of the conversation, in which he was greatly interested. "’Virtue is
its own reward’ is the motto of the Stuarts!"
"The highest reward King James can offer is to send me back as fast as
horse and ship can carry me," cried Robin. "Even now—"
"Even now, Captain," Steve broke in, "you are lucky in getting away
alive. Don’t forget there is a price upon your head and the law’s
protection—save the mark!—will be withdrawn in a few hours. After that
your life is forfeit wherever the flag of England flies."
"_My_ life! When has it not been forfeit?" returned Robin carelessly.
"But your grace can be at ease; I have given my word to carry these
letters safely to Paris and I will do so, God sparing me."
"Enough! I should never have thought of doubting you, had not mine own
eyes seen you at the masquerade with a certain fair sorceress whose
spells are far more dangerous than sword or bullet. Right glad am I that
Fate drives you from her before we lose one of our most valued captains
in the same snare that has entangled the feet of all heroes, ancient and
modern. Let us lose no time, for the love of Heaven; your only safety
lies in swift flight!"
And with malicious laughter, in which the other man heartily joined, he
put spurs to his horse and urged the cavalcade to such speed as the
heavy ground would permit.
In spite of their haste, the sun was sinking behind the mists that rose
from the river, before they saw its shimmer through the trees. The road
upon which they emerged from the bridle-path took a sharp turn at this
spot and passed close to a little inn—a mere peasant’s cottage, for all
the announcement on the creaking signboard of entertainment for man and
beast, and further information as to the hire and sale of boats at the
adjacent ferry.
"Go forward, Steve, and see what folks are about, and if there be a
seaworthy boat to be had, while we keep within this thicket out of sight
of passers-by," said the duke, backing his horse into the wood, while
Steve and Percival dismounted to reconnoiter the premises.
Steve quickly returned alone. "The ferry is close at hand," he said,
"but I can find neither ferryman nor landlord. However, there are boats
a-plenty at the landing, and if we press one for the king’s service,
’tis no more than a loyal subject should rejoice to contribute to the
cause! The wind is fair, the tide is on the turn, I can hoist a sail
and handle an oar, and ’twill be strange if we leave not Sheerness in
our wake at sunrise."
"You are sure there is no one spying about?" the duke inquired
nervously. "How if they are merely hiding? Stay you here, Captain—I
will examine the inn for myself—it will not do for you to fall into an
ambush. And it would be well for Steve to stand sentinel at the bend of
the road; he can warn us in time of any approaching wayfarer, for if I
mistake not, the road over the waste lands can be plainly seen for
several miles."
Left alone, Robin dropped the mask of careless gaiety under which he had
hidden his dejection from his companions. About to leave the land that
contained Prue, on a mission whose risks he had often braved without a
thought except of audacious delight in danger and reckless defiance of
the law from which he was an outcast, he was now beset by a thousand
apprehensions for which he could have given no reason, but which chilled
his loyal ardor and hung like an incubus upon his soul. How could he
wish for his once-beloved Paris while Prue was in England? What cared
he for the safe asylum of the French court while Prue in the English
court was wooed by a score of suitors and pressed by dangers and
temptations from which he was powerless to protect her? The setting sun
seemed like an emblem of his own fate—except that it would surely rise
again on the morrow, while he might sink for ever into forgetfulness.
"Oh! my heart’s joy, my only love, shall we never meet again?" he
murmured. "Oh! for one more look into those sweet eyes; one last kiss
from those beloved lips! Must I go without a farewell word; without
sure hope that she will ever bestow another thought on me? Before God
she is my wife—yet the outlaw has no God—no country—no wife—and how dare
I hope that she who took me for an hour’s frolic, would not some day
gladly be rid of me for ever?"
Robin’s reflections, painful and absorbing as they were, did not prevent
his keeping a close watch on Steve, who now turned, and, with many signs
of caution, retraced his steps. At the same time the distant sound of
wheels became audible.
"Conceal yourself, Captain, there are travelers coming this way; we must
withdraw until they have passed," said Steve, pushing his way through
the bushes and preparing to lead his horse farther into the wood.
"We are four," said Robin. "It would ill become us to turn tail without
knowing what we fly from."
"Four! Would you attempt to draw his grace into a broil?"
"A broil! Pshaw!" cried Robin impatiently. "Some pursy citizen in a
post-chaise, belike, or passengers for the ferry."
"There’s another carriage following the one you hear," said Steve.
"Shall I warn the duke and Mr. Percival?"
