Presently Barbara’s glance wandered to the far end of the shed, where the group of drinkers sat. "They are to die to-morrow. I would I were a man, and knew no fear," she murmured enviously. He smiled. "Think you they know no fear? That is the very height of fear that dare not face the morrow, but seeks forgetfulness thus." "Could I forget thus?" she asked. "I would not have thee try, Mistress Barbara: ’tis but a coward’s way." "Yet ’tis but for one night," she cried hurriedly. "And I cannot bear this torture of waiting and thinking. Let me not be a coward again. Let me not think. Ah! when I think I see it all; the troopers and the prison and the post, month after month till—— Ah, no, I will not think. Talk to me—tell me—tell me why you are here," she continued, for the first time filled with curiosity as to the reason of his presence. His heart leaped gladly at her question. "Do you not know, madame?" "Indeed no; it cannot assuredly be that you too are a prisoner?" "Yes. A prisoner even as yourself, condemned for treason." "You—a traitor. Impossible!" she exclaimed naïvely. "I thank you for the compliment, Mistress Barbara," he answered with a smile. "And the sentence?" "Imprisonment—until to-morrow," he answered lightly. "And to-morrow you will be free?" she questioned doubtfully. "Aye, free from every fetter." Something in his tone startled her. "It is not so," she cried quickly. "You are deceiving me." "Nay, madame. Is not freedom the supreme gift of death?" "Then you are to die to-morrow?" she asked in a tone full of awe. "Court-martial at sunrise, shot like a dog at noon. That is my sentence. Come, will you not wish me a pleasant voyage? I confess myself no good sailor, and do heartily trust they have no storms on the Styx." He spoke lightly, but she turned from him suddenly with a choking sob. "Oh!" she cried bitterly. "How you must despise me for a true coward." He laughed tenderly. "Nay, Mistress Barbara, we be all cowards at heart, I warrant, only some have learned the trick of hiding it. And indeed to one who has faced him many times, death loses somewhat of his grim aspect. Besides—" he continued cheerily, "when a man bethinks him how many of his fellows in past ages have faced death unflinching, it seemeth but a small matter for him to follow in their footsteps. I doubt not we shall meet with gallant company across the bourne." "And have you no regrets?" she asked wonderingly. He looked down at her and his face clouded. "Aye, madame, one." He hesitated, then continued in the strange hurried tones of one who has at last resolved to speak his thoughts, and risk the consequence.