And so accompanied by Will Narburton, both mounted on good horses, Josh

left his peaceful home, never doubting but that he should return thither

within a few days and find it even as he had left it. He wore the New

England Ranger's dress, namely, a deep ash-coloured hunting shirt,

leggings and moccasins; he was armed with a rifle-barrelled gun, a small

axe, and a long knife, which served for all purposes in the woods; a

broad-brimmed hat completed this somewhat sombre attire, which

nevertheless became him well, at least so his mother and Rena, his young

sister, thought as they watched him ride away. Josh and his companion

reached the city without hindrance, and on Will's testimony the three

murderers were arrested within a week. They were tried before a mixed

jury of Indians and English, and Tobias was hanged. Now the Sachem of

Mipmuck and King Philip, or Metacomet, as the men of his own tribe

called him, Sachem of the Wampanoags, were allies, and they were

therefore united in their anger against the settlers. So it came to pass

on a certain day King Philip summoned to his camp at Mount Hope the

chiefs, not only of his own tribe, but of all those with whom he was on

friendly terms, to consult whether it was to be war or peace with the

white man.

The Sachem sat in his chair of state (a common wooden chair with a straw

bottom), surrounded by his counsellors and captains in full battle

array, with their war paints and feathers, their tomahawks in their

belts, their bows and arrows slung across their naked shoulders.

Standing before the King was a woman. The skins of beasts of prey hung

from her shoulders and were girded round her waist, strings of beads

encircled her neck, her long black hair hung loosely to her waist, and

on her head was a high crown made of the plumage of all manner of birds.

Her attitude was majestic, as with outstretched arm, tears streaming

from her eyes, she addressed the assembly.

"O brother of my murdered husband! I bring you three hundred warriors,

to war against the white man, who slew my beloved, not on the

battlefield as a warrior should depart, but by treachery. Long years

have I waited to avenge him, but now surely the time has come. The white

men are driving us from our hunting-fields; they destroy our forests, so

that the wild beasts forsake their lairs, and soon we shall lack food

for our children. Let us unite and drive them across the sea from whence

they came! I am but a woman, made to carry burdens and to bear sons; but

my husband has been slain, and the son I bore him died on my bosom.

Shall I not avenge them? Is the time not come?"

Thus spake the squaw, Sachem Weetamoo, the widow of King Philip's

brother Alexander, who, being accused of plotting against the English,

had been taken as a prisoner to Plymouth, where he died, his people said

of poison, but in truth of a fever brought on by anger and vexation at

his position.

This had happened upwards of fifteen years ago, but the widowed squaw,

Sachem, had never ceased wailing, and importuning Philip to avenge her

husband, and now, hearing that he had been called to account for the

murder of the missionary, she hastened down with three hundred warriors

from the fort on the Pocasset shore, where she dwelt, and urged him,

with all the passion of a woman's deadly hatred, to take up arms and

drive the white man out of the land.

She had chosen her time well, for but a few days previously Philip had

been summoned to Boston and compelled to promise that he would deliver

up all English arms in the possession of his tribe, and both he and his

chief men were angered, so that Weetamoo's arguments, and the presence

of the armed warriors she had brought with her, fired them, and they

shouted that she spoke with wisdom.

Philip assented, and straightway swift messengers were sent forth with

the wampum belt from village to village, from tribe to tribe, and

Weetamoo went to her wigwam triumphant. Before the people of New England

had time to realise the fact, the flames of burning homesteads, the

flight of terrified women and children, spread terror far and wide.

But even then the elders, the men of Boston and New Plymouth, made an

effort to maintain peace, promising to all Indians who would lay down

their arms, life and liberty. Further, they decided to send a deputation

to Philip with offers of conciliation.

It was a dangerous mission, and there was some hesitation in asking any

one to undertake it; but the matter was settled when Josh Blackstone

came forward and proposed being the bearer thereof. He and his father

were on friendly terms with the Indians, especially with Philip; Josh

had often been a guest at Mount Hope for weeks together during the

hunting season. He declared he had no fear; he would go alone to Philip.

His assurance had the effect of encouraging others, and six young men

offered to accompany him.

"That is too many; it looks distrustful," he said, and chose three, with

whom he set forth at once, sending Will back to Study Hill, with a

letter to his father, telling the errand upon which he was bound, and

assuring him he anticipated no danger. Nathan was not quite so well

satisfied, but he refrained from saying aught which might alarm his wife

and Rena.

"The lad is doing his duty; it will be well whatever betides him," he

said, and he went about his farm cheerfully, encouraging his

neighbours, and taking all due precaution against the enemy.

The country over which Josh and his companions had to travel to Mount

Hope was so well known to the former that he was able to lessen the

distance by short cuts across country. For the most part it was thickly

wooded, but sometimes they had to skirt vast tracts of swampy land

overgrown with reeds, bulrushes, and long grass. Josh knew that such

places were usually resorted to by Indians when they wished to waylay

their enemies; he therefore kept a sharp look-out.

Within a few miles of the Mount they came upon a great lake. On one side

was an almost impenetrable forest, and on the other an immense swamp.

Unfortunately it was evening, and as there was no path they dismounted

and were leading their horses, when suddenly a wild unearthly yell rose

on the still air, and a horde of Indians came scrambling up the banks of

the lake; in a second they were upon the English.

"Run!" shouted Josh to his companions, "it's your only chance." He,

slipping his horse's bridle, placed himself with his back to a tree and

fired into the enemy, to keep them, if only for a few minutes, at bay.

He knew from the first that resistance was hopeless. The savages

literally swarmed upon them. He saw two of his three men fall, their

skulls cloven; then an Indian, taller than his fellows, with bigger

feathers on his head, felled him to the ground. He did not even then

lose consciousness, expecting to feel the sharp scalp-knife do its cruel

work, when, to his surprise, he was dragged by the hair of his head out

of the fray, hoisted on to one of the horses, an Indian sprang up behind

him uttering a loud whoop, and they were scouring through the forest out

into the open plain. The natural instinct of self-preservation made Josh

cling desperately to the horse's mane, as the animal, terrified by the

Indian's savage yells, leaped through the thick undergrowth, waded

across streams, then bounding over a high barrier, was drawn suddenly

up, almost on to his haunches, and so stopped short. Josh would have

been done to death, scalped then and there, but for his captor, to whom,

according to the laws of war, he belonged solely. The natives leaped and

yelled around them as the chief flung himself to the ground, spoke a few

words to them which elicited shouts of delight, and strode away. Amidst

loud jeering and yells, to say nothing of two or three heavy blows, Josh

was overthrown, his limbs bound with strong reeds, and in this helpless

condition he was dragged some distance and thrust into an empty hut. He

lay for a time insensible from the ill-usage and blows he had received;

but gradually he recovered consciousness, and the horror of his position

rushed upon him. He knew that, as a prisoner, he would be subject to

frightful tortures before he was even allowed to die--surely it was a

refinement of cruelty to have spared his life!

As the cold dews of night crept on, strong man as he was, he shivered,

and the smarting of his wounds, the soreness of his bruises, became

almost intolerable. It was many hours also since he had tasted food.

That did not trouble him; as a hunter he was accustomed to long fasts.

But his thirst was growing more and more intense, his lips were parched,

his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth. To add to his misery, as he

lay on the damp ground, he could see the fires of his enemies, and hear

their unearthly deafening yells, as they feasted and made merry. Once,

nay, twice, he tried to break his bonds; but it was useless, they were

too tightly woven. Probably from sheer exhaustion he dropped asleep.

Surely he was dreaming, for he felt a hand laid upon him and heard a

voice whisper, "Fear not, but drink;" then his head was raised, a gourd

put to his lips; he drank eagerly a long draught of pure water, and sank

back refreshed.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I am Thusick, King Philip's daughter," answered the same voice. "I do

not hate the white men; they are wise and brave, have taught us many

things; therefore I have brought you water, knowing that the fever must

be on you."

Thusick's voice was gentle, and the hand she laid on his head was

wondrous cool and soft, so that a wave of renewed hope and vigour came

to Josh, and he said eagerly--

"It is good of you to bring me water, but it were kinder still to

unloose my bonds and help me to escape."

It was night, so he could not see how pitiful the dark eyes grew.

"It were useless," she said, "the camp is too well guarded; you could

not escape. My father has saved your life; he does not will that you

should die, because you were his friend. If you have courage you may

live. To-morrow at dawn your bonds will be cut, and you will be brought

forth to run the gantlet. If you are swift of foot, and are not beaten

down, but reach the King and touch his knees, they will spare you. Three

separate times must you run that race, and afterwards you will be

adopted by our people, in place of the Black Hawk, whom your men slew

to-day; you will take a wife from amongst us, and it will be well with

you."

Josh did not, even under present circumstances, see it in the same light

as Thusick, but he was young, and the mere chance of life was welcome.

He was in no mood to trouble about the future; the present hour was too

fraught with anxiety. He knew from hearsay what was meant by the cruel

ordeal of the gantlet, and how not one man in ten came forth from it

alive, and overpowered as he was with a sense of physical weakness, his

heart sank within him.

"This girl has brought me water; surely she could also bring me food to

strengthen me," he thought, so he spoke out.

"I shall never run to-morrow, for I have had no food, and I shall

faint."

"I have brought food," she answered, "also wherewith to dress your

wounds and make you strong."

Cautiously she raised a corner of the matting which hung over the

entrance of the hut, so that a glimmer of light from the now dying fires

crept in. Then she fed him with meat, and afterwards she bathed his

head, and stripping his shirt as best she could, washed his wounds. When

all was finished, she put a nut into his mouth, saying--

"It is bitter to the taste, but it is sweet, for it will give you

strength; let it lie all night in your mouth, and to-morrow you will run

swiftly. Our warriors eat thereof when they go on the war trail, and

they are strong. Now, farewell!"

Through the dimness he saw the tall, lithe figure glide out and

disappear into the night. Then a sort of lethargy stole over him; his

eyelids closed and he slept.

A prolonged whoop, and Josh awoke with a start. The sun was creeping

into the hut, and he knew it was morning. If he had needed any reminder

of what lay before him, it was there unmistakably, in the presence of

half-a-dozen red men, who stood talking and gesticulating, whilst one of

their number cut the thongs which bound him, and by a sign bade him

rise. He obeyed, and instantly heavy hands were laid upon him, his

clothes were torn off his back, and he stood stark naked in their midst.

A momentary feeling of the utter hopelessness of his position swept over

him; as he looked at the savages, armed with tomahawks and

scalping-knives, he felt that his chances of life were indeed small.

"Have good courage, be swift of foot, and it will be well with you;"

Thusick, the King's daughter, had so spoken, and he believed her;

moreover, he was conscious that the fatigue of the previous day had

passed away. His limbs felt light and strong. He tossed back his head

defiantly, and a flash of determination lighted up his blue eyes.

"I'll not give in without a good try," he thought, remembering those at

home--"father, mother, Rena!"

A push from behind sent him out of the hut into the broad sunlight of a

July morning. Amidst hundreds of dark skins he stood forth in his naked

whiteness alone, a target for all eyes. Shrieks, yells, whoops, greeted

his appearance from the vast crowd gathered to witness the torture of

the white man.

He might well be excused if the horror of the situation caused his cheek

to pale and a tremor to run through his whole body.

"Drink, drink quickly!" and a gourd was thrust into his hand.

