 CHAPTER XXXV of Bowe Brocade by Baroness Emma Orksie This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Dion Giants, Salt Lake City, Utah. QUITS Hemmed in by a compact little group of soldiers at the foot of the stairs, and with three men on guard at the head of it, Bathurst and Patience had but a few minutes in which to live these last brief moments of their love. She clung passionately to him, throwing aside all the haughty reserve of her own proud nature, conquered by her great love, a woman only whose very life was bound up in his. They shall not take you, she moaned in the agony of her despair. They shall not, I will not let you go, and he held her in his arms now savoring with exquisite delight this happiest moment of his life, the joy of feeling her tender form clinging to him in passionate sorrow, to see the tears gathering in her blue eyes one by one for him, and to know that her love, her great, measureless, divine love, was at last wholly his. But the moments were brief, and the sergeant below was already waxing impatient. He drew her gently into a dark angle of the stairs up against the banisters, and taking the packet of letters from his pocket he pressed them into her hand. The letters quick, he whispered, God guard you and him. The letters, she murmured mechanically, I, I can do nothing now, but try to see the Duke of Cumberland before you go to London, show him the letters he may be in this village today. If not, you can see him at worksworth. He has power to stay execution, even if your brother is arrested. He might use it if he had seen the letters. Yes, yes, she murmured. Saro seemed to have dazed her. She did not quite know what she was doing, but her left hand closed instinctively over the precious packet, then dropped listlessly by her side. Neither she nor Bathurst had perceived a thin, attenuated figure hoisting itself monkey-wise over the dark portion of the banisters. Try and hear what those two are saying, Sir Humphrey had whispered, and the attorney, obedient and obsequious, had made a desperate effort to do as he was bid. The staircase was but partially lighted by a glimmer of daylight, which came slanting round the corner from the passage. The banisters were in complete shadow, and the sergeant and soldiers were too intent on watching their prisoner to notice master middichip or Sir Humphrey. The next moment patients felt a terrific wrench on all her fingers, even as she uttered a cry of pain and alarm, the packet of letters was torn out of her hand from behind, and she was dimly conscious of a dark figure clambering over the banisters and disappearing into the darkness below. But with a mad cry of rage, Jack Bathurst had bounded after that retreating figure, wholly taken by surprise he only saw the dim outline of middichip's attenuated form, as the latter hastily dropped the packet of letters at Sir Humphrey Chaloner's feet, who stooped to pick them up. Like an infuriated wild beast, Jack fell on Sir Humphrey. You limb of Satan, he gasped. You, you, give me back those letters. Stitch, stitch, quick. The force of the impact had thrown both men to the ground. Bathurst was gripping his antagonist by the throat with fingers of steel. But already the sergeant and his men had come to the rescue, dragging Jack away from the prostrate figure of Sir Humphrey whilst the soldiers from above had run down and were forcibly keeping John Stitch in check. Freed from his powerful antagonist, his honor quietly picked himself up, readjusted his crumpled nutcloth, and flicked the dust from off his coat. He was calmly thrusting the packet of letters in his pocket whilst the sergeant was giving orders to his men to bind their prisoner securely if he offered further resistance. Sargent, said Bathurst despairingly, that miscreant has just stolen some letters belonging to her ladyship. Silence, prisoner, commented the sergeant, you do yourself no good by this violence. It seemed as if fate meant to underline this terrible situation with a final stroke of her ironical pen. For just then the quiet village street beyond suddenly came alive with repeated joyous shouts and noise of tramping feet. In a moment the dull monotonous air of Brassington was filled with a magnetic excitement which seemed to pervade all its inhabitants at once and even penetrated within the small dingy in, where the last act of a momentous drama was at this moment being played. It must be the duke of Cumberland's army, quote the sergeant, straining his ears to catch the sound of a fast approaching cavalcade. Then you'll please his royal highness with the smart capture you've made, sergeant, said Sir Humphrey, with easy condescension. This was indeed fate's most bitter irony. The duke has power to stay execution and would use it if you showed him the letters. These were the last words of counsel Bathurst had given patience and now with freedom for her brother almost within her grasp. She was powerless to do ought to save him. The letters, Sir Humphrey, she murmured imploringly, and you've a spark of honor left in you. Nay, he retorted under his breath with truly savage triumph and you don't close your lover's mouth. I'll hand your brother over to these soldiers too and then