"No--from friends in this country. To be frank, I have now

a personal stake in life that I lacked until recently. We cannot

live to the State only. We must also live to ourselves."

"Do those interests of self and State clash then?"

"As to that, my lad--why, mind your own business," replied

Stark. His tone was amiable, but Burnham knew the subject

could not be reopened.

Presently others joined them and conversation turned to the

subterranean works.

A shaft, whose adit was carefully concealed, now sank upon

the tunnel under Prison No. 6. The mouth was narrow, but

within it space had been dug for four men to work abreast. A

grand difficulty was the disposal of the excavated earth; and

ingenious methods had been taken to get rid of it. A stream,

which ran through each prison yard at the rate of four miles an

hour, carried away many tons of fine dirt, while much was mixed

with lime, plastered over the prison walls and then whitewashed.

A large cavity discovered under Prison No. 5 proved also of great

service, and many tons of surplus soil had been cast into it. Now,

as their passage crept yard by yard nearer to the outer walls, the

workers suffered for want of air; but means to eject the azotic gas

were devised; a system of lighted lamps answered this purpose;

and to Lovey Lee fell the task of smuggling large quantities of

oil into the War Prison.

The leaders spoke with hope and enthusiasm. A week or less

would see the completion of the tunnel, and already plans were

being developed for the great exodus.

Burnham, fresh from his conversation with Stark, found David

Leverett at his elbow; whereupon he discussed his recent rebuff

with the sailor.

"Stark was wont to be open as daylight. But now there's a

bitterness about the man, and his mind wanders. To-day he

confessed to other interests than our common interests. And

at such a critical time!"

"You can't trust any human in this world," said Leverett. "I

tell you there's not a doodle inside these walls--narry a Yankee

or Britisher--who hevn't got his figure. Man's built so; so's

God. You can't even get into Heaven for nought. 'Tis a

question of price. Only Hell lets you in free."

"You don't mean----?"

"I don't mean nothing. 'Tis dangerous ter mean anything in

this place, when you've always got unseen eyes watching you,

like a hawk watches a sparrow. But let the highest amongst us

be watched as well as the lowest--that's all. No treason in that.

I hevn't got any ill-will against Cecil Stark, though I know

you was always jealous of him. He's a good boss, and I trust

him as much as I trust anybody else. But liberty's sweeter than

love of man or country; and money with liberty would tempt the

angels I reckon, if they found themselves in this place. Money

and liberty's all the world can give a man."

"What's money to him? He's made of money."

"So much the more might he want ter be free ter spend it.

He's not the sort to stop home nights anyhow."

"For that matter, there's money for all since the French

departed. Their offices fall to our men now. The prisoners

are making fifty pounds a week or more--apart from home

allowances."

"Yes, an' that tarnal miser, Lovey Lee, pouches half of it,"

grumbled Leverett. "Talk about money! If I'm first through

the rat-hole, I'd like ter get my four fingers on ter her windpipe

and strangle her by inches. That's the payment she deserves!"

"We shall be through in four or five days. Knapps sends in

word that since they got a recruit--Lovey Lee's grandson--their

rate of progress has increased. 'Tis the letters that John Lee

gets to Stark that make him so unrestful, I believe."

"Stark could give 'em the slip for that matter," said Leverett.

"Scores of Yankees as can speak the lingo have given up the

names of Frenchmen and gone out. I'd hev done it myself if

I could parley-voo."

"Yes," admitted Burnham. "He's a good scholar. He could

go to-morrow; but if he did he would be a coward and a knave.

He knows that it is his duty to stop and see this thing through."

"'Duty'! Well, I haven't got much more use for duty myself,"

replied the other. "Life's short, and there's nobody on earth or

in heaven cares for me but David Leverett."

"Stark happens to have bigger ideas than you," answered

Burnham coldly.

"'Tis easy for the rich ter hev big ideas; but they ain't no

good to the likes of you and me."

William Burnham resented these sentiments and turned on

his heel; while Leverett addressed Mr. Cuffee, who passed at

the moment, and, in default of a better listener, grumbled to him.

"Devil take the hot-heads; and Devil take the hindermost!

'Tis every man for himself in this world, so far as I've seen. And

when all's done, and we're free--what? How's five thousand

unarmed men ter get ter Tor Quay and take ship ter France?

We want a fleet o' vessels! They'll send the sojers after us, and

they'll lick up and overtake us and cut us ter ribbons--that's

what they'll do. 'Twould be truest kindness ter stop the whole

thing."

"Marse Stark he lead de way. He wiser den us."

"You think so--and the rest likewise. But I say this snarl

is beyond his powers ter loose, and we're going the wrong way

about it."

"You no blame Marse Stark?"

"I duz then. He ought ter know, if he's so tarnation wise,

that it can't fall out right."

Sam Cuffee shook his head.

"If you fink Marse Stark ebber make a mistake in him life,

you no fren' ob mine no more," he said.

Elsewhere the subject of these criticisms was fighting with

mingled interests, and found himself torn in half between the

prisoner at Fox Tor Farm and the prisoners at Prince Town.

Escape was now easy enough for any intelligent man; and with

each draft of French prisoners many Americans had got clear off

by giving up the names of the dead; but in Stark's opinion, the

fortunes of the plot were his fortunes. Daily the difficulties

increased, and as larger numbers of prisoners became familiar

with the secret, the chances of treachery grew. A week or less

must see the tunnel bored; but meantime the temptation to

desert his post was terrible. Through John Lee, Stark had

learned of the catastrophe at Fox Tor Farm, and now understood

that secret means were afoot greatly to hasten Grace's marriage

with Peter Norcot. The American also knew clearly that, while

a prisoner in body, Grace Malherb was free in heart, and that

she loved him. His soul longed with a frantic desire to reach

her side and save her. By night he dreamed wild dreams of

rescue; in sleep he saw himself conveying his love to France,

wedding her there, and returning to England again that he might

face her father's fury; but with day his obligations to his

countrymen banished this picture. To desert the cause now was

impossible, for his escape would awake sleeping authority and

unsettle those he left behind him. Every hour new problems

had to be met and solved. Rumours of disaffection reached him

often. In this predicament he did not trust himself to think of

what he might do, had it not been for the presence of John Lee.

The vital matter of Grace's escape rested with John, and even

now, as Stark tramped the prison yard, he scanned the grille,

impatient to see his friend. For upon the preceding night Grace

had been rescued from her home and now hid in Lee's safe keeping

until Stark himself was free.

As for John, no personal hopes and ambitions longer remained

in his mind. Never keen, they had waned utterly with his life's

sole joy. Now he stood for nothing but the happiness of Grace

Malherb, her safety and her welfare. She alone acted as an

incentive and made his life continue to possess attraction. For

her he entered into the plot of the Americans; for her he toiled

beside James Knapps to hasten the ends of Cecil Stark; for her

he now ran countless personal risks and came safely out of them,

helped by his very indifference to danger.

Upon the day that was to have seen Grace married to the

wool-stapler, Lee appeared among the spectators at the barriers,

and pulled some small coins from his pocket as Stark approached

with one or two trinkets of prison manufacture.

"All's well," he said shortly. "I brought her safely off. Even

now Norcot must be cooling his heels at Widecombe Church; for

when they discovered this morning that she had escaped 'em,

there was no time to communicate with him."

"She is unhurt? No harm befell her?"

"To earth she came like a pretty dove, and by sun-up she was

safe. She's not far off neither."

"To think of another doing these things that should have

been my blessed privilege!"

"D'you grudge me that much?"

"No, no, Jack; but consider--her lover. Yes--I'm that now,

thank God."

"This was what I could do for her and you could not. She

is out of danger now, and will be for a week--not longer."

"In less time than that my work here is done and we shall be

free," answered Stark. "Then 'tis my turn; then I must----"

"The tunnel will be through in less than four days--perhaps

three," interrupted John. "Knapps works eighteen hours a day

and I do my stint. He's made of iron. By night we get rid of

the soil; by day we work while my grandmother keeps guard.

When the time comes, we shall knock out the side of the cottage

so that the open door shall be as large as possible."

With difficulty Stark brought his mind back to this great

matter.

"She--yes--the exit must be as wide as you can make it. We

are planning the final stroke. At best it will take some hours,

however good our method and discipline. The danger of alarm

is manifest--also the danger of false alarm and panic."

"You deserve to succeed. You have great authority over men."

"My obligations cease when I take my turn with my fellows

and come through the tunnel. It is each man for himself then.

But I have given my word to depart no other way. Then! How

shall I pay you for all I owe you, Jack?"

"Name that no more. You cannot. She will pay me. Her

future happiness is my payment."

"And her future will rest with me. 'Tis a solemn thought

for one so little worthy of such a trust. Shall you see her

to-day?"

"Every day until you are free and beside her."

"My purpose is to get to Dartmouth and hire a vessel that

will take us to France. I have heard all about the place, and

believe that a little ship can lie hid at some appointed spot where

the trees hang over the river."

"Such spots abound. I might see to that. When once you

and your countrymen are free, her hiding-place must be left

instantly, for another will come to it."

A shadow of lover's jealousy clouded Stark's face; but it was

gone in an instant.

"If we get successfully out of this, you and you only must be

thanked for all. I lag behind you every way. But I'll do my

share, Jack, when I get opportunity."

"No fear of that. To-morrow I may beg a mount at Holne

and get to Dartmouth. But, to be frank, 'tis more vital that I

should watch over her than do any other thing just now. If

Norcot lays hands upon me, all may go wrong. He'll know right

well that I've a hand in this."

"Then think first and only of her, and guard your own safety

before everything, for her sake."

A mat of dyed grass and a little box of coloured wood passed

between them, while Lee handed a coin back through the bars.

"Her letter is under a false bottom in the box," said Stark;

then he turned to some friends and Lee went his way. In his

mind was a great desire to visit Dartmouth and complete these

secret plans. Yet the awful danger to Grace if misfortune

overtook him and kept him from returning, made him hesitate

to incur other risks than those already run.

CHAPTER VIII

HUE AND CRY

When Thomas Putt reached Widecombe Church on the

morning of the wedding, he found the company from

Chagford had already arrived. Peter Norcot's bottle-green coat,

gilt buttons, and noble shirt frill, presented an imposing and

attractive appearance; his sister Gertrude was attired in lace and

silk of a faded lavender hue; his man Mason wore a mighty

bouquet of flowers on his new livery. Last of this party was

the bridegroom's cousin from Exeter--a young Clerk in Orders,

one Relton Norcot, whose flat and somewhat vacant countenance

grew pale as he heard the news. He feared the issue and

expected an explosion, but his knowledge of Mr. Norcot was small.

When Putt announced that Grace Malherb had vanished in the

night, Peter's eyes contracted a little; he rose from his seat, thrust

his hands deep in his breeches pockets, and began to pace up and

down in front of the altar rails, regardless of the whispering crowd

in the church. His reverend cousin drew him to the vestry; then

the disappointed lover spoke.

"I'm very little surprised. We must act with the utmost

promptitude. She's not done this thing single-handed. I'll wager

that groom John Lee's in this, and, like enough, Stark, too. He

is the rascal for whom she suffered imprisonment."

Peter next turned to Putt.

"Tell us all you know," he said.

"Only that the window was open, your honour," answered Tom,

who secretly prided himself on the entire conduct of the affair.

"'Twas by the window Miss Grace went out. Her left a letter for

her mother. They do say--Mrs. Beer I mean--that her wrote

her'd rather die a thousand deaths than have you, begging your

honour's pardon for mentioning it. She said as she was going to

be in trusty hands also."

Peter nodded, while the young clergyman with the fatuous face

began to get out of his surplice.

"She must have been very badly brought up," he remarked, and

Norcot stared at his cousin; but his mind was on the matter in

hand.

