Chapter Forty Six.

Chapter Forty Six.Awaiting War News.“What a life we’ve been leading, Sab! Shut up in cities as birds in a cage! Now nearly two years of it, with scarce ever a peep at the dear, delightful country. Oh! it’s a wretched existence.”“It’s not the pleasantest, I admit.”“And in this prosaic city, Gloucester.”“Ah, Vag, don’t speak against Gloucester. Think what her citizens have suffered in the good cause. And how well they have borne themselves! But for their bravery and fidelity, where might we be now? Possibly in Bristol. How would you like that?”“Not at all,” returned Vag, with a shrug and grimace, the name of Bristol recalling souvenirs aught but agreeable to her.“Well,” resumed Sabrina, “life there is not prosaic, anyhow—if there be poetry in scandal. Very much the reverse, I should say, supposing half of what’s reported be true. But I wonder how our foolish aunt, and equally foolish cousin, are comporting themselves under the changed circumstances?”“Oh! they’re happy enough, no doubt; everything just as they wished it. Plenty of titled personages flitting and figuring around—at least three princes of the blood royal, with an occasional chance of their seeing the King himself. Won’t Madame open wide the doors of Montserrat House. As for Clarisse, I shouldn’t be surprised at her making a grand marriage of it, becoming baroness duchess, or something of that sort. Well, I won’t envy her.”Vaga Powell could afford to speak thus of her Creole cousin, with light heart now, all envy and jealousy having long since gone out of it.“Let us hope nothing worse,” rejoined the elder sister, with a doubting look, as though some painful thought were in her mind. “Clarisse is very, very imprudent, to say the least of it.”“And very wicked, to say nothing more than the most of it. But what need we care, Sab, since we neither of us ever intend going near the Lalandes again? After the way they behaved to us, well—”“Well, let us cease speaking of them, and turn to some pleasanter subject.”“Ay, if that were possible. Alas! there’s none very pleasant now—every day new anxieties, new fears. I wish this horrid war were at an end, one way or the other, so that we might get back to dear old Hollymead.”“Don’t say one way or the other, Vag. If it should end in the King being conqueror, Hollymead will be no more a home for us. It would even cease to belong to us.”“I almost wish it never had.”“Why that?”“You should know, Sab. But for my father sending him there after those worthless things, he would not now be—”“Dear Vaga!” interrupted the elder sister entreatingly. “For your life do not let father hear you speak in that strain. ’Twould vex him very much, and, as you yourself know, he has grieved over it already.”“Ah, true. I won’t say a word about it again, in his hearing, anyhow—you may trust me. But it’s hard to think of my dear Eustace being in a prison—shut up in a dark dungeon, perhaps hungering, thirsting, and, worse than all, suffering ill-treatment at the hands of some cruel jailer.”She was justified in calling him her “dear Eustace” now, and giving him all her sympathies. Since that night of perverse misconceptions at Montserrat House there had been many an interview between them; the thread of their interrupted dialogue by Ruardean Hill had been taken up again, and spun into a cord which now bound them together by vows of betrothal.Of their engagement Sabrina was aware, and under the like herself, she could well comprehend her sister’s feelings. True, her betrothed was not in a prison, but she knew not how soon he might be—or worse, dead on the battlefield. Invincible as she believed him, war had its adverse fates, was full of perils, every day, as the other had said, fraught with new anxieties and fears. Concealing her own, she essayed to dispel those of her sister, rejoining,—“Nonsense, Vag. Nothing so bad. Why should they treat him with cruelty?”“You forget that they call him renegade. And they on the King’s side are most spiteful against all who turn from them. Think how his own cousin acted towards him; and ’tis said his father disowned him. Besides, other prisoners have been scandalously treated by the Cavaliers, some even tortured. And they may torture him.”“No fear of their doing that. Even if disposed they’re not likely to have the opportunity.”“But they have it now.”“Not quite.”“I don’t comprehend you, Sab.”“It’s very simple. Heartless as many of the Royalists leaders are, and vindictive, they will be restrained by the thought of retaliation. At this time our people hold two prisoners to their one. A large number of these Monmouth men, with their officers, have been taken at Beachley, and that will insure humane treatment to your Eustace. So make you mind easy about him.”It became easier as she listened to the cheering words, almost reassured by others spoken in continuation.“In any case,” pursued Sabrina, “his captors are not likely to have the time fortorturing, as you put it. Richard’s last letter says he and his troops were at High Meadow House—the Halls’, near Staunton, you know?”“That Papist family; great friends of Sir John and Lady Wintour. I remember their place. Well?”“He was there in advance, awaiting the Governor to come up, with every hope of their being able to take Monmouth. If they succeed, and they will—I feel sure they will, Vag—then Eustace will be a free man, and all of us go back to Hollymead, with not much danger of being again molested.”