of Westminster was really undermined with powder.

The 'prentices, ever to the fore, had taken French leave to-day. At
certain risk of castigation to-morrow they deserted work with one
accord and were at the best posts of observation, long before the more
sober folk had thought to leave their beds. They wriggled their meagre
bodies between the very legs of the soldiery, like so many lizards in
search of sunshine, until they had conquered their places of vantage
in the foreground whence they would presently see the prisoner when he
stepped out of the vehicle which would bring him from the Tower.

In the meanwhile the crowd wiled away the time by watching the arrival
of the grand folk, and noting their names and quality as they descended
from coach and chaise.

"That's my lord of Rochester."

"And this my lady Evelyn."

"I vow 'tis Master Pepys himself."

"And his lady, too."

"'Tis His Grace of Norfolk!"

Whereupon since the duke was a well-known Papist, there were hoots
and hisses and cries of "The stake for heretics!" in which even the
musketeers joined.

The informers came together and were vigorously cheered and loudly
acclaimed.

"An Oates! An Oates! A Bedloe! Hurrah for the saviours of the nation!"

Daniel Pye, a little anxious, was being upheld by his friend Tongue,
who kept up a running flow of encouraging words which he poured forth
into the other man's ear. He not being known to the mob remained
unnoticed. As the time drew nigh for making his lying statements more
public, the East Anglian peasant felt his courage oozing down into
his boots. Bedloe and Oates, who had gone through similar experiences
several times now, added their own encouragement to that expressed by
Tongue.

"No one will worry you," said Bedloe loftily; "they'll believe every
word you say. Only stick to your story, man, and never hesitate. They
can't contradict you: no one else was there to see."

Although the gloom outside had almost changed day into evening, yet
on entering the great hall wherein a very few lamps flickered near the
centre dais, Daniel Pye could see nothing of his surroundings. He was
glad that Oates himself took him by the arm, and piloted him through
the great hall toward a side door immediately behind the bench and
which gave on the room that had been assigned to the witnesses.

A goodly number of ladies and gentlemen wore masks when they arrived,
and among these was a man obviously young and of assured position,
for his step was firm and his movements like those of one accustomed
to have his own way in the world. He was dressed in rough clothes of
sad-coloured material, but there was nothing of the menial about his
person as he presented his paper of admission to the most exclusive
corner of the hall.

Here he sat himself down in a dark recess beneath the sill of the great
mullioned window, nor did he remove his mask as almost every one else
had done. Had not the crowd all round him been deeply engrossed in its
own excitement no doubt that some one would have challenged and mayhap
recognised the solitary figure.

But as it was, no one took notice of him. Rupert Kestyon--like the
criminal who cannot resist the impulse of once more revisiting the
scene of his crime--had returned to London to see the final act of the
great tragedy, wherein he himself was playing such a sorry part.

Not that Rupert had any fear that matters would not turn out just
as Michael had mapped them out. He knew his kinsman far too well to
imagine for a moment that he would lift a finger to save the life which
he had bartered for his cousin's loyalty to the tailor's daughter.

But in Paris, whilst waiting in seclusion and inactivity, the moment
when--the tragedy being over--he could once more resume the more
pleasing comedy of life, he felt an irresistible longing to see the
fall of that curtain, to be present when Fate dealt him his last
trump-card, the final sacrifice of the man who stood in the way of his
own advancement.

Therefore he sat there in the corner, solitary and watchful, noting the
arrival of the spectators, the appearance of the men of law, the whole
paraphernalia of justice which was about to crush an innocent man.

The hall by now was packed to overflowing; to right and left temporary
seats had been erected and covered with crimson cloth, forming an
amphitheatre which accommodated over a thousand people, amongst whom
were many that bore historic names, as well as the gayer crowd that
formed the Court set.

Vast as was the room, it had already become insufferably hot; ladies
plied their fans vigorously, whilst the men, worried with their heavy
perruques, became restless and morose. On the right hand side, and
somewhat in advance of the rest of the seats, a few more comfortable
chairs had been disposed. Here sat a man dressed in sober black, with
dark perruque pushed impatiently off his high forehead, and shifty,
mistrustful-looking eyes wandering over the sea of faces all around
him. To right and left of him ladies whispered and chatted, trying
to bring a smile to the pinched lips, and not succeeding, for the
man in the black surcoat was moody to-day, anxious, too, and vastly
dissatisfied with himself, which is ever an uncomfortable state of
mind. He had entered the Hall almost unobserved by the crowd outside,
stepping out of a closed coach in no ways different to others that had
driven up before. He had worn a mask when he arrived and only removed
it when he was already seated. Several people recognised him then,
but what cheering there came from the more brilliant members of this
promiscuous throng was quickly repressed.

Despite the many supposed attempts on the life of the king, he was far
from popular just now. Conscious of this, he frowned when he realised
that--though he was recognised by many--yet he was acclaimed only by a
very few.

Already the jury were seated and Sir Cresswell Levins was sorting his
papers, and incidentally chatting with the Attorney-General. And now
from outside came a muffled sound, like unto great breakers rolling
into shore; distant at first, it gradually drew nearer, drawing
strength as it approached. Soon through it there came, striking sharply
on the ear, the stamping of horses' hoofs on the cobblestones of the
road, and the creaking of heavy wheels through the mud. The sound
of rolling waves turned to one which came from hundreds of human
lips--hisses and groans were distinctly heard; shouts of execration,
with here and there a blasphemous oath loudly uttered against the
cursed Papists.

The prisoner had arrived.

Inside the Hall all necks were craned to catch the first glimpse of the
man who was destined mayhap not to leave this place save with the axe
suspended over his head.

The romantic tales which had clustered around the personality of
Michael Kestyon, the horrible suggestions of unavowable deeds, of
black magic and devilish incantations, had borne fruit. Though eyes
were fixed with eager curiosity on the man as he entered, though many
a pleasing shudder ran along white plump shoulders as this confederate
of Satan passed so closely by, there was not a single demonstration of
sympathy on his behalf.

The women whispered:

"He is goodly to look on!" and took stock of the prisoner's bearing,
the upright carriage of his handsome head, the quiet look of splendid
aloofness with which he regarded his surroundings.

Whereupon the men retorted gruffly:

"The emissaries of the devil are always made handsome in the eyes of
others. Satan arranges it so, else they would have no power."

Following on the prisoner's entrance, the great doors of the Hall had
been closed, whereupon the noise outside became quite deafening. The
hoots and hisses, the shouts of execration, were still apparent but
they mingled now with the clash of arms, the tramping of many feet, and
loudly repeated groans of agony. The mob, robbed of its spectacle, had
turned restive, the men broke through the lines of the soldiery and
made an effort to rush the gates of the Hall. From the officers came
quick words of command, rallying their lines from where they stretched
toward White Hall.

A few heavy blows, well aimed and vigorously dealt, with the butt end
of the muskets, a few bodies trampled beneath horses' hoofs, some
broken heads and shattered limbs, and the mob sobered down, withdrew
grumbling and cursing, but understanding that the great pageant within
was for their betters and not for them.

During the turmoil the Lord Chief Justice had entered and the prisoner
had been led to the bar; he had been made to hold up his right hand
whilst he was told why he had been brought here, and why he was made
to stand his trial. Being a peer, the Chamberlain of the Tower stood
beside him holding the axe.

