Front matter (continued 5)

John Stich managed to reach Philip's ear without exciting attention. The young man at once slipped out of the room, in order to tell his sister that a yokel bearing important news would wish to speak with her privately.

Her heart beating with eagerness and apprehension, Patience hurried down the narrow stairs, and in the passage found herself face to face with a man dressed in a long, dingy smock, and whose features she could not distinguish beneath the broad brim of his hat.

He raised a respectful hand to his forelock as soon as he was in her ladyship's presence, but did not remove his hat.

"You wished to speak with me, my man?" asked Lady Patience, eagerly.

"I have a message for to deliver to Lady Patience Gascoyne," said Bathurst, whose voice, hoarse and quavering with fatigue, needed no assumption of disguise. He kept his head well bent, and the passage was very dark.

Patience, with her thoughts fixed on the gallant, upright figure she had last seen so full of vitality and joy in the little inn-parlour upstairs, scarce gave more than a passing glance to the stooping form, leaning heavily on a stick before her.

"Yes, yes," she said impatiently, "you have a message? From whom?"

"I don't rightly know, my lady ... a gentleman 'twas ... on the Heath this morning ... he give me this letter for your ladyship."

Burying his tell-tale, slender hand well inside the capacious sleeve of Jock Miggs's smock, Bathurst handed Patience a note written by himself. She took it from him with a glad little cry, and when he turned to go she put a restraining hand on his arm.

"Wait till I've read the letter," she said, "I may wish to send an answer."

She unfolded the letter slowly, very slowly, he standing close beside her and watching the tears gathering in her eyes as she began to read, murmuring the words half audibly to herself:—

"Have no fear. I have the letters, and with your permission will take them straight to London. I have a powerful friend there who will help me to place them before the King and Council without delay. To carry this safely through it is important that I should not be seen again in Brassington, as Sir Humphrey Challoner luckily has lost track of me for the moment, and I can be at Wirksworth before nightfall, and on my way to London before another dawn. Your enemy will keep watch on you, so I entreat you to stay in Brassington so as to engage his attention, whilst I go to London with the letters. His lordship would be safest, I think, in the cottage of old Widow Coggins at Aldwark. It has been my good fortune to do her some small service; she'll befriend his lordship for my sake. John Stich will convey him thither as soon as maybe. I entreat you to be of good cheer. A few days will see your brother a free man, and rid you for ever of your enemy. Believe me, the plan I have had the honour to set forth is safe and quick, and on my knees I beg you to allow me to carry it through in your service."

She folded the letter and then slipped it into the folds of her gown.

Through the open doorway behind her a ray of sunshine came shyly peeping in, framing her graceful figure with a narrow fillet of gold. They were alone in the passage, and she, intent upon the precious letter, was taking no notice of him: thus he could feast his eyes once more upon his dream, his beautiful white rose, drooping with the dew, the graceful silhouette outlined against the sunlit picture beyond, the queenly head, with its wealth of soft golden hair, bent with rapt attention on the letter which trembled in her hand.

His whole being ached with mad passionate longing for her, his lips burned with a desire to cover her neck and throat with kisses, yet he would have knelt on the flagstones before her and worshipped as did the saints before Our Lady's shrine. In his heart was a great joy that he could do her service, and a strange, wild hope that he might die for her.

"The gentleman who gave you this letter..." she said with a slight catch in her low, melodious voice. "You saw him? ... He was well? ... How did he look?..."

Her eyes now were swimming in tears, and Bathurst had much ado to still the mad beating of his heart, and to force his voice to a natural tone.

"Lud, my lady," he said, "but he was just like any other body Oi thought."

"Not ill?"

"Noa! noa! not that Oi could see."

"Go back to him, friend," she said, with sudden eagerness, "tell him that he must come to me at once ... I ... I would speak with him."

It required all Bathurst's firm strength of will not to betray himself before her. The tender pleading in her eyes, the gentle, womanly sympathy in her voice, set all his pulses beating. But he had made up his mind that she should not know him just then. A look, a cry, might give him away, and there was but one chance now to be of useful service to her, and that was to take the letters at once to London, whilst their joint enemy had for the nonce no thought of him.

Therefore he contrived to say quite stolidly,—

"Noa, noa, the gentleman said to Oi, 'You can bring a message, but th' lady mustn't come nigh me!'"

She gave a quick little sigh of disappointment.

"Then, my good fellow," she said, "try to remember ... tell him ... tell him ... I would wish to thank him ... tell him.... Nay! nay!" she suddenly added, pulling a faded white rose from her belt, "tell him nothing ... but give him this flower ... in token that I have received his letter ... and will act as he bids me.... You'll remember?"

He dared not trust himself to speak, but as she held out the rose to him he took it from her hand and involuntarily his finger-tips came in contact with hers just for a second ... long enough for the divine magnetism of his great love to pass from him to her.

She seized hold of his hand, for in that one magnetic touch she had recognised him. Her heart gave a great leap of joy, the joy of being near him once more, of again feeling the tender, grey eyes resting with passionate longing on her face. But she uttered neither cry nor word, for it was a great, silent and godlike moment—when at last she understood.

He had stooped still lower and rested his burning lips upon her cool fingers, and upon the rose which she had worn at her breast.

Neither of them spoke, for their hearts were in perfect unison, their whole being thrilled with the wild, jubilant echo of a divine hosanna, and around them the legions of God's angels made a rampart of snow-white wings, to shut out all the universe from them, leaving them alone with their love.

CHAPTER XXXIV

A LIFE FOR A LIFE

That moment was brief, as all such great and happy moments are.

But a few seconds had passed since both her hands had rested in his, and he forgot the world in that one kiss upon her finger-tips.

The next instant a fast-approaching noise of hurrying footsteps, accompanied by much shouting, roused them from their dream.

Both through the back and the front door a crowd of excited soldiers had pushed their way into the inn, whilst the folk in the bar-parlour, attracted by the sudden noise, pressed out into the narrow passage to see what was happening.

John Stich, foremost amongst these, made a rush for Patience's side. She found herself suddenly pressed back towards the foot of the stairs, and face to face with a noisy group of village folk, through which the Sergeant and some half-dozen soldiers were roughly pushing their way.

She looked round her, helpless and bewildered. Jack Bathurst had disappeared.

The whole thing had occurred in the brief space of a few seconds, even before Patience had had time to realise that anything was amiss.

The narrow staircase, at the foot of which she now stood, led straight up to the private parlour, where Philip was even now awaiting her return.

