CHAPTER I
THE TREASURE HOUSE

On a day when the storm had sunk to a grim memory, when cold winds blustered and more snow fell through the dark and sunless weeks before spring-time, did Harvey Woodman and Richard Beer hold converse with ancient Kekewich. For once the pessimist had those of the household with him; but no sooner were the labouring men reduced to a condition of absolute hopelessness before the picture he painted, when Kekewich changed sides, according to his wont, took up his master's part and foretold fair things out of contradiction.

"Ban't our business," declared Woodman, "an' yet even a common man have eyes; an' touching the potatoes, a fool could see he's wrong."

"Actually feeding the stock on 'em, an' grumbling when my wife goes to fill a sack for the house!" said Beer. "Ban't good husbandry or good sense to feed beastes on such human food. Lord knows they potatoes cost enough to fetch up out o' the airth. 'Twould be better far to face the trouble an' buy fodder in a big spirit."

"No method to him, if a man may say so without disrespect," answered Woodman. "Of course you wants to look forward more 'pon Dartymoor."

"He fights the Moor same as he fights life," explained Kekewich. "The masterfulness of un be so tremendous that us might almost look to see Nature go down afore him."

"Nature don't go down; 'tis us that do," replied Beer; "an' if the storm haven't taught him that, nothing won't. 'Tis no sense your telling that sort o' rummage, Kek, an' very well you know it."

"Not but the gentleman have his black moments," continued Woodman. "I've seed him pass by me many a time wi' a cloud on's face, an' a puzzled look in his eyes, as if he was trying to read in a book an' couldn't catch the meaning. Essterday he stood in the opeway an' stared out afore him so grim as a ghost, as if he might have been waiting a message from the sky."

"He'll get a message as he won't like the taste of afore long," foretold Beer.

"He don't go about the right way to larn, I'm sure—to say it without offence," added Woodman.

"He won't larn nought from you dumpheads, that's sartain," said Kekewich. "But he'm far off a fool, an' his heart's got eyes if his head haven't. When all's said, 'tis for his lady an' his darter he thinks an' plans. He lies waking o' nights for the honour an' glory of the family. Things will fall out right yet, an us shall live to see it."

"'Tis very well, though you'm the first to holler 'ruin' yourself most days," retorted Beer, rather indignant that Kekewich should thus take up a position so unusual. "Us all knows the man do mean well as an angel, yet it looks a very unhandsome thing to thrust his maiden into matrimony with a chap she hates like sin."

"So it do," assented Woodman. "You'm right, Richard. He'll take his stand behind his darter's welfare an' put a husband she hates upon her. Wise it may be; Christian it ban't. But everything's cut and dried now, and Mordecai Cockey, the journeyman tailor, be coming in six weeks to make the clothes, so my wife tells me."

"The maiden's Malherb, faither or no faither," said Beer, "and Dinah, as understands such affairs, have marked by many a foretoken that she won't wed out of her heart—not for fifty faithers."

"Matters be coming to a climax then," declared Harvey Woodman solemnly. "My wife dreamed o' blood t'other night; an' for my part I've seen Childe's tomb in my dreams, wi' Childe hisself rising up like a ragged foreign bear. I do hate for things to come in a heap this way. Ban't natural we should be called upon to suffer more ills than one to a time. There's the whole Book of Lamentations bearing down on Fox Tor Farm in my opinion, an' I'd so soon be away as not."

"He've got money, however," argued Beer. "Money will stem a good few mortal ills, let them as haven't got none say what they please."

"As to that, my Mary heard him tell Missis something about a canal somewheres that's gone scat; an' the lady turned white as curds an' went in her chamber for to get over it unseen," answered Woodman. "If you ax me, I reckon he'm driven for money. When I spoke to un of half a dozen more drashels,[*] as wouldn't have cost half-a-crown, he got so touchy as proud-flesh, an' told me to run out of his sight, an' said us was a lot o' lazy good-for-nothing hirelings as never thought of his pocket. Of course he was round next day as usual with a cheerful word an' the money; but I tented un to the quick when I axed for it first."

[*] Drashels: Flails.

"An' that's why Miss Grace have got to marry Mr. Norcot, no doubt," declared Beer. "'Tis so much for her father's good as her own belike."

He nodded to where Grace rode past the barn. She was clad in a snug, short habit of purple Totnes serge; and upon her hands were a pair of gloves made from the skin of a wild cat that had been captured after prodigious exertions by Thomas Putt. Behind Grace rode John Lee, and their enterprise was secret, for it had to do with the young man's recent great discovery. Now Grace, despite the languor of these days and the anti-climax that followed upon Cecil Stark's departure, found herself awake and much alive. Darkness shadowed her life and her home. She knew that trouble slept with her parents and haunted her father in all his goings; she suffered for them; yet she believed that no such sorrow as her own private sorrow had ever crushed into a human life before; that no such tragic experience as this mistake of emotion for passion, had until now tortured an unhappy young heart. Yet to fight upon her father's side seemed good. She desired dangers and difficulties to lift her from her personal tribulations. She herself had planned the present expedition, and Lee was in some concern, for though undertaken by daylight, it lacked not danger. John had at last discovered Lovey's hiding-place, and now he was taking his mistress to see it.

"Your star-bright eyes will find this wondrous treasure if 'tis there," he said. "For myself I could light on nothing but money-bags. They had gold in 'em and were ranged on stone ledges as high as I could reach. For the rest, there was a pitcher under trickling water that runs in a corner of the place; a basin, with mouldy bread and cheese in it; and a great stone upon which stood half a dozen rush-lights. And as I first climbed down, 'twas like the story of Arabia that you told me, for the walls of the hole all shone as though they were plastered with pure gold. A light in darkness they made. 'Tis a shining moss that glitters there on the damp rocks. I'm right glad to have found the place; an' yet my mind misgives me that more evil than good will come out of it."

"The only evil that can come out is Lovey Lee. If she caught us!"

"No—that won't happen. She's safe for to-day. You'll laugh, but you know there's force in the old charms for all your laughing. They work, though wiseacres may know better."

"John, John!"

"A maiden nail has power, I tell you, despite all scoffing."

"A maiden nail! And what is that?"

"A nail fresh made from bar iron—one that has never touched ground. Drive such in the threshold of a witch's door and for a day and night she cannot hurt a fly."

"Really, John Lee, I could blush for you—here at the beginning of the nineteenth century, in these dazzling days of enlightenment!"

"I got 'em from Noah Newcombe, hot off his anvil," said John, "and I've driven them home into the dern of grandmother's door. Believe it or not, I very well know she's harmless to all mankind this day."

"I wish I had such faith in men as you have in nails, John," said the girl thoughtfully. Then silence fell between them, and Grace reflected upon her sweetheart's credulity. She had never realised the extent of it until recent events and the intercourse with the American prisoner. Peter Norcot's manifold ingenuities and petty cleverness of quips and cranks had but served to make John Lee's simplicity shine bright by contrast; but the light that Stark cast over thought was a white light, and smote pitiless upon both the others.

"You have faith in one man sure?" said John presently. He had thought of her words long before replying to them.

"In two—in two," she answered hastily; but more she would not say.

"'Tis old Kekewich and me," he mused aloud. "A very strange thing, my lady dear, that two such men should get to be trusted by your sweet spirit, afore all the rest of the world."

But she could not let him remain in ignorance.

"I meant Mr. Stark, not Kek," she answered.

He nodded and looked away.

"I know you meant him. 'Twas only to see if you'd tell me, that I pretended you meant Kek. A sly thing to do, but somehow I was tempted."

She did not answer, nor did he speak again until they reached the ruin in Hangman's Hollow.

"Here we are at last—a queer sort of place. 'Twould call for little fancy to see my grandmother meeting the Devil himself here after dark. 'Pon that rowan above the gravel-pit a man hanged himself a little while back, 'cause he found he'd been cheated over a horse. Here, under our feet, is granny's den. We'll dismount, tether up; an' then you follow me down this blind alley-way to the top of the mound. By the wall-side at the end, is a stone that will turn when we set foot upon it, and open a hole down the blowing-house chimney into a great chamber underground."

Grace dismounted; John fastened up their horses and soon led the way whither Lovey Lee had vanished.

"But 'twas no miracle after all, you see. There—the stone twists on a regular pivot. 'Tis balanced beneath like a logan."

He showed where a large piece of granite slowly yielded under his weight. Then he retained it in position with a stick and made it firm. A black, perpendicular pit appeared, and upon the side of it rough stones protruded irregularly and formed a ladder.

"I'll go down," said Lee, "and light a candle. 'Tis day-proof and air-proof nearly; but you'll soon see and breathe when you're used to it."

He disappeared, and from beneath Grace heard him strike flint and steel, then saw the gleam of candlelight, and prepared to descend. The way proved easy enough to one of her activity, and soon she found herself beside John Lee, ten feet beneath the earth, in a large irregular chamber. The place was half natural, and half built of masonry now ruinous. A shaft of daylight from above revealed the steps, and the walls of the grotto diffused a glimmering and golden radiance, so that it seemed to Grace that she had, indeed, descended into some storehouse of fabulous treasure. The shining moss[*] encrusted the cavern with its phosphorescent light, and water tinkled drop by drop unseen. Lee held above his head a candle that he had brought with him, and slowly details stole out of the gloom as their eyes focussed them.

[*] The shining moss: Schistostega Osmundacea.

For some time they found nothing more than John had already recorded. Then the desiccated remains of a dog in a corner made Grace exclaim with sorrow. The beast was fastened by its neck to a staple in the wall, and had clearly perished of starvation there. Close scrutiny revealed nine or ten money-bags perched aloft in nooks of the granite and holes of the broken building. Grace opened three, and all contained the same amount—one hundred pounds in gold. They restored every bag to its proper hiding-place, and continued their search. Yet the girl grew listless, and John Lee felt it by his senses, although he could not see her face.

Presently he hit his shins against a square box corded up with ropes, and his companion's heart throbbed as she thought that within an hour the Malherb amphora would be restored to its owner's hand. Then, while yet their new discovery remained unproved, a dull indifference again invaded her spirit; and John stood amazed to find her in no way disappointed when the box was found to contain nothing more precious than silver plate, sundry fine French snuff-boxes, watches and other trinkets.

"How brave you are!" he said. "Yet this is something worth discovering, for I'll wager my grandmother stole what is here from your family in times past."

"Be just to her. These French things perchance came from the prisoners. Tie them up carefully, and put them where you found them. Lovey must never guess that we have seen her secrets."

The man obeyed, and for half an hour they continued to make laborious and unrewarded search.

"'Tis a rogue's roost of a hole!" cried Lee. "You shall stop in it no longer, else you'll faint for lack of sweet air. 'Twill take much time and patience to exhaust all these crannies and clefts. My candle wanes."

"Let us depart then and visit the place again presently when time allows it."

"But you've lost your old eagerness," he said shortly.

"Not so. I care very much. Why, it is life or death almost—for father. I know him to be sore driven for money."

"For your father. And is it nothing that it means life or death for Jack Lee? Have you forgotten what you yourself proposed? Oh, Grace, I'm afraid you have. I was to go to the wars——"

"The wars are like to be soon over now, dear John."

He made no answer, but lighted her to the steps and helped her to ascend them. Things recently suspected, like clouds lifting their furrowed foreheads above a remote horizon, grew daily nearer, and this experience within the treasure house had brought alarm to the very zenith of John Lee's mind. He was quick to see and to read each mood and humour of Grace Malherb. A hesitation before a kiss, a wayward breaking off in mid-speech, sudden ardours to atone for periods of coldness—all these shadows and half-shades of change, and of a sense of honour at war with overmastering love, had made themselves manifest in the girl; and Lee had read them while she was ignorant of their visible existence. At first such apparitions from her inner self merely mystified him, and the memory of them vanished with the mood that displayed them; but now more clearly he began to perceive that her highest graciousness followed upon coolness; that she was kindest after being least kind; that her outbursts of wild affection sprang not from love, but remorse. He battled against the belief; but it grew into a conviction, bitter and sure.

To-day, as he restored the cover-stone of the cave, he felt that another nail was struck into hope's coffin; and the thought wakened no indignation against Grace, but rather a mighty, melancholy anger with himself, that he had proved a man too feeble to hold his pearl against all comers.

"We must seek and seek and never despair," said Grace as they turned to ride homeward. "I feel positive that the amphora is there. If necessary you will have to hide in the den of the tigress yourself, John, and mark her when she supposes herself alone. Yet I should tremble for you. 'Twill be an awful day for that old woman when she loses the amphora. It is her god."

"If I got it, I could almost find it in my heart to break it."

"John Lee!"

"Why, I spoke as I felt. I'm beginning to see terrible things beyond your strength to hide, Gracie. You would hide them if you could; you think in your heart that they are hidden; but they peep out and scourge me for my awful folly."

"What—what can you mean?"

"Don't think to deceive me, for you deceive yourself, dearest heart, if you do. I'm sensible in flashes, though mostly blind with you. I've read the riddle ever since he went away; now I've read the answer too."

"You wrong me to speak so. I have not changed to you, John; and to him I am nothing in the world."

"Be angry; be angry; I could rage, too; I could tear up the earth and—and—but I haven't the heart. I wouldn't hurt him excepting as man to man. I'd pray to Heaven to bring us face to face in war. I'd seek him out on land or sea—I'd——" He broke off, dropped his rein, and pressed his hands to his face. Then Grace rode close to him and touched his arm.

"You are unhappy, and I have made you so. This must not be, dear John. 'Tis life and death between—between lovers, to speak pure honesty at all times. Listen. He grew to love me. 'Twas the loneliness and friendlessness of his life. His eyes had seen no woman for years; therefore he made more of me than I deserved. He—he asked me to marry him some day; and I told him that I belonged to another. Then he went out of my life and blessed the unknown man who had been more fortunate than himself. That is the truth; and if I've been half-hearted and my wits a wool-gathering, forgive me, for the thought of Master Stark's sorrow has made me sad. I have much desired the war to end that he might go home to those who love him; and—and—don't look at me like that, John, for God knows I speak the truth to you. I hoped for his sake that the war might cease; for yours that it might not cease. Then I settled it by praying for peace with America—for his sake, and war with France—for yours. I'm only a fool, John, but I'm a truthful fool. There's nothing else in my silly heart but that."

"But there is—looking out of your eyes when you forget to shut them and hide it. My pretty darling—oh, God, to give you up! I cannot. I never will. A thousand heroes shall not take you——"

"Give me up—what do you mean?" she cried, and her heart beat fiercely.

"Why, 'tis true there must be no secrets betwixt us," he said in a gentle voice, "not so long as we are what we are to one another. 'Pure honesty' was your word. You tell me he asked you to marry him. And you tell me what you answered. I know all that right well without your telling me. But I've got to know more; I've got to know what you felt as well as said."

"Sorry for him—most truly sorry for him, dear John. I did like him. I'll own to that."

"Don't speak in a tone so light, sweetheart. 'Sweetheart' still a little longer. You women do think a tone of voice makes truth less true and falsehood less false. You say the same words in different voices and mean different by them. And a man must grow skilled in your sounds, like a hunter grows clever in the sounds of wild things, not counting the weight of the words. You say you liked him as you might like such a one that held your stirrup or opened a gate; but you and me are at a place now where you've got to speak sacred truth—solemn, slow, each word forged to last till doom. Did you love that man?"

"What is it to love a man?"

He bowed his head.

"I'm answered," he said. "Oh, Gracie dear—once mine, never mine—you know what 'tis to love a man; but you never did afore you saw him."

She marvelled that one who had yesterday driven maiden nails into a doorpost could see so deep. She remembered that it was she who had taught him to read. Tears came to her eyes and shining drops fell glittering on her horse's neck.

"You break my heart," she said.

"Please God, never! You didn't know; you mistook—what? you mistook something else for love. We were a boy and a girl; and I couldn't choose but worship—you were so lovely in soul and body—so gentle to me—so——"

"John," she declared solemnly, "I shall marry you or no man."

"You mean it with your whole heart, Gracie? Right well I know you do, and I love to hear you say it, and to see you think it while your beautiful, steadfast eyes fright the tears away."

"I love you, I love you indeed, John."

"I am content to be loved so," he answered slowly. "And maybe the time that's coming will show the colour of my love for you, since 'tis all too big for words. 'Twill take deeds to set it forth. It calls for deeds to show the pattern of a man's life, and love for you be all that's left of life for me henceforward."

CHAPTER II
RHYME AND REASON

A fortnight after the visit to the old blowing-house, Mr. Peter Norcot arrived from Chagford to stay a while at Fox Tor Farm, and with him he brought more snow. This fact by no means troubled his level temper. He was neither more plain-spoken nor less poetical than usual as he walked out with Grace after noon, and reminded her of Maurice Malherb's intention that she should marry during the coming summer.

"Do not think, my dear girl, that Peter is blind. He knows all about Endymion. But positively John Lee as a husband!"

"'Tis not the first time I have bade you mind your own business, Peter. You have no right or reason to say these things to me. 'Tis worse than your rhymes. If you were half the man he is!"

"Hard words cannot break bones, or kill love. Do what you please; say what you like,"

"'A very sandal I would be
To tread on—if trod on by thee.'

I can even rise superior to the necessity of being loved back. I love on and suffer on.

"'It is not for our good in ease to rest;
Man, like to cassia, when bruised is best.'"

"I will never love you, nor marry you. Is not that enough?"

"Too much—more than I could bear, if I believed it. But you are very young, Grace. I am often relieved to remember that you are too young to know your own mind."

She was going to deny it indignantly; but stopped, vividly conscious that he had come near the mark. Therefore sadness followed anger in her face and cooled her cheek.

"I do most seriously believe that before next year you will find me a continual joy," declared Peter. "'Tis high time the world should see what a husband awaits the making in me. Too long I've pined alone.

"'Life's a short summer—man a flower,
He dies—alas! how soon he dies.'"

"'He lives—alas! how long he lives!' So has many an unhappy wife breathed to her soul; and so should I."

"You might, indeed, if, like certain foolish but authentic virgins, you married out of your status. Now John Lee——"

"Have done, or I'll never speak to you more!" cried Grace passionately. "I had rather a thousand times marry John Lee than you; and if I please, I will."

"Frankly, my poppet, you are something too much of a child to marry anybody yet. 'Winter and wedlock tame maids and beasts.' A true West Country proverb that. But I'd be your lover still, not your master. Vile word! In sober honesty, however, you can be very provoking, mistress."

"Never less than now. Walk quicker and save your breath; more snow is coming."

The transient gleam of sun that had drawn them out on to the Moor departed, and snow began to fall again.

"I've wanted that to happen," said Mr. Norcot. "Now you shall hear a charming thing—not my own, I regret to say, but from Petronius Afranius—translated by one Smart. For its perfection you must make a snowball and hurl it at me."

"I'm in no mood for fooling."

"I beg; I implore. 'Twill be worth your pains."

She bent and picked up some snow.

"Don't miss my manly bosom, or you'll spoil all," he said.

"There—I would it could cool your heart and freeze every thought of me out of your head!"

Grace flung the snow, and, letting it melt upon his coat, Mr. Norcot struck an attitude while he recited another rhyme. His eyes were full of the snow light and seemed harder and brighter than usual as he gazed at her.

"'When, wanton fair, the snowy orb you throw,
I feel a fire before unknown in snow,
E'en coldest ice I find has pow'r to warm
y breast, when flung by Gracie's lovely arm!'"

He swept off his hat and bowed; whereon she laughed outright.

"You should have been a player, for you are a most unreal man—for ever feigning to be something else than you are."

"Then marry me and find the kernel in the nut."

"How can I marry one I do not know?"

"Even such you should choose if you are wise; for the following sufficient reasons."

He prattled on, and presently Maurice Malherb joined them. The master had been that day in Prince Town upon various business, and he returned with news of a sort to interest his daughter. Now her eyes asked him a question and he answered it.

"I paid my respects to Commandant Short at the Prison. He is a gentleman, but I think the business of that place will tax his authority. A saint would grow impatient with the knaves."

"And your visitor?" inquired Mr. Norcot. "'Twas a wonderful Providence that sent him here."

"The rascal! And yet Stark was one worthy of respect, had he been properly educated. He listened to me, as a young man should listen to his elders and betters. I could have found it in my heart to like him, but for his soaring nonsense and his disinclination to call treachery and revolt by their true names. Doubtless his ideas are the common property of his country. He suffered but a week's detention in the cachot and is now with his friends again."

Peter Norcot from under amber eyelashes studied Grace and found further material for interest.

"Another!" he said to himself. "An inflammable wench truly! Quick to catch fire from every torch but mine. Well, well—may war last until we are wedded. I ask no more."

"There's further news of a parochial sort," continued Malherb. "What think you, Grace? The old hag on the hill is off! She's left Siward's Cross and gone to a hovel near the Prison, where a few acres of land were to be let. She represented to the High Bailiff, the Duchy's man, that I'd robbed her of her best cattle lairs when I raised my boundaries! The old liar has money too—ay, and more than money."

"A wonderful creature. I mind her eyes that sparkled with gorgonian fire; her starved abode, and her penury. It called to my recollection Lucilius—his miser and his mouse:—

"'"You greedy rogue, what brings you to my house?"
Quoth an old miser to a little mouse;
"Friend," says the vermin, "you need have no fear,
I only lodge with you; I dine elsewhere."'

Ha-ha-ha! She feeds on snails and berries. Such was Sycorax."

"She's worth above twenty thousand pounds, nevertheless," declared Malherb.

"Impossible!"

"True and not true. She has stolen my amphora. She confessed it when we were without witnesses."

"Now here's a matter indeed! Can you be sure that she is not deceiving you?"

"She has it. It is her very life."

"Then we'll be innocent murderers and deprive her of life at the first opportunity. Nothing shall become her life like the leaving of it."

Malherb turned and addressed Peter out of Grace's hearing Indeed, the girl's heart beat fast at this conversation, and she was busy with many private thoughts.

"You speak unselfishly, for the jewel will be my son's—that is, Grace's son's. It must remain under a Malherb's roof for ever, not under yours, Peter."

"Most just. The amphora is an heirloom."

Norcot glanced at Grace and marked her profound indifference. A wave of real indignation made his forehead hot and much astonished him. It was a revelation of himself. Then his mind chanced to roam towards Prince Town; he thought upon Cecil Stark and speculated whether the American could be of any service. While he thought clear prose he continued to utter epigrams for Grace's amusement.

"'The wanton snowflakes to her breast
Flew down, like birds into their nest,
And, vanquished by the whiteness there,
For grief they thawed into a tear.'"

Then he turned to Malherb again.

"The amphora must be recovered at any cost. I need not ask whether you have plans. Do you seek assistance, or undertake the affair single-handed?"

"I work alone. Bow Street runners would not run far on Dartmoor. Lovey Lee may well be left to my mercies. It shall never be said that an old and ignorant woman outwitted Maurice Malherb."