destroy the letters before your eyes. He turned and for a moment regarded with an almost devilish sneer, the spectacle of his enemy rendered helpless at last. Bathurst, like some fettered lion caught in a trap, was still making frantic efforts to free himself until a violent wrench on his wounded shoulder threw him half unconscious on his knees. Ha, ha, ha! laughed Sir Humphrey. I think my chivalrous friend, you and I are even at last. Come prisoner, you'd best follow me quietly now, said the sergeant, touched in spite of himself by patience's terrible sorrow. But at Sir Humphrey's final taunt Jack Bathurst had shaken off the deadly feeling of sickness which was beginning to conquer him. He threw back his head and with the help of the soldiers struggled again to his feet. The clamor outside was beginning to be louder and more continuous. Through it all came the inspiring sound of a fast approaching regimental band. The Duke of Cumberland, is it, sergeant? He said suddenly, marching through the village on his way to the north, assented the sergeant. Now then prisoner. Nay, then sergeant shouted Jack in a loud voice as wrenching his right arm from the grasp of the soldier who held him. He pointed to Sir Humphrey Chaloner, detain that man, and I am the rebel earl of Strutton. He was my accomplice and has all the papers relating to our great conspiracy at this moment about his person. The door, the door, he added excitedly. Take care, he'll escape you, and he has papers on him now that would astonish the king. Instinctively the soldiers had rushed for both the doorways and when Sir Humphrey, with a shrug of the shoulders, made a movement as if to go, the sergeant barred the way and said, one moment, sir, you would dare retorted Sir Humphrey haughtily. Are you such a consummate fool as not to see that that man is raving mad? Search him, sergeant, continued bathurst excitedly. You'll find the truth of what I say. Search him. Her ladyship knows he was my accomplice. Search him. The loss of those papers would cost you your stripes. The sergeant was not a little perplexed. Already the day before, the seizure of Sir Humphrey Chaloner's person had been attended with disastrous consequences for the beetle of Brassington and now. No doubt the sergeant would never have ventured, but the near approach of the Duke of Cumberland's army and of his own superior officers gave the worthy soldier a certain amount of confidence. He had full rights and powers of search and had been sent to this part of the country to hunt for rebels. He had been tricked and hoodwinked more often than he cared to remember and he knew that his superior officers would never blame him for following up a clue, even if thereby he was somewhat overstepping his powers. The papers continued bathurst, the papers which will prove his guilt, the papers or he'll destroy them. The sergeant gave a last look at his prisoner. He seemed secure enough guarded by three men who were even now strapping his hands behind his back. The accusation therefore could be no trick to save his own skin, and who knows if the Earl of Stratton was a rebel lord then why not the squire of Hardington seize him and search him commanded the sergeant in the name of the king. Your pardon, sir, he added deferentially, but the Duke of Cumberland is within earshot almost, and I should be cashiered if I neglected my duty. This is an outrage, cried Sir Humphrey, who had become purple with rage. It's doing your honor no harm, and if I've done wrong no doubt I shall be punished. Search him, my men. It was Sir Humphrey's turn now to be helpless in the hands of the soldiers. He knew quite well that the sergeant was within his duty and would certainly not get punished for this. Worse outrages than this attempt on his august person had been committed in the Midlands on important percentages on women and even children during this terrible campaign against fugitive rebels. Less than five seconds had elapsed when the soldier drew the packet of letters from Sir Humphrey's pocket and handed it to his sergeant. They'd best be for his royal highness's own inspection, said the latter quietly, as he slipped them inside his scarlet coat. I, for his royal highness, quote Jack Bathurst, in mad wild feverish glee. Oh, now is it that your honor thought you could be even with me? What? Sir Humphrey was speechless with the hopelessness of his baffled rage, but patience, almost hysterical with the intensity of her relief after the terrible suspense, which she had just endured, had fallen back half fainting against the stairs and murmuring the letters before his royal highness, thank God, thank God. Then suddenly she drew herself up and, laughing, crying, joyous, happy, she flew upstairs, shouting, Philip, Philip, come down, come down, you are safe. About half an hour ago when Jack Bathurst suddenly burst in upon Lord Strenton in the dingy little parlor upstairs, he gave the lad no inkling of what was happening down below. He had hastily discarded Jack Miggs's smock and hat, and extracted a solemn promise from Philip not to stir from the parlor whatever might be the tumult downstairs. Then he had left the boy chafing like a wild beast in its cage, the heavy oak