Front matter (continued 2)

"And this," he cried, gaily kissing her. "I'll warrant you know the old saw, 'Kiss and never tell.'"

"For shame!" she remonstrated, without any great show of indignation, however. "Help me with my cloak and call the jailer, if you please. Alack, my reputation would suffer sadly, if ever this long visit should be heard of outside the walls of Newgate."

He adjusted her cloak, not forgetting to steal another kiss before she tied the thick veil over her hood. "To-morrow," she said, as she hurried out after the jailer, "some time in the forenoon."

As she took her seat in the chair, she laughed softly to herself. "I must be a good actress," she murmured, "or, maybe, there is not enough difference between an earl's granddaughter and a waiting-maid to be perceptible to a robber! Odd's life! he doesn't know the bride's name, even now! 'Tis a queer marriage, indeed!"

CHAPTER VIII

AN ORDER FOR A PARSON

Scarcely had Margaret Moffat alighted from her chair, when Prue darted out into the little hall and greeted her with embraces.

"Oh! Peggie, Peggie, I have been counting the minutes for your return," she cried, literally dancing round her. "Since you went away, all sorts of delightful things have happened. Our boxes have come from Yorkshire; think of it, all our finery—packed anyhow, to be sure, but a hot iron will repair the damage—and we can go to court and to church and to the play, and to the Duchess of Marlborough's masquerade! Oh! Peggie, I am crazy with joy!" and she kissed her cousin again, with an ardor that must have been rather exasperating to Sir Geoffrey, who was looking on.

By this time, Peggie had thrown off her wraps, and forgetting all about Robin, had become as joyously excited as Prue.

"Oh! the masquerade—shall we be invited? I was breaking my heart to think of missing it!"

"We are invited! Scarcely had the trunks arrived, when there came a messenger from the duchess with the invitations for the masquerade, and a note bidding me to dinner with her grace, to-morrow, at noon. Think how overjoyed I was to be able to accept both invitations. I flew up to grandmother to give her the good news—never thinking, I vow, that she would do aught but scold—and found her in a most gracious mood. She gave me a lovely lace flounce. Oh! Peggie, you know her rose-point? there's some for you, too; and what do you think? She offered to lend me her pearls, and promised to give us fifty guineas to help make us presentable at the queen's next drawing-room. Isn't that good news? And now, Peggie, you must help me prepare for to-morrow; that is even more important than the mask, for if the duchess should be in great good-humor with her little Prue, she might take her to Kensington Palace to make her peace with the queen!"

"To-morrow morning you have already one very particular engagement," cried Peggie, laughing. "I see, however, that poor Robin was right in thinking you might change your mind before I got back!"

"Robin—!" Prue glanced at Sir Geoffrey, and turned scarlet. Then her eyes danced with mischief. "Tell us all about it, Peggie; Sir Geoffrey may as well enjoy the joke."

Margaret hesitated, and would have changed the subject, but Prue, wilful as usual, would not be denied.

"'Tis too good to keep," she laughed. "You must know, Sir Geoffrey, that I am desperately in debt; 'tis no secret, though no one but Peggie knows how I have been driven and harried by my creditors. Well, in utter despair, I hit upon a most original way of paying my debts. I decided to be the widow of Robin Freemantle, who is condemned to be hanged next Monday."

"The widow of Robin Freemantle!" he exclaimed, with evident mystification. "Pray, how can you be a widow without first being a wife?"

"That was the only difficulty," cried Prue, with a mock-serious air, "so I persuaded Peggie to go to Newgate and ask Robin to marry me. Did he consent, Peggie? Did he make terms and demand a bribe, or am I forestalled by some fair Molly of the Minories, and must I pine in the Fleet, or marry good Mr. Aarons?"

Sir Geoffrey, who was, perhaps, a little deficient in sense of humor, could not dissemble his perplexity. He had passed the afternoon at the feet of his capricious mistress, or rather under the high heels of her dainty slippers, for she had laughed at his vows and persisted in turning his poetic rhapsodies into coldest prose. Even her joy over the arrival of her trunks and the duchess' invitations, had not improved matters, for she took little pains to conceal that the prospect of returning to the field of her former triumphs had reawakened a thirst for further conquest, which might prove disastrous, both to his matrimonial views and his rash wager.

It was certainly disconcerting to hear his betrothed calmly discussing her possible marriage with this one and that one, while he was racking his brain to devise some means of marrying her without burdening himself with the debts she must needs bring in her little hand. And Sir Geoffrey had already discovered that Prudence was never so likely to be serious, as when she appeared most frivolous.

"Miss Moffat has been to Newgate?" he exclaimed, grasping that one fact out of a bewildering array of vague possibilities. "What an extraordinary adventure! And did you really see the miscreant?"

"I saw him," replied Peggie, "and for a miscreant, he was really quite inoffensive, and even agreeable;" she smiled furtively, as she thought of the two kisses he had stolen, "and if Prue will choose that way out of her troubles, she may; for he's ready to marry her to-morrow, if she will provide the priest and the ring."

Prue glanced at her suitor, and observing his downcast eyes and the thoughtful frown upon his brow, thought the joke had been carried far enough, even for her perverse humor.

"Nay, dear Peggie, 'tis enough folly for once," she said. "Let the poor fellow die in peace. What good would it do me to be the widow of a malefactor publicly hanged? I could never claim the rights of such a widowhood!"

"It need not be known, coz," Peggie eagerly suggested. "He has another name—one quite familiar to you—and though he will die as Robin Freemantle, he will be married and buried under his own name—or what he claims as his own—Robert Gregory de Cliffe."

Both her hearers repeated the name in tones of astonishment, "De Cliffe!"

"Of course, it is an assumed name, but 'twill serve, none the less," said Sir Geoffrey, with a constrained smile.

"De Cliffe," repeated Prue; "'twould be strange, indeed, if that name became mine by such a means. Lord Beachcombe would be greatly edified, if he knew I had a second opportunity of bearing his family-name." She laughed merrily, "If such a thing could be taken seriously, this would almost tempt me."

"And why not?" cried Peggie. "I protest I see no reason for throwing away such a chance. You marry the man to-morrow, and on Monday you will be a widow. His body will be claimed by a friend and buried under the name of De Cliffe, and if your creditors harass you, all you have to do is to produce your marriage-lines and they may go hunt for their money in Robin's grave."

Prue looked irresolutely at Sir Geoffrey. Her caprice for this marriage was almost played out, but she wanted to be coaxed out of it, and to make a great favor of yielding up her own wilful way to the remonstrances and entreaties of her lover. Sir Geoffrey, on the other hand, had rapidly turned the matter over in his own mind, and arrived at the conclusion that however this escapade might affect Prue, it would have two points in his favor. First, the riddance of those debts which he was so unwilling to shoulder, and second, the advantage that the possession of such a secret would give him in pressing his suit to a speedy marriage, and in maintaining his marital authority later on. Sir Geoffrey adored Prue, but with the experience he had gained of her wiles and guiles, he had no objection to the handling of a weapon that would keep them in due subjection.

He remained silent, so after a pause that began to be ominous, Prue said softly, "And you, Sir Geoffrey; how does this project strike you? Peggie has given me a girl's advice; I should like a man's opinion."

He hemmed a little, and glanced from one expectant face to the other. "Woman's wit," he began at last, "is often more to the point than man's—"

"Wisdom," suggested Peggie, filling in a slight hesitancy.

He laughed deprecatingly. "Oh! my dear Miss Margaret, I was not thinking of laying claim to wisdom—merely to logic, with which we poor dull-brained men try to compensate for our lack of feminine intuition. You, who are wise as well as witty, can well afford to be merciful—"

"Still," persisted Prue, "you are only complimenting Peggie's wit; you are not telling us what you think of her scheme."

"Peggie's scheme!—oh—" murmured Margaret, sotto voce.

"My dearest Prudence, surely I do not need to say that the idea of any man having even such a ghost of a claim upon the woman I adore, is abhorrent to me," Sir Geoffrey began, rather pompously. "'Tis absurd to think that a few words to a stranger could free you from so much anxiety, while I, the most faithful of your slaves, am forced by cruel Fate to stand aside, for fear of aggravating your woes." Having got thus far, however, it occurred to him that this was too serious a view of the matter, so he went on with a careless laugh, "To be sure you would only see him once—the fellow's audacity would be rightly punished by such a torment of Tantalus—and your creditors—the wretches have threatened you with the Fleet, did you say? By Saint George, 'tis no more than they deserve to be balked of their prey—it seems almost worth while—"

"I see," interrupted Prue, without the least appearance of annoyance, "that you agree with Peggie. We will consider it settled. I'm so glad we have told you about it," she went on, in her most vivacious manner. "I really don't see how Peggie and I could have managed without you; and to think that I was foolish enough to be afraid you would be shocked!—"

"Oh! I am shocked—distracted, at the idea of any man—" he began, but she interrupted him, playfully shaking her forefinger at him.

"Now, now! don't let us try to be sentimental about it. The plan is a very good plan; very sensible and ingenious. I am proud of having originated it. Peggie, I know, is proud of having successfully carried out the negotiations, and you will have a right, my dear Sir Geoffrey, to be proud of the part you are going to play in bringing it to a triumphant end."

