EVERYMAN’S LIBRARY
EDITED BY ERNEST RHYS
FICTION
RUNNYMEDE
AND LINCOLN FAIR
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
L. K. HUGHES
THE PUBLISHERS OF _EVERYMAN’S LIBRARY_ WILL BE PLEASED TO SEND FREELY TO
ALL APPLICANTS A LIST OF THE PUBLISHED AND PROJECTED VOLUMES TO BE
COMPRISED UNDER THE FOLLOWING THIRTEEN HEADINGS:
TRAVEL SCIENCE FICTION
THEOLOGY & PHILOSOPHY
HISTORY CLASSICAL
FOR YOUNG PEOPLE
ESSAYS ORATORY
POETRY & DRAMA
BIOGRAPHY
REFERENCE
ROMANCE
[Illustration: colophon]
IN FOUR STYLES OF BINDING: CLOTH,
FLAT BACK, COLOURED TOP; LEATHER,
ROUND CORNERS, GILT TOP; LIBRARY
BINDING IN CLOTH, & QUARTER PIGSKIN
LONDON: J. M. DENT & SONS, LTD.
NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO.
A TALE
WHICH
HOLDETH
CHILDREN
FROM PLAY
& OLD MEN
FROM THE
CHIMNEY
CORNER
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
RUNNYMEDE
and LINCOLN
FAIR · A Story
of the Great
Charter · By
J.G. EDGAR.
[Illustration: colophon]
LONDON: PUBLISHED
by J·M·DENT·&·SONS·L{TD}
AND IN NEW YORK
BY E·P·DUTTON & CO
FIRST ISSUE OF THIS EDITION 1908
REPRINTED 1914
INTRODUCTION
_Runnymede and Lincoln Fair_ was the last story drawing upon the wars
and great affairs of English history which its author was destined to
write. Like _Cressy and Poictiers_, which is already included in
“Everyman’s Library,” and which preceded it by some three years in its
original issue, it first ran as a serial through the magazine
particularly associated with Edgar--the _Boys’ Own Magazine_; it was
first published as a separate book in 1866.
Some further particulars of the brief career of its writer may be added
to what has already been told of him in the earlier volume. John George
Edgar was the fourth son of the Rev. John Edgar of Hutton in
Berwickshire, who was said to be a representative of the ancient family
of Edgar of Wedderlie, settled for ages in the parish of Westruther in
that county. There seems to be some disagreement as to the date of his
birth. The _Gentleman’s Magazine_ for 1864 and Cooper’s _Biographical
Dictionary_ give it as 1834, but James Hannay in _Characters and
Criticisms_, published in 1865, says that Edgar was born in the year
1827. From Edgar’s literary record and subsequent career one is inclined
to believe the latter version the more correct; and to further quote
Hannay: “He was educated at Coldstream school under a man of good local
reputation, Mr. Richard Henderson, and the Latin he acquired there
proved of great value to him afterwards, in reading the old mediæval
chronicles. He went to a commercial situation in Liverpool in 1843; and
in 1846 left Liverpool for the West Indies, where he remained till 1848.
Returning to Liverpool in the last-mentioned year, he resumed his
Liverpool duties till 1852, when he settled in London.”
Thenceforward Edgar deserted commerce and devoted himself to
literature, and in little more than ten years he wrote some sixteen
volumes, intended mainly for the reading and entertainment of boys. He
was the first editor of _Every Boy’s Magazine_, and its constant
contributor. Nor was that the only periodical to which he contributed;
we find his name in other journals, and he occasionally wrote political
articles, from a typically conservative point of view; but, as Hannay
says, Edgar was always “rather a writer of books than a journalist. He
studied his subjects for their own sake, and then made what literary use
he could of them; but he was little interested in the general pursuits
of the literary world proper, and profoundly indifferent to the arts by
which literary advancement is sometimes pursued there. Indeed, his
appearance in the modern metropolitan world of wags and cynics and
tale-writers had something about it that was not only picturesque but
unique. He came in among those clever, amusing, and essentially modern
men like one of Scott’s heroes. Profoundly attached to the feudal
traditions,--a Tory of the purest Bolingbrokian School, as distinct from
the Pittite Tory or modern Conservative, and supporting these doctrines
with a fearless and eccentric eloquence, to which his fine person and
frank and gallant address gave at once an easy and a stately charm,--he
represented in London the Scot of a past age.... He made serious
preparation for a book on the barons’ war, in which he was to take the
side of the English monarchy, and which would have certainly exhibited
admirable knowledge, and talents for investigation and description, that
must have commanded an attention which his previous performances had
been too modest even to desire to invite.”
