Barbara's prison was an old house in a narrow street of Dorchester, the ground floor of which had been turned into temporary barracks for soldiers and militiamen. The prisoner passed to rooms on the upper floor through a rough, gaping crowd, and in some faces pity shone through brutality for a moment. Something worse than death might await so fair a traitor.
The rooms to which she was taken were sparsely furnished and rather dark, the windows looking out upon a blank wall, two rooms communicating, but with only a single entrance from the passage without. The most hopeful would have seen little prospect of escape, and the most spirited might wonder if depression could be successfully conquered in such surroundings. Half a dozen soldiers had followed them up the stairs, but only Watson, whose stentorian voice seemed to fit him to command a troop of ruffians, entered the room with them.
"There are so many prisoners in Dorchester that we have to make shift to find room for them," he said, as though to make apology for the accommodation.
"Indeed, I might be much worse lodged," Barbara answered.
Harriet Payne looked round the rooms in dismay, but said nothing.
"May I know what charge is brought against me?" asked Barbara.
"With that I have naught to do," Watson answered. "I'm a soldier, not a lawyer, madam. My orders are to keep you in safe custody until your presence is required, and I am told to see that you have everything in reason to make you comfortable."
"It would appear that I have friends in Dorchester."
"It is not unlikely, madam; as for this young person," he went on, looking at Harriet, "she will see to your wants and may pass in and out. I suppose, therefore, that nothing is known against her beyond the fact that she is found in your company."
"Your temporary mistress is evidently a dangerous person, Harriet," Barbara said with a smile. "Had I not forced you to make this perilous journey with me, you would have been better off."