"A prisoner! No."
"The devil take that wench!"
"What wench?" Crosby asked.
"Give me something to drink and a mouthful of food. The story may be
told in a few words, and then we must get to Dorchester."
"Martin! Why? Surely she--"
"Yes; she will be there within an hour or so. That is why we go to
Dorchester to-night."
CHAPTER XX
SCARLET HANGINGS
Barbara's prison was an old house in a narrow street of Dorchester, the
ground floor of which had been turned into temporary barracks for
soldiers and militiamen. The prisoner passed to rooms on the upper floor
through a rough, gaping crowd, and in some faces pity shone through
brutality for a moment. Something worse than death might await so fair a
traitor.
The rooms to which she was taken were sparsely furnished and rather
dark, the windows looking out upon a blank wall, two rooms
communicating, but with only a single entrance from the passage without.
The most hopeful would have seen little prospect of escape, and the most
spirited might wonder if depression could be successfully conquered in
such surroundings. Half a dozen soldiers had followed them up the
stairs, but only Watson, whose stentorian voice seemed to fit him to
command a troop of ruffians, entered the room with them.
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