"When love with unconfined wings hovers within my gates;

And my divine Althea brings to whisper at the grates;

When I lie tangled in her hair and fetter'd to her eye;

The gods that wanton in the air, know no such liberty.

"'Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage;

Minds innocent and quiet take that for an hermitage;

If I have freedom in my love, and in my soul am free;

Angels alone that soar above enjoy such liberty!'"

"Thou dost sing the words of the beautiful and amiable Richard

Lovelace; I have heard my father speak of him with great affection.

The lines to Althea--his sweetheart--were written in prison. She

thought him dead and married some one else. He loved her more than

life,--dost believe in such love, Kate?"

"Aye, why not?--Ah, Sir Julian, hast finished,--who was victor?"

"I am modest, my Lady."

"But never too modest to hold thine own." As she spoke thus to Sir

Julian, the sands of the hour-glass ran out and nine tolled from the

Chapel belfry. Before the bell had ceased, Constance had drawn Cedric

and Julian into a game of cards, she placing herself opposite the

window, and Katherine had stepped into an adjoining passage, and

taking up her camelot cloak, with flying feet and beating heart

hastened to the postern-door and slipped bolts and bars and stood

without in the calm, warm night.

CHAPTER XIV

SERMONS NEW AND OLD

"The reign of Charles the Second seemed to be impregnated with a free

and easy moral atmosphere that engendered lewdness in human product.

It is said by a great historian that Thomas Hobbes had, in language

more precise and luminous than has ever been employed by any other

metaphysical writer, maintained that the will of the prince was the

standard of right and wrong, and that every subject ought to be ready

to profess Popery, Mahometanism, or Paganism, at the royal command.

Thousands who were incompetent to appreciate what was really valuable

in his speculations eagerly welcomed a theory which, while it exalted

the kingly office, relaxed the obligations of morality and degraded

religion into a mere affair of state. Hobbism soon became an almost

essential part of the character of the fine gentleman. All the

lighter kinds of literature were deeply tainted by the prevailing

licentiousness. Poetry stooped to be the pander of every low desire.

Ridicule, instead of putting guilt and error to the blush, turned her

formidable shafts against innocence and truth. The restored Church

contended indeed against the prevailing immorality, but contended

feebly, and with half a heart. It was necessary to the decorum of

her character that she should admonish her erring children, but her

admonitions were given in a somewhat perfunctory manner. Her attention

was elsewhere engaged. Little as the men of mirth and fashion were

disposed to shape their lives according to her precepts, they were yet

ready to fight for her cathedrals and places, for every line of her

rubric and every thread of her vestments. If the debauched

cavalier haunted brothels and gambling houses, he at least avoided

conventicles. If he never spoke without uttering ribaldry and

blasphemy, he made some amends by his eagerness to send Baxter and

Howe to gaol for preaching and praying. Thus the clergy, for a time,

made war on schism with so much vigour that they had little leisure to

make war on vice."

"Charles the Second wished merely to be a King who could draw without

limit on the treasury for the gratification of his private tastes, who

could hire with wealth and honours persons capable of assisting him

to kill the time, and who, even when the state was brought by

maladministration to the depths of humiliation and to the brink of

ruin, could still exclude unwelcome truth from the purlieus of his

own seraglio, and refuse to see and hear whatever might disturb his

luxurious repose. Later in life, the ill-bred familiarity of the

Scottish divines had given him a distaste for Presbyterian discipline,

while the heats and animosities between the members of the Established

Church and the Nonconformists, with which his reign commenced, made

him think indifferently of both. His religion was that of a young

prince in his warm blood, whose inquiries were applied more to

discover arguments against belief than in its favour."

"The wits about the Court, who found employment in laughing at

Scripture, delighted in turning to ridicule what the preachers said in

their sermons before him, and in this way induced him to look upon the

clergy as a body of men who had compounded a religion for their own

advantage. So strongly did this feeling take root in him that he at

length resigned himself to sleep at sermon-time--not even South or

Barrow having the art to keep him awake. In one of these half-hours

of sleep, when in Chapel, he is known to have missed, doubtless with

regret, the gentle reproof of South to Lauderdale during a general

somnolency:--'My lord, my lord, you snore so loud you will wake the

King.'"

"He was altogether in favour of extempore preaching, and was unwilling

to listen to the delivery of a written sermon." (Indeed, if we had

more people like him in this day, we would hear far more of the gospel

and far less of politics and jokes which so demoralize the pulpit and

take away all sacredness. The King was right, as all mankind will

agree, in his idea of preaching.) "Patrick excused himself from a

chaplaincy, 'finding it very difficult to get a sermon without book.'

On one occasion the King asked the famous Stillingfleet 'how it was

that he always reads his sermons before him, when he was informed that

he always preached without book elsewhere?' Stillingfleet answered

something about the awe of so noble a congregation, the presence of

so great and wise a prince, with which the King himself was very well

contented,--'But, pray,' continued Stillingfleet, 'will your Majesty

give me leave to ask you a question? Why do you read your speeches

when you can have none of the same reasons?' 'Why truly, doctor,'

replied the King, 'your question is a very pertinent one, and so will

be my answer. I have asked the two Houses so often and for so much

money, that I am ashamed to look them in the face.'"

"This 'slothful way of preaching,' for so the King called it, had

arisen during the civil wars; and Monmouth, when Chancellor of the

University of Cambridge, in compliance with the order of the King,

directed a letter to the University that the practice of reading

sermons should be wholly laid aside."

There was much ignorance in the seventeenth century; but 'twas of the

people's own choosing; 'twas not of necessity. Lewdness was preferable

to purity; it was easier had. And when the King led the pace, why not

they of lesser rank and fortunes? But was there ever a thing created

in all the world without its right and wrong sides? It seemed there

was no room in Charles' time for aught but evil. "The ribaldry of

Etherege and Wycherley was, in the presence and under the special

sanction of the head of the church, while the author of the Pilgrim's

Progress languished in a dungeon for the crime of proclaiming the

gospel to the poor."

As time waxed, even the vigilant persecutors became passive, relaxed

themselves into indifference; but before immorality was aware the

still, small voice was heard. The seed that was twelve years in

planting had taken root and Pilgrim's Progress became known and John

Bunyan stood without the prison gates to preach and pray at will, to

keep on extending that influence that lives to-day. And for once the

King did not go to sleep when, through caprice or curiosity, he went

to hear him preach.

"When Bunyan went to preach in London, if there was but one day's

notice, the meeting house was crowded to overflowing. Twelve hundred

people would be found collected before seven o'clock on a dark

winter's morning to hear a lecture from him. In Zoar St. Southwark,

his church was sometimes so crowded that he had to be lifted to the

pulpit stairs over the congregation's heads." He strove not for

popularity, as could be seen in the one little circumstance when "a

friend complimented him, after service, on 'the sweet sermon' which he

had delivered. 'You need not remind me of that,' he said. 'The devil

told me of it before I was out of the pulpit.'"

"Charles Doe, a distinguished nonconformist, visited him in his

confinement. 'When I was there,' he writes, 'there were about sixty

dissenters besides himself, taken but a little before at a religious

meeting at Kaistor, in the county of Bedford, besides two eminent

dissenting ministers, Mr. Wheeler and Mr. Dun, by which means the

prison was much crowded. Yet, in the midst of all that hurry, I heard

Mr. Bunyan both preach and pray with that mighty spirit of faith and

plerophory of Divine assistance, that he made me stand and wonder.'"

The sweet spirit of a minister is treasured and kept green in the

memory of his flock, no matter how recalcitrant they may be. This is

shown by the reading once a year in Bedford Church of John Gifford's

letter to his parish people, written over two hundred years ago. It

says: "Let no respect of persons be in your comings together. When you

are met as a church, there's neither rich nor poor, bond nor free, in

Jesus Christ. 'Tis not a good practice to be offering places or seats

when those who are rich come in; especially it is a great evil to take

notice of such in time of prayer or the word; then are bowings and

civil observances at such times not of God." It was the "holy Mr.

Gifford" that was often in conference with John Bunyan; "the latter as

the seeking pilgrim, the former the guiding evangelist." With such

men as these the sweet spirit was kept aflame and eventually changed

England and made her the great country she is. But in those licentious

days this sweet spirit shone from its impure surroundings like the

_ignis fatuus_, and 'twas a great, wicked world that Mistress Penwick

stood all alone in that early summer night.

A nightingale sung afar in some bowery of blossom, and for a moment

she listened.

"'Tis an ode to the night he sings, 'tis too clear and high and full

of cadence for a nuptial mass,--nay, nay, I shall not marry to-night,

I will go and see what dear father Constantine wishes and return to

this home that has never seemed so fair to me before;--and my lord is

handsome and so, too, is Sir Julian and I'm fond of their Graces of

Ells wold and Janet,--Janet, I love her best of all. Nay, nay, I'll

not be married. I will go and see and return. Janet will not look for

me above stair before eleven at least. I shall be home again ere I'm

missed." She thought thus as she hurried on through the courtyard and

beyond, where waited Father Dempsy.

In a second, it seemed, they were galloping away, Mistress Penwick

throwing back a long, sweeping glance at the great, stone pile behind

her. The train of her brocade skirt hung almost to the ground; her

fair, sloping shoulders, her exquisite face framed in a high roll of

amber beauty, made a picture,--a rare gem encircled by a gorgeous June

night.

On they rode without converse; Dempsy was a brave man, yet he feared

and justly, too, that Mistress Pen wick might be taken from him before

they reached the monastery, therefore he enjoined silence, and the

best speed of their horses, and kept a hand upon his sword.

He drew a sigh of relief when he beheld the dark outline of the

cloister that appeared quiet and undisturbed.

As they approached, Cantemir came from the open door and lifted

Mistress Penwick from her horse in a most tender fashion, and would

have held her close and imprinted a kiss upon her forehead had she not

drawn from him and raised her hand to his lips.

"'Tis a cold greeting, Katherine, after these long, weary days of

separation."

"Nay, not so. 'Tis thy warmth that is premature." And without deigning

further opportunity for converse, she swept over the threshold of the

monastery.

There was much business to be attended to before the ceremony could

take place, and the time was limited; for in one hour it was believed

the cloister would be attacked by the Duke of Buckingham and his

party, and the maid must be far on her way before the attack.

There was none but Mistress Penwick, herself, that thought else than

that a marriage contract was to be sealed. She on a sudden felt a

great repulsion for Adrian Cantemir, and she resolved not to wed him.

As she stood in the large hall that served as council chamber and

for all functions of importance, she cast her eye about for those

answering to the description of his Grace of Monmouth and that

other--was it the King? She felt sure she would know him; but upon the

long benches there were none but sombre cowled figures with crucifix

and--aye, swords gleamed from beneath the folds of their long gowns

and touched the floor. Her eyes flashed wide with surprise, and she

felt proud and loved the bravery of her religion. But to what it

portended she thought on for a moment seriously and concluded Royal

personages must be present, or why else such precaution?

As the business had to do with Mistress Penwick only, Cantemir was

asked to withdraw. As soon as the business was entered upon, the

maid's doubts of the surrounding company were dispelled and she knew

none of the Royal party would dare be even an unknown guest at such a

meeting.

At the conclusion of the council she held an important secret, more

important to herself than she dreamt. It made her bold, and she

straightway arose and spoke out clearly,--

"If the reverend fathers would agree upon a certain matter, I will

start at once upon my journey. I feel my mission to the King to

be more important than all else to me, and for the success of my

undertaking I deem it best I should go as maid and not wife to his

most Royal presence." This was a startling but most acceptable

assertion. It had been much spoken on by the Abbés but by common

consent they agreed if the maid wished to marry the Russian, why--they

would offer no objections; so they had left the matter.

"Dost think, Mistress Penwick, thou canst settle readily the case with

the Count?"

"'Twill be easy and quickly done. Call him hither!" said she. The

Russian came with eagerness and some impatience, for he feared a delay

might plunge him into a lively skirmish.

Katherine went to his side, and placing her fingers upon his arm,

said,--

"Thou wilt escort me to the King?"

"Most gladly, and where else in life thou shalt choose to go."

"'Tis the present that indicates the future,--wilt come at once

without ceremony?"

"Nay, nay, I protest. I must have thee as wife, first, Mistress

Penwick!"

Constantine leant toward them from the table and looked with purpose,

a frown emphasizing his shrewd glance,--

"We have not time for further controversy, and if the maid will say

the word, the ceremony will be performed now." The Abbé knew the maid

would give in to circumstances sooner than the determined Count, and

thus hastened her. All eyes were upon the two, and Katherine hearing

in the priest's voice a tone of insistence, stood for a moment

motionless and evidently debating her course.

As she opened her lips, there was a sudden sound of horses' feet.

In a moment a thundering knock upon the door's panelling demanded

admittance.