Michael silently did all that he was bidden to do. The proceedings had
no interest for him. Of a truth he had been more than satisfied if the
more barbarous justice of two centuries ago had been meted out to him.
An accusation, a brief interrogation, mayhap an unpleasant quarter of
an hour in the torture chamber, then the block! How much more simple,
how much more easy to endure than this sea of curious faces, this
paraphernalia of gorgeously-clad judge and of lawyers assembled there
with the pre-conceived and firm determination to condemn the accused
whatever might betide.

The while Sir Cresswell Levins opened the case, admonishing the jury
to do their duty by the prisoner at the bar, Michael with indifferent
eyes scanned the faces all around him. He saw Mistress Julia Peyton in
the front rank of the spectators clad in exquisite pearl grey silk,
her beautiful shoulders but thinly veiled beneath filmy folds of
delicate lace. He saw the piquant face of Mistress Gwynne, the haughty
figure of Lady Castlemaine. Most of the women as they encountered his
look blushed to meet those dark eyes, which looked almost unnaturally
large in the face rendered thin and pale through the nerve-racking
experiences of the past few weeks.

Anon Michael's eyes met the restless ones of the king. He bent his head
with deep respect, for he had not yet learned to despise the man to
whom he owed all that he had, all that he was now sacrificing in order
that his snowdrop might find happiness again.

Charles Stuart turned his head away with a sigh. All that was good
and noble and kind in him went out to that man, in whose innocence he
firmly believed but whom he found was well-nigh intolerable.

But Michael now was obliged to pull his senses back to the exigencies
of the moment and he pleaded "Guilty!" in a calm and steady voice.
He had not even grasped the full meaning of the indictment read out
at full length by the Attorney-General. All he knew was that he was
accused of having plotted to murder the king, whom he revered, and of
having sold his country to the head of a Church to which he did not
happen to belong.

Michael desired his own condemnation. He was here solely for that,
in order that the man whom his ice maiden loved with that cold,
passionless heart of hers might give her all that she wanted, all that
was her due. But the inactivity of the moment was so terrible to bear.
To a man accustomed to rule his own destiny, to choose his own path,
and to say to Fate: "This will I do, and thou art my slave!" to a man
of that stamp the present situation was well-nigh intolerable.

The long-drawn-out speech of the Attorney-General, the platitudes
addressed to the accused by the Lord Chief Justice, his own answers
mechanically given soon left him wandering into the realms of unreality.

The heat in the room pressed upon his temples like a monster weight
of lead. Michael, gazing with eyes that saw not on the solemn scene
in which he was the chief personage, soon fell into a kind of torpor
akin to a trance. Ghost-like forms clad in crimson robes, grinning
faces with perruques awry, began to dance before his fevered fancy.
They twirled and turned, round and round the flickering flames of
the lamps, until these were magnified an hundredfold and multiplied
innumerably. Now faces and forms disappeared: there were only a
thousand millions of eyes that blinked and blinked, the while the lamps
were will-o'-the-wisps, glowworms with monstrous shining horns that
stood upright on iron tails and joined in the wild saraband which had
transformed the solemn Hall of Westminster into the precincts of Hell.

Then gradually all the grinning faces, all the glowing monstrosities
and witch-like forms became a gigantic circle of ruddy light wherein
flames flickered at intervals like unto a burning halo which seared the
eyes of the beholder. And right in the very centre of that transcendent
glow two faces appeared, white and ghost-like, spirits surely from a
world beyond.

Michael knew that he was dreaming, his temples and pulses were
throbbing. He had lost count of space and of time. He just breathed and
held himself upright and no more; living had become an unknown thing to
him. But the faces were there still, in the centre of the glowing halo,
and they were those of his beautiful snowdrop and of Master Legros,
tailor to the King of France.

                             CHAPTER XLVI

                   And now she spoke as when
                   The stars sang in their spheres.
                                        --DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.

His snowdrop was gazing straight at him from out great, wide eyes, her
lips were parted as if she meant to speak, and her hand lay on the arm
of her father, good Papa Legros, dressed all in black, and above whose
sombre surcoat shone a kindly face almost distorted by its expression
of anxiety and from which ran streams of perspiration which the poor
man wiped off ever and anon with a bright-coloured handkerchief.

With a mechanical movement Michael passed his hand across his eyes. His
brain returned from its long wandering in the realm of dreamland; the
light ceased to flicker, the sea of grinning faces receded into the
darkness. Michael now only saw Rose Marie. The devilish visions had
been transformed into peaceful dreams of Heaven.

Though his mind--still feverish and numb--refused to believe that she
was really there, yet his eyes took in every tiny detail of the golden
picture which they saw.

There were the tiny curls that, ever rebellious, would break through
the confines of the lace cap and flutter tantalisingly round her ear;
there was the little mole just above the lip, which gave the perfect
mouth, that otherwise had been accounted too serious, an exquisite air
of piquancy; there was the delicate rise of the throat, peeping above
the lace kerchief, a god-like snare wherein he had once dared to hope
that his lips would be entrapped.

And all the while that Michael looked on his beloved, Daniel Pye was
busy with his perjuries, and Master Oates stood up to corroborate
these. Once or twice the Lord Chief Justice had turned to the accused,
expecting a contradiction of such obvious lies. But the only word that
ever escaped the latter's lips came mechanically as from one who had
learned a lesson by heart.

"I am guilty--what these men say is true."

Once the Attorney-General had spoken quite irritably:

"The prisoner's attitude, my lord," he said, "is one of contempt for
this Court. He must be made to answer more fully the charges that are
preferred against him."

"Then 'tis for you to question him," retorted the Lord Chief Justice
drily.

Emboldened by Michael's attitude of passive acquiescence, Pye and Oates
surpassed themselves. Their story gained in detail, in circumstantial
broiderings under cross-examination. Once or twice their imagination
and impudence carrying them too far, they palpably contradicted one
another. A man's voice then rose from the midst of the spectators:
"These men are accursed liars!"

The voice was authoritative and loud, as of a man accustomed to be
obeyed. And no one cried "Hush!" to the remark, since it came from
royal lips.

After an examination which we know lasted nearly an hour, the two
witnesses were dismissed. They left the great hall together and walked
with an assured air of satisfaction across to the small room beyond
the bench, where they were bidden to wait in case they were required
again. To a sanely judicial mind the only point which would present
itself in the evidence of these miscreants as being uncontradicted and
unquestionably established by them, was that the treasonable converse
between the accused and a minister of the King of France did take
place at the tavern of the "Rat Mort" in Paris in the evening of the
nineteenth day of April of this same year.

Beyond that it was a tangle which Michael, had he chosen, could easily
have unravelled in his own favour. But this he did not mean to do; he
was only anxious for the end.

While the lying informer spoke of that same nineteenth day of April
his thoughts flew back on the sable wings of a dead past to all the
memories that clung to that day.

The religious ceremony at St. Gervais, the dance on the dusty floor of
the tailor's back shop, the ride through the darkness along the lonely
road with his beloved clinging to him, the while his arm ached with an
exquisite sense of numbness under the delicious burden which it bore.

These men spoke of the evening of that nineteenth day of April! Oh, the
remembrance of every hour, every minute which the date recalled!

The darkened room in the old inn, the streaks of moonbeam which kissed
the gold of her hair, the April breeze which caused her curls to
flutter, and the sighing of the reeds and young acacia boughs like
spirit whisperings that presaged impending doom!

Her voice, her eyes, so tender, for that one brief day! Would not the
remembrance of it be graven on his heart when after so much joy, such
hopeless abnegation, it would cease to beat at last.

Of a truth can you wonder that Michael was impatient for the end? He
had seen his snowdrop through the gossamer veil of a day-dream across
the crowded court and the vision had caused him to realise more fully
than he had ever done before how impossible life would be without her.

