"That was warm work while it lasted," said Martin as he locked the door. "They will easily break the first door, but this, at any rate, is good stout oak, and will keep them out for a little while. Wait; I will light a candle."

"We have no way of escape, so they may take what time they will," said Crosby, and then, as the candle shed a dim light in the room, he turned to Barbara. "How can I thank you?—yet I would you were not here. My coming to Aylingford has brought you grievous trouble."

"There was trouble before you came; it does not seem to me much greater now," she answered.

"Spoken like a philosopher," said Martin, laying his sword on the table beside the fiddle and the bow.

"And, truly, Martin, you fight like a soldier," said Barbara.

"The occasion makes the man, mistress. For the moment I was a soldier, and had forgotten the fiddle bow. But speak low; they will be upon the landing in a moment, and I would not have them know that you are here. Did anyone see you come to the ruins?"

"I think not."

"Good! There are more ways than one of cheating an enemy."

"But we are caught here, Martin—here in the tower." And she put a hand upon the arm of this mad dreamer, as though she would rouse him to action, and cast an appealing glance at Crosby to add his efforts to hers.

"I know, I know. We are locked in my tower. There is no place like it in Aylingford Abbey." And Martin sat down on a low stool by the open hearth and began pushing back the sticks and rubbish which lay there into a heap, as if it were his intention to light a fire.

"Come, Master Fairley, rise once more to the occasion," said Crosby.

"I'm sitting down to it this time," was the answer. "Riding made my knees sore, and fighting has put an ache in my back."

"They have not gained the landing yet," urged Crosby. "Is there not a way to the roof? With a rope we might at least get Mistress Lanison to the ground in safety."

"Yes, Martin, possibly we might all get down from the roof without being seen," said Barbara. "But every way of escape from the Abbey is watched to-night," she went on, turning to Crosby. "Lord Rosmore said so."

"Then we gain little by climbing from the roof if we could do so, which we cannot," said Fairley. "First, I have no rope; secondly—ah! that will do for a second reason. They are upon the landing."

As he spoke the door at the head of the stairs crashed open, and there was a rush of feet without.

"Can you hide Mistress Lanison?" whispered Crosby to Martin, glancing round the room. "They are not likely to search if you and I open the door to them."

Barbara started back, perhaps expecting the room door to burst in suddenly, perhaps to protest that she intended to share the danger, whatever it might be. Her ankle was suddenly seized and held tightly.

"Have a care, mistress," said Martin in a low tone, and, looking down at him, Barbara saw that where the hearth-stone had been there was now a hole. "There is one way that is not watched to-night, I warrant—this way."

He rose quickly from the stool and touched Crosby's arm.

"Go first. There are steps. Take my sword as well as your own. Then you, mistress. I come last to shut this up again."

There was a loud knock at the door. "Martin! Martin!"

"Sir John!" he whispered, and held up his finger to command silence.

"Martin! This riot is no concern of yours. Open! I have a message for you from Mistress Barbara."

"Quickly! They do not know you are here," whispered Martin.

Crosby went down into darkness, and held his hand to Barbara to steady her. Their heads had sunk below the floor level when the first blow was struck at the door. Martin had extinguished the candle and seized his fiddle. With his foot on the steps he drew the bow sharply across the strings—a little laugh. Then he went down, and at a touch the hearth-stone came slowly back into its ordinary position.

After going down straight for a little way the stairs began to wind, and were so narrow that a man had only just room enough to pass. Crosby led the way carefully, leaning back a little lest Barbara should stumble in the darkness and fall. From behind, Martin whispered his instructions. They came presently to a landing which widened out, and here Martin took the lead.

"Give me your hand, mistress. Carefully—there are six more steps," and Martin counted them as he went down. "So, we are now below the floor of the ruined hall. Mad Martin was not to be caught in a trap so easily."

"And now which way do we go? We are still in the Abbey," said Barbara.

"A man might stay here a long time undiscovered, but that is not my plan. Mr. Crosby shall be leaving the Abbey behind long before his enemies have given up hunting for him."

"Martin, I must go too," said Barbara. "There are reasons—many reasons."

"Many reasons why you must stay for the present," said Martin. "Trust me, mistress; it is more dangerous for you to leave the Abbey just now than to remain."

"You do not understand, Martin. Lord Rosmore—"

"Fairley is right," said Crosby. "We found that the Abbey was watched to-night. By one of the bridges on the other side of the stream we overheard two men talking. Cursing their vigil, they declared that Rosmore was bent on private revenge—that my arrest was of his own scheming. He has already had some of my servants sent to Dorchester, and I must ride there without delay to save them."

"But you will be taken."

"Would that be a reason for not going?"

"No," she answered quickly. "No; you must go."

"And you must do nothing to associate yourself with me in any way. It was a chance that Martin brought me here, more of my contriving than his —do you understand? All you know of Gilbert Crosby is that he once came to your assistance at Newgate."

She did not answer immediately. In the darkness Crosby could hear a little quick intake of her breath and a slight rustle of her gown.

"Does Martin go with you?" she asked after a pause.

"A little way to put him on the road; then I shall return to
Aylingford," Fairley said.

