THE ADVENTURES OF HARRY ROCHESTER (continued 6)

"Parbleu, monsieur," he said doggedly, "you must allow me to be the judge who among my friends is likely to be of use to us. This one, I say, is not; you must be content with that."

Polignac, seeing that nothing was to be gained by pressing the matter in the captain's present mood, adroitly changed the conversation.

"Eh bien! As you will, my good captain. You know my zeal in the cause, and Tout fait nombre, as we say in France. Now, my friend, how goes our affair—yours and mine, I mean?"

Aglionby's face cleared. He was now on surer ground.

"Admirably, admirably, monsieur. Look you, I have arranged with some six stout fellows—every one to be depended on. Nothing remains but to choose the hour and the place. And besides, I have set Simmons on the watch: he comes here to report at five o'clock."

"And it is now half-past two. If it pleases you, mon brave,—there is time—we will have in a bottle of sack and drink success to our enterprise."

"If it pleases me! Parbleu, Polignac, I've drunk nothing but rum since Berk——since the last remittance from my agent was spent. A bottle of sack! Many I've emptied with the Czar of Muscovy, whose head, mark you, is not as strong as mine. Certainly, a bottle of sack—the money, my friend?"

Some two hours later, Aglionby left the inn at which Mr. Berkeley was putting up. His mood and mien were jovial; his rubicund cheeks even more ruddy than usual. He was too old and tough a campaigner, and too well seasoned by his experiences in Russia, to allow himself to be overtaken in liquor; but he was certainly in an unusually buoyant humour, and trod the street with a confident swing. As he passed along, he jingled the money in his pocket, and appeared to take an uncommon pleasure in the sound. His brow was clear, his eye bright, and he held half-audible communion with his thoughts.

"'Tis a hard world, Rafe my boy; odso, 'tis a hard world. 'Tis not often a man gets paid for doing what he would gladly do for nothing. Ay, and 'tis less often he gets paid twice, begad! Rafe, my bully boy, you're in luck. Stap me, we'll break another bottle of sack and drink to your success. Nay, nay; hold a little: business before pleasure. A draft from our Hebrew friend—egad, they're the one good thing I know in Amsterdam; that is easily got; then a letter to the Elector's chamberlain; oons! 'tis more difficult, but to be faced; I'm no scholard, hang it, but I can pay some poor scrivener that is, whether 'tis to be Latin or French; and to be Captain Rafe once more's worth a dollar or two for pen-work. Then for a bottle at the Goudenhoof'd. And to-morrow, my friend Rochester and my excellent coz with the scripture name—to-morrow, by the lord Harry, our final reckoning!"

CHAPTER XVII

In the Dusk

Katrinka—Filial—Fine Feathers—A Practical Joke—Up a Tree—A Trap—In Waiting—The Last Minute—A Bolt from the Blue—Ad Misericordiam—A Theory—With Thanks

Harry had for some time been itching for an opportunity of active service in his new calling. Garrison life, with its drilling and exercising, was all very well, and he had much to learn; but the business of a soldier was to fight, and he was eager to take his share in the campaign, on the issue of which so many important interests depended. His chance came at last, and though the result was too tame for his active spirit, he felt that it was at least a beginning.

At the end of the first week in September his regiment received orders to join a corps forming under General Brulau to begin the investment of Limburg, a little hill-town south-east of Breda. On the 10th the force of twenty-four squadrons encamped before the town, cutting off all access, and occupying the approaches and the lower town without resistance. Some ten days later the Duke of Marlborough arrived with his main force; batteries played night and day on the upper town, and made so wide a breach that orders were given for a grand assault. At this point, however, the French commander, seeing the futility of resistance and the hopelessness of relief from the outside, beat a parley, and in less than twenty-four hours agreed to surrender. On the 28th the garrison of 1400 men laid down their arms and marched out. The duke, having taken possession of the place, announced that the campaign was closed, and the army would at once go into winter quarters. Harry therefore returned to Breda without having drawn his sword, and had to reconcile himself to the thought of a long winter of inaction.

One morning a messenger came to him from Mynheer Grootz, bearing a present of tea and Japanese ware from the merchant to Madame de Vaudrey, part of a cargo from the east which had eluded the French warships and privateers that scoured the narrow seas. Since the incident of Polignac's discomfiture at Lindendaal, Grootz had been assiduous in paying little attentions of this kind to the ladies, and often sought Harry's aid in conveying his presents. Harry was somewhat amused at this amiable side of his former employer's character; Grootz was not on the surface a likely squire of dames. No doubt, Harry thought, he was anxious about the welfare of the ladies in their solitary position, with no master of the house, but only a number of faithful though not too intelligent servants. He was nothing loth to be the medium through whom these gifts reached Madame de Vaudrey, and he found that Fanshawe was always very ready to accompany him on these and other occasions.

It happened that on this day Harry was on duty, and saw no opportunity of getting away until the evening. Having been absent from Breda for nearly three weeks, he was anxious to learn how things were at Lindendaal. The proximity of Polignac always gave him some uneasiness, and though that gentleman's hold on the ladies had been effectually snapped, Harry felt by no means sure that he would accept his rebuffs as final. He therefore sent for Sherebiah, and ordered him to ride over with Mynheer Grootz's parcel. Sherebiah's eagerness to set off amused his master.

"You want to see Katrinka—is that it?" he said.

"Well, sir, her do have a good hand at griddle-cakes, and I ha'n't tasted ne'er a one for three weeks."

"'Tis cupboard love, eh, Sherry?"

"The truth on't is, Master Harry, I be a-thinken o' old gaffer at home. He's had a deal of trouble wi' maids and housekeepers; can't get ne'er a one to cook his bacon to his mind, and besides has a sweet tooth for griddle-cakes. Katrinka be a rare buxom wench; not a beauty, sure, though handsome is as handsome doos; and when I found out her tidy ways and light hand wi' the kickshawses—well, says I, she be the right maid to keep old feyther o' mine above-ground for another ten year."

"Oh! and have you put the matter to Katrinka?"

"There's the rub, sir. Her be in the main willen, but there's a worm in th' apple. The truth on't is, sir, her have high notions."

"Indeed! She wants to be something better than a nurse-cook, eh?"

"Not zackly that, sir; her notions be husband high, sir; her won't make griddle-cakes for feyther o' mine not unless her be his darter, which is a backward way o' sayen, marry me."

"That's terrible, Sherry."

"It med be wuss, Master Harry. I ha'n't no fears myself, but 'tis old feyther I be thinken on. 'Ee see, I'm his boy; though I be forty-five by nature, to his old aged life I be but a younker yet; and I be afeard he'd think me a forrard youth did I venture a word about marryen."

Harry laughed outright.

"Take my advice, Sherry," he said. "If Katrinka's a good girl, get the knot tied; we sha'n't be home again for a year at least; you can break it gently to the old man, and sing the praises of your wife in respect of bacon and girdle-cakes and other housewifely virtues."

"Thank 'ee, sir; and 'ee won't mind if I be a bit late back, 'cos 'twill take a good time to talk over all that wi' Katrinka; her be terrible slow wi' her mind, sir."

"All right! Get along; and you may give her a kiss from me. 'Tis the chubby one, isn't it?"

"True, sir; a apple face, wi' a dimple in the chin, and eyes as blue as her chiney, and hair this side o' red, and——"

"There, there. You're in a bad way, Sherry; go and get it over, man."

Not long after Sherebiah's departure, Fanshawe came in.

"What do you think?" shouted Harry. "That old oddity Sherry is in love with Katrinka, one of the maids at Lindendaal, but was afraid to pop the question lest his father thought him too young. He has gone over to Lindendaal to-day; I fancy 'twill be a settled thing by the time he returns."

"Oh!" Fanshawe appeared somewhat constrained. "The fact is, Harry, I am riding to Lindendaal myself, and I came to see—to ask—that is, have you any message for the ladies?"

"No; as it happens, Sherry is taking them a parcel from Mynheer Grootz.—You've got a new coat, surely?"

"Ay; you see my old one was faded; things bleach soon in this country——"

"And a new hat, I declare!"

"The old one was too vexatious shabby. Then you have no message?"

"No; Sherry conveys my regards. You'll have his company back; I suppose you will be rather late, and 'twill be no bad thing to have a companion; there have been one or two robberies by night on the Helmund road."

Until the evening Harry was fully occupied. The regimental riding-master had begged his assistance in training a number of recruits, and, since example is better than precept, he had been for several hours on horseback, showing the Dutch youths the manage of their steeds. When this was finished he had a turn at the foils with the quarter-master, who had taken a fancy to him, and was wont to declare him one of the best swordsmen in the army. After his evening meal he felt he should like to stretch his legs, and, guessing that Fanshawe and Sherebiah would soon be on the way home, decided to walk out and meet them. It was a fine still evening, the road was dry, and a spin of a couple of miles, as far as a big chestnut-tree that marked the limit of the Sunday promenaders, would pleasantly end the day.

The sun was going down as he left the walls of Breda behind him, throwing a long shadow on the road. He did not hurry his pace, but ambled easily along, musing as a walker will, and paying little heed to things around him. His thoughts were bright and clear, for he was in the pink of physical health, and he felt that Providence was very good to him. It was just a year ago that his father had died, and all the prospect looked black. How strangely things had turned out! The very event that had seemed to fling a pall over his life had really proved the entrance to the career nearest to his heart. He was already impatient for the winter to be over; surely with the next spring the war would be prosecuted more vigorously, and the Dutch authorities would not hang like a drag upon the wheels of Marlborough's plans! He was ambitious, as every young officer must be, to distinguish himself; and in his ambition there was a spice of amour propre; he felt that he should dearly like to prove to the great duke himself that he would have done no discredit to his sponsor if his commission had been an English one. But a Dutch cornet, he thought, would have little chance of coming under Marlborough's personal notice; and, after all, what did it matter? Duty was duty, wherever and for whomsoever it was done.

