Not until evening did Barbara emerge from her retirement. She found Sir Ralph seated by the spring, mightily refreshed with his sleep, but gazing somewhat gloomily at his surroundings.

He greeted her appearance, however, enthusiastically.

"Ah! Barbara, that is well," he cried joyously. "Methought you had vanished entirely. Come, sit here and talk. I have a thousand things to say to thee, now we are alone. This is like old times again, is it not?"

Barbara assented absently. She was wondering whither Captain Protheroe had vanished. She paid small heed to the look of admiration in her companion's eyes.

"You haven't forgotten the old days, have you, Barbara?" he questioned, with a suspicion of tenderness in his voice.

"Of course not," she answered gaily. "My memory is scarce so short. Why 'tis but five years since you were with us."

"And I have thought on you every day since we parted, Barbara," he continued softly.

Barbara started, there was no doubt as to the tenderness of the tone. She was on her guard.

"Indeed, a most profitless proceeding," she answered sharply.

There was a pause during which Ralph feasted his eyes upon his companion's face. Then he continued in a meditative voice.

"Do you remember, Barbara, how Rupert and I were wont to play we were knights tilting for our lady's favour? You were ever my mistress then."

"You had no choice," she answered laughing. "Rupert took all others unto himself."

"Yet had you still been mine, Barbara, were there a thousand others, you alone. I wore your favour, and vowed to serve thee all my days. You have not forgotten that, Barbara? The day I took my vow?"

"Alack-a-day," murmured Barbara to herself. "Here now is Ralph gone crazy. Ah, me! what shall I do? And 'tis five years since we met. Can a man indeed remain so faithful?"

She looked at him doubtfully, but the look in his eyes left no room for doubt. Then she grew angry at the folly and the wilfulness of man, who seeks ever for love where it may not be found. Yet her anger was slight, seeing no woman is ever angry at love, however unsought, and she pitied him and liked him the more for his love.

So she answered lightly, striving to drive him from his course.

"We played many games in those days, Ralph, I cannot mind them all."

But he leaned across and laid his hand upon hers. "'Twas not merely a game to me, Barbara, surely you know that? You knew that when we parted, Barbara."

Then springing to his feet, he burst out eagerly: "Oh! Barbara, I swear I have thought on you each day these five long years. And now to find you again! You were lovely as a child, and I loved you. You are ten times more lovely now; why may I not love you still? And loving you, why may I not tell you so, as in the old days."

"Because—because—Oh! 'tis folly. We were but children then, and——"

"Then let us be children again, Bab," he answered softly. "See, the forest has brought us together again, and——"

But Barbara sprang to her feet, too angry with herself and shamed for having conjured up, in former days, this love which she could not still, and womanlike, angry with him for persisting in a love which pained her. For even the best of women look upon the heart of man as an unbreakable toy. They tread upon it unthinkingly.

"Indeed the forest has done nothing of the sort," she retorted angrily. "Do not be so foolish, Ralph, or I will talk with you no more. 'Tis unfair to tease me with matters that are past and done with."

He looked at her gravely.

"I am not foolish, Bab, and 'tis not past and done with yet," he answered stubbornly.

"Then, 'tis high time it was. Look you, Ralph, I am glad you are here, 'tis good to see you again, but an you pester me with such talk, I shall—I shall—— I won't have it, Ralph; 'tis unfair."

He looked at her doubtfully, not knowing what to make of her anger. Then he submitted with a quietness that surprised her. Yet he deemed his cause not hopeless, only unripe.

"I am sorry I angered you, Barbara," he answered quietly. "We will talk no more on the matter. Yet, perchance I seemed somewhat sudden. But I have always longed for you, Barbara, and when you came to me suddenly, in the wood, 'twas as tho' Paradise had opened to me again."

Barbara answered nothing. She had seated herself again by the stream and was now plucking the grass and dropping it bit by bit into the rippling water, pondering the while why love may not beget love, and blaming herself for her ungracious acceptance of a constancy of homage a woman should be proud to win.

Presently Ralph sat down again by her side, and eyeing her for a minute doubtfully, he began with some hesitation:

"Barbara!"

"Well?"

"Who is this fellow?"

"What fellow, pray?"

"Why, this Protheroe. Where did you meet with him, eh!"

"I—I knew him first at Durford. He was quartered there with some troops, and rendered us some courtesy."

"Hum! I like him not."

"'Tis a pity," she answered drily.

"No," he continued gravely; "and I like not that you should be wandering thus in his company. Why not send him away now, Barbara?"

"Certainly not."

"But wherefore not?" he urged.

"Because I do not choose," she answered tartly. "Besides 'twould be foul ingratitude. He saved me from prison."

"That is no reason why you should burden him with your protection now I am here. Indeed, Barbara, 'twere wiser to—to thank him, and leave him now."

