Mr. Bletson arose and paid his respects to Colonel Everard, with the
ease and courtesy of a gentleman of the time; though on every account
grieved at his intrusion, as a religious man who held his free-thinking
principles in detestation, and would effectually prevent his conversion
of Harrison, and even of Desborough, if any thing could be moulded out
of such a clod, to the worship of the _Animus Mundi_. Moreover, Bletson
knew Everard to be a man of steady probity, and by no means disposed to
close with a scheme on which he had successfully sounded the other two,
and which was calculated to assure the Commissioners of some little
private indemnification for the trouble they were to give themselves in
the public business. The philosopher was yet less pleased, when he saw
the magistrate the pastor who had met him in his flight of the
preceding evening, when he had been seen, _parma non bene relicta_,
with cloak and doublet left behind him.
The presence of Colonel Everard was as unpleasing to Desborough as to
Bletson: but the former having no philosophy in him, nor an idea that
it was possible for any man to resist helping himself out of untold
money, was chiefly embarrassed by the thought, that the plunder which
they might be able to achieve out of their trust, might, by this
unwelcome addition to their number, be divided into four parts instead
of three; and this reflection added to the natural awkwardness with
which he grumbled forth a sort of welcome, addressed to Everard.
As for Harrison, he remained like one on higher thoughts intent; his
posture unmoved, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as before, and in no way
indicating the least consciousness that the company had been more than
doubled around him.
Meantime, Everard took his place at the table, as a man who assumed his
own right, and pointed to his companions to sit down nearer the foot of
the board. Wildrake so far misunderstood his signals, as to sit down
above the Mayor; but rallying his recollection at a look from his
patron, he rose and took his place lower, whistling, however, as he
went, a sound at which the company stared, as at a freedom highly
unbecoming. To complete his indecorum, he seized upon a pipe, and
filling it from a large tobacco-box, was soon immersed in a cloud of
his own raising; from which a hand shortly after emerged, seized on the
black-jack of ale, withdrew it within the vapoury sanctuary, and, after
a potential draught, replaced it upon the table, its owner beginning to
renew the cloud which his intermitted exercise of the tube had almost
allowed to subside.
Nobody made any observation on his conduct, out of respect, probably,
to Colonel Everard, who bit his lip, but continued silent; aware that
censure might extract some escapade more unequivocally characteristic
of a cavalier, from his refractory companion. As silence seemed
awkward, and the others made no advances to break it, beyond the
ordinary salutation, Colonel Everard at length said, “I presume,
gentlemen, that you are somewhat surprised at my arrival here, and thus
intruding myself into your meeting?”
“Why the dickens should we be surprised, Colonel?” said Desborough; “we
know his Excellency, my brother-in-law Noll’s—I mean my Lord Cromwell’s
way, of overquartering his men in the towns he marches through. Thou
hast obtained a share in our commission?”
“And in that,” said Bletson, smiling and bowing, “the Lord-General has
given us the most acceptable colleague that could have been added to
our number. No doubt your authority for joining with us must be under
warrant of the Council of State?”
“Of that, gentlemen,” said the Colonel, “I will presently advise
you.”—He took out his warrant accordingly, and was about to communicate
the contents; but observing that there were three or four half-empty
flasks upon the table, that Desborough looked more stupid than usual,
and that the philosopher’s eyes were reeling in his head,
notwithstanding the temperance of Bletson’s usual habits, he concluded
that they had been fortifying themselves against the horrors of the
haunted mansion, by laying in a store of what is called Dutch courage,
and therefore prudently resolved to postpone his more important
business with them till the cooler hour of morning. He, therefore,
instead of presenting the General’s warrant superseding their
commission, contented himself with replying,—“My business has, of
course, some reference to your proceedings here. But here is—excuse my
curiosity—a reverend gentleman,” pointing to Holdenough, “who has told
me that you are so strangely embarrassed here, as to require both the
civil and spiritual authority to enable you to keep possession of
Woodstock.”