"Out of the way, you rascals," the Sergeant was shouting, whilst elbowing his way through the small group of gaping yokels, and pressing forward towards the stairs.

"Will your ladyship allow me the privilege of conducting you out of this crowd?" said a suave voice at Patience's elbow.

Sir Humphrey Challoner, closely followed by the obsequious Mittachip, had pushed his way into the inn, in the wake of the soldiers, and was now standing between her and the crowd, bowing very deferentially and offering her his arm, to conduct her upstairs.

But a few moments ago he had heard the startling news that Jock Miggs had been captured on the Heath, in mistake for Beau Brocade. As far as Sir Humphrey could ascertain nothing of importance had been found on the shepherd's person, and in a moment he realised that, through almost supernatural cunning, the highwayman must have succeeded in filching the letters, and by now had no doubt once more restored them to Lady Patience.

All the scheming, the lying, the treachery of the past few days had therefore been in vain; but Sir Humphrey Challoner was not the man to give up a definite purpose after the first material check to his plans. If her ladyship was once more in possession of the letters, they must be got away from her again. That was all. And if that cursed highwayman was still free to-day, 'sdeath but he'll have to hang on the morrow.

In the meanwhile Philip's momentary safety was a matter of the greatest moment to Sir Humphrey Challoner. If that clumsy lout of a Sergeant got hold of the lad, all Sir Humphrey's schemes for forcing Lady Patience's acceptance of his suit by means of the precious letters would necessarily fall to the ground.

But instinctively Patience recoiled from him; his suave words, his presence near her at this terrible crisis, frightened her more effectually than the Sergeant's threatening attitude. She drew close to John Stich, who had interposed his burly figure between the soldiers and the foot of the stairs.

"Out of the way, John Stich," shouted the Sergeant, peremptorily, "this is not your forge, remember, and by G—— I'll not be tricked again."

"Those are her ladyship's private rooms," retorted the smith, without yielding one inch of the ground. "Landlord," he shouted at the top of his voice, "I call upon you to protect her ladyship from these ruffians."

"You insult His Majesty's uniform," quoth the Sergeant, briefly, "and do yourself no good, smith. As for the landlord of this inn, he interferes 'tween me and my duty at his peril."

"But by what right do you interfere with me, Master Sergeant?" here interposed Lady Patience, trying to assume an indifferent air of calm haughtiness. "Do you know who I am?"

"Aye! that I do, my lady!" responded the Sergeant, gruffly, "and that's what's brought me here this morning. Not half an hour ago I heard that Lady Patience Gascoyne was staying at the Packhorse, and now the folks say that a new serving-man came to give a helping hand here. He arrived in the middle of the night, it seems. Strange time for a serving-man to turn up, ain't it?"

"I know nothing of any servant at this inn, and I order you at once to withdraw your men, and not to dare further to molest me."

"Your pardon, my lady, but my orders is my orders: I have been sent here by His Royal Highness the Duke of Cumberland hisself to hunt out all the rebels who are in hiding in these parts. I've strict orders to be on the lookout for Philip James Gascoyne, Earl of Stretton, who, I understand, is your ladyship's own brother, and as I've a right o' search, I mean to see who else is staying in those rooms upstairs besides your ladyship."

"This is an outrage, Sergeant!"

"Maybe, my lady," he retorted drily, "but with us soldiers orders is orders, saving your presence. I was tricked at the smithy, and again on the Heath. My belief is that we were hunting a bogey last night, There may or mayn't be any highwayman called Beau Brocade, but there was a fine young gallant at the forge the day afore yesterday, who did for me and my men, and I'll take my oath that he was none other than the rebel, Philip Gascoyne, Earl of Stretton."

"'Tis false and you talk like a madman, Sergeant."

"Maybe! but your ladyship'll please stand aside until I've searched those rooms upstairs, or I'll have to order my men to lay hands on your ladyship. Now then, John Stich, stand aside in the name of the King!"

John Stich did not move, and Lady Patience still stood defiant and haughty at the foot of the stairs. The villagers, stolid and stupid, were staring open-mouthed, not daring to interfere. But of course it was only a question of seconds, the worthy smith could not guard the staircase for long against the Sergeant and a dozen soldiers, and in any case nothing would be of any avail. Philip in the room upstairs was trapped like a fox in its lair, and nothing could save him now from falling into the soldiers' hands.

In vain she sought for Bathurst among the crowd: with wild, unreasoning agony she longed for him in this moment of her greatest need, and he was not there. She felt sure that if only he were near her he would think of something, do something, to avert the appalling catastrophe.

"I give your ladyship one minute's time to stand quietly aside," said the Sergeant, roughly. "After that I give my men orders to lay hands on you, and on any one who dares to interfere."

"Give me the letters," whispered Sir Humphrey Challoner, insinuatingly, in her ear. "I can yet save your brother."

"How?" she murmured involuntarily.

He looked up towards the top of the stairs.

"Then he is up there?"

She did not reply. It was useless to deny it, the next few moments would bring the inevitable.

"Stand back, Sergeant," quoth John Stich, defiantly. "I have the honour to protect her ladyship's person against any outrage from you."

"Good words, smith," retorted the Sergeant, "but I tell ye I've been tricked twice by you and I mean to know the reason why. Let her ladyship allow me to search the room upstairs and I'll not lay hands on her."

"Ye shall not pass," repeated the smith, obstinately.

"The letters," whispered Sir Humphrey, "give me the letters and I pledge you my honour that I can save him yet."

But half mad with terror and misery, scornful, defiant, she turned on him.

"Your honour!" she said, with infinite contempt.

But in her inmost heart she murmured in agonised despair,—

"What's to be done? Oh, God, protect him!"

"Stand back, John Stich," repeated the Sergeant, for the third time, "or I give my men the order to charge. Now then, my men!"

"Ye shall not pass!" was the smith's persistent, obstinate answer to the challenge.

"Forward!" shouted the soldier in a loud voice. "Into it, my men! Use your bayonets if anyone interferes with ye!"

The soldiers, nothing loth, were ready for the attack: there had already been too much parleying to suit their taste. They had been baffled too often in the last few days to be in the mood to dally with a woman, be she her ladyship or no.

With a loud cry they made a dash for the stairway, which behind Stich and Lady Patience lost itself in the gloom above.

And it was from out this darkness that at this moment a light-hearted, fresh young voice struck upon the astonished ears of all those present.

"Nay! too much zeal, friend Stich. Stand aside, I pray you. Faith! it'll give me great pleasure to converse with these gallant lobsters."