Thank God, that he had pledged his life to his cousin! Thank God, that
Rupert had accepted the pledge, and gave in exchange for the worthless
trifle, his own loyalty to Rose Marie.

Then why so many parleyings, such long, empty talk, such tortuous
questionings? Michael had pleaded guilty and almost asked for death.

Even as with an impatient sigh of intense weariness he had for the
twentieth time that day spoken his mechanical "Guilty!" there was
general movement amongst the spectators. Imagine a hive of bees
swarming round their queen: the women leaned forward clutching their
fans, forgetting the heat and the discomfort of those long hours. The
men put up spy-glasses the better to see what went on in the centre
of the stage, the while a murmur of excitement ran right through the
assembly.

Papa Legros was being led by a gorgeously-clad usher in the direction
of the bar, opposite to the prisoner, whilst his daughter walked by his
side.

Dormant attention had indeed been roused, necks were craned to get a
better view of the interesting witnesses.

"She is the wife of my lord of Stowmaries," came in whispers all round
the hall, like the swish of the wind through poplar trees.

"What--of the prisoner?"

"No! No! Of the man whom he dispossessed and who will be Lord of
Stowmaries again, once this man is hanged."

"She is very young."

"Ay--a girl-wife. 'Tis her whom the accused tried to murder, so that
he might offer her blood in sacrifice to the devil."

But this statement obtained little credence now.

"The accused does not look like a wizard, or an emissary of the devil,"
commented the ladies.

"Yet the girl is there to testify against him."

"That is because she must hate him so. She is the wife of the man whom
the accused hath dispossessed. They say she dearly loves her husband,
yet did the accused try and steal her from him."

"She will make a handsome Countess of Stowmaries anon," quoth Lord
Rochester with his wonted cynicism, and speaking in the ear of his
royal master, "What think you, sire?"

"Odd's fish!" retorted Charles Stuart. "If she proved as big a liar as
these damnable informers then is there no virtue writ plainly on any
woman's face."

There certainly was something infinitely pathetic in the appearance
of father and daughter: he in his clothes of deep black, and with the
tears of anxiety and perturbation rolling slowly down his cheeks. She
fragile and slender, with pale, delicate face and eyes wherein girlish
timidity still fought against a woman's resolve.

No wonder that for the moment every unkind comment was hushed. The
Countess of Stowmaries--as she was already universally called--seemed
to command respect as well as sympathy. With a great show of kindness,
the Lord Chief Justice himself spoke directly to the two witnesses,
asking their names and quality, as was required for form's sake.

Rose Marie now no longer looked at the accused. She stood beside her
father, tall and stately as the water-lilies to which the man who loved
her so ardently had once compared her. The mud of the world had left
her unsmirched; she carried her head high, for the slimy tendrils of
men's unavowable passions, of trickery, of lies and deceit had not
reached the high altitude whereon her purity sat enthroned.

Her father was the witness called on behalf of the Crown; he had made
his statement on oath, and stood here now to repeat it before all the
world. His daughter was his interpreter, since he was unacquainted with
the English language.

Her voice was clear and firm as in answer to the questions put to her
by the Lord Chief Justice she gave her father's humble name and quality
and then her own as Mistress Kestyon, wife of Rupert Kestyon, erstwhile
known as my Lord of Stowmaries and Rivaulx.

                             CHAPTER XLVII

          Love that is root and fruit of terrene things,
          Love that the whole world's waters shall not drown
          The whole world's fiery forces not burn down.
                                                     --SWINBURNE.

Michael could scarce believe his own eyes. The reality had brought
him back with irresistible force from his day-dream to the tangible
situation of the moment.

Papa Legros was here with Rose Marie. So much was true; that was no
longer in the domain of dreams. They had been brought here to add their
testimony to the lies spoken by the informers.

Torturing devils, whispering in Michael's ears, made this hellish
suggestion. With it came an intensity of bitterness. He had thought
that the old man loved him, yet his appearance here and now seemed like
petty vengeance wreaked on a fallen enemy.

Michael ground his teeth, trying to drive these whispering devils
away. He would not--even at a moment such as this--lose if only for an
instant his perfect faith in the purity of the woman he loved. If she
stood here, it was for a noble purpose. What that purpose could be,
not even the mad conjectures of his own fevered fancy could contrive
to imagine; his veins were throbbing and he could not think. Only the
puzzle confronted him now, mocking his own obtuseness; the laggard
brain, that had suffered so long, and was now dormant, unable to guess
the riddle which could not be aught save one of life or death.

All he did know was that Rose Marie was standing there before all these
people, she the very essence of purity and of truth, and that she was
being made to swear that she would speak the truth. Was this not a vile
mockery, masters, seeing that naught but what was true could ever fall
from her lips?

Now the Attorney-General was questioning her father, with thin,
sarcastic lips curled in a smile. Rose Marie replied calmly and firmly,
interpreting her father's answers, not looking once on the accused,
but almost always straight before her, save when she threw a look of
encouragement on good Papa Legros, who then would pat her hand with
unaffected tenderness.

"And you were present, so the other witness swore in his original
information, on the 19th day of April, with him at the tavern of the
'Rat Mort' in Paris, and you did on that same evening hear the accused
hold converse with one who was minister to His Majesty the King of
France?"

The Attorney-General's voice was metallic, trenchant, like a knife;
it reached the furthermost distance of the great hall and grated
unpleasantly on Michael's ear. He hated to see his beloved standing
there before that gaping crowd. He cursed the enforced inactivity which
made of him a helpless log when with every fibre within him he longed
to take her in his arms and carry her away to a secluded spot where
impious eyes were not raised to her snow-white robes.

"My lord," he interposed loudly, "I have confessed to my guilt. What
this witness may have to say can have naught to do with the plain fact.
I am guilty. I have confessed. Cannot your lordship have mercy and pass
sentence as soon as may be?"

"Prisoner at the bar," rejoined the Lord Chief Justice, "'tis not for
you to dictate the procedure of justice. 'Tis my duty to hear every
witness who hath testimony to lay before this court. You have confessed
your guilt, 'tis true, but on such confession the law will not hold
you guilty, until you have so been proved; and for the sake of the
witnesses who have testified against you, as well as for the sake of
justice, we must obtain corroboration of their statements."

Then he turned once more to Papa Legros and graciously bade him to make
answer to the questions put by the Attorney-General.

Rose Marie, before she spoke, turned and looked on Michael. Their eyes
met across that vast assembly and as in one great vivid flash, each
read in those of the other the sublime desire for complete sacrifice.

In a moment Michael understood; in that one brief flash and through the
unexplainable telepathy which flew from her soul to his, the truth had
burst upon him with the appalling force of absolute conviction.

She, the woman whom he adored, who was a saint exalted in his mind
above every other woman on earth, she was about to throw her fair fame,
her honour, her purity as a plaything to this crowd of hyena-like
creatures, who would fall on the tattered remnants of her reputation
and tear its last fragments to shreds.

This she meant to do. This was the grim and sublime answer to the
riddle which had so puzzled Michael when first he saw his Rose Marie in
this court. She meant to give her honour for his life. She loved him
and came here to offer her all--her own, her father's good name, so
that he--Michael--should be saved.

The terrible, awful agony of this thought, the mad, tumultuous joy!
Here was the moment at last--the one second in the illimitable cycle
of time--when if there be mercy in Heaven or on earth, the kiss of
Death should bring peace to the miserable wastrel who had in this brief
flash of understanding tasted an eternity of happiness.

