it was full two days after the coming of the baronet and the factor-lawyer pengarvin before i saw my lady's face near-hand again, and sometimes i was glad for richard jennifer's sake, but oftener would curse and swear because i was bound hand and foot and could not balk my enemy.

i knew sir francis and the lawyer still lingered on at appleby hundred—indeed, i saw them daily from my window—and darius would be telling me that they waited upon the coming of some courier from the south. but this i disbelieved. some such-like lie the baronet might have told, i thought; but when i saw him walk abroad with margery on his arm, pacing back and forth beneath the oaks and bending low to catch her lightest word with grave and courtly deference that none knew better how to feign, i knew wherefore he stayed—knew and raged afresh at my own impotence, and for the thought that margery was wholly at the mercy of this devil.

yours is a colder century than was ours, my dears. your art has tempered love and passion into sentiment, and hate you have learned to call aversion or dislike. but we of that simple-hearted elder time were more downright; and i have writ the word i mean in saying that my love was at the mercy of this fiend.

i know not how it is or why, but there are men who have this gift—some winning way to turn a woman's head or touch her heart; and i knew well this gift was his. 'twas not his face, for that was something less than handsome, to my fancy; nor yet his figure, though that was big and soldierly enough. it was rather in some subtlety of manner, some power of simulation whereby in any womanly heart he seemed to stand at will for that which he was not.

as i have said, i knew him well enough; knew him incapable of love apart from passion, and that to him there was no sacredness in maiden chastity or wifely vows. so he but gained his end he cared no whit what followed after; ruin, broken hearts, lost souls, a man slain now and then to keep the scale from tipping—all were as one to him, or to the francis falconnet i knew.

and touching marriage, with margery or any other, i feared that love would have no word to say. passion there might be, and that fierce desire to have and wear which burns like any miser's fever in the blood; but never love as lovers measure it. why, then, had he proposed to margery? the answer did not tarry. since he was now but a gentleman volunteer it was plain that he had squandered his estate, and so might brook the marriage chain if it were linked up with my father's acres.

it was a bait to lure such a gamester strongly. as matters stood with us in that wan summer of exhaustion and defeat, the king's cause waxed and grew more hopeful day by day. and in event of final victory a landless baronet, marrying margery's dower of appleby hundred, might snap his fingers at the jews who, haply, had driven him forth from england.

and as for margery? truly, she had told me, or as good as told me, that her maiden love had pledged itself a pawn for jennifer's redeeming. but there be other things than love to sway a woman's will. this volunteer captain with the winning way was of the haute noblesse, and he could make her lady falconnet. moreover, he was with her day by day; and you may mark this as you will; that a present suitor hath ever the trump cards to play against the absent lover.

so, brooding over this, i wore out two most dismal days—the first in many i had had to pass alone. but on the morning of the third the sky was lightened, though then the light was but a flash and darkness followed quickly after. she came again and brought me a visitor; it was this same father matthieu with whom she had jestingly compared me, and lest i should take my punishment too lightly, stayed but to make the good priest known to me.

now i was born and bred an heretic, by any papist's reckoning, but i have ever held it witless in that man who lets a creed obstruct a friendship. moreover, this sweet-faced cleric was the friendliest of men; friendly, and yet the wiliest jesuit of them all, since he read me at a glance and fell straightway to praising margery.

"a truly sweet young demoiselle," he said, by way of foreword, no sooner was the door closed behind her, and while he preached a sermon on this text i grew to know and love him.

he was a little man, as bone and muscle go, with deep-set eyes, and features kind and mild and fine as any woman's; some such face as leonardo gave st. john, could that have been less youthful. i could not tell his order, though from his well-worn cassock girded at the waist with a frayed bit of hempen cord he might have been a little brother of the poor. but this i noted; that he was not tonsured, and his white hair, soft and fine as margery's, was like an aureole to the finely chiseled features. as missionary men of any creed are apt, he looked far older than he really was; and when he came to tell me of his life among the indians, it was patent how the years had multiplied upon him.

i listened, well enough content to learn him better by his own report.

