Lochinvar: A Novel

"Then I will call you 'the Little Marie'!" said Black Peter, in high delight, "and never so much as ask that other name, which is but for strangers."

He went to a cupboard in the wall which was labelled in large letters "Holy Bibles and Catechisms for the Use of the Prisoners." The jailer opened this most respectable and necessary receptacle, and took from it a square black bottle, short-necked and square-shouldered, a few hard biscuits such as seamen use, and two large, wide-mouthed glasses of twisted Venetian glass.

He came back with all these in his arms, and set them down together on the table. "Now," he said, coaxingly, "sit you down, Little Marie, and I will bring some water from the pitcher behind the door there. A glass of fine Hollands will keep out the chills of this night, for the wind is both shrewd and snell."

"Let me bring the water!" cried the Little Marie, gayly, clapping her hands ingenuously. "This is just like keeping house to John, my brother. Did I tell you his beard was like yours? See, I will stroke it. Even so does it fall so gracefully on brother John's breast!"

And as she tripped away with the tall jug in her hand to the pail behind the door, the jailer devoutly hoped that it would be much more than an hour and a half before his deputy should return.

The Little Marie was a long time in finding the proper water-pail, and it was not till Peter was half across the floor on his way to assist her that she appeared, carrying the beaker of water in one hand and a small earthenware cup in the other.

"A big, big jug for the mickle great cat,
And a little wee jug for the kitten."

So she chanted, to the tune of a Flanders nursery rhyme. Then she laughed merrily. And the amorous Black Peter, subdued to the soles of his boots, vowed that he had never heard anything half so prettily witty in all his life.

Then the Little Marie poured out a full tumbler of the Hollands and water from the jug which she had brought for him, and also adjusted a tiny portion for herself.

"Milk for the kitten," she said; "taste it," and she offered to feed him with a spoonful – "nice, nice – is it not, brother John?"

And brother John smiled and tasted.

"Now drink, great black cat!" she commanded, stamping her foot. And, nothing loath, Peter drank her health – once, twice, and thrice. He would have come about the table to mix another, and, mayhap, to take the Little Marie by the waist. But even as he rose he began to see a flock of Little Maries, and he put his hand hard on the oaken settle.

"I think I will sit down," he said; "drink thou to my health, Little Marie!" And with his eyes drooping with leaden sleep, Peter watched a regiment of country girls drinking his health out of tall green glasses with twisted stems. The last words his ears caught, ere the drowsy, lisping ocean of infinite sleep swelled up and drowned everything, were, "Kittens' milk, brother John – only nice sweet milk for pretty innocent kittens."

And then Black Peter's chin sank on his breast.

* * * * *

So soon as the jailer's head fell and his eyes finally closed, an instantaneous change passed over the face of the Little Marie. The wayward mirth and provocation died out of it. A haggard, anxious expression came into her eyes. She ran forward and grasped the bundle of keys that swung at Peter's girdle. She tried with all her might to pull them away, but they were locked to a strong steel band which passed about his waist.

The girl stood a moment in despair. Then she thrust a quick hand into all his pockets and pulled out many trifles such as men carry – love-tokens, buttons, coins, and the like, mixed with ends of string and stray scraps of tobacco.

These she flung down instantly. She was at her wits' end. But suddenly she saw peeping out from under the beard which had reminded her of brother John's, a tiny bit of yellow chain. She ran her hand along it, and out of Black Peter's bosom there leaped a key.

Without the loss of a moment Marie fitted it into the padlock which secured the great bunch to his waistband of steel. In another instant they were in her possession. Then, opening the door on the left, which had been left unlocked, when she brought the water-pitcher, she sped down the passage in the direction of the round tower, in which she knew Wat to be confined.

But when she thought that she must be approaching the place, she found a number of cell-doors. Marie felt that it would not do to make any mistake. Once more her quick wits aided her, as they had already done that night to some purpose.

"Visiting rounds!" she cried, in a hoarse voice, as she had heard the guard do at the posts; "the name of the prisoner detained within?"

But she had tried quite a dozen before she heard the welcome sound of Wat Gordon's voice, speaking from the pallet on which he had been lying thinking of Kate, weary and sleepless.

