 CHAPTER XXVIII of Bobrocade by Baroness Emma Orksy. The quarry. Some few minutes before this the hunted man had emerged upon the road. As worn out, pallid, aching in every limb, he dragged himself wearily forward on hands and knees. It would have been difficult to recognize, in this poor, suffering fragment of humanity, the brilliant dashing gentleman of the road, the foppish, light-hearted dandy whom the countryside had nicknamed Bobrocade. The wound in his shoulder, inflamed and throbbing after the breakneck ride from the courthouse to the heath, had caused him almost unendurable agony, against which he had at first resolutely set his teeth. But now his whole body had become numb to every physical sensation. Armed with mud and grime, his hair matted against his damp forehead, the lines of pain and exhaustion strongly marked round his quivering mouth, he seemed only to live through his two senses, his sight and his hearing. The spirit was there, though indomitable, strong, the dog obstinacy of the man who has nothing more to lose, and with it all the memory of the oath he had sworn to her. All else was a blank, hunted by men, and with a hound on his track he had physically become like the beasts of the more, alert to every sound, keen only on eluding his pursuers, on putting off, momentarily, the inevitable instant of capture and of death. Early in the day he had been forced to part from his faithful companion. Jekyll and Turn was exhausted, and might have proved an additional source of danger. The gallant beast accustomed to every bush and every corner of the heath knew its way well to its habitual home, the forge of John Stitch. Jack Bathurst watched it out of sight, content that it would look after itself, and that, being writerless, it would be allowed to wend its way unmolested, whether it pleased on the more. And thus he had seen the long hours of this glorious September afternoon drag on their weary course. He had seen the beautiful day turn too late, glowing afternoon. Then the sun gradually set in its mantle of purple and gold, and finally the gray dusk throw its elusive and mysterious veil over tours and more. And he, like the hunted beast, crept from Gorsbush to Scrub, hiding for his life, driven out of one stronghold into another, gasping with thirst, panting with fatigue, determined in spirit, but broken down in body at last. By instinct and temperament Jack Bathurst was essentially a brave man. Physical fear was entirely alien to his nature. He had never known it, never felt it. During the earlier part of the afternoon, with a score of men at his heels, some soldiers, others but indifferently equipped louts, he had really enjoyed the game of hide and seek on the heath. To him at first it had been nothing more. It was but a part of that wild, mad life he had chosen, the easily endured punishment for the breaking of conventional laws. He knew every shrub and crag on this wild corner of the earth, which had become his home, and could have defied a small army when hidden in the natural strongholds known only to himself. But when he first heard the yelping of the bloodhound set upon his track by the fiendish cunning of an avowed enemy, an icy horror seemed to creep into his very marrow, a horror born of the feeling of powerlessness, of the inevitableness of it all. His one thought now was, lest his hand, trembling and numb with fatigue, would refuse him service when he would wish to turn the muzzle of his pistol against his own temple in order to evade actual capture. The dog would not miss him. It was practically useless to hide. Flight alone, constant, ceaseless flight might help him for a while, but it was bound to end one way and one way only. The scent of blood would lead the cur on his track and his pursuers would find and seize him, bind him like a felon, and hang him. I hang him like a common thief. He had oft laughed and joked with John Stitch about his ultimate probable fate. He knew that his wild, unlawful career would come to an end sooner or later, but he always carried pistols in his belt and had not even remotely dreamt of capture, until now. But now he was tired, ill, half paralyzed with pain and exhaustion. His trembling hand crept longingly round the heavy silver handle of the precious weapon. Every natural instinct in him clamored for death, now, at this very moment, before that yelping cur drew nearer, before those shouts of triumph were raised over his downfall. Only, after that, what would happen? He would be asleep and at peace. But she, what would she think, that like a coward he had deserted his post? Like a felon he had broken his oath, whilst there was one single chance of fulfilling it, that he had left her at the mercy of that same enemy who had already devised so much cruel treachery. And like a beast he crept back within his lair and watched and listened for that one chance of serving her before the end. He had seen Sir Humphrey Chaloner and Middichip ambling up the hillside. He tried not to lose sight of them and, if possible, to keep within earshot, but he was driven back by a posse of his pursuers close upon his heels. And now, having succeeded in reaching the road at last, he had the terrible chagrin of seeing that he was too late. The two men were remounting their horses and turning back towards Brassington. Me think we have outwitted that gallant highwomen after all, Sir Humphrey was saying, with one of those boisterous outbursts of merriment, which, to Bathurst's sensitive ears, had a ring of the devil's own glee in it. What hellish mischief have those two reprobates been brewing? I wonder, he mused, if those fellows at my heels hadn't cut me off, I might have known. He crept nearer to the two men, but they set their horses at a sharp trot down the road. Jack vainly strained his ears to hear their talk. For the last eight hours he had practically covered every corner of the heath, backwards and forwards, across boulders and through morass. The hound had had some difficulty in finding and keeping the trail, but now it seemed suddenly to have found it. The yelping drew nearer, but the shouts had altogether ceased. What was to be done? God in heaven, what was to be done? It was at this moment that the plaintive bleeding of one or two of the penned up sheep suddenly aroused every instinct of vitality in him. The sheep, he murmured, a receipt and tally for some sheep. Fresh excitement had in this space of a few seconds given him a new lease of strength. He dragged himself up to his feet and walked almost upright as far as the hut. There certainly was a flock of sheep in the pen. The dog was watching close by the gate, but the shepherd was nowhere to be seen. The sheep, a receipt and tally for some sheep in Sir Humphrey Chaloner's coat pocket. Oh, for one calm moment in which to think, to think, the sheep, this one thought went on hammering in the poor tired brain like the tantalizing elusive whisper of a mischievous sprite. And with it all there was scarce a second to be lost. The hound yelping and straining on the leash was not half a mile away. The next 10 or perhaps 15 minutes would see the end of this awful manhunt on the moor. And yet there close by, behind those clumps of gores and the thick set hedge of bramble was the clearing where just 24 hours ago he had danced that mad rigadoon with her almost in his arms. Instinctively, in the wild agony of this supreme moment, Bo Brocade turned his steps thither. This clearing had but two approaches. There, where the tough branches of furs had once been vigorously cut into. Last night he had led her through the one whilst jock migs sat beside the other, piping the quaint, sad tune. For one moment the hunted man seemed to live that mad merry hour again. And from out the darkness fairy fingers seemed to beckon, and her face, just for one brief second, smiled at him out of the gloom. Surely this was not to be the end. Something would happen. Something must happen to enable him to render her the great service he had sworn to do. Oh, if that yelping dog were not quite so close upon his track, within the next few minutes, seconds even, he would surely think of something that would guide him towards that great goal, her service. Oh, for just a brief respite in which to think, a way to evade his captors for a short while, a means to hide, a disguise, anything. But for once the more his happy home, his friend, his mother, was silent, save for the sound of hunters on his trail, of his doom drawing nearer and nearer whilst he stood and remembered his dream. It was madness, surely, or else a continuance of that fairy vision, but now it seemed to him, as he stood just there, where yesterday her foot had plied the dear old measure, that his ear suddenly caught once more the sound of that self-same rigadoon. It was a dream, of course, he knew that, and paused a while, although every second now meant life or death to him. The tune seemed to evade him. It had been close to his ear a moment ago. Now it was growing fainter and fainter, gradually vanishing away. Soon he could scarce hear it. Yet it seemed something tangible, something belonging to her. It was the tune which she had loved, to which her foot had danced so gladsomely. So he ran after it, ran as