AS they walked rapidly back, their tongues moved faster than their feet.

“Well, you’ve beaten Burd Aline,” said Audry, laughing; “you’ve rescued your knight before you even know his name. But I’m quite sure it’s all the wrong way round;—the knight should rescue his lady. Besides, what’s the good of a man in homespun; you need some grand person; you do not know how to do these things, my lady. I wonder who he is.”

“He’s Scots anyway; one can tell that from his accent.”

“I suppose you think a Scots peasant better than an English gentleman.”

“I will not be denying it,” laughed Aline.

“Oh! then yours shall be a peasant-knight, you always choose things different from other people. But I like his face, it looks strong.”

“Yes, but I am afraid he has had a terrible time,” said Aline; “how sad those deep-set eyes are; but they seem determined.”

“Don’t you like his mouth and chin? It’s a strong chin and I like those well-shaped sensitive lips.”

“Yes, but I think the eyes are more striking.”

“It’s no good, though, having a knight at all, certainly56 not a peasant-knight,” said Audry roguishly, “unless he has nice lips.”

Aline smiled. “You’re getting frivolous. Now be serious, we have a great deal to do.”

They reached the Hall, ran up to their bedroom and before they started on their further explorations Aline took out the book so as to be prepared for emergencies. She read on for some time and discovered several things, one was the way to open the trap door that led into the cave and especially the way that it could be made to open from the outside if the inner bolts were not fastened. Another important discovery was that the door of their room could be locked by an ingenious bolt in the secret stairway, that pushed back from the bolt-hole into the lock itself. This enabled any one to leave the room unlocked when away, so as to excite no suspicion. Yet on returning, after seeing that the room was empty, by peering through a small slit, one could, by locking the door, make sure that one would not be caught by any one entering the room at the same moment. The children again made their way down the stairs to the secret room where they paused a few moments to look at things for which there was not time on the previous occasion. There were several cupboards, one of which had stone shelves and was clearly intended for a larder. There was amongst other things a large iron chest, which did not seem to have any lock and which greatly excited their curiosity. In another chest they found several pistols and swords besides a few foils and some fencing masks. There were also some tools and some rope and a whole wardrobe of clothes of many kinds. Most of the things were very old but a certain57 number were comparatively recent. At the same time there was nothing to indicate that the room had been used for the last twenty years.

“Come, we must not stay looking at these things, however interesting,” said Aline; “we must be getting on. But I am glad there is a nice place to keep food; only we shall have a great difficulty in getting a supply.”

She opened a little door as she spoke and once more they found themselves in a narrow passage that led down a flight of steps. It turned abruptly to the right at the bottom of the steps and then went absolutely straight for what seemed to them an interminable length. It was only the thought of the wounded man that prevented them from turning back. There was a little drain at the bottom of the passage and the whole sloped slightly so that the water that percolated freely through the walls was carried off.

At last they reached the end, where the passage terminated in a short flight of stairs. At the bottom of the stairs was a basin hollowed in the rock and this was fed by a spring of delicious water. They went up these and found a curious door made of stone. It was fastened with huge wooden bolts, a precaution, as they afterwards guessed, against rust. They passed through and discovered that the other side of the door was quite irregular and rough and the chamber in which they found themselves, if chamber it could be called, was like a natural cave. In the middle of the rocky floor was a great stone. Even this looked natural although they found that, as the book had said, it was so cunningly shaped and balanced that it would swing into a vertical position without much effort and allow of a man58 dropping through on one side of it. But the clever part of it was,—that what looked like accidental breaks in the stone were so arranged that certain other blocks could be fitted into them and the surrounding rock so that it could not be moved. If then by any accident any one should make his way into the chamber he would only think that he had come into a natural cave. Audry let herself down through the hole and with the help of Aline dropped to the ground, and found herself in a small fissure or cave, more or less blocked by underwood, where the stream ran through a little hollow or gully. She succeeded in getting back after making several unsuccessful attempts.

“It is an excellent place,” said Audry, “but however shall we get him through that passage, it is so very narrow and so terribly long.”

“We might even have to leave him in the cave room to-night,” Aline replied, “but I think it would be a good idea to count our steps on the way back. It will be interesting to know how long it is, and we shall also be able to tell in future how far we are at any moment from the end.”

