Front matter (continued 3)

"'Tis not our money, sir," protested Master Mittachip, humbly.

"Some of it goes into your own pockets. Hush money, blood money, I call it. That's what I want from you, and then a bit over for the poor box on behalf of your employers."

He weighed the leather bag which he had taken out of Master Duffy's pocket.

"This'll do for the poor box. Now I want the five pounds you extorted from Widow Coggins and Mistress Haddakin. The poor women'll be glad of it on the morrow."

"I haven't a penny more than that bagful, sir," protested Master Mittachip. "My employers took all the money from me. 'Twere their rents I was collecting. I swear it, sir, kind sir! on my word of honour! And I am an honest man!"

"Come here!"

And Beau Brocade reined his horse back a few paces.

"Come here!" he repeated.

Mittachip was too frightened to disobey. He came forward, limping very perceptibly.

"Why do you walk like that?" asked Beau Brocade.

"I'm a feeble old man and rheumatic," whined Mittachip, despondently.

"Then 'twere better to ease the load out of your boot, friend. Sit down here and take it off."

And he pointed to a piece of boulder projecting through the shallow earth.

But this Master Mittachip seemed very loth to do.

"Kind sir..." he protested again.

"Sit down and take off the right boot!" repeated Beau Brocade more peremptorily, and with a gay laugh and mock threatening gesture he pointed the muzzle of his pistol at the terror-stricken attorney.

There was naught to do but to obey: and quickly too. Master Mittachip cursed the rascally highwayman under his breath, and even consigned him to eternal damnation, before he finally handed him up his boot.

Beau Brocade turned it over, shook it, and a bag of jingling guineas fell at Jack o' Lantern's feet.

"Give me that bag!"

"Sir! kind sir!" moaned Master Mittachip, as he obediently handed up the bag of gold to his merciless assailant. "Have pity! I am a ruined man! 'Tis Sir Humphrey Challoner's money. I've been collecting it for him ... and he's a hard man!"

"Oh!" said Beau Brocade, "'tis Sir Humphrey Challoner's money, is it? Nay! you old scarecrow, but 'tis his Honour himself sent me on the Heath to-night. Oho!" he added, whilst his merry, boyish laugh went echoing through the evening air, "methinks Sir Humphrey will enjoy the joke. Do you tell him, friend—an you see him in the morn—that you've met Beau Brocade and that he'll do his Honour's bidding."

He counted some of the money out of the bag and put it in his pocket: the remainder he handed back to the astonished lawyer.

"There!" he said with sudden earnestness, "I'll only make restitution to the poor whom you have robbed. You may thank your stars that an angel came down from heaven to-day and cast eyes of tender pity upon me, so that I care not to rob you, save for those in dire want. You may mount that nag of yours now, and continue your journey to Brassington. No turning aside, remember, and answer me when I challenge your good-night."

Master Mittachip and his clerk had no call to be told twice. They mounted with as much agility as their trembling limbs would allow. Truly they considered themselves lucky in having saved some money out of the clutches of the rogue, and did not care to speculate on the cause of their good fortune.

A few minutes later their lean horse was once more on its way, bearing its double burden. At first they had both looked back, attracted—now that their terror was gone—by the sight of that tall, youthful figure on the beautiful thoroughbred standing there on the crest of the hill and gradually growing more and more dim in the fast-gathering mist.

The bridle path at this point dips very suddenly and a sharp declivity leads thence, straight on to Brassington.

Beau Brocade's sharp eyes, accustomed to the gloom, watched horse and riders until the mist enveloped them and hid them from his view. Then he called loudly,—

"Good-night!"

And faintly echoing came the quaking reply,—

"Good-night!"

After that there was silence again. The outlaw was alone upon the Heath once more, the Heath which had been his home for so long.

For him it had no cruelty and held no terror: the tall gorse and bracken oft sheltered him from the rain! Wrapped in his greatcoat, he had oft watched the tiny lizards darting to and fro in the grass, or listened to the melancholy cry of moorhen or heron. The tiny rough branches of the heather had been a warm carpet on which he had slept on lazy afternoons.

The outlaw found a friend in great and lonely Nature, and when he was aweary he laid his head on her motherly breast, and like a child found rest.

CHAPTER XVII

A FAITHFUL FRIEND

How long he stood there on the spur of the hill he could not afterwards have told. It may have been a few seconds, perhaps it was an eternity.

During those few seconds or that eternity, the world was re-created for him: for him it became more beautiful than he had ever conceived it in his dreams. A woman's smile had changed it into an earthly paradise. A new and strange happiness filled his being, and set brain and sinews on fire. A happiness so great that his heart well nigh broke with the burden of it, and the bitter longing for what could never be.

The cry of a moorhen thrice repeated at intervals roused him from his dreams.

"John Stich," he murmured, "I wonder now what brings him out to-night!"

And with a final sigh of deep regret, a defiant toss of the head, Beau Brocade turned Jack o' Lantern's head northwards whence the cry had come.

There a rough track, scarce perceptible amongst the bracken, led straight up to the forge of John Stich. Horse and rider knew every inch of the way, although for the moment the fitful moon still hid her light behind a bank of clouds, and the mist now enveloped the Moor in a thick mantle of gloom.

Soon the sensitive ears of the highwayman, accustomed to every sound, had perceived heavy footsteps on the unbeaten track, and presently a burly figure detached itself from the darkness beyond and came rapidly forward.

"Odd's my life! but it's friend John!" said Beau Brocade, with a great show of severity. "Zounds! but this is rank insubordination! How dare you follow me on the Heath, you villain, and leave your noble guest unprotected? What?"

"His lordship is safe enough, Captain," said the smith, who at sight of the young man had heaved an obvious sigh of relief, "and I could not rest until I'd seen you again."

"Faith! you can't do that in this confounded mist, eh, John?" quoth Bathurst, lightly. But his fresh young voice had softened with a quaint tenderness, whilst he looked down, smiling, at the upturned face of his devoted friend.

"Well! what about my friend, the Sergeant and the soldiers, eh?" he added gaily.

"Oh! the Sergeant is too sick to speak," rejoined the smith, earnestly, "but the men vow you're a rebel lord. Those that were fit walked down to Brassington directly after you left: one man, who was wounded in the arm, started for Aldwark: they've gone to get help, Captain; either more soldiers, or loafers from the villages who may be tempted by the reward. They'll scour this Heath for you, from Aldwark to the cross-roads, and from Brassington to Wirksworth, and..."

"And so much the better, friend Stich, for while they hunt for me his lordship will be safe."

"But have a care, Captain! they're determined men, now, for you've fooled them twice. Be gy! but you've never been in so tight a corner before."

"Pshaw!" quoth Beau Brocade, lightly, "life is none too precious a boon for me that I should make an effort to save it."

"Captain..." murmured Stich, reproachfully.

"There, friend John," added the young man, with that same touch of almost womanly tenderness, that had endeared him to the heart of honest Stich, "there! there! have no fear for me! I tell thee, man, they'll not get me on this Heath! Think you the furze and bracken, the heron or peewit would betray me? Me, their friend! Not they! I am safe enough!" he continued, while a strange ring of excitement made his young voice quiver. "Let them after me, and leave her brother in peace! And then, John! when he is safe ... perhaps I may see her smile once more! ... Heigh-ho! A fool am I, friend! A fool, I tell thee! fit for the gallows-tree outside thy forge!"

John said nothing: he could not see Jack's face in the gloom, and did not understand his wild, mad mood, but his faithful heart ached to hear the ring of bitter longing in the voice of his friend.

There was a moment's pause, whilst Bathurst made a visible effort to control his excitement. Then he said more calmly,—

"Here, John! take this money, friend!"

He dived in the pocket of his big caped coat and then placed in John's hand the two bags of money he had extracted from Master Mittachip and his clerk.

"I've just got it from a blood-sucking agent of Sir Humphrey Challoner's: 'tis money wrung from poor people, who can ill afford it."

"Aye! aye!" quoth John, with a sigh.

"I want two guineas to go to Mistress Haddakin, who has just lost her husband: the poor wretch is nigh to starving. Then thirty shillings are for the Widow Coggins, up Hartington way: those blood-suckers took her last shilling yesterday. Wilt see to it, friend John?"

"Aye! aye!"

"The rest is for the poor box at Aldwark this time. Perhaps there'll be more before the morn."

"Captain..."

"Hush! don't begin to lecture, John!" said Beau Brocade, with curious earnestness. "I tell thee, friend, there's madness in my veins to-night. I pray thee go back home, and leave me to myself."

"Don't send me away, Captain," pleaded John, "I ... I ... am uneasy, and..."

"Dear, kind, faithful John," murmured Bathurst. "Zounds! but I'm an ungrateful wretch, for I vow thou dost love me, friend."

"You know I do, Captain. I ... I ... I'd give..."

"Nay ... nothing!" interrupted Jack, quickly, "give me nothing but that love of thine, friend ... it is more precious than life ... but I pray thee, let me be to-night ... I swear to thee I'll do no harm.... I'll see thee in the morn, John.... I'll be safe ... never fear!"

John Stich sighed. He knew that further protest was useless. Already Beau Brocade had turned Jack o' Lantern's head once more towards the crest of the hill. The smith waited awhile, listening while he could to the sound of the horse's hoofs on the rain-sodden earth. His honest heart was devoured with anxiety both for his friend and for the brave young lady who was journeying townwards to-night.

Suddenly it seemed to him as if far away he could hear the creaking of wheels on the distant Wirksworth road. The air was so still, that presently he could hear it quite distinctly. 'Twas her ladyship's coach, no doubt, plying its slow, wearying way along the quaggy road.