"Who seeks an opening so roughly?" thundered La Fosse.

"Cedric of Crandlemar!"

"The devil!" cried Cantemir, as he fell back in consternation and

fear. Indeed he would rather meet the King of devils than this

hot-headed Cedric. Katherine was not at a loss to read Count Adrian's

countenance, and straightway bade them open the door. La Fosse spoke

as his hand rested on the locker,--

"Art alone, my lord?"

"Aye, quite alone!" came in a voice so shaken Katherine fell to

trembling in very fear. Cedric threw wide the door and stood within,

facing them all. His face gleamed like marble, so colourless and still

it seemed. His body swayed by love and anger, knew not which way to

turn, but appeared to sway from side to side. His breath came

in quick, sharp pants. His hair, damp as if from fine rain, was

dishevelled. His dark eyes shot forth sparks of angry fire that burnt

all who fell beneath their glance.

"Who brought hither the maid? Did yonder pandering fool? Aye, 'twas

thou. I see it plain. Come, come, draw fool; draw ere I run thee

through and dishonour sword by attacking thee, unarmed; draw, I say,

fool!"

Count Adrian's face was ghastly. Lord Cedric raised his sword and made

a lunge at him. La Fosse was too quick for Cedric. He sprang between

and parried the pass with astounding dexterity. The monk intended it

for a finale stroke; but not so Cedric. He began a fight that was not

to be so easily ended, and he drove his sword in fury. The good monk

only wished to parry; but alas! he caught the spirit of battle and

fought. Constantine made as if to draw the maid from the scene, while

others sought to interfere with the combatants. 'Twas of no avail.

Katherine could not be moved from where she stood, white and still

as a statue; neither could they interpose between the Abbé and his

Lordship. Sorrow and dismay were written on every face, for 'twas sure

one or the other must fall of those two masters of the sword. Already

there fell at La Fosse's feet drops of blood. When Katherine saw them,

she sprang forward and cried,--

"Stop, stop in God's name, stop!" As she was about to fling herself

between them, Cedric fell heavily to the floor, a stream of blood

flowing from his breast. With a wild scream Katherine fell upon her

knees at his side and pressed her dainty handkerchief to the wound,

and began to fondle him and speak in his ear that she loved him. Aye,

she was sure now, there could be no doubt, and as she pressed her lips

to his cold, white face she saw his eyelids flutter. She looked up

quickly into the priest's face; he answered her look with wholesome

words.

"The wound is slight, my child; he will recover." She fell back,

blushing with shame for her bold avowals, and knew not which way to

turn to hide her confusion; for she was sure all present had marked

her warm words and actions.

Immediately Lord Cedric was carried to an inner room, and Katherine

turned about to look for Cantemir, as did a half-dozen others; he had

disappeared and where he stood were a score of masqued figures. When

they saw they had the attention of the company, one lifted high his

sword and cried,--

"Hail, merry monarchs of the Sylvan Chapel! We have come to escort

the maid to the King!" While this avowal struck the Abbés with

consternation, they had expected a different mode of attack, and

they were not displeased that it had taken another course. They had

expected the treasure would be demanded of them with all their papers.

These they would fight for. The secret for which Mistress Penwick was

to visit the King, the Abbés were now sure the Royal party knew not.

The papers she carried could give them no clue even though they gained

possession of them, and the maid would never divulge what she was to

say to his Majesty.

"Her escort is provided," said La Fosse, who stood nearly exhausted,

leaning upon the table, his sword still in his hand.

"Ah, but if we choose to offer her a more honourable one! Indeed the

knave of a Russian, who lies without, has but just put the matter in

our hands. He was to escort her, but at sight of blood he faints and

begs us take forthwith his promised wife to Whitehall." One could not

mistake the courtly grace and fine figure of his Grace of Buckingham.

Behind him was a form equally imposing, and the handsome mouth and

chin of the Duke of Monmouth could be seen as he tilted his masque for

a better view of the maid, whom he supposed was the same he had met in

the evening. But with half an eye he saw his mistake. Never was he so

moved at first sight of a face before. He drank in her loveliness in

rapturous drafts, and swayed from side to side examining with critical

eye the outline of her fair mould. She had thrown her cloak from her

and stood slightly in front of Constantine, as he, holding a candle

at her elbow, leant close to her ear, whispering and holding a small

paper for her to read. As she read, her eyes flashed, her bosom rose

and fell neath the covering of her short, full waist; and Monmouth's

eyes seemed ravished by it. It had been his misfortune, he thought, to

see long, modish, tapering stays that bruised his fancy as it did

the wearer's body, and to behold such slender waist crowned by full,

unfettered maiden roundness, pedestalled by such broad and shapely

hips was maddening. He had not dreamt of such beauty when his Grace of

Buckingham had suggested the trip into the forest.

"We will have some sport finding a beauty and a secret. If it pleases

your Grace, I will have the secret and thou the maid," said he to

Monmouth, and the latter had come all the way from Whitehall, for

he knew the Duke would waste no time looking for aught but a King's

portion. Never was there another such a beauty; she would be the gem

of his seraglio. She looked up, her dark orbs casting a sweeping

glance upon those about.

"I will return to Crandlemar for the night; call my escort!" said she.

Now it was plain this was a ruse of Constantine's own making, and had

whispered it as she had pretended to read. Buckingham laughed cruelly

and scornfully, provoking smothered mirth from behind the masques of

his followers.

"Thou hadst better set out directly, if thou wouldst gain audience

with the King ere he leaves Whitehall."

"I am in no hurry, to-morrow will do as well. I like not advice

unsought. I'll have none of it. I will go where, when and how as I

please!"

"And coercion smacks of a power residing not in these parts. I am

delegated, Mistress Penwick, to bring thee straightway to the Royal

presence."

"And why, may I ask, am I so called to his Majesty?"

"Thou art a hostage!" and Buckingham took a pinch of snuff with as

much ease and grace as if standing in a crowded drawing-room.

CHAPTER XV

THE EDICT OF BUCKINGHAM

"I--I, a hostage! and who gave me as such, pray?"

"There is not time for further inquisition; we have a long journey

before us. Come, Mistress!"

"Nay, nay, I protest; I'll not go with thee--"

"Mistress Penwick, I beg thee in my own behalf,"--and the Duke bowed

before her so courteously, he half won her good will, then--"and I

command thee in the name of the King," and with these words he put

forth his hand as it were to take that of Katherine. A sword swept

lightly over the maid's fingers, at which the two Dukes drew back with

haughty indignation, which meant that reparation must be immediate for

this insult to those who came upon his Majesty's affairs; for indeed

they feigned well that they were carrying out the King's orders. La

Fosse, having now regained his breath and some strength, essayed to

draw Mistress Penwick from the scene that was about to ensue; but a

young man flung himself between them and drove back the monk at the

point of his sword, thus beginning the fight.

Katherine was well-nigh fainting from actual fear and apprehension.

If she were a hostage, 'twas her duty to go and it might favour her

cause. Doubtless these men were gentlemen, and what matter now who

accompanied her to the King? Adrian had proven himself a knave. Poor,

dear Cedric lay ill of his wound and he could not attend her if he

would. These things flashed through her mind as she watched the flash

of steel. Then on a sudden it came to her who these masqued figures

might be. Her heart gave a great bound, and she sprang into the midst

of those fighting and raised her voice, crying forth,--

"Cease, cease, fight no more; I will go with thee." A priest near her

whispered,--

"'Tis thy honour we fight for now, hold thy peace; 'tis not best for

thee to go with them, 'twould be thy utter ruin and the undoing of our

affairs!" His warning came too late; all had heard Katherine speak;

and although two forms already lay upon the floor, there were other

motives stronger than the thirst for blood, which on a sudden seemed

quenched, and faces pale and blood-stained turned upon Buckingham as

he coolly and with much dignity lifted Katherine's cloak from the

table and placed it about her shoulders, then had the audacity to

offer his arm. She ignored it, turned to Constantine and fell upon her

knees; he blessed her, then whispered hurriedly in her ear. She arose

and passed down the bloody aisle, which was flanked on either side by

an array of shining steel. As she approached the door, it was flung

wide by a figure that startled her, so like was it to Lord Cedric's,

but the light fell aslant his countenance and as she swept by saw

'twas Sir Julian Pomphrey.

A chaise stood some little distance from the cloister, into which

Katherine was placed with great courtesy by his Grace of Buckingham.

She sunk back among the cushions with half-closed eyes; heeding not

those that rode at either window of the equipage; she was trying to

collect her thoughts and by degrees they shaped themselves and she was

thinking of that that had but transpired. First of all, she consoled

herself like the selfish girl she was: Cedric would not die; 'twas a

sweet consolation, and she smiled; her thoughts dwelling not for a

moment on her own conduct that had brought him to suffer such pain.

Then she lay back even more luxuriously as she thought that Sir Julian

would not have opened the door for her, had she been going into

danger. To tell the truth, she sighed happily in contemplation of

further exploit. She grew bolder and bolder, fearing naught but some

slight mischance that might prevent her being a Maid of Honour; for

never, never could she go back to Cedric after she had made assertion

of love in his ear, and his eyelids had trembled. Nay, nay, she could

not bear to look him in the face again. Alas! she made vow she never

would. If she was not made a lady of her Majesty's household, she

would seek the patronage of some titled woman, who could help her.

Not for a moment did she think of the perils that surrounded and grew

closer about her unprotected self with every turn of the wheels that

carried her on.

It appeared now as if all barriers to the King's presence had been

levelled and Katherine's hopes matured to confidence. She drew her

cloak about her with sedulous care, as if in so doing she wrapped and

hid from the whole world her own poor cunning. She found in her

lonely condition no embarrassment, conceiving that her position as

intermediary between her Church and the State was sufficient reason

for her abrupt leaving of home. Sir Julian would doubtless explain

matters to the Duke and Duchess, whom she believed were more than half

of her faith. They would see she had been highly honoured by being

entrusted with a great secret.

It appeared as if the chaise would never cease to lung and swagger

over rough, unused roads, and when at last it did mend its way,

Katherine had ceased thinking and fallen fast asleep, nor did she wake

during hours of travel, until the great coach came to a sudden halt.

She looked through the window. Dawn streaked the East with uncertain

intention, knowing not whether to open the day with rain or sunshine.

A little to the left was the dark outline of an inn, nestling upon the

threshold of a forest, from the window of which fell aslant the way

a line of light. The door of the equipage was opened, and a stately

cavalier stood to assist her down the step. She leapt lightly to the

ground, taking the proffered arm, as the way was dark and uneven.

Within the large, cheery room they entered, burnt a crackling fire;

for the morning was damp and chilly. Katherine stole a glance at her

companion and saw the handsome features of Monmouth. He had removed

his masque and now stood uncovered before her.

"I hope Mistress Penwick has not suffered from her long ride?"

"Nay, sir; on the contrary, I feel refreshed." Her manner told him

plainly his address was not displeasing to her. His eyes rested

amorously upon her; for 'twas naught but strong, healthful youth

could predicate such reply and vouch for its assertion by such rich

colouring of cheek, such rare sparkling of eyes and such ripeness of

lips.

She sat at the chimney-nook, her satin gown trailing at her side,

her cloak thrown over the back of the high chair. Their Graces were

engaged aside with the landlord and servants.

"We will rest here until noon, anyway," one said, "and if they have

not arrived we will set out without them." Katherine heard and thought

'twas Constance whom they were expecting; and when a table was drawn

close to the fire and covers laid for four, there being but three to

sit down, Katherine looked askance at the vacant place; the Dukes

exchanged glances and his Grace of Buckingham turned to her quickly,

introducing himself, then Monmouth, and explained that at the last

moment Lady Constance had been prevailed upon to accompany them to

London and was expected every moment.

Mistress Penwick had flushed at the presentation of two such noble

names, but at his following assertion, which corroborated with

Constance' own words, made her not a little jealous; for the handsome

young Monmouth had already shown his regard (God pity her innocence)

for Lady Constance by giving her a valuable ring, and now had

contrived to make her of their party that he might be constantly with

her.

She straightway became very sober-minded, vouchsafing no remarks and

inviting none. Her pique would have given way had she but heard the

Duke's conversation a few moments previous.

"Damme!" said young Monmouth, "I have kidnapped the wrong girl.

'Tis not my fault; thou saidst, Duke, to take any pretty girl from

Crandlemar castle, and I have captured Lady Constance, whom, I took

it, was the girl in question; and I made up my mind thou shouldst not

choose beauty for me. I shall throw her on thy shoulders to dispose

of."

The Dukes, bent on provoking the maid to her former manner, began

witty tales of wayside inns. Their demeanour was so noble, their

stories so terse and pretty, their converse of such elegant and pure

wording, she relaxed and fell into their mood and told what few

convent stories she could boast. Their Graces were charmed by

her beauty, her sweet resonant voice and the simple and innocent

narratives, and not a little pleased by the result of their diplomacy.

