Everard had come to Joceline’s hut as fast as horse could bear him, and
with the same impetuosity of purpose as of speed. He saw no choice in
the course to be pursued, and felt in his own imagination the strongest
right to direct, and even reprove, his cousin, beloved as she was, on
account of the dangerous machinations with which she appeared to have
connected herself. He returned slowly, and in a very different mood.
Not only had Alice, prudent as beautiful, appeared completely free from
the weakness of conduct which seemed to give him some authority over
her, but her views of policy, if less practicable, were so much more
direct and noble than his own, as led him to question whether he had
not compromised himself too rashly with Cromwell, even although the
state of the country was so greatly divided and torn by faction, that
the promotion of the General to the possession of the executive
government seemed the only chance of escaping a renewal of the Civil
War. The more exalted and purer sentiments of Alice lowered him in his
own eyes; and though unshaken in his opinion, that it were better the
vessel should be steered by a pilot having no good title to the office,
than that she should run upon the breakers, he felt that he was not
espousing the most direct, manly, and disinterested side of the
question.
As he rode on, immersed in these unpleasant contemplations, and
considerably lessened in his own esteem by what had happened, Wildrake,
who rode by his side, and was no friend to long silence, began to enter
into conversation. “I have been thinking, Mark,” said he, “that if you
and I had been called to the bar—as, by the by, has been in danger of
happening to me in more senses than one—I say, had we become
barristers, I would have had the better oiled tongue of the two—the
fairer art of persuasion.”
“Perhaps so,” replied Everard, “though I never heard thee use any, save
to induce an usurer to lend thee money, or a taverner to abate a
reckoning.”
“And yet this day, or rather night, I could have, as I think, made a
conquest which baffled you.”
“Indeed?” said the Colonel, becoming attentive.
“Why, look you,” said Wildrake, “it was a main object with you to
induce Mistress Alice Lee—By Heaven, she is an exquisite creature—I
approve of your taste, Mark—I say, you desire to persuade her, and the
stout old Trojan her father, to consent to return to the Lodge, and
live there quietly, and under connivance, like gentlefolk, instead of
lodging in a hut hardly fit to harbour a Tom of Bedlam.”
“Thou art right; such, indeed, was a great part of my object in this
visit,” answered Everard.
“But perhaps you also expected to visit there yourself, and so keep
watch over pretty Mistress Lee—eh?”
“I never entertained so selfish a thought,” said Everard; “and if this
nocturnal disturbance at the mansion were explained and ended, I would
instantly take my departure.”
“Your friend Noll would expect something more from you,” said Wildrake;
“he would expect, in case the knight’s reputation for loyalty should
draw any of our poor exiles and wanderers about the Lodge, that you
should be on the watch and ready to snap them. In a word, as far as I
can understand his long-winded speeches, he would have Woodstock a
trap, your uncle and his pretty daughter the bait of
toasted-cheese—craving your Chloe’s pardon for the comparison—you the
spring-fall which should bar their escape, his Lordship himself being
the great grimalkin to whom they are to be given over to be devoured.”
“Dared Cromwell mention this to thee in express terms?” said Everard,
pulling up his horse, and stopping in the midst of the road.
“Nay, not in express terms, which I do not believe he ever used in his
life; you might as well expect a drunken man to go straight forward;
but he insinuated as much to me, and indicated that you might deserve
well of him—Gadzo, the damnable proposal sticks in my throat—by
betraying our noble and rightful King, (here he pulled off his hat,)
whom God grant in health and wealth long to reign, as the worthy
clergyman says, though I fear just now his Majesty is both sick and
sorry, and never a penny in his pouch to boot.”
“This tallies with what Alice hinted,” said Everard; “but how could she
know it? didst thou give her any hint of such a thing?”
“I!” replied the cavalier, “I, who never saw Mistress Alice in my life
till to-night, and then only for an instant—zooks, man, how is that
possible?”
“True,” replied Everard, and seemed lost in thought. At length he
spoke—“I should call Cromwell to account for his bad opinion of me;
for, even though not seriously expressed, but, as I am convinced it
was, with the sole view of proving you, and perhaps myself, it was,
nevertheless, a misconstruction to be resented.”
“I’ll carry a cartel for you, with all my heart and soul,” said
Wildrake; “and turn out with his godliness’s second, with as good will
as I ever drank a glass of sack.”
