Down-stairs in the public room, the faithful Derrick is engaged in a
seemingly interesting conversation with mine host Hobb Dipping and two
or three other jolly good fellows, who are all drinking at his expense.
No sign yet had the attendant discovered that had served to arouse his
suspicions. No word had been spoken which in any way showed that the
natives of this desolate place were anxious to know more about his
master or himself. A suspicion of danger often arouses our fears and
doubts when there is perhaps the smallest occasion for either. The
honest countrymen troubled themselves much less about the matter than
even the worthy host, who was happily indifferent to everything but the
fact that Mr Morton and his servant were rare and profitable customers.
The lumbering knot of labourers at length departs, and mine host locks
and bars the door; while Derrick, not a little fatigued with the
harassing events of the day, is left standing alone, surveying a row of
empty benches which the retiring fenmen have just quitted. Burly Hobb
comes back puffing and blowing, his red face glowing like the setting
sun, and his bald skull spotted with perspiration through the exertion
he has undergone in securing the strongly built outer door.
‘Landlord, I’m going to bed,’ says Derrick, who has suddenly returned
to his original gruffness.
‘Very good, sir,’ is the reply of the host, who forthwith trims and
lights an atom of a lamp which he fishes out of a cupboard by the
fireplace. ‘I hope you will sleep well, sir.’
Derrick’s eyes are watching the innkeeper from under his beetling
brows, and he answers gruffly: ‘I hope so.’
‘I’ve heard it said,’ goes on the loquacious host, ‘that a good sleep
is worth a fortune to an over-tired man. I see nothing to prevent you
sleeping well here, sir.’
‘Not much likelihood of being roused in the night, eh?’ remarks the
attendant.
‘Why, no, sir,’ answers Dipping, wondering what motive his guest could
have in asking such a question. ‘There’s no one to disturb you here,
unless, indeed, it be your master himself.’
‘Many visitors here?’ inquired Derrick, as old Hobb leads the way up
the dusky, creaking staircase with the flickering lamp in his hand.
‘None at all, sir,’ replied the landlord in a melancholy tone. ‘There
never is any one here—leastways, very, very seldom. I haven’t had a
visitor stopping in this house for a matter of—I can’t rightly say
how long; but I know it’s a mortal long while, for since my poor wife
died’——
‘Is this my room?’ interrupts Derrick, as the innkeeper halts before a
solid-looking black door at the head of the staircase.
‘It is,’ answers old Dipping. ‘You are pretty close to your master,
sir.’
‘I know,’ is all that the attendant deigns to say, as he pushes open
the door and enters with the light, leaving the landlord to stumble
down-stairs in the dark as best he may. Having carefully fastened the
door, Derrick sets down the light, and approaches the window with the
intention of getting a breath of fresh air. The casement is somewhat
hard to unfasten, and when at length he succeeds in opening it, the
lamp which he has brought is blown out under the sudden influence of
a gust of air which is admitted. No matter; he does not want it. The
night-breeze is cool and refreshing, a favourable contrast to the hot
stifling room below, and Derrick, as he leans upon the window-ledge,
begins to appear more contented and at ease. All afterglow of the
twilight has long disappeared, and the moon is shining with a sickly
light upon a low layer of mist which covers the marshy flats. Above
the thin watery fog which has arisen from the sluggish stream and
enshrouded the village as in a winding-sheet, the great shattered
tower of the monastery rises ghostlike and dim, while the silence of
the vast solitude is unbroken by a single sound. Even Derrick is not
insensible to the peculiar beauty and stillness of the scene, and he
lounges there, humming a tune, and watching the silvery trickle upon
the watery marsh long after mine host has retired to rest. At length he
closes the casement and divests himself of his heavy boots. Tired as
he is, he does not attempt to remove his clothes. The man had seen a
deal of sharp service, and experience had taught him long ago that in
cases where he might be wanted at any moment, it were better to sleep
in them. He merely places his pistols within reach, and then throwing
himself upon the bed, endeavours to sleep.
Every one knows what it is to arrive at that dreamy state of
semi-unconsciousness when the weary senses, failing at once to engage
the attentions of the drowsy god, find a sort of relief in a long train
of most disconnected thought. It was thus with Derrick. The fatigues
of the day had proved too much for even that hardy individual, so
that, instead of falling at once into a sound refreshing sleep, he
was drowsily conning over the different events which had occurred,
his rambling imagination colouring them with a variety of indistinct
pictures and incidents. These weird fancies at length grew fainter
and fainter, and the attendant was fast sinking into slumber, when
suddenly, and as it seemed without a cause, he awoke. Through the
casement the moon was staring down upon him like a pale still face,
and the greater part of his recumbent person lay bathed in its cold
light. All was still; there seemed not the slightest reason why he
should be thus aroused. The silence was profound, and the very beating
of Derrick’s heart sounded like a hammer thumping time in his head.
Scarcely knowing what he does, he sits up on the edge of his bed and
listens. Yes; he was not mistaken, there seemed to be a faint noise
approaching the old inn—a low measured tramp. The hammer-like beating
grows louder as Derrick, with every nerve strained to the utmost
pitch, silently rises and once more opens the casement. There can be
no mistake now; some persons are approaching; and in that low tramp,
distant as it is, he recognises the marching of a body of soldiers.
He closes the window softly, and taking his heavy riding-boots in his
hand, unfastens the door, and glides softly along the gallery towards
his master’s apartment. Owing to the pitchy darkness in which the
gallery is enveloped, he experiences some difficulty in groping his
way without stumbling; but reaching the further end at last, he feels
his way to his master’s door and gives the required signal. It is
answered with unexpected suddenness, the door being instantly thrown
open, and Sir Carnaby appearing on the threshold. He is fully dressed,
like Derrick; he has not even removed his outer clothing, and in his
hand is a short broad-bladed knife. The saddle-bags lie upon the table,
and a portion of their contents, discernible by a dim night-light, is
scattered about; but the black box is gone.
