the gaol buildings and yard showed dim in the diffused light. a cluster of small clouds clung to the face of the moon, and down in the west lay a grey bank which rose imperceptibly, its edges caught by the hidden glow. from time to time a cat's-paw of wind tapped the branches in mistress keziah's garden, breaking the dead calm of night with the rustle of the leaves. the storm was coming. for days the heavy heat had been gathering for a break.

in marion's room there were whispering voices. mistress keziah, fully dressed, herself was superintending the robing of marion for a long and arduous ride. the light of the candles on the dressing-table fell on the dark, shapely form, the bodice buttoned close, the wide skirt falling away. the gleaming hair was securely bound in a long plait, and then knotted at the nape of the neck. on the bed, beside the gloves and whip, lay the cavalier riding hat with its long, soft plume, which lady fairfax had given to her niece. the habit adjusted, simone knelt and drew on the long riding boots, reaching almost to the knee, wide in the leg, tapering down to the foot.

simone rose, and surveyed her mistress from head to heel. her teeth caught on her trembling lip.

'are you sure your arms are not held in any way, my dear?' asked mistress keziah. 'you have enough freedom of movement?'

'quite, i think,' said marion gently. 'now do let me go, aunt keziah.'

''tis not yet the dawn.'

simone blew out the candles, and threw the shutters and casements wide. a sweet air crept into the room. at first, after the light of the interior, the garden seemed filled with the gloom of midnight. but soon the three at the window were aware of the shapes of trees, softly grey; of the diffused radiance of the sinking moon.

marion leaned far out of the casement, and looked towards the east. a faint bar of light lay on the horizon. over the sleeping land that rose beyond the town a breathing motion seemed to pass, as if nature were stirring in her sleep. again came the fitful breeze tossing the leaves in the garden.

'hark!' said marion. 'the cocks are crowing on the hill. dearest, dearest aunt keziah, bless me, and let me go!'

there was a tremor in the clear voice, but outwardly marion was calm. simone had already stolen away.

mistress keziah wrapped her arms about the comely figure and pressed trembling kisses on the soft face. a few broken words fell from her lips; then she dropped her arms and turned away. with one backward look, marion went out of the room. the old woman sat down and hid her face. she dared not follow to that little eastward room; she dared not witness the speeding of that silken thread.

across the gallery marion stole, her wide skirt gathered up on her arm. she listened awhile, leaning over the rail. there was no sound in the dark, sleeping house. for fully an hour the servants would be abed. marion gently opened the double doors. a pitch darkness lay on the narrow passage. she groped her way by the wall, and presently climbed the dusty stair.

simone was crouching by the little window, the grey of the coming dawn on her face and hair. without a word she gave place to marion, and stepping back, took up the bow, and held an arrow ready in her trembling fingers.

on the window ledge, where there was nothing to impede its run, lay the silk thread coiled as sailors coil a cable in the bows of a boat. its upper end was attached to the arrow simone held in readiness; the lower end ran to a corner of the room where the fine cord was similarly coiled atop the rope.

marion examined the coils afresh, tested the knot that tied the silk to the arrow, then, giving the shaft back to simone, knelt at the casement.

a dusky light touched the gaol chimneys. the niches of the casements were still dark, but marion imagined she saw a white patch behind roger's bars.

'where is the sentry?' she whispered.

'i do not think he is there, mademoiselle. but he must be, somewhere.'

simone crouched behind her mistress, and the two pairs of eyes searched, inch by inch, the dark patches of the gaol buildings. nowhere could they descry any shape that could be construed into the form of a man.

'perhaps he is resting at the other side, mademoiselle. there must be a bench or something there.'

'he is certainly not in sight,' decided marion. 'please god he is asleep on the bench, as you say.' she glanced anxiously at the sky. 'i dare not wait.'

her hand shot out of the window, making the gesture of warning. she waited. a dim movement from the cell showed that her surmise was correct. roger was awake and ready.

freeing her knees from any constraint of her dress, marion took her position just inside the casement a little to the right. with deliberation that seemed unending to simone she fitted the arrow, drew the bowstring taut, once, twice, thrice. then she gathered herself and rested motionless. a second later there was a flashing gleam in the grey air. then a sharp tap. aghast, marion peered forward. the arrow had fallen wide, striking the masonry of the wall.

simone gave a low cry of dismay, and stared at her mistress. deathly white, marion laid down the bow, and drew gently on the silken strand. somehow the arrow must be retrieved.

there was a faint scraping noise as the shaft was drawn backward up the face of the wall. twice it stuck in the masonry. marion had a sickening fear that the silk would not carry the light burden she eased the length a little, then, with a swift lunge, played the silk outward, and jerked the arrow up above the wall. rapidly she drew in the silk, hand over hand. on the wall of her aunt's garden the arrow stuck again. less carefully marion drew at it. the arrow caught on its point, and dropped sharply down inside the garden. at the next tug the silk broke.

