"Why, Martin, I must know every turn in them as well as you do," she answered. "It is my fancy to-night," he said. "Give me your hand. So. I have a dream of a valiant knight, famous in war and tourney, one whom fine ladies turn to glance after and desire that he should wear their favour. Only one fair maid heeds him not, and ever the knight's eyes look towards her. Whenever he draws his sword, or sets his lance in rest, he whispers her name; for him she is the one woman in all the world. And suddenly there comes to her the knowledge of his worth; I know not how it comes, but she understands, and then--The dream ends then, yet to-night it seems to linger for an instant. This dark stair leads to some beautiful palace. You are the woman of the dream, the most beautiful woman in the world; and for just a moment I stand a valiant knight--your knight--and welcome you to all I possess." His voice was little above a whisper. She could not see his face, but in the dark her hand was raised and lips touched it. "Martin!" "After all, it's a narrow winding stair, and leads to a meagre chamber where lives a poor fellow who loves his fiddle. Come." The room was in darkness, but Martin guided her to a chair. "Wait; we will have candles, four of them to-night, and we will pretend we keep high festival. See, mistress, how bright the room is; there are scarcely any dark shadows in it at all." She turned to look, and then a little cry came from her parted lips. Before her, his eyes fixed upon her, stood the man who had come to her rescue at Newgate. "You see, mistress, I did not forget," said Martin; and, taking up his fiddle from a table, he went out, closing the door softly behind him. There came a little cadence of notes--the laugh of the fiddle. Somehow there was the sound of wailing rather than of laughter in it to-night. CHAPTER XI THE FUGITIVE AT AYLINGFORD Barbara Lanison suddenly remembered how much she had thought of the man who stood before her. For the first time she realised that not a day had passed but those grey eyes had seemed to look into hers, even as they did now; that the hours were few into which his image had not come. This meeting was so unexpected, she was so entirely unprepared for it, that she was taken at a disadvantage. It seemed to her that this man must surely know how much he had been in her thoughts, must be reading her like an open book. Her eyes fell, and the colour rushed into her cheeks. "Why has Martin gone?" she said, turning to the door to recall him, and whatever sense of confusion she experienced, there was a dignity in her movement, and a tone of annoyance in her voice, which showed Crosby that she was proud, and seemed to prove that just now she was angry as well. "Won't you at least let me thank you for your help?" he asked, taking a step towards her.