Instinctively, without hesitation, he put it to his lips and drained the

contents, then threw it on the ground. The action was so rapid that it

passed unperceived, but the effect of the liquor was almost magical. It

was like an electric shock coursing through his veins. The mist which

had obscured his vision was cleared away; he saw the road stretched out

before him along which he was to run, savages on either side waving

thongs and sticks wherewith to scourge him, and at the farther end,

surrounded by his chiefs, King Philip, with feathered crests and beaded

trappings. The rising of the King to his feet was the token that the

ordeal was to begin.

Strange as it may seem, all sense of fear had left Josh; he was quite

calm now. Setting his teeth tight, he gathered himself together, and

with one foot forward, awaited the signal.

"Others have done it, so, please God, will I," he murmured. A clash! a

wild shout rang out through the summer air, and he was driven forward.

Over the ground he flew, with the steady pluck of a practised runner,

his nerves wrought to their highest tension, heedless alike of the

blows which hailed upon him, of the thongs which tore his flesh. Faster,

ever faster, on he went, blood pouring down his body until the white

skin was red and mauled. As he neared the goal the yells of rage grew

louder, the onslaught fiercer, but he never wavered, though his breath

came short and hard; verily, they were beating it out of him.

A blow struck him high up on the neck; he staggered, but the yells of

delight which greeted this sign of failing strength so maddened him,

that with a supreme effort he leaped forward, threw out his arms, and

caught at something which stayed his course. A rushing sound as of the

incoming tide surged round him, died out, and stillness as of death

crept over him as he slipped unconscious to the ground.

That last spurt saved Josh Blackstone's life. His outstretched arms had

clasped neither pillar nor post, but King Philip's knees! and

straightway Thusick sprang forward and pleaded that the white man should

be delivered to her, that she might heal him, and so he would once again

afford them sport. Her words were greeted with shouts of approval, for

he had done bravely. Usually victims failed to traverse half the

appointed space before they succumbed, but he had fallen at the goal and

was still living! So Thusick's prayer was granted, and he was delivered

into her hands.

Hardly had the judgment been passed when a messenger arrived bringing

news to Philip that the Boston men were sending troops against him, and

that it were well for him to hasten and destroy the nearest villages and

homesteads before they came up to give him battle. Philip needed no

urging; in an incredibly short time the camp of Mount Hope was left to

the old men, women, and children, and before the mid-day sun was high in

the heavens the last plumed savage had disappeared. Strange stillness

reigned where, but a short time before, shouts and yells had filled the

air. On the outskirts of the camp, close to the wooden palisades, was a

solitary wigwam; thither, by Thusick's orders, the unconscious Josh was

carried, and laid on a bed of fresh rushes.

Indian women had much knowledge of medicinal herbs and plants, and

Thusick was skilled even more than others. Quickly she washed his wounds

in fresh water, covered his body with unguents and newly-plucked leaves,

so that when he recovered consciousness and opened his eyes it was to a

sense of comparative comfort. He tried to raise himself, but Thusick

bade him lie still.

"Philip is gone," she said; "have no fear, the chiefs are with him."

"Gone to kill my people, and I am helpless! Let me go too," he said, and

again he strove to rise; but the movement caused his wounds to break out

bleeding afresh, and in utter despair he threw himself back on his couch

of reeds, and broke out into bitter weeping, the outburst of mental

agony long restrained, and great physical pain.

"Father! mother! Rena! they will be done to death!" he cried, "and I

cannot strike a blow to save them."

"The days are long," said the Indian girl; "by night the great pain will

have passed away, and, brave man, you can go. If you have courage and

can walk till dawn, you will come to an Indian village, friends of your

people; they will save you."

"Is it true? Shall I be able to do this?" he asked wearily, feeling so

helpless.

"Yes, if you are strong," said the girl. "Now sleep, for sleep gives

strength." She handed him a gourd, saying, "Drink!"

Suddenly a great passion took possession of Josh, a feeling of deadly

hatred until now unknown to him. All the suffering, all the indignity he

had undergone, seemed to madden him.

"Why do you try to save my life," he said, "when I hate your people,

and if I live will slay them? I will never rest day or night till I have

overcome your father and exterminated his warriors. I will not take life

at your hands and give you death."

Thusick shook her head; her unreasoning mind could not follow him. She

was but a savage, guided by instinct. She gave no name to her actions.

Mercy and love were unknown in her vocabulary. Out of her own gentle

nature she did the deeds of mercy.

"Drink," she repeated in answer to his angry words, and sullenly he

obeyed. "Now sleep, Thusick will watch," and sitting down beside him

with a bunch of gorgeous feathers in her hand, she waved them over him

to keep the noxious flies and insects from settling on his wounds.

When again he awoke it was night, and Thusick was standing beside him.

"It is time you went forth," she said, holding out her hand to help him

to rise. He was astonished to feel no pain, and that his limbs obeyed

his will so that he was able to stand erect.

"Clothe yourself and come forth," said Thusick; "fear not, the old men

and women are sleeping; they will not hear," and she went to the door of

the wigwam.

By the light of an oil lamp Josh saw a portion of his own clothing lying

in a heap within his reach. He noticed also that a gun and a hatchet

were placed beside them, food and drink were on the ground. He did not

know that throughout that long day, whilst he slept, the Indian woman

had so tended him, that, not only the pain of his wounds had ceased, but

they were fast healing. A few seconds later, he stood at the entrance of

the wigwam by Thusick's side. She raised her hand, pointed to the west,

and speaking in a low voice, said--

"The summer nights are short; before dawn you will reach the Mohawks'

village." Josh looked down at her, and even in that supreme moment,

when his soul was still bitter within him, he remembered what he owed

her, and speaking gently, said--

[Illustration: "Quiet! Josiah Blackstone."]

"Your men I will not spare, I will slay them; but for your sake,

Thusick, I will protect every woman of your race, so help me God!"

"It is well," she answered; "now depart."

He obeyed, and Thusick watched him until he had disappeared down the

side of the Mount; then she returned to her own wigwam, with a dull

pain at her heart.

As Josh reached the bottom of the hill, he heard a horse neigh, and at

the same moment a hand was laid upon his shoulder.

"Caught again," he thought, instinctively making a supreme effort to

escape from his invisible foe, but the grip was of iron, and he knew at

once who it was that held him down, when a voice said, speaking in

English, but with a soft Indian intonation--

"Quiet! Josiah Blackstone, do you think, if I had not willed it, you

would be alive now? Twice I have saved your life, and now a third time,

because we have been friends and you have smoked the calumet in my

wigwam; but from henceforth we are as strangers. I know you no more." As

he spoke he loosed his hold, and Josh, turning, saw the gigantic form of

the Sachem King Philip, with the crested plume on his head, looming

forth, a huge shadow in the darkness.

"You have saved me from death, but you have subjected me to indignities

worse than death," said Josh; "nevertheless I thank you, for surely you

meant well."

"If I had not carried you off they would have killed you as they did

your companions," said Philip, "and a prisoner's fate is torture and

death; only to the few is it granted to run the gantlet and to live. I

gave you a chance, you have won, and I let you go forth free. Would your

people have done as much for me? Have you not driven us out of our own

lands, where our fathers hunted? When the white men first trod our

shores we bade them welcome, offering, in exchange for a few cartloads

of cloths, trinkets, and guns, to share the land with them and dwell

together in peace. We were foolish, not knowing that where the white man

sets his foot he must be sole master. You clear our forests, you build

houses, you make towns, and we are driven farther and farther into

wilds, and our familiar hunting-grounds know us no more. We have

suffered much, and so we have risen, and will burn your houses and your

towns, and send you back from whence you came. I will show your people

that the red man can fight for his own and conquer."

"Fight you may, but you will not conquer," said Josh. "I do not say you

are wrong, Philip; if I were in your stead I should doubtless feel as

you do. But the time is past for you to drive us out; we have made this

land our own, rightly or wrongly, and we shall keep it. Be wise while it

is yet time; do not light a torch which will set your forests on fire

and destroy your people."

"It is too late; I am bound," answered the King. "Farewell, Josiah

Blackstone. There is your horse, ride quickly south, and warn your

people; avoid the great forest." And having so spoken, the huge form

leaped up the Mount, bounding from hillock to hillock, and so

disappeared.

"A child of nature, a man with a big heart, worthy to be a king. I am

sorry to lose him for my friend!" sighed Josh. Then mounting his horse,

he rode in the direction Philip had indicated. As Thusick had said, the

summer nights were short, but the day had not yet dawned when Josh

perceived flames and smoke rising in various directions. The settlements

and homesteads were far apart, there were few roads, and communication

was difficult. Checking his horse, Josh looked around, and was startled

by the lurid redness of the sky, and by every other sign of a vast

conflagration near at hand.

"I must be approaching Brookfield," he thought; "I have ridden farther

west than I imagined."

Suddenly the flames shot up, shrieks of agony filled the air, and by the

fierce light he saw a crowd of men, women, and children coming in the

direction of the forest. He remembered Philip's words, and knew the

danger lay there. Riding quickly forward he placed himself in front of

them, shouting, "Back! back! for God's sake, keep out of the forest!"

At the same moment a gust of wind dispersed the smoke, and showed him a

few hundred yards distant a house, which, owing to its isolated

position, away from the burning town, was untouched by fire.

"Follow me," he cried, and dashed towards it.

His sudden appearance, his assurance of voice and manner, had the

desired effect; the fugitives crowded round him, some even clinging to

his stirrups. All vaguely in their terror wondered from whence he had

sprung. "Surely he must have been sent to save them from the heathen."

So he drew them on until they reached the house, entered the courtyard,

and some one closed the gates, thus ensuring safety for a short time at

least.

The day was just dawning, but it was hardly perceptible because of the

fierce light from the burning town, which reddened land and sky with a

deeper glow than the rising sun. Coming ever nearer and nearer they

heard the yells of the savages, and the children clung in terror to

their mothers, who, in their anguish, called upon the men to save them.

"Quick to the house and barricade doors and windows," said Josh.

"You are driving us into a trap; we shall be either murdered or burnt

alive," cried a farmer.

"You will at least have a chance of defending yourselves," answered

Josh; "in the forest you would have been slaughtered. I do not say we

shall escape now, but at least we can fight and die like men."

"He's right," said James Carter, the owner of the house. "My father

built the homestead; it is strong and well seasoned. Comrades, if we

must die, we will sell our lives dearly. Quick, do as the young man bids

you," and throwing open the doors, he hurried the women and children

within.

Josh still sat on his horse looking round, considering rapidly the

possibility of holding the place against such terrible odds. The

physical and mental sufferings through which he had passed had told upon

him in no ordinary degree: his face was drawn and perfectly colourless,

his eyes were sunk deep in his head, and his lips cracked with a

consuming fever; from a bright, happy-looking man, he had grown stern

and forbidding. Truly the iron had entered into his soul.

"I must find some place for my horse; I cannot let him loose, we may

need him. Do you know where I can put him with any degree of safety?" he

asked a young man of about his own age who for the last few minutes had

been watching him attentively.

"If you will dismount, I will stow him away," was the quiet answer.

Josh made an effort to throw himself off, but as he reached the ground

he staggered and almost fell.

"Are you hurt?" asked Stephen Carter, eyeing him curiously.

"Only stiff," answered Josh with an effort, pulling himself together.

"We must hurry up. Do you hear? The Indians are close at hand."

"This way then," said the young man, preceding him to an inner

courtyard, where there was a shed. "He will be all right here."

"Are you acquainted with this house?" asked Josh.

"I ought to be; it is my father's," was the short answer. "I am Stephen

Carter."

