A window overhead was thrown open, and a voice that Judith recognized as that of Mrs. Obadiah Scantlebray, called: “Who is there?—what is wanted?”

The girl could not answer. The power to speak was gone from her. It was as though all her faculties, exerted to the full, had at once given way. She could not rise from the steps on which she had sunk: the will to make the effort was gone. Her head was fallen against the jamb of the door and the knot of the kerchief was between her head and the wood, and hurt her, but even the will to lift her hands and shift the bandage one inch was not present.

The mill-wheel revolves briskly, throwing the foaming water out of its buckets, with a lively rattle, then its movement slackens, it strains, the buckets fill and even spill, but the wheel seems to be reduced to statuariness. That stress point is but for a moment, then the weight of the water overbalances the strain, and whirr! round plunges the wheel, and the bright foaming water is whisked about, and the buckets disgorge their contents.

It is the same with the wheel of human life. It has its periods of rapid and glad revolutions, and also its moments of supreme tension, when it is all but overstrung—when its movement is hardly perceptible. The strain put on Judith’s faculties had been excessive, and now those faculties failed her, failed her absolutely. The prostration might not last long—it might last forever. It is so sometimes when there has been overexertion; thought stops, will ceases to act, sensation dies into numbness, the heart beats slow, slower, then perhaps stops finally.

It was not quite come to that with Judith. She knew that she had rushed into danger again, the very danger from which she had just escaped, she knew it, but she was incapable of acting on the knowledge.

“Who is below?” was again called from an upper window.

Judith, with open eyes, heard that the rain was still falling heavily, heard the shoot of water from the roof plash down into the runnel of the street, felt the heavy drops come down on her from the architrave over the door, and she saw something in the roadway: shadows stealing along the same as she had seen before, but passing in a reversed direction. These were again men and beasts, but their feet and hoofs were no longer inaudible, they trod in the puddles and splashed and squelched the water and mud about, at each step. The smugglers had delivered the supplies agreed on, at the houses of those who dealt with them, and were now returning, the asses no longer laden.

And Judith heard the door behind her unbarred and unchained and unlocked. Then it was opened, and a ray of light was cast into the street, turning falling rain-drops into drops of liquid gold, and revealing, ghostly, a passing ass and its driver.

“Who is there? Is anyone there?”

Then the blaze of light was turned on Judith, and her eyes shut with a spasm of pain.

In the doorway stood Mrs. Scantlebray half-garmented, that is to say with a gown on, the folds of which fell in very straight lines from the waist to her feet, and with a night-cap on her head, and her curls in papers. She held a lamp in her hand, and this was now directed upon the girl, lying, or half-sitting in the doorway, her bandaged head leaning against the jamb, one hand in her lap, the fingers open, the other falling at her side, hanging down the steps, the fingers in the running current of the gutter, in which also was one shoeless foot.

“Why—goodness! mercy on us!” exclaimed Mrs. Scantlebray, inconsiderately thrusting the lamp close into the girl’s face. “It can never be—yet—surely it is——”

“Judith!” exclaimed a deep voice, the sound of which sent a sudden flutter through the girl’s nerves and pulses. “Judith!” and from out the darkness and falling rain plunged a man in full mantle wrapped about him and overhanging broad-brimmed hat. Without a word of excuse he snatched the light from Mrs. Scantlebray and raised it above Judith’s head.

“Merciful powers!” he cried, “what is the meaning of this! What has happened? There is blood here—blood! Judith—speak. For heaven’s sake, speak!”

The light fell on his face, his glittering eyes—and she slightly turned her head and looked at him. She opened her mouth to speak, but could form no words, but the appeal in those dim eyes went to his heart, he thrust the lamp roughly back into Mrs. Scantlebray’s hand, knelt on the steps, passed an arm under the girl, the other about her waist, lifted and carried her without a word inside the house. There was a leather-covered ottoman in the hall, and he laid her on that, hastily throwing off his cloak, folding it, and placing it as a pillow beneath her head.

Then, on one knee at her side, he drew a flask from his breast pocket, and poured some drops of spirit down her throat. The strength of the brandy made her catch her breath, and brought a flash of red to her cheek. It had served its purpose, helped the wheel of life to turn beyond the stress point at which it threatened to stay wholly. She moved her head, and looked eagerly about her for Jamie. He was not there. She drew a long breath, a sigh of relief.

