There was no doubt in Barbara's mind that the presence of Lord Rosmore at Aylingford boded no good to the man who was at that moment in the tower across the ruins. She was to be questioned concerning him. What was she to say that could be the truth while not harming him?

In Lord Rosmore's mind there was no doubt that the woman before him, framed by the curtains which she held, was very beautiful, a possession much to be desired. There was nothing on earth he would not do to make her his own. It was a vow he had registered before; he registered it anew as he stood erect and Barbara advanced into the room.

"You are back sooner than I expected from the West, Lord Rosmore," said
Barbara.

"Lord Rosmore comes upon a grave matter," said Sir John, and his face was serious enough to give his words ample meaning, "a matter that concerns us all. I fear there are days of trouble in front of us, and I am too old for such things."

"Your uncle takes too melancholy a view of a circumstance which was beyond his control," said Rosmore.

"Beyond it—yes, but can I prove that it was so?" asked Sir John.

"There are many ways," said Rosmore. "Sir John, Mistress Barbara, would have you sent for, although I begged him not to disturb you. I had mentioned your name—I could hardly help doing so—but with no intention of dragging you into a matter with which you have really nothing to do."

"Tell her, Rosmore," said Sir John. "She may have more concern in it than you imagine."

"Rebellion brings many things in its train, Mistress Barbara—the hunting and punishment of those who rebel, for instance; unfortunately, some of this hunting has fallen to my lot," said Rosmore, and he had the air of gently concealing some of the horrors he had witnessed from his fair listener. "I was commanded to arrest one Gilbert Crosby, of Lenfield, and it was in speaking of him that I mentioned your name. You will remember that we spoke of him on one occasion."

"I remember. It was you who told me his name," said Barbara; and, whatever fears were in her mind, she spoke with absolute indifference.

"As I told you then, he is a man of most contemptible character," Rosmore went on, "a cowardly enemy and a dangerous friend. And he is something more. We surrounded his house at Lenfield; we saw him enter, and then I rode to the door, demanding to see him. The servant went to call him, and returned to say she could not find him. A few moments later he appeared from the direction of the stables, mounted on the most splendid animal I have ever seen. Cantering across the open park, he eluded our pursuit by putting his horse at a fence that I should have sworn was impossible to take had I not seen that animal take it. It was a marvellous leap, and I grant you this man is no mean horseman; but, Mistress Barbara, his outward appearance was changed. For the time being he was no longer Gilbert Crosby, the rebel, but Galloping Hermit, the highwayman, and wore a brown mask."

"I would I had seen the leap," said Barbara impulsively as a child might say it; and both men, who knew her love for horses, heard nothing but genuine excitement in her remark. It concealed her real thoughts. If this story were true, Gilbert Crosby had deceived her.

"We followed him, but not over the fence," said Rosmore, "and a long, stern chase began. We had no horse amongst us to match the highwayman's. He could have left us behind sooner than he did, but he was playing a cunning game. I divided my men, and whilst some followed him, I and two stout fellows turned aside with the object of cutting him off when he doubled on his tracks, as I was convinced he would do."

"You take a great while coming to the point," grumbled Sir John.

"Indeed, uncle, I think Lord Rosmore tells the story most excellently," said Barbara. "I am all excitement to know with what success you met."

"We failed to take him," said Rosmore. "There was no choice left but to let him go, and I admit I was disappointed as I rode through the village, close to an inn we had searched, on my way to beg a night's entertainment from my friend, Sir Philip Faulkner. There was some kind of feast in the village, and in a barn by the roadside there was dancing going on to the scraping of a fiddle. I have no soul for music, but the notes of that fiddle haunted my sleep that night and all the next day as I rode back to Lenfield. At Lenfield I understood why. That little sequence of notes was familiar to me. You must often have heard it yourself. I was convinced that the fiddler was none other than Martin Fairley."

"Martin!" exclaimed Barbara. "Surely he would not be so far afield?"

"I asked myself the same question," said Rosmore, "and I acted promptly as well. I have often warned Sir John that there was method in Martin's madness, and in this case, at any rate, I was right. Yesterday Martin travelled back towards Aylingford in company with a stranger. Unless I am in error, that stranger was Gilbert Crosby, otherwise known as Galloping Hermit, and I have taken care to guard every road of escape from the Abbey to-night."