“Before we go into that matter,” said Bletson, blushing up to the eyes
at the recollection of his own fears, so manifestly displayed, yet so
inconsistent with his principles, “I should like to know who this other
stranger is, who has come with the worthy magistrate, and the no less
worthy Presbyterian?”
“Meaning me?” said Wildrake, laying his pipe aside; “Gadzooks, the time
hath been that I could have answered the question with a better title;
but at present I am only his honour’s poor clerk, or secretary,
whichever is the current phrase.”
“’Fore George, my lively blade, thou art a frank fellow of thy tattle,”
said Desborough. “There is my secretary Tomkins, whom men sillily
enough call Fibbet, and the honourable Lieutenant-General Harrison’s
secretary Bibbet, who are now at supper below stairs, that durst not
for their ears speak a phrase above their breath in the presence of
their betters, unless to answer a question.”
“Yes, Colonel Everard,” said the philosopher, with his quiet smile,
glad, apparently, to divert the conversation from the topic of last
night’s alarm, and recollections which humbled his self-love and
self-satisfaction,—“yes; and when Master Fibbet and Master Bibbet _do_
speak, their affirmations are as much in a common mould of mutual
attestation, as their names would accord in the verses of a poet. If
Master Fibbet happens to tell a fiction, Master Bibbet swears it as
truth. If Master Bibbet chances to have gotten drunk in the fear of the
Lord, Master Fibbet swears he is sober. I have called my own secretary
Gibbet, though his name chances to be only Gibeon, a worthy Israelite
at your service, but as pure a youth as ever picked a lamb-bone at
Paschal. But I call him Gibbet, merely to make up the holy trefoil with
another rhyme. This squire of thine, Colonel Everard, looks as if he
might be worthy to be coupled with the rest of the fraternity.”
“Not I, truly,” said the cavalier; “I’ll be coupled with no Jew that
was ever whelped, and no Jewess neither.”
“Scorn not for that, young man,” said the philosopher; “the Jews are,
in point of religion, the elder brethren, you know.”
“The Jews older than the Christians?” said Desborough, “’fore George,
they will have thee before the General Assembly, Bletson, if thou
venturest to say so.”
Wildrake laughed without ceremony at the gross ignorance of Desborough,
and was joined by a sniggling response from behind the cupboard, which,
when inquired into, proved to be produced by the serving-men. These
worthies, timorous as their betters, when they were supposed to have
left the room, had only withdrawn to their present place of
concealment.
“How now, ye rogues,” said Bletson, angrily; “do you not know your duty
better?”
“We beg your worthy honour’s pardon,” said one of the men, “but we
dared not go down stairs without a light.”
“A light, ye cowardly poltroons?” said the philosopher; “what—to show
which of you looks palest when a rat squeaks?—but take a candlestick
and begone, you cowardly villains! the devils you are so much afraid of
must be but paltry kites, if they hawk at such bats as you are.”
The servants, without replying, took up one of the candlesticks, and
prepared to retreat, Trusty Tomkins at the head of the troop, when
suddenly, as they arrived at the door of the parlour, which had been
left half open, it was shut violently. The three terrified domestics
tumbled back into the middle of the room, as if a shot had been
discharged in their face, and all who were at the table started to
their feet.
Colonel Everard was incapable of a moment’s fear, even if any thing
frightful had been seen; but he remained stationary, to see what his
companions would do, and to get at the bottom, if possible, of the
cause of their alarm upon an occasion so trifling. The philosopher
seemed to think that _he_ was the person chiefly concerned to show
manhood on the occasion.
He walked to the door accordingly, murmuring at the cowardice of the
servants; but at such a snail’s pace, that it seemed he would most
willingly have been anticipated by any one whom his reproaches had
roused to exertion. “Cowardly blockheads!” he said at last, seizing
hold of the handle of the door, but without turning it effectually
round— “dare you not open a door?”—(still fumbling with the lock)—“dare
you not go down a stair-case without a light? Here, bring me the
candle, you cowardly villains!—By Heaven, something sighs on the
outside!”