doors and thick walls of the old-fashioned inn, deadened all the sounds from below, and Bathurst had taken the precaution of locking the door behind him. But for this no doubt Philip would have broken his word sooner than allow his chivalrous friend once more to risk his life for him. As the noise below grew louder and louder, Strenton became more and more convinced that some such scene, as had been enacted a day or two ago at the forge, was being repeated in the hull of the pack-horse. He tried with all his might to force open the door which held him imprisoned and through his full weight against it once or twice in a vain endeavor to break the thick, oaken panels. But the old door, fashioned of stout, well seasoned wood, resisted all his efforts, whilst the noise he made thereby never reached the ears of the excited throng. Like a fettered lion he paced up and down the narrow floor of the dingy inn parlor, chafing under restraint, humiliated at the thought of being unable to join in the fight that was being made for his safety. His sister's cry came to him in this agonizing moment, like the most joyful, the most welcome call to arms. The door quick, he shouted as loudly as he could, it is locked. She found the bolt and tore open the door, and the next instant he was running downstairs, closely followed by patience. The sergeant and soldiers had been not a little puzzled at hearing her ladyship suddenly calling in mad exultation on her brother, whom they believed they were even now holding prisoner. The appearance of Philip at the foot of the stairs and dressed in a serving man's suit further enhanced their bewilderment. But already patience stood proud, defiant, and almost feverish in her excitement, confronting the astonished group of soldiers. This sergeant, she said, taking hold of her brother's hand, is Philip Gascoigne, Earl of Stratton, my brother. Arrest him, if you wish, he surrenders to you willingly, but I call upon you to let your prisoner go free. The sergeant was sorely perplexed, the affair was certainly getting too complicated for his stallid, unimaginative brain. He would have given much to relinquish command of this puzzling business altogether. Then you, sir, he said, addressing Philip, you are the Earl of Stratton. I am Philip James Gascoigne, Earl of Stratton, your prisoner, sergeant, replied the lad proudly. But then, saving your ladyship's presence, said the soldier, in hopeless bewilderment, who the devil is my prisoner? Surely, sergeant, quote Sir Humphrey, with a malicious sneer, you've guessed that already. Jack Bathurst, exhausted and faint after his long fight and victory, had listened motionless and silent to what was going on around him. With the letters safely bestowed in the sergeant's wallet and about to be placed before his royal highness, the Duke of Cumberland himself, he felt that indeed his task was accomplished. Fate had allowed him the infinite happiness of having served his beautiful white rose to some purpose. Philip now would be practically safe. What happened to himself after that he cared but little. At sound of Sir Humphrey's malicious taunt and amused smile played round the corners of his quivering mouth. But patience, with a rapid movement, had interposed herself between Sir Humphrey and the sergeant. Your silence, Sir Humphrey, she commanded excitedly, and you've any chivalry left in you. I, he replied in her ear, my silence now at a price. Name it, your hand. So low and quick had been questions and answers that the bewildered sergeant and his soldiers had not succeeded in catching the meaning of the words. But Sir Humphrey's final eager whisper, your hand, reached Jack Bathurst's sensitive ear. The look, too, in the squire of Hardington's face had already enabled him to guess the purport of the brief colloquy. Nay, Sir Humphrey Chaloner, he said loudly, but is not a marketable commodity you are offering to this lady for sale. I'll break your silence for you. What is the information that you would impart to these gallant lobsters that, besides being my mother's son, I am also the highwayman, bow brocade? No, no, no, protested patience excitedly. Odds my life, quote the sergeant, but me thought. I, bow brocade, said Sir Humphrey with a sneer, robber, vagabond and thief. That's what this gentleman means. Faith, is that what I meant? Retorted Jack Bathurst lightly. I didn't know it for sure. But with a wild cry, patience had turned to the sergeant. It's a lie, sergeant. She repeated a lie, I tell you. This gentleman is my friend, my, well, whichever you are, sir, quote the sergeant, turning to bow brocade decisively, rebel, lord, or highwayman, you are my prisoner. And he added roughly, for many bitter remembrances of the past two days had surged up in his stolid mind, and either way you hang for it. I hang for it, continued Sir Humphrey savagely, so now me thinks my chivalrous young friend that we can cry quits at last. And now, sergeant, said his honor peremptorily, that you've found out the true character of your interesting prisoner. You can restore me my letters, which he caused you to filch from me. But the sergeant was not prepared to do that. He had been tricked and hoodwinked so often that he would not