"I will not. 'Twere most ungracious. And, prithee, how should we fare without him?"

"Well enow, I warrant. See here, Barbara, he may be honourable enow——"

"He is."

"Yes, but he is not one of us. He is but a soldier of fortune, and I like not that you should have to do with such an one. 'Twas vastly unseemly that you and he should be trapesing the country alone together, and I only hope no harm comes o't."

"And 'tis vastly impertinent of you, Ralph Trevellyan, to suppose that I cannot guard my honour and my own good name," she broke out hotly; for the suggestion in his words startled her, and stung her to the quick. "How dare you speak thus? Upon my word, Ralph, you may be an old friend, but, certes, you presume on the fact."

"Good Heavens! Barbara. What is the matter? I only suggested——"

"Then do not do so again. Captain Protheroe is a most honourable gentleman. 'Tis base of you to distrust him."

"Well! Don't be angry, Barbara," he pleaded quickly. "You know in Rupert's absence——"

"You put yourself in Rupert's place, eh? It suits you ill. Rupert hath both greater knowledge of me, and greater trust in me than thou hast, it would appear."

"Now, Barbara, dear—— Damnation!"

He dropped her hand and turned aside angrily, for a rustling of leaves and crackling of twigs announced the return of the third member of the party.

Barbara greeted him brightly; she was relieved at his return.

"Whither have you wandered, sir? You have been absent for hours."

"I have been fishing, madame; behold my success."

He crossed to her side, and with an air of deep pride laid before her three tiny trout.

"Is that all?" she asked doubtfully, fearing lest a smile might hurt his feelings.

"All!" he cried indignantly. "Why, what would you more? There is one apiece."

"Assuredly, but——" then she noted the twinkle in his eyes and burst into a merry laugh.

"Indeed, sir; you have kept your promise nobly. Yet I think we must thank the fates that we are not entirely dependent for our supper upon your skill."

"Ingratitude, thy name is woman! Here have I lain, arm deep in water, for three mortal hours, to catch these—er—tempting morsels, and all I meet with is contempt. Never again, Mistress Barbara."

"And have you not even the story of some monster who hath escaped you, to comfort your heart?" she queried solemnly. "I believe Rupert ever derived much solace from such illusions when he could produce no more substantial triumph."

"Alas, madame, I fear illusions are but little to my taste. But since you scorn my offerings, we had best make as good a meal as we can of the somewhat stale viands which remain to us, and then if you are rested, we ought to make a move."

So they supped, and bidding farewell to the hollow, presently set out on their tramp.

Their way led for some time through the wood, and when they finally emerged in the open country the night had already fallen.

But Captain Protheroe knew the country well, he led them unerringly through meadows and along lonely and deserted bye-lanes, never pausing to doubt his path.

They were, in truth, an ill-assorted party, these three, so strangely thrown together by Fortune, to tramp the night through. For the two men were divided by every difference of life, rank, opinion, and character; they were followers of different leaders, supporters of widely opposed causes, and but two months before they had been adversaries in one of the bloodiest battles of their time. And to this was yet added that fatal gulf twixt man and man, which even a lifelong friendship can scarce hope to bridge across—love for the same woman.

By all tokens they should have hated each other, and assuredly they did.

And Barbara? She had in hand a task which called for all the gentleness and tact of her nature. For with her lay the task of keeping these two at least in outward friendship, seeing from the one she could not, from the other she would not part. And yet, with neither, was her heart at ease. She could not rebuff Ralph, lest he in despair be again driven to desperate ends; moreover, the affection of a lifelong friendship, the gratitude for a constant love, above all, the loneliness of her position, forbade her be ungracious to one who loved so well. Yet even while she showed him kindness, her heart reproached her, knowing she was but leading him to hope for more. For 'tis ever so with women, their tenderness towards all misery leading them to be kind when they should be cruel, far more often than cruel when they should be kind.

'Twixt Captain Protheroe and herself, checking the free flow of her spirit, lay the ever-widening barrier of her pride. For when she discerned the tenderness in his voice, or worship in his eyes, while her heart leaped towards him in the sweet simplicity of her love, her pride cried to her to beware, telling her that it was nought but pity for her weakness. The words of Ralph had done their part, bringing, like the words of the serpent, evil to the breast of Eve. For an it were in truth so unseemly, this wandering with him alone which before had seemed to her so sweet, so natural, what then would men say of that embrace in the prison, given, indeed, in all simplicity, yet given unsought? Nay, but what mattered it what men said? what would he think? Would he think her light o' love? Her heart burned at the thought. So she mused ever, growing morbid in her weariness, with the strain of those last fearful days. So she mused, scorning him in a fierce defiance lest perchance he deem her simple, shrinking from him in a fierce shame, lest he deem her unashamed.

