They had searched Hugh, thoroughly and with more than necessary roughness, and now he was permitted to drag on his dripping clothes again. It was in a long, narrow room at the end of the old hall, where the ceiling was high and dark and the three tall windows set well up from the floor. A year ago it had been a closed and disused apartment, but now a couple of tables and some stools were placed there; Hugh noted the furniture in listless outer fashion as he sat wrestling on his sodden boots. For once his captors had taken their hands off him; one trooper was guarding the door and another was pacing up and down beneath the windows, but the corporal and the third man stood within arm’s reach of him. When Hugh rose to his feet the corporal made a little movement, and he realized they were all alert for his least suspicious action. “My faith, I’m not like to get away from the four of you,” Hugh broke out in a despairing sort of sullenness. “’Tis only that I’d fain put on my coat, unless you claim that along with my cuirass and buff jacket.”

One bade him put on and be hanged, and Hugh, having drawn on the wet garment, sat down again on the stool by the table, too utterly weary and hopeless to note more than that the room was damp and the chill of his soaked clothes was striking to his marrow. With a thought of tramping some warmth into his body he rose again, but the corporal sharply bade him sit down quietly or be tied down. Hugh resumed his place on the stool with his shoulders against the edge of the table and one ankle resting on the other knee; he would gladly have swung round and rested his head upon the table, so worn-out and faint he felt, only he knew if he did his captors would think him childish and frightened.

Of a sudden he heard the sentinel at the door advance a step and announce to the corporal: “Captain Oldesworth has just come into the guardroom, sir.”

A queer tingling went through Hugh’s veins, and upon it followed a sickening faintness. Bringing both feet down to the ground, he faced about with his clinched hand on the table and his eyes fastened upon the door. He knew now why he had not been able to think, those last moments, why every humiliation had been scarcely heeded, in the expectation of this that was before him. He saw the corporal draw up stiff in salute, the sentinel stand back from the door, and then, clean-shaven, set-mouthed as ever, he saw Tom Oldesworth stride in.

It had been in Hugh’s mind to stand up to meet his uncle, but at the last he dared not trust his knees to such a test. For the moment the old boyish fear of the elder man, whose raillery had cut him, whose blows had made him flinch, came back on him, and he could only stare at him dumbly.

“’Tis not the place I had looked to find you, nephew,” Oldesworth greeted him, in a tone that though brusque was kindly enough. Only in the hurriedness of his bearing and the eagerness in his eyes Hugh read no friendly presage, so he let his gaze fall to the table and studied the grain of the wood, while he listened to the beating of his heart that vibrated through all his body.

Oldesworth spoke a word aside to the corporal, and as the troopers drew to the farther end of the room came and set himself down opposite Hugh. “Now attend me, sir,” he began rapidly. “By your trappings you seem to have learned something of war; then you know how the case stands with you now we have you fast. So I trust you will not suffer any childish stubbornness to vex me or harm you.”

Hugh watched the man’s hard face with fascinated eyes and lips half-opened, but found no tongue to reply.

“You were riding to Kingsford,” Oldesworth continued, gazing at him fixedly. “You came from Tamworth, whither a messenger was posted yesterday. You brought an answering message. What was it?”

Hugh flung back his head. “If there be a message, think you I’d be such a fool as to tell it?” he cried, in a voice that was so firm it made him glad. After all, he had no need to fear, for this was only a man like the rest, and he was now a man, too.

“You brought a message from Sir William Pleydall,” Oldesworth repeated, unmoved. “He is going to send aid to this man, is he not? Why, I can read that in your face, Hugh. Aid is coming, then. Is it to-day? To-morrow? Answer me.”

Hugh met his uncle’s gaze fairly, with his head held a little upward and his lips tight-set now. There was nothing for him to say, but he knew they fought the battle out betwixt them while their glances met.

“So you’re stubborn, are you?” Oldesworth said, rising to his feet. “You young fool! Do you think you can set your will against mine?”

“I think I will not tell what you ask,” Hugh replied without a tremor.

Oldesworth leaned a little forward with his fist upon the table. “I have been waiting all my manhood to take satisfaction from Alan Gwyeth,” he said slowly. “Now the opportunity is given me do you think I shall suffer a boy’s obstinacy to hinder me? I will have that message. If you’ll not yield it for the asking, why—Come, come, speak. I’d be loath to hurt you, Hugh.”

“I’d be loath to have you, sir,” Hugh replied soberly, though his whole inclination was to laugh; for now the worst had come he was braced to meet it, and quite unafraid.

Captain Oldesworth’s jaws were set ominously at that. “Corporal,” he ordered sharply, “send a man to fetch rope and a piece of match.”

With an involuntary start Hugh came to his feet, for his mind had jumped back to something Butler had once hinted,—that a length of burning match tied between the fingers was the surest way to make a dumb knave find his tongue.