"That is well; then you have a right to command. Will you see that the

doors and windows are closed? All the men who have arms must guard the

entrances. Those who have none, with the women, must draw water from the

wells and fill every bucket and utensil, for the Indians will try to

burn us out; it is their way."

He had hardly finished speaking, when the frantic yells of the savages,

the shots pouring in on all sides, told only too plainly that the siege

had already begun.

"Young man, whoever you may be," said the farmer, who had at first

protested, "you brought us into this trap, and you must get us out."

"I'll do the best I can for you," answered Josh, and he went off one

way, Stephen Carter another, to organise the defence.

They were indeed in a desperate strait; to enter the house and massacre

every white man, woman, and child, was the determined object of the

besiegers, and they left no device untried to accomplish this.

"The devils! I told you they'd fire us," said Josh to Stephen, as

looking through a chink he saw the Indians piling wood and other

combustible materials up against the walls of the house.

"Quick, make a chain and give them a shower-bath," he shouted.

He was obeyed with right good-will, and the flames were extinguished.

Then firebrands, fastened on long poles, were hoisted against the

cornices and projections, in the hope of setting them on fire. Then

arrows wound round with burning rags filled with sulphur were shot down

on to the roof; whilst the savages swarmed on to the window-sills and

balconies, trying to find some unguarded place; but they were thrust

back, more often shot down, and falling on those below, created great

confusion.

The first terror over, the besieged entered heart and soul into the

spirit of the defence, and at every turn, by every device and cunning,

baffled the Indians. Josh was indefatigable, Stephen following close on

his heels, for his daring, unceasing energy excited the latter's

admiration and fascinated him. He was seen to tear the firebrands from

the poles and dash them amongst the enemy, then mounting on the roof he

hurled the sulphured arrows back to whence they came; and his example

being quickly followed by others, no wonder if the savages lost heart,

so that when at last Josh and Stephen, with a dozen other men, dashed

into their midst, an almost hand-to-hand fight ensued, and they

gradually gave way and fled to the shelter of the forest, leaving many

dead and wounded behind them on the ground. Then the besieged had a

short respite, and were able to take counsel together. Men pressed

forward to shake Josh by the hand, forgetting he was a stranger. His

white set face now begrimed with smoke was ghastly to behold. Stephen

brought him food. "You are doing the work of half-a-dozen men," he said;

"your strength will fail you if you do not eat." Silently Josh

acquiesced, thanking him.

A man came up to him.

"Have you heard that Colonel Willard of Boston has been despatched

westward?" he asked.

"No; how should I?" said Josh. "If that is a fact, and our plight were

made known to him, he might come to our rescue."

"It _is_ a fact; he was sent to punish Philip for the murder of the

deputation," said the man.

Josiah started. "All were not murdered," he said, "for I, Josiah

Blackstone, am here amongst you. I was taken prisoner, carried to Mount

Hope, and--" he paused--"with Philip's aid I escaped." He would not tell

of the torture he had undergone; but continued, without noticing the

astonishment his words occasioned, "If Colonel Willard is anywhere

within reach we must get at him."

"Impossible, the Indians are all around; if we attempt to move they will

start up again."

Josh made no answer. The subject was discussed generally, and

unanimously decided to be impracticable; any man leaving the house would

be seen and murdered. There was nothing to do but to wait, on the chance

that a fugitive from Brookfield would carry the news to the colonel.

Night fell, and still the savages remained quiet. Stephen was on guard

at the back of the house when Josh appeared leading his horse.

"Surely you are not going to do it?" he said.

"I am going to try," answered Josh grimly. "I guess about where I can

catch Willard. It will be sharp work; but if I succeed by to-morrow at

this time he may have given those red devils a lesson which they will

not forget in a hurry. I am afraid they will wake up and worry you

to-morrow; be on your guard, and do your uttermost to hold out till

evening. Good-bye."

"Good-bye," said Stephen. "It is awfully plucky of you. I hope you will

get through; it is our only chance. But you hardly look fit for such a

ride."

"I am tougher than you think," said Josh; "most men would look worse

than I do if they had gone through what I have done," and he held out

his hand.

Stephen wrung it, saying, "I'll unbar the back gate for you, it opens on

to the water-meadows; the ground is soft, so that the horse's hoofs will

not be heard if you walk him, and I believe the savages are on the other

side in the forest. It is less than half a mile to the river, and a mile

farther up it is so shallow that you can easily ford it; on the other

side you will be comparatively safe."

"Thanks," said Josiah. "The night's dark; that is in my favour," and he

disappeared.

Throughout that night and the following morning the Indians remained

quiet; but soon after noon they emerged from the forest, dragging and

pushing forward a sort of cart of enormous dimensions mounted on

rudely-constructed wheels. Bundles of hay, flax, and hemp, besides other

combustible materials, were piled in it to a great height. They brought

the thing within a short distance of the house, screening themselves

behind it from the shots which the besieged fired down upon them. Then

a party of Indians with long poles came running, shouting, and yelling

triumphantly out of the forest; evidently they felt sure now of victory.

[Illustration: "Be on your guard."]

The besieged watched these preparations with painful anxiety, not daring

to give expression to their fears.

Suddenly a cloud of smoke arose, tongues of fire leaped up, and the

Indians, using long poles, began pushing the cumbersome vehicle nearer

to the house. Then indeed the English knew they were lost. The men

turned pale and looked aghast at the awful sight, and the women in their

terror cried aloud to God to help them. Their doom was sealed; either

they must perish in the flames, or rushing out, be murdered by the

savages. Slowly but surely the horrible machine came on, long tongues of

fire already licked the front of the house, and the small amount of

water the besieged were able to throw upon that great mass of

combustible substance was of no avail; besides, the heat would not allow

of their opening the windows or ascending to the roof.

"Let us out, let us out!" shrieked the terror-stricken women.

"Nothing but the bursting of the clouds from heaven can save us,"

exclaimed Stephen in despair.

At that moment, above the cries of the women and children and the yells

of the savages, there was heard a distant rumbling.

"What is it? what new horror is coming upon us?" cried several voices at

once. Again it came rolling nearer and nearer, and some one said, "It is

thunder!" Then an aged woman, raising her wrinkled hands, cried with a

loud voice, "The Lord is with us; who shall be against us?"

But the rain, the blessed rain from heaven, would it fall and extinguish

the flames, which kept rising higher and higher? The trees of the forest

waved, bowing before the coming storm; the wind rose, and the house

rocked under the fury of the elements; and the women, falling on their

knees, prayed, "Good Lord, deliver us!" and the men, uncovering their

heads, prayed also. They were powerless; God alone could save them!

If the rain held off only a little longer, it would be too late! Already

a buttress had caught fire, and at the risk of their lives the two

Carters, father and son, with the aid of several other men, hewed at it

to separate it from the main building. Suddenly a flash of lightning, so

lurid that the whole heavens were illumined, followed by a crash of

thunder, rolling as it seemed in the nethermost parts of the earth and

in the heavens above, struck English and Indians alike with terror. The

latter, throwing themselves with their faces on the earth, lay as if

stunned. And then the clouds burst, a sheet of water poured down, a

perfect deluge! In the space of a few minutes the land was submerged,

the fire was extinguished, and the burning mass reduced to smoking

embers.

The besieged knew that for the present they were saved, and the Indians

knew they were conquered by the "Great Unseen," and so, rising half

drowned, they fled to the forest. As suddenly as the storm had risen so

suddenly did it abate.

Then another sound reached the ears of the besieged, the tramping of

horses' hoofs coming at full speed through the deserted village, and a

troop of some fifty or sixty horsemen pursued the Indians, shooting and

hewing them down. Many were slain, and those who escaped dispersed.

Before sunset all fear was over for that brave little garrison, the

house-doors were thrown open, and they came forth to welcome their

rescuers.

"Josiah Blackstone? where is Blackstone? We owe our lives to him," said

James Carter.

"Ay, verily we do!" shouted a chorus of voices.

"You say truly," responded Colonel Willard. "When he arrived at my camp

this morning both he and his horse were dead beat; he could not have

ridden back with me. There comes a time when even the strongest man has

to give in, and Josh Blackstone had reached that stage. Do you know

where he came from?"

"From Mount Hope; he was made prisoner by Philip, and escaped," said

Stephen Carter.

"After running the gantlet, and coming out of it alive, which not one

man in fifty succeeds in doing," said the colonel; "and it seems to me

he has been on the go ever since. No marvel if he dropped from his horse

in a dead faint after he had delivered your message. He's a Spartan! A

cheer for brave Josh Blackstone!"

And the cheer went up right gladly, whilst the women brushed the tears

from their eyes, and the men muttered in their beards, "He's a brave

lad! a right brave lad!"

* * * * *

All through that winter and the following spring and summer the war

raged; a reign of terror spread over the land.

When Josiah Blackstone reached his home he found the house burnt to the

ground, the trees in the orchard felled, only the trodden-down grave of

his grandsire left to mark where his inheritance had been.

Father, mother, Rena, were no more! He stood desolate and alone. His

father, he was told, had defended himself bravely; more than one Indian

had fallen by his hand; but at last overpowered by numbers, he had been

slain. Of his mother and Rena's fate he failed to learn anything; they

had disappeared. One thing he discovered, namely, that it was not the

Wampanoags, Philip's tribe of Indians, who had wrought this destruction,

but the squaw Sachem Weetamoo's, and Josh there and then made up his

mind that he would follow her up and discover the fate of his mother and

sister. The Plymouth Colony had put the conduct of all military affairs

into the hands of Colonel Church, a friend of the Blackstones, and

straightway Josh offered him his services, which were readily accepted,

and he was enrolled in the corps, and rapidly rose to the rank of

captain. The knowledge of Indian warfare he had gained from his friend

was only equalled by Colonel Church himself, and these two men, working

together, became an absolute terror to the Indians, for they not only

fought them with their own weapons of cunning and ruse, but with the

superior arms of the trained soldier.

Gradually but surely the red men felt the weight of the white man's arm;

they lost many of their best chiefs and warriors; they could no longer

undertake large expeditions, but were reduced to a sort of predatory

warfare. Twice in the course of a few weeks Philip was nearly captured;

he fled, escaping in disguise, no one knew whither. But even then he

would not yield. One of his chiefs venturing to propose that peace

should be asked for, Philip ordered him at once to be put to death.

The sorely-tried population of New England would gladly have made peace.

The strain of never-ceasing anxiety had whitened the heads of men still

in their prime, and young men had even grown to look old. They could

bear to die and suffer themselves, if need be; but their hearts ached

for the women and children, above all for those who were missing and

whose fates were dark mysteries.

"It will never end until that she-devil Weetamoo and her tool Philip are

taken or killed, Josh," said Colonel Church, as they paced together in

front of their tent, they having during the last few days pitched their

camp near Tiverton in the North.

"If you can devise any plan by which this can be accomplished, I am

ready," said Josh. "As far as it has been consistent with my duty, I

have avoided Philip. I have told you how he saved my life. But for this

squaw Sachem I have no such feeling, and I believe she is at the bottom

of all this mischief."

Even as he spoke, an Indian came out from amongst a clump of trees and

stood before them.

Always on his guard against treachery, Josh raised his musket.

"Stand!" he shouted.

"No fear; I have come to speak with you and tell you what you desire to

know," said the Indian, halting at a safe distance.

"Who are you?" asked the colonel.

