My first glance at the woman's face showed me that it was the same as I had seen a few hours before. In the moonlight she looked very pale, and I saw that she was young, not indeed as I judged more than twenty years of age. But what struck me most was the fact that she betrayed no fear; rather I saw a look of defiance, and I could not understand how a woman who had, as I thought, been cowed by the man at the inn could meet me here alone at midnight and be so brave. Nay, as I thought, there was a look of defiance in her face, and a confidence in her own strength.

"I desire naught from you, and I have no will to molest you," I said.

"Then go your way."

"Ay, I will go my way," I replied, "and perchance my way may be yours."

"It cannot be. If you have no will to molest me, take your road and I will take mine."

Her quiet confidence almost angered me. Fearfulness I was prepared to meet, while cries I expected; but to be quietly commanded to pass on, knowing what I knew, made me somewhat impatient, and hence more at my ease.

"It may be, mistress, when I have told you what is in my mind, you will not be so desirous to be rid of me."

"There can be naught in your mind that concerns me." Then with a flash as quick as light she said, "Do you boast of gentle blood, young sir?"

"I am of gentle birth," I replied.

"Then you must know that when a lady would be alone no man of honour will stay by her side."

"That's as may be," I replied. "The lady may be surrounded by dangers of which she knows nothing, in which case the man of honour will stay and protect her even against her will!"

For a moment she gazed around her as if she apprehended danger, but only for a moment.

"Will it please you to pass on?" she said.

"Not until I have told you what is in my mind."

"Then you are a spy."

"As you will," I replied, for the words angered me, and even although I had no sufficient excuse for remaining by her side, I determined to know more of her.

"Perhaps my first impression was right," she went on, "and you are a common thief. If so, it is useless coming to me, I have no money."

At this I was silent, for my brain refused to give me a suitable answer.

"So having no money, and having no desire to remain longer in your company, I will e'en go on my way."

"No you will not."

At this her eyes flashed like fire.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because you are afraid to let me know where you are going."

At this she gazed fearfully at me, but she spoke no word.

"Nevertheless, I know the place for which you are bound," I said. "But if I were you I would not go."

"Why?"

"Because the man who sent you seeks only his own safety and not yours. Because he desires to use you only as a key to unlock the door by which he would enter, because he has gained power over you only to make you his tool."

"What do you know of the man who sent me?"

This she said, as I thought, involuntarily, for she quickly went on: "How do you know I have been sent? In these days even a woman may——" and then she stopped suddenly, like one afraid.

"Because I have been staying at the Barley Sheaf," I replied. "Because I saw you come to the inn; because I heard your conversation to-night with the man who hath sent you to do his bidding, against your own will."

"Then you are a spy?"

"If you will, but let me tell you what is in my mind before you call me by that name again. I was awakened an hour or two ago by the sound of a woman sobbing. She was pleading with some man not to send her out at midnight, but he persisted. I heard him threaten her, I heard him tell her that if her name were known some dread calamity would happen to her. I knew that he had some power over her, possessed some secret concerning her, and that she had perforce to do his will."

"Well, what then, sir?" she asked sharply.

"He commanded her to go to Pycroft, along a road that is infested by footpads."

"And what have you to do with this?"

"Nothing except that I determined to follow her, and offer her what protection and help I could give her. Ay, and more, to rid her from the man who is so unworthy to call himself her protector."

At this she came up close to me, and looked steadily into my face.

"Is that all you know?" she said.

"That is all."

"And that is your reason for following me?"

"That is my reason."

"What is your name?"

I could see no harm in telling her. My name was unknown, and my mission hither was, I believed, a secret.

"Roland Rashcliffe," I said.

"Of Epping?"

"Of that family, yes."

"And this is true?"

"On my word as a gentleman, yes."

Again she looked at me steadily as if she were in sore straits what to do, and did not know whether she might trust me.

"You know nothing about me beyond what you have said?"

"Nothing."

"And you desire only to see me safe from harm?"

"That is all," and at the time it was true, for under the influence of the woman's presence my own mission to Pycroft seemed of little import.

"And if I allow you to accompany me you will ask me no questions?"

"I desire you to answer no questions of mine, nor to reveal to me anything which you would keep secret."

"You do not know my name—nor his name?"

"No."

Again she scanned me eagerly, and then looked around her. All round us was a weary waste of uncultivated land, beyond the dark woods a cloud shot over the moon, while away in the distance the horizon was blackened by what looked like a coming storm. The winter had gone, and the spring was upon us, nevertheless the night had grown cold. I saw her shudder.

"What are you?" she said. "Roundhead, or Cavalier?"

"I do not know."

