The grinding of wheels, the sharp stroke of horses' hoofs, and the voices of men lessened and died into silence. No sound disturbed the narrow, winding lane which twisted its way now between neglected and forlorn looking fields, presently through woods of larch and pine, again across some deserted piece of common land. One might have followed the lane for hours without meeting a soul, without hearing a human sound beyond the echoes of one's own footsteps sent back from the depth of a copse. For miles it went, turning now this way, now that, until a stranger would wonder whither it was leading him, and speculate whether, at the end, he might not find himself on the same high road which he had left long ago. At one part, for a mile or more, the lane skirted a forest, where, down short vistas, could be seen deeper depths beyond, solemn gloom which might serve to hide in, or might contain lurking danger. Old cart ruts here and there made short incursions into it, their limit marked by a small clearing and a few tree stumps, showing that timber had been brought out; but no such track gave any sign of penetrating far, and offered little temptation to explore. There was a track, however, so casual in its departure from the lane that a stranger would hardly have noticed it, which ran deeply into the forest, losing itself at intervals in a small clearing, but going on again, although anyone but those who had knowledge of it might miss it a score of times, and wander hopelessly amongst tangled undergrowths and into swampy depressions. This track presently crossed a larger clearing, where was a hut set up by charcoal burners long ago. Time had cracked and warped its planks, but pieces had been nailed across weak places, giving the hut a botched and tumble-down appearance but keeping it weather-tight. The hut was divided into a shed for tools and storage, or perhaps for stabling a horse upon occasion, and a larger chamber which served as a dwelling. From a hole in the roof of this part a thin wreath of smoke was curling upwards towards the overhanging trees, losing itself in their foliage. Twilight came early here, and the great world seemed shut out altogether.

Presently the door of the hut opened, but he was no charcoal-burner who stood on the threshold, listening and looking up at the sky above the clearing. His hair was white, his figure a little bent, and there was an anxious look upon his face, a permanent expression rather than one caused by any tardy arrival this evening. The man he waited for was too erratic in his goings and comings to make a few hours', or even a day's, delay a cause of wonder.

He went back into the hut, but in half an hour or so came to the door again. He was not a woodsman used to distinguishing sounds at a long distance, and the sound that presently reached him was close by. In another moment a man, leading a horse, came out of the gloomy shadows into the clearing.

"Master Gilbert! Master Gilbert! You're late. Thank God you're back once more. I've a hare in the pot which begins to smell excellently."

"I'll do justice to your cooking, Golding, never fear. I'll look to the mare first; she's had a trying day."

He led the animal into the small shed, and for some time was busy making her comfortable for the night.

"Ah! the smell is appetising," he said as he joined Golding, "and I am ravenous."

"And in good spirits, surely."

"Yes, we baulked them again, Golding. Yesterday afternoon we made in the direction of Witley, and had as narrow a squeak of capture as I want to experience. A troop was before us on the road, and one fellow with the eyes of a lynx sighted us. The poor fellow I was helping was a bit of a coward—no, I won't call him that, but constantly being hunted had taken the heart out of him, and he was inclined to give up the struggle. I urged him on, and we made for Witley, openly, and as if we were confident of a hiding-place in the town. Fortune favoured us, and we pulled up short in a hollow, the troop riding by us in desperate haste. Hot footed they poured into Witley, but for some reason which I did not understand they went no further. Half an hour afterwards they came back, all but two of them. I had counted them as they passed. Those two remained in Witley until long after nightfall, then they rode back, and my man had a free country before him."

"You'll run the risk once too often, Master Gilbert."

"That is probable, but, by Jove! I shall have done some good with my life. This was the thirty-eighth man I've helped out of the clutches of these devils."

"And I was the first," said Golding. "It's wonderful how you schemed to get me out of Dorchester, Master Gilbert."

"And it's marvellous how you manage to make this hut a home that one is glad to get back to, Golding."

"Maybe we'll get back to Lenfield presently, Master Gilbert, and you'll then shudder at the thought of what you had to put up with here."

"It will be some time before there will be safety for me at Lenfield," said Crosby.

"And meanwhile a hare's no such bad fare, if the preparing and cooking of it does present some difficulties in a place like this," said Golding as he replenished his master's plate.

Crosby had eaten little in the last twenty-four hours, and was silent for some time.

"Thirty-eight is something, but it's a drop in the ocean," he said presently. "I wish I could open the prison doors in Dorchester before the assizes commence. There'll be murder enough done there in a few days, Golding."

"That is beyond your power, Master Gilbert," and the old man said it as if he feared his master would make the attempt.

"Yes, I am powerless. I wonder what became of that girl, Golding."

"Do you mean Harriet Payne?"

"I had forgotten her name for the moment," said Crosby. "When I came to
Dorchester after they had arrested you, I found out where you were, but
I could hear nothing about her. I would give a great deal to set her
free."

"Yes, Master Gilbert."

"It is frightful for a woman to be in the clutches of these devils, and when that fiend Jeffreys comes to Dorchester, God help the women he judges! I wonder what has become of the girl."

"She may have been released."

"Why should they release her when they would think it was within her power to betray me?"