"I am the brother of the chief whom Philip slew because he spake of

peace. I have lost two sons in the war; I have but one left, and he is a

babe. I also would dwell at peace, so have I come to you that you may

slay the squaw Sachem Weetamoo. She has but a few men left of her three

hundred warriors, and when she is conquered I will lead you to Philip's

hiding-place."

"How are we to know that you are true, and will not rather lead us unto

our death?" said Colonel Church.

"My squaw and my babe are here with me," and he pointed to the clump of

trees; "take them and slay them if I lie."

"Let it be so," said Church, with a glance at Josh; "fetch them."

The Indian disappeared.

"He's true; I know the man," said Josh.

Leading a fine boy of five, and followed by a squaw, the savage

reappeared.

"It is well," said Church; "let them remain yonder. Now, what have you

to tell us? We will reward you, and your wife and child shall be cared

for; therefore speak without fear."

"The Sachem Weetamoo is camped on the banks of the Matipoisett; her

warriors are dead; she has but a score of men left. I will lead you to

her this night."

"Let me go with him, colonel," said Josh eagerly. "This woman laid my

home waste, slew my father, and has, may-be, kept my mother and sister

in captivity; it is but right that I should capture her. Above all

things, I would not run the risk of her being killed, I must question

her."

"I am quite willing you should go; I am expecting reinforcements, and

cannot move forward myself. Take twenty men, and let the Indian guide

you," said the colonel.

In the briefest possible space of time, Josh was on his way with a small

but well-armed force, for they reasoned the Indian might be numerically

mistaken, and Weetamoo be stronger than he represented. The Indian led

them along roads known only to native hunters, creeping through the

forest stealthily as the tiger ready to pounce upon his prey; then they

worked their way up towards the far-away river, where Weetamoo had taken

refuge. The day was dawning when they came in sight of her camp, the

outlines of the tents just visible through the river mist resting in

white clouds over the marshy land. Quickly, noiselessly, with practised

skill, Josh disposed his men along the river front and round the camp,

in such a manner as to render escape almost impossible. The orders were,

_not_ to kill the savages, but to make them prisoners. This order

applied more especially to the squaw Sachem; she of all others was to be

taken alive. Then headed by Josh, a rush was made into the midst of the

camp.

Aroused from their slumbers, wholly unprepared and unarmed, this last

remnant of the three hundred warriors made but a faint resistance, and

finding they could save their lives by yielding, they did so. At the

first alarm a woman crept out of her tent through the long rushes.

Quickly as a serpent she glided down towards the river. "Cowards!" she

had hissed when she saw her people yield, and yet in her heart she knew

they could not well do otherwise. Favoured by the mist, she had evaded

the guard, reached the water's edge, when suddenly she lifted her head

and looked back. Josh, feeling sure she would make for the river, was

close at hand, and saw the passionate face and angry eyes flash out upon

him. He sprang forward; but before he could reach her, with a shout of

triumph she leaped into the water and was swimming rapidly down with the

current. To throw himself in after her was the work of a second. He saw

her disappear, thought she was lost, when lo! she rose again far ahead

of him. She had but dived, swimming under the water to scare him.

Throwing out all his strength, he was gaining upon her, when to his

horror he became aware they were approaching some rapids, where the

river fell from a great height into a lake. The noise was terrific. He

slackened speed, shouted to her, but either she did not or would not

hear. She must have known full well the fate which awaited her; but on

she went, swept forward by the strong current, down over the brink into

the dark lake below, and the rushing of the waters was the dirge of

Weetamoo. It was with much difficulty that Josh succeeded in reaching

the bank and walking back to the camp. His men were for giving him up as

lost, especially when the Indians told them how and where that river

ended; his reappearance was therefore greeted with enthusiastic cheers,

though the general disappointment at the escape of the squaw Sachem was

great.

It had been agreed between Josh and Colonel Church that the latter

should advance as soon as he had received the expected reinforcements,

and that together they should go on to where the Indian stated Philip

had taken refuge, namely, on a bit of upland at the south end of the

swamp at the foot of Mount Hope. The day following the capture of

Weetamoo's camp Church arrived, but without the promised reinforcements;

they had been delayed.

"I decided to come on all the same," said the colonel; "for if we are to

take him at all, it must be done quickly, or he will get wind of our

movements and escape us."

"You are right," replied Josh; "we must just do the best we can."

The following day they moved forward, and by night were within a

short distance of the swamp. Josh, knowing the ground, went on in front

with about twenty men, and stationed them, as far as their numbers would

permit, at every outlet; then guided by the Indian, he and Church, with

a mere handful of soldiers, crept up the hillside. The Indians were

sleeping. They were roused by the firing of a shot; instantly all was

confusion. Philip sprang to his feet, seized his gun, and rushed

straight down the hillside towards the swamp, to the very spot where the

Indian who had betrayed him stood, with an Englishman on guard. They

both saw him and fired simultaneously. The Englishman missed the mark,

but the Indian's bullet entered Philip's heart. He fell forward dead in

the black swamp.

[Illustration: "With a shout of triumph she leaped into the water."]

"I am glad I did not do it," said Josh, as he stood with Colonel Church

looking down on the dead body of the King.

"And yet," said Church, "through him your house has been made desolate."

"That is our view of the war," answered Josh; "in his eyes we are the

intruders. He but fought for what he considered to be his own, and where

he could be generous he was. He did not slay my father; it was Weetamoo.

I have no personal grudge against Philip; he was my friend. To such a

nature as his our yoke was insupportable. It is well his spirit is set

free; he could not have brooked captivity." And with a last look at the

dead warrior Josh turned away.

So ended this great struggle, known as "King Philip's War." The white

man had conquered; the Indian power throughout southern New England was

broken; whole tribes and families of Indians had been destroyed; the

remnants fled farther west into the unexplored wilds, whither the white

man's foot had not yet strayed. The settlers gazed sadly around upon the

ruins of their towns and homesteads; but they were brave men and women,

and looked the future steadily in the face. They had fought and bled for

this New England, even as they would have done for the "old countrie,"

and they loved it all the better for the sacrifices they had made.

So Josiah Blackstone stood beside old William Blackstone's grave and

thought. He was alone. "Should he build a new house, where the old one

had stood? Should he replant the orchard with trees, in the hope of

seeing them blossom and bear fruit?" It seemed dreary work; but a voice

whispered that such as he, with youth and health and strength, were the

marrow of the land, to build up and make strong with Christian faith

what the heathen had overthrown; and taking up a pickaxe he struck it

into the ground, saying in his heart: "So help me, God! I will rebuild

my father's house; it is my duty." He set to work and laboured

diligently, and a fair new house arose, and young saplings were planted

where the old trees had been hewn down; and still men said, "Josiah

Blackstone is a sad man!" and truly by day and by night he mourned. "If

only my mother, and Rena, my little sister, had been spared to me!" but

he could hear nothing of them, and they were to him as dead.

Friends counselled him to take a wife, and he pondered thereon; but no

maiden pleased him, and he waited.

The weeks and months passed by, the harvest was gathered in, and it was

very plenteous; and when the labourers had gone to their homes, Josh sat

smoking in the porch of the new house, because it seemed less lonesome

than in the empty rooms; and as he sat the sound of wheels fell on his

ear, but he paid no heed thereto, until they stopped at his gate. Then

looking up, he saw a covered cart. Out of it sprang a girl, tall and

slim; then another. And last of all an older woman laid her hands on

those young shoulders; but Josh, pushing them on one side, took her in

his arms, crying, "Mother! my mother!" and he carried her over the _new_

threshold to the living-room and placed her by the hearth; and she

kissed him weeping, with her arms about his neck, and Rena did likewise.

But the maiden stood apart gazing wistfully, and Josh saw that it was

Thusick, King Philip's daughter! A moment he hesitated; seeing which,

his mother arose, and taking Thusick's hand, said: "She is my daughter;

but for her we had all perished. Now she has no home among her people,

for they are all dead; she must dwell amongst us, our God must be her

God, our people her people. Shall it not be so, my son?"

[Illustration: "He fell forward dead in the black swamp."]

"It shall," answered Josh, "she is welcome. Philip was my friend, and

she is a king's daughter."

And Thusick dwelt with them and was as one of them. When the orchard was

white with apple-blossom, Love passed that way, and under the eaves of

the _new_ homestead was whispered an _old, old story_!

SIR RICHARD'S SQUIRES

BY C. W. WHISTLER

Just one month after I became squire to Sir Richard de Courci, then of

the Castle of Stoke Courci, that lies between Quantock Hills and the sea

in our fair Somerset, I met Alan de Govet, about whom my story mostly

is.

We had been to Taunton, and were riding homewards across the hills, and

valley and river lay straight before us--as fair a view as any in all

England is that rich country between Mendips and Quantocks--yet I

suppose that Sir Richard thought of it hardly at all, for he, as Queen

Matilda's steward, was deep in all the new plans that were to set our

exiled queen on her father's throne, and he rode thoughtfully after

meeting De Mohun of Dunster that day.

But when we saw a gay little party of men in hunting dress, with hawks

and hounds, come up the deep narrow lane to meet us, he roused, and

turning to the twenty well-armed men behind us, asked who these were who

came now.

None of them knew: but as they came nearer, I saw that the handsome

young leader of the party wore the badge of the De Govets--a family from

Yeovil, and well-known and loyal followers of King Stephen.

"Why, then," said my knight, "if this is young De Govet, I must have a

word or two with him. Bar the road while we speak."

The men grinned, and closed up so that the lane was full. There was

little love lost, since Matilda's failure of two years ago, between the

parties of King and Queen.

[Illustration: "He came heavily to the roadside grass, where he lay

stunned."]

When we met, therefore, the hunting party must needs rein up, for they

could not pass us.

"Pardon me, sir knight, but you bar the road," said the leader, raising

his cap courteously.

"Only for the pleasure of speech with you," said my knight, saluting in

turn. "I am De Courci, and I believe that I speak to Alan de Govet?"

The young man's face darkened as he answered, "Let me go my way, Sir

Richard. I have nought to say to disloyal men."

"There are two sides to every question, young sir," the knight answered.

"And since I am a Queen's man, and the De Govets are King's men, we have

different views of what loyalty is. However, just now Stephen is king."

"Well, what would you with me?"

"Some time since I had a fair offer to make to your noble

father--touching yourself--that is, if you are Alan de Govet. I have as

yet had no answer."

The young man's face flushed angrily.

"Stand aside, sir," he said. "This is discourteous."

"Not if you are the man I take you for. Which, by the way, you have not

owned as yet."

"I will own nothing, if thus asked," was the answer, and the stranger

turned to his men.

But they had gone hastily at the first word about the rival claims of

King and Queen, knowing what mostly came of such arguments nowadays.

Seeing which, he turned his horse leisurely, and without sign of fear,

to follow them, and Sir Richard laughed, and rode alongside him, laying

his hand on the horse's bridle.

"Stay--I must ask you to come to Stoke Courci with me, as your men have

left you," he said.

In a moment the young man's sword was out, and at the same instant he

seemed to rise from his saddle, lose his balance, and fall away from Sir

Richard. His blow was wasted on air, as he came heavily to the roadside

grass, where he lay stunned.

"Bring him home carefully," said Sir Richard to his men. "If he is Alan

de Govet, we must have had him as a hostage sooner or later. If he is

not--well, a De Courci can but apologise."

So we rode on, and I asked Sir Richard, wondering, why so good a rider

fell, as did this young man.

"'Tis an old trick," the knight said; "you do but get your foot under

his and lift him at the right moment. But I would not advise you to try

it with one heavier than yourself."

