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Charlie and the Cause, out of her sorrow for this sudden news of retreat, when victory had been looked for, there grew a lightening of the heart. This man, with the dead mare beside him, was speaking in the tongue she had learned from childhood. He was a Stuart lover, through and through; and Barbara-maiden in her thoughts, as in her heart, until this afternoonwas aware that she might come to harbor love one day.

She glanced no longer at him, but carried herself with new straightness and new pride. Her voice was cold, because she feared that she might love him altogether.

"You are telling me much-but you are tarrying. If the pursuit is hot, why do you stand here on the open hill, with your dead mare bearing witness even if you hid yourself in haste?"

Between old sorrow for the retreat at Derby, new gladness that he had lived to see this girl-winsome in her patched and tattered frock-the horseman had forgotten his pursuers.

"I led them, astray at the crossroads," he answered, with his air of downright, curious simplicity, "but they must have found the track by now. You are right. It is time we got the poor mare out of sight."

"You were fond of her?" said Barbara, marking his softened tone as he spoke of the horseflesh that had carried him to Windy Hill.

"Fond? I loved her."

"Ah! Men seldom do, when the horse has ceased to carry burdens for them."

Again he glanced at her, as if to ask how a maid so slight and young could know men's secrets. He did not realize that long poverty, long association with an ill-fated cause, long talks o' night with her father, had given her a woman's insight into life.

She would not meet his glance, for

the shame of her half-grown love was on her. "We have but the one manservant about the place," she said, coloring slightly, as she remembered that the Lynns had not needed, once on a day, to make excuses for lack of serving-men. "My father is kept to his bed-you and I must help to take the mare away."

Barbara Lynn came of a race whose women had always been prone to romance, yet always ready when the pinch of danger came. It was like her that she should know her heart's mate, relying altogether on romantic instinct; it was like her, too, that she realized the need to hide this dead witness out of sight.

The stranger was looking far down the valley, though he was listening to the girl and wondering anew at her ready acceptance of peril and adventure.

"Look yonder!" he cried suddenly.

Barbara looked, and at the foot of the sloping ground-a half-mile away as the crow flew, though thrice as far by the winding track-she saw a company of six come riding up. The last light of the sun, before it sets, shows often clearer pictures in the distance than the mid-day glare, and she could see that they moved wearily up the hill, as if they rode on jaded horses.

"There's no time," she said. "Slowly as they ride, 'tis but a mile and a half away. We must leave the mare where she lies."

"No!" he snapped. "They would be sure that I was here in hiding, and I'll take my own life with me up the moor, rather than put three in jeopardy."

"You will not," she answered, meeting his glance firmly now. "Cannot you trust us? Windy Hill has hidden good Jacobites before."

He glanced down the moor again, then at the girl's face, resolute and bonnie. It was not hard to take his life at hazard to the open moors-it

was a usual sort of peril with himbut it was hard indeed to leave this girl with the tattered frock and the frank, virginal beauty.

"It is madness," he said. "There's a hiding-chamber at Windy Hall-all good Jacobites know as much, and I sought it for that reason-but they will find the dead mare at the gate here."

"And I shall tell them how she comes there," put in the other impetuously. "Oh, we are wasting time! Do you think, if you go up the moor, it will not go evilly with us? They will see the token at the gate, and we shall suffer. Come, now, and follow me."

His heart was in it-not in the wish to hide, but in the wish to tarry near this girl. Moreover, he looked at her again-the quick, soldier's glance-and he knew that she had some wellframed enterprise in hand. He had an inkling of the nature of her stratagem, moreover, when she summoned the man-servant with a ringing call. A lean, hard fellow answered to the summons-he seemed half-indoor and half-outdoor servant-and stood waiting her commands.

"This gentleman is a well-wisher to the Cause, Donald," she said briefly. "He has killed his horse in riding here, and you are to help me rescue him from those who follow."

The man's air changed altogether. He had regarded the stranger with suspicion at the first, but now he eyed him with respect.

"What news of the Rising, sir?" he asked, with hungry, eager wistfulness. "The worst," snapped the other.

"We have little time, Donald," went on Barbara, in the crisp, assured voice which told that she was mistress here. "Take off the mare's saddle, and hide it away, and put my own saddle on her back. You have ten minutes, Donaldless may be-so waste no time. sir, if you will follow me," she broke off, turning to the stranger.

Now,

She led him across the weed-grown courtyard, and up a flight of steps, and across many passages with winding turns in them. And, though Windy Hall was known as a well-tried refuge of good fugitives, he wondered at the girl's business-like, brisk air-just as he had wondered that her beauty, clad in homespun, should have such power to chain and dazzle him.

