CHAPTER I.--TENSION.

OVER THE BORDER

A Romance

By Robert Barr

New York: Frederick A. Stokes Company

1903

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TO

FREDERICK A. STOKES

WITH WHOM MY LITERARY LIFE HAS BEEN PLEASANTLY ASSOCIATED

SINCE I BEGAN TO WRITE BOOKS.

OVER THE BORDER

BOOK I.--THE GIRL.

CHAPTER I.--ASSERTION.

The end of October had been more than usually fine, and now the

beginning of November was following the good example set by its

predecessor. In the Home Park, the only part of the extensive grounds

surrounding Hampton Court Palace that was well wooded, the leaves had

not entirely left the branches, and the turf beneath was green and firm,

as yet unsodden by autumnal rain.

Along one of the forest aisles there walked a distinguished party,

proceeding slowly, for the pace was set by a disease-stricken man whose

progress was of painful deliberation. He was tall and thin; his body was

prematurely bent, though accustomed to be straight enough, if one might

judge by the masterful brow, now pallid with illness, or by the glance

of the piercing eye untamed even by deadly malady. That he was not long

for this earth, if Nature had her way, a scrutinizer of that handsome,

powerful face might have guessed; yet he was singled out for destruction

even before his short allotted time, for at that moment his enemies,

hedged in secrecy behind locked doors, were anxiously planning his ruin.

They were wise in their privacy, for, had a whisper of their intentions

gone abroad, the Earl of Strafford would have struck first and struck

hard, as, indeed, he intended to do in any case.

Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford, was accompanied by an imposing

train. On either side of him, accommodating their slow steps to his,

were some of the highest in the land, who waited on his words and

accorded him a deference more obsequious than that with which they might

have distinguished the King himself; for all knew that this shattered

frame was more to be dreaded than the most stalwart personage who that

day trod English soil.

Behind this noble circle followed a numerous band of attendants, alert

for beck or call, each having place according to his degree. A huntsman

was surrounded by dogs kept in thrall by fear of the whip. Falconers

with hooded hawks attested a favorite sport of the Earl, who loved to

have the birds near him even though he made no trial of their flight.

And here he walked the grounds of the King as if he owned them; as

though he were permanent master instead of transient guest. Here he

rested for the moment, hoping to recover some remnant of health by the

placid Thames, after his troublous journey from Ireland, which turbulent

country lay numb under his strong hand, soon to be vocal enough when

the hounds were upon him. No echo of London’s clamour came to this green

paradise. He knew the mob was crying out against him, as in truth

the whole country cried; but he heeded not the howl, despising his

opponents. Better for him had he been more wary or more conciliatory.

Among those now in his company was young De Courcy, one of the numerous

band of Frenchmen smilingly received at Court because the consort of

Charles had a predilection for her countrymen,--a preference unshared by

any save her husband. The French contingent thought little of the scowls

of the English so long as those in authority smiled on them and the

smile brought profit. They were regarded as titled mercenaries; spies

probably, anxious to feather their own nests at the expense of the

Treasury; possibly the propagating agents of a Church of which England

had a deep distrust; certainly possessing an overweening influence at

Court, dividing still further the unfortunate King from his suspicious

people. It might have been imagined that so thoroughly English, so

strenuous a man as Strafford, the last to be deluded by suave manners or

flattery, although he had an insatiable appetite for cringing deference,

yet uninfluenced by it (as witness his crushing of Lord Montmorris in

Ireland), would have shown scant friendship for frivolous French nobles;

but it was a fact that he bore from young De Courcy a familiarity of

address that he would have suffered from none other in the kingdom.

Courtiers find a ready reason for every action, and they attributed

Strafford’s forbearance to the influence De Courcy possessed with the

Queen, for his lordship was well aware that his sovereign lady showed

small liking for the King’s most powerful minister. Strafford was too

keen a politician not to make every endeavour to placate an enemy who at

all hours had access to the private ear of his master, on whose breath

depended his own elevation. Therefore it may well be that he thought it

worth while to conciliate one of the haughty lady’s favourites.

The conversation under the trees was lightly frivolous, despite the

seriousness of the time. Strafford was not one to wear his heart on his

sleeve, and if he was troubled that the King insisted on his presence

in London, refusing to him permission to return to Ireland, where he was

safe,--the wielder of the upper hand,--his manner or expression gave

no hint of his anxiety. A cynical smile curved his bloodless lips as he

listened to the chatter of De Courcy, not noticing the silence of

the others, who disdained a conversational contest with the voluble

Frenchman.

“I give your lordship my assurance,” insisted the young man, “that his

Majesty was much perturbed by the incident. All Scots are superstitious,

and the King has Scottish blood in his veins.”

“As to superstition, I have never learned,” said Strafford, speaking

slowly, “that the French are entirely free from some touch of it.”

“That’s as may be,” continued De Courcy airily, “but her Majesty, who is

French, advised the King to think nothing more of the encounter, so she

regards but lightly any predictions of doom from an old gipsy hag.”

“There were no predictions of doom, and no gipsy hag. The case was of

the simplest, now exaggerated by Court gossip,” amended the Earl.

“My lord, I have it almost direct from the King himself.”

“Your ‘almost’ will account for anything. It was merely a piece of

youthful impertinence which should have been punished by one of the park

rangers, had any been present. The King had honoured me with his company

in the park. We were alone together, discussing problems of State, when

there suddenly sprang out before us a smiling, froward girl, who cried,

‘Merry gentlemen, I will predict your fortunes if in return you tell me

where I may find the Earl of Strafford.’ His Majesty looked at me, and

the hussy, quick to take a hint, evidently saw that I was the person

sought. In any case the King’s remark must have confirmed her suspicion.

‘Your predictions are like to prove of small value,’ said his Majesty,

‘if you ask such a question. Here you have two men before you. Choose

the greater.’ Whereupon the wench seized my hand before I was aware, and

the King laughed.”

“It was an uncourtierlike proceeding,” said De Courcy. “That young woman

will not advance in a world which depends on the smile of the mighty for

promotion.”

“The choice shows her a true prophet,” muttered one of the nobles; but

Strafford, paying no heed, went on with his account.

“The words which followed were more diplomatic than the action. ‘You are

the King’s best friend,’ she said, examining the palm she had taken.

Then his Majesty cried, ‘What do you read in my hand?’ ‘You are the

King’s worst enemy,’ said the pert hussy. This nonplussed Charles for

the moment, who replied at last, ‘I think you are more successful with

my comrade. Read all you find in his palm, I beg of you.’ Then the

gipsy, if such she was, went glibly on. ‘Your fate and that of the King

are interwoven. If you overcome your enemies, the King will overcome

his. If you fall, the King falls. Your doom will be the King’s doom;

your safety the King’s safety. At the age you shall die, at that age

will the King die, and from the same cause.’ His Majesty laughed,

somewhat uneasily I thought, but said jauntily, ‘I have the advantage of

you, Strafford, for you may die at any moment, but I am given seven

years to live, being that space younger than you.’ I was annoyed at the

familiarity of the creature, and bade her take herself off, which she

did after making vain appeal for some private conversation with me.”

“Was she fair to look upon? In that case I do not wonder at your

indignation. To learn that a handsome and young woman was searching for

you in the lonely forest, to meet her at last, but in company of a King

so rigid in his morals as Charles, was indeed a disappointment. You had

been more favoured with any other monarch of Europe beside you. Had

you no chance of getting one private word with her; of setting time and

place for a more secluded conference?”

A slight frown ruffled the broad, smooth brow of the statesman, but it

vanished on the instant, and he shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly.

“I but gave you a brief account of a very simple incident that you were

inclined to make much of. You have now the truth, and so may dress the

retailing of it in the guise that best pleases you. I make no doubt

’twill be fanciful enough when next I hear it.”

“Were it any other monarch than Charles, I should say he was annoyed to

find his minister so favoured; but in his mind the prediction will take

more space than thought of the prophet, be she never so young or so

fair. But all good wishes go toward you, my lord. It is my prayer that

when next you meet the woodland sylph you are alone in the forest.”

As if to show how little profit follows the prayer of a French

exquisite, there stepped out from behind a thick tree in front of them

the person of whom they spoke. She was tall and slender, with dancing

eyes of midnight blackness, which well matched the dark, glossy ringlets

flowing in profusion over her shapely shoulders. Her costume betokened

the country rather than the Court, yet its lack of fashionable cut or

texture was not noticed in a company of men, and the almost universal

gaze of admiration that rested on her showed that in the eyes of the

majority she was well and tastefully garbed.

“My lord of Strafford,” she said in a sweet clear voice, “I crave a word

with you in private.”

De Courcy laughed provokingly; the others remained silent, but turned

their regard from the interloper to the Earl, whose frown of annoyance

did not disappear as it had done before. Strafford spoke no word, but

his underlings were quick to interpret and act upon his black look. Two

attendants silently took places beside the girl, ready to seize her did

his lordship give a sign. The huntsmen let loose the dogs that had been

snarling at the newcomer. They made a dash at her, while she sprang

nimbly to the tree that had concealed her, having first whisked from the

scabbard of an astonished attendant the light sword with which he was

supposed to guard himself or his master.

“Call off your hounds, you villain!” she cried in a voice that had the

true ring of command in it; indeed, to many there the order had a touch

of the Earl’s own tones in anger. “I ask not for my own escape from

scath, but for theirs. I’d rather transfix a man than hurt a dog.

You scoundrel, you shall feel the sting of this point if you do not

instantly obey.”

The thin shining blade darted here and there like an adder’s tongue, and

as painfully. Yelp after yelp showed its potency, and the dogs, quick

to learn that they were overmatched, abated their fury and contented

themselves with noisy outcry at a safe distance from the semicircle of

danger, jumping sideways and backward, barking valorously, but keeping

well clear of the rapier. At a glance from the Earl the huntsman whipped

them back into their former places.

“Yes, lash them, you whelp, but it’s over your own shoulders the cord

should go, had I the ordering, thou meanest of the pack.”

“Madam,” said the Earl of Strafford sternly, “I would have you know that

none give orders here but me.”

“In that you are mistaken, my lord. You have just heard me give them,

and furthermore have seen them obeyed. But aside from the ordering of

either you or me, I understand this to be the King’s park.” Again De

Courcy laughed.

“She hit you there, my lord,” he had the temerity to say.

Strafford paid no attention to his gibe, but gazed darkly at the

fearless intruder.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I have told you, my lord. I wish a word in your private ear.”

“Speak out what you have to say.”

“’T is to be heard by none but the Earl of Strafford; no, not even by

the King himself; for, you should know, were it other fashion, I would

have spoken when last I encountered you.”

“I have no secrets from the King.”

“Nor need this be one. ’T is yours to proclaim to the world at your

pleasure. But first it is for your ear alone. Send that painted popinjay

to the rear with the dogs. The others are gentlemen and will retire of

their own accord when they learn a lady wishes to speak privily with

you.”

It was now the turn of the English nobles to laugh, which they did

merrily enough, but De Courcy seemed less pleased with the rude

suggestion. He fumbled at his sword-hilt, and muttered angrily that if

any present wished to make the girl’s reference his own, a meeting could

be speedily arranged to discuss the question. Strafford, however, had no

mind for any by-play. His glance quelled the rising difference; then he

said harshly to the young woman,--“What do you here in the King’s park,

lacking permission, as I suspect?”

“Indeed,” cried the girl with a toss of the head, “they say, where

I come from, that everything seemingly possessed by the King belongs

actually to the people, and being one of the people I come to my own

domain asking permission of none.”

“You are young to speak treason.”

“’T is no treason of mine. I but repeat what others say.”

“Still, how came you here?”

“Easily. Over the wall. I was refused access to you by any other means,

so I took the method that suggested itself.”

“You were feigning yesterday to be a gipsy. Who are you?”

“That is what I wish to tell your lordship when I get the opportunity.

As for yesterday, I feigned nothing. I but retold what an old gipsy once

said to me regarding the King and Lord Strafford. I wished to engage

your attention, but, like the underlings of this palace, you turned me

away.”

“Your persistence shall be rewarded, but with this proviso. If the news

you make so much of is not worth the telling, then shall you expiate

your impudence in prison. If you fear to accept the risk, you had better

begone while there is yet time, and let us see no more of you.”

“I accept the hazard freely, my lord.”

The Earl of Strafford said no more, but turned to his followers, who

at once withdrew to the background, except De Courcy, who, not having

forgiven the insult placed upon him, and unconscious that his reluctance

to quit the spot was giving point to the girl’s invective, cried

angrily,--“Beware, Lord Strafford. There may be more in this than

appears on the surface. She has shown herself expert with a stolen

blade. That blade is still in her hand.”

The Earl smiled coldly; he was unused to disobedience even where it

concerned his own safety.

“’Tis but fair,” he said, “that I should take some risk to equal hers.

I’ll chance the stroke. Your prayer was that I should meet this damsel

alone in the forest. Do not, I beg of you, prevent fulfilment of your

devout petition by further tarrying.”

But before this was spoken the girl had flung the borrowed rapier

far into the forest glade, then waved her disencumbered hand to the

departing Frenchman, saying mockingly,--“Farewell, popinjay. The

treacherous ever make suggestion of treachery.” To the Earl she added,

“My lord, I am entirely unarmed.”

“What have you to say to me?” replied Strafford severely, bending his

dark gaze upon her.

“Sir,”--her voice lowered so that none might by any chance

overhear,--“Sir, I am Frances Wentworth, your lordship’s eldest

daughter.”

CHAPTER II.--RECOGNITION.

The Earl lowered upon the girl, and the black anger upon his brow might

have warned a more intrepid person than even she appeared to be that

there was peril in trifling. When at last he spoke, his voice was harsh

and menacing.

“What do you expect to gain by a statement so preposterous?”

“I expect to gain a father.”

The girl’s answer trod quick upon the heels of the question, but her

colour changed from red to pale, and from pale to red again, and

her hurried breathing hinted of some knowledge of her hazard, which

nevertheless she faced without flinching.

“My eldest daughter, say you? My eldest daughter is Ann, aged thirteen,

a modest little maid. I take you to be older, and I should hesitate to

apply to you the qualification I have just coupled with her name.”

“I am sixteen, therefore her senior. Thus one part of my contention is

admitted. If she is modest, it doth become a maid, and is reasonably

to be expected, for she hath a mother’s care. I have had none. If

you detect a boldness in my manner, ’t is but another proof I am my

father’s daughter.”

Something resembling a grimace rather than a smile disturbed the white

lips of Strafford at this retort. He bent his eyes on the ground, and

his mind seemed to wander through the past. They stood thus in silence

opposite each other, the girl watching him intently, and when she saw

his mouth twitch with a spasm of pain, a great wave of pity overspread

her face and brought the moisture to her eyes; but she made no motion

toward him, held in increasing awe of him.

“Boldness is not a virtue,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.

“There’s many a jade in England who can claim no relationship with me.”

This remark, calling for no response, received none.

“Sixteen years of age! Then that was in----”

The Earl paused in his ruminations as if the simple mathematical problem

baffled him, the old look of weariness and pain clouding his downturned

face.

“The year 1624,” said the girl promptly.

“Doubtless, doubtless. 1624. It is long since; longer than the days that

have passed seem to indicate. I was a young man then, now----now----I

am an aged wreck, and all in sixteen years. And so in you, the spirit of

youth, the unknown past confronts me, demanding----demanding what?”

“Demanding nothing, my lord.”

“Humph. You are the first then. They all want something. You think I am

an old dotard who is ready, because you say you want nothing, to accept

your absurd proposal. But I am not yet fifty, nor as near it as these

fell maladies would have me appear; and a man should be in his prime

at fifty. Madam, it will require more convincing testimony to make me

listen to you further.”

“The testimony, irrefutable, stands here before you. Raise your eyes

from the ground, my lord, and behold it. If, scrutinizing me, you deny

that I am your daughter, I shall forthwith turn from you and trouble you

no more.”

Strafford slowly lifted his gloomy face, prematurely seamed with care,

and his heavy eyes scanned closely the living statue that confronted

him. The sternness of his features gradually relaxed, and an expression

near akin to tenderness overspread his face.

“Any man might be proud to claim you, my girl, no matter how many

other reasons for pride he possessed. But you have not come here merely

because someone flattered the Earl of Strafford by saying you resembled

him.”

“No, my lord. I am come to return to you this document which once you

presented to my mother.”

She handed him a paper, which he read with intent care. It ran thus:

“_I have, in little, much to say to you, or else one of us must be much

to blame. But in truth I have that confidence in you, and that assurance

in myself, as to rest secure the fault will never be made on either

side. Well, then; this short and this long which I aim at is no more

than to give you this first written testimony that I am your husband;

and that husband of yours that will ever discharge these duties of love

and respect toward you which good women may expect, and are justly due

from good men to discharge them; and this is not only much, but all

which belongs to me; and wherein I shall tread out the remainder of life

which is left to me----_”

Strafford looked up from his perusal, blank amazement upon his

countenance.

“How came you by this paper?”

“I found it among the documents left by my grandfather, who died a year

ago. It was sent by you to my mother.”

“Impossible.”

“Do you deny the script?”

“I do not deny it, but ’t was written by me eight years since, and

presented to my third wife, whom I married privately.”

“Your third wife? Who was she?”

“She was Mistress Elizabeth Rhodes, and is now Lady Strafford.”

“Then she is your fourth wife. You will see by your own inditing that

this letter was written in March, 1624.”

The date was unmistakably set down by the same hand that had penned the

bold signature, “Thomas Wentworth,” and the bewilderment of the Earl

increased as he recognized that here was no forgery, but a genuine

letter antedating its duplicate.

“Is it possible,” he murmured to himself, “that a man has so little

originality as to do practically the same thing twice?” Then aloud to

the girl he said:

“Who was your mother?”

“I had hoped the reading of this document would have rendered your

question unnecessary. Has a man such gift of forgetting, that the very

name of the woman he solemnly married has slipped his memory as easily

as the writing of the letter she cherished?”

“She was Frances, daughter of Sir John Warburton,” murmured the Earl.

“His only daughter, as I am hers, my lord.”

“But when Sir John wrote me coldly of her death, he made no mention of

any issue.”

“My grandfather always hated you, my lord. It is very like that he told

you not the cause of my mother’s death was her children’s birth.”

“Children?”

“Yes, my lord. My twin brother and myself.”

An ashen hue overspread the Earl’s face, and the hand that held the

letter trembled until the fateful missive shook like one of the autumn

leaves on the tree above it. Again his mind wandered through the past

and conjured up before him the laughing face of his supposedly only son,

whose position was thus unexpectedly challenged by a stranger, unknown

and unloved. A daughter more or less was of small account, but an elder

son promised unsuspected complications. The ill favour with which he had

at first regarded the girl returned to his troubled countenance, and she

saw with quick intuition that she had suddenly lost all the ground so

gradually gained. Cold dislike tinctured the tone in which the next

question was asked.

“If, as you say, you have a brother, why is he not here in your place;

you in the background, where you properly belong?”

“Sir, I suppose that her good name is thought more of by a woman than

by a man. She wishes to be assured that she came properly authenticated

into this world, whereas a man troubles little of his origin, so be it

he is here with some one to fight or to love. Or perhaps it is that

the man is the deeper, and refuses to condone where a woman yearns to

forgive. My brother shares our grandfather’s dislike of you. He thinks

you cared little for our mother, or you would not have been absent

during her last days when----”

“I knew nothing of it. The times then, as now, were uncertain, requiring

absorbed attention from those thrown willingly or unwillingly into

public affairs. What can a boy of sixteen know of the duties thrust upon

a man in my situation?”

“Sixteen or not, he considers himself even now a man of position, and

he holds your course wrong. He says he has taken up the opinions you

formerly held, and will do his best to carry them to success. He is for

the Parliament and against the King. As for me, I know little of the

questions that disturb the State. My only knowledge is that you are my

father, and were you the wickedest person in the world I would come

to you. A man may have many daughters, but a daughter can have but one

father; therefore am I here, my lord.”

Like the quick succession of shade and sunshine over the sensitive

surface of a lovely lake, the play of varying emotions added an

ever-changing beauty to the girl’s expressive face; now a pitiful

yearning toward her father when she saw he suffered; then a coaxing

attitude, as if she would win him whether he would or no; again a

bearing of pride when it seemed she would be denied; and throughout

all a rigid suppression of herself, a standing of her ground, a

determination not to give way to any rising sentiment which might make

the after repulse a humiliation; if a retreat must come it should be

carried out with dignity.

The Earl of Strafford saw nothing of this, for his eyes were mostly on

the ground at his feet. That his mind was perturbed by the new situation

so unexpectedly presented to him was evident; that he was deeply

suspicious of a trap was no less clear. When he looked up at her he

found his iron resolution melting in spite of himself, and, as he wished

to bring an unclouded judgment to bear upon the problem, he scrutinized

the brown sward at his feet. Nevertheless he was quick to respond to any

show of sympathy with himself, even though he was unlikely to exhibit

appreciation, and he was equally quick to resent the slightest lack of

deference on the part of those who addressed him. If the girl had made

a thorough study of his character she could not have better attuned her

manner to his prejudices. Her attitude throughout was imbued with the

deepest respect, and if the eye refused to be advocate for her, the ear

could not close itself to the little thrill of affection that softened

her tone as she spoke to him. He raised his head abruptly as one who has

come to a decision.

“November is the stepmother of the months, and the air grows cold. Come

with me to the palace. In a world of lies I find myself believing you;

thus I am not grown so old as I had feared. Come.”

The girl tripped lightly over the rustling leaves and was at his side

in an instant, then slowed her pace in unison with his laboured mode of

progression.

“Sir, will you lean upon my shoulder?”

“No. I am ailing, but not decrepit.”

They walked together in silence, and if any viewed them the onlookers

were well concealed, for the park seemed deserted. Entering the palace

and arriving at the foot of a stairway, solicitous menials proffered

assistance, but Strafford waved them peremptorily aside, and, accepting

now the support he had shortly before declined, leaned on his daughter’s

shoulder and wearily mounted the stair.

The room on the first floor into which he led her overlooked a court. A

cheerful fire burned on the hearth and cast a radiance upon the sombre

wainscoting of the walls. A heavy oaken table was covered with a litter

of papers, and some books lay about. Into a deep arm-chair beside the

fire Strafford sank with a sigh of fatigue, motioning his daughter

to seat herself opposite him, which she did. He regarded her for some

moments with no pleased expression on his face, then said with a trace

of petulancy in the question:

“Did your grandfather bring you up a lady, or are you an ignorant

country wench?”

She drew in quickly the small feet out-thrust to take advantage of

the comforting fire, and the blaze showed her cheek a ruddier hue than

heretofore.

“Sir,” she said, “the children of the great, neglected by the great,

must perforce look to themselves. I was brought up, as you know, without

a mother’s care, in the ancient hall of a crusty grandfather, a brother

my only companion. We played together and fought together, as temper

willed, and he was not always the victor, although he is the stronger.

I can sometimes out-fence him, and, failing that, can always outrun him.

Any horse he can ride, I can ride, and we two have before now put to

flight three times our number among the yokels of the neighborhood.

As to education, I have a smattering, and can read and write. I have

studied music to some advantage, and foreign tongues with very little.

I daresay there are many things known to your London ladies that I am

ignorant of.”

“We may thank God for that,” muttered her father.

“If there are those in London, saving your lordship, who say I am not a

lady, I will box their ears for them an they make slighting remarks in

my presence.”

“A most unladylike argument! The tongue and not the hand is the Court

lady’s defence.”

“I can use my tongue too, if need be, my lord.”

“Indeed I have had evidence of it, my girl.”

“Queen Elizabeth used her fists, and surely she was a lady.”

“I have often had my doubts of it. However, hereafter you must be

educated as doth become a daughter of mine.”

“I shall be pleased to obey any commands my father places on me.”

The conversation was interrupted by a servant throwing open the door,

crying:

“His Majesty the King!”

The girl sprang instantly to her feet, while her father rose more

slowly, assisting himself with his hands on the arms of the chair.

CHAPTER III.--MAJESTY.

There was more of hurry than of kingly dignity in the entrance of

Charles. The handsome face was marred by an imperious querulousness that

for the moment detracted from its acknowledged nobility.

“Strafford,” he cried impatiently, “I have been kept waiting. Servants

are at this moment searching palace and park for you. Where have you

been?”

“I was in the forest, your Majesty. I am deeply grieved to learn that

you needed me.”

“I never needed you more than now. Are you ready to travel?”

Strafford’s gloomy face almost lighted up.

“On the instant, your Majesty,” he replied with a sigh of relief.

“That is well. I trust your malady is alleviated, in some measure at

least; still I know that sickness has never been a bar to duty with you.

Yet I ask no man to do what I am not willing to do myself for the good

of the State, and I shall be shortly on the road at your heels.”

“Whither, your Majesty?” asked the Earl with falling countenance, for

it was to Ireland he desired to journey, and he knew the King had no

intention of moving toward the west.

“To London, of course; a short stent over bad roads. But if you are

ailing and fear the highway, a barge on the river is at your disposal.”

“To London!” echoed the Earl, something almost akin to dismay in his

tone. “I had hoped your Majesty would order me to Ireland, which I

assure your Majesty has been somewhat neglected of late.”

“Yes, yes,” exclaimed the King brusquely, “I know your anxiety in that

quarter. A man ever thinks that task the most important with which he

intimately deals, but my position gives me a view over the whole realm,

and the various matters of State assume their just proportions in my

eyes; their due relations to each other. Ireland is well enough, but

it is the heart and not the limbs of the empire that requires the

physicians’ care. Parliament has opened badly, and is like to give

trouble unless treated with a firm hand.”

The hand of the Earl appeared anything but firm. It wavered as it sought

the support of the chair’s arm.

“Have I your Majesty’s permission to be seated? I am not well,”

Strafford said faintly.

“Surely, surely,” cried the King, himself taking a chair. “I am deeply

grieved to see you so unwell; but a journey to London is a small matter

compared with a march upon Dublin, which is like to have killed you in

your present condition.”

“Indeed, your Majesty, the smaller journey may well have the more fatal

termination,” murmured the Earl; but the King paid no attention to

the remark, for his wandering eye now caught sight of a third in the

conference, which brought surprised displeasure to his brow. The girl

was standing behind the high back of the chair in which she had been

seated, in a gloomy angle where the firelight which played so plainly on

the King and Strafford did not touch her.

“In God’s name, whom have we here? The flippant prophet of the forest,

or my eyes deceive me! How comes this girl in my palace, so intimate

with my Lord Strafford, who seemed to meet her as a stranger but

yesterday?”

The slumbering suspicion of Charles was aroused, and he glanced from one

to the other in haughty questioning.

“I never met her until I encountered her in the forest when I had the

honour to accompany your Majesty. To-day, as I walked with De Courcy

and others, there came a second accosting from her, as unexpected as

the first. The girl craved private speech with me, which I somewhat

reluctantly granted. The upshot is, she brings me proof, which I cannot

deny, that she is my eldest daughter.”

“Your eldest daughter!” cried the King, amazed. “Is your family then so

widely scattered, and so far unknown to you, that such a claimant may

spring up at any moment?”

“I was married privately to the daughter of Sir John Warburton.

Circumstances separated me from my wife, and although her father curtly

informed me of her death he said nothing of issue. There was a feud

between us,--entirely on his part,--I had naught against him. It seems

he has been dead this year past, and my daughter, getting news of her

father among Sir John’s papers, comes thus southward to make inquiry.”

“You fall into good fortune, my girl. Your extraordinary claim is most

readily allowed.”

Frances, finding nothing to say, kept silence and bowed her head to the

King, whom she had regarded throughout with rapt attention.

“Where got you your gift of prophecy? Is prescience hereditary, and has

your father’s mantle already fallen on your shoulders? He is my best

friend, you said, and I my worst enemy. God’s truth, Madam, you did

not lack for boldness, but the force of the flattery of your father is

lessened by my knowledge of your relationship, hitherto concealed from

me.”

“Your Majesty, it has hitherto been concealed from myself,” said the

Earl wearily.

“Has the girl no tongue? It wagged freely enough in the forest. Come,

masquerader, what have you to say for yourself?”

“Your Majesty, I humbly crave your pardon. The words I used yesterday

were not mine, but those of a gipsy in the north, who told me I was the

daughter of the Earl of Strafford at a time when such a tale seemed so

absurd that I laughed at her for connecting my name of Wentworth with

one so exalted as the Earl of Strafford. Later, when I received proof

that such indeed was the case, her words returned to me. I had no right

to use them in your august presence, but the entourage of the Lord

Strafford prevented my meeting him; thus, baffled, I sought to intercept

him in the forest, and was willing to use any strategy that might turn

his attention toward me, in the hope of getting a private word with

him.”

“I knew you had a tongue. Well, it matters little what you said; your

mission seems to have been successful. Do not think I placed any weight

upon your words, be they gipsy-spoken or the outcome of a spirit of

mischief. My Lord Strafford, you will to London then?”

“Instantly, your Majesty.”

“I will consult with you there to-morrow. And have no fear; for on my

oath as a man, on my honour as a king, I will protect you.”

The King rose and left the room as abruptly as he had entered it.

For some moments Strafford lay back in his chair, seemingly in a state

of collapse. The girl looked on him in alarm.

“Sir, is there anything I can do for you?” she asked at length.

“Call a servant. Tell him to order a coach prepared at once, and

see that it is well horsed, for I would have the journey as short as

possible.”

“My lord, you are in no condition of health to travel to London. I will

go to the King and tell him so.”

“Do that I requested you, and trouble me not with counsel. There is

enough of woman’s meddling in this business already.”

Frances obeyed her father’s instructions without further comment, then

came and sat in her place again. The Earl roused himself, endeavouring

to shake off his languor.

“What think you of the King?” he asked.

“He is a man corroded with selfishness.”

“Tut, tut! Such things are not to be spoken in the precincts of a Court.

No, nor thought. He is not a selfish monarch, other than all monarchs

are selfish, but----discussion on such a theme is fruitless, and I must

be nearing my dotage to begin it. I am far from well, Frances, and so,

like the infirm, must take to babbling.”

“Do you fear Parliament, my lord? How can it harm you when you have the

favour of the King?”

“I fear nothing, my girl, except foolish unseen interference;

interference that may not be struck at or even hinted against. Did they

teach you the history of France in your school?”

“No, my lord.”

“Then study it as you grow older; I’ll warrant you’ll find it

interesting enough. Ruined by women. Ruined by women. Seven civil wars

in seventeen years, and all because of viperish, brainless women. Well,

we have one of the breed here in England, and God help us!”

“You mean the Queen, my lord?”

“Hush! Curses on it, will you be as outspoken as another of your sex is

spiteful and subtle? Mend your manners, hussy, and guard your tongue.

Could you not see you spoke too freely to the King a moment since?”

“Sir, I am sorry.”

“Be not sorry, but cautious.”

Strafford fell into a reverie, and there was silence in the room until

the servant entered and announced that the coach was ready, whereupon

his master rose unsteadily.

“Sir,” said the girl, “will you not eat or drink before you depart?”

“No.” Then, looking sharply at his daughter, he inquired, “Are you

hungry?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Bring hither some refreshments, whatever is most ready to hand, and

a measure of hot spiced wine. I had forgotten your youth, Frances,

thinking all the world was old with me.”

When the refection came, she ate but sparingly, despite her

proclamation, but coaxed him to partake and to drink a cup of wine. He

ordered a woman’s cloak brought for her, which, when she had thrown it

over her shoulders, he himself fastened at her throat.

“There,” he said, when the cloak enveloped her, “that will protect you

somewhat, for the night grows cold.”

Strafford himself was wrapped in warm furs, and thus together they went

down the stairs to the court, now dimly lighted. A cavalier, who seemed

to have been standing in wait for them, stepped out from the shadow

of the arches, and Frances recognized the French spark whom she had so

frankly characterized earlier in the day.

“My lord,” protested De Courcy jauntily, “you have your comrades at a

disadvantage. You have captured the woodland nymph, and, I hear, propose

spiriting her away to London. I do protest ’t is most unfair to those

who are thus left behind.”

“Sir,” said Strafford, with severity, pausing in his walk, “I would have

you know that the lady to whom you refer is the Lady Frances Wentworth,

my eldest daughter, ever to be spoken of with respect by high and low.

Native and foreign shall speak otherwise at their distinct peril.”

The Frenchman pulled off his bonnet with an impressive sweep that

brushed its ample feather lightly on the stones. He bent his body in

a low obeisance that threatened, were it not so acrobatically

accomplished, to pitch him forward on his nose.

“If I congratulate your lordship on finding so rare a daughter,

rather than offer my felicitations to the lady in the attainment of so

distinguished a father, it is because I am filled with envy of any man

who acquires a companionship so charming. My lady, may I have the honour

of escorting you to the carriage?”

The girl shrank closer to her father and made no reply. On the other

hand the father offered no objection, but returned--rather stiffly,

it is true--the bow of the foreigner, and De Courcy, taking this as

an acceptance, tripped daintily by the girl’s side, chattering most

amiably.

“I hear on the highest authority that our sovereign lady is tired

of Hampton, and that we are all to be on the march for London again;

to-morrow, they tell me. London delights me not. ’T is a grimy city,

but if, as I suspect, a new star of beauty is to arise there, then

’t will be indeed the centre of refulgence, to which worshippers of

loveliness will hasten as pilgrims to a shrine. I take it, my lord, that

you will introduce your daughter to the Court, and hide her no longer in

the cold and envious northland?”

“My daughter has already been presented to his Majesty, and doubtless

will take the place at Court to which her birth entitles her.”

“And to which her grace and charm no less lay claim. I hope to be

present when the lady is greeted by the Queen we both adore. The meeting

of the Lily of France with the Rose of England will be an occasion to be

sung by poets; would that I were a minstrel to do justice to the theme.”

Their arrival at the carriage, with its four impatient horses,

postillion-ridden, saved Strafford the effort of reply had he intended

such. He seated himself in the closed vehicle, and his daughter sprang

nimbly in beside him, ignoring the proffered aid of De Courcy, who stood

bowing and bending with much courtesy, and did not resume his bonnet

until the coach lurched on its lumbering way, preceded and followed by a

guard of horsemen, for the Earl of Strafford always travelled in state.

Nothing was said by either until the jingling procession was well clear

of the park, when the girl, with a shudder, exclaimed:

“I loathe that scented fop!”--then, seeming to fear a reproof for her

outspoken remark, added, “I know I should not say that, but I cannot see

what you have in common with such a creature that you are civil to him.”

To her amazement her father laughed slightly, the first time she had

heard him do so.

“When we travel, Frances, safe out of earshot, you may loathe whom you

please, but, as I have warned you, ’t is sometimes unsafe to give

expression to your feelings within four walls. I may find little in

common with any man, least of all with such as De Courcy, whom I take to

be as false as he is fair; but there is slight use in irritating a wasp

whom you cannot crush. Wait till he is under my hand, then I shall crush

ruthlessly; but the time is not yet. He has the ear of the Queen, and

she has the ear of her husband.”

“Sir, what reason have you to suspect that the Queen moves against you?”

“One reason is that I am this moment journeying east when I would be

travelling west. In truth, my girl, you seem resolved unconsciously to

show you are your father’s daughter with that uncurbed tongue of yours,

for a lack of lying is like to be my undoing. If I had told the King I

must to London, ’t is most like we were now on our way to Dublin.”

“But it may be the King himself who thus orders you contrarywise.”

“I know the King. He is not, as you think, selfish, but ever gives ear

to the latest counsellor. He is weak and thinks himself strong; a most

dangerous combination. With trembling hand he speaks of its firmness.

Now, a weak monarch or a strong monarch matters little; England has been

blessed with both and has survived the blessing; but a monarch who is.

weak and strong by turns courts disaster. ‘War with the Scots,’ says the

King. He will smite them with a firm hand. Very good; a most desirable

outcome. But our captains, promoted by a woman’s whisper and not by

their own merit, trust to the speed of their horses rather than the

ingenuity of military skill, and so escape the Scots. Our army is

scattered, and there is panic in Whitehall. I am called, for God’s sake,

from Ireland, and I come scarce able, through illness, to sit my horse.

I gather round me men of action and brain, and send Madam’s favourites

to the rear, where they will gallop in any case as soon as the enemy

shows front. What is the result? A portion of our Scottish friends are

cut up, and those whose legs are untouched are on the run. Very good

again. The dogs are rushing for their kennels. What happens? An added

title for me, you might suppose. Not so. A censure comes post haste from

London. ‘Leave the Scots alone, the King is negotiating with them.’

In the face of victory he embraces defeat. A peace is made that I know

nothing of; all their demands are granted, as if they had environed

London! I am left like a fool, with a newly inspired army and no enemy.

They termed it ‘negotiating’ in London, but I call it ‘surrender.’ If

you intend to submit, keep the sword in its sheath and submit. If you

draw the sword, fight till you are beaten, then submit when there

is nothing else to do. God’s name! they did not need to hale me

from Ireland, where I had wrenched peace from chaos, to encompass a

disgraceful retreat! Even De Courcy could have managed that with much

greater urbanity than I.”

“And you think the Queen is responsible?”

“Who else? Her generals were disgraced and whipped like dogs. Unvaliant

in the battle-field, they are powerful in the ante-chamber, and their

whines arise in the ears of the Lily of France, who would rather see her

husband wrecked than saved by me. But I was never one to hark back on

things that are past. My duty was to save the King from future errors.

One more grave mistake lay open to him, and that was the summoning of

Parliament at such a moment. It was a time for action, not for words.

‘If you meant to concede, why did you not concede without bloodshed?’

was a question sure to be asked; a question to which there could be no

answer. Very well. I accepted in humbleness the censure that should have

been placed on other shoulders, and sent back by the courier who brought

it a message imploring the King to call no Parliament until we had time

to set our house in order and face Lords and Commons with good grace.

I then arranged my command so that if the Scots broke forth again they

would meet some examples of military science, and not view only the

coat-tails of the Queen’s favourite generals. No reply coming from the

King, I mounted my horse, and, with only one follower, set forth for

London. Pushing on through darkness on the second night of my journey, I

heard the galloping of a horse behind me, and drew rein, fully expecting

that the greedy Scots, asking more than could be allowed, had taken to

the field again. ‘Good friend,’ I cried, ‘what news, that you ride so

fast?’ ‘Great news,’ he answered, breathless. ‘A Parliament is summoned,

and as I am an elected member I ride in haste. Please God, before

the month is done we have Strafford’s head in our hands and off his

treacherous shoulders.’”

The girl gave utterance to a little cry of terror.

“Oh, ’t was nothing but some braggart countryman, knowing not to whom

he spoke so freely, and big in the importance of his membership, dashing

on to London, thinking the world rested on his speed; and thus I learned

how my advice had been scorned. When I met the King he was all panic and

regret. He had conjured up the Devil easily enough, but knew not how

to allay him. He bewailed his mistakes and called himself the most

unfortunate of monarchs, eager to please, yet constantly offending.

He was in a contrite mood, but that soon changed. ’T is my head they

want,’ I said. ‘Do with it as you please. If it is useless to you, toss

it to them; if useful, then send me to Ireland, where I shall be out

of the way, yet ready to afford you what service lies in my power.’

He swore he would concede them nothing. He was done with unappreciated

complaisance, and now it was to be the firm hand. They should learn who

was ruler of the realm. He gave me permission to return to my post.

I was his only friend; his truest counsellor. That was yesterday. You

heard him speak to-day. It is still the firm hand, but I must to London.

There indeed exists a firm hand, but it is concealed, and so directed

by hatred of me that it may project the avalanche that will overwhelm us

all.”

“And what will you do in London?” asked his daughter in an awed whisper.

“God knows! Had I the untrammelled ordering of events, I would strike

terror into Parliament, as I struck terror into the Scots or the Irish,

but----but if, after that, there was a similar sneaking underhand

surrender, why then the countryman would have my head, as he hoped. I

fear there are troublous times before us. This alternate grip of the

firm hand, and offering of open-palmed surrender, each at the wrong

time, is like the succeeding hot and cold fits of an ague; ’T will

rend the patient asunder if long continued. Frances, be ever a womanly

woman. Never meddle with politics. Leave sword and State to men.”

Tired with long converse and the jolting of the vehicle, Strafford

sank into a troubled sleep, from which he was at last awakened by the

stopping of the carriage in front of his town house.

CHAPTER IV.--PROPOSAL.

Frances Wentworth crossed the threshold of her father’s house with more

trepidation than she had experienced on entering the palace of the King

at Hampton Court. Here probably awaited a stepmother with her children,

and Frances doubted the cordiality of the approaching reception. The

ever-increasing fear of her father, a sentiment felt by nearly all those

who encountered him, mingled with hatred, usually, on their part, but

with growing affection on hers, prevented the putting of the question

whether or no Lady Strafford was now in London. Their journey together

had been silent since he ceased the exposition of the difficulties which

surrounded him,--a man whom all England regarded as being paramount in

the kingdom, yet in reality baffled and almost at bay. Looking back

over the day now drawn to its close, she marvelled at her own courage in

approaching him as she had done, light-heartedly and confident. Were her

task to be re-enacted her mind misgave her that she would not possess

the temerity to carry it through, with her new knowledge of the man.

Yet if Strafford were hated in the three kingdoms, he seemed to be

well liked in that little despotism, his home, where servants clustered

round, for each of whom he had a kind word. Whether they knew of his

coming or not, the house was prepared for his reception, fires blazing,

and a table spread in the room to which he conducted his daughter.

Outside, the night was cold and damp, and the inward warmth struck

gratefully upon the senses of the travellers.

“Mrs. Jarrett,” said the Earl to his housekeeper, who looked with wonder

at the new-comer he had brought, “have you aught of woman’s trappings

that will fit my daughter here?”

“Your daughter, my lord?”

“Yes, and as you will be consumed by curiosity until you know how it

comes so, I will add that she is newly found, having lived till now

with her grandfather in the North, and is the child of my second wife,

Frances Warburton, married by me some seventeen years since. Any further

particulars my daughter herself will supply, if you question shrewdly,

as I doubt not you will; but postpone inquiry, I beg of you, until

to-morrow. Meanwhile robe her as best you may with the materials at

hand, and that quickly, for I wish her company at supper.”

Frances was then spirited away to the apartment assigned to her, and

when presently she reappeared she was costumed more to her father’s

liking than had hitherto been the case. They sat down together to the

meal that had hastily been prepared for them.

“To-morrow, if I remember aright what you said, is your birthday.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Is it difficult for you to say ‘Father’? My other children pronounce

the word glibly enough. When you and I first met, and even since then,

you seemed not backward in speech.”

“Sir, I find myself more afraid of you than I was at the beginning.”

Strafford smiled, but answered: “I assure you there is no need. I may

be an implacable enemy, but I have the reputation of being as staunch a

friend. So to-morrow is your birthday, saddened by the fact that it is

also the date of your mother’s death. That is a loss for which a man in

my onerous position cannot even partially atone, but it is a loss which

you perhaps have not keenly felt. It seems heartless to speak thus, but

the fact remains that we cannot deeply deplore the departure of what

we have never enjoyed. One thing I can covenant; that you shall not

hereafter know the lack of money, which is something to promise in a

city of shops.”

“I have never known the lack of it, my lord.”

“Have you indeed been so fortunate? Well, there again you bear a

resemblance to your father. Sir John was reputed comfortably off in the

old days, and I infer he harboured his wealth, a somewhat difficult task

in times gone by. Are you then his heir?”

“One of two, my lord.”

