His rapier hung in the skirt of my coat, so close had I been to sure and sudden death. I drew it out and tossed it to the floor at his side. "I wish, madam," said I, reaching out for mother's domino, "that we could have saved the rabbit-stew."
"Is he dead?" she whispered, with white lips, coming forward and looking shudderingly down on him with troubled eyes.
"No such luck," said I. "He may be round in five minutes, but that's enough, though poor little Marry-me-quick will have to be left to fend for herself." I helped her into the domino, pulled the hood over the wonderful hair, and seized my own hat.
"Now, Mistress Waynflete," said I, "the northern halt of Staffordshire is before us, and the sooner some of it is behind us the better." With these words I led her to the door, which I closed carefully behind me, and into the street.
A little explanation will make our subsequent movements clearer. The eastern side of Stafford is roughly bow-shaped. The main street is the straight string and the wood is the curve of the wall, now mostly fallen down and in ruins, the line of which was followed by the street we were in, and only some fifty yards from the southern end of the string. The marksman's thumb represents the market square, and the arrow the line of the east gate street.
No cat in the town knew it better than I did, or could travel it better in the dark. Indeed, our only danger now came from the moon, but, fortunately, she had not yet climbed very high. Mistress Waynflete placed her arm in mine and we turned to the right, away from the still noisy and crowded main street. We passed an ale-house bursting with customers, the central figure among whom, plainly visible from the street, was Pippin Pat, an Irishman with so huge a head that he had become a celebrity under this name for miles around. He had made himself rolling drunk and, suitably to the occasion, had been made into a Highlander by the simple process of robbing him of his breeches and rubbing his head with ruddle. He was a sorry sight enough, but, the main thing, he had attracted an enormous company. I rejoiced to see him, for it meant that the wicket of his master's tanyard, half a stone's throw ahead, would be unbolted. This would save us a longish detour and lessen the danger of being observed.
Arrived at the tanyard gate, I tried the wicket. It was unbolted, as I had anticipated, and we were soon in the quiet and obscurity of the tanyard. The far side of the yard was separated by a low stone wall from the end of a blind alley leading into Eastgate Street. I guided my companion safely by the edges of the tan-pits, and on arriving at the wall, I made no apology but lifted her on to it. As she sat there a shaft of moonlight lit up her fine, brave face. I feasted my eyes upon it for a moment, and then made to leap over to assist her to the other side, but she stayed me with a hand on each shoulder.
"I will go no farther, Master Wheatman," she said in a low, troubled voice, "till you forgive me."
"Forgive you?" I cried, astounded. "Forgive you? What for?"
"For thinking meanly of you. I thought you were afraid of Brocton. Not until that lion leap of yours did I realize how cleverly and nobly you had sat there through his insults, foreseeing the exact moment when you could master him. My only explanation, I do not offer it as an excuse, is that the utter beast in Brocton makes it hard for me to think well of any man. Oh, believe me, I am ashamed, confounded, and miserable. Say you forgive me!"