It would be midway to the little town by now. The narrow track on which John stood cut the road at right angles, about a mile and a half away. The smith took to blaming himself that he had kept her ladyship's journey a secret from Beau Brocade. The latter was a monarch on the Heath: he would have kept footpads at bay, watched and guarded the coach, and seen it, mayhap, safely as far as Wirksworth.

Never for a moment did the slightest fear cross the smith's mind that the notorious highwayman would stop Lady Patience's coach. Still, a warning would not have come amiss. Perhaps it was not too late. The road wound in and out a good deal, skirting bogland or massive boulders. John hoped that on the path he might yet come across Jack o' Lantern and his master, before they had met the coach.

He started to run and had covered nearly a mile when suddenly he heard a shout, which made his honest heart almost stop in its beating, a shout, followed by two pistol shots in rapid succession.

The shout had rung out clear and distinct in the fresh, lusty voice of Beau Brocade.

"Stand and deliver!"

John dared not think what the pistol shots had meant.

With elbows now pressed to his sides, he began running at a wild gallop along the rough, unbeaten track, towards the point whence shots and shout had come.

CHAPTER XVIII

MOONLIGHT ON THE HEATH

The jolting of the carriage along the quaggy road had been well nigh unendurable. Mistress Betty was groaning audibly. But Lady Patience, with her fair head resting against the cushions, was forgetting all bodily ailments, whilst absorbed in mental visions that flitted, swift and ever-changing, before her excited brain.

There was the dear brother in peril of his life, his young face looking wan and anxious, then Sir Humphrey Challoner, the man she instinctively, unreasonably dreaded, and John Stich, the faithful retainer, brave and burly, guarding his lord's life with his own. These faces and figures wandered ghostlike before her eyes, and then vanished, leaving before her mental vision but one form and face, a pair of merry, deep-set grey eyes, that at times looked so inexpressibly sad, a head crowned with a mass of unruly curls, a figure, lithe and active, sitting upon a chestnut horse and riding away towards the sunset.

It was a pleasant picture: no wonder Patience allowed her mind to dwell on it, and in fancy to hear that full-toned voice either in lively song or gay repartee, or at times with that ring of tenderness in it, which had brought the tears of pity to her eyes.

The hours sped slowly on, the cumbrous vehicle jostled onwards, plunging and creaking, whilst Thomas urged the burdened horses along.

Suddenly a jerk, more vigorous than before, roused Patience from her half-wakeful dreams. The heavy coach had seemed to take a plunge on its side, there was fearful creaking, and much swearing from the driver's box, a shout or two, panting efforts on the part of the horses, and finally the vehicle came to a complete standstill.

Mistress Betty had started up in alarm.

"Lud preserve us!" she shouted, putting a very sleepy head out of the carriage window, "what's the matter now, Thomas?"

"We be stuck in a quagmire," muttered the latter worthy, vainly trying to smother more forcible language, out of respect for her ladyship's presence.

Timothy, the groom, had dismounted: lanthorn in hand, he was examining the cause of the catastrophe.

"Get the other lanthorn, Thomas!" he shouted to the driver, "and come and give me a hand, else we'll have to spend the night on this God-forsaken heath."

"Is it serious, Timothy?" queried Lady Patience, anxiously.

"I hope not, my lady. The axle is caked with mud on this side, and we do seem stuck in some kind of morass, but if Thomas'll hurry himself..."

The latter, with many more suppressed oaths, had at last got down from his box, and had brought a second lanthorn round to the back of the coach, where Timothy had already started scraping shovelfuls of inky mud from the axle of the off-wheel.

It was at this moment, and when the two men were intent upon their work, that a voice, loud and distinct, suddenly shouted behind them,—

"Stand and deliver!"

Thomas, who was of a timorous disposition, dropped the lanthorn he held, and in his fright knocked over the other which was on the ground. He was a man of peace, and knew from past experience that 'tis safer not to resist these gentlemen of the roads.

When therefore the highwayman's well-known challenge rang out in the night, he threw up both hands in order to testify to his peaceful intentions; but Timothy, who was younger and more audacious, drew a couple of pistols from his belt, and at all hazards fired them off, one after the other, in the direction whence had come the challenge. The next moment he felt a vigorous blow on his wrists and the pistols flew out of his hand.

"Hands up or I shoot!"

Thomas was already on his knees. Timothy, thus disarmed, thought it more prudent to follow suit.

From within the coach could be heard Mistress Betty's shrill and terrified voice,—

"Nay! nay! your ladyship shall not go!" followed by her ladyship's peremptory command,—

"Silence, child! Let me go! Stay you within an you are afraid!"

There was a moment's silence, for at sound of her voice Beau Brocade had started, then he leaned forward on his horse, listening with all his might, wondering if indeed his ears had not misled him, if 'twas not a dream-voice that came to him out of the gloom.

"Have I the honour of addressing Lady Rounce?" he murmured mechanically.

At this moment the darkness, which up to now had been intense, began slowly to give place to a faint, silvery light. The moon, pale and hazy, tried to pierce the mist that still enveloped her as with a cold, blue mantle, and one by one tipped blackthorn and gorse with a cluster of shimmering diamonds.

Like a ghostly panorama the heath revealed its thousand beauties, its many mysteries: the deep, dark tangle of bramble and ling, beneath which hide the gnomes and ghouls, the tiny blue cups of the harebells, wherein the pixies have their home; the fairy rings in the grass, where the sprites dance their wild saraband on nights such as this, with the crickets to play the tunes, and the glow-worms to light them in their revels.

But to Beau Brocade the dim radiance of the moon, shy and golden through her veil of mist, only revealed one great, one wonderful picture: that of his dream made real, of his heavenly vision come down to earth, the picture of her stepping out of the coach that she might speak to him.

She came forward quickly, and the hood flew back from her face. She was looking at him with a half-puzzled, half-haughty expression in her eyes, and Beau Brocade thought he had never seen eyes that were so deeply blue. He murmured her name,—

"The Lady Patience!"

"Nay, sir, since you know my name," she said, with a quaint, almost defiant toss of her small, graceful head. "I pray you, whoever you may be, to let me depart in peace. See," she added, holding a heavy purse out to him, "I have brought you what money I have. Will you take it and let me go?"

But he dared not speak. He longed to turn Jack o' Lantern's head and to gallop away quickly out of her sight, before she had recognised him and learnt that the man on whom she had looked with such tender pity, and with such glowing admiration, was the highway robber, the outlaw, the notorious thief. Yet so potent was the spell of her voice, the moist shimmer of her lips, the depth and glitter of her blue eyes, that he felt as if iron fetters held him fast to the ground, there enchained before her, until at least she should speak again.

He dismounted and she stepped a little closer to him, so close now that, had he stretched out his hand, he might have touched her cloak, or even those white finger-tips which...

"Believe me, sir," she said a little impatiently, seeing that he did not speak, "I give you all I have freely an you molest me no more. I have urgent, very urgent business in London, which brooks of no delay. Kindly allow my men to go free."

She was pleading now, all the haughtiness vanished from her face. Her voice, too, shook perceptibly; the tall, silent figure before her was beginning to frighten her.

Yet he dared not trust himself to speak, lest by a word he should dispel this dream. This golden vision of paradise that heaven had so unaccountably sent to him this night! it might vanish again amidst the stars and leave the poor outlaw to his loneliness.

This moment was so precious, so wonderful.

Madly he longed for the god-like power to stop Time in its relentless way, to make sun, moon and stars, the earth and all eternity pause awhile, whilst he looked upon her, as she stood there, with the pleading look in her eyes, the honey-coloured moon above throwing a dim and flickering light upon her upturned face ... her golden hair ... that tiny hand stretched out to him.

She seemed to wait for his reply, and at last in a low voice, which he tried to disguise, he murmured,—

"Madam, I entreat you, have no fear! Believe me, I would sooner never see the sun set again than cause you even one short moment's anxiety."

Again that quaint puzzled look came into her eyes, she looked at the black mask that hid his face, as if she would penetrate the secret which it kept.

"Will you not take this purse?" she asked.

"Nay! I will not take the purse, fair lady," he said, still speaking very low, "but I would fain, an you would permit it, hold but for one instant your hand in mine. Will you not let me?"

The impulse was irresistible, the desire to hold her hand so strong that he had no power to combat it. She seemed puzzled and not a little frightened, but neither haughty nor resentful at his presumption: perhaps she felt the influence of the mystery which surrounded the dark, cloaked figure before her, or the more subtle spell of the mist-covered moon. She made no movement towards him, her hand which he craved to hold had dropped to her side.

There was magic in the vast stillness of the Moor; on each dew-tipped point of grey-green gorse, from every frond of emerald bracken, there glistened a tiny crystal. Timothy and Thomas had retreated to a safer position, out of sight behind the huge vehicle, and inside the coach Betty was cowering in terror. They stood alone, these two, away from all the world, in a land all their own, a land of dreams, of poetry, and romance, where men died for a look from women's eyes, and conquered the universe for a smile.

How silent was the Heath while he looked at her, and she returned his gaze half-trembling, wholly puzzled.

"Will you not let me?" he pleaded. And instinctively his voice trembled in the pleading, and there came back to her mind the memory of this same voice, young and tender, as she had heard it in the forge. But she would not let him know that she had guessed.

"Sir," she said with sudden, unaccountable shyness, "you have overpowered my men, they are but loutish cowards, and you are heavily armed. I am a defenceless woman.... How can I refuse if you command?"

He took the pistols from his belt and laid them on the ground at her feet.

"Nay, fair lady!" he said, "there is no question of command. See! I am unarmed now, and your men are free. Give them the word and I'll not stir hand or foot till you have worked your will with me. You see, 'tis I am at your mercy ... yet I still crave to hold your hand ... for one moment ... in mine..."

