 14 John Stitch ventured no further opposition while knowing the reckless spirit which his own quiet devotion was powerless to keep in check. Moreover, Lady Patience, closely followed by the ever-faithful Betty, had just entered by the door that gave from the yard. I was wondering, honest Stitch, she said, if my coach were yet in sight, me seems the horses must have had sufficient rest by now. I'll just see, my lady, said John. At first sound of her low musical voice, Bathurst had turned to her, and now his eyes rested with undisguised admiration on her graceful figure, dimly outlined in the fast gathering shadows. She too caught sight of him, and sorely against her will, a vivid blush mounted to her cheeks. She pulled her cloak close to her, partly to hide the bunch of white roses that nestled in her belt. Thus there was an instant silent pause, during which two hearts, both young, both ardent, and imbued with the spirit of romance, beat, unknown to one another in perfect unison. And yet at this supreme moment in their lives, supreme though they themselves knew it not, neither of them had begun to think of love. In her there was just that delightful feeling of feminine curiosity mingled with the subtle homage of a proud woman for the man who, in her presence and for her sake, had proved himself brave, resourceful, full of invention and of pluck. There was also an unexplainable sense of the magnetism caused by the real personality, by the unmistakable vitality of the man. He lived, he felt, he thought differently to anyone else in a world quite apart and entirely his own. And she felt the magic of this sunny nature of the merry almost boyish laugh, overlying, as it were, the undercurrent of disappointment and melancholy, which had never degenerated into cynicism. But in him, in him there was above all a wild, passionate longing, the longing of an intensely human aching heart when it is brought nigh to its own highest ideal, and knows that that ideal is infinitely beyond his reach. The broken down gentlemen, the notorious hero of midnight adventures, highwayman, robber, thief, what right had he even to look upon her, the perfect embodiment of exquisite womanhood, the beautiful realization of man's tenderest dreams. Perhaps at this one supreme moment in his reckless career, the wild adventurer felt the first pang of humbled pride, of that pride which had defied existing laws and built up a code of its own. He understood then all at once the stern iron bound rule which makes of man free lord of creation, though he be, the slave of those same laws which he himself has set up for his own protection. Bo Brocade, the highwayman, closed his eyes and no longer dared to look on his dream. He turned to his horse and with great tenderness began stroking Jack Lantern's soft, responsive nose. The next moment stitch, who had been busy with his work, looked up in sudden alarm. The soldiers, he said briefly, all running, the sergeants at the head of them and some of the shepherds at their heels. At first patients did not understand where the actual danger lay. My brother, she gasped, terrified, but a look from Bathurst reassured her, absolutely safe. He said quickly and decisively, a hiding place known to no one but me. I give your ladyship my word of honor that there is not the remotest danger for him. She felt all her terrors vanishing, but these few words spoken to comfort her went nigh to costing Bathurst dear. In those few brief seconds he had lost the opportunity of jumping on Jack Lantern's back and getting well away before the soldiers had reached the entrance of the forge and had effectually barred his chance of escape. As it was he had only just undone the halter and before he had time to lead Jack Lantern out the voice of the sergeant was heard quite close to the doorway shouting breathlessly, forward, quick, arrest that man. My sword, John, for your life was Bathurst's ready answer to the challenge. Stitch darted to a corner of the forge. Lady Patience gave a quick short gasp. She had suddenly realized that for some reason, which she could not quite fathom, the man who had so pluckly saved her brother from the soldiers an hour ago, was now himself in imminent danger. Jack snatched the sword eagerly, which the smith was holding out to him, and resting the point of the blade on the ground before him, he tested with evident satisfaction the temper of the steel, not a moment too soon this, for already the sergeant running, panting, infuriated by the trick played upon him, had appeared in the doorway, closely followed by two of his men. Caught like a rat in a hole, Jack was prepared to fight. Perhaps at bottom he was glad that circumstances had not compelled him to show a clean pair of heels before this new danger to himself. Alone he might have liked to flee, before her he preferred to fight. Odds my life, he said merrily, tis my friend the sergeant. You sent me on a fool's errand, shouted the latter as loudly as his scant breath would allow, and tis my belief you are one of them rebel lords yourself, at any rate you shall give an account of yourself before the magistrate, and if the smith dares to interfere he does so at his peril, he added, seeing that John Stitch had seized his hammer and was handling it ominously, fully prepared to resist the established authority on behalf of his friend. But whilst the sergeant parlayed Jack with the rapid keen eye of a practiced fencer, and the wary glance of a child of the Moor, had taken note of every advantage, however slight, which his present precarious position had left him. The sergeant and two men were in the doorway, momentarily pausing in order to recover their breath. Three more of the squad were running forward along the road, but were still some little distance off, and would be a few minutes before they reached the smithy. Further on still, there were the others at present only appearing as scarlet dots on the heath. Close on the heels of the sergeant, two or three shepherds with jock migs in their rear had come to see what was happening in the forge. It had taken Jack Bathurst only a couple of seconds to note all these details. Luck so far favored him that, for the next minute or two at least, he would only have to deal with the sergeant and two soldiers. Into it my men arrest him in the name of the king, shouted the sergeant, and the two soldiers grasping their bayonets, made a rush for the interior of the shed, ready to surround Jack and his horse. But quick as a lightning flash, Bathurst gave Jack Lantern a slight prick in the ribs with his sword. The nervous creature, already rendered restive by the sudden noise, began to plunge and rear, and thus, as his master had hoped, scattered the compact group of assailants momentarily away from the vicinity of his hooves. This gave the young man the desired opportunity. Nimble as a fox, when hotly pursued, he stepped back and, with one bound, took up a position on the top of a solid oak table which stood in the deep shadow caused by the doorway, thus for the moment leaving Jack Lantern as a barrier between himself and his enemies. Friend Stitch, he shouted from this exalted height, Do you stand by the ladies? Stir not from their side whatever happens, nor interfere between me and the soldiers at your peril. The lust of battle was upon him now. He was satisfied with his position and longed to begin the fight. On his left was the outside wall of the shed, and guarding his right was the huge furnace of the smithy, out of which the burning embers cast fitful flickering lights upon his tall, slim figure, and drew from his blade sparks of blood-red gold. He had wrapped the thick capes of his heavy cloth coat round his left arm. The folds of it hung down to his feet, forming a shield round the lower part of his figure. Already the soldiers had recovered from the short panic caused by Jack Lantern's timely rearing. One of them now seized the horse by the bridle and let him out into the open, thus exposing Bathurst more fully to the onslaught of their bayonets. Jack was fully prepared for them, and as soon as the sergeant had given the order to attack, his steel began to dart in and out of the gloom like some live snake with tongue of steel, illumined by the fitful embers of the furnace fire. It seemed to give forth a thousand sparks of which like flame with every turn of the cunning wrist. The outline of his head and shoulders was lost in the dense shadows above, whilst his assailants stood in the full glare of the setting sun, which hot and blinding came streaming into the shed. Dazed by the flickering light of the furnace and the sunset glow beyond, the soldiers made very ineffectual plunges into the dark shadow. Went fencing and parrying, and with many equip and selly, Jack had at first an easy task in keeping them at bay. This was mere child's play to him, already one of the men had an ugly gash in his cheek, and the next moment saw the sergeant reeling backwards with a well-directed thrust through his right arm. But easy and exciting as was this brilliant swordplay, it could not in the long run