"but you must find it thankless work; this gospeling in the wilderness," i ventured, when all was said. "'tis but a hermit's life for any man of parts; and after all, when you have done your utmost, your converts are but savages, as they were."

at this he smiled and shook his head. "non, monsieur, not so. you are a soldier and can not see beyond your point of sword. mais, mon ami, they have souls to save, these poor children of the forest, and they are far more sinned against than sinning. i find them kind and true and faithful; and some of them are noble, in their way."

i laughed. "i've read about those noble ones," i said. "'twas in a book called 'hakluyt's voyages.' truly, i know them not as you do, for in my youth i knew them most in war. we called them brave but cruel then; and when i was a boy i could have shown you where, within a mile of this, they burned poor davie davidson at the stake."

"ah, yes; there has been much of that," he sighed. "but you must confess, captain ireton, that you english carry fire and sword among them, too."

from that he would have told me more about the savages, but i was interested nearer home. as i have said, i was like any prisoner in a dungeon for lack of news, and so by degrees i fetched him round to telling me of what was going on beyond my window-sight of lawn and forest.

brave deeds were to the fore, it seemed. at ramsour's mill, a few miles north and west, some little handful of determined patriots had bested thrice their number of the king's partizans, and that without a leader bigger than a county colonel. lord rawdon, in command of lord cornwallis's van, had come as far as waxhaw creek, but, being unsupported, had withdrawn to hanging rock. our mr. rutherford was on his way to the forks of yadkin to engage the tories gathering under colonel bryan. as yet, it seemed, we had no force of any consequence to take the field against cornwallis, though there were flying rumors of an army marching from virginia, with a new-appointed general at its head.

on the whole it was the king's cause that prospered, and the rising wave of invasion bade fair to inundate the land. so thought my kindly gossip; and, having naught to gain or lose in the great war, or rather having naught to lose and everything to gain, whichever way these worldly cards might run, he was a fair, impartial witness.

as you may well suppose, this news awoke in me the lust of battle, and i must chafe the more for having it. and while my visitor talked on, and i was listening with the outward ear, my brain was busy putting two and two together. how came it that the british outpost still remained at queensborough, with my lord rawdon withdrawn and the patriot home guard well down upon its rear? some urgent reason for the stay there must be; and at that i remembered what darius had told me of its captain's waiting for some messenger from the south.

i scored this matter with a question mark, putting it aside to think on more when i should be alone. and when the priest had told me all the news at large, we came again to speak of margery.

"i go and come through all this borderland," he said, when i had asked him how and why he came to appleby hundred, "but it was mam'selle's message brought me here. she is my one ewe lamb in all this region, and i would journey far to see her."

i wondered pointedly at this, for in that day the west was fiercely protestant and the mother church had scanty footing in the borderland.

"but mistress margery is not a catholic!" said i.

his look forgave the protest in the words.

"indeed, she is, my son. has she not told you?"

now truly she had not told me so in any measured word or phrase; and yet i might have guessed it, since she had often spoken lovingly of this same father matthieu. and yet it was incredible to me.

"but how—i do not understand how that can be," i stammered. "surely, she told me she was of huguenot blood on the mother's side, and that is—"

the missionary's smile was lenient still, but full of meaning.

"not all who wander from the catholic fold are lost forever, captain ireton. the mother of this demoiselle lived all her life a protestant, i think, but when she came to die she sent for me. and that is how her child was sent to france and grew up convent-bred. monsieur stair gave his promise at the mother's death-bed, and though he liked it not, he kept it."