"I shall proceed instantly to Dartmouth," he said. "Tell

Mason to saddle my horse and his own. Either from Dartmouth

or Tor Quay they will endeavour to leave the country. Mark me,

that man Stark has broke prison again. Is Mr. Malherb in

communication with Prince Town?"

"Not that I knows about," answered Putt. "Master be like a

bull of Bashan--to say it with all respect. He've made Fox Tor

Farm shake to its roots. He's lamed two horses a'ready afore I

started, an' he's been tearing over the Moor since dawn, like the

Wild Hunter. He 'pears to think he's been hardly treated by

Providence; an' he's called down fire from Heaven, by all accounts,

on pretty near everybody as lives on Dartymoor. A proper

tantara, I warn 'e! God knows how 'twill end. He roareth against

all things but hisself."

"'Tis a shattering stroke," wept Miss Norcot, "and you are a

marvel, Peter, to bear it with such composure."

"Tut, tut! Get you home, you and Relton here. The marriage

is postponed. See her home, Relton, and bide my coming. I

may not be back for a day or two, but don't return to Exeter until

you hear from me."

Then he again addressed Putt.

"Ride back at once and direct your master to set a sharp watch

about Holne. They are lying close to-day; but they will doubtless

try for the coast at nightfall. First ascertain if Mr. Stark has

escaped again from the War Prison; next do all in your power to

capture the person of that groom. I've a hundred pounds for the

man who takes John Lee and keeps him fast. Now be off; and

let them know that I will be at Fox Tor Farm by midnight or

later."

His horse was waiting for him, and quite indifferent to the

crowd that had assembled round it, Peter mounted, bade the

children get out of his way, and galloped off with his man after

him. The disappointed bridegroom purposed to inform the

authorities and place patrols above Dartmouth, both upon the

roads and river.

As for Tom Putt, he rode home; while Miss Norcot and the

clergyman returned to Chagford.

At Fox Tor Farm, as the day wore on, wild turmoil reigned,

and the flock-master in fury was urging his exhausted labourers to

further efforts. Every spot for miles around about was searched;

the industrious Mark Bickford even tramped over Cater's Beam

and through Hangman's Hollow; but Grace Malherb, securely

hidden in Lovey's treasure-house, was beyond reach of discovery.

John Lee had laid his plans with care, and knowing that his

grandmother would stop at Prince Town until the completion of

the tunnel and the liberation of the Americans, he selected her

secret hiding-place for Grace. Here, until Lovey's next visit, she

was safe; but the miser would soon herself be flying hither with

her reward; and before that moment Grace must be gone.

"When she does come," said Lee on the night of the rescue,

"she'll bring some fat money-bags with her; and she'll have to

lie low henceforth, for if they catch her----"

"And there's danger for you too?"

"None to name," he answered. "My fear is only for your

health--that you may suffer in this dismal pit. It is damp. But

here's a snug cubby-hole I've found--dry as a bone--and I've

filled it with sweet dead fern and heath. The water that trickles

yonder is pure. And upon that shelf, beside the money-bags,

you'll find bread and bacon and a jug of cider. 'Twas all I

could furnish yesterday, but I'll come back to-night with better

fare. Here's a few candles too, and a flint and steel. And--and

he'd be here now if he could--Master Stark--you know that

right well; but he's got a great weight on his shoulders--five

thousand fellow-men to answer for; and he knows you're safe

while I draw breath."

"I can't thank you. Each word you say stabs me and makes

me ashamed to live."

"Sleep--sleep soft and safe; and dream of him. 'Tis not

going to be long before he comes to you; but it won't be here.

To-morrow I see him; to-morrow night I'll return again. Don't

fear for him. Think of the light he's got to show him his road!

You're safe as sanctuary here. And remember, if time hangs

heavy, that you may be within touching distance of the amphora."

She shook her head sadly.

"Father will never forgive me now. I have done a deed

unpardonable. He cannot understand that I love him with all

my heart, and yet deem my poor, wretched body a sacred thing--beyond

his right to dispose of as he pleases. I only pray this

will not drive him to distraction."

The man left her, and during that day had speech with Cecil

Stark at the War Prison, as we have noted. He worked also for

several hours beside James Knapps, and then, towards midnight,

returned to Grace. So silently did he descend into her

hiding-place that he did not waken her. She slept snug in the russet

sweetness of last year's bracken, and the candle by her side made

a play of great black shadows broken by the glow of the fern.

Her young shape was sunk in this soft resting-place, and her lips

shone very red in the candle-light. They held his eyes, since her

own eyes--those lovely lamps that generally attracted a

beholder--were hidden. Long he watched her peaceful breathing, and

stood fired to his heart, unwilling to rouse her. Once she half

awoke, and moved and lifted her head; then she cuddled into

the fern, sighed softly and slept again.

Presently he called her in gentle tones, and she sat up, still

dreaming; then came to her senses and remembered.

"Great news," he said. "First, here's some fresh wheaten

cake and some butter and three hard-boiled eggs. Next, you

must know that the tunnel is just finished. We were nearer

by five or six yards than we thought. To-day we heard them

knocking."

"How is it with my mother and father?"

"I have seen Putt within the last two hours. He stole out to

Fox Tor and met me as I came. Your mother keeps calm,

for she knows that you are safe; but Mr. Malherb is like one

possessed."

"Alas, I can see him and hear him as though I was by."

"Men fear to come to him. There is a settled battle in him

against every human soul. Yet a strange thing happened: at a

lonely cot yesterday, where he called to learn if they had heard of

you, a little girl stood by the door; and he looked at her, then

suddenly caught her up and kissed her before he got on his horse

again. The child was not feared at his fierceness neither, but

laughed into his bloodshot eyes. The mother told Tom Putt."

"Oh, why was I your daughter?"

"Norcot went straight from Widecombe to Dartmouth, so Putt

also tells. A deep man--how he hit the critical point--how he

knew what was in our heads! He'll have watchers on all the

beatable waters, and to-morrow he'll set to work to hunt himself."

"If he should find me, John!"

"Then I'll forgive him. Now farewell for a while. I shall see

you again to-morrow night."

They parted, and Grace read the letter that John had brought

her. Stark was deeply concerned at her escape; but he wrote

not one word of love in this missive. She missed that word, yet

knew well how much he had upon his hands and how that this

was no time for softness.

And Lee, returning over the Moor, heard a horse's hoofs

behind. He had scarcely dived into some old tin-streamer's

workings and flung himself flat behind a furze-bush, when Peter

Norcot went by in the dim tremor of dawn. So close was he that

John saw his eyes were half shut, and that he nodded and nearly

slept in his saddle. Light had broken eastward, and already the

small life of the Moor stirred amid glimmering grass-blades.

Norcot jogged onward to Fox Tor Farm, and Lee, wondering

whether the lover or himself had worked harder during the past

day and night, got back to his grandmother's cottage at Prince

Town.

Great bustle marked the farm when Peter reached it.

Mrs. Malherb, haggard and careworn, greeted him where sleepy-eyed

men and women were collected in the servants' hall. For a

moment there was respite, because Malherb had already risen and

ridden away. Norcot followed his kinswoman to her parlour,

then sank into a chair and began to drag off his top-boots.

"Any news, Annabel? I see from your face that there is none.

This mad business of keeping her chained up! It was bound to

end thus."

"Maurice has started again--this time to Prince Town. Oh,

Peter--his reason--I fear terribly for it! No human creature

could endure what he has endured and keep sane. I assure him

that she is safe on her own showing. I have it under her hand

and seal. But he will not believe me or her. He is like the sea

breaking on rocks--he never tires. After midnight he leapt up

and was soon in the saddle again. He has gone to the War

Prison now."

"He should have gone there first. Many hours have been lost."

"He will make trouble with Commandant Short, for he is in

no mood to be denied."

"What news had he of Stark's escape?"

"We did not so much as know that the young man was

escaped."

"I feel little doubt of it. However, he'll hardly clear

Dartmouth, or Tor Quay either. Grace, Grace! Poor child--how

true--Hesiod--Earth and Chaos are the parents of Love. Now

I must lift myself out of this chair again! Fifteen hours in the

saddle--three horses. Do for pity's sake get me a bumper

of strong drink, Annabel. And my wedding breeches--worn

out. Only just now off to the War Prison! Tut, tut! His rage

has made him blind."

"He has been brave as a lion and done ten men's work."

"Ten fools' work, you mean. 'When valour preys on reason,

it eats the sword it fights with.'"

"I fear, indeed, for his reason, and for his precious neck. He

is worn out in mind and body, and ought to be in bed instead

of on horseback."

"So ought I. Send the drink to my usual room, my dear.

And bid them call me in three hours. Make 'em wake me

whether I will or not in three hours' time."

"If my Maurice would but listen to sense!"

"Men don't change the habits of a lifetime at fifty. What

does Cicero say? '_Utatur motu animi_----' I'm too sleepy to talk

English, let alone Latin. 'He only uses passion who cannot use

reason.' A very unreasonable man is Malherb."

"You shall not criticise him at such a pass, Peter. None

shall. This wicked girl may cost him his life--you and she

between you. No man ever led a more honourable and

single-hearted existence. He is always trying to do right."

"Yes, I know all that. A man trying to do right is only

interesting as long as he fails. Malherb has never yet ceased to

interest me."

"Go sleep, cousin. You are saying things you would not say

in your proper senses."

He rose with a groan and hobbled painfully to the door.

"Death and fury! I'm an old man myself this morning;

gone in the hams and gone in the head! How I ache! But

wait until to-morrow. 'When Greeks joined Greeks, then was

the tug of war.' We'll catch my gipsy to-morrow. Don't forget

the beverage, Annabel. Half a pint of champagne and a little

drop of brandy in it. A drink for heroes. And a hero I am,

if ever there was one."

CHAPTER IX

THE FIRST THROUGH THE TUNNEL

Maurice Malherb, worn with futile rage and toil,

now turned his face towards the War Prison, and cursed

himself as he rode along, because he had left this vital business

until now.

Dawn saw him far upon his way, and its grey light touched his

grey face and revealed new marks of storm for ever stamped

there. His cheeks were somewhat sunken; his life and energies

seemed concentrated in his eyes. He sat heavy and inert upon

his horse, yet sometimes spoke aloud. His eyes were never still.

Their dark gaze ranged the desert, and nothing, near nor far,

escaped his scrutiny in the murk of the dawn. The chill hour

cooled his forehead and helped him to reflect.

"A man's daughter of all things living to turn upon him! And

of all daughters mine! She who has lived long enough to see

me in the right a thousand times. The only one left to me. And

knowing the deep love I bear her! And knowing how that my

judgment errs not. 'Tis beyond belief that we should bring out

of our own blood a thing that can feel so little thankfulness for

the blessing of worthy parentage. I grudged her nothing. I

gratified her every wish from childhood. And the only one left

to me! Oh, God, how comes it that a man's own offspring can

show him so little of his own self? She should be my image

and her mother's blended together. Yet what is she? An

exemplar of all that is hateful in woman. And yet--and

yet--when she was not crossed she could be as other

maids--sweet and daughterly to those that doted upon her. She

has made me think that I was all in all to her. But

disobedience--to break from the control of her father. And

to love an American! Fiends of hell, to love one of them!

Madness--'tis some strain of erotic madness that turned her eyes

to this enemy. The love I've wasted there--and would

again--and would again!"

His mind broke off, then returned to the matter.

"But no--never again. She shall be nothing now--I've cast

her off; I have prayed to God that she may be dead--rather

than----"

He yawned and his sleepy brain relaxed its grip upon his

wrongs. Memory was worn out. He stopped once and actually

asked himself upon what mission he rode thus in the dayspring

hour along this solitary waste.

The morning star waned above the Prison and another dawn

broke to the murmur of many waters. Light stole out of the

thin sweet air; a rosy illumination washed the sky, tipped the

tors and spread beneath his horse's feet. Prince Town stretched

its granite rings before him; and some fairy tincture of light

touched even those solemn walls. They glowed as the morning

opened golden eyes, and the ascending sun arose from a pillow

of fire.

