Robert Wilcox hastened on his way to the prison with joy in his heart and excitement in his eyes, at thought of the adventure that promised, while in the darkness of the prison Captain Protheroe sat with his head buried in his hands, sunk in the misery of an impotent despair.

No man who has not himself endured it can understand the agony to a man of Captain Protheroe's disposition, of acknowledged helplessness. For he was essentially a man of action, strong, capable, alert for every danger, with a ready wit to cope with every obstacle that rose in his path. He had never yet learned the meaning of failure. And now, when life at last offered him the full cup of his desire; when but four bare walls stood between him and a freedom so rich that beside it his past life seemed but an empty waste; now when his whole being clamoured for action, he could do nothing but sit helpless and inactive, while the hours slipped slowly away and the day drew near when the woman he loved must suffer shame and torture with none to support or comfort her. He knew it was useless to struggle against his fate, but his whole soul cried out against submission. Yet he could do nothing, nothing, but sit rigid, silent, his hands locked together in the fierce misery of impotent revolt.

Suddenly he stirred, every sense on the alert and listening intently. At the farther end of the shed his fellow prisoners lay silent, their sleeping forms dimly visible in the faint light. Close beside him, where a pile of bales and sacks was heaped against the wall of the shed, he seemed to detect the noise of a key turned gently in a rusty lock, followed by the creak of an unused hinge. He waited with bated breath for what should follow. After a pause the hinge creaked again.

Half incredulous, he crept forward to investigate the cause of the unmistakable sounds, and began noiselessly to remove the sacks from that portion of the wall which they concealed. Two he moved easily, but the third resisted his efforts. In vain he pulled, exerting his strength in an obstinate determination to have his way. As he became dimly conscious that the resistance was rather active than passive, it suddenly ceased, and he stumbled backwards, with the sack in his arms.

Like the full moon on an Autumn evening the fiery head and rosy countenance of Master Robert Wilcox rose slowly into view above the top of the piled bales, and peered cautiously into the shed.

For a moment the two stood staring at one another doubtfully. But as Master Robert slowly perceived the captain's uniform, his jaw dropped, and a look of horror and consternation crept into his face.

"Good Lord!" he gasped, and with a sudden swift movement, his head disappeared from view.

But Captain Protheroe was no whit behind him in rapidity of thought or action. Quick as lightning his arm darted over the sacks, and he grasped firmly the tousled hair of the intruder.

"Hist, you fool!" he whispered. "All's well. I'm one of the prisoners myself. Is it a rescue?"

Slowly the face reappeared and stared doubtfully at the speaker, then having subjected him to a critical survey, and being at length assured by the captain's tone and bearing of his good faith, Master Wilcox heaved a sigh of relief, and rubbed the sweat from his forehead.

"Phew! What an escape," he muttered. "I made sure you were one of those damned sentries. Yes, 'tis a rescue, but not for you," he continued curtly.

"Nevertheless, my friend, I purpose to be one of your party," answered Captain Protheroe coolly, "I and a lady who is here with me."

"A lady; what lady is she?"

"What is that to thee?"

"Nought, only 'tis a lady I am here to aid; Mistress Barbara Winslow."

"What! Even so? Why, well met, friend. 'Tis even she of whom I spake. She is sleeping yonder. I will go bring her and we can slip out quietly without rousing the others."

Robert eyed him half-doubtfully.

"Be speedy then. Every minute is danger, for I know not when the sentries will be round."

"True, there's no time to lose."

The two had carried on their conversation in whispers; the other inmates of the shed were undisturbed.

Captain Protheroe now went swiftly to Barbara's side. She was sleeping quietly, her cheek pillowed on her hands. He aroused her gently.

"What is it?" she gasped, in sleepy bewilderment.

"Freedom," he whispered, smiling down at her.

Silently they stole back across the shed, and soon the three stood side by side in the narrow alley outside.

"Come!" cried Rob, seizing Barbara's arm eagerly. "There's not a moment to lose. Come!"

But Barbara was now thoroughly awake. She drew back quickly.

"But the others!" she exclaimed. "Surely you will not leave them behind. They are to die to-morrow."

Captain Protheroe shook his head.

"Mistress Barbara, the risk is too great."

"Oh, but that is rank cowardice," she exclaimed angrily. "You may do as you choose, sir, I shall——"

He laid a restraining hand upon her arm.

"Captain Protheroe," she exclaimed indignantly, eyeing him haughtily.

He smiled at her serenely.

"Yield to reason, Mistress Barbara. You cannot go back."

Barbara turned away angrily, and addressed herself to Rob.

"Cannot you go back?" she asked.

"Not I, madame," was the ready answer. "You are not safe yet."

