Front matter (continued 4)

With her distracted gaze on Simone, Marion took the cup and drained it. Anxiously the French girl sat by the bed, watching and soothing the restless hands. She dared not think of the result should the potion prove to be ineffectual. But presently the weary, purple eyelids drooped, the strained lines on the pallid face relaxed. Marion sank into a heavy, motionless sleep.

CHAPTER XVII

AN EAST WINDOW

As the day wore on, Mistress Keziah came several times into the room, nodding with grim satisfaction as she noted the steady breathing, and the natural look on the sleeper's face. The afternoon sunlight was sloping through the trees when, after the hour's rest she always took in her chamber at this time, she again opened her niece's door. Simone rose quickly from her seat by the bed, and joined the lady where she stood.

'Is it well that my mistress should sleep on thus, Madame? She has scarcely stirred since you were here before!' Simone spoke in undisguised anxiety.

'Excellent! Excellent!' said Mistress Keziah. 'The potion was a secret of my grandmother's. I have never known it fail. The brew your mistress drank would make a strong man sleep for twelve hours. In her case, youth will assist in the fight. Once the clock turns, mark my words, she will sleep for another twelve hours, and will wake like a little child.'

Simone started. 'Another twelve hours! Oh! what shall I do?'

The words slipped from her before she quite realised their import, and as she met Mistress Keziah's look of amazement she changed colour.

'Well,' said Mistress Keziah, 'and why should she not sleep?'

Simone held a swift parley with herself as she stood with downcast eyes before the old woman who was so like, yet so unlike, her sister. With Lady Fairfax, Simone would have known at once what course to take.

'I am waiting,' said Mistress Keziah.

Simone looked up at her, her dark lashes heavy with tears; her lips trembled.

'You are yourself scarcely fit to be out of bed,' said Mistress Keziah. 'Come into my chamber a minute. Alison will stay here.'

'But,' faltered Simone, 'if Mademoiselle should wake?'

'When Mademoiselle does wake, she will be herself again. And Alison is a comely maid. I understand 'tis from my own face you would protect her.'

A smile broke over the angular features, and to Simone's amazement, Mistress Keziah passed her arm round her shoulders, and drew her across the gallery. The comely Alison, sitting at the needlework table, was sent to Marion's chamber. With her own hands Mistress Keziah poured out a glass of cordial and tendered it to Simone. She took a seat in a high-backed chair by the window, and beckoned Simone to a stool at her side. The girl's fingers trembled as she held the glass.

'You are in trouble,' said Mistress Keziah, a gentleness in her voice which Simone had not heard before, 'and so is my niece. A burden shared is a burden eased. Can you not tell me? I should not have asked for your confidence, but Mistress Marion said she would tell me to-day, and I gather there is a question of urgency. If you think 'twould be better for me to know to-day—if I could do anything—— Do not be afraid of me, mon enfant. I am an old woman and quite—quite harmless,' she finished with a smile that lay warmly on her wintry face.

Simone buried her face in her slim, fine hands. Then looking up, brushing away the tears, she spoke. 'I think I must tell you, Madame. I—I cannot bear it. I know Mademoiselle intended to tell you everything, and I will risk her displeasure in speaking myself.' She glanced towards the closed door, and dropped her voice. ''Tis thus——' she hesitated a moment, then made a sudden plunge. 'Master Roger Trevannion is here, a prisoner, in Exeter. He warned a friend—an old school friend, Madame—that he was in danger of arrest by Jeffreys' men. Master Roger was betrayed. The friend got away, but Master Roger was taken. A girl of the village wrote a letter to Kensington, warning Mademoiselle that she feared trouble was coming, before this happened. Then another letter to say Master Roger was arrested. On the journey here we learned that he is condemned to death, and there are but a few days of grace.'

Not a muscle stirred in Mistress Keziah's face as Simone went from sentence to sentence of her story. When the girl paused, she sat looking fixedly through the window for several minutes. Simone watching her, saw an expression of mingled sorrow and scorn settle on her features. Simone's heart sank. A sense of unutterable foreboding assailed her. Was the worst still to come—Mistress Keziah's enmity?

'You will see, Madame,' she presently ventured in trembling tones, stating the case for her dear lady as best she might, 'Mademoiselle felt she was the only one who might be able to help. Monsieur the Admiral she dared not appeal to. A magistrate has but to see the course of the law fulfilled. And Mademoiselle has a sore heart for her playmate. There is no one she can trust. Hence Mademoiselle has come herself. You knew Master Roger, Madame?'

Mistress Keziah looked hastily down at the girl. 'I have no blame for my niece,' she said abruptly. 'I was thinking of her father.' Simone remembered Marion's words: 'She quarrelled with my father on the question of my upbringing.'

For some time neither spoke. Then Simone ventured again: 'You knew Master Roger, Madame?'

The hard old face softened. Before Mistress Keziah's eyes was a vision of the tall youth of whom she had heard so much. He had never come to the house while she was at Garth; she had never spoken with him save once, when she was walking with the Admiral, and Roger had ridden by. In her heart of hearts the old lady had liked the boy, but she had chosen to lecture her brother on the foolishness of allowing Marion to have such a playmate: precisely the same word as Simone had used had come from the Admiral in describing the boy. And now the playmate was in the dark shadow, and Marion was heart-broken.

All Mistress Keziah's theories and denunciations fell away. The sense of romance which had been sleeping for a generation stirred, reminding her of other days, of her own youth, when some one else, just such another, had come her way and gone his way, banished by her pride. The storm that had sunk his vessel had made shipwreck of her own happiness, but no one had ever known. She saw the years of her life as they had gone by. Should such a fate be Marion's? She sighed. Simone, watching her face, saw the expression changing, and knew the day was won. She lifted the wrinkled hand to her lips. 'You will be kind to her, Madame? You will not be angry?' she implored. 'You are the only friend she—she has.'

Mistress Keziah brought herself back to the present. She smiled down at the wistful face, and Simone was comforted. Mistress Keziah fell into deep thought.

'Does Lady Fairfax know of this?'

'No, Madame. She is at Tunbridge with Her Majesty; there was not time for us to go or to send. Mademoiselle wrote to her, though, telling her why she had left London in such haste. She must have had the letter ere this.'

'Who betrayed him?' presently asked the old lady.

''Twas said by the fisher girl that a Mademoiselle——'

'Elise!' cried Mistress Keziah, and her hand smote the arm of her chair. 'I knew it! I knew it!'

Simone looked perplexed as Mistress Keziah got up.

'Go and lie down, Simone,' she said, her old brusque manner returning. 'I must think. Stay! Has any one any inkling of the reason of your mistress's visit to this house?'

'No one, Madame. The menservants think Mademoiselle is ailing, and would rest here a few days.'

'Excellent. You know, of course,' said Mistress Keziah, falling back into the whispering tones, 'that should this be noised abroad, the fate that overtook poor Master Roger will fall on your mistress.'

Simone shivered. 'No one knows, Madame, I assure you.'

'And on myself, and on you,' relentlessly pursued the lady. 'There is no mercy to temper justice in these days. Well, well, no need to say more on that.'

'Madame—just one thing—where—where is the prison?'

'Ah! I bethink me of another thing. How did you learn the lad was condemned?'

Simone hesitated, and her colour rose. But there was no retreat. In a few words she told of Marion's search in the courier's saddlebags, contriving to get into her short story a sense of the danger the girl had run. Mistress Keziah's eyes gleamed, but the bolt of wrath Simone dreaded did not fall.

'She is her father's daughter!' she said abruptly. 'As foolish as she is fearless. Tell me the exact words: was it Exeter gaol, or the Castle?'

'Gaol, Madame.'

Mistress Keziah leaned back in her chair. 'Ah!'

Simone waited.

'If you would just tell me, Madame?'

'From the most easterly chamber yonder, leaving the gallery and going along the far passage, into a room that is rarely entered, you will get a glimpse of the gaol and the yard. Now go. Go quietly. Do not arouse the servants' curiosity, and when you have satisfied your own, remember I told you to rest.'

Simone gave one hasty glance into Marion's room, then set out to explore. With the doors opening on to the gallery she was by this time familiar: Mistress Keziah's bedroom, dressing-room and sitting-room occupied one side, on the other came Marion's two rooms, another bedroom, another sitting-room. In the corner of the gallery were the double doors that led into the passage Mistress Keziah had mentioned.

With a hasty glance around that told her she was unobserved, Simone quietly slipped through the double doors. The unmistakable odour of tenantless rooms greeted her as she went along, glancing into the chambers she passed. The passage ran almost due east. On one hand the windows looked cheerlessly out on to stables and coach-houses, and the wall which divided the grounds from the road beyond. Behind the wall rose the slope of Castle Hill, with its grey stone walks and cluster of buildings at the summit. The rooms on the southern side were filled with the afternoon sun, and caught the green of the garden trees.

Simone entered the last room, paused, then looked back along the landing. Mistress Keziah had said that the end chamber faced the east: the single, half-shuttered window of this room looked north. Could there be another passage branching off?

She looked round the room again. Behind the door was a smaller one, looking like that of a closet. With difficulty Simone forced the door open, and saw in the dim light a narrow winding flight of steps. With her skirts tucked round her knees, Simone climbed the uneven dusty stair, and presently stood in a small dark chamber under the eaves. It was empty, dusty, foul from non-usage. Light streaming in through the crevices of a shutter outlined a single tiny window set low—the eastward wall. Gasping a little in the closeness of the air, Simone struggled with the rusty bolts, and presently shot back the shutters and opened the pane. It was not more than a foot wide and two feet deep.