The master rode straight to Ockery Bridge, where Captain

Short's cottage stood; and upon his demand instantly to see the

Commandant, a servant assured him that it was impossible.

This he expected, and it did not suffice. Before the man could

interpose, Malherb had pushed past him and entered the little

dwelling. He shouted aloud for Captain Short, and was about

to lift his voice again when the officer himself appeared. He

was dressed in full uniform.

"They refused me, Short, but I would take no refusal. Matters

of life and death may be afoot."

They were acquainted, and the soldier answered civilly.

"Good morrow to you. As for life and death--why, I believe

it is as you say, though I pray the affair may end sans bloodshed.

My patience is near gone, however. These men have the devil

in them, but, luckily, there is always a traitor to reckon with.

Cottrell also found it so."

"I am concerned about one man."

"Then your business can wait, my dear sir; for I am concerned

about several thousands. You come at a momentous time. Look

yonder. Within eight-and-forty hours my hive would have been

empty and my bees swarming--God knows whither."

Commandant Short laboured under excessive emotion. He

was very red and excited. His hands continually failed him while

he endeavoured to buckle on his sword.

"I desire to learn all you can tell me of Cecil Stark," said

Malherb, "and know I must at once."

"In good time. What think you of a tunnel burrowed under

those walls? They have done it--scraped a hole clean through!

At midnight came a message for me, and in secret I received the

news from one of themselves. Two hundred pounds and liberty

was his reward."

"Not Stark! You do not say that he turned traitor?"

"The rascal's name cannot be divulged. But at least you

shall see the sequel."

"Stark has escaped--I know it."

"Then you know more than I do. 'Tis a scheme almost wins

my admiration. Yet I should have had little admiration to waste

had they succeeded. Now I crush 'em--within this hour. All

is perfected by their leading men--and by me."

"So much to your credit; but I must see Stark if he is yet

there."

"It is not possible to have speech with him before my coup.

Afterwards I may arrange for it. You shall come with me, if

you please. To think that within two days my Yankee rats had

all been away to the sea!"

The soldier's fervour grew. He had planned a dramatic

answer to the plotters and now set about it. Malherb rode

beside him to the War Prison; but first they visited the barracks,

where a regiment of soldiers was drawn up under arms. One

company immediately marched to the cottage of Lovey Lee

outside the walls; the remainder proceeded with Commandant

Short.

It was then that Sam Cuffee, while engaged in preparing his

master's breakfast, caught sight of the troops, dropped a pot of

coffee, and came flying to Stark with his news.

"Dey come, sar--de lobsters--tousands ob dem! And de

officers an' Marse Commandant wid de plumes in him hat. Dey

march straight off to No. 6. It am all ober wid us--we cotched

sure--damn de debbil!"

Stark cried that discovery was impossible; but a moment later

he saw the truth for himself. Many hundred half-dressed

Americans swarmed into the yards and a hedge of steel

confronted them.

Captain Short stepped to the front of his forces, and a subaltern

in a loud voice cried out certain names from a paper. He

rehearsed correctly every member of the prisoners' committee.

Stark, Burnham, Ira Anson, and the rest stood forward in turn as

they were called.

"Follow me, gentlemen, if you please," said the Commandant;

then, while a growl of rage went up from the assembled masses,

Stark and the leaders, heavily guarded, were marched to the

scene of their operations in Prison No. 6.

Short, who had been informed most punctually of this affair,

marched straight up to the flagstones that concealed the descent

to the tunnel. He bade two turnkeys raise the pavement, and

then all marvelled to see the perfection of engineering work

pursued under such difficulties.

"A notable feat! Accept my hearty congratulations," said the

Commandant drily. "And when was this accomplished, good

sirs?"

"It has taken many months, Captain," answered Cecil Stark.

"'Twas finished but yesterday at midnight."

"I know that; one of your friends has thought better of the

matter and sold you all."

"No true American," said Anson hotly; "I'll stake my life

'twas a renegade Britisher."

"No, no. Don't imagine that. He is one of yourselves.

However, you'll not have any more to do with him. He has his

reward. Now tell me--where in thunder did you dispose of

the enormous quantities of soil you must have displaced in this

business?"

"Ate it--to make up for short rations," shouted David

Leverett.

"A good idea; but there will be no burrowing out of the

cachots, my man. 'Woe to the vanquished' is the tune now.

Away with them!" Then he added to the guard: "Let them

be separately confined. I will question each man in turn later

on. Now for their tunnel! You little thought, gentlemen, that

I, your Commandant, would be the first through this ingenious

exit!"

The soldiers separated. A company one hundred strong, with

loaded muskets, marched Cecil Stark and his companions to the

cachots; while thrice that number of soldiers formed square and

stood facing all ways about the pit mouth. Then Captain Short

and two of his officers with lighted torches descended. Once

there was an ugly rush of prisoners in the confined space above

them; but the bayonets kept all back, and before any organised

resistance or counter demonstration was possible, the Americans

had been driven out of No. 6 and the doors locked against them.

Meantime, while Captain Short crept from end to end of the

tunnel and presently thrust his head through the floor of Lovey

Lee's empty cottage without the walls of the War Prison, Malherb

had followed Stark and endeavoured to get speech with him. But

an officer in charge knew nothing of the master of Fox Tor Farm,

and ordered him back. Malherb made a rough retort, and the

soldier promptly sent him out of the Prison precincts.

"I would serve you if in my power, sir," he said, "but to allow

any speech with these men at present is out of the question.

Get you gone, therefore, and impede us no more."

"You whipper-snapper--what know you of this? There are

affairs of vital importance that demand my speech with that

rascal. I will speak with him! Have I toiled through a century

of suffering to be denied by a starveling subaltern? And the

knave actually under my eyes! Speak with him I will, so stay

me at your peril!"

He woke the echoes from many walls; he fumed with indignation

that a youth should affront him thus; while the officer,

ignorant of all that boiled in this man's mind, and conscious of

the gravity of his own charge, made short work with Mr. Malherb.

He called a sergeant.

"Take half a dozen men, Bradridge, and turn this lunatic out.

If he won't go, rogue's-march him! We've enough on our hands

without madmen to-day."

As though to confirm his assertion, a great uproar rent the air

behind them--a clamour like the wind-driven sea breaking upon

some mighty cliff. The nature of their disappointment had

permeated through the prisons; and thousands of baffled captives

cursed their fortune and threatened those dangers that lie in

concerted action of desperate men.

Sergeant Bradridge obeyed the word of command, and, despite

his impotent raving, Malherb was thrust forth by force. He called

down destruction upon the great fastness behind him; he wished

the Americans all free to overwhelm their guards; and then, at the

entrance, another company of soldiers appeared with two prisoners

handcuffed together.

"Waal, I guess they'll be astonished--some of 'em--when they

see me alive and hearty," said James Knapps to his companion.

"Not many knew as I was snooking round t'other side that wall,

and digging like hell day and night."

John Lee did not answer, for he had observed Maurice

Malherb.

"I must speak to that man!" he cried to the soldiers. "For

God's love do not deny me! 'Tis like to be death for an

innocent woman if I don't!"

"Not your grandmother--eh?" asked Knapps; "I reyther

reckon she can take care of herself."

John had now turned to Sergeant Bradridge, and earnestly

addressed him. The sergeant was a local man--a native of

Buckfastleigh, and the uncle of Mr. Putt.

"Sergeant," he said, "you know your nephew Tom: he's my

friend, and I beg you to let me speak to Mr. Malherb there. It's

a fearful thing if I'm denied."

Then he lifted his voice to his old master.

"I implore you, sir, to give heed. There's danger threatening

Miss Grace--I alone----"

But the other turned and roared him down.

"You hound--you lying rascal; you, that plotted to help this

knave Stark! Shall I hear a groom when I may not hear his

master? Take him away and shoot him for a traitor to his

country!"

"Your daughter, sir!"

"Keep her off your lips, or I'll strangle you with my own

hand," bellowed the other. "You're at the bottom of half this

cursed business--I know it--I know everything!"

"Her life, I tell you----"

"Is not in your keeping. I'll not hearken to a word from you.

Take the damned dog away and let him die as he deserves to die.

My horse--my horse!"

Sergeant Bradridge addressed the raving man aside.

"If he's got aught to say, your honour, best hear it. You may

not have another chance."

"Never! He has nothing to do with my daughter. Is she not

a Malherb? Hang the lying, infamous scoundrel! Take him

from my sight. Let all such be hanged. I would say it if he was

my son!"

A moment later he rode away full charged with frenzy: while

Lee and Knapps passed into the War Prison.

CHAPTER X

A GOD OF GLASS

It had been Lovey Lee's part to keep guard during the

operations beneath her cottage, and, on the morning of discovery,

while Knapps was underground and John Lee lay in a heavy

sleep, she stood at her door and scanned the morning. Her

mind was on money; within eight-and-forty hours she would

receive her reward; and now every glittering dewdrop of the

dawn shone beneath her eyes like a gold piece. Then it was

that another scintillation--that of steel--struck upon Lovey's

sight, and she saw the flash of bayonets and the gleam of red

coats. They approached swiftly across the Moor, and, divining

their significance, the old woman instantly fled out at the rear

of her cottage, and climbed and crept with amazing speed into

the lonely fastnesses of North Hisworthy Tor above Prince

Town. Here, safe as a fox in earth, she remained close hidden

until nightfall, and then started for her holt at Hangman's Hollow.

The fate of the men she had deserted troubled her not at all.

To have informed them of danger would have been to lessen her

own chance of escape by a full minute, and she had felt no

temptation to take such risk. Now was all lost but her liberty;

and as she stalked along the nocturnal Moor, like a dark and

gigantic bird, the miser swore aloud and cursed fortune at every

step. A live thing in the path reminded her that she had not

eaten food for six-and-thirty hours; stooping, therefore, she picked

up a luckless frog, tore it asunder, and stayed her stomach with

its quivering hind legs. Never had Lovey fallen into a temper

more ferocious and brutal. Months of patient fraud were thrown

away, and she found herself actually out of pocket upon the

venture. This reflection maddened her. In a delirium of

disappointment she strode forward, and once, when an owl screeched

out of the coppice at Tor Royal, she screeched back at it like a

fury, and swung her long arms, and cursed the stars because they

looked like good money scattered and wasted upon the sky. She

sank into a calenture of crazy wrath; frantically she longed for

some object upon which to vent her mania of disappointed

hope; and every moment she hastened unconsciously nearer a

victim.

Grace Malherb grew weary of the long hours that separated

her from John Lee's next visit. An eternity of time crawled by,

and the very hands of her watch appeared to drag as she sat with

it before her. Only once a sound fell on her ears through that

protracted day. Then she heard a bell, the fall of many feet and

the bleat of flocks. Soon the grazing sheep wandered away and

silence fell again. The tinkle of the dropping water and the

throb of her own heart were all her company. The gloom and

the chill of her hiding-place crept to her bosom and froze the

hope there. She fell to weaving fearful fancies; she pictured

failure in a thousand shapes. The rusty and glimmering gold of

the moss upon the walls grew hateful to her eyes. Yet it attracted

them and held them, so that hour after hour she scanned the

luminous cavern, and saw faces in it and read words scrawled in

dull fire there, like the Handwriting on the Wall. She ate and

drank a little, but her appetite failed her. All her emotions

merged into intense longing for John Lee. Her watch told her

that it was noon at last. Then she fought with herself to escape

forebodings and set about occupying time with a search for the

amphora. That treasure possessed none of the old fascination

now; yet, thinking upon her father, she much desired for his

sake to discover it, and made a diligent search both high and

low. Her explorations revealed two other boxes tied with cords;

and these she opened, only to find Sheffield plate in them.

An eternity of twelve more hours crawled by; then, when midnight

had passed, Grace began to strain her ears for footsteps.

