TO THE RESCUE
That evening Elspeth went down to the Arnsides. She was really very
much concerned at the line that things were taking and, staunch
Catholic as she was, she had no mind to have her little mistress ill
used. She of course knew nothing about her neighbour’s faith and simply
went to them because of their interest in Aline; and she told them the
whole story from the time of the coming of Father Martin.
“We helped her with the linen,” she said, “but I fear this is a more
difficult matter; but it makes my heart bleed for the poor innocent and
she only twelve years old. We can manage to feed her, but the child
will pine away shut up there. I cannot think what to do.”
“The thing would be to get Mistress Audry back,” said Janet. “That
would be something.”
“Ay, that would it,” Elspeth assented.
They talked it over for some time and Elspeth decided that she would
try and say something in an indirect way to Master Mowbray, which might
result in his sending for his daughter.
When she was gone John turned to his mother,--“Mother, somehow I
believe Walter Margrove is the man to help us, and he told us to let
him hear how things went and they have gone a deal worse than any of
us could have dreamed. He knows the world and he knows, too, what the
real risk is. Even if Mistress Audry comes back, methinks that will not
alter the true danger.”
“Ay,” said his mother, “but Master Walter was here but yesterday, how
are we to get him?”
John thought for a time and then said,--“I have no regular work here
and Silas, who sees to my hours, is one of our faith. I would even risk
telling him something; although I need not say it is for Mistress Aline
that I want to see Walter.”
“But how would you find Walter even if you did consult Silas?” said his
mother.
“That should not be difficult,” said John. “He always calls at Carlisle
on his rounds and I think I heard him say that he expected to be there
this time within a sennight. In any case, however, he gets there long
enough before he gets here. He generally stays with one, Timothy
Fenwick, at the sign of the Golden Keys.”
“How will you go,” said his mother, “round by Middleton?”
“No, it is such a long way round; I shall keep this side the river.”
“What, with all this snow!”
“Yes, if I can get off to-day; the sky is clear and the weather set and
the snow hard.”
“Well, good-bye, my boy. God bless you and I trust the Lord will grant
you success.”
John Arnside obtained the permission with no trouble at all, made
himself up a bundle, put it on a stick over his shoulder, kissed his
mother and set off.
Fortune favoured him and on the third day he was in Carlisle without
mishap.
He enquired for the Golden Keys and easily found the house, but Walter
was not there. He found, however, a man seated by the fire; he was of
medium height, lightly built and well proportioned. He looked very ill
and was holding one knee with his hands as he leaned back, and was
gazing into the fire with his deep set eyes.
“Come and sit by the fire, lad, the day is cold.”
John came as invited. “I heard you asking for Walter Margrove,” said
the stranger, “he will not be here for some time. I hope your business
is not of importance.”
“Well,” said the boy, “I must just wait, unless you could tell me where
he is to be found.”
“That could not I,” replied the other. “I know he was going to
Newcastle and then up Tyne and down Tees; after that I think he was
going to Skipton and West to Clitheroe and then North. He should be
somewhere on the Tees now, I reckon, perhaps down as far as Rokeby.”
“Do you know the Tees?” said John.
The man lifted his grey deep set eyes; they had a far away look in
them, as though he did not see the boy before him. They were watching
the Tees come over the High Force and the rainbow that hung in the
quivering spray.
“Yes, I know the Tees,” he said at length. “I know the Tees.
“Do _you_ know the Tees?” he went on; and it seemed to John that the
hollow eyes in the sick man’s face looked at him hungrily. “Maybe you
come from those parts yourself.”
“I do,” said John; “I was born and bred in Upper Teesdale.”
“What is your name?”
“John Arnside.”
The man looked at him and then the sad eyes seemed to brighten a
little. “John Arnside, son of Janet Arnside?” he asked.
“Yes,” said John, wondering what was coming next.
The man got up and closed the door softly, he then came back and held
out his hand to the boy. “I am so glad to see you, John; I know about
you. I heard you asking for Walter Margrove, and oh,” he continued,
apprehensively, “I do hope it is nothing about Mistress Aline that
brings you here. Yes, I know quite well who you are and you may trust
me.”
John’s was a simple nature and not easily suspicious; he just hesitated
a moment and then reflected that if he merely said what was known to
every one he could not do any harm. Walter Margrove’s part in the
matter, he could keep for the present as a second string to his bow.
