"And I know it was very wrong of me, my lady, not to have told Sir Harry and the other gentlemen that night, when there was all that terrible to-do, and they came bursting out of their rooms, and poor Lord Rockingham was killed, but I had not the heart to give him up, my lady. So faint he was with loss of blood, and as white as a ghost, I just could not do it.
If it's found out I shall be beaten and sent to prison, but he said I must tell you, whatever happened." And she stood there, twisting her hands, with the tears running down her cheeks.
"Prue," said Dona, swiftly, "what are you trying to tell me?"
"Only that I hid William in the nursery that night, my lady, when I found him lying in the passage, with a cut on his arm, and another on the back of his head.
And he told me then that Sir Harry and the other gentlemen would kill him if he was found, that the French pirate was his master, and there had been fighting at Navron that night.
So, instead of giving him up, my lady, I bathed and dressed his wounds, and I made him up a bed on the floor beside the children, and after breakfast, when the gentlemen were all away searching for him and the other pirates, I let him out, my lady, by the side-door, and no one knows anything about it but you and me."
She blew her nose noisily on her handkerchief, and would have cried again.
But Dona smiled at her, and leaning forward patted her shoulder, and said,
"It's all right, Prue. You are a good faithful girl to tell me this, and I shall keep it to myself.
I am fond of William, too, and should be greatly distressed if any harm came to him.
But I want you to tell me something. Where is William now?"
"He said something about Coverack when he woke, my lady, and asked for you, and I told him you were in bed, very shocked and exhausted, as Lord Rockingham had been killed in the night.
At that he seemed to think a while, my lady, and then when I had bathed and dressed his wounds afresh he said he had friends at Gweek who would shelter him, and would not betray him, and that he would be there if you wished to send word to him, my lady."
"At Gweek?" said Dona. "Very well then, Prue.
I want you to go back to bed, and think no more of this, and to say nothing of it ever again, to anyone, not even to me.
Go on as you have always done, won't you Prue, and look after the children, and love them well."
"Yes, my lady," said Prue, and she curtseyed, her tears still near the surface, and left the room, and went back to the nursery.
And Dona smiled to herself in the darkness, for William the faithful was still at hand, her ally and her friend, and his master's escape from the keep had become a thing of possibility.
So she slept, her mind easier than it had been, and when she woke she saw that the listless sky had become blue again, and the clouds were gone, and there was something in the air of that midsummer that would not come again, a warmth and a brilliance belonging to the days when, careless and enraptured, she had gone fishing in the creek.
While she dressed she made her plans, and when she had breakfasted she sent word for Harry to come to her.
Already he had recovered something of his former spirits, and as he came into the room he called to his dogs in his usual voice, hearty and well content with himself, and he kissed her on the back of her neck as she sat before her mirror.
"Harry," she said, "I want you to do something for me."
"Anything in the world," he promised eagerly, "what is it?"
"I want you to leave Navron today," she said, "and take Prue and the children with you."
His face fell, and he stared at her in dismay.
"But you?" he said, "why will you not come with us?"
"I shall follow you," she said, "tomorrow."
He began to pace up and down the room.
"I imagined we could all travel together, when this business is over," he protested. "They'll be hanging that fellow tomorrow in all probability.
I thought of going over to see Godolphin and Eustick about it today.
You'd like to see him hanged, would not you?
We could fix it for nine in the morning, perhaps, and then start our journey afterwards."
"Have you ever seen a man hanged?" she said.
"Why, yes, there's little to it, I admit.
But this is rather different.
Damn it, Dona, the fellow murdered poor Rock, and would have killed you too.
Do you mean to say you have no wish for revenge?"
She did not answer, and he could not see her face, for her back was turned to him.
"George Godolphin would think it very cool of me," he said, "to slip away without a word of explanation."
"I would do the explaining," she said. "I propose calling on him myself this afternoon, after you have gone."
"Do you mean that I should deliberately set off on the journey, without you, taking the children and the nurse, and leaving you here, all alone, with a handful of half-witted servants?"
"Exactly that, Harry."
"And if I take the carriage for the children, and ride myself, how would you travel tomorrow?"
"I should hire a post-chaise from Helston."
"And join with us at Okehampton you mean, in the evening?"
"And join with you at Okehampton, in the evening."
He stood by the window, staring moodily out into the garden.
"Oh, God damn it, Dona, shall I ever understand you?"
"No, Harry," she said, "but it does not matter very much."
"It does matter," he said, "it makes life most confounded hell for both of us."