As he spoke, he let go the handle of the parlour door, and stepped back
a pace or two into the apartment, with cheeks as pale as the band he
wore.
“_Deus adjutor meus_!” said the Presbyterian clergyman, rising from his
seat. “Give place, sir,” addressing Bletson; “it would seem I know more
of this matter than thou, and I bless Heaven I am armed for the
conflict.”
Bold as a grenadier about to mount a breach, yet with the same belief
in the existence of a great danger to be encountered, as well as the
same reliance in the goodness of his cause, the worthy man stepped
before the philosophical Bletson, and taking a light from a sconce in
one hand, quietly opened the door with the other, and standing in the
threshold, said, “Here is nothing!”
“And who expected to see any thing,” said Bletson, “excepting those
terrified oafs, who take fright at every puff of wind that whistles
through the passages of this old dungeon?”
“Mark you, Master Tomkins,” said one of the waiting-men in a whisper to
the steward,—“See how boldly the minister pressed forward before all of
them. Ah! Master Tomkins, our parson is the real commissioned officer
of the church—your lay-preachers are no better than a parcel of
club-men and volunteers.”
“Follow me those who list,” said Master Holdenough, “or go before me
those who choose, I will walk through the habitable places of this
house before I leave it, and satisfy myself whether Satan hath really
mingled himself among these dreary dens of ancient wickedness, or
whether, like the wicked of whom holy David speaketh, we are afraid,
and flee when no one pursueth.”
Harrison, who had heard these words, sprung from his seat, and drawing
his sword, exclaimed, “Were there as many fiends in the house as there
are hairs on my head, upon this cause I will charge them up to their
very trenches!”
So saying, he brandished his weapon, and pressed to the head of the
column, where he moved side by side with the minister. The Mayor of
Woodstock next joined the body, thinking himself safer perhaps in the
company of his pastor; and the whole train moved forward in close
order, accompanied by the servants bearing lights, to search the Lodge
for some cause of that panic with which they seemed to be suddenly
seized.
“Nay, take me with you, my friends,” said Colonel Everard, who had
looked on in surprise, and was now about to follow the party, when
Bletson laid hold on his cloak, and begged him to remain.
“You see, my good Colonel,” he said, affecting a courage which his
shaking voice belied, “here are only you and I and honest Desborough
left behind in garrison, while all the others are absent on a sally. We
must not hazard the whole troops in one sortie—that were unmilitary—Ha,
ha, ha!”
“In the name of Heaven, what means all this?” said Everard. “I heard a
foolish tale about apparitions as I came this way, and now I find you
all half mad with fear, and cannot get a word of sense among so many of
you. Fie, Colonel Desborough—fie, Master Bletson—try to compose
yourselves, and let me know, in Heaven’s name, the cause of all this
disturbance. One would be apt to think your brains were turned.”
“And so mine well may,” said Desborough, “ay, and overturned too, since
my bed last night was turned upside down, and I was placed for ten
minutes heels uppermost, and head downmost, like a bullock going to be
shod.”
“What means this nonsense, Master Bletson?—Desborough must have had the
nightmare.”
“No, faith, Colonel; the goblins, or whatever else they were, had been
favourable to honest Desborough, for they reposed the whole of his
person on that part of his body which—Hark, did you not hear
something?—is the central point of gravity, namely, his head.”
“Did you see any thing to alarm you?” said the Colonel.
“Nothing,” said Bletson; “but we heard hellish noises, as all our
people did; and I, believing little of ghosts and apparitions,
concluded the cavaliers were taking us at advantage; so, remembering
Rainsborough’s fate, I e’en jumped the window, and ran to Woodstock, to
call the soldiers to the rescue of Harrison and Desborough.”
“And did you not first go to see what the danger was?”
“Ah, my good friend, you forget that I laid down my commission at the
time of the self-denying ordinance. It would have been quite
inconsistent with my duty as a Parliament-man to be brawling amidst a
set of ruffians, without any military authority. No—when the Parliament
commanded me to sheath my sword, Colonel, I have too much veneration
for their authority to be found again with it drawn in my hand.”
