"Didst note the corporal as we passed trough the village?" laughed Barbara. "The poor fool feared an ambuscade at every corner, and well-nigh fell from his horse with fright when old Mother Gilkin's pot fell down as we reached her cottage. I hate the fellow, yet I cannot but laugh at his antics."
Thus for a while the two chattered bravely as they clattered and bumped along the rough country roads to Taunton. But as night drew on the sky became overcast with clouds, and a cold wind and drizzling rain added to the discomfort of the journey. Their conversation became more and more desultory, and finally ceased altogether.
Only once again did Barbara break the silence.
"Cis," she asked with some slight hesitation, "thinkest thou that Captain Protheroe knows aught of my arrest?"
"Knows aught!" cried Cicely in astonishment. "Why, Barbara, child, who else hath accused thee?"
"Nay, nay; I will not believe that of him," answered Barbara stoutly.
"Believe what thou wilt, I tell thee it is the truth. Thinkest thou he would tamely endure to be duped as thou hast duped him, without some revenge? Oh! I tell thee as I have ever done, the fellow is to be mistrusted, and to take such revenge on thee were but his nature."
"In truth, Cicely, you do not know him," pleaded Barbara. "He is not—I would trust him."
"Why, Barbara! Hath the man bewitched thee that thou art so ready in his defence?" cried Cicely, looking at her curiously. "What hath he done to win such trust? Or dost thou deem, perchance, that thou hast bewitched him, and so bound him to thy cause? I' faith, coz, I warn thee, trust not too much to the power of thine eyes; all men be not so easily ensnared."
But Barbara answered not, only sighed lightly and stared thoughtfully into the gathering darkness, her eyes wide with wonder and with doubt.