This they did and found that it was 1100 paces, which they reckoned would be as nearly as possible half a mile. Before they entered their bedroom again they experimented with the secret bolt that fastened the door, which acted perfectly, although, like everything else, they found that it would be the better for a little oil.

It seemed a long evening, but at last it was time to go to bed. The children went upstairs and waited impatiently until they were quite sure that every one was asleep. They had managed to secrete a little food to59 take with them and also a few pieces of firewood, and put a little more in the secret room as they made their way out. They had already begun to get somewhat used to the stair and found even the long secret passage less alarming. It was a clear night although there was no moon, and they made their way without difficulty to the hollow tree. They found Ian Menstrie stiff with cold and in great pain, but his senses almost preternaturally alert.

“I am so glad you have come,” he said. “I thought that something had prevented you and was wondering whether I could live here till the morning.”

Ian’s nature was a combination of strength and tenderness and was as likely to be exercising its force in protecting or shielding as in attacking. He had resolutely carried on the work that he felt to be his duty in spite of the most terrible risks and, when he had finally been captured and concluded that it was equally his duty to escape, he had carried out his plans with a ruthless determination; but, in the presence of these children, only the extreme tenderness of his character was called into play.

He looked at the two small figures and, in spite of his terrible plight, his heart smote him that they should be wandering about at night instead of getting their rest, and particularly Aline, who had been through so much already.

“It is good of you to come, and oh, I do hope that you will take no harm. How are you feeling, little one?” he asked, addressing Aline.

“Oh, I am all right,” she said brightly, for she did not wish him or Audry to know how her arm pained60 her, and indeed the excitement was in a way keeping her up. “It is you who are to be asked after; we have brought you a little to eat now and there will be something else when we get to the secret room.”

It was a painful journey. Ian set his teeth and tried to make the best of it and lean on his small guides as little as possible, but he was at the last gasp and he was a heavy burden. Luckily he had a naturally strong constitution and forced it to do its work by the exceptional strength of his will or he would have succumbed altogether. But he felt that what he had been through in the last two weeks had weakened his mental power and was glad that there was a chance for at least a respite before he would be called upon to face his tormentors again. In his present condition he felt that he could not answer for himself and the thought was too terrible. Supposing that they should put him on the rack once more and that he should deny his faith! Perhaps for the present at least he was to be spared this.

They very slowly made their way along the bed of the stream and eventually reached the cave. Aline helped Audry up through the trap door first, and then the children just succeeded in getting the injured man through, for he was becoming less and less able to help himself. Then began the long weary passage.

It was an exhausting process and Ian Menstrie seemed to be settling into a sort of stupor. They had gone about 700 paces when he fell right down. “I will be going on in a minute,” he answered. So they waited a moment or two and then asked him if he was ready. “Oh, I am coming in a minute,” he said once more. They61 waited again for a time but when they roused him, each time it was the same reply. “Oh, yes, certainly, I am coming just in a moment.” Finally there was nothing to be done but half carry him and half drag him along.

“I wish we had put him in the cave to-night,” exclaimed Audry.

“But we should never have got enough things there to make him comfortable,” said Aline. “I think we are really doing what is best and it will not be long now before we are there.”

Aline’s shoulder was excruciating, and she knew that it was bleeding again. Her other cut had also opened with the strain, and every limb in her little body ached as it had never done in her life. “I must be brave,” she said to herself; “what would father have done if he had been here?” The cold sweat stood on her brow but she never uttered a murmur and was anxious that Audry, who was fairly worn out herself, should not know how bad she was feeling. The last 50 yards she accomplished in intense agony and her thankfulness to reach the chamber was inexpressible.

They lit the fire and laid Menstrie on the bed. Then they gave him some water which seemed to revive him a good deal and he was able to thank them and to take food.