'no matter,' said marion. ''tis safe. another.'

carefully the two coiled up the silk again. marion dared not hurry. should the length not run easily, the direction of the arrow would be warped.

just as she knotted the line to the second arrow, there was a sound of scraping feet in the gaol yard. the girls looked at each other in the dim light.

peering through the casement, marion saw a dark figure detach itself from the buildings on the north side. with his arms wide, the sentry wearily stretched his body. he gave himself a little shake, and yawned. the watchers could plainly hear his loud 'ha-ho!' then he took up his carbine. a few notes of a tavern song came to their ears. the sentry was waking up. he shouldered his gun, and marched up and down the yard. a minute later he appeared on the south side, tramped the narrow space between the gaol and the wall, retraced his steps. as he turned, marion was already fitting the arrow to the bow. his shuffling feet echoed in the silence of the enclosure. there would be about thirty seconds before he would turn again.

with hands clasped, shaking from head to foot, simone watched the second arrow speed. was it home? yes. no. again came the sickening tap. the shaft had struck the middle of the central bar in the grating, half an inch wide of the mark.

once more marion hauled in the silk. a deadly chill gripped her heart. the sentry's feet sounded nearer. a little puff of breeze came again. the silk shook as the arrow was drawn up the wall. would it stick in a crevice this time? for a few seconds, during which marion seemed not to breathe, and the room spun round her, the arrow caught on the stones. round the corner came the sound of the sentry's feet. marion leaned far out, and with a swift sideways motion played out the silk and drew the arrow over the coping of the wall. just as the sentry appeared in view the shaft fell into the road that bordered the gaol.

'never mind,' said simone, through chattering teeth. 'i will go and get it later.'

as simone snapped the silk and tied the broken end to the third arrow, marion sank back on the floor. she closed her eyes, and leaned against the wall. a faintness had assailed her. if her courage once fled, failure would be certain. twice she had missed the mark.

the man below trod noisily to and fro on the south side. again came the snatches of the ditty. drawing a long breath, marion rallied herself, and peered out of the window. a white patch showed dimly between the bars of roger's cell, immediately over the sentry's head. in the grey light, marion imagined that she saw roger's face. he seemed to be smiling up at the little window. to marion's wild fancy the look was plain to be seen. it seemed to say, 'bravely, little mawfy!' as he had said of old when she had just failed of the mark.

some quickening influence ran through the girl's blood. her dread and fear fell away. she looked searchingly down at the cell grating; then, as the man below swung round, her fingers flashed the signal. the white patch behind the bars disappeared.

'how many arrows are there, simone?'

'twelve.'

'i shall win on the twelfth,' said marion calmly, fitting the barb as she spoke.

marion, kneeling, drew the bowstring taut. simone held herself ready to draw in the silk, her ears strained for the fall of the arrow on the stones of the yard. could either of them bear the strain of the twelve? would not the sentry hear the faint sounds? his footsteps paused in the yard beyond. marion held her breath and waited. the tramping steps began once more. again came the lightning streak through the dim air. the silk ran out. there was no tap of the falling shaft.

marion leaned forward. the bow dropped from her nerveless hand. with a low cry, simone brushed the girl aside out of the way of the shining strands. roger was hauling in the silk. gently the length passed through simone's fingers.

'hist!' said marion. she laid a steadying hand on the line. the sentry's footsteps sounded again. his clumsy form swung round the corner, the light gleaming on his barrels. he paced the length of the south wall, and stood still: then, laying down his carbine, he looked searchingly round, and groping in his pocket, drew out pipe and flint and tinderbox. leaning against the wall, directly under the slender line, he proceeded to fill and light his pipe. from time to time he glanced nervously about.

again the wave of faintness stole over marion. her eyes, wide with horror, stared at the man below. simone gently took the silk from her.

the sentry was fumbling with his tinderbox. would he look up and see that fine strand, grey as the sky, stretched over his head?

the world was waking to the dawn. thrushes piped their first notes in the garden. puffing at his pipe, the sentry turned and scanned the eastward horizon. lines of rosy clouds showed themselves, forerunners of the storm. marion clutched simone's hands, waiting for the man's eyes to sweep the sky. she was struggling with an overpowering desire to scream aloud. another minute ticked by. three o'clock struck from the churches in the town. with a grunt the man lazily took up his carbine. he looked idly at the trees across. it seemed to marion's distorted vision that he stared straight into their little casement. for another space he lingered, his legs wide, leaning against the wall. then he straightened himself. he shouldered his carbine, and turned away. there was a stifled cry from marion as she took the line with trembling fingers, and gently paid it out. for a second it slackened over the trees. then the hand at the other side drew in again; and more and more rapidly as silk gave way to cord. before the sentry had time to pass the corner again, roger had secured the package tied on the rope, and drawn in the trailing end.

there was a dead silence in the little room. unheeded the sentry paced the south front, unheeded tramped out to the wider stretch of the yard. simone said something her companion scarcely noted, and the next minute marion was alone.