Now when we reached the castle, our prisoner was brought in after us,

seemingly not much the worse for his fall, and the Lady Sybilla, Sir

Richard's ward, and mistress of the castle since his wife died, asked me

who he might be. And when I told her that he was thought to be Alan de

Govet, but that he would not own his name, she flushed a little, and

said no more. Next day I had reason to think that she had heard of him

before this. Very fair was this young lady, and heiress of many broad

acres. She seemed much older than myself, but a boy of sixteen will

think anything over twenty a great age.

After breakfast on the next day I fed the hawks, and then came back into

the great hall to see if my knight had any commands for me. There I

found some sort of council on hand, and, from all appearances, no very

peaceful one. Jehan of Stowey, the head man-at-arms, and one of his men

guarded the two doors, and our chaplain, Father Gregorius, sat by the

hearth, smiling uneasily. Sir Richard sat in his great chair on the

daïs, facing his prisoner, and by his side was the Lady Sybilla, who was

plainly in a towering rage, for her eyes flashed, and her little hand

was clenched as if she was holding herself in check. And when I looked

at De Govet, I saw that he was as angry as the lady. As for Sir Richard,

he seemed to be enjoying what was going on immensely, watching his

prisoner with something of admiration for his fearlessness. Well built

and square he was, though not so big as our knight, who was almost a

giant, as the De Courcis often are, and he looked like a warrior, even

in his hunting gear, which was stained with red Quantock mud from his

fall when he was taken.

[Illustration: "Sir Richard sat in his great chair on the daïs."]

Sir Richard took up the matter where he had broken it off when I

entered.

"'Tis a mercy, Alan, that De Mohun of Dunster did not get hold of you.

For that humour of yours of last night, when you would not own your

name, would surely have landed you in the sachentege he keeps in his

castle wherewith to wring answers from the silent. I would fain fit a

more pleasant yoke to your neck," he said in a meditative way, watching

De Govet's face amusedly.

Now of all the tortures that a Norman can invent, that of the sachentege

is the worst; for the engine is made of a great beam of wood, fastened

round the man's neck with a rough iron collar. As the beam is too heavy

for one man to lift, and too long to be set on end, it is apt to wring

confession of anything needed from him who is set therein after a time.

Therefore I was surprised to hear the Lady Sybilla say suddenly--

"Borrow De Mohun's sachentege, I pray you."

"Fie, daughter," said Gregorius, shaking his head, but half smiling at

the girl's anger. "It were a shame to set so gallant a youth in such

bondage."

"Set me in the hateful thing rather," she said. "It were better than to

marry me to this man of Stephen's, who would not own whatever name he

has--being doubtless ashamed thereof."

At that De Govet started, and his face grew crimson. But Sybilla went

on, growing more angry still.

"When Queen Maud comes I will go to her. She will see that I----"

"Hold," said Sir Richard suddenly; "enough of this. Go to your bower,

girl, until you can be more patient with your guardian."

"Willingly," she said, with a proud toss of her head, and she swept out

of the hall without a glance at us, and her waiting-woman followed her.

Then there was silence, and the knight and his captive looked at one

another until a faint smile crossed De Govet's face. The chaplain looked

anxious and disturbed, and it flashed of a sudden across my mind that if

Queen Matilda was indeed coming to England shortly, it was the last

thing that a King's man should have heard as yet.

Sir Richard tried to laugh, but it was uneasy.

"When do King Stephen and Maud his Queen come this way?" he asked Alan

de Govet.

"When does Maud the Empress cross from Normandy?" retorted Alan.

Then both laughed. They understood one another by this time.

"Well," said Sir Richard, "shut up you must be, Alan, for a time at

least. But if you will take my advice you will do as I wish you, and so

find freedom and fortune as well."

"This is a pretty plan," said Alan. "Having caught a loyal King's man,

you must needs marry him to your ward, you being Matilda's steward,

whereby you save her fortunes when your new plots fail."

"Or yours when they succeed," answered Sir Richard. "Truly this is a

pretty plan, as you say, and I am a benefactor to you both. Moreover, I

think that you might seek further and fare worse."

"What is the benefit to yourself?" said Alan scornfully.

"Being a De Courci, I look for none, except may-be that to have a damsel

in my charge hampers me somewhat; also, it is my duty to provide for her

welfare as best I can. This is no new plan of mine, Alan. De Mohun or I

were to take you sooner or later as a hostage, to ensure that your good

father will bide quietly when there is a little fighting on hand

presently. I have only caught you by chance rather sooner than I hoped."

"Well," said Alan, "the lady seems to think ill of your plans for her

welfare."

"That is because her advice was not asked," laughed Sir Richard. "Now,

what say you?"

"It is plain that I have heard too much to be let loose," said Alan,

"and I will not be married against my will. Wherefore you have me in

your own power."

"The choice is between the bonds of matrimony and the small dungeon I

have here, unless you prefer to be sent to Dunster, where De Mohun will

take good care of you. I think the first choice is best."

"What sort of dungeon have you here?" asked Alan coolly on this. "I have

no mind for Dunster."

"Let him see it," said Sir Richard to Jehan, and Alan turned on his heel

and followed the man-at-arms from the hall without a word.

"One would have thought that the looks of the Lady Sybilla would have

needed no comparison with those of any dungeon," said our knight with a

great laugh, when he had disappeared. "But it is a good youth, and I am

glad that De Mohun got him not, else he would have been in the rack by

this time. But we may not let him go, now that yon headstrong girl has

let out what she has."

Presently Jehan brought Alan back. The former was grinning, but the

latter was cool as ever. His gay cordovan boots were wet and muddy, as

if he had been over the ankles in water.

"'Tis a good dungeon," he said, "and no chance of escape therefrom. I

have no mind to dwell in it, therefore I will offer ransom for myself."

Sir Richard shook his head.

"I took you, Master de Govet, for weightier reasons than those of gain."

"That is to your credit," answered Alan. "It is discourteous to take an

unarmed man by force, save for weighty reasons. Then I will pledge my

word of honour not to escape if allowed reasonable liberty."

"Ho!" said Sir Richard, "is there no word about the Lady Sybilla?"

"We will not discuss that point further," said Alan loftily. "I do but

seek to evade the dungeon."

"It seems that you know your mind, young man," Sir Richard said, "and I

am willing to meet you as far as I may. If I take your word, you must

promise also to hold no communication with the King's party."

"I will consider myself in the dungeon for that matter. They will not

miss my help."

"I am not so sure," said the knight thoughtfully. "If you are my guest

you may hear and see much that they would be glad to learn."

"Turn me out, then," said Alan promptly. "I know nothing as yet."

Again Sir Richard shook his head and laughed.

"I must keep my hostage, for I am not alone in this matter, and have to

answer to others. Now, do I have your word not to escape, and to be

silent?"

Alan stepped forward and held out his hand.

"The word of a De Govet," he said.

Now from that time forward Alan took his captivity in good part, sending

by a chapman some message to his father which Sir Richard approved, and

which satisfied those at home, for shortly after they sent him all that

a guest could need, even to his helm and mail and charger. I do not know

what his people thought of his being a guest with so noted a Queen's man

as our knight, but at that time the great plans were secret, and none

seemed to have any suspicion of them beyond the circle of the leaders of

Matilda's party.

I soon learnt, having often to ride with messages to one leader or

another, what these plans were, and I can put them into few words. Earl

Robert of Gloucester, our Queen's half-brother, was to rise at the head

of all the nobles in the west, while King Malcolm of Scotland, her

uncle, was to invade England from across the Border. Two years ago he

had done the same, but failed for want of well-planned assistance, so

that King Stephen was able to make terms with him. This had seemed the

death-blow to Matilda's hopes at the time, but now things would surely

go better. Stephen would be taken between two fires, and then the Queen

would come from Normandy, and all would end in her favour.

So the great plotting went on, and meanwhile Alan de Govet and I grew to

be great friends, for he was a good warrior, and took pains to teach me

many things. Which pleased Sir Richard well, so that he seemed to forget

that Alan was his captive, treating him always as a welcome guest.

The only person in all the castle, and village also, who did not like

Alan was the Lady Sybilla, and she made no secret of her dislike. I

thought it good of Alan to take the trouble to please her that he did,

for we must needs see much of her. However, she was always most pleasant

to me, and I liked to serve her in any way that I could. Father

Gregorius was another friend of mine, and I learnt many things that a

squire should know from him. He, too, liked Alan, and would often pass a

sly jest on him about his choice between the dungeon and the lady's

hand, at first. But as time went on Alan seemed to grow tired of the old

jest, and waxed angry when it came. So Gregorius forgot it.

It was in April, towards the end, that I came to Stoke Courci, and from

that time forward messengers came and went in much secrecy. Once Earl

Robert came for a day from Dunster, with De Mohun; and once we rode to

Wells to meet Roger, Bishop of Salisbury, the Justiciar, from whose help

the Queen hoped much.

Now, in the beginning of July, I had been out with Sir Richard, and did

not go into the castle when I had led the horses round to the stables,

but sought Alan in the tiltyard, some one telling me that he had gone in

that direction. And there I saw a thing that puzzled me, for it was

unlike what one might have expected.

Two people walked under the trees on the far side of the tilting-ground,

and they were the Lady Sybilla and Alan himself in deep converse. Alan

seemed to be speaking a great deal and getting short answers; which was

not surprising, as the lady was always proud and disdainful with him, so

that Alan always seemed discomfited when she appeared. Just at this

time, however, he did not seem so.

They did not see that I came, at first; and before they heeded me, I

heard a few words.

"I will have nought to say to a man who is ashamed to own his own name,"

quoth Lady Sybilla.

"It was not shame, but policy," answered Alan.

"Ay--to escape from me."

Alan was silent for a moment, and then said--

"I have learnt to prize what once I had no thought of."

Then Sybilla saw me, and flushed.

"Ay--your name, you mean," she said to Alan, whose face was away from

me. "Go to--win your name back by some deeds of arms, and then you may

be worth speaking with."

With that she passed him and came towards me, beginning to hum some old

tune or other lightly. As for Alan, he bided where she left him, not

caring to follow.

"Come away," she said to me; "your comrade is in an evil temper."

"That is the first time I have seen him so," answered I; "needs must

that I stay to cheer him; for I am not the cause of his ill-humour," and

I laughed.

"Well then, go your way for an unmannerly squire," she retorted, turning

away towards the castle.

"Nay, but, lady--" I began. But she went on quickly, with one last

remark flung over her shoulder, as it were--

"I know where I am not wanted, at least."

"Now," thought I, "it is plain where the ill-temper lies." So I went to

Alan, and asked what was amiss.

"Well," said he--for though he was five years or more older than I, we

were close friends by this time--"maybe I am a fool to think twice of

the matter; but, on my word, friend Ralph, one would think that I was in

love."

I laughed heartily.

"Did you tell her so?" I asked.

"She has set me a task which, as a good squire, I am bound to undertake,

whatever I may have said; and what chance a prisoner like myself has to

do it, I cannot see."

"Winning a name to wit. I heard that much," I said. "But that we have

often talked of. It does not need the words of a sharp-tongued damsel to

set your thoughts in that direction."

"Your Saxon wits need sharpening with Norman whetstone," he answered

gravely. "Know you not that the word of a fair lady has double weight in

the matter of winning renown? So that one must straightway seek for what

one might else have left to chance and good fortune."

