"I admire your strategy, Mynheer," said Harry to Grootz.

"Zo! We must send dis money to Polignac; his house is near at hand.

Dere is one ding to zay: de house is mine, after all. I paid off de

mortgage last week--let us zay, for a friend. Dat is all dat Madame

need know: Grootz has paid de bonds--both bonds, house and land--for a

friend: a matter of business; you understand."

"Very well, Mynheer; I will be diplomatic if she asks for more

information."

But Harry was as much puzzled by Grootz's attitude as he had been by the

lady's.

"So Captain Aglionby is your cousin?" he said to Sherebiah later in the

day.

"Ay, to be sure: old feyther's sister's son. A fine loven feller for a

coz, bean't he, sir?"

"He has got off too lightly, Sherry."

"Mebbe, but he'll come to his reckonen some day. You mind seein' me

trounce un the day arter I shouted for the noble lord?"

"Yes, and you would not tell me the reason."

"Nay, I was 'shamed for my blood. Folks thowt 'twas Rafe as loosed John

Simmons. 'Twarn't him; 'twas me."

"You!"

"Ay. I knowed as the highway business were a trick o' Rafe's, and I

knowed as how Simmons would split on un. Fat'll be in fire then, thinks

I. Rafe'll go to hangman, and poor old feyther o' mine'll die o' shame

at such a kicken end for his own sister's child. I couldn't stand that,

sir, so when Willum Nokes was a-snoren I took down keys from the nail

and had Simmons out in a twink."

"But that doesn't explain why you fought the captain."

"Ay, but it do. Here was I, goen agen the law, diddlen Sir Godfrey and

other high justices, cheaten hangman and all--and what for, I axe 'ee?

'Cos Minshull blood was cussed wi' mixen wi' Aglionby's. Aglionby blood

had got to pay, someways, and so it did, to be sure, for I took a

half-pint or so out of Rafe that mornen."

*CHAPTER XVI*

*Knaves all Three*

Labour Lost--Elegant Extracts--Hard Hit--A New

Departure--Fishing--County Families--Sack

Captain Aglionby sanded the paper he had just written upon, and leant

back in his chair with a sigh of satisfaction. He heard the sound of

footsteps on the stairs.

"Here, Mynheer," said the voice of his landlord.

With an instinctive movement he covered the letter, and turned on his

chair, in time to see the door open and a visitor enter. He stared for

a moment in speechless amazement; then, attempting clumsily to shove the

letter entirely out of sight beneath a plate containing the crumbs of a

fish pate, he got up and said:

"Why, Mr. Berkeley; adzooks! 'tis the last man I could have expected to

see, the last man--though a pleasant surprise, an uncommonly pleasant

surprise."

"Humph!" grunted the old man, with a glance round the mean room. "I

feared you would resent my too abrupt entry. After what I had learnt in

your letters about your magnificent, expensive, modish apartment, I

could not suppose I was walking straight into your parlour--h'm! study;

h'm! bedroom and--pantry, h'm!"

"No apologies, my friend, I beg. You take me at a disadvantage, having

but just consumed my modest repast----"

"Fish! My nose informs me. 'Tis the fortieth smell that has offended

my senses within a quarter of an hour. 'Twas somewhat difficult to

discover your--mansion. You are not, it appears, so well known at the

Hague as you give out; and when I named you at my inn, with your

address, I was advised to bring an escort. I came alone----"

"Ah! Nicolas Berkeley knows how to take care of himself--eh, Squire?"

"But had I known to what an ordeal, to what a series of ordeals, my

nostrils would be exposed, I doubt I could not have plucked up the

courage."

"'Twas ill done to come upon me so suddenly. The smells--hang me,

Squire, I have smelt worse when I was the guest of the Czar of Muscovy.

But had you given me a week's, a day's notice, I would have made ready

an entertainment worthy of you, my old friend."

"No doubt, no doubt----"

"And indeed I was on the point of writing you when you entered."

"Ay, on the point of; you write to me twice a day, do you? for unless I

mistake, you have already writ once to-day. Under the plate, Captain

Aglionby--surely I see writ on the paper there some semblance of my

name."

"'Tis so; what eyes you have for your age, Squire! I was just trying a

new pen, and so full were my thoughts of my generous friend and patron

that the pen ran of its own accord, mark you, into the familiar curves.

And as I know how you abhor a letter, I will e'en tear up the paper

and----"

"Stay!" cried the old man, taking a sudden step forward; "knowing the

pains you take in writing, 'tis pity they should be wasted. I set out

designing to conduct my son to the army: I find I am embarked on a

voyage of discovery; give me the paper."

The command was uttered in a tone that broke down Aglionby's bravado.

He drew the letter from below the plate, and handed it in sullen silence

to the squire. The old man pressed his lips grimly together as he

unfolded the yet unsealed paper. Aglionby stuck out his legs wide

apart, thrust his hands into his breeches pockets, and hung his head in

moody dudgeon.

"'Tis excellent pen-work; your hand grows fluent. '_I thank you for the

hundred guineas received_'"--Mr. Berkeley read aloud with deliberation

and a dry emphasis that made Aglionby wince--"'_and trust the two

hundred for which I beseeched you in my last will not tarry._' To pay

your landlord, I take it, for this--magnificent apartment."

"A man must live," said the captain sullenly.

"Ay, eat and drink, and sponge upon his betters for his cakes and ale."

"Oons! Squire, 'tis rum."

"A foul-smelling liquor.--What is this?--'_do violence to natural

affection in the service of a munificent patron--inform on a

cousin--Sherebiah Minshull condemned to be shot--my lord

Marlborough--young Mr. Rochester--rid up in the nick of time._'"--Mr.

Berkeley's brow darkened as he read.--"Let me come to the end of it.

'_A visit to the Comtesse de Vaudrey in the interest of my

patron--violent assault--in the mellay stumbled into a canal--costume

totally ruined and cannot be replaced under ten guineas_'--I observe

'tis shrunk at the sleeve; I thought maybe you had grown, to match your

magnificent apartment! Now, sirrah, how much of this precious epistle

do you expect me to believe? A fine story, in truth, of the ills you

suffer in your constant zeal for your 'munificent patron': is it all of

a piece with your 'magnificent apartment'? What have you done with, and

for, my hundred guineas?--what, sirrah, your answer!"

Aglionby felt that he was being wronged; he had, in fact, done all in

his power; it was not his fault that failure had dogged him.

Undoubtedly appearances were against him, and the biting emphasis of the

old man's delivery, the cold sneer that lurked in every repetition of

his pet phrases, robbed him of speech. He writhed under the lash.

Standing over him, the squire gave rein to his temper.

"You take me for a fool, do you, with your cock-and-bull stories!--you

flam me off, rat me! with your 'magnificent apartment', your 'munificent

patron', your 'constant zeal', which I--I, you swashbuckling villain--am

to pay for! Where are the two hundred guineas paid to the captain of

the _Merry Maid_?--the fifty guineas to your footpad friends in

Wapping?--the hundred sent you but a few weeks past? How has your zeal

furthered my interest? Zeal, forsooth! there's a many of your cut-throat

gossips would sink you as a disgrace to the craft, for at least they

hold to their bargains and are not swindlers as well as----"

"Fire and fury!" shouted Aglionby, springing to his feet and drawing his

sword. "'Tis not to be borne! Clap a bridle on your canting tongue or

I'll run your bloodless carcass through!--as I've done with many a

better man. D'ye hear, you old Pharisee! Your white hairs under your

wig sha'n't preserve you if Rafe Aglionby is roused. And where would

you be, rot you--Squire Berkeley of Winton Hall--you and your

guineas--if I told what I know?"

[Illustration: "Fire and Fury!" shouted Aglionby]

Mr. Berkeley had drawn at the same moment, and the two stood glaring at

each other over the chair. The old man, his face livid with passion,

was in nowise daunted by the other's threats; Aglionby's cheeks were

purple, and the veins on his brow stood up like whipcord. For some

moments both stood tense, each leaning towards the other; then the

squire dropped his sword back into the sheath, gulped, and said:

"Well, well, maybe I was hasty. But you have a great deal to explain,

Aglionby--a very great deal to explain."

"As I could have done, had you but given me time instead of treating me

as you would a common pickpocket. By George! Mr. Berkeley, Rafe

Aglionby is not the man to stand that mode of dealing, as you well know,

for all the luck has been against me these late years. Who could have

supposed that young Rochester, sink him! would escape from the _Merry

Maid_? Was that my fault, pray? By what I can make out he jumped

overboard off Gravesend and got aboard a Dutch brig, and the rascally

Hollander--one Grootz, a smug corn-dealer--refused to give him up.

Could I help that? Then, when I had my snivelling cousin Sherebiah fast

in the net, could I prevent my lord Marlborough from signing his

discharge and undoing all my work? Could I? I've had the worst of luck

all through; and foul words won't mend matters. And, beshrew me, you

were not over successful yourself with the cockerel's father, for all

your guineas. The youngster's a chip of the old block, and a precious

hard chip too, rot him! But I've vowed to carry the thing through;

besides your affair, I've now one or two private accounts to square with

him; and if you have patience and a trifle more courtesy--by George!

you'll have no cause to complain of Rafe Aglionby."

The words came from him in a torrent. He felt that he had a real

grievance, and, as often with rogues, the possession of a grievance lent

him words if not eloquence. But the squire still looking doubtful,

Aglionby picked up a stained copy of the _Amsterdam Courier_ that lay on

a chair, and pointed to a paragraph giving in French an account,

somewhat distorted but substantially accurate, of Harry's exploit on

behalf of Sherebiah. As the old man read it he pressed his thin lips

together in vindictive rage.

"There for you!" pursued the captain. "'Tis the talk of the town. The

youngster is making friends on all sides; he owns a commission in the

Dutch army----"

"What!"

"'Tis true; a booby general got him the commission, and the lubber

Grootz pays. 'Tis becoming more and more difficult to get at him; but I

have a scheme--a pretty scheme, egad!--that can scarcely fail this time.

All I need is a small sum to go on with--rat me, Squire, will you still

sneer? On my soul, I----"

"Tut, Captain, your skin is surely thinner than it was."