* * * * *

When Mistress Penwick had gone from the grand salon the evening

before, Lord Cedric was not long in discovering her absence; for his

eyes and thoughts ever sought her. He had been greatly stirred by some

unknown thing, perhaps that we call premonition ('tis God's own gift,

if we would but heed its warning), but the game being well under way

and Constance calling his attention to an immediate and imperative

move, he was dissuaded from his inclination to arise and inquire of

the maid's absence. It was not for long, however, either the game or

his kinswoman's cunning could hold his Lordship from seeking her.

Quietly he beckoned a lackey and whispered aside. A few minutes

elapsed when the servant stood by his master, while beyond in the

doorway was Janet, who for once in her life was quite pale. Swiftly

Lord Cedric strode to her, saying,--

"Hast thou looked for her everywhere, Janet?"

"Aye, my lord, in her own chamber and--"

"But perhaps she has gone to the kitchens or pantries, for hunger doth

assail her not infrequent and at unusual hours."

There was a bit of bitterness and sarcasm in his voice and he ground

his heel as he turned about to give orders. In a moment servants

were hunting in every direction throughout the castle. It was soon

ascertained she was not within the great house. Cedric grew wild with

passion and tore up and down like one gone mad. Sir Julian could not

restrain him, a thing that had not happened heretofore. Angel, his old

nurse, was called; she bade him ride forth for her.

At this a horse was made ready, and his lordship mounted and rode

away. Sir Julian protesting all the while.

As the clatter of horses' hoofs had fairly died away and Sir Julian

stood just where Cedric had left him, debating with his several ideas,

a soft touch was laid almost tenderly upon his arm; had it been the

soft, slimy trailing of a serpent, 'twould not have so startled

him. He turned suddenly and caught the slender hand, with no fine

affection,--

"I see it all quite plainly, thou art the cruel spider that hath woven

a silken mesh for that innocent child, and thou shalt tell me before

the sands of the hour-glass mark ten moments of time, where has flown

Mistress Penwick,--so speak, speak quickly, Constance!"

His voice and manner brooked no delay, and her ladyship thinking that

even now Katherine was Cantemir's wife, spoke out with a semblance of

injured dignity that melted under Sir Julian's scathing contempt

to silly simpering. The noble character of Sir Julian seemed to

silhouette that of her ladyship in all its ugly blackness.

"She is, I presume, by now, the Countess Cantemir--made so by an Abbé

at the monastery."

Pomphrey was a-road; the clatter of bit and spur brought a smile to

Constance' face, and she cried forth with all the venom in her poor,

foul being:

"Two mad fools,--both gone crazy over a convent wench, who is now my

Lady Cantemir--my cousin,--the wife of a fortune hunter!" She fled

within doors like one pursued and stopped not until she reached her

own chamber.

Midnight approached phantom-like, and as stealthily Lady Constance

crept to the postern door. Behind her fell a shadow athwart the floor,

a shadow that was not hers but of one that moved as warily. She

listened as she held the door ajar, fearing to look back. As she

thrust the door wide, a figure from without moved toward her.

"Who is there?" she whispered.

"Monmouth!" was the answer; and out she stepped, well pleased to

be free from that shadow she felt was pursuing her. Her hand was

immediately taken and eager eyes sought the ring. It was hardly

visible, so dense was the shadow of the trees.

"Come this way, Lady Penwick," came in a voice that was not that of

Monmouth's, which had sounded so much like music to her a few, short

hours before, or that had spoken the word "Monmouth" even that moment.

She, drawing back in her uncertainty, was captured by strong arms, a

hood was thrown over her head, and she was lifted and carried in hot

haste to a chaise, and helped therein without much formality. As her

escort leapt in behind her, there swept in the other door another

figure, also intent upon being accommodated by a seat in a London

equipage; and before any one was aware of a _de trop_ comrade, the

doors were shut with a bang and horses started at a gallop. Under

cover of the noise her ladyship's vizor was lifted and she, half

smothered, drew breath and stared about her in the darkness.

"Thou didst bring thy servant with thee, Lady?"

"Who doth dare inveigle me from the protection of my cousin, Lord

Cedric?"

"I, my lady; a simple gentleman of his Grace of Monmouth's suite,--and

at his order."

"Ah--" 'twas long drawn and somewhat smacked of satisfaction. "Who is

this female?"

"Is she not thine?"

"Nay, not mine. She doth play the hocus," said her ladyship.

"Who art thou, then, woman; how came yonder door to pamper thy whim?"

The surprised guardsman rapped smartly upon the window, then pulling

it up leant out and asked for a torch. As there were none a-light,

he waited some moments; as he did so, there came an answer from the

figure opposite,--

"I am Mistress Penwick's waiting-woman." The answer was satisfactory

to the guard.

"'Tis Janet, as I live," interrupted Lady Constance. She was not sorry

to have a companion of her own sex, and Janet would make herself

generally useful, if the ride was long and her ladyship should fall

ill, as she was certain to do. She knew also Janet's motive for

following her. She was interested in nothing but her mistress.

As the road seemed rough and endless, Constance became anxious of her

destination and began to inquire, as if in great anger, why she

was thus taken and for what purpose. All questions being answered

perfunctorily, she relaxed into silence. At last she asked broadly,--

"Where are we to stop for refreshment, man; I am near dead with

fatigue?"

"We stop at Hornby's Inn, my lady, there to meet his Grace."

Janet sat quiet, nor did she speak again until she stood before

Mistress Penwick at the inn, where she sailed in as if nothing in the

world had happened, but inwardly she fairly wept with joy to find her

nurseling happy and unharmed.

The rain was falling heavily as Lady Constance entered the room where

sat Katherine with the two Dukes. Dawn seemed to have gone back into

night, for 'twas so dark candles twinkled brightly and lighted up the

maiden's face as she spun a story of convent ghosts. Hate flung open

gates through her ladyship's eyes and fell a battery upon Katherine's

face. 'Twas but a thrust of a glance, but their Graces noted it as

they arose to greet her. Katherine was answering in an undertone

Janet's questions as Monmouth spoke aside to her Ladyship. Constance

was not to be delayed, even by his Grace, and she hastened to the

table and greeted Katherine as Lady Cantemir.

"Nay, not so!" said the maid; whereupon Constance gasped, covering

her defeat by a great show of wonder and surprise. She fell to

questioning, her inquiries being overthrown by Buckingham, who

adroitly turned the conversation upon another matter.

Monmouth was wild with delight over the prize he had captured, and

as they sat at meat he was pondering upon where he should hide the

beauty, for he feared his father's predilections, and 'twas sure he

would not run the risk of any such mischance and he tossed about in

his mind the advisability of taking her to London. As these thoughts

crowded upon him he grew grave and frowned. Constance, feeling her

disappointment most keenly, saw the tangle upon the Duke's brow. It

arrested the quick pulsing of her own discontent and turned her mind

into a channel of evil even more treacherous than any ideas that

had assailed her heretofore. It meant, in case of defeat, her own

downfall. She would barter, if need be, her own soul away. Of such

character were her ladyship's ambitions. She was impatient for the

final bout that was to settle all things.

Even the haughty Duke of Buckingham was moved by Mistress Penwick's

youth, beauty and innocence. And yet he thought 'twas pitiful she

should go unclaimed by Court. Her secret must be had at whatever cost,

and seeing the maid was neither dismayed nor at loss by being thrown

with the king's son and the famous Buckingham, 'twas certain nothing

less than extreme measures would draw from her her secret. Whether

these measures were foul or fair was not of much consequence to him.

If the maid was to favour any, he would withdraw, giving place to

Monmouth, providing of course 'twas in his power to do so. And that

'twould be his power he did not doubt.

Mistress Penwick saw Monmouth's frown also, and looked up at him

smiling and asked,--

"Thou must not ponder upon ghosts.--When do we journey, your Grace?"

"When thou art well rested and say the word." His face broke into

sunshine and the maid could not fail to see the admiration that fell

upon her from his Grace's eyes. She flushed rose red. He caught her

hand as they arose from table, and pressed it warmly, and with a

tenderness that was apparent to Buckingham and Constance. Should he

press his suit upon her now or wait? He thought best to wait, as Janet

quickly came to her mistress at a motion of the hand that the Duke

reluctantly released. He allowed her to pass to her chamber without

his escort. Constance passed unnoticed by him from the room, and being

well-worn by her long ride, also went above stair, where she tumbled

upon her bed in tears, most unlike Katherine who was rubbed and

swathed in blankets by the faithful Janet.

* * * * *

Sir Julian Pomphrey had sent to the castle and procured conveyance and

Ellswold's physicians for the young lord, who lay very white and weak

at the monastery. Owing to his serious wound, they had moved very

slowly, reaching home near three o'clock in the morning. The Duchess

was greatly shocked by Cedric's condition and most indignant with

Mistress Penwick and Constance.

The matter was blown about by servants, and before the dismal rainy

day was ended, all Crandlemar knew of the goings-on at the castle

and were greatly stirred that their lord had been so used by the

Catholics. 'Twas inflammable matter that meant the possible uprising

in arms of the whole village. It was said the Protestants were

aggrieved that Lord Cedric had thus long allowed the monks freehold,

and now that he was helpless they would take it upon themselves to

drive them away at the point of the sword and see if, by so doing,

greater fortune would not fall to them, for such bravery would

certainly bring them to their lord's notice and mayhap he would build

up many of his houses and do better by them than heretofore.

Over the ale mugs at the village inn 'twas whispered by the landlord

that the day before two men, wearing masques, had left the place

together, one bearing under his saddle-bag a monk's robe; and a

crucifix had fallen from his pocket as he mounted.

The men grew more and more excited and fell to pledging themselves to

clean out the ancient monastery before another day should close.

A pale young man in fashionable attire sat apart, drinking deep and

listening with satisfaction to the village swains and their elders'

talk; his eye in imagination upon the dark passage in the monastery

that hid the trapdoor and--no doubt the treasures of the cloister that

lay beneath.

'Twas Cantemir; he had escaped unharmed from the clutches of

Buckingham and Monmouth. The former had caught him hastening from the

monastery and seizing compelled him to give the information he sought

and to give up all papers on his person; which he did cheerfully.

Finding him a cowardly knave, the Duke flung him from him with

disgust. Buckingham had heard, to be sure, that the maid they sought

was a hostage; but whether this was true, or would lead to matters of

more consequence, he had yet to learn.

Buckingham, after a few hours' sleep, left Hornby's Inn, returning

to the village of Crandlemar. He wore no masque this time and boldly

entered the inn to refresh himself and prepare for a visit to the

castle. He took little heed of the slender young man who now lay, very

much drunken, upon a long bench; but ordered the best wine and sat

down before a table that was already accommodating some half-dozen

men. He appeared not to hear their excited whispers, and feigned

preoccupation until he was quite sure his manner had been noted, then

as if modesty held him, he spoke,--

"Is there not in these parts a monastery upon the estates of the

noble Lord Cedric of Crandlemar?" He hardly raised his eyes, so

indifferently did he put the question.

"There is, sir," one said.

"Then where hath flown my lord's religion?"

This struck consternation upon the group; for 'twas certain they

loved their patron's good name, even though he did forget their

importunities, and this sudden thrust struck home. One whispered

aside,--

"Perhaps 'tis one come to spy upon our lord's intentions and take him

to the Tower." At this one honest, brave man arose and leant with

rustic grace across the table toward the stranger and said,--

"His lordship lies ill yonder," pointing over his shoulder toward the

castle, "and we loyal subjects to his Majesty, claim the right to

drive from Protestant soil the shackles of Catholic freeholds,

and 'tis our intention to come upon them--what say you, fellows,

to-night?"

"Aye, aye!" rang from nearly a score of tongues.

"'Tis well," said the cavalier, "for to-morrow might have been too

late."

"What might that mean, sir?"

"It means that Catholic lands and holds are sometimes confiscated and

in some cases the boundary lines are not known, and some good King

might send some noble lord to the Tower to search for the required

limitations of his demesne."

Every man's hand sought a weapon and eye met eye in mutual concourse.

"To-night, then, to-night we'll put to rout the enemy!" they cried.

The cavalier, pleased with the reception of his hint, asked for his

horse.

He arrived at the castle to be most cordially received by the Duchess

and Sir Julian. If Buckingham was ever unbending, it was to Sir

Julian.

As they met, Buckingham bent lower than his wont to hide a guilt that

was not perceptible to any one else but Julian, and the latter was not

slow to note it. The Duchess, not knowing who had carried off either

Constance or Mistress Penwick, was very free in her conversation and

spoke at once of Lord Cedric's injury and of the naughty beauty that

had driven him to it. Buckingham's countenance was changed by the

assumed expression of either surprise or regret, as was necessary and

suited.