It was a close, black night, with thunder in the air; but as yet

no elemental murmur broke the stillness.

At three o'clock, worn out and full of foreboding, the girl crept

to her fern bed and prayed long prayers. Finally she slept,

soothed by a determination to fly from this hated hole in the

morning and hide elsewhere, if John Lee did not come. Her

last waking thought turned to her father. "I will continue as

firm as he is firm," she whispered to herself. "Would I had

been different--for his sake; but not for my own."

Within an hour she slumbered, and when Lovey Lee sank

silently down into her den, the girl heard nothing. Grace

was hidden within a deep alcove of the wall, and she slept

without a light. The miser, once in safety, stood silent and

listened. It was for a growl of thunder that she waited; nor

did she expect another sound. Heavy drops of rain began to

fall, but as yet no storm awoke, though so inky was the east that

dawn seemed delayed.

First Lovey ate a loaf of bread from her mouldering stores;

then she sat down by the stone table in the midst of the grotto,

rested her head on her hand and considered the position. The

future bristled with dangers and difficulties; turning from it,

therefore, she rose, lighted a candle and drew forth her treasures.

The money she had not fingered for three weeks, and now she

counted it, and the steady stream, sliding through her fingers,

served to soothe her. Miser-like, she kept her supreme possession

to the last, and before she brought it to the light, her mouth

began to water and her eyes to glow. Though now crushed by

an uncontrollable weight of weariness and sleep, she prayed to

her glass god and performed his familiar rite before she slumbered.

From the ground at the foot of her granite altar, the old

woman scratched the soil, then drew forth a metal box. It

clashed as she picked it up, and Grace waking at the sound, was

just about to hasten forward when she heard the old woman's

voice lifted to address her deity.

"Come to me, my purty blessing! To think as I haven't had a

sight of 'e for nigh a month! An' the devil's luck fallen to me

since I seed 'e!"

The girl shrank back and watched, breathless, while Lovey

drew a mass of cotton wool from her box, and then, revealing

the Malherb amphora, placed it reverently on her granite table

and lighted other candles around it. Now she squatted down

before the vase and remained motionless, like a toad watching

a fly. Here was her support and power, the spring of her

existence, her sustenance, and the foundation-stone of her life.

She gazed and gazed with greedy eyes; she licked her lips and

nodded slowly, like a china image. The amphora, against its

gloomy background, flashed in the candle-glow. Its azure

splendours shone in the cavern's darkness; the acanthus leaves

were touched with flickering gold, and the Cupids seemed to

move and peep about behind the foliage.

"Dance! dance, my naked boys!" said Lovey. "Though

there's nought to dance about to-night. All lost--an' me a

runaway! Where shall us go to next? Us can't live underground

like a badger for ever. But I sold my cows a fortnight

agone--that's something. Dance, you little devils;

dance--dance!"

She gloated upon her treasure and trembled with joy of

possession. Presently she put out her hand gently, like a

cat touching a dazed mouse. Then the fit grew upon her.

With each hand in turn she stroked the amphora and twisted

it round and round. Anon she lifted it and brought it close

to her face; she kissed it and cuddled it against her breast,

and rubbed her cheeks upon it and slavered it, as might a fond

mother lust over her child. Grace Malherb heard a harsh

vibration, like a tiger purring.

"I've got you, my heart an' liver an' reins! I've got you,

come what may, my lovely joanie! And the day I die, you'll

die too; for I'll grind you to powder an' eat you--fat babbies

an' all!"

She laughed and nuzzled the glass, crooned to it and licked it.

Then her frenzy waned; she set the treasure gently down and

fell back exhausted. Her passion cooled; her eyes went out, like

extinguished lamps; she shrank as she sat there; and soon she

began to whine again before the thought of her losses.

"Christ! what a cursed day! What----"

A sudden sound struck her silent. Grace had moved and

loosened a fragment of stone. The noise, though slight enough,

reached Lovey's ear. She snatched up a candle and, hastening

into the recesses of the cavern, came face to face with her visitor.

Amazement so absolute overwhelmed the miser at this discovery,

that for a space it smothered every other emotion. She

glared speechless, then fell back and at last spoke.

"God's word! Be I drunk or dreaming? Are you alive, or

dead an' prying here a ghost from the grave? If you'm dead I

don't care a button for 'e! An' if you'm alive----"

"I'm quite alive, Lovey Lee," said Grace without flinching

before the ancient's terrific face.

"Alive, be you? Then 'tis the last minute you shall live to say

you'm alive! How did you get here? Tell me, or I'll kill you

by inches--a finger to a time!"

"I've done you no harm, Lovey. And I'll thank you to speak

more quietly. There are men hunting for me on the Moor, and

I've no wish for them to find me," said Grace firmly. As yet no

fear had touched her heart.

"Find you! They'll not find you! God A'mighty won't find

you. You'm dead a'ready!"

"I'm not dead at all; and I'm not going to die. If you'd

listen, instead of screaming at me, I might tell you why I am

here, and how I came here."

Lovey put the candle on a ledge above their heads; then

she sat upon the fern couch that her grandson had spread for

Grace.

"Get you up on your feet and stand afore me!" she said.

"I'm mistress here--not you. Death! to think as ever I should

allow any human but myself in this pit. Tell me truth how you

found it--else I'll strangle you."

"The truth is easily told: and you shall pay dearly for these

insults yet, you wicked woman! It was meant to marry me to

Peter Norcot; and your grandson helped me to escape from that

fate. John is always on the side of the weak. I owe my

salvation to him. I am waiting for him now."

"Jack Lee found out then! Blast--but I needn't waste no

words there. His thread's spun. So you runned from your

faither an' that man? You might so soon think to trick Satan as

Norcot. But I'll trick him. He can't marry dead bones. An'

yet--there's money to it. Only I be so tight placed myself."

"That candle-flame will crack the Malherb amphora, Lovey

Lee, if you don't move it," said Grace.

The woman sprang up and extinguished a dip that flamed too

near her treasure.

"There's the answer to my doubts. You know too much now.

I'll never sleep in peace no more while you are alive. There's a

dead dog in yon corner--shrivelled to bones an' leather. He'd

lost hisself 'pon the Moor and followed me here. I carried it

down the steps, for it stood and barked outside. But I never

carried it up again. None leaves this web but me, come in who

may. You ran choose how you'll go out o' life--an' that's all

the mercy I'll show 'e, Grace Malherb. You can starve, or you

can kill yourself, or I can do it for 'e; but die you shall--sure as

I'm a woman."

The girl regarded her steadily, and measured her huge body,

long arms and broad chest. She knew that in a physical struggle

she must quickly have the life crushed out of her, and for the

first time she feared. Then she wondered if Lovey's heart was

inflexible, and whether a way to bend her will might not exist.

"Is there no humanity in you--you who have been a mother?"

"No more than a mother wolf--not for you. I was a grandmother,

too, wasn't I? I brought Jack up from childhood--an'

he spied upon me. He'd have robbed me next--maybe he has."

"Not of a farthing."

"You've met me in a black hour. All's lost to the Prison.

Some Judas have told the secret; an' as for me, I dare not show

myself to the daylight. So there's nought to be made out of

you."

"You might trust me."

"Not since you've seen that."

Lovey pointed to the amphora.

"My father rates me higher than a bit of old glass."

"You'm daft to think so! Why for should he care a cuss for

you? More like he hates you, for you'm no daughter worth

naming to him--a froward, man-loving minx, as plays fast an'

loose with them he hates, an' defies him. Love the likes of you

better'n fifteen thousand pound! He'm not all fool."

Thunder suddenly broke overhead, and subterranean echoes in

the grotto answered it. The noise punctuated Lovey's speech

and appeared to affirm her purpose.

"Die you shall," she said. "God do so to me if I don't mean

it."

"I know you mean it now," answered the girl. "And, since

everything is lost at the Prison, I care not very much about

living. Yet, after all, 'tis only a passing reverse; therefore,

I plead to live. Life is life. Somehow this choking hole makes

me long to live. I hate your money and your treasures. I hate

the gold in your bags as much as I hate the moss on these walls

that mocks it. I want to breathe sweet air and see the sky

again. I'll keep your secret. Don't kill me, Lovey. 'Twill

ruin your own life if you do."

"Life's worth living, as you say. For all my cares and years

and cruel disappointments, I like it. But you hearken to the

thunder--I knowed 'twas brewing--you know too much. Let it

rage! I wish 'twould drown Short's cottage, an' him in it, an'

the Prison, an' the prisoners, an' the sojers, an' every living thing.

You know too much an' I won't take your word."

"You're worn out and frantic. Sleep upon it."

The old woman reflected.

"So I will, then," she said. "Never heard better counsel.

But you--you must sleep too----"

She came forward slowly, like some feline thing that stalks its

living food; then she lifted her hands to Grace's throat.

The girl did not flinch, and Lovey dropped her great fingers

again.

"You'm Malherb, I see--but I lay your heart's beating to a

merry tune! Let it beat--its beating be near done. Them

steady brown eyes too! I'll blind them, if you please, afore I put

my little god there to bed again. No, I won't kill you this

minute. I'll sleep on it. If you don't mean money from your

wool-stapler, I never counted money. An' Norcot wouldn't give

a poor, old, harmless granny up to the soldiers. Too much of the

milk o' human kindness in him for that. What's his figure,

I wonder? I must have a big one, an' my safety along with it."

She hunted her stores, found the boxes, removed their cords

from them and approached Grace. "Here's a rope's end for 'e!

No, not for your neck--for your heels. I must sleep--my senses

are all addled--I can't think clear. An' you must watch--so no

harm befalls me. Ha-ha-ha! us'll bind they neat limbs an' little

ankles a thought tight, just to keep you from slumbering. 'Twas

a pretty young Yankee's arms you counted to have round 'e, not

a bit o' biting oakum!"

She made Grace fast with unnecessary severity. Then, tearing

a strip from the girl's dress, she bandaged her prisoner's

eyes. Next Lovey extinguished all lights and, in the blank

darkness that followed, restored the amphora to its wrappings,

placed it within the metal box and put the box underground.

Then soil and stones were heaped over it, after which the

woman threw herself down on the earth above her treasure and

quickly fell into heavy sleep.

The thunder roared, and through her bandages Grace was

conscious of lightning. The glare of the sky penetrated some

chance chinks above and found her. Close at hand she heard

Lovey snoring. The ropes began to burn as though red hot, and

each minute the torment grew. The storm died slowly, and she

missed its companionship when it was gone. She envied the

cattle that roamed free above her; she prayed fervently; but

physical pain continually distracted her devotion. After two

hours the agony became sharper than she could endure, and at

the risk of angering her conqueror, Grace cried out sharply and

woke Lovey from slumber.

The miser was up in an instant, her senses alert and her frame

refreshed. She struck flint on steel and turned to the prisoner.

"Morning light," she said. "And how be you fairing, my

pretty maid?"

"I am suffering very terribly, Lovey. I could endure no more

without crying out. These ropes are gnawing into me as though

they were alive and had teeth."

"Bah! You'm more fretted for your raw wrists and ankles

than for them poor, brave fools to Prison as meant to save 'e!

Bide as you be an' smart on a while. Your good time be

coming--when you go to church with Peter Norcot. Now I shall set

out to get a bellyful o' fresh air an' see to the weather. No

human foot will tread Hangman's Hollow for a week after the

flood us had last night. But don't you fear. You chose sure

hiding! I shall soon be back. An' if the rope hurts, just think

if 'twas round your neck instead of your leg!"

The old savage sought her stores; and then she discovered the

bread and meat and eggs that Lee had brought for Grace.

"My jimmery! This was what made Jack so hungry of

late! Well, us will have bit an' sup when I come back. I

must keep you fat and plump for Mr. Peter now. Afore sun's

up I'll be here again. Me an' the sun ban't like to be friends no

more this many a day. For that matter moon's always more

kindly to me."