When he seemed to have come to himself Aline sat down on a chair. She leaned back and commenced to shiver, her teeth chattered till her whole frame shook. The others were frightened; it was clear that she was suffering from collapse. Luckily there was a fair supply of wood, as there had been several large pieces in the room when the children discovered it, and they had62 brought a quantity of small stuff. So there was soon a roaring fire and they were able to give Aline something hot to drink. Ian in spite of his own injuries did all that he could. They managed to shift the oak bed a little nearer to the fire and warmed blankets and wrapped Aline in them and laid her on the bed. Gradually the shivering passed away, but she lay there looking very white and shaken, with great black rings round her eyes, as if they had been bruised. Her wounds caused her considerable pain. Audry, who was a sweet hearted child but without the imaginative sympathy and intense self-sacrifice of her little cousin, toiled up the stairs and brought down some fresh linen. They then gently washed the wounds and put clean oil upon them, Ian cursing himself all the while because of his helplessness with his single hand, but able from many fighting experiences to direct Audry in the manipulation of the bandages.

“Is that more comfortable?” he asked when they had finished.

“Yes,” she said smiling, “I feel ever so much better and I think that I could go to sleep.”

Audry then assisted Ian to bandage his ankle, and under his directions also saw that the broken bone was all right. He then lay down on the bed and Audry curled herself in a great chair and went to sleep.

For Ian sleep was out of the question; and he lay there watching the firelight dancing on the faces of the slumbering children, the one beautiful with a robust health and well cut features and strongly built limbs, finely proportioned throughout; the other beautiful entirely beyond any ordinary beauty, with an extreme63 delicacy and subtlety in every line of her face as he had already noticed in her figure, yet never even suggesting the least touch of weakness. He had never seen such hair, which seemed to cover the bed. Its rich deep colour glowed with an extraordinary lustre and he noticed that her skin, unlike that of most people with red hair, was absolutely clear and marked by a strange translucent quality that was unique. One small arm was lying out on the coverlet with the sleeve tucked up. He had not realised before that a child’s arm could show so much variety of form and modelled surface and yet retain the essential slenderness and daintiness of childhood. She might well have been some fairy princess sleeping among the flowers.

Aline’s beauty undoubtedly had about it something supernatural. It was all in keeping with her manner and character. There was an atmosphere of another world about her of which every one who met her sooner or later became aware. It could not be put into words and could not be analysed. In a sense it was unnatural, but so far from repelling any one it had about it a mysterious, almost magical fascination that was irresistible.

Only the basest natures failed to be drawn by it, and even in their cases it was not that they did not feel it, but that they consciously withstood it as a power with which their whole nature was at variance.

Ian was devoutly glad that she was no worse and offered up a prayer of thankfulness that she was at least safe. As he looked at her he recalled her soft, not very pronounced, musical Scots accent, and his thoughts turned to the land of his birth. Her face too!—why64 had he not noticed it before, how strangely like it was in certain aspects to the face of his dreams, that still followed him wherever he went, although he had not seen it for thirteen years? He had, however, reluctantly to admit that this mere child’s face was even more beautiful. After all she too had really been only a child, although rather more than a couple of years older than himself, when he had worshipped her with all the fervour of a boy’s adoration and had suddenly lost sight of her when her parents had unexpectedly taken her away to be married. But the face had lived with him day and night, and no other face had ever come between him and his vision. Nor had the discovery long afterward,—that she had died soon after her child was born, ever inclined him to look elsewhere.

Aline moaned slightly and moved her head uneasily as though not quite comfortable. He smoothed the pillow for her and registered a vow that he would do all that he could to serve her, not only in return for what she had done for him, but for the sake of the chance resemblance to that one who had gone and who through all these years had meant so much to him.

And yet who was he to serve or to help any one?—a wanderer with a price upon his head; and he began to turn over the events of the last few years in his mind. All had promised so well with him and yet everything had been adverse. He had early distinguished himself both for his learning and his military skill, which drew down upon him the envy of his brothers, particularly the eldest, when, as a mere boy, he was one of the few who distinguished himself in the unfortunate battle of Pinkey Cleugh and he had looked forward to some recognition65 or advancement, but the jealousy of his brothers had made that impossible. Then he had fallen under the influence of George Wishart[10] and incurred the undying anger of his father, and so great was the enmity of the family that finally he fled the country, first to England and afterwards, at Mary’s accession, to France and then to Italy, where he spent some years and followed first the calling of a smith. There he not only learned about the making of arms but acquired a considerable facility in the new art of swordsmanship as practised in Italy. Nor were his fingers idle in other ways; he executed designs first in metalwork and then in wood and other materials and became an accomplished draughtsman besides exhibiting great creative power. He might even have become one of the world’s great artists had not circumstances directed his energies into other fields.