For one second more she hesitated: not because she was afraid, but because there was a subtle sweetness in this moment of suspense, a delicious feeling of expectancy for the joy that was to come.

Then she gave him her hand.

"Why! ... how it trembles," he said, "like some tiny frightened bird. See how white it looks in my rough brown hand. You are not afraid?"

"Afraid? ... oh, no! ... but ... but the hour is late ... I pray you let me depart ... I must not tarry ... for so much depends upon my journey.... I pray you let me go."

"No, no! don't go," he pleaded, clinging to the little hand whose cool touch had made his very senses reel, "don't go ... not just yet.... See how glorious is the moon above those distant hills ... and the mist-laden air which makes your hair glisten with a thousand diamonds, whilst I, poor fool, holding your cool, white hand in mine, stand here gazing on a vision that whispers to me of things which can never, never be.... No! no, don't go just yet ... let the moon hide her light once more behind the mist ... let the Heath sink into darkness ... let me live in my dream one moment longer ... it will be dispelled all too soon."

He had spoken so low, she scarce could hear, but she could feel his hand scorching hers with its fever-heat, and when he ceased speaking she heard a sigh, like a sob, a sigh of bitter longing, of hopeless regret, that made her heart ache with a new pain which was greater, more holy than pity.

A strange excitement seemed to pervade him. Madness was in his veins. He longed to seize her, to lift her up on Jack o' Lantern's back and gallop away with her over the Moor, far, far out beyond bracken and heather, over those distant Tors, on, on to the mountains of the moon, to the valley of the shadows, she lying passive in his arms, whilst he looked for ever into the clear blue depths of her eyes. Perhaps she too felt this excitement gradually creeping over her; she tried to withdraw her hand, but he would not let it go. To her also there came the sense of unreality, of a vision of dreamland, wherein no one dwelt but she and this one man, where no sound came save that of his voice, rugged and tender, which brought tears of joy and pity to her eyes.

In the grass at her feet a cricket began to chirp, and suddenly from a little distance there came the quaint, sweet sound of a shepherd's pipe, playing an old-time rigadoon.

"Hark!" she whispered.

The sound came nearer and nearer: she loved to hear the faint, elusive echo, the fairy accompaniment to her own dreamlike mood.

"What a sweet tune," she murmured, as instinctively her foot began tapping the measure on the ground. "I mind it well! How oft have I danced to it beneath the Maypole!"

"Will you then dance it with me to-night?"

"Nay, sir ... you do but jest..."

But his excitement was at fever-point now. The outlaw at least could work his will upon this Heath, of which he alone was king. He could not carry her away on Jack o' Lantern's back, but he could make her stay with him a while longer, dance with him, here in the moonlight, her hand in his, his arm at times round her waist in the mazes of the dance, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright, her breath panting, aye! for she should feel too that reckless fire that scorched him. All the fierce, untamed blood in him ran like molten lava in his veins. Aye! for one more brief half-hour he—the lonely dweller on the Moor—the pariah, the outcast, would taste the joys of the gods.

"I was never more earnest in my life!" he vowed, with that gay, mad, merry laugh of his, "a dance with you here in the moonlight! Aye! a dance in the midst of my dreams!"

"But indeed, indeed, sir," she pleaded, "the hour is late and my business in London is very urgent."

"Nay, ten minutes for this dance will not much delay your journey, and I swear by your sweet eyes that after that you shall go unmolested."

"But if I refuse?"

"An you refuse," he said, bending the knee before her, and bowing humbly at her feet, "I will entreat you on my knees..."

"And if I still refuse?" she murmured.

"Then will I uproot the trees, break the carriage that bears you away, tear up the Heath and murder yon knaves! God in heaven only knows what I would not do an you refuse."

"No, no, sir, I pray you..." she said, alarmed at his vehemence, puzzled, fascinated, carried away by his wild, reckless mood and the potent spell of the witching moon. "Nay! how can I refuse? ... I am in your power ... and must do as you bid me.... An you really wish for a dance..."

She allowed him to lead her away to a short distance off the beaten track, there, where a carpet of ling and grass, and walls of bramble and gorse formed a ball-room fit for gods and goddesses to dance in. At the further end of this clearing the quaint, shrivelled figure of Jock Miggs, the shepherd, had just come into view. At a little distance to the left, and close to the roadside, there was a small wooden shed, and beyond it a pen, used by the shepherds as a shelter on rough nights when tending their sheep on the Heath.

For the moment the pen was empty, and Jock Miggs was evidently making his way to the hut for a few hours' sleep, and had been playing his pipe for the sake of company.

"Aye! a dance here!" said Beau Brocade, "with the moon and stars to light us, a shepherd to play the tune, and the sprites that haunt the Heath for company! What ho! there! friend shepherd!" he shouted to Miggs.

The worthy Jock caught sight of the two figures standing in the centre of the clearing, not twenty paces away from him.

"Lud have mercy upon me!" he gasped. "Robbery! Violence! Murder!"

"Nay, friend! only merry-making," quoth Beau Brocade, gaily. "We want to dance upon this Heath, and you to play the tune for us."

"Eh? what?" muttered the shepherd, in his vague, apologetic way, "dancing at this hour o' the night?"

"Aye!"

"And me to play for a parcel of mad folk?"

"Well said, honest shepherd! Let us all be mad to-night! but you shall play for us, and here!—here is the wherewithal to set your pipe in tune."

He threw a heavy purse across to Miggs, who, still muttering something about lunatics on the Heath, slowly stooped and picked it up.

"Guineas!" he muttered, weighing it in his hand, "guineas, as I live! Guineas for playing a dance tune. Nay, sir, you're mad, sure enough."

"Wilt play the tune, shepherd?" shouted Beau Brocade in wild impatience.

Jock Miggs shook his head with a determined air.

"Nay! your madness is nought to me. You've paid for a tune, and you shall have the tune. But, Lordy! Lordy! these be 'mazing times."

He settled himself down on a clump of grass-covered earth, and stolidly began piping the same old-time rigadoon. These were a pair of lunatics, for sure, but since the gentleman had paid for this extraordinary pleasure, 'twas not for a poor shepherd to refuse to earn a few honest guineas.

Beau Brocade bowed to his lady with all the courtly grace of a town gallant.

"Madam! your most humble, and most obedient servant."

As in a dream Patience began to tread the measure. It was all so strange, so unreal! surely this was a dream, and she would wake anon.

She turned and twisted in the mazes of the dance, gradually the intoxication of it all had reached her brain; she seemed to see round her in the grass pixie faces gazing curiously upon her. All the harebells seemed to tinkle, the shepherd's pipe sounded like fairy bells. Through the holes in the black mask she could see a pair of burning eyes watching her as if entranced.

She felt like a creature of some other world, a witch mayhap, dancing a wild saraband with this man, her lord and master, a mad, merry sprite who had arranged this moonlight Sabbath.

Her cheeks began to glow, her eyes were sparkling with the joy of this dance. Her breath came panting through her parted lips.

Aye! mad were they both! what else? Their madness was the intoxication which man alone can feel when his joy equals that of the gods! Quicker, shepherd! quicker! let thy pipe wake all the fairy echoes of this mystic, ghostlike Moor! Let all the ghouls and gnomes come running hither, let the stars pale with envy, let fairies and sprites clap their hands for joy, since one man in all this world was happier than all the spirits in heaven!

How long it lasted neither of them could tell. The honey-coloured moon lighted them all the while, the blue mist wrapped them as in a mystic veil. Still they danced on; at times she almost lay in his arms, hot, panting, yet never weary, then she would slip away, and with eyes aglow, cheeks in rosy flame, beckon to him, evade, advance, then once more put her hand in his and madden him with the touch.

Oh! that heaven-born hour! why did it ever cease?

A wild shriek, twice repeated, brought them both to a standstill.

She, with heart beating, and hand pressed to her panting bosom, was unable to stir. Whilst the excitement kept her up she had danced, but now, with that piercing shriek, the dream had vanished and she was back on earth once more.

"What was that?"

Thomas and Timothy, attracted by the strange spectacle, had gradually crept up to the clearing, and through a clump of gorse and bracken had been watching the weird, midnight dance. On the further side, and close to Jock Miggs, John Stich had been standing in the shadow of a thorn bush. He had been running all the way, ever since he heard the two pistol-shots. Amazed at the strange sight that met his honest eyes, he had not dared to interfere. Perhaps his honest faithful heart felt with, even if it did not altogether comprehend, the wayward, half-crazy mood of his friend.

Betty alone, terrified and not a little sulky, had remained in the coach. It was her shriek that roused the spectators and performers of this phantasy on the Heath.

"My lady! my lady!" screamed Betty once more at the top of her voice.

Then, all of a sudden, Patience understood. Fairyland had indeed vanished. The awful reality came upon her with appalling cruelty.

"My letters!" she gasped, and started running towards the coach.

But already Jack Bathurst had bounded across the clearing, closely followed by John Stich. Patience's cry of mad, terror-stricken appeal had gone straight to his brain, and dissipated in the fraction of a second the reckless excitement of the past hour.

The wild creature of one moment's wayward mood was in that same fraction of time re-transformed into the cool and daring dweller of the Moor, on whose head the law had set a price, and who in revenge had made every law his slave.

His keen, quick eye had already sighted the smith.

"After me, John!" he commanded, "and run for your life."

When the two men had fought their way through the clumps of gorse and bracken which screened the clearing from the road, they were just in time to see a man quickly mounting a dark brown horse, which stood some twenty yards in front of the coach.

The carriage door nearest to them was open, and poor Mistress Betty lay on the ground close beside it, still screaming at the top of her voice.

