"You have told me enough," said Prue, much elated. "Come with me, and I will show you the man." "But this is not the man that escaped our hands last night," said M. de Rondiniacque, thoughtfully. "What matter, Mr. Mar-plot? Can you not see it is the man they would have? Come." And she seized him by the hand and ran for the door, almost dragging him after her. But at that turn of the gallery that leads to the stable-yard she paused a moment. "But in truth," she said, "it does hurt me to betray the poor man." "Betray!" cried M. de Rondiniacque. "To be sure," answered Prue; "it will be nothing else. Since last evening have I hid him in the barn loft. He told me he was a poor soldier of His Highness that was to be hanged for stealing an old hen. Now 't is a wicked thing indeed to steal a hen, but since the hen was, he says, very tough and bad eating, I think it a worse thing to hang the poor man for it. Moreover, I did once save my grandfather when Kirke's men would have hanged him, and the mere name of a rope would make me pity a very Judas." "But what made you think him a soldier, and yet know him for a priest?" asked M. de Rondiniacque, not a little puzzled. "He has a sword and other vile things for killing," replied the tender-hearted little fool, "and also a great cloak like those of the Prince's guard." "I begin to smoke the man," said the Lieutenant, remembering the escape, after the affair in the orchard at Royston, of one of the conspirators. "But this morning, when I privily took him food," continued Prudence, "the thing of steel, which is for all the world like those of your men, was no longer upon his head. For he lay sleeping, and before I had him awake I had well marked the little round spot atop of his head, which had not long since certainly been shaven, having now but a very short and stubby growth of hair upon it. And he made me think, too, of a bad man that Farmer Kidd did tell me of. So I thought he was perhaps the priest your Mr. _Benting_ hunts." "'T is very like," said M. de Rondiniacque. "So lead me where he is, child. In any case, he is a bad man." "You would not have me betray a man for no reason but his badness," said the girl piteously. "I would have you spend your pity first upon the good and innocent," replied M. de Rondiniacque, with some sternness; and then added: "Moreover, the man is a Papist." "A Papist! Ah! I do forget," cried Prue. "He must even make way for better men." And with that she led him at once the same road that the ale and beef had taken. From which it is clear that M. de Rondiniacque's dealings with her kind had at least taught him the dexterous art of matching a bad reason with a worse upon the other side. Such, then, was my little handmaid's great secret, which nothing, perhaps, but her pique at her mistress's reticence could have induced her so long to maintain. CHAPTER XX