“Oh?” exclaimed the younger sister, overjoyed by the prospect thus shadowed forth, “wouldn’t that be delightful! Back at the dear old place. Once more our walks and rides through the Forest. Our hawking, too. Bless me! my pretty Pers and your Mer, I suppose they won’t know us! I trust Van Dom hasn’t neglected them, nor my Hector either.”And so she ran on, in the exuberance of her new-sprung hopes seemingly forgetting him around whom they all centred. Only for an instant though. Without Eustace Trevor by her side the Forest walks and rides, with Hollymead and its hawking,—would have less attraction for her now. Wherever he might be, that were the place of her choice, thenceforth and for ever. So soon the thought of his being in a prison, with fears of something worse, came back in all its bitterness.And the shadow of returned anxiety was again visible on the brow of Sabrina. A fortified town to be taken there would needs be fighting of a desperate kind—her lover in the thick of it. A forlorn hope for storming, who so like as her soldier knight to be the leader of it? He had been so at Beachley, and proud was she on hearing of his achievements there. But at the thought of his now again undergoing such risk, with all the uncertainties of war—that he might fall before the ramparts of Monmouth, even at that moment be lying lifeless in its trenches—her heart sank within her.For a time both were silent. Then Sabrina, with another effort to cast-off the gloomy reflections, which she saw were also affecting her sister, said,—“Richard promised to write again last night, or early this morning, if there should be anything worth writing about. He hasn’t written last night, or the letter would have been here now. If this morning, I may soon expect it. His messengers are never slow, and a man on a swift horse should ride from High Meadow House to Gloucester in two hours, or a little over.”From her belt she drew a quaint, three-cornered watch to ascertain the correct time. Correct or not, its hands pointed to 10 a.m. A messenger from the High Meadow could have been there before if sent off at an early hour, and on an errand calling for courier-speed.Perhaps no reason had arisen for such, and consoling herself with this reflection, she resumed speech, saying,—“Anyhow, we may make sure of getting news before noon, some kind or other. The Governor will be sending a despatch to the Committee, and one may have already reached them. We shall know when father returns.”The last remark had reference to the fact of Ambrose Powell being one of the Parliamentary Commissioners for the Gloucester district, and just then in committee.But the anticipated news reached them without being brought by him. As they stood conversing in an embraced window, which, terrace-like, overhung the street, they heard a clattering of hoofs, almost at the same instant to see a horseman coming on at quick pace. When opposite the house in which they were, he halted, flung himself out of the saddle, and disappeared from their sight under the projecting balcony. Long ere this they had recognised Sir Richard’s henchman Hubert.There was a loud rat-tat-tat at the street door, and soon after a gentle tapping against that of their room, which both recognised as from the knuckles of Gwenthian, simultaneously exclaiming, “Come in.”In came she with a letter that seemed terribly soiled and crumpled.“Hubert has brought this, my lady,” she said, holding it towards Sabrina, for whom the sharp-witted Welsh maid knew it was meant. “Poor man! he be wet to the skin, and all over mud, and looks as if just dropped out of a duck pond.”The “poor man” was but a mild, evasive form of expressing her sympathy. Had she put it as she felt, it would have been “dear man,” for long ago had Gwenthian entered into tender relations with the trumpeter.Neither of the sisters gave ear to what she was saying, for the elder had snatched the letter out of her hand, and torn it open on the instant, while the younger stood by in eager, anxious attitude.There was contentment in Sabrina’s eyes as she glanced at the superscription. It became joy on reading the first words written inside, and she cried out, in tone of enthusiastic triumph,—“Glorious news, sister! They’ve taken Monmouth?”“They have! Heaven be praised!” Sabrina was about to read the letter aloud, when some words caught her eye which admonished first running it over to herself hastily, as the other was all impatience. It ran:—“My love,—We are inside Monmouth, thanks to little strategy I was able to effect, with the help of an old Low Country comrade, Kyrle, of Walford, whom you may know. For all, we had some sharp fighting by the bridge gate, where Kyrle proved himself worthy of his ancient repute as soldier and swordsman. Had we failed there this letter would not have been written, unless, perhaps, inside a prison. And now on that subject I’m sorry to say E. Trevor is still in one, but, unluckily, not at Monmouth. Taken by Harry Lingen from the Hereford side, they have carried him off that way, likely to Goodrich Castle. What’s worse, he has been wounded; whether severely or not, I haven’t yet been able to ascertain. Soon as I can learn for certain where he is, and what the nature of his hurt, you shall hear from me, as I know your sister will be in a sad state of anxiety. We’ve made many prisoners, and now, commanding Monmouth, may hope to gather in a good many more. If we succeed in clearing the Wye’s western bank of the wolves so long infesting it you may all safely return to Hollymead.”The letter did not conclude quite so abruptly. There were some expressions tenderer and of more private nature, which she was scarce permitted to read, much less dwell upon. For Vaga, all the while gazing in her face with a look of searching interrogation, saw a shadow pass over it, and unable longer to bear the suspense, cried out,—“There’s something wrong? Ah! it’s Eustace; I know it is!”“Nothing wrong with him more than we knew of already. He is still a prisoner; but, of course, not at Monmouth, or he’d have been released. They have taken him away from there, as Richard thinks, to Goodrich Castle.”There was that in her manner, with the words and their tone of utterance, which led to a suspicion of either subterfuge or reticence. And Vaga so suspecting, with another searching look into her eyes, exclaimed,—“You’ve not told me all. There’s something in that letter you fear to communicate. You need not, Sab. I’ll try to be brave. Better for me to know the worst. Letmeread it.”Thus appealed to the elder sister gave way. The thing she desired to conceal must become known sooner or later. Perhaps as well, if not better, at once.Tearing off that portion of the sheet on which were the words of tenderness concerning only herself, she passed the other into the hands of her sister, saying,—“All’s there that interests you, Vag; and don’t let it alarm you. Remember that wounds are always made more of than—”“Wounded!” came the interrupting cry from Vaga’s lips, intoned with agony. “He’s wounded—it may be to death! I shall go to Goodrich. If he die, I die with him!”