As she knelt down and peered through, Simone could scarcely breathe for the quickness of her heart beats. Directly below her ran the length of the rambling garden, ending in thick, tall trees. A little to the left, Simone caught sight of a grim-looking building which needed no explaining. She leaned forward, putting her head through the little opening. The south and west parts of the gaol were clearly visible, being indeed not more than a hundred yards away, only separated from Mistress Keziah's garden by the cobbled road. A thick high wall ran close up to the south side, on the west and north widening to enclose a bare foul patch, strewn with refuse, on which the sun fell with baking heat: the gaol yard. A faint odour seemed to strike the girl's nostrils, and she shivered as she remembered the dark stories of prison life, of uncleanness and gaol fever which from time to time had come to her ears. She no longer wondered why Mistress Keziah lived in the west wing of her house.

Over several grated windows Simone looked, one by one, but could see no signs of the life of the interior. Then, realising there might be a guard-room down there, whose windows looked out on the yard, and whence to a curious observer she might be visible, she withdrew her head. Crouching on the worm-eaten boards, she found a position that enabled her, unseen from without, to watch the prison and the yard.

As Simone waited, wondering if the prisoners would come out, there was the sound of shuffling feet, and from the shadow at the end of the building a man came in sight, carbine on shoulder. He paced the length of the gaol, turned, and was again lost in the shade. Presently Simone saw him walking the length of the yard. Then the footsteps were silent awhile.

Simone crouched until her limbs were aching and she dared stay no longer, lest Alison should seek her in her own room. But no face or form rewarded her vigil; only the gaunt walls and mocking bars showed, hideously bare in the sunlight. Behind which of those narrow apertures was the condemned youth hidden?

Presently the girl rose, and cautiously crept back along the passage. She waited several minutes behind the double doors, and looked carefully along the gallery and into the hall below before she gained her own room. Then, bathing her face and hands, and removing all traces of dust from her dress, she went into Marion's chamber. Alison rose with a smile, and beckoned her past the sleeping figure to the farther door.

'My mistress has gone to make a visit,' she informed Simone. 'Have you rested well?'

'Very well, thank you.'

'The young mistress is sleeping bravely. Her'll be fresh as a daisy come the morning.'

With her usual gentle politeness, Simone thanked the girl for her services, and closed the door as she went across the gallery to the servants' stairs. Taking up her old position by the bed, Simone looked sorrowfully at the face on the pillow.

Marion was in the same position. Her breathing was that of a child; the strained lines had gone from her face. Simone could have cried aloud on the unkind kindness of fate in ordering her healing so. By the morrow there would be only two clear days left, the third should see the courier returned. As she thought of the gaol, with its impassable walls hiding the sinister, watching shadow, the stout-barred window niches, Simone felt sick at heart. Who could break through such barriers? Two frail girls and an old woman?

Sitting idle was intolerable. Simone stole into Mistress Keziah's empty room, and taking up the sheet Alison had been stitching, bore it back to Marion's chamber. For a couple of hours she sat thus, and it seemed, as each quarter chimed from the church beyond, that the next would be unbearable.

A kitchen-maid brought in her supper, with a message from Mistress Keziah that she would speak with Simone the next morning. So that was the end of another day.

The westering sunlight sloped across the hill, and the golden radiance fell on Simone's pale face as she sat before the generously piled dishes. She drank some milk, and ate a little bread and honey, afterwards resting motionless in a kind of mental and physical apathy. Presently she roused herself, and in unutterable weariness and despondency sought her own bed. For the first time she understood fully just what the strain of waiting had been to Marion. Rather than wait another day, Simone vowed, she would scale those prison walls herself. Her desperate fancy dwelt on the picture until, towards midnight, a restless sleep stole over her. She dreamed of horsemen innumerable bearing down towards her, each carrying a warrant of death. As they neared, the lane down which they rode—the same lane where the coach had foundered—broke into prison yards and opened again. All through her sleep the dream seemed to come and go, making a lifetime of its passing. At length, in a sudden access of horror, she saw that one of the riders charged into her room. She woke with a scream in the grey dawn, to find Marion standing by her bed, shaking her arm.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE SIGNAL

It was almost three o'clock. Marion and Simone, crouched by the window in the little room over the east landing, were watching for the prisoners to come out into the yard. Mistress Keziah had said that it was the custom for them to be given an hour's exercise at that time.

Marion, fully recovered, was strangely quiet. Her anger at the method of her aunt's cure had soon worn itself out. The knowledge that the prisoner was almost within hail absorbed all her thoughts, and she was secretly thankful to find that the day which had passed so idly had not only spared her the ordeal of an explanation to her aunt, but had brought great gain in the way of restored mental and physical strength. Forgetting all that lay behind, she now drove her whole energies forward in one channel.

The morning had passed in speculations indoors and a drive round the Castle and the town, during which the horses had, strangely enough, halted to rest near the gates of the gaol. While Mistress Keziah's coachman had exchanged friendly remarks on the health of the inmates with the sentry peering through the wicket, Marion's eyes had taken in the exact height of the prison wall, its character, its distance from the eastward bounds of her aunt's garden across the way.

'No need to stay here, Tom,' sharply called Mistress Keziah a minute later, and the coachman had driven on, remarking on the increasing ill-temper and contrariness of his mistress. Had she not called a halt just there? As if the horses needed resting, forsooth! Down the road that bordered the gaol the coach had gone, passing Mistress Keziah's own gate and thence into the town. Marion had thus a first-hand knowledge of the respective positions of the two buildings. During the drive in the streets she had remained silent. On the homeward way she turned to her aunt.

'Have you a long rope or cord in the house, Aunt Keziah?'

'Plenty, I should think, my dear. I will find out. The chief trouble, you know, is the servants' curiosity. Mercifully, yonder London men, Reuben and Tony, are completely turning the heads of the kitchen wenches. There is no fear of their having an idle hour to watch your movements. My greatest difficulty is Alison, who spends quite half her time above-stairs, and Josiah, who is her shadow when she descends.'

'Has she not a mother or a father, Madame?' inquired Simone.

Mistress Keziah made no reply. But afterwards when Alison was arranging her gown for dinner, Mistress Keziah said with her usual abruptness: 'You are looking pale, Alison. I think 'tis well you should take a rest. The day is fine. The walk will be pleasant. Get you to your home and stay there a week. Yonder Simone will manage my hair and gowns, I trow.' Then, when Alison's face had darkened in jealousy, the old lady had added indifferently, 'Unless, of course, you too are held by the company and amusement of the men in the kitchen.'

Alison tossed her head. The goad to her pride served its purpose. She said no more, but soon after dinner she set out on the five-mile walk to her father's farm, escorted by Josiah, who was carrying her small bundles and had been given a hint by his mistress that if he truly loved the comely Alison, here was a chance of prospering his suit.

The old lady sat for a long time thinking, alone in her room. The two girls, she knew, were at the little window, hoping for a sight of Roger. Mistress Keziah's face was stern and fixed. During the conversation of the morning she had judged it best to withhold two facts from the knowledge of her guests. The first was her discovery that her old friend the governor of the castle was still away in the north country, where he had gone to visit the governor of York. The deputy-governor was a man whom Mistress Keziah held in open dislike because of his truckling politics when Jeffreys was in the West. (As Marion had said, she made rare enemies.) There was therefore no chance of an appeal. She knew of no other quarter whence any influence could be brought to bear on the doings of Jeffreys' men.

Her first thought had been to seek the governor and pray for time; not knowing whether he was returned or not she had refrained from visiting the castle, but had sought the house of a friend overnight through whose rooms as in a living stream poured all the news of the county. Once the governor's compliance won, she had determined to send her fastest rider to Lady Fairfax in order to seek a royal pardon, if, indeed, her sister had not already taken that course.

With the discovery that the governor was away, the old lady's solitary hope had fallen. She could not think of any possible means by which, in less than three days, the fortress could be won. When it came to the moment, prison bars and walls were mightily inaccessible: it was only in Biblical days that the stones fell down.

On any other save a question of time she could have won the day. But Exeter was three days' ride—two in an extremity—from London. And while Royal Pardons were being sought, yonder courier, fresh from his audience with Jeffreys, was bringing back the word of doom. Of Jeffreys' clemency Mistress Keziah had not the slightest hope. She remembered too vividly that red Assize in Exeter. She also knew the deputy-governor well enough to surmise that 'twas not in hopes of mercy he had sent the courier, but rather to show in what faithful stewardship the affairs of Devon reposed. Roger Trevannion was no ordinary prisoner: a very long feather in the cap of justice.

The second item that she had sorrowfully withheld had also been learned in her friend's house. Admiral Penrock had been seen, two days previously, riding in his coach at a gallop, London bound. Another futile errand. She knew from Marion that her father had been much abroad in the far west on magisterial affairs. Evidently the news of Roger's arrest had at last reached him. He had posted off to London and would arrive in the presence of the Lord Chancellor, Mistress Keziah estimated, about a day after the courier had left for Exeter.

With these sad thoughts for company, Mistress Keziah had spent most of the night. Secretly convinced that the quest was hopeless, she had nevertheless humoured her niece to the utmost, taking her where she would, sending her servants out of the way so that no hint of Marion's strange doings should become common to the household. And now she sat, slowly gathering her strength for the ordeal of the day after to-morrow, when Marion, pale, sweet Marion, with her childhood's loyalty and unavowed, growing woman's-feelings would find herself beaten down, helpless, broken-hearted.