She loved him and was here to save him! But Heavens above, at what a
cost!

He looked round him like some caged beast, determined at all hazards to
make a mad dash for liberty.

It could not be! No, no; it should not be! Surely God in Heaven could
not allow this monstrous sacrifice; surely the thunderbolts from above
would come down crashing in the midst of this mocking, jeering assembly
before his exquisite snowdrop dragged her immaculate white skirts in
the mire.

What he did or how he fought, Michael himself scarcely knew. What was
he but one small, helpless atom in this avalanche of callous lawmakers?
All that he did know was that with all the strength at his command he
protested his guilt again and again, imploring judgment, uttering wild
words of treason that might secure his own immediate condemnation.

"My lord, my lord," he cried loudly, "in the name of Heaven as you
yourself hope for justice hereafter, listen not to these witnesses.
I swear to you that they will only confirm what the others have
said. I am guilty--thrice guilty, I say--yes, I plotted to murder
the king. I plotted to sell England to France and to Rome. I admit
the truth of every word the informers have uttered. I am guilty, my
lord--guilty--judgment, in Heaven's name--I ask for judgment."

"Prisoner at the bar, I command you to be silent."

Silent, silent when so monstrous a thing was about to happen! As well
command the giant waves lashed into madness by the fury of the wind
to be silent when they break upon the rocks. The Lord Chief Justice
commanded the musketeers to restrain this madman, to force him to hold
his tongue, to drown his voice with the clatter of their arms.

The spectators stared aghast, women gasped with fear, the men were awed
despite themselves in the presence of this raging torrent of a man's
unbridled passion.

The general impression which this scene had created was of course
that the prisoner was dreading some awful revelation which these two
witnesses might make. He was avowing his guilt, therefore he did not
hope to escape death; once more the superstitious dread of witchcraft
rose in the minds of all. Was the accused--already practically
condemned for treason--in fear that his death would mean the stake
rather than the block?

A close phalanx gathered round the person of the king, who with a
cynical smile was watching the confusion which occurred round the
august majesty of this court. But he waved aside those who would have
stood between him and Michael.

"He'll quieten down anon," he said simply, "and if I mistake not,
gentlemen, we shall then learn a lesson which throughout our lives we
are not like to forget."

Was it accident or design? Had Michael fought like a madman, or had
his brain merely given way under an agonizing moral blow. Certain it
is that suddenly he felt a terrible pain in his head, his senses were
reeling, his tongue, parched and dry, refused to obey the dictates of
his will that bade it protest again and again, until his heart could no
longer beat, until his last breath had left his body.

He tottered and would have fallen but for strong arms that held him
up. He felt that irons were being placed on his wrists, that four pairs
of hands gripped his arms and shoulders so that he could no longer
move. The pain in his head was well-nigh intolerable; he closed his
eyes in the vain effort not to swoon.

It was the butt end of a musket that had rendered him helpless. From
the lips of many spectators came loud invectives against the miscreant
who had dared to strike a peer; vaguely reaching the half-unconscious
brain came the sound of voices, also the cry from a woman's throat,
heard above all the others, uttered with an intensity of agony even as
he fell.

With Michael's half-swoon the turmoil had somewhat subsided. The
musketeers round him, terrified at their comrade's act, were bathing
the prisoner's head with water hastily obtained. The spectators, deeply
moved--unable to understand the inner meaning of the strange scene
which they had just witnessed--were talking excitedly to one another.

Conjectures, wild guesses, flew from mouth to mouth.

And in the midst of all this noise, and of all the confusion, Rose
Marie had remained calm, holding her father by the hand. Only when the
dastardly blow felled the fighting lion down, then only did a cry of
pain escape her trembling lips. Now when comparative stillness reigned
around her, she once more faced the judges. Michael was now helpless,
she could offer up her sacrifice in peace.

The Lord Chief Justice repeated his question and even as he began
speaking complete silence fell upon all.

"Will you swear before this court that on the evening of the nineteenth
day of April you were present with Master Pye and Doctor Oates at the
hostelry of the 'Rat Mort' in Paris and there on that same evening
did hear the accused holding converse with a minister of the King of
France?"

"No, milor," replied Rose Marie firmly; "my father was not present on
the evening of the nineteenth day of April in the tavern of the 'Rat
Mort' in Paris, nor in any other tavern, nor did the accused hold
converse on that same evening with a minister of the King of France.
And this do I swear in my father's name and mine own."

"But," interposed the Attorney-General in his dry, sarcastic tone, "the
former witnesses have sworn that you were there present together with
them, when the converse did take place."

"Those witnesses have lied, my lord," spoke Rose Marie.

"Take care, Mistress," admonished the Lord Chief Justice, "you do bring
a grave charge against those witnesses."

"A grave charge yet a true one, my lord. Yet what they have sworn to is
both false and grave."

"Yet are you sworn in as a witness for the Crown."

"And as a witness for the Crown do I speak," rejoined Rose Marie
simply, "for the Crown of England is the crown of truth, and my father
and I are here for the truth."

"Which mayhap will bear fuller investigation," quoth Sir William Jones
with a sneer.

"As full an one as you desire, my lords."

"Then pray, Mistress, since you and your father do swear that you were
not at the hostelry of the 'Rat Mort' in Paris on the evening of the
nineteenth of April, how comes it that you can state so positively that
the accused did not then and at that place hold treasonable converse
with the minister of the King of France, as the other witnesses have
testified?"

Rose Marie paused before she answered; it almost seemed as if she
wished to wait until all disturbing sounds had died down in the vast
hall, so that her fresh and firm voice should ring clearly from end to
end.

Then she spoke, looking straight at the judge:

"Because of the truth of the statement, my lord," she said, "to which
my father hath already sworn before the magistrate, and to which he
must, it seems, now swear openly before this court, according to the
laws of your country. The accused, my lord, could not have been present
at a hostelry in Paris, or held converse with a minister of the King
of France on the evening of the nineteenth day of April, for on that
day did I plight my troth to him at the Church of St. Gervais, and he
did spend the full day in my father's house. At five o'clock in the
afternoon he did journey with me to St. Denis and there remained with
me at the hostelry of the 'Three Archangels,' when my father came and
fetched me away."

"It is false," came faintly whispered from the lips of the prisoner,
whose consciousness only seemed to return for this brief while, that he
might register a last protest against the desecration of his saint.

Rose Marie's words had rung clearly and distinctly from end to end of
the hall. After she spoke, after that protest from the accused, dead
silence fell on all. Only the fluttering of the fans came as a strange
moaning sound, hovering in the over-heated air.

Excitement like the embodiment of a thousand spirits flew across and
across on wings widely outstretched--unseen yet tangible. Soon a
half-audible curse spoken from beneath the mullioned windows broke the
spell of awed silence.

Rupert Kestyon, with rage and shame surging in his heart, fear, too, at
the possible consequences of this unexpected interference, muttered
angry oaths beneath his breath. Then like the ripple of innumerable
waves, an hundred exclamations rose from every corner of the court.
Lord Rochester was seen to whisper animatedly to the king. Mistress
Peyton turned and held hurried converse with Sir John Ayloffe, who
sat at her elbow. A few women tried to titter; the lowering cloud of
scandal made vain endeavour to spread itself over the head of that
slender girl who stood there before the judge, fearless and impassive
beneath this gathering tempest of sneers and evil words.

