Loke who that is most vertuous alway,
Prive and apert, and most entendeth ay
To do the gentil dedes that he can,
And take him for the gretest gentilman.
--Chaucer.
While Hilary was learning at Hereford that in time of sore distress
differences of opinion in matters of Church and State lose all hold on
the mind, Gabriel was destined to meet in Somersetshire the noblest of
the King’s Generals--Sir Ralph Hopton.
Waller, while awaiting reinforcements from London, had made his
headquarters in Bath, and, though few days passed without skirmishes in
the neighbourhood, he had been able to hold in check the combined forces
of Hopton, Hertford and Prince Maurice, and to protect not only Bath but
Bristol.
The citizens of Bath held him in high esteem, and when on the evening of
the 16th June a messenger from the Royalist army was admitted into the
city with a letter for the General, he had to run the gauntlet of
some pretty sharp criticisms from the onlookers as he drew rein and
dismounted at the door of the “Nag’s Head” in Northgate Street.
This the young man took in very good part, and Gabriel, who chanced
to be leaning against the open door listening to one of Major Locke’s
stories, felt drawn to him when he saw the imperturbable good humour
with which he bore such taunts as:
“Let the barber shave your love-locks!” and, “Here’s a curled Court
darling!”
“Take the gentleman’s horse,” said Gabriel, turning to one of the
grinning ostlers, and then stepping forward he greeted the newcomer
courteously.
“I have a letter from Sir Ralph Hopton, and am to place it in Sir
William Waller’s own hands,” said the young officer. “Is he within?”
Something in his voice and face seemed curiously familiar, and as
Gabriel led him to the General’s room he could not resist hazarding a
question.
“An I mistake not, sir, you must be a kinsman of Captain Heyworth?”
The young officer laughed.
“Truth! I myself am Captain Heyworth--Richard Heyworth of Shortell. Tell
me, is my brother Joscelyn here?”
“Unfortunately not. He hath three weeks’ leave, and hath gone to London
on business.”
“A curse on my ill-luck!” said Dick Heyworth. “I made sure I should have
seen him here.”
He seemed so grievously disappointed that Gabriel felt the more drawn
to him and announcing “Captain Heyworth,” watched the General’s surprise
and perplexity as the visitor entered the room. Waller signed to him
to remain in attendance, and put one or two rapid questions to Richard
Heyworth.
“I sent a letter to Sir Ralph Hopton after the fray at Chewton Mendip by
the hands of Mr. Reginald Powell--a prisoner we had taken--did it reach
him safely?”
“Ay, sir--a letter proposing an exchange of prisoners. This is the
General’s reply, and he bade me say he earnestly hoped you would agree
to the second proposal he makes.”
Waller read the letter thoughtfully.
“I will write a reply,” he said at length, “and in the absence of your
brother will send it by Lieutenant Harford, who shall accompany you on
your return. I see, Sir Ralph writes from Wells; both you and your horse
will need rest and refreshment after such a ride. Lieutenant Harford
will see that you are well cared for.”
“Shall I return for your reply, sir?” asked Gabriel.
“Come for it at sunrise to-morrow,” said Waller, glancing again at the
letter. Then, looking up at Dick Heyworth, “I would fain comply with Sir
Ralph’s request could I consult my personal wishes, but I am bound to
think only of the Cause. I will wish you good-night, sir.”
It only remained for Dick Heyworth to bow and withdraw, but Gabriel
noted his look of annoyance as they entered the adjoining room, where
the remains of the officers’ supper were still on the table.
“’Tis ever ‘the Cause, the Cause,’ with you Parliament folk,” he said,
shrugging his shoulders. “Now if our two Generals could have met there
might be some hope of making an end of the war.”
“Was that your errand?”
“That and the reply as to the exchange of prisoners. You had best not
tell it in Gath, however. Sir Ralph Hopton, as you doubtless know, was
an old friend of your General’s, and they served together in the German
wars. He had a great wish to meet him and discuss this accursed civil
strife.”
“Of what avail would that be,” said Gabriel, “when the King will
never offer terms that can be accepted, and when Parliament places no
confidence in his promises.”
“Ay, there’s the rub,” said Dick.
“Your Cornishmen know how to fight,” said Gabriel. “They gave us a smart
repulse at Chewton Mendip.”
