Chapter 2: Denounced.
Chapter 3: A Rescue.
Chapter 4: In Sweden.
Chapter 5: Narva.
Chapter 6: A Prisoner.
Chapter 7: Exchanged.
Chapter 8: The Passage of the Dwina.
Chapter 9: In Warsaw.
Chapter 10: In Evil Plight.
Chapter 11: With Brigands.
Chapter 12: Treed By Wolves.
Chapter 13: A Rescued Party.
Chapter 14: The Battle Of Clissow.
Chapter 15: An Old Acquaintance.
Chapter 16: In England Again.
Chapter 17: The North Coach.
Chapter 18: A Confession.
Preface.
My Dear Lads,
Had I attempted to write you an account of the whole of the
adventurous career of Charles the Twelfth of Sweden, it would, in
itself, have filled a bulky volume, to the exclusion of all other
matter; and a youth, who fought at Narva, would have been a
middle-aged man at the death of that warlike monarch, before the
walls of Frederickshall. I have, therefore, been obliged to confine
myself to the first three years of his reign, in which he crushed
the army of Russia at Narva, and laid the then powerful republic of
Poland prostrate at his feet. In this way, only, could I obtain
space for the private adventures and doings of Charlie Carstairs,
the hero of the story. The details of the wars of Charles the
Twelfth were taken from the military history, written at his
command by his chamberlain, Adlerfeld; from a similar narrative by
a Scotch gentleman in his service; and from Voltaire's history. The
latter is responsible for the statement that the trade of Poland
was almost entirely in the hands of Scotch, French, and Jewish
merchants, the Poles themselves being sharply divided into the two
categories of nobles and peasants.
Yours sincerely,
G. A. Henty.
Chapter 1: A Spy in the Household.
On the borders of Lancashire and Westmoreland, two centuries since,
stood Lynnwood, a picturesque mansion, still retaining something of
the character of a fortified house. It was ever a matter of regret
to its owner, Sir Marmaduke Carstairs, that his grandfather had so
modified its construction, by levelling one side of the quadrangle,
and inserting large mullion windows in that portion inhabited by
the family, that it was in no condition to stand a siege, in the
time of the Civil War.
Sir Marmaduke was, at that time, only a child, but he still
remembered how the Roundhead soldiers had lorded it there, when his
father was away fighting with the army of the king; how they had
seated themselves at the board, and had ordered his mother about as
if she had been a scullion, jeering her with cruel words as to what
would have been the fate of her husband, if they had caught him
there, until, though but eight years old, he had smitten one of the
troopers, as he sat, with all his force. What had happened after
that, he did not recollect, for it was not until a week after the
Roundheads had ridden away that he found himself in his bed, with
his mother sitting beside him, and his head bandaged with cloths
dipped in water. He always maintained that, had the house been
fortified, it could have held out until help arrived, although, in
later years, his father assured him that it was well it was not in
a position to offer a defence.
"We were away down south, Marmaduke, and the Roundheads were
masters of this district, at the time. They would have battered the
place around your mother's ears, and, likely as not, have burnt it
to the ground. As it was, I came back here to find it whole and
safe, except that the crop-eared scoundrels had, from pure
wantonness, destroyed the pictures and hacked most of the furniture
to pieces. I took no part in the later risings, seeing that they
were hopeless, and therefore preserved my property, when many
others were ruined.
"No, Marmaduke, it is just as well that the house was not
fortified. I believe in fighting, when there is some chance, even a
slight one, of success, but I regard it as an act of folly, to
throw away a life when no good can come of it."
Still, Sir Marmaduke never ceased to regret that Lynnwood was not
one of the houses that had been defended, to the last, against the
enemies of the king. At the Restoration he went, for the first time
in his life, to London, to pay his respects to Charles the Second.
He was well received, and although he tired, in a very short time,
of the gaieties of the court, he returned to Lynnwood with his
feelings of loyalty to the Stuarts as strong as ever. He rejoiced
heartily when the news came of the defeat of Monmouth at Sedgemoor,
and was filled with rage and indignation when James weakly fled,
and left his throne to be occupied by Dutch William.
