"For an instant," she gasped--"oh! for an instant I thought--I was
afraid that you might indeed be----"

"And for once you thought the truth, sweet cousin. But you've naught
to fear." The mask's voice had grown serious. He was on his feet and
holding both her hands in his. "I am he; I am he in dread of whom all
London shivers, and it was to tell you that--that I stopped you,
Barbara. To tell you and to test, if not your love, at least your good
intentions as my wife. The world tells me that I cannot win your love,
that it has been given irretrievably to another. But your fidelity I
must prove before you wear my name. I am placing my life, my safety,
my honor, in the sweet jeopardy of your hands. My life is forfeit, as
you know. My life is henceforth in your hands." She was shrinking away
from him, but he held her fast. "My friends--your lover--await us at
The Jolly Grig. I shall be with them before you arrive. You will face
them and me in ten minutes or less. If you intend to keep faith with
me as my wife, you will meet me as your betrothed. You will give no
sign of this new knowledge of me."

"But--but----" she stammered.

"There are no buts, sweet cousin, sweetheart." Already he was leading
her back to the coach. "You may cry out, if you will, when you see us,
that you were held up by the black highwayman. In truth, there will be
no need for you to tell the tale. Your servants will save you the
trouble. In proof of the story, the fellow has stolen your rose and
your glove and your rings. In ransom of your life, you swore that he
should not be followed. We'll hurry you on to town. We'll give the
alarm, and the constables and their men will have a mad and a merry
chase. But from now on, this is our secret. We are one in that
already."

Courteously and slowly he drew her to the coach, pressing her forward
as she held reluctantly back. Denying her all chance to answer, he
handed her into the coach and disappeared.

VI.

The Jolly Grig was empty. The guests, all in the courtyard, were
mounting to meet the Lady Barbara. A shadowy figure clambered to Lord
Farquhart's window, a figure strangely like Lord Farquhart. A moment
later, a shadowy figure, resembling, this time, the lad who had slept
by the hearth, slipped down the stairs into the small room at the back
of the inn. Here it stopped for an instant's reverie.

"'Tis curious how jests grow," the red lips murmured. "At first I but
thought of frightening that