the first act was over; the second, containing a still more perilous movement, was about to be played; of the third—the headlong flight to the west—marion did not think at all.

what was going on in the cell yonder? she fancied she could see roger's kneeling figure at the grating; he was evidently filing the iron near to the base. the bars were not very close together; when two were gone, roger should be able to get out. there was a drop of about fifteen feet. with the help of the rope he should be able to let himself noiselessly down.

in reality only a few minutes had passed since the arrow had reached its mark, but to marion it seemed already an hour. she looked anxiously at the eastern sky, now suffused with stronger light. in another half hour the daylight would be making very plain all the features of town and country alike. a few hoarse notes came to her ears, punctuated by the heavy footfall of the sentry in the yard. ''tis a cheerful soul!' mused marion, with a wry smile. a minute later the dark form loomed round the corner.

the first drops of rain were falling. the fitful breeze of the early morning had strengthened into a westerly wind. instinctively marion's thoughts began to dwell on the prospect of the ride over the border in the face of such a storm as was brewing.

something moving in the road caught her eye, and switched back her thoughts to the present. simone's noiseless figure was creeping along in front of the gaol wall. the blood rushed to marion's face. she had forgotten that arrow. her eyes went alternately from the sentry's steady movement to the fluttering figure in the road. suppose he should open the wicket?

the light form glided noiselessly back, and marion glued her eyes again to the grating of the cell.

as the sentry passed round the corner, marion bent forward and listened for the sound of the grinding of the file. but not by straining her ears to the utmost could she hear anything save the steady tramp of the soldier. surely there had been time to file through those two bars! in her impatience she forgot that the prisoner was bound to restrict his efforts to the time the sentry spent at the back of the building.

as she sat motionless, her whole forces divided between watching and listening, there was a movement at her elbow. simone was there with her hat and gloves. behind her stood mistress keziah, her face grey in the dawn.

the clocks in the town chimed half-past three. marion started. half an hour roger had been filing those bars.

'had you not better go down to the gate and be ready?' said the old lady.

marion, pulling on her gloves, shook her head. she crouched down again, no eyes for the others in the room, and was unaware that simone, at a glance from mistress keziah, had quietly stolen away.

marion felt a cold terror grip her heart. could some one have entered the cell and seen roger working—seen the arrow and the silk and the cord?

there was the sentry again, idly walking the south front. it seemed hours before he retraced his steps.

as he turned the corner, roger's face appeared at the grating. he was ready. first knotting the rope to one of the side bars, he pressed his knee against the stone sill, and pulled with both hands first one bar and then another. slowly the bars yielded. roger flung out the rope.

what was that? the step of the sentry returning already? marion leaned out to wave a warning. it was too late. roger had thrust head and shoulders through the gap. he drew one foot up on to the ledge, then leaning out, caught the rope and bore on it while he freed the other foot. he slid down. just as he landed on the ground, the sentry swung round the building.

roger was the first to see the man. for one paralysing instant he stood still. the sentry started and stared, dumb with amazement. before he had time to level his carbine, before he had the wit to shout, roger leaped at him, his fists clenched. out flashed his right hand, and caught the man a crashing upward blow on the jaw. the sentry fell like a log. roger darted to the wall. marion only waited to see him spring from the coping into the road. with a swift word to her aunt, she ran along the passage and down the gallery into the hall. the door stood wide open. she sped down to the courtyard gate.

roger was already there, wrapping himself in the coachman's cloak. simone was holding his hat and crop. roger gave a swift look at marion.

'we have to pass the gaol for the east gate,' said she. 'can we? have we time? shall we make for the west?

'the man will be a good five minutes at least. then another five remembering what has happened,' said roger quietly. 'come!'

with a fleeting glance for simone, marion followed him out. the two ran lightly back along the road, past the gaol gates. there was not a sound from the building. no one was in the road. the whole town seemed deserted. through the old east gate they went, and turned up towards the castle scarp.

just beyond the ridge, in the shadow of some trees, zacchary was waiting with the greys. roger lifted marion into her saddle, and leapt into his own. then he looked down at zacchary, and said a husky word of farewell.

zacchary was staring as at a ghost. he had never believed the plan would succeed. before he had time to consider was it really master roger, in mistress keziah's livery, the two were on a narrow track that led by a round-about course to join the westward road some miles farther on.

for several minutes zacchary stood still. the sound of the horses' hoofs on the soft turf died away. he stared about the quiet green fields and down into the town. the day had come.

mistress keziah had ordered zacchary to make a wide detour among the country lanes, and enter the streets later by the west gate when folk were stirring and the business of the day was afoot. for a couple of miles zacchary followed the track of the horses. on the summit of the hill he stood and looked round.

through a straggling copse to the right, that shielded the path the fugitives had taken, the high road from honiton was visible, winding down into the valley. a solitary horseman was riding towards the town. in the shelter of the trees zacchary stood and watched. there seemed to be something familiar in the man's head and shoulders. then he remembered.

it was the messenger whose horse had cast a shoe the day the coach foundered in the lane.