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“What is to be done?”

“Can you sing, Mistress Pemberthy?”

“Yes, a little; at least, they say so,” she said, blushing at her own self-encomium.

“Sing something–to gain time. I will slip away while you are singing, and get the horses round to the front door. Do not be afraid.”

“Gentlemen,” he cried, in a loud voice, and bringing the handle of his pistol smartly on the head of the man nearest to him to emphasise his discourse, “Mistress Pemberthy will oblige the company with a song. Order and attention for the lady!”

“A song! a song!” exclaimed the highwaymen, clapping their hands and stamping their heels upon the floor. And then, amid the pause which followed, Sophie Tarne began a plaintive little ballad in a sweet, tremulous voice, which gathered strength as she proceeded.

It was a strange scene awaiting the return of Reuben Pemberthy, whose tall form stood in the doorway before Sophie had finished her sweet, simple rendering of an old English ballad. Reuben’s round blue eyes were distended with surprise, and his mouth, generally very set and close, like the mouth of a steel purse, was on this especial occasion, and for a while, wide open. Sophie Tarne singing her best to amuse this vile and disorderly crew, who sat or stood around the room half drunk, and with glasses in their hands, pipes in their mouths, and the formidable, old-fashioned horse-pistols in their pockets!

And who was the handsome man, with the long, black, flowing hair, and a pale face, standing by Sophie’s side–his Sophie–in a suit of soiled brocade and tarnished lace, with a Ramilie cocked hat under his arm and a pistol in his hand? The leader of these robbers, the very man who had stopped him on the king’s highway three hours ago and taken every stiver which he had brought away from Barnet; who had, with the help of these other scoundrels getting mad drunk on his brandy, taken away his horse and left him bound to a gate by the roadside because he would not be quietly robbed, but must make a fuss over it and fight and kick in a most unbecoming fashion, and without any regard for the numbers by whom he had been assailed.

“I did not think you could sing like that,” said the captain, quietly and in a low voice, when Sophie had finished her song, and a great shout of approval was echoing throughout the farm and many hundred yards beyond it.

“You have not got the horses ready,” said Sophie, becoming aware that he was still at her side. “You said–you promised–“

“I could not leave you while you were singing Did you know that was my mother’s song?”

“How should I know that?”

“No–no. But how strange–how–ah! there is your brother at the door. I have had the honour of meeting Master Pemberthy of Finchley earlier this evening, I think. A brave young gentleman; you should be proud of him.”

“My bro–oh! it is Reu. O Reu, Reu, where have you been? Why did you not come before to help us–to tell us what to do?” And Sophie Tarne ran to him and put her arms round his neck and burst into tears. It was not a wise step on Sophie’s part, but it was the reaction at the sight of her sweetheart, at the glimpse, as it were, of deliverance.

“There, there, don’t cry, Sophie; keep a stout heart!” he whispered. “If these villains have robbed us, they will not be triumphant long. It will be my turn to crow presently.”

“I–I don’t understand.”

“I can’t explain now. Keep a good face–ply them with more drink–watch me. Well, my friends,” he said, in a loud voice, “you have stolen a march upon me this time; but I’ve got home, you see, in time to welcome you to Maythorpe and share in your festivity. I’m a Pemberthy, and not likely to cry over spilled milk. More liquor for the gentlemen, you wenches, and be quick with it. Captain, here’s to you and your companions, and next time you catch a Pemberthy. thy, treat him more gently in return for a welcome here. More liquor, girls; the gentlemen are thirsty after their long ride.”