Thus weaving a chain of imaginings, he came to the big solitary tree before he was aware of it. He halted; Fanshawe and Sherebiah were not in sight; the dusk was thickening, and he did not care to walk farther; yet, having come so far, he was loth to go back without them. Surely they could not be long now! Opposite the tree there was a gate into a field. He climbed on to that, and sat with his feet tucked below one of its bars, intending to wait their arrival. From his higher position he now descried two figures in the distance; in another moment he saw that they were horsemen. "Here they are at last!" he thought.

A whimsical idea flashed into his head. They would not expect to see him; he felt sportive, the boyish instinct for fun asserting itself. What if he could surprise the two—dart out on them unawares and make them jump? The tree opposite overhung the road for several yards, its foliage was still fairly thick, for the season had been mild; the autumn frosts and gales had not yet begun; and it would provide ample shelter. He sprang off the gate, ran across the road, leapt the ditch at the side, scaled the trunk with an agility bred of long practice in Wiltshire, and was soon hidden among the leaves, some fourteen feet above the road. He filled his pocket with burrs he found still clinging to the branches, laughing inwardly as he pictured Fanshawe's consternation when he should receive one of those prickly missiles on his head.

Soon he heard the measured beat of the approaching horses. Peering between the leaves, he was disappointed to notice that the riders were not Fanshawe and Sherebiah after all. One of them, a bulky man, had a familiar appearance, the other was masked; but in the first Harry recognized Captain Aglionby, and the second in figure and bearing unmistakably recalled Monsieur de Polignac. Harry wondered what was the meaning of the mask; knowing his men, he had little doubt that some villainy was afoot. His wonder gave way to uneasiness when he found that, instead of passing the tree, they dismounted and stood exactly beneath him. They opened the gate on which he had been seated a few minutes before, and led their horses through into the field, along the stone dike at the edge, and at some distance from the gate, as Harry could just see in the gathering darkness, secured them to the wall, after some difficulty in finding anything to hitch them to. Then they returned to the road, talking in low tones, and looking expectantly up and down.

"'Sdeath!" muttered Aglionby, "what has become of them?"

"Raté encore une fois?" sneered Polignac, inferring the other's meaning from his tone.

"Parbleu!" growled Aglionby, adding in French: "They ought to have been here a quarter of an hour ago. They cannot be long now."

Harry's curiosity was growing. The two men were clearly expecting somebody; for a moment he wondered whether Aglionby was meditating another attempt on Sherebiah, but it could hardly be that, for the captain had looked towards Breda as he spoke, not in the other direction. He listened with all his ears.

"They may as well stay away altogether if the others are here before them. We are only ten minutes ahead."

"Nearer twenty, if you believe me. They were riding slowly when we saw them—a mile behind; and we saved several minutes by the short cut through the wood. There is time yet."

As he spoke, three figures could be dimly seen coming along the road from the direction of Breda. Aglionby and his friend at once shrank back behind the dike, but after a moment's scrutiny, being apparently satisfied, came out again and stood waiting by the side of the road. The three men approaching caught sight of them and hastened their steps, to be received with curses when they reached the spot. One of the men, an Englishman, sullenly defended himself.

"It is all due to that confounded church clock. It has never gone right since Mr. Fanshawe tampered with it. But we are in time, Captain."

"No thanks to you," growled Aglionby. "Where is the rope?"

One of the other men opened a sack he carried, and produced a stout rope some thirty feet long.

"Take one end," said Aglionby, "and fix it to the gatepost; at the top, fool, not the bottom. You, Simmons, take the other end and loop it once round the tree. And quickly, do you hear?"

While the men were obeying his order, Aglionby put on a mask, not, as in Polignac's case, as a precaution against recognition by the hirelings, but by the victims.

By this time Harry's uneasiness had become real alarm. Motionless in the tree, he durst not rustle the leaves to make a peep-hole; he could only judge of what was going on below by the words he heard. It was clear that a carefully planned attack was to be made upon someone; he could not doubt that the someone was Sherebiah; both Polignac and the captain had heavy scores to pay off. Fanshawe would be involved in the same peril. His notion of playing a trick was forgotten; there was serious work for him to do.

"Let the rope lie on the road," he heard Aglionby say, "and you men remain at the tree ready to raise it and draw it taut at my signal."

Harry saw through the scheme in a flash. The rope was to be pulled taut across the road to stop the progress of the horsemen, and in the confusion the victim was doubtless to be attacked, every advantage being on the side of the ambuscaders. And at this moment his ears distinguished the faint distant beat of hoofs on the road.

"Captain," said one of the men, "what if I were to climb the tree and pick them off from above?"

Crouching against the stem Harry felt his heart-beats quicken. The suggestion if promptly acted on would be fatal to the project he had already formed to turn the tables upon the unsuspecting party beneath.

There was a moment's pause. Then another voice in low tones interjected:

"I hear horses on the road."

"No," interposed Polignac, replying rapidly to the man's proposal. "We must have two men at the rope if they are riding abreast; that leaves only three when we stop them; it is easy to miss in this dark night, and they are both ready with their weapons. Remember, there must be no noise; one volley, then cold steel, lest we have the Breda garrison upon us."

Harry wore his sword, and had with him the pistol without which he never stirred abroad. He had been rapidly deciding upon his course. If he was to be of any use, he must warn his friends before they came within range of the ambuscade; yet he durst not fire too soon, for the only result would be to bring them up at a gallop, and they would then almost certainly fall victims. Now that almost complete darkness had fallen, he ventured to make an opening in the foliage and to peer cautiously down.

He saw Aglionby and Polignac on the other side of the road crouching behind the gate-posts. Two men had concealed themselves behind the tree's thick trunk, holding the slack end of the rope; the third waited near them, pistol in hand. Though Harry could not see weapons in the hands of Polignac and Aglionby, he had no doubt that they too had pistols, ready to be used as soon as the riders were brought to a stand-still. On the side overhanging the road, the tree had been lopped of one or two lower branches, but a fairly thick bough ran out on the other side just above the man holding the pistol. Quickly, for time pressed, yet with great caution in order to avoid the slightest noise, Harry crept from his perch over the road, sliding backward down the branch until he reached the trunk. Then, holding his sword lest it clinked against the tree, he straightened himself and turned round, steadying himself with his free hand. One careful step brought him to the fork of the horizontal stem and the parent trunk. He heard the hoof-beats coming very near; the riders could be but a few hundred yards away; fortunately the growing sound was loud enough to drown the slight rustle he could not avoid; and besides, the men below were too much preoccupied with their stratagem to have wits for anything but their advancing victims.

Harry's feet were now wedged somewhat awkwardly; he felt by no means secure, and was for an instant perplexed how to dispose of his sword, for in drawing his pistol with the right hand he would need the left to maintain his equilibrium. He hit on a solution. Grasping the lower part of the scabbard with his knees he prevented it from rattling against the tree trunk; then, resting on his left hand, he bent over to get as clear a view as the circumstances afforded of the man immediately beneath. For a second he hesitated. It went against the grain to fire at the unsuspecting wretch; but the sound of the hoof-beats now certainly within musket-shot banished his hesitation and clinched his resolve. It was life against life: the lives of Fanshawe and Sherebiah against those of the villains ambushing them. Taking careful aim he fired. The cry of the wounded man was smothered by his own shout:

"Stop, Fanshawe! Jump the ditch and make for the tree!"

Without waiting to learn the result of his warning, he sprang round, heedless now of what noise he made, and, swinging by a branch to his right, dropped to the ground just behind the two other men, who had let go of the rope in their alarm and were transfixed with terror and amazement, staring into the black depths of the tree above them. One of them faced round as he heard the thud of Harry's descent. Without pausing to draw his sword Harry hurled himself at the man, hit out at him with all his strength, and felled him to the ground. The other, the first moment of paralysis past, whipped out a pistol and snapped it before Harry had time to recover himself. It missed fire; Harry closed with the man. There was a brief, sharp struggle; in the midst came Sherebiah's voice:

"Where bist, sir, where bist?"

"Here; by the tree; get a grip of this knave!"

At the sound of Sherebiah's voice Harry felt his opponent's efforts relax; the man tried to free himself; but Sherebiah had ridden his horse up to the tree, and bending low from the saddle to distinguish between the combatants, he brought the butt of his pistol down on the man's head. He fell without a groan.

Now Fanshawe dashed up. His horse had slipped at the ditch, thus giving Sherebiah a slight start.

"Two men on the other side of the road," panted Harry. "Follow me!"

Springing across the ditch he gained the other side of the road, and vaulted the gate. Fanshawe and Sherebiah had to dismount to follow him, for the road was too narrow to allow of their leaping the gate. Aglionby and his companion had not waited; discovering that their plan had failed, they had hurried away towards their horses. But they had not gone far. Harry heard a noise ahead; there was a chance of overtaking them before they gained their saddles. He dashed on over the stubble, and soon descried a broad figure lumbering along; from its stertorous breathing he guessed it to be Aglionby, an opinion confirmed immediately by the mingled oaths and entreaties which the captain sent after Polignac, who being lighter of foot had far outstripped his fellow-conspirator. Hearing Harry's step just behind him, Aglionby at length halted, swung round, and fired his pistol. But hard running and breathlessness flurried him and spoilt his aim; the ball whistled harmlessly past. So impetuous had been Harry in pursuit that he had had no time to draw his sword. He struck out at Aglionby, who only half warded the blow, staggering backward and endeavouring to parry this lively attack. Seeing his opportunity, Harry closed and tripped the big man up with a favourite fall taught him by Sherebiah; and Fanshawe coming up with Sherebiah at this moment, Aglionby was secured in a trice.