yield one iota of the advantage which he had contrived to gain. Your pardon, sir, he said, deferentially, yet firmly. I don't exactly know the rights of that. I think I'd best show them to his royal highness, and you, sir, will be good enough to explain yourself before his honor Squire West. You'll suffer for this insolence, sergeant, retorted Sir Humphrey, purple with rage. I command you to return me those letters, and I warn you that if you dare lay hands on me, or hinder me in any way, I'll have you degraded and publicly whipped along with that ape the beetle. But the sergeant merely shrugged his shoulders and ordered off three of his men to surround Sir Humphrey Chaloner and to secure his hands if he attempted to resist. His honor's wild threats of revenge did not in the least frighten the soldier now that he felt himself on safe ground at last. The rapid approach of the army gave him a sense of security. He knew that if he had aired through excess of zeal, a reprimand would be the only punishment needed out to him, whilst he risked being degraded if he neglected his duty. Whether the Squire of Hardington had or had not been a party to the late rebellion, he neither knew nor cared. But certainly he was not going to give up a packet of letters over which there had been so much heated discussion on both sides. The fast approaching tumult in the street confirmed him in his resolve. He turned a deaf ear to all Sir Humphrey's protestations and only laughed at his threats. Already the soldiers were chafing with eagerness to see the entry of his royal highness with his staff. The village folk one by one had gone out to see the more joyful proceedings and left the sergeant and his prisoners to continue their animated discussion. Are you ready, my lord? asked the sergeant, turning to Philip. Quite ready replied the lad cheerfully as he prepared to follow the soldiers. He gave his sister a look of joy and hope, for he was going to temporary imprisonment only. Within a few moments perhaps his safety would be assured. Lady Patience Gascoigne, in virtue of her rank and position, could easily obtain an audience of the Duke of Cumberland. And in the meanwhile, the letters proving Philip's innocence would have been laid before his royal highness. No wonder that as the lad marching lightheartedly between two soldiers passed close to Jack Bathurst, he held out his hand to his brave rescuer in gratitude too deep for words. Are you ready, sir? quote the sergeant now as he turned to Bobrocade. But here there was no question of either joy or hope, no defense, no proofs of innocence. The daring outlaw had chosen his path in life and being conquered at the last had to pay the extreme penalty which his country demanded of him for having defied its laws. As he too prepared to follow the soldiers out into the open, Patience heedless of the men around her, clung passionately, despairingly to the man who had sacrificed his brave life in her service and whom she had rewarded with the intensity, the magnitude of her love. They shall not take you, she sobbed, throwing her protecting arms round the dearly loved form. They shall not, they shall not. The cry had been so bitter, so terribly pathetic in its despair that instinctively the soldiers stood aside, odd in spite of their stolid hearts at the majesty of this great sorrow. They turned respectfully away, leaving a clear space round Patience and Bathurst. Thus for a moment he had her all to himself, passive in her despair, half crazed with her grief, clinging to him with all the passionate abandonment of her great love for him. What tears he whispered gently as with a tender hand he pressed back the graceful drooping head and looked into her eyes. One, two, three, four glittering diamonds, and for me my sweet dream he added the intensity of his passion causing his low, tender voice to quiver in his throat, my beautiful white rose. But yesterday for one of those glittering tears I'd gladly have endured Hell's worst tortures, and today they flow freely for me. Why, I would not change places with a king. Your life, your brave noble life, thus sacrificed for me. Oh, why did I ever cross your path? Nay, my dear, he said with an infinity of tenderness and an infinity of joy. Faith it must have been because God's angels took pity on a poor vagabond and let him get this early glimpse of paradise. His fingers wandered lovingly over her soft golden hair. He held her close, very close to his heart. Drinking in every line of her exquisite loveliness rendered almost ethereal through the magnitude of her sorrow, her eyes shining with passion through her tears, the delicate curve of throat and chin, the sensitive quivering nostrils, the moist lips on which Anon he would dare to imprint a kiss. And life now to me she whispered twixed heartbroken sobs. What will it be? How shall I live but in one long memory? My life, my saint, he murmured. Nay, lift your dear face up to me again. Let me take away as a last memory the radiant vision of your eyes, your hair, your lips. His arms tightened round her. Her head fell back as if in a swoon. She closed her eyes and her soul went out to him in the ecstasy of that first kiss. Ah, tis a lovely dream I dreamt, he