The man growled an oath as he stood with his hand to his assaulted ear.
"Did I not say that some were the devil to handle?" remarked his companion, who had come to the common-room door, and was smiling grimly.
"I grant she takes first trick, and with a heavy hand for so small a person, but the game is only commencing. One more draught of ale to drink success to the end of it, and then to horse."
As the troopers rode out of Witley presently a horseman drew back into the shadow of some trees by the roadside to let them pass.
"The remaining two," he murmured. "That's well; they have given up the pursuit," and he turned and went at a brisk canter across country.
The maid said nothing about the trooper to her mistress; she only told her that an early start would have to be made.
"Very well, Harriet, I shall want nothing more to-night, and will put myself to bed."
But Barbara Lanison was in no haste to seek sleep. She was tired, bodily tired, but mentally she was wakeful. There were some hours still before she could reach Dorchester, and many more hours might elapse before she could get speech with Judge Marriott. Having determined to make the sacrifice, she was eager that it should be over and done with, that she should know the full extent of the sacrifice. And perhaps, at the back of her mind, there was a little fear of herself. The question would arise, again and again, no matter how she tried to suppress it, was she justified in acting as she intended to do? Who was this man for whom she was prepared to give so much? A notorious highwayman, upon whose head there was a price. Yes, it was true, but he was also Gilbert Crosby, the man who had taken possession of her thoughts since the first moment she had seen him, the man who had sheltered and helped the peasantry fleeing from an inhuman persecution, and who must now pay for his courage with his life unless she pleaded for him. Was she justified? The question sounded in her ears when she fell asleep; she heard it when she awoke next morning. Yes, and mentally she flung back the answer, yes, for to her Gilbert Crosby was something more than a brave man, and was dear to her in spite of everything. He was the man who had set an ideal in her heart, he was the man she loved. Hardly to herself would she admit it, but it was love that sent her to the West.
It was still early when the coach rolled out of Witley, but it was not early enough, nor was the pace fast enough, to satisfy Barbara. She became suddenly fearful of pursuit which might stop her from reaching Dorchester. She began to dread some breakdown which might delay her and cause her to arrive too late.
"Shall we be in time?" she asked more than once, turning to Harriet
Payne.