Edgar died of congestion of the brain on April 15, 1864, and his remains
lie buried in Highgate Cemetery.
That an author of so much power and promise should have had to end
there, half-way, at that comparatively early age, is the more to be
lamented, because it was due to the physical carelessness which often
wrecks men to whom nature has given a splendid constitution. According
to Hannay, Edgar presumed too much on his strength: “He thought it would
fight him through anything, so after a bout of solitary literary labour,
during which he had lived _more suo_ upon tea and tobacco, he was
attacked with brain fever. He would not believe it serious, nor would
he send for advice till it was too late.”
When Edgar wrote _Runnymede and Lincoln Fair_, he filled a gap in
English historical fiction. Scott had left the period untouched, and
Shakespeare, as a dramatist, had naturally preferred to dwell on the
deeds and characters of individuals, rather than on the political
controversies of John and his subjects.
Yet the thirteenth century is one of the most important and interesting
periods in English history; but it was not an age of chivalry and
romance, and this must be borne in mind when we are obliged to admit
that _Runnymede and Lincoln Fair_ does not rank so high as _Cressy and
Poictiers_ as a work of fiction. Moreover, there is no contemporary
chronicler so vivacious and romantic as Froissart for the novelist to
draw upon.
The historical literature of the time of Magna Charta is largely
monastic, and Edgar follows pretty closely the chronicles of Roger of
Wendover and his editor and continuator, Matthew Paris, who was the
greatest of the thirteenth-century chroniclers. But he has drawn on
various sources besides, among which are the _Memoriale_ of Walter of
Coventry, the annals of Waverly, Dunstable, and other monasteries, the
chronicle of Ralph of Coggeshall, a full and important chronicle giving
many details. For the description of London which Edgar made use of to
such advantage he was indebted to _The Life of Thomas à Becket_ by a
twelfth-century writer, William Fitzstephen.
The hero of the tale, Oliver Icingla, in so far as being the descendant
of Saxon chiefs, and of the house of De Moreville, gives us the keynote
of the period--the amalgamation of the two races, Saxon and Norman, to
form an English nation. Towards the close of the twelfth century a new
language began to be formed, a blending of Anglo-Saxon and Norman; and
by the end of the thirteenth century the last manifest difference of
race, the distinctive peculiarities of dress, had passed away. But in
character Icingla does not represent this fusion of the races. He does
not join the united barons and English people in the struggle for
national freedom, but appears as a champion of the royal cause; and
later, of England against the foreigners.
One cannot help perceiving, as one reads the story, that the sympathy
of the author is chiefly with the crown. Walter Merley is the only
Norman noble of the king’s adversaries whom he would have us admire.
This is also the tone of Roger of Wendover, who calls the leaders of the
barons “the chief promoters of this pestilence.” Yet according to
Matthew Paris, who is very fair and just, with all his enthusiasm, the
barons were not all rogues. He gives the following incident which Edgar
has omitted in connection with the siege of Rochester:--“One day during
the siege of Rochester Castle, the king and Sauvery were riding round it
to examine the weaker parts of it, when a crossbowman in the service of
William d’Albini saw them, and said to his master, ‘Is it your will, my
lord, that I should slay the king, with this arrow which I have ready?’
To this William replied, ‘No, no; far be it from us, villain, to cause
the death of the Lord’s anointed.’ The crossbowman said, ‘He would not
spare you in a like case.’ To which the knight replied, ‘The Lord’s will
be done. The Lord disposes events, not he.... This circumstance was
afterwards known to the king, who, notwithstanding this, did not wish to
spare William when his prisoner, but would have hung him had he been
permitted.”
In the opening chapters of his story Edgar gives an idea of the
turbulent state of the country just after the battle of Bouvines--the
defeat to which, according to the historians, England owes its Magna
Charta. The barons had now the upper hand. John was crestfallen, and
“concealed his hatred of the barons under a calm countenance,” says
Matthew Paris.
When describing the great day of Runnymede, Edgar shows that he did not
consider the resistance to royal tyranny to be a constitutional and
really national movement. The reader is frequently reminded that the
barons were fighting for their own selfish ends.