"Will you, at least, loose my eyes? I promise you faithfully

I'll make no attempt to escape while you are away."

Lovey laughed and took the bandage from Grace's face.

"Since there's nought to see but the gold moss you hate, look

about so much as you please; an' as for escaping--I'll give 'e

full leave to do it if you can. A horse couldn't break that rope,

let alone a slip of a girl."

Lovey now climbed carefully out of her treasure house and

Grace saw one blessed gleam of blue daylight before the great

stone above was swung back into its place and Mrs. Lee tramped

away.

CHAPTER XI

APOCALYPSE

Now were the threads of three lives to be tangled by Fate

upon the vast bosom of Cater's Beam; and here, within

the secret morasses beneath that great hill, walked Maurice

Malherb under the dawn and tempest. He ranged with the

thunderbolt, for the storm had called him from his bed; the

elemental chaos echoed his own heart and drew him forth into it.

He suffered such misery as only men built in his great, futile

pattern are called to suffer. The calculating and responsible find

themselves in no such sea of troubles; for their flotillas hold

inshore; their sapient eyes ever scan the weather of life, and

their ready hands trim sail to it. But this faulty fool with his

mad temper and sanguine trust in self, had listened to none,

marked no sign, heeded no warning. He had played the greatest

game that he knew, in hope that an unborn babe might some

day bless his name and perpetuate it. He had staked all and

lost all. His daughter was driven from him; his wife, in the

agony of her bereavement, had shed bitter tears, and, for the

first time in her life, lifted up her voice against his judgment.

His plans had miscarried; his money was nearly all lost. He

stood under the storm bankrupt of everything that he had worked

for and hoped for. He felt naked when he thought of his life,

now stripped so bare; for every interest was torn out of it, and, as

a tree robbed of leaves, it threatened to perish. Present

tribulations thundered on his heart as the storm upon his ears. His

soul felt deafened and bewildered; therefore he ran for shelter

into the past. Time rolled back for him and he saw the tortuous

journey of his days stretching into childhood. The vernal, sweet

delights of youth appeared again, and he remembered old forgotten

springtimes--birds' eggs--minnows--his first pony--the

scent of the new-mown hay. Then his own disposition developed

and darkened the hour. Puberty was past; freedom became his

and he abused it. Manhood plunged him into gloomy and

sombre avenues of years, lighted only by the flashing flame-points

of his own temper. He marked how ungoverned wrath had at

last grown ungovernable, and had risen, time out of mind, like a

demon, between him and wisdom; how his own action had

ceaselessly turned him out of the proper road, had clouded

justice and threatened honour. He clung to honour as a drowning

man to a straw. He fought the cruel white light of truth

and strove to shut his eyes to it; for soaked in that blinding ray,

honour stood no longer undefiled. A canker grew there; a blot

dimmed it; and the spectacle, shattering self-respect, hurt him

worse than loss of friends and fortune and his only child.

Cowardice and high honour could not chime together; and light

showed him that the canker-growth spelt cowardice. He had

outraged the freedom of his daughter; he had used force against

her liberty; he had denied her sacred rights in the disposal of

her own life and body.

Before this thought he came to his better self through his

worst. He called down a curse on the forces that played with

his convictions; he damned the inner voice of reason that showed

him what he had deemed duty was an interested crime. Standing

beneath the storm he put bitter facts behind him for vain

phantoms, and maligned the awful ray of truth. Then, moody

and sick in spirit, he leapt suddenly to sweeter and cleaner

thinking. Some phase of mind, some physical conjunction, or

some psychic crisis pervious to the influence of Nature, lifted

him, as often happened, into great longing for the better part.

The dawn showed him what no dawn had ever yet revealed. He

turned to the East and prayed to it.

"Before Heaven I mourn for what I am! I see myself

cursed--self-cursed. Oh, God, give me back my child again, and I

will be a wiser man! Only my child--only my Grace. I humble

myself. Punish me, great God, but not by taking her--my only

one. I repent; I will mend my life if I may but have my child

again."

The sun, struggling above wild new-born day and dying tempest,

answered his petition with shafts of flame, and wrapped that

desolate wilderness in a mingled splendour of mist and fire.

The pageant of the sky uttered a music proper to the man's sore

spirit, and unrolled with solemn glory. Heaven glowed and burnt,

or frowned and shuddered in black precipices of storm-cloud that

sank upon the West. Into the deep senses of the watcher these

things penetrated graciously. They touched the ragged wounds

of his heart and helped to heal them, while a harmony, as of

music, fell upon his helpless, hopeless soul. All the wonder of

the sky filled Malherb's dark eyes as he lifted them; but a light

greater than the sky or any inspiration born of day shone out.

Upon the verge of apocalypse he stood; yet gulfs unseen separated

him from it. His days were not accomplished; his darkest hour

was not yet come.

Now, where a rock rose at a point not far distant, there

appeared Lovey Lee. She stood like some night-spirit, surprised

by dawn, blinking and disarmed in the unfamiliar sunshine. For

a moment she hesitated at the sight of Malherb; then approached

him, conscious of her complete power. This man, and perhaps

only this man in the world, was impotent against her. Not a

finger could he lift. Harm done to her must bring far worse

upon himself. Her wits planned a cunning lie and she advanced

to utter it.

"You'm stirring early, Maurice Malherb. 'Tis strange that

you an' me should both choose to walk this here ill-wisht heath

all rotten wi' bog and water."

"I came to seek peace--not you. I ask you to quit my sight

without more words. There is no anger in me now."

"'Peace'! Do 'e find peace in your own company? I'll swear

you never have, nor never will. No peace for the likes of you

till you be dead. Come, let's talk secrets--shall us? I've got

things you'd dearly like to hear about."

"Leave me," he said. "I've done with cursing and swearing.

There is much upon my mind. I will not be angry with you.

My daughter is lost."

"They say you drove her away with a whip."

"They lie! 'Twas her own damnable folly that drove her

away."

"Maybe you lie too, to say it. You've held me in such contempt

and scorn--you've treated me so vile--that it's good, even

at a time like this, to make you bleed a bit. An' I'm going to

now. You shall cringe yet, though I have got the gallows hanging

over me; you shall grovel yet, though I do stand an

outlawed, doomed woman for helping them at the Prison. I'll crack

your heart first; then I'll ax you to save me from the soldiers.

And yet I doubt if t'other ban't a more solid man to trust--Norcot

I mean. Anyway, he's a wiser one, and can pay better, too."

"Do you dare to mean that you know where Grace Malherb

is hidden?"

"Ah! that wakes you up--you that have done wi' cursing an'

swearing--you that stole my grazing rights and called me 'hag' and

'miser'! I've got your fortune in my hand still, for all your bluster

and great oaths. And I've got your daughter, too! Now you can

listen--eh? Now I don't worrit you no more? Yes, I've got

her hard an' fast, wi' cords biting at her wrists an' ankles like

poisonous snakes--she said it felt so. I told you I'd wreck your

stupid, brawling fool's life; an' I have. You owe every pang you

suffer to yourself--then to me; every curse you utter hops back

to roost on your own head--so grey it grows with their droppings!

My work--all mine! Now howl an' roar--I want to hear you!"

The man preserved an astounding self-control before Lovey's

confession.

"This is what her grandson tried to tell me yesterday, and I

would not listen," he said aloud.

"Ah!--you was ever a poor listener. More poison for 'e!

He was your nephew--Jack Lee--the son of your younger

brother, an' so like him as peas in a pod! He knowed, but you

wouldn't heed him. But you always heed me, Malherb--doan't 'e?"

Still he spoke no angry word, though his great chest rose and

his face grew dark.

"If you tell me the truth--that my daughter is alive and in

your keeping--that is well. Much has happened since she went

away. If she knew, she would be glad to come back to me. I--I

am not faultless--I have erred. My eyes are opened. Give me

back my daughter, woman--I will reward you."

"'Give' her back! When was I ever knowed to give aught

to anybody? That's your own fool's way--give--give--give. I

might sell her; but you've not enough money to buy her. I'd

rather kill her by inches under your nose an' see you wriggle an'

rave till them black veins on your brow burst!"

His passion began to beat up strong and tempestuous under her

lash. The spiritual dawn-light was still-born. Storm awoke in

his soul before this infernal provocation and the sea of his mind

fell into its accustomed waves before the wind of wrath. He

forgot the danger of passion now; he did not appreciate the

importance of self-control. His voice rose to the familiar roar

and he clutched his riding-stock.

"What a loathsome reptile can a woman be! No man would

descend to such filthy degradation. To treat you like a fellow-creature

is vain; you are a beast, and must feel like a beast, and

understand like a beast. Force at least you recognise; then see

force here figured in me! Disobey at your peril, for I'll not stand

upon words with you again. Get before me to my daughter!

Instantly lead the way. Deny me, and I'll destroy you and rid

the world of a venomous fury who has lived too long."

She did not guess that he intended actual and instant violence,

but supposed he threatened to give her up to the authorities.

"Lies--lies!" she answered, mocking him. "You kill me?

I know better. You're not mad every way. Do your own errands--I

spit at you! I wasn't born to obey a fool. The hills and

rivers laugh to see you dance an' blow, as if you'd got poison in

your vitals. Never--never again shall you see her; never, not

for millions! To give me up! Bah! how's that going to help?

An' I'd laugh to think of her starving alongside fifteen thousand

pounds. How black you get! Why don't you use that great

horn handle you're waving about like a lunatic? Come, there's

only white hair on my head, an' little of that. Smash my skull

in! And then? Kill me. Ha, ha!----"

For the first time in her life, Lovey Lee mistook the nature of

a man. That there was a sort of anger capable of rising high

above its own interest her own cautious nature could not guess.

She saw that the whole of Malherb's earthly desires were in her

hand; and that he, who also realised this, would, with one mad

stroke, rob himself of his last hope, she never imagined even as

a possibility. Had he kept his reason, she had never succeeded

in goading him to this murder pitch; but now he grew insane, and

the woman paid forfeit.

She intended to show him the folly of threats. But the words

were never uttered; her laugh was not finished. Beside himself,

the master leapt forward; his whip shrieked across the air, and

the massive handle dropped like a hammer on the miser's crown.

To her knees she came, without a sound; next she fell prone

before him. Her legs and arms shot forth convulsively twice; a

patch of blood swelled on her sun-bonnet, then soaked through

and ran. One groan came with it and only one. After that she

was still, and Malherb knew she was dead.

He turned away and lifted his eyes and saw the golden reefs

and rosy cloud-islands of that wonderful dawn. Still the pomp

and glory of sunrise filled the sky, for only minutes had passed

since he stared upwards and prayed and uttered premises. He

marvelled that so much could happen in such a brief compass of

time. He mused of this experience and of his former hatred of

a psalmist's curse. He had rebelled against that awful petition

as being the demon's plea, beyond a good God's power to grant.

Yet the thing had happened to himself in this hour: his prayer

was turned into sin.

And then he hid himself within the hollow and lonely

antres of the land. From dawn till dusk he tramped the desert

beyond man's sight, and called on darkness to inspire him.

Once without set purpose, he returned within sight of the spot

where Lovey Lee had fallen. She lay there just as he had

struck her down; and there she would lie until the carrion crows

scattered her bones. His crime was safe enough from discovery

unless it pleased him to reveal it. The deed he gradually grasped;

its consequence still evaded his mind; but as he worked backwards

in thought he came to Grace. Then he stood still before

the vision of her perchance perishing of starvation. He was

doubly a murderer; and, to escape that awful imputation, he told

himself that the dead woman had lied to torture him; that her

tales concerning his amphora were as untrue as the things that

she had asserted concerning his child. He strove to find comfort

in the thought that her life had stood forfeit to the State; then

sophistry faded from him and a man, at best but little versed

in the force of speech, stood dumb before a terrific truth.