"I am entirely at your disposal, my dear Prudence," said Sir Geoffrey, rather taken aback at thus finding himself assigned an acting part in the comedy, "but I hardly know what I can do—indeed, the fewer persons concerned the better, I think—the less likely to attract attention—comment might be caused by any—a—unusual action on the part of a member of Parliament—the newsmongers are always on the look-out for—"

"Ta-ta-ta! don't you suppose that I should make a spicier mouthful for the newsmongers than even a member of Parliament?" cried Prue impatiently. "Who is to procure the marriage license and the priest, Sir Geoffrey, unless you do it? Don't you think I should attract more attention in Doctors' Commons than Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert, M.P.? And surely, you can more easily find some accommodating parson who will keep the secret and be sure to tie the knot so securely, that when the time comes to reap the reward, there may be no slip 'twixt cup and lip. Then, to-morrow morning, you can conduct me to Newgate, on my way to dine with the duchess, and take care that Peggie and I do not get clapped into a dungeon by mistake."

"If it can be done so soon," Sir Geoffrey began reluctantly, yet scarcely venturing to make any further excuse.

"If it can not be done then," cried Prue imperiously, "it will not be done at all. You may be sure, once I get back to court, I shall have no time for marrying malefactors, or members of Parliament either, mayhap."

Sir Geoffrey made no further protest, but considering that the benefit to himself was so undeniable, gave in gracefully, and pledged himself to his lady's service with many courtly vows. Indeed, the tempting prospect of Prue, divested of her debts, and free in three days to bestow herself upon him, rose before him in such glowing colors, that even Lord Beachcombe's wager was cast into the shade, and only served to add luster to the vision of his fickle and inconsequent mistress, reduced to sweet reasonableness and proper wifely submission by the judicious use of her discreditable secret.

He, therefore, took his leave, having to content himself for the nonce with the tips of Prue's fingers to kiss, and leaving the cousins to the delightful occupation of turning over their recovered wardrobes, and devising the means of making a resplendent appearance at court with their present possessions and the thrifty outlay of Lady Drumloch's fifty guineas.

CHAPTER IX

THE WEDDING

"My mind misgives me," said Margaret, when the two girls were at their toilet the next morning. "'Tis not too late, Prue, for reflection, and if ill betide thee, dear, I shall feel as if I had brought it on thee."

Prue turned from her mirror with a petulant gesture. "Tell me, Peggie, truly," she said, with an air of deep concern, "do you not think the hairdresser has trussed my hair too high on top? Would not a curl or two more on the neck be an improvement? Prithee, unpin this lock and let it fall negligently behind my ear. Ah! that's better." She turned back to the mirror, and regarded her reflection critically. "Am I too pale, Peggie? Do you think a touch of rouge—the least touch—would be becoming?"

"For the wedding, do you mean? Faith, I always thought a pale, pensive bride more interesting. Not that you are either. A shade more color would spoil you. I think you are even a little flushed."

"You are pale, Peggie," said Prue, looking fixedly at her. "What's the matter?"

"Oh! I dreamed all night of troubled water, Prue. You know that's ill-luck! 'Tis not too late to give up this foolish marriage—"

"Foolish marriage! Why, Peggie, 'tis the first wise one I have ever contemplated. And as for a dream, why I dreamed three times running of a black cat, and if anything bodes good luck that does."

"But suppose after all the object of the marriage should fail," urged Margaret.

"Fail! How can it fail?" cried Prue pettishly. "Besides, you know the motto of the Wynnes: 'Cowards fayle. I winne.' Well, I have failed often enough, yet not from cowardice, God wot! And still I am always hoping to win, I scarce know what."

"Your new motto will suit you just as well," said Peggie, "'Nil timeo.'"

"Ha, ha! the motto of the De Cliffes. Was ever such audacity as this Robin's? I've a mind to ask him, when the deed is done, if he has any directions to give about his hatchment, or if I shall refer the matter to the head of the house."

"Oh! Prue, are you utterly heartless? I declare, since I have seen the poor young man I am sorry for him and I wish I had not helped to turn his execution into a jest."

"Would you have me weep?" said Prue, almost sternly. "There is always time enough for that when there is nothing else to be done. Ah! I hear Sir Geoffrey's voice. You are dressed, Peggie, prithee go down to him and bring me word whether he has done his part, and is ready—and willing—to give away the bride."

She turned for a last look in the mirror as Peggie hurried away, and the half-scornful smile with which she surveyed her own charming reflection had none of the levity with which she had so easily deceived her cousin. Yet it certainly was not a picture to provoke disdain. Never had the wilful beauty looked to greater advantage. The restless brilliancy of her sparkling eyes, the changeful color that flushed and paled her cheek with each quick-drawn breath, the nameless but irresistible charm that animated every feature, might have excused a more complacent glance. But Prue, though by no means prone to deal severely with herself, was a good deal more ashamed of her scheme than she would have cared to own, even to herself, and perhaps secretly longed for some insurmountable obstacle to stop her in spite of herself.

She was determined, however, that she would not be the one to raise a difficulty. She was so unspeakably mortified by the new light yesterday's events had thrown on Sir Geoffrey's wooing that the idea of placing a barrier between herself and him, gave her keen satisfaction. That the possibility of her inheriting a fortune from her grandmother should have influenced his pursuit of her ever so slightly, wounded her vanity, that nerve-center of her being; and that he should have lent his countenance and help to a scheme that would give her, even nominally, to another man, no matter how brief or indefinite the tenure, dealt it an almost mortal blow.

"He has yet a chance," she murmured. "He may have found on reflection that he can not bring himself to sacrifice me for the sake of a couple of thousand pounds' worth of debts, and he may implore me to refrain for his sake. I might not be persuaded—one can never answer for oneself—but he would come out of it without dishonor." She mechanically smoothed a ribbon here and adjusted a flounce there and, half turning, tried to obtain a full view of her back in a glass two feet square. "'Tis provoking to be obliged to dress by guess-work," she commented. "If I were to marry old Aarons I could have three or four tire-women, and a dressing-room with the walls all covered with mirrors, so that I could see every side of myself at once. Pah! what is coming over me that I could even think of such a creature? What with marrying criminals and receiving offers from usurers the Viscountess Brooke must be coming to a pretty pass."

With which she made a deep curtsey to as much as she could see of the Viscountess Brooke in the little looking-glass, and running out of the room met Miss Moffat coming up-stairs.

"Hasten, Prue," she whispered breathlessly. "All is arranged. Sir Geoffrey has the ring and license in his pocket and a parson in the carriage. If the bride is ready—" She had entirely recovered from her brief spasm of reluctance and was as merry as a child and as reckless of consequences.

"The bride is quite ready," cried Prue. "Nothing is lacking except—"

"Except what?" inquired Peggie, as she broke off abruptly.

"Oh! a trifle or two; nothing worth mentioning," laughed Prue, snatching up her cloak and hood and running lightly down-stairs, where Sir Geoffrey awaited them, not altogether at ease about his own part in the affair, and palpably relieved that Prue was in the best of spirits and inclined to treat the whole adventure as a frolic.

"'Tis all your own fault—and Peggie's," she laughed in her sauciest way. "If I were not the most good-natured person in the world I should scold you both soundly and refuse to make a fool of myself for your amusement."

"Will you change places with me and let me take your chance?" cried Peggie. "It can not make much difference to Robin."

"What, when I am all dressed up in ribbons and laces for the wedding? No difference, forsooth! What do you say to that, Sir Geoffrey?"

"I was just going to suggest that you were altogether too fine a bride for the occasion," said Sir Geoffrey, rather glumly. "A less resplendent toilet would be less likely to attract attention."

"Eclipse me then under this big cloak," she replied, giving it to him. "Do you think, you foolish man, that I am dressed up like this to wed a footpad? I am on my way to Marlborough House to dine with the duchess, and must hasten or I shall be late and may chance to get a box o' the ear for my first course."

Robin Freemantle sat at the rough table in his cell, writing busily. Several closely written sheets were spread out before him, and when he finished the last and signed his name to it he threw the pen down and sat drumming on the table with his fingers. It was an idle action but by no means idly performed, for the frown on his forehead and the movements of his long, sinewy hands were full of purpose, and angry purpose, too.

Presently the frown died away and a look of wistful sadness replaced it. He took up the written sheets and turned them in his fingers as though half-disposed to tear them up, smiling bitterly as he glanced from page to page.

"What good will it do me," he muttered, "when my bones are rotting in an unmarked grave, to bequeath a feud to perhaps unborn generations? Shall I fling down my mother's reputation for the lawyers to fight over, like dogs over a bone, when I am not there to protect it, and when the outcome of the struggle will interest me as little as it will her?"

A dim vision, more imagination than memory, rose before him of the fair, young mother who had faded from his life twenty-three years ago, and beside it another face radiant with life and laughter, a pair of blue eyes sparkling through curled lashes, a pair of round, white arms gleaming in the darkness, a scarlet mouth—every nerve tingled at the thought that his own had touched it, and might again. But no! she had been merely playing with him. How could he have been fooled by the ruse of a spoiled beauty to feed her own vanity and punish his audacity? She want to marry him! It was fantastic, absurd, and what could be more improbable than the reason for such a folly? She had a wager on it, perhaps, or merely wished to amuse herself at the expense of the daring highwayman who had robbed her of a kiss. Well, she had had her way. He had shown that she had but to beckon and he was ready to follow, and that had doubtless ended her whim.

"She will not come!" he said, aloud, in a tone of poignant disappointment, that plainly showed how he clung to the promise he feigned to discredit.

The jailer opened the door noisily.

"Visitors for the highwayman," he announced. "More fine ladies and gentlemen."

