The question would
arise, again and again, no matter how she tried to suppress it, was she
justified in acting as she intended to do? Who was this man for whom she
was prepared to give so much? A notorious highwayman, upon whose head
there was a price. Yes, it was true, but he was also Gilbert Crosby, the
man who had taken possession of her thoughts since the first moment she
had seen him, the man who had sheltered and helped the peasantry fleeing
from an inhuman persecution, and who must now pay for his courage with
his life unless she pleaded for him. Was she justified? The question
sounded in her ears when she fell asleep; she heard it when she awoke
next morning. Yes, and mentally she flung back the answer, yes, for to
her Gilbert Crosby was something more than a brave man, and was dear to
her in spite of everything. He was the man who had set an ideal in her
heart, he was the man she loved. Hardly to herself would she admit it,
but it was love that sent her to the West.
It was still early when the coach rolled out of Witley, but it was not
early enough, nor was the pace fast enough, to satisfy Barbara. She
became suddenly fearful of pursuit which might stop her from reaching
Dorchester.
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