“Ah, yes! I had momentarily forgotten the brother who favours his

grandfather rather than his sire. I am like to be over-busy to-morrow

to attend the mart of either mercer or goldsmith, and if I did, I should

not know what to purchase that would please you. But here are all the

birthday presents of London in embryo, needing but your own touch to

bring forth the full blossom of perfect satisfaction. Midas, they say,

transmuted everything he fingered into gold, and it is the province

of your sex to reverse the process. Buy what catches your fancy, and

flatter your father by naming it his gift.”

He held forward a very well filled purse, through whose meshes the

bright gold glittered.

“Sir, I do not need it, and you have been very kind to me as it is.”

“Nonsense! We all desire more than we can obtain. It is my wish that you

take it; in any case it is but part payment of a debt long running and

much overdue.”

Fearing again to refuse, she accepted the proffered purse with evident

reluctance, now standing opposite her father, who said:

“I am very tired and shall not rise early to-morrow. Do not wait

breakfast for me. Good-night, daughter.”

“Good-night, father.”

Although he had said the last conventional words of the day, he still

stood there as if loath to retire, then he stooped and kissed her on

the lips, ruffling her black, wayward, curly hair so like his own

in texture, colour, and freedom from restraint, and patting her

affectionately on the shoulder.

“You will not be afraid of me from this time forward, child?” he asked.

“Indeed, Frances, I grow superstitious as I become older, and I look on

your strange arrival as in some measure providential. There is none of

my own kind to whom I can speak freely, as I did to you in the carriage;

my daughters--my other daughters--are too young. My Lady Strafford takes

much interest in her garden, and dislikes this London house and this

London town, for which small blame is to be imputed to her. In you, a

man’s courage is added to a woman’s wit, and who knows but my daughter

may prove the reinforcement I lacked in my baffling fight with the

unseen. Do you speak French, my girl, or are you as ignorant of the

language of that country as of its history?”

“I speak it but haltingly, sir, though I was taught its rudiments.”

“We must amend that. It is to our tongue what the thin rapier is to the

broadsword. Good lack! there was a time when one language served the

English, yet great deeds were done and great poems written; but that

time is past now. I must get you a master. I have likely used the

broadsword overmuch, but who knows? You may be the rapier by my side.”

“I hope I shall not disappoint you, sir, though I am but a country maid,

with some distrust of this great city and its Court.”

“City and Court are things we get speedily accustomed to. Well, again

good-night, sweetheart, and sleep soundly. I see those fine eyes are

already heavy with slumber.”

But sleep came not so quickly as he surmised to the eyes he had

complimented. The day had been too full of rapid change and tense

excitement. The strange transformation of the present, and the dim,

troubled vista of the future which opened out to her, cherished thought

and discouraged slumber. Was it possible that she was thus to be

transplanted, was to stand by the side of the greatest man in England,

his acknowledged daughter, his welcome aid? God grant she might not fail

him, if he had real need of her. And so she planned the days to come.

She would be as subtle as the craftiest. She would cover all dislikes

as the cloak had covered her, and her lips should smile though her heart

revolted. Her tongue must measure what it said, and all rural bluntness

should disappear. She slipped from these meditations into a hazy,

bewildering conflict; her father, somehow, was in a danger that she

could not fathom, she lacking power to get to him, restrained by

invisible bonds, not knowing where he was, although he called to her.

Then it seemed there was a turmoil in the street, a cry for help, a

groan, and silence, and next Mrs. Jarrett was moving about the room and

had drawn curtains that let in a grey, misty daylight.

“Is my father yet arisen?” she cried.

“Oh, good lack! no, your ladyship, nor will he for hours to come.”

The girl’s head fell back on her pillow, and she said dreamily, “I

thought there had been trouble of some sort, and men fighting.”

“Indeed, your ladyship, and so there was, a rioting going on all the

night. I think the citizens of London are gone mad, brawling in the

street at hours when decent folk should be in their beds. ’T is said

that this new Parliament is the cause, but how or why I do not know.”

Although the Earl of Strafford did not quit his chamber until noontide,

he was undoubtedly concerned with affairs that demanded attention from

the greatest minister of State. There were constant runnings to and fro,

messengers despatched and envoys received, with the heavy knocker of

the door constantly a-rap. It was two hours after mid-day when Strafford

sent for his daughter, and she followed his messenger to the library,

where she found her father in his chair beside a table, although he was

equipped for going forth from the house. There had been seated before

him De Courcy, but the young man rose as she entered and greeted her

with one of his down-reaching bows which set her a-quake lest he should

fall forward on his face.

“My child,” said the Earl, “I am about to set out for Parliament, and it

may be late before I return. Yet I think you shall sup with me at seven

if all goes well and debate becomes not too strenuous; but do not wait

in case I should be detained. I counsel you not to leave the house

to-day, for there seem to be many brawlers on the streets. Any shopman

will be pleased to wait upon you and bring samples of his wares, so send

a servant for those you wish to consult. My friend De Courcy, here, begs

the favour of some converse with you, and speaks with my approval.”

Strafford looked keenly at the girl, and her heart thrilled as she

read the unspoken message with quick intuition. He had some use for De

Courcy, and she must be suave and diplomatic. Thus already she was her

father’s ally; an outpost in his vast concerns now committed to her. The

young man saw nothing of this, for he had eyes only for the girl. The

broad rim of his feathered hat was at his smirking lips, and his gaze of

admiration was as unmistakable as it was intent.

“Sir, I shall obey you in all things, and hope to win your

commendation,” said Frances with inclination of the head.

“You are sure of the latter in any case, my child,” replied Strafford,

rising. “And now, De Courcy, I think we understand each other, and I may

rely upon you.”

“To the death, my lord,” cried the young man, with another of his

courtly genuflections.

“Oh, let us hope ’t will not be necessary quite so far as that. I bid

you good-day. To-morrow at this hour I shall look for a report from you.

For the moment, good-bye, my daughter.”

No sooner was the Earl quit of the room, and the door closed behind him,

than De Courcy, with an impetuous movement that startled the girl, flung

himself at her feet. Her first impulse was to step quickly back, but she

checked it and stood her ground.

“Oh, divine Frances!” he cried, “how impatiently I have waited for this

rapt moment, when I might declare to you----”

“Sir, I beg of you to arise. ’T is not seemly you should demean

yourself thus.”

“’T is seemly that the whole world should grovel at your feet, my lady

of the free forest; for all who look upon you must love you, and for me,

who have not the cold heart of this northern people, I adore you, and do

here avow it.”

“You take me at a disadvantage, sir. I have never been spoken to thus.

I am but a child and unaccustomed. Only sixteen this very day. I ask

you----”

“Most beauteous nymph! How many grand ladies of our Court would give all

they possess to make such confession truly. Aye, the Queen herself. I do

assure you, sweetest, such argument will never daunt a lover.”

“I implore you, sir, to arise. My father may return.”

“That he will not. And if he did, ’t would pleasure him to see my suit

advancing. I loved you from the first moment I beheld you; and though

you used me with contumely, yet I solaced my wounded heart that ’t

was me you noticed, and me only, even though your glance was tinged with

scorn.”

Notwithstanding a situation that called for tact, she was unable to

resist a touch of the linguistic rapier, and her eyes twinkled with

suppressed merriment as she said, “You forget, sir, that I also

distinguished the keeper of the hounds with my regard;” but, seeing he

winced, she recollected her position and added, “In truth, I was most

churlishly rude in the forest, and I am glad you spoke of it, that I now

have opportunity to beg your pardon very humbly. I have learned since

then that you stand high in my dear father’s regard, and indeed he

chided me for my violence, as ’t was his duty to do by a wayward

child.” The gallant was visibly flattered by this tribute to his _amour

propre_. He seized her hand and pressed his lips to it, the tremor which

passed over her at this action being probably misinterpreted by his

unquenchable vanity. The tension was relieved by a low roar from the

street, a sound that had in it the menace of some wild beast roused to

anger. It brought to the girl a reminiscence of her disturbed dreams.

“Good heaven! What is it?” she exclaimed, snatching away her hand and

running to the window. Her suitor rose to his feet, daintily dusted

the knees of his silken wear with a film of lace that did duty for a

handkerchief, and followed her.

The street below was packed with people howling round a carriage that

seemed blocked by the press. The stout coachman, gorgeous in splendid

livery, had some ado to restrain the spirited horses, maddened and

prancing with the interference and the outcry. Cudgels were shaken aloft

in the air, and there were shouts of “Traitor!”

“Tyrant!” and other epithets so degrading that Frances put her hands to

her ears in horrified dismay.

“Whom are they threatening so fiendishly?” she whispered.

“That is your father’s carriage,” answered De Courcy.

Before she could make further inquiry there came up to them the cold,

dominating tones of her father’s voice, clear above that tumult,--

“Strike through!”

The stout coachman laid about him with his whip, and the curses for the

moment abandoned the head of Strafford to alight on that of the driver.

The horses plunged fiercely into the crowd. The cruel progress changed

the tenor of the cries, as if a wailing stop of a great organ had

suddenly taken the place of the open diapason. The press was so great

that those in front could not make for safety, and the disappearing

coach was greeted with screams of terror and was followed by groans of

agony. Men went down before it like ripe grain before a sickle.

“Oh! oh! oh!” moaned the girl, all color leaving her face.

“It serves the dogs right,” said De Courcy. “How dare they block the way

of a noble, and the chief Minister of State.”

“I--I cannot look on this,” lamented Frances, shrinking back to the

table, and leaning against it as one about to faint, forgetting her

desire to avoid further demonstration from her companion, in the

trepidation which followed the scene she had witnessed.

“Indeed they were most mercifully dealt with, those scullions. The King

of France would have sent a troop of horse to sabre them back into their

kennels. ‘Strike through!’ cried his lordship, and, by God! ’t is a

good phrase, most suitable motto for a coat of arms, a hand grasping a

dagger above it. ‘Strike through!’ I shall not forget it. But ’t was a

softer and more endearing theme I wished to----”

“Sir, I beseech your polite consideration. I am nigh distraught with

what I have seen, and am filled with a fear of London. ’T is not the

courtly city I expected to behold. I am not myself.”

“But you will at least bid me hope?”

“Surely, surely, all of us may hope.”

“Why, ’t was the last and only gift left in Pandora’s casket, and

London were grim indeed to be more bereft than the receptacle of that

deceitful woman. May I make my first draught on Madam Pandora’s box by

hoping that I am to see you at this hour tomorrow?”

“Yes--to-morrow--to-morrow,” gasped the girl faintly.

CHAPTER V.--EXACTION.

A ‘drizzling rain had set in and had driven the crowds from the

streets. Frances drew a chair to the window of the library and sat there

meditating on the strange events in which she was taking some small

part, so different from the tranquil happenings of the district she had

known all her life. She had imagined London a city of palaces facing

broad streets, fanciedly, if not literally, paved with gold; a town

of gaiety and laughter: and here was the reality, a cavernous, squalid,

gloomy, human warren, peopled with murky demons bent on outrage of some

sort, ill-natured and threatening. As the day waned, she saw that in

spite of the rain the mob was collecting again, its atoms running hither

and thither, calling to each other; bedraggled beings labouring under

some common excitement. And now its roar came to her again, farther off

than before,--a roar that chilled her while she listened, and the wave

of sound this time seemed to have a fearful note of exultation in it.

She wondered what had happened, and was anxious for her father if he

were at the mercy of it. Mrs. Jarrett came into the room, followed by a

man-servant, and also by one of her father’s secretaries, as the woman

whispered to the girl:

“My lady, we must close the shutters and bar them tightly, for the

ruffians are threatening again, and may be here in force at any moment,

to stone the windows, as they have done before.”

The secretary seated himself at the table and was arranging papers. The

man-servant opened the windows, from which Frances drew back, and now

the cries came distinctly to her. “Death to Strafford!”

“Down with the tyrant!” “To the block with the King’s Earl!” were some

of the shouts she heard lustily called forth.

“Oh! I fear my father is in danger. Do you think they have him in their

power, that they exult so?”

Good Mrs. Jarrett, anxiety on her own honest face, soothed her young

mistress, and the secretary came forward.

“Be not troubled, Madam,” he said. “While they cry ‘To the block’ it

shows they have not possession of his lordship’s person, but hope to

stir up rancour to his disfavour. While they shout for process of law,

his lordship is safe, for the law is in his hands and in those of the

King, whose behests he carries out.”

This seemed a reasonable deduction, and it calmed the inquirer, although

there remained to her disquietude the accent of triumph in the voice of

the mob.

“Death to Strafford!” was the burden of the acclaim; but now one

shouted, “Justice on Strafford!”--though his meaning was clearly the

same as the others. There was no dissenting outcry, and this unanimous

hatred so vehemently expressed terrified at least one listener. Why

was her father so universally detested? What had he done? Stern he

was, undoubtedly; but just, as his reception of herself had shown, and

courteous to all to whom she heard him speak; yet the memory of that

phrase “Strike through!” uttered with such ruthless coldness, haunted

her memory, and she heard again the shrieks of those trampled under

foot. It was an indication that what he had to do he did with all his

might, reckless of consequence. If any occupied his path, the obstructor

had to stand aside or go down, and such a course does not make for

popularity.

The windows being now shuttered and barred securely, and the tumult

muffled into indistinct murmur, lights were brought in. Mrs. Jarrett

urged the girl to partake of some refreshment, but Frances insisted on

waiting for her father. The secretary, seeing her anxiety, said:

“Mr. Vollins went out some two hours ago to learn what was taking place,

and I am sure if anything serious had happened he would have been here

before now with tidings.”

“Who is Mr. Vollins?”

“His lordship’s treasurer, Madam.”

As the words were uttered, the door opened, disclosing John Vollins, the

expression of whose serious, clean-shaven face gave little promise of

encouragement.

“What news, Mr. Vollins? The mob seems rampant again,” spoke up the

secretary.

“Disquieting news, or I am misled. The rumour is everywhere believed

that his lordship was arrested in Parliament this afternoon, and is now

in prison.”

“Impossible! ’T would be a breach of privilege. In Parliament! It

cannot be. Did you visit the precincts of Parliament?”

“No man can get within a mile of it, the mass of people is so great. It

seems as if all London were concentrated there, and one is swept

hither and thither in the crush like a straw on the billows of the sea.

Progress is out of the question except in whatever direction impulse

sways the mob. There are so many versions of what is supposed to have

happened that none can sift the truth. It is said that Parliament,

behind closed doors, impeached his lordship, and that when he demanded

entrance to his place he was arrested by order of the two Houses acting

conjointly.”

“But even if that were true,--and it seems incredible,--the King can

liberate him at a word.”

“They say even the King and Court have fled, and that hereafter

Parliament will be supreme; but one cannot believe a tithe of what is

flying through the streets this night. The people are mad,--stark mad.”

Mrs. Jarrett hovered about the young lady in case an announcement so

fraught with dread to all of them should prove too much for her; but

Frances was the most collected of any there. “If that is all,” she said

calmly, “’T will be but a temporary inconvenience to my father which

he will make little of. He has committed no crime, and may face with

fortitude the judgment of his peers, certain of triumphant acquittal.

He is in London by command of the King, his master, and his Majesty will

see to it, should all else fail, that he suffers not for his obedience.”

This conclusion was so reasonable that it had the effect of soothing the

apprehensions of all who heard it, and, young as she was, Frances seemed

to assume a place of authority in the estimation of those present, which

was to stand her in good stead later in the evening.

The headless household, barricaded in, with frequent testimony of public

execration in the ominous impact of missiles flung against doors

and shutters outside, went about its accustomed way in an anxious,

halfhearted manner, continually on the _qui vive_. As the girl wandered

aimlessly about the large house, nothing gave her so vivid a sense of

insecurity as the dim figure of the secretary seated in the ill-lighted

hall, with his cheek against the front door, listening for any hint of

his master’s approach, ready to undo bar and bolt with all speed and

admit him at the first sign of necessity; ready, also, to defend the

portal should the door be broken in by the populace, a disaster which

the blows rained against it sometimes seemed to predict, followed by

breathless periods of nonmolestation. The secretary’s sword lay across

his knee, and, like a phantom army, backs against the wall, stood in

silence, similarly armed, the menservants of the household. The one

scant twinkling light had been placed on a table, and a man sat beside

it, his pale face more strongly illumined than any other of that ghostly

company, radiant against a background of darkness. He was prepared

to cover the light instantly, or to blow it out, at a signal from his

leader the secretary, seated in the chair by the strong oaken door.

It was after nine o’clock, during a lull in the tempest, that there was

a rap at the door.

“Who is there?” asked the secretary through the grating.

“A messenger from the Court,” was the reply. Frances had come up the

hall on hearing the challenge.

“What name?” demanded the secretary.

“De Courcy. Open quickly, I beg of you. The mob has surged down the

street, but it may return at any moment.”

“Open,” said Frances with decision, and the secretary obeyed.

De Courcy came in, unrecognizable at first because of the cloak that

enveloped him. The door was secured behind him, and he flung his cloak

to one of the men standing there. His gay plumage was somewhat ruffled,

and the girl never thought she would be so heartily glad to see him.

“Is it true that my father is sent to the Tower?” were her first words.

“No, Mademoiselle; but he is in custody, arrested by order of

Parliament, and at this moment detained in the house of James Maxwell,

Keeper of the Black Rod, who took his sword from him and is responsible

for his safety. ’T is said he will be taken to the Tower to-morrow;

but they reckon not on the good will of some of us who are his friends,

and they forget the power of the King. Mon Dieu! What a night, and what

a people! One walks the streets at the risk of life and garments. I was

never so mauled about, and despaired of reaching this door. I’ve been

an hour outside screeching ‘Death to Strafford!’ with the rest of them,

else I were torn limb from limb.”

Frances frowned, but said:

“What were the circumstances of my father’s arrest? What do they charge

against him?”

“God knows what the indictment is; chiefly that he is Strafford, I

think. He entered the House of Lords this afternoon, and walked with

customary dignity to his place, but was curtly ordered to withdraw until

he was sent for, as the Commons were at that moment enunciating their

formula against him. He withdrew in the face of this loud protest, and

at last, being recalled, stood before them; was commanded to

kneel, which with some hesitation he did, while the articles to his

disparagement were read from the Woolsack. He was then dismissed, and,

once in the outer room again, the Black Rod demanded his sword, and

so conducted him, under restraint, to a carriage; no man of all then

present capping to him, although they had been obsequious enough when he

entered. A scurvy lot!”

“Were you among them?”

“Not I; I give you the account as ’t was told to me, but had I been

in that contemptible company, my hat would have gone lower than ever

before.”

“You have not seen my father, then; he has sent no message by you?”

“I have not seen him, but I come to crave a few words with you in

private.”

“Sir, you must excuse me. I am so tense with anxiety about my father, I

can think of naught else.”

“’T is on that subject I wish to discourse. He has set in train a

series of events in which I hoped to aid him, but it is like to go

awry through this most unlooked-for arrest. That is why I was here this

morning, and the commission was to have been completed to-morrow. Did he

say anything to you about it?”

“You heard all he said to me to-day. I saw him for but a moment, and

that in your presence.”

“I had hoped his lordship made a confidant of you, so my mission were

the easier of accomplishment.”

“If it has to do with his welfare, I am ready to confer with you. Come

with me to the library.” But before they could quit the hall, they were

aware that another was taking advantage of the lull in the street to

seek entrance to the mansion. Frances paused to learn the result. This

time it was an envoy from Strafford himself, and he brought a letter

addressed to “Mistress Frances Wentworth.” She opened and read the

note with eager anticipation, forgetting, for the moment, all who were

standing there.

Sweetheart:

“You have heard before this what hath befallen me; yet trust thou in the

goodness of God that my enemies shall do me no hurt. I am troubled that

you should be in London at this time, where I can be of no help to you.

It would please me to know that you were safe in the home where you have

lived until this present time. Think not that you can assist me other

than by obeying, for I trust in God and the King, and in the assurance

that I am innocent of the charges malice hath brought against me.

Therefore be in no way alarmed, but betake yourself straightway to the

North, there to wait with your brother, as heretofore, until I send a

message for you, which I hope to do right speedily. Travel in comfort

and security, and take with you such of my household as will secure

both.

“My treasurer, John Vollins, will give you all money you require, and

this letter is his assurance to fulfil your wishes in this and every

respect. Trust in God; give way to no fear; but bear yourself as my

daughter.

“Your loving father,

“Strafford.”

The young woman folded the letter without a word, except to the

secretary, to whom she said:

“My father writes in good confidence, seeing no cause for alarm, having

assurance of his innocence and faith in God and the King.”

Then she led the way to the library, followed by De Courcy, hat in hand.

Vollins arose and left them together, whereupon the Frenchman, with some

slight hesitation, possibly remembering a different plea on that spot a

few hours before, began his recital.

“This morning his lordship, your honoured father, requested my

assistance in a business which he thought I was capable of bringing to a

satisfactory conclusion. It concerned a highly placed personage, whom

it is perhaps improper for me to name, and perhaps unnecessary for me

to particularize further. His lordship’s intention was to present this

exalted lady with some gift which she would value for its intrinsic

worth no less than its artistic quality, and, as he professed himself

no judge of such, preferring to depend upon the well-known taste of my

nation in delicate articles of merit, also so far complimenting me as to

believe that I could, in suitable manner and phrase, present this

token to the gracious accepter of it, he desired my intervention, and I

promised so to pleasure him to the best of my poor abilities. On leaving

you this morning I made selection of the gift, and furthermore gave hint

to the recipient of its intended presentation,--a hint, I may say, which

was received with palpable delight. Judge, then, my consternation when

I heard of the Earl’s arrest, for he had promised to pay me the money

to-morrow.”

The young man paused, his listener pondering with her eyes on the

floor. She had such a deep distrust of him, and was so well aware of the

prejudice, that she struggled against it, praying for an unbiased mind.

Yet much that he had said coincided with certain things she knew,--her

father’s desire that the Queen should cease from meddling in affairs

of State to his disadvantage and theirs; his seeming friendship for De

Courcy, although he despised him; his intention that she should be civil

to him; his disclaimer of all knowledge regarding what a woman valued

in a gift when he presented her with a full purse the night before,--all

these fitted with the Frenchman’s story. The suppliant, scrutinizing her

perplexed brow, seemed to fear that his chance of getting the money was

vanishing, as he continued on the line most likely to incline her to

favour his present demand.

“Of course, I should not have troubled you in this matter did I not

think that if the arrangement your father wished to make was important

this morning, it is ten times more important to-night. Indeed, his

liberty may depend upon it. I am well aware that it is open to me to say

to the lady, ‘Lord Strafford is in prison, and is unable to carry

out his generous intentions,’ but I fear the deep disappointment will

outweigh the force of the reasoning. Your charming sex is not always

strictly logical.”

“What was the sum agreed upon?” asked Frances, looking suddenly up.

“A thousand pounds in gold.”

The question had been sprung upon him, and he had answered without

thought, but as he watched her resolute face a shade of disappointment

passed over his own, as if of inward regret that he had not made the

amount larger, should her determination prove his ally.

“I shall see that you get the money, if not to-night, at the time

promised.”

She sent for Vollins and placed the case before him. The treasurer

stood by the table, with inscrutable face and listened in silence, his

somewhat furtive look bent on the Frenchman.

“Has Monsieur De Courcy some scrap of writing in which my lord signifies

that so considerable a payment is to be made?”

“My dear fellow, this relates to business that is not put in writing

between gentlemen,” said the foreigner hastily.

“I am not a gentleman, but merely the custodian of his lordship’s purse.

I dare not pay out gold without his lordship’s warrant over his own

signature.”

De Courcy shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands, as though he

had washed them of responsibility.

“Mr. Vollins,” pleaded the girl eagerly, “my father’s life and liberty

may depend on this disbursement. I will be your warrant. I have money of

my own in the North, many times the sum I request you to pay. Should my

father object, I will refund to you the thousand pounds; indeed I will

remit it to you in any case, and my father need know nothing of this

transaction, therefore you cannot be held in scath.” Vollins shook his

head.

“I must not do it,” he said. “His lordship is a very strict man of

business and will hold me to account. He would forgive you, Madam, but

would be merciless with me did I consent to so unheard of a proposal. I

dare not count out a thousand pounds to the first man who steps from the

street and asks for it, giving me his bare word.”

“Do you dispute my word, sir?” demanded De Courcy, bristling.

“Assuredly not. I am but putting a case, as his lordship would

undoubtedly put it to me were I to consent,--and what would be my

answer?”

“But you have my word as well, Mr. Vollins,” urged the girl.

“Madam, I beseech you to consider my position. I am but a servant. The

money is not mine, or you were welcome to it. Yet why all this haste?

His lordship can undoubtedly be communicated with tomorrow, and then a

word or line from him is sufficient.”

“You have an adage, sir, of striking while the iron is hot; the iron

may be cool enough by the time your scruples of legality are satisfied,”

warned De Courcy.

“His lordship can be communicated with; you are quite right, Mr.

Vollins,” cried Frances, remembering. “He _has_ communicated with me.

I ask you to read this letter, and then to pay the thousand pounds

required of you.”

Vollins read the letter with exasperating slowness, and said at last:

“There is nothing here authorizing me to pay the gentleman a thousand

pounds.”

“True, there is not. But my father says you are to pay me what moneys I

require. I require at this moment a thousand pounds in gold.”

“The money is for your safe conduct to the North.”

“You have read my father’s letter more carelessly than I supposed, by

the time you took. He says you are to fulfill my wishes in this and

every respect. Do you still refuse me?”

“No, Madam. But I venture to advise you strongly against the payment.”

“I thank you for your advice. I can certify that you have done your duty

fully and faithfully. Will you kindly bring forth the gold?”

Vollins weighed the five bags of coin with careful exactitude and

without further speech. De Courcy fastened them to his belt, then looked

about him for his cloak, which he at last remembered to have left in the

hall. Vollins called upon a servant to fetch it, taking it from him at

the door. The Frenchman enveloped himself, and so hid his treasure. The

cautious Vollins had prepared a receipt for him to sign, made out in the

name of Frances Wentworth, but De Courcy demurred; it was all very well

for the counting-house, he said, but not in the highest society. The

Earl of Strafford would be the first to object to such a course, he

insisted. Frances herself tore the paper in pieces, and said that a

signature was not necessary, while Vollins made no further protest.

She implored De Courcy, in a whispered adieu, to acquit faithfully the

commission with which her father had entrusted him, and he assured her

that he was now confident of success, thanking her effusively for

the capable conduct of a difficult matter of diplomacy. Then, with a

sweeping gesture of obeisance, he took his courteous departure.

Mr. Vollins deferentially asked Frances to sign a receipt which he had

written, acknowledging the payment of a thousand pounds, and to this

document she hurriedly attached her signature.

CHAPTER VI.--ORDEAL.

Frances made her way to the North as her father had directed, and

everywhere found the news of his arrest in advance of her; the country

ablaze with excitement because of it. The world would go well once

Strafford was laid low. He had deluded and misled the good King, as

Buckingham did before him. Buckingham had fallen by the knife; Strafford

should fall by the axe. Then the untrammelled King would rule well;

quietness and industry would succeed this unhealthy period of fever and

unrest.

The girl was appalled to meet everywhere this intense hatred of her

father, and in her own home she was surrounded by it. Even her brother

could not be aroused to sympathy, for he regarded his father not only

as a traitor to his country, but as a domestic delinquent also, who had

neglected and deserted his young wife, leaving her to die uncomforted

without even a message from the husband for whom she had almost

sacrificed her good name, bearing uncomplaining his absence and her

father’s wrath. During the winter Frances saw little of her brother.

Thomas Wentworth was here and there riding the country, imagining, with

the confidence of extreme youth, that he was mixing in great affairs,

as indeed he was, although he was too young to have much influence in

directing them. The land was in a ferment, and the wildest rumours

were afloat. Strafford had escaped from the Tower, and had taken flight

abroad, like so many of his friends who had now scattered in fear to

France or to Holland. Again it was said the King’s soldiers had attacked

the Tower, liberated Strafford, and the Black Man was at the head of the

wild Irish, resolved on the subjugation of England. Next, the Queen had

called on France for aid, and an invasion was imminent. So there was

much secret preparation, drilling and the concealing of arms against the

time they should be urgently needed, and much galloping to and fro;

a stirring period for the young, an anxious winter for the old, and

Herbert Wentworth was in the thick of it all, mysteriously departing,

unexpectedly returning, always more foolishly important than there was

any occasion for. Yet had he in him the making of a man who was shortly

to be tried by fire and steel, when greater wisdom crowned him than was

at present the case.

One by one the sinister rumours were contradicted by actual events; no

French army crossed the Channel; the Irish did not rise; the grim Tower

held Strafford secure in its iron grasp. Parliament seemed hesitating to

strike, piling up accusations, collecting proof, but staying its hand.

Everyone was loyal to the King, so grievously misled. The King could do

no wrong, but woe to the Minister who could and did. So, this exciting

winter passed and springtime came, ringing with news of Strafford’s

approaching trial. A stern resolve to be finally rid of him, proof or no

proof, was in the air, tinctured with the fine silken hypocrisy that all

should be done according to the law; that the axe should swing in rhythm

with a solemn declaration of judgment legally rendered. And there was no

man to say to the hesitating King, “When that head falls, the brain of

your government is gone.”

Since the letter she had received on the night of his arrest, the

daughter heard no word from the father. Had he again forgotten, or were

his messages intercepted? She did not know and was never to know.

She had written to him, saying she had obeyed him, but there was no

acknowledgment that her letter had reached its destination. Thus she

waited and waited, gnawing impatience and dread chasing the rose from

her cheeks, until she could wait no longer. Her horse and the southern

road were at her disposal, with none to hinder, so she set forth for

London, excusing herself for thus in spirit breaking her father’s

command, by the assurance that he had not forbidden her return. She

avoided her father’s mansion, knowing that Lady Strafford and her

children were now in residence there, and went to the inn where she had

formerly lodged. She soon learned that it was one thing to go to London,

and quite another to obtain entrance to Westminster Hall, where the

great trial, now approaching its end, was the fashionable magnet of the

town. No place of amusement ever collected such audiences, and although

money will overcome many difficulties, she found it could not purchase

admission to the trial through any source that was available. Perhaps if

she had been more conversant with the ways of the metropolis the golden

key might have shot back the bolt, but with her present knowledge she

was at her wit’s end.

Almost in despair, a happy thought occurred to her. She wrote a note to

John Vollins, her father’s treasurer, and asked him to call upon her,

which the good man did at the hour she set.

“Your father would be troubled to know you are in London, when he thinks

you safe at home,” he said.

“I could not help it, Mr. Vollins. I was in a fever of distraction and

must have come even if I had walked. But my father need never know,

and you remember he wrote that you were to help me.’ I wish a place in

Westminster Hall and cannot attain it by any other means in my power

than by asking you.”

“It is difficult of attainment. I advise you not to go there, for if his

lordship happened to catch sight of you in that throng, who knows but

at a critical moment it might unnerve him, for he is a man fighting with

his back to the wall against implacable and unscrupulous enemies.”

“Could you not get me some station where I might look upon my father

unseen by him?”

“Seats in the Hall are not to be picked or chosen.. If a place can be

come by, it will be because some person who thought to attend cannot be

present.”

“Do you think that where there are so many faces a chance recognition is

possible? I should be but an atom in the multitude.”

“Doubtless his seeing you is most unlikely. I shall do my best for you,

and hope to obtain an entrance for to-morrow.”

And so it came about that Frances was one of the fashionable audience

next day, occupying the place of a lady who had attended the trial from

the first, but was now tired of it, seeking some new excitement, thus

missing the most dramatic scene of that notable tragedy. Frances

found herself one of a bevy of gaily dressed ladies, all of whom were

gossiping and chattering together, comparing notes they had taken of the

proceedings, for many of them had dainty writing-books in which they set

down the points that pleased them as the case went on. It seemed like a

gala day, animated by a thrill of eager expectancy; a social function,

entirely pleasurable, with no hint that a man stood in jeopardy of his

life. Although the body of the hall was crowded, draped benches at the

upper end were still untenanted, except that here and there sat a man,

serving rather to emphasize the emptiness of the benches than give token

of occupancy.

The lady placed at Frances’s right, observing that the girl was a

stranger and somewhat bewildered by the unaccustomed scene, kindly made

explanation to her.

“On those benches will sit the Lords, who are the judges; on the

others the Commons, who are the accusers. They have not yet taken their

stations.”

“Will the King be present?”

“Technically, no; actually, yes. The Throne, which you see there, will

be vacant throughout, but the King may be behind that latticed screen

above it, where he can see but cannot be seen. The King must not

interfere at a State trial, but he may overset its verdict, and he will,

if it should go against the Earl, which is not likely.”

“I--I do not see my----I do not see the Earl of Strafford.”

“He is not here yet, and will not arrive until the Houses sit.”

The girl listened to the hum of conversation going on round her, and

caught understandable scraps of it now and then. She was in an entirely

new atmosphere, for here every one seemed in favour of Strafford,

thought him badly used, and was certain he would emerge triumphant

from the ordeal. _Then_ let his enemies beware! Feminine opinion was

unanimous that all those who were concerned in this trial against his

lordship would bitterly regret the day they had taken such action. The

spirits of Frances rose as she listened. The invariable confidence by

which she was environed had its inspiring effect on her depressed mind.

She no longer thought the gathering heartlessly frivolous, as at first

she had resentfully estimated it. She was in the midst of enthusiastic

champions of her father, and realized now, as never before, the great

part he played in the world.

Suddenly there was a movement in the upper part of the Hall, and Lords

and Commons filed in to their places. A silence fell on the audience,

maintained also in dignified state by the judges, but to the section

occupied by the Commons was transferred the rustle of talk which had

previously disturbed the stillness of the auditorium. Men bustled about,

whispering to this member of Parliament or that. Papers and notes were

exchanged, while by contrast their Lordships seemed like inanimate

statues.

Once again the centre of attention changed. The Hall resounded with

the measured tramp of armed men. Two rows of soldiers took their stand

opposite each other, leaving a clear passage between, and slowly up this

passage, with four secretaries and some halfdozen others behind him,

came a bowed and pallid figure, dressed in black, a single decoration

relieving the sombreness of his costume, which hung, loosely unfitting,

about a frame that had become gaunt since its wear began.

“That is the Earl of Strafford,” whispered the lady on the right, but

the remark fell upon unlistening ears. How changed he was! No trace now

of that arrogance of which she had caught chance glimpses during her

brief acquaintance with him; a broken man who had but a short time to

live, whatever might be the verdict of this court. Sentence of death

was already passed on him by a higher tribunal, and all this convocation

might do was to forestall its execution. He stood in his place for a

moment, and bowed to his judges, but gave no sign that he had knowledge

of the existence of his accusers, and the girl began to doubt if the

old arrogance had, after all, entirely departed from him. Then, leaning

heavily on the arm of one of his secretaries, he sank into his seat

and closed his eyes, as if the short walk from the barge to the hall of

judgment had been too much for him. As he sat thus there stole down to

him a boy leading two children. Strafford’s eyes opened, and he smiled

wanly upon them, put an arm around the hoy’s neck, and fondled the girls

to his knee, both of whom were weeping quietly.

“Who--who are those?” gasped Frances, yet knowing while she asked,

and feeling a pang, half jealousy, half pain, that she must hold aloof

unnoticed.

“They are his son and his two daughters. The third daughter is not

here.”

“The third!” she’ cried in surprise. “Does he then acknowledge a third?”

“The third is an infant too young to know what is going on. Hush! We

must not talk.”

The girl’s eagerness fell away from her; she reclined back in her seat

and sighed deeply. The preliminaries of the day passed her like a dream,

for she knew nothing of the procedure, but at last her attention was

aroused, for she saw her father on his feet, and before she was aware

he began to speak, the voice at first cold and calm, penetrating the

remotest corner of that vast room, in argument that even she recognized

as clear, logical, and dispassioned as if he were setting forth the case

of another. He was listened to with the most profound respect by enemies

and friends alike. He seemed to brush away the charges against him as if

they were very cobwebs of accusation. As he went on, he warmed more to

his theme, and by and by the girl, leaning intently forward, drinking

in every word, knew that she was listening to oratory such as had never

before greeted the ears of England, and probably never would again.

A breathless tension held the audience spellbound, and it seemed

impossible that his direst foe could remain unmoved. The belief in his

acquittal now became a certainty, and it was every moment more and more

evident that this acquittal would also be a triumph. He stood, one man

against three kingdoms thirsting for the blood, yet turning the

crisis to the dumfounding of his enemies by the overwhelming force of

eloquence. Not a chord on the harp of human sentiment and passion was

left unsounded. The deft hand swept every string and fascinated his

hearers. When he spoke of his children, pleading more for them than for

himself, they weeping at his knee, his own voice broke into a sob more

touching even than his living words. From the eyes of Frances gushed the

pent-up tears. And she was not alone in her emotion, for the flutter of

lace at the eyes of fair ladies broke like white blossoms everywhere.

And yet----and yet she became reluctantly convinced that her father

in this crisis had entirely forgotten her, and when he spoke of his

children, remembered only those that had been all their lives about his

knees. She was but the daughter of a day!

Recovering himself, the speaker went on to his peroration. “And now,

my lords, I thank God, I have been, by His blessing, sufficiently

instructed in the extreme vanity of all temporal enjoyments, compared to

the importance of our eternal duration. And so, my lords, even so, with

all humility and with all tranquillity of mind, I submit clearly and

freely to your judgments. And whether that righteous doom shall be to

life or death, I shall repose myself, full of gratitude and confidence,

in the arms of the Great Author of my existence. _Te Deum laudamus, te

Dominum confitemur_.”

The Latin phrase pealed forth like the solemn tone of a chant, and the

speaker subsided into his chair almost in a swoon, for physical weakness

had at last overcome the indomitable spirit.

On none of the vast visible throng had the effective oration exercised

greater power than upon an unseen listener. The awed stillness was

suddenly broken by a splintering crash, and the startled audience,

looking up, saw the frail lattice work of the alcove shattered, and

the King standing there like a ghost enframed by jagged laths. Stern

determination sat on that handsome countenance; a look which said as

plainly as words, “_This man shall not die!_” His hands clutched the

broken framework beneath him, and he moistened his lips as if to give

utterance to the words his expression foreshadowed. But before he could

speak, a tall, angular figure sprang out from among the Commons and held

up a sinewy hand. His face was ablaze with anger; his stentorian voice

dominated the Hall, envenomed with hatred, striking the ear with terror

as does the roar of a tiger.

“The might of England, in Parliament assembled, gives judgment

untrammeled and unafraid. The King is not here. The King cannot be here.

The Throne is vacant, and must remain vacant until justice is done.”

As the last words rang out, the long index finger, shaken menacingly,

pointed at the empty chair. There was defiance of King or Minister in

words, and tone and gesture; a challenge to the Throne. The pale face of

the King became ghastly white, his hand trembled, and fragments of the

lattice-work fell from beneath it. Irresolution took the place of

former determination, and he glanced pitifully from right to left, as if

seeking human support, of which, in the amazed stillness, there was no

indication. Then the fine white hand of an unseen woman showed for

a moment on his arm like a snow-flake, and Charles, with one look of

haunting compassion on the prisoner, disappeared from sight. The phantom

picture had vanished from its ragged frame without a sound, and blank

darkness occupied its place. Truly the King was not present, conjured

away by the strenuous hand of the fierce combatant on the stage, and the

soft hand of the woman behind the scenes.

“Who is that man?” whispered Frances, gazing in frightened fascination

on the rude interrupter.

“That is John Pym, the chief prosecutor and deadly personal enemy of

Lord Strafford.”

As the girl gazed at this dominating individuality, all the froth of

confidence in her father’s acquittal, whipped up by the chatter of

conversation at the beginning, evaporated. There stood the personified

hatred of England against the Earl of Strafford. No wavering in accent

or action there, but a determined man, knowing what he wanted and bent

on having it. To her excited imagination the resolute face took on the

semblance of a death-mask, and the clenched hand seemed to grasp the

shaft of an axe. It was as if the headsman had suddenly stood forth and

claimed his own, and a chill as of the grave, swept over the audience

with a shudder in its wake.

A low wailing cry went sobbing across the silence; a cry that tugged

at Strafford’s heart when he heard it. What memory did it stir in his

troubled mind? A reminiscence of something that had escaped him, crowded

out by matters of more pressing moment.

“What is that?” he asked anxiously.

“It is nothing, my lord,” answered Vollins, stepping between his master

and the commotion among the women. “A lady has fainted, that is all.

They are taking her out.”

CHAPTER VII.--APPEAL.

Once out in the open air, Frances Wentworth came again into control of

herself, ashamed that, for the moment, her emotions had overwhelmed her.

She had no desire to re-enter Westminster Hall, even if the doorkeepers

would have permitted her, so she wandered slowly back to the inn which

was her temporary home. In the evening John Vollins came to see her, and

offered money which she told him she did not need. He gave some account

of Pym’s speech, and said that the Commons had not asked the Lords for

judgment, which was taken by Strafford and his friends as an indication

that they knew the weakness of the evidence and feared the effect of his

lordship’s speech in his own defence. The refusal to ask for judgment

was regarded as a good omen, and for some days Frances felt the revival

of hope, when she could forget the grim figure of John Pym, but the

Commons speedily disillusioned the Straffordian party. A bill of

attainder was brought in, and they showed their determination to have

the head of the unfortunate Earl by act of Parliament, if not by legal

procedure. At last the bill, passing its third reading, was sent up

to the House of Lords. There were many who said the Lords would never

assent to it; that the Commons should have asked for judgment at the

close of the trial; that if they could not hope to have the verdict as

they wanted it then, it was not likely the Lords would allow themselves

to be cozened by a side wind now. These predictions were quickly

falsified. The Lords gave their consent to the bill of attainder, and

nothing stood between Strafford and the block but a scrawl from the

King’s pen.

The Lords, it was said by those who defended them, had been coerced by

the populace. The mob had gathered again and had clamoured around the

House of Peers, crying for justice on Strafford; now they transferred

their loud-throated exclamations to Whitehall, for success with the

nobles foreshadowed success with the King.

It was late on Saturday night when John Vollins made his way to the inn

at some jeopardy to himself, for the streets were wild with joy at the

action of the Lords. He told Frances that her father’s life depended

solely on the firmness of the King. If Charles signed on Monday,

Strafford was to be led to the block on Wednesday. Vollins was in deep

gloom over the prospect. The Earl, he said, had some time previously

written to the King, absolving him from all his promises, offering his

life freely if the taking of it would advantage his Majesty in dealing

with his obstreperous subjects.

“But the King is trebly perjured if he signs. He cannot sign,” cried

Frances.

Vollins shook his head.

“If all the Lords in England are held in terror by the people’s clamour,

and so let the greatest of their number slip through their fingers to

the axe, how can one weak man be expected to withstand the concentration

of the popular will brought against him? ’T is blinded folly to look

for it.”

“But the people dare not coerce a King.”

“Dare they not? Go down to Whitehall and you will find them doing it.

This very day they have all but stormed the palace.”

“I will see the King, throw myself at his feet and implore him to keep

his word. I was present when he bade my father take this fateful journey

to London, and when he promised full protection. A King’s word should

stand against the world, for he is the source of truth and honour in a

nation.”

“You cannot get to see him. Every entrance to the palace is strongly

guarded. Highly placed friends of my lord, friends when all others had

fallen away from him, have sought admission to the royal presence in

vain. He has refused to see the Earl of Bristol, whose son, Lord Digby,

spoke out against the conclusiveness of the evidence, and his Majesty

has let it be spread abroad that he gives no approval of Lord Digby’s

plain words, and so the people cry ‘God save the King!’ and revile Lord

Digby.”