Robin sprang to his feet, looking eagerly from one to another. Whatever his expectations were, the first glance disappointed them. A pimply-faced, watery-eyed little man, in rusty black, entered first, conducting Margaret Moffat by the hand in a ceremonious fashion, that had something in it reminiscent of the time when he did not need filling up with gin to make him remember that he was a student and a Doctor of Divinity. And close behind him, followed Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert—tall, handsome, dressed with the sober elegance that became the budding statesman, supporting on his arm a lady, enveloped from head to foot in a hooded cloak, that completely concealed her.

"May I inquire—" Robin began. Then his glance fell upon Margaret, whose air of coquettish simplicity would not have misbecome my lady's confidential maid, and recognizing her, his hopes rose again, and he burst into a hearty laugh. "Ha, my fair friend; have you come to enliven my solitude once more? What! Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert? I can not say I anticipated the honor of a visit from you. I fancied you had already seen more of me than you approved."

Sir Geoffrey flushed. "My good fellow," he said haughtily, "I have no personal enmity toward you; I merely did my duty as a citizen in appearing as a witness against you."

"Oh! I had forgotten that," said Robin negligently. "I was thinking of the time when I and my friends were chasing you and yours, and the constables shot my horse—poor Firebrand, I wonder what became of him—and turned the tide of battle."

"'Sdeath, fellow!" Sir Geoffrey began furiously, but Prue checked him with a light touch on the arm.

"Pray, gentlemen, do not waste time quarreling; what does it matter now who fled and who pursued?"

At the sound of her voice, at once gentle and imperious, the two men dropped their warlike air, and Robin, who was astounded to recognize Prue in Sir Geoffrey's companion, seemed petrified into a statue of expectancy.

"If we can have a few minutes' privacy—?" she suggested.

Sir Geoffrey beckoned to the jailer, and after a murmured conference, enlivened by the clinking of coin, the latter consented to see that they were uninterrupted for as long as they wished.

While that was being arranged, Prue approached Robin with a timid air. "Master Robert de Cliffe—or Robin Freemantle"—she said, "I thank you for consenting to my wild scheme, and I pray you, forgive me if it seems heartless."

"Madam, I deem myself fortunate, if my death be of any use to you," he replied, with a ring of bitter sadness in his tone.

Prue, greatly surprised by the voice, which had none of the roughness of the robber's greeting on Bleakmoor, looked more closely at Robin, and discovered that he was young, handsome, and by no means ferocious-looking.

"I would not have you feel harshly toward me," she said, in a low, thrilling voice. "It is not too late, even now, for me to withdraw, if you deem me overbold."

A spasm of apprehension shivered through him. Had she brought his dream so near realization only to snatch it from him? Could a woman be so cruel to a dying man? He met her questioning look with one of agonized supplication. "Withdraw—now?" he muttered, unable to voice the prayer of his eyes. "Then why come at all—to mock me?"

But Prue was quick to read men's hearts, and what she saw in Robin's, translated his few abrupt words into a language that stirred hers to pity. Therefore, to console him (the jailer having by this time retired), she now threw off her wraps, and revealed such a vision of loveliness as fairly illuminated the dingy prison cell. His look of delighted surprise satisfied her.

"I recognize you now, but you are far, far more beautiful than even my dreams of you! And have you really made yourself so fine to gladden a poor prisoner's eyes?" said Robin, gazing with rapture upon the graceful figure in its dainty garb of brocade and lace, the lovely face, from which eyes of the most dazzling brightness smiled alluringly upon him; the little hand, so tapering and dimpled, stretched out to him with a gesture, half-entreaty and half-command. As he took it in his, she blushed a little, remembering how he had behaved the other time she offered it. But this time, he bent his head and laid a courtly and reverential salute upon it.

"We have nothing to wait for now," said Sir Geoffrey, impatiently observing this little episode. "Parson Goodridge, have you shown the papers to this gentleman, to make sure they are correct?"

Robin mechanically took up the papers the parson had laid on the table, and read out the names from the marriage license. "Robert Gregory de Cliffe," he nodded approval and glanced further down. "Prue, widow of James Stuart Brooke and daughter of Reginald Wynne and Anne Drumloch, his wife." All the titles had been eliminated, and there was nothing to show that the bride was not of plebeian origin. Robin smiled slightly. Was it worth while to be mysterious with a man virtually dead? He recalled that Peggie had made him promise to keep his marriage with "my lady" a secret, but it was apparent that he was not to be trusted with more of the secret than was absolutely necessary.

"It is quite correct," he said, laying the paper down.

"Then let us proceed to business. Master Goodridge, pray do your office quickly. Let us have no homilies on the duties and pleasures of matrimony"—Sir Geoffrey laughed maliciously—"but make the ceremony brief and binding. We will not intrude on your privacy," he added, turning to Robin, "any longer than is necessary."

"I am ready," said Robin curtly.

The ceremony was quickly performed. Robert Gregory and Prudence duly accepted each other as man and wife for all the vicissitudes of their mortal life, severally vowed love, honor and all the rest of it, pledged themselves by the giving and receiving of a ring, to share each other's worldly goods, and finally received the blessing of the church, borne on the gin-flavored breath of Parson Goodridge.

A short ten minutes having sufficed to make the Viscount Brooke's widow the highwayman, Robin Freemantle's, wife, the parson pocketed his dog-eared book, also a generous fee from the bridegroom, and took his departure.

"Do not forget to keep your own counsel," Sir Geoffrey warned him. "This has been a good morning's work for you, Master Goodridge, and there is better to come when your testimony is wanted, if the secret be well kept."

"I shall keep it, never fear; I shall keep it," mumbled the degraded creature, already drunk in anticipation of the glorious possibilities of a pocket so unusually well lined. "A secret is the only thing I have ever learned to keep."

And he disappeared, chuckling at his own wit.

"Now," said Sir Geoffrey, turning to Prudence with a smile, "all that remains is the pleasant ceremony of congratulating the bridegroom and saluting the bride, and then we had better be going."

Prue was standing a little apart, with down-cast eyes and a certain trouble in her pensive face, that almost foretokened tears. She drew back a step at Sir Geoffrey's words, and put up her hand, palm-outward.

"Let us have no more mockery," she said coldly. "We have made ourselves quite contemptible enough, without further buffoonery. So far from congratulating the bridegroom, we should do better to apologize to him." She stamped her foot slightly but positively, as he seemed disposed to persist. "As to the bride, sir, for once she is in no humor for folly. Be kind enough to take my cousin out and find a chair for her; then you can return and see me to my carriage."

"And leave you here?" he exclaimed.

"Where else would you leave me?" she retorted, in a jeering tone. "Are you afraid to leave me with my husband?"

Sir Geoffrey would still have lingered to remonstrate, but Peggie, whose ready sympathy divined her cousin's motive, placed her hand within his arm, and drawing her veil closely over her face, announced herself ready for departure.

"The gentleman is not my husband," she remarked demurely. "It would scarcely be proper to leave me alone with him, and you can not escort us both at once."

But when they were alone, the words of extenuation Prue intended to speak, seemed hard of utterance. There was a little lump in her throat, and she could think of no commonplace form of excuse that seemed to fit the occasion. Robin gazed at her as though he wished to fill his whole soul with her image. Yet, although they were scarcely twenty inches apart, he made no attempt to touch her.

"Morituri te salutant," he said, with a curious mingling of irony and tenderness in his voice. "Accept the blessing of a dying man."

"Oh! poor soul—must thou really die?" sighed Prue, at last raising her eyes, filled with tears.

At the sight of those sweet, dewy eyes, the newly made husband thrilled in every nerve. "If those tears are for me, sweet Prudence," he said, "death is not so hard to bear."

"'Tis sad; indeed, I would I could do aught to comfort thee!" she murmured, half turned away, yet lingering.

A dark flush swept his cheek. "I could tell you, if I dared, how to make me forget everything but—yourself," he said.

"If you dared!" She flashed an arch glance at him. "On Bleakmoor, you were not so—so ceremonious, Sir Highwayman. Ask me for what you please. My powers are limited, but I will gladly do what I can to console you."

"An' thou wouldst really comfort me, kiss me once, as though I were thy real husband and thou lovedst me." He held out his arms to her, with such prayer and such insistence in his eyes, that Prue, startled, hung back an instant, and then, half involuntarily, drooped toward him, and permitted herself to be clasped in his passionate embrace.

When she drew herself away, her cheeks were rosy-red and her eyes cast down. But Robin, transferring his lips to her hand, fell on his knees before her.

"Oh!" he softly uttered, "I can bear to die now. Death itself can not rob me of your kiss."

"Then you forgive me for—marrying you?" she said.

"Forgive you! Oh! if you had killed me, I could have blessed you, but would not have presumed to think of pardon," he passionately breathed, "and now—" Words failed, and his lips finished the invocation on her hand.

She placed her other hand gently on his bowed head, and pressing it back, stooped and kissed him on the forehead. It was as pure and tender a caress as a mother could have bestowed on her sleeping babe, but it touched both hearts as the most passionate embrace of love could not have done. It was a farewell benediction.

Not another word was spoken, and when Sir Geoffrey returned, Prue allowed him to wrap her in her cloak and hood and lead her away, without even a backward glance at Robin, who, as soon as the door had closed behind them, threw himself on the floor where she had stood, and gave way to an ecstasy of recollection, none the less delicious because there was no future to discount its bliss.

When at last he rose to his feet, he gathered up the manuscript at which he had worked since daylight, and tore it into fragments.

"Since my death will benefit her, I will not attempt to live," he exclaimed. "She has paid for my life in full and with interest, and I'll not cheat her of her bargain."

He sat down, and on his last remaining sheet of paper, wrote a short letter.