From that time, he became a strong Jacobite, and emptied his glass
nightly "to the king over the water." In the north the Jacobites
were numerous, and at their gatherings treason was freely talked,
while arms were prepared, and hidden away for the time when the
lawful king should return to claim his own. Sir Marmaduke was
deeply concerned in the plot of 1696, when preparations had been
made for a great Jacobite rising throughout the country. Nothing
came of it, for the Duke of Berwick, who was to have led it, failed
in getting the two parties who were concerned to come to an
agreement. The Jacobites were ready to rise, directly a French army
landed. The French king, on the other hand, would not send an army
until the Jacobites had risen, and the matter therefore fell
through, to Sir Marmaduke's indignation and grief. But he had no
words strong enough to express his anger and disgust when he found
that, side by side with the general scheme for a rising, a plot had
been formed by Sir George Barclay, a Scottish refugee, to
assassinate the king, on his return from hunting in Richmond
Forest.
"It is enough to drive one to become a Whig," he exclaimed. "I am
ready to fight Dutch William, for he occupies the place of my
rightful sovereign, but I have no private feud with him, and, if I
had, I would run any man through who ventured to propose to me a
plot to assassinate him. Such scoundrels as Barclay would bring
disgrace on the best cause in the world. Had I heard as much as a
whisper of it, I would have buckled on my sword, and ridden to
London to warn the Dutchman of his danger. However, as it seems
that Barclay had but some forty men with him, most of them foreign
desperadoes, the Dutchman must see that English gentlemen, however
ready to fight against him fairly, would have no hand in so
dastardly a plot as this.
"Look you, Charlie, keep always in mind that you bear the name of
our martyred king, and be ready ever to draw your sword in the
cause of the Stuarts, whether it be ten years hence, or forty, that
their banner is hoisted again; but keep yourself free from all
plots, except those that deal with fair and open warfare. Have no
faith whatever in politicians, who are ever ready to use the
country gentry as an instrument for gaining their own ends. Deal
with your neighbours, but mistrust strangers, from whomsoever they
may say they come."
Which advice Charlie, at that time thirteen years old, gravely
promised to follow. He had naturally inherited his father's
sentiments, and believed the Jacobite cause to be a sacred one. He
had fought and vanquished Alured Dormay, his second cousin, and two
years his senior, for speaking of King James' son as the Pretender,
and was ready, at any time, to do battle with any boy of his own
age, in the same cause. Alured's father, John Dormay, had ridden
over to Lynnwood, to complain of the violence of which his son had
been the victim, but he obtained no redress from Sir Marmaduke.
"The boy is a chip of the old block, cousin, and he did right. I
myself struck a blow at the king's enemies, when I was but eight
years old, and got my skull well-nigh cracked for my pains. It is
well that the lads were not four years older, for then, instead of
taking to fisticuffs, their swords would have been out, and as my
boy has, for the last four years, been exercised daily in the use
of his weapon, it might happen that, instead of Alured coming home
with a black eye, and, as you say, a missing tooth, he might have
been carried home with a sword thrust through his body.
"It was, to my mind, entirely the fault of your son. I should have
blamed Charlie, had he called the king at Westminster Dutch
William, for, although each man has a right to his own opinions, he
has no right to offend those of others--besides, at present it is
as well to keep a quiet tongue as to a matter that words cannot set
right. In the same way, your son had no right to offend others by
calling James Stuart the Pretender.
"Certainly, of the twelve boys who go over to learn what the Rector
of Apsley can teach them, more than half are sons of gentlemen
whose opinions are similar to my own.
"It would be much better, John Dormay, if, instead of complaining
of my boy, you were to look somewhat to your own. I marked, the
last time he came over here, that he was growing loutish in his
manners, and that he bore himself with less respect to his elders
than is seemly in a lad of that age. He needs curbing, and would
carry himself all the better if, like Charlie, he had an hour a day
at sword exercise. I speak for the boy's good. It is true that you
yourself, being a bitter Whig, mix but little with your neighbours,
who are for the most part the other way of thinking; but this may
not go on for ever, and you would, I suppose, like Alured, when he
grows up, to mix with others of his rank in the county; and it
would be well, therefore, that he should have the accomplishments
and manners of young men of his own age."
John Dormay did not reply hastily--it was his policy to keep on
good terms with his wife's cousin, for the knight was a man of far
higher consideration, in the county, than himself. His smile,
however, was not a pleasant one, as he rose and said:
"My mission has hardly terminated as I expected, Sir Marmaduke. I
came to complain, and I go away advised somewhat sharply."