With one bound Beau Brocade had reached Jack o' Lantern, who, accustomed to his unfettered life on the Heath, had quietly roamed about at will, patiently waiting for his master's call. The young man was unarmed, since he had placed his pistols awhile ago at Patience's feet, but Jack o' Lantern was swift-footed as the deer, and would overtake any strange horseman easily.

Beau Brocade's hand was on his horse's bridle and there were barely a few yards between him and the mysterious horseman, who was preparing to gallop away, when the latter turned, and suddenly pointing a pistol at his pursuer, fired two shots in rapid succession.

The young man did not stop at once. He clutched Jack o' Lantern's bridle and tried to mount, but he staggered and almost fell.

"After him, John," he cried in a hoarse voice, as, staggering once more, he fell upon one knee. "After him! quick! take Jack o' Lantern, don't mind me!"

John had no need to be told twice. He seized the horse's bridle and swung himself into the saddle as quickly as he could.

But these few seconds had given the horseman a sufficient start. Although the moon was bright the mist was thick, and the bracken and thorn bushes very dense on the other side of the road. Already he had disappeared from view, and John's ears and eyes were not so keen as those of Beau Brocade, the highwayman, the wounded monarch of the Heath.

CHAPTER XIX

HIS OATH

Patience's first thought as soon as she reached the road was for Betty; she helped the poor girl to her feet and tried to get some coherent explanation from her.

"I was listening to the tune, my lady, and leaning my head out of the window," moaned Mistress Betty, who was more frightened than hurt, "when suddenly the carriage door was torn open, I was dragged out and left screaming on the ground.... That's all I know."

But one glance at the interior of the coach had revealed the whole awful truth. It had been ransacked, and the receptacle beneath the cushions, where had lain the all-important letters, was now obviously empty.

"The letters! oh, the letters!" moaned Patience in an agony of misery and remorse. "Philip, my dear, dear one, you entrusted your precious life in my hands, and I have proved unworthy of the trust."

Her spirit wholly broken by the agony of this cruel thought, she cowered on the step of the carriage, her head buried in her hands, in a passion of heart-broken tears.

"My lady..."

She looked down, and by the dim light of the moon she saw a figure on its knees, dragging itself with a visibly painful effort slowly towards her.

In a moment she was on her feet, tall, haughty, a world of scorn in her eyes; she looked down with horror at the prostrate figure before her.

"Nay, sir," she said with icy contempt, "an you have a spark of honour left in you, take off that mask, let me at least see who you are."

The agony of shame was more than she could bear. She who had deemed herself so proud, so strong, that she should have been thus fooled, duped, tricked, and by this man! this thief! this low class robber who had dared to touch her hand! All the pride of race and caste rose in revolt within her. Who was he that he should dare to have spoken to her as he did? Her cheeks glowed with shame at the memory of that voice which she had loved to hear, the tender accent in it, and oh! she had been his plaything, his tool, for this infamous trick which had placed her dear, dear brother's life in peril worse than before.

Meekly he had obeyed her, his own proud spirit bent before her grief. His face—ashy pale now and drawn with pain and weakness—looked up in mute appeal for forgiveness.

"A poor wretch," he murmured feebly, "whose mad and foolish whim..."

But she turned from him in bitter loathing, drawing herself up to her full height, trying by every means in her power to show the contempt which she felt for him. So absorbed was she in her grief and humiliation, in her agony of remorse for her broken trust, that she did not realise that he was hurt, and fainting with loss of blood.

"You ... you..." she murmured with horror and contempt. "Nay! I pray you do not speak to me.... You ... you have duped and tricked me, and I ... I ... Oh!" she added with a wealth of bitter reproach, "what wrong had I or my dear brother done to you that you should wish to do him so much harm? What price had his enemies set upon his head that you should sell it to them?"

He tried to interrupt her, for her words hurt him ten thousand times more than the wound in his shoulder: with almost superhuman effort he dragged himself to his feet, clinging to the bracken to hold himself upright. He would not let her see how she made him suffer. She! his beautiful white rose, whom unwittingly he had, it seemed, so grievously wronged. Her mind was distraught, she did not understand, and oh! it was impossible that she could realise the cruelty of her words, more hard to endure than any torture the fiendish brain of man could devise.

"I'd have given you gold," she continued, whilst heavy sobs choked the voice in her throat, "if 'twas gold you wanted.... Here is the purse you did not take just now! Two hundred guineas for you, sir, an you bring me back those letters!"

And with a last gesture of infinite scorn she threw the purse on the ground before him.

A cry escaped him then: the terrible, heart-rending cry of the wild beast wounded unto death. But it was momentary; that great love he bore her helped him to understand. Love is never selfish—always kind. Love always understands.

He could scarcely speak now, and the seconds were very precious, but with infinite gentleness he contrived to murmur faintly,—

"Madam! I swear by those sweet lips of yours now turned in anger against me that you do me grievous wrong. My fault, alas! is great! I cannot deny it, since in this short, mad hour of the dance my eyes were blind and mine ears deaf to all save to your own dear presence."

"Aye! 'twas a clever trick," she retorted, lashing herself to scorn, wilfully deaf to the charm of that faint voice, turning away from the tender appeal of his eyes: "a trick from beginning to end! Your chivalry at the forge! your rôle of gallant gentleman of the road! the while you plotted with a boon companion to rob me of the very letters that would have saved my brother's life."

"Letters? ... that would have saved your brother's life? ... What letters?..."

"Nay, sir! I pray you fool me no further. Heaven only knows how you learnt our secret, for I'll vouch that John Stich was no traitor. Those letters were stolen, sir, by your accomplice, whilst you tricked me into this dance."

He pulled himself together with a vigorous effort of will, forcing himself to speak quietly and firmly, conquering the faintness and dizziness which was rapidly overpowering him.

"Madam!" he said gently, "dare I hope that you will believe me when I say that I know naught of those letters? ... John Stich, as you know, is loyal and true ... not even to me would he have revealed your secret ... nay, more! ... it seems that I too have been tricked to further a villain's ends. Will you not try and believe that had I known what those letters were I would have guarded them, for your sweet sake, with my last dying breath?"

She did not reply: for the moment she could not, for her tears choked her, and there was the magic of that voice which she could not resist. Still she would not look at him.

"Sir!" she said a little more calmly, "Heaven has given you a gentle voice, and the power of tender words, with which to cajole women. I would wish to believe you, but..."

She was interrupted by the sound of voices, those of Thomas and Timothy, her men, who had kept a lookout for John Stich. The next moment the smith himself, breathless and panting, came into view. He had ridden hard, for Jack o' Lantern's flanks were dripping with sweat, but there was a look of grave disappointment on the honest man's face.

"Well?" queried Beau Brocade, excitedly, as soon as John had dismounted.

"I'm feared that I've lost the scoundrel's track," muttered John, ruefully.

"No?"

"At first I was in hot pursuit, he galloping towards Brassington; suddenly he seemed to draw rein, and the next moment a riderless horse came tearing past me, and then disappeared in the direction of Aldwark."

"A riderless horse?"

"Aye! I thought at first that maybe he'd been thrown; I scoured the Heath for half a mile around, but ... the mist was so thick in the hollow, and there was not a sound.... I'd have needed a blood-hound to track the rascal down."

An exclamation of intense disappointment escaped from the lips of Lady Patience and of Beau Brocade.

"Do you know who it was, John?" queried the latter.

"No doubt of that, Captain. It was Sir Humphrey Challoner right enough."

"Sir Humphrey Challoner!" cried Patience, in accents of hopeless despair, "the man who covets my fortune now holds my brother's life in the hollow of his hand."

Excitedly, defiantly, she once more turned to Beau Brocade.

"Nay, sir," she said, "an you wish me to believe that you had no part in this villainy, get those letters back for me from Sir Humphrey Challoner!"

He drew himself up to his full height, his pride at least was equal to her own.

"Madam! I swear to you..." he began. He staggered and would have fallen, but faithful Stich was nigh, and caught him in his arms.

"You are hurt, Captain?" he whispered, a world of anxiety in his kindly eyes.

"Nay! nay!" murmured Beau Brocade, faintly, "'tis nothing! ... help me up, John! ... I have something to say ... and must say it ... standing!"

But Nature at last would have her will with him, the wild, brave spirit that had kept him up all this while was like to break at last. He fell back dizzy and faint against faithful John's stout breast.

Then only did she understand and realise. She saw his young face, once so merry and boyish, now pale with a hue almost of death; she saw his once laughing eyes now dimmed with the keenness of his suffering. Her woman's heart went out to him, she loathed herself for her cruelty, her heart, overburdened with grief, nearly broke at the thought of what she had done.

"You are hurt, sir," she said, as she bent over him, her eyes swimming in tears, "and I ... I knew it not."

The spell of her voice brought his wandering spirit back to earth and to her.

"Aye, hurt, sweet dream!" he murmured feebly, "deeply wounded by those dear lips, which spoke such cruel words; but for the rest 'tis naught. See!" he added, trying to raise himself and stretching a yearning hand towards her, "the moon has hid her face behind that veil of mist ... and I can no longer see the glory of your hair! ... my eyes are dim, or is it that the Heath is dark? ... I would fain see your blue eyes once again.... By the tender memory of my dream born this autumn afternoon, I swear, sweet lady, that your brother's life shall be safe! ... Whilst I have one drop of blood left in my veins, I will protect him."

With trembling hand he sought the white rose which still lay close to her breast: she allowed him to take it, and he pressed it to his lips.

Then, with a final effort he drew himself up once more, and said loudly and clearly,—

"By this dear token I swear that I will get those letters back for you before the sun has risen twice o'er our green-clad hills."