fast as his weary body would take him to the further end of the clearing, whither the sweet sad tune was leading him with its tender plaintive echo. There, just where the clearing debouched upon the narrow path, which leads to worksworth, he overtook jock miggs, who was slowly wending his way along, and who just now must have passed quite close to him, blowing on his tiny pipe, as was his want. The shepherd, chorus of angels in paradise, lend me your aid now. With a supreme effort, he pulled his scattered senses together. The mighty fever of self-defense was upon him. That tower of strength, which some overwhelming danger will give to a brave man once, perhaps in his lifetime. The veil of semi-consciousness of utter physical prostration was lifted from his dull brain for this short brief while. The exhausted, suffering, hunted creature had once more given place to the keen, alert son of the Moor, the mad, free child of nature, with a resourceful head and a daring hand. And for that same brief while, the great and mighty power whom men have termed fate, but whom saints have called God, allowed his untamed spirit to conquer his body and to hold it in bondage, chasing pain away, trampling down exhaustion, whilst disclosing to his burning eyes amidst the dark and deadly gloom the magic golden vision of a newly awakened hope. Chapter 29 Of Bobrocade by Baroness Emma Orksy This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Dion Jines, Salt Lake City, Utah. The Dawn A while ago, in an agony of longing, he had cried out for a moment's respite, for a disguise, and now there stood before him Jock Miggs in smock and broad-brimmed hat, with pipe and shepherd staff. His pursuers, headed by the Yelping Dog, were still a quarter of a mile away, five minutes in which to do battle for his life, for his freedom, for the power to keep his oath. The plan of action had surged in his mind at first sight of the wizened little figure of the shepherd beside the further approach to the clearing. Bobrocade drew himself up to his full height, sought and found in the pocket of his coat the black mask which he habitually wore. This he fixed to his face, then drawing a pistol from his belt, he overtook Jock Miggs, clapped him vigorously on the shoulder and shouted lustily, stand and deliver. Jock Miggs, aroused from his pleasant meditations, threw up his hands in terror. The lot have mercy on my soul, he ejaculated as he fell on his knees. Stand and deliver, repeated Bobrocade in as gruff a voice as he could command. Jock Miggs was trying to collect his scattered weds. But kind sir, he murmured, you wouldn't harm Jock Miggs, the shepherd, would you? Quicks the word, now then. But good sir, I've got now to deliver. Jock Miggs was pitiful to behold, at any other moment of his life, Bathurst would have felt very sorry for the poor, scared creature. But that yelping hound was drawing desperately near, and he had only a few minutes at his command. Not to deliver, he said, with a great show of roughness and seizing poor Jock by the collar. Look at your smock. My smock, kind sir. I have a fancy for your smock, so off with it, quick. Jock Miggs struggled up to his feet. He was beginning to gather a small modicum of courage. He had lived all his life on bracing more, and it was his first serious encounter with an armed gentleman of the road. Whether it was Beau Brocade or no, he was too scared to conjecture, but he had enough experience of the heath to know that poor folk like himself had little bodily hurt to fear from highwaymen. But, of course, it was always wisest to obey, as to his old smock. My old smock, sir, he laughed vaguely and nervously. Why, I don't want to knock the poor old cuckoo down, murmured Bathurst to himself, but I've just got three minutes before that cur reaches the top of the clearing, and off with your smock, man, or I fire, he added, peremptorily, and pointing the muzzle of his pistol at the trembling shepherd. Miggs had in the meanwhile fully realized that the masked stranger was in deadly earnest. Why he should want the old smock was more than any shepherd could conceive, but that he meant to have it was very clear. Jock uttered a final plaintive word of protest. Kind, sir, but if I take off my smock, I shan't be quite the decent, sir, with only my shirt. You shall have my coat, replied Bathurst decisively. Ludd preserve me, your coat, sir? Yes, it's old and shabby, and my waistcoat too. Now off with that smock, or once more the muzzle of the pistol gleamed close to Jock Miggs' head. Without further protest he began to divest himself of his smock. The process was slow and laborious, and Jock set his teeth not to scream with the agony of the suspense. He himself had had little difficulty in taking off his own coat and waistcoat for earlier in the day before he had been so hard pressed. The pain in his shoulder had caused him to slip his left arm out of its sleeve. Moreover, the excitement of these last fateful moments kept him at fever pitch. He was absolutely unconscious of ought, save of the rapid flight of the seconds, and the steady approach of dog and men towards the clearing. Even Jock Miggs, who up to now had been too intent on his own adventure to take much heed of what went on in the gloom beyond, even he perceived that something unusual was happening on the moor. What's that? he asked with renewed terror. A posse of soldiers at my heels said Bobrocade decisively. That's why I want your smock, my man, and if I don't get it there will be just time to blow out your dull brains before I fall into their hands. This last argument was sufficiently convincing. Miggs thought it decidedly best to obey. He helped his mysterious assailant on with his own smock, cap and kerchief, and not unwillingly attired himself in Bobrocade's discarded coat and waistcoat. A pistol in your belt, in case you need it, friend, whispered Bathurst rapidly as he slipped one of the weapons in Miggs' belt, keeping the other firmly grasped in his own hand. There was no doubt that the hound was on the scent now. The men had seized shouting, but their rapid footsteps could be heard following closely upon the dog, whose master was muttering a few words of encouragement. Anon there came a whisper louder than the rest. This way, then another. There's a path here. Begui this confounded darkness. Steady, Roy. Steady, old man. A. What? This way. Can't you find the trail, old Roy? And the gorse was crackling beneath rapid and stealthy footsteps. There was now just the width of the clearing between Bobrocade and his pursuers. This way, Sergeant, Roy's got the trail again. Neither Jock Miggs nor yet Bobrocade could see what was going on at the further end of the clearing. The dog, wildly straining against the leash, was quivering with intense excitement, his master hanging onto him with all his might. Miggs, scared like some sheep, lost among a herd of cows, was standing half-dazed, smoothing down with appreciative fingers. The fine cloth of his new apparel terrified every time his hand came in contact with the pistol in his belt. But Bobrocade had crept underneath a heavy clump of gorse and bramble, and with his finger on the trigger of his weapon he cowered there, ready for action, his eyes fixed upon the blackness before him. The next moment the outline of the hound's head and shoulders became faintly discernible in the gloom. With nose close to the ground, powerful jaws dropping and parched tongue hanging out of its mouth, it was heading straight for the clump of gorse where cowered the hunted man. Bobrocade took rapid aim and fired. The dog, without a howl, rolled over on its side, whilst Jock Miggs uttered a cry of terror. Then there was an instant's pause. The pursuers, silenced and odd, had stopped dead, for they had been taken wholly unawares, and for a second or two waited, expecting and dreading yet another shot. Then a mild trembling voice came to them from the darkness. There he is, Sergeant, just a for you standing, see? The Sergeant and soldiers had no need to be told twice. Their pause had only been momentary, and already they had perceived the outline of Jock Miggs' figure, standing motionless, not far from the body of the dead dog. With a shout of triumph, Sergeant and soldiers fell on the astonished shepherd, whilst the same mild, trembling voice continued to pipe excitedly. Holden tight, Sergeant, jump on him, tie his legs, sure, and tis he the rascal. Jock Miggs had had no chance of uttering one word of protest, for one of the soldiers, remembering a lesson learnt the day before at the smithy, had thrown his own heavy coat right over the poor fellow's head, effectually smothering his screams. Another man had picked up the still-smoking pistol from the ground, close to Miggs' feet. Pistols said the Sergeant excitedly, the pair of them two, he added, pulling the other silver mounted weapon out of Miggs' belt, and the black mask out of the pocket of his coat, and silver-mounted begui and his mask. Now my man, off with him, tie his legs together, off with your belts quick, and you, Corporal, keep that coat tied well over his head, the rascals like an eel, and will wiggle out of your hands if you don't hold him tight. Remember, there's a hundred guineas reward