Julian was left alone. She watched Anthony depart, till he had disappeared round a turn of the road and a fall of the hill; then she cast herself upon the heather in a paroxysm of agony. She drove her fingers into the bushes of dwarf gorse, and the needles entered her flesh and drew the blood; but she heeded it not. The rough heather was against her cheek, a storm of sobs and tears shook and wetted the harsh, dry flowers. He did not love her! He never had loved her! She had fought against this conviction that, like a cold, gliding snake, had stolen into her heart and dripped its poison there.

Now she could resist it no more. It was not told her by Bessie—it was not a new conjecture formed on certain scribblings on the glass; it had been proclaimed by his own lips, and at a solemn moment when he would not lie—when he was on his way to death.

He had trifled with her heart, and he dared to reproach her! She had loved him before ever he had known Urith, and then he had shown her attention. Had she mistaken that attention for love? Had not her own flaming passion seen in the reflection it called up in him a real reciprocal flame?

After he was married she could not hide from her conscience that she had made a struggle to win back his heart—had disregarded the counsels of prudence and the teachings of religion in the furious resistance she had offered to the established fact that he had been given to another, and belonged to that other.

He did not love her! He never had loved her! And his life had been to her precious only because she loved him, and believed that he loved her.

She drew herself up in the heather; her cheeks were flaming, scratched by the heather branches, and her hair dishevelled. Her great dark eyes were like a storm-cloud full of rain, and yet with fire twinkling and flashing out of it. He was on his way to death. He would be no more in this life to be fought for, to be won by her or by Urith.

"I am glad he is going to die!" she cried, and laughed. Then she threw herself again on the ground in another convulsive fit of sobs.

Urith had won. She—Julian, had dared her to the contest for the prize. Each had come off ill; but Urith had gained the object—gained it only to lose it—won Anthony's heart, only to have it broken as her own brain was broken.

"It is well," moaned Julian, catching at the tufts of heath and tearing at them, but unable either to break them or root them up. "It is well! I would never have suffered her to regain him. I would have killed her!"

Rage and disappointment tore her, as the evil spirit tore the possessed under Tabor, and finally left her, exhausted and sick at heart. A cool air came down off the moor and fanned her hot cheek, and dried the tears that moistened them.

A few hours—perhaps only an hour—and Anthony would be dead. She saw the gallows set up below Lydford Castle, and Anthony brought forth, in his shirt; his eyes bandaged; his hands bound behind his back. She heard the voices of the soldiers, and the hum of compassion from the bystanders. She saw the rope fastened about his neck, and cast over the crosstree of the gallows. Then one of the soldiers leaped, and caught the free end of the rope, and began to haul at it. Julian uttered a cry of horror, struggled to her knees, clasped her palms over her eyes, as though to shut out a real sight from them, and swayed herself to and fro on her knees.

The black 'kerchief, with the jerk, fell from his eyes, and he looked at her. Julian threw up her hands to heaven, and screamed, with horror, "My God, save him!"

Then she saw, indistinctly, through her tears, and out of her horror-distended eyes, some one standing before her. She could not see who it was; but, overmastered by her terror, she cried, "Save him! Save him!"

"Julian!" said a voice; and it had a composing effect at once on her disordered feelings.

"Bess! O, Bess! is that you? O, Bessie! do you know? He has given himself up. Anthony! Anthony!" She cowered no more; her bosom labored, and she bowed herself, with her head in her lap, and wept again.

Bessie put her hand under her arm, and raised her. "Stand up, Julian. I did not know it; but I was quite sure he would do this. I am glad he has. It was right."

"Bess, you are glad?"

"It is like himself; he has done right. He is my own dear, dear Anthony."

"O Bess!—such a death!"

"The death does not dishonour; to live would have dishonoured. He has done right."

"He has betrayed my love!" gasped Julian, "and I should be glad he died, yet—I cannot bear it. Indeed—indeed, I cannot. O Bess! I would that it were I who was to die—not he. Bess! will they take me and let him go? He has been false to me, and I am true to him."

"He has not been false to you," said Bessie; "he has come to a sense of the wrong course he was engaged in, into which you drew him. But he never was false to you, for he never cared for you. Come! poor unhappy girl. I know how full of sorrow you must be—so must all who love Tony."