"And yours would be thin had ye not your guineas to line it with. Hang

me, Berkeley, a word from me----"

"Come, come," said the squire quickly, "'tis not for old friends to fall

out. You were talking of your scheme."

"I was saying that all I need is a small sum in advance--the rest may

wait till the thing is done."

"And what is your scheme? You do not expect me--no offence,

Aglionby--to buy a pig in a poke this time."

"'Twere better, maybe----" Aglionby was beginning, but just then a

footstep was heard on the stairs. He evidently recognized it.

Hesitating for a second he lowered his voice and continued hurriedly:

"'Tis one of the men engaged in the job. I will call on you later at

your inn. 'Twould be amiss were he to know you had any concern in it."

Berkeley looked suspiciously at the captain, but, unable to fathom his

embarrassment, he picked up his hat and slowly moved towards the door.

It opened in his face, and Polignac appeared. He stepped back

courteously to allow the older man to pass. They bowed to each other,

with a mutual glance of keen scrutiny. The squire bade Aglionby

good-day, refusing his attendance; and as he passed down the stairs

Polignac entered the room.

"Who is your visitor, captain?" he asked. "An English milord, by his

appearance."

"Yes; a friend from England--an old friend of my family: a neighbour: in

fact, our estates join--or all but, for 'tis but a narrow trout-stream

divides 'em."

Aglionby's manner was still a little flurried. His mind was not very

quick, and took time to adjust itself. Polignac threw his hat upon the

table, sat astride of a chair, and went on with admirable gravity:

"And the fishing--it is often, without doubt, what we Frenchmen call an

apple of discord. I have known so many disputes."

"The fishing! oh!--yes!--well, that arranges itself. It is quite

simple: we take one day, he takes the next."

"Tour a tour. Admirable! You English are the people for transactions!

I must make the acquaintance of your so accommodating friend and

neighbour. Is he--how shall I say it?--one of us?"

"No. He takes no part in affairs. He cultivates his estate. His call

now is merely in way of friendship."

"Ah! that is indeed amiable. Parbleu, he has the look! And what is he

doing in this country?"

Aglionby was growing restive under the cross-examination. He had the air

of a witness who fears that he may be enticed into an admission against

his will. But he had not the wit to fence with his visitor.

"Nothing," he replied curtly. "He comes with his son, that is in the

army, and now joins his regiment."

"He has a son in the army? My dear friend, certainly you shall present

me. I desire of all things to extend my acquaintance among your

countrymen--in furtherance, it is understood, of my cause--of our cause,

pardon me."

"I fear you will find little encouragement with him. He hates your

countrymen as one hates a toad."

"The amiable man!"

Aglionby's constrained manner had betrayed him to his astute visitor,

whose curiosity was now effectually aroused.

"Then, my good captain," he continued, "it shall be my pleasing task to

convert him. Indeed, you must present me. He shall be a recruit--a

little aged, perhaps, but what matters that? In truth, it is an

advantage, if his estates are as large as you say."

"I did not say his estates were large."

"But they march with your family's--is it not so? And unless I deceive

myself, the D'Aglionbys are--how do you say it?--milords of the manor of

half the comte of Viltshire. You remark, my dear captain, what a memory

I have, even for your barbarous English geography."

The captain, more and more restive, fidgeted on his chair.

"Parbleu, monsieur," he said doggedly, "you must allow me to be the

judge who among my friends is likely to be of use to us. This one, I

say, is not; you must be content with that."

Polignac, seeing that nothing was to be gained by pressing the matter in

the captain's present mood, adroitly changed the conversation.

"Eh bien! As you will, my good captain. You know my zeal in the cause,

and Tout fait nombre, as we say in France. Now, my friend, how goes our

affair--yours and mine, I mean?"

Aglionby's face cleared. He was now on surer ground.

"Admirably, admirably, monsieur. Look you, I have arranged with some

six stout fellows--every one to be depended on. Nothing remains but to

choose the hour and the place. And besides, I have set Simmons on the

watch: he comes here to report at five o'clock."

"And it is now half-past two. If it pleases you, mon brave,--there is

time--we will have in a bottle of sack and drink success to our

enterprise."

"If it pleases me! Parbleu, Polignac, I've drunk nothing but rum since

Berk----since the last remittance from my agent was spent. A bottle of

sack! Many I've emptied with the Czar of Muscovy, whose head, mark you,

is not as strong as mine. Certainly, a bottle of sack--the money, my

friend?"

Some two hours later, Aglionby left the inn at which Mr. Berkeley was

putting up. His mood and mien were jovial; his rubicund cheeks even

more ruddy than usual. He was too old and tough a campaigner, and too

well seasoned by his experiences in Russia, to allow himself to be

overtaken in liquor; but he was certainly in an unusually buoyant

humour, and trod the street with a confident swing. As he passed along,

he jingled the money in his pocket, and appeared to take an uncommon

pleasure in the sound. His brow was clear, his eye bright, and he held

half-audible communion with his thoughts.

"'Tis a hard world, Rafe my boy; odso, 'tis a hard world. 'Tis not

often a man gets paid for doing what he would gladly do for nothing.

Ay, and 'tis less often he gets paid twice, begad! Rafe, my bully boy,

you're in luck. Stap me, we'll break another bottle of sack and drink

to your success. Nay, nay; hold a little: business before pleasure. A

draft from our Hebrew friend--egad, they're the one good thing I know in

Amsterdam; that is easily got; then a letter to the Elector's

chamberlain; oons! 'tis more difficult, but to be faced; I'm no

scholard, hang it, but I can pay some poor scrivener that is, whether

'tis to be Latin or French; and to be Captain Rafe once more's worth a

dollar or two for pen-work. Then for a bottle at the Goudenhoof'd. And

to-morrow, my friend Rochester and my excellent coz with the scripture

name--to-morrow, by the lord Harry, our final reckoning!"

*CHAPTER XVII*

*In the Dusk*

Katrinka--Filial--Fine Feathers--A Practical Joke--Up a Tree--A Trap--In

Waiting--The Last Minute--A Bolt from the Blue--Ad Misericordiam--A

Theory--With Thanks

Harry had for some time been itching for an opportunity of active

service in his new calling. Garrison life, with its drilling and

exercising, was all very well, and he had much to learn; but the

business of a soldier was to fight, and he was eager to take his share

in the campaign, on the issue of which so many important interests

depended. His chance came at last, and though the result was too tame

for his active spirit, he felt that it was at least a beginning.

At the end of the first week in September his regiment received orders

to join a corps forming under General Brulau to begin the investment of

Limburg, a little hill-town south-east of Breda. On the 10th the force

of twenty-four squadrons encamped before the town, cutting off all

access, and occupying the approaches and the lower town without

resistance. Some ten days later the Duke of Marlborough arrived with

his main force; batteries played night and day on the upper town, and

made so wide a breach that orders were given for a grand assault. At

this point, however, the French commander, seeing the futility of

resistance and the hopelessness of relief from the outside, beat a

parley, and in less than twenty-four hours agreed to surrender. On the

28th the garrison of 1400 men laid down their arms and marched out. The

duke, having taken possession of the place, announced that the campaign

was closed, and the army would at once go into winter quarters. Harry

therefore returned to Breda without having drawn his sword, and had to

reconcile himself to the thought of a long winter of inaction.

One morning a messenger came to him from Mynheer Grootz, bearing a

present of tea and Japanese ware from the merchant to Madame de Vaudrey,

part of a cargo from the east which had eluded the French warships and

privateers that scoured the narrow seas. Since the incident of

Polignac's discomfiture at Lindendaal, Grootz had been assiduous in

paying little attentions of this kind to the ladies, and often sought

Harry's aid in conveying his presents. Harry was somewhat amused at

this amiable side of his former employer's character; Grootz was not on

the surface a likely squire of dames. No doubt, Harry thought, he was

anxious about the welfare of the ladies in their solitary position, with

no master of the house, but only a number of faithful though not too

intelligent servants. He was nothing loth to be the medium through whom

these gifts reached Madame de Vaudrey, and he found that Fanshawe was

always very ready to accompany him on these and other occasions.

It happened that on this day Harry was on duty, and saw no opportunity

of getting away until the evening. Having been absent from Breda for

nearly three weeks, he was anxious to learn how things were at

Lindendaal. The proximity of Polignac always gave him some uneasiness,

and though that gentleman's hold on the ladies had been effectually

snapped, Harry felt by no means sure that he would accept his rebuffs as

final. He therefore sent for Sherebiah, and ordered him to ride over

with Mynheer Grootz's parcel. Sherebiah's eagerness to set off amused

his master.

"You want to see Katrinka--is that it?" he said.

"Well, sir, her do have a good hand at griddle-cakes, and I ha'n't

tasted ne'er a one for three weeks."

"'Tis cupboard love, eh, Sherry?"

"The truth on't is, Master Harry, I be a-thinken o' old gaffer at home.

He's had a deal of trouble wi' maids and housekeepers; can't get ne'er a

one to cook his bacon to his mind, and besides has a sweet tooth for

griddle-cakes. Katrinka be a rare buxom wench; not a beauty, sure,

though handsome is as handsome doos; and when I found out her tidy ways

and light hand wi' the kickshawses--well, says I, she be the right maid

to keep old feyther o' mine above-ground for another ten year."

"Oh! and have you put the matter to Katrinka?"

"There's the rub, sir. Her be in the main willen, but there's a worm in

th' apple. The truth on't is, sir, her have high notions."

"Indeed! She wants to be something better than a nurse-cook, eh?"

"Not zackly that, sir; her notions be husband high, sir; her won't make

griddle-cakes for feyther o' mine not unless her be his darter, which is

a backward way o' sayen, marry me."

"That's terrible, Sherry."

"It med be wuss, Master Harry. I ha'n't no fears myself, but 'tis old

feyther I be thinken on. 'Ee see, I'm his boy; though I be forty-five

by nature, to his old aged life I be but a younker yet; and I be afeard

he'd think me a forrard youth did I venture a word about marryen."

Harry laughed outright.

"Take my advice, Sherry," he said. "If Katrinka's a good girl, get the

knot tied; we sha'n't be home again for a year at least; you can break

it gently to the old man, and sing the praises of your wife in respect

of bacon and girdle-cakes and other housewifely virtues."