“Pshaw,” replied Everard, “those in his high place fight no single
combats. But tell me, Roger Wildrake, didst thou thyself think me
capable of the falsehood and treachery implied in such a message?”
“I!” exclaimed Wildrake. “Markham Everard, you have been my early
friend, my constant benefactor. When Colchester was reduced, you saved
me from the gallows, and since that thou hast twenty times saved me
from starving. But, by Heaven, if I thought you capable of such villany
as your General recommended,—by yonder blue sky, and all the works of
creation which it bends over, I would stab you with my own hand!”
“Death,” replied Everard, “I should indeed deserve, but not from you,
perhaps; but fortunately, I cannot, if I would, be guilty of the
treachery you would punish. Know that I had this day secret notice, and
from Cromwell himself, that the young Man has escaped by sea from
Bristol.”
“Now, God Almighty be blessed, who protected him through so many
dangers!” exclaimed Wildrake. “Huzza!—Up hearts, cavaliers!—Hey for
cavaliers!—God bless King Charles!—Moon and stars, catch my hat!”—and
he threw it up as high as he could into the air. The celestial bodies
which he invoked did not receive the present dispatched to them; but,
as in the case of Sir Henry Lee’s scabbard, an old gnarled oak became a
second time the receptacle of a waif and stray of loyal enthusiasm.
Wildrake looked rather foolish at the circumstance, and his friend took
the opportunity of admonishing him.
“Art thou not ashamed to bear thee so like a schoolboy?”
“Why,” said Wildrake, “I have but sent a Puritan’s hat upon a loyal
errand. I laugh to think how many of the schoolboys thou talk’st of
will be cheated into climbing the pollard next year, expecting to find
the nest of some unknown bird in yonder unmeasured margin of felt.”
“Hush now, for God’s sake, and let us speak calmly,” said Everard.
“Charles has escaped, and I am glad of it. I would willingly have seen
him on his father’s throne by composition, but not by the force of the
Scottish army, and the incensed and vengeful royalists.”
“Master Markham Everard,” began the cavalier, interrupting him—“Nay,
hush, dear Wildrake,” said Everard; “let us not dispute a point on
which we cannot agree, and give me leave to go on.—I say, since the
young Man has escaped, Cromwell’s offensive and injurious stipulation
falls to the ground; and I see not why my uncle and his family should
not again enter their own house, under the same terms of connivance as
many other royalists. What may be incumbent on me is different, nor can
I determine my course until I have an interview with the General,
which, as I think, will end in his confessing that he threw in this
offensive proposal to sound us both. It is much in his manner; for he
is blunt, and never sees or feels the punctilious honour which the
gallants of the day stretch to such delicacy.”
“I’ll acquit him of having any punctilio about him,” said Wildrake,
“either touching honour or honesty. Now, to come back to where we
started. Supposing you were not to reside in person at the Lodge, and
to forbear even visiting there, unless on invitation, when such a thing
can be brought about, I tell you frankly, I think your uncle and his
daughter might be induced to come back to the Lodge, and reside there
as usual. At least the clergyman, that worthy old cock, gave me to hope
as much.”
“He had been hasty in bestowing his confidence,” said Everard.
“True,” replied Wildrake; “he confided in me at once; for he instantly
saw my regard for the Church. I thank Heaven I never passed a clergyman
in his canonicals without pulling my hat off—(and thou knowest, the
most desperate duel I ever fought was with young Grayless of the Inner
Temple, for taking the wall of the Reverend Dr. Bunce)—Ah, I can gain a
chaplain’s ear instantly. Gadzooks, they know whom they have to trust
to in such a one as I.”
“Dost thou think, then,” said Colonel Everard, “or rather does this
clergyman think, that if they were secure of intrusion from me, the
family would return to the Lodge, supposing the intruding Commissioners
gone, and this nocturnal disturbance explained and ended?”
“The old Knight,” answered Wildrake, “may be wrought upon by the Doctor
to return, if he is secure against intrusion. As for disturbances, the
stout old boy, so far as I can learn in two minutes’ conversation,
laughs at all this turmoil as the work of mere imagination, the
consequence of the remorse of their own evil consciences; and says that
goblin or devil was never heard of at Woodstock, until it became the
residence of such men as they, who have now usurped the possession.”