Upon his arrival he was not allowed to see either the Duke or Cedric,

and as his business called for a speedy return to London, he must

leave early after supper, adding that he regretted the importunity

of the hour, as it detained the king's business with his Grace of

Ellswold.

This of course changed the physicians' minds, and Buckingham was

allowed to have converse with the Duke and finished that he came to do

at the castle.

But Sir Julian had somewhat to say, and ordered his horse to accompany

the Duke on his return journey.

This was not unlooked for, and Buckingham, fearing no _imbroglio_,

intended to hasten Sir Julian's speech, as there was no time to spare.

They started forth 'neath the dripping trees.

"Where is Mistress Penwick, George?"

"With her nurse, Julian."

"And where the nurse?"

"At Hornby's."

"Where is Monmouth's place of hiding her?"

"That is more, I dare say, Julian, than he knows himself."

"How long will they remain at the inn?"

"Until I return."

"Then--?"

"Then, London way is my desire, and I doubt not 'tis Monmouth's also."

"Dost love me, Duke?"

"Aye, as always. What is thy desire?"

"Canst thou keep the maid safe for thirty-six hours?" For a moment

there was no answer; then calmly and cold came the word "No."

"By God! is it so bad that you, you George, cannot take care of her?"

"'Tis the worst of all!"

"Is she safe then now--now?"

"If the eye of the nurse doth not perjure its owner, I would say she

was safe for all time."

"Good--"

"But, Pomphrey, one would wonder at thy devotion to Cedric?"

"I loved him, first."

"That does not say thou lovest thy second love better, eh?"

"By heaven, I love her, there--thou hast it." Buckingham gave vent to

his natural inclination and laughed boldly.

"Then, follow her. We may presume she will be safe kept 'til London

gives her rest and wine and finds a locker for her nurse."

"Then my errand is finished. I will bid thee _adieu_."

CHAPTER XVI

BUCKINGHAM'S ADVENTURE

Buckingham, returning to the village, where his escort met him, then

went to a small unused cabin in the thick woods beyond. Here he

changed his attire, making ready for a quick journey and one fraught

with some adventure.

As he donned his clothes, ever and anon he paused to hear the low

murmuring of voices that came up from the village. 'Twas evident the

mob was gathering.

An hour he waited impatiently, when his servant entered, saying that

the mob had started and were hurrying along the high-road at great

speed.

The Duke mounted and rode after them, quite far enough in the rear

for them not to hear his horse's step or see as he passed where some

cottage light fell aslant the road.

By the time they came in sight of the monastery, he was exasperated

beyond measure to be so held behind and was in no mood to wait the

mob's leisure. He leapt from his horse and threw rein to his man.

No light was to be seen. It appeared the monks had either deserted

their dwelling or fortified it by fastening with boards the windows

and doors. The latter was the case. The besiegers with all sorts of

sticks, stones and bludgeons began at once to bombard the building

that stood dark and seemingly impregnable. Buckingham stood some

distance from them, as if indeed he were of different mould and could

not mingle with their steaming, smoking, foul-smelling bodies, that

reeked of gin and poor tobacco. He waited only for an entrance to be

made, that he might pass in without the labour of making an opening

for himself. Indeed, his arm, unused to such rough strength, would

become unfit to handle the sword of a gentleman.

He was leant upon one knee behind a strip of iris that bordered a

forest path, when suddenly he heard the crash of glass and heard a

triumphant yell from the mob. He sprang from his hiding and crept

toward the place. A window had been broken in and the fight had

already begun. The monks were well equipped for battle with weapon,

strength and stout hearts and a good stone wall for shelter, but their

numbers were weak.

The siege was destined to be a long and bloody one, unless the

ponderous door could be broken, for the mob could not enter fast

enough through the small casement. Should this be done, it was evident

the monks would be obliged to either take flight, surrender or be

foully murdered.

Buckingham could not enter the window without taking part in the

fight, and mayhap run a great risk to his person.

He was not long in discovering, however, that the doorway was being

bombarded successfully, and soon the massive door must succumb.

At last there was a thundering crash, and broken oak panels flew

through the air.

The men rushed in. Buckingham in a moment was in their midst and

fighting his way through them. He flung himself aside and escaped the

fighting mass by a small door that led him to a passage, where he

regained his breath and looked out for his bearings.

He found his way through many winding passages to the panel. This he

opened and quickly strode through to the trapdoor, which stood agape.

From beneath came the sound of voices. He knelt and looked down. There

was no light to guide him. Cautiously he descended the ladder, finding

his way warily toward the place where he had seen the chest and whence

now came the voices. One was saying:

"It's gone, the damn knaves have secreted it; we must have a light,

Anson, or the horde above stair will be upon us, and all the fires of

hell could hardly show us out of this dungeon." Whereupon the flint

was struck and the forms of three men were dimly outlined.

They began running about nervously in different directions to find the

chest; his Grace keeping from view by following in their shadow. Back

they went again to the spot where it had stood, and as the light

fell full in their faces Buckingham recognized the pale, chiselled

countenance of Cantemir. There were two servants with him, which,

judging from their eagerness, evidently expected perquisites.

The sound above stairs was growing more and more noisome, as if the

monks were being pressed back in the direction of the secret passage.

'Twas evident the Abbés intended this move; for unless there was

egress 'twould be a veritable slaughter hole and from the first they

had kept together, preferring the direction of retreat.

Suddenly one of the men in front of Buckingham leant down and traced

with his finger on the dusty stone,--

"They have moved it in this direction, and there is no mistaking it,"

and he pointed from the ladder.

They followed the direction, holding the light low, and came at once

upon what appeared to be a solid stone wall. Inadvertently the man

bearing the lighted taper rested his arm for a moment against the

stones. Instantly a blaze flared up and showed a very cleverly

concocted wall. A canvas had been padded in shape of unhewn stone and

painted in imitation; the oil in the paint had ignited and despoiled

the illusion.

The blaze was quenched in a moment, the canvas door pried open and the

three men passed beyond, carefully closing the door behind them.

Buckingham was close upon them.

They fled rapidly along, Cantemir following his servants and ever

glancing behind with eyes staring with fear.

Buckingham was not to be caught by fear-staring eyes and kept well in

shadow.

The passage was narrow with many windings and appeared to be

interminable.

The men began to run, which was very incautious under the

circumstances, for in a moment they were precipitated into a small

chamber occupied by two stalwart monks. The latter had barely time to

throw themselves upon the defensive ere they were attacked.

Cantemir had the advantage, as the monks were encumbered with their

long robes.

Then ensued a short fight, in which Cantemir's men won the day--he

remaining well in the background.

One of the servants was wounded and lay helpless upon the floor, his

head falling against some object that held him in a semi-upright

posture. Cantemir turned with the torch he had taken from the floor,

and looked about him, stumbling over the prostrate bodies of the monks

as they lay wounded. Noting his injured servant's position, he ran to

him, and seeing the thing upon which his head rested, kicked his body

from the chest, as if the fellow had been his enemy's dog, instead of

his own serving man.

With a cudgel he and his comrade opened the chest, after first finding

it too heavy to carry at speed and for an indefinite distance.

Cantemir's eyes waxed big with greed and delight, as he looked

within. He spread out his long fingers, as if to grasp all the chest

contained.

"These small caskets must be filled with jewels. Anson, fasten the

torch somehow and put these in the bags. Here are some rare laces,

looted from some dead Croesus, I warrant,--put those in too;--those

infernal papers--they can be of no consequence--"

"Then I will take them, my lord," said the servant. Cantemir eyed him

with no fondness and slipped the papers within his own bag.

Buckingham, watching them from his little cove in the rocks, caught a

sound that made him start. It was very distant and indistinct, yet he

was quite certain some one was coming, and without further delay he

cried out and drew his sword upon the man nearest him, which happened

to be Anson.

The fellow used his sword fairly, but no match for his adversary.

Buckingham run him through before the Russian had regained his

presence of mind.

As the unfortunate Anson fell, the Duke turned to Cantemir, who was

separated from him by two prone figures and the chest. The Count held

the advantage and meant to use it by springing ahead into the opening.

There was no opportunity for Buckingham to either reach him or head

him off. Cantemir had caught up the filled bags and was smiling

insolently across at him. Buckingham was exasperated, not by the

fellow's triumph, but at his own helplessness to cut him off. But

there was no time to be lost; those other sounds were growing nearer.

The Duke made a bound toward the opening. Cantemir, with an exultant

laugh, sprung also toward the opening, but his laugh was turned into

a yell of fear, as his leg was caught in a death-like grip by the

servant he had kicked from the chest.

In an instant Buckingham was upon him and binding his arms tight

behind; the poor, cowardly knave begging at every breath for his life.

He was completely undone with fright, his heart melted and his knees

bent.

"And would it not be thy meed to run thee through also, for serving

thy wounded knave with a kick? 'twas inhuman--by God! 'tis a pity it

takes a man with a soul to suffer the tortures of hell, for thou wilt

never get thy deserts!" He looked down and saw the poor servant's eyes

raised to his pleadingly. The Duke drew from his pocket a flask of

wine and gave it to him; then gathered the bags that lay filled by the

chest and hurriedly looked at their contents. As he did so the wounded

knave feebly raised his voice,--

"I will be killed if I am found here."

"Nay, a gentleman--" and he cast a scornful glance at

Cantemir,--"would not kick thee when thou art down; say nothing of

our most noble fathers putting to flight what small life thou hast in

thee. What is thy name?"

"Christopher," came in weakened tones from his pallid lips.

In another moment the Duke was gone with his looted treasures.

He flew along at a most undignified gait, bearing his pack as a

labourer. His shoulders, unused to such burden, grew tired. He

began to wonder if the passage would never end. He was growing more

exhausted than he cared to own, and beside, he apprehended he was

pursued.

At last he felt almost compelled to leave one of the bags behind, and

stopped to think which, one he should leave. Yet he was a-mind to

carry them all if he broke his back; and beside, it was so dark he was

unable to tell which was the more important.

As he stood undecided he heard distinctly the fast approach of

footsteps. He gathered his strength and bags and flung along, somewhat

refreshed by the change of burdens. As he made a turn, the fresh

outside air blew upon him. He grew cautious and moved more slowly,

listening now in both directions. He might not be overtaken, but some

one might be at the opening of the passage. There was no light or

sound beyond, and soon he stood in the deep darkness of the outer

night 'neath dripping trees. Warily he stepped, lest some cracking

twig exposed his presence.

He ascertained his surrounding was a thicket, and was about to make

his way into its labyrinthine density, step by step; for the way

was difficult, when there was a tramping of horses' hoofs upon the

rain-soaked road that appeared to be in close proximity.

Under cover of the noise he swept hastily and boldly through the

briery bushes that were thickly entangled, and was able to make

considerable headway whence he had come, when the noise ceased and a

peculiar whistle rang out; then there were a few moments of quiet, as

if those who signalled were listening for an answer.

There appeared to be a chaise with several outriders, as Buckingham

thought, by the tramp of horses' feet, and a creaking of wheels

pulling heavily along.

As he gazed anxiously in their direction, a torch was suddenly set

a-glow and a horseman rode up with it to the mouth of the subterranean

passage. He leant from his steed and examined the ground closely,

noting doubtless the footprints that led away from the road and

directly to the place where the Duke stood. He turned abruptly back to

the group upon the highway and conversed in low tones.

Buckingham was not a little perturbed, for a horseman could with less

trouble than it takes to tell it, track and overtake him in a moment's

time. He fain would have a few minutes to ease his burden, but his

peril was great. There was no doubt but what these men were monks,

come to assist their fellows with the chest and convey them to a place

of safety.

Indeed, the secret of the chest must be royal, but whether in jewels

or papers he did not know, nor was it the time and place to find out.

If he only knew in which pack was the bone of contention he would

certainly lighten his burden.

Again he lifted the bags and strode on lightly, for he still could be

heard to the highway, if one should listen.

He had not gone far, however, when there was a shout from the

subterranean opening and much confusion following upon it.

The Duke was now thoroughly aroused. Doubtless the monks within the

passage had at that moment arrived at its mouth, there to make known

to their comrades the robbery of the chest's contents. They were in

pursuit; he could hear the bushes crackling beneath horses' feet.

Never before had the wily Duke felt so hard pressed. He could afford

to be taken himself, for he was sure of a release sooner or later;

but his whole being revolted at the idea of losing the riches of his

burden and above all--the secret, the secret that would make his

fortunes thribble, the secret that would make him more powerful than

heretofore. The King's favour would be boundless. And George Villiers

turned abruptly and--fell into a swollen ravine that was throbbing

with its over-filled sides. He straightened himself to his full height

and thanked God for the stream, for truly 'twas life-giving water.

