form
against a comrade?"

"I should be a black traitor to do it."

Yet there was a blacker treachery possible, such as we none of us
conceived the very nature of, not even the man that had the heart to
harbour it afterwards.

Tom would not leave me until Mrs. Gaunt came in, and then they had a
private talk together. She begged him to come to the house no more at
present, because of the suspicions that even so innocent a visitor might
bring upon it at that time of public disquiet.

"I shall contrive to get word to her father that he would do well to
come and fetch her," he said, in my hearing, and she answered that he
could not contrive a better thing.

The man that, as I now understood, we had in hiding went out that night
after it was dark, but he came back again; and he did so on the night
that followed. Mrs. Gaunt, perceiving that she could not altogether keep
him from my company, and that the hope of his safe departure grew less,
began to show great uneasiness.

"I see not how I am to get away," the man said gloomily when he found
occasion for a word with me; "and the danger increases each day. Yet
there is one way--one way."

"Why not take it and go?" I asked lightly.

"I may take it yet. A man has but one life." He spoke savagely and
morosely; for his manner was now altered, and he paid me no more
compliments.

There came a night on which he went out and came back no more.

"I trust in God," said Mrs. Gaunt, who used this word always in
reverence and not lightly, "that he has made his escape and not fallen
into the hands of his enemies."

The house seemed lighter because he was gone, and we went about our work
cheerfully. Later, when some strange men came to the door--as I, looking
through an upper window, could see--Mrs. Gaunt opened to them smiling,
for the place was now ready to be searched, and there was none to give
any evidence who the man was that had lately hidden there.

[Sidenote: Arrested]

But there was no search. The men had come for Elizabeth Gaunt herself,
and they told her, in my hearing, that she was accused of having given
shelter to one of Monmouth's men, and the punishment of this crime was
death.

It did not seem to me at first possible that such a woman as Elizabeth
Gaunt, that had never concerned herself with plots or politics, but
spent her life wholly in good works, should be taken up as a public
enemy and so treated only because she had given shelter to a man that
had