"Sir ... I..."

"Tell me but once that you believe me ... and I will have the strength that moves the mountains."

"I believe you, sir," she said simply. "I believe you absolutely."

"Then place your dear hand in mine," he whispered, "and trust in me."

And the last thought of which he was conscious was of her cool, white fingers grasping his fevered hand. Then the poor aching head fell back on John's shoulder, the burning eyes were closed, kindly Nature had taken the outlaw to her breast and spread her beneficent mantle of oblivion over his weary senses at last.

PART III

BRASSINGTON

CHAPTER XX

A THRILLING NARRATIVE

Mr Inch, beadle of the parish of Brassington, was altogether in his element.

Dressed in his gold-laced coat, bob-tail wig and three-cornered hat, his fine calves encased in the whitest of cotton stockings, his buckled shoes veritable mirrors of shiny brilliancy, he was standing, wand of office in hand, outside the door of the tiny Court House, where Colonel West, Squire of Brassington, was sitting in judgment on the poachers and footpads of the neighbourhood.

Before Mr Inch stood no less a person than Master Mittachip, attorney-at-law. Master Mittachip desired to speak with Squire West, and the pompous beadle was in the proud position of standing between this presumptuous desire and the supreme Majesty of the Law.

"Them's my orders, sir," he said, with all the solemnity which this extraordinary event demanded. "Them's my orders. Squire West's own orders. 'Inch,' he says to me—my name being Jeremiah Inch, sir—'Inch,' he says, 'the odours which perambulate the court-room'—and mind ye, sir, he didn't use such polite language either—'the odours is more than I can endurate this hot morning!' As a matter of fact, sir, truth compellates me to state that Squire West's own words were: 'Inch, this room stinks like hell! too many sweating yokels about!' Then he gave me his orders: 'The room is too full as it is, don't admit anyone else, on any pretext or cause whatsoever.'"

Master Mittachip had made various misguided efforts to interrupt Mr Inch's wonderful flow of eloquence. It was only when the worthy beadle paused to take breath, that the attorney got in a word edgewise.

"Harkee, my good man..." he began impatiently.

"I am extra-ordinarily grieved, sir," interrupted Master Inch, who had not nearly finished, "taking into consideration that I am somewhat dubersome, whether what his Honour said about the odours could apply individually to you, but orders is orders, sir, and the Squire as a legal luminosity must be obeyed in all things."

Mr Inch heaved a deep sigh of satisfaction. It was not often that he had the opportunity of showing off his marvellous eloquence and wonderful flow of language before so distinguished a gentleman as Master Mittachip, attorney-at-law. But the latter seemed not to appreciate the elegance of the worthy beadle's diction; on the contrary, he had throughout shown signs of the greatest impatience, and now, directly Mr Inch heaved this one sigh, Master Mittachip produced a silver half-crown, and toying with it, in apparent indifference, said significantly,—

"I am sure, friend Beadle, that if you were to acquaint Squire West that his Honour, Sir Humphrey Challoner, desired to speak with him..."

Mr Inch stroked his fat, clean-shaven chin, and eyed the silver half-crown with an anxious air.

"Ah! perhaps!" he suggested with as much dignity as the new circumstance allowed, "perhaps if I did so far contravene my orders..."

"I feel sure that Sir Humphrey would see fit to reward you," suggested the attorney, still idly fingering that tempting half-crown.

But Master Inch was still "dubersome."

"But then, you understand," he said, "it is against the regulations that I should vacuate my post until after the sitting is over ... so..."

"Sir Humphrey Challoner is partaking of breakfast at the Royal George, Master Inch, he would wish Squire West to know that he'll attend on him here in half an hour."

Master Inch closed one eye, and with the other keenly watched Master Mittachip's movements. The attorney turned the half-crown over in his lean hand once or twice, then he made as if he would put it back in his pocket.

This decided the beadle.

"I'll go and reconnoitre-ate," he said, "and perhaps I can despatch a menial to impart to the Squire, Sir Humphrey's wishes and cognomen."

Thus the majestic beadle felt that his dignity had not been impaired. With a magnificent turn of his portly person, and an imposing flourish of his wand of office, he disappeared within the precincts of the Court.

Master Mittachip slipped the half-crown back in his pocket, and did not wait for the beadle's return. He was quite satisfied that Sir Humphrey's wishes would be acceded to. He turned his back on the Court House and slowly crossed the green.

Opposite to him was the Royal George, where he and Master Duffy had put up for the night. In the small hours of the morning he had been aroused from peaceful slumbers by a great disturbance at the inn. Sir Humphrey Challoner, booted and spurred, but alone, on foot, and covered with mud, was peremptorily demanding admittance.

Since then Master Mittachip had had an interview with his employer, wherein his Honour had expressed the desire to speak with Squire West after he, himself, had partaken of late breakfast. That interview had been a very brief one, but it had sufficed to show to the lean attorney that Sir Humphrey's temper was none of the best this morning.

His Honour had desired Master Mittachip's presence again, and the latter was now making his way slowly back to the Royal George, his knees quaking under him, his throat dry, and his tongue parched with terror. Sir Humphrey Challoner was not pleasant to deal with when his temper was up.

The attorney found his Honour installed at breakfast in the private parlour of the inn, and consuming large mugs full of ale and several rashers of fried bacon.

"Well?" queried Sir Humphrey, impatiently, as soon as the attorney's lean, bird-like face appeared in the doorway.

"I sent word to his Honour, Squire West," explained the latter, coming forward timidly, "saying that you would wish to see him at the Court House in half an hour. And, unless your Honour would wish me to speak to the Squire for you..."

"No!" rejoined his Honour, curtly. "'Sdeath! don't stand there fidgeting before me," he added. "Sit down!"

Master Mittachip meekly obeyed. He selected the straightest chair in the room, placed it as far away from his Honour as he could, and sat down on the extreme edge of it.

"Well! you lean-faced coward," began his Honour, whose temper did not seem to have improved after his substantial breakfast, "you allowed yourself to be robbed of my money last night, eh?"

Thus much Sir Humphrey knew already, for his first inquiry on meeting Mittachip at the inn had been after his rents. Since then the attorney had had half an hour in which to reflect on what he would say when his Honour once more broached the subject. Therefore he began to protest with a certain degree of assurance.

"On my honour, Sir Humphrey, you misjudge me," he said deliberately. "As my clerk and I passed the loneliest spot on the Heath, and without any previous warning, two masked men leapt into the path in front of us, and presented pistols. A third man called to us to stand."

Here Master Mittachip made an effective pause, the better to watch the impression which his narrative was making on his employer. The latter was quietly picking his teeth, and merely remarked quietly,—

"Well? and what did you do?"

Thus encouraged Mittachip waxed more bold.

"In a flash I drew a pistol," he continued glibly, "and so did Duffy ... for I must say he bore himself bravely. We both fired and my ball knocked the hat off the fellow nearest to me, but Master Duffy's ball unfortunately missed. I was drawing my other pistol, determined to make a desperate fight, and I believe Duffy did as much.... I was amazed that the fellows did not fire upon us in return..."

He was distinctly warming up to his subject. But here he was interrupted by a loud guffaw. Sir Humphrey was evidently vastly amused at the thrilling tale, and his boisterous laugh went echoing along the blackened rafter of the old village inn.

"Odd's my life! 'tis perfect! marvellous, I call it! And tell me, Master Mittachip," added his Honour, whose eyes were streaming and whose sides were shaking with laughter, "tell me, why did they not fire? Eh?"

From past experience Master Mittachip should have known that when Sir Humphrey Challoner laughed his loudest, then was he mostly to be dreaded. Yet in this instance the attorney's delight at his own realistic story drowned the wiser counsels of prudence. He took his Honour's hilarity as a compliment to his own valour, and continued proudly,—

"The reason was not far to seek, for at that very moment we were both seized upon from behind by two big fellows. Then all five of them fell upon us and dragged us aside into the darkness; they tied scarves about our mouths, so that we could not cry out.... Aye! and had some difficulty in doing it, for believe me, Sir Humphrey, I fought like mad! Then they rifled us of everything ... despoiled us absolutely..."

At this point it struck Master Mittachip that his Honour's continued gaiety was somewhat out of place. The narrative had become thrilling surely, exciting and blood-curdling too, and yet Sir Humphrey was laughing more lustily than ever.

"Go on, man! go on," he gasped between his paroxysms of merriment. "Odd's fish! but 'tis the best story I've heard for many a day!"

"I will swear to the truth o' it in any court of law," protested the attorney with somewhat less assurance. "The fifth man was Beau Brocade. I heard the others address him so, while I was lying gagged and bound."

"Aye! you would lie anywhere," commented his Honour, "gagged and bound or not."

"From your observation, Sir Humphrey, I gather that you somewhat ... er ... doubt my story!" murmured Master Mittachip in a quavering voice.

"Doubt it, man? ... doubt it?" laughed his Honour, holding his sides, "nay! how can I doubt it? I saw it all..."

"You, Sir Humphrey?"

"I was there, man, on the Heath. I saw it all ... your vigorous defence, your noble valour, your ... your..."

Master Mittachip's sallow face had assumed a parchment-like hue. He passed his dry tongue over his parched lips, great drops of moisture appeared beneath his wig. That his fears were not unfounded was presently proved by Sir Humphrey's sudden change of manner.

The hilarious laugh died down in his Honour's throat, an ugly frown gathered above his deep-set eyes, and with a violent curse he brought his heavy fist down crashing upon the table.

"And now, you lying, lumbering poltroon, where's my money?"

"B ... b ... but, Sir Humphrey..." stammered the attorney, now pallid with terror.