"Thank 'ee, sir; and 'ee won't mind if I be a bit late back, 'cos 'twill

take a good time to talk over all that wi' Katrinka; her be terrible

slow wi' her mind, sir."

"All right! Get along; and you may give her a kiss from me. 'Tis the

chubby one, isn't it?"

"True, sir; a apple face, wi' a dimple in the chin, and eyes as blue as

her chiney, and hair this side o' red, and----"

"There, there. You're in a bad way, Sherry; go and get it over, man."

Not long after Sherebiah's departure, Fanshawe came in.

"What do you think?" shouted Harry. "That old oddity Sherry is in love

with Katrinka, one of the maids at Lindendaal, but was afraid to pop the

question lest his father thought him too young. He has gone over to

Lindendaal to-day; I fancy 'twill be a settled thing by the time he

returns."

"Oh!" Fanshawe appeared somewhat constrained. "The fact is, Harry, I am

riding to Lindendaal myself, and I came to see--to ask--that is, have

you any message for the ladies?"

"No; as it happens, Sherry is taking them a parcel from Mynheer

Grootz.--You've got a new coat, surely?"

"Ay; you see my old one was faded; things bleach soon in this

country----"

"And a new hat, I declare!"

"The old one was too vexatious shabby. Then you have no message?"

"No; Sherry conveys my regards. You'll have his company back; I suppose

you will be rather late, and 'twill be no bad thing to have a companion;

there have been one or two robberies by night on the Helmund road."

Until the evening Harry was fully occupied. The regimental

riding-master had begged his assistance in training a number of

recruits, and, since example is better than precept, he had been for

several hours on horseback, showing the Dutch youths the manage of their

steeds. When this was finished he had a turn at the foils with the

quarter-master, who had taken a fancy to him, and was wont to declare

him one of the best swordsmen in the army. After his evening meal he

felt he should like to stretch his legs, and, guessing that Fanshawe and

Sherebiah would soon be on the way home, decided to walk out and meet

them. It was a fine still evening, the road was dry, and a spin of a

couple of miles, as far as a big chestnut-tree that marked the limit of

the Sunday promenaders, would pleasantly end the day.

The sun was going down as he left the walls of Breda behind him,

throwing a long shadow on the road. He did not hurry his pace, but

ambled easily along, musing as a walker will, and paying little heed to

things around him. His thoughts were bright and clear, for he was in the

pink of physical health, and he felt that Providence was very good to

him. It was just a year ago that his father had died, and all the

prospect looked black. How strangely things had turned out! The very

event that had seemed to fling a pall over his life had really proved

the entrance to the career nearest to his heart. He was already

impatient for the winter to be over; surely with the next spring the war

would be prosecuted more vigorously, and the Dutch authorities would not

hang like a drag upon the wheels of Marlborough's plans! He was

ambitious, as every young officer must be, to distinguish himself; and

in his ambition there was a spice of _amour propre_; he felt that he

should dearly like to prove to the great duke himself that he would have

done no discredit to his sponsor if his commission had been an English

one. But a Dutch cornet, he thought, would have little chance of coming

under Marlborough's personal notice; and, after all, what did it matter?

Duty was duty, wherever and for whomsoever it was done.

Thus weaving a chain of imaginings, he came to the big solitary tree

before he was aware of it. He halted; Fanshawe and Sherebiah were not

in sight; the dusk was thickening, and he did not care to walk farther;

yet, having come so far, he was loth to go back without them. Surely

they could not be long now! Opposite the tree there was a gate into a

field. He climbed on to that, and sat with his feet tucked below one of

its bars, intending to wait their arrival. From his higher position he

now descried two figures in the distance; in another moment he saw that

they were horsemen. "Here they are at last!" he thought.

A whimsical idea flashed into his head. They would not expect to see

him; he felt sportive, the boyish instinct for fun asserting itself.

What if he could surprise the two--dart out on them unawares and make

them jump? The tree opposite overhung the road for several yards, its

foliage was still fairly thick, for the season had been mild; the autumn

frosts and gales had not yet begun; and it would provide ample shelter.

He sprang off the gate, ran across the road, leapt the ditch at the

side, scaled the trunk with an agility bred of long practice in

Wiltshire, and was soon hidden among the leaves, some fourteen feet

above the road. He filled his pocket with burrs he found still clinging

to the branches, laughing inwardly as he pictured Fanshawe's

consternation when he should receive one of those prickly missiles on

his head.

Soon he heard the measured beat of the approaching horses. Peering

between the leaves, he was disappointed to notice that the riders were

not Fanshawe and Sherebiah after all. One of them, a bulky man, had a

familiar appearance, the other was masked; but in the first Harry

recognized Captain Aglionby, and the second in figure and bearing

unmistakably recalled Monsieur de Polignac. Harry wondered what was the

meaning of the mask; knowing his men, he had little doubt that some

villainy was afoot. His wonder gave way to uneasiness when he found

that, instead of passing the tree, they dismounted and stood exactly

beneath him. They opened the gate on which he had been seated a few

minutes before, and led their horses through into the field, along the

stone dike at the edge, and at some distance from the gate, as Harry

could just see in the gathering darkness, secured them to the wall,

after some difficulty in finding anything to hitch them to. Then they

returned to the road, talking in low tones, and looking expectantly up

and down.

"'Sdeath!" muttered Aglionby, "what has become of them?"

"Rate encore une fois?" sneered Polignac, inferring the other's meaning

from his tone.

"Parbleu!" growled Aglionby, adding in French: "They ought to have been

here a quarter of an hour ago. They cannot be long now."

Harry's curiosity was growing. The two men were clearly expecting

somebody; for a moment he wondered whether Aglionby was meditating

another attempt on Sherebiah, but it could hardly be that, for the

captain had looked towards Breda as he spoke, not in the other

direction. He listened with all his ears.

"They may as well stay away altogether if the others are here before

them. We are only ten minutes ahead."

"Nearer twenty, if you believe me. They were riding slowly when we saw

them--a mile behind; and we saved several minutes by the short cut

through the wood. There is time yet."

As he spoke, three figures could be dimly seen coming along the road

from the direction of Breda. Aglionby and his friend at once shrank

back behind the dike, but after a moment's scrutiny, being apparently

satisfied, came out again and stood waiting by the side of the road.

The three men approaching caught sight of them and hastened their steps,

to be received with curses when they reached the spot. One of the men,

an Englishman, sullenly defended himself.

"It is all due to that confounded church clock. It has never gone right

since Mr. Fanshawe tampered with it. But we are in time, Captain."

"No thanks to you," growled Aglionby. "Where is the rope?"

One of the other men opened a sack he carried, and produced a stout rope

some thirty feet long.

"Take one end," said Aglionby, "and fix it to the gatepost; at the top,

fool, not the bottom. You, Simmons, take the other end and loop it once

round the tree. And quickly, do you hear?"

While the men were obeying his order, Aglionby put on a mask, not, as in

Polignac's case, as a precaution against recognition by the hirelings,

but by the victims.

By this time Harry's uneasiness had become real alarm. Motionless in the

tree, he durst not rustle the leaves to make a peep-hole; he could only

judge of what was going on below by the words he heard. It was clear

that a carefully planned attack was to be made upon someone; he could

not doubt that the someone was Sherebiah; both Polignac and the captain

had heavy scores to pay off. Fanshawe would be involved in the same

peril. His notion of playing a trick was forgotten; there was serious

work for him to do.

"Let the rope lie on the road," he heard Aglionby say, "and you men

remain at the tree ready to raise it and draw it taut at my signal."

Harry saw through the scheme in a flash. The rope was to be pulled taut

across the road to stop the progress of the horsemen, and in the

confusion the victim was doubtless to be attacked, every advantage being

on the side of the ambuscaders. And at this moment his ears

distinguished the faint distant beat of hoofs on the road.

"Captain," said one of the men, "what if I were to climb the tree and

pick them off from above?"

Crouching against the stem Harry felt his heart-beats quicken. The

suggestion if promptly acted on would be fatal to the project he had

already formed to turn the tables upon the unsuspecting party beneath.

There was a moment's pause. Then another voice in low tones

interjected:

"I hear horses on the road."

"No," interposed Polignac, replying rapidly to the man's proposal. "We

must have two men at the rope if they are riding abreast; that leaves

only three when we stop them; it is easy to miss in this dark night, and

they are both ready with their weapons. Remember, there must be no

noise; one volley, then cold steel, lest we have the Breda garrison upon

us."

Harry wore his sword, and had with him the pistol without which he never

stirred abroad. He had been rapidly deciding upon his course. If he

was to be of any use, he must warn his friends before they came within

range of the ambuscade; yet he durst not fire too soon, for the only

result would be to bring them up at a gallop, and they would then almost

certainly fall victims. Now that almost complete darkness had fallen,

he ventured to make an opening in the foliage and to peer cautiously

down.

He saw Aglionby and Polignac on the other side of the road crouching

behind the gate-posts. Two men had concealed themselves behind the

tree's thick trunk, holding the slack end of the rope; the third waited

near them, pistol in hand. Though Harry could not see weapons in the

hands of Polignac and Aglionby, he had no doubt that they too had

pistols, ready to be used as soon as the riders were brought to a

stand-still. On the side overhanging the road, the tree had been lopped

of one or two lower branches, but a fairly thick bough ran out on the

other side just above the man holding the pistol. Quickly, for time

pressed, yet with great caution in order to avoid the slightest noise,

Harry crept from his perch over the road, sliding backward down the

branch until he reached the trunk. Then, holding his sword lest it

clinked against the tree, he straightened himself and turned round,

steadying himself with his free hand. One careful step brought him to

the fork of the horizontal stem and the parent trunk. He heard the

hoof-beats coming very near; the riders could be but a few hundred yards

away; fortunately the growing sound was loud enough to drown the slight

rustle he could not avoid; and besides, the men below were too much

preoccupied with their stratagem to have wits for anything but their

advancing victims.