There was still a great store of fighting strength in the old woman, and when she pondered on the comings and goings, Marion and Simone here, her brother urging his horses to London, her sister—the more she thought the more she was sure—using every ounce of power and influence to obtain a Royal Pardon, and all one day—two days—too late, she knotted her thin hands together in fury at her own helplessness. When she thought of Marion, hot tears scorched her eyelids. When she thought of Roger, she buried her face in her hands and prayed. In the hour of death, and in the Day of Judgement...

Meanwhile Marion and Simone crouched by the window. There was just room inside the tiny casement for the two, unseen from without, to watch the door that led into the gaol yard, Marion to the front, Simone peering over her shoulder.

'What are you going to do, Mademoiselle?' queried Simone.

'I do not in the least know. But I have a feeling that when the hour comes I shall do something.'

Simone said nothing. The revelation of Marion's quiet strength was nothing new to her. She prepared herself to serve in whatever way might lie in her power. But Simone's eyes were shrewd, and she had read the expression in Mistress Keziah's face as she watched Marion's eyes counting the yards and feet outside the gaol. She knew that in her inmost heart Mistress Keziah had no hope. But she had said 'Yes, my dear,' her grim face unusually gentle, when Marion had asked for a rope; 'Yes, my dear,' when Marion had asked was there a well-ground file handy, and perhaps a ladder to be left carelessly in the garden: 'Yes, my dear.' Everything that Marion wanted in the way of properties and personal help would be hers until the hopeless game was played out. Simone saw it all very plainly.

What was going on behind that calm, pale face whose cheek, softly curving, was so near her own?

As Simone, sorely cramped, was moving her limbs, Marion suddenly cried, 'They come!' Simone craned forward. In the quiet afternoon rose a sound of shuffling feet and voices. Out into the sunshine lurched a number of men.

Marion caught her breath painfully as she looked at them. They were rough, ill-clad, foul-featured. There was evidently some quarrel among them, for they settled in a group, their voices rising. One held his fists clenched. But where? Ah! Marion's sudden movement told Simone who was yonder tall, broad-shouldered youth who strolled idly out to the yard. He leaned against the prison wall and looked up at the sky, across at the trees of Mistress Keziah's garden. In a flash Marion saw her opportunity. No other face was turned her way. She thrust her head out of the tiny window. The sunlight, falling over the eaves, made a halo of the shining, gold hair. Roger's eyes caught the glow. He started perceptibly. For a second he stared up; his eyes held hers. Then Marion withdrew, and Roger turned and walked away.

Marion's breath came and went. She sank back on the floor.

'He saw me!' she panted. 'Has any one noted his glance? Look, quickly.'

'No one has turned this way. He walks up and down. He does not glance up at all.'

'Let me come.' Marion crouched forward again, her trembling hand resting on Simone's. That sight of Roger, his face so pale, his eyes sunk under the brows, had almost unnerved her. Tears blinded her vision as she looked down at her old playmate pacing the prison yard. The last time she had seen him, he had been arguing with her, in his old masterful way, on the folly of her going to London; had made her promise to send to him should she need help. And now!

The sound of angry voices rose again in the quiet air. The prisoners were still quarrelling. Inside an eager ring a couple of men set on each other, watched on the one hand by Roger, idle, aloof, and on the other by the gaolers, greedy of bloodshed. While the fists were flying, Roger allowed himself one more glance at the little casement, taking in its position in a lingering sweeping look at the sky. A hoarse chuckle came from the shadow in the buttressed wall. 'Thinking of heaven already, my lad?'

Marion shuddered.

'Don't listen,' urged Simone. 'Don't look. Come away, Mademoiselle. He has seen you. You have gained your end.'

Marion shook her head. For a seemingly endless time the two crouched by the window, watching the fight in the gaol yard.

'His window must be visible from here,' presently said Marion. 'See there, just behind, where there is another cluster of chimneys close to the back of the building. There cannot be cells on that side.'

'Except dark cells,' assented Simone. 'And those would be for murderers. Ah! they are going in.'

The two were silent as the gaolers drove in their charges. Roger did not turn his head, much less venture a look.

'You watch the south side and I the west,' said Marion. 'He will wait for one second when the sentry is not looking, and will let us know. He must realise we are here to help.'

The minutes idled by. Neither stirred. Marion sick at heart, was beginning to think of condemned cells, when Simone gave a cry.

'I saw it! His hand for one second through the bars! There is the window, Mademoiselle, the third from the end, the south side.'

As she spoke both Marion and Simone uncurled themselves from their cramped position and sat side by side on the floor. Simone winced as her aching muscles asserted themselves, but she soon scrambled to her feet. 'We have been here for hours, Mademoiselle. I am still afraid of the curiosity of the servants.'

Unseen, the two regained the gallery. Marion sank in a chair by the window of her room, her brows knitted, deep in thought. Presently she raised her head...

'It is simple enough,' she whispered. 'He just needs a file and a rope. With two of those bars gone, and a rope, he could let himself down to the ground. That rough boundary wall he could easily climb. What can we do? Oh, what can we do?'

'If we had any friends in the gaoler's house,' said Simone after a time, 'we might send in something—a pie, a dumpling with the file inside. But to arrange that takes a long time and much management. Still, if you think it worth while, Mademoiselle, I will disguise myself as a cook. I will seek the gaoler and—win his regard,' finished Simone.

'Then I should lose you both. No—such a plot—I had already thought of it in the coach on the way—as you said, needs a network of conspiracy. It would involve the kitchen here, and my aunt. It needs knowledge of the interior of the prison, of the particular kind of character of the gaoler. An ordinary gaoler would eat the pie himself. No, the risk that is run must be mine. Above all, my aunt must not suffer. It looks so simple,' Marion added desperately, 'just to get that file and rope into his cell.'

'That is the trouble with most prisons,' said Simone naïvely.

Marion did not hear her. Her head had fallen on her hand again. An hour passed by. The girl seemed to be turned to stone. Just as Simone, busy with her needle, was about to break the oppressive silence, Marion raised her head. There was a strange look in her face, as if she were greeting some one unknown at a distance.

'Don't speak to me,' she said. 'I think—I think I have found a way.' She drew a long breath. The wide grey eyes resting on Simone slowly came back to the measure of the room. 'Yes.' She rose. 'Get my cloak and hood, Simone. I must ask my aunt if we may walk down into the town.'

Marion had barely finished her sentence before Mistress Keziah herself opened the door. She heard in silence Marion's request.

'Had you not better drive?' she said, after a minute's thought.

'I think not, Aunt Keziah. A person can go unnoticed where a coach cannot. And there is not time to explain just now. Do not, I pray you, Aunt Keziah, deny me this hour's liberty.'

'My dear child,' said the old woman, her voice breaking, 'I have but one wish, and that is to help you.'

Marion looked at the speaker. In her hardly suppressed eagerness and excitement, her hands on her cloak, she had scarcely noted her. Now she saw traces of tears. Her arms went suddenly round her aunt's neck in a mute embrace. Then she withdrew herself with a gesture Simone understood. There was no time for weeping.

Mistress Keziah sat down. 'Listen. I can't let you go alone. You must take old Zacchary. He is the most to be trusted, the least inclined to chatter. Ring the bell, Simone—better still, go down and fetch him: say I wish to speak to him.'

'I did want to keep Zacchary out of the way of any possible suspicion, now or later, Aunt Keziah. He is an old man.'

'We are all either old or young,' remarked Mistress Keziah drily.

As Marion tied on her hood Zacchary appeared at the door. His wrinkled face lighted up at the sight of his 'little maid.'

'Come here, Zacchary,' said Mistress Keziah.

The old groom stepped awkwardly forward. He was always at a loss what to do with his feet, save in the stable yard or on the box. His fingers tugged at his hair.

'Mistress Marion and Simone wish to take a walk in the town, Zacchary. You are to follow them close behind. If they enter any house or shop, wait.'

Zacchary nodded.

'There is no need to say anything in the kitchen, Zacchary,' said Marion.

Zacchary pulled his hat from under his arm.

'Her told me' (with a look at Simone), ''twas to go down along. There hain't no call to go to the kitchen. Here a be.'

'You understand, Zacchary, that should you at any time be questioned as to the doings of your mistress while in Exeter, you know nothing.'

'A don't be knowing in any case, Mistress.'

'Continue not to know. Otherwise there will be danger for Mistress Marion.'

Zacchary thought hard as he followed his young charges into the town. Something was amiss. He realised, looking back, that something had been amiss, all the way down from London. But in the meantime, he had his orders.

With Simone at her side, looking neither to the right nor to the left where passers-by were concerned, Marion went over the town on a search which greatly excited Simone's curiosity. She saw that in one shop her mistress bought a hank of the finest grey embroidery silk. Before another shop she paused, bidding Simone wait with Zacchary. Simone looked curiously at the sign, which showed that a gunsmith and armourer carried on his trade there. Marion came out empty-handed. The end of her search was evidently not yet.

''Tis getting late, Mistress,' said Zacchary, his eye on the sun, as she joined the waiting pair.

A fleeting look of horror passed over Marion's face, and she turned aside from old Zacchary's vision. At that moment a man lounged by, his gait marked by the obvious roll of the sailor. Marion glanced idly at him. Then she swung round and looked again, a puzzled expression in her eyes. What was there familiar about that face and figure?

Zacchary's eyes were also on the retreating sailor. He noted his mistress's glance, but said nothing. Like herself, he was musing on the vague likeness to some one he knew very well. Marion and Simone walked on, followed by Zacchary. Suddenly the old man stopped in his walk, and turning, looked at the feet of the man just making the corner of the street. His old eyes gleamed.