“Yes,” said Dick, making great inroads on the plate of beef his
companion had set before him. “They are the best soldiers we have, and
are men after Sir Ralph’s own heart, for they are as little given to
plundering as the best of your Puritan troops. Sir Ralph is like to
break his heart over Prince Maurice’s men, for they plunder right and
left.”
“It would be little to your General’s liking, specially in his own
county of Somerset.”
“That is what irks him so sorely, for they ruin the property of all his
old friends and neighbours. But tell me of my brother, for I have not
clapped eyes on him since you took Winchester.”
“He hath been several times of late at Gloucester, and was in high
spirits at encountering there Mistress Clemency Coriton, his betrothed.”
“He was ever a lucky dog,” said Dick, laughing.
“He came very near to being shot in the back t’other night, by a
treacherous blackguard that serves under Prince Maurice,” observed
Gabriel.
“Ha! I can guess who that is,” said Dick. “Now I understand the dark
hints and innuendoes that Colonel Norton has thrown out once or twice of
late. Tell me what really passed.”
Gabriel, though omitting Helena’s name, told the story of her father’s
duel with Norton and of their subsequent errand.
“That was an affair after Joscelyn’s own heart,” cried Dick. “Did I not
tell you he was a lucky dog? Such chances are for ever coming his way.
Never mind, my turn will come.”
Just after sunrise the two young officers rode off together to Wells,
and by the time they had reached Hopton’s quarters, an old house in the
Close, they had become fast friends, united by their common affection
for Joscelyn. Gabriel was taken into a panelled room, where the Royalist
General sat writing at a table in the oriel window. He was a middle-aged
man, with threads of grey already showing in his long dark hair,
and there was something singularly noble in his clear, open face and
dignified bearing. A man of stainless character, he found many of
his co-workers very little to his taste, and he seemed grievously
disappointed to learn that his old friend Waller had felt unable to
agree to the proposed meeting. Gabriel could not help glancing at his
expression now and then as he read the letter which he had eagerly
opened.
It ran as follows:
“_Sir,”--The experience which I have had of your worth and the happiness
which I have enjoyed in your friendship, are wounding considerations to
me, when I look upon this present distance between us; certainly, sir,
my affections to you are so unchangeable, that hostilitie itself cannot
violate my friendship to your person; but I must be true to the cause
wherein I serve. The old limitation of _usque ad aras_ holdeth still,
and where my conscience is interested all other obligations are
swallowed up. I should wait on you according to your desire, but that I
look on you as engaged in that partie beyond the possibility of retreat,
and consequents incapable of being wrought upon by anti-persuasion, and
I know the conference could never be so close betwixt us, but that it
would take wind and receive a construction to my dishonour. That great
God, who is the Searcher of all hearts, knows with what a sad sense I
go upon this service, and with what a perfect hate I detest this war
without an enemie, but I look upon it as _opus domini_ which is enough
to silence all passion in me. The God of Peace send us, in His good
time, the blessing of peace, and in the meantime fit us to receive it.
We are both on the stage and must act those parts that are assigned to
us in this tragedy, but let us do it in the way of honour and without
personal animositie; whatsoever the issue of it be, I shall never resign
that dear title of_
_“Your most_
_“Affectionate Friend_
_“and Faithful Servant,_
_“William Waller._
_“Bath, June 16, 1643_.”
Sir Ralph Hopton sighed as he refolded the letter; it had only made
him crave more passionately for an end of the war which was dividing
England. He glanced a second time at Gabriel, struck by something
familiar in his face. “Are you not one of the Herefordshire Harfords?”
he asked.
“Yes, sir,” replied Gabriel, “son of Dr. Bridstock Harford, of
Hereford.”
“I met him many years ago at Canon Frome, when he must have been of your
age; you are his living image. How is my kinsman, Sir Richard Hopton?”
“He is well, sir, but hath suffered from the plundering of his house at
Canon Frome by the Royalists, to revenge his having accompanied my Lord
Stamford last year when he took Hereford.”
“These plunderings and robberies are hateful to me,” said Sir Ralph.
“Nothing does so much to embitter the struggle as the wanton destruction
of property. By-the-bye, an’ I mistake not, you are connected with
the Hoptons through a marriage with Madame Martha Harford, so that in
somewhat remote fashion you are also akin to me. I could wish you were
with us in this contest, but as they tell me Sir William Waller often
says, we will part as enemies that may live to be friends.” Then bidding
Dick Heyworth show all hospitality to Waller’s messenger, he dismissed
them and began to write his reply to the Parliamentary General.
