“Silence!” blazed the Frenchman. “Now t’at I know who you are, t’at make a so great difference. Where is t’e guard, Wentwort’?”
“I hear them,” answered the captain, and from the street came the tramp of their marching feet.
Feversham turned again to Blake. “T’e affaire ’as ’appen’ so,” he said, between question and assertion, summing up the situation as he understood it. “T’is rogue,” and he pointed to Richard, “’ave betray your plan to ’is sister, who betray it to ’er ’usband, who save t’e Duc de Monmoot’. N’est-ce pas?”
“That is so,” said Blake, and Ruth scarcely thought it worth while to add that she had heard of the plot not only from her brother, but from Blake as well. After all, Blake’s attitude in the matter, his action in bringing her to Feversham for punishment, and to exculpate himself, must suffice to cause any such statement of hers to be lightly received by the General.
She sat in an anguished silence, her eyes wide, her face pale, and waited for the end of this strange business. In her heart she did permit herself to think that it would be difficult to assemble a group of men less worthy of respect. Choleric and vindictive Blake, foolish Feversham, stupid Wentworth, and timid Richard—even Richard did not escape the unfavourable criticism they were undergoing in her subconscious mind. Only Wilding detached in that assembly—as he had detached in another that she remembered—and stood out in sharp relief a very man, calm, intrepid, self-possessed; and if she was afraid, she was more afraid for him than for herself. This was something that, perhaps, she scarcely realized just then; but she was to realize it soon.
Feversham was speaking again, asking Blake a fresh question. “And who betray you to t’is rogue?”
“To Westmacott?” cried Blake. “He was in the plot with me. He was left to guard the rear, to see that we were not taken by surprise, and he deserted his post. Had he not done that, there had been no disaster, in spite of Mr. Wilding’s intervention.”
Feversham’s brow was dark, his eyes glittered as they rested on the traitor.
“T’at true, sare?” he asked him.
“Not quite,” put in Mr. Wilding. “Mr. Westmacott, I think, was constrained away. He did not intend…”
“Tais-toi!” blazed Feversham. “Did I interrogate you? It is for Mistaire Westercott to answer.” He set a hand on the table and leaned forward towards Wilding, his face very malign. “You shall to answer for yourself, Mistaire Wildin’; I promise you you shall to answer for yourself.” He turned again to Richard. “Ek, bien?” he snapped. “Will you speak?”
Richard came forward a step; he was certainly nervous, and certainly pale; but neither as pale nor as nervous as from our knowledge of Richard we might have looked to see him at that moment.
“It is in a measure true,” he said. “But what Mr. Wilding has said is more exact. I was induced away. I did not dream any could know of the plan, or that my absence could cause this catastrophe.”
“So you went, eh, vaurien? You t’ought t’at be to do your duty, eh? And it was you who tole your sistaire?”
“I may have told her, but not before she had the tale already from Blake.”
Feversham sneered and shrugged. “Natural you will not speak true. A traitor I ’ave observe’ is always liar.”
Richard drew himself up; he seemed invested almost with a new dignity. “Your lordship is pleased to account me a traitor?” he inquired.
“A dam’ traitor,” said his lordship, and at that moment the door opened, and a sergeant, with six men following him, stood at the salute upon the threshold. “A la bonne heure!” his lordship hailed them. “Sergean’, you will arrest t’is rogue and t’is lady,”—he waved his hand from Richard to Ruth—“and you will take t’em to lock-up.”
The sergeant advanced towards Richard, who drew a step away from him. Ruth rose to her feet in agitation. Mr. Wilding interposed himself between her and the guard, his hand upon his sword.
“My lord,” he cried, “do they teach no better courtesy in France?”
Feversham scowled at him, smiling darkly. “I shall talk wit’ you soon, sare,” said he, his words a threat.
“But, my lord…” began Richard. “I can make it very plain I am no traitor…”
“In t’e mornin’,” said Feversham blandly, waving his hand, and the sergeant took Richard by the shoulder.
But Richard twisted from his grasp. “In the morning will be too late,” he cried. “I have it in my power to render you such a service as you little dream of.”
“Take ’im away,” said Feversham wearily.
“I can save you from destruction,” bawled Richard, “you and your army.”
Perhaps even now Feversham had not heeded him but for Wilding’s sudden interference.
“Silence, Richard!” he cried to him. “Would you betray…?” He checked on the word; more he dared not say; but he hoped faintly that he had said enough.
Feversham, however, chanced to observe that this man who had shown himself hitherto so calm looked suddenly most singularly perturbed.
“Eh?” quoth the General. “An instan’, Sergean’. What is t’is, eh?”—and he looked from Wilding to Richard.
“Your lordship shall learn at a price,” cried Richard.
“Me, I not bargain wit’ traitors,” said his lordship stiffly.
“Very well, then,” answered Richard, and he folded his arms dramatically. “But no matter what your lordship’s life may be hereafter, you will never regret anything more bitterly than you shall regret this by sunrise if indeed you live to see it.”
Feversham shifted uneasily on his feet. “What you say?” he asked. “What you mean?”
“You shall know at a price,” said Richard again.
Wilding, realizing the hopelessness of interfering now, stood gloomily apart, a great bitterness in his soul at the indiscretion he had committed in telling Richard of the night attack that was afoot.
“Your lordship shall hear my price, but you need not pay it me until you have had an opportunity of verifying the information I have to give you.
“Tell me,” said Feversham after a brief pause, during which he scrutinized the young man’s face.
“If your lordship will promise liberty and safe-conduct to my sister and myself.”
“Tell me,” Feversham repeated.
“When you have promised to grant me what I ask in return for my information.”
“Yes, if I t’ink your information is wort’”
“I am content,” said Richard. He inclined his head and loosed the quarrel of his news. “Your camp is slumbering, your officers are all abed with the exception of the outpost on the road to Bridgwater. What should you say if I told you that Monmouth and all his army are marching upon you at this very moment, will probably fall upon you before another hour is past?”
Wilding uttered a groan, and his hands fell to his sides. Had Feversham observed this he might have been less ready with his sneering answer.
“A lie!” he answered, and laughed. “My fren’, I ’ave myself been tonight, at midnight, on t’e moore, and I ’ave ’eard t’e army of t’e Duc de Monmoot’ marching to Bristol on t’e road—what you call t’e road, Wentwort’?”
“The Eastern Causeway, my lord,” answered the captain.
“Voil!” said Feversham,