Front matter (continued 2)

Sir Humphrey, thus obviously dismissed, could say no more for the present. To force his escort upon her openly was unfitting the manners of a gentleman. He bit his lip and tried to look gallantly disappointed. His keen dark eyes had already perceived that in spite of her self-control she was labouring under strong excitement. He forced his harsh voice to gentleness, even to tenderness, as he said,—

"I have not dared to speak to your ladyship on the subject that lay nearest my heart."

"Sir Humphrey..."

"Nay! I pray you do not misunderstand me. I was thinking of Philip, and hoped you were not too unhappy about him."

"There is no cause for unhappiness just yet," she said guardedly, "and every cause for hope."

"Ah! that's well!" he said cheerfully. "I entreat you not to give up hope, and to keep some faith and trust in your humble servant, who would give his life for you and yours."

"My faith and trust are in God, Sir Humphrey, and in my brother's innocence," she replied quietly.

Then she turned and left him standing there, with a frown upon his good-looking face, and a muttered curse upon his lips. He watched her as she went down the road, until a sharp declivity hid her from his view.

CHAPTER IX

SIR HUMPHREY'S FAMILIAR

Mistress Pottage, sad-eyed, melancholy, and for ever sighing, had been patiently waiting to receive Sir Humphrey Challoner's orders. She had understood from his man that his Honour meant to spend the night, and she stood anxiously in the passage, wondering if he would consider her best bedroom good enough, or condescend to eat the meals she would have to cook for him.

It was really quite fortunate that Lady Patience had gone, leaving the smaller parlour, which was Mistress Pottage's own private sanctum, ready for the use of his Honour.

Sir Humphrey's mind, however, was far too busy with thoughts and plans to dwell on the melancholy landlady and her meagre fare, but he was glad of the private room, and was gracious enough to express himself quite satisfied with the prospect of the best bedroom.

Some ten minutes after his brief interview with Lady Patience he was closeted in the same little dingy room where she had been spending such weary hours. With the healthy appetite of a burly English squire, he was consuming large slabs of meat and innumerable tankards of small ale, whilst opposite to him, poised on the extreme edge of a very hard oak chair, his watery, colourless eyes fixed upon his employer, sat Master Mittachip, attorney-at-law and man of business to sundry of the quality who owned property on or about the Moor.

Master Mittachip's voice was thin, he was thin, his coat looked thin: there was in fact a general air of attenuation about the man's whole personality.

Just now he was fixing a pair of very pale, but very shrewd eyes upon the heavy, somewhat coarse person of his distinguished patron.

"Her ladyship passed me quite close," he explained, speaking in a low, somewhat apologetic voice. "I was standing in the door of—er—the parlour, and she graciously nodded to me as she passed."

"Yes! yes! get on, man," quoth Sir Humphrey, impatiently.

"The door was open, your Honour," continued Master Mittachip in a weak voice, "there was a draught; her ladyship's cloak flew open."

He paused a moment, noting with evident satisfaction the increasing interest in Sir Humphrey's face.

"Beneath her cloak," he continued, speaking very slowly, like an actor measuring his effects, "beneath her cloak her ladyship was holding a bundle of letters, tightly clutched in her hand."

"Letters, eh?" commented Sir Humphrey, eagerly.

"A bundle of them, your Honour. One of them had a large seal attached to it. I might almost have seen the device: it was that of..."

"Charles Edward Stuart, the Pretender?"

"Well! I could not say for certain, your Honour," murmured Master Mittachip, humbly.

There was silence for a few moments. Sir Humphrey Challoner had produced a silver tooth-pick, and was using it as an adjunct to deep meditation. Master Mittachip was contemplating the floor with rapt attention.

"Harkee, Master Mittachip," said Sir Humphrey at last. "Lady Patience is taking those letters to London."

"That was the impression created in my mind, your Honour."

"And why does she take those letters to London?" said Sir Humphrey, bringing his heavy fist crashing down upon the table, and causing glasses and dishes to rattle, whilst Master Mittachip almost lost his balance. "Why does she take them to London, I say? Because they are the proofs of her brother's innocence. It is easy to guess their contents. Requests, admonitions, upbraidings on the part of the disappointed rebels, obvious proofs that Philip had held aloof."

He pushed his chair noisily away from the table, and began pacing the narrow room with great, impatient strides.

But while he spoke Master Mittachip began to lose his placid air of apologetic deference, and a look of alarm suddenly lighted his meek, colourless eyes.

"Good lack," he murmured, "then my Lord Stretton is no rebel?"

"Rebel?—not he!" asserted Sir Humphrey. "His sympathies were thought to be with the Stuarts, but he went south during the rebellion—'twas I who advised him—that he might avoid being drawn within its net."

But at this Master Mittachip's terror became more tangible.

"But your Honour," he stammered, whilst his thin cheeks assumed a leaden hue, and his eyes sought appealingly those of his employer, "your Honour laid sworn information against Lord Stretton ... and ... and ... I drew up the papers ... and signed them with my name as your Honour commanded..."

"Well! I paid you well for it, didn't I?" said Sir Humphrey, roughly.

"But if the accusation was false, Sir Humphrey ... I shall be disgraced ... struck off the rolls ... perhaps hanged..."

Sir Humphrey laughed; one of those loud, jovial, laughs which those in his employ soon learnt to dread.

"Adsbud!" he said, "an one of us is to hang, old scarecrow, I prefer it shall be you."

And he gave Master Mittachip a vigorous slap on the shoulder, which nearly precipitated the lean-shanked attorney on the floor.

"Good Sir Humphrey..." he murmured piteously, "b ... b ... b ... but what was the reason of the information against Lord Stretton, since the letters can so easily prove it to be false?"

"Silence, you fool!" said his Honour, impatiently, "I did not know of the letters then. I wished to place Lord Stretton in a perilous position, then hoped to succeed in establishing his innocence in certain ways I had in my mind. I wished to be the one to save him," he added, muttering a curse of angry disappointment, "and gain her gratitude thereby. I was journeying to London for the purpose, and now..."

His language became such that it wholly disconcerted Master Mittachip, accustomed though he was to the somewhat uncertain tempers of the great folk he had to deal with. Moreover, the worthy attorney was fully conscious of his own precarious position in this matter.

"And now you've gained nothing," he moaned; "whilst I ... oh! oh! I..."

His condition was pitiable. His Honour viewed him with no small measure of contempt. Then suddenly Sir Humphrey's face lighted up with animation. The scowl disappeared, and a shrewd, almost triumphant smile parted the jovial, somewhat sensuous lips.

"Easy! easy! you old coward," he said pleasantly, "things are not so bad as that.... Adsbud! you're not hanged yet, are you? and," he added significantly, "Lord Stretton is still attainted and in peril of his life."

"B ... b ... b ... but..."

"Can't you see, you fool," said Sir Humphrey with sudden earnestness, drawing a chair opposite the attorney, and sitting astride upon it, he viewed the meagre little creature before him steadfastly and seriously; "can't you see that if I can only get hold of those letters now, I could force Lady Patience into accepting my suit?"

"Eh?"

"With them in my possession I can go to her and say, 'An you marry me, those proofs of your brother's innocence shall be laid before the King: an you refuse they shall be destroyed.'"

"Oh!" was Master Mittachip's involuntary comment: a mere gasp of amazement, of terror at the enormity of the proposal.

He ventured to raise his timid eyes to the strong florid face before him, and in it saw such a firm will, such unbendable determination, that he thought it prudent for the moment to refrain from adverse comment.

"Truly," he murmured vaguely, as his Honour seemed to be waiting for him to speak, "truly those letters mean the lady's fortune to your Honour."

"And on the day of my marriage with her, two hundred guineas for you, Master Mittachip," said Challoner, very slowly and significantly, looking his man of business squarely in the face.

Master Mittachip literally lost his head. Two hundred guineas! 'twas more than he earned in four years, and that at the cost of hard work, many kicks and constant abuse. A receiver of rents has from time immemorial never been a popular figure. Master Mittachip found life hard, and in those days two hundred guineas was quite a comfortable little fortune. The attorney passed his moist tongue over his thin, parched lips.

The visions which these imaginary two hundred guineas had conjured up in his mind almost made his attenuated senses reel. There was that bit of freehold property at Wirksworth which he had long coveted, aye, or perhaps that partnership with Master Lutworth at Derby, or...

"'Twere worth your while, Master Mittachip, to get those letters for me, eh?"

His Honour's pleasant words brought the poor man back from the land of dreams.

"I? I, Sir Humphrey?" he murmured dejectedly, "how can I, a poor attorney-at-law...?"

"Zounds! but that's your affair," said his Honour with a careless shrug of his broad shoulders, "Methought you'd gladly earn two hundred guineas, and I offer you a way to do it."

"But how, Sir Humphrey, how?"

"That's for you to think on, my man. Two hundred guineas is a tidy sum. What? I have it," he said, slapping his own broad thigh and laughing heartily. "You shall play the daring highwayman! put on a mask and stop her ladyship's coach, shout lustily: 'Stand and deliver!' take the letters from her and 'tis done in a trice!"

The idea of that meagre little creature playing the highwayman greatly tickled Sir Humphrey's fancy, for the moment he even forgot the grave issues he himself had at stake, and his boisterous laugh went echoing through the old silent building.

But as his Honour spoke this pleasant conceit, Master Mittachip's thin, bloodless face assumed an air of deep thought, immediately followed by one of eager excitement.

"The idea of the highwayman is not a bad one, Sir Humphrey," he said with a quiet chuckle, as soon as his patron's hilarity had somewhat subsided, "but I am not happy astride a horse, and I know nought of pistols, but there's no reason why we should not get a footpad to steal those letters for you. 'Tis their trade after all."

"What do you mean? I was but jesting."

"But I was not, Sir Humphrey. I was thinking of Beau Brocade."

