Having my dismissal and reprieve1 I was remanded to the custody2 of that young Lieutenant3 Tybee whom you have met and known as Falconnet's second in the duel4. Interpreting his orders liberally, he suffered me to keep my own room for the night. I had expected manacles and a roommate guard at the least, but my gentlemanly jailer spared me both. When he had me safe above-stairs, he barred the door upon me, set a sentry5 pacing back and forth6 in the corridor without, and another to keep an eye upon the window from below, and so left me.
There was no great need for either sentry, or for bolts and bars. What with the night's adventures and my scarce-healed wound, I was far sped on that road which ends against the blind wall of exhaustion7, as you may well suppose. For while a man may borrow strength of wine or rage or passion, these lenders are but pitiless usurers and will demand their pound of flesh; aye, and have it, too, when all the principal is spent.
So, when Tybee barred the door and left me with a single candle to my lighting8, I was fain to fall upon the bed in utter weariness, thinking that the respite9 bought by my sweet lady's humbling10 was more dearly bought than ever, and that the truest mercy would have been the rope and tree without this interval11 of waiting.
To me in this grim Doubting Castle of despair the priest came. He was a good man and a true, this low-voiced missioner to the savages12, and he would be a curster man than I who failed to give him his due meed of praise and love. For in this dismal13 interval of waiting, with death so sure and near that all the air was growing chill and lifeless at its presence, he was a ready help in time of need. If I were "heretic" to him, I swear I knew it not for aught he said or did; and though I trusted that when my time was come I should stand forth with some small simple-hearted show of courage, yet when he went away I felt I was the stronger for his coming. And this, mark you, though I was still unshriven, and he had never named the churchly rite14 to me.
When he was gone I fell to wearing out the time afoot; and, lest you think me harder than I was, it may be said that while I did not make confession15 to the kindly16 priest, I hope I tried to make my peace with God in some such simpler fashion as our forebears did. 'Twas none so great a matter, for one who lives a soldier's life must needs be ripe for plucking hastily.
But in the final casting of accounts there was an item written down in red, and one in black, and these would not be scored across for all the travail17 of a soul departing. The one in black was bitter sorrow for the fate from which I might not live to save my loved one; the one in red was this; that I should die and carry hence the knowledge that might else nip the Indian onfall in the bud.
No sooner was the priest away than I began to upbraid18 myself because I had not told him of this British-Indian murder plan. And yet on second thought 'twas clear that it had been but a poor shifting of the burden to weaker shoulders; and thankless, too, for Tarleton would be sure to put him on the question-rack to make him tell of all that passed between us.
As I had let him go, he would have naught19 to tell, and so was safe, where otherwise he might be hanged or buried in the hulks for knowing what I knew. No, it were best he knew it not; but how was I to rid me of this burden?—of this and of that other laid upon me for my love?
The question asked itself a many a time, and was as often answerless, before there came a stir without and voices in the corridor. It was the changing of the guard, I guessed, and so it proved, since presently I heard the clanking of the officer's sword, and double footfalls minishing into silence.
The sentry newly come paced back and forth to a low-hummed quick-step of his own, bestirring himself as one who, roused but now from sleep, would wake himself and be alert. He made more noise than did the other, and that is why I marked it when the footfalls ceased abruptly20. A moment afterward21 the bar was lifted cautiously from its socket22, the latch23 clicked gently, and the door swung open. I looked, and must needs look again to make assurance sure. For on the threshold stood my lady Margery, and just behind her some broad figure of a woman whom I knew for her stout24 Norman tiring-maid.
She gave me little time for any word of welcome or of deprecation. While still I stood amazed she dragged the woman in with her and closed the door. At that I found my tongue.
"Margery! Why have you come?" I spoke25 in French, and she was quick to lay a finger on her lip.
"Speak to me in English, if you please," she whispered. "Jeanne knows nothing, and she need not know. But you ask why I come: could I do less than come, dear friend?"
I had always marveled that she could be so mocking hard at times, and at other times—as now—so soft and gentle. And though I thought it cruel that I should have to fight my battle for the losing of her over again, I had not the heart to chide26 her.
"You could have done much less, dear lady," I said, taking her ha............