The period of cruelty and ravage between Runnymede and the battle of
Lincoln is enlivened by touches of romance, and exploits such as those
of William de Collingham, which remind us of Robin Hood, but all the
more interesting because Collingham is a historical character mentioned
by the contemporary writers. Roger of Wendover says, “A young man named
William, refusing to make his fealty to Louis, collected a company of a
thousand crossbowmen, and taking to the woods and forests with which
that part of the country[1] abounded, he continued to harass the French
during the whole war, and slew many thousands of them.”
[1] Sussex.
Edgar’s description of the sea-fight between Hubert de Burgh and Eustace
the Monk is much the same as that given by the chroniclers, but he omits
the answer of the nobles who, when Hubert proposed that they should go
to meet the French fleet, said: “We are not sailors, pirates, or
fishermen, do you go therefore and die.”
So also in his account of Lincoln Fair, and of the rising of Fitzarnulph
and the citizens of London, he still keeps close to the old chronicle of
Wendover; especially is he in his element on Lincoln Fair day, and able
to give full rein to his patriotic fire, the essential point of which,
in his case, as in that of the chronicler, was loyalty to the king. But
Edgar adds to Roger’s account when he introduces us to Nichola de
Camville, whose story is given by Walter of Coventry.
Finally, when the temporary peace was established, Edgar concludes his
tale in the conventional way, dear to novel readers in every age, with
the rescue of the heroine by the hero, and the “living happy ever
after.”
Hannay says of Edgar’s style: “It is not a showy style; but it is
singularly clear, masculine, and free from every trace of literary
impurity or fashionable affectation.” It is certain that he was at his
best when describing boyish adventures or historic events. Beatrix de
Moreville’s only essential place in the story is as an object of
admiration for Oliver Icingla, thereby causing the former friends,
Oliver and Fitzarnulph, to become romance-rivals as well as political
opponents. It is not, in truth, of such as Beatrix de Moreville that the
great heroines are made. With Wolf, the son of Styr, the author is, on
the contrary, much more at home; and he makes us at last as interested
as he was himself in the boy who was the loyal servant of his master.
Edgar, with his strong conservative instinct and his feeling for the old
chroniclers, had much to aid him in his special service of making
history into pure story. If he had gone on to write the major work he
had planned on the subject of this last story of his, he might have left
a more solid fame behind him. His story will help, as it is, to send
other students and writers to review the turbulent reign of that John
whom he over-estimated.
L. K. HUGHES.
_April 1908._
The following are the published works of John George Edgar:--
Biography for Boys, 1853; The Boyhood of Great Men, 1853; History
for Boys, 1855; Boy Princes, 1857; The Heroes of England, 1858; The
Wars of the Roses, 1859; The Crusades and the Crusaders, 1860;
Cavaliers and Roundheads, 1861; Sea Kings and Naval Heroes, 1861;
Memorable Events of Modern History, 1862; Danes, Saxons, and
Normans, 1863; Cressy and Poictiers (in Beeton’s _Boys’ Own
Magazine_, 1863), 1865; Historical Anecdotes of Animals, 1865;
Runnymede and Lincoln Fair, 1866.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A SQUIRE AND A CITIZEN 1
II. THE ICINGLAS 7
III. AN UNBIDDEN GUEST 10
IV. CHRISTMAS 18
V. THE TOWER OF LONDON 22
VI. KING JOHN 25
VII. A MAN OF THE FOREST 31
VIII. THE KING AND THE BARONS 37
IX. A BLOW IN SEASON 43
X. WILLIAM DE COLLINGHAM 49
XI. ANCIENT LONDON 53
XII. THE BARONS IN LONDON 59
XIII. EVACUATION OF THE TOWER 63
XIV. A HEROINE IN DANGER 67
XV. ISABEL OF ANGOULÊME 72
XVI. TAKEN BY SURPRISE 76
XVII. THE WINDSOR OF KING JOHN 83
XVIII. THE DAY OF RUNNYMEDE 87
XIX. CHAS-CHATEIL 91
XX. OLIVER’S CAPTIVITY 96
XXI. DE MOREVILLE’S DAUGHTER 100
XXII. HOW THE KING BIDED HIS TIME 108
XXIII. TURNING TO BAY 115
XXIV. A DESPERATE EXPEDIENT 119
XXV. THE VOWS OF THE HERON 123
XXVI. A PAINFUL INTERVIEW 127
XXVII. THE INVADER AND HIS DUPES 130