"Spoken well! I'll wager the amphora will grace dear Annabel's cabinet before wool-shearing. To think of that priceless fragment of glass in the keeping of such a bag of bones!"

"And to know that she gets joy of it," said Grace, "that is the amazing matter. She, who eats vermin and wears old sacks, to find her greatest earthly pleasure in the plump Cupids upon that antique!"

"Human nature is full of these tricks," answered her father. "I have studied such freakish traits in mankind so long that nothing now has power to surprise me."

"Not even yourself? Now I, though so near to forty, can yet astonish myself. I have done so within this hour," confessed Peter. "As to Lovey," he continued, "she'll clothe herself with ashes as well as sackcloth when she loses her treasure."

"Well, well, the snow increases. Hasten home, the pair of you," answered Malherb; then he left them together, and turned to an outlying shed where two men worked.

"What a fate!" murmured Norcot when he had gone off; "what a pleasing fate, Grace, to be imprisoned here, even as Cecil Stark was imprisoned! How gladly I'd make exchange with him—the rough with the smooth."

She made no answer, and he continued—

"Talking of Loves, 'twas a pretty thing that Antonius Tebaltius wrote, and Thompson paraphrased, and Norcot improved—

"'Venus whipt Cupid t'other day,
For having lost his bow and quiver;
The which he'd given both away
To Gracie by a Dartmoor river.
"Mamma! you wrong me while you strike,"
Cried weeping Cupid, "for 'tis true
That you and she are so alike,
I thought that I had given 'em you!"'"

"You've missed the gate while you chattered," said Grace; "now we must climb over the wall."

"I generally do miss the gate with you," he answered. "Don't these beautiful pearls that I utter move even a spark of pity?"

"Of pity—yes."

"'Tis akin to love."

"As often akin to contempt."

"In mean natures; never in yours."

He helped her over the wall, then spoke again as they hurried on with heads bent to the snow.

"'Twas that young American then? Why so silent about it? Why ashamed to tell frankly who 'tis you really do love? I blazon my emotions to the world and do it proudly. Can you not be as open?"

"I hate everybody; and it's all your fault."

"Well, well; mend your pace; we shall be frozen. And if you hate me, change every garment that you wear. I much fear that you are wet and cold."

This practical thought touched the woman in Grace and softened her a little.

"I wish I could love you, Peter, for it would be better for me and happier for us all if I did. But I never, never shall."

"Well, try to tolerate me—fitfully. Even a fitful toleration is something, and perhaps more beautiful than a fixed and steady flame—just as moonlit clouds are lovelier than the moon herself."

They talked awhile longer, then reached the house. Grace retired immediately to don dry clothes, while Mrs. Malherb spoke with Peter.

"Lord! what a poet was marred when you commenced wool merchant," said she, while he drank a jorum of hot spirits and held his coat to the fire.

"Nay, nay, Annabel, the same man can serve both mistresses. Thus, if I might but come at it, I would weave wool shorn off the sheep in paradise for Grace's tender limbs; and I would clothe her mind also with a robe spun of the best and the most beautiful thoughts to be gleaned from books. But she'll none of me nor my stock-in-trade. 'Tis the weather, not my prayers, that makes her wear flannel next her skin. Yet I told her that I'd gladly be the wether that furnished the wool."

"And what said she?" inquired the lady.

"I will be honest with you," answered Peter. "I will conceal nothing. She replied in one word, 'Baa!' Believe me, Annabel, that never since this mundane egg was hatched did such a maddening maiden appear to torment honest men."

CHAPTER III
THE OATH

The reign of the new Commandant opened auspiciously at Prince Town, for Captain Short came to his work with understanding and sympathy. He was still young, and his heart had not grown callous before the spectacle of human misery. Compassion filled him at the sufferings of those half-naked hordes who wandered through the War Prison; he countermanded many of his predecessor's egregious enactments, and stated in feeling terms to the Board of Transport the conditions that he discovered. The zeal of a reformer first marked his achievements; then he grew discouraged, erred, lost heart, and fell from his own ideals.

Cecil Stark served a term of imprisonment in the cachot, after which he returned to his compatriots and found familiar faces missing. Some among his acquaintance were exchanged; not a few had passed away. Caleb Carberry perished soon after his punishment; Burnham had also suffered as a result of that awful penance in ice and granite; but he was now restored to health. Of the Seven, two were dead, and James Knapps remained hidden with Lovey Lee.

Now, even as the lowest note of their sad hearts had sounded, came light upon the darkness of the Americans. While they hung their heads and mourned as men forgotten of their country; while hundreds daily threatened Mr. Blazey with letters and vowed to transfer allegiance to Britain if he did not better their case, good news arrived, and the first written communication ever received from their representative reached the prisoners.

Cecil Stark read Blazey's message aloud in the exercise yard of No. 4, and jubilant crowds gave ear to it.

"Fellow Citizens," wrote the Agent, "I am authorised by the Government of the United States to allow you one penny half-penny per day for the purpose of procuring you tobacco and soap, which will commence being paid from the first day of last January, and I earnestly hope it will tend towards a great relief in your present circumstances."

A roar of delight greeted the announcement. Men cheered and wept flung their red caps into the air, fell upon each other's necks, embraced, danced wildly, sang and laughed.

"Not forgotten! Not forgotten!" was the burden of their cry. A great emotion of thankfulness animated the mass and woke fire in the meanest spirit amongst them. The actual blessing of this pittance seemed less to that forlorn gathering than the thought that had inspired it. A link, sorely tested, stood firm. Now all again gloried in their sonship with the mother country; for Congress had remembered. Every man viewed the news through the glass of his own nature; but pride in their nation glowed upon each face, and trust renewed uplifted their sinking hearts. From the powder-monkeys and negroes to the Committee of six leading men now appointed to administer the moneys all rejoiced and blessed their native land. Their trustful natures shone out of them, and Congress received many a cheer; Captain Short was also saluted; and even the sluggard Blazey won his meed.

"Burn the old country; it ha'n't thrown us over after all," said David Leverett to a companion. "I guess my first dollop of money will go in drink, for we've done so long without soap that we can easy keep dirty a while more. We've come out of a tarnation tight snarl at last, and nobody's better pleased than me."

"Such a swipe ob money, gem'men!" cried Cuffee. "De Lord Him send back Marse Stark; den he send free cents a day. Our own mudders won't know us, nebber no more."

"We-alls shall be eating money presently," laughed Leverett's friend. "Things is on the bounce for sartin. We've got our monkey up agin; and if we can't follow that chap's lead—Stark I mean—and hev another try to quit this place, 'tis pity."

"No smouch him," admitted Leverett. "If there's any hanky-panky in the wind, we'll do well ter let him boss it. 'Tis the differ between a man well aggicated and you and me. We'd be as good as him if we'd had his luck and his money."

"Maybe we should, maybe we should not," answered the other. "Anyway, if we pull together and let him lead I lay he'll hit on a contrapsion ter get every doodle of us clear of this."

Something prophetic marked the sailor's speech, for within two months of that conversation Cecil Stark, Burnham, one Ira Anson and other leaders in No. 4, were maturing their historic scheme to liberate the whole of the American prisoners at one stroke. Enthusiasm, like a subterranean fire, burnt in every man when the project was whispered abroad, and each entered upon his part with determination and courage. Until this enterprise, defections, while rare, were yet regularly recorded. Nearly a hundred Americans had entered British service rather than endure the plagues of longer durance; but henceforth none could be persuaded, despite well-directed efforts to win them.

We are now concerned with an extraordinary undertaking. The Seven were separated by death and other accidents, but James Knapps was free; and henceforth the boatswain of the Marblehead enjoyed an importance beyond his ambitions. In connection with Lovey Lee, Knapps was able greatly to assist his countrymen in their endeavour; and first, he proved by the fact of his personal safety that Mrs. Lee remained, after all, faithful to the cause of the prisoners. It was agreed, therefore, that Lovey might be further trusted, and she immediately received a gift of ten guineas; while within a fortnight, and upon payment of a much greater sum, she accepted Stark's proposals and prepared to alter her manner of life accordingly.

The markets reopened when the weather broke, and a brisk correspondence with the miser and James Knapps was established from inside the Prison. Thus Lovey learned that her co-operation must be secured at closer quarters than Siward's Cross. She was bidden to establish herself as near the War Prison as possible, and chance enabled her to take up the identical position desired. Mention has already been made of a ruinous cottage immediately without the Prison walls. Some acres of rough land went along with this deserted "newtake," and the authorities were well content to let the worthless place to a tenant. Instantly grasping the significance of the manoeuvre, and alive to the importance of blinding all official eyes, Lovey, for the first time in her life, spent the prodigious sum of twenty pounds in a week. She had the old cottage thatched and rendered storm-proof; she ploughed up a part of the land and fenced all in. She continued to traffic among the Americans, and no question of her integrity had ever arisen. Her stock increased and she became one of the most important among the small merchants. She sold tobacco and potatoes; she also smuggled many prohibited articles, such as candles, alcohol, oil. She paid private taxes upon these things to the turnkeys, but nobody in high authority ever heard of the matter. Lovey even made the Commandant a friend, and regularly provided his table with poultry. She deceived him by her independent manners; and he fell into the common error of supposing that one who is laconic, businesslike and dour, must of necessity be honest.

A general escape having been planned in every detail, conventions were ordered, the plot revealed, and the Americans sworn to secrecy. Such liberty did these prisoners of war enjoy within their own confines, that their assemblies were never interrupted nor their meetings for entertainment opposed. On this occasion, however, special guards were set by the captives themselves and every precaution taken to prevent surprise.

Then Stark addressed his fellows, for by common consent the ringleaders appointed him their spokesman.

"Gentlemen," he said, "as honest Americans, born under the Flag of Freedom, it becomes us to attempt escape. Our condition of late has been much bettered, and I, for one, owe no grudge against our present guards or their Commandant, Captain Short. He is honourable, and does what he may to lessen our tribulations; he is also generous; he has increased our privileges, and by throwing open the new yards and admitting us to larger quarters for exercise and the amusement of games, he has earned universal blessings. Our bill of health is greatly improved, thanks to him; he has, indeed, put fresh life into us. Yet are we prisoners, and, upon careful study of the journals smuggled to us, it is clear that no immediate hope of peace or of further exchange can be held out. Our country is suffering a period of sea losses, and it is not in the moment of these reverses that she will tune her ear to peace. Our circumstances have, therefore, prompted us to plan a scheme of escape, and we now submit it to your opinions. Immediately the pending changes in our disposal are made, and we have wider fields to work in, we mean to dig under these walls a tunnel, that must be two hundred and eighty feet long. It is planned and calculated most fully. It will be sunk in Prison No. 6, and, concerning the exit of it on to the Moor, no more need yet be said than that we have stout friends outside who will look to that. Our numbers, as you know, increase very rapidly, because our ships have fallen upon a bout of ill-luck; but ever recollect that these relays of our countrymen from Plymouth and elsewhere only represent American mishaps. Our successes are hidden from us; yet our hearts tell us that they exist and occur. Many English doubtless languish in American prisons. So thus it stands. I speak to two thousand men, and I ask them all to swear secrecy before Almighty God."

A dozen Bibles were circulated, and there arose a strange and solemn murmur throughout the company as every man swore to his neighbour that he would maintain absolute silence concerning this matter, and that neither by word nor pen, by look nor gesture, would he divulge the secret to any among those set in authority.

"To break this oath is death," said Stark. "You have now sworn to keep the secret; and we, your leaders, have also sworn that the man who gives one hint of this business to those whose duty it is to stop it, will be cut off. He shall not escape. In ancient Sparta there was a society called Crypteia who slew by night. The Helots perished at their hands, but none knew who struck the blow. They only left corpses behind them. So will it be with us. Eyes are upon every one of us, and he that watches has eyes upon him also. A traitor will most surely fall. He will vanish from amongst us; his place will be empty, and none will ever know where his dust lies rotting. I who speak to you have been once betrayed with others whom death has since freed. Woe to that man! Let him tremble yet while he hears me, for his hour will surely come."

The meeting disbanded, and a small sub-committee sat to select five-and-twenty trustworthy persons who should fulfil the important office of spies upon the majority. Many refused this unpleasant work, until it was explained to them that they incurred no shame. Among those finally chosen were Leverett and Samuel Cuffee. The negro had work apportioned him with his kindred, while it was the duty of Leverett and others to keep in touch with the general throng, glean public opinion and report upon any sign of unrest, disaffection, or other danger. A martial system marked the plot. Every sentry and turnkey was under close surveillance; the digging parties were chosen for their strength and sobriety; while the work itself had been so planned that it proceeded night and day without intermission. A pit was first sunk perpendicularly to the depth of twenty feet, and then pursued upon a horizontal plane. This tunnel, if extended for ninety yards, would clear the foundations of the outer wall and reach beneath Lovey Lee's cottage.

While Stark and his companions cautiously opened their enterprise in Prison No. 6, to which they were now admitted, James Knapps, snugly hidden with Mrs. Lee, was engaged upon a similar task. Here, when Lovey kept watch, the boatswain laboured; and if she went abroad: to the prison, or upon other business, he hid himself closely and smoked his pipe in a hole under the roof of the cottage.

As for Cecil Stark, a passionate zest marked his attitude to the plot, and for mingled reasons he permitted it to fill his mind. But greater than patriotic ardour or personal thirst for freedom, was the desire to escape his own thoughts. He believed that liberty could never more be anything but a word to him, for his soul was for ever fast bound. One girl's face haunted him; one voice rang musical upon his ear by day and night. He suffered enough; but no man guessed it.

CHAPTER IV
JOHN TAKES HIS ROAD

To move her household goods from the hut by Siward's Cross was no great matter for Lovey Lee. A donkey carried all and found the burden light. The things about which her life's interest centred were buried deep in Hangman's Hollow, and her only hesitation, when the great enterprise at the War Prison was broken to her, arose out of the knowledge that she must now abide three miles further from her treasure-house. To this fact, however, the old woman grew reconciled, when she considered the nature of the promised reward. She settled down beneath the Prison walls; and now not the least of her grievances was the enormous appetite of Mr. James Knapps. He worked exceedingly hard and insisted upon having wholesome food and plenty of it.

"We're not all built like you, ma'am, ter do our stint of work on ditch-water and shell-snails," he explained. "Victuals and drink I'll have; else I must grumble ter them over the wall. I can't dig my best on offal."

There fell a morning when John Lee visited his grandmother, and she saw by his face that a climax had come in his fortunes. He was gloomy and sad, yet of his own affairs he said nothing until Lovey mentioned them.

"I'm on a private errand," he said, "and since 'tis too early yet to see the prisoners, I thought I'd drop in and learn how you're faring."

She suspected that he was sent to spy by his master.

"I keep body and soul together, an' that's all I ever shall do," she answered, little thinking that John Lee had counted her guineas but a few weeks before. "Even so I have to thank they Yankees to the Prison."

He marvelled at her cunning.

"Do you hear anything of that fine gentleman, Master Cecil Stark?" he inquired.

"Ah, you was all in love with him to Fox Farm, I hear. I wish there was more like him."

John did not answer, and his grandmother jeered.

"I see how 'tis! Your nose be out of joint. What did I tell you, Jack? Broken hearts—broken fiddlesticks! Ban't the wench's heart as have broke, anyhow. So her throwed you over for a properer man?"

"No, by God! But——"

"You'm minded to let her off her bargain? Then the bigger fool you!"

She hit the truth in her brutal fashion. Lee had not trusted himself to pursue the matter of his attachment; yet, as time progressed, he saw more clearly what Grace strove with might and main to conceal. The accesses of her affection, the thousand little kindly thoughts for him—all wrote truth in letters of fire upon his aching heart. True love had acted differently—had claimed as well as given; and he knew, despite her assurance oftentimes repeated, that her attitude was founded on another impulse. Now, after grief and pain, his thoughts moved slowly to Cecil Stark. In turn he was attracted by and repulsed from the prospect of speech with the young prisoner. Finally he braced himself to the ordeal; yet he knew not what he would say when they stood face to face. He felt as a man in a dream at this period. A most unreal and monstrous task lay before him. Deliberately he was turning his back upon all that made life precious; consciously he was hastening out of day into eternal night. He chafed against the noble impulse that drove him onward; for a season he resisted it; then Grace Malherb's own steadfast purposes warmed his inspiration. Her delicacy, her gentleness, her courage cried to him. Must he prove less brave and more selfish than she?

It was indeed sheer suffering that supported the girl now; but her strength rose superior to it, and only one who knew and loved her as this man knew and loved, had guessed at the things hidden in her heart. The torture simulated Grace to a surface brilliance, as a bird will sing out of pure misery in sight of his robbed nest. Her eyes were ever bright, but unshed tears made them so; her plots and plans were ceaseless and sanguine; but he knew that she rushed into them to escape from her heart. Love, indeed, had found her at last, but she struggled fiercely to shut him out since he had come too late. She never wearied of plans concerning the Malherb amphora, and of the future for John Lee when he should discover it. And he humoured her and himself a little longer, so that she scarcely realised that he had grasped the truth, despite his first sure guess thereat.

Now the story was told. He had wandered through the last autumnal glade of his fool's paradise; he had witnessed the red sunset of his dying romance; and he stood patient and strong under the cold starlight at the end.

John Lee was come to speak with Stark, for at certain times in the War Prison visitors were permitted to enter and have conversation or transact business with the captives. A tall grille of iron alone separated them, but to this grating all men might approach on certain days and traffic with the imprisoned for those trifles which they wrought and sold to any purchaser. Work-boxes, dinner mats, hand-screens, bone toys and ornaments they manufactured; and many persons came from Plymouth and other towns to see the spectacle of the great moorland limbo and carry from it some memento of the sufferers there. Nefarious and doubtful trades were also practised in the secret fastnesses of this gaol. Exceeding good imitations of the eighteenpenny and three-shilling pieces then current passed into the world from Prince Town, and forged bank notes also circulated. Venal soldiery helped the prisoners in the business of uttering base money; but such simple and honest trash as passed to the visitors between the bars of the grille, was openly sold.

Hither from his grandmother's cottage came Lee, and soon he noted the tall form of Stark standing with Burnham and Ira Anson. They had nothing to sell, but watched the visitors with interest. Then Cecil caught sight of John Lee, hastened to the barrier and shook hands heartily through the bars.

"Well met, well met," he said. "I'm right glad to see you, Jack. Would that I could give you such a welcome as your master gave to me!"

"I hope you are well and strong again, Mr. Stark."

"Well enough——"

The American looked at Lee with intense scrutiny and wondered how much or little he might know concerning the affairs of his mistress.

"All are happy at Fox Tor Farm, I trust?"

"Well enough," answered the other, as Stark had answered him.

"That means not absolutely well," replied Cecil quickly. "Miss Malherb—all at least is well with her? Yet—Mr. Norcot. 'Tis intolerable, you know, Jack Lee, that I should speak of that man except to bless him for his goodness. Nevertheless—Miss Malherb—but this is none of your business I doubt?"

"It won't be much longer; for the present it is," said John. "I know she hates Mr. Peter Norcot. She's bound to hate him in self-defence. But, nevertheless, 'tis intended she shall marry him within six months."

"Yet there's a man she—she loves. It's too terrible! She suffers—she must suffer horribly. And this other—why doesn't he come forward and sweep Norcot out of her path? What clay is this creature made of that he holds back?"

"The man?"

"Do you know him?"

"I do."

"Then tell him from me—but what's the use of bellowing like a pent-up bull? Can't you, at least, assure him from yourself that he must be up and doing? You're in your lady's good graces—therefore justify her trust. Seek this laggard and explain how the land lies. Maybe 'tis her tyrant father he fears."

"The man knows everything. He can't help her."

"Cannot! What's the matter with him? Has he no arms, nor legs, nor courage? Is he made of gingerbread? Oh, if I—— But perhaps I speak ignorant of facts. Maybe he's chained fast, too."

"Yes, he's fast enough."

"Then 'tis your duty to do what a man may, Jack. You, at least, are free as well as faithful; and in love with Miss Malherb also, I'll wager. You must love her if you're a man."

"I do love her."

"And can see her and speak to her every day of your blessed life! Oh, if I might but help you; if I might come between her and trouble——"

He broke off and ended his aspirations to himself. Then Lee spoke.

"Could you escape from this place again?"

Stark started and looked round about him.

"For that cause—yes."

"There may be good reason why you should presently—not yet. The first thing——"

Here Cecil interrupted.

"'Good reason—good reason'? You know so much that you must know more. And you must tell me more."

"I'll tell you this. We are at cross purposes. I let you talk because—because it amused me in a strange sort of painful way. But the truth——"

He hesitated, and the full, fatal significance of the next few words impressed itself vividly upon his soul. There was no blinking it. The fact stared pitiless. He stood at the cross roads of fortune, and with his next word to Cecil Stark, his own path would be chosen, his own desire renounced, for ever.

The American saw that great emotions fought in this man's mind, and waited for him to speak.

"The truth is that Miss Malherb is a free woman—so far as love is concerned."

"She told me when I——" began Stark; then he looked guilty and held his peace.

But Lee understood.

"When you asked her to marry you? I know. She could not say otherwise then. Bide bold and patient; the time will come when she may answer differently."

The other was terribly moved. A great expiration burst from him, half an oath of astonishment, half a hallelujah.

"In God's name what are you that dare to speak these great things?" he asked under his breath, as though he apostrophised a sexless spirit.

"Her servant—her slave. At least I tell truth. Thus it stands—that other—he will not marry her."

"And she still loves him? This is damnable! Let me but meet that man!"

"No need to rage against him. He's a harmless fool enough and would be your friend—anybody's friend but his own. 'Twill be no grief to her, a joy rather to find that she's mistaken in him."

"She never really loved him then?"

"She didn't know—she didn't know. You forget how young she is. I think she loved him with an innocent, baby love; I think she'll always love him a little for the sake of—but let that go—she's free—free to listen to a lover. Now you know what I came to tell you."

Stark stared silently up into the sky and John Lee saw a light dawn upon his face, as though some angel passed in the air and shone upon him. Then the prisoner turned to Lee and spoke slowly and solemnly, for he was awestruck at the magnitude of this great revealment.

"If I owned a kingdom it should be yours this day. Please God I can do something, though nothing worthy such news. If you will, you shall have an acre of good Vermont earth presently for every word you've spoken to me. Yet earth's a pitiful payment for the hope of heaven on earth you've given to me."

He knew not the sufferings he wakened or the wounds he tore open. Voices laughed in John Lee's ears and told him that he had sold his heart.

"Leave that," he said roughly. "You mistake me. I'm here for love of her—not you. Listen, then I'll be gone. You must get in touch with her very gradual and delicate. I can go between you."