“There is more than imagination in it,” said Everard. “I have personal
reason to know there is some conspiracy carrying on, to render the
house untenable by the Commissioners. I acquit my uncle of accession to
such a silly trick; but I must see it ended ere I can agree to his and
my cousin’s residing where such a confederacy exists; for they are
likely to be considered as the contrivers of such pranks, be the actual
agent who he may.”
“With reference to your better acquaintance with the gentleman,
Everard, I should rather suspect the old father of Puritans (I beg your
pardon again) has something to do with the business; and if so, Lucifer
will never look near the true old Knight’s beard, nor abide a glance of
yonder maiden’s innocent blue eyes. I will uphold them as safe as pure
gold in a miser’s chest.”
“Sawest thou aught thyself, which makes thee think thus?”
“Not a quill of the devil’s pinion saw I,” replied Wildrake. “He
supposes himself too secure of an old cavalier, who must steal, hang,
or drown, in the long run, so he gives himself no trouble to look after
the assured booty. But I heard the serving-fellows prate of what they
had seen and heard; and though their tales were confused enough, yet if
there was any truth among them at all, I should say the devil must have
been in the dance.—But, holla! here comes some one upon us.—Stand,
friend—who art thou?”
“A poor day-labourer in the great work of England—Joseph Tomkins by
name—Secretary to a godly and well-endowed leader in this poor
Christian army of England, called General Harrison.”
“What news, Master Tomkins?” said Everard; “and why are you on the road
at this late hour?”
“I speak to the worthy Colonel Everard, as I judge?” said Tomkins; “and
truly I am glad of meeting your honour. Heaven knows, I need such
assistance as yours.—Oh, worthy Master Everard!—Here has been a
sounding of trumpets, and a breaking of vials, and a pouring forth,
and”—
“Prithee, tell me in brief, what is the matter—where is thy master—and,
in a word, what has happened?”
“My master is close by, parading it in the little meadow, beside the
hugeous oak, which is called by the name of the late Man; ride but two
steps forward, and you may see him walking swiftly to and fro,
advancing all the while the naked weapon.”
Upon proceeding as directed, but with as little noise as possible, they
descried a man, whom of course they concluded must be Harrison, walking
to and fro beneath the King’s oak, as a sentinel under arms, but with
more wildness of demeanour. The tramp of the horses did not escape his
ear; and they heard him call out, as if at the head of the brigade—
“Lower pikes against cavalry!—Here comes Prince Rupert—Stand fast, and
you shall turn them aside, as a bull would toss a cur-dog. Lower your
pikes still, my hearts, the end secured against your foot—down on your
right knee, front rank—spare not for the spoiling of your blue
aprons.—Ha—Zerobabel—ay, that is the word!”
“In the name of Heaven, about whom or what is he talking” said Everard;
“wherefore does he go about with his weapon drawn?”
“Truly, sir, when aught disturbs my master, General Harrison, he is
something rapt in the spirit, and conceives that he is commanding a
reserve of pikes at the great battle of Armageddon—and for his weapon,
alack, worthy sir, wherefore should he keep Sheffield steel in calves’
leather, when there are fiends to be combated—incarnate fiends on
earth, and raging infernal fiends under the earth?”
“This is intolerable,” said Everard. “Listen to me, Tomkins. Thou art
not now in the pulpit, and I desire none of thy preaching language. I
know thou canst speak intelligibly when thou art so minded. Remember, I
may serve or harm thee; and as you hope or fear any thing on my part,
answer straight-forward—What has happened to drive out thy master to
the wild wood at this time of night?”
“Forsooth, worthy and honoured sir, I will speak with the precision I
may. True it is, and of verity, that the breath of man, which is in his
nostrils, goeth forth and returneth”—
“Hark you, sir,” said Colonel Everard, “take care where you ramble in
your correspondence with me. You have heard how at the great battle of
Dunbar in Scotland, the General himself held a pistol to the head of
Lieutenant Hewcreed, threatening to shoot him through the brain if he
did not give up holding forth, and put his squadron in line to the
front. Take care, sir.”
“Verily, the lieutenant then charged with an even and unbroken order,”
said Tomkins, “and bore a thousand plaids and bonnets over the beach
before him into the sea. Neither shall I pretermit or postpone your
honour’s commands, but speedily obey them, and that without delay.”
