The thin, flickering ray from his lantern swung across the wet wind-swept bushes nearer—and nearer, and then suddenly went out, leaving them all groping in the blind darkness. “Scatter quickly and feel your way along the hedge,” cried Allen. “A plague on this tempest and the treachery of lanterns!” Margeret felt her father’s hand grasp hers firmly and draw her along the path that led back to their garden. Under cover of the dark they moved away from the searchers and walked silently up to the house. Once inside, Master Simon laid off his wet cloak and hung the offending lantern on its nail. “You should have put in one of your new candles, Margeret,” was all he said; “the old one was so nearly burnt out that it was not to be trusted in such a wind.” But he smiled a little as he spoke and she, for relief and joy at the priest’s escape, laughed out loud. She went to the window to watch the winking lights again as they danced about in the meadow more confusedly than before. Finally, some new information seemed to have reached the searchers, for the bobbing lanterns moved closer together, turned in another direction, and passed so quickly that in a few moments the whole chase had gone over the hill to the northward. “They have gone quite away,” she exclaimed joyfully, but Master Simon made no reply. He was sitting in his big chair by the fire and gazing intently into the red flames. She went to stand by his side and stare at them too. “Suppose he had found our door instead of Samuel Skerry’s,” she said at last, “would you have let him in?” Her father came out of his brown study to answer her. “The Puritan law inflicts heavy fines and imprisonment or worse,” he said, “upon any one who harbours a Roman Catholic priest.” “But would you have let him in?” she persisted. “I would have asked your consent first,” he replied gravely, “for in the eyes of the law such a crime would be shared by all who were in the house that admitted him. And would you have dared to bring him in?” “Yes, most surely,” she answered. “I would have warmed and fed him, would have given him all I had to aid and comfort him and to send him safe upon his way. And so would you, as I well know.” “I think—” began Master Simon, and then stopped suddenly to listen. Quick footsteps sounded on the grass behind the house, the back door was thrown open swiftly and without the ceremony of a knock. Upon the threshold stood Roger Bardwell, wet, panting and eager, his blue eyes no longer sad or troubled, but shining with excited purpose. “Master Simon,” he cried, although hardly above his breath, “and you, Mistress Margeret, do you dare to give aid to a man who needs your help so sorely that without it he must perish?” “Yes,” said Master Simon. “Is it the French priest?” “Ay, it is the priest,” Roger answered. “He is hiding in your garden.” CHAPTER V BY CANDLELIGHT