Harry's feet were now wedged somewhat awkwardly; he felt by no means

secure, and was for an instant perplexed how to dispose of his sword,

for in drawing his pistol with the right hand he would need the left to

maintain his equilibrium. He hit on a solution. Grasping the lower

part of the scabbard with his knees he prevented it from rattling

against the tree trunk; then, resting on his left hand, he bent over to

get as clear a view as the circumstances afforded of the man immediately

beneath. For a second he hesitated. It went against the grain to fire

at the unsuspecting wretch; but the sound of the hoof-beats now

certainly within musket-shot banished his hesitation and clinched his

resolve. It was life against life: the lives of Fanshawe and Sherebiah

against those of the villains ambushing them. Taking careful aim he

fired. The cry of the wounded man was smothered by his own shout:

"Stop, Fanshawe! Jump the ditch and make for the tree!"

Without waiting to learn the result of his warning, he sprang round,

heedless now of what noise he made, and, swinging by a branch to his

right, dropped to the ground just behind the two other men, who had let

go of the rope in their alarm and were transfixed with terror and

amazement, staring into the black depths of the tree above them. One of

them faced round as he heard the thud of Harry's descent. Without

pausing to draw his sword Harry hurled himself at the man, hit out at

him with all his strength, and felled him to the ground. The other, the

first moment of paralysis past, whipped out a pistol and snapped it

before Harry had time to recover himself. It missed fire; Harry closed

with the man. There was a brief, sharp struggle; in the midst came

Sherebiah's voice:

"Where bist, sir, where bist?"

"Here; by the tree; get a grip of this knave!"

At the sound of Sherebiah's voice Harry felt his opponent's efforts

relax; the man tried to free himself; but Sherebiah had ridden his horse

up to the tree, and bending low from the saddle to distinguish between

the combatants, he brought the butt of his pistol down on the man's

head. He fell without a groan.

Now Fanshawe dashed up. His horse had slipped at the ditch, thus giving

Sherebiah a slight start.

"Two men on the other side of the road," panted Harry. "Follow me!"

Springing across the ditch he gained the other side of the road, and

vaulted the gate. Fanshawe and Sherebiah had to dismount to follow him,

for the road was too narrow to allow of their leaping the gate.

Aglionby and his companion had not waited; discovering that their plan

had failed, they had hurried away towards their horses. But they had

not gone far. Harry heard a noise ahead; there was a chance of

overtaking them before they gained their saddles. He dashed on over the

stubble, and soon descried a broad figure lumbering along; from its

stertorous breathing he guessed it to be Aglionby, an opinion confirmed

immediately by the mingled oaths and entreaties which the captain sent

after Polignac, who being lighter of foot had far outstripped his

fellow-conspirator. Hearing Harry's step just behind him, Aglionby at

length halted, swung round, and fired his pistol. But hard running and

breathlessness flurried him and spoilt his aim; the ball whistled

harmlessly past. So impetuous had been Harry in pursuit that he had had

no time to draw his sword. He struck out at Aglionby, who only half

warded the blow, staggering backward and endeavouring to parry this

lively attack. Seeing his opportunity, Harry closed and tripped the big

man up with a favourite fall taught him by Sherebiah; and Fanshawe

coming up with Sherebiah at this moment, Aglionby was secured in a

trice.

"That cursed coward!" he spluttered, as they led him back to the road.

"Odsnigs! I'll be even with him for this."

"Nay," said Sherebiah, who had him grimly by the collar, "'ee'll never

be _even_ wi' un, Rafe Aglionby. Your carcass'll need a longer rope."

"'Tis all a mistake, coz, on my honour," pleaded the captain.

"Don't 'ee coz me, I disown 'ee. I'll see a villain hung; and that'll

be no mistake."

"Leave him to me, Sherry," said Harry, "and go and see to the man we

hit."

A short examination proved that the man Harry had shot was less

seriously wounded than he who had fallen to Sherebiah's pistol-butt.

The third man whom Harry had knocked down had escaped in the darkness.

The other two, injured as they were, were unable to walk, so Harry had

them hoisted on to the horses, where they were held up by Fanshawe and

Sherebiah. With Aglionby in his own keeping Harry led the march to

Breda. On arriving there, all three prisoners were handed over to the

Dutch authorities, and Harry asked Fanshawe to his rooms to talk over

this adventure of the road.

"Faith," said Fanshawe, when Harry had explained his presence on the

spot, "'twas a mercy you had the thought to walk out. But it passes my

understanding why that fellow Aglionby should have been minded to waylay

me."

"'Twas not you, 'twas Sherry that was the intended victim. I told you

of the neat way he bundled the captain out of Madame de Vaudrey's house;

that was only one of several affronts the bully has had to suffer. And

I rather suspect that you were mistaken for me."

"How so?"

"'Twas part of the scheme of old Berkeley's to get rid of me; of that I

am sure. And the other fellow, the Frenchman, must be pretty sore at

his two discomfitures."

"You will, of course, inform against him."

"'Twould be little use, I fear. He was masked; I knew him only by his

voice, and my testimony would not suffice to convict him on that ground

alone."

"Did Aglionby say nothing as you walked into the town?"

"Nothing. I plied him with questions, but he held an obstinate silence;

scarce opened his mouth except to say 'twas all a mistake."

"I am not sure you are right. Don't you think it may have been the

Frenchman's plan--to get rid of me?"

"Why of you?"

"Well, you told me he is a suitor for Mademoiselle's hand----"

"What then?"

"He may have looked on me as a rival."

"Come, that's a good joke. You've known Mademoiselle for little better

than a month."

"Ah! One can see you're young, Harry, and fancy free; I wish I were.

But your Monsieur de Polignac might have spared his pains."

"You're talking in riddles, Fanshawe; speak plain English, man."

"Well, 'twas true."

"What was true?"

"She wouldn't have me."

Harry stared in puzzlement. Then a light dawned, and he smiled.

"You don't mean to say you've been on your knees to Mademoiselle Adele?"

"Indeed I have! By George, Harry! isn't she a splendid creature? But

she wouldn't have me: that's all over; life isn't worth living now: I

don't care how soon a bullet puts an end to my miserable existence."

Fanshawe sighed lugubriously; Harry laughed.

"Poor fellow! is it so bad as that? She didn't fall a victim to your

new coat, then?"

"'Tis all very well for you to laugh. Wait till you suffer just such a

rebuff."

"Tell me what you said."

"How do I know what I said? I only know what she said. She dropt me a

curtsy, the hussy, and thanked me for the honour, and said she had no

mind to a husband and would never wed, but stay with her mother. And

then she opened the harpsichord and said: 'Don't let us be children,

Monsieur. Sing me that amusing song of yours and be amiable.' And 'pon

my word, Harry, I couldn't resist; she has a masterful way; and when her

mother came in there was I trolling 'Widdicombe Fair' as if there'd been

never a word of love betwixt us."

"Cheer up! you were too sudden. Wait a few months and then try your

luck again."

"Never! I know she won't look at me. And take my advice, Harry. If

ever you fall in love with a girl, don't make yourself cheap and sing

cheerful songs. Egad, if I'd sung dying ditties and sighed like a

furnace I might have had a different tale to tell. I'll go to quarters;

but I sha'n't sleep; I know I sha'n't; good-night!"

*CHAPTER XVIII*

*A Little Plot*

Father and Son--A Message from Breda--An Afternoon Call--When Greek

meets Greek--The Tug of War--Pourparlers--The Merk--Two Men and a

Sack--Snatched from the River--Cousin Rafe--Scant Gratitude--A Ray of

Light

One afternoon Squire Berkeley sat solitary in his inn at the Hague,

warming his lean, withered hands in the blaze of a log fire. The air

was cold, and it had been raining heavily for hours. The old man had

laid aside his wig; a black velvet skull-cap covered his white hair to

the ears; and, clad in the long cassock-like garment of rusty black that

he always wore indoors, he might have passed, with his thin haggard

cheeks, for an ascetic dignitary of the Church rather than the

prosperous lord of an English manor.

He sat in a high-backed chair, staring into the fire. His lips moved as

he communed with himself, and the expression of his face showed that his

thoughts were none too pleasant. Once or twice he clenched his teeth

and brought his closed fist heavily down upon the arm of the chair; he

sighed often, and looked the very image of a sad, anxious, embittered

man.

Presently the door opened noisily and, with a gust of keen air that made

the squire shiver, a young man entered the room. It was Piers Berkeley,

the squire's son. He was dressed as usual in the height of fashion, but

presented a bedraggled woebegone aspect now, his finery effectually

ruined by the rain.

"Split me, father," he cried in a peculiarly high and affected tone of

voice, "I'm verily the most wretched man on earth."

"What is the matter?" said the old man, turning half round. "Why have

you left your regiment?"

"Why! Stap my vitals, 'tis what I wish to know. I've rid post from

Breda through the most villainous rain ever I saw. Look, I'm splashed

to the eyes; my third best wig is utterly ruined; the colour of my

waistcoat has run; 'twas a heavenly puce, and I'll be even with the

tailor, hang him! that swore the colour was fast. As for my new

jack-boots--look 'ee, they're not fit for a ploughman. And why! You may

well ask."

"Well, you have a reason, I suppose. You want more money for your

drunken orgies--is that it?"

"Hark to that, now! Was ever poor wretch so scurvily used by his own

father! Why----"

"Come, a truce to your prating. Your reason, sir, and at once."

"A warm welcome, egad! Well, sir, I've a something for you, a

billet-doux; ha! ha!"

The squire sprang up with an agility surprising in a man of his years.

There was a look of expectancy, almost of joy, in his eyes, and he held

forth his hand eagerly.

"Give it me," he said.

"You will deal handsomely by me," said the youth; "consider, 'tis not

every son would ride through pelting rain and spoil his garments withal

for----"

"Give it me, I say," cried the old man passionately.

Piers took from an inner pocket a letter, sealed with a big red seal.

The squire's eyes gleamed as he took it and saw the handwriting of the

address; his hand trembled as he tore away the seal and unfolded the

paper. Then came a sudden change. The pallor of his cheeks became a

deathly white, his features were distorted with rage, he muttered a

curse and flung the letter to the floor.

"Gadzooks, 'tis not a billet-doux, then," piped his son, stooping to

pick up the paper.

"Let it lie!" shouted the old man. "Lay not a finger on it, you--you

puppy!"

"Why, there now," said the youth in an aggrieved tone. "That is all the

thanks I get for adventuring myself in the fury of the elements, and

ruining past cure as fine a coat as ever was seen in Spring Garden."

"Silence! Hold your foolish tongue! You're a useless fool! You're a

scented fop, the mock of every farthing playwright in the kingdom.