“But the Parliament,” said Desborough, hastily, “did not command you to
use your heels when your hands could have saved a man from choking.
Odds dickens! you might have stopped when you saw my bed canted heels
uppermost, and me half stifled in the bed-clothes—you might, I say,
have stopped and lent a hand to put it to rights, instead of jumping
out of the window, like a new-shorn sheep, so soon as you had run
across my room.”
“Nay, worshipful Master Desborough,” said Bletson, winking at Everard,
to show that he was playing on his thick-sculled colleague, “how could
I tell your particular mode of reposing?—there are many tastes—I have
known men who slept by choice on a slope or angle of forty-five.”
“Yes, but did ever a man sleep standing on his head, except by
miracle?” said Desborough.
“Now, as to miracles”—said the philosopher, confident in the presence
of Everard, besides that an opportunity of scoffing at religion really
in some degree diverted his fear—“I leave these out of the question,
seeing that the evidence on such subjects seems as little qualified to
carry conviction as a horse-hair to land a leviathan.”
A loud clap of thunder, or a noise as formidable, rang through the
Lodge as the scoffer had ended, which struck him pale and motionless,
and made Desborough throw himself on his knees, and repeat exclamations
and prayers in much admired confusion.
“There must be contrivance here,” exclaimed Everard; and snatching one
of the candles from a sconce, he rushed out of the apartment, little
heeding the entreaties of the philosopher, who, in the extremity of his
distress, conjured him by the _Animus Mundi_ to remain to the
assistance of a distressed philosopher endangered by witches, and a
Parliament-man assaulted by ruffians. As for Desborough, he only gaped
like a clown in a pantomime; and, doubtful whether to follow or stop,
his natural indolence prevailed, and he sat still.
When on the landing-place of the stairs, Everard paused a moment to
consider which was the best course to take. He heard the voices of men
talking fast and loud, like people who wish to drown their fears, in
the lower story; and aware that nothing could be discovered by those
whose inquiries were conducted in a manner so noisy, he resolved to
proceed in a different direction, and examine the second floor, which
he had now gained.
He had known every corner, both of the inhabited and uninhabited part
of the mansion, and availed himself of the candle to traverse two or
three intricate passages, which he was afraid he might not remember
with sufficient accuracy. This movement conveyed him to a sort of
_oeil-de-boeuf_, an octagon vestibule, or small hall, from which
various rooms opened. Amongst these doors, Everard selected that which
led to a very long, narrow, and dilapidated gallery, built in the time
of Henry VIII., and which, running along the whole south-west side of
the building, communicated at different points with the rest of the
mansion. This he thought was likely to be the post occupied by those
who proposed to act the sprites upon the occasion; especially as its
length and shape gave him some idea that it was a spot where the bold
thunder might in many ways be imitated.
Determined to ascertain the truth if possible, he placed his light on a
table in the vestibule, and applied himself to open the door into the
gallery. At this point he found himself strongly opposed either by a
bolt drawn, or, as he rather conceived, by somebody from within
resisting his attempt. He was induced to believe the latter, because
the resistance slackened and was renewed, like that of human strength,
instead of presenting the permanent opposition of an inanimate
obstacle. Though Everard was a strong and active young man, he
exhausted his strength in the vain attempt to open the door; and having
paused to take breath, was about to renew his efforts with foot and
shoulder, and to call at the same time for assistance, when to his
surprise, on again attempting the door more gently, in order to
ascertain if possible where the strength of the opposing obstacle was
situated, he found it gave way to a very slight impulse, some
impediment fell broken to the ground, and the door flew wide open. The
gust of wind, occasioned by the sudden opening of the door, blew out
the candle, and Everard was left in darkness, save where the moonshine,
which the long side-row of latticed windows dimmed, could imperfectly
force its way into the gallery, which lay in ghostly length before him.