The girl stood aghast at this intelligence, remembering the scene at the

trial, when royalty in the person of Charles Stuart, and the people in

the person of John Pym, opposed their wills to each other. Then royalty

had faded from the sight of men, and the strong champion of the people

held his ground alone and triumphant. “Trust in God and the King,” wrote

the prisoner. What a conjunction! Almighty power, and a bending reed!

“Nevertheless, I will see the King,” she said.

On Sunday the immensity of the swaying crowd, shouting and moving like

a slow resistless flood through the streets, daunted her. There was no

employment that day to keep any one within doors, and it seemed as if

that labyrinth of human warrens called London had emptied itself into

the narrow thoroughfares. She hesitated like a timid swimmer on the

brink of a raging torrent, yet if she was to win access to the King

she must trust herself to the current, which had this advantage, it set

toward the direction in which she wished to go. If the streets could be

compared to sluggish streams, the broad avenue or square of Whitehall

might be likened to the lake into which they emptied. It was a packed

mass of humanity, surging to and fro, as if influenced by mysterious

tides, but making no progress. Way through it in any given direction

might well seem an impossibility; but an alert atom, by constantly

watching opportunity, could edge here and there, through chance

openings, and, by a constant devotion to a given direction, ultimately

attain any chosen point. Thus the girl, buffeted about, often well-nigh

exhausted and breathless, came by the entrance to the palace that stood

next the banqueting-house. The gates, however, were tightly closed,

and guarded on the outside by a double row of soldiery, who stood the

hustling of the mob with great good humour, being evidently cautioned

not to exasperate the populace by any hostile act. The crowd itself

seemed good-natured enough, although constant fighting took place here

and there along its choking surface; but the great bulk of those present

appeared to be out on a larking holiday, although they all riotously

lent breath to the unceasing roar, calling for justice on Strafford.

Occasionally there were shouts for the King, and demands that he should

speak to them, but the windows of Whitehall Palace were blank and gave

no sign of human occupancy.

Suddenly Frances found herself in new danger through one of those

unexplainable heaves of the many-throated beast at whose mercy she

stood.

“To the gates!” went up a shout. “We will make the King hear,” and

a great human wave, overwhelming the soldiers, struck against the

shuddering portal. The mere pressure of the multitude was deadly and

irresistible. There were shrieks and appeals for forbearance, but the

unreasoning mass behind pressed on, unheeding, cheering, and shoving. A

crash of rending timbers, and the gates flew inward; then the mob, as

if frightened at what it had done, paused, giving the soldiers time to

collect themselves and help the wounded. There was as yet no malice in

the crush; it was more like a conglomeration of irresponsible children,

bent on mischief of any kind, but temporarily scared at the breaking of

something. This fact seemed to be recognized by a man in authority who

came through the gate and with some difficulty secured a precarious

footing on one of the stone pillars which stood in a row between the

pathway and the road, thus giving him a position which towered over the

heads of the assemblage. He held up a hand for a hearing, and the crowd

cheered him, not in the least knowing who he was or why he was there.

Comparative silence followed the cheer, and the nobleman spoke.

“My good people,” he said, “there is little use in the breaking of gates

that the King may hear you; for the King has heard, and is taking the

requests of his faithful subjects into his august consideration.”

“Where is the King?” demanded an auditor.

“His Majesty is in the banqueting-house, where, as you know, he is in

touch with his people. ’T is a prayerful subject he has to meditate

on, and I beg of you not to disturb his devotions by further----”

“Is the Queen at her devotions too? In that hall she began masked revels

on a Sunday, and six good men were done to death for protesting against

the desecration, each life more valuable than the wicked Earl’s. Let the

King say that he will sign, and we will disperse!”

These and other cries more or less to the purpose baffled the orator,

and the air quivered with denunciations of Strafford. The man on the

stone post had cast his eyes behind him several times, as if to see what

progress was being made with the readjustment of the gate, and from this

his hearers quickly divined that he was but deluding them to gain time,

which was more than likely his purpose, so the shout went up to move

through the breach and surround the hall. Meanwhile reinforcements had

been summoned from within, and a hand-to-hand fight ensued with the

encroachers. Frances, panting and nigh worn out in the struggle,

nevertheless saw her opportunity. There were few women in the throng,

and such as came near them the soldiers sought to protect. She attempted

appeal to the officer, but that harassed dignitary could harken to none,

and thrust her rudely but effectually through the opening, saying,--“You

will find egress at one of the other gates. Take care of yourself. I

cannot help you.”

Breathing a sigh of thankfulness, she cowered and ran along the end of

the banqueting-hall, turned at the corner, then down the side, entering

an archway that let her into a passage. She knew that she must turn to

her right, but where after that she had not the slightest notion. The

tumult at the gate was so frightful that she expected every moment to

hear the victorious assaulters at her heels. Her joy at finding herself

thus unexpectedly within the precincts of the palace, unimpeded, caused

her to overlook the fact that this was scarcely a propitious moment in

which to implore the King to disregard the lusty giant rudely beating at

his doors. A frightened waiting-maid came hurrying along the corridor,

and to her she directed inquiry regarding the entrance to the

banqueting-hall.

“Turn to the right and up the stair.”

“Take me there, I beg of you.”

“I cannot. I bear a message.”

“But I bear a message to the King, so yours must wait.”

At this the maid turned and conducted her to the door of the hall,

saying to the man at arms,--“This lady has a message for his Majesty.”

The first thing that struck her on entering the great painted chamber

was that the nobleman on the stone outside had not spoken the truth when

he said the King heard the demands of his people. A growl as of an angry

lion penetrated the closed windows, but the words spoken were not to be

distinguished.

The King was sitting at a massive table, his head in his hands. Behind

him were grouped a number of bishops in their robes, and it certainly

seemed that his Majesty was engaged in devotional exercises, as had been

stated by the orator. But if this were the case they were of a strangely

mixed order, for behind the lady who was talking volubly to the King,

stood two Capuchin monks with folded arms. Excepting the bishops none of

the English nobility were present, but several Frenchmen, among whom she

recognized De Courcy, held aloof from the cluster at the table, so the

girl quite correctly surmised that the lady bearing the whole burden

of the conversation was no other than the Queen herself, and that these

foreigners were members of her train.

Her Majesty spoke sometimes in French, sometimes in English, the latter

with broken accent, and her eloquence was rather puzzling to follow,

for the flow of her conversation was of extreme rapidity. Palpably

she supposed herself talking in English, but whenever she came to a

difficulty in the choice of a word she made no attempt to surmount it by

any effort of thought, but swam swiftly round it on the easy current of

her native tongue. Translated, her discourse ran thus:

“My God! These good men have made it perfectly plain; for, as

they say,--and who shall question the dictum of the Church in such

matters,--you have two consciences, the conscience of the Prince and

the conscience’ of the man; and where the consciences come into conflict

that of the Prince must of necessity rule, as is the axiom in all

civilized Courts. Is it right that you, a King, should jeopardize

yourself in a useless effort to save one condemned by his peers, because

your private conscience as a man urges you to keep a promise which he

himself has relieved you from, holding you guiltless before God and the

nations, and further advised by these good men, lords of their Church,

that such action would not make toward peace of the realm. It is not a

subject to be hesitated upon for a moment, the good of the ruler being

paramount always----”

“Oh, my lord, the King, listen not to such sophistry, be it from the

lips of priest or woman. The given word is the man, and he stands or

falls by it. If the foresworn peasant be a cringing craven, ten thousand

times worse is the perjured Prince. You pledged your faith to Lord

Strafford, and now, in his just Heaven, God demands the fulfilment of

your word.”

The dishevelled girl had flung herself at the feet of the frightened

monarch, who started back, gazing wildly about him, shaking as

one struck with palsy, so startling and unexpected had been the

interruption. Red anger flushed the face of the no less amazed Queen,

speechless with indignation at the words and the tone of them, addressed

to her exalted husband. The sage bishops were astounded at the lack

of diplomacy on the part of the petitioner, who had thus rudely thrown

herself counter to the expressed wishes of the highest lady in the land;

but Frances, with an instant intuition more subtle than theirs, saw that

the Queen was an enemy not to be cajoled by deference or flattery, so

she determined that the war between them should be open and above board.

The King had reason for agitation greater than the surprise that had

made breathing statues of those about him. The accents that disturbed

him were the accents of Strafford himself, softened as they were by the

lips that uttered them. The boldness of the address was Strafford’s,

and, until he saw that a woman knelt before him, it almost seemed that

the dominant spirit of the prisoner had burst the bonds of the Tower and

sped hither to reproach him for meditated treachery.

Frances, gathering breath, took advantage of the silence her sudden

advent had caused.

“Why is Lord Strafford in a dungeon to-day? Because, trusting your word,

he obeyed your command at Hampton. Why was he put on trial? Because,

faithfully, he carried out his King’s behests. Why was he condemned to

death? Because he stood true to the King. If he deserve death, then so

do you, for you are the master and he the servant. Has God stricken

you and your counsellors with blindness, that you cannot see in the

destruction of Strafford the throwing away of the shield which guards

your breast, leaving you naked to your enemies? Surrender bastion, and

the castle falls.”

“God of Heaven!” cried the quivering Queen. “What country of the mad is

this, where the meanest of subjects may so address a monarch! Strip

the mantle from her back and scourge her rebellious flesh to the kennel

whence she comes.”

“No, no!” gasped Charles, staggering to his feet and sweeping with a

gesture of his hand the documents which lay before him on the table, so

that they fluttered to the floor. “Christ have mercy upon me! She speaks

the truth; happy is the Prince who hears it and heeds it. I have passed

my word to Strafford, and it shall be kept. I will not sign,--no, though

the heavens fall. Rise, my girl! You have my promise,--the promise of a

Stuart,--and it shall be fulfilled.”

Charles graciously assisted the girl to her feet with the same courtesy

he would have shown to the first lady of the Court.

The rage of the Queen now passed all bounds of restraint. “And this

before me, your wife! You weigh the word of this bedraggled creature of

the streets above that of the royal House of France, and Queen of this

turbulent realm! By God, you deserve to be hooted by your loathsome mob.

Who is this strumpet?” De Courcy whispered a word into her ear.

“What! The bastard of that profligate Strafford! Jesu, to what a pass

this Christian Court has come!”

“Madam,” said Frances with frigid dignity, “you misname me. I have the

honour to be Lord Strafford’s lawful daughter, acknowledged by him as

such in presence of his Majesty the King.”

“’T is true, ’t is true,” murmured Charles, visibly quailing before

the increasing wrath of his wife, adding in piteous appeal, “God’s

wounds, have I not enough to bear without the quarreling of women.”

“The quarreling of women! Dare you couple me in the same breath with

such as she? Is there none in my train to whip forth this impudent wench

into the wretched rabble that has spewed her into our presence. The

quarreling of women! A slattern that wishes to divert, from her reputed

father’s head to yours, the anger of the gutter. Listen to it, my lord,

listen to it.”

All this was shrieked forth with gestures so rapid and amazing that the

eye could scarce follow the motion of her hands. Now she flew to the

window and fumbled with its fastening, too greatly excited to succeed

with the opening. Several of the French gallants stumbled over each

other in their haste to aid her, but the lady’s impatience could not

wait for them. She lifted her clenched hand and smote the diamond panes,

which went shivering down beneath the fierce impact of the blow. Glass

or lead or both cut the imperious hand and wrist, and the blood trickled

down the fair rounded arm. The breach she made was like the letting in

of waters; the roar outside became instantly articulate, and waves of

meaning flooded the great apartment.

“To the block with Strafford. Death to the people’s oppressor!” was the

cry, and the tortured King shrank from it as from the lash of a whip.

“Harken to the wolves!” shrieked the Queen. “It is your blood or

Strafford’s! Which, which, which?”

Then, perhaps because of the hurt which she scarcely seemed to feel,

her mood changed as quickly as her anger had risen, and she melted into

tears, glided to her husband, and threw her arms about his neck.

“Oh Charles, Charles,” she moaned, “it is my love for you that would

coerce you. You have not been to blame, misled by an obstinate Minister

who would sacrifice an indulgent master to buy his own safety. A King is

not to be bound as other men. The claim of your wife and children rise

superior to that of any subject, for you have sworn to protect them.”

Charles stood by the wall which was eight years later to be broken for

his own final exit, his eyes filled with tears, caressing the woman who

clung to his breast. He saw that the girl was about to address him again

and said hastily,--“Go, go! You but pile distraction on distraction.

Fear not; for the word of a King goes with you.”

“No, no!” sobbed the Queen. “For my sake withdraw it.”

Two of the bishops now stepped forward, and with gentle urgency used

their persuasion on the girl to withdraw. “God keep your Majesty firm,”

she cried, “and so deal with you as you deal with my father.” But the

last sight she was to have of her ruler, as the good men pushed her to

the door, was far from inspiring. His cheeks were womanishly wet, and

wavering irresolution was stamped upon his brow. The twining wounded

arms of his wife had reddened the white scarf at his throat with the

royal, passionate blood of France.

CHAPTER VIII.--EXECUTION.

On Monday there were ever-increasing rumours through the town that

Charles had signed the bill which would send his chief Minister to the

block, qualified by statements equally vague that he had done nothing of

the sort; but as night drew on, the rising jubilation of the crowds in

the streets gave point to the more sinister report. In the evening, his

usual time of calling, the sombre Vollins came to the inn, chiefly, as

he said, to urge the girl to quit the turbulent city, where she could

accomplish nothing, and where she might be in danger were it once

guessed that she bore any relationship to the condemned man; but to this

good counsel the girl would not listen. What she demanded impatiently

was news, news, news, and this, with exasperating deliberation, Vollins

gave forth. It was quite true that the bill was signed, not by the

King’s hand, but by the hands of four Commissioners whom he had

appointed for that purpose. The House of Lords, and even the House of

Commons, was amazed at this betrayal, said Vollins, and the effect

of the announcement had been seen on the populace itself; for, after

certainty came home to the people, they had dispersed quietly to their

houses, and the streets were almost empty.

The girl was mute with dismay, but Vollins pointed out that the case

was in reality no worse than it had been on Saturday or Sunday. By

the exercise of his prerogative the King could at any moment free his

Minister or mitigate the sentence, notwithstanding the fact that the

Commission had signed the bill of attainder in his name. Vollins had

always been distrustful of the King, but his pessimism was not increased

by the hurrying events of the last few days; rather, he saw signs of

encouragement where Frances found only blank despair. The signing had

had the immediate effect of stilling the outcry of the public, yet it

in no way increased Strafford’s danger. The action was merely typical of

the King’s roundabout methods of accomplishing his objects. The people

were notoriously fickle and could not keep up the shouting indefinitely;

indeed there were already signs that they were tired of it. It was more

than likely that Charles would reprieve the Earl, possibly at the last

moment, and have him shipped off to France or Holland before London knew

what had been done. Or, it might be, Strafford would escape when Charles

saw that Lords, Commons, and people were in grim earnest. The Tower

was on the waterside, and the prisoner would not be the first who had

slipped away by boat the night before an intended execution. Such a plan

would be peculiarly acceptable to the mind of the King, for he had

given way to the expressed will of his subjects and could not be held

responsible for the avolation of the convicted man. The Tower was

impregnable and cared nothing for clamour.

Tuesday seemed to bear out these surmises. Frances determined to see the

King once more, and learn from his own lips the fate of her father; but

when she reached Whitehall she found some commotion there, for Charles

was taking his departure from the palace, and people said he was on his

way to the House of Lords, and that it was likely he had determined to

let Strafford go. Even although this suspicion was prevalent among those

assembled, there seemed to be no popular resentment of it, and the

crowd loudly cheered Charles as he rode away surrounded by his jingling

guards--truly a remarkable change in public sentiment since Sunday. She

went from Whitehall to the Tower, viewing the stronghold from various

points, but not venturing near it. At first she had some thought of

asking admission that she might see her father; but she was almost

certain a refusal was all she might expect, and there was ever the fear

she would arouse inquiry by making any application, and so frustrate

plans already formed for his rescue. Vague visions passed through her

mind of prisoners escaping through the devotion of friends sacrificing

themselves, or concocting ingenious schemes that resulted in liberty;

but as she looked at the forbidding, strong fortress, her dreams were

confronted by a very stern reality, and the conviction was impressed

upon her that there was nothing to be gained in lingering about the

Tower. After all, the word of the King was sufficient to open the gates,

could he but pluck up courage to speak it. He was bound in honour to

say the word, and Frances saw that her only chance of helpfulness lay in

urging him to keep his promise.

In the evening she learned authoritatively the object of the King’s

visit to the House of Lords. He had pleaded earnestly for the life of

his Minister, promising, if he were released, never again to employ

him even in the meanest capacity. He implored them at least to grant a

reprieve until Saturday, and this was so small a favour for a King to

ask that Vollins was sure it would be granted, and that many things

might happen in the intervening days. The confidence of a man so

generally despairing as Vollins, in the certainty of a short reprieve,

and in the ultimate safety of Lord Stratford, did much to bring the girl

to a like belief, but she resolved, nevertheless, to see the King next

day if she could win her way into Whitehall Palace.

Wednesday saw no excitement on the streets; people were going soberly

about, each on his own affairs, and the reprieve had provoked no

outburst, which in itself was a hopeful sign. Frances had grown to fear

the hue and cry of the mob even more than she feared the indecision of

the King. If he were left unterrified, all his tendency was toward mercy

and the keeping of his oath.

There was no crowd to distract the attention of the guard at the palace

gates opening on Whitehall, and they absolutely refused to grant her

admission without an order. She turned to the captain of the guard and

asked how such an order could be obtained, and that official, apparently

struck by her youth and beauty, as well as her evident distress, said

that if she knew any about the Court who might be sent for, and who

proved willing to vouch for her, he would allow her to pass; but the

rule at the gate was strict, because of past disturbances, and he had

no option but refusal unless she went in under the convoy of some one in

authority. Frances pondered a few moments, and hesitated, but her need

was great, and she could not choose when it came to finding security.

At last she said with reluctance,--“I am acquainted with Monsieur De

Courcy. Is he within?”

“I do not know, but ’t will be speedily ascertained.” With that he

invited her to a seat in the guardhouse, and sent a messenger for

De Courcy, knowing there would be prompt response when the Frenchman

learned that a beautiful lady awaited him, and in this he was not

mistaken. De Courcy came, as debonair and as well groomed as usual,

twirling his light moustache, and doffing his hat with a grand air when

he saw who his petitioner was.

“I wish to see his Majesty again,” said Frances, rising; “but they

detain me at the gate, and I have no one to vouch for me unless you will

be so kind, though I am sorry to trouble you.”

“To pleasure me, Mademoiselle, you must mean. ’T is an ungallant

country, as I have always said, when they keep so fair a maid a-waiting.

Such a boorish act is not conceivable in France. Most honoured am I to

be your sponsor, and it gratifies me to tell you that the King is at

present disengaged. I beg you to accompany me.”

The friend of the Queen did not even trouble to make any explanation

to the captain of the guard, and he was too powerful a courtier to have

anything he did questioned by the underlings. It was palpable that the

officer had small liking for him, but wholesome fear of his influence in

high places.

As the two crossed the yard together, the young man said with the

greatest affability,--“Would you prefer to see the King alone, or in

company?”

“Oh, alone, if it be possible.”

“Quite possible. I shall delight in arranging a private interview, and

am sure his Majesty will not refuse my request. If you do not wish to

meet any of the Court, I can take you to him by a private route where we

are almost certain to encounter none.”

“I shall be deeply indebted to you.”

They threaded their way through devious and labyrinthian passages,

turning now to the right, now to the left, sometimes ascending a few

steps, and sometimes a narrow stairway, until at last the guide came to

a door which he pushed open.

“If you will wait here for a moment, I will go and fetch the King.” He

bowed gracefully as she passed through the doorway, entering a square

room, the walls of which were decorated by groups of swords and rapiers

of various sorts; a veritable armory. A table occupied the centre, and

there were several chairs, with a lounge against the wall. A door opened

upon an inner room. De Courcy, instead of taking his departure, stepped

in quickly after the girl, closed the door, and turned the key in the

lock. With the grating of the key came the first suspicion to the

mind of Frances that her guide was treacherous. Much as she had always

distrusted him, it seemed incredible that, knowing her to be the

daughter of the Earl of Strafford, anything disastrous might befall her

here in the very palace of the King, the sworn protector of his people.

The leer on De Courcy’s face and his words speedily disillusioned her.

“If you will be seated, my dear, we may have some converse, interesting

and entertaining to us both. You can scarcely imagine my joy at seeing

so lovely a visitor in my poor apartments.”

“Sir, you said you would bring the King. A gentleman keeps his word.”

“Oh, the King in good time, my pretty one. Charles is but a doleful

companion just now, and we are well quit of him. As for a man’s word,

the fashion seems to be the breaking of it, example being set us poor

gentlemen in the highest places. For instance, our last discussion

related to marriage, but times have changed since that day, and you

will not be so cruel as to expect me to carry out the good domestic

intentions I then expressed.”

“Sir, I am very glad I shall hear no more of them.”

“Truly? Then so much the better. I expected tears and reproaches, but am

pleased you are not given to complaining. By my honour, I love you the

more for it. So, then, I’ll steal a kiss from those ripe lips to seal

the new compact we are to make, and I warn you that a scream is not

likely to be heard from this chamber.”

“I need not your warning. You shall neither hear me scream nor see me

weep.”

“By Saint Denis, I like your spirit. Some scream, and some weep, but

they all end by clinging.”

“Sir, a warning for your warning. Approach not another step nearer me.

Stand aside, rather, and allow me quittance of this place as freely as I

ignorantly came hither.”

“And if I cannot consent?”

“Then ’t will be the worse for you.”

“God’s truth, but you spur an inclination already highly mettled. Still

would I treat you with all courtesy. You are a nameless woman, and many

of the highest dames in England are proud to call me their friend.”

“That I believe to be as untrue as your saying I am a nameless woman.”

“Nevertheless, one is as true as the other. Your father never

acknowledged you.”

“He has been burdened with more important affairs, but he will do so

when he is free.”

During this dialogue the participants had been constantly changing their

positions, De Courcy advancing and Frances retreating, keeping the table

between them. The girl’s design was plain enough; she desired to hold

him in conversation, gradually shifting her position, until she got

between him and the door, when a sudden dash might give her freedom. But

he easily fathomed this design and laughed as he checkmated it. At

her last words, however, he drew himself upright, a look of genuine

amazement overspreading his face.

“When he is _free!_” he echoed. “Powers of Heaven! Then you have not

come to reproach the King, but to plead with him!”

“Why should I reproach him?”

“It would surely be useless enough, but feminine. Why? Because Gregory

Brandon, with one good stroke, severed the King’s word and Strafford’s

neck on Tower Hill this morning.”

The girl’s face went white as the kerchief about her throat, and,

swaying half an instant, she leaned against the table for support.

Something in the brutal method of the announcement convinced her of its

truth more surely than if he had spoken with all the solemnity of which

he might be capable. Yet she struggled not to believe.

“You are lying to me,” she gasped.

“Far from it, my little lady. How could I imagine you did not know?

You are surely the only person in London who is ignorant of it. Why is

everything so quiet near Whitehall, where the generous citizens have

been so solicitous about us of late? Merely because the centre of

interest has changed to the other end of the town, and a rare show was

put on the stage for all good people to see, free of cost to themselves,

unless they have the brains to know of what they are bereft by

Strafford’s death, which is most unlikely.” As he spoke he had been

edging toward her, catlike, but she paid no heed to him. Then with a

spring he caught her wrists, but she did not move or make any effort to

free herself. She looked dully at him, as if wondering why he acted so.

“You will be pleased to withdraw yourself, sir, and let me go. My heart

is broken.”

She spoke with forced calmness, but there was a tremor in her tone that

cast doubt on her former assertion regarding the tears.

“Your heart is not broken, and if it was I’d mend it for you. Absurd!

Why, you knew the man for scarce a day, and that time is full short for

the growth of any large affection.”

“I shall never love any as I have loved him.”

“Tush! How little you know of yourself. You are a very goddess of love,

and I will----”

He released one wrist and endeavored to slip his disengaged arm about

her waist. This seemed to rouse the girl from her stupor, for she

suddenly thrust him back, and, taking him unaware, sent him sprawling;

then she sprang for the door. But he was as nimble as she, for, quickly

recovering himself, he held her tight before she could turn the key.

“Sir, you forget who I am. Release me at once, and molest me no

further.”

“Divinest of the fair, I swear to you----”

She whisked herself free of him, and, darting to the other side of the

room, whipped down a thin rapier from the wall.

“You will be well advised to put an end to this fooling. I am now in no

humour for it, and with you, never. If you have not the gift to see it,

I would have you know that I detest you and despise you, and have done

so since first I saw you.”

“Ah, my little lady Termagant, you say as much now; but when the world

knows you paid a thousand pounds for a lover there will be many envious

persons who wish to be despised as much.”

“You ruffian and thief! Well did Vollins estimate your honesty. But

stand aside from that door, or your stealing will profit you little.”

“Indeed!” cried De Courcy with a laugh, as he possessed himself of

a similar weapon to that which threatened him. “’T is already

squandered, and I am in sore need of a further instalment. Are you for a

duel, then?”

“If you are coward enough to lift blade to a woman.”

“I meet kiss with kiss, and steel with steel; always ready for either.

Guard yourself, Madam.”

His pretended antagonism was but a feint to throw her off the guard he

advised her to maintain, for, being one of the best swordsmen of his

time, he knew by her holding of the blade that she was ignorant of its

practice. He brushed her sword aside, dropped his own, and sprang in

upon her, grasping again her helpless wrists, her arms pinioned thus

transversely across her body, her right hand still clinging to the

useless hilt, with the blade extending past her shoulder and behind her.

His sneering, grinning face so close to hers that his breath fanned her

cheek, he pressed her back and back against the wall, the sword bending

and bending behind her until the blade snapped off some six inches from

the hilt and fell ringing to the floor.

“There, sweetest of Amazons, you are stingless now, and naught but the

honey is to be gathered.”

The very ease with which he had overcome her hoodwinked him to his

danger. The proud dominant blood of the Wentworths flushed her face

with an anger that steeled every nerve in her lithe body. As, with a

victorious laugh, he released her wrists and slipped his arms around

her, she struck him twice with lightning swiftness, first across the

brow, then down the face. Nothing could well be more terrible than the

weapon she had used, for the jagged iron tore his flesh like the stroke

of a tiger’s claw. The red cross showed for a brief moment, then was

obliterated in a crimson flood.

“Cowardly poltroon, wear the brand of Cain!”

He had warned her not to scream, but now his own cries filled the room

as he staggered back, his hands to his face. Yet, grievously wounded

as he was, he seemed resolved she should not escape him, and, after the

first shock, groped blindly for her. She flung the broken weapon to the

further side of the room, and the noise of its fall turned him thither,

striking against the table, and then against a chair. She tip-toed

cautiously to the door, turned the key, and threw it open before he

could recover himself, for he had lost all sense of direction and could

see nothing. She took the immediate risk of drawing the key from the

door, to ward off the greater danger of pursuit, and calmly locked him

in. If screams were as ineffectual as he had insisted, he would take

little good from his battering of the door for some time to come.

Frances now threaded her way through the maze of passages, meeting

no one, for the gloom of death pervaded the palace, at least in the

direction she had taken.

She dared not hurry, in spite of the urging of her quickly beating

heart, but must proceed leisurely, as if she had a perfect right to be

where she was, should any inquisitive servant encounter her. At last,

with a deep breath, she emerged upon the great courtyard and so came to

the gate. The officer bowed to her, and she paused for a moment to thank

him for his kindness to her in the earlier part of the day.

“Is it true--that--that Lord Strafford----” She could get no further.

“Yes, my lady, and grieved we all are that it should be so. This morning

on Tower Hill. The Lords refused a reprieve even until Saturday.”

Frances bent her head and struggled with herself to repress undue

emotion, but, finding that impossible, turned abruptly and walked fast

down Whitehall.

“Her bright eyes, bless her!” said the officer to a comrade, “are not

the only ones dimmed with tears for this morning’s work.”

On reaching the inn Frances thought of waiting for the faithful Vollins,

but she had not the heart to meet him, nor the inclination to rest

another night in the city now so hateful to her. She wrote a letter

which was forwarded to him by a messenger, but said nothing of her visit

to Whitehall, telling him his estimate of De Courcy had been correct,

promising to send the thousand pounds to be replaced in her father’s

treasury as soon as she reached her home in the North, and asking pardon

that his counsel had been declined.

Two hours later Frances was on her way to the North. She paused on

Highgate Hill and looked back on the Babel she had left, vast and dim

in the rising mist of the mild spring evening. “Oh, cruel city!

Oh, faithless man! The bloodthirst of London may be whetted and not

quenched, perjured King of England!” She bowed her head to her horse’s

mane and wept helplessly.

BOOK II.--THE MAN.

CHAPTER I.--COINCIDENCE.

William Armstrong rode his splendid black steed like one more

accustomed to the polishing of saddle-leather than to the wearing out

of the same material in the form of boots. Horse and man were so subtly

suited, each to each, that such another pair might well have given to

some early artist the first idea of a centaur. Armstrong was evidently

familiar with the district he traversed, for he evinced no surprise

when, coming to the crown of a height, he saw in the valley below him

a one-storied stone building, whose outhouses and general surroundings

proclaimed it a solitary inn, but the horse, less self-contained, and

doubtless more fatigued, thrust forward his ears and gave utterance to

a faint whinny of pleasure at the near prospect of rest and refreshment.

The hand of the rider affectionately stroked and patted the long black

mane, as if in silent corroboration of the animal’s eager anticipations.

The young man was as fair as his mount was dark. A mass of yellow hair

flowed out from under his Scot’s bonnet and over his broad shoulders.

A heavy blonde moustache gave him a semi-military air; a look of the

cavalier; as if he were a remnant of that stricken band across the

border which was fighting for King Charles against daily increasing

odds; but something of jaunty self-confidence in Armstrong’s manner

betokened that the civil war raging in England was no concern of his, or

that, if he took any interest in it, his sympathies inclined toward the

winning side, as indeed was the case with many of his countrymen. His

erect bearing, body straight as one of his native pines, enhanced the

soldier-like appearance of the horseman, and it needed but a glance at

his clear-skinned but resolute face and powerful frame to be convinced

that he would prove a dangerous antagonist to meet in combat, while

the radiant good-nature of his frank countenance indicated a merciful

conqueror should victory fall to him, as seemed likely unless the odds

were overwhelming.

Both prowess and geniality were on the instant of being put to the

test as he approached the inn, where a wayfarer is usually certain of

a welcome if he has but money in his pouch. A lanceman, his tall weapon

held upright, stepped out into the road from the front of the closed

door before which he had been standing, when he saw that the traveller

was about to halt and dismount.

“Ye’ll be fur dawnerin’ on a bit faurer forret,” hinted the sentinel in

a cautious, insinuating manner, as if he were but giving expression to

the other’s unspoken intention.

“A wise man halts at the first public-house he comes to after the sun is

down,” replied Armstrong.

“Ah’m thinkin’ a man’s no verra wise that stops whaur he’s least wanted,

if them that’s no wantin’ him has good airn in their hauns.”

“Aye, my lad, steel ’s a bonny argument, rightly used. Whut’s a’ th’

steer here, that a tired man, willin’ to pay his way, is sent doon th’

rod?”

Armstrong adopted for the moment a brogue as broad as that of his

questioner. He flung his right leg across the horse, and now sat

sideways in his saddle, an action which caused the sentinel suddenly to

grip the shaft of his pike with both hands; but the equestrian making

no further motion, conversing in an easy nonchalant tone, as if he had

little personal interest in the discussion, the vigilance of the man on

guard partially relaxed, probably thinking it as well not to provoke so

excellently equipped an opponent by any unnecessary show of hostility.

“Weel, ye see, there’s muckle folk in ben yonner that has mony a thing

ta chatter aboot, an’ that’s a’ Ah ken o’t, except that Ah’m ta let nane

inside ta disturb them.”

“Whose man are you?”

“Ah belong ta th’ Yerl o’ Traquair.”

“And a very good friend of mine the Earl of Traquair is. Will you just

go inside and tell him William Armstrong is sitting here on his horse?”

“That wull Ah no, fur if th’ King himsel’ were ta ask, Ah munna let him

by th’ door. Sa jist tak a fule’s advice fur yince, and gang awa’ ta th’

next botha afore it gets darker an’ ye’re like to lose yer rod amang th’

hills.”

“I must get something for my horse to eat. He’s done, and should not be

pushed further. I’ll wait outside until their lordships have finished

their council.”

“Th’ stalls are a’ fou already, an’ if not wi better nags, at least wi

the nags o’ noblemen, an’ Ah’m thinkin’ that’s neither you nor me.”

“The stalls may be fou, but my beast’s empty, and I must get a feed of

corn, noble or simple. Ye tell the Earl it’s me and ye’ll be thankit.”

“Indeed, ma braw man, Ah tak’ orders fra the Yerl himsel’, an’ fra nane

else. Jist tickle yer beast wi’ the spur, or Ah’ll gie him a jab wi’ th’

point o’ this spear.”

The descent of young Armstrong was so instantaneous that the man-at-arms

had no opportunity of carrying out his threat, or even of levelling the

unwieldy weapon in his own defence. The horseman dropped on him as if

he had fallen from the clouds, and the pike rang useless on the rough

cobble-stones. The black horse showed no sign of fright, as might have

been expected, but turned his intelligent head and calmly watched the

fray as if accustomed to any eccentricity on the part of his master.

And what the fine eyes of the quadruped saw was startling enough. The

wide-spread limbs of the surprised soldier went whirling through the air

like the arms of a windmill in a gale. Armstrong had grasped him by the

waist and turned him end for end, revolving him, Catherine-wheel-wise,

until the bewildered wits of the victim threatened to leave him through

the action of centrifugal force. By the time the unfortunate sentinel

lost all reckoning of the direction in which solid earth lay with

regard to his own swiftly changing position, he found himself on his

assailant’s shoulder, gaping like a newly landed trout, and, thus

hoisted aloft, he was carried to the closed door, which a kick from

Armstrong’s foot sent crashing inward. The intruder flung his burden

into the nearest corner of the large room, as if he were a sack of corn;

then, facing the startled audience, the young man cried:

“Strong orders should have a stronger guard than, you set, gentlemen. I

hold to the right of every Scotsman to enter a public dram-shop when he

pleases.”

A dozen amazed men had sprung to their feet, oversetting a chair or a

stool here and there behind them, and here and there a flagon before

them. Eleven swords flashed out, but the upraised right hand of the

chairman and his commanding voice caused the weapons to hang suspended.

“The very man! By God, the very man we want! In the Fiend’s name, Will,

where have you dropped from?”

“From the back of my horse a moment since, as your henchman here will

bear witness, Traquair.”

“Armstrong, your arrival at this juncture is providential; that’s what

it is, providential!”

“It must be, my Lord, for you did your best to prevent it. Your stout

pikeman would not even let you know I was within call, so I just brought

him in to give the message properly.”

“Losh, if he knew you as well as I do, he would have thought twice or he

stood in your way. Come to the table, man, and fill a flagon.”

“I’ll empty one with pleasure if the drawer will charge it.”

“We have no drawer, Armstrong, but wait on ourselves, trusting the

lugs of a cogie rather than the ears of a scullion. So I’ll be your

cup-bearer, Will.”

“Thank you kindly, my lord, but I’ll help myself, as my ancestor said

to the Duke of Northumberland when he drove away the English cattle. The

man who will not stretch an arm to slake a thirst deserves a dusty road

all day with no bothy at the end of it.” And, saying this, the young man

drank long and well.

The sentinel had by this time got on his feet and was staring at the

company like one dazed. “Where’s your pike?” demanded Traquair.

“On the stanes ootside, ma lord.”

“Very well, go out and lift it, and see that you hold a better grip of

it when the next man comes along. Attend to Armstrong’s horse, and keep

an eye up and down the road.”

“I’ll look after my own beast, Traquair.”

“No need for that, Will. We have matters of importance to discuss, and

Angus here will feed the horse as well as you can do it.”

“I’ll eat and drink whatever’s set before me, and never ask who is the

cook, but I trust no man to wait on my horse. You bide by your sentry

march, Angus, and I’ll see to the beast.”

With this Armstrong strode out of the house, the ill-used sentinel

following him. As the door closed, the interrupted hum of conversation

rose again.

Who the interloper might be was the burden of the inquiry.

“Armstrong’s the very man for our purpose,” said Traquair. “If any one

can get through Old Noll’s armies by craft or by force, it is Will. I

had no idea he was near by, or I would never have wasted thought on

any other. I have known him for years, and there’s none to match him,

Hielan’ or Lowlan’. We need seek nae farrar if Christie’s Wull is

wullin’.”

“I have never before heard of him,” said the Reverend Alexander

Henderson, of Edinburgh. “What has he done?”

“What has he not done?” asked the Earl. “The Border rings with his fame,

as it has rung with the fame of his ancestors these several centuries

past.”

“Oh, the Border!” cried the townsman, with the contempt of his class for

the supposedly ignorant condition of that wild hilly belt which girded

the waist of the land. “We all know what brings a man renown on the

Border. The chief requisites are a heavy sword and a thick skull. That

the proposed excursion may require a ready blade at times, I admit, but

a man who depends on that will not blunder through. There are too many

of his kind opposed to him in Cromwell’s army. It is not a wilderness

like the Border that lies between here and Oxford, but a civilized

country with cities, and men of brains in them. To win through and back

requires skill and diplomacy, alertness of resource, as well as the

qualities of riding hard and striking swift.”

“William Armstrong has all these qualities, and many more,” replied

Traquair.

“The sample of his conduct just presented to us savors more of violence

than of tact,” objected Henderson. “He comes breenging in on a private

conference of his betters, carrying their sentinel on his head like a

shambled sheep, and flings him in a corner. This proves him a strong

man, but far from a wise one, because, for all he knew, he might have

been walking into an ambuscade that would have cost him his life or

liberty. It was pure luck and not foreknowledge that caused him to find

a friend at our board.”

“You are in the wrong there, Henderson, quite in the wrong, for you all

heard him say that the sentry refused to bring in his message to me.

Armstrong knew I was here, and thus was well aware he was safe enough.”

Henderson shook his head, stubbornly unconvinced. He was a man of talk

rather than of action, and knew he spoke well, so, being a born objector

to other men’s proposals, his tongue was more active than his arm.

When the unexpected “breenging” had occurred, every man in the room

had jumped to his feet and grasped his sword, except Henderson, who

sat staring, exhibiting little of that ready resource he had been

commending. Now the danger was past, he apparently thought that

after-eloquence made good the absence of energy in a crisis.

Traquair, ever suave so long as he carried his point, showed no signs of

irritation at this line of criticism, but made comment and gave answer

in a low tone and persuasive voice. The others round the table kept

silence and listened to the controversy between the man of language and

the man of action, ready, doubtless, to side with whichever proved the

victor. The Earl leaned his elbow on the board and gazed across at his

opponent.

“Look you here, Henderson. You are willing to admit there is no such

city as Edinburgh between here and the King?”

“Doubtless not.”

“And I need not try to convince you that Edinburgh is second to no

town in the world so far as learning, judgment, and good sense are

concerned?”

“Edinburgh is not in question, my Lord.”

“But you’ll agree with all I say regarding it?”

“Well, there are worse places than Edinburgh.”

“Cautiously uttered, but true. Very good. Perhaps you will not dispute

the fact that Lord Durie is one of your most enlightened citizens?”

“Durie, Lord of Sessions? Durie’s Decisions are well known in law, I am

told. I have nothing to say against the man.”

“There you differ from me, Henderson. I have much to say against him,

be his Decisions never so good. He is, and always was, a prejudiced old

fool, who, if he once got a wrong notion in his head, was proof against

all reason.”

“Speak no ill against those in authority over us!” cried Henderson,

bristling into opposition now that a definite opinion was expressed.

“For twenty years he was chosen vice-president by the best men in all

Scotland, none successfully opposing him, so you cannot say ill of such

an one.”

“_Very_ well, very well,” coincided Traquair with suspicious haste, a

faint smile parting his lips. “We will take your word for it that his

legal lordship is all you say. The point I wish to establish is that

Edinburgh possesses an enviable shrewdness, and that Lord Durie is one

of her most esteemed citizens. Other people may hold contrary opinion,

but we defer to yours, Henderson. It chanced that one man holding

contrary opinion so far as his lordship was concerned, and troubled with

grave doubts regarding his impartiality, had a case coming before him

that involved the litigant’s possessions and lands. He knew that

Durie was against him, and that there was no way of getting the thrawn

deevil--I beg your pardon, Henderson--this upright judge--to listen to

justice. This defendant slipped a word in Armstrong’s ear to the effect

that it would be most admirable if there was some other presiding judge

at the Court of Sessions when the case was tried. The consequence was

that Lord Durie, for the time being, disappeared and was accounted dead.

The case was tried before his successor, and won by the contestant I

have referred to, as was but right and just. Then Lord Durie came on the

scene once more, to the joy of everyone but his successor, who should

have been a friend of Will’s if he wished the disappearance to have been

permanent.”

“Ah, there you overstep the bounds of probability in order to establish

a false proficiency for this ranting Borderer. ’Tis well known that

Armstrong had nothing to do with the kidnapping of his lordship. The

judge himself admits that the powers of evil spirited him away and

kept him in a warlock’s castle, hoping to lure him from the path of

righteousness; but, his probity proving impregnable, they could not

contend against it, and were fain to let him go again unscathed, for it

is written, ‘Resist the Devil and he will flee from you.’”

The Earl of Traquair leaned back and laughed aloud.

“Well, you can take my word for it that he did not flee in this

instance. When the judge was enjoying an airing, as was his custom,

sitting his canny horse on Leith sands, Armstrong accosted him, also

on horseback, and the two entered into amiable and instructive

conversation. Old Durie was so charmed with his new acquaintance that

he accompanied him to the unfrequented spot known as Frigate Whins, and

there Will threw his cloak over the distinguished man’s head, lifted

him from his horse, and made off through a section of the country known

better by himself than by any other, and where he was sure he was not

like to meet gossiping stragglers. At last Will deposited his burden in

the lonely Tower of Graham by the water of Dryfe, and there he remained

for three months, not even seeing the people who fed him, for his meat

was let down to him by a rope. As the judge’s horse was found wandering

on the sands, people came to the conclusion that his lordship had been

thrown off, stunned, and drowned, the body being carried out to sea by

the tide. In due time Armstrong took the gentleman back as he had come,

and flattered the auld carle by telling him that, such was his learning

and piety, Satan could not prevail against him. And so the learned judge

just dawnered home with this idea in his head, which he speedily-got the

wise city of Edinburgh to believe.”

For a wonder Henderson remained silent, but one of the others spoke up.

“I remember the incident well,” he said, “and if I am not mistaken the

Tower of Graham at that time belonged to your lordship.”

“Yes, and it does yet,” replied Traquair nonchalantly. “Armstrong, being

an old friend of mine, had no hesitation in using my property without

my leave, for, as he explained afterward, there was no time for

consultation, the case being urgent.”

“It was a most suitable place for the judge’s custody,” continued the

other drily, “because, unless a treacherous memory misleads me, a plea

regarding this very property was decided in your favour by the single

vote of the Lord President, who temporarily took the place of Justice

Durie during his mysterious absence.”