A few hours later, when Gabriel, with the letter in his wallet, paused
at the city gate to take leave of Dick Heyworth, it chanced that Colonel
Norton, lounging at his ease at the open window of an alehouse hard by,
was roused to sudden interest in the proceedings.
“’Tis the very man!” he exclaimed. “Now I shall get hold of his name,
which hath slipped my memory, and will have some sport with the Puritan
dog.”
He strolled out of the alehouse, carelessly greeted Dick Heyworth, and,
with a mockingly profound bow and sarcastic smile, turned to Gabriel.
“Good day, sir!” he exclaimed. “Have you had any more midnight rides
with the fair Helena?”
Dick Heyworth, seeing the angry flush which rose in his new friend’s
face, hastily interposed, hoping to avert a storm.
“To name a lady in such a fashion in the open street, sir,----” he
began, but there he was interrupted by Gabriel, who, furious at the
insinuation and the insult conveyed in Norton’s look and tone, could no
longer restrain his tongue.
“In her present abode she is little like to need protection from
villainous assaults such as yours, sir,” he said, with that sudden fiery
vehemence which comes with startling force now and then from the most
self-controlled men.
“Ha!” said, Norton, with his short, harsh laugh. “I have no doubt you
stowed her away very conveniently in the godly city of Gloucester,
where, doubtless, all men are saints. Beggarly hypocrites that you are!
But the King will soon triumph now, and I ask nothing better than to
have the privilege of hanging you, you Puritan mongrel!”
“The King’s cause is ill served, sir, by such words,” said Dick,
angrily. “You, perhaps, do not understand that Lieutenant Harford bears
a letter from Sir Ralph Hopton, and cannot take up a personal quarrel.”
Norton burst into loud laughter.
“Bless you, my children!” he exclaimed, his eyes twinkling with genuine
merriment. “’Twas precisely the name of this gentleman that I wished
to discover--do not let me detain you longer now, Mr. Harford, we shall
meet again, for I never allow myself to be baulked.”
With a derisive smile he returned to the alehouse, and Dick Heyworth
rode on for a little way with his new friend.
“That fellow has a bitter grudge against you and my brother,” he said.
“You had best beware of him, for he sticks at nothing. ’Tis men of
that make who are the ruin of His Majesty’s Army.”
“But, on the other hand, you have men like my Lord Falkland and Sir
Ralph Hopton and Sir Bevil Granville,” said Gabriel, his chivalrous
nature readily sympathising with what was passing in his companion’s
mind. “And, as you may guess, we have not a few narrow-minded zealots
and fanatics who are ill to work with.”
“True, men like that Original Sin Smith that played Joscelyn false
at Farnham,” said Dick, “Indeed, I think you are right, such a fellow
revolts one even more than Colonel Norton, being both villain and
hypocrite.”
Then, entrusting Gabriel with a letter for his brother, and many last
messages, Dick Heyworth returned to Wells, and Gabriel rode back to
Waller’s headquarters, his mind full of Sir Ralph Hopton’s last words,
“We will part as enemies that may live to be friends.” If only Hilary
would have given him as much comfort as that, how hopefully would he
have faced the bitterness of this heart-rending strife!
The sun was setting when he rode into Bath, and the Abbey tower outlined
against a saffron sky rose in solemn grandeur, which unconsciously
soothed his troubled mind, though, like most of his generation, he had
very little feeling for the beautiful. What he had was gained almost
entirely from the poetry of the Bible--a Book which had been to him and
to his father before him the great educator, and to which, in common
with all the best of the Puritans, he owed the sterling honesty and the
moral courage that characterised him. To the modern world he would have
seemed primitive and unsophisticated. But there is a certain kind of
simplicity that is very ill compensated by æstheticism, and sturdy
Puritan uprightness is sorely needed in these latter days of luxury,
lying and greed of gain.
Having delivered the letter from Sir Ralph Hopton, and Dick Heyworth’s
letter to his brother, into the General’s keeping, he went in search of
Major Locke, and to his great delight found the rare treat of a letter
from home awaiting him. His father gave him the new’s of Mrs. Unett’s
death, and overwhelmed with the sense of what Hilary’s desolation would
be, he lost no time in writing to her. But it is one thing to write
a letter in time of war, and quite another to send it safely to its
destination.