The melancholy and doubtful twilight was increased by a quantity of
creeping plants on the outside, which, since all had been neglected in
these ancient halls, now completely overgrown, had in some instances
greatly diminished, and in others almost quite choked up, the space of
the lattices, extending between the heavy stone shaftwork which divided
the windows, both lengthways and across. On the other side there were
no windows at all, and the gallery had been once hung round with
paintings, chiefly portraits, by which that side of the apartment had
been adorned. Most of the pictures had been removed, yet the empty
frames of some, and the tattered remnants of others, were still visible
along the extent of the waste gallery; the look of which was so
desolate, and it appeared so well adapted for mischief, supposing there
were enemies near him, that Everard could not help pausing at the
entrance, and recommending himself to God, ere, drawing his sword, he
advanced into the apartment, treading as lightly as possible, and
keeping in the shadow as much as he could.
Markham Everard was by no means superstitious, but he had the usual
credulity of the times; and though he did not yield easily to tales of
supernatural visitations, yet he could not help thinking he was in the
very situation, where, if such things were ever permitted, they might
be expected to take place, while his own stealthy and ill-assured pace,
his drawn weapon, and extended arms, being the very attitude and action
of doubt and suspicion, tended to increase in his mind the gloomy
feelings of which they are the usual indications, and with which they
are constantly associated. Under such unpleasant impressions, and
conscious of the neighbourhood of something unfriendly, Colonel Everard
had already advanced about half along the gallery, when he heard some
one sigh very near him, and a low soft voice pronounce his name.
“Here I am,” he replied, while his heart beat thick and short. “Who
calls on Markham Everard?”
Another sigh was the only answer.
“Speak,” said the Colonel, “whoever or whatsoever you are, and tell
with what intent and purpose you are lurking in these apartments?”
“With a better intent than yours,” returned the soft voice.
“Than mine!” answered Everard in great surprise. “Who are you that dare
judge of my intents?”
“What, or who are you, Markham Everard, who wander by moonlight through
these deserted halls of royalty, where none should be but those who
mourn their downfall, or are sworn to avenge it?”
“It is—and yet it cannot be,” said Everard; “yet it is, and must be.
Alice Lee, the devil or you speaks. Answer me, I conjure you!—speak
openly—on what dangerous scheme are you engaged? where is your father?
why are you here?—wherefore do you run so deadly a venture?—Speak, I
conjure you, Alice Lee!”
“She whom you call on is at the distance of miles from this spot. What
if her Genius speaks when she is absent?—what if the soul of an
ancestress of hers and yours were now addressing you?—what if”—
“Nay,” answered Everard, “but what if the dearest of human beings has
caught a touch of her father’s enthusiasm?—what if she is exposing her
person to danger, her reputation to scandal, by traversing in disguise
and darkness a house filled with armed men? Speak to me, my fair
cousin, in your own person. I am furnished with powers to protect my
uncle, Sir Henry—to protect you too, dearest Alice, even against the
consequences of this visionary and wild attempt. Speak—I see where you
are, and, with all my respect, I cannot submit to be thus practised
upon. Trust me—trust your cousin Markham with your hand, and believe
that he will die or place you in honourable safety.”
As he spoke, he exercised his eyes as keenly as possible to detect
where the speaker stood; and it seemed to him, that about three yards
from him there was a shadowy form, of which he could not discern even
the outline, placed as it was within the deep and prolonged shadow
thrown by a space of wall intervening betwixt two windows, upon that
side of the room from which the light was admitted. He endeavoured to
calculate, as well as he could, the distance betwixt himself and the
object which he watched, under the impression, that if, by even using a
slight degree of compulsion, he could detach his beloved Alice from the
confederacy into which he supposed her father’s zeal for the cause of
royalty had engaged her, he would be rendering them both the most
essential favour. He could not indeed but conclude, that however
successfully the plot which he conceived to be in agitation had
proceeded against the timid Bletson, the stupid Desborough, and the
crazy Harrison, there was little doubt that at length their artifices
must necessarily bring shame and danger on those engaged in it.