“Sir, you are quite in the right,” replied Traquair, unabashed by the

evident insinuation. “It was my great good luck that the case against

me was heard during Durie’s absence, and, as you were doubtless about

to point out, this world is full of strange coincidences which our poor

finite minds fail to fathom.”

“A finite mind easily probes the bottom of such a shameless conspiracy,”

cried Alexander Henderson sternly, bringing his fist down upon the

table. “What! Kidnap the Lord President of the Sessions, from the very

edge of Edinburgh in broad daylight----”

“It was drawing on to the gloaming at the time,” corrected Traquair

soothingly, “at least so Will informed me.”

“It was nevertheless an outrageous action; a foul deed that should not

go unwhipt of----”

“Gentlemen,” said the Earl in a tone of authority, which seemed to

recall the fact that, after all, he was the chairman of the conclave,

“we are wandering from the point. At this moment Lord Durie is reported

to be a dying man, and whatever evil has been done against him in the

long past probably troubles him less than the injustice he may himself

have been the cause of. In any case we are met here together for

a certain purpose, and what is said within this circle is said in

confidence, for which our plighted words to each other stand sponsor.

The crux of the discussion is this. Henderson objects to my man as the

most fitting for our embassy, holding him to be a rude and brainless

swashbuckler. That is a definite charge. I meet it by showing that this

same man befooled the wise city of Edinburgh and the most learned man

within its confines. A brainless bravado would have run a dirk into Lord

Durie and left his body on the sands. I wish unanimous consent to tender

our present dangerous mission to William Armstrong, in the hope that

he may get safely to Oxford, and, what is more important, bring us with

equal safety the King’s written command. If any of you have some one

else to propose, whom you think may accomplish his business better than

Will Armstrong, I ask you to nominate the man and give reasons for your

preference.”

Henderson growled in his beard, but said nothing audible. Each man

looked at the others as if waiting for some one else to make further

suggestion; but, as the silence was prolonged, the one who had referred

to the coincidence of Durie’s incarceration with Traquair’s case at law,

cleared his throat and said that for his part it seemed that Armstrong

was the proper man for the mission. With this the others agreed, and

even Henderson gave an ungracious concurrence. The Earl was about to

address the company when the door opened and Armstrong himself entered.

CHAPTER II.--SUSPICION.

Speak of the Devil, Wull,” cried Traquair. “We have been talking of

you, my man, and we have some employment for you if you are ready for

it.”

“Well, my Lord, there’s no lack of that in these kittle times, for

a fighting man gets civility and a welcome, whether in England or

Scotland, whichever side he takes.”

“I hope you are for law and the King, against riot and rebels?”

“Ye see, Traquair, I’m not just a faction man, but am standing clear,

to give both sides fair play, as the De’il said when he was toasting the

Elder on his fork, and changed his front to the fire. I suppose I am

for the King, though I’m not so prejudiced but I can see something to be

said for the other side. It seems to me that the King’s not exactly as

wise as his predecessor Solomon.”

“That’s treason,” roared Henderson.

“Oh, not among friends who are most of them thinking the same thing,”

said Armstrong suavely. “But no, I shouldna say that, for it’s likely

you’re all as loyal as my horse. Ye see, stranger, it’s not to be

expected that I should fling up my cap whenever the King’s name is

mentioned, for my family have stood the brunt of the battles on the

Border this twothree hundred years, yet we got little thanks from any

King for it.”

“This is a fine enthusiastic messenger to send on important business,”

growled Henderson to Traquair.

“I would call your honour’s attention to the fact that I am as yet no

messenger at all, and if I am expected to be one it will be because of

Earl Traquair and not on account of any sour Presbyterian that ever,

thumped a pulpit in Edinburgh,” said Armstrong calmly, quite accurately

guessing the standing of the one who seemed to be the objecting element

in the party.

“The crisis is this, William,” broke in Traquair with visible

impatience. “There are papers that we must get through to King Charles

at Oxford. Then, what is much more important, we must get his signed

warrant back to us before we can act to any real purpose in this

ploy. The victorious rebels pretend that they are fighting for certain

so-called liberties, but we have reason to know that their designs run

much deeper, that they aim at nothing less than the dethronement and

possible murder of the King. It is necessary to get proof of this to the

King, and to obtain his sanction to certain action on our part; for if

we move without his written commission, and our plans fail, we are

like to get short shrift from Cromwell, who will deny us the right of

belligerents. Whether the King believes this or not, the documents we

wish to send him are less to the purpose than that you should bring back

to us his commission, so you will know that your home-coming is much

more vital to us than your out-going.”

“I see. Still, if they kill me on the road there, it is not likely I

will win my way back, so both journeys are equally vital to me.”

“You will be travelling through a hostile country, but nevertheless will

find many to favour you; for though the land is under the iron hand of

Cromwell, he is far from pleasing all the people, although they may make

a quiet mouth save a doubting head. Brave as you are, Will, it is on the

smooth tongue rather than on the sharp sword that you must depend; for,

however many silent friends we may have along the route, there are too

many outspoken enemies for even you to fight your way through. Have you

a good horse?”

“The best in the world.”

“The pick of my stables is at your choice. Had you not better take a

spare animal with you?”

“No. That would be advertising the importance of my journey. If I can

get through at all, it must be by dawnering along as a cannie drover

body, anxious to buy up cattle and turn an honest penny by selling them

to those who want them worse than I do; a perfectly legitimate trade

even during these exciting times. They all know the desire of a humble

Scotsman to make a little money, though the Heavens and Kings be

falling.”

“That’s an admirable idea, and you know the country well?”

“No one better. Indeed I’ll trade my way to the very gates of Oxford if

time is not too great an object with you.”

“Time _is_ an object, Armstrong, but you will have to do the best you

can, and we shall await your return with what patience we may. You will

tackle the job then?”

“It’s just the kind of splore I like. Can you allow me three weeks or a

month?”

“If you ’re back inside of a month, Will, you ’ll have done what I

believe no other man in all Scotland could do. Well, that’s settled

then.”

“Oh, bide a wee, bide a wee,” cautioned Henderson, who during this

colloquy had been visibly fuming under the contemptuous reference

Armstrong had uttered regarding him. “This man may be brave enough, but

I doubt his judgment. He may have all the wisdom he traitorously denies

to the King, but it’s by no means proven.”

“I did not deny wisdom to the King, Mr. Pulpiteer. I said Solomon was

the wisest of men, except that he was a little daft on the marrying, and

in that I’m wiser than he, for whether Cromwell catch me or no, none of

the lassies have caught me yet.”

“You are ribald,” shouted the minister angrily, “and would add blasphemy

to disloyalty. I was speaking of King Charles.”

“And I was speaking of King Solomon, and speaking in a lower tone of

voice as well. But while we are discussing wisdom, why are you all

met here in this bothy, instead of in your own castle, Traquair? This

innkeeper is a treacherous, canting dog. I know him of old.”

“Henderson thought it would be safer here than at my house. I’m being

watched. We conceived it would be less conspicuous if the dozen of us

gathered here as if by accident.”

“I wish I were as sure of your messenger as I am of the innkeeper,”

protested Henderson, his growing dislike of Armstrong not to be

concealed. “The innkeeper is a pious man who----”

“So was Judas; and he was one of the Apostles,” interrupted Armstrong

flippantly, unheeding the other’s anger.

“He is an enemy of your friends, the cattle-thieves,” insisted

Henderson.

“Is he? In that case you’ll know more about him than I do, and I suppose

it is policy for you to stand up for him. But, Traquair, I wonder at

you! Did you search the house before you sat down here?”

“No.”

“I went round the steading, and there was no guard at the back.”

“Angus is keeping watch, and can see up and down the road.”

“The road is the last place I would set foot on if I were a spy. You

have been ranting in here at a great rate. Before I came to you I could

hear every word that was said. One would think it was a Presbyterian

convening, agreeing on the Scriptures. I knew Henderson’s opinion of me

before I opened the door.”

“You look like an eavesdropper,” retorted the man referred to, “and

that you have a libellous ungoverned tongue is proven by every word you

utter.”

“Tut, tut, tut!” cried Traquair, “let us have no more bickering. This

is serious business and not to be settled by bandying words. Now,

Armstrong, the case stands like this. Will you----”

The Earl was interrupted by a roar from the sentinel outside, which

caused every man in the room to start to his feet; but before they could

move, Angus came bursting in.

“Somebody dropped from the hole on the loft above the stables, an’ wuz

aff ta th’ wood afore I could stop him.”

“To horse!” cried Traquair. “Mount instantly, and let’s after him.”

“It’s useless, my lord,” said Armstrong quietly, the only unexcited man

in the group. “Ye might as well look for some particular flea in all the

Hielans. He’ll have a horse tied to a tree, and a thousand cavalry

couldn’t catch him if he knows the wilds hereabout.”

“It may be just some vagrant sleeping in the straw. The loft above the

stables is not the loft above this room,” put in Henderson; but it was

plain that he was frightened. He loved a real eavesdropper as little as

did any of his comrades, and knew he had talked rather loudly at times,

carried away by his fondness for opposition. Traquair stood frowning and

indecisive, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Where’s the landlord?” he asked at last. “Angus, bring him in here.”

The sentinel left the room and speedily reappeared with a cowering man,

evidently as panic-stricken as any of his guests.

“Have there been some stragglers about to-day?” demanded Traquair.

“Not a soul, my lord, on my oath, not a soul.”

“Is there connection between the room above and the loft over the

stable?”

“No possibility of it, my lord.”

“What did I tell you?” said Henderson, plucking up courage again. “This

turmoil is utterly without foundation.”

“Dash it!” cried Armstrong with a gesture of impatience. “Will you take

a man’s word for a thing you can prove in a moment? Get a ladder, Angus,

and speel up through the hole the spy came out at. Take a torch, an’ if

ye drop a lowe in the straw you’ll no’ be blamed for it by me. See if

you can win your way through from the stables to the house.”

“Go at once, Angus,” commanded Traquair; then to the landlord, who

showed signs of wishing to be elsewhere. “No; you stay here.”

“I’m feared th’ man wull set fire ta the place,” whined the landlord.

“Better be feared o’ the rope that will be round your neck if you have

lied to us,” said the Earl grimly, and as he spoke they heard the tramp

of the sentinel’s feet overhead.

“Is that you, Angus?” asked Traquair in an ordinary tone of voice. “Can

you hear what I say?”

“Perfectly, ma lord. There’s a very cunnin’ trap ’tween th’ stable

loft an’ this, that one would na hev foun’ in a hurry, but the thief

left it open in his sudden flight.”

The lips of the landlord turned white, but he remained motionless,

panting like a trapped animal, for the giant form of Armstrong stood

with his back against the door, the only exit.

“Very well. Come down,” said Traquair quietly. When the sentinel

returned, Traquair bade him get a rope and tie the innkeeper hand

and foot, while the prisoner groveled for his life, his supplications

meeting with no response.

“Now take him outside, Angus, and if there is any attempt on his part to

move, or if there is an alarm of rescue, run him through with your pike

and retreat on us. As for you, you false knave, your life will depend on

your lying quiet for the moment and on what you tell us hereafter.”

“Am I ta be ta’en awa’, your merciful lordship?” sobbed the man, who,

now that his life seemed in no immediate danger, turned his anxiety

toward his property. “What’ll become o’ th’ inn, for there’s nane here

to tak care o ’t?”

“We’ll take care o’t, never fear,” replied Traquair grimly.

The stalwart Angus dragged the man out, and the door was once more

closed.

“I think we may venture to seat ourselves again,” said Traquair, suiting

the action to the word. “There’s nothing more to be done, and pursuit is

hopeless.”

All sat down with the exception of Armstrong, who remained standing with

his back to the door, gazing somewhat scornfully on the conclave.

“You will perhaps now agree with me, Henderson,” continued the Earl

smoothly, “that we are in no position to set up our collective wisdom as

an example to William Armstrong?”

“I may at least say,” returned the minister sourly, “that nothing

whatever is proved. It is all surmise, suspicion, conjecture. The man

who went away may well have been some lout sleeping in the straw, and no

spy at all.”

“There is no conjecture about the fact that the landlord lied to us.

There is no surmise in my belief that he thought his trap-door was

securely closed, when he lied the second time, and that the secret of

the trap-door was in possession of the man who escaped. This is proof

enough for me, and I think it is equally convincing to the others. Have

you anything further to urge against the selection of Mr. Armstrong as

our messenger?”

“Oh, very well, Traquair, have it your own way. I dare say he will do as

well as another,” replied Henderson with the air of one making a great

concession.

“Then it’s settled!” proclaimed the Earl with a sigh of relief.

But it was not.

“You will pardon me, Traquair,” began Armstrong, “for you know I would

be glad to forward anything you had a hand in, short of slipping my

neck into a noose; but at that point I draw back. I’ll not set foot on

English soil now, King or no King. Henderson may go and be damned to

him, for the useless, brainless clacker he is. If Cromwell hangs him,

his loss will be Scotland’s gain. Man, Traquair, I wonder at you! The

lot of you remind me of a covey of partridges holding conference in a

fox’s den.”

“I’m not going to defend the covey of partridges, Will; but, after all’s

said and done, the danger’s not so much greater than it was before.”

“Do you think I’m fool enough to set face south when there’s a spy

galloping ahead of me with full particulars of every item in my wallet?

Not me! It was bad enough before, as you say; now it’s impossible. That

is, it is impossible for me, for the flying man knows all about me. No;

the proper thing to do is to meet at your castle, or some other safe

place, and choose a man whose name and description are not in the wind

ahead of him.”

“But I’ve known you to clench with quite as dangerous a task before.”

“It’s not the danger, Traquair, as much as the folly, that holds me

back. I’ve been in many a foolish scramble before now, as you have

hinted; but I learn wisdom with age, and thus differ from our friend

Solomon.”

“Will nothing change your decision?”

“Nothing; nothing in the world; not anything even you can say, my lord.

I advise you to take a lad of Henderson’s choosing. Any trampling ass

may break an egg, but, once broken, the wisest man in the kingdom cannot

place it together again. To-night’s egg is smashed, Traquair.”

“I cannot blame you; I cannot blame you,” said the Earl dejectedly,

drawing a deep sigh. Then, turning to the others, he continued,

“Gentlemen, there’s no more to be said. We must convene again. Would

to-morrow, or the day after, be convenient for you?”

It was agreed that the meeting should take place two days from that

time.

“I warn you,” said the Earl to Henderson, “that I have no other

candidate to propose, and will confine myself to agreeing with whatever

resolution you come to.”

“You are not angry with me, Traquair?” asked Armstrong.

“Not in the least, Will. I appreciate your point of view, and were I in

your place I should have reached exactly the same conclusion.”

“Then I must beg a bed from you to-night. I have no wish to stay in this

place, and if you are bent for home, as I surmise, I’ll just trot my nag

alongside o’ yours.”

“I was this moment going to ask you, for I confess I’ll ride the safer

that your stout arm is near.”

The company left the inn together, and in the middle of the road,

before the house, they found Angus, with a torch, standing guard over

a shapeless bundle huddled at his feet. The bundle was making faint

pleadings to the man-at-arms, to which that warrior was listening with

stolid indifference. The murmurs ceased as the group of men drew near.

Traquair extended a cordial invitation to all or any to spend the night

at the castle, which was the nearest house, but the others did not

accept. Each man got upon his horse, and some went one direction, and

some another.

“Fling your lighted torch into the loft,” said Traquair to Angus, “that

will prevent this woif worrying about his property. When you’ve done

that, throw him across your horse and follow us. Has there been sign of

any one else about?”

“No, ma lord,” replied Angus, promptly obeying the injunction about the

torch. He then tossed the howling human mass in front of his saddle,

sprang into his seat, and went down the road after the two who preceded

him, the flames from the burning bothy already throwing long shadows

ahead.

The Earl of Traquair, chagrined at the temporary defeat of his plans,

inwardly cursing the stupidity of those with whom he was compelled to

act, rode moody and silent, and this reserve the young man at his side

made no attempt to interrupt until they had reached a slight eminence,

where the nobleman reined in his horse and looked back down the valley

at the blazing steading, which now filled the hollow with its radiance.

“We will wait here till Angus overtakes us,” he said. “This bonfire may

collect some of the moths, and it’s better travelling three than two.”

“We’ve not far to go,” said Armstrong, “and that’s a blessing, for I’m

on a long jaunt in the morning, and would be glad of my bed as soon as

may be.”

“Where are you off to?” asked the Earl indifferently, gazing anxiously

down the road for a sight of his follower, who was not yet visible.

Armstrong replied with equal nonchalance, “Oh, I’m just away for Oxford,

to carry a message from Lord Traquair to the King of England.”

“What!” cried his lordship, nearly starting from his saddle in

amazement.

“Surely my talk before these cuddies did not mislead you? I’ll take your

message through and bring you back an answer, if the thing’s possible,

but I cannot have those fools pottering and whispering in the matter.

They must know nothing of my going. You will meet them two days hence,

accept whomsoever they propose, and let him blunder along to a rebel

gallows. It will be one blockhead out of the way, and then wise folk can

do their bit travels unmolested.”

“But how can I send papers with him when they’ll be in your pouch?”

“Indeed, and that they will not be. This night’s work compels one to a

change of programme. I shall carry no papers with me. If you let me read

them I’ll remember every word, though they be as long as the Psalms.

I’ll repeat them to the King with as few slips as any man in the realm.

If you have a password or sign, or if you can tell me some incident that

only you and the King know of, which will assure him that I am from you,

everything else will be plain plodding. It would be folly for me, now

that Cromwell’s spy is on the gallop, to carry a line of writing that

bears relation to politics. I’ll be arrested before I’m a mile beyond

the Border, so my chance of getting through will depend on the search

they make. If they find nothing it is likely they’ll let me go, and I

must manage to get back as best I can. There’s no sense in being hanged

for a spy the first day I set out. I’ll leave that for Henderson’s man.”

“You think, then, if I give the papers to him, they’ll never see

Oxford?”

“They’ll never see Carlisle, let alone Oxford. If I were you I would

give him whatever papers you wish delivered direct to Cromwell. That

will put Henderson and his gang off the scent, and your information may

be of much pleasure and profit to General Noll.”

The Earl laughed heartily, his spirits rising surprisingly at this

intimation of the young man’s resolve.

“Armstrong, you’re a hero. You shall read the papers to-night, and

look over them again in the morning. The important matter is to get the

King’s commission back to us. Ah, here is Angus with his sack, so we’ll

say no more until we reach the castle.”

CHAPTER III.--DETENTION.

The next morning, early, William Armstrong, on Bruce, his black horse,

set out for the Border with the good wishes of his host. His naturally

gay demeanor was subdued, and he muttered to himself with wrinkled brow

as he rode along. This unwonted abstraction was not on account of the

danger which he knew lay ahead of him, but because he was committing to

memory the message to the King. He carried a mass of notes, which he had

written the night before, and these he consulted every now and then,

for his horse required no guidance, and if it had, its rider was so

accustomed to the saddle that he could have directed the animal in his

sleep, for Bruce needed no tug at rein, but merely a whispered word or a

touch from one knee or the other.

The night after he left Traquair’s castle Armstrong slept on Scottish

soil, still busy with his task of memory; then he burnt the notes in the

fire that cooked his supper. It was scarcely daylight when he faced the

clear and rippling Esk, and after crossing the stream to “fell English

ground” he halted his horse on the southern shore and cast a long look

at the hills of his native country, as one who might be taking farewell

of them. Then, with a sigh, he turned to his task and sent no further

glance behind.

A main road lay white and deserted before him, and the country he

travelled, although in general feature similar to that he left, had

nevertheless a subtle difference which always appealed to his inner

sense whenever he crossed the line, but it was an evasive difference,

which he would have found impossible to describe in words. The same

discrepancy marked the language of the northern Englisher, which to a

stranger would have seemed identical with that of his neighbours, but to

Armstrong’s sensitive ear the speech struck alien.

Arriving at a forking of the road, both branches tending south, he

paused and pondered. Which should he take? He knew them equally well.

The main road led to Carlisle, and in time of peace would have been

preferable; the other, less direct, would probably carry him further in

these uncertain times. The country showed no sign of the devastation

of civil war, unless it was the absence of a population, and a deserted

condition of the thoroughfares. That he could avoid contact with the

Parliamentary forces was impossible, whichever road he took, and the

question now demanding solution was not so much his direction as whether

it were well to bring on his inevitable encounter with the Cromwellites

sooner or later. The Carlisle route promised the speedier run into the

arms of the enemy, but by the other route he would have more chance

of bargaining about cattle, and thereby giving colour of truth to his

statement that he was an innocent Scots drover, anxious to turn an

honest penny. When questioned by an officer he could then say he had

endeavoured to deal with so-and-so, and later investigation would prove

the fact. But to an observer he bore the attitude of a stranger who had

lost his way. This was evidently the conclusion arrived at by an object

hidden in the hedge which had proved his night’s lodging. The object

sprang out across the ditch with a suddenness that made the horse start

and snort in alarm, to be soothed by the gentle pat of its rider’s hand,

for the imperturbable Armstrong seemed surprised at nothing that took

place. The object had the wild, unkempt appearance of one who habitually

slept out of doors. His long and matted hair, emaciated face, and ragged

beard, no less than his tattered clothing, or covering rather, made up

of odds and ends of various costumes, formed a combination by no means

attractive. He held in his hand, grasped by the middle, a long stick,

somewhat taller than himself.

“My gay gentleman,” he cried cheerfully, “will you pay the price of a

fool?”

“Who is the fool?” asked Armstrong with a smile. “You or me?”

“There are many of us, and someone is always paying the price. That is

how I get a little money now and then. England is paying the price of

a fool, and has been for some years past; paying heavily too, for all

fools are not as cheap as I am.”

“I asked you who the fool was?”

“Ah, that is a question you may have to answer yourself,” cried the

object, with a cunning leer in his shining eyes. “Beware how you answer

it, for if you give the wrong answer, the price you pay is your head.

‘Who is the fool?’ says you. That is the point, but whoever he is, we

are paying for him with fire and sword and good human lives. Wherever

there’s strife, look for the fool that caused it, but be cautious in

naming him. Which road are you going to take, my gay gentleman?”

“I was just switherin’.”

“Ah, you’re from Scotland. They tell me they grow a fine crop of fools

there. The road on the right leads to Carlisle, and the fool’s name in

that direction is the King. The safest way is the one you came, and the

fool’s name there is like to be Cromwell, so they tell me. Am I to get

the fool’s price for advice?”

“You haven ’t given me any so far.”

“The advice all depends on what you pay for it. Let me see the coin,

then I’ll show you my wares. We differ in this, that I’ll take whatever

you give me, but you can take my advice or not, as you please.”

The horseman threw him a coin, which the object clutched in mid-air with

great expertness and examined eagerly.

“Thank you, gay gentleman. The advice is to turn your fine horse end

for end, and get back among the fools of your own kidney. We are always

safer among our own kind.”

“Are there any cattle for sale hereabout? I see none in the fields.”

“Everything’s for sale in England, crown, cattle, opinions, swords;

oh, it’s a great market for cutlery. But the price is uncertain and

various.”

“Well, it’s cattle, not cutlery, I want to buy.”

“I sometimes sell cattle myself,” said the object, with a cunning look.

“It does not seem a very prosperous business then. Where do you get your

stock?”

“Oh, I pick it up on the roads. You’ll find no cattle on the way to

Carlisle. The country is swept bare in that direction. But I can lead

you to a fine herd if you make it worth my while.”

“In which direction?”

“Down this way. Come along. Are you after any particular breed?”

“No. Anything there’s money in.”

“You’re just like me,” said the vagrant with a laugh, as he strode off

down the unfrequented road. The object walked with incredible speed,

laughing to himself now and then, and Armstrong was forced to trot his

horse to keep up with him. On arriving at a slight eminence the guide

waved his long arm toward a steading in the valley, which looked like

a deserted group of farm buildings, and said,--“There’s a fine lot of

cattle down yonder.”

“I can see no signs of them.”

“No, no! They’re well stabled. Nothing lasts in the fields nowadays.

They’re not such fools as that. This herdsman knows when to keep his

beasts in shelter.” And with this the vagabond raised a shrill shout

that echoed from the opposite hills.

“What are you crying like that for?” asked Armstrong, without showing

any alarm.

“Oh, just to let the farmer know we’re coming. Always give friendly

warning in these parts, and then you may not get something in your

inside that’s hard to digest. That’s a fool’s advice, and costs you

nothing.”

“Your cry meets with no response,” said Armstrong, laughing at the

shallow cunning of his treacherous guide, for his keen eyes noted

crouching figures making way along the other side of a hedge, and he

knew that if he went down the lane, at whose junction with the road the

beggar stood with repressed eagerness, he would find himself surrounded.

Nevertheless he followed without betraying any knowledge of the trap he

was entering.

As they neared the farmhouse a voice cried sharply, “Halt!” and an armed

man sprang up from behind the hedge, cutting off retreat, if such had

been attempted. While the others made through the hedge to the lane, the

tattered man as nimbly put the hedge between himself and his victim, as

if fearing a reprisal, laughing boisterously but rather nervously.

“Brave Captain, I’ve brought you a fine horse and a gay gentleman, and

the two are for sale.”

The man who had cried “Halt!” stepped forth from the shelter of the

nearest outbuilding, a drawn sword in his hand, followed by two others

with primed matchlocks, stolidly ready for any emergency. Four others

closed up the rear coming down the lane. There was no mistaking the fact

that the man with the drawn sword was an officer, even if the object

had not addressed him as Captain, a salutation to which he paid no

attention; for although his uniform showed little difference from that

of his men, he had in his stern face the look of one accustomed

to obedience. The horseman had drawn up at the word, and sat quite

nonchalantly on his steed, as if this were an affair of no particular

concern to himself.

“Who are you?” asked the captain.

“My name is William Armstrong,” replied the rider simply. In spite of

himself, the stolid face of the leader showed some surprise at this

announcement, as if he knew the name and had not expected to hear it so

frankly acknowledged.

“Where are you from?”

“I came across the Border this morning. I am a Scotsman.”

“Why are you here?”

“I am a cattle-dealer, and as there is little doing in my own country

I thought I would just see if business was better on this side of the

line. This amusing lunatic said there was cattle for sale in the valley,

and led me hither, for which service I paid him a trifle.”

“And so there is, and so there is,” cried the lunatic; “but the price

was for my advice, not for the leading hither. I must get my pay for

that yet. Aye, there’s cattle for sale here, and I’m the marketman.”

“Peace to your folly,” said the captain, scowling. Then curtly to the

horseman, “Dismount.”

Armstrong sprang to the ground.

“Your sword,” demanded the officer.

The weapon was handed to him.

“Do cattle-dealers in your country carry arms?”

“To tell you the truth,” said the young man with a laugh, “if they did

not they would carry little money home with them. I not only carry arms,

but know how to use them on occasion.”

“I ask to see your papers giving you permission to travel in England.”

“I have none. Scotland is at peace with England, and a citizen of my

country should not require papers in visiting England, any more than

an Englishman would need the same to go from one end of Scotland to the

other.”

“Humph,” growled the captain, “you are well versed in the law. I hope

you are engaged in no enterprise that is contrary to it.”

“I hope not, Captain. If you are King’s men, you maintain that you are

upholding the law. If you are Parliamentary, you swear the same thing.”

“We swear not at all.”

“Then I surmise you are no King’s men. But in any case, until, one or

other of you have declared war against Scotland, or until Scotland has

declared war against either of you, or both, you meddle with a free

citizen of Scotland at your peril.”

“It is perhaps wisest to indulge in no threats.”

“I am not indulging in any. I am stating a plain, uncontrovertible fact,

that would be held by none so stoutly as by General Cromwell himself.”

“Then keep your dissertations on law until you see the General, which is

like to happen before we are done with you.”

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to have a discourse with

that distinguished man. He is a fighter after my own heart, and I

understand he is equally powerful in controversy.”

“Search him.”

To this order Armstrong not only made no objection, but assisted in its

fulfilment. He took off his doublet and threw it to one of the men who

approached him, then held his arms outstretched that another might, with

greater ease, conduct his examination. A third paid minute attention to

the saddlebags, and a fourth took the saddle itself off the horse. The

search brought to light some papers which the officer scanned, gaining

thereby much information regarding the price of stots, stirks, and such

like, but what these articles actually were, the peruser of the paper

had not the slightest idea.

“What is a stot; a weapon?” asked the captain suspiciously.

“In a way it is a weapon, or at least an engine of attack,” replied

William genially. “A stot is a young bull.”

“Be sober in your answers, sir. This business is serious.”

“I see it is. There never was much humour south of the Tweed, and you

folk seem to have broad-sworded away what little you had of it.”

“What is a stirk? I ask you to be careful of your answers, for they are

being recorded.”

“I am delighted to act as schoolmaster. A stirk is a steer or heifer

between one and two years old. If my answer is not taken as an

imputation on any of the solemn company here, I may add that a calf

grows into a stirk.”

The captain glowered angrily at the unabashed prisoner, as one in doubt

whether he was experiencing a display of brazen impudence or extreme

simplicity. He asked no more questions concerning the papers found, but

gave them to a subordinate and directed them to be tied together. He now

took from his belt a folded sheet, opened it, and read its contents

with care, glancing now and then at the man before him. Apparently the

comparison was to his satisfaction, and he restored the document to its

place with a grunt of approval.

“Is Bates ready? Tell him to come here,” he said to the subordinate, who

instantly disappeared, emerging from among the outhouses shortly with

a young man on a fine horse, evidently a racer before that sport was

abolished. The animal was impatient to be off, but the young fellow on

his back curbed its eagerness with a master hand, as one born to

the saddle. The captain had employed the interval in writing a brief

despatch, which he now handed to the young horseman.

“Ride hard and give that to General Cromwell as soon as you can. In case

you should lose it, tell him we have got our man, who crossed the Border

this morning. Say we are bringing him to Corbiton Manor, as directed,

and expect to reach there before dusk.”

The youth, without reply or salute, pocketed the paper, shook out the

reins, and was off like the wind, Armstrong watching the pair with a

glow of admiration in his eyes. Although unused to the life of a camp,

he was much struck by the absence of any attempt at secrecy in the

proceedings. There was no effort to bewilder the prisoner or make a

mystery of the affair. That his advent had been expected was perfectly

clear, and that a written description of his person had been distributed

along the Border was equally evident. They had been watching for him,

and now they had him. There was no military fuss about the matter,

and apparently very little discipline, yet instant and unquestioned

obedience without accompaniment of formal deference to authority or

manifestations of salute to superiors. But underneath it all was a hint

of power and efficiency. Armstrong realized that he was in the clutch of

an admirably constructed human machine that knew what it wanted and went

straight for it. No one had spoken except the captain, yet every man was

on the alert to do what was required of him instantly, capably, and in

silence.

At a word from the captain a bugle-call rang out, and its effect was

soon apparent. An accoutred horse was led to the captain, who sprang

into his place with the ease of one accustomed to the feat, and from the

buildings appeared something like a score of mounted troopers.

“Get into your saddle,” commanded the captain, addressing Armstrong.

The latter tested the buckling, which a soldier had just finished, drew

up the strap a point, then, with his foot in the stirrup, turned and

asked:

“Am I to consider myself a prisoner, sir?”

“Whatever questions you wish to put will be answered presently by one

higher in authority than I.”

“I must protest against this detention, sir.”

“Your protest will doubtless be considered by the officer I referred

to.”

“General Cromwell, I surmise?”

“Or one delegated by him. Mount, we have far to go.”

Armstrong leaped into the saddle, and the troop set off, with the

captain at the head, and himself in the midst of it. There was no chance

of escape, even if he meditated such an attempt, which apparently he

did not. The direction tended south and east, and as the sun was setting

they came to Corbiton Manor, a large country house, which was seemingly

the headquarters of a considerable section of the army encamped in the

neighbourhood. Into a room in this mansion Armstrong was conducted and

left under guard, and he was pleased to see by the spread table that

there was at least no design on the part of his captors to starve him.

CHAPTER IV.--PREPARATION.

The mansion of Corbiton was a large and rambling structure, two stories

in height for the most part, although in some places it rose to three,

as in others it subsided into one. It was built partly of stone, partly

of brick, and partly of timber and plaster, with many gables, and

picturesque windows in the wide extending roof. Each of its owners had

added to it as his needs required or his taste dictated, and now it was

composed of many styles of architecture; but the jumble, as a whole, was

beautiful rather than incongruous, as might have been expected. Time,

moss, and ivy had blended the differing parts into one harmonious mass.

The house faced the south, fronting a broad lawn that had once been

smooth and level as a table, but was now cut up by horse’s hoofs. A

mutilated sun-dial leaned from the perpendicular in the centre. One

gable contained a wide and tall mullioned window, which had formerly

been filled with painted glass, but the soldiers, knowing nothing of

art, and strenuous against idolatry, had smashed many of the pictured

panes, but, finding that glass, whether colored or plain, kept out

wind and rain, they had partially remedied the results of their own

enthusiasm by stuffing the apertures with gaily-colored cloths, remnants

of doublets or silken trousers, until the window was a gaudy display of

brilliant rags, the odds and ends of a cavalier wardrobe; and thus the

gay gable, from being an allegory of the days of chivalry, had become

typical of the ruin that had overtaken the cause of the King.

Sir Richard Corbiton had been one of the first to fall in the Civil

War, dashing with gallant recklessness against the pikes of the yeomen.

Theoretically these coarsely garbed pikemen were the scum of the earth,

cowardly dogs who, when they saw gentlemen bearing down upon them,

should have turned and fled; but actually they stood grim and silent,

and when the charge broke against this human rock, although many a lowly

hut was then masterless, many a mansion was without an owner, Corbiton

among the rest. Sir Richard, dying, paid the price of a fool, and in the

struggle exacted the same tribute from others.

As evening drew on, the thin crescent of a new moon shed a faint

mysterious light over the scene, as if it were a white sickle hung up in

the sky, useless because there was no harvest in England to reap, save

that of death. The dim lustre outlined the mansion, but failed to reveal

the wounds it had received, and the aspect was one of peace, scarcely

troubled by the footfall of a sentinel slouching along the grass in

front, carelessly trailing his pike, with nothing of alert military

manner about him. From one wing of the building came the somnolent drone

of a hymn, but this was counterbalanced by the more intermittent hoarse

chorus of a ribald song, mingled with a rattle of flagons from another

part of the house, for the ale in the cellars was strong, and not all

of the Parliamentary army were Praise-God-Bare-Bones. The torches within

the house struck flamelike color from the remnants of the pictured glass

in the great window, which gave a chromatic touch to an otherwise sombre

scene unrelieved by the pallid half-light of the moon.

The sentinel stopped in his walk and stood for a moment by the battered

sun-dial, listening. Faintly in the still night air came to him across

the fields the beating of horses’ hoofs on the hard road. Striding

athwart the broken lawn to an oaken door, he smote it with the butt of

his pike, crying,--“Peace within there; the General is coming.” There

was an instant hushing of the coarse song, then a laugh, and when some

one in nasal tones raised the slow tune of a hymn the laughter became

more uproarious, subsiding gradually, however, as voice after voice

joined the drone. The sentinel now walked over to the main entrance, and

said to some one within the hall,--“I think the General is coming.”

The watchman now resumed his promenade, but he shouldered his weapon and

marched more like a man on guard. Several officers came out of the hall

and stood listening on the broken sward. From the darkness emerged three

horsemen, two following a leader, a thickset man, who came somewhat

stiffly to the ground, as if fatigued with hard riding. To the one who

sprang to the bridle he said curtly,--“See the horse well rubbed down,

and in half an hour feed him with corn,” Then to his two followers,

“Look to your horses first, and to yourselves afterward. Be ready in an

hour.”

The chief officer now stepped forward and said:

“You will surely stop the night, Excellency? Everything is prepared.”

“No. Did my order to stay the execution of Wentworth reach you in time,

Colonel Porlock?”

“Yes, Excellency. I would not have ventured to execute him without your

sanction, although the death sentence was the unanimous finding of the

court martial.”

“The sentence was just. It may yet be carried out, or it may prove that

the Lord has other use for him. Lead the way within.”

General Cromwell gave no greeting to the different groups as he passed

them, his heavy riding-boots swish-swashing against each other as he

followed Colonel Porlock into the hall. He strode awkwardly, like a man

more accustomed to a horse’s back than a tiled floor. The Colonel led

him into the great dining-room, one end of which was occupied by the

shattered window, while the other was crossed by a gallery, and above

all, very dim in the feeble illumination of two candles and some smoky

torches, could be distinguished the knobs and projections of a timbered

roof.

The vast room was almost completely bare of furniture, with the

exception of a high-backed carved chair, which doubtless belonged to

it, and a stout oaken table taken from some other part of the house,

replacing the long hospitable board that had witnessed many a festive

gathering, but which had been used for firewood by the troopers. The

General gazed about the ample apartment for a moment, as one who had

never seen it before, estimating his bearings with the shrewd eye of a

practised soldier; then he pushed the table until it stood lengthwise

with the room, instead of across, as before; glanced at the gallery and

table, as if making some computation regarding their relative positions,

drew up the chair and seated himself, setting the two candles by the

edge farthest from him.

“Has Captain Bent arrived with his prisoner?”

“Yes, Excellency. He came at sunset.”

“Is he sure of his man?”

“He appears to be so, sir.”

“Were any papers found on him?”

“Yes, Excellency.”

“The other prisoner, Wentworth, is little more than a youth, I am told?”

“He is very young, Excellency.”

“How came he to be set on an important outward post that night?”

“There was no danger of attack, and I placed him there of deliberate

purpose. He was most reluctant to go, making one excuse and then

another, saying he was ill, and what not. For more than a month he has

been under suspicion of communicating with malignants, although we had

no direct proof. He had been seen stealing away from the domain of Lord

Rudby, the chief of the disaffected in the district. On the night in

question he was watched, and as soon as he supposed himself alone he

deserted his post, put spurs to his horse, and rode straight across

country to Rudby Hall.”

“And was arrested there?”

“No, Excellency. An unlooked-for event happened. He rode out from the

grounds of the Hall, fighting his way, as it appeared, against a band of

Rudby’s followers, who were attacking him, and ran into the arms of our

men, who were watching for him. The attacking party, seeing, as they

supposed, an unknown force of rescuers, turned and fled. The night was

very dark, and the account of what took place is confused, but Wentworth

was carried back to Corbiton, tried, and condemned for deserting while

on duty and holding commerce with the enemy.”

“Umph! What version did Wentworth give of the affair?”

“He maintained he was no traitor, but did not give any explanation of

his absence from duty.”

“I thought Rudby had surrendered all arms and had taken the oath to

remain neutral?”

“His men were armed with staves only, and so Wentworth, better equipped,

held his own against them.”

“What view did the court take of this affray?”

“They thought it merely a feint to cover the retreat of a discovered

traitor. The night, as I said, was dark, and our men, being mounted,

could not move silently. Knowing the house would be searched if

Wentworth was hidden, this plan of seeming enmity against him was

prepared beforehand, in case of discovery.”

“How old a man is Rudby?”

“Nearing fifty.”

“What family has he?”

“His two sons are supposed to be with the King at Oxford. There is one

daughter at Rudby Hall.”

“Humph! Is this the young man who is said to be a son of the late

scoundrel, Strafford?”

“Yes, Excellency.”

“In that very blood is hatred of the people, contumely, and all

arrogance. At heart he must be a Royalist And yet--and yet----where

was he brought up?”

“On the estate of Sir John Warburton, dead these some years back.

Warburton was his grandfather.”

“Where is the Warburton estate?”

“It adjoins the lands of Rudby.”

“A-h! Is the boy’s mother living?”

“No. His only relative is a sister who seems to be the most bitter

King-hater in all the land.”

“Is there not a chance the boy was on his way to see his sister?”

“It was thought not. She has been at liberty to visit him here, and has

done so on various occasions.”

“Has Wentworth ever been in action?”

“Oh yes, Excellency, and he acquitted himself bravely enough.”

“No hanging back; no wavering in the face of the foe?”

“No, Excellency.”

“Humph. Send Captain Bent to me with the papers. When he is gone, I wish

you to bring me a trooper, some silent man who can be depended upon; an

unerring marksman.”

When Captain Bent arrived he handed to the General the papers he had

taken from Armstrong. Cromwell examined them with great minuteness by

the light of the candles, then set them in a bunch on the table without

comment of any kind.

“Did your prisoner resist at all, or make any attempt at escape?”

“No, General.”

“He made no protest then?”

“He said England and Scotland were at peace, that he therefore needed no

passport; that his arrest was illegal, and that you would be the first

to admit as much.”

“Humph. Was he thoroughly searched? Are you sure he had no other papers

than these?”

“Quite sure, General.”

“Very good. Bring the man here. If the door is open, come in with him.

If it is shut, wait until you are called.”

When the Captain left the room the Colonel entered with his trooper,

who bore a matchlock. Cromwell dismissed Porlock, then said to the

trooper,--“You will take your place in that gallery and remain there,

making no sound. Keep your ears shut, and your eyes open. A man will be

standing before me. If I raise my hand thus, you will shoot him dead.

See that you make no mistake, and I warn you to shoot straight. Go.”

The trooper, without a word, mounted to the gallery, and the General,

rising, went round the table, standing on the other side. “Can you see

plainly?” he cried to the man aloft.

“It would be better if both candles were at this end of the table, sir.”

Cromwell moved the farther candle to a place beside its fellow, then

stood again on the spot his prisoner would occupy. “That is well, sir,”

said the man in the gallery. The General walked to the end of the room,

threw open the door, and returned to his seat in the tall chair with the

carved back.

CHAPTER V.--EXAMINATION.

When Captain Bent entered the galleried room with his prisoner, he

found Cromwell seated at the table, his head bowed over some pages of

manuscript on which he was busily writing. The General did not look up

for a full minute, until he had finished the sentence he was inditing,

then he raised his head and said quietly to the captain: “Go.”

For one brief and lamentable instant the discipline which held the

captain in its bonds relaxed, and he replied in surprise,--“And leave

him unguarded, sir?”

Cromwell said nothing, but a look of such devilish ferocity came into

his piercing grey eyes that the captain staggered as if he had received

a blow, gasped, turned, and fled. When the Commander spoke to Armstrong

there was no trace of resentment or anger in his tones.

“Will you oblige me by closing that door which Captain Bent has stupidly

left open? You are nearer it than I.”

Armstrong with a bow did what he was requested to do, and returned to

his place beside the table.

“I fear I must begin with an apology, a form of speech to which I am

unaccustomed. You have been stopped quite without just cause, and

I trust you have met with no inconvenience or harsh treatment in

consequence?”

“With neither, General Cromwell, if I am not at fault in so addressing

you. I jalous there are not two such men as you in the army of the

Parliament.”

Cromwell paid no heed to the compliment, if such was intended, but

although his voice was suave his keen eye searched the prisoner like an

east wind.

“The stoppage may indeed save you further annoyance if you intend to

travel about the country, for I will give you a pass likely to prevent

such a mistake in future. You are in the cattle-trade, I am told?”

“Yes, General.”

“’T is an honest occupation, and I am pleased to believe my army has

ever been an upholder of it, paying for what it requires in sound

money, even when the wages of the soldier were scant and in arrear. The

requisitions and confiscations which have followed like a plague the

track of the King’s forces, devastating the country like the locusts

of Scripture, are no accompaniment to the troopers of the Lord. It is

perhaps your intention to deal with us rather than with the King’s army,

should you venture so far south?”

“Indeed I know little of English politics, and the man with money in his

pouch, and a purchasing brain in his head, is the chap I’m looking for,

be he Royalist or Parliamentarian.”

