THE PURSUIT.
But when did the wicked escape? So will a man's sins follow him, and
find him out at last, be they what they may. And whoever has sinned
against love, whoever has injured a neighbor, whoever has been
vindictive, cruel, unfeeling, or revengeful, the bloodhound of his
own conscience will pursue him, and superstition, under the garb of
religion, can never more shield him beneath her altars.
Abdil fled to his home. His wife, his sons, his neighbors were all
gone to lend a hand, if possible, to quench his fiery work. He had
been seen. He must be known. He must be taken. He could not stay
there. What must he do? The very solitude of his cottage, and the
distant noise of the people, all conspired against him, and the
wretched man exclaimed--
'O Father Duncan! O Lady Alice! now--now--now give me absolution. I
must fly to you. You must hide me in the sanctuary of your church.
You must console me, or my fiery brain will burn more furiously than
De Freston's Hall.'
The wretched man rested not a moment, save to drink one bitter
draught of liquor which he had in his house, and then fled for
Goldwell, or Cold Hall.
He had a long start--an hour's start and more of his pursuers. Ten
young men, with undaunted courage, firm hands and feet, led on by
Reuben Styles, and the noble bloodhound of De Freston, followed on
the track. So still was the night, that Saracen's deep note could be
heard for a long while by the mournful listeners at the castle.
The brave dog arrived at the door of the infatuated carpenter.
'He is right,' exclaimed Reuben, 'he is right, my bold companions,
Abdil Foley is the man. He is the wretch. Find him, good Saracen,
find him, boy!'
In vain they searched the house. They had well nigh been left in the
lurch, for Saracen had again tracked that now well-known foot from
the house, and was making his way towards the lodge.
Thither they followed with fresh excitement, as the bold dog gave but
little further tongue, but seemed to settle down into a certain
steady pace of pursuit. It was a longer and a stronger chase than
they expected, but the spirit of Reuben was above fatigue, and he
exclaimed at the lodge:
'Now, boys, go no further, you who cannot endure a long run; for my
belief is, the town' (then four miles off) 'is our destination.'
Never huntsman had a braver field to follow him. Never hound less
came to check. As they entered upon the strand they found the snow
was less, and the scent more new and powerful, and consequently the
fierce delight of Saracen was more lively. His head was higher up,
as if he expected to see his victim, or else the scent of the man
more recently impregnated the very air with his demoniacal stench.
A bloodhound is not swift, but he is very sure, very untired, always
persevering; and though his gallop is slow, comparatively speaking,
it is inexpressibly grand. So is vengeance in following the guilty.
On! on! on! Forward! forward! forward! and forward went the party,
and at every step they took they could see the heavens brighter and
brighter, until the light from behind, where De Freston's castle was
blazing, and the lights before them illumining the whole town, might
fairly be said to act almost like sunshine.
They approached the town, but Saracen halted not. Though foot-marks
crossed, commingled, and became a regular path; on, on, on he kept,
nor paused, nor spake, but every now and then dashed his rudder-like
tail from side to side to steer him safely to the wind. But now came
the proof of his sagacity.
Abdil had been ferried over the ford. In dashed the dog, and, as
soon as could be, followed the hunt. Up St. Peter's Street, past the
Cardinal's College, through Silence Street, Wolsey's house in St.
Nicholas, past Wolsey's Shambles in the market.
On, over the Butcher's Hill, through St. Lawrence, past the Magdalene
Hospital, the Pest House, St. Margaret's, St. Helen's: and now the
bloodhound opes his mouth; and keeps his jaws working as if he was
actually eating the scent. Hundreds joined the cry. 'Pursue the
incendiary! Pursue the incendiary!' were the exclamations: and half
the town appeared on fire, from the mighty glare of the noble house
in Brook Street.
At the gates of Goldwell Hall, Saracen came to a check. He actually
seized the handle of the porter's bell, and bit it as if it were the
hand of the incendiary. That hand had been but a few minutes on and
off the handle; and the rage of the bloodhound might now be seen in
contrast with his previous steadiness. He gnawed at the threshold.
His deep-toned voice must have echoed in the hearts of the guilty
souls within; but no one answered the multitude.
That multitude, in pursuit of a then exciting and righteous cause,
tried all they could to obtain a peaceable entry. They were sternly
denied, though they heard voices in the Lodge.
Force was resorted to, and at last an entrance gained; but here all
track was lost, for the fugitives had been drawn up into a lofty
room, and thence conveyed into a secret cavern which led to the
little chapel of St. John the Baptist; but the Lady Alice, with an
hauteur and cold dignity, confronted and confounded the pursuers, by
her calm denial, coolness, and composure.
They could search no further; for that day Abdil and Father Duncan
had both escaped, and Saracen returned with his brave huntsmen and
field to Freston Tower.
The castle was gone--it was a ruin. The Tower alone remained, and
its sorrowful inmates were, for a season, inconsolable.
Friends came from Ipswich, the lodges and cottages were full of the
Hall dependants, and the death of De Freston on Christmas Day, on the
summit of Freston Tower, was the conversation of thousands until the
very name became extinct.
William Latimer and the Lady Ellen lived two years in Ipswich, in the
house of Edmund Daundy; Freston Tower became a noted place; Alice de
Clinton, soon forgotten. The united couple, who loved each other
through all their trials, retired into Worcestershire. William
Latimer became a firm Protestant, the estates of De Freston were
disposed of and the faithful Saracen went with his mistress to their
Midland Counties home.
Cold Hall is now but a farm-house, as many of the old baronial
mansions of past ages have become.