"That cursed coward!" he spluttered, as they led him back to the road. "Odsnigs! I'll be even with him for this."

"Nay," said Sherebiah, who had him grimly by the collar, "'ee'll never be even wi' un, Rafe Aglionby. Your carcass'll need a longer rope."

"'Tis all a mistake, coz, on my honour," pleaded the captain.

"Don't 'ee coz me, I disown 'ee. I'll see a villain hung; and that'll be no mistake."

"Leave him to me, Sherry," said Harry, "and go and see to the man we hit."

A short examination proved that the man Harry had shot was less seriously wounded than he who had fallen to Sherebiah's pistol-butt. The third man whom Harry had knocked down had escaped in the darkness. The other two, injured as they were, were unable to walk, so Harry had them hoisted on to the horses, where they were held up by Fanshawe and Sherebiah. With Aglionby in his own keeping Harry led the march to Breda. On arriving there, all three prisoners were handed over to the Dutch authorities, and Harry asked Fanshawe to his rooms to talk over this adventure of the road.

"Faith," said Fanshawe, when Harry had explained his presence on the spot, "'twas a mercy you had the thought to walk out. But it passes my understanding why that fellow Aglionby should have been minded to waylay me."

"'Twas not you, 'twas Sherry that was the intended victim. I told you of the neat way he bundled the captain out of Madame de Vaudrey's house; that was only one of several affronts the bully has had to suffer. And I rather suspect that you were mistaken for me."

"How so?"

"'Twas part of the scheme of old Berkeley's to get rid of me; of that I am sure. And the other fellow, the Frenchman, must be pretty sore at his two discomfitures."

"You will, of course, inform against him."

"'Twould be little use, I fear. He was masked; I knew him only by his voice, and my testimony would not suffice to convict him on that ground alone."

"Did Aglionby say nothing as you walked into the town?"

"Nothing. I plied him with questions, but he held an obstinate silence; scarce opened his mouth except to say 'twas all a mistake."

"I am not sure you are right. Don't you think it may have been the Frenchman's plan—to get rid of me?"

"Why of you?"

"Well, you told me he is a suitor for Mademoiselle's hand——"

"What then?"

"He may have looked on me as a rival."

"Come, that's a good joke. You've known Mademoiselle for little better than a month."

"Ah! One can see you're young, Harry, and fancy free; I wish I were. But your Monsieur de Polignac might have spared his pains."

"You're talking in riddles, Fanshawe; speak plain English, man."

"Well, 'twas true."

"What was true?"

"She wouldn't have me."

Harry stared in puzzlement. Then a light dawned, and he smiled.

"You don't mean to say you've been on your knees to Mademoiselle Adèle?"

"Indeed I have! By George, Harry! isn't she a splendid creature? But she wouldn't have me: that's all over; life isn't worth living now: I don't care how soon a bullet puts an end to my miserable existence."

Fanshawe sighed lugubriously; Harry laughed.

"Poor fellow! is it so bad as that? She didn't fall a victim to your new coat, then?"

"'Tis all very well for you to laugh. Wait till you suffer just such a rebuff."

"Tell me what you said."

"How do I know what I said? I only know what she said. She dropt me a curtsy, the hussy, and thanked me for the honour, and said she had no mind to a husband and would never wed, but stay with her mother. And then she opened the harpsichord and said: 'Don't let us be children, Monsieur. Sing me that amusing song of yours and be amiable.' And 'pon my word, Harry, I couldn't resist; she has a masterful way; and when her mother came in there was I trolling 'Widdicombe Fair' as if there'd been never a word of love betwixt us."

"Cheer up! you were too sudden. Wait a few months and then try your luck again."

"Never! I know she won't look at me. And take my advice, Harry. If ever you fall in love with a girl, don't make yourself cheap and sing cheerful songs. Egad, if I'd sung dying ditties and sighed like a furnace I might have had a different tale to tell. I'll go to quarters; but I sha'n't sleep; I know I sha'n't; good-night!"

CHAPTER XVIII

A Little Plot

Father and Son—A Message from Breda—An Afternoon Call—When Greek meets Greek—The Tug of War—Pourparlers—The Merk—Two Men and a Sack—Snatched from the River—Cousin Rafe—Scant Gratitude—A Ray of Light

One afternoon Squire Berkeley sat solitary in his inn at the Hague, warming his lean, withered hands in the blaze of a log fire. The air was cold, and it had been raining heavily for hours. The old man had laid aside his wig; a black velvet skull-cap covered his white hair to the ears; and, clad in the long cassock-like garment of rusty black that he always wore indoors, he might have passed, with his thin haggard cheeks, for an ascetic dignitary of the Church rather than the prosperous lord of an English manor.

He sat in a high-backed chair, staring into the fire. His lips moved as he communed with himself, and the expression of his face showed that his thoughts were none too pleasant. Once or twice he clenched his teeth and brought his closed fist heavily down upon the arm of the chair; he sighed often, and looked the very image of a sad, anxious, embittered man.

Presently the door opened noisily and, with a gust of keen air that made the squire shiver, a young man entered the room. It was Piers Berkeley, the squire's son. He was dressed as usual in the height of fashion, but presented a bedraggled woebegone aspect now, his finery effectually ruined by the rain.

"Split me, father," he cried in a peculiarly high and affected tone of voice, "I'm verily the most wretched man on earth."

"What is the matter?" said the old man, turning half round. "Why have you left your regiment?"

"Why! Stap my vitals, 'tis what I wish to know. I've rid post from Breda through the most villainous rain ever I saw. Look, I'm splashed to the eyes; my third best wig is utterly ruined; the colour of my waistcoat has run; 'twas a heavenly puce, and I'll be even with the tailor, hang him! that swore the colour was fast. As for my new jack-boots—look 'ee, they're not fit for a ploughman. And why! You may well ask."

"Well, you have a reason, I suppose. You want more money for your drunken orgies—is that it?"

"Hark to that, now! Was ever poor wretch so scurvily used by his own father! Why——"

"Come, a truce to your prating. Your reason, sir, and at once."

"A warm welcome, egad! Well, sir, I've a something for you, a billet-doux; ha! ha!"

The squire sprang up with an agility surprising in a man of his years. There was a look of expectancy, almost of joy, in his eyes, and he held forth his hand eagerly.

"Give it me," he said.

"You will deal handsomely by me," said the youth; "consider, 'tis not every son would ride through pelting rain and spoil his garments withal for——"

"Give it me, I say," cried the old man passionately.

Piers took from an inner pocket a letter, sealed with a big red seal. The squire's eyes gleamed as he took it and saw the handwriting of the address; his hand trembled as he tore away the seal and unfolded the paper. Then came a sudden change. The pallor of his cheeks became a deathly white, his features were distorted with rage, he muttered a curse and flung the letter to the floor.

"Gadzooks, 'tis not a billet-doux, then," piped his son, stooping to pick up the paper.

"Let it lie!" shouted the old man. "Lay not a finger on it, you—you puppy!"

"Why, there now," said the youth in an aggrieved tone. "That is all the thanks I get for adventuring myself in the fury of the elements, and ruining past cure as fine a coat as ever was seen in Spring Garden."

"Silence! Hold your foolish tongue! You're a useless fool! You're a scented fop, the mock of every farthing playwright in the kingdom. Heavens! what have I done that I should be cursed with a brainless, senseless coxcomb that can do nothing but squander good money in fal-lals and worse!"

"Odsnigs! 'tis most villainous injustice. I can do many things, egad. I can make a good leg, and trounce a watchman, and pink a cit, and——"

"Out of my sight, out of my sight!" cried the exasperated father, stepping forward with uplifted hand as though to strike the poor fool.

"Zoons! I protest this——"

But he left the sentence perforce unfinished, for the squire caught him by the shoulders and exerting all his strength thrust him from the room, turning the key, and standing for a moment with hand on heart to recover his breath. Then he suddenly opened the door again, caught the young man before he had gone three steps, swung him round, and holding him in a firm grip said:

"See that you say nothing of this. You know nothing of that man, that Aglionby, except that you met him on the packet-boat; you hear me? Presuming on that acquaintance he sought your assistance; you have wit enough to remember that? And you are not to go near him again."

"Egad, I've no wish to. Once is enough. A prison cell is no place for me. I had to hold my nose; and egad, to use a whole bottle of scent afterwards."

The old man pushed him contemptuously away, returned to his room, and again locked the door. He picked up the letter, sat down in his chair, and, crouching there, seemed to have shrunk even to less than his former meagre bulk. He read the letter again. It ran:—

"SIR,

"Fate is against me. In pursuit of the Businesse you wot of, I am at this present layd by the heels, in Jail, under sentence to be Hang'd. Young Rochester & my Cozen have done it. 'Tis nessessarie for you to pulle me out of this Hole, & speedilie, or I'll tell All I knowe. The Meanes I leave to you; I advize to comunicate with Mr de Poliniac at his house in the Plein; he will helpe: he has Goode Reasone, for at a Worde from me he'll swing too. No more at this Present from yr humble

"RALPH AGLIONBY.