"FRIEND STEVE:

"As soon as I am dead and according to your promise (in which I have all confidence), buried, as we agreed together, you will take the iron box you wot of and convey it to Mistress Prudence Brooke, to whom I bequeath it, to do whatever she will with the contents. I do not know where this lady lives, but you can easily discover her, as she is of the court and a lady of title, being besides of a beauty so incomparable, that by it alone you can trace her.

"Do not grieve after me. We must all die, and I have ridden so often with Death on the pillion, that we are old comrades. Besides, I have reasons that you wot not of for welcoming him as a benefactor to others besides

"Your friend,

"ROBIN FREEMANTLE."

He was sealing this missive, when the cell-door opened, and a man of grave and imposing appearance was ushered in.

"I am Lord Beachcombe's attorney," he announced himself, "and at his command, I come to confer with you about the strange statement you made to him yesterday. He has given me his full confidence, and empowered me to make terms with you, if I find it advisable."

CHAPTER X

THE FOLLY OF YESTERDAY

Prue came home late that afternoon, in the wildest of spirits. Her return to society had been a genuine triumph, and even her enemies and detractors, who had been successful in ousting her from royal favor and keeping her in disgrace for a year or more, had been compelled to join in the chorus of welcome and feign, if they did not feel, a decent pleasure in her reinstatement.

Lady Drumloch, who was still unable to leave her room, as soon as she heard Prue's voice, despatched Lowton with a message, commanding her granddaughter to repair instantly to her and give a full account of the day's adventures.

"Can you picture the effect, if we obeyed her to the letter?" whispered Peggie. "I wonder how she would take the announcement of your—" Prue clapped her hand quickly over her mouth, at which Peggie indulged in a convulsion of silent laughter, indicating by signs and gestures the triumphant sense of power conferred on her, by the knowledge of her cousin's tremendous secret.

Checking her exuberance by an imperious glance, Prue followed Lowton into the sick-room, where the old lady reclined on a couch, near a bright fire. A look of real delight sparkled in the old lady's eyes when they fell upon Prue's graceful figure and animated face.

"Come hither, child," she cried; "kiss me and let me bless thee. Truly, Prudence, thou dost often vex my pride with thy follies, but thou dost always charm my eyes. What said the duchess to you? Did she chide?"

"No such thing, dear Grandmother. I have heard no word to-day but dear Prue this; sweet Lady Prue that. Her grace kissed me on the cheek and cried out how pleasant it was, for once, to be able to kiss a face fresh from nature, without having to pick out a spot where the paint and powder were not thick enough to poison one. And I'm not surprised, for half the women there were plastered so thick, 'twas like a frescoed wall, and one looked to see it crack when they smiled. The duchess was not much better herself; but she was all smiles and affability, and all my intimate enemies took the cue and overwhelmed me with flatteries, and Lord Ripworth lisped out, 'Gad, Viscountess, nothing happier than your return has occurred in three months. We have been so dull, that we have taken to religion as a diversion; now your ladyship has come back to court, we shall, at least, have something to talk about."

"The varlet! His mother was a chambermaid, and if people did not talk about her, it was because anything that could be said was too gross for utterance. I trust you set him down thoroughly."

"Oh! no; I was bent on showing how amiable I had grown in the country. I only remarked that whatever he might talk about, I had never heard him accused of saying anything of consequence. There was a large party to dinner, and I heard all the gossip. First, Lady Beachcombe has presented her spouse with a son and heir."

"'Tis your own fault, Prudence, that such an event is naught but gossip to you," said Lady Drumloch severely.

"Oh! la, la! no one can accuse me of an envious disposition," laughed Prue. "Lady Beachcombe is welcome to all the honors of her position. I would not have changed places with her this afternoon for a dukedom, to say nothing of the privilege of nursing Lord Beachcombe's heir."

"Perhaps 'tis all for the best," the old lady conceded. "The present earl is a turn-coat, like his father, who came of a loyal stock, and was so devoted to the throne that he offered his allegiance to every successive usurper of it. I would rather see you married to an honorable Jacobite, who could use your influence at court for the cause of King James the Third."

"The De Cliffes are all mauvais sujets, are they not?" queried Margaret innocently.

"No, child, there have been De Cliffes as loyal as the Drumlochs and Wynnes; De Cliffes who were worthy to aspire to the hand of a woman whose forefathers laid down their lives for Charles the Martyr. Unfortunately, of late generations, the scum has risen to the top in more families than the Beachcombes."

"Well, dear Grannie, as you think so ill of Lord Beachcombe, 'tis as well, perhaps, that circumstances prevented my marrying him, and left me free for at least one more season to enjoy life," said Prue; "and truly, never had I better reason to value my freedom than to-day."

"You have not told us yet what you did this afternoon," cried Peggie, to whom her cousin's triumphs always gave intense and unselfish enjoyment.

"After dinner, the duchess dismissed her guests, and accompanied by Lady Limerick and myself, drove to Kensington Palace, where we had audience of the queen. Her Majesty was extremely gracious, and appeared to have forgotten all my peccadilloes. She inquired if I still played the guitar, and when I sang one or two ballads composed by Herr Haendel—whose music is now quite the rage—was pleased to observe that I must come to Windsor in the summer, and sing to her in the twilight. After that we played basset. 'Twas a dull finish to the day, for the queen fell asleep and nobody dared waken her, so the game was not very lively."

"If you go to Windsor, 'twill be as lady-in-waiting, surely," said Peggie.

"The duchess will do her utmost for me, but she is less powerful than formerly. Mrs. Masham, whom she placed about the queen's person to further her interests, has completely secured the queen's confidence, and means to use it to her own profit. I think the duchess would like to use me to check Mrs. Masham."

"Sarah Churchill would scarcely be so gracious to any one she did not expect to serve her in some fashion," said Lady Drumloch. "Well, my dear, I wish thee good fortune. Be wise this time, and do not let thy wild spirits wrong thee."

Prue became suddenly pale as death. "'Tis late in the day for me to become wise," she said, in a low, wild voice. "Oh! Grannie, Grannie, I'm afraid I have given you a great deal of trouble, and the worst of me is yet to come!"

The old lady raised herself on her arm, and gazed with a look of terror into Prue's disturbed face. "What have you done, child? Let me hear the worst at once!"

"'Tis nothing," interposed Peggie, putting her arm round her cousin, and drawing her gently but forcibly away. "She is excited and overwrought, and methinks she has quarreled with Sir Geoffrey—"

"Is that all?" ejaculated Lady Drumloch, sinking back with a laugh that ended in a groan of pain. "I'll forgive that easily enough; he is no choice of mine, and now Prudence is back at court, 'tis odd if she can not do better than marry a bankrupt baronet."

"Better or worse," cried Prue passionately, "I'll never marry him; I'd rather marry a—a highwayman."

Peggie gave her arm a vicious pinch, but the comparison was so monstrously improbable, that Lady Drumloch did not deign to take any notice of it.

"You were very much in love with Sir Geoffrey a week ago," she remarked austerely, "but your fickleness appears to have no limit."

"Dear Grandmother!" exclaimed Prue, recovering her self-control, "'tis not fickleness, but simply the result of sound reasoning. I love certain qualities, and while I believed Sir Geoffrey possessed them, I loved him for their sake. I am still faithful to the thing I love; but, unfortunately, Sir Geoffrey has it not, at least, not enough of it for me. But let us not despair; the Duchess of Marlborough is determined to marry me off, and has been graciously pleased to select a husband for me."

"Indeed, and who may he be?"

"I know not; his name is still a secret. I have, indeed, a suspicion that it may be Lord Beachcombe's new-born heir, for she remarked that by the time her choice was ready for presentation to me, I might perhaps be settled down, and sobered sufficiently to make a tolerable wife-of-sorts!"

Peggie, watching her cousin closely, came to the conclusion that she was talking nonsense to keep herself from thinking, and at the first opportunity, coaxed her out of the room and away from the danger of betraying herself to Lady Drumloch, whose keen wits and close observation were the more to be dreaded, the less she displayed them.

As a result of the report of Prue's return to court, and her flattering welcome there, the shabby little drawing-rooms of her grandmother's house were crowded that evening and all next day, by those who hastened to offer congratulations and make excuses for neglect that she was too thorough a woman of the world to resent. The throng of courtiers found her, indeed, most accessible. She had a jest and a compliment and a friendly word for every one. Arch glances and enchanting smiles fell alike on friend and foe; perhaps more especially on the latter, as Prue, for once, attempted to follow her grandmother's instructions, and be wise!

Long after midnight, the tired girls performed the last sweeping curtseys to their parting guests, and leaving the yawning James to extinguish the lights, crawled wearily up the long, narrow stairway to their attic bedrooms. Peggie, bursting with long-suppressed curiosity, offered her services to unlace her cousin from the stiff prison of whalebone and buckram in which her slender form had been encased for so many hours, and unpin the luxuriant curls and puffs from the cushion upon which the hair-dresser had disposed them early in the morning. Prue sighed with relief as Peggie, regardless of her own fatigue, removed the monstrously high-heeled shoes and filmy silken hose, and rubbed her cramped feet until they ceased to tingle and smart with the restored circulation, but vowed she was too tired to talk, and, moreover, had nothing to tell but what Peggie already knew.

"What said Robin, when we left you alone?" Peggie whispered. "Did I keep Sir Geoffrey long enough finding me a chair? I sent three away before I could be satisfied that the chair was clean and the chairman sober."

