“Harry,” he said, “I can carry thee to the boat and we can all escape in that way.”

“Yes,” I replied, “but if I escape through them, ’twill serve to convict them, and—­and—­besides, lad, I cannot be moved for the bleeding of my wounds, such a long way; and besides, it is at the best arrest for me, since I have been seen by the whole posse and have shot down Captain Waller.  Whither could I fly, pray?  Not back to England.  Me they will take in custody in any case, and they will not shoot a wounded captive.  My life is safe for the time being.  Humphrey—­” With that I beckoned him to lean over me, which he did, putting his ear close.

“Seize Mary by force and bear her away, lad,” I whispered, “down cellar to the boat.  Catherine will show thee the way.”

“I cannot, Harry,” he whispered back, and as I live the tears were in the boy’s eyes.  “I cannot leave thee, Harry.”

“You must; there is no other way, if you would save her,” I whispered back.  “And what good can you do by staying?  The four of us will be taken, for you can do nothing for me single-handed.  Captain Jaynes is killed—­I saw him fall—­and the parson has fled, and—­and—­I know not where be the others.  For God’s sake, lad, save her!”

Then Sir Humphrey with such a look at me as I never forgot, but have always loved him for, with no more ado, turned upon Mary Cavendish, and caught her, pinioning both arms, and lifted her as if she had been an infant, and Catherine would have gone to her rescue, but I caught at her hand, which was still at work on my bandage.

“Go you with them and show the way to the boat,” I whispered.  She set her mouth hard and looked at me.  “I will not leave thee,” she said.

“If you go not, then they will be lost,” I cried out in desperation.  For Mary was shrieking that she would not go, and I knew that Humphrey did not know the way, and could not find it and launch the boat in time with that struggling maid to encumber him, for already the door trembled as if to fall.

“I tell you they will not harm a wounded man,” I cried.  “If you leave me I am in no more worse case than now, and if you remain, think of your sister.  You know what she hath done to abet the rebellion.  ’Twill all come out if she be found here.  Oh, Catherine, if you love her, I pray thee, go.”

Then Catherine Cavendish did something which I did not understand at the time, and perhaps never understood rightly.  Close over me she bent, and her soft hair fell over my face and hers, hiding them, and she kissed me on my forehead, and she said low, but quite clearly, “Whatever thou hast done in the past, my scorn henceforth shall be for the deed, not for thee, for thou art a man.”

Then to her feet she sprang and caught hold of Mary’s struggling right arm, though it might as well have struggled in a vise as in Sir Humphrey Hyde’s reluctant, but mighty grasp.

“Mary,” she said, “listen to me.  ’Tis the best way to save him, to leave him.”