"The highwayman?"

"Why not? He lives by robbery and hates all the quality, whom he plunders whene'er he has a chance. Your Honour has had experience, only last night ... eh?"

"Well? What of it? Curse you, man, for a dotard! Why don't you explain?"

"'Tis simple enough, your Honour. You give him the news that her ladyship's coach will cross the Heath to-night, tell him of her money and her jewels, offer him a hundred guineas more for the packet of letters.... He! he! he! He'll do the rest, never fear!"

Master Mittachip rubbed his bony hands together, his colourless eyes were twinkling, his thin lips quivering with excitement, dreams of that freehold bit of property became tangible once more.

Sir Humphrey looked at him quietly for a moment or two: the little man's excitement was contagious and his Honour had a great deal at stake: a beautiful woman whom he loved and her large fortune to boot. But reason and common-sense—not chivalry—were still fighting their battle against his daring spirit of adventure.

"Tush, man!" he said after awhile, with the calmness of intense excitement, "you talk arrant nonsense when you say I'm to give a highwayman news of her ladyship's coach and offer him money for the letters. Where am I to find him? How speak with him?"

Mittachip chuckled inwardly. His Honour then was not averse to the plan. Already he was prepared to discuss the means of carrying it out.

"'Tis a lawyer's business to ferret out what goes on around him, Sir Humphrey. You can send any news you please to Beau Brocade within an hour from now."

"How?"

"John Stich, the blacksmith over at the crossroads, is his ally and his friend. Most folk think 'tis he always gives news to the rogue whene'er a coach happen to cross the Moor. But that's as it may be. If your Honour will call at the forge just before sunset, you'll mayhap see a chestnut horse tethered there and there'll be a stranger talking to John Stich; a stranger young and well-looking. He's oft to be seen at the forge. The folk about here never ask who the stranger is, for all have heard of the chivalrous highwayman who robs the rich and gives to the poor. He! he! he! Do you call at the forge, Sir Humphrey, you can arrange this little matter there.... Your news and offer of money will get to Beau Brocade, never fear."

Sir Humphrey was silent. All the boisterous jollity had gone out of his face, leaving only a dark scowl behind, which made the ruddy face look almost evil in its ugliness. Mittachip viewed him with ill-concealed satisfaction. The plan had indeed found favour with his Honour; it was quick, daring, sure: the fortune of a lifetime upon one throw. Sir Humphrey, even before the attorney had finished speaking, had resolved to take the risk. He himself was safe in any case, nothing could connect his name with that of the notorious highwayman who had cut his purse but the night before.

"I'd not have her hurt," was the first comment he made after a few minutes' silent cogitation.

"Hurt?" rejoined Mittachip. "Why should she be hurt? Beau Brocade would not hurt a pretty woman. He'll get the letters from her, I'll stake my oath on that."

"Aye! and blackmail me after that to the end of my days. My good name would be at the mercy of so damned a rascal."

"What matter, Sir Humphrey, once Lady Patience is your wife and her fortune in your pocket? Everything is fair in love, so I've been told."

Sir Humphrey ceased to argue. Chivalry and honour had long been on the losing side.

"Moreover, Sir Humphrey," added the crafty attorney, slily, "once you have the letters, you can denounce the rogue yourself, and get him hanged safely out of your way."

"He'd denounce me."

"And who'd believe the rascal's word against your Honour's flat denial? Not Squire West, for sure, before whom he'd be tried, and your Honour can have him kept in prison until after your marriage with Lady Patience."

It seemed as if even reason would range herself on the side of this daring plan. There seemed practically no risk as far as Sir Humphrey himself was concerned, and every chance of success, an that rascal Beau Brocade would but consent.

"He would," asserted Mittachip, "an your Honour told him that the coach, the money, and the letters belonged to Lady Rounce, and the young lady travelling in the coach but a niece of her ladyship. Lady Rounce is a hard woman who takes no excuse from a debtor. He! he! he! she has the worst reputation in the two counties, save your Honour!"

The lawyer chuckled at this little joke, but Sir Humphrey was too absorbed to note the impertinence. He was pacing up and down the narrow room in a last agony of indecision.

Mittachip evidently was satisfied with his day's work. The two hundred guineas he looked upon as a certainty already. After a while, noting the look of stern determination upon his Honour's face, he turned the conversation to matters of business. He had been collecting some rents for Sir Humphrey and also for Squire West and Lady Rounce, and would have to return to Wirksworth to bank the money.

Since Sir Humphrey Challoner was occupying the only available bedroom at the Moorhen, there would be no room for Master Mittachip and Master Duffy, his clerk. He hoped to reach Brassington by the bridle path before the footpads were astir, thence at dawn on to Wirksworth.

He had shot his poisonous arrow and did not stop to ascertain how far it had gone home. He bade farewell to his employer, with all the deference which many years of intercourse with the quality had taught him, and never mentioned Beau Brocade, Lady Patience or John Stich's forge again. But when he had bowed and scraped himself out of his Honour's presence, and was sitting once more beside Master Duffy in the bar-parlour, there was a world of satisfaction in his pale, watery eyes.

CHAPTER X

A STRANGER AT THE FORGE

In the meanwhile Lady Patience, with Betty by her side, had been walking towards the forge as rapidly as the state of the road permitted.

A sudden turn of the path brought her within sight of the cross-ways and of the old gallows, on which a fragment of rain-spattered rag still fluttered ghostlike in the wind.

But here, within a few yards of her goal, she stopped suddenly, with eyes dilated, and hands pressed convulsively to her heart, in an agony of terror. Walking quickly on the road from Wirksworth towards Stich's cottage were some half-dozen red-coated figures, the foremost man amongst them wearing three stripes upon his sleeve.

Soldiers with a sergeant at the forge! What could it mean but awful peril for the fugitive?

Her halt had been but momentary, the next instant she was flying down the pathway closely followed by Betty, and had reached the shed just as the soldiers were skirting the cottage towards it.

She glanced within, and gave a quick sigh of relief: there was no sign of her brother, and John was busy at his anvil.

Already the smith had caught sight of her.

"Hush!" he whispered reassuringly, "have no fear, my lady. I've had soldiers here before."

"But they'll recognise me, perhaps ... or guess..."

"No, no! my lady! Do you pretend to be a waiting wench. They are men from Derby mostly, and not like to know your face."

There was not a moment to be lost. Patience realised this, together with the certainty that her own coolness and presence of mind might prove the one chance of safety for her brother.

"Halt!" came in loud accents from the sergeant outside.

"The lock, Master Stich," said Patience, loudly and carelessly, as the sergeant stepped into the doorway, "is it ready? Her ladyship's coach is following me from Aldwark, and will be at the cross-roads anon."

"Quite ready, mistress," replied the smith, casting a rapid glance at the soldier, who stood in the entrance with hand to hat in military salute.

The latter took a rapid survey of the interior of the forge, then said politely,—

"Your pardon, ladies!"

"Well, and what is it now, Sergeant?" queried John, with affected impatience.

"I have heard that there's a stranger at your forge, smith," replied the soldier. "My corporal came down from Aldwark early this afternoon and told me about him. I'd like just to have a talk with him."

"One moment, Sergeant," said John, interposing his burly figure between Patience and the prying eyes of the young soldier.

"I think you'll find the lock quite secure now, mistress," he said, trying, good, honest fellow that he was, to put as much meaning into the careless sentence as he dared. She mutely thanked him with her eyes, took the padlock from his hands, and gave him over some money for his pains, the while her heart was nearly bursting with the agony of suspense.

"No stranger, Sergeant," rejoined the smith, once more turning with well-assumed indifference to the soldier, "only my nephew out o' Nottingham. Your corporal was a Derby man, and knew the lad's mother, my sister Hannah!"

"Quite so, quite so, smith," quoth the Sergeant, pleasantly; "then you won't mind my searching your forge and cottage just for form's sake."

Even then Patience did not betray herself either by a look or a quiver of the voice.

"Lud! how tiresome be those soldiers," she said with an affected pout. "I'd hoped to wait here in peace, friend smith, until the arrival of her ladyship's coach."

"Nay, mistress, you need not be disturbed," said the smith, jovially, "the Sergeant is but jesting, eh, friend?" he added, turning to the soldier. "There! I give you my word, Master Sergeant, that there is nought here for you to find."

"I've my orders, smith," said the Sergeant, more curtly.

"Nay, friend," interposed Lady Patience, "surely you overstep your orders. John Stich is honest and loyal, you do him indignity by such unjust suspicions."

"Your pardon, ma'am, but I know my duty. There's no suspicion against the smith, but there are many rebels in hiding about here, and I've strict orders to be on the lookout for one in particular, Philip Gascoyne, Earl of Stretton, who is known to be in these parts."

John Stich interrupted him with a loud guffaw.

"Lud, man!" he said, "there's no room for a noble lord in a wayside smithy; you waste your time."

"My orders say I've the right to search," quoth the Sergeant, firmly, "and search I'm going to."

Then he turned to his squad, who were standing at attention outside.

"Follow me, men," he said, as he stepped forward into the forge.

Fortunately the remote corners of the shed were dark, and Patience still had her hood and cloak wrapped closely round her, or her deathlike pallor, the wild, terrified look in her eyes, would at this moment have betrayed her in spite of herself.

But honest John was standing in the way of the Sergeant.

"Look'ee here, Sergeant," he said quietly, "I'm a man of few words, but I'm a free-born Englishman, and my home is my castle. It's an insult to a free and loyal citizen for soldiers to search his home, as if he were a felon. I say you shall not enter, so you take yourself off, before you come by a broken head."

"Smith, you're a fool," commented the Sergeant with a shrug of the shoulders, "and do yourself no good."