10 The great Scottish reformer and martyr.

It was his brothers he knew who were behind his present trouble and it cut him to the quick. He had no enmity to them. It was not his fault that they had not distinguished themselves. For the sake of friendship he would willingly have obliterated his achievements and have given up everything to them; but of course that could not be, yet they would not forget. He had been for the last month in prison and strong as he undoubtedly still was, it was nothing to what he had been. Many a time had his slight wiry frame astonished his comrades by its extraordinary powers of endurance.

He was lightly built and excellently proportioned, with rather broad shoulders that particularly suited the66 costume of the day. He had on more than one occasion sat for artists in Italy, including Paolo Veronese himself, because of the exceptional beauty of his figure.

His escape had been almost a miracle, as he had no friends in the country and he had to think and carry on everything himself; he had been nearly caught again twice and he had shuddered as he thought of the fate of George Wishart whom he had himself seen strangled and burnt at the stake. It was true that for the moment he was safe, but for how long? He looked at the beautiful child and shuddered again. Suppose he should in any way implicate her. The priests would have no more pity upon her than upon himself. No, that he would not do. He would die rather than that. Would it not be best for him to go away at once rather than be a possible cause of injury to anything so gentle and brave and fair?

He rose up as the thought came to him; yes, he would go away; it should never be said that he had brought calamity upon a child. He stumbled across the floor and made his way down to the passage, but he had not realised how weak he was. Hitherto he had been buoyed up by excitement; now that that was over the pain was more than he could stand and he fainted and fell heavily to the ground.

When he again came to, he realised the impossibility of his getting away down the long passage, and he also began to wonder whether after all he might not be of more use if he stayed. He did not as yet know who the child was; it was clear that she was Scots and did not belong to the family of Holwick Hall; perhaps in the workings of Providence he had been sent there to67 be of some use to her. He could at least wait and find out a few things and then see what was best to be done. So he crawled back to the room again and waited for the morning.

To while away the time he took off his shoes to see that they were all right.

They were peculiarly made, with false inner soles of many thicknesses of parchment, covered with oil silk and several layers of paint.

These were the precious documents that had been purposely written in that shape. The false soles were secured by stout canvas and thin leather covers which formed part of the shoes. They could not be taken out without cutting the shoes to pieces.

As far as he could see they seemed to have sustained no damage in spite of the wetting.

There were three minute slits or peepholes in the corners and middle of the room. These were evidently intended as lookout places and were covered with small sliding shutters which he opened. The night seemed almost interminable, but at length the dawn began to break. He waited as long as he dared and then woke Audry.

“Where am I?” she exclaimed; “oh, I remember. How are you and how is Aline?” She rose as she spoke and went towards the sleeping figure. “I suppose we ought to wake her,—Aline, dear, wake up.”

Aline opened her eyes and gradually roused herself. She was certainly better than on the previous night, but still obviously very ill. However, there was nothing to be done but to get her upstairs somehow, and then there was no alternative but to leave her in bed.

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The children looked at each other. “Whatever shall we say?” said Audry.

“We must not say what is not true,” answered Aline.

“No, but we cannot tell them everything.”

“It is very difficult.”

“Could you not say that you fell on a rock, Aline?”

“That is not what I mean is difficult.”

“I do not understand.”

“I mean it is difficult to know how to speak the truth. Even if we do not say what is untrue we let them think wrongly.”

“Well, we cannot help that, Aline.”

“I do not know, it seems to me that it comes to the same thing as if we told them a falsehood.”

“Oh, bother them; if they ask no questions they will get told no stories.”

Aline’s mind was not satisfied; but, after all their calamities, fortune now favoured the children. There came a knock at the door and Elspeth, Audry’s old nurse, came in. “You are rather late this morning,” she said, and then she noticed that Aline was still in bed, “and one of you not up. Marry now, but it is a good thing for you that Mistress Mowbray has other things to think of this morning. She has just received an urgent letter from her sister at Appleby to say that she has been taken sick, and will she come over without delay. The serving man that brought the letter has only just now returned homeward.”