for the capture of Bobrocade. Poor old Miggs smothered within the thick foals of the soldier's coat, could scarce manage to breathe. The men were fastening his knees and ankles together with their leather belts, his arms, too, were pinioned behind his back. Thus, trust and spitted like a goose ready for roasting, he felt himself being hauled up on the shoulders of some of the men, and then borne triumphantly away. We've gotten Bobrocade hip hip hooray, and so they marched away, shouting lustily whilst Bobrocade remained alone on the heath. The excitement was over now. He was safe for the moment and free, but the hour of victory seemed like the hour of death, as the last shouts of triumph, the last cry of hooray, died away in the distance. He fell back against the wet earth, his senses were reeling, the very ground seemed to be giving way beneath his feet, a laurid red film to be rising before his closing lids, blotting out the darkness of the moor, and that faint, very faint streak of gray which had just appeared in the east. God, to whom he had cried out in his agony, had given him the respite for which he had craved. He was safe and free to think, to think of her, and yet now his one longing seemed to be to lie down and rest, and rest, and sleep. Many a night he had lain thus on the open moor with the soft, sweet-scented earth for his bed, and the tender buds of heather as a pillow for his head, but to-night he was only conscious of infinite peace, and his trembling hands drew the worthy shepherd's smock closer round him. His wandering spirit paused a while to dwell on poor migs in his sorry plight. Ah, well, the morning would see jock free again, but in the meanwhile, then all of a sudden the spirit was back on earth, back to life, and to a mad, scarce, understandable hope. His hand had come in contact with a packet of letters in the pocket of migs smock. Far away in the sky the eastern stars had paled before the morning light. One by one the distant peaks of the derbyshire hills emerged from the black mantle of the night, and peeped down on the valley below, blushing a rosy red. Upon the heath animal life began to be a stir in the morass beyond a lazy frog started to croak. Bobrocade had clasped the letters with cold, numb fingers. He drew them forth and held them before his dimmed eyes. The letters, he murmured, trembling with the agony of this great, unlooked for joy. The letters, how they came there, he could not tell. He was too weary, too ill to guess, but that they were her letters he could not for a moment doubt. He had found them. God and his angels had placed them in his hands. Ah, fortune, fickle fortune, the willful jade, and the poor outlaw were to be even then after all. And it was Bobrocade, highwayman, thief, who was destined in a few hours to bring her this great happiness. Will she smile? I wonder. He loved to see her smile and to watch the soft, tail-tail blush slowly mounting to her cheek. Ah, now he was dreaming, dreams that never, never could be. He would bring her back the letters, for he had sworn to her that she should have them ere the sun had risen twice over yon green-clad hills. And then all would be over, and she would pass out of his life like a beautiful comet gliding across the firmament of his destiny. A moment but not to stay. In the east, far away, rose had changed to gold, from moor and heath and bogland came the sound of innumerable bird-throats, singing the great and wonderful hymn of praise, Hosanna to awakening nature. The outlaw had kept his oath. He turned to wear the first rays of the rising sun, shed their shimmering mantle over the distant tours. And in one great uplifting of his soul to his maker, he prayed that sweet death might kiss him when he placed the letters at her feet. End of Chapter 29 Chapter 30 of Bo Brocade by Baroness Emma Orksy This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Dion Gynes, Celtic City, Utah. Suspense Throughout the whole range of suffering, which humanity is called upon to endure, there is perhaps nothing so hard to bear as suspense. The uncertainty of what the immediate future might bring, the fast-sinking hope, the slowly creeping despair, the agony of dull, weary hours. Patience had gone through the whole miserable gamut during that long and terrible day, when obedient to Bathurst's wishes, she had shut herself up in the dingy little parlor of the pack horse and refused to see anyone save the faithful Smith. And the news which John Stitch brought to her from time to time was horrible enough to hear. He tried to paliate as much as possible the account of that awful battu organized against Bo Brocade, but she gassed from the troubled look on the honest Smith's face and from the furtive anxious glance of his eyes that the man whom she had trusted with her whole heart was now in peril, even more deadly than that which had assailed her brother. And with the innate sympathy born of a true and loving heart, she gassed to how John Stitch's simple, faithful soul went out in passionate longing to his friend who alone wounded, perhaps helpless, was fighting his last battle on the heath. Yet the trust within her had not died out. Bo Brocade had sworn to do her service and to bring her back the letters ere the sun had risen twice over the green clad hills. To her overwrought mind, it seemed impossible that he should fail. He was not the type of man whom fate or adverse circumstance ever succeeded in conquering. And on his whole magnetic personality, on the intense vitality of his being, nature had omitted to put the mark of failure. But the hours wore on and she was without further news. Her terror for her brother increased the agony of her suspense. She could see that John Stitch, too, had become anxious about Philip. There was no doubt that with an organized manhunt on the moor, the lonely forge by the crossroads would no longer be a safe hiding place for the Earl of Stratton. This smithy was already marked as a suspected house, and John Stitch was known to be a firm adherent of the Gasgoins and a faithful friend of Bo Brocade. During the course of this eventful day, the attention of the sergeant and soldiers had been distracted through bathers daring actions from Stitch's supposed nephew out of Nottingham. But as the beautiful September afternoon turned to twilight and then to dusk and band after band of hunters set out to scour the heath, it became quite clear, both to patience and to the smith, that Philip must be got away from the forge at any cost. He could remain in temporary shelter at the pack horse under the guise of one of Lady Patience's serving men at any rate until another nightfall when a fresh refuge could be found for him, according as the events would shape themselves within the next few hours. Therefore, as soon as the shadows of evening began to creep over Brassink Moor, Stitch set out for the crossroads. He walked at a brisk pace along the narrow footpath, which led up to his forge, his honest heart heavy at thought of his friend, all alone out there on the heath. The weird echo of the manhunt did not reach this western boundary of the Moor, but even in its stillness the vast immensity looked hard and cruel in the gloom. The outlines of Gors Bush and Blackthorne seemed akin to gaunt Cassandra-like specters foreshadowing some awful disaster. Within the forge Philip, too, had waited in an agony of suspense, whilst twice the glorious sunset had clothed the tours with gold, driven by hunger and cold out of the hiding place on the Moor, which Bathurst had found for him. He had returned to the smithy the first night, only to find John Stitch gone and no trace of his newly found friend. His sister he knew must have started for London, but he was without any news as to what had happened in the forge and ignorant of the gallant fight made therein by the notorious highwayman. The hour was late then, and Philip was loth to disturb old Mistress Stitch, John's mother, who kept house for him at the cottage. Moreover, he had the firm belief in his heart that neither Bathurst nor Stitch would have deserted him had they thought that he was in imminent danger. Tired out with the excitement of the day and with a certain amount of hope renewed in his buoyant young heart, he curled himself up in a corner of the shed and forgot all his troubles in a sound sleep. The next morning found him under the care of old Mistress Stitch at the cottage. She had had no news of John who had wandered out, so she said about two hours after sunset possibly to find the captain, but she thrilled the young man's ears with the account of the daring fight in the forge. Nay, but they'll never get our captain, said the worthy dame, with a break in her gentle old voice, and if the whole countryside was after him they'd never get him. Least wise so says my John. God grant he may speak truly, replied the young man fervently, to his shame enough on me that a brave man should risk his life for me whilst I have to stand idly behind a cupboard door. The absence of definite news weighed heavily upon his spirits, and as the day wore on and neither John Stitch nor Bathurst reappeared, his hopes very quickly began to give way to anxiety and then to despair. Philip always had a touch of