haughty cousin of mine, the Lady Barbara
Gordon. And now--heigh-ho! I hope I've not stored up trouble for Lord
Farquhart. 'Twould be a sad pity to vex so fine a gentleman!"

Then the figure hurriedly caught up the bundle of woman's toggery that
had enswathed its entrance to the inn, and through the dancing motes,
over the sun-flecked floor, the same slim shadow, the shadow that
resembled the lad who had slept by the hearth, the shadow that had
slipped down the curving stairs, crept through another window, was off
and away, lost in the other shadows of the night.

VII.

Into the torch-filled courtyard rolled the Lady Barbara's coach. There
was little need for the lady to tell her own story. Mistress Benton's
shrieks were filling the air. The maids were squealing and praying
Heaven to save them. Drennins and the shamed coach boys were cursing
roundly.

"Thieves! Murder! Robbery!" screamed Mistress Benton. "We are killed!"

Even the Lady Barbara's white hand could not quell the tumult, and,
all the time, her frightened eyes rested tremulously everywhere save
on Lord Farquhart's face.

"Here, here, not a hundred paces from the inn," screamed Mistress
Benton. "He robbed us. He stole our all. Oh, just Heaven! We are all
murdered."

Here the Lady Barbara's hand did produce silence in one quarter by
clasping Mistress Benton's mouth with its long, slim fingers.

But from one and another the story was soon out. They had, indeed,
been stopped at the points of a dozen pistols! This version was told
by one of the coach boys.

"A dozen, man!" scoffed Barbara. Even her voice was slightly
tremulous. "There was one lone highwayman, a single highwayman in
black mask and coat and hat!"

"'Twas the Black Devil himself!" cried the chorus of men, who had
watched calmly at the inn while the outrage was occurring.

"One man! And the horses' legs knotted in a haze of ropes strung over
the road!" cried Drennins, determined to maintain the number to which
he had been willing to yield his own and his lady's life. "One man!
God's truth! There must have been at least a dozen!"

"Ay, but 'twas Barbara's own fault!" Mistress Benton cried, but again
Barbara's hand silenced her in the same way, and now Barbara's own
voice rang out clear and decisive.

"Why do we dally here?" she demanded. "The story's all told, and I've
given my word that the fellow should go free. There's little loss--a
few jewels and an old glove. Nay, nay, Lord Pe