She had been standing a little to one side, turning, as all had done, toward the elegant, foppish figure in the fine clothes and dainty ruffles of lace, but now she stepped forward with mad, unreasoning impulse, thrusting herself between him and the Sergeant, and trying to shield him behind the folds of her cloak. "No! no! no! no!" she said excitedly. "Sergeant, ’tis all a mistake! ... I swear..." But already Jack Bathurst had bent forward, and had contrived to whisper, unheard by all save her,— "Hush—sh—your brother ... remember his danger..." "Your pardon, lady," said the Sergeant, seeing that she paused, irresolute, not knowing what to do in face of this terrible alternative which was confronting her. "Your pardon, lady, but this gentleman is Philip, Earl of Stretton, is he not?" "For your brother’s sake," whispered Bathurst once more. "No ... yes ... Oh! my God!" murmured Patience, in the agony of this appalling misery. Her brother or the man she loved. One or the other betrayed by one word from her, now at this moment, with no time to pray to God for help or guidance, no chance of giving her own life for both! "Out on you, friend," said Bathurst, lightly, "do you not see her ladyship is upset. Nay! have no fear, I’ll follow you quietly!" he added, seeing that the Sergeant and soldiers were making a motion to surround him, "but you’ll grant me leave to say farewell to my sister?" The Sergeant could not very well refuse. He was at heart a humane man, and now that he was sure of this important capture, he would have done a good deal to ingratiate himself, through little acts of courtesy, with Lady Patience Gascoyne. However, he had no mind to be tricked again, and in face of an almost immediate execution for high treason, the prisoner seemed extraordinarily self-possessed and cheerful. But for her ladyship’s obvious despair and sorrow, the worthy Sergeant might even now have had some misgivings. As it was, he told off three men to mount the stairs, and to stand on guard at the top of them, in case the prisoner made a dash that way, in the hopes of reaching the roof. The Sergeant still kept an idea in his mind that some supernatural agency was at work in favour of this extraordinary man, who up to now had seemed to bear a charmed life. He had the little narrow passage and hall of the inn cleared of the gaping yokels, who went off one by one, scratching their addled polls, wondering what it all meant, and who was Beau Brocade. Was he the Earl of Stretton? was he the highwayman? or some pixie from the Heath with power to change himself at will?