captain protheroe leant against the wall, and gazed round his prison with an expression of deep disgust.

in a corner sat a noisy group of men, seeking as he judged by the dismal light of a flickering oil lamp, to drown their fears in drink. for the rest, the place was silent, and as it seemed to him, deserted, the prevailing darkness being broken only in places where the moonlight filtered through the high windows, and fell in splashes of brilliance upon the floor.

it was in truth a dreary place and one not calculated to raise the spirits of the new occupant, who stared moodily before him, cursing his luck. for he saw no hopeful prospect in the situation and he was by no means resigned to death now, when he was but beginning to realise the full joy of living. two months ago, he told himself, it had been different; the world had not so much to offer then, indeed he had not known that it held so much. and now, with the new sense of this knowledge of the world's gifts teeming in his brain, to go forth and be shot down like vermin with never a fight for life! a man should not be called upon to endure so much.

and then, with a rush, his thoughts turned to barbara. he could do nothing for her now. he could not even save himself, far less afford protection to another. he groaned aloud as he pictured her suffering, and again he bitterly cursed his utter helplessness.

then, as he reviewed the events of the preceding hours, the question flashed across his brain: "who had betrayed him? who?" and quick as an answering flash came the reply, though he strove vainly to deny it entrance to his thoughts, "who, but this girl herself, this girl who led him to the deed, for whose sake he was to die?" for to none but to her had he confessed his interview with sir rupert, none but she and himself knew of her appeal to his mercy or of her disclosure to him of her brother's hiding-place. clear as day the facts lay before him, they would not be denied; she alone in all the world had the knowledge to betray him. and had she not already twice tricked him? had she not plainly refused his friendship, denied him her trust?

this was but the consummation of her scheme. but that she should have wheedled him to spare this man, and, when danger threatened have betrayed him coolly, hoping thereby to save herself! he raged at the thought, at the black ingratitude of the action. and a woman with eyes as true as heaven, whom he would have trusted even to death! where then could a man repose his faith, if she were worthless? better indeed to die, and be out of a world where women could be guilty of such baseness.

then a softer mood asserted itself. he recalled her face, the strong, proud face with the deep eyes, earnest and sincere behind the mask of mischief. he thought of her look when she had stood against him, sword in hand, to fight for her good name, fearless, resolute, even when driven to a stand with death seemingly staring her in the face. here was no cowardice, no treachery. and she had risked her safety to give her brother an hour's happiness.

no, it was past belief that such a woman could be guilty of such devil's work. she must be innocent. there might be others—a woman always chattered—-he knew well she had a glib and hasty tongue. or perchance they forced the story from her, tricked her to the telling of it. no, come what might, he would not believe that she had of set purpose brought him to this pass. and even if she had, if she had in a moment of weakness betrayed her benefactor, bartering his life for hers, even then——

passionately he drew out the knot of ribbon and pressed it to his lips.

"god bless her!" he murmured tenderly. "strong or weak, true or faithless, god bless her."

and still with that strange density which at times overclouds the instinct, a thought of the real culprit never crossed his mind.

again he strove to turn his thoughts back to his own position, to weigh the prospects of release; but with scant ardour. life had little to offer if he must stand by and see her suffer, and in face of his present disgrace, he realised his helplessness to assist her.

he continued to gaze moodily before him, idly watching a ray of moonlight steal across the floor of the shed. to his surprise he saw it reveal the foot of a woman, and as it climbed to her knee he marked the desperate tension of the clasped white hands that lay thereon:

"poor soul," he muttered. "there is trouble there."

higher still crept the beam of light till the whole figure was illumined, and then, as at the drawing aside of a curtain of darkness, the face of barbara winslow emerged slowly from the black shadow, and appeared before him bathed in a glory of light.

barbara! yes, though at first sight he barely knew her, barely recognised those pallid cheeks, the dropped jaw, the fixed, staring eyes wide with fear, all the agony of her terrified spirit written on her face.

he sprang forward with a cry and crossed the room to her side. she turned to him quickly and seized his outstretched hand, all other feelings submerged in the great terror that held her.

"oh! i am frightened, i am frightened," she sobbed in utter abandonment. "indeed i cannot bear it. sure they cannot truly carry out the sentence? i could not endure it, it would kill me, and i cannot die yet. help me, help me. do not let them scourge me. i am so frightened, help me."

what could he do? he held both her hands tightly in his own, and passed his arm round her as though to shield her from all hurt. and she, forgetting all else in the face of this fear which she felt for the first time in her life, crouched against him in a paroxysm of trembling and sobbing.

"oh! i know i am a base coward, but what can i do? for i was so happy, and life was so good, and now i—i, barbara winslow, must be scourged openly in the market-place by the common hangman, month after month, till assuredly i must die of the shame. think! the troopers will watch and laugh, and i shall be—— oh! no, no, indeed i cannot bear it; what shall i do!"

he ground his teeth in helpless, desperate rage. wild vague assertions of help and protection rose to his lips and died away unuttered, for he knew himself powerless. his heart surged with impotent fury, while she sobbed in his arms in the very abandonment of fear and misery, the natural reaction after the proud restraint of the past few days.

but it was only for a little space; the firm clasp of his hands, the pressure of his arm, gave her the sense of human support and strength that she lacked. in a few minutes the cold terror left her, she was herself again save for backward shudderings at the remembrance of the emotions through which she had passed.

drawing her hands gently from his grasp, she lifted her white, tear-stained face to his with a smile.