Barbara sighed, looked at the pair of them contemptuously, and yielded to necessity.

"But you can leave the door open," she urged.

Rob hesitated.

"'Twill be a clue," he muttered, but yielded to her plea. "Now, come, madame, we must wait no longer."

"Where are you going?" she demanded quickly.

"To Master Lane's house," he answered impatiently. "Lady Cicely is there, and——"

But Barbara shook her head obstinately.

"No," she said, "I will not bring trouble upon them. They are loyal folk, and were I discovered there, 'twould bring misfortune to all. Did Master Lane send you to me?"

"No, madame, he knows nought of the venture as yet, but——"

"Then, indeed, I will not go. I will not endanger them, and Cicely. 'Twould be most cruel."

Rob groaned in desperation.

"Lord! These women!" he muttered. "Nay, madame, trust in me and come at once. We may be discovered any moment."

Barbara turned to Captain Protheroe.

"Whither are you going, sir?" she asked abruptly.

"I' faith, I cannot say," he answered doubtfully. "But for you, madame, it were certainly wiser to follow this gentleman, if he can bestow you safely."

"I will not," she answered resolutely.

"We'll all swing for it, an we bide here parleying much longer," began Rob desperately.

He broke off abruptly, for even as he spoke, a window in the wall opposite was flung open, and a man's face peered out into the alley.

Instinctively the three drew back into the shadow. But it was too late. The disturbed burgess had seen the three figures, and in an instant he suspected the truth of the situation.

With an exclamation his head disappeared from view, and a moment later they heard the bolts of a door round the corner of the building shot back and the man rushed into the street shouting:

"The prisoners are escaping! Look to your prisoners."

Captain Protheroe seized Barbara's hand, and they began to run rapidly down the alley. They heard the sentinels running up the street and shouting. They darted round the corner as their pursuers turned into the alley.

Rob had disappeared.

The alley led into a wider street, parallel to that in which the sentries had been posted, at the main entrance to the shed. Down this the fugitives turned, but were met by a knot of men running towards the shouts. Captain Protheroe tightened his grip on Barbara's hand, desperately, and ran straight towards them, waving his free arm in the direction of the prison.

"The prisoners!" he shouted. "They are escaping, look to them."

The ruse succeeded. The men hesitated a moment, staring doubtfully at his uniform, and then proceeded at a run towards the prison, shouting confusedly. On they ran right into the arms of the sentries, who at that moment turned out of the alley.

A few moments of confusion ensued ere the identity of each party was made clear to the other—moments precious to the fugitives, who ran on blindly from street to street, little heeding which way they went.

Barbara stumbled as she ran, and her breath came in sobs. Captain Protheroe's grip upon her wrist was like a vice. Again they turned a corner, and for an instant they stopped dead; for halfway down the street, full in their path, the bright light from an open doorway flared across the road, and in the light stood a group of soldiers eager and alert. They had run into a trap.

Their pursuers behind shouted a warning, the troopers in front wheeled round quickly to face them.

To go back was impossible, to stand still, madness, to run forward into the arms of these expectant troopers, a desperate chance. This time no ruse could avail them.

And then, a few yards on the near side of the lighted doorway, Captain Protheroe espied a dark opening in the line of buildings. He darted towards it and slipped between the black shadows of the houses.

Barbara was spent, but even as they ran into the narrow alley, and as he felt further effort was hopeless, Captain Protheroe noted an open doorway, dimly lighted. It was a desperate chance, his only one. With an effort he dragged Barbara into the house, and shut the door behind him, listening intently, while the girl sank exhausted at his feet. He heard their pursuers turn the corner, pass the door unheeded, and running eagerly on, turn again into the street beyond. Their shouts and footsteps died away in the distance, and all was still.

Captain Protheroe turned and surveyed his surroundings. They were in a narrow, dimly-lighted passage, flanked by a doorway on either side, and leading to a third door at the end. The door on the left was open, and the room to which it gave access, a small parlour, was deserted.

He glanced at Barbara. She raised her head and smiled at him bravely, though her breath still came in shuddering gasps, and her face was white and drawn.

He stooped down, and helped her to her feet, then leading her into the little parlour, laid her, unresisting, on the settle, and closed the door.

"Where are we?" she whispered, looking wonderingly around her.

He shook his head.

Just then a door was heard to open in some distant part of the house. There was a babble of sounds, a shrill voice singing through the verse of a song, followed by a loud burst of boisterous laughter.

Captain Protheroe, with a quick exclamation, crossed to the window of the room, drew aside the heavy curtain, and peered out.

Then he turned with a strange expression in his eyes.

"We have walked into the lion's den, Mistress Barbara," he said. "This is the White Hart Inn."

Barbara started to her feet.