"Long enough for all we had to say," said Prue pettishly. "Do you suppose we were exchanging vows of eternal fidelity, or arranging for our next meeting?" Then, pathetically, "If you were as tired as I am, Peggie, you would rather be in bed than gossiping, and to-morrow we are going to Lady Limerick's drum, and the play afterward, and want to look our prettiest; so kiss me, dear coz, and get thee to bed."

Nor was she more communicative the next day. From early morning, the house was besieged by a procession of apologetic tradesfolk, eager to explain away their threatening letters and dunning messages, and placing themselves and their wares at the disposal of the reinstated favorite. No talk now of the Fleet and the sponging-house—no more writs and suits—nothing but dapper tailors and coquettish milliners' assistants, suave jewelers and mysterious, ill-shaven foreigners with dirty parcels from which they extracted, under vows of secrecy, laces from France or Flanders, or embroideries from the distant Indies, such as might have tempted the most austere of Eve's daughters to break at least one of the ten commandments.

And in the midst of all this excitement, Lady Prue flitted, bubbling over with mirth and triumph. Her bright presence lighted up the sick-room, and under its influence, Lady Drumloch declared she would be carried down-stairs on Sunday to receive callers, and that before a week was over, she would be strong enough to drive to Kensington Palace and pay her respects at the queen's next drawing-room. She bade Peggie fetch her jewel-casket and try the effect of her antiquated diadems and brooches upon herself and Prue, and spent an hour or two deciding which of them the emeralds would best become, and which one ought to have the amethysts. Finally, however, the matter was left undecided, and except that she bestowed the promised pearls upon Prue and a filagree bracelet upon Margaret, the casket was relentlessly restored intact to its hiding-place.

All day long, Peggie watched her cousin, without being able to detect the faintest sign of compunction, or even recollection of the folly of yesterday and the tragedy that would crown it in a few hours. At Lady Limerick's drum, she led the scandal and laughter, as of old, and at the play, sat in her modest little box with Margaret beside her, and an ever-changing crowd of beaux behind her chair. Sir Geoffrey came late, and had scarcely time to greet her, when a message called her to the Duchess of Marlborough, in whose box she spent the rest of the evening.

He did not venture to follow there, uninvited, so it was not until the play was over that he found an opportunity to address her. He was waiting at the carriage door to hand her in, and without giving her time to object, followed and took his seat beside her.

"Do you not see my cousin sitting with her back to the horses?" inquired Prue, in the most freezing tone, as she drew herself as far as possible from him.

"Pardon my inadvertence, Miss Moffat!" he exclaimed, in a tone less gracious than his words, and bouncing over to the other seat in a great hurry.

"Never mind me," said Peggie, stifling a laugh. "I prefer the front seat."

"So much the better for me," remarked Prue, coolly spreading out her voluminous skirts. "Did you see the Spectator to-day, Sir Geoffrey? No? You must read it; the article about Lady Beachcombe and the new heir will make you die of laughing. You were too late, I think, to see the beginning of Mr. Congreve's new play; how do you like the end? Very sentimental, isn't it?"

"I can not say I noticed it," said Sir Geoffrey sulkily; "I was thinking of other things."

"Then why come to the play to think of other things?" she inquired innocently. "'Tis an ill compliment to Mr. Congreve."

"When Lady Prudence Brooke is present, Mr. Congreve can not expect to attract much attention," said Sir Geoffrey, with an effort to recover his customary gallant bearing. "Do not blame me too severely if I am unable to keep my thoughts from you, even at the play, dearest Prue."

As they arrived in Mayfair at this moment, Prue was spared the effort of a retort. Peggie, alighting first, ran into the house, leaving Sir Geoffrey to escort her cousin, but at the door of the drawing-room Prue stopped.

"I am very tired, Sir Geoffrey," she said, attempting to withdraw her hand from his clasp, "and must beg you to excuse me this evening. My cousin Margaret will entertain you."

"She will do nothing of the sort," said a laughing voice from above; "Cousin Margaret is on her way to bed!"

"Then I will ask you to excuse me, Sir Geoffrey, if I follow Peggie's example. I have lost the habits of gay London life, and two days of it have made me almost sick with fatigue."

"Give me but five minutes," he entreated, "and I swear I'll detain you no longer." He opened the door as he spoke and led her into the room, in which a single lamp, turned low, emphasized the darkness.

She stood facing him without a word. Suddenly he tried to take her in his arms, but she repulsed him with a gesture almost of horror. "You forget, Sir Geoffrey," she said, "that I am the wife of another man."

He laughed ironically. "Is it possible that you are taking this farce seriously? I feared I had had the misfortune to offend you, and am relieved to find that nothing worse has come between us than Robin Freemantle."

"That is enough for the present," she said. "While one man can call me wife, all other men must keep their distance."

"Even your betrothed lover, Prudence?" he pleaded reproachfully.

"You more than any one," she replied resolutely. "Without you, I could not have married this unfortunate man, and you should, at least, respect the wife you helped him to."

"Heaven give me patience!" he cried, exasperated. "Do you really look upon yourself as the wife of this gallows-bird? Pray, do you propose to don widow's weeds on Monday?"

A shudder quivered through her. "I don't know what I shall do on Monday," she said, in a low, strained voice, and ran out of the room and up-stairs without another thought of Sir Geoffrey.

He waited for a few minutes, in hopes of her return, and then went down and let himself out into the moonlit street.

CHAPTER XI

THE MORROW'S WAKENING

Before Sunday evening, Peggie really lost patience with Prue. She was so saucy and coquettish, so bubbling over with merry stories and foolish jests, that even in church she could not keep still, but fluttered her fan and whispered behind it to Peggie, until that lively damsel was quite ashamed of her levity. Not one word could she be induced to say about Robin. Astonished at her indifference, Peggie tried in a variety of ways to entrap her into some expression of feeling about him, but she became impatient under questions, and received any suggestions of sympathy with cold flippancy or even more provoking silence.

All the afternoon, a stream of visitors poured through the little house in Mayfair. Superb equipages and sumptuous sedan-chairs blocked the thoroughfare, while their occupants, in gorgeous array, offered their congratulations to the Lady Prudence, and sipped weak tea and chocolate out of her grandmother's egg-shell "chaney" cups. Lady Drumloch did not venture into such a crowd, but, decked in her priceless cashmeres and laces, received a favored few in her dressing-room, and listened with a flush of pride on her pale face to the praises of Prue's beauty and the prognostications of a future even more brilliant and eventful than her past.

"You must persuade her to marry well and settle down, dear cousin," Lady Limerick advised. "Twenty-two is quite old enough, even for a widow, to give up frivolous flirtations and choose a husband. The men are all wild about her, I know; but if she jilts a few more of them, the rest will get frightened and leave her in the lurch, and she will have to be satisfied with a crooked stick, like many another spoilt beauty."

"She must please herself," Lady Drumloch replied. "The harder she finds it to choose before marriage, the less likely she will be to repent afterward."

For all that the old lady took occasion to read her granddaughter a sharp lecture upon the necessity of mending her ways before too late. To which, Prue listened reverentially, and promised speedy amendment. Five minutes afterward, in the privacy of their own room, she was making Peggie die of laughter at her caricature of herself as a reformed character, with all her fascinating caprices exchanged for the cares of the nursery and still-room, obedience to a tyrannical spouse replacing her sway over a score of suitors, while she wielded Mrs. Grundy's birch instead of defying it. Not one solemn or repentant thought clouded the laughter of her blue eyes, and when her cousin kissed her good night and bade her sleep well, she cried out:

"Why, I'm two-thirds asleep already," and turned upon her pillow with a sigh of voluptuous drowsiness.

But in the night, Peggie, who always slept with the communicating door open between the two rooms, was awakened by a sound so strange and unaccustomed, that her heart stood still for a moment, with awe. From the little white bed, wherein Prue usually slept as calmly as a child, came sounds of grievous weeping, sighs and sobs and broken words of self-reproach, and prayers for pardon for herself and pity for one in extremity.

Peggie started from her bed and crept stealthily to the door, where she was not long discovering the cause of this unexpected outbreak.

"Oh! if I could only once ask him to forgive me," Prue sobbed. "Oh! Robin, Robin, I did not want you to love me; I did not mean to be cruel. My God! he will die without knowing—oh! me, oh! me—"

"Poor little Prue, how unjust I have been," thought Peggy remorsefully. "I was past all patience with her heartless indifference, and here she is breaking her heart over a frolic marriage with a highwayman!"

She crept in quietly, and lying down beside Prue, put her arms round the little quivering form and drew the tear-damp face upon her kindly bosom.

"What is the matter, Prue? Don't cry so dreadfully," she said, soothing and petting her. "There, there, be comforted, darling. You are not to blame. We persuaded you, and after all Robin is none the worse for knowing he leaves some one behind to weep for him."

"But he doesn't know it. How can he?" sobbed Prue. "He thinks me a heartless, mercenary coquette—just as Sir Geoffrey does, and you, too. You know you thought so, Peggie—"

Margaret was conscience-stricken, but could not deny it. "I know you are a dear little thing, Prue, and though I thought yesterday you did not care, I know better now. I'm so sorry for you, dear. Your poor head is so hot and your hands are so cold. You'll be sick to-morrow, and after all, it isn't your fault."

Prudence threw her arms round her and buried her face on her shoulder in a fresh burst of tears.