'May a be everlastingly goshwoggled!' he exclaimed. He quickened his pace, and joining Marion, said something in her ear.

'Are you sure?' asked Marion incredulously.

'Sarten sure, Mistress. Couldn't mistake they feet nowhere. A allus said Poole'd escape again. Good for little maid Charity, bless her heart!'

Marion glanced quickly round. 'Gently, Zacchary,' she said. 'Don't take any notice of me, if I think of speaking to him.'

Zacchary fell back, his face sombre; the world seemed very much awry.

In the meantime, Marion's wits were hard at work. She was walking slowly on.

'Now I think I want to buy a yard of ribbon I had forgotten, for my aunt's lavender cap. Did you not see how the ribbon was worn, Simone?'

Simone made a slight moue. 'As you like, Mademoiselle.'

The haberdasher's shop was at the extreme end of the street down which, Marion had noted, the sailor had gone. Making a detour, she entered the street from another direction, timing her arrival at the door so that the clumsy figure rolled by just after she had bidden Simone enter the shop. Zacchary stood a few paces away, chewing a straw, his eyes in the opposite direction. Marion followed the sailor a couple of yards.

'Jack!'

The man stopped and turned, a smile lighting up his features as he recognised the speaker. Marion looked affectionately up into the face of the sailor-boy of her childhood's days. The rough beard he had assumed for a disguise changed him greatly. But the merry eyes were the same. Marion went straight to the point.

'This is a great danger for you, Jack.'

Poole nodded. 'I couldn't stay down along, or sail, or anything, with Master Roger in gaol, Mistress Marion.'

'I guessed it. We must not be seen talking. Listen. He shall escape. I need help at the other end. You can do nothing here. Bob Tregarthen is lying in the Catt Water. Take a boat down there, and persuade him to sail down to Garth and wait off the headland. Tell him to be prepared for a voyage; ready to sail at a minute's notice, night or day. You understand?'

Jack hesitated. 'I'd a sight rather bide along o' you, Mistress. How be you going to manage the escape? 'Tis over dangerous for a maid.'

'Never mind me. I have my plans. But don't you see, Jack, you are an added danger? They are sure to trace you here. When did you escape from Bodmin?'

'Three days ago. And when I heard from Charity what was doing, I couldn't sail, I couldn't. Let me bide and help 'ee, Mistress!'

Marion reconsidered the position. She shook her head. 'No,' she repeated, 'you make an added danger. And I need your help at the other end. Go now, Jack. I'm so afraid you may be recognised. Give my dear love to Charity. And Jack—have a care. Yonder renegade may be on the watch.'

'I know all about he,' said Jack. 'I only ask just to set eyes on un.'

'Then good-bye, Jack. And—and God bless you.'

'God bless ee kindly, Mistress Marion,' came Poole's husky tones, as he turned away.

Marion glanced hastily along the street. Only a few men lounged at the other end, outside a small inn, and these, she saw to her infinite relief, had been joined by Zacchary, and were looking at something in the distance, something Zacchary was pointing out. 'Dear old Zacchary!' commented Marion. 'He has his wits about him.'

She entered the shop. Simone was arguing on the subject of the colour of ribbons with the shopkeeper and his assistant, who were fully absorbed in the conversation, to the exclusion of any affairs in the street.

'Here comes my mistress,' said Simone. 'I was saying, Mademoiselle, that no lady could wear a ribbon of such a vile texture as that, and the colour of this is too garish. What do you think, Mademoiselle?'

Gravely Marion went into the subject of the silk, and finally bought a couple of yards and went out. She turned straight up the hill towards her aunt's house.

CHAPTER XIX

THE GAOL YARD

Across the candles of the supper table Mistress Keziah looked curiously at her niece, and the footman behind her chair could scarcely attend to his duties for watching the face of the young mistress. Her eyes were bright, spots of colour showed in her cheeks; she was wearing a beautiful London gown; Mistress Keziah knew that for some reason Marion was calling up her defences. 'For a complete actress,' mused the old woman, 'give me a girl who is at her wits' end with anxiety and grief.'

Marion was talking of her childhood at Garth, of the various activities that had filled her days. From that she went Lightly back to Kensington, and thence again to Cornwall. She appeared to be relishing greatly the prospect of returning to Garth.

'Only my promise to stay with you a sennight would keep me, Aunt Keziah. I am suddenly become mightily homesick. I want the stables and the horses—my horses—the boats and the beach. I declare I should like to look at my dolls again, and my skipping rope. Oh yes! and my bow and arrows. Ah, those days! 'Tis a pity you never learned to shoot, Aunt Keziah. I remember your telling me you had never handled a bow. If only you had one, 'twould have pleased me mightily to set up a target in the garden. Did I tell you,' she went on, 'that Colonel Sampson and Captain Beckenham took me to an archery one day, and I beat my lord the captain by a good two yards?'

Marion laughed merrily. The footman, his wits dissolved in admiration, stored up the gossip for the kitchen, and wondered where a bow was to be had. He would like greatly to watch the young lady shoot.

'Who is Captain Beckenham?' asked Mistress Keziah.

'One of Aunt Constance's friends, in Her Majesty's suite. He was mightily kind. He risked the Queen's displeasure in absenting himself to ride with us over the heath past Hounslow, giving me to understand it was for the sake of my beaux yeux. But,' added Marion, a smile coming and going, 'in the coach I discovered that my own were outshone by Simone's. He amused me somewhat, that young man. He changes from one weighty affection to another as lightly as he changes a coat.'

Mistress Keziah, following her niece's lead, talked in a similar vein until the cloth was removed, and William departed. As he closed the door Marion leaned back in her chair, and drew a long breath. Mistress Keziah waited. Marion had nothing more to say. In silence the two finished their meal, the girl toying with the sweets on her plate. She followed her aunt into her little sitting-room upstairs, where Simone, who always ate her meals in her own chamber, had been bidden to wait. From a stool by the window in the dusk-filled room, Simone looked anxiously at her mistress. The evening had been heavy for her. She had once more been counting the hours; the lingering daylight showed her face wan and grave.

'Well,' said the old lady drily, as she sat down, ''twas mightily pretty, all that talk. What did it mean?'

'It means, Aunt Keziah, that by fair means or foul, I must have a bow and arrows.'

Mistress Keziah stared at her niece.

'I am not demented,' said Marion, 'though I see you think so. I sought the town this afternoon. There seems not to be such a thing in Exeter. But there must be, if one knew where to look.'

'So that is why you discoursed on the subject so pleasantly that William spilt the gravy all over the trencher.'

'Just that, Aunt Keziah. If William knows any one who possesses a bow, 'twill be forthcoming for the young mistress's amusement.'

Simone and Mistress Keziah stared afresh at the speaker. Marion had given no inkling of her motives for wandering about the town during the afternoon, nor had she explained her reason for making the purchases she had.

'But why?'

'To kill the sentry?' queried Simone.

'To shoot sparrows, ma petite. See,' Marion looked round, 'just glance over the gallery, Simone, lest some one should be within earshot.'

'No one is about,' said Mistress Keziah. 'William is holding forth in the kitchen on the subject of Mistress Marion. 'Tis long since he has had such entertainment.'

Simone returned to her seat. Her face was grave.

'See,' said Marion again, speaking slowly, looking from one to the other of her hearers. 'To the end of an arrow may be attached a length of fine silk; to that a length of stout thread; to that'—Simone gave a little cry—'a length of fine cord; then a rope; to the end of the rope may be tied a package containing a note and a file. Simone, if you go into hysterics, I shall put you to bed!'

Simone was struggling between tears and laughter, her Gallic temperament suddenly roused in a helpless emotion. She clasped her hands over her face. 'Oh, Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!' she sobbed. 'I see it plainly. He will be saved! Oh!'

Aunt and niece were looking at each other. 'Well?' said Marion.

'Mes compliments,' returned Mistress Keziah quietly. A gleam of pride flashed in her keen old eyes. She looked from her niece to Simone, who was rocking to and fro on her stool. 'Any one would know you were not English, Simone!' she said, with a touch of asperity.

'Eh bien!' sobbed the girl, 'one may love one's mistress, even if one is not English.' Simone was completely undone by the swift reaction of four days and nights of anxiety and hopelessness. Marion laid a soothing hand on her shoulder. By degrees she calmed down.

'But where can one be got, Aunt Keziah?'

'So. Before shooting the arrow of fate it is first necessary to have a bow.'

'And any day after to-morrow the courier may return.'

Silence fell on the little room.

'You did not say how you would do it, Mademoiselle,' presently said Simone.

'From the little window across into the cell, through the bars.'

'But, Mademoiselle, can you do such a thing? It seems incredible, at that distance, through those narrow bars!'

'I know not whether any one can do such a thing or not. But I am going to do it.'

'That is the right spirit,' commented Mistress Keziah, her eyes gleaming again. 'There speaks victory. But taking your skill for granted, my dear, how avoid the risk of shooting the lad himself?'

'I have thought of that. We had a trick, Roger and I,' Marion made a swift gesture with one hand, 'like that, when we were shooting together in the country, a gesture that told the one who was marking where arrows fell to stand to the left or right out of danger as the other changed his aim. I will make the sign when they are out in the yard. There will be one second in the hour when the sentry is not looking, as there was to-day. Also, to make sure, I am going now to note what his cell looks like by candlelight. I feel sure that if Roger has sixpence in his pocket he will have a candle to-night. He will want us to see him. You may be quite sure Roger is thinking hard, as well as ourselves, and doing all he can. He will know I am not here in Exeter just now simply to take the air.'