And Jack Bathurst, pushing the bewildered smith gently to one side, came down the stairs with a smile upon his face, calm, debonnair, dressed as for a feast.

He had discarded Jock Miggs's long smock, broad-brimmed hat and kerchief, and appeared in all the gorgeous finery of the beautiful lavender-scented clothes, he had donned at the forge with the kindly aid of Mistress Stich. He was still very pale and there were a few lines of weariness and of bodily pain round the firm, sensitive mouth, but his grey eyes, deep-sunk and magnetic, glowed with the keen fire of intense excitement. The coat of fine blue cloth set off his tall, trim figure to perfection. His left hand was tucked into the opening of his exquisitely embroidered waistcoat, and dainty ruffles of delicate Mechlin lace adorned his neckcloth and wrists. As he appeared there, handsome, foppish and smiling, 'twas no wonder that the countryside had nicknamed him Beau Brocade.

"Well! my gallant friend!" he said, addressing the Sergeant, since the latter seemed too astonished to speak, "what is it you want with me, eh?"

The Sergeant was gradually recovering his breath. Fate apparently was playing into his hands. It was almost too bewildering for any bluff soldier to realise, but it certainly seemed pretty clear that the rebel Earl of Stretton and Beau Brocade the highwayman were one and the same person.

"You are Philip Gascoyne, Earl of Stretton?" he asked at last.

"Faith! you've guessed that, have you?" responded Bathurst, gaily. "Odd's life, 'tis marvellous how much penetration lies hidden beneath that becoming coat of yours."

"Then, Philip Gascoyne, Earl of Stretton, you are attainted by Parliament for high treason, and I arrest you in the name of the King!"

There were indeed many conflicting emotions raging in the hearts of all those present whilst this brief colloquy was going on.

John Stich, accustomed to implicit obedience where his Captain's actions were concerned, had not dared to speak or stir. Sir Humphrey Challoner, completely thrown off his mental balance by the unexpected appearance of Bathurst, was hastily trying to make up his bewildered mind as to what was now best to be done.

As to Patience herself, at first a great, an overwhelming joy and pride had seized her at the thought that he was near her now, that he had not deserted her in the hour of her greatest need, that once again he had interposed his magnetic, powerful personality between her and the danger which threatened her and Philip.

It was only when the Sergeant's momentous words, "I arrest you in the name of the King!" rang out clearly and decisively above the loud tumult which was beating in her heart, that she became aware of the deadly peril which threatened the man she loved.

True, he had come once more between her and danger, but once again he had done it at risk of his life, and was like at last to lay it down for her.

She had been standing a little to one side, turning, as all had done, toward the elegant, foppish figure in the fine clothes and dainty ruffles of lace, but now she stepped forward with mad, unreasoning impulse, thrusting herself between him and the Sergeant, and trying to shield him behind the folds of her cloak.

"No! no! no! no!" she said excitedly. "Sergeant, 'tis all a mistake! ... I swear..."

But already Jack Bathurst had bent forward, and had contrived to whisper, unheard by all save her,—

"Hush—sh—your brother ... remember his danger..."

"Your pardon, lady," said the Sergeant, seeing that she paused, irresolute, not knowing what to do in face of this terrible alternative which was confronting her. "Your pardon, lady, but this gentleman is Philip, Earl of Stretton, is he not?"

"For your brother's sake," whispered Bathurst once more.

"No ... yes ... Oh! my God!" murmured Patience, in the agony of this appalling misery.

Her brother or the man she loved. One or the other betrayed by one word from her, now at this moment, with no time to pray to God for help or guidance, no chance of giving her own life for both!

"Out on you, friend," said Bathurst, lightly, "do you not see her ladyship is upset. Nay! have no fear, I'll follow you quietly!" he added, seeing that the Sergeant and soldiers were making a motion to surround him, "but you'll grant me leave to say farewell to my sister?"

The Sergeant could not very well refuse. He was at heart a humane man, and now that he was sure of this important capture, he would have done a good deal to ingratiate himself, through little acts of courtesy, with Lady Patience Gascoyne.

However, he had no mind to be tricked again, and in face of an almost immediate execution for high treason, the prisoner seemed extraordinarily self-possessed and cheerful. But for her ladyship's obvious despair and sorrow, the worthy Sergeant might even now have had some misgivings.

As it was, he told off three men to mount the stairs, and to stand on guard at the top of them, in case the prisoner made a dash that way, in the hopes of reaching the roof. The Sergeant still kept an idea in his mind that some supernatural agency was at work in favour of this extraordinary man, who up to now had seemed to bear a charmed life. He had the little narrow passage and hall of the inn cleared of the gaping yokels, who went off one by one, scratching their addled polls, wondering what it all meant, and who was Beau Brocade. Was he the Earl of Stretton? was he the highwayman? or some pixie from the Heath with power to change himself at will?

Sir Humphrey Challoner retired within the shadow of the stairway. On the whole he preferred to leave the events to shape their own course. In one way Fate had befriended him. Whether hanged in his own name or in that of the Earl of Stretton, the highwayman would within the next few hours be safely out of the way, and then it would be easier no doubt to obtain possession of the letters once again.

He too like the Sergeant and soldiers, felt an instinctive dread of supernatural agency in connection with Beau Brocade. In these days there existed still a deeply-rooted belief in witchcraft, and the educated classes were not altogether proof against the popular superstitions.

Sir Humphrey had a curious, intense hatred for the man who had so chivalrously championed Lady Patience's cause. His own love for her was so selfish and lustful that overpowering jealousy formed its chief characteristic. He was frantically, madly jealous of Jack Bathurst, for with the keen eyes of the scorned suitor, he had noted the look of joy and pride in her face when the young man first appeared on the stairs, and he alone of all those present knew how to interpret her obvious despair, her terrible misery, when brought face to face with the awful alternative of giving up her brother or the man she loved.

Sir Humphrey swore some heavy oaths under his breath at thought of the scorn with which she had rejected him. Womanlike, she had yielded to the blandishments of that thief, and proud Lady Patience Gascoyne had fallen in love with a highwayman!

But now Fate meant to be kind to Sir Humphrey. With that chivalrous coxcomb out of the way, Lady Patience would be once more at his mercy. Philip was still a fugitive under the ban of attainder, and the letters could be got hold of once again, unless indeed the devil, with an army of witches and evil sprites, came to the assistance of that rascal Beau Brocade.

CHAPTER XXXV

QUITS

Hemmed in by a compact little group of soldiers at the foot of the stairs, and with three men on guard at the head of it, Bathurst and Patience had but a few minutes in which to live these last brief moments of their love.