"That's as it may be, friend," quoth John. "There are fools in every walk in life. You be a stranger in these parts and don't know me, but folk'll tell you that what John Stich once says, that he'll stick to. So forewarned is forearmed, friend Sergeant. Eh?"

But to this the Sergeant had but one reply, and that was directed to his own squad.

"Now then, my men," he said, "follow me! and you, John Stich," he added loudly and peremptorily, "stand aside in the name of the King!"

The men were ranged round the Sergeant with muskets grasped, ready to rush in the next moment at word of command. John Stich stood between them and a small wooden door, little more than a partition, behind which Philip, Earl of Stretton, was preparing to sell his life dearly.

That death would immediately follow capture was absolutely clear both to him and to his devoted sister, who with almost superhuman effort of will was making heroic efforts to keep all outward show of alarm in check. Even amongst these half-dozen soldiers any one of them might know Lord Stretton by sight, and was not likely to forget that twenty guineas—a large sum in those days—was the price the Hanoverian Government was prepared to pay for the head of a rebel.

Philip was a man condemned to death by Act of Parliament. If he were captured now, neither prayer, nor bribes, nor even proofs of innocence would avail him before an officious magistrate intent on doing his duty. A brief halt at Brassington court-house, an execution in the early dawn!... these were the awesome visions which passed before Patience's eyes, as with a last thought of anguish and despair she turned to God for help!

No doubt John Stich was equally aware of the imminence of the peril, and, determined to fight for the life of his lord, he brandished his mighty hammer over his head, and there was a look in the powerful man's eyes that made even the Sergeant pause awhile ere giving the final word of command.

Thus there was an instant's deadly silence whilst so many hearts were wildly beating in tumultuous emotion. Just one instant—a few seconds, mayhap, whilst even Nature seemed to stand still, and Time to pause before the next fateful minute.

And then a voice—a fresh, young, happy voice—was suddenly heard to sing, "My beautiful white rose."

It was not very distant: but twenty yards at most, and even now seemed to be making for the forge, drawing nearer and nearer.

Instinctively—what else could they do?—soldiers and Sergeant turned to look out upon the Heath. There was such magic in that merry, boyish voice, clear as that of the skylark, singing the quaint old ditty.

They looked and saw a stranger dressed in elegant, almost foppish fashion, his brown hair free from powder, tied with a large bow at the nape of the neck, dainty lace at his throat and wrists, scarce a speck of mud upon his fine, well-cut coat. He was leading a beautiful chestnut horse by the bridle and had been singing as he walked.

Patience, too, catching at this happy interruption like a drowning man does at a straw, turned to look at the approaching stranger.

Her eyes were the first to meet his as he reached the entrance of the forge, and with an elaborate, courtly gesture he raised his three-cornered hat and made her a respectful bow.

Then he burst out laughing.

"Ho! ho! ho! but here's a pretty to-do. Why, John Stich, my friend, you look a bit out of temper."

He stood there framed in the doorway, with the golden light of the afternoon sun throwing into bold silhouette his easy, graceful stature, and the pleasant picture of him, with one arm round the beautiful horse's neck and his slender fingers gently fondling its soft, quivering nose.

John Stich, at first sound of the stranger's voice, had relaxed from his defiant attitude, and a ray of hope had chased away the threatening look in his eyes.

"So would you be, Captain," he said gruffly, "with these red coats inside your house, and all their talk of rebels."

"Captain?" murmured the Sergeant.

"Aye, Captain Bathurst, my man, of His Majesty's White Dragoons," said the stranger, carelessly, as without more ado he led his horse within the forge and tethered it close to the entrance. Then he came forward and slapped the Sergeant vigorously on the back.

"And I'll go bail, Sergeant, that John Stich is no rebel. He's far too big a fool!" he added in an audible whisper, and with a merry twinkle in his grey eyes.

Patience still stood rigid, expectant, terrified in the darker corner of the shed. She had not yet realised whether she dared to hope, whether this young stranger, with his pleasant, boyish voice and debonnair manner, would have the power to stay the hand of Fate, which was even now raised against her brother.

Betty, behind her mistress, was too terrified to speak.

But already the Sergeant had recovered from his momentary surprise. At mention of the stranger's military rank he had raised his hand to his tricorne hat. Now he was ready to perform his duty, and gladly noted the smith's less aggressive attitude.

"At your service, Captain," he said, "and now I have my orders. I've a right o' search and..."

But like veritable quicksilver, Captain Bathurst was upon him in a moment.

"A right o' search!" he said excitedly. "A right o' search, did you say, Sergeant? Odd's my life, but I'm in luck! Sergeant, you're the very man for me."

And he pulled the Sergeant by the sleeve.

"I pray you, sir..." protested the latter.

But the young man was not to be denied.

"Sergeant," he whispered significantly, "would you like to earn a hundred guineas?"

"One hundred guineas," rejoined the soldier readily enough; "that I would, sir, if you'll tell me how."

He kept an eye on the little wooden door behind John Stich, but his ear leaned towards the stranger; the bait was a tempting one, a hundred guineas was something of a fortune to a soldier of King George II.

"Listen then," said Bathurst, mysteriously. "You've heard of Beau Brocade, the highwayman, haven't you?"

"Aye, aye," nodded the Sergeant, "who hasn't?"

"Well then you know that there is a price of a hundred guineas for his capture, eh? ... Think of it, Sergeant! ... A hundred guineas! ... a little fortune, eh?"

The Sergeant's eyes twinkled at the thought. The soldiers too listened with eager interest, for the stranger was no longer talking in a whisper. A hundred guineas! three little words of wondrous magic, which had the power to rouse most men to excitement in those days of penury.

Lady Patience's whole soul seemed to have taken refuge in her eyes. Her body leaning forward, her lips parted with a quick-drawn breath, she gazed upon the stranger, wondering what he would do. That he was purposely diverting the Sergeant's attention from his purpose she did not dare to think, that he was succeeding beyond her wildest hopes was not in doubt for a moment.

And yet there did not seem much gained by averting the fearful catastrophe for the span of a few brief minutes.

"Aye! a fortune indeed!" sighed the Sergeant, with obvious longing.

"And I have sworn to lay that dare-devil highwayman by the heels," continued the young man. "I know where he lies hidden at this very moment, but, by Satan and all his crew, I cannot lay hands upon the rascal."

"How so?"

"The house is private! worse luck! I have no right of search!"

The Sergeant gave a knowing wink.

"Hm!" he said. "I understand."

Then he added significantly,—

"But the reward?"

"Odd's life! you shall have the whole of that, Sergeant, and, if your men will help me, there shall be another hundred to divide between them. I have sworn to lay the rogue by the heels for my honour's sake. Would you believe me, Sergeant, 'tis but a week ago that rascally highwayman robbed me in broad daylight! ... fifty guineas he took from me. Now I've a bet with Captain Borrowdale, five hundred guineas aside, that I'll bring about the rogue's capture."

There was no doubt now that the Sergeant's interest was fully aroused; the soldiers, at mention of the reward which was to be theirs, hung upon their Sergeant's lips, hoping for the order to march on this very lucrative errand.

"Hm!" muttered the latter, with a knowing wink, "perhaps that highwayman is a personal enemy of yours as well, sir!"

"Aye!" sighed Captain Bathurst, pathetically, "the worst I ever had."

"And you'd be mightily glad to see him hanged, an I mistake not. What?"

"Zounds! but I wouldn't say that exactly, Sergeant, but ... I have no love for him ... 'tis many an ill turn he has done me of late."

"I understand! Then the reward?"

"You shall have every penny of it, friend, and a hundred guineas for your men. What say you, gallant soldiers?" And he turned gaily to the little squad, who had stood at very close attention all this while.

But there was no need to make this direct appeal. The men were only too ready to be up and doing, to earn the reward and leave John Stich and the very problematical rebel to look after themselves.

"Now, quick's the word," said the young man, briskly, "there's not a moment to be lost."

"At your service, Captain," replied the Sergeant, turning once more towards the inner door before which John Stich still held guard, "as soon as I've searched this forge..."

"Nay, man, an you waste a minute, you and your men will miss Beau Brocade and the hundred guineas reward. Quick, man!" he added hurriedly, seeing that the soldier had paused irresolute, "quick! with your fellows straight up the road that leads northward. I'm on horseback—I'll overtake you as soon as may be."

"But..."

"You'll see a lonely cottage about half a mile from here, then a bridle path on the left; follow that, you'll come to a house that was once an inn. The rascal is there. I saw him not half an hour ago."

"But the rebel, Captain..." feebly protested the Sergeant, "my duty..."

"Nay, Sergeant, as you will," said Bathurst, coolly, with a great show of complete indifference; "but while you parley here, Beau Brocade will slip through your fingers. He is at the house now: he may be gone by sunset. Odd's life! search for your rebels! go on! waste time! and the hundred guineas are lost to you and your men for ever."

It was obvious that both sergeant and men were determined not to lose this opportunity of a bold bid for fortune.

"Done with you, sir," he said resolutely. "After all," he added, as a concession to his own sense of duty, "I can always come back and search the forge afterwards."

All the soldiers seemed as one man to be uttering a sigh of relief and eager anticipation, and even before the Sergeant had spoken the word, they turned to go.

"You are a wise man, Sergeant," said Bathurst, jovially. "Off with you! straight along that road you see before you. The cottage is just beyond that clump of distant firs, there you'll see the bridle path. But I'll overtake you before then, never fear. Time to give my horse a handful of oats..."

But even while he spoke the Sergeant had called "Attention!"

"I'll not fail you, sir," he shouted excitedly. "A hundred guineas! odd's my life! 'tis a fortune! Left turn! Quick march!"

The young man stood in the doorway and watched the little squad as, preceded by their Sergeant, they plodded their way northwards in quest of fortune. John Stich too followed them with his eyes, until the bend in the road hid the red coats from view. Then both turned and came within.