morbid self-analysis in his nature. Unlike Jack Bathurst, he was ever ready to bend the neck before untoward fate, heaping self-accusation on self-reproach and thus allowing his spirit to bow to circumstance rather than to attempt to defy it. And throughout the whole of this day he sat moody and silent with the ever-recurring thought hammering in his brain. I ought not to have allowed a stranger to risk his life for me, I should have given myself up, twas unworthy a soldier and a gentleman. By the time the shadows had lengthened on the moor and Jackal Lantern covered with sweat had arrived riderless at the forge, Philip was formulating wild plans of going to worksworth and there surrendering himself to the local magistrate. He worked himself up into a fever of heroic self-sacrifice and had just resolved only to wait until dawn to carry out his purpose when John Stitch appeared in the doorway of his smithy. One look in the honest fellow's face told the young Earl of Stratton that most things in his world were amiss just now. A few eager questions and as briefly as possible, Stitch told him exactly how matters stood, the letters stolen by Sir Humphrey Chaloner, Bathurst's determination to recapture them, and the organized hunt proceeding this very night against him. Her ladyship and I both think, my lord, that this place is not safe for you just now, added John finally, and she begs you to come to her at Brassington as soon as you can. The road is safe enough, added the smith with a heavy sigh. No one had noticed us, they are all after the captain. And God knows, but perhaps they've got him by now. Philip could say nothing for his miserable self-reproaches had broken his spirit of obstinacy. His boyish heart was overflowing with sympathy for the kindly smith. How gladly now would he have given his own life to save that of his gallant rescuer? Obediently he prepared to accede to his sister's wishes. He knew what agony she must have endured when the letters were filched from her. He guessed that she would wish to have him near her, and in any case he wanted to be on the spot hoping that yet he could offer his own life in exchange for the one which was being so nobly risked for him. Quite quietly, therefore, and without a murmur, he prepared to accompany Stitch back to Brassington. At the pack horse, a serving man's suit could easily be found for him, and he would be safe enough there for a little while at least. John Stitch, having tended Jack-o'-lantern with loving care, took a hasty farewell of his mother. While his friend's fate and that of his young Lord hung in the balance, he was not like to get back quietly to his work. The captain may come back here for shelter may have, he said, with a catch in his throat, as he kissed the old dame goodbye. You'll tend to him, mother. I, you may be sure of that, John, replied Mr. Stitch fervently. He'll need a rest, may have, and some nice warm water. He's such a dandy mother, you know. I, I, and you might lay out his best clothes for him. He may need them, may have. I, I've got him laid in lavender for him, that nice sky-blue coat. Thank you, John. I, and the fine broodered waistcoat, and the black silk bow for his hair, and the lace ruffles for his wrists, and Stitch broke down, a great lump had risen in his throat. Would the foppish young dandy, the handsome light-hearted gallant, ever gladden the eyes of honest John again? End of Chapter 30 Chapter 31 of Bo Brocade by Baroness Emma Orksey This Libervox recording is in the public domain, recording by Dion Giants, Celtic City, Utah. We've gotten Bo Brocade. The presence of Philip at the inn had done much to cheer patients in her weary waiting. He and John Stitch had reached the pack horse some time before Cock Crow, and the landlord had been only too ready to do anything in reason to further the safety of the fugitive, so long as his own interests were not imperiled thereby. This meant that he would give Philip a serving man's suit and afford him shelter in the inn for as long as the authorities did not suspect him of harboring a rebel. Beyond that he would not go. Lady Patience had paid him lavishly for this help and his subsequent silence. It was understood that the fugitive would only make a brief halt at Bracington. Some more secluded shelter would have to be found for him on the morrow. For the moment, of course, the thoughts of everyone in the village would be centered in the capture of Bo Brocade. The highwaymen had many friends and adherents in the village, people whom his careless and open-handed generosity had often saved from penury. To a man almost the village folk hoped to see him come out victorious from the awful and unequal struggle which was going on on the heath. So strong was this feeling that the beetle, who was known to entertain revengeful thoughts against the man who had played him so impudent a trick the day before, did not dare to show his Rubicon face in the bar parlor of either end on that memorable night. No one had gone to bed. The man waited about, consuming tankards of small ale, whilst discussing the possibility of their hero's capture. The women sat at home with streaming eyes, plaintively wondering who would help them in future in their distress if Bo Brocade ceased to haunt the heath. Patience herself did not close an eye. Her hand clinging to that of Philip, she sat throughout that long weary night watching and waiting, dreading the awful dawn with the terrible news it would bring. And it was when the first rosy light shed its delicate hue over the tiny old world village that the sweet-scented morning air was suddenly filled with the horse-triumphal cry. We have gotten Bo Brocade, hip, hip, hip, hooray, wearied and dazed with the fatigue of her long vigil. Patience had sunk into a torpor when those shouts rapidly drawing nearer to the village roused her from this state of semi-consciousness. She hardly knew what she had hoped during these past anxious hours. Now that the awful certainty had come, it seemed to stun her with the unexpectedness of the blow. We've gotten Bo Brocade. The village folk turned out in melancholy groups from the parlor of the inn. They, too, had entertained vague hopes that their hero would emerge unscathed from the perils which encompassed him. To them, too, the news of his capture came as that of a sad, irretrievable catastrophe. They congregated in small excited numbers on the village green, their stolid heads shaking sadly at sight of the squad of soldiers who were bringing in a swathed-up bundle of humanity smothered about the head in a scarlet coat, and with hands and legs securely strapped down with a couple of military belts. Only the fine brown cloth coat, the beautifully embroidered waistcoat and silver-mounted pistol, proclaimed that miserable, helpless bundle to be the gallant Bo Brocade. The soldiers themselves were in a wild state of glee. They had carried their prisoner in triumph, all the way from the heath, and had never ceased shouting until they had deposited him on the green. Owing to the unusual hour and to the absence of his honor, Squire West, the pinioned highwayman was to be locked up in the pound until noon. In the small private parlor of the packhorse, patience had sat rigid as a statue, while those shouts of triumph seemed to strike her heart as with a hammer. Her fist pressed against her burning mouth. She was making desperate efforts to smother the scream of agony which would have rent her throat. But with one bound, John Stitch was soon out of the packhorse, where he, too, with aching heart and mind devoured with anxiety, had watched and waited through the night. It did not take him long to reach the green, and using his stalwart elbows to some purpose he quickly made a way for himself through the small crowd, and was presently looking down on the huddled figure which lay helpless on the ground. There was the captain's fine brown coat, sure enough, with its ample silk lined full skirts, and rich cut steel buttons. There was the long richly embroidered waistcoat, the lace cuffs at the wrists, and the handsome sword belt through which the finely chased silver handle of the pistol still protruded. But John Stitch had need but to cast one glance at the hands and another at the feet encased in rough countryman's boots to realise with a sudden wild exultation of his honest heart that in some way or other his captain had succeeded in once more playing a trick on his pursuers, and that the man who lay there muffled on the ground was certainly not Beau Brocade. But even in the suddenness of this intense joy and relief, John Stitch was shrewd enough not to betray himself. Obviously every moment during which the captors enjoyed their mistaken triumph was a respite gained for the hunted man out on the heath. Therefore when the sergeant ordered the rascal to be locked up in the pound, awaiting his honour's orders, and gave Stitch a vigorous wrap on the shoulder, saying lustily, well, Master Stitch, we've got your friend after all, you see? The smith quietly replied, I, I, you've gotten him right enough. No offense, Sergeant, have a small ale with me before we all go to bed. Tis not to me, he added, seeing with intense satisfaction the heavy bolts of the pound securely