But one afternoon of sullen clouds and murky weather, when few people were abroad upon the streets of Amersfort, Marie sickened of the hot steamy atmosphere of the laundry and the chatter of the maids of the quarter, in which she was allowed to have no part. She finished her work earlier than the others--perhaps for that reason--and stole quietly away to the tower of Wat's prison, where it jutted out over the cobble-stones of the pavement. Wat was at his post, looking out, as usual, upon the slackening traffic and quickening pleasure-seeking of the street. He was truly glad to see the girl, and greeted her appearance with a kind smile. "I had not expected you till the morning," he said. "But I have lived on the freshness of your flowers all day. I have also had my cell washed. Black Peter, my jailer, was inclined to be complaisant to me this morning. It is his birthday, he says." Wat smiled as he said it. For he had bestowed one of his few remaining coins upon Peter; which, ever since, that worthy had been swallowing to his good health in the shape of pure Hollands. Indeed, at this moment there came from below the rollicking voice of jolly Black Peter, singing a song which ran through a catalogue of camp pleasures and soldierly delights, such as certainly could not all have been enjoyed within the grim precincts of the prison of Amersfort. "You are sure that there is no friend I can take a message to?" asked the Little Marie, for the fiftieth time; "no beloved mistress to whom I can carry a letter?" "None," said Wat, smiling sadly. "But there," he continued, pointing quickly across the Street of the Prison at a man hurrying out of sight, "is one whom, an it please you, you may take note of. I am not able to show you a friend. But yonder goes my heart's enemy. There at the corner--the dark man in the suit of velvet, with the orange-lined cloak and the sword hilted with gold." The Little Marie darted across the street in a moment, and threaded her way deftly among the boisterous traffic of the huxters' stalls. Presently she came back. There was a new and dangerous excitement in her eye. "I know him," she said; "it is my Lord Barra, the provost-marshal. He is your enemy, you say. It is well. But he was my enemy before he was yours. Sleep sound," she continued, looking up at him with an eye as clear and peaceful as a cloistered nun's. "Take no thought for your enemy, but only, ere you sleep, say a prayer to your Scottish God for the sinful soul of the Little Marie that loves you better than her life." CHAPTER XIV MAISIE'S NIGHT QUEST