She had heard the muttered oath, spoken by lips that she had already
learned to dread, and her calm, blue eyes, serene as the skies of her
native Provence, sought the lonely figure beneath the mullion, and
rested on it with a look of challenge and of defiance. She had meant
and desired to be loyal to him, she would have clung to him through
sorrow and loneliness, humiliation and derision, if need be, but Fate
had been too strong for her. The man she loved was in peril of his life
and could only be saved at the sacrifice of her own loyalty and of her
honour.

There had never been any conflict within her. The moment she knew how
the accusation stood against her beloved, she mapped out her course and
never swerved.

Come contumely and disgrace, public scandal and her own undoing, she
was ready for it all. It had been over-easy to guess what had occurred:
how Michael had come to be accused of that which was threatening his
cousin. Rose Marie understood it, even as if she had been present at
the interview between the two kinsmen, when one man sold his life for
the other's loyalty and for her happiness.

All this and more her glance across the court told to Rupert Kestyon.
It told him that ready as she had been to follow him even at the cost
of her own misery, she was not ready to pay for his safety with the
life of the man whom alone she loved.

Michael may have sinned. He did sin, no doubt, against God and
against her, but God of a truth had made him suffer enough. It was
Rupert's turn now to pay, and pay he must. Small coin it was, for his
child-wife's disgrace, his own humiliation at the inevitable scandal
and consequent gossip was but small money indeed beside the boundless
wealth of self-sacrifice which Michael had been ready to throw in his
cousin's lap.

Perhaps that something of the magnetism which emanated from her
personality, perhaps the subtle and mysterious magic which Love
exercises over all who think and who feel, affected these people who
were present at this memorable scene. Certain it is that there were
but very few men and women in this stately hall who did not feel an
undefinable sense of sympathy for the three chief actors of the drama
which they were witnessing.

The Lord Chief Justice--at best a hard and cynical man of the world,
a man on whom history hath cast a mantle of opprobrium--was strangely
impressed. He had watched the girl very closely whilst she spoke, had
noted the looks which passed between father and daughter and thence
across to the prisoner at the bar, and something of the truth of the
soulful sacrifice which all three were prepared to make dawned upon his
alert brain.

His words were the first clear tones that rose above the babel of
whisperings and titters; he turned directly to Master Legros and
addressed him personally, speaking in fluent French.

"Your daughter, Master," he said, "hath made a strange statement. Do
you endorse its purport?"

"My daughter spoke the truth, milor," replied Papa Legros quietly,
"and I endorse every word which she hath said."

"Upon your oath?"

"On mine oath."

"It is false, my lord," murmured Michael still feebly, but making
frantic efforts to keep his wandering spirits in bondage. "It is false,
on my soul--I was in Paris--not at St. Denis--the lady is unknown to
me--I am guilty."

"You hear the prisoner's protest, Master?" queried the judge, once more
speaking directly to Legros. "If your statement be true, he is your
bitter enemy."

"He did my daughter a great wrong, my lord, but he is an innocent man,
unjustly accused of a grave crime. I cannot let him die for that which
he hath not done."

"Yet doth he protest his guilt."

"'Tis natural that he should thus protest, my lord. He hath taken on
his own shoulders the burden of another. Yet I would have you believe
that I would not stand by now, and see my daughter sacrificing her good
name for any cause save that of truth."

Papa Legros spoke with so much simplicity, such perfect dignity, and
withal had made so logical a statement, that it seems impossible to
imagine that it should not carry at least as much conviction to the
minds of judge and jury and of all the assembly as the obviously lying
statements of the informers had done. Yet such was the temper of the
times, such the wave of intolerant fanaticism which had passed over
the country, that even whilst good Master Legros was stating so noble
and simple a point of truth, the first murmurs of dissent against him
and his daughter rose throughout the hall: whispered words of "foreign
papist," of "prejudiced witnesses," of "a wench and her lover," flew
from mouth to mouth.

Rose Marie, whose sensibilities were attuned to their highest pitch,
felt this wave of antipathy, even before its first faint echo had
actually reached her ears.

She was quite clever enough to know that the simple mention of an
actual fact by herself and her father would not be sufficient to turn
the tide of judicial sympathy back toward Michael, after the perjuries
of men who had for some time now been exalted into popular heroes; she
had, alas, known only too well that she had not yet reached the summit
of that Calvary which she had set herself to climb for the loved one's
sake.

There were yet many cups of bitter humiliation which she and her kind
father would have to drain ere an innocent man was forbidden to give
his life for another, and the first of these was being held to her lips
even now by the Attorney-General, as he said, turning once more to her:

"You are aware, Mistress, of these statements to which your father hath
sworn in open court. Do you on your own account and independently of
your father, add your sworn testimony to his?"

"I do, sir," she replied; "I swear, quite independently of what my
father hath said, that on the evening of the 19th day of April, when
the false witnesses aver that my lord of Stowmaries was in Paris, he
was at St. Denis with me."

"You are quite sure of the date?"

"Am I like to forget?"

"Odd's fish!" he retorted, with a sarcastic curl of the lips, "when a
pretty wench is in love."

"I am the wife of Rupert Kestyon, formerly styled my lord of
Stowmaries," she rejoined with calm emphasis. "Had my father kept
silent, had he not endeavoured to clear an innocent man of an unjust
charge by giving up that which he holds most dear--his daughter's
honour and his own good name--had he remained silent, I say, then would
the accused have suffered death, my husband would have succeeded to
his title and estates, and I would have duly become the Countess of
Stowmaries and Rivaulx, the richest, mayhap the most honoured lady in
this beautiful land. Think you, then, that 'tis the caprice of wanton
love that would make me swear what I did? Think you that--unless truth
and honour itself compelled him--my father would lend a hand to the
degradation of his own child?"

What Michael endured in agony of mind throughout this time, it
were almost impossible to conceive. Imagine that type of man--the
adventurer, the soldier of fortune, the carver of his own destiny, good
or bad, the dictator of his own fate! Imagine that man for the first
time in his life rendered absolutely helpless the while his fate, his
life, was being decided on by others. After those first mad and useless
protests, after that wild struggle for freedom of speech, for the right
to refuse this whole-hearted sacrifice, this offering of the lily on
the altar of love, he had remained silent, with his head buried in his
hands, driving his finger nails into his own flesh, longing with a mad
longing of pain to find a means of ending his own existence here and
now, before his snowdrop had suffered the full consequences of her own
heaven-born impulse.

Ye gods above! And he--Michael--had doubted her love for him! Fool,
fool that he had been, even for a moment, even in thought to give
her up to another. He who had ever been ready to account for his own
actions, who with the arrogant pride of fallen angels had always looked
his own sins in the face, grinning, hideous monsters though they may
have been--how came it that when first she spoke cold words to him he
did not then silence them with a kiss, how came it that he did not then
and there take her in his arms, defying the laws of men, for the sake
of the first, the greatest of God's laws which gives the woman to the
man?

Fool that he had been to think of aught save love, and of love alone.

And all the while, Rose Marie, calm and still as the very statue of
abnegation, was completing her work of self-immolation. When the
Attorney-General-with sneering lips and mocking eyes threw discredit on
those statements which she and her dear father were making at the cost
of their own honour, she felt the first terrible pang of fear. Not for
herself or her future, but for him whom she longed to save and lest
her sacrifice be made and yet remain useless. Just for that moment,
her serenity gave way. She looked all round her on that sea of jeering
faces, longing to cry for help, just as with her whole attitude she had
until this moment only called for justice.

Once more her eyes lighted on Rupert Kestyon, her husband, throwing him
a challenge, which now had almost become a prayer. He could if he would
help her even now. She had become naught to him, of course. Whatever he
said could not add to her disgrace; but he could help to save Michael
if he would.