pushed home on the unfortunate jock migs. The sergeant was nothing loth, and eagerly followed Stitch to the bar of the Royal George, where small ale now flowed freely until the sun was high in the heavens. But as soon as the smith had seen the soldiers safely installed before their huge tankards, he rushed out of the inn and across the green back to the pack horse to bring the joyful news to Lady Patience and her brother. In the privacy of the little back parlor he was able to give free reign to his joy. They'll never get the captain, he shouted, tossing his cap in the air, and saving your ladyship's presence we was all fools to think they would. Patience had said nothing when the smith first brought the news. She smiled kindly and somewhat mechanically at the exuberance of his joy. But when honest John once more left her to glean more detailed account of the great manhunt on the heath, she turned to her brother, and falling on her knees she buried her fair head against the lad's shoulder, and sobbed in the fullness of her joy as if her heart would break. And a little rest came the rude awakening after the hour of triumph. Jock Miggs, still trust and opinioned, had been hauled out of the pound. Master Inch, the beetle, resplendent in gold-laced coat, and the majesty of his own importance, had taken the order of ceremony into his own hands. His honor, Squire West, would be round at the courthouse about noon, and Inch, still smarting under the indignity, put upon him through the instrumentality of the highwayman, had devised an additional little plan of revenge. Sir Humphrey Chaloner had emphatically declared that the beetle should be publicly whipped, for having dared to lay hands on the Squire of Hardington's person. Master Inch remembered this possible and appalling indignity, which may have he would be called upon to suffer, and therefore when the bolts of the pound were first drawn, disclosing the swathed-up bundle of humanity, which was supposed to be the highwayman, the beetle shouted in his most stentorian, most pompous tones to the pond with him. The soldiers, most of them lads recruited from the Midland counties, and a pretty rough lot to boot, were only too ready for this additional bit of horseplay. It was fun enough to sit an old scold in the ducking stool, but to carry on the same game with Bobro Cade, the notorious highwayman who had defied the four counties, and said every posse of soldiers by the ears would be rare sport indeed. With a shout of joy they seized Jock Miggs by the legs and shoulders, and with much laughter and many a lively sally, they carried him to the shallow duck pond at the further end of the green. Very sadly, and with many an anxious shake of the head, the village folk followed the little procession, which was headed by the sergeant and pompous Master Inch. At the moment, when the unfortunate shepherd was being swung in mid-air, preparatory to his immersion in the water, one of the soldiers laughingly dragged away the coat, which swathed poor Miggs' head and shoulders, and was near suffocating him. We don't want him to drown, do we, he said, just as his comrades dropped the richard man straight into the pond. Immediately there was a loud cry from Beedle and spectators, Lord love us all, that they Bobro Cade. And one timid voice added, why, to his Jock Miggs, the shepherd, the Beedle nearly had a fit of apoplectic rage, that cursed highwayman surely must be in league with the devil himself. The soldiers were gasping with astonishment and staring open-mouthed at the dripping figure of Jock Miggs, who, with unruffled stolidity, was quietly struggling out of the water. Lordy, Lordy, these be amazing times, he muttered in his vague, fatalistic way, as he shook himself dry in the sunshine after the manner of his own wooly sheepdog. Oh-ho, ho, ha, ha, ha! came in merry chorus from the crowd of village folk. Look at Jock Miggs, the highwayman. The soldiers were absolutely speechless. Master Inch, the Beedle, had said emphatically, damn, truly there was nothing more to be said. Those who were inclined to be superstitious felt convinced that the devil himself had had something to do with this amazing substitution, that it was Bobro Cade, who had been captured on the heath last night, none of those who were present at the time, doubted for a single instant. To their minds the highwayman had been mysteriously spirited away by the agency of Satan, his friend, who had quietly deposited Jock Miggs, the shepherd in his place. John Stitch, with Mistress Betty beside him, had watched these proceedings from the other end of the Green, fully prepared to come to Miggs's assistance and to disclose the latter's identity at once, if the horseplay became at all too rough. He now pushed his way through the group of soldiers, and, good-naturedly taking hold of the bewildered shepherd's arm, he led him to the porch of the royal George. You'd like to wet your gullet after this, eh, Jock? he said, as he ordered a tankard of steaming ale to be brought forthwith to the dripping man. The soldiers, somewhat shame-faced, had pressed into the bar parlor of the inn. Presently there would be a few broken heads in the village as a result of the morning's work, but for the moment the yokels had not begun to chafe. Twas Jock, who was the center of attraction outside in the porch, sitting on a bench and sipping large quantities of hot ale. Let's all drink a glass of ale to the health of Jock Miggs, the highwaymen, came in merry accents from one of the gaffers. Hooray for Jock Miggs, the highwaymen, was the universal gleeful chorus. Be guy, don't he look formidable, quote one of the villagers pointing at the shepherd's scared figure on the bench. Let me perish, said another in mock alarm, but eyes mightily offeared of him. Mistress Betty, too, had mixed with the throng and was eyeing Jock, with irrepressible laughter dancing in her saucy little face. Lud tis that funny bit of sheep's wool, she said gaily. Faith, and you do look sadly, Jock Miggs, and no mistake, have you been in the pond? How did he found that out, queried Miggs vaguely? Aye, they dumped oy in the pond, they did, and nearly throttled eye. Tis a blamed shame. He had sipped huge tankards of hot ale until he felt thoroughly warm, and was steaming now, like a great loaf just out of the oven. Dumped ye in the pond, laughed Mistress Betty, you were no beauty before, Jock Miggs, but now, oh, Gemini, why, what had you done? I'd done out, retorted the bewildered shepherd, a fine gentleman, he took a fancy to me old smock, he did, he put a pistol to my head, then he'd give me his own beautiful coat for to make me look decent, and I were just putting it on, when them soldiers fell on me, and nigh throttled me, and clapped me in the pond, they did. Ye seem to have had a rough time of it, friend Miggs, said John Stitch kindly. Aye, that be so, commented Jock vaguely. Amazing times these be. They mistook you in your fine clothes for Bo Brocade, explained one of the villagers. Maybe so, quote Miggs, I don't know. But Mistress Betty held up a rosy finger at the unfortunate shepherd, and said with grave severity, Ye are not Bo Brocade, Jock Miggs, are ye? I don't know, replied Jock Miggs with imperturbable vagueness, I don't rightly know who OAB, I think them soldiers made a mistake, but I don't know. He was undoubtedly the hero of the hour, and the rest of his mourning was spent in pleasant conviviality with all his friends in the village, until by about noon the worthy shepherd was really hopelessly at sea as to who he really was. At one o'clock he became quite convinced that he was Bo Brocade, the highwaymen, or at any rate a very dangerous character, and had only escaped hanging through his reputation of supernatural cunning and bravery. The sergeant and soldiers were drowning their acute disappointment in the bar parlor of the Royal George, they certainly were not in luck. For even at the very moment when egged on by the sergeant they were planning a fresh battu of the heath, there came into brassington an advance guard from the Duke of Cumberland with the news that his royal highness would pass through the village with his army corps on his way to the north. The sergeant was requisitioned to arrange for his highnesses quarters at the Royal George, the men would not be allowed to go hunting after a highwaymen in case their officers had need of them for other purposes. All thoughts of a fresh hunt after their elusive quarry would therefore have to be abandoned until after the army had passed through brassington, and sergeant and soldiers could but hope that they would be left behind in order that they might make one more gigantic attempt to earn the hundred guineas reward offered for the capture of Beau Brocade. Chapter 33 of Beau Brocade by Baroness Emma Orksy. This lipervox recording is in the public domain, recording by Dion Giants, Celtic City, Utah. The awakening. John Stitch could scarce contain himself for joy. Fate indeed and all the angels in heaven had ranged themselves on the side of his captain. That Beau Brocade should have emerged unconquered after all out of the terrible position in which he was placed last night seemed to the worthy Smith nothing short of miraculous