Mistress Keziah pondered a while.

'Suppose your silk catches in the trees?'

'It cannot. The window is too high.'

'Will it not interfere with the flight of the arrow, Mademoiselle?'

Marion shook her head. 'The silk I bought is tough, but very fine.'

'But,' said Simone, her brows puckered, 'I do not understand, Mademoiselle. How will you dispose of the silk so that it will run easily?'

'I see you are not a sailor, Simone,' remarked Marion.

Simone looked puzzled. Mistress Keziah smiled.

'In which storey is Roger's cell?'

'The first.'

'Are you sure the boundary wall of the gaol will not be in your way?'

'Quite sure, Aunt Keziah. This house is much loftier than the prison, and the little window is under the eaves.'

''Tis a hare-brained scheme, and would e'en seem hopeless,' remarked Mistress Keziah, 'had I not a lurking feeling that fortune favours the brave. I must think it over. But, dear, you have been some months at least without any great practice. Are you sure of your aim? It will be in the dark, I suppose?'

'At dawn; just before three o'clock.'

Mistress Keziah nodded. 'Better so. But as I said, 'tis a good distance for a shot.'

'Close on a hundred yards,' said Marion. 'I measured this morning. And to-morrow I shall practise in the garden.'

'Suppose there is a wind, Mademoiselle,' said Simone presently.

Marion clasped her hands. 'I pray not,' she said simply. 'That would be difficult. But,' brightening again, 'I have certainly shot in a wind before now. Do not let us think of——'

'And in all this,' burst in Simone, laying her hand on her mistress's knee, 'you have forgotten the sentry!'

Marion stroked back a strand of the glossy dark hair.

'I have forgotten nothing, mon amie. The sentry at night will, I expect—we will ascertain presently—patrol the yard as his comrade does by day. The sentry is of course the greatest difficulty. I shall have to time my venture when he is at the far end of the yard. That,' added Marion naïvely, 'is where the speed of an arrow is a fortunate thing. Once the arrow is in the cell', the cord and rope can be drawn in while the sentry is walking round the buildings.'

'And should he hear, Mademoiselle?'

'He shall not hear.'

Simone glanced at Mistress Keziah. Marion intercepted the look. 'Dear aunt,' she said gently, 'I cannot deny that there is danger of detection. But—his need is greater than any peril we run. And should the plan fail, and be discovered, 'tis I alone who am the culprit. I shall make a full avowal. You shall not suffer, Aunt Keziah!'

'Hoity toity!' said Mistress Keziah. 'What happens in my house is my business, I trow! And who in Exeter, do you suppose, is going to lay a finger on me?'

Remembering the lady's words of warning to herself on the previous day, Simone was mute. She sat folding and unfolding a pleat in her gown, tears welling into her eyes again. There was something that would not bear thinking about in these two, one old and one young, who thus vied with each other for the honour of taking blame. To Simone's relief, for her control was fast weakening, William's step was heard in the gallery.

'Here comes a dish of tea,' said Mistress Keziah tranquilly. 'Open the door, Simone. And fetch me the cards from my chamber,' she added as the footman entered. 'Will you join me in a game, my dear?'

'I have been wanting to,' said Marion. 'Aunt Constance taught me a new one in Kensington. I should like to show you.'

Mistress Keziah dealt the cards, and Marion arranged her own share on the little table William had drawn close to their chairs. Simone seated herself at a distance with her needlework. When William returned later for the tray, to all appearance a lively game was afoot.

'He will not come back?' asked Marion, after William had departed.

'Not unless I should ring. You were saying?'

'I was saying, Aunt Keziah, that I should feel vastly more comfortable if you would go away. Go down to Garth, to my father.'

'For one so quick-witted, you are singularly stupid,' remarked the lady, with a touch of the imperiousness that reminded Marion of the personage she had first known and feared. 'I must stay here to cover your sudden departure with the lad. No, leave my comings and goings to me, my fair general. See you to your own and Roger's. Simone and I will follow you to Garth.'

Marion rose and bade her aunt good-night without any further argument, and accompanied by Simone stole along the gallery to the little chamber under the eaves. The moon was breaking from a bank of golden haze in the eastern sky as Marion gently put back the shutter and peered out. The silence of the night lay about the garden, and save for one lighted niche the gaol was in darkness. As Marion had surmised, Roger was playing his part in the game whose nature he could only guess. A candle stood on his table, which he had drawn out of vision so that its flame should not blind the eyes of the watcher to the disposition of the room. He himself, sitting at the table, reading, was partly visible to Marion's eager eyes. But what she had longed to see, and was comforted to behold, was the end of the plank bed half way along the bare wall. She had been secretly haunted by the possibility that her arrow might alight on the sleeper, should he be sleeping. The corner of the room which was her target was empty.

Cautiously Marion withdrew her head. The heavy footsteps of the unseen sentry sounded, making the corner of the buildings. Like his comrade during the day, he steadily patrolled the wide stretch of yard, coming from time to time round the gable end to take in the narrow patch at the south front of the gaol. Knowing that soon the moon must lie full both on that side of the prison and on the little eastward casement, and fearing the eyes of the sentry, Marion half closed the little shutter. There was a sharp creak she could not avoid, and watching through the crack she saw that Roger had heard the noise. He rose and looked upward through his bars. Then, either fearful of the sentry's comments on his candle, or, as Marion guessed, content that he had been seen, he put out the light just as the sentry turned the corner.

Marion watched the dark form of the sentry as he walked the length of the building, turned, and heavily stamped back. He disappeared; presently the measured beat was heard in the yard beyond. A minute later the moon swung clear of the curtain of haze.

More cautiously this time Marion moved the shutter back, then thrust out her head in the clear light. Immediately a hand stole from between the bars across the way, and waved a stealthy greeting. Marion raised her own hand and pointed to the moon. Her finger travelled in a mimic motion of the moon crossing the sky, once—twice. Then swiftly she gave the gesture of warning which she had mentioned to her aunt. She repeated the motion. The hand across made the signal of assent. Then, greatly daring, after a rapid survey of the gaol yard where the invisible sentry was still tramping, Marion gave in dumb show the action of shooting an arrow.

The moon was full on her face as she moved. Simone caught her breath. There were other cells in the south front of the gaol: other eyes might well be watching the little play. The hand across waved again. In the gloom of the building Roger's face, a white patch crossed by the bars, was clearly visible. The sound of the sentry came nearer. Again Marion closed the shutter.

'He understood,' she whispered. 'He nodded. Did you see?'

Simone gripped her arm. 'Come away, Mademoiselle. Do not attempt to look again. The moon is on this window as clear as day. I am afraid. There may be other eyes yonder, as well as Master Roger's.

'Not so,' replied her companion. 'But we will go now. 'Tis better, perhaps.'

The two crept back along the passage to Marion's chamber. In the light of the sconces Simone looked anxiously at her mistress. Marion smiled.

'You are over nervous, Simone. Think of those men we saw brawling and fighting in the yard to-day. Are they the kind, think you, to watch the rising of the moon at an hour when all the town is sleeping? They are more likely to be snoring on their plank beds.' She stopped abruptly as she thought of Roger's couch in the dark little cell. 'Still,' she said, commenting on her own thoughts, 'a plank couch is no matter when one's sojourn is short. Now we are going to bed, Simone. My aunt said there was no need for you to attend her to-night. There is much to do to-morrow. Above all, do not forget to oil the joints and hinges of the shutters, yonder, early in the morning.'

Marvelling at her mistress's light-spiritedness, Simone went through her usual nightly duties. Soon the two were in their beds. Marion's hopeful mood, which assured her of victory and overlooked the hazards of the battle, carried her across the spell of silence and thoughtfulness which came when she laid her head upon the pillow, safely into the unconsciousness of sleep.

Simone, wide-eyed, listened to the steady breathing through the open door of her own room, and marvelled again. And in the next chamber Mistress Keziah lay, conscious of the dull weight of age pressing on body and soul alike. An hour's quiet consideration had roused in her a strong doubt of the wisdom of Marion's plan, a deep scepticism of its success. She was oppressed by the sense of the risks the girl ran, but could think of no measure that would make her desist from the attempt. It was Marion's safety against a slender chance of Roger's life; and Marion was not the one to be deterred by a thought of peril for herself. Of her own share she thought little; she had lived her life, and Marion's was hardly begun.

What she had been able to do, she had done. A letter addressed to Lady Fairfax lay on her table. With the early light it should be despatched to London. It was not only for Roger that a reprieve might be wanted.

CHAPTER XX

ZACCHARY'S QUEST

Zacchary was standing by Mistress Keziah's chair, tears running down his cheeks. He had at last learned the secret of Marion's visit to Exeter.

For some time Mistress Keziah allowed him to talk, easing himself thus, she knew, of his grief and distress concerning Roger; and as she waited, Zacchary poured out a string of broken reminiscences from which the old lady unconsciously built up a picture of Marion's and Roger's childhood on the hillside at Garth.

She could well have wept herself. The morning had shown her no grounds for any reasonable hope; Zacchary's instant scorn for Marion's plans had secretly added to her own misgivings. Zacchary had scarcely, indeed, paid any heed to the scheme for Roger's release. In his mind it was a foregone failure: to him Master Roger was beyond all human redeeming. When at last he paused in his jumbled tale, and was staring sorrowfully out into the garden, Mistress Keziah brought her attention to the point at issue.