"aha, i see. and for this single lamb of your scant fold you brave the terrors of our heretic backwoods? it does you credit, father matthieu. the war fills all horizons now, mayhap, but i have seen the time in mecklenburg when your cassock would have been a challenge to the mob."

his smile was quite devoid of bitterness. "the time has not yet passed," he said, gently. "i have been six weeks on the way from maryland hither, hiding in the forest by day and faring on at night. indeed, i was in hiding on a neighboring plantation when our demoiselle's messenger found me."

this put me keen upon remembering what had gone before; how he had said at first that she had sent for him. i thought it strange, knowing how perilous the time and place must be for such as he. but not until he rose and, bidding me good day, left me to myself, did i so much as guess the thing his coming meant. when i had guessed it; when i put this to that—her telling me sir francis had proposed for her, and this her sending for the priest—the madness of my love for her was as naught compared to that anger which seized and racked me.

i know not how the hours of this black day were made to come and go, grinding me to dust and ashes in their passage, yet leaving me alive and keen to suffer at the end.

a thousand times that day i lived in torment through the scene in which the priest had doubtless come to play his part of joiner. the stage for it would be the great room fronting south; the room my father used to call our castle hall. for guests i thought there would be space enough and some to spare, for, as you know, our mecklenburg was patriot to the core. but as to this, the bridegroom's troopers might fill out the tale, and in my heated fancy i could see them grouped beneath the candle-sconces with belts and baldrics fresh pipe-clayed, and shakos doffed, and sabretaches well in front. "a man full-grown—a soldier," she had said; and trooper-guests were fitting in such case.

from serving in a catholic land i knew the customs of the mother church. so i could see the priest in cassock, alb and stole as he would stand before some makeshift altar lit with candles. and as he stands they come to kneel before him; my winsome margery in all her royal beauty, a child to love, and yet an empress peerless in her woman's realm; and at her side, with his knee touching hers, this man who was a devil!

what wonder if i cursed and choked and cursed again when the maddening thought of what all this should mean for my poor wounded richard—and later on, for margery herself—possessed me? in which of these hot fever-gusts of rage the thought of interference came, i know not. but that it came at length—a thought and plan full-grown at birth—i do know.

the pointing of the plan was desperate and simple. it was neither more nor less than this: i knew the house and every turn and passage in it, and when the hour should strike i said i should go down and skulk among the guests, and at the crucial moment find or seize a weapon and fling myself upon this bridegroom as he should kneel before the altar.

with strength to bend him back and strike one blow, i saw not why it might not win. and as for strength, i have learned this in war: that so the rage be hot enough 'twill nerve a dying man to hack and hew and stab as with the strength of ten.

although it was most terribly over-long in coming, the end of that black day did come at last, and with it darius to fetch my supper and the candles. you may be sure i questioned him, and, if you know the blacks, you'll smile and say i had my labor for my pains—the which i had. his place was at the quarters, and of what went on within the house he knew no more than i. but this he told me; that company surely was expected, and that some air of mystery was abroad.

when he was gone i ate a soldier's portion, knowing of old how ill a thing it is to take an empty stomach into battle. for the same cause i drank a second cup of wine,—'twas old madeira of my father's laying-in,—and would have drunk a third but that the bottle would not yield it.

it was fully dark when i had finished, and, thinking ever on my plan, would strive afresh to weld its weakest link. this was the hazard of the weapon-getting. with full-blood health and strength i might have gone bare-handed; but as it was, i feared to take the chance. so with a candle i went a-prowling in the deep drawers of the old oaken clothes-press and in the escritoire which once had been my mother's, and found no weapon bigger than a hairpin.

it was no great disappointment, for i had looked before with daylight in the room. besides, the wine was mounting, and when the search was done the hazard seemed the less. so i could rush upon him unawares and put my knee against his back, i thought the lord of battles would give me strength to break his neck across it.

at that i capped the candles, and, taking post in the deep bay of the window, set myself to watch for the lighting of the great room at the front. this had two windows on my side, and while i could not see them, i knew that i should see the sheen of light upon the lawn.

the night was clear but moonless, and the thick-leafed masses of the oaks and hickories rose a wall of black to curtain half the hemisphere of starry sky. as always in our forest land, the hour was shrilly vocal, though to me the chirping din of frogs and insects hath ever stood for silence. somewhere beyond the thicket-wall an owl was calling mournfully, and i bethought me of that superstition—old as man, for aught i know—of how the hooting of an owl betokens death. and then i laughed, for surely death would come to one or more of those beneath my father's roof within the compass of the night.

