So soon as Sir Crispin had taken his departure, and whilst yet the beat of his horse's hoofs was to be distinguished above the driving storm of rain and wind without, Joseph hastened across the hall to the servants' quarters. There he found his four grooms slumbering deeply, their faces white and clammy, and their limbs twisted into odd, helpless attitudes. Vainly did he rain down upon them kicks and curses; arouse them he could not from the stupor in whose thrall they lay.
And so, seizing a lanthorn, he passed out to the stables, whence Crispin had lately taken his best nag, and with his own hands he saddled a horse. His lips were screwed into a curious smile—a smile that still lingered upon them when presently he retraced his steps to the room where his brother sat with Kenneth.
In his absence the lad had dressed Gregory's wound; he had induced him to take a little wine, and had set him upon a chair, in which he now lay back, white and exhausted.
“The quarter of an hour is passed, sir,” said Joseph coldly, as he entered.
Kenneth made no sign that he heard. He sat on like a man in a dream. His eyes that saw nothing were bent upon Gregory's pale, flabby face.
“The quarter of an hour is passed, sir,” Joseph repeated in a louder voice.
Kenneth looked up, then rose and sighed, passing his hand wearily across his forehead.
“I understand, sir,” he replied in a low voice. “You mean that I must go?”
Joseph waited a moment before replying. Then:
“It is past midnight,” he said slowly, “and the weather is wild. You may lie here until morning, if you are so minded. But go you must then,” he added sternly. “I need scarce say, sir, that you must have no speech with Mistress Cynthia, nor that never again must you set foot within Castle Marleigh.”
“I understand, sir; I understand. But you deal hardly with me.”
Joseph raised his eyebrows in questioning surprise.
“I was the victim of my oath, given when I knew not against whom my hand was to be lifted. Oh, sir, am I to suffer all my life for a fault that was not my own? You, Master Gregory,” he cried, turning passionately to Cynthia's father, “you are perchance more merciful? You understand my position—how I was forced into it.”
Gregory opened his heavy eyes.
“A plague on you, Master Stewart,” he groaned. “I understand that you have given me a wound that will take a month to heal.”
“It was an accident, sir. I swear it was an accident!”
“To swear this and that appears to be your chief diversion in life,” growled Gregory for answer. “You had best go; we are not likely to listen to excuses.”
“Did you rather suggest a remedy,” Joseph put in quietly, “we might hear you.”
Kenneth swung round and faced him, hope brightening his eyes.
“What remedy is there? How can I undo what I have done? Show me but the way, and I'll follow it, no matter where it leads!”
Such protestations had Joseph looked to hear, and he was hard put to it to dissemble his satisfaction. For a while he was silent, making pretence to ponder. At length:
“Kenneth,” he said, “you may in some measure repair the evil you have done, and if you are ready to undergo some slight discomfort, I shall be willing on my side to forget this night.”
“Tell me how, sir, and whatever the cost I will perform it!”
He gave no thought to the fact that Crispin's grievance against the Ashburns was well-founded; that they had wrecked his life even as they had sought to destroy it; even as eighteen years ago they had destroyed his wife's. His only thought was Cynthia; his only wish was to possess her. Besides that, justice and honour itself were of small account.
“It is but a slight matter,” answered Joseph. “A matter that I might entrust to one of my grooms.”
That whilst his grooms lay drugged the matter was so pressing that his messenger must set out that very night, Joseph did not think of adding.
“I would, sir,” answered the boy, “that the task were great and difficult.”
“Yes, yes,” answered Joseph with biting sarcasm, “we are acquainted with both your courage and your resource.” He sat silent and thoughtful for some moments, then with a sudden sharp glance at the lad:
“You shall have this chance of setting yourself right with us,” he said. Then abruptly he added.
“Go make ready for a journey. You must set out within the hour for London. Take what you may require and arm yourself; then return to me here.”
Gregory, who, despite his sluggish wits, divined—partly, at least—what was afoot, made shift to speak. But his brother silenced him with a glance.
“Go,” Joseph said to the boy. And, without comment, Kenneth rose and left them.
“What would you do?” asked Gregory when the door had closed.
“Make doubly sure of that ruffian,” answered Joseph coldly. “Colonel Pride might be absent when he arrives, and he might learn that none of the name of Lane dwells at the Anchor in Thames Street. It would be fatal to awaken his suspicions and bring him back to us.”
“But surely Richard or Stephen might carry your errand?”
“They might were they not so drugged that they cannot be aroused. I might even go myself, but it is better so.” He laughed softly. “There is even comedy in it. Kenneth shall outride our bloodthirsty knight to warn Pride of his coming, and when he comes he will walk into the hands of the hangman. It will be a surprise for him. For the rest I shall keep my promise concerning his son. He shall have news of him from Pride—but when too late to be of service.”
Gregory shuddered.
“Fore God, Joseph, 'tis a foul thing you do,” he cried. “Sooner would I never set eyes on the lad again. Let him go his ways as you intended.”
“I never did intend it. What trustier messenger could I find now that I have lent him zest by fright? To win Cynthia, we may rely upon him safely to do that in which another might fail.”
“Joseph, you will roast in hell for it.”
Joseph laughed him to scorn.
“To bed with you, you canting hypocrite; your wound makes you light-headed.”
It was a half-hour ere Kenneth returned, booted, cloaked, and ready for his journey. He found Joseph alone, busily writing, and in obedience to a sign he sat him down to wait.
A few minutes passed, then, with a final scratch and splutter Joseph flung down his pen. With the sandbox tilted in the air, like a dicer about to make his throw, he looked at the lad.
“You will spare neither whip nor spur until you arrive in London, Master Kenneth. You must ride night and day; the matter is of the greatest urgency.”
Kenneth nodded that he understood, and Joseph sprinkled the sand over the written page.
“I know not when you should reach London so that you may be in time, but,” he continued, and as he spoke he creased the paper and poured the superfluous sand back into the box, “I should say that by midnight to-morrow your message should be delivered. Aye,” he continued, in answer to the lad's gasp of surprise, “it is hard riding, I know, but if you would win Cynthia you must do it. Spare neither money nor horseflesh, and keep to the saddle until you are in Thames Street.”
He folded the letter, sealed it, and wrote the superscription: “This to Colonel Pride, at the sign of the Anchor in Thames Street.”
He rose and handed the package to Kenneth,