“’Tis no laughing matter, you’ll perceive,” the captain said, with a trace of satisfaction. “Now you’ll tell?”

Hugh shook his head, not looking at his uncle but with eyes upon the door. He saw it pushed open, and then came in the trooper with a length of rope in his hand, but Hugh scarcely heeded, for behind him, with an eager step, walked Peregrine Oldesworth. After that it did not need the tramp of the men crossing from the other end of the room to set every fibre of Hugh’s body tense for the coming struggle. With a quick movement he swung about to catch up the stool he had just quitted; Oldesworth must have stepped round the table behind him, for he blocked his way now, and catching him by the shoulders made him stand, for all Hugh’s effort to wrench clear. “’Twill be no use fighting, my lad,” he said, with something oddly like pity in his face. “Do as I ask straightway. You’ve done all a gentleman need do. Tell me now when Pleydall is coming. Else you go into the hands of Cornet Oldesworth and his squad here. And Peregrine is keen for this work. But tell, and no one shall lay hand on you, nor—”

“I care not if you kill me!” Hugh cried hoarsely.

“Have it your way, then!” Oldesworth retorted, and, flinging him off, turned his back. “Tie him up, lads,” he ordered.

Some one griped his collar, Hugh felt; there was a rip of cloth, and for a moment he had torn himself free and struck out blindly at the mass of them. They must have tripped him, for he felt the floor beneath his shoulders; but he still had hold on one of them, and he heard a shirt tear beneath his hands. There came a dull pain between his eyes, as if the bones of the forehead were bursting outward, and he made a feeble effort to strike up as he lay. Then the struggling was over; he could not even kick, for one that sat upon his legs; a man’s knee was grinding down on his back, and his arms were forced behind him. His face was pressed to the floor, and he could see nothing for a blackness before his eyes, but he heard Peregrines voice, cool and well-satisfied: “He’ll be quiet enough now. Here’s the rope.”

Some one else had entered the room, Hugh realized; a slow step, a pause, and then a stern voice that rang loud: “Thomas Oldesworth! Bid your ruffians take their hands from your sister’s son.”

“Father!” the captain’s voice spoke, then after an instant’s blank pause ran on: “You do not understand, good sir. He—”

“Will you stand arguing?” There came a noise as of a staff’s being struck upon the floor. “Do I command in this house, son Thomas, or do you? You ruffianly knaves, up with you all!”

They had left him free, Hugh found, and dragging one arm up to his head he lay panting desperately, without strength or heart to move. “Help him to his feet,” the stern voice spoke again. “Or have you done him serious hurt?”

They lifted him up, with gentler handling than they had yet given him, and staggering a pace to the table he leaned against it. He drew his hand across his eyes unsteadily to rub away the black spots that danced before them; he had a blurry sight, then, of the troopers drawn back to the windows, and of the captain and Peregrine, who stood together with half-abashed faces, for in the doorway, leaning on his staff, was Master Gilbert Oldesworth. “Get you back to Kingsford and fight out your fight with the scoundrel who wronged your sister,” he spoke again. “At such a time can you find no better task than to maltreat a boy?”

“If you would only pause to hear how matters stand, sir,” the captain urged, with a visible effort to maintain a respectful tone. “The lad holds the information that shall make us masters of that villain Gwyeth. If he will not speak, though he were twenty times my nephew, I’ll—”

“If he were twenty times the meanest horseboy in the king’s camp, he should not be put to torture beneath my roof,” Master Oldesworth answered grimly. “Come here to me, Hugh Gwyeth.”

Wondering dully why all the strength had gone out of his body, Hugh stumbled across the room and pitched up against the wall beside his grandfather. He noted now that his shirt was torn open, and drawing his coat together he tried to fasten it; his fingers shook unsteadily, and the buttons were hard to find. He felt his grandfather’s hand placed firmly on his shoulder. “I think you have mishandled this gentleman enough to satisfy you,” the old man spoke contemptuously. “Henceforth you will merely hold him as a prisoner taken in honorable war. And I shall myself be responsible for his custody.”

“My good father,” Captain Oldesworth broke out, “I cannot suffer him to pass from my keeping. My responsibility to the state—”

“Will you school me, Thomas?” Master Oldesworth cut him short. “I am neither bed-ridden nor brain-sick that you should try to dictate to me now. But I will advise you, sir, that there are decencies to be observed even in war, and there are those in authority would make you to smart if ever they got knowledge of this you purposed. Lift your hand against my grandson, and this day’s work comes to their ears.”