“Go to, fellow; thou knowest what I would have,” said Everard; “speak
at once; I know thou canst if thou wilt. Trusty Tomkins is better known
than he thinks for.”
“Worthy sir,” said Tomkins, in a much less periphrastic style, “I will
obey your worship as far as the spirit will permit. Truly, it was not
an hour since, when my worshipful master being at table with Master
Bibbet and myself, not to mention the worshipful Master Bletson and
Colonel Desborough, and behold there was a violent knocking at the
gate, as of one in haste. Now, of a certainty, so much had our
household been harassed with witches and spirits, and other objects of
sound and sight, that the sentinels could not be brought to abide upon
their posts without doors, and it was only by a provision of beef and
strong liquors that we were able to maintain a guard of three men in
the hall, who nevertheless ventured not to open the door, lest they
should be surprised with some of the goblins wherewith their
imaginations were overwhelmed. And they heard the knocking, which
increased until it seemed that the door was well-nigh about to be
beaten down. Worthy Master Bibbet was a little overcome with liquor,
(as is his fashion, good man, about this time of the evening,) not that
he is in the least given to ebriety, but simply, that since the
Scottish campaign he hath had a perpetual ague, which obliges him so to
nourish his frame against the damps of the night; wherefore, as it is
well known to your honour that I discharge the office of a faithful
servant, as well to Major-General Harrison, and the other
Commissioners, as to my just and lawful master, Colonel Desborough”—
“I know all that.—And now that thou art trusted by both, I pray to
Heaven thou mayest merit the trust,” said Colonel Everard.
“And devoutly do I pray,” said Tomkins, “that your worshipful prayers
may be answered with favour; for certainly to be, and to be called and
entitled, Honest Joe, and Trusty Tomkins, is to me more than ever would
be an Earl’s title, were such things to be granted anew in this
regenerated government.”
“Well, go on—go on—or if thou dalliest much longer, I will make bold to
dispute the article of your honesty. I like short tales, sir, and doubt
what is told with a long unnecessary train of words.”
“Well, good sir, be not hasty. As I said before, the doors rattled till
you would have thought the knocking was reiterated in every room of the
Palace. The bell rung out for company, though we could not find that
any one tolled the clapper, and the guards let off their firelocks,
merely because they knew not what better to do. So, Master Bibbet
being, as I said, unsusceptible of his duty, I went down with my poor
rapier to the door, and demanded who was there; and I was answered in a
voice, which, I must say, was much like another voice, that it was one
wanting Major-General Harrison. So, as it was then late, I answered
mildly, that General Harrison was betaking himself to his rest, and
that any who wished to speak to him must return on the morrow morning,
for that after nightfall the door of the Palace, being in the room of a
garrison, would be opened to no one. So, the voice replied, and bid me
open directly, without which he would blow the folding leaves of the
door into the middle of the hall. And therewithal the noise
recommenced, that we thought the house would have fallen; and I was in
some measure constrained to open the door, even like a besieged
garrison which can hold out no longer.”
“By my honour, and it was stoutly done of you, I must say,” said
Wildrake,—who had been listening with much interest. “I am a bold
dare-devil enough, yet when I had two inches of oak plank between the
actual fiend and me, hang him that would demolish the barrier between
us, say I—I would as soon, when aboard, bore a hole in the ship, and
let in the waves; for you know we always compare the devil to the deep
sea.”
“Prithee, peace, Wildrake,” said Everard, “and let him go on with his
history.—Well, and what saw’st thou when the door was opened?—the great
Devil with his horns and claws thou wilt say, no doubt.”
“No, sir, I will say nothing but what is true. When I undid the door,
one man stood there, and he, to seeming, a man of no extraordinary
appearance. He was wrapped in a taffeta cloak of a scarlet colour, and
with a red lining. He seemed as if he might have been in his time a
very handsome man, but there was something of paleness and sorrow in
his face—a long love-lock and long hair he wore, even after the
abomination of the cavaliers, and the unloveliness, as learned Master
Prynne well termed it, of love-locks—a jewel in his ear—a blue scarf
over his shoulder, like a military commander for the King, and a hat
with a white plume, bearing a peculiar hatband.”
“Some unhappy officer of cavaliers, of whom so many are in hiding, and
seeking shelter through the country,” briefly replied Everard.