“They say that Mistress Aline is a heretic,” he said, “and they are
going to burn her.”
The man clutched at the table to try and prevent himself from falling;
the shock was so terrible in his weak condition; but he slipped back
and was only saved by the boy catching him as he fell.
“O God,” he exclaimed, “not so, not so.”
He then made a tremendous effort and pulled himself together, but it
was enough for John, there was no doubt that this stranger was in some
way as interested in Aline’s welfare as himself.
“We must save her then,” said the stranger in a steady voice, while
within him his thoughts and feelings tossed as in a storm.
“Marry though, what are we to do?”
“Let us sit down and think-- Now look you here; it is not easy to think
quickly, but we must act quickly. Can you get speech of Mistress Aline?”
“No,” answered John; “she is confined to her room, but old Elspeth sees
her.”
“Can you write, John?”
“Gramercy no, Master, you would hardly expect the likes of me to be
able to do that.”
“Well, you must get her my letter, somehow, and, furthermore, tell me
what you yourself are willing to do for Mistress Aline.”
“I would give my life for her,” said John simply.
“Then,” said the other, looking him straight in the face, “you must hie
you home at once and I will follow as soon as I can be ready. Keep a
sharp look-out for the inquisitors and, if I do not come before them,
you must get speech of her by hook or by crook and tell her that I,
James Mitchell, told you that she must reveal to you our secret and
that you must feed her. She will know what that means and you must do
as she bids you. Indeed, if you get there before me, you had better do
this in any case.”
“Surely I will; how could I other?”
“Marry then, hasten; for, even now we know not what an hour may bring
forth. We must not wait for Walter, though he would have been our best
aid. God speed thy feet, John; my heart goes with thee and I myself
shall follow hard after thee.”
Without more ado John took his small bundle and started off at once.
Ian was nearly beside himself, the shock had brought on the pains in
his head and he put his hands to his throbbing brows and strove to
think. His money had all gone; how was he to act? Certainly the first
thing was to get the child away somewhere, but how even was that to
be done without horses? If only Margrove and his horses had been to
hand! But that was a vain wish. Of course she could be concealed in the
secret room, but he felt this was too perilous. There was risk enough
in feeding him when Aline and Audry had been in the house. Suspicion
would be roused tenfold if Aline were simply to disappear. John would
certainly be seen, sooner or later, carrying food to the gully.
Mortifying as the discovery of old Moll had been, it was a mercy to be
forewarned. No, it might do as a very temporary expedient, but no more.
Of course it might be just within the bounds of possibility to get
horses from Holwick Hall itself; but failure would mean absolute and
irretrievable disaster. No again, nothing must be left to chance.
Suddenly a thought struck him, there were horses on the estate where
Andrew Woolridge worked. Possibly Andrew might help him and, if not,
the risk was comparatively small.
This then decided him. He would set out immediately; but there was one
more thing to consider. Should he say anything to the boy, Wilfred? It
was true, he argued, that the more people that knew, the greater the
chance of discovery. But on the other hand, if anything should happen
to him, how was Aline to be saved? After all there was still Walter
Margrove, who would surely attempt to do something. Finally he went and
found Wilfred.
“Wilfred,” he said, “I want to ask a favour of thee.”
“That mayest thou well ask, Master Mitchell.”
“Well, I shall not tell thee more than that it concerns a matter of
life and death, so that if any enquire of thee, there will be little
that thou canst say, however they question thee. But when Walter
Margrove cometh, tell him that Mistress Aline is in great jeopardy and
let him do that which seemeth him best and may the Lord quicken his
steps.”
“What, the little lady of whom they were talking one night not long
syne?”
“Yes, that same; now be faithful to us, Wilfred.”
“But, Master Mitchell, thou art not going to leave us,” said the boy
piteously. “After all that thou hast done for us that cannot be. See,
prithee let me come with thee an thou must go.”
Ian considered for a moment as to whether the boy might be a help or
a hindrance and decided that it would rather complicate matters than
otherwise to take him.
“No, Wilfred, it cannot be,” he said; “but thou mightest, so far as
thou art able, go out on the road to Brampton when thou art not at work
and keep a look-out for me coming from Alston or Kirkoswald between the
third and the seventh day from now.