Swiftly she tried key after key. The fourth grated in the lock and stuck. But the Little Marie thrust the stem of a larger key through the handle, and, setting her knee to the panel and putting all her strength into her hands, she turned the wards of the lock. The door swung to the wall of its own accord, and there lay Wat on his bed.

He leaped to his feet with a startled exclamation when he saw her.

"Marie!" he cried, "what do you here?"

"Hush!" she said, "I am here to save you. Come!"

And carefully locking the door of the cell behind them, they stole along the passage. Black Peter still slept in the outer hall, nodding and swaying stertorously on the settle, and there was no other sound save the breathing of the resting prisoners. Without, the street was still, Peter's lieutenant being busy carrying out his instructions at the excellent Hostel of the Cheese of Gouda.

Marie opened the huge bolted door, closed and locked it, threw the key into the canal, and the pair glided silently and unmolested down the street.

"Have you anywhere to go where you will be safe?" asked Marie.

"Nowhere," said Wat. "I should indeed like to find my comrade, John Scarlett, but if he be not in his lodgings, I dare not go to the camp to seek him."

"Come with me," said Little Marie. "I will hide you safe and bring your friend to you. For I also am your friend, though you think it not – and, indeed, care not even if you did believe it."

"But indeed, and in God's truth, I do count you my friend," said Wat; "for who but you, Little Marie, during all these black days, has so much as thought upon poor Wat Gordon?"

At his kind words Marie bent her head, and for the first time in her life her heart was filled with the fresh spring-water of purest pleasure. And what wonder if a little of it overflowed into her eyes?

CHAPTER XVII

JACK SCARLETT CALLS HIMSELF A FOOL

Wat and his companion passed along the deserted streets of Amersfort, keeping carefully to those which were darkest and least frequented. For a space neither spoke. But as they were crossing a wide, deserted square, the Little Marie broke the silence with a startling speech.

"I think by this time he will be dead," she said, simply, as though she had said that it rained.

"Think who will be dead?" queried Wat, stopping instantly and facing her.

"Why, your enemy!" replied the Little Marie, calmly; "but let us go on lest the watch should come by and stop us."

"My enemy!" exclaimed Walter, putting his hand to his brow like one bewildered.

"Aye," said Marie, "the man you showed me and told me was your enemy – the dark man called Barra, the provost-marshal. I, the Little Marie, struck him in the side with a knife as he was mounting his horse to ride away – methinks I know whither. At any rate, it was on an evil quest. He rides on no others. Did I not tell you that he was my enemy before he was yours?"

"Struck my Lord Barra – with a knife, Marie?" stammered Wat. His slow Northern blood had not dreamed of such swift vengeance.

"Aye," said the girl, anxiously; "did I not do right? He was mine enemy, true. He it was who first brought me hither, left me friendless in this city of Satan, made me that which men think me. But had that been all his fault he might have lived. After all, that sin was mine as well as his. I struck him because he was your enemy, and because you hated him. Did I not well?"

"Marie," said Wat, very soberly, "you and I are as good as dead for this. Did any see you strike?"

"Aye, marry, there were," she replied, carelessly; "but I was well wrapped about in a red cloak and wore the cap and ear-plates of a peasant woman of Frisia. There were several that stood curiously about as I went near to hand him my petition at his own door. But what with the night, the reeling of the torches, and the instant confusion, none put out a hand to stay me as I went away. And I think he will surely be dead by this!"

She spoke the words dispassionately, like one who has done an unpleasing duty and has no further concern nor stake in the matter.

Instinctively their feet had turned into the street of Zaandpoort. Wat's heart suddenly leaped within him. He had come to see the house where he had been happy for a few hours. He would look just once upon the window whence his love had often looked forth, and at that other within which her dear head would even now be lying, shedding soft dishevelled curls distractingly over the pillow – ah! the heart-sickness! To think that never should he see it thus, never now lay his own close beside it, as in wild visions of the night he had often dreamed of doing.

But there shone a light from the living-room of Will Gordon's lodging. Shadows moved restlessly across the blind. The house in Zaandpoort Street was still awake and stirring.

Wat took a sudden resolution. He would risk all, and for the last time look upon the woman he adored, even though he knew she loved him not.

"Hide here a moment, Marie," Wat said to his companion; "over there in the dark of the archway. This is the house of my cousin, a soldier from my own country of Scotland. I would bid him farewell before I go."