“It is a commendable traffic with which I have no desire to interfere.

You know of no reason, then, for your arrestment by my stupid captain,

Ephraim Bent?”

“Truth to tell, your Honour, and I know a very good reason for it.”

“Humph. And what is that?”

The General’s brows contracted slightly, and the intensity of his gaze

became veiled, as if a film like that of an eagle’s eye temporarily

obscured it.

“Some nights since, as I was making for the English line, I stopped for

refreshment at an inn where I had been accustomed to halt in my travels.

To my amazement I was refused admittance by a man who stood on guard. We

had a bit of a debate, which ended in my overpowering him and forcing

an entrance; and which was more surprised, the dozen there gathered

together, or me with their sentry under my oxter, it would be difficult

to tell. Swords were drawn, and I might have come badly out of the

encounter had it not been that a friend of mine among the assemblage

recognized me.”

A look of perplexity had overspread the grim face of the General as this

apparently simple tale went on. He leaned his elbow on the table, and

shaded his face with his open hand from the light of the two candles,

thumb under chin, and forefinger along his temple. At this point in the

discourse he interrupted: “I suppose you wish to mention no names?”

“I see no objection,” continued Armstrong innocently. “I take it that

the men were quite within their right in gathering there, although

I contended they exceeded their right in trying to keep me out of a

public-house. My friend was the Earl of Traquair. The others I did not

know, and I was not introduced, but in the course of the talk I gathered

that the one who had the most to say was Henderson, a minister of

Edinburgh, who spoke much, as was to be expected from his trade. Well,

these gentlemen, finding I was for England, asked me to carry a message

to the King, but I explained that I had no wish to interfere in matters

which did not concern me, and they parted to meet again somewhere else.”

“Do you know where?”

“I think in Lord Traquair’s own castle, but of that I am not sure.”

“This is interesting. We shall, of course, try to prevent any messenger

reaching the King; but I do not understand why you connect the incident

at the inn with your detention.”

“There was a great splore about a spy that escaped, and I have no doubt,

if he saw me there, and heard the proposal made to me, he might well

have brought my name and description across the Border. At least that

was the way I reasoned it out with myself.”

“It is very like you are right. Spies, unfortunately, seem to be

necessary when a country is in a state of war. Many unjustifiable acts

are then committed, including the arresting of innocent men; but I am

anxious nothing shall be done that will give just cause of offence to

Scotland; a God-fearing country, and a friendly. When such injustice

happens, as it has happened in your case, I try to make amend. How far

south do you propose to travel?”

“I may go the length of Manchester or Birmingham. The distance and the

time will depend on the state of trade.”

“If you will tell me places you intend to visit, I will include them in

the pass I shall now write for you.”

“That I cannot say just at the moment. I wish to follow trade wherever

it leads me.”

“Then an inclusive pass, extending as far south as Manchester, will meet

your needs?”

“It will more than meet them, General,” said Armstrong with supreme

indifference.

The Commander took up his pen, but paused, and, still shading his face,

scrutinized the man before him.

“As I am unlikely to see you again, perhaps it would be as well not to

limit it to Manchester. You may wish to travel farther south when you

reach that town?”

“It is barely possible.”

“As you carry no message from Traquair to the King, I can write Oxford

on your permit as easily as Manchester.”

“Thank you, General; but Manchester will be far enough.”

“I may say that we are strict about those whom we allow to journey to

and fro at the present time, and if you should overstep the limit of

this document, you are liable to investigation and delay, and I may not

be so near at hand on the next occasion.”

“I quite understand, and if I wished to go farther south I would have

no hesitation in begging permission of your Excellency; but I doubt if I

shall even see Manchester.”

“You will not be leaving Corbiton until the morning, of course?”

“No, General. I know when I am well housed.”

“Then, as I have much to do, I will make out your paper later, and it

will be handed to you in the morning.”

“Thank you, General.”

With this the Commander rose, and himself accompanied Armstrong to the

door in most friendly manner. The young man, in spite of his distrust,

was very favourably impressed, for there had been nothing, in Cromwell’s

conversation, of that cant with which he was popularly accredited.

The Scot had expected to find an English Alexander Henderson; a

disputatious, gruff, tyrannical leader, committing acts of oppression or

cruelty, and continually appealing to his Maker for justification. But

Cromwell’s attitude throughout had been that of the honest soldier, with

little to suggest the fervent exhorter.

After giving some laconic instructions touching the welfare of the

Northerner to Captain Bent, who was hovering uneasily in the outside

hall, Cromwell, bidding his enforced guest a cordial farewell, ordered

Wentworth to be brought to him, and retired once more into the dim

council-chamber.

With hands clasped behind him, and head bent, he strode slowly up and

down the long room in deep meditation, vanishing into the gloom at

the farther end, and reappearing in the limited circle of light that

surrounded the two candles, for the torches had long since smoked

themselves out, and there had been no replacement of them; none daring

to enter that room unsummoned while the leader was within it. The

watcher in the gallery felt rather than saw that there was an ominous

frown on the lowered face as the Commander waited for the second

prisoner, over whom hung sentence of death.

This time a clanking of chains announced the new arrival, who was

preceded by Colonel Porlock and accompanied by two soldiers, one on

either side of him. The young fellow, who shuffled up to the table

dragging his irons, cast an anxious look at the forbidding face of the

man who was to be his final judge; in whose word lay life or death for

him, and he found there little to comfort him. Cromwell seated himself

once more and said gruffly: “Take off those fetters.”

When the command was complied with, the General dismissed the trio and

sat for some moments in silence, reading the frank open face of his

opposite.

“You are to be shot at daybreak to-morrow,” he began in harsh tones that

echoed dismally from the raftered ceiling. This statement contained no

information for the youth, but the raven’s croak sent a shiver through

his frame, and somehow the tidings brought a terror that had been absent

before, even when sentence of death was pronounced with such solemnity

by the court. There was a careless inflection in the words which showed

that the speaker cared not one pin whether the human being standing

before him lived or died. Allowing time to produce the impression he

desired, Cromwell continued in the same strain of voice:

“I have examined the evidence, and I find your condemnation just.”

The boy remembered that his father had met death bravely, asking no

mercy and receiving none, and the thought nerved him. If this man had

merely brought him here to make death more bitter by taunting him, it

was an unworthy action; so, moistening his lips twice before they would

obey his will, he spoke up.

“I have never questioned the verdict, General, nor did I make appeal.”

The shaggy brows came down over Cromwell’s eyes, but his face cleared

perceptibly.

“You own the penalty right?”

“Sir, it is partly right and partly wrong, like most things in this

world. It is right to punish me for deserting my post; it is wrong to

brand me a traitor.”

“Ah, you have found your voice at last, and there is some courage behind

it. Desertion is an unpardonable crime. The point I press upon you is

this; your life is forfeit, yet, although your fault is unpardonable, I

do not say it cannot be compensated for. Even my enemies admit I am an

honest trader. I will bargain with you for your life. You shall buy

it of me, and I shall pay the price, even though I do not forgive the

crime. We will first, if you please, clear up the charge of treachery.

You were visiting your own home that night, and as it is on the farther

side of Rudby Hall, your accusers naturally thought you had a rendezvous

there?”

“No, General; it was my intention to have visited Rudby Hall.”

“The residence of that foul malignant, Lord Rudby, so called?”

“Yes, but not to see his lordship, who is my enemy, personal as well as

political.”

The scowl vanished from the face of his questioner, and something almost

resembling a laugh came from his firm lips.

“You are truthful, and it pleases me. Why did you make a foolish mystery

of your excursions? I take the case to stand thus. Your grandfather and

Rudby were neighbors, and possibly friends. You were, and are, in

love with my lord’s daughter, but since you belong to the cause of the

people, this oppressor of the people will have naught of you. You have

risked your life to see the girl, who is doubtless as silly as the rest

of her class, as you will discover if I let you live. Stands the case

not thus?”

“In a measure, sir, it does, saving any reflection on the lady, who----”

“Surely, surely. I know what you would say, for I was once your age and

as soaked in folly. The question is, if you will risk your life for her,

will you do what I ask of you to earn the girl and your life, or will

you refuse, and let her go to another?”

“Sir, I will do anything for her.”

“Then harken well. There was here before me, where you now stand,

some moments since, the most plausible liar in the kingdom. He told me

truths, which on the surface appeared to be treachery to his friend,

but which he was well aware I already knew. This was to baffle me into

believing him. He rides to Oxford to see the King, and in that I am

willing to aid him. He may tell the King what pleases him, and those who

send him,--little good will it do any of them. In return the King is

to give him a commission, to be handed to certain lords in Scotland. If

that commission crosses the Border, we are like to have a blaze to the

north of us which I do not wish to see kindled until a year from now;

then, by God-----then, by God’s will I shall be ready for them. We

shall defeat the Scots in any case, but if this commission reaches these

malcontents we cannot have the pleasure--humph!--we shall be precluded

from the duty of beheading the ringleaders without bringing on ourselves

the contumely of Europe. Without the King’s commission they are but

broilers--marauders. With this commission they will set up the claim

that they are belligerents. Do you understand the position?”

“Perfectly, General.”

“The commission must be intercepted at all costs. It will be your task

to frustrate the intentions of the King and his Scottish nobles. But the

task is more complicated than yet appears. It would be an easy matter

to run this messenger through the body, and there an end. I want what

he carries, but I do not wish to harm the carrier. These Scots are a

clannish, troublesome, determined race. If you prick one with a sword’s

point, the whole nation howls. This, then, must be done quietly, so that

we bring no swarm about our ears. William Armstrong is the messenger’s

name, and he has powerful supporters in his own country. He was stopped

as soon as he crossed the Border yesterday, and brought here. He

pretends to be an innocent trader in cattle, and will likely keep up

that pretence. I have appeared to believe all he says, and he leaves

this house to-morrow morning with a pass from my hand, giving him

permission to travel as far south as Manchester, which was all he asked.

I would willingly have given him safe conduct to Oxford, but he was too

crafty to accept such a thing. He thinks he can make his way south from

Manchester. As a matter of fact, he cannot, but I wish to make the way

easy for him. Of course I could give a general order that he was not to

be molested, but there are reasons against this, as we have doubtless

spies in our own ranks, and a general order would excite suspicion, and

would probably prove useless, because this man, south of his permit’s

territory, will endeavour to go surreptitiously to Oxford, and by

unfrequented routes. It will be your duty to become acquainted with

Armstrong and win his confidence. You will accompany him to Oxford and

return with him. You will be protected by a pass so broad that it will

cover any disguise either of you may care to assume. It is such a pass

as I have never issued before, and am not like to issue again, so I need

not warn you to guard it carefully and use it only when necessary. It

reads thus:”

Here the speaker took up a sheet of paper on which he had been writing,

and, holding it so that the light from the candles fell upon it, read

aloud:

“‘Pass the bearer and one other without question or interference from

Carlisle to Oxford and return.’

“The journey south will give you the opportunity to become acquainted

with your man. On the northward march you must become possessed of what

he carries, and when you bring it to me you receive in its stead pardon

and promotion. If you do not succeed before you reach Carlisle, then I

must crush him; possibly kill him as a spy. Will you undertake it?”

“’T is an ungracious office you would bestow upon me, sir. I had

rather meet him in fair fight and slay him, or have him slay me, as God

willed.”

“There speaks youth,” cried Cromwell impatiently. “This man is a

treacherous, lying spy, whose life, by all the rules of war, is already

forfeit. I propose to discomfit him with his own weapons. Nay, more; I

willingly save him from the destruction he merits. You are set to do him

the greatest service one man can offer another. If you fail, he dies. If

you succeed, he has probably a long life before him. God knows I yearn

to cut no man’s thread where it can be avoided, but the true interests

of England stand paramount. Would you condemn thousands of innocent men

to agony and the horrors of prolonged war, to save the feelings of a

Border ruffian who intervenes in a quarrel that should not concern him?”

“Sir, you are in the right, and your argument is incontestable. I accept

your command willingly.”

A gleam of pleasure lit the rugged face of the General, for he was

flattered to believe his prowess in controversy was no less potent than

his genius in war. His voice softened perceptibly as he continued: “We

are enjoined by the Word to unite the wisdom of the serpent with the

harmlessness of the dove. Your mission combines the two attributes,

wisdom and harmlessness, for you are to beguile deceit, and yet suffer

the deceiver to pass on his way scathless. You save your country, and at

the same time save your country’s enemy, forgiving them that persecute

you. What excuse will you give to Armstrong for your desire to visit

Oxford?”

“My friend, the son of Lord Rudby, is there. Although we are on opposite

sides, he has none of the bitterness against me shown by his father. I

will say I wish to confer with him.”

“That will serve. Now this pass is for two, and you can offer to

Armstrong safe conduct under your guidance, giving what plea you choose

for the absence of the man who was to accompany you, and who, it may be,

was supposed to have procured this pass from me. Whatever difficulties

arise on the journey must be met as they advance, and in so meeting them

will come into play whatever gifts of ingenuity you may possess. If you

show yourself worthy and diplomatic, there is scarcely limit to what you

may attain in the councils of your country. The need of the future is

capable men; men earnest in welldoing, energetic in action, prompt in

decision, unwavering in execution. In the hope of finding you one such,

I snatch you from the scaffold. The King cravenly bent your father’s

neck to the block, although he had shown himself to be the one strong

man in his council; I arrest the order to fire at your breast, though

you are yet unproven. See that you do not disappoint me.”

Cromwell folded the pass and handed it to young Wentworth. “Go. This

paper is your safeguard. I shall give the order that you are to be well

mounted and provided with money. Send Captain Bent to me as you pass

out.”

Once more alone, Cromwell wrote the pass for Armstrong, giving him

permission to travel between Carlisle and Manchester. When he had

finished writing, Captain Bent was standing beside the table, and to him

he delivered the paper.

“You will give that to your late prisoner,” he said. “He is to

depart to-morrow morning, not before eight o’clock, and is to travel

unmolested. You have accomplished your duties well, Captain, and your

services shall not be forgotten.”

The silent but gratified captain left the room with straighter shoulders

than had marked his previous exit. His chief looked up at the dark

gallery and called out, “Come down and report yourself to the officer of

the night.”

For nearly ten minutes Cromwell sat at the table in silence, save for

the busy scratching of his pen. Then he rose wearily, with a deep sigh,

his marked face seemingly years older than when he had entered the room.

Once outside, he gave Colonel Porlock the papers he had written, and

said: “The finding of the court martial is approved, but the sentence is

suspended. It is possible that Wentworth may render such service to the

State as will annul the sentence against him. You will give him every

assistance he requires of you, and the amount of money set down in this

order. Bring out my horse.”

“You will surely partake of some refreshment, General, before you----”

“No. My horse; my horse.”

When the animal was brought to the lawn, the General mounted with some

difficulty, more like an old man than a leader of cavalry. The two

silent horsemen behind him, he disappeared once more into the night, as

he had come.

CHAPTER VI.--INVALIDATION.

Nine o’clock of a summer’s morning in rural England is an hour of

delight if the weather be fine. The birds sing whether there be war or

peace in the land; the trees and hedgerows and the flowers make a path

to fairy-land of the narrow lanes; but the man who trusts to these

winding thoroughfares, unless he know the country well, is like to find

himself in an enchanted maze, and Armstrong, stopping his horse at an

intersection, standing in his stirrups the better to view the landscape,

wrinkled his brow in perplexity and felt inclined to change his tune to

the wail of his countryman lost in the crypt of Glasgow Cathedral, and

sing,

“I doot, I doot, I’ll ne’er win out.”

The sound of galloping hoof-beats to the rear caused him to sink into

his saddle once more and wait patiently until he was overtaken. As his

outlook had shown him the woods surrounding the mansion he had left an

hour before in an entirely unexpected direction, and at a distance not

at all proportionate to the time he had spent on horseback, the

thought occurred to him that his late detainers had changed their minds

regarding his liberation and were pursuing him, but he was fortified by

the knowledge that he possessed a permit written by Cromwell’s own hand,

which no one in that part of England would dare to disregard. If the

oncomer should prove a private marauder, of which the country doubtless

had many, the horseman reposed a calm confidence in his own blade that

gave sufficient repose to his manner. He turned his horse across the

lane, completely barring the way, and with knuckles resting on his

hip awaited whatever might ensue. Premising a friendly traveller with

knowledge of the district, he was sure of a clew out of the labyrinth.

The hastening rider came round a corner, curbing his animal down to a

walk on seeing the path blocked. The two horses neighed a greeting to

each other. Armstrong was pleased to note that the stranger was a

youth with a face as frank and beaming as the day; a face to which his

friendly heart went out at once with sympathy, for it seemed glorified

by the morning light, as if he were a lover sure of a warm greeting from

his lass, which was indeed the hope that animated the boy. The hope had

displaced a chilling dread, and the transformation made this daybreak

very different from the one he had expected to face. He was riding out

from under the shadow of death into the brightness of renewed life and

promise.

Arriving as near the impeding horseman as he seemed to think safe, he

came to a stand, and with a salutation of the hand made inquiry:

“Do you stop me, sir?”

This question carried neither challenge nor imputation, for, the times

being troubled, no man could be certain that he met a friend on the

highway until some declaration was forthcoming.

“Only so far as to beg of you some solution of the enigma of these

roads. I am desirous of travelling southward, and seek a main highway,

which I am grievously puzzled to find.”

The other laughed cheerily.

“You could not have chanced on a better guide, for I was brought up some

miles from this spot, although at the moment I am myself on a southern

journey. We turn here to the right, but we have far to go before we

reach the highway.”

“The more lucky am I, then, that you have overtaken me. ’T would need

a wizard to unravel this tangled skein of green passages.”

“Indeed,” cried the youth with a lightsome laugh, “I’ve often lost

myself in their entanglements, and, what is more lasting, I lost my

heart as well.”

“There is one thing you have not lost, and that is time. You are just

young enough for such nonsense as the latter losing. I am older than

you, and have lost my way before now, as you may well bear witness, but

I have kept my head clear and my heart whole.”

“’Tis nothing to boast,” said the boy, with an air of experience. “It

simply means that you have not yet met the right woman. When you meet

her you will be in as great a daze as that in which I found you at the

cross-roads. You will think it strange that I make a confidant in so

personal a matter of a total stranger, but, truth to tell, if I am to

guide you to the highway, you must bear me company through Rudby Park,

for I hope to get a glimpse of my fair one before I ride farther toward

Oxford.”

“Toward Oxford!” cried Armstrong, instinctively reining up his horse in

his surprise. “Are you, then, making for Oxford?”

“Yes, I have been expecting a friend to come with me, but he is delayed,

I suspect at Carlisle, so I must get on as best I can without him.”

“I travel to Manchester,” said Armstrong, more non-committal than the

other appeared to be.

“Then I shall be happy to bear you company, if it so pleases you, until

we come to the parting of our ways. That is, if you are not in haste and

can wait until I have a word with my lass, in whose direction we are now

tending.”

To this invitation the Scotsman made no reply, and the other began to

fear he had been too forward in his proposal. He rattled on, striving to

cover his error in a flood of talk.

“She is the most winsome little lady in all the country side; the only

daughter of Lord Rudby, who is----”

“Lord Rudby!” echoed Armstrong. “You fly high, my young sir.”

“Why should I not? Although she is the sweetest angel that ever visited

this glad earth, she makes no descent when she joins her hand to mine. I

am Thomas Wentworth, eldest son to the late Earl of Strafford.”

They had been travelling knee to knee in the narrow way, but now

Armstrong pulled up and looked at his companion in amazement.

“Do you mean the Minister to the King of England?”

“Yes. There was no other.”

“Then you are perhaps about to visit Charles at Oxford?”

“Ah, I have already told you more than was wise on so short an

acquaintance,” said Wentworth, trying another tack. “You yourself

gave me a lesson in reticence a moment since, and you have not been

so garrulous concerning yourself as I. I do not even know your name,

although I suspect your native land lies north of us.”

“Sir, I am William Armstrong, and Scotland is my country. As two swords

are better than one, I shall be most glad to travel in your company. I

may say, however, that I hold a pass from Cromwell himself, so, if you

are a King’s man, you may not wish to be my companion.”

“Who journeys in Hades must have the devil’s leave,” answered Wentworth

jauntily. “I am myself abroad through Cromwell’s permission, and

I’ll venture my pass is broader as well as longer than yours. ’Tis

sometimes well to have a friend in the enemy’s camp, and my friend

pretends he can get anything from Old Noll. Read it, if you think I’m

boasting.”

Wentworth handed the document to the Scot, who read and returned it.

“Mine is but a limited permit compared with this. Where do you expect to

encounter your comrade?”

“I fear there is little chance of seeing him until I reach Oxford, if

indeed I find him there. I suspect he is detained at Carlisle.

However, I travel on my own business, and he on his, so it makes little

difference to me, save the lack of companionship. War throws together

strange fellow-travellers, and I do not inquire too minutely into his

affairs, nor he into mine.”

“You go to Oxford alone then?”

“Part of the way with you, I hope. Yes; I’m tired of waiting, and so set

out alone this morning, deviating from the main road and taking these

lanes, the better to approach Rudby Hall without undue publicity.”

“I see,” said Armstrong thoughtfully; then, as he fell into a

meditation, there was silence between them for some time. The theme of

his reflection was the accomplishment of the task which lay before him.

Here seemed a heaven-sent opportunity to win peacefully to Oxford, and

perhaps to return as far north as Carlisle. Once in Carlisle, with Bruce

beneath him, he could defy the whole Parliamentary army to catch him

before he crossed into Scotland. Even at the first, the frank, honest

face of the boy and his cheerful loquacity went far to disarm suspicion;

then the announcement of his name and rank led Armstrong to the

erroneous conclusion that the youth of necessity belonged to the Royal

cause, forgetting that many of the nobles were on the side of the

people, some of them active officers in the Parliamentary army.

Circumstances combined to lull his natural shrewdness and conceal from

him the danger of his position. He thought Cromwell was satisfied that

the wrong man had been arrested, and believed the General had been thus

deluded because no incriminating papers had been found on him. The spy

of the inn must have reported that the messenger to the King would carry

important documents to Oxford. The search had been thorough, but of

course the most minute examination failed to discover what did not

exist. Armstrong’s prompt acknowledgment of his name, his explanation

of the mission proposed to him, his reasons for refusal, must have had

their weight with Cromwell, and if the spy were re-questioned he

would necessarily corroborate most of the details given. Cromwell’s

complaisance in the proffering of an unasked passport appeared to be, in

a way, compensation tendered for injury done, or at least interference,

by his followers. Armstrong remembered that luck had often stood his

friend, and the present encounter looked like another instance of it, so

he resolved to journey with Wentworth as far south as Manchester, there

to be guided by circumstances. Up to that point he need ask for no

favour, for he had his own permit to lean upon. If the lad proved a

true companion, he might then venture to propose that they should keep

together under protection of the pass for two.

“Do you move on to Oxford at once, when you have seen this young lady?”

asked Armstrong, breaking silence at last.

“Yes, and am willing to ride as hard as you like, if you are pressed for

time.”

“Oh, I’m in no hurry. He’s a churl who would not wait while a lover

and his lass whispered, and I shall do aught that I can to forward your

adventure if there is any obstacle.”

“I thank you, but there is like to be no obstacle at this time of the

day. I hope to have the good fortune to find her walking in the garden.

This would simplify my quest.”

“Are you forbidden the house, then?”

“In a measure I am. I have my enemies within the walls, but my good

friends also. If I get a word with one of the latter, difficulties

will dissolve.” Here the youth reined in his horse and sat for a moment

anxiously scanning the landscape. A belt of tall trees bordered the

lane, with thick undergrowth that seemed impenetrable to sight or

movement. Over the tops of the bushes and between the trunks of the

trees Armstrong gathered glimpses of a large mansion in the distance,

extensive groups of chimneys being the most noticeable feature. Nearer

was seen a carpet of green lawn, and beyond, the dappled glitter of the

sunlight on a lake.

“Will you hold my horse?” asked the youth, almost in a whisper. “I must

reconnoitre.”

He sprang off his horse, and Armstrong grasped the rein.

“I hope they will not neigh,” he said, as he disappeared into the

undergrowth. It was evident the youth was well acquainted with his

locality.

Armstrong sat silent, occasionally leaning over to stroke the neck of

the steed he held in tether. He loved all animals, especially horses,

and they reciprocated his affection. Suddenly the silence was shattered

by a cry hoarse with rage.

“I have been watching your approach, perjured scoundrel! You shall not

escape me this time.”

“Sir, sir, I beseech you,” came the entreating tones of Wentworth; “I

cannot bear arms against you. Listen but a moment, sir.”

“Draw, you dog, or die the death of one.”

“Sir, I implore you; I cannot draw with you opposed. Sir, let me say a

word----Oh!”

There was one clash of steel, then a brief cry of pain, and now silence

again, all so quickly accomplished that first word and last were uttered

in the time during which Armstrong leaped from saddle to earth. He

searched hurriedly for the leafy tunnel through which Wentworth had

passed, but before he found it the lad staggered into sight again, his

left hand grasping his breast, his right dragging the sword, his face

pale as chalk.

“He has killed me,” he gasped.

“Nonsense. You would not now be on your feet if the wound were mortal.

Who is your assailant?”

“No matter for that. Help me home.”

“I shall first give the rogue a taste of his own surgery,” cried

Armstrong, drawing his blade.

But the other restrained his ardour, leaning heavily upon him.

“It is her father. Do not leave me; I faint. If--I----if I----I cannot

direct you, take me down the lane; the high road. My home----the house

to the right.”

The victim collapsed in a heap on the sward, reddening the grass with

his blood.

Armstrong was no stranger to the rough art of the leech. He undid the

doublet and flung it open; tore away the waistcoat and shirt, disclosing

an ebbing gash.

“Well pierced,” he muttered. “An inch to the right would have done the

job. The poor chap parried, but not enough; the onslaught was too fierce

and sudden. The old man’s intention was good, but the deflexion marred

the thrust.”

He staunched the wound with the torn shirt, and tied a sash tightly

round the body. Taking a leathern flask from his pouch, he forced some

fluid between the grey lips, and Wentworth, with a long sigh, opened his

eyes.

“It’s nothing to boast of,” said Armstrong carelessly. “I’ve ridden

twenty miles worse mangled. Can you sit your horse if I put you on him?”

“Oh God! oh God!” moaned the youth, near to weeping. “Fool that I was to

risk all for the chance of a word.”

“Tut, there’s no risk. You’ll be right as Edinburgh in three weeks.”

“Three weeks. Oh, my God! Would he had killed me outright!”

“What is troubling you? Anything in which I can help? I see you are

no coward, and it is not alone the wound that hurts. Is it this Oxford

journey?”

The prone invalid made no reply, but, groaning, turned his face to the

turf.

“Harken!” cried Armstrong earnestly. “Although our acquaintance is of

the shortest, I would dearly love to do you a service. I will go to

Oxford for you, and do there whatever you wish done.”

The speaker reddened as he said this, and his conscience reproved him

for thus making use of the other’s infirmity, although he maintained

stoutly to himself that he was honest in his proclamation.

The stricken youth was no less troubled in mind than in body, feeling

himself a treacherous wretch, accidentally well punished; but he, too,

inwardly braced his weakening purpose by the thought that he acted for

the good of his country, an action tending toward the speedy return of

peace.

“Help me to my horse,” he pleaded, ignoring the proffer just made to

him. “I must get home and learn whether this hurt is serious or not.”

“It is far from serious, I tell you, and it means only a month’s

idleness. Lean you on me. There; make no exertion. I will lift you to

your saddle.”

The powerful Scot raised him as if he were a child, and, with a woman’s

tenderness, set him gently on his horse. He got into his own seat so

promptly that his steadying hand was on his comrade’s shoulder before

the swaying body could do more than threaten a fall.

“This way, you say?”

Wentworth nodded wearily, and the two set out slowly for the high road.

Despite their awkward going, the edifice they sought was soon in

sight, situated in a park, to which a winding lane led from the main

thoroughfare. The place seemed deserted, and as they neared it Wentworth

showed a faint anxiety that he might reach his room unobserved.

“My sister must be told, of course, and a doctor brought; but I wish to

avoid a rabble of gossiping servants if I can.”

“I will carry you wherever you direct, and if we meet anyone we must

enjoin silence. Can you indicate the position of a private door through

which we may enter.”

“The most private door is the most public door. The front entrance will

likely be deserted. I would walk, but that we must hurry or be seen.

Take me up the stair and to the second room on your right. That is

always ready for me.”

The Scot took the youth again in his arms and speedily laid him on

his own bed. The jolting, despite the care taken, had shifted the rude

bandaging, and the wound bled afresh. Armstrong, anxious for the safety

of his burden, had not noticed that his own doublet was smeared

with blood. With the better appliances now at hand, he did what was

immediately necessary, and revived the lad’s ebbing strength with a

second draught from the leathern bottle. A sound of singing came to them

as he finished his ministrations.

“That is Frances----my sister,” breathed Wentworth with closed eyes.

“Break it gently to her, and say I am not dangerously hurt. She will

know what to do.”

CHAPTER VII.--DETERMINATION.

Armstrong stepped out into the hall, closing the door softly behind

him. The melody was coming from the broad stairway, and ceased as the

singer seemed to pause on the landing. He remembered that landing as he

came up with his burden. Its whole length was lit by a row of mullioned

windows, and one of these, being open, gave a view upon the green lawn

in front of the house. He stood hesitating, undecided whether to advance

as far as the head of the stair or await the coming of the girl where he

was. Then he heard her voice evidently calling through the open window:

“John, there are two saddled horses under the trees. See who has come.”

Armstrong strode forward to the stairhead.

“Your pardon, madam,” he said. “One of the horses is mine; the other

belongs to your brother. May I ask the man to look after them?”

The girl turned quickly, her dark eyes wide with alarm. Into the mind

of the intruder, looking down upon her from his elevation, flashed the

words of her brother,--“It simply means you have not yet met the right

woman. When you meet her, you will be in as great a daze as that in

which I found you at the cross-roads.”

“She is magnificent,” he said to himself. With her mass of black hair

falling in wavy cascade over her shoulders, her midnight eyes appealing

and dashed with a fear that swept the colour from her cheeks, she looked

a pallid goddess standing against the pictured panes.

“My brother!” she cried at last. “What of him?” Then, noticing the

blood on Armstrong’s coat, she gave utterance to a startled exclamation,

moving a step forward and checking herself. “Is he wounded? Has there

been a battle? Where is he?”

“He is wounded, but not seriously. I brought him to his own room.”

Without another word she sprang up the stair, past her interlocutor, and

flew along the hall, disappearing into the invalid’s chamber. Armstrong

thought it best not to intrude at the moment of their meeting, so passed

on down the stair and out to the horses, where he found an old servitor

standing guard over them, apparently at a loss what to do or how to

account for their presence.

“Are you John?” asked the Scot.

“Yes, zur.”

“Who is the doctor that attends on this family when any of them are

ill?”

“’E be Doctor Marsden, zur, down t’ th’ village.”

“How far away is the village?”

“‘Bout dhree mile, zur.”

“Very good. Get on that horse, which belongs to your master, ride to the

village, and bring Doctor Marsden here as quickly as you can.”

“Be Marster Tom ill, zur?”

“Yes, he is; but mind you say nothing to any one about it. Away with

you.”

Armstrong led his own horse to a stall in the stables, took off saddle

and bridle, then went to the well and removed the stains from his

clothing as well as water would do it. Going toward the house he met the

girl.

“My brother says you tell him the wound is not dangerous. Is that true?”

she asked.

“Quite true. I’ve had a dozen worse myself,” he replied, with

encouraging exaggeration. “But he will have to lie still for a month or

more under your care.”

“He says that is impossible, but I told him he shall do as the doctor

orders, duty or no duty. I am going to send for Doctor Marsden, so pray

pardon me.”

“I have already sent for Doctor Marsden. I took that liberty, for it is

better in such a case to lose no time.”

“Oh, thank you!”

The girl turned and walked to the house with him. He found the patient

restless and irritable. The wan whiteness of his face had given place

to rising fever. His eyes were unnaturally bright, and they followed

Armstrong with a haunted look in them. His visitor said nothing, but

wished the doctor would make haste.

When Doctor Marsden arrived he went about his work in businesslike

fashion. A physician of that day had ample experience with either

gunshot or sword wounds, each being plentiful enough to arouse little

curiosity respecting their origin. He brusquely turned Armstrong and

the sister out of the room, after having requisitioned what materials he

needed, and the two stood together in anxious and somewhat embarrassed

silence on the landing, within call if either were needed. The girl was

the first to speak.

“I fear my brother’s case is more dangerous than you would have me

suppose,” she said in tremulous voice.

“Not from the wound,” he answered.

“From what, then?” she asked in surprise.

“I do not know. He has something on his mind. I saw that from the moment

he was hurt. He is very brave, and this accident of itself would make

little impression on him. My acquaintance with him is but a few hours

old, yet I know he is a fearless youth. Are you aware of a mission that

takes him to Oxford?”

“I have not the least knowledge of it. I heard no hint of his going, and

he said nothing of his journey when we spoke together.”

“He told me he had expected a comrade who had failed him. Cromwell

himself gave him a pass for two. He said he was to see the brother of

his sweetheart, who is with the King in Oxford.”

“That is very likely. The two were great friends always, even when they

took opposite sides in this deplorable contest which is rending our

distracted country.”

“There must be more than friendship in this journey, otherwise Cromwell

would not have given him such a pass as he holds. Then for an unknown,

un-vouched-for man to enter Oxford at this moment is highly perilous,

an action not to be undertaken lightly. If he go in disguise, and such a

pass be found on him, not all Cromwell’s army could save him. It may

be he is commissioned to treat for peace, but that is unlikely. Such

proposals should come from the defeated force. Depend upon it, something

important hangs on this Oxford excursion, and if anything can be done

to relieve his mind regarding it, this will do more toward his speedy

recovery than all the leech’s phlebotomy. If I can render service to him

in Oxford, I shall be glad to undertake his commission.”

“Do you, then, go to Oxford?” asked the girl innocently, turning her

disquiet and disquieting eyes full upon him.

“I----I had no such intention when I set out,” stammered Armstrong,

abashed that for once his natural caution had forsaken him. “It matters

little how far south I go, and I am willing to do an errand for a

friend. I took him for a Royalist at first, and so saw no danger in

his purpose, but if he be a Parliamentarian, then Oxford is a place to

avoid.”

“Did he not tell you he was a Parliamentarian?” questioned the girl, now

alarmed in her turn.

“No. You told me so.”

“I? You must be mistaken, sir; I gave you no information about my

brother.”

“You said his friend in the King’s forces had not thought the less of

him because he took the other side.”

“I am distraught with anxiety about him, and gave but little heed to my

words. I would have you remember only what my brother himself told you.”

“You need have no fear, madam. Anything said by either of you will never

be used to your hurt. I am a Scot, and have nothing to do with English

strife.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the opening of the door and the

reappearance of the doctor. The girl could not conceal her trepidation,

for the nontechnical stranger’s assurances had slight weight with her.

“Thomas is doing very well; very well indeed,” said the old man. “You

have no cause for alarm, not the slightest, if he can but be kept quiet

for some days, and rest where he is for a few weeks. You attended to

him, sir, and I take it that you possess a smattering of our art.”

“I have need of that knowledge, Doctor,” replied Armstrong, “for

those who have done me the honour to run me through rarely had the

consideration to make their attack within easy call of a surgeon.”

“Royal; or Parliament, sir? One likes to know before opening one’s

mouth.”

“Neither, Doctor, I’m a Scotsman.”

“Ah, that accounts for it.” Then, turning to the girl, he said, “Your

brother wishes to speak with you, and I have reluctantly given my

consent. You will stay with him as short a time as may be, and I will be

here to see that you do not overstep a reasonable limit. One word more.

Do not argue with him, or dispute anything he says, no matter how absurd

it may seem. Agree to any proposal he makes, even if you know it cannot

be carried out. He is evidently disturbed about his duty. Soothe him,

soothe him and concur. There is little use in telling a lad in his

condition that duty must wait till wounds are healed, but he will

recognize that fact when he is well again. Meanwhile humour him, humour

him. Away, and I’ll count the minutes till you are out again. I will

find John and send him for a competent nurse.”

Frances opened the door gently and met her brother’s hungry eyes. She

sat down beside him, taking his fevered hand between her cool palms.

“Oh, I’m a doomed man; a doomed man!” he groaned.

“Nonsense, Tom; the doctor quite agrees with the stranger that your

wound is not dangerous.”

“I was not thinking of the wound; that does not matter.”

“What does, then, dear?”

“Sister, this morning at daylight I was to have been taken out and

shot.” The girl’s hands tightened on his. “Cromwell himself reprieved me

last night, but on conditions. The sentence still hangs over me, and now

I’m helpless to avert it, and all through my own folly. Oh, I have been

a heedless fool! With every incentive not to take risk, I have walked

blindly----”

“Yes, dear, yes; but tell me how I can aid you. The stranger says he

will do anything you want done in Oxford, going there specially on your

errand, and he looks like a man to be trusted.”

The lad drew away his hand, turned his face to the wall, and groaned

again.

“Cannot you trust him?”

“Trust him!” he cried impatiently, “Frances, Frances, it is against him

I am going to Oxford! The man is a spy carrying a message to the King.

He is interfering in a quarrel that should be no concern of his, and

his life is already forfeit, as indeed is the case with my own. But

the price of my life is the thwarting of him. The King will give him a

commission to be taken to the Scottish nobles. It is that document I was

to rend from him, by force if necessary, by cunning if possible. I was

to give him every aid to reach Oxford, but on the way back I was to gain

possession of this commission and ride to Cromwell with it; then life

and promotion were mine, and now I lie here helpless as a trussed fowl.”

“A loathesome, treacherous task for a man to put upon the shoulders of a

boy.”

“But look you, Frances, ’tis but meeting treachery with treachery.

Armstrong has no right in this contest, and his success means a new

blaze of war with the loss of thousands of innocent lives. It means

the possible triumph of the King who murdered our father and broke his

pledged word to him and to you. And seeming trickery may be real mercy,

as in this case it is, for if Cromwell cannot obtain the King’s letter

by stealthy means he will crush this Armstrong as ruthlessly as he would

crush a gnat. By no possibility can this Scot ever see his land again if

he holds that fatal instrument, for the whole army is watching him. But

once bereft of it, he is free to go as he pleases. The simpleton thinks

he has deluded Cromwell, and is blundering on through a fool’s paradise

that bristles with unseen swords. If I were his dearest friend I could

do him no greater service than to purloin the document of doom he will

carry when he turns his face north again.”

“What do you wish me to do?” asked the girl in a low voice, her eyes

staring into space, her hand trembling with apprehension at what she

knew intuitively was to be required of her.

“Frances, dear, you once took a journey alone to London, to see our

father. Again you went the same road, to aid him if you could,

and failed, to our lasting grief, through the supineness of a

thrice-perjured monarch. Will you refuse to set out on a shorter

expedition, not for my sake only, although the saving of my worthless

life will be one effect of your success, but to overturn what is perhaps

the final plot of our father’s slayer, who has already deluged the land

with blood. Will you not help to bring more speedily that peace the

kingdom yearns for, and the only peace now possible?”

“I’ll do it,” she said quietly, rising, stooping over, and kissing him.

He clung to her hand with the tenacity of the weak and helpless.

“Frances,” he said hurriedly, “remember you are protected by Cromwell’s

own pass, so have no fear. In case of need the army or any part of it

must stand ready to aid you if you call upon it. Old John will ride

behind and look after you. Although the pass mentions two only, it is

so sweeping that they will doubtless take it to include a servant.

Any subordinate will hesitate before he delays one carrying so broad a

permit from Cromwell himself.”

“Yes, yes. I shall meet with no difficulty, you may be sure. You have

already talked too much, and the doctor will censure me. Good-bye, Tom.

Get speedily well, and that will be my reward, for I swear to you, by

our father’s memory, that my hand shall give into Cromwell’s the King’s

parchment.” Kissing him again she tore herself away from him.

“Send Armstrong to me,” were his parting words to her.

Armstrong entered the room shortly after Frances had left it.

“This will never do,” cried the Scot cheerily. “The doctor is in despair

over the time your sister spent with you, and he is at this moment

chiding her. Me he has threatened with direst penalties if I exceed

a scant minute. So I shall just have to bid you farewell and be off,

wishing you quick recovery.”

“Armstrong,” said the boy huskily. “My sister must take to the Oxford

road and remedy my default. Will you be her comrade there and back?”

“As faithfully as ever belted knight attended fair lady,” replied

Armstrong, his eyes suddenly ablaze with joy.

“John will attend her, and I am sure your good sword will protect her if

need be.”

“You may take oath on that.”

“I give you the pass which is safe-conduct for you both, and I think it

will serve to cover John as well. If not, your own might shield him as

far as Manchester.”

“My own will shield me as far as Manchester, and this will, more

appropriately, convey your sister and her servant.”

“Yes, yes! That of course, as it should be. My head is spinning, and my

thoughts are astray.”

“After Manchester we will manage some way. Be not uneasy about that. I

give you the word of a Scottish gentleman I will care for your sister as

if she were my own.”

Armstrong took the pass, which was now ominously stained red. He grasped

his supposed friend by the hand, bade him farewell, and wished him quick

healing. Wentworth’s throat choked, for a feeling of strong liking

for the man almost overpowered him, but a stinging sense of his own

perfidiousness held him silent. Remorse was already biting worse than

the wound in his side. The stranger turned for a moment at the door,

waved his hand, and called to him to be of good cheer. A sob broke from

the lad’s throat, and weakly he cursed the exigiencies of war.

BOOK III.--THE JOURNEY.

CHAPTER I.--DISAGREEMENT.

When Armstrong left the room where the wounded boy lay he found Doctor

Marsden alone, pacing up and down the long hall, visibly impatient.

However, he appeared gratified that the stranger had contented himself

with so short an interview.

“I think,” said the Scot, “I have soothed his mind as successfully as

you administered to his body. I undertook the duty which troubles him,

and now he has nothing to do but get well, which I am sure will be the

speedier that he is in your skilful care.”

“You are very complimentary, sir, and I thank you. If you succeeded in

putting his mind at ease you have taken a great weight from mine, for

I like to treat corporal wounds uncomplicated by mental worry. I am

expecting the nurse every moment and will just step inside until she

comes.”

Armstrong bade the practitioner farewell, and this proved the last he

was to see of him. The young man went to the stables to feed and water

Bruce, not knowing how soon he might have need of him.

Horse and man were glad to greet each other. Armstrong examined the

animal with care, and was pleased to note that he was none the worse for

his long and toilsome journey of the day before. The Scot found himself

wondering into what part of the the land he had got. Cumberland he knew,

and Northumberland very thoroughly, but this district was strange to

him. As a rule he was able to estimate with some exactitude the distance

a horse travelled in a day, but the journey with Captain Bent had been

over a rough country, in continually changing directions that had ended

in bewildering him. High passes had been crossed, and deep valleys

traversed with a speed that said much for the mobility of the’

Parliamentary troopers. They had avoided villages, keeping through

barren lands, uninhabited for the most part, until they reached the

fertile and cultivated region in whose outskirts was situated the estate

of Corbiton Manor. The questions he asked of his captors had invariably

gone unanswered, either because the men were silent from nature or from

command, or because they knew as little of the road as he did. The

trend of the present morning’s journey had been southeast, the country

becoming more and more populous as he proceeded.