"Certainly a wise precaution," said Barbara quietly; "but how does it concern me?"

"Can you swear that you did not send Martin to bring this fellow to
Aylingford?" said Sir John. "You certainly had some interest in this man
Crosby, and Martin would try and do your bidding if you asked him to
fetch you the moon."

"My interest was surely natural," Barbara answered, "for I assure you I was in an unpleasant situation at Newgate when this man came to my rescue—Lord Rosmore has doubtless told you the circumstances—but I certainly did not send Martin to bring this man to Aylingford."

She laughed lightly as though the mere suggestion were absurd. So far she could answer honestly, but she dreaded the next question.

"I do not suppose my niece would do such a thing," returned Sir John, "but the world is hardly likely to have the same faith in her. I warrant even you have your doubts, Lord Rosmore."

"I assure you, Mistress Barbara, your uncle has no reason to suggest such a thing," said Rosmore. "As I have said, I am told off for unpleasant duty, and that duty has brought me to Aylingford to arrest a rebel, and compels me also to arrest Martin for assisting a rebel."

"Poor Martin! A madman!" said Barbara.

"I have much doubt as to his madness," was the answer, "but you have only to persist, and those doubts shall vanish. If you desire it, Martin shall escape—you have my word for that."

Barbara was alert. She was prepared to have traps set for her, and had no intention of stepping into them if she could help it.

"That is generous of you, Lord Rosmore," she said, thanking him with a curtsy, "but I would not ask you to neglect your duty."

"Nonsense, child," said Sir John, who seemed irritated by this bandying of words. "You talk ignorantly. For my part I am most anxious that Lord Rosmore should not do his whole duty. If he did, he would report Aylingford Abbey and ourselves suspect. I am most desirous that he should remember friendship as well as duty—indeed, I have already urged this upon him."

"That is true, but Sir John is too anxious in this matter."

"You know perfectly well that I am justified in that anxiety," Sir John returned. "The King is as bitter, even more bitter, against those who assist rebels than against the rebels themselves. This fool Martin has brought disaster to our doors, and we have got to meet it promptly. It is well that you should understand this clearly, Barbara," he went on, turning to his niece. "No one will believe that Martin has acted entirely by himself in this matter, and since you have confessed some interest in this fellow Crosby, you are suspect, let Lord Rosmore hide the fact as he will."

"Bear me witness, this is your uncle's declaration, not mine," said
Rosmore.

"It is a hard fact, that is what concerns us," said Sir John; "and it becomes necessary to prove beyond question that we are heart and soul for King James. There is one way that you may easily do so, Barbara. You will remember a conversation I had with you recently concerning Lord Rosmore. He wished—"

"I pray you, Sir John, this is not the moment to thrust my wishes upon your niece."

"I say it is," was the sharp answer. "I have wit enough to see the safest road, and to take it. Since it is also a pleasant road, why should there be any hesitation or delay?"

Rosmore shrugged his shoulders, and with a helpless glance at Barbara turned to contemplate the great iron dogs in the fireplace, kicking a log which lay there with some impatience. The conversation had taken a turn which was not to his liking, it seemed.

"You remember the conversation to which I refer, Barbara?"

"Perfectly, uncle."

"Lord Rosmore has done us the honour to ask your hand in marriage. My own satisfaction may have made me a little too hasty in telling you. You were naturally unprepared, and, womanlike, were inclined to resent any idea of being forced into a marriage. Since then, however, you have had time to consider the matter. You may guess my own feelings concerning such an alliance. From the moment Lord Rosmore spoke to me I have seen nothing but advantage in it. Now, there is an additional reason why your answer should not be delayed. Affianced to Lord Rosmore, whose whole interests lie with the King, no one would dare suggest that you had had the slightest sympathy for a rebel, or that Aylingford had ever willingly opened its gates to a fugitive from Monmouth's rabble army. Martin's indiscretion puts you in danger. If by some careless word you are responsible for that indiscretion, which may very likely be the case, you are in grave danger. Rosmore is not here alone, and though he may be silent, other tongues will wag. Is it not so, my lord?"

