Part 7 (1/2)

”Mad, am I? P'raps so, but 'twill be an ill madness for this coward.”

He spurned the dragging body with his foot. ”Ah, here's Pascoe! Quick, you: swarm up the tree here, and take a hitch round that branch. See the one I mean?--the third up. Take your hitch by the knot yonder, but climb out first and see if it bears.”

”What for?” demanded Pascoe stolidly.

”Oh, stifle you and your questions! Can't you see what for?”

”Iss,” Pascoe answered, ”I reckon I see, and I ben't goin' to do it.”

”Look here,”--Roger drew a pistol from his pocket, ”who's master here--you or I?”

Malachi had run to the gate, and was dragging at the baulks of timber, shouting vain calls for help into the road. Jane had fled screaming through the house and out into the backyard. Pascoe alone kept his head.

It seemed to him that he heard the distant tramp of horses.

He looked up towards the bough.

”'Tis a cruel thing to order,” said he, ”and my limbs be old; but seemin'

to me I might manage it.”

He began to climb laboriously, rope in hand. As his eyes drew level with the wall's coping he saw to his joy Trevarthen's troop returning along the road, though not from the direction he had expected. Better still, the next moment they saw him on the bough, dark against the red sky.

One rider waved his whip.

He dropped the rope as if by accident, crying out at his clumsiness.

”Curse your bungling!” yelled Roger, and stooped to pick it up.

Pascoe descended again, full of apologies. He had used the instant well.

The riders had seen the one frantic wave of his hand, and were galloping down the lane towards the rear of the house.

Had Roger, as the sound of hoofs reached him, supposed it to be Trevarthen's troop returning, he might yet have persisted. But Trevarthen had ridden towards h.e.l.leston, and these hors.e.m.e.n came apparently out of the north. His thoughts flew at once to a surprise, and he shouted to Pascoe and Malachi to get their guns and hurry to their posts. The youth at his feet lay in a swoon of terror. He kicked the body savagely and ran, too, for his gun.

Half a minute later Jane came screaming back through the house.

”Oh, master--they've caught her! They've caught her!”

”Caught whom?”

”Why, Jezebel herself! They've got her in the yard at this moment, and Master Trevarthen's a-bringing her indoors!”

XIII.

Trevarthen had planned the stroke, and brought it off das.h.i.+ngly.

From the h.e.l.leston road that morning he and his troop had turned aside and galloped across the moors to the outskirts of the village where Mrs.

Stephen lodged. No man dared to oppose them, if any man wished to.

They had dragged her from the house, hoisted her on horseback and headed for home unpursued. It was all admirably simple as Trevarthen related it, swelling with honest pride, by the kitchen fire. The woman herself heard the tale, cowering in a chair beside the hearth, wondering what her death would be.

Roger Stephen looked at her. ”Ah!”--he drew a long breath.