"But, Bess! is there no way of saving him?"

Elizabeth shook her head, and said:—

"I do not suppose so. It is true that Gloine has got off, and there is a whisper that his uncle saw the captain, and some money passed, but——"

"Oh! if money were all——"

"But, remember, Gloine was only a common soldier, and Anthony was the captain who led the men from these parts. I do not think any money could save him."

"Let us try." Julian sprang to her feet.

"Where is money to be had? Enough, I mean. You know the state we are in."

"But Fox has it."

"Fox!" Bessie considered; then, turning colour, said, "I do not think that even to save Anthony's life I would ask a favour of Fox."

"Then I will. He can and must save Anthony. Where is he?"

"At Hall. He has gone over there; that is why I left, and I was on my way to Willsworthy when I saw your horse; I caught him by the bridle, I knew whose it was, and came in search of you. I feared some accident. But, Julian, I am very certain nothing can be done for Anthony, save by our prayers. I have heard that special orders were issued that he was to be hung. The captain came here on purpose to take and execute him. He cannot, he dare not spare him."

"O Bess!—we will try!"

"Prayer alone can avail," said Bessie, sadly.

"Come with me. Come back to Hall. You must be with me. I will see Fox. He alone can help us."

"I will go with you," said Bessie. "But I know that it is hopeless."

"He must be saved. He must not die!" gasped Julian.

She remounted her horse, mechanically, and Bessie walked at her side.

Julian said no more. She was a prey to conflicting emotions. A little while ago she had wished Anthony's death, and now she was seeking to save it. If she did succeed in saving it, it was for whom? Not for herself. He did not love her—he never had loved her. For Urith—for her rival, her enemy! She knew that Urith was in a strange mental condition. She did not know that she was recovered from it. But she gave no heed to the state in which Urith was. She thought of her as she had seen her, handsome, sullen, defiant. That was the girl Anthony had preferred to herself, and she would save Anthony to give him to the arms of Urith, that Urith might take him by the neck, and cover his face with kisses, and weep tears of joy on his breast. Julian set her teeth. Better that he should die than this! But, next moment, her higher nature prevailed. She had loved Anthony—she did love Anthony—and true love is unselfish. She must forget herself, her own wrongs, real or imagined, and do her utmost for him. How could she love him, and let him die an ignominious death? How could she let him die, when, by an effort, she might save him, and bear to live an hour longer? She would feel as though his blood lay at her door.

"Bessie, I cannot stay. You walk. I must ride on as fast as I can. Time must not be wasted. Every moment is important."

Then she struck her horse, and galloped in the direction of Hall. Her hair, wild and tangled, flew about her ears. Her hands were full of gorse-spikes, and every pressure on the bridle made the pain great, but she did not regard this. Her mind was tossed with waves of contrary feeling, and yet, as in a storm, when the surges seem to roll in every direction, there is yet a prevailing set, so was it now. There had been a conflict in her heart, but her nobler, truer nature had won the day.

As she drew up in the courtyard of Hall, Fox came out, and uttered an exclamation of surprise at seeing her.

He was in a high condition of excitement. Without waiting to hear her speak, he burst forth into a torrent of complaint.

"I will have the law of them—soldiers though they be, and with a search-warrant, they are not entitled to rob—we have been treated as though we were foreigners, and subjected to all the violence of a sack. They have torn open every cupboard, broken into every drawer and cabinet, thrown the books and letters about—I can find nothing, and what is worst, I cannot lay my hands on the money. To-morrow is the last day, to-morrow the mortgage must be paid, and I know that my father-in-law had some coin in the house. By the Lord! I wonder whether he had the wit to secrete it somewhere, or left it where any plunderer would go straight in quest of it. And he is to be hanged in an hour, and I cannot ask him."

"Fox, it is not true; Master Cleverdon escapes."