Murder overtook him and stuck to his side like a ponderable,

shadow-casting shape. Far away he knew that foxes were

creeping at the dim edge of dusk and barking of what they had

found. First an aversion from any thought of a human face

crowded upon him; then as the stars began to shine, he found

himself craving hungrily for the companionship of man. He sat

and rested for a while; he drank and watched a young moon in

a green sky. The heath rolled here in deep billows, unfretted by

stock or stone. As it held unshed waters, so it could suck up

darkness; and already detail was dying out of it ere twilight fell. He

rose and walked onwards, careless of direction, into a chaos of

marsh and broken peat hillocks. His mind worked quicker

while his body moved; it stagnated into a slough of sheer blood

when he sat still. Deep longing to see a fellow-creature held

him; and suddenly, though he was got beyond the power of

astonishment, a thing astonishing happened, and he found another

man. It was improbable that two human beings had met in this

shunned spot for years; perhaps no foot of man had trodden it

since some storm-lost miner wandered that way when Elizabeth

was queen.

Here now Malherb chanced upon one who sat motionless

on a bank with his feet in the mire. He turned as the other

approached, but showed no interest at sight of him.

"What lonely soul art thou?" cried Malherb; and as he spoke

he remembered that for the first time in his life he heard a

murderer's voice.

The figure revealed a strange countenance, made stranger still

by suffering.

"No man me--just a skinful of hell-fire burning itself out!

Get gone, for I poison the air around me. I never want ter see

no human more."

The speaker's awful despair had power to arrest one, himself

despairing. Malherb came nearer, and sought confidence. His

crime had shaken his nature and unsettled the tenour of his

disposition as a drug unsettles human organs. Now he thirsted to

talk.

"You can rail so loud and confess so much! And yet here I

stand; and to my misery yours, be it what it may, is the short

grief of a child to a man's abiding woe."

"Lordy, what big words! You to prattle about trouble,

stranger--ter me--ter me--a man who's touched bottom deeper

than any man since Judas hanged himself. Away you and

sorrow that can bear speech! Leave me ter burn."

An opal light from the West was in the speaker's eyes, and

they glittered green. Their dreadful expression held Malherb,

for agony far beyond the fear of death looked out of them. The

sufferer's head was bare and nearly bald; his face was

hatchet-shaped and narrow; the yellow skin seemed drawn to bursting

over his high cheek-bones; and upon his chin was a fan-shaped

and grizzled beard.

"I perceive you are an American--a lonely wretch who might

carry all his cursed country's crimes and sorrows on his own

forehead. Yet what are national troubles to a man's own? You sit

gazing and glaring. What then have you done that makes such

a night of life for you?"

"A thing Satan's self never did--a thing as would heat hell

again if 'twere cold--a thing not yet writ against any starving

ragtail on God's earth. Past hope--past praying for. And it seemed

nought until it were done; but after--it's brought me ter this.

Tell me, you who talk as if you knew big trouble, why did it seem

nought till afterwards?"

"What have you done?"

"It seemed nought till afterwards, I tell you. Then it grew up

into a mountain. The fallen angels will be took back ter heaven

sooner than me. Prayer's vain beyond a certain pass. Has life

showed you that?"

"It has. Yet what is there in your torture that can make me

unbosom mine?"

"Because 'tis the first longing that comes after crimes--to tell

'em," said the American. "So you've prayed too?" he added.

"'Prayed'? Yes, I've prayed hard and earnestly. I've

frightened my horse by night as I suddenly challenged my God. I

have dismounted and fallen upon my knees by lonely roads and

secret places. I've bruised my soul and cried aloud to the

Almighty and bade Him touch my fiend's temper and give me a

clean heart."

"Never had no truck with Heaven myself. Kinder knew I'd

have no use for it."

"Heaven--Heaven--you talk of Heaven! Another heart--a

humble heart was all the heaven I wanted. To be at peace with

myself--to learn patience: that was my unanswered prayer. And

now the deed I have done has made me mad. Mad must I be,

since I can talk of it to you. Yet 'tis to the thing looking out of

you--not to you--I speak."

David Leverett stared into the dark face above him, and his

starved, hollow countenance grew hard.

"What a trumpet! Ter bleat because you've got a nasty

temper! What full-grown baby are you, that thinks God's its

nurse, and cries becuz it's lost Him! Look at me! Like the

rest of men, you've lived ter find your puny misery capped by

worse. But look at me! Christ's sweat! you're an angel of

light beside of me! A short temper----"

"That has driven me into murder."

"Murder--what's that? David was a murderer. So was

scores that have marble stuck up to 'em all over the earth. 'Tis

worse ter bring life inter the world than put it out. Have you

never larned that much? You make a man in a moment of

passion, and set another puppet strutting ter suffer life. And

you mar a man in a passion, and--well, journey's end is no evil;

death's no evil ter them that die. There's thousands of men

this day as would tear me to pieces, limb by limb, and reckon

they did heaven and hell both a service. And so they would.

Curse the man as got me; curse the woman as bore me; not

him who would kill me."

"All this is nothing; you are only mad," said Malherb.

"Nothing at all! See here now--this great bag of leather.

I've dragged it thus far--further I won't. That is what I'm

damned for; that is why hell's gathering up heat for me."

He dragged out a big knife; opened it with his teeth; then

fell upon the bag and slashed the leather. A flash answered

every stroke, and gold coin tumbled and twinkled and fell in a

shower upon the ground.

"Murder--if I could murder that; if I could cut the throat of

what that bag means! But I can't--so I'll cut my own. It

seemed nought in the planning and promising--nought till after

I'd done it and felt the weight of the money here--here."

He beat at his chest.

"Murder--killing kittens! I've murdered a whole country--murdered

America! For this filth here mixing with the mire--for

this and for liberty! Whoever you are, help me ter curse

liberty! The name of a thing that is not. Judas only betrayed

one man. A little matter that, come to think on it. I betrayed

my own flesh and blood--them that had wives and children

yonder, and old, fond mothers. Sold the whole of 'em--every

blessed monkey of 'em; played God and Fate--for two hundred

pound--and liberty!

"I sold men who had shared their all with me--who had

spared the coats off their backs when I was sick, the food for

their stomachs when I was hungry. They trusted me with their

secrets. I was a sailor--I'd had a hand shot away for my

country. God tell why my head wasn't shot away! And first I

betrayed my own true friends and hoarded the money, and felt

no smart from that. And next I sneaked upon a nation. They

took me along with the rest and put me in the cachot, that none

might guess and turn and kill me. Then, when night came, they

thrust me out--me and my money and my liberty! And out of

the thunder came what I suffer now. Tell me why I didn't see

the punishment sooner and escape it? Tell me why the money

looked different till 'twas mine? And tell me what's left for me?"

"There's death for you and for me," said Malherb.

"That's the same as hell. Just judge! Then take my knife.

You that fear ter let blood--let more. You was sent ter do it.

Then you'll be forgiven, and your durned tender conscience will

prune its feathers and pipe up again. Kill me. Let me get the

worst of hell over; for thoughts of things are worse than any

things themselves can be. I hoped the lightning would do it;

but 'twouldn't foul its blade with me. I thought a great red-eyed

bull would do it, and stood in his path; but he knew, and turned

out of the road; he wouldn't red his horn with me."

"You see yourself," said Malherb solemnly, "even as I see

myself--too late. You are the second who has asked me to kill

them since the sun rose. The first I took at her word, and she

is dead."

"A woman! One less to breed men."

"There may be repentance for you, if you can endure life till

memory grows blunt. For me there can be nothing but increasing

horror at my crime. Nothing can save me now."

"I reckon we have done the worse that was in our nature ter

do," said the American. "That's nought--so have many and

slept no worse. The scourge is that we've been made ter feel it."

"You are right; we feel; therefore we suffer. Farewell,"

answered Maurice Malherb.

Leverett did not reply, and the other passed out of his sight.

One man plunged onward, never resting, never halting; one

sat like a stone with his chin resting on his palm and his

handless arm hanging beside him. The light of the stars was

reflected on the knife at his feet; and presently a glitter caught

his eye; whereupon he stooped and picked up the blade.

CHAPTER XII

THE VOICE

In the past--from a standpoint of fixed opinions and no

experience--Maurice Malherb had condemned suicide and

pronounced the action improper under any circumstances. But

now, in the light of that day's deed, it seemed that suicide opened

the sole road which led from ignominy and disgrace immeasurable.

He had forfeited his life. His exhausted body cried out

for food and rest; but his mind was active, and chaos, untouched

by the light of any star, raged there. He stayed his steps, sat

down amid old ruins and brooded upon death.

His purpose slowly established itself, and he determined to

depart in such a manner that no man should know of his going

or gaze upon his corpse. He might perish in the tenantless

wastes westward of the Beam, and feed vermin, and make the

wild asphodel sweeter, as his victim would; or he might choose

some forgotten cavern or deserted mine where ready graves

yawned to hide dead things until doom. He knew of such

places, and recollected a natural chamber hard by Dartmeet.

Here in the woods lay a deep hole that ran underground, and

was known as the Pixies' Holt. He determined to creep thither,

as old dying foxes did, that he might perish in peace.

Then it was that, rising again and stumbling forward, in doubt

whether his strength would last to take him to his goal, a voice

reached him and Malherb heard a faint cry for succour. At first

he thought it but a late lamb that had lost its mother's warm side

and bleated for cold. Then the sound became articulate, and,

forgetting his own circumstances, he listened very intently.

Presently he shouted with all his might, and from under the earth

came instant answer.

"Help me--help me! Come back to me, Lovey, or I shall die!"

Then were the man's ears opened, and he heard his daughter's

voice. She was buried alive and at hand, for he stood in

Hangman's Hollow. Now Malherb forgot everything but his

girl.

"'Tis I, Grace--your father! Be of good cheer. I'm

close--I'm close!"

He rushed hither and thither, bruising himself against the

broken walls. Then he entered the _cul-de-sac_, and stood, and

cried out again.

"Where are you now? How shall I come at you?"

"I am here beneath you, dear father! There is a great stone--part

of the floor where you stand. It reaches to the left-hand

wall. Stamp every way, and when you stamp upon the inner

edge the stone will turn slowly and show you a steep stair."

She heard him grope about and stamp as she directed. Then

he struck the cover and it turned, and showed him steps that

sank into the darkness. Slowly he let himself down, and soon

stood at the bottom with a starry space of sky above and the

glimmer of the moss around him.

"Move gently towards me," cried Grace. "A flat stone lies

between us, with flint and steel and candles upon it."

The master obeyed, soon lighted a dip on Lovey Lee's altar,

then hurried where his girl lay fast bound. Malherb released her

and she fainted. He chafed her blue, swollen wrists and, for the

first time, thought of the dead miser without a pang.

Grace slowly regained her senses, but not her courage. She

clung to her father and wept and prayed him for the love of God

not to loose her hand from between his own.

"Save me--save me from her," she said. "Let me die anywhere

but here--not smothered and starved here. Never let me

see her and hear her voice again, or I shall go mad."

"You are safe, my little child. Cry no more; tremble no

more; 'tis your own father has found you."

"My own dear father! My own dear father has saved me. I

called and called and counted the falling drops of water. Sometimes

I screamed when the ropes bit sharpest. But I called after

every hundred drops had fallen. Then I heard a step----"

She fainted again, and, seeking for the dropping water that she

mentioned, Malherb found bread and meat where John Lee had

placed it.

He restored his daughter's consciousness, then made her eat

and drink. After she had done so he finished the remainder of

the food, and marvelled at himself that his appetite was keen.

"Come," he said, "now, with my hand to help, your strength

will lift you out of this den for ever."

Anon they reached the air.

"A century has gone over my head since dawn," he said.

The girl took deep inhalations and looked at the sky.

"To see the dear stars again! Speak to me, father--speak

and hold my hand. I have come to fear silence. Have you

forgiven--can you forgive me for all the suffering I have brought?"