"You must not. It will not be safe for you."

"Never fear, mistress. Lord Rosmore cannot remain here, and no one else will care a jot whether Mad Martin comes or goes. Come, there must be no more delay. You must be back in your room if they should chance to call for you when they return from the ruins. Indeed, you must contrive to let them know that you are there. You will wait for me, Mr. Crosby. Your hand once more, mistress."

She stretched out her arm, and her hand was taken, but it was not Martin who took it.

"Thank you for all you have done for me," whispered Crosby. "It is more than you have knowledge of; as yet, it is almost beyond my own comprehension. There will come happier times—quickly, I trust—then I may thank you better. Then, I would have you remember something more of Gilbert Crosby than that he came to you that day in Newgate."

Then lips were pressed upon her hand, homage and reverence in the touch.

"I shall think of you and pray for you," she answered.

"I am waiting, mistress," said Martin. "I am here; your hand is difficult to find in the darkness."

It was the other arm Barbara stretched out, and so for an instant she stood, both hands firmly held, linked to these two men.

Martin led the way quickly, and certainly, as one who had made the journey often and knew every step of it. At first there was a faint echo of their footfalls, speaking of a wide space about them, but they were soon in a passage which became gradually narrower, then they began to ascend, for a little way by a sharp incline, and afterwards by a winding staircase.

"Martin," Barbara said suddenly, "I am in real danger. Lord Rosmore wishes to marry me. To-night he gave me his word that you should go free, and I think I could persuade him to let Mr. Crosby escape, if I consent to be his wife. I have until to-morrow morning to give him an answer."

"To-morrow morning he will have no prisoners to bargain with," Fairley answered.

"Nevertheless, he will want an answer. If he does not get the answer he wants, I am likely to be accused of helping rebels."

"Is that what he threatens? You are not a woman to be frightened by threats. You must meet deceit with deceit. Answer neither 'Yea' nor 'Nay' for a while. He will wait if you let him suppose your answer may be 'Yea.'"

"My uncle is insistent," said Barbara.

"Should you be pressed in such a fashion that there is no escape, mistress, say this to Sir John: 'It is a sacred trust; God requite you if you fail in it. When she is of age, give her that which is hers. She is free.' Tell him that these words were spoken to you out of the darkness, and then there followed a single word spoken low—'Beware!' Can you remember them? They must be exact. It is true you have heard them out of the darkness, and you will not say that Mad Martin spoke them."

"And then, Martin?"

"He will be afraid of you; but do not speak the words unless you are obliged. Let me hear you repeat them."

Barbara said them carefully and correctly.

"Good," said Martin. "You are armed with a weapon that can hardly fail, and you shall not be left long to fight the battle alone. Courage, mistress; there comes an end to the blackest hours, and surely into yours there has penetrated a beam of light. Is it not so?"

"Perhaps, Martin."

"Another step. So. Pass on, mistress, and good-night."

Barbara's foot suddenly pressed a soft rug instead of the hard stone of the stairs; it was still dark, but not black as it had been; there was a faint stirring of the air about her, and then a scarcely audible sound behind her, which for a moment had no meaning for her. Then she saw the dim outline of a window above, and to her right, at some little distance, a narrow line of light. She was in the corridor out of which her own apartments opened, and behind her was the panelled wall!

She went quickly to her room. The candles were burning as she had left them when bidden to go to her uncle. How swiftly the moments had passed since then, yet how much had happened in them! A kiss was still burning on her hand, and she raised the hand to her lips, blushing and accusing herself of folly as she did so. Then she threw the casement wide open and leaned out to listen.

A murmur of sound came from the ruins. Had they forced the door and found the room empty? It was certain that there were men in the ruins. Suddenly there came another sound, the clatter of horses' hoofs on the stones of the courtyard. Were these new arrivals at the Abbey, or were men mounting in haste to scour the country for the fugitives? She must know, and yet Martin had said that she must let them understand that she was in her own room to-night.

There were quick footsteps below her window.

"I think they must be along the terrace, sir," said a servant; "both my master and Lord Rosmore."

"I thought it was a haunted spot which no one cared for after dark," was the answer in a voice which sounded familiar to Barbara.

"So it is, sir, but to-night there's something afoot which—" And then they passed out of Barbara's hearing. She leaned out of the window, looking towards the ruins, and saw a man with a torch come out on to the terrace. He shouted, and two or three other men joined him. The servant and the visitor went forward quickly, and entered the ruins as the shouting ceased. Still Barbara did not move; they must know she was in her room, Martin had said—and Mad Martin had proved himself wondrous wise and clever to-night. So she waited, and the moments were leaden-footed. Presently three men came from the ruins and along the terrace. Barbara heard her uncle's voice.

"What is it?" she said, leaning down. "I am afraid."

All three men stopped and looked up. The new arrival was Sydney
Fellowes.

"I am frightened at so much stir at this time of the night," she said.

"It is nothing, Barbara," said Sir John.

They had seen her. She need remain in her room no longer, and she flew along the corridor and down the stairs in time to meet them as they entered the hall.