Heavens! what have I done that I should be cursed with a brainless,

senseless coxcomb that can do nothing but squander good money in

fal-lals and worse!"

"Odsnigs! 'tis most villainous injustice. I can do many things, egad.

I can make a good leg, and trounce a watchman, and pink a cit, and----"

"Out of my sight, out of my sight!" cried the exasperated father,

stepping forward with uplifted hand as though to strike the poor fool.

"Zoons! I protest this----"

But he left the sentence perforce unfinished, for the squire caught him

by the shoulders and exerting all his strength thrust him from the room,

turning the key, and standing for a moment with hand on heart to recover

his breath. Then he suddenly opened the door again, caught the young

man before he had gone three steps, swung him round, and holding him in

a firm grip said:

"See that you say nothing of this. You know nothing of that man, that

Aglionby, except that you met him on the packet-boat; you hear me?

Presuming on that acquaintance he sought your assistance; you have wit

enough to remember that? And you are not to go near him again."

"Egad, I've no wish to. Once is enough. A prison cell is no place for

me. I had to hold my nose; and egad, to use a whole bottle of scent

afterwards."

The old man pushed him contemptuously away, returned to his room, and

again locked the door. He picked up the letter, sat down in his chair,

and, crouching there, seemed to have shrunk even to less than his former

meagre bulk. He read the letter again. It ran:--

"SIR,

"Fate is against me. In pursuit of the Businesse you wot of, I am at

this present layd by the heels, in Jail, under sentence to be Hang'd.

Young Rochester & my Cozen have done it. 'Tis nessessarie for you to

pulle me out of this Hole, & speedilie, or _I'll tell All I knowe_. The

Meanes I leave to you; I advize to comunicate with Mr de Poliniac at his

house in the Plein; he will helpe: he has _Goode Reasone_, for at a

Worde from me he'll _swing too_. No more at this Present from yr humble

"RALPH AGLIONBY.

"P.S.--I knew your Sonne was in Breda. He _knowes Nothing_."

The squire tore up the paper and flung the pieces on the fire. For a

few moments he sat in thought; then he rose and went into an ante-room,

returning soon in his outdoor attire--wig, cocked hat, and long cloak.

A few minutes later he was walking at a brisk pace through the rain

towards the house mentioned in Aglionby's letter. He knocked at the

door; there was no answer; the green shutters were closed, the house had

the appearance of being shut up for the season. He knocked again, and

yet again, with growing vehemence, attracting the attention of

passers-by. At length the door was opened for a few inches. Mr.

Berkeley pushed it, but it was on the chain.

"Qu'est-ce que Monsieur demande?" said a voice.

"Monsieur de Polignac."

"Monsieur is not within," said the same voice in English, the speaker

having detected the squire's nationality by his accent.

"Where is he?"

"Pardon, Monsieur, I am not sure where my master is at this moment; but

if Monsieur will leave a message----"

Something in the man's manner assured Mr. Berkeley that he was lying.

"Look 'ee, my man," he said sternly, "I counsel you to bethink yourself.

I will walk for five minutes, in the rain; you will have time to

acquaint your master that an English gentleman whose name is probably

unknown to him desires to see him on a very urgent matter--in the

interest, mark you, of himself. An urgent matter, mark you. In five

minutes I will return."

On returning Mr. Berkeley was instantly admitted. The manservant,

cowering beneath his stern look, led him meekly to a room off the hall,

where he found Polignac in long cloak and jack-boots, evidently on the

point of departing on a journey. The squire gave him a keen glance, and

was not surprised to find that it was the same man whom he had met at

the door of Aglionby's attic some months before.

"Monsieur de Polignac?" he said.

"That is my name, Monsieur."

"My name is Berkeley. I met you at Aglionby's. It is for him I come.

I desire a word with you."

"I am at your service, Monsieur. Shall we be private?"

"It will doubtless be better so."

Polignac shut the door, and offered Mr. Berkeley a seat.

"Thank you, I will stand; I need not detain you long."

"As you please, Monsieur."

"You have heard, Monsieur, of the plight into which our friend Captain

Aglionby has fallen?--I say _our_ friend."

"I will not dispute the phrase, Monsieur. I had heard, as you surmise."

"Pardon me--as he is our friend--am I right in assuming that the news

may have some little connection with your purposed journey?"

"Since, as you say, he is _our_ friend, I do not deny it, Monsieur."

"So that it will be, let us say, not disagreeable to you if some means

of--of cheating the hangman--I am a plain blunt man, Monsieur--should be

discovered?"

"Pardon me, Monsieur, I do not follow you."

Mr. Berkeley looked at him keenly.

"I have had a letter from our friend," he said slowly.

"And I also, Monsieur."

"He solicits my assistance."

"And mine."

"I came at once to see you."

"And I, Monsieur, leave at once for Paris."

"Ah!"

Polignac, leaning against the window-frame, had an inscrutable smile

upon his face.

"I will sit down," said Mr. Berkeley, placing a chair with its back to

the door; "I find our interview will last a little longer than I looked

for."

"As you please, Monsieur. You will permit me?"

Polignac seated himself at the table.

"It appears, Monsieur," said the squire, "that I should have said _my_

friend."

"Again, Monsieur, I will not dispute the phrase. His family estates

join yours, I understand?"

"What?"

"I do not know; I only repeat what your friend told me."

"Yes, I understand," said Mr. Berkeley hurriedly, feeling that by his

unguarded exclamation he had lost one point in the game. "Not precisely

adjoin, but the phrase is sufficiently exact: we are neighbours."

"And naturally you are concerned at the hapless situation into which

your neighbour's evil star has brought him."

"That is so, Monsieur."

"Especially seeing that his evil star's influence extends also to you;

is it not so?"

"As a neighbour and friend, you mean, Monsieur?"

"No, I do not mean that. I cannot say, like you, Monsieur, that I am a

plain blunt man, but I think with small effort you will understand my

meaning. I put myself in your place. Suppose, I tell myself, a

neighbour of mine, whom I had found useful, had in the course of some

enterprise on my behalf been so unlucky as to come into the grip of the

law; naturally I should feel deeply concerned in his fate, and certainly

I should do all in my power to save him, especially if I knew that the

said enterprise was one that the law would look unkindly on. Such would

be my sentiments, Monsieur, and I do not suppose myself different from

other men."

"The case is so well put, Monsieur, that it would seem to fit your

situation to a nicety."

"Appearances are then deceitful, Monsieur. Strange to say, I had the

same thought with regard to you. Your friend the captain is not a hero,

certainly not a martyr, and even though a few vindictive words at the

last would not save his neck, yet to a man of his disposition it would

sweeten his end to know that another shared his fate."

Mr. Berkeley had been growing visibly restive. How much did this

suavely malicious Frenchman know? He dared not question him plainly.

"You speak, Monsieur, of a few vindictive words. It is clear to me that

Aglionby has threatened you----"

"And I care not a jot for his threats," interrupted Polignac. "As you

are aware, I am about to depart for Paris; eh bien! Monsieur le

Capitaine's threats will not reach me there."

"But if I save him, Monsieur?"

Polignac's mouth twitched.

"He is a vengeful man," pursued the squire. "I should have no object in

concealing from him your notions of the obligations of friendship; and

since it appears that you, on your side, permit yourself to talk of an

'enterprise' and 'the grip of the law', does it not occur to you that

the captain, and I myself as his friend, might make things--well, very

unpleasant for you? And remember, you are not in Paris yet."

There was a moment's silence, taking advantage of which Mr. Berkeley

leant forward and, tapping Polignac's knee, added:

"Come, Monsieur, let us understand one another. It is to my interest

that Captain Aglionby should not die--by the hangman; it is to your

interest--correct me if I am wrong--that he should not live, or you will

find this country shut to you. Our interests appear to clash; but is it

not possible--I throw out the suggestion--to reconcile them--to gain

both our ends?"

Polignac smiled.

"Let us talk as friends, Monsieur," he said.

An hour passed before Mr. Berkeley left the house. It was still

raining, but his gloomy expression had given place to one of fierce

satisfaction. Polignac bade him a cordial adieu at the door, and as

soon as he was gone called his servant.

"Antoine," he said, "unsaddle my horse. I do not ride to-day."

One evening, at dusk, Harry Rochester, whom no experience could cure of

his habit of taking solitary strolls, was seated on a bridge spanning

the Merk at a short distance outside Breda. His thoughts were anything

but pleasant. Aglionby and his associates, though defended by the

sharpest criminal lawyer in Holland, had been condemned to death, and

the execution had been fixed for the morrow. Harry knew that the

captain richly deserved his fate; his action in betraying his cousin

Sherebiah in itself put him beyond the pale of pity, to say nothing of

his persistent offences against Sherebiah's master, which Harry was more

ready to forgive. But despicable as the man was, Harry, almost in spite

of himself, felt a certain compassion for him. He had learnt from

Sherebiah something of his history. His mother, old Gaffer Minshull's

sister, had died when Ralph was very young, heart-broken by her husband,

one of Cromwell's Ironsides, yet a hypocrite of the most brutal type.

Aglionby had received a fair education, but had run wild from boyhood,

and as a mere youth had decamped or been driven from his father's house

and gone out into the world to seek his fortune. Sherebiah had lost

sight of him for years; suddenly he had reappeared at Winton St. Mary,

seared with travel and hard faring, and full of stories of adventure and

prowess in all parts of Europe, especially in the service of the Czar of

Muscovy. Harry knew as much as Sherebiah of his subsequent career, and

shared the surprise of the whole village at the strangely close

acquaintanceship between the captain and the squire.

This was the man who was to die next day, and Harry, sitting on the

bridge, one hand clasping his knee, almost wished that he had let the

villain go. He had been brought up in the worst school; all his life

long he had been an Ishmael, his hand against every man, every man's

hand against him. His mother had been a Minshull: surely there was some

seed of good in him; mayhap his villainies were only the desperate

expedients of a man who had no means of livelihood; certainly he could

have no cause of enmity against Harry, and his machinations must be put

down to the man who employed him. His approaching fate weighed also

upon Sherebiah, who had for days gone about with restlessness and

anxiety printed upon his usually jocund face. Certainly the good fellow

had no reason to love Aglionby, but after all they were of the same

blood, and Sherry appeared to fear keenly the shame and disgrace.