"My Saxon mother-wit would tell me that all depends on who the lady who

speaks the word may be," I answered, being used to a gentle jest of this

sort from Alan, and by no means minding it, since I had well beaten him

about the Norman pate with our good old Saxon quarter-staff--the one

weapon whose use he disdained until I persuaded him to a bout with me.

After which he learned to use it, because he said that it belonged to

good forestry.

"Above wit comes the law of chivalry," he said then. "It matters not if

the lady is queen or beggar-maid, so that her words be a spur to great

deeds and knightly."

[Illustration: "I know where I am not wanted, at least."]

Now, when Alan began in this strain he was apt to wax high-flown,

causing Sir Richard to laugh at him at times. So I said--

"This sounds well. But there is nought for you to undertake, that I can

see."

After that we sat and looked out to the long line of the blue Quantocks

and spoke of foreign wars. But the time for brave deeds was nearer than

we thought, for that night came a messenger with stirring news, and

after speaking with him Sir Richard sent for us two.

"Alan," he said, "I have strange news for you, and I do not know how you

will take what I have to tell you. Nor do I rightly know what to do with

you now. The other leaders of our cause will not suffer me to let you go

free, as I would willingly, because they do your father the honour of

thinking that his hand must be held. As for myself, I have forgotten

that you are aught but a guest, and you please me."

Alan smiled, and made a little bow at that, but said nothing.

"Now I must go northwards," said the knight; "and at once. Ralph must

see to my arms, and he will go with me, all the better squire for your

companionship. There is a campaign on hand, as you may guess."

"Northward," said Alan thoughtfully. "Are the Scots on foot across the

Border?"

"Ay; that they are."

"Why, then, let me go with you and help fight them, Sir Richard. That is

England's quarrel--whether king or queen has right to the throne."

Sir Richard smiled grimly.

"Mostly that is so. But now Malcolm comes again as ally of his niece,

and with his help we mean to set her on the throne. I fear you will not

fight on my side."

"I cannot," answered Alan. "I had hoped this was but some new Border

raid or public quarrel."

He was silent for a while as my knight told me what I had to prepare for

the journey. But presently he spoke again--

"Let me go with you, Sir Richard," he said. "You are most generous in

your own wish to let me go free, and it is possible that in the far

north, where there will be none to hinder you, you will let me join in

one battle for my own king. I would return to you either in victory or

defeat, if not slain. And if slain, any further trouble in keeping me is

over."

"This is a strange request," said Sir Richard, watching Alan's eager

face. "You must be tired of our little castle."

But I thought I knew why Alan was so ready to go north for a mere chance

of fighting.

"Alan has a mind to do some mighty deeds or other," I said. "We spoke

thereof this afternoon."

"When I came here I denied my name, as it were," said Alan quickly,

preferring not to be questioned perhaps, "and I must needs win it back.

Let me prove that I am not to be ashamed thereof."

"Nay, Alan. You withheld your name somewhat foolishly, may-be; but you

denied it not. None can blame you," said Sir Richard kindly.

"Nevertheless it has been said that I must win it back, and, I pray you,

let me have this chance."

"Ralph," said Sir Richard sternly, "is this your foolishness?"

"Not mine," I answered. "'Tis but a poor jest of the Lady Sybilla's."

The knight looked at Alan and began to smile. Alan grew red and then

angry, and Sir Richard laughed.

"So!" he said. "If that is the lady's word, there is no help for it. But

I knew not that you had used your leisure so well."

Now why Alan had not a word to say for himself at this I could not

tell, but so it was. At last, after shifting from one foot to the other

uneasily, he ceased his pretence at anger, and said--

"I am asking much, Sir Richard. But may it be so?"

"Come north at least, and we will see about the rest. If you fight for

Stephen, however, you and I may be running tilt against one another

unawares in some melee."

"You have unhorsed me once, Sir Richard," said Alan, in high glee, "and

out of your way would I keep. Now, I do not know how to thank you."

"Why," said Sir Richard, "I am wont to need two squires, and have but

one. If you are not too proud, journey as my second, and if aught is

wanting in your gear I will supply it."

"It is honour for any squire to serve the De Courci," said Alan. "Your

squire I will be in all good faith, until I must needs ask you to let me

have one fight for whom I will."

I was glad enough that Alan was to go with us, as may be supposed, and

gaily went to work to set my lord's armour in order, while Jehan of

Stowey saw to mine. And presently, while I sat alone in the armoury

singing as I polished the heavy, flat-topped, war helm, the Lady Sybilla

came in, and sitting in the window-seat, began to talk with me about our

journey.

By-and-by I told her that Alan de Govet was to go with us at his own

request, and that because of her words this afternoon. She seemed to

care little, for she looked out of the window and spoke of somewhat that

she saw thence in the meadows by the stream.

Yet presently she said--

"So this Alan must needs blame me for making him eager to run into

danger?"

"Your words, he says, are weighty, as being those of a lady. But I do

not think that he blames you at all, Lady Sybilla."

[Illustration: "She seemed to care little."]

"Well," she said, rising up suddenly, "as he must charge my words with

his going, give him that to remind him that they are weighty."

She threw me a blue silken scarf she had worn all day and went out of

the armoury, and I saw her no more. I was glad that she seemed at least

to be inclined to make amends for her haughtiness and ill-considered

words.

Presently I gave the scarf, with the message, to Alan, and he seemed

pleased with both, asking me for more of the sayings of the haughty

damsel, which amused me.

"Verily, Alan, I believe that you spoke truth just now when you said you

were in love," I said, laughing.

"Nay; but I hardly said so much," he answered. "Well, it is war first,

and anything else afterwards, just now."

Nevertheless, when we rode away next morning, with forty well-armed and

mounted men-at-arms and a little train of pack-horses after us, Alan had

the blue scarf round his sword arm, and his eyes were over his shoulder

so long as we could see Sybilla standing on the drawbridge watching us

go. May-be he had had another word or two with her, but I thought it

foolish to pay so much heed to the gibes of a damsel, however fair.

Now I am going to say nothing about our long, pleasant journey

northward, with the camping in forest or among hospitable farm folk, or,

later, on wild moorland, for if I began I should not know how to leave

out all the things that were new and strange to me.

But presently, when we were in Lancashire, we came to the tracts of

desolation left by the Scots two years since, and a sort of dread grew

up in my heart of men who could thus mar our fair land. Yet they were to

help to set our Queen on her throne again, and those who had sent for

them were wiser than I.

We went into no great towns, for Sir Richard did not wish men to inquire

too closely into his journey and its object. But as we drew near

Lancaster we learned that the gathering of the Scots to invade England

was well known, and already word had gone round to the sheriff from

Archbishop Thurstan of York to bid them gather their men to him.

Then Sir Richard thought it time to give Alan his freedom, as he had

half promised, for he himself must needs cross the Border to speak with

the King of Scots. And it so happened that near the old town he fell in

with a knight, whom Sir Richard knew to be a Queen's man, riding towards

Lancaster with twenty men at his heels.

"Ho! De Courci, what brings you so far north?"

"The same errand that brings you out, most likely," our knight answered.

"We will go further north yet in company, as I hope."

The knight stared for a moment, and then a grim look crossed his face,

which was scarred here and there.

"If you mean to march with Thurstan, well and good--but if you are going

to join the Scots, as is likely, you and I shall be on opposite sides

for once," he said bluntly.

"How is this?--where is your loyalty?"

"Loyalty, forsooth!" the knight answered. "My first loyalty is to

England--and I care not who sent for the Scots. We of the north will

give life to keep them back." So these two talked, angrily at times. But

at last the strange knight said--

"I tell you, De Courci, that if you of the west and south knew what

Malcolm's host is like as well as we northerners, you would give your

right hand sooner than bring them to England. Go and see them, and then

mind my words."

So the talk ceased. But presently Sir Richard told Alan that if he

would, he might ride in company with this knight, who would give him a

worthy place as his squire, and with whom he might remain until we

returned after the campaign.

"I can say to De Mohun and Earl Robert that I have left you with this

Sir John, and they will be content. May-be we shall meet again shortly,

and then pass me by, I pray you, for the sake of comradeship, and--of

that blue favour--however hot the battle may be."

So Sir Richard jested, but we were sorry to part from Alan, and he from

us, when we left him with his new friend in Lancaster. I think that his

soreness on being a captive had long passed, for now he could only thank

our knight for his many kindnesses.

We crossed the Border, and made for the gathering place of the Scots.

And when I saw them I knew that the northern knight spoke the truth, and

that the worst thing for our Queen would be that she should have the

blame of bringing this wild crowd of savage Galloway Picts and Highland

Gaels into England.

And our knight knew it also. He gave his message to Malcolm, as in duty

bound, and then would bide with the Scots no longer. Truly there were a

few good Lowland and Norman knights with the King and his son, Prince

Henry, but not enough to keep that untrained force in any sort of

control.

"Sir John of Swaledale is right," Sir Richard said to me as we saw the

wild clansmen gathered round their fires on the open hillside. "I am

going to Archbishop Thurstan that I may do what I can to help to repair

the wrong to England that we have done in calling in Malcolm again. You

and Alan will fight for England side by side after all."

That was most welcome news for me, and for all our western men. I do not

know how Sir Richard made excuse for returning to England, but none

hindered our going, and we were welcomed at Durham by the knights who

were gathered there, King's men and Queen's alike having foregone their

quarrel at the bidding of the wise archbishop, whose words I heard read

in the open market-place.

Then the Scots began to come on very swiftly, and at last we fell back

from Durham to the place where our chiefs, the Earl of Albemarle, and

Walter de Espée, chose to check their advance, at Northallerton in

Yorkshire, where they had made some weak entrenchments on a gentle

hillside that commanded the road from the north.

There was Alan, and one need not say how he rejoiced to see us, and take

his place as Sir Richard's squire again.

"After all," our knight said, "I and my two squires will fight on the

same side for one cause. And I think that Sybilla will be pleased to

hear from us how her champion bore himself."

"I said nought of pleasing the Lady Sybilla," said Alan gruffly.

"Why--no more you did! Yet I thought that something of the kind brought

you north," laughed our knight.

Then Alan tried to excuse his little discourtesy, and the more he did so

the more we laughed, until he must laugh with us.

Now the reports of the vast numbers of the Scots would have left little

heart in our men, if it had not been for the wise words and devices of

Bishop Ralph of the Isles, who was here in the sick archbishop's place.

He had a great mast stayed up in a waggon that stood in the midst of

camp, the top of which was surmounted by a flashing silver pyx that held

the consecrated wafer, and under that floated the banners of the patron

saints of York and Beverley, Durham and Ripon, that this northern host

might see the tokens of all they held holiest and dearest, and fight

manfully to uphold them. Then he was wont to stand in the waggon and

speak to us, promising help spiritual to those who fought for their land

and homes, and bidding us have no fear of a host whose very greatness

would hinder it, for want of discipline and order, either in victory or

defeat.

So all were cheered, and though there is nothing at which men wonder

more than at the swiftness of the advance of the Scots, we were ready

for them before they came. Yet, but for Alan, it is certain that our

army would have been surprised, and may-be cut to pieces, before any

battle array could have been drawn up.

As the Scots came, they burnt and plundered on all sides, and at last

our outposts could see the light of burning farms on the skyline, and we

knew they were very near. Next night none were to be seen, and it seemed

as if the Scots had halted and drawn together on finding that we were

ready. Then the day following broke darkly and grey, with a dense fog

everywhere that seemed to make it impossible that an army could move

through it. Yet every horseman who could be spared was sent to patrol

the hills to our northward, and Alan and I rode out together to our

appointed stations with the rest, in the early morning.