Thus her troubled thoughts strove within her brain, but to all outward seeming she was as before, gay, gracious, natural as a child.

Only in her terror lest she seem to ask for love, she devoted herself more and more to Sir Ralph, whose love was assured, chatting with him of days gone by, laughing over the remembrance of childish mischiefs.

And for a time Captain Protheroe submitted to be set aside, striding on ahead in gloomy silence, thinking on the journey of the previous night, and cursing the Fates for sending them this interloper to part their company.

But after a while his heart accused him of cowardice, thus to stand aside and leave to a mere foolish boy, so he deemed their guest, the winning of a treasure that he yearned to make his own.

Truly he had not over-many pleasant recollections to recall to her mind, yet one he had sweet to him, since the knowledge of it lay between their two hearts alone. So suddenly, as they walked, he fell back a pace or two, and in a pause turned to her with the question:

"Where learned you the art of fence, Mistress Barbara?"

She started and blushed. Then answered with a spice of mischief:

"My master is beside me. Ralph initiated me in the art, and hath even greater skill than I, but we cannot all be experts," with a saucy glance. "Of late years I have practised mostly with Rupert."

He saw the mischief in her face, but forgave it freely.

"Methought I recognised a trick or two of Jules Berin when we crossed blades. Has your brother studied with him?"

"No, but of his pupil. What know you of Jules Berin?" she asked quickly, a note of suspicion in her voice.

He laughed, and answered unheeding:

"Faith, I have been often to Paris, and we always have a bout together. For a soldier picks up many tricks in his wanderings, and, indeed, I have studied the art both in France, Italy, and the Low Countries. 'Tis one of the finest pleasures in the world"—he continued with enthusiasm—"to be pitted against a skilled adversary, straining every effort of wrist, eye and nerve."

There was a moment's silence. Then Barbara demanded quietly:

"Then where learned you the trick of disarming yourself, sir?"

He started.

"Madame?"

"Was it a trick or no? I had not deemed it so before, yet now I fear—— Confess, sir."

He laughed softly. "Alas, madame, you have entrapped me. I must confess to the trick. I learned it then, madame, when I learned many other matters 'twould scarce interest you to hear of."

Barbara sighed and smiled.

"See how we poor women may be deceived by our own vanity. For ever since our meeting I have deemed myself a most excellent swordswoman, and gloried in my skill."

"But so indeed you are," he protested eagerly. "And when we have the opportunity, I will teach you passes that perchance none save I and half a dozen others understand."

But here Barbara must turn again to Ralph, who was listening jealously to the conversation which he could in no wise comprehend. Skilfully she drew him on to talk, and presently the two men were engaged in a deep discussion of their favourite pastime, waxing for the nonce almost friendly over their eager comparison of rival styles of fence.

So they talked, merrily enough, well-nigh forgetting they were fugitives in fear of their lives. For brave hearts do not brood on distresses, but rather despise them, defying the oppressions of crabbed Fortune, and reaping gladness even from the sorrows she has sown.

They walked the night through, halting at times to rest, jet for the most part pushing on as rapidly as possible, that their wanderings might be the sooner ended. Many a time, when the night had grown old, and the silence of weariness had fallen upon them, did Captain Protheroe glance anxiously at the girl at his side, for he knew nothing of the powers of a woman, and doubted whether he were not pushing her strength too far. But she answered him ever with a bright smile and quickened pace, though her limbs ached and her body was heavy with fatigue. For she would in no wise endure to be a drag upon his purpose, and he, marvelling at her endurance, let her be. Yet he was very tender towards her, wrapping her in his cloak whenever they halted for a rest, fetching her fresh water to drink, doing all in his power to ease her journey; and all without question or explanation, but with a gentle, quiet courtesy that softened even her pride, and led her to submit to his ministrations with a sweet gladness.

Onward they journeyed, until with the first grey tinge of morning light they found themselves upon a wide moor, intersected by deep ditches, stretching wild and drear before them in the cold light of the dawning. Here and there on the wide expanse loomed dark and shadowy the outline of some village, the clustering houses pressing round the sheltering tower of the church. Here and there the light gleamed coldly on the dead waters of some still dank morass; it was a scene well suited to the corpse-like grey of dawn, a scene of utter desolation.

The two men glanced quickly at one another as the growing light revealed each minute more distinctly their surroundings.

Then with one accord they turned to Barbara.

She was gazing about her in astonishment.

"What place is this?" she questioned. "'Tis like a field of the dead."

"And so it is, Barbara," answered Ralph quietly. "This is Sedgemoor."

She shuddered fearfully.

"Truly a scene well fitted to the death of such a cause," she muttered. "One would call it the haunt of devils. Why did you bring me here?"

Captain Protheroe shrugged hi............