"Why not?" was the quiet answer, for Patience knew that Mistress Newbolt
had conceived this plan to divert Agnes from her sadness.
"Yes, we will go," she said. "Where is the barge?"
"At London Bridge. You can use your own till you get there, then you
will use ours. Ann and mother will be waiting for us."
A barge not unlike a Venetian gondola always stood moored to the steps
leading down from the terrace to the water's edge, so they had not far
to go. The distance to London Bridge was but short, and during the
journey to Greenwich Agnes found herself made much of, not allowed to
grieve or feel herself alone. She was verily a spoilt child, and whilst
Patience and Mistress Newbolt sat beneath the trees in the Park, Agnes,
Reginald, and Ann wandered into the quaint old garden of the palace
known as "The Queen's House", filled with all the blossoms of summer,
scented with great bunches of lavender and sweet marjoram. As they
strolled about there the strength of her youth overcame the sorrow of
her heart, and the great world in which Agnes had lived so lonely, fine
gentlemen and ladies, valets and maid-servants, all those accessories to
court life, seemed to drop away from her as useless and cumbersome. The
sweetness and simplicity of nature, as she had never known it before,
crept over her. She had lived all her life in palaces surrounded by
etiquette, now for the first time in her life she walked with quiet
folk, with neither queens nor princesses, only with this simple maiden
Ann and this young man, who, notwithstanding his military attire, was so
easy and kindly of manner that she had no fear of him. To divert her
thoughts Reginald and his sister talked to her about things of which she
knew little--the country, the flowers. They told her, too, of Newbolt
Manor, and how pleasant it was up in the bonnie north.
"But you have not always dwelt there?" said Agnes.
"No," answered Ann, "we are new people. Cromwell gave it to my father
for his services. One thing comforts me," continued Ann, "we have
turned no one out, for there was no heir; the last owner was killed
fighting for King Charles."
"It would not have mattered if there had been an heir," said Agnes, a
little bitterly; "we Royalists were dispossessed of all we had. What
was the name of the people who came before you in the land?"
"De Lisle," said Reginald shortly.
An old man busy weeding a pathway suddenly drew himself up and said
sharply:
"De Lisle! Who talks of the De Lisles? They were accursed and driven
out, possessors of church lands. Fire and sword have purified them;
they will come back again."
He looked from one to another till his eyes rested on Agnes. Pointing
at her, he added:
"Yea, verily, they will come back to their own again. Hate drove them
out; love will bring them back."
There was a prophetic tone in his voice and a flash in his eye; both
died out, and he went back to his weeding.
"Let us go into the park," said Agnes; "he has frightened me, I know not
why."
Passing through a side gate they entered the park, crossed a stretch of
level grass, and came to the foot of a steep hill.
"Let's see who will reach the top first," said Ann gleefully. "Not you,
Reginald, that would not be fair." And off she went, Agnes running
beside her, the one a strong north-country girl, the other a fairy
creature, who had never climbed a hill in her life. But Agnes was so
light, so swift, that she outran her companion, and stood at the top of
the hill clapping her hands and laughing with pleasure. Reginald with
long strides had followed them.
"You are a fay," he said. "Now let us run down."
"All of us!" exclaimed Agnes, excited with the unusual motion, and the
fresh breezes which came from land and river.
"Give me your hand," said Reginald, "or you will be tripping."
She would have resisted, but he took it. And it was well he did, for
she had not reckoned on the impetus of a downhill race, and more than
once her foot slipped on the green sward; but he held her firmly, and
they reached the bottom, laughing merrily, her pretty golden hair all
ruffled with the wind, her face flushed, and her eyes bright.
Ann was equally joyous. They were a merry trio when they joined
Patience and Mistress Newbolt under a great oak tree, where a cloth had
been spread, pies, and cakes, and a heap of ripe strawberries presenting
a tempting meal.
Verily there are bright days in life which leave their mark in our
hearts, and bring a rush of gladness to the eyes and a smile to the lips
when we recall them.
This day was a red-letter day; it had begun sadly, but it ended
brightly. They re-entered the barge, and in the quiet evening twilight
they floated up the great river on the top of the tide, and, landing
once more at Somerset House, bade each other farewell, with a feeling of
regret that so lovely a day had its ending.
*CHAPTER VII*
*A King's Vengeance*
For some time past both Mistress Newbolt and Ann had noticed a great
restlessness in Colonel Newbolt's speech and manner. He was given to
great rages. If anyone came suddenly into the house, he would start up
and question them as to their business; indeed, it seemed to his family
as if he feared something.
Ann told Reginald this one day, and the young man looked grave.
"I am not surprised," he answered. "Matters are getting serious; the
king's exchequer is somewhat empty and difficult to refill, and those
about him are not scrupulous as to the ways and means by which it may be
replenished. You know that all the principal regicides, eighty or
ninety odd, some of the best men, have already been dragged to the
scaffold, and in most cases their property has been confiscated. But
this does not suffice; there are hundreds of others, gentlemen and
commoners, ministers, all sorts and conditions of men, who, if they did
not vote for the king's death, did not vote against it. Many have been
arrested and thrown into prison; some have fled to Geneva, where they
are safe; others are in hiding; but some, like my father, have remained
at home, fully persuaded that no harm is likely to befall them, seeing
they have given their adhesion to Charles II. But I am much afraid this
will not be enough. Courtiers are turning a cold shoulder to them, and
I find myself somewhat put on one side.
"I should not be surprised at any moment if my father were called to
account and in a certain measure made to refund, for the old Royalists
are clamouring to be restored to their estates and to be rewarded for
their fidelity. Charles tries to satisfy them in many cases, but not in
all; he cannot, and there is much discontent. An empty exchequer and
followers who have despoiled themselves for their masters are difficult
to deal with. It is not a pleasant prospect, and both he and his
ministers seem to think the only way of meeting it is by taking back
what Cromwell gave, if it can be proved that the recipients were
accessories to Charles's death."
"And our father commanded a regiment of horse at Whitehall on the very
day of the king's execution," said Ann, looking up.
"I know it," answered Reginald. "It was his duty; he was under orders.
If this knowledge comes to the king's ears, then his command, probably
his estates, will be taken from him and he will be brought to trial."
"That is what troubles him, then," said Ann.
"It is enough to trouble any man," answered Reginald. "You see, he is
trying to serve two masters, which never answers, in this world or the
next."
"What would you have him do?" asked Ann, aghast.