be of much avail. Hardly had the sergeant fallen back, then three more soldiers, also hot and furious, came rushing in to reinforce their comrades. Bathurst had in his day been counted the finest fencer in England. His wrist was as fresh and strong as the steel which he held, but the odds were beginning to accumulate against him. Five men in the shed and the others could not be very far away. John Stitch felt his muscles nearly cracking with the vigorous effort to maintain his quiescent position and not to come to the rescue of his hard-pressed friend. Suddenly one of the soldiers leveled his musket. Patient saw it and gave a cry of horror. Stitch, throwing prudence to the winds, would have rushed forward to prevent this awful thing at any cost. But the sergeant, though wounded, had lost none of his zest and his eye had been fixed on the smith. Keep back the smith, he shouted, use your bayonets quick. And as two of his men obeyed him, he himself threw his full weight against John, and together the three men succeeded in rendering the worthy fellow momentarily powerless. Captain, captain, he shouted desperately, have a care. Of course Jack had realized his danger. The group of his assailants stood out in every detail before him, like a clear-cut, sunlit picture. But against the musket leveled at him he could do nothing. It was luck's chance to do him a good turn. He himself was hard-pressed by two men close to his knees. Patience felt as if her heart would cease to beat. Her impulse was to rush blindly, stupidly forward, when suddenly a piping voice, vague and uncertain, was heard above the click of Jack's sword. Don't ye let him get ye, sir? And jock migs with trembling yet determined hands gave a vigorous tug to the coattails of the soldier, who was even now pulling the trigger of his musket. The latter, who had been aiming very deliberately for the one bright patch on Jack's person, caused by the red glow of the furnace, lost his aim. There was a loud report and a bullet went whizzing high above Bathart's head and buried itself in the woodwork above him. This was the signal for a new phase of this curious and unequal struggle. The shepherds at first, knowing nothing of the cause of this quarrel, had stood open-mouthed, somewhat frightened, and awaiting events at a short distance from the scene of the scuffle. But when the chestnut horse had been led out into the open, they suddenly had an inkling as to who its owner was. Jack O'Lantern, bearing the masked highwayman on his back, was well known to the poor folk on Brassingmore. Bo Brocade, who but yesterday had left fifty guineas in the Brassington poor box, Bo Brocade, the hero of the heath. He, to be caught by a parcel of red coats, never jock migs but voiced the feeling of the majority. No, Noah, they shouted lustily, Don't ye let him get ye, sir? Not if I can help it, friends rejoined by thirst in gay response. They did not resist the soldiers, not they. Your derby sure, Yokel, is too cautious and individual to run absolutely counter to established authority. But they saw their friend, their helper and benefactor in trouble, and they did what they could to help him. They got in the way, jostled the soldiers when they dared, kept the attention of one or two occupied, preventing a general onslaught on the oak table, on which Bathurst, still alert, still keen, was holding his own against such terrible odds. There's for you, my gallant lobster, quote Jack Gailey. He was standing far back on the table, entrenched between the wall on one side and the furnace on the other, and every time one of the soldiers ventured too near, his sword would dart out of the gloom. It seemed like a living creature of fire and steel, so quick and bold were his feints and parries, his sudden attacks in Quarté and Sixty, and all the while he kept one eye on the open moor, where Jack Lantern, quivering with impatience, stood pying the ground and sniffing the keen evening air, ready to carry his master away, out upon the heath, out of sight, and out of danger. Obviously, the unequal contest could not last much longer. Jack knew that as well as any one. Already, the red dots in the far distance had drawn considerably nearer. The next few minutes would bring this fresh reinforcement to the wearied, exhausted assailants. The sergeant, too, was ready to seize his best opportunity. He still kept two men on guard over the smith, but he soon saw that the two who were storming Bathurst's improvised citadel were no match with their clumsy bayonets against a brilliant fencer who, moreover, had the advantage of light and shadow and of his elevated position. Though he was wounded and bleeding profusely, he had set his heart on the capture of this mysterious stranger, and having cast a glance on the open moor beyond, he saw with renewed zest two more of his men hurrying along. With all the strength he had left, he shouted to them to come on, and then turned to encourage the others. Take it easy, my men. Hold out a moment longer. We've got the rebel at last. But Jack, too, had seen and understood. He was neither tired nor hurt, but two more men against him would inevitably prove his undoing. Already, he could hear the shouts of the soldiers hurrying in response to their sergeant's call. The next minute, they would be in the forge. A sudden change of tactics led his two assailants to venture nearer than they had done hitherto. He drew back into the shadows, and they fired by the lust of capture under the impression that he was at last exhausted, ventured nearer and nearer still. Already, they were leaning over the edge of the table, one man was thrusting at Bathurst's legs, when the latter, with a rapidity that seemed quicker than a flash of lightning, disengaged his left arm from his heavy coat, and with both hands threw it right over the heads of the two men. Before they had time to release themselves from its folds, Jack, with one bound, was off the table, and the next instant he had torn open the door of the furnace and dragged out the huge iron poker with which the smith raked his fire, and with a cry of triumph slung this new and formidable weapon high over his head. The effect of this sudden move was one of uncontrollable panic. The red-hot metal, as he swung it over his head, dropped a far-reaching shower of burning sparks. Soldiers and sergeant all drew back instinctively, and Jack, still brandishing his weapon, reached the entrance and was out in the open before any one dared to stop him. There he flung the great glowing thing in the direction of his assailants, who even now were rallying to the attack. But the moment had been precious to Bathurst, and Jack Lantern was a king among horses. Without use of stirrup or rain, Jack, like the true child of the wild moor that he was, flung himself upon the beautiful creature's back. Thus patients saw him for one brief second, framed in the doorway of the forge the last rays of the setting sun, forming a background of crimson and gold for his slim upright figure, and the brown curls on his head. It was but a moment's vision but one she would carry enshrined in her memory through all the years to come. His eyes, large, glowing, magnetic, met hers in a flash, and hers, bright with unshed tears, met his in quick response. Soldiers he shouted as he rode away, and you think I am a rebel lord, then after me quick whilst I ride towards the sunset. End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 of Bo Brocade by Baroness Emma Orksy The Outlaw Bo Brocade drew rain on the spur of the hill. He had galloped all the way from the forge out towards the sunset, then on, ever on, over gorse and bracken, on red sandy soil and soft carpet of ling, on, still on. Overhead on the blue-green dome of the evening sky, a giant comet made up of myriads of tiny, rose-tipped clouds formed of fairy way, ever diminishing, ever more radiant, pointing westwards to the setting sun, where orange and crimson and blue melted in one glorious mist of gold. Out far away the distant tours glowed in the evening light, like great barriers to some mystic, elusive land beyond. Jack Lantern had responded to his master's mood. The rains falling loosely on his neck, needing neither guide nor spur, save the excitement of his own mad career. He had continued his wild gallop on the heath, until a sudden jerk of the rains brought him to a standstill on the very edge of a steep declivity, with quivering flanks and sensitive nerves all a tremble, even as the last ruddy glow died out in the western sky. One by one the myriads of rose-tipped clouds now put on their gray cloaks of evening. From the rain-soaked ground and dripping branches of bramble or fern, a blue mist was rising upwards, blending deep shadows and tender lights in one hazy monotone. Gradually every sound died out upon the heath, only from afar came intermittently the mournful booming of a solitary bittern, astray from its nest, or now and then the sudden quaking of a tuft of grass, a tremor amidst the young fronds of the bracken, there where a melancholy toad was seeking shelter for the