She met his lowering glance, the look of hatred and wrath which
embraced her and her father, and the obstinate set of jaw and lips
which spoke of the determination to win his own safety, his own
advancement and the furtherance of his own ambition now and at any cost.

But when the iron determination of a woman who loves, and who fights
for the safety of the man she loves, comes in contact with the cold
obstinacy of a man's ambition, then must the latter yield to the
overwhelming strength of the other.

Rupert Kestyon could have saved Michael at cost of his own immediate
exaltation, and thus saved Rose Marie a final and complete humiliation,
but this, his every look told her that he would not do. Therefore after
that quick glance, her eyes no longer challenged him; she feared that
if she dragged him forcibly into this conflict with perjury, his own
self-interest would make a stand against justice. Heaven alone knew to
what evil promptings his ambition would listen at the moment, when the
one life--already so splendidly jeopardised--stood between him and the
title and wealth which he coveted.

She did not know that any one save her father and herself could speak
with certainty as to that memorable evening of April nineteenth when
she went forth--cruel, cold and resentful--leaving Michael alone and
desolate at the inn of St. Denis.

Even now the Attorney-General, fresh to the charge, pressed her with
his sarcastic comments.

"You speak well, fair Mistress," he said blandly, "but you know no
doubt that your story needs corroboration. Two witnesses who are
Englishmen and members of our National Church have sworn that the
prisoner spent the evening of April the nineteenth in treasonable
converse with an enemy of this country and in their presence; mark
you that the accused himself hath confessed to his guilt. Yet do you
swear that he spent that day and evening in your company, until so
late that a cruel father came and dragged you away from the delectable
privacy. But with all due acknowledgment to the charm of your presence,
Mistress," added Sir William Jones, suddenly dropping his bland manner
and speaking with almost studied insolence, "you must see for yourself
that if a wench desires that she be credited, she must above all bear a
spotless reputation, and this on your own acknowledgment you flung to
the winds, the day that you--avowedly married to Mr. Rupert Kestyon,
formerly styled Earl of Stowmaries--did publicly flout your marriage
vows by leaving your father's house in company with the accused. Now
justice, though blind, my wench, doth wish to see farther than a minx's
tale which mayhap hath been concocted to save her gallant from the
block."

The girl had not winced at the insults. Happily her father had not
understood them, and the issue at stake was far too great to leave room
for vain indignation or even for outraged pride. What bitter resentment
she felt was for Michael's sake. She knew how every insolent word
uttered by that bland cynic in the name of the law and of justice,
would strike against the already-overburdened heart of the man who
loved her with such passionate adoration. The impotence that weighed on
Michael now was of a truth the most bitter wrong to bear in the midst
of all this misery. Samson bound and fettered was helpless in the hands
of the Philistines. Prometheus chained to the rock saw the vultures
hovering over him and the eagles pecking at his heart.

"As to that, sir," replied Rose Marie quietly, after a brief pause,
"these honourable gentlemen here whom you call the jury will have to
judge for themselves as to who hath lied: those other witnesses or
I--they who have everything to gain, or I and my father, who have
everything to lose. But you say that the justice of this land will need
corroboration of our statements ere she turns to right an innocent
man. This corroboration, sir, you shall have, an you will tell me what
form it shall take."

"Some other witness of the prisoner's presence in your company at the
inn of St. Denis during the day and evening of April nineteenth,"
retorted Sir William Jones brusquely.

"I know only of the innkeeper himself and his wife," she rejoined.
"Simple folk to whose testimony--seeing the temper of the people of
England just now--you would scarce give credence, mayhap."

"Mayhap not," quoth the Attorney-General mockingly.

"Yet think again, Mistress," interposed the Lord Chief Justice not
unkindly, "corroboration the law must have--if not to right the
innocent then to punish the guilty."

The young girl's eyes closed for a moment. She clung to her father in
pathetic abandonment; beads of perspiration stood on her forehead; her
eyes were dry and hot and her throat parched. But for Papa Legros'
presence mayhap her magnificent calm would have deserted her then. She
drew herself together, however, and a look of understanding passed
between father and daughter. Then the tailor drew a paper from his
pocket.

It was a large and heavy document and it bore two huge seals engraved
with the arms of the Holy See. This Papa Legros gave into an usher's
hand, who in his turn handed it up to the Lord Chief Justice.

"What is this paper?" queried His Lordship.

"It is a dispensation, my lord," replied Rose Marie firmly, "signed by
His Holiness the Pope, as you will see. It was granted to my husband,
Rupert Kestyon, then styled my Lord of Stowmaries and Rivaulx, giving
him leave to avail himself of the laws of England, which would, on his
request, annul his marriage with one Rose Marie Legros, who did on
the nineteenth day of April, 1678, break her sworn marriage vows by
contracting with Michael Kestyon a--"

But even as the awful words trembled on the girl's lips, Michael's
restraint completely gave way. Despite the soldiers around him--who
of a truth were taken by surprise--despite the hopeless futility of
his former attempt--he broke through the rank of musketeers who were
surrounding him, and with a cry as that of a wild animal wounded unto
death, he bounded forward to where his snowdrop stood, and with one arm
round her, pressing her to him with all the strength of passion held in
check so long, he, with the other hand placed upon her mouth, smothered
the word which would have escaped her lips.

"My lord, my lord," he cried, "is this justice? Sire, you are here
present! Where is your kingly power? Will you not stop this desecration
of the purest, holiest thing on earth? Are we in the torture chambers
of our forefathers that men in England will listen unmoved to this?"

He had taken the guard so completely by surprise that the men were
still standing mute and irresolute, the while the prisoner with defiant
head erect challenged the king himself to intervene. He had sunk on one
knee, his arm still round the form of his beloved. No one would have
dared to touch him then, for he was like a wild beast defending its
mate.

Rose Marie's strength had indeed failed her at last; when she felt
herself falling against the breast of the man whom she so ardently
loved, all her calm, all her resolution suddenly gave way. Once more
she was the woman, the pure, tender-hearted, gentle-nurtured child,
content to rest in the protecting arms of her lord, content to live for
his happiness, or to share his disgrace.

"If I feared you before, my lord--meseems that I could love you now,"
her cold lips seemed to murmur the echo of the very first words of love
which they had ever uttered.

And a groan of agony escaped the poor blackguard's overburdened heart.
No longer splendid now, no longer defiant or proud--but humbled from
his self-exalted state of arrogant manhood. And she, the slender
water-lily, had of her own free will allowed the mud of a polluted
world to soil the exquisite whiteness of her gown. She had descended
from her lofty pedestal of saint-like aloofness, in order to link her
fate to his--her sins to his--her life and love to his own. Fate and
the overwhelming love of a woman had conquered his will.

"I am a man and what I do, I do!"

"No!" love triumphant had retorted, "for what _I_ command that must
thou do. I am the ruler, thou my slave! Whoever thou art, I am thy
master and the arbiter of thy destiny!"

                            CHAPTER XLVIII

                                        And not ever
           The justice and the truth o' the question carries
           The due o' the verdict with it.
                                              --HENRY VIII. V. 1.

At Michael's call, at his sudden rush for the protection of his
beloved, general confusion prevailed such as had never before been
witnessed in the sober halls of Westminster.

Gorgeously-clad gentlemen of high degree, ladies in silks and brocades,
elbowed and pushed one another, climbing on their chairs, in order
to have a clear view of the small group on the floor of the hall at
the foot of the judge's bench--Michael kneeling on one knee, Rose
Marie half prostrate on the ground, Papa Legros with large coloured
handkerchief mopping his streaming forehead.