"Do! There is nothing to do," said Reginald, "until the bomb bursts;
then, if there is still time and he can escape out of England, his life
may be spared, but his estates will be forfeited, and Newbolt Manor will
pass into other hands. A case of pure bartering," he added. "His
majesty will rob Paul to pay Peter; it has ever been the same."
"Can nothing be done?" asked Ann. "I do not care for the loss of
Newbolt Manor, but I care for our father and our mother; it will break
their hearts."
"I see nothing for it but to wait," said Reginald. "It is not likely
that our father will be passed over; indeed, I am not sure myself that I
shall not come in for a certain amount of opprobrium."
"They cannot touch you, you were only a child," said Ann.
"No, they cannot touch me. I am in the king's service, and I did him
homage before he came to the throne; but still there are so many with
better claims seeking advancement, it is difficult for me to hold my
own."
Even while they were speaking there was a sound of many steps outside in
the street and in the hall, and a porter came in in haste.
"Sir," he said, "there are men here asking for the master in the king's
name!"
Ann's face turned deathly white.
"So soon!" she exclaimed.
"The sooner the better," Reginald answered; "it will be the quicker
over."
"My father is not here," he said, going into the hall and addressing the
men. "I do not know even if he is in the house. You had better assure
yourselves of this; but first let me see your order."
The commander of the company handed him a sheet of parchment. The
colour mounted to the young man's face as he read the order of his
father's arrest, "to answer certain questions as to his having been
treasonably concerned in the late king's death".
[Illustration: "THE COMMANDER OF THE COMPANY HANDED HIM A SHEET OF
PARCHMENT"]
Ann had followed him. He bent his head and whispered to her:
"Go to our mother, but do not tell her."
She was trying to slip away, but she found her passage barred by the
officer in command of the company.
"I regret it, madam," he said; "but I cannot let you pass until the
house has been searched and we are assured the colonel is not here."
"I never told you he was not here," said Reginald. "I bade you search
for him."
As he uttered these words, a door at the farther end of the hall opened,
and the colonel came forward.
"What do you require of me?" he asked.
Before anyone could answer, Reginald handed him the paper.
"It is well," he said; "I have expected this. I did not tell your
mother nor you, children, because I would not have you needlessly
anxious; now it has come to pass, I leave your mother to your care,
Reginald. Deal gently with her. Nay, weep not, Ann. You are a
soldier's daughter; it is not seemly." Notwithstanding his rough words,
he took her in his arms and kissed her.
He shook Reginald by the hand, then saying:
"Gentlemen, I am ready for you," passed out of the hall, and, mounting
the horse that was waiting for him, rode away surrounded by a guard of
soldiers.
Ann and Reginald remained alone with the frightened servants, who
crowded around them. In a few words Reginald told them what had
happened, adding, "I do not think there is any danger for my father's
life; but that he will suffer imprisonment and be heavily fined is
probable. I would entreat of you all to keep quiet, and in public not
to make more ado than you can help."
Reginald was a great favourite in the household; he was young and
generous, and they served him willingly. So with a loud voice they all
promised obedience, adding also their hope that their master would soon
be amongst them again.
"I do not think there is the least fear but that he will," Reginald said
assuringly, and so they dispersed, and Reginald and Ann remained alone.
Ann was very pale, but she was not trembling. She had a courageous
heart, and was at the present moment thinking more of her mother than of
her father. She knew full well that her mother had always been averse
from her husband joining the present king's cause, and she felt sure now
that she would call this a just retribution; but she would not take it
the less to heart, for under a cold exterior she had loved her husband
dearly, and served him as a true and honourable wife.
Whilst the two stood hesitating, the door opened and Patience and Agnes
entered.
"What's happened?" asked Agnes. "We saw a troop of soldiers riding
away; the street was full of them. They seemed to have a prisoner in
their midst; we could not see who it was."
"It was my father," said Reginald. "He has been arrested for consenting
to the late king's death."
"May the Lord help him!" said Patience. "Has there not been bloodshed
enough already, that they must be ever seeking for more!"
"I do not think it is a case of blood," said Reginald, with something
approaching a sneer in his voice. "I think money will settle this;" and
the words and manner of the young man revealed a bitterness which had
been growing in his heart for some time past. He and Ann had been so
eager for King Charles to come back, they had welcomed him with such
unfeigned joy, such belief that he would bring back all that was noble,
all the greatness, the courage, and the bravery, the high moral tone
which had been his father's, that whatever errors there had been in the
past would cease now, indeed were already forgotten. Had not the whole
race of Stuarts been chastised? Had not the whole nation suffered? And
therefore they welcomed the king back as their chief good. The crown
was his by Right Divine and by the will of the people. He had come
back, and made merry, but he had no thought of forgiveness in his soul,
only a fierce desire for vengeance against those who had slain his
father and sent him into exile. That father had been a saint, and they
slew him. The son was a great sinner, and they bowed down before him.
Reginald thought, and others thought with him, of all the blood that had
been shed. They had hoped that a great pardon would have sealed that
homecoming, instead of which it was vengeance and blood; whilst in the
very palace where they had witnessed the death of Charles I, there was
revelry and evil living, and an ignoring of all sacred things.
Their idol was broken, and their ideals had faded into nothingness. For
the young this is a terrible experience: it cuts them to the heart, it
wounds them to the soul. As men and women grow older they become
accustomed to the daily and hourly disappointments of life. The shadow
of death has passed over them, the lights have gone out; either they
have grown hard and self-contained, or they have learnt to look beyond
this world and patiently abide in faith, hope, and charity, until they
shall pass into the kingdom of everlasting life. But the lesson has to
be learnt, the road has to be trodden, and the pricks hurt their feet.
The nobler the girl or the youth, the harder it is for them to lose
their ideals.
Reginald was passing through this phase. He had built so much on this
home-coming of his king, he had thought of him almost as a god, from his
youth upwards; the son of that blessed saint and martyr, how should he
be less than a hero! The disillusion was great, the sorrow was greater.
Had he been of a less sensitive, a less noble nature himself, he would
have thrown all care to the wind, have joined the revellers, and been
content to lead the wild life of the young Cavaliers who had returned
with Charles from foreign lands, and who now thought of little else but
of making up for the years which had been passed in poverty and exile.
Those lean years had taught them no lesson of frugality or decorum;
rather they had made them impatient of restraint, desirous of making up
in folly and extravagances for the years they called wasted.
