicely,'
he said. Is that the one, art sure? Then give me the chain, and go.
Here is the key of the garden gate. I will watch. Keep out of danger
and be careful. But oh! Rob, is it not fine? You and I to outwit them
all, my Lord Jeffreys and the governor, and--and the very law itself."
He laughed aloud, sharing to the full her excitement. Then without
further parley he set out on his errand, leaving Prue to her eager watch
for his return.
So these two laid their wild plans in the solitude of the peaceful
garden, while in the castle near, the prisoners rested quietly, resigned
to their fate, and in the brightly lighted room of the White Heart Inn
Judge Jeffreys and his comrades feasted and drank till the night air
rang with their boisterous revelry.
*CHAPTER XVI*
Robert Wilcox hastened on his way to the prison with joy in his heart
and excitement in his eyes, at thought of the adventure that promised,
while in the darkness of the prison Captain Protheroe sat with his head
buried in his hands, sunk in the misery of an impotent despair.
No man who has not himself endured it can understand the agony to a man
of Captain Protheroe's disposition, of acknowledged helplessness. For
he was essentially a man of action, strong, capable, alert for every
danger, with a ready wit to cope with every obstacle that rose in his
path. He had never yet learned the meaning of failure. And now, when
life at last offered him the full cup of his desire; when but four bare
walls stood between him and a freedom so rich that beside it his past
life seemed but an empty waste; now when his whole being clamoured for
action, he could do nothing but sit helpless and inactive, while the
hours slipped slowly away and the day drew near when the woman he loved
must suffer shame and torture with none to support or comfort her. He
knew it was useless to struggle against his fate, but his whole soul
cried out against submission. Yet he could do nothing, nothing, but sit
rigid, silent, his hands locked together in the fierce misery of
impotent revolt.
Suddenly he stirred, every sense on the alert and listening intently.
At the farther end of the shed his fellow prisoners lay silent, their
sleeping forms dimly visible in the faint light. Close beside him,
where a pile of bales and sacks was heaped against the wall of the shed,
he seemed to detect the noise of a key turned gently in a rusty lock,
followed by the creak of an unused hinge. He waited with bated breath
for what should follow. After a pause the hinge creaked again.
Half incredulous, he crept forward to investigate the cause of the
unmistakable sounds, and began noiselessly to remove the sacks from that
portion of the wall which they concealed. Two he moved easily, but the
third resisted his efforts. In vain he pulled, exerting his strength in
an obstinate determination to have his way. As he became dimly
conscious that the resistance was rather active than passive, it
suddenly ceased, and he stumbled backwards, with the sack in his arms.
Like the full moon on an Autumn evening the fiery head and rosy
countenance of Master Robert Wilcox rose slowly into view above the top
of the piled bales, and peered cautiously into the shed.
For a moment the two stood staring at one another doubtfully. But as
Master Robert slowly perceived the captain's uniform, his jaw dropped,
and a look of horror and consternation crept into his face.
"Good Lord!" he gasped, and with a sudden swift movement, his head
disappeared from view.
But Captain Protheroe was no whit behind him in rapidity of thought or
action. Quick as lightning his arm darted over the sacks, and he
grasped firmly the tousled hair of the intruder.
"Hist, you fool!" he whispered. "All's well. I'm one of the prisoners
myself. Is it a rescue?"
Slowly the face reappeared and stared doubtfully at the speaker, then
having subjected him to a critical survey, and being at length assured
by the captain's tone and bearing of his good faith, Master Wilcox
heaved a sigh of relief, and rubbed the sweat from his forehead.
"Phew! What an escape," he muttered. "I made sure you were one of
those damned sentries. Yes, 'tis a rescue, but not for you," he
continued curtly.
"Nevertheless, my friend, I purpose to be one of your party," answered
Captain Protheroe coolly, "I and a lady who is here with me."
"A lady; what lady is she?"
"What is that to thee?"
"Nought, only 'tis a lady I am here to aid; Mistress Barbara Winslow."
"What! Even so? Why, well met, friend. 'Tis even she of whom I spake.
She is sleeping yonder. I will go bring her and we can slip out quietly
without rousing the others."
Robert eyed him half-doubtfully.
"Be speedy then. Every minute is danger, for I know not when the
sentries will be round."
"True, there's no time to lose."
The two had carried on their conversation in whispers; the other inmates
of the shed were undisturbed.
Captain Protheroe now went swiftly to Barbara's side. She was sleeping
quietly, her cheek pillowed on her hands. He aroused her gently.
"What is it?" she gasped, in sleepy bewilderment.
"Freedom," he whispered, smiling down at her.
Silently they stole back across the shed, and soon the three stood side
by side in the narrow alley outside.
"Come!" cried Rob, seizing Barbara's arm eagerly. "There's not a moment
to lose. Come!"
But Barbara was now thoroughly awake. She drew back quickly.
"But the others!" she exclaimed. "Surely you will not leave them
behind. They are to die to-morrow."
Captain Protheroe shook his head.
"Mistress Barbara, the risk is too great."
"Oh, but that is rank cowardice," she exclaimed angrily. "You may do as
you choose, sir, I shall----"
He laid a restraining hand upon her arm.
"Captain Protheroe," she exclaimed indignantly, eyeing him haughtily.
He smiled at her serenely.
"Yield to reason, Mistress Barbara. You cannot go back."
Barbara turned away angrily, and addressed herself to Rob.
"Cannot you go back?" she asked.
"Not I, madame," was the ready answer. "You are not safe yet."
Barbara sighed, looked at the pair of them contemptuously, and yielded
to necessity.
"But you can leave the door open," she urged.
Rob hesitated.
"'Twill be a clue," he muttered, but yielded to her plea. "Now, come,
madame, we must wait no longer."
"Where are you going?" she demanded quickly.
"To Master Lane's house," he answered impatiently. "Lady Cicely is
there, and----"
But Barbara shook her head obstinately.
"No," she said, "I will not bring trouble upon them. They are loyal
folk, and were I discovered there, 'twould bring misfortune to all. Did
Master Lane send you to me?"
"No, madame, he knows nought of the venture as yet, but----"
"Then, indeed, I will not go. I will not endanger them, and Cicely.
'Twould be most cruel."
Rob groaned in desperation.
"Lord! These women!" he muttered. "Nay, madame, trust in me and come
at once. We may be discovered any moment."