"I know he will be hanged, and I do not suppose that set of ruffians will let me see him and find out where the money is. I have searched everywhere, and found nothing but broken cabinets and overturned drawers, account-books, title-deeds, letters, bills, all in confusion along with clothing. It drives me mad. And—unless the money be forthcoming to-morrow, Hall is lost. I have heard that the agent of the Earl of Bedford will offer a price for it—and that there is like to be another offer from Sir John Morris. They would out-bid me. The mortgage must be paid, or Hall lost, and if the old man be hanged to-day, Hall is mine by this evening. It will drive me crazed—where can the money be? He was fool enough for anything—to put it in his cabinet, or in a box under his bed, or in the chimney, tied in an old nightcap like as would have done any beldame. If he has done that—then the soldiers have taken it. Who was to interfere? Who to observe them? They drove all the servants out. They took the Squire in custody, and I was not here. I was at Kilworthy, as you know."

"Fox," said Julian. "It is no matter to me whether Hall be saved or lost. Anthony has surrendered, and the Squire is free."

"Anthony surrendered!" Fox fell back and stared at her, then laughed. "'Fore heaven! we live in crack-brained times when folk take a delight in running their heads into nooses. There was my father did his best to get hung, drawn, and quartered. A merciful Providence sent him into the other world with a bullet in his heart, and saved the honour of the family, and made a more easy exit for him. And now there is Tony—runs to the gibbet as though to a May-dance! Verily! there are more fools than hares. For them you must hide the snare, for the fools expose it, cross-piece, loop, and rope, and all complete, and ring a bell and call—come and be hanged! Come!"

"Fox, we must save Anthony."

"Save him? Why, he will not be saved! He had the world before him, and he might have run where he would; now he has gone where he ought not, and must take the consequences. Save him! Let him be hanged. I want his father. I want to know what money he has, and where it is. I can't find the whole amount. I know he has, or had, some hundreds of sovereigns somewhere."

"Fox, you must assist me to save Anthony; we cannot let him die. I will not! I will not! He must not die!" Her passion overcame her, and she burst into tears.

"Pshaw! He is past salvation. If he is in the hands of Captain Fogg, he is in a trap that has shut on him and will not let him go. Besides—nothing can be done."

"Yes, there can. Gloine escaped. His uncle, the rich old yeoman at Smeardon, bought him off."

"No money will buy Anthony off. Besides, where is the money to come from?"

"You have some. Fogg let off Gloine, and he will let Anthony off if he be paid a sufficient sum. If he was a rascal in small game, he will be rascal in great."

"I do not care to have Tony escape; I owe him a grudge. Besides, and that is just as well, his father is not here; what money the old fellow has is hidden in some corner or other, where I cannot find it, unless it has been carried off by those vultures, those rats."

"If this is not available you must help."

"I! pshaw! I cannot, and I will not."

"You can; you have a large sum at your disposal."

Fox turned mottled in face. He stared at his sister with an uneasy look in his eye.

"What makes you suppose that?" he said. "It is a folly; it is not true. I am poor as the yellow clay of North Devon. No small sum would serve, and I have but a couple of groats and a crown in my pouch."

"You have the money; you yourself admitted it, two minutes ago. You said that if you could find the money Squire Cleverdon had laid by, you would be able to make up the rest."

"Oh! that was talk! I would mortgage my Buckland estate."

"You have the money. Fox, this is evasive."

"What will satisfy you? Here is a crown, and here two groats, and, by Heaven—there is a penny as well. Take this and go—try your luck with Captain Fogg."

"I will have nothing under five hundred pounds. Fox, you can help me, and you will."

"I have not the coin. If I had I would not spare it. I will not throw Hall away. What is Tony to me? If he puts his neck into the noose, who is to blame if the rope be pulled and he dangles? No; here is the extent of my help—a crown, two groats, and one penny."

"Fox! I will sell you all my rights in Kilworthy. I will make over to you everything I have there—land, house—all—all—if you will give me five hundred pounds in gold."

Fox looked down, considered, then shook his head.

"There is not time for it. By the time we had got the transfer engrossed and signed, all would be over. Fogg won't let the grass grow under his feet, nor the rope rot for lack of usage. No; if there were time, I might consider your offer; but, as there is not, I will not. Let Tony hang: it is his due. He ran his head into the loop."

"Your final answer is—you will not help?"

"To the extent of one crown, two groats, and a penny."

"Then, Fox, I shall help myself."