"Oh! Peggie, I am a very wicked woman, I fear," she sobbed. "Can anything be worse than to make a solemn vow before God to love and honor a man I do not mean ever to see again—to swear to keep him in sickness and poverty, when all I wish for is that he may die a violent death to save me from my just debts? Oh! no, no. I do not wish it, Peggie. The man loves me! If ever I saw love in a man's eyes, it was when Robin held me in his arms and prayed me give him one kiss and then forget him! Alas, Peggie, I can never forget him! He will haunt me with those eyes that can look death in the face without blenching, and yet will be closed for ever in a few hours. Oh! Peggie, Peggie, he must not die for me."

"He does not die for you, dear Prue. He dies for his crimes. Faith, I'm sorry for it, though he isn't my husband. But think what a plight you would be in if he were to live!" Peggie remonstrated.

Prue looked at her like a child suddenly roused from sleep and finding its way back gradually from dreamland.

"'Tis true," she gasped. "What would become of me?"

"You are his wife," Peggie went on, "and as long as he lives you can not marry any one else. As to your debts—if he were not to die, he would have to pay them or go to prison."

"Oh, Peggie, stop! Every word you say makes me hate myself worse and worse. I must have been mad to marry a robber—a man who forced a kiss from me at the point of a pistol, as it were, and yet now he is my husband I can not, dare not, wish him dead."

"If you wished it ever so much, dear, you could neither help nor hinder it," Peggie began consolingly.

"I'm not so sure of that," cried Prue, raising herself on her elbow and speaking excitedly. "Do you know last night when I was in the duchess' box I had more than half a mind to fall on my knees before her and own everything and implore her to save Robin's life—"

"Great Heaven!" gasped Peggie. "What on earth do you suppose she would have done to you?"

"I do not know, and I am not sure that I care much," sighed Prue, sinking back on her pillow. "But I'm a wretched coward at heart, and a lump came up in my throat and stifled the words, and all I could say when she saw the tears running down my face was some foolishness about the play being so affecting, when every one round me was laughing and I didn't even know what the actors were talking about."

"What did the duchess say?" asked Peggie, eager for all the information she could obtain while her cousin was in the mood to tell it.

"That I was a little fool. And Lord Ripworth said, 'Not at all, that I wanted them to see how lovely I looked in tears.' And they all joked me until I would rather have been hanged myself than hinted at anything tragic in my life."

Peggie assured her that it was much better as it was and that nothing would have come of such a self-betrayal but scandal and disgrace that would have broken their grandmother's heart and banished them for ever from society. Then she kissed and petted her until she fell asleep, much as a grieved and frightened child might do, with long-drawn sighs and broken sobs gradually softening into the tranquil respiration of dreamless repose.

But there was the morrow's waking to come, and it came to Prue with a sudden sweep of consciousness and recollection that scorched her brain and stopped the beating of her heart. The clock on the mantel chimed the half-hour, and starting up in a panic she saw that the hands pointed to half-past seven.

And Robin Freemantle was to die at eight o'clock. Even now he was on the way to Tyburn, shackled to other malefactors in the dreadful cart which he would never leave alive. Even now the mob was jeering him and his wretched companions and gloating over the prospect of the "last dying speeches and confessions" which were expected to play so important a part in the morning's entertainment. Four of them were to be hanged that morning—two coiners, a house-breaker and—Prue's Husband! The hideousness of the thought struck her again with an agony of shame that tingled in every nerve and for the moment dried the tears upon her burning face.

She heard Peggie moving in the next room and sprang out of bed, dashing cold water over her face and head in feverish haste to wash off the tears and cool down the turgid blood that throbbed in her temples and crimsoned her cheeks.

Just then the clock struck eight. A neighboring church-clock took up the chime, and then another at a little distance. It was Robin's death-knell. Prue groped blindly a few steps and then, with a low, wailing cry, fell on the floor in a deathly swoon.

Peggie ran in and by main force lifted her up and laid her on the bed. The application of such simple remedies as cold water and hartshorn soon brought back consciousness, and with it floods of tears and such heart-broken lamentations that Peggie began to ask herself whether there could be any magic in the marriage service to make a widow mourn so bitterly for a husband she had only seen on two occasions, and masked on one of those! She wisely refrained from investigating the source of Prue's emotion however, rightly judging that the more completely she gave way to it the quicker it would wear itself out.

In fact, after an hour or so the violence of her grief subsided, leaving her pale and languid and much disposed to pity herself as in some mysterious way very cruelly used by fate and altogether a most interesting victim.

In this frame of mind she insisted upon rummaging out a black dress and arranging her curly locks in as subdued a fashion as their luxuriance and natural wilfulness would submit to. Then she permitted Peggie to lead her down-stairs.

Behind the dining-room there was a dingy, sunless little library looking out upon a few feet of neglected back-yard and the blank wall of a neighboring mansion. To this penitential apartment Prue retired, delegating to Peggie the task of receiving her callers and making what excuses she pleased for her absence.

"Say I am ill; say I am dead; say whatever you think will get rid of them quickest, Peggie, but don't let them imagine that I am unhappy, for that is the deadliest breach of good-manners and would make me an object of ridicule."

"Well, promise me you will not fret any more," besought Peggie, caressing her. "Your sweet eyes are all puffed up and you won't be fit for the masquerade ball if you cry any more."

Prue promised to control herself, and by way of keeping her word threw herself on the floor before the door closed upon her cousin, and flinging her arms out upon the seat of a chair, laid her face upon them and gave way to quieter and more subdued, but not less bitter weeping.

She had not long been thus when the door opened and some one looked in. Thinking that she was being sought for and sure that where she lay she was safely hidden, she kept very still.

"Will you wait in here, sir, until I inquire if her ladyship can see you?" said James, the butler. "What name shall I say?"

"It would be useless to give my name," replied a deep voice; "or stay, you can say I bring tidings from Bleak-moor."

As the door closed, Prue rose to her feet with distended eyes and bristling hair, and faced Robin Freemantle.

He wore a long riding-coat of wine-colored cloth and carried a broad beaver caught up on one side with a plain silver buckle. A small quantity of fine linen ruffle protruded from his vest and the sleeves of his coat, and his left hand rested in a broad black ribbon sling. With his neat leather gaiters and spurred heels, and the plain sword in its black scabbard peeping from beneath the full skirt of his coat, he looked the traveling country-gentleman to the life.

For a minute or more the husband and wife stood gazing upon each other in silence. Gradually the look of terror faded from Prue's face and was replaced by an expression in which fear and anger contended with relief.

"It is really you?" she gasped—"alive—and free?" Then the recollection of her futile tears and her hours of anguish rushed over her and she stamped her little foot in unmistakable irritation.

"You are angry with me—because I am alive?" he said, recoiling as though she had struck him.

"I have no right to be angry," she said coldly. "On the contrary, I congratulate you."

"You congratulate me!" he repeated slowly. "But how about yourself? I am afraid my—resurrection—has put you in an awkward position."

She made no reply.

"Am I to blame for that—?" he began, but she turned upon him swiftly.

"You mean that it is my own fault that you are my husband?" she interrupted, her blue eyes flashing like steel. "If you choose to blame me for that, I have not a word to say in my own defense."

"If I dared, I would bless you for it," he said, in a low voice, "although you, perhaps, were waiting impatiently for news of my death, when I interrupted you?"

Remembering how she had been employed, Prue had no answer ready. She was silent a minute, and then abruptly blurted out, "How did you escape, and why did you come here? Good Heaven, if they should follow you and find you here! Oh, how could you betray me? Sure, I am the most unfortunate woman in the world—!"

"Listen to me; there is nothing for you to be alarmed about," he cried, hurriedly coming to her and seizing her hand. "I am free—reprieved—pardoned. No one will follow me here; no one—" He stopped suddenly, and looked fixedly at her. "What has happened?" he asked, in a tone of deep concern. "You are so pale—your eyes are red and swollen—you have been weeping?"

"I thought you were dead!" she said half-resentfully.

"And you wept because you thought I was dead?" he said incredulously—"You were sorry for me?" He stood gazing at her, lost in an amazement so profound that it seemed like a reproach.

She drew away her hand.

"I should be sorry for any poor soul condemned to die," she said, with an effort at indifference.

"When last I saw her," he said doubtfully, as if reasoning out a strange problem against which his reason contended, "she was fresh and smiling, and prinked out like a princess for her marriage with a highwayman. To-day she is pale and sad," his eye ran over her somber figure, "and all in black—for my sake—"

"You run on too fast!" Prue interrupted petulantly. "Can I not wear a black dress without putting on mourning for your sake? Methinks I'll have to wear it for my own! Never, surely, was a woman so caught in her own trap!" She cast her eyes round, as though for visible means of escape. Suddenly a thought of horror glanced into her mind.

"Did you come here to claim me?" she gasped, sinking into a chair, pallid with fear.

"You need not fear me, I have no such design upon you," he said, regarding her with pitying tenderness. He was sorely wounded, though more for her sake than his own. "Can you not understand that I would rather perish by the most cruel tortures than give you one moment's pain? Oh! rather than see that look of fear and hatred upon your face, I would I were now hanging upon the gallows! At least, you would pity me there, and if not, I should be none the worse off for your scorn. I am free, it is true, but an exile, and unless I leave these shores within eight days, an outlaw. In a week, then, should I be still alive, I shall be dead in law and you will be free from me for ever."

She listened attentively while he was speaking, and her face lost its tense look of terror. Once or twice she glanced furtively at him, noting the power and grace of his tall form, his easy, self-confident bearing and the manly frankness of his strong, swarthy face—more attractive than mere beauty to a woman so essentially feminine as Prudence. She was not afraid of him now, but she was extremely angry with fate, and at the moment he represented fate in its most inexorable form, so she wanted to be very angry with him. Yet she could not reproach him, for the harder she struck at him, the more she would wound her own pride.