He waded in and found it hardly came to his waist in the deepest part.

After crossing to its farthest bank, he kept the watery path for

nearly a league, thereby throwing his pursuers effectually off the

trail. But where his course trended, 'twas impossible to tell, as

there was no moon, and the stars were veiled by thick cloud that

vomited forth rain in gusts.

The leather bags were very near rain-soaked and had become so heavy

'twas impossible for anything less than a beast of burden to carry

them further, so leaving the friendly stream, he walked some little

distance from it, gaining to his surprise an open road. This was not

what he wished, and was turning from it when he stumbled and fell

prone. Being hot with anger and fatigue, he reached for the obstacle

that had so unmanned him to damn it. 'Twas a large, round knot. It

struck his memory, as he held it, with a thought of the morning

before.

"_Eureka_!" he cried, as he felt the very presence of the tall tree by

the public highway that led from Crandlemar, London way. He arose and

reached for the aperture.

"Egad, 'tis there!"

Fortunately the royal tree was not far from the unused cabin that had

afforded him accommodation some hours before. He immediately sat down

upon the bags and rested.

There passed him several horsemen and a chaise; whether they were his

whilom companions of the thicket or not he did not care. It was

sure they were in haste to leave the village as far behind them as

possible.

When the sound of the horses' hoofs had died away, he again donned his

leathery burden and made for the depths behind him.

He was not long in reaching the _rendezvous_, and was met by his

anxious servant, who had but just arrived from seeking him.

The exhausted Duke gave orders for one hour's rest, then fell upon a

pile of blankets that were spread upon the damp and open floor.

An hour later saw the Duke astride his horse, that stood with flaring

nostrils, caring not a whit for his extra burden of saddle-bags and

flew along the wet road, regardless.

Hours after his master jumped from his back at Hornby's.

The morning was far advanced and Mistress Penwick was fretting under

the delay.

Monmouth had plead that the weather was too wet and Lady Constance was

too ill to proceed until the following day.

The maid had demurred, saying Janet might remain with her ladyship;

but Monmouth was not quite at liberty to take Katherine without first

seeing Buckingham, whom he thought should have arrived early in the

morning.

As Buckingham came into the great room of the inn, Katherine proposed

they set out at once, as she would reach Whitehall, if possible,

before Sunday.

It was not the Duke's wish to proceed further without resting himself

and horse; but being anxious to please Mistress Penwick, he said

'twould be his pleasure to start at her convenience; whereupon she

relaxed her ardour, finding no opposition, and asked him if he thought

the weather would permit. He answered that the weather must permit,

and that they could easily reach their destination without killing

more than three relays.

"Nay, nay, your Grace, if one horse only were to die, I would not

permit such hurry!"

Suffice it; the Duke had his rest, and being of no mind to remain

longer, at five o'clock in a gale of wind and rain set forth.

They had but common post-chaises as any squire would have, as these

travelled about without drawing the attention that a London coach

would. They rattled and slid along at their own convenience on the

muddy road, and the postilion were soon reeking with mire thrown from

the horses' feet.

For five hours the chaise jostled Constance, until she declared she

would go no farther. Buckingham, who rode with his secret in the

chaise that followed, said if they stopped to rest over night, they

could not reach Whitehall before the King should leave.

This was a ruse planned by himself and Monmouth, as the latter had

settled where he should take Katherine, and the former, not having had

time to examine the contents of the bags, was loath she should see the

King ere he had done so.

Katherine, seeing that Constance' lips were blue and her face pale,

and forgetting her ladyship's evil ways, agreed they should stop at

the first inn and there lie until the next morning; Janet having

declared privately to her mistress that she should not waste any time

with her ladyship.

Though the night was black and the road uncertain, yet they maintained

a fair pace over the open downs, having left the shadowy trees behind;

but there were no lights ahead and the prospects of getting shelter

for the night were dubitable.

Constance became more and more impatient, pulling up the window every

few minutes to inquire if any lights were to be seen, each time

letting in a shower of rain that deluged her dress. This dampness was

soon felt by her ladyship, whose temper could hardly keep her warm,

and she called for blankets. There were none. At this knowledge she

grew worse, and cried that she was in a chill and must have aid from

somewhere.

For a truth, her teeth were chattering and her hands were cold, but

it was nothing but mimosis brought on by the evil caldron that boiled

within her wicked body. She had heard Buckingham tell Katherine that

the King would be gone from Whitehall if they were delayed. Her plans

were now made, and this sudden illness was a ruse to detain the maid.

No, she must not see the King. She must now, first of all, become

Monmouth's mistress, then Cedric in his wild despair would turn again

to her; his playfellow, his old love, Constance.

Whether the postilion were in their master's confidence or not is not

certain, but just before midnight they plunged into a narrow, miry

road that traversed wastes and low coppices; the plash of the horses'

feet showed the tract to be marshy and full of pools. Her ladyship

looked out across the dreary fen and exclaimed,--

"I'll be damned, they have set us out like ducks!" At her words

Katherine drew from her with disgust. It was the first she had heard

her swear; but she had not yet seen her true nature.

On a sudden the chaise made a lunge and stopped in a deep rut. Some

one plodded laboriously to the door and thrust in a rain-soaked

visage, saying,--

"Their Graces beg your patience, as we cannot move until help comes.

There is a light ahead, and we hope to get on directly."

It was hours, however, before the lumbering equipages were pried out

and started on. The light beyond had paled as dawn broke. They were

once more upon the causeway, and the horses' feet beating with loud

and even step upon the wet road.

Constance had calmed, and with the other occupants slept through the

long delay. Nor did she wake until they had entered a thick wood where

the branches of the trees swept tumultuously against the window. Then

she opened her eyes with a start and saw Katherine still sleeping,

her head pillowed on Janet's bosom. Her limbs were stiff from their

cramped position. Vainly she essayed to stretch, and cried out as a

rheumatic pain took her. She swore roundly and vowed she would alight

at the first hut they should come upon.

It seemed hours before they came to a long, low stone building,

evidently an old-time lodge. It was covered with ivy that trembled and

glistened in the wind and rain.

The chaises stopped at the door, which was thrown open by an outrider

who knocked up the locker with his whip handle.

The opening disclosed great, high-backed pews and an altar and pulpit.

It was indeed a place of refuge to the weary travellers. It was dry

and clean and afforded rest. Katherine stepped inside first, and

immediately knelt and crossed herself. Monmouth did the same, knowing

that the maid's eyes were upon him.

They took seats not far from the altar and settled themselves

comfortably; for the servants had gone to find food and fresh horses.

Katherine was stirred by the sacredness of the day and place, and

took little part in the conversation that was becoming more and more

animated, as the Dukes and Constance drank heavily of wine brought

from Monmouth's box in the chaise. And when meat, bread and cheese

were brought and more wine was drank, her ladyship became maudlin and

cast her eye about for diversion.

It fell upon the pulpit, and she tripped up to it, passing over the

sacred altar in vulgar _insouciance_.

It pained Katherine to see the place so lightly esteemed, and she gave

a little cry of "Oh!" as Constance threw open the Bible and began to

preach in mockery of the Methody parson.

Buckingham's face was as stolid as Janet's; Monmouth's bearing a smile

that was bastard of mirth.

Hardly was her ladyship started, when a tall form, strong boned and

sinewy, strode through the open door. His ruddy face disclosed what

appeared to be a stern and rough temper. His forehead was high; his

nose well set over a mouth moderately large. His habit was plain and

modest. The rain dripped from his red hair and the bit of mustachio

that he wore on his upper lip. His quick, sharp eye noted the men and

women that sat apart, and then turned like a flash upon the woman in

the pulpit.

As Constance saw the man full in the face, there was a bathos in her

zeal, and she stopped, open-mouthed, and closed the book.

Neither Buckingham nor Monmouth could see the countenance of him that

entered, so they held quiet and wondered at her ladyship's behaviour.

Katherine had bent her head upon the back of the seat.

The tall man proceeded up the aisle, his eyes upon the titled woman

whose face was now covered with a genuine blush. For the first time in

her life she felt ashamed. She felt a presence near her that was not

altogether of this earth's mould.

At last regaining a semblance of her usual _aplomb_, she stepped from

the pulpit and made toward the door, where others were entering. She

looked back when half-way down the aisle and beckoned to the others of

her party to follow. As she did so, there came from the pulpit a voice

so rich and sweet, so penetrating the soul, the woman trembled and

listened.

It was the "Kyrie Eleison" sung in a new tune with clear, strong

English words, and they rung and rung in Constance' ears, as they

continued to do for the rest of her days.

"He is a Ranter. Let us stay and hear him?" Monmouth said.

"Nay," said Katherine; "I am without covering for my head. Let's

begone, the meeting is gathering. What a glory is in his countenance,

and his voice is like music!"

"The lack of a bonnet need not hinder. Thou art a lady and

privileged."

"Nay, nay. I would know who he is?" Monmouth plucked the sleeve of

a passer-by and inquired. The man answered with a question put in a

whisper,--

"Hast never read 'Pilgrim's Progress'?" The Duke threw back a glance

at the form in the pulpit, then strode forward and jumped into the

chaise.

CHAPTER XXII

TELLS OF THE DOINGS OF ALL CONCERNED

The house stood surrounded by a beautiful lawn that sloped gradually

to the river. Trees in full leaf and woody perennial plants in full

blossom, dotted the sward. The long, low stone building was covered

with vines that hung in rich purple bloom. All was quiet, refined,

subdued--without pomp. Not so was the chief inmate of this charming

abode. She stood gowned in filmy white, waiting for Janet to spread

her repast, but the nurse moved at leisure, resolving to give the maid

meat for thought, as she did for the body. She said:

"When a maid is without father or mother, and away from her rightful

guardians, and has presented her such frocks as thou dost wear, 'tis

the maid's duty to find out whence such gorgeous and unmonastic

apparel comes."

"But, Janet, I do know. The Abbés have made provision for me. They

bade me leave the castle without incumbrance, and the chest was sent

for my necessity. I mean to pay it all back when I return--or when I

send to Lord Cedric."

"And when will that be, Lambkin?"

"When the King gives me audience."

"And thou art expecting the Duke of Monmouth to bring the word from

Whitehall?"

"He said 'twas his pleasure so to do."

"Now God pity me this day; I would I had never seen it!"

"Why wearest thou so sorry a face, Janet?"

"For thy too fat zeal. Is it not enough to make an ingrowing visage?"

"How so?" said Katherine in feigned _insouciance_.

"A surfeit of good, like a too-full cup, boils over and falls to ill."

"Then, Janet, surfeit sin 'til it bubbles up, runs over,--perhaps a

better cup to fill."

"Alack, alas, for youth's philosophy!"

"At what art thou driving, nurse; thou canst neither affect

Shakespeare nor the Bible!"

"Have I not always loved thee, Lambkin; search thy memory; did I ever

tell thee lies or use the veil of falsehood to cover from thee that

which I would not have thee know?"

"Nay; but thou hast used artifice 'til it is threadbare, and I now

behold its naked warp."

"But hast well served, thou canst not deny. It has made thee the sweet

innocent bud thou art, and we will enshrine its shade, though it hath

no soul to join it hereafter, and I will resort to vulgar frankness,

employed by the truculent commonplace, and say we live in an age of

swaggering, badgering, immoral-begotten, vice-ridden, irreligious

decrepitude--" Katherine made a hissing noise with her teeth, as if

she had been suddenly and severely pricked by a pin, then put up her

hands and stopped her ears--this day, Mistress Penwick thou shalt know

the character of thy King--Nay, thou shalt know. I will tell thee that

'twill poison thy mind of one of so great station--"

"Wouldst thou assail his morals, Janet?"

"'Tis impossible to assail that a man hath not."

"Then 'twould be a field for sweet mission to teach him morals."

"And wouldst thou delegate thyself to such an office?"

"Aye, why not?"

"Because he would steal thy knowledge ere thou hadst found his heart,

and thou wouldst find thyself insolvent of virtue."

"Thou hast overreached artifice, Janet, and gone back to Bible days

and corrupted them by borrowing parabolic speech to waste upon

deaf-eared seventeenth century maid."

"Ah, Lambkin; with closed ears thou dost not becalm sight and wit,

they cease not to fructify under suasion of childhood impregnations.

I fear not for thee, if thou art forewarned. If thou art taken to the

King, he will straightway be enamoured of thy beauteous face and will

wish to have thee near him, and because he is of so great a title, he

will expect to mould thee to his desires, whether 'tis thy will or

not. He may perhaps overawe thee, and thou wilt feel flattered by his

approaches, which will seem sincere to thy untutored perceptions.

'Twill be thy first meeting with a King. There is one thing most sure,

thou wilt not think him handsome; he has not the rich colouring that

so marks Lord Cedric's face, nor yet the clearness of countenance. The

King is most swarthy, gross featured and unfitted to thy fancy.