At this she looked at me suspiciously.

"My father fought for the king in the first Civil War," I replied. "But I have stayed at home all my life. I have not interested myself in politics. I have helped to look after what remains of my father's estates."

"You have spent your life in idleness?"

"I have sought to learn those things which may become a gentleman," I replied. "I can use a sword, and I am not altogether an ignoramus."

"You love books then?"

"I have read the writings of both William Shakespeare and John Milton," I replied, "and I know a little of such writings of Corneille and MoliÈre as have been brought to this country."

"You know French then?"

"A little. But that hath nothing to do with my desire to befriend you. You are in trouble, and I would help you."

"You desire not to harm me?"

"So help me God, no."

"But why are you here?" she asked suspiciously. "If your home is at Epping Forest, what are you doing at Folkestone?"

"I came at my father's bidding," I replied after a moment's hesitation.

"Ah, you have a secret, too," she cried.

At this I was silent, while I wondered at the quickness with which she fastened upon the truth. Nevertheless, I was sure her voice was friendly, and I thought she was glad to have me near. And this was no wonder, for courageous although she might be, her mission was one which must strike terror in the bravest heart.

But still she hesitated. What was passing in her mind I knew not; but I imagined that two fears fought one against the other in her heart. One, the fear of going alone to the haunted house situated amid the great Pycroft woods, and the other the fear of accepting the protection of one of whom she knew nothing, and whom she had never seen until that hour.

The winds blew colder, while away in the distance I heard the rumble of thunder, and this I think decided her. Had it been day I do not believe she would have listened to me for a moment, but it was night and a thunderstorm was sweeping towards us; besides, although a courageous one, she was still a woman.

"Promise me again that you will not seek to interfere with my mission, or to harm me," she said.

"I promise," I replied.

"I will accept your escort," she said. "Come quickly, for what is done must be done quickly."

We walked together across the broad open land, while the black cloud grew larger and larger. The moon had also sunk low, and the night had grown dark. Even now a strange feeling comes into my heart as I think of our journey towards the old house, for reared in the country as I had been, ay, and in the very midst of the great forest which lies east of London town, I thought I never knew any place so lonely as this. Besides, I knew naught of my companion. That she was young, and fair to look upon, I could not help seeing, but I knew not her name, neither did I understand the mystery which surrounded her life.

Twice I saw her turn and gaze furtively at me, as though desiring to know what was in my mind, but for the most part she walked straight on, never turning to the right nor to the left.

Nearer and nearer we came to the pine woods which stood on the edge of the open land, and as we did so drops of rain began to fall upon us. Then I thought I saw her shudder, but she spoke no word. In spite of the way she had spoken to me, I fell to pitying her more than ever. For truly it was a sad predicament for a young maid, evidently well-born and tenderly reared, to be placed in. From what she had said to the man at the inn, she knew nothing either of Pycroft or its inmates, neither could she tell what her welcome to the lonely house would be like.

Once she stopped and listened as though she heard strange sounds near, and then presently moved on again without a word. By and bye we came to a pond beside the road, close by which was a gateway. Beyond were, as far as I could judge, dense dark woods.

"This is the place," I said.

"How do you know?"

"It accords with the description the man gave you at the inn."

"Yes, but you know nothing of those who live at the house?"

"Nothing."

"You may accompany me until we come in sight of the house, but after that you must go no further."

"Why?"

"You promised to ask no questions."

"I promised not to interfere with your mission," I replied, "neither will I. I have kept by your side for more than two miles without speaking a word concerning it. Nevertheless I have not promised to obey you in all things. Had I, I should not be by your side now. I cannot promise not to go too close to the house. It may be that you will need help, and I mean to keep close by your side."

"But why?" and I thought my words gave her comfort.

"Because I desire to be your friend."

In this I spoke the truth, for although I had it in my heart to enter the house in order to carry out my plans, yet my pity for the maid, and my determination to befriend her became stronger each minute.

"My friend!" she said. "You do not know what you say. Do you know what it would cost to be my friend? Besides, why should you? You do not know who I am; you have never heard my name."

"No," I replied, "I have never heard your name, I do not know who you are."

"Then why should you desire to befriend me?"

I could not answer her, neither for that matter could I answer myself when the question came to me. But I think I know now. Although my father had taught me to distrust all men, he had always led me to think of my mother as a beautiful noble woman, one who was as pure as an angel, and as truthful as the sun which shines in the heavens. Thus it came about that I was led to look at womanhood through the medium of my mother's life, and to regard it as a gentleman's duty ever to treat them with respect and reverence. Nay, more, I had learnt, I know not how, to regard it the first duty of a man of honour ever to seek to befriend a gentlewoman, and that at all hazards.