“What a life we’ve been leading, Sab! Shut up in cities as birds in a cage! Now nearly two years of it, with scarce ever a peep at the dear, delightful country. Oh! it’s a wretched existence.”

“It’s not the pleasantest, I admit.”

“And in this prosaic city, Gloucester.”

“Ah, Vag, don’t speak against Gloucester. Think what her citizens have suffered in the good cause. And how well they have borne themselves! But for their bravery and fidelity, where might we be now? Possibly in Bristol. How would you like that?”

“Not at all,” returned Vag, with a shrug and grimace, the name of Bristol recalling souvenirs aught but agreeable to her.

“Well,” resumed Sabrina, “life there is not prosaic, anyhow—if there be poetry in scandal. Very much the reverse, I should say, supposing half of what’s reported be true. But I wonder how our foolish aunt, and equally foolish cousin, are comporting themselves under the changed circumstances?”

“Oh! they’re happy enough, no doubt; everything just as they wished it. Plenty of titled personages flitting and figuring around—at least three princes of the blood royal, with an occasional chance of their seeing the King himself. Won’t Madame open wide the doors of Montserrat House. As for Clarisse, I shouldn’t be surprised at her making a grand marriage of it, becoming baroness duchess, or something of that sort. Well, I won’t envy her.”

Vaga Powell could afford to speak thus of her Creole cousin, with light heart now, all envy and jealousy having long since gone out of it.

“Let us hope nothing worse,” rejoined the elder sister, with a doubting look, as though some painful thought were in her mind. “Clarisse is very, very imprudent, to say the least of it.”

“And very wicked, to say nothing more than the most of it. But what need we care, Sab, since we neither of us ever intend going near the Lalandes again? After the way they behaved to us, well—”

“Well, let us cease speaking of them, and turn to some pleasanter subject.”

“Ay, if that were possible. Alas! there’s none very pleasant now—every day new anxieties, new fears. I wish this horrid war were at an end, one way or the other, so that we might get back to dear old Hollymead.”

“Don’t say one way or the other, Vag. If it should end in the King being conqueror, Hollymead will be no more a home for us. It would even cease to belong to us.”

“I almost wish it never had.”

“Why that?”

