Barbara did not answer her, did not look at her. Her own thoughts and fears were trouble enough. A trap had been laid for her, doubtless it was of her uncle's contriving, and it was unlikely that she would be able to send even a message to Judge Marriott. Her mission was doomed to failure, and she was in the hands of her enemies. What could they compel her to do? Was marriage with Lord Rosmore the only way out? She would never take that way. Though they accused her of treason, though death threatened her, she would never marry him. To Judge Marriott she was prepared to sacrifice herself, but to Lord Rosmore never, not even to save the life of the man she loved. There had been moments when an alliance with Rosmore had not appeared so dreadful to her, moments when her disappointment concerning Gilbert Crosby had helped to make Rosmore less repugnant to her; but from the moment she had determined to sacrifice herself these two men stood in clear and definite antagonism. The one she loved, the other she hated. Why she should so love and so hate she could not have explained fully, but the love and hate were facts, and she made no attempt to reason about them. She heard Martin's voice at intervals, complaining, garrulous, and then suddenly jesting, jests not meant for her ears, but fitted to the rough company in the midst of which he rode. Poor Martin, she thought, Mad Martin. This might make him mad indeed, drive from him entirely that strange wit he had and which he used so wonderfully at times. He had been her playfellow, and her teacher, too, in many things, yet he was one of God's fools. There was compensation in that surely. Barbara winced presently when Martin's voice was raised in higher complaint. "What are you trying to do, you fool?" cried a gruff voice. "I want to see that my mistress is happy. She would like me to ride beside her window; and I will, too." It was probably at this moment that Gilbert Crosby caught sight of the cavalcade, and thought the prisoner was being vilely ill-used. Well might he think so, for Martin attempted to force his way through the troopers and get to the window. "She's used to me," he literally screamed. "See what an ugly fellow is beside the window now! Truth, I never saw so many ugly men together. Let me pass!" "Peace, Martin, I am all right!" Barbara called from the window, fearful that these men might do him an injury. "Take that idiot further back!" roared the voice of the man in command of the troop. "He does naught but frighten the lady." Martin received a cuff on the head, and was hustled to the rear, a man riding on either side of him. "Who was the gentleman who struck me?" whined Martin, rubbing his head. "Sayers. His is a good hand for dusting off flies," laughed one of the men beside him, willing to get some sport out of this madman.