Captain Protheroe stood gazing out into the dark night, asking himself savagely why he still waited there, why he did not leave the girl at once and return with his men to the village, preparatory to setting out in pursuit of this man who still escaped them.
It was clearly his duty to go—and yet—— There was still time, nothing could be done until the hawker was discovered, and his secret, whatever it might be, was learned. And in the meantime he could not resist the temptation to remain a little longer, to learn more of this girl who, while she mocked and flouted, yet fascinated him in spite of his anger against her. To punish her a little for the way she had outwitted him, aye, and to watch how she bore the punishment. So while he cursed himself for a fool in so doing, yet he remained.
Barbara sat bolt upright, watching him furtively with eager eyes. Her hands were tightly clenched, and her lips pressed together in anxious thought. "Oh! what shall I do now?" she murmured again and again desperately. "What shall I do? The pedlar hath escaped. I have tried tears, they are useless. Oh, God! help me to play out the game."
At last he turned, and crossing the room seated himself beside her. Leaning forward, his hands clasped between his knees, he eyed her steadily and spoke in a low even voice. "Mistress Barbara, have you ever heard tell of a certain Mistress Alice Lisle?"
Barbara shuddered quickly, and her face grew very pale, but she answered him bravely:
"Aye, sir, she who was beheaded last week at Winchester for harbouring rebels."
"Good. And hast also heard of Mistress Judith Barge, condemned to be flogged for a like act of treason?"
"Indeed, sir, her story likewise is well known to me."
"Ah! so you were forewarned. You did not act in ignorance of the fate awaiting you?"
His face and voice were hard and her heart beat wildly, but she fought the rising fear and answered proudly:
"Captain Protheroe, none but a fool goeth to war without counting the cost. I am no fool, sir."
Suddenly his whole bearing changed, his face softened, and, raising her hand to his lips he said gently:
"Madame, I salute the bravest lady I have ever known."
Barbara flushed crimson.
"Nay, not so, sir," she answered, smiling bravely, "for there is yet a third story I have heard. For I have heard that in these last days it has been everywhere the custom for king's officers stationed in our villages to take up their quarters in the houses of the rebels, driving forth the occupants and taking unto themselves all their goods. Yet Cicely and I have remained here undisturbed. So I knew well, sir, that in playing my part I had to deal with no Kirke or Jeffries but with a gentleman of heart and honour, in whom a woman could place her trust."
"Can so small a matter win a woman's trust?" he asked doubtfully.
For an instant Barbara sat silent, twining her fingers together nervously, and breathing hard. She was preparing for her last great stake.
Then she turned to him. Her eyes betrayed her fear, but her voice was firm:
"Captain Protheroe, my brother lieth hid in the fisherman's hut, three miles eastward along the coast from Watchet. From thence he will escape to-morrow morn in a vessel bound for Holland."
He sprang to his feet and turned on her in sudden anger.
"In Heaven's name, madame, why have you told me this?"
"Ah! sir, because an I had not you would have learned it elsewhere. This mad pedlar who hath escaped me, knows my secret; to-night he will betray it to you. So I prefer to tell you myself and throw myself on your mercy."
"You play high, madame."
"Aye, sir, to lose or to win all."
He turned from her and paced the room angrily. So this was the result of his effort to punish the girl (fool that he was to try it), she flung herself on his mercy and challenged him to betray her confidence. Well, why should he not, seeing the confidence was given unasked. But his pride loathed the thought. He had never yet betrayed a woman's trust; the chivalry of his nature had remained unsoiled by the cynicism and callousness of those among whom he lived, and that chivalry now forbade him to profit by her moment of confidence.
That he, Miles Protheroe, should fall a prey to the fascinations of a woman! He laughed savagely at the thought. And yet that this girl fascinated him he could not deny. Not only by her beauty (he was too much a connoisseur of woman's looks to be deeply moved by them), nor by her gaiety, infectious though it was; no, to him the charm lay chiefly in her manifest courage, for courage was his God, and she seemed the very personification of fearlessness.
So he mused, warring betwixt pride, anger, and tenderness, while Barbara sat still, watching him with a desperate eagerness.
"Are you a soldier only, or a man?" she pleaded. "An ye be the first, go do your work. But oh, an ye be a man, ye cannot sure betray a woman's confidence."
"You have taken an unfair advantage of me, madame, and you know it."
"Aye, sir, 'tis true enough. Think not I feel no shame. But—Rupert is my brother."
Her voice broke piteously over the last words. She was worn out with the terror and excitement of the day, and could scarce keep down her tears. She bit her lips, and her breast heaved with a strangled sob. He drew near and stared down at her gloomily.
"So because you are a woman and this rebel chances to be your brother, my honour must go bail for his life! Do you understand, Mistress Barbara, what you ask of me?"
For an instant she hesitated. Then she raised her head and turned to him proudly:
"Yes, sir, I understand, and—I ask it."
He bowed.
"So be it, madame, your brother is safe from me."
He turned coldly, and taking up his hat, walked to the door.
Barbara followed him timidly.
"Captain Protheroe," she pleaded softly. "Honour may be one of the first virtues, but there is a greater even than Honour,—Charity."
But now his anger mastered him, he would not relent.
"It may be so, madame," he answered curtly. "But in your presence I find the defence of my Honour more than I can well attend to. I bid you good-night."
And turning abruptly he left the house.
Barbara remained gazing after him, her cheek slowly flushing with rage and shame.
"And has not a woman honour too?" she cried at last fiercely. "Am I not dishonoured enough already by this night's work that he must needs fling his taunts in my face? There be women, perchance, who will play with men's honour as lightly as they throw the dice, and he may think it a little thing for me to ask this of him, but oh, were it not for Rupert I had sooner have died than thus have shamed myself."
Flinging herself back into a chair she gnawed her clasped hands, and beat her foot upon the ground in silent fury.
Half an hour later the door opened softly and Cicely stole cautiously into the room, Cicely with dishevelled hair, red eyelids, and her face alight with eagerness and terror.
"Barbara! Barbara!" she cried, coming eagerly forward, on seeing the room unoccupied save by her cousin. "The village is all astir, the troopers are busy looking to their horses, and David Marlow hath heard that on his return to the Inn, the Captain gave orders that they be ready to start on some expedition at three o'clock in the morning. Think you, Barbara, he can have heard even now of Rupert's hiding-place? Or think you they will intercept his return. He left me but half an hour since. Speak, cannot you?"
Barbara looked up slowly, her face very pale. "Aye, he hath heard, I told him myself."
"Barbara! Art thou mad, child?"
"Indeed I verily believe I am," she answered in a dazed voice. Then collecting her thoughts she told her cousin all that had passed in her interview with the captain. "Think you, Cicely," she continued nervously, "after that it were possible that he has betrayed me?"
"Possible!" cried Cicely in a voice of scorn and fury. "Why, thou little fool, 'tis the man's profession to spy and snare and betray us. Oh! Barbara, how could you be so rash, so wicked? Now 'tis too late to save him."
Barbara roused herself.
"Nay, Cicely, I will not believe that of him. I have his promise. He is a hard man, but he will assuredly keep his word; he would never betray my trust."
"Oh, thou art bewitched by his fair words. Nay, speak not to me. I will go pray, 'tis all that is left for me now."
Sobbing bitterly she left the room.
Barbara sat upright in her chair, clenching the arms with her hands and gazing straight before her.
"An he dare to do it?" she murmured under her breath. Then she sprang suddenly to her feet. "He shall not do it," she cried. "I must to the village—there is no other way. And yet,—sure,—nay, I cannot. Bah! I have shamed myself once before him, what matter an I do it once again!"