night. Awesome, silent, majestic, the great moor was at peace, the passions, the strife, the turmoil of mankind seemed far, very far away, further than that twinkling star, which peeped down, shy and solitary, from across the rolling billows of boundless universe. Bobrocade stretched out both arms and sighed in an agony of longing. Fire was in his veins, a burning thirst in his heart for something he dared not define. How empty seemed his life, how wrecked, how hopelessly wasted. Yet he loved the moor, the peace, the solitude, he loved the sunset on the heath, and every sound of animal life in this lonesome vastness. But tonight, one smile from a woman's lips, a glow of pride in her eyes, just one cluster of snow-white roses at her breast, and all the glories of nature in her most lavish mood seemed tame, empty, oh, unutterably poor. Nay, he would have bartered his very soul at this moment to undo the past few years, to be once more Jack Bathurst of his Majesty's Regiment of Guards, before one evening's mistake ruined the whole of his life. A quarrel over a game of cards, a sudden, blind, unreasoning rage, a blow against his superior officer, and this same Jack Bathurst, the dandy about town, the gallant, enthusiastic, promising young soldier, was degraded from his military rank, and thrown, resourceless, disgraced, banished, upon a merciless world that has neither pity nor pardon for failures or mistakes. But quite unlike the young Earl of Stratton, young Bathurst indulged in no morbid self-condemnation. Fate and he had thrown the dice and he had lost, but there was too much of the untamed devil in him, too much spirit of wild adventure to allow him to stoop to the thousand and one expedience, the shifts, the humiliations which the world holds in store for the broken-down gentlemen, moneyless, friendless, with his career irretrievably ruined, he yet scorned the life of the outcast or the pariah of that riched fragment of humanity that hangs on the fringe of society, envying the pleasures it can no longer share, haunting the gambling booths or noisy brothels of the towns, grateful for a nod, a handshake from some other fragment less miserable than itself, no, a thousand times, no. Jack Bathurst looked the future that was before him squarely in the face, then chose the life of the outlaw with a price upon his head, I, and forced that life to yield to him its full measure of delights, the rough stormy nights on the moor, the wild gallops over gorse and bramble, with the keen norwester lashing his face and whipping up his blood, with a posse of soldiers at his heels, the devil may care, mad, merry existence of the outlaw, who cuts a purse by night and carries his life on his saddle-bow, that he chose and more, for he chose the love of the poor for miles around, the blessing spoken by suffering and patient lips upon the name of the highwayman, of Barbrocade, who took from the rich at risk of his life in order to give to the needy, and now, at even, unbracing moor, when a lonely shepherd caught sight of a chestnut horse bearing a slim-masked figure on its back, or heard in the distance a young voice, fresh as a skylark, singing some half-sad, half-lively diddy, he would turn his weary eyes in simple faith upwards to the stars, and murmur gently, God bless Bobbrocade! Perhaps he had! The stars knew, but they did not tell. A recontra on the heath. Master Midditchip, on his lean nag, with his clerk, Master Duffy, on the pillion behind him, was on his way to Brassington. Sir Humphrey Chaloner had not returned to the Moorhen after his visit to the forge, until the sun was very low down in the west. He had bitten the attorney to await him at the inn, and Master Midditchip had not dared to disobey. Yet the delay meant the crossing of the heath along the bridal path to Brassington, well after the shadows of evening, had lent the lonely Moor an air of awesome desolation. There were the footpads and the pixies, the human and fairy midnight marauders, who all found the steep declivities, the clumps of gorse and bracken, the hollows and the pits, safe resting places by day, but who were want to emerge from their lair after dark, for the terror and better undoing of the unfortunate belated traveler. Then there was bow brocade. Master Duffy, too, was very timid and clung with trembling arms to the meager figure of the attorney. Nay, Master Duffy, quote Midditchip, with affected firmness, why do you pry about so? Are you afraid? Nay, nay, Master Midditchip replied the clerk, whose teeth were chattering audibly. I am not afraid. Tush, man, you have me near you, rejoined Midditchip boldly. See, I am armed. Look at my pistols. And he leant back in the saddle, so as to give Master Duffy a good view of a pair of huge pistols that protruded ostentatiously from his belt. Yet all around the air was still. The solitary heath was at peace, even the breezy Norwester that had blustered throughout the day seemed to have lain down to rest. Far out eastwards, the moon behind a fast dispersing bank of clouds was casting a silver radiance that was not yet a light, but only a herald of the glittering radiance to come. The moor was silent and at peace, only at times there came the sound of a gentle flutter, a moorhen perhaps within its nest, or a belated lizard seeking its home. Whenever these slight sounds occurred, Master Midditchip's hands that held the reins trembled visibly, and his clerk clung more closely to him. What was that? said the attorney in an odd whisper, as his frightened ears caught a more distinct noise. Why, why don't you draw your papistals, Master Midditchip? murmured Duffy in mad alarm. The noise was hushed again, but to the overwrought nerves of the two men in terror there came the certain awful perception that someone was on the heath besides themselves, someone not far off, whom the mist hid from their view, but who knew that they were traveling along the bridal path who could see and perhaps hear them. Truth to tell, Master Duffy, whispered the attorney, whose teeth too had begun to chatter. Truth to tell, it's no use my drawing them, they are not loaded. Master Duffy nearly fell off the pillion in his fright. What? there's neither powder nor shot in them, continued Master Midditchip, ruefully. Then we are lost, was Master Duffy's ejaculation of woe. A, what? Quoth Midditchip, but your pistols are charged, and his pointed elbow sought behind it for the handles of two formidable weapons which were stuck in Master Duffy's belt. Na, na, nay, whispered the clerk, who was now blue with terror. I dared not carry the weapons loaded, I trusted to your valor, Master Midditchip, to protect us. What was that? Again that noise, this time a good deal nearer, and it seemed to Master Midditchip's affrighted eyes as if he saw something moving on the bridal path before him, but he would not show too many signs of fear before his own clerk. Tosh, man, he said, with as much boldness as he could command, tis only a lizard in the grass may have. We'll ride on quite boldly. We can't be far from Brassington now, and no foot-pads would dare to attack two lusty fellows on horseback with pistols showing in their belts. Lord, he added, with a shudder, how lonely this place appears. And that rascal, Bobro Cade, haunts this heath every night, I'm told, murmured Master Duffy, who felt more dead than alive. Sh, sh, sh, speak not of the devil, Master Duffy, last he appeared. Hark! The two men now clung trembling to one another, not ten paces from them. There came the sound of a horse's snorting, then suddenly a voice rang out clearly through the mist-laden air. Hello, who goes there? The Lord have mercy upon us, whispered Midditchip. It must be Bobro Cade himself, echoed the clerk. The next moment a horse and rider came into view. Master Midditchip and his clerk were too terrified even to look. The former had jerked the reins and brought his lean nag to a standstill, and both men now sat with eyes closed, teeth chattering, their very faces distorted with fear. Bobro Cade had reigned his horse quite close to them and was peering through his black mask at the two terror-stricken faces. Evidently, they amused him vastly, for he burst out laughing. Odds, my life, here's a pretty pair of scarecrows. Well, I see you can stand, so now let's see what you've got to deliver. At this, Master Midditchip contrived to open his eyes for a second, but the black mask and the heavily cloaked figure looked so ghostlike, so awful in the mist, that he promptly closed them again and murmured with a shudder, Mercy, oh noble sir, we are poor men, poor spirited men, you mean, quote Bobro Cade, giving the trembling figure a quick vigorous shake. Now then, off that nag of yours, quakes the word. But even before this word of command, Master Midditchip, dragging his clerk after him, had tumbled, quaking off his horse, they now stood clinging to each other. A miserable bundle of frightened humanity. Come, said Bobro Cade, looking down with some amusement at the spectacle, I'm not going to hurt you, I never shoot at snipe, but you'll have to turn out your pockets and