'I sent for you, Zacchary, because you are the only one we can trust with this secret. And also, you are the only one who can search for the bow and arrows.

'A bean't for doing aught of the kind, Mistress,' Zacchary rejoined, a stubbornness in his manner. ''Tis clean gone foolishness, the like as a never heard. More seemly 'twould be to set the horses to the coach and take the little maid home. Arrows, indeed! 'Tis the wild fancy of a maid who've set herself to do a man's work. 'Tain't no job for Mistress Marion. If you'd told me two days gone, Mistress, me and yonder Tony would have done something, and Reuben.'

Mistress Keziah controlled her rising impatience. She had not dreamed that Zacchary would rebel. At once she realised that the old man would have to be argued with, not commanded. His very virtues on which she had counted, his loyalty, his love for Marion and Roger, his fifty years' service at Garth, became a barrier that threatened the advancement of Marion's hopes.

'Don't you see, Zacchary, Master Roger is suffering this fate because he tried to help? Would the lad himself like it, think you, that strangers should be imperilled for his sake? Would he not rather die thrice over than allow Tony and Reuben to be drawn into gaol? And to leave that side of the question, what chance of safety has a secret shared with two such men? How much opportunity have you had of judging their characters? They are not of your county: a Londoner is never trusted by West country folk. A week you have passed in their company; they have proved able grooms on the road, they are mightily pleasant in the kitchen. Is that a reason why they should be entrusted with a mission which means life or death to a man they have never seen, and is of such exceeding danger, that should it fail, they might hang at the next assize? 'Tis a job for a man's friends.'

Zacchary, convinced on the point, but unwilling to own it, was silent. His slow peasant brain was working.

'If a body had ever heard of such a thing afore as bows and arrows to get a man out of gaol,' he said, after a while, 'I'd have some patience thinking on it.'

'By the mercy of Providence,' retorted the old lady, her eyes flashing in her angular old face, ''tis not every day in the week that a lad like Roger Trevannion lies within an hour of death, as you might say, and no help forthcoming. Extreme cases need extreme measures. For my part, I am willing to take all risks to help my niece. I had not expected to find an enemy in you, Zacchary. One might think you were unwilling to hold out to Master Roger a slender chance of life.'

''Tis the little maid I be thinking of now,' said Zacchary abruptly. 'If so be her's taken too, what be I to say to the Admur'l? Her was left in my care in Lunnon. 'Tis a hundred to one Master Roger will go just the same, and liker than not her'll be in gaol at the end on 't.'

'Give her the hundredth chance. And remember, she is a quick-witted, brave woman, playing a woman's game. You are always thinking of her as a little child. And,' added the lady, with an outward show that arrogantly hid her feelings, 'leave her safety to me. Do you think my niece, Admiral Penrock's daughter, will easily be imprisoned?'

Zacchary glanced at the old lady. 'You'm some like the Admur'l, Mistress. Well. How'm you going to hide the lad?'

'We are not going to hide him. To-morrow morning, early, you will take out two horses and wait outside the town. If you are seen, why, you are taking one of my greys up to the Stows. They are for travelling a spell, and one of their chestnuts has fallen lame. That is clear?'

Zacchary nodded gravely. 'And then? Be the lad going to take refuge on the moor?'

'Mistress Marion and Master Roger are going to ride to Garth.'

'To Garth!' The old man's voice showed his consternation. He stared at Mistress Keziah, as if unable to believe his own ears. 'To Garth? To the one place where every man, woman and child knows un? 'Tis sheer folly, Mistress!'

'That is just the reason why he will be safer there than anywhere. Because, as you say, it is sheer folly. They will search Exeter. They will beat the coast and the river. They will expect him to take to sea. Garth is the one place where they will never dream of looking for him.'

On Zacchary's slow mind there dawned the realisation that by its madness there was hope in the project laid down. Mistress Keziah, watching his face, knew that the time was come to drive hard. She looked at the clock.

'You have been here an hour and a half while you should have been at work. Leave all the rest. We will talk of it again later. Mistress Marion is out just now, seeking some purchase she needs. You can speak with her afterwards if you wish. Say nothing in the kitchen. Go first into the inn on the street. Get into conversation, and learn if there is any one who makes bows and arrows in Exeter. There must be some such, although archery has become but an idle pastime. And remember there are only a few hours. If only I could make you understand, Zacchary——' Mistress Keziah's voice broke, and tears stood in her eyes, 'you are the only help and hope we have. You, and no other, stand in between Master Roger and his death.'

Zacchary straightened himself. 'If there's one to be found, I'll find un, Mistress.'

'There is one to be found somewhere. But I have never been directly interested in archery. And the servants, who might know, being native to the town, I dare not send urgently without exciting curiosity. Mistress Marion went as far as she dared last night that way. We have to think of afterwards, of protecting her from any shadow of suspicion.'

'Ay,' said Zacchary. 'I heard on 't. Her turned William's head and no mistake. A's talked of nothing but bows and arrows and the mistress's eyes since. A little thought what the little maid was up to.'

Mistress Keziah went to a drawer, and took out her purse. 'Here is money. Spare nothing. But do not show any need of urgency. And above all, be careful in the kitchen.'

Zacchary went out without further words, and Mistress Keziah sank back in her chair.

It was close on eleven o'clock. She looked out into the garden, where, in the earlier part of the morning, Marion had been spending, to all appearance, an idle hour wandering to and fro with Simone at her side. Secretly Marion had counted the yards in the trim walks and grassy stretches until she had fixed on two slender trees as a target. The trunks stood close together, twin growths from one root. A certain spot, which Marion and Simone committed to memory, not daring to set a sign there, lest the servants should be watching, marked the distance of a hundred yards from the trees. Marion knew that if she could shoot at that distance into the crevice between the rising stems, she could shoot between the bars of Roger's cell. She determined to practise both by day and at night, when the servants were in bed; in the daylight shooting casually at any mark; in the dark or half light aiming at her target.

Everything was ready. The rope had been found by Marion in the harness room where her aunt had directed her; the file she had taken from the coachman's tool box. A note to Roger, directing him to scale the wall and run along the road to the courtyard gate, where she would be waiting him, was written and locked in her box, ready to be tied to the rope, with the file, later on. To please her mistress, Simone had laid out her riding habit. Her cloak was rolled into a bundle, to be strapped to the saddle. Everything was ready, so Marion had said, when she had kissed her aunt before setting out to buy a length of cord to take the place of the unsatisfactory piece she had found in her aunt's boxes. It only remained now for Mistress Keziah to send Zacchary to find a bow and arrows, a task which Zacchary could perform without any suspicion. He only needed to go to the New Inn for a pint of ale and get into conversation with mine host. All was quite clear in Marion's mind.

Mistress Keziah could still feel the girl's caress, could still see the suppressed eagerness in her face. The old woman sat motionless, only glancing at the clock from time to time. Already the day seemed interminable. The June sunshine bore too hotly into the room; she drew the shutter half way across and sat down again. There was a tension in the air of the house which, added to the languor of the day, weighed on her spirits. She dreaded Marion's return, dreaded Zacchary's return. As she had said, archery was merely a pastime, the implements of the craft not being found easily like the contents of the gunsmith's rooms. Quite likely William might unearth a bow and arrows in the course of the week—everything would happen just too late. And she was afraid to speak to William lest, later on, he should begin to think and remember. As she had said to Zacchary, Marion had gone as far in that direction as she dared.

All too soon the door opened, and Marion entered.

'Has he got it, Aunt Keziah?'

Mistress Keziah looked up at the face bending over her. Marion had thrown aside her hood. Her white muslin dress seemed to wrap her in a cool serenity. It seemed incredible, thought Mistress Keziah, looking from the eyes to the hair, and back to the serious, sweet mouth, that misfortune should lay its blight on that countenance.

'He has not yet returned,' quietly said the old lady.

Marion's eyes grew wide. 'But there has been time,' she faltered.

'He is scarcely an hour gone, my child. Sit down.' Mistress Keziah related the story of her conversation with Zacchary. Before the two had finished talking midday struck, and the servant came to announce dinner.

'Already?' said Marion dully.

Mistress Keziah said nothing. There was nothing to be said, nothing to be done.

Marion sat on the arm of her aunt's chair, and laid her golden head beside the grey one. 'May we not wait for dinner till Zacchary returns? I could not eat anything. I was hungry before, but not now.'

All the life had gone out of her voice. The reaction Mistress Keziah had dreaded was upon her. Marion had found it comparatively easy to pass the morning, her thoughts and activities engaged in the immediate moment. Now she found herself once more faced by the ordeal of waiting in suspense.

Mistress Keziah roused herself. 'You must eat, and eat well. Otherwise your nerves will weaken. Come along! A battle lies ahead. This is but a game. You played it well enough last night.'

Presently aunt and niece faced each other across the board, and Marion struggled to recover something of her everyday speech from that deep place of silence into which all her faculties had seemed to fall. Mistress Keziah played her own part well. When Marion, suddenly finding words drying on her lips, ceased to speak, Mistress Keziah took up some tale or anecdote. William, watching his two ladies, was unaware of anything amiss. Mistress Marion was quiet, certainly, but that was the way of maids, all bubble and froth one day, a dark pool the next. Dish after dish came on the table, and Mistress Keziah failed not to pile her niece's plate.

Slowly the meal wore itself out. A casual question from Mistress Keziah concerning the stables elicited from the unsuspecting William the news that Zacchary was still abroad in the town.