Returning to the house, he met Frances Wentworth evidently in search of

him. It seemed to him she had been weeping, and there was a perceptible

change in the cordiality of her manner toward him. He feared this was

perhaps to be accounted for by the admiration of her beauty which his

glances might have betrayed, and he resolved to be more careful in

future, although it was difficult to repress the exaltation he felt at

the prospect of being her companion on a long and possibly dangerous

expedition.

“Has my brother spoken to you of my visit to Oxford?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you in great haste?”

“Not in the least.”

“Would it be as convenient to you to set out tomorrow morning as this

afternoon?”

“Quite. It would be better, in fact, for my horse had a hard day of it

yesterday, travelling I don’t know how many miles. Perhaps you can tell

me where I am. I could get no information from my surly gaolers.”

“You are in the southern part of Durham, near the Yorkshire border.”

“We have come even farther than I thought. A day’s rest will do no harm

to the horse, for he little knows what is before him.”

The girl seemed at a loss for a reply.

“I thank you,” she said at last, somewhat primly, as she turned away.

Then, pausing and hesitating a moment, she continued with face half

averted, “My brother and I are twins and perhaps the more devoted to

each other on that account. I would do anything for him. I wish to stay

and see the nurse installed. There are many things to think of at such

an unexpected crisis, and no one to think of them but me.”

“I thoroughly understand the situation, and I wish I were able to tell

you how completely I sympathize with you. Although I know your brother

so short a time, I am only too glad to be of the slightest assistance to

him.”

This gracious avowal did not appear to have the effect it merited. Some

trace of a frown marred the smoothness of the girl’s brow, and her lips

became compressed. If a stranger is to be robbed and thwarted, it is

embarrassing to hear friendly protestations from him, especially when

there is no doubt about their truth. This man was evidently the soul of

honest candour, and the repulsion which had sickened the girl’s mind

at the revolting task fate had assigned to her was increased by the

genuineness of his good will.

“I thank you,” she murmured again, and left him abruptly.

It was very early next morning when Armstrong stood by his black horse

in the lane under the trees, waiting for his fair charge, who seemed to

exercise the privilege of her sex in being late. Old John was already

mounted on an animal that, besides carrying him, was pack-horse for

the luggage required by the young lady on her travels. When the girl

appeared, Armstrong stepped forward to offer his assistance; but he

was a fraction of a second too late, for, ignoring him, she was in her

saddle and away before he could utter a word. He admired the light

ease with which she accomplished this act, and saw at once she was a

practical horsewoman on as good terms with her steed as he was with his

own. She rode down the lane to the main road, then turned south, never

looking again toward the home she was leaving; hurrying, indeed, as

if it were her purpose to get out of sight as soon as possible. The

undulating nature of the country soon concealed Warburton Park mansion,

and the trio rode on steadily, the girl in front, Armstrong following

close, and Old John lagging somewhere in the rear, as if he knew that,

after all, his heavily laden nag must set the pace, however briskly the

more metalled cattle ahead of him started off.

After an hour of this Armstrong began to wonder where he was going.

Nothing had been said to him regarding the route to be taken, and the

girl went on as confidently, never turning her head, as if she and not

he were to be the leader of the expedition. He laughed quietly at this,

then, gathering rein, Bruce, requiring no other hint, stepped out and

overtook the horse in front.

“Have you any plan marked out with reference to the roads we may take,

or the towns we are to pass through or avoid?” he asked.

“Yes. We will reach York to-night, then follow the London road as far as

Stamford. After that we branch southwest through Northampton to Oxford.”

“It is all settled then,” he said, smiling.

“I know the way well, and you told me you were a stranger. I have passed

between York and London four times,” she answered seriously, and with

a chilling tone of finality which seemed to indicate that further

discussion was unnecessary. The inflexion may have been too subtle

to impress itself upon the young man, for he continued with obvious

geniality,--“You have wandered far afield for one so young.” To this

remark the girl made no reply. Her eyes were fixed on the road ahead,

and Armstrong, being at a loss to continue a one-sided conversation,

found nothing further to say. He was vaguely conscious of the constraint

that had come between them, for she had talked with him freely enough

the day before; but he could not account for the change. He had always

been accustomed to the free-spoken communion of men, and knew little

of the vagaries of the other sex, whom he had ever regarded as the

more talkative. He feared he had offended her by some thoughtless

observation, and racked his brain trying to remember what it might have

been. If it were her brother who rode beside him he would have asked him

plainly where the offence lay, and would have fought him joyfully if the

answer was not to his mind; but he was afraid of this dainty lady

and anxious not to displease her. He began to see that he ran risk of

disappointment in his anticipation of pleasure through a companionship

which the other party plainly regarded as enforced and not at all to her

liking.

They approached a declivity which disclosed a small hamlet at the foot

of which flowed a stream.

“Do you know the name of this river?” he asked. “It is the Tees,” she

answered shortly.

“Then that will be Yorkshire beyond?”

“Yes.”

Again he could think of nothing further to say, and inwardly chafed at

his own awkwardness. He sympathized deeply with his companion, compelled

to leave her only brother lying helpless from a serious wound, and

thought her taciturnity arose from brooding on his peril, which in part

it did. He wished he could call to his tongue some consolatory phrase,

but his usually ready wit seemed to have deserted him. Yet he thought

it impossible that they should journey thus gloomily the length of

the land. Perhaps to-morrow would prove an amendment on to-day. And so

through Yorkshire the silent progress continued.

The road was better than that to the north of the Tees, and also less

deserted. They passed long trains of pack-horses travelling toward York,

and occasionally met an equestrian, sometimes alone, but more often

attended by one or more servants. So far they had seen nothing to show

that civil war cursed the country, and no soldier had stepped forward to

question their purpose in being abroad.

“This is not unlike some parts of Scotland,” he said at last, in an

ill-fated attempt to revive a conversation which he did not recognize as

dead and beyond his power to resuscitate. The girl reined in her

horse, and Bruce stopped through sympathy, old John halting, that the

respectful distance he kept might not be decreased. Frances held her

head high, and there was a sparkle of determination in her eye. It was

best to begin right, and she would put this persistent man in his place,

a task already too long delayed. And perhaps the putting of him in his

place would lessen the clamour of her own conscience.

“Sir, who are you?” was her amazing inquiry.

“Me?” gasped Armstrong. “I’m a Scotsman.”

“Perhaps I should have said, what are you?”

“You mean----Oh, I’m a drover--a dealer in cattle.”

“Did my brother tell you who I am?”

“He told me his father was the late Earl of Strafford.”

“Yesterday I was grateful to you for the aid you afforded my brother, as

I should have been grateful to my servant if he had occupied your place;

but I should not have forgotten the distance between that servant and

myself. Strafford’s daughter does not recognize a drover as her social

equal. I ask you to take the position I set for you when I began this

journey.”

Armstrong’s face became very red, and then all colour left it as this

pronouncement went on. His back stiffened, and, although he spoke with

measured calmness, there was a thrill of cold anger in his words.

“Do you mean, madam, that I am to ride with your servant?”

“That is what I mean.”

“I have no objection in the least. From the conversations we had

together he shows himself a man of knowledge and a lover of horses,

which is an easy passport to my liking.”

“I am glad his company is so much to your taste, and I shall be obliged

to you if you fall back with him, as I wish to ride alone.”

“That will I not do under command; for, although I may cherish old

John’s conversation, I cannot admit the claim of superiority you set up.

I am a drover, I said, and so your ancient King Alfred might with equal

truth have dubbed himself a baker, if old tales are true. I am William

Armstrong of Gilnochie Towers, Lord of the Lands of Langholm, Dalbetht,

Stapil-Gortown, Shield, and Dalblane. I can trace my lineage as far back

as any noble in England, and come to my ancestral thieves as soon as

they. In courtesy we Armstrongs are the equals of any Englander, and in

battle we have never turned our backs on them. The castles of my clan

line the river Liddel, and when I ride with my friend, the Earl of

Traquair, I ride by his side and not with his followers.”

“Sir, you overwhelm me with your grandeur,” said the girl loftily,

rejoiced to find herself in what promised to be a quarrel. She was

human, and thought it would prove easier to rob an enemy than a friend.

“I thought the crowns of England and Scotland were united, but I see I

was mistaken. I travel with the king of Scotland, and he is doubtless on

his way to Oxford to confer with his brother the king of England.”

“Madam, I go to greet his Majesty, Charles, and if he dare to address me

as you have done I will tell him I am more king of the Border than he is

king of England, and my saying will be true.”

Frances Wentworth bowed low in mock humility.

“Your Highness of the Border, will you permit me to ride in your train?

I know I am not worthy, but I ask the boon that I may seek consolation

in communion with my servitor.”

“Madam, you may ride where you please,” gruffly replied the thoroughly

angered Scot, tingling with wounded pride.

“Sir, I thank you,” replied the maiden, bowing again, “and I am

delighted that you should exhibit to one so lowly as I, an example of

that courtesy of which you just now boasted.”

To this the indignant man made no reply, thus changing his former

relations as regarded conversation. He urged on his horse, and she,

after pausing awhile and seeing that John would approach no nearer,

also went on, and thus the three kept for the day their new relative

positions.

When the excitement of this verbal encounter had passed, the

gratification at bringing about a rupture between them proved

short-lived. Suddenly she was on the verge of tears, but strenuously

repressed them, fearing he would look back, which he never did. That

mood vanished, and hot anger replaced it, the more intense as she knew

herself the aggressor. Nevertheless he had been boorish, she said to

herself; almost brutal in his insolence. If he were a tithe of the

gentleman he so blatantly proclaimed himself, he would have turned round

and apologized for his rudeness, even if his anger at first had been

justified. But there he rode in front of her, hand on hip and head held

high, as if he were lord of the land. A beggarly Scot, proud and poor,

from whose tongue flowed glibly a list of barren acres which civilized

men would disdain to live upon, like the stunted lands to the north

of her own home. Never turned his back indeed! If her father had been

allowed a free hand, he would have chased all such braggarts home to

their kennels. Even now, with his pretended independence, this Scot was

travelling on his traitorous mission under the safe-conduct of the man

he would betray. It was no treachery to outwit a spy, but a patriotic

duty, and she would bid adieu to all qualms of conscience. And yet--and

yet, he had told her brother he would treat her as his own sister, and

it was they who had begged his convoy! Still, he may have eagerly seized

the opportunity of the pass to get himself scathless to Oxford and

back to Carlisle. Thus varying emotions surged through her heart, to

be followed by anxious questionings and at last deep depression,

during which her head hung and her dimmed eyes saw nothing of the road.

Unheeded, the sun passed the meridian, and at last she was roused to a

sense of her surroundings by the stopping of her unguided horse before a

roadside inn. Armstrong, his black steed brought to a standstill

across the highway, sat rigidly upright, and he said, when she thus

unexpectedly looked at him with something of startled appeal in her

eyes,--“We stop here for rest and refreshment.”

“I need neither rest nor refreshment,” she answered wearily.

“I was not thinking of you, madam, but of the horses. They have already

gone too far without food, but in this benighted land there has been no

opportunity of baiting them till now.”

“Yes, you said it was like Scotland,” she answered sharply, whipped to

fresh anger again that she should have imagined he thought of her when

he did not.

She sprang lightly from her horse to the ground, and, without a look at

the faithful animal that had carried her so far, walked very straight to

the door of the hostelry and disappeared within it.

When the time of waiting had ticked itself out on the old clock of the

inn, Armstrong ordered the horses on the road again, and sent old John

to warn his mistress that the way was still long to York. She came out

promptly, mounting proudly without a word, and the expedition set forth

as before, old John contentedly bringing up the rear. All afternoon they

made their progress along the very direct road, no utterance from any

one of the three. Frances grew more and more tired of this doleful

journey, so woefully begun, placing the blame on her own weary shoulders

for the most part, but now and then filled with a growing hatred of

the stolid figure in front, who never once turned round; never once

slackened the pace; never once made inquiry of any kind. What brutes men

were, after all! The horses they bestrode were the better animals!

At last the nearly level rays of the evening sun glorified the towers

of the grey minster, transforming them for the moment into piles of rosy

marble, and the walled town was spread out before them. They came to

Bootham Bar, and here, for the first time, a man-at-arms questioned

their right of way. Armstrong silently presented to him the

blood-stained pass, bearing the signature of the Man of Iron.

“Is he on the pack-horse of your company?”

“Yes.”

“Enter.”

The man-at-arms stood aside, and the trio went up the clattering street

until they came to a house of entertainment once called “The King’s

Head,” with a picture of Charles on the swaying sign, now slightly

changed to represent Fairfax, a good Yorkshireman, while the lettering

had been obliterated and “The Fairfax Arms” painted over it. The leader

of the expedition ordered the best apartment in the house for the lady,

and sat where he was while the bustling landlord assisted the fatigued

traveller to dismount. Armstrong and old John saw to the disposal of the

horses, then the young man walked to the minster and round it, noticing

everywhere the ravages of the late siege. The town had not yet recovered

its arrested prosperity, and most of the people he met were heavy-footed

soldiers and citizens in sombre dress. York had been Royalist to the

core, and now calamity seemed to brood over it. Armstrong made his way

to a mercer’s shop in the main street.

“My garments,” he said to the obsequious proprietor, “are somewhat

stained, and I would renew them.”

“There are many changing their coats nowadays,” replied the man, “and we

must even cut them of the cloth most popular.”

He whipped out a measuring-tape and deftly took the dimensions of his

customer, muttering the numbers as he stretched his arms.

“I have no time to spare for the making of a costume, but must content

myself with what lies on your shelves.”

“Sir, I took you for a traveller, and am but estimating what will best

become you. Your inches are just on the large side, sir, but I shall

pleasure you, never fear.”

He spread out on the long table some apparel in dejected brown, which,

as it seemed to Armstrong, was but clumsily cut.

“You would garb me as a shepherd, I see. I come from the North, where we

are not tailor’s models, perhaps, but we scorn such duds as you exhibit.

Cannot you furnish me with something more like what I wear?”

The mercer looked at him, hesitating for a moment, then led the way to

an inner room.

“I can show you goods there is little call for, and if you are satisfied

with them you take them at your own price and risk.”

He closed the door and brought out from their concealment rich garments

of the Cavalier fashion, which he handled gingerly, as if afraid of

them.

“Ah, that’s more like. Now I shall set myself out from top to toe in

something suitable for riding. My horse and I are two sections of the

same thing.”

In the privacy of the back room the change was effected, and presently

William Armstrong stood as gay and comely a man as could be found in

all England, superbly attired, with filmy lace fluttering at neck and

wrists. The mercer hovered before him, rubbing one hand over the other,

with an artist’s appreciation of the result his efforts had produced,

and indeed something more glimmering behind in the depths of his

appraising eye.

“You will make many a heart beat faster if you pass through the streets

of York in that fashion,” said the mercer.

“I doubt it. I was never one to be popular with the lasses.”

“I was not thinking of women, sir, but of men who have fought and lost.”

“Oh, all’s not lost because York is taken! There will be a King in

England for many a day yet, never you fear.”

The mercer cast a timorous glance about him, then suddenly thrust forth

his hand.

“You are a brave man. God make your prophecy true. I thought you came in

to change your coat with the times, like the rest of us.”

“Coats matter little if the heart is right,” replied the Northerner,

returning the proffered clasp. “You will do what you like with this

discarded shell of mine, for I travel light and cannot be bothered with

it. So, good-bye.”

“‘Ca cannie,’ as your countrymen say, when once you reach the street.

Avoid the soldiery and get free of York as soon as you can.”

The gloom of evening was on the town when Armstrong emerged, yet he had

not gone twenty steps before a stern officer planted himself square in

his path.

“Who are you?” came the curt demand.

“A friend who has been looking for you. The shops are closing, and I am

purposing to buy a pair of pistols like the one whose butt I can see in

your belt. I may need your help to open a gunner’s booth for me.”

“You speak lightly.”

“There is need of that when it grows dark.”

“Fellow, you shall come with me and explain yourself.”

“Not so. You shall come with me and do my explaining. And as the day is

fading, read that while it still holds.” Armstrong handed him the pass

and the officer scanned it suspiciously.

“To Oxford,” he muttered. “If you are not on the road between Carlisle

and Oxford, you are at least in the costume for the latter sink of

iniquity.”

“Yes, and I have the pass to bring me there. Do you dispute it?”

“No.”

“I am glad of that, for you would come into collision with Oliver

Cromwell if you did. Now give me your aid toward firearms.”

The officer turned with him and walked down the street, beat at the door

of the gunshop, and saw the desires of the stranger fulfilled. Then

he accompanied him to the door of the inn, bidding him good-night, and

disappearing down the unlighted street.

The young lady was partaking of the repast prepared for her in the

private parlour set aside for her use, said the landlord in answer to

his guest’s inquiry. On being shown to the door Armstrong knocked on the

panels, and was admitted by old John, who was in attendance.

The girl sat at a table and looked up with surprise, not recognizing her

visitor in his new finery, thinking some stranger had mistaken the room;

but, seeing who it was as he advanced, she turned her gaze away from him

and gave no greeting. If he came to apologize now, it was too late, she

said to herself, and his first words showed that this was indeed his

purpose.

“Madam,” he said with a courtly inclination of his head, which

obeisance, it flashed across the girl’s mind, had been purchased with

his fresh accoutering, a thought that almost brought a smile to her

lips, which she hoped to keep firm. “Madam, I crave your pardon for

my unseemliness of temper to-day. I am at best an uncouth person,

travelling at the head of my own men, who question neither words nor

acts of mine, and so have led me into the gruff habit of expecting

obedience and not censure. I am no squire of dames, as there is little

need to tell you, for already you know it from this day’s experience

of my ways; but I am deeply grieved that I fell so far short of the

courtesy which is your due, and I trust you will forgive my lapse of

manners.”

Here was an apology indeed, that might well have called forth a generous

response, and undoubtedly would have done so from a woman of the world;

but Frances had been too sorely hurt by his long incivility toward her.

Ladies in the romances she had read were always treated with the utmost

chivalry, and, if truth must be told, she was tired and cross, so she

hardened her heart, bent her proud eyes on the latticed window before

her, and made no reply.

There was a few moments’ silence in the room; then her punishment came

in his next words.

“I had hoped we might part good friends.”

“Part!” she cried in sharp terror, and those wide black eyes of hers

quickly deserted the blank panes to fall upon him. She had never

anticipated such an outcome of their quarrel as this, nor dreamed

that it was easily possible for him to circumvent all her plans by

withdrawing himself from her company. Instantly the dread consequences

of such a determination on his part--and she had had a glimpse of his

resoluteness--loomed up before her, every little disagreement between

them sinking into nothingness before this fearful alternative. She

dared not lose sight of him until her mission was accomplished, or

her brother’s life and her country’s ruin paid the penalty of her

foolishness. She must cast herself at his feet, if necessary, to retain

him, and here she had jeopardized everything in an outburst of temper.

A chilling fear crept into her heart that any complacency she might

show him would be too late. Secretly she had rather admired his sturdy

independence and pride of race, comparing it with her own vacillating

purpose, ready one moment to forgive and the next to ban; but now this

lofty self-respect might prove her undoing.

“I fear I overrated my power of serving you,” he continued, “and I

forgot for the moment how slight was my acquaintance with your family.

Manchester, and not Oxford, is my destination, and I shall make for

that town to-morrow before you are astir. The country is not nearly so

disturbed as I expected to find it, and the roads are perfectly safe;

indeed you know the route better than I. This pass is a most potent

document and will open every gate. I leave it with you.” He placed the

paper on the table before her. “If I might venture to counsel you,

I should advise you not to take it into Oxford unless you have some

satisfactory plea to account for its possession.”

“Have you had anything to eat since you came into York?” Her voice was

as sweet as the note of a nightingale.

“No,” said Armstrong with a laugh. “I had forgotten about that; a most

unusual trick of memory.”

“I was too angry with you at the wayside inn, and I could not touch a

morsel, so I thus came famished into York. John, see if Mr. Armstrong’s

meal is prepared, and ask them to serve it here. I think you Scottish

people possess a proverb that it is unfair, or something like that, to

speak with a hungry man.”

“Yes, many of our sayings pertain to eating. We are an uncouth folk, I

fear.”

“Indeed you are far from uncouth to-night, Mr. Armstrong. I thought it

was we ladies who hurried to the mercers when we came to town, but

you lost no time in the delightful quest. That was why I was so deeply

offended with you when you came in. You are most ungallant not to have

invited me to go with you. I could not have visited shops alone.”

“You had no need to visit the shops. Nothing they sell could improve

you.”

“Am I so hopeless as that?” said the girl, with the sigh of the

accomplished coquette, leaning back in her chair and entrancing him with

her eyes.

Armstrong blushed to the roots of his flaxen hair and

stammered,--“I----I meant you are perfect as it is.”

She laughed merrily at his confusion, and her mirth came the heartier as

she saw she was to accomplish her object; then the laugh was checked as

a sudden wave of pity for him surged over her. For all his size he was

a very boy in lack of guile, and a shiver ran over her as she pictured

what he must think of her when he knew. The sudden tension was relieved

by the arrival of old John and the servants carrying a meal hot and

savoury, whose incense was a delight to the starving man.

“There,” she cried, “sit down opposite me. Put this pass in safe keeping

until I seek for it. You will surely not be so cruel as to desert me on

the first stage of our journey?”

“Madam,” said the bewitched man, “I shall do with eagerness whatever it

is your pleasure to ask of me.”

CHAPTER II.--RECONCILIATION.

Another glorious summer morning greeted the pilgrims at York; a morning

so clear and splendid that it seemed to have lifted the gloom which

covered the captured city, as the sun might dissipate a veil of mist. In

spite of her fatigue of the day before, Frances was the first afoot, and

at this setting forth Armstrong and old John were the laggards, as she

blithely informed them when they appeared.

As they rode away from the ancient town the girl could scarcely refrain

from joining the larks in their matin song, such a strange feeling of

elation filled her being. She had had her first intoxicating taste of

power; the supreme power of a beautiful woman over a strong, determined

man. He had come to her the night before with resolution stamped on his

masterful face; came of set purpose, a course of action well marked

out for himself in the long dreary ride to York, and he announced

that purpose to her, catching her entirely unaware. She was without

experience in the ways of men, knowing nothing of them save such

enlightenment as a sister might gather from a brother, and this

knowledge she saw instinctively would be of no service in the contest

that so unexpectedly confronted her. As boy and girl the arguments with

her brother had been of the rough-and-tumble order, where the best man

won and the other sat down and cried. Armstrong had said in effect, “I

leave your company,” and a glance at his face left no doubt but he meant

it. What instinct of heredity had placed her potent weapons silently

before her; what unsuspected latent spirit of coquetry had taught her

on the instant how to use them? A melting glance of the eyes; a low,

lingering tone of voice; and this stubborn man was as wax in her hands.

She had shorn him of his fixed intention, as Delilah had shorn Sampson

of his locks; and as this simile occurred to her the spectre of her

mission rose before her, and she remembered with a shudder that the

parallel of Delilah held true in more senses than one. She glanced

sideways at her Samson riding so easily on his splendid horse. What a

noble-looking youth he was, and how well his new attire became him. Not

any of the courtiers she had seen in the gay entourage of Charles in

London could be compared with him. And what an ill-flavoured task

was hers: to baffle him; to humiliate and defeat him; to send him

crestfallen and undone to his own land! Delilah indeed! “The Philistines

be upon thee, Samson!” Poor Samson! She had always been sorry for him,

as she read, and now--now--hers was the role to wreck him! Again she

glanced at him, and thus caught his gaze bent upon her. He smiled at

her; was smiling when she turned her head.

“I can read your thoughts in your face,” he said.

“Can you?” she asked in alarm.

“Yes. At first the pure sweet beauty of the morning appealed to you. You

were glad to leave the shut-in streets of the town and be once more in

the fresh open country. The song of the birds charmed you, and had there

been no listeners your voice would have joined theirs. When first I

saw you, you were singing, and that was the morning of the day before

yesterday; yet it seems ages past, and I have known you all my life.

It was my ill-omened fate to break upon you with evil tidings, and a

remembrance of my news disturbed you a moment since. The thought of your

brother came to you, and the sunshine of your face died out in sorrow

for him, wishing you had news of him. Do not be concerned for him. I

have seen many a wound deeper than his, and they were of small account

with youth and health to contend against them.”

The girl sighed and turned her face away, making no comment upon his

conjectures, which were so far astray from accuracy. Why had she given

no thought to her brother, whose welfare had never before been absent

from her mind, yet who never before was in such danger as now? Why had

a stranger’s image come between them, so monopolizing her mental vision

that all her pity had been for him? Delilah was the stronger woman, with

no qualms of conscience to unnerve her steady hand. She remembered her

kin and wasted no thought on the stranger who fell in love with her in

the valley of Sorek. “And when Delilah saw that he had told her all

his heart, she sent and called for the lords of the Philistines saying,

‘Come up this once, for he hath shewed me all his heart.’ Then the lords

of the Philistines came up unto her, and brought money in their hand.”

Money in their hand! The price of a trusting man! Was there anything so

baleful as that in all Scripture? When she presented Cromwell with the

locks of Samson she would quote that sinister verse to him. Well this

lord of the Philistines knew that her brother was not guilty of the

treason for which he had been condemned. Cromwell came, not with money

in his hand, but with life to be given or withheld, as foul play was

successfully accomplished or the reverse. A helpless rage at the part

assigned to her filled her heart with bitterness, and her eyes with

tears.

“I wonder what valley this is we are descending?” said Armstrong.

“The valley of Sorek,” said her lips before her reason could check them.

“What?” cried the young man, amazed, although the reply gave him no

hint of its inner meaning. Then he saw that some strong emotion had

overpowered her, against which all her struggles were in vain. Instant

sympathy with her sorrow manifested itself in his action. He brought his

horse close beside her, reached out and touched her hand.

“Dear heart, do not grieve,” he said tenderly. “I pledge my faith your

brother is better already. Would I had thought of it in time, and there

might have been a horseman travelling all night to York, bringing you

later tidings of him; but I am ever behindhand with my purposing, and

remember a project when it is too late to put it into action. Many a

fight that same backhandedness has led me into. I am for ever

trusting the wrong man and laying myself open to his craft, yet am I

hail-well-met with the next, learning no lesson from experience. Talking

of this thrust your brother got, I remember well, two years ago, when

three men who bore me no good will came to me and said the Earl of

Traquair had bade them make peace with me. I was very willing and struck

hands with them. So off we set together, at their behest, to Traquair’s

Castle, that we might ratify our compact, for the Earl was a good friend

of mine. We had gone near on five miles, and were chatting pleasantly

together, when in the twinkling of an eye the three set on me. Three to

one is no odds for an active man to grumble at if he can face them and

has a rock or a tree at his back, but we were on the open plain, and I

had a blade in my ribs before I could put hand to hilt. I drove Bruce at

the first assailant and, ran him through as he went down. Then I cut for

it till the followers were separated; so I turned on the one nearest me,

gave him his dose, and chased the third man until I began to sway in

my saddle. If he had but known and halted, he would have won an easy

victory. Well, there were three good honest, satisfying wounds on three

men,--each, I venture to say, worse than the one your brother got, and

no doctor within thirty miles; yet the three of us are as hearty to-day

as if we didn’t know what a sword was made for. So have no fear about

your brother. He’ll be out and about by the time you are home again.”

“Your story reminds me of the Roman tale. It was a cowardly act of your

three enemies.”

“I think it was rather that way. I did not heed their onslaught so much

as their pretence of friendliness beforehand. Still, we mustn’t be

too critical when a feud is forward. Things are done then that we are

sorry for afterward.”

“I judge from what you say that you have forgiven the three?”

“Oh, as for that, I had forgotten all about them; it was your brother’s

case brought them to mind. I suppose I have forgiven them; but if I

met them on the road here I’d loosen the sword in its scabbard and be

prepared for blade or hand, whichever they offered. But come, we have

now a level road before us. Let us gallop. There’s nothing so cheers

the mind as a charge on a good horse. We will make old John stir his

stumps.”

They set off together, and old John did his best to keep them in sight.

Some fourteen miles from York they baited their horses, then pushed on

through Bawtry until Tuxford came in sight more than an hour and a half

after noontide, a longer stretch than Armstrong thought good for either

man or beast. It was not yet five in the morning when they left York,

and with the exception of a bite and sup at their only halting-place

they had nothing to eat until two o’clock. Many of the numerous inns

along the road were deserted and in ruins; the farther south the journey

was prolonged the more evident became the traces of war, and Armstrong

found that he had scant choice as to resting-places.

“I hope,” said the girl, who knew the road, “that ‘The Crown at Tuxford

has not been blown down again. It was a good inn.”

“More chance of its being blown up,” replied Armstrong, flippantly. “Was

it blown down once?”

“Yes, about half a century since, in a tempest, but it was rebuilt. You

should have a kindly feeling for it.”

“Why?”

“The Princess Margaret Tudor rested there in 1503, when she went to

Scotland to marry your king.”

“By my forefathers, then, the ‘Crown’ is a place of evil omen for me.

Would that the fair Margaret had slept in it on the night of the storm.”

“And now I ask, why?”

“Because her son, James V, came down to the Border, and by treachery

collected the head of my clan, with about forty or more of his

retainers, and hanged them, denying either trial or appeal. Jamie missed

those twoscore men later in life, when his cowardly crew deserted him.

We Armstrongs seem ever to have been a confiding race of simpletons,

believing each man’s word to be true as the steel at his side. Margaret

was as false as fair, and a poor Queen for Scotland, yet here am I now

risking life or liberty for one of her breed, the descendant of those

fell Stuarts who never honoured woman or kept faith with man.”

“Sir, what are you saying?” cried the girl, aghast at the unheeding

confession into which his impetuosity had carried him.

“God! You may well ask!” said the young man, startled in his turn at

the length he had gone. “Still, it does not matter, for you would be

the last to betray me. I’ll tell you all about it some day, and we will

laugh over our march together, if you forget what I said just now. The

end of our expedition is not to be the end of our acquaintance, I hope,

and you live but a day’s march from the Border. Will you let me take the

day’s march in your direction, now that I know the way?”

“I make no promise until we reach home again. Then you may not wish to

make the journey.”

“Little fear of that. I must see you again, if only to tell you of my

luck in cattle-dealing, at which you showed such scorn yesterday.”

“Do not let us speak of that. There is ‘The Crown’ inn; and even if the

shade of the Princess Margaret does not haunt it, I am pleased to see

there are people more substantial around its doors. It is not deserted.

“It is level with the times. The crown is blotted from the signboard,

although some of the old gilding shines through the new paint.”

It was late in the afternoon before they were on horse again, and they

jogged down the road at an easy amble. Newark was passed, but they did

not stop there longer than was necessary to show their permission to

travel, for Newark had been a Royal town garrisoned for the King and

besieged more than once. Armstrong had intended to stay the night there;

but the authorities showed some reluctance in accepting a pass for two

as convoy for three, and it needed all the young man’s eloquence and

insistance on respect for Cromwell’s signature to get old John past the

barriers, so when once this permission was granted he thought it well to

push on clear of the place and risk the danger of camping out beside the

road.

His luck still stood his friend, and at Grantham, some ten miles farther

on, as the sun was setting, they came to the ancient archway of “The

Angel” inn, a house that gave every indication of furnishing the best of

cheer.

“At last,” cried Armstrong, “we have shaken off the omens, and I find a

lodging fit for you. ‘The Angel’ for an angel, say I, and here it is. No

haunting Margaret of the past, nor inquisitive Roundhead of the present

to molest us.”

“I am not so sure,” laughed Frances. “If ghosts walk these planks, you

may wish the graceful Margaret in their stead. In one of the rooms

of this house Richard III signed the death-warrant of the Duke of

Buckingham. The place hints the fall of kings.”

“Lord, lassie, you know too much history and too many legends of this

gloomy land. I wish we were safe back in the North again.”

“So do I,” she said with a sigh, as he helped her down from her horse.

CHAPTER III.--COMPANIONSHIP.

The buxom landlady of “The Angel” remembered Frances and her four

former visits to the inn, so she took charge of the girl in the most

motherly way, fussing over her and seeing to her comfort.

“No, nothing is changed here,” she said, “though dear knows there’s

trouble enough in the land, and strife and what not; good men going away

and never coming home again, or coming back broken and torn. I’m sure I

don’t know who’s in the right, but somebody’s deeply in the wrong, and

God’s heavy hand is on us all. England will never be England again, I’m

thinking. I waited on the King my own self in these rooms when he went

north not so long ago, and kind and gentle he was to all about him. I’m

sure I don’t know what he has done that his own folk should rise against

him and pen him up in Oxford, as if God’s Providence had ended on earth,

and His anointed was no more than Jack Lorimer the sweep. And the name

of God is always on their lips, but I’m thinking if they talked less of

Him and were kinder to His creatures they would be fitter to meet Him

when their time came. But, dearie, I must n’t run on like this, for

there are listening ears all about us, and a poor old body like me has

been warned more than once. I fear it is not the King that is to blame,

but them foreign people that’s ever at his ear, and I thought little of

them when they were here. There must be something fell wrong when the

nobility themselves turn against him. Well I mind when the great Earl of

Strafford himself came south and stayed the night here. If he had lived

things would have been different, for he looked more the King than the

King himself. Ah, he was a man for you! There, there, dearie, you’re

tired, and I go chattering along. But don’t you cry again, dearie, for

it’s all long past and done with, and doubtless for the best, though our

finite sight may not see that. What a babbling, thoughtless old wife I

am; for I remember now, when you were here last, and I showed you the

oriel window where Strafford sat, and told you the glint of your eye

and the hold of your head reminded me of him, you sat there and wept and

wept as if your heart would break. Kind-hearted you were, dearie, and

I often thought of you and wondered how you were getting on. But now is

not the time for tears, but for joy if ever you are to have it. I knew

so comely a lass would not wander long alone, and that’s a fine man

you’ve got. I saw how it was the moment you came, for the light in his

face when he helped you down from your horse comes but once in a man’s

lifetime and your own.”

“No, no, no, no! You are wrong. He is almost a stranger to me, but is a

friend of my brother. He is nothing to me.”

“Do you tell me that? Well, well, we never know what the future holds

for us, dearie, and unless I’m very much----”

“He was travelling this way, and my brother asked him to give me

company. My brother was wounded and could not come.”

“Wounded? Oh, I am grieved at that. Many a brave lad----is it

dangerous?”

“They say it is not, but it frightens me.”

“Yes, yes, dearie; but them that know are like to be right, and we must

always hope for the best. Now here’s the meal for you, and you will

not get a better between York and London. Your man--ah, there I go

again--the stranger is looking to his horse, no doubt, as a careful

traveller should, and we will see to him when he comes in, so do not you

wait.”

It was late when Armstrong returned from the stables, for old John’s

pack-horse showed signs of distress from travelling between seventy and

eighty miles that day, and as the slowest horse in the party sets the

pace, the animal had to be seen to and cared for.

After his bounteous supper the young man strolled about the rambling

inn, and to his surprise came upon a lonely figure in a dim alcove.

“Dear lass!” he cried, “you should have been at your rest long ago. This

will never do,”--but he sat down beside her. The place was narrow and

very cosy, as if the oriel window recess had been constructed for two

lovers.

“I am not tired,” she said, “and have much to think of, so I knew I

could not sleep.”

“You should sleep well after so long a day in the open air. Deep

thinking is the enemy of rest, and rather useless in the main. I’ll

wager you’re wishing for news from the North.”

“Yes, I was.”

“Well, see the uselessness of that.”

“I know it, but how can one guide one’s thoughts?”

“Oh, it can be done. They say Cromwell has the power of dropping to

sleep the instant he gets half an hour to himself. He has plenty to

think of, and yet he must be able to guide his thoughts or abolish them

for the moment, or he could not do that.”

“They say also that he has some secret power by which he gets news

before any one else, and thus appears where he is most needed at the

time he is least expected.”

“I doubt that. He has well-trained men in his service, which is the

whole secret. Do you like Cromwell?”

“I do not.”

“You surprise me. I thought you were a partizan of his. You remember

what I said when we were approaching this inn?”

“You said many things.”

“Aye. But I said one in particular that I would have wished recalled

if it had been said to any one but you. I promised to let you know all

about it some day, but I’ve thought over the matter and I’m going to

tell you now.”

“No, no! I do not wish to hear.”

“But listen a moment----”

“No! I have been trying to forget what you said.”

“It is not fair to you that you should be exposed to an unknown scath.

This did not occur to me when I set out, but your journey may be

jeopardized because of my being deeper in dangerous projects than you

have any suspicion of. So I have need to tell you my real errand in the

South.”

“Mr. Armstrong, I refuse to hear you. I will not be burdened with what

does not concern me. Is your memory so short that you forget what has

befallen yourself and your kin by trusting to strangers? I warn you to

beware of me, and to treat me as if I were an enemy.”

“As if I could!”

“As if you must. I have no patience with a confiding man, who needs

ever to be kneeling at the confessional. I wish to know nothing of your

affairs.”

“At the confessional? Indeed, and you are right about that. But I have

no desire to confess for confession’s sake. I wished but to warn you.”

“Very well; I turn the tables and warn you. I ask you to think of

the injustice of what you were about to do. If you are on some secret

mission, there are others besides yourself involved. It is most unfair

to them that you should make a confidant of any person without their

consent.”

“You say sooth. If you take my hint and promptly disown me should I

become involved, I am satisfied.”

“I can the more readily disown you if I know nothing of the traffic you

are engaged in.”

“True, true!”

“They say this inn is part of what was once the monastery of the

Templars, and I think the influence of these warrior priests remain in

it; for I, too, was tempted to confession when you came. But we must

have none of that.”

“My lady, you would find me a more eager listener to a penitent than you

proved to be. This alcove is like a niche in a temple, and doubtless has

heard many a confidence since the Templars built it.”

“It shows us a good example; it keeps silent about them.”

The two were startled by a deep voice that broke in upon their

discourse. They had heard no one approach, but now there stood before

them at the outlet of the recess a tall, gaunt figure in the sombre

garb of the Parliamentarian, as if he were the spirit of some forgotten

Templar of whom they had just been speaking; indeed he seemed the modern

embodiment of one of that fanatic, sinister band, for while his bearing

betokened the fervid exhorter, a sword by his side indicated that he

used the physical as well as the spiritual arm. His cheeks were sunken,

and a two-days stubble on his chin emphasized not only the emaciation of

his face, but the unhealthy clay colour of his skin.

“A word with you. Who are you? Whence come you? Whither are you bound,

and to what purpose?”

“Egad!” muttered Armstrong under his breath, “here’s a father-confessor

indeed, and right willing to take on the task with no misgiving.”

The girl wondered how long the apparition had been standing there, and

rapidly ran over in her mind what had been said between herself and

her companion since he came. Armstrong spoke up, and, while speaking,

proffered his pass to the interloper.

“Sir, that document will possibly satisfy all your questionings.” The

stranger, taking it, held it near the lamp and read its brief wording.

“This answers none of my questions, except, and then by inference only,

that you are perchance destined for Oxford.”

“Is not the signature sufficient passport, so long as you do not find

us south of Oxford or north of Carlisle? We are within the region over

which the passport extends.”

“For the second time I propound my inquiries.”

“Then for the first time I return them to you. Who are you? Whence come

you? Whither are you bound, and to what purpose?”

The man answered without the slightest show of resentment against what

he must have known to be an intended impertinence.

“I am Hezekiah Benton, an humble preacher of the Word, and, if need

be, a wielder of the sword. I came from Newark, and purpose returning

thither, God willing, with more knowledge concerning you than you gave

when you passed the gate.”

“Very well, Mr. Benton, I will be equally frank, pausing to note with

surprise that the signature of his Excellency General Cromwell is

invalid south of Newark----”

“I said not so,” interrupted the preacher.

“You imply as much by questioning after it has been shown to you.”

“If you are entitled to hold this pass, you will meet no obstruction

within its limits. As no persons are named upon this paper, it is my

duty to satisfy my superiors that it is not misused.”

“Pardon me, Mr. Benton, but has it not occurred to your superiors that

if General Cromwell had wished the names known he would have set them

down as fully as his own?”

Hezekiah thoughtfully scratched his stubbly chin, and was evidently

nonplussed by the view so calmly presented to him. After turning the

problem in his mind for a few moments, he replied: “Nevertheless you

are travelling on the London road. This pass reads Carlisle to Oxford.

Newark is not on the highway between these two towns.”

“Admirably reasoned, Mr. Benton, and I envy those who have opportunity

of hearing your discourses. They listen to good logic, I stand warrant.

But the apparent mystery is soon dissolved. This paper was written by

his Excellency at Corbiton Manor, in the county of Durham, at about this

hour of the night three days ago, what time, if I may so put it, I was

the guest of his Excellency at that place. If you will bear the county

of Durham instead of the county of Northumberland in mind, you will

observe I have taken the quickest route to Oxford, when the state of

cross-country roads is considered. So far as the London direction is

concerned, we deflect from it to-morrow at Stamford, and will rest, God

permitting us, at Northampton to-morrow night. Any further questions

will be as cheerfully answered, for I know you would not ask them

without authority and a full explanation to give to General Cromwell,

should he chance to dislike the uncovering of that which he was at some

pains to conceal.”

Hezekiah Benton made haste in returning the passport to the suave and

eloquent man from whom he had obtained it.

“Sir, your disquisition is most complete and satisfactory. If but a

tithe of it had been given at Newark I would have been saved a hurried

journey, and you a cross-examination. I give you good-night, and God be

with you.”

“May he see you safe in Newark again, and grant you length of days to

expound His Word,” responded Armstrong devoutly, as he rose from his

seat and bowed.

Frances rose also when their visitor had taken himself off.

“You are something of a diplomatist, Mr. Armstrong, but I fear diplomacy

requires a touch of hypocrisy. Could you not have dismissed him without

the benediction?”

“Why? I meant it thoroughly. I am a religious man with a creed as grim

as his own; a Presbyterian. I meant every word of it. He is a good man;

notice how mildly he answered my scoffing return of his own questions.

He made me ashamed of my frivolity.”

“A religious man, are you?”

“Yes, why not?”

“I don’t know. I had not thought of you as such. Your account of another

man’s pass did not seem strictly accurate.”

“It was true nevertheless. Every word I said was true. I never even

hinted the pass belonged to me.”

The girl laughed and held out her hand.

“Yet you cannot deny that he gathered a wrong impression.”

“Ah, that was his fault, not mine. Hezekiah himself would tell you to

possess the wisdom of the serpent as well as the harmlessness of the

dove. But do not let me be too self-righteous. I will be honest with

you, and admit at once that had a direct falsehood been necessary I

would have used it. I was determined not to give him any name, for the

pass I hold from Cromwell set Manchester as the limit, and we are now

south of Manchester. I would have given the good Benton my name at York,

but not at Grantham.”

“You think, then, that where great events are at stake,--a man’s

life let us say, or a country’s welfare,--one is justified in using

deception?”

“Most assuredly. I should have no hesitation in trying any ruse to save

my friend or serve my country. Do you not agree with me?”

“I am trying to. Yes, I do agree with you. I do! I do! I do!” she

cried with a sudden fervour that surprised him, for it seemed out of

proportion to the importance of the ethical question they had been

discussing. He had been holding her hand all this time, and she seemed

to become newly aware of that fact and hastily withdrew it, blushing as

she did so. She spoke rapidly, as if to cover her confusion:

“I use the words furnished me by our visitor. I give you good-night, and

God be with you,”--and she was gone before his unreadiness could frame a

response.

CHAPTER IV.--FRIENDSHIP.

