“But there must be some way of escape,” Johan whispered, after another silence. “Some way to save him! If nothing else, some way to effect his escape!”
“Nay, I see no way,” gloomed Lindley.
In the darkness Johan crept closer to Lindley.
“Is it only grief for Lord Farquhart that fills your heart,” he asked, “or is it your wound that still hurts? Or—or has Mistress Judith some place in your thoughts? You seem so somber, so depressed, my master!”
“Ah, lad!” Lindley’s sigh was deep and long. “Even Mistress Judith herself might fail to comprehend. She still fills all of me that a woman can fill, but a man’s friend has a firm grip on his life. If harm comes to Lord Farquhart, the world will never again be so bright a place as it has been!”
“But harm cannot come to Lord Farquhart!” Johan’s voice was suddenly soft and full. “He must be helped. There are a hundred ways that have not been tried. There is one way—oh, there is one way, in all those hundred ways—I mean, that must succeed. Think, Master Lindley. Cannot I help? Cannot I help in some way—to—to save your friend?”
Lindley was touched by the earnestness of the boy’s tone, and laid a kindly hand on his shoulder.
“I’ll think, my lad, but to what purpose I cannot promise you. This is no place for swordplay, however brilliant it may be.”
Johan had drawn roughly away from Lindley’s side. Now he leaned against the gate, dejection in every line of his drooping figure.
“There is one way,” he muttered, slowly. “There is always one way, but——”