These were times when men gave freer rein to their emotions than they
do now; they were not ashamed of them, and modern civilisation had not
yet begun to propagate its false doctrine that only what is ugly and
sordid is real, and what is fine and noble--and therefore mayhap a
trifle unbridled and primitive--is false and must be suppressed.

That public feeling had--with characteristic irresponsibility--veered
round to the accused and to these two witnesses was undoubted. The
poignancy of the situation had told on every one's nerves. It had been
a moving and palpitating drama, vivid, real and pulsating with love,
the noble passion that makes the whole world kin.

The same men and women who awhile ago had clamoured for the traitor's
head, who had heaped opprobrium, invectives and curses upon him, were
now quite prepared to demand his acquittal, with as little logic in
their sympathy as they had shown in their unreasoning vituperations.
The same primeval vices of bigotry and intolerance that had presided
at the trials of Stailey and Coleman and sent them to the gallows, sat
here in judgment, too, equally intolerant of contradiction, equally
bigoted and peremptory.

In the midst of this unprecedented turmoil which had turned stately
Westminster Hall into an arena filled with wildly-excited spectators,
the ushers' loud calls for silence were absolutely drowned. Nor could
the Attorney-General and the Lord Chief Justice make themselves heard
by the jury, even though his lordship did his best to admonish these
twelve honourable gentlemen not to allow their sentiment to run away
with their conscience.

"Justice, good Masters, justice above all! Remember these people are
all Papists. They will help one another through thick and thin. What is
a papal dispensation, good Masters? It can be bought and bartered. 'Tis
a true witness we want, an honourable witness to prove the truth of
what may be but a fabulous concoction, devised to cheat the gallows of
a traitor."

"Nay, then odd's fish!" here interposed a loud voice from out the
crowd; "since it must be, it shall be, and here, my Lord Justice, is a
witness to your hand whose honourability I'll challenge you to doubt."

The tones rang clear and loud; they were those of a man accustomed to
be heard in large or small assemblies, of a man who knew how to make
his presence felt and his word obeyed.

Instantly the waves of murmurs, of cries, of excited whispers were
stilled. Eyes so long fixed on the moving spectacle at the foot of the
bench were turned in the direction of the speaker.

It was my Lord of Rochester, standing beside the king. He waited a
moment, then taking the judge's silence for assent, and obviously
encouraged by a nod from His Majesty himself, he made his way to the
witness bar.

"My Lord of Rochester," protested the Attorney-General sternly, "by
what right do you come forward at this hour?"

"By the right that every man hath in England, to bear testimony for or
against a man or woman accused of crime," replied my Lord of Rochester.
"I stand here as a witness on behalf of the prisoner, and called by the
other witness--Rose Marie Legros--to corroborate what she already hath
said."

"Do you swear?"

"I'll swear to tell all the truth and nothing but the truth, so help me
God."

"All on behalf of the accused?" sneered Sir William Jones.

"Every word which I must utter will be in his favour, sir, seeing
that on the nineteenth day of April, I too, in company with Mister
Rupert Kestyon, then styled my Lord of Stowmaries and Rivaulx, and
with Sir John Ayloffe, were present at the Church of St. Gervais
where Mistress Rose Marie Legros did plight her troth to the accused.
We witnessed their departure from the church to the house of Master
Legros, tailor-in-chief to His Majesty the King of France, where
great festivities were then the order of the day. The accused and
Mistress Rose Marie Legros did start for St. Denis on that selfsame
afternoon in the presence of a vast number of spectators, from whom I
had detailed account of the event. We--that is Mister Rupert Kestyon,
Sir John Ayloffe and myself--did make for St. Denis less than an hour
after the accused and the lady had left the tailor's house. We arrived
at the inn of the 'Three Archangels' at ten of the clock and there
found the accused all alone, and we did stay with him, and supped with
him until far into the night. This do I swear on my most solemn oath,
and, therefore, any one who says that the accused was in Paris on the
evening of that nineteenth day of April is a liar and a perjurer--so
help me God!"

My Lord of Rochester's lengthy speech was listened to in silent
attention. Michael, kneeling beside Rose Marie, scarcely heeded it.
What happened to him now or hereafter mattered so little, now that he
knew that she loved him with that strength which moveth mountains.

But to the vast company assembled here, all that my Lord of Rochester
said mattered a great deal, for it was a confirmation of inward
convictions. It gave sympathy free rein, having crowned it with
justification.

Even Sir William Jones felt that the prosecution had completely broken
down beneath the weight of my Lord of Rochester's evidence. He meant
to demand further corroboration, seeing that Sir John Ayloffe was
in court; but it would be an uphill fight now, against what was too
obvious justice to be wilfully set aside.

But he did ask my Lord of Rochester why he had delayed in coming
forward until well-nigh it had been too late.

"I was ready to come forward at any time," was Rochester's simple
reply; "had the prisoner called me, I would have told the truth at
once. But among gentlemen, sir, there is an unspoken compact, guessed
at by those who understand one another as gentlemen should. That the
accused did not desire mine evidence I readily saw. Only when a noble
lady came forward in sublime sacrifice and I feared that this--great
as it was--might prove purposeless, then did I feel in honour bound to
corroborate her testimony and to prove her true, whilst placing at her
feet the expression of my most humble respect."

To have doubted my Lord of Rochester's testimony had been madness in
the face of public feeling as well as of justice. No one would ever
attempt to suggest that his lordship was either a Papist or biassed
in favour of Roman Catholicism. Moreover, Sir John Ayloffe, also an
unimpeachably honourable gentleman, was there to add his word to that
of his friend. Sir William Jones having called him, asked him but a few
questions.

What could Cousin John do, but swear to the truth? Believe me that had
he found the slightest loophole whereby he could even now arrange a
happy marriage between his fair cousin and any earl of Stowmaries who
happened to be bearing the title at the time, he would have done it,
and earned that £12,000 which now certainly seemed hopelessly beyond
his grasp.

But he could find no loophole, nor could he attempt to deny the truth
of what Lord Rochester had said.

By the time Sir John Ayloffe had given what evidence was asked of him,
the spectators were loudly clamouring for the verdict.

"Not guilty! Not guilty!" came in excited shouts from the furthermost
corners of the great hall.

Of a truth had the informers been recalled they could not have escaped
with their lives, and as a measure of precaution the Lord Chief
Justice, before he began his summing up, did, we know, order the
removal of Pye and Oates through a back door and unbeknown to the
crowd. Oates' villainies did, unfortunately, rise triumphant from out
the ashes of this his first signal defeat in his campaign of perjuries.
As for Pye, he passed through that back door out of ken. I believe that
his name doth occur on several of the lists of witnesses brought up
against the unfortunate Papists during the whole feverish period of the
Popish plots, so we may assume that he continued his career of informer
with some benefit to himself.

But in Westminster Hall to-day the verdict was a foregone conclusion.
Even whilst the Lord Chief Justice summed up--as he did, we are
told, most eloquently and entirely in favour of the accused--he was
frequently interrupted by cries of: "Not guilty! Not guilty! The
verdict!"

When the verdict was pronounced, with absolute unanimity by the jury
in whose hands lay the life that had been so nobly fought for, it was
received with acclamation.

Men and women cheered to the echoes, whilst many voices shouted: "God
save Your Majesty!" There was a general rush for the centre of the
Hall, there where that small group of three still stood isolated. The
musketeers had grave difficulty in keeping any order.