Golding shrugged his shoulders. "It was only a suggestion," he said.

"What is in your mind?" Crosby asked.

"An unjust thought, Master Gilbert. Since thirty years ago the one woman I ever thought of jilted me, I've had no love for any woman. I'm afraid of them and unjust in my thoughts of them. My opinion concerning women is of no value."

"What were you thinking about Harriet Payne?"

"She was a bit flighty, Master Gilbert, and rather given to look down on the other servants. That kind of girl is open to flattery."

"And then, Golding?"

"Then! Well, I'm no judge of women, but it seems to me that once they're fond of flattery you can make them do almost anything. She was a good-looking girl, was Harriet Payne, and if some young slip of a dandy got hold of her—well, she might make a bargain with him and get released that way."

"Was she that kind of girl?"

"I'm not saying so; I'm only putting it as a possibility," Golding answered. "Such bargains have been made, Master Gilbert, if the tales they tell be true."

Crosby clenched his teeth suddenly, and struck his fist irritably on his knee. One such tale he had heard, told of the brutal Colonel Kirke, a woman's honour sacrificed to save her lover, and sacrificed in vain. He was prepared to believe any villainy of such a man, and there were many, little better than Kirke, free to work their will in the West Country to-day. He was conscious of the ribbon about his neck, he remembered that handclasp in the hidden chamber below Aylingford Abbey, and thanked Heaven that the fair woman who had done so much to help him was in London.

"Such thoughts make me sick, Golding," he said after a long pause. "I feel that I must rush into the midst of such villains and strike, strike until I am cut down. Sometimes there comes the belief that if a man had the courage to charge boldly into such iniquity, God Himself would fight beside him and give him victory."

"There peeps out the Puritan faith of your fathers, Master Gilbert. It's a good faith, but over confident of miracles. You'd be foolish throwing your life away trying the impossible when there is so much you are able to do well."

"I argued like that only a few hours since," said Crosby. "But, for all that, there's a taste of cowardice left behind in the mouth. I should have been back early this afternoon but for the fact that this troop I spoke of was still hanging about the highway yonder."

"They did not see you!" Golding said in alarm. "They will not track you here?"

"They were not watching for me. I take it the men were ordered not to follow us beyond Witley, but to wait for other prey that was expected. I did not see how it happened, nor where, only the result. They had captured a coach, and were guarding it on the way to Dorchester. What unfortunate travellers it contained I do not know, I was at too great a distance to see. But in the midst of the villains there was a captured horseman, and they seemed to be ill-treating him. I touched the mare with the spur, thinking to go to his aid, but drew rein again immediately. There was at least a score of men to 'do battle with."

"A wise second thought," said Golding.

"Leaving a taste in my mouth," said Crosby. "I thought I heard something, Golding."

"It was the mare in the shed."

"I heard her, but something else besides, I fancy," and, with Golding at his heels, he went out of the hut to listen. There were stars in the sky over the clearing. The night had fallen, and strange sounds came from the gloomy depths of the forest, sounds which might well set an unaccustomed ear intent to catch their meaning. Gilbert Crosby may not have been able to account for all of them, but they did not trouble him. It was another sound he waited and listened for.

"There is nothing, Master Gilbert," Golding whispered.

"Wait."

Golding saw that a pistol was in his master's hand, so he took one slowly from his pocket and tried to look into the darkness.

It was well that Gilbert Crosby saw the coach from such a distance, that he could not catch a glimpse of the travellers. Had he known who the travellers were, the spurs would have been driven deep into the mare's flanks and there would have been no drawing rein; had he even recognised the horseman who was being ill-treated he would not have paused to count the cost. A trooper or two might have gone down before his fierce attack, but a score of men, trained in fighting and on the alert, cannot be scattered by one. Gilbert Crosby would have been flung lifeless on the roadside, or overpowered and carried a prisoner to Dorchester.

The two women sat silently in the coach. Harriet Payne sobbed quietly. She was tired of abusing Martin, weary of telling her mistress that they ought to have kept to the high road and safety. At first she had broken out at intervals with her wailing, and Barbara's commands to be silent had not much effect.

Barbara did not answer her, did not look at her. Her own thoughts and fears were trouble enough. A trap had been laid for her, doubtless it was of her uncle's contriving, and it was unlikely that she would be able to send even a message to Judge Marriott. Her mission was doomed to failure, and she was in the hands of her enemies. What could they compel her to do? Was marriage with Lord Rosmore the only way out? She would never take that way. Though they accused her of treason, though death threatened her, she would never marry him. To Judge Marriott she was prepared to sacrifice herself, but to Lord Rosmore never, not even to save the life of the man she loved. There had been moments when an alliance with Rosmore had not appeared so dreadful to her, moments when her disappointment concerning Gilbert Crosby had helped to make Rosmore less repugnant to her; but from the moment she had determined to sacrifice herself these two men stood in clear and definite antagonism. The one she loved, the other she hated. Why she should so love and so hate she could not have explained fully, but the love and hate were facts, and she made no attempt to reason about them.