In a very few words, the trusty henchman explains what is the reason
of his coming, and urges his master to hold himself in readiness to
escape, should it be necessary. Sir Carnaby looks at him while he
speaks as if he does not quite understand his hurried explanation;
but when the attendant has finished, he looks around the room with an
anxious air, and then says: ‘If it be so, Derrick, we must get off
somehow as quickly as we can. This window, I think, looks towards the
back of the house. Can you not manage to descend into the courtyard and
get out our horses? Lead them down the bank of the stream towards that
tall beacon by the dike. You must remember the place; we remarked it as
we passed the mill on our journey here.’
‘I remember the place, Sir Carnaby; but I am not going to make off
there, and leave you alone here.’
‘I shall be safe enough, I tell you, Derrick,’ said the baronet as he
hastily motioned to the attendant to go. ‘I cannot come yet; I cannot;
it is impossible.’
‘I will wait below, then,’ is the stubborn reply of his servant, who is
already half out of the window.
‘Derrick,’ says Sir Carnaby, laying his hand upon the attendant’s
shoulder, ‘do what I tell you. I cannot come now; and if you wait below
for me, as you say, we shall both be discovered. More lives than our
own depend upon your obeying me at this moment. Go, as I tell you, and
wait for me by the beacon; and I will join you as soon as I possibly
can.’
The man clasps his master’s hand, and, with something like tears in
his eyes, makes his way to the ground. The fugitive baronet has no
emotion expressed on his countenance, for he fears not for himself; his
thoughts are centred upon that black box which has now so strangely
disappeared. With the broad-bladed knife still in his hand, he goes
towards a corner of the room, kneels down, and appears to busy himself
with the planking of the floor.
* * * * *
Fortunately for himself, Derrick had found his way to the shed where
the horses had been stabled; and his efforts to saddle and bring them
out had proved successful. The great gates leading out of the courtyard
of the old inn were fastened; but this did not deter the attendant’s
movements for an instant. Leading the horses through a gap in the fence
at the back of the _Saxonford Arms_, he crossed a small cultivated
inclosure, and emerged from the cover of a hedge upon the open highway.
Stopping for a moment to listen, he plainly distinguished the measured
tramp of soldiers approaching the inn, mingled with the low peculiar
clank of arms and accoutrements. One circumstance which particularly
alarmed Derrick was that the sound plainly came from the direction
in which he had to go. There was no time for thought, however; the
warning tramp which broke the stillness of the night came nearer and
nearer, and over the old timber bridge which crossed the stream came
a dim file of figures—eleven of them. Derrick could easily count the
number as they passed over the bridge and came straight towards the old
_Saxonford Arms_, their fixed bayonets flashing and glittering in the
moonlight.
There was but one course he could take; he must move forward and pass
them. No opportunity for making a detour, for the military were not
one hundred yards from the house, and the attendant knew that he had
been seen. Muttering a prayer for his master’s safety, Derrick put the
horses to a slow trot, and advanced towards the soldiers with a feeling
of fear at his heart which he had never before experienced. He had not
covered half the distance before a sharp word of command came from the
front, and a line was drawn up across the road, evidently with the
intention of disputing his further progress. A dash for it now; delay
meant capture both for himself and his master. Digging spurs into his
horse’s sides, the attendant laid the flat of his broad blade over the
flanks of Sir Carnaby’s charger which he led, and tore down the road
like a whirlwind. It was all over in a minute. A sheet of flame shot
forth as the bold horseman broke through the line, and then, without
a check, he found himself ascending the steep bank close against the
bridge. The soldiers, however, who had taken the initiative, had
no intention of letting their suspected quarry escape. Before Sir
Carnaby’s servant could head the bank, he was surrounded, and a hoarse
cry to stop and surrender came from his pursuers. In this they had
mistaken their man. Derrick entertained no such idea. He indeed hoped
that the firing would alarm his master, and allow him time to make his
retreat in safety; but not a thought had he of yielding. Once more
clapping spurs to his horse, and striking right and left with his drawn
blade, the attendant partially succeeded in clearing himself from the
press.
At this moment, a random shot from one of the military dropped his
master’s horse, which he had been leading. Derrick had scarcely time to
disengage his arm from the bridle before the poor animal went crashing
down, breaking the worm-eaten railing of the bridge like matchwood, and
throwing one of his assailants headlong into the stream below. In the
confusion, Derrick received a bayonet-wound in the left arm, and he was
nearly pulled from his saddle; but shaking himself free with almost
superhuman strength, he applied his spurs, and galloped across the old
bridge for dear life.
Although there appeared to be no attempt at pursuit, Derrick did not
judge it prudent to ride straight for the spot where he hoped to meet
his master. After making a considerable circuit, the trusty henchman,
faithful to the last, reined in his reeking steed, and gazed across the
flat misty space in the direction of the _Saxonford Arms_. The silence,
however, was as complete as when he had sat at that open window looking
over the fen. Not a soul was anywhere near him. Putting his horse once
more in motion, the man rode slowly along the bank until he reached
the place of rendezvous. It was as he both feared and suspected. Sir
Carnaby was not there. He must wait. The clear night clouded, and the
hours passed by, but yet his master came not. Derrick might wait until
the crack of doom, but he never would meet his master again on earth.
The devoted courage of the servant was useless now, for, pierced by a
musket bullet, Sir Carnaby Vincent lay lifeless across the stairs of
the old _Saxonford Arms_.