Londoners had crowded towards Tower Hill from an early hour, had seized every point of vantage, or looked down from high windows and roofs upon that little square of space which was kept clear and strongly guarded. To a few, perhaps, it was mere sight-seeing, an excitement, a means of passing a holiday; but to the majority it was a day of mourning, a time for silence and tears. Ill-fated rebellion was to be followed by the judicial murder of a popular idol. There had been tales current of this man's cowardice. He had crawled at the King's feet, begging slavishly for his life, had been willing to resign honour and liberty, his creed, and his very manhood so that he might escape the fate awaiting him. He had begged and petitioned for the intercession of every person who might have the power to say a word in his favour. He had shown himself a craven in every possible way, so it was said. This silent crowd, however, had no certain knowledge of the truth of these rumours; they might be, probably were, false reports to belittle him in the minds of the populace. What this waiting multitude remembered was that James, Duke of Monmouth, was a soldier of distinction and was doomed to die a martyr for the Protestant faith.

Ten o'clock had sounded some time since, when there was a sudden movement in the crowd, a backward pressure by the ranks of guards, and a man, saluting as he passed, walked up that narrow, human lane to the little square and mounted the scaffold with a firm tread. A great hush fell, broken only by the sounds of sobbing. This man a coward! Every look, every action, gave the lie to such an accusation. Two Bishops stood by him and spoke to him, but their words were inaudible to the greater part of the crowd; and Ketch, the headsman, stood silently by the block, a man hated and execrated from the corridors of Whitehall to the filthiest purlieus of the town.

"I die a Protestant of the Church of England."

These words were clear enough, and against them the Bishops seemed to protest, but in what words the crowd could not hear, and only those close about the scaffold heard Monmouth's confession that he was sorry the rebellion had ever happened, since it had brought ruin on those who loved him. Then for a while he knelt in prayer, and said "Amen!" even to the Bishops' petition for a blessing upon the King, but it was grudgingly said, and after a pause. Why, indeed, should he pray for a King whose heart was of stone and who was incapable of showing compassion?

The silent crowd watched him with bated breath, dimly seeing through tears that he spoke to the executioner as he ran his finger along the edge of the axe, and then he laid his head upon the block. The axe fell once, twice, and again, yet there was not an end.

Then the silence was broken. A wild fury roared from every side.

"Fling Ketch to us!" cried the mob, pressing in upon the guards.

Two more blows were struck by the frightened, cursing headsman. The martyrdom was accomplished, but the angry and nauseated crowd had gone mad, and, but for the guards, would have worked their will on Ketch and perchance on others who had had part in this butchery. It was a raging crowd, ripe for anything, fiercely lusting to wreak its revenge on someone; but it was a crowd without a leader. Had a strong man at that moment assumed command of it, Monmouth's death might have brought success to the rebellion he had raised. Had a leader been found at that moment, a short hour might have seen the storming of Whitehall by the populace, and the King in the hands of his merciless enemies. No strong man arose, and James was left in peace to plan further vengeance on all those who had taken part in the rebellion, or shown pity to the vanquished.

Two days afterwards Barbara Lanison arrived in town, and received a most cordial welcome from her aunt, Lady Bolsover. She did not pester her niece for reasons why she had left Aylingford, it was only natural that any right-minded person would prefer London; nor did Barbara enlighten her. Before Barbara had been in the house an hour her aunt had given her a lively account of Monmouth's execution, and the horrors of it lost nothing in the telling.

"Surely you were not there!" Barbara exclaimed.

"No, I was not. I was tempted to venture, but I decided that it was wiser to keep away. I should certainly have shown sympathy with the poor man, and to do so would be dangerous. I assure you, Barbara, all the news in town lately has concerned this rebellion, and—let me whisper it, for it comes near treason to say it—half London has been in two minds whether to cast in its lot with Monmouth or with the King. There is no denying the fact that the King is not popular, and, to put no fine point on it, has the temper and cruelty of the devil."

Lady Bolsover was genuinely pleased to have her niece with her again. After her own fashion she liked Barbara, and the presence of so attractive a person in her house was likely to re-establish the number and importance of her visitors, who, truth to tell, had not been so assiduous in their attentions since Barbara left her. The good lady was full of schemes for making the hours pass pleasantly, of course for her niece's sake, and, having assured herself that Barbara was still heart-whole, she was prepared to welcome to her house in St. James's all the eligible men she could entice there.