But Lady Patience through it all never looked at the soldiers; her eyes, large, glowing, magnetic, were fixed upon the stranger in the forge, as if in a trance of joy and gratitude.

CHAPTER XI

THE STRANGER'S NAME

Mistress Betty was the first to recover from terror and surprise. She too had fixed a pair of large and wondering eyes upon the stranger.

"'Tis the gentleman who brought the letter from his lordship last night," she whispered to her mistress.

Patience closed her eyes for a moment: her spirit, which had gone a-roaming into the land of dreams, where dwell heroes and proud knights of old, came back to earth once more.

"Then he must have guessed my brother was here," she murmured, "and did it to save him."

But the tension being relaxed, already the bright and sunny nature, which appeared to be the chief characteristic of the stranger, quickly re-asserted itself, and soon he was laughing merrily.

"Oh! ho! gone, by my faith!" he said to John. "Odd's life! but he swallowed that, clean as a mullet after bait, eh, friend Stich?"

It seemed as if he purposely avoided looking at Patience: perhaps, with the innate delicacy of a kindly nature, he wished to give her time to recover her composure. But now she came forward, turning to him with a gentle smile that had an infinity of pathos in it.

"Sir," she said, "I would wish to thank you..."

He put up his hand, with a gesture of self-deprecation.

"To thank me, madam?" he said, with profound deference. "Nay! you do but jest. I have done nothing to deserve so great a favour."

He bowed to her with perfect courtly grace, but she would not be gainsaid. She wished to think that he had acted thus for her.

"Sir, you wrong your own most noble deed," she said. "Will you not allow me to keep the sweet illusion, that what you did just now, you did from the kindness of your heart, and because you saw that we were all anxious ... and that ... I was unhappy..."

She looked divinely fair as she stood there beside him, with the rays of the slanting September sun touching the halo of her hair with a wand of gold. Her voice was musical and low, and there was a catch in her throat as she held out one tiny, trembling hand to him.

He took it in his own strong grasp, and kept it a prisoner therein for awhile, then he bent his slim young figure and touched her finger-tips with his lips.

"Faith, madam!" he said, "by that sweet illusion, an it dwell awhile in your memory, I am more than repaid."

In the meanwhile John had pushed open the small door which led to the inner shed.

"Quite safe, my lord!" he shouted gaily, "only friends present."

Brother and sister, regardless of all save their own joy in this averted peril, were soon locked in each other's arms. Captain Bathurst had heard her happy cry: "Philip!" had seen the look of gladness brighten her tear-dimmed eyes, and a curious feeling of wrath, which he could not explain, caused him to turn away with a frown and a sigh.

Patience was clinging to her brother, half hysterical, nervous, excited.

"You are safe, dear," she murmured, touching with trembling motherly hands the dear head so lately in peril, "quite safe ... let me feel your precious hands ... oh! it was so horrible! ... another moment and you were discovered! ... Sir!" she added once more, turning to the stranger with the sweet impulse of her gratitude, "my thanks just now must have seemed so poor ... I was nervous and excited ... but see! here is one who owes you his life, and who, I know, would wish to join his thanks to mine."

But there was a change in his manner now. He bowed slightly before her and said very coldly,—

"Nay, madam! let me assure you once again that I have done naught to deserve your thanks. John Stich is my friend, and he seemed in trouble ... if I have had the honour to serve you at the same time, 'tis I who should render thanks."

She sighed, somewhat disappointed at his coldness. But Philip, with boyish impulse, held out both hands to him.

"Nay, sir," he said, "I know not who you are, but I heard everything from behind that door, and I know that I owe you my life..."

"I beg you, sir..."

"Another moment and I had rushed out and sold my life dearly. Your noble effort, sir, did more than save that life," he added, taking Patience's hand in his, "it spared a deep sorrow to one who is infinitely dear to me ... my only sister."

"Your ... your sister?"

"Aye! my sister, Lady Patience Gascoyne, I am the Earl of Stretton, unjustly attainted by Act of Parliament. The life you have just saved, sir, is henceforth at your command."

"Indeed, Philip," added Patience, gently, "we already are deeply in this gentleman's debt. Betty, who saw him, tells me that it was he who brought me your letter yester night."

"You, sir!" exclaimed Stretton in profound astonishment, "then you are..."

He paused instinctively, for he had remembered his conversation with John Stich earlier in the day; he remembered the anger, the wonder, which he had felt when the smith told him that he had entrusted the precious letter for Lady Patience to Beau Brocade, the highwayman ...

"Then you are...?" repeated Philip, mechanically.

Patience was clinging to her brother, with her back towards the stranger, so she did not see the swift look of appeal the slender finger put up in a mute, earnest prayer for silence. But now she turned and looked inquiringly at him, her eyes asking for a name by which she could remember him.

"Captain Jack Bathurst," he said, bowing low, "at your command."

CHAPTER XII

THE BEAUTIFUL WHITE ROSE

But of course there was no time to be lost. Captain Jack Bathurst was the first to give the alarm.

"Those gallant lobsters won't be long in finding out that they've been hoodwinked," he said, "an I mistake not, they'll return here anon with a temper slightly the worse for wear. They must not find your lordship here at anyrate," he added earnestly.

"But what's to be done?" asked Patience, all her anxiety returning in a trice, and instinctively turning for guidance to the man who already had done so much for her.

"For the next hour or two at anyrate his lordship would undoubtedly be safer on the open Moor," said Bathurst, decisively. "'Tis nigh on sunset, and the shepherds are busy gathering in their flocks. There'll be no one about, and 'twould be safer."

"On the open Moor?"

"Aye! 'tis not a bad place," he said, with a touch of sadness in his fresh young voice. "I myself..."

He checked himself and continued more quietly,—

"Your lordship could return here after sundown. You'd be safe enough for the night. After that, an you'll grant me leave, my friend Stich and I will venture to devise some better plan for your safety. For the moment, I pray you, be guided by this good advice, and seek the protection of the open Moor."

He had spoken so earnestly, with such obvious heartfelt concern, and at the same time with such quiet firmness, that instinctively Philip felt inclined to obey; the weaker nature turned for support to the stronger one, to whose dominating influence it felt compelled to yield. He turned to Patience, and her eyes seemed to tell him that she was ready to trust this stranger.

"Aye! I'll go, sir!" he sighed wearily.

He kissed his sister with all the fondness of his aching heart. All his hopes for the future were centred in her and in the long journey she was about to undertake for his sake.

Bathurst discreetly left brother and sister alone. He knew nothing of their affairs, of their plans, their hopes. Stich was too loyal to speak of his lord, even to a man whom he trusted and respected as he did the Captain. The latter knew that a hunted man was in hiding in the smith's forge, he had taken a message from the man to the lady at Stretton Hall, now he knew for certain that the fugitive was the Earl of Stretton. But that was all.

Being outside the pale of the law himself, his sympathies at once ranged themselves on the side of the fugitive. Whether the latter were guilty or innocent mattered little to Jack Bathurst; what did matter to him was that the most beautiful woman he had ever set eyes on was unhappy and in tears.

Philip, seeing that he could talk to his sister unobserved, whispered eagerly,—

"The letters, dear, have a care; how will you carry them?"

"In the drawer underneath the seat of the coach," she whispered in reply. "I'll not leave the coach day or night until I've reached London. From Wirksworth onwards I'll be travelling with relays: I need neither spare horses nor waste a moment's time. I can be in town in less than six days."

"When will your coach be ready?"

"In a few minutes now, and I'll start at once: but go, go now, dear," she urged tenderly, "since Captain Bathurst thinks it better that you should."

She kissed him again and again, her heart full of hope and excitement at thought of what she could do for him, yet aching because of this parting. It was terrible to leave him in this awful peril, to be far away if danger once again became imminent!

When at last he had torn himself away from her, he made quickly for the door, where Bathurst had been waiting for him.

"Ah, sir!" sighed Philip, bitterly, "'tis a sorry plight for a soldier and a gentleman to hide for his life like a coward and a thief."

But Bathurst before leaving was looking back at the beautiful picture of Patience's sweet face bathed in tears.

"Like a thief?" he murmured. "Nay, sir, thieves have no angels to guard and love them: methinks you have no cause to complain of your fate."

There was perhaps just a thought of bitterness in his voice as he said this, and Patience turned to him, and gazed at him in tender womanly pity through her tears. At once the electrical, sunny nature within him again gained the upper hand. Laughter and gaiety seemed with him to be always close to the surface, ready to ripple out at any moment, and calling forth hope and confidence in those around.

"An you'll accept my escort, sir," he said cheerfully to Philip, "I'll show you a sheltered spot known only to myself ... and to Jack o' Lantern," he added, giving a passing tender tap to his beautiful horse. "He and I are very fond of the Moor, eh, Jack, old friend? ... We are the two Jacks, you see, sir, and seldom are seen apart. Together we discovered the spot which I will show you, sir, and where you can lie perdu until nightfall. 'Tis safe and lonely and but a step from this forge."

Philip accepted the offer gratefully. Like his sister, he too felt that he could trust Jack Bathurst. As he walked by his side along the unbeaten track on the Heath, he viewed with some curiosity, not unmixed with boyish admiration, the tall, well-knit figure of his gallant rescuer. He tried to think of him as the notorious highwayman, Beau Brocade, on whose head the Government had put the price of a hundred guineas.

A hero of romance he was in the hearts of the whole country-side, yet a felon in the eyes of the law. Philip could just see his noble profile, with the well-cut features, the boyish, sensitive mouth, firm chin and straight, massive brow, over which a mass of heavy brown curls clustered in unruly profusion.

A brave man, surely—Philip had experienced that; a wise one too in spite of his youth. Stretton guessed his companion to be still under thirty years of age, and yet there was at times, in spite of the inherently sunny disposition below, a look of melancholy, of disappointment, in the deep, grey eyes, which spoke of a wasted life, of opportunities lost perhaps, or of persistent adverse fate.