"P.S.—I knew your Sonne was in Breda. He knowes Nothing."

The squire tore up the paper and flung the pieces on the fire. For a few moments he sat in thought; then he rose and went into an ante-room, returning soon in his outdoor attire—wig, cocked hat, and long cloak. A few minutes later he was walking at a brisk pace through the rain towards the house mentioned in Aglionby's letter. He knocked at the door; there was no answer; the green shutters were closed, the house had the appearance of being shut up for the season. He knocked again, and yet again, with growing vehemence, attracting the attention of passers-by. At length the door was opened for a few inches. Mr. Berkeley pushed it, but it was on the chain.

"Qu'est-ce que Monsieur demande?" said a voice.

"Monsieur de Polignac."

"Monsieur is not within," said the same voice in English, the speaker having detected the squire's nationality by his accent.

"Where is he?"

"Pardon, Monsieur, I am not sure where my master is at this moment; but if Monsieur will leave a message——"

Something in the man's manner assured Mr. Berkeley that he was lying.

"Look 'ee, my man," he said sternly, "I counsel you to bethink yourself. I will walk for five minutes, in the rain; you will have time to acquaint your master that an English gentleman whose name is probably unknown to him desires to see him on a very urgent matter—in the interest, mark you, of himself. An urgent matter, mark you. In five minutes I will return."

On returning Mr. Berkeley was instantly admitted. The manservant, cowering beneath his stern look, led him meekly to a room off the hall, where he found Polignac in long cloak and jack-boots, evidently on the point of departing on a journey. The squire gave him a keen glance, and was not surprised to find that it was the same man whom he had met at the door of Aglionby's attic some months before.

"Monsieur de Polignac?" he said.

"That is my name, Monsieur."

"My name is Berkeley. I met you at Aglionby's. It is for him I come. I desire a word with you."

"I am at your service, Monsieur. Shall we be private?"

"It will doubtless be better so."

Polignac shut the door, and offered Mr. Berkeley a seat.

"Thank you, I will stand; I need not detain you long."

"As you please, Monsieur."

"You have heard, Monsieur, of the plight into which our friend Captain Aglionby has fallen?—I say our friend."

"I will not dispute the phrase, Monsieur. I had heard, as you surmise."

"Pardon me—as he is our friend—am I right in assuming that the news may have some little connection with your purposed journey?"

"Since, as you say, he is our friend, I do not deny it, Monsieur."

"So that it will be, let us say, not disagreeable to you if some means of—of cheating the hangman—I am a plain blunt man, Monsieur—should be discovered?"

"Pardon me, Monsieur, I do not follow you."

Mr. Berkeley looked at him keenly.

"I have had a letter from our friend," he said slowly.

"And I also, Monsieur."

"He solicits my assistance."

"And mine."

"I came at once to see you."

"And I, Monsieur, leave at once for Paris."

"Ah!"

Polignac, leaning against the window-frame, had an inscrutable smile upon his face.

"I will sit down," said Mr. Berkeley, placing a chair with its back to the door; "I find our interview will last a little longer than I looked for."

"As you please, Monsieur. You will permit me?"

Polignac seated himself at the table.

"It appears, Monsieur," said the squire, "that I should have said my friend."

"Again, Monsieur, I will not dispute the phrase. His family estates join yours, I understand?"

"What?"

"I do not know; I only repeat what your friend told me."

"Yes, I understand," said Mr. Berkeley hurriedly, feeling that by his unguarded exclamation he had lost one point in the game. "Not precisely adjoin, but the phrase is sufficiently exact: we are neighbours."

"And naturally you are concerned at the hapless situation into which your neighbour's evil star has brought him."

"That is so, Monsieur."

"Especially seeing that his evil star's influence extends also to you; is it not so?"

"As a neighbour and friend, you mean, Monsieur?"

"No, I do not mean that. I cannot say, like you, Monsieur, that I am a plain blunt man, but I think with small effort you will understand my meaning. I put myself in your place. Suppose, I tell myself, a neighbour of mine, whom I had found useful, had in the course of some enterprise on my behalf been so unlucky as to come into the grip of the law; naturally I should feel deeply concerned in his fate, and certainly I should do all in my power to save him, especially if I knew that the said enterprise was one that the law would look unkindly on. Such would be my sentiments, Monsieur, and I do not suppose myself different from other men."

"The case is so well put, Monsieur, that it would seem to fit your situation to a nicety."

"Appearances are then deceitful, Monsieur. Strange to say, I had the same thought with regard to you. Your friend the captain is not a hero, certainly not a martyr, and even though a few vindictive words at the last would not save his neck, yet to a man of his disposition it would sweeten his end to know that another shared his fate."

Mr. Berkeley had been growing visibly restive. How much did this suavely malicious Frenchman know? He dared not question him plainly.

"You speak, Monsieur, of a few vindictive words. It is clear to me that Aglionby has threatened you——"

"And I care not a jot for his threats," interrupted Polignac. "As you are aware, I am about to depart for Paris; eh bien! Monsieur le Capitaine's threats will not reach me there."

"But if I save him, Monsieur?"

Polignac's mouth twitched.

"He is a vengeful man," pursued the squire. "I should have no object in concealing from him your notions of the obligations of friendship; and since it appears that you, on your side, permit yourself to talk of an 'enterprise' and 'the grip of the law', does it not occur to you that the captain, and I myself as his friend, might make things—well, very unpleasant for you? And remember, you are not in Paris yet."

There was a moment's silence, taking advantage of which Mr. Berkeley leant forward and, tapping Polignac's knee, added:

"Come, Monsieur, let us understand one another. It is to my interest that Captain Aglionby should not die—by the hangman; it is to your interest—correct me if I am wrong—that he should not live, or you will find this country shut to you. Our interests appear to clash; but is it not possible—I throw out the suggestion—to reconcile them—to gain both our ends?"

Polignac smiled.

"Let us talk as friends, Monsieur," he said.

An hour passed before Mr. Berkeley left the house. It was still raining, but his gloomy expression had given place to one of fierce satisfaction. Polignac bade him a cordial adieu at the door, and as soon as he was gone called his servant.

"Antoine," he said, "unsaddle my horse. I do not ride to-day."

One evening, at dusk, Harry Rochester, whom no experience could cure of his habit of taking solitary strolls, was seated on a bridge spanning the Merk at a short distance outside Breda. His thoughts were anything but pleasant. Aglionby and his associates, though defended by the sharpest criminal lawyer in Holland, had been condemned to death, and the execution had been fixed for the morrow. Harry knew that the captain richly deserved his fate; his action in betraying his cousin Sherebiah in itself put him beyond the pale of pity, to say nothing of his persistent offences against Sherebiah's master, which Harry was more ready to forgive. But despicable as the man was, Harry, almost in spite of himself, felt a certain compassion for him. He had learnt from Sherebiah something of his history. His mother, old Gaffer Minshull's sister, had died when Ralph was very young, heart-broken by her husband, one of Cromwell's Ironsides, yet a hypocrite of the most brutal type. Aglionby had received a fair education, but had run wild from boyhood, and as a mere youth had decamped or been driven from his father's house and gone out into the world to seek his fortune. Sherebiah had lost sight of him for years; suddenly he had reappeared at Winton St. Mary, seared with travel and hard faring, and full of stories of adventure and prowess in all parts of Europe, especially in the service of the Czar of Muscovy. Harry knew as much as Sherebiah of his subsequent career, and shared the surprise of the whole village at the strangely close acquaintanceship between the captain and the squire.

This was the man who was to die next day, and Harry, sitting on the bridge, one hand clasping his knee, almost wished that he had let the villain go. He had been brought up in the worst school; all his life long he had been an Ishmael, his hand against every man, every man's hand against him. His mother had been a Minshull: surely there was some seed of good in him; mayhap his villainies were only the desperate expedients of a man who had no means of livelihood; certainly he could have no cause of enmity against Harry, and his machinations must be put down to the man who employed him. His approaching fate weighed also upon Sherebiah, who had for days gone about with restlessness and anxiety printed upon his usually jocund face. Certainly the good fellow had no reason to love Aglionby, but after all they were of the same blood, and Sherry appeared to fear keenly the shame and disgrace.

Looking over the glooming river, idly watching the rolling water and the scattered buildings upon the bank, Harry suddenly perceived a small door open in the face of a store or warehouse some few yards to his left. The door was some thirty feet above the river, and gave upon a narrow platform to which goods were hoisted by a crane from barges below. As the door opened, inwards, a head appeared. The owner looked for some time up and down the river, over which darkness was fast falling. All was quiet; no traffic was passing; no craft indeed was to be seen save one small boat, moored to a post on the bank some yards on the other side of the bridge.

The head disappeared, but immediately afterwards two men emerged from the doorway, coming sideways through the narrow opening. Between them they carried a large sack which their exertions showed to be heavy. They came to the edge of the platform; they laid their burden down; then, giving a quick look around, with one push they toppled it over, and it fell with a sounding plump into the water. It disappeared below the surface; after a moment the two men returned into the warehouse, and the door was shut.

The rivers were such common receptacles of rubbish that Harry would not have given a second thought to this incident but for a certain furtiveness in the manner of the two men. He wondered what the sack contained. All at once he saw it reappear on the surface, several yards nearer to him; the stream was flowing fast in his direction.

"'Tis maybe a superfluous dog," he thought, for only an animal was likely to rise after such an immersion. Yet it was large for a dog.