"Because you are a gentlewoman, and you are in trouble," I said.

We had been standing beside the pond during this conversation, as though we desired to delay entering the dark woods close by. Once beneath the shadows of the trees we should scarce be able to see each other, but here no shadow fell, and I could see her plainly. I heard her sob, too, as though my words had touched her heart.

"Do not be afraid," I said, "I will let no man harm you."

I spoke as a brother might speak to a sister, and there was naught but pity in my heart. Perhaps my voice had a tremor in it, for I was much wrought upon. Be that as it may, for the first time she lost control over herself, and she gave way to tears.

"I am afraid, oh, I am afraid," she said.

"You need not be," I said, "no harm shall befall you."

"Oh, but you do not know. You do not know who is by your side, you do not know what I fear."

"You need not fear to tell me," I said.

"Fear to tell you!" she cried, "but I do. Ay and if it were known that you walk by my side, and that you seek to befriend me, your life would be in danger. You do not know why I have consented to come here, you do not know of what I am accused. Nay, if I told you my name, you would either drag me back to Folkestone town and tell—" Here she ceased speaking, as though she were frightened at her own words.

"No I should not," I made answer.

"Why?"

"Because I do not believe you are capable of committing a crime."

At this she laughed aloud. A hard, cruel, bitter laugh.

"You had better go back to your bed, Master Rashcliffe," she said. "You do not know why I am here, you do not know what my mission is. I will tell you. I am here because I fear the devil, and because I seek to do his bidding."

She said this as if through her set teeth, and, as it seemed to me, with terrible passion. In spite of myself I felt a shiver pass through my veins. Nevertheless I still pitied her. For be it remembered I was only twenty-three, and the sight of the maid was in truth piteous. All the same the words I spoke next were dragged from me almost against my will.

"What!" I cried. "Have you sold yourself to the devil?"

"Ay, Master Rashcliffe, that is it, and I have found him a hard master."

I saw her clench her hands as if in a frenzy, while her eyes gleamed with a great passion.

"I do not believe in such things," I said, for although many witches had been burnt in England, even in my time, I had no faith in much of what I had heard.

"Why do I go up to the old house in Pycroft woods?" she went on. "Is it for pleasure? Have you not heard it is haunted? I tell you deeds are done there which would frighten you, brave as you think you are. And I go because I must. Now had you not better go back and leave me?"

"No," I made answer. "I will accompany you even as I have said."

"But you promised not to hinder me."

"No, I will not hinder you, because, in spite of what you say, I do not believe evil is in your heart."

"There you make a mistake, Master Rashcliffe. I have evil in my heart. And it is not without reason. Have you a sister?"

"No, why do you ask?"

"Because if you had you might understand me. If you had a sister, bound to obey a bad man, as his wife, would she not be justified in having evil in her heart?"

"His wife?" I cried.

"Ay, his wife!" and at this she laughed bitterly. "Now you see how useless it is for you to try and help me, for a wife must obey her husband no matter what he commands her. Do you think I would be here else? Look!" and she showed me her left hand, where I saw a plain gold ring.

At this I said nothing, nevertheless I did not in any wise think of giving up my determination to accompany her.

"You are still determined to enter this old house?" I said quietly.

"I go because I must," she replied.

Without another word I opened the gate and motioned her to pass in.

"You still persist in going?" she said, as if in astonishment, but she passed through the open gate, while I walked quietly by her side.

It was not easy to keep to the track, but I managed to follow it while the woman, who I was sure felt glad that I had persisted in accompanying her, kept near me. How long we walked I do not know. The woods grew darker and thicker, while the very air we breathed seemed laden with mystery and dread.

Once or twice I stopped, for I thought I heard footsteps, but as I listened all was silent.

"Oh, I am afraid," she said again and again. I did not reply to her, for I had no word of cheer to offer. In truth I was not far from being afraid myself. An open enemy I could meet as well as another, but the dreadful silence, with the occasional suggestion of stealthy footsteps, made my heart grow cold in spite of myself.

At length the track ended in an open space, and then my heart gave a leap, for a little distance away I saw the dark outline of an old house. Never until then did I realise how dark and lonesome a human habitation could be. Not a sound could I hear save the beating of our own hearts, naught could I see but the grim walls of the time-worn building.

"Look," she whispered fearfully. "Yonder is a light."

She spoke truly, for almost hidden by a large evergreen tree, yet plainly to be seen was a tiny light.

"That will be Master Pycroft!" I said almost involuntarily.

For answer she only shuddered, and then without saying a word she walked in the direction of the light.