She heard Martin's voice at intervals, complaining, garrulous, and then suddenly jesting, jests not meant for her ears, but fitted to the rough company in the midst of which he rode. Poor Martin, she thought, Mad Martin. This might make him mad indeed, drive from him entirely that strange wit he had and which he used so wonderfully at times. He had been her playfellow, and her teacher, too, in many things, yet he was one of God's fools. There was compensation in that surely.

Barbara winced presently when Martin's voice was raised in higher complaint.

"What are you trying to do, you fool?" cried a gruff voice.

"I want to see that my mistress is happy. She would like me to ride beside her window; and I will, too."

It was probably at this moment that Gilbert Crosby caught sight of the cavalcade, and thought the prisoner was being vilely ill-used. Well might he think so, for Martin attempted to force his way through the troopers and get to the window.

"She's used to me," he literally screamed. "See what an ugly fellow is beside the window now! Truth, I never saw so many ugly men together. Let me pass!"

"Peace, Martin, I am all right!" Barbara called from the window, fearful that these men might do him an injury.

"Take that idiot further back!" roared the voice of the man in command of the troop. "He does naught but frighten the lady."

Martin received a cuff on the head, and was hustled to the rear, a man riding on either side of him.

"Who was the gentleman who struck me?" whined Martin, rubbing his head.

"Sayers. His is a good hand for dusting off flies," laughed one of the men beside him, willing to get some sport out of this madman.

"Flies! To judge by my head he must have fancied he saw a bullock before him. Lucky I dodged somewhat, or I'd have no head for flies to settle on. And who is the gentleman with the voice of thunder?"

"That's Watson."

"It's a good voice, but there's no music in it. You have never heard him sing, eh?"

"Aye, but I have. He can roar a fine stave about wine and women."

"I'll go and ask him to favour us," said Martin, jerking his horse forward.

"Stay where you are," and the man's hand shot out to the horse's bridle.

"Very well, very well, if you like my company so much. It's a strange thing that they should put wine and women into the same song."

"Strange, you fool! Strong enough and beautiful enough, are they not both intoxicating?"

"I know not," Martin answered. "I have no experience of strong women."

"Strong wine and beautiful women," I said.

"Did you. I am rather dull of hearing."

"You're a dull-witted fellow altogether to my thinking."

"It is most true, sir. I am so dull that I cannot see the wit in your conversation."

"I can cuff almost as vigorously as Sayers," said the man a little angrily, when his companion on the other side of Martin laughed.

"I will believe it without demonstration," said Martin, cringing in his saddle. "You frighten me, and now I have lost my stirrups. I am no rider to get on without them. I shall fall. Of your kindness, gentlemen, find me my stirrups."

"Plague on you for a fool," said one.

"A blessing on you if you get my feet into the stirrups."

"Stop, then, a moment."

Martin pulled up, and the cavalcade went on. The two men, one on either side, brought their horses close to Martin's, and bent down to find the stirrups. Martin suddenly gave both horses the spur in the flanks with a backward fling of his heels, and at the same time struck each man a heavy blow on his lowered head. The horses sprang aside, one rider falling in the roadway, the other stumbling with his animal into the ditch by the roadside. The next instant Martin had whipped round his own horse, and was galloping back along the road.

It had been the work of a few seconds, and a few seconds more elapsed before the cavalcade came to a standstill.

Then a voice roared orders, half a dozen shots sang about the fugitive, and there were galloping horses quickly in pursuit.

Expecting the shots, Martin had flung himself low on the horse's neck. The animal, frightened by the swinging stirrups and driven by the spur, plunged madly along the road. So long as the road was straight, Martin let the horse go, but at the first bend, when there was no chance of his pursuers seeing him, he checked the animal a little, slipped from his back, and with a blow sent him careering riderless along the road.

"He'll make a fine chase for them, and should find his way back to Witley," said Martin as he crouched down in a ditch which divided the road from a wood. Cracking branches might have betrayed him had he entered the wood just then. Half a dozen horsemen passed him, galloping in pursuit, and when the sounds had died away, and he was convinced that no others followed, he crawled from the ditch and went straight before him into the wood. At a clearing he stopped and looked at the stars, then continued his way along a narrow track that went towards the south-west, in which direction lay Dorchester. He had no mind to enter the town as a prisoner, but he meant to reach it all the same, and as soon as possible.

For an hour he pushed forward, and then came suddenly to the edge of a clearing of some size. He stopped. He saw nothing, he was not sure that he heard anything, but the air seemed to vibrate with some presence besides his own.

Perhaps he had heard the low sound which the opening door of the hut made.

"You're a dead man if you move," said a voice out of the darkness.

Fairley started and made a step forward, but stopped in time.

"I should know that voice. I am Martin Fairley."

"Fairley!"

Crosby hurried forward to meet him.

"Have you been a prisoner in Dorchester?" Martin asked.

"A prisoner! No."

"The devil take that wench!"

"What wench?" Crosby asked.

"Give me something to drink and a mouthful of food. The story may be told in a few words, and then we must get to Dorchester."

"Martin! Why? Surely she—"

"Yes; she will be there within an hour or so. That is why we go to
Dorchester to-night."