The sack came steadily towards him: it was about to pass under the single arch of the bridge: he leant over to watch it: and with a start of amazement saw dimly a white human face. At that same moment the bundle sank again. Harry could not know whether it was man or woman, whether alive or dead, but without an instant's hesitation he ran to the other parapet, sprang on it, and dived into the river. A drowning man rises three times, he had heard; perhaps there was a chance to save this poor wretch, whoever it might be, and foil his murderers.

Coming to the surface with a gasp, he looked around for any sign of the dark bundle, fearing lest in the blackness of the encroaching night he might lose it altogether. For some seconds he saw nothing; then, a few yards away, it bobbed up. Three or four vigorous strokes brought the swimmer to it just as it was going down once more. He seized it with his left hand and, supporting the head above the water, made for the bank, luckily no more than seven or eight yards distant. He hauled the heavy object up the sodden slope, stooped down to examine it, and saw that it was a man tied up to the neck, and with a gag about his mouth. It was the work of a moment to tear away the gag. He placed his hand over the man's heart: did it still beat? He could not tell; all feeling seemed to be deadened within him by his excitement and strain. The man made no sound or movement. Harry shivered and thought he must be dead; of the means to resuscitate a half-drowned man he knew nothing.

A few seconds passed; then he heard hasty footsteps behind him, and turned just as Sherebiah sprang down the slope. The faithful fellow had been again playing his part of watch-dog; he had seen Harry's plunge into the river, and raced round the embankment in alarm.

"Fecks, you give me a jump, sir," he panted. "What's amiss?"

"Ah! Sherry, look; 'tis a man, in a sack; the poor wretch is drowned, I fear."

"'Tis murder then. Let's see, sir."

He stooped down, cut the fastenings of the sack, and pulled it off the body.

"Now sir, lend a hand. Fust thing is to pour the water out of un."

"He was gagged, Sherry."

"Then that saves our time. A gagged man can't ship many gallons o' water. Leave un to me, sir."

He quickly opened the man's coat and vest, bent over him, and pressed heavily beneath his lower ribs. Then he sprang back, and again bent forward and pressed. After repeating these movements several times, he went to the man's head, took his arms and pulled them back till they met behind, then jerked them forward upon his breast. A gurgling sound came from the man's lips.

"He be alive, sir," cried Sherebiah. "Another minute or two and we'll have un on his feet."

A great sigh escaped from the prostrate form.

"Well done, master," said Sherebiah, ceasing from his exertions. "You've got your breath again, thanks be. Now, take your time, and don't get up till 'ee feel disposed: only bein' drippen wet the sooner you be dry the better, so——Sakes alive! Master Harry, 'tis my good-for-nothen cousin Rafe Aglionby, and no one else."

"Good heavens!"

"Rafe, man, can 'ee open your eyes? 'Tis me and Mr. Rochester; you be safe."

Both Harry and Sherebiah were now stooping over the captain. His eyes opened; the same choking sound came from his lips. For some minutes he lay gasping, wriggling, endeavouring vainly to rise, the others watching him the while with mixed feelings. His recovery of consciousness was slow: at last his movements ceased, he heaved a great sigh and looked up with intelligence.

"How be'st come to this?" asked Sherebiah. "Thowt 'ee was ripe for hangman this time, coz."

"Rot you!" spluttered the captain, struggling to his feet. "Hands off! Shall I never be quit of you!"

"Zooks! That's your thanks! Come, Rafe, blood's thicker nor water, as 'ee said yourself: you've broke prison sure enough, but they'll be after 'ee afore mornen. Mr. Rochester ha' saved 'ee from drownen, but you must put a few miles betwixt 'ee and hangman afore you can rest easy. How be'st come to this, man?"

"Let me go, I tell you."

"But you be drippen wet, Rafe; you'll cotch your death o' cold;—and faith, so will Master Harry. Better get home, sir, and change your things."

"No hurry, Sherry. Captain Aglionby, believe me, you must make yourself scarce. You've done me many an ill turn, for what reason I know not. But that's past now; I have no wish to give you up to the hangman. There's a boat moored to the bank a few yards down: you had better take that, and row through the night. Sherry, you're dry; change clothes with the captain."

"I'll have none of his clothes. I'll take the boat. Out of my way!"

Escaping from Sherebiah's grasp, Aglionby stumbled away in the direction of the boat, the other two watching him in silence until the darkness swallowed him.

"Unthankful viper!" muttered Sherebiah.

"To save a foe's life is an injury never forgiven," said Harry with a shrug. "I'm shivering, Sherry: let us get back."

"Ay sure. But I'd like to know what be the true meanen o' this. To be saved out o' jail and then chucked into river—why, in a manner o' speaken 'tis out o' fryen-pan into fire. One thing 'tis sure: my coz Rafe bean't born to be hanged nor drownded neither: question is, will it be pison or a dagger-end? But you be mortal cold, true; we'll home-along, sir."

They returned to the city, and were passing a large inn in the market-place when Harry suddenly touched Sherebiah on the arm.

"Sherry, you see that man at the door of the coach there? 'Tis one of the men I saw fling Aglionby into the river. I know him by his cap."

"I' feck, we'll have a nearer sight on un, and see who he be speaken to in coach. Keep close, sir, and we'll take a peep at 'em unbeknown."

Crossing to the other side of the street, and keeping well in the darkness, they quickly made their way towards the coach, and reached a position whence, by the light of the inn lamp, they could see into it without being seen. Each turned to the other in silence, astonishment and conviction in their eyes. The occupants of the coach were two: Mr. Berkeley and Monsieur de Polignac. It was to the latter that the man at the door was speaking. They were clearly at the end of their conversation; the man touched his cap and withdrew, and as the coach drove off, a look of gratification shone in the faces of its two occupants.

"What do you make of that, Sherry?"

"Make on't! 'tis plain as a pikestaff. Dead men tells no tales; that's what I make on't, sir. Rafe Aglionby knows a mort too much for they two high-liven villains; that's where 't is: they got un out o' jail to stop his tongue at scaffold foot, and then pitched un in the river to cool it for ever. 'Tis a mortal pity we let un go, sir, for't seems to me we ought to know what he knows, and get to the bottom o' the squire's desperate work agen you. But you always was a tender-hearted Christian, like your feyther afore 'ee."

"I couldn't let murder be done before my very eyes, Sherry."

"Ah, you'll have to see wuss now you be a man o' war, sir. Well, 'tis heapen coals of fire on his yead, as the Book says, and mebbe Them above'll reward 'ee for't; ay, so."

CHAPTER XIX

Marlborough's March to the Danube

A Foreigner at the Hall—War Again—Good-bye!—Comparisons—Up the Rhine—A Bold Stroke—Marlborough's Way—Despatches—A Mission to Eugene—Fanshawe Missing—The Road to Innsprück—Zum Grauen Bären—Mein Wirth—Breakfast at Three—The Second-best Room—A Trap-Door—Midnight Visitors—A Hasty Toilet—A Sound on the Stairs—Through the Copse—Stampede—The Lieutenant of the Guard—At Obermiemingen—The Little Abbé—Max Berens—A Surprise Visit—Mein Wirth Explains—Injured Innocence—In the Net—Hobson's Choice—The Missing Messengers—In Terrorem

No soldier worth his salt ever endured the long idleness of winter quarters patiently, and Harry Rochester was not an exception to the rule. As the weary months passed slowly by, he grew tired of the endless drilling and exercising, varied by marching and sham fights. He was very popular with his captain, Willem van der Werff, and the other officers of the regiment, but found himself unable to take much interest in their amusements. Beer-drinking was not to his taste; the Dutch comedies performed at the theatres were dull, and the paternal government prohibited the performance of lighter French pieces. As the winter drew on he had opportunities of skating, and became so proficient as to win a prize at a regimental match; but the frost was not of long duration. He was not a fellow to allow time to hang on his hands. He practised broadsword and sabre with Sherebiah, read a great deal of Dutch, studied all the military histories on which he could lay hands, and spent many an hour poring over maps until he had the geography of all central Europe at his finger-ends.

No great news came from the outside world. In November the Netherlands suffered in some degree from the fierce storm that swept through the Channel, strewing the English shores with wrecks, ripping off trees at the roots, blowing down churches and houses. In the same month also the Archduke Charles passed through Holland en route for England and Spain, to assume in the latter country the sovereignty which was the bone of contention between his father the Emperor and King Louis of France.

Almost the only relaxations in Harry's life were his visits to Madame de Vaudrey's house, where both he and Fanshawe were always welcome guests. They formed with Mynheer Grootz a little house-party there during the New Year week. It happened that on the last day of the year 1703 Sherebiah received a letter from his father: a rare event. One piece of news it contained was much discussed at Madame de Vaudrey's table.

"And now I must tell you," wrote old Minshull, "as Squire hev had a Visiter for a matter of munths. 'Tis a tall blacke Frenchman by his looks and Spache, a tarrible fine gentleman, with a Smile & a twitching Mouthe. Squire & he be alwaies together, moste particler Frendes it do seeme. None of us soules can't abide him, nor the Qualitie neither. For myself, I don't like his Lookes, not me, & 'tis luckie he can't understand English, for being a Man to speake my Minde I say things nowe and again as would turne his blacke Hair white."

Harry had already mentioned having seen Polignac drive away from Breda in company with the squire.

"The odious man!" cried Madame de Vaudrey, when Harry translated the gaffer's letter. "I only wonder that the other man, that insolent captain, is not with them. I wonder where he is?"

"I don't know," said Harry, who had kept his own counsel regarding the last he had seen of Aglionby.

"I hope he will never cross my path," said Mynheer Grootz. "He is truly a villain, a dastard: to inform on his cousin, and to plan the attack on Harry, and to have the insolence to pay court to Madame la Comtesse!"