It must also be remembered, that Everard’s affection to his cousin,
although of the most respectful and devoted character, partook less of
the distant veneration which a lover of those days entertained for the
lady whom he worshipped with humble diffidence, than of the fond and
familiar feelings which a brother entertains towards a younger sister,
whom he thinks himself entitled to guide, advise, and even in some
degree to control. So kindly and intimate had been their intercourse,
that he had little more hesitation in endeavouring to arrest her
progress in the dangerous course in which she seemed to be engaged,
even at the risk of giving her momentary offence, than he would have
had in snatching her from a torrent or conflagration, at the chance of
hurting her by the violence of his grasp. All this passed through his
mind in the course of a single minute; and he resolved at all events to
detain her on the spot, and compel, if possible, an explanation from
her.
With this purpose, Everard again conjured his cousin, in the name of
Heaven, to give up this idle and dangerous mummery; and lending an
accurate ear to her answer, endeavoured from the sound to calculate as
nearly as possible the distance between them.
“I am not she for whom you take me,” said the voice; “and dearer
regards than aught connected with her life or death, bid me warn you to
keep aloof, and leave this place.”
“Not till I have convinced you of your childish folly,” said the
Colonel, springing forward, and endeavouring to catch hold of her who
spoke to him. But no female form was within his grasp. On the contrary,
he was met by a shock which could come from no woman’s arm, and which
was rude enough to stretch him on his back on the floor. At the same
time he felt the point of a sword at his throat, and his hands so
completely mastered, that not the slightest defence remained to him.
“A cry for assistance,” said a voice near him, but not that which he
had hitherto heard, “will be stifled in your blood!—No harm is meant
you—be wise and be silent.”
The fear of death, which Everard had often braved in the field of
battle, became more intense as he felt himself in the hands of unknown
assassins, and totally devoid of all means of defence. The sharp point
of the sword pricked his bare throat, and the foot of him who held it
was upon his breast. He felt as if a single thrust would put an end to
life, and all the feverish joys and sorrows which agitate us so
strangely, and from which we are yet so reluctant to part. Large drops
of perspiration stood upon his forehead—his heart throbbed, as if it
would burst from its confinement in the bosom—he experienced the agony
which fear imposes on the brave man, acute in proportion to that which
pain inflicts when it subdues the robust and healthy.
“Cousin Alice,”—he attempted to speak, and the sword’s point pressed
his throat yet more closely,—“Cousin, let me not be murdered in a
manner so fearful!”
“I tell you,” replied the voice, “that you speak to one who is not
here; but your life is not aimed at, provided you swear on your faith
as a Christian, and your honour as a gentleman, that you will conceal
what has happened, whether from the people below, or from any other
person. On this condition you may rise; and if you seek her, you will
find Alice Lee at Joceline’s cottage, in the forest.”
“Since I may not help myself otherwise,” said Everard, “I swear, as I
have a sense of religion and honour, I will say nothing of this
violence, nor make any search after those who are concerned in it.”
“For that we care nothing,” said the voice. “Thou hast an example how
well thou mayst catch mischief on thy own part; but we are in case to
defy thee. Rise, and begone!”
The foot, the sword’s-point, were withdrawn, and Everard was about to
start up hastily, when the voice, in the same softness of tone which
distinguished it at first, said, “No haste—cold and bare steel is yet
around thee. Now—now—now—(the words dying away as at a distance)— thou
art free. Be secret and be safe.”