"Tut, tut, man!" the knight said. "I speak only for the lad's good,
and I am sure that you cannot but feel the truth of what I have
said. What does Alured want to make enemies for? It may be that it
was only my son who openly resented his ill-timed remarks, but you
may be sure that others were equally displeased, and maybe their
resentment will last much longer than that which was quenched in a
fair stand-up fight. Certainly, there need be no malice between the
boys. Alured's defeat may even do him good, for he cannot but feel
that it is somewhat disgraceful to be beaten by one nearly a head
shorter than he."
"There is, no doubt, something in what you say, Sir Marmaduke,"
John Dormay said blandly, "and I will make it my business that,
should the boys meet again as antagonists, Alured shall be able to
give a better account of himself."
"He is a disagreeable fellow," Sir Marmaduke said to himself, as he
watched John Dormay ride slowly away through the park, "and, if it
were not that he is husband to my cousin Celia, I would have nought
to do with him. She is my only kinswoman, and, were aught to happen
to Charlie, that lout, her son, would be the heir of Lynnwood. I
should never rest quiet in my grave, were a Whig master here.
"I would much rather that he had spoken wrathfully, when I
straightly gave him my opinion of the boy, who is growing up an
ill-conditioned cub. It would have been more honest. I hate to see
a man smile, when I know that he would fain swear. I like my cousin
Celia, and I like her little daughter Ciceley, who takes after her,
and not after John Dormay; but I would that the fellow lived on the
other side of England. He is out of his place here, and, though men
do not speak against him in my presence, knowing that he is a sort
of kinsman, I have never heard one say a good word for him.
"It is not only because he is a Whig. There are other Whig gentry
in the neighbourhood, against whom I bear no ill will, and can meet
at a social board in friendship. It would be hard if politics were
to stand between neighbours. It is Dormay's manner that is against
him. If he were anyone but Celia's husband, I would say that he is
a smooth-faced knave, though I altogether lack proof of my words,
beyond that he has added half a dozen farms to his estate, and, in
each case, there were complaints that, although there was nothing
contrary to the law, it was by sharp practice that he obtained
possession, lending money freely in order to build houses and
fences and drains, and then, directly a pinch came, demanding the
return of his advance.
"Such ways may pass in a London usurer, but they don't do for us
country folk; and each farm that he has taken has closed the doors
of a dozen good houses to John Dormay. I fear that Celia has a bad
time with him, though she is not one to complain. I let Charlie go
over to Rockley, much oftener than I otherwise should do, for her
sake and Ciceley's, though I would rather, a hundred times, that
they should come here. Not that the visits are pleasant, when they
do come, for I can see that Celia is always in fear, lest I should
ask her questions about her life at home; which is the last thing
that I should think of doing, for no good ever comes of
interference between man and wife, and, whatever I learned, I could
not quarrel with John Dormay without being altogether separated
from Celia and the girl.
"I am heartily glad that Charlie has given Alured a sound
thrashing. The boy is too modest. He only said a few words, last
evening, about the affair, and I thought that only a blow or two
had been exchanged. It was as much as I could do, not to rub my
hands and chuckle, when his father told me all about it. However, I
must speak gravely to Charlie. If he takes it up, every time a Whig
speaks scornfully of the king, he will be always in hot water, and,
were he a few years older, would become a marked man. We have got
to bide our time, and, except among friends, it is best to keep a
quiet tongue until that time comes."
To Sir Marmaduke's disappointment, three more years went on without
the position changing in any way. Messengers went and came between
France and the English Jacobites, but no movement was made. The
failure of the assassination plot had strengthened William's hold
on the country, for Englishmen love fair play and hate assassination,
so that many who had, hitherto, been opponents of William of Orange,
now ranged themselves on his side, declaring they could no longer
support a cause that used assassination as one of its weapons. More
zealous Jacobites, although they regretted the assassination plot,
and were as vehement of their denunciations of its authors as were
the Whigs, remained staunch in their fidelity to "the king over the
water," maintaining stoutly that his majesty knew nothing whatever
of this foul plot, and that his cause was in no way affected by the
misconduct of a few men, who happened to be among its adherents.
At Lynnwood things went on as usual. Charlie continued his studies,
in a somewhat desultory way, having but small affection for books;
kept up his fencing lesson diligently and learned to dance;
quarrelled occasionally with his cousin Alured, spent a good deal
of his time on horseback, and rode over, not unfrequently, to
Rockley, choosing, as far as possible, the days and hours when he
knew that Alured and his father were likely to be away. He went
over partly for his own pleasure, but more in compliance with his
father's wishes.