And how wouldst thou like such to approach thee and fondle thy

hand--perhaps imprint thy cheek with a caress, or his long fingers to

go a foraging on thy slender neck?"

"Nay, nay, Janet; I should most surely hate such an one. I am sure I

should hate! hate!"

"But 'tis surely to what thou art coming."

"But, Janet, the Duke of Monmouth is the King's son, and his Grace of

Buckingham his friend; and with these two at my side, what harm could

come to me?"

"Should the King propose to keep thee with him, could they lie like

slaves or dogs across thy threshold in the dead hours of night to keep

unwelcome visitors from thy door?" Katherine's eyes appeared on a

sudden to open wide upon a thing she had not dreamed of before.

"Indeed, Janet, I think I see the trend of thy parables. He is then

debauched and given to entering rooms not his own at any hour he

chooses. I will be most careful and avoid spending the night."

"But he may insist on thy presence, and no one dare gainsay the Royal

will."

"I am for the time of his dominion, but we can claim at any moment

King Louis' protection, and therefore I may defy him if I wish?"

"'Twill be like jumping from the river into the sea. I understand,

Lambkin, thou art bent upon paying well for thy popish idolatry. If

his Majesty sets black eyes on thee, thou art undone. If thou art

determined to go, we must have some way to prevent his falling in love

with thee. Thou wilt be willing to do this for me and--thyself, Love?"

"Then I might not become that I so much wish--a Lady of Honour!"

"That phrase, my Lambkin, is paradoxical--'Lady of Honour.'"

"Janet, thou dost turn all sweets to bitterness!--Then I will mottle

my face and wear a hump and be spurned outright. 'Twill ill serve me.

'Twill not accord a safe issue."

"Thou must not forget the King hath a tender heart for distress, and

now I think on it, 'tis possible, if thou didst so disfigure thyself,

thou wouldst gain his reply the quicker. We will mottle thy face with

leprous spots and cover thee with old woman's clothes, placing a hump

upon thy shoulder. And no one shall be privy to our scheme but his

Grace, and my lord of Buckingham, if they are to attend us." Janet

felt satisfied with the turn affairs had taken.

"I think I shall enjoy it hugely. 'Twill be fine sport to so puzzle

the King, and when he sees me as I am--" and Mistress Penwick turned

proudly to a mirror--"he will be pleased!"

"We will not think of that now, Lambkin. When dost thou expect her

ladyship?"

"She did not say, but I think perchance she will come before the Duke

of Monmouth returns."

"And he will not come before the morrow, didst thou say?"

"When I demurred at not going straight to his Majesty, he said 'twould

be meet for me to remain here until he should first see him; then

he should return in a day. Those were his words, Miss Wadham,

_verbatim_,--now thou dost know everything I do, but--the church

secret; and if thou wert not insolvent for ways and means, thou

wouldst have had that." With a sudden step, the maid flung her arms

about Janet, who ever felt hurt when called Miss Wadham.

Katherine sat to her evening meal with many flutterings of pleasure in

her young and guileless heart. Her first thought was of Cedric. He was

going to live and doubtless would follow her as soon as he was able,

and she would again see his handsome features and hear him admonish

her with a tenderness she was sure he would show after being so

frightened by her absence. It did not come to her that she should be

in sackcloth and ashes for causing him such woeful pain and misery.

She only tried to remember how he looked, as many a love-sick maiden

hath done heretofore. She pictured the rich colouring of his cheeks

and how his dark eyes had looked into hers; and she remembered how

once he had thus beheld her, his glance sweeping her face, then he had

taken her hand and pressed his lips to it passionately. Her face grew

rose red and she trembled with ecstasy. She, so perfect in mould

and health, was capable of extravagant and overpowering emotion; a

rapturous exaltation that filled her and took possession of her whole

being. She tried to turn her thoughts to Sir Julian, and wondered

vaguely why he had not come to London. He had intended leaving the

castle before this; and why had he not found her? He might know she

would like to inquire of those at home,--the Duke of Ellswold and the

others that were ill. The thought seemed to grow upon her, and she

wondered more and more why no one had been sent after her, and how

very welcome Sir Julian would be. Could it be that Lord Cedric was too

ill for him to leave?

The Dukes had fairly left Constance and Katherine at the very door of

this villa belonging to one of Monmouth's friends, and proceeded at

once to Whitehall, where they needs must report of their visit to the

Duke of Ellswold. The King detained them near his person, much to

the annoyance of Buckingham and serious discomfort to Monmouth. The

latter, so anxious for the companionship of Mistress Penwick, could

not help but show his uneasiness and hurry to withdraw, which made his

Majesty still more obstinate.

Two days Katherine had been thus alone at the villa, little knowing

the idea of bringing her cause to the King's notice was the most

foreign to either Buckingham or Monmouth, the latter wishing to

promote his own cause with her until she should become satisfied to

remain at his side, without seeking further Court favour. The former

gentleman had among his looted treasures certain papers that made

necessary, for his own personal aggrandizement, the strict seclusion

of Mistress Penwick.

Lady Constance had been so thwarted--her mode of battle proving so

abortive--she resolved to fight as things came in her way, without

method or forethought. There was only one settled arrangement; that

was the full and complete destruction of this woman that had come

between her and Cedric. She had gone, after a few hours of rest at the

villa, to the mercer's for silks and velvets and furbelows to array

herself for conquest and take--now that she had fair hold on Royalty

itself--some masculine heart; if not the heart, the hand without it;

if not Cedric's, be it whose it might, so it were titled and rich. She

also sought Cantemir and news from Crandlemar.

As she stood at the polished counter in the mercer's shop, she glanced

without and saw--or thought as much--Lord Cedric himself, pale, yet

stepping in full strength from a chair. She quitted the counter and

hastened to the entrance and looked up and down the busy street with

longing eyes. But there was no sign of my lord's handsome figure.

After securing her purchase, she repaired at once to Lord Taunton's--a

kinsman of Cedric's--'twas possible he would be stopping there. But he

was not.

She rode from place to place, hoping at every turn to see him; but to

her chagrin she found him not, even at a certain inn in Covent Garden,

where he had been wont to stay. She drove in her cream-hued coach to

the Mall, but he was not to be found.

Her first act after reaching London had been to dispatch a letter

posthaste to the castle, telling of her abduction by the Duke of

Monmouth, who, she believed was determined to bring herself and

Mistress Penwick to the King's notice, as he avowed Court was not

Court without such faces. She, being so widely known and so well

connected, had been allowed her freedom, on condition that she

returned promptly and keep their hiding place a secret. Then came that

she felt would touch Cedric.

"I overheard some converse about your Lordship, a hint that some knave

gave thee a slight wound. Now, if this be true, if thou art hurt at

all--which I cannot allow myself to think--tell me, tell me, Cedric,

and I will fly from Court and all the world to thee, my sweet cousin,

my playfellow, my beloved friend, now."

This letter fortunately did not reach Cedric in time to give him a

relapse, as he was on his way to London when the courier arrived at

the castle.

He had drawn rein at Tabard Inn, Southwark. It abutted on the Thames

and was opposite the city, and it suited his fancy to stop here,

rather than ride into London. His business was private and not far

from his present quarters. His wound had healed enough to give him no

trouble, and action kept his mind easy. He had seen Constance with

as fleeting a glimpse as hers had been of him. It was quite enough,

however, he wishing never to set eyes upon her again.

That evening he went to seek Buckingham at the Royal Palace. He had no

austere regard for the pomp and splendour of the Court at best, and

now he was almost unconscious of his surroundings. His azure-hued

costume was magnificent in its profusion of embroidery and precious

stones. There were none more handsome of face or figure. Courtiers and

wits abounded, but none more courtly or witty than he, when he was

moved. None bowed before his Majesty's dais with more grace, appearing

more a king than he who filled the Royal chair. He erred not in the

most minute detail of demeanour. There was no one in the realm that

held more of his Majesty's regard.

After being detained some moments at the Royal chair, he went to seek

Buckingham, whose first words smote him foolishly.

"It is said, my lord, that Love hath Cupid's wings, and I verily

believe William was right, or else how couldst thou have fluttered

from a couch of painful wounds to London either by chaise or a horse?

Ah!--Love is nascent; after cycles of time it may become mature enough

to be introduced into Court--eh!--my lord?"

"Contemporary chronicles relate that the mind is capable of greater

suffering than the body, and when both are affected, if we give

precedence to the employment of the mind, the body is at once cured;

hence my sound chest. Hast thou seen Sir Julian?"

"He is with Monmouth in his chamber. They have been drinking deep, or

at least the Duke, who is pouring out in Pomphrey's ear confidences

almost too maudlin to be understood;" and there was a covert sneer

on the haughty lips of his Grace. At the name of Monmouth and the

knowledge that he was not with Katherine, Cedric's great tension

appeared to snap asunder. For a moment Buckingham gazed at his

companion as if in him there were undiscovered mines. Then suddenly

his mind and eye returned to the tangible, and he run his arm through

that of Cedric's and drew him away. When they were quite alone, the

Duke, without the shadow of compunction, said,--

"You, my lord, are ambitious of nothing but domesticity. Is it not

so?" His Lordship looked up with a start. If there was one thing he

hated more than another, it was intrigue. And though he was ever

environed by it, yet 'twas not his business now. He had come seeking

Buckingham for the purpose of asking his assistance with the Duke

of Monmouth, and at these words, so foreign from his interests, he

frowned slightly and answered,--

"'Twould be difficult to say at what I aspire, seeing the thing I

coveted most is taken from me. If that were mine, it might open up a

vista of aspirations I had ne'er thought on heretofore I see only one

thing at the present worth possessing."

"And to possess that--thou art one of the richest nobles in the

realm--eh! Cedric?" His Lordship thought he saw the trend of his

Grace's mind, and felt better.

"I'm rich to be sure, egad! What's the game, faro, loo, crib,

langquement or quinze?" and he tapped his pouncet-box nervously.

"We have always been good, true friends, my lord. Your father and mine

have shared in many and continued vicissitudes, and for this cause

alone, barring our friendships of more recent years, I would give thee

a secret of which I am only half owner."

"And what is this secret, your Grace? I am interested."

"A secret cut into is only half a secret, and--"

"Ah! ah! how stupid I have grown! By all means, we are dealing in

fractions, and to get the other half I must either pay or go a-hunting

for it."

"And thou, being hot-foot after most precious game, methought 'twould

best serve to give thee a clue, as to the value of the secret, that

thou couldst determine whether 'twas worth the finding;--whether 'twas

worth the leaving off pursuit of that thou art after,"--and the Duke

threw open his waistcoat and revealed its lining of rare satin and a

pocket that contained a paper written upon in a writing that made Lord

Cedric start, for he recognized it as Sir John Penwick's. And there

recurred to him the conversation he overheard at the monastery, when

one said,--"and once Sir John gets to this country." But nay; his

very last words in his own waistcoat pocket? So he spoke out

disdainfully,--

"And thou dost embroider thy facings with dead men's autographs?"

"They are the better preserved, my lord," said the Duke, with a smile.

"Then I am to understand the secret doth nearly concern Mistress Pen

wick, and if I should show her favour, I would pay well for a sequel

to that thou art about to unfold, eh! Duke?"

"Aye, pay well; for the demand will be more than thou dost imagine,"

and he took the paper and gave it into Cedric's hands.

At a glance Cedric saw that the outside paper only was written on by

Sir John; the inner document, containing the whole story, being made

in a strange hand. And Cedric said to himself,--"Aye, 'tis a ruse.

Sir John is dead and I'll wager on't."

"Thou mayest occupy my chamber, which for the present is here." The

Duke left the anxious Cedric to read at leisure.