"There's no 'but' about it. You collected some rents for me, thirty guineas in all, that money must lie to my account in the bank at Wirksworth to-morrow, or by G—— I'll have you clapped in jail like the thief that you are."

"B ... b ... but, your Honour..."

"Silence! I've said my last word. If that money is not in the bank by noon to-morrow, I'll denounce you to the Wirksworth magistrate as a fraudulent agent. Now hold your tongue about that. I've said my last word. The rest is your affair, not mine. I've more important matters to think on."

Master Mittachip, half dead with fear, dared not offer further argument or pleading. He knew his employer well enough to realise that his honour meant every word he said, and that he himself had nothing more to hope for in the matter of the money. The deficiency extracted from him by that rascal Beau Brocade would have to be made good somehow, and Master Mittachip bethought him ruefully of his own savings, made up of sundry little commissions extorted from his Honour's tenants.

No wonder the attorney felt none too kindly disposed towards the highwayman. He watched Sir Humphrey's face as a hungry dog does his master's, and noted with growing satisfaction that his Honour's anger was cooling down gradually, and giving place to harder and more cruel determination. As he watched, the look of terror died out of his bony, sallow face, and his pale, watery eyes began to twinkle with keen and vengeful malice.

CHAPTER XXI

MASTER MITTACHIP'S IDEA

He waited a little while, and gradually a smile of the deepest satisfaction spread over his bird-like countenance; he rubbed his meagre knees up and down with his thin hands, in obvious delight, and as soon as he saw his opportunity, he remarked slily,—

"An your Honour was on the Heath last night, you can help me testify to highway robbery before Squire West. There are plenty of soldiers in this village. His Honour'll have out a posse or two; the rascal can't escape hanging this time."

Sir Humphrey's florid, sensual face suddenly paled with a curious intensity of hatred.

"Aye! he shall hang sure enough," he muttered, with a loud oath.

He dragged a chair forward, facing Mittachip, and sat astride on it, drumming a devil's tattoo on the back.

"Listen here, you old scarecrow," he said more quietly, "for I've not done with you yet. You don't understand, I suppose, what my presence here in Brassington means?"

"I confess that I am somewhat puzzled, your Honour," replied the attorney, meekly. "I remarked on it to Master Duffy, just before he started off for Wirksworth this morning. But he could offer no suggestion."

"Odd's life, man! couldn't you guess that having made my proposal to that rascally highwayman I could not rest at Aldwark unless I saw him carry it through?"

"Ah?"

"I got a horse at the Moorhen, and at nightfall I rode out on the Heath. I feared to lose my way on the bridle path, and moreover, I wished to keep her ladyship's coach in view, so I kept to the road. It must have been close on midnight when I sighted it at last. It was at a standstill in the midst of a quagmire, and as I drew near I could see neither driver on the box, nor groom at the horses' heads."

"Well?"

"Well! that's all! there was a wench inside the coach; I threw her out and searched for the letters; I found them! That rascally highwayman had played me false. Some distance from the road I spied him dancing a rigadoon in the moonlight with her ladyship, whilst her men, the dolts, were watching the spectacle! Ha! ha! ha! 'twas a fine sight too, I tell you! So now the sooner I get that chivalrous highwayman hanged, the better I shall like it."

"Then ... am I to understand that your Honour has the letters?"

"Aye! I have the letters right enough!" said Sir Humphrey, with an oath between his clenched teeth, "but I fear me her ladyship has cajoled the rogue into her service. Else why this dance? I did not know what to make of it. Madness, surely, or she never would have left the letters unprotected. He bewitched her mayhap, and the devil, his master, lent him a helping hand. I'll see him hang, I tell you.... Hang.... Hang!"

Master Mittachip's attenuated frame quaked with terror. There was so much hatred, so much lust for revenge in Sir Humphrey's half-choked voice, that instinctively the attorney cowered, as before some great and evil thing which he only half understood. After awhile Sir Humphrey managed to control himself. He was ashamed of having allowed his agent this one peep into the darkness of his soul. His love for Patience, though brutish and grasping, was as strong as his sensuous nature was capable of: his jealousy and hatred had been aroused by the strange scene he had witnessed on the Heath, and he was as conscious now of the longing for revenge, as of the desire to possess himself of Lady Patience and her fortune.

"'Sdeath!" he said more calmly, "Beau Brocade and that rascal John Stich were after me in a trice, and they'd have had the letters back from me, had I not put a bullet into the damned thief!"

"And wounded him, your Honour?" queried Mittachip, eagerly.

"Nay! I could not wait to see! but I hoped I had killed him, for 'twas John Stich who rode after me, fortunately. He was too big a fool to do me any harm and I quickly made him lose my track."

"And you've destroyed the letters, Sir Humphrey?"

"Destroyed them, you fool? Nay, it would ill suit my purpose if Stretton were to die. Can't you see that now," he said excitedly, "with those letters in my hand, I can force Lady Patience's acceptance of my suit? While her brother's life hangs in the balance I can offer her the letters, on condition that she consent to marry me, and threaten to destroy them if she refuse!"

"Aye! aye!" murmured the attorney, "'twere a powerful argument!"

"And remember," added his Honour, significantly, "there'll be two hundred guineas for you the day that I wed Lady Patience. That is, if you render me useful assistance to the end."

"Two hundred guineas!!! Good lack, Sir Humphrey, I hope you've got those letters safe!"

"Aye! safe enough for the present!"

"About your person?"

"Nay! you idiot! about my person? With so cunning a rascal as Beau Brocade at my heels!"

"Then in your valise, Sir Humphrey?"

"What? in a strange inn? Think you the fellow would be above breaking into my room? How do I know that mine host is not one of his boon companions? The rascal has many friends hereabouts."

"B ... b ... but what have you done with them, Sir Humphrey?" queried the attorney, in despair.

"In your ear, Master Mittachip," quoth his Honour, instinctively lowering his voice, lest the walls of the old inn had ears. "I thought the best plan was to hide the letters there, where Lady Patience and her chivalrous highwayman would least expect to find them."

"How so, good Sir Humphrey?"

"I was hard pressed, mind you, and had but a few seconds in which to make up my mind. I dismounted, then lashed my horse into a panic. As I expected he made straight for his own stables, at anyrate, he galloped off like mad in the direction of Aldwark, whilst I remained cowering in the dense scrub, grateful for the mist, which was very dense in the hollow. There I remained hidden for about half an hour, until all sound died away on the Heath. What happened to that damned highwayman or to John Stich I know not, but I did not feel that the letters were safe whilst they were about my person. I knew that I was some distance from this village, and still further from Aldwark, and feared that I should be pursued and overtaken. At any rate, I crept out of my hiding-place and presently found myself close to a wooden hut, not far from the roadside: and there, underneath some bramble and thorny stuff, I hid the letters well out of sight."

"Oh! but they won't be safe there, Sir Humphrey," moaned Mittachip, who seemed to see the golden vision of two hundred guineas vanishing before his eyes. "Think of it. Any moment they might be unearthed by some dolt of a shepherd!"

"'Sdeath! I know that, you fool! They're in a dry place now, but I only mean them to remain there until you can take them to your own house at Wirksworth, and put them in your strong room till I have need of them."

But this suggestion so alarmed Master Mittachip that he lost his balance and nearly fell off the edge of his chair.

"I, Sir Humphrey? .... I ... cross that lonely Heath again? ... and with those letters about my person?..."

"Tush, man! the footpads wouldn't take letters from you, and Beau Brocade will be keeping an eye on me, and wouldn't again molest you..."

"Aye! but he knows I enjoy the honour of your confidence, good Sir Humphrey! Believe me, the letters would not be safe with me."

"Adsbud!" said his Honour, firmly, "then I'll have to find someone else to take care of those letters for me, and," he added significantly, "to earn the two hundred guineas."

Master Mittachip gave an anxious gasp. That two hundred guineas!!! the ultimate ambition of his sordid, miserable existence! No! he would not miss that! ... and yet he dreaded the Heath ... and was in terror of Beau Brocade ... and he dreaded his Honour's anger ten thousand times more than either: that anger would be terrible if, having taken charge of the letters, he should be robbed of them.

The alternative was an awful one! He racked his tortuous brain for a likely issue. Sir Humphrey had risen, kicked his chair to one side, and made as if he would go.

"Now, harkee, friend Mittachip," he said firmly, "I want those letters placed somewhere in absolute safety, where neither Lady Patience's influence nor her chivalrous highwayman could possibly get at them. If you find a way and means of doing this for me, the two hundred guineas are yours. But if I have to manage this business myself, if I have to take the almost certain risk of being robbed of the letters, if I carry them about my own person, then you shall not get another shilling from me. Now you can think this matter over. I'll across to speak to Squire West, and see if I can't get that rascally highwayman captured and clapped into jail before the day is done."

He took up his hat, and threw his coat over his arm. The situation was getting desperate.

Then suddenly Master Mittachip had an idea.

"I have it, Sir Humphrey," he cried excitedly. "I have it! A perfectly safe way of conveying those letters to my strong room at Wirksworth!"

"Let's have it, then."

"I have bought some sheep of a farmer from over Aldwark way, for a client at Wirksworth. Here," he added, pulling a paper out of his pocket and handing it up to Sir Humphrey, "is the receipt and tally for them. Jock Miggs—Master Crabtree's shepherd—is taking the sheep to the town to-day. He'll most likely put up for the night on the Heath."

"Well?" queried Sir Humphrey.

"Well! Jock Miggs can neither read nor write."

"Of course not."

"Let us send him to Wirksworth and tell him to leave the packet of letters at my house in charge of my clerk, Master Duffy, who will put it in the strong room until you want them. Duffy started for Wirksworth at daybreak this morning, and should be there by nightfall."