“True, worthy sir—right as a judicious exposition. But there was
something about this man (if he was a man) whom I, for one, could not
look upon without trembling; nor the musketeers,—who were in the hall,
without betraying much alarm, and swallowing, as they will themselves
aver, the very bullets—which they had in their mouths for loading their
carabines and muskets. Nay, the wolf and deer-dogs, that are the
fiercest of their kind, fled from this visitor, and crept into holes
and corners, moaning and wailing in a low and broken tone. He came into
the middle of the hall, and still he seemed no more than an ordinary
man, only somewhat fantastically dressed, in a doublet of black velvet
pinked upon scarlet satin under his cloak, a jewel in his ear, with
large roses in his shoes, and a kerchief in his hand, which he
sometimes pressed against his left side.”
“Gracious Heavens!” said Wildrake, coming close up to Everard, and
whispering in his ear, with accents which terror rendered tremulous, (a
mood of mind most unusual to the daring man, who seemed now overcome by
it)—“it must have been poor Dick Robison the player, in the very dress
in which I have seen him play Philaster—ay, and drunk a jolly bottle
with him after it at the Mermaid! I remember how many frolics we had
together, and all his little fantastic fashions. He served for his old
master, Charles, in Mohun’s troop, and was murdered by this butcher’s
dog, as I have heard, after surrender, at the battle of Naseby-field.”
“Hush! I have heard of the deed,” said Everard; “for God’s sake hear
the man to an end.—Did this visitor speak to thee, my friend?”
“Yes, sir, in a pleasing tone of voice, but somewhat fanciful in the
articulation, and like one who is speaking to an audience as from a bar
or a pulpit, more than in the voice of ordinary men on ordinary
matters. He desired to see Major-General Harrison.”
“He did!—and you,” said Everard, infected by the spirit of the time,
which, as is well known, leaned to credulity upon all matters of
supernatural agency,—“what did you do?”
“I went up to the parlour, and related that such a person enquired for
him. He started when I told him, and eagerly desired to know the man’s
dress; but no sooner did I mention his dress, and the jewel in his ear,
than he said, ‘Begone! tell him I will not admit him to speech of me.
Say that I defy him, and will make my defiance good at the great battle
in the valley of Armageddon, when the voice of the angel shall call all
fowls which fly under the face of heaven to feed on the flesh of the
captain and the soldier, the warhorse and his rider. Say to the Evil
One, I have power to appeal our conflict even till that day, and that
in the front of that fearful day he will again meet with Harrison.’ I
went back with this answer to the stranger, and his face was writhed
into such a deadly frown as a mere human brow hath seldom worn. ‘Return
to him,’ he said, ‘and say it is MY HOUR, and that if he come not
instantly down to speak with me, I will mount the stairs to him. Say
that I COMMAND him to descend, by the token, that, on the field of
Naseby, _he did not the work negligently_.’”
“I have heard,” whispered Wildrake—who felt more and more strongly the
contagion of superstition—“that these words were blasphemously used by
Harrison when he shot my poor friend Dick.”
“What happened next?” said Everard. “See that thou speakest the truth.”
“As gospel unexpounded by a steeple-man,” said the Independent; “yet
truly it is but little I have to say. I saw my master come down, with a
blank, yet resolved air; and when he entered the hall and saw the
stranger, he made a pause. The other waved on him as if to follow, and
walked out at the portal. My worthy patron seemed as if he were about
to follow, yet again paused, when this visitant, be he man or fiend,
re-entered, and said, ‘Obey thy doom.
‘By pathless march by greenwood tree,
It is thy weird to follow me—
To follow me through the ghastly moonlight—
To follow me through the shadows of night—
To follow me, comrade, still art thou bound;
I conjure thee by the unstaunch’d wound—
I conjure thee by the last words I spoke
When the body slept and the spirit awoke,
In the very last pangs of the deadly stroke.’
“So saying, he stalked out, and my master followed him into the wood.—I
followed also at a distance. But when I came up, my master was alone,
and bearing himself as you now behold him.”
“Thou hast had a wonderful memory, friend,” said the Colonel, coldly,
“to remember these rhymes in a single recitation—there seems something
of practice in all this.”