"thank you," she said simply. "i know not what ailed me. 'twas mighty foolish and yet 'twas terrible enow," she added with a shudder.

he laid his hand on hers again firmly, and she did not withdraw it. for a few minutes they sat in silence.

presently barbara's glance wandered to the far end of the shed, where the group of drinkers sat.

"they are to die to-morrow. i would i were a man, and knew no fear," she murmured enviously.

he smiled.

"think you they know no fear? that is the very height of fear that dare not face the morrow, but seeks forgetfulness thus."

"could i forget thus?" she asked.

"i would not have thee try, mistress barbara: 'tis but a coward's way."

"yet 'tis but for one night," she cried hurriedly. "and i cannot bear this torture of waiting and thinking. let me not be a coward again. let me not think. ah! when i think i see it all; the troopers and the prison and the post, month after month till—— ah, no, i will not think. talk to me—tell me—tell me why you are here," she continued, for the first time filled with curiosity as to the reason of his presence.

his heart leaped gladly at her question.

"do you not know, madame?"

"indeed no; it cannot assuredly be that you too are a prisoner?"

"yes. a prisoner even as yourself, condemned for treason."

"you—a traitor. impossible!" she exclaimed na?vely.

"i thank you for the compliment, mistress barbara," he answered with a smile.

"and the sentence?"

"imprisonment—until to-morrow," he answered lightly.

"and to-morrow you will be free?" she questioned doubtfully.

"aye, free from every fetter."

something in his tone startled her.

"it is not so," she cried quickly. "you are deceiving me."

"nay, madame. is not freedom the supreme gift of death?"

"then you are to die to-morrow?" she asked in a tone full of awe.

"court-martial at sunrise, shot like a dog at noon. that is my sentence. come, will you not wish me a pleasant voyage? i confess myself no good sailor, and do heartily trust they have no storms on the styx."

he spoke lightly, but she turned from him suddenly with a choking sob.

"oh!" she cried bitterly. "how you must despise me for a true coward."

he laughed tenderly.

"nay, mistress barbara, we be all cowards at heart, i warrant, only some have learned the trick of hiding it. and indeed to one who has faced him many times, death loses somewhat of his grim aspect. besides—" he continued cheerily, "when a man bethinks him how many of his fellows in past ages have faced death unflinching, it seemeth but a small matter for him to follow in their footsteps. i doubt not we shall meet with gallant company across the bourne."

"and have you no regrets?" she asked wonderingly.

he looked down at her and his face clouded.

"aye, madame, one." he hesitated, then continued in the strange hurried tones of one who has at last resolved to speak his thoughts, and risk the consequence.

"men on their death-beds make strange confessions, madame; here is mine. for fifteen years i have asked and expected little of life save to win a name in my profession, and for the rest, to enjoy to the full all the pleasures that the world had to offer. i deemed that i had succeeded fairly in both these, my ambitions, and i was content. but—two months since, on a certain sweet night in july, i met a woman. not such an one as the courtesans of whitehall, not such as are they whom a soldier most often meets in his way thro' the world, but such a woman as a man might dream his mother was, such as he would wish to be the mother of his sons. and when i looked into that woman's eyes i understood for the first time that all i have sought and won from life was worthless, and tho' i have drunk deep of the cup of pleasure, yet all my days i have been but as a child playing contentedly in the desert, while the door of an enchanted garden lay unnoticed at my side."

"were the woman's eyes indeed so beautiful?" asked barbara softly.

"madame, they are as the clear depths of the heavens, wherein a man may read all the perfection of life. i have seen her but thrice since first we met, yet one look into her eyes has taught me more of the reality of life, of happiness, of love than i ever dreamed of even in the age of a man's most golden hopes. and so, madame, i cannot die without one regret, the regret that i may not live to deserve the pressure of that woman's hand, nor hope to make myself worthy to feel the touch of her pure lips."

he paused, looking down upon her doubtfully; she did not meet his glance, but he heard her sigh softly, as she gazed before her into the darkness. at length she spoke.

"then you had been happier had you never seen the woman? is it not so?"

"happier! no, mistress barbara, is it not better for a man to die, having gazed once upon the glories of the heavens, than to live a thousand thousand years, nor lift his eyes from earth?"

there was silence between them.

then barbara rose from her seat.

"i am weary," she said softly. "i think i could sleep now, and i would fain be rested for to-morrow. i must be strong then; they shall not think i fear them. i must rest. but not in there," she added, gazing shudderingly at the dark corner behind the screen. "not in there, lest i wake."

near them lay a pile of straw and loose wisps of wool. these he gathered together, and spread his cloak upon them.

"it is not much," he muttered discontentedly; "yet it is better than the bare boards."

"it is perfect," answered barbara, snuggling down into the warmth of the cloak.

he knelt to draw it more closely round her.

"good-bye, mistress barbara," he said, raising her hand to his lips.

but she, suddenly raising herself upon her elbow, drew his head down towards her and kissed him on the lips.

"good-night—good-bye—and thank you," she whispered simply.

then she lay down peacefully, and drew the cloak once more around her.

the moon dipped behind a bank of clouds and the prison was in darkness.

captain protheroe rose to his feet, and stood for some time gazing before him, as one half-dazed. then he recovered himself with a start, his eyes flashed, he looked round quickly, his whole body alert for action.

die! no surely not now, he could not die now. it was impossible; there must be some way of escape for them both. if he could but think of it!

but the more he thought thereon, recalling all the tales of prison breaking and rescue that he had read or heard of, picturing the security of the shed, the disposition of the sentries, the surer did the knowledge of his utter helplessness overwhelm him, and yet the more persistently did he fight against this knowledge, assuring himself continually that death must be impossible now.