“What is the matter with Aunt Ann?” asked Audry.

“Oh, it is nothing to fret yourself about, hinnie,” the old woman went on, “but such an upset and turmoil in the house you never saw. Mistress Mowbray is carrying69 he were to be staying there the rest of her life; and Appleby only those few miles away too. Well, I must hurry away; I have more to do than I can manage.”

“Oh, nurse, can Aline stay in bed this morning? She is not very well; she hurt herself a little yesterday. I will bring up her breakfast; it is nothing serious.”

“All right, dearie,—it’s nothing serious?” she repeated as she heard Mistress Mowbray’s voice calling angrily from the bottom of the stairs. “I am glad of that, but I must go,” and she departed.

Aline had kept her face away so that Elspeth should not see how ill she looked. The children were much relieved when they heard the footsteps die away.

In a way Aline’s illness even helped them, as it enabled Audry to take up food without suspicion, and it was thus possible, owing to the general confusion in the house, to lay in a small supply for the other invalid below.

The next morning Aline was considerably better, having the marvellous recuperative power of childhood, but it was clear that she would not be herself for some time.

“You do look a sight, you know,” said Audry, throwing her arms round her neck. “Your eyelids and all round the eyes up to the eyebrow are still black. Whatever shall we do now, because nurse will certainly come up to-day?”

“She is a dear old thing and you can always get round her. I shall get up and go down and stand with my back to the light and keep my head low, and hope that no one will notice; then you must get nurse to let us have a holiday and take our dinner with us on to the hills.70 We can stay away till it is dark and then no one will see. I am ever so much better to-day and shall be all right to-morrow. We need only go a little way and it is a beautiful day, and I can lie in the sunshine. I wonder how poor Master Menstrie is,” she went on. “I am afraid that he will take a great deal longer to get well than I shall. You will of course look after him.”

Aline’s plan succeeded beyond expectation. Master Mowbray was in a hurry, as he wanted to ride over to Appleby for a few days and Nurse was busy with preparations. So Aline spent the long summer days on the moors watching the great white clouds roll over the hills and thinking of all that had happened in the last few days and the new responsibilities that had fallen upon her. It was clear that it would be a difficult matter to feed their guest, particularly as she was determined not to take food from the house. Perhaps it was true as Audry said, that people had no right to demand answers to any question that they might choose to ask; but certainly that did not justify one in taking what did not belong to one. She was just at the age when the intelligence begins to arouse itself and face the great problems of life and this was only one of the questions that stirred her young mind. There was also the matter of the heretics and again Audry had in her frank direct way supplied the answer of fair play and common sense.

Aline made up her mind that she would ask Master Menstrie about some of these things; at least, as Audry had said, there could be no harm in hearing both sides and she must judge for herself.

Audry went back after a while to see Master Menstrie; and Aline, when she had been out on the moor for a long71 time, returned to the Hall as the afternoon sun was getting low. Before going in, she sat down by the moat and looked across at the grey pile. The water seemed to be shallow at that point as though the bank had slipped in and yellow irises were growing at the edge.

Although the bulk of the building was little more than a hundred years old, except the early pele tower that had been built into the structure, time had laid its fingers upon it and it looked very mellow in the afternoon sun. The stone shingles of the roof were covered with golden lichen, while, behind the parapet of the little old tower, a piece of ivy had taken root and hung down through one of the crenellations trailing a splash of green over the grey wall. There was a stern beauty about it and the long line of narrow oilettes in the granary added to the somewhat fortress-like appearance.

As she sat there she saw a small figure approaching; it was Joan.

Aline beckoned to her and she came up shyly and Aline drew her down to a seat at her side. “I am so glad to see you out again, Joan; I do hope this is going to be a real lasting improvement,” she said, taking a little wasted hand in one of her own and putting the fingers of her other hand round the small wrist. “Why, there’s nothing there at all,” she went on, blowing at the hand and letting it fall; “see how easily I can blow it away; why, if I blew hard I should blow it off. You must be quick and get stronger.”

The little maid shook her head sadly.

“And you mustn’t look so doleful either,” and Aline kissed her in the corner of each eye which made Joan laugh.

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“There, that’s better; now you must forget yourself and I will tell you a story.”