sharp, too, and you want to resume your journey tonight. He had seized Master Duffy by the collar, the clerk was an all-too-ready prey for any highwayman, and stooping from his saddle, Bobro Cade had quickly extracted a leather bag from the pocket of his coat. Oh ho, guineas as I live, kind sir, began Duffy tremblingly. Now listen to me, both of you, said Bobro Cade, trying to hide his enjoyment of the scene under an air of great sternness. I know who you are, I know what work you've been doing this afternoon, extorting rents barely do from a few wretched people for your employers as hard-hearted as yourselves. Kind sir, silence or I shoot, besides twer no use to tell me lies. The people about here know me, they call me Bobro Cade. I know them and their troubles. I happen to hear, for instance, that you extracted two guineas from the widow Coggins, threatening her with a process for dilapidations, unless she gave you hush money. Twas not our fault, kind sir? Then there was Mistress Haddkin, from whom you extracted fifty shillings for a new gate, which you don't intend to put up for her. And this, although she has only just buried her husband and had a baby sick at home, you put on finer airs with the poor people than you do with me, eh? Tis not our money, sir, protested, master middichip, humbly. Some of it goes into your own pockets, hush money, blood money, I call it. That's what I want from you, and then a bit over for the poor box on behalf of your employers. He weighed the leather bag which he had taken out of Master Duffy's pocket. This'll do for the poor box. Now I want the five pounds you extorted from widow Coggins and Mistress Haddkin. The poor women will be glad of it on the morrow. I haven't a penny more than that bagful, sir, protested, master middichip. My employers took all the money from me, twer their rents I was collecting. I swear it, sir, kind sir, on my word of honor, and I am an honest man. Come here. And Bobrocade reigned his horseback a few paces. Come here, he repeated. Middichip was too frightened to disobey. He came forward, limping very perceptibly. Why do you walk like that? asked Bobrocade. I'm a feeble old man, and rheumatic, whined middichip despondently. Then twer better to ease the load out of your boot, friend. Sit down here and take it off. And he pointed to a piece of boulder projecting through the shallow earth. But this master middichip seemed very loath to do. Kind sir, he protested again. Sit down and take off the right boot, repeated Bobrocade more peremptorily, and with a gay laugh and mock threatening gesture he pointed the muzzle of his pistol at the terror-stricken attorney. There was not to do but to obey and quickly to. Master middichip cursed the rascally highwaymen under his breath and even consigned him to eternal damnation before he finally handed him up his boot. Bobrocade turned it over, shook it, and a bag of jingling guineas fell at Jack Lantern's feet. Give me that bag. Sir, kind sir, moaned master middichip, as he obediently handed up the bag of gold to his merciless assailant. Have pity, I am a ruined man, tis Sir Humphrey Chaloner's money. I've been collecting it for him, and he's a hard man. Oh, said Bobrocade, tis Sir Humphrey Chaloner's money, is it? Nay, you old scarecrow, but tis his honor himself sent me on the heath tonight. Oh, oh, he added, whilst his merry boyish laugh went echoing through the evening air. Me thinks Sir Humphrey will enjoy the joke. Do you tell him, friend, and you see him in the morn, that you've met Bobrocade, and that he'll do his honors bidding? He counted some of the money out of the bag and put it in his pocket, the remainder he handed back to the astonished lawyer. There, he said, with sudden earnestness, I'll only make restitution to the poor whom you have robbed. You may thank your stars that an angel came down from heaven today, and cast eyes of tender pity upon me, so that I care not to rob you, save for those in dire want. You may mount that nag of yours now, and continue your journey to Brassington. No turning aside, remember, and answer me when I challenge your good night. Master Midditchip and his clerk had no call to be told twice. They mounted with as much agility as their trembling limbs would allow. Truly, they considered themselves lucky in having saved some money out of the clutches of the rogue, and did not care to speculate on the cause of their good fortune. A few minutes later their lean horse was once more on its way bearing its double burden. At first they had both looked back, attracted, now that their terror was gone, by the sight of that tall youthful figure on the beautiful thoroughbred standing there on the crest of the hill, and gradually growing more and more dim in the fast gathering mist. The bridal path at this point dips very suddenly, and a sharp declivity leads thence straight on to Brassington. Bobrocade's sharp eyes accustomed to the gloom watched horse and riders until the mist enveloped them and hid them from his view. Then he called loudly, good night, and faintly echoing came the quaking reply, good night. After that there was silence again. The outlaw was alone upon the heath once more, the heath which had been his home for so long. For him it had no cruelty and held no terror. The tall gorse and bracken oft sheltered him from the rain. Wrapped in his great coat he had oft watched the tiny lizards darting to and fro in the grass or listened to the melancholy cry of Morhen or Heron. The tiny rough branches of the heather had been a warm carpet on which he had slept on lazy afternoons. The outlaw found a friend in great and lonely nature, and when he was a weary he laid his head on her motherly breast, and like a child found rest. CHAPTER XVII OF BOW BROCADE by Baroness Emma Orksie This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Dion Giants, Salt Lake City, Utah. A faithful friend. How long he stood there on the spur of the hill he could not afterwards have told. It may have been a few seconds, perhaps it was an eternity. During those few seconds, or that eternity, the world was recreated for him. For him it became more beautiful than he had ever conceived it in his dreams. A woman's smile had changed it into an earthly paradise. A new and strange happiness filled his being and set brain and sinews on fire. A happiness so great that his heart well nigh broke with the burden of it, and the bitter longing for what could never be. The cry of a Morhen thrice repeated at intervals roused him from his dreams. John Stitch, he murmured, I wonder now what brings him out to-night. And with a final sigh of deep regret, a defiant toss of the head, bow brocade turned Jack Lantern's head northwards once the cry had come. There a rough track, scarce perceptible amongst the Bracken, led straight up to the forge of John Stitch. Horse and rider knew every inch of the way, although for the moment the fitful moon still hid her light behind a bank of clouds, and the mist now enveloped the moor in a thick mantle of gloom. Soon the sensitive ears of the highwaymen accustomed to every sound had perceived heavy footsteps on the unbeaten track, and presently a burly figure detached itself from the darkness beyond, and came rapidly forward. Odds my life, but its friend John, said bow brocade, with a great show of severity. Zounds, but this is rank in subordination. How dare you follow me on the heath, you villain, and leave your noble guest unprotected. What? His lordship is safe enough, Captain, said the smith, who at sight of the young man had heaved an obvious sigh of relief, and I could not rest until I'd seen you again. Faith, you can't do that in this confounded mist, eh, John? Quote Bathurst lightly, but his fresh young voice had softened with a quaint tenderness, whilst he looked down, smiling, at the upturned face of his devoted friend. Well, what about my friend, the sergeant, and the soldier's, eh, he added gaily. Oh, the sergeant is too sick to speak, rejoined the smith earnestly, but the man thou, your a rebel lord, those that were fit, walked down to Brassington directly after you left, one man, who was wounded in the arm, started for Aldwark. They've gone to get help, Captain, either more soldiers, or loafers, from the villages, who may be tempted by the reward. They'll scour this heath for you, from Aldwark, to the crossroads, and from Brassington, to Worxworth, and, and so much the better friend stitch, for while they hunt for me, his lordship will be safe. But have a care, Captain, they're determined men now, for you've fooled them twice, be guy, but you've never been in so tight a corner before. Shaw, quoth, bow brocade, lightly. Life is none too precious a boon for me, that I should make an effort to save it. Captain murmured stitch, reproachfully. There, friend John added the young man, with that same touch of almost womanly tenderness, that had endeared him to the heart of honest stitch. There, there, have no fear for me, I tell thee, man, they'll not get me on this heath. Think you, the furs and bracken, the heron or pee-wit, would betray me. Me, their