Through it all there was that quaint air of foppishness, the manners and appearance of a dandy about the Court. The caped coat was dark and serviceable, but it was of the finest cloth and of the latest, most fashionable cut, and beneath it peeped a dainty silk waistcoat, delicately embroidered.

The lace at throat and wrists was of the finest Mechlin, and the boots, though stout and heavy, betrayed the smallness and the arch of the foot. Though Jack Bathurst had obviously been riding, he carried neither whip nor cane.

All that Philip observed in this rapid walk to the place of shelter which Bathurst had thought out for him, Patience, with a woman's quick perception, had noted from the first. To her, of course, the Captain was but a gallant stranger, good to look at and replete with all the chivalrous attributes this troublous century called forth in the hearts of her sons. She knew naught of Beau Brocade the highwayman, and probably would have recoiled in horror at thought of connecting the name of a thief with that of her newly-found hero of romance.

She stood in the doorway for some time, watching with glowing eyes the figures of the two men, until they disappeared behind a high clump of gorse: then with a curious little sigh she turned and went within.

John Stich and Mistress Betty were carrying on an animated conversation in a remote corner of the forge. Patience did not wish to disturb them: she was deeply grateful to John, and felt kindly disposed towards the suggestion of romance conveyed by the smith's obvious appreciation of pretty Mistress Betty.

She crossed the shed, and opening the door at the further end of it, she found that it gave upon a small yard which separated the forge from the cottage, and in which Stich and his mother, who kept house for him, had with tender care succeeded in cultivating a few flowers: only one or two tall hollyhocks, some gay-looking sunflowers, and a few sweet-scented herbs. And on the south aspect a lovely trail of creeping white rose, the kind known as "Five Sisters," threw its delicate fragrance over this little oasis in the wilderness of the Moor.

And, almost mechanically, whilst her fancy once more went a-roaming in the land of dreams, Patience began to hum the quaint old ditty: "My beautiful white rose."

Suddenly—at a quick thought mayhap—her eyes grew dim, her cheeks began to burn: she drew towards her a cluster of snowy blossoms, on which the earlier rains had left a mantle of glittering diamonds, and buried her glowing face in its pure, cool depths. Then she detached one lovely white rose from the parent bough, and, sighing, pinned it to her belt.

CHAPTER XIII

A PROPOSAL AND A THREAT

Sir Humphrey Challoner had not been long in making up his mind to take Master Mittachip's pernicious advice. He twisted the old adage that "everything is fair in love" to a justification of his own evil purpose. He was not by any means a bad man. Save for his somewhat inordinate love of money, he had none of the outrageous vices which were looked upon with leniency in the quality in those days.

He drank hard, and exacted his pound of flesh equally from all his tenants, but neither of these characteristics was unusual in an English squire of the early eighteenth century: a great many of them were impecunious, and all were fond of good cheer. Originally he had meant no harm to the young Earl of Stretton. His plan, as he clumsily conceived it, was to get Philip into trouble first, then to extricate him from it, for the sake of earning the gratitude of the richest heiress in the Midlands and the most beautiful woman in England to boot.

Sir Humphrey Challoner was not a diplomatist: he was a rough country gentleman of that time, with but scant notions of abstract right and wrong where his own desires were at stake.

His original plan had failed through that very Act of Parliament which placed Philip's life in immediate and imminent peril. Sir Humphrey did not desire the lad's death: of course not. He had nothing to gain thereby, and only wished for the sister's hand in marriage. He started for London post-haste, hoping still to use what influence he had, and also what knowledge he possessed of Philip's attitude at the time of the rebellion, in order to bring about the boy's justification and release.

That Patience had evidently found a means of proving her brother's innocence without his help was a bitter disappointment to Sir Humphrey. He knew that she would never marry him of her own free will, but only on compulsion or from gratitude.

The latter was now out of the question. He could do nothing to earn it. Compulsion was the only course, and Mittachip, with crafty persuasion, had shown him the possible way; therefore he went to the forge of John Stich to carry through the plan to that end.

It was close on sunset. On the Moor, gorse, bramble and heather were bathed in ruddy gold, the brilliant aftermath of this glowing September afternoon.

Sir Humphrey had walked over from the Moorhen; as soon as he entered the forge, the first thing he noticed was the beautiful chestnut horse tethered against the door-post, the same which he himself had declared that very day to be worth a small fortune. Fate was obviously playing into his hands. Mittachip had neither deceived him nor lured him with false hopes.

Otherwise the shed was empty: there was no sign of John Stich, or of the stranger who rode the chestnut horse. Sir Humphrey went within and, as patiently as he could, set himself to wait.

When therefore Jack Bathurst returned to the forge some few minutes later, he found that her ladyship, Betty and Stich had gone, whilst, sitting on the edge of the rough deal table, and impatiently tapping his boot with a riding-whip, was no less a personage than the Squire of Hartington.

Jack had caught a glimpse of his Honour the night before on the Heath, under circumstances which even now brought a smile to his lips, and which incidentally had made the poor of Brassington richer by fifty guineas.

For a moment he hesitated whether he would go in or no. He had been masked during that incident, of course, and knew not even the ABC of fear. His dare-devil spirit of fun and adventure quickly gained the upper hand, and the next moment he had greeted his Honour with all the courtly grace he had at command.

Sir Humphrey looked at him keenly for a moment or two. Young and well-looking! Oft to be seen at the forge at sundown! ... Odd's life but...

"Your servant, sir!" he said, returning the salutation.

Sir Humphrey was in no hurry. He firmly believed that Fate had decided to be kind to him in this matter, but he feared to brusque the situation, and thereby to imperil the successful issue of his scheme.

Therefore he passed the time of day with this well-looking stranger, he talked of the weather and the rains on the Moors, the bad state of the roads and the insufficiency of police in the county, of the late rebellion and the newest fashion in coats.

Jack Bathurst seemed to fall into his mood. He was shrewd enough to perceive that Sir Humphrey Challoner was in his own estimation playing a diplomatic game of cat and mouse, and it much intrigued Bathurst to know what his ultimate purpose might be. He had not long to wait; after some five minutes of casual conversation, Sir Humphrey went straight for his goal.

"Odd's life!" he said suddenly, interrupting his own flow of small talk, "it wonders me how long that rascally smith'll stay away from his work. Adsbud! but he's a lazy vagabond. What say you, sir?"

"Nay! you, sir, wrong an honest man," replied Bathurst. "John Stich is a steady worker. Shall I call him for you? I know my way about his cottage."

"Nay, I thank you, sir! my purpose can wait. Truth to tell," added his Honour, carelessly, "'twas not the blacksmith's work I needed, but his help in a trifling matter of business."

"Indeed?"

"You'll be surprised perhaps at my question, sir, but have you ever heard mention of that fellow, Beau Brocade?"

"Oh! ... vaguely..."

"A highwayman, sir, and a consummate rogue, yet your honest John Stich is said to be his friend."

"Indeed?"

"Now, an you'll believe me, sir, I have a mind to speak with the rascal."

"Indeed? then you are bolder than most, sir," said Jack, cheerfully. He was really beginning to wonder what the Squire of Hartington was driving at.

"It seems strange, doesn't it? but to be frank with you, I'm in two minds about that rogue."

"How so?"

"Well! I have a score to settle with him, and a business to propose; and I cannot decide which course to adopt."

"You, sir, being so clever, might perhaps manage both," said Bathurst with a touch of sarcasm.

"Hm! I wonder now," continued Sir Humphrey, not wishing to notice the slight impertinence. "I wonder now what an independent gentleman like yourself would advise me to do. I have not the honour of knowing who you are," he added with grave condescension, "but I can see that you are, like myself, a gentleman."

Bathurst bowed in polite acknowledgment.

"I should be proud to serve you with advice, sir, since you desire it."

"Well! as I have said, I have a score to settle with the rogue. He stole fifty guineas from me last night."

"Ah me!" sighed Jack, with a melancholy shake of the head, "then I fear me he'll never haunt the Heath again."

"What mean you, sir?"

"Nay! I can picture the rascal now, after you, sir, had punished him for his impudence! A mangled, bleeding wreck! But there! I have no pity for him! Daring to measure his valour against your noted prowess!"

"Quite so! quite so!" quoth his Honour, whilst smothering a curse at this more obvious piece of insolence.

"But I entreat your pardon. I was interrupting the story."

"I saw the rogue, sir," said Sir Humphrey, glancing significantly at the young man, "saw him clearly by the light of my carriage lanthorns. He was masked, of course, but I'd know him anywhere, and could denounce him to-morrow."

He had risen to his feet, and with legs apart, standing face to face with Bathurst, he spoke every word as if he meant them to act as a threat.

"There are plenty of soldiers about these parts now, even if the country folk won't touch their vaunted hero of romance. I could get him hanged, sir, within a week. A cordon of soldiers round this Heath, my word to swear his identity, and.... But there!" he added with a jovial laugh, "'tis no concern of yours is it, sir? You were kind enough to promise me your advice. This is one of my alternatives, the score I'd wish to settle; there's still the business I could offer the rogue."

Sir Humphrey had looked the young man squarely in the face whilst he uttered his threat, but had seen nothing there, save the merriest, the most light-hearted of smiles.

"I can scarce advise you, sir," said Bathurst, still smiling, "unless I know the business as well."

"Well, sir, you know of old Lady Rounce, do you not? the meanest, ugliest old witch in the county, eh? Well! she is on her way to London, and carries with her a mass of money, wrung from her miserable tenants."

"Faith, sir! you paint a most entrancing picture of the lady."

"Now, an that rascal Beau Brocade were willing to serve me, he could at one stroke save his own neck from the gallows, enrich himself, right the innocent and confound a wicked old woman."