“Indeed thou mightest do better. I will show thee more. Keep thine eyes
and ears open for all the gossip of the city. I know thee well enough
to know that thou wouldst not see any one burned alive and I go to
save one from the burning. If thou hearest aught of inquisitors come as
far south along the road as thou mayest.”
Wilfred bade good-bye and promised by all that was holy that he would
do everything that he could.
Ian had decided to take nothing but one small wallet, as less likely to
rouse suspicion, and started off. What was his horror, before he had
gone ten paces from the door, to see a group of black robed figures
on horseback approaching the hostelry, and his horror increased to
terror when he recognised one of the figures as Father Austin, who had
superintended, when he himself had been tortured in York.
The keen shrewd face shewed instant recognition in spite of Ian’s
altered appearance. “Whither away, Ian Menstrie? Come return to the
hostelry with us and have a talk with an old friend.” An evil smile of
triumph spread over his face and he added quietly but firmly to his
attendants,--“That is the man we have sought these many months, our
Lady hath delivered him into our hands.”
Ian said nothing, but Wilfred, who was still standing at the door,
said,--“That is not Ian Menstrie, that is Master James Mitchell.”
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Master Mitchell,” said Father
Austin sarcastically, bowing from his horse.
“My name is Ian Menstrie,” said Ian.
“You have varying names then, like a gaol-bird,” replied the inquisitor
with a sneer.
“We shall have two for our burning, perdy!” he continued to his
companion. “It will make a right merrie blaze. What think you, Father
Martin?”
“Burning’s too good for them; I would give them a taste of something
first. As for that young witch up in Holwick, the Devil will be sorry
to see her in Hell before her time. If she had lived to grow up, she
would have charmed men’s souls to Satan more surely than any siren ever
charmed a mariner.”
“If we burn the body shall we not save the soul?” said Father Austin.
“That doctrine liketh me not; no, Father, methinks in these cases we do
but hasten the final judgment.”
“Have a care, friend, lest these be heresies also.”
“I a heretic! That is a mirthful jest.” Then looking toward Ian he went
on,--“As for this fellow, he seems a sickly creature; I reckon by the
looks of him that he has not long to live. But it is good for the souls
of the faithful that he should blaze to the glory of God rather than
die in his bed. Marry, methinks he is like enough to faint even now.”
Nothing but Ian Menstrie’s iron will indeed prevented it. The pains
shot through his head like knives and his back and joints ached as
though red hot with fire, but it was nothing to the anguish of his
heart; yet he felt that his only chance was to keep up somehow.
He would have died on the rack some five months ago had it not been
for his sheer strength of will. He had done it before, he would do it
again; he would defy them yet.
Great cold beads of perspiration stood on his forehead, but he held
himself erect. “Is it Timothy Fenwick’s hostelry you seek, gentlemen?”
There was a touch of defiance, even of scorn, in the lordly ring of
his voice. Father Austin knew only too well that, clever as he was
himself, he was no match for this man, who had beaten him once; “But he
shall not escape me this time,” he said to himself, and having already
alighted, he followed into the hostelry. “The day is past its prime,”
he remarked, “and we have caught our main game. We have come far and
there is no haste. We will bide here and rest till Wednesday; the
little bird at Holwick will not flutter far, I warrant ye.”
It amused Father Austin to have Ian with them at meals to taunt him and
to gloat over his own triumph. Ian realised that he would have little
chance unless he were well nourished, so he fell in with their scheme
and humoured them. At first he would talk brightly to the others and
then, as he was an excellent raconteur and had a pretty wit, he made
himself such good company that they could ill spare him. He played
with Father Austin, assuming an attitude of deference and fear with an
anxious desire to please; but if he wanted to retire to rest, he would
lead him into an argument and when the father was worsted he would
order the guards to take Ian to his room.
Again, by extraordinary will power, he would achieve the almost
impossible feat of forcing himself to sleep. It was Aline’s only
chance, he argued; and in that way he almost miraculously overcame the
raging torments of his mind.
By the Wednesday he had even recovered slightly and felt rather like
one going into battle than like a beaten man. He had thought out
several plans; but the best one was to try and contrive to cross the
ford of the Eden when it was getting dark. For this some delay was
necessary, and he even managed to whisper to Wilfred unobserved, while
he set the company off into boisterous and uncontrollable laughter,
that he should loosen one of the horse’s shoes. He reckoned further
to be able to do something more in the way of delay by his powers of
conversation.
Another part of his scheme was to put his captors off the scent, if he
should succeed in making his escape, and therefore he took occasion to
remark; “Well, Father, and when we set out on our travels, whither are
we bound? Is it south we shall be going?”
“Forsooth, man, you do not think we should go north, do you?”
“No, may be not; but I should like to see Scotland again.”
“Trouble not yourself, you will never see Scotland more; and when next
I visit Scotland the Regent Mary will be glad to hear that her daughter
has one heretic the less among her subjects.”
“But what if I should reach Scotland first,” said Ian jocularly. “That
might spoil the pleasure of your visit.”
“There is no fear of that,” replied the other.
“Bishop Bonner may think differently from yourself,” Ian rejoined; “it
is not every heretic that even Bonner burns. There’s many a slip twixt
cup and lip; and Bonner might send me to Scotland if I promised to stay
there. I warrant if once I were on that side again, there would be
little temptation to come over.”
“Come, this is no time for talking, we must be off,” said Father
Austin.
All fell out as Ian had planned; the shoe was quite loose and before
they had reached the city gate, Ian said to Father Martin, “Methinks,
Father, your mare will shortly cast her shoe.”
So they returned to the hostelry where there was a smithy. Ian then
succeeded in getting them all interested in a thrilling narrative just
as the mare was ready, and put off the time until it seemed best to
stay and have dinner before starting. More stories lengthened the meal,
so that it was not till well on in the afternoon of the short winter
day that they actually set out.
Ian was placed in the middle, surrounded by the guards, with loaded
pistols, and his hands were tied, but not very tightly, as they allowed
him to hold the reins. Try as he would he could not help the violent
beating of his heart. Could he, one man, unarmed and bound, outwit all
these knaves? The vision of little Aline rose before him. “I must fight
the very fates,” he said to himself, “verily, I must win.” His thoughts
travelled back to those days, long ago, when as a mere child he had
given his heart-worship to the beautiful girl who had gone from him,
but whom he had loved with a passionate devotion ever since. He had
said practically nothing to Aline, but he was sure that he knew whence
the strange likeness came; and for the double claim that she had upon
him, fate, that had so cruelly treated him long ago, should be made to
yield. He felt the strength of his own will like a white fire and then
he trembled for a moment lest he should be fighting against God. “O
Lord,” he prayed, “Thou hast brought me on this road and Thou hast made
this lovely child; let her not perish by the machinations of evil men.
Take my life, O God, give me all torture and the terrible burning, but
grant her happiness.”
He felt a sudden influx of power and prayed again a prayer of
thankfulness. “Yes,” he said, “I will bend fate to my will and God will
smile on my struggle and then I will yield myself to Him and He shall
toss me into the void or do unto me in my despite whatsoever seemeth
Him good.”
It was a long road and the spirits of the party flagged. It was,
moreover, bitterly cold, but Ian had not dared to put on more clothing
for fear that it should defeat his plans. There had been a thaw and
he watched anxiously for the river. He had succeeded during the long
ride, in very considerably loosening the cord that tied his wrists,
and although it was still quite tight round one wrist and he could not
be certain of freeing the other, he was sure that he could slip it
sufficiently to get twenty to thirty inches of free play between his
hands. He had managed, too, greatly to fray the portion that would be
the connecting piece.
It was getting dusk when they reached the river, and, owing to the
recent heavy weather and thaws, the ford was so high that the water was
more than up to the horses’ girths. Ian’s heart beat more violently
than ever; it seemed almost as though it could be heard. “Aline, Aline,
had she no more reliable deliverer than himself?”
As they crossed, the horses had to pick their way and they spread out a
good deal so that they were almost in a line, with Ian in the middle,
who managed also to coax his horse a little bit down the stream. He
then nerved himself for the supreme effort and, first jerking his
horse back almost on to its haunches, so as to give in the gloom the
appearance of the animal having stumbled, he flung himself from its
back shrieking,--“Help, help,” as he went. As soon as the water closed
over him he struck out and swam under water as far as he possibly
could. Unfortunately the cord did not break as he hoped and the
swimming was exceedingly difficult, but there was sufficient play of
cord to make the feat quite possible, and the swift current helped him
not a little.
It was perhaps fortunate that nearly all the pistols were discharged
at once, before he came to the surface, as they were fired at random
into the confused water round the horse, which had some difficulty in
regaining its footing.
When he rose he immediately took a breath and went under again. Only
one man was looking in that direction and he did not seriously think
that the dark spot in the turbid river was really anything; where
occasionally a half hidden boulder would appear above the water. But he
took aim, more or less mechanically or from intuition, and fired, and
the bullet actually grazed Ian’s shoulder.
Before he had appeared again the little company had turned to the
riderless horse and those who had lances were prodding into the deeps
of the river. Again he swam under water; it was still very shallow and
he bruised himself several times more or less severely on the boulders
in the river bed. He did this twice more and the water grew deeper; and
then he ventured to glance back. They were already but dimly visible
and he knew that he himself was out of sight, so he slowly made for
the bank with some difficulty across the current. When he reached the
bank they were no longer to be seen, and he was glad to get out of the
icy water. But the air was miserably cold, even more trying, as is
often the case, than during the frost itself.
He was only two miles from Andrew’s cottage, which he had once visited,
and he wondered whether it would be safe for him to go there at once.
After all, the risk was about as great one way as another. Besides,
he hoped that they would think he was drowned and, even if they did
not, that they would think he would endeavour to make his way north
to Scotland. In any case it would not take him long to perish from
exposure. Of course, he would have to cross his enemies’ tracks and he
decided to keep near the water’s edge as at least affording some chance
of escape. He soon managed to get rid of the cord that tied his hands
and crept along by the wooded banks looking and listening intently.
After a few minutes he heard voices and they grew louder; he lay down
on the brink and waited a moment. In the still evening they could be
heard quite distinctly.
“Oh, the fellow is drowned right enough,” said one of the voices.
“Yes, curse the knave,” said the other voice, which was that of Father
Austin. “It grieveth me sore. Mother Church hath missed an opportunity
for a great lesson. I would even that we had his corpse, it would be
something to show; and at the least I should get the credit for the
bringing of the loon to his death. I am greatly afeared lest he may
have gotten away to Scotland. Did he not say something to me himself
about Scotland and the slip twixt cup and lip? He is a deep one as I
know to my cost. I would that this had happened earlier in the day. It
will be quite dark in about half an hour. Beshrew me, how came it that
the rogue was not tied?”
“His wrists were tied, Father,” said the other voice. “I noticed that
just before we came to the river.”
“Oh, I meant tied to the horse, but who would have thought of such a
thing! However, if the wrists were tied, belike it may have been an
accident and the knave must be dead. I trow it was but a dog’s chance.
Besides, one of those bullets must have hit him. The body must have
been swept down stream.”
The surmise about the bullet was true enough, as Ian knew to his cost,
and the wound was an added pain. “It is wonderful what the human frame
can stand,” he said to himself. “I cannot think how I am alive at all.
I must win this game somehow and the next move is mine.”
He slowly lowered himself into the water. The men had stood still, a
little higher up the stream, not twenty yards from where he was. It
was a trying test to his nerves, but he hoped he was concealed by the
brushwood on the flooded bank.
He waited awhile and heard them discuss how a few of the party would
try and make search in the direction of Scotland and the remainder go
south. Apparently they were waiting for some of the others to join them
and the conversation turned to other subjects.
Ian was standing on the bottom, but had to work his arms all the time
to prevent himself from being carried down by the current. His teeth
chattered and his fingers were numb with the pain of the cold. “If I
stay here any longer,” he thought, “the cold will finish me.” So he
struck out and by the aid of the brushwood swam within a foot or two
of where they were standing. It was an anxious moment and although the
stream was slacker near the bank it was slow work. But he passed them
unobserved, although he experienced a tumultuous wave of feeling when
the conversation stopped short for an instant and he feared that they
were listening.
But at last he judged that it might be safe to creep out, and at first
he crawled and then walked quietly, but finally broke into a run, as
much for the cold as for any other reason; and, in twenty minutes from
the time he started running, he found himself at Andrew’s cottage.
It was in a secluded spot, quite near the river, and about a third of
a mile from the Hall where Andrew was employed. He crept softly to the
window and peeped in. Andrew was there alone. So he knocked at the door.
Andrew’s astonishment was immense as he opened the door and still more
so when he saw that his visitor was dripping wet.
“Can you let me have some dry clothes, Andrew, and help me to get warm,
and provide me with something for the inner man?”
“That I can, Master Mitchell,” and Andrew bestirred himself, brought
the clothes and made up a roaring fire and prepared a simple but
appetising supper.
When Ian had finished he stretched out his feet to the cheerful blaze.
It was tempting to stay and rest after all his sufferings. The wound
in his shoulder was very painful, although Andrew had bandaged it, and
the sundry cuts and bruises made him feel very stiff. But there was
much to be done and no time to be lost.
He talked things over with Andrew, very cautiously, as he was not
sure what line he would take. It so happened that the Hall was nearly
empty; the family and their immediate entourage were South during the
winter and the reeve was away on business with two of the other men; so
Andrew’s help in getting the horses was not needed after all. Ian led
him into all kinds of general gossip about the place and discovered how
many horses were kept and where the stables were, without exciting any
suspicion. Andrew offered to come with him to Holwick, but Ian doubted
whether it would not make matters more and not less difficult and
Andrew’s disappearance would itself give a clue.
Luck favoured him, he found that the man who had charge of the horses,
while the reeve was away, was a drunken fellow, whose cottage was not
far from Andrew’s on the way to the Hall. Owing to the absence of the
reeve he was having a more dissipated time even than usual. It was his
custom to see to the horses the last thing at night, and Ian determined
on an attempt to get the better of him.
Without explaining his movements to Andrew he said it was time for him
to be going, and he set out into the darkness. There was just enough
starlight to find his way and he soon reached Jock’s cottage. The man
had not returned, so Ian crouched down behind a tree to wait for him.
He was trembling with excitement and apprehension and was disturbed in
spirit about the part of the venture in which he was engaged. He was
deliberately setting out to steal the horses and he felt that it was
a sin. He did not try to justify himself, although he had determined
that he would make all possible reparation so that the owner of the
horses would not suffer. He had written a note to his mother which he
had given to Andrew, just saying that if his adventure should miscarry
and Andrew did not hear from him shortly, he was to take it to Stirling
and ask for some relatives of his of the name of Menstrie, as he had no
relatives named Mitchell still alive. In the letter he had said that
she was to clear his honour as far as was possible by replacing the
horses if death should overtake him.
Yet he did not feel that this in the least altered the crime; but he
argued to himself, that if the crime did not hurt any one that it was
only his own soul that would suffer. For that he was absolutely ready.
He would gladly give his life for Aline, would he not also gladly give
his soul? It was a great shock to his naturally upright nature and
when he had lied to Andrew and told him that he was going to make his
way south on foot, and while his blood boiled with shame within him,
he yet welcomed the sacrifice. “She shall have my honour and my good
name, she shall have my soul indeed as well as my life. Fate may crush
me in eternal torment at the last or annihilate me altogether; but
Aline must escape these fiends; she must live to be happy. Sweet little
child-heart, who never did any wrong to any one and whose short life
has been so sad and who yet has only been sunshine in the lives of
others, why should she be cheated out of her due?”
As he wrestled with himself Jock came stumbling from side to side down
the path, babbling incoherently. Ian braced himself for the struggle
and, as the man opened the door and entered the cottage, Ian stole in
after him. He was utterly unprepared and, as Ian leaped upon him from
behind, he gave one wild shriek and collapsed. Ian tied his hands and
feet with his own cord that he had saved, put the man on the bed and
secured the key of the stable.
He had comparatively little difficulty in getting out the two best
horses, taking the precaution of tying some sacking over their hoofs so
as to lessen the noise. Fortunately the wind was rising and a storm of
rain was clearly on its way.
Before leaving he fastened a note at the stall-head:
“I require these horses but will replace them when I reach
Scotland. Necessity knows no law.
One in great need.”
He took the horses first in a northerly direction as though making for
Scotland, so that their tracks might throw pursuers off the scent. Then
when he reached the harder road, he followed it only a little way and
turned back south. Finally he struck over the high ground to the west,
hoping to get into another district altogether, where any travellers
that he might meet would not carry any description to the neighbourhood
of Kirkoswald.
It meant a considerable detour and the inquisitors had a long start as
well; but he felt so certain that they would rest somewhere for the
night, that he felt very little alarm. Shortly afterwards the rain came
down heavily and he trusted that this would at least help to obliterate
the tracks.
[Illustration: THE UPPER COURT SHOWING TERRACE AND TURRET-STAIR TO
ALINE’S ROOM]