She clung passionately to him, throwing aside all the haughty reserve of her own proud nature: conquered by her great love: a woman only, whose very life was bound up in his.

"They shall not take you!" she moaned in the agony of her despair. "They shall not.... I will not let you go!"

And he held her in his arms now, savouring with exquisite delight this happiest moment of his life, the joy of feeling her tender form clinging to him in passionate sorrow, to see the tears gathering in her blue eyes, one by one, for him and to know that her love—her great, measureless, divine love—was at last wholly his.

But the moments were brief, and the Sergeant below was already waxing impatient. He drew her gently into a dark angle of the stairs, up against the banisters, and taking the packet of letters from his pocket, he pressed them into her hand.

"The letters! quick!" he whispered. "God guard you and him!"

"The letters?" she murmured mechanically.

"Aye! I can do nothing now ... but try to see the Duke of Cumberland before you go to London, show him the letters.... He may be in this village to-day ... if not, you can see him at Wirksworth.... He has power to stay execution even if your brother is arrested ... he might use it, if he had seen the letters..."

"Yes! yes!" she murmured.

Sorrow seemed to have dazed her, she did not quite know what she was doing, but her left hand closed instinctively over the precious packet, then dropped listlessly by her side.

Neither she nor Bathurst had perceived a thin, attenuated figure hoisting itself monkey-wise over the dark portion of the banisters.

"Try and hear what those two are saying," Sir Humphrey had whispered, and the attorney, obedient and obsequious, had made a desperate effort to do as he was bid. The staircase was but partially lighted by a glimmer of daylight, which came slanting round the corner from the passage. The banisters were in complete shadow, and the Sergeant and soldiers were too intent on watching their prisoner to notice Master Mittachip or Sir Humphrey.

The next moment Patience felt a terrific wrench on all her fingers; even as she uttered a cry of pain and alarm, the packet of letters was torn out of her hand from behind, and she was dimly conscious of a dark figure clambering over the banisters and disappearing into the darkness below.

But with a mad cry of rage Jack Bathurst had bounded after that retreating figure; wholly taken by surprise, he only saw the dim outline of Mittachip's attenuated form, as the latter hastily dropped the packet of letters at Sir Humphrey Challoner's feet, who stooped to pick them up. Like an infuriated wild beast Jack fell on Sir Humphrey.

"You limb of Satan!" he gasped. "You ... you.... Give me back those letters! ... Stich! Stich! quick!..."

The force of the impact had thrown both men to the ground. Bathurst was gripping his antagonist by the throat with fingers of steel. But already the Sergeant and his men had come to the rescue, dragging Jack away from the prostrate figure of Sir Humphrey, whilst the soldiers from above had run down and were forcibly keeping John Stich in check.

Freed from his powerful antagonist, his Honour quietly picked himself up, readjusted his crumpled neckcloth and flicked the dust from off his coat. He was calmly thrusting the packet of letters in his pocket, whilst the Sergeant was giving orders to his men to bind their prisoner securely, if he offered further resistance.

"Sergeant!" said Bathurst, despairingly, "that miscreant has just stolen some letters belonging to her ladyship."

"Silence, prisoner!" commented the Sergeant. "You do yourself no good by this violence."

It seemed as if Fate meant to underline this terrible situation with a final stroke of her ironical pen, for just then the quiet village street beyond suddenly became alive with repeated joyous shouts and noise of tramping feet. In a moment the dull, monotonous air of Brassington was filled with a magnetic excitement which seemed to pervade all its inhabitants at once, and even penetrated within the small dingy inn, where the last act of a momentous drama was at this moment being played.

"It must be the Duke of Cumberland's army!" quoth the Sergeant, straining his ears to catch the sound of a fast-approaching cavalcade.

"Then you'll please His Royal Highness with the smart capture you've made, Sergeant," said Sir Humphrey, with easy condescension.

This was indeed Fate's most bitter irony. "The Duke has power to stay execution, and would use it if you showed him the letters!" These were the last words of counsel Bathurst had given Patience, and now with freedom for her brother almost within her grasp, she was powerless to do aught to save him.

"The letters, Sir Humphrey!" she murmured imploringly, "an you've a spark of honour left in you."

"Nay!" he retorted under his breath, with truly savage triumph, "an you don't close your lover's mouth, I'll hand your brother over to these soldiers too, and then destroy the letters before your eyes."

He turned, and for a moment regarded with an almost devilish sneer the spectacle of his enemy rendered helpless at last. Bathurst, like some fettered lion caught in a trap, was still making frantic efforts to free himself, until a violent wrench on his wounded shoulder threw him half unconscious on his knees.

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Sir Humphrey, "I think, my chivalrous friend, you and I are even at last."

"Come, prisoner, you'd best follow me quietly now," said the Sergeant, touched in spite of himself by Patience's terrible sorrow.

But at Sir Humphrey's final taunt Jack Bathurst had shaken off the deadly feeling of sickness which was beginning to conquer him. He threw back his head, and with the help of the soldiers struggled again to his feet. The clamour outside was beginning to be louder and more continuous: through it all came the inspiriting sound of a fast-approaching regimental band.

"The Duke of Cumberland, is it, Sergeant?" he said suddenly.

"Marching through the village on his way to the north," assented the Sergeant. "Now then, prisoner..."

"Nay, then, Sergeant," shouted Jack in a loud voice, as, wrenching his right arm from the grasp of the soldier who held him, he pointed to Sir Humphrey Challoner, "detain that man! ... An I am the rebel Earl of Stretton, he was my accomplice, and has all the papers relating to our great conspiracy at this moment about his person ... the door!—the door!" he added excitedly, "take care! ... he'll escape you! ... and he has papers on him now that would astonish the King."

Instinctively the soldiers had rushed for both the doorways, and when Sir Humphrey, with a shrug of the shoulders, made a movement as if to go, the Sergeant barred the way and said,—

"One moment, sir."

"You would dare?" retorted Sir Humphrey, haughtily. "Are you such a consummate fool as not to see that that man is raving mad?"

"Search him, Sergeant!" continued Bathurst, excitedly, "you'll find the truth of what I say.... Search him ... her ladyship knows he was my accomplice.... Search him!—the loss of those papers'd cost you your stripes."

The Sergeant was not a little perplexed. Already, the day before, the seizure of Sir Humphrey Challoner's person had been attended with disastrous consequences for the beadle of Brassington, and now....

