At this there was a mighty stir about the table, as you may guess; and some would smile, and some would snuff the candles for a better sight of her sweet face.  And through it all, the while my heart went near to bursting at this fresh proof of her most fearless loyalty, I ground my teeth in wrath that all those men should look their fill and say by wink and nod and covert smile that this were somewhat more than hostess loyalty.

But it was the colonel’s mocking smile that lashed me sharpest; his smile and what he said; and yet not that so much as what he left to be inferred.

“Ha!  How is this, Mistress Margery?  Do you keep open house for the king’s enemies?  That spells treason, my dear young lady, and hath an ugly look for you, besides.”

“It should have no look at all, save that of hospitality, sir,” she countered, bravely.  “Surely I may plead for justice to a wounded man who was, and is, my father’s guest?”

“And yet he is a spy, and spies must hang.”

“He is no spy.”

The colonel’s bow made but a mock of true politeness.

“You should not make me contradict a lady, Mistress Margery.  ’Tis evident you have not all his confidence.  He was captured red-handed in the act at yonder window, listening to that which he may never know and live to prate about.  Besides, he killed a sentry for his chance to listen, and for that I’d hang him if he were my own father’s guest.”

So much he said as mild as if he had not left his reading of the law to figure in our annals as King George’s butcher.  Then in a sudden gust of rage he turned upon the priest, cursing him brutally and threatening vengeance for his bringing of the lady to the court room.

My brave one stood a moment, shocked as she had warrant for.  Then, before the priest or I or any one could stop her, she ran to throw herself upon her knees at Colonel Tarleton’s feet—­to kneel and plead for me as I would gladly have died a thousand deaths rather than have her plead; for life for me, or if not that, at least for some brief respite that the priest might shrive me.

And in the end she won the respite, though I did think it far too dearly bought.  When he granted it the colonel lifted her and took her hand, bowing low over it with courtly deference.  “For your sake, Mistress Margery, it shall be put off till morning,” he said; then gave the order:  At dawn they would march me out and hang me, and I would best be ready.  For later than the sunrise of a new day the king himself might not delay my taking off.

“You know too much, my cursing Captain,” was his parting word.  “Were it not for Mistress Margery and my promise, you should not keep the breath to tell it over night.”

IX

HOW A GOLDEN KEY UNLOCKED A DOOR