whispered, and tis meet that the awakening shall be only in death. He tried to let her go, but she clung to him passionately. Her arms round him in the agony of her despair. Take me with you. She sobbed, half fainting. I cannot bear it. I cannot. Gently he took hold of both her hands and again and again pressed them to his lips. Farewell, sweet dream, he said. There dry those lovely tears. If you only knew how happy I am, you would not mourn for me. I have spun the one thread in life which was worth the spinning, the thread which binds me to your memory. Farewell, the sergeant stepped forward again. It was time to go. Are you ready, sir? he asked kindly. Quite ready, sergeant. She slid out of his arms, her eyes quite dry now, her hands pressed to her mouth to smother her screams of misery. She watched the soldiers fall into line with their prisoner in their midst and turned to the doorway of the inn through which the golden sunshine came gaily peeping in. Outside a roll of drums was heard and shouts of the Duke, the Duke. The excitement had become electrical. His royal highness, mounted on a magnificent white charger, was making his entry into the village at the head of his general staff and followed at some distance by the bulk of his army corps who would camp on the heath for the night. Squire West, his stiff old spine doubled in two, was in attendance on the green, holding a parchment in his hand which contained his loyal address and that of the inhabitants of Brassington. The beetle, more pompous than ever and resplendent in blue cloth and gold lace, stood immediately behind his honor. In the midst of all this gaiety and joyful excitement, the silent group composed of the soldiers with their three prisoners appeared in strange and melancholy contrast. Philip and Bathurst were to be confined in the courthouse under a strong guard pending his honor, the Squire's decision. And as the little squad emerged upon the green, twas small wonder that they caught his royal highness's eye. He had been somewhat bored by Squire West's long-winded harangue and was quite glad of an excuse for cutting it short. Odds buds, he said, and what have we here, eh? The sergeant and soldiers stood still at attention some twenty yards away from the brilliant group of his highness's general staff. The little diversion had caused Squire West to lose the thread of his speech and much relieved the Duke beckoned the sergeant to draw nearer. Who are your prisoner's sergeant? queried his highness, looking with some interest at the two young men, one of whom was a mere lad, whilst the other had a strange look of joy and pride in his pale face, an air of aloofness and detachment from all his surroundings, which puzzled and interested the Duke not a little. Tis a bit difficult to explain, your royal highness replied the sergeant, making the stiff military salute. Difficult to explain who your prisoners are, left the Duke incredulously. Saving your highness's presence, responded the sergeant, one of these gentlemen is Philip Gascoigne, Earl of Stratton. Oh, ho! the young reprobate rebel who was hand in glove with the pretender. I mined his case well, sergeant, and the capture does your zeal great credit. Which of your prisoners is the Earl of Stratton? That's just my trouble, your royal highness, but I hope that these papers will explain. And the sergeant drew from his wallet the precious packet of letters, and handed them respectfully to the Duke. What are these letters? They were found on the person of that gentleman, sir, replied the sergeant, indicating Sir Humphrey Chaloner, who stood behind the two younger men, silent and sulky, and nursing desperate thoughts of revenge. He is said to be an accomplice, and I thought it was my duty to bring him before a magistrate. If I've done wrong, you've done quite right, sergeant, said the Duke firmly. You were sent here to rid the country of rebels, whom an act of parliament has convicted of high treason. And it had been gross neglect of duty not to refer such a case to the nearest magistrate. Give me the papers. I'll look through them anon, see your prisoners safely under guard, then come back to my quarters. Damn nation, muttered Sir Humphrey, as he saw the Duke take the packet of letters from the sergeant's hand, and then turn away to listen to the fag end of Squire West's loyal address. Throughout his chagrin, however, the Squire of Hardington was able to gloat over one comforting idea. He had now lost all chance of pressing his suit on Lady Patience. His actions in the past three days would inevitably cause her to look upon him with utter hatred and contempt. But the man who was the cause of his failure, the chivalrous and meddlesome highwayman, Beau Brocade, would, as sure as the sun would set this night, dangle on the nearest gibbet to-morrow. CHAPTER XXXVII OF BEAU BROCADE by Baroness Emma Orksie This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Dion Giants, Salt Lake City, Utah. REPORATION It was in the middle of the afternoon, when his Royal Highness, having attended to other important affairs and partaken of a hasty meal at the Royal George, finally found leisure to look through the letters handed up to him by the sergeant. As