"I taught you a good deal last time, my dear; I'll see if I cannot get you married this."

Barbara smiled. She was anxious to please her aunt, and showed no desire to interfere with Lady Bolsover's schemes. It was such a relief to be free from the Abbey that Barbara experienced a reaction, and was inclined to enjoy herself. There were many things she would willingly forget. The brown mask had been reduced to ashes, but its destruction had not altered her opinion, nor had Martin succeeded in convincing her that she had not been grossly deceived. She had been threatened by Lord Rosmore, she had been insulted by her uncle and the men and women who were his companions, but, worst of all, she had been deceived by the man who had for so long occupied her thoughts and whom she had trusted.

The opportunity to forget her troubles in a round of pleasure was soon forthcoming. At a sign a dozen men were ready to throw themselves at her feet, and a score more were only restrained by the apparent hopelessness of their case. She was a queen and her courtiers were many; music and laughter were the atmosphere about her; her slightest wish immediately became a command, and she became the standard by which others were judged. Barbara was young and enjoyed it, as any young girl would. There were moments when her laughter and merry voice had no trace of trouble in them, when it would have been difficult to believe that a cloud had ever hung in her life; but there were other times when her eyes looked beyond the gay crowd by which she was surrounded, when her attention could not be fixed, and when her face had sadness in it. She was conscious of sorrow and tears under all the music and laughter.

Sometimes ugly rumours came, brought by a court gallant, or some young soldier who had returned from the West. Feversham had been called to London and loaded with honours, for "winning a battle in bed," as a wit said, and the brutal Colonel Kirke and his "lambs" were left in Somersetshire, free to commit any atrocities they pleased. If only half the stories were true, then had the West Country been turned into a hell, and Barbara hated the King who allowed such cruelty. She became a rebel at heart, and for the first time since she had found the mask in the ruins thought less harshly of Gilbert Crosby. There could be no reason to excuse his being a highwayman, but at least he had gone West to give what help he could to the suffering. How had he sped? The question set Barbara thinking, and, in spite of herself, Gilbert Crosby was in those thoughts all through a wakeful night.

Barbara saw nothing of Lord Rosmore, whether he was in London or not she did not hear; but once Sydney Fellowes came to her aunt's, and Barbara was glad to see him, although she hardly had a word with him. She was surrounded at the time, and Fellowes made no effort to secure her attention. He evidently considered himself in disgrace still, although Barbara had forgiven him, and had ceased to associate him with the evil which was at Aylingford Abbey.

It was not so easy to dissociate Judge Marriott from Aylingford. He came constantly to Lady Bolsover's, and on each occasion seemed to consider himself of more importance. So far as Barbara could judge he knew nothing of her reason for leaving the Abbey. He asked no questions, but delivered himself of many clumsy compliments framed to express his delight that the most charming creature on earth had brought sunshine again to town. It was impossible to make Judge Marriott understand that his attentions were not wanted, and Barbara, who had no desire to make an enemy of him, endured them as best she could. It was from him that she first heard that Judge Jeffreys was going to the West.

"He takes four other judges with him; I am one of them. Rebellion must be stamped out by the law. Jeffreys will undoubtedly come to great honour, and it will be strange if your humble servant, his most intimate friend, does not pick up some of the crumbs."

"Will the law be as cruel as the soldiers have been?" Barbara asked.

"A dangerous question, Mistress Lanison; I would not ask it of anyone else were I you. Remember the law deals out justice, not cruelty."

"Yet even justice may be done in a cruel fashion."

"The sufferer always thinks it cruel," said Marriott.

"And often those who look on," Barbara returned.

"I have no doubt that Jeffreys will do his duty and carry out the King's command. Why should you trouble your pretty head with such matters?"

"There are women who will suffer," she said. "It would be unwomanly not to think of them."

"And some man, some special man, who interests you, eh, Mistress
Barbara?"

"Why should you think so?"

"Because I can read a woman like an open book," laughed Marriott. "Her thoughts line her face as the print does a page, while the looks in her eyes are like the notes on the margin."

"You read amiss if you think I am interested in a rebel awaiting judgment."

"I will confess that you are more difficult to understand than most women," said Marriott, "and it is not for want of study on my part. Do you remember what I said to you on the terrace at Aylingford?"

"Indeed, I have not treasured up all your words," she laughed.

