On her return to Rattenbury's cottage, Winefred was thrown into a dubious condition of mind. She had purposed to confide everything to her mother, to tell her about the present of the watch and of what she had overheard. But on coming into her mother's presence she saw that the time was unpropitious.

She knew her mother so intimately that she was aware that the communication must be deferred. Mrs. Marley was one of those persons who, when possessed by an idea, and that one of an exciting nature, are incapable of attending to any other, or on whom the communication of another of agitating nature completely unhinges the reasoning faculties and produces an irrational explosion of feeling. Winefred saw at a glance that something must have occurred during her absence which had upset her mother.

She therefore merely inquired where Captain Rattenbury was, and was told curtly that he was out—a fact sufficiently obvious. Job had informed her mother that he would not be home till the morrow, but Jane Marley did not think to give this information to Winefred. Not knowing this, the girl said no more, determined to caution the captain on his return.

She went into the back kitchen and to the larder cupboard and provided herself with food, her mother saying nothing nor noticing what she was about, nor did the ticking of her watch attract attention.

Thus the hours of the short November afternoon slipped away, and Mrs. Marley seated herself at the side of the fire knitting, with her gown turned up over her knees lest it should scorch and with her arms still bare, glancing in the firelight. Winefred occupied a stool, and fell to studying her mother's countenance and listening for the footfall of the captain or his hand on the latch. She was in no little anxiety. The day was Thursday, and the attempt to disperse the goods to their several destinations would be made that night, and a few hours must determine the fate of the smugglers.

She saw that a storm was raging in the interior of her mother that troubled her wild soul and tossed her feverish blood. But Mrs. Marley was clearly indisposed to allow her daughter to know what had aroused it.

The expression of the woman's face was now angry, then hard and remorseless, flushes of passion swept across it, and then all colour deserted it. At moments her eyes were as though exploding into fireworks, and at the next were dull and lifeless.

Every word of Dench had been as fulminating powder in her soul. Till the interview with him she had entertained no suspicion against Rattenbury; she had recently regarded him with gratitude for having received her and Winefred into the cottage, and she was an impulsive woman, strong in her feelings, whether in liking or in hating. But now, all at once, his conduct appeared to her in a new light. He was no longer a benefactor, he was an oppressor, who had grievously wronged her father and procured the death of her brother, and was rendering to her a tardy and wholly inadequate compensation.

She did not stay to inquire whether the words of the ferryman were justified, whether the charges he made were founded in fact. It sufficed her to see that there was probability in the assertions, and womanlike she accepted them as unassailable. She had been robbed, her child robbed, and all for the sake of Jack Rattenbury, that he might be cockered up and transformed into a gentleman. A smouldering fire of rage against both father and son consumed her heart—a sense of injury ate into her soul and filled her with gall.

Suddenly she started, turned fiercely on Winefred and said, 'Why do you stare at me? Go to bed; it is time. Disturb me no further.'

She was a woman that would be obeyed, to be turned from her purpose by no reasoning, amenable to no persuasion. Of this Winefred was so well aware that she did not attempt opposition. She at once rose from her stool and noiselessly crept to the little room that had been arranged for her under the stair.

But, although, in obedience to her mother, Winefred went to bed, she could not sleep.

There could exist no doubt that the captain had been betrayed, and that, unless forewarned, his capture was inevitable. The coastguard and the military would draw together along every road and lane and enclose them as in a battue. When he should come in there would still be time to warn him, unless he arrived very late. Where was he? Who could say? It was unlikely that he should have told her mother. He might have gone to Lyme to see after the carts, or to Beer to make the final arrangements for the transport of the casks from their hiding-places to Heathfield.

She turned the problem over in her brain and sought a solution. Suppose that Rattenbury did not return that night, by what means was he to be communicated with, how was the danger that menaced to be averted?

He had saved her life, he had sheltered her, she was bound to do everything in her power to save him. Of that she had not the smallest doubt, and her resolution was formed to do her utmost, even in despite of her mother, should she offer opposition.

After an hour Jane Marley fastened the house door and retired to her room.

She would not have run the bolt had she anticipated that Rattenbury would return that night. Her action convinced Winefred that he had told her mother not to expect him back.

What could she do?

She listened to the ticking of the clock and awaited the striking of the hours. When ten o'clock sounded, then she was well aware that not another minute must be lost.

Noiselessly she crept out of bed and clothed herself; she hearkened whether her mother stirred, but heard no sound. On tiptoe, her shoes in her hand, she stole over the kitchen floor, and with caution and slowly drew the bolt.

The moment the door was open, a rush of cold air fanned the embers on the hearth into a glow; but she hastily passed outside, shut the door behind her and breathed freely. She was, at any rate, safe now from obstruction by her mother. Even if the latter had heard her, pursuit would be in vain; she could easily elude it among the thickets and in the dark.

She drew on her shoes. All within was still, she had not been overheard, her mother had not been roused.

Her heart beat furiously, and she was frightened at her undertaking. It was not that she was alarmed at being abroad and at night, but she was well aware of the magnitude of the issues dependent on her action.