"It is all so terrible," she said, sighing wearily. Then the door was flung open, and Peggie darted in with the News sheet in her hand.

"Prue, Prue," she cried, flinging her arms round her cousin without observing that she was not alone. "He is not dead—he has been pardoned and is out of prison. Oh! my poor, dear Prue, to think you were all night breaking your heart for nothing—"

"Hush, hush, Peggie!" Prue was scarlet to the roots of her hair, and with both her hands over Peggie's mouth, tried to stifle her voice.

"Mercy!" shrieked Peggie, suddenly discovering Robin. "How did you get here? What did you come for?"

"For no evil purpose, my good Mistress Peggie," he replied good-humoredly. "I came as any other visitor and requested a few words in private with Lady Prudence Brooke. By good fortune, I found her here alone, and will now proceed to disclose the object of my visit, which is simply to ask her to take charge of this small packet for me, until I send a messenger for it."

The packet was a compact one, about the size of an ordinary letter, and scarcely thicker, carefully stitched in a piece of white silk, and secured by a seal without any device.

Robin held it out to Prue, but she made no movement to take it.

"Oh! don't be afraid that I would ask you to do anything dangerous," he went on earnestly. "If it concerned myself, I would not dare to trouble you, but this is a sacred trust, which I hold far above my life, and if I were rearrested, which is quite possible, I might not be able to rid myself of it in time to prevent a great disaster. It was for this reason that I took the unwarrantable liberty of calling upon the Viscountess Brooke. This packet concerns the life and fortune of many friends of hers, but no one would think of looking for it in the keeping of the Duchess of Marlborough's favorite."

"Friends of mine?" she exclaimed incredulously. "Then who are you?"

"A poor soldier of fortune," he replied, bowing low as though introducing himself, "who has for a moment crossed your path, and in a few days will return to his natural obscurity and trouble you no more. All he asks is forgiveness for having so signally failed in keeping his part of the marriage contract."

"It is not that," she interrupted, thoroughly abashed, though not less angry than before. "I should, perhaps, be the one to ask pardon for forcing a marriage upon you which must be very irksome now; for, sure, you must be even more embarrassed to find yourself saddled with a wife than I with a husband. Yet, believe me, I am not so bad as I seem. Peggie knows I did not wish you harm, but oh! I wish I had never seen you. Why did you attack us on Bleakmoor, and why, oh! why did you let yourself be caught and put in prison—by Sir Geoffrey, of all men! Even the devil could not have put such an idea in my head, about a highwayman I had never seen or heard of—"

Poor Robin turned so pale while Prue poured out these lamentations, that Peggie took compassion on him. "Out upon you, Cousin, for a railing shrew! If you must needs blame somebody, let it be me, for if I had not persuaded you to run away from Yorkshire, Captain Freemantle would not have kissed—I mean waylaid you—and if I had refused to carry your message to Newgate, he would have been spared a scolding wife, and God he knows, his state would have been the more gracious—if I had not meddled in things I had better have left alone."

"Well, Peggie, I forgive you; and you too, Sir Highwayman. The only person I can not pardon is Prudence Brooke, who never looks the length of her nose before she jumps over a precipice," said Prue. "Give me your packet," she held out her hand, without raising her eyes, "and tell me how I can serve you; but do not trust me too far; you can see for yourself what an empty-headed little fool I am."

"If you knew how you hurt me by blaming yourself, you would refrain," said Robin, in a low voice. "Believe me, death would be welcome, if it would make you as kind to me again as you were when I was condemned to die. But a higher law than man's law forbids us to take our own life or even throw it away recklessly; yet do not despair, the outlaw walks blindfold through a worldful of executioners."

"You wrong me in speaking as though—as though I were one of them," she replied, with a touch of disdain. "What do you wish me to do with your packet?"

"To keep it safely until my messenger calls for it, and to be alone when you give it to him. He will carry no credentials," Robin added, "and will merely inquire if you have anything for The Captain. You can surrender your charge to him without fear. Accept my profoundest thanks for this favor, and my humblest apologies for having intruded so long. Farewell, ladies."

Once more he bowed ceremoniously and was gone.

CHAPTER XII

THE PRICE OF A BIRTHRIGHT

Robin set out at a rapid pace in the direction of the city, but as he was passing through a crowded street, a crippled beggar with a patch over one eye stopped him, and with a piteous whine, implored his charity.

Tossing him a coin, Robin went on his way, but the beggar, quite agile for so dilapidated a creature, kept close behind him, pouring out a stream of petitions and lamentations.

"What's sixpence to a noble lord like your honor? Make it a shilling, brave Captain, to help me out of the country. There's a warrant out for me, and divil take me if I know what's the charge, but its something political—hanging and quartering at the very least. Thank your honor kindly, and may your enemies always get the worst of it. Ah! but Lunnon's a bad town, and Linc'n's Inn's the very place to ambush a man and take him after the lawyers have got everything out of him. Divil take me if ever I'd give a thing to a lawyer that I might want myself; they'd take your life for six-and-eightpence, and make a bargain with Ould Scratch for your soul—-"

"That will do, my good fellow," said Robin, flashing a quick glance at him. "You need not follow me any farther, you are only wasting what is doubtless valuable time."

The beggar mumbled an excuse, and turned to beg from the nearest passer-by. And Robin pursued his way in a very thoughtful mood.

"Another warrant out," he murmured. "I ought to have thought of that when they appointed this morning to finish the business instead of settling it all yesterday. Steve was right. These hounds never meant to give me a chance."

By this time he was in the Strand, and turning up a paved court behind St. Martin's Church, knocked at a door, on which the name of Matthew Double, Attorney-at-Law, appeared on a brass plate.

The door was quickly opened and two men came out, who had been waiting for him. One of these, though scarcely older than Robin, had the strained look of hard work and high living that distinguished the professional man of that day. This was Mr. Matthew Double, and the other, in shabby black, carrying a mighty blue-bag, could never have been intended by nature for anything but a lawyer's clerk.

"Aha! here's our man, punctual to the minute," cried Double. "Few men would be so prompt to throw away a great inheritance, Captain."

"My word is passed," said Robin. "Did you doubt that I would keep it?"

"Not I; have I not just given you abundant proof of confidence? Still, I hate to see the chances of such a splendid law-suit thrown away; literally flung to the dogs. Dogs, too, who, if I am not mistaken, will turn and rend you when they have drawn your teeth and cut your claws."

"When they have," replied Robin. "By the way, can you lend me a cloak; a long and ample one?"

"This is somewhat the worse for wear," said Double, indicating one that hung in the hall, "but if you want it for a disguise it is rather conspicuous."

"All the better for both reasons," replied Robin, throwing over his shoulders a military-looking cloak of dark green cloth, a good deal frayed, and lined with stained and faded red. With it, he assumed a swaggering step, and with his beaver cocked at a defiant angle, made a striking contrast to the smugly clad lawyer and his weazened satellite.

"I'm ready now," he cried, and the trio started, keeping to the least frequented side of a street parallel with the Strand.

"My good Captain," Mr. Double remonstrated, after going a very short distance, "moderate your stride, I pray, to that of a man a foot shorter than yourself; or, better still, let me call a coach."

"I'd rather walk, if it is all the same to you," Robin replied. "A man who has taken all his exercise for two or three weeks in the courtyard of Newgate, feels the need of stretching his legs when he gets outside."

"True, but I haven't been in Newgate for three weeks, and am, besides, of too portly a figure to enjoy violent exercise. Samuel, stop the first empty coach we meet. Truly, Captain, thou'rt a queer fellow; there are not many of your profession I'd venture to let out of my sight for twelve hours when I was under bonds to surrender him at a certain time, and he had so many good reasons for leaving me in the lurch."

Robin laughed. "Why, it would ill suit me to leave London with my affairs but half-settled," he said; "after to-day your responsibility will be at an end, and whether I decide to stay here and challenge the hangman, or accept my fate and leave the country, depends on matters you wot not of, and will concern no one but myself."

"'Tis a thousand pities," observed Double regretfully, "that you did not unravel the mystery of your birth until there was a price upon your head. There's enough in your claim to have made a pretty case. A ve-ry pret-ty case. Even now—"

"Even now," interrupted Robin, "I have bought my life at the price of my birthright, and I'll pay the price if I get what I bargained for. But not unless. Oh! I'm no sheep to give my wool first, and then go quietly to the shambles."

"They will scarcely attempt to do anything while you are in England—but if you are going to—say America—I would advise you to give your address in—let us say Paris."

A peculiar smile curved Robin's mouth, but not mirthfully.

"Truly, I had thought of the colonies," he said reflectively. "Perchance, the government will give me a grant of land in some swamp or wilderness, where I can work off my superfluous energies fighting the Indians or the Spaniards."

"There is a coach, Master Double," interposed the meek voice of the clerk; "would you wish me to hire it?"

"What, within a stone's throw of Lincoln's Inn? Your conversation has beguiled me, Captain, but it has also made me thirsty. We have a few minutes to spare, and I would gladly crack a bottle to the successful ending of our business."

They turned into a quiet coffee-house, and Robin ordered a bottle of Burgundy. While it was being fetched from the cellar, he obtained a sheet of paper from Samuel's blue-bag and wrote a brief letter, in which he inclosed two small documents, sealed the packet with great care, and carefully addressed it

"To Mistress Larkyn,

"In care of Mine Hostess of "The Fox and Grapes."

