"
"From Dorchester," said Crosby.
"And that's a place you're well out of, since Jeffreys must be there by
this time."
Crosby nodded, and the landlord drew the ale and busied himself with
ordering his guest's breakfast.
Crosby had but half appeased his hunger when the sound of wheels was
upon the road. As he hurried out the landlord stopped him.
"Carefully, sir. Better let me see who it is."
"Quickly, then! It is a coach, and I must know who rides in it."
The tired horses came to a halt before the door, and by the coach was a
horseman, the dust of a long journey upon his horse, upon his clothes,
even upon the brown mask which concealed his face. Then the window of
the coach was lowered, and a head was thrust out, a head shining with
golden curls which the hood did not wholly conceal. Only a few minutes
ago Barbara had roused from her long sleep, startled for a little space
that the walls of her prison at Dorchester were not about her. The
knowledge that she was free, that she had escaped from Lord Rosmore,
quickly brought the colour to her cheeks, and her eyes were bright and
full of questions as she looked at the man in the mask.
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