“Yes, I have,” answers she, for during all this hour just past, a thousand thoughts have come to Peggy about Sir Percy. “Ah,” responds Frewen joyously. “Now tell me where he’s to be found, and entrust me with the message, and be assured all will be carried out to your wishes.” “Thank you,” says Peggy. “Free my right hand if you will; give me something to write with, and the leaf out of your prayer-book, and I’ll ask you the favor.” The Curate, under the strict superintendence of Biggs, who has all this while been dispatching boys on horses, hither and yon, to notify the quality and the country side both, that Tom Kidde’s been taken and will hang at eight from the gibbet a-top of Armsleigh Hill, loosens Her Ladyship’s arm of the thong, and gives her a leaf and a pencil with the top of the post for a support. “To Sir Percy de Bohun, Charlotte Street, London,” writes she. “plese An you lov God And The Kinge goe not evar Again toe walke onne The dove peere at The Bottomme of littel Boye yarde Their isse onne swares Toe Kille you & you doe This isse writ bye onne now noe more.” Her Ladyship folds the scrap of paper over and over; hands back the pencil to Mr. Frewen; and then she says: “Sir, will you promise me on that Book you’re holding in your hand, you’ll not look at this or send it until I’m dead?” “I will,” answers the young man, more touched than he cares to admit, even to himself. “And further,” says she, “will you pledge me your word it shall reach him it’s intended for before this time Sunday?” “I will,” is the reply, “unless it be in the depths of Epstowe and inaccessible to my horse or myself.” “’Tis in London, Sir, and quite accessible. ’Tis a warning for life and death, and I’ll count you fail me not, nor him whose life you’d be the means of saving.” “I pledge my word, Mr. Kidde,” replies the Curate, backing away to make room for Justice Biggs, and with the very laudable sensation in his mind that he is to be the instrument of preserving some unknown from the clutches of the doubtless repentant outlaw’s own men. In less than five minutes after, Biggs had marshaled his cavalcade and rode forth of the stable-yard of Brookwood Castle; his white cob at the head, a-holding in his left hand the duly signed warrant for the execution of one Thomas Kidde. Following him, strode the hastily summoned Master William Lambe, the butcher, who was to do duty as hangman (sooth to say, hangings were rare in this county, and there was no one appointed by law to the office, it being thus left to the discretion of the Justice). The Earl, mounted, rode next with a dozen of his servants, and in the midst of these My Lady Peggy, astride of the black once more, but with face to tail, hands tied together, and no hat to her head; Mr. Frewen at her side walking; a motley crowd growing and gathering at every step, about her, of gaping, wondering, jubilant and curious persons of all ages, sexes, and conditions.