"I see; I see. What a learned man you are in these matters, Jack! With your Apollo's face you've had your experiences, I'll wager! But wait; I'll be gone and write a letter—just a reminder that I live. I'll sell you a little bone windmill I made for a turnkey's child; and in it I'll place a note. You must give me a coin for it, but you shall find a larger one inside for yourself."

He was gone, and Lee waited, seeing but not perceiving the throng around him, hearing but not heeding the medley of voices and the tramp of many feet. Aloft in the blue a hawk hung poised upon trembling wings. It surveyed the bustling scene, then glided away to the Moor. The American, David Leverett, approached Lee and invited him to purchase a little mat of woven grass.

"Here, young feller," he said. "I reckon now your gal's just fretting herself silly for a keepsake, whoever she is; and you'd best not displeasure her by refusing. This was woven by a one-armed man, you see, and that makes it worth twice as much as any other mat. So 'tain't no manner o' use ter offer less than ten cents for it. Hev a squint at the workmanship—not bad for a crab with one claw—eh?"

Lee shook his head and the sailor gibed:—

"Not ten cents! Then by God! you don't love her, and she shall hear of it. Come now—fourpence, then—only four dirty pennies. Think o' the kisses she'll give for it."

Still Lee declined, his thoughts elsewhere, and Leverett cursed him for a fool, shook his stump in John's face, and turned to find a customer.

A few minutes later, as bugles were sounding for the visitors to depart, Cecil Stark came back with a little toy made of mutton bones.

"Hand me any small coin you have about you," he said. "You'll find a billet for Miss Malherb and two guineas for yourself in the drawer at the bottom."

These simple words hurt poor John cruelly, for their business-like and even sordid tenour jarred upon his own great renunciation in a way that Stark little guessed. Lee's heart was numb; his mind had grown dreamy and incoherent now. Mechanically he took the windmill and handed Cecil a shilling. Then, without any word of farewell, he turned away and followed the departing crowds. He heard Cecil Stark say "God bless you!" as he went; but only a strange loathing of the money he carried rose in his mind. This mean detail of two guineas fretted him to madness. He could not see the matter as Cecil saw it; he jealously muffled his reason, and refused to behold in himself henceforth no more than that necessary thing—a lover's messenger.

Slowly he returned over the Moor towards Fox Tor Farm, and the thought of all that he had lost swept down upon him like a storm in the wilderness. Temptations shook him then. He turned the toy of bone about in his hand. He might have crushed it and stamped it down under the bog in a moment. But nothing could crush the deed done. He relapsed into a sullen and ferocious sorrow. His feet dragged under him. A sense of age swept over him, and along with it came bitter remorse that he had flung his fate away to another man and set no store upon fortune's priceless gifts. A savage loathing of himself awoke in his spirit. He hated the flesh that he was clad in, poured contumely upon his own head and cried out aloud in the loneliness that his repulsive weakness proclaimed him what he was: a bastard and a creature fit only for the scorn of men. He cumbered the earth. None was the better for him. The cur that fled from a badger had greater courage; the baying foxhound more pluck, than had he. His grandmother's words in the past returned to his memory and clashed in his head like bells rung by demons. This was how he had employed her wisdom; this was how he had cast away his grand opportunity to win fortune and love.

Siward's Cross rose before him and he stood near the home of his childhood. He sat awhile beside the hoary monument and leant his back against it. Then he turned and examined it with listless eyes, and watched the shadow cast by its squat arms darken the heather. Long he delayed; and, at last, as the sun, turning westward, warmed the Moor and touched the cross with a gentle and roseate glory, the benignant, evening hour found out John Lee, soothed his giant sorrow and set its seal upon him. This venerable stone had power to comfort the lad's grief. He began to think less of himself and more of Grace Malherb. Her joy grew out of the sunset light; her young life's story opened before him; he saw a ribbon of pure gold stretching down into the West, where the sun was setting beyond a distant sea; and he knew that it was her road home.

Great words came to his recollection: "He that loseth his life shall save it," was written for him in the soft and mellow earth-shadows of sunset.

"My life shall be lost in her life," he said; "and if she's saved, I'm blessed above all deserving."

CHAPTER V
STARS AND STRIPES

When Mr. Mordecai Cockey entered Fox Tor Farm the spirit of Grace Malherb sank within her. Had an executioneer appeared, she had felt no greater horror; for Mr. Cockey was a journeyman tailor, and, according to the custom of that time upon Dartmoor, when clothes were needed, the maker of them came to his customers and took up his abode in farm or hamlet until local requirement was satisfied. A month's work or more awaited Mr. Cockey, and first among the articles to be fashioned with his skilful needle were certain gowns—a part of Grace's wedding trousseau; for all men now knew that within the space of a few weeks Miss Malherb was to become Mrs. Peter Norcot.

Two trestles and a dozen boards completed Mr. Cockey's professional requirements in the servants' hall; and here, day by day, he sat and snipped and sewed, and sewed and snipped. He was a very full-bodied, pallid man, with flabby cheeks, mournful, watery eyes and a puzzled expression. He came from Totnes, and often mourned that his itinerant labours required him to be much away from his wife and family. This tailor descended in direct line from Mordecai Cockey, the famous seventeenth-century bell-founder; and when he heard any one of those seven great bells that the bygone Cockey had cast, he would lift his head where the musical monster thundered from some Devon belfry, and nod respectfully, as to the spirit of his ancestor.

Now Mordecai worked at the wardrobe of the farm, and, elevated upon his trestles, held a sort of conference, and told the things life taught him. Once during the dinner hour, several farm folk were at Mr. Cockey's feet, as he sat cross-legged amid his tools and ate his meal of bread and cheese. Meat he might have had in plenty, but he explained to Dinah Beer that his sedentary life had long since turned him vegetarian.

"By God's blessing I can stomach cheese," he said, "an' if so be as a body's humours will cope with vinnied cheese, he may hope for a long life."

"Be my breeches mended, Mister?" asked Tom Putt. "'Cause if so, I should like to don 'em afore afternoon. I've got a riding job as'll take me to Holne by-an'-by."

"They'm done. I've double-seated 'em for 'e."

Mr. Cockey nodded towards the garment.

"You'm always as good as your word, I'm sure," said Harvey Woodman, "though how them fat hands of yours—as look more like bunches of parsnips than hands—can do such finnicky work makes me wonder."

"Ah, I dare say a lot of things make you wonder," answered the tailor. "Not but what I envy you your way of life, for 'tis healthier'n mine. You chaps, as till the earth, have no time to fret your intellects like what I do. Ploughmen never band together and make trouble in the world. Tailors be a very thinking race; but you'll not find they takes a hopeful view of human nature."

"Then they'm small-minded," said Beer firmly; "for, looked at all round, human nature be a very hopeful thing."

Mordecai Cockey sighed.

"You may be in the right. Perhaps building of clothes do narrow the heart, for we grow apt to think 'tis our feathers make the birds. For that matter the world counts us but light. We'm slighted tradesmen, we tailors. They say it takes nine of us to make a man; though it only takes one to get a long family, as I know to my cost. Thirteen children have I, an' all with the tailoring spirit in 'em except my eldest son."

"An' what might he be doing?" asked Putt.

"Well, he's a baker."

"A very honest trade."

"That's just what it ban't," declared Mr. Cockey. "They'm sly as lawyers; an' there's a damned sight more in bread than corn nowadays. A man may be eating his own great gran'faither; as I've said openly down to Totnes, an' nobody contradicted me.

"God's word! They don't rob churchyards for their bones, do they?" asked Woodman. "If I thought that, I'd never take bit nor sup to Totnes no more."

"There's ways an' ways," explained the tailor. "Bone goes in; as thus. Man is earth, an' earth is bread; an' when they take the top spit off what was thought to be an old burial place of the ancients an' turn it over an' make a wheat field—what then?"

"'Tis just short of a cannibal act!" declared Woodman; for they never buried deep in them days."

"Rubbish, Harvey!" answered Beer. "We ourselves be only the fatness of the earth when all's said. 'Tis nature's plan; an' I see no harm in it at all."

"More don't I for that matter," declared Cockey. "With my well-knowed feelings about human nature, you won't be surprised if I say that many a man's better as corn or cabbage than ever he was on two legs."

"Then you don't believe in God, same as me," said Kekewich grimly.

"Not at all, not at all," answered the other. "I'm only saying a man's body is mud, an' his clothes is mud in shape of wool or flax; an' he's all mud to the eye; but as to his soaring spirit I won't hazard a word. A tailor must believe in God. 'Twas Him as gave the word for clothes an' put Adam an' his lady into their first shifts of His own Almighty making."

"You meet men whose spirits be the muddiest part about 'em, all the same," declared Kekewich.

"So you will; but every thinking creature turned of fifty must have come across folks with souls looking out of their eyes. Why, I've seed pictures in big houses where the paint had a soul! Ess fay—beautiful dead an' gone women have pretty nigh spoke to me where I sat an' worked below their gold frames."

"I'll never believe in souls," said the older man. "We'm a vile race, an' no God of Heaven would ever make such a poor bargain as to overbuy such trash as us at the price of His only Son. Why for should He? If He'd but lifted His finger, He might have had us for nought."

"The devil must be itching for you, Kek," said Harvey Woodman.

"You'm no hand at argument, Mr. Kekewich," continued Cockey; "for half the beauty of argufying is to hold close to the matter. You was saying as you didn't believe in souls; an' I was saying as I did. Well, take an instance. There's Miss Grace Malherb for who I be making this here lovely vest. Be that bowerly maiden no more than the pink-an'-white china dust she goes in? If so, she's no better'n this bit of flowered silk."

"People can be good or evil, an' yet have no more souls than dogs," began the head man; but at that moment Miss Malherb herself entered as a bell rang to tell that the dinner hour was done.

The labourers departed to their work, and Grace was left with Mr. Cockey. She came to beg a secret favour and now whispered it into the tailor's ear, though there was none but himself to hear it.

"If you command, it must be done," he said. "I know a mariner to the harbour at Totnes, where the Holne timber goes down Dart to build His Majesty's great warships. The man has goodly stores, an' will sell me so much bunting as I want—red, white and blue. I'm going down to-morrow for the day to get more cloth."

"And, before all things, keep it secret. Not a whisper!"

"It shall be as you please, Miss. An' I'll ax you to take this here vest along, an' put it on, an' let me see if 'tis all right."

"You work so dreadfully quick! You're sewing a shroud,—d'you know that, Mordecai?"

"What a word! How comes it you want stuff for flags then?"

"Ah! 'tis not for my wedding day. Now, if you could fashion me a pair of wings to fly with——"

Mr. Cockey drew a thread through his needle.

"Fine clothes don't make a happy marriage, I know," he said; "but they do put heart into a wedding party, an' speaking generally, they'm a great softener of life to females. A parcel from me has dried many tears—poor fools."

"I'm not married yet, however."

"No, but—Lord! what's that?"

The tailor sat with his back to the window, and, unseen by him, a horseman had ridden up to it. Now he stopped, rapped upon the casement with his whip, doffed his hat and grinned at Grace. The glass was not good, and it distorted a countenance generally esteemed amiable and handsome.

"Mercy on us, what a chap! 'Tis a face like to Satan!" cried Cockey.

"That's the gentleman my father wishes me to marry," answered Grace quietly.

"Then I'm sure I beg pardon, Miss. 'Twas a twist in the glass."

"You caught sight of his soul—not his face," she said. The girl had turned pale, and now she hastily left the room.

Much had happened since Mr. Norcot's last visit, and soon accident was to enlighten him in certain directions. Mordecai Cockey went off on the following morning and returned in eight-and-forty hours with various bales and packages. One of these he handed to Grace in private, and she conveyed the parcel unseen to her chamber. Its nature will presently appear. For the moment it suffices to say that Miss Malherb's secret concerned Cecil Stark, with whom, thanks to John Lee, she had now established a correspondence. Their letters Grace showed to John openly for some time, but, perceiving that they were the joy of two lives, the messenger refused to read these missives more. Grace still stood at the parting of the ways, nor knew that John Lee's road was already chosen. The relation of three became difficult beyond endurance; Stark understanding that John had access to all letters, chafed at the mystery, and naturally found little to admire in such control. He was meditating action when a sudden incident upset their former relations and quickened the catastrophe.

Peter Norcot, upon this, his last visit to Fox Tor Farm before the wedding, pursued a customary course and endeavoured by imperturbable good humour and kindness to soften his lady's temper. He well knew the futility of the task, yet persevered.

On the night of his arrival Grace had a headache and did not appear, whereupon he wrote her a letter and sent it to her by the hand of Mary Woodman.

"Dear Light of my Eyes," said he, "I am quite broken-hearted to know that Mordecai Cockey has a greater place in your affections just now than any other man. It is the Tailor's Hour! Well, well! I must be patient. Yet what can a tailor do to make Grace more graceful? Here's a beautiful epigram from our own Devon poet, Browne. I transcribe it for you:

"'To CUPID.

"'Love! when I met her first, whose slave I am,
To make her mine why had I not thy flame?
Or else thy blindness not to see that day;
Or if I needs must look on her rare parts,
Love! why to wound her had I not thy darts?
Since I had not thy wings to fly away?'

How cruel well these lines fit one Norcot! But I would never fly. True love is patient—like charity it suffereth long; like hope it is eternal; like faith it keeps its course with the stars. Bless you! May the morning light restore you to health, and to the presence of your devoted Peter.

"Postscript:—

"'If all the earthe were paper white,
And all the sea were incke,
'Twere not inough for me to write
As my poore hart doth thinke.—LYLY.'"

To this letter came no reply; but in the morning Grace appeared as usual and spent a reasonable portion of her time with the wool-stapler. For once Mr. Norcot tried an erotic vein, quoted the most passionate things he knew and attempted to warm a heart that—moonlike—ever turned one face to him. But it was the dark frozen side he saw.

"My ideas are boundless," he said. "I spurn space on the day I call you my own. You were meant to mirror the Mediterranean in those wonderful eyes of yours, and you shall. We'll sail away to the land of wine and song—to Provence, the cradle of the troubadours. It can be done now that we are friends with the French again. Yes; and I'm going also to take you to Italy; I——"

"At the beginning of the hunting season? How ridiculous you are, Peter. Why, even if I married you—which you know I never shall—I would not——"

"Grace, you must marry me. It is an accomplished fact. The banns have been read for the first time of asking at Widecombe and at Chagford. Nobody forbade 'em. You are absolutely vital to my peace of mind, to my well-being, to my sanity. You may not love me yet, but soon enough you'll look back to these wayward days and mourn 'em."

"Indeed I shall."

"Mourn 'em, that you could so often have made so true a man sad. You won't understand me."

"Yes, I do—perfectly. If there is one thing about our dreadful relations that I do see clearly, it is your nature. You have been peculiarly and horribly clear of late. You want me—what you call 'me'—my curls, eyes, lips, and all the rest of a wretched girl. But you don't care a feather for the part of me that matters. You never consider that I've got a soul, and that it's always sad and sick and sorry when it thinks of you. You don't mind that you're killing all my higher senses and instincts—poisoning them; you——"

"Now, my dear Grace, these assumptions are nonsense, and show first how little you really know about me, and, secondly, how absurdly scant attention you pay to my conversation. It is a union of souls that I sigh for and shall assuredly establish when the time comes.

"'Tell me not of your starrie eyes,
Your lips that seem on roses fed,
Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies
Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed—'

George Darley—a pretty boy-poet who has not published yet."

"Really, Peter, you're impossible!"

"I say tell me not of these things, Grace, because they are nothing whatever to me. I don't want to hear about 'em. Soul to soul—that's all I ask; and that is what I will have."

"Never! It takes two people to be married, and they've got to be of the same mind."

"Happily you are mistaken in that last assertion. Your idea is that one lover may take a maid to church, but the Bench of Bishops can't make her his wife if she's averse. Tut, tut! What a violent thought! We'll find ourselves of one mind yet. Greater things than matrimony have happened in less time than lies before us."

"Plain English is wasted upon you, Peter Norcot, and upon my father too."

"I'm much afraid you'll hear some exceedingly plain English yourself before long—from that same father. He grows singularly savage of an evening when you have retired. How clear lies your duty—why do you so shirk it? Is your conscience taking a holiday? You know better than you speak—I'm positive you do."

Many such-like futile conversations passed between them; then befell the accident aforesaid. It placed some sensational information in the hands of Peter, and, little guessing at the result, he hesitated not to avail himself of it.

There came an afternoon when he sat with Maurice Malherb; while the master mentioned Grace and inquired how matters progressed in the affair of Peter's courtship.

"To tell you truth, a very retrograde business. I had done better to have copied your own unbending methods. But I'm a soft-hearted fool. What says the poet? Those writing men always know such a deal about it!

"'He that will win this dame, must do
As Love does, when he bends his bow;
With one hand thrust the lady from,
And with the other pull her home!'"

"I'm amazed that any child of mine—but words only waste air now. The wedding day's at hand. She'll be the first to see her own folly when she looks back upon it. Obey she must and shall. To-morrow I purpose to have speech with her. Things have reached a climax. Heaven knows whence she got this sullen and mulish humour. Not from me."

"Nor from her mother, I'm very sure. Would she was more like your wonderful lady.

"'Prudently simple, providently wary,
To the world a Martha and to heaven a Mary.'

Annabel is a jewel among her sex."

"A wise man chooses his wife," said Malherb, "but it is denied him to choose his daughter. To-morrow, at any rate, we'll try and make the matter clear to her. I hate force. I am naturally a man of mild manners; yet this thick-headed world will never understand me until I clench my fist."

"One thing I must beg," interrupted Peter. "Don't surprise her. Don't suddenly appear before dear Grace. It would not be fair. I passed her chamber door yesterday, and by chance it stood ajar. She sat there busy with her needle; and the purpose to which she was putting it nearly startled me into an ejaculation. She does not know that I saw her. Candidly, I wish that I had not done so. There are sad secrets—'She loves a black-hair'd man.' In fact, there is somebody dearer to her than either you or I. What did I see? 'Sight hateful—sight tormenting!' Stars and stripes—stars and stripes—but all stripes to me. I'll swear each one has left a bruise upon my soul!"

"What, in God's name, are you ranting about?" cried Malherb impatiently. "Is everybody going mad, or have I already become so?"

"You must ask Gracie that question. I saw her enfolded in a mass of red, white, and blue bunting. There is nothing in that. Bunting may stand for joy.

"'The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare,
But wonder how the devil they got there.'

And I wondered the more since these coloured rags were taking upon themselves the likeness of the United States national flag. Now, what is that notable emblem doing under this roof? I would not deny my future wife any rational amusement, but——"

Peter stopped, for Maurice Malherb had hurried from him.

The father strode straightway to his daughter's room, found the door locked and kicked it open with a crash, to see Grace sitting beside her window half hidden under billows of bunting.

In the year 1814, America's banner consisted of fifteen alternate red and white stripes with fifteen stars arranged in a circle on the blue canton. Helped by designs from Cecil Stark, Grace was carefully reproducing the historic standard upon a generous scale; and her father surprised her in the act to fit the last star into the circle. Upon one star was the word "Vermont," embroidered with white silk, and round about it ran a tiny margent of golden thread.

"What means this, woman?" roared Malherb.

"Why, that you've broken into my private chamber, dear father, and kicked the door down. And this—this, that I am making, is a flag of freedom for Mr. Cecil Stark and his friends. They hoped to hoist it above their Prison and rejoice at the sight of it on the Fourth of July—a very glorious day among them."

CHAPTER VI
UNDER LOCK AND KEY

No man nor woman at Fox Tor Farm had ever witnessed an explosion of human passion so awful as shook Maurice Malherb upon his discovery. Annabel, in tears, confided to Peter Norcot that her husband had taken his daughter by the shoulders, shaken her nearly senseless, then flung her upon her bed. He had raged and roared until the house was a cave of harsh echoes; he had made fast his daughter's chamber door from the outside, and dared any living soul to approach the sinner without his permission.

"In the case of these tropical tempests," explained Peter, "nothing can be done. Happily they are short. 'In rage deaf as the sea, hasty as fire.' For my part, I return home immediately. Everybody here must get under shelter and wait for a change of wind."

"Argument is vain," said Annabel.

"Tut, tut! Who argues with a volcano? Write to me in a day or two; and have no fear for the dear girl. Half his rage now is because he so far lost his self-command as to shake her. A shaking after all—well, by my faith, she deserves it. To correspond with Cecil Stark! When I say that it was naughty, I understate the offence. However, that matter lies in a nutshell. Get rid of her messenger. John Lee's the man. Despatch him; and let him know that I'll befriend him. Farewell, until a brighter star shines over us, my dear Annabel."

Towards evening, when his wrath had somewhat abated, Mrs. Malherb told her husband of Norcot's departure—a fact he had not noticed for himself. She added particulars of his last advice; and before the moon rose John Lee had passed out of Fox Tor Farm for ever. With difficulty Beer and Kekewich withstood their master, for he had rushed among his people with a horsewhip.

"I was her servant, sir, to do her bidding," said Lee quietly; then he rose from his meal to depart. One ghastly blow he received across his face; and he clapped his hand to it and went out, while Kekewich interposed his stunted figure between Malherb and the groom.

"You've done enough for one day," he said without flinching. "Best to cool down, else your raging fires will set your brain on light and cast you into Bedlam."

"'Enough'! Is it enough that a man's daughter——?" began Malherb. Then he broke off and rolled his eyes upon their frightened faces until the pallid and rotund orb of Mr. Cockey's countenance challenged his glance.

"And you, tailor, work as you never worked yet! Let your trash be done next week, or take it back again."

He quitted the hall abruptly; and for the rest of that dim day his wife suffered him alone. Her prayers he cried down; her tears he dried by terror. He ordered her not to weep, and frightened her into obedience. She believed that he was going mad and suffered untold dismay until, cast up like a drowned thing by the waves of his passion, physical nature collapsed and Malherb slept. Groaning and moaning in the dream scenery begot of his wild spirit, she left him, crept to the prisoner and took Grace to her bosom.

For an hour they held mournful discourse, but Annabel did all the weeping. Her father's temper animated the girl and she panted with indignation.

"I weary of your tears, dearest mother," she said. "If you may fetch me some food I should be thankful for it. That smooth coward to peep into my room! And to tell! I will jump from my window on to the kind granite sooner than marry him!"

Annabel mourned her daughter's folly; she explained how that John Lee had been dismissed at a moment's notice; and then, changing her mood, she talked herself into quite another frame of mind, and began to upbraid the sinner with all her might.

"'Twas a very unmaidenly thing, and that much I stoutly tell you. To have an understanding with a man, and one who is your country's enemy! Your father has destroyed the flag. He thrust it into the red-hot peat and scorched his own hand badly. He raved against the very foundations of the earth when he burnt himself. Like Samson, he would have dragged down the house if he could. Oh, you are a thorn, not a daughter! He is breaking his great heart. Treachery is beyond his understanding. I blush for you, Grace Malherb."