"No, no! let us play highwaymen once more and frighten them away,"
laughed Robin, quickly adjusting a black mask and handing one to Steve.
As he did so a hand was laid somewhat roughly on his arm and the duke,
in low but emphatic tones, interrupted him:
"A truce to this headstrong folly; your rashness will ruin everything."
"I’m in the right temper for a tussle," returned Robin resignedly. "Yet
if these travelers do not molest us they may pass on their way
unchallenged for me," and, reluctantly, he withdrew a few paces farther
into the thicket, just as a coach and four rounded the bend in the road
and drew up not many paces away.
A man jumped out of the rumble, and hurrying to the inn-door, battered
and kicked at it, loudly shouting, "Ferry—ho, Ferry—where is the
Ferryman? Ho, Landlord, open your door quickly and do not waste our
time."
An upper window opened cautiously, just wide enough to show a
night-capped head within.
"Who calls for the ferry at this hour?" demanded a quavering voice.
"Why, ’tis early yet," replied the man; "we are travelers who would
cross in hot haste."
"Your haste will have time to cool—the ferryman beds t’other side the
river and comes not over unless he brings a fare," said the landlord.
"Is there no way of calling him? He will be well paid for his trouble;
and you, too, Goodman, may find it worth while to come down and serve my
noble master," cried the man.
"There’s a horn chained to yon post; blow it, if you will, an’ if he
hears you, mayhap he’ll bring his boat across. If you want food and
drink, you’ll find none fit for the quality nearer than Hailing. My
wife is sick a-bed and I’m lame with the rheumatics, but I’ll come down
and open if you’ll have patience." And the head was withdrawn and the
casement shut.
In the meantime the carriage door was opened and a man descended. His
figure, which a ray of the setting sun brought into strong relief, was
immediately recognized by Robin, who muttered, "Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert!
What brings him across my path again?" and pushing forward a little,
caught the sound of his own name.
"I swear to you that Robin Freemantle is dead!"
"You lie!" shouted Robin.
Sir Geoffrey started and looked round. "What was that?" he exclaimed
uneasily.
Prue instantly renewed her cries, "Help! help! If ye be true men, come
to my rescue!"
Two masked and cloaked horsemen promptly advanced, leveling their
pistols at Sir Geoffrey’s head.
"Stand and deliver!" commanded the taller of them, in deep, vibrant
tones.
At the sound of that beloved voice, Prue, with a cry of joy, sprang out
of the carriage, and rushing to Robin, who was already afoot, threw
herself into his arms.
"Oh! joy—oh! Robin, dear, dear Robin, Heaven has sent you to deliver me
from this villain!"
At the sight of their meeting and the maddening certainty of his own
utter discomfiture, Sir Geoffrey could not contain his fury, but drawing
his sword, would have hurled himself upon Robin had not Prue stood
between them with outstretched arms.
"Stand aside, woman!" he vociferated, beside himself with rage. "Must I
kill you to get at him? Coward! are you going to shelter yourself
behind a woman?"
"Stand aside, Prue," said Robin, in a tone she dared not disobey, and
drawing his sword he placed himself on the defensive.
Sir Geoffrey was an adroit swordsman and a practised duellist, but he
soon found he had no mean antagonist in Robin. It was a match between
the clever master of fence and the soldier accustomed to fight with his
life in his hand, regardless of carte and tierce. At pose and trick Sir
Geoffrey was the superior, but he was under the disadvantage of a
tempestuous fury that prevented his making the best use of the dexterity
that had brought him out victor from numerous encounters, while Robin’s
coolness more than compensated for lack of finesse, and his skill as a
swordsman soon proved itself. Sir Geoffrey, in spite of his passionate
onslaught, was gradually beaten off the roadside and driven step by step
to the door of the inn, where Robin, calm as though they had been merely
fencing for amusement, goaded him into rashness with an exaggerated
display of caution, and taking quick advantage of a wild lunge, disarmed
him and sent his sword flying a dozen paces away.
At the clash of weapons and sound of warfare, the inn-door opened a few
inches and a bald old head peered cautiously out.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" piped a trembling voice, "mine is a respectable
house; pray you do not get me into trouble. I implore you, if there is
murder to be done, for Heaven’s sake go a little farther up the road;
there is a quiet spot, not five minutes’ walk away, where no one will
disturb you while you kill each other."
"It is all over, good mine host; ’twas but a friendly bout; no one is
the worse for it by so much as a cut finger," laughed Robin. "Steve,
pick up Sir Geoffrey’s sword and restore it to him. Escort him into the
inn and treat him courteously until I call for you." As they
disappeared, he turned to Prue, who had watched the duel with mingled
fear and joy, and now hurried to his outstretched arms.