If she failed—the goods would be confiscated, the band broken up, and the captain imprisoned for a lengthy period. At his age he might not live till his term expired.

The stars twinkled, a crescent moon shone, there was frost in the air.

Winefred had formed her plan, and she knew her way. She had to ascend from the undercliff to the down, and the chalky path lay before her as though phosphorescent.

There would have been complete stillness but for the mutter and fret of the sea and the piping of the wind.

The smugglers would certainly have preferred less light and more noise, a howling wind, a blinding fog, and a booming sea.

Above every sound Winefred could hear the throbbing of her heart.

She was now upon the down, where the turf was short, strewn with flints bleached by sun and rain. She crossed it, and descended into a deep, lateral combe, through which a trickle ran into the river. Here were trees, but they were bare of leaves. Beyond stood the crest of Hawksdown with its earthworks thrown up, none knew by whom, but haunted, in the opinion of the people, by a ghostly warrior with a fire-breathing dog. She was now among fields, and in a tangle of lanes, but she knew her direction, and although the ways twisted, she made as straight as was possible for the crest of the opposite hill, and for a while skirted a fir plantation that lay like an ink blot on her left. She was not able wholly to escape the shadows of the pines, for she was forced to enter by a gate, the hedge being too thick and thorny for her to scramble over it. In the gloom she became uneasy, alarmed, thinking that eyes were watching her, and that mysterious beings lurked among the branches, ready to leap upon her. To her excited imagination it was as though there came to her whisperings from among the bushes. She walked faster, turning her head from side to side, and sometimes looking over her shoulder.

At the beginning of the present century 'free trade' was in repute among the daring and adventuresome along the coast. Smuggling was a passion, like poaching. Those who were engaged in it rarely abandoned it. It was gambling for enormous stakes—the profits were great, but, on the other hand, so were the risks. If now and then a cargo was run and sold, and the profits measured out in pint mugs, on another occasion an entire cargo was confiscated. Not only was freedom jeopardised, but life as well. Neither 'free trader' nor coastguard was nice in the matter of shedding blood.

Smuggling methods were infinitely varied. The game was a contest of wits as well as of pluck, and in that lay much of its charm. The spice of danger attending it attracted the young men instead of deterring them from it.

In order to obtain information relative to the trade, so as to be able to 'nab' those who prosecuted it, the Government had paid spies in the English and the foreign ports. It sought to undermine the integrity of those combined together in the trade, and to encourage treachery. So well aware of this were smugglers that no mercy was shown to the man who was detected in clandestine communication with the preventive service men. He was sometimes dashed over the cliffs, sometimes taken out in a boat and literally beaten to death with a marline-spike before his body was committed to the waves.

There was something to be urged in extenuation of English smuggling. Customs-duties were first imposed in England for the purpose of protecting the coasts against pirates who made descents on unprotected villages and kidnapped men and children to sell them as slaves in Africa, or who waylaid merchant vessels, plundered and then scuttled them.

But when all such danger had ceased, and the pirates had been swept from the seas, the duties were not only continued to be levied but were made more onerous.

It was felt that there had been a violation of compact on the side of the Crown, and bold spirits entertained no conscientious scruples in setting at naught the law of contraband. The officers of the Crown instead of pursuing, capturing and hanging Algerine pirates, proceeded to seize and consign to prison native seamen.

It was in this light that the matter was viewed by the water-dogs around the coast; nor was this confined to them, the opinion was shared by magistrates, country gentry, and parsons. Three classes of men were engaged in the business. First came the 'freighter'—the man who entered on it as a commercial speculation. He engaged a vessel, purchased the cargo, and made the requisite arrangements for the landing. Then came the 'runner,' who conveyed the goods on shore from the vessels; and lastly the 'tub-carriers,' who transported the kegs on their backs slung across their shoulders.

Captain Job Rattenbury had at one time been a 'runner,' but he was now a 'freighter,' and to be that a man must be a capitalist.

Winefred had reached the Roman Road, the Fosse way that ran from one end of England to the other, and, by the light of the stars, being chalk-paved, it gleamed like a belt of silver.

But on it was observable something creeping like a slug in the uncertain light.

The girl watched it as it approached.

That which she saw was a train of tub-carriers. With audacity, and with a prospect of success due to this very audacity, the train was advancing along the high road, contrary to the wonted tactics of the free traders, but in reliance on the guard of the coast watching the shore, and the lanes leading from it.

There were over a score of men in the line, and all had blackened their faces. They were moving a large amount of run goods from the hiding-holes of Beer, for dispersion among the taverns and gentlemen's houses that were expecting consignments.

Winefred watched the black mass worm itself along uphill. She held back at first in the darkness of the hedge. It was her purpose to start forward to arrest Captain Job as soon as he came abreast of her. Several men went by. Two—four—eight, it was not possible for her in the feeble light to distinguish one from another, and the faces of all were black.

'Who goes? Halt!'

Instantly the advancing line stopped, and one stepped forward, strode towards Winefred, who had moved and attracted attention, and said, 'Who is there?'

'Captain Rattenbury! O Captain—where is he?'

'Who asks?'

'It is I—Winefred. You have been betrayed.'