Next day the three were not as early beginning their march, because

Northampton was barely fifty miles distant, and the day was longer than

the way. The good landlady of “The Angel,” bustling and voluble, saw

them off with many blessings, and wishings that God would speed

them. Stamford furnished bait for their horses and a short rest for

themselves. Then they took the deflecting road for Northampton, but

their pack-horse limped and their progress was slow. Frances was in

better spirits than was the case since the pilgrimage began, for she had

now persuaded her mind, which eagerly wished to be convinced, that her

future action would save the lives of two men,--Armstrong’s not less

than her brother’s,--and so she had come to look upon her unsuspecting

companion as her beneficiary rather than her victim. He himself had

unknowingly been advocate against himself, and she was surprised to note

how much influence his argument exerted, thinking it was because she was

so anxious to be confirmed that the deed which circumstances compelled

her to do had more of right than wrong in it. If he was indeed a

Presbyterian, as he had said, his sympathies must, after all, lean

toward the Parliamentary side rather than toward the Royal cause, and

disappointment at the failure of his mission could not be very severe.

She had heard him say nothing which showed enthusiasm or even concern

for the King; in truth the remark which had inadvertently escaped him

was to the effect that it was folly for one of his name to do service

for the line of Stuart, and he had characterized the race as fair and

false. Whatever motive, then, had sent him on this dangerous mission,

it was neither love for the King nor loyalty toward his cause. Armstrong

always spoke of himself as an outsider, having little interest in the

quarrels of the English, whom he quite evidently regarded as an inferior

race, easily overcome if fronted by real fighters. She smiled as she

recollected his embarrassment once or twice in the midst of a diatribe

against them, when he remembered just too late that he was talking to an

Englishwoman. One fact, however, she failed to recognize, which was that

in the intervals of conversation her mind was entirely filled with this

blond Scot, to the exclusion of everything else.

The day passed pleasantly enough, even if progress was slow. Armstrong

related many interesting or amusing anecdotes of the Border, and the

girl came to the conclusion that life must be anything but dull in that

hilly district. They partook of their noontide meal at a hospitable

farm-house, for inns were few and mostly untenanted. They learned that

it would probably be dark by the time they reached Northampton, but

there was a new moon to light their way. They were off the main line of

travel and had the road practically to themselves. At about five in the

afternoon they heard the tramping of a squadron behind them, coming on

at a rapid walk. Armstrong suggested that it would be well to draw into

the hedge while the troopers passed, and this they did. The Scot sat

easily on his horse, watching the somewhat imposing oncoming, the

breastplates of the men scintillating in the declining sun, which shone

full upon them. Suddenly Armstrong straightened and, unconsciously

perhaps, his hand grasped that of the girl beside him.

“Have you ever seen Cromwell?” he asked.

“No.”

“That is he at the head of the cavalry.”

She drew away her hand, and sat there, scarcely breathing, fearful of

the approaching encounter, which now could not be avoided. If Armstrong

were equally perturbed he showed no sign of it, and she admired his

nonchalance as she glanced momentarily at him. But her eyes turned

instinctively again to the leader of the troops. There was something

masterful in his very bulk; he seemed a massive man on his huge horse;

power personified were horse and man. His unblinking eye faced the sun

like an eagle’s, and he came stolidly past them, looking neither to the

right nor the left. The firm face was as inscrutable and as ruthless as

that of the Sphinx.

Four and four came the men behind him; some old, but erect; the majority

middle-aged; all cast in the same mould as their leader. They sat like

him, and looked straight ahead like him. Polished steel on head and

front, but nothing ornamental in their outfitting. No drums, no flags,

no trumpets; a shining, yellow bugle at the hip of the foremost,--that

was all. Everything for use, nothing for display.. Clanking past they

came, four and four, four and four, in seeming endless procession;

weapons, and chains at the horse’s bits, jingling the only music of

their march. Not a word was spoken, not a glance to one side or the

other. At last the final four went by, and Frances drew a breath of

relief that a menace was past and done with.

“Do you think he saw us?” she whispered, not yet daring to speak

aloud,--a precaution rather absurd, for she might have shouted while

they were within arm’s length of her, and she would not have been heard

in the trampling of the horses.

“Saw us!” echoed Armstrong, “yes, every thread of our garments. What a

man! God of war, how I should like to fight him!”

“I thought you admired him.”

“So I do, more than any other on earth. If I had seen him before, I

doubt if I had been here.”

“I understood you to say you met him at Corbiton.”

“Met him, yes, by dim candle-light, smooth and courteous. But I never

really saw him until now. You cannot rightly judge a man--a fighter,

that is--until you have looked at him on horseback. That man knows my

business. For the first time since I set out I doubt my success.”

“Will you turn back?” she asked, her voice quavering.

“Oh, no! I’m his Roland. If we do not cross swords, we’ll run a race,

and may the best man win. But I feel strangely uncomfortable about the

neck, and I think of my ancestor Johnnie and the Scottish king.”

He raised his chin and moved his head from side to side, as if the

rope already throttled him. Then he laughed, and she gazed at him in

fascinated terror, wondering he could jest on a subject so gruesome.

“That man is likely to defeat me,” he continued. “His plans are all

laid, and already I feel the toils tightening around me. I am satisfied

he knows every move I have made since I left him. The unseen spy is

on my track, and, by my sword, I’d rather circumvent him than rule the

kingdom. Wull, whaur’s yer wits? Now’s the time ye need them, my lad. In

the first place, I dare not go through Northampton; that’s clear.”

“Why?”

“In my soul I’m certain a crisis awaits me there. I’ll be nabbed in

Northampton. Then the question, ‘Why did you refuse a pass to Oxford’?”

“Did he offer you one?”

“Yes. The next question will be,’ Why are you south of the limit set by

yourself, travelling to Oxford on another’s pass?’ To that query there’s

no answer. I’m a self-convicted spy, and then the scaffold, according to

all the rules of war.”

“Pardon me if I do not follow your argument. If he has tracked you, as

you think, there is no more reason he should stop you at Northampton

than at Newark or Grantham. Aside from that, why did he not hold you

when he had you?”

“Oh, I had not put my neck into the noose then. As for arresting me at

Newark or at Grantham, I see now that such was his intention, but our

friend Hezekiah failed him. It was undoubtedly Cromwell’s purpose that

we should have gone back with Benton.”

“Still, I do not believe you. If Cromwell is as crafty as you seem to

believe, it is likely he wishes you to reach Oxford. Unless that was the

case, why should he have offered you the pass?”

“My lass, there are several sides to this problem, and what you say

has the stamp of probability on it. Nevertheless, I’ll overset his

arrangements. I am the only one of us three who cannot give good excuses

for being in these parts. Here is the pass which protects you and old

John,” he said, giving her the document. “You and he will to Oxford

at your leisure. I shall gallop across country, will evade the

Parliamentary lines as best I may, and will be in Oxford to-morrow

morning. That will throw Old Noll a day out of his count.”

“Then you leave me to meet Cromwell alone?”

“You have no need to fear the meeting. Your plea is perfect. Your

brother was wounded, and you have undertaken his task. Of me or my plans

you know nothing, and I was with you merely because I happened to be

travelling this way, and had brought your wounded brother to his home.

And here is a great warning to us all. Happy is the person who can abide

by the truth; who has no secret designs to conceal. My lady, I envy

you.”

Frances made no reply, but sat there, bending her eyes on the ground.

There could be no doubt that his new resolve was the best move in the

circumstances, and she was not in a position to inform him that his

night march was unnecessary, and that he would be wise to husband his

horse’s power until he left Oxford, for then would come his time of

need.

“Well, let us get on,” he cried. “I’ll take the first by-road south.”

Cautious old John, with his limping horse, had gone forward while they

stood talking together, and now they cantered to overtake him.

Frances was glad of the cessation of conversation that she might have

opportunity of meditating on some argument that would retain him by

her side. If he left her, she was resolved to seek out Cromwell at

Northampton, tell him of her brother’s disaster, and explain her own

effort to make good his absence. When Cromwell was convinced that both

her brother and herself had faithfully endeavoured to carry out the

Commander’s wishes, he might then heed her pleading that sentence be

annulled, or at least suspended, until the boy had another chance of

proving his loyalty to his party. She thought she should succeed in this

appeal for mercy, as she was sure Cromwell himself must know her

brother was not a traitor. Her meditations were interrupted by Armstrong

suddenly drawing in his horse and standing up in his stirrups. She also

stopped and looked inquiringly at him. A high hedge bordered the road,

and he was endeavouring to peer beyond it.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I thought I caught a glint of a helmet over yonder.”

They went on at a walk, and shortly after passed a road that crossed

their own. Up this cross-road to the north, two troopers sat on their

horses; down the road to the south were two others. As Armstrong and

his companion continued west, the four troopers came out of their

concealment and followed them.

“By St. Andrew, trapped! I’m trapped as completely as ever was

Englishman in Tarras Moss!” muttered Armstrong.

CHAPTER V.--AFFECTION.

The four troopers allowed the distance between themselves and the

forward party neither to increase nor diminish until darkness set in,

when they closed up, but said nothing. There was no further conversation

between Frances and the young man. He held himself erect, and beyond

the first exclamation gave no intimation that he was disturbed by the

prospect before him. She was victim to the most profound dejection, and

was relieved when the gathering gloom allowed her pent-up tears to fall

unseen. The universal silence made the situation the more impressive.

The sun had gone down in a bank of cloud which now overspread the

heavens, threatening a storm and obscuring the moon.

At last the lights of Northampton glimmered ahead, and shortly after

a guard in front summoned them to stand. The troopers behind them also

stood, but took no part in what followed. An officer examined their

pass by the light of a lantern, but did not return it to them. His words

seemed reassuring enough.

“You are stopping the night at Northampton?”

“Yes,” replied Armstrong, although the pass had been given up by

Frances, and the officer’s inquiry was addressed to her.

“Have you any particular lodging in view?”

“No.”

“You may meet trouble in finding a suitable abiding-place,” said the

officer, “more especially for the lady. Northampton is little better

than a barracks at the moment. I will take you to ‘The Red Lion.’”

Saying this, but without waiting for any reply, he led the way with the

swinging lantern. “The Red Lion” proved a much less attractive hostelry

than the hospitable “Angel” at Grantham. It seemed occupied chiefly by

armed men, and resembled military headquarters more than an inn.

“You will perhaps wish to see to your horses yourself,” suggested the

officer to Armstrong.

“Yes, after I am assured that the lady is----”

“Have no anxiety on that score. I will place her in the guardianship of

the hostess, and will wait here for you.”

The assurance had all the definiteness of a command, and Armstrong,

without further parley, led away his own horse and hers, followed by old

John.

“Come this way, madam,” said the officer to Frances.

He escorted her up a stairway, and at the top turned to her and said

in a low voice: “General Cromwell’s commands were that you should be

brought to him as soon as you arrived.”

“Very well. I am ready.”

He knocked at a door, and a gruff voice from within told him to enter.

He opened the door and went in, followed by his prisoner.

“I have brought the woman, General. The man is under guard below.”

Saying this, and receiving no reply, the officer laid the pass on the

table and withdrew, closing the door behind him.

Cromwell stood at the window, looking down on the dark street below,

dotted with moving lights. His broad back was toward his visitor, and

he did not turn round even when he addressed her. On a chair rested his

polished breast-plate and steel cap, otherwise he was accoutred as he

had been when she saw him on the road. His voice was hoarse.

“Who are you, wench, and what are you to this man, that you range the

land brazenly together under a pass written for neither of you?”

With some difficulty the girl found her voice after two or three

ineffectual attempts to speak, and said: “I am Frances Wentworth, sister

to Lieutenant Wentworth of General Cromwell’s army.”

The General’s ponderous head turned slowly, and he bent his sullen eyes

upon her. She wondered Armstrong had not seen the brutal power of that

countenance even by candle-light.

“Why is your brother not in your place?”

“My brother was sorely wounded the morning he set out, and now lies

between life and death in our home.”

“How came he wounded?”

“He met Lord Rudby, who attacked him. My brother would not defend

himself, and so was thrust through the body. Armstrong brought him to

our house, and the doctor says he cannot be moved for a month at least.”

“Why was I not informed of this?”

“I did not know where to find you.”

“You, wench, surely did not know where to find me; but your brother knew

that a message to his nearest superior would find me.”

“My brother, I have told you, was dangerously wounded, and had but one

thing in his mind.”

“What was that? Lord Rudby’s daughter, most like.”

The rich colour mounted in the cheeks of Frances, but she answered

slowly: “It was to have done with the task you had set upon him.”

“He committed it to your hands then?”

“He did.”

“What was the task I set him?”

“It was to steal from Armstrong the King’s commission, and to deliver

the result of that theft to General Cromwell, the receiver.”

“Wench, your tongue is over-sharp; a grievous fault. I pray you amend

it.”

“Not until I have told you I am no wench, but a lady.”

“We have had too much of lady’s meddling in England, and will have less

of it in days to come. A wench, if she be honest, is better than a lady,

who is seldom honest. Your meddling in this matter has come near to

causing a serious disarrangement of great affairs. How was I to know who

you were or why you travelled? Has that foolish head of yours so little

understanding that, though you stopped at York, at Newark, at Grantham,

you gave no officer of mine a clue to your vagabondage?”

“A woman can fulfil her duty without so much babbling of it. My foolish

head never thought a great general wished his designs published from one

end of England to the other.”

The shaggy brows of Cromwell drew down over eyes that shot forth dull

fire. He turned completely around, seemed about to speak, but did not.

The flame of his glance died out, and he advanced to the table, picked

up the pass, examining it critically, back and front. Then he handed

it to her, saying slowly,--“If your brother had your brain without your

tongue, he would advance faster than he does.”

“Am I, then, to go on with this adventure?”

“Yes. You will reach Oxford to-morrow. The King will delay, and shuffle,

and suspect, until our Scot is in a fine fume of impatience. For three

days more I shall be in Northampton. After that for a week I shall be

at Broughton Castle, some few miles west of Banbury. If you should be

delayed longer in Oxford, I shall let you know where I am by means of De

Courcy, who----”

“De Courcy!” exclaimed the girl.

“Yes; what do you know of him?”

“If he is the same man who was in the _entourage_ of the King in

London,--a Frenchman of that name,--I know nothing good of him.”

“You cannot look for every virtue in the character of a spy, and we

who are doing the Lord’s work must use the tools the Lord places in our

hands.”

“The Lord has naught to do with De Courcy. He is a devil’s man, body and

soul.”

Cromwell scowled at her. “What mean you by that, hussy?” he asked

shortly.

“I mean that De Courcy would sell you as readily as he would the King,

if there was gold to be made of the bargaining. The Philistines come

with money in their hands, and they always find a De Courcy, male or

female.”

At this Biblical allusion the face of Cromwell cleared like magic,

and she had a glimpse of another facet of his character. A certain

exaltation which had nothing of hypocrisy in it radiated from his

countenance, and his voice rang clear when he spoke.

“Aye, my girl, and when there is a Samson of sin to be bound and

blinded, the Philistines do right to accomplish the act as best they

may. Judge not, that ye be not judged. Perchance this work to which your

hand is now set is not done for either God or your country.”

“It will be done for my brother’s life.”

“Aye, truly; and that is your Philistine’s wage. De Courcey toils not for

the life of another, but for gold, and let him that is without sin cast

the first stone. I give the wage demanded, and care nothing so that

God’s work be done. God’s work is the one thing important, so scorn not

De Courcy or any other, but seek his aid in Oxford if it be necessary to

communicate with me.”

“That shall I never do,” muttered the girl under her breath; and if

Cromwell heard he paid no heed.

“Have you given thought to your purpose?” he asked.

“I have thought of nothing else; it has never been absent from my mind.”

“How do you hope to accomplish possession?”

“I expect to enact the scriptural part of the ‘thief in the night,’

somewhere between Oxford and Carlisle.”

He had seated himself at the table, leaving her still standing before

him. At these words the frown came again to his brow, and anger to his

eyes.

“I do not like your iteration; it is not to the purpose, and is but

womanish.”

“I am a woman, and must bear the disadvantages of being so. As you have

said, that matters little so that the good work be done.”

“Between Oxford and Carlisle is vague. I cannot trust to a scheme so

lacking in definiteness. I shall have Armstrong laid by the heels long

before he reaches Carlisle. If the wench’s hand fail, then comes the

rough paw of the trooper immediately after. Your chance will be in

Banbury, where you must contrive to have him stop for the night.”

“If we leave Oxford early in the morning he will not be content to stop

in Banbury, which is less than twenty-five miles away, and even on the

coming hither we have covered more than double that distance each day.

He will be urgent on his return.”

“True, but there lies your task in management; you may fall ill, and I

question if he will leave you. I can order your pass taken from you at

Banbury, and a night’s delay caused. You will go to the inn called ‘The

Banbury Arms,’ at the sign of the blazoned sun. The inn-keeper will ask

for your pass, and when he sees it he will place you in adjoining rooms

which are fitted for your purpose. There is a communicating door, bolted

on your side, invisible, except by close scrutiny, on the other.

What follows will depend on your skill and quietness. Has the man any

suspicion of your intention toward him?”

“None in the least. He is honest and kind.”

“Ah! Do not dwell too much on his kindness in your thoughts, nor trust

anything to his honesty. Make it your business to know where he keeps

the King’s letter, and when it is once in your possession speed at once

to Broughton Castle and deliver it into my hands. I will exchange for it

full pardon and a Captain’s commission for your brother, and if you have

further to ask my ear will be inclined toward you.”

“I shall have nothing to ask except that this Scot be allowed to pass

unscathed to his home.”

Cromwell gazed intently at her for a moment, and she returned his look

clear-eyed and unabashed. He replied slowly: “If I were willing to harm

the Scot the case would be much simpler than it is. You left your home

thinking only of your brother, but now the stranger occupies at least a

part of your mind.”

“It is natural we should feel compassion for those we injure.”

A short time before the General had intimated that her tongue was

an unruly member, and for a moment it seemed that her impulsive

inexperience in dealing with men was about to wreck her plans, for now

even the girl was shrewd enough to see that she was sowing distrust of

herself in her opponent’s mind by incautious utterances. Cromwell

leaned back in his chair, and a look of rapt meditation crept over his

features. The girl saw she had vanished from his vision, and that the

grim man was alone with himself, inwardly questioning his thoughts and

demanding an answer. She realized intuitively that once this answer

were given, nothing she could say or do would turn him from the purpose

decided upon.

“O Youth, Youth!” he murmured, “how unstable thou art! A broken reed;

undependable! Give me the middle-aged; the steadfast. Youth is the flash

of the burning flax; middle age the steady flame of a consuming fire. Is

it not better to imprison this man secretly or hang him openly? He is a

convicted spy; every law of war will uphold me. If I grasp the thistle

it may sting me, but I shall uproot it. Yet----yet, why at this time

bring upon me the brawling Scots? Could I be but sure----the brother

risks all at the supreme moment and falls as the fool falleth. Why

should she be more firm? Were I sure of her----”

“Sir, you can be sure of me,” cried the girl in a panic, terror-stricken

at the sight his muttered phrases conjured before her.

“What! What! What! What say you?” Cromwell shook himself as a man rudely

awakened from sleep.

“I say you can be sure of me. I shall not falter.”

“You will bring me this document?”

“I swear to God I will.”

“Nay, nay, swear not at all. If a man’s word bear him not up, he

will sink when his oath alone buoys him. Wench, I will trust you; but

remember this: if I am compelled to take this man through force of arms,

to surround him with a troop and publicly wrench his burden from him,

I must as publicly hang him, to warn the next Scot who would make the

essay on Oxford. If you succeed, you save not only your brother’s life,

but this man’s as well. Now go. Let there be no turning back from the

plough to which your hand is set.”

Frances retreated and let herself out of the room. On the stair-head at

the end of the passage, well out of possible earshot, two soldiers stood

on guard, and between them an elderly woman, who immediately advanced

when she saw the girl leave the General’s room.

“I am the landlady,” she said. “Will you come with me?”

“I wish a word with my friend,” replied Frances. The woman appeared

nonplussed, and stood hesitating; but at that moment the officer who had

conducted her came up the stair and approached. “I wish to speak with

Mr. Armstrong,” she said to him. “Where is he?”

“One moment, madam, if you please,” replied the officer, knocking at the

General’s door. He was not bade to enter, but the single word, “Oxford,”

uttered in a deep voice, came from within. The subordinate appeared to

understand, and with a bow to the lady said: “Mr. Armstrong is waiting

below. Will you come down, or shall I ask him to come up?”

“You may tell him I wish to see him.”

She walked to the head of the stair and saw Armstrong alone in the lower

hall, pacing up and down with a fine swagger of Scottish indifference,

which he must have been far from feeling, while the doorway was blocked

by two guards holding grounded pikes. The moment the young man saw her

he came bounding up the stair two steps at a time. All the guards, above

and below, seemed struck with simultaneous alertness, and made a motion

which, if continued, would have brought their weapons to bear on the

prisoner, but a slight signal from the officer’s hand brought back their

former stolidity.

“Oh, Mr. Armstrong, I merely wished to know at what hour we set out

to-morrow.”

“_Do_ we set out to-morrow?” he asked in a whisper. “Yes, there is no

obstacle between here and Oxford. I was up so late last night, and that,

with this long, dragging journey to-day, has tired me. All I wished to

know was the hour for to-morrow.”

“But you will have supper with me?”

“No. I can eat nothing. I am too tired.”

“Now, that’s strange. I’m as hungry as the Tweed at flood time. Let me

persuade you.”

“Thank you, but I would rest. Good-night.”

In all his life he never forgot that picture of the girl at the

stair-head looking down upon him. There was a pathetic droop in her

attitude which was usually so firm and erect, as if the gloom of this

fortress-inn oppressed her. Childlike and forlorn she seemed, and

a great wave of pity surged up in his heart for her, while his arms

thrilled with a yearning to enclasp and comfort her.

“Good-night!” he cried, impulsively thrusting forth his hand to her. She

did not appear to notice the extended hand, and he almost imagined she

shrank from it. As she went away he had one more lingering look from

her, over her shoulder. A smile, sad and weary, but inexpressibly sweet,

lingered on her lips.

“Good-night,” she whispered.

CHAPTER VI.--REJECTION.

There had been a lashing of rain and a clatter of thunder over

Northampton in the night, as if the town were again besieged; but

morning broke clear and beautiful, and when the pilgrims got out

into the country again, the freshness of the air, the sparkle of the

rain-drops on the trees, caused the world to seem newly made. The girl

rode silent and thoughtful, but the young man was bubbling over with

high spirits.

“What a wonderful magician is the morning after a rain in midsummer!” he

cried. “It transforms everything and glorifies the commonest object, and

it transmutes our thoughts from lead to silver. Last night, with the sky

overcast and the coming storm growling in the west, when the air hung

heavy and the gloom settled down upon us, every man was a lurking enemy,

and that innocent tavern a place of dungeons instead of ale-cellars.

This morning, hey, presto! a wave of the conjurer’s wand, and every

soldier is a jolly fellow and a well-wisher. I’m ashamed to confess

it in this bright light, but last night I was in a panic, like a lad

passing through a graveyard. Never before did my spirits sink to so low

an ebb. Those kindly men bustling round to be of help to me with the

horses seemed, to my distorted brain, on the watch lest I should give

them the slip, and when the guards were set at the door after I had

entered and was waiting for you, I thought they were so placed to keep

me prisoner, and when the polite officer told me they were there

every night, I actually disbelieved him. Even his own actions seemed

suspicious, but now, as I look back on it, he was merely one of the few

courteous persons in the Parliamentary army.”

Armstrong suddenly threw back his head and laughed aloud, as if some

humourous recollection had come to him.

“That poor officer must have thought me mad. When I came in from the

stables I called for the landlady and asked where you were. She said you

were in your room. I then requested her to find out if you would see me

for a moment, and without reply she disappeared up the stair. I waited

and waited, but she did not return. The officer was now by my side,

chattering away about something to which I gave no attention. All at

once the absurd idea struck me that you were with Cromwell, taken there

by the officer, and that Old Noll was brow-beating you and threatening

you, to learn something of me and what I was about.”

“No one asked me anything about you or your business,” said the girl.

“Of course not. I see that plainly now, but I give you my word it was

real enough then. Without a word of warning I broke in on the amazed

officer and shouted, ‘Where is General Cromwell?’ The man looked

dumbfounded, as well he might; then he answered quietly enough, ‘The

General is in the Castle, half a mile from here.’ Even then a glimmer

of sense came to me, and I explained that the General had passed us that

afternoon, and I wondered if he had stopped at Northampton. The officer

said he had, and next moment the landlady appeared at the stair-head,

and you a moment or two after. What tricks imagination can play with a

man!”

“I was as anxious as you were last night, and shall always think of

Northampton as the gloomiest town I ever saw.”

“I am glad to be quit of it. I wonder if that officer has given us the

right direction? It seems to me that we should be bearing further south

for Oxford. But perhaps the road takes a turn presently.”

“The road is right for the way we are going. We pass through Banbury,

which is not much longer than the direct route. I intend to leave Old

John at Banbury, and with him this permit, which will be a danger to

carry until we turn north again. Banbury is on the straight road to

Scotland, which I suppose will be the way you go on your return.”

“You are right in that. I’ll travel north as the crow flies if I can.”

“Then what say you to making Banbury our first stop on the homeward run,

after we leave Oxford, taking early to the road the next morning.”

“How far is Banbury from Oxford?”

“Less than thirty miles, I think.”

“Oh, we can do better than that. I must make from seventy to one hundred

miles a day on my road home.”

“There is sometimes real speed in apparent slowness.”

“True. We shall be guided by circumstances, of course. Much will depend

on the hour of the day we are done with Oxford.”

Frances said nothing more, for she saw that the stop at Banbury would

have to be managed from Oxford, and that it would require some tact on

her part to arrange it. The ever-increasing moon was against her, for

if there was much delay at Oxford, not only would Armstrong be the more

impatient to get north, but night would soon be almost as light as

day, and therefore travel would only be limited by the endurance of

themselves and their horses. She wished Cromwell had selected some

spot at least fifty miles farther away than Banbury, but, with a sigh,

accepted the conditions presented to her and resolved to do her best.

At Banbury she had no difficulty in leading her unsuspicious comrade

to “The Banbury Arms,” and there they left Old John with his crippled

horse. The landlord was a quiet, furtive-looking man, with a manner that

suggested an intermittent glancing over the shoulder. Frances resolved

to say nothing to him at this time, believing they had come so quickly

from Northampton that she was in advance of any instructions he was to

receive, but in this she was mistaken. With Cromwell to decide was to

act, and some one had evidently come through in the night. While they

halted, waiting the preparation of a meal, the soft-footed innkeeper,

watching his opportunity, drew the girl aside and asked her if she

possessed a pass; if so he would like to see it. He was very apologetic,

saying all public-house keepers so near to Oxford were compelled by the

military charge of the town to assure themselves that travellers who

stopped with them were properly vouched for, otherwise it would be his

duty to detain them and report to the local commandant. She presented

the pass to him without a word, and he read it in silence, then looked

at her as if he expected some comment. At last he said:

“Perhaps you intend to stop here on your return?”

“Yes. Have you received instructions already?”

“I have, and everything is prepared. Would you come up now and look at

the room? Then, if for any reason I am not here when you come back, you

will see that no mistake is made.”

He took her to an upper room and explained to her the action of the

concealed door, which moved without a sound on well-oiled hinges.

“During the night you occupy this room. I shall have a horse ready, and

will be in waiting for you myself until morning. I am to show you the

way to the Castle. When you see the General, perhaps you would do me the

kindness to tell him that this room was prepared within two hours after

I received his commands. He likes prompt service.”

“I shall tell him of your promptness if I remember to do so.”

“Thank you. Perhaps you will let me remind you of it when you ride to

the Castle?”

“Very well.”

“You will find the road to Oxford without impediment until you reach

the lines of the King. I hope you will have a safe sojourn there and a

speedy return.”

The girl thanked him for his good wishes with what courtesy she could

call to her aid, for at heart she loathed him; his smooth, oily,

ingratiating manner, and his shifty glance making her shiver with

repulsion. Yet, she said to herself, conscience accusing, this man was

merely an assistant in a deed where she herself acted the leading part.

He was a mercenary, doubtless, doing what he was bid, but against a

stranger and an enemy, while she plotted against a friend and a man

who trusted her. Fervently she prayed that Providence might intervene

between the resolution and its accomplishment, in some way rendering her

project unnecessary. There was a slight hope that the suspicious King

might not receive Armstrong as the envoy of the Scots. He carried no

credentials, and Charles, if he employed him, must accept the Borderer’s

unsupported word that he was what he declared himself to be. She feared

that Charles was in such straits that he would clutch at any straw, but

hoped his natural distrust would come into play, so that Armstrong might

return empty-handed to Scotland, while she would be relieved of this

fell betrayal, from which, as events stood, she saw no way of escape.

Glad was she to leave Banbury behind her, but tremblingly did she dread

the time when she should see it again. The road, as the innkeeper had

predicted, was clear, and now for the first time during that journey she

was alone with her fellow traveller, Old John pottering over his lame

horse in the stables of the Banbury inn.

The spirits of the young man were as high as those of the girl were low.

He saw that for some reason unknown to him she was depressed, and he

tried to banter her into a more cheerful frame of mind; but, this

effort bringing with it indifferent success, he broke out into song,

and carolled to her some of the Border ballads, both sentimental and

humourous, varying his chanting with explanatory excursions into the

legends that had given rise to the verses. This was more successful,

for few can withstand the magic of a sympathetic voice and a good song,

especially when the summer afternoon was perfect, as all the days of

their march had been. The birds on either hand warbled an accompaniment;

the landscape was empty of humanity, and they had the fair world to

themselves. If tormenting thought would but have left her unmolested,

the girl knew she would have delighted in this irresponsible outing as

thoroughly as her companion enjoyed it. To all outward appearance they

were in a very elysium of peace, yet they were approaching the storm

centre of the most distracted country on earth, and this seemed typical

of her own situation, for although an enforced calm characterized her

demeanour, despair was raging in her heart.

Several times the obedient Bruce, guided by an unseen touch, edged close

to her, but Armstrong could not fail to perceive that the girl shrank

from his proximity, and this abashed him, silencing his song and

jocularity. But a lover must be bold if he would prosper. Here was a

Heaven-sent opportunity, and what more can a man ask than that? In an

hour or two they would be in the midst of a thronged city, where she

would meet the friends she expected to see. Who could predict what might

happen? It was possible she would elect to remain in Oxford. One or more

of her friends might accompany her back to Durham. Now or never was

the motto. Yet he had not the least notion how he ought to begin,

but thought that in such a crisis a great deal must depend on the

presentation of the case. Why had he let slip so many chances of getting

information on a subject that now loomed with new importance before him?

There was her own brother, to take the latest instance, who would

have been glad to find a confidant, and needed but the slightest

encouragement that morning in the lane to dissipate all the mystery

surrounding a proposal. Thomas Wentworth had solved the problem, yet he

was no older than this slip of a girl riding by his side. They had gone

a mile or two in silence; a silence in marked contrast to his soniferous

setting out. Frances feared that her seemingly sullen indifference had

offended him, and, glancing surreptitiously at him from under her long

lashes, met his own eyes fixed upon her. She smiled a little and said:

“Have you no more songs?”

“I have one more,” he answered, speaking hurriedly, “but I have never

sung it before, and am just a little in doubt how to begin. I think if I

got the measure of it I could carry it on, but am not sure.”

“Is it that you have been thinking about so long?”

“Yes. There is a chorus to it, and there you must help me.”

“How can I if I don’t know it?”

“If I can sing a song I never tried before, perhaps you could do the

same with the chorus.”

“Very well, let me hear the song. Is it one of those fighting ballads?”

“No. It is a love song, pure and simple.”

“I like the others better. Brave and noble actions are the only deeds

worthy of poetry.”

“I used to think that myself, but I have come to change my mind. It

seems to me now that true love is the only theme for either song or

story.”

“Oh!” said the girl, with a coldness that froze instantly his budding

enthusiasm. She sat up straighter on her horse, and turned her face

resolutely toward Oxford, as if she did not approve the tendency of the

conversation. Armstrong was stricken dumb at finding his indirect course

thus blocked before him. The girl was the first to speak.

“I wonder how soon we will be in sight of Oxford,” she said.

“Not for a long time, I hope.”

“Why do you say that? Are you not as eager as I to reach Oxford?”

“There are some important matters to be settled before we come to the

end of our journey.”

Frances directed upon him a look of troubled resolution. Intuitively

she knew that they were come to the edge of a declaration which she had

hoped might be avoided. Several times on the way the danger seemed to

approach and vanish, but now the glow of his luminous eyes were not to

be mistaken. In them she read a consuming love of herself which was not

to be balked, yet which must be balked, and so it became now or never

with her, as it was with him. Whatever words he found would be less

eloquent than the glances he had before now cast upon her, and it was

well to have the event over and done with.

“What important matters are to be settled?” she asked firmly.

All courage seemed to desert him under the intensity of her survey, but

with the dourness of his race he urged himself forward, yet not in a

direct line. Something of the military strategy with which he would

approach a fortress insinuated itself into his love-making.

“We must decide in what guise you are to enter Oxford.”

This remark certainly had the effect of throwing the holder of the

fortress off her guard. It swept away the tribulation from her brow.

After all, the case might not be so serious as she had thought, and

jubilantly she welcomed the respite, for she had no wish to add a

humiliation to the wrong which fate had decreed she should work upon

him. She breathed a sigh of relief and said:

“What guise? I’m afraid I do not understand.”

“You see, hitherto we have been shielded by a pass. Its wording was such

that little inquiry was made about either of us. Now, for the first time

we have no protection, and what we say to those who accost us must prove

our safeguard. I shall be asked who you are. I told your brother that I

would treat you as if you were my own sister, but I cannot call you my

sister at Oxford.”

“Why not.”

“For one reason, because you go to meet friends who know that I am not

your brother, and if inquiry is made we are at a disadvantage.”

“True, true! I had forgotten.”

“Another reason is that if we claimed such relationship no one would

believe us, for your hair is as black as the raven’s wing, and mine is

like the yellow corn.”

For the first time that day the girl laughed outright and lifted her

eyes to the locks that so well became him. The simile of Samson

again flashed upon her and checked her mirth, but she put the thought

resolutely away from her. Armstrong laughed also, well pleased with his

progress.

“I had not thought of that,” she said.

“But I thought of it, and also of a way to circumvent it. If they ask

who the lady is, I shall tell them she is my betrothed.”

“No, no, no!” gasped the girl.

“Why not? as you asked a moment since. All’s fair in love----and war.

The country is at war, and we may make true the rest of the adage.”

“No, no!” she repeated.

He was now close by her side and endeavoured to take her hand, but she

held it from him.

“You say no because you will not act a lie, and I honour you for your

truth. You are robed in truth, my beloved, as an angel is----”

“Oh, cease, cease, I beg of you!”

“Frances, this is the song that bubbles in my heart, and if my lips

could worthily fulfil their prompting, I would put it to such words and

such music as woman never listened to before. But, lacking eloquence, I

can only say, My lady, I love you.”

“And I can only say I am sorry if this be so.”

“If! Why do you say if? Do you not know it to be true?”

“I know it now that you tell it to me.”

“Must a man speak ere he can convey to the woman he loves the fact that

he loves her?”

“If the woman love him not, he must speak, and still she finds his

preference unaccountable.”

“You do not love me?”

“No.”

“And cannot?”

“And cannot.”

“You would even rob me of all hope, the lover’s guiding star?”

“If you call it robbing to take from you what should never have been

possessed.”

“Why should I not have possessed that hope? Is it because I am untitled,

while you are the daughter of the man who was the proudest peer in

England?”

“Titles have naught to do with it.”

“Titles are but a breath; still, men have intrigued for them, have sold

their souls for them, as others have bartered for gold. That shall I do.

I thought never to beg from any man, yet for this King I stake my life,

and it is but fair he should cover my wager. I will say to him, I go to

Scotland on your behest, through an enemy’s country. Death or treachery

dog every footstep I take. I may win or lose, but if I win, then I

demand the stakes, which will not take a silver penny from your depleted

treasury. Make me Earl of the Southern Marches.”

“You ask a just reward, but ’twould be useless as assistant to the

quest you now pursue.”

“Frances, no lover truly entitled to bear that dear name, thinks himself

worthy of her on whom his heart is set, and I do not plead my own

worthiness when I sue for your favour. But I am buoyed up by the thought

that every day we live some woman marries some man, therefore are women

to be persuaded, and there are none on earth but us to persuade them.

Why should my fortune be worse than that of my fellows?”

“Sir, you forget or ignore that every day of our lives some woman

refuses some man, and never marries him. Why should your fortune differ

from that of so many of your fellows?”

“You have pierced the armour there, my girl, so I own my simile

defective, and fall back on my own unworthiness, to beseech your pity on

it, and point the way to that amendment which will make me deserving in

your eyes.”

“Sir, you force me unduly. You drive me toward confession. Pitying God

is my witness that I hold naught against you.”

“Then, Frances, all is well with us. An English princess, as you told

me, journeyed north to marry a Scottish king. Let us furnish a _quid pro

quo_, for the King of the Border rides south to win an English princess.

Here we are on the march together to meet the descendant of Scottish

prince and English princess, so we cannot do better than follow the

example of his forebears.”

“Sir, your precedent is unfortunate. The English princess made but a

foolish wife for the royal Scot, and their descendant is a man whose

word is a frail dependence. Indeed you said their house had exercised

a fatal influence on yours, so beware the omens. Put not your trust in

princesses, English or other.”

“I put my trust on one as on an altar, and kneel before it.”

“That I warn you not to do. Many a man has lost his trust through such

blind folly.”

“So shall not I.”

“Sir, you are confident, and are likely to meet with confidence

betrayed. You must accept my answer as final, and let us have an end of

this fruitless and embarrassing conversation. I can never marry you.”

“There is but one circumstance to prevent it.”

“Then believe that circumstance exists.”

“You love another?”

“I do not.”

The young man laughed joyously, but no corresponding smile disturbed the

set lips of the girl. He should have seen how painful this dialogue had

been to her, but with a lover’s selfishness he had eyes for nothing but

the object of pursuit; ears for nothing but the words he hoped to compel

her to say; pursuing her thus from one point of refuge to another, each

abandoned in turn, with no thought but that of capture. Her face was

white with dread, a whiteness made the more striking by the jet framing

of her hair. Never during the conference had she looked at him since the

first direct gaze when she took the resolution to have this disturbing

business put at rest forever. The horses walked on unguided, her eyes on

the road immediately before her. When he accused her of loving another

she glanced up at him for one brief moment, and answered before she

thought, wishing her reply recalled as soon as it was uttered, for if

she had agreed with him, he himself had said it was at an end. Bitterly

did she regret her heedless destruction of the barrier which would

have separated them. Now she must erect another, more terrible, more

complete, be the consequences what they may.

“Sir, you laugh. I am glad your heart is light, for mine is heavy

enough. If I loved another, ’t were a small matter, for the man were

not likely so estimable in a woman’s eyes as you are. As I have said,

you drive me toward confession, and here is one bold enough for a maiden

to make. I admit you please me well, and if I had loved another--a

woman’s affection is fickle--you were like to benefit by its

transference. But there is an obstacle between us more serious than the

one you proclaimed sufficient. Take that as truth, and ask me no more.”

“I must be the judge of the obstacle. What is it?”

“I dare not tell you.”

“Will you never tell me?”

“I shall make full confession when this war is finished, if you ask me.”

“What have we to do with the war?”

“You speak as a Scot. ’T is an unnecessary question, for you know all

in England are entangled in its meshes.”

“But it can have nothing to do with your feeling toward me, or my

adoration of you.”

“You shall judge when you hear.”

“Then let me hear now.”

“No. Your persistence, when you see how distraught I am, dims your title

of gentleman. A lady should not be coerced.”

“Your censure is just; but oh, pity my despair if this obstacle be real!

It cannot be real. Whatever it is it shall dissolve before my burning

love as mist before the sun. Tell it to me now, that I may show you that

it is the fabric of a vision.”

The girl remained silent, her impetuous lover fiercely questioning

her bowed head with his eyes. But as if in the interval of stillness a

spectre intervened between them and brought a startled expression into

his eyes, their intensity sharpened suddenly, and he said in a low

voice: “Do not tell me you are already married?”

“And what if I am?” asked the girl hopelessly. “Would the knowledge that

such were the case end this useless discussion?”

“No, by my salvation, it would not. If you admit but the slightest

esteem for me, I will carry you to my castle in the North and hold it

safe for you against the world. Are you, then, wedded?”

“I am wedded to deceit. Sir, I am not worthy your love, or that of any

other honest man. If you knew what it costs me to say this, you would

let these words be the last we speak in this painful debate.”

“Deceit? Not worthy of any honest man? Lord save you, child of sweet

innocence, if this is all that troubles you, there is nothing in our

way to the church. Your eyes are limpid wells of honesty. You could

not harbour a deceitful thought if you tried. I would trust my life, my

honour, my very soul to your keeping, assured that------”

“O God of mercy! why do you torture me?” cried the girl in a burst of

anguish, bending her head over the horse’s mane. The astonished young

man placed his hand affectionately on her shoulder, and felt her shudder

beneath his touch.

“My dearest lass,” he began, but never finished the sentence.

“_Halt!_” came a sharp command. Armstrong looked up like a man awakening

from a dream.

“‘Fore God!” he cried, wonder-stricken, “we’re on the outposts of

Oxford.”

A ragged soldier barred the way, with musket held horizontally. An

officer in a uniform that had once been gaudy, but now showed signs

of hard usage, came out from the cabin at the side of the road when he

heard the sentinel’s challenge. Though his costume was so threadbare,

he carried it with a swagger that had almost a touch of insolence in it,

but this bearing melted to a debonair deference when he saw a handsome

young woman before him. He lifted his hat and addressed her companion.

“Pardon me. Have you the pass-word?”

“No. I am from Scotland and bear a message to his Majesty the King.”

“From Scotland? May I glance at your credentials?”

“I carry none. I have come through a hostile country; have been searched

once or twice and arrested as often. Had there been writing on me I

should not now be standing at the doorstep of Oxford.”

“I shall do myself the honour of conducting you to the Chamberlain of

his Majesty. And the lady?”

Armstrong took the girl’s hand, this time without opposition on the part

of its owner; it was cold as ice.

“The lady is my wife,” he said boldly; then added, in a whisper heard

only by herself,--“that is to be.”

The officer bowed and led the way to the town.

“I wish we were in Scotland,” said the young man very quietly.

“So do I,” sighed the girl.

“Because what I said at the outworks would then have constituted a

marriage between us, if you had replied yes.”

The girl withdrew her hand from his and turned away her head.

CHAPTER VII.--CHECKMATED.

The one on foot and the two on horseback entered the fortress which had

hitherto proved impregnable, and traversed its streets until they came

to “The Crown” inn. Oxford was no longer the home of learning for any

art save that of war. A few students still strolled its thoroughfares,

but the military man was everywhere. The colleges had been turned into

barracks and arsenals; the King himself lived in Christ Church, over the

towers of which floated the royal standard, now almost the only red spot

in all England.

As the party came to a halt the officer turned to Armstrong. “A

propitious meeting,” he said, “here comes the Lord Great Chamberlain

himself.”