“You should know, Sab. But for my father sending him there after those worthless things, he would not now be—”

“Dear Vaga!” interrupted the elder sister entreatingly. “For your life do not let father hear you speak in that strain. ’Twould vex him very much, and, as you yourself know, he has grieved over it already.”

“Ah, true. I won’t say a word about it again, in his hearing, anyhow—you may trust me. But it’s hard to think of my dear Eustace being in a prison—shut up in a dark dungeon, perhaps hungering, thirsting, and, worse than all, suffering ill-treatment at the hands of some cruel jailer.”

She was justified in calling him her “dear Eustace” now, and giving him all her sympathies. Since that night of perverse misconceptions at Montserrat House there had been many an interview between them; the thread of their interrupted dialogue by Ruardean Hill had been taken up again, and spun into a cord which now bound them together by vows of betrothal.

Of their engagement Sabrina was aware, and under the like herself, she could well comprehend her sister’s feelings. True, her betrothed was not in a prison, but she knew not how soon he might be—or worse, dead on the battlefield. Invincible as she believed him, war had its adverse fates, was full of perils, every day, as the other had said, fraught with new anxieties and fears. Concealing her own, she essayed to dispel those of her sister, rejoining,—

“Nonsense, Vag. Nothing so bad. Why should they treat him with cruelty?”

“You forget that they call him renegade. And they on the King’s side are most spiteful against all who turn from them. Think how his own cousin acted towards him; and ’tis said his father disowned him. Besides, other prisoners have been scandalously treated by the Cavaliers, some even tortured. And they may torture him.”

“No fear of their doing that. Even if disposed they’re not likely to have the opportunity.”

“But they have it now.”

“Not quite.”

“I don’t comprehend you, Sab.”

“It’s very simple. Heartless as many of the Royalists leaders are, and vindictive, they will be restrained by the thought of retaliation. At this time our people hold two prisoners to their one. A large number of these Monmouth men, with their officers, have been taken at Beachley, and that will insure humane treatment to your Eustace. So make you mind easy about him.”

It became easier as she listened to the cheering words, almost reassured by others spoken in continuation.

“In any case,” pursued Sabrina, “his captors are not likely to have the time fortorturing, as you put it. Richard’s last letter says he and his troops were at High Meadow House—the Halls’, near Staunton, you know?”

“That Papist family; great friends of Sir John and Lady Wintour. I remember their place. Well?”

“He was there in advance, awaiting the Governor to come up, with every hope of their being able to take Monmouth. If they succeed, and they will—I feel sure they will, Vag—then Eustace will be a free man, and all of us go back to Hollymead, with not much danger of being again molested.”

“Oh?” exclaimed the younger sister, overjoyed by the prospect thus shadowed forth, “wouldn’t that be delightful! Back at the dear old place. Once more our walks and rides through the Forest. Our hawking, too. Bless me! my pretty Pers and your Mer, I suppose they won’t know us! I trust Van Dom hasn’t neglected them, nor my Hector either.”

And so she ran on, in the exuberance of her new-sprung hopes seemingly forgetting him around whom they all centred. Only for an instant though. Without Eustace Trevor by her side the Forest walks and rides, with Hollymead and its hawking,—would have less attraction for her now. Wherever he might be, that were the place of her choice, thenceforth and for ever. So soon the thought of his being in a prison, with fears of something worse, came back in all its bitterness.

And the shadow of returned anxiety was again visible on the brow of Sabrina. A fortified town to be taken there would needs be fighting of a desperate kind—her lover in the thick of it. A forlorn hope for storming, who so like as her soldier knight to be the leader of it? He had been so at Beachley, and proud was she on hearing of his achievements there. But at the thought of his now again undergoing such risk, with all the uncertainties of war—that he might fall before the ramparts of Monmouth, even at that moment be lying lifeless in its trenches—her heart sank within her.

For a time both were silent. Then Sabrina, with another effort to cast-off the gloomy reflections, which she saw were also affecting her sister, said,—

“Richard promised to write again last night, or early this morning, if there should be anything worth writing about. He hasn’t written last night, or the letter would have been here now. If this morning, I may soon expect it. His messengers are never slow, and a man on a swift horse should ride from High Meadow House to Gloucester in two hours, or a little over.”

From her belt she drew a quaint, three-cornered watch to ascertain the correct time. Correct or not, its hands pointed to 10 a.m. A messenger from the High Meadow could have been there before if sent off at an early hour, and on an errand calling for courier-speed.

