“Betty,” said Kitty the instant he left them, “you do not know half the danger.  If he has not the means of escape close at hand—­if the British officers arrest the fiddler—­Oliver is totally lost.  Can you see through yonder door if the man be there still with the others?” Betty rose from her chair and stepped inside the ballroom, now nearly deserted, for the guests were all at supper.  She glanced eagerly toward the upper end of the room; no, the manikin fiddler had disappeared.  Then an idea darted into her quick brain; inaction under the circumstances was maddening; back she darted to Kitty’s side.

“Kitty, come with me instantly.  We will muffle ourselves in our cloaks and hoods and steal forth for a moment.  I’ll find Pompey and our sleigh, and if worst comes, let Oliver fly in that fashion; Gulian’s horses are fleet enough to distance pursuers.”

Without another word both girls flew into the room near the front door where they had left their wraps.  Not a soul was there; the servants had gone elsewhere, knowing that their services would not be required until the early morning hours, when the ball broke up.  It took but a moment pounce on their cloaks, and Betty also seized a long dark wrap, which lay conveniently at her hand, thinking it might be useful.  Out into the hall they dashed swiftly and silently, past the lanterns on the broad piazza; and as luck had it, Pompey himself, who had come up to witness the festivities from the outside, popped up at the steps.

“What you ‘so doin’ hyar, little missy?” he began wonderingly, but Betty cut him short.

“Fetch the sleigh at once, Pompey.  Mistress Kitty is ill, and I want to take her home.”

Pompey, somewhat alarmed at the tone and catching sight of Betty’s white face and burning eyes, vanished on the instant.  The girls drew into the shadow as far as they were able, and holding their breath peered into the darkness.

“What is that?” whispered Kitty, as a swift footstep crossed the piazza.  “Oh, ’tis Yorke!  Have a care, Betty, or we are discovered,” and she endeavored to drag her farther back against the wall.  As she did so, the crouching figure of a man rose up against the trunk of one of the oak-trees on the lawn; it was Oliver.  His padded coat cast off, they could dimly distinguish his tall slender form.  Some singular instinct for which he could never account made Yorke pause as he set his foot on the threshold of the front door; he wheeled just in time to see Betty’s face, as one pale ray from a distant lantern fell across it.

“Betty, what are you doing here?” he cried, darting to her side.  At that instant a sound of voices broke on the stillness of the night; it came from behind the mansion in the direction of the pine woods.

“Kitty is ill,” faltered Betty.  “I am taking her home—­do not, I pray you, detain me—­oh, there is Pompey”—­as the welcome sound of sleigh-bells rang out on the frosty air.  “Geoffrey, Geoffrey, let me go!”