and only accomplished through the special agency of heaven, whose most cherished child the gallant highwaymen most undoubtedly was in his friend's enthusiastic estimation. For the moment therefore the kindly Smith felt tolerably happy about his friend. The presence of his royal highness, the Duke of Cumberland with his army corps in this part of the country would do much towards keeping the sergeant and soldiers attention away from the heath at any rate for a day or two. Perhaps the squad now quartered at brassington would be drafted to one of the regiments and a fresh contingent composed of men who'd have no special bone to pick with the highwaymen left behind for this still active hunt against the rebels. But this train of thought brought the faithful Smith's mind back to the Earl of Stratton and the stolen letters reassured momentarily as to his friend he was still aware of the grave peril which threatened his young lord. Neither he nor lady patience could conjecture what had become of the letters. Sir Humphrey Chaloner after his woeful adventure in brassington had condescended to accept squire west's hospitality for the nonce. Stitch had spied him in the course of the morning walking in the direction of the village in close conversation with his familiar master midditchhip attorney at law. In spite of the momentary respite in his anxiety the Smith felt that there lay still the real danger to Bobrocade and to Lord Stratton. Moreover by now he longed to see his friend and to learn how he'd fared vaguely in his honest heart he feared that the young man had succumbed on the heath to pain and fatigue and may have had failed to reach the forge. When he saw the entire population of brassington busy with jock migs and the soldier's intent on the news from the Duke of Cumberland's advance guard he determined to set out for the crossroads in hopes of finding the captain at the forge. He had just crossed the green and turned into the narrow bridal path which led straight to his smithy when he spied a yokel dressed in a long smock and wearing a broad brimmed hat coming slowly towards him. The man was leaning heavily on a thick knotted stick and seemed to be walking with obvious pain and fatigue. Some unexplainable instinct caused the smith to wait a while until the yokel came a little nearer. This corner of the village was quite deserted. The laughter of the folk assembled round the royal George could be heard only as a distant echo from across the green. The next moment the smith uttered a quickly suppressed cry of astonishment as he recognized Bathurst's face underneath the broad brimmed hat. Whispered the young man hurriedly, her ladyship, can I see her? Yes, yes, replied John, whose honest eyes were resting anxiously on his friend's pallid face, but you, captain, you, he did not like to formulate the question, and Bathurst interrupted him quickly. I've rested a while at the forge. John, your mother was an angel, and now I want to see her ladyship. John's honest heart misgave him. His friend's fresh young voice sounded hoarse and unnatural. There was a restless feverish glitter in his eyes and the slender tapering hand which rested on the stick trembled visibly. You ought to be in bed, captain. He muttered gruffly and well nursed, too. You are ill. I am sufficiently a live friend at any rate to serve Lady Patience to the end. I'll go tell her ladyship, said the smith, with a sigh. Say a man from the village would wish to speak with her. Don't mention my name, John. She'll not know me, I think. Tis best that she should not, and I look a miserable object enough, don't I? He added with a feeble laugh. Her ladyship would command you to rest, if she knew. I don't wish her to know, friend, said Jack, smiling in spite of himself at the good fellow's vehemence. Her tender pity would try to wean me from my purpose, which is to serve her with the last breath left in me. And now, quick, John, don't worry about me, old friend. I am only a little tired after that scramble on the heath and the wound that limb of Satan dealt me is at times rather troublesome. But I am very tough, you know. All my plans are made, and I'll follow you at a little distance. Beg her ladyship to speak with me in the passage of the inn. Twid excite too much attention if I went up to her parlor. No one'll know me, never fear. John knew of old how useless it was to argue with the captain once he had set his mind on a definite course of action. Without further protest, therefore, and yet with a heavy heart, he turned and quickly walked back through the village to the pack horse, followed at some little distance by Bathurst, in order to arouse as little suspicion as possible. It had been necessary for the young Earl of Stratton to mix from time to time with the servant and the barman of the inn. He was supposed to be an additional serving man, come to help at the pack horse in view of her ladyship's unexpected stay there. In this out-of-the-way village of Brassington no one knew him by sight, and he was in comparative safety here until nightfall when he meant to strike up country again for shelter. He was standing in the shadow behind the bar when John Stitch entered the parlor, bearing the message from Bobrocade. The room was dark and narrow, overfilled with heavy clouds of tobacco smoke, and with the deafening clamor of loud discussions and exciting narratives carried on by two or three soldiers and some half-dozen villagers over profuse tankards of ale. John Stitch managed to reach Philip's ear without exciting attention. The young man at once slipped out of the room in order to tell his sister that a yokel bearing important news would wish to speak with her privately. Her heart beating with eagerness and apprehension, patience hurried down the narrow stairs, and in the passage found herself face to face with a man dressed in a long dingy smock and whose features she could not distinguish beneath the broad brim of his hat. He raised a respectful hand to his forelock as soon as he was in her ladyship's presence but did not remove his hat. You wished to speak with me, my man, asked Lady Patience eagerly. I have a message for to deliver to Lady Patience Gascoigne, said Bathurst, whose voice, hoarse and quavering with fatigue, needed no assumption of disguise. He kept his head well bent and the passage was very dark. Patience, with her thoughts fixed on the gallant upright figure, she had last seen so full of vitality and joy in the little impaler upstairs, scarce gave more than a passing glance to the stooping form, leaning heavily on a stick before her. Yes, yes, she said impatiently, you have a message from whom? I don't rightly know, my lady, a gentleman twas on the heath this morning. He gave me this letter for your ladyship. Burying his tail-tail slender hand, well inside the capacious sleeve of Jock Migg's smock, Bathurst handed Patience a note written by himself. She took it from him with a glad little cry, and when he turned to go, she put a restraining hand on his arm. Wait till I've read the letter, she said, I may wish to send an answer. She unfolded the letter slowly, very slowly, he standing close beside her and watching the tears gathering in her eyes as she began to read, murmuring the words half audibly to herself, have no fear, I have the letters, and with your permission will take them straight to London. I have a powerful friend there who will help me to place them before the King and Council without delay. To carry this safely through it is important that I should not be seen again in Brassington as Sir Humphrey Chaloner luckily has lost track of me for the moment, and I can be at worksworth before nightfall and on my way to London before another dawn. Your enemy will keep watch on you, so I entreat you to stay in Brassington so as to engage his attention whilst I go to London with the letters. His lordship would be safest, I think, in the cottage of old widow Coggins at Oldwork. It has been my good fortune to do her some small service. She'll befriend his lordship for my sake. John Stitch will convey him thither as soon as may be. I entreat you to be of good cheer. A few days we'll see your brother a free man and rid you forever of your enemy. Believe me, the plan I have had the honor to set forth is safe and quick, and on my knees I beg you to allow me to carry it through in your service. She folded the letter and then slipped it into the folds of her gown. Through the open doorway behind her array of sunshine came shyly peeping in, framing her graceful figure with a narrow fillet of gold. They were alone in the passage, and she, intent upon the precious letter, was taking no notice of him. Thus he could feast his eyes once more upon his dream. His beautiful white rose drooping with the dew, the graceful silhouette outlined against the sunlit picture beyond, the queenly head, with its wealth of soft golden hair, bent with rapt attention on the letter which trembled in her hand. His whole being ached with mad passionate longing for her, his lips burned with a desire to cover her neck and throat with kisses, yet he would have knelt on the flagstones before her and worshipped as did the saints before our lady's shrine. In his heart was a great joy that he could