第70章

"Wait!" he cried. She paused, and turned to look over her shoulder, her hand apparently upon the latch. "You shall not go until you have told me why you besought me to keep away from Newlington's. What is it?" he asked, and paused suddenly, a flood of light breaking in upon his mind. "Is there some treachery afoot?" he asked her, and his eye went wildly to the clock. A harsh, grating sound rang through the room.

"What are you doing?" he cried. "Why have you locked the door?" She was tugging and fumbling desperately to extract the key, her hands all clumsy in her nervous haste. He leapt at her, but in that moment the key came away in her hand. She wheeled round to face him, erect, defiant almost.

"Here is some devilry!" he cried. "Give me that key."He had no need for further questions. Here was a proof more eloquent than words to his ready wit. Sir Rowland or Richard, or both, were in some plot for the Duke's ruin - perhaps assassination. Had not her very words shown that she herself was out of all sympathy with Monmouth?

He was out of sympathy himself. But not to the extent of standing by to see his throat cut. She would have the plot succeed - whatever it might be and yet that he himself be spared. There his thoughts paused; but only for a moment. He saw suddenly in this, not a proof of concern born of love but of duty towards him who had imperilled himself once - and for all time, indeed - that he might save her brother and Sir Rowland.

He told her what had been so suddenly revealed to him, taxing her with it. She acknowledged it, her wits battling to find some way by which she might yet gain a few moments more. She would cling to the key, and though he should offer her violence, she would not let it go without a struggle, and that struggle must consume the little time yet wanting to make it too late for him to save the Duke, and - what imported more -thus save herself from betraying her brother's trust. Another fear leapt at her suddenly. If through deed of hers Monmouth was spared that night, Blake, in his despair and rage, might slake his vengeance upon Richard.

"Give me that key," he demanded, his voice cold and quiet, his face set.

"No, no," she cried, setting her hand behind her. "You shall not go, Anthony. You shall not go.""I must," he insisted, still cold, but oh! so determined. "My honour's in it now that I know.""You'll go to your death," she reminded him.

He sneered. "What signifies a day or so? Give me the key.""I love you, Anthony!" she cried, livid to the lips.

"Lies!" he answered her contemptuously. "The key!""No," she answered, and her firmness matched his own. "I will not have you slain.""`Tis not my purpose - not just yet. But I must save the others. God forgive me if I offer violence to a woman," he added, "and lay rude hands upon her. Do not compel me to it." He advanced upon her, but she, lithe and quick, evaded him, and sprang for the middle of the room.

He wheeled about, his selfcontrol all slipping from him now. Suddenly she darted to the window, and with the hand that clenched the key she smote a pane with all her might. There was a smash of shivering glass, followed an instant later by a faint tinkle on the stones below, and the hand that she still held out covered itself all with blood.

"0 God!" he cried, the key and all else forgotten. "You are hurt.""But you are saved," she cried, overwrought, and staggered, laughing and sobbing, to a chair, sinking her bleeding hand to her lap, and smearing recklessly her spotless, shimmering gown.

He caught up a chair by its legs, and at a single blow smashed down the door - a frail barrier after all. "Nick!" he roared. "Nick!" He tossed the chair from him and vanished into the adjoining room to reappear a moment later carrying basin and ewer, and a shirt of Trenchard's - the first piece of linen he could find.

She was half fainting, and she let him have his swift, masterful way.

He bathed her hand, and was relieved to find that the injury was none so great as the flow of blood had made him fear. He tore Trenchard's fine cambric shirt to shreds - a matter on which Trenchard afterwards commented in quotations from at least three famous Elizabethan dramatists. He bound up her hand, just as Nick made his appearance at the splintered door, his mouth open, his pipe, gone out, between his fingers. He was followed by a startled serving-wench, the only other person in the house, for every one was out of doors that night.

Into the woman's care Wilding delivered his wife, and without a word to her he left the room, dragging Trenchard with him. It was striking nine as they went down the stairs, and the sound brought as much satisfaction to Ruth above as dismay to Wilding below.