friend, not they, I am safe enough, he continued, while a strange ring of excitement made his young voice quiver. Let them after me, and leave her brother in peace. And then, John, when he is safe, perhaps I may see her smile once more. Hey, ho, a fool am I, friend, a fool, I tell thee, fit for the gallows tree outside thy forge. John said nothing, he could not see Jack's face in the gloom, and did not understand his wild, mad mood, but his faithful heart ached to hear the ring of bitter longing in the voice of his friend. There was a moment's pause, whilst Bathurst made a visible effort to control his excitement. Then he said more calmly, here, John, take this money, friend. He dived in the pocket of his big, caped coat, and then placed in John's hand the two bags of money he had extracted from master midditchip and his clerk. I've just got it from a blood-sucking agent of Sir Humphrey Chelenors, his money rung from poor people who can ill afford it. I, I, quote John, with a sigh, I want two guineas to go to Mistress Haddkin, who has just lost her husband. The poor wretch is nigh to starving. Then thirty shillings are for the widow Coggins up Hardington Way. Those blood-suckers took her last shilling yesterday. Wilt, cede to it, friend John? I, I, the rest is for the poor box at Aldwark this time. Perhaps there'll be more before the morn. Captain, hush, don't begin to lecture John, said Bobrocade, with curious earnestness. I tell thee, friend, there's madness in my veins tonight. I pray thee, go back home and leave me to myself. Don't send me away, Captain, pleaded John. I, I am uneasy, and dear kind faithful John murmured, bathurst, zounds, but I'm an ungrateful wretch. For I thou, thou dust, love me, friend. You know I do, Captain. I, I, I'd give, nay, nothing interrupted Jack quickly. Give me nothing but that love of thine friend. It is more precious than life. But I pray thee, let me be tonight. I swear to thee, I'll do no harm. I'll see thee in the morn, John. I'll be safe, never fear. John Stitch sighed. He knew that further protest was useless. Already, Bobrocade had turned Jekyll Lantern's head once more towards the crust of the hill. The smith waited a while, listening while he could, to the sound of the horse's hooves, on the rain-sodden earth. His honest heart was devoured with anxiety, both for his friend and for the brave young lady who was journeying townwards tonight. Suddenly it seemed to him, as if far away, he could hear the creaking of wheels on the distant worksworth road. The air was so still that presently he could hear it quite distinctly. Twas her ladyship's coach, no doubt, plying its slow, wearying way along the quaggy road. It would be midway to the little town by now, the narrow track on which John stood cut the road at right angles, about a mile and a half away. The smith took to blaming himself that he had kept her ladyship's journey a secret from Bobrocade. The latter was a monarch on the heath. He would have kept foot-pads at bay, watched and guarded the coach, and seen it may have safely as far as worksworth. Never for a moment did the slightest fear cross the smith's mind that the notorious highwayman would stop Lady Patience's coach. Still a warning would not have come amiss. Perhaps it was not too late. The road wound in and out a good deal, skirting bugland or massive boulders. John hoped that on the path he might yet come across Jack Lantern and his master before they had met the coach. He started to run and had covered nearly a mile when suddenly he heard a shout which made his honest heart almost stop in its beating, a shout followed by two pistol shots in rapid succession. The shout had wrung out clear and distinct in the fresh lusty voice of Bobrocade. Stand and deliver. John dared not think what the pistol shots had meant. With elbows now pressed to his sides he began running at a wild gallop along the rough unbeaten track towards the point whence shots and shout had come. Moonlight on the Heath The jolting of the carriage along the quaggy road had been well nigh unendurable. Mistress Betty was groaning audibly, but Lady Patience, with her fair head resting against the cushions, was forgetting all bodily ailments whilst absorbed in mental visions that flitted, swift and ever-changing before her excited brain. There was the dear brother in peril of his life, his young face looking wan and anxious, then Sir Humphrey Chaloner, the man she instinctively unreasonably dreaded, and John Stitch, the faithful retainer, brave and burly, guarding his lord's life with his own. These faces and figures wandered ghostlike before her eyes, and then vanished, leaving before her mental vision but one form and face, a pair of merry, deep-set gray eyes that at times looked so inexpressibly sad, a head crowned with a mass of unruly curls, a figure, life and active, sitting upon a chest-nut horse and riding away towards the sunset. It was a pleasant picture, no wonder Patience allowed her mind to dwell on it, and in fancy to hear that full-toned voice, either in lively song or gay repartee, or at times with that ring of tenderness in it which had brought the tears of pity to her eyes. The hours sped slowly on. The cumbrous vehicle jostled onwards, plunging and creaking, whilst Thomas urged the burdened horses along. Suddenly a jerk, more vigorous than before, roused Patience from her half-wakeful dreams. The heavy coach had seemed to take a plunge on its side, there was fearful creaking, and much swearing from the driver's box, a shout or two, panting efforts on the part of the horses, and finally the vehicle came to a complete standstill. Mistress Betty had started up in alarm. Lead preserve us, she shouted, putting a very sleepy head out of the carriage window. What's the matter now, Thomas? We be stuck in a quagmire, muttered the latter worthy, vainly trying to smother more forcible language out of respect for her ladyship's presence. Timothy, the groom, had dismounted, landthorn in hand, he was examining the cause of the catastrophe. Get the other landthorn, Thomas, he shouted to the driver, and come and give me a hand, else we'll have to spend the night on this God-forsaken heath. Is it serious, Timothy? queried Lady Patience anxiously. I hope not, my lady, the axle is caked with mud on this side, and we do seem stuck in some kind of morass. But if Thomas will hurry himself, the latter, with many more suppressed oaths, had at last got down from his box, and had brought a second landthorn round to the back of the coach, where Timothy had already started scraping shovel-fulls of inky mud from the axle of the off-wheel. It was at this moment, and when the two men were intent upon their work, that a voice, loud and distinct, suddenly shouted behind them, stand and deliver. Thomas, who was of a timorous disposition, dropped the landthorn he held, and in his fright knocked over the other, which was on the ground. He was a man of peace, and knew from past experience, that his safer not to resist these gentlemen of the roads. When, therefore, the highwayman's well-known challenge rang out in the night, he threw up both hands in order to testify to his peaceful intentions. But Timothy, who was younger and more audacious, drew a couple of pistols from his belt, and at all hazards fired them off, one after the other. In the direction, whence had come the challenge, the next moment he felt a vigorous blow on his wrists, and the pistols flew out of his hand. Hands up, or I shoot. Thomas was already on his knees. Timothy, thus disarmed, thought it more prudent to follow suit. From within the coach could be heard Mistress Betty's shrill and terrified voice. Nay, nay, your ladyship shall not go, followed by her ladyship's peremptory command. Silence, child, let me go, stay you within, and you are afraid. There was a moment, silence, for at sound of her voice, Bobro Cade had started, then he leaned forward on his horse, listening with all his might, wondering if, indeed, his ears had not misled him, if was not a dream voice that came to him out of the gloom. Have I the honour of addressing Lady Rounce, he murmured, mechanically? At this moment the darkness which up to now had been intense, began slowly to give place to a faint silvery light. The moon, pale and hazy, tried to pierce the mist that still enveloped her, as with a cold blue mantle, and one by one tipped blackthorn and gores with a cluster of shimmering diamonds. Like a ghostly panorama, the heath revealed its thousand beauties, its many mysteries, the deep dark tangle of bramble and ling, beneath which hide the gnomes and ghouls, the tiny blue cups of the hair-bells wherein the pixies have their home, the fairy rings in the grass where the sprites dance their wild sarabande on nights such as this, with the crickets to play the tunes and the glo worms to light them in their revels. But to Bobrocade the dim radiance of the moon, shy and golden through her veil of mist, only revealed one great, one wonderful picture that of his dream made real, of his heavenly vision come down to earth, the picture of her stepping