The sudden interruption served to relax the tension in the hall. There was the quick shuffling of feet, as though these men and women had suddenly been released from some power which had struck them motionless, and eager faces were turned towards the doorway. Barbara did not move. Her eyes were still fixed on Lord Rosmore's face, her arm was still outstretched to prevent a renewal of the fight.

The man stood in the doorway for a moment with his bow raised, pleased, it seemed, with the sensation he had caused. He had spoken in rather a high-pitched voice, almost as if his words were set to a monotonous chant or had a poetic measure in them.

"It is only that mad fool Martin Fairley," said Branksome.

"What is this news?" Sir John asked. His anger seemed to have gone, and he spoke gently.

"That depends," said Martin, advancing into the hall with a step which appeared to time itself with some unheard rhythm. "That depends on who it is who hears it. Good news for those who hate King James; bad for those who love priests and popery. How can such a mad fool as I am, Sir Philip Branksome, guess to which side so many gallant gentlemen and fair ladies may lean?"

There was grace, and some mockery perhaps, in the low bow he made, his arms wide extended, the fiddle in one hand, the bow in the other; and then, slowly standing erect again, he appeared to notice Barbara for the first time.

"Drawn swords!" he exclaimed, "and my lady of Aylingford between them. Another legend for the Abbey in the making—eh, Sir John? I must write a song upon it, or else Mr. Fellowes shall. If his sword is as facile as his pen, my Lord Rosmore, 'tis a marvel you are alive."

"This fool annoys me, Sir John. I am not in the mood for jesting."

"That, at least, is good news," said Martin, "for in this Monmouth affair there is no jest but real fighting to be done. Will you not save your strength for one side or the other?"

"Peace, Martin," said Sir John. "We must hear more of this news of yours at once. And you, gentlemen, will you not put up your swords at my niece's request?"

"I drew it to play a dishonourable part," said Fellowes. "I used it to defend a worthless life. Do you command its sheathing, Mistress Lanison?"

"Yes," and she still looked at Lord Rosmore as she spoke.

"Since Mr. Fellowes has apologised, and you have commanded, I have no alternative," said Rosmore. "If Mr. Fellowes resents my attitude he may find a time and an opportunity to force me to a better one."

"Come, Martin, we must hear the whole story," said Sir John, and then he whispered to Rosmore as they crossed the hall together: "He is certain to be right, Martin invariably hears news, good or bad, before anyone else."

"May we all hear it?" asked Mrs. Dearmer.

"Why, surely," Martin Fairley exclaimed. "Monmouth was always interesting to ladies, and he may, as likely as not, set up his court at St. James's before another moon is at the full."

They followed Sir John and Lord Rosmore back into the room which they had left so hurriedly a few moments ago, and as Martin Fairley went in after them he drew his bow across the strings of his fiddle, sounding just half a dozen quick notes in a little laughing cadenza.

"He is going to sing his tale to us," said Branksome, rather bored with the whole proceeding.

"He is quite mad," answered Mrs. Dearmer, "but I fancy Abbot John is somewhat afraid of him."

The little sequence of notes made Barbara Lanison start, she had heard it so often. When she was a child Martin had told her fairy tales, and he constantly finished the story by playing just these notes, a sort of musical comment to the end of a tale in which prince and princess lived happily ever afterwards. When he had been thinking out some difficult point he would play this cadenza as a sign that he had come to a decision. Once when Barbara had been ill, and got well again, he had played it two or three times in rapid succession. If he declared he was busy when Barbara wanted to go to him, he would tell her she might come when she heard his fiddle laugh, and these notes were the laugh, always the same notes. They had evidently some meaning for him, and they had come to have a meaning for Barbara. They were a link between her and this strange mad friend of hers. When she heard them she always felt that Martin had something to tell her, or could help her in any difficulty she was in at the moment.

"Mistress Lanison."

She started. She was almost unconscious that the people who had surrounded her just now had gone and closed the door. She was alone in the hall with Sydney Fellowes, from whom a few moments ago she had cried out to be delivered.

"Mistress Lanison, I ask your pardon for to-night. Forget it, blot it out of your memory, if you can. If some day you would deign to set me a task whereby I might prove my repentance, I swear you shall be humbly served. Against your will, perhaps, you have picked me out of the gutter. Please God, I'll keep out of it. Thank you for all you have done for me."