They went up a second stair, and down some rough-hewn steps, and he found himself within the private chapel of Windy Hall. The Lynns had not been rich enough to keep the old Hall weather-tight; but their chapel was kept reverently, as the grave of a dead kinsman is, or the altar of a living faith. The only light-other than the dim, gray light of gloaming-came from the altar candles. The fugitive, as Barbara opened the oak door leading to the little chancel and bade him pass through in haste-the fugitive bowed hurriedly toward the altar, and the girl paused a moment.

"You are of both faiths, then?" she said.

"Of both," he answered.

She moved quickly to the wall on the south side of the chancel, touched it-lightly, so it seemed-and pressed back the secret panel. A little flight of stairs led down into the darkness.

"There is so little time!" she said. "Go down, and, when you reach the floor feel at your right hand for a tinder-box and candles."

He halted a moment, not from fear of the dark that seemed to lead into some bottomless pit, but to give Barbara á steady, grave regard. It might be long before he saw the outer light again; he wished to take with him an abiding picture of the one lass made for him.

Barbara waited only to hear him strike flint on steel; then, knowing that he had light, at any rate, to help him through the waiting time, she closed

the panel and went out through the quiet chapel.

To her own room she ran-the room that looked unlike a lady's bedchamber, so bare it was of usual niceties. She doffed her tattered frock, and she donned her tattered riding-habit. She ran down the stair, and in the hall, where rats had left clear teeth-marks on the wainscoting, she found her riding-whip.

She crossed the courtyard, and found Donald standing beside the dead mare like a lean and graven statue of grief. But the man's saddle was nowhere to be seen, and instead her own worn side-saddle lay on the mare's back. Donald had always been one to act before he gave his feelings

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I fancy they needed old Sir Peter and old Doland wi' them. We'd no have heard o' retreat, old Donald and Sir Peter."

Barbara wondered that the pursuers were not here already; but presently, when she saw them breast the last, steep slope, she understood why they had tarried. Their horses were kneehigh in slime-green, sticky slime-and it was plain that, on their way up the moor's face, they had mistaken a fairseeming stretch of grass for solid ground. She laughed disdainfully.

"George's men would never understand a moor, Donald," she said. "How scant of art these Hanoverians are!"

The six horsemen topped the slope. They drew rein on seeing the dead mare, the girl in her riding-habit, the lean and grizzled serving-man. At the moment there was murder in old Don

ald's heart, and the impulse showed clearly on his shaven face.

Barbara waited, her riding-whip in one hand, the other hand upon her hip. The captain of the troop dismounted, and saluted her as he drew near. Big and bluff, he yet had the bearing of a gentleman; and, like his troopers, he wore the Usurper's uniform.

"By your leave, madam," he said, daunted a little by her beauty and her upright front, "by your leave, we are seeking Mr. Blair of Blair."

It was well that Barbara had learned to hide emotion. The stranger who had claimed her hospitality, then, was Blair of Blair; a name second only, for charm, for high, romantic daring, to that of the Prince himself-a name loved and honored wherever Jacobites assembled to talk of past deeds or to plan future enterprises.

She remembered that steady glance the fugitive had given her, as they stood together in the dimly-lighted chancel. She recalled the strange sympathy that had held between them at their first meeting. And he was Blair of Blair! In face of danger the girl felt a sudden gaiety, she scarce knew why; but knowledge of the stranger's name seemed to give her new strength, of wit and courage, as if she were mistress of this game of hide-and-seek.

"Indeed!" she answered, after a moment's silence. "It is interesting, doubtless, but Mr. Blair is unknown to our family. Why should you seek him here?"

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ing like one possessed, they told us, and it was a roan mare that carried him."

He pointed to the dead mare, as if to end discussion; but Barbara laughed, and the captain, who was not a fanciful man at usual times, thought that he was listening to music more fairylike than human.

mare in
"It is a
Did

"Is there only one roan Yorkshire, then?" she asked. usual color, I should have said. they tell you, by the way, if Mr. Blair rode side-saddle?"

The other glanced at the mare again, and noted for the first time that she carried a lady's saddle. He was puzzled, for his information as to Blair's wild galloping was sure, and it was plain that he had not ridden at such a pace, and over such rough ground, with a lady's saddle under him.

"The mare is yours, you would have me believe?" he muttered.

She turned to Donald. "Explain it for me, Donald," she said. "I am weary of answering foolish questions to strangers whom I do not know."

Donald's face was grave as if, far off among his own Scottish hills, he were discoursing on theology. "There's little to tell," he said. "The mistress went riding up the moor, and rode too fast, and the mare dropped at the gate here. She called to me-it was a wee while before you came-and I ran out and found her standing as you see her now."