do her service and a strange wild hope that he might die for her. The gentleman who gave you this letter, she said with a slight catch in her low melodious voice. You saw him. He was well. How did he look? Her eyes now were swimming in tears, and Bathurst had much ado to still the mad beating of his heart and to force his voice to a natural tone. Lud, my lady, he said, but he was just like any other body I thought, not ill. No, Noah, not that I could see. Go back to him, friend, she said, with sudden eagerness. Tell him that he must come to me at once. I would speak with him. It required all Bathurst's firm strength of will not to betray himself before her. The tender pleading in her eyes, the gentle womanly sympathy in her voice, set all his pulses beating, but he had made up his mind that she should not know him just then. A look, a cry, might give him away, and there was about one chance now to be of useful service to her, and that was to take the letters at once to London, whilst their joint enemy had for the nonce no thought of him. Therefore, he contrived to say quite stolidly, Noah, Noah, the gentleman said to Oye, you can bring a message, but the lady mustn't come nigh me. She gave a quick little sigh of disappointment. Then, my good fellow, she said, try to remember. Tell him, tell him I would wish to thank him. Tell him, nay, nay, she suddenly added, pulling a faded white rose from her belt. Tell him nothing, but give him this flower in token that I have received his letter and will act as he bids me. You'll remember. He dared not trust himself to speak, but as she held out the rose to him, he took it from her hand, and involuntarily his fingertips came in contact with hers just for a second, long enough for the divine magnetism of his great love to pass from him to her. She seized hold of his hand, for in that one magnetic touch she had recognized him. Her heart gave a great leap of joy, the joy of being near him once more, of again feeling the tender gray eyes resting with passionate longing on her face. But she uttered neither cry nor word, for it was a great silent and godlike moment, when at last she understood. He had stooped still lower and rested his burning lips upon her cool fingers and upon the rose which she had worn at her breast. Neither of them spoke, for their hearts were in perfect unison, their whole being thrilled with the wild, jubilant echo of a divine Hosanna, and around them the legions of God's angels made a rampart of snow-white wings to shut out all the universe from them, leaving them alone with their love. End of Chapter 33 Chapter 34 of Bobrocade by Baroness Emma Orksy This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Dion Giants, Salt Lake City, Utah. A Life for a Life That moment was brief, as all such great and happy moments are, but a few seconds had passed since both her hands had rested in his, and he forgot the world in that one kiss upon her fingertips. The next instant a fast approaching noise of hurrying footsteps, accompanied by much shouting, roused them from their dream. Both through the back and the front door, a crowd of excited soldiers had pushed their way into the inn, whilst the folk in the bar parlour attracted by the sudden noise pressed out into the narrow passage to see what was happening. John Stitch, foremost amongst these, made a rush for patience's side. She found herself suddenly pressed back towards the foot of the stairs, and face to face with a noisy group of village folk, through which the sergeant and some half-dozen soldiers were roughly pushing their way. She looked round her, helpless and bewildered. Jack Bathurst had disappeared. The whole thing had occurred in the brief space of a few seconds, even before patience had had time to realize that anything was amiss. The narrow staircase, at the foot of which she now stood, led straight up to the private parlour, where Philip was even now awaiting her return. Out of the way, you rascals, the sergeant was shouting, whilst elbowing his way through this small group of gaping yokels, and pressing forward towards the stairs. Will your ladyship allow me the privilege of conducting you out of this crowd? said a suave voice at patience's elbow. Sir Humphrey Chaloner, closely followed by the obsequious middichip, had pushed his way into the inn, in the wake of the soldiers, and was now standing between her and the crowd, bowing very deferentially and offering her his arm to upstairs. But a few moments ago he had heard the startling news that Jock Miggs had been captured on the heath in mistake for Bobrocade. As far as Sir Humphrey could ascertain, nothing of importance had been found on the shepherd's person, and in a moment he realized that through almost supernatural cunning the highwaymen must have succeeded in filtering the letters, and by now had no doubt once more restored them to Lady Patience. All the scheming, the lying, the treachery of the past few days, had therefore been in vain. But Sir Humphrey Chaloner was not the man to give up a definite purpose after the first material check to his plans. If her ladyship was once more in possession of the letters, they must be got away from her again. That was all. And if that cursed highwayman was still free today, said death, but he'll have to hang on the morrow. In the meanwhile, Philip's momentary safety was a matter of the greatest moment to Sir Humphrey Chaloner. If that clumsy lout of a sergeant got hold of the lad, all Sir Humphrey's schemes for forcing Lady Patience's acceptance of his suit by means of the precious letters would necessarily fall to the ground. But instinctively Patience recoiled from him. His suave words, his presence near her at this terrible crisis, frightened her more effectually than the sergeant's threatening attitude. She drew close to John Stitch, who had interposed his burly figure between the soldiers and the foot of the stairs. Out of the way John Stitch shouted the sergeant, peremptorily, this is not your forge, remember, and by God I'll not be tricked again. Those are her ladyship's private rooms, retorted the smith, without yielding one inch of the ground. Landlord, he shouted at the top of his voice, I call upon you to protect her ladyship from these ruffians. You insult his Majesty's uniform, quote the sergeant briefly, and do yourself no good, smith, as for the landlord of this inn, he interferes between me and my duty at his peril. By what right do you interfere with me, Master Sergeant? Here interposed Lady Patience, trying to assume an indifferent air of calm haughtiness. Do you know who I am? I, that I do, my lady, responded the sergeant roughly, and that's what's brought me here this morning. Not half an hour ago I heard that Lady Patience Gascoyne was staying at the pack horse, and now the folks say that a new serving man came to give a helping hand here. He arrived in the middle of the night, it seems. Strange time for a serving man to turn up, ain't it? I know nothing of any servant at this inn, and I order you at once to withdraw your men, and not to dare further to molest me. You're pardoned, my lady, but my orders is my orders. I have been sent here by his Royal Highness, the Duke of Cumberland, himself, to hunt out all the rebels who are in hiding in these parts. I have strict orders to be on the lookout for Philip James Gascoyne, Earl of Stratton, who I understand is your ladyship's own brother, and as I've arrived of search, I mean to see who else is staying in those rooms upstairs besides your ladyship. This is an outrage, Sargent. Maybe, my lady, he retorted dryly, but with us soldiers, orders is orders, saving your presence. I was tricked at the smithy and again on the heath. My belief is that we were hunting a bogey last night. There may or may not be any highwayman called Boe Brocade, but there was a fine young gallant at the forge the day of four yesterday who did for me and my men, and I'll take my oath that he was none other than the rebel Philip Gascoyne, Earl of Stratton. Tis false, and you talk like a madman, Sargent. Maybe, but your ladyship will please stand aside until I've searched those rooms upstairs, or I'll have to order my men to lay hands on your ladyship. Now then, John Stitch, stand aside in the name of the king. John Stitch did not move, and Lady Patience still stood defiant and haughty at the foot of the stairs. The villagers, stolid and stupid, were staring open-mouthed, not daring to interfere. But, of course, it was only a question of seconds. The worthy smith could not guard the staircase for long against the Sargent and a dozen soldiers, and in any case, nothing would be of any avail. Philip, in the room upstairs, was trapped like a fox in its lair, and nothing could save him now from falling into the soldier's hands. In vain she sought for bathurst among the crowd, with wild, unreasoning agony she longed for him in this moment of her greatest need, and he was not there. She felt sure that if only he were near her he would think of something, do something to avert the appalling catastrophe. I give your ladyship one minute's time to stand quietly aside, said the Sargent, roughly. After that, I give my men orders to lay hands on you and on anyone who dares to interfere. Give me