behind the close-drawn curtain, though i could see it not, the virgin forest darkened all the land; and from afar within its secret depths i heard, or thought i heard, the dismal howling of the timber wolves. below, the house was silent as the grave, and this seemed strange to me. for in the time of my youth a wedding was a joyous thing. yet i would remember that these present times were perilous; and also that my bridegroom captained but a little band of troopers in a land but now become fiercely debatable.

it must have been an hour or more before the sound of distance-muffled hoofbeats on the road broke in upon the chirping silence of the night. i looked and listened, straining eye and ear, hearing but little and seeing less until three shadowy horsemen issued from the curtain-wall of black beneath my window.

it was plain that others watched as well as i, for at their coming a sheen of light burst from the opened door below, at which there were sword-clankings as of armed men dismounting, and then a few low-voiced words of welcome. followed quickly the closing of the door and silence; and when my eyes grew once again accustomed to the gloom, i saw below the horses standing head to head, and in the midst a man to hold them.

"so!" i thought; "but three in all, and one of them a servant. 'twill be a scantly guested wedding." and then i raged within again to think of how my love should be thus dishonored in a corner when she should have the world to clap its hands and praise her beauty.

at that, and while i looked, the lawn was banded farther on by two broad beams of light; and then i knew my time was come.

feeling my way across the darkened chamber i softly tried the door-latch. it yielded at the touch, but not the door. i pulled and braced myself and pulled again. 'twas but a waste of strength. the door was fast with that contrivance wherewith my father used to bar me in what time i was a boy and would go raccooning with our negro hunters. my enemy was no fool. he had been shrewd enough to lock me in against the chance of interruption.

i wish you might conceive the helpless horror grappling with me there behind that fastened door; but this, indeed, you may not, having felt it not. for one dazed moment i was sick as death with fear and frenzy and i know not what besides, and all the blackness of the night swam sudden red before my eyes. then, in the twinkling of an eye, the madness left me cool and sane, as if the fit had been the travail-pain of some new birth of soul. and after that, as i remember, i knew not rage nor haste nor weakness—knew no other thing save this; that i had set myself a task to do and i would do it.

my window was in shape like half a cell of honeycomb, and close beside it on the outer wall there grew an ancient ivy-vine which more than once had held my weight when i was younger and would evade my father's vigilance.

i swung the casement noiselessly and clambered out, with hand and foot in proper hold as if those youthful flittings of my boyhood days had been but yesternight. a breathless minute later i was down and afoot on solid ground; and then a thing chanced which i would had not. the man whom i had called a servant turned and saw me.

"halt! who goes there?" he cried.

"a friend," said i, between my wishings for a weapon. for this servant of my prefigurings proved to be a trooper, booted, spurred and armed.

"by god, i think you lie," he said; and after that he said no more, for he was down among the horses' hoofs and i upon him, kneeling hard to scant his breath for shoutings.

it grieves me now through all these years to think that i did kneel too hard upon this man. he was no enemy of mine, and did but do—or seek to do—his duty. but he would fight or die, and i must fight or die; and so it ended as such strivings will, with some grim crackling of ribs—and when i rose he rose not with me.

with all the fierce excitement of the struggle yet upon me, i stayed to knot the bridle reins upon his arm to make it plain that he had fallen at his post. that done, i took his sword as surer for my purpose than a pistol; and hugging the deepest shadow of the wall, approached the nearer window. it was open wide, for the night was sultry warm, and from within there came the clink of glass and now a toast and now a trooper's oath.

i drew myself by inches to the casement, which was high, finding some foothold in the wall; and when i looked within i saw no wedding guests, no priest, no altar; only this: a table in the midst with bottles on it, and round it five men lounging at their ease and drinking to the king. of these five two, the baronet and the lawyer, were known to me, and i have made them known to you. a third i guessed for gilbert stair. the other two were strangers.