He spoke hurriedly, giving her no opportunity to answer him, and then turned and left her, going out through the door which opened on to the terrace, and which still stood open. Had he waited Barbara would not have answered him, perhaps; she was not thinking of him, but of Martin Fairley and the laugh of his fiddle. The sound of Fellowes's retreating footsteps had died into silence before she turned and went out slowly on to the terrace, closing the door quietly behind her.

The fiddle, with the bow beside it, lay on the table near its master, a strange master, whose moods were as varying as are those of an April day. Mad Martin he was called, and he was known and loved in all the villages for miles round Aylingford. He and his fiddle brought mirth to many a simple festival, and in time of trouble it was strange how helpful were the words and presence of this madman. Martin Fairley was not as other men, the village folk said, he was not sane and ordinary as they were, he was to be pitied, and must often be treated as a wayward child. Yet there were times when he seemed to see visions, when the invisible spirits of that world with which he was in touch whispered into his ear things of which men knew nothing. He was suddenly endowed with knowledge above his fellows, and the whole aspect of the man changed. At such times the villagers were a little afraid of him and spoke under their breath of magic and the black art. Even Sir John Lanison was not free from this fear of his strange dependent. He never spoke roughly to him, never checked him, never questioned his goings and comings. Sometimes, half-jestingly it seemed, he asked his advice, and whatever Martin said was always considered. As often as not the advice given took the form of a parable, and, no matter how absurd it sounded, Sir John invariably tried to understand its meaning.

Martin Fairley had come to the Abbey one winter's night soon after Barbara Lanison had been brought there. He had come out of the woods, struggling against a hurricane of wind across one of the bridges, his fiddle cuddled in his arms for protection. He had begged for food and shelter, and then, warm and satisfied, he had played to the company gathered round the Abbey fire, had told them strange tales, and, with a light laugh, had declared that he was the second child to come to the good Sir John Lanison for care and protection, first the little niece, now the poor fool. Someone told Sir John that there was luck in keeping such a fool about the place, and whether it was that he believed it, or really felt pity for the homeless wanderer, Martin Fairley had been allowed to remain at the Abbey ever since, a willing slave to Barbara Lanison, an inconsequent person who must not be interfered with. Perhaps he was twenty years old when he came, strong and lithe of limb then, and to-day he was hardly changed, older-looking, of course, but still lithe in his movements. Mentally, his development had been curious. His powers had both increased and decreased. There were times when he was silent, depressed, when his mind was a complete blank, and whatever words he might utter were totally without meaning; but there were other times when his eyes were alight with intelligence, when his wit was as keen as a well-tempered blade, and his whole appearance one of resolute energy and competent action.

He was keen to-night as he told the story of Monmouth's landing.

"Lyme went mad at his coming," he said. "His address was read from the market cross, and the air rang again with shouts of 'Monmouth! and the Protestant faith!' As captain-general of that faith has he come, and the people flock to his blue standard and scatter flowers in his path. The Whig aristocracy will rise to a man, it is said, and London fly to arms. The King and his Parliament tremble and turn pale, and the train-bands of Devon are only awaiting the opportunity to join the Duke. All the West is in arms."

"How did you hear the news?" asked Sir John.

"It flies in all directions; you have only to listen."

"We have heard nothing," said Rosmore contemptuously.

"Ah, but these walls are thick," said Martin, "and wine makes people dull of hearing, while the company of fair ladies breeds disinclination to hear. Perhaps, too, you were making a noise over your play."

"I am inclined to think it is all a tale," said Branksome. "Before this we have known you to dream prodigiously, Martin."

"True. I dreamed last night as I lay on a bed of hay in a loft, with my fiddle for company, that all the gentleman at the Abbey had flown to fight for Monmouth."

"A stupid dream," said a man who was a Whig, and whose mind was full of doubt as to what his course of action must be should Monmouth's landing be a fact.

"And I come back to find two gentlemen fighting in the hall," Martin went on. "Were you trying to rob King James of a supporter, my lord?"

Rosmore laughed.

"No, Martin; I was endeavouring to punish a man for insulting a lady."

"Truly the world is upside down when it falls to your lot to play such a part as that," was the answer.

"How many men has Monmouth?" asked Sir John, silencing the laugh against
Lord Rosmore.