No doubt the Sergeant would never have ventured, but the near approach of the Duke of Cumberland's army, and of his own superior officers, gave the worthy soldier a certain amount of confidence. He had full rights and powers of search, and had been sent to this part of the country to hunt for rebels. He had been tricked and hoodwinked more often than he cared to remember, and he knew that his superior officers would never blame him for following up a clue, even if thereby he was somewhat overstepping his powers.

"The papers," continued Bathurst, "the papers which'll prove his guilt ... the papers! or he'll destroy them."

The Sergeant gave a last look at his prisoner. He seemed secure enough guarded by three men, who were even now strapping his hands behind his back. The accusation therefore could be no trick to save his own skin, and who knows? if the Earl of Stretton was a rebel lord, then why not the Squire of Hartington?

"Seize him, and search him!" commanded the Sergeant, "in the name of the King!"

"Your pardon, sir," he added deferentially, "but the Duke of Cumberland is within earshot almost, and I should be cashiered if I neglected my duty."

"This is an outrage!" cried Sir Humphrey, who had become purple with rage.

"It's doing your Honour no harm! and if I've done wrong no doubt I shall be punished. Search him, my men!"

It was Sir Humphrey's turn now to be helpless in the hands of the soldiers. He knew quite well that the Sergeant was within his duty and would certainly not get punished for this. Worse outrages than this attempt on his august person had been committed in the Midlands on important personages, on women and even children, during this terrible campaign against fugitive rebels.

Less than five seconds had elapsed when the soldier drew the packet of letters from Sir Humphrey's pocket and handed it to his Sergeant.

"They'd best be for His Royal Highness's own inspection," said the latter, quietly, as he slipped them inside his scarlet coat.

"Aye! for His Royal Highness!" quoth Jack Bathurst in mad, wild, feverish glee. "Oh, now is it that your Honour thought you could be even with me? What?"

Sir Humphrey was speechless with the hopelessness of his baffled rage. But Patience, almost hysterical with the intensity of her relief after the terrible suspense which she had just endured, had fallen back half fainting against the stairs, and murmuring,—

"The letters! ... Before His Royal Highness! ... Thank God! ... Thank God!..."

Then suddenly she drew herself up, and laughing, crying, joyous, happy, she flew upstairs shouting,—

"Philip!—Philip!—come down!—come down! ... you are safe!..."

CHAPTER XXXVI

THE AGONY OF PARTING

About half an hour ago, when Jack Bathurst suddenly burst in upon Lord Stretton in the dingy little parlour upstairs, he gave the lad no inkling of what was happening down below. He had hastily discarded Jock Miggs's smock and hat and extracted a solemn promise from Philip not to stir from the parlour, whatever might be the tumult downstairs.

Then he had left the boy chafing like a wild beast in its cage. The heavy oak doors and thick walls of the old-fashioned inn deadened all the sounds from below, and Bathurst had taken the precaution of locking the door behind him. But for this, no doubt Philip would have broken his word, sooner than allow his chivalrous friend once more to risk his life for him.

As the noise below grew louder and louder, Stretton became more and more convinced that some such scene as had been enacted a day or two ago at the forge was being repeated in the hall of the Packhorse. He tried with all his might to force open the door which held him imprisoned, and threw his full weight against it once or twice, in a vain endeavour to break the thick oaken panels.

But the old door, fashioned of stout, well-seasoned wood, resisted all his efforts, whilst the noise he made thereby never reached the ears of the excited throng.

Like a fettered lion he paced up and down the narrow floor of the dingy inn parlour, chafing under restraint, humiliated at the thought of being unable to join in the fight, that was being made for his safety.

His sister's cry came to him in this agonising moment like the most joyful, the most welcome call to arms.

"The door! ... quick!..." he shouted as loudly as he could, "it is locked!"

She found the bolt and tore open the door, and the next instant he was running downstairs, closely followed by Patience.

The Sergeant and soldiers had been not a little puzzled at hearing her ladyship suddenly calling in mad exultation on her brother, whom they believed they were even now holding prisoner.

The appearance of Philip at the foot of the stairs, and dressed in a serving-man's suit, further enhanced their bewilderment.

But already Patience stood proud, defiant, and almost feverish in her excitement, confronting the astonished group of soldiers.

"This, Sergeant!" she said, taking hold of her brother's hand, "is Philip Gascoyne, Earl of Stretton, my brother. Arrest him if you wish, he surrenders to you willingly, but I call upon you to let your prisoner go free."

The Sergeant was sorely perplexed. The affair was certainly getting too complicated for his stolid, unimaginative brain. He would have given much to relinquish command of this puzzling business altogether.

"Then you, sir," he said, addressing Philip, "you are the Earl of Stretton?"

"I am Philip James Gascoyne, Earl of Stretton, your prisoner, Sergeant," replied the lad, proudly.

"But then, saving your ladyship's presence," said the soldier, in hopeless bewilderment, "who the devil is my prisoner?"

"Surely, Sergeant," quoth Sir Humphrey, with a malicious sneer, "you've guessed that already?"

Jack Bathurst, exhausted and faint after his long fight and victory, had listened motionless and silent to what was going on around him. With the letters safely bestowed in the Sergeant's wallet and about to be placed before His Royal Highness the Duke of Cumberland himself, he felt that indeed his task was accomplished.

Fate had allowed him the infinite happiness of having served his beautiful white rose to some purpose. Philip now would be practically safe; what happened to himself after that he cared but little.

At sound of Sir Humphrey's malicious taunt, an amused smile played round the corners of his quivering mouth; but Patience, with a rapid movement, had interposed herself between Sir Humphrey and the Sergeant.

"Your silence, Sir Humphrey," she commanded excitedly, "an you've any chivalry left in you."

"Aye!" he replied in her ear, "my silence now ... at a price."

"Name it."

"Your hand."

So low and quick had been questions and answers that the bewildered Sergeant and his soldiers had not succeeded in catching the meaning of the words, but Sir Humphrey's final eager whisper, "Your hand!" reached Jack Bathurst's sensitive ear. The look too in the Squire of Hartington's face had already enabled him to guess the purport of the brief colloquy.

"Nay, Sir Humphrey Challoner," he said loudly, "but 'tis not a marketable commodity you are offering to this lady for sale. I'll break your silence for you. What is the information that you would impart to these gallant lobsters? ... That besides being my mother's son I am also the highwayman, Beau Brocade!"

"No! no! no!" protested Patience, excitedly.

"Odd's my life!" quoth the Sergeant, "but methought..."

"Aye, Beau Brocade," said Sir Humphrey, with a sneer, "robber, vagabond and thief, that's what this ... gentleman means."