Lord Cedric knew 'twas not his Grace's way to waste time on things of

no moment, and he therefore apprehended evil and his fingers trembled;

his dark eyes grew large as he read; his face changing from red

to white as the different emotions were awakened; his white teeth

crushing his lips. Sir John Penwick had left England, taking all his

worldly goods--which were of no mean value--with him. He settled his

possessions in the New World. These in time became very great and he

was known as one of the wealthiest men in the locality in which he

lived. After six years of married life, a great grief came upon him;

his wife died, leaving him a baby girl of five. This so unsettled

him--having loved his wife beyond measure--he turned again to warfare,

having interest and inclination for naught else. He sent his baby

daughter with her nurse, Janet Wadham, to the Ursuline Convent

at Quebec, where they remained until coming to England. Sir John

travelled about from one country to another, engaging in all kinds of

intrigue and war. One Jean La Fosse--a Jesuit priest--had been for

many years the tried and true friend of Sir John, having been in his

early years a suitor to Lady Penwick. This friendship had grown so

stout that when they met again in the New World, Sir John put his

possessions, in trust, into La Fosse's keeping. When Sir John was

taken prisoner, a sort of treaty had been entered into between the

French and English, and hostages were required for prisoners of

importance. La Fosse was now holding high office in the ranks of his

adopted country--England. Therefore, when hostage was asked by the

English for Sir John Penwick, La Fosse saw the chance he had waited

for for years, and his John was every inch an Englishman, and since

being prisoner of the French, determined as far as possible to place

his belongings with his own country. He had thought it all out and

wrote his desires to La Fosse. Of course, what belonged to Sir John

belonged to England, but his possessions were on French soil and his

daughter in a French convent. And now Sir John felt 'twould be an

opportunity to place his child forever in the hands of his own

country. La Fosse had so shaped affairs, that Sir John was at his

mercy, and at Sir John's proposal that his child should be held as

hostage for himself, he had answered that the babe was of too tender

years to be accepted unless accompanied by lands, tenements and

hereditaments. This was a happy thought to Sir John, and his old trust

of La Fosse came back. "After all," he thought, "the French would

rather give up my child than a man, but my possessions they would

never give." So, not suspecting La Fosse's duplicity, he gave him

legal right to place his property as hostage also. The child was to

remain at the convent, unless England preferred to have her under

their own _régime_. La Fosse was sure Sir John would never again be

free and could never, of course, claim his lands. He went so far as

to make sure--as sure as was in his power--that Penwick should not be

released. He, being a man of shrewdness, at once manipulated affairs

without the knowledge of his sovereign or the higher powers about him.

In a very short time these possessions were built upon by the Jesuits,

who, through La Fosse, claimed all right and title. But La Fosse was

forgetful. He never gave the babe a second thought, it being of no

consequence whatever. It would, no doubt, sicken and die without a

mother's care. He was aware of its whereabouts, but even that in time

was forgotten, his mind being occupied by more pertinent thoughts.

This was a great victory for the Catholics, whose lands had been

confiscated in England, and La Fosse felt he had dealt a master stroke

for his religion. But no mortal man can equal Time as an adept in

chicanery. He brings forth truths unheard of or dreamt by poor

humanity.

Years went by and La Fosse was suspicioned. At the first smell of

smoke, La Fosse fled. No one knew whither. He escaped, however, to

the monastery upon Lord Cedric's estates. The sudden appearance of

Mistress Penwick at the monastery was believed to be a direct answer

to their prayers. When, too, it was found without a doubt she was Sir

John's daughter, they felt she belonged to them to do with as they

pleased, so all things were accomplished for the benefit of the only

divine church. Their rights in the New World were now being meddled

with and this God-send was to give them, with her own hand, all right

and title to the property in question.

Sir John had vaguely heard while in prison of Jean La Fosse's

duplicity, and at once sought to save his daughter from his hands by

sending her to his old friend, Lord Cedric of Crandlemar. He, angry at

himself for being so duped, and heartbroken at his loss of property,

knew of nothing else to do but call upon his Lordship for his child's

protection; yet he was too proud to tell him why these calamities

had come upon him. Indeed, any man would take him for a fool for so

trusting another. He had been ill when writing those letters. He never

expected to arise from bed again and thought 'twas best to say he was

dying; 'twould perhaps touch Cedric's heart as nothing else would!

Thus ended a document that was still incomplete, and his Lordship sat

wondering and thinking. This meant that the Catholics were exposing

Katherine to the King's pleasure. She was being sent to him for

a title--a title that was to give them all her possessions. And

Buckingham held the clue that would save those lands or--or her

father--if he were alive. Aye, he should have all the money he asked;

for the Catholics should not have their way. "They shall not, by God,

they shall not!"

"They shall not!" quoted Buckingham behind him.

CHAPTER XVIII

AT MONMOUTH'S VILLA

Lord Cedric looked about him. He had heard no sound and was surprised

and not well pleased that Buckingham had so caught him off his guard;

for he now understood that the Duke was undoubtedly deriving some

benefits from this fiendish plot, and the greater his perturbation the

easier mark for his Grace.

"The maid proposes at all hazards to see the King. Monmouth is as

determined she shall not. However, if she escapes the Duke, she will

visit Whitehall and present her plea to his Majesty for his signature.

He is--after seeing her--not supposed to refuse her anything. And not

knowing the value of these lands will sign the paper, thereby giving

the Catholics the property. Then if he sees fit--which of course he

will--will retain the beauty as a Maid of Honour. If he should refuse

the plea, she is to hand him a sealed paper, which will give him the

knowledge that he has before him a hostage who wishes his signature to

the willing of her property to her beloved Church. They do not count

on his putting two and two together and seeing their scheme. They

think he will be so infatuated, that 'twill be 'aye, aye, aye,' to her

every look. She only knows half the contents of the thing she presses

'neath the folds of her dress."

"By God, Buckingham, this is despicable! She to be made the tool of

her religion!"

"There are other complications, my lord. Providing thou art successful

in running the gauntlet with Monmouth first, then the King, thou,

thyself, art in danger of the Tower or Tyburn-tree." With a bound

Cedric was upon his feet and sprang toward the Duke,--

"A thousand devils, man, I care not for myself,--'tis the maid;

beside--what have I done, why am I so threatened?"

"The scheme for thy destruction is already set a-foot. If thou

shouldst get the maid in any wise, it appears thou art doomed. Take my

advice, look to thyself and let the--"

"'Sdeath! finish it not!" and there was that in the young lord's eyes

that curtailed the Duke's words, and he stood frowning at Cedric and

thinking what next to say.

"When thou art acquainted with the circumstances, my lord, thou wilt

see thy peril. One Christopher, whom I once befriended with a bottle

of wine in a certain close passage, came tottering to me, asking for

my patronage, which I accorded him, as he was a sorry spectacle. As a

reward for my seeming kindness, he told me that the knave Cantemir

was arousing the Protestants by speaking of the monastery being a

_rendezvous_ for all good Catholics, naming the lord of Crandlemar as

one of them. The knave is working with both factions. He has gained

some powerful help. These are to come upon the King and demand a

confiscation of thy lands, thou art also to be sent to Tower or

Tyburn-tree for the murder of thy servant--"

"Enough, enough, my heaven! I did kill the bastard Christopher."

"Ah! not so. 'The bastard Christopher' is still on his legs and gives

Cantemir's plans away; for the knave kicked him when he was down. Thou

art to have thy head, but--"

"Nay, my friend, tell me no more. Ah!--is there any limit to this

devil's industry! I have to thank thee to-night, on the morrow--"

"I'm expecting to leave Whitehall early--" Cedric started.

"Will Monmouth bear thee company?"

"Nay, his Majesty seems on a sudden to have an undue fondness for

him."

"God strengthen it."

"'Tis a pity there is such thing, else his Grace would not care to

go."

"And thou and I might not have been brought into this world."

"And Adam have had eyes only for the serpent, not even coveting the

apple."

"_Adieu_, my lord!"

"_Adieu_, your Grace!"

The candles were just a-light within the villa, where the thick

foliage of tree and vine brought a premature gloaming. Outside fell

upon the sward the last rays of the setting sun. In the depths of the

shadowy leaves the glow-worms displayed their phosphorescent beauty;

the lampyrid beetles plied between gloom and obscurity, impatient for

the mirror of night to flaunt therein their illumined finery. In

the distance was heard the lusty song of the blowsy yokels, as they

clumsily carted homeward the day's gathering. The erudite nightingale

threw wide the throttle of his throat and taught some nestling kin the

sweetness of his lore.

From the villa doorway passed out Mistress Pen wick in fluttering

white, with the waxy jasmine upon breast and hair. Down she came,

unattended, through aisles bordered by fragrant blossoms, traversing

the way from door to postern-gate with quick, light steps.

She was not aware Monmouth had left a strong guard and orders to allow

no one to enter save those he made provision for.

As her hand rested upon the gate, a guard stepped from behind a bower

of iris and gently opened it for her. She was somewhat taken aback by

his presence. The stalwart guard strode after her; she, noticing it,

turned about and said sweetly for him to hold the gate open 'til she

returned, that she would only be gone a very few minutes.

"My lady is alone upon the highway, and I could not suffer her to be

so, begging permission."

"Nay, I wish to be alone. Remain at the gate."

"It may not be, my lady; 'tis his Grace's order to give thee proper

escort outside the gate."

"Ah, then--" she turned from him and beckoned to a monk who appeared

to be walking aimlessly upon the opposite side of the way, but at her

bidding moved with alacrity. When the guard saw her intention, he

begged her to consider the Duke's wish that she should communicate

with no one.

"I was not aware, sir, that I am held as prisoner. I'm quite sure his

Grace was only kindly intentioned for my safety;--and as for further

vigilance, 'tis beyond his power to use it." The three now stood at

the gate. The monk looking intently at the guard, said,--

"Where hath flown thy religion, Eustis?"

"'Tis a poor religion that hath not the grace to offer its adherents

an honest living."

"Ah! then thy faith is hinged upon the _largesse_ of the damned.

There!--take for the nonce thy meed in honest coin." The Abbé gave him

a piece of gold and passed within the gate. The sun now dropped from

sight, leaving the villa terraces in sombreness, and brought into

prominence glow worm and firefly and the sheen of Mistress Penwick's

frock.

"I have watched for thee ever since thou arrived, hoping to catch

thine eye.--Hast guarded the billet to the King, my child?"

"Here it is." She took from her bosom the letter. The keen eyes of the

Abbé saw the seal was intact and quickly put out his hand deprecating

what her act implied.

"'Twas not that, my child; 'twas the fear that thou hadst been robbed,

as we have. We trust thee with all our hearts," and she read not

hypocrisy in the feint of benignancy.

"Thou hast been deceived into thinking that the Duke of Monmouth or

Buckingham will arrange a meeting between thee and the King. The

former Duke is evil-intentioned toward thee."

"Ah, my Father; thou dost sorely grieve me! If thou didst not say it,

'twould be hard to believe; for surely he has been most kind to me."

"But 'tis true, nevertheless. He is now with the King and fretting for

being so detained from thee. He means to offer thee the protection of

his favour; which means thou art to become an inmate of his seraglio.

Dost understand me, my child?"

"Ah!--I understand," and Mistress Penwick looked up into the face that

the darkness veiled.

"And I have heard that the King is sometimes poorly intentioned" The

monk coughed behind his hand and moved uneasily,--"'Tis said of him,

as other like things are reported; but 'tis false. He is a good

Catholic at heart, and he will offer thee no insult, else we would

not allow thee to approach him. Our first thought is to get thee from

Monmouth's hold and place thee in safety elsewhere. The noble Lady

Constance is helping us and hopes that by to-night to have arranged

certain matters, so with our aid thou mayest be able to see his

Majesty very soon. One of the Brotherhood will accompany thee to his

presence or meet thee there; for we are anxious of the issue. Thou

wilt--" The conversation was interrupted by the sound of wheels. The

guard came running to them, crying half aloud,--

"Methinks some one of importance is about to arrive, as there is a

coach and outriders and a score of mounted escort. If thou, Father,

art found here, I'm doomed. I prithee hide thyself;--and my lady's

gown can be seen for a league. Hide here, behind this bunch of iris,

'til the cavalcade hath passed."

It was in truth the young Duke of Monmouth, who was hurrying with the

impatience of young, warm blood to his mistress. For all Katherine was

indignant with him for having such wicked intentions toward her, yet

she was moved by the fact that he was a Prince, the son of the King;

and susceptible as are all womankind to masculine beauty, she hardly

could withhold her admiration. She did not fear him, on the contrary

she wished to play with firebrands and see how he would appear in her

eyes, now that she understood him. On a sudden she wished to see him

more than any one else in the world, Lord Cedric excepted; and in her

adventurous heart vowed to torment and give him pangs to remember her

by. Her pride was wrought upon. That any one should presume to love

her without thought of espousal! and Janet's words came back to her

with great force, making her see her error in accompanying the Duke.

There were a few hasty words spoken by the monk as he left her, and

passed through the postern-gate, where none save Eustis saw his tall

form. Katherine took her time, as she crossed the lawn to her former

seat, stopping here and there to gather a nosegay; exulting all the

time at his Grace's discomfort when he found her not within doors.

Suddenly she thought of Christopher and of what might happen to the

servants if the Duke undertook to vent his displeasure upon them. At

the thought, she leant forward, straining her ear for any signs of

violence; but she only heard Janet say,--

"My eyes have not been off her, your Grace. I'm just taking her a

wrap."