"I do not wish to bias your niece," Rosmore answered, without turning from the fireplace.

Barbara was in a hard case. The man in the tower was trapped; Martin, too, would be arrested. By a word she could save Martin; possibly Lord Rosmore might be induced to let Crosby also slip through his fingers. If she consented to marry him she felt that she might persuade him to anything. The thought brought a quick reaction. If she could persuade him to anything, he was not a man to trust. Duty should come first, no matter how insidiously a woman might tempt. She did not trust Rosmore. She remembered the evil in his face that night in the hall when she had stood between him and Sydney Fellowes. She remembered Gilbert Crosby; his grey eyes seemed to look into hers at this moment. He must be saved—but how?

"I think you exaggerate the danger, uncle," she said quietly. "Surely a madman's folly is not sufficient to condemn us?"

"I have told you the truth. Ask Lord Rosmore."

"Will you tell me, please?"

"Sir John forces my hand," said Rosmore, turning quickly towards her. For an instant he seemed angry, but his face softened as he looked at her. "I am torn between love and duty. Sir John speaks truly. Another in my place to-night, one who had only his duty to consider, would probably arrest both you and your uncle on suspicion, and you would have to prove your innocence as best you might. King James is determined to trample out this rebellion, and even some innocent persons may suffer."

Barbara did not speak when he paused. She had glanced at her uncle and wondered whether this might be some plot between these two to force her to this marriage. She distrusted her uncle as much as, if not more than, she did Lord Rosmore.

"If I consent?" she said.

Rosmore made a step towards her, and Sir John looked up quickly. They were suddenly as men who had played a desperate game and won.

"I said 'If,'" and she shrank back a little, unconscious how beautiful she looked in that moment.

"Consent to be my wife, and there is nothing that you can ask me that I will not do—nothing. Do you understand—nothing?"

"And if I say 'No'?"

Anger came back into Rosmore's face for an instant, but it was gone in a moment.

"Even so I could not do my duty," he said slowly. "I should ask that another might take my place, and then—"

"Then the heavy hand of the King upon us," said Sir John.

"I must think. You cannot expect me to answer now, at once," said
Barbara.

"Duty may not wait," said Sir John.

"You shall have my answer to-morrow, Lord Rosmore," Barbara said. "I must have the night to decide. Duty does not compel you to march Mad Martin from Aylingford to-night."

"I will give you until to-morrow," he answered.

Barbara curtsied low and turned to the door.

Rosmore drew back the curtains for her, and as she passed out whispered:

"I love you, sweetheart. Say 'Yes' to-morrow."

"Will she consent, think you?" Sir John asked as Rosmore came slowly back across the room.

"I think so; yes, I think so."

"I spoke sufficiently?" questioned Sir John.

"You were excellently diplomatic. Were she a woman easily frightened there would be no doubt of her answer. Your guests in the Abbey, Sir John, must not know of my presence here, nor that the place is watched to-night."

"You are sure that Martin brought this man Crosby to Aylingford?"

"Quite sure."

"Why not take him to-night, quietly?" said Sir John. "If he is with Martin, he is probably in the old tower by the ruins. Is he most rebel or most highwayman?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because, if he is most highwayman, you might influence Barbara's answer to-morrow by letting him escape."

"I have thought of it, but—"

"My niece and a highwayman! She may be romantic, my lord, but she is not a fool."

"Gad! Sir John, you are lost here in Hampshire; you should be beside the King to advise him. If we let him go to-morrow, this knight of the road may easily meet with an accident. In my company it should not be difficult to find a man or two who can shoot straight. Your niece's romance might prove inconvenient to me if Galloping Hermit were still in the land of the living."

"Settle that as you will," said Sir John, "but arrest him to-night."

As soon as the door had closed behind her Barbara crossed the hall quickly; but she did not return to her own apartments. She had made her plans while she listened to her uncle and Lord Rosmore. Now, she hurried along a corridor to a small door opening on to the terrace, hardly ever used except by herself when she went to talk to Martin in the tower. Between it and the ruins there was not much of the terrace to travel, and the shadows were deep. The sharpest eyes might fail to see a moving figure amongst them. Barbara ran lightly, her skirts gathered from her feet, and, entering the ruins, went quickly to the tower. The door was shut, but not locked, and she mounted the winding stairs to Martin's room. It was in darkness.