"My cousin seldom comes over, herself," the latter said. "I know,
right well, that it is from no slackness of her own, but that her
husband likes not her intimacy here. It is well, then, that you
should go over and see them, for it is only when you bring her that
I see Ciceley. I would she were your sister, lad, for she is a
bright little maid, and would make the old house lively."
Therefore, once a week or so, Charlie rode over early to Rockley,
which was some five miles distant, and brought back Ciceley,
cantering on her pony by his side, escorting her home again before
nightfall. Ciceley's mother wondered, sometimes, that her husband,
who in most matters set his will in opposition to hers, never
offered any objection to the girl's visits to Lynnwood. She thought
that, perhaps, he was pleased that there should be an intimacy
between some member, at least, of his family, and Sir Marmaduke's.
There were so few houses at which he or his were welcome, it was
pleasant to him to be able to refer to the close friendship of his
daughter with their cousins at Lynnwood. Beyond this, Celia, who
often, as she sat alone, turned the matter over in her mind, could
see no reason he could have for permitting the intimacy. That he
would permit it without some reason was, as her experience had
taught her, out of the question.
Ciceley never troubled her head about the matter. Her visits to
Lynnwood were very pleasant to her. She was two years younger than
Charlie Carstairs; and although, when he had once brought her to
the house, he considered that his duties were over until the hour
arrived for her return, he was sometimes ready to play with her,
escort her round the garden, or climb the trees for fruit or birds'
eggs for her.
Such little courtesies she never received from Alured, who was four
years her senior, and who never interested himself in the slightest
degree in her. He was now past eighteen, and was beginning to
regard himself as a man, and had, to Ciceley's satisfaction, gone a
few weeks before, to London, to stay with an uncle who had a place
at court, and was said to be much in the confidence of some of the
Whig lords.
Sir Marmaduke was, about this time, more convinced than ever that,
ere long, the heir of the Stuarts would come over from France, with
men, arms, and money, and would rally round him the Jacobites of
England and Scotland. Charlie saw but little of him, for he was
frequently absent, from early morning until late at night, riding
to visit friends in Westmoreland and Yorkshire, sometimes being
away two or three days at a time. Of an evening, there were
meetings at Lynnwood, and at these strangers, who arrived after
nightfall, were often present. Charlie was not admitted to any of
these gatherings.
"You will know all about it in time, lad," his father said. "You
are too young to bother your head with politics, and you would lose
patience in a very short time. I do myself, occasionally. Many who
are the foremost in talk, when there is no prospect of doing
anything, draw back when the time approaches for action, and it is
sickening to listen to the timorous objections and paltry arguments
that are brought forward. Here am I, a man of sixty, ready to risk
life and fortune in the good cause, and there are many, not half my
age, who speak with as much caution as if they were graybeards.
Still, lad, I have no doubt that the matter will straighten itself
out, and come right in the end. It is always the most trying time,
for timorous hearts, before the first shot of a battle is fired.
Once the engagement commences, there is no time for fear. The
battle has to be fought out, and the best way to safety is to win a
victory. I have not the least doubt that, as soon as it is known
that the king has landed, there will be no more shilly-shallying or
hesitation. Every loyal man will mount his horse, and call out his
tenants, and, in a few days, England will be in a blaze from end to
end."
Charlie troubled himself but little with what was going on. His
father had promised him that, when the time did come, he should
ride by his side, and with that promise he was content to wait,
knowing that, at present, his strength would be of but little
avail, and that every week added somewhat to his weight and sinew.
One day he was in the garden with Ciceley. The weather was hot, and
the girl was sitting, in a swing, under a shady tree, occasionally
starting herself by a push with her foot on the ground, and then
swaying gently backward and forward, until the swing was again at
rest. Charlie was seated on the ground, near her, pulling the ears
of his favourite dog, and occasionally talking to her, when a
servant came out, with a message that his father wanted to speak to
him.
"I expect I shall be back in a few minutes, Ciceley, so don't you
wander away till I come. It is too hot today to be hunting for you,
all over the garden, as I did when you hid yourself last week."
It was indeed but a short time until he returned.
"My father only wanted to tell me that he is just starting for
Bristowe's, and, as it is over twenty miles away, he may not return
until tomorrow."