Truly they were wasted, for they had brought forth no fruit. The lesson
God would have taught to the race of Stuarts and their adherents had
been of no avail. These men were like the Israelites of old, they had
neither ears to hear nor eyes to see, and the few faithful ones, who
loyally in England had waited for and prayed for their coming, were now
sick at heart.
Yet Reginald had no thought of throwing up his allegiance; it was based
on too good a foundation--his God and his king. He could not serve one
and forsake the other, and so, though his heart was sore within him, and
he felt that dark days were coming both for him and his, as a brave man
he looked straight before him, trusting in a higher power than his own
to deliver them from evil.
*CHAPTER VIII*
*Arrested*
It was Patience who sought Mistress Newbolt in her chamber and told her
in a few words what had happened. It was even with her as her children
had thought it would be.
"It is the Lord's justice," she said. "His will be done." She
straightened herself, went down to her household, and rebuked Ann when
she wept.
"Shall not the Lord chastise His children?" she said. "Whom the Lord
loveth He chasteneth. Indeed, I am well pleased that our God careth for
us so well that He does chastise us; for, seeing we were so prosperous,
I feared He held us to be of no account, but now I am exalted, and my
spirit is glad within me, for the Lord has laid His hand on my house."
This enthusiasm was wonderful; her face, which before had been sad,
shone now with an inner light of satisfaction. She went about her
duties with an energy and a briskness which had long failed her.
The maid-servants exclaimed, "The mistress is of cheerful countenance;
is it seemly that she should rejoice over the master's misfortune?"
If she divined their thoughts she paid no heed to them.
"Poor ignorant souls, they cannot understand," she said to Patience,
who, to tell the truth, herself did not understand why the wife should
rejoice when her husband was sent to prison and was in danger of his
life.
She remembered how sorely she had grieved over the misfortunes which had
befallen the royal standard, and how she had mourned for those who were
then laid low.
"It is not natural," she said to Agnes; "we must accept the will of the
Lord, but we are not bound to rejoice when He afflicts us."
Reginald had left the house almost immediately after his father's
departure, to find out where he had been taken to and what could be done
to further his release, so Agnes and Patience remained with Ann and
cheered her as best they could. Mistress Newbolt needed no cheering;
she busied herself arranging her husband's clothes, packing them to send
to his prison, wherever that might be, and she employed the maids in
taking off the lace ruffles from his shirts, replacing them with plain
linen ones.
"He shall not appear before his judges like a popinjay," she said, "but
like a sober, righteous man."
"Mother, you are wrong," said Ann. "He is a king's man now, and is
serving the king. Why will you try to show forth to the world that he
was ever aught else?"
"Because it is my duty, my joy," she answered, and she would not be
gainsaid.
"Do not trouble," said Patience to Ann. "Let her have her own way. You
can easily supplement what is lacking."
The day seemed long to them all except to Mistress Newbolt, whose pale
face had a red spot on either cheek from the excitement of her heart.
Her muslin kerchief was crumpled, a thing Ann had never seen before, and
her hands trembled as she went about her work.
Once Agnes crept on tiptoe to the small closet which Mistress Newbolt
called her own, where she was wont to read and pray. Opening the door
gently she looked in. The window was wide open, and Mistress Newbolt
stood before it grazing up into the sky, which was dark, threatening
rain; but sunshine or rain, storm or clouds, were naught to her, her
soul had soared beyond these earthly signs of fair weather or foul. Her
hands were clasped, her face was turned upwards as if she saw a vision,
and from her lips a quick flow of words poured forth so rapidly that
Agnes had difficulty in following them.
It was more conversation than prayer, as if she were speaking to the
Almighty as to a familiar friend, thanking Him for having thus cast His
eye upon them, and chastening her husband for his sin. She prayed also
for Reginald and Ann, that they might be reclaimed and brought back into
the true fold. Then came an impassioned act of worship:
"Glory be to Thee, oh Lord Most High!" and so on.
Agnes stood transfixed. She had never heard the like before. It moved
her as if a great wave had swept over her. She listened, drinking in
the words with wonder and astonishment.
"It must be even as the prophets of old spoke," she thought. "I wonder
if she is right and we all wrong;" and even as she was thus thinking
Mistress Newbolt turned round, saw her, came quickly, took her in her
arms, and almost carried her to the open window, crying in exultation:
"Lord, behold this child! Make her Thine; teach her Thy ways; make her
worship Thee, the only true God, in truth and equity."
So tight were her arms wound round her that Agnes could not move. She
held her as if she would have almost carried her up to heaven in her
exultation. Looking into her face it struck Agnes as strangely
beautiful; she had never seen it thus before. Her eyes were as coals of
fire; the lips parted as the impassioned words dropped from them.
Suddenly the woman collapsed. She loosened her hold of Agnes,
staggered, and would have fallen had not the girl upheld her; but she
threw her off, and, casting herself on the ground, broke forth into
fierce weeping. The bands of iron which had bound her soul gave way and
she could only cry:
"Save me, oh God, save me, for Thy mercy's sake!"
With that delicate instinct which is inherent in some souls, Agnes felt
that this was no place for her, that she had no right to look upon the
weakness of this strong woman, and quietly, with tears pouring down her
face, she left the room, closing the door behind her.
She paused for a moment on the landing, then, descending the stairs,
found her way into the little sitting-room, where Ann and Patience were
waiting for her. The discomposure of her face revealed to them at once
that something unusual had happened.
"Have you seen my mother?" asked Ann, coming forward.
"Oh, it is too terrible, too terrible!" said Agnes, her tears bursting
forth again, and, letting herself fall on the settle beside Patience,
she clung to her for protection.
"What has happened, dear? tell me," said Patience softly.
"Nothing has happened," was the quiet answer, "but her grief is terrible
to see."
"I will go to her," said Ann, rising.
"It is of no use," said Agnes, standing before her; "let her be. Her
soul is wrestling with the Lord; she wants no human help; we do not
understand her."
"I know what you mean," said Ann, "I have seen her in that state before.
When my father declared that he would welcome King Charles and join
himself to the royal cause, she was three days and nights shut up in her
own room and would see no one; she would eat nothing but bread and
water, and we heard her pacing up and down, talking to herself,
apostrophizing the Almighty, praying aloud. Sometimes she would sing
psalms or hymns. As I tell you, she remained three days in this state,
and then she came forth haggard and thin, but quite calm. 'I have left
it in God's hands,' she said; 'what He doeth will be well done.' Go
home, dear friend," Ann continued. "You can give us no help, we must
await events. I do not think my father's life is in danger, but how
long he will be deprived of liberty, what his punishment will be, we
cannot tell until his trial, and that may be retarded for many months.