XXVIII. STYR THE ANGLO-SAXON AND HIS SON 135
XXIX. HUNTING A WILD BOAR 139
XXX. A GRAND FEAT OF HORSEMANSHIP 143
XXXI. PEDRO THE PAGE 149
XXXII. THE SUBTERRANEAN PASSAGE 154
XXXIII. WARRIORS IN DISGUISE 158
XXXIV. A RIDE FOR LIFE 165
XXXV. THE RUDDY LION RAMPANT 173
XXXVI. END OF KING JOHN 176
XXXVII. THE GREAT EARL OF PEMBROKE 179
XXXVIII. CORONATION OF THE BOY HENRY 182
XXXIX. A CONQUEROR IN IMAGINATION 186
XL. A CAMP OF REFUGE 190
XLI. OLIVER’S DREAM 197
XLII. BURNING OF OAKMEDE 200
XLIII. FOUND DYING 207
XLIV. A MYSTERIOUS EXIT 210
XLV. A FRENCH ARMAMENT 215
XLVI. A SEA-FIGHT 218
XLVII. THE SIEGE OF MOUNT SORREL 221
XLVIII. LINCOLN 225
XLIX. COLLINGHAM’S RAVENS 229
L. THE BATTLE 233
LI. DE MOREVILLE IN BATTLE HARNESS 237
LII. DEFIANT TILL DEATH 242
LIII. AFTER THE BATTLE 245
LIV. AN AWKWARD PREDICAMENT 247
LV. SUNSHINE AND CLOUDS 252
LVI. THE WRESTLING-MATCH 255
LVII A MEDIÆVAL RESTAURANT 259
LVIII. WRESTLING FOR THE RAM 263
LIX. A STARTLING SPECTACLE 267
LX. A DEMAGOGUE AND HIS DESPERADOES 271
LXI. AN OFFERING TO THE WINDS 276
RUNNYMEDE AND LINCOLN FAIR
A STORY OF THE GREAT CHARTER
CHAPTER I
A SQUIRE AND A CITIZEN
It was the eve of Christmas in the year 1214, when John was King of
England; and, albeit England was on the verge of a sanguinary civil war,
which was to shake the kingdom to its centre, and cause infinite
suffering to families and individuals, London--then a little city,
containing some forty thousand inhabitants, and surrounded by an old
Roman wall, said to have been built by the Emperor Constantine--wore
quite a holiday aspect, when, as the shades of evening were closing over
the banks of the Thames, a stripling of eighteen, or thereabouts, walked
up one of the long, narrow streets--some of which, indeed, were so
narrow that the inmates, when they ascended to the house-tops, could
converse and even shake hands with their opposite neighbours--and
knocked loudly at the gate of a high house. It had the appearance of
being the abode either of some great noble in attendance on the court,
or one of those mediæval merchants who called themselves “barons,” and
boasted of such wealth as few of the feudal nobles could call their own.
In fact, it was the residence of the Fitzarnulphs, the proudest,
richest, and most influential of the citizens of London.
The stripling was of gallant bearing and fair to look upon. He was tall,
though not so tall as to be in any way remarkable; and his person, well
proportioned and compactly formed, indicated much strength, and promised
much endurance. His countenance, which was set off with a profusion of
fair hair and a growing moustache, was frank and open--so frank and
open, indeed, that it seemed as if you might have read in his clear blue
eye every working of the mind; and he had neither the aquiline features
nor air of authority which distinguished the Norman warriors, young and
old. His dress, however, was similar to that which a Norman squire--a De
Vesci or a De Roos--would have worn; and he had the air, the manner, and
the style of one who had been early apprenticed to arms, and trained in
feudal castles to perform the feats of chivalry on which the age set so
high a value. Nor was it clear that he had not been engaged in other
than the mimic warfare of the tiltyard. More than one scar--none of
them, fortunately, such as to mar his beauty--told of fields on which
warriors had fought desperately for victory and for life.
Admitted after some delay into the courtyard, and, after passing through
it, into the interior of the high house at the gate of which he had
knocked, the squire was ceremoniously conducted through what might be
called the great hall of the mansion, and received in a small
comfortably matted and heated chamber by a person somewhat his senior,
who wore the gabardine of a citizen, and on his dark countenance a look
of abstraction and gloom, which contrasted remarkably with the lightness
and gaiety of his visitor. Wholly unaffected by this difference,
however, the squire held out his hand, grasped that of the young
Londoner, and said in a voice, not musical indeed, but joyous and
hearty--
“Constantine Fitzarnulph, I greet thee in the name of God and of good
St. Edward.”