Then the grasp on Hugh’s shoulder tightened, and submissively he walked at his grandfathers side out into the guardroom. Those loitering there drew back to make way for them, he judged by the sound of footsteps, but he had not spirit even to look up. By the difference of the oak planking of the floors he perceived they were entering the passage that led to the main building, when he felt a firmer grip close on his arm and heard the voice of the Roundhead corporal: “I crave your pardon, sir. The captain bade me see the prisoner safely locked up.”

“No need,” Master Oldesworth spoke curtly, and then addressed Hugh: “You will give me your parole not to attempt an escape.”

Hugh looked up helplessly into his grandfather’s stern face, and felt the grasp of the corporal press upon his arm. His breath came hard like a sob, but he managed to force out his answer: “I cannot, sir, I cannot. You’d better thrust me back into my uncle’s hands. I cannot promise.”

He was trying to nerve himself to be dragged back to the chamber behind the guardroom, but though Master Oldesworth’s face grew harder, he only said, “Bring him along after me,” and led the way down the passage.

Hugh followed unsteadily, glad of the grasp on his arm that helped to keep him erect. They had entered the east wing, he noted listlessly; then he was trudging up the long staircase and stumbling down the corridor. At the first window recess he saw Master Oldesworth halt and heard him speak less curtly: “I have indeed to thank you, mistress.” Raising his eyes as he passed, Hugh saw that by the window, with hands wrung tight together, Lois Campion was standing.

Instinctively he tried to halt, but the grip on his arm never relaxed, and he must come on at his captor’s side, down to the end of the corridor. There Master Oldesworth had flung open a door into a tiny chamber, with one high, narrow slit of a window, bare of furniture save for a couple of chests and a broken chair, over which the dust lay thick. “Since you will have no better lodging, you shall stay here,” he said coldly.

Dragging his way in, Hugh flung himself down on a chest with his head in his hands. “Could you let me have a drink of water, sir?” he asked faintly.

“Go to my chamber and fetch the flask of Spanish wine, Lois,” Master Oldesworth bade, and Hugh heard the girl’s footsteps die away in the corridor, then heard or heeded nothing, just sat with his face hidden.

A touch on the shoulder roused him at last; he took the glass of wine his grandfather offered him and slowly drank it down. They were alone in the room now, he noted as he drank, the door was drawn to, and Lois was gone. He set down the empty glass and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “I thank you, sir, for this, for all you have saved me from,” he said slowly.

“You might thank me for more, if you were less self-willed.”

“’Tis not from self-will, sir, I did as I have done, that I refused my parole,” Hugh broke out, “’tis for my father. I cannot bind myself. I must go to him. I—”

“No more words of that man,” Master Oldesworth silenced him. “You shall never go to him again. A year ago I dealt not wisely with you. I gave you choice where you were too young to choose. For all your folly there are parts in you too good for me to suffer you destroy yourself. Now where I let you walk at your will I shall see to it that you keep the right path, by force, if you drive me to it. For the present I shall hold you in safe custody at Everscombe. Later, as you conduct yourself, I shall determine what course to take.”

“But my father!” Hugh cried.

“Captain Oldesworth will deal with Alan Gwyeth,” Master Oldesworth replied. “Do you forget him.”

“I can never forget him, sir. Sure, I’d liefer be hanged with him than be saved apart from him thus. I—”

The door closed jarringly behind Master Oldesworth, the key grated in the lock, and the bolt was shot creakingly.

For a time Hugh sat staring stupidly at the door of his prison, then, getting slowly to his feet, he began dragging and shoving the chest beneath the window. His hands were still unsteady and he felt limp and weak, so again and again he must pause to sit down. The little room was close and hot; the perspiration prickled on the back of his neck, and stung above his eyebrows. The movement of the chest cleared a white space on the gray floor, and the dust that rose thick sifted into his mouth and nostrils till he was coughing painfully with a miserable feeling that it needed but little for the coughing to end in sobbing. He hated himself for his weakness, and, gritting his teeth, shoved the chest the more vigorously till at last it was in position beneath the window. Lifting the one chair upon it, he mounted up precariously; the sill of the window came level with his collar bone while the top grazed his forehead. He stretched up his arms and measured the length and breadth of the opening twice over, but he knew it was quite hopeless; there was no getting through that narrow window, and, had it been possible, he must risk a sheer fall of two stories to the flagged walk below. For a moment he stood blinking out at the green branches of the elms that swayed before his window, then he dropped to the floor again and sat down on the chest with his face in his hands.

So he was still sitting, when the door was unlocked and one of the serving men of the household came in to fetch him dinner. Hugh looked up, and, recognizing the fellow, would have spoken, but the man only shook his head and backed out hastily. Hugh noted that it was no trooper’s rations they had sent him, but food from his grandfathers table; still he had no heart to eat, though he drank eagerly, till presently he reasoned this was weak conduct, for he must keep up strength if he were ever to come out of his captors’ hands, so, drawing the plate to him, he resolutely swallowed down a tolerable meal.