"I don't like that man's face who brought the message to you,
Charlie."
"Don't you?" the boy said carelessly. "I have not noticed him much.
He has not been many months with us.
"What are you thinking of?" he asked, a minute later, seeing that
his cousin looked troubled.
"I don't know that I ought to tell you, Charlie. You know my father
does not think the same way as yours about things."
"I should rather think he doesn't," Charlie laughed. "There is no
secret about that, Ciceley; but they don't quarrel over it. Last
time your father and mother came over here, I dined with them for
the first time, and I noticed there was not a single word said
about politics. They chatted over the crops, and the chances of a
war in Europe, and of the quarrel between Holstein and Denmark, and
whether the young king of Sweden would aid the duke, who seems to
be threatened by Saxony as well as by Denmark. I did not know
anything about it, and thought it was rather stupid; but my father
and yours both seemed of one mind, and were as good friends as if
they were in equal agreement on all other points. But what has that
to do with Nicholson, for that is the man's name who came out just
now?"
"It does not seem to have much to do with it," she said doubtfully,
"and yet, perhaps it does. You know my mother is not quite of the
same opinion as my father, although she never says so to him; but,
when we are alone together, sometimes she shakes her head and says
she fears that trouble is coming, and it makes her very unhappy.
One day I was in the garden, and they were talking loudly in the
dining room--at least, he was talking loudly. Well, he said--But I
don't know whether I ought to tell you, Charlie."
"Certainly you ought not, Ciceley. If you heard what you were not
meant to hear, you ought never to say a word about it to anyone."
"But it concerns you and Sir Marmaduke."
"I cannot help that," he said stoutly. "People often say things of
each other, in private, especially if they are out of temper, that
they don't quite mean, and it would make terrible mischief if such
things were repeated. Whatever your father said, I do not want to
hear it, and it would be very wrong of you to repeat it."
"I am not going to repeat it, Charlie. I only want to say that I do
not think my father and yours are very friendly together, which is
natural, when my father is all for King William, and your father
for King James. He makes no secret of that, you know."
Charlie nodded.
"That is right enough, Ciceley, but still, I don't understand in
the least what it has to do with the servant."
"It has to do with it," she said pettishly, starting the swing
afresh, and then relapsing into silence until it again came to a
standstill.
"I think you ought to know," she said suddenly. "You see, Charlie,
Sir Marmaduke is very kind to me, and I love him dearly, and so I
do you, and I think you ought to know, although it may be nothing
at all."
"Well, fire away then, Ciceley. There is one thing you may be quite
sure of, whatever you tell me, it is like telling a brother, and I
shall never repeat it to anyone."
"Well, it is this. That man comes over sometimes to see my father.
I have seen him pass my window, three or four times, and go in by
the garden door into father's study. I did not know who he was, but
it did seem funny his entering by that door, as if he did not want
to be seen by anyone in the house. I did not think anything more
about it, till I saw him just now, then I knew him directly. If I
had seen him before, I should have told you at once, but I don't
think I have."
"I daresay not, Ciceley. He does not wait at table, but is under
the steward, and helps clean the silver. He waits when we have
several friends to dinner. At other times he does not often come
into the room.
"What you tell me is certainly curious. What can he have to say to
your father?"
"I don't know, Charlie. I don't know anything about it. I do think
you ought to know."
"Yes, I think it is a good thing that I should know," Charlie
agreed thoughtfully. "I daresay it is all right, but, at any rate,
I am glad you told me."
"You won't tell your father?" she asked eagerly. "Because, if you
were to speak of it--"
"I shall not tell him. You need not be afraid that what you have
told me will come out. It is curious, and that is all, and I will
look after the fellow a bit. Don't think anything more about it. It
is just the sort of thing it is well to know, but I expect there is
no harm in it, one way or the other. Of course, he must have known
your father before he came to us, and may have business of some
sort with him. He may have a brother, or some other relation, who
wants to take one of your father's farms. Indeed, there are a
hundred things he might want to see him about. But still, I am glad
you have told me."
In his own mind, Charlie thought much more seriously of it than he
pretended. He knew that, at present, his father was engaged heart
and soul in a projected Jacobite rising. He knew that John Dormay
was a bitter Whig. He believed that he had a grudge against his
father, and the general opinion of him was that he was wholly
unscrupulous.