“Oliver Icingla!” exclaimed the citizen, taken by surprise. “Do I, in
truth, see you, and in the body? Ere this I deemed you were food for
worms.”
“By the Holy Cross, Constantine,” replied the squire, “you do see me in
the body. I have, it is true, passed through many adventures and perils,
seeing I am but a youth; but as for being food for worms, I have as yet
no ambition to serve that purpose, being, as is well known to you, the
last of my line, and in no haste, credit me, to sing ‘_Nunc Dimittis_’
till I have done something to employ the tongues of minstrels.”
“Of what adventures and perils speak you?” asked the citizen somewhat
jealously; for he himself had passed through neither, save in his
visions by day and his dreams by night.
“I would fain not appear vainglorious,” answered the squire, smiling,
“and, therefore, I care not to recount my own exploits. But you know
that, when I was withdrawn from your companionship, and from the lessons
in grammar and letters, to which, be it confessed, I never took very
kindly, I entered the castle of my mother’s remote kinsman, William
Longsword, Earl of Salisbury, and there, not without profit, served my
apprenticeship to chivalry. But no sooner did I attain the rank of
squire than I began to sigh for real war, and such fields of fight as,
for years, I had been dreaming of. And it chanced that about that time
Don Diego Perez, a knight from Spain, reached the castle of Salisbury
with tidings that Alphonso of Castille was hard pressed by the Moors,
and like to lose his kingdom if not aided by the warriors of
Christendom. On hearing Don Diego’s report I and others in my Lord of
Salisbury’s household, with the noble earl’s sanction, accompanied the
knight to Castille; and I fought at Muradel on that day when the
Christian chivalry swept the Moorish host before them as the wind does
leaves at Yule.”
“In good faith?”
“In good faith, Constantine,” continued the squire. “But it speedily
appeared that we had done our work too well, and routed the Moors so
thoroughly that there was no likelihood of reaping more honour or more
profit under King Alphonso’s banners; and I was even thinking of going
to the Holy Land to fight for the recovery of the Holy Sepulchre, when
news reached the court of Castille that King John had allied himself
with the Emperor of Germany and the Count of Flanders to oppose the King
of France, and that my Lord of Salisbury was leading an English force to
join them; and I and others resolved thereupon to hasten where blows
were like to be going; and we made our way, through countless perils, to
the great earl’s side on the very day when the two armies--one headed by
the Emperor Otho, the other by King Philip--drew up in battle array
between Lille and Tournay.”
“By St. Thomas!” exclaimed the citizen with a sneer, “you soon learned
to your cost that you had better have gone elsewhere.”
“Nay, nay,” replied the squire sharply--for the sneer of the citizen had
not been unobserved--“it is the fortune of warriors to know defeat as
well as victory, and we did all that brave men could do on that August
day--now four months since--when we came face to face with the French at
the bridge of Bovines. It was a long and furious battle; but, from the
first, fortune favoured the French, and, when all was lost, my Lord of
Salisbury yielded his sword to the Bishop of Beauvais, a terrible
warrior, who fought not with a sword, lest he should be accused of
shedding men’s blood, but with a mighty club, with which he smashed at
once head-piece and head. For my own part,” added the squire carelessly,
as one who did not relish speaking of himself, “I fought till I was sore
wounded in the face and beaten down; and I should have been trodden
under foot but for the earl, who, like a noble warrior as he is, looked
to my safety; so I accompanied him into captivity; and, when he
covenanted for his own ransom, he, at the same time, paid mine for my
mother’s sake, and here I am in England safe and sound; but, I almost
grieve to add, hardly a free man.”
“Not a free man, Oliver Icingla? How cometh that?” asked the citizen.
“Even in this wise, Constantine,” answered the squire. “It seems that
the king, in order to settle his disputes with the barons, has demanded
some of the sons or kindred of each as hostages, and my kinsman, Hugh de
Moreville, who scandalously withholds from my mother the castle and
manors which she inherited, and which my father enjoyed in her right,
albeit he has never before troubled himself much about my existence,
suddenly bethinks him that I shall serve his purpose on this occasion,
and has named me to the king.”
