Less than five seconds had elapsed when the soldier drew the packet of letters from Sir Humphrey’s pocket and handed it to his Sergeant. "They’d best be for His Royal Highness’s own inspection," said the latter, quietly, as he slipped them inside his scarlet coat. "Aye! for His Royal Highness!" quoth Jack Bathurst in mad, wild, feverish glee. "Oh, now is it that your Honour thought you could be even with me? What?" Sir Humphrey was speechless with the hopelessness of his baffled rage. But Patience, almost hysterical with the intensity of her relief after the terrible suspense which she had just endured, had fallen back half fainting against the stairs, and murmuring,— "The letters! ... Before His Royal Highness! ... Thank God! ... Thank God!..." Then suddenly she drew herself up, and laughing, crying, joyous, happy, she flew upstairs shouting,— "Philip!—Philip!—come down!—come down! ... you are safe!..." CHAPTER XXXVI THE AGONY OF PARTING About half an hour ago, when Jack Bathurst suddenly burst in upon Lord Stretton in the dingy little parlour upstairs, he gave the lad no inkling of what was happening down below. He had hastily discarded Jock Miggs’s smock and hat and extracted a solemn promise from Philip not to stir from the parlour, whatever might be the tumult downstairs. Then he had left the boy chafing like a wild beast in its cage. The heavy oak doors and thick walls of the old-fashioned inn deadened all the sounds from below, and Bathurst had taken the precaution of locking the door behind him. But for this, no doubt Philip would have broken his word, sooner than allow his chivalrous friend once more to risk his life for him. As the noise below grew louder and louder, Stretton became more and more convinced that some such scene as had been enacted a day or two ago at the forge was being repeated in the hall of the Packhorse. He tried with all his might to force open the door which held him imprisoned, and threw his full weight against it once or twice, in a vain endeavour to break the thick oaken panels. But the old door, fashioned of stout, well-seasoned wood, resisted all his efforts, whilst the noise he made thereby never reached the ears of the excited throng. Like a fettered lion he paced up and down the narrow floor of the dingy inn parlour, chafing under restraint, humiliated at the thought of being unable to join in the fight, that was being made for his safety. His sister’s cry came to him in this agonising moment like the most joyful, the most welcome call to arms. "The door! ... quick!..." he shouted as loudly as he could, "it is locked!" She found the bolt and tore open the door, and the next instant he was running downstairs, closely followed by Patience. The Sergeant and soldiers had been not a little puzzled at hearing her ladyship suddenly calling in mad exultation on her brother, whom they believed they were even now holding prisoner.