he read one through and then the other, Lord Lovett's letter urging the Earl of Stretton to join the rebellion, that of Kilmarnock, upbraiding the lad for holding aloof, and finally the autograph of Charles Edward himself at the end of a long string of reproaches, calling Philip a traitor for his loyalty to King George. There has been a terrible blunder here, quote his Royal Highness emphatically, bring the Earl of Stretton to me at once, he added, speaking to his orderly. Ten minutes later Philip, with patience by his side, was in the presence of the Duke of Cumberland, who, on behalf of his country and its government, was tendering apologies to the Earl of Stretton for grievous blunders committed. It seems you have suffered unjustly, my Lord, said his Highness with easy graciousness. It will be my privilege to keep you under my personal protection until these letters have been placed before the King and Council. I myself will guarantee your brother's safety, Lady Patience, he added, turning with a genial smile to her. You will entrust him to my care, will you not? Your father and I were old friends, you know. In my young days I had the pleasure of staying at Stretton Hall and the privilege of dandling you on my knees, for you were quite a baby then. I little thought I should have the honor of being of service to you in later years. With courtly gallantry the Duke raised her cold fingertips to his lips. He looked at her keenly, for he could not understand the almost dead look of hopeless misery in her face, which she bravely, but all in vain, tried to hide from him. Evidently, she was quite unable to speak. When her brother had been brought before his Highness, she had begged for and easily obtained the favor of being present at the interview. But even at the Duke's most genial and encouraging words she had not smiled, it was lucky, added his royal highness, kindly patting her hand, that so strange of fate should have placed these letters in my hand. But at these gentle, almost fatherly words, patience's self-control entirely gave way. With a heartbroken sob she threw herself at the Duke's feet. Nay, not fate, your royal highness, she moaned. But the devotion of a brave man, who has sacrificed his life to save my brother and me, save him, your highness, save him. He is noble, brave, loyal, and you are powerful. Save him, save him. It was impossible to listen unmoved to the heart-rending sorrow expressed in this appeal. The Duke very gently raised her to her feet. Nay, fair lady, I pray you rise, he said respectfully. Odds my life, but tis not beauty's place to kneel. There, there, he added, leading her to a chair and sitting beside her. You know how to plead a cause. Will you deign to confide somewhat more fully in your humble servant? We owe your family some reparation at any rate and you some compensation for this sorrow you have endured. And speaking very low at first, then gradually gaining confidence, patience began to relate the history of the past few days, the treachery of which she had been a victim, the heroic self-sacrifice of the man who was about to lay down his life because of his devotion to her and to her cause. His highness listened quietly and very attentively, whilst she, wrapped up in the bitter joy of memory, lived through these last brief and happy days all over again. Even before she had finished, he had sent word to the sergeant to bring both his other prisoners before him at once. Sir Humphrey and Jack Bathurst were actually in the room before patience had quite completed her narrative. Bathurst, ill and pale, but with that strange air of aloofness still clinging about his whole person. He seemed scarce to live, for his mind was far away in the land of dreams, dwelling on that last exquisite memory of his beautiful white rose lying passive in his arms, the memory of that first and last divinely passionate kiss. The Duke looked up when the prisoners entered the room, although he knew neither of them by sight he had no need to ask whose cause the beautiful girl beside him had been pleading so earnestly. What do you wish to say, sir? He said, addressing Sir Humphrey Chaloner first. You are no doubt aware of her ladyship's grievances against you. They are outside my province and unfortunately outside the province of our country's justice, but I would wish to know why you should have pursued the Earl of Stratton and that gentleman, your fellow prisoner, with so much hatred and malice. I have neither hatred nor malice against the Earl of Stratton, replied Sir Humphrey with a shrug of the shoulders, but no doubt her ladyship would wish to arouse your royal highness's sympathy for a notorious scoundrel. That gentleman is none other than Bo Brocade, the most noted foot pad and most consummate thief that ever haunted Brassing Moor. The Duke of Cumberland looked with some surprise not altogether unmixed with kindliness at the slim youthful figure of the most notorious highwaymen in England. He felt all a soldier's keen delight in the proud bearing of the man, the straight clean limbs, the upright gallant carriage of the head, which neither physical pain nor adverse circumstances had taught how to bend. Then he remembered Lady Patience's