We crossed valley and stream by tracks we knew well by this time, and as

it happened, went further that day than any other, for one could see

nothing but a few yards of stony track before one, and the cries of the

curlews sounded wild round us, like the whistle of men to one another in

the fog.

"What water is that I hear?" I said presently. There was a sound of a

heavy rushing, but I knew of no brook here that would make that sound.

"It is more like the sound of a great flock of sheep," answered Alan,

"but we have driven every one for miles."

Then our horses pricked their ears, and stared into the mist to our

right front in a way that told us that other horses were near.

Alan held up his hand, "I hear voices!" he said. We listened, and

presently I knew that what we heard was the thunder of the feet of a

vast host of men, and now and then a voice came faintly, though whence

we knew not, for nothing confuses sound so much as fog.

"The Scots!" said Alan, turning to me with his eyes shining under his

helm.

"It is not possible," I said; "how could they find their way through

this mist?"

"Any shepherd they have caught could guide them. Anyhow, we must see if

I am right."

"Let us ride back to camp and give the alarm," I said.

"And be laughed at--for every one would say as you, that it is not

possible. And all believe that the foe has halted. Bide here while I

ride on, and if I shout 'De Courci!' ride back for your life and give

the alarm."

"Faith," said I, "where you go, I go. If we cannot see them, neither can

they see us. We may get near enough to hear what tongue they speak, and

that is all we need."

"Come then," said Alan.

So we rode, as the keener senses of our horses bade us, down the hill

towards our right more or less. We had to leave the pathway, but in

returning we could not miss it if we breasted the hill anywhere, for it

ran all along its crest. At the foot of the long hill we stayed again

and listened, and now the sound of the marching host was deadened,

because they were yet beyond some rising land.

What happened next was sudden, and took us unawares, for all the warning

we had was a little crackle of deerskin-shod feet, and the snorting and

restlessness of our horses.

Out of the mist seemed to grow half-a-dozen men silently and swiftly,

and for a moment I sat and stared at them in amazement. They were the

wild scouts of the enemy, the tartan-clad Pictish men of Galloway,

belted with long claymores, shield on back, and spear or pole-axe in

hand.

They halted suddenly, each where he stood and as he stood, staring at

us, startled may-be as we were. Then one whistled shrilly, and cried in

an eager voice, "Claymore!" and their weapons clashed as they went on

guard and made for us in silence.

The whistle rang clear and echoed back, and then came a long roar of

voices, and the sound of marching swelled up for a moment and then

ceased altogether. The host had halted at the first sign of the enemy.

One minds all these things when in peril, and even as I noted this, Alan

leant forward and snatched at my horse's bridle, swinging him round.

"Back!" he said. "What, are you dreaming? We have seen enough."

But a Scot was hanging on the other rein also, and only the plunging of

the horse saved me from a blow from his long-handled axe.

"Be off, Alan," I cried; "I am hindered." And I drew sword and cut at

the man who held me back, only wasting a good blow on his hide target.

But he left the horse's head and I turned him, to find that the wild

figures were swarming round us, and that Alan was wheeling his great

charger in a circle that no Scot dared enter.

"Uphill," he cried, seeing that I was free.

Then we spurred the horses and charged side by side, and they yelled and

fell back before us. They feared the horses, and were unused to fighting

with mounted men, and we won through them easily and galloped on up the

hill.

Nevertheless the men of the heather were not to be shaken off so easily,

but ran and leapt on either side of us, and as they ran, I saw one or

two who had unslung bows, and were waiting, arrow on string, for a

chance shot at us.

We began to distance them very soon, and at last only two grey

figures strained to keep pace with us, and then an arrow rattled on

Alan's mail, shot from not more than five paces' range.

[Illustration: "The next thing I knew was that my good steed was down on

his nose among the stones."]

"A weak bow enough," said Alan.

But if the Scottish bow was weak against mail, it could harm a horse,

for the next thing that I knew was that my good steed was down on his

nose among the stones, and I was lying half stunned before him, while

those two wild Galloway kernes shouted and rushed at me.

Alan had shot on ahead as I fell, but in a moment he was round and back,

saving me from the dirk of one man who was almost on me, with a quick

lance-thrust. The other man, who was not so near, fled as he came, and

we were alone. Alan dismounted and came to my help.

"Are you hurt?" he said, lifting me.

"Not much,--but the horse--how about him?" I asked.

"Not much either--for he has gone."

And indeed he had picked himself up and fled into the mist towards the

foe.

"Mount behind me," said Alan, helping me up. Then I groaned and reeled

against him. My ankle was sorely bruised by a rock on which it had been

dashed in my fall, and at that time I thought it was broken, for I could

not stand.

"Hold up, and I will help you mount," said Alan. And then the Galloway

men swarmed out of the fog again, cautiously at first. Some waft of wind

had thinned the hanging clouds for a moment, and Alan saw them sooner

than before.

"Leave me--warn the camp," I said.

"The honour of a De Govet----"

And that was the last I heard of what Alan was about to say, for with

the first step towards the saddle I fainted.

When I came to, with the cold air rushing on me, the first thing I saw

was Alan's steadfast face above me, stern set and anxious, but

unfaltering in gaze forward, and under me bounded the free stride of his

great charger as though the double burden was nothing. Alan's left arm

was round me, and I was across his saddle, while he was mounted behind

it. He had no helm, and a stream of blood was across his face, and an

arrow, caught by the point in the rings of his mail, rattled from his

breast. His lance was gone, and his red sword hung by the sling from his

wrist as he managed the bridle.

I stirred, and a smile came on his grim face.

"Art thyself again?" he said. "We are close on the camp."

Then he lifted his voice and shouted--I had a dim remembrance then that

that shout had rung in my ears just as I came round--the old war-cry of

his forebears at Hastings--and our knight's name.

"Dex aïe--De Courci--ho!"

And a murmur and then a shouting rose as our men heard and understood,

and a dozen knights spurred forward to meet us and brought us in,

scattering to take the news to the leaders as we passed the line of

entrenchments, so that our tidings went before us.

Alan took me to our tents, and there was Sir Richard waiting, as he

buckled on his sword. With him were two or three more knights, who gazed

constantly at the mist as if trying to pierce it. The men were getting

to their appointed posts as the alarm spread, with a quietness that told

of anything but panic.

"Ho, Alan, you have been in close action," our knight said anxiously.

"Are you or Ralph hurt?"

"A brush with some wild Galloway kernes, nought more," Alan answered,

lowering me carefully into the strong grasp of Jehan of Stowey. "Have a

care of the hurt foot, Jehan. That is all that is amiss, Sir Richard."

But I could not have Alan's doings set aside, and I told Sir Richard

plainly how he had rescued me from the swarm of wild men who followed

us.

Then came one whom I knew well by sight, our leader, the Earl of

Albemarle, eager to hear from the mouth of Alan himself what he had

learnt of the Scots.

And even as Alan told him, the mist began to lift under a breeze that

sprang up. The white hanging cloud-wreaths fled up the hillsides whence

we had ridden, and left them clear and bright--and already on the nearer

rises the Galloway scouts were posted, and our pickets were coming in at

full speed.

Then the Earl grasped Alan's hand and said--

"No time for more now--but you have saved a panic, and what comes

therefrom. I will see you hereafter, if we both outlive this day; and if

I fall and you do not, I will have left orders concerning you with

others."

Then, as he saw the great waggon with its wondrous banner being drawn to

the centre of our line, followed by Bishop Ralph and his clergy in their

robes, he said--

"To your posts, knights--it will not be long that we have to wait now."

He rode away, and the men cheered him as he passed along the front of

the line.

Then a squire said to Alan ruefully--

"I would I had as fair a tale to tell my lady as have you. She of the

blue favour has whereof to be proud in her champion."

For there is little jealousy among the honest northern knighthood.

Then I saw that Sybilla's blue kerchief was round Alan's sword hilt,

stained and rent, and Sir Richard caught my eye, and we both smiled.

Alan made no answer, as the squire rode away after his lord.

Jehan brought Alan a new helm, and he and our knight went to their

places in haste.

"Follow if you can sit a horse," Sir Richard said to me kindly.

And it is not to be supposed, that with Jehan's help in getting into the

saddle, I would be anything but able to do so. One is not so dependent

on stirrups as one is apt to think sometimes.

Now so many have written about the Battle of the Standard that I will

not tell it again. It was all confused to me, and I could see but little

of all that went on from where I was, just behind our knight, in the

close ranks of the horsemen who were massed before the standard itself,

where Bishop Ralph and his clergy remained unmoved, though the arrows

rattled round them at times. It had been wonderful to see the whole army

kneel as the good bishop blessed and shrived us all, and wonderful,

also, to hear the "Amen" that rolled like low thunder down our ranks.

After that we bore for two long hours the shock of the wild clansmen,

whose chief had sworn to go as far through our ranks that day as any of

the mailed Lowland knights who despised his tartan. I think he kept his

oath, for our footmen were borne back at first, and for a while things

looked black for us.

Then the bowmen of the north shook themselves free from the confusion,

and got to work, and the terrible rain of the long arrows drove back the

Scots, whose rallying cry of "Albyn--Albyn!" failed them at last, and

then our charge broke them and ended the day.

As we swept forward I saw a group of mail-clad knights round one whose

helm was circled with gold, and I knew from the heather-topped spear

that was his standard, that Prince Henry was before us. And I saw him

turn to fly.

Presently, as we rode back, the Earl beckoned to Sir Richard.

"I would fain knight that brave squire of yours, De Courci, but----" he

said, and stopped short.

"I know your difficulty, Lord Earl," our knight said, with a grim smile.

"I am too well-known a Queen's man, and you must answer to Stephen for

what honour you bestow. However, Alan de Govet is as good a king's man

as yourself----"

They rode apart, and how much more Sir Richard told the Earl I cannot

say, but they were merry over whatever it was. And the end of it all was

in the solemn knighting of my comrade, together with some half-dozen

others, before all the host, and at the foot of the great standard; of

which I was as proud as if the golden spurs had been put on my own

heels. The Earl spoke kindly to me also, telling me that I had yet a

deed or two to do before I was old enough to win the same honour, so

that I was well content.

The army began to break up in a few days, when all fear of rallying by

the Scots was over, and then Sir Richard spoke to Alan of what was to

come next.

"I took Alan the simple squire," he said, "and here is Sir Alan de

Govet, my friend and good comrade. Wherefore old promises may be

foregone, and I will only ask one thing instead, and that is that you

will bide with the Earl, who will see to your advancement; for I must at

least keep you away from De Mohun and the rest, else they will blame

me."

Alan grew grave for a moment, and I saw his eyes go to where his sword

hung on the tent-pole. Sir Richard saw that also, so he went on--

"I will tell your father what honour you have found here, and Ralph will

tell--other folk at Stoke Courci. Have no fear that there will be

trouble because you have not returned."

Alan smiled then.

"It was a good day when you took me, my knight," he said. "If only I may

be counted as your friend when the troubles are over, I am well

content."

"Ay, there will always be welcome for you with us."

So we parted, heavily enough, not knowing when we should meet again.

There was trouble over all the land as we rode westwards; yet Stoke

Courci was safe and quiet, because it was held by a lady only.

And when Sybilla, standing by the drawbridge, saw us come home, her

bright face changed as she missed Alan from among us. Presently I told

her all that he had done, but she was too wilful to seem glad that he

was honoured.

"Well, there is some good in him, after all," she said, and so left me.