"Pshaw, man! would you have me trust such valuable letters to a fool of a shepherd?"

"Nay, Sir Humphrey, but that is our safeguard. Beau Brocade never touches the poor or the peasantry, and certainly would never suspect Jock Miggs of being in your Honour's confidence, whilst the ordinary footpads would take no count of him. He is worth neither powder nor shot."

"That's true enough!"

"I should tell Miggs that the papers are accounts for the sheep, and promise him a silver crown if he delivers them safely at my door. We can put the letters in a sealed packet; no one would ever suspect him."

There was silence in the inn parlour for awhile. His Honour stood with legs apart, opposite the tiny leaded window, gazing out into vacancy, whilst Master Mittachip fixed his eyes meditatively on the broad back of his noble patron. What a deal depended on what was going on at the present moment in Sir Humphrey's active brain.

Suddenly his Honour turned on his heel.

"Odd's fish, Master Mittachip," he said, "but your plan is none so bad after all."

The attorney heaved a deep sigh of relief, and began mopping his beady forehead. The tension had been acute. This lengthy, agitating interview had been extremely trying. So much hung in the balance, and so much had depended upon that very uncertain quantity, his Honour's temper. But now the worst was over. Sir Humphrey was a man of determination, who never changed his mind once that mind was made up, and who carried any undertaking through with set purpose and unflinching will.

"Well! and when can I see that shepherd you speak of?" he asked.

"If your Honour would ride over on the Heath with me this afternoon," suggested the attorney, "I doubt not but we should come across Jock Miggs and his sheep, and in any case he would be at the hut by nightfall."

"Very good!" rejoined his Honour. "Do you see that a couple of horses be ready for us. We can start as soon as I have spoken with Squire West and laid my information against that d—d Beau Brocade. With a posse of soldiers at his heels he's less likely to worry us, eh, old scarecrow?"

"We shall not be safe, your Honour," assented worthy Master Mittachip, "until the rascal is dangling six feet above the ground. In the meanwhile," he added, seeing that Sir Humphrey was making for the door, "your Honour will be pleased to give me back that receipt and tally for the sheep I showed you just now."

But already his Honour was hurrying down the narrow passage, eager to get through the business that would lay his enemy by the heels, and render him safe in the possession of the important letters which were to secure him Lady Patience's hand and fortune.

"All right!" he shouted back lustily, "it's safe enough in my pocket. I'll give it you back on my return."

Left alone in the dingy, black-raftered parlour, Master Mittachip sat pondering for awhile, his pale, watery eyes blinking at times with the intensity of his satisfaction. Now for a little good luck—and he had no cause to fear the reverse—and that glorious vision of two hundred golden guineas would become a splendid reality. The advice he had given Sir Humphrey was undoubtedly the safest which he could offer. Beau Brocade, even with a posse of soldiers at his heels, was still a potent personality on the Heath, and it certainly looked as if her ladyship had cajoled him into her service. No one knew really who his friends and accomplices were: on and about Brassing Moor he could reckon on the help of most of the poorer villagers.

But Jock Miggs at any rate was safe, alike from the daring highwayman and the more humble footpad. The former would not suspect him, and the latter would leave a poor shepherd severely alone. The footpath from the hut by the roadside to the town of Wirksworth was but a matter of three or four miles, and for a silver crown the shepherd would be ready enough to take a sealed packet to the house of Master Mittachip in Fulsome Street.

Yes! it was all going to be for the best, in this best possible world, and as Master Mittachip thought over it all, he rubbed his thin, claw-like hands contentedly together.

CHAPTER XXII

AN INTERLUDE

The Packhorse Inn, lower down the village, was not nearly so frequented as was the Royal George. Its meagre, dilapidated appearance frightened most customers away. A few yokels only patronised it to the extent of sipping their small ale there, in the parlour when it was wet, or outside the porch when it was fine.

The few—very few—travellers, whom accident mostly brought to Brassington, invariably preferred the more solid, substantial inn on the green, but when it was a question of finding safe shelter for his wounded friend, John Stich unhesitatingly chose the Packhorse. He had improvised a rough kind of stretcher, with the help of the cushions from Lady Patience's coach, and on this, with the aid of Timothy the groom, he had carried Bathurst all the way across two miles of Heath into Brassington. The march had been terribly wearisome: the wounded man, fevered with past excitement, had become light-headed, and during intervals of lucidity was suffering acutely from his wound.

Lady Patience could not bring herself to leave him. A feeling she could not have described seemed to keep her enchained beside this man, whom but a few hours ago she had never seen, but in whom she felt now that all her hopes had centred. He had asked her to trust him, and since then had only recovered consciousness to plead to her with mute, aching eyes not to take away that trust which she had given him.

Fortunately, the noted bad state of the roads on Brassing Moor, which at any time might prove impassable for the coach, had caused her to take her own saddle as part of her equipment for her journey to London. This John Stich had fixed for her on Jack o' Lantern's back, and the faithful beast, as if guessing the sad plight of his master, carried her ladyship, with Mistress Betty clinging on behind, with lamb-like gentleness down the narrow bridle-path to Brassington.

Thomas, the driver, had been left in charge of the coach, with orders to find his way as quickly as may be along the road to Wirksworth.

It had been Bathurst's firmly-expressed wish that they should put up at Brassington, at any rate for the night. Besides being the nearest point, it was also the most central, whence a sharp lookout could be kept on Sir Humphrey Challoner's movements. Everything depended now on how serious the young man's wound turned out to be.

Patience felt that without his help she was indeed powerless to fight her cunning enemy. She was never for one moment in doubt as to the motive which prompted Sir Humphrey Challoner to steal the letters. He meant to hold them as a weapon over her to enforce the acceptance of his suit; this she knew well enough. Her instincts, rendered doubly acute by the imminence of the peril, warned her that the Squire of Harrington meant to throw all scruples to the wind, and would in wanton revenge sacrifice Philip by destroying the letters, if she fought or defied him openly.

Patience bethought her of the scene at the forge, when Bathurst's ready wit had saved her brother from the officious and rapacious soldiers: now that the terrible situation had to be met with keenness and cunning, she once more turned, with hope in her heart, to the one man who could save Philip again: but he, alas! lay helpless. And all along the weary way to Brassington she was listening with aching heart and throbbing temples to his wild, delirious words and occasional, quickly-suppressed moans.

However, they reached the Packhorse at last in the small hours of the morning: money, lavishly distributed by Lady Patience, secured the one comfortable room in the inn for the wounded man.

As soon as the day broke John Stich went in quest of Master Prosser, the leech, a gentleman famed for his skill and learning. Already the rest on a good bed, and Lady Patience's cool hand and gentle words, had done much to soothe the patient. Youth and an iron constitution quickly did the rest.

The leech pronounced the wound to be neither deep nor serious, and the extraction of the ball caused the sufferer much relief.

Within an hour after the worthy man's visit, Jack Bathurst had fallen into a refreshing sleep, and at John Stich's earnest pleading, Lady Patience had thrown herself on a bed in the small room which she had secured for herself and Mistress Betty, and had at last managed to get some rest.

The sun was already well up in the heavens when Jack awoke. His eyes, as soon as they opened, sought anxiously for her dear presence in the room.

"Feel better, Captain?" asked John Stich, who had been watching faithfully by his side.

"I feel a giant, honest friend," replied the young man. "Help me up, will you?"

"The leech said you ought to keep quiet for a bit, Captain," protested the smith.

"Oho! he did, did he?" laughed Jack, gaily. "Well! go tell him, friend, from me, that he is an ass."

"Where is she, John?" he asked quietly, after a slight pause.

"In the next room, Captain."

"Resting?"

"Aye! she never left your side since you fainted on the Heath."

"I know—I know, friend," said Jack, with a short, deep sigh; "think you I could not feel her hand..."

He checked himself abruptly, and with the help of John Stich raised himself from the bed. He looked ruefully at his stained clothes, and a quaint, pleasant smile chased away the last look of weariness and suffering from his face.

"Nay! what a plight for Beau Brocade in which to meet the lady of his dreams, eh, John? Here, help me to make myself presentable! Run down quickly to mine host, borrow brushes and combs, and anything you can lay hands on. I am not fit to appear before her eyes."

"Then will you keep quite still, Captain, until I return? And keep your arm quietly in the sling? The leech said..."

"Never mind what the leech said, run, John ... the sight of myself in that glass there causes me more pain than this stupid scratch. Run quickly, John, for I hear her footstep in the next room.... I'll not move from the edge of this bed, I swear it, if you'll only run."

He kept his word and never stirred from where he sat; but he strained his ears to listen, for through the thin partition wall he could just hear her footstep on the rough wooden floor, and occasionally her voice when she spoke to Betty.

Half an hour later, when John Stich had done his best to valet and dress him, he waited upon her ladyship at breakfast in the parlour downstairs.

She came forward to greet him, her dainty hand outstretched, her eyes anxiously scanning his face.

"You should not have risen yet, sir," she said half shyly as he pressed her finger-tips to his lips, "your poor wounded shoulder..."

"Nay, with your pardon, madam," he said lightly, "'tis well already since your sweet hand has tended it."

"'Twas my desire to nurse you awhile longer, and not allow you to risk your life for me again."

"My life? Nay! I'll trust that to mine old enemy, Fortune: she has ta'en care of it all these years, that I might better now place it at your service."

She said nothing, for she felt unaccountably shy. She, who had had half the gilded youth of England at her feet, found no light bantering word with which to meet this man; and beneath his ardent gaze she felt herself blushing like a school miss at her first ball.

"Will you honour me, sir," she said at last, "by partaking of breakfast with me?"