“And will you go, Oliver Icingla? Will you put yourself into the lion’s
den?”
“Ay, man, as blithely as ever lover went to his lady’s bower.”
“And place yourself at the disposal of a tyrant--a cruel, remorseless,
hateful tyrant, who murdered his own nephew, Arthur of Brittany, who
hanged twenty-six Welsh boys, who poisoned the daughter of that noble
man, Robert Fitzwalter, and who allowed the wife and children of William
de Braose to perish of hunger in the dungeons of Windsor?”
The squire changed colour, and his lip quivered nervously.
“Fables, Constantine!” exclaimed he, recovering his serenity with an
effort, and tossing his head disdainfully backwards--“fables devised by
Philip of France and the barons of England to justify their own selfish
and ambitious schemes, and such as ought never to gain credit with a
person such as thou. But let French kings and Norman barons make dupes
and tools of whom they may, I swear by the Holy Cross that never shall
Oliver Icingla be either their dupe or their tool. So help me God and
good St. Edward!”
And, as he spoke these words with flashing eye, the squire drew his
sword and reverently kissed the cross on its hilt.
“Oliver Icingla,” said the citizen, after a pause, during which he eyed
his visitor keenly, “if I comprehend thee aright, thou dreamest, as I
believe thy fathers ever did, of the restoration of the Anglo-Saxon race
to power in England?”
“And if I do, who has a better right?--I, an Icingla, with the blood of
Cerdic in my veins?”
“Dreams, Oliver, vain dreams,” replied the citizen. “This is not the age
of Hereward, and every chance is gone; and, but for being blinded by
hereditary prejudices, you would see, as plainly as you now see me, that
your race is vanquished once and for ever.”
“Constantine,” said the squire sadly and thoughtfully, “the words you
have spoken, harsh as they may sound in the ear of an Icingla, are
partly words of truth and soberness, but only in part. This is not,
indeed, the age of Hereward; nor did I, even in my most enthusiastic
moments, dream of raising the old cry, ‘Let every man that is not a
nothing, whether in the town or in the country, leave his house and
come!’ and attempting to make England what it was before Duke William
prevailed at Hastings over the usurper Harold. But let me tell you, wise
as you deem yourself, that, when you speak of the ancient race as
vanquished for ever, you therein greatly err. A great race, like a great
family, is never wholly done till it is extinct; and I tell you, for
your instruction, ill as you may like to hear the truth, that this
Anglo-Saxon race which you mention so contemptuously has been rising, is
rising, and will continue to rise, and increase in influence, till
Providence grants us a king under whose auspices will reappear, in more
than its ancient vigour, the England that disappeared after the death of
the Confessor.”
“The past cannot be recalled, and the future is with God and His
saints,” said the citizen gravely; “and, for the present, the king and
the barons are at daggers drawn, and may any day appeal to the sword;
and, when the crisis comes--and I care not how soon--be it mine to
persuade the citizens of London to take part against the king, who is a
false tyrant, and with the barons, who are true men. Oliver Icingla, I
would to God you were of our determination; for I perceive that, under a
light and gay demeanour, you hide an ambitious soul and an imagination
that can conjure up a future--mayhap, the ingenuity that could fashion a
future in spite of fate.”
“Constantine,” interrupted the squire solemnly, “even now you remarked
that the future was with God and His saints.”
“True,” replied the citizen; “but, be that as it may, ally yourself with
me at this crisis, and give me your hand in token of good faith, and I
will reveal projects which would make thee and me great, and bring both
king and barons to our feet.”
The squire smiled at the citizen’s somewhat wild enthusiasm, and shook
his head.
“Farewell, Constantine,” said he, stretching out his hand. “I know not
how all this may end; but one thing I feel strongly: that there can be
no alliance between you and me. However, as the shadows are falling, and
the ways are somewhat perilous, I must mount and ride homeward, so as to
reach our humble dwelling ere the night sets in; and so, Constantine,
again I say farewell, and in whatever projects your ambition involves
you, may God and the saints have you in their keeping!”
And thus closing an interview which neither of them regarded without a
feeling of disappointment, the squire and the citizen parted, and soon
after Oliver Icingla was riding on a black horse of high mettle through
Ludgate, while Constantine Fitzarnulph, surrounded by his household, sat
gloomily at his board, revolving schemes both dark and dangerous. Their
next interview was to take place under circumstances infinitely more
tragic.