He held her hand and pressed it, but did not answer.

Slowly they moved away; then Grace stopped.

"Return, father--you must return and cover the mouth of the

place, and make it fast against her. Else, when she comes again

herself, thinking to find me dead, and finds me vanished, she will

fly and take the amphora too."

"It is there, then?"

"Yes indeed! I have seen it with my own eyes. She kissed

it--her hideous lips kissed it! Then she hid it again."

"She will kiss it no more. She will not come back. The

amphora and you--both in one moment! And I had determined

to---- The irony of God! A banquet He spreads--but my

teeth are gone. Yesterday this would have turned me into a

good man; to-day it is too late. Lean on my arm, little heart.

I'm strong enough to hold you up still."

They spoke again of the past, and Grace told her father what

he had already learned: that John Lee was his brother's son. He

heard the fact with indifference now.

So they passed painfully and slowly to their home, and in an

hour Grace was upon her mother's bosom.

With wine came strength, and the suffering of her raw wrists

was quickly lessened. She sank to sleep holding Annabel's hand;

and when she was in easy slumber, the wife returned to her

husband. He was sitting below beside a fire of peat, and he

also slept heavily. She loosened his collar, and, though the

touch was light as down, her hand at his throat awoke him. He

leapt to his feet and cried out aloud and bade her stand back.

"I meant to ease you," she said.

Then he awoke and took her in his arms.

"Forgive me. I dreamed an evil dream. Come, gentle nurse;

I know that she sleeps, else you would not have left her. And

you are heavy-eyed with much prayer and thanksgiving to God.

How well I guess what's filled your heart since I brought her

home! Now, wife, you may rest in peace."

"Come you too," she answered. "And have not you also

thanked the watching God? Surely I know that you have."

CHAPTER XIII

PETER TRIUMPHANT

Peter Norcot had left Fox Tor Farm the night before

Grace's discovery and return. Upon hearing this great news,

he wrote a magnanimous letter of forgiveness, congratulation and

quotation; but he did not follow it himself for the space of three

days. Then the richer by information of very significant

character, he reappeared at the dwelling of the Malherbs.

Meantime the sorry truth had come to Grace. Cecil Stark

and the leaders of the conspiracy at Prince Town were all

suffering imprisonment in the cachots; John Lee was at Plymouth;

Lovey Lee had vanished. These things she comprehended and

mourned; her mother's grief at temporal troubles she also shared

and understood; only her father had changed in every respect,

and she could find little explanation for his actions. The crisis

of his affairs approached, and yet he made no effort to avert

it; once only she spoke to him concerning the amphora; but he

desired her to leave the subject, and commanded her neither to

return to her former prison nor mention the matter to anybody.

"The affair is in my hands," he said; "I pray you, Grace, to

leave it there for the present. Utter no word upon this subject.

I have reasons strong enough for desiring silence."

She promised, bewildered to think why her father could thus

desert his treasure now that she had restored it to him; then

Norcot arrived without invitation to spend a day or two.

He quickly perceived that mighty changes marked the situation.

His first intention had been to let the past alone; but,

finding that Maurice Malherb was indifferent to it, and would

not so much as express regret at all the indignity Peter had

suffered, the lover, for the first time in his relations with his

future father-in-law, struck a firmer note and permitted some

flash of that steel in him to catch the other's eye.

They rode together upon the land, and the subject was opened

by Peter.

"You'll guess that I'm not here just now for rest and change,

Malherb. There's a good deal to be said between us. But you

seem indisposed to say it. Naturally I should like to know all

about this wonderful rescue. Yet, since you are so taciturn, I'll

leave that until it pleases you or Grace to tell the story. Suffice

it that she's alive and well, and I hope wise at last. Now, how

do we stand?"

Malherb noted the difference of tone, but made no comment

upon it.

"She and I stand in the relation of father and daughter," he

answered. "That is not new; and yet it is new. I have learned

a good deal of late. My judgment is shaken within me."

"'Where the judgment's weak, the prejudice is strong.' You

talk as if you had been in fault, instead of your daughter."

"You were not wont to speak so to me."

"Nor you to act so. Life is short, and even my astounding

patience has run out."

"Listen," said Malherb, reining up his horse and lifting his

hand. "Trouble has fallen upon me--terrible trouble. You shall

know--everybody shall know; but not yet. It is in Job--set

there in the awful words of Scripture: 'He discovereth deep

things out of darkness, and bringeth out to light the shadow of

death.' I have done evil, Norcot; I have fallen as I pray you

may never fall. Invisible powers have rent me and torn me. I

tell you that I have been through dark waters."

"Bless my soul! all the deities in a rumpus over one man!

Tut, tut! What then? If you've learned some wisdom--if you've

found out that God is jealous and takes mighty good care none

of us shall be wiser than He is--then there's hope for you."

"I have learned much. This girl--my girl--she has suffered

a great deal. Frankly, we have overlooked her rights."

"What moonshine do you talk, my dear Malherb?"

The other's eyes flashed--then dulled. His rage was but a

shadow of its old self, and, like a shadow, vanished. He answered

listlessly.

"I am not what I was. I have heavy anxieties, and I will not

fight with my child. My opinion is changed. She is a woman."

"'Little force suffices to break what's cracked already.' You

mean that she has prevailed with you to forswear yourself--to

turn traitor to me. You a traitor! 'Tis a thing impossible!"

"What is impossible? No depth of error is impossible to one

who knows not himself. To upbraid me is vain. The solid

earth has shifted under my feet, Peter Norcot. But 'traitor'--I'll

not brook that. Worse than that I may be, but not that."

"Not that, indeed! If you only knew how I respect you and

approve your staunch, fearless outlook upon life! But I, too,

have endured not a little. Think of it--the marriage broken off

at the altar rails! And then fifteen hours in the saddle.

Nocturnal adventures to fill a volume. Terrific

expenditure--wear and tear to body and soul and clothes.

"'And winged lovelings round my aching heart

Still flutter, flutter--never to depart.'

"You cannot go back on your oath, Malherb. If you did, you

wouldn't be Malherb."

"We are fighting against nature."

"We are fighting against Cecil Stark, not nature at all.

"'Man's life is but a cheating game

At cards, and Fortune plays the same,

Packing a queen up with a knave----'

as Bancroft so appositely remarks. But the knave of hearts is

hard and fast in a Prince Town cachot and like to stop there;

and the knave of clubs--so to call that meddling rascal, John

Lee--has stood his trial at Plymouth. They are done with; and

King Peter shall come to his own queen again. I'm patient as a

spider and sure as time. I'm going to marry Grace Malherb,

though the heavens fall. I never change; but you? Am I more

steadfast than the man who taught me steadfastness?

"'An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven:

Shall I lay perjury upon my soul?'

Ask yourself that question."

"Let it rest awhile. I have much else on my mind--far

greater things even than this marriage. There are heavy

secrets--heavy secrets."

"Who has not got 'em? God knows how well I wish you. But

to behold you weak! 'Tis like believing that you see granite,

only to find it painted paper."

The other man's mind was running on.

"I want no son of the next generation to be my glory and my

hope. I want no son, nor daughter neither. I weary of the

future; I turn from it; I have no longer any wish that my name

should outlive me."

"Why then, the case is clear: you're ill! How blind one can

be! Somehow I'd never associated your iron constitution with

physical griefs. Yet you, too, can be sick. Your vitality is

lowered; I see it in your face. At such times there is danger of

cancers, declines and murrains. They fix their dreadful fangs in

us when we are enervated and weak. Man! trust me more.

I'm no wind-bag. I can do things. I have many very definite

deeds to my credit. Often I came to you for advice; now take

from me what's better; coin of the realm. Forgive bluntness

and accept blunt. This has nought to do with Grace at all. 'I

will not purchase hope with ready money.' There's no room for

false pride between us, thank God! I say you shall! I hate to

see you troubled over the trashy aspect of human life. To be

cornered for a little metal! Consider:

"'Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul,

Sweet'ner of life! and solder of society!'

Blair. But what is friendship if we do not permit it to take shape

or substance?"

The older man was touched instantly and deeply. He bent

from his saddle and shook Peter's hand.

"You've a great, generous soul, Norcot," he said. "I thank

you with my heart, but not with words. You don't guess what

manner of man you would befriend. Yet thank you a thousand

times. No, no--such things have happened that I would starve

sooner than accept a loan. And you--if you knew--as you must

know--you would desire Grace no more. I am growing old,

Peter. Age surprises such men as I am--age and crime. Yes, I

say 'crime.' But age creeps with calmer men. Upon me he

has sprung. I'm not so wise as people have been good enough

to think. But I'm going to pay for that. I'm going to pay for

everything."

"Leave your affairs for the present. We'll return to them.

You must see a physician. Meanwhile I insist on your taking

five thousand pounds. 'Tis pure friendship, and so I hope you'll

hold it. Now Grace--well, she is a woman. You said that not

long since. I was struck with the remark. Now, being a woman,

she cannot possibly know her own mind. Trite but true. It is

only fair that I should make a final appeal--only fair to both of

us. Something leads me to think that she may yet see the true

and proper course.

"'Hope, heaven-born cherub, still appears,

Howe'er misfortune seem to lower.

See! she comes out to meet us! It is an augury! How lovely

she looks, despite her trying experiences. Ride you off, Malherb;

but hear me promise ere you go that I'll not distress her."

"Better that you should leave us all and forget us all, Peter

Norcot."

"Ride on, I say, and let the maid come with me. This business

shall be ended for ever, before time for tea-drinking."

Grace approached, and Peter waved his hat with customary

politeness. Malherb turned away and galloped off; then the

girl, dismayed, was about to follow him, when she found Norcot

already at her side.

"Don't go!" he said. "'Twas your father's wish that we

should speak in private together. Have no fear. 'Tis but a

simple matter to do with the future, not the past. But we'll get

within doors, so please you. I hate talking of anything important

from the back of a horse. I believe in transmigration of souls,

you see. Who knows what spirit inhabits your gallant 'Cæsar'?"

Without answer Grace turned homeward, and ere long she sat

in the dining-room of Fox Tor Farm, while Peter stood before

her and twirled his seals.

"Your father has explained facts, my dear. He is very unwell,

and his judgment has left him with his health. He's haunted by

something. I hope drugs will lay the ghost. Now you--I begged

for the boon of a little talk. Tut, tut! 'tis beginning all over

again--and that after the banns were called for the third and last

time! Poor cousin Relton--how he squinted when Tom Putt

brought the news of your retreat!"

"'To begin again'! Oh, Peter, have I not made my answer clear?"

"No; because your actions were not clear. They were very

mysterious actions. For two pins I was going to rescue you from

your father myself. But I had a suspicion that even if I brought

wings you wouldn't wear 'em. Really, Grace, you've wickedly

wronged a good man, though I say it. You've hurt me through

and through."

"And what of all that you have made me suffer?"

"You haven't suffered. You've merely enjoyed an extremely

exciting experience. Mentally you have not endured anything to

name. No woman can suffer acutely so long as she's interested

in three men. I say 'three.' 'Twas John Lee helped you to

escape and risked his life and ruined his fortune for you. First,

how do you stand towards that romantic young fellow now? 'Tis

rather important--for him. To be frank, his life is in your hands.

The law of the land has dealt with him finally; but the book of

John Lee's days lies with you to shut or open at will. Have you

forgot him, or do you desire to? That hardly sounds like another

offer of marriage, does it? Yet I'm proposing with all my heart."

"Forget John! Forget him--forget to love him? Never. He

saved my life."

"Indeed! All these delightful incidents are still hidden from

me. But the question now is his life--happily not yours. You've

doubtless heard that he helped that formidable skeleton, his

grandmother, to dig a tunnel under the walls of the War Prison.

Maybe he did it as much for you as anybody--to assist the young

hero No. 2--Stark of the 'Stars and Stripes.' Well, call it what

you like, 'twas high treason and poor John Lee must hang for it.