"And how could this galaxy of noble deeds be accomplished at one stroke, sir?"

"Her ladyship's coach will pass over the Heath to-night. It should be at the cross-roads soon. There will be all the old harridan's money and jewels to be got out of it."

"Of course."

"And also a packet of love-letters, which doubtless will be hidden away in the receptacle beneath the seat."

"Letters?" queried Bathurst. "Hm! I doubt me if love-letters would tempt a gentleman of the road."

"Nay, sir," replied his Honour, now dropping his voice to a confidential whisper, "these are letters which, if published, would compromise an artless young lady, whom old Lady Rounce pursues with her hatred and spite. Now I would give a hundred guineas to any person who will bring me those letters at the Moorhen to-morrow. Surely to a gentleman of the road the game would be worth the candle. Lady Rounce carries money with her besides, and her diamonds. What think you of it, sir?"

"'Tis somewhat difficult to advise," said Bathurst, meditatively.

"Ah well!" said Sir Humphrey with affected indifference, "'tis really not much to me. On the whole perhaps I would prefer to deliver the rascal into the hands of my friend Squire West at Brassington. Anyway, I have the night to think the matter over; 'tis too late now to wait for that lout, John Stich. I would have preferred to have had your advice, sir. I daresay 'tis difficult to give. And you a stranger too. I would have liked to save a young girl from the clutches of that old witch, Lady Rounce, and if Beau Brocade rendered me that service, I'd be tempted to hold my tongue about him.... He should have the hundred guineas to-morrow and have nought to fear from me, if he brought me those letters. If not ... well! ... well! ... we shall see.... The old gallows here have long been idle ... we shall see ... we shall see.... Good-day to you, sir ... proud to have met you.... No ... I'll not wait for John Stich. Is this your horse? ... pretty creature! ... Good-day, sir ... good-day."

His Honour was extremely condescending and pleasant. He bowed very politely to Bathurst, patted the beautiful chestnut horse, and showed no further desire to talk with John Stich.

Bathurst, with a frown on his handsome face, watched the Squire of Hartington's burly figure disappear round the bend in the road.

"I wonder now," he mused, "what mischief he's brewing. He seemed to me up to no good. I suppose he guessed who I was."

While he stood there watching, John Stich quickly entered the forge from the rear.

"I was in the cottage, Captain," he said, "my mother was serving the ladies with some milk. But just now I saw Sir Humphrey Challoner walking away from the forge. I feared he might see you."

"He did see me, honest friend," said Jack, lightly. "His Honour and I have just had a long and animated conversation together."

"Great Heavens! the man is furious with you, Captain!" said the smith, with genuine anxiety in his gruff voice, "he saw you distinctly on the Heath last night. He may have recognised you to-day."

"He did recognise me."

"And may be brewing the devil's own mischief against you."

"Oh, ho!" laughed the young man, with a careless shrug of the shoulders, "against me? ... Well! you know, honest John, I am bound to end on the gallows..."

"Sooner or later! Sooner or later!" he added merrily, noting John's look of sorrowful alarm. "They've not got me yet, though there are so many soldiers about, as that piece of underdone roast-beef said just now."

"You'll not tell me what Sir Humphrey Challoner spoke to you about?"

"No, friend, I will not," said Jack, with a look of infinite kindness and placing a slender white hand on the smith's broad shoulder. "You are my friend, you know, you shoe and care after my horse, you shelter and comfort me. May Heaven's legions of angels bless you for that. Of my life on the Heath I'll never tell you aught, whatever you may guess. 'Tis better so. I'll not have you compromised, or implicated in my adventures. In case ... well! ... if they do catch me, you know, friend, 'tis better for your sake that you should know nothing."

"But you'll not go on the Heath to-night, Captain," pleaded the smith, with a tremor in his voice.

"Aye! that I will, John Stich," rejoined Bathurst, with a careless laugh, which now had an unmistakable ring of bitterness in it, "to stop a coach, to lift a purse! that's my business.... Aye! I'll to the Heath, friend, 'tis my only home, you know, ere I find a resting-place on the gallows yonder."

John sighed and turned away, and thus did not hear the faint murmur that came of a great and good heart over-full with longing and disappointment.

"My beautiful white rose! ... how pale she looked ... and how exquisitely fair! ... Ah! me ... if only.... Jack! Jack! don't be a fool!" he added with a short, deep sigh, "'tis too late; remember, for Beau Brocade to go galloping after an illusion!"

CHAPTER XIV

THE FIGHT IN THE FORGE

John Stich ventured no further opposition, well knowing the reckless spirit which his own quiet devotion was powerless to keep in check; moreover, Lady Patience, closely followed by the ever-faithful Betty, had just entered by the door that gave from the yard.

"I was wondering, honest Stich," she said, "if my coach were yet in sight. Meseems the horses must have had sufficient rest by now."

"I'll just see, my lady," said John.

At first sound of her low, musical voice, Bathurst had turned to her, and now his eyes rested with undisguised admiration on her graceful figure, dimly outlined in the fast-gathering shadows. She too caught sight of him, and sorely against her will a vivid blush mounted to her cheeks. She pulled her cloak close to her, partly to hide the bunch of white roses that nestled in her belt.

Thus there was an instant's silent pause, during which two hearts, both young, both ardent, and imbued with the spirit of romance, beat—unknown to one another—in perfect unison.

And yet at this supreme moment in their lives—supreme though they themselves knew it not—neither of them had begun to think of love. In her there was just that delightful feeling of feminine curiosity, mingled with the subtle homage of a proud woman for the man who, in her presence, and for her sake, had proved himself brave, resourceful, full of invention and of pluck: there was also an unexplainable sense of the magnetism caused by the real personality, by the unmistakable vitality of the man. He lived, he felt, he thought differently to anyone else, in a world quite apart and entirely his own, and she felt the magic of this sunny nature, of the merry, almost boyish laugh, overlying as it were the undercurrent of disappointment and melancholy which had never degenerated into cynicism.

But in him? Ah! in him there was above all a wild, passionate longing! the longing of an intensely human, aching heart, when it is brought nigh to its own highest ideal, and knows that that ideal is infinitely beyond his reach.

The broken-down gentleman! the notorious hero of midnight adventures! highwayman! robber! thief! what right had he even to look upon her, the perfect embodiment of exquisite womanhood, the beautiful realisation of man's tenderest dreams?

Perhaps at this one supreme moment in his reckless career the wild adventurer felt the first pang of humbled pride, of that pride which had defied existing laws and built up a code of its own. He understood then all at once the stern, iron-bound rule which makes of man—free lord of creation though he be—the slave of those same laws which he himself has set up for his own protection.

Beau Brocade, the highwayman, closed his eyes, and no longer dared to look on his dream.

He turned to his horse, and with great tenderness began stroking Jack o' Lantern's soft, responsive nose.

The next moment Stich, who had been busy with his work, looked up in sudden alarm.

"The soldiers!" he said briefly, "all running ... the Sergeant's at the head o' them, and some of the shepherds at their heels."

At first Patience did not understand where the actual danger lay.

"My brother!" she gasped, terrified.

But a look from Bathurst reassured her.

"Absolutely safe," he said quickly and decisively, "a hiding-place known to no one but me. I give your ladyship my word of honour that there is not the remotest danger for him."

She felt all her terrors vanishing. But these few words spoken to comfort her went nigh to costing Bathurst dear. In those few brief seconds he had lost the opportunity of jumping on Jack o' Lantern's back and getting well away before the soldiers had reached the entrance of the forge, and had effectually barred his chance of escape.

As it was, he had only just undone the halter, and before he had time to lead Jack o' Lantern out, the voice of the Sergeant was heard quite close to the doorway, shouting breathlessly,—

"Forward! quick! Arrest that man!"

"My sword, John! for your life!" was Bathurst's ready answer to the challenge.

Stich darted to a corner of the forge. Lady Patience gave a quick, short gasp, she had suddenly realised that for some reason which she could not quite fathom, the man who had so pluckily saved her brother from the soldiers an hour ago, was now himself in imminent danger.

Jack snatched the sword eagerly which the smith was holding out to him, and resting the point of the blade on the ground before him, he tested with evident satisfaction the temper of the steel. Not a moment too soon this, for already the Sergeant, running, panting, infuriated by the trick played upon him, had appeared in the doorway, closely followed by two of his men.

Caught like a rat in a hole, Jack was prepared to fight. Perhaps at bottom he was glad that circumstances had not compelled him to show a clean pair of heels before this new danger to himself. Alone, he might have liked to flee, before her he preferred to fight.

"Odd's my life!" he said merrily, "'tis my friend, the Sergeant."

"You sent me on a fool's errand," shouted the latter as loudly as his scant breath would allow, "and 'tis my belief you are one of them rebel lords yourself: at anyrate you shall give an account of yourself before the magistrate. And if the smith dares to interfere, he does so at his peril," he added, seeing that John Stich had seized his hammer, and was handling it ominously, fully prepared to resist the established authority on behalf of his friend.

But whilst the Sergeant parleyed, Jack, with the rapid keen eye of a practised fencer, and the wary glance of a child of the Moor, had taken note of every advantage, however slight, which his present precarious position had left him.

The Sergeant and two men were in the doorway, momentarily pausing in order to recover their breath. Three more of the squad were running forward along the road, but were still some little distance off, and would be a few minutes before they reached the smithy.

Further on still there were the others, at present only appearing as scarlet dots on the Heath. Close on the heels of the Sergeant, two or three shepherds, with Jock Miggs in their rear, had come to see what was happening in the forge.

It had taken Jack Bathurst only a couple of seconds to note all these details. Luck so far favoured him that, for the next minute or two at least, he would only have to deal with the Sergeant and two soldiers.

"Into it, my men! Arrest him in the name of the King!" shouted the Sergeant, and the two soldiers, grasping their bayonets, made a rush for the interior of the shed, ready to surround Jack and his horse.

