Marmaduke Wyvil; or, The Maid's Revenge

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ADVERTISEMENT.

In presenting this work to the public, the author feels that he is but renewing an intercourse which, though interrupted for a while, has ever been a source of agreeable recollection to himself, with many distant and unknown friends; and, trusting that they will regard the renewal of a pleasant familiarity with favorable eyes, commits it to their gentle judgment—confident that it contains not a syllable to call up a blush into the purest cheek, or to implant an improper thought in the most unsullied heart—and trusting that it may be found to contain some wholesome lessons, in the portraiture of the contest between human principles, and human passions; and to convey some useful information concerning the history of a period full of great men and stirring incidents.

It may not be superfluous to add in this place, that all the facts introduced as Historical will be found strictly true—the author deeming it a species of crime, even in fiction, to falsify the truth of History. Those of his readers, who may feel such interest in this little narrative as would induce them to examine for themselves, are referred to the "Memoires relatifs a la Revolution d'Angleterre"—to the Biography of the Cardinal de Retz—and to the Lives of Celebrated Statesmen, by G. P. R. James, Esq.—from one of which sources most of the facts inwoven in the following romance have been, and much more may be, derived, both of amusement and of information.

Carlton House, New-York, April 3, 1843.

CHAPTER I.

In a sequestered vale of merry England, not many miles from the county town of Worcester, there stands, in excellent preservation, even to the present day, one of those many mansions scattered through the land, which—formerly the manor houses of a race, now, like their dwellings, becoming rapidly extinct, the good old English squires— have, for the most part, been converted into farm-houses; since their old-time proprietors have, simultaneously with the growth of vaster fortunes, and the rise of loftier dignities, declined into a humbler sphere. In the days of which we write, however, Woolverton Hall was in the hands of the same family, which had dwelt there, father and son, for ages. It was a tall, irregular edifice, of bright red brick, composed of two long buildings, with steep flagged roofs and pointed gables, meeting exactly at right angles so as to form a letter L; the longer limb running due east and west, the shorter abutting on the eastern end, and pointing with its gable, southerly. In this south gable, near the top, was a tall, gothic, lanceolated window, its mullions and casings wrought of a yellowish sand-stone, to match the corner stones of all the angles, which were faced with the same material; beneath this window, which, as seen from without, appeared to reach nearly from the floor to the ceiling of the second story, was the date, 1559—the numerals, several feet in length, composed of rusty iron; and above it, on the summit of the gable, a tall weather-cock, surmounted by a vane shaped like a dolphin, which had once been fairly gilded, but now was all dim and tarnished by long exposure to the seasons. To this part of the house there were no chimneys, which was the more remarkable, that the rest of the building was somewhat superfluously adorned with these appendages, rising like columns, quaintly wrought of brickwork in the old Elizabethan style. Corresponding to the gothic window in position, though by no means so lofty, a range of five large square-topped latticed windows, divided each into four compartments by a cross-shaped stone transom, ran all along that front of the other wing, which, with the abutting chapel—for such it seemed to be—formed the interior angle of the L. From the point of the western roof, to match, as it were, the weathercock which crowned the other gable, projected a long beam or horn of stone, at an angle of about ninety degrees, curiously wreathed with a deep spiral groove, not much unlike the tusk of that singular animal, the sword-fish.

This was all that could be seen of the main building from without, by a spectator looking at its southern front—for it stood in a court surrounded by a heavy wall of brick, with a projecting parapet and battlement of stone, flanked by short towers, with roofs shaped like extinguishers, and having its base washed by a broad rapid rivulet, which, rushing through a narrow artificial channel, along the eastern wall, expanded in front of the house into a wider bed; and after falling over a steep dam, swept off down the lone valley to the left, in a south-westerly direction. In the outer wall, close to the base of a flanking tower, crenelled and looped for musketry and ordnance, was a low water-gate, well closed with a portcullis of stout iron bars; and, some ten feet within, by a strong second door of oak, studded with massive nails. Toward the west, the courtyard wall rose higher, for there a smooth and velvet lawn, with no impediment of fosse or ditch, swept, with a light ascent, up to its very foot; and in the centre of its length, seen, in perspective, by one standing as above, was an embattled gate-house. It should be added that from within this wall, the tops of many ornamental trees might be discovered, now slightly tinged by the first hues of autumn. The northern and eastern faces of the house, which could not, of course, be seen from the position indicated, displayed no entrances, nor aught save narrow loops and shot-holes on the ground floor, while, even on the upper stories, the apertures for air and light were small, and guarded against escalade by heavy iron gratings.

The whole had evidently been originally meant, no less for a defensible position than for a peaceful dwelling, in those stern days, when every man's house was, in truth, his castle; but easier times had followed, and many of the sterner points had been concealed, and that not casually, by graces and embellishments of milder nature. Fruit-trees and many flowering creepers were trained along the landward fronts of the main building; a mass of dense and tangled ivy covered the turrets of the gate-house, and on the moat—little designed for such use by its makers—floated two stately swans, their graceful necks and snow-white plumage reflected to the life, on its transparent bosom, with a whole host of smaller water-fowl, teal, widgeon, golden-eyes, and others of rare foreign species, diving and revelling, half-reclaimed, in pursuit of their prey or pleasure.

Such was the aspect of the hall, on the day following the desperate fight of Worcester, the sounds of which—the dull deep bellowing of the cannon, blent with the harsh discordant rattle of the volleying arquebus—had been distinctly heard by its dismayed inhabitants. Some symptoms of fresh preparation were there, though, for the most part, slight and ineffective—the creepers had been cut away in places where they had entirely obscured the crenelles; fresh loopholes had been broken in the western wall; a few small cannon, falcons and culverins, were mounted on the parapet; and from an embrasure, which flanked the water gate, the muzzle of a heavy gun was run out, grinning its stern defiance. There was no flag, however, displayed from the walls; no show of any garrison, not so much even as a solitary sentinel—so that there was no reason to believe the inmates partisans of either of those factions which had so long disturbed the country; or to suppose them capable of any more prolonged defence, than might suffice to beat off the marauders, who, ever profiting by times of civil discord, levied their contributions equally on friend or foe or neutral.

South of the moat, the bank of which was fringed with a low shrubby coppice, mostly of ornamental plants and bushes, a park-like meadow dotted with clumps of trees, and full of sunny slopes and cool deep hollows, extended, half a mile perhaps in width, to the high road, from which it was divided by a broad sunk fence and ragged paling; and was flanked by the stream, which, strong and deep and rapid, had cut itself a deep gorge through the rich alluvial soil, the sides thickset with broom and furze and brachens, and many a polished holly-bush, and many an ash and alder, forming a dense and seemingly impervious brake. Beyond the river, which the road traversed on an old one-arched bridge of brick, lay a wide tract of low and swampy woodland; and at the angle of the park, formed by the meeting of the highway and the brook, stood a small fishing-house, much overgrown with ivy, but kept in good repair; as might be seen by the neat painted lattices, one of which, standing open, showed a white muslin curtain gracefully looped up, and a small table with a vase of flowers arranged there, evidently by a woman's hand.

This scene, with all its details, has not been thus particularly and closely drawn, from the mere wish of laying a picture before the eyes of the reader—although it is a picture, and a true one—but from a desire of impressing on the mind localities, without a full and distinct perception of which much of the melancholy tale to be related would be obscure, to such a degree, as to lose one half of its interest.

It was, as has been said, on the day following Worcester fight—the crowning mercy of that remarkable man who swayed so skilfully the destinies of the great kingdom, which he so strangely won—that Woolverton Hall looked, in the level rays of the declining sun, as it is here described. The morning had been raw and gusty, and though toward sunset the chilly clouds had opened, and let out a few faint beams to gild the melancholy hues of autumn, which were encroaching fast upon the cheerful greenery of the woods, it was but a gray and gloomy evening. A few small birds had, indeed, mustered courage to chirrup some short notes to the brief sunbeams, and a single throstle was pouring out his liquid song from the thick foliage on the river bank; but the wind whistled dolefully, although not high, among the tree tops, whirling away the sere leaves with its every breath; and a thin ghostly mist seethed upward from the surface of the brook, like the steam of a caldron, and through its smoky wreaths flapped the broad pinions of that aquatic hermit, the gray heronshaw, meet habitant of such a spot.

Sadly, however, as the scene, beautiful in ordinary aspects, and romantically wild, showed, under such a sky, it was yet gazed upon by soft and lovely eyes; for, from the open lattice of the fishing-house, nearest to the highway, a young girl, surely not past her twentieth summer, looking forth half listlessly half mournfully over the bridge, and up the sandy road, which, skirting the dank woodlands wound over a small hill, the verge of which cut clear against the ruddy sky at a mile's distance. She was a genuine English beauty, with a fair and oval face, a bright, delicate complexion, shaded by a profusion of rich nut-brown hair, falling in ample curls from off her lustrous brow, and sweeping, in thick clusters, down her neck. Her eyes were of a full bright blue, with long dark lashes; and they, and all her features spoke volumes of soft gentle girlish feelings—of tenderness and pity; and of love, latent—but ready to leap forth a giant from his birth. Her figure was below, rather than above, the middle height of woman; but exquisitely shaped, and far more full and rounded, although her waist was very slender, than usual at her years. Her arm, which was a good deal displayed by the open falling sleeve of the period, was symmetry itself; and her whole person, and its every movement full of that graceful ease, which goes yet farther to win hearts than the most regal beauty. A book or two lay scattered on the table at her side, and an old-fashioned lute; while at her feet, stretched out at his full length, was an enormous bloodhound, his lithe and sinewy limbs now all relaxed and easy, his huge black-muzzled head quietly couched between his paws, and his smooth tawny hide glancing like copper in the last lurid sunbeam. But now that sunbeam vanished; a deeper shade sank down over the landscape, a dull gray hue swallowed up all the glimmering tints that gemmed the fleecy clouds with light, and all was dim and dark—woodland and mead and sky and river, except one pale bright streak far in the west, against which the brow of the hill, with the road winding over it, stood out in clear relief.

The girl, who had been gazing so long on the darkening scene, evidently half unconscious that she did so, suddenly seemed to recollect herself, and gathering her cloak about her, drew its hood over her rich tresses, and rose as if to go—the bloodhound, wakened from his doze by her light tread, lifted his head, yawned lazily, and stretched himself; and then arising to his full height, looked wistfully into her face, as if he were aware of the importance of his trust.

But at that very moment a dull flat report, as of a distant gunshot, broke the silence; and the dog pricked his pendulous ears, and stalked with a low growl to the doorway; while the lady turned her head quickly toward the window whence she had just withdrawn. Her first glance was toward the road; and, where it crossed the hill-top, she saw clearly the head of a man, and then his whole figure, with his horse, rise rapidly against the brilliant gleam of the western sky—so instantaneous was his transit, however, that she would almost have distrusted her eyesight, had not the clatter of hoofs dashing fiercely down the hill-side, assured her of its accuracy—for now the slope and base of the hill were all in misty and uncertain shadow. Before she had well thought on what she had scarce seen, another and another and another head topped the steep verge; and, as they crossed it, were discovered, by the bright glitter, to be covered with steel caps, the well-known head-dress of the Puritan troopers—another second sufficed to bring into full view a party of some twenty horse, who halted for a moment on the summit—a dozen of quick flashes ran along the front, and the sharp rattle of a volley followed—again a minute—and they, too, had galloped down the slope, and were enveloped in thick gloom. All this passed in less time than it has taken to describe it, but still the lady had marked and understood it all; and acted on the instant, as a kind heart, instigated by woman's natural sympathy with the oppressed, dictated. With a quick step she left the fishing-house, and stood upon a little flight of steps which ran down from a platform level with the bridge, to the stream's brink. And scarcely had she reached her stand, before the single horseman wheeled round the angle of the wood, and crossed the bridge at as fast a rate as his drooping steed could compass. The pursuers, scarcely five hundred yards behind him, were still beyond the woodland, which alone hindered them from seeing him.