"I wish you would get me some food; I'm starving," said the girl wearily. "He would not grudge me bread and water."

"That is what he said just before he slept. 'Bread and water,' said he; then his voice grew softer on the brink of sleep, and he said, 'She may have milk too.'"

"I love him through it all!"

Mrs. Malherb's tears flowed again. She left her daughter and presently returned with the food.

"He didn't say 'twas not to be warmed, so I've heated it for you. Oh, my pretty, wicked sweet—how could you do a deed so unbecoming?"

"I don't know, mother," answered Grace, beginning to eat. "These things happen. I liked Mr. Cecil Stark very much, and I like his country and his ideas about right and wrong."

"A young man's ideas upon such subjects are usually very mistaken."

"In the third letter he wrote me he asked me to make a flag for him, and I consented after carefully weighing the matter in my mind."

"What should he want with a flag, poor soul?"

"'Twas for the Fourth of July—the Anniversary of their Independence. There—the bread and milk are gone. Good night, kind mother. I'm sorry you ever had a daughter."

"The female character has always been beyond me," confessed Mrs. Malherb. "The difference between a boy and a girl, as Peter once said, is the difference between a dog and a cat. A dog is so much more reasonable, so much easier to comprehend and direct. Slyness: 'tis a feline thing; and as to obedience, it certainly comes more natural to a son than a daughter, though I know not why. At any rate, it is so where a mother's concerned. A son will do anything so gladly for his mother—if you don't ask him to interfere with his own comfort. And what mother worthy of the name would do that? Not that disobedience to parents was ever recorded against either sex in our rank of society when I was a girl. Now good night, child. Try to sleep, and let your prayer be the same as mine—that it will please God to lift your dear father's wrath by morning."

But with the return of day Malherb still wasted his nervous energy in anger. He refused to see his daughter or to liberate her. He wandered miles upon the high Moors alone; then going back again, he returned to the infamous treatment he had suffered and the torment of possessing a thankless child. Presently he attacked his wife, and cursed her past folly and ignorance.

"You are to blame for all!" he said. "'Twas your upbringing—so weak, so fond—that bred this devil in her. Would to God you had more of my own mother's spirit in you. Look at me. I owe everything to my education. She was a Roman mother. Had you been more like her, this minx had never dared to flout a father. But, by God, I'll break her now or never!"

Within the day Malherb arrived at a determination; but he told his wife and Kekewich only. Then a letter reached Peter Norcot. The secret, however, leaked out, for Kekewich confided it to Mordecai Cockey, and Mr. Cockey uttered it aloud as a mournful fact in the hearing of Dinah Beer. That night Richard Beer naturally heard it; and then the news reached Harvey Woodman's ears. Finally it came to the intelligence of Tom Putt, and made his heart quicken by a stroke or two in the minute. For Putt had taken this matter much to heart.

"'Tis become a common prison, wi' that lovely miss locked up as if she's done a murder, 'stead of fall into love with a fine gentleman," grumbled Thomas. "For my part, I can't stand it very much longer. Ban't a manly thing for us chaps to bide here an' know a maiden's being starved to death on bread an' water under the same roof with us."

"Her done it underhand," said Woodman. "If it wasn't for that, I'd feel the same as you."

"Well she might do it underhand wi' a tiger for a parent."

"Best you pick your words, else you'll go after Jack Lee, wi' a flea in your ear," returned Woodman. "I say 'tis a very terrible proceeding," he continued. "An' seeing the chap's a Yankee, nought can be done. 'Tis an unthinkable thing for one of our bettermost young women to marry an American. I'm 'mazed she could give her mind to such a rash deed."

"That's because you haven't got more ideas than a cow," said Mary Woodman firmly. "What's the matter with the man—Mr. Stark, I mean? God's goodness! You talk as if he was a monkey, or some foreign savage as scalped people for his pleasure. He'm good to look at, an' he had a beautiful gentle way with him for all his fighting face. An' so straight as a fir tree a was, an' full of learning, an' civil to the least of us, an' gave you a golden half-sovereign afore he went away. So you'm a traitor to miscall him. I won't have no narrowness, Harvey, an' you well know it. You used to be so broad as Bible in your opinions, an' very charitable-minded for a common man. But to tell such things because a young gentleman be born out of England—I'm shamed for 'e!"

Woodman had little to say before this wifely rebuke. They all talked on and expressed their concern; but Thomas Putt did more than debate the situation and regret it. Despite lack of opinions on all matters save sporting, he had plenty of common sense and courage. He could act promptly, and danger or any consciousness of unlawfulness in a task usually stimulated him to successful achievement. On his own responsibility he took up the cause of the prisoner. While there was yet time, Grace Malherb must know the thing determined; so argued Putt; and in that conviction he took a definite step, and conveyed his information to another.

Then came a morning when Grace from her prison window witnessed the departure of Mr. Mordecai Cockey. She shivered as he went, for she knew that his work was done. Some six weeks yet remained before the day appointed for the marriage, and gloomily she speculated as to whether her father could find it in his heart to keep her thus shut up throughout the whole splendour of summer. Annabel visited her daughter thrice daily; but she brought little news and no comfort. Grace soon discovered that her gentle parent suffered much under weight of secrets. The mother felt often tempted to reveal what was now afoot; but she had promised her husband to say nothing.

"Mr. Cockey has gone off much earlier than it was proposed," said Grace upon the evening of the tailor's departure.

"He has done his work."

"And wasted much good cloth."

"I pray to Heaven that you will listen to reason when the time comes to do so, Grace."

"I shall never hear reason under this roof, mother. To think—a grown woman so treated! How can father heap such insult upon his own flesh and blood? How he would have scorned any other man in the land who had treated a daughter so!"

"It has pleased God to perplex his noble nature; and he knows his own weaknesses. He has come near relenting more than once. But, like Pharaoh, he hardens his heart again. He suffers worse than you do. He has quite lost his appetite—a very alarming symptom, I think. At table he helps himself, as he helps everybody, with his usual generosity; then I see you come into his mind, and he fumes and frets and thrusts his meat from him. There is trouble, too, that I know not of. We are much straitened. I shall hear all about it some night, when he is in a soft mood."

"Nobody can help him—that's the cruel thing with dear father."

"He'll not listen to his kind. It is as though God had cursed him and said, 'Thou shall trust no judgment but thine own.' So warm-hearted and so beyond reach of other men's wisdom as he is!"

"I trust in Heaven to bring him to his better self. There are yet many weeks before this dreary farce is ended," said Grace.

Mrs. Malherb looked exceeding guilty as her daughter uttered these words. She answered nothing and prepared to depart; but she hesitated at the door as though about to speak. Then she changed her mind and withdrew quickly.

Ere the morning's dawn, however, Grace heard the thing so studiously concealed from her. She slept but little at this period and busied her mind with futile thoughts. She did not doubt that John Lee and Stark knew all and were busy upon her behalf. Therefore, when a gentle tap fell on her casement an hour after midnight, she felt neither fear nor astonishment, but welcomed it as a thing expected. She struck a light to show that she had heard, wrapped a gown about her and came to the window.

A scrap of paper tied round a pebble lay on the sill, and upon the paper was written one word: "PULL." She obeyed and found that a thread communicated with the ground below. At the other end of this string was a length of whipcord, and when that also had been drawn up, she found that it brought after it the head of a slight rope-ladder. A further laconic direction appeared upon another scrap of paper: "MAKE FAST." Grace fixed the ropes to the iron grate of her fireplace and extinguished the light for safety; then her heart beat fast as the cords strained and a man rose up from the darkness of the earth below.

Not until he was at the casement and she heard him whisper, did she know that it was John Lee. A wave of disappointment swept over her; and to hide any ray of it, she bent and kissed his hand.

"'Tis only me," he said; and his voice that read her heart so clear, cried to her to be honest with him and speak the thing she had longed yet feared to say.

"Dear, dear John. I wish I could say what you deserve to hear! You risk your life for me, for father would surely kill you if he knew of this. Yet what have I to give you back for such devotion? 'Tis no time for anything but solemn truth. I've long feared to face it, dear John; but now I'm grown older and braver. I will marry you, John, but I do not feel all that I thought I felt. I am not the true, trustful girl you think me, but a flighty fool who did not know her own mind. There—you know—and I'm thankful that you should know, though you must hate me and condemn me evermore."

"Think you this is news, my pretty Grace? How strange to hear these things retold after so many days! I'm long since schooled to this cold truth. Dear heart, your eyes never hid a secret—nor your soul! I know—I know everything—all that you feel—all the sorrow you've suffered for me—all that you cannot say—all—all—to the secret prayers you've prayed to Christ about it! Suffer no more. The man you love will soon be free to stand between you and trouble. And you'll never quite forget me neither—never forget me—I know that. I'm content; and I'm selfish too, you see. I've claimed one great payment—the right to rescue you, and the joy of it. 'Twill be his turn next. I'm saving you for him. You can trust me if he does?"

"Whom should we trust? We're both in prison now. 'Trust you'! faithful, generous John!"

"You must be so good as your word at once then. Your banns have been asked out thrice. To-day is Saturday; you are to be married on Monday. The date is changed. Putt brought me the news where I dwell now. I have returned to my grandmother. There's much to tell about what's doing at the War Prison, and about him—Master Stark—but that must wait until you're safe."

"They have plotted to marry me—to dash me into it by a surprise?"

"They have."

"I'll stay and brave them!"

"No, no—what's one girl against two resolute and determined men? Terrible things happen—women have been drugged as maids and come to their senses wives. Don't pit yourself against them. Stark knows that you must escape."

She reflected a moment.

"If he wishes it—if you wish it—yes. But not now. To-morrow night, John."

"All's ready. Your parents shall learn that you are safe and well. But to find you will be beyond power of man. So that you can trust me——"

"To-morrow night, then, I'll be furnished for flight. To-morrow—kiss me, John."

"For him?"

"For yourself. Is not my life worth that? Yet 'tis poor payment for a poor thing."

"For the last time before God."

He bent over her and folded her in his arms. She felt his young heart against her own. Then he kissed her lips.

"Your lover no more; your slave for ever," he said.

A moment later he had descended to earth, and Grace shed tears for the first time since her imprisonment. She drew up the ladder as he directed, hid it close and watched John Lee vanish into the dim dawn. Then she turned into her room and felt already that it was a memory of the past—a nest of youthful joys and sorrows, of many a girlish fancy and old dead dream, now left behind for ever.

CHAPTER VII
THE TUNNEL GROWS

Cecil Stark and William Burnham walked side by side in their exercise yard and discussed the affairs of the world. While the American prisoners toiled like moles underground, great events marked the time. The Allies were in Paris; Napoleon had abdicated and, for a moment, the war with France was ended. The Peace of Paris had been accomplished, and Europe took breath. Yet liberty's glorious reveille woke the French at Prince Town to more grief than joy.

"I can find it in me to be truly sorry for them," said Stark. "They have starved and frozen and suffered for an ideal cause and the ideal is shattered. They trusted Bonaparte as our people trust God; and now the idol they adored is fallen, and the master they hate is lifted up again."

"Men from Plymouth presented them with their old national flag and advised them to wear the white cockade," answered Burnham; "but every mother's son of 'em sticks to the tricolour and has pinned the Bourbon favour to his dog!"

"They cry out that Elba is too small to hold the spirit of Napoleon. Perhaps they are right. Time will show that," said Stark.

"Their wives and children will soften their griefs when they get home."

"Doubtless. And their common sense, so soon as the first smart of failure is past. War teaches men to look twice into the claims of kings."

Burnham did not immediately reply. Then he said—

"I've noticed a change in you since that awful experience when Miller perished. You seem—forgive me—less patriotic-minded than of yore."

"I have wider interests than of yore. I get important private letters."

"From home?"

"No—from friends in this country. To be frank, I have now a personal stake in life that I lacked until recently. We cannot live to the State only. We must also live to ourselves."

"Do those interests of self and State clash then?"

"As to that, my lad—why, mind your own business," replied Stark. His tone was amiable, but Burnham knew the subject could not be reopened.

Presently others joined them and conversation turned to the subterranean works.

A shaft, whose adit was carefully concealed, now sank upon the tunnel under Prison No. 6. The mouth was narrow, but within it space had been dug for four men to work abreast. A grand difficulty was the disposal of the excavated earth; and ingenious methods had been taken to get rid of it. A stream, which ran through each prison yard at the rate of four miles an hour, carried away many tons of fine dirt, while much was mixed with lime, plastered over the prison walls and then whitewashed. A large cavity discovered under Prison No. 5 proved also of great service, and many tons of surplus soil had been cast into it. Now, as their passage crept yard by yard nearer to the outer walls, the workers suffered for want of air; but means to eject the azotic gas were devised; a system of lighted lamps answered this purpose; and to Lovey Lee fell the task of smuggling large quantities of oil into the War Prison.

The leaders spoke with hope and enthusiasm. A week or less would see the completion of the tunnel, and already plans were being developed for the great exodus.

Burnham, fresh from his conversation with Stark, found David Leverett at his elbow; whereupon he discussed his recent rebuff with the sailor.

"Stark was wont to be open as daylight. But now there's a bitterness about the man, and his mind wanders. To-day he confessed to other interests than our common interests. And at such a critical time!"

"You can't trust any human in this world," said Leverett. "I tell you there's not a doodle inside these walls—narry a Yankee or Britisher—who hevn't got his figure. Man's built so; so's God. You can't even get into Heaven for nought. 'Tis a question of price. Only Hell lets you in free."

"You don't mean——?"

"I don't mean nothing. 'Tis dangerous ter mean anything in this place, when you've always got unseen eyes watching you, like a hawk watches a sparrow. But let the highest amongst us be watched as well as the lowest—that's all. No treason in that. I hevn't got any ill-will against Cecil Stark, though I know you was always jealous of him. He's a good boss, and I trust him as much as I trust anybody else. But liberty's sweeter than love of man or country; and money with liberty would tempt the angels I reckon, if they found themselves in this place. Money and liberty's all the world can give a man."

"What's money to him? He's made of money."

"So much the more might he want ter be free ter spend it. He's not the sort to stop home nights anyhow."

"For that matter, there's money for all since the French departed. Their offices fall to our men now. The prisoners are making fifty pounds a week or more—apart from home allowances."

"Yes, an' that tarnal miser, Lovey Lee, pouches half of it," grumbled Leverett. "Talk about money! If I'm first through the rat-hole, I'd like ter get my four fingers on ter her windpipe and strangle her by inches. That's the payment she deserves!"

"We shall be through in four or five days. Knapps sends in word that since they got a recruit—Lovey Lee's grandson—their rate of progress has increased. 'Tis the letters that John Lee gets to Stark that make him so unrestful, I believe."

"Stark could give 'em the slip for that matter," said Leverett. "Scores of Yankees as can speak the lingo have given up the names of Frenchmen and gone out. I'd hev done it myself if I could parley-voo."

"Yes," admitted Burnham. "He's a good scholar. He could go to-morrow; but if he did he would be a coward and a knave. He knows that it is his duty to stop and see this thing through."

"'Duty'! Well, I haven't got much more use for duty myself," replied the other. "Life's short, and there's nobody on earth or in heaven cares for me but David Leverett."

"Stark happens to have bigger ideas than you," answered Burnham coldly.

"'Tis easy for the rich ter hev big ideas; but they ain't no good to the likes of you and me."

William Burnham resented these sentiments and turned on his heel; while Leverett addressed Mr. Cuffee, who passed at the moment, and, in default of a better listener, grumbled to him.

"Devil take the hot-heads; and Devil take the hindermost! 'Tis every man for himself in this world, so far as I've seen. And when all's done, and we're free—what? How's five thousand unarmed men ter get ter Tor Quay and take ship ter France? We want a fleet o' vessels! They'll send the sojers after us, and they'll lick up and overtake us and cut us ter ribbons—that's what they'll do. 'Twould be truest kindness ter stop the whole thing."

"Marse Stark he lead de way. He wiser den us."

"You think so—and the rest likewise. But I say this snarl is beyond his powers ter loose, and we're going the wrong way about it."

"You no blame Marse Stark?"

"I duz then. He ought ter know, if he's so tarnation wise, that it can't fall out right."

Sam Cuffee shook his head.

"If you fink Marse Stark ebber make a mistake in him life, you no fren' ob mine no more," he said.

Elsewhere the subject of these criticisms was fighting with mingled interests, and found himself torn in half between the prisoner at Fox Tor Farm and the prisoners at Prince Town. Escape was now easy enough for any intelligent man; and with each draft of French prisoners many Americans had got clear off by giving up the names of the dead; but in Stark's opinion, the fortunes of the plot were his fortunes. Daily the difficulties increased, and as larger numbers of prisoners became familiar with the secret, the chances of treachery grew. A week or less must see the tunnel bored; but meantime the temptation to desert his post was terrible. Through John Lee, Stark had learned of the catastrophe at Fox Tor Farm, and now understood that secret means were afoot greatly to hasten Grace's marriage with Peter Norcot. The American also knew clearly that, while a prisoner in body, Grace Malherb was free in heart, and that she loved him. His soul longed with a frantic desire to reach her side and save her. By night he dreamed wild dreams of rescue; in sleep he saw himself conveying his love to France, wedding her there, and returning to England again that he might face her father's fury; but with day his obligations to his countrymen banished this picture. To desert the cause now was impossible, for his escape would awake sleeping authority and unsettle those he left behind him. Every hour new problems had to be met and solved. Rumours of disaffection reached him often. In this predicament he did not trust himself to think of what he might do, had it not been for the presence of John Lee. The vital matter of Grace's escape rested with John, and even now, as Stark tramped the prison yard, he scanned the grille, impatient to see his friend. For upon the preceding night Grace had been rescued from her home and now hid in Lee's safe keeping until Stark himself was free.

As for John, no personal hopes and ambitions longer remained in his mind. Never keen, they had waned utterly with his life's sole joy. Now he stood for nothing but the happiness of Grace Malherb, her safety and her welfare. She alone acted as an incentive and made his life continue to possess attraction. For her he entered into the plot of the Americans; for her he toiled beside James Knapps to hasten the ends of Cecil Stark; for her he now ran countless personal risks and came safely out of them, helped by his very indifference to danger.

Upon the day that was to have seen Grace married to the wool-stapler, Lee appeared among the spectators at the barriers, and pulled some small coins from his pocket as Stark approached with one or two trinkets of prison manufacture.

"All's well," he said shortly. "I brought her safely off. Even now Norcot must be cooling his heels at Widecombe Church; for when they discovered this morning that she had escaped 'em, there was no time to communicate with him."

"She is unhurt? No harm befell her?"

"To earth she came like a pretty dove, and by sun-up she was safe. She's not far off neither."

"To think of another doing these things that should have been my blessed privilege!"

"D'you grudge me that much?"

"No, no, Jack; but consider—her lover. Yes—I'm that now, thank God."

"This was what I could do for her and you could not. She is out of danger now, and will be for a week—not longer."

"In less time than that my work here is done and we shall be free," answered Stark. "Then 'tis my turn; then I must——"

"The tunnel will be through in less than four days—perhaps three," interrupted John. "Knapps works eighteen hours a day and I do my stint. He's made of iron. By night we get rid of the soil; by day we work while my grandmother keeps guard. When the time comes, we shall knock out the side of the cottage so that the open door shall be as large as possible."

With difficulty Stark brought his mind back to this great matter.

"She—yes—the exit must be as wide as you can make it. We are planning the final stroke. At best it will take some hours, however good our method and discipline. The danger of alarm is manifest—also the danger of false alarm and panic."

"You deserve to succeed. You have great authority over men."

"My obligations cease when I take my turn with my fellows and come through the tunnel. It is each man for himself then. But I have given my word to depart no other way. Then! How shall I pay you for all I owe you, Jack?"

"Name that no more. You cannot. She will pay me. Her future happiness is my payment."

"And her future will rest with me. 'Tis a solemn thought for one so little worthy of such a trust. Shall you see her to-day?"

"Every day until you are free and beside her."

"My purpose is to get to Dartmouth and hire a vessel that will take us to France. I have heard all about the place, and believe that a little ship can lie hid at some appointed spot where the trees hang over the river."

"Such spots abound. I might see to that. When once you and your countrymen are free, her hiding-place must be left instantly, for another will come to it."

A shadow of lover's jealousy clouded Stark's face; but it was gone in an instant.

"If we get successfully out of this, you and you only must be thanked for all. I lag behind you every way. But I'll do my share, Jack, when I get opportunity."

"No fear of that. To-morrow I may beg a mount at Holne and get to Dartmouth. But, to be frank, 'tis more vital that I should watch over her than do any other thing just now. If Norcot lays hands upon me, all may go wrong. He'll know right well that I've a hand in this."

"Then think first and only of her, and guard your own safety before everything, for her sake."

A mat of dyed grass and a little box of coloured wood passed between them, while Lee handed a coin back through the bars.

"Her letter is under a false bottom in the box," said Stark; then he turned to some friends and Lee went his way. In his mind was a great desire to visit Dartmouth and complete these secret plans. Yet the awful danger to Grace if misfortune overtook him and kept him from returning, made him hesitate to incur other risks than those already run.

CHAPTER VIII

HUE AND CRY

When Thomas Putt reached Widecombe Church on the morning of the wedding, he found the company from Chagford had already arrived. Peter Norcot's bottle-green coat, gilt buttons, and noble shirt frill, presented an imposing and attractive appearance; his sister Gertrude was attired in lace and silk of a faded lavender hue; his man Mason wore a mighty bouquet of flowers on his new livery. Last of this party was the bridegroom's cousin from Exeter—a young Clerk in Orders, one Relton Norcot, whose flat and somewhat vacant countenance grew pale as he heard the news. He feared the issue and expected an explosion, but his knowledge of Mr. Norcot was small.

When Putt announced that Grace Malherb had vanished in the night, Peter's eyes contracted a little; he rose from his seat, thrust his hands deep in his breeches pockets, and began to pace up and down in front of the altar rails, regardless of the whispering crowd in the church. His reverend cousin drew him to the vestry; then the disappointed lover spoke.

"I'm very little surprised. We must act with the utmost promptitude. She's not done this thing single-handed. I'll wager that groom John Lee's in this, and, like enough, Stark, too. He is the rascal for whom she suffered imprisonment."

Peter next turned to Putt.

"Tell us all you know," he said.

"Only that the window was open, your honour," answered Tom, who secretly prided himself on the entire conduct of the affair. "'Twas by the window Miss Grace went out. Her left a letter for her mother. They do say—Mrs. Beer I mean—that her wrote her'd rather die a thousand deaths than have you, begging your honour's pardon for mentioning it. She said as she was going to be in trusty hands also."

Peter nodded, while the young clergyman with the fatuous face began to get out of his surplice.

"She must have been very badly brought up," he remarked, and Norcot stared at his cousin; but his mind was on the matter in hand.