"Faith! is that what I meant?" retorted Jack Bathurst, lightly. "I didn't know it for sure!"

But with a wild cry Patience had turned to the Sergeant.

"It's a lie, Sergeant!" she repeated, "a lie, I tell you. This gentleman is ... my friend ... my..."

"Well, whichever you are, sir," quoth the Sergeant, turning to Beau Brocade decisively, "rebel, lord or highwayman, you are my prisoner, and," he added roughly, for many bitter remembrances of the past two days had surged up in his stolid mind, "and either way you hang for it."

"Aye! hang for it!" continued Sir Humphrey, savagely. "So, now methinks, my chivalrous young friend, that we can cry quits at last. And now, Sergeant," said his Honour, peremptorily, "that you've found out the true character of your interesting prisoner, you can restore me my letters, which he caused you to filch from me."

But the Sergeant was not prepared to do that. He had been tricked and hoodwinked so often, that he would not yield one iota of the advantage which he had contrived to gain.

"Your pardon, sir," he said deferentially yet firmly, "I don't exactly know the rights o' that. I think I'd best show them to His Royal Highness, and you, sir, will be good enough to explain yourself before his Honour, Squire West."

"You'll suffer for this insolence, Sergeant," retorted Sir Humphrey, purple with rage. "I command you to return me those letters, and I warn you that if you dare lay hands on me or hinder me in any way, I'll have you degraded and publicly whipped along with that ape the beadle."

But the Sergeant merely shrugged his shoulders and ordered off three of his men to surround Sir Humphrey Challoner and to secure his hands if he attempted to resist. His Honour's wild threats of revenge did not in the least frighten the soldier, now that he felt himself on safe ground at last.

The rapid approach of the army gave him a sense of security; he knew that if he had erred through excess of zeal, a reprimand would be the only punishment meted out to him, whilst he risked being degraded if he neglected his duty. Whether the Squire of Hartington had or had not been a party to the late rebellion, he neither knew nor cared, but certainly he was not going to give up a packet of letters over which there had been so much heated discussion on both sides.

The fast-approaching tumult in the street confirmed him in his resolve. He turned a deaf ear to all Sir Humphrey's protestations, and only laughed at his threats.

Already the soldiers were chafing with eagerness to see the entry of His Royal Highness with his staff: the village folk one by one had gone out to see the more joyful proceedings, and left the Sergeant and his prisoners to continue their animated discussion.

"Are you ready, my lord?" asked the Sergeant, turning to Philip.

"Quite ready!" replied the lad, cheerfully, as he prepared to follow the soldiers. He gave his sister a look of joy and hope, for he was going to temporary imprisonment only; within a few moments perhaps his safety would be assured. Lady Patience Gascoyne, in virtue of her rank and position, could easily obtain an audience of the Duke of Cumberland, and in the meanwhile the letters proving Philip's innocence would have been laid before His Royal Highness. No wonder that as the lad, marching light-heartedly between two soldiers, passed close to Jack Bathurst, he held out his hand to his brave rescuer in gratitude too deep for words.

"Are you ready, sir?" quoth the Sergeant now, as he turned to Beau Brocade.

But here there was no question of either joy or hope: no defence, no proofs of innocence. The daring outlaw had chosen his path in life, and being conquered at the last, had to pay the extreme penalty which his country demanded of him for having defied its laws.

As he too prepared to follow the soldiers out into the open, Patience, heedless of the men around her, clung passionately, despairingly to the man who had sacrificed his brave life in her service, and whom she had rewarded with the intensity, the magnitude of her love.

"They shall not take you," she sobbed, throwing her protecting arms round the dearly-loved form, "they shall not ... they shall not..."

The cry had been so bitter, so terribly pathetic in its despair, that instinctively the soldiers stood aside, awed in spite of their stolid hearts at the majesty of this great sorrow; they turned respectfully away, leaving a clear space round Patience and Bathurst.

Thus for a moment he had her all to himself, passive in her despair, half crazed with her grief, clinging to him with all the passionate abandonment of her great love for him.

"What? ... tears?" he whispered gently, as with a tender hand he pressed back the graceful drooping head, and looked into her eyes, "one ... two ... three ... four glittering diamonds ... and for me! ... My sweet dream!" he added, the intensity of his passion causing his low, tender voice to quiver in his throat, "my beautiful white rose, but yesterday for one of those glittering tears I'd gladly have endured hell's worst tortures, and to-day they flow freely for me.... Why! I would not change places with a King!"

"Your life ... your brave, noble life ... thus sacrificed for me.... Oh, why did I ever cross your path?"

"Nay, my dear," he said with an infinity of tenderness, and an infinity of joy. "Faith! it must have been because God's angels took pity on a poor vagabond and let him get this early glimpse of paradise."

His fingers wandered lovingly over her soft golden hair, he held her close, very close to his heart, drinking in every line of her exquisite loveliness, rendered almost ethereal through the magnitude of her sorrow: her eyes shining with passion through her tears, the delicate curve of throat and chin, the sensitive, quivering nostrils, the moist lips on which anon he would dare to imprint a kiss.

"And life now to me," she whispered 'twixt heart-broken sobs, "what will it be? ... how shall I live but in one long memory?"

"My life, my saint," he murmured. "Nay! lift your dear face up to me again! let me take away as a last memory the radiant vision of your eyes ... your hair ... your lips..."

His arms tightened round her, her head fell back as if in a swoon, she closed her eyes and her soul went out to him in the ecstasy of that first kiss.

"Ah! it is a lovely dream I dreamt," he whispered, "and 'tis meet that the awakening shall be only in death!"

He tried to let her go but she clung to him passionately, her arms round him, in the agony of her despair.

"Take me with you," she sobbed, half fainting. "I cannot bear it ... I cannot..."

Gently he took hold of both her hands, and again and again pressed them to his lips.

"Farewell, sweet dream!" he said. "There! dry those lovely tears! ... If you only knew how happy I am, you would not mourn for me.... I have spun the one thread in life which was worth the spinning, the thread which binds me to your memory.... Farewell!"

The Sergeant stepped forward again. It was time to go.

"Are you ready, sir?" he asked kindly.

"Quite ready, Sergeant."

She slid out of his arms, her eyes quite dry now, her hands pressed to her mouth to smother her screams of misery. She watched the soldiers fall into line, with their prisoner in their midst, and turn to the doorway of the inn, through which the golden sunshine came gaily peeping in.