Armstrong noted the approach of a man with a countenance so remarkable

that it might have been taken as typical of war. From brow to chin

was drawn a long red scar, while another ran transversely across the

forehead just over the eyes, so that there flamed from his face an angry

cross that gave a most sinister expression to a visage which, lacking

these time-healed wounds, would have been handsome. The Chamberlain

stopped abruptly in his advance, his gaze riveted upon the girl,

and there came into his eyes a look of such malignity that Armstrong

instantly turned his glance upon his travelling companion. The girl’s

cheeks had gone deathly white, and she swayed blindly in her saddle,

perilously near to falling. The young man sprang from his horse and

caught her just in time. Bitterly he blamed himself for this unexpected

collapse, cursing his persistence on the road, when he had plainly

seen that some strong emotion tormented her. This mental perturbation,

combined with the physical strain she had undergone during their long

journey, fully accounted for the prostration of the moment at the end.

“My poor lass,” he said regretfully, “I am to blame. I am a thoughtless,

selfish hound to have so sorely troubled you with my insistence.”

“It is not that,” she whispered faintly, leaning heavily on him with the

pathetic helplessness of a tired child, a dependence which sent a thrill

of pity and love for her tingling to his finger-ends. “Take me in; take

me in quickly. I am ill.”

Now the Lord Great Chamberlain, all smiles and courtesy, stepped forward

and said with authority to the innkeeper:

“The chief rooms in the house for the lady. Turn out whoever occupies

them, whatever their quality.”

The landlord called his wife, and Frances was given into her care.

The officer introduced the traveller to the high official: “My Lord

Chamberlain, this gentleman says he has come from the Scottish nobles

with a message for his Majesty. Sir, Monsieur de Courcy, Lord Great

Chamberlain to the King.”

Frenchman and Scot bowed to each other, the grace of the gesture being

almost entirely in favour of the former, despite his marred face.

“Sir,” said Armstrong to the officer, “I thank you for your guidance;

and you, my lord,” to De Courcy, “for your kind and prompt command with

respect to the lady. She has had a long and tiring journey through a

dangerous country, under continual fear of arrest, and so it is not to

be wondered that a woman should succumb to the strain at the last.”

“Our countries have ever been friends and allies,” said De Courcy with

the utmost amiability, “and I trust that we, meeting on what is to each

of us foreign soil, may be animated by a like regard.”

“I thank you, my lord, and, speaking for myself, admit that I have

always looked with affection upon France and her brave and gallant

sons.”

Again De Courcy graciously inclined his head, and replied: “And believe

me, sir, if you were acquainted with her daughters, your affection for

the fair land would not be diminished. I regret that I have never set

foot in Scotland, but hope some day that such will be my privilege. The

officer who has left us did not give me your name.”

“I am William Armstrong, somewhat known on the Border, a Scottish

gentleman, and a loyal subject of his Majesty the King.”

“Then you are very welcome in Oxford, and I am sure his Majesty wishes

there were more like you in the environs thereof and the regions beyond.

It is now too late to see the King to-day, and probably you are not

loath to meet a night’s rest after a hard day’s riding. I will arrange a

conference for you with his Majesty as soon as possible.”

“Thank you. If I may hint that every day is of value, you will perhaps

urge upon the King the danger of delay.”

“I shall not fail to do so. Good-night.”

For the first time in his life Armstrong left his horse to the care of

others and entered the inn to inquire after the welfare of the lady who

absorbed his thoughts. She sent word that she was quite recovered, but

would see no one until the morrow. With this he was fain to be content,

and he wandered about the town in the gathering dusk, hoping to do her

a service by discovering the whereabouts of Lord Rudby’s son, to whom he

supposed she carried some message from her brother. He learned that this

young man, who was a captain in the King’s army, had been sent, it was

supposed, to London, but nothing had been heard of him for a month

or more, and whether he was prisoner or not, none could say. This

intelligence depressed Armstrong, who feared that the girl had taken

her long journey for nothing, and that the failing to find the one she

sought might entail serious consequences upon her brother or herself,

for each in turn had manifested great concern touching the mission she

had undertaken.

Next morning his first visitor was the Lord Chamberlain, who expressed

deep regret that the King was indisposed and could not see any emissary

from the Scots that day. The high official spoke feelingly of the

disappointment the monarch had been called upon to endure through the

unmerited success of his rebellious subjects, and this statement seemed

to the traveller only what was to have been expected.

During the day Armstrong was privileged in securing one brief interview

with Frances. The landlord had placed two rooms at her disposal, and in

the scantily furnished parlour the young man had called upon her. The

improvement she had affirmed the evening before was scarcely borne out

by her appearance, for she was wan and dispirited, so much so that when

Armstrong announced the disappearance of Captain Rudby, the tidings did

not seem to depress her more than was already the case. However, the

news clung to her mind; for, as he was telling her that the King could

not see him that day, she suddenly said, in a tone which showed she had

not been listening, that as Captain Rudby was not in Oxford, there was

no reason why she should stay. She would go on at once to Banbury, and

there await the coming of Armstrong. But the young man would not hear of

such a course. It was impossible, he said, that an unprotected lady in

the disturbed state of the country should travel alone between Oxford

and Banbury. It was not likely that he would be held from the King more

than another day, and then they would both set out together. Besides,

she needed all the rest she could obtain before they turned north again.

The girl was too deeply dejected even to argue the question, when he

so strenuously opposed her desire. It seemed that a contrary fate

was tightening the coils around her, and all struggle against it was

fruitless. There were unshed tears in her eyes as she glanced timidly

up at him, and she had the haunted look of one who was trapped. The

unforeseen meeting with De Courcy, although Cromwell’s words should have

prepared her for it, had completely unnerved her; that nightmare face of

his confronting her whenever she closed her eyes. The past had come

up before her in its most abhorrent guise. She remembered striking him

fiercely with the jagged iron she happened to hold in her hand, and

thought anything was justified that enabled her to escape his clutches,

but that he would carry so fearful a disfiguration to his grave chilled

her with fear of his vengeance; for if ever murder shone from a man’s

eyes it glared in his when she caught his first glance the evening

before. All during the night the terrifying vision drove sleep from her

couch, and she pondered on some possible method of escape, but without

result. How gladly she would have confided her peril to Armstrong, did

she stand in honest relation to him, but she could not bring herself

to ask help from a man whom she had just rejected and whom she would

shortly rob. When Armstrong mentioned the absence of Rudby, she had

utterly forgotten that the ostensible reason for this Oxford journey

was to see him, and for a moment it appeared that here lay a loophole of

escape, but Armstrong’s outspoken opposition to her plan left her

with no adequate excuse for persisting in it. All force of purpose had

deserted her, and it seemed impossible that it could have been she who

for the sake of a father she had seen but once had braved the rage-mad

Queen of England and threatened the monarch himself in his own court in

the height of his power. What subtle change had come over her imperious

will? What alchemy had converted the strong wine of her resolve to vapid

water? It was not personal fear. She had met De Courcy before, and even

when he had her at his mercy, lured into his private room, her high

courage never faltered. But now her whole impulse was to call for aid

from another; to have that other protect her, and to obey his slightest

wish. Here was a mutability indeed for the daughter of the strenuous

Strafford! This feeling was something new, something strange, something

unaccountable. And that other stood before her, anxious to heal her

hurt, but diagnosing wrongly, powerless to apply the soothing balm.

She wished him there, for his strong presence calmed her; yet she also

wished him gone, that she might collect her scattered thoughts. Absent

or present, he disturbed her, and she wondered if this could be love,

which she had imagined brought peace and joyous content.

During this unsatisfactory coming together, little was said by either.

The girl sat in a chair by a small table, and he stood on the other

side. Most of the time her head rested on her hand, and he saw she was

near to tears. He censured himself again for his ill-timed avowal of the

day before, but saw no method by which he could annul its consequences

save by saying nothing more.

On the third day of his stay in Oxford the suave De Courcy was compelled

to bewail the continued indisposition of the King. There were various

important matters awaiting his Majesty’s attention, he said, but nothing

could be done until his recovery. Meanwhile, to pass time that must

be hanging heavily on the visitor’s hands, the thoughtful Frenchman

suggested that Armstrong should indulge in a stroll around the

fortifications. Oxford was believed to be unassailable, but De Courcy

would be pleased to hear any criticisms the new-comer cared to pass upon

the defences. Armstrong expressed his concurrence with this proposal,

and thought at first that the obliging foreigner was to be his guide;

but shortly after they set out, De Courcy introduced him to an officer

who was to be his cicerone, and excused himself because of the King’s

illness, which had placed on his shoulders many duties that had

heretofore been absent from them. As soon as the two were out of sight,

De Courcy hastened back to the inn, passed up the stair, and knocked

at the door of the room occupied by Frances Wentworth. On receiving

permission to enter, he went in and closed the door behind him. The

girl, who had expected a different caller, rose from her chair and stood

silent.

“Madam, this is a meeting which I have long looked forward to with

pleasant anticipation.”

“Sir, I regret that I have no share in your felicity.”

“Perhaps you prefer that we should meet as enemies.”

“I prefer that we should not meet at all, and, knowing this, you may be

good enough to make your visit as short as possible.”

“I cannot find words to express my sorrow, on learning I am so

unwelcome. I am sure that when last we met, I did my best to make your

visit as long as I could, so why should you wish to shorten mine?”

It seemed to the girl that there was something unnecessarily shameless

in his allusion to a circumstance that had so disfigured him. As she

made no reply, he went on with airy nonchalance: “Will you excuse me

if I lock the door, and, showing that experience is a proficient

schoolmaster, I ask the extension of your forgiveness to cover the act

of putting the key in my pocket. We live and learn, you know. Not that

I fear any interruption, for the innocent and excellent Scot is at this

moment investigating our battlements under the care of a shrewd guide,

and will not return this three hours or more.” The polite intruder

locked the door and put the key in his pocket; then advanced toward her.

She retreated to the other room, and for a moment he thought she was

about to barricade herself within, but she reappeared on the instant

with a jewelled dagger in her hand.

“I warn you, sir, that if you approach within striking distance I will

pierce you to the heart.”

The Frenchman smiled and waved his fine white hands with a gesture of

inimitable grace.

“Fairest of the Wentworths,” he said, “the glances of those lustrous

eyes have already pierced that sensitive organ. Alas, that it is my fate

they should beam upon me in anger. Well, my Lady Wentworth, you see I do

not approach you, but grant my bravery the justice to believe that it

is not fear of the sting that prevents my sipping the honey. May I sit

down, and if I place this table between us, will you feel safer?”

“_You_ will be safer so long as it remains between us.”

“I assure you my own safety weighs but lightly with me. I implore you to

be seated, for I cannot converse at ease with a lady who is standing.”

“I prefer to stand. Your ingrained courtesy will then cause you to make

our conference brief.”

“It distresses me to say that you are prolonging the conference by

standing. We have grave particulars of state policy to discuss, and I

cannot begin while you are so cruel as to put me in the light----”

“Oh, very well!” cried Frances, impatiently, taking her own chair;

whereupon he, elegantly gracious, seated himself opposite her, with the

table between them.

“How ideally charming you look! I swear there is none to compare with

you, even in that land of loveliness to which I have the honour to

belong. Will you believe me when I say that there has not been a day

since I last saw you, that I have not thought of you. I was angry at

first, as you may well imagine, but at last I saw that I had been to

blame, although I think the punishment must have obliterated my crime.”

He paused for a few moments, but, she making no reply, he continued:

“Grief for the loss of you filled my heart. You think I come here as an

enemy, but I come as a suppliant. In the folly of that time at Whitehall

I refused you marriage, and I do not wonder you were wroth at me. I wish

to atone for what you justly considered an insult, and am willing to

marry you in the face of the world.”

“I thank you.”

“I shall ask no questions anent this awkward Scot who has been your

courier, for I am sure you can have thought nothing of him.”

“I thank you.”

“You return thanks coldly, but I know that is the English nature. The

fire of France is not to be expected in this northern clime, but if you

say yes to my pleading, I am satisfied.”

“If I wished for fire I would go down and not abroad for it. I had

sooner wed the fiend from the pit than you.”

De Courcy laughed lightly.

“That were a sulphurous mating indeed! Still you see how I adore you

when I restate my determination to occupy the devil’s place at your side

before the altar. You but whet my expectation, for I should dearly love

to tame you as your Shakespeare tamed his shrew.”

“That you shall never do while a hand’s breadth of steel will rid me of

you, or myself of the world. Escape is too easy.”

“Not from an Oxford dungeon, my dear. This mediaeval town furnishes us

with dark pits in which there is no fire, and consequently they have a

cooling effect on the hottest temperament. These are pits of which I am

the fiend. My dear, you underrate my power, or overrate my patience.”

“There are English gentlemen in Oxford. On what plea could you induce

them to think that an English lady should be placed in a dungeon?”

“Yes, there are English gentlemen here, and some French gentlemen as

well. They are unanimous in their detestation of a spy, male or female.

Your man we shall hang out of hand, and there will be little difficulty

about the pleasing task. I shall myself plead that your life be spared,

and they will agree. Everything will be done with that beautiful

legality which the English so much admire, but even from this moment you

are entirely in my power, and a sensible woman should not need so much

argument to convince her that the situation is hopeless.”

“Armstrong is no spy.”

“He may have difficulty in proving he is not. I am glad to note that you

admit by inference that you are a spy.”

“I can prove he is not a spy.”

“Your evidence would be tainted. You are an accomplice. Besides, you

could not clear him without condemning yourself.”

“Such will I gladly do. I glory in that I would sacrifice myself with

joy to save William Armstrong, the awkward Scot, as you called him. What

would you give to hear me say this of you?”

“Much, my dear, much. Oh, I delight in you! You know how to sting

without using your poniard. But I am not of a jealous nature, and love

conquest for its own sake. I have told you I care nothing for the Scot,

and you might easily have had him journey for the North again if you had

not been so impetuous. Now I shall hang him, merely as the first step in

breaking the stubborn pride which adds such zest to your overcoming.”

“One word from me to Armstrong will transfer the danger to you. He will

break you like a reed.”

“Indeed, my dear, you do yourself injustice in threatening me. You shall

have no opportunity of speaking your one word, for when next we meet, if

we part now without coming to amicable arrangement, you will be on your

knees to me pleading for his life.”

“That will I not. I shall go to the King.”

“Frances, you dishearten me, and cast grave doubts on the possession of

that sound sense with which I credited you. Was your first appeal to the

King for a man’s life so successful that you build hopes on a second?”

“If Charles had kept his word with me then, he would not now be encaged

in Oxford. He abandoned my father and clung to such as you, and not a

foot of English ground remains to him but what he stands on.”

“What would have happened had Strafford lived, neither you nor I can

tell, and all discussion thereon is aside from our present purpose. Will

you make terms with me?”

“I will not.”

“You prefer the dungeon?”

“You dare not imprison me.”

“Why?”

“Your master will not allow you.”

The Frenchman leaned upon the table, a patient beneficent expression on

his scarred features, and spoke to her gently, as one who must deal with

a petulant, unreasonable child.

“My dear, let me put a quietus for ever upon your mad idea that any help

is to be expected from the King. I beg you to believe that I speak the

exact truth. Do you know what the King thinks of you?”

“He does not think of me at all. He has forgotten me.”

“Pardon me. There you are mistaken. He thinks you came to Whitehall

the day of your father’s death to assassinate him. He believes that

I imperilled my life to save his. The scars of your claws, however

repulsive they may be to others, are to him a constant reminder of his

supposed debt to me. Judge you then, my dear, what your position in

Oxford would be did the King but dream you had crept surreptitiously

into his stronghold. Need I say more?”

“No. But you should have paid better heed to what I said.”

“What did you say?”

“I said your master would not permit you to injure me.”

“But I have shown you that the King----”

“I am not speaking of the King. Your master is Oliver Cromwell.”

Either the cross on his face became redder, or the sudden pallor of his

other features made it appear so. Slowly he withdrew his elbows from the

table and leaned back in his chair, moistening his lips, gazing on

the girl with the intensity of a new-born fear. She sat motionless,

returning his look without flinching.

For some moments the room was as silent as if it were deserted. At last

he spoke huskily:

“What do you expect to gain by making so absurd a statement?”

The girl rose with a gesture of impatience, walked to the window and

back; then to the window again, and unfastened a latch that let free a

latticed sash, as if the room stifled her and she wanted air. Then she

exclaimed: “Oh, let us have a truce to this fooling; I am tired of it.

You say I shall beg on my knees to you, but you have mistaken your own

attitude for mine. Why do I make such a statement? Because Cromwell

told me in Northampton that if I met difficulty in Oxford, you, his spy,

would assist me.”

“Good God!”

“Aye! Good God! You did not think such a man would blab out secrets of

death to a woman, but there is this to say on his behalf, that he was

merely recommending one spy to another. He thought mutual safety would

be their bond of union, and he was right.”

“Then you knew you would meet me in Oxford? Why did you seem so

distraught when the event happened? That was acting, I suppose, to fall

the easier into the arms of the Scot.”

“I had no need to act to bring that about. I hoped to avoid you, and

would have done so but for the chance encounter. And now you see, sir,

that my peril is as nothing to yours. My countrymen will not injure me;

I know them better than you do, but even if it were otherwise, I have

but to bend my strength to the pillars and crush you and myself in the

ruins of the falling house,--an enactment, I assure you, that fits my

nature better than the part of Delilah into which I am cast.”

“They would not believe one self-convicted.”

“Would not believe me? I dare you to put it to the test. Believe me?”

She stood by the window and held up her hand. “I have but to strike open

this leaded pane and cry to the officers passing in the street, ‘I am

the daughter of Lord Strafford, help me, for here I am caged with a

French spy, a creature who has sold King and comrades for Cromwell’s

gold.”

“In God’s name, woman, do not speak so loud. There is no need for

frenzy. I did but jest when I spoke of molesting you.”

“I am in no jesting mood.”

“You do not need to tell me that. I am quite willing to further your

behests, if you but trust me and tell me what you want.”

“Can you expect me to trust you?” asked the girl, coming back to the

table.

He was now standing on the other side, all self-confidence gone from

his attitude, speaking almost in a whisper, so anxious was he that she

should have no excuse for raising her voice again.

“I suppose I have not earned your trust.”

“Oh, but you have. I trust you implicitly because you stand under the

shadow of the scaffold, and at a word from me the bolt is drawn. You

will postpone all thought of revenge until your neck is out of the

noose; of that I am very well convinced. I refuse to make terms with

you, but I give my commands which you must rigidly follow unless you

court calamity. You will take Armstrong to the King, and cease to

block his way. You will see that we are free to leave Oxford, and are

unmolested while we are within these walls. One false move and you

bring your doom upon you. While we are in Oxford the rope is round your

throat, so pray to the demon who aids you that we may make speedy and

easy exit. Shudder to think that your fate hangs on the action of a

woman, wholly unstrung, and that even a suspicious look from any officer

in this garrison may instantly precipitate the disaster you apprehend.”

“I implore you to be calm, madam. I swear I will carry out your orders

to the letter. Do not, I beg of you, take panic at any chance word by

another.”

“Unlock the door and leave me. See that you do not come again.”

CHAPTER VIII.--DESTINY.

On the morning of the fourth day Armstrong was delighted to learn from

De Courcy that the King had recovered and would see him at noon. The

foreigner engaged the envoy in a long conversation, the object of which

was to discover whether or not the girl had said anything to him of the

excited conference of the day before. The unsuspecting Scot, entirely

off his guard, thinking he spoke with a friend, was read by the other

like an open book, and De Courcy was speedily convinced that Frances

Wentworth had kept her own counsel. This gave the spy renewed

confidence, and as they walked down the street together De Courcy held

his head higher than had been the case when he last turned his back

upon “The Crown” inn. His buoyant nature was quick to recover from

depression, and his malice, fed anew from his late rebuff, set his alert

mind at work to contrive some plan whereby he might salve his wounded

pride and avenge himself on the girl and his favoured rival, even at

some slight risk to himself. Although the danger of exposure seemed

imminent enough when he was with her, he knew that as she grew calmer

and reflected upon the situation she would be more and more reluctant

to wreck everything in order to bring punishment upon him. He would get

them out of Oxford that day if possible, but he would instill a poison

in the young lover’s mind that would take all sweetness from the

journey.

De Courcy had offered to show Armstrong the way to the King’s rooms, so

that there should be no delay when the Scot set out for his appointment

at twelve o’clock, and they had now entered the quadrangle of Christ

Church, which was deserted save for the guards at the gate. Armstrong

thanked him for his guidance, and was turning away, when the other, who

seemed about to speak, glanced at the soldiers on duty, then, thinking

the spot ill chosen for what he had to say, invited the Scot to his

room. They went up a stair together, and entered De Courcy’s apartment,

the host setting out wine and asking his guest to seat himself.

“Has the lady who accompanied you quite recovered from her fatigue?”

asked De Courcy, indifferently.

“Well, as I told you, I met her yesterday for a few moments only, and I

am sorry she was not in the highest spirits, but she will be the better

for seeing the green fields again. Like myself, she is of the country,

and does not thrive within the walls of a town.”

“Yes, I noticed that when she was in London.”

“In London? Did you know her in London?”

“Oh, hasn’t she told you of our relationship? Perhaps I should not

have mentioned it.”

“What do you mean by your relationship? You are French; she is pure

English.”

De Courcy threw back his head and laughed, unheeding and indeed

unnoticing the angry colour mounting in a face that had grown suddenly

stern.

“My dear comrade, there are other relationships between a young man and

a handsome woman than the ties of kinship. But those days are long past,

and I should never have recalled them had it not been that you two have

been travelling about the country together, I make no doubt, with an

innocence that recalls the sylvan days of yore.”

Armstrong pushed back his chair and rose to his feet.

“Sir, the lady took her brother’s place, he being unexpectedly and

grievously wounded. My position has been that of true comrade to her.”

“That is precisely what I have said. I said your journey was one of

Arcadian innocence.”

“Those were your words, but your tone bears a meaning I resent.”

“You are quite in error. I will say no more about her.”

“You have already said too much or too little. Tell me in plain words

what this relationship was to which you have referred.”

“First answer me a question. Are you betrothed to Frances Wentworth?”

“No. I told you I acted the brother’s part toward her in this journey.”

“Oh, we all say that; but I am not in the least curious. If you intended

to marry her, then were my mouth sealed. Very well; since you will

have it, and I take your word as a gentleman pledged that you will say

nothing to the girl of this until you are clear of Oxford, know that

I was once her betrothed. She was to have been my wife, and would have

been my wife to-day had her father not fallen.”

“Your wife!”

“Yes. Her father gave me permission to pay my court to her. She could

not have been much more than sixteen then, and I was her first lover,

a personage that a girl never forgets. At first she was frightened, but

that stage did not last long. Her father’s ruin changed my plans, and I

refused to marry her. I announced this refusal to her in the seclusion

of my own room in Whitehall and----”

“Sir, you lie!”

Armstrong’s sword seemed to spring of its own will from the scabbard,

and his hand drew it a-swish through the air with the hiss of a deadly

serpent. The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders, but did not move. The

three words of his opponent had been spoken very quietly, despite his

impulsive action. De Courcy did not raise his voice as he asked: “Which

of my statements do you question?”

“No matter for that. We fight on this phrase in Scotland. No man ever

called me liar and lived.”

“’T is a coarse phrase, I admit, and did I not represent my King--were

I as free as you--you should have had my response in steel ere this.

But I cannot wreck the King in a private quarrel of my own. Whether you

killed me, or I you, ’t would be equally disastrous to his Majesty.”

“I care nothing for the King. Draw, you poltroon, or I shall kill you

where you sit.”

“My dear Armstrong, I refuse to be murdered under a misapprehension on

your part. I have said nothing against the girl. ’T is all your own

hot blood. And indeed your brawling is the girl’s greatest danger; she

might well tremble if she knew your present occupation. If you run your

nimble sword through me, you give the girl to the fate that befel her

father.”

At the first word of danger to Frances the point of Armstrongs blade

sank to the floor, and he stood hesitating. A gleam of triumph glinted

and died in the eye of the Frenchman. He knew he was the victor,

although the chance he had run at one stage of the game almost made his

heart stop beating.

“How can any action of mine jeopardize Lady Frances Wentworth?”

“If the King knew this girl was within his jurisdiction, she would be

instantly arrested, tried, and condemned. She entered Whitehall the day

her father was executed, for the sole purpose of murdering Charles. I

prevented the carrying out of that purpose, and these scars on my face

are the results of my interference with a maddened woman.”

“Again, you lie, yet if she had killed you both she would have

accomplished but the justice of God.”

“As to the truth or falsity of my statements, regarding which you make

comments of unseemly terseness, you may ask the King when you see him,

or you may ask the lady herself when you get her out of Oxford. If you

precipitate a turmoil here, you are like to tumble her pretty head in

the basket. When this war is done with, I will go far to teach you the

correct method of addressing a gentleman.”

Armstrong’s sword dropped into scabbard again, and he drew a breath that

was a sigh. The poison was already at work. He remembered the distress

of the girl on the road, and her wail, “I am not worthy the love of any

honest man.”

“I shall never question her or any other, but will believe her lightest

word against the world when she condescends to tell me. Meanwhile I

shall get her out of this thieves’ den as soon as may be, and by God

when I meet you----”

De Courcy had risen, and now bowed slightly to his perturbed guest.

“Sir, you shall meet me at twelve, and it will be my privilege to

conduct you to his Majesty. Good morning.”

He stood by the window overlooking the quadrangle and watched his late

visitor cross it, staggering once as if he had partaken freely of the

wine which remained untasted on the table. As the Scot disappeared under

the archway De Courcy laughed.

“My fine, strutting cockerel,” he muttered, “I’ll lay you by the heels

before two days are past. Cromwell’s at Broughton, curse his tattling

tongue. How many more has he told of me? Never mind. He’s the coming

man. The King’s game is up, and I shake the dust of Oxford from my

feet to-night. Saint Denis, if she had only known! Every man in Oxford

distrusts me except the King.”

When Armstrong was brought before Charles, a great pity filled him as

he gazed for the first time on that gaunt, haggard face, the face of

a beaten man with his back to the wall. He found no difficulty in

convincing the King that he was a well-accredited envoy, and his Majesty

inquired eagerly about the disposition of the Scottish people toward

him, the number likely to take the field in his behalf, who their

probable leaders were, and how soon they would be ready for the fray.

All these questions Armstrong answered as hopefully as he could, in

deep commiseration for a defeated man. The King commanded one of his

secretaries to write out the required commission, and while this was

being done Armstrong related to him the purport of the papers which he

had not dared to bring with him. The names of the nobles were inserted

in the document from the dictation of the Scot; then the King’s seal was

affixed, and Charles signed the parchment. He seemed in feverish haste

to get the business done with, as if every moment lost was irreparable.

When the ink was dried, and the parchment folded, Armstrong placed it in

safe keeping within his vest. While thus engaged the King said a word

to the secretary, who handed him a light rapier, then whispered to the

messenger the single word “Kneel.” The Scot flushed to think he had

been wanting in the etiquette of the court, his kind heart yearning

to proffer any deference which should be rendered to a monarch, more

especially that he was no longer in a position to enforce homage. He

dropped on one knee and bowed his head. Charles, rising, touched the

rapier blade lightly upon the shoulder of the kneeling man, saying:

“Rise, Sir William Armstrong, and be assured that if you bring this poor

signature of mine to Scotland, there is no title in my gift you may not

demand of me.”

Armstrong rose, awkward as a school boy, not knowing where to look or

what to say until he caught the cynical smile of De Courcy standing at

the right hand of the King.

“I congratulate you, Sir William,” said the Frenchman. The sight of the

smile aroused the new hatred against the man which was smoldering in

his heart, and he made no reply to the greeting, but said to the King:

“Sire, the only thanks I can tender you is haste to the North, and may

God make my arm as strong to defend this signature as my heart is true

to your Majesty.”

With that he turned his back upon royalty, a grievous breach in the eyes

of courtiers, and fled.

“God grant it,” said the King, with a sigh, as he sank once more in the

seat from whence he had risen.

“There is no doubt of it,” said De Courcy, softly.

“Doubt of what?” asked the King.

“The oath he took will sit lightly on his conscience. He prayed that his

arm’s strength might equal his heart’s fealty. I distrust those who

talk glibly of their hearts, and his was a most ambiguous prayer. If his

heart be not true, and he made no assertion that it was, his strong arm

will avail us little.”

“Surely if ever honesty beamed from a man’s face it was from

Armstrong’s. The Scots are trustworthy men.”

“Some of them, your Majesty.”

Uneasy suspicion came into the sunken eyes of the King as he turned them

on his Chamberlain.

“What do you fear, De Courcy?”

“I have been studying the man these three days past. I accepted without

question his assurances, and threw him off his guard. Cromwell loves

an honest-looking envoy, and from what Armstrong said I am sure he saw

Cromwell no farther away than Northampton. He was very ready with his

account of his own country people, but he told us nothing about the

marvellous luck that brought him safely through a hostile land, which we

know to our cost is admirably patrolled. There is young Rudby, gone this

month and more to Edinburgh, and yet no word of him. And this stranger

expects us to believe he came over the same ground unscathed and

unquestioned in less than a week.”

“O God! O God! In whom can I place dependence,” cried the tortured King,

burying his head in his hands. Then he raised it and said with a trace

of anger in his voice: “If you knew this man to be a traitor, or an

emissary of that rebel, why did you bring him into our presence?”

“I could not be sure of him, your Majesty, and there was always a chance

that he was loyal and might get through.”

“To raise my hopes like this and then dash them to the ground!”

“Not so, your Majesty, if you will pardon me. Do you place importance on

this commission?”

“The utmost importance. I know Traquair, and he will raise all Scotland

for me if this commission reach him.”

“Then we will mak siccar, as a famous Scot once said.”

“Ah, De Courcy, that was said when a treacherous murder was intended.

How will you make sure that Armstrong is honest?”

“I should trouble no more about Armstrong, but if you will issue a

duplicate of that commission I will guarantee that it reaches the hand

of Traquair. I am a Frenchman, and a subject of the French king. I carry

my passport to that effect. Even if I am stopped, I shall resist search

on the ground of my nationality, and Cromwell is too greatly in awe of

the power of France to risk its might being thrown in the scale against

him. Indeed I doubt if I could offer a greater service to your Majesty

than to be captured and appeal to Louis.”

The King’s face cleared.

“You would not stop Armstrong then?”

“Assuredly not. If his copy gets into Cromwell’s hands he may slacken

his alertness and not be on the outlook for a duplicate. As I said

before, there is a chance the Scot plays fair, but two commissions in

the hands of Traquair will do no harm, and we mak siccar.”

“You are in the right, and your advice is always of the best. How soon

will you be ready to leave?”

“This very moment, your Majesty. There is no time to be lost.”

“True! True! True!” Then to the secretary, “Write another. Do you

remember the names?”

“Yes, your Majesty. I have them here on a slip.”

De Courcy bade farewell to the King, who urged him to return as soon as

horse could bring him, and went to his room to prepare for his journey,

the duplicate commission following him there.

Armstrong strode to the inn, sped up the stair, and knocked at the door

by the landing. Frances herself opened it, the determination on her face

to refuse admission to any other than he melting into a welcome as she

greeted him.

“My girl, are you ready for the North?”

“Yes, yes, ready and eager. Have you seen the King?”

“I have, and his royal signature rests over my heart.”

The joy fled from the girl’s face; she turned and walked with uncertain

steps to the table. A hope had arisen that the venomous De Courcy would

have prejudiced the King against the young man, and that the hateful

task of robbery would not be required. But now this last refuge had

failed. She strove not to weep.

“If you would rather not go until to-morrow,” said Armstrong, “I can

wait, but, lassie, I’m desperate anxious to leave Oxford as soon as

possible. We will not travel farther than Banbury to-night.”

“I am ready,” she replied with forced firmness.

BOOK IV.--THE RETURN

CHAPTER I.--TENSION.

The road between Oxford and Banbury is the most peaceful of

thoroughfares, laid with reasonable directness, gently undulating

in parts, passing through quiet villages and a sweet country, mildly

beautiful, yet to the mind of Frances Wentworth this innocent highway

ever remained, as it were, a section of the broad path to perdition.

In after life she never thought of it but with a creepy sensation of

horror. She was compelled to traverse ground that was the scene of

her lover’s proposal, with the lover whom she had rejected. The futile

incident, she thought, must be constantly recurring to his mind as it

recurred to hers, now that they rode side by side once more along this

ill-favoured highway. Even though he sat silent on his horse, more

gloomy than was his wont, she guessed what he was thinking. In Oxford,

God be thanked they were quit of it! a grave danger was left behind, but

in Banbury awaited the cruel test. There the stage was prepared for her

enactment of the part of a midnight Lady Macbeth, to rob the sleeping

Scot, not of his life, but of that for which he had staked his life

and for the preservation of which he stood willing to give up his life.

Heretofore she had lulled an accusing conscience by telling it that her

deed would preserve his life, but now that she knew him better, such

solace was withdrawn from her. There was little likelihood that he would

travel far beyond Banbury without discovering his loss, and, while he

would never suspect her of the theft, it needed no seer to predict his

course of action. He would return instantly to Oxford, and when next he

was baffled it would be by Cromwell’s troopers, and then, she had the

General’s own word for it, came condemnation and the noose.

Despondency seemed to be the portion of William Armstrong as well as

of his fair companion. She surmised that he was pondering on the events

which had happened when their faces were set south over this course, and

in part she was right; but the thoughts which rankled in his mind were

those implanted by De Courcy, and the wily Frenchman had been accurate

enough in his belief that the young man’s pleasure in the northward

journey would be spoiled. He could not bring himself to ask any

explanation from the girl, nor even tell her what De Courcy had said,

for he saw that already a weight of woe oppressed her, and to that

burden he would not add a pressure of the slightest word. He possessed

a supreme confidence in her, and only feared that she had loved this

runagate once, and that some remnant of this long-ago affection still

remained. Her own words before they reached Oxford, her own action

during the encounter fronting “The Crown” inn, disturbed him far more

than the insinuations of the Frenchman. He strove to rid himself of

these thoughts, but they were very intrusive and persistent. At

last with an effort he roused himself and cried with feigned

hilarity,--“Frances, we travel like two mutes. The influence of saddened

Oxford is still upon us both. We are long out of sight of the town, so

let us be done with all remembrance of it. The meeting with the King

this morning has stirred me up to a great pity for him, but vexed

meditations on his case are no help either to him or to us. The spur is

the only weapon I can wield for him now, so let us gallop and cry, ‘God

save the King!’”

With that they raced together for a time and were the better of it. He

had become almost cheerful again when the spires of Banbury came into

view, and thanked fortune that the first stage of their march was safely

over.

They found Old John and his pack horse both ready for the road again,

and Armstrong was plainly loath to let such a fine evening slip by

without further progress, but Frances seemed so wan and worn that he

had not the heart to propose a more distant stopping-place, and, with a

sigh, he put up his horse for the night.

While he was gone the innkeeper came furtively to Frances, and, after

seeing the pass, led her to the prepared room and showed her the door.

Much against her will, Armstrong insisted upon her coming to supper with

him, although she protested she had no appetite, and indeed sat opposite

him most forlorn and could not touch a morsel. In vain he urged her to

eat, but she shook her head, avoiding his glance and keeping her eyes

downcast.

“My girl,” he said anxiously, “you are completely tired. I see that you

are on the point of being ill if better care is not taken. Rest here a

few days, I beg of you. Eager as I am to be forward, I will stay if you

wish to have me near you. Or I will push on and come back for you.”

“I shall be well enough in the morning, most like. I am tired to-night.”

“And dispirited too.”

“Yes, and dispirited. You will excuse me, I know.”

“Frances rose to her feet, but seemed so faint that she leaned against

the table for support. He was by her side at once.

“My sweet lass, I am so sorry for you. Tell me what I can do for you,

and on my soul, my life is yours if you require it.”

“No, no! God grant you take no hurt for my sake.”

He slipped his arm about her waist and would have drawn her toward him,

but with more strength than he had expected her to possess she held

away. His great love for her almost overcame him, and all the prudence

he had gathered was scattered suddenly to the winds. “Dear, dear lass,

one touch of our lips and see if all doubts do not dissolve before the

contact.”

Now she wrenched herself free, and would have escaped but that he sprang

forward and caught her by the wrists, a grip she was to remember later

in the night. In spite of this prisoning, her hands were raised to the

sides of her face, and a look of such terror shot from her eyes that he

feared some madness had come upon her.

“Not that! Not that!” she shrieked. “The kiss of Judas! It would kill

me!”

His arms dropped paralyzed to his sides, and he stepped back a pace,

amazed at the expression she had used and the terror of her utterance.

Next instant he was alone, and the closed door between them. Still he

stood where she had left him.

“The kiss of Judas!” he muttered. “The kiss of Judas! She loves him,

thinks me his friend, trying to take Judas advantage of him because we

are alone together. De Courcy spoke truth. Wae is me, she loves him,

and I, blind fool----Oh God! pity that poor girl, and this insanity of

passion wasted on so rank a cur!”

Frances fled to her room and threw herself on the bed in an agony of

tears. This storm subsided into a gentle rain of subdued weeping, and

finally ceased as she heard the heavy tramp of riding-boots in the

adjoining room. She sat up in the darkness, listening intently. He

closed the wooden shutters of the window, shaking them to be sure that

their fastenings were secure. Then the bolts of the outer door were

thrust in their places, but, this apparently failing to satisfy the

doubts of the inmate, there was a sound of some heavy article of

furniture being dragged across the room; then the tramping ceased and

all was still. She sat there thinking of nothing; her mind seemed to be

dulled by the ordeal awaiting her and the fear of it, but there was no

thought of turning back or trying to avoid it. Dimly she was sorry for

herself and for him, sleeping in his fancied security, yet in a set

trap; but on her action this night depended her brother’s life, and that

outweighed all other considerations, even if her brain were alert enough

to cast them in the opposite scales. Unheeding she had heard the clock

in a neighbouring tower toll the hour; now it struck again and she

counted the notes. Eleven! It was still too early. People slept heavier

as the night wore on. She thought of their journey; of the halt at York;

of their talk in the niche in the hotel of the Templars; of various

incidents along the road; the march past of Cromwell’s troopers, four

and four, all looking straight ahead, and as she remembered them they

seemed to be passing her now; passing, passing, passing; then Cromwell

stopped and smote his steel breastplate with resounding clang. She

lifted her head with a start, and the clang of the breastplate changed

to the toll of the bell in the tower. Heavens, she had been asleep; her

brother’s life hanging on her drooping eyelids! One, two, three four,

five, six, seven! It must be midnight, and the first five strokes had

been on Cromwell’s breastplate. She roused herself and attempted to take

off her shoes, but her hands were trembling so she was forced to desist.

She sat up again, telling herself it was better to wait until all effect

of the long chiming had ceased, for the striking of twelve sometimes

disturbed or awakened the soundest sleeper. The clock tower seemed

dangerously near, as if it were approaching her hour by hour. At last

the shoes came off, and in stockinged feet she stood by the secret door,

waiting till the frightfully rapid beating of her heart should moderate.

It threatened to choke her. Then she slid back the bar and drew open the

door, all so smoothly oiled that there was not the whisper of a creak.

She tiptoed into the cavern of blackness and silence, holding her spread

hands in front of her, moving slowly with the utmost caution, step by

step. In her mind she had estimated, from her earlier survey of the

room, that nine steps would take her to the bed; now she realized she

had taken a dozen and yet had not come to it. She stood bewildered and

listened. The helplessness of a person in the pitch dark thrilled her

with a new fear, upsetting all her calculations. The panic of pulsation

in her throat and in her ears at first rendered any attempt at listening

futile; but at last she heard his regular breathing, as peaceful as that

of an infant, and it came from the other side of the room. For a moment

this terrified her, and she wondered if she were really awake, or in the

mazes of some baffling nightmare; but the solution came to her mind

and quieted the growing agitation. It had been his bed that he dragged

across the floor, and he was now sleeping against the outside door. And

all his preparations were as naught, because of this midnight spectre,

moving upon him! She changed her direction and, with her former stealth,

came ghost-like to the edge of the couch.

His doublet was open at the throat; that was so much to the good. Like

a snowflake in its coldness and its lightness, her hand stole down

underneath his vest, fluttered by the slow, steady, subdued beating

of his heart, running no such wild race as her own at that moment. It

seemed incredible that at last her fingers closed on the parchment; but

there it lay, and gently she drew it forth. Was the robbery to be so

easily accomplished after all? Ah, she had congratulated herself too

soon. It stuck fast; either the silken cord that bound it was caught,

or the document was secured to the vest,--a contingency she had never

thought of, and yet what more natural? Twice she tugged it gently, then

a third time more strenuously, when it came unexpectedly away and her

knuckles struck the sleeper under the chin. Instantly, like the snap of

a steel trap, his fingers closed upon her wrist, and his voice rang out

as wideawake and clear as ever he had spoken to her: “Frances!”

Now the racing heart stopped dead. Lucky for her that at this supreme

moment all action was impossible, and that she was stricken into frozen

marble. She imagined he was awake and knew her, and then the cold horror

of her situation numbed thought at its source.

“Frances!” The voice came more sleepily this time, and he repeated

thrice very rapidly, “Frances, Frances, Frances!” Feebly her heart had

taken up its work again. She was not to die as she had feared. Sodden

with drowsiness, his voice rambled on, and came to an indefinite

conclusion.

“My darling, you are in danger. We must get out of Oxford. Everything,

every----your safety, my dear. The King----” Then the words became

indistinct and died away; but alas! the grip of iron remained on

her wrist. For a long time she stood there motionless; then tried

to disengage his fingers gently; but at the first movement the grasp

tightened again. One o’clock struck. He slept so silently that it began

to appear to her agitated brain that she was a prisoner of the dead. She

came near to sinking from very weariness. Two o’clock tolled from the

tower. Sometimes she fancied she slept standing there, but her five

jailors did not sleep. She kept wondering in which direction lay

the open door, for at times the room seemed to swim around her, thus

disturbing all sense of locality. She almost laughed aloud when she

thought of herself free, but groping helplessly for the open door,

failing to find it, and she shuddered that even the remembrance of

laughter should come to her at such a time; surely a sign of approaching

frenzy. Then it seemed the fingers loosened; but hand and wrist had lost

all feeling, and she could not be sure. She tottered and nearly fell;

when she stood upright again she was free; he muttering to himself, and

his hand slashing undirected on the mattress, as if it missed something

it sought drunkenly to recover. The girl could scarce repress a cry of

joy at her release. She moved eagerly in the path that should lead her

to the door, but, hurrying too much, came upon his jack-boots on the

floor, and fell helplessly, so overwrought that even when her feet

touched them she could not draw back.

“Who’s there? Who’s in this room?” cried Armstrong. She was standing

again, fully expecting to hear his feet on the floor; but the bell

struck three, and he counted dreamily, and all was still again. When she

reached her room, she closed and barred the door as silently as she had

opened it. The tension relaxed, she felt she was going to swoon. Blindly

she groped for her shoes, murmuring, “O God! not yet,--not yet. Give me

a moment more.” Finding her foot-gear at last, she dared not wait to put

them on, but stole softly down the stair, steadying herself against

the wall. The cool air outside struck her like the blessing of God, and

soothed her whirling head. She heard a horse champing his bit, then a

whisper came out of the darkness: “Is that you at last, madam?”

“Yes,” she said, sinking on the doorstep, and leaning her head against

the lintel, the cold stone grateful to her hot forehead.

“You are not hurt, madam?” inquired the man anxiously.

“No, no,” she gasped; then, with an eldritch little laugh, “I want to

put on my shoes, that’s all.”