"They come by the hundreds, 'tis a labour to write down their names fast enough. From the ploughs, from the fields, from the shops they come; their tools turned into implements of war even as Israel faced the Philistines long ago. Men cut loose the horses from the carts and turn them into chargers; labourers bind their scythes to poles and carry reaping-hooks for swords; the Mendip miners shoulder their picks making a brave front; and here and there a clerk may wield a ruler for want of a better weapon. And night and day they drill, march, and countermarch. The cause is at their heart and no leader need feel shame at such a host."

"A rabble," said Rosmore.

"A rabble that will not run counts for much, my lord, and Monmouth is no mean general as those who fought at Bothwell Bridge know well."

"You talk as though you were a messenger from Monmouth himself," said
Rosmore. "Were you a witness of the landing?"

"No, no; my fiddle and I have been to a wedding—besides, I am far too changeable a fellow to take sides," said Martin. "Were I for Monmouth to-night, I might wake to-morrow morning and find myself for King James. I shall make a song of victory so worded that it will serve for either side. Were I Monmouth's messenger I should have made certain of my company before telling my news. You may all be for the King; that would be to send you marching against Monmouth. He does not want such a messenger as I am. Do you march early to-morrow, Sir John?"

"Not so soon as that, I think, Martin."

"And you, Lord Rosmore?"

"Is it worth while marching at all against such a rabble?" was the answer.

Martin took up his fiddle.

"You, Sir Philip, will hardly leave the ladies, I suppose? Like me, you are no fighting man."

Sir Philip Branksome chose to consider himself a very great fighting man, and every acquaintance he had knew it. His angry retort was drowned in the laughter which assailed him on all sides, and by the time the laughter had ended Martin Fairley had left the room.

"That madman knows too much," said Rosmore, turning to Sir John. "You give him too great licence. Had I anything to do with him I should slit that wagging tongue of his."

"He talks too freely to be dangerous," said Sir John. "His news is doubtless true, and we—which side do we favour?"

Mrs. Dearmer propounded a question.

"Does it not depend upon which is the good? If popery, then Monmouth and the Protestants claim us; if Protestantism, then must we die for King James and all the evil he meditates."

"A fair abbess reminding us of our rules," said Branksome. "Would not the most wicked course be to do nothing, and then side with the victor?"

"That madman seems to have spoken shrewdly when he said you did not like fighting," said a girl beside him.

"There is evil to be done whichever side we fight for," said Rosmore. "I see more personal advantage in fighting for King James, and should anyone be able to persuade Fellowes to throw in his lot with Monmouth he will do me a service. The world grows too small to hold us both."

"At least I hope that all my lovers will not fall victims to the rabble," said Mrs. Dearmer. "Abbot John, you at least must stay at the Abbey to keep me merry."

* * * * *

Martin Fairley tucked his fiddle under his arm and went quickly down the terrace. As he approached the doorway leading into the ruined hall a man came out of the shadows.

"My brother poet!" Martin exclaimed. "You have left the revel early, brother!"

"Can you be serious, Martin, and understand me clearly?" asked Fellowes.

"It happens that I am rather serious just now," was the answer.

"Martin, I was a scoundrel to-night," said Fellowes, catching him by the arm. "I might plead wine as an excuse, but I will not, or love, which I dare not. All women are to be won, you know the rouÉ's damnable creed. I was in despair; a few words from a pure woman's lips had convinced me of my unworthiness, and then I met Rosmore. He ridiculed me; suggested, even, that my love was returned, goaded me to play the lover wilfully and as a man who will not be beaten. Then the wine and the sham courage that is in it drove me on. I sent a lying message, and she came to the hall yonder. I would not let her go, and she cried out. In a moment they came hurrying in upon us, Rosmore with them. They would have turned it to comedy, laughed at her, applauded me; but Rosmore, Martin, drew his sword to defend her—he had played for the opportunity. Had any other man but Rosmore faced me I should say nothing, but he is worse even than I am. You saw the end."

"She was shielding you," said Martin.

"I know. I do not count, but Rosmore desires her, Martin. He thought to stand high with her by killing me to-night. She must never belong to Lord Rosmore. She will listen to you, Martin—she always does, she always has."

"Would you make a Cupid's messenger of me, Mr. Fellowes?"

"Fool! I tell you I am nothing. Save her from Rosmore, that is your mission. My sword, my life are at her service, she knows that, and probably would not use them, no matter what her peril might be; but you, some day, might use me on her behalf, without her knowledge. Take this paper; it is the name of my lodging in town. Keep it. Do you understand? To-morrow I leave the Abbey."