In the midst of all this turmoil no one noticed that from the dark
corner beneath the mullioned window there rose the figure of a young
man dressed in rough clothes of sad-coloured cloth, whose pale face was
almost distorted by lines of passionate anger.

He drew a mask over his face and made his way through the excited
crowd. Under cover of the confusion, the rushing to and fro, the
cheering for the acquitted and the king, he quietly passed out of
sight.

                             CHAPTER XLIX

               Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back,
               Wherein he puts alms for oblivion,
               A great-sized monster of ingratitudes.
                                     --TROILUS & CRESSIDA III. 3.

That same evening in the small house in the parish of Soho, Michael sat
beside an old woman whose wrinkled, toil-worn hand he held tenderly in
his own.

Life had dealt hardly with her, unaccustomed toil and a rough life had
done their work. Her sensibilities were blunted, almost extinct save
one--her love for her son.

Obediently she had left her Kentish village, her miserable cottage, and
ungrateful garden, to come to London when first he bade her so to do.
She had exchanged her rough worsted kirtle for a gown of black silk,
soft and pliable to the touch. This she had done to please Michael, not
because she cared. It was many, many years since last she had cared.

Humbly acceding to his wish she had lived in the house in Soho Square,
allowing herself to be tended by servants, she who awhile ago had
been scrubbing her own floors. To please him she had accepted all the
comforts, all the luxuries which he gave her. As for herself she had no
need of them.

Then when he went away and she was all alone in the big house, save
for the army of mute and obedient servants round her, she had wept not
a little because she did not see her son. She knew not whither he had
gone, and when she asked any of the servants they gave no definite
answer, only seemed more mute, more obedient than before.

But she did not complain. Michael was oft wont to go away like this, to
the wars mayhap; soon he would return all in good time and she would
see him again. Not the faintest echo from the great world outside
reached the lonely house in Soho Square; but then it had not reached
the Kentish village either, so old Mistress Kestyon was quite satisfied.

To-night Michael had returned. She was over-glad to see him. It seems
he had not been wounded in the wars, for which she was over-glad. He
would not let her out of his sight, even when a visitor came desiring
speech with him.

The visitor was Rupert Kestyon; the name hardly reached the feeble
intelligence, and the face conveyed no meaning. The old dame was quite
happy, however, for Michael sat beside her, holding her hand in his.
She did not understand much of what went on between the two men. They
were cousins, so Michael had said when first the young man entered and
he himself went forward to greet him and warmly took his hand.

"You see me shamed before you, Coz," he said gravely. "You know that
had I had the control of my fate, I should be watching you now from the
height or depth of another world--"

"You sent for me," said Rupert, in no way responding to the other's
cordiality. "I presume 'tis because you have something to say to me of
more importance than excuses for your happening to be alive."

"Nay! There is nothing more important than that just now, Coz,"
retorted the other quietly. "I sent for you because a chance of word
from your servant to mine revealed to me the fact that you were in
London. You came, no doubt, to see me hanged. A beautiful woman of whom
you, Coz, were never worthy, hath decided that I shall live."

The word that Rupert uttered in response brought an ugly frown on
Michael's brow.

"Cousin," he said sternly, "in your own interest I pray you cease this
wanton talk. I would have you know that I mean well by you."

He drew from out his pocket the paper that had the seal of His Holiness
the Pope attached to it and handed it to Rupert, who with a savage oath
took it from him.

"Here, Coz," he said, "is the papal dispensation which good M. Legros
gave into my hands when I parted from him at Westminster Hall. The
civil law of England will not take long in setting you free. What money
can accomplish, that it shall do to expedite your case. My word on it!
The lady will not defend it and the nullity of your marriage shall be
pronounced ere the first bud appears on the chestnut trees."

"A free man and yet a beggar," murmured Rupert moodily.

"Nay, nay, Cousin, why should you look on me as your enemy? Have I ever
acted as such? My mother, alas, is here as a proof that you and yours
were enemies to me, but I, not to you, 'pon my honour. I have no need
of great riches. The hundred and twenty thousand pounds with which you
gambled a year ago are yours, Cousin. Let us call them a loan which you
made me, and wherewith Fate hath worked its will for us. I give them
to you freely and with all my heart. You are not a beggar, you see,
and are free to marry whom you choose. You are still the cousin of, if
not the actual Earl of Stowmaries; many a pretty woman with taste and
ambition will--an I mistake not--smile on you. Life is full of joys yet
for you, Cousin, and Mistress Peyton will relent."

While he thus spoke lightly, almost gaily, the frown of moodiness fled
from Rupert Kestyon's brow. He could not help but be gratified at his
cousin's generosity, even though his heart no longer turned toward the
faithless beauty whose callousness had killed in him all love for her.
But there were plenty of pretty women yet in England, thank God, and a
man well-born and well-connected could cut a very fine figure in London
society these days on one hundred and twenty thousand pounds. In the
far-off days in old Virginia he had been quite glad of as many pence.

He was quite manly enough to thank his cousin warmly. But before he
went, he told Michael the news that had been all over London for some
day before the trial, namely, that beautiful Mistress Peyton had
finally decided to bestow her hand and fortune and her heart--on John
Ayloffe.

Good Cousin John! Confronted with beggary and the irretrievable loss
of that £12,000, he had bethought himself of the only plan whereby the
latter goodly sum could, after all, find its way into his own pocket.

The money with the lady was his only chance, and we are told that he
took it boldly, even contriving not to make too wry a face when the
capricious beauty--realising that Cousin John was her only hope of
matrimony now that her name had been so plentifully bespattered with
ridicule--decided to bestow her £20,000, her house and her person, on
the one man who would accept.

Cousin John became exceedingly fat after his marriage, for he led a
life of ease and comfort even though his former merry haunts knew him
no more.

                               CHAPTER L

                 And o'er the hills and far away,
                 Beyond their utmost purple rim,
                 Beyond the night, across the day,
                 Thro' all the world she followed him.
                                                      --TENNYSON.

Michael did not see Rose Marie in England, for her father had taken her
away that same evening, after the acquittal, and journeyed with her
forthwith to Paris.

And it was in the little room of the Rue de l'Ancienne Comédie that
Michael once more beheld his snowdrop. It was December now and the room
was filled with Christmas roses. Outside, the snow lay heavy on the
ground. Maman Legros, with sleeves well rolled up over her sturdy arms,
was stirring the contents of her stock-pot. Papa--a little more grey,
a little more bent, mayhap, than he had been a year ago--was staring
silently into the fire.

Rose Marie sat at her harpsichord in the window embrasure, and sang
to her own accompaniment. Through the panes of the leaded window the
pale rays of a December sun lit up the golden radiance of her hair, and
rested on her hands as they wandered over the ivory keys.

Thus Michael saw her again after all these months of suffering. He
stood for a moment in the doorway, for happiness at times is more
difficult to bear than grief. But Love was triumphant at last. The
splendid blackguard, the reckless adventurer, was only an humble lover
now. He gazed on his snowdrop with eyes wherein ardent passion mingled
with deep reverence.

Let the veil of oblivion be drawn across those leaded windows; let it
shut out all light which comes from the outer world. Michael at Rose
Marie's feet forgot all save that he had won her--the pure, stainless
girl--even through the infinity of her pity which had first called into
being her infinite love.

Papa and Maman Legros, looking on their child's exquisite face,
suffused now with the glow of perfect love and perfect trust, exchanged
a knowing look.

Then they very softly tiptoed out of the room.

                                THE END

End of Project Gutenberg's The Noble Rogue, by Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy