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, even as the summer sunshine dispels the mist that shrouds some striking landscape; and a still broader expression of delight gleamed out upon the sturdy lineaments of good John Sherlock. The others appeared, indeed, somewhat confused and disappointed at the interruption; but their commanding officer seeing that his force was still superior to that of the new comers, hastily ordering his men to fall in and look well to their carbines, walked forward a few steps, and said—addressing himself to the leader of the party, with something more of respect than he had hitherto displayed to any person present, but still abruptly, and almost rudely: "And pray, sir, who may you be, who talk so loudly about justice? I am Cornet Despard, at your service, of his excellency the Lord General Cromwell's own regiment of Ironsides; and if, as your words seem to show, you be in truth an admirer of justice, and you think well to tarry here some six or seven minutes, then you are like to see it done upon as sturdy a knot of malignants as an honest man need light upon in one September day."

"I thank you for your information, Cornet Despard," returned the other, in the same cool sonorous voice which he had used before—"I thank you for your information, sir; and have the honor to reply to you, that I am Major General Henry Chaloner, colonel of the fifth regiment of horse, and commander-in-chief of this district here of Worcester. And now to speak of justice, sir, I trust that on looking somewhat more narrowly into these matters, it may not appear that you have overstepped the limits of its more accurate construction."

CHAPTER VI.

It can be very readily conceived what was the effect produced by this announcement of the name and rank of the gentleman, who had come in so opportunely to interrupt the summary proceedings of the Ironsides—a name which had been rendered honorably notorious by the gallantry and conduct of its owner, throughout the long and bloody war which had so fiercely devastated England—a rank which placed him in the immediate command of all the military parties within the limits of his district. The men immediately presented arms; and with an aspect singularly meek and crest-fallen, the cornet commenced stammering out a justification of his barbarous proceedings. But Chaloner scarce heard him through four sentences—wherein, though laboring hard to show some case against Frank Norman, he had entirely failed to do so—before he interrupted him.

"No, sir—no cause at all!" he said; "no cause at all, even to arrest the young man. If he did strike the soldier, he was in execution of no duty. I do assure you, Cornet Despard, that it is very well for you I came up, ere you had gone further. As it is, sir, give me your sword; return straightways to your quarters, and report yourself under arrest. I will see your colonel, and confer with him to-morrow. How now, master Sherlock," he continued, "what have you been about, to bring yourself within the pale of martial law?"

"Lord love you, General Henry," returned the jolly farmer, "nothing! unless it be a crime in the calendar to find a horse! And if it be, it is a very new one! But I don't know, mayhap the young man thought I stole it."

"Fie! fie! thou steal, John Sherlock! That scarcely will pass muster, even for a suspicion. Here is another very palpable straining of authority, which trust me, Cornet Despard, I am not the man to pass over or forget. Setting aside the gross injustice, the petty pelting tyranny of these proceedings, sir, the mere report of such things, done by an officer of the parliament, will work more evil to the cause than a defeat on a pitched field of battle. We shall have all the country crying out on us, and that too very justly; for of a truth this is the very wantonness of petty persecution. What were the further duties, sir, enjoined upon this patrol, besides the bullying of idiot boys, and plundering of peddlers' packs? What were your orders?"

"To scour the country roads, searching such places as I should deem suspicious, and making prisoners all armed malignants, with an especial view to the arrest of Captain Wyvil, who escaped somewhere in this quarter from Gettes's brigade last night. When I had finished here, I did propose to make further search at Woolverton."

"To what end, sir? The Hall was searched last night, as I have learned this morning by a dispatch from my worshipful friend, master Selby; and no one found therein, nor any shade of reason for suspicion. There was some rudeness too on that occasion, and his fair daughter was entreated but discourteously. Strange! that men, calling themselves soldiers, and wearing honorable swords, should stoop unto so base actions. Enough, sir! for the present—you know my pleasure—this sword shall be restored to you only upon the verdict of your officers. Lancepesade, Cornet Despard is your prisoner; march him at once on to head-quarters, and give my service, Major General Chaloner's service, and fair greeting to Colonel Keating, or to Major Gettes—and I have ordered him under arrest for a court martial! And for yourself, sir, and your men, I bid you to beware. I have heard complaints erewhile of much misconduct toward the people of the country. See that ye bear yourselves henceforth soberly at the least, and modestly; or it shall be the worse for ye. It hath pleased," he continued, reverentially touching the brim of his hat as he spoke—"It bath pleased the Great Dispenser of the universe to put an end to the bloody and infuriate strife which hath now for so many years laid waste our native land! The power of the parliament is firmly established throughout all England! There are no enemies in arms throughout the island! And you must learn to know, that although soldiers, ye are citizens also; and as citizens amenable to the English laws; to which, in my district at the least, I will take care that ye shall be obedient! Remember, men, what I now say to you, so shall ye 'scape, it may be, worse censure in the time to come—and above all, remember that, while I rule in Worcestershire, all men of all opinions, of all parties, so they obey the laws and keep the peace of the land, shall be protected harmless, as our countrymen and brothers. Now, lancepesade, release your prisoners, draw off your men, and mount them, and make no tarrying on the way. See that you do report yourself at Barnsley Moor ere noon! Begone, sir."

Within five minutes the horses were unpicketed, the musketoons reslung; the corporal gave the word, "prepare to mount—mount! Fall in! by files Ma-arch! Steady, men! Trot!" and with their late commander riding crest-fallen, dark and sullen, as a disarmed and disgraced prisoner in the centre of the detachment, they swept off at a hard trot, that soon caused the jingling of their spurs and scabbards, and all the noisy clatter of their harness to be lost in the distance, down the green windings of the lane.

The Ironsides were scarcely out of hearing when Henry Chaloner dismounted from his horse, and casting the bridle to the oldest of his servants, who had sprung to the ground as soon as he saw his master alighting, desired him to bait the beasts with a good feed of oats, and then to get his breakfast with his fellows; instructions which were attended to forthwith with a degree of alacrity that seemed to prove them by no means unwelcome. After having given these directions, he turned to John Sherlock, and begged that he would proceed no farther on his way till they should have some minutes of discourse together—and receiving his assurance that he would wait his pleasure, if it should be till midnight, he stooped his head to pass into the low-browed porch, and entered the little hostelrie in silence.

"There now!" exclaimed the farmer, as he disappeared—"there goes as brave a soldier, and as good a gentleman as any one in all England!"

"Ay! that he is," replied young Norman, "be the other who he may. If all the Puritans were such as Henry Chaloner, many a kingsman hereaway would join with them."

"Puritan! Tush—he's no more a Puritan than thou be," Sherlock answered. "He always went to church, while church there was i' the old abbaye—and never was seen at conventicle—and he rides well with the staghounds—ay! and I've seen him shoot at the butts, and dance around the maypole—many's the summer evening! He is no Puritan!"

"Why man, he was against the king from the beginning," retorted the other; "he spoke against him always in the parliament houses; and when the people armed, he was among the first, and fought in every battle through the war from Edgehill down to Worcester; and if he was opposed to them that cut the king's head off at Whitehall, when it was done and over, he helped to keep the son out of the father's throne. If he be not a Puritan—then I don't know what is one!"

"Well! well! he isn't what I call one," persisted honest John, "for he isn't a preaching and a praying always, in season and out of season—and he don't snuffle through his nose, like a hog in a high wind; nor whine like a whipped spaniel. He isn't a fanatic, nor a hypocrite, nor a canter—not a fawner on the great, nor a grinder of the poor and helpless. He has an honest kind heart, and an open eye that looks a man i'the face; and a frank smile on his lips, and a ready and bold answer on his tongue. And so I say he is not a Puritan—and what I say, that I'll uphold, Frank Norman."

"That's right," answered Norman, laughing—"that's right, John, always! But you'll find no one here to content with; for he is a good gentleman, and well liked through the country—Puritan or no! But it won't do, my standing chattering here with all my rounds to go—and the morn growing late already—I must be moving, and that briskly—there's an outlying buck somewhere nigh Reardon forest, that I've been after these three days, and for the life of me I cannot get on's slot." And with the words he took his rifle up again, looked at the priming and the flint, and whistling a lively air, vaulted over the fence near the horse-trough, and traversing the meadow with a light springy step was lost to sight in the plantations at the farther side. His example was immediately followed by John Brent and the peddler, who went off, the former leading his white pony, and the latter sturdily shouldering his pack, in the direction of the Hall; while the bold farmer, after watching the grooms for a few minutes busied about the horses, tied the black charger to a staple in the shade, and stretching himself out at full length on a settle in the sunshine, to wait the officer's leisure, was soon snoring in as sound a morning's sleep as ever sealed an eyelid.

In the meanwhile the subject of their conversation, quietly lifting the latch of the old oaken door, entered the kitchen; which was, as usual in those days, the principal apartment of the inn. It was a large long room with wainscoted wall, and a low ceiling of black oak from which were suspended hams, flitches of bacon, and huge pieces of hung-beef, sufficient to have maintained an army for a twelvemonth. The whole farther end of the room was occupied by an enormous fireplace, with a high-backed wooden settle on each side of it, and a tall mantelpiece grotesquely carved and blackened with the smoke of ages. Along the front, looking out upon the little green and the old oak-tree, were no less than three latticed casements, their ample sills bedecked with pots of flowers and sweet herbs; and under these was a huge oaken dresser, so brightly polished that it might well have served for a mirror to the bright-cheeked damsels of the inn. The greater part of the wall, facing the windows, was covered by a rack filled with long rows of splendid pewter trenchers hardly less clear than silver—a tall old eight-day clock surmounted with a glorious canopy of peacock's feathers—two corner beauffets well stored with silver tankards, long Venice drinking glasses, pieces of antique porcelain, a japan box or two of knives and spoons, and a gilded salt-cellar—the glory of the whole collection, and an heirloom of the family—with sundry short-legged, high-backed chairs, completed the furniture of the quiet hospitable room. It should be added, that everything was most minutely and fastidiously clean from the neatly-sanded floor to the polished platters, and gleaming copper candlesticks and skillets, arranged so orderly upon the walls. There was not a cobweb in the darkest nook; not a grain of dust on the panes of the corner cupboards, not a cloud of moisture on the drinking glasses, not a speck of tarnish on the cups and tankards—the white dimity curtains were not merely spotless, but glossy with the traces of the recent iron; the very flytraps of paper, quaintly fashioned by the scissors, which hung from the low beams, seemed to be but just placed there, so free were they from any stain or blemish.

It must not be supposed, however, that these particulars were all, or indeed any of them, now observed by the young soldier—his eye did indeed run over them as he entered, but if he noted them at all, it was merely as things which he had seen an hundred times before, and of which the absence alone would have surprised him. Had it, however, all been unusual and new, as on the contrary it was familiar to his eyes, he would at that moment have disregarded it—for there were two groups in the room, either of which, from their distressful and interesting aspect, would have monopolized the thoughts of any one. The first was composed of the unhappy idiot—or `innocent,' as he was delicately termed by the country folks, who had not recovered from his seizure, although the violence of the paroxysm was even now abating—surrounded by several females of the house, bathing his sallow brow with simple essences, laving the acrid slaver from his quivering lips, and using such mild remedies to soothe him as their experience had taught them to apply.

Among these, most conspicuous was the girl Cicely, with another pippin-cheeked dark-eyed handmaid, and a thin gaunt old woman with snow-white hair neatly arranged below her checkered kerchief—but superintending all, and observing with a deep anxious eye the long-drawn sobs and convulsive twitches of the boy, was a young woman, whose appearance could scarce fail to create an immediate interest in the eyes of the most casual observer. She was a pale fair creature, with a singularly intellectual expression on her features, which were moulded in the most exact lines of Grecian symmetry. There was not, however, one shade of color on her pure pale cheek; not one tint of the blood showing through the transparent skin—all was as colorless, and seemingly as cold, as statuary marble, except the mouth, which with a singular contrast, was of the ripest richest crimson—her eyes were very large and bright, of a deep liquid blue; but they too had a strangely cold and chilling aspect—a clearness, like that of the cloudless frosty sky of a December day, which, although quite as deep and liquid and transparent in its hue, could never be mistaken for the warm azure of a midsummer's evening. Her hair, which was exceedingly profuse, even to redundance, was strained tight across the shapely temples, and rolled up into a knot of the smallest possible dimension low down on the neck, as might be seen through the thin lawn of her unornamented cap. In person she was below the middle size, slightly and delicately made, with small neat feet and hands, so white and slender that many a court lady might have envied them: her dress was a high-necked close-fitting gown of some black stuff and a white apron, worn without any ornament at all, except a wedding ring of plain gold, which perhaps might explain both the black garments, and the melancholy air—for no words can describe the fixed and settled sadness which was visible, not in her tranquil features only and her unsmiling lip, but in every sound of her voice, in every movement of her body, in every look of her clear unimpassioned eye. She spoke, and moved, and looked, like one who, although in the world, is yet not of it—who with duties to perform, and cares to undergo, has neither pleasure in the present, nor hope in the future—and alas! how sad, how unspeakably sad and pitiful! that one so young, so gentle, and so fair, should have been so bereaved, as to make all the laughing earth, with all its sounds and sights of beauty, one wide illimitable tomb for ever!

The second group, which had an interest little if at all inferior to the first, consisted of three persons only—an old, old woman—so old that she seemed indeed to have lived far beyond the space allotted to man's sojourn here below—seated erect in a large easy chair before the fire, and two little children. A single glance showed that the ancient dame was confined to her seat by some paralysis, or other ailment, which crippling her lower limbs, had left the upper portion of her body unaffected, and her mind unimpaired— she was stone-blind, moreover, with that uncommon species of blindness, which, while it entirely destroys the vision, yet spares the appearance of the eyeball; so that it is but by the wandering unspeculative glare of the clear orbs, that a stranger can pronounce them sightless. A terrible expression of anxiety and grief and fear was now distorting the serene lineaments, and filling the blind eyes of the helpless woman with bitter scalding tears, as with a querulous and lamentable cry she would now wail, and now asked hurried questions, which no one could find time to answer, concerning "her boy—her poor boy—her poor, witless, innocent boy—Martin!"

The little children, two bright-haired, blue-eyed, fairy-looking girls, of six and eight years old, clinging to the grandmother's apron, had tried at first to comfort her with their small artless prattle, assuring her that cousin Martin would soon be better, and the like; but now seeing that the old woman's tears and terrors but increased, they too were sympathetically frightened, and were both weeping, as fast as their little eyes could weep, they knew not wherefore.

Such was the scene that met the kind eye of Henry Chaloner, as he entered; and he immediately advanced to the first group, as being that where he most probably might render some assistance—but seeing immediately that those about poor Martin, long since habituated to his malady, were managing him as well, or better, than he could have advised himself, and that his seizure was fast yielding to their soothing applications, he turned away gently without asking any question, and walked across the room with a light step toward the old lady.

"Don't be alarmed," he said, in the lowest tones of his deep measured voice—"don't be alarmed, I beg of you, dear dame—for there is no occasion, I assure you."

"Dear Lord!" cried the old woman, starting at the unexpected sounds, for the bustle about the sick youth, and the quietness of his own movements had prevented her discovering the entrance of the young soldier—"Dear Lord! if that be not General Henry!" for with the instinctive quickness of the blind she had easily recognized his accents, which were, indeed, sufficiently remarkable.

"It is, indeed, Dame Rainsford," he replied, taking her hand gently as he spoke, and sitting down upon the wooden settle near her—"it is indeed I—and sorry I am too, to find you thus grieved and terrified; but I assure you there is no occasion for alarm, much less for grief—at all! And you well know I would not say that, if it were not true, even to set your poor heart at rest—but truly there is none! Some rude men here a little time since alarmed poor Martin, it would seem, and he has had one of his wonted fits—no more I do assure you—and it is yielding fast, I see, even now to your fair daughter-in-law's kind tendance—he will be better, I dare promise you, anon!"

"Ay, sir—I'll warrant it," responded the old woman, reassured instantly by the calm voice and characteristic consolations of Henry Chaloner—"I'll warrant it, if that be all. Marian knows how to care for him well—heigho! poor Marian—I was afraid that it was something worse, for I heard Martin cry out fearfully a while since—and they have had no time to answer a poor, helpless, castaway, old thing such as I am—but I don't find any fault—for they're good children all of them, heigho! but since I lost my poor boy Roger, in that sad fight there at Long Marston, it's all dull somehow—dull and dreary—and no head to the house like! though Marian be a wonder! Well! well—it's all for the best—all for the best, thank God—and His good time will come!"

"Ay—indeed, is it," answered Chaloner. "He never burthens any beyond their power to bear, and never casts a snare before the feet of any, but that therewith he frames a path whereby to make escape from it! And lo! here in good season, Martin is on his feet again, and doing bravely."

"Bring him this way—bring my poor child this way—will you not, Marian? where are you taking him, my girl?"

"To lie down, mother, for a while," replied the young, pale widow, obeying her words, nevertheless, and guiding the helpless being across the sanded floor—"he always needs sleep, you know, after the fit leaves him!"

A melancholy scene, but one of surpassing interest and beauty, followed; as the poor idiot, led up by his widowed aunt, approached his bereaved sightless parent, on whom his meaningless and stolid eye dwelt with a feeble glimmering of expression, as if his veiled imperfect memory partially recognized the venerable being who, years ago had soothed his anguished infancy. A faint sick smile played over his pale lips, as by the force of habit he bowed his head to meet the pressure of her thin shrivelled tremulous fingers, and felt her kiss upon his sallow forehead, and the warm tears, which fell like summer rain upon his matted locks.

"Bless thee, my boy—my poor, poor boy! God bless thee—for thou art very dear to me—oh! very! very! although thou be not comely to the sight—nor gifted with the light of heavenly reason—very dear art thou to my soul—child of affliction, being of suffering and sorrow—sole relic and last gift of my fair first-born—God's goodness be about thy lifelong darkness, to guide and comfort and protect thee."

The heavy tears dropped fast and frequent from the kind eyes of Chaloner at this heart-touching prayer, and as he saw that aged woman deprived of all the wonted blessings of this life, crippled, and blind, and reft of all her children, bending in grateful prayer over that idiot boy; his soul was so full that he could not frame an `Amen,' as she ended.

They led the poor youth to a chamber, and gradually the comely and serene tranquility, which was its usual expression, resumed its reign over the face of the blind woman; and the tears of the little girls were lost like April showers in light sunny laughter, as they played with the fringe of Henry's scarf, and wondered at his glittering sword-hilt; and Marian and her maidens returned from their labor of love, and all things again wore their wonted aspect.

A thoughtful, quiet gladness was perceptible on the wan features of the youthful widow, as she greeted her kind guest, and apologized briefly and simply for the neglect he had experienced, and the confused state of the household.

"Oh! speak not of it," he said, much more quickly than it was his custom to reply— "speak not, I pray you, of it, if you would not grieve me. I saw, and was very sorry for the cause, and if I could I would have prevented it in time—you will believe me when I say, I would—as it is, I will take care no such abuse occur again within my district. But now, my good Marian, I must put you to some trouble. I have ridden nearly a score of miles this morning, and have not broken my fast yet—and I have with me six hungry knaves besides. Will you prepare some food for us—and show me to your summer parlor, where I may write a letter, and commune with my own thoughts a little while in private?"

"Surely, sir, surely!" she replied; "would it were in my power to show by greater services, my gratitude for all your goodness. Walk this way, General Henry!" and as she spoke, she opened a small door in the chimney corner, behind the oaken settle, which gave access to a narrow winding staircase, up which she led him into a pleasant lofty chamber, occupying one of the gables, and overlooking from its large latticed window, the smooth green meadows, and the dark quiet woodlands in the distance. The floor was strown with clear white sand, the fireplace filled with the varnished leaves and bright red berries of the holly; the walls were wainscoted with highly-polished oak—there was a round table, with a standish, pens and paper, and two vast old-fashioned arm-chairs in the recess of the window—and, in short, all was so cool and clean and tranquil, and the mild air of the radiant autumn morning came in so balmily through the leaves of the old oak, and caught such pleasant perfumes from the flower-pots on the window-seat, that a more fitting place could hardly have been found wherein to fix the mind in meditation. And so thought Henry Chaloner, as he threw himself into the chair, and wrote, and pondered on his writing; while servants went and came, and spread a larger board behind him with all appliances for the morning meal, unheard by him, or at the least unheeded. At last, his task concluded, he raised his head, and asking for a taper and some wax to secure his letters, desired that his head groom might come to him; and, by the time he had fastened up the two notes he had written, the man stood before him.

"Andrew," he said, "let James Warr take the Peacock gelding, and ride with all speed to Colonel Hastings's quarters at Low Barnsley—he must be contented with a crust of bread and a draught of ale till his errand is done—for it is all important. Then he may feed his horse, and dine and breakfast both in one, and ride home at his leisure. There is no reply to wait for; and do thou take this note thyself to Woolverton, to Master Selby's, and tarry for an answer. It will not hold thee long; and thou must e'en make up for it, when thou get'st back. I warrant me thou'rt hungry now— but there's no help for it, good Andrew. The meat will tarry, but not so the matter."

"I'm not so hungry, sir, but I can ride all day, and all night, too—and that gladly— fasting, if it were on your service," answered the old groom, who had long served, and well loved his young master.

"I thank you, Andrew, and believe you;" he replied, "but shall not have, I hope, so far to tax your willingness. Meanwhile, as you go down, ask them to serve my breakfast."

CHAPTER VII.

The mind of Henry Chaloner was one of those unquestionably, which are so well and accurately balanced by nature in the first instance, and so well schooled in the second, by experience and Christian philosophy, that of all they are the least likely to be thrown into violent perturbation by the pressure of any external circumstances. He had, moreover, that fixed and tranquil self-reliance, common to men of great parts who have seen much, and suffered much in the world, which enables its possessors to meet the most difficult contingencies with a quiet resolute front—and, better yet, he had that immovable faith and confidence in God's power and mercy, which supports the Christian, dauntless and invincible, through all extremities of toil and trial. Still, there is no combination of natural and acquired parts—no innate hardihood of heart, no practice in the world's warfare—no sternness of philosophy, no support of Christianity—nothing, indeed, short of apathetic dullness and deadness of the soul—that can at all times master grief, and bid the foul fiends, doubt, despondency, and anxious penetrating care, avaunt in the first moment of their onslaught; and in the present instance, well-regulated as was the mind of the young officer, and well-disciplined to suppress its feelings in consideration to the necessities of others, it were entirely useless to deny that for some cause or other he was exceedingly restless and uneasy. The meal which was set before him remained almost untasted, although it consisted of every delicacy that the time and place could furnish. Though the red-spotted trout were fresh from the neighboring brooklet; though the eggs, which accompanied the bubbling rasher, were new-laid that morning; though the buttock of cold powdered beef was of the fattest, and the mustard genuine Tewksbury—and though all was served with that appetizing and rare cleanliness which will do more to tempt a fastidious palate, than the most luxurious dishes—still there was something at work within, which would not suffer him to swallow a mouthful—he made, indeed, several efforts to conquer his reluctance, but still the meat would not down; and he gave up the point, after a second long draught from the spiced tankard, which the fever and heat of his mind rendered very grateful.

Throwing himself back in the arm-chair, he remained for some time in deep thought with his hand tightly pressed upon his eyes—then he rose up restlessly, and leaning out of the window, seemed to listen whether he might hear anything of his man's return, although there had scarcely elapsed time enough for him to reach the Hall; and then, as if recollecting himself, turned away from the casement, and began walking to and fro the room, with slow and measured paces, which showed that if he was disturbed, it was the disturbance of a regular self-governing spirit, not the headlong rashness of a violent and passionate nature, excited beyond all control by any casual irritation.

"I much fear—I very much fear that it is so," he at length muttered to himself, thinking as it were aloud; "and if so, it will be in truth a difficult bad business. I know not what will come of it."

The fact was, that holding a situation of vast importance in the country, the office of major-general of a district under the parliament, being tantamount to that which is now termed lord lieutenant of a county, he had received dispatches which gave him no slight uneasiness; and imposed on him duties, the propriety of which he half doubted, and the performance of which could not but be most painful to all his better feelings. After the attempt of the cavaliers, seconded by a great part of the Scottish people, to elevate Charles the Second to the throne of the Martyr, as they fondly persisted in calling the weak man who had fallen a victim to his own obstinate and selfish insincerity—after this attempt—checked by the daring energy of Cromwell in the battle of Dunbar of the preceding year, and now completely overthrown and prostrated by the crowning mercy of Worcester fight—a spirit of persecution broke out, or at least manifested itself far more generally than at any previous period of the war, among the Presbyterians and Independents, toward the scattered fugitives of the defeated party. The king himself was hunted with a vindictive pertinacity, from which men augured easily that his capture would lead to a repetition of the tragedy of the thirtieth of January— while his adherents were cut down, or shot like dogs, wherever they were taken; many days after the entire dispersion, and, as it might almost be termed, dissolution of the party.

The fears, however, or the hatred of the parliament remained unsatisfied; and instructions were issued, throughout all the country, to all the major-generals in command, to omit no precautions for the preventing the assemblage of small armed bodies, which might serve as the nuclei of future risings; and to spare no pains for the apprehension of sundry—the most eminent leaders of the late rebellion, whom they were directed, as fast as captured, to send up to London; where it was intended that they should be left for trial on indictments of high treason. A general amnesty was indeed talked of; but unquestionably, if any such measure were in contemplation, so many exceptions would be made as would render it such in name only—and this was rendered evident, by the long list of persons forwarded to the governors of districts for immediate proclamation, whom men were forbidden on pain of forfeiture, imprisonment, and— in some cases—death, from "resetting, harboring, or comforting with food or fire or raiment."

All this tended to render Henry Chaloner uneasy; for though he had, as we have seen, systematically opposed the usurpations of the king, from the first to the last— though he had considered Charles the First unfit to reign, and his son even more unqualified to succeed him—though he had exerted all his powers of mind and body to banish the obnoxious issue from the throne and the country—and though he was prepared to resist to the utmost all efforts to reinstate them—he had yet nothing in his nature of the bigot or persecutor; and he would now have instantly extended, not only full indemnity from any personal harm, but all political and civil privileges to all men of all parties and opinions, who should thereafter be contented to keep the sword at rest within its scabbard, and vex the land no longer.

But this was not all that troubled him, nor would this have sufficed to trouble him so far, had there been no more reason for anxiety—since, in the first place, by virtue of his office, he possessed some discretionary power; and so great was the attention which had been ever paid to his opinions by the great man who swayed the destinies of England, that he had little fear of winning from his calmer judgment, a sanction to more merciful proceedings than were at present contemplated.

At a late hour of the preceding night, he had been roused from sleep by the arrival of an orderly, bearing to him from the colonel of the Ironsides quartered at Barnsley moor, a full narrative of the pursuit by a patrolling party of the proclaimed malignant, Captain Wyvil—of his extraordinary escape, when escape seemed impossible—of the fruitless search of Woolverton Hall—and of the strong grounds which still existed for believing him to be harbored on those premises. The narrative was drawn up with technical nicety, and therein it was certified that several of the brigade, which had first passed the place—both officers and privates—had seen a young and beautiful woman at the window of the fish-house! It was shown further, that when the second party came up, scarce twenty minutes later, and actually searched the place, it was vacant! Again it was proved, that during that brief interval the fugitive must have passed within a gunshot of the window where she sat; and that there was not any lane or by-road, between the angle of the road leading directly to the bridge—which he had been seen to turn by his pursuers—and the spot where the patrol had overtaken Gettes's brigade, by which he could have turned off to the right or left, and so eluded the close chase.

The effect of this evidence, although by no means really conclusive, went far to convince Henry Chaloner, who well knew the secret predilections of his cousin Selby, and the romantic high-minded generosity of his lovely daughter, that by some means or other one or both were concerned in the escape of Wyvil. In this opinion he was confirmed yet further by a note which he had received, before he left his chamber in the morning, from Mark Selby, informing him of the search which had been instituted on his premises, complaining of the rudeness of the soldiery, and requesting to see him at his early leisure on business of some import. The receipt it was of this note which caused him to hasten a measure, on which he had already determined; and he accordingly ordered his horses to be saddled and a suitable train prepared; and set forth on his ride before the cocks had crowed their matin song. The occurrences which befell him afterwards, and especially the discovery of Wyvil's horse by John Sherlock, close, as it was represented, to the place where the fugitive was first missed, and within a few yards of the fishing-house, scarce left a doubt in his mind of the secret agency of Alice in the young cavalier's escape. It is, of course, unnecessary to say, that to Chaloner this agency—however much inconvenience it might produce to himself, or peril to the fair young girl—did not appear in the light of an offence against any laws, either human or divine; and it is scarcely to be doubted, that had he himself been situated as she was, despite his official duties, he would have acted as she did, and facilitated the evasion of a fugitive, whom he certainly regarded as unfortunate and perhaps mistaken, rather than criminal or guilty.

Entertaining these opinions, therefore, the thing in the world which he least wished at this moment, was that by any casualty he should be forced to discover the hiding-place of Wyvil. Averse in the first place to cruclty or blood-shedding under all circumstances, convinced that in the present crisis leniency was the true and politic course for the restoration of tranquility and peace—and confident, moreover, that within a short space of time he could bring about a material change in the views of the government, he dreaded to have this case of Wyvil so brought before his eyes that he should have no alternative but to arrest him; when his fate, and not his fate alone, but that of all who had assisted him, would be decided on the instant.

At the same time, he was too rigid in his views of duty and of right, to connive secretly at any act which he would not avow in public—all personal consequences he would have discarded instantly, as utterly unworthy his consideration—and had he with his own hands taken Wyvil in the open country, or found him in the hands of troopers who had so arrested him, he would have very probably discharged him at his own peril, if satisfied that he entertained no views against the peace of England. To do this, however, if he should be detected under the roof of Selby, would be of no avail to save the old man and his lovely daughter from forfeiture of all their worldly goods, and from a long imprisonment, ending perhaps in death upon the scaffold. He felt that, with the information laid before him, he had no course left but to investigate the case completely, and if it should prove needful, to order a fresh search! And hating, as he did, to contemplate the possibility of the young man's being brought to judgment by his means, and dreading—as he did for a thousand reasons—the consequences to his friends and kindred at the Hall—who shall be moved by wonder if Henry Chaloner, despite all natural advantages of equanimity and fortitude—all supplemental aids of discipline, philosophy, religion—was ill at ease, and anxious, and unhappy?

An hour or more had passed since he dispatched the groom to the Hall, an errand which should not, as he conceived, at the most have occupied one-half that time; and after looking out of the window anxiously two or three times within five times as many minutes, he ordered his horses to be again got ready, and determined to ride down the road, feeling assured that he should meet his messenger returning, before he could reach the gates. He had just given these instructions, when the sounds of a slight bustle reached his ears from the rooms below, and immediately after some words spoken in a low silvery voice, which fell upon his soul like the memory of some familiar tune heard in the happy days of boyhood and unforgotten through all the sins, and strifes, and miseries of manhood, even to remote old age. It was but a few words—or to speak more correctly, the tones and accents of a few words, which were themselves inaudible, that reached him—and these too dulled and deadened by the distance and by the obstacles, through which they were transmitted; yet at the first faint note he started to his feet listening intently, and apparently recognizing the speaker, in a moment took up his hat and sword, and hastened down into the kitchen whence the sounds proceeded. The moment he opened the door from the small turnpike staircase, with the full morning sunshine pouring in through the open casement on her beautiful features and graceful figure, Alice Selby stood before him, conversing in tones full of soft considerate kindness with the old afflicted woman, and the young widow, who were listening to all she said with an expression not of love only or respect, but of the deepest and most reverential gratitude. Chaloner's servants, their morning meal concluded, had long since gone out to attend the horses, and there was no one in the room except the members of the family, and an old grayheaded serving man in a plain livery of green and gold, with a stone jug, holding perhaps two quarts, slung in a leathern belt across one shoulder, and a large wicker basket by his side; who was wiping his forehead, as if somewhat tired with his load, although there was a cheerful smile upon his weather-beaten features, showing that he grudged not the easy labor.

Alice was speaking at the moment when her cousin paused at the open door; but as it was placed in a dark angle of the room, and as her eyes were turned in a direction somewhat different, she did not see him, but went on in the same low musical accents, which had so pleasantly affected him: "So when I missed you, Marian," she said, "from our little congregation at the Hall on Sunday, I was afraid there was something amiss with Dame Rainsford or poor Martin, and I should have come over yesterday to see you all; but I was somewhat occupied in the forenoon within doors—and to say truly, I forgot all about it after dinner, and went out to walk in the park, and fell asleep, I believe, in the fish-house; and was frightened a good deal afterwards—which was certainly very foolish in me, Marian—by some parliament soldiers, who rode by smoking and laughing, and making a loud rude disturbance. But when I saw this morning that neither of my little pets, Bella nor my god-daughter Alice, were at school, I was quite sorry and ashamed of my neglect. So I put on my cloak and hood, and made old Jeremy bring down a bottle of the choice Canary, which Doctor Trowbridge thought so good for your mother's ailment, and a few cates and simples from my own laboratory for poor Martin."

"Oh! you are kind! God bless you, Mistress Alice—and He will, I doubt not—but there is nothing much amiss—my mother, it's true, was ailing somewhat on the Sunday morning, and that was the reason of my not coming up to chapel; but she was quite well yesterday again—as well that is, as she can hope to be—and in good spirits, God be thanked! and there is no harm done this morning, though the soldiers were very rude and brutal, and used Martin so that he got one of his bad fits, and is only better of it now, and has just dropped asleep!"

"Soldiers!" said Alice, turning very pale; "what soldiers? are they here now— quick, good Marian?" and as she spoke, she pulled the hood farther over her features and looked wildly around.

"None, my fair cousin;" answered Henry, before any of the others had time to reply, advancing into the room with his head uncovered—"none at all, Alice, unless you count me one; but if you do, I don't believe you'll judge me very formidable!"

"Oh! cousin Henry, is it you?" she answered with a gay smile; "you startled me at first a little, for I did not dream of meeting you here—No! I don't think you very formidable, although you are a soldier; but that is more than we can say for all of your good parliament troopers—since some of them are rude, not to say brutal!"

"Of which I had a very clear proof here but now," Chaloner answered; "and in truth, if you will pardon me, I do think you were best confine your walks within the limits of your father's grounds just now—these Ironsides, flushed with their victory at Worcester, are scouring the roads all round, and, I fear much, abusing shamefully their power, and the trust reposed in them. I will see these things righted ere long, if I am to hold the district as commander; but for a few days, Alice, take my advice, and let your park walls be the limit of your wanderings."

"Indeed I will, cousin Henry," she replied—"indeed, I will take your advice; and I thank you for it. They came and searched our house last night, for some one whom they charged us with concealing, and one of them, an officer—a singularly ill ungraciouslooking youth—was positively rude to me!"

"He will not so offend again, fair Mistress Alice," answered the young man; "for if, as I doubt not, your friend was Cornet Despard, I have just sent him to head-quarters in arrest for most unsoldierly and brutal conduct here this morning; and I will take care he is duly punished. But come," he added, "it seems to me your visit of charity and kindness is concluded. I was about to ride down to the Hall even now, to wait on your father, who signified to me by letter a wish that I would see him touching this business you have mentioned—suffer me to send on my horses, and on foot escort you homeward."

"No! thank you, cousin," answered Alice, with a smile; "I am playing Lady Bountiful this morning, and have to pay two visits more to two of my old pensioners in the village. Since you have driven these rude discourteous warriors home, like a fair and gallant knight, an errant damsel may hold herself safe for this time. But, jesting apart, Henry; I must go a little half mile farther, and Jeremy has the key of the small postern gate beside the heronry wood, and I shall go in by that entrance. So go your ways, good cousin, and commune with my father, and then come join me in the park. You'll tarry dinner with us—surely! nay—I'll have no denial—and now I think of it, my father means, I fancy, to detain you over night; fare you well for the present— fare you well, dame—here be the simples, Marian—and give your mother a good cup of the Canary straightway; poor soul, she needs some comfort—fare you well Bella— one kiss, my little Alice!" And among the blessings of all, and the fervent thanks of the old matron, in whose opinion Alice was an absolute angel—too beautiful and good for aught below—she vanished from the room, leaving it—as Henry Chaloner thought— lower and darker and more gloomy than it had ever seemed to him before; and after a little while he too, having paid his reckoning, mounted his horse and rode away slowly toward the Hall gates; before reaching which he met his servant coming up at full gallop, the bearer of a verbal message from Master Selby, praying "that Major General Chaloner would visit his poor house with all convenient speed!"

CHAPTER VIII.

It was at about the same hour of the same day at which the rustic party were interrupted by the arrival of the Ironsides at the Stag's Head, that the squire of Woolverton— the morning meal being finished, and all the household busied about their wonted avocations—gave orders to the steward that he should not on any account be disturbed for a couple of hours; and, locking the library door with jealous care behind him, proceeded through the secret passage to the hiding-place of his concealed guest. It was perhaps fortunate that the habits of the old man, secluded, sedentary, and averse to much intercourse with man, were such as to prevent any speculation or surprise at such an order, it being his almost daily practice to shut himself up in the pursuit of some abstruse and difficult study; so that no one of the servants entertained the least suspicion on the subject. The greatest risk that Selby had discovered in the case was the providing food for the stranger without attracting notice; and this he was in fact only able to manage by robbing his own buttery nightly, after the people had retired to rest, much to the wonder and disquiet of the old housekeeper, who was continually missing corners of venison pasties, cold larded capons, remnants of neats' tongues, and whole loaves of bread; for the disappearance of which she could in no wise account, and concerning which she was perpetually worrying and fidgetting her fellow-servants to no end or purpose.

It was then with a basketful of cold provisions, two or three long-necked flasks of Bordeaux wine, a fresh supply of oil, a change of linen, and sundry volumes of the long-winded cumbersome romances of that day, that the old squire now sought his visitor. With a noiseless step, and a suppressed breathing, the good old man traversed the long and darksome corridors, now climbing steep and narrow stairways, now winding downward by deep gradual descents, turning short angles, and passing through trap-doors almost innumerable, until he reached the safe and distant crypt wherein he had left Wyvil to his slumbers on the preceding night. So deep had been those slumbers, and so completely had the young man been over-wrought by the toil, the exertions, and the tremendous excitement of the previous days, that he lay buried still in profound and dreamless stupor; and it was well that Selby had brought a master-key by means of which he gained admittance to the cell, since not by any signal that he dared make could he attract his guest's attention. Unlocking the door quietly, he entered, and setting down his load stepped lightly to the bedside; the brazen lamp was burning steadily upon the table, filling the whole of the small room with a smoky yellow light, and pouring full upon the uncurtained features of the sleeper. His clothes, cast off in negligent disarray, were heaped upon the stools and table; his rich buff coat, all laced with tawney silk and looped with gold, hung on the back of the armed chair, moist and discolored by the waters of the moat, through which the wearer had swam on the previous evening; his cuirass of bright steel, inlaid with arabesques of gold, lay on the table, sending back the rays of the dull lamp in strong and dancing gleams of brighter lustre; his vest and trunk-hose of murray-colored velvet, his russet buskins with their long gilded spurs, and his embroidered slouched beaver with its black drooping plume, lay in confusion on the stone-paved floor; but the blue baldric of his rapier was twined round one of the posts of his pallet bed, so that the hilt was ready to his hand at a moment's notice; while, as a further precaution, he had thrust the point of his naked poniard into a crevice of the headboard, so that it could be griped with his left hand, as readily as the sword hilt with his right, on the least emergency. Little, however, would either weapon have availed him now, had the intruder been an enemy; for he still slept so deeply that he might have been slain easily, without the possibility of making any adequate resistance.

For a few moments Mark Selby would not arouse him from his state, as it appeared, of absolute insensibility; but stood gazing steadfastly upon the tranquil lineaments of the young sleeper. Those lineaments, which the old man had seen but imperfectly the night before, were certainly and eminently handsome: he had a profusion of soft, silky, light-brown hair, falling back from his brow in long straight masses, waved slightly on the temples, and curled as it would seem artifically at the extremity; his forehead was very high and prominent, but rather narrower at the temples than below, which detracted somewhat from the beauty of the feature; it was, however, singularly white and smooth, and perfectly unwrinkled, except that there was a deep indentation, as if of an habitual frown, at the inner point of the eyebrows, which were straight and well defined, of a color several degrees darker than his hair. His eyes, as could be seen even while he slept by the form and dimensions of the lids, were large and well opened, and fringed with long black lashes; his nose was thin and somewhat sharply, though not highly, aquiline; his mouth, which by its firm compression and set downward curve, bespoke docision of character and absolute hardihood, had yet an expression of voluptuousness in the full prominent under lip, and in the fleshy curvature of the projecting chin; and the combination of the whole was, as has been already said, sufficient to constitute a face of decided and unusual attractiveness. The coloring was rich and manly; a complexion, which had been naturally very fair and florid, having been darkened by exposure to the weather into a ripe and mellow brown, which suited well the narrow dark mustache which he wore on the upper lip, and the small vandyke beard trimmed into the fashion of a fleur-de-lis, with two small upward curls and long point between; giving a soldier-like and manly air to a countenance, which without it might have been termed effeminate, from the smallness and delicacy of all the separate features, rather than from any real want of energy or character in the expression.

It may as well be stated here, although Mark Selby saw them not at present, that his eyes were of a full dark blue, and that his mouth was filled by a set of teeth as regular and white and pearly as were ever set off by the coral lips of the loveliest woman. As the old man gazed on the comely features, he certainly thought that he had never seen a handsomer man, nor one with a more bland and beautiful expression; yet much of this last appearance was factitious merely, and depended on the present situation of the sleeper, who, completely overcome with toil, was sunk in the voluptuous and calm tranquility of the deepest and most dreamless sleep. Had he been awake, however, while he would have admitted the beauty even perhaps more fully than at present, the squire would not have discovered by any means the same attraction in his aspect, nor drawn the same conclusions with regard to his character. He would then have perceived—as did all persons who thought upon the subject, until their judgment was overpowered by the fascinations of the young cavalier's demeanor—that there was an unpleasant look, a look of extreme audacious boldness, in the bright sparkling eye, and moreover a wavering, changeful, vacillating glance, indicative of a fickleness if not feebleness of purpose, and remarkably at variance with the resolved and even obstinate expression of the mouth; and he would moreover have detected something hollow and almost mocking in the style of the smooth dulcet smile which was continually playing about the half open lips, and revealing the pearly teeth within. None of these drawbacks to the appearance of Wyvil were at this time perceptible, nor were they indeed ever discovered in their true light by Selby; for he was now so strongly prepossessed by the features of the sleeper, wrapt as they were in soft and placid languor, that he retained the first favorable impression afterwards, and, becoming very soon habituated to the man, thought no more of his appearance. While he looked on, however, the character of his guest's repose was altered; a shadow flitted over the fair tranquil lineaments—a dark, frowning shadow—and anon the sweat broke out upon his brow in large and beaded bubbles; he writhed his limbs to and fro with a convulsive motion, and grinded his set teeth with a fierce energy.

Short inarticulate sounds came struggling from his lips, and at last the listener heard him mutter: "Over! it is all over!" and again, after another violent struggle, flinging his right hand abroad violently, and clutching the bed-clothes with a stern savage gripe, "I have thee by the throat, dog! damned dog! Plead not—plead not to me for mercy! thou did'st stab Musgrave in cold blood, when he had yielded him a prisoner! Ha, ha! plead not to me!" He fumbled with his left hand impotently in the bed, as if he were grappling for a weapon, and then, still maintaining the death gripe, as he thought, with his right, "How the dog struggles!" he continued. "Plague on't, I've lost my dagger. Here, Edgar—Edgar Beavan—run me thy rapier through this hound, or blow his brains out, while I hold him! Ha! ha!" he added furiously, h,s whole face kindled with a wild fiery glare—"ha! down with thee to hell! and there boast of his murder! Ha! ha! ha! ha-ha!" and he burst into a fit of convulsive savage laughter, which gradually died away, and left him again all relaxed and dreamless.

"Poor youth! alack, poor youth!" murmured the good old man; "how fearfully the dread strife and the death-grapple darkens his fresh unhardened spirit. God pardon him the sin of blood-shedding—since surely he did strike for the right cause! Lo! he frowns now again, and the cold sweat wells out at every pore."

"Charge! charge!" muttered the sleeper, interrupting the tenor of his meditations. "Charge once more—kill! kill! kill! no quarter to the rebel dogs! the damned blood-drinking roundheads!"

"Ay! he is in the very agony of the hot heady fight. I will awake him;" and suiting, as he spoke, the action to the word, he laid his hand lightly on the arm of the sleeper. It was like the work of magic; for scarcely did the old man's finger touch the wrist of Wyvil before he started up, unsheathing his rapier with one hand, and snatching the poniard with the other; and stood erect upon the floor, with eye, hand, foot on the alert in posture of defence. It was scarcely a second since he was struggling in the visions of his tortured sleep upon the bloody banks of the Team, and now he was in the full possession of his senses, cool, self-collected—armed in mind and body, prepared for any fortune.

A quiet smile crossed the fine face of the old squire, and fading away instantly, left a grave and even sad expression in its place, as he addressed the youthful cavalier.

"Nay, nay! it is no foe; nor have you any need of weapons—"

"Ha! my kind host," the other interrupted him, lowering the point of his sword as he spoke. "I crave your pardon: I saw not that it was you."

"You slept in truth heavily," replied Selby; "and your slumbers were so disturbed and restless, that I had the less hesitation in arousing you. Besides, I have much to say to you. In the first place, I have brought you food, and wine, and raiment, and all appliances to make your toilet; some books, moreover, and oil for your lamp. Here is a little charcoal likewise, and there should be a brazier somewhere—ay! here it is in the corner; best make yourself a fire forthwith, and dry your dripping garments. But first I must require you to plight me your sacred oath of honor, never by any means to publish or divulge to any living creature the secret of your biding-place!"

"I were ungrateful else, and base indeed," replied Wyvil; and laying his hand on his heart, he continued: "Most solemnly I plight my sacred honor, never by word or deed, by sign or hint or writing, to reveal aught that you shall show to me in furtherance of my escape and safety; and should I ever, or by any chance, forget this pledge hereafter, so may God forget me even at my utmost need!"

"No more!" said Selby, taking him by the hand—"no more! nor had I asked even this, but that it is enjoined on me to do so. Never must these things be revealed to any, save the head of the house and his next heir, but in the case of extreme peril, and then under the sanction of an oath. This then sufficeth. Now tell me, sir, what hopes you have of aid from without?"

"None, presently!" answered the youth. "If I could but reach France, I might do well; for on the outbreak of the war, and since at many times, I have remitted thither much jewelry and gold. But how to reach the coast, or when there to get shipping, in truth I know not."

"And have you no friends anywhere, whom you might trust—nor any faithful agent? We may conceal you here, it is true, for a time; but every hour, nay, minute, will increase the hazard. Suspicion is awake already, and I might say peril is around us!"

"No friends—no friends, at least, who could assist me! but there is one, a secret agent of the king's partisans, though deemed a spy in the pay of Cromwell—known as the peddler Bertram; if I could make him know my case, if any man could do it, he would effect—"

"I know the man," interrupted Selby—"I know the man, but only as a travelling trader. I know him, and it may be can discover him ere many days; but are you sure he may be trusted?"

"No man in these times can be sure of any one!" Wyvil answered, after a moment's thought, "but I dare trust myself with him. He has been often tried and trusted, and so far has proved always faithful."

"I will proceed straightway to have him sought out—as far as may be, we will secure his faith—not paying him a crown till you are safe on shipboard."

"That will not avail anything; Bartram, as he is called—for that is not his name in sooth—takes no reward from cavaliers."

"That speaks well for his trust at least! I'll see to it—now, mark me; I do not doubt, but that search will be made again to-morrow—or to-day—nor do I very much doubt but that, if one I know conducts the search, this chamber will be readily discovered. So many of the old houses have similar contrivances, which have by chance or treachery or acute wit of the searchers, been discovered, that they have got the trick of them— and this, although not altogether easy, is by no means to be considered as impregnable; it hath, however, further secrets. First let me tell you, there is no lack of fresh air here, although there be no windows—for everywhere throughout the thickness of the walls there have been framed long winding spiracles, else were it unsafe to burn charcoal. Now, Captain Wyvil, mark every word I say, for it may be your life depends on your clear memory. There is a strange contrivance here; a long metallic tube framed like a trumpet, but with ten times the power—one whisper at the farther end fills all this chamber with a reverberating din, that would awake the soundest sleeper though he were drugged with opium. By this tube notice shall be given you ere any search commences— an hour, at the least, must elapse, ere any one except myself or Alice could reach this central hold; but notwithstanding, when you shall hear that sound, make no delay—for be assured there will be desperate peril. If, when they search this spot, they shall find any signs of recent occupation, be sure that you are lost! with you it rests, to keep all things so ordered, that they shall be in place as though not touched for months. Pile all the furniture together: leave not a scrap of food, nor a drop of wine, to tell tales, in any drinking glass—heap the books on the highest shelf—and lo! here is a bag of dust and rubbish and old feathers—shake this out freely over all—tie the wine-flasks and lamps, and all else that might create surmise, to the leaden weight and hook which lie by the trap-door I showed you, and sink them in the water—do this as speedily as may be, and then fly! And, now I think of it, keep no fire any more in the brazier, when you have dried your raiment—so, I doubt not, we may frustrate their expectations that would work us evil."

"But how, or whither must I fly? I see no means at all, nor any—"

"We will waste no time, Captain Wyvil," answered Selby, "but you will follow me, so please you;" and with these words he unlocked both doors, which had remained unopened the preceding night; and entering that nearest to the stairs, by which lay the descent to the well and trap, was followed closely by the young cavalier, whose attention had been firmly rivetted on every syllable the old man uttered.

The greater part of an hour had elapsed, before they returned; and when they did so it was by the other passage, so that it was apparent that Marmaduke had now been made acquainted with all the different modes of egress from his friendly prison-house. They were both somewhat pale, and the lamps which they bore burned very blue and dim, and all their clothes were soiled in many places, and besmirched with much green mould—the old man was moreover so much exhausted, that he set down for a while in the arm-chair, panting and seemingly quite overwrought by the fatigue, and the bad atmosphere he had imbibed in traversing the gloomy vaults and corridors of that dark labyrinth.

After a few moments' rest, however, he filled himself a beaker of the generous wine of Bordeaux, and pushing the flask across the board to Wyvil, motioned him to fill up, and emptied his glass at a single draught.

"Well now," he said, "remember, I beseech you, the clue in the right hand passage is the number three! to the right throughout—every third turning to the right!—those to the left, and all the others are but false turnings and deceptions. In the left hand it is five; now, if the alarm be by day, neither of these are very safe! both opening as they do in the clear country! by night it matters not much which you take, but be careful that there be no one watching, ere you issue out. If then the alarm be by day, you were best try the other, and tarry there until you hear the signal. Now then, give me your hand—farewell. I may not now wait longer, lest I be missed. Alice or I will visit you this evening—and now, young man consider—I would have you—and weigh well the vast trust I repose in you—a very stranger—all for pure charity and my own sense of duty! my own and daughter's life! my own and daughter's honor! no more, sir— one word is enough! no answer, I beseech you—and above all, no protestation! Deeds, my good friend—deeds done hereafter will outstrip a whole ton of words at the present. God bless you, and farewell!" and saying thus, he left him quite abruptly; and, locking the door after him, hurried away with all speed to his own private study.

Well was it that he did make haste; for he had not been there ten minutes, and had but just replaced the volumes which concealed the spring upon the bookshelves, adjusted his disordered dress, and seated himself, pen in hand, at his desk, when a quick footstep without followed immediately the slamming of a distant door; and was succeeded by a tap on the panel, and the voice of a domestic announcing the arrival of a messenger bearing a letter with dispatch from Major General Henry Chaloner.

Rising instantly, with his pen still in his fingers wet with the ink into which he had the presence of mind to dip it for the purpose; Selby unlocked the door, and received the note with an explanation that the bearer had been detained an hour or better, no servant having ventured to disturb him until the time should arrive which he himself had specified.

"It is well," answered he, when he had read the hasty scroll; "then will I not delay him any longer. Bid him say to his master, Launcelot, that Master Selby greets him, and will rejoice to see him at his own good convenience!" The man bowed, and withdrew; and the old man seated himself again quietly, and after a moment's thought— "He!" he said, "ha!—now comes the trial!" and without any further meditation, or any sign of care, he took up the Eumenides of æschylus, turned to the difficult and obscure chorus at the 876th line; and read, and methodized, and made notes as he went on, some in the margin of the volume itself, and some in a large brass-bound vellum-covered book, labelled "Ephemeris Classica Variorum," as tranquilly as though he had nothing of more immediate or pressing urgency upon his mind, than the emendation of a corrupt reading, or the restoration of the true text. It was not affectation—it was not even the result of an effort—he yielded to the force of ancient habit, and in five minutes after the man had left him, was completely wrapped up in his subject, mindful of archæology alone, and utterly forgetful of all sublunary matters; and so remained, until he was again aroused to consideration of earthly things, by the announcement of his cousin Chaloner. Of a truth was it said, that we are fearfully and wonderfully made!

CHAPTER IX.

For two hours at the least did Henry Chaloner remain closely engaged in deep and painful conversation with his ancient relative, who, understanding well his difficult and delicate position, appreciated fully his considerate kindness. Henry did not affect for a moment to conceal from him his opinion that the young cavalier was secreted somewhere on the premises of Woolverton—nor did he pretend to disapprove the motives which had led to such concealment, however much he might regret the consequences which he considered likely to arise therefrom. He showed the proclamation to Mark Selby, and did not hesitate to confess his own dislike to the duty imposed upon him, and his sincere wish that the young fugitive might escape; until such times as the Government should be induced to remit somewhat, of what he termed their cruel and unchristian rigor.

"At the same time;" he said, "I have but the choice of two alternatives—to resign my commission and the command of this district, or to perform with strict accuracy all the duties thereby laid upon me. To resign, at present," he continued, "I do not think advisable, not as regards myself—for that of course I should not at all consider—but as regards the welfare of the country; for should I do so, some other would be at once appointed, who would, it is most likely, be harsher and more rigorous than I; and much harm might well come of it. Now, cousin Selby, I am not, as you know, a man of many words or large professions, wherefore I shall go straight to the point. I believe the young man to be here, and, in fact, I am forced so to believe by these documents;" and he laid the papers he had received the night before on the desk as he spoke. "I hope sincerely I may be mistaken—or, if not mistaken, that I may be unable to discover where you have hidden him—for it is very sure that it will go very hardly with you, if he shall be discovered here. I will do all in my power, should such be the case—as I am sure I need not promise you—to smooth the matter, and hope I may be able through Cromwell to provide your safety; but, I speak plainly cousin, with all this evidence before me, I must order a search—I must send for a detachment of the soldiers, to Low Barnsley, which is their nearest station; and I must—and pray believe me that I will —exert every faculty I may possess, to capture the young man. I ask you no questions nor wish to hear any answers, and I will not allow yourself or Mistress Alice to be at all interrogated. For the rest I must do my duty, and you will not, I am sure, think hardly of me, for so doing. I shall send off a messenger forthwith to Keating, with orders to bring hither two troops of the Ironsides to-morrow, at daybreak; till then I will remain with you, myself, if you will give me quarters, and you will not, I fancy, find me a difficult or troublesome inquisitor!"

"Oh! you are quite right, cousin, you are quite right in one thing;" answered Selby, laughing good-humoredly—"you are quite right in one thing, though very wrong indeed in another. You must search the premises, that is quite clear; I knew that from the very first—and, indeed, I rather desire it, than otherwise—for I suppose when it is done and over, I shall be left in peace; and until it is done by some one in authority, I shall have no rest at all, but shall be worried day and night by these redcoated gentry; and you know, Henry, I'm not very fond of worthies of your cloth. You must search the house, and the more strictly the better; for then you will be satisfied yourself, and will be able to satisfy others—so far you are quite right! but very wrong indeed, I do assure you, when you imagine that you shall find any one hidden here! for you will not, Henry— you will not, I can tell you—how carefully you may search soever, and however much you may suspect it! Of course, I shall rejoice to have you stay with me, and so will Alice. She hath gone forth this morning to the village, to carry some medicaments, I fancy, and some dainties to the poor old souls down there; but she'll be home to dinner; and after you have searched to-morrow, if you will ride out with her and see Gilbert Falconer's long-winged Norroway hawks fly at a heronshaw, you'll please the girl, and the honest knave too—in good faith you will—but for me, I care not for such toys!"

"Well, well!" said Chaloner, "I trust it may be as you say, for if I do not find anybody, it will, of course, be all over, whether there be anybody here or no! but I beseech you do not depend too much upon the secrecy of your devices. I have seen many of your old houses, and know the general plan of their concealments. From this very room, I dare say, if it were well examined, some avenue might be discovered; but as you say so, I dare say I shall find no one, and I am sure I hope so. Now, if you will permit me, I will write a brief order to Colonel Keating, to march hither a squadron or two of horse to-morrow at daybreak—one of my fellows can ride over with it now, and I will tell the others not to mount guard exactly, but to keep a peaceful watch on all that is going on to-night. Your people, it will be needful to interrogate to-morrow."

"You will get nothing, Henry, out of them, I promise you—meanwhile do just as you will, till one of the clock, when we dine in the Hall below; if your own horses be tired, send one of mine, good Henry."

My horses are quite fresh," answered Chaloner, as he removed toward the writing table; "and now I will write to Colonel Keating without delay; and walk out—when I have dispatched a fellow with it—to join Alice in the park; I met her at the Stag's Head as I came and wished then to escort her homeward; but she was going farther, and bade me join her in the park, when I had finished talking with you, down by the heronry wood."

It did not occupy the young soldier many moments to finish the official note, and shaking his cousin affectionately by the hand, whom he both respected and loved, as being the nearest relative he had on earth—his mother having died within a year of his birth, and his father not having long survived her—he put on his hat, and sauntered slowly through the long suite of rooms; now pausing to admire some rare painting or antique statue; now gazing out of the windows, across the courtyard and the moat, over the sunny park, which he could see stretching away for a mile and a half in length till it was bounded by the heronry wood, and the deep narrow river—a rich and beautiful perspective. He was, indeed, now in a very different mood from that in which he paced the parlor floor of the Stag's Head; for the unconcerned manner of the squire, and his reiterated assertion that no person would be found concealed in the Hall, had produced, and very naturally too—for he well knew the strict probity and truth of the old man—a strong impression on his mind; and though he had observed, that Master Selby did not positively deny the concealment, or assert that there was no one hidden, he was considerably tempted to believe that such was the case. Indeed, the very fact of his finding Alice so far abroad, and seemingly so unconscious, had, at the moment, somewhat shaken his opinions; and now, when he recurred in his thoughts to her calm smile and fearless unembarrassed air, he could not believe her privy to any scheme of peril.

As he reached the oaken staircase, and passed slowly round the gallery on which it opened, he caught through the tall gothic window another view of the grounds in the opposite direction; a view of much greater extent, including nearly three miles of open lawns with belts of timber trees, and deep withdrawing dells between them; these lying broad and fair in the mellow noontide lustre, those full of cool blue shadows, with here and there a rippling reach of the stream flashing among the thickets—all terminated far off to the westward by the park wall, and the gigantic range of elms, which screened it from the road. It was but a passing glance that he threw over the lovely landscape; for he had marked it oftentimes before, and was familiar with its beauties; but even in that transient glance, his eye was arrested by two moving figures far off in the distance, which, distant as they were, he recognized for Alice and her old attendant.

The sight quickened his movements, and he ran down the broad easy steps, calling to his men as he descended; so that one of them met him from a side door as he reached the little hall at the stair-foot. He was not engaged half a minute in giving instructions, in his own clear and precise method, to the servant—but passed onward immediately through the paved court and formal garden to the gate-house, intending to join Alice within a few minutes at the farthest. But very variable indeed, and uncertain are the intents and resolutions of mankind, and very liable to interruption even when they appear the least so—and thus it proved in this instance; for in the first place, an old woman, the wife of the porter, who had known him from his childhood upward, came tottering out from the lodge, and detained him a short time by a series of silly and disjointed, but kindly meant, interrogations, which it was not in the heart of Chaloner to treat with neglect or coldness; and then, when he had got rid of this annoyance, and issued into the road through the park, whom should he see trotting up the avenue, but stout John Sherlock, on Wyvil's coal-black charger? In a moment he remembered, how he had directed the good yeoman to wait and speak with him; and how, forgetting all about what he had wished to say, he had ridden off afterwards, leaving him asleep under the oak tree. Again therefore he was obliged to pause in common courtesy; but he contrived to learn from honest John all that he had to tell concerning the horse, the place he had found him, and his intention of consulting master Selby as to the wisest method of disposing of him, without the loss of much more than a quarter of an hour; and then at length, having expressed his approbation of the worthy farmer's conduct, he set forth in good earnest to join his beautiful cousin.

"How tiresome," said he within himself, as he proceeded on his way—"how tiresome that I should lose so much time; she will be well nigh home, ere this, and I shall get no opportunity of talking with her after all!" but at the same time he stepped out at the top of his speed, and had soon passed over two-thirds at least of the distance between the house and the spot where, from the windows, he had seen Alice half an hour before When he had come thus far, without discovering any signs of her he sought, or hearing any sound of her voice, although he stopped and listened once or twice, he began to grow weary lest he should have taken a wrong path and missed her; for it seemed to him that she ought to have been at least so far on her way homeward, if no farther.

The spot on which he stood, as he thought thus, was in the bottom of a gently sloping dell, planted with tall old beeches, quite free from any underwood, and carpeted, wherever the shadow of the thick foliage had not overpowered its growth, by soft and mossy greenwood. At this point the path, which he had followed hitherto, separated into two branches—one leading straight on to the postern of which Alice had spoken, and the other winding away to the left hand toward the fishing-houses. Both of these paths, as he well knew, crossed the river on narrow rustic bridges at a few paces distance only, and wound through thickets and plantations so tortuously that it was not possible to see a person till you were quite close up with them. While he was deliberating which of the two branches he had now better follow, a sound reached his cars, which sent the blood rushing through all his veins like torrents of hot lava—a long shrill piercing shriek—another! and another! in the well-known tones of the sweet girl, of whom he was in search. The cries proceeded evidently from the direction of the postern, and uttering a shout in answer, he dashed forward through the trees, with speed scarcely inferior to that of a hunted stag. A few bounds carried him across the little hollow, and up the acclivity beyond it; and before him lay the stream wheeling on, dark and deep, but very narrow—not above twenty feet at the utmost—between steep banks, spanned by the single log which formed the foot-bridge. On the farther side was a strong bridge covered with stunted evergreens, and over that another small ravine feathered with underwood and tufts of furze and broom, into which the path divided abruptly. Hence, as it seemed to him, the voice proceeded; and with another shout, which to his great surprise was answered faintly from behind him, he ran across the rugged arch, climbed the steep rocky brow, and plunged into the dell half frantic with excitement.

Scarcely, however, had he made ten steps beyond the summit, before a sight met his eyes which would, if anything, have forced him from his self control. In the very bottom of the glen, prostrate upon the ground, with a tall ragged ruffian furiously and unmercifully belaboring him about the head with what resembled greatly the truncheon of a broken pike, lay the old servant Jeremy; and a little farther off—just where the ground rose on the other side, in the violent gripe of two savage-looking men, who by their dresses, were evidently disbanded desperate wanderers from the royal army—as pale as death, and trembling in every limb, stood Alice Selby.

One of the wretches, who held her tightly grasped by one delicate wrist, had thrust the muzzle of a huge horse-pistol cocked, as the ready eye of Chaloner observed in an instant, within a hand's breadth of her temples; and was, with loud and beastly imprecations, threatening her with instant death if she spoke or resisted; the other had already torn a jewelled pendant from one of her ears, and that so brutally, that a drop or two of blood had fallen on her shoulder; and, just as Chaloner came into sight, attracted by a glittering brooch which secured her kerchief, he thrust his sacrilegious hand into the sanctuary of her bosom, and by one violent effort dragged away both the brooch and kerchief, rending her robe itself, and leaving all her snowy bust exposed to their foul glances. So greedily were they occupied in their unholy calling, that the villains had not observed the repeated shout of Chaloner; and consequently he came on them quite unawares—he was indeed upon the first almost before he was aware of it himself and rushing at a tremendous pace down the steep slope, drawing his rapier as he came, he kicked the brute who was in the act of stooping over his groaning victim, head-over-heels into the broken gully among the stones and brushwood; and dashed on, without pausing to see what became of him, to succor the terrified girl; who seeing aid so near, again sent forth one of those wild ear-piercing screams, which she had been deterred from uttering, since the first moment of her peril, by menaces of instant death. Her shriek, and the noise of their comrade's fall, were the first intimations the other robbers had that they were interrupted! He with the pistol, diverting his aim instantly from Alice, levelled the weapon with cool deliberation at the young soldier's head, and pulled the trigger, when he was scarce six feet from its muzzle. Happily for him, however, and yet more so for her whom he alone preserved from robbery and perhaps worse outrage it had been greatly overloaded, and recoiled so heavily that it threw up the hand which fired it, for it had been correctly aimed; and, as it was, the ball pierced the crown of Henry's hat, actually grazing his hair in its passage. Before the ruffian had time to note the effect of his discharge, the point of Chaloner's sword was glittering between his shoulder blades, while the guard knocked against his breast-bone, so forcibly was the thrust driven home; and with a fearful execration he dropped to the ground— the blood gushing from his mouth, and from the wide wound in his bosom, like water forced out of a pump.

So rapidly did all this pass, that the wounded man was actually prostrate before his comrade had unsheathed his broadsword; and when he did so, he was still so confused and startled, that parrying easily an ill-directed lunge, Henry was able to catch Alice round the waist, and rush back through the underwood, avoiding the place where the first ruffian was now struggling out of the ravine toward the river. He had hoped to be able to cross over, when he doubted not that he should have little trouble in defending the narrow bridge, by which one only could pass at a time, until help should arrive; and he was confident that help was not far distant, from the shout which had so promptly responded to his own—but he was disappointed, for he had barely mounted the ascent, and reached the river bank, when both the robbers were upon him sword in hand. To attempt to traverse the bridge, leaving his back exposed, would have been insanity! Setting down his precious charge, and bidding her run for her life, while he kept the pass—he again shouted at the pitch of his voice, and as he did so, was engaged instantly in hand-to-hand encounter with two swordsmen.

Few men of that day were at all equal to Henry Chaloner in the management and mastory of his weapon; and he derived from his cool and collected disposition and advantage hardly if at all inferior to his skill in the fence. Had one only of the ruffians, now opposed to him, been able to assault him at a time, the affair would have been decided in ten seconds—but even a master of defence has his hands full enough, when attacked hotly by two tolorable fencers—and such at least might be considered the bravos, who now pushed at him with fierce savage oaths, encouraged by the hope of booty, and burning to avenge their comrade, and half maddened by despair and want. Even at this disadvantage, the brave young officer would, it is probable, have proved still superior, had he fought with his wonted coolness; but now his eye wandered too often from the flickering points of the brandished rapiers, in pursuit of his cousin—and, when he saw her, after staggering a few steps toward the bridge, sink down upon the grass in a dead faint, he was so much diverted from what he was about, that he received a thrust in the left breast that would have finished his career upon the spot, but that it glanced off from a button of his coat, inflicting a sharp wound as it grazed him, and running quite through his left arm. The effusion of blood was very great, although the sword blade by good fortune had missed the artery, and the robbers at once saw their advantage.

"Fight steady, Joe," cried one, "for by the—" and he swore an oath too blasphemously fearful to be written down—"he'll bleed away by inches, and we can finish him at our leisure."

And accordingly they both assumed the defensive, menacing him it is true at times, both with edge and point, and at times pressing him back toward the river; but keeping off, and waiting the time when loss of blood should render him a weak and easy victim. Now he exerted every nerve, and practiced every feint and foin to tempt them from their guard, and even succeeded in drawing blood from each, by turns, though slightly. And now he perceived the advantage which they had gained, and which they seemed so resolute to keep—and as he felt his strength ebbing out drop by drop, and a chill sickening faintness gathering at his breast—and no help drawing nigh—and she, he would have died to save, lying there senseless and inanimate, a ready spoil to those worse than brutes, as soon he should fall—a sensation nearly akin to the cold dull agony of despair fell on his soul; yet still he fought undauntedly, and still they dared not to close with him; though every moment he felt more and more that he could strive only a little—a very little longer. Then to augment the wretchedness—if anything could indeed augment it—of his feelings, even at that moment of unutterable torture, as if in mockery of his situation, the clear loud merry sound of the dinner bell came clanging through the sunny air from the neighboring Hall—telling of joy and merriment, and succor near at hand, yet really as far from him as though it had been fifty leagues aloof. He felt it—felt it bitterly, and keenly—and, though he almost staggered from exhaustion, knowing that all depended on himself, he lunged with fierce impetuous thrusts, raising once more as loud a shout as his quivering lips could utter.

By heaven! the shout was answered—close at hand rang the cry—a loud stentorian whoop from the beach covert, and the thundering tramp of a horse at full gallop.

"In with you, Joe—in with you, man," muttered the ruffian, who had spoken before; "thrust at him, both at once:" and they did so, again and again; and at the third pass again wounded him. Still he kept up his guard, and feebly answered the approaching clamor.

And now, bareheaded, in fierce haste, lashing the fiery Arab to yet more fiery speed, Sherlock drove up the hill beyond the river. The men looked doubtfully at one another; yet still, although dispirited, pressed on!

"Damn it—don't give it up now!" the man, who had not spoken hitherto, now cried with terrible malignity: "Finish this fool at once! the other has no arms, and before he can dismount, and cross the bridge, we can get off, and bear her with us!"

"Revenge!" the other answered, with a yet fiercer rush on Chaloner, than any he had ventured yet to make; but the assurance of prompt aid had reinvigorated the ebbing strength of Henry; and he not only parried his thrust completely, but lunged in his turn, and gave his assailant a sharp wound in the shoulder. The ruffians had, moreover, counted without their host; for Sherlock never once thought of dismounting, nor drew the rein at all, nor checked the thundering gallop of Wyvil's black Arabian. No! not he! He flung his hat, with which he had been thrashing the charger's sides in lack of a better goad, high up into the air, and setting himself firm in the saddle, charged with a wild shrill cry full at the perilous leap. Bravely the gallant brute drove at it— with his expanded nostrils red as fire, and his wide eyeballs glancing with a keen spark of vicious lightning—bravely he drove at it, with the speed, as it seemed, of a whirl-wind, the solid greensward literally shaking beneath his furious gallop. Not a second did he pause—no, not the twinkling of an eye! on the sheer verge. The treacherous turf, at the extreme brink, yielded, broke in, under his forefeet—but it was all too late; a moment he was seen sweeping through the air, and then alighted with a stern dint on the rocky ridge, amid a cloud of dust and fire, ground from the flinty surface by his heels! "Hurrah!" screamed the excited yeoman. "Hurrah! surrender ye black thieves, or ye are but dead men!" and, as he spoke, reining his horse up by the side of Henry, he plucked one of the empty pistols from his holster and levelled it—"Down with your arms"—but the sight was all sufficient. Seeing that Sherlock had no sword, and judging from his dress that he was a mere countryman, they had persisted even after his bold leap; but when they saw the motion of his hand toward the holster, they took at once to their heels, one even throwing away his sword, and dashed into the scattered bushes, flying in mortal terror.

The farmer's blood was up, and though unarmed, he would have still pursued; but Henry called him to desist, and lend his aid to Mistress Alice. Water was soon procured from the stream, and, after two or three deep sighs, and a long fluttering struggle, she returned to her senses, and with them to a full appreciation of her peril, and of her cousin's gallantry in her behalf. In a few moments a bandage was applied to the young soldier's wounded arm; and, Sheriock undertaking to carry the poor old servant—who still remained insensible from the terrible beating he had undergone—home on the black horse by the postern; and to send people to look after the slain bravo—the young pair crossed the bridge and hurried homeward, both silent and affected beyond the power of speech; one by the intensity of his excited feelings acting on a debilitated system, the other by the conflicting influences of joy, and gratitude, and terror.

CHAPTER X.

Long before they reached the Hall, however, they were met by several domestics who had come forth to seek them; or who, seeing the abruptness with which Sherlock had wheeled his horse out of the carriage road, and galloped across the park, had suspected some peril to their young mistress, and rushed out, although too late, to her assistance. Manifold were the exclamations of wonder, pity, and dismay, that fell from their lips, as they beheld the testimonies of her danger in the rent sleeve and bloody dress of her bold protector, and heard in a few words what had passed; but indignation prevailed in their minds, and anger, over all other sentiments. Two or three who were armed—for a park-keeper with his musketoon was one of the number, and a falconer with hawking-pole and wood-knife—started immediately in pursuit of the insolent ruffians who had dared to insult their beloved lady within the very precincts of her own grounds—others ran to the park gate to meet the worthy farmer and lend their aid to the old major-domo Jeremy—and many others hurried back to the house, to collect weapons of all sorts, and scour the country round, and all the neighboring woodlands, determined at all hazards to seize and punish the marauders.

Meanwhile old Master Selby, having been made aware by the bustle and running to and fro that something more than common was in progress, had come down from his library, and learning there, not without some exaggeration, what had taken place, rushed out, bareheaded as he was, in more than mortal terror. Words cannot paint the deeper and more powerful emotions of the human mind; at best they can but feebly image to our senses the external signs of the strange workings constantly in process within that finest of volcanoes—the secret heart of man. A deep flush shot across the high and pallid forehead of the father, and the big drops gushed out like summer rain from those eyes long unused to weep at any earthly sorrow, as he clasped to his bosom, full of thoughts far too deep for speech, his innocent and lovely child; while she with like emotion clung to his close embrace, and wept in silence within the sheltering circle of the frail arms which trembled as they pressed her.

"Blessed be God!" he faltered forth at length. "My child—my own, own child!" and with the words kissing her pale fair brow, he surrendered her to the care of her maidens, and turned to grasp, with scarce inferior energy of love and gratitude, the hand of her defender. "And thou," he said, "Henry, thou too! thou, that hast ever been my affectionate kinsman and true friend, be now, henceforth for ever, be my son!" and he drew him to his aged breast, and held him for a moment there, like himself speechless from the very force and depths of his feelings.

But scenes like this must, from their very nature, have speedy terminations; and, although in that instance all the spectators fully and freely sympathized with the emotions of the actors; though there was no broad glare of idiot curiosity, no sneer of apathetic dull brutality, to jar and jangle on the nerves attuned to so high a pitch, it was— as always is the case with spirits of a sensitive and elevated order—with a sense of something nearly akin to shame, that on recovering from their ecstacy, they withdrew from the gaze—too near, though it was friendly—of the small group which stood in mute attention around them.

It was some time before any of the three were again visible. Henry was borne off to a chamber which from his childhood upward had been set apart to his use and designated by his name; and there his hurts were looked to with a solicitude that could not be surpassed, and with a degree of skill, which, although often found in those days possessed by persons not professional, would now be looked for only in a regular surgeon of high practice. Alice retired with her women to the seclusion of her own apartments, and it was not a little while before she could control her agitated feelings enough to reflect with any degree of calmness on the dangers she had that day undergone; much less to bring down her mind to other matters, equally at least, if not more, pressing.

The noontide meal passed that day, for the first time at Woolverton in many, many years, unhonored by the presence of any member of the family; and those who were collected round the ample board, the higher servants namely of the household, instead of displaying by an increase of levity, or any show of boisterous merriment, their freedom from restraint imposed by the presence of superiors—as would assuredly be the case now-a-days—were graver and more silent than their wont, and even downeast, if not sad, in the expression of their homely features. The afternoon passed dully—the arrival of the servants, headed by Sherlock, bearing on their shoulders the still senseless body of the old butler, tended in no degree to produce any alteration in their feelings for the merrier. So severe were the injuries, and so critical the state of the faithful servitor, that, his case evidently requiring skill far beyond that of the housekeeper, famed though she was through all the parishes about for the rare virtue of her simples; an express was sent off to Long Darringford, a little country town some five miles distant, for Doctor Trowbridge, who on his coming gave an opinion, guarded indeed and far from positive, that he would painfully and tediously recover. Having administered a soothing potion to his fair patient, whose first entrance into this world of pains and sorrows he had witnessed; and having honored with his approbation the strings and bandages wherewith his rival—as he always called her—worthy mother Trueman had accommodated Henry's arm, and which he refused to remove or alter, he packed his short-legged round-barrelled cob, and trotted soberly off between his well-stuffed saddle-bags, to the benefit of some poor sufferer at ten or twelve miles' distance.

Soon after his departure, Alice sent down a message to her father praying that he would visit her forthwith; and on his coming she dismissed her women, and they remained for more than two hours alone in close and anxious conversation. At the end of this period, having apparently recovered quite from the trepidation and embarrassment which had been the natural consequences of the morning's terror, and showing only by an unusual paleness of her pure delicate complexion that anything uncommon had befallen her, she descended leaning on her father's arms to the library, where she lay down upon the cushioned ottoman which fitted the embrasure of the deep window, and soon fell into a calm and gentle slumber, the old man watching over her with almost painful tenderness. Meanwhile the sun set calmly in the west, and his last rays ceased to gild the sere tops of the lofty forest-trees which sheltered the old mansion, and the hoarse cawing of the homeward rooks was heard no longer—but in Mark Selby's library no lamp was lighted that night, nor did he pore over his favorites of by-gone ages, immersed as he was for a little while in a more anxious study, as he hung over his fair child—sole idol of his withered heart—still sleeping in so tranquil and immoveable a stupor, so ashy white withal, and so supernaturally calm in the expression of her face, that but for the faint fluttering pulsation of her sweet bosom, it might have well been taken for that long trance whose bed is the cold grave—whose waking is eternity. Suddenly, some few moments after the last echo of the last chime of the stable clock-house, as it struck eight o'clock, had died into utter silence, she sat up, wide awake in an instant, and perfectly collected—as the quiet tones of her tuneful voice proved beyond doubt.

"Father," she said, for it had now become quite dark, "are you there, father?"

"Surely," replied the old man, "I am beside your head, and have not moved thence, darling, since first you seemed to sleep. How fare you, dearest, now?"

"Quite well," she answered cheerfully—"oh, quite well, father. My long sleep has refreshed me, and I am now as strong and well as ever. I have not, I trust, slept overlong—the hour has not passed, has it? Oh, father dear, you should have roused me sooner."

"Nay! nay! be not alarmed," replied her father—"be not alarmed without cause, Alice. The clock has but this moment stricken eight, and Launcelot hath not yet announced supper. I will now call for lights, and then go down to the hall. I shall forbid that any of the household enter in hither, lest they disturb your slumbers. Compose yourself again for awhile, and then you may fulfil your purpose."

"Well, if it must be so! yet, father, I do feel no small repugnance to visit the young gentleman alone—so far removed, too, from all earthly witnesses."

"It must be so, my Alice—it must be so, however," answered he. "Already once to-day was I well nigh found absent, when so to be found would have been utter ruin. Moreover, dearest child, the force of circumstance is vast; and that which would in one case be judged—and rightly judged—unmaidenly and forward, becomes in another, the most natural thing in the world. He were a villain, too, such as nor earth has ever held, nor Heaven looked down upon, if he could ever dream of wronging you."

"Oh no! no, father," replied Alice, a deep blush mantling all her lovely features; "I never even thought of that—I only feared that I might seem to him, as you have said, unmaidenly and over-bold."

"Ever strive you to act rightly, child," the old man answered, "as with your upright soul and pure heart, you will, I fear not, alway—and never heed what this man or that woman think or say of it. If they be pure minded and noble, why then they will judge candidly and nobly—if other, then it matters not how they regard it."

"Well, father," she replied, "I will go visit him anon: tell me, I pray you where you have hid the basket?"

"It is within the passage, Alice," he replied, "and a light burning. Tarry awhile, and listen on your return before you come in hither, lest Chaloner should quit his chamber and seek to find you here. Farewell, dear child, and linger not overlong." Once more, as he ceased speaking, he folded her to his breast, whispered a gentle blessing, and, without waiting any further answer than the kiss which melted on his lips, left her alone in the dim twilight chamber. For some time afterwards she did not move at all from the couch on which she had been leaning, but continued buried in deep and painful meditations, reluctant to set forth upon her self-elected duty, to which—now that the first excitement and novelty of the adventure had passed away—she felt herself unfitted by something of timidity and bashfulness, which she had never experienced at any time before so heavily oppressive. Al last, manning herself, as it were, with a sudden courage, she started to her feet hastily, not, perhaps, daring to trust her own thoughts any longer, lest they should quite overpower her firmness; and opening the concealed door, not without some embarrassment, hurried into the vaulted passage, closing the entrance carefully behind her. It did not occupy her many minutes to thread, with her light step and ready knowledge of the way, the intricacies of that gloomy hiding-place, and she was at the very door of the secret chamber, before she had fairly collected her thoughts for the half dreaded, half desired interview. One little moment she paused at the door, her cheek suffused with a deep crimson flush, and her heart throbbing with so convulsive violence, that she felt quite exhausted and at the point of fainting. She rallied however instantly, and tapping the panel very gently, "open," she uttered, in her soft low-toned voice—"open to me, captain Wyvil—it is I only, Alice Selby!"

The instant she spoke, a hurried step sounded within, the bolts were withdrawn, the door was thrown open, and the young soldier led his bright hostess to a seat, pouring forth all the while such protestations of eternal gratitude, couched in words so feelingly yet simply eloquent, and those words uttered too in tones so rich, so full of manly melody, that no created ear of woman but must have given them heed.

"Oh! how—how may I ever prove," he said—"how speak in living language, the tittle of what I feel, dear lady? Words may not tell—the human heart itself may barely comprehend its own deep feelings. For do not I owe life, and more than life, to your calm, gentle courage—to your sweet sympathy with the good cause—to your brave, generous, self-oblivion?"

"Do not, I pray you, captain Wyvil," she replied, her presence of mind having come back to her at once, when the first step was taken—"do not, I pray you, put me to the blush by praises that savor more, I fear, of courtly politesse than of hard-featured honest truth. I should imagine you but spoke in mockery, did not your courtesy forbid construction so ungentle; for surely I did nothing that any other lady would have doubted to do in like circumstances, for any of the gallant soldiers who have so faithfully done battle for king Charles."

"Most natural it is that you should deem so, lady, seeing that the pure and noblehearted ever—till sad experience has taught them the reverse—believe the souls of others to be all truth, and honor, and high generosity; and find in everything about them, so strong does their undoubting fancy work, a clear reflected portrait of their own in-born worth. But trust me, lady, when thou didst step forth boldly to succor the distressed and flying stranger, ten would have fled in selfish terror, leaving him to the mercy of his bitterest foemen. Where thou didst take no thought of self at all in sympathy for one thou didst not even know, save as a fellow being, ten would have taken no thought else. Nay, more! of the few noble spirits who would have aided, had the time been given for calm deliberate action, half would have doubted till the occasion had gone by—half pitied merely, or marvelled till too late; or had they even resolved to act at all, would so have acted, with hurry, fear, and trepidation, that all had been discovered and rendered useless! Oh! no, dear lady, no! it may not be denied that I owe life itself to your kind sympathy, to your energy, decision and courage! Nor, now that I have seen my fair deliverer, would I for untold worlds be free from that sweet obligation; henceforth, for ever, I am yours—your bondsman, your sworn soldier, and your slave!"

"Well, be it as you will, sir," answered Alice, with a calm smile; "it cannot but be most agreeable to me to know myself in any wise the saviour of a human life; and if you so esteem it, I cannot be so churlish as to refuse your thanks. Meanwhile, as it seems necessary that you should be a prisoner for some days yet in this dark den, I have brought you some trifles whereby to make your time pass the less gloomily— some wax-lights, books, and wine; and I must tell you now, ere I forget it, that fresh search will be made for you betimes to-morrow—my father has instructed you how to avoid your enemies, and you shall not want timely notice—but one thing has occurred to me, which I believe my father had forgotten; you must not bar the door within, and the key must be left without; forget not this, I do beseech you, else will all our endeavors be lost labor; and now," she added, taking up her basket, the contents of which she had deposited upon the table during the conversation—"now I will bid you farewell; I fear I may be missed, an if I tarry longer.

Oh, go not yet—go not yet, lovely Mistress Alice," exclaimed the young man passionately, rising up from his chair, as if to detain her; "you do not know, you cannot dream, how wearisome—how terrible a thing it is, for one used from his boyhood up to the free liberal air, to the broad face of the sunlighted heavens, to the green loveliness of earth; to be pent here, taking no note of time, without so much as a stray mouse to bear him company—day after day, night after night, in solitude and sadness. Oh, go not yet, I do beseech you! linger a little while to make this gloomy cell radiant by your bright presence. You know not, oh! you know not, nor can fancy, how I have watched, and prayed, and panted for this interview—how I have dreamed all night, and pondered all day, on the sweet half-seen features of you, my guardian angel. How I have fancied for the words in which I would embody my deep gratitude, my deathless fealty—and now that the long-wished moment has arrived, my tongue clings faltering to my jaws— my spirit finds no voice to give its feelings utterance. Oh! go not, lady, I beseech you; who is there that should miss you, as you say, saving your excellent father?"

"My cousin, sir, who is now with us as our guest—my cousin, Henry Chaloner."

"What!" exclaimed Wyvil, hastily—"what! Chaloner—the rebel Major General— whose leading of the horse at Marston contributed so fatally to the success of Cromwell— who fought by Fairfax's side at Pasely, and was the first to cross the Team at Worcester? Can it be such an one who shares the hospitality of Woolverton?"

"Even so, Captain Wyvil," answered Alice, not altogether pleased by his manner— "even so: Henry Chaloner, my fahter's honored cousin, and the defender of his daughter's honor!"

"Oh, now I have offended you," cried Marmaduke—"offended you I fear, past hope of pleasing any more. And yet I spoke but thoughtlessly, and from a passing moment's irritation—the pardonable irritation of a defeated soldier against his more successful rival—but had I known, dear lady, had I at all suspected how high this rebel soldier stands in your fair esteem, then rather had I died than breathed a thought against him."

"Nay! now you misinterpret me," she answered quietly, but blushing deeply as she spoke; "since Henry Chaloner was nought to me before this day, except my father's friend and my good kinsman; and if I did esteem his nobleness of mind, his singleness of purpose, his perfect truth and dauntless courage, yet more did I regret the strange hallucination, which had induced him to link qualities so fair and good unto a cause so black, so impious, and unholy! But Henry Chaloner has this day bound my soul with obligations which must endure for ever;" and simply, but with deep feeling, she told him the events of the forenoon, her peril from the ruffian cavaliers, and her bold rescue by the Puritan leader.

High colored Wyvil's cheek, keen flashed his eye, as she proceeded; and when she told how they had torn the earrings from her lacerated ears, and placed the muzzle of the pistol to her brow, he started to his feet, and half unsheathed his rapier, muttering through his close set teeth, "villains, accursed villains!" but when she spoke of Henry's daring onset, of his encounter, single-handed, against the two marauders—of his wound, and her fainting fit, and of John Sherlock's late arrival on the field; he bit his lip till the color faded from it quite, and while his face grew pale as death—

"Happy man! happy!" he exclaimed, "and, indeed, thrice happy! Oh that it had been mine, so to do in your cause; and doing so to have died there and then. For then, although the jewel—the all inestimable jewel of your love had been surrendered to this Chaloner, regret had still been mine, and the sweet meed of kind and sorrowful remembrance. But wo is me! Fortune was never yet the friend of Wyvil."

Again the deep red flush shot over the fair brow of Alice, and she frowned slightly, and her voice was very cold, and almost stern, as she replied—"Nay! Captain Wyvil, now you are overbold, to speak to me of love! Toys such as these, sir, suit not so brief acquaintance as that which rests between us; nor should I like them better, even if we were better known. When next you need a visitant, my father shall wait on you."

"No! no!" cried Marmaduke, impetuously springing forward, and throwing himself at her feet, so as to grasp the hem of her garment. "No! no! you must not quit me so. Oh! not in anger, thus—not in contempt, sweet lady! Pardon me—pardon, I beseech you; for I am quick of speech, and have ever been but too prone to speak the promptings of a heart, too warm perhaps and ardent, but neither obstinate, believe me, nor wilful in offending—pardon me, and revoke that cruel sentence; and say that you will visit me again, and cheer the hapless prisoner's solitude with some brief gleams of bliss!"

"Rise, sir; rise, I beseech you. I do believe you think me indeed a country girl, and a most silly one, too, that you rave thus and mouth it. Rise," she continued, smiling, she scarce knew why, at the evident sincerity of his emotion—"and we will part good friends."

Then without further words he rose, and led her to the door, and bowed respectfully upon her hand, and raising it a little, just touched it with his lips as she departed, uttering in a half-choked voice that passionate, sad sound, "Farewell!" Alice raised not her eyes to his face—for her life she could not have done so! but trembled violently in every limb of her fair body, as, in accordance with the fashion of the day, he kissed her unresisting hand. She knew not why it was she trembled; she knew not why it was, she could not meet the glance of his clear brilliant eye—she was unconscious of all cause for shame, for fear, for any strong emotion—yet was she moved, and mightily! But when, just as she closed the door, she cast a furtive glance between her half-closed lids toward the cavalier, she saw him standing in an attitude of deep dejection, with his arms hanging idly by his side, and his fine head with its long silky love-locks drooping despondently upon his breast. She marked, and marvelled at this singular display of feeling; and with a fluttering heart, full of a hundred wild and whirling fantasies, she hastened back, locking the door behind her; and reached the quiet library all agitated and quite breathless, and resumed her seat on the sofa, ere any one had discovered, or even suspected her absence.

It was not, however, destined that she should pass even the few remaining hours of that eventful day without some further agitation; for she had not been many minutes in the library before her cousin entered, having his left arm in a silken sling, and looking somewhat pale from loss of blood, although he walked quite firmly, with his fine form erect and graceful as its wont—a servant came in with him bearing a lighted lamp with several burners, which having placed upon the table, he at once withdrew; but while he was yet in the room, Alice had sprung up from the sofa, and darting forward, seized Henry by the unwounded right hand, exclaiming, as she did so—

"Oh! I am so rejoiced—so more than glad and happy to see you thus again, dear, gallant Henry! for I had feared that you were very badly hurt; and had anything befallen you, I never could have pardoned myself at all, for it was owing altogether to my silly weakness, in fainting the very moment when I ought to have been most collected. It was indeed most weak and childish, but in truth I was sadly frightened; and are you not so much hurt, Henry?"

"Oh no!" he answered, gazing with an enthusiastic eye upon her beautiful pale face—"oh no! not hurt at all. It is a mere scratch, which would not have disabled me in the least, had it not bled so copiously that it made me too something faint, which is far weaker in a soldier you know, Alice, and more shameful, than in a pretty lady; who is entitled, if she please, to faint at least three times a day in mere caprice and wantonness. But you are not, I know, one of these gew-gaw puppets of the court, who die away at a warmer ray than common of our mild English sun, and shiver at the least breath of the fresh breezy air—you are not one of these, but my own sweet and gentle cousin, whom I hope one day"—dropping his voice to a lower and more tender tone—"to call by a yet dearer title. May I hope, Alice?"

For a single moment, so suddenly did the surprise come on her, every drop of blood in her veins appeared to rush at once into her face; but in an instant it was gone, and she was pale as death, even to her lips; and so icy-cold and shivering, that her teeth almost chattered.

"Alas!" cried Chaloner, quite alarmed at the effect of his words—"alas! I have been all too rash and hasty. I should have recollected, dearest one, how your nerves have been shaken by this morning's terror—forget it, Alice, forget it altogether, or think of it no more until a fitting season"—and as he spoke, he supported her to the sofa whence she had risen on his entrance, and knelt beside her, holding her hands in his, and striving to soothe her by every soft and delicate attention, entreating her to rest, and make no answer for the present to his ill-timed address; but after she had lain a moment or two on the soft cushions, she sat upright, and collecting herself with an effort, spoke very firmly—"No! no!" she said, "I must speak now—I must answer fully— for, Henry, your words have pained me very deeply." "You cannot—no, you cannot be offended"—Chaloner interrupted her; but before he could finish his sentence, she in her turn broke in—"Oh, not offended—but pained—grieved—saddened—yes! made me sick at heart—sick at heart for you, Henry, and sorry—ay! almost doubtful of myself. But, Henry, Henry," she continued, increasing in vehemence as she proceeded—"as God is now my witness, and shall hereafter be my judge, I never dreamed of this, oh! never, never! and now that it has broken on me all at once—oh! it is very sad and terrible— for I will not attempt those frail and commonplace, and, as I think, insulting modes of consolation, which worldly girls may offer to court-lovers—and though I never dreamed you loved me, other than as your cousin, your good little Alice, to whom you have at all times been so kind and gentle—now that I do know it, I also know what disappointed love must be, to such a heart as yours—a heart, which if it love at all, must love devotedly, and with its all of energy and fire. I feel what it must be, to tell you that you must not even hope—and feeling so, judge, Henry, judge how I must suffer, when I must by my words blight, for a time at least, the promised happiness of one who— besides that I love him most dearly as a true friend, a valued, proved, kind kinsman— has this day saved my life, and more! my honor, at fearful peril of his own! What must I suffer, Henry, knowing that I must give him evil for his good—and kill his hopes, who has given life to me?"

"Oh, Alice—Alice," answered Chaloner, "think not of that one moment! do not— do not, I pray you, fancy for one moment that your poor kinsman is so mean, so truly poor of spirit, as to build any claim on what the humblest varlet in your household would have done gladly without guerdon, and thought it, when done, but as his own good fortune. The little service I did you this forenoon had nothing in the world to do with what I said to you but now; save that it set me thinking—made me consider how wretched I should have been, had I not been in time to save you—and by filling my whole heart full of warm thoughts, all unchained and run-riot, led me to speak in words what I have long since felt in silence. For the rest, I am in your hand—do with me as you think the best—the happiest for both."

"That I must do, although it rend our hearts within us for the moment, and leave them sore, it may be, and tender to the touch of passion, for many a day hereafter. But I must not, dear Henry, I must not do myself—do thee so foul wrong, as to let any doubt of what I feel, or any hope remain, beyond this moment. The truth is, Henry, I cannot be your wife—it is impossible—I cannot! Giving you all regard, all friendship, all esteem, I cannot give you love. Honoring your high qualities of soul—your perfect truth, your noble upright candor, the whiteness of your spirit, your fearlessness, your honor, your renown—admiring your bright intellect, your deep unworldly wisdom— loving your gentleness, your kindness, your soft pitiful good heart—yet, Henry, yet I cannot love you—love you, as you should—must be loved by her who calls you husband—as I must love the man to whom I give, not my hand only, but my whole heart and mind and soul here and for ever. I am a wayward girl, dear cousin; the spoiled wild orphan of my dear widowed father; and, it may be from him—my tutor, and almost my nurse—that I have caught strange fantasies—become a muser from my childhood, and a day shunner—a lover of wild haunts and wilder legends, a creature of romance and poesy and fancy. Gifted, I fear me, with a dower which tends not to the growth of real and substantial bliss, I cannot love, unless my fancy have been won, and my heart through that fancy. I grieve for you, dear cousin, I grieve for you with my whole strength—and likewise for myself—for, why I know not, there is a something here within that whispers me with solemn augury, the pain which I now give another shall be mine own hereafter—the bitter, hard, cold anguish of unrequited love. I shall know nothing more of happiness until I see you happy."

"At least, dear Alice," Chaloner answered—"at least you shall see me calm. You have dealt by me nobly; and never—never will I forget your goodness. To say I am not grieved and sorrowful at your decision, were to say what is false—but, Heaven be praised! I have a hope; a comforter on high—a hope that will not let me be cast down by any mortal anguish—a comforter, whose consolations are most nigh when they are needed most, and never are breathed vainly on the heart. And now, before we part— for this has been an agitating day for both of us, and with the morrow perchance will come new troubles—let me say to you, that you shall never lack a friend, a counsellor, a guard, and a defender, while life is warm in this poor bosom. Never fear, Alice, never fear to call on me for aid, advice, or friendship. Fear not that by so doing you will awaken vain hopes, or call forth old presumptions; for now I understand your sentiments, I would not for the wealth of Eldorado disturb their even tenor, or move you any more to so sad thoughts as these. Promise me this—will you not, cousin Alice?"

"Indeed I will—indeed I will, dear Henry," she replied, her beautiful blue eyes swimming with tearful tenderness. "There is no one upon earth, on whom I would call half so willingly—with half so true a trust. And now," she added, stretching out her fair hand to him, "good night, and blessings be about your head, and peace for ever."

He caught the proffered hand, and held it for a moment, wistfully gazing in her face; then, as if by a sudden and irresistible impulse snatched her to his bosom, and strained her there the while he pressed a long cold kiss upon her snowy forehead. "Pardon," he said, as he released her. "Pardon: it is the last—the last—oh! Heaven!" and in a burst of feelings most unaccustomed to that self-restrained and philosophic spirit, he rushed from the apartment, and was seen no more that evening by any inmate of the Hall.

CHAPTER XI.

At a very early hour on the following morning, before the household had assembled to their first meal, the trumpets of a squadron were heard in the park; and very shortly afterwards the clatter of hoofs mixed with the sharper clash of their accountrements, ringing and clashing with the speed at which they rode, came nearer yet and nearer on the soft morning air, and only ceased at length when four or five troops of the Ironsides halted before the gate of the courtyard. Scarcely, however, had they halted, before Chaloner came out alone to meet them, and having held brief conference with Colonel Keating their commander, and seen above a hundred of the men dismounted and drawn up round the house, each within gunshot of the other, he led the officers through the parterre into the house itself, the other troopers remaining in the court till further orders. This time, the visit of the soldiery was orderly and civilly conducted; for Keating, who had come out at their head in person, was himself a gentleman of old and honorable family, and had borne arms in Germany and the low countries with good repute, before the civil war broke out in England; and he had, in compliance with a hint from Chaloner, selected the more polished of his subalterns for this day's expedition. Just as they were admitted to the Hall, the breakfast bell rang out and all the household was assembled, the Ironsides receiving a request that they would partake of the hospitalities of Woolverton, before proceeding to their duties. Alice had not, as yet, descended from her bower; though all the rest were seated, when Henry Chaloner with several officers in full costume, with their long broadswords clanking in their iron scabbards and their spurs jingling on the oaken floor, joined in the domestic group; but in a few minutes she too entered, looking a little paler than her wont, and very simply dressed, a few stray ringlets of her rich sunny hair escaping from a plain lace cap which covered her whole head, and her form somewhat shrouded in a loose morning-robe of grave sad-colored satin—but still so lovely, that even the rude officers of the parliamentarian army were moved by the grace and quiet dignity of her appearance, and rose at once to greet her. But little conversation passed during the ensuing meal, and even that little was constrained and uneasy in its nature, and very vague and general in its topics; so that it was perhaps a relief to all parties, when the company arose from the table, and Chaloner announced to Selby his intention of proceeding with the search forthwith.

"The quicker things of this nature are brought to a close, the better; so we will waste no time in empty compliment, but go on straightway to the point. Now, Colonel Keating, order in, if you please, one troop dismounted with their carbines; the rest may form an outer cordon in the park, without the ring of sentinels. Now, cousin Selby," he continued, "will it please you to designate a chamber where all the household may be held in ward until our search is ended. Yourself and Mistress Alice will give us, I doubt not, your company in the book-room above."

"As you will, cousin," answered Selby; "but, as I told you yesterday, you are giving yourselves much needless trouble; for surely you will find no man here, but we, who are even now assembled. As for the rest, there can no better spot be chosen than this same dining-hall—you see it has but two doors, and you can place a sentinel at each, inside or out, as you think best. My daughter and myself will, as you have suggested, wait your convenience in my study."

"Be it so," Chaloner replied. "Now, Colonel Keating, if you will take my counsel, you will detail a small guard with a lancepesade in the courtyard without, and post a cornet or lieutenant at either of these doorways, letting none have egress or entrance. You will then take your men and search the whole house thoroughly; taking especial care to do no damage, and replacing whatever furniture or hangings you may be forced to move from their position. Looking especially for sliding panels, false chimney-backs, moveable pictures and the like, which may give access, and do often in such old tenements as this, to hidden galleries and chambers wrought in the thickness of the wall. Be diligent, I pray you, and leave no means untried to find what you suspect to be the case. Should you want any aid or counsel, I will await you in Master Selby's library; should you discover aught, pray summon me. Here are the keys of all the chambers, which my good friend has voluntarily given up to me; you will post a small party at every corridor and landing place, that the concealed malignants, if there be any here—which I doubt much—may not dodge to and fro, and so escape you. I I deem it best you should commence here in this parlor—and now we will be no check on your movements."

As he ceased speaking, he offered his hand to Alice and led her, with the old man following them, to the small cheerful chamber, wherein so many of the events which it has been our lot to trace, occurred; and there the trio, seated around the fire, conversed on ordinary topics as calmly and contentedly as though no search, involving life and death, was going on within the walls—as though two of the three, who sat there, seemingly so happy, had not their hearts pierced to the very core by strong and passionate emotions. Such is proverbially, however, the course of all things human! such the deceitful and false semblance of the world! where hardly aught is real, saving the sin and sorrow that lurk beneath the specious glitter—the foil and tinsel—of that thin gorgeous tissue which men think fit to term society! Two hours perhaps passed thus, or something more, when Keating, with two subalterns came in—a dozen privates halting at the door—saying that, after a most strict and tedious search, no place had been discovered wherein a mouse even, could find concealment.

"This chamber searched then, all our work is ended," Chaloner answered; "but now my task commences. Now, my good cousin, may I request you to remove the panel, which hides the secret passage. Let your men fetch some torches, if they have got none with them, and look well to their weapons, Colonel Keating, and to the priming of their carbines. So, you will not disclose it? Well, it was only to spare time, I asked you! Here lancepesade, jump on those steps, and take out all the volumes, which fill that third compartment—the third there from the window! I saw you open it once, Master Selby, many long years ago, when you thought no one marked you. There, that is it; now tarry"—and stepping up to the identical place, where the nail heads and screws which worked the springs within were all made clearly visible by the removal of the books, he began to tamper with them, and after some considerable time, succeeded; so that the portion of the wall revolved, and the mouth of the low passage was disclosed to the greedy gaze of the fierce Ironsides

"Now we will soon see what is hidden! Give me a torch, and light a dozen more; leave three men at the entrance, Colonel Keating; you and the others follow!" and with these words Chaloner drew his rapier, and entered the dim vault, the soldiers rushing after him, with brandished swords, and blazing flambeaus, rejoicing, as it seemed, already in contemplation of some valuable capture. Far stretched those long and devious corridors, through many a nook and labyrinthine angle, up steep long flights of stairs, down long and gradual descents, with many, a false turn leading their steps astray and ending in dead walls, or guiding them back to the spot whence they came—far from the light of day—full of garnered dust, cobwebs, and filth of ages—the atmosphere so dense with foul and noxious vapors that the lights waned, and some went out; and all burned blue and ghastly. Yet still with stanch indomitable perseverance the soldiers struggled onward. Guards had been posted here and there at all the points of intersection, so that, when at the last they reached the chamber, having been upwards of an hour in traversing a distance which Alice, knowing the real clue, would have accomplished easily within ten minutes, there were but four of the privates left with Henry and the three officers.

"Ha! we have reached the citadel at length," said Chaloner—"and lo! the key on the outside, suspended to the staple; I doubt we have but lost our time and labor."

He unlocked the door, as he spoke, and entered the little cell, which had the night before been Wyvil's hiding-place; but now it was all vacant and deserted—no food, or raiment—no light, or other token of any human visitant was to be found in its narrow precincts—the bed, the board, the stools, the shelves against the wall, and the few articles that were piled on them, were covered with the thick white dust—as it appeared— of ages; feathers, and bits of flock, and clots of matted cobwebs were scattered over all the floor and walls—and in the brazier were a pile of cold white ashes, which, as the disappointed soldiers swore, had not been lit these ten years. The other doors stood open; and for form's sake alone—for all were now convinced that no one was concealed at all within the building—those passages were likewise searched; but this was speedily accomplished; and when they found that the first staircase ended abruptly in the wall, which has been heretofore described; and that the doors at the end of the others were locked and bolted in the inside, with all their bars and chains so matted over with the network of five hundred spiders, that they had evidently not been removed for many months at least—then they gave up the search as useless; and making their way back to the library with far more ease than they had come in the first instance, after a few apologies to Master Selby, and an assurance that his house should be no further troubled, the Ironsides departed. Then, after a little while, Chaloner, resisting all Mark's efforts to detain him, took his leave also; convinced as fully as the rest, that his kinsman did indeed know nothing of the young cavalier, and that his fears on his behalf had all been overstrained and needless.

Within two hours, the same cell which had been so strictly searched, and found so sordid and neglected, was neatly swept and garnished—the board was spread with a clean damask cloth, two bright wax-lights were burning in tall candlesticks of silver, a cheerful fire of wood was crackling in the brazier, and by the board sat Wyvil, with his long hair all curled and arranged carefully, and his rich dress in accurate order, sipping a glass of rich and fragrant Bordeaux wine, and reading, so to deceive the time, a huge romance of Calprenede or Scudery; while on the table at his elbow stood several plates and trenchers, with the remains of a fat roasted capon, and the long flask from which he ever and anon replenished his Venetian beaker—so little had the search availed to find the real secrets of that old rambling manor.

CHAPTER XII.

For many days after the second search of the Ironsides, the family at Woolverton pursued, as it would seem, untroubled the wonted round of their calm quiet daily avocations. No visitor disturbed the even tenor of their way; no stranger came within their gates. The good old man, whose age, and the well known seclusion of his habits, should have exempted him, in the opinion even of his few Puritan neighbors, from any such suspicion as would have justified a search, returned, apparently scarce conscious of their violent interruption, to his old bookworm customs; and read, and pondered, and dreamed days away; and wrote huge volumes on abstruse and crabbed points of classical lore—volumes, which it would glad the heart of many a Regius professor now to discover, but which were never destined to see the light of any broader sun, than that which stole in through the shadowed casements of their perhaps too unambitious author's study. Never, except at meal-times, or when some message of slight moment summoned a servant to his library, was he seen even by his own household, saving that once or twice, when the clear radiance of some brighter morning than was common at that season, invited her forth to inhale the fresh breezy air of autumn, Alice persuaded him to don his sad-colored riding cloak and broad-leafed beaver, and lend her the support— mere nominal support indeed, and worse than useless, had any need occurred to make it requisite—of his frail arm. Then for an hour or two at a time, he might have been seen loitering by the side of his fair daughter beneath the shade of his old elm-trees, or sitting on a bench of stone, under the southern wall, to solace himself with the faint beams of the September sun; while she, not far aloof, tended in her parterres some bright late-flowering survivor of the summer, and stripped away its withered leaves, or fitted it by her neat-handed preparations to meet the coming winter.

At times too, though less often than before her perilous adventure in the park, she went her rounds among the village poor, dispensing comforts, and working that sweet gratitude which ever greets calm and unostentatious charity, through every cottage, how poor and sad soever it might be, of which she crossed the threshold—but now instead of the old superannuated servant, who had been used to follow her steps—as he had done her mother's, many a year before—on all her merciful errands, the treasures of her laboratory were carried by an athletic broad-shouldered young fellow, whose broadsword girded on his thigh, with the small buckler swinging from his left shoulder, would have proved a far more efficient guard against marauders, than the oak staff and feeble hand of poor old Jeremy. Two or three times, indeed, she took wing, as it were, for a longer flight; and then the country people looked on with an admiring eye, a smile on every lip, and a blessing on every tongue, as she swept through the soft green lanes on her dapple-gray palfry, with two grooms galloping behind her, and a whole host of dogs—Talbot the mighty bloodhound, and Cynthia the soft silky setter, and Romp and Rupert, thorough-bred Blenheims both, and half a dozen others, sporting about her pony's feet, as she rode forth to visit, at rare intervals, the ladies of some neighboring family—the Foleys, or the Fairfaxes, which last, although strict Presbyterians, had ever been close friends, while she was yet alive, of her lost mother. Still these were but exceptions, for it was very seldom, comparatively speaking, that Alice left at all the precinets of the park; and even within these, it began to be noticed by the old servants—licensed gossips of the household—that she was less often visible than of yore; and that a far greater portion of her time was passed in the seclusion of her father's study—strange choice for a young lively girl! for, heretofore, she had been very lively, and even mirthful; but now, it could not fail to be observed that she was greatly changed; that her young lip was seldom visited by smiles; that a subdued and conscious expression pervaded her bright eyes, and sunny lineaments—an expression, not of grief at all, nor of thought altogether, but of deep pensive feeling. It might be of hope tremulous and deferred; it might be of that half-real, half-ideal melancholy, which is not all unusual to spirits of an imaginative and poetic temperament; or it might be perhaps the dawning of deeper thoughts, and warmer passions, that cast like coming events, their dim prescient shadow over the tablets of her virgin mind, reflected thence on eye, and brow, and lip, and every speaking feature.

Much of her time was, indeed, passed now within the library, so far at least as the domestics had the means of knowing; but she and her old father alone knew where and how it was consumed. For his years, and disinclination to taking any active exercise, had speedily induced Mark Selby to delegate to his sweet daughter the task of daily visiting their concealed guest, nor did he in truth again seek the crypt after the Ironsides had searched it. From that time forth, then, it became the task of Alice to see him each succeeding day, ministering to his wants, soothing his sorrows, cherishing his high hopes of brighter fortunes in the future, and forming, as it were, the sole connecting link between the bright external world, and the dull prison-house of the proscribed and hapless cavalier. For several days, at first, it needed a strong effort, ere she could task herself to the performance of a duty, which, if she did not feel it altogether irksome, to say the least was both embarrassing and painful; but gradually, as the restraint of a recent and irregular acquaintance faded away and was forgotten—and this occurred the sooner, that on no subsequent occasion did Marmaduke discover any of that affected and half-flippant gallantry which had almost offended her in their first interview—and as she learned to look upon it as a thing of course, she began slowly and, as it were, half reluctantly to take a lively interest in her imprisoned guest; looking forward when she must seek his cell with a sort of excitement, and regarding the young man himself— as women ever regard anything, whether it be the tame bird, or the pet spaniel, or beloved infant, to the safety of which their care is essential—with an uncertain half-affectionate solicitude; which, while she could not altogether affect even in the depths of her own secret heart to misunderstand or deny it, she could neither discard from her bosom, nor confess to her inquiring conscience.

It became, moreover, so very soon unquestionably evident that Wyvil looked upon those brief hours, stolen as it were from solitude, as constituting his whole day, all the rest being one dull dreary blank; and so respectful and considerate was the tone of his admiration, so delicately gentle his attention, so proudly humble the earnestness with which he supplicated her to bestow upon him, in mere charity, as many of her leisure moments as she could spare from more pleasurable occupations; that it was not in woman's nature but to feel gratified and pleased by evidences of his esteem and gratitude, so natural and unforced in their development. There could not have been, in fact devised—had it been the aim of any social Macchiavelli to frame wily schemes for that purpose—any more dangerous artifice for ensnaring the affections of a young ardent and romantic girl, than this entire abandonment of her whole time, her thoughts, her fancy, to the discretion, as it were, of a brave, dashing, captivating gallant; and that too, under circumstances beyond all others calculated to work on the imagination, to rouse the dormant sensibilities, and through the blended influences of pity and protection to reach the heart of woman. It would perhaps at first sight, seem a paradoxical remark, and one susceptible of easy refutation, to say that all men, and yet more, all women, are readier to attach themselves to those whom they have aided, than to persons who have claims upon their love or gratitude from benefits conferred, or onerous obligations; but we are certain that the more fully this shall be considered, the more it will be found that it is true and natural. Why this should be, it is not for us to investigate at present; but throughout the whole range of human nature, the same strange contradiction, as it seems, will be found prevalent. The children of her agony and sorrow are dearer—dearer a thousand fold to the young nursing wife, than the mother who brought her forth in suffering, and watched her infancy with tearful eagerness of hope, and cherished her fair youth with tender and solicitous affection. In this, perchance, may lie the germ of all the matter; from this instinctive natural devotion of woman to those who are dependent, and whom they love, as it would seem, the more from the very helplessness of that dependence, perchance may spring that tendency in all our race to love, we will not say their benefactors less, but those whom they have benefited more. Be this, however, as it may, the fact will be found to be as we have stated it; and for one girl who gives her whole heart up to one whose claims to her regard are based on gratitude for services performed, nine yield their love to men whom they have heard maligned, and so defended—whom they have succored in distress, or what is the same thing, whom they imagine they have succored.

And so at last did it fall out with Alice Selby—predisposed, from the share she had already taken in his fortunes, from the very perils she had incurred, and from the uncertainty of his final destinies, to feel an interest in the young cavalier whom she had saved from death—when she found him afterwards intrusted wholly to her care, depending on her discretion for his life, on her attentive ministering for his subsistence day by day, on her society for his sole intercourse with the fair world—that interest was naturally increased tenfold! And then his eloquence, his bravery, his gratitude expressed in words of living fire—his noble person and high intellectual features—all the advantages which nature gave him, and sedulous accomplishment had carried forward to their utmost limit—all these things, cast as it were before her feet, witnessed by her alone, called forth as it appeared for her sole use, profusely lavished for her pleasure; had, as they needs must have, their due and full effect. It must not be supposed, however, that Alice was won easily, or that she was indeed won at all; for not a word of love had ever passed between the pair, nor is it in the least probable that so much as a thought of it had as yet crossed her innocent mind; since it may be deemed certain that if anything of the kind had once suggested itself, her jealous bashfulness would have at once taken the alarm, and by rendering her aware of danger, would simultaneously have rendered that danger quite innocuous. It is true that she thought Wyvil, as indeed he was, the most accomplished and high-toned gentleman she had ever yet encountered; she admitted to herself that he was the most agreeable; that his conversation, enriched as it was with anecdote, sparkling with brilliant humor, pervaded by a rich vein of feeling, strong and poetical and tinged not slightly with romance, was the most captivating to the senses of any she had ever listened. Then, too, his feelings were conveyed to her ear through the medium of perhaps the most perfect voice that ever breathed its fascination into a woman's soul—it was rich, deep, well-timed, yet soft as summer music, and it had too that peculiar spell of music which caused its every tone to haunt the hearer's brain, like a remembered tune heard suddenly after long years of absence—and there is certainly no fascination so vast as that embodied in a sweet powerful cultivated voice. She saw that he was handsome, likewise—but that, as is ever the case with women of that class and station in the world whose love is in the least worth having, had scarce availed him anything with Alice, unless he had been gifted eminently, as in good truth he was, with all the noble treasures of intellectual manhood. And from all these things it resulted, by a most natural consequence, that— although she had never yet thought of the man at all, except as feeling that in some degree his presence and society, which in the beginning she had so much dreaded, had even now become a pleasure; and pitying his endangered fortunes—the beautiful young woman was half in love already, and quite prepared to wake at once into the consciousness of passion, when any casual word, or trifling accident should break her day-dream of security.

So stood affairs at Woolverton, when a full fortnight after the visit of the Ironsides, on a still gleamy afternoon, when all the world was dressed out in its brightest guise of beauty, and everything on earth, in heaven, was peaceful and at rest; sweet Marian Rainsford was seen traversing the park, her slight and delicate figure shrouded in a loose cloak of dark blue woollen, and her soft brown hair covered by a deep gipsy hat of home-made straw; and asking at the gate for Misstress Alice, was instantly admitted to her presence, and that without creating any wonder or surmise, for her blind aged step-mother and the poor idiot were special favorites of the young lady; and rarely did she pass a second day, without either seeing them or hearing of their welfare.

"Well, Marian," exclaimed Alice—"well;" how fares your mother, and how poor helpless Martin? I should have been down one day this week to visit you, but that I have been so engaged at home, that I have really lacked leisure."

"They are as well, my dear young lady, as they can ever be this side the grave," replied the fair young widow; "but it is not on their account that I have come to seek you; I know, too, that you have been close engaged at home—and I believe I know how likewise—or if I do not know, I at least have a shrewd guess as it—nay! lady, answer me not, I pray you; but listen to my errand, for I have much to tell you, and you must act as you deem best, when you have heard all I have got to say. The peddler Bartram, of whom you have bought, I think, wares at sundry times, is at the Stag's Head since last night, and on his part I come to you."

"To me, from Master Bartram! but wherefore, wherefore, my good Marian?" asked Alice, blushing deeply as she spoke, and endeavoring to avoid—she scarce knew why—the quiet melancholy eye of her young visitor.

"Oh! you may trust me, dearest lady; surely you cannot doubt that you may trust me! for have not I too suffered in the same cause, and does not that one bond of suffering link me more closely to my fellows in that sorrow, than any ties that earth has now to hold me? I would give everything but life, myself, to buy his safety for this young gallant gentleman—and life itself how joyfully! were there not those yet living to whom that life is needful. But think not that I wish to pry into your secret, if you have one—I only speak to let you see my mind, and understand my motives. And now, this is mine errand. Bartram is at the Stag's Head now, or will be there anon, and bade me say to you, he has obeyed your father's bidding, and all is well-nigh ready. But he must see you, lady, either at our poor house, or in the little park beyond the river, after it is quite dark this very evening—he dare not come up to the Hall upon this business."

"Oh, now I understand you," answered Alice—"I understand you now quite well. But tell me, Marian, has Bartram explained nothing to you of all this?"

"Not a word, Mistress Alice, though he said he did not doubt I should understand; and that very likely you would trust me with the whole."

"But I will not," said Alice—"I will not, Marian;" then seeing instantly that an expression, not of vexation or offended pride, but of regret and disappointment was written legibly on the young widow's speaking features, she added with a smile, "not that I have the least doubt of your faith and truth, or the least fear of your prudence, but that such confidences are very dangerous to those who are intrusted; and I would not involve, without the plea of strong necessity, another in the risk which I run myself willingly. If need be however, Marian, be quite sure I will trust you. But now, how to arrange this meeting will be, I fear me, not so easy. Who knows of Bartram's presence hereabout?"

"No one at all," Marian replied, "except myself so far, for he tapped at my casement long past midnight, and hade me let him in quite silently; and I did so at once, for I guessed partly what he was about; and after he had charged me with this message, he sat beside the kitchen fire till it was nearly daylight, and then letting himself out of the back door, locked it after him, and flung the key into my window. He has gone now, I well believe, to farmer Sherlock's; but he will be back before nightfall, and I have left the lattice open in the two-story parlor to the rear, that he may climb the park wall, by the elm trees, and thence mount into the house unseen. Then I will carry him your answer, and he will meet you where you will."

"In the park, then," said Alice—"in the park, under the large oak tree, beyond the third foot-bridge; there I will wait for him from seven of the clock."

"I know not," answered Marian—"I know not. I do not think the park so over safe; they say stone walls have ears, and on my word I think green leaves have ears and eyes too now a-days. For as I came across the little park, just by the very tree you mention, there is, if you forget not, a small steep hollow place, an old sandpit or quarry, quite overgrown with weeds and bushes; just as I passed the brink of it, I heard a kind of scraping sound, as if some person were dragging himself on his breast along the ground, and then a rustle as if of branches parted by a strong careful hand; so I looked round quite naturally, not as if I had heard anything, and made believe to call a little dog; but I saw quite distinctly two full dark eyes gleaming out from among the tangled thorns and briers. I took no notice then, however, for I perceived at once that I could not discover any more of the features, but passed on a few paces farther, and then turned round again and chirruped for the dog, though I had no dog with me; that time I got rather a fairer view, and saw the whole of the man's face—for a man it was—although he did not think I saw him! A grim and truculent countenance as I ever beheld, with a close crop of foxy hair, and the most evil aspect in the eye you can imagine. I am sure too, that I have seen the face before, though where or when I cannot bring to mind. It seems to me, though, that it was not long since; and I cannot but think it was connected with some painful scene or other. I have been tasking myself ever since to try and recollect, but I cannot do so, were it to save my life. Of this, however, I am assured, that he lay there in wait for somebody or other! I think the better way would be, dear Mistress Alice, that I should leave you now, and come back somewhat suddenly when it is growing dark; then you may take a servant or two armed with you, and they can wait in the kitchen while I lead you up stairs, as if to see the children or Martin, who, to say truth, is somewhat ailing."

"I see," said Alice, after a moment's thought—"I see, and think as you do. This is unpleasant news, however, concerning the spy in the park, if spy he be—but might he not have been a poacher, lying in wait for the deer, think you, Marian?"

"I think not, lady," she replied; "there was, I know not what, that made me think of homicide or treason in his eye—he had not the dare-devil look of a deer-stealer. It was a hypocritical, bad, downcast visage, as ever man wore on his shoulders!"

"Well, 'tis too late to look to this to-day—to-morrow he shall be seen after. In the mean time do as you have suggested, Marian; come for me about six o'clock, and Charles and Launcelot shall go with us. You will return by the road, will you not?"

"That would be anwise, lady; and if he be a spy, might lead him to suspect something, and so to change his ground. Besides, it is quite clear that I have nothing to apprehend; he had me in his power before, had he thought fit to harm me. No, I will go back as I came; and see, I brought my empty basket for an excuse, and I will get it filled with simples by dame Trueman, and go my way, my errand being done."

"But stay, but stay a moment," Alice cried; "and tell me what ails Martin?"

"Oh, in good sooth, not much—but he is altered greatly since that bad officer entreated him so rudely, and since the soldiers killed his mastiff; and he sleeps not so much in the day time, nor is so quiet, but has become a rambler of late, which he never was before; wandering off into the woodlands for whole days, starting so soon as the sun rises, and sometimes not returning until the moon is up; and, though he brings back poppies and late field-flowers, and sometimes blackberries and hips and haws, I think it is not after these he roams abroad; for I do fancy that the expression of his eye is changed too, and that not for the better! he wears a cunning and suspicious glance at times, and seems for ever as he were seeking to track some one to a hiding place; but yet it may be nothing but my fancy. We tried at first, when he took up this habit, to confine him; but then he had such awful fits and paroxysms that we were forced to let him go his own way, trusting his welfare unto Him `who tempereth the wind to the shorn lamb.' I hope, however, that I am in the wrong about his change of temper—I hope it is my fancy."

"Mere fancy; Marian, be sure of it," answered Alice, rising; "and now farewell, and recollect to call for me;" and, as she spoke, she led her out to the stair-head where the servants might hear what she said, and shaking her warmly by the hand—"well, good bye," she continued; "pray get those things you want from Trueman as you go, and don't forget to come for me, should Martin have another seizure. I will go with you at a moment's notice:" and then they parted, Alice to seek her father's study and there request his counsel, and Marian to hurry home, with fearless port but trembling heart, along the path which she believed waylaid by lurking ruffians.

CHAPTER XIII.

It was not altogether without some trepidation, if not positive alarm, that Marian Rainsford hurried homeward; for, in spite of her strong natural sense, and her conviction that no evil was intended toward herself by the man she had seen in the park; it was still a position quite sufficiently alarming to be at the mercy of an unknown individual, whose motives, to judge from his demeanor, could scarcely be compatible with uprightness or honor. That portion of the park, too, was very solitary; and indeed was but rarely visited, except by the forester on his appointed rounds, as had been proved by the boldness of the late attack on Alice Selby—a boldness well-nigh justified by that gilder of all human actions, ultimate success. The youthful widow was, however, of a temperament which, naturally calm and self-restrained, had been yet further schooled by hard and sad experience; she had thought on many subjects, and rarely indeed acted now on impulse; the same cool foresight, therefore, which had made her determined to return homeward by the same path which she had taken in going out, the better to deceive the lurking spy—who, if he were indeed a spy, must be presumed acquainted with her person and her dwelling-place—taught her, that to avoid the danger, she must avoid showing fear of it; so with a quiet easy air, and with a step slower, if anything, than common—though it must be admitted that her heart thrilled painfully, and that her ear marked every trivial sound—she neared the brink of the old sandpit. Nothing occurred, however, to disturb her self-possession; nor did she see or hear aught which could be held to betoken the presence of a living being; if it were not a thin blue wreath of vapor, which curled up lazily out of the tangled brush wood that fringed the verge and all the steep sides of the little quarry; and which when she had seen it from a distance, her eye, unpracticed to such accidents—as a painter might have termed the effect—had confounded with the evening mists already floating up all gray and ghastly around the damp and marshy woodland. As she passed by, however, she instantly detected its true character, and yet she misinterpreted its meaning; for as she could not catch—although she listened with her every sense on the alert—the slightest sound of conversation, she came to the conclusion, that those who had lighted the fire for their own purposes had ere now left the spot; the rather that a robin perched in full sight upon a leafless bough, was warbling his simple tune within ten paces of the place whence the blue smoke was rising into the evening air, and that two large and lazy hares were pasturing quite fearlessly beside the pathway. This error, for error it was, had well-nigh led her into very serious peril; for she was on the point of going forward to examine the ground, when suddenly, she scarce knew why, a sense of terror fell upon her, and she moved onward at her wonted pace till she had passed the nearest clump of trees, and then she fairly took to her heels, and never ceased from running until she reached home, breathless, but uninjured. Lucky it was, indeed, for her, that she did not leave the beaten track—lucky, that she did not even pause—for the song of the bird, and the lazy tameness of the hare indicated not that that there were no human beings near at hand, for such was not the case, but only that they had made no movement recently—it being characteristic of such animals to entertain no fears, even of the great tyrant man, so long as he sits or stands motionless and silent. Lucky it was indeed—if that may be called lucky, which was the result of forethought more than of any accident or chance—since at that very moment, sheltered from view by the precipitous banks of sandy gravel and the thick bushes overhanging them, three strong and ruffian-looking men were seated round the fire which sent up the thin smoke that had caught Marian's notice.

It was a singular and exceedingly well-chosen spot for an ambuscade or post of espial, for you might pass within ten feet of its brink, without imagining that there was anything more than a small shallow basin full of brushwood; while in reality it was a deep and abrupt pit, with sheer-cut sides of nearly twenty feet, whence at some distant period the sand-stone had been quarried for purposes of rural architecture. It was indeed quite small, not above fifteen yards in length by half that width, and so luxuriantly had the broom and evergreen furze shot forth from the brink of its banks, that they almost entirely overcanopied it. The ground in this quarter of the park was broken into abrupt rounded hillocks, and this pit had been sunk in one of these, close to the crest of the knoll; so that when it had attained its utmost depth, an irregular and narrow cart-track had been cut through the slope into the nearest hollow; this track, however, having been long disused and half choked by the earth and stones which had rolled from above, and overrun completely with every species of tangled underwood, was quite forgotten, and would doubtless have been quite obliterated too, but that a little thread of running water, the offspring of a tiny well-head which had been opened as the stony strata were cut through, found its way down the narrow gorge to join the neigh, boring rivulet. So insignificant, indeed, was the whole surface occupied, and so completely was it sheltered, that there were not perhaps five people in the country who knew of its existence, although it lay, as has been stated, within ten paces of a regular footpath—some two or three of the old servants, had they been questioned, would probably have recollected that they had seen or heard of it, and the game-keeper knew the gully well, for it was a favorite haunt of woodcock when all the marshy woods were frozen hard, though it is scarcely probable that he had ever followed the streamlet upward to its source. No fitter den could, therefore, have been chosen by any person, whose object it might be to join seclusion with the ability of keeping watch over the dwellers of the Hall; since its steep banks concealed it from all observation, and sheltered it from every wind of heaven; while its pure spring afforded an unfailing antidote to thirst, and heavy must have been the storm, which should beat down upon its inmates between the tangled branches of the thicket overhead.

In this sequestered nook, around a fire which evidently was but just kindled, of dried leaves and such broken branches as would give forth but little smoke, three men were seated, silently superintending the preparation of their evening meal—for which there lay ample provision on the dry mossy greensward, in the shape of a hare already stripped of his furry coat and trussed for cooking, and a brace of superb cock-pheasants— when they were interrupted by the crackling sound of a dry branch, several of which they had disposed, for that very purpose, across the path; so that it would have been no easy matter for any one to have avoided treading on them, even had he been desirous of so doing. As no such thought had entered Marian's mind, she trod on one or two quite unsuspiciously, and the sharp crackle with which they yielded to her light springy tread, reached ears, as we have seen, keenly awake to every passing token. One of the party rose immediately, making a sign of caution to the others, and scaling the bank easily by the aid of steps cut into its hard strata, and stakes set firmly in the looser portions, brought his eye just above the surface; and speedily discovering who was the passer-by, and seeing that she walked straight on, quite fearlessly, descended again to his comrades, and resumbed his seat, saying in answer to their inquiring glances—

"Nay; it was but the young wench of the inn, who passed an hour ago, or better, when I was on the watch."

"It was but right," answered one of the others, with an appalling oath; "to strip off her duds if she has nothing more about her, and give her a walk home in cuerpo, as the Spaniard has it, this fine fresh afternoon."

"No, no; that would not do at all;" returned the first speaker, a sullen, dogged puritanical-looking youth, dressed in a strong new doublet of buff leather, such as was worn by the Ironsides when off duty, and a slouched gray felt hat; "I do profess, that you would ruin the best scheme that ever wit hatched by your rash rakehelly marauding. I almost do regret I have consorted with you; I do, as my soul hopes to see salvation."

"As your soul hopes to see hell-fire!" replied the other man, a tall, rawboned and tawdrily-dressed soldier, with huge mustaches and a peaked beard upon his chin; the very caricature in fact, of a debauched and roistering cavalier, as was the other of a fanatical independent—"to see hell fire, you should say rather—for as the courses you run here lead not that way, the road is very different, I trow, from what the preachers tell us. But if you are so sorry you have joined with us, what keeps you here with us? Too much of honor is it for a d—d scurry roundhead to be admitted to go shares with gentlemen who have fought for the king. Why do you consort with us, Master Despard? I trow we never sought your company."

"Because he cannot help it;" said the third man, who had not spoken before— "because he cannot help it, Beverly. Why do you ask such silly questions—seeing you know as well as he does, that since he was broken and dismissed the Ironsides, he has no help for it, but to take toll as we do?"

"Then I should rather ask," retorted Beverly, "why we, two cavaliers of honor, allow this canting palm-singer to hang upon our skirts, and carry it so high as if he were our leader?"

"That can I tell you," said Despard, for it was no other than the tyrannical and brutal cornet, who had been cashiered and disgraced at Henry Chaloner's instance— "that can I tell you very shortly. Because five words of mine, just five! of mine would send you to the gallows at Low Barnsley Moor; first, as proclaimed malignants— second, as common pads and michers—and third, as the assaulters of sweet Mistress Alice Selby; five words of mine would do this piece of very notable justice. I do not know, 'fore heaven, why I dont speak them."

"Then will I make sure that you don't," replied the taller ruffan, starting to his feet, and laying his hand where the hilt of his sword should have been, but where there only swung an empty scabbard. Despard, however, did not quit his seat, nor indeed moved at all, though his dark, jealous eye watched every movement of his man with eager scrutiny; but when he saw him clutch the useless scabbard, he uttered a low sneering laugh.

"Pity," he said—"'tis pity thou didst throw away a weapon thou seemest so prompt to handle, and all in empty terror for an unloaded pistol, when, had you but possessed half a man's courage, you might have pinked that straight-laced idiot Chaloner, and clodded the knave farmer into the deepest hole of the river, and turned the girl to your own uses afterwards. Tush man, you cavaliers and kingsmen, for all your braggart ruffling, are fit but to rob hen-roosts, and frighten country cullions. Tush! I say, tush! Hugh Beverly—we are not here to wrangle or to fight, but to be well revenged upon our enemies, and to amend our fortunes, as thou knowest!"

"Curse Chaloner, and you too!" answered the other gruffly, resuming his seat, however, as he spoke; "for had he not thrust himself into that which concerned him nothing, we had won gold enough to carry as to merry France long since—and then must you come in with your confounded schemes and plots. Hung! by the Lord! if we were hung at all it should be for what we are planning now—to yield up an old kingsman, and a comrade too, to the filthy roundhead butchers. But if we do 'scape hanging for't we shall not 'scape the stings of our conscience. For my part I do not like it half!"

"But recollect," put in the other cavalier—"recollect, Beverly, how he set you in the bilboes and swore that you should taste of the strapado."

"And if he did—if he did, Paul, I cannot say but I deserved it," the tall man interrupted him—"but plague upon the bilboes! If Captain Wyvil could see us as we are, he would right freely share his last crown with us—and not to save his own life ten times over would he betray our hiding-place or yield us to the hangman."

"Well, Beverly," returned the other, "if you think thus of it, you were best bridge, and seek your fortune elsewhere; Master Despard and I will do the job without you. But as it must be done, whether you will or no, it seems to me you were best share the deed, and go thirds in the guerdon—think, man, a hundred crowns to each of us, and a free pardon!"

"Damn the crowns!" Beverly replied—"I would not do it for ten thousand, if I could only get myself quietly away to France."

"But that thou canst not do, friend," said Despard, who thought it full time to strike in now that his comrade's virtue was yielding fast to the temptation—"but that thou canst not do—were it to save thy soul from sure perdition. Here thou art, many miles from sea, with all the roads patrolled on every side, and not a tester in your pouch! Thou hast no choice but to join with us, or to perish. Besides, it may not go so hard with this malignant Wyvil after all. For of a verity I owe him no grudge—and, for me, he might go safe where'er he listed were it not for the price upon his head, and for the certainty of proving Chaloner guilty of treacherous connivance, and bringing down his cool, proud insolence of bearing to infamy and ruin—for all he lords it now so fairly! Come, pluck up heart man—thou must needs on with us."

"I fear you say true, and I must," Beverly answered; "but I would not, by all the fiends in hell! I would not, could I at all do otherwise! Pass me the bottle, Paul, pass me the bottle:" and grasping, with the words, a huge black leathern flagon half filled with spirits, he gulped down his qualms of conscience in a deep draught of the liquid fire; and dropping it again folded his arms upon his breast, and frowning, fixed his eyes doggedly on the ground, as one resolved to act against the dictates of his better reason. For a minute or two no further words were interchanged, but Despard screwed his features into a hideously acute grimace, and winked at the ruffian who had been called Paul, pointing as he did so with his thumb over his shoulder to the lesser villain, Beverly; and then a grim smile kindled both their visages, as they exulted over the last vanquished glimpse of their companion's nobler nature. After a little pause, however, Paul addressed the Puritan in a subdued voice, not necessarily to attract attention from the other.

"But are you sure," he said—"are you so very sure after all, that Wyvil is concealed up here at the manor? I cannot see, for my part, how he can well be there, after such thorough searching—nor if he be, how you can know it."

"I tell you, man, he must be here—did we not chase him down to the very bridge in full sight of our party, and when we turned the corner, lo! he was vanished away—and was not his horse found close beside the river, where he had tied him in the woodland— and did not our first squadron see this girl at the fish-house, who had departed thence, when we came thither—and is not this good proof?"

"It may be good suspicion, but hardly proof, I think. It were the devil's own hash, to be foiled in this matter, after we have been loitering hereabout so long."

"I tell you, we will not be foiled—keep thou but sharp watch. For while I lay watching the forester under the old park wall, I heard that peddler knave, that Bartram— I never miss a voice I have heard once before! chatting with the quean, Marian, of the inn. I could not catch all that they said; but I am sure I heard the peddler send her to fix some time and place where he might speak with Mistress Alice—doubtless to scheme this Marmaduke's escape; and I doubt not it was to that end she visited the Hall. As soon as it grows dark, we will part company—you, Paul, shall watch the lane and the park gates; Beverly here shall hang about the fish-house; while I will take my old post by the wall."

"But are you certain," Paul again inquired, "that when we have found out the time, we shall be able to entrap him—are you assured you have discovered all the outlets of that same hiding-place of which the soldiers told you?"

"I tell you, yes; fool, yes!" returned the other; "there be but two, and I have found them both, one in a drain that opens out beneath the park wall eastward of the gates, into the old green lane—the other has its mouth in the stream's bank, not bigger much than a foxearth—I had not found it, had I not well known from the troopers the true direction of each passage."

"But after all is done," said Beverly, who had been listening all the time, although they knew it not, "we shall be in the dark as much as ever. We cannot possibly learn by which of the two gates they mean to let him out, and we are not sufficiently strong-handed to beset both."

"Oh, for that I have taken thought," said Despard; "we will force them to take which we choose. That in the river bank will be the easier of the two whereat to seize him. And I will so arrange it, that there shall be a troop of horse posted before the entrance of the drain that night. I have some old friends yet among the soldiers, and it is but the sending a false letter."

"Ay! that will do—that will do bravely! and we can seize him meanwhile, and carry him at once to head-quarters," cried Paul exultingly, rubbing his hands as he spoke. "But come," he added in a moment afterwards—"come, let us roast the hare, and get our supper; the fire has burned bright, and it will cook him quickly. We must put out the embers too before the keeper takes his round, and it is getting dark already. It was a wonder the wench saw not the smoke as she passed by. Art sure she did not, Despard?"

"Trust me for that; she never lifted once her eyelids from the ground," the Puritan replied, "else had I twisted her head round, before she could have called for succor, had there been any near."

And then, without more words, they all three set to work in earnest about the cookery of the game; and in less than half an hour—just as the night was closing in, and objects were but indistinctly visible at a few paces distance—they had not only prepared, but discussed their supper, flung a few handfuls of sand upon the embers, and gathering up their weapons, gone off in different directions into the growing darkness.

CHAPTER XIV.

Meantime, all unsuspicious of any plots against her, Alice awaited the return of her humble friend; and scarcely was it dark before, according to their preconcerted scheme, Marian came up quite breathless from the lodge, and sent a message in praying that Mistress Alice would of her kindness walk down to the Stag's Head, since Martin had been taken, as they feared, death sick. Old Mark looked up from his book quickly, as the word was delivered; for she was sitting with him at the time, engaged about some graceful feminine handiwork, and began saying something about the lateness of the hour, and the darkness; but he perceived, as he looked up, a meaning in his daughter's eye, which checked him as he did so, and he made no further opposition, when she said calmly—

"Oh! father, I must go—I shall not be away above an hour or so at the utmost—I will take Launcelot and Charles, with weapons and a lantern, so there cannot be any danger."

"As you will, Alice," the old man replied, "but I must say I think it foolish, seeing that to go in the morning would probably do every whit as well. The men, however, must carry fire-arms, if you will go—see to it, Peter," he continued—"see that they carry pistolets besides their broadswords;" then, as the servant left the room to execute his bidding—"what is there in the wind now, Alice?" he said anxiously, "for I am certain there is something—I can read that in your eye, and heightened color!"

"Oh! read your æschylus, dear father," said she smiling, as if to reassure him, "instead of wasting your acumen upon my silly cheek. You shall know all when I return, and all good news, I fancy." And she stooped over him, as she spoke, and parted the long snowy hair from his broad brow, and kissed him tenderly before she left the room.

Nothing occurred of any moment on their way, except that Marian told her how Martin had in truth come home from wandering in the park, far more distempered than he had been since the outrage; that he had raved so furiously about the soldier, that he had terrified them all, and had then fallen into the worst fit she had ever witnessed. Bartram had not arrived when she left home, but she feared not he would be there before them. And so, indeed, he was. For, when they reached the Stag's Head, after desiring the two men to make themselves comfortable by the kitchen hearth, over a pot of spiced ale which stood simmering in the chimney corner, all mantled over with a rich creamy froth; and sending off the girls on the pretext of putting the blind woman quietly to bed, Marian lit a hand-lamp, and led the fair young lady by the same winding staircase, into the same neat chamber wherein Chaloner had breakfasted on the eventful morning which sealed his earthly fate. Here she set down the light upon the table, and opening a small door into an inner chamber, looking to the back of the house, and quite overshadowed by the tall elm-trees of the park which grew within ten or twelve feet of the latticed window—"Bartram," she said in a low whisper, "are you there, Master Bartram?"

"Ay!" was the answer in a yet lower tone—"Ay! but be very cautious, I fear we may be watched. Is Mistress Alice with you? I need not ask though, I hear her gentle tread—come in then, come in both of you, now quickly—leave the light there, oh! leave the light, it would betray us outright—and hark you, Marian, reach me that old steel cross-bow, and the bolts that hang above the chimney—it is as well to be prepared for the worst always."

Alice immediately entered, and went up to the peddler, whose sturdy and athletic form she could discover indistinctly near the window, saying in a sweet guarded tone, "Well, Master Bartram, I have come to hear what you can have to say to me—something of greater moment than the last modes, or the price of French taffeta, I hope—"

"Yes, indeed! yes, indeed, lady," he replied; "but, I beseech you come and sit here by me, that I may speak quite low to you. I do not like the shadow of those trees; a man might lie upon the coping of the wall, within six feet of us, and we no thought the wiser!"

"Then why not shut the casement? or, better yet, go to the other chamber?" said Alice; doing, however, quietly as he directed her.

"Because," said Bartram, still gazing out into the darkness; "this is the only safe room in the house; in all the rest the servants would overhear us, and as for the casement, four of the panes are broken, the worse luck on it; it slipped from my hand as I entered, and fell back against the tenter-hook in the house-side. So if I were to shut it, it would but hinder us from seeing what's afoot without doors, while it would be no safeguard in the least to us within. Ay! that's it, Marian," he continued, as he reached the cross-bow from her hand, and instantly applied himself to bend it, and fit the quarrel, or steel-headed bolt, to the stiff cat-gut string. "Now keep your watch there in the parlor, but do not shut the door, lest Mistress Alice be afraid, nor move the lamp at all—it is well placed now, since it casts no glimmer hitherward. Now lady, listen; listen with all your ears, that you may perfectly remember: and that, if possible, without obliging me to answer any question. We have but little time to talk; and if I be not more mistaken than I am very often, I saw the shadow of a man dogging me in the park; and if it were so, he was not half so far as he should have been when I climbed in here at this window."

"Do not fear," answered Alice, "that I shall clearly comprehend, and perfectly remember what you tell me; go on at once, I pray you, for the sooner I reach home, the safer it will be for all of us."

"Well then," he said, still speaking very low, and pausing every now and then to listen for a moment, and keeping his eyes fixed upon the summit of the park wall, which was nearly on the level of the window—"well, then, all is prepared for the young cavalier's escape—a sharp fast-sailing lugger is lying off the Welsh coast; relays of horses are already posted in spots where none will think of looking for them: I will accompany him to the sea-shore myself, and see him safe abroad. Ha! what was that? did you not hear a sound?"

"It was a bird," Alice replied—"only the cry of a little bird, and hark! that is the flutter of his wings as he takes flight; go on good Bartram!"

But he did not go on, but sat there with his head bent forward, his rapid roving eye glancing continually over every object, and his ear drinking every sound, however small or trivial. But there arose no further noise, although he listened for ten minutes at the least, moving not nor speaking; then with a doubtful and dissatisfied shake of the head, "It was indeed a bird," he said—"a missel thrush, awakened from its roost by sudden fear; that much is clear enough to all who know the habits of the bird—but what should have compelled him to take wing so wildly, it would require a wiser head than mine to fathom."

"How can you think so deeply on such a trifle?" said Alice, wondering greatly at the peddler's manner; "What can it signify what roused him? a fox perhaps, passing among the shrubs below, or a night-owl, it might be, or perhaps a snake."

"As for trifles, lady," the peddler replied very gravely; "I trust in heaven that you may never learn as I have, to take the closest note of all such seeming trifles—taught so to do by the hard bitter teacher of the best earthly wisdom—painful and sad experience. I have been hunted day and night, by savage bloodhounds and men more savage yet, and have 'scaped only by my knowledge of such trifles. Lady, God has not given one small instinct to one of the smallest of his creatures, but has its clear and proper meaning—but speaks to him who comprehends, with voice as plain and audible, and far more true than any human accents. There is not a bark or whine of the hill-fox, not a yell of the wild-cat, a shriek of the night-wandering owl, not a note of the meanest warbler, nay! not a croak of the garrulous frog, but I have learned to mark them, and draw deep warnings from them each and all! But it was none of those things which you named that startled that poor throstle. A fox would not have roused the bird at all, for it roosts high, and knows as well as we do that foxes climb no trees—night-owls prey ever in the open meadows, and strike their victims on the ground, never among thick woods or even in high bushes—then as for snakes, the cold nights this week past have driven the snakes all into their snug holes under ground for winter-quarters. No, if that thrush did not wake up scared by a dream—for birds dream also! Mistress Alice, although I don't suppose you will believe me—it was a man that forced it to take wing, and yet I heard no footstep nor any rustling of the branches."

"It was a dream, then, I dare say," said Alice, not a little surprised and rather restless at his long discussion; "for surely had there been a man, we must have heard him: go on, I pray you, with our more urgent business."

"Well, as I said then, all is ready, and I have picked a stout and bold companion to see us clear at starting. Now, lady, mark me well: the third night hence there will be no moon, none at all; and as I think, the weather will be cloudy. We shall need all the hours of darkness, for if the day dawn on our road we are but lost men all. At eight o'clock then, to the moment, we must start. Now tell me clearly, you, where are the mouths of the two outward passages. This you must speak out fearlessly, for we must know it, or we shall never meet; but wander, it may be, all the night long in the park at cross purposes."

"One opens in the lane, sixty-four paces due cast from the lodge—a large arched drain comes out through the park wall, just opposite a tall old ash tree. You cannot miss the spot. The other—my father told me this, that I might tell it to a trusty friend in case of urgent need—communicates with a low natural cave, not much larger than a foxearth or rabbit burrow; the mouth is in the steep red gravelly bank of the rivulet, an arrow-shot above the first of the three bridges; it is within a foot or less of the water's brink, and in high floods is sometimes quite submerged; there is a clump of very thick dark hollies on the bank's edge, and one of the same trees, a variegated one, about midway the steep deelivity exactly over it—"

"Hush!" whispered the peddler; "hush!" laying his hard hand on her arm in the excitement of the moment; "heard you not that?" as a slight grating sound, like that which a person might make creeping along the top of a rough-hewn stone wall, became quite audible; and, as he spoke, he rose carefully to his feet, holding the cross-bow ready in his hand for instant service. The very next moment, the noise was repeated; and was followed closely by a loud rustling of the branches of the elm, which could be indistinctly seen to shake against the dull horizon, though there was not a breath of air abroad to stir them. As quick as thought the cross-bow rose to Bartram's shoulder, a hoarse clang broke the silence, and then the whirring of the heavy missile! the boughs were more violently agitated yet, as if some heavy body was breaking its way through them, and in a moment the marked and peculiar sound of a soft heavy mass falling upon the ground succeeded, with something that resembled a faint groan.

"Good God!" cried Alice, clasping her hands in all the agony of mortal terror— "Good God! you have killed some one—oh! how could you be so rash, so unthinking!"

"I hope I have," Bartram replied, speaking in a louder voice than he had ventured to adopt before, and not without some real dignity—"I hope I have slain some one— for that one must have been either a night-robber or a spy, and which he was soever, death is his fitting meed. But I believe I have not; for I shot quite at random, and I fancy the bolt broke his arm; at least he was alive as he dropped through the branches, and seemed to catch at them as if to break his fall."

"He may be wounded, then," Alice exclaimed. "Oh, heavens! wounded, and bleeding his life-blood away upon the cold damp ground, without a helping hand to soothe his tortures. Let me call Charles and Launcelot, to go and search for him with torches!" and, as she spoke, she darted toward the door; but Bartram caught her firmly but respectfully, and held her fast by the arm.

"Unhand me, sir;" she said, with not a little indignation in her tones, though they were still instinctively suppressed—"unhand me, for I will go forth!"

"Not for your life! dear lady—for all our lives—I say!" responded Bartram; "Yours—Wyvil's—mine—but that is little worth, and ready at a moment's call! and your good father's!" and seeing that she was struck by his words, he released her and continued. "Now hear me, Mistress Alice, but twenty words more, and then return straightway to the Hall, taking your servants with you—as soon as you shall have departed, I will go look for the man I shot at—I will, by all that I hold sacred! Now this is all that still is left to say. I understand the spots you have described distinctly. Of these, the first will be the best, if it be possible to use it; therefore let him try that the first—but, as it opens on the road, something may well occur to make it perilons. Therefore let him look for this token—if he find not a glove within the drain, at some five yards from the arched mouth, directly in the centre of the dry channel—for it is dry, I well remember—let him go back at once, and he will find us at the other. He must be at the drain mouth shortly after seven, that he may have full time to get back to the other entrance if he find not the symbol. But, for no cause whatever, let him go forth until be hear me whistle thrice—he knows my call I trow! Now, do you understand distinctly? Let him be at the drain by seven, and if he find the glove, lie perdu there, until he hear the signal; if not, back with the speed of light to the cave by the river."

"Yes, yes; I understand distinctly," she replied—"but—"

"Oh, no buts; no buts, dear lady," cried the peddler; "we have no time for buts! You have the whole plan now before you, and if you manage rightly, then his escape is certain—if not, then on their heads be the blame who mar it in the acting. Now, Marian, light her down the stairs—take your men hastily, I do beseech you, Mistress Alice, and get you homeward with all speed—this is no place for such as you, at such an hour. God's blessing on your head, and be of a good heart, for all shall yet go well. And trust me I will go forth instantly, and see what has befallen yonder— though I am well assured his life is safe, and his wounds, if he indeed be wounded, quite superficial. It is as well so too; for he heard nothing of our conversation— nothing at least that could do good or evil."

He led her to the door as he said this, and while Marian conducted her down to the kitchen, and saw her set forth for the Hall under the keeping of her sturdy yeomen, he lifted from the table where they had lain during his interview with Alice, two brace of large long-barrelled pistolets, and a broad-bladed wood-knife; the latter of which he thrust into his belt at first, whereas he opened the pans of the others, and felt that the powder was both dry and loose, and the flints firm fixed, before he consigned them to the girdle. This done, he mounted on the window-sill, caught a large flexible branch of the elm-tree in both his hands, and swung himself—with far more agility than could be looked for in a man of his years and thickset frame—to the top of the park wall, alighting on it firmly, and balancing himself a moment before he stooped; and grasping the projecting coping with a strong hold, lowered himself to arms' length, and then dropped safely to the earth within the park of Woolverton. There he searched diligently and for a long time, if he might discover any trace of the man he had shot at; but there was no one there, alive or dead; nor was there any sign that anything had fallen from above, except that one small bush was beaten to the earth, and some of its thin shoots battered and broken as if by some heavy body.

CHAPTER XV.

It was already very late, when Alice entered the park gates, for the walk and her interview with Bartram had occupied much more time than they had imagined, and supper was already ended; but so well had the whole scheme been arranged, that her unusual absence excited in this instance neither suspicion nor surprise. Desiring that some light refreshments with wine and water should be carried up into the liberary, she ran up thither instantly, thinking, it is true, very little about such matters, and eager only to disbosom herself to her father, as soon as possible, of her important tidings. This was soon done; and so much pleasure did the old man exhibit at the intelligence, that, though she spoke not of it, his very evident joy seemed selfish and unkind to Alice; who, though she knew not why, felt a sad sinking at the heart, a melancholy and foreboding gloom upon her spirits, so often as she thought of Marmaduke's departure. After brief conversation on the subject, for neither felt inclined to talk at length, Alice, fatigued by the exertions and excitement of the day, retired without visiting her captive guest, her father having seen him in his crypt during her absence.

Long she lay tossing, sleepless and restless, on her innocent couch; distracted with strange fancies; doubts, and suspicions, and perplexities succeeding one the other, like billows on an agitated sea. Now, for the first time it would seem, a dim, indefinite perception of the state of her affections began to steal across her mind. At first, it assumed the form of simple anxiety—a longing fond desire to know if he, whom she had so long tended with so affectionate care, would feel the same despondency and sorrow at quitting his poor place of refuge, which she endured already at the mere thought of his departure—then, as she asked herself—Why should he? why should he grieve at being rescued from a dull dreary prison-house, and let loose again to active life, to liberty, and daylight? nay, rather, why should he not rejoice, with an extreme triumphant exultation? It naturally began to suggest itself to her, that her own sorrow and despondency was something more than ordinary; and, though she strove hard to convince herself that it was a mere natural regard for one with whom she had passed latterly many delightful hours, a common and unselfish interest in a fine noble-minded man, who was no more to her than any other late acquaintance, all the heart's sophistry availed her nothing; but she was forced to entertain the question—Did she then love? Could it be possible, that all unasked, uncourted, she had surrendered her soul's deep affection to this young gallant? whether it could be that a secret instinct, undreamed of at the time, and unsuspected, of love for Wyvil, had led her to meet Chaloner's addresses with so unqualified and final a rejection? No! she discarded the idea by a strong impulse of alarmed and jealous modesty! It would have been, she thought, the height of overbold unmaidenly effrontery to love, herself unloved—it was impossible! it was not so! And then she closed her eyes, and breathed a short pure prayer, and turning on her other side, bade such vain imaginations avaunt! and resolved positively, as she thought, to entertain the like no more. But such thoughts are insidious and most subtle guests; and once admitted into the sanctuary of the human mind, can scarcely be yielded thence, but will creep forward—onward, and forward still—till they have reached the very shrine and altar of that wondrous temple, disguised perhaps and hidden under some specious mask, but still unchanged and vigorously active; and at the last shake off their counterfeited semblance, and kindle the whole place with the full blaze of confessed and overmastering passion. And so, on this occasion, was it with Alice Selby; one question still suggesting others, so that she scarcely had resolved to think no more of such things, before she was asking herself—"And was it then so certain that she was unloved—was it so clear, that it was not a secret instinct, that Marmaduke indeed did love her, which had called forth in her this mutual feeling?" Then she began to think of the peculiar tones of his voice, as he had spoken to her—to recall to mind the deep and concentrated glance of his expressive eye, which she had caught so often dwelling on her features, when he believed it all unnoticed—to reflect how his whole demeanor had been gradually changed toward her, from commonplace gay gallantry, to calm, though by no means cold observance. She called to mind how often she had seen him raise his head, and partly open his lips to speak after long intervals of thoughtful silence, and again check himself by a sudden effort, and relapse into meditation. She fancied, too, that he had become more deeply thoughtful than was common, or in accordance with his native disposition—that there was a vein of melancholy in the poetical half-rambling strains of thought into which, now and then, his conversation would degenerate; and she was sure—the more sure, the more she thought upon it—that he had oftentimes of late endeavored, as it were, to probe her thoughts, to penetrate her inmost mind, and learn her real character; her style of principles, her temper, and such other matters, more carefully than a mere passing guest would have been likely to do concerning the acquaintance of a day. Thus her imagination still advanced, never one moment idle or at fault, till it had overleaped all obstacles, and had persuaded her, before she sank into a perturbed slumber, that she was loved by Wyvil; and almost led her to confess that she loved him in turn.

The following morning, she awoke all pale and worn-out, as it seemed, with mental excitation; but after breakfast, she passed an hour or two in "chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancy" in the delicious flower-garden, and returned thence refreshed, indeed, by the pure autumn air, and the fresh scent of the rich upturned mould; but only confined, the mere fully, in the almost intuitive conviction which had come over her in the course of the past night. All that day long, however, she went not near the cell; excusing herself on some trivial plea, and prevailing, not without some small difficulty, on her father to relieve her of the charitable duty. It seemed, moreover, as if anxiety and care were now to be the lot of all the family of Selby; for, on his return from Wyvil's hiding-place, an eye considerably less acute than that of Alice, could have discovered that something of far more than common moment had disturbed the serenity of old Mark's calm and steady equanimity. He settled himself down, indeed, to his books as usual; but it was very evident that his mind was no longer in the task, for he would look up, and fix his eyes steadfastly on the vacant air, and gaze for many minutes, and then shake his thin gray locks doubtfully, and heave a long-drawn sigh; and then apply himself as it were reluctantly to the old commentaries once again, and read or write earnestly and eagerly for a few minutes, till gradually his powers of abstraction would prove unequal to the struggle against the powerful thoughts within, and he would raise his eyes once more to rest them upon the lovely features of his fair pallid child, and seem as if he were about to speak; but finding himself unequal to the task, would clear his throat with a deep husky cough, and brush away a tear from his gray lashes. Thus passed the day gloomily—cheerlessly—although the sky was bright and clear and sunny; and the air balmy, although fresh and bracing. Thus passed the day, with nothing worthy of note to mark its fleeting hours, except that the head-forester, who had been sent out with all his men, charged to search all the brakes and dingles of the park, but more especially the old sand-quarry, returned at nightfall, and reported that there certainly were no strangers now within the precincts of the park; although, as certainly, there had been poachers there a day or two before at farthest; for in the old stone-pit he had found the white embers of a wood fire, the skin of a dead hare, the feathers of several pheasants, and, last but not least, a bunch of admirably manufactured gins and springes, proving beyond all question the quality and occupation of its late visitors.

Night came and passed away; and on the following morning, when Alice would again have eschewed visiting the young man, her father so decidedly, and as she thought, with so much meaning in his tone, refused to take her place—and prayed her with an air so earnest—reminding her, that she would have this duty, which seemed so irksome, to perform but one day longer—to go at once, without more foolish and unkind delay—that she could not decline it; but found herself obliged, though most reluctantly, to visit Marmaduke with her accustomed burthen. It would have been, perhaps, difficult for Alice to have explained why she felt that reluctance; for she of late had certainly looked forward to the hour for those stolen interviews, with interest and not unpleasurable agitation; and most assuredly, had Wyvil been at that moment a visitor at large in her father's hospitable mansion, she would not have shunned meeting him, or even wished to eschew his company. Most probably it was a secret, and not unnatural, sense of modesty—now that she had become apprised of her own feelings— which hindered her from seeking, as it might appear, an interview with one she loved, but whose attachment toward herself—if that he was indeed attached—was unavowed, and buried in the depths of his own heart. She felt, too, it is more than likely, that most unreal, but at the same time most natural dread, that he, concerning whom her thoughts had been so much engaged during the last two days, must have arrived during the same period at the same conclusions with herself—must have penetrated her secret sympathies, and become the lord, as it were, and judge of all her hidden sentiments. So that, she fancied, it would appear to him as if she had come thither—had sought him out in short—only to seek a solution of her own doubts and fears; to give him an opportunity of telling his passion, and of learning that it was returned by equal, perhaps earlier, passion of her own! The very thought made her cheeks burn with painful blushes; made her limbs tremble, and her tongue falter; so that it would, in truth, have been impossible for any man of common penetration not to perceive that Alice, as she entered on that morning the hiding-place of Wyvil, was under the immediate influence of some strong mental agitation. So certain is it that in women of the better order, the existence of deep passion is far more frequently discovered to those from whom they wish the most to hide it, through the very means they have adopted to conceal it, than by direct and open revelation. Besides this, it is very rare that a man, himself loving or inclined to love a woman, can long remain in real ignorance of her sentiments toward himself, unless in those flagitious cases, where direct means are taken by the designing and coquettish to keep him in suspense and darkness. When, therefore, Alice entered the small chamber, though she had done so fifty times at least before without exhibiting the smallest signs of confusion, it was with such an air of conscious bashfulness, that Marmaduke at once perceived the alteration in her manner.

It would be now of no avail to trace the progress of his sentiments, to note how first the seeds of future passion were sown within his bosom; for to no one, who with a fancy disengaged and a heart free has been thrown accidentally into the constant and familiar society of a young and very lovely woman, can it be a matter of wonder, that Wyvil, shut up as he was in absolute seclusion from all the world except one sweet and beautiful girl, preeminently gifted with all the charms that most adorn her sex and captivate the other, should have become enamored; especially when to the strong attractions of beauty, wit, and gentleness, are superadded the strong plea of gratitude. From the first moment of their meeting, marked as it was on her part by so much of high though gentle spirit—by so much generosity, and readiness of mind, and courage, a deep sense of admiration had possessed him; and daily, more and more, that admiration, blended with warmer gratitude and fostered by the constant observation of her sweet womanly character, her gentleness and easy grace and artlesss frankness, had grown up into strong and burning love. Some hint of this Wyvil had casually and indistinctly, perhaps half-unintentionally, dropped to her father; and instantly perceiving the change which followed his words in the expression of the aged man, and coupling with that grave and shadow the absence of Alice from his cell during two whole days, he had been torturing himself with every kind of vague and jealous fancy, till he had worked himself into such a fever of hope, and rivalry, and anxious passion, that he felt almost ready to sacrifice and surrender everything, so he could only be resolved what was the nature of her feelings. And now when she came in with a faltering step, a cheek suffused with momentary crimson, and in a moment after pallid as monumental marble; a downcast eye that suffered not one radiant glance to flash through the long lashes, and a perceptible air of timidity and agitation in her whole bearing and demeanor, he started hurriedly from his seat, and rushed to meet her, with his whole spirit beaming from his every feature.

"Oh!" cried he, in a passionate and broken voice—"why—oh why—have you deserted me? You do not—oh, no! you cannot think how wretched I have been, how miserably sad and anxious—have I offended you in anything? oh surely—surely not; for rather would I die a thousand deaths, than that one thought of mine should wound you? or can it be that you are wearied—wearied, as well you may be, of wasting your bright hours with a poor prisoner in his cheerless cell? yet, dear—dearest lady, could you but know how exquisite the pleasure is, which you confer even by your briefest visit, so it be lighted by your kind smile, one gentle glance of those compassionate eyes, you would not grudge a little weariness—you who are so soft-hearted, so charitable to the feelings of all others, so careless of your own the while! and that, too, when so short a time remains, before your task will have an end for ever. Yet, perchance, even this—this end which I cannot so much as contemplate without a thrill of horror, is unto you a source of pleasure—of congratulation! You do not speak—you do not answer me!" he went on, without even giving her the time to answer if she would, impetuously and carried away by the torrent of his passions—"You will not answer me! I doubt not that you are glad I leave you." As he spoke thus, Alice, who had stood paralyzed, and almost frightened at the rapidity and vehemence with which he poured forth this quick flood of words, raised her long lashes slowly, and looked full in his face, with her large soft blue eyes dilated with surprise, not all unmixed with apprehension.

"I do not understand you," she said simply, after a little pause—"I do not at all understand you, Captain Wyvil; of course, I am glad that you are about to be set free from prison, which you find naturally so very dull and dismal—of course, I am glad that you have a certain prospect of escape from your blood-thirsty enemies. I have continually been in terror since you have lain here hidden, lest they should find you out—of course I am glad, Captain Wyvil."

"I thought so! yes! by heaven! I thought so," exclaimed he, "glad to be rid of the poor, helpless, ruined, runaway cavalier, who has been, for so long a time, a burthen on your hospitality—a clog upon your gayer pleasures. By God! I do believe it is a joy to you, to think that you shall never look upon me any more, that you stand there so calm, and quiet, and unmoved. Why, you had shown more of emotion at the departure from your house of a mere servant—ay! I do well believe, even of a dog!"

"For a dog," answered poor Allice, quite dismayed at his strange vehemence, "would not turn and rend the hand that had been kind to him!" and with the words, she burst into a flood of weeping so passionate and so convulsive, that, if she had before appeared unmoved and self-possessed, such charge could now the least of all attach to her.

"You weep," he cried—"you weep, oh, heavens! can it be that you feel any care, any regard—"

"Unkind," she answered—"oh, ungenerous, and unkind! have I not risked my life, and what is dearer fifty fold—my beloved father's! to conceal, and shelter, and protect you? Have I not gone forth in the night, provoking misconstruction at the least, if not insult and actual outrage, to plan your safe escape? Have I not come to visit you and cheer your solitude, at all hours of the day, and almost all of night—that some might call me forward and unmaidenly? that now you should affront me with such questions—out on it! is this generous or noble?"

"But all this," he replied, "you would have done as much for any other. It was an impulse, a kind and noble and heroic impulse! but still an impulse only, that induced you at the first to offer me an asylum from my enemies. You would have offered it to Astley, or Prince Rupert—nay, to the profligate Wilmot, as you did offer it to me."

"Ay! Alice answered him indignantly—"ay! or to any nameless fugitive who had fought for his king, and whose life was in instant peril—ay! by my word, to any Puritan even, whom I had seen with the avenger panting at his heels, and the sword thirsty for his life-blood. To any man, however poor or mean or humble. I would have given shelter, in the like case, until the peril were overpast. But if you think I would have risked my good report to aid one whom I did not believe worthy—if you imagine I would have given my poor company to one so far above me as Prince Rupert—much more to one so base as fame speaks my lord Wilmot; you neither honor the character of a true woman, nor comprehend the heart of Alice Selby!"

"You would not?" he exclaimed, a strong and joyful light illuminating all his face, and his voice sinking to its tenderest and lowest tones—"you would not, Alice, and you have not avoided me from any feeling of distaste; and you will not forget me, so soon as I have left your doors; and you will suffer me to write, and tell you of my future fortunes?"

"It would be strange, indeed," she answered, "if I could forget one very speedily, whom I have known so familiarly and well—if I were capable of doing so, my regard or remembrance were little worth the having."

"But shall I have them, Alice—but shall I have them?" he cried eagerly—"for by my soul! if I have not, I care not for my life a maravedi! I care not whether I escape at all! I would to God, you never had stepped forth to save me! that I had never looked upon your face, for it will haunt me to my grave, imprinted on my heart's inmost core in living fire! Shall I, then, have them Alice—and will you let me write to you?"

"Most surely I shall not forget you—most surely I shall often think of you, shall be glad to hear of your welfare. My father doubtless will rejoice that you should write him of your whereabouts and your well-being—for me, it were not maidenly to receive letters from a stranger."

"A stranger!" he broke forth again, half angrily, half sadly—"a stranger! and is it I—I who have for days, nay weeks, but lived to watch each glance of your soft eyes, but fed upon your smiles—is it I whom you call a stranger? oh! cold, how cold and haughty!"

"Oh, say not cold! oh, say not haughty, Captain Wyvil," she answered eagerly, while the blood rushed in torrents to her pale cheek; "for indeed—indeed—I am neither—but tell me, what else but a stranger could the world term you?"

"The world!" he said, "the world!" with a contemptuous sneer curling his upper lip, and a thick frown gathering on his brow; "the base, uncharitable, fickle, cold, hard world! And is it—can it be Alice Selby, that bends to the brute clamor of the knaves and fools, whom all trucklers and cowards, fawners upon the great and grinders of the poor, have styled—as if in mockery—THE WORLD? Can it be, that she shapes her conduct to meet the whimsies of the beggarly mob—or regards any way the censure of that blast of frowzy and unsavory breaths that bruit the world's opinion?"

"It can be," she replied, "it is! and I am sorry that you should think otherwise. I think I have shown already, that in a good cause, where humanity or honor point our way, while the world's opinion might be deemed likely to lead elsewhere—I think, I have shown to which I yield obedience. But, where the general voice is confirmed by the small still voice within—the voice that speaks the loudest in dead silence! or in all cases, where to obey is to conflict with no superior mandate, to bar no higher duty— be quite sure, Alice Selby does regard the censure, does shape her course to the opinion, of what men style the world—to make up which, there go not all the knaves and the fools only, but all the great and good, the virtuous, the high-minded and the noble, of this and bygone generations! Be sure that Alice Selby does bend to this great voice— and be sure, Captain Wyvil, oh! be sure, that she who does not, is neither a high-minded lady, nor yet a pure true-hearted woman! But to pass this, what would you have me style you—what would you style yourself, if not a stranger?"

"Your lover!" he replied impetuously, throwing himself at her feet, and clasping her small trembling hand, which she strove feebly to withdraw and impotently—"your true, devoted, honorable lover! You must have seen—you must have known, oh! Alice, Alice! you cannot have been ignorant thus long how deeply, passionately, madly, I adore you. You cannot but have seen, have known all this—and knowing it, you cannot have permitted me to rush unchecked and hopeful into the agony, the anguish, the despair of loving you, adoring you in vain!" and with the words, as she had let her head fall almost on her bosom, while her hand rested passively in his, and he might see the big tears stealing silently down her pale cheeks, he rose and stood respectfully beside her; and after gazing for a moment earnestly on her emotion—"I hope," he added, "I trust, Alice, I have not now mistaken you; these are not tears of grief—or of vexation, Alice?"

For a second's space, or more, she stood in breathless silence, then with an effort as it were she raised her head a little, and strove to look him in the face; but she could not effect it, and let fall her eyes again sobbing and panting as though her heart would break.

"Oh, Alice! lovely Alice!" he whispered tenderly, "answer me, I beseech you; or if you may not answer, press but my hand, give me some slight token"—and then he paused, and no sign was given that she heard or would regard his fond entreaties. "It is but right, and fitting your own dignity," he said, something more coolly than before, but still affectionately, for there was something in her manner that told him she was not insensible to his affection, "that you should give me now an answer. For do not fancy for a moment—I am certain that you do not fancy for a moment, Alice—that I am one who would entrap a maiden into engagements unknown to her parents. Not for worlds—not to win thee, even thee, Alice, would I do aught, require aught that could provoke the sternest father's censure; that could call forth a blush, a sigh, a sorrow, a regret, from her whom I would make my wife, when long years should have flown, and the deceptive meteor of strong passion faded from the horizon of the mind. I am a gentleman as Master Selby knows, of honorable birth, of station, once of fortune! not, though I say it, all unknown to fame; and, though deprived of my estates by this disastrous civil strife, not so impoverished or needy, but with a bold heart and my good sword to boot, I can maintain my lady as a Wyvil's lady and a Selby's daughter should be maintained—in honor. Now therefore, Alice, since I have laid my whole heart open to you, since you cannot but say that I have dealt with you in frankness and sincerity, surely you will be frank with me and open. If you can love me as I hope—oh heaven! how fervently! as I sometimes have almost thought you could—let me speak of it to your good father; if not, at least relieve me from the agony of this suspense, and let me go my way a wretched and heart-broken being, to seek my death as the best boon that God can grant me, at the pike's point or at the cannon's mouth. Will you not—will you not say, then, that you love me?"

While he was still in the act of speaking, the little hand which he had held so long imprisoned in his own, returned the pressure of his fingers, but that so slightly and with so timid and so fluttering a touch, that it was scarce perceptible; still it was felt, it gave him hope, that he continued to the end, observing that she listened to his every word with deep attention; and that her tears, although they still flowed, gushed not now with that convulsive violence which had almost alarmed him at the first, but trickled from her long dark lashes, in a calm unpainful current. And now, as his voice ceased, she raised her eyes to his, full of a sweet and deove-like tenderness that stilled his every apprehension in a moment, and a bright radiant smile glanced through her falling tears, like a first April sunbeam shimmering through the raindrops of a morning shower. Words were perhaps scarce needed, for the calm light of that pure artless face, fraught with a quiet happiness, spoke more than volumes; yet, feeling that it was her duty to speak out—

"Oh! Captain Wyvil!" she said, in a voice which though low and musical was now quite firm and trembled not at all—"Oh, Captain Wyvil, now you have made me very happy!"

"Alice, my own, own Alice!" he exclaimed, clasping her by a sudden impulse in his arms, while her fair head, with all its rich profusion of brown curls, dropped on his shoulder like a lily overcharged with dew-drops—"will you, indeed—indeed—be mine for ever?"

"For ever! Marmaduke," she faltered forth in tones scarce audible—"for ever and for ever!" Their eyes met as she spoke the words, full of true chaste affection; and as he drew her fondly to his bosom, their lips met likewise in the first love kiss; while from behind, a deep sonorous voice, firmer than often issues from the organs of the aged, breathed forth "Amen! amen! my children—my blessing be upon you both—and may God's blessing, without which mine is nothing, be with you both for ever!"

It was Mark Selby, who, alarmed somewhat by the protracted absence of his daughter, had come to seek her, and actually had stood in the full sight of both—although they were so much absorbed in the strong ecstacy of passion, that they had neither ears nor eyes for aught besides themselves—during the last ten minutes. Marmaduke started at the voice, and turned round with a hurried gesture; but the expression of his features was tranquil, open, and quite fearless.

"I pray you, think not," he began: but ere he could say any more, the old man interrupted him—"I have no need to think, Captain Wyvil, for I have heard every word you have spoken these ten minutes past. I did not mean to listen, you may be quite sure—but I had heard so much before I could attract your notice, that I believed it best to let this dear child answer you, before my presence could any way affect or influence her choice. I thank you for your noble, manly candor; and I can give you no more proof of my belief in your high qualities, than in surrendering to you this peerless jewel— this my heart's latest idol." And he embraced the lovely girl with a long agonizing ecstacy of fondness, while the big tears rushed forth like summer rain from his old lids, and mingled with the calmer drops that dewed the cheeks of Alice—"God grant that you prove worthy of her—and bless you both, and keep you here and hereafter, with his boundless mercy!"

CHAPTER XVI.

Three days had passed since Bartram's interview with Alice, and the third sun had set and night was falling fast over the lovely scenery of Woolverton, when three strong men well armed with quarter-staves and broadswords, but without any fire-arms, came cautiously out of one of the dense coppices that lined the old park wall, and stealing with light steps and watchful eyes across the open lawn, ensconced themselves in a thick brake of holly bushes which grew on the brink of the stream, not very far from the bridge which Chaloner had so manfully defended, and the scene of Sherlock's bold equestrian exploit. A few minutes after they had hidden themselves, the gate-house clock struck seven; and while its chimes were still ringing through the woodlands, the distant flourish of a cavalry trumpet came floating on the night-wind, and the faint sounds of a squadron on the march.

About half an hour later, in the green winding lane that led from the Stag's Head past the lodges into the Worcester turnpike, some hundred yards below the park gates, a troop of the Ironsides was drawn up, the men sitting motionless on their strong horses, with their drawn broadswords in their hands; while their captain and two subalterns, having dismounted from their chargers, stood a few paces in advance conversing eagerly, though in low guarded tones, keeping strict watch as it would seem, even while they talked most earnestly.

"I do believe, for my part," whispered one, "that it is a mere cheat and trapan. For what, I do beseech you, should we watch here where any one could see us at fifty paces distance, or farther if he had occasion to fear anything?"

"I do somewhat mistrust the same," replied another; "yet sure I am that letter was in Despard's hand, and he was ever a stanch bloodhound on the track of any cavalier. Besides, we have our orders; and at the worst it is but a night's ride, and a cold halt here for an hour or so. Move hence I will not until the clock strike nine. Hush! was not that a sound by the ditch side there?"

At the same moment when he spoke, a vidette, who was thrown forward some eight or ten yards in advance, brought up his carbine to the port and challenged loudly—but no reply was made, nor was the least noise heard again, though the whole party listened with ears sharpened by the most anxious expectation.

Just as these things were going on without the park, matters were drawing rapidly toward a crisis within the walls; for as it grew more dark, two other men, one a tall stout athletic countryman, the other a short thickset figure, somewhat apparently advanced in years but active still and vigorous, came out from a plantation nearer the Stag's Head inn than the coppice whence the three former had emerged; and coming up to the stream, which was quite shallow in that place rippling swiftly over a gravel bed, couched themselves in the long grass exactly opposite the mouth of a low cave, which lay in a right line under the holly brake wherein the others were ensconced, at some ten paces distant. The three men who had come first to the ground surveyed the others quietly as they came up, and remarked to one another, with a grim air of satisfaction, that they had no arms except staves, and perhaps pistols, which they would not, even if they had them, dare to use for fear of attracting observation. But neither they nor the new-comes saw that a sixth man was soon after added to the number, who came out crouching from the coppice at the very spot whence the first three had issued, with strange and uncouth gestures, stooping at times quite to the ground, and crawling on his hands and knees, seeking as it appeared for some track on the dewy grass, which he examined carefully with his hands, and seemed at times even to snuff at, like a hound trailing a doubtful scent. By these means, and by slow degrees, he followed exactly on the steps of Despard and his comrades—for it was they who lay hid in the hollies—till he was now within six feet of their very lair; but in so total silence had he crawled up from behind, and with so much sagacity, as it appeared, of caution, that they had neither heard him nor suspected his approach; then raising his head somewhat, he cast a wild glance round him, and again seemed to snuff the air; and then as if contented sank quietly down into the covert, which grew thick and shadowy on the river's margin. At the same silent hour, in the deepest part of the heronry wood, hard by a narrow path winding among the swampy brakes, upon the firmer ground, which led from a narrow postern in the park wall to the same green lane which has so many times been mentioned, entering it a mile or more westward of the Stag's Head, stood a young man appareled as a forester, holding two noble chargers; one a blood-bay with coal-black mane and tail, the other a dark iron-gray, both of them evidently thorough-bred, and that of the best strain of blood, but very plainly harnessed with hunting-saddles somewhat old and used, rude leathern bridles, and coarsely fashioned holsters—yet were they exquisitely groomed and in superb condition, their skins as smooth and soft as velvet, and so bright that they actually glittered even in the few faint starbeams, that stole through the floating clouds which clothed the moonless skies. A short but heavy musketoon leaned against the bole of a huge ash-tree close beside him, with a large noble bloodhound lying upon the ground near to it.

Meanwhile, within the Hall all had been carefully prepared for Marmaduke's escape; a tearful and most passionate farewell had passed between the cavalier and his affianced bride; between whom it had been arranged, that so soon as they should be certainly advised of his arrival on the safe coast of France, every exertion should be made to procure his free pardon—a thing by no means to be despaired of when he should once be out of reach of capture! and failing that, and no change for the better occurring in the state of politics at home, that Alice, under her father's escort, should follow him to France, and there become his wife, under a milder rule and in a happier realm than poor distracted England. This settled, when they had torn themselves for the last time asunder, old Selby led his guest through all the devious passages, and let him out at the gate which communicated with the arched drain, promising to wait there for an hour unless he should return before that period had elapsed. He had not long to wait, however, as it happened—for within twenty minutes Wyvil returned in haste and breathless, and told his anxious friend, now finding that the token he expected was not in its place he had crept cautiously to the drain-mouth, and thence discovered a party of the Ironsides posted as if upon the watch, with carbines ready and drawn broadswords—that he had been challenged by a vidette, but had got off, as he believed, unseen and unsuspected. This explanation passed while they were hastening, after the gate had been sufficiently secured behind them, toward the other outlet; and when they reached it, once more affectionately pressing the young soldier to his bosom, the noble-minded old man bade him go once more, taking God's blessing with him, and waited long and anxiously, holding the door in hand before he ventured again to make it fast; but no more was he disturbed that night, and when two hours had passed, he rejoined Alice, to soothe her with the comfortable tidings, that doubtless her young lover had escaped so far securely on his way seaward.

The clock had not struck eight, when Wyvil reached the mouth of the low cavern; and though, as he peered stealthily out of its narrow opening into the misty darkness, he could discover no sign of any persons on the watch, he was yet mindful of the peddler's message, and took good care to show no part of his person, not so much as the tips of his mustaches, beyond the entrance. He did not lie there very long, however, before a keen shrill whistle rose from the tall fern on the farther margin of the rivulet, and was again and again repeated, with an interval of perhaps twenty seconds between each signal. No person indeed showed himself, yer Marmaduke, who had on many a former occasion held intercourse with Bartram, knew the sharp call so well that he did not hesitate a moment to extricate himself from the sandy burrow and descend into the channel of the stream—at the very instant, however, in which he left the cavern, several heavy stones and a quantity of loose earth came rolling down the bank from above, and before they had reached the bottom of the declivity three stout men, by whose feet they had been spurned from the summit, leaped down upon him, calling aloud, and bidding him surrender "in the name of God and the commonwealth of England." Marmaduke had in fact scarcely got sure foothold, when the enemy was on him; yet he turned sharply round to face them, drawing his rapier when he did so; while, even in that anxious moment, he had presence of mind to take notice that Sherlock and the peddler had sprung out of their covert at this unexpected onslaught, and were rushing down to his assistance with all speed. Too late, however, was he in his movement; for ere his sword was well out of the scabbard, and long before he could shift it to parry or to strike, a sweeping blow of a huge two-handed quarter-staff was dealt him on the right side of the head, which felled him instantly into the channel of the stream. Very lucky was it for him, that he had turned completely round before the blow took effect; for as he dropped the first man sprung upon him, kneeling upon his breast as he lay face upward in the shallow water, and grappling his throat with both hands; so that, stunned as he was by the blow, and helpless to arise, he must have necessarily been suffocated, had he fallen on his face, before the struggle ended.

Meanwhile, the other ruffians, seeing that Marmaduke was for the moment quite unable to resist, rushed upon Bartram and the gallant farmer, pressing them so hard with their long two-edged rapiers, against which the others had nothing but their oaken staves, that it was quite impossible for them to offer any aid to the young cavalier; and now they had more than enough to do to defend themselves, and must have been slain speedily or have surrendered, had not a new auxiliary rushed suddenly, and that most unexpectedly, upon the scene. A long, protracted and most fearful howl gave the first note of his approach, as the person who had lain hidden in the brake immediately behind the ruffians, darted with strange fantastic bounds and frantic gestures down the steep river bank, and seizing Despard—for he it was who knelt so cowardly on the young soldier's chest—tore him away from his hold as if he had been a mere child; and shaking him for a moment at arms' length, with another howl, fiercer and shriller, and more fiendish in its tones than any yell that ever issued from the lips of man—even of the untameable and savage Indian! hurled him to earth, and leaping like a tiger on his prey, grasped with his fingers, strangely and fearfully contorted, the wind-pipe of his tortured victim; compressing it with all his might, and dashing his head up and down upon the ragged flints till the blood gushed from it in torrents—gibbering all the while, and uttering a low chuckling laugh of triumph, that, when connected with the savage fury of his onset, was perhaps even more revolting than the long beast-like howl which had preceded it.

All this passed in a moment—in far less time than it has taken to describe it; for as soon as he was released from the weight of Despard—the temporary faintness produced by the stunning blow having immediately yielded to the effects of the cold water, which had completely overflowed his face and temples—Wyvil sprang to his feet, brandishing the sword which he had never let go for a moment, and hurried to the aid of his companions, whom he saw overmatched in the unequal combat—but eagerly as he leaped forward, he was yet all too late! for when they heard that wild and devilish outcry, and saw a fourth man rushing from the brake, which they had believed to be tenanted by themselves alone, and dealing such extraordinary retribution on their comrade, the superstitious terrors—the only terrors to which they were accessible—of the desperadoes, were aroused. "It is the fiend!" cried one; "fly! fly! in God's name!" and, with the word, leaving their late opponents unquestioned masters of the field, and wondering only that they were not pursued, the ruffians broke away, and rushing through the scattered bushes, sought the wild woods, and actually ran miles before they paused even for a moment, in mute and breathless consternation. But not for that did the death-struggle cease between the disgraced roundhead soldier and his uncouth antagonist; strong as he was, and desperately as he struggled for his life, striking violent, although impotent blows with the dagger which he had contrived to draw, and striving by the most fearful muscular efforts to dislodge his inveterate antagonst, yet all his efforts were in vain; for his persecutor clung to his throat with an iron grasp, and wrenched his head completely round, still muttering and gibbering, and laughing with a fierce fiendish glee, and making horrible grimaces—grinding his strong white teeth till the foam flew from his lips, like froth churned from the tushes of the hunted boar; and falling on the face of the dying Puritan, was blent into a frightful lather, all clotted with the gore that flowed from his deep wounds.

And now the smothered imprecations—the broken sobs and gasps of the throttled roundhead, were changed into the dread death-rattle; his eyeballs rolled up meaningless; his lips were painfully convulsed, and white as ashes, while all the rest of his countenance was purple almost to blackness with the blood forced into all his pores by that strong gripe—the dagger fell from his relaxed and nerveless fingers—a sharp quick shudder shot through his whole frame, and then all was still—the powerful limbs collapsed and flaccid—the staring eyes half starting from their sockets glared with a dull white film—the chest that heaved of late with energy so terrible, inert and motionless; and all the fiery passions, the inordinate lust of gold, the hot insatiable ambition, the recklessness of human life, the strong fixed purpose, the undaunted courage which but now fluttered in that living throbbing heart—all quenched, and darkened, and at rest for ever! Ere Wyvil and his trusty friends could reach the scene of the protracted struggle—for, although he was himself quite ignorant of the persons both of his assailant and his rescuers, Bartram and Sherlock suspected the identity of both—knew that of one, from the first utterance of the awful outcry that harbingered his coming—all was completely over; and as they came up, Martin Rainsford—for it was the poor idiot, whose instinctive hate for Despard had worked out Marmaduke's deliverance—uprose from the dead body, and actually danced on the cold senseless clay, in the wild exultation of his mad revenge.

"Ha! ha!" he cried aloud articulately, and in a clear high voice—"Ha! ha! rogue roundhead—wilt kill more faithful guardians of the weak? wilt beat poor Martin? wilt do more evil now? wilt shed more blood? Not thou, I warrant me—not thou! Ha, ha! ha, ha!" and then the spirit of appalling vengeance which, it would seem, had gifted him with a new and strange instinct, to hunt out and destroy the slayer of his favorite mastiff, deserted him at once; and he fell down as helpless and nerveless as the body of his victim, upon the blood-stained sod beside it, in a dread epilectic paroxysm.

"Now, before Heaven!" exclaimed the peddler, who, as he looked upon that awful spectacle, bold as he was, and fearless, and well accustomed to look unmoved on bloodshed, felt his cheek pale and his hair bristle—"Now, before Heaven! although we owe our safety to it; this thing is very terrible! The idiot boy hath slain him— and is, I do believe, sped by some chance blow like wise!"

"Now, God forbid it be so!" cried John Sherlock, kneeling down as he spoke beside the boy; "for if it were so, it would kill the old dame outright, and bring sweet Marian to the grave, ere many months had flown. But no," he said—"but no! he is not dead, nor even wounded—he hath but fallen in a fit, such as he ever takes after uncommon and unusual excitement."

"Who is he then?" asked Wyvil—"who is he—do you know him? and who is this that he has slain?"

"We have no time to talk of such things, Captain Wyvil," answered the peddler, hastily—we must fly straightway. Meantime we must leave you, John Sherlock, to settle all the rest. I fear me much this dead man, and those runaways, will call forth fresh suspicion against good Master Selby."

"Not it! not it!" cried Sherlock; "those cowardly dogs who ran, were but chance fellows of that dead ruffian yonder. I know them well—they are the same thieves who set on Mistress Alice—disbanded desperadoes of the royal army, escaped, I trow, from the defeat at Worcester, and forced to rob and pillage by sheer want. How they fell in with this knave Despard, I know not, and marvel at it too; but we may rest quite certain, that they will not tell aught of what has passed this night—in truth they dare not—for they will fly the Puritans as the hare flies the grayhound; and for their lives, they dare not tell a cavalier how they would have betrayed and captured one of their own party—no! no! no fear of them—and as for this dead dog! I will tie such a stone about his neck as shall find its way with him to the bottom of the deep black pool underneath the waterfall below there. It will rain hard too before daylight, and that will wash away all traces of the scuffle. I will get Martin home anon; and frame some story how I found him in a fit out in the fields—that will account too for the blood upon his garments—and if he say aught of it, as he is not very like, poor fellow! seeing he does not speak thrice between Lent and Christmas—no one will notice it at all. Now, God give you good speed, Master Bartram; but tarry not here I beseech you, else shall we but lose our pains. Safe journey to you, Captain; I think you will 'scape scot free, after all's done. But I say, Bartram, not a word to Frank Norman of this job—not a word for your life!"

"No, no," replied the peddler; "it is a bad business as it is, and I'll not make it worse, depend on it. Come, Captain Wyvil, John's in the right of it, we must make hay while the sun shines;" and with these words, he started at a long swinging pace that brought them within a few minutes to the postern gate which had been left ajar on purpose, so that they passed unhindred into the heronry wood, closing the door which was fastened by a spring lock carefully behind them. A few steps farther brought them to the spot where Norman held the horse; and mounting instantly, scarce interchanging five words with the forester, they rode away as quickly as the nature of the ground would permit, until they reached the lane. There Bartram set spurs to his bold bay horse, and put him resolutely at the strong, quickset hedge, which separated it from the cultivated fields, clearing it with a gallant leap. Marmaduke followed not a horse's length behind; and thence they drove at a hard gallop athwart the open country, sweeping in their career across wide brooks and over stiff inclosures, unchecked and fearless— for they dared not trust themselves on the high roads, which were patrolled by parties from the neighboring garrisons—until they reached a lonely hovel at the verge of a vast tract of forest land, with the Welsh mountains rising dark beyond it against the cloudy sky. There a small clownish boy was stationed with a relay of fresh horses, equal in strength and blood and spirit to those which had so nobly borne them hitherward; and mounting upon these without a moment's pause, they again dashed into a wild wood road—already twenty miles at least from the park walls of Woolverton, and farther yet from the head-quarters of the Ironsides. Long before midnight, as Sherlock predicted, it began to rain; and in less than an hour from the commencement of the storm, it waxed into as wild a gale as ever ushered in the winter equinox, with heavy rain and sleet, and raving gusts of wind, and ever and anon a crashing peal of thunder—yet they paused not, nor slacked their long hard gallop, for liberty and life were on their speed—and they were not the men to lose them by any lack of hardihood or daring.

CHAPTER XVII.

Above six months had passed after the flight of Wyvil, yet had no tidings of his safety arrived to cheer the gentle heart of Alice; for it was autumn still, when he effected his escape from Woolverton; and now winter was over, and the earlier months of spring-time; and the young days of June were scattering their sweets over the smiling earth. But it was on a different scene from any yet described, and in a distant country, that the sun, verging fast toward the west, was pouring his soft light, when the events occurred wherewith we purpose to resume our narrative.

It was a wild and broken country, covered in many parts with heavy wood and tangled thickets, full of ravines, and intersected by a number of small streams and rivulets, and altogether as unlike the environs of a great city as can well be imagined; yet it was in the very heart of France, scarcely ten leagues from the metropolis, lying between Corbeil upon the Scine, and the small town of Villeneuve, yet nearer to the gates of Paris. Among the defiles, then it was, which intersected at that day the forest land that covered so much of that part of France, and at an advanced hour of the evening, that a small band of horsemen were advancing slowly and with much caution, as if they had been almost in the face of an enemy. They were not above ten in number, and consisted, as might be seen at a glance, of two gentlemen with their train of armed attendants; yet there was something in the style of their accoutrements and harness which showed that they were either actually engaged in some military service, or at least were prepared for some unusual danger; for although those were times wherein no gentleman went forth unarmed, or without soldierlike retainers, still it was quite unusual for either men or masters to wear defensive armor, unless in actual warfare. The leaders of the party, who rode some two or three horses' lengths in front of their followers, were both young men, and eminently handsome; but as different as it is possible to conceive in the style of their beauty. He who rode to the right was clad in a complete suit of bright steel—an open helmet with a tall plume of ostrich feathers covered his head, and cast a darker shade over a face, the hues of which were naturally of the darkest that are ever seen in Europeans—his eyes were of a quick and lustrons black, full of enthusiastic life and rapid energy; his features manly and decided, yet at the same time delicately shaped and singularly handsome; a small coal-black mustache penciled his short-curved upper lip, and a profusion of black curls fell down beneath the rim of his bright morion, over the gorget and cuirass which armed his body. Taslets of steel were on his thighs, and his legs, from the knee downward, were protected by stout boots of polished leather, bedecked with the gilt spurs of knighthood; a long straight broadsword suspended from a scarf of white silk fringed with gold, and pistols of two feet in length, completed the accoutrements of the young chevalier. His comrade, though he was mounted on a noble charger, and though he wore both sword and pistols, was less elaborately harnessed; for in place of a helmet, he had a hat of black velvet with a band of white feathers running around it, a mode which was at that time in its first commencement, and deemed the very point device of military foppery. A coat of maroon-colored velvet, with cuirass above it, crossed by a white scarf like his friend's, breeches and gauntlets of white chamois leather, and polished riding boots, were the nearest of anything he wore to military decoration. Something too of the same distinction, which would not but be noticed in the accountrements of the leaders, was perceptible in those of the retainers; for while the four stout able-bodied men, who followed the last-mentioned rider, were evidently nothing more than the ordinary armed servants of the day, the others were unquestionably regular troops, and as such were equipped with the heaviest horse-armor of the day. It was not in their dress, however, nor in the style of their arms, that the principal difference between the party consisted; for while the soldier's hair and eyes and whole complexion were extraordinarily dark, his comrade was distinguished by all the attributes of English beauty, fair skin and rich brown locks, and—but it needs not to describe him further, for no one who had ever seen him, could have failed to discover in the gay cavalier of France, the person of the English Wyvil.

"Well, Captain Wyvil," said the dark-featured soldier, turning toward his companion, after a long pause in their conversation; "here are we now, within a scant league of Villeneuve St. George; and night fast drawing on, and not a sign can we discover, not a word can we learn from any one of this advance, so loudly bruited of Monsieur de Lorraine. I begin shrewdly to suspect those intercepted letters were but a ruse of the princes to force Turenne to raise the leaguer of Etampis! I am in doubt how to proceed, for we have reconnoitered all the country hither, and the marechal's orders were distinct that we should not cross the Hyère; and here it is, just in the hollow way beyond that wooded hill. There, you can see its waters glittering in the sunshine three miles or so to the eastward by the top of yon ash-tree."

"I scarce know how to counsel you, Bellechassaigne," replied the other, "not knowing how the country lies, nor what hamlets or farm-houses are scattered through this forest. It will not do, however, to fall back on the marechal, without some sure intelligence. If we can go so far onward, without incurring much risk of discovery, as to get a view from yon hill-top, I think we ought to do so. For thence we shall be enabled to overlook Villeneuve, and see, if nothing more, whether the troops of Lorraine have occupied that town in force.

"Forward, then, forward;" cried the other gayly. "There is some peril in it certainly, for if monsieur is in Villeneuve at all, be sure he has outposts on this side the river; the rather that the cross-road from Brie-conte-Robert and Grosbois intersects there with this by which we are advancing. But where the devil would the fun be in warfare, any more than in dull peace, if there were not a spice of danger in it? So forward, I say, forward!"

"Let it be quickly then," said Marmaduke; "for as you said but now it is fast waxing late, and, if we are to have some fighting, we may as well have light to do it by; and if not, then it behooves us to look out for a snug place to bivouac, before it grows too dark to choose one."

"Forward, then, trot!" cried Bellechassaigne, raising his voice, so that its tones could reach the ears of the men behind, striking his charger at the same time with the spear; "and now I think of it," he aded, "it were as well to be upon our guard—unsling your carbines, look to your matches, and be ready!"

As the last order issued from his lips, they had reached the bottom of the small sandy hollow—the road bordered on either hand by a thick growth of coppice, here and there a tall tree interspersed, and winding up a large ascent in front of them to the summit of the woody hill, when they expected to overlook the level country toward the junction of the Seine and Marne, in which direction it was reported that the Prince of Lorraine was advancing. The command was obeyed promptly, and with their musketoons thrown forward, and eye, ear, heart on the alert, the troopers trotted rapidly up the rough stony hill—and now they were within a hundred yards of the summit, and a few seconds more would have placed them on the verge, in full view of whatever there might be beyond its woody screen—when suddenly a faint long note, as of a trumpet keenly winded, but far distant, came down the summer wind: the quick ear of Bellechassaigne caught it upon the instant.

"Halt!" he cried—"Halt! we are upon them, Wyvil."

"Let us two then dismount," returned the Englishman, leaping to the ground as he spoke; "we may creep on under the covert of those fir-trees and reconnoitre them with ease. Here," he continued, turning to his servants—"here, Adam, hold my charger— and see you stir not without orders—best doff your helmet, Bellechassaigne, its glitter would betray us if a stray sunbeam should flash upon it."

The gay young Frenchman smiled and vaulted lightly from his charger, unclasped the chin-strap of his morion, and passed it to the nearest of his troopers; then drawing out his pistols from the holsters, he waved his hand to Wyvil, and they advanced together with stealthy steps, till they had reached the brow of the hill; when they crept into the covert to the right hand of the road, where a thick tuft of stunted fir-trees afforded a sure hiding-place, and were lost to the eyes of their followers. Scarce had they made three steps into the shadow, before a vast and glorious landscape was spread out like a map before them; a wide rich champagne, covered with the tall crops of waving grain and fertile pastures, checkered with woods and orchards, and dotted with a thousand hamlets—the broad bright courses of the Seine and Marne rolling in silver labyrinths among the verdure, and the blue domes and gothic spires of the metropolis just seen through the thin haze which curtained the horizon. Nearer, and in the foreground as it were of this grand picture, lay the small town of Villeneuve beyond the river Hyère, which wound—now seen, now lost among the glades of the thick wood that clothed the northern slope of the height whereon they stood, down to the margin of the stream; and the broad yellow road by which they had advanced, receded in long clear perspective downward to the stone bridge and the barriers of the town.

It must not be supposed, however, that the two partieans had any leisure to survey the scene, or even to consider whether the landscape in itself was beautiful or not, so absolutely were their senses occupied in reconnoitering its military points, and judging of its occupation by the enemy. Nor was it very difficult to form a judgment on this point; for at the first glance they might see a hostile standard hoisted upon the bridge, and a small guard of horse in foreign uniforms on duty at the gate; while in three different spots of the more distant champagne, they could distinguish clearly three large and powerful divisions, evidently each in communication with the others, marching as fast as possible on Villeneuve.

"Now," exclaimed Bellechassaigne—"now we may go our ways as hard as we can gallop, and tell Turenne what we have seen—for here are the advanced guard of the Lorrainer's horse on the Hyère already; and certainly the rearmost of those three infantry divisions will be within the town before to-morrow noon—the marechal must march right rapidly if he means to fight monsieur before he can cross the Seine. So let us get to horse good friend, and make the best of our way back to Corbeil—we will halt for an hour or two at the little village where we breakfasted, and we can join the marechal before daybreak."

"Hold! hold a moment," returned Wyvil—"one moment, Bellechassaigne; look down into the valley yonder—there in that hollow by the holly bushes—just where the other road comes in, the cross-road from Grosbois, about which you were speaking. Is it not the same?"

"Yes! yes! but what of that?" asked the young officer. "Ha! by my soul!" he added, as he turned his eyes to the spot indicated by his comrade, "they are in ambush there—two—four—six—now by St. Dennis, there are a score of troopers in the thicket— what in the devil's name can they be waiting for?"

Just as he spoke, however, his question was answered by the appearance of a mounted servant or avant courier, dressed in a livery of dark blue cloth, splendidly laced with gold, who wheeled into the main causeway, and turning his horse toward the hill whereon the partisans were standing, came that way very rapidly without perceiving the soldiers who were lying in the thicket. A moment or two afterwards one of the heavy coaches of the day, drawn by six horses with postillions dressed in the same handsome livery as the courier, came lumbering round the corner of the wood, two stout armed servants following; one of whom led a charger, equipped with demipique and holsters and the rich housings of a general officer of the king's party. Scarcely had the last servant come fully into sight, before the quick flash of a carbine streamed out of the dark evergreens; and before the sound of the report was borne to the ears of the young soldiers, the courier, horse and man, fell headlong to the ground, rolling over and over among the clouds of dust which surged up from the sandy road and for a moment cut off all view of the scene of action. The rattle of a volley, however, which instantly succeeded, showed that the cowardly murder which they had seen committed was but the prelude to worse outrage. As quick as lightning Marmaduke, when he saw the flash and almost before he could perceive its result, turned round and rushed toward the horses, waving as he did so to his men to come forward; and they, catching his signal on the instant, came up so promptly that he was in his saddle before Bellechassaigne overtook him, though he had followed him in hot anxiety, fearing some deed of rashness on his part, the moment he observed his movements.

"Are you mad, Wyvil?" he exclaimed—"are you mad? that you think of charging twenty armed troopers with a handful such as ours—and that too, when the twenty will be supported within ten minutes by a hundred—and above all, for a matter that concerns us nothing? By heavens! man, we shall be cut to pieces or made prisoners in five minutes; and what is worse than that, Turenne will get no tidings of the advance of these Lorrainers. Tète dieu! it's well he sent me with you, as a curb on your impetuous valor."

"By the Lord! but it does concern us, Bellechassaigne," answered Wyvil hastily; "did you not see the housings of the charger? There is a general officer of the king's there—and I doubt nothing it is Sir Henry Oswold, whom Monsieur de Turenne and our good Duke of York are hourly expecting from Sedan, by Chalons and Collouniers. I will die with my men or rescue him. Bear you the tidings to Turenne. Forward, men, gallop!" and, with the word, he dashed his spurs into his horse's side, shook off Bellechassaigne's grasp which was upon his rein, and followed by his servants, dashed over the brow of the hill, and thundered down its other slope at a pace which made itself audible to the ears of his comrade, for a moment at least after he had lost sight of him. The trooper shook his head, and muttered a few words very bitterly; but he too mounted, as his horse was led up by his soldiers, and rode through with much caution and at a slow pace, to the brow beyond which Wyvil had just disappeared. But that impetuous and daring youth was plunged already into the midst of action, before his cooler-headed, though no less brave companion, had gained a fair view of his precipitate fool-hardy onset.

The spot at which the conflict had taken place between the servants and the ambushed force of the Lorrainers, was a small hollow way that made a deep indenture in the side of the long sloping hill, about one-fourth of the way between the summit and the town; and was so situated, that although it was completely overlooked by any person standing on the brow, it could not be perceived at all by one at the base of the ascent; so that, as Marmaduke saw at a glance, there was no fear of any reinforcement coming up from the bridge, unless it should be called for by some fugitive from the scene of action, and that in this case many minutes must clapse before it could arrive upon the ground. All this he had considered before he passed the brow of the hill with his men, so that he was completely free, his plan being matured already, to take note of everything—the most minute that was occurring, which might tend to the defeat or success of his intended exploit. The smoke and dust which had obscured the scene, as he had looked upon it last, had drifted quite away, so that nothing was now hidden from him, which it was in the least important for him to know or understand. He could see, therefore, that the firing had not apparently excited any surprise or interest in the guard at the gates; from which he judged that the whole matter had been carefully devised beforehand, and the attack made in numbers so overwhelming as must, in the opinion of the plotters, insure success beyond the possibility of question. And it had been so far successful; for midway the steep descent, between the summit and the hollow way, lay the horse of the courier, where it had fallen by the first shot, quite dead and motionless; while the man, having extricated himself from the carcase, which had fallen on him, sat by the road-side with his head leaning on his hand, grievously wounded. Of the two other servants, one was stretched beside the chariot-wheel motionless and lifeless, with the sword which he had just drawn grasped firmly in his cold right hand— his fellow leaning against the vehicle, and striving fruitlessly to stanch the blood which was welling from his side in torrents; two of the horses which had drawn the carriage had fallen, with their postillions, at the volley, and the rest, their traces having been cut at the first charge of the Lorrainers, were in the hands of the rude victors. Resistance, therefore, was completely at an end; for just as Wyvil cast his eyes upon the scene, he saw a tall and noble-looking man who had sprung sword in hand from the carriage, and done some execution in the ranks of his opponents, mastered, disarmed, and bound by some of the ruffians; while others were engaged in ransacking the carriage, cutting loose the trunks which were fixed to it, and even tearing out the curtains of rich silk which bedecked its windows. The sight, however, which most inflamed the fiery blood of Wyvil, was a tall elegant-looking girl, whom, by the splendor of her dress he could discover, even at that distance, to be a personage of consequence and rank, struggling madly in the grasp of two or three of the licentious soldiers, who seemed disposed to treat her with indignity and insult.

"Now, my men," he exclaimed, as he drew his sword from the scabbard, "out with your carbines, and when I bid you halt, pour in your fire—every one pick his man, and see you throw not a shot away—then draw and charge upon the gallop:" and with the word, he dashed away down the steep hill at the top of his horse's speed. Down they came; down! all abreast, each with his carbine cocked, and pressed against his side. "Halt!" and the well trained chargers stood motionless as marble statues, and the quick firelocks poured forth their streams of glancing fire, Wyvil accompanying the volley with a pistol shot—and four of the marauders, who, taken somewhat by surprise, were mounting in hot haste and mustering to meet the onset, fell, either killed outright, or wounded mortally; their startled horses plunging ungovernably through the field, and terribly increasing the confusion, as they yerked to and fro with their armed heels, snorting with rage and terror.

"Charge!" shouted Marmaduke, standing up in his stirrups, and hurling the long-barrelled pistol which he had just discharged, full into the face of a subaltern officer, who was in the act of lunging at him with his rapier—"Charge! and strike home! down with the villains!" the ponderous weapon hurtled through the air, and full between the eyes, under the peak of his steel morion, smote the Lorrainer! for an instant he reeled blindly in his stirrups, then pitched headforemost to the earth, and lay there stunned, and to all appearance lifeless, while Wyvil's bay horse, forced by the keen spur of the rider, bounded across his prostrate body. One sweep from left to right of his long broadsword, and one of the stout men, who held the lady, staggered back with a deep gash in his brow, the blood streaming into his eyes, and leaving him blind for the moment and quite senseless. His men were close behind him, and for a little while it seemed that the bold exploit was successful; so greatly had the suddenness and vigor of the onset paralyzed and subdued the courage of the fierce marauders. But when they saw the small force of the party that had charged and half defeated them already, they rallied, and stood to their arms stubbornly; the fellows who had been engaged in riffing the baggage, leaping down from the roof of the carriage sword in hand, and the troopers who were yet mounted, bearing down in a body on their rash assailants. A pistol shot at this critical time, while Marmaduke was cheering on his men to a fresh charge, took effect in his charger's breast, that he stumbled, sank on his knees, and despite all the efforts of the cavalier rolled over on his breast; at the same instant a heavy sword fell like a thunderbolt upon his hat and cut through to the hair; but turning flatwise in the hand of him who wielded it, the blade inflicted no wound, though it had nearly beaten him to the earth. But all undaunted he sprang to his feet again, and repaid the blow by a straight thrust that staggered his antagonist, although his buff-coat saved him from a wound. Still it was evidently hopeless; and, though he fought on desperately, striking down trooper after trooper, and though his servants backed him as if they emulated his example, they were so thoroughly hemmed in, and overdone by odds, and all of them now wounded, that it was too apparent, even to the young soldier, that he had but a choice between death and surrender—when suddenly a clear high voice, heard above all the din, like the blast of a silver trumpet, struck his ear with a note of joyous tidings.

"France! France! St. Dennis! Bellechassaigne for France!" and with that far-famed battle cry the daring partisan drove into the melee, sheathed in impenetrable steel, his horse curveting and bounding, so that each downright blow fell with redoubled force— three of his men-at-arms cutting their way by dint of mighty prowess after him.

"Stand to it—stand to it—my men," he shouted, so that the enemy might hear him. "Stand to it, Wyvil, cheerily—help is at hand—strike out—Seguin is close behind with thirteen hundred horse." Already daunted by the fresh charge, the Lorrainers, the moment that they heard his words, betook themselves to flight, throwing away their arms and leaving dead and wounded to the kind mercy of the victors. While, to augment their terror and confusion, Bellechassaigne ordered his men, who had been forced to charge with their carbines loaded for fear of injuring their friends in the melee, to give their fire and pursue. "Meantime," he called to Wyvil, "get these good people to horse straightway—the lady must ride too, for we shall be pursued ere we can right the carriage. I go to drive these dogs into the river and terrify them so far as I can:" and without further parley he drove his spurs into his war-horse, and in a minute was in advance of all his men, hewing down, riding over, and unmercifully trampling under foot the scattered and disorganized marauders. Wyvil, who had been hurt in several places before the timely succor had arrived, and who was beginning to feel faint from the loss of blood, gazed round him with a slightly vacant air, as though he scarcely comprehended what was said to him; but at that moment the aged officer whose rescue he had achieved so gallantly, came forward to address him, saying, "Your friend is quite right, sir—we have no time for anything, not even for the thanks which you have won so nobly; for doubtless they will sally from the town forthwith. But, good God!" he continued, seeing the young man stagger and turning pale—"I fear you are hurt seriously!" "No! no! not seriously," Marmaduke answered instantly; "but I am bleeding fast, and I must get these cuts bound up before I can sit on horseback—and so I fear must these poor fellows, who all of them are more or less hurt."

"Oh, if that be the worst, we will soon set all that in order. Here, Isabella," and he turned toward his daughter as he spoke, who stood all terrified and trembling in the midst of the carnage, scarce conscious if she were indeed preserved from outrage— "here, Isabella, see if you cannot stanch the wounds of this young gentleman who has so gallantly incurred them for your sake. Take my scarf, girl, he added, unbuckling his baldric of white taffeta, and bind his left arm tightly—that is the worst cut, I suspect. Meanwhile, these worthy fellows must look to one another, while I essay to catch these frightened horses, and to prepare a pillion whereon you may ride until we can procure some suitable conveyance."

"We shall do well enough your honour," replied the man whom Wyvil had called Adam, and who was hurrying up, having a handkerchief bound tight about his temples, to assist his master; "we none of us be hurt so badly, but what we could ride fifty miles if it were needed!"

"Well said, my hearty fellow," returned the officer in English, for hitherto the whole conversation had been carried on in the French language; "we are all English here I fancy, so we had just as well talk in our mother tongue as in their cursed jargon, which is not fit for anything but their court-apes and popinjays. Come hither quick! the lady will attend your master better by half than you can—catch you gray charger by the rein that plunges there so wildly—he is the best of the lot, and belonged to that officer your master felled so neatly—and as that bay horse which he rode will carry him no more, he must be mounted as best may be for the moment. Cleverly done! soh! soh! now pick that pistol up and take its fellow from the dead horse's holster—they are old friends I warrant them—so now he is equipped and mounted—now what's thy name good fellow?"

"Adam—sir Henry—Adam Brandon," the man answered; "and I know your worship too! sir Henry—I was not far from you at Edgehill—and I saw you—"

"Well, never mind that now," exclaimed the officer, "but lift up that poor fellow that lies there bleeding by the wheel;" pointing to the servant who had been standing up, though sadly wounded, when Marmaduke arrived upon the field.

"Is he dead, Adam?"

"Ay is he, poor lad," answered the servitor, letting the body down—"ay is he— dead as a door-nail!"

"Poor fellow!" cried the other in a thick husky voice, while a tear twinkled in his eye—"poor Lauriston, to fall in such a paltry brawl, after so often—well, well, we've no time for wailing: so Anthony, I'm glad to see thee safe," as the third postillion who had escaped all but some trifling bruises, extricated himself from the fallen horses; "thou art the only one left whole, of six as faithful fellows—"

"No, no, sir Henry," the lad interrupted; "old Mathew yonder" and he pointed to the courier, who was now limping down the hill, "has got off free I believe."

"Catch him a horse then, boy, and do as much for yourself; we must be stirring presently." While he had been thus issuing his orders, attending to and talking of a dozen different matters, the veteran had arranged a sort of temporary pillion by means of a cushion from the carriage, attached to the cartle and crupper of his demipique by two or three stout silken cords which had festooned the curtains of the vehicle; and now giving the bridle of his own led horse to Brandon, who was already holding the charger which he had accoutred with Marmaduke's own war-saddle and housings, he strode up to the spot where his fair child, kneeling among the dead and dying, by the side of her young preserver, was binding up his wounds with all the tenderness of a sweet gentlewoman, and almost all the skill of an accomplished surgeon.

That was a singular and striking picture—the evening sun pouring a flood of gorgeous light over the bright green foliage of the woodlands, and the yellow sand of the road, which was contrasted fearfully by the broad streaks and puddles of dark gore; the bodies of the men and horses, who had fallen, all grim and gashed and gory, some dead already and fast growing cold, some struggling fruitlessly and groaning in their great agony, hopeless of any succor from the travellers whom they had but now so brutally assaulted— and in the midst of this wild ghastly medley, the noble figure and superb attire of the young cavalier, as he sat on a little knoll by the wayside with that soft lovely creature, so sedulously ministering to his need—for she was very soft indeed, and lovely. It was not only that the whole contour of her tall finely-moulded person was exquisitely beautiful, combining all the slender graceful symmetry of girlhood with voluptuous roundness of feminine maturity—it was not only that every feature of her speaking face was perfect in its classic outlines, that all the coloring was rich and delicate in its harmonious blending; but that there was an air of inborn nobleness and worth—an outflashing of intellect and soul from the full spiritual eye—a music breathing from every dimple of the smiling mouth—a character and mind that could not, by the most casual observer, be confounded with aught sensual or common or ignoble, pervading every varying expression of her lineaments—every small movement of her easy figure.

Yet, beautiful as Isabella Oswald was, her beauty was by no means of an English style—her hair, which was of an extraordinary length and volume, was perfectly jet black and glossy as the raven's wings, without one shade of gold or auburn mingled with their dark tints, and with the slightest tendency to wave or curl that can be fancied; and there was something oriental in the mode in which she wore it, a broad and massive braid plaited in many strands, sweeping down over either cheek and looped behind the small and beautifully formed ears, that suited admirably with the expression of her features, and the rich sunny coloring—for she was a decided and even dark brunette— with a clear olive skin through which the mantling blood showed like the ripe blush on the sunny side of a soft peach—black eyes that flashed at times as if they had been fraught with liquid fire—and at times melted into that lovely languor that is so seldom seen except in climes far to the southward of her native land—and a mouth exquisitely arched and tinged with the most burning crimson. It was on such a face, and such a form, that Marmaduke, faint from the loss of blood and dizzy from the fierce excitement of the struggle in which he had been so severely handled, was gazing through his half-shut lids, scarce conscious of what had happened; when, all the arrangements made for their departure, Sir Henry drew near the couple.

"How fare you, sir—how fare you now?" he asked, in his hale, hearty tones.

"Well, I trust—well by this! or by the Lord that lives! we shall be taken yet." While he was in the act of speaking, the stunning roar of a heavy cannon came crashing down the wind from the direction of the town, and instantly the clang of bells and the deep roll of drums, was blent with the alarum of the shrill bugles, calling the garrison to arms.

"There is no time to lose—no time! To horse, at once! to horse, and away speedily!" and catching his child by the arm, he swung her to the crupper of his war-horse, and sprang himself into the saddle with the agility of a young cavalier; while Marmaduke rose to his feet, somewhat unsteadily, indeed; and, rallying his disordered senses, by a considerable effort, contrived, by the assistance of his servants, to mount his gray, which had been furnished with the equipments of his fallen charger. Once in the saddle, he seemed to gain fresh vigor, and looking with a lively and quick air about him, he made some brief inquiries concerning what had passed during his faintness, and issued his commands with promptitude and spirit. His servants, who had already bound up each other's hurts as well as time and their scant means permitted, together with the courier and postillion—who alone, of Sir Henry's train, had escaped scatheless—were all on horse and ready, their fire-arms re-loaded by Wyvil's order, to start upon their hasty route; and the word was just given to advance, when the hard clang of his furious gallop announced the partisan; and, closely followed by his men-at-arms, Bellechassaigne dashed up to the fugitives, all blood from plume to stirrup.

"Get on," he cried, even before he reached them; "get on, with no more tarrying— put the hill-top between us and the town, and we shall do well yet, which by the light of heaven, is more than I expected or even hoped for!"

At his words, fancying some urgent peril close at hand, the little party struck instantly into a hard trot, which rapidly increasing to a gallop, soon carried them beyond the summit of the slope, and far into the vale beyond it, before Bellechassaigne could so far overtake them as to make himself distinctly understood. But as they reached the bottom of the hollow, he shouted "Halt!" in his sonorous tones, so clearly that all instantly obeyed the order; and, as they did so, he came up laughing heartily, and in the highest spirits.

"Here is no need," he said, "to blow your horses, or to pound that fair lady to a jelly, by riding thus over these hills like madmen. These coward dogs have made report that all Turenne's light horse are coming down on them—and as I chased them so far, that I cut down my last man on the pont leves as they raised it, and did not fall back till they began firing their ordnance, they have some reason to believe so. Trust me they will not send a party out, even to reconnoitre, for an hour to come; and as their march lies not in this direction, for they design to cross the Seine above Charenton, we have but to keep moving steadily, and my life on it, we shall hear nothing more of them. So, gently Wyvil, gently, my good friend! and as for you my pretty lady, we will find a horse-litter or a coach of some kind, wherein you may journey softer than on that great Bucephalus, ero we have ridden half an hour." And reassured by his blunt speech, they rode deliberately on their way, but without losing time; and just as it was growing dark, they reached the hamlet where they had halted in the morning, without the slightest interruption.

CHAPTER XVIII.

It was a small and scattered group of houses only, along the margin of a swift stream which turned the wheel of a little watermill, in the midst of which our party drew their horses up, just as the glorious summer moon began to show her silver orb above the tree-tops on the hill, although the richer hues of sunset were still alive among the cloudlets along the western verge of the horizon—yet small although it was and humble, it still afforded a neat comfortable inn, and more—a village surgeon of skill sufficient to replace the rude extemporaneous dressings which had been applied to the hurts of the sufferers, by bandages and ligatures in order; and of sufficient confidence in his own skill to assure all his patients that, within two or three days at the farthest, they would be fit as ever for any martial exercise. Meanwhile, Bellechassaigne, who had come off entirely unwounded, was all alert, and actively seeing the horses fed and properly rubbed down, and looking to the preparation of a vehicle, wherein the lady might accomplish the remainder of her journey more pleasantly than she could do on horseback. The last was not arranged without some difficulty; and when arranged, the two-wheeled cariole, springless, and rough, and built of coarse unpainted timber, presented a wide contrast to the luxurious well-appointed carriage in which she had set out from Coulonniers that morning. Nevertheless, by piling it with soldiers' cloaks and other fleecy textures procured from the inn, it was at last made tolerably comfortable; and, when two strong flect horses had been harnessed to it tandem fashion, to be driven from the saddle by Sir Henry's own postillion, it promised to unite the qualities of speed and safety, in a higher degree than could have been expected from its appearance. These preparations finished, the partisan was summoned by a rosy-cheeked peasant maiden, to partake of the evening meal; and hastening into the single stonefloored apartment, which was at once parlor and kitchen to the rustic inn, he found the board spread with a clear though somewhat coarse cloth, on which were laid four covers, a huge piece of fresh beef boiled almost to rags, a salad and a loaf of black rye-bread; a pewter salt-cellar, a bowl of excellent butter, two or three flasks of ordinary wine, and several tall drinking-glasses, completing the apparatus of the humble meal, which found however no fastidious sharers in that moment of haste and half-apprehended danger. But few words had been spoken, as may be well conceived, during the hot ride hitherward; but now there were a thousand questions to be asked and answered, that soon led to a quick and animated conversation, and—so true it is, that one short hour in circumstances of excitement and romantic situation, will produce greater intimacy than years of ordinary life—ere half an hour had passed, they were all talking unrestrainedly, as if they had been acquaintances of half a life time's standing.

"Well, be that as it may," exclaimed Sir Henry after the board was cleared and supper ended, in reply to some remarks of the young men deprecating any praises or expressions of high gratitude; "I can assure you, that you have done me no small service; inasmuch as I happen to be aware of what you probably know nothing—that Monsieur de Lorranie, had I been so unlucky as to fall into his hands, would in all probability, though contrary to all the rules of honorable warfare, have held me as a hostage for the safety of some traitor lord or other, with whom his eminence of Mazarin has in contemplation to deal somewhat harshly. So that, had you not acted as you did, with generosity and skill and courage such as I have but seldom seen, the best I could have looked for would have been close imprisonment, and the worst, six paces and a file of masketoons, or it might be the block and headsman. And so, sir, as I have told your friend before," he continued, addressing Bellechassaigne, who had just risen from his seat at the table, "it is to you that I owe my life and peradventure my child's honor."

"Now, by my faith!" returned Bellechassaigne, laughing bluntly, "you are most grievously mistaken. For all that you owe me, is for striving strenuously to divert this hot-headed countryman of yours from riding down to help you—but it seems, that he knew you were expected by his grace of York; and fancied, when he saw the housings on your charger, that it was you indeed whom the Lorrainers were attacking: or what, I believe, is the truth, he had some secret instinct that so beautiful a lady was in question as mademoiselle here—which I entreat you to believe, Sir Henry, had I known likewise, I would have been beside him in his first onset. But, as it is, I do assure you, that you have nothing for which to be grateful to me; unless it be for doing all that with me lay to induce this fair youth, who sets so simply blushing to the roots of his hair, to ride off toward Corbeil and leave you to your fate."

"If this be your modesty alone, fair sir," interrupted Isabella, "you carry it indeed to a great length, that you would lead us to believe base things of you, whom we have seen perform such feats of gallantry and daring. When Monsieur de Bellechassaigne wishes to be believed, in slandering himself, it must be before those who have not seen him in the field of honor, or profited by his undaunted valor!" She spoke with a slight degree of excitement in her tones, and her eyes sparkled as she did so with generous enthusiastic admiration; and at the same time a rich flush—when it flashed on her mind that she was speaking thus unguardedly to one almost a stranger—rushed like a torrent over her clear transparent brow.

"Upon my honor! upon the honor of a French gentleman and soldier," answered the partisan in an earnest tone, laying his hand upon his heart as he spoke, "dear lady, you do me at the same time too little and too much justice. Too little when you doubt the truth of what I have just said; too much when you ascribe the glory of this exploit in the least point to me. I do assure you, that I not only did my utmost to dissaude Wyvil from assisting you, but absolutely refused to join with him. It was his own deed altogether, and you will be disposed to land it even more than you do at present, when I tell you, that in charging down that hill to your assistance he incurred many a danger of which you know nothing. Had he failed in his object, and had our party been cut off and taken, the day that had seen his release would have seen likewise his military execution for disobedience of orders. That is as certain as that the moon is shining now into your window—"

"How so? How so?" Sir Henry interrupted him—"who is he, and what orders did he disobey? You called him, I think, but a while ago my countryman: is not he then a Frenchman? explain, I pray you. You, I know very well, Sieur Bellechassaigne—by reputation only, though; for we have never, I think, met before this day: but who is your companion, to whom by your account we owe so much? I fancied him an officer in your horse regiment, and knowing you, believed him your subordinate."

"I am indeed your countryman, Sir Henry," returned the cavalier; "Marmaduke Wyvil, late captain in Sir Philip Musgrave's horse at Worcester field, now bearing the same rank in the most christian monarch's service, but with a staff appointment under his royal highness, our Duke of York!"

"By heaven!" exclaimed the old man, springing to his feet, and grasping the young officer's hand warmly—"by heaven! sir, right glad I am to hear it. I honor you, sir, for your loyalty. We must have fought together on the same side ere this, I fancy— that is, if you bore arms before the murder of the Royal Martyr. I thank you for your ready help; I thank you for your valor! Why, girl—why, Isabella; why sit you there so shy and silent? do not you hear? he is your countryman—one of the northern Wyvils—an officer of our good king—and now I think of it, you were one of the fifty gallant spirits who held to the king to the last—ay! after the last too! Where is your tongue, girl, and your hand for your preserver?"

It would perhaps have puzzled Isabella Oswald, quick as she was of intellect, and bright at repartee, and used to the great world, had she been called on to explain why she could speak to Bellechassaigne, and thank him for his gallant aid, with eloquent tongue and frank unembarrassed manner, looking him in the face the while with bright unblenching eye—and why, when she would have performed the same easy duty toward her own countryman, she should have been embarrassed and confused, and scarcely able to express herself in words at all. She did indeed rise from her seat, and all the rich color had vanished from her cheek, and her whole frame shook visibly as he raised her white fingers and pressed them to his lips; and as she faltered forth a few words of acknowledgment, she almost stammered in the effort; and then, as raising her deep liquid eyes she met the clear bright glance of Wyvil, seeming to read her very soul, she blushed—brow, cheeks and neck and bosom—the deepest and most burning crimson; turned pale again as death upon the instant; staggered, and would have fallen, had not the young man started to his feet and caught her in his arms, when she was relieved, as it seemed, from fainting only by bursting into a violent and half convulsive fit of tears and sobbing. Her father hastening up, Wyvil consigned her to his arms, saying as he did so—

"It is no wonder! the perils and excitement of the day have been too much for her— we will retire, and leave the servant girl to aid you—I doubt not but a little rest will restore her."

"I trust it will be speedily," said Bellechassaigne with an anxious brow, "for it is time even now that we should depart. We were detached to reconnoiter Monsieur de Lorraine's march, and I know that our report is looked for even now—besides, it is too probable the enemy will send out their videttes to scout the country, and if so, you are far too near their quarters to be safe."

"Oh, I shall soon be better," answered the fair girl, mastering her confusion as she spoke; "it was a sudden faintness only that came over me—fetch me I pray you, Rosalie," and she turned to the serving maid—"an ewer of fresh water; and by the time our horses are prepared, trust me, I will be ready."

"A noble girl," exclaimed Bellechassaigne, as the door of the kitchen closed behind them—"a noble girl, and well suited to be a soldier's bride—but, in the fiend's name, Wyvil, what did you to the girl to scare her wits away?"

"Faith! nothing I, Bellechassaigne," Marmaduke answered; "not for my life can I conceive what so much overcame her."

"Then most assuredly," replied the Frenchman, "you are one of two things—either the least observant, or the most modest of mankind. By heaven! if I had such a fortune, I should not be so long in apprehending it, nor, despardieux! in profiting by it likewise. A pretty fellow you, to be so able a proficient in the art of warfare, to have defended indefensible positions, and carried keeps impregnable, and not to see that you have sapped, almost without an effort, the first defences of a fair lady's heart—make you but two or three assaults in quick succession, and my life on it! when you call a parley, she will beat her charade straightway, and offer you a carte blanche in the bargain."

"Tush! tush!" said Wyvil with a smile, that denoted how much the jest of his comrade had gratified his self-complacency, "the thing's impossible, Bellechassaigne— why, she has hardly heard me speak; scarce even knows my name."

"I crave your pardon, beau sire," the soldier answered mockingly; "I knew not heretofore that it was with men's names fair ladies fell in love—but you are doubtless a greater adept in these things than I—but jesting apart, Wyvil, she is a most rare beauty— that deep wild languid eye—that superb hair—that figure so magnificently rounded. By my soul! I can scarce believe that she is one of your cold half-animated country-women— this creature of etheriality and fire; she seems to me some passionate romantic madrileña, or houri of old Mahomet's Elysium—well worth the turning Mussulman to win, even beyond the grave. Are you not overhead in love with her already? you too, who have but to thrust out your hand and grasp her—"

"Nonsense," repeated Wyvil—"nonsense, Belle chassaigne; our English ladies are not so easy, I assure you, to throw themselves into the arms of the first gentleman that does them a slight service."

"Slight service! by my soul! if you call it slight service to charge a score and a half of well armed troopers, with four ordinary retainers, I should like to know what you call heavy! Slight service, by the lord! If I had done my duty, and ridden back to Corbeil, as I ought, with my intelligence, I trow you would have found the consequences anything but slight, let the service be what it might. As for the rest, I dare say that she is a trifle prudish; most of your pretty islanders are so—but what then? it were a poor game at which we should win ever, without check or hindrance. Now look you, if you mean not to push your conquest, just say so; and I'll fly my hawk at this fair quarry."

"Oh, fly it when you will, Bellechassaigne—I have no thought, I do assure you, of adventuring, though she is as you say very beautiful; and for that matter, if I had, would it avail me anything, I fancy; so far at least as aught has yet occurred to aid me. But we had better make our men bring out our horses—we shall have sharp work yet to join the army before daybreak. I doubt not the fair Isabella has rallied her composure before this;" and almost as he spoke the words a servant followed them out from the inn toward the stable-yard, whither they had turned at the suggestion, and told them that the lady and Sir Harry were quite prepared to set forth on the route, so soon as all should be made ready.

"Sound them to horse!" Bellechassaigne cried. "To horse—to horse! it is nine by the night already; and we have leagues to ride ere daybreak."

The bugle instantly sent forth its long, clear summons, waking a thousand echoes through the still evening; and with its first note the ready soldiery came forth, leading their chargers orderly, and mounted and fell in; while Wyvil and Bellechassaigne aided the lady to ascend her rude conveyance, and then sprang to their saddles.

"Pardon me, gentle lady," said the Frenchman, bowing as he spoke till his tall plume was almost blended with the tresses of his charger's mane—"pardon me, that I use so rude a word as must; but we must travel fast to-night—as fast in fact, as our steeds will carry us. Sir Henry will accompany your carriage with his chasseur, while Captain Wyvil with his servants will scour the road in front and clear all obstacles away; and I, with my four troopers, as the best armed, will follow you in the rear and cover you. Only remember this, and now I speak to you, good comrade mine, should you hear any noise or tumult in the rear, ride on as best you may, and bear our tidings to the marechal; any attempt to aid me would destroy not only yourself alone, but the whole army—the whole cause indeed of the king! and so God speed ye, and set on!"

The eyes of Marmaduke turned half-reluctantly at the fair face of Isabella Oswald, lighted up as it was by the bright lustre of the summer moon, and caught a sidelong glance from hers, which were, however, instantly averted; and for a moment he appeared to hesitate, but before any one could comment on his seeming indecision, he too bowed low, and turning his horse's head down the road, led the way, followed by his servants at a swift regular hard gallop. All night they rode at a sharp steady pace, pausing twice only to breathe their horses by some lone well-head or clear streamlet, hearing from time to time the rumbling sound of the rude calash which bore the lady, far behind them; but never halting so long as to suffer it to overtake them. They met no opposition on the route—in fact no human being, whether friend or foe, crossed their path as they hurried onward; and, save a stray wolf from the neighboring forest of Senars, no living creature, until, just as the moon was setting, a sentinel by the wayside levelled his arquebus, and called on them to stand, and give the countersign.

"Turenne—Turenne!" cried Wyvil, and dashing on, scarce stopping to return the deep salute of the fautassin, entered the streets of Corbeil, and halted in the market-place amid the earliest crowing of the awakened cocks.

Wild thoughts had flitted through the brain of Wyvil during that hurried ride—wild whirling passionate fancies! Hard would it be indeed to shadow forth the thick tumultuous images, which rushed in like an entering tide, and filled his whole mind for a space, and were in turn displaced by a fresh sweep of conflicting feelings—for it assuredly would have been beyond his power, himself to account for or explain them. The past, the present, and the future—gratitude, honor, love! sudden an almost overwhelming passion! ambition, avarice, and above all, the lust of power—were all at once fiercely striving in his bosom. The words of Bellechassaigne had, like the puissant spells of a magician, called forth a host of demons, that would not now be laid to rest by any effort of the mind which they tormented. A passionate admirer of all female loveliness, Wyvil had been much struck at first sight by the extreme beauty of Isabella Oswald; and there was something in the romantic nature of the accident which had brought them acquainted—in the close contact into which they had been thrown while she dressed the wound incurred for her sake—in the mixture of sudden familiarity with conscious bashfulness—that added much to the effect of her charms on the fancy of Marmaduke. For it was, indeed, but his fancy that had been touched, and that very slightly, when, by the chance words of the partisan a far more dangerous and subtle element of his disposition was started into action. Wyvil's besetting weakness—for in him, though it often led to good, oftener perhaps than to evil, it was a crying weakness— was vanity. The vanity of being first in all things—vanity, not ambition! though casual observers would designate it—though he himself would fain have palliated it to himself—have dignified it by the title of that far higher and more potent passion. It is true, that it led often to the same results in Wyvil to which ambition would have led a man of sterner nature. But he had nothing of the Cato in his mood—he never would have chosen the essc, quam videri bonus—his leading object, his first aim, was ever to shine prominent, to be the present wonder filling the mouths of men—to be held brave, or elegant, or fortunate, even though he himself knew the falsehood of the world's opinion.

This was indeed the one great flaw in Wyvil's character; and though it was associated with many a high and noble quality—though he had that fine sense of innate honor, that he would have spurned indignantly from his soul the mere suggestion of aught base or sordid—though he was brave, even to headlong rashness—though his heart was kind, and good, and full of noble impulses and holy aspirations—though his head was in other respects strong, clear, and capable of judgment—yet this one failing went far, like an alloy of copper with fine gold, to corrupt and debase, and render nugatory those admirable sterling qualities, of which he was undoubtedly the master. And now, although he certainly loved Alice Selby with all the strength and truth of which his wild and somewhat vacillating character was capable—although he would have scorned and loathed himself, if he could at that time have even momentarily contemplated the desertion of her to whom he owed so much—although he would have spat upon the man, who would have counselled him to do her any wrong—although, above all, he cared not even in his fancy, beyond the moment's passing admiration, for Isabella Oswald; Bellechassaigne's words had wrought upon that solitary weakness, and kindled it into quick action. A bright triumphant vision of winning that high beauty, for whom, as fame had bruited it abroad, already half the gallants of Paris were vainly sighing—of being signalized through the gay court of France as the conqueror of that impregnable and cruel heart—of being the possessor of the most brilliant bride in all that land of beauty—of riding as it were unchallenged, unresisted, and at a coup de main, into the strong hold of that cold and haughty maid's affections—flashed vivid and impetuous as the lightning, across the mirror of his fancy.

True; it was instantly driven out, discarded, by a strong impulse of the better nature which was yet strong within him—true; it was with a sense of shame and self-reproach, that he became conscious on the instant that his heart had swerved for a second's space from its fealty to sweet Alice Selby—true; it was some time ere the finer feeling lost its power, ere memory—the memory of the calm pure affections of that fair gentle girl, of her heroic self-devotion, of her deep fervent feminine love faded from his mind—but no less true! it did fade. It did fade, and the more dazzling charms of the superb court beauty replaced the image of the country maiden. Again indignant conscience rallied its forces, but it was only by a stronger effort than before, only by summoning his sense of gratitude, his sense of honor to its aid, that his heart once again was won back to its allegiance. And so, throughout that long and hasty ride, his mind could be likened only to a confused and whirling battlefield, where the fierce hosts of the tumultuous and fiery passions were mustering fast and thick to the attack of principle and virtue; and when repulsed time after time, banding anew their scattered legions, and summoning at each fresh charge fresh and more foul allies to aid in their fell onslaught. Such conflicts are, alas! but of too frequent and familiar occurrence to create anything of wonder, or even of much interest in the mind of every-day observers; but it is from them only, that the keen judge of human nature derives his intimate acquaintance with the individual heart of man, with the general heart of the world—it is from a deep and continued study of them only, that we can learn the sage's hardest and last lesson: "the knowledge of ourselves."

The minds of all—the best of us, no less than the worst, are subject to these rude assaults—these violent temptations; the minds of all, even the best, at times succumb to the assault; the minds of all, even the worst, at times resist their tempters. But it must be observed, that in the species of resistance there is a broad distinction; there is a steady, resolute, and organized resistance, the consequence of the exertion of thoughts influenced by principle—a resistance which, when it has repulsed the first attack of its insidious foes, though possibly it may carelessly relax from its first vigor, and so be liable to surprise, is nothing weakened in itself, but can at any moment rally and drive back its assailants; which from their very nature are more disorganized and scattered at every subsequent repulse, until they in the end become entirely weak, and frustrated, and powerless for evil. There is, again, a quick and flery, though unstable and irresolute resistance, the child of a mind acting ever upon the impulse—which, though it may beat back the first onslaught of evil passions, nevertheless retains a recollection of the strife, receives as it were, an impression from the shock; and, when again attacked in the same weakened point of its position, though it again comes off victorious, is still so much enfeebled by its own irregular and impulsive opposition, that each succeeding victory but renders it the less unable to resist—but fires the daring of its enemy, until its whole defences sapped, the heart of its lines carried, it yields at last ignobly; and surrenders, as it were at discretion, to foes who, foiled often, have gathered strength and purpose less from their innate qualities, than from the defects of the system that pretended to confront them. Such, during all that night, had been the state of Wyvil's mind, harassed and agitated by a continual occurrence of thoughts and half-formed wishes which, while he felt them to be evil, and exerted himself from time to time to beat them back and banish them, he yet lacked the steady energy of will to repress utterly, and crush, as it were, in the bud.

The consequence of this with him, as it must naturally be in every case, was that the mind became habituated by constant repetition to suggestions from which at first it shrunk abhorrent; and that, although he would not have admitted it, he became half familiarized with the idea of forsaking Alice Selby, even before he had in reality at all contemplated doing so. He was in some sort then bewildered still and confused of mind, when he halted his party, a little while before daybreak, in the market-place, ignorant what to do, or whither to direct his course, until Bellechassaigne should come up; for he had never been in Corbeil before, except to pass through it at a trot on his outward march the previous morning. He had not been there, however, many minutes, before he found himself surrounded by a dozen or more privates and non-commissioned officers belonging to a troop of royal horse, which had been quartered there some time in order to command the passage of the Seine, and insure the advance or retreat of the king's army. From these he had already learned that good accommodations could be obtained at an inn in the rue royale, known as the lion d'or, when the rude vehicle came up creaking and groaning over the rugged pavement, escorted by the daring partisan and his bold troopers; so that as soon as they came into sight he merely waved his hand to them to follow, and led the way to the great gates of the inn-yard, where he was standing when they overtook him, thundering with his dagger's hilt upon the oaken portals, though seemingly with no effect except to wake a thousand echoes through the deserted streets, and to excite the furious baying of one or two gaunt half-starved mastiffs which were chained within the courtyard. On the arrival of Bellechassaigne, however, all this was speedily corrected; for at his order the bugler of his party set up so loud and long a call of his shrill instrument, that half a dozen casements were speedily thrown open in as many different houses, and sundry male and female heads, clad in strange night-gear, suddenly protruded to lean the cause of the disturbance. A moment afterwards, a shuffling stop was heard within the gates, and after reconnoitering the company for half a minute through the grille, despite the oaths and objurgations of the angry soldier, the slipshod hostler unbarred the leaves, yawning and rubbing his half-open eyes, and ushered them into the bass-court of what had been at some time, before it was degraded into a house of public entertainment, the mansion of some rich proprietor. Here they were met by the portly landlord, profuse, though scarce awake, of promises of entertainment and apologies for their detention; and here, having assured their fair charge that she was in absolute security, Corbeil being in possession of a strong royal garrison, the young men took their leave, amid the unfeigned thanks and warm acknowledgments, no less of Sir Henry than of the lady.

"Rest sure, Sir Henry Oswald," were the last words of Bellechassaigne, "that you will advance yourself nothing by moving any farther on this route, even when the day breaks. The army, I am certain, is on the route already hitherward; and as the tidings which I carry will only expedite their progress, you may depend on seeing the marechal here before the day is six hours older. If then you will be ruled by my poor counsel, you will remain here till the post comes up, and obtain such repose as the fatigues and apprehensions of this fair lady must render indispensable."

"I will, sir," cried Sir Henry—"I will; and that right willingly—and now I will not bid you tarry, as knowing that the first duty of a soldier is the prompt execution of his orders; and trust me, you shall lose nothing with Monsieur Turenne, for your service; and now farewell for a short space, seeing we shall soon meet again." And then, their parting salutation made on both sides, the cavaliers rode off as hard as they could gallop, Bellechassaigne calling out to Wyvil with a light laugh—

"Despardieux! but I am not half so certain as the good English chevalier, that our service shall seem so good to the marechal as he deems it. Seeing that it was his aim to surprise the Duke of Lorraine, it may well be, that he will scarce thank us for beating up his quarters, and telling him, as plain as we could speak, that all the army, which I'll be sworn he fancied at Etampes, was on this side of the Seine. I should not be surprised, for my part, if we were both ordered into arrest directly; and, if it take that turn, our lives will depend on the good or bad generalship of the Lorrainers!"

"I see not that, however," answered the Englishman, spurring his horse sharply as as he spoke, to keep up with his volatile companion; "what the devil has the duke's generalship to do with it?"

"You are less apprehensive than your wont, then," replied the partisan. "See you here—you know well that Conde has been building, these two weeks, a bridge of boats a little above Charenton, whereby Henry of Lorraine may pass the Seine and join the army of the princes. Now, seeing that the duke heard of our onslaught last night before sunset, and must be sure from that of Turenne's movement to cut him off from Paris; if he has acted with the smallest judgment, he is before this time at Charenton: and before we have crossed the river, here at Corbeil to the eastward, will have made good his passage to the westward, and broken up his bridge and joined the princes at his leisure. That, as you know, will utterly foil all our plans for the campaign; will leave us in the face of a superior force; will probably completely ruin the king's cause; and, what concerns us most of all, will be the consequence of our misconduct, and will afford a very pretty pretext for treating each of us to a file of musqueteers, and a volley at twelve paces. So now you begin, I suppose, to apprehend how far it concerns us whether the Duke of Lorraine be a good general or a bad one!"

"You take it coolly enough, notwithstanding;" exclaimed Wyvil, not altogether liking his companion's mode of putting the case.

"Of course I do," answered the other laughing; "why should I not, pray? You would think it very odd, if I were not cool in contemplating the result of a volley from five or six hundred Spaniards or Lorrainers; and I have yet to learn that a score or two of Spanish bullets do less harm than a dozen French ones. Tush! man, our business is to die when we are wanted; and what odds does it make whether it comes by a platoon in battle, or by a file in execution? There is this in it, notwithstanding, that the faster we ride the less the chance of being shot by Frenchmen, and the more by the Lorrainers. So if you, as you seem to do, prefer these last so much, you were best spur that gray brute somewhat sharply. Dont let him tumble on his head, though," he continued, as the horse, urged beyond his speed, made a bad stumble on the rutty road—"well saved! well saved! You English do ride well, that must be granted— and lo! here is the Seine and the bridge, and there comes the sun above the tree-tops. Hark! hark! by heaven! there go the trumpets; and see—see there, how the dust surges up beyond the hill—we shall soon leave the worst of it!" and galloping violently on, they soon encountered the advanced horse of the royal army, and in less than an hour were busily employed in threading their way through the dense columns of the centre, now in full march upon Corbeil, in search of their renowned commander.

CHAPTER XIX.

A comfortable chamber supplied profusely with all the luxuries and appliances which an auberge of that day, and in that country, could be expected to supply, the chief of which was a convenient and well-curtained bed, soon brought forgetfulness of her terrors and fatigues to Isabella Oswald; yet, ere she sunk into absolute sleep, she could not but think much and deeply on the occurrences of the past day—of the great perils she had seen—of the enthusiastic daring valor of her young countryman, exerted, almost in despite of hope, for her protection. Nor is it strange she should have thought of it deeply; for at all times and in all countries, there is perhaps no quality of man which strikes at first so strongly the imagination of the weeker sex, as gallant and fiery courage. At that day, too, when the sword was the surest—almost indeed the only instrument whereby to clear the path of honor; when the spirit of chivalry was yet alive and burning in every noble breast of man or woman, a high and perilous emprize was sure to win the admiration and regard of all for the successful gallant. To this, in Isabella's case, was added a romantic sense of gratitude; a feeling that this bold deed had been wrought for her sake alone, and that, as the existing cause of a chivalric exploit, she too must be a sharer in the glories of the actor. It must not be forgotten, either, that Wyvil, both in form and feature, might be esteemed a model of masculine and vigorous beauty; that his attire was rich and splendid, and bore sure witness to the exquisite taste of the wearer; that his air and demeanor were unusually high and noble—easy, at the same time, and dignified—graceful and polished as the bearing of the most courtly Frenchman, yet tinctured with a strain of frankness, and largely fraught with a sort of proud humility that she had never observed in any of her lighter and more volatile adorers. What wonder, then, that she should ponder long and thoughtfully before she sank to rest, and that the thought of her defender should have been blended, after her eyes were closed in slumber, with the disturbed and whirling visions which, rising naturally from the occurrence of the past day, floated a wild phantasmagoria through her brain.

Isabella Oswald was not, indeed, a girl of ordinary qualities or every-day character; but born with the perilous dower of uncommon genius, coupled, as it almost invariably is, with a quick sensitive temperament, with powerful affections and strong passions: she had, unfortunately for herself, been educated so—if that can be called education, which, in no respect, ever aimed at correcting the defects of nature—as to exaggerate rather than diminish the extravagances of her native character. Her mother, a Spanish lady of great wealth and the highest rank, whom Sir Henry had married at the time when an alliance with the infanta had been contemplated by the unhappy prince who had since expiated his faults and follies on the seaffold, died in her daughter's early childhood; and from that period, the young Isabella had scarce a guide beyond her own wild inclinations. Her father, who in his youth had been one of the chosen councillors and courtiers of the First Charles, with a prescience of events which it had been well for his hapless master to possess, leaned early to the moderate councils of Hyde and Falleland, and those wiser spirits, whose prudence, had it been listened to by the misguided monarch, would have spared England years of bloodshed; and soon foreseeing that the neglect of these would lead to fatal consequences, had remitted the whole fortune of his lost bride, and not that only, but the price of all such portions of his own patrimony as he could alienate, to France, where he concluded a safe asylum would at any time be open to the servants of the crown. It so fell out, however, that long before he contemplated any instant peril, he was qualified by circumstances to judge of the wisdom of the measures; for, whereas he had looked forward to exile, as to the consequence of adhering to the fortunes of his royal master in opposition to the rebellious and fanatical will of the people, he was doomed to experience first coldness and neglect, then persecution— from which he was but too happy to escape by flight—at the hands of that very king whom he was ready to support through right and wrong with undiscriminating loyalty. Restless and active both in mind and body, he had scarce entered France, before he plunged deeply into the intrigues which were harassing the vitals of that kingdom; and adopting the court party, from the natural bias of his mind, had risen speedily to eminence; had distinguished himself greatly, both in the council and in the field; had been advanced to a high station in the army, and occupied a situation as prominent as could be held by any foreigner in the great nation. This, and the circumstances, no less than the character of the man—his want of domestic ties or attractions—his fury and headlong appetite for all and every kind of wild excitement—his constant absence from home, in the field or at the court—contributed to deprive his child of the advantages of any solid supervision or home-government; living as it were alone, and mistress, when she was yet but a child, of her father's grand hotel in the fauxbourgs, with carriages and horses and attendants at her command, and the old governante who nominally ruled her, in truth the most obsequious of her servants—it was not wonderful that Isabella Oswald should have grown up a wild, untamed, high-spirited girl, with no guide for her actions but her own eager impulses and active sensibilities, with little powers of self government and still less mental discipline; but it was somewhat to be admired that she did not become a more wilful and capricious beauty, reckless and violent and headstrong, the slave of her own passions, and the tormentor of all who should be thrown into the sphere of her attractions. From this her natural genius, and a certain resolute strength of mind which she inherited from her mother, had happily preserved her.

An eager passionate ambition, which was perhaps not the least striking feature of her mind, coupled to an insatiable thirst of knowledge, had saved her from frivolity; and, while she would not hear the least dictation in matters that related to demeanor, to all the masters from whom she could derive instruction she yielded an implicit and unquestioning obedience, that in itself assured advancement and success. Thus, at an early age, she had not only mastered all the accomplishments which were esteemed in that day requisite to ladies, but many which were rare even among men, except those who were destined to the learned professions. An enthusiastic and complete musician, a dancer second to none in that land which then, as now, was the great theatre and school of that gay science; she was moreover a linguist of no mean capacity, speaking and writing the French and Spanish and Italian tongues as fluently as her own native English. Nor was this all; for she had dipped somewhat deeply into the wells of ancient lore, so that she was far better qualified than most men of that day, to converse with the great and learned on high and interesting topics.