Looking over the glooming river, idly watching the rolling water and the

scattered buildings upon the bank, Harry suddenly perceived a small door

open in the face of a store or warehouse some few yards to his left.

The door was some thirty feet above the river, and gave upon a narrow

platform to which goods were hoisted by a crane from barges below. As

the door opened, inwards, a head appeared. The owner looked for some

time up and down the river, over which darkness was fast falling. All

was quiet; no traffic was passing; no craft indeed was to be seen save

one small boat, moored to a post on the bank some yards on the other

side of the bridge.

The head disappeared, but immediately afterwards two men emerged from

the doorway, coming sideways through the narrow opening. Between them

they carried a large sack which their exertions showed to be heavy.

They came to the edge of the platform; they laid their burden down;

then, giving a quick look around, with one push they toppled it over,

and it fell with a sounding plump into the water. It disappeared below

the surface; after a moment the two men returned into the warehouse, and

the door was shut.

The rivers were such common receptacles of rubbish that Harry would not

have given a second thought to this incident but for a certain

furtiveness in the manner of the two men. He wondered what the sack

contained. All at once he saw it reappear on the surface, several yards

nearer to him; the stream was flowing fast in his direction.

"'Tis maybe a superfluous dog," he thought, for only an animal was

likely to rise after such an immersion. Yet it was large for a dog.

The sack came steadily towards him: it was about to pass under the

single arch of the bridge: he leant over to watch it: and with a start

of amazement saw dimly a white human face. At that same moment the

bundle sank again. Harry could not know whether it was man or woman,

whether alive or dead, but without an instant's hesitation he ran to the

other parapet, sprang on it, and dived into the river. A drowning man

rises three times, he had heard; perhaps there was a chance to save this

poor wretch, whoever it might be, and foil his murderers.

Coming to the surface with a gasp, he looked around for any sign of the

dark bundle, fearing lest in the blackness of the encroaching night he

might lose it altogether. For some seconds he saw nothing; then, a few

yards away, it bobbed up. Three or four vigorous strokes brought the

swimmer to it just as it was going down once more. He seized it with

his left hand and, supporting the head above the water, made for the

bank, luckily no more than seven or eight yards distant. He hauled the

heavy object up the sodden slope, stooped down to examine it, and saw

that it was a man tied up to the neck, and with a gag about his mouth.

It was the work of a moment to tear away the gag. He placed his hand

over the man's heart: did it still beat? He could not tell; all feeling

seemed to be deadened within him by his excitement and strain. The man

made no sound or movement. Harry shivered and thought he must be dead;

of the means to resuscitate a half-drowned man he knew nothing.

A few seconds passed; then he heard hasty footsteps behind him, and

turned just as Sherebiah sprang down the slope. The faithful fellow had

been again playing his part of watch-dog; he had seen Harry's plunge

into the river, and raced round the embankment in alarm.

"Fecks, you give me a jump, sir," he panted. "What's amiss?"

"Ah! Sherry, look; 'tis a man, in a sack; the poor wretch is drowned, I

fear."

"'Tis murder then. Let's see, sir."

He stooped down, cut the fastenings of the sack, and pulled it off the

body.

"Now sir, lend a hand. Fust thing is to pour the water out of un."

"He was gagged, Sherry."

"Then that saves our time. A gagged man can't ship many gallons o'

water. Leave un to me, sir."

He quickly opened the man's coat and vest, bent over him, and pressed

heavily beneath his lower ribs. Then he sprang back, and again bent

forward and pressed. After repeating these movements several times, he

went to the man's head, took his arms and pulled them back till they met

behind, then jerked them forward upon his breast. A gurgling sound came

from the man's lips.

"He be alive, sir," cried Sherebiah. "Another minute or two and we'll

have un on his feet."

A great sigh escaped from the prostrate form.

"Well done, master," said Sherebiah, ceasing from his exertions.

"You've got your breath again, thanks be. Now, take your time, and don't

get up till 'ee feel disposed: only bein' drippen wet the sooner you be

dry the better, so----Sakes alive! Master Harry, 'tis my

good-for-nothen cousin Rafe Aglionby, and no one else."

"Good heavens!"

"Rafe, man, can 'ee open your eyes? 'Tis me and Mr. Rochester; you be

safe."

Both Harry and Sherebiah were now stooping over the captain. His eyes

opened; the same choking sound came from his lips. For some minutes he

lay gasping, wriggling, endeavouring vainly to rise, the others watching

him the while with mixed feelings. His recovery of consciousness was

slow: at last his movements ceased, he heaved a great sigh and looked up

with intelligence.

"How be'st come to this?" asked Sherebiah. "Thowt 'ee was ripe for

hangman this time, coz."

"Rot you!" spluttered the captain, struggling to his feet. "Hands off!

Shall I never be quit of you!"

"Zooks! That's your thanks! Come, Rafe, blood's thicker nor water, as

'ee said yourself: you've broke prison sure enough, but they'll be after

'ee afore mornen. Mr. Rochester ha' saved 'ee from drownen, but you must

put a few miles betwixt 'ee and hangman afore you can rest easy. How

be'st come to this, man?"

"Let me go, I tell you."

"But you be drippen wet, Rafe; you'll cotch your death o' cold;--and

faith, so will Master Harry. Better get home, sir, and change your

things."

"No hurry, Sherry. Captain Aglionby, believe me, you must make yourself

scarce. You've done me many an ill turn, for what reason I know not.

But that's past now; I have no wish to give you up to the hangman.

There's a boat moored to the bank a few yards down: you had better take

that, and row through the night. Sherry, you're dry; change clothes with

the captain."

"I'll have none of his clothes. I'll take the boat. Out of my way!"

Escaping from Sherebiah's grasp, Aglionby stumbled away in the direction

of the boat, the other two watching him in silence until the darkness

swallowed him.

"Unthankful viper!" muttered Sherebiah.

"To save a foe's life is an injury never forgiven," said Harry with a

shrug. "I'm shivering, Sherry: let us get back."

"Ay sure. But I'd like to know what be the true meanen o' this. To be

saved out o' jail and then chucked into river--why, in a manner o'

speaken 'tis out o' fryen-pan into fire. One thing 'tis sure: my coz

Rafe bean't born to be hanged nor drownded neither: question is, will it

be pison or a dagger-end? But you be mortal cold, true; we'll

home-along, sir."

They returned to the city, and were passing a large inn in the

market-place when Harry suddenly touched Sherebiah on the arm.

"Sherry, you see that man at the door of the coach there? 'Tis one of

the men I saw fling Aglionby into the river. I know him by his cap."

"I' feck, we'll have a nearer sight on un, and see who he be speaken to

in coach. Keep close, sir, and we'll take a peep at 'em unbeknown."

Crossing to the other side of the street, and keeping well in the

darkness, they quickly made their way towards the coach, and reached a

position whence, by the light of the inn lamp, they could see into it

without being seen. Each turned to the other in silence, astonishment

and conviction in their eyes. The occupants of the coach were two: Mr.

Berkeley and Monsieur de Polignac. It was to the latter that the man at

the door was speaking. They were clearly at the end of their

conversation; the man touched his cap and withdrew, and as the coach

drove off, a look of gratification shone in the faces of its two

occupants.

"What do you make of that, Sherry?"

"Make on't! 'tis plain as a pikestaff. Dead men tells no tales; that's

what I make on't, sir. Rafe Aglionby knows a mort too much for they two

high-liven villains; that's where 't is: they got un out o' jail to stop

his tongue at scaffold foot, and then pitched un in the river to cool it

for ever. 'Tis a mortal pity we let un go, sir, for't seems to me we

ought to know what he knows, and get to the bottom o' the squire's

desperate work agen you. But you always was a tender-hearted Christian,

like your feyther afore 'ee."

"I couldn't let murder be done before my very eyes, Sherry."

"Ah, you'll have to see wuss now you be a man o' war, sir. Well, 'tis

heapen coals of fire on his yead, as the Book says, and mebbe Them

above'll reward 'ee for't; ay, so."

*CHAPTER XIX*

*Marlborough's March to the Danube*

A Foreigner at the Hall--War Again--Good-bye!--Comparisons--Up the

Rhine--A Bold Stroke--Marlborough's Way--Despatches--A Mission to

Eugene--Fanshawe Missing--The Road to Innsprueck--Zum Grauen

Baeren--Mein Wirth--Breakfast at Three--The Second-best Room--A

Trap-Door--Midnight Visitors--A Hasty Toilet--A Sound on the

Stairs--Through the Copse--Stampede--The Lieutenant of the Guard--At

Obermiemingen--The Little Abbe--Max Berens--A Surprise Visit--Mein Wirth

Explains--Injured Innocence--In the Net--Hobson's Choice--The Missing

Messengers--In Terrorem

No soldier worth his salt ever endured the long idleness of winter

quarters patiently, and Harry Rochester was not an exception to the

rule. As the weary months passed slowly by, he grew tired of the

endless drilling and exercising, varied by marching and sham fights. He

was very popular with his captain, Willem van der Werff, and the other

officers of the regiment, but found himself unable to take much interest

in their amusements. Beer-drinking was not to his taste; the Dutch

comedies performed at the theatres were dull, and the paternal

government prohibited the performance of lighter French pieces. As the

winter drew on he had opportunities of skating, and became so proficient

as to win a prize at a regimental match; but the frost was not of long

duration. He was not a fellow to allow time to hang on his hands. He

practised broadsword and sabre with Sherebiah, read a great deal of

Dutch, studied all the military histories on which he could lay hands,

and spent many an hour poring over maps until he had the geography of

all central Europe at his finger-ends.

No great news came from the outside world. In November the Netherlands

suffered in some degree from the fierce storm that swept through the

Channel, strewing the English shores with wrecks, ripping off trees at

the roots, blowing down churches and houses. In the same month also the

Archduke Charles passed through Holland _en route_ for England and

Spain, to assume in the latter country the sovereignty which was the

bone of contention between his father the Emperor and King Louis of

France.

Almost the only relaxations in Harry's life were his visits to Madame de

Vaudrey's house, where both he and Fanshawe were always welcome guests.