Outside a roll of drums was heard and shouts of "The Duke! The Duke!" The excitement had become electrical. His Royal Highness, mounted on a magnificent white charger, was making his entry into the village at the head of his general staff, and followed at some distance by the bulk of his army corps, who would camp on the Heath for the night.

Squire West, his stiff old spine doubled in two, was in attendance on the green, holding a parchment in his hand, which contained his loyal address and that of the inhabitants of Brassington: the beadle, more pompous than ever, and resplendent in blue cloth and gold lace, stood immediately behind his Honour.

In the midst of all this gaiety and joyful excitement the silent group, composed of the soldiers with their three prisoners, appeared in strange and melancholy contrast. Philip and Bathurst were to be confined in the Court House, under a strong guard, pending his Honour the Squire's decision, and as the little squad emerged upon the green, 'twas small wonder that they caught His Royal Highness's eye.

He had been somewhat bored by Squire West's long-winded harangue, and was quite glad of an excuse for cutting it short.

"Odd's buds!" he said, "and what have we here? Eh?"

The Sergeant and soldiers stood still at attention, some twenty yards away from the brilliant group of His Highness's general staff. The little diversion had caused Squire West to lose the thread of his speech, and much relieved, the Duke beckoned the Sergeant to draw nearer.

"Who are your prisoners, Sergeant?" queried His Highness, looking with some interest at the two young men, one of whom was a mere lad, whilst the other had a strange look of joy and pride in his pale face, an air of aloofness and detachment from all his surroundings, which puzzled and interested the Duke not a little.

"'Tis a bit difficult to explain, your Royal Highness," replied the Sergeant, making the stiff military salute.

"Difficult to explain who your prisoners are?" laughed the Duke, incredulously.

"Saving your Highness's presence," responded the Sergeant, "one of these gentlemen is Philip Gascoyne, Earl of Stretton."

"Oho! the young reprobate rebel who was hand-in-glove with the Pretender! I mind his case well, Sergeant, and the capture does your zeal great credit. Which of your prisoners is the Earl of Stretton?"

"That's just my trouble, your Royal Highness. But I hope that these papers will explain."

And the Sergeant drew from his wallet the precious packet of letters and handed them respectfully to the Duke.

"What are these letters?"

"They were found on the person of that gentleman, sir," replied the Sergeant, indicating Sir Humphrey Challoner, who stood behind the two younger men, silent and sulky, and nursing desperate thoughts of revenge. "He is said to be an accomplice and I thought 'twas my duty to bring him before a magistrate. If I've done wrong...".

"You've done quite right, Sergeant," said the Duke, firmly. "You were sent here to rid the country of rebels, whom an Act of Parliament has convicted of high treason, and it had been gross neglect of duty not to refer such a case to the nearest magistrate. Give me the papers, I'll look through them anon. See your prisoners safely under guard, then come back to my quarters."

"Damnation!" muttered Sir Humphrey, as he saw the Duke take the packet of letters from the Sergeant's hand, and then turn away to listen to the fag end of Squire West's loyal address.

Throughout his chagrin, however, the Squire of Hartington was able to gloat over one comforting idea. He had now lost all chance of pressing his suit on Lady Patience, his actions in the past three days would inevitably cause her to look upon him with utter hatred and contempt, but the man who was the cause of his failure, the chivalrous and meddlesome highwayman, Beau Brocade, would, as sure as the sun would set this night, dangle on the nearest gibbet to-morrow.

CHAPTER XXXVII

REPARATION

It was in the middle of the afternoon when His Royal Highness, having attended to other important affairs, and partaken of a hasty meal at the Royal George, finally found leisure to look through the letters handed up to him by the Sergeant.

As he read one through, and then the other, Lord Lovat's letter urging the Earl of Stretton to join the rebellion, that of Kilmarnock upbraiding the lad for holding aloof, and finally the autograph of Charles Edward himself at the end of a long string of reproaches, calling Philip a traitor for his loyalty to King George,—

"There has been a terrible blunder here!" quoth His Royal Highness, emphatically. "Bring the Earl of Stretton to me at once," he added, speaking to his orderly.

Ten minutes later Philip, with Patience by his side, was in the presence of the Duke of Cumberland, who, on behalf of his country and its government, was tendering apologies to the Earl of Stretton for grievous blunders committed.

"It seems you have suffered unjustly, my lord," said His Highness, with easy graciousness. "It will be my privilege to keep you under my personal protection until these letters have been placed before the King and Council."

"I myself will guarantee your brother's safety, Lady Patience," he added, turning with a genial smile to her; "you will entrust him to my care, will you not? Your father and I were old friends, you know. In my young days I had the pleasure of staying at Stretton Hall, and the privilege of dandling you on my knees, for you were quite a baby then. I little thought I should have the honour of being of service to you in later years."

With courtly gallantry the Duke raised her cold finger-tips to his lips. He looked at her keenly, for he could not understand the almost dead look of hopeless misery in her face which she bravely, but all in vain, tried to hide from him. Evidently she was quite unable to speak. When her brother had been brought before His Highness she had begged for and easily obtained the favour of being present at the interview, but even at the Duke's most genial and encouraging words she had not smiled.

"It was lucky," added His Royal Highness, kindly patting her hand, "that so strange a Fate should have placed these letters in my hand."

But at these gentle, almost fatherly words, Patience's self-control entirely gave way. With a heart-broken sob she threw herself at the Duke's feet.

"Nay! not Fate, your Royal Highness," she moaned, "but the devotion of a brave man, who has sacrificed his life to save my brother and me... Save him, your Highness! ... save him! ... he is noble, brave, loyal, and you are powerful ... save him! ... save him!..."

It was impossible to listen unmoved to the heart-rending sorrow expressed in this appeal. The Duke very gently raised her to her feet.

"Nay, fair lady ... I pray you rise," he said respectfully. "Odd's my life! but 'tis not beauty's place to kneel.... There! there!" he added, leading her to a chair and sitting beside her, "you know how to plead a cause; will you deign to confide somewhat more fully in your humble servant? We owe your family some reparation at anyrate, and you some compensation for the sorrow you have endured."

And speaking very low at first, then gradually gaining confidence, Patience began to relate the history of the past few days, the treachery, of which she had been a victim, the heroic self-sacrifice of the man who was about to lay down his life because of his devotion to her and to her cause.

His Highness listened quietly and very attentively, whilst she, wrapped up in the bitter joy of memory, lived through these last brief and happy days all over again. Even before she had finished, he had sent word to the Sergeant to bring both his other prisoners before him at once.