"Yes, indeed," said the lady, "and my dear husband not four years dead! Who is the squire that your old friend writes of, Harry?"

"He is lord of the manor at my old home, Madame. His son is in one of our foot regiments, and Mr. Berkeley came over to Holland with him: it was then he met Monsieur de Polignac."

"Qui se ressemble s'assemble. What is the name of the bad old man, Harry?"

"Berkeley."

"Berkeley!" Madame de Vaudrey puckered her brow and appeared to be reflecting.

"How ugly your English names are!" exclaimed Adèle, "and how difficult to say! I cannot even yet say Rochestair properly."

"You say it better than you say my name," said Fanshawe gloomily.

"But then I have known Monsieur Rochestair longer," returned Adèle. "Shall we go into the drawing-room, Mamma? I do so want to hear Monsieur Fanshawe sing that amusing song of his again."

Fanshawe glowered. He knew that Adèle was teasing him, and wished with all his heart that he could recall the luckless moment when he had first amused her with the song of "Widdicombe Fair". Harry's eyes twinkled.

"Yes," said Madame de Vaudrey, "you young people can precede us to the drawing-room. I have a little matter of business to talk over with our good friend Mynheer Grootz."

Then Adèle's eyes caught Harry's, and they both smiled as at some secret known to them alone.

Time passed away, and at length, when the winter was gone, and the gray Dutch sky was rifted with the blue of spring, came the welcome news that Marlborough had arrived at the Hague and that a great campaign was to open. No one knew what the duke's plans were, but there was a general feeling that stirring events were preparing, and a universal hope that the long series of small engagements, sieges, marches and counter-marches would be brought to an end by a decisive pitched battle. Mynheer Grootz was working night and day at commissariat business, and for weeks there was a continual bustle of preparation: the cleaning of arms, the testing of harness, a thousand-and-one details that employed countless people beside the soldiers.

At length a day came when, all preparations completed, the eager troops were ready to march out. Harry and Fanshawe, accompanied by Sherebiah, rode over to Lindendaal one evening to take farewell of the ladies. Fanshawe was in the dolefullest of dumps. Notwithstanding Adèle's refusal of him, he had still nursed a hope that time might prove on his side, but found every hint of a sentimental nature adroitly parried, and now feared that with his absence his last chance would disappear. His spirits were raised a little by the warmth, and indeed effusiveness, with which she bade him good-bye.

"I shall hope to hear great things of you, Monsieur," she said, "and to learn that you have come through the campaign unscathed."

"Your good wishes shall be my talisman, Mademoiselle," said Fanshawe gallantly, bowing over her hand.

Harry meanwhile had taken leave of Madame de Vaudrey, who held both his hands and spoke to him with a quite motherly tenderness. Then he turned to say good-bye to Adèle. She had disappeared. Fanshawe had already gone out to the front of the house to see that his horse's girth was rightly strapped, and Harry followed, thinking that Mademoiselle had perhaps accompanied him to the door. But as he passed through the hall, he saw through the open door of the dining-room that Adèle was there, standing at the window with her back to him.

"There you are, Mademoiselle," he said, entering the room; "I was looking for you. It is a longer good-bye this time."

She turned round slowly, and her back being to the sunset glow he could scarcely see her features. She held out her hand, and said slowly, with perhaps a little less cordiality than he had unconsciously expected:

"Adieu, Monsieur Harry!"

He took her hand, hesitated for a moment, and then was gone.

As he left the porch he saw Sherebiah coming round from the garden with his arm unblushingly about the waist of Katrinka, the prettiest maidservant of the house. The honest fellow led the girl up to his master.

"I've done it, sir," he said. "Her've said it. Feyther o' mine may think what a' will, but, an't please Them above to bring me through, by next winter there'll be a Mistress Minshull once more to comfort his old aged soul. Eh, Katrinka, lass?"

The girl looked shyly up and dropt a curtsy.

"'Pon my soul, Sherry, you're a lucky fellow," said Harry. "My old friend will be pleased, I promise you. And look 'ee, I'll give you five minutes to say good-bye to Katrinka while Mr. Fanshawe and I ride on."

"Thank 'ee, sir! I'll catch 'ee up, soon as her be done."

"Sherry has had better luck than you, Fanshawe," said Harry with a smile, as they rode off.

"Yes, confound him! But hang it, Harry, I'll not give up hope yet. She was very kind to me when she said good-bye, and, by George! if I only escape a Frenchman's bullet and can manage to come off with flying colours and a neat little sabre-cut—who knows? she may be Mistress Godfrey Fanshawe yet."

Harry was silent. He felt a little surprised, perhaps a little hurt, that Adèle should have shown more warmth to Fanshawe, a friend of later date. He did not know what he had expected; he could not, indeed, have put his thoughts into words; but the coldness of Mademoiselle's farewell, so strongly contrasting with Madame's affectionate manner, had left him vaguely dissatisfied and made him disinclined to talk. Fanshawe, however, was in high spirits, and chattered freely as they went side by side at a walking pace along the road to Breda. Sherebiah by and by overtook them, and kept a few yards behind. He too was in capital spirits, and, having no one to converse with, was humming as he rode:

"So Tom Pearce he got to the top o' the hill,

All along, down along, out along lee;

And he seed his old mare a-maken her will,

Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan

Whiddon, Harry Hawk, old Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all,

Old Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all.

"So Tom Pearce's old mare, her took sick an' died,

All along, down along, out along lee,

And Tom, he sat down on a stone, an' he cried,

Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter——"

"Confound you, Sherry!" cried Fanshawe, who had been so busy talking that not till this moment had he recognized the song. "Hanged if you are not always singing that wretched 'Widdicombe Fair'!"

"Beg pardon, sir. No offence. 'Tis a favourite ditty o' mine, and, axin' your pardon, I thowt 'twas one o' yourn too."

"Nay; anything else, anything else, my good fellow, not that, as you love me."

"Very good, sir. I be in a mind to troll a ditty, 'tis true, and if my tenor tones don't offend 'ee, I'll try a stave o' 'Turmut-hoein'."

Next morning, under a bright May sun, the troops in Breda marched out to join the Duke of Marlborough at Ruremond. As Harry's troop passed Lindendaal, and he caught a glimpse of fluttering handkerchiefs at the windows, he could not help wondering whether he should see those kind friends again.

At Ruremond the troops were reviewed by the duke himself; thence they marched to Juliers and Coblentz, where they halted for two days to allow the Prussian and Hanoverian levies in British pay to unite with them. Everybody had expected that the march would be continued up the Moselle, with the purpose of coming to grips with the French army under Marshal Villeroy. But to the general astonishment orders were given to cross that river by the stone bridge, and then the Rhine by two bridges of boats, and to proceed through the principality of Hesse-Cassel. The new orders were eagerly discussed by the officers of all the corps, but Marlborough had kept his own counsel, and indeed at this time his plan was known to scarcely anyone but Lord Godolphin, with whom he had talked it over in outline before leaving England, and Prince Eugene of Savoy, to whom he had entrusted it in correspondence.

The plan must have seemed hazardous, even reckless, to soldiers who held by the old traditions; but it was one that displayed Marlborough's military genius to the full. He had divined the true meaning of the recent movements of the French armies, and determined on a great effort to defeat the aim of King Louis so shrewdly guessed at. Relying on his ally, the Elector of Bavaria, the French king had resolved to make a strenuous attack upon the Emperor in the heart of his own dominions, Vienna. If Austria were crushed in one great battle, Louis had reason to expect a general rising of the Hungarians, by which the empire would be so much weakened that he could enforce peace and secure the triumph of his policy on his own terms. Already a French army under Marshal Marsin had joined forces with the Elector of Bavaria; other armies were rapidly advancing to reinforce them, and the combined host would be more than a match for any army that the emperor could put in the field against it.

Marlborough saw only one way to save the empire: he must prevent if possible the junction of the several French armies, or, if that were impossible, defeat them in a pitched battle. But he knew that the States of Holland would shrink from the risk of an expedition so far from their own borders; he therefore gave out that his campaign was to be conducted along the Moselle, and only when he was well on his way, and it was too late to oppose him, did he reveal his full design. Fortunately the Dutch Government rose to the opportunity; they sent him the reinforcements and supplies he asked for, and were satisfied with the detachment of one or two small forces to keep watch on Villeroy, who had crossed the Meuse and was threatening Huy. For himself, Marlborough intended to press forward with all speed towards the Danube, join Prince Louis of Baden and Prince Eugene of Savoy, and give battle to the combined French and Bavarians on ground of his own choosing.

For Harry this famous march was attended with endless novelty and excitement. Every morning at dawn camp was struck, and for five or six hours, with occasional halts, the troops marched, covering twelve or fifteen miles, and bivouacking about nine o'clock, thus completing the day's work before the sun grew hot. All along the route supplies for man and beast were furnished by commissaries, whose duties were so well organized that everything was on the ground before the troops arrived, and they had nothing to do but pitch their tents, boil their kettles, and lie down to rest. Everything was arranged and carried out with matchless regularity and order; Marlborough himself had a thorough grasp of the details, and showed such consideration for his men that on personal grounds he won their admiration and confidence. The passage of so large and miscellaneous a force, consisting of English, Dutch, Prussians, Danes, and levies from several of the minor German states, might well have been attended by many disorders; but Marlborough always displayed great humanity in his dealings with the people of the country through which he passed, and in these matters an army takes its cue from the commander-in-chief.