They formed with Mynheer Grootz a little house-party there during the

New Year week. It happened that on the last day of the year 1703

Sherebiah received a letter from his father: a rare event. One piece of

news it contained was much discussed at Madame de Vaudrey's table.

"And now I must tell you," wrote old Minshull, "as Squire hev had a

Visiter for a matter of munths. 'Tis a tall blacke Frenchman by his

looks and Spache, a tarrible fine gentleman, with a Smile & a twitching

Mouthe. Squire & he be alwaies together, moste particler Frendes it do

seeme. None of us soules can't abide him, nor the Qualitie neither.

For myself, I don't like his Lookes, not me, & 'tis luckie he can't

understand English, for being a Man to speake my Minde I say things nowe

and again as would turne his blacke Hair white."

Harry had already mentioned having seen Polignac drive away from Breda

in company with the squire.

"The odious man!" cried Madame de Vaudrey, when Harry translated the

gaffer's letter. "I only wonder that the other man, that insolent

captain, is not with them. I wonder where he is?"

"I don't know," said Harry, who had kept his own counsel regarding the

last he had seen of Aglionby.

"I hope he will never cross my path," said Mynheer Grootz. "He is truly

a villain, a dastard: to inform on his cousin, and to plan the attack on

Harry, and to have the insolence to pay court to Madame la Comtesse!"

"Yes, indeed," said the lady, "and my dear husband not four years dead!

Who is the squire that your old friend writes of, Harry?"

"He is lord of the manor at my old home, Madame. His son is in one of

our foot regiments, and Mr. Berkeley came over to Holland with him: it

was then he met Monsieur de Polignac."

"Qui se ressemble s'assemble. What is the name of the bad old man,

Harry?"

"Berkeley."

"Berkeley!" Madame de Vaudrey puckered her brow and appeared to be

reflecting.

"How ugly your English names are!" exclaimed Adele, "and how difficult

to say! I cannot even yet say Rochestair properly."

"You say it better than you say my name," said Fanshawe gloomily.

"But then I have known Monsieur Rochestair longer," returned Adele.

"Shall we go into the drawing-room, Mamma? I do so want to hear

Monsieur Fanshawe sing that amusing song of his again."

Fanshawe glowered. He knew that Adele was teasing him, and wished with

all his heart that he could recall the luckless moment when he had first

amused her with the song of "Widdicombe Fair". Harry's eyes twinkled.

"Yes," said Madame de Vaudrey, "you young people can precede us to the

drawing-room. I have a little matter of business to talk over with our

good friend Mynheer Grootz."

Then Adele's eyes caught Harry's, and they both smiled as at some secret

known to them alone.

Time passed away, and at length, when the winter was gone, and the gray

Dutch sky was rifted with the blue of spring, came the welcome news that

Marlborough had arrived at the Hague and that a great campaign was to

open. No one knew what the duke's plans were, but there was a general

feeling that stirring events were preparing, and a universal hope that

the long series of small engagements, sieges, marches and

counter-marches would be brought to an end by a decisive pitched battle.

Mynheer Grootz was working night and day at commissariat business, and

for weeks there was a continual bustle of preparation: the cleaning of

arms, the testing of harness, a thousand-and-one details that employed

countless people beside the soldiers.

At length a day came when, all preparations completed, the eager troops

were ready to march out. Harry and Fanshawe, accompanied by Sherebiah,

rode over to Lindendaal one evening to take farewell of the ladies.

Fanshawe was in the dolefullest of dumps. Notwithstanding Adele's

refusal of him, he had still nursed a hope that time might prove on his

side, but found every hint of a sentimental nature adroitly parried, and

now feared that with his absence his last chance would disappear. His

spirits were raised a little by the warmth, and indeed effusiveness,

with which she bade him good-bye.

"I shall hope to hear great things of you, Monsieur," she said, "and to

learn that you have come through the campaign unscathed."

"Your good wishes shall be my talisman, Mademoiselle," said Fanshawe

gallantly, bowing over her hand.

Harry meanwhile had taken leave of Madame de Vaudrey, who held both his

hands and spoke to him with a quite motherly tenderness. Then he turned

to say good-bye to Adele. She had disappeared. Fanshawe had already

gone out to the front of the house to see that his horse's girth was

rightly strapped, and Harry followed, thinking that Mademoiselle had

perhaps accompanied him to the door. But as he passed through the hall,

he saw through the open door of the dining-room that Adele was there,

standing at the window with her back to him.

"There you are, Mademoiselle," he said, entering the room; "I was

looking for you. It is a longer good-bye this time."

She turned round slowly, and her back being to the sunset glow he could

scarcely see her features. She held out her hand, and said slowly, with

perhaps a little less cordiality than he had unconsciously expected:

"Adieu, Monsieur Harry!"

He took her hand, hesitated for a moment, and then was gone.

As he left the porch he saw Sherebiah coming round from the garden with

his arm unblushingly about the waist of Katrinka, the prettiest

maidservant of the house. The honest fellow led the girl up to his

master.

"I've done it, sir," he said. "Her've said it. Feyther o' mine may

think what a' will, but, an't please Them above to bring me through, by

next winter there'll be a Mistress Minshull once more to comfort his old

aged soul. Eh, Katrinka, lass?"

The girl looked shyly up and dropt a curtsy.

"'Pon my soul, Sherry, you're a lucky fellow," said Harry. "My old

friend will be pleased, I promise you. And look 'ee, I'll give you five

minutes to say good-bye to Katrinka while Mr. Fanshawe and I ride on."

"Thank 'ee, sir! I'll catch 'ee up, soon as her be done."

"Sherry has had better luck than you, Fanshawe," said Harry with a

smile, as they rode off.

"Yes, confound him! But hang it, Harry, I'll not give up hope yet. She

was very kind to me when she said good-bye, and, by George! if I only

escape a Frenchman's bullet and can manage to come off with flying

colours and a neat little sabre-cut--who knows? she may be Mistress

Godfrey Fanshawe yet."

Harry was silent. He felt a little surprised, perhaps a little hurt,

that Adele should have shown more warmth to Fanshawe, a friend of later

date. He did not know what he had expected; he could not, indeed, have

put his thoughts into words; but the coldness of Mademoiselle's

farewell, so strongly contrasting with Madame's affectionate manner, had

left him vaguely dissatisfied and made him disinclined to talk.

Fanshawe, however, was in high spirits, and chattered freely as they

went side by side at a walking pace along the road to Breda. Sherebiah

by and by overtook them, and kept a few yards behind. He too was in

capital spirits, and, having no one to converse with, was humming as he

rode:

"So Tom Pearce he got to the top o' the hill,

All along, down along, out along lee;

And he seed his old mare a-maken her will,

Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan

Whiddon, Harry Hawk, old Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all,

Old Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all.

"So Tom Pearce's old mare, her took sick an' died,

All along, down along, out along lee,

And Tom, he sat down on a stone, an' he cried,

Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter----"

"Confound you, Sherry!" cried Fanshawe, who had been so busy talking

that not till this moment had he recognized the song. "Hanged if you

are not always singing that wretched 'Widdicombe Fair'!"

"Beg pardon, sir. No offence. 'Tis a favourite ditty o' mine, and,

axin' your pardon, I thowt 'twas one o' yourn too."

"Nay; anything else, anything else, my good fellow, not that, as you

love me."

"Very good, sir. I be in a mind to troll a ditty, 'tis true, and if my

tenor tones don't offend 'ee, I'll try a stave o' 'Turmut-hoein'."

Next morning, under a bright May sun, the troops in Breda marched out to

join the Duke of Marlborough at Ruremond. As Harry's troop passed

Lindendaal, and he caught a glimpse of fluttering handkerchiefs at the

windows, he could not help wondering whether he should see those kind

friends again.

At Ruremond the troops were reviewed by the duke himself; thence they

marched to Juliers and Coblentz, where they halted for two days to allow

the Prussian and Hanoverian levies in British pay to unite with them.

Everybody had expected that the march would be continued up the Moselle,

with the purpose of coming to grips with the French army under Marshal

Villeroy. But to the general astonishment orders were given to cross

that river by the stone bridge, and then the Rhine by two bridges of

boats, and to proceed through the principality of Hesse-Cassel. The new

orders were eagerly discussed by the officers of all the corps, but

Marlborough had kept his own counsel, and indeed at this time his plan

was known to scarcely anyone but Lord Godolphin, with whom he had talked

it over in outline before leaving England, and Prince Eugene of Savoy,

to whom he had entrusted it in correspondence.

The plan must have seemed hazardous, even reckless, to soldiers who held

by the old traditions; but it was one that displayed Marlborough's

military genius to the full. He had divined the true meaning of the

recent movements of the French armies, and determined on a great effort

to defeat the aim of King Louis so shrewdly guessed at. Relying on his

ally, the Elector of Bavaria, the French king had resolved to make a

strenuous attack upon the Emperor in the heart of his own dominions,

Vienna. If Austria were crushed in one great battle, Louis had reason

to expect a general rising of the Hungarians, by which the empire would

be so much weakened that he could enforce peace and secure the triumph

of his policy on his own terms. Already a French army under Marshal

Marsin had joined forces with the Elector of Bavaria; other armies were

rapidly advancing to reinforce them, and the combined host would be more

than a match for any army that the emperor could put in the field

against it.

Marlborough saw only one way to save the empire: he must prevent if

possible the junction of the several French armies, or, if that were

impossible, defeat them in a pitched battle. But he knew that the

States of Holland would shrink from the risk of an expedition so far

from their own borders; he therefore gave out that his campaign was to

be conducted along the Moselle, and only when he was well on his way,

and it was too late to oppose him, did he reveal his full design.

Fortunately the Dutch Government rose to the opportunity; they sent him

the reinforcements and supplies he asked for, and were satisfied with

the detachment of one or two small forces to keep watch on Villeroy, who

had crossed the Meuse and was threatening Huy. For himself, Marlborough

intended to press forward with all speed towards the Danube, join Prince

Louis of Baden and Prince Eugene of Savoy, and give battle to the

combined French and Bavarians on ground of his own choosing.