enthusiastic narrative and said, smiling indulgently, odds my life, but I did not know gentlemen of the road were so chivalrous. Your royal highness continued Sir Humphrey. Silence, sir. Then the Duke rose from his chair and went up close to Bathurst, who, half dreaming, had listened to all that was going on around him, but had scarce heard, for he was looking at Patience and thinking only of her. Your name, sir, asked the Duke very kindly, for the look of love akin to worship, which illumined Jack Bathurst's face, had made a strong appeal to his own manly heart. Jack Bathurst replied the young man almost mechanically and rousing himself with an effort in response to the Duke's kind words, formally captain in the white dragoons. Bathurst, Bathurst repeated the Duke, not a little puzzled. Ah, yes, he added after a slight pause, who was condemned and cashiered for striking his superior officer after a quarrel. The same your royal highness, twas Colonel Otway, who we found out afterwards, was a scoundrel, a liar, and a cheat, said his highness with sudden eager enthusiasm, and fully deserving the punishment you, sir, had been brave enough to give him. I, he deserved all he got, replied Jack, with a wistful sigh and smile, I'll take my oath of that. But I remember now, continued the Duke, a tardy reparation was to have been offered you, sir, but you were nowhere to be found. I'd become a scoundrel myself by then, and moneyless, friendless, disgraced, and taken to the road like many another broken gentleman. Then take to the field now, man, exclaimed his highness Gaely, we want good soldiers and gallant gentlemen such as you, and your country still owes you reparation. You shall come with me, and in the glorious future, which I predict for you England shall forget your past. He extended a kindly hand to Bathurst, who, still dreaming, still not quite realizing what had happened, instinctively bent the knee in gratitude. On the green outside the crowd of village folk were shouting themselves hoarse. Three cheers for the Duke of Cumberland. Already the news had gone the round that Bobro Cade, the highwayman, had been granted a special pardon by his royal highness, John Stitch, half-crazy with joy, was tossing his cap in the air, and in the fullness of his heart was stealing a few kisses from Mistress Betty's pretty mouth. The appearance of Sir Humphrey Chaloner in the porch of the royal George, looking as black as thunder and followed by his obsequious, familiar master middichip, was the signal for much merriment and some quickly suppressed chaff. Stand aside, you fool, quote Sir Humphrey, pushing Jock Meggs roughly out of his way. Nay, stand aside all of ye, admonished John Stitch solemnly, and mind if any of ye have got any turnips about. Begui! The squire of Hardington raised his writing-crop menacingly. You dare, he muttered, but Mistress Betty interposed her pretty person, twixed her lover, and his honor's wrath. Saving your presence, sir, she said pertly, my intent was only going to tell the lads to keep their turnips for this old scarecrow. And, laughing all over her dimpled little face, she pointed to Master Middichip, who was clinging terrified to Sir Humphrey's coattails. Sir Humphrey, he murmured anxiously as Betty's sally was received with a salvo of applause. Good, Sir Humphrey, do not let them harm me. I've served you faithfully. You've served me like a fool, quote Sir Humphrey, savagely, shaking himself free from the mealy mouthed attorney. Damn you, he added, as he walked quickly out of the crowd and across the green. Don't yelp at my heels like a frightened cur. God speed your honor, shouted stitch after him. Think you, John, he'll come to our wedding, murmured Betty, sossily, at which honest John hugged her with all his might before the entire company. Be guy, I marvel if the old fox will go to her ladyships and the captain's wedding, eh? Lordy, Lordy, these be-mazing times, commented Jock Miggs vaguely. But within the small parlor of the royal George, all this noise and gaiety only came as a faint merry echo. His royal highness had gone, followed by the sergeant and soldiers, and Bathurst was alone with his beautiful white rose. And tis to you, I owe my life, he whispered for the twentieth time, as kneeling at her feet, he buried his head in the folds of her gown. I have done so little, she murmured, one poor prayer when you had done so much. And now he said, looking straight into the exquisite depths of her blue eyes, now you have robbed me of one great happiness which may never come to me again. Robbed you of happiness, the happiness of dying for you. But she looked down at him, smiling now through a mist of happy tears. Nay, sir, she whispered, and when the duke has no longer need of you, will you not live for me? He folded her in his arms and held her closely, very closely, to his strong, brave heart. Always at your feet, he murmured passionately, and as your humble slave, my dream. And as his lips sought hers once more, she whispered under her breath, my husband, my dream, my wife, outside the crowd of villagers were shouting lustily, three cheers for the duke of Cumberland, and of Chapter 38, and of Beau Brocade by Baroness Emma Orksie.