"I shall proceed instantly to Dartmouth," he said. "Tell Mason to saddle my horse and his own. Either from Dartmouth or Tor Quay they will endeavour to leave the country. Mark me, that man Stark has broke prison again. Is Mr. Malherb in communication with Prince Town?"

"Not that I knows about," answered Putt. "Master be like a bull of Bashan—to say it with all respect. He've made Fox Tor Farm shake to its roots. He's lamed two horses a'ready afore I started, an' he's been tearing over the Moor since dawn, like the Wild Hunter. He 'pears to think he's been hardly treated by Providence; an' he's called down fire from Heaven, by all accounts, on pretty near everybody as lives on Dartymoor. A proper tantara, I warn 'e! God knows how 'twill end. He roareth against all things but hisself."

"'Tis a shattering stroke," wept Miss Norcot, "and you are a marvel, Peter, to bear it with such composure."

"Tut, tut! Get you home, you and Relton here. The marriage is postponed. See her home, Relton, and bide my coming. I may not be back for a day or two, but don't return to Exeter until you hear from me."

Then he again addressed Putt.

"Ride back at once and direct your master to set a sharp watch about Holne. They are lying close to-day; but they will doubtless try for the coast at nightfall. First ascertain if Mr. Stark has escaped again from the War Prison; next do all in your power to capture the person of that groom. I've a hundred pounds for the man who takes John Lee and keeps him fast. Now be off; and let them know that I will be at Fox Tor Farm by midnight or later."

His horse was waiting for him, and quite indifferent to the crowd that had assembled round it, Peter mounted, bade the children get out of his way, and galloped off with his man after him. The disappointed bridegroom purposed to inform the authorities and place patrols above Dartmouth, both upon the roads and river.

As for Tom Putt, he rode home; while Miss Norcot and the clergyman returned to Chagford.

At Fox Tor Farm, as the day wore on, wild turmoil reigned, and the flock-master in fury was urging his exhausted labourers to further efforts. Every spot for miles around about was searched; the industrious Mark Bickford even tramped over Cater's Beam and through Hangman's Hollow; but Grace Malherb, securely hidden in Lovey's treasure-house, was beyond reach of discovery. John Lee had laid his plans with care, and knowing that his grandmother would stop at Prince Town until the completion of the tunnel and the liberation of the Americans, he selected her secret hiding-place for Grace. Here, until Lovey's next visit, she was safe; but the miser would soon herself be flying hither with her reward; and before that moment Grace must be gone.

"When she does come," said Lee on the night of the rescue, "she'll bring some fat money-bags with her; and she'll have to lie low henceforth, for if they catch her——"

"And there's danger for you too?"

"None to name," he answered. "My fear is only for your health—that you may suffer in this dismal pit. It is damp. But here's a snug cubby-hole I've found—dry as a bone—and I've filled it with sweet dead fern and heath. The water that trickles yonder is pure. And upon that shelf, beside the money-bags, you'll find bread and bacon and a jug of cider. 'Twas all I could furnish yesterday, but I'll come back to-night with better fare. Here's a few candles too, and a flint and steel. And—and he'd be here now if he could—Master Stark—you know that right well; but he's got a great weight on his shoulders—five thousand fellow-men to answer for; and he knows you're safe while I draw breath."

"I can't thank you. Each word you say stabs me and makes me ashamed to live."

"Sleep—sleep soft and safe; and dream of him. 'Tis not going to be long before he comes to you; but it won't be here. To-morrow I see him; to-morrow night I'll return again. Don't fear for him. Think of the light he's got to show him his road! You're safe as sanctuary here. And remember, if time hangs heavy, that you may be within touching distance of the amphora."

She shook her head sadly.

"Father will never forgive me now. I have done a deed unpardonable. He cannot understand that I love him with all my heart, and yet deem my poor, wretched body a sacred thing—beyond his right to dispose of as he pleases. I only pray this will not drive him to distraction."

The man left her, and during that day had speech with Cecil Stark at the War Prison, as we have noted. He worked also for several hours beside James Knapps, and then, towards midnight, returned to Grace. So silently did he descend into her hiding-place that he did not waken her. She slept snug in the russet sweetness of last year's bracken, and the candle by her side made a play of great black shadows broken by the glow of the fern. Her young shape was sunk in this soft resting-place, and her lips shone very red in the candle-light. They held his eyes, since her own eyes—those lovely lamps that generally attracted a beholder—were hidden. Long he watched her peaceful breathing, and stood fired to his heart, unwilling to rouse her. Once she half awoke, and moved and lifted her head; then she cuddled into the fern, sighed softly and slept again.

Presently he called her in gentle tones, and she sat up, still dreaming; then came to her senses and remembered.

"Great news," he said. "First, here's some fresh wheaten cake and some butter and three hard-boiled eggs. Next, you must know that the tunnel is just finished. We were nearer by five or six yards than we thought. To-day we heard them knocking."

"How is it with my mother and father?"

"I have seen Putt within the last two hours. He stole out to Fox Tor and met me as I came. Your mother keeps calm, for she knows that you are safe; but Mr. Malherb is like one possessed."

"Alas, I can see him and hear him as though I was by."

"Men fear to come to him. There is a settled battle in him against every human soul. Yet a strange thing happened: at a lonely cot yesterday, where he called to learn if they had heard of you, a little girl stood by the door; and he looked at her, then suddenly caught her up and kissed her before he got on his horse again. The child was not feared at his fierceness neither, but laughed into his bloodshot eyes. The mother told Tom Putt."

"Oh, why was I your daughter?"

"Norcot went straight from Widecombe to Dartmouth, so Putt also tells. A deep man—how he hit the critical point—how he knew what was in our heads! He'll have watchers on all the beatable waters, and to-morrow he'll set to work to hunt himself."

"If he should find me, John!"

"Then I'll forgive him. Now farewell for a while. I shall see you again to-morrow night."

They parted, and Grace read the letter that John had brought her. Stark was deeply concerned at her escape; but he wrote not one word of love in this missive. She missed that word, yet knew well how much he had upon his hands and how that this was no time for softness.

And Lee, returning over the Moor, heard a horse's hoofs behind. He had scarcely dived into some old tin-streamer's workings and flung himself flat behind a furze-bush, when Peter Norcot went by in the dim tremor of dawn. So close was he that John saw his eyes were half shut, and that he nodded and nearly slept in his saddle. Light had broken eastward, and already the small life of the Moor stirred amid glimmering grass-blades.

Norcot jogged onward to Fox Tor Farm, and Lee, wondering whether the lover or himself had worked harder during the past day and night, got back to his grandmother's cottage at Prince Town.

Great bustle marked the farm when Peter reached it. Mrs. Malherb, haggard and careworn, greeted him where sleepy-eyed men and women were collected in the servants' hall. For a moment there was respite, because Malherb had already risen and ridden away. Norcot followed his kinswoman to her parlour, then sank into a chair and began to drag off his top-boots.

"Any news, Annabel? I see from your face that there is none. This mad business of keeping her chained up! It was bound to end thus."

"Maurice has started again—this time to Prince Town. Oh, Peter—his reason—I fear terribly for it! No human creature could endure what he has endured and keep sane. I assure him that she is safe on her own showing. I have it under her hand and seal. But he will not believe me or her. He is like the sea breaking on rocks—he never tires. After midnight he leapt up and was soon in the saddle again. He has gone to the War Prison now."

"He should have gone there first. Many hours have been lost."

"He will make trouble with Commandant Short, for he is in no mood to be denied."

"What news had he of Stark's escape?"

"We did not so much as know that the young man was escaped."

"I feel little doubt of it. However, he'll hardly clear Dartmouth, or Tor Quay either. Grace, Grace! Poor child—how true—Hesiod—Earth and Chaos are the parents of Love. Now I must lift myself out of this chair again! Fifteen hours in the saddle—three horses. Do for pity's sake get me a bumper of strong drink, Annabel. And my wedding breeches—worn out. Only just now off to the War Prison! Tut, tut! His rage has made him blind."

"He has been brave as a lion and done ten men's work."

"Ten fools' work, you mean. 'When valour preys on reason, it eats the sword it fights with.'"

"I fear, indeed, for his reason, and for his precious neck. He is worn out in mind and body, and ought to be in bed instead of on horseback."

"So ought I. Send the drink to my usual room, my dear. And bid them call me in three hours. Make 'em wake me whether I will or not in three hours' time."

"If my Maurice would but listen to sense!"

"Men don't change the habits of a lifetime at fifty. What does Cicero say? 'Utatur motu animi——' I'm too sleepy to talk English, let alone Latin. 'He only uses passion who cannot use reason.' A very unreasonable man is Malherb."

"You shall not criticise him at such a pass, Peter. None shall. This wicked girl may cost him his life—you and she between you. No man ever led a more honourable and single-hearted existence. He is always trying to do right."

"Yes, I know all that. A man trying to do right is only interesting as long as he fails. Malherb has never yet ceased to interest me."

"Go sleep, cousin. You are saying things you would not say in your proper senses."

He rose with a groan and hobbled painfully to the door.

"Death and fury! I'm an old man myself this morning; gone in the hams and gone in the head! How I ache! But wait until to-morrow. 'When Greeks joined Greeks, then was the tug of war.' We'll catch my gipsy to-morrow. Don't forget the beverage, Annabel. Half a pint of champagne and a little drop of brandy in it. A drink for heroes. And a hero I am, if ever there was one."

Maurice Malherb, worn with futile rage and toil, now turned his face towards the War Prison, and cursed himself as he rode along, because he had left this vital business until now.

Dawn saw him far upon his way, and its grey light touched his grey face and revealed new marks of storm for ever stamped there. His cheeks were somewhat sunken; his life and energies seemed concentrated in his eyes. He sat heavy and inert upon his horse, yet sometimes spoke aloud. His eyes were never still. Their dark gaze ranged the desert, and nothing, near nor far, escaped his scrutiny in the murk of the dawn. The chill hour cooled his forehead and helped him to reflect.

"A man's daughter of all things living to turn upon him! And of all daughters mine! She who has lived long enough to see me in the right a thousand times. The only one left to me. And knowing the deep love I bear her! And knowing how that my judgment errs not. 'Tis beyond belief that we should bring out of our own blood a thing that can feel so little thankfulness for the blessing of worthy parentage. I grudged her nothing. I gratified her every wish from childhood. And the only one left to me! Oh, God, how comes it that a man's own offspring can show him so little of his own self? She should be my image and her mother's blended together. Yet what is she? An exemplar of all that is hateful in woman. And yet—and yet—when she was not crossed she could be as other maids—sweet and daughterly to those that doted upon her. She has made me think that I was all in all to her. But disobedience—to break from the control of her father. And to love an American! Fiends of hell, to love one of them! Madness—'tis some strain of erotic madness that turned her eyes to this enemy. The love I've wasted there—and would again—and would again!"

His mind broke off, then returned to the matter. "But no—never again. She shall be nothing now—I've cast her off; I have prayed to God that she may be dead—rather than——"

He yawned and his sleepy brain relaxed its grip upon his wrongs. Memory was worn out. He stopped once and actually asked himself upon what mission he rode thus in the dayspring hour along this solitary waste.

The morning star waned above the Prison and another dawn broke to the murmur of many waters. Light stole out of the thin sweet air; a rosy illumination washed the sky, tipped the tors and spread beneath his horse's feet. Prince Town stretched its granite rings before him; and some fairy tincture of light touched even those solemn walls. They glowed as the morning opened golden eyes, and the ascending sun arose from a pillow of fire.

The master rode straight to Ockery Bridge, where Captain Short's cottage stood; and upon his demand instantly to see the Commandant, a servant assured him that it was impossible. This he expected, and it did not suffice. Before the man could interpose, Malherb had pushed past him and entered the little dwelling. He shouted aloud for Captain Short, and was about to lift his voice again when the officer himself appeared. He was dressed in full uniform.

"They refused me, Short, but I would take no refusal. Matters of life and death may be afoot."

They were acquainted, and the soldier answered civilly.

"Good morrow to you. As for life and death—why, I believe it is as you say, though I pray the affair may end sans bloodshed. My patience is near gone, however. These men have the devil in them, but, luckily, there is always a traitor to reckon with. Cottrell also found it so."

"I am concerned about one man."

"Then your business can wait, my dear sir; for I am concerned about several thousands. You come at a momentous time. Look yonder. Within eight-and-forty hours my hive would have been empty and my bees swarming—God knows whither."

Commandant Short laboured under excessive emotion. He was very red and excited. His hands continually failed him while he endeavoured to buckle on his sword.

"I desire to learn all you can tell me of Cecil Stark," said Malherb, "and know I must at once."

"In good time. What think you of a tunnel burrowed under those walls? They have done it—scraped a hole clean through! At midnight came a message for me, and in secret I received the news from one of themselves. Two hundred pounds and liberty was his reward."

"Not Stark! You do not say that he turned traitor?"

"The rascal's name cannot be divulged. But at least you shall see the sequel."

"Stark has escaped—I know it."

"Then you know more than I do. 'Tis a scheme almost wins my admiration. Yet I should have had little admiration to waste had they succeeded. Now I crush 'em—within this hour. All is perfected by their leading men—and by me."

"So much to your credit; but I must see Stark if he is yet there."

"It is not possible to have speech with him before my coup. Afterwards I may arrange for it. You shall come with me, if you please. To think that within two days my Yankee rats had all been away to the sea!"

The soldier's fervour grew. He had planned a dramatic answer to the plotters and now set about it. Malherb rode beside him to the War Prison; but first they visited the barracks, where a regiment of soldiers was drawn up under arms. One company immediately marched to the cottage of Lovey Lee outside the walls; the remainder proceeded with Commandant Short.

It was then that Sam Cuffee, while engaged in preparing his master's breakfast, caught sight of the troops, dropped a pot of coffee, and came flying to Stark with his news.

"Dey come, sar—de lobsters—tousands ob dem! And de officers an' Marse Commandant wid de plumes in him hat. Dey march straight off to No. 6. It am all ober wid us—we cotched sure—damn de debbil!"

Stark cried that discovery was impossible; but a moment later he saw the truth for himself. Many hundred half-dressed Americans swarmed into the yards and a hedge of steel confronted them.

Captain Short stepped to the front of his forces, and a subaltern in a loud voice cried out certain names from a paper. He rehearsed correctly every member of the prisoners' committee. Stark, Burnham, Ira Anson, and the rest stood forward in turn as they were called.

"Follow me, gentlemen, if you please," said the Commandant; then, while a growl of rage went up from the assembled masses, Stark and the leaders, heavily guarded, were marched to the scene of their operations in Prison No. 6.

Short, who had been informed most punctually of this affair, marched straight up to the flagstones that concealed the descent to the tunnel. He bade two turnkeys raise the pavement, and then all marvelled to see the perfection of engineering work pursued under such difficulties.

"A notable feat! Accept my hearty congratulations," said the Commandant drily. "And when was this accomplished, good sirs?"

"It has taken many months, Captain," answered Cecil Stark. "'Twas finished but yesterday at midnight."

"I know that; one of your friends has thought better of the matter and sold you all."

"No true American," said Anson hotly; "I'll stake my life 'twas a renegade Britisher."

"No, no. Don't imagine that. He is one of yourselves. However, you'll not have any more to do with him. He has his reward. Now tell me—where in thunder did you dispose of the enormous quantities of soil you must have displaced in this business?"

"Ate it—to make up for short rations," shouted David Leverett.

"A good idea; but there will be no burrowing out of the cachots, my man. 'Woe to the vanquished' is the tune now. Away with them!" Then he added to the guard: "Let them be separately confined. I will question each man in turn later on. Now for their tunnel! You little thought, gentlemen, that I, your Commandant, would be the first through this ingenious exit!"

The soldiers separated. A company one hundred strong, with loaded muskets, marched Cecil Stark and his companions to the cachots; while thrice that number of soldiers formed square and stood facing all ways about the pit mouth. Then Captain Short and two of his officers with lighted torches descended. Once there was an ugly rush of prisoners in the confined space above them; but the bayonets kept all back, and before any organised resistance or counter demonstration was possible, the Americans had been driven out of No. 6 and the doors locked against them.

Meantime, while Captain Short crept from end to end of the tunnel and presently thrust his head through the floor of Lovey Lee's empty cottage without the walls of the War Prison, Malherb had followed Stark and endeavoured to get speech with him. But an officer in charge knew nothing of the master of Fox Tor Farm, and ordered him back. Malherb made a rough retort, and the soldier promptly sent him out of the Prison precincts.

"I would serve you if in my power, sir," he said, "but to allow any speech with these men at present is out of the question. Get you gone, therefore, and impede us no more."

"You whipper-snapper—what know you of this? There are affairs of vital importance that demand my speech with that rascal. I will speak with him! Have I toiled through a century of suffering to be denied by a starveling subaltern? And the knave actually under my eyes! Speak with him I will, so stay me at your peril!"

He woke the echoes from many walls; he fumed with indignation that a youth should affront him thus; while the officer, ignorant of all that boiled in this man's mind, and conscious of the gravity of his own charge, made short work with Mr. Malherb. He called a sergeant.

"Take half a dozen men, Bradridge, and turn this lunatic out. If he won't go, rogue's-march him! We've enough on our hands without madmen to-day."

As though to confirm his assertion, a great uproar rent the air behind them—a clamour like the wind-driven sea breaking upon some mighty cliff. The nature of their disappointment had permeated through the prisons; and thousands of baffled captives cursed their fortune and threatened those dangers that lie in concerted action of desperate men.

Sergeant Bradridge obeyed the word of command, and, despite his impotent raving, Malherb was thrust forth by force. He called down destruction upon the great fastness behind him; he wished the Americans all free to overwhelm their guards; and then, at the entrance, another company of soldiers appeared with two prisoners handcuffed together.

"Waal, I guess they'll be astonished—some of 'em—when they see me alive and hearty," said James Knapps to his companion. "Not many knew as I was snooking round t'other side that wall, and digging like hell day and night."

John Lee did not answer, for he had observed Maurice Malherb.

"I must speak to that man!" he cried to the soldiers. "For God's love do not deny me! 'Tis like to be death for an innocent woman if I don't!"

"Not your grandmother—eh?" asked Knapps; "I reyther reckon she can take care of herself."

John had now turned to Sergeant Bradridge, and earnestly addressed him. The sergeant was a local man—a native of Buckfastleigh, and the uncle of Mr. Putt.

"Sergeant," he said, "you know your nephew Tom: he's my friend, and I beg you to let me speak to Mr. Malherb there. It's a fearful thing if I'm denied."

Then he lifted his voice to his old master.

"I implore you, sir, to give heed. There's danger threatening Miss Grace—I alone——"

But the other turned and roared him down.

"You hound—you lying rascal; you, that plotted to help this knave Stark! Shall I hear a groom when I may not hear his master? Take him away and shoot him for a traitor to his country!"

"Your daughter, sir!"

"Keep her off your lips, or I'll strangle you with my own hand," bellowed the other. "You're at the bottom of half this cursed business—I know it—I know everything!"

"Her life, I tell you——"

"Is not in your keeping. I'll not hearken to a word from you. Take the damned dog away and let him die as he deserves to die. My horse—my horse!"

Sergeant Bradridge addressed the raving man aside.

"If he's got aught to say, your honour, best hear it. You may not have another chance."

"Never! He has nothing to do with my daughter. Is she not a Malherb? Hang the lying, infamous scoundrel! Take him from my sight. Let all such be hanged. I would say it if he was my son!"

A moment later he rode away full charged with frenzy: while Lee and Knapps passed into the War Prison.

CHAPTER X
A GOD OF GLASS

It had been Lovey Lee's part to keep guard during the operations beneath her cottage, and, on the morning of discovery, while Knapps was underground and John Lee lay in a heavy sleep, she stood at her door and scanned the morning. Her mind was on money; within eight-and-forty hours she would receive her reward; and now every glittering dewdrop of the dawn shone beneath her eyes like a gold piece. Then it was that another scintillation—that of steel—struck upon Lovey's sight, and she saw the flash of bayonets and the gleam of red coats. They approached swiftly across the Moor, and, divining their significance, the old woman instantly fled out at the rear of her cottage, and climbed and crept with amazing speed into the lonely fastnesses of North Hisworthy Tor above Prince Town. Here, safe as a fox in earth, she remained close hidden until nightfall, and then started for her holt at Hangman's Hollow. The fate of the men she had deserted troubled her not at all. To have informed them of danger would have been to lessen her own chance of escape by a full minute, and she had felt no temptation to take such risk. Now was all lost but her liberty; and as she stalked along the nocturnal Moor, like a dark and gigantic bird, the miser swore aloud and cursed fortune at every step. A live thing in the path reminded her that she had not eaten food for six-and-thirty hours; stooping, therefore, she picked up a luckless frog, tore it asunder, and stayed her stomach with its quivering hind legs. Never had Lovey fallen into a temper more ferocious and brutal. Months of patient fraud were thrown away, and she found herself actually out of pocket upon the venture. This reflection maddened her. In a delirium of disappointment she strode forward, and once, when an owl screeched out of the coppice at Tor Royal, she screeched back at it like a fury, and swung her long arms, and cursed the stars because they looked like good money scattered and wasted upon the sky. She sank into a calenture of crazy wrath; frantically she longed for some object upon which to vent her mania of disappointed hope; and every moment she hastened unconsciously nearer a victim.

Grace Malherb grew weary of the long hours that separated her from John Lee's next visit. An eternity of time crawled by, and the very hands of her watch appeared to drag as she sat with it before her. Only once a sound fell on her ears through that protracted day. Then she heard a bell, the fall of many feet and the bleat of flocks. Soon the grazing sheep wandered away and silence fell again. The tinkle of the dropping water and the throb of her own heart were all her company. The gloom and the chill of her hiding-place crept to her bosom and froze the hope there. She fell to weaving fearful fancies; she pictured failure in a thousand shapes. The rusty and glimmering gold of the moss upon the walls grew hateful to her eyes. Yet it attracted them and held them, so that hour after hour she scanned the luminous cavern, and saw faces in it and read words scrawled in dull fire there, like the Handwriting on the Wall. She ate and drank a little, but her appetite failed her. All her emotions merged into intense longing for John Lee. Her watch told her that it was noon at last. Then she fought with herself to escape forebodings and set about occupying time with a search for the amphora. That treasure possessed none of the old fascination now; yet, thinking upon her father, she much desired for his sake to discover it, and made a diligent search both high and low. Her explorations revealed two other boxes tied with cords; and these she opened, only to find Sheffield plate in them.

An eternity of twelve more hours crawled by; then, when midnight had passed, Grace began to strain her ears for footsteps. It was a close, black night, with thunder in the air; but as yet no elemental murmur broke the stillness.

At three o'clock, worn out and full of foreboding, the girl crept to her fern bed and prayed long prayers. Finally she slept, soothed by a determination to fly from this hated hole in the morning and hide elsewhere, if John Lee did not come. Her last waking thought turned to her father. "I will continue as firm as he is firm," she whispered to herself. "Would I had been different—for his sake; but not for my own."