At that moment Audry appeared on the scene. “Well, you are a pair, you two,” she said, with a kindly sparkle in her merry brown eyes; “you could not raise a spot of colour between you; but, Joan, it’s good to see you out at all, in spite of your pale cheeks. How are you and what did Master Barlow say?”

“I do not think he knew what was the matter; but he said that I ought to go away and see if other surroundings would help me. He was a kind old man.”

“We must see what we can do, Joan, when Master Mowbray comes back from Appleby.”

“I do not think it is good for either of you to be out in the evening air,” said Audry. “Come along in, Aline.”

“What is the matter with her, Mistress Audry?” said Joan.

“Oh, nothing,” said Aline; “I shall be all right to-morrow, but I must obey this tyrannous lady; good-bye, Joan.”

Audry had had difficulties with her patient. Menstrie so far from improving grew distinctly worse. His head was causing him great pain and the want of sleep made him a wreck. She had no scruples about the food like Aline, maintaining in her blunt way that it was the duty of the house to be kind to the stranger and that, if the other people did not do their duty, then she must do it for them whatever it involved. But she was very glad that Aline had so much improved after a few days as to be able to come and see the invalid with her.

He was obviously in a high fever and was gradually73 getting delirious. The old nurse took very little notice of them while her mistress was away and they would slip out on to the moors and make their way back to the secret room by the underground passage. As Aline grew strong Ian’s illness laid a greater and greater hold upon him. Aline insisted in sitting up with him the greater part of the night. There was not a great deal that she could do; but she prepared a concoction from a little yellow flowered plant that grew upon the moor and that was deemed good for fevers and administered this at regular intervals.

He spoke but rarely, but his eyes would follow her wherever she went. When his head was exceptionally bad he would complain of the burning and she would place wet cloths on his brow, or in fits of shivering she would do all that she could to keep him warm.

At length he seemed to take a distinct turn for the better. One night after a violent perspiration she was trying to change the bedclothes and make him more comfortable when he spoke to her quite clearly and in a voice unlike the almost incoherent ramblings of the last few days,—“What a wonderful little angel you are,” he said.

“I could not do less,” she replied.

“I see no reason why you should do anything at all; how long have you been tending me like this?”

“Audry has been attending you a great part of the time.”

“Then I have been ill for a long while.”

“Some little while,” she said, “but you are better now; I have been so frightened that you would never get well any more.”

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“But that would not matter to you.”

Aline laughed,—“Why then I should have had all my trouble for nothing.”

“But it would have been simpler to have taken no trouble at all.”

“Simpler, but how dull; do you know this is the most exciting thing that has ever happened to me?”

“A poor kind of excitement,” he said; “why, you are looking very ill yourself; do not people notice it?”

“Oh, yes, they say, ‘You are a little scarecrow.’”

“Who say?”

“Mistress Mowbray, she has come home again to-day.”

“I did not know that she had gone away, but is that all that she says; does she not suggest doing anything?”

“Marry no, she only said, ‘Child, you have been eating too many good things while I am away; you must not get ill; I have a great deal of work for you to do. To-morrow you have to work hard after all this time of idleness.’ Now you must not talk any more; it is a great thing to hear you talk properly at all, and it would be foolish to let you make yourself ill again.”

He wanted her to go on; but again he saw that firm determined look in her manner that he had noticed before and knew that it would be useless to try and move her. “Well, little princess,” he said, “if those are your commands I suppose that they must be obeyed.”

“Certainly, sirrah, it is time that you went to sleep.”

It was fortunate for the children that Menstrie’s illness took a turn for the better when it did, for it would have been impossible for them to give him much time after Mistress Mowbray’s return. But it was clear that75 it would be a long time before he would be able to get about.

They both came in on the following night and found that while there was no doubt about the improvement, he was miserably weak and ill. Aline tried to prevent him from talking, but he was anxious to hear how things had gone with them. “Well, what have you been doing all day?” he said.

“We have been hemming great holland sheets,” said Aline.

“Well, that is not very exciting,” he said.

“More exciting perhaps than you think,” said Audry. “Mother was very cross, and Aline certainly had an exciting time.”

“Hush, Audry,” said Aline very softly.