“A single recitation, my honoured sir?” exclaimed the Independent—
“alack, the rhyme is seldom out of my poor master’s mouth, when, as
sometimes haps, he is less triumphant in his wrestles with Satan. But
it was the first time I ever heard it uttered by another; and, to say
truth, he ever seems to repeat it unwillingly, as a child after his
pedagogue, and as it was not indited by his own head, as the Psalmist
saith.”
“It is singular,” said Everard;—“I have heard and read that the spirits
of the slaughtered have strange power over the slayer; but I am
astonished to have it insisted upon that there may be truth in such
tales. Roger Wildrake—what art thou afraid of, man?—why dost thou shift
thy place thus?”
“Fear? it is not fear—it is hate, deadly hate.—I see the murderer of
poor Dick before me, and—see, he throws himself into a posture of
fence—Sa—sa—say’st thou, brood of a butcher’s mastiff? thou shalt not
want an antagonist.”
Ere any one could stop him, Wildrake threw aside his cloak, drew his
sword, and almost with a single bound cleared the distance betwixt him
and Harrison, and crossed swords with the latter, as he stood
brandishing his weapon, as if in immediate expectation of an assailant.
Accordingly, the Republican General was not for an instant taken at
unawares, but the moment the swords clashed, he shouted, “Ha! I feel
thee now, thou hast come in body at last.—Welcome! welcome!—the sword
of the Lord and of Gideon!”
“Part them, part them!” cried Everard, as he and Tomkins, at first
astonished at the suddenness of the affray, hastened to interfere.
Everard, seizing on the cavalier, drew him forcibly backwards, and
Tomkins contrived, with risk and difficulty, to master Harrison’s
sword, while the General exclaimed, “Ha! two to one—two to one!—thus
fight demons.” Wildrake, on his side, swore a dreadful oath, and added,
“Markham, you have cancelled every obligation I owed you—they are all
out of sight—gone, d—n me!”
“You have indeed acquitted these obligations rarely,” said Everard,
“Who knows how this affair shall be explained and answered?”
“I will answer it with my life,” said Wildrake.
“Good now, be silent,” said Tomkins, “and let me manage. It shall be so
ordered that the good General shall never know that he hath encountered
with a mortal man; only let that man of Moab put his sword into the
scabbard’s rest, and be still.”
“Wildrake, let me entreat thee to sheathe thy sword,” said Everard,
“else, on my life, thou must turn it against me.”
“No, ’fore George, not so mad as that neither, but I’ll have another
day with him.”
“Thou, another day!” exclaimed Harrison, whose eye had still remained
fixed on the spot where he found such palpable resistance. “Yes, I know
thee well; day by day, week by week, thou makest the same idle request,
for thou knowest that my heart quivers at thy voice. But my hand
trembles not when opposed to thine—the spirit is willing to the combat,
if the flesh be weak when opposed to that which is not of the flesh.”
“Now, peace all, for Heaven’s sake,”—said the steward Tomkins; then
added, addressing his master, “there is no one here, if it please your
Excellency, but Tomkins and the worthy Colonel Everard.”
General Harrison, as sometimes happens in cases of partial insanity,
(that is, supposing his to have been a case of mental delusion,) though
firmly and entirely persuaded of the truth of his own visions, yet was
not willing to speak on the subject to those who, he knew, would regard
them as imaginary. Upon this occasion, he assumed the appearance of
perfect ease and composure, after the violent agitation he had just
manifested, in a manner which showed how anxious he was to disguise his
real feelings from Everard, whom he considered so unlikely to
participate in them.
He saluted the Colonel with profound ceremony, and talked of the
fineness of the evening, which had summoned him forth of the Lodge, to
take a turn in the Park, and enjoy the favourable weather. He then took
Everard by the arm, and walked back with him towards the Lodge,
Wildrake and Tomkins following close behind and leading the horses.
Everard, desirous to gain some light on these mysterious incidents,
endeavoured to come on the subject more than once, by a mode of
interrogation, which Harrison (for madmen are very often unwilling to
enter on the subject of their mental delusion) parried with some skill,
or addressed himself for aid to his steward Tomkins, who was in the
habit of being voucher for his master upon all occasions, which led to
Desborough’s ingenious nickname of Fibbet.
“And wherefore had you your sword drawn, my worthy General,” said
Everard, “when you were only on an evening walk of pleasure?”