“Are you better?” he asked, stooping over her, and she could read the intensity of his anxiety in his face.

She tried to smile a reply, but the muscles of her lips were too stiff for more than a flutter.

“Run!” ordered Captain Coppinger, standing up, “you woman, are you a fool? Where is your husband? He is a doctor, fetch him. The girl might die.”

“He—Captain—he is engaged, I believe, taking in his stores.”

“Fetch him! Leave the lamp here.”

Mrs. Scantlebray groped about for a candle, and having found one, proceeded to light it.

“I’m really shocked to appear before you, Captain, in this state of undress.”

“Fetch your husband!” said Coppinger, impatiently.

Then she withdrew.

The draught of spirits had acted on Judith and revived her. Her breath came more evenly, her heart beat regularly, and the blood began to circulate again. As her bodily powers returned, her mind began to work once more, and again anxiously she looked about her.

“What is it you want?” asked Captain Cruel.

“Where is Jamie?”

He muttered a low oath. Always Jamie. She could think of no one but that silly boy.

Then suddenly she recalled her position—in Scantlebray’s house, and the wife was on the way to the cellars, would find him, release him—and though she knew that Coppinger would not suffer Obadiah to injure her, she feared, in her present weakness, a violent scene. She sat up, dropped her feet on the floor, and stretched both her hands to the smuggler.

“Oh, take me! take me from here.”

“No, Judith,” he answered. “You must have the doctor to see you—after that——”

“No! no! take me before he comes. He will kill me.”

Coppinger laughed. He would like to see the man who would dare to lay a finger on Judith while he stood by.

Now they heard a noise from the wings of the house at the side that communicated with the dwelling by a door that Mrs. Scantlebray had left ajar. There were exclamations, oaths, a loud, angry voice, and the shrill tones of the woman mingled with the bass notes of her husband. The color that had risen to the girl’s cheeks left them; she put her hands on Coppinger’s breast and looking him entreatingly in the eyes, said:

“I pray you! I pray you!”

He snatched her up in his arms, drew her close to him, went to the door, cast it open with his foot, and bore her out into the rain. There stood his mare, Black Bess, with a lad holding her.

“Judith, can you ride?”

He lifted her into the saddle.

“Boy,” said he, “lead on gently; I will stay her lest she fall.”

Then they moved away, and saw through the sheet of falling rain the lighted door, and Scantlebray in it, in his shirt sleeves shaking his fists, and his wife behind him, endeavoring to draw him back by the buckle and strap of his waistcoat.

“Oh, where is Jamie? I wonder where Jamie is?” said Judith, looking round her in the dark, but could see no sign of her brother.

There were straggling houses for half a mile—a little gap of garden or paddock, then a cottage, then a cluster of trees, and an alehouse, then hedges and no more houses. A cooler wind was blowing, dispelling the close, warm atmosphere, and the rain fell less heavily. There was a faint light among the clouds like a watering of satin. It showed that the storm was passing away. The lightning flashes were, moreover, at longer intervals, fainter, and the thunder rumbled distantly. With the fresher air, some strength and life came back to Judith. The wheel though on the turn was not yet revolving rapidly.

Coppinger walked by the horse, he had his arm up, holding Judith, for he feared lest in her weakness she might fall, and indeed, by her weight upon his hand, he was aware that her power to sustain herself unassisted was not come. He looked up at her; he could hardly fail to do so, standing, striding so close to her, her wet garments brushing his face; but he could not see her, or saw her indistinctly. He had thrust her little foot into the leather of his stirrup, as the strap was too long for her to use, and he did not tarry to shorten it.

Coppinger was much puzzled to learn how Judith had come at such an hour to the door of Mrs. Obadiah Scantlebray, shoeless, and with wounded head, but he asked no questions. He was aware that she was not in a condition to answer them.

He held her up with his right hand in the saddle, and with his left he held her foot in the leather. Were she to fall she might drag by the foot, and he must be on his guard against that. Pacing in the darkness, holding her, his heart beat, and his thoughts tossed and boiled within him. This girl so feeble, so childish, he was coming across incessantly, thrown in her way to help her, and he was bound to her by ties invisible, impalpable, and yet of such strength that he could not break through them and free himself.