This course of reading, it is true, had strengthened the powers of a mind naturally strong; had filled the storehouses of her brain with manifold and valuable knowledge; had perfected her taste, matured her judgment, and developed all her natural gifts in an unusual degree. But in effecting this, it had produced other and far less favorable consequences: if it had strengthened the powers of her mind, it had also in no less degree strengthened her confidence in them; if it had perfected her tastes, it had increased her desire of consulting them alone; if it had amplified her judgment, so it had led her to respect no opinions that tallied not with her own sense of what was right and proper. It had, in short, contributed to foster in no small degree the independence of a spirit, already perhaps too independent; so that even in her fifteenth year, Isabella Oswald, with more than all a woman's talents and accomplishments, possessed a degree of energy and decision, that was sure to make her a singular and distinguished—though it was highly questionable whether it was like to make her a happy or contented—woman. It seemed, indeed, that there was something not far removed from a direct destiny—if such a thing could be—in the events which had formed the character of the young beauty; for just at that critical age when she was budding into womanhood, and when from her increasing years she was becoming a companion to her father—who, had he fallen into more domestic habits, as he was indeed gradually doing, would not have failed to notice, or noticing to counteract, the undue tendency of her young mind to form decided judgments, to act upon the impulse of the moment, to consult its own opinions only, and to do many things which could not be deemed other than unfemininely and unduly independent—just at that critical period, the war broke out in England between the king and his parliament; and true to his chivalric sense of loyalty, Sir Henry overlooked the many wrongs done to him by the man, in sympathy with the misfortunes of the sovereign; left his asylum, took up arms for the crown, and trusting his child to the doubtful guardianship of an old marquise of the vielle noblesse—who, to complete the mischief, was something of an esprit fort herself—fought to the very last, even to Astley's fatal overthrow at Stow-on-the-Wold, with a determined valor that, had the cause for which he bled succeeded, would have placed him among the first men of the nation.

As it was, he who had been at the first banished by the king, was now proscribed by the parliament; and once again escaping to his old asylum, found the daughter whom he had left a bright precocious child, grown up into a dazzling woman, captivating all around her by her rare gifts and striking qualities; but formed completely and matured in character, already almost beyond the possibility of changing, whether for good or evil. Such had been the early history, and such were the habits, of the beautiful girl for whom Wyvil had, unhappily for all parties, performed the brilliant and successful exploit, which had at once so powerfully wrought upon a fancy, the natural tendency of which was strongly sensible to anything romantic or poetical, that it had paved the way for warmer and more passionate sentiments, should any circumstance occur in future to call them into action. That she was deeply interested in the handsome young cavalier, who had so daringly encountered peril in her cause, cannot be doubted; and as she fell asleep on that eventful morning, it is quite certain that the last tangible thought of her mind was upon Marmaduke. Quite overcome by exertion and fatigue and terror, she slept long and soundly; and although many a strange and stratling noise rose from the street below her window, and that too before she had been long asleep— though squadron after squadron of the king's cavalry passed at a rapid trot, clanging and clattering with their iron harness over the rough stone pavements—though the loud shouts of the people, awed into loyalty by their imposing numbers, greeted the royal troops with stunning acclamations, and were responded to by kettledrum and trumpt—though a field battery of ponderous guns, with their caissons and tumbrils, groaned, creaked, and lumbered through the street; she did not stir from her heavy sleep until the sun was already high in heaven, and all the vanguard of the army had well-nigh reached the village, where she had supped on the preceding evening.

Just as she woke, however, and had so far collected her ideas as to be aware where she was, a prolonged flourish from a distant band of music called her attention; and conjecturing at once that the sound must announce the army of Turenne, she dressed herself in haste, and hurried to the window, just as a column of arquebusiers, marching extremely fast, shoulder to shoulder, in the closest order, began to fill the street from side to side. In a few minutes these had passed, and were succeeded by six fine Scotch and Irish regiments, under the royal standard of King Charles of England, clad in the uniform, and officered by cavaliers of their own country—Monsieur de Navailles, whom Isabella well knew, followed with a detachment of the French horseguards, whose trumpets she had heard from a distance; and then, surrounded each by his proper staff and many a mounted officer besides, the Marechals Turenne and d'Harquincourt rode by, in deep and earnest conversation. But it was not to these great men, nor to the gallants who swept by, glittering in gorgeous arms and fluttering with scarfs and favors— though many of them were acquaintances, nay, friends and suitors—that the eyes of the fair Isabella were directed; though with an earnest and inquiring glance, she ran her eyes over the splendid concourse, as if in search of something which she found not. After the leaders of the army had passed out of sight, there was a little break, as it were, or interval in the line of march; and then a squadron of well-mounted cavaliers led by a tall and noble-looking man, whom she recognized as the Earl of Bristol, came up at a hand-gallop, as if endeavoring to make up the ground which they had lost. While these were yet beneath her windows, the drums and fifes of another Irish regiment, playing one of their wild heart-stirring melodies, swept cheerily down the wind; and, almost keeping up with the gallop of the English horse, the splendid files of the Duke of York's own regiment came dashing through the dust, trailing their pikes, at the long swinging trot peculiar to the natives of green Erin. What was there in the sight of that wild regiment, that so excited the bright girl who gazed upon them? Her color came and went, her heart beat almost andibly, her small hands trembled so tha they scarcely could support her, as she leaned far out the casement to survey them. They did afford, indeed, a gay and spirit-stirring sight—those loyal islanders! The lithe and stalwort limbs, bearing them, free as the deer on their own pathless mountains, at a pace no less different from the trained march of the more drilled mercenary, than is the gallop of the desert steed from the procession-amble of my lady's palfrey—the merry hawklike glance of their blue laughing eyes—the hair that floated in loose tresses on the wind—the reckless jest, the soul-fraught merriment which rang in every tone, which breathed from every feature—the wild clear shout of faugh a ballah, which every now and then rose shrilly from the heads of the column, as they pressed on the track of the cavalry—combining to make up and picture the very opposite in all respects of the stiff rigid martialists of that age of stern and iron discipline. It was not this, however, that stirred the heart of Isabella, with a strange sense, she knew not what, of mingled hope and apprehension. She had not failed to note, in the few words that Bellechassaigne let fall, that there was some reason for dreading evil consequences from the slight breach of orders—slight in her opinion and venial if not praiseworthy—of which both had been guilty in attacking the Lorrainers; and having heard, from Marmaduke's own lips, that he held an appointment on the staff of the English duke, her whole soul was in terrible suspense to see if he was in his place, beside his princely master.

The last rank of the royal Irish passed; and immediately behind them, mounted upon a Polish carriage-horse, dew-colored, with a long white mane and tail, a young man, richly dressed in a suit of dark-brown velvet, cut in the fashion which has derived its modern name from the great Flemish painter, with russet leather buskins and a superb cravat of Valienciennes lace, cantered lightly on. He wore no armor, not even weapons, except an ordinary rapier hanging from an embroidered scarf; but in his hand he held a leading staff or truncheon, and round his neck he bore a glittering chain with the effigy of St. George, and on the left breast of his mantle the diamond star of the Garter. He was above the middle height, graceful and slender in his person; and he rode easily and well with a firm scat and a delicate light hand—but although very young at that time, the darkness of his complexion, his heavy eyebrows, and the hard deeplycut hues of his rigid and inflexible lineaments caused him to appear many years advanced beyond his real age; an impression which was in no degree diminished by the harsh periwig of coarse black hair, which he wore under his low-crowned feathered hat, falling quite down upon his shoulders. Yet, though he was decidedly ill-favored and harsh-featured, no person at that time could have failed to see that he was a man of consequence, and character to match his dignity—there was a quickness in his clear dark eye that spoke intelligence, and spirit, and high-daring; there was a firm and resolute curve in the muscles of the close-set mouth, that promised an unblenching steadiness of purpose. Such was the Duke of York, as he was in the days of adversity; the steady and right councillor of his more vacillating brother. Such was the Duke of York, when he fought side by side with Turenne—such, when he gave the promise, afterwards well fulfilled by skill, and conduct, and unquestioned valor, displayed as lord high admiral against de Ruyter and the Dutch; ere power and priestcraft had debased his every quality of mind—until the conquerer of Opdam sank into the weak driveller and coward of the Boyne.

A pace or two behind the duke, but still so near that they could easily converse with him, were three or four English gentlemen, among whom Isabella recognized the Earl of Berkely and Colonel Warden, his gentlemen of the bedchamber; but there was not one in his suite whose post or air in anywise resembled the gallant Wyvil: two or three grooms and equerries followed, one leading the duke's battle-horse, and the others bearing dispersed among their number the various pieces of his armor. The fair girl's heart sank as they vanished from her sight, and were succeeded by the rear-guard of the army—composed of the regiments of Picardy, Richelieu, Uxelles, Carignan, Burgundy, and a strong detachment of the French guard—closing the long line of the march. Heart-sick and faint, she drooped into a seat, and letting fall her head upon the window-sill, buried it in her hands in sad and anxious meditation, until, after a long and silent pause, the groaning crash of heavy wagons again excited her attention. It was the baggage of the host artillery carts, and huge wains piled up with chests of arms and clothing, and mules laden with tents, and foragers, and sutlers, and abandoned women, and all the base and worthless rabble that ever follow in the train of camps and armies. A dozen light pieces of artillery, and a small body of musketeers, accompanied or rather brought up the rear of this disorderly multitude; and she began to reassure herself in the idea, that now indeed all had passed by, and that to the country—as was in fact quite true—had proceeded the main body of the troops. As soon as this idea took hold of her mind, her sanguine fearless temperament caused her at once to assume it for a truth; and having, scarcely a minute before, been quite depressed by the imagination that her deliverers were suffering disgrace and perhaps danger, she now amused her mind with many a gay visonary dream how they might have been promoted for their gallantry, and sent on with the foremost, filling the perilous post of honor.

Already satisfied, and for the moment happy, she had turned to the mirror which graced the antique toilette table, and was arranging her magnificent tresses, humming a gay provençal ballad as she did so, when she was once more summoned from her employment to the window by the trampling of horses. She turned, it is true, to look at what was passing, but it was with a listless air of unconcern, that was as different as possible from the excited, restless agitation with which she had watched every separate company as it swept onward, before she hit upon the thought which now possessed her. A single glance, however, sufficed to change her air of unconcern for one of the deepest and most agonizing interest. Every drop of blood rushed back from her cheeks, and left her pale as ashes; she clasped her hands, and wrung them bitterly, and one faint shriek burst from her lips, and even reached the ears of those whose situation caused it. The horsemen whose march had attracted her, were a small party, fully armed and led by an officer, who rode at a foot's pace with his sword drawn at their head; six troopers, three and three, came after him, all with their carbines ready, the butts resting on their thighs, and their matches lighted; two more with drawn swords followed, and between them—his horse's reins linked to the bits of their chargers, and the sheath of his rapier empty—Marmaduke Wyvil! Six troopers more succeeded, like the first, with their matchlocks in their hands; and then, guarded like Wyvil by two soldiers, but with a gay and scornful smile on his dark features, the brave Bellechassaigne! A dozen dragoons more, and another sabaltern, completed the sad escort. The face of Marmaduke was perfectly composed and calm, though somewhat paler than its wont; until the shriek of Isabella falling upon his ear, he raised his eyes and met the wild and careworn glance, and noted the strange paleness that had supplanted her rich warm complexion—then a quick burning flush covered his face with crimson, as answering her passionate look of inquiry with a deep meaning glance, and a bright half-triumphant smile, he doffed his plumed hat and bowed low, laying his hand upon his heart as he did so. Bellechassaigne caught likewise the faint accents of the lady's cry, and he too smiled and bowed; but there was nothing but high daring, mixed with a touch of scorn in the expression of his face; and as he bowed he raised his voice, and called aloud:

"Fear not, dear lady—fear not at all for us; this is a matter of mere form—believe me, we are in no danger!" She heard, it is true, what he said, and waved her hands mechanically in reply, but her mind scarcely comprehended the sense of the words; and even if it had done so, the grave involuntary shake of the head with which the officer, who had them in charge, received the speech, would have entirely counteracted their effect. She watched them for a moment or two, and observed that they took not the route of the army, but turned off toward the castle, which she had seen on the right hand as she drove into the town that morning; and then, as they passed round the corner of the street, rushed out into the antechamber, calling in tones that were almost a shriek, upon her father.

CHAPTER XX.

It was about two hours after sunrise, when the last files of the royal army extricated themselves from the streets of Corbeil; and although some difficulty and delay occurred in consequence of the narrowness of the bridge and ways, through which the army had been forced to defile, yet so ably was the advance conducted, that no breaks were made in the line of march, but the communication between the van and rear was maintained uninterrupted. As the troops cleared the suburbs, their order was changed in regular succession, the fronts of the several columns being increased to the full width of the broad nighway, and their depth in the same degree diminished; the cavalry of the advanced guard was held well in hand, and the open woodlands on either side the causeway occupied by strong bodies of light troops, sweeping the country a leagne's breadth, and keeping somewhat in advance of the main army.

It was a beautiful gay sight—the long files winding rapidly along, now seen, now lost among the leafy screens of the dense forest—the many-colored pennons of the cavalry glittering through the tree-tops, and their bright armor flashing out in many a line of dazzling lustre. Rapidly they advanced throughout the whole of that fine summer's morning, so that just as the sun had reached the meridian, the heads of the advanced columns, mounting above Villeneuve St. George, came into sight of the enemy, posted in force upon the elevated ground between that town and Charanton, with a small battery of heavy guns planted on the steep knoll commanding the streets of the town, and enfilading the bridge across the Hyere, which lay at its base; at the same moment, the two marshals, each with his staff, galloped across the summit to reconnoiter the position of Lorraine. It took but little, for a general of Turenne's unequalled skill, to form his plan and act upon it. One brief glance showed him that to attempt the passage of the river, which was unfordable, and only to be traversed by a long narrow bridge of stone, commanded by the cannon on the hill, and defended by a strong tete de pont, would be a mere loss of valuable time, and only to be effected by a vast sacrifice of life; while it would have left it in the power of the duke, by leaving a small part of his infantry, to defend the town and dispute the bridge, until such time as he could fall back with all his horse, composing the main force of his army, to Charenton; and then crossing his bridge of boats, effect his junction with the princes. This, in effect, would have frustrated all his views; and it is certain, that for the time, the royal army was in a situation full of difficulty if not danger, from which it was extricated only by the splendid genius of its commander. Turenne, knowing the country well, and being aware that, at the distance of some three or four miles toward Brie, the Hyère was fordable in many places, determined instantly to march along its banks to the eastward, and passing it as soon as possible, to turn the enemy's position in the direction of Grosbois, and force him to a general action. In order to do this, it was, however, necessary to alter the whole order of his march; his cavalry, which had up to this time composed the van, being now wanted in the rear; which it would be in the power of the duke to attack, while countermarching, by throwing his light troops across the Hyère.

This change was rapidly and splendidly effected. The forest of Senars, which covered a great portion of the country between Villeneuve and Corbeil, broke off entirely midway the slope, which has so many times been mentioned, and left the foot of the declivity, and all the banks of the little river quite open and free from encumbrance to the left hand; although toward the right, the woodlands stretched in an uninterrupted range quite down to the angle, formed two or three miles off by the junction of the Hyère with the broad Seine. A narrow road, the same by which Sir Henry and his daughter were travelling when attacked on the preceding day, came into the highway at a little hollow some hundred yards above the meadows, into which it descended shortly, skirting along the edge of the great forest; and by this narrow defile it was now necessary for the whole host to pass.

The cavalry, under d'Harquincourt, was moved down by the main causeway to the meadows, and there deploying formed front toward the bridge in a transverse line from the Hyère to the edge of the forest facing northwesterly; and half a battery of field-peaces were planted on the road so as to sweep the bridge in case of any sally. This done, the infantry filed, corps by corps, through the narrow lane, until they had all gained the level ground to the eastward of the cavalry; and then they fell into solid columns, filling the whole space from the edge of the road by which the guns were moving, down by the margin of the stream. Until the whole of this intricate manoeuvre was accomplished, Turenne sat quietly upon his horse, with all his staff about him, watching the enemy's position with jealous scrutiny, and sending now and then an officer to expedite the movements of the various regiments. Once only did he quit his station after the royal regiment of Irish had passed him, cheering, as they did so; when he rode down a little way from the hillock which he had occupied, to meet the Duke of York, whom he requested to halt for the present, and remain near his person; nor had this happened long before the last of the infantry had formed on the low grounds, and all the cannon were in full march by the road immediately above them; when Turenne— having dispatched one aid-de-camp to d'Harquincourt, with orders to draw off the cavalry, and form them in the rear, and sent another to the van to set the troops in motion—cantered down from his stand, and wheeled into the lane, by which he could communicate at his ease with any portion of the column. Just as he turned the corner from the causeway, the quick eye of the great commander fell on the broken carriage of Sir Henry Oswald; which, all stripped and dismantled, had been dragged into the low brushwood on the roadside by the pioneers of the vanguard. About it lay the bodies of seven or eight horses, their housings and rich harness plundered; and not less than a score of human corpses, entirely naked, as they had been left by those human harpies, the foragers of their own party, and showing by the terrific wounds which seamed their ghastly limbs, the prowess of their daring conquerors. Turenne pointed toward the hideous pile, as he rode by with his leading staff, and turned to the duke—

"This proves," he said, "the perfect truth of Bellechassaigne's relation; and, by my word! although in contradiction of all military order—as gallant an onslaught as ever was made yet by four men upon forty. Tête dieu, each man of the assailants, not to exclude Bellechassaigne's troopers, must have killed three men with his own hand!"

"And this, I trust," replied the duke, "will prove a good defence to them—especially now that their indiscretion has had no evil consequences."

"No! no! your highness," answered the general, laughing; "that last were a poor reason. They must not get off quite so lightly. Had that been possible, I would not have refused so slight a matter to your gracious intercession. Consider, this was a very grave offence—directly contrary to orders—and actually imperilling the whole army, the whole cause of the king. Besides, our cavaliers, all independent as they are, and serving with their own men for loyalty and honor, with neither pay nor profit, are ever insubordinate, and reader to consult their own rash fancies than to obey commands; especially, of such as suit not their headlong and absurd caprices. No! no! this was too flagrant, and we want an example."

"Surely—oh! surely," the duke interposed again, with an expression of strong interest displayed in his harsh features, and his voice actually quivering from the agitation of his mind; "you do not think of a military execution! Two such fine gallant youths—it were too horrible!"

"Not I," replied Turenne, quite quietly—"not I, indeed! Good officers are not so plenty on his majesty's side now-a-days that I can afford to shoot them. As for Bellechassaigne, too, we cannot spare him possibly; he is the life and sould of the whole army—half the most desperate things that are done he does himself—and all the rest by proxy, driving all our young fellows half mad with rivalry and hot ambition. No! no! we can't spare Bellechassaigne! and as to this young English fellow, by the Lord! I believe he is the madder of the two. Fancy a charge, in a velvet hat and coat, with four unarmed retainers, upon two score or better of well-appointed troopers. I half believe I should have shot Bellechassaigne, if he had obeyed his orders and left him to his fate, as he should have done. What does your highness know of this young devil with the unpronounceable name? has he ever been such a dare-devil?"

"I have heard say," answered the duke, "that in the long civil war, though he was then very young, scarcely indeed more than a boy, he was the shrewdest and most daring of all Goring's officers; and in this last unfortunate affair, he was undoubtedly among the best of all my brother's partisan commanders. In fact, it is to him that his majesty is indebted for his own personal escape from his rebels. It is said, moreover, and I fear truly, that if the king had followed Wyvil's counsel, and charged with all his horse, while Cromwell's men were in confusion—for they were beaten back, and all their cannon taken by a sally from the town—the fatal fight at Worcester might well have had a different conclusion."

"Ha! he is something more, then, than a mere swordsman," said Turenne. "I wonder what induced him to make this escapade. He could scarce hope for success, I should think; and the risk far surpassed the object to be attained—unless indeed he had been smitten by the beaux yeux of this fair Oswald, who they tell me has turned the heads of half our gallants."

"Oh no, it cannot, I am sure, be that; for I am certain he had never seen her till that day. It is but a little more than five months since he came to Paris, having with difficulty made his escape from England. Since that time he has been constantly about my person; and from the 21st of April, has been upon my staff with the army. In the mean time, Sir Henry Oswald has been, as you know, in the low countries on business of his eminence, and this young lady with him; so that I feel quite sure that they have never met till yesterday. If I am right in my opinion, it is but an ambitious craving for distinction, joined to a spirit naturally bold and ardent, that has led him into this deed of rashness. Besides this, marechal, there was a story how he effected his escape by the aid of a beautiful young girl, to whom he is said to be troth-plighted."

"Well;" answered Turenne, "since no harm is done, we can hold them under arrest until this battle has been fought with Monsieur of Lorraine—it will be something of a punishment to these men, such as I know Bellechassaigne, and such as you describe the other, to hinder them from the honor of this field. After that, we can call them to a court-martial, and sentence them to be reprimanded. By my faith! the next time Bellechassaigne gives me any trouble, I'll sentence him to serve in the army and not to draw his sword for a whole campaign. But come, your royal highness, the vanguard must be nearing the fords of the Hyère; we were best gallop on, and see what goes on there. If monsieur is on the alert, and has sent some of his horse to dispute our passage, we may have something to do yet." And with the words he put spurs to his horse, and with the Duke of York and his staff, rode forward as fast as he could for the obstruction offered by the guns and tumbrils of the artillery, until he passed beyond them all, when he galloped forward at full speed, and reached the leading regiments of infantry just as they reached the first ford.

The little river at this point spread out to several times its ordinary width, rippling rapidly over a gravelly bed in several channels, with narrow islands of meadow land intervening—above this, for about a quarter of a mile, the stream flowed between deep banks in a strong and sluggish volume; and then another ford, somewhat deeper and narrower than the former, but still quite passable for horse, occurred, where the sandy road wound down from the hill and crossed the bed of the Hyère. The third and best ford was still a quarter of a mile higher, and there the river was easy to be passed by five hundred men in front at a time. On the farther side, the meadows were quite open, so that Turenne could overlook them for more than a mile in distance; and not a brake or thicket was in sight, that could conceal a dozen skirmishers.

Halting upon a little knoll beside the upper of the three fords, the general sent off his aids-de-camp in all directions, to hasten the march of the infantry to the spot where he stood—to direct the artillery to come down from the hill, and pass by the lower ford of the three—and to bring up the cavalry, with all speed, to the deepest passage. All this was brilliantly and successfully conducted, and before sunset several regiments of infantry had crossed over, and had been formed in line of battle, facing almost due west, and having the high road from Brie-compte-Robert to Grosbois—from which last place they might be something more than three miles distant—on their right hand, and the river, which they had forded, on their left. About the same time the guns were got across, though not without much labor and some difficulty, and placed in a second line behind the advanced infantry, which had been pushed forward so as to cover all the three fords from the army of Lorraine, in case it should advance to meet them. At this time, just as the cavalry—which, when it was evident that no attack would be made on the rear, had gained the road on the hill side, and so outstripped the centre and rear of that— were beginning to defile toward the low grounds on the river, the general, who had taken no refreshment since the army had left Balacour before sunrise, ordered a halt, that the men might cook and get their suppers—it being his intention to make no longer pause than was necessary, but to march directly on Villeneuve. Fires were lighted now in all directions, and nothing could be fancied or described more wildly picturesque and striking than the scene that was presented on both sides of the river, in the soft, rich light, of the summer sunset: the splendid uniforms and glittering armor of the confused and busy groups that bustled round the camp-fires, or sat in lounging attitudes on the soft green sward—the long line of stately chargers picketed in advance of the dismounted cavalry—the number of bright standards, and many-colored pennons, pitched in the ground at the head of every regiment and squadron—the mounted officers careering to and fro, amid the whirling crowds—the frequent stacks of arms, flashing and twinkling in the sunbeams; and over all, the broad blue shadows silently creeping, as some great cloud swept across the sky, before the soft west wind, and intercepted the now level rays of the setting sun! Close to the margin of the river, hard by the upper ford, a group of three tall ash trees—the only trees, indeed, which were to be seen in the meadows— overhung a small limpid basin, from which a tiny rill of crystal water stole away through the long thick grass, to join the broader stream.

Under these trees a Persian carpet had been spread on the ground, and a large piece of scarlet cloth stretched over the shafts of three or four long pikes extended from tree to tree, forming a sort of rude extemporaneous pavilion, under the shade of which the Marechal Turenne with several of his principal officers, and among these the Duke of York and two or three of his personal attendants, sat jesting and conversing merrily; while round a blazing heap of faggots at a short distance four or five servants were at work unloading a stout sumpter mule, and making preparations for the evening meal of their masters. Two or three hampers had been unpacked already, and their contents, in the shape of sundry cups and platters, and other implements of silver were displayed on the carpet, about which the officers were sitting; while in the basin of the spring a dozen or more of the long-necked flasks, which from time to time almost immemorial have been consecrated to the rich sparkling wines of Champagne, were in process of cooling for the banquet.

While this was going on, and many a lively quib and repartee were passing round that merry circle, the quick glance of the marechal detected a slight bustle in the lines of the cavalry that were the highest on the hill side—a dozen or two of the troopers getting in haste to their chargers, and falling into order as if they half expected an attack. The next minute, a single man came into view galloping very fast down the forest road, and instantly some five or six more followed him at the same hurried pace. On reaching the little squad of mounted men, who had ridden out to receive them, they halted for a few seconds, and then, an orderly accompanying them, came down without relaxing their speed toward the general's station.

"Whom have we here, in such hot haste?" cried Turenne, gazing anxiously at the approaching riders; "messengers from the rear? It cannot be that Conde has followed us in force—no! no! impossible! nor can Lorraine I think, have marched on Charenton. Who is it, gentlemen? who is it? I thought I had known every officer of the army—and yet I cannot make him out at this distance. It is an old man, too!" And, while he was yet speaking, before indeed any one of his train had time to answer, a tall fine-looking veteran, with a stern acquiline countenance, a profusion of long silvery hair, and a pair of thick white mustaches, came up at the gallop; and checking his horse slightly alighted at a few paces only from the ash trees. He was clad in a rich suit of half-armor, with a buff coat magnificently laced with gold worn over the cuirass; a high-crowned broad-leafed hat with a black feather covered his head, his morion being carried by one of his servants, and his long basket-hilted rapier hung from a broad scarf of blue silk; his air was highly proud and military, but neither port nor his complexion— which must have been, before it was embrowned by wind and moonshine, unusually fair and florid—at all resembled that of a Frenchman. All seemed to recognize him as soon as he dismounted, for all rose up to greet him; and Turenne himself, accompanied by the English duke, advanced some two or three steps, the first exclaiming:

"Ha! I am charmed to see you, good Sir Henry—such men as you are ever well met with, upon the eve of battle. We heard too that we were in some danger of having lost you altogether yesterday."

"To which indeed you owe the fact of my being here—advantage I will not call it, notwithstanding that you are pleased to be so complimentary. I was indeed desirous of seeing you even earlier in the day, but I had difficulty in getting men and horses in Corbeil. I had gone out across the river in the direction of Montlebery, where I expected to meet with my servants, before you entered, and I did not return until it was past noon. There, having learned that the two gallant gentlemen, to whose good service I owe my life and my daughter's honor are in disgrace, under arrest, and in some danger, I have made all the haste I could accomplish to overtake your excellency, and beseech your pardon for them; which I sincerely trust you will not think too much to grant me, seeing that I have fought some years for the same cause with you, and done—as you have been good enough to say—some service to the king, our master!"

"Sir Henry Oswald," Turenne replied, very gravely, "you are too old, and far too good an officer, not to be well aware what detriment arises ever to our armies from the determination—for I can use no other term to express what I mean—of our young gallants to act on their own impulse and responsibilities, instead of obeying orders. In this case, the positive instructions, given by myself to these gentlemen, were to discover themselves, on no account whatever , to the enemy—my object being a surprise! Their conduct in disobeying such instructions, to say the least, was utterly unpardonable. I scruple not to say, that had Monsieur de Lorraine acted with one-half his accustomed foresight, all we should ever have seen of his army would have been the last files of his rear-guard crossing the bridge at Charenton; if we had even got up thither in time to witness that. As it is, even now, to-morrow's noon will show whether I can prevent his junction with the princes. Had Monsieur de Bellechassaigne obeyed orders, and returned to me undiscovered, we should have fallen on him unawares, and beaten him ere this, God willing! You must perceive, Sir Henry, that in this matter martial law must take its course. Had it been possible for me to gratify you, it would have given me the highest pleasure—if in aught else I can oblige you, it shall be done forthwith!"

"Monsieur de Turenne," answered Sir Henry haughtily, "I hardly thought to have been refused at all, in a thing of so slight moment. Not when you promised me of your own accord, upon the breaches of Hesdin, to grant me any possible request, did I expect that I should have occasion to remind you of your words: as it is, marechal, I recall that promise to your recollection, and claim this as my first—my last request."

"But, sir," Turenne made answer, with cold inflexible politeness, "your request is not possible. Had it been in my power to grant it, you would have no need to prefer it. For, in that case, I should have been too proud to oblige his grace of York, to whom, within the hour, I have been reluctantly compelled to make the same denial. One thing I can assure you, and I do so with much pleasure, as your strong interest in their behalf is natural, that neither their honor or their lives will be perilled; further than this, I cannot speak, nor should you ask me. And now to change the subject, which cannot be agreeable to either of us, we are about to sup, or dine, if you have not done so already; will you not join our party? I know not well what we can offer you, but I doubt not that Merlache, yonder, will make us tolerable cheer; and I am sure we have got some right good wine. Come, come, old fellow-soldier, lay by that brow of gloom, and sit down with us."

"I must request your excellency," answered the veteran, with a deep and formal bow, "to excuse me—seeing—"

"But if his excellency do so," said the Duke of York, taking a step in advance, and cutting him short in the middle of his sentence, "I cannot. So, Sir Henry Oswald, you will be seated; I command, on your allegiance to his majesty, my brother. What, man," he added with a gay smile, which pleasingly illumined his dark features— "what, man; would you have the marechal grant you a boon, which he has, not one hour ago, refused to the blood royal? Tush! you forget your manners: but a word in your ear—our good friends will be cared for—and so sit down, and prove yourself, as the dons have it, buar camarado .

To this of course there could be no reply—the veteran, half satisfied, yet half reluctant, joined the gay circle; supper was served, and the bright wine went round, and flashing repartees, and keen wit, and light laughter, became the order of the evening: until at length after the sun had set, and darkness spread over the festive host, and torches had been lighted for more than an hour, the general rose from the carpet, which served his company for seats and board alike, and gave the word for the drums of the infantry to beat to arms, and the trumpets to sound, "Boot and Saddle!"

CHAPTER XXI.

Throughout the livelong night, the meadows and the banks of the Hyère were lighted by the ruddy blaze of many a flitting torch, borne by the fast succeeding regiments, and the yet broader glare of many a beacon, kindled along the line of march, to indicate the route to the rear of the army. Midnight was passed already, before the last of the royal host had extricated themselves from the ford, and formed themselves in line of battle across the meadows on the farther side. This feat having, by vast exertion on the part of the officers, been accomplished, the trumpets sounded the advance, and they marched on, all through the hours of darkness, at the best pace the obscurity of the night, which was much overclouded, and the obstacles they encountered—in the shape of marshy ground, and of many small rivulets, and brooks, which made down to the river, from the hills beyond—permitted. At length the day broke, clear and promising, and the great sun came forth, just as the army had passed partially through, but principally to the left of the village of Grosbois, a little better than a league from Villeneuve St. George, where the Duke of Lorraine was supposed to be still posted. As soon as it was quite light, so that objects could be perceived at a sufficient distance, Turenne began to press the advance, urging the men to march as fast as possible; and throwing forward advanced parties of light infantry and horse to reconnoiter, keeping the higher grounds himself with the Duke of York and his staff, to the right of the line. It had not been long day, however, before a party of the cavalry, who had been pushed forward, was seen returning at a smart trot along the high road from the direction of Villeneuve; and, when they drew so near as to render the recognition of particular persons possible, Monsieur de Beaujeu, a friend of the cardinal's, who had been employed by him in negotiations, which had been going on uninterruptedly with the Duke of Lorraine; and Monsieur d'Agecourt, captain of the Duke's guards, were discovered to be of the number. A few minutes sufficed to disclose, that Monsieur of Lorraine was well disposed to treat; the purpose of his envoy being to request Turenne to delay his advance for the present; and to acquaint the Duke of York that the king of England was in the camp of Lorraine, whither he had come, on the preceding evening, with the hopes of effecting an accommodation. After a short pause of reflection, the marechal requested the duke to ride back with the envoy, who was empowered to plight the Duke of Lorraine's honor, that he should be safe to come and go, in as much as his brother was desirous of conversing with him on the subject. The prince immediately consented; and being charged with Turenne's ultimate conditions, which were comprised in three brief articles—"that the Duke of Lorraine should immediately destroy the bridge of boats at Charenton, subject to the instructions of Monsieur de Varenne, who went for that purpose with the Duke of York—that he should engage to quit the boundaries of France within the space of fifteen days—and that he should pledge his honor to give no further aid to the princes"—rode off, with a few personal attendants only, to the duke's quarters. In the mean time, however, seriously doubting the good faith of the duke, and fancying that his object was only to gain time, Turenne continued to advance as fast as he was able, taking advantage of every favorable position, and keeping himself in readiness to act at a moment's notice on the offensive. Meantime, the Duke of York made his way to the position above Villeneuve, extending from that town on the right flank, to the road from Grosbois to Paris on the left, which Monsieur of Lorraine was fortifying with all the skill of an able general, added to all the personal activity of a shrewd soldier. As the young English prince rode up the gentle slope, at the southern base of which the town was situated, he was struck very forcibly by the strength of the position, and formed a high opinion of the ability by which it had been made tenable, as it certainly seemed to be, against a superior force. All the night had been spent in unintermitted labor at the construction of five strong earthen works, in which the main part of the infantry had been placed, one powerful battalion having its post as a division of reserve, behind the principal redobut in the centre of the line. Behind the foot, which did not amount to above three thousand men, the cavalry, five thousand strong, were drawn up in two lines of battle; and, above these, upon a height near the junction of the rivers, his cannon overlooked the whole from a small barbette battery, at which the duke himself was laboring like a common pioneer, pickaxe in hand, when his noble visitor approached him. But Monsieur de Lorraine, before receiving him, sent one of his equerries to conduct him to the quarters of his brother, who was at that time in the town hall of Villeneuve.

Charles, who was seriously desirous of accommodating matters between the court and the duke, expressed his apprehensions that the latter would never consent to them. "I tell you, James," he said, "he has so strongly promised the princes, that he cannot, od's fish! he cannot now turn back."

"Then must the sword decide it; for certainly the marechal will not relax one tittle," answered his brother; and as he did so, the Duke of Lorraine entered the apartment, and having received the message of Turenne, continued for some time to joke and trifle in his accustomed strain of half-sneering badinage with the princes. It was not long, however, before the Duke of York was convinced by his manner that much of his raillery was forced, and at variance with his real sentiments. With regard to the destruction of the bridge, he readily assented, and dispatched several of his officers with Monsieur de Varenne, to order his engineers to cease from the construction for the present; but as to the rest, he protested vehemently that nothing ever should induce him to affix his signature to conditions so dishonorable. Then, finding that the duke would give him no hope that any others would be accepted by Turenne, he begged the king to send Lord Jermyn back with the duke as a mediator, saying, in a manner half complimentary and half sarcastic, that he feared much his royal highness would be led, by his chivalric and martial disposition, to cast his vote on the side of war rather than of peace. To this Charles willingly assented; and after a few more compliments, the Duke of York returned to the royal army, and Monsieur de Lorraine hastened away to complete his arrangements for receiving the attack of Turenne.

It did not take the duke and Lord Jermyn many minutes to reach the advanced parties of the marechal, which were already almost within cannon-shot of the Lorrainers; while the whole meadows were filled with the bright lines of the compact and orderly foot regiments, pushing on very fast with an unbroken front, their standards fluttering gayly in the light summer wind, and the steel heads of their pikes and the long barrels of their polished muskets flashing back the ear

Marmaduke Wyvil; or, The Maid's Revenge

Henry William Herbert