All cares and troubles seemed forgotten. He sat down at the table opposite to her, and together they drank tea, and ate eggs and bread and butter: and there was so much to talk about that often they would both become quite silent, and say all there was to say just with their eyes.

He told her about the Heath which he knew and loved so well, the beauty of the sunrise far out behind the Tors, the birds and beasts and their haunts and habits, the heron on the marshy ground, the cheeky robins on the branches of the bramble, the lizards and tiny frogs and toads: all that enchanting world which peopled the Moor and had made it a home for him.

And she listened to it all, for he had a deep, tender, caressing voice, which was always good to hear, and she was happy, for she was young, and the world in which she dwelt was very beautiful.

Yet she found this happiness which she felt, quite incomprehensible: she even chid herself for feeling it, for the outside world was still the same, and her brother still in peril. He, the man, alone knew whither he was drifting; he knew that he loved her with every fibre of his being, and that she was as immeasurably beyond him as the stars.

He knew what this happiness meant, and that it could but live a day, an hour. Therefore he drained the cup to its full measure, enjoying each fraction of a second of this one glorious hour, watching her as she smiled, as she sipped her tea, as she blushed when she met his eyes. And sometimes—for he was clumsy with his one arm in a sling—sometimes as she helped him in the thousand and one little ways of which women alone possess the enchanting secret, her hand would touch his, just for one moment, like a bird on the wing, and he, the poor outlaw, saw heaven open before him, and seeing it, was content.

Outside an early September sun was flooding the little village street with its golden light. They did not dare to show themselves at the window, lest either of them should be recognised, so they had drawn the thin muslin curtain across the casement, and shut out the earth from this little kingdom of their own.

Only at times the bleating of a flock of sheep, or the melancholy lowing of cattle would come to them from afar, or from the window-sill the sweet fragrance of a pot of mignonette.

CHAPTER XXIII

A DARING PLAN

It was close on ten o'clock when they came back to earth once more.

A peremptory knock at the door had roused them both from their dreams.

Bathurst rose to open, and there stood John Stich and Mistress Betty, both looking somewhat flurried and guilty, and both obviously brimming over with news.

"My lady! my lady!" cried Betty, excitedly, as soon as she caught her mistress's eye, "I have just spied Sir Humphrey Challoner at the window of the Royal George, just over the green yonder."

"Give me leave, Captain," added John Stich, who was busy rolling up his sleeves above his powerful arms, "give me leave, and I'll make the rogue disgorge those letters in a trice."

"You'd not succeed, honest friend," mused Bathurst, "and might get yourself in a devil of a hole to boot."

"Nay, Captain," asserted John, emphatically, "'tis no time now for the wearing of kid gloves. I was on the green a moment ago, and spied that ravenous scarecrow, Mittachip, conversing with the beadle outside the Court House, where Squire West is sitting."

"Well?"

"When the beadle had gone, Master Mittachip walked across the green and went straight to the Royal George. Be gy! what does that mean, Captain?"

"Oho!" laughed Jack, much amused at the smith's earnestness, "it means that Sir Humphrey Challoner intends to lay information against one Beau Brocade, the noted highwayman, and to see how nice he'll look with a rope round his neck and dangling six foot from the ground."

An involuntary cry from Lady Patience, however drowned the laughter on his lips.

"Tush, man!" he added seriously, "here's a mighty fine piece of work we're doing, frightening her ladyship..."

But John Stich was scowling more heavily than ever.

"If the scoundrel should dare..." he muttered, clenching his huge fists.

His attitude was so threatening, and his expression so menacing, that in the midst of her new anxiety Lady Patience herself could not help smiling. Beau Brocade laughed outright.

"Dare?..." he said lightly. "Why, of course he'll dare. He's eager enough in the pursuit of mischief, and must save the devil all the trouble of showing him the way. But now," he added more seriously, and turning to Mistress Betty, "tell me, child, saw you Sir Humphrey clearly?"

"Aye! clear as daylight," she retorted, "the old beast..."

"How was he dressed?"

"Just like he was yesterday, sir. A brown coat, embroidered waistcoat, buff breeches, riding-boots, three-cornered hat, and he had in his hand a gold-headed riding-crop."

"Child!—child!" cried Bathurst, joyfully, "an those bright eyes of yours have not deceived you, yours'll be the glory of having saved us all."

"What are you going to do?" asked Patience, eagerly.

"Pit my poor wits against those of Sir Humphrey Challoner," he replied gaily.

"I don't quite understand."

He came up quite close to her and tried to meet her eyes.

"But you trust me?" he asked.

And she murmured,—

"Absolutely."

"May Heaven bless you for that word!" he said earnestly. "Then will you deign to do as I shall direct?"

"Entirely."

"Very well! Then whilst friend Stich will fetch my hat for me, will you write out a formal plaint, signed with your full name, stating that last night on the Heath you were waylaid and robbed by a man, whom I, your courier, saw quite plainly, and whom you have desired me to denounce?"

"But..."

"I entreat you there's not a moment to be lost," he urged, taking pen, ink and paper from the old-fashioned desk close by, and placing them before her.

"I'll do as you wish, of course," she said, "but what is your purpose?"

"For the present to take your ladyship's plaint over to his Honour, Squire West, at the Court House."

"You'll be seen and recognised and..."

"Not I. One or two of the yokels may perhaps guess who I am, but they'd do me no harm. I entreat you, do as I bid you. Every second wasted may imperil our chance of safety."

He had such an air of quiet command about him that she instinctively obeyed him and wrote out the plaint as he directed, then gave it in his charge. He seemed buoyant and full of hope, and though her heart misgave her, she managed to smile cheerfully when he took leave of her.

"I humbly beg of you," he said finally, as having kissed her finger-tips he prepared to go, "to wait here against my return, and on no account to take heed of anything you may see or hear for the next half-hour. An I mistake not," he added with a merry twinkle in his grey eyes, "there'll be strange doings at Brassington this noon."

"But you...?" she cried anxiously.

"Nay! I pray you have no fear for me. In your sweet cause I would challenge the world, and, if you desired it, would remained unscathed."

When he had gone, she sighed, and obedient to his wish, sat waiting patiently for his return in the dingy little parlour which awhile ago his presence had made so bright.

It was at this moment that Master Mittachip, after his interview with the beadle, was in close conversation with Sir Humphrey Challoner at the Royal George.

Outside the inn, Bathurst turned to John Stich, who had closely followed him.

"How's my Jack o' Lantern?" he asked quickly.

"As fresh as a daisy, Captain," replied the smith. "I've rubbed him down myself, and he has had a lovely feed."

"That's good. You have my saddle with you?"

"Oh, aye! I knew you'd want it soon enough. Jack o' Lantern carried it for you himself, bless 'is 'eart, along with her ladyship and Mistress Betty."

"Then do you see at once to his being saddled, friend, and bring him along to the Court House as soon as may be. Hold him in readiness for me, so that I may mount at a second's notice. You understand?"

"Yes, Captain. I understand that you are running your head into a d——d noose, and..."

"Easy, easy, friend! Remember..."

"Nay! I'll not forget for whose sake you do it. But you are at a disadvantage, Captain, with only one good arm."

"Nay, friend," rejoined Bathurst, lightly, "there's many a thing a man can do with one arm: he can embrace his mistress ... or shoot his enemy."

The sleepy little village of Brassington lay silent and deserted in the warmth of the noon-day sun, as Bathurst, having parted from John Stich, hurried across its narrow streets. As he had passed quickly through the outer passage of the Packhorse he had caught sight of a few red coats at the dingy bar of the inn, and presently, when he emerged on the green, he perceived another lot of them over at the Royal George yonder.

But at this hour the worthy soldiers of His Majesty, King George, were having their midday rest and their customary glasses of ale, and were far too busy recounting their adventure with the mysterious stranger at the forge to the gaffers of Brassington, to take heed of anyone hurrying along its street.

And thus Bathurst passed quickly and unperceived; the one or two yokels whom he met gave him a rapid glance. Only the women turned round, as he went along, to have another look at the handsome stranger with one arm in a sling.

Outside the Court House he came face to face with Master Inch, whose pompous dignity seemed at this moment to be severely ruffled.

"Hey, sir! Hey!" he was shouting, and craning his fat neck in search of Master Mittachip, who had incontinently disappeared, "the Court is determinating—Squire West will grant you the interview which you seek.... Lud preserve me!" he added in noble and gigantic wrath, "I do believe the impious malapert was trying to fool me ... sending me on a fool's errand ... me ... Jeremiah Inch, beadle of this parish!..."

Bathurst waited a moment or two until the worst of the beadle's anger had cooled down a little, then he took a silver crown from his pocket, and pushed past the worthy into the precincts of the house.

"The interview you've arranged for, friend," he said quietly; "will do equally well for her ladyship's courier."

Master Inch was somewhat taken off his balance. Mittachip's disappearance and this stranger's impertinence had taken his breath away. Before he had time to recover it, Bathurst had pressed the silver crown into his capacious palm.

"Now tell Squire West, friend," he said with that pleasant air of authority which he knew so well how to assume, "that I am here by the command of Lady Patience Gascoyne and am waiting to speak with him."

Master Inch was so astonished that he found no word either of protest or of offended dignity. He looked doubtfully at the crown for a second or two, weighed it in his mind against the problematical half-crown promised by the defaulting attorney, and then said majestically,—

"I will impart her ladyship's cognomen to his Honour myself."

The next moment Jack Bathurst found himself alone in a small private room of the Court House, looking forward with suppressed excitement to the interview with Squire West, which in a moment of dare-devil, madcap frolic, yet with absolute coolness and firm determination, he had already arranged in his mind.