He was a man of indomitable will, of iron strength, staying up this girl, who had flickered out of unconsciousness and might slide back into it again at any moment, and yet he felt, he knew that he was powerless before her—that if she said to him, “Lie down that I may trample on you,” he would throw himself in the foul road without a word to be trodden under by these shoeless feet. There was but one command she could lay on him that he would not perform, and that was “Let me go by myself! Never come near me!” That he could not obey. The rugged moon revolves about the earth. Could the moon fly away into space were the terrestrial orb to bid it cease to be a satellite? And if it did, whither would it go? Into far off space, into outer darkness and deathly cold, to split and shiver into fragments in the inconceivable frost in the abyss of blackness. And Judith threw a sort of light and heat over this fierce, undisciplined man, that trembled in his veins and bathed his heart, and was to him a spring of beauty, a summer of light. Could he leave her? To leave her would be to be lost to everything that had now begun to transform his existence. The thought came over him now, as he walked along in silence—that she might bid him let go, and he felt that he could not obey. He must hold her, he must hold her not from him on the saddle, not as merely staying her up, but to himself, to his heart, as his own, his own forever.

Suddenly an exclamation from Judith: “Jamie! Jamie!”

Something was visible in the darkness, something whitish in the hedge. In another moment it came bounding up.

“Ju! oh, Ju! I ran away!”

“You did well,” she said. “Now I am happy. You are saved.”

Coppinger looked impatiently round and saw by the feeble light that the boy had come close to him, and that he was wrapped up in a blanket.

“He has nothing on him,” said Judith. “Oh, poor Jamie!”

She had revived; she was almost herself again. She held herself more firmly in the saddle and did not lean so heavily on Coppinger’s hand.

Coppinger was vexed at the appearance of the boy, Jamie; he would fain have paced along in silence by the side of Judith. If she could not speak it mattered not so long as he held her. But that this fool should spring out of the darkness and join company with him and her, and at once awake her interest and loosen her tongue, irritated him. But as she was able to speak he would address her, and not allow her to talk over his head with Jamie.

“How have you been hurt?” he asked. “Why have you tied that bandage about your head?”

“I have been cut by a stone.”

“How came that?”

“A drunken man threw it at me.”

“What was his name?”

“I do not know.”

“That is well for him.” Then, after a short pause, he asked further, “And your unshod feet?”

“Oh! I gave my shoes to Jamie.”

Coppinger turned sharply round on the boy. “Take off those shoes instantly and give them back to your sister.”

“No—indeed, no,” said Judith. “He is running and will cut his poor feet—and I, through your kindness, am riding.”

Coppinger did not insist. He asked: “But how comes the boy to be without clothes?”

“Because I rescued him, as he was, from the Asylum.”

“You—! Is that why you are out at night?”

“Yes. I knew he had been taken by the two Mr. Scantlebrays at Wadebridge, and I could not rest. I felt sure he was miserable, and was dying for me.”

“So—in the night you went to him?”

“Yes.”

“But how did you get him his freedom?”

“I found him locked in the black-hole, in the cellar.”

“And did Scantlebray look on passively while you released him?”

“Oh, no, I let Jamie out, and locked him in, in his place.”

“You—Scantlebray in the black-hole!”

“Yes.”

Then Coppinger laughed, laughed long and boisterously. His hand that held Judith’s foot and the stirrup leather shook with his laughter.

“By Heaven!—You are wonderful, very wonderful. Any one who opposes you is ill-treated, knocked down and broken, or locked into a black hole in the dead of night.”

Judith, in spite of her exhaustion, was obliged to smile. “You see, I must do what I can for Jamie.”

“Always Jamie.”

“Yes, Captain Coppinger, always Jamie. He is helpless and must be thought for. I am mother, nurse, sister to him.”

“His providence,” sneered Coppinger.

“The means under Providence of preserving him,” said Judith.

“And me—would you do aught for me?”

“Did I not come down the cliffs for you?” asked the girl.

“Heaven forgive me that I forgot that for one moment,” he answered, with vehemence. “Happy—happy—happiest of any in this vile world is the man for whom you will think, and scheme and care and dare—as you do for Jamie.”

“There is none such,” said Judith.

“No—I know that,” he answered, gloomily, and strode forward with his head down.

Ten minutes had elapsed in silence, and Polzeath was approached. Then suddenly Coppinger let go his hold of Judith, caught the rein of Black Bess, and arrested her. Standing beside Judith, he said, in a peevish, low tone:

“I touched your hand, and said I was subject to a queen.” He bent, took her foot and kissed it. “You repulsed me as subject; you are my mistress!—accept me as your slave.”