As Marion followed her aunt upstairs, half-past one chimed from the church near by. Marion went to her own room. Simone, according to her habit, had eaten her dinner upstairs, and was waiting for her mistress. Marion stood still in the middle of the room, her hands pressing back the hair from her forehead.

'Is it possible,' she said, 'possible, that in all Exeter there is no such thing as a bow and arrow?'

Simone felt tongue-tied. 'Surely not, Mademoiselle,' was all she could find to say.

Her mistress moved about restlessly for a while, then sat down, and taking up the needlework with which Simone had been busied, stitched for a short time. The French girl quietly found other occupation, and made no remark when Marion flung down the sheet and went into the next room. There she turned over her riding habit. Again she passed through her fingers the long line of silk which Simone had bound on to the cord in such a way that no roughness of joining was left which might catch on any surface. With the same dexterity Simone had attached the cord to the rope. Lifelessly Marion laid down the lengths. To and fro she paced the little room. A fever was slowly mounting to her brain. She dared not trust herself to seek the eastward window. To wait: to do nothing but wait, within a few hours of doom—could she endure it?

She went back into her own chamber, and silently held out a hand to Simone. Together the two passed out into the garden. To and fro under the trees they paced, and from time to time they fell within the line of the shutter niche of Mistress Keziah's window. Looking down on the girl's face, Mistress Keziah suddenly felt herself to be an old, old woman. Wiping away a few tears, she strove to consider afresh the problem of the necessities for Marion's plan. Failing the main road, were there no by-paths?

A little later she opened the casement, and called down to Marion.

'I have just thought, my dear,' she said, when the girl entered her room, 'that I should like to drive out to see Mrs. Burroughs. Her house is but three miles out of the town. There are children there,' she added diffidently. 'Would you care to accompany me?' The rest she left unsaid, but Marion understood. She rang her aunt's bell, and Mistress Keziah ordered the coach.

Half an hour later the horses were climbing the steep lane out of Exeter.

At the house they descended, and were welcomed by a pleasant-faced woman, the daughter of a girl friend of Mistress Keziah's. Very soon the visitor mentioned the children, and a boy and girl of ten and twelve years were summoned to the room.

Marion devoted herself to the newcomers with such friendliness that presently she was borne off to see the stables and the ponies, the trout brook at the bottom of the field, then back to the house to the play-room to look at their treasures. By dint of adroit questioning she learnt the favourite pastime of the two. The boy, talking eagerly to his guest, told her proudly of his skill in archery. At thirty yards he had hit the target. His sister, standing by Marion's side, obviously lost in admiration of such a visitor as rarely came her way, noted Marion's changing colour.

'I used to shoot once upon a time,' she said. 'Let me see your bow. I should like to try again.'

Then the little girl, amazed, saw the 'beautiful lady' suddenly stiffen. She could not think what had happened: merely that her brother had explained that his bow was broken, and another was promised by his father for his birthday.

Later on, with a child at either hand, Marion descended to the sitting-room. Mistress Keziah's glance read the story in her face. Soon she rose to bid her hostess adieu, Marion's cold lips framing what answers she could to the lady's genial parting words.

As the coach rolled up to the courtyard gate, the old woman laid her hand on Marion's. She had forborne to question her, and the girl had remained silent on the homeward drive. Marion returned the pressure without speaking: she recognised the challenge in her aunt's touch.

In the hall, Mistress Keziah turned and spoke indifferently to the servant who opened the door, asking had there been visitors in her absence. Then, as she set foot on the stairs, Marion walking behind, the old lady paused. 'Has Zacchary returned yet?'

'Not yet, Mistress.'

In the stillness, the churches in the town chimed six. Marion went to her own room, and closed the door. A kind of stupor seemed to fall on the house.

Just before supper time, Zacchary walked heavily up the stairs and knocked at Mistress Keziah's door. Hearing the lady's voice, he entered.

'No good, Mistress,' he blurted out.

Mistress Keziah gripped the arms of her chair as Zacchary told the tale of his fruitless search. After much talk he had heard from mine host of the New Inn the name of a man—a friend of the innkeeper—who was the possessor of a fine bow. Saying nothing to the innkeeper, Zacchary had found out the man, only to learn that the 'fine bow' was a valued heirloom, not at any price to be sold or lent. From the possessor he had heard of another: a similar result. Then he was told of a man whose father used to make bows and arrows, and who, it was believed, occasionally carried on the work himself. By that time several hours had passed. The man in question now lived on a farm some five miles out of the town. Thither Zacchary had dragged his old legs. The man was ill in his bed: an ague, Zacchary said. There was no bow to be bought. Nor did the man's wife know of any other maker. Archery was little thought of in these days save for children's play. True enough, there must be bows in some one's possession in Exeter. But the day was gone.

'What be I to say to the little maid?' queried Zacchary, his voice husky. He was worn out with sorrow, and the fatigue of walking in the hot day.

'I will tell her,' said Mistress Keziah from her chair. 'You may go, Zacchary. You need rest and food. Tell them to keep supper waiting till I ring.'

Zacchary turned, to find Marion standing in the doorway.

'I heard, Aunt Keziah,' she said. 'Thank you very much, Zacchary.' She walked quietly back to her room.

At the peculiar, calm tones of her niece's voice, Mistress Keziah shivered as if a cold wind had struck her. She got up stiffly from her chair, and walked slowly into Marion's chamber. The girl was standing, her hands locked, staring dully out into the garden. Without speaking, Mistress Keziah sat down by the window. She did not look at the motionless figure. After a while she held out a hand. Slowly Marion came, and sinking on the floor, buried her face in the old woman's lap. The wrinkled hands passed slowly to and fro over the shining hair.

The sun sank low behind the trees. Mistress Keziah's tears had stayed. Marion still crouched, dry-eyed, her face hidden, motionless save for a convulsive shudder which shook her from time to time.

Neither heard the sound of light footsteps in the gallery. The door burst open and closed again.

'Mademoiselle!'

There was a new ring in Simone's voice. Slowly Marion raised her blanched face. Simone was pouring out a story in mixed French and English, plentifully watered with hysterical tears. The name of the good William ran in and out of the story. Marion scarcely heeded her. She was staring at a bow and a sheaf of arrows Simone had laid at her feet.

CHAPTER XXI

DAWN

The gaol buildings and yard showed dim in the diffused light. A cluster of small clouds clung to the face of the moon, and down in the west lay a grey bank which rose imperceptibly, its edges caught by the hidden glow. From time to time a cat's-paw of wind tapped the branches in Mistress Keziah's garden, breaking the dead calm of night with the rustle of the leaves. The storm was coming. For days the heavy heat had been gathering for a break.

In Marion's room there were whispering voices. Mistress Keziah, fully dressed, herself was superintending the robing of Marion for a long and arduous ride. The light of the candles on the dressing-table fell on the dark, shapely form, the bodice buttoned close, the wide skirt falling away. The gleaming hair was securely bound in a long plait, and then knotted at the nape of the neck. On the bed, beside the gloves and whip, lay the cavalier riding hat with its long, soft plume, which Lady Fairfax had given to her niece. The habit adjusted, Simone knelt and drew on the long riding boots, reaching almost to the knee, wide in the leg, tapering down to the foot.

Simone rose, and surveyed her mistress from head to heel. Her teeth caught on her trembling lip.

'Are you sure your arms are not held in any way, my dear?' asked Mistress Keziah. 'You have enough freedom of movement?'

'Quite, I think,' said Marion gently. 'Now do let me go, Aunt Keziah.'

''Tis not yet the dawn.'

Simone blew out the candles, and threw the shutters and casements wide. A sweet air crept into the room. At first, after the light of the interior, the garden seemed filled with the gloom of midnight. But soon the three at the window were aware of the shapes of trees, softly grey; of the diffused radiance of the sinking moon.

Marion leaned far out of the casement, and looked towards the east. A faint bar of light lay on the horizon. Over the sleeping land that rose beyond the town a breathing motion seemed to pass, as if Nature were stirring in her sleep. Again came the fitful breeze tossing the leaves in the garden.

'Hark!' said Marion. 'The cocks are crowing on the hill. Dearest, dearest Aunt Keziah, bless me, and let me go!'

There was a tremor in the clear voice, but outwardly Marion was calm. Simone had already stolen away.

Mistress Keziah wrapped her arms about the comely figure and pressed trembling kisses on the soft face. A few broken words fell from her lips; then she dropped her arms and turned away. With one backward look, Marion went out of the room. The old woman sat down and hid her face. She dared not follow to that little eastward room; she dared not witness the speeding of that silken thread.

Across the gallery Marion stole, her wide skirt gathered up on her arm. She listened awhile, leaning over the rail. There was no sound in the dark, sleeping house. For fully an hour the servants would be abed. Marion gently opened the double doors. A pitch darkness lay on the narrow passage. She groped her way by the wall, and presently climbed the dusty stair.

Simone was crouching by the little window, the grey of the coming dawn on her face and hair. Without a word she gave place to Marion, and stepping back, took up the bow, and held an arrow ready in her trembling fingers.

On the window ledge, where there was nothing to impede its run, lay the silk thread coiled as sailors coil a cable in the bows of a boat. Its upper end was attached to the arrow Simone held in readiness; the lower end ran to a corner of the room where the fine cord was similarly coiled atop the rope.

Marion examined the coils afresh, tested the knot that tied the silk to the arrow, then, giving the shaft back to Simone, knelt at the casement.