Within an hour she slumbered, and when Lovey Lee sank silently down into her den, the girl heard nothing. Grace was hidden within a deep alcove of the wall, and she slept without a light. The miser, once in safety, stood silent and listened. It was for a growl of thunder that she waited; nor did she expect another sound. Heavy drops of rain began to fall, but as yet no storm awoke, though so inky was the east that dawn seemed delayed.

First Lovey ate a loaf of bread from her mouldering stores; then she sat down by the stone table in the midst of the grotto, rested her head on her hand and considered the position. The future bristled with dangers and difficulties; turning from it, therefore, she rose, lighted a candle and drew forth her treasures. The money she had not fingered for three weeks, and now she counted it, and the steady stream, sliding through her fingers, served to soothe her. Miser-like, she kept her supreme possession to the last, and before she brought it to the light, her mouth began to water and her eyes to glow. Though now crushed by an uncontrollable weight of weariness and sleep, she prayed to her glass god and performed his familiar rite before she slumbered. From the ground at the foot of her granite altar, the old woman scratched the soil, then drew forth a metal box. It clashed as she picked it up, and Grace waking at the sound, was just about to hasten forward when she heard the old woman's voice lifted to address her deity.

"Come to me, my purty blessing! To think as I haven't had a sight of 'e for nigh a month! An' the devil's luck fallen to me since I seed 'e!"

The girl shrank back and watched, breathless, while Lovey drew a mass of cotton wool from her box, and then, revealing the Malherb amphora, placed it reverently on her granite table and lighted other candles around it. Now she squatted down before the vase and remained motionless, like a toad watching a fly. Here was her support and power, the spring of her existence, her sustenance, and the foundation-stone of her life. She gazed and gazed with greedy eyes; she licked her lips and nodded slowly, like a china image. The amphora, against its gloomy background, flashed in the candle-glow. Its azure splendours shone in the cavern's darkness; the acanthus leaves were touched with flickering gold, and the Cupids seemed to move and peep about behind the foliage.

"Dance! dance, my naked boys!" said Lovey. "Though there's nought to dance about to-night. All lost—an' me a runaway! Where shall us go to next? Us can't live underground like a badger for ever. But I sold my cows a fortnight agone—that's something. Dance, you little devils; dance—dance!"

She gloated upon her treasure and trembled with joy of possession. Presently she put out her hand gently, like a cat touching a dazed mouse. Then the fit grew upon her. With each hand in turn she stroked the amphora and twisted it round and round. Anon she lifted it and brought it close to her face; she kissed it and cuddled it against her breast, and rubbed her cheeks upon it and slavered it, as might a fond mother lust over her child. Grace Malherb heard a harsh vibration, like a tiger purring.

"I've got you, my heart an' liver an' reins! I've got you, come what may, my lovely joanie! And the day I die, you'll die too; for I'll grind you to powder an' eat you—fat babbies an' all!"

She laughed and nuzzled the glass, crooned to it and licked it. Then her frenzy waned; she set the treasure gently down and fell back exhausted. Her passion cooled; her eyes went out, like extinguished lamps; she shrank as she sat there; and soon she began to whine again before the thought of her losses.

"Christ! what a cursed day! What——"

A sudden sound struck her silent. Grace had moved and loosened a fragment of stone. The noise, though slight enough, reached Lovey's ear. She snatched up a candle and, hastening into the recesses of the cavern, came face to face with her visitor.

Amazement so absolute overwhelmed the miser at this discovery, that for a space it smothered every other emotion. She glared speechless, then fell back and at last spoke.

"God's word! Be I drunk or dreaming? Are you alive, or dead an' prying here a ghost from the grave? If you'm dead I don't care a button for 'e! An' if you'm alive——"

"I'm quite alive, Lovey Lee," said Grace without flinching before the ancient's terrific face.

"Alive, be you? Then 'tis the last minute you shall live to say you'm alive! How did you get here? Tell me, or I'll kill you by inches—a finger to a time!"

"I've done you no harm, Lovey. And I'll thank you to speak more quietly. There are men hunting for me on the Moor, and I've no wish for them to find me," said Grace firmly. As yet no fear had touched her heart.

"Find you! They'll not find you! God A'mighty won't find you. You'm dead a'ready!"

"I'm not dead at all; and I'm not going to die. If you'd listen, instead of screaming at me, I might tell you why I am here, and how I came here."

Lovey put the candle on a ledge above their heads; then she sat upon the fern couch that her grandson had spread for Grace.

"Get you up on your feet and stand afore me!" she said. "I'm mistress here—not you. Death! to think as ever I should allow any human but myself in this pit. Tell me truth how you found it—else I'll strangle you."

"The truth is easily told: and you shall pay dearly for these insults yet, you wicked woman! It was meant to marry me to Peter Norcot; and your grandson helped me to escape from that fate. John is always on the side of the weak. I owe my salvation to him. I am waiting for him now."

"Jack Lee found out then! Blast—but I needn't waste no words there. His thread's spun. So you runned from your faither an' that man? You might so soon think to trick Satan as Norcot. But I'll trick him. He can't marry dead bones. An' yet—there's money to it. Only I be so tight placed myself."

"That candle-flame will crack the Malherb amphora, Lovey Lee, if you don't move it," said Grace.

The woman sprang up and extinguished a dip that flamed too near her treasure.

"There's the answer to my doubts. You know too much now. I'll never sleep in peace no more while you are alive. There's a dead dog in yon corner—shrivelled to bones an' leather. He'd lost hisself 'pon the Moor and followed me here. I carried it down the steps, for it stood and barked outside. But I never carried it up again. None leaves this web but me, come in who may. You ran choose how you'll go out o' life—an' that's all the mercy I'll show 'e, Grace Malherb. You can starve, or you can kill yourself, or I can do it for 'e; but die you shall—sure as I'm a woman."

The girl regarded her steadily, and measured her huge body, long arms and broad chest. She knew that in a physical struggle she must quickly have the life crushed out of her, and for the first time she feared. Then she wondered if Lovey's heart was inflexible, and whether a way to bend her will might not exist.

"Is there no humanity in you—you who have been a mother?"

"No more than a mother wolf—not for you. I was a grandmother, too, wasn't I? I brought Jack up from childhood—an' he spied upon me. He'd have robbed me next—maybe he has."

"Not of a farthing."

"You've met me in a black hour. All's lost to the Prison. Some Judas have told the secret; an' as for me, I dare not show myself to the daylight. So there's nought to be made out of you."

"You might trust me."

"Not since you've seen that."

Lovey pointed to the amphora.

"My father rates me higher than a bit of old glass."

"You'm daft to think so! Why for should he care a cuss for you? More like he hates you, for you'm no daughter worth naming to him—a froward, man-loving minx, as plays fast an' loose with them he hates, an' defies him. Love the likes of you better'n fifteen thousand pound! He'm not all fool."

Thunder suddenly broke overhead, and subterranean echoes in the grotto answered it. The noise punctuated Lovey's speech and appeared to affirm her purpose.

"Die you shall," she said. "God do so to me if I don't mean it."

"I know you mean it now," answered the girl. "And, since everything is lost at the Prison, I care not very much about living. Yet, after all, 'tis only a passing reverse; therefore, I plead to live. Life is life. Somehow this choking hole makes me long to live. I hate your money and your treasures. I hate the gold in your bags as much as I hate the moss on these walls that mocks it. I want to breathe sweet air and see the sky again. I'll keep your secret. Don't kill me, Lovey. 'Twill ruin your own life if you do."

"Life's worth living, as you say. For all my cares and years and cruel disappointments, I like it. But you hearken to the thunder—I knowed 'twas brewing—you know too much. Let it rage! I wish 'twould drown Short's cottage, an' him in it, an' the Prison, an' the prisoners, an' the sojers, an' every living thing. You know too much an' I won't take your word."

"You're worn out and frantic. Sleep upon it."

The old woman reflected.

"So I will, then," she said. "Never heard better counsel. But you—you must sleep too——"

She came forward slowly, like some feline thing that stalks its living food; then she lifted her hands to Grace's throat.

The girl did not flinch, and Lovey dropped her great fingers again.

"You'm Malherb, I see—but I lay your heart's beating to a merry tune! Let it beat—its beating be near done. Them steady brown eyes too! I'll blind them, if you please, afore I put my little god there to bed again. No, I won't kill you this minute. I'll sleep on it. If you don't mean money from your wool-stapler, I never counted money. An' Norcot wouldn't give a poor, old, harmless granny up to the soldiers. Too much of the milk o' human kindness in him for that. What's his figure, I wonder? I must have a big one, an' my safety along with it."

She hunted her stores, found the boxes, removed their cords from them and approached Grace. "Here's a rope's end for 'e! No, not for your neck—for your heels. I must sleep—my senses are all addled—I can't think clear. An' you must watch—so no harm befalls me. Ha-ha-ha! us'll bind they neat limbs an' little ankles a thought tight, just to keep you from slumbering. 'Twas a pretty young Yankee's arms you counted to have round 'e, not a bit o' biting oakum!"

She made Grace fast with unnecessary severity. Then, tearing a strip from the girl's dress, she bandaged her prisoner's eyes. Next Lovey extinguished all lights and, in the blank darkness that followed, restored the amphora to its wrappings, placed it within the metal box and put the box underground. Then soil and stones were heaped over it, after which the woman threw herself down on the earth above her treasure and quickly fell into heavy sleep.

The thunder roared, and through her bandages Grace was conscious of lightning. The glare of the sky penetrated some chance chinks above and found her. Close at hand she heard Lovey snoring. The ropes began to burn as though red hot, and each minute the torment grew. The storm died slowly, and she missed its companionship when it was gone. She envied the cattle that roamed free above her; she prayed fervently; but physical pain continually distracted her devotion. After two hours the agony became sharper than she could endure, and at the risk of angering her conqueror, Grace cried out sharply and woke Lovey from slumber.

The miser was up in an instant, her senses alert and her frame refreshed. She struck flint on steel and turned to the prisoner.

"Morning light," she said. "And how be you fairing, my pretty maid?"

"I am suffering very terribly, Lovey. I could endure no more without crying out. These ropes are gnawing into me as though they were alive and had teeth."

"Bah! You'm more fretted for your raw wrists and ankles than for them poor, brave fools to Prison as meant to save 'e! Bide as you be an' smart on a while. Your good time be coming—when you go to church with Peter Norcot. Now I shall set out to get a bellyful o' fresh air an' see to the weather. No human foot will tread Hangman's Hollow for a week after the flood us had last night. But don't you fear. You chose sure hiding! I shall soon be back. An' if the rope hurts, just think if 'twas round your neck instead of your leg!"

The old savage sought her stores; and then she discovered the bread and meat and eggs that Lee had brought for Grace.

"My jimmery! This was what made Jack so hungry of late! Well, us will have bit an' sup when I come back. I must keep you fat and plump for Mr. Peter now. Afore sun's up I'll be here again. Me an' the sun ban't like to be friends no more this many a day. For that matter moon's always more kindly to me."

"Will you, at least, loose my eyes? I promise you faithfully I'll make no attempt to escape while you are away."

Lovey laughed and took the bandage from Grace's face.

"Since there's nought to see but the gold moss you hate, look about so much as you please; an' as for escaping—I'll give 'e full leave to do it if you can. A horse couldn't break that rope, let alone a slip of a girl."

Lovey now climbed carefully out of her treasure house and Grace saw one blessed gleam of blue daylight before the great stone above was swung back into its place and Mrs. Lee tramped away.

CHAPTER XI
APOCALYPSE

Now were the threads of three lives to be tangled by Fate upon the vast bosom of Cater's Beam; and here, within the secret morasses beneath that great hill, walked Maurice Malherb under the dawn and tempest. He ranged with the thunderbolt, for the storm had called him from his bed; the elemental chaos echoed his own heart and drew him forth into it.

He suffered such misery as only men built in his great, futile pattern are called to suffer. The calculating and responsible find themselves in no such sea of troubles; for their flotillas hold inshore; their sapient eyes ever scan the weather of life, and their ready hands trim sail to it. But this faulty fool with his mad temper and sanguine trust in self, had listened to none, marked no sign, heeded no warning. He had played the greatest game that he knew, in hope that an unborn babe might some day bless his name and perpetuate it. He had staked all and lost all. His daughter was driven from him; his wife, in the agony of her bereavement, had shed bitter tears, and, for the first time in her life, lifted up her voice against his judgment. His plans had miscarried; his money was nearly all lost. He stood under the storm bankrupt of everything that he had worked for and hoped for. He felt naked when he thought of his life, now stripped so bare; for every interest was torn out of it, and, as a tree robbed of leaves, it threatened to perish. Present tribulations thundered on his heart as the storm upon his ears. His soul felt deafened and bewildered; therefore he ran for shelter into the past. Time rolled back for him and he saw the tortuous journey of his days stretching into childhood. The vernal, sweet delights of youth appeared again, and he remembered old forgotten springtimes—birds' eggs—minnows—his first pony—the scent of the new-mown hay. Then his own disposition developed and darkened the hour. Puberty was past; freedom became his and he abused it. Manhood plunged him into gloomy and sombre avenues of years, lighted only by the flashing flame-points of his own temper. He marked how ungoverned wrath had at last grown ungovernable, and had risen, time out of mind, like a demon, between him and wisdom; how his own action had ceaselessly turned him out of the proper road, had clouded justice and threatened honour. He clung to honour as a drowning man to a straw. He fought the cruel white light of truth and strove to shut his eyes to it; for soaked in that blinding ray, honour stood no longer undefiled. A canker grew there; a blot dimmed it; and the spectacle, shattering self-respect, hurt him worse than loss of friends and fortune and his only child. Cowardice and high honour could not chime together; and light showed him that the canker-growth spelt cowardice. He had outraged the freedom of his daughter; he had used force against her liberty; he had denied her sacred rights in the disposal of her own life and body.

Before this thought he came to his better self through his worst. He called down a curse on the forces that played with his convictions; he damned the inner voice of reason that showed him what he had deemed duty was an interested crime. Standing beneath the storm he put bitter facts behind him for vain phantoms, and maligned the awful ray of truth. Then, moody and sick in spirit, he leapt suddenly to sweeter and cleaner thinking. Some phase of mind, some physical conjunction, or some psychic crisis pervious to the influence of Nature, lifted him, as often happened, into great longing for the better part. The dawn showed him what no dawn had ever yet revealed. He turned to the East and prayed to it.

"Before Heaven I mourn for what I am! I see myself cursed—self-cursed. Oh, God, give me back my child again, and I will be a wiser man! Only my child—only my Grace. I humble myself. Punish me, great God, but not by taking her—my only one. I repent; I will mend my life if I may but have my child again."

The sun, struggling above wild new-born day and dying tempest, answered his petition with shafts of flame, and wrapped that desolate wilderness in a mingled splendour of mist and fire. The pageant of the sky uttered a music proper to the man's sore spirit, and unrolled with solemn glory. Heaven glowed and burnt, or frowned and shuddered in black precipices of storm-cloud that sank upon the West. Into the deep senses of the watcher these things penetrated graciously. They touched the ragged wounds of his heart and helped to heal them, while a harmony, as of music, fell upon his helpless, hopeless soul. All the wonder of the sky filled Malherb's dark eyes as he lifted them; but a light greater than the sky or any inspiration born of day shone out. Upon the verge of apocalypse he stood; yet gulfs unseen separated him from it. His days were not accomplished; his darkest hour was not yet come.

Now, where a rock rose at a point not far distant, there appeared Lovey Lee. She stood like some night-spirit, surprised by dawn, blinking and disarmed in the unfamiliar sunshine. For a moment she hesitated at the sight of Malherb; then approached him, conscious of her complete power. This man, and perhaps only this man in the world, was impotent against her. Not a finger could he lift. Harm done to her must bring far worse upon himself. Her wits planned a cunning lie and she advanced to utter it.

"You'm stirring early, Maurice Malherb. 'Tis strange that you an' me should both choose to walk this here ill-wisht heath all rotten wi' bog and water."

"I came to seek peace—not you. I ask you to quit my sight without more words. There is no anger in me now."

"'Peace'! Do 'e find peace in your own company? I'll swear you never have, nor never will. No peace for the likes of you till you be dead. Come, let's talk secrets—shall us? I've got things you'd dearly like to hear about."

"Leave me," he said. "I've done with cursing and swearing. There is much upon my mind. I will not be angry with you. My daughter is lost."

"They say you drove her away with a whip."

"They lie! 'Twas her own damnable folly that drove her away."

"Maybe you lie too, to say it. You've held me in such contempt and scorn—you've treated me so vile—that it's good, even at a time like this, to make you bleed a bit. An' I'm going to now. You shall cringe yet, though I have got the gallows hanging over me; you shall grovel yet, though I do stand an outlawed, doomed woman for helping them at the Prison. I'll crack your heart first; then I'll ax you to save me from the soldiers. And yet I doubt if t'other ban't a more solid man to trust—Norcot I mean. Anyway, he's a wiser one, and can pay better, too."

"Do you dare to mean that you know where Grace Malherb is hidden?"

"Ah! that wakes you up—you that have done wi' cursing an' swearing—you that stole my grazing rights and called me 'hag' and 'miser'! I've got your fortune in my hand still, for all your bluster and great oaths. And I've got your daughter, too! Now you can listen—eh? Now I don't worrit you no more? Yes, I've got her hard an' fast, wi' cords biting at her wrists an' ankles like poisonous snakes—she said it felt so. I told you I'd wreck your stupid, brawling fool's life; an' I have. You owe every pang you suffer to yourself—then to me; every curse you utter hops back to roost on your own head—so grey it grows with their droppings! My work—all mine! Now howl an' roar—I want to hear you!"

The man preserved an astounding self-control before Lovey's confession.

"This is what her grandson tried to tell me yesterday, and I would not listen," he said aloud.

"Ah!—you was ever a poor listener. More poison for 'e! He was your nephew—Jack Lee—the son of your younger brother, an' so like him as peas in a pod! He knowed, but you wouldn't heed him. But you always heed me, Malherb—doan't 'e?"

Still he spoke no angry word, though his great chest rose and his face grew dark.

"If you tell me the truth—that my daughter is alive and in your keeping—that is well. Much has happened since she went away. If she knew, she would be glad to come back to me. I—I am not faultless—I have erred. My eyes are opened. Give me back my daughter, woman—I will reward you."

"'Give' her back! When was I ever knowed to give aught to anybody? That's your own fool's way—give—give—give. I might sell her; but you've not enough money to buy her. I'd rather kill her by inches under your nose an' see you wriggle an' rave till them black veins on your brow burst!"

His passion began to beat up strong and tempestuous under her lash. The spiritual dawn-light was still-born. Storm awoke in his soul before this infernal provocation and the sea of his mind fell into its accustomed waves before the wind of wrath. He forgot the danger of passion now; he did not appreciate the importance of self-control. His voice rose to the familiar roar and he clutched his riding-stock.

"What a loathsome reptile can a woman be! No man would descend to such filthy degradation. To treat you like a fellow-creature is vain; you are a beast, and must feel like a beast, and understand like a beast. Force at least you recognise; then see force here figured in me! Disobey at your peril, for I'll not stand upon words with you again. Get before me to my daughter! Instantly lead the way. Deny me, and I'll destroy you and rid the world of a venomous fury who has lived too long."

She did not guess that he intended actual and instant violence, but supposed he threatened to give her up to the authorities.

"Lies—lies!" she answered, mocking him. "You kill me? I know better. You're not mad every way. Do your own errands—I spit at you! I wasn't born to obey a fool. The hills and rivers laugh to see you dance an' blow, as if you'd got poison in your vitals. Never—never again shall you see her; never, not for millions! To give me up! Bah! how's that going to help? An' I'd laugh to think of her starving alongside fifteen thousand pounds. How black you get! Why don't you use that great horn handle you're waving about like a lunatic? Come, there's only white hair on my head, an' little of that. Smash my skull in! And then? Kill me. Ha, ha!——"

For the first time in her life, Lovey Lee mistook the nature of a man. That there was a sort of anger capable of rising high above its own interest her own cautious nature could not guess. She saw that the whole of Malherb's earthly desires were in her hand; and that he, who also realised this, would, with one mad stroke, rob himself of his last hope, she never imagined even as a possibility. Had he kept his reason, she had never succeeded in goading him to this murder pitch; but now he grew insane, and the woman paid forfeit.

She intended to show him the folly of threats. But the words were never uttered; her laugh was not finished. Beside himself, the master leapt forward; his whip shrieked across the air, and the massive handle dropped like a hammer on the miser's crown. To her knees she came, without a sound; next she fell prone before him. Her legs and arms shot forth convulsively twice; a patch of blood swelled on her sun-bonnet, then soaked through and ran. One groan came with it and only one. After that she was still, and Malherb knew she was dead.

He turned away and lifted his eyes and saw the golden reefs and rosy cloud-islands of that wonderful dawn. Still the pomp and glory of sunrise filled the sky, for only minutes had passed since he stared upwards and prayed and uttered premises. He marvelled that so much could happen in such a brief compass of time. He mused of this experience and of his former hatred of a psalmist's curse. He had rebelled against that awful petition as being the demon's plea, beyond a good God's power to grant. Yet the thing had happened to himself in this hour: his prayer was turned into sin.

And then he hid himself within the hollow and lonely antres of the land. From dawn till dusk he tramped the desert beyond man's sight, and called on darkness to inspire him. Once without set purpose, he returned within sight of the spot where Lovey Lee had fallen. She lay there just as he had struck her down; and there she would lie until the carrion crows scattered her bones. His crime was safe enough from discovery unless it pleased him to reveal it. The deed he gradually grasped; its consequence still evaded his mind; but as he worked backwards in thought he came to Grace. Then he stood still before the vision of her perchance perishing of starvation. He was doubly a murderer; and, to escape that awful imputation, he told himself that the dead woman had lied to torture him; that her tales concerning his amphora were as untrue as the things that she had asserted concerning his child. He strove to find comfort in the thought that her life had stood forfeit to the State; then sophistry faded from him and a man, at best but little versed in the force of speech, stood dumb before a terrific truth. Murder overtook him and stuck to his side like a ponderable, shadow-casting shape. Far away he knew that foxes were creeping at the dim edge of dusk and barking of what they had found. First an aversion from any thought of a human face crowded upon him; then as the stars began to shine, he found himself craving hungrily for the companionship of man. He sat and rested for a while; he drank and watched a young moon in a green sky. The heath rolled here in deep billows, unfretted by stock or stone. As it held unshed waters, so it could suck up darkness; and already detail was dying out of it ere twilight fell. He rose and walked onwards, careless of direction, into a chaos of marsh and broken peat hillocks. His mind worked quicker while his body moved; it stagnated into a slough of sheer blood when he sat still. Deep longing to see a fellow-creature held him; and suddenly, though he was got beyond the power of astonishment, a thing astonishing happened, and he found another man. It was improbable that two human beings had met in this shunned spot for years; perhaps no foot of man had trodden it since some storm-lost miner wandered that way when Elizabeth was queen.