But quick as a lightning flash, Bathurst gave Jack o' Lantern a slight prick in the ribs with his sword; the nervous creature, already rendered restive by the sudden noise, began to plunge and rear, and thus, as his master had hoped, scattered the compact group of assailants momentarily away from the vicinity of his hoofs.

This gave the young man the desired opportunity. Nimble as a fox when hotly pursued, he stepped back and with one bound took up a position on the top of a solid oak table, which stood in the deep shadow caused by the doorway, thus, for the moment, leaving Jack o' Lantern as a barrier between himself and his enemies.

"Friend Stich," he shouted from this exalted height, "do you stand by the ladies. Stir not from their side whatever happens, nor interfere 'tween me and the soldiers at your peril."

The lust of battle was upon him now. He was satisfied with his position and longed to begin the fight. On his left was the outside wall of the shed, and guarding his right was the huge furnace of the smithy, out of which the burning embers cast fitful flickering lights upon his tall, slim figure, and drew from his blade sparks of blood-red gold.

He had wrapped the thick capes of his heavy cloth coat round his left arm: the folds of it hung down to his feet, forming a shield round the lower part of his figure.

Already the soldiers had recovered from the short panic caused by Jack o' Lantern's timely rearing. One of them now seized the horse by the bridle and led him out into the open, thus exposing Bathurst more fully to the onslaught of their bayonets.

Jack was fully prepared for them, and as soon as the Sergeant had given the order to attack, his steel began to dart in and out of the gloom like some live snake, with tongue of steel; illumined by the fitful embers of the furnace fire, it seemed to give forth a thousand sparks of witch-like flame with every turn of the cunning wrist. The outline of his head and shoulders was lost in the dense shadows above, whilst his assailants stood in the full glare of the setting sun, which, hot and blinding, came streaming into the shed.

Dazed by the flickering light of the furnace and the sunset glow beyond, the soldiers made very ineffectual plunges into the dark shadow, whence, fencing and parrying, and with many a quip and sally, Jack had at first an easy task in keeping them at bay.

This was mere child's play to him; already one of the men had an ugly gash in his cheek, and the next moment saw the Sergeant reeling backwards, with a well-directed thrust through his right arm.

But easy and exciting as was this brilliant sword-play, it could not in the long run be of much avail. Hardly had the Sergeant fallen back than three more soldiers, also hot and furious, came rushing in to reinforce their comrades. Bathurst had in his day been counted the finest fencer in England, his wrist was as fresh and strong as the steel which he held, but the odds were beginning to accumulate against him.

Five men in the shed, and the others could not be very far away!

John Stich felt his muscles nearly cracking with the vigorous effort to maintain his quiescent position and not to come to the rescue of his hard-pressed friend.

Suddenly one of the soldiers levelled his musket.

Patience saw it and gave a cry of horror. Stich, throwing prudence to the winds, would have rushed forward, to prevent this awful thing at any cost, but the Sergeant, though wounded, had lost none of his zest, and his eye had been fixed on the smith.

"Keep back the smith!" he shouted, "use your bayonets! quick!"

And as two of his men obeyed him, he himself threw his full weight against John, and together the three men succeeded in rendering the worthy fellow momentarily powerless.

"Captain! Captain!" he shouted desperately, "have a care!"

Of course Jack had realised his danger. The group of his assailants stood out in every detail before him, like a clear-cut sunlit picture. But against the musket levelled at him he could do nothing, it was Luck's chance to do him a good turn; he himself was hard pressed by two men close to his knees.

Patience felt as if her heart would cease to beat, her impulse was to rush blindly, stupidly forward, when suddenly a piping voice, vague and uncertain, was heard above the click of Jack's sword.

"Don't 'ee let 'em get 'ee, sir!" and Jock Miggs, with trembling, yet determined hands, gave a vigorous tug to the coat tails of the soldier, who was even now pulling the trigger of his musket. The latter, who had been aiming very deliberately for the one bright patch on Jack's person caused by the red glow of the furnace, lost his aim: there was a loud report, and a bullet went whizzing high above Bathurst's head, and buried itself in the woodwork above him.

This was the signal for a new phase of this curious and unequal struggle. The shepherds, at first, knowing nothing of the cause of this quarrel, had stood open-mouthed, somewhat frightened and awaiting events, at a short distance from the scene of the scuffle.

But when the chestnut horse had been led out into the open, they suddenly had an inkling as to who its owner was. Jack o' Lantern, bearing the masked highwayman on his back, was well known to the poor folk on Brassing Moor.

Beau Brocade, who but yesterday had left fifty guineas in the Brassington poor box! Beau Brocade, the hero of the Heath! He! to be caught by a parcel of red coats?

Never! Jock Miggs but voiced the feeling of the majority.

"Noa! Noa!" they shouted lustily. "Don't 'ee let 'em get 'ee, sir!"

"Not if I can help it, friends!" rejoined Bathurst in gay response.

They did not resist the soldiers; not they! Your Derbyshire yokel is too cautious an individual to run absolutely counter to established authority, but they saw their friend, their helper and benefactor, in trouble and they did what they could to help him. They got in the way, jostled the soldiers when they dared, kept the attention of one or two occupied, preventing a general onslaught on the oak table, on which Bathurst, still alert, still keen, was holding his own against such terrible odds.

"There's for you, my gallant lobster," quoth Jack, gaily.

He was standing far back on the table, entrenched between the wall on one side and the furnace on the other, and every time one of the soldiers ventured too near, his sword would dart out of the gloom: it seemed like a living creature of fire and steel, so quick and bold were his feints and parries, his sudden attacks in quarte and sixte, and all the while he kept one eye on the open Moor, where Jack o' Lantern, quivering with impatience, stood pawing the ground, and sniffing the keen evening air, ready to carry his master away, out upon the Heath, out of sight and out of danger.

Obviously the unequal contest could not last much longer. Jack knew that as well as any one. Already the red dots in the far distance had drawn considerably nearer, the next few minutes would bring this fresh reinforcement to the wearied, exhausted assailants.

The Sergeant too was ready to seize his best opportunity. He still kept two men on guard over the smith, but he soon saw that the two, who were storming Bathurst's improvised citadel, were no match with their clumsy bayonets against a brilliant fencer who, moreover, had the advantage of light and shadow, and of his elevated position.

Though he was wounded, and bleeding profusely, he had set his heart on the capture of this mysterious stranger, and having cast a glance on the open Moor beyond, he saw with renewed zest two more of his men hurrying along. With all the strength he had left he shouted to them to come on, and then turned to encourage the others.

"Take it easy, my men! Hold out a moment longer. We've got the rebel at last."

But Jack too had seen and understood. He was neither tired nor hurt, but two more men against him would inevitably prove his undoing. Already he could hear the shouts of the soldiers hurrying in response to their Sergeant's call. The next minute they would be in the forge.

A sudden change of tactics led his two assailants to venture nearer than they had done hitherto; he drew back into the shadows, and they, fired by the lust of capture, under the impression that he was at last exhausted, ventured nearer and nearer still; already they were leaning over the edge of the table, one man was thrusting at Bathurst's legs, when the latter, with a rapidity that seemed quicker than a flash of lightning, disengaged his left arm from his heavy coat, and with both hands threw it right over the heads of the two men. Before they had time to release themselves from its folds, Jack, with one bound was off the table, and the next instant he had torn open the door of the furnace and dragged out the huge iron poker with which the smith raked his fire, and with a cry of triumph slung this new and formidable weapon high over his head.

The effect of this sudden move was one of uncontrollable panic: the red-hot metal, as he swung it over his head, dropped a far-reaching shower of burning sparks; soldiers and Sergeant all drew back instinctively, and Jack, still brandishing his weapon, reached the entrance and was out in the open before any one dared to stop him.

There he flung the great glowing thing in the direction of his assailants, who even now were rallying to the attack.

But the moment had been precious to Bathurst, and Jack o' Lantern was a king among horses. Without use of stirrup or rein, Jack, like the true child of the wild Moor that he was, flung himself upon the beautiful creature's back.

Thus Patience saw him for one brief second, framed in the doorway of the forge, the last rays of the setting sun forming a background of crimson and gold for his slim, upright figure, and the brown curls on his head.

It was but a moment's vision, but one she would carry enshrined in her memory through all the years to come. His eyes, large, glowing, magnetic, met hers in a flash, and hers, bright with unshed tears, met his in quick response.

"Soldiers!" he shouted, as he rode away, "an you think I am a rebel lord, then after me, quick! whilst I ride towards the sunset."

PART II

THE HEATH

CHAPTER XV

THE OUTLAW

Beau Brocade drew rein on the spur of the hill. He had galloped all the way from the forge, out towards the sunset, then on, ever on, over gorse and bracken, on red sandy soil and soft carpet of ling, on, still on!

Overhead, on the blue-green dome of the evening sky, a giant comet, made up of myriads of tiny, rose-tipped clouds, formed a fairy way, ever diminishing, ever more radiant, pointing westwards to the setting sun, where orange and crimson and blue melted in one glorious mist of gold.

Out far away, the distant Tors glowed in the evening light, like great barriers to some mystic elusive land beyond.

Jack o' Lantern had responded to his master's mood. The reins falling loosely on his neck, needing neither guide nor spur, save the excitement of his own mad career, he had continued his wild gallop on the Heath, until a sudden jerk of the reins brought him to a standstill on the very edge of a steep declivity, with quivering flanks and sensitive nerves all a-tremble, even as the last ruddy glow died out in the western sky.

One by one the myriads of rose-tipped clouds now put on their grey cloaks of evening. From the rain-soaked ground and dripping branches of bramble or fern, a blue mist was rising upwards, blending deep shadows and tender lights in one hazy monotone.