That he should, then, be in secret communication with a servant at
Lynnwood, struck him as a very serious matter, indeed. Charlie was
not yet sixteen, but his close companionship with his father had
rendered him older than most lads of his age. He was as warm a
Jacobite as his father, but the manner in which William, with his
Dutch troops, had crushed the great Jacobite rebellion in Ireland,
seemed to him a lesson that the prospects of success, in England,
were much less certain than his father believed them to be.
John Dormay, as an adherent of William, would be interested in
thwarting the proposed movement, with the satisfaction of, at the
same time, bringing Sir Marmaduke into disgrace. Charlie could
hardly believe that his cousin would be guilty of setting a spy to
watch his father, but it was certainly possible, and as he thought
the matter over, as he rode back after escorting Ciceley to her
home, he resolved to keep a sharp watch over the doings of this man
Nicholson.
"It would never do to tell my father what Ciceley said. He would
bundle the fellow out, neck and crop, and perhaps break some of his
bones, and then it would be traced to her. She has not a happy
home, as it is, and it would be far worse if her father knew that
it was she who had put us on our guard. I must find out something
myself, and then we can turn him out, without there being the least
suspicion that Ciceley is mixed up in it."
The next evening several Jacobite gentlemen rode in, and, as usual,
had a long talk with Sir Marmaduke after supper.
"If this fellow is a spy," Charlie said to himself, "he will be
wanting to hear what is said, and to do so he must either hide
himself in the room, or listen at the door, or at one of the
windows. It is not likely that he will get into the room, for to do
that he must have hidden himself before supper began. I don't think
he would dare to listen at the door, for anyone passing through the
hall would catch him at it. It must be at one of the windows."
The room was at an angle of the house. Three windows looked out on
to the lawn in front; that at the side into a large shrubbery,
where the bushes grew up close to it; and Charlie decided that
here, if anywhere, the man would take up his post. As soon, then,
as he knew that the servants were clearing away the supper, he took
a heavy cudgel and went out. He walked straight away from the
house, and then, when he knew that his figure could no longer be
seen in the twilight, he made a circuit, and, entering the
shrubbery, crept along close to the wall of the Muse, until within
two or three yards of the window. Having made sure that at present,
at any rate, no one was near, he moved out a step or two to look at
the window.
His suspicions were at once confirmed. The inside curtains were
drawn, but the casement was open two or three inches. Charlie again
took up his post, behind a bush, and waited.
In five minutes he heard a twig snap, and then a figure came along,
noiselessly, and placed itself at the window. Charlie gave him but
a moment to listen, then he sprang forward, and, with his whole
strength, brought his cudgel down upon the man's head. He fell like
a stone. Charlie threw open the window, and, as he did so, the
curtain was torn back by his father, the sound of the blow and the
fall having reached the ears of those within.
Sir Marmaduke had drawn his sword, and was about to leap through
the window, when Charlie exclaimed:
"It is I, father. I have caught a fellow listening at the window,
and have just knocked him down."
"Well done, my boy!
"Bring lights, please, gentlemen. Let us see what villain we have
got here."
But, as he spoke, Charlie's head suddenly disappeared, and a sharp
exclamation broke from him, as he felt his ankles grasped and his
feet pulled from under him. He came down with such a crash that,
for a moment, he was unable to rise. He heard a rustling in the
bushes, and then his father leapt down beside him.
"Where are you, my boy? Has the scoundrel hurt you?"
"He has given me a shake," Charlie said as he sat up; "and, what is
worse, I am afraid he has got away."
"Follow me, gentlemen, and scatter through the gardens," Sir
Marmaduke roared. "The villain has escaped!"
For a few minutes, there was a hot pursuit through the shrubbery
and gardens, but nothing was discovered. Charlie had been so shaken
that he was unable to join the pursuit, but, having got on to his
feet, remained leaning against the wall until his father came back.
"He has got away, Charlie. Have you any idea who he was?"
"It was Nicholson, father. At least, I am almost certain that it
was him. It was too dark to see his face. I could see the outline
of his head against the window, and he had on a cap with a cock's
feather which I had noticed the man wore."
"But how came you here, Charlie?"
"I will tell you that afterwards, father. Don't ask me now."
For, at this moment, some of the others were coming up. Several of
them had torches, and, as they approached, Sir Marmaduke saw
something lying on the ground under the window. He picked it up.