"Oh! let us go, let us go instantly," she cried.

Captain Protheroe stood irresolute.

"I don't know," he said slowly; "it may be we are in the safest place. At least 'tis the last place where they would dream of searching for us."

As he spoke, the door at the end of the passage opened, and they heard a dragging footstep slowly approaching.

Barbara clasped her hands in desperation.

"Lie down!" he whispered sharply. "Lie down, and turn away your face."

The footsteps drew nearer, the door was pushed open, and a girl carrying a dim rushlight entered the room. Her dress was untidy, her hair tousled, her eyes heavy with sleep.

She gave a quick cry at sight of the occupants of the room, and almost dropped her candlestick in her surprise.

"Why, Sue, what ails you?" Captain Protheroe asked cheerily.

The girl stared at him in bewilderment.

"La, Captain Protheroe, sir, eh! but ye frighted me. I took thee for a ghost. What ever be thee here for? Why," she continued with dawning recollection, "I heard tell as how thee wert took prisoner, and in gaol along wi' rebels."

"Arrested, I! What nonsense," he answered coolly; "'twas but a jest of Colonel Kirke's. They don't arrest the king's officers, Sue, my girl. But look you, this lady hath but just recovered from a swoon. There was a disturbance in the streets, and she was thrown down and frightened. I brought her in here to recover, before I take her home."

"Eh, poor thing!" exclaimed Sue, eyeing Barbara pitifully. "The street is no place for the like o' her this time o' night. But you're kindly welcome, sir, and the lady too. We could not give her a bed, sir, I'm afraid; but an she wish to rest on mine——"

"Oh, there's no need to put yourself about, she will be well enow shortly."

"Would you be wishing for supper, sir?" asked in girl sleepily.

"Supper! Good heavens, no. Why it must be near midnight. I'm for my bed presently, and methinks 'tis the place for you now. You look tired to death, my girl."

"Aye. I've been about since five o'clock this morning," she answered, yawning. "Their lordships make a deal of work. But I'm going to my bed now, if you want no more, sir."

"Nothing, thank you, Sue."

"I'm sleeping in yonder," nodding her head across the passage. "Perhaps you'd call, sir, if you want anything." Then she added, hesitating, "We be so full o' guests now, father sleeps on the settle here. But he'll hardly be down yet, he must see their lordships safe to bed first. Good-night to you, sir."

She crossed the passage and disappeared through the doorway opposite.

Captain Protheroe broke the silence which followed:

"If you are rested," he said briskly, "I think we had best be gone."

"Must we go?" she asked lazily.

"The sooner we are free from the houses, the better. The landlord may come here any moment. They are quieter above stairs already."

Then he glanced across the room.

Through the half-closed doors of a cupboard in the corner he espied some dishes of meat—cold bacon, a half eaten pasty, several loaves of bread.

"Fugitives cannot be over and above honest," he muttered with a laugh, as he swept the contents of the cupboard into a cloth, and tucked the bundle under his arm. "We can make the loss good to mine host, some day, perchance, and food we must have. Now, Mistress Barbara, if you are ready."

He stopped with a look of consternation, for even as he spoke, the passage door again opened, and they heard a man's voice calling aloud:

"This way, Master Peters, we can transact our business somewhat more privately here."

The only possible hiding place the room afforded was the space between the high-backed settle and the wall. In an instant the two had stepped back into its shadow, and crouched there, scarce daring to breathe, hoping only that the dim uncertain light might conceal their presence from the two men who a moment later entered the room.

The first was a big, burly farmer, with round, red, solemn face and somewhat wooden cast of countenance. He took up his stand by the table, facing the settle, but with the light between him and the fugitives.

His companion afforded a marked contrast; a small, thin, wiry, sharp-featured man. His pale face was alight with intellect, but his narrow-set blue eyes were hard as steel, and while seeming to pierce a man's inner-most thoughts, yet gave in return no vestige of answering confidence. He was soberly suited in black, and carried in his hand an open letter, and a small bag of gold.

This was no other than Master Stephen Jewars, my Lord Jeffrey's clerk and secretary, one in whom it was commonly averred his lordship trusted more nearly and confided more honestly than in any other living man.

The secretary, laying the letter open upon the table, turned and faced the farmer.

"You are after your time, Master Peters," he began, "I had expected you yestere'en."

"Aye, aye," answered the farmer slowly. "I were in Taunton then, sure enow, but the mare were took bad and I could not leave her."

"Hum," answered the other somewhat sharply. "You should recollect, Master Peters, time is precious."

"Aye, your honour," answered the farmer imperturbably. "But so is hosses."

The secretary started angrily, and eyed the solemn face of his companion doubtfully. Then satisfied by his scrutiny, his lip c............