Gradually every sound died out upon the Heath, only from afar came intermittently the mournful booming of a solitary bittern, astray from its nest, or now and then the sudden quaking of a tuft of grass, a tremor amidst the young fronds of the bracken, there, where a melancholy toad was seeking shelter for the night.

Awesome, silent, majestic, the great Moor was at peace. The passions, the strife, the turmoil of mankind seemed far, very far away: further than that twinkling star which peeped down, shy and solitary, from across the rolling billows of boundless universe.

Beau Brocade stretched out both arms, and sighed in an agony of longing. Fire was in his veins, a burning thirst in his heart, for something he dared not define.

How empty seemed his life! how wrecked! how hopelessly wasted!

Yet he loved the Moor, the peace, the solitude: he loved the sunset on the Heath and every sound of animal life in this lonesome vastness.

But to-night!...

One smile from a woman's lips, a glow of pride in her eyes, just one cluster of snow-white roses at her breast, and all the glories of Nature in her most lavish mood seemed tame, empty, oh! unutterably poor.

Nay! he would have bartered his very soul at this moment to undo the past few years. To be once more Jack Bathurst of His Majesty's regiment of Guards, before one evening's mistake ruined the whole of his life. A quarrel over a game of cards, a sudden blind, unreasoning rage, a blow against his superior officer, and this same Jack Bathurst, the dandy about town, the gallant, enthusiastic, promising young soldier, was degraded from his military rank and thrown, resourceless, disgraced, banished, upon a merciless world, that has neither pity nor pardon for failures or mistakes.

But, quite unlike the young Earl of Stretton, Jack Bathurst indulged in no morbid self-condemnation. Fate and he had thrown the dice, and he had lost. But there was too much of the untamed devil in him, too much spirit of wild adventure, to allow him to stoop to the thousand and one expedients, the shifts, the humiliations which the world holds in store for the broken-down gentleman.

Moneyless, friendless, with his career irretrievably ruined, he yet scorned the life of the outcast or the pariah, of that wretched fragment of humanity that hangs on the fringe of society, envying the pleasures it can no longer share, haunting the gambling booths or noisy brothels of the towns, grateful for a nod, a handshake, from some other fragment less miserable than itself.

No! a thousand times no!

Jack Bathurst looked the future that was before him squarely in the face, then chose the life of the outlaw with a price upon his head. Aye! and forced that life to yield to him its full measure of delights: the rough, stormy nights on the Moor! the wild gallops over gorse and bramble, with the keen nor'-wester lashing his face and whipping up his blood, and with a posse of soldiers at his heels! the devil-may-care, mad, merry existence of the outlaw, who cuts a purse by night, and carries his life on his saddle-bow!

That he chose and more! for he chose the love of the poor for miles around! the blessings spoken by suffering and patient lips upon the name of the highwayman, of Beau Brocade, who took from the rich at risk of his life in order to give to the needy.

And now at even, on Brassing Moor, when a lonely shepherd caught sight of a chestnut horse bearing a slim, masked figure on its back, or heard in the distance a young voice, fresh as a skylark, singing some half-sad, half-lively ditty, he would turn his weary eyes in simple faith upwards to the stars and murmur gently,—

"God bless Beau Brocade!"

Perhaps He had!

The stars knew, but they did not tell!

CHAPTER XVI

A RENCONTRE ON THE HEATH

Master Mittachip, on his lean nag, with his clerk, Master Duffy, on the pillion behind him, was on his way to Brassington.

Sir Humphrey Challoner had not returned to the Moorhen after his visit to the forge until the sun was very low down in the west. He had bidden the attorney to await him at the inn, and Master Mittachip had not dared to disobey.

Yet the delay meant the crossing of the Heath along the bridle path to Brassington, well after the shadows of evening had lent the lonely Moor an air of awesome desolation. There were the footpads, and the pixies, the human and fairy midnight marauders, who all found the steep declivities, the clumps of gorse and bracken, the hollows and the pits, safe resting-places by day, but who were wont to emerge from their lair after dark for the terror and better undoing of the unfortunate, belated traveller.

Then there was Beau Brocade!

Master Duffy too was very timid, and clung with trembling arms to the meagre figure of the attorney.

"Nay! Master Duffy!" quoth Mittachip, with affected firmness, "why do you pry about so? Are you afraid?"

"Nay! nay! Master Mittachip," replied the clerk, whose teeth were chattering audibly, "I am ... n ... n ... not af ... f ... f ... fraid."

"Tush, man, you have me near you," rejoined Mittachip, boldly. "See! I am armed! Look at my pistols!"

And he leant back in the saddle, so as to give Master Duffy a good view of a pair of huge pistols that protruded ostentatiously from his belt.

Yet all around the air was still, the solitary Heath was at peace, even the breezy nor'-wester, that had blustered throughout the day, seemed to have lain down to rest.

Far out eastwards, the moon, behind a fast dispersing bank of clouds, was casting a silver radiance that was not yet a light, but only a herald of the glittering radiance to come.

The Moor was silent and at peace: only at times there came the sound of a gentle flutter, a moorhen perhaps within its nest, or a belated lizard seeking its home.

Whenever these slight sounds occurred, Master Mittachip's hands that held the reins trembled visibly, and his clerk clung more closely to him.

"What was that?" said the attorney in an awed whisper, as his frightened ears caught a more distinct noise.

"W ... w ... why don't you draw your p ... p ... pistols, Master Mittachip?" murmured Duffy, in mad alarm.

The noise was hushed again, but to the overwrought nerves of the two men in terror, there came the certain, awful perception that someone was on the Heath besides themselves, someone not far off, whom the mist hid from their view, but who knew that they were travelling along the bridle path, who could see and perhaps hear them.

"Truth to tell, Master Duffy," whispered the attorney, whose teeth too had begun to chatter. "Truth to tell, it's no use my drawing them ... they ... they are not loaded."

Master Duffy nearly fell off the pillion in his fright.

"What?"

"There's neither powder nor shot in them," continued Master Mittachip, ruefully.

"Th ... th ... then we are lost!" was Master Duffy's ejaculation of woe.

"Eh?—what?" quoth Mittachip, "but your pistols are charged."

And his pointed elbow sought behind it for the handles of two formidable weapons, which were stuck in Master Duffy's belt.

"N ... n ... nay!" whispered the clerk, who now was blue with terror. "I dared not carry the weapons loaded.... I trusted to your valour, Master Mittachip, to protect us."

"What was that?"

Again that noise! this time a good deal nearer, and it seemed to Master Mittachip's affrighted eyes as if he saw something moving on the bridle path before him. But he would not show too many signs of fear before his own clerk.

"Tush, man!" he said with as much boldness as he could command. "'Tis only a lizard in the grass mayhap. We'll ride on quite boldly. We can't be far from Brassington now, and no footpads would dare to attack two lusty fellows on horseback, with pistols showing in their belts! ... Lord!" he added with a shudder, "how lonely this place appears!"

"And that rascal, Beau Brocade, haunts this Heath every night, I'm told," murmured Master Duffy, who felt more dead than alive.

"Sh! sh! sh! speak not of the devil, Master Duffy, lest he appear!..."

"Hark!!!"

The two men now clung trembling to one another; not ten paces from them there came the sound of a horse's snorting, then suddenly a voice rang out clearly through the mist-laden air,—

"Hello! who goes there!"

"The Lord have mercy upon us!" whispered Mittachip.

"It must be Beau Brocade himself," echoed the clerk.

The next moment a horse and rider came into view. Master Mittachip and his clerk were too terrified even to look. The former had jerked the reins and brought his lean nag to a standstill, and both men now sat with eyes closed, teeth chattering, their very faces distorted with fear.

Beau Brocade had reined his horse quite close to them, and was peering through his black mask at the two terror-stricken faces. Evidently they amused him vastly, for he burst out laughing.

"Odd's my life! here's a pretty pair of scarecrows! ... Well! I see you can stand, so now let's see what you've got to deliver!"

At this Master Mittachip contrived to open his eyes for a second; but the black mask, and the heavily cloaked figure looked so ghostlike, so awful in the mist, that he promptly closed them again, and murmured with a shudder.—

"Mercy, oh, noble sir! We ... we are poor men!..."

"Poor-spirited men, you mean?" quoth Beau Brocade, giving the trembling figure a quick, vigorous shake. "Now then! off that nag of yours! Quick's the word!"

But even before this word of command Master Mittachip, dragging his clerk after him, had tumbled, quaking, off his horse. They now stood clinging to each other, a miserable bundle of frightened humanity.

"Come!" said Beau Brocade, looking down with some amusement at the spectacle. "I'm not going to hurt you—I never shoot at snipe! But you'll have to turn out your pockets and sharp too, an you want to resume your journey to-night."

He had seized Master Duffy by the collar. The clerk was an all too-ready prey for any highwayman, and stooping from his saddle, Beau Brocade had quickly extracted a leather bag from the pocket of his coat.

"Oho! guineas, as I live!"

"Kind sir," began Duffy, tremblingly.

"Now, listen to me, both of you," said Beau Brocade, trying to hide his enjoyment of the scene under an air of great sternness. "I know who you are. I know what work you've been doing this afternoon. Extorting rents barely due from a few wretched people, for your employers as hard-hearted as yourselves."

"Kind sir..."

"Silence! or I shoot! Besides, 'twere no use to tell me lies. The people about here know me. They call me Beau Brocade. I know them and their troubles. I happened to hear, for instance, that you extracted two guineas from the Widow Coggins, threatening her with a process for dilapidations unless she gave you hush money."

"'Twas not our fault, kind sir..."

"Then there was Mistress Haddakin, from whom you extracted fifty shillings for a new gate, which you don't intend to put up for her: and this, although she has only just buried her husband, and had a baby sick at home. You put on finer airs with the poor people than you do with me, eh?"