out of the coach that she might speak to him. She came forward quickly, and the hood flew back from her face. She was looking at him with a half puzzled, half haughty expression in her eyes, and Bobrocade thought he had never seen eyes that were so deeply blue. He murmured her name. The lady patience. Nay, sir, since you know my name, she said, with a quaint, almost defiant toss of her small, graceful head, I pray you, whoever you may be, to let me depart in peace. See, she added, holding a heavy purse out to him. I have brought you what money I have. Will you take it, and let me go? But he dared not speak. He longed to turn Jacqueline's head, and to gallop away quickly out of her sight, before she had recognized him, and learned that the man on whom she had looked with such tender pity, and with such glowing admiration, was the highway robber, the outlaw, the notorious thief, yet so potent was the spell of her voice, the moist shimmer of her lips, the depth and glitter of her blue eyes, that he felt as if iron fetters held him fast to the ground, there in chains before her, until at least she should speak again. He dismounted, and she stepped a little closer to him, so close now that, had he stretched out his hand, he might have touched her cloak, or even those white fingertips, which, believe me, sir, she said a little impatiently, seeing that he did not speak, I give you all I have freely, and you molest me no more. I have urgent, very urgent business in London, which brooks of no delay kindly allow my men to go free. She was pleading now, all the haughtiness vanished from her face, her voice too shook perceptibly, the tall silent figure before her was beginning to frighten her. Yet he dared not trust himself to speak, lest by a word he should dispel this dream, this golden vision of paradise that heaven had so unaccountably sent to him this night. It might vanish again amidst the stars, and leave the poor outlaw to his loneliness. This moment was so precious, so wonderful. Madly he longed for the godlike power to stop time in its relentless way, to make sun, moon, and stars, the earth and all eternity, pause a while, whilst he looked upon her as she stood there with the pleading look in her eyes, the honey-colored moon above, throwing a dim and flickering light upon her upturned face, her golden hair, that tiny hand stretched out to him. She seemed to wait for his reply, and at last, in a low voice, which he tried to disguise, he murmured, Madam, I entreat you have no fear. Believe me, I would sooner never see the sunset again, and cause you even one short moment's anxiety. Again that quaint puzzled look came into her eyes. She looked at the black mask that hid his face, as if she would penetrate the secret which it kept. Will you not take this purse? She asked. Nay, I will not take the purse, fair lady, he said, still speaking very low, but I would feign, and you would permit it. Hold but for one instant your hand in mine. Will you not let me? The impulse was irresistible, the desire to hold her hand so strong that he had no power to combat it. She seemed puzzled, and not a little frightened, but neither haughty nor resentful at his presumption. Perhaps she felt the influence of the mystery which surrounded the dark, cloaked figure before her, or the more subtle spell of the mist-covered moon. She made no movement towards him. Her hand, which he craved to hold, had dropped to her side. There was magic in the vast stillness of the moor on each do-tipped point of gray-green gorse from every front of Emerald Bracken. There glistened a tiny crystal. Timothy and Thomas had retreated to a safer position out of sight behind the huge vehicle, and inside the coach Betty was cowering in terror. They stood alone, these two, away from all the world, in a land all their own, a land of dreams, of poetry, and romance, where men died for a look from women's eyes, and conquered the universe for a smile. How silent was the heath while he looked at her, and she returned his gaze half-trembling, wholly puzzled. Will you not let me, he pleaded, and instinctively his voice trembled in the pleading, and there came back to her mind the memory of this same voice young and tender as she had heard it in the forge, but she would not let him know that she had guessed. Sir, she said, with sudden, unaccountable shyness, you have overpowered my men. They are but loudish cowards, and you are heavily armed. I am a defenseless woman. How can I refuse, if you command? He took the pistols from his belt, and laid them on the ground at her feet. Nay, fair lady, he said, there is no question of command. See, I am unarmed now, and your men are free. Give them the word, and I'll not stir hand or foot, till you have worked your will with me. You see, tis I am at your mercy, yet I still crave to hold your hand for one moment in mine. For one second more she hesitated, not because she was afraid, but because there was a subtle sweetness in this moment of suspense, a delicious feeling of expectancy for the joy that was to come. Then she gave him her hand. Why, how it trembles, he said, like some tiny frightened bird. See how white it looks in my rough, round hand. You are not afraid. Afraid? Oh no, but the hour is late. I pray you let me depart. I must not tarry, for so much depends upon my journey. I pray you let me go. No, no, don't go, he pleaded, clinging to the little hand, whose cool touch had made his very senses real. Don't go, not just yet. See how glorious is the moon above those distant hills, and the mist-laden air, which makes your hair glisten with a thousand diamonds. Whilst I, poor fool, holding your cool white hand in mine, stand here gazing on a vision that whispers to me of things which can never, never be. No, no, don't go just yet. Let the moon hide her light once more behind the mist. Let the heath sink into darkness. Let me live in my dream one moment longer. It will be dispelled all too soon. He had spoken so low she scarce could hear, but she could feel his hand scorching hers with its fever-heat, and when he ceased speaking, she heard a sigh like a sob, a sigh of bitter longing, of hopeless regret that made her heart ache with a new pain which was greater, more holy than pity. A strange excitement seemed to pervade him. Madness was in his veins. He longed to seize her, to lift her up on jack-o-lantern's back, and gallop away with her over the moor, far, far out beyond Bracken and Heather, over those distant tours, on, on, to the mountains of the moon, to the valley of the shadows, she lying passive in his arms, whilst he looked forever into the clear blue depths of her eyes. Perhaps she too felt this excitement gradually creeping over her. She tried to withdraw her hand, but he would not let it go. To her also there came the sense of unreality, of a vision of dreamland wherein no one dwelt but she and this one man, where no sound came save that of his voice, rugged and tender, which brought tears of joy and pity to her eyes. In the grass at her feet a cricket began to chirp, and suddenly from a little distance there came the quaint sweet sound of a shepherd's pipe playing an old-time rigadoon. Hark! she whispered. The sound came nearer and nearer. She loved to hear the faint elusive echo, the fairy accompaniment to her own dreamlike mood. Despite a sweet tune, she murmured, as instinctively her foot began tapping the measure on the ground. I mined it well, how oft have I danced to it beneath the maple. Will you then dance it with me tonight? Nay, sir, you do but jest. But his excitement was at fever point now. The outlaw at least could work his will upon this heath of which he alone was king. He could not carry her away on jack-o-lantern's back, but he could make her stay with him a little longer, dance with him here in the moonlight, her hand in his, his arm at times round her waist in the mazes of the dance, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright, her breath panting. I, for she should feel, too, that reckless fire that scorched him. All the fierce untamed blood in him ran like molten lava in his veins. I, for one more brief half hour he, the lonely dweller on the moor, the pariah, the outcast, would taste the joys of the gods. I was never more earnest in my life, he vowed, with that gay, mad, merry laugh of his, a dance with you here in the moonlight. I, a dance in the midst of my dreams. But indeed, indeed, sir, she pleaded, the hour is late, and my business in London is very urgent. Nay, ten minutes for this dance will not much delay your journey, and I swear, by your sweet eyes, that after that you shall go unmolested. But if I refuse, and you refuse, he said, bending the knee before her and bowing humbly at her feet, I will entreat you on my knees. And if I still refuse, she murmured, then I will uproot the trees, break the carriage that bears you away, tear up the heath and murder yarn-naves. God in heaven only knows what I would not do, and you refuse. No, no, sir, I pray you, she said, alarmed at his vehemence, puzzled, fascinated, carried away by his wild, reckless