We were going to Newbolt Manor for a few weeks. Now, of course, we must
remain here. I am sorry, because my mother's health suffers from the
confinement in London, but I know nothing will move her hence so long as
my father is in prison."
"Of course not," said Patience. "We shall also remain in town for the
present. The king has gone with his court to Hampton, and I do not care
to be there when that is the case, for there is no peace--the gardens
are full of gallants and fine ladies--so we will remain at Somerset
House until the king returns to town."
"I am glad of it," said Ann; "it is a comfort to feel that you are near
me. We have many acquaintances, but few friends."
"You must count us as friends," said Patience.
"I will gladly do so," answered Ann. "I feel as if I have known you all
my life."
"Therefore, if you have any fear, send for us," said Patience. "Now we
will bid you farewell."
The distance between the Newbolts' house in Drury Lane and Somerset
House could be traversed in a few minutes, but nevertheless the streets
were by no means pleasant for women to walk through alone, therefore
Patience and Agnes had come in sedan-chairs, which were waiting in the
courtyard. These were now brought forward into the house, as was the
custom, and, taking a tender adieu of Ann, they got in and were carried
out. Agnes drew the curtain on one side, waved a last adieu, and then
Ann turned away and went up to the first story, where was her mother's
apartment.
She was sad at heart, and felt at a loss as to how she should comfort
her, for she knew full well that there was no disguising the fact that
her father had been a prominent man under Cromwell, also that he had
commanded a body of horse at the late king's execution. One thing alone
was in his favour: his name was not on the list of those who had voted
for the king's death.
It was late at night when Reginald returned. He had no good news. His
father, he had ascertained, was in Newgate, but he had not been able to
gain access to him.
"I fear much," he said, "that there is a traitor somewhere, for why have
we been thus suddenly attacked? The king was quite aware from the first
that my father was a Parliamentarian; the only thing he did not know was
that he was present at the late king's death. It is upon this charge
that my father has been arrested. We cannot clear him; it is quite
hopeless; we can only trust to the king's clemency, and that," he
continued, "is of no great account. I am much afraid that I shall be
obliged to resign my commission, and thus, though I am blameless, I must
suffer, and the king will lose a good servant."
"Do you think he will be arraigned for treason?" asked Ann.
"No, that he cannot be," was the answer, "seeing that he was only
captain at that time of a body of horse. He obeyed orders, and he kept
the street clear in the precincts of Whitehall, but he was not actually
on the spot."
"And though he has never allowed that it was so," said Ann, "in his
heart I believe he grieved that the execution was carried out."
"His refraining from giving his vote was a proof of it," said Reginald.
"Where is our mother?"
"In her own apartment," said Ann. "It is no use your trying to go to
her; she will see no one. Agnes was with her, and I think she
frightened the child; she has been very much excited all day. Martha
tells me she has gone to bed, which is proof that she has worn herself
out. She may be more composed to-morrow. You see, she considers our
father's arrest a retribution."
"And she may not be quite wrong," said Reginald. "If he had only voted
against instead of keeping silent, he would have been not only safe from
molestation, but honourably revered."
"That he could not do," said Ann. "I have heard him say that though he
disapproved of the king's execution, he did not see how otherwise order
and justice were to be restored, or the Civil War ended."
"The whole thing is ineffably sad," said Reginald; "it is too late in
the day now to discuss the pros and cons. Go to bed, Ann, and sleep;
you will need all your strength and courage to face the next few
months." And so they bade each other good-night and parted.
So worn out was Ann that her head was no sooner on the pillow than she
slept; but Reginald sat till an unusually late hour in the house-parlour
thinking matters over and trying to find out who could have betrayed his
father.
He rose at last, and stretched himself, muttering, "It is folly and to
no purpose my seeking to find the man; there are so many witnesses of my
father's presence at Whitehall. We must abide by the results; but I
will see Sir Nicholas Crisp to-morrow, he has always been kindly
disposed towards me, and stands high in the king's esteem. He may
perchance speak a word in my father's favour." With this he also
retired to his chamber to await the events of the morrow.
*CHAPTER IX*
*Old Newgate*
We have all read, and we all know by hearsay, how, till within the last
century, the prisons were worse than the lowest hovels. We know and
honour the men and women by whose influence humanity was brought to bear
upon them. What they must have been two centuries earlier passes all
imagination.
We learn from old chronicles that as far back as 1218 the prison of
Newgate existed. It was built in the portal of the new gate of the
city, and from that fact took its name. Two centuries later it was
rebuilt by the executors of the famous Sir Richard Whittington, Lord
Mayor of London, and his statue with his cat stood in a niche. This
building was destroyed in the great fire of which we shall soon be
telling. It was here, in old Newgate, that Colonel Newbolt was
imprisoned--a noisome place, within high, dark, stone walls, without
windows, where the prisoners were crowded together irrespective of age
or sex. At the time we are writing of, it was crowded to excess. To
obtain a wisp of straw to lie upon at night, and the space necessary for
a litter, meant a hand-to-hand fight between the occupants.
The jailers reaped a rich harvest, charging fabulous prices for the
merest necessaries. There was no provision made for sickness, not even
for the ordinary decencies of life; men and women of every class were
herded together.
It is easy to imagine Colonel Newbolt's feelings when he was thrust into
this den. On the first day he bore it with a certain amount of
equanimity, feeling assured that he would be released on the morrow; but
when two or three days passed by, and all the money he had on his person
was expended, he was seriously disquieted, wondering why Reginald or
some other of his friends did not come to his rescue. He could not know
that Reginald had been daily at the prison, and had expended a
considerable sum of money in pleading with the jailers for news of his
father. He was dismissed with the assurance that his father's name was
not on the prison list; they could not find the man.
This answer was given purposely. It would not have suited the jailers
to find their man too soon, for then the enquiry money would cease to
fall into their pockets, so they sent Reginald to Aldersgate and to
smaller jails, of which there were several. Four days had elapsed after
his father's arrest before Reginald was admitted into the prison and
allowed to interview him.
He was horrified when he saw him. From a hale, fine-looking soldier he
had dwindled into an old man, with sunken eyes and haggard face. His
lace ruffles and jabot had been torn to shreds. He had had no change of
linen, the lappets of his coat had been wrenched away, his head was
bare, and his hair bleached.