the letters, whispered Sir Humphrey Chaloner insinuatingly in her ear. I can yet save your brother. How, she murmured involuntarily, he looked up towards the top of the stairs, then he is up there. She did not reply. It was useless to deny it. The next few moments would bring the inevitable. Stand back, Sargent, quote John Stitch defiantly. I have the honor to protect her ladyship's person against any outrage from you. Good words, Smith retorted the Sargent, but I tell ye, I've been tricked twice by you, and I mean to know the reason why. Let her ladyship allow me to search the room upstairs, and I'll not lay hands on her. Ye shall not pass, repeated the Smith obstinately. The letters, whispered Sir Humphrey, give me the letters, and I pledge you my honor that I can save him yet. But half mad with terror and misery, scornful defiant, she turned on him. Your honor, she said with infinite contempt, but in her inmost heart she murmured in agonized despair. What's to be done? Oh, God, protect him. Stand back, John Stitch, repeated the Sargent for the third time, or I give my men the order to charge. Now then, my men, ye shall not pass, was the Smith's persistent obstinate answer to the challenge. Forward shouted the soldier in a loud voice. Into it, my men, use your bayonets if anyone interferes with ye. The soldiers, nothing loth, were ready for the attack. There had already been too much parlaying to suit their taste. They had been baffled too often in the last few days to be in the mood to dally with a woman, be she her ladyship or no. With a loud cry they made a dash for the stairway, which behind Stitch and Lady Patience lost itself in the gloom above. It was from out this darkness that at this moment a light-hearted, fresh, young voice struck upon the astonished ears of all those present. Nay, too much zeal, friend Stitch, stand aside, I pray you. Faith, it'll give me great pleasure to converse with these gallant lobsters. And Jack Bathurst, pushing the bewildered Smith gently to one side, came down the stairs with a smile upon his face. Calm, debonair, dressed as for a feast. He had discarded Jack Migg's long smock, broad-brimmed hat and kerchief, and appeared in all the gorgeous finery of the beautiful lavender-scented clothes he had donned at the forge with the kindly aid of Mistress Stitch. He was still very pale, and there were a few lines of weariness and of bodily pain round the firm, sensitive mouth, but his gray eyes, deep, sunk and magnetic, glowed with the keen fire of intense excitement. The coat of fine blue cloth set off his tall trim figure to perfection. His left hand was tucked into the opening of his exquisitely embroidered waistcoat, and dainty ruffles of delicate mechlin lace adorned his nutcloth and wrists. As he appeared there, handsome, foppish, and smiling, twas no wonder that the countryside had nicknamed him Bo Brocade. Well, my gallant friend, he said, addressing the sergeant, since the latter seemed too astonished to speak, what is it you want with me, eh? The sergeant was gradually recovering his breath. Fate, apparently, was playing into his hands. It was almost too bewildering for any bluff soldier to realize, but it certainly seemed pretty clear that the rebel Earl of Stratton and Bo Brocade, the highwayman, were one and the same person. You are Philip Gascoigne, Earl of Stratton, he asked at last. Faith, you've guessed that, have you? responded Bathurst gaily. Odd's life, tis marvelous how much penetration lies hidden beneath that becoming coat of yours. Then Philip Gascoigne, Earl of Stratton, you are attainted by parliament for high treason, and I arrest you in the name of the king. There were indeed many conflicting emotions raging in the hearts of all those present, whilst this brief colloquy was going on. John Stitch accustomed to implicit obedience, where his captain's actions were concerned, had not dared to speak or stir. Sir Humphrey Chaliner, completely thrown off his mental balance by the unexpected appearance of Bathurst, was hastily trying to make up his bewildered mind as to what was now best to be done. As to patience herself, at first a great and overwhelming joy and pride had seized her at the thought that he was near her now, that he had not deserted her in the hour of her greatest need, that once again he had interposed his magnetic, powerful personality between her and the danger which threatened her and Philip. It was only when the sergeant's momentous words I arrest you in the name of the king rang out clearly and decisively above the loud tumult which was beating in her heart that she became aware of the deadly peril which threatened the man she loved. True, he had come once more between her and danger, but once again he had done it at risk of his life and was like, at last, to lay it down for her. She had been standing a little to one side, turning, as all had done, toward the elegant foppish figure in the fine clothes and dainty ruffles of lace, but now she stepped forward with mad unreasoning impulse, thrusting herself between him and the sergeant and trying to shield him behind the folds of her cloak. No, no, no, no, she said excitedly. Sargent is all a mistake, I swear, but already Jack Bathurst had bent forward and had contrived to whisper unheard by all save her. Hush, shh, your brother, remember his danger. Your pardon, lady, said the sergeant, seeing that she paused, irresolute, not knowing what to do in face of this terrible alternative which was confronting her. Your pardon, lady, but this gentleman is Philip Earl of Stratton, is he not? For your brother's sake, whispered Bathurst once more. No, yes, oh my God, murmured patience in the agony of this appalling misery. Her brother, or the man she loved, one or the other betrayed by one word from her, now at this moment, with no time to pray to God for help or guidance, no chance of giving her own life for both. Out on you, friend, said Bathurst lightly. Do you not see her ladyship is upset? Nay, have no fear, I'll follow you quietly, he added, seeing that the sergeant and his soldiers were making a motion to surround him. But you'll grant me leave to say farewell to my sister. The sergeant could not very well refuse. He was at heart a humane man, and now that he was sure of this important capture, he would have done a good deal to ingratiate himself through little acts of courtesy with Lady Patience Gascoigne. However, he had no mind to be tricked again, and in face of an almost immediate execution for high treason, the prisoner seemed extraordinarily self-possessed and cheerful. But for her ladyship's obvious despair and sorrow, the worthy sergeant might even now have had some misgivings. As it was, he told off three men to mount the stairs and to stand on guard at the top of them, in case the prisoner made a dash that way, in the hopes of reaching the roof. The sergeant still kept an idea in his mind that some supernatural agency was at work in favor of this extraordinary man, who up to now had seemed to bear a charmed life. He had the little narrow passage and hall of the inn cleared of the gaping yokels, who went off one by one, scratching their adult pulse, wondering what it all meant, and who was Bobro Cade. Was he the Earl of Stretton? Was he the Highwayman, or some pixie from the Heath, with power to change himself at will? Sir Humphrey Chaloner retired within the shadow of the stairway. On the whole, he preferred to leave the events to shape their own course. In one way fate had befriended him. Whether hanged in his own name, or in that of the Earl of Stretton, the Highwayman would within the next few hours be safely out of the way, and then it would be easier, no doubt, to obtain possession of the letters once again. He too, like the sergeant and soldiers, felt an instinctive dread of supernatural agency in connection with Bobro Cade. In these days there existed still a deeply rooted belief in witchcraft, and the educated classes were not altogether proof against the popular superstitions. Sir Humphrey had a curious, intense hatred for the man who had so chivalrously championed Lady Patience's cause. His own love for her was so selfish and lustful that overpowering jealousy formed its chief characteristic. He was frantically, madly jealous of Jack Bathurst, for with the keen eyes of the scorned suitor he had noted the look of joy and pride in her face when the young man first appeared on the stairs, and he alone of all those present knew how to interpret her obvious despair, her terrible misery, when brought face to face with the awful alternative of giving up her brother or the man she loved. Sir Humphrey swore some heavy oaths under his breath at thought of the scorn with which she had rejected him. Woman-like she had yielded to the blandishments of that thief, and proud Lady Patience Gascoigne had fallen in love with a highwayman. But now fate meant to be kind to Sir Humphrey. With that chivalrous cockscomb out of the way Lady Patience would be once more at his mercy. Philip was still a fugitive under the ban of a tanger, and the letters could be got hold of once again, unless indeed the devil with an army of witches and evil sprites came to the assistance of that rascal Beau Brocade. End of Chapter 34