Here now Malherb chanced upon one who sat motionless on a bank with his feet in the mire. He turned as the other approached, but showed no interest at sight of him.

"What lonely soul art thou?" cried Malherb; and as he spoke he remembered that for the first time in his life he heard a murderer's voice.

The figure revealed a strange countenance, made stranger still by suffering.

"No man me—just a skinful of hell-fire burning itself out! Get gone, for I poison the air around me. I never want ter see no human more."

The speaker's awful despair had power to arrest one, himself despairing. Malherb came nearer, and sought confidence. His crime had shaken his nature and unsettled the tenour of his disposition as a drug unsettles human organs. Now he thirsted to talk.

"You can rail so loud and confess so much! And yet here I stand; and to my misery yours, be it what it may, is the short grief of a child to a man's abiding woe."

"Lordy, what big words! You to prattle about trouble, stranger—ter me—ter me—a man who's touched bottom deeper than any man since Judas hanged himself. Away you and sorrow that can bear speech! Leave me ter burn."

An opal light from the West was in the speaker's eyes, and they glittered green. Their dreadful expression held Malherb, for agony far beyond the fear of death looked out of them. The sufferer's head was bare and nearly bald; his face was hatchet-shaped and narrow; the yellow skin seemed drawn to bursting over his high cheek-bones; and upon his chin was a fan-shaped and grizzled beard.

"I perceive you are an American—a lonely wretch who might carry all his cursed country's crimes and sorrows on his own forehead. Yet what are national troubles to a man's own? You sit gazing and glaring. What then have you done that makes such a night of life for you?"

"A thing Satan's self never did—a thing as would heat hell again if 'twere cold—a thing not yet writ against any starving ragtail on God's earth. Past hope—past praying for. And it seemed nought until it were done; but after—it's brought me ter this. Tell me, you who talk as if you knew big trouble, why did it seem nought till afterwards?"

"What have you done?"

"It seemed nought till afterwards, I tell you. Then it grew up into a mountain. The fallen angels will be took back ter heaven sooner than me. Prayer's vain beyond a certain pass. Has life showed you that?"

"It has. Yet what is there in your torture that can make me unbosom mine?"

"Because 'tis the first longing that comes after crimes—to tell 'em," said the American. "So you've prayed too?" he added.

"'Prayed'? Yes, I've prayed hard and earnestly. I've frightened my horse by night as I suddenly challenged my God. I have dismounted and fallen upon my knees by lonely roads and secret places. I've bruised my soul and cried aloud to the Almighty and bade Him touch my fiend's temper and give me a clean heart."

"Never had no truck with Heaven myself. Kinder knew I'd have no use for it."

"Heaven—Heaven—you talk of Heaven! Another heart—a humble heart was all the heaven I wanted. To be at peace with myself—to learn patience: that was my unanswered prayer. And now the deed I have done has made me mad. Mad must I be, since I can talk of it to you. Yet 'tis to the thing looking out of you—not to you—I speak."

David Leverett stared into the dark face above him, and his starved, hollow countenance grew hard.

"What a trumpet! Ter bleat because you've got a nasty temper! What full-grown baby are you, that thinks God's its nurse, and cries becuz it's lost Him! Look at me! Like the rest of men, you've lived ter find your puny misery capped by worse. But look at me! Christ's sweat! you're an angel of light beside of me! A short temper——"

"That has driven me into murder."

"Murder—what's that? David was a murderer. So was scores that have marble stuck up to 'em all over the earth. 'Tis worse ter bring life inter the world than put it out. Have you never larned that much? You make a man in a moment of passion, and set another puppet strutting ter suffer life. And you mar a man in a passion, and—well, journey's end is no evil; death's no evil ter them that die. There's thousands of men this day as would tear me to pieces, limb by limb, and reckon they did heaven and hell both a service. And so they would. Curse the man as got me; curse the woman as bore me; not him who would kill me."

"All this is nothing; you are only mad," said Malherb.

"Nothing at all! See here now—this great bag of leather. I've dragged it thus far—further I won't. That is what I'm damned for; that is why hell's gathering up heat for me."

He dragged out a big knife; opened it with his teeth; then fell upon the bag and slashed the leather. A flash answered every stroke, and gold coin tumbled and twinkled and fell in a shower upon the ground.

"Murder—if I could murder that; if I could cut the throat of what that bag means! But I can't—so I'll cut my own. It seemed nought in the planning and promising—nought till after I'd done it and felt the weight of the money here—here."

He beat at his chest.

"Murder—killing kittens! I've murdered a whole country—murdered America! For this filth here mixing with the mire—for this and for liberty! Whoever you are, help me ter curse liberty! The name of a thing that is not. Judas only betrayed one man. A little matter that, come to think on it. I betrayed my own flesh and blood—them that had wives and children yonder, and old, fond mothers. Sold the whole of 'em—every blessed monkey of 'em; played God and Fate—for two hundred pound—and liberty!

"I sold men who had shared their all with me—who had spared the coats off their backs when I was sick, the food for their stomachs when I was hungry. They trusted me with their secrets. I was a sailor—I'd had a hand shot away for my country. God tell why my head wasn't shot away! And first I betrayed my own true friends and hoarded the money, and felt no smart from that. And next I sneaked upon a nation. They took me along with the rest and put me in the cachot, that none might guess and turn and kill me. Then, when night came, they thrust me out—me and my money and my liberty! And out of the thunder came what I suffer now. Tell me why I didn't see the punishment sooner and escape it? Tell me why the money looked different till 'twas mine? And tell me what's left for me?"

"There's death for you and for me," said Malherb.

"That's the same as hell. Just judge! Then take my knife. You that fear ter let blood—let more. You was sent ter do it. Then you'll be forgiven, and your durned tender conscience will prune its feathers and pipe up again. Kill me. Let me get the worst of hell over; for thoughts of things are worse than any things themselves can be. I hoped the lightning would do it; but 'twouldn't foul its blade with me. I thought a great red-eyed bull would do it, and stood in his path; but he knew, and turned out of the road; he wouldn't red his horn with me."

"You see yourself," said Malherb solemnly, "even as I see myself—too late. You are the second who has asked me to kill them since the sun rose. The first I took at her word, and she is dead."

"A woman! One less to breed men."

"There may be repentance for you, if you can endure life till memory grows blunt. For me there can be nothing but increasing horror at my crime. Nothing can save me now."

"I reckon we have done the worse that was in our nature ter do," said the American. "That's nought—so have many and slept no worse. The scourge is that we've been made ter feel it."

"You are right; we feel; therefore we suffer. Farewell," answered Maurice Malherb.

Leverett did not reply, and the other passed out of his sight. One man plunged onward, never resting, never halting; one sat like a stone with his chin resting on his palm and his handless arm hanging beside him. The light of the stars was reflected on the knife at his feet; and presently a glitter caught his eye; whereupon he stooped and picked up the blade.

CHAPTER XII
THE VOICE

In the past—from a standpoint of fixed opinions and no experience—Maurice Malherb had condemned suicide and pronounced the action improper under any circumstances. But now, in the light of that day's deed, it seemed that suicide opened the sole road which led from ignominy and disgrace immeasurable. He had forfeited his life. His exhausted body cried out for food and rest; but his mind was active, and chaos, untouched by the light of any star, raged there. He stayed his steps, sat down amid old ruins and brooded upon death.

His purpose slowly established itself, and he determined to depart in such a manner that no man should know of his going or gaze upon his corpse. He might perish in the tenantless wastes westward of the Beam, and feed vermin, and make the wild asphodel sweeter, as his victim would; or he might choose some forgotten cavern or deserted mine where ready graves yawned to hide dead things until doom. He knew of such places, and recollected a natural chamber hard by Dartmeet. Here in the woods lay a deep hole that ran underground, and was known as the Pixies' Holt. He determined to creep thither, as old dying foxes did, that he might perish in peace.

Then it was that, rising again and stumbling forward, in doubt whether his strength would last to take him to his goal, a voice reached him and Malherb heard a faint cry for succour. At first he thought it but a late lamb that had lost its mother's warm side and bleated for cold. Then the sound became articulate, and, forgetting his own circumstances, he listened very intently. Presently he shouted with all his might, and from under the earth came instant answer.

"Help me—help me! Come back to me, Lovey, or I shall die!"

Then were the man's ears opened, and he heard his daughter's voice. She was buried alive and at hand, for he stood in Hangman's Hollow. Now Malherb forgot everything but his girl.

"'Tis I, Grace—your father! Be of good cheer. I'm close—I'm close!"

He rushed hither and thither, bruising himself against the broken walls. Then he entered the cul-de-sac, and stood, and cried out again.

"Where are you now? How shall I come at you?"

"I am here beneath you, dear father! There is a great stone—part of the floor where you stand. It reaches to the left-hand wall. Stamp every way, and when you stamp upon the inner edge the stone will turn slowly and show you a steep stair."

She heard him grope about and stamp as she directed. Then he struck the cover and it turned, and showed him steps that sank into the darkness. Slowly he let himself down, and soon stood at the bottom with a starry space of sky above and the glimmer of the moss around him.

"Move gently towards me," cried Grace. "A flat stone lies between us, with flint and steel and candles upon it."

The master obeyed, soon lighted a dip on Lovey Lee's altar, then hurried where his girl lay fast bound. Malherb released her and she fainted. He chafed her blue, swollen wrists and, for the first time, thought of the dead miser without a pang.

Grace slowly regained her senses, but not her courage. She clung to her father and wept and prayed him for the love of God not to loose her hand from between his own.

"Save me—save me from her," she said. "Let me die anywhere but here—not smothered and starved here. Never let me see her and hear her voice again, or I shall go mad."

"You are safe, my little child. Cry no more; tremble no more; 'tis your own father has found you."

"My own dear father! My own dear father has saved me. I called and called and counted the falling drops of water. Sometimes I screamed when the ropes bit sharpest. But I called after every hundred drops had fallen. Then I heard a step——"

She fainted again, and, seeking for the dropping water that she mentioned, Malherb found bread and meat where John Lee had placed it.

He restored his daughter's consciousness, then made her eat and drink. After she had done so he finished the remainder of the food, and marvelled at himself that his appetite was keen.

"Come," he said, "now, with my hand to help, your strength will lift you out of this den for ever."

Anon they reached the air.

"A century has gone over my head since dawn," he said.

The girl took deep inhalations and looked at the sky.

"To see the dear stars again! Speak to me, father—speak and hold my hand. I have come to fear silence. Have you forgiven—can you forgive me for all the suffering I have brought?"

He held her hand and pressed it, but did not answer.

Slowly they moved away; then Grace stopped.

"Return, father—you must return and cover the mouth of the place, and make it fast against her. Else, when she comes again herself, thinking to find me dead, and finds me vanished, she will fly and take the amphora too."

"It is there, then?"

"Yes indeed! I have seen it with my own eyes. She kissed it—her hideous lips kissed it! Then she hid it again."

"She will kiss it no more. She will not come back. The amphora and you—both in one moment! And I had determined to—— The irony of God! A banquet He spreads—but my teeth are gone. Yesterday this would have turned me into a good man; to-day it is too late. Lean on my arm, little heart. I'm strong enough to hold you up still."

They spoke again of the past, and Grace told her father what he had already learned: that John Lee was his brother's son. He heard the fact with indifference now.

So they passed painfully and slowly to their home, and in an hour Grace was upon her mother's bosom.

With wine came strength, and the suffering of her raw wrists was quickly lessened. She sank to sleep holding Annabel's hand; and when she was in easy slumber, the wife returned to her husband. He was sitting below beside a fire of peat, and he also slept heavily. She loosened his collar, and, though the touch was light as down, her hand at his throat awoke him. He leapt to his feet and cried out aloud and bade her stand back.

"I meant to ease you," she said.

Then he awoke and took her in his arms.

"Forgive me. I dreamed an evil dream. Come, gentle nurse; I know that she sleeps, else you would not have left her. And you are heavy-eyed with much prayer and thanksgiving to God. How well I guess what's filled your heart since I brought her home! Now, wife, you may rest in peace."

"Come you too," she answered. "And have not you also thanked the watching God? Surely I know that you have."

CHAPTER XIII
PETER TRIUMPHANT

Peter Norcot had left Fox Tor Farm the night before Grace's discovery and return. Upon hearing this great news, he wrote a magnanimous letter of forgiveness, congratulation and quotation; but he did not follow it himself for the space of three days. Then the richer by information of very significant character, he reappeared at the dwelling of the Malherbs.

Meantime the sorry truth had come to Grace. Cecil Stark and the leaders of the conspiracy at Prince Town were all suffering imprisonment in the cachots; John Lee was at Plymouth; Lovey Lee had vanished. These things she comprehended and mourned; her mother's grief at temporal troubles she also shared and understood; only her father had changed in every respect, and she could find little explanation for his actions. The crisis of his affairs approached, and yet he made no effort to avert it; once only she spoke to him concerning the amphora; but he desired her to leave the subject, and commanded her neither to return to her former prison nor mention the matter to anybody.

"The affair is in my hands," he said; "I pray you, Grace, to leave it there for the present. Utter no word upon this subject. I have reasons strong enough for desiring silence."

She promised, bewildered to think why her father could thus desert his treasure now that she had restored it to him; then Norcot arrived without invitation to spend a day or two.

He quickly perceived that mighty changes marked the situation. His first intention had been to let the past alone; but, finding that Maurice Malherb was indifferent to it, and would not so much as express regret at all the indignity Peter had suffered, the lover, for the first time in his relations with his future father-in-law, struck a firmer note and permitted some flash of that steel in him to catch the other's eye.

They rode together upon the land, and the subject was opened by Peter.

"You'll guess that I'm not here just now for rest and change, Malherb. There's a good deal to be said between us. But you seem indisposed to say it. Naturally I should like to know all about this wonderful rescue. Yet, since you are so taciturn, I'll leave that until it pleases you or Grace to tell the story. Suffice it that she's alive and well, and I hope wise at last. Now, how do we stand?"

Malherb noted the difference of tone, but made no comment upon it.

"She and I stand in the relation of father and daughter," he answered. "That is not new; and yet it is new. I have learned a good deal of late. My judgment is shaken within me."

"'Where the judgment's weak, the prejudice is strong.' You talk as if you had been in fault, instead of your daughter."

"You were not wont to speak so to me."

"Nor you to act so. Life is short, and even my astounding patience has run out."

"Listen," said Malherb, reining up his horse and lifting his hand. "Trouble has fallen upon me—terrible trouble. You shall know—everybody shall know; but not yet. It is in Job—set there in the awful words of Scripture: 'He discovereth deep things out of darkness, and bringeth out to light the shadow of death.' I have done evil, Norcot; I have fallen as I pray you may never fall. Invisible powers have rent me and torn me. I tell you that I have been through dark waters."

"Bless my soul! all the deities in a rumpus over one man! Tut, tut! What then? If you've learned some wisdom—if you've found out that God is jealous and takes mighty good care none of us shall be wiser than He is—then there's hope for you."

"I have learned much. This girl—my girl—she has suffered a great deal. Frankly, we have overlooked her rights."

"What moonshine do you talk, my dear Malherb?"

The other's eyes flashed—then dulled. His rage was but a shadow of its old self, and, like a shadow, vanished. He answered listlessly.

"I am not what I was. I have heavy anxieties, and I will not fight with my child. My opinion is changed. She is a woman."

"'Little force suffices to break what's cracked already.' You mean that she has prevailed with you to forswear yourself—to turn traitor to me. You a traitor! 'Tis a thing impossible!"

"What is impossible? No depth of error is impossible to one who knows not himself. To upbraid me is vain. The solid earth has shifted under my feet, Peter Norcot. But 'traitor'—I'll not brook that. Worse than that I may be, but not that."

"Not that, indeed! If you only knew how I respect you and approve your staunch, fearless outlook upon life! But I, too, have endured not a little. Think of it—the marriage broken off at the altar rails! And then fifteen hours in the saddle. Nocturnal adventures to fill a volume. Terrific expenditure—wear and tear to body and soul and clothes.

"'And winged lovelings round my aching heart
Still flutter, flutter—never to depart.'

"You cannot go back on your oath, Malherb. If you did, you wouldn't be Malherb."

"We are fighting against nature."

"We are fighting against Cecil Stark, not nature at all.

"'Man's life is but a cheating game
At cards, and Fortune plays the same,
Packing a queen up with a knave——'

as Bancroft so appositely remarks. But the knave of hearts is hard and fast in a Prince Town cachot and like to stop there; and the knave of clubs—so to call that meddling rascal, John Lee—has stood his trial at Plymouth. They are done with; and King Peter shall come to his own queen again. I'm patient as a spider and sure as time. I'm going to marry Grace Malherb, though the heavens fall. I never change; but you? Am I more steadfast than the man who taught me steadfastness?

"'An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven:
Shall I lay perjury upon my soul?'

Ask yourself that question."

"Let it rest awhile. I have much else on my mind—far greater things even than this marriage. There are heavy secrets—heavy secrets."

"Who has not got 'em? God knows how well I wish you. But to behold you weak! 'Tis like believing that you see granite, only to find it painted paper."

The other man's mind was running on.

"I want no son of the next generation to be my glory and my hope. I want no son, nor daughter neither. I weary of the future; I turn from it; I have no longer any wish that my name should outlive me."

"Why then, the case is clear: you're ill! How blind one can be! Somehow I'd never associated your iron constitution with physical griefs. Yet you, too, can be sick. Your vitality is lowered; I see it in your face. At such times there is danger of cancers, declines and murrains. They fix their dreadful fangs in us when we are enervated and weak. Man! trust me more. I'm no wind-bag. I can do things. I have many very definite deeds to my credit. Often I came to you for advice; now take from me what's better; coin of the realm. Forgive bluntness and accept blunt. This has nought to do with Grace at all. 'I will not purchase hope with ready money.' There's no room for false pride between us, thank God! I say you shall! I hate to see you troubled over the trashy aspect of human life. To be cornered for a little metal! Consider:

"'Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul,
Sweet'ner of life! and solder of society!'

Blair. But what is friendship if we do not permit it to take shape or substance?"

The older man was touched instantly and deeply. He bent from his saddle and shook Peter's hand.

"You've a great, generous soul, Norcot," he said. "I thank you with my heart, but not with words. You don't guess what manner of man you would befriend. Yet thank you a thousand times. No, no—such things have happened that I would starve sooner than accept a loan. And you—if you knew—as you must know—you would desire Grace no more. I am growing old, Peter. Age surprises such men as I am—age and crime. Yes, I say 'crime.' But age creeps with calmer men. Upon me he has sprung. I'm not so wise as people have been good enough to think. But I'm going to pay for that. I'm going to pay for everything."

"Leave your affairs for the present. We'll return to them. You must see a physician. Meanwhile I insist on your taking five thousand pounds. 'Tis pure friendship, and so I hope you'll hold it. Now Grace—well, she is a woman. You said that not long since. I was struck with the remark. Now, being a woman, she cannot possibly know her own mind. Trite but true. It is only fair that I should make a final appeal—only fair to both of us. Something leads me to think that she may yet see the true and proper course.

"'Hope, heaven-born cherub, still appears,
Howe'er misfortune seem to lower.

See! she comes out to meet us! It is an augury! How lovely she looks, despite her trying experiences. Ride you off, Malherb; but hear me promise ere you go that I'll not distress her."

"Better that you should leave us all and forget us all, Peter Norcot."

"Ride on, I say, and let the maid come with me. This business shall be ended for ever, before time for tea-drinking."

Grace approached, and Peter waved his hat with customary politeness. Malherb turned away and galloped off; then the girl, dismayed, was about to follow him, when she found Norcot already at her side.

"Don't go!" he said. "'Twas your father's wish that we should speak in private together. Have no fear. 'Tis but a simple matter to do with the future, not the past. But we'll get within doors, so please you. I hate talking of anything important from the back of a horse. I believe in transmigration of souls, you see. Who knows what spirit inhabits your gallant 'CÆsar'?"

Without answer Grace turned homeward, and ere long she sat in the dining-room of Fox Tor Farm, while Peter stood before her and twirled his seals.

"Your father has explained facts, my dear. He is very unwell, and his judgment has left him with his health. He's haunted by something. I hope drugs will lay the ghost. Now you—I begged for the boon of a little talk. Tut, tut! 'tis beginning all over again—and that after the banns were called for the third and last time! Poor cousin Relton—how he squinted when Tom Putt brought the news of your retreat!"

"'To begin again'! Oh, Peter, have I not made my answer clear?"

"No; because your actions were not clear. They were very mysterious actions. For two pins I was going to rescue you from your father myself. But I had a suspicion that even if I brought wings you wouldn't wear 'em. Really, Grace, you've wickedly wronged a good man, though I say it. You've hurt me through and through."

"And what of all that you have made me suffer?"

"You haven't suffered. You've merely enjoyed an extremely exciting experience. Mentally you have not endured anything to name. No woman can suffer acutely so long as she's interested in three men. I say 'three.' 'Twas John Lee helped you to escape and risked his life and ruined his fortune for you. First, how do you stand towards that romantic young fellow now? 'Tis rather important—for him. To be frank, his life is in your hands. The law of the land has dealt with him finally; but the book of John Lee's days lies with you to shut or open at will. Have you forgot him, or do you desire to? That hardly sounds like another offer of marriage, does it? Yet I'm proposing with all my heart."

"Forget John! Forget him—forget to love him? Never. He saved my life."

"Indeed! All these delightful incidents are still hidden from me. But the question now is his life—happily not yours. You've doubtless heard that he helped that formidable skeleton, his grandmother, to dig a tunnel under the walls of the War Prison. Maybe he did it as much for you as anybody—to assist the young hero No. 2—Stark of the 'Stars and Stripes.' Well, call it what you like, 'twas high treason and poor John Lee must hang for it. I heard sentence of death pronounced at Plymouth yesterday—a solemn experience."

"John Lee—John!"

The girl reeled backwards, then started to her feet.

"He must be saved; he shall be saved. I cannot live if he dies. The guards—the soldiers. There must be some among them who would—oh, God, help me now! He must be saved if I tramp to the King myself!"

"Bravely spoken!

"'God and a soldier all people adore
In time of war—but not before.'

Better leave the King out and trust to God and a soldier. And we'll set the soldier first, since pounds get answered quicker than prayers. There's no time to pray when the gibbet's up."

"He must be saved."

"He shall be—if I can save him. He shall be saved, though the price should be my wool factory. But this is a proposal of marriage—don't forget that."

"He must be saved."

Norcot nodded.