mood, and the potent spell of the witching moon. Nay, how can I refuse? I am in your power, and must do as you bid me, and you really wish for a dance. She allowed him to lead her away to a short distance off the beaten track, there where a carpet of ling and grass and walls of ramble and gorse formed a ballroom fit for gods and goddesses to dance in. At the further end of this clearing the quaint, shriveled figure of jock migs the shepherd had just come into view. At a little distance to the left and close to the roadside there was a small wooden shed, and beyond it a pen used by the shepherds as a shelter on rough nights when tending their sheep on the heath. For the moment the pen was empty, and jock migs was evidently making his way to the hut for a few hours sleep, and had been playing his pipe for the sake of company. I, a dance here, said Bobrocade, with the moon and stars to light us, a shepherd to play the tune, and the sprites that haunt the heath for company. What, oh, there, friend shepherd, he shouted to migs, the worthy jock caught sight of the two figures standing in the center of the clearing, not twenty paces away from him. Ludd have mercy upon me, he gasped, robbery, violence, murder, nay, friend, only merry-making, quote Bobrocade, gaily, we want to dance upon this heath, and you to play the tune for us. A, what, muttered the shepherd in his vague, apologetic way, dancing at this hour of the night? I, and me to play for a parcel of mad folk, well said, honest shepherd, let us all be mad tonight, but you shall play for us, and here, here is the wherewithal to set your pipe in tune. He threw a heavy purse across to migs, who, still muttering something about lunatics on the heath, slowly stooped and picked it up. Ginny's, he muttered, weighing it in his hand. Ginny's, as I love, Ginny's for playing a dance tune. Nay, sir, you're mad, sure enough, wilt play the tune, shepherd, shouted Bobrocade, in wild impatience. Jock migs shook his head with a determined air. Nay, your madness is not to me, you've paid for a tune, and you shall have the tune, but Lordy, Lordy, these be amazing times. He settled himself down on a clump of grass-covered earth, and stulledly began piping the same old-time rigadoon. These were a pair of lunatics, for sure, but since the gentleman had paid for this extraordinary pleasure, it was not for a poor shepherd to refuse to earn a few honest Ginny's. Bobrocade bowed to his lady, with all the courtly grace of a town gallant. Madam, you're a most humble and most obedient servant. As in a dream, patience began to tread the measure. It was all so strange, so unreal. Surely this was a dream, and she would soon wake anon. She turned and twisted in the mazes of the dance. Gradually the intoxication of it all had reached her brain. She seemed to see round her in the grass, pixie faces gazing curiously upon her. All the hair-bells seemed to tinkle. The shepherd's pipe sounded like fairy bells. Through the holes in the black mask she could see a pair of burning eyes watching her as if entranced. She felt like a creature of some other world, a witch may have dancing a wild saraband with this man, her lord and master, a mad Mary sprite who had arranged this moonlight sabbath. Her cheeks began to glow. Her eyes were sparkling with the joy of this dance. Her breath came panting through her parted lips. I, mad, were they both. What else? Their madness was the intoxication which man alone can feel when his joy equals that of the gods. Quicker, shepherd, quicker, let thy pipe wake all the fairy echoes of this mystic ghost like more. Let all the ghouls and gnomes come running hither. Let the stars pale with envy. Let fairies and sprites clap their hands for joy, since one man in all this world was happier than all the spirits in heaven. How long it lasted neither of them could tell. The honey-colored moon lighted them all the while. The blue mist wrapped them as in a mystic veil. Still they danced on. At times she almost lay in his arms, hot, panting, yet never weary. Then she would slip away, and with eyes aglow, cheeks in rosy flame, beckon to him, evade, advance, then once more put her hand in his and madden him with the touch. Oh, that heaven-born hour, why did it ever cease? A wild shriek, twice repeated, brought them both to a standstill. She, with heart beating and hand pressed to her panting bosom, was unable to stir. Whilst the excitement kept her up, she had danced. But now, with that piercing shriek, the dream had vanished, and she was back on earth once more. What was that? Thomas and Timothy, attracted by the strange spectacle, had gradually crept up to the clearing, and through a clump of gores and bracken had been watching the weird midnight dance. On the further side, and close to jock migs, John Stitch had been standing in the shadow of a thornbush. He had been running all the way ever since he heard the two pistol shots, amazed at the strange sight that met his honest eyes he had not dared to interfere. Perhaps his honest, faithful heart felt with, even if it did not altogether comprehend, the wayward half crazy mood of his friend. Betty alone, terrified and not a little sulky, had remained in the coach. It was her shriek that roused the spectators and performers of this fantasy on the heath. My lady, my lady screamed Betty once more at the top of her voice. Then all of a sudden, patience understood. Fairyland had indeed vanished. The awful reality came upon her with appalling cruelty. My letters, she gasped and started running towards the coach. But already Jack Bathurst had bounded across the clearing closely followed by John Stitch. Patience's cry of mad terror stricken appeal had gone straight to his brain and dissipated in the fraction of a second, the reckless excitement of the past hour. The wild creature of one moment's wayward mood was in that same fraction of time re-transformed into the cool and daring dweller of the moor, on whose head the law had set a price and who in revenge had made every law his slave, his keen quick eye had already cited the Smith. After me, John, he commanded and run for your life. When the two men had fought their way through the clumps of Gorse and Bracken, which screened the clearing from the road, they were just in time to see a man quickly mounting a dark brown horse, which stood some 20 yards in front of the coach. The carriage door nearest to them was open and poor Mistress Betty lay on the ground close beside it, still screaming at the top of her voice. With one bound, Bo Brocade had reached Jackal Lantern, who, accustomed to his unfettered life on the heath, had quietly roamed about at Will, patiently waiting for his master's call. The young man was unarmed since he had placed his pistols a while ago at Patience's feet. But Jackal Lantern was swift-footed as the deer, and would overtake any strange horseman easily. Bo Brocade's hand was on his horse's bridle, and there were barely a few yards between him and the mysterious horseman, who was preparing to gallop away. When the latter turned and suddenly pointing a pistol at his pursuer, fired two shots in rapid succession. The young man did not stop at once. He clutched Jackal Lantern's bridle and tried to mount, but he staggered and almost fell. After him, John, he cried in a horse voice as, staggering once more, he fell upon one knee. After him, quick, take Jackal Lantern, don't mind me. Jack had no need to be told twice. He seized the horse's bridle and swung himself into the saddle as quickly as he could. But these few seconds had given the horseman a sufficient start. Although the moon was bright, the mist was thick, and the bracken and thornbushes very dense on the other side of the road. Already he had disappeared from view, and John's ears and eyes were not so keen as those of Bo Brocade, the highwaymen, the wounded monarch of the heath. End of Chapter 18 Chapter 19 of Bo Brocade by Baroness Emma Orksy. This slipperbox recording is in the public domain, recording by Dion Giants, Salt Lake City, Utah, his oath. Patience's first thought as soon as she reached the road was for Betty. She helped the poor girl to her feet, and tried to get some coherent explanation from her. I was listening to the tune, my lady, and leaning my head out of the window, moaned Mistress Betty, who was more frightened than hurt. When suddenly the carriage door was torn open, I was dragged out and left screaming on the ground, that's all I know. But one glance at the interior of the coach had revealed the whole awful truth. It had been ransacked and the receptacle beneath the cushions where had lain the all important letters was now obviously empty. The letters, oh, the letters moaned patience in an agony of misery and remorse. Philip, my dear, dear one, you entrusted your precious life in my hands, and I have proved unworthy of the trust. Her spirit wholly broken by the agony of this cruel thought, she cowered on the step of the carriage, her head buried in her hands in a passion of heart broken tears. My lady, she looked down, and by the dim light of the moon, she saw a