"To join Monmouth?"

"To try and do what is right," Fellowes answered, "and find a worthy death, if possible, to atone for an unworthy life."

"A new day will change your mood," said Martin.

"Think so if you will, only keep the paper, and save her from Rosmore."

As he turned away Martin caught his arm.

"There was once a man like you," he said, "a man who loved like you, who was a scoundrel like you. Suddenly an angel touched him, and in great pain he turned aside into a rugged, difficult path. At the end of it he shrank back at the sound of a voice, shrank back until he knew that the voice spoke words of praise and confidence and honour; and a hand, clean as men's hands seldom are, grasped his in friendship."

The madman's hand was stretched out to him, and Fellowes took it.

"The eyes of a fool often see into the future," said Martin. "I am grasping the hand of the man you are to be. I shall keep the paper."

Fellowes went along the terrace without another word, and Martin went to the deep-set door in the tower by the Nun's Room. It was not locked to-night, and he climbed the narrow, winding stair quickly.

A dim light was burning in the circular chamber, and as Martin entered Barbara rose from a chair to meet him. Swiftly he drew the bow across the fiddle strings.

"The fiddle laughs at your trouble, child."

"It must not be laughed at so easily, Martin. Your news to-night—"

"Was just in time to save a very foolish man from my Lord Rosmore. I can guess what happened. The one insults you, the other pretends to defend you and—"

"And my uncle wishes me to marry him; but that is not the trouble,
Martin."

"I should have called that trouble enough."

"But listen," said Barbara, "this news of Monmouth's landing distresses me for a very strange reason."

"Tell me," said Martin.

Barbara told him of the man who had come to her rescue at Newgate, and repeated all that Lord Rosmore had said of him.

"Do you think he can be such a man as that, Martin?"

"If Lord Rosmore knows him then—"

"If—but does he?"

"Lord Rosmore knows a great many scoundrels, I have been told. What was the name of this one?"

"He is not a scoundrel, Martin, I am sure, quite sure. A woman knows—how, I cannot tell, but she does. And then, even if he be a scoundrel, I would do him a service, if he can be found. That Monmouth is in England will be an excuse for taking him, even if he is innocent."

"Still you do not tell me his name."

"Gilbert Crosby," said Barbara.

Martin sat in a corner where the shadows fell, and Barbara did not notice his sudden start of interest.

"Crosby, Crosby," he said slowly. "There are Crosbys in Northamptonshire, and here in Hampshire, close by the borders of Wilts and Dorset, there is one; but a Gilbert Crosby—what is he like?"

"I cannot tell. He made me ashamed to be in such a place, and I did not look much into his face. He had grey eyes, and a voice that was stern but kind."

"An excellent picture!" cried Martin. "He should be as easy to find as a cat in winter time. Cats always go towards the fire, you know, and blink the dreamy hours away in the warmth of the blaze. Oh, we'll find this Gilbert Crosby, never fear; and when we find him, what shall we say? Our Lady of Aylingford is in love. Come with us."

"You are foolish, Martin."

"I was born so, they say, and therefore cannot help it, but, being a fool, I am convinced that folly is sometimes better than wisdom. To-night, like a fool, I will dream of this Gilbert Crosby, and learn in what direction he must be sought for; but now I must be wise and tell you that the hour grows late and that children should be in bed."

"I fear that childhood, and with it happiness, is being left far behind me, Martin," Barbara said with a sigh.

She could not see him clearly in the shadows, could not discern the strange light in his eyes, nor catch the hushed echo to her sigh which came from her crazy companion.

"No, no; we are all children right to the end," he said suddenly. "There are moments when we know it and feel it, and, alas! there are times, too, when we are blind and feel quite old. Open your eyes and you'll know that childhood has you always by the hand, keeping love and purity and fair dreams blossoming in your heart. Come, I will take you along the terrace lest Mr. Fellowes or my Lord Rosmore or—Ah! how many more are there who would not give half their years and most of their fortune to stand in the shoes of this fool to-night."

"Peace, Martin."

"Do you hear her little fiddle?" and he laid his hand lovingly on the polished wood for a moment.

"You must not laugh while I am away. Maybe we'll have a laugh together when I return, for the moon is too bright to go out on to my roof and get wisdom from the stars. Come, mistress."

And they went down the narrow, winding stair together.