Unless it was that she repented her old injustice to Alan, I could not

tell why she had been weeping when I met her an hour or two later.

We might not stay long at Stoke Courci, for there was fighting over all

the land. And at last, far away under Lincoln walls, where I won my

spurs at the taking prisoner of King Stephen, I met Alan face to face in

thickest fight; whereat we laughed and saluted, and passed to either

side. I heard Sir Richard hail him also. There were many such meetings

in those days.

Presently I saw Alan again--brought in as a prisoner taken with the

King, downcast and almost despairing, for all his cause seemed lost.

Then Sir Richard made himself surety for his safe keeping, and he was

content to promise to bear arms against our Queen no more.

"Now, I must bestow you somewhere," said our knight. "And we have, as

you know, a good dungeon at Stoke Courci. There was also a fair

alternative to the said dungeon, if you have not forgotten."

Alan laughed a little then.

"I am a ruined man, Sir Richard, now, and can surely make choice no

longer."

"Why, Alan, should I have spoken of it had I not meant to tell you that

you may yet choose?"

One might see from Alan's face what he thought, but he said, looking at

me--

"I am not so sure that I should be welcome at Stoke Courci."

"Come and see," quoth I, having reason to believe that he would be more

than welcome, as one might say.

So we rode homewards together, and Sir Richard's plans fell out as he

had wished, and that with no unwillingness on either side.

But, as every one knows, we had not done with King Stephen yet, and

there were many years of trouble to come after he escaped. Presently he

gained the day, and then it seemed likely that my knight and I might

lose our lands. But, for the sake of the Battle of the Standard, we were

passed over; and now, with the coming to the throne of King Henry, we

are high in favour, with broad lands here in Somerset for me, and lands

and castles here and in Kent for the De Courci who had served the Queen

so well through good and ill.

THE SLAVER'S REVENGE

BY HARRY COLLINGWOOD

_Author of "The Log of a Privateersman," &c. &c._

CHAPTER I

THE BEGINNING OF THE ADVENTURE

You ask me to relate to you the most terrible adventure I ever

experienced? Well, my whole life, from the time when, as a lad of

fifteen, I first took to the sea, has been one of adventure, and I have

passed through several rather thrilling experiences, so that it is not

quite so easy a matter as you may imagine for me to say, off hand and at

a moment's notice, which was the most terrible of them all. But, as you

seem anxious for a yarn, I will tell you of an adventure that befell me

shortly after I received my first command.

I was serving on the West Coast at the time, and, when this yarn begins,

held the position of third lieutenant on board the _Narcissus_, a

corvette belonging to the slave squadron. It was in the year 1826, just

two years after slave-trading had been declared to be _piracy_ in the

eye of the law, and its perpetrators subject to the punishment of death

if caught in the act. Popular feeling at home was very strong upon the

subject; the sympathy of the nation had been powerfully aroused by the

stories which from time to time found their way into the papers of the

sufferings inflicted upon the blacks in the process of converting them

into slaves; strenuous orders had been sent out to us to be unsparing

in our efforts to suppress the infamous traffic; and we were all as keen

as hounds in our endeavours to run down and bring to book the rascals

who openly laughed at and defied us.

My adventure may be said to have commenced with a slice of luck that

befell us in this wise. We were cruising at the time in the

neighbourhood of Cape Lopez, standing close-hauled to the northward

under easy canvas, when, about three bells in the afternoon watch, the

look-out aloft reported a sail broad on our starboard bow. We could see

nothing of her from the deck, so I took my glass and went up on to the

fore top-gallant-yard, from which position I made out the craft to be a

smallish schooner, with stumpy but very raking spars upon which was

spread an enormous show of canvas. My first look at her satisfied me

that she was a slaver; and the fact that she was steering to the

westward under every thread that she could show to the hot, languid

breeze, was proof enough that she had a cargo of slaves under her

hatches. Of course I lost no time in reporting my convictions to the

skipper, and in another instant all was bustle and activity on board the

corvette as we crowded sail in chase.

As the afternoon wore on, the wind fell light; but so well was the

corvette handled that when at length the sun went down in a clear sky,

giving promise of a breathless night, we had the satisfaction of seeing

that the slaver was helplessly becalmed, as was our own case soon

afterwards.

Some time before this, however, I had observed Captain Pascoe and our

first luff in close confabulation; and shortly after the golden orb of

the sun had disappeared beneath the horizon the former beckoned to me

and said--

"Mr. Farmer, I believe we are about to have a fine, calm night; I have

therefore determined to send the boats away to capture that schooner;

and I intend to put the expedition under the command of Mr.

Richardson"--the first lieutenant--"with you to second him. Have the

goodness, therefore, to proceed at once with the necessary preparations,

as the boats will shove off the moment that it is sufficiently dark to

conceal your movements. I have no doubt the fellow will expect you, but

it is hardly worth while to tell him plainly what our intentions are."

Our preparations were soon made and I then dived below, snatched a hasty

substitute for dinner, in the shape of some cold meat and pickles, and

was all ready, with my sword belted to my side, and a brace of

freshly-loaded pistols stuck in my belt, in time for the skipper's

inspection of our little party prior to shoving off.

Captain Pascoe waited patiently until the darkness had closed down upon

us sufficiently to completely hide the chase from even his penetrating

gaze, and then he gave the word to shove off; whereupon away we went,

with muffled oars, and the boat binnacles so carefully shrouded that we

felt perfectly secure against our presence being betrayed by any stray

glimmer of light emanating from them. The master had taken the bearings

of the schooner with the utmost nicety just before she disappeared in

the darkness, and he gave us the course which we were to steer.

Our expedition consisted of the first cutter and the gig, under Mr.

Richardson, and the second cutter and the jolly-boat, under my command;

the whole mustering forty-eight hands, all told, including two

venturesome mids who, preferring the excitement of a scrimmage to the

more solid delights of dinner, had begged permission to be placed in

charge of the gig and jolly-boat respectively.

We had been pulling about half-an-hour when the dull muffled roll of

sweeps became audible, and upon listening intently we discovered that

the schooner was sweeping away in a southerly direction, or at right

angles to the course which we were steering. We therefore shifted our

helm to cut her off.

The men now bent to their oars with a will, keeping up a steady but

fairly fast pace for an hour, by which time we were able not only to

distinctly hear the roll and splash of the sweeps, but also to see the

schooner as a small, vague, indefinite shadow of deeper blackness

against the dark background of the overcast sky. The rascals had taken

in every thread of canvas, so that it was only her hull we saw; but

having once sighted this, we never again allowed our glances to stray

from it.

We had arrived within about a quarter of a mile of our quarry, and were

congratulating ourselves upon having so far escaped detection, when a

voice from the shadow hailed us in Spanish, demanding who we were and

what we wanted.

"Oars!" murmured the first luff, in tones of deep but suppressed

excitement; "do not answer! not a sound, for your lives!"

About half a minute of intense anxiety now ensued, when the hail was

repeated; and immediately afterwards the ghastly blue-white radiance of

a portfire lit up the scene, distinctly revealing the hull, spars, and

rigging of the schooner, with the figure of the man who held the

firework standing by the fore rigging, one hand grasping a backstay, and

the other holding the portfire high above his head, with sparks shooting

and dropping into the water alongside, and the white smoke curling

lazily upward between the naked masts.

"Boats ahoy!" hailed the voice again, "if you do not instantly sheer off

I will open fire upon you! Do you hear?"

"What does the fellow say, Farmer?" demanded Richardson; "you understand

that lingo, don't you?"

I translated; whereupon he murmured--

"Oh yes, my hearty, we hear well enough; but we shall just have to take

our chance. Give way, men, with a will! At them before they have time to

recover from their surprise! You will board on the port side, if you

please, Mr. Farmer."

"Ay, ay, sir!" answered I. "Bend your backs, my lads, and let's get

alongside! Marines, stand by to return their fire if they open upon us!"

I was in hopes that, having recognised our strength, they would see the

folly of resisting us; but they did not; on the contrary, they gave us a

broadside of four guns--six-pounders they sounded like--and at the same

time opened upon us a confused fire of musketry. One of the men in my

boat gave a gasping groan as he dropped his oar and reeled off his

thwart into the bottom of the boat; but we had no time to attend to him

just then, for in another minute we were alongside, and I sprang over

the low bulwarks of the schooner, closely followed by the men of my own

division, as Richardson, with his two boats, swept under the stern to

board on the starboard side.

We were met by a ragamuffin crowd of swarthy, black-haired, fierce-eyed

ruffians, rendered visible by the light of a second portfire which a

burly negro held aloft, who greeted us with a lively popping of pistols,

followed by a great brandishing of cutlasses and knives. But our fellows

meant making short work of the job, and laid about them with such energy

and good-will that the Spaniards almost instantly gave way before us,

only to find themselves attacked in the rear by the first luff and his

party. This was altogether too much for them: they flung down their

weapons and bolted incontinently for the fore-scuttle, down which they

tumbled helter-skelter, one on the top of another; and almost before we

were able to realise our success we were in possession of the schooner.

[Illustration: "We were met by a ragamuffin crowd of swarthy,

black-haired, fierce-eyed ruffians."]

CHAPTER II

THE CAPTURE OF THE "ST. IAGO DE CUBA"

Our prize turned out to be the _Don Cristoval_--a craft notorious alike

for her astounding sailing powers, for the insolent daring of her

commander, and for the success with which she had hitherto eluded all

our efforts to overhaul her. Her capture, therefore, was quite a feather

in our caps, altogether apart from the fact that two hundred and

forty-four negroes were stowed under her hatches, for whom we should in

due course receive head-money. Brief as the struggle for her possession

had been, it had not been altogether bloodless; for when we came to

investigate, it was discovered that we had three men wounded, while, on

the side of the slavers, their loss amounted to two killed and seven

wounded, one of them being their skipper, the infamous Captain Lenoir--a

Frenchman--whose skull I had cloven upon the instant of boarding, and

who was found to be so desperately hurt that there appeared but little

prospect of his surviving to take his trial.

Having secured our prisoners, and made the wounded as comfortable as

possible, we made the pre-arranged signal of success by hoisting three

lanterns, one over the other, at the mainmast-head; after which we got

the canvas set, and then disposed ourselves to wait as patiently as

might be for a breeze to spring up and enable us to close with the

corvette. Meanwhile, having nothing better to do, we released the cook

and bade him go to work to cook the best dinner--or supper--for us that

the resources of the ship would permit.

It was not until some time after midnight that a soft, warm air came

stealing out to us from off the land; and then we obtained an insight

into the marvellous sailing powers of our prize that was a revelation

to us. With a breeze so light that it had not strength to keep the

mainsheet taut, the little witch sneaked along through the water at a

good four and a half knots, with scarcely a ripple under her sharp bows

to indicate that she was moving! We closed with the _Narcissus_ about an

hour later, when Mr. Richardson went on board--taking the wounded with

him--to report, and to receive the skipper's instructions in reference

to the prize. Shortly afterwards a boat came alongside with a request

that I would proceed on board the corvette, leaving the prize in charge

of one of the midshipmen. This I did, and, upon my arrival, discovered

that our good-natured "first" had spoken so highly of my conduct that I

was appointed prize-master, with instructions to select a crew of ten

men, to return to the schooner with all speed, and to make the best of

my way to Sierra Leone, there to await the arrival of the _Narcissus_.

These orders I carefully carried out, arriving in the roadstead two days

later, and exactly thirty hours in advance of the corvette.