Distrustful, yet willing to give credit to so fair a face as Barbara's, the captain sat his horse with obvious restlessness.

"I am loth to doubt your word, madam," he said at last, "but Mr. Blair a prize I shall not let slip through my fingers easily. May I ask if it is your custom to ride your horses to the death?"

She drew herself to the top of her slim and comely height.

LIVING AGE.

have asked questions enough for the one day. I am a Lynn, and the Lynns of Windy Hall are wont to ride their horses as they please. Perhaps you will say good-day, and ride forward on your quest, for my father lies ill abed and cannot entertain you."

Her assurance might well have won the day; but old Donald chose the moment, foolishly enough, for self-indulgence. He had been grave and reverend heretofore; but now, as he listened to his mistress, a slow and subtle smile spread over his lean face. It was meat and drink to Donald to see the enemy outwitted.

The captain caught the smile; his suspicion, which was being lulled to sleep, awoke again.

"Madam, we must search the house," he said brusquely, dismounting from his horse.

She stood aside-drawing her ridingskirt away with evident desire that it should not be sullied by contact with him-and bowed with the same quiet mockery which angered, yet enticed him.

"As you will, sir. It seems to be the fashion nowadays to search the houses of poor gentlefolk. It is to see the poverty of everything within doors that you come, I think; for certainly you'll find little else at Windy Hall."

She pointed with her whip across the courtyard, but made no sign that she proposed to go with him.

"I had rather enter as a guest," he said, with something of shame and much of indecision. "Will you not lead the way?"

"No, sir!" Barbara's voice was keen as the twang of a bowstring when you pluck it. "I am not your hostess. Indeed, if what you think proves true, I may be soon your prisoner."

Captain Hurst had the grace to check his tongue, though it was plain that "Sir, you he was holding troopers'-language in VOL. XXXII. 1704

with hardship. He bade his men surround the house, then crossed to the main door and entered.

"Dinna fret, lassie," muttered old Donald, lapsing into unwonted tenderness. "They'll search around and about, but they'll rin awa' as empty as they came. Ye've hid him in a place we ken?"

"Yes, Donald."

The girl moved restlessly away. Her knowledge that the fugitive was Blair of Blair, the unadmitted knowledge that he had leaped the barrier reared by all true maids against surprisal, had made her doubt even the security of Blair's hiding-place, preserved so long and faithfully. She was in no mood to heed old Donald; she was in no mood to go indoors and see this rebelstranger stalking through a house whose every nook and cranny had tales to tell of ancient faith and loyalty.

Yet suddenly she remembered her father lying ill abed in the gaunt upstairs room, where the wind piped and whistled through casements unrepaired. The captain would find the sick-chamber, would enter, would startle the sick man. She must go indoors.

"Look to these troopers, Donald," she said, ironical and gay on the surface of her fears. "They are sitting quietly in their saddles, round about old Windy Hall, but I never trust the Usurper's soldiers near any poultryrun-and we have so little in our larder, Donald."

The old man smiled, with grimness and deliberation. He came, like the Lynns, of a race that had courage to jest quietly in the face of danger.

CHAPTER II.

HOW SIR PETER LYNN DRANK BIS
LAST TOAST.

Barbara went indoors, and found her dread confirmed; for, after searching vainly below-stairs for the intruder,

she ran to the upper story and heard the fret of voices from her father's bedchamber.

It was for the best, as it chanced. The burly captain was standing by Sir Peter's bed, putting question after question to him, and, because Sir Peter, in all good faith, knew nothing of the guest he sheltered in the hiding-chamber, he gave answers that convinced the enemy.

Barbara stood silent in the doorway, listening to their talk. She heard her father's voice-weak and fretful at the first, like a sick man's-grow stronger, as he answered the recurring questions. She saw his old face quicken, and his eyes grow bright. She saw him, last of all, lift himself from the pillow.

"I have answered your questions, sir, patiently, because I am old and ill," he said. ""Tis my turn now to ask you by whose leave you came here-here, into my own house and into my own bed-chamber?"

"By the King's leave," answered Captain Hurst.

It was then that Barbara, standing in the doorway, laughed. She knew by instinct that her father would demand, "Which King?" She wished to run no risk, now that Blair of Blair was an honored, if a hidden, guest.

Captain Hurst swung round on his heels. He saw the lithe, trim figure at the door-the figure in its rusty riding-habit. For the second time in his life he came near to something close akin to poetry; she was so bonnie, standing there in the doorway. He said as much to himself, and the confession from such as Hurst meant much.

"You laughed, madam, I believe?" he queried, awkwardly.

"I laughed," she answered.

Sir Peter sat straighter on his pillows, and his eyes met his daughter's and found a quick reply.

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