"Here is the fellow's cap," he said. "You must have hit him a
shrewd blow, Charlie, for here is a clean cut through the cloth,
and a patch of fresh blood on the white lining. How did he get you
down, lad?"
"He fell so suddenly, when I hit him, that I thought I had either
killed or stunned him; but of course I had not, for it was but a
moment after, when I was speaking to you, that I felt my ankles
seized, and I went down with a crash. I heard him make off through
the bushes; but I was, for the moment, almost dazed, and could do
nothing to stop him."
"Was the window open when he came?"
"Yes, sir, two or three inches."
"Then it was evidently a planned thing.
"Well, gentlemen, we may as well go indoors. The fellow is well out
of our reach now, and we may be pretty sure he will never again
show his face here. Fortunately he heard nothing, for the serving
men had but just left the room, and we had not yet begun to talk."
"That is true enough, Sir Marmaduke," one of the others said. "The
question is: how long has this been going on?"
Sir Marmaduke looked at Charlie.
"I know nothing about it, sir. Till now, I have not had the
slightest suspicion of this man. It occurred to me, this afternoon,
that it might be possible for anyone to hear what was said inside
the room, by listening at the windows; and that this shrubbery
would form a very good shelter for an eavesdropper. So I thought,
this evening I would take up my place here, to assure myself that
there was no traitor in the household. I had been here but five
minutes when the fellow stole quietly up, and placed his ear at the
opening of the casement, and you may be sure that I gave him no
time to listen to what was being said."
"Well, we had better go in," Sir Marmaduke said. "There is no fear
of our being overheard this evening.
"Charlie, do you take old Banks aside, and tell him what has
happened, and then go with him to the room where that fellow slept,
and make a thorough search of any clothes he may have left behind,
and of the room itself. Should you find any papers or documents,
you will, of course, bring them down to me."
But the closest search, by Charlie and the old butler, produced no
results. Not a scrap of paper of any kind was found, and Banks said
that he knew the man could neither read nor write.
The party below soon broke up, considerable uneasiness being felt,
by all, at the incident of the evening. When the last of them had
left, Charlie was sent for.
"Now, then, Charlie, let me hear how all this came about. I know
that all you said about what took place at the window is perfectly
true; but, even had you not said so, I should have felt there was
something else. What was it brought you to that window? Your story
was straight-forward enough, but it was certainly singular your
happening to be there, and I fancy some of our friends thought that
you had gone round to listen, yourself. One hinted as much; but I
said that was absurd, for you were completely in my confidence, and
that, whatever peril and danger there might be in the enterprise,
you would share them with me."
"It is not pleasant that they should have thought so, father, but
that is better than that the truth should be known. This is how it
happened;" and he repeated what Ciceley had told him in the garden.
"So the worthy Master John Dormay has set a spy upon me," Sir
Marmaduke said, bitterly. "I knew the man was a knave--that is
public property--but I did not think that he was capable of this.
Well, I am glad that, at any rate, no suspicion can fall upon
Ciceley in the matter; but it is serious, lad, very serious. We do
not know how long this fellow has been prying and listening, or how
much he may have learnt. I don't think it can be much. We talked it
over, and my friends all agreed with me that they do not remember
those curtains having been drawn before. To begin with, the
evenings are shortening fast, and, at our meeting last week, we
finished our supper by daylight; and, had the curtains been drawn,
it would have been noticed, for we had need of light before we
finished. Two of the gentlemen, who were sitting facing the window,
declared that they remembered distinctly that it was open. Mr.
Jervoise says that he thought to himself that, if it was his place,
he would have the trees cut away there, for they shut out the
light.
"Therefore, although it is uncomfortable to think that there has
been a spy in the house, for some months, we have every reason to
hope that our councils have not been overheard. Were it otherwise,
I should lose no time in making for the coast, and taking ship to
France, to wait quietly there until the king comes over."
"You have no documents, father, that the man could have found?"
"None, Charlie. We have doubtless made lists of those who could be
relied upon, and of the number of men they could bring with them,
but these have always been burned before we separated. Such letters
as I have had from France, I have always destroyed as soon as I
have read them. Perilous stuff of that sort should never be left
about. No; they may ransack the place from top to bottom, and
nothing will be found that could not be read aloud, without harm,
in the marketplace of Lancaster.
"So now, to bed, Charlie. It is long past your usual hour."