I heard sentence of death pronounced at Plymouth yesterday--a

solemn experience."

"John Lee--John!"

The girl reeled backwards, then started to her feet.

"He must be saved; he shall be saved. I cannot live if he

dies. The guards--the soldiers. There must be some among

them who would--oh, God, help me now! He must be saved if

I tramp to the King myself!"

"Bravely spoken!

"'God and a soldier all people adore

In time of war--but not before.'

Better leave the King out and trust to God and a soldier. And

we'll set the soldier first, since pounds get answered quicker than

prayers. There's no time to pray when the gibbet's up."

"He must be saved."

"He shall be--if I can save him. He shall be saved, though

the price should be my wool factory. But this is a proposal of

marriage--don't forget that."

"He must be saved."

Norcot nodded.

"So be it. 'I'll dare all heat but that in Gracie's eyes.' I

may add that I'm probably the only man in Devonshire who

could save him. And even I must do it by foul means, not fair

ones. Say the word then!"

"I implore you, if ever you loved me. Oh, if I could do it

myself I would not ask you."

"You can't do it."

"Then do you."

"And afterwards? Tut, tut! I may dance on the gallows I

rob of him! One doesn't risk these highly coloured possibilities

for a hand-shake. What afterwards, Grace?"

As she answered, Mr. Kekewich entered at the other end of

the chamber, and he heard her reply.

"If you save John Lee's life, I'll marry you."

"Before Heaven you mean it?"

"Before Heaven."

"There's my brave heroine!"

"Tea is served in the drawing-room, Miss Grace," said

Kekewich.

CHAPTER XIV

STRATEGY

When approaching a problem Peter Norcot rarely made

any error in his point of attack. By nightfall upon the

day of Grace's promise he had left Fox Tor Farm, and only she

knew the reason. But to Plymouth Peter did not go. He returned

home, visited his safe and took from it the sum of one thousand

pounds in notes. Any appeal to authority on behalf of John Lee

must be vain. He had been sentenced to death for high treason,

and four days separated him from the gallows. Norcot knew

that the man would be hanged at Exeter, and that he was to leave

Plymouth for that city under a military escort two days after his

trial. He had learned the route of march and the constitution of

the company responsible for the prisoner's safe custody. The

journey would take two days, and the half-way house stood near

Ashburton. A non-commissioned officer commanded, and upon

that man Peter Norcot centred his hopes. Quarters for the

company were already taken at Westover Farm, outside Ashburton;

and here the wool-stapler designed to appear in good time.

During the hours of that night he doubted little but that he would

achieve his purpose.

Meanwhile a lesser man--one Thomas Putt--commands

undivided attention. When Kekewich returned to the servants'

hall after announcing tea to Grace and her lover, he found

Mrs. Beer there. To them entered Tom with a fine salmon; but no

voice of approval rewarded his achievement, for Kekewich was

full of the tragic thing he had just heard.

"What a light it do throw!" cried Dinah Beer. "Poor tibby

lamb; an' the hunger of that dreadful wolf for her! Now he'll

get Lee off--see if he don't--though he's got to ax King

George."

"If Lee knowed the price, I'm thinking as 'twould be more

than Norcot could do to free him," said Kekewich. "I was for

this marriage heart an' soul, so much as master; but he've changed

since she runned away; an' so have I. I'm generally of his mind

in secret, though I never tell the man so."

"'Tis too dreadful to think of," declared Dinah. "Poor dear

Jack!--yet the price of his getting off be dreadful too."

"'Twill kill her to marry him--honest gentleman though he

be," said Kekewich. "An' she'll do it. If Mr. Norcot gets Lee

off, she'll take him without another murmur."

Then Tom Putt spoke. He knew a great deal about the

matter of Lee, for he had been permitted to see John at Prince

Town and had afterwards got a message to him, through Sergeant

Bradridge, that Grace Malherb was safe. To the sergeant fell

Lee's custody, and Putt knew that on the morrow his uncle

Septimus Bradridge would convey John from Plymouth a day's

march to Westover Farm.

Apart from any question concerning Grace, Tom had already

determined to see his old companion once again, and he knew

exactly where the soldiers would make their noontide halt upon

the following morning. Now his mind quickened and he showed

a spark of the genius that had so often been wasted in successful

poaching on Dart. First Mr. Putt begged Kekewich to give him

a few moments of private conversation, and then, when he and

the old man were closeted together, John Lee's friend explained

a part of his purpose.

"My uncle's a fierce warrior, but he've always showed a great

liking for me, and I know he'll not stand between me and a word

or two with Jack. The day's journey is to be broken where Dean

Burn flows down out o' the woods between Buckfastleigh and

Dean Prior. 'Tis a spot where two roads meet, and there's a

bridge there. Now I can get to that place afore they do; an' if

I have speech with Jack Lee, 'twill put iron into his will."

"You might see Norcot?"

"I shall not. Norcot will tackle my Uncle Septimus to-morrow

night at Westover. An' he'll find my uncle's a man as wants a

tidy mort o' money to go behind his duty. As to Norcot, he'll

get Lee off, sure's fate; for Jack would run like any other chap

to save his neck. But not if he knowed what price Norcot be

getting for saving him. The gentleman may override Sergeant

Bradridge, but he won't override Jack Lee."

"You'll want a bit of money, won't 'e, to get leave to talk to

him?"

"Ess, I shall," said Putt. "That's what I wanted to say. A

pound will go a long way with a common sojer, but not with my

uncle. I wouldn't dare for to offer him small money. I shall

just ax if I may speak to an old friend afore he's choked off; and

I shall offer all you can let me have, an' hope for my mother's

sake as Uncle Septimus will let me get a few private words."

"I can give 'e twenty pounds," said Kekewich, "an' that's every

penny I've got by me. Money's scarce just now."

Putt nodded gloomily, because the elder touched a thorny

subject. For the first time since Fox Tor Farm was built, had

the master of it asked his men upon pay day to let their wages

stand over for a week.

"I've not got a farden. Gived my maid to Chagford every

penny," confessed Mr. Putt.

The old man nodded and produced his cash in the shape of

two notes.

"I won't ax you your plans, Thomas, for you wasn't born

yesterday. 'Tis a great source of strength that Sergeant Bradridge

is your relation. Be witty about it; an' if John Lee can save her

by taking his bad fortune like a man--well, so much the better,

though 'tis a poor come along of it for him, poor chap."

Tom pouched the money carefully, but made no comment on

the other's words.

"I'll take my uncle this here fish I've catched," he said,

"for he's a man fond of pretty eating, and was brought up on

Dart salmon. And I shall leave at cock-light to-morrow morning."

"Good luck go with you. Ban't often I wish anybody that;

but this time I will for the maiden's sake. An' her good fortune

will be his bad, poor blid! unless 'tis good fortune to die in

a good cause."

"Us never knows what'll happen," declared Putt. "An'

whether or no, 'tis bad fortune to be hanged, for it stops a man's

usefulness."

The conversation ended with this just reflection, and very early

next morning Thomas went his way. Mrs. Beer provided him

with plentiful supplies of food and, upon his own account, he

visited the tool-shed and work-loft before setting out. With him

he carried a stout stick, and his salmon as a gift for Sergeant

Bradridge.

He struck into Dean Woods while it was yet early, then called

at a farm hard by, where he was known, partook of a pint of beer

and had some conversation with the farmer's son. Presently,

seated with this lad in front of a load of manure, Putt jogged

onwards and proceeded to a cross-road not far distant from

Robin Herrick's old home at Dean Prior. Here ran Dean Burn

from its fountains on Dartmoor; and to Mr. Putt this stream,

now in full torrent after rain, offered interesting problems. He

examined the waters with a professional eye, and his friend upon

the cart laughed at him.

"Ever thinking of fish; even at such a time as this!"

"No, by Gor!" answered Tom. "I'm just wondering how

shallow it runs to the bridge yonder. Lend me your whip an' I'll

find out."

He proved to his satisfaction that there was deep water at

hand, and then, while still in earnest conversation with the young

farmer, Thomas heard a tramp of feet and saw the troops

advancing. Thereupon his friend drew his cart and its burden

into a side path by the stream, and Putt, with the salmon well

displayed, advanced to meet Sergeant Bradridge. The halt

sounded as he approached. The troops grounded their arms

and, weary and hungry after a march of fifteen miles, pulled food

from their knapsacks and scattered in comfort by the grassy way.

For drink, the river rolled at their feet.

Sergeant Bradridge himself had selected a comfortable spot

upon a milestone, with a bank behind it for his back, just as

Tom appeared. All the soldiers were now at ease, save two

sentries, who kept guard over the prisoner. Lee was handcuffed,

but his legs were free, and he had walked with his guards. He

sat now, nodded and smiled at Putt, and welcomed him

gratefully. But Thomas held his nose high, walked past the

prisoner, and treated Lee as one no longer to be recognised by

self-respecting people.

"Morning, Uncle Sep. I knowed you was passing this way, so

I took a half-holiday, an' made bold to walk across the Moor."

The sergeant was an elderly man with a ruddy face, a pompous

bearing, and a feeble, kindly mouth quite concealed under heavy

moustaches.

"Tom, to be sure! Sit down an' have a bite. 'Tis dooty, an'

a painful dooty. But us safeguards of the land have to do dirty

work so well as clean work. That poor soul--well, but come to

think of it, you knowed him better'n ever I shall. 'Tis a strange

world. Back along I had to march your master out of War Prison,

'cause Mr. Malherb got in a rage the day we found out about

that hole under the walls; then I had to take this here poor

soul down along to Plymouth; an' now I be marching him

to be hanged. Talk o' wars! Us as stays at home have just

as terrible dooties thrust upon us."

"You was always ready for anything. Nothing never puzzles

you. My mother says that if an earthquake comed, you wouldn't

run. But as for Jack Lee--well, I grant us liked him very

well. But he turned traitor to please the women, an' I've done

with him."

"Ah!--a face like his was bound to get him mixed up with the

female sex."

"You didn't ought to pity him--such a renowned King's man

as you be," declared Putt.

"You'm quite correct," assented the sergeant, proceeding with

his bread and cheese. "But though a King's man, I'm one as

looks to the bottom of my glass, and to the bottom of everything.

Many a poisonous root do bear wholesome seed. I've had

speech with that chap, an' I'm devilish sorry for him--sorrier

than he is for himself."

"You'm such a large-minded warrior, Uncle Sep. I wish there

was more Bradridge and less Putt in my character, I'm sure.

Bradridges is always heroes."

"Always--to a man," admitted the sergeant. "But your

mother is a very proper-minded woman, an' you've got proper

feelings, though you wouldn't go for a sojer when I wanted you."

"If he'd 'listed now," said Tom, pointing with his thumb to

John Lee, "he'd never have found hisself in this fix."

"True for you. I wish I could take him to barracks 'stead of

Exeter gaol. A modest man; and since I give him your message

that 'twas well with the young lady, he's been quite content. He

told me he didn't fear death no more than I do."

"All comes of bad company," replied his nephew. "I was half

in mind to take the man's hand just now, but I couldn't bring

myself to do it."

The sergeant shook his head.

"That's the Putt blood in you, Thomas. A Bradridge would

never turn against a broken man just 'cause his life had fallen out

crooked. Granted he've done wrong. Very well; he'm going to

suffer for it. If you'd been tempted by a pretty maid, mayhap

you'd be in the same box."

"He'm a traitor an' he tried to help they Yankees out of prison.

That's enough for me," said Putt stoutly. "Us'll leave him to

his righteous fate. See here, Uncle Sep, here's a brave fish I've

brought 'e, knowing what a tooth you've got for Dart salmon. I

thought as Mother Coaker--to Westover Farm where you lie

to-night--would cook it for your supper."

Without words Sergeant Bradridge smelt the fish carefully; then

his face shone.

"Fresh as a rose!" he said.