"Hist!" she cried—"hist! Sir Cavalier," in clear low tones, which made themselves distinctly audible to him whom she addressed, though they could scarcely have been heard at three yards' distance. "Halt, as you love your life. Halt, for Godsake!"

Almost instinctively the rider drew his rein; and the wearied horse obeyed so readily, that he stood statue-like upon the instant. The horseman was a tall slight figure, with a slouched hat and drooping feather, a cuirass of bright steel, crossed by a broad blue baldric, and all his buff coat slashed with satin, and fringed with Flanders' lace—thus much she saw at half a glance, and it confirmed all she supposed and dreaded.

"You have but one chance for your life!" she said—"but one! but one! There is another troop of Cromwell's horse not half a league before you. 'Light down! 'light down! for Godsake, while yet they are behind the wood—nay! speak not, but 'light down," she continued, even more vehemently, seeing him now about to answer. "Do it with the speed of light—cross the bridge back again, fasten your horse there in the wood, and join me instantly—I can—I can—and I will save you, so you delay not!"

The tramp of galloping horses came nearer, and the shouts of the pursuers—he paused, he doubted, but as if to accelerate his resolve, a distant trumpet tone, and the long hollow boom of a kettle-drum came down the road from the direction he was following, and proved the hopelessness of flight. He turned his horse's head—

"Lady," he said, "I trust you, I obey"—he retraced his steps quickly, and had just reached the friendly covert, when, at the top of their speed, the Puritans drove round the corner—a second sooner, and he had perished at her feet.

With instant readiness of mind, she hurried down the steps, bidding the hound, in a low voice, be still—and from the last low stair, sprang lightly to a small abutment under the bridge's arch, just level with the water; and scarcely was she there, before, with clash of harness, and jingling of spur and scabbard, and all the thundering din of charging horse, the troopers drove above her head. The solid masonry appeared to quake beneath the fury of their speed. Her heart stood still with awe—then, as the tumult passed, and died away in the distance, bounded as though it would have burst her bosom. Timidly, cautiously she crept up the damp mossy steps, and reached the causeway— and hardly was she there, when a dim shape came crouching toward her from the woodland.

"Heaven be praised!" she exclaimed—"oh! Heaven be praised!" as he stood safely by her side. "Follow me swift and silently. Life! life is on our speed!"

Descending once more to the margin of the water, she drew aside the tangled branches, and entered a small winding footpath, worn by the devious tread of the wild deer, and widened by the steps of village urchins, nutting or birdnesting among the matted dingle. So narrow was the track, however, and so abruptly did it twist and turn round many a doddered ivy bush and stunted oak, now covered, for a few steps, by the shallow ripples of the stream, now sealing the ravine by sudden zigzags, that none but a well-practiced eye could have discovered it by that glimmering twilight. Though well aware that life was on his speed—that the avenger of blood was but a little way behind—the stranger scarcely could keep up, though muscular, and swift of foot, and active, with the deer-like speed of his fair guide. At length, after a rapid walk of perhaps ten minutes, they reached the dam at the moat-head—where was a low-arched boat-house, with a small light skiff moored beneath it—and stood quietly facing the south side of the mansion. From the two windows, farthest from the five in the upper range, a steady light was shining into the quiet night; and from a loop, beside the water-gate, a long red ray streamed out, casting a wavering line of radiance over the rippling water. With these exceptions, all was profoundly dark and silent. By the boat-house she paused a moment, as if in deep reflection.

"They will come here anon!" she said—"they will come here anon, and search the house from battlement to cellar, before we can bestow you where I would. And I must blind the servants, and speak, too, with my father. Meanwhile, here must you tarry—here they will never dream of searching."

And as she spoke she stooped under the low-browed arch, and tripped along a little rib of stone-work, scarcely a foot in width, to the extreme end of the boat-house, where was a small paved landing, with three steps downward to the water, and a slight wooden ladder upward, leading to a small hole beside the keystone of the arch.

"Up there," she cried—"up there," laying her hand upon the ladder, which they could just distinguish by the reflection of the windows from the moat. "It is a little sail-loft, not two feet high, under the slated roof, full of old sails and oars. Up there, and draw the ladder after you, and should they come to search there, which they will not , I think, roll yourself in the canvas, and lie still. And now attend to me. There is a little air-hole in the front, toward the house, whence you can see the windows. Can you swim, sir—you can, I warrant me!" and as she heard his brief affirmative, she went on rapidly—"well, when you see that red light thrice extinguished, and thrice re-lighted, with such pause that you may reckon ten between, come down, swim boldly to the water-gate, and I will be there to admit you. Farewell—God keep you," and she stepped into the light boat, unmoored, and pushed it out, while the young cavalier ascended, and drew up the ladder obedient to her bidding.

The distance was but short, and the light paddle, wielded by her fairy hands, scarcely had cut the surface six times, ere the boat floated by the portcullis of the water-gate; and a voice somewhat tremulous from age, hailed from the lighted shot-hole, inquiring who was there.

"'Tis I—'tis I, good Jeremy," she answered. "Open to me, quickly, for it is somewhat late and cold for the season."

The aged servitor required no second bidding; the grating was drawn up, and the inner doors thrown open, and—while the old man held his link on high, casting a smoky light over the steps, and the black water, and several boats moored there of various sizes—two younger grooms, with badges on the sleeves of their jerkins, ran out along the platforms on each side, and drew the boat, with its fair freight, up to the inner landing. The gates were again barred, and the portcullis lowered—the cresset in the ward-room was extinguished, and Jeremy preceding with the torch, and the grooms following cap in hand, the lady passed out from the water-tower into the courtyard of the hall.

The upper portion of the building, as viewed from without the walls, has been described already; but a new prospect was now shown—the court, from the walls of the chapel, to the gate-house at its western end, would have measured not less than a hundred yards, one half of which, toward the gate, was laid out in a formal parterre, divided from the rest by a stone balustrade, with richly-carved stone vases, and planted thickly with yew and box and holly, clipped into all fantastic shapes of peacocks, centaurs, dragons, and the like, according to the taste of that old day, with two time-honored giants—vast pines—presiding over them, like Samsons, in all the majesty of unshorn strength and beauty. The remaining space was open, paved with small pebbles, divided by long rows of granite curb-stones, diverging from a common centre, where, in an ornamental basin, played a small fountain. The door of the mansion, under a low stone arch, bearing upon its keystone the same date, 1559, was placed exactly at the extremity of the main building, where the abutting chapel formed a right angle, and was flanked by several long crenelles for musketry, which, it would seem, with similar apertures, had, formerly, been the only means of giving light to the ground floor of the edifice. Of these, however, only five remained flanking the doorway, while, for the others, had been substituted good honest latticed casements, four in the front, under the windows of the upper story, the portal corresponding to the fifth, and two in the basement of the chapel.

From all of these now shone a bright and cheerful radiance through the transparent medium of snow-white curtains, against which many a shadow of male and female forms was cast, as persons hurried to and fro between them and the lights; while ever and anon the hum of merry voices and light laughter rang out into the night, suggesting many an image of fireside English comfort. Not long, however, did the lady pause to note a scene which she had looked upon many times daily from her childhood, but passed across an angle of the garden, and through the middle of the court, directly to the door. It was a formidable massy-looking remnant of antiquity—a piece of hard black oak, six inches thick, all clenched with great nail heads, and crossed with iron bars—yet it stood on the latch, which gave way readily to the light touch of the lady, and admitted her to a small neat square hall, with two doors, to the right and left, and a huge staircase at the back—the steps, and balustrades, and wainscoting, and floor, all made of beautiful and highly-polished oak. A gothic window, with stained glass, in the second story—for the hall was the whole height of the building, with a gallery above—lighted it in the day; but now a brazen lamp, with several blazing branches, swung by a crimson cord from the roof. Two or three portraits hung upon the wall, grim-visaged warriors cap-a-pie in steel, with brandished truncheons—and long-waisted ladies, looking unutterable sweetness at huge nosegays. Upon a large slab table, under the first turn of the staircase, lay several gloves, a broad-leafed hat and feather, and a sad-colored riding-cloak of camlet; while, in the corner, stood a miscellaneous assortment of hand-guns, fishing-rods, crossbows, and hunting-poles—weapons of rural sport— as on the walls above hung suits of bright plate armor, with arquebus and petronel and pike, and every implement of veritable warfare.

"There—that will do, Jeremy. I trow I shall find my father in the library above! that will do—go your way to supper," said the fair girl, waving her hand to her attendants, eager to get away from the restraint imposed on her by their presence; and as they disappeared through the door to the right—whence, as they opened it, proceeded a most savory smell of supper, and a loud buzz of merriment—bounded with a light foot but anxious heart, up the broad staircase; hurried through several spacious rooms, illuminated only by the dim glimmering of the new-risen moon, and entering the library, stood in a broad glare of light before her father's chair.

CHAPTER II.

The apartment which the lady entered, was a small room, furnished on every side with book-cases and presses of some dark foreign wood, which, indeed, covered all the wall, with the exception of the panel immediately above the mantelpiece, and this was filled by a large and exquisitely-painted portrait. There needed not two glances before pronouncing it a masterpiece of Antony Vandyke; it was a lady, in the pride and prime of youthful beauty, and the calm melancholy features and dark glossy curls told, beyond doubt, the place which she had occupied in that old house, and the relationship she bore to the fair girl who stood below, younger and fresher and more gay, but still the breathing counterpart of the old picture. The only inmate of the room, when the girl cast the door abruptly open, was a man very far advanced in years, but yet of stately presence—time, which had covered his fine classic head with the thin snows of nearly fourscore winters, and ploughed deep lines of care and thought on his expansive brow, had not curtailed his upright stature by one inch, nor dimmed at all the lustre of his dark brilliant eye. He had been, it would seem, employed in writing; for the pen was yet in his fingers, and paper lay before him with many books—folios, and ponderous tomes of reference—scattered around him on the table. But the unwonted speed of his daughter's tread had excited him—for those were days when each new hour brought a new tale of terror, and men not naturally observant, were forced to become so, by the immediate pressure of events. He had arisen, therefore, from his cushioned chair which he had pushed back toward the ruddy hearth, and even taken a step or two toward the door—when it flew open, and with cheeks paler than usual, and a slight air of anxiety, but, nevertheless, all calm and passionless and tranquil, she stood before him.

"Why, how now, Alice," he exclaimed; "what has gone wrong now—what is amise, my darling, and wherefore so late?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing is amiss, dear father," she replied, forcing a smile, which, nevertheless, failed to deceive his fears or calm his apprehension. "Nothing has gone wrong, I assure you, but I have much to tell you, and brief space wherein to do so; and, above all, I fear me much, we shall, ere long, have most unwelcome visitors."

"Sit down, then—sit down, Alice, and tell me all about it—if there be brief space, so much the more need for good haste;" and he pulled forward, as he spoke, a settee from the corner of the chimney, and placed himself in his own seat in attitude of deep attention.

"Well, father, to begin," she said; "I took the little skiff, when you came up to write, and crossed the moat, and walked down with old Talbot to the fishing-house by the high road to Worcester; and there I got engaged with a book till my attention was called from it by sounds of martial music, sounding away beyond the top of Longmire Hill; and then I looked out in surprise, for we had heard, you know, that the troops had all moved away southward, and saw first one, and then a second troop of horsemen file down the slope; and, as I did not fear at all, having no cause to do so, I waited there to see them pass, and they were men of Cromwell's own regiment of Ironsides, with scarlet cassocks, and bright corslets, and steel caps, and large boots, and no feathers. There were above a hundred of them, and they rode by quite leisurely, laughing and chatting, and some smoking. And when they had passed by, I fell into a sort of revery, which must have lasted a long time, for when I recollected myself, it had become quite gray and dark; and there was no light in the sky except one yellow gleam along the summit of the hill, where the road crosses it. And then I rose to go away, and had put on my cloak, when a sound like the shot of a hand-gun or pistolet, attracted me, and I looked out again and saw one horseman cross the ridge at a full gallop, and half a minute after, the top was covered by a whole troop of Puritans, for I could see the glitter of their helmets, and they halted and fired a volley, and charged down hill after him. So then I went out on the platform by the bridge, and waited till he came up—a tall young gentleman, with long light hair, and a slouched hat and feather, and a steel breast-plate, with a broad blue scarf across it; and I called out to him to stop, and told him how there was another company of horse before, and bade him turn back, and tie up his own beast—sorely jaded it was, too, though a noble charger—down in the heronry wood, and to join me while his pursuers were hid behind the tall trees of the beech clump, and he went back—and was just out of sight, when the whole party turned the corner, and drove down, shouting and brandishing their swords at a fierce gallop. Then I ran down the steps, and hid beneath the arch of the brick bridge, while they dashed on overhead. Not one of them saw me or Talbot, I'm quite certain, and the dog never growled nor showed his teeth, but seemed to know what was to do, as well as I did. When they had all gone by again, I ran up to the top once more, and there he joined me; and I brought him home along the little path through the dark dingle; and when we reached the boat-house I showed him the sail-loft, and made him mount the ladder and draw it up after him; and then I crossed the moat alone, and came directly home to tell you all that I had done. And I have done right—have not I, my father?"

"Right! right, of course, my girl; you could not see the fair youth slain. Yet 'tis an awkward chance. None of the serving-men nor foresters saw him with you, you are certain?"

"Certain—most certain!"

"So far well—these troopers, as you say, will be here anon—and will search all the house; but they know me, that I have not borne arms nor taken any part in these sad broils, and our cousin Chaloner has drawn his sword for the commonwealth: so that if we can hide him from this first search, I fear little but that we may preserve him. He must stay where he is, at present, and until they be here and the search over—then will we have him in when it's quite late, and hide him in the priest's hole. Did any of the first party of troopers see you?"

"One did, and pointed me to his next comrade, and I heard them laugh and whisper."

"Then this must be your tale; you saw the first two companies go by, and tarried at the fishing-house yet longer, but when you heard the shots, you were afraid, and fled across the park to the boat-house, and came here by the skiff."

"Were it not better, father," she replied, "to make no mention of the boat-house, lest they should search and—"

"No! no!" he answered—"oh, no, no! They will interrogate the servants, and learn where the boat lay, and so will suspect what you would conceal, even from your own omission!"

"I see," she replied, thoughtfully. "Yet 'tis a fearful risk."

"It is so, Alice," answered the old man—"it is so—yet fearful as it is, it must be run—and now away—go to your bower, and call your tirewoman, and dress as is your wont; and then to supper; all must go on as usual; we must leave them no hint whereon to hang suspicion."

She left the library, and in a little while returned with her rich hair combed back from her fair brow, and neatly braided, and all her dress chastly arranged as for the evening meal. The pair descended to the hall, where, as was customary in those unsophisticated days, the household was assembled to partake, at the same board, of the same meal which was prepared for their superiors. With easy dignity, but nought of stern pride or of cold presumption, the aged gentleman presided with his sweet child beside him; but ere the meal was ended, the interruption—by two at least of the party fully expected—occurred to break it short. A trumpet was blown clamorously at the gate-house, and before it could by any possibility have been answered, a second and a third blast followed.

"Go, some of you, and see," exclaimed the master of the house, with an air of the most perfect unconcern—"go see who calls so rudely—bestir you, or the man will blow the gate down."

Two or three of the badged green-coated serving men, of whom the hall was full, ran off at speed to perform his bidding; but ere they reached the gates the porter had discharged his duty, and forty or fifty of the Ironsides dismounted, and marched in, their long steel scabbards and huge boots clanking and clattering over the paved courtyard, while thrice as many of their comrades were drawn up round the house on horseback, so as to form a cordon, rendering escape impossible except by the moat, which, of course, could not be included in the chain of sentries.

"Ten men, with sergeant Goodenough, straight to the water-gate," shouted a loud authoritative voice—"cut down or shoot all who attempt to pass without the word."

"Ha! here is something more than common," cried the old man; "nay, fear not, gentle daughter, I will go see to it;" and he arose as if to put his words into effect, when the doors were thrown violently open, and two officers—one a rough-looking veteran, well seamed with scars of ancient honorable wars, the other a sleek, hypocritical-looking youth, with a head of close-cropped foxy hair, and an evil downcast eye—both clad in the full uniform of Cromwell's Ironsides, and with their swords drawn, entered; while about the door clustered a group of privates, with their musketoons all unslung, and their slow matches lighted.

"Let no one quit the room, who would not die the death;" exclaimed the first who entered.

"What means this outrage, gentlemen; if gentlemen ye be, who violently thus intrude upon a female's presence, with your war-weapons and rude tongues? What makes ye in my peaceful dwelling at this untimely hour?"

"It means, Mark Selby," replied the second, in a low nasal strain—"it means that thou, despite our noble general's proclamation, hast traitorously harbored and secreted one of these rakehell cavaliers, whom, yesterday, the Lord delivered into our hands, to slay them. Wherefore, surrender him at once, so shalt thou 'scape the penalty this time on strength of thy relationship with stout and trusty Henry Chaloner."

"What cavalier? or of whom speak ye? I know not whom ye mean. My household, save the porter and the scullions, are all here. Save we ourselves, there are none else in all the house."

"Lie not!" replied the young man, violently—"lie not, lest the Lord deal with ye, as he dealt in old time with Ananias and Sapphira."

"I thank thee for thy courtesy, and shall make thee no answer any more. Search the house if ye will—ye will find no one here!"

"We will search—and search thoroughly—yea! very thoroughly! for though thou thinkest it not, we know your secret corners, your priest's holes, and your jesuit's hidings— yea! we shall search them, and finding what we shall find—ill will it go with thee. Keep guard thou, lancepesade, over all here till we return:" and with the word they left the hall into which all the household was collected, and for two hours or more they were heard searching every room and stair, and landing-place of the large rambling edifice—sounding the panels with their musket butts, thrusting their broadswords into every crevice, but evidently finding nothing to justify their violent intrusion. At length reentering, they strictly questioned the old servants, from whom, however, nothing was elicited, except that their mistress had gone forth with the boat alone, some hour or so after the dinner, and had returned alone by the water-gate two hours since.

Then came the lady's turn, and, though with something more of delicacy and restraint, she, too, was very narrowly examined. The story she told, being the literal truth, except that she omitted to say anything about the cavalier, and corresponding exactly with the narrative of the servants, produced a very visible effect upon the hearers, who, having searched all the out-houses and stables, and every nook and corner in the house without finding anything, and having, in the first instance, intruded only upon a vague suspicion, began to fear that they had got into a troublesome scrape. After a pause, however—

"The boat-house," exclaimed one, "the boat-house—we have not searched the boat-house! Bring all of them along—or, stay—bring Master Selby down, and his fair daughter, to the water-gate, and we will boat it over, they guiding us. Without, there, sergeant—move a guard round by the dam on the moat, to the boat-house."

The words were not well uttered before they were obeyed, and in ten minutes the whole party, consisting of the officers, with six stout troopers, were floating in the barge toward the boat-house. The face of the old man was stern and dark, and save of anger and resentment, showed no emotion—nor did his daughter, though inwardly her whole frame shook with bitter and heart-rending anguish, suffer a single tremor to betray her feminine terrors. The boat shot into the little cove, the torches threw their broad glare through the whole building, and there was nought to see.

"Here is a platform and a landing," cried the same youth who had proposed to search the boat-house, and who, with a strange pertinacity, persisted still—"let us ashore, for I doubt much we have him here:" and landing on the narrow rib whereon the little feet of Alice had trodden but a short while before, he strode with echoing tramp to the far end, and waving his torch round, discovered the entrance of the sail-loft.

"Ha! said I not so?" he exclaimed, exultingly—"said I not so? What have we up this trap, sweet Master Selby?"

"A sail-loft," answered he, very quietly—"a little place about a foot or two feet high, with some old oars in it—best search it, sir—best search it; there may be a whole troop of cavaliers therein for aught I know against it."

Poor Alice set her teeth and drew her breath hard, and with a tremulous grasp clung to her father's arm as he replied, "I will."

"Tush, man," his comrade interposed, "thou carriest caution to sheer folly—seest thou, there is no ladder? how should a man have mounted—or having mounted, how in God's name should he lie there?"

"They may have cut the ladder down, lest it should leave a clue. Be it as it may, I will assay it. Here, jump ashore you, Martin and John Burney, hoist me into this trap, and pass me up a torch."

And in a moment, by their aid, he caught the edge of the trap with his hands, drawing his head and shoulders in till he could hold himself up by his elbows; the torch was then passed up to him, and he thrust it forward into the loft a little way up.

"Well, Despard, what see you?" cried his comrade.

"Four old oars, and a roll of canvas," answered the disappointed soldier, tossing his torch into the water, and leaping down.

"I thought so," was the answer: and a loud burst of laughter from the Ironsides, who were tired out by the fruitless search, and eager to get back to quarters, drowned the convulsive sob which Alice could not master.

With brief and blunt excuse the troopers mounted and departed—the Hall was again quiet, and when they were again left to themselves in the old library, Alice fell suddenly into her father's arms, and burst into a flood of weeping.

CHAPTER III.

It was long after the departure of the Ironsides, before the excited feelings of the fair girl were in the least degree composed; but gradually, when the harsh clank of their march, and the shrill clangor of their trumpet had subsided into absolute stillness, or rather into that soft and soothing mixture of natural and accustomed sounds, which, after the home car has grown acquainted with their never-ending murmur, pass for entire silence—the violent fits of half-convulsive sobbing which had at first shaken her whole frame, ceased, and the tears flowed in a quiet and unpainful stream. These, too, by slow degrees, diminished, and at last flowed no longer. It was not grief, however, nor even sorrow that had called forth so strange and passionate emotions from that calm bosom; for the whole heart was full of deep and tranquil gratitude to Him, by whose good providence the stranger had been preserved from his bloodthirsty enemies—much less was it all joy, for though there was a sense of happiness, or of relief at least from terrible anxiety, springing up from the depths of her pure soul, yet there was nothing strong or passionate, nothing tumultuous in the character of that pure stilly pleasure. No, it was merely the reaction of a mind over-tensely strung during the late dread scenes. It had been only by an exertion almost too great for female powers, that she had crushed down into her inmost soul all semblance of anxiety or interest during the search of the rude Puritans; yet so completely had she crushed it down while in the presence of those stern inquisitors, that not only had she compelled her steps to be equal, and her hand steady, but she had actually forced her cheek and lip to retain their wonted color— her eye its quiet undisturbed expression. And well was it for that young stranger that she did so. For it was even less, the grave unmoved demeanor of the aged gentleman— less, the unconsciousness of the alarmed domestics—than the perfect tranquility of that sweet and lovely maiden, which had convinced them that their searching longer would be but a vain labor.

It had been some suspicion—vague indeed and indefinite—that she might have concealed the cavalier, without the knowledge of the household, by which the leaders of the party had been induced to search the boat-house; and therefore had they caused her to accompany them; that, if their doubts were true, some terror or expression of alarm might, as they judged, inevitable betray the secret of his hiding-place. And so far were they right, that it had only been by dint of almost superhuman fortitude that she forebore to scream aloud in the intensity of her excitement, when they persisted in examining the sail-loft, wherein, scarcely six inches from the torch of his pursuer, the object of her care lay hidden.

Excitement, such as this, must end in a revulsion; and it was fortunate that there was cause enough apparent, to have disturbed the equilibrium of her mind, in the events which had transpired in the full sight of all—so that the outbreak of hysterical passion called forth no more alarm, than a mere fit of feminine terror, from the assiduous attendants who crowded round their beloved mistress, with all the remedies of essences, strong waters and the like, which their ignorant but kindly zeal could dictate.

Gradually, as we have said, however, her tears ceased to flow; and, as her mind regained its usual serene and balanced tenor, she recollected that there was yet much more to do, and much more cause than ever to avoid wakening suspicion. With her to see the right, and to perform it, were scarcely the results of a two-fold operation; and bidding her tirewoman await her coming in her own chamber, she dismissed all the rest; her father adding his injunction, that as the hour of bedtime was long passed, they should not linger in the hall with idle gossipings, else there would be late rising in the morn. No more was said; but in those good old days, and in that orderly and peaceful household, there was no doubt that his words would be obeyed even to the letter. In a few moments the old gray-headed porter brought in the keys of the great gate and water-port, and laid them on the table by his master's hand, and before half an hour, except in old Mark's library, and in the chamber of his sweet child, there was not a light burning, nor an eye unclosed, through the whole building.

Hours were early in those days, so that the clock had barely stricken ten when all the fires were quenched and lights extinguished. Eleven—twelve—one, followed—the deep sounds of the stable clock-house, solemnly booming through the lonely night; and still the lamp burned steadily in the small library; and the two lighted windows might be seen above the courtyard wall, and through the foliage of the park plantations, even as far as the high road, had any one been watching them.

And one was watching them. The younger of the Puritan officers, wrapped in his scarlet watch-cloak, was standing on the platform of the fish-house, with a neighboring farmer, dressed in his usual toil-worn garb beside him, and a stout trooper holding some five or six saddled chargers on the bridge.

Just as the clock struck one, the soldier stamped impatiently. "Doth the old hoary dotard keep watch thus always, till 'tis morning?" he exclaimed, turning toward the rustic.

"Ay, ay, sir;" he replied—"I'll warrant him. Master Mark's a great scholar, I've heard tell, and speaks all sorts of untold old-time tongues. And so you see he keeps a poring over a sight o' musty books night after night. Many's the time and often, when I've been kept from home past common, at Worcester market or the like, I've seen yon light in yon two selfsame windows, while three o'clock o' the morning. And yet the old man's astir with the cock, too—that's what does bother me like—"

"See! see!" the other interrupted him, "it has gone out."

"Ay, ay. Now we shall see it cross the next three windows to the right, then if any one were watching the west end, he might see it a little while in the west gable. The old man's chamber's there, next to young mistress's bower."

While he yet spoke, the light, as of a candle or a lamp in motion, flitted across the three tall casements to the right, and disappearing, the southern front of the old Hall was left in absolute darkness.

"Well! there it does go, of a surety," replied the Puritan, "and there is one to watch on the West end. Do they burn tapers all night through in their bed-chambers?"

"No, not a light is burnt in all the house, when the old master's lamp is out; that's the last always—ever since I was a boy!"

"Peradventure, then, we shall know more anon," returned the other, and then relapsed into silence, awaiting the arrival of his subordinate watchers. Nor had he very long to wait; for scarcely half an hour had gone by since the removal of the lamp, when nearly simultaneously three came up, though from different directions; and made their several reports all to the same effect, that not a mouse had stirred about the Hall for three hours; and that now every candle was extinguished, and every soul abed for certain."

"Well, then, we have but lost our time; and they know nought about this same malignant, who 'scaped us here so strangely," muttered the officer between his clenched teeth. "Mount, men, mount, and away; we'll beat these woods for many a mile tomorrow."

"Had you known the folks at the Hall, as I do, master," the farmer interposed, "you never would have dreamed o' thinking that they did. Lord! sir, they are the scariest, timidest, ease-lovingest people—they never trouble their heads with no politics, nor parties!"

"Well, well, good friend, it is no harm to be assured! and so good night to thee," the soldier answered, striking his spurs into his horse's flank, and galloping off, followed by his men, at a rate that soon left the quiet woods of Woolverton many a mile behind him.

"Good devil go with thee!" muttered the countryman, as they rode off, "and with all like to thee, thou cheat and hypocrite! I trow now, thou may be mistaken yet, for all thy cunning! If Mistress Alice had fallen in with the poor youth, I warrant me she would a hid him somewhere, in spite all danger! So I'll away up to the Hall to-morrow, and see about it, for if so be there be aught i' the wind, I'll have a finger in't, or my name is not John Sherlock."

Times of great peril and emergency have not unfrequently been known to impart a species of instinctive and instantaneous shrewdness to minds not previously remarkable for any such quality. Bookmen, and grave secluded scholars, intuitively, as it were, under the pressure of great present peril or necessity, have been known to attain the skill of practiced generals, the craftiness of the most subtle partisans. So in this instance was it with Mark Selby. Born of an old and honorable family, a second son, he had been educated many long years before with a view to taking orders; and the grave tastes and habits which he had then acquired, clung to him afterwards, when, by his brother's death—who fell at Zutphen, fighting by Philip Sidney's side—he became heir of Woolverton; and, of course, with his altered fortunes, abandoned the profession to which he had before been destined. Never, during his earliest and gayest youth, had he been a frequenter of courts, or even an associate in the daring field-sports or jovial festivities of the neighboring gentry. Long after his succession to the family estates, when he was far advanced already in the vale of years, he had taken to wife the daughter of a baronet, whose estates paired with Woolverton—a fair and lovely creature, whose living type we have beheld in Alice. Her he lost young, after having followed to the grave two sons, his first born; the infant Alice being left alone to his paternal care. Thus situate, more gloomy every day had waxed the aged widower's abode—more ineradicably were those bookworm habits fixed—till Alice, from a sweet prattling child, the licenced interruptor of the father's musings, had grown up to be the pure and lovely thing she was, when the occurrences fell out which it is ours to narrate. Rarely was old Mark Selby seen abroad by any—rarely at home, save by the members of his own quiet household—no scenes of broil or riot or warfare had ever been beheld by him, much less had he been an actor in any such. Yet had he read, and mused, and dreamed— that he could have performed the deeds, and undergone the woes, and braved the terrors which his loved heroes of historic lore had done, and borne, and braved, undaunted— and now in his old age was he tried—tried, and not then found wanting.

After his daughter had retired to rest, he had conceived it very likely that some—as indeed was the case—of the Puritans might yet linger on the watch without, and that any deviation from the wonted customs of his household, would certainly create suspicion. Before she went, he had promised Alice, himself to rouse her from her slumbers, if any slumber she might take, when the time should arrive for admitting the young Royalist to a more safe retreat than that which he now occupied; and after she was gone, though anxious and excited, he sat down to his books, not at the first without an effort; but after he had sat some time, he returned to his ordinary frame of mind, and read, and pondered, and made notes, until the period should arrive; apparently, and indeed really, as fully engrossed in his subject, as though no graver matter than the full force of the particle had occupied his meditations.

It would, however, have been worthy of remark—to those who make the human mind their study—that while his understanding was devoted altogether to the unravelling of an obscure passage in one of Pindar's darkest Pythian odes, to which he had turned in the hopes of gleaning thence some light whereby to to see into the depths of some yet deeper classic mystery, he was still quite awake to all the exigencies and the perils of his immediate position. Had he not been indeed fully aware of the necessity of being tranquil, it had not, perhaps, been within his power so calmly to have followed his accustomed studies. Had he not been a student, it would, perhaps, have frustrated his utmost coolness so to have waited the event. Yet was the result of the strange mixture—the blending of the feelings of the scholar and the man—simple although they were, untaught and natural—the most complete and perfect skill, and craft and subtlety, that ever graced the wariest and most wily partisan.

When the lamp was extinguished in the library, and the hand-taper cast its flickering light, as witnessed by the wakeful Puritans, across the lattices of the less frequented apartments, the old man, indeed, retired to his chamber; and when there, had at once cast himself into a large arm-chair, where he reclined for many minutes absorbed in the deepest mental meditation.

After a while he started up, and for a moment it was in his thoughts to pass directly to his daughter's chamber, but in an instant—and he scarce knew why—his mind was altered; for he had little thought that any were still in ambuscade without, watching his every movement—and he stood quietly before the casements, with the bright lamp behind him, casting his shadow on the wide illuminated panes. He threw his dress aside, put out the light, and cast himself down heavily upon the bed. And there were those upon the watch who saw all this, albeit he knew it not, and testified thereto in after days; and it was well for him he did so.

After a space of deep and almost painful meditation, he once again arose. The moon was shining clearly, as she waded with uncertain gleams among the scattered clouds, through the tall latticed casements; and there was light enough, that the old man could find his scattered garments, and attire himself without the need of kindling any lamp. Once dressed, he opened his door carefully, but without any fear, for the domestics slept far from the inhabited apartments of the Hall, and took his way through the old well-known passages, directly to his daughter's chamber. The rays fell misty and dim through the stained windows as he passed, and many an indistinct and fleeting shadow wavered across his path, as he went onward; but in too deep a school of philosophic thought had he been trained, to cast a single thought to superstitious tremors; and student though he was, he had too deeply proved life's stern realities to blench for any shadow.

He reached the fair girl's chamber, and entered all unsummoned—and the same bright pure lustre, which had enabled him to don his dress without the aid of lamp or taper, was pouring upon her virgin couch, as she lay all disrobed and tranquil, but thoughtful, and awake, and full of her high purpose, as she awaited the appointed time.

"Father!" she whispered, in soft but untrembling accents, as his hand touched the latch. "Father! is't thou? then tarry but for a little moment's space without, and I will join thee;" and with the words, she, too, arose. And hastily, but yet completely, she attired herself in plain dark garments of simple country fashion; and ere ten minutes had elapsed she stood beside him, silent, in the dark corridor.

"Now to the library!" he whispered, and with slow faltering steps they groped their wav through the large, vacant, lonely rooms; and reached it at last, breathless and panting—not from the speed at which they had advanced, but that they had scarce drawn a full breath since they left her chamber. Once there, a feeble glimmering light shone in, transversely and reflected—for the moon's rays touched not the southern front— and they were able to distinguish things, though indistinctly.

"So far," the old man whispered—"so far all's well; no living ear has heard that we are stirring, and if you lack not courage to finish out what you have well begun, there is no more of danger. But look you, we have need of caution. No door must be unlocked—no foot must tread the staircase. I have a silken ladder here, framed long ago against emergency of fire; it will I let down from this casement under the shadow of yon pine; by it you must descend—creep through the garden greens, avoiding the bright court—enter the water-tower, and making there your signal, admit your guest with your own hands. By the same path you must return together; I will await you here; hence opens, as you know, the passage. Have you the courage, girl?"

"Lower the ladder, father," she answered in a whisper—"lower the ladder, and give me the keys!"

"So brave," he said, half musingly—"so brave, and yet so young!" and he paused long, and shook his hoary head, and seemed to hesitate; but then, "Well! well!" he said. "Well! well! God's hand, I trow, is in it—and on it be his benison;" and without further words, after a little groping in the dark, he drew out the rope ladder he had mentioned, and lowered it from the extreme west window, across which fell the broad and massy shadow cast by the largest of the giant pines which we have named above. He handed her the key, pressed her with a long lingering pressure to his bosom, and printed one kiss on her brow.

"The God of mercy go with thee," he said, "my child—for that thine errand is of mercy."

Another moment and she had passed the window-sill, and with a firm step, and untrembling though delicate hold, she trod the shaking rungs, and stood in safety at the bottom. For one short second more, the old man's eye could follow her threading the mazes of the labyrinthine shrubs; then she was lost, and in a moment more had entered the untenanted and lonely water-tower. It was all dark as a wolf's mouth, save where one faint and broken ray fell through the embrasure, half intercepted by the breech of the huge gun; yet cool in every movement, and collected, she felt her way down the rude steps, unlocked the inner gate, and half raised the portcullis by aid of the complicated winch, which moved it in the groove of stone wherein it traversed. Retracing instantly her steps, after some minutes spent in search, she found the porter's tinder-box and link. She struck a light, and for a second's space the red glare shot out through the lattice; yet so low did it strike, that a spectator, standing ten yards beyond the moat's south bank, could have seen nought of it. She blew it out, and counted ten, and lit it once again, and so on till the third time; and as she blew it out, a slight splash reached her ears, and in a moment after a waving movement of the water, and a deep panting breath—and she received him at the steps, and led him upward to the embrasure, and lowered the portcullis once again, and locked the gate, and thrust the key into her girdle.

"Be silent for your life," she whispered, as speedily she led him through the low postern gate; but when she reached the open air, it flashed upon her mind that she had not replaced the half burned flambeau with its appropriate flint and steel, in the same niche where it lay when she found it; and laying her finger on her lip, as they two stood in the half shadow of the twilight garden, she tripped back, and placed it rightly— so to avoid suspicion. Quickly they traced the shrubbery paths, and reached the pendent ladder; one signal and he climbed it, and scarcely was he well landed in the library, before she too was in the room.

"Not a word, sir, not a word!" exclaimed Marc Selby, in one of those sharp whispers which fill the ear far more than the deep roar of ordnance. "Not a word, if you would not betray your rescuer!"

And they three stood there silent, in the prevading hush of deep awe, and yet deeper feeling; while the old man drew in the ladder, and laid it by in its accustomed place, and closed the latticed window. Then, after searching about yet another while, he drew forth from a drawer in an old cabinet, a small old-fashioned lamp, with flint and steel and matches—a flask of wine or cordial, and a strangely-shaped brazen key. Giving all these to the young cavalier, he turned to a compartment of the library wall, covered by shelves well stored with ponderous books; drew out one folio volume, and turned an iron button, replaced it, pressed a spring this way, and turned a screw-head that, and the whole bookcase, with its load, from floor to ceiling, revolved upon a pivot, disclosing the bare plastered wall, with a low-browed arch, descending, as it seemed, into the outer wall, and full of black impenetrable darkness.

"Alice," the old man said, "to-bed! we will speak more to-morrow. Pass in, sir!" and the girl left the room, and hurried to her chamber with a glad but quick-throbbing heart; and the stranger entered the dark passage, and old Mark Selby followed him, and drew the concealed door, masked by the ponderous book-shelves, after him; and the old library was tenantless again, and not a soul could have suspected, though he had searched it for a month, that private passage. But when they stood within it, the old man struck a light, and lit the lamp, and raised it to the face of his new guest, and gazed into his features as though he would have read his soul.

"Ha!" he said—"ha!" and paused again a little while, and then—"be it so. I will trust you!" and no word passed between them more, for the old man almost angrily imposed strict silence when the stranger would have spoken. And far he led him, by long and winding corridors, delved through the thickness of the wall, up stairs and down, till he had brought him to a low dark vault, scarce six feet perpendicular height, by twelve in circuit; in which there stood a table of dark oak, an old armed chair, two or three stools of the same plain material, and a low pallet bed heaped high with blankets, and soft coverlets, and sheets of snowy whiteness. Besides these articles of furniture, the gloomy chamber contained nothing but a few shelves in one corner, whereon were piled two or three pewter platters, an earthen bowl and pitcher, a salt-cellar, a knife case, a cruise of oil, and four tall Venice wine-glasses. There was no carpet on the floor, nor any hangings on the bare plastered walls; nor was there any window or even shot-hole, whereat a single ray of blessed daylight could pass in to cheer the sad soul of the inmate. As if to compensate, however, for this want, there were no less than three doors besides that which had admitted them, massy and steel-clenched, and secured by bolts of singular device, and bars, and chains of iron.

"This is a poor abode, young sir," said Selby, as he sat down the lamp upon the table; "but it is safe at least, and that to one in your condition is something always. No person now alive, save Alice and myself, knows the existence of this hiding-place, much less the ways which lead to it; and you, before you quit it, must swear by all that men hold holy, never by word or deed, by sign or hint or writing, to reveal it. Meantime, here will we shelter you, until such time as we may send you forth in safety. Food shall be brought you daily, and lights, and change of raiment, and, if you wish it, books; but on society you must not count—not even on ours—for carefully we must eschew suspicion. Before I leave you to repose, one other secret of your abode I must disclose to you." He opened, as he spoke, another door, and showed a narrow stairway winding, as it seemed, downward into interminable gloom.

"At the foot of those steps," he said, pointing through the opening, "you will find what appears a square well of water, and by it a trap-door; the first will furnish you the means of cleanliness and comfort, and by the latter you may cast into the moat nightly the remnants of your food, and aught else that, if discovered here in case of any search, might cause suspicion. On no account, however, enter the well to bathe; for it were certain death, unless you knew the secret. Be careful, when you pass these stairs, to do so very silently; here you cannot be heard, though you should sing or whistle—there it were perilous indeed! The other doors lead elsewhere, and are locked. Let me know now, who is my guest; and pledge me, as a soldier and a gentleman, your word of honor not to leave this apartment, except by the door I have shown you leading to the water; you would risk all our lives by wandering about the corridors."

"My name is Wyvil—Marmaduke Wyvil, of Allerton Mauleverer in Yorkshire, serving till yesterday as captain in my good friend and kinsman Sir Philip Musgrave's regiment of horse, not ten of whom now hold together—not fifty of whom now are numbered with the living. Alas! for thee, my friend, my more than brother—good, gallant, murdered Musgrave! Alas! for the good cause, that is a cause no longer!" and as he said the words, he wrung his hands till the blood started from the finger-nails, and burst into a paroxysm of violent sobs and weeping. In a few minutes, however, he recovered himself somewhat, and mastering his passion, as it seemed, by a strong effort, "Pardon me," he said; "this is unmanly, very weak and trivial; but I am weak from weariness and watching, and from the want of food; pardon me, I beseech you, my kind friend and preserver."

"That can I not do, my young friend," returned the other, "seeing that there is nought to pardon. The cause you speak of, I respect and love; and had there been less years upon my head, should have armed for it. Your feelings for your lost friend I honor— we will talk more to-morrow! meantime throw off your dripping garments, drink a cup or two of this sovereign cordial, stretch yourself on your humble bed—and after one night's safe and peaceful sleep, I warrant me I find you a new man in the morning." He had already trimmed and lighted a brazen lamp which stood upon the board, and now reached down two glasses, filling them to the brim from the long-necked flask he had brought with him. "I drink," he then said—"I drink Captain Wyvil, to your good repose, and leave you to it straightway. Lock the door after me when I go forth; and open it not, save for my voice or that of Alice—no thanks, my friend, no thanks! Now God be with you, and farewell!" and without suffering him to answer, he shook his young guest warmly by the hand, and left him.

CHAPTER IV.

At little more than a mile's distance from Woolverton Hall, not situated, however, on the Worcester turnpike, but on another road passing the principal entrance of the Park, and forming its northern boundary, stood a small wayside inn, deeply embosomed in the woodlands which, at the period of our narrative, overspread many a mile of that fair country. This road, which entered the main turnpike some three miles to the eastward of the Hall, was one of those innumerable country tracks which traverse all the agricultural parts of England, winding about with no regard whatever to the space occupied, or the needless miles included in their sinuosities; wandering `like rivers at their own sweet will,' and affording the only means of communication to the inhabitants of many a sequestered hamlet, many a lowly grange; devious indeed and long, but all-sufficient to the simple wants of the people, and full in themselves of picturesque and rural beauty. Its narrow wheel-track was bordered on each hand by many yards of deep rich greensward, pied everywhere in the early spring-time with tufts of the soft saffron primrose, and perfumed by the rich scent of unnumbered violets—tall straggling hawthorn hedges, overrun in summer by the bee-haunted tendrils of the honeysuckles, and the flaunting streamers of the dogrose, shaded it from the morning and the evening sunbeams; while overhead, it was so thickly canopied by elm and ash and many a giant oak, that scarce a ray could penetrate the shadowy foliage at high noon. So seldom too did this road run any distance in a direct straight line, that spots were rare indeed, where the eye of a traveller could see a hundred yards before him. It was upon this winding lane, in preference to the broad and dusty turnpike, that the gates of the Hall, consisting of a low massive arch of antique brickwork between two short and stubborn looking towers, now so completely mantled with dark ivy that the very outlines of their form were lost, had been placed by the original founder; and it was at about a mile's distance from these, toward the west, and consequently so much the farther from the highway, that the `Stag's Head,' for such was the well-known sign of the little hostelrie, invited passers by to taste its humming ale and stores of rustic cheer.

It was a quaint and curious building, that old inn, consisting of a long front of a single story, with three projecting gables, one in the centre and one at either end, protruding some six feet into the road, and having the upper stories, which were in each entirely occupied by a large latticed window of four or five compartments, again thrust forward about the same distance in advance on their bases. Below the window in the central gable was a wide low-browed doorway, or porch rather, of black oak, with the weather-bleached skull and broad branched antlers of a huge red deer nailed above it, and a long bench on either side within. The two end gables and the flat fronts between them, showed several lattices, but of irregular heights and sizes, all neatly curtained with white dimity, and decked with pots of lavender, balm, rosemary and other savory herbs, to gratify the smell or tempt the dainty palate. A thick thatched roof, all green with moss and lichens and masses of the yellow flowering stonecrop, with far projecting eaves, whence hung in clusters the clay-built cradles of the summer-loving martlet, covered the whole of this hospitable mansion—which was built of vast beams of jet-black oak, curiously interlaced one with another, the interstices being filled up with neatly white-washed plaster—and afforded a pleasant haunt to a score or two of plump-necked pigeons, strutting to and fro from morning till night on the ridge-pole, filling the whole air with their hoarse love-making, or wheeling in short flights about their happy home.

In front of this truly rustic inn the road expanded into a little bay or circle, with a small meadow, of three or four acres at the utmost, fenced all around by deep plantations, facing the windows—while at the back the building actually abutted on the park wall, and was securely sheltered by the tall ranks of its immemorial clm-trees. Along the palings of the meadow, moss-grown, and old, and weather-beaten like all about them, ran a long horse-trough, fed constantly and full from a rude aqueduct of hollow trunks by a bright and chrystal rill; which, keeping it still brimming over in the hottest seasons, danced out with a fresh gurgling sound at the lower end in a mimic waterfall, and was soon lost to sight among the rich tall herbage which it supplied with its perennial moisture. But the chief boast and ornament of the Stag's Head was the enormous aged oak— so aged that, as wise men said, it was recorded for a bound-mark in the pages of the Domesday book—which stood exactly in the middle of the little circle, its gnarled gray arms completely sheltering the space below, and its leaves rustling on the one extremity against the diamond-shaped panes of the chamber windows, and on the other covering the horse-trough with their cool cave-like umbrage.

Around the trunk of this vegetable giant was built a range of comfortable seats, with a high back, and arms dividing it, as it were, into separate compartments—like the boxes of a modern coffee-house—all framed of tortuous roots, and unbarked branches, and each compartment having a round table in the middle for the benefit of the rustic banqueters, who here were wont to solace themselves every evening after the heat and burthen of the day's toils were over. It must not be omitted, that on a low artificial mound in the meadow there stood a lofty maypole, round which in those blithe days, before the sullen morose Puritans had clogged fair England with the curse of their black creed—before the happy peasantry were changed by the loud lies of artful demagogues into a horde of bitter discontented politicians—the young folks of the parish would meet on many a spring or summer evening, with merriment and music, to twine their may-wreaths from the abundant wild flowers, and at the sound of pipe and tabor present to the great Architect of nature, an offering most grateful to divine beneficence—the offering of innocent, rejoicing, grateful hearts.

Alas! where are they now, those festive meetings? where is the frolic mirth—the innocence so cheaply pleased with trifles—the love of music, the affection—most natural affection, and most indicative of pure and graceful spirits—for the sweet perfumes of the dewy flowers the dance upon the greensward under the mellow eye of evening— the cheerful congregation in the old village church on every Sunday morn, including every inmate of the village, from the blind frail octogenarian to the wee toddling prattler that sat grave eyed and hushed in decent awe by its young comely mother? Where is the veneration for old age; the grateful reverence to the kind superiors; the love for the frank, free spoken, learned churchman, who preached not one iota the less wisely, nor prayed one tittle the less fervently, that he could chat with the old gossips by the fireside, and jest with the young lasses on the green, and wing an arrow to the clout with the featest yeoman in the ring? Where are they now, those once characteristics of the people of the once merry England? Come, one and all—gone to return no more! Surrendered—bartered—contemptuously cast aside for what? for a dream! a vain, fitful, feverish dream—a dream of liberty! of freedom! free trade, free institutions, free religion! a dream, which fills the prisons and the pothouses of that once happy realm with desperate criminals, with brawling vicious plotters! a dream, which has converted pure green fields into huge prisons of red brick, dungeons of toiling artizans, recking with blasphemy, sedition, and licentiousness; day schools of all impiety, rife with the agonies of tortured infancy—the woes of premature old age! a dream which has torn— literally torn, the church asunder, and swelled with worshippers the shrine of every loathsome creed, of every mad fanaticism, hard by the half-deserted doors of God's time-honored temples.

Not then, however, had these things come to pass, although the events were even then in progress which sowed the seeds of what should be thereafter; and though throughout the land, full many a furious fanatic had fulminated the dread wrath to come over the guilty dancers—licentious worshippers of Baal, circling like Moabitish women with flutes and timbrels round the high places of false gods—the maypoles were not yet entirely abandoned; and smiles were sometimes seen upon the faces, and songs heard from the lips of youths and maidens. Drunkenness was not then the only authorized amusement; the only licensed relaxation of the free British peasant.

At a very early hour of the morning following the events narrated heretofore—almost indeed as soon as the sun was up—the Stag's Head saw collected under the old oak tree a group of people, some two or three of whom were waiting, as it would seem, for the first meal of their day; while the rest were for the most part countrymen, pausing a moment on their way a-field, to take their morning draught of ale, and hear the gossip of the times; or servants of the inn bustling about their hospitable duties.

The country people soon passed onward, and the company, when they were gone, appeared to consist of four persons. One was an old gray-headed man, spare-made, and tall and bony; but hale, fresh-colored, comely, and retaining still many signs of strength which in his younger days must have been more than usually great. He was dressed in a much worn long coat of forest green, with buckskin breeches, soiled and glazed at the knees, and long calf gaiters. A rabbit, embroidered in tarnished silver on the sleeve of his coat, and a brace of rough wire-haired terriers, long-backed and short. legged—one of which was sleeping at his feet, while the other was making demonstrations most decidedly hostile against a comfortable-looking tabby cat inside the kitchen window—seemed to designate his profession as that of warrener to some neighboring gentleman; and this was confirmed more fully by the appearance of an old gray pony dozing in the shade, to whose wooden pack-saddle were attached a bundle of nets, a spade, a bag which from its constant and eccentric agitations seemed to contain a ferret, and a dozen or more of fine wild rabbits hanging by their heels across his withers, with the blood dripping—so freshly had they been killed—from their long silvery ears.

The second of the group, who sat by the old warrener, talking to him and laughing with a familiarity which showed as if they had been old acquaintances, was a man something past the middle age, dressed like an ordinary yeoman, though perhaps something better, in a suit of dark-colored fustian with a high broad-brimmed hat. His face, without being actually good, was marked and striking; there was a keen quick twinkle of intelligence in his sharp black eyes, and an expression of sly cunning humor about the same feature, with a queer, half pleasant, half cynical smile constantly fluttering around his mouth. His complexion was much tanned and sunburnt, as were his hands likewise; on one of which, the right, there was a long seamed scar, as of a broadsword cut, which having slightly grazed his fore and middle fingers had completely severed the two others from the knuckles, and terminated only at the wrist. His garments and his shoes were all powdered over with thick dust, as if he had travelled many miles; but there was nothing about him to indicate his business—unless it were a peddler's pack, an ell wand of stout oak rendered available as a weapon by a steel spear-head screwed into one end, and a flat wooden box with a broad belt of leather; all of which lay on the table of the box next to that in which he and the warrener were sitting, and which might, or might not, have been his property. The third, and only remaining occupant of the seat beneath the tree, was an athletic bronzed young fellow, with somewhat of a dare-devil expression in his bright hazel eye, but a frank, cheerful, and good-humored smile; clad as a forester or game-keeper, with a bucktail in the silver band of his black velvet cap, and a badge on the sleeve of his green jerkin. A short rifle-gun or musketoon stood in the corner of the settle at his elbow, with its appurtenances of powder-horn and bullet-pouch lying upon the seat beside it; a long broad two-edged knife, with a handsome buckhorn handle, thrust into his belt at left side, completed his equipment.

There was yet a fourth person present, but he was not one of that party, nor was he one who had much part at all in the companionship of men; he sat a little way aloof from the rest in a low wicker chair, placed where the morning sun fell full upon it; but he saw not, or at least noticed not, the glorious sunlight with the innumerable living atoms wheeling and circling in its golden radiance; he only felt its warmth, and dozed, scarce conscious of the comfort it poured down upon him—a large, well-formed and powerful lad of seventeen years or better, his muscular and shapely limbs giving the promise of vast strength to be developed ere he should have attained to the full years of manhood. One glance, however, at his features told in an instant his whole melancholy tale; the low receding brow; the beadlike and unmeaning eye; the prominent mouth, thick-lipped, with teeth as white and strong as those of a wild beast, which had scarred all the lips around in the dread seizure of his convulsive paroxysms! He was an idiot of the worst and lowest grade, scarcely endowed with speech, so inarticulate were the sounds which alone his defective organs could produce; with instincts scarcely equal to those of the inferior brutes, and amounting to little more than a sense and memory of wrongs or kindnesses, with an occasional gleam of desperate animal ferocity, and now and then, at rare—most rare and distant intervals—a burst of tender and affectionate feeling, blended as it were with a partial revelation of deeper and more human thoughts within, than anything in his external bearing could be held to indicate. During these partially lucid intervals, it was remarkable, moreover, that all his powers seemed to expand proportionably; eye, tongue, expression, all aiding the development of thoughts which, if they were at work continually in the depths of his shrouded mind, left at the least no token of their workings upon the stagnant surface. A large gaunt mastiff bitch, now nearly toothless and grizzled over all her face, slept close beside his feet, keeping nevertheless as it would seem a strict guard over her witless master, for ever—though she seemed to sleep—if he but moved a limb, or drew a heavier breath than common, she would unclose one eye, and watch him for a moment with an expression almost superhuman, and with a quick nervous quiver of her thin pendulous ears, till, as she saw him settle down again into his soulless musings, she too would relapse into her daylong slumbers.

"Holloa! my pretty Cicley— what ails thee, lass, this morning?" cried the young forester, as the last of the peasants moved off—"canst give us nought to break our fasts withal? Here's old John Brent's been out since four of the clock, and Master Bartram has walked all the way from Barrington—and that's ten miles—since daybreak, and here am I, Frank Norman, not like to walk a mile—though I've got all my rounds before me, and that's twenty good—till I've got cake and ale!"

"Coming! oh! coming, Master Frank," cried the smart country lass, running across the green, with her short petticoats displaying her clean ancle and neat foot as they fluttered in the wind, and the bright ribbons in her cap paling beside the blush of her soft peach-like cheek—"you mustn't flurry one so—there, you've just been and taken all my breath away—there! there's your ale—double ale, too, six quarts of it, stirred with a sprig of rosemary, and a nice roasted crab in it—and there's your glasses—and here's hot cakes and sweet fresh butter—and here comes Jenny with the rasher and the eggs, and I'll away to fetch the trenchers. Marry! will that do for you, Frank?"

"So nicely, Ciss, that I'll e'en pay thee with a kiss when thou hast brought them."

"I won't go after them then, saucebox. Welsh Jenny here may fetch them you, and serve your table, too! Marry come up! green jackets and bucktails must needs be scarcer sights than they be now in these parts, when pretty girls like me buy kisses of such chaps as thee for service."

And tossing her pretty little head coquettishly, she tripped off into the porch, while with a loud and cheery laugh John Brent rallied his young comrade.

"Hey! Norman, lad, she hit thee as clean as ever thou struck'st hart of grease—"

"With headless shaft at roving distance!" the young man interrupted him, for he had caught a sly glance, and a wicked smile, cast over her shoulder as she disappeared, which contradicted quite the import of her words—"but come, let's try the ale!"

For some minutes' space after this, they were so well employed over the eggs and bacon that few words passed between them. While they were thus engaged, however, a fifth personage was added to their number. It was no other than John Sherlock, the stout yeoman whom the Puritans had stopped the preceding night, upon the heronry bridge, while keeping watch over the inmates of the Hall. He was a right good specimen of a fine blunt English farmer of the olden time, full six feet high, and with a breadth of shoulder and a volume of muscle amply proportionate to his inches, clad in his snugly-fitting doublet of gray broadcloth, buff breeches and blue woollen hose, with heavy silver buckles in his strong ancle shoes, and a clasp of the same metal to the band of his slouched beaver hat.

He came upon them suddenly—so much so, that although on horseback, the others neither heard nor saw him till he was close beside them; for he came down the road behind them from the westward, as they sat looking down it toward the park gates, so that the body of the oak tree was interposed between the new-comer and the party; and it was not, therefore, till he had well nigh passed, that he perceived them. When he did so, however, the recognition was simultaneous.

"Ho! is it thou, John Sherlock? Best stop and take a horn."

"What, Norman, lad, how be you? and how be you, John Brent? Good morrow, Master Bartram."

"Come, 'light down, John, 'light down—wilt not?" said the forester—"but what's i' the wind now?" he continued, in accents that denoted no small wonder, as he looked more steadily at the good yeoman. "Where, i' the fiend's name, didst get that beast thou straddlest so gallantly?"

And well indeed might he ask and admire—for in sooth it was no sober cart-pad that bore the jolly farmer, nor yet was it his own high-bred and powerful hunter—for he was well to do in the world, and turned out now and then with the earl's stag-hounds, and followed them as close as squire or knight or baron—but a tall, jet-black barb of Dongloa, clean-limbed, with a coat bright and soft as satin, and a broad, flashing eye, and a full nostril. The head-stall of his bridle was all adorned and studded, as were the bits, the poitrel, and the crupper, with knobs and bosses of chased gold; the housings and the padding of his demipique were of rich velvet, laid down with gold embroideries of full three inches depth, while to match the color of the saddle-cloth, his flowing mane was gathered up and plaited with blue ribbons.

"By George, but that's a baron's charger, at the least on't," exclaimed old Brent. "'Light down, 'light thee down, Master Sherlock, and tell us all about it."

"Nay! I've got nought to tell," returned the farmer, alighting, however, as he was requested, and giving the rein to an old half-palsied hostler, who had tottered out at the sound of the horse tramp. "Nay! I've got nought to tell you much. I found t'nag down i' the heronry wood, tied to a young ash sapling. I was a passing by like, when I heard him nickering and neighing a mile off or better—and there he'd been all night for certain, for t'dew was thick on t'saddle, and all quite white on his long mane and tail. I took him up to my own stable, and made the lads sort him down. Some gentleman on the king's side has owned him, that got off from Worcester fight, I reckon."

"Ay, ay!" responded all the listeners—"I warrant me."

But John Brent went on speaking—"Ay! ay! He's owned him, I'll be bail, as they red-coated roundheads was a looking arter, down at the Hall last night."

"What's that—what's that? Tell us, John Brent—tell us man! what i' the fiend's name are you thinking on, to tell us nought about it before this?" cried the young forester, starting to his feet and snatching up his musketoon. "Did they trouble Master Selby—did they dare harm fair Mistress Alice?"

"No, no! no wrong, Frank Norman; thou needst not be so hot upon't, lad," answered the old warrener. "They did scare Mistress Alice woundily, but no harm done. You see they'd chased some gentleman clear down from Worcester field, and fired at him from the top of Longmire hill, and lost all track of him, as it was growing dark, down in the bottom by the bridge; and so they came and searched the old Hall from the garret down—but, Lord! he wasn't there—not he! Old Master'd been in's study, Jeremy says, all day, and Mistress Alice came in from the park, about an hour or so afore the supper, and no one with her, any how—for Jeremy he let her in at the water-gate, and Charles and Launcelot were with him; and they say nobody came with her—no Christian, anyways, except the old Talbot—and so they went their ways, arter they'd got done searching."

"The devil's luck go with them," added young Norman, playing with the trigger of his gun lock; "there'll be no peace in England any more till the rogue-roundheads are put down, and our good king enjoys his own again!"

"Ay, ay! that's right," chimed in the peddler Bartram. "Heaven send the rogues well down! A yard or two of Holland's linen, and a commodity of Scottish sergecloth, and old calf-leather, is all the merchandise they need. Their very wenches wont ware a tester on a top-knot. Heaven send them down, and we'll have jolly times again. But now nought's doing—and for fine Flanders' lace, and Genoa velvets, and Cypress lawns, and soft French taffetas, I'm fain to sell old sermons and stale psalm tunes and such rubbish! But that has been a noble's horse, I warrant him— why, that's all solid gold upon the trappings; and that gold lace is worth ten crowns the Flemish ell, and all that velvet's prime Genoa. He's a lord's horse, at least! What do you mean to make with him, hey, Master Sherlock?"

"Why, you see, lads," said Sherlock, "the soldiers stopped me on the bridge last night, of this same party that searched Woolverton—they watched about the house till it was nigh-hand two o'clock, and all the lights was out—and they asked me a sight of questions—but nothing seemed a-stirring—and they couldn't scent out anything— and so they went off to their quarters. But I had heard them talk, you see, and guessed, by what they told, that he had took to the woods; and I went off betimes this morning to see if I could find the gentleman, and show him where to hide away. By what they talked, he'd been a prime one!—fought to the very last by the king's side at Worcester, and when their picquets came upon him in a barnyard, somewhere nigh-hand the field where he had hid himself the first night, he shot two of them with his pistols—they're discharged sure enough"—and as he spoke he drew two large gold-mounted pistols from the holsters, with the hammers down and the pans black with smoke—"and charged clean through their troop, cutting down one, and wounding two more badly! and so I found his horse, but couldn't hit upon no track of him at all— and then I thought I'd best go down to the Hall, and talk with Master Selby, and he'd be telling me what I should do with him."

"That's right, John; that's right," said the warrener. "I'm going home myself now with these rabbits—Andrew, cook, wants them for a pie, I reckon. Bartram, you'd best step up, man, with your packs—young mistress will buy, like enow."

"Well, I don't know but what I had," returned the peddler, shouldering, as he spoke, his box and bales, and grasping his ell-wand; "but we must pay the reckoning first."

"No, no! that's mine," said Norman; "the score's mine, this time anyhow; when we next meet, you'll stand the treat for us, Bartram. I'll in and pay it up now; and then I've got to tramp clean round by Reardon forest, and Low Moor, and down by the Hagard-mere to Hazel-woods and Burford old-lane-end, and so home by the Ring-woods and the Goshawk dingle. I would I might fall in with the young cavalier. Well, good den, boys;" and, throwing his pouch and horn across his shoulders, he caught up his gun and was turning to the house, when the arrival of a mounted party, making itself heard a minute at least before it came into sight, by its clang and clatter, arrested all their plans in a moment.

CHAPTER V.

The new-comers, as it appeared in a few moments, were no less than a patrolling party of the Ironsides, consisting of eight privates with their lancepesade or corporal, and a subaltern officer—a lieutenant, or cornet more probably—commanding them. Like all the splendid corps of which these soldiers formed a part, they were picked men, and nothing could be more soldier-like or perfect in its way than their whole bearing and appointment. There was nothing superfluous; nothing tawdry or tinselly; nothing defective, much less mean, about them. The strong high-bred black horses which they rode were accurately groomed and in superb condition, while all their furniture of plain black leather, mounted with polished steel, showed the severe and rigorous discipline of the regiment by its exact unsullied brightness.

The men were uniformly clad in scarlet doublets, with low pot-helmets of brightly burnished steel—the most efficient and least cumbrous head-piece, by the way, that has been yet invented—and musket-proof cuirasses; the taslets on their thighs being of lighter substance, though of the same clear and highly-tempered material. Heavy jack-boots with glittering spurs, buff breeches and stout leather gauntlets extending almost to the elbow, completed their uniform; while for offensive arms each soldier carried a long, straight, two-edged broadsword, a brace of pistols at his holsters nearly two feet in length, and a short, heavy musketoon slung over his left shoulder, and crossed by the bandoleers containing his ammunition. There was not a particle of embroidery or lace upon the doublets of the men, nor any distinctive mark in the uniform of the lancepesade or of the cornet—except that the former had a short scarlet tuft, and the latter a red feather, in his morion. They came up at a brisk hand-gallop in double file, the non-commissioned officer leading them, and the subaltern in the rear; but as they entered the little green before the door of the Stag's Head, the cornet set spurs to his horse, and coming up to the head of the column wheeled them into a single line, closing in on both sides the tree, and surrounding the little group between the inn door and the semicircle of his troopers.

"Halt, ho!" he shouted; "and you, sirs, stand all, and show your names and business, if ye be honest men. Ha!" he continued in a harsher and more insolent tone, as his eye fell upon Sherlock and the noble charger, which he had but that moment remounted, "Ha! what sort of knave have we here? what do you with this warhorse? Verily I do believe, Elisha Burnet, the dog is leading him out even now to mount that same malignant, who 'scaped so strangely from us yester even. Doubtless he is even now within. Unsling your firelocks—prime, load, and make ready! And now, thou most base knave and dog," he went on addressing Sherlock, when his orders had been complied with by the party he commanded, "why dost thou not speak out?"

"I've had no chance to speak," responded Sherlock doggedly enough, for he was not well pleased by the tone or manner of his questioner: "I've had no chance to speak. unless I interrupted you; and in the next place, for that matter, -'ve yet to learn what you would have me tell you."

"Who are you, dog, that bandy words with me.?"

"No dog, sir," answered the other, "but an independent English yeoman—a peaceful and a loyal subject, troubling no man, and living on mine own land, which lies in this same parish—my name is John Sherlock—pretty well known in these parts, ay! and in Worcester too!"

"Ha! thou art he, I did speak with last night upon the bridge? Verily, John, verily, I misdoubt thee very grievously—my mind misgives me, that thou didst lie unto us this past night, and that thou art in league with this malignant—speak out, where is the traitor—see that thou answer truly, else as my soul liveth in the fear of the Lord always, so surely shalt thou die the death."

"Of the owner of the horse," answered the honest yeoman, whose face had flushed exceedingly red at the imputation of the lie, "I know no more than thou dost—nor so much as thou dost neither—for thou hast seen him, which I never have, I trow. The horse I found tied to a ground ash in what we call the heronry wood, within a gunshot of the bridge where you were on the watch last night."

"Oh! thou didst—didst thou—and what makest thou with him here, on this by-lane? mark his words, corporal—whither wert taking him?"

"To Master Selby's at the Hall—to ask him what I had best to do with him," was the immediate answer; "and I am on this lane, because it happens to be the nighest road to the Hall gates."

"And why to Master Selby's, knave? see that that thou palter not."

"Because he is my landlord, and my right good friend, and kind master—and the wisest man too, and the best scholar, for miles round. Why, all the plain folks hereaway go for good counsel to Master Selby, when they need it."

"A very palpable lie!" replied the Puritan; "but now thou didst tell me that thou didst dwell on thine own land—and now thou dost avouch this dreaming dotard to be thy landlord and thy master. Down from the charger, dog! down with thee in quick time! pitch him off if he loiter, lancepesade."

"There'd go two words or more to that same bargain," answered John, dismounting slowly, "if you were alone, my gay lad! For 'spite your toasting-fork and pop-guns, I'd find you work with a stout arm and a good crab-tree staff, and make your tin pot there ring, that it should fancy itself i' the tinkler's hand again. A man can't own one farm, I trow, and rent another of his landlord—hey, master officer. I'd not get down now neither, but that the nag is none of mine, nor I don't want him!"

"Ha! ha! well said, John Sherlock—well said—mine old friend! And if thou need'st a backer, count upon me for one!" exclaimed Frank Norman the forester, with a hearty laugh, who had listened with much disgust to the insolence of the Puritan soldier.

"Ha! lancepesade; link bridles, and dismount your men—and seize me these malignants." A momentary bustle followed, during which Norman coolly loosened his whittle in its sheath, and very deliberately cocking his musketoon, levelled it full a the head of the speaker.

"The first man of you," he said, speaking through his set teeth with extreme firm ness, "that stirs one step to lay a hand on me- an ounce ball's in your leader's brain pan."