figure on its knees, dragging itself with a visibly painful effort slowly towards her. In a moment she was on her feet, tall, haughty, a world of scorn in her eyes. She looked down with horror at the prostrate figure before her. Nay, sir, she said with icy contempt, and you have a spark of honor left in you. Take off that mask. Let me at least see who you are. The agony of shame was more than she could bear. She who had deemed herself so proud, so strong, that she should have been thus fooled, duped, tricked. And by this man, this thief, this low class robber, who had dared to touch her hand, all the pride of race and caste, rose in revolt within her. Who was he that he should dare to have spoken to her as he did? Her cheeks glowed with shame at the memory of that voice which she had loved to hear, the tender accent in it, and oh, she had been his plaything, his tool for this infamous trick which had placed her dear, dear brother's life in peril worse than before. Meekly, he had obeyed her, his own proud spirit bent before her grief. His face, as she pale now, and drawn with pain and weakness, looked up in mute appeal for forgiveness. A poor wretch, he murmured feebly, who's mad and foolish whim. But she turned from him in bitter loathing, drawing herself up to her full height, trying by every means in her power to show the contempt which she felt for him. So absorbed was she in her grief and humiliation, in her agony of remorse for her broken trust, that she did not realize that he was hurt and fainting with loss of blood. You, you, she murmured with horror and contempt. Nay, I pray you do not speak to me. You, you have duped and tricked me. And I, I, oh, she added with a wealth of bitter reproach. What wrong had I or my dear brother done to you, that you should wish to do him so much harm? What prize had his enemies set upon his head that you should sell it to them? He tried to interrupt her, for her words hurt him 10,000 times more than the wound in his shoulder. With almost super human effort, he dragged himself to his feet, clinging to the bracken, to hold himself upright. He would not let her see how she made him suffer. She, his beautiful white rose, whom unwittingly he had, it seemed so grievously wronged. Her mind was distraught. She did not understand. And oh, it was impossible that she could realize the cruelty of her words more hard to endure than any torture the fiendish brain of man could devise. I'd have given you gold, she continued, whilst heavy sobs choked the voice in her throat. If it was gold you wanted, here is the purse you did not take just now. 200 guineas for you, sir, and you bring me back those letters. And with a last gesture of infinite scorn, she threw the purse on the ground before him. A cry escaped him then, the terrible heart-rending cry of the wild beast wounded unto death. But it was momentary that great love he bore her helped him to understand. Love is never selfish, always kind. Love always understands. He could scarcely speak now, and the seconds were very precious. But with infinite gentleness he contrived to murmur faintly. Madam, I swear by those sweet lips of yours, now turned in anger against me that you do me grievous wrong. My fault, alas, is great. I cannot deny it, since in this short mad hour of the dance my eyes were blind and mine ears deaf to all save to your own dear presence. I was a clever trick, she retorted, lashing herself to scorn willfully deaf to the charm of that faint voice turning away from the tender appeal of his eyes, a trick from beginning to end, your chivalry at the forge, your roll of gallant gentlemen of the road, the while you plotted with a boon companion to rob me of the very letters that would have saved my brother's life. Letters that would have saved your brother's life? What letters? Nay, sir, I pray you fool me no further. Heaven only knows how you learned our secret, for I'll vouch that John Stitch was no traitor. Those letters were stolen, sir, by your accomplice, whilst you tricked me into this dance. He pulled himself together with a vigorous effort of will, forcing himself to speak quietly and firmly conquering the faintness and dizziness which was rapidly overpowering him. Madam, he said gently, dare I hope that you will believe me when I say that I know not of those letters. John Stitch, as you know, is loyal and true. Not even to me would he have revealed your secret. Nay, more. It seems that I too have been tricked to further a villain's ends. Will you not try and believe that had I known what those letters were, I would have guarded them for your sweet sake with my last dying breath? She did not reply. For the moment she could not for her tears choked her. And there was the magic of that voice which she could not resist. Still, she would not look at him. Sir, she said a little more calmly, heaven has given you a gentle voice and the power of tender words with which to cajole women I would wish to believe you. But she was interrupted by the sound of voices. Those of Thomas and Timothy, her men who had kept a lookout for John Stitch, the next moment the Smith himself, breathless and panting, came into view. He had ridden hard for Jack Lantern's flanks were dripping with sweat. But there was a look of grave disappointment on the honest man's face. Well, queried Bo Brocade excitedly as soon as John had dismounted. I'm feared that I've lost the scoundrels track, muttered John ruefully. No. At first I was in hot pursuit, he galloping towards Brassington. Suddenly he seemed to draw rain, and the next moment a riderless horse came tearing past me and then disappeared in the direction of Aldwark, a riderless horse. I I thought at first that maybe he'd been thrown. I scoured the heath for half a mile around. But the mist was so thick in the hollow. And there was not a sound I'd have needed a bloodhound to track the rascal down. An exclamation of intense disappointment escaped from the lips of Lady Patience and of Bo Brocade. Do you know who it was, John? queried the latter. No doubt of that, Captain. It was Sir Humphrey Chaloner right enough. Sir Humphrey Chaloner cried patience in accents of hopeless despair. The man who covets my fortune now holds my brother's life in the hollow of his hand. Excitedly, defiantly, she once more turned to Bo Brocade. Nay, sir, she said. And you wish me to believe that you had no part in this villainy. Get those letters back for me from Sir Humphrey Chaloner. He drew himself up to his full height. His pride at least was equal to her own. Madam, I swear to you, he began. He staggered and would have fallen. But faithful stitch was nigh and caught him in his arms. You are heard, Captain. He whispered a world of anxiety in his kindly eyes. Nay, Nay, murmured Bo Brocade faintly. Tis nothing. Help me up, John. I have something to say and must say it standing. But nature at last would have her will with him. The wild, brave spirit that had kept him up all this while was like to break at last. He fell back dizzy and faint against faithful John's stout breast. Then only did she understand and realize she saw his young face once so merry and boyish, now pale with a hue almost of death. She saw his once laughing eyes now dimmed with the keenness of his suffering. Her woman's heart went out to him. She loathed herself for her cruelty. Her heart overburdened with grief nearly broke at the thought of what she had done. You are heard, sir. She sat as she bent over him, her eyes swimming in tears, and I, I knew it not. The spell of her voice brought his wandering spirit back to earth and to her. I hurt, sweet dream, he murmured feebly, deeply wounded by those dear lips, which spoke such cruel words. But for the rest, tis not. See, he added, trying to raise himself and stretching a yearning hand towards her. The moon has hid her face behind that veil of mist. And I can no longer see the glory of your hair. My eyes are dim. Or is it that the heath is dark? I would faint see your blue eyes once again. By the tender memory of my dream, born this autumn afternoon, I swear, sweet lady, that your brother's life shall be safe. Whilst I have one drop of blood left in my veins, I will protect him. With trembling hand he sought the white rose, which still lay close to her breast. She allowed him to take it, and he pressed it to his lips. Then with a final effort, he drew himself up once more, and said loudly and clearly, by this dear token, I swear that I will get those letters back for you before the sun has risen twice over our green clad hills. Sir, I tell me but once that you believe me, and I will have the strength that moves the mountains. I believe you, sir, she said simply, I believe you absolutely. Then place your dear hand in mine, he whispered, and trust in me. And the last thought of which he was conscious was of her cool white fingers grasping his fevered hand. Then the poor aching head fell back on John's shoulder. The burning eyes were closed. Kindly nature had taken the outlaw to her breast and spread her beneficent mantle of oblivion over his weary senses at last. End of chapter 19