"So be it. 'I'll dare all heat but that in Gracie's eyes.' I may add that I'm probably the only man in Devonshire who could save him. And even I must do it by foul means, not fair ones. Say the word then!"

"I implore you, if ever you loved me. Oh, if I could do it myself I would not ask you."

"You can't do it."

"Then do you."

"And afterwards? Tut, tut! I may dance on the gallows I rob of him! One doesn't risk these highly coloured possibilities for a hand-shake. What afterwards, Grace?"

As she answered, Mr. Kekewich entered at the other end of the chamber, and he heard her reply.

"If you save John Lee's life, I'll marry you."

"Before Heaven you mean it?"

"Before Heaven."

"There's my brave heroine!"

"Tea is served in the drawing-room, Miss Grace," said Kekewich.

CHAPTER XIV
STRATEGY

When approaching a problem Peter Norcot rarely made any error in his point of attack. By nightfall upon the day of Grace's promise he had left Fox Tor Farm, and only she knew the reason. But to Plymouth Peter did not go. He returned home, visited his safe and took from it the sum of one thousand pounds in notes. Any appeal to authority on behalf of John Lee must be vain. He had been sentenced to death for high treason, and four days separated him from the gallows. Norcot knew that the man would be hanged at Exeter, and that he was to leave Plymouth for that city under a military escort two days after his trial. He had learned the route of march and the constitution of the company responsible for the prisoner's safe custody. The journey would take two days, and the half-way house stood near Ashburton. A non-commissioned officer commanded, and upon that man Peter Norcot centred his hopes. Quarters for the company were already taken at Westover Farm, outside Ashburton; and here the wool-stapler designed to appear in good time. During the hours of that night he doubted little but that he would achieve his purpose.

Meanwhile a lesser man—one Thomas Putt—commands undivided attention. When Kekewich returned to the servants' hall after announcing tea to Grace and her lover, he found Mrs. Beer there. To them entered Tom with a fine salmon; but no voice of approval rewarded his achievement, for Kekewich was full of the tragic thing he had just heard.

"What a light it do throw!" cried Dinah Beer. "Poor tibby lamb; an' the hunger of that dreadful wolf for her! Now he'll get Lee off—see if he don't—though he's got to ax King George."

"If Lee knowed the price, I'm thinking as 'twould be more than Norcot could do to free him," said Kekewich. "I was for this marriage heart an' soul, so much as master; but he've changed since she runned away; an' so have I. I'm generally of his mind in secret, though I never tell the man so."

"'Tis too dreadful to think of," declared Dinah. "Poor dear Jack!—yet the price of his getting off be dreadful too."

"'Twill kill her to marry him—honest gentleman though he be," said Kekewich. "An' she'll do it. If Mr. Norcot gets Lee off, she'll take him without another murmur."

Then Tom Putt spoke. He knew a great deal about the matter of Lee, for he had been permitted to see John at Prince Town and had afterwards got a message to him, through Sergeant Bradridge, that Grace Malherb was safe. To the sergeant fell Lee's custody, and Putt knew that on the morrow his uncle Septimus Bradridge would convey John from Plymouth a day's march to Westover Farm.

Apart from any question concerning Grace, Tom had already determined to see his old companion once again, and he knew exactly where the soldiers would make their noontide halt upon the following morning. Now his mind quickened and he showed a spark of the genius that had so often been wasted in successful poaching on Dart. First Mr. Putt begged Kekewich to give him a few moments of private conversation, and then, when he and the old man were closeted together, John Lee's friend explained a part of his purpose.

"My uncle's a fierce warrior, but he've always showed a great liking for me, and I know he'll not stand between me and a word or two with Jack. The day's journey is to be broken where Dean Burn flows down out o' the woods between Buckfastleigh and Dean Prior. 'Tis a spot where two roads meet, and there's a bridge there. Now I can get to that place afore they do; an' if I have speech with Jack Lee, 'twill put iron into his will."

"You might see Norcot?"

"I shall not. Norcot will tackle my Uncle Septimus to-morrow night at Westover. An' he'll find my uncle's a man as wants a tidy mort o' money to go behind his duty. As to Norcot, he'll get Lee off, sure's fate; for Jack would run like any other chap to save his neck. But not if he knowed what price Norcot be getting for saving him. The gentleman may override Sergeant Bradridge, but he won't override Jack Lee."

"You'll want a bit of money, won't 'e, to get leave to talk to him?"

"Ess, I shall," said Putt. "That's what I wanted to say. A pound will go a long way with a common sojer, but not with my uncle. I wouldn't dare for to offer him small money. I shall just ax if I may speak to an old friend afore he's choked off; and I shall offer all you can let me have, an' hope for my mother's sake as Uncle Septimus will let me get a few private words."

"I can give 'e twenty pounds," said Kekewich, "an' that's every penny I've got by me. Money's scarce just now."

Putt nodded gloomily, because the elder touched a thorny subject. For the first time since Fox Tor Farm was built, had the master of it asked his men upon pay day to let their wages stand over for a week.

"I've not got a farden. Gived my maid to Chagford every penny," confessed Mr. Putt.

The old man nodded and produced his cash in the shape of two notes.

"I won't ax you your plans, Thomas, for you wasn't born yesterday. 'Tis a great source of strength that Sergeant Bradridge is your relation. Be witty about it; an' if John Lee can save her by taking his bad fortune like a man—well, so much the better, though 'tis a poor come along of it for him, poor chap."

Tom pouched the money carefully, but made no comment on the other's words.

"I'll take my uncle this here fish I've catched," he said, "for he's a man fond of pretty eating, and was brought up on Dart salmon. And I shall leave at cock-light to-morrow morning."

"Good luck go with you. Ban't often I wish anybody that; but this time I will for the maiden's sake. An' her good fortune will be his bad, poor blid! unless 'tis good fortune to die in a good cause."

"Us never knows what'll happen," declared Putt. "An' whether or no, 'tis bad fortune to be hanged, for it stops a man's usefulness."

The conversation ended with this just reflection, and very early next morning Thomas went his way. Mrs. Beer provided him with plentiful supplies of food and, upon his own account, he visited the tool-shed and work-loft before setting out. With him he carried a stout stick, and his salmon as a gift for Sergeant Bradridge.

He struck into Dean Woods while it was yet early, then called at a farm hard by, where he was known, partook of a pint of beer and had some conversation with the farmer's son. Presently, seated with this lad in front of a load of manure, Putt jogged onwards and proceeded to a cross-road not far distant from Robin Herrick's old home at Dean Prior. Here ran Dean Burn from its fountains on Dartmoor; and to Mr. Putt this stream, now in full torrent after rain, offered interesting problems. He examined the waters with a professional eye, and his friend upon the cart laughed at him.

"Ever thinking of fish; even at such a time as this!"

"No, by Gor!" answered Tom. "I'm just wondering how shallow it runs to the bridge yonder. Lend me your whip an' I'll find out."

He proved to his satisfaction that there was deep water at hand, and then, while still in earnest conversation with the young farmer, Thomas heard a tramp of feet and saw the troops advancing. Thereupon his friend drew his cart and its burden into a side path by the stream, and Putt, with the salmon well displayed, advanced to meet Sergeant Bradridge. The halt sounded as he approached. The troops grounded their arms and, weary and hungry after a march of fifteen miles, pulled food from their knapsacks and scattered in comfort by the grassy way. For drink, the river rolled at their feet.

Sergeant Bradridge himself had selected a comfortable spot upon a milestone, with a bank behind it for his back, just as Tom appeared. All the soldiers were now at ease, save two sentries, who kept guard over the prisoner. Lee was handcuffed, but his legs were free, and he had walked with his guards. He sat now, nodded and smiled at Putt, and welcomed him gratefully. But Thomas held his nose high, walked past the prisoner, and treated Lee as one no longer to be recognised by self-respecting people.

"Morning, Uncle Sep. I knowed you was passing this way, so I took a half-holiday, an' made bold to walk across the Moor."

The sergeant was an elderly man with a ruddy face, a pompous bearing, and a feeble, kindly mouth quite concealed under heavy moustaches.

"Tom, to be sure! Sit down an' have a bite. 'Tis dooty, an' a painful dooty. But us safeguards of the land have to do dirty work so well as clean work. That poor soul—well, but come to think of it, you knowed him better'n ever I shall. 'Tis a strange world. Back along I had to march your master out of War Prison, 'cause Mr. Malherb got in a rage the day we found out about that hole under the walls; then I had to take this here poor soul down along to Plymouth; an' now I be marching him to be hanged. Talk o' wars! Us as stays at home have just as terrible dooties thrust upon us."

"You was always ready for anything. Nothing never puzzles you. My mother says that if an earthquake comed, you wouldn't run. But as for Jack Lee—well, I grant us liked him very well. But he turned traitor to please the women, an' I've done with him."

"Ah!—a face like his was bound to get him mixed up with the female sex."

"You didn't ought to pity him—such a renowned King's man as you be," declared Putt.

"You'm quite correct," assented the sergeant, proceeding with his bread and cheese. "But though a King's man, I'm one as looks to the bottom of my glass, and to the bottom of everything. Many a poisonous root do bear wholesome seed. I've had speech with that chap, an' I'm devilish sorry for him—sorrier than he is for himself."

"You'm such a large-minded warrior, Uncle Sep. I wish there was more Bradridge and less Putt in my character, I'm sure. Bradridges is always heroes."

"Always—to a man," admitted the sergeant. "But your mother is a very proper-minded woman, an' you've got proper feelings, though you wouldn't go for a sojer when I wanted you."

"If he'd 'listed now," said Tom, pointing with his thumb to John Lee, "he'd never have found hisself in this fix."

"True for you. I wish I could take him to barracks 'stead of Exeter gaol. A modest man; and since I give him your message that 'twas well with the young lady, he's been quite content. He told me he didn't fear death no more than I do."

"All comes of bad company," replied his nephew. "I was half in mind to take the man's hand just now, but I couldn't bring myself to do it."

The sergeant shook his head.

"That's the Putt blood in you, Thomas. A Bradridge would never turn against a broken man just 'cause his life had fallen out crooked. Granted he've done wrong. Very well; he'm going to suffer for it. If you'd been tempted by a pretty maid, mayhap you'd be in the same box."

"He'm a traitor an' he tried to help they Yankees out of prison. That's enough for me," said Putt stoutly. "Us'll leave him to his righteous fate. See here, Uncle Sep, here's a brave fish I've brought 'e, knowing what a tooth you've got for Dart salmon. I thought as Mother Coaker—to Westover Farm where you lie to-night—would cook it for your supper."

Without words Sergeant Bradridge smelt the fish carefully; then his face shone.

"Fresh as a rose!" he said.

"Catched essterday morn."

"You'm a good boy, Tom, an' I thank you. Call that chap there who's just had a drink in the river. I'll send him forward with this here fish an' give him a pound of it for his trouble. He knows the way."

Thomas obeyed, and in ten minutes a soldier had started off with his sergeant's supper, while Putt professed great amazement.

"What power to put in one man's hands. You can order 'em about seemingly like a shepherd orders his dog! In these parts, of course, the name of Bradridge is a masterpiece. I lay they'll all turn out at Buckfastleigh as you go marching through."

"'Tis right a man's native town should mark his fame," said the soldier. "Of course my name be a household word there; and for that very reason I'm going round by King's Wood and Bilberry Hill, so as this poor chap shan't have all the eyes of the town upon him.'"

"'Tis a rough road."

"Not to me. I've knowed the way ever since I was breeched."

"Well," said Putt, rising, "I wish you kindly, Uncle Sep, and I hope you'll take it proper in me to have come. There's a chap going up through Dean Wood with a cart in a minute and I'll get a lift part o' the way to home."

"Well, I'm much obliged to you and I won't forget it. I've often thought, Thomas, as my maid 'Liza wouldn't say 'no' to you. Hast ever turned your mind to her?"

"Never reckoned I was good enough."

"Well, modesty's a very proper part of youth; but in love-making it can be carried too far. Think of it. She'm homely, but for that matter so be you. An' none the worse for that. Us can't all have picture-book faces."

"Like that poor chap-fallen gallows man there. Well, good-bye to 'e. An' my dooty."

Tom shook hands with his uncle, moved a step or two off and glanced irresolutely where John Lee sat between the standing soldiers. His hands were under his chin and his elbows on his knees.

"Be damned if I can bring myself to do it!" said Putt aloud; whereupon Sergeant Bradridge rose from the milestone and laid a hand upon his nephew's shoulder.

"Don't harden your heart against him, my lad. He's in a tight place, and no man can ever give him more than a handshake and a 'God speed.' It won't hurt 'e to wish him better luck in a better world; an', being your comrade, you ought to do it."

Putt scowled in the direction of John Lee.

"If you say it's my dooty—you're such a masterful man. You get my secrets out of me like a lawyer! To tell truth, I had a dozen messages for the fellow from Fox Tor Farm. And a last word from a maiden too. A good few tears have been shed for the chap, as hadn't an enemy in the world an' scores o' friends. 'Twas Kekewich axed me to speak to him; an' I named you, an' said as you'd never let me do it. And old Kek, he said, 'Your Uncle Bradridge is a man of valour an' a man knowed for his righteous character. Such as him,' Kek said, 'with a wife an' children an' a good heart, ain't going to stand between an orphan lad on his way to the gallows, and a last message from his friends.' He said also, 'Give the sergeant this here token with an old man's respects to a hero, an' ax him from me to let you just have five minutes with poor Jack Lee out o' ear-shot o' the sojers. This money, he says, 'ban't no more'n a sign of respect for his character as a sojer and a Christian; an' if there wasn't such men as him in the nation, us would have had Boney over long afore to-day,' says Kekewich."

"An' you wasn't going to deliver the old man's message?"

"Didn't think 'twas worth while, for I never knowed, Uncle Sep, that you was so powerful a sojer you could allow me to go aside an' have a talk with the rascal. Not as I wants to, I'm sure. 'Why,' I said to Kek, 'a general couldn't do it, let alone my Uncle Bradridge!' An' Kek, he says, 'Your uncle's every bit so good as a general in this job. He've got sole command, and his word's law. Sergeants be the very thews of an army,' said Kek, an' I suppose I ought to have believed him."

"Certainly you did," declared the warrior. "Every word he told you was truth. He'm a wise old man, and knows very well what he'm talking about. But as to money—'tis a ticklish thing to name it."

"So I told him, but he said you'd understand better'n a green lad like me. 'Do 'e think I'd offer money to a great man like Septimus Bradridge?' I asked him. An' he said, 'I've got far too much respect for him to dream of such an insult; but I want him to take this here twenty pound just as a token of admiration from an old man who once had a son a sojer. And if he'll let you have ten minutes with poor Jack, so as to cheer him up afore he goes into the Valley of the Shadow—why, 'tis only a sign he's as big in his heart as his valour, and nought to do at all with my present to him.'"

Tom pulled out the money and handed it to Sergeant Bradridge.

"I'm glad you remembered your dooty," said his uncle sternly, taking the notes and putting them into his breast. "An' 'tis lucky that I'm a parent and a man above suspicion of a mean trick; so I can take this here momentum just the same as I'd take a medal for valour—in a big military spirit. You'll bear me witness I've twice axed you to speak to the prisoner afore; an' now I ax you to speak to him again."

"If as my Uncle Septimus you command me, I must obey," said Putt reluctantly; "but I vow I won't be left with him over fifteen minutes. I can say all I've got to say inside that time. An', though the sojers mus'n't listen, I'd rather for 'em not to be too far off, for he might turn upon me."

"A handcuffed man! To think my sister's son be a coward!"

"He'm a desperate chap, an' us ban't all born with your great courage. If I sit 'pon yonder bank with him above the bridge, us won't be heard; an' if he sits 'pon top of the bank you can keep your eye upon us. Out of your sight I will not trust myself with that man."

"That's reasonable," admitted the sergeant; "let him keep his head over the grass, so as I can see him all the while I smoke my pipe."

He looked at his watch. "Fifteen minutes or so you shall have—him being an orphan."

"Don't make it a minute longer, for 'tis a very nasty job for me. An' if I call out, I pray you'll run an' save me," implored Putt.

With open contempt Sergeant Bradridge gave his order, and in a few moments Tom found himself alone beside John Lee on a shady bank above the stream. Some thirty yards and a hillock of grass now separated him from the soldiers; while a little further off, sitting on the milestone, Tom's uncle lighted his pipe, felt a pleasant crispness at his breast, and kept his eyes firmly fixed upon the back of John Lee's head.

CHAPTER XV
THE SALMON IS SPOILED

Sergeant Bradridge smoked his tobacco, thought of his twenty pounds, of his salmon, and of his high position in the world.

"Some," he reflected, "might say that Tom there would never have seen yonder poor chap but for they two ten-pound notes. But old Kekewich knowed better. 'Tis merely a momentum. Give me an old man if you want an understanding man."

Nobody had ever before presented the soldier with twenty pounds, and the sensation was not only pleasant, but tended to the increase of self-respect. His days had been uneventful, and albeit an admirable officer, accident kept him at home despite the stirring times. He was a great recruiter, and had sent many a lad to the wars, though never himself had he heard a shot fired in anger. The hour was at hand when he would do so; and that in his own mother-county of Devon. Now he thought upon his wife and family, and then concerning the prisoner. Heartily he regretted John Lee's fate, but knew no way to mend it.

Meantime the doomed man and Putt conversed with earnestness. Their talk was of a practical nature, and they wasted not a moment in vain sorrow.

Tom told his friend the news and the solemn promise that Grace Malherb had given to Norcot.

"No man can save me if I won't be saved," said John. "It only makes death easier to know what hangs upon it."

"We've got but minutes," answered the other; "an' 'tis a fool's trick to die if you can live. Dead, you're no good to none but worms and body-snatchers; alive, you can't tell what might come along. You've got to get out of this coil without Norcot's help; then she's free again. 'Twas only if he freed you—not if you freed yourself."

"'Tis beyond human power."

"'Tis as easy as eating. D'you see that cart full of muck? Behind the tail-board there's a place scraped out big enough to hold you. An' there's a knot-hole in the bottom of the cart where you can put your mouth so you won't be choked. 'Twill be a thought foul, but better'n a rope. Here's a file for them bracelets presently. Wait a moment and watch."

Putt went across to the cart and opened the tail-board, behind which a space had been scooped in the farmyard stuff. Then he took a bundle of the dirty straw, rolled it into a ball, and returned to John Lee.

"'Tis a matter of moments now," he said. "Yonder chap, pretending to be asleep under the trees, only waits for you to slip in the cart; then he'll cover you up deep and set off through Dean Wood."

While he spoke Tom rolled his ball of straw into the shape of a head and stuck it upon his stick. Next he watched his uncle through the grass, and when Bradridge had turned away for a moment to speak to a soldier, John Lee's hat was thrust upon the dummy, while John himself slipped down the bank. Tom Putt's uncle, from his standpoint, still supposed that he saw the condemned man's head, and his nephew talking earnestly beside the prisoner; but in reality John was already under a mass of hot ordure behind the tail-board of the cart; and a moment later the vehicle took its lumbering way among the soldiers. It crept through the little camp, then ascended a hill upon the driver's left hand, and slowly disappeared from view in the direction of Dean Wood.

Meantime Putt sat by John Lee's hat on the stick and watched his uncle. The precious minutes passed until at last Sergeant Bradridge looked at his watch again, rose, and knocked the burning tobacco from his pipe.

Thereupon Thomas played his part. He removed Lee's hat and flung it into the river, where it floated fast down stream; he then struck himself a formidable blow on the side of the face with his stick, and shouting with all his might, himself leapt down into the water. It took him to his middle, and he waded deeper.

"Help, help, Uncle Sep! Help, sojers! Help; you'll never hang him, for he'll drown hisself, sure as death!"

A dozen redcoats answered Tom's bawling, and Sergeant Bradridge also ran to the spot as fast as he was able.

"He's done for me—I shall die!" cried Putt, holding his face; "I know'd how 'twould be. He leapt up like lightning, and then struck me with his handcuffed hands. I'll swear my jaw's broke. 'Death by water's better'n hanging!' he says, an' flings hisself into the river!"

"There's his hat," said a soldier; "but his head isn't under it."

"Get in the water! Get in the water!" shouted Sergeant Bradridge. "With his hands fast together he'll be drownded like a dog wi' a brick round his neck!"

"If he's carried under the bridge you'll lose him sure as death. Oh, my head! an' I never said a hard word to the man."

They waded in the rolling reaches of Dean Burn, but found nothing; then, at the sergeant's direction, his men prepared to make a drag that they might scrape the bottom of the river.

"There's scarce water to drown a sheep," said a soldier. "Are you sure of this chap?" he added, and looked at Putt.

Tom, still nearly up to his waist in the river, took the insult ill.

"Sure o' me, you gert cock-eyed lobster! Sure o' me! Ban't your officer my own uncle? Better you comed in the water to help than talk against your betters. But you'm too frightened of wetting your pipe-clay and getting more work! Do a man have his jaw split for fun? I hope as you'll be shot first time ever you go to war; an' a good riddance!"

"All the same," answered the soldier, "there was a cart full of straw went by ten minutes agone. Might be wise to overtake it and see that all's open and honest."

"I never took my eyes off the prisoner's head," declared Bradridge. "I suppose you'll not call my sight in question, Private Chugg?"

"No, sergeant; no man living's got a sharper eye; but there's heads and there's hats. How if his head weren't under his hat when you see'd it 'pon the mound there?"

"Three of you run up along after thicky cart, an' us'll scour the river banks," said Bradridge; "an' if there's any hookem-snivey dealings, Thomas Putt, 'tis you who will swing at Exeter, not t'other."

"You'll be sorry for that speech, Uncle Sep, when us gets his gashly carkiss out the water," answered Tom calmly. "He's here, I tell you—sunk down into some hole at the bottom—and dead as a hammer by now. An' if he ban't here, where is he? Tell me that?"

The soldiers hunted and probed without success; then they went down the stream and searched beneath the bridge and in every place where a fugitive might lurk with his head above water.

Meanwhile others, led by Private Chugg, ran fast, and soon overtook the cart that had conveyed John Lee. It stood half-way up a steep hill in the woods, with a stone stuck beneath one wheel while the horse rested.

Without ceremony, and despite fierce protests from Tom Putt's friend, the soldiers pitched the entire contents of this vehicle into the road. But they found nothing. Their prisoner had left his unpleasant quarters ten minutes before, and was now half a mile away in the deep woods of Dean.

Throughout that night the screech owls heard a steady sound like their own harsh voices, but subdued to a murmur. It was John at his handcuffs. To separate them proved a difficult task, even with Tom Putt's file; but that done, the man was quickly free.

Far away, as evening fell, Mr. Norcot waited with admirable patience for the arrival of Sergeant Bradridge and his prisoner; while Mother Coaker of Westover Farm mourned a good fish wasted. Tom Putt's salmon, despairing of being eaten, had fallen to pieces in the pot.