The next night the troops were ordered into the Bradford Valley, and a
strong position was taken up on Claverton Down, for scouts had brought
word that the Royalists meant to attempt Bath from that quarter. Some
days passed before Gabriel found any one to whom he could entrust the
letter, but at last Major Locke’s servant Tobias, who was carrying a
packet to Mistress Helena at Gloucester, consented to take charge of it.
Tobias, however, though thoroughly honest, was not blessed with brains.
Thinking to save himself, he made what he fondly hoped was a short cut
across the down, instead of availing himself of the sheltered valley.
To his utter dismay, he came across a Royalist officer and a couple of
scouts who were reconnoitering to see whether it would be possible after
all to capture the city from the Bradford Valley, and while Hopton’s men
were making a vigorous attack on the position at Claverton, poor Tobias
found that his venture was like to cost him his life.
The scouts seized him and one glance at the face of the officer told him
that his last hour was at hand.
“You come from Waller’s camp,” said Colonel Norton, sharply. “Don’t deny
it, I can read it in your craven face. What strength has he there?”
Tobias told the number of the troops.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was but on an errand,” faltered the poor fellow. “I am nought but a
servant, sir.”
“Whose servant?”
“Major Locke’s, sir,” said Tobias, sealing his own doom by the words.
Norton chuckled gleefully.
“Ha! that’s good hearing. You are carrying his letters no doubt. Here
string him up, men, and we’ll turn out his pockets afterwards, and save
him the discomfort of a struggle. These Puritans have such consciences,
he would doubtless scruple to part with his trust.”
“Sir, sir,” pleaded poor Tobias. “They can be naught to you--they be
no despatches--they be but private letters, and both of them only to
ladies, sir.”
At this, Norton burst into a roar of laughter. The two scouts, hating
both the work and the officer in command, took advantage of his
convulsions of merriment, to loose the prisoner.
“Chuck the despatches and run,” whispered one of them. And Tobias needed
no second bidding.
Flinging the letters on the ground, he ran like a hunted hare to the
shelter of a little coppice, and though Norton swore at the scouts as
they made a feint of rushing in pursuit, and sent more than one shot
after the terrified messenger, he was too eager to seize on the letters
before the wind whirled them away to trouble much about his victim.
Tobias gasping for breath ran madly down the slope, till at length
catching his foot on a tree stump he fell violently to the ground,
severely spraining his ankle. But a sprained ankle means little to a man
who has been at death’s door; he lay patiently enough in the wood till
next day, and then limped down to Claverton to learn from the villagers
that Waller had retired to Bath, and that the Royalists had abandoned
the Avon, and were to attempt the capture of Bath from the north.
What with skirmishes and intricate manoeuvring, it was not until the
Royalist forces had encamped at Marshfield that Norton had time to open
the letters he had seized. But his satisfied chuckle as he read the
first, and the malicious merriment in his eyes, showed that the capture
had been worth making. The Major’s letter was short, and ran as follows:
“Dear Nell,--Captain Joscelyn Heyworth hath returned from London, where,
at my request, he visited your godmother, Madam Harford. Strangely
enough, she proves to be a kinswoman of Lieutenant Harford, your trusty
rescuer. Madam Harford desires that at the earliest opportunity
you travel with Cousin Malvina to London, and that you make her
house--Notting hill Manor--your home until these calamities be overpast.
Mr. Bennett and Alderman Pury will let you know when the journey may be
attempted, and will find you a proper escort. I write in great haste;
a battle is imminent, Sir W. Waller hoping thereby to save Bath, and to
prevent the army of the West from joining the King’s forces at Oxford. I
am just exchanged into Sir Arthur Hazlerigg’s new regiment, known as the
‘Lobsters,’ and you would smile to see how fine we look, most thoroughly
encased in armour, like the knights of old. Truth to tell, I find it
mighty cumbersome, but it may serve. God keep you from all ill, and
grant us in peaceful times a happy reunion. I could wish to have seen
you safely wedded to such an one as Lt. G. H., but have not as yet
broached the subject with him.
“Your loving father,
“George Locke.
“To Mrs. Helena Locke,
“at the House of Alderman Pury,
“Gloucester.”
Norton refolded this sheet carefully, and thrust it into an inner
pocket, reflecting that later on it might suit his purposes to send it
to little Mistress Nell. Then, with a smile of malicious enjoyment, he
read the address on the second letter.
“To Mistress Hilary Unett,
“care of the Rt. Rev. the Bishop of Hereford.”