He staggered as he came into the guard-room, and in his impotent rage
shook his fist in Reginald's face.
"What do you mean, sirrah," he cried, "by leaving me in this condition?"
"Father, I did not leave you," said Reginald, tears gathering in his
eyes. "I have been here daily, and could get no news of you. They have
sent me about to the right and to the left; only to-day have I found
you."
"The rascals!" said the colonel in a low voice, fearful of being
overheard. "I am starved, Reginald," he continued, "I am unclean. I
would sooner die than remain thus; ay, they will kill me before they
bring me to trial. Is this what the king promised us? Is this the royal
clemency?"
"Hush, Father, hush!" said Reginald, for in his excitement he had raised
his voice. "I have brought gold; I will see what I can do for you."
He looked round, and seeing a keeper whose face seemed less evil than
the others, he beckoned to him.
Slowly and sullenly the man came forward.
"Look here!" said Reginald, "if you can find the smallest cell in which
my father can be alone I will give you fifty crowns."
"If you offered me a hundred I couldn't do it," said the man; "the place
is crowded from top to bottom, and more prisoners are coming in every
hour."
"But surely there must be some place less horrible than the one I am now
in," said Colonel Newbolt. "I am herded with the scum of the earth. I
hear nothing but cursing and swearing all the live-long day and
throughout the night. I am covered with vermin. I will give thee a
hundred crowns, sirrah, if thou wilt get me out of this."
The man thrust his hands into his pockets. A hundred crowns was an
offer he did not often get.
"I am sick, sick unto death," continued the colonel.
"Then I will report you to the head keeper," said the man quickly, "and
he will report you to the governor, and he will--I don't know what he'll
think proper to do."
"In the meantime must I go back to that hell?" said the colonel. "Give
me a knife and let me cut my throat!"
"We don't have that sort of thing done here," answered the jailer; "we
keep no knives and no ropes inside the jail."
"Listen!" said Reginald. "Surely there must be some place, some cell in
which there are three or four privileged prisoners, where you could
manage to put my father until I take measures for his removal. Go at
once and speak to the head jailer."
Saying this, Reginald put money into the man's hand. "Not a groat more
do you get," he said, "if you do not succeed, but I will double it if
you do."
He turned away, and, taking his father by the arm, succeeded in finding
a seat in a far corner of the room.
"See, Father, I have brought you food!" he said. He cut the strings of a
basket which he had been carrying and drew forth a pasty, some white
bread, and a flask of brandy.
The prisoner flew at the brandy. Reginald was forced to stop him.
"Gently, Father, gently," he said, "you will make yourself ill; there is
no hurry." And he handed him bread and meat, which he ate ravenously.
The keepers, noting that the young man wore the king's uniform, and that
the old man, even in his soiled clothes, had an air of distinction, let
them be. Besides, Reginald was generous with his money; he knew there
was no other means by which to gain a little respite.
When his father had eaten and drunk, more perhaps than was good for him,
he laid his head back on the wall and went to sleep. Reginald kept
watch over him. Once or twice the keepers came up and would have roused
him and sent him back to the common prison, but Reginald pleaded:
"Let him be a little longer," he said; "I am waiting for a message from
the governor." Again money passed from hand to hand, and they were let
alone.
Not till the day was far advanced did the first keeper return.
"The governor will see you," he said; "follow me."
Reginald looked at his father. If he roused him now would he be
sensible?
"Father!" he said, bending over him.
The colonel started and opened his eyes, but his mind seemed to be
wandering. He stood up, gave the word of command, as if he had been on
parade, then, looking round him, he said: "Where am I? What does it
mean?"
"He is in delirium," said Reginald in a low voice to the keeper. "Take
hold of him on one side and I will take him on the other; the governor
can judge for himself." So they crossed the room, the old man muttering
and talking to himself, until they came to the governor's room.
To Reginald's surprise, he proved to be an old friend of his father's,
who, however, had kept fairly quiet, and had not been in any way
offensive either to the Commonwealth or to the king's Government. It
was not in his power to remedy the state of the prison, and he had no
thought of attempting to do so. A prison was a prison in those days.
Prisoners, if refractory, were chained up like wild beasts and kept on
bread and water. They lived or died, as the case might be; some went
under at once, others, thanks to stronger constitutions, managed to
survive, until they were dragged on hurdles to execution, or by some
lucky chance found their way out of that prison-house, brutalized,
hating both God and man.
When the governor, looking up, saw Reginald and his father, he said
shortly:
"When I heard your name, I wondered what Newbolt it was. How happens it
that your father has let himself fall into this strait? I thought he
was a cleverer man."
"There must be a traitor somewhere," said Reginald. "My father has
taken the oath of allegiance; he went with General Monk to meet the king
on his return. I, who have never drawn sword in any other cause, hold a
commission from the king in his own Guards. But some traitor has
informed his majesty of what, alas! is only too true, that my father was
captain of a body of troops who kept the streets at the time of the
execution of his most gracious majesty, Charles I--hence his arrest."
"Ah, that is compromising!" said the governor. "Do you know who the
informant was?"
"No, I do not," answered Reginald, "but I will make it my business to
find out. There is no denying the fact that my father was on duty that
day. He was arrested four days ago, and see what it has made of him!
He was a strong, hale man when he came here. I ask your clemency for
him."
"It is a common case," said the governor. "The class of men to which
your father belongs cannot stand this place. I will do what I can. He
has caught jail fever. Put him in yonder chair."
The keeper and Reginald obeyed, the old man talking and jabbering all
the time.
Reginald stood before the governor, who continued: "You see, we cannot
put him back into the public room, and there is not a free cell. You
may believe me or not as you choose, the prison is literally swarming.
Knight," he said, addressing the keeper, "is there any hole you can give
the colonel to lie in until I can get him removed?"
"There is the cell at the end of the right-hand corridor, where that
madman was confined; he died yesterday. His body was thrown out to-day,
but the cell has not been cleaned yet; it is not fit to put even a dog
into."
"Let it be done immediately," said the governor. "Let fresh straw be
laid down and the colonel carried thither. I give him into your hands,
Knight. I think you will find it worth your while to treat him well,"
he added, with a glance at Reginald.
"I have promised him a hundred crowns; I do not care if I make it two
hundred," answered the young man.
"Sir," said Knight, "I thank you. May I leave the gentleman here whilst
I see to the cleaning of that dog's kennel?"
The governor nodded.