A dusky light touched the gaol chimneys. The niches of the casements were still dark, but Marion imagined she saw a white patch behind Roger's bars.

'Where is the sentry?' she whispered.

'I do not think he is there, Mademoiselle. But he must be, somewhere.'

Simone crouched behind her mistress, and the two pairs of eyes searched, inch by inch, the dark patches of the gaol buildings. Nowhere could they descry any shape that could be construed into the form of a man.

'Perhaps he is resting at the other side, Mademoiselle. There must be a bench or something there.'

'He is certainly not in sight,' decided Marion. 'Please God he is asleep on the bench, as you say.' She glanced anxiously at the sky. 'I dare not wait.'

Her hand shot out of the window, making the gesture of warning. She waited. A dim movement from the cell showed that her surmise was correct. Roger was awake and ready.

Freeing her knees from any constraint of her dress, Marion took her position just inside the casement a little to the right. With deliberation that seemed unending to Simone she fitted the arrow, drew the bowstring taut, once, twice, thrice. Then she gathered herself and rested motionless. A second later there was a flashing gleam in the grey air. Then a sharp tap. Aghast, Marion peered forward. The arrow had fallen wide, striking the masonry of the wall.

Simone gave a low cry of dismay, and stared at her mistress. Deathly white, Marion laid down the bow, and drew gently on the silken strand. Somehow the arrow must be retrieved.

There was a faint scraping noise as the shaft was drawn backward up the face of the wall. Twice it stuck in the masonry. Marion had a sickening fear that the silk would not carry the light burden she eased the length a little, then, with a swift lunge, played the silk outward, and jerked the arrow up above the wall. Rapidly she drew in the silk, hand over hand. On the wall of her aunt's garden the arrow stuck again. Less carefully Marion drew at it. The arrow caught on its point, and dropped sharply down inside the garden. At the next tug the silk broke.

'No matter,' said Marion. ''Tis safe. Another.'

Carefully the two coiled up the silk again. Marion dared not hurry. Should the length not run easily, the direction of the arrow would be warped.

Just as she knotted the line to the second arrow, there was a sound of scraping feet in the gaol yard. The girls looked at each other in the dim light.

Peering through the casement, Marion saw a dark figure detach itself from the buildings on the north side. With his arms wide, the sentry wearily stretched his body. He gave himself a little shake, and yawned. The watchers could plainly hear his loud 'Ha-ho!' Then he took up his carbine. A few notes of a tavern song came to their ears. The sentry was waking up. He shouldered his gun, and marched up and down the yard. A minute later he appeared on the south side, tramped the narrow space between the gaol and the wall, retraced his steps. As he turned, Marion was already fitting the arrow to the bow. His shuffling feet echoed in the silence of the enclosure. There would be about thirty seconds before he would turn again.

With hands clasped, shaking from head to foot, Simone watched the second arrow speed. Was it home? Yes. No. Again came the sickening tap. The shaft had struck the middle of the central bar in the grating, half an inch wide of the mark.

Once more Marion hauled in the silk. A deadly chill gripped her heart. The sentry's feet sounded nearer. A little puff of breeze came again. The silk shook as the arrow was drawn up the wall. Would it stick in a crevice this time? For a few seconds, during which Marion seemed not to breathe, and the room spun round her, the arrow caught on the stones. Round the corner came the sound of the sentry's feet. Marion leaned far out, and with a swift sideways motion played out the silk and drew the arrow over the coping of the wall. Just as the sentry appeared in view the shaft fell into the road that bordered the gaol.

'Never mind,' said Simone, through chattering teeth. 'I will go and get it later.'

As Simone snapped the silk and tied the broken end to the third arrow, Marion sank back on the floor. She closed her eyes, and leaned against the wall. A faintness had assailed her. If her courage once fled, failure would be certain. Twice she had missed the mark.

The man below trod noisily to and fro on the south side. Again came the snatches of the ditty. Drawing a long breath, Marion rallied herself, and peered out of the window. A white patch showed dimly between the bars of Roger's cell, immediately over the sentry's head. In the grey light, Marion imagined that she saw Roger's face. He seemed to be smiling up at the little window. To Marion's wild fancy the look was plain to be seen. It seemed to say, 'Bravely, little Mawfy!' as he had said of old when she had just failed of the mark.

Some quickening influence ran through the girl's blood. Her dread and fear fell away. She looked searchingly down at the cell grating; then, as the man below swung round, her fingers flashed the signal. The white patch behind the bars disappeared.

'How many arrows are there, Simone?'

'Twelve.'

'I shall win on the twelfth,' said Marion calmly, fitting the barb as she spoke.

Marion, kneeling, drew the bowstring taut. Simone held herself ready to draw in the silk, her ears strained for the fall of the arrow on the stones of the yard. Could either of them bear the strain of the twelve? Would not the sentry hear the faint sounds? His footsteps paused in the yard beyond. Marion held her breath and waited. The tramping steps began once more. Again came the lightning streak through the dim air. The silk ran out. There was no tap of the falling shaft.

Marion leaned forward. The bow dropped from her nerveless hand. With a low cry, Simone brushed the girl aside out of the way of the shining strands. Roger was hauling in the silk. Gently the length passed through Simone's fingers.

'Hist!' said Marion. She laid a steadying hand on the line. The sentry's footsteps sounded again. His clumsy form swung round the corner, the light gleaming on his barrels. He paced the length of the south wall, and stood still: then, laying down his carbine, he looked searchingly round, and groping in his pocket, drew out pipe and flint and tinderbox. Leaning against the wall, directly under the slender line, he proceeded to fill and light his pipe. From time to time he glanced nervously about.

Again the wave of faintness stole over Marion. Her eyes, wide with horror, stared at the man below. Simone gently took the silk from her.

The sentry was fumbling with his tinderbox. Would he look up and see that fine strand, grey as the sky, stretched over his head?

The world was waking to the dawn. Thrushes piped their first notes in the garden. Puffing at his pipe, the sentry turned and scanned the eastward horizon. Lines of rosy clouds showed themselves, forerunners of the storm. Marion clutched Simone's hands, waiting for the man's eyes to sweep the sky. She was struggling with an overpowering desire to scream aloud. Another minute ticked by. Three o'clock struck from the churches in the town. With a grunt the man lazily took up his carbine. He looked idly at the trees across. It seemed to Marion's distorted vision that he stared straight into their little casement. For another space he lingered, his legs wide, leaning against the wall. Then he straightened himself. He shouldered his carbine, and turned away. There was a stifled cry from Marion as she took the line with trembling fingers, and gently paid it out. For a second it slackened over the trees. Then the hand at the other side drew in again; and more and more rapidly as silk gave way to cord. Before the sentry had time to pass the corner again, Roger had secured the package tied on the rope, and drawn in the trailing end.

There was a dead silence in the little room. Unheeded the sentry paced the south front, unheeded tramped out to the wider stretch of the yard. Simone said something her companion scarcely noted, and the next minute Marion was alone.

The first act was over; the second, containing a still more perilous movement, was about to be played; of the third—the headlong flight to the west—Marion did not think at all.

What was going on in the cell yonder? She fancied she could see Roger's kneeling figure at the grating; he was evidently filing the iron near to the base. The bars were not very close together; when two were gone, Roger should be able to get out. There was a drop of about fifteen feet. With the help of the rope he should be able to let himself noiselessly down.

In reality only a few minutes had passed since the arrow had reached its mark, but to Marion it seemed already an hour. She looked anxiously at the eastern sky, now suffused with stronger light. In another half hour the daylight would be making very plain all the features of town and country alike. A few hoarse notes came to her ears, punctuated by the heavy footfall of the sentry in the yard. ''Tis a cheerful soul!' mused Marion, with a wry smile. A minute later the dark form loomed round the corner.

The first drops of rain were falling. The fitful breeze of the early morning had strengthened into a westerly wind. Instinctively Marion's thoughts began to dwell on the prospect of the ride over the border in the face of such a storm as was brewing.

Something moving in the road caught her eye, and switched back her thoughts to the present. Simone's noiseless figure was creeping along in front of the gaol wall. The blood rushed to Marion's face. She had forgotten that arrow. Her eyes went alternately from the sentry's steady movement to the fluttering figure in the road. Suppose he should open the wicket?

The light form glided noiselessly back, and Marion glued her eyes again to the grating of the cell.

As the sentry passed round the corner, Marion bent forward and listened for the sound of the grinding of the file. But not by straining her ears to the utmost could she hear anything save the steady tramp of the soldier. Surely there had been time to file through those two bars! In her impatience she forgot that the prisoner was bound to restrict his efforts to the time the sentry spent at the back of the building.

As she sat motionless, her whole forces divided between watching and listening, there was a movement at her elbow. Simone was there with her hat and gloves. Behind her stood Mistress Keziah, her face grey in the dawn.

The clocks in the town chimed half-past three. Marion started. Half an hour Roger had been filing those bars.

'Had you not better go down to the gate and be ready?' said the old lady.

Marion, pulling on her gloves, shook her head. She crouched down again, no eyes for the others in the room, and was unaware that Simone, at a glance from Mistress Keziah, had quietly stolen away.

Marion felt a cold terror grip her heart. Could some one have entered the cell and seen Roger working—seen the arrow and the silk and the cord?

There was the sentry again, idly walking the south front. It seemed hours before he retraced his steps.

As he turned the corner, Roger's face appeared at the grating. He was ready. First knotting the rope to one of the side bars, he pressed his knee against the stone sill, and pulled with both hands first one bar and then another. Slowly the bars yielded. Roger flung out the rope.