Unfastening the seal, he read with some surprise, the following words:
“I hesitate to break that silence which you most emphatically enforced
when we last met, but the news of your bereavement, which I have just
learnt from my father, so stirs my heart that write I must, and should
this only offend you more deeply I must pay the penalty. That you are
desolate and sad at heart I well know. My beloved, if only I could
comfort you I would ask nothing more--but this is the sorest part of our
unhappy difference as to the war, that I am cut off from the right of
serving you, and am doubtful whether you will even be at the trouble to
read these lines. But should you read them, then I pray you read betwixt
the lines the love for you which fills my heart--a love that is ill at
expressing itself in words, but which will always be longing to serve
you while life lasts. It is some consolation to me to know that you
are with your grandfather, whose kindness when last he parted with me I
cannot forget. I have just had the pleasure of seeing Sir Ralph Hopton,
the noblest of all His Majesty’s Generals, being sent (in the absence of
Captain Joscelyn Heyworth) with a letter from Sir W. Waller. Sir Ralph
was kind enough to call cousins with me on account of Mistress Martha
Harford, who was afterwards wedded to Mr. Michael Hopton--you will
remember smiling over her mistaken epitaph on the monument in Bosbury
Church. Was it in some other life that we spent that happy day at
Bosbury, when we were betrothed? Would to God we could find ourselves
there once more with hearts united! Should you see my father, will
you let him know that we are expecting a decisive battle in the
neighbourhood of Bath? I will write to him after it is over.
“Dear Hilary, for the sake of old days, I pray you at least to accept my
sympathy in your sorrow, and
“Believe that I rest ever
“Your faithful servant,
“Gabriel Harford.”
Norton’s face, as he read, was a curious study. Anything more unlike his
notion of a love-letter it was impossible to conceive. He read it twice,
and a new sense of shame began to steal over him. His eyes at length
rivetted themselves on the one sentence, “for the sake of old days,”
but he was looking, in truth, at some scene long ago in his own life--a
scene which softened him strangely, and called out the better side of
his nature.
“Curse it!” he cried, at length, beginning to pace the room restlessly.
“I wish I had never meddled with that boy’s love-letter. God! if I could
undo the past!”
With a hand that shook, he took up a tankard of ale and hastily drained
it.
“Humph! that’s better,” he muttered. “A pox on such soft-hearted
sentiment! It must be as the proverb hath it, ‘Every man for himself,
and the devil take the hindmost.’ I can no more undo my past than I can
get this letter back into the messenger’s pocket, and there’s an end
on’t.”
With that he tore up the sheet and flung the pieces out of the window,
watching the rapid way in which the summer wind whirled them into space.
Then, drawing out the Major’s letter, he once more perused it, and very
soon was laughing heartily over the father’s matrimonial hopes for his
daughter.
“‘Twill be hard if I can’t contrive to put a spoke in his wheel,”
he thought. “I’ll be revenged on him before long, and on Mr. Gabriel
Harford, too. What does the fellow mean by philandering with little
Nell, when he is still courting this Hereford lady? I should have had
her t’other night if it had not been for his cursed knight-errantry.”
And then once more that memory which had no connection at all with
little Helena Locke came back to torture him.
With an impatient shrug of the shoulders he drew out his pipe and began
to fill it, humming to himself meanwhile a song from _The Queen of
Corinth_:
Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan;
Sorrow calls no time that’s gone;
Violets plucked the sweetest rain
Makes not fresh nor grow again.
The next day one of the most obstinately contested battles of the
campaign was fought on the slopes of Lansdown, and Norton, who with
all his faults was an excellent soldier, had no time to think of past
regrets or of private enmities. Again and again the Parliamentary troops
charged down the hill, but Hopton’s Cornishmen with their deadly pikes
pressed bravely on. The slaughter on both sides was terrible, the
Royalists alone leaving fourteen hundred dead and wounded on the field,
and Waller’s army, forced at length from their position on the brow
of the hill by superior numbers, had to retire along the ridge to Bath
about midnight.
The city was saved, for Hopton’s army was in no condition to attack it,
and the noble-hearted Royalist General was full of sadness when, on
the return of daylight, he visited the battlefield. He had himself been
slightly wounded, but by sunrise he was in the saddle again, giving
directions as to the relief of the injured, and by his kindly words
bringing comfort to many of the poor fellows who had lain in torture on
the hillside all through the night.
