"Hell-fire! That he is not!" shouted the colonel fiercely. "I know you, Jeffreys, you've made your money out of him, and now you would let him go. But, by Heaven! an you do, I'll noise it abroad till all London hear on't. And you know, none better, his Majesty's commands concerning these rebels, not one is to escape. Pardoned! Now, by the light of the Prophet's beard, the man is a traitor and shall hang e'en if I had to do it with my own hands. Pardoned! Pah! The man shall hang as sure as my name is Percy Kirke."
He ceased, and there was another silence. Captain Protheroe loosened in its sheath the sword he earned and glanced rapidly round the room. He turned to the chief justice, but no further help showed there. Jeffreys had sunk back in his chair, and looked the picture of helpless dismay. The man was a mass of nerves, sensitive as a girl; he trembled under Colonel Kirke's fierce attack, and had no words with which to defend himself.
"Do you understand me, Jeffreys?" the colonel again shouted. "By Heaven, I'll publish the facts."
"My lord," interposed Captain Protheroe quietly, "'tis but a night's ride to Winchester."
Jeffreys looked from one to the other hopelessly calculating his chances with a desperate cunning.
"Tut, colonel," he began nervously; "what is the man to you? Let him——"
He was interrupted by a sudden knock at the door, and the entrance of an orderly.
"A messenger from London, my lord," he said.
He marched across to the chief justice, and handed him a packet, then saluting, turned and left the room.
Partly with the idea of gaining time, partly with a faint hope of there finding a way out of his difficulty, Jeffreys broke open the packet and began to read. Colonel Kirke stood silent, watching him angrily, but Captain Protheroe glanced hurriedly up and down the room, puzzling his wits to devise some method of escape.