"Oh! Robin; why didn’t you kill him?" she cried.
"Why, ’twas a duel, dearest Prue, not an assassination—" he began.
"He would have killed you if he could, I’ll be sworn," she protested.
"I saw murder in his eye when he rushed upon us, and surely you would
avenge the treachery that brought me to this lonely place with a man I
detest, who desired to force or shame me into marrying him?"
"I am almost grateful to him," murmured Robin, with his lips to hers,
"that he brought you here and procured me the inestimable happiness of
seeing you once more and bidding you farewell."
"Is it indeed happiness for you to bid me farewell?" pouted Prue
reproachfully.
"Almost—compared to the unutterable anguish of leaving you, perhaps for
ever, without."
Prue drew herself away just far enough to look into his eyes with
bewitching tenderness. "Does it grieve you so much to leave me, Robin?"
she said softly.
"Can you ask, Heart of my heart?" he replied. "You little know how
sorely I am torn in twain by the duty that separates me from you."
"Then why should we separate?" she cajoled, nestling against him.
"Oh! tempt me not, Beloved!" he implored, feeling himself melting like
wax under her touch. "Honor and loyalty call me to France—
"Then take me with you!" she cried, in ringing tones.
A hand was laid on Robin’s shoulder with no gentle emphasis. "What
folly is this?" demanded a harsh voice. "De Cliffe, I have overheard
the wiles of this enchantress, and although I believe your loyalty is
beyond reproach, I can not allow her to test your powers of resistance
too far. Can you really believe that she wishes to accompany you? Bah!
’tis but another coil to bind you more securely and make your escape
more difficult. But it shall not avail, I swear on the bones of St.
Anthony! Viscountess Brooke, do you wish to have this man’s death on
your conscience? If so, use your arts on him and you will soon be
gratified; for I myself will run my sword through his heart, rather than
see him a traitor to his king."
"Your grace misjudges me," said Prue proudly. "I come, as you should
know, of right loyal stock, and nothing is further from my wishes than
to hinder his departure. I but claim the right to go wherever he goes."
"The right! What right?" sneered the duke.
"The right, in the sight of God and man, of a wife to follow her
husband," said Prue unflinchingly.
As she stood there so beautiful and undaunted, the love-light in her
glorious eyes seemed to irradiate her whole face with indescribable
tenderness and dignity. Even the angry duke dropped his eyes, abashed,
and his tone was sensibly lowered when he exclaimed, "Wife? Husband?
De Cliffe, what is the meaning of this midsummer madness?"
"Oh! Prue," cried Robin, "you know not what you say; how could you
dream of sharing the fortunes of an exile—an outlaw?"
She raised her eyes to his, brimming with tears. "Because I love you,
Robin," she sighed pathetically but bravely, "and life without you is
worthless to me." Then, with a sudden change to petulance, "Oh! why do
you leave me to do all the love-making? Is it not shame enough that I
was a petitioner for your hand, but that now I must come as a beggar for
your heart? Sure, I did think you loved me—a little," and she buried
her face in her hands.
"Sweetheart, it is because I love you so dearly that I am loath to let
you throw away your beauty and sweetness on a poor soldier of fortune,"
said Robin, scarcely less agitated than she.
"Who is apparently ready to ruin himself for the idle caprice of a
frivolous coquette!" interposed the duke, with asperity.
The carriage which had followed Sir Geoffrey’s had arrived while the
duel was in progress, and drawn up unnoticed at the bend of the road.
Its sole occupant alighted, and lingering in the shadow of the trees,
became an interested spectator, himself unobserved.
"De Cliffe," continued the duke, "time presses and you must not linger.
Think only of your duty and be firm."
There was a brief silence, which Prue broke, addressing her husband, "I
will not force myself upon you, Robin. Tell me what you wish and I will
obey, even if it breaks my heart. But if you do not take me away, what
will you do with me? You can not escort me yourself—you can hardly
return me on Sir Geoffrey’s hands!—Am I to return to Tunbridge on foot
and alone?"
"I will charge myself with your ladyship’s safe conduct," interposed the
duke impatiently.
"A thousand thanks," returned Prue, sweeping a profound curtsey. "Your
grace’s courage has not been overrated, yet methinks, if you reflect
upon what might happen when some one told your charming duchess that you
rode into Tunbridge at break of day with the Widow Brooke on the
pillion, you will be grateful for my rejection of your offer." She
turned to Robin with a submissive air that made at least one onlooker
smile, "I will plead no more with you, Robin, but if I must leave you,
swear to return to me and I will be true to you if I have to wait fifty
years."
She threw her arms round his neck and drawing his face down to her,
kissed him with passionate abandon, then bursting into tears, sobbed
out, "If you can leave me now, Robin, farewell!"
There is a limit to the powers of endurance of the most resolute, and
Robin could stand no more. He clasped her in his arms and soothed her
with the tenderest caresses. "I will never leave you, my wife," he
declared; "no one shall take you from me. You are mine and only Death
shall rob me of the dearest treasure on earth. Say no more, my lord
Duke; it is settled. My wife will go to France with me. The king will
welcome the daughter of his father’s friend as the bride of his own
faithful servant."
"If your mind is made up I have no more to say," returned the other,
with a look of deep annoyance, "except that if the Viscountess Brooke—"
"Pardon me—the Lady Prudence de Cliffe," interposed a bland voice, and
Lord Beachcombe stepped out of the shadow, and taking Prue’s hand,
pressed a respectful salute upon it. "Permit me, Captain, to
congratulate you on your marriage and to welcome your fair bride into
the family of which I am the head. I had reason, dear Lady Prue, to
fear that you might be molested on your journey, so took the liberty of
following Sir Geoffrey’s carriage, to be at hand in case the road to
Tunbridge might lead to—just such a breakdown as you suffered a while
ago, and just such a romantic rescue as our gallant friend had prepared
for you. I rejoice that I arrived in time to witness the reunion of
husband and wife—such a delightful surprise for all of us!—and to wish
them a happy future—beyond the sea!"
At the approach of Lord Beachcombe, the duke had pulled his hat lower
over his face and drawn his mantle more closely about him. With a sign
to Robin, he glided away among the trees, and only the sound of
hoof-beats on the road marked his retreat. Percival, who had been too
much engrossed in hunting out a water-tight boat to take notice of what
was passing within a few yards of him, now approached, but stopped short
at the sight of so many unexpected figures.
"This is my wife, Percival, who has decided at the last moment, to
accompany me to France," said Robin. "Is there room for her in that
boat or shall we need a bigger one?"
"Plenty of room," cried Percival, taking in the scene with eyes bulging
with bewilderment. "But, Lady Prudence! ’tis impossible for you to
brave the night in an open boat and the perils of crossing the Channel
in a fishing smack!"
"Why, there ’tis!" she laughed, with saucy confidence; "if ’twere
possible, ’twould scarcely be worth the doing! Steve, will you help Sir
Geoffrey’s varlets carry my valises on board? Within the carriage you
will find my jewel-box and other trifles! ’Tis not much in the way of
wedding-equipage for a court-lady, but ’tis more than I had when I was
waylaid on Bleakmoor and the highwayman could find nothing—at least,
nothing portable—to rob me of," and she threw Robin a glance of
irresistible drollery.
"This will indeed be a racy dish of scandal for your friends, madam,"
said Sir Geoffrey, from the inn-door.
"It will lose none of its spice in passing through your hands, Sir
Geoffrey," she retorted, with asperity. "Pray do not forget to give
yourself full credit for your share in the escapade."
"I will take good care of your reputation, Lady Prudence, and also of
Sir Geoffrey’s," interposed Beachcombe. At his voice, Sir Geoffrey
started and turned livid.
"’Od’s Death!’" he exclaimed. "What brings you here of all men?"
"Why, just a trifling wager; I think you’ll own I’ve won it fairly!"
returned the earl, as Sir Geoffrey strode away, and calling to his men
with curses, flung himself into his carriage and drove off at a gallop.
Lord Beachcombe, scarcely waiting to press a hurried kiss on Prue’s hand
and wish her long life and happiness, followed him with no less speed.
"The sail is hoisted and the baggage aboard," Steve announced. "Will it
please your ladyship to hasten; we should be halfway to Rochester by
now."
Robin carried his bride over the rough causeway and made her as
comfortable as circumstances would permit, in the stern of the boat.
With his ample cloak he covered her from the chill night air, and taking
his place beside her, gave the word to push off.
Steve guided the boat into mid-stream, then set himself to steer by the
sail that pulled and strained from the mast under a favoring wind.
Percival, in the bow, kept a keen watch for any sign of danger to his
precious freight, and behind, in the darkness, Prue lay in the arms of
her lover-husband.
THE END
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