After quitting Coblentz, the duke went forward a day's march with the cavalry, leaving the artillery and foot to follow under the command of his brother, General Charles Churchill. Unfortunately rainy weather set in towards the end of May, and the roads were rendered so difficult that Churchill's force lost ground, and by the time Marlborough reached Ladenburg, on June 2, was four or five days behind. This delay gave the duke some little cause for anxiety, for he had learnt that Prince Louis of Baden, a brave but sluggish general of the old school, had allowed reinforcements to reach the Elector of Bavaria, and failed to seize an excellent opportunity of defeating the combined force. Marlborough, wishing on this account to hurry his advance, sent back two troops of Dutch horse to assist his brother with the cannon. One of these happened to be Harry's. The heavy Flemish horses were serviceable in dragging the guns, but the rains were so persistent and the soft roads so cut up that when Churchill reached Maintz he was still some five days' march behind the duke.

Late on the night of June 3, when the camp was silent, a courier reached Maintz with the following despatch from Marlborough at Ladenburg:—

"I send this by express on purpose to be informed of the condition you are in, both as to the troops and the artillery, and to advise you to take your march with the whole directly to Heidelberg, since the route we have taken by Ladenburg will be too difficult for you. Pray send back the messenger immediately, and let me know by him where you design to camp each night, and what day you propose to be at Heidelberg, that I may take my measures accordingly."

General Churchill was roused from sleep to receive the despatch. He at once wrote his reply, but on sending it out to the messenger learnt that he had been suddenly seized with illness, and was unable to ride. Churchill then sent for Captain van der Werff, and asked him, since he had already ridden the Ladenburg road with his troop, to despatch the letter by one of his subalterns. The captain, who knew of Harry's relations with Marlborough, pleased himself with the thought of bringing the two together again, and, to Harry's unbounded delight, ordered him to ride at once to Ladenburg. Before he went he was summoned to the bedside of General Churchill, and saw the tall, thin, battered form of that excellent soldier in the unheroic attire of night-shirt and cap. From him he learnt, in case of accident, the gist of the message, which was that Churchill undertook to arrive at Heidelberg on June 7. Harry started before dawn, and reached the camp at Ladenburg early. He had crossed the Neckar by the bridge of boats used by Marlborough's troops on the previous day, and found the army encamped along the river-side opposite the town. The usual daily march had been pretermitted, in order to allow time for the infantry to make up something of the ground it had lost.

When Harry was taken into the presence of the commander-in-chief, Marlborough was engaged in conversation with Count Wratislaw, the emperor's agent, Colonel Cadogan, his quartermaster-general, and other officers of his staff. The duke had learnt that Prince Eugene of Savoy was on his way to join him, and was anxious that the meeting should take place as soon as possible, so that the plan outlined in their correspondence might be discussed in full detail. He had sent two messengers with letters to meet Prince Eugene, informing him of his whereabouts and urging him to hasten his coming; but neither had returned, and he could not but fear that some mischance had befallen them. But it was a characteristic of Marlborough's that, whatever his difficulties and anxieties, he preserved always the same outward appearance of settled calm—a great factor in his power over men.

He received General Churchill's letter from Harry's hand with a pleasant smile and word of thanks, and bade him wait, to see if it demanded an answer. Then he resumed his conversation, which was conducted in French. Before long Harry, though he remained at a distance too great to allow of his hearing what passed, judged from the glances thrown occasionally in his direction that something was being said about him. Presently Marlborough beckoned him forward.

"Mr. Rochester," he said, "I have an errand for you. I wish to communicate with Prince Eugene of Savoy; two of my officers whom I sent to him have apparently miscarried; I wish to try a third. You have had experience in getting about the country, and I know from one or two incidents in your late career that you have your wits about you and can make good speed. You will carry a letter from me to Prince Eugene. I will inform your colonel that I have employed you on special duty.—Mr. Cardonnel, be good enough to write from my dictation."

He dictated a short note to his secretary.

"You understand French, of course, Mr. Rochester?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Then I need not repeat my message. You will keep it in mind in case circumstances should require you to destroy the letter. You may meet with danger on the road; otherwise I am at a loss to know why I am without a reply to my two former letters. You must therefore be on your guard. You will use all dispatch, hiring fresh horses wherever it may be necessary—without, of course, incurring needless expense. I opine that you may meet Prince Eugene at Innsprück; Colonel Cadogan will furnish you with a map; your best road will lie through Heidelberg, Wisloch, and the Swabian Alb. When you reach the prince you will doubtless be fatigued; his reply may be sent by another messenger, to whom you will give such hints for his guidance as your own journey may suggest. In that case you need not unduly hurry your own return, and on your way back you may find it possible to make enquiries regarding the fate of my missing messengers: they were Lieutenant Fanshawe of the Duke of Schomberg's Horse, and Lieutenant Buckley of Colonel Cadogan's. Do you know either of them?"

"Lieutenant Fanshawe is an old friend of mine, my lord," said Harry, "but I don't know Lieutenant Buckley."

"Very well. His Excellency Count Wratislaw here will, I doubt not, favour you with a letter of safety which will avail you with any of the civil authorities whose assistance you may need en route; but since 'tis advisable to attract as little attention as possible, I counsel you to make no use of the letter except on emergency. 'Twill be common knowledge along the road whether the prince has passed on his way to the army, so that you should meet with no difficulty in finding him. Perhaps, the two lieutenants having apparently come to grief, 'twould be well for you to ride incognito. What is your opinion, Colonel Cadogan?"

"Faith, my lord, let him go as a young English milord making the grand tour."

"But he would then need a servant and baggage."

"Give out that his servant has broken his leg or is laid up with the colic, and he is riding post to Venice; his wits will invent a reason."

"I think, sir, I would rather go as I am," said Harry. "My errand would not then be complicated."

"The simpler way is often the best," said the duke. "Very well. Here is the letter; I will send you Count Wratislaw's shortly; you will then set off at once."

Harry bowed and withdrew, feeling highly elated at being entrusted with this mission. It was an expedition on which he would gladly have had the company of Sherebiah; but there was no time to send for him; besides, one might go more safely than two. An hour later, furnished with a supply of money by Colonel Cadogan, he rode off on a fresh horse, passed through Heidelberg without delay, by favour of Count Wratislaw's safe-conduct, and struck into the long straight road that led due south through Leimen and Wisloch.

What had become of Fanshawe, he wondered. It was a friendly country; the enemy were, so far as he could gather, no nearer than Ulm on the Danube, so that it was little likely that Fanshawe had fallen in with French or Bavarian troops. On the other hand, the country was infested with spies, and here and there in out-of-the-way spots bands of outlaws were said to have fixed their haunts, whence they made depredations on neighbouring villages. But it was useless to speculate on what might have happened, and Harry took care not to awaken curiosity or suspicion by any premature enquiries. Stopping merely to change horses at posting inns and to snatch a light meal, he reached Stuttgart about six o'clock in the afternoon, having ridden sixty miles since he left Ladenburg. This, with his previous ride from Maintz, had made him stiff and sore; but, tired as he was, he determined to push on after a short rest, and reach, if possible, the little town of Urach that night.

Soon after leaving Stuttgart he entered the district known as the Swabian Alb, a country of wooded mountains and picturesque, well-watered valleys, now in all their midsummer glory. The road became steeper after he had crossed the river Neckar, and as his horse was labouring somewhat he began to wish that he had remained to sleep in Stuttgart. He was still some miles short of Urach when he came suddenly upon an inn, standing back from the high-road, and nestling among a group of tall, full-leaved beeches. It bore the sign "Zum grauen Bären". The pleasant situation and the warm colours of this Swabian hostelry were very inviting to a tired man. His mouth was parched with thirst; his horse was panting and steaming; and a short rest would do both of them good. A moment's hesitation; then he wheeled to the left, and was met by the landlord, who rose from a bench before the inn, where he was smoking his evening pipe along with a squat companion looking like a farmer. The landlord was not so attractive in appearance as his inn, but he gave Harry a suave greeting in German, and asked how he could serve the noble Herr. Harry had picked up a word or two of German in Holland, and asked in that tongue for the refreshment he desired; but at the first word the landlord gave him a sharp yet furtive look, immediately effaced by his wonted bland smile. He went into the inn, and soon returned with a cup of wine, while an ostler brought a pail of water for the horse.

Harry was glad to rest his aching limbs on the bench, and to sip the cool Rhenish. The landlord, standing by him, showed a desire to be conversational.

"The noble Herr is for Urach? He will scarcely get there to-night."

He spoke now in a mixture of German and bad French.

"Why, is it so far?" said Harry. "I thought I was nearly there."

"True, Excellency, it is not very far; but the town council has become somewhat timid since the French and Bavarians came prowling along the Danube, and the gates are shut at half-past seven."

"A solitary horseman will not scare them," said Harry with a smile. "They will surely open to me."

"Not so, Excellency. The order is stern. Why, only yesterday a Rittmeister passing to join the forces of the Prince of Baden was refused admittance just after the clock had struck, and had to come back to this very inn. Donner, was he not angry, the noble Herr! But anger cannot pierce stone walls; the gentleman uttered many round oaths, but he came back all the same. Was it not so, Hermann?"

His thickset companion assented with a rough "Jawohl!"

"Well, I can but try," said Harry, thinking of Count Wratislaw's letter as his open sesame. "I shall ride on in a minute or two."

The landlord lifted his eyebrows.

"The noble Herr has perhaps more persuasion than the Herr Rittmeister. But if you find it as I say,—well, there is good accommodation within."