Mine Hostess, a plump but not uncomely dame, with a merry eye, sat in her cosy bar, surrounded by quaint flagons and other emblems of her hospitable calling. She returned a cheerful answer to Robin's greeting, and inquired his pleasure.

"You have a kindly face, and I'll be sworn a heart to match, fair Goddess of the Grape," said Robin. "Will you help two hapless lovers, separated by cruel fate?"

"That depends on what I am to help them to," she retorted. "Mine's a respectable house, and I'd rather have dealings with lawyers than lovers."

"I want but a trifling service from you, though 'tis a vast favor to me," said Robin. "Will you take charge of this letter, and by and by give it to the serving-man of Mistress Larkyn, whose name is writ upon it?"

"Oh! if that's all," she said, extending a hand that was plump and shapely, if not over-clean. Robin seized the hand and touched it gallantly with his lips, before surrendering the letter to its clasp. After that, although she called him an "impudent varlet," and made as though to box his ears, he might have asked a much greater favor without danger of rebuff.

When they went out again, Robin cast the green cloak about him, and strode along with an air that made more than one peaceable citizen give him the footway all to himself. As they entered Lincoln's Inn Square, this became still more marked, and in front of one of the finest houses, he stopped and looked round with an insolent swagger that greatly impressed a group of men loitering under a tree near by.

Double could not quite conceal his dissatisfaction, and pulling his client by the sleeve, whispered that the men looked like constables in plain clothes, and that they could hardly fail to recognize him when he came out, if, as seemed probable, they were waiting there for him.

"Let them stare their fill," said Robin. "I wish them to become thoroughly acquainted with Robin Freemantle's appearance." And he walked slowly up the steps into the house.

In an up-stairs room, Lord Beachcombe and his lawyer awaited them. Robin left his swashbuckling manners in the anteroom, where Samuel was relieved of his bag and left to the congenial society of two or three clerks.

Lord Beachcombe returned Robin's courteous greeting with a haughty movement that was scarcely a salute, the two lawyers met with friendly formality, tape-tied papers were produced, and the conference began.

"I understood," said the earl, addressing his attorney, "that the person who calls himself Robert Gregory de Cliffe would be present to-day."

"Have patience, my Lord, he will be here in good time," interposed Mr. Double. "Have you examined the attested copies, Mr. Perry?"

"I have, and to avoid waste of time, I am prepared to admit that they appear to contain interesting family matters, highly interesting. Not that they would be of much legal value if you brought the case before the courts, but enough to cause some annoyance to my client. We have shown that we consider it worth examining into the affair, by obtaining the pardon of this"—he glanced at Robin—"this gentleman."

"And also by taking the precaution of having a warrant ready for my arrest on another charge," said Robin, quietly but incisively.

Mr. Perry glanced at Lord Beachcombe, and their eyes met with the same inquiry, "How can he know?"

"Had you kept faith with me," said Robin, bending his stern gaze upon Beachcombe, "this matter could have been settled in a few minutes. As it is, I have decided not to put the two most important documents in your hands until I am in a place of safety."

"Traitor!" exclaimed Beachcombe, striking the table with his clenched fist. "I knew he would devise some means to balk me!"

"If you talk of traitors, did you not purpose to get everything you wanted from me, and then put my head back in the noose?" demanded Robin. "Such a cat-and-mouse game is not so easy to play with a man who has carried his life in his hand through every kind of danger—even to the gallows'-foot—even through treachery, though that is less common among gentlemen of the road than some other kinds of gentlemen. In exchange for my life, I will give you, as I promised, the original letters that passed between your father and his first wife, the original documents proving the identity of both parties, and the copies of the marriage certificate and the death certificate that prove your mother's marriage a fraud."

"Oh! this villain will drive me mad!" screamed Lord Beachcombe. "Let me go, Perry; must I kill you to get at him?"

"Be calm, my Lord, I beg you," urged the lawyer, very red in the face from his efforts to restrain his client; "this matter can be arranged without violence, if you will leave it to me. Mr.—a—Captain—a—Freebooter, pray address any remarks to me. You will only impede the negotiation by provoking Lord Beachcombe."

"Here are the original letters and documents," said Mr. Double, advancing to the table, "we will go over them together." The lawyers went to work together, comparing, arguing and quibbling, as though the whole matter had not been settled in advance.

Robin, meantime, strolled to the window, where he observed one of the loitering men in conversation with a furtive man in black, with a pen stuck in his rusty wig. He stealthily pointed Robin out when he appeared at the window, and then darted back to the house like a rat into its hole.

"These letters appear genuine," said Mr. Perry finally, "but they are valueless to us without the two certificates."

"They are worth as much to you as your pledge of safety is to me," returned Robin. "Why should you expect to feel safe from me, while I am still in danger from you? That was not the compact. The hour that I set my foot on a foreign shore in safety, I will cut the last thread that binds me to the past, but those two papers will never be yours, Lord Beachcombe, until it is out of your power to injure me. I have given my word, and I will keep it. My title in exchange for my life; your legitimacy in exchange for my safety."

"I knew it—I felt it!" cried Beachcombe. "This fellow himself is the arch-impostor."

"Impostor!" said Robin, with a contemptuous laugh, as he stood up and pointed to the earl. "Nature has cast us in the same mold; God be praised that her work is only skin-deep. Double, you have the late earl's picture in that bag; pull it out, and let us see on which of his sons he printed off the best likeness of himself."

Mr. Double drew forth a roll of canvas, that bore evidence of having been hastily cut from the frame.

"My father's picture!" cried Beachcombe, recognizing it with amazement. "How came it in your possession?"

"It fell into my hands," said Robin dryly, "when I was lately in the North Country. I thought it might be useful, so I brought it away with me."

"You mean, I suppose, that you stole it from Beachcombe Castle," snapped the earl.

"How could I steal my own? Beachcombe Castle is entailed upon the eldest son, and I inherited it from my father, as the son just born to you will doubtless inherit it from you if nothing untoward happens to me. You ought to pray heartily for my welfare, my Lord, until I am safely landed in—America. Still, I am not dependent upon the picture of a dead man for proofs of identity. I can bring twenty living witnesses to prove that I am the son of Mrs. Vincent, whose marriage to Captain Gregory de Cliffe I can prove by documents and other valuable evidence."

"You will give up the two certificates if Lord Beachcombe pledges his word that you will be allowed to leave England unmolested, will you not?" inquired Mr. Perry insinuatingly.

"I will not," replied Robin firmly.

"Well, then—I urge this matter because my lord will have a long period of suspense to endure before he receives those documents, and without impugning your good faith, it is possible they might fall into the wrong hands after all—will you give them up if Lord Beachcombe gives you a written guarantee that you will be safe, so far as he can protect you?"

"I do not value his written guarantee one farthing," said Robin contemptuously. "Given an hour's start, I am ready to take my chance of escape from any lawyer or traitor of you all. But I've a reason for wishing to remain in London for the next few days, and I'll not give up the one thing that enables me to do it in safety."

Beachcombe sprang to his feet. "I have stood this insolence long enough!" he exclaimed. "You—an outlaw, a convicted robber, dare to spurn my word!—refuse to accept my written promise! Pray, what will satisfy you?"

"Oh! if you wish to offer me satisfaction, 'tis quickly settled," cried Robin. "To cross swords with your lordship will give me the utmost pleasure, and let him who draws the first blood dictate the terms of truce."

Beachcombe sneered, but he was not a coward, and his fingers almost involuntarily wandered to his sword-hilt.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" cried the lawyer. "This is no time or place for fighting; besides, if there is anything in your story, Captain—Freebooter—the curse of Cain would be on the one who shed the other's blood."

"Will the one who hires somebody else to shed the other's blood, escape the curse of Cain?" sternly inquired Robin. "If we can not settle this business like gentlemen, let us get it over as quickly as possible. It will not be difficult, I dare say, to find some better occasion for a meeting."

In a great hurry, Mr. Perry read over a legal document, renouncing on the part of "the person claiming to be Robert Gregory de Cliffe and his descendants for ever," all titles, estates entailed or otherwise, and other belongings appertaining to the Beachcombe family in all its ramifications, in consideration of one thousand pounds over and above all expenses of his transportation to a foreign land, or any place outside of the British Isles, that he might select for his future abode. The above to be paid to him on signing this deed, and to constitute a full satisfaction for every claim, past, present and future.

Robin listened with scant patience to the monotonous repetition of legal terms by which every contingency was forestalled and provided for. Then he requested Mr. Double to peruse it, in case there might be snares or hidden meanings in it. Two clerks were called in to witness the bold signature of Robert Gregory de Cliffe, and finally, Mr. Perry counted out one thousand pounds in Bank of England notes, as compensation for Robin's claim to an inheritance worth twenty thousand a year, two hundred more for his expenses in leaving the country, and certain sums to Mr. Double for his services. Lord Beachcombe showed very little interest in this part of the transaction, but sat biting his nails and fingering his sword-hilt.

Mr. Perry drew Mr. Double aside, and made one last attempt to convince him that it would be greatly to the interest of all parties if he could persuade his client to surrender the two documents of whose value he held so exaggerated an estimate. Meantime, Robin strolled up to the window, arranging his beaver with great nonchalance, and throwing the end of the cloak over his shoulder, so as to display the red lining.

He observed that the loitering men had drawn together, and numbered about half-a-score, armed with stout bludgeons and still more deadly weapons. Near them, under the trees, a ragged urchin walked Lord Beachcombe's horse slowly up and down, hopeful of a bounteous douceur from the noble patron who had kept him so long waiting.