"I swore that if there were a rebel you were interested in, he should go free at your pleading. I am in the humour to-night to listen very eagerly."

"There is no special person, Judge Marriott, but I would plead for them all," she answered. "Be merciful, for it is surely in your power. These people are ignorant countryfolk, led away by smooth tongues, and never counting the cost. They are men of the plough and the scythe, with little thought beyond these things, and they have wives and little children. Be merciful, Judge Marriott. Think of me, if you will, when the fate of a woman lies in your hands, and to the day of my death you shall hold a warm corner in my heart."

"I will, I swear it, and you—"

"Lady Bolsover is beckoning to me," said Barbara, and left him.

It was the day after this conversation with Judge Marriott that Martin Fairley came to see her for the second time since she had left Aylingford. To Barbara he seemed strangely out of place in town, the air he assumed of being exactly like other men ill-suited him, and he seemed at a loss without his bow and fiddle. His dress, too, was strictly conventional, and it appeared to affect the manner of his conversation. He was as a man in bonds.

"In London again, Martin!" Barbara exclaimed.

"To see that you are not in trouble, mistress," he answered, and it would have been difficult for a stranger to tell whether he was a lover, or a trusted servant of long standing; there was something of both in his manner.

"It is a long way to come."

"It is lonely at the Abbey," he said.

"Do you think you are safe there, Martin? Would it not be better to go away for a time?"

"Since you are not there, mistress, I lock the door of the tower at nights."

"But Sir John knows you are at the Abbey, and you cannot lock yourself in the tower all day," said Barbara.

"Your uncle is a little afraid of me. He is superstitious, and unless he has someone beside him to lend him courage, he will not molest me. Besides, there have been many festivals where my fiddle was wanted; I have not been much at the Abbey."

"You have been towards the West?" said Barbara eagerly.

"Yes."

"And you have heard—"

"Yes, mistress. I have heard how they suffer."

"Have you heard aught of Mr. Crosby?"

"Once or twice. I have seen one or two men who have said they escaped the soldiers by his help. He is doing all a man can do, I think, but for a fortnight I have heard nothing."

"Do you know that Judge Jeffreys goes West directly?"

"For the Assizes, yes. God help the prisoners! An unjust judge, mistress, a fawning servant of a brutal and revengeful King."

"Hush, Martin!" Barbara whispered. "It may be dangerous to speak the truth."

As if to prove the warning necessary, there came a knock at the door.

"There is a young woman asking to see you," said the servant. "She would give no name, but declared you would see her if I said Lenfield."

"Lenfield!" and her eyes met Martin's quickly. "Bring her up at once."

"Mistress, she may talk more freely if she is atone with you," said
Martin. "There is a screen there, may I use it?"

Barbara nodded, and was alone when the woman entered the room.

"You are Mistress Lanison?" she asked, dropping a curtsy.

"Yes."

"My name is Harriet Payne, and I was a servant at Lenfield Manor when my master, Mr. Gilbert Crosby, escaped. Some of us, Golding the butler and myself amongst others, were arrested and taken to Dorchester."

"Yes, and then—"

"I cannot tell by what means, but my master procured my release and bid me go to my home, a little village in Dorsetshire. I cannot tell all the master has done, but I know that they have tried to catch him for a long time. He has been helping people to escape, they say. You don't know what it has been like in the West, mistress."

"Something of it, I know," said Barbara.

"One night Mr. Crosby came to my mother's cottage to see me," the girl went on. "He told me something of his danger, and said that if anything happened to him, or if I were in danger, I was to go to Aylingford Abbey and ask for you; if I could not see you I was to ask for Martin the fiddler."

"Well?"

"I was soon in trouble, mistress, and went to Aylingford. You were not there, nor was the fiddler. I was asked what I wanted, but I would not say. I suppose the servant went to ask his master, for Sir John Lanison himself came out to me."

"You did not tell him who you were?"

"I just said I was in trouble, and asked where I could find you. He laughed and said I wasn't the first young woman who had got into trouble, and he said—"

"You need not repeat it," said Barbara; "it was doubtless something insulting about me."

"Indeed it was, mistress, but he told me where I should find you."

"I do not know how I am to help you," said Barbara. "What do you want me to do?"

"It is not help for myself I want, but for Mr. Crosby. They had followed him to mother's cottage that night and waited. As he went out they caught him. He is a prisoner in Dorchester!"