Markham Everard arose, and, in rising, embarrassed his feet with his
own sword, which he had dropped when springing forward, as he supposed,
to lay hold of his fair cousin. He snatched it up in haste, and as his
hand clasped the hilt, his courage, which had given way under the
apprehension of instant death, began to return; he considered, with
almost his usual composure, what was to be done next. Deeply affronted
at the disgrace which he had sustained, he questioned for an instant
whether he ought to keep his extorted promise, or should not rather
summon assistance, and make haste to discover and seize those who had
been recently engaged in such violence on his person. But these
persons, be they who they would, had had his life in their power—he had
pledged his word in ransom of it—and what was more, he could not divest
himself of the idea that his beloved Alice was a confidant, at least,
if not an actor, in the confederacy which had thus baffled him. This
prepossession determined his conduct; for, though angry at supposing
she must have been accessory to his personal ill-treatment, he could
not in any event think of an instant search through the mansion, which
might have compromised her safety, or that of his uncle. “But I will to
the hut,” he said—“I will instantly to the hut, ascertain her share in
this wild and dangerous confederacy, and snatch her from ruin, if it be
possible.”
As, under the influence of the resolution which he had formed, Everard
groped his way through the gallery and regained the vestibule, he heard
his name called by the well-known voice of Wildrake. “What—ho!—
holloa!—Colonel Everard—Mark Everard—it is dark as the devil’s
mouth—speak—where are you?—The witches are keeping their hellish
sabbath here, as I think.—Where are you?”
“Here, here!” answered Everard. “Cease your bawling. Turn to the left,
and you will meet me.”
Guided by his voice, Wildrake soon appeared, with a light in one hand,
and his drawn sword in the other. “Where have you been?” he said—“What
has detained you?—Here are Bletson and the brute Desborough terrified
out of their lives, and Harrison raving mad, because the devil will not
be civil enough to rise to fight him in single _duello_.”
“Saw or heard you nothing as you came along?” said Everard.
“Nothing,” said his friend, “excepting that when I first entered this
cursed ruinous labyrinth, the light was struck out of my hand, as if by
a switch, which obliged me to return for another.”
“I must come by a horse instantly, Wildrake, and another for thyself,
if it be possible.”
“We can take two of those belonging to the troopers,” answered
Wildrake. “But for what purpose should we run away, like rats, at this
time in the evening?—Is the house falling?”
“I cannot answer you,” said the Colonel, pushing forward into a room
where there were some remains of furniture.
Here the cavalier took a more strict view of his person, and exclaimed
in wonder, “What the devil have you been fighting with, Markham, that
has bedizened you after this sorry fashion?”
“Fighting!” exclaimed Everard.
“Yes,” replied his trusty attendant. “I say fighting. Look at yourself
in the mirror.”
He did, and saw he was covered with dust and blood. The latter
proceeded from a scratch which he had received in the throat, as he
struggled to extricate himself. With unaffected alarm, Wildrake undid
his friend’s collar, and with eager haste proceeded to examine the
wound, his hands trembling, and his eyes glistening with apprehension
for his benefactor’s life. When, in spite of Everard’s opposition, he
had examined the hurt, and found it trifling, he resumed the natural
wildness of his character, perhaps the more readily that he had felt
shame in departing from it, into one which expressed more of feeling
than he would be thought to possess.
“If that be the devil’s work, Mark,” said he, “the foul fiend’s claws
are not nigh so formidable as they are represented; but no one shall
say that your blood has been shed unrevenged, while Roger Wildrake was
by your side. Where left you this same imp? I will back to the field of
fight, confront him with my rapier, and were his nails tenpenny nails,
and his teeth as long as those of a harrow, he shall render me reason
for the injury he has done you.”
“Madness—madness!” exclaimed Everard; “I had this trifling hurt by a
fall—a basin and towel will wipe it away. Meanwhile, if you will ever
do me kindness, get the troop-horses—command them for the service of
the public, in the name of his Excellency the General. I will but wash,
and join you in an instant before the gate.”
“Well, I will serve you, Everard, as a mute serves the Grand Signior,
without knowing why or wherefore. But will you go without seeing these
people below?”
“Without seeing any one,” said Everard; “lose no time, for God’s sake.”
He found out the non-commissioned officer, and demanded the horses in a
tone of authority, to which the corporal yielded undisputed obedience,
as one well aware of Colonel Everard’s military rank and consequence.
So all was in a minute or two ready for the expedition.