Perhaps no reason had arisen for such, and consoling herself with this reflection, she resumed speech, saying,—

“Anyhow, we may make sure of getting news before noon, some kind or other. The Governor will be sending a despatch to the Committee, and one may have already reached them. We shall know when father returns.”

The last remark had reference to the fact of Ambrose Powell being one of the Parliamentary Commissioners for the Gloucester district, and just then in committee.

But the anticipated news reached them without being brought by him. As they stood conversing in an embraced window, which, terrace-like, overhung the street, they heard a clattering of hoofs, almost at the same instant to see a horseman coming on at quick pace. When opposite the house in which they were, he halted, flung himself out of the saddle, and disappeared from their sight under the projecting balcony. Long ere this they had recognised Sir Richard’s henchman Hubert.

There was a loud rat-tat-tat at the street door, and soon after a gentle tapping against that of their room, which both recognised as from the knuckles of Gwenthian, simultaneously exclaiming, “Come in.”

In came she with a letter that seemed terribly soiled and crumpled.

“Hubert has brought this, my lady,” she said, holding it towards Sabrina, for whom the sharp-witted Welsh maid knew it was meant. “Poor man! he be wet to the skin, and all over mud, and looks as if just dropped out of a duck pond.”

The “poor man” was but a mild, evasive form of expressing her sympathy. Had she put it as she felt, it would have been “dear man,” for long ago had Gwenthian entered into tender relations with the trumpeter.

Neither of the sisters gave ear to what she was saying, for the elder had snatched the letter out of her hand, and torn it open on the instant, while the younger stood by in eager, anxious attitude.

There was contentment in Sabrina’s eyes as she glanced at the superscription. It became joy on reading the first words written inside, and she cried out, in tone of enthusiastic triumph,—

“Glorious news, sister! They’ve taken Monmouth?”

“They have! Heaven be praised!” Sabrina was about to read the letter aloud, when some words caught her eye which admonished first running it over to herself hastily, as the other was all impatience. It ran:—

“My love,—We are inside Monmouth, thanks to little strategy I was able to effect, with the help of an old Low Country comrade, Kyrle, of Walford, whom you may know. For all, we had some sharp fighting by the bridge gate, where Kyrle proved himself worthy of his ancient repute as soldier and swordsman. Had we failed there this letter would not have been written, unless, perhaps, inside a prison. And now on that subject I’m sorry to say E. Trevor is still in one, but, unluckily, not at Monmouth. Taken by Harry Lingen from the Hereford side, they have carried him off that way, likely to Goodrich Castle. What’s worse, he has been wounded; whether severely or not, I haven’t yet been able to ascertain. Soon as I can learn for certain where he is, and what the nature of his hurt, you shall hear from me, as I know your sister will be in a sad state of anxiety. We’ve made many prisoners, and now, commanding Monmouth, may hope to gather in a good many more. If we succeed in clearing the Wye’s western bank of the wolves so long infesting it you may all safely return to Hollymead.”

“My love,—We are inside Monmouth, thanks to little strategy I was able to effect, with the help of an old Low Country comrade, Kyrle, of Walford, whom you may know. For all, we had some sharp fighting by the bridge gate, where Kyrle proved himself worthy of his ancient repute as soldier and swordsman. Had we failed there this letter would not have been written, unless, perhaps, inside a prison. And now on that subject I’m sorry to say E. Trevor is still in one, but, unluckily, not at Monmouth. Taken by Harry Lingen from the Hereford side, they have carried him off that way, likely to Goodrich Castle. What’s worse, he has been wounded; whether severely or not, I haven’t yet been able to ascertain. Soon as I can learn for certain where he is, and what the nature of his hurt, you shall hear from me, as I know your sister will be in a sad state of anxiety. We’ve made many prisoners, and now, commanding Monmouth, may hope to gather in a good many more. If we succeed in clearing the Wye’s western bank of the wolves so long infesting it you may all safely return to Hollymead.”

The letter did not conclude quite so abruptly. There were some expressions tenderer and of more private nature, which she was scarce permitted to read, much less dwell upon. For Vaga, all the while gazing in her face with a look of searching interrogation, saw a shadow pass over it, and unable longer to bear the suspense, cried out,—

“There’s something wrong? Ah! it’s Eustace; I know it is!”

“Nothing wrong with him more than we knew of already. He is still a prisoner; but, of course, not at Monmouth, or he’d have been released. They have taken him away from there, as Richard thinks, to Goodrich Castle.”

