Captain Protheroe leant against the wall, and gazed round his prison with an expression of deep disgust.

In a corner sat a noisy group of men, seeking as he judged by the dismal light of a flickering oil lamp, to drown their fears in drink. For the rest, the place was silent, and as it seemed to him, deserted, the prevailing darkness being broken only in places where the moonlight filtered through the high windows, and fell in splashes of brilliance upon the floor.

It was in truth a dreary place and one not calculated to raise the spirits of the new occupant, who stared moodily before him, cursing his luck. For he saw no hopeful prospect in the situation and he was by no means resigned to death now, when he was but beginning to realise the full joy of living. Two months ago, he told himself, it had been different; the world had not so much to offer then, indeed he had not known that it held so much. And now, with the new sense of this knowledge of the world's gifts teeming in his brain, to go forth and be shot down like vermin with never a fight for life! A man should not be called upon to endure so much.

And then, with a rush, his thoughts turned to Barbara. He could do nothing for her now. He could not even save himself, far less afford protection to another. He groaned aloud as he pictured her suffering, and again he bitterly cursed his utter helplessness.

Then, as he reviewed the events of the preceding hours, the question flashed across his brain: "Who had betrayed him? Who?" And quick as an answering flash came the reply, though he strove vainly to deny it entrance to his thoughts, "Who, but this girl herself, this girl who led him to the deed, for whose sake he was to die?" For to none but to her had he confessed his interview with Sir Rupert, none but she and himself knew of her appeal to his mercy or of her disclosure to him of her brother's hiding-place. Clear as day the facts lay before him, they would not be denied; she alone in all the world had the knowledge to betray him. And had she not already twice tricked him? Had she not plainly refused his friendship, denied him her trust?

This was but the consummation of her scheme. But that she should have wheedled him to spare this man, and, when danger threatened have betrayed him coolly, hoping thereby to save herself! He raged at the thought, at the black ingratitude of the action. And a woman with eyes as true as heaven, whom he would have trusted even to death! Where then could a man repose his faith, if she were worthless? Better indeed to die, and be out of a world where women could be guilty of such baseness.

Then a softer mood asserted itself. He recalled her face, the strong, proud face with the deep eyes, earnest and sincere behind the mask of mischief. He thought of her look when she had stood against him, sword in hand, to fight for her good name, fearless, resolute, even when driven to a stand with death seemingly staring her in the face. Here was no cowardice, no treachery. And she had risked her safety to give her brother an hour's happiness.

No, it was past belief that such a woman could be guilty of such devil's work. She must be innocent. There might be others—a woman always chattered—-he knew well she had a glib and hasty tongue. Or perchance they forced the story from her, tricked her to the telling of it. No, come what might, he would not believe that she had of set purpose brought him to this pass. And even if she had, if she had in a moment of weakness betrayed her benefactor, bartering his life for hers, even then——

Passionately he drew out the knot of ribbon and pressed it to his lips.

"God bless her!" he murmured tenderly. "Strong or weak, true or faithless, God bless her."

And still with that strange density which at times overclouds the instinct, a thought of the real culprit never crossed his mind.

Again he strove to turn his thoughts back to his own position, to weigh the prospects of release; but with scant ardour. Life had little to offer if he must stand by and see her suffer, and in face of his present disgrace, he realised his helplessness to assist her.

He continued to gaze moodily before him, idly watching a ray of moonlight steal across the floor of the shed. To his surprise he saw it reveal the foot of a woman, and as it climbed to her knee he marked the desperate tension of the clasped white hands that lay thereon:

"Poor soul," he muttered. "There is trouble there."

Higher still crept the beam of light till the whole figure was illumined, and then, as at the drawing aside of a curtain of darkness, the face of Barbara Winslow emerged slowly from the black shadow, and appeared before him bathed in a glory of light.

Barbara! Yes, though at first sight he barely knew her, barely recognised those pallid cheeks, the dropped jaw, the fixed, staring eyes wide with fear, all the agony of her terrified spirit written on her face.

He sprang forward with a cry and crossed the room to her side. She turned to him quickly and seized his outstretched hand, all other feelings submerged in the great terror that held her.

"Oh! I am frightened, I am frightened," she sobbed in utter abandonment. "Indeed I cannot bear it. Sure they cannot truly carry out the sentence? I could not endure it, it would kill me, and I cannot die yet. Help me, help me. Do not let them scourge me. I am so frightened, help me."

What could he do? He held both her hands tightly in his own, and passed his arm round her as though to shield her from all hurt. And she, forgetting all else in the face of this fear which she felt for the first time in her life, crouched against him in a paroxysm of trembling and sobbing.

"Oh! I know I am a base coward, but what can I do? For I was so happy, and life was so good, and now I—I, Barbara Winslow, must be scourged openly in the market-place by the common hangman, month after month, till assuredly I must die of the shame. Think! The troopers will watch and laugh, and I shall be—— Oh! no, no, indeed I cannot bear it; what shall I do!"

He ground his teeth in helpless, desperate rage. Wild vague assertions of help and protection rose to his lips and died away unuttered, for he knew himself powerless. His heart surged with impotent fury, while she sobbed in his arms in the very abandonment of fear and misery, the natural reaction after the proud restraint of the past few days.

But it was only for a little space; the firm clasp of his hands, the pressure of his arm, gave her the sense of human support and strength that she lacked. In a few minutes the cold terror left her, she was herself again save for backward shudderings at the remembrance of the emotions through which she had passed.

Drawing her hands gently from his grasp, she lifted her white, tear-stained face to his with a smile.

"Thank you," she said simply. "I know not what ailed me. 'Twas mighty foolish and yet 'twas terrible enow," she added with a shudder.

He laid his hand on hers again firmly, and she did not withdraw it. For a few minutes they sat in silence.

Presently Barbara's gl............