"Martin!" she called softly, but there was no answer.

Had Crosby got knowledge of his danger, and gone? Even now he might be in the hands of his enemies, for were not all the ways of escape watched to-night? What could she do?

She stood for a few moments undecided how to act. She must not be found there by her uncle or Lord Rosmore who might seek her there if by chance they discovered that she had not returned to her own rooms. Almost certainly they would have her watched to-night. Yet she must stay to warn Martin and Gilbert Crosby, if by chance they were still ignorant of their danger. It would never do for them to be caught in the tower, from which there was no hope of escape.

There was a small landing outside the room. At the top of the winding stairs there was a door, fastened back by a clamp, and Barbara had never known this door to be shut. Another winding stair led to the flat roof of the tower, where Martin often spent hours, reading the future in the stars, he said. She went to the roof now, but it was empty, and she came down again quickly. Perhaps they were sitting in the ruins, and had not heard her. She would go and see. As she descended a sound came to her—running feet—and through one of the narrow slits which gave a dim light to the stairs in daytime she discerned two men crossing the ruins. It was so dark in the tower that she could see them easily. They were not half-way across when other men came running from the terrace, but the fugitives could easily have reached the tower and closed the door upon their pursuers had not one of them caught his foot and fallen. It was Gilbert Crosby; he did not know every stone as Martin did. He was on his feet again directly, but the advantage had been lost. Barbara went down a little farther until she was just hidden by the first bend in the stairs. There was the sudden clash of steel, and a pistol-shot rang out upon the night. All was confusion in the doorway just below her. Then two men came up slowly, and backwards, thrusting downwards as they came, and more than one groan told that the steel had done its work.

"Be ready to rush when I give the word," Martin whispered; "then, at the top, make a stand—we must close the door there somehow."

The stairs were too narrow for two men to fight side by side. Martin was a step or two below his companion, and it was no longer a fiddle bow which he held in his hand. It was doubtful whether he had ever used his bow so well as he used a sword to-night.

Barbara leaned down.

"I am here, Mr. Crosby. I came to warn you," she whispered. "I know the door. Tell Martin."

She went up quickly. The clamp which held the door back at the head of the stairs was stiff, but with her weight thrown against the woodwork to ease the pressure she managed to unfasten it. The door creaked loudly as she drew it forward. Possibly Martin heard the noise, for a moment later he shouted, and he and Crosby rushed on to the landing.

"Into the room, mistress," Martin whispered, as he swung the door to and shot the bolt. "It won't hold long, but long enough." Then he followed them quickly into his room and locked the door.

Two men lay on the narrow stairs grievously hurt, and there was blood flowing from a cut on the face of another man as he threw himself against the door at the top, bent on settling a score rather than taking a rebel. He cursed and called to those below him.

"It is a small matter," said Rosmore. "It shuts us out, but it shuts them in."

"The door will not take much breaking down," said Sir John; "the rot of years must be in it."

There was some delay while a heavy bar was found with which to attack the door, and a light to see by. The door at the head of the stairs soon yielded, but that of the room was another matter. It was of stout oak, and Sir John seemed to think that Martin might be persuaded to open it.

"Martin! Martin!" he called, knocking as he did so. There was movement within, but no answer. "Martin! This riot is no concern of yours. Open! I have a message for you from Mistress Barbara."

Again there was movement within, and someone spoke in a low voice, but
Sir John got no answer.

"Your madman is defiant," said Rosmore. "We shall have to teach him better manners. We must break in the door, Sir John."

The first blow of the bar fell heavily, and there came a sudden answer, a quick sequence of notes—the laugh of the fiddle—then silence. Blow upon blow followed quickly, but there was no answering sound from within.

"Beat where the lock is," said Rosmore. "It gives there, I think; and be on the defensive, Sir John. We have certainly one desperate man to deal with—I think two."

With a crash the lock suddenly gave way, and the door swung open; but no rush of attack came out of the darkness. One man carried the light in and held it high above his head. There was no movement, no sound.

The room was empty!