, rather than suffer
a touch from thy guilty hands."

"Come! Come!" said Winter, baffled by her words and spirit; "I'll not
harm thee. I was but heated by the wine. Thou mayst depart in peace."

"I put no faith in thy words," said Elinor, still standing by the
casement, "for thou hast taught me how far one who calls himself a man
may be trusted. Go thou and unbar the door," pointing imperiously with
her hand; "then take thyself to the further end of the chamber and
there stand."

Winter hesitated, but even his dulled faculties recognized the
superiority of the girl's position, and he sullenly complied with her
request. Not until he had retired to the extreme end of the room did
Elinor leave her place. Then, she quickly fled into the corridor.
Winter remained for a moment where he was and, mad with drunken rage
when the closing of the outer door announced the escape of his victim,
exclaimed: "Aye, thou hast outwitted me for a moment; but thy victory
is not for long. I shall hold the laurel and also thee before
daybreak." Then, staggering into the hall, he shouted: "Richard!
Richard!"

A man appeared at the bottom of the stairs. "Come! Stir thy scurvy
legs; didst see the woman who this moment left me? Follow, and when at
a place thou deemest fit, throw this heavy mantle about her, and bring
her to me. She will struggle, I trow; but thou knowest the remedy.
Tarry not; go swiftly, or she will escape."

At last Elinor was in the street, and, dazed for a moment by her
sudden release from the peril in which she had just stood, with a
terrified look over her shoulder--half fearing to see a staggering
figure in pursuit, she fled in the direction of her home. But what
form is this which glides from out the gate, and catching sight of the
girl hurries in the direction she has taken? Like some evil phantom it
moves, noiselessly and swiftly, ever keeping well in the shadows.

CHAPTER XII.

WHAT THE MOON SAW.

But what of Fawkes? Did any gloomy thoughts disturb his rest? Did the
shadow of the axe or gibbet fall athwart his dreams? If not, why turns
he so uneasily in his slumber and at last awakes?

"Sleep sets ill upon me," he mutters, drawing a hand across his brow.
In a moment he arose, hastily dressed himself, walked toward the
window, opened it and gazed upon the night. Does some subtle bond of
sympathy exist between him and the girl who is now in peril of
death--or worse? It would seem so, for standing beside