"Who art thou, that darest thus resist awful superiors?" asked the cornet, not—to do him him justice—apparently alarmed by the threat, which the other stood evidently prepared to execute.

"Frank Norman," was the ready answer; "head-forester, and wood-ranger, to the Lord Ferdinando Fairfax, on his estate and manor here of Oaklands—so put that in your pipe and smoke it, master cornet, after you have laid the strong hand on the lord-general's servitor!"

"Hold vour hands, lancepesade," cried he, turning very pale at the announcement, "this is an error all. He is an honest fellow, doubtless, though somewhat malapert. Hold your hands all! Is the Lord Fairfax at the manor now—how called you it—on his lands in Yorkshire?"

"He is at Oaklands," answered the forester, lowering his rifle as he saw that no violence would now be offered to him; "he came from the north three weeks since, if it concerns you anything to know."

"Well, well! good fellow, be not, I prithee, sullen—no evil has been done, nor any meant, I trow. Thou mayest go hence, I have no call with thee."

"But I have a call here," muttered Frank, "and so I'll even tarry."

"Well, be it so then. Lancepesade, look to that fellow Sherlock, that he escape not—guard him, but harm him not—while I look to these others." And as he finished speaking he leaped down from his horse, and strode up to the old warrener.

"Now, sir, whose knave art thou—and what dost thou here?"

"No one's knave," answered old Brent, "but Squire Mark Selby's warrener, for those last score of years."

"Ha! and thou—marry, thou art a pestilent-looking thief—a spy of the malignants, I'll be sworn;" addressing the peddler, on whose full bags the Ironsides had been for some time casting greedy glances.

"Not so, most noble sir," replied that worthy—"not so, most valiant captain," in a strange sanctimonious snuffle widely at variance with his quick keen eye and somewhat roving air; "a poor but honest peddler—licensed by the most worshipful house of parliament— trafficking in a poor way, fair sir—a very small poor way—and judging it a gain alway, I do profess it in the sight of Heaven—a gain not carnal, nor pertaining to mere worldly lucre, but a great gain to the immortal soul, if I can spoil somewhat in the way of trade those overproud Egyptians—the malignants—even as excellent Moses despoiled Pharaoh, and his court. Verily, yea! indeed—if it be but a few poor pennies on the ell measure, it is still somewhat."

A grim smile curled the lip of one or two of the soldiers at this outburst—but nothing could exceed the entertainment of the young forester manifested by a stentorian roar of laughter, which burst as it were irrepressibly from his lungs, till the tears fairly rolled down his sunburnt cheeks, at the peddler's ludicrous and somewhat overstrained imitation of the puritanic snuffle. With no friendly eye did the officer regard his mirth—nor was he in the least persuaded by the peddler's eloquence.

"Show me thy license, sirrah! I do misdoubt thee yet, for all thy seeming honesty. Surely 'tis no rare thing for the wolves now-a-days don the sheep's clothing. Show me thy license. Well, it is right, I see," he added after a pause, "but I shall search thy pack, before I let thee go, I promise thee. Now, lancepesade, take three of your best men—bring all the women folk together into one place, and set a sentry over them; but see they take no harm. Then search the hostlery from the cellar upward, and if ye find him, as well I wot ye will, tarry not to ask questions or make prisoners—but shoot him dead upon the instant, and hew his head off from his shoulders—there is a price set on it, that will pay the labor. Thou, Anderson, picket the horses there beside the horse-trough. You, sirs, stand to your firelocks, and see that none of these stir hence; unless it be that fellow of Lord Fairfax's following. Ha! who is this? I saw him not before," he continued, stepping out as he spoke, toward the idiot boy; "who art thou?"

"He is an idiot lad!" said Sherlock, speaking very quickly, "witless, and almost speechless, from his cradle—he cannot answer thee if he would—vex him not—if thou art a man!"

`Keep your breath, my good fellow, I advise you," retorted the other, "for your own porridge—which you'll find hot enough anon, I deem it very probable—and you, sir, answer me straightway, if you would avoid the strapado!" and with the words he laid his hand roughly on the poor idiot's shoulder, who glared up into his face with an unmeaning vacant stare, but answered not a word.

"Speak, sirrah fool!" continued the other brutally, giving him at the same time a slight shake—but at that moment the old mastiff bitch, which had slept without moving during all that had passed heretofore, but had roused herself up as the soldier drew near her hapless trust, uttered a savage yell, and flew at his tormentor. But he, seeing at half a glance that she was toothless and quite impotent to do him any harm, drew back a little so as to give the utmost impetus to the blow, and kicked her in the chest with the full swing of his heavy boot—her furious yell was changed into a dolorous howl as she rolled over and over, sprawling and struggling close to the feet of one of the privates, who, following up his officer's brutality by a piece of his own, instantly knocked her brains out with the iron-plated butt of his heavy carbine.

A deep red flush crossed the bold features of the forester, and again left them pale as death; but he saw that it was useless to interfere, and that to do so might in fact only produce worse usage. Not so John Sherlock, who struggled so violently with the two Ironsides who held him, swearing and calling them by every vituperative and contemptuous term the cavaliers had applied to their party, that one of them gave him to understand that he should share the same fate as the mastiff, if he did not hold himself still on the instant.

But in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, the whole expression of the idiot's face was changed—the unmeaning, bead-like eyes glared with a strange unnatural fire—he champed his strong white teeth, till the foam flew from them like the froth churned from the angry tushes of a hunted boar—he sprang upon his feet, uttering a long protracted howl more like the cry of some fierce and terrible wild beast man any voice of man, and brandishing his hands, contorted into the semblance of an eagle's talons, he seized the strong man by the throat, and, nerved by the supernatural force of madness, throttled him till his face grew purple, and his breath rattled in his throat, and shook him to and fro as if he was the merest stripling in the hug of a practiced athlete. For a few seconds' space the men stood mute and motionless in consternation, but roused to a perception of their officer's danger, for the boy still clung to him like an enraged tiger, giving vent to his fury all the while by the most appalling sounds that can be conceived to issue from a human throat—sounds terribly chorused by the deep sobs and inarticulate ejaculations of the half-strangled soldier, and by the thrilling shrieks of the imprisoned women from within—three almost simultaneously sprang forward. But, as the foremost stretched forth his hand to grasp the idiot, Norman advanced one pace with a swift stride, and shifting his rifle rapidly into his left hand, struck him a flush hit in the face with all the strength and quickness of a skilful boxer—between the actual force of the blow, and the impetus with which the Puritan rushed to meet it, the effect was tremendous—headlong was the wretch hurled, as if he had been shot from some engine, with the blood spouting from nose, eyes, and mouth; and when he struck the ground with all his steel accountrements clanging about him as he fell—he lay there prostrate and motionless, as if he had been killed upon the spot. Almost at the same point of time in which Norman struck that hearty blow in his defence, the paroxysm of the idiot's attack was over. Relaxing his hold on the half-strangled Puritan, he staggered backward, and sunk into his wicker chair in the rigid seizure of an epileptic fit, slavering fearfully through his grinded teeth, rolling his eyes upward till the whites alone were visible, and clenching his hands till the blood started from his palms under the pressure of his nails. As he did so, the other two privates, who had sprung forth in the first instance to release their officer, seeing him now freed from his assailant, rushed on the forester, and taking him entirely by surprise disarmed him, ere he could use his rifle, and bound his hands behind him with a sword belt. At the same moment the corporal, with the three privates who had accompanied him returned from their search, and announced it fruitless—for that there was clearly no person in the house except its usual inmates, and further, that they had found no signs of any recent visitor; while freed from the restraint of the sentry, the women ran out to the assistance of the wretched idiot and carried him in, still altogether senseless and inanimate. It was a little while before the cornet, by whose brutality the whole disturbance had been caused, recovered from the confusion into which the assault of the witless boy had thrown him— but when he did so—his face livid with all bad passions, and his cool malignant eye proclaimed him dangerous, no lesss surely than did the first words which he uttered.

"Lancepesade—draw up instantly three file—tie the dog forester to yonder horsepost, and shoot him in two minutes, for an example to all treasonable brawlers. I'll teach him, that to serve a lord is no excuse for treason!"

Not a shade paler did the cheek of the stout-hearted Norman grow, as he heard the fell sentence, and saw the minions of his enemy clustering around him, and preparing to carry into effect the atrocious mandate; nor did one muscle tremble in his sinewy frame, although he saw that no mere threat or mockery was intended, but that it was cold and stern reality, without one hope of rescue. He did not speak a word, but his lips moved as he prayed fervently in silence.

"By God!" exclaimed John Sherlock, almost in a shout, as he looked on in impotent but furious indignation, at the preparations for the murder of his friend: "By God! to see this, a man would think there was no law in England—no justice under heaven!"

"Then would a man think most unwisely," answered a clear, harmonious, and well-pitched voice from behind the group, all of whose faces were turned either toward the house, or down the lane to the eastward—"then would a man, I say, John Sherlock, think most unwisely; for there are laws in England, and while I am a magistrate, there shall be justice too!"

The eyes of all were directed in an instant to the sound; and there, just at the western entrance of the lane into the little green, upon a fine bay hunter, which he had just pulled up as he came suddenly, and most unexpectedly, upon the scene of so foul violence, sat the speaker. He was a fine-looking young man, of eight or nine-and-twenty years, with a broad ample forehead, from which a profusion of dark chestnut-colored hair fell off in loose and natural curls over the collar of his doublet; large clear gray eyes, and a set of features not in themselves so eminently handsome, as they were remarkable for their intellectual cast, and for the stamp of worth and calm unaffected majesty which they wore, as if it were their every-day accustomed garment; not a disguise assumed to suit occasions, and thrust at other times aside lest it should mar the aims, or clash with the pursuits of the wearer. In person he was broad-shouldered, and deep-chested, and long-limbed, and sat his horse with that easy grace which can be acquired only by long practice, and with something of a military air.

His dress was a complete riding-suit of fine pearl-colored cloth, slightly but tastefully embroidered with silk of the same color, high cavalry boots carefully polished, and a broad-leafed hat of gray beaver, with a silk hat-band fastened by a broad silver buckle, but without any feather or cockade. His sword, a handsome silver-hilted rapier in a steel scabbard, was girt about his waist by a rich scarf of silvery satin, presenting, with the aid of the snow-white linen and lace border of his Heemskirke cravat, a picture of the most graceful and finished neatness that can be imagined; although from the soberness of its colors, and the absence of all tawdry ornament, it was evident that the wearer belonged to the parliamentarian party, which was generally—and for the most part, it must be admitted, justly—stigmatized by the cavaliers as careless and ill-appointed, if not actually sordid, in appearance. There were holsters at his saddle-bow, and the butts of a pair of handsomely-mounted pistols showed that they were not there for mere show.

When he had spoken those few words, in a voice and manner that accorded perfectly with the calm dignity of his demeanor, he rode slowly forward toward the house, followed by no less than six servant men dressed in plain liveries of dark drab cloth, superbly mounted on bay horses, and all well armed with sword and pistol; who drew out from the lane and quietly fell into line without any word given, but with a regular and business-like method, that showed very clearly that both men and horses had been accustomed to military manoeuvres, and had performed them not only on the holiday fields of practice, but under the hot fire of squadrons.

A bright smile played across the face of Norman, the moment that he heard the voice of the young gentleman, chasing away the shadows that had gathered there, ev

Marmaduke Wyvil; or, The Maid's Revenge

Henry William Herbert

ADVERTISEMENT.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.