For Harry this famous march was attended with endless novelty and

excitement. Every morning at dawn camp was struck, and for five or six

hours, with occasional halts, the troops marched, covering twelve or

fifteen miles, and bivouacking about nine o'clock, thus completing the

day's work before the sun grew hot. All along the route supplies for

man and beast were furnished by commissaries, whose duties were so well

organized that everything was on the ground before the troops arrived,

and they had nothing to do but pitch their tents, boil their kettles,

and lie down to rest. Everything was arranged and carried out with

matchless regularity and order; Marlborough himself had a thorough grasp

of the details, and showed such consideration for his men that on

personal grounds he won their admiration and confidence. The passage of

so large and miscellaneous a force, consisting of English, Dutch,

Prussians, Danes, and levies from several of the minor German states,

might well have been attended by many disorders; but Marlborough always

displayed great humanity in his dealings with the people of the country

through which he passed, and in these matters an army takes its cue from

the commander-in-chief.

After quitting Coblentz, the duke went forward a day's march with the

cavalry, leaving the artillery and foot to follow under the command of

his brother, General Charles Churchill. Unfortunately rainy weather set

in towards the end of May, and the roads were rendered so difficult that

Churchill's force lost ground, and by the time Marlborough reached

Ladenburg, on June 2, was four or five days behind. This delay gave the

duke some little cause for anxiety, for he had learnt that Prince Louis

of Baden, a brave but sluggish general of the old school, had allowed

reinforcements to reach the Elector of Bavaria, and failed to seize an

excellent opportunity of defeating the combined force. Marlborough,

wishing on this account to hurry his advance, sent back two troops of

Dutch horse to assist his brother with the cannon. One of these

happened to be Harry's. The heavy Flemish horses were serviceable in

dragging the guns, but the rains were so persistent and the soft roads

so cut up that when Churchill reached Maintz he was still some five

days' march behind the duke.

Late on the night of June 3, when the camp was silent, a courier reached

Maintz with the following despatch from Marlborough at Ladenburg:--

"I send this by express on purpose to be informed of the condition you

are in, both as to the troops and the artillery, and to advise you to

take your march with the whole directly to Heidelberg, since the route

we have taken by Ladenburg will be too difficult for you. Pray send

back the messenger immediately, and let me know by him where you design

to camp each night, and what day you propose to be at Heidelberg, that I

may take my measures accordingly."

General Churchill was roused from sleep to receive the despatch. He at

once wrote his reply, but on sending it out to the messenger learnt that

he had been suddenly seized with illness, and was unable to ride.

Churchill then sent for Captain van der Werff, and asked him, since he

had already ridden the Ladenburg road with his troop, to despatch the

letter by one of his subalterns. The captain, who knew of Harry's

relations with Marlborough, pleased himself with the thought of bringing

the two together again, and, to Harry's unbounded delight, ordered him

to ride at once to Ladenburg. Before he went he was summoned to the

bedside of General Churchill, and saw the tall, thin, battered form of

that excellent soldier in the unheroic attire of night-shirt and cap.

From him he learnt, in case of accident, the gist of the message, which

was that Churchill undertook to arrive at Heidelberg on June 7. Harry

started before dawn, and reached the camp at Ladenburg early. He had

crossed the Neckar by the bridge of boats used by Marlborough's troops

on the previous day, and found the army encamped along the river-side

opposite the town. The usual daily march had been pretermitted, in

order to allow time for the infantry to make up something of the ground

it had lost.

When Harry was taken into the presence of the commander-in-chief,

Marlborough was engaged in conversation with Count Wratislaw, the

emperor's agent, Colonel Cadogan, his quartermaster-general, and other

officers of his staff. The duke had learnt that Prince Eugene of Savoy

was on his way to join him, and was anxious that the meeting should take

place as soon as possible, so that the plan outlined in their

correspondence might be discussed in full detail. He had sent two

messengers with letters to meet Prince Eugene, informing him of his

whereabouts and urging him to hasten his coming; but neither had

returned, and he could not but fear that some mischance had befallen

them. But it was a characteristic of Marlborough's that, whatever his

difficulties and anxieties, he preserved always the same outward

appearance of settled calm--a great factor in his power over men.

He received General Churchill's letter from Harry's hand with a pleasant

smile and word of thanks, and bade him wait, to see if it demanded an

answer. Then he resumed his conversation, which was conducted in

French. Before long Harry, though he remained at a distance too great to

allow of his hearing what passed, judged from the glances thrown

occasionally in his direction that something was being said about him.

Presently Marlborough beckoned him forward.

"Mr. Rochester," he said, "I have an errand for you. I wish to

communicate with Prince Eugene of Savoy; two of my officers whom I sent

to him have apparently miscarried; I wish to try a third. You have had

experience in getting about the country, and I know from one or two

incidents in your late career that you have your wits about you and can

make good speed. You will carry a letter from me to Prince Eugene. I

will inform your colonel that I have employed you on special duty.--Mr.

Cardonnel, be good enough to write from my dictation."

He dictated a short note to his secretary.

"You understand French, of course, Mr. Rochester?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Then I need not repeat my message. You will keep it in mind in case

circumstances should require you to destroy the letter. You may meet

with danger on the road; otherwise I am at a loss to know why I am

without a reply to my two former letters. You must therefore be on your

guard. You will use all dispatch, hiring fresh horses wherever it may

be necessary--without, of course, incurring needless expense. I opine

that you may meet Prince Eugene at Innsprueck; Colonel Cadogan will

furnish you with a map; your best road will lie through Heidelberg,

Wisloch, and the Swabian Alb. When you reach the prince you will

doubtless be fatigued; his reply may be sent by another messenger, to

whom you will give such hints for his guidance as your own journey may

suggest. In that case you need not unduly hurry your own return, and on

your way back you may find it possible to make enquiries regarding the

fate of my missing messengers: they were Lieutenant Fanshawe of the Duke

of Schomberg's Horse, and Lieutenant Buckley of Colonel Cadogan's. Do

you know either of them?"

"Lieutenant Fanshawe is an old friend of mine, my lord," said Harry,

"but I don't know Lieutenant Buckley."

"Very well. His Excellency Count Wratislaw here will, I doubt not,

favour you with a letter of safety which will avail you with any of the

civil authorities whose assistance you may need _en route_; but since

'tis advisable to attract as little attention as possible, I counsel you

to make no use of the letter except on emergency. 'Twill be common

knowledge along the road whether the prince has passed on his way to the

army, so that you should meet with no difficulty in finding him.

Perhaps, the two lieutenants having apparently come to grief, 'twould be

well for you to ride incognito. What is your opinion, Colonel Cadogan?"

"Faith, my lord, let him go as a young English milord making the grand

tour."

"But he would then need a servant and baggage."

"Give out that his servant has broken his leg or is laid up with the

colic, and he is riding post to Venice; his wits will invent a reason."

"I think, sir, I would rather go as I am," said Harry. "My errand would

not then be complicated."

"The simpler way is often the best," said the duke. "Very well. Here is

the letter; I will send you Count Wratislaw's shortly; you will then set

off at once."

Harry bowed and withdrew, feeling highly elated at being entrusted with

this mission. It was an expedition on which he would gladly have had

the company of Sherebiah; but there was no time to send for him;

besides, one might go more safely than two. An hour later, furnished

with a supply of money by Colonel Cadogan, he rode off on a fresh horse,

passed through Heidelberg without delay, by favour of Count Wratislaw's

safe-conduct, and struck into the long straight road that led due south

through Leimen and Wisloch.

What had become of Fanshawe, he wondered. It was a friendly country;

the enemy were, so far as he could gather, no nearer than Ulm on the

Danube, so that it was little likely that Fanshawe had fallen in with

French or Bavarian troops. On the other hand, the country was infested

with spies, and here and there in out-of-the-way spots bands of outlaws

were said to have fixed their haunts, whence they made depredations on

neighbouring villages. But it was useless to speculate on what might

have happened, and Harry took care not to awaken curiosity or suspicion

by any premature enquiries. Stopping merely to change horses at posting

inns and to snatch a light meal, he reached Stuttgart about six o'clock

in the afternoon, having ridden sixty miles since he left Ladenburg.

This, with his previous ride from Maintz, had made him stiff and sore;

but, tired as he was, he determined to push on after a short rest, and

reach, if possible, the little town of Urach that night.

Soon after leaving Stuttgart he entered the district known as the

Swabian Alb, a country of wooded mountains and picturesque, well-watered

valleys, now in all their midsummer glory. The road became steeper

after he had crossed the river Neckar, and as his horse was labouring

somewhat he began to wish that he had remained to sleep in Stuttgart.

He was still some miles short of Urach when he came suddenly upon an

inn, standing back from the high-road, and nestling among a group of

tall, full-leaved beeches. It bore the sign "Zum grauen Baeren". The

pleasant situation and the warm colours of this Swabian hostelry were

very inviting to a tired man. His mouth was parched with thirst; his

horse was panting and steaming; and a short rest would do both of them

good. A moment's hesitation; then he wheeled to the left, and was met

by the landlord, who rose from a bench before the inn, where he was

smoking his evening pipe along with a squat companion looking like a

farmer. The landlord was not so attractive in appearance as his inn, but

he gave Harry a suave greeting in German, and asked how he could serve

the noble Herr. Harry had picked up a word or two of German in Holland,

and asked in that tongue for the refreshment he desired; but at the

first word the landlord gave him a sharp yet furtive look, immediately

effaced by his wonted bland smile. He went into the inn, and soon

returned with a cup of wine, while an ostler brought a pail of water for

the horse.

Harry was glad to rest his aching limbs on the bench, and to sip the

cool Rhenish. The landlord, standing by him, showed a desire to be

conversational.

"The noble Herr is for Urach? He will scarcely get there to-night."

He spoke now in a mixture of German and bad French.

"Why, is it so far?" said Harry. "I thought I was nearly there."

"True, Excellency, it is not very far; but the town council has become

somewhat timid since the French and Bavarians came prowling along the

Danube, and the gates are shut at half-past seven."

"A solitary horseman will not scare them," said Harry with a smile.

"They will surely open to me."

"Not so, Excellency. The order is stern. Why, only yesterday a

Rittmeister passing to join the forces of the Prince of Baden was

refused admittance just after the clock had struck, and had to come back

to this very inn. Donner, was he not angry, the noble Herr! But anger

cannot pierce stone walls; the gentleman uttered many round oaths, but

he came back all the same. Was it not so, Hermann?"