“Truly, excellent Colonel, these are times when men must watch with
their loins girded, and their lights burning, and their weapons drawn.
The day draweth nigh, believe me or not as you will, that men must
watch lest they be found naked and unarmed, when the seven trumpets
shall sound, Boot and saddle; and the pipes of Jezer shall strike up,
Horse and away.”
“True, good General; but methought I saw you making passes, even now,
as if you were fighting,” said Everard.
“I am of a strange fantasy, friend Everard,” answered Harrison; “and
when I walk alone, and happen, as but now, to have my weapon drawn, I
sometimes, for exercise’ sake, will practise a thrust against such a
tree as that. It is a silly pride men have in the use of weapons. I
have been accounted a master of fence, and have fought for prizes when
I was unregenerated, and before I was called to do my part in the great
work, entering as a trooper into our victorious General’s first
regiment of horse.”
“But methought,” said Everard, “I heard a weapon clash with yours?”
“How? a weapon clash with my sword?—How could that be, Tomkins?”
“Truly, sir,” said Tomkins, “it must have been a bough of the tree;
they have them of all kinds here, and your honour may have pushed
against one of them, which the Brazilians call iron-wood, a block of
which, being struck with a hammer, saith Purchas in his Pilgrimage,
ringeth like an anvil.”
“Truly, it may be so,” said Harrison; “for those rulers who are gone,
assembled in this their abode of pleasure many strange trees and
plants, though they gathered not of the fruit of that tree which
beareth twelve manner of fruits, or of those leaves which are for the
healing of the nations.”
Everard pursued his investigation; for he was struck with the manner in
which Harrison evaded his questions, and the dexterity with which he
threw his transcendental and fanatical notions, like a sort of veil,
over the darker visions excited by remorse and conscious guilt.
“But,” said he, “if I may trust my eyes and ears, I cannot but still
think that you had a real antagonist.—Nay, I am sure I saw a fellow, in
a dark-coloured jerkin, retreat through the wood.”
“Did you?” said Harrison, with a tone of surprise, while his voice
faltered in spite of him—“Who could he be?—Tomkins, did you see the
fellow Colonel Everard talks of with the napkin in his hand—the bloody
napkin which he always pressed to his side?”
This last expression, in which Harrison gave a mark different from that
which Everard had assigned, but corresponding to Tomkins’s original
description of the supposed spectre, had more effect on Everard in
confirming the steward’s story, than anything he had witnessed or
heard. The voucher answered the draft upon him as promptly as usual,
that he had seen such a fellow glide past them into the thicket—that he
dared to say he was some deer-stealer, for he had heard they were
become very audacious.
“Look ye there now, Master Everard,” said Harrison, hurrying from the
subject—“Is it not time now that we should lay aside our controversies,
and join hand in hand to repairing the breaches of our Zion? Happy and
contented were I, my excellent friend, to be a treader of mortar, or a
bearer of a hod, upon this occasion, under our great leader, with whom
Providence has gone forth in this great national controversy; and
truly, so devoutly do I hold by our excellent and victorious General
Oliver, whom Heaven long preserve—that were he to command me, I should
not scruple to pluck forth of his high place the man whom they call
speaker, even as I lent a poor hand to pluck down the man whom they
called King.—Wherefore, as I know your judgment holdeth with mine on
this matter, let me urge unto you lovingly, that we may act as
brethren, and build up the breaches, and re-establish the bulwarks of
our English Zion, whereby we shall be doubtless chosen as pillars and
buttresses, under our excellent Lord-General, for supporting and
sustaining the same, and endowed with proper revenues and incomes, both
spiritual and temporal, to serve as a pedestal, on which we may stand,
seeing that otherwise our foundation will be on the loose
sand.—Nevertheless,” continued he, his mind again diverging from his
views of temporal ambition into his visions of the Fifth Monarchy,
“these things are but vanity in respect of the opening of the book
which is sealed; for all things approach speedily towards lightning and
thundering, and unloosing of the great dragon from the bottomless pit,
wherein he is chained.”
With this mingled strain of earthly politics, and fanatical prediction,
Harrison so overpowered Colonel Everard, as to leave him no time to
urge him farther on the particular circumstances of his nocturnal
skirmish, concerning which it is plain he had no desire to be
interrogated. They now reached the Lodge of Woodstock.