He went into the inn with his companion, leaving Harry on the bench. Harry reflected. It was absurd to tire himself needlessly; he had ridden with brief intervals for nearly eighteen hours since he left Maintz, and felt by no means eager to get into the saddle again. Perhaps it would be best to close with the man's offer, sleep at the inn, and start fresh early in the morning. Yet he hesitated; there was something about the landlord that he did not like; he felt for him one of those unaccountable antipathies that spring up at a word, a look, a touch. But the feeling was vague and unsubstantial; after a moment he dismissed it as unreasonable, and concluded that his best course would be to take his rest now rather than run the risk of having it deferred for some hours.

He went into the inn.

"The noble Herr decides to stay?" said the landlord. "Well! I would not persuade, but I think you are right, Excellency. Johann, take the gentleman's horse to the stable. I will see then that a room is prepared. And you will like supper, Excellency?"

"Yes. Anything will do."

He accompanied the ostler to the stable and saw the horse well rubbed and fed.

"Whose horse is that?" he asked, noticing a sorrel in the next stall.

"He belongs, Excellency, to the gentleman now with the host, by name Hermann Bart, a farmer of the district."

"Oh! he looks a strong beast—the horse, I mean. I shall want to be off at dawn; you'll see that my horse is ready?"

Returning to the inn, he ate the plain supper brought him by an old woman as deaf as a post. While he sat at table the landlord stood opposite him, attentively anticipating his wants.

"I can have a light breakfast at three, landlord?"

"Certainly, Excellency; we are early birds here, though in these times there are few travellers along the road, more's the pity."

"Ah! Is there any news of the armies hereabouts?"

"Why yes. Only yesterday—so it is said—the Elector of Bavaria crossed the river at Ulm, and the Prince of Baden, who 'tis to be hoped will beat him, stands somewhat higher up at Ehingen across the mountains yonder."

"You have not been troubled yourself by the soldiers?"

"Never a whit, Excellency. And I trust I never shall be. They march, you see, along the rivers, and my little place is out of their route. You are travelling far, mein Herr?"

"Not a great distance," replied Harry, thinking it prudent to give no information. The landlord made no attempt to press him, but kept up a desultory conversation until he had finished his supper.

"I will go and take a look at my horse, and then turn in."

He went out to the stable, and noticed that the second horse was gone.

"Your friend the farmer has gone home then?" he said to the ostler.

"Yes, Excellency, some time ago."

"My horse is comfortable, I see; good-night!"

As he left the stable he heard the man behind him whistling as he gave the cobbles a final sweeping for the night. The tune seemed familiar, but Harry was not sufficiently interested to give another thought to it. The landlord met him at the door with a lighted candle and led the way to his room.

"It is a small room, Excellency," he explained apologetically; "not such a room as befits a gentleman of your rank. But the truth is, the heavy rains of late have found out a weak spot in the roof, and my large guest-chamber is consequently very damp. The small room here to the left is, however, very comfortable; it was last occupied by an Austrian nobleman who slept through the night without turning an eyelid."

"Then it will suit me very well," said Harry.

"Breakfast at daybreak, you said, Excellency?"

"Yes."

"You will want nothing more to-night?"

"Nothing. Good-night, landlord!"

Harry shut the door and shot the bolt. He thought the Austrian nobleman must have been easily satisfied. The room was about twelve feet by seven, and contained nothing but a bed and a chair. There was one small window opening on to the courtyard some thirty feet below, the view of the yard being partially obstructed by a projecting wing of the house immediately beneath. The air of the room being very stuffy, he opened the window wide; then he undressed, blew out the light, and got into bed, pulling out the blanket, which seemed somewhat frowsy, and finding enough warmth in the light coverlet.

But he found it impossible to sleep. He was in fact overtired, and bodily fatigue often makes the mind only more active. He fell a-musing, and wondered what it was in the landlord's manner that he disliked. Through the window came the sound of the stableman's whistle as he locked the yard gate, and Harry tried in vain to recollect where he had heard the tune before. The ostler was a happy fellow, evidently; perhaps his master was better than he appeared. The whistling ceased, a door banged, presumably the man had gone to bed; "and he'll sleep as sound as a top," thought Harry. He turned over on to his back and stared at the ceiling, which consisted of thick beams with rough boards between. By and by he noticed a dark square outline in the planking just above him. He could not see it distinctly, for the beams of the rising moon did not fall upon it directly, but across the bed, making the room itself fairly light. For a time he looked idly at the square; it was evidently a trap-door. He began to be curious about it, then was aware of an indefinable, inexplicable sense of uneasiness, of insecurity. He felt that he could neither withdraw his gaze from the trap-door nor put it from his thoughts. He turned on to his right side, away from the window, but in a few moments was on his back again, staring up as before.

"This is ridiculous," he said to himself impatiently. "I wonder whether the thing has a bolt."

He rose, and, standing on the bed, found that with outstretched hand he could just reach the boards. Exploring the edge of the trap-door with his fingers he soon discovered that there was no bolt, though there had evidently been one at some time, for on a second search he felt an iron socket let into one of the adjacent joists. He raised himself on tiptoes and gently pushed at the door. It rose slightly; clearly it was not fastened above. No glimmer of moonlight came through the small gap between the trap and the ceiling; therefore it did not give directly upon the roof, but probably opened into an attic or loft. There was nothing more to be discovered, and indeed he scarcely felt that he needed to discover more, for his uneasiness had already been largely dissipated by action. He lay down again, and tried to sleep.

This time he was successful. How long he slept he did not know. He suddenly awoke, and at the first moment of consciousness remembered the ostler's tune; he identified it now; it was something like Fanshawe's song of "Widdicombe Fair". He was not enough of a musician to decide how close was the resemblance; country songs of different nations were, he supposed, often alike. Glad that his puzzlement was gone, he settled himself once more to sleep.

All at once his senses were roused to full activity by the sound of two or more horses approaching the inn, at a walk, as he knew by the fall of the hoofs. It was very late for travellers; besides, travellers would probably have ridden up at a trot; he wondered who the riders could be, and listened intently. In a few moments the sounds ceased; then through the open window came the murmur of low voices. Springing quietly out of bed, he went to the window and peeped cautiously out. Five men were leading their horses into the copse immediately opposite to the inn. The short squat figure of one of them reminded him of the farmer whom he had seen with the landlord a few hours before; he seemed the shorter by contrast with the next man, a tall massive figure. They went quietly, and disappeared into the copse; soon afterwards four of them emerged from the trees and approached the inn. Not a word was spoken; the men were apparently walking on tiptoe; but there came the slight sound of a door opening and closing, then dead silence again.

By this time Harry was as wide-awake as ever he had been in his life. His uneasiness returned in full force, and was now magnified into suspicion. The landlord's furtive look and unsatisfactory manner; the story of the closing of the gates of Urach; his lame explanation about the room; the absence of a fastening to the trap-door; the disappearance of the landlord's forbidding companion; the reappearance of the same man with a number of others; their stealthy movements, and the fact that they had tied their horses up in the copse instead of bringing them into the courtyard—all these were links in a chain of suspicious circumstance, of little significance singly, but disturbing when taken together. And the stableman's tune—what did that mean? Was it actually the tune of "Widdicombe Fair", and not merely one resembling it? Had the ostler heard it from Fanshawe's lips? Was he on the track of the explanation of the disappearance of one of Marlborough's messengers?

Quickly and noiselessly Harry slipped on his clothes. His first duty was, of course, to deliver the duke's letter; nothing must interfere with that. His suspicions might be utterly groundless, but on the other hand they might be only too well justified. He must be on the safe side; it was necessary to put himself out of harm's way.

Only one staircase led to his room: it sprang from the narrow entrance-hall of the inn, on each side of which were the doors of the rooms on the ground floor. He could scarcely hope to be able to pass down, however stealthily, without being discovered; and even if he did succeed in this and left the inn, he would be immediately seen by the fifth man, who, he guessed, had been left in the copse to keep watch on the front door. The staircase being given up, there remained only the window and the trap-door. By placing the chair upon the bed and mounting it he might manage to swing himself up through the trap-door; but it flashed upon him that if any mischief were intended the midnight visitors would certainly approach through the attic or loft above. He remembered passing, at the head of the stairs, a door which he had taken to be that of a cupboard; it might be the entrance to a stair leading to the loft, and if he tried that exit he would certainly be in an even worse trap.

A glance from the window determined his choice. There was a drop of about fifteen feet from it to the roof of the outbuilding. In the moonlight he caught sight of what appeared to be the top of a drain-pipe from the roof of this lower building to the ground. The drain-pipe would form an easy means of descent could he gain the roof. There was only one way to do that: to descend by aid of a rope. Without hesitation he drew the thin coverlet from the bed, and tore it across the middle. Knotting the two pieces together he rolled up a clumsy but serviceable rope. The window was only two feet from the bed-post. He tied the rope to this, slung his boots round his neck, wrapped his scabbard in a corner cut from the blanket, to prevent its clanking, and prepared to descend.

It was fortunate that the window was already open, for the creaking of the frame might have attracted attention. There was a risk that the man in the copse might see him as he got through the window; but the moon was now above the house, and the overhanging roof cast a deep shadow over all below.

He had his hand on the broad window-sill, preparing to begin the descent, when an idea gave him pause. How ridiculous he must appear if his suspicions turned out to be baseless, and he had slunk like a thief from the house! How humiliating would be his situation if he were caught in the act and treated as a doubtful character! He could not be suspected of stealing; there was nothing to steal; but he might be thought to be running away without paying. He could prevent that, at any rate. He put a gold piece on the chair.