Part 47 (1/2)

”Are you ready, my lord?” asked the Sergeant, turning to Philip.

”Quite ready!” replied the lad, cheerfully, as he prepared to follow the soldiers. He gave his sister a look of joy and hope, for he was going to temporary imprisonment only; within a few moments perhaps his safety would be a.s.sured. Lady Patience Gascoyne, in virtue of her rank and position, could easily obtain an audience of the Duke of c.u.mberland, and in the meanwhile the letters proving Philip's innocence would have been laid before His Royal Highness. No wonder that as the lad, marching light-heartedly between two soldiers, pa.s.sed close to Jack Bathurst, he held out his hand to his brave rescuer in grat.i.tude too deep for words.

”Are you ready, sir?” quoth the Sergeant now, as he turned to Beau Brocade.

But here there was no question of either joy or hope: no defence, no proofs of innocence. The daring outlaw had chosen his path in life, and being conquered at the last, had to pay the extreme penalty which his country demanded of him for having defied its laws.

As he too prepared to follow the soldiers out into the open, Patience, heedless of the men around her, clung pa.s.sionately, despairingly to the man who had sacrificed his brave life in her service, and whom she had rewarded with the intensity, the magnitude of her love.

”They shall not take you,” she sobbed, throwing her protecting arms round the dearly-loved form, ”they shall not ... they shall not...”

The cry had been so bitter, so terribly pathetic in its despair, that instinctively the soldiers stood aside, awed in spite of their stolid hearts at the majesty of this great sorrow; they turned respectfully away, leaving a clear s.p.a.ce round Patience and Bathurst.

Thus for a moment he had her all to himself, pa.s.sive in her despair, half crazed with her grief, clinging to him with all the pa.s.sionate abandonment of her great love for him.

”What? ... tears?” he whispered gently, as with a tender hand he pressed back the graceful drooping head, and looked into her eyes, ”one ... two ... three ... four glittering diamonds ... and for me! ... My sweet dream!” he added, the intensity of his pa.s.sion causing his low, tender voice to quiver in his throat, ”my beautiful white rose, but yesterday for one of those glittering tears I'd gladly have endured h.e.l.l's worst tortures, and to-day they flow freely for me.... Why! I would not change places with a King!”

”Your life ... your brave, n.o.ble life ... thus sacrificed for me....

Oh, why did I ever cross your path?”

”Nay, my _dear_,” he said with an infinity of tenderness, and an infinity of joy. ”Faith! it must have been because G.o.d's angels took pity on a poor vagabond and let him get this early glimpse of paradise.”

His fingers wandered lovingly over her soft golden hair, he held her close, very close to his heart, drinking in every line of her exquisite loveliness, rendered almost ethereal through the magnitude of her sorrow: her eyes s.h.i.+ning with pa.s.sion through her tears, the delicate curve of throat and chin, the sensitive, quivering nostrils, the moist lips on which anon he would dare to imprint a kiss.

”And life now to me,” she whispered 'twixt heart-broken sobs, ”what will it be? ... how shall I live but in one long memory?”

”My life, my saint,” he murmured. ”Nay! lift your dear face up to me again! let me take away as a last memory the radiant vision of your eyes ... your hair ... your lips...”

His arms tightened round her, her head fell back as if in a swoon, she closed her eyes and her soul went out to him in the ecstasy of that first kiss.

”Ah! it is a lovely dream I dreamt,” he whispered, ”and 'tis meet that the awakening shall be only in death!”

He tried to let her go but she clung to him pa.s.sionately, her arms round him, in the agony of her despair.

”Take me with you,” she sobbed, half fainting. ”I cannot bear it ... I cannot...”

Gently he took hold of both her hands, and again and again pressed them to his lips.

”Farewell, sweet dream!” he said. ”There! dry those lovely tears! ...

If you only knew how happy I am, you would not mourn for me.... I have spun the one thread in life which was worth the spinning, the thread which binds me to your memory.... Farewell!”

The Sergeant stepped forward again. It was time to go.

”Are you ready, sir?” he asked kindly.

”Quite ready, Sergeant.”

She slid out of his arms, her eyes quite dry now, her hands pressed to her mouth to smother her screams of misery. She watched the soldiers fall into line, with their prisoner in their midst, and turn to the doorway of the inn, through which the golden suns.h.i.+ne came gaily peeping in.