There was that in her manner, with the words and their tone of utterance, which led to a suspicion of either subterfuge or reticence. And Vaga so suspecting, with another searching look into her eyes, exclaimed,—

“You’ve not told me all. There’s something in that letter you fear to communicate. You need not, Sab. I’ll try to be brave. Better for me to know the worst. Letmeread it.”

Thus appealed to the elder sister gave way. The thing she desired to conceal must become known sooner or later. Perhaps as well, if not better, at once.

Tearing off that portion of the sheet on which were the words of tenderness concerning only herself, she passed the other into the hands of her sister, saying,—

“All’s there that interests you, Vag; and don’t let it alarm you. Remember that wounds are always made more of than—”

“Wounded!” came the interrupting cry from Vaga’s lips, intoned with agony. “He’s wounded—it may be to death! I shall go to Goodrich. If he die, I die with him!”

Chapter Forty Seven.Old Comrades.“Well, Dick, for a man who’s just captured a city, you look strangely downhearted—more like as if you’d been captured yourself.”It was Colonel Robert Kyrle who made the odd observation; he to whom it was addressed being Colonel Sir Richard Walwyn. The time was between midnight and morning, some two hours after Monmouth had succumbed to their strategiccoup-de-main; the place Kyrle’s own quarters, whither he had conducted his old comrade-in-arms to give him lodgment for the rest of the night.Snug quarters they were, in every way well provided. Kyrle was a man of money, and liked good living whether he fought for King or for Parliament. A table was between them, on which were some remains of a supper, with wines of the best, and they were quaffing freely, as might be expected of soldiers after a fight or fatiguing march.“Yet to you,” added Kyrle, “Massey owes the taking of Monmouth.”“Rather say to yourself, Kyrle. Give the devil his due,” returned the knight, with a peculiar smile.Notwithstanding his serious mood at the moment, he could not resist a jest so opportune. He knew it would not offend his old comrade, as it did not. On the contrary, Kyrle seemed rather to relish it, with a light laugh rejoining,—“Little fear of him you allude to being cheated of his dues this time. No doubt for all that’s been done I’ll get my full share of credit, however little creditable to myself. They’ll call me all sorts of names, the vilest in the Cavalier vocabulary; and, God knows, it’s got a good stock of them. What care I? Not the shaking of straw. My conscience is clear, and my conduct guided by motives I’m not ashamed of—never shall be. You know them, Walwyn?”“I do, and respect them. I was just in the act of explaining things to Massey up by the Buckstone when your letter came—that carried in the cadger’s wooden leg.”“Most kind of you, Dick; though nothing more than I expected. Soon as I heard of your being at the High Meadow, I made up my mind to join you there, even if I went alone as a common deserter. Never was man more disgusted with a cause than I with Cavalierism. It stinks of the beerhouse andbagnio; here in Monmouth spiced with Papistry—no improvement to its nasty savour. But the place will smell sweeter now. I’ll make it. Massey has told me I’m to have command.”“You are the man for it,” said the knight approvingly. “And I am glad he has given it to you. Nothing more than you’re entitled to, after what you’ve done.”“Ah! ’tis you who did everything—planned everything. What clever strategy your thinking of such a ruse!”“Not half so clever as your carrying it out.”“Well, Dick, between us we did the trick neatly, didn’t we?”“Nothing could have been better. But how near it came to miscarrying! When they flung that Cornet in your teeth I almost gave it up.”“I confess to some misgiving myself then. It looked awkward for a while.”“That indeed. And how you got out of it! Your tale of his cowardice, and threat to make short work with him, were so well affected I could scarce keep from bursting into laughter. But what a simpleton that fellow who had command of the bridge guard! Was he one of those we cut down, think you?”“I fancy he was, and fear it. Among my late comrades there were many I liked less than he.”“And the Cornet, to whom you gave credit for making such good use of his heels. Has he escaped?”“I’ve no doubt he’s justified what I said of him by using them again. He’s one that has a way of it. I suspect a great many of them got off on the other side—more than we’ve netted. But we shall know in the morning when we muster the birds taken, and beat up the covers where some will be in hiding. Hopelessly for them, as I’m acquainted with every hole and corner in Monmouth.”There was a short interval of silence, while Kyrle, as host, leant over the table, took up a flagon of sack, and replenished their empty cups. On again turning to his guest he could see that same expression, which had led to him thinking him downhearted. Quite unlike what face