Worn out, the colonel's head fell on his breast; he was in a sort of
coma.
"I'll write a letter," said the governor, "which you may take to the
Secretary of State, or, if you prefer it, to the king himself. If you
can get an audience, that might be better. If your father is really to
be prosecuted, he must be removed from this prison to Aldersgate."
"I do not think he will be removed anywhere except fro his last
resting-place," said Reginald.
"Tut, tut! men do not die so easily," said the governor. "That is our
strong point. I will represent that if the colonel is left here he will
certainly die, and then who would pay the fine, which will be the least
thing imposed upon him? The king's exchequer, they say, is empty, and
there is nothing to be got out of a dead dog; therefore, you see, it is
to their interest to keep him alive. Rest assured they will nurse him
with the utmost tenderness, so that, if he be hanged, he may be hanged
alive, and his lands forfeited to the crown. If he dies now, you will
inherit; you have committed no misdemeanour. On the contrary, you are
the king's man, and they cannot, in all decency, prosecute you. Do you
understand?"
"Yes, I understand," said Reginald, with evident disgust. "Write the
letter for me, sir, and I will carry it."
The governor scrawled a few lines, folded it, and gave it to Reginald.
"I think you will find that serve your purpose," he said.
"May I send clean linen and clothes for my father?" asked Reginald. "He
cannot remain as he is."
"I should advise you to send nothing, but to bring everything," said the
governor; "otherwise I greatly fear he will not benefit much. This is a
den of thieves and robbers."
Reginald hesitated for a moment, then he said:
"And my mother! When she knows I have found my father, nothing will
keep her away."
The governor shrugged his shoulders.
"Then you must bring her, that is all," he said. "Knight will let you in
the back way. Your father will not be so bad to look at when he is in
his new cell. Now you must be gone; I have given you more time, young
man, than I have favoured anyone with for months. Look through that
window in the wall and you will see the crowd waiting to interview me."
"I am more than grateful to you, sir," said Reginald.
"All right, all right!" answered the governor, holding out his hand.
"We will try to pull him through; not that it will be easy, I warn you."
"I fear not," answered Reginald; "nevertheless I thank you, sir," and,
bowing to the governor, he turned round to where his father still sat in
a deep, heavy slumber: his face was crimson, his hands, as Reginald felt
them, were burning.
"I have cleaned the place up as best I could, sir. Shall we take him
there at once?" said Knight, coming up.
"Yes," said Reginald shortly; and between them they carried the colonel
down two or three long passages, lined on either side with cells. At
the very end there was an open door, showing a cell of about eight feet
square. Upon the ground in one corner was a heap of straw, which, with
a table and a chair, both riveted to the wall, and a basin, completed
the furniture.
"I found this here thing in the corner of the public room where the
gentleman has been lying. I don't know how it has escaped the eyes of
his late companions, but it has. I got it and brought it here. He will
want it," said Knight.
Reginald recognized his father's cloak, so they wrapped him up in it and
laid him in the straw which was strewn on the damp floor.
"Look here, man," said Reginald, "I must go. I have pressing business.
Here are the hundred crowns I promised you, and for every week he stays
here and you care for him decently, you shall have as much again. I
shall be back in a couple of hours with sheets and bedding, and all that
is necessary for his comfort. You must fetch the doctor, and whatever
he orders that you must provide."
"Very good, sir, I understand," said Knight. "But I have other duties,
you know; I cannot be always here."
"Pass them over to someone else. I'll pay, as paying is the order of
the day. Do you agree?"
"I should be a fool not to," answered Knight. "I'll see to the old man;
you shall have nothing to complain of." And with that half-promise
Reginald was obliged to be satisfied. With one more look at his father
he went out.
Knight followed him, closing and locking the door.
"You will lose your way unless I take you out," he said to Reginald.
"You had better not come in at the front gate in future."
So saying he guided him into a small courtyard, which was evidently
seldom used. In it was a huge mastiff, which walked to and fro,
snarling and growling. He sprang forward to meet the two men, and would
have flown at Reginald if Knight had not caught him by the collar.
"Speak to him, caress him, then in future he will never hurt you," he
said. "When you come back, bring him food; you must be friends."
Reginald had a great liking for all animals. He spoke to the mastiff,
which, after a few minutes' inspection, sniffed around, and suffered him
to stroke him.
"That's all right," said Knight, satisfied.
Taking a key off a bunch at his side he opened a side gate, and Reginald
passed out into the street opposite the Old Bailey.
"You have only to ring that bell when you return," he said, pointing to
a long iron chain by the door. "I shall answer."
Reginald nodded, and went forth with a heavy heart, feeling as if years
had passed over his head since he penetrated within the mighty walls
which separated the prison of Newgate and its inmates from the outside
world.
*CHAPTER X*
*A Legend*
When Reginald returned to his mother he found her waiting impatiently
for him; indeed, she had done so for the last three days. Her whole
time had been spent between prayer and waiting, seated in the window
with her hands folded.
In the morning she attended to her household duties--she forgot nothing.
It was with difficulty that they could get her to take any food; she
seemed to have no need of it. Now, when she saw Reginald coming up the
street, she said to Ann:
"He has news--he has found your father." And she went to the door to
meet him.
"Well?" she asked.
"Yes, I have found him," said Reginald; "but you must not rejoice too
soon, Mother, for he is in a terrible condition."
"Dying?" she asked.
"I cannot say, for I do not know," answered Reginald. "He is very
ill--his sufferings have been great, and he is now delirious. I saw the
governor, and he had him removed to a cell by himself. He is in want of
everything. There are no rules to prevent our taking anything we choose
to him."
"And I may go to him?" she asked.
"Yes, you may go to him, but Ann must not," said Reginald; "the place
reeks of fever, small-pox, and every other disease. You must be
prepared for the worst, Mother."
"Whatever the Lord orders is for the best," she answered.
"But what is to become of Ann? She cannot remain in this house alone,"
said Reginald.
"Take her to Patience," said Mistress Newbolt. "She can abide with her
all day, and at night when I return you can fetch her--if I do return."
"At sunset you must leave the prison, Mother; it is the rule."
"Very well," said Mistress Newbolt, "I will abide by the rule. Now
order a coach; I have everything ready."
"I am afraid not everything," said Reginald. "He lacks bedding, sheets,
the veriest necessaries. I left him lying on straw in a damp cell. I
will order a cart to come round to take the larger luggage, but you must
go in a coach."