“I shall not hush, Aline. I wish that mother would not act like that to you. Do you know,” she went on, “that whenever Aline made the stitches just the least little bit too big or turned down the hem the least bit too much or too little, she hit her. Aline, if I were you I would not stand it; I would tell my father.”

Ian half rose in his bed with anger and then fell back again. “There you see what you have done,” said Aline, as Ian went as white as the sheet. It was some moments before he was able to speak and the children watched him anxiously.

“What a shame,” he went on, in calmer tones.

“Well, we won’t talk about that now,” said Aline; “let us talk of something nicer. Master Mowbray is going to give me a falcon and I am going to ride like Audry.”

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“I thought that I heard you say that you did not care about riding, little one,” he said.

“I do not know that I do particularly, but Master Mowbray wished it for the sake of Audry. I do not think he cared about me one way or the other. I thought that it might help us in several ways in feeding you.”

“I am afraid I do not quite see that,” he said.

“Well, for one thing, the falcon would have to be fed and sometimes there would be things that I could give to you and I could get other things for the falcon instead. I do not like taking things from the house, and that is why I have tried as far as possible to snare you rabbits or catch fish in the river. So far we have done very well, but it is meal or bread that is the chief difficulty.”

“And do you think the falcon or the horse is going to get the bread?” he asked playfully.

“If you were not ill,” she said, shaking her little hand at him, “I would punish you.”

He caught the hand and kissed it. “Well, never mind, but I do not see how either the horse or the falcon is going to help you.”

“It is this way. If we go riding it will be a reason for going expeditions, and then we can make it an excuse to buy food. If I were to go and buy food round about here, there would be all manner of questions asked at once.”

“But, child, you have not any money, and if you had it would not be right to spend it on me.”

“But I have some; I have five pounds Scots that my father gave me long ago that I have been keeping in a77 safe place, and I have six florins that have been given me by other people.”

“You never told me that you were so rich,” said Audry. “Why, think what you could buy for all that!”

“Can you get down my jerkin, Audry?” asked Ian,—“Thank you! See if you can find in the inner pocket a leathern purse?—That’s right, now in that you will find ten gold rose angels. Take out two of them and let me know all that is spent on my account. I would not hear of you spending money on me.”

Aline demurred, but Menstrie would brook no opposition. So there was nothing to be done but take the money. After the children had gone Ian began to consider his new responsibilities. He already began to feel that Aline was in some way his special care. He had a peculiar power of seeing both sides of things and realised that there was always something to be said for each. But this never paralysed his action as it does with many. He remembered the Athenian view of the sin of neutrality and that the first duty is to make up one’s mind.

In action he was usually able to find a line not neutral, that is to say neither, but one that stood firmly and decisively for something even beyond the best of both and this he would carry through at all costs. He found this all the easier as his personality, his resolution and clear explanations made him a born leader and he generally compelled others to take his higher point of view. But this could not always be the case and then he would take the side that on the whole was the better. He had thrown in his lot with the protestant party, not by any means because he entirely agreed with them,—he often told them they were no better than those they78 opposed,—but he definitely saw more prospect of progress in that direction. He had an iron will, that is absolute self-control and the determined capacity that no difficulties, no obstacles and no suffering could cause to swerve. He was entirely free from the weakness of obstinacy, or of pleasing himself.

In more personal matters it was the same. At the present there were the claims of his country, the claims of his faith and the claims of this child. He loved children and nothing stirred him so much as to see a child illtreated.

How were these claims to be met? After all, were they so conflicting? The only real problem was that Aline was in England, while his other duties lay in Scotland. Clearly he must get her to Scotland. In whose charge to place her, he could arrange later. That much then was settled.

As he thought this, he distinctly heard a voice say,—“No, it is not.” He looked behind, but saw no one. The voice continued,—“She will become a heretic and then...?”

“Who is there?” he cried, sitting up in bed. There was silence and he heard no more, only he fancied he saw Wishart again in the fire and Aline was along with him. “I am overwrought,” he muttered; “that is impossible anyway, as poor Wishart died long ago. No, Aline,” he went on, “as long as my life can stay it, such shall never be,—never. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

He leaned back exhausted and soon fell into a troubled sleep. He remembered nothing when he woke, but found the sheet torn to shreds, as though he had fought some malign enemy.