ward,
and he was no more than in time to catch her as she swayed.

He held her fast against him and kissed her brow. "Sweet," he said,
"forgive me that I frightened you. I came by the orchard gate, and my
coming was so timely that I could not hold in my answer to your cry."

Her eyelids fluttered, she drew a long sighing breath, and nestled
closer to him. "Anthony!" she murmured again, and reached up a hand to
stroke his face, to feel that it was truly living flesh.

And Sir Rowland, realizing, too, by now that here was no ghost,
recovered his lost courage. He put a hand to his sword, then withdrew
it, leaving the weapon sheathed. Here was a hangman's job, not a
swordsman's, he opined--and wisely, for he had had earlier experience of
Mr. Wilding's play of steel.

He advanced a step. "O fool!" he snarled. "The hangman waits for you."

"And a creditor for you, Sir Rowland," came the voice of Mr. Trenchard,
who now pushed forward through those same shrubs that had masked his
friend's approach. "A Mr. Swiney. 'Twas I sent him from town. He's
lodged at the Bull, and bellows like one when he speaks of what you owe
him. There are three messengers with him, and they tell of a debtor's
gaol for you, sweetheart."

A spasm of fury crossed the face of Blake. "They may have me, and
welcome, when I've told my tale," said he. "Let me but tell of Anthony
Wilding's lurking here, and not only Anthony Wilding, but all the rest
of you are doomed for harbouring him. You know the law, I think," he
mocked them, for Lady Horton, Diana, and Richard, who had come up,
stood now a pace or so away in deepest wonder. "You shall know it better
before the night is out, and better still before next Sunday's come."

"Tush!" said Trenchard, and quoted, "'There's none but Anthony may
conquer Anthony.'"

"'Tis clear," said Wilding, "you take me for a rebel. An odd mistake!
For it chances, Sir Rowland, that you behold in me an accredited servant
of the Secretary of State."

Blake stared, then fell a prey to ironic laughter. He would have spoken,
but Mr. Wilding plucked a paper from his pocket, and handed it to
Trenchard.

"Show it him," said he, and Blake's face grew white again as he read the
lines above Sunderland's signature and observed the seals of office. He
looked from the paper to the hated smiling face of Mr. Wilding.

"You were a spy?" he said, his tone making a question of the odious
statement. "A dirty spy?"

"Your incredulity is