I told him of little Rebecca, and asked what he made of it.  He said he made of it that fools didn’t love in the right place—­which was not to the point, whatever Jack thought of Rebecca.  Linking his arm through mine, he headed me about.

“Captain Gillam, Ben’s father, sails for England at sunrise,” vouched Jack.

“What has that to do with Mistress Hortense?” I returned testily.

“’Tis a swift ship to sail in.”

“To sail in, Jack Battle?”—­I caught at the hope.  “Out with your plan, man!”

“And be hanged for it,” snaps Jack, falling silent.

We were opposite the prison.  He pointed to a light behind the bars.

“They are the only prisoners,” he said.  “They must be in there.”

“One could pass a note through those bars with a long pole,” I observed, gazing over the yard wall.

“Or a key,” answered Jack.

He paused before Rebecca’s house to the left of the prison.

“Ramsay,” inquired Jack quizzically, “do you happen to have heard who has the keys?”

“Rebecca’s father is warden.”

“And Rebecca’s father is from home to-night,” says he, facing me squarely to the lantern above the door.

How did he know that?  Then I remembered the voices outside the church.

“Jack—­what did Rebecca mean——­”

“Not to be hanged,” interrupts Jack. “‘Tis all along o’ having too much conscience, Ramsay.  They must either lie like a Dutchman and be damned, or tell the truth and be hanged.  Now, ship ahoy,” says he, “to the quarterdeck!” and he flung me forcibly up the steps.

Rebecca, herself, red-eyed and reserved, threw wide the door.  She motioned me to a bench seat opposite the fireplace and fastened her gaze above the mantel till mine followed there too.  A bunch of keys hung from an iron rack.

“What are those, Rebecca?”

“The largest is for the gate,” says she with the panic of conscience running from fire.  “The brass one unlocks the great door, and—­and—­the—­M.  Picot’s cell unbolts,” she stammered.

“May I examine them, Rebecca?”

“I will even draw you a pint of cider,” says Rebecca evasively, with great trepidation, “but come back soon,” she called, tripping off to the wine-cellar door.

Snatching the keys, I was down the steps at a leap.

“The large one for the gate, Jack!  The brass one for the big door, and the cell unbolts!”

“Ease your helm, sonny!” says Jack, catching the bunch from my clasp.  “Fall-back—­fall-edge!” he laughed in that awful mockery of the axeman’s block.  “Fall-back—­fall-edge!  If there’s any hacking of necks, mine is thicker than yours!  I’ll run the risks.  Do you wait here in shadow.”

And he darted away.  The gate creaked as it gave.

Then I waited for what seemed eternity.

A night-watchman shuffled along with swinging lantern, calling out:  “What ho?  What ho?” Townsfolks rode through the streets with a clatter of the chairmen’s feet; but no words were bandied by the fellows, for a Sabbath hush lay over the night.  A great hackney-coach nigh mired in mud as it lumbered through mid-road.  And M. Picot’s hound came sniffing hungrily to me.