Sir Humphrey and Jack Bathurst were actually in the room before Patience had quite completed her narrative. Bathurst ill and pale, but with that strange air of aloofness still clinging about his whole person. He seemed scarce to live, for his mind was far away in the land of dreams, dwelling on that last exquisite memory of his beautiful white rose lying passive in his arms, the memory of that first and last, divinely passionate kiss.

The Duke looked up when the prisoners entered the room; although he knew neither of them by sight, he had no need to ask whose cause the beautiful girl beside him had been pleading so earnestly.

"What do you wish to say, sir?" he said, addressing Sir Humphrey Challoner first. "You are no doubt aware of her ladyship's grievances against you. They are outside my province, and unfortunately outside the province of our country's justice. But I would wish to know why you should have pursued the Earl of Stretton and that gentleman, your fellow-prisoner, with so much hatred and malice."

"I have neither hatred nor malice against the Earl of Stretton," replied Sir Humphrey, with a shrug of the shoulders, "but no doubt her ladyship would wish to arouse your Royal Highness's sympathy for a notorious scoundrel. That gentleman is none other than Beau Brocade, the most noted footpad and most consummate thief that ever haunted Brassing Moor."

The Duke of Cumberland looked with some surprise, not altogether unmixed with kindliness, at the slim, youthful figure of the most notorious highwayman in England. He felt all a soldier's keen delight in the proud bearing of the man, the straight, clean limbs, the upright, gallant carriage of the head, which neither physical pain nor adverse circumstances had taught how to bend.

Then he remembered Lady Patience's enthusiastic narrative, and said, smiling indulgently,—

"Odd's my life! but I did not know gentlemen of the road were so chivalrous!"

"Your Royal Highness..." continued Sir Humphrey.

"Silence, sir!"

Then the Duke rose from his chair, and went up close to Bathurst, who, half-dreaming, had listened to all that was going on around him, but had scarce heard, for he was looking at Patience and thinking only of her.

"Your name, sir?" asked the Duke very kindly, for the look of love akin to worship which illumined Jack Bathurst's face had made a strong appeal to his own manly heart.

"Jack Bathurst," replied the young man, almost mechanically, and rousing himself with an effort in response to the Duke's kind words, "formerly captain in the White Dragoons."

"Bathurst? ... Bathurst?" repeated the Duke, not a little puzzled. "Ah, yes!" he added after a slight pause, "who was condemned and cashiered for striking his superior officer after a quarrel."

"The same, your Royal Highness."

"'Twas Colonel Otway, who, we found out afterwards, was a scoundrel, a liar, and a cheat," said His Highness with sudden eager enthusiasm, "and fully deserving the punishment you, sir, had been brave enough to give him."

"Aye! he deserved all he got," replied Jack, with a wistful sigh and smile, "I'll take my oath of that."

"But ... I remember now," continued the Duke, "a tardy reparation was to have been offered you, sir ... but you were nowhere to be found."

"I'd become a scoundrel myself by then, and moneyless, friendless, disgraced, had taken to the road, like many another broken gentleman."

"Then take to the field now, man," exclaimed His Highness, gaily. "We want good soldiers and gallant gentlemen such as you, and your country still owes you reparation. You shall come with me, and in the glorious future which I predict for you, England shall forget your past."

He extended a kindly hand to Bathurst, who, still dreaming, still not quite realising what had happened, instinctively bent the knee in gratitude.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE JOY OF RE-UNION

On the green outside, the crowd of village folk were shouting themselves hoarse,—

"Three cheers for the Duke of Cumberland!"

Already the news had gone the round that Beau Brocade, the highwayman, had been granted a special pardon by His Royal Highness.

John Stich, half crazy with joy, was tossing his cap in the air, and in the fulness of his heart was stealing a few kisses from Mistress Betty's pretty mouth.

The appearance of Sir Humphrey Challoner in the porch of the Royal George, looking as black as thunder and followed by his obsequious familiar, Master Mittachip, was the signal for much merriment and some quickly-suppressed chaff.

"Stand aside, you fool!" quoth Sir Humphrey, pushing Jock Miggs roughly out of his way.

"Nay, stand aside all of ye!" admonished John Stich, solemnly, "and mind if any of ye've got any turnips about ... be gy!..."

The Squire of Hartington raised his riding-crop menacingly.

"You dare!" he muttered.

But Mistress Betty interposed her pretty person 'twixt her lover and his Honour's wrath.

"Saving your presence, sir," she said pertly, "my intent was only going to tell the lads to keep their turnips for this old scarecrow."

And laughing all over her dimpled little face she pointed to Master Mittachip, who was clinging terrified to Sir Humphrey's coat-tails.

"Sir Humphrey..." he murmured anxiously, as Betty's sally was received with a salvo of applause, "good Sir Humphrey ... do not let them harm me.... I've served you faithfully..."

"You've served me like a fool," quoth Sir Humphrey, savagely, shaking himself free from the mealy-mouthed attorney. "Damn you," he added, as he walked quickly out of the crowd and across the green, "don't yap at my heels like a frightened cur."

"God speed your Honour," shouted Stich after him.

"Think you, John, he'll come to our wedding?" murmured Betty, saucily, at which honest John hugged her with all his might before the entire company.

"Be gy! I marvel if the old fox'll go to her ladyship's and the Captain's wedding, eh?"

"Lordy! Lordy! these be 'mazing times," commented Jock Miggs, vaguely.

——

But within the small parlour of the Royal George all this noise and gaiety only came as a faint, merry echo.

His Royal Highness had gone, followed by the Sergeant and soldiers, and Bathurst was alone with his beautiful white rose.

"And 'tis to you I owe my life," he whispered for the twentieth time, as kneeling at her feet he buried his head in the folds of her gown.

"I have done so little," she murmured, "one poor prayer ... when you had done so much."

"And now," he said, looking straight into the exquisite depths of her blue eyes, "now you have robbed me of one great happiness, which may never come to me again."

"Robbed you? ... of happiness?..."

"The happiness of dying for you."

But she looked down at him, smiling now through a mist of happy tears.

"Nay, sir," she whispered, "and when the Duke has no longer need of you, will you not live ... for me?"

He folded her in his arms, and held her closely, very closely to his strong, brave heart.

"Always at your feet," he murmured passionately, "and as your humble slave, my dream."

And as his lips sought hers once more, she whispered under her breath,—

"My husband!"

"My dream!—My wife!"

——

Outside the crowd of villagers were shouting lustily,—

"Three cheers for the Duke of Cumberland!"

UPCOTT GILL, LONDON AND COUNTY, PRINTING WORKS, DRURY LANE, W.C.