While he was thus occupied, Captain Nevill, the officer in attendance
on him, drew his attention to a trumpeter from the Parliamentary army,
accompanied by one of Waller’s officers. As the latter dismounted and
came forward, Sir Ralph, scanning his face, saw that it was none other
than Gabriel Harford, who, since Captain Heyworth had been left on the
battle-field either dead or wounded, was acting as Waller’s galloper. He
had come with a request from the Parliamentary General for a day’s truce
in order to succour the wounded and bury the dead.
“’Tis needed indeed by us as well as by you,” said Hopton; and his
words were spoken to that awful accompaniment of groans and piteous
cries for water which Gabriel could so well recall after the battle of
Edgehill.
“Sir William Waller bade me also ask if any surgeon from Bath should be
sent to the aid of Sir Bevil Granville,” he said, watching the General’s
face with interest.
“The offer does credit to his humanity. Sir Bevil was Carried to Cold
Ashton Vicarage,” replied Sir Ralph; “but he was dying last night, I
think by now he is past surgeon’s aid.”
The words had hardly left his lips when a tremendous explosion threw
both speaker and hearers to the ground. Gabriel and Captain Nevill
escaped unhurt, and were soon on their feet again, eagerly bending over
the prostrate form of the General, while others rushed to the yet more
terribly injured Major Sheldon, and lifted aside the bodies of those who
had been actually killed.
“There is life in him yet,” said Captain Nevill, with his fingers on the
General’s pulse.
“Yes,” said Gabriel, “but there won’t be long, unless we can check this.
Quick! off with your scarf, sir, and bind it about his arm while I hold
the artery.”
“I’ faith, sir, you’re as good as a leech,” said the Royalist Captain,
unable even at that moment of anxiety to forbear a glance at the
strangely attractive face of Waller’s envoy.
“A poor substitute, but the son of a physician,” said Gabriel, deftly
guiding the rather clumsy efforts of Captain Nevill.
A moan from Hopton brought a look of relief to both his helpers.
“Who is it?” he groaned; “what hath chanced?”
“A powder-waggon accidentally exploded, sir,” said Captain Nevill.
“I can’t hear a word,” moaned Hopton; “it hath deafened and blinded me.
Let the troops fall back on Marshfield.”
But here the agony becoming unbearable he lost consciousness, and naught
remained for his saddened followers but to obey those last words, and
carry him from the battle-field.
“I will ride back and send the best surgeon in Bath to wait upon
him,” said Gabriel, longing to stay and search for his friend Joscelyn
Heyworth, who must be lying somewhere on the hillside, though whether
dead or wounded he could not tell. But his duty was to ride back to
Waller with Hopton’s message, and personal wishes had to be stifled.
“Should Sir Ralph recover I shall tell him he owes his life to you,
for assuredly he would have bled to death had it not been for your
promptitude,” said Captain Nevill, warmly. “Doth he know your name?”
“Yes, sir, ’tis Gabriel Harford. Farewell, and may God preserve your
leader.”
Then, remounting his horse at the too of the hill, he galloped along the
Lansdown ridge, making all speed back to Sir William Waller, that help
might be sent as soon as possible to those tortured soldiers, whose
groans still rang in his ears.
The horrors of the campaign made his heart ache, yet if ever war was
unavoidable he honestly believed that it was this war, which had only
been undertaken after years of patient endeavour to combat by peaceful
means the King’s misrule. Again and again, moreover, the disputants
had paused during the hostilities and had tried to come to a peaceful
settlement, but the fatal bar of the King’s insincerity and the repeated
discovery of his underhand dealings while negotiations for peace were
yet going on had always frustrated the hopes of the distracted country.
Gabriel was ready and willing to lay down his life for the freedom of
England and the preservation of the Reformed religion. The recent
death of John Hampden the Patriot, had, indeed, filled him with renewed
eagerness to sacrifice everything for the cause. And, at the same time,
he could not but feel, as his friend Joscelyn Hey worth had felt after
the return from Chalgrove Field, a burning desire to call to account
the main authors of all this woe. His Majesty and the Archbishop might
personally be well-meaning men, but their tyrannical government had
filled him with loathing, and he grieved to think of the thousands of
homes which their policy had blighted. For Sir Bevil Granville and for
the brave Cornishmen who had fallen on the previous day he could only
feel admiration, but he would gladly have had in their stead those he
deemed the cause of all the misery--the hard and aggressive Dr. Laud and
the weak and untrustworthy King.