"I can walk if necessary," said Mistress Newbolt; "it is no great
distance."
Two hours were spent putting things together, providing food, broths,
and jellies. Ann went about with her mother, thinking of everything.
When all was ready and the coach was called, she said to Reginald:
"Shall I not be allowed to go?"
"No, it is not a fit place for you," said Reginald; "and you would do no
good. I don't know when I shall return myself, therefore you had better
get your women to take you to Somerset House. You can tell them how
matters stand, and I shall probably fetch you at nightfall, or when my
mother comes back."
Whilst they were still conversing, Mr. Delarry came up. It was by no
means the first time he had come to the house--indeed, he and Reginald
were very good friends, and he would frequently drop in to supper--but
he had been away with the king at Hampton Court, and had only just heard
of the colonel's arrest.
"I am deeply grieved for you," he said, "and I hastened here to tell you
so. Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Nothing at present," said Reginald. "I have been three days finding my
father, and now he is sick unto death; I do not know whether he will
live. I am taking my mother to him. I have no time to say more, so
farewell!"
Mistress Newbolt appeared on the steps, and Reginald hastened to help
her into the coach. Many of the servants had followed her, and were
weeping. Although she was a stern mistress, she was a just one, and they
all respected her.
"Delarry," said Reginald, before following his mother into the coach,
"will you see my sister to Somerset House? She cannot stay here alone,
and neither my mother nor myself can be back before nightfall."
"If she will allow me to do so, I shall esteem it a favour," said
Delarry. "And, Reginald, let me know if I can be of any use to you; I
am at your service."
"Many thanks!" said Reginald. "It is something to feel that one has a
friend in these hard times." The two young men shook hands, Reginald
took his place beside his mother, and they drove away. Ann went slowly
back to the house, Delarry following her.
"Shall you go at once to Somerset House?" he asked.
"In about an hour," she answered. "I must put my mother's room in
order, and attend to a few household duties. But do not let me detain
you; my own woman will accompany me."
"You would not grieve me thus?" said Delarry. "I esteem it a high honour
to have been asked to take care of you."
"Very well," said Ann, "come back in an hour, and I will be ready."
He did so, and accompanied her the short distance from Drury Lane to
Somerset House. They made no haste, for they liked each other's
society.
When they reached Somerset House they found Patience and Agnes on the
terrace taking their mid-day airing.
"We did not venture to come to your house," said Patience, after
greeting Ann and her companion, "for fear of disturbing your mother. We
felt sure if you had news that you would send us word."
"We have news," said Ann, "but it is of such an evil kind that the
telling of it is grievous to me."
"Still we must hear it," said Patience.
They sat down on the bench facing the river, and there Ann told them all
she knew.
"It is a very terrible state of affairs," said Delarry, looking serious;
but he did not venture to say how serious he thought it, for he knew
full well that the king was still very bitter against anyone who had had
a hand in his father's murder. Nevertheless he tried to speak
cheerfully.
"It will be better," he said, "for Reginald to go to the king himself.
He is rather partial to the young man; indeed, only the other day he
asked why he was not in attendance. He then learnt of the arrest of
Colonel Newbolt, and expressed his regret that the son should have to
suffer for the father."
Ann coloured. "That means that Reginald will have to resign his
commission," she said.
"I am afraid so," answered Delarry. "It would hardly do, when his
father is imprisoned for connivance with the regicides, for him to
remain in the king's service. But we cannot tell. Charles is a strange
character; he may not choose to accept your brother's resignation."
"It was not Colonel Newbolt's fault that he was on duty on that day at
that place," said Agnes.
"No," said Delarry, "that was a coincidence, but still the fact is
there."
"Don't let us talk about it," said Ann; "it will not mend matters."
"My friend is right," said Agnes. "We will talk of other things. Is
there any news from France, Mr. Delarry?"
"Yes, the king heard from her majesty the queen no later than yesterday.
The marriage of the duke and the princess is to be the occasion of great
festivities; it is to be conducted with royal state. The King of France
is making much of the bride."
"I wish I were in Paris," said Agnes; "I know just how it will all be.
I think I like Paris better than London."
"Oh no, you don't!" said Ann. "You must not. You are an English girl,
and must love your own country best."
"So she will in years to come," said Patience. "There is so much in
habit. She has always lived in France. The sun shines more brightly
there, and the days are longer."
"And people are less stiff, and they are kinder and more courteous,"
said Agnes. "You English are so cold! I have lived a long time here
now, and I have only one friend--that is you, Ann."
"And is it not a grand thing to _have one friend_?" said Mr. Delarry.
"We may have many acquaintances, little lady, but a friend is a rare
gem."
Having said this, Mr. Delarry rose and took his leave.
Patience and the two girls went up to their own apartment, and occupied
themselves at that fine tapestry work at which Agnes, like all French
ladies, was an adept. Ann was not so clever with her needle, but she
loved to watch her friend, whose proficiency was astonishing; the
flowers, the birds, the figures, seemed to grow under her fingers.
"I wish I could work as you do," she said.
"I love it," answered Agnes; "it makes me forget. When I have any
trouble or any vexation I come to my framework and create a bird, or a
flower. Sometimes I dream dreams. It does not matter what I do, but I
grow quieter and happier."
"You are a town girl, and I am a country girl," said Ann. "I have lived
all my life in the open, in the midst of the flowers and the birds, with
my dogs and horses, riding and hunting with Reginald and my father over
miles of moorland. Oh, it is glorious! Would you not love it?"
Agnes looked up. "Love it? Indeed I am sure I should!" she answered.
"Patience said just now we grow accustomed to things; that is true. I
was accustomed to the great dark rooms at the Louvre, and the long dull
days; but sometimes, I remember, I used to feel suffocated, as if I were
a bird beating against the bars of the cage. I used to look up through
the windows at the sky, and long--oh, how I used to long!--to have wings
to fly away."
"And yet you say you like France better than England," said Ann.
"I knew of nothing better," said Agnes. "I loved the queen and I loved
Henrietta, but still I have always known that it was not my own life,
that there must be something better! We used to go to Fontainebleau
sometimes, but we children never went beyond the edge of the wood. We
were allowed to wander in the great gardens, which were very beautiful,
with long avenues of trees and a big pond full of tame carp, which came
when we called them, and which we used to feed. It was a great
pleasure, but still it was not liberty. I longed for liberty, to ride,
to walk, as the desire might come to me. Ah, you are very happy!" she
said to Ann. "Tell me about that place up north of which you speak so
often."