Fellowes bowed low to her. His dress was dusty. He had evidently ridden far.

"Dare I hope that you have repented, and that to-morrow seems too long to wait?" said Rosmore.

"There has been such riot I have had no time to think of other matters.
What does it mean, uncle?"

"That Mr. Fellowes has ridden from Lord Feversham, commanding Rosmore's presence in Dorsetshire."

"So unless we capture this rebel of ours to-night, Mistress Lanison, I shall have to leave some of my men to do it," said Rosmore. "I must depart to-morrow morning, and you must—you will give me my answer before I go?"

"It is news to me that Crosby of Lenfield has been named as a rebel," said Fellowes.

"It was news to me until I had my commands," said Rosmore.

"Lord Feversham bid me tell you to return with all the men you could muster. I do not envy you your employment. Kirke's lambs are already too busy for my liking."

"You go no further to-night, Mr. Fellowes?" said Sir John.

"Yes, towards London. I bear despatches to the King at Whitehall. I have
accomplished one part of my errand; I must hasten to complete the other.
A stirrup cup as you suggested, Sir John, and then to horse. Good-night,
Mistress Lanison."

Fellowes and her uncle moved away, leaving Barbara with Rosmore.

"You may sleep late to-morrow if you will give me my answer to-night," he said.

"I cannot force love, Lord Rosmore; I will not say 'Yes' without it."

"It shall dawn with the speaking of one little word."

"Wait until you return," pleaded Barbara. "How do I know that you will not take Martin to-night, and be unable to free him to-morrow."

"You have my word."

"Your word against my love; it is too unequal a bargain. If you ride with my promise to-morrow, you must leave Martin with me. He has been my mad playfellow ever since I can remember."

"You have my word," said Rosmore, "it must suffice."

"And to all my pleading you only answer with threats," said Barbara. "Indeed, my lord, that is a rough path to a woman's heart. There is still the night for me, and for you; I pray that you will have chosen another road before the morning."

She turned and left him, all the coquette that was in her displayed to win him to a better mood. She had little hope of succeeding, but she was very sure that he should ride away with no promise of hers. There was another, by this time rapidly leaving Aylingford behind him she hoped, who bore with him, not her promise, he had not asked for that, but her thoughts and her prayers. If these were any shield from danger, surely he went in safety.

It was quite evident to Barbara that neither her uncle nor Lord Rosmore intended her to know what had happened that night; what line they would take to-morrow she could not guess, but she had already hinted to Lord Rosmore that in exchange for her promise he must leave Martin free at the Abbey with her. This he could not do if Martin and Gilbert Crosby had got away safely, and she believed they had done so.

Barbara could not sleep. The most fantastic happenings seemed possible through the long hours of wakefulness. Martin might see his companion far enough upon the road to render his capture unlikely, and then return at once. If he came before Lord Rosmore departed, what excuse would be left her for not fulfilling her part of the bargain? Towards morning this fear began to dwarf all others, and an intense longing to be certain that Martin had not returned took possession of her. She was always an early riser; there would be no reason for comment if she were found upon the terrace soon after the sun had risen. She would have no need to find an excuse, because her habit was well known.

It was a silent and beautiful world into which she stepped. The Abbey was still asleep, no sound came from the servants' quarters at present, nor the clink of a pail-handle from the stables. If they were waking in the village yonder, they were welcoming the new day in silence. Barbara's footfall on the stone flags of the terrace rang strangely loud in the morning air, and she went slowly, pausing to look across the woods and down into the stream. Hidden men might still be watching, or someone, whose night had been as wakeful as her own, might see her from one of the windows. She must act as though she had no thought beyond the full enjoyment of the early morning. Slowly, and with many pauses, she made her way towards the ruins, and passed in after standing at the door absorbed in contemplation of the beauty of the scene about her. She hummed the tune of a little ballad to herself, and sat down on the first convenient piece of fallen masonry. If men were watching this place she would give them ample opportunity to ask what her business there might be. Not a movement, not a sound disturbed her. The door into the tower stood open; she wondered what had become of the men who had groaned last night, and must have fallen on the narrow stairs; and she shuddered a little at the thought of some hastily contrived grave, quite close to her, perchance. She had no intention of entering the tower, only to show herself in the ruins; surely if Martin were in hiding there he would contrive some means to let her know. Still humming the ballad, slightly louder than before, she went a little farther into the ruins, and stopped by a piece of fallen stone-work which had constantly afforded her a resting-place. It was here that Gilbert Crosby had caught his foot and stumbled last night as he and Martin had run from their pursuers; it was just here that the swords had first clashed, and the men had run eagerly together upon their prey; here, probably, a little later, Sydney Fellowes had given Lord Feversham's message to Lord Rosmore. Barbara would go no further. If men were watching they should see that she had no intention of entering the tower.

As she sat down she saw close by the stone, half trampled into the loose dust which surrounded it, a piece of cloth or linen, cut sharply, it seemed. The work of one of those clashing swords, Barbara thought, as she stooped and drew it out of the dust, and then a little half-strangled cry escaped her. It was a piece of coarse silk, brown in colour. In her hand she held a brown mask!