"Give it to me," the Duke said in a voice surprisingly calm and

gentle. It piqued Katherine. It was disappointing not to hear a

fierce voice like Cedric's was wont to be. She saw the Duke's form

silhouetted by a bush of white blossom and heard from his lips a

quaint love ditty. It so set her very susceptible heart to fluttering

she knew not whether to be glad or sorry that he was there. She was

weaving a garland in a peculiar manner learned at the convent. The

finished strands she placed under the bench upon which she sat,

pretending the while neither to see nor hear his Grace as he walked

about from bush to bush, singing softly. But he soon caught the

glimmer of her dress, and he came bounding toward her.

"Pray what does Mistress Penwick out alone on so dark a night?"

"Ah!"--she started in feigned alarm, dropping her flowers and rising

hurriedly--"'tis your Grace of Buckingham. I admit I was startled."

She made a sweeping courtesy.

"We who love never forget its voice, Mistress. I believed that thou

wouldst never be able to find it in Buckingham's tones; for if 'twas

there, thou only could note its tenderness." He so ignored her

feint--and she knew he understood that she knew not whether to keep up

her hypocrisy or recant.

"Didst see the King, your Grace, upon my affair?" He stooped to

recover the flowers she had dropped. She hindered him, fearing lest he

should see her schoolgirl play beneath the bench.

"Ah! ah! what hast thou hid there?" She exulted.

"Nothing, your Grace, only--the flowers are not worth the exertion."

"Aye, they are worth the bended knee of a thousand, when dropped from

such fair hands," and he again essayed to reach them; but she stood

between, and holding her hand out to him, said,--

"Nay. I pray thee come. I am going to the villa. 'Tis growing damp."

She timidly made as if to go. He on the instant drew his sword and

lunged beneath the bench and drew out upon its point the maid's

flowers. He laughed at his disappointment, for he was certain some one

was beneath. She felt ashamed of her childish pastime and hastened

within doors. He followed, carrying the interwoven hearts upon the

point of his sword. He held them high for inspection as he entered the

lighted room, and was transported with delight when he saw the design,

and complimented her upon its significance.

"Thou dost seem to know that two hearts are to be entwined, at any

rate! Even if a voice full of passion doth corrupt thine ears to

hearing tones that are vibrantless of love." He broke into a

great laugh and looked upon Katherine's blushing face with tender

admiration. "Come, Mistress, I have played thee very uncavalierly,

inasmuch as I have not answered thy question. Sit with me and sup.

There--his Majesty is indisposed. He will not be able to see thee for

at least a week. Then I am to bring the most beautiful woman in the

world to Court."

"I am very sorry; my business is imperative--"

"Imperative!--imperative! that such words should fall from cherry lips

that will become irresistible should they turn to pouting;--so take

heed and tempt me not." He had already swallowed several glasses of

wine and was fast becoming audacious.

Janet stood behind Mistress Penwick's chair; her face appearing

immutable. The Duke bade the maid drink her wine. She touched her lips

to the glass and set down the cup. He swept it passionately to his

own. Katherine's boldness was fast declining. She began to wish that

something would happen to take the Duke's attention from her. Even

Constance' presence would be a relief. If she were only in the garden

again--free--she would fly to some place of safety.

He lowered his voice into a passionate whisper and leant over,

catching her hand as she would withdraw it. He began to draw her

toward him. Her fear was evident, for Monmouth, drunk as he was, saw

it, and fell to coaxing. His voice, not yet maudlin, was sweet and

impassioned.

"Thou were not afraid when that Russian knave claimed thee and was

about to carry thee off, and now thou hast the King's son to guard and

love thee--love--dost hear it, my Precious? And I came to claim thee

this night, to tell thee all I know, to make the little Convent Maid

wise." He threw his arm about her, almost drawing her from the chair.

Katherine was white and trembling, knowing not which way to turn.

"Indeed, sir, I know not thy meaning."

"My meaning? Dost not thou know what love is? Of course thou dost

not--if thou didst, it might be I should not care to be thy tutor.

Come, I will teach thee this night--now, my Pretty,--now. Come, come

with me." He arose and essayed to draw her toward the door that led

to an inner chamber. Katherine was well nigh to swooning, and perhaps

would have, had not there fell upon her ear the sound of some one

entering the house. "Ah, heaven!" she thought, "if it were only Father

La Fosse or Sir Julian or even--ah!" She did hear Constance' voice.

"Aye, even Constance could think of some way for her to escape." She

knew Janet was behind her chair, but she might have lost her usual wit

and have become incapable of helping at the very moment she was most

needed. Monmouth drank another glass of wine, then withdrew from

his chair and leant over that of the maid, drawing her close in his

embrace. He was now so drunk he did not hear the door creak as Janet

and Katherine did; the former, seeing the pale, triumphant face of

Constance reflected in a mirror, as she stood half-way inside the

door. Katherine tried to disengage herself by reaching for another

glass of wine. The Duke reached it for her and would hold it to her

lips; but she, looking up at him with a feint of a smile, said in

coaxing tones,--

"I was getting it for thee; your Highness will drink it?"

"Could I refuse--there!--there! Come!--" He put his arms about her

and was carrying her forth, when Janet plucked him by the sleeve and

whispered something in his ear. He loosed for a moment her trembling

form and she began to weep. These tears made him forget Janet's words,

and he turned again to Katherine.

"There, there, my wife; thou dost break my heart at each sob. Here,

see here what I brought thee," and he placed on her arm a circlet of

rubies. "There, hush thy tears. I will not teach thee anything but how

kind I may be--there, sit thee down. I will let thee wait until thou

art accustomed to man's caresses." Monmouth's heavy drinking trended

to strengthen his good humour, else he might have resented roundly the

interruption of his love-making by the entrance of Lady Constance. He

held out his hand to her, saying,--

"Come, my lady; see my poor dear. The poor child is affrighted at my

love-making. Thou wouldst not be so frightened, Constance,--eh?"

"I am not a child, your Highness, to fall to weeping if so honourable

a gentleman as some should choose to kiss my hand." The Duke reached

to the table and pressed another cup of wine to his lips, that were

already stiffened by excess.

"Come, Sweet; give me one kiss--" and he bent over her close.

"Nay, nay, I'll not suffer thee." And Katherine drew from him with

flashing eyes.

"Come, silly child; one, just one." She fled from his reach. He sought

to catch her but was stopped by Constance who whispered something

hurriedly. The Duke turned upon Janet and frowned, then broke into a

mocking laugh, and with a sly wink at Constance, said,--

"Thou art a trickster, good nurse; thou didst play upon me foully.

Good, good nurse! Come, go quickly. Thou shalt see no more

love-making; I forbid thee; kiss thy nestling and go. I will watch

over her. Come, my sweet, come!" His Grace took the maid in his strong

arms, and though his legs threatened collapse, bore her toward the

door.

Janet saw the look of devilish menace and triumph upon Lady Constance'

face and--beyond--what did she see behind the curtain of the window

that looked upon the garden? Surely 'twas something more than the

evening breeze that stirred those hangings. 'Twas a familiar face

that looked from behind the folds; aye, of a truth, 'twas Sir Julian

Pomphrey's. When Monmouth, half carrying Katherine, reached the door

and stood some little way beyond its deep embrazure, he turned to

Janet again, saying,--

"Go, good nurse. I wait for thine exit. Come, begone!"

"I beg your Grace to forgive the lie I told and give pledge of thy

forgiveness by taking this." She handed him a brimming cup.

"Then, good nurse, I forgive thee. Here is to the maid thou dost let

go and to the woman I shall bring back." He threw back his head and

lifted the cup. As it touched his lips a handkerchief fell about his

eyes and a strong hand covered his mouth and the Duke lay helpless

upon the floor.

Janet carried the half-fainting maid from the room. As she did so, Sir

Julian and Lord Cedric, who had also come through the window, carried

the young Duke to another chamber; binding him fast; keeping his eyes

well blindfolded and their own tongues still. Constance was left

standing in the middle of the floor in dumb surprise and chagrin. In a

moment Lord Cedric returned, and his voice rang steel as he faced her,

nor was there shadow of pity as he saw her white face grow ghastly in

fear.

"Thou, Constance, art the receptacle of all the damned ills flung from

mortals, whether of the mind or body. As for soul, that unknown thing

to thee--thou canst not recognize in another and therefore canst take

on nothing of it save its punishment hereafter, when thou shalt have

no choice of condiment. Thy heart lies festering in the rheum that

exuviates from its foul surroundings. Conscience thou art bankrupt of,

and in its place doth lurk the bawd that envenoms thy senses and turns

thy narrow body into prodigious corruption--"

"Cedric,--my God; stay thy tongue!"

"Nay, nay; my tongue is a well-matched Jehu for thy devil's race. I

would I might scorch thee with it, to give thee foretaste of that to

come; perchance 'twould seethe thy rottenness to the quick--if thou

of that art not also bereft--and turn thee from thy course. Thou dost

pander for the King's son and steal an innocent maid of unripe years

to gratify his lust--ah, 'sdeath! thou art but a pernicious wench,

as false as hell. And when the nurse whispered that 'twould save the

child from shame, thy protrusile tang-of-a-serpent didst sibilate in

his ready ear a denial--"

"Cedric, Cedric; cease, I pray!" And Constance fell upon her knees

sobbing. But the young lord's storm had not yet spent itself, and he

sped on in fury:

"I would thy noxious blood had all run out ere mingling with its

better, and I had naught of so foul a taint within. If I held the

apothecary's skill, I would open my veins and purge from them thy

jaundiced blood and let in slime of snakes and putrid matter to

sweeten the vessel thus set free--"

"My lord, we must hasten. The maid is ready to depart with her

nurse," said Sir Julian. As the young lord turned to him, Lady

Constance--crushed and broken--said,--

"Couldst thou not see why I have so misused my better self; have thine

eyes been blind all these years not to see how I have loved thee,

Cedric--thee--thee--with all my heart and soul?"

"I would not hear thee prate of anything so sacred as love,--'tis

sacrilege."

"Nay, not so, Cedric! I love thee more than heaven. I love thy scorn,

if to be free from it were to deprive me of thy presence. I would

follow thee to the end of time, even though thy brow lowered in ever

threatening storm--"

"Nay! thou shalt not follow me. Would I draw such as thou to yonder

maid? From this moment thou art none of mine, and I fling thee from me

as I would a snake.--Thou didst think to take Mistress Katherine from

me; put her beyond my reach, first, by marriage, then by ruin. Thanks

to heaven, both of thy infernal schemes miscarried and she is again in

my keeping. And soon I shall fold her to me as my own; pillow her head

here, Constance, here, where thou sayest thou shouldst love to lie. I

shall press her to my heart as wife, wife--ah! I have at last touched

the quick within thee. We may hope there is some redemption--some

possibility of bringing thee back from thy foulness--"

"Come, Cedric, come; we are late!" cried Sir Julian at the door. Lord

Cedric turned to go, but Constance flew to his side and grasped his

hand,--

"Nay, nay; thou shalt not leave me thus. Thou shalt not leave me to go

to one who cares not one jot for thee! Cedric, turn not away. Do not

leave me here. Cedric, hear me, take me, take me with thee! I will be

so good--"

Again Sir Julian came and called hastily,--"Indeed, my lord, there is

a chaise upon the highway, and if we mistake not 'tis the King's."

Cedric loosed himself from Constance and hurried from the room. She

flew after him; but he had passed Sir Julian and flung himself upon a

horse. Pomphrey saw her plight, and, whether from pity, gallantry, or

intrigue, lifted her quickly--before she had time to withdraw from

him--into a coach. Cedric remonstrated with him; but Julian was

confident of his motive and started the coach at full speed. They flew

along in the opposite direction from whence came the King.

It was his Majesty, who had heard of his son's hiding with some

beauteous maid and was resolved to play a trick and come upon him

unawares.

It was feared, when he should find Monmouth in such a plight, he would

pursue the offenders, if for nothing but to see with his own eyes the

maid who had so wrought upon his son's affections.

The coaches bearing Katherine and Constance sped along at a rapid

swing. The one bearing Katherine, with Janet by her side, was some

distance ahead; Constance alone in the rear. Cedric and Julian rode at

either side of the first coach, their horses in full gallop.

They reached Southwark after two hours' hard riding. Katherine was

not aware of Lord Cedric's presence, and he avoided meeting her or

attracting her attention in any way. He was content with the thought

that she was near him.

They proposed to remain at Tabard Inn at least until the next night,

when they would set out under cover of the darkness for Crandlemar,

where Lord Cedric had given orders to have all things ready for

his immediate espousal. He knew that Katherine loved him, and felt

sanguine that after passing through so many vicissitudes she would

come to her senses and give up the ideas of churchly duties and

religious requirements.

Lady Constance feared the worst, now that Cedric was once more with

Katherine. What could she do to stave the matter off? She knew

Cantemir would hardly be able to place Cedric in the Tower before

another week. She was tempted to poison or kill in some way the maid.

Aye, she would kill her--that would be safest. Then Cedric could not

have her. They would be parted forever.