"Newbolt Manor?" answered Ann. "It is the most beautiful place in the
world. Long, long ago it was a monastery, and belonged to a religious
order. There are the ruins of the most lovely chapel you ever saw; and
although the house has been restored and rebuilt, there are still parts
of it which belong to the old days--the great hall, the refectory, and
the library. They are very beautiful, with much carved oak and many
stained-glass windows."
"And it belonged to the De Lisles!" said Agnes thoughtfully.
"Yes," answered her companion, "and there is a long picture-gallery
containing portraits of the family of De Lisles; and now I come to think
of it, Agnes, there is one picture of a child who lived a long time
ago--oh! a hundred years ago, perhaps. You are exactly like her; is it
not strange?"
"Very," said Agnes. "Go on and tell me more."
"Well," said Ann, "the story is that when the monks were driven out,
King Henry VIII gave it to a certain Reginald De Lisle."
"How did that old man at Greenwich know anything; about them, I wonder?"
said Agnes. "How did he know the De Lisles?"
"That I cannot tell," said Ann. "He may have been an old servant, and
have known the legend that the De Lisles, being possessed of church
lands, would be driven out."
"It has come true," said Agnes.
"Only to a certain extent," said Ann. "They were not driven out, they
died out; the race is extinct."
"How then can they come back again?" asked Agnes. "You know he said
they would."
"Ah! that I cannot tell," answered Ann. "If he were an old servant of
the De Lisles, the wish might very possibly be father to the thought."
"But," said Agnes thoughtfully, "supposing it were a mistake, and that
one day a De Lisle should turn up and claim his own?"
"I do not suppose it would make much difference now," said Ann. "The
land is ours as far as lawyers and parchment can make it so."
"You would be sorry to lose it," said Agnes.
"Yes, I should," answered Ann. "I love the place, and I would like to
think that Reginald would have it one day, and that he would marry and
have children; and so it would go down from generation to generation, a
fair heritage."
"As it was with the De Lisles," said Agnes thoughtfully. "Ah well!" she
added, "it does not much matter; the world passeth away, and the glory
of it."
Instinctively the words had come to her lips--how they did so she knew
not--it was the inspiration of a moment. She had dropped her needle
whilst listening to Ann, and there was a strange, dreamy look in the
great dark eyes as she gazed through the window up to the sky which
overhung the river. The summer day had come to a close; she could no
longer see to put her stitches into the canvas. A sense of unreality
crept over her, a sort of feeling as if she had lived in another world
once upon a time--she was, and she was not--a spell seemed laid upon
her. Would she awake and find her present life only a dream?
Patience's voice roused her.
"Ann Newbolt," she said, "a messenger has come from your brother.
Neither he nor your mother can return to-night. He requests me to keep
you with us."
"My father is dying, then?" said Ann.
"The messenger does not say so," answered Patience, "merely that they
cannot leave the prison."
*CHAPTER XI*
*A Brave Woman*
Sooner or later we all find a place which fits us in the world, and when
Mistress Newbolt crossed the threshold of Newgate to take charge of her
husband, unwittingly, even to herself, she had reached her bourne. She
did not know it, she did not realize it till long after; but her work
had found her, and she was not one of those who, having put her hand to
the plough, would turn back again.
An ordinary woman would have shrunk from the misery which surrounded
her, but she never did. All the sorrow, the discontent, which so often
troubled her, ceased to be as she stood beside her husband in that
narrow cell. With strong hands, helped by Reginald, she arranged his
bed; she spoke to him, she comforted him; even in his delirium he knew
her and clung to her. That he was desperately ill she saw at a glance,
but even the doctor, a rough, hard man, when he came to visit him, grew
soft in Mistress Newbolt's presence.
"Madam," he said, "I cannot tell whether he will live or die. His life
is in your hands."
"Not in mine," said Mistress Newbolt, "but in God's."
"We do not hear much of God here," said the doctor roughly. "It is
verily a God-forsaken place; but your presence is potent, your care may
save him."
"I can only stay here a few hours," she answered, "at least, so I am
told. I will do what I can."
"You may stay here as long as you choose," said the doctor. "I will
speak to the governor."
And so it came to pass that Mistress Newbolt was established at Newgate.
That first night her husband was seized with such violent delirium that
it required two men to hold him down.
Reginald therefore remained till early morning, when, exhausted, the
patient dropped into a deep sleep. Then his mother bade him go and
rest.
"You have your duties to attend to; you have Ann to see after," she
said. "I am sufficient here."
"Will you not be afraid to remain here alone, Mother?" asked Reginald.
"Afraid!" she answered, "of what? Is not God with me?" And that
strangely inspired look came into her face. "I feel as if my place were
here, as if at last I had found my appointed task. Go, and do not
trouble about me or your father."
Reginald kissed her hand.
"You are wonderful, Mother," he said. "I will return this evening
before the prison gates close." And so he left her.
As Mistress Newbolt stood in the passage she heard cries and moans, loud
voices, and bitter plaints.
"Are those the prisoners?" she asked of Knight, the jailer.
"Yes," he answered, "they are hungry dogs to-day. They declared that
the morning allowance of food was insufficient. There was not a hunch
of bread for each man, and it was sour, not fit to cast to the dogs."
"How was it so?" asked Mistress Newbolt.
The keeper shrugged his shoulders.
"How can I tell?" he said. "It is bought by contract. As we get it we
give it them. Those who have no money of their own, and no friends,
come badly off. Your husband is sleeping, will you come and look at
them?"
Mistress Newbolt acquiesced.
He took her down the passage to a great iron door, in which there was a
sliding panel, not large, but large enough to allow an outsider to look
into the interior. The keeper drew back the panel, and shrill voices
fell upon her ears, uttering curses and foul language. She saw men and
women with scarce any semblance of humanity, rather like wild beasts.
Some were tearing at hard crusts of bread, others at meat of the worst
kind; men belaboured the women and thrust them back, snatching the food
out of their thin hands. And they in their turn clutched at them and
tore their hair, scratching their faces in their madness. One or two
had infants in their arms, parodies of childhood.
"It is terrible!" said Mistress Newbolt, her pale face paling.
"Here is gold," she said to the keeper; "go fetch me food! I will give
it them. And look you," she continued, "that you are just, and bring me
full measure for the money."
Her stern eyes stared straight into Knight's, and he, as if affrighted,
looked away; nevertheless he took the gold and departed to do her
bidding.