Then he set himself to watch the motes dance in a sunbeam that ran well up toward the ceiling, but presently it went out altogether. He leaned back then on the chest where he sat, and perhaps had lost himself a time in a numb, half-waking sleep, when of a sudden he caught a distant sound that brought him to his feet. He could not mistake it; off to the east where Kingsford lay he could hear the faint crack of musketry fired in volleys. Hugh cried out something in a hoarse voice he did not recognize; then he was wrenching at the latch and hammering on the door with his clinched hands, while he shrieked to them to let him go. He saw the blood smearing out from his knuckles, but he beat on against the unshaken panels till the strength left him and he dropped down on the floor. Still, as he lay, he could hear the distant firing, and then he ground his face down between his hands and cried as he had never cried before with great sobs that seemed to tear him.

Afterward there came a long time when he had not strength even to sob, when the slackening fire meant nothing to him, and, lying motionless and stupid, he realized only that the light was paling in the chamber. The door was pushed open, and mechanically he rolled a little out of the way of it. The serving man he remembered came in with supper, and at sight of him Hugh lifted up his head and entreated brokenly: “Tell me, what has happened? Have they taken my father? For the love of Heaven, tell me.”

The man hesitated, then, as he passed to the doorway, bent down and whispered: “They’ve beat the Cavaliers into the church, sir, but they’ve not taken the captain yet. Lord bless you, don’t cry so, sir.”

For the sheer nervous relief had set Hugh choking and sobbing again without pride or strength enough left to hold himself in check. As the darkness closed in, however, he grew a little calmer, though sheer exhaustion more than inner comfort held him quiet. His eyes were hot and smarting, and his throat ached, so he crept over to the chest where the food was placed, and laying hands on a jug of water gulped down a good deal and splashed some over his face. After that he stretched himself again upon the floor, where for pure weariness he dropped at length into a heavy sleep.

He awoke in darkness, his blood tingling and his pulses a-jump in a childish momentary fear at the strangeness of the place and a something else he could not define. He had recollected his position and laid down his head again, with a little effort to place himself more comfortably upon the floor, when there came a second time the noise that must have wakened him,—a stealthy faint click of the latch, as if the door were being softly opened. Hugh sprang to his feet and set his back to the wall, in the best position for defence, if it were some enemy, if it were Captain Oldesworth came seeking him. The door was opening, he perceived, as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. “Who is it?” he asked in a guarded tone.

“Hush! ’Tis I, Lois.”

Hugh caught his breath in a gasp of relief. “Lois, you’ve come to free me?” he whispered, and, stepping softly to her, fumbled in the dark and found her hand.

“Yes, yes. I was afraid for you. I told Master Oldesworth that Peregrine was bragging how the captain would serve you. He saved you that time. But ’tis possible the captain will lay hands on you again. I slipped into Master Oldesworth’s chamber and took the key. I know ’tis wicked; I care not. Pull off your boots and come away, quick.”

Noiselessly as he could, Hugh got his boots in his hand and in his stockinged feet stole out of the chamber. In the corridor it was all black and still, just as it had been that other time when he ran from Everscombe, only now Lois was with him, and when the stairs creaked they pressed close together. Then she went forward boldly, and he, still half-blinded with sleep, was content to follow the guidance of her hand. “In here,” she whispered at length, and so led him into the east parlor, where the great clock still ticked, solemn and unperturbed. “Go out at the window,” Lois spoke softly; “I dare not open the door. There are a few men in the house, but they lie in the west wing and the stables. The bulk are at Kingsford. Northward you will find the way clear.”

“I am not going northward,” Hugh answered, as he warily pushed open the casement. “I go to my father now.”

“Hugh!” The girl’s voice came in a frightened gasp. “I had not released you— If you come unto them at last— They wish it not— You may be killed! You shall not do this thing.”

Leaning from the casement Hugh dropped his boots carefully where the dark showed an edge of grass bordered the flagged walk; as he set himself astride the window ledge he spoke: “’Tis just the thing I shall do, Lois, and the only thing. If you be sorry for what you did, call, if you will, but I shall jump and run for it.”

“I shall not call,” she answered. “Oh, I care not who has the right and wrong of the war. I cannot bear they should hurt you.”

She was kneeling on the window-bench with her face close to his; he suddenly bent forward and kissed her. “God bless you for this, Lois,” he said.

Then he swung himself over the window ledge, and letting his weight come on his hands dropped noiselessly to the walk below. He dragged on his boots, and taking a cautious step across the flagstones slid down the terrace to the lawn. Once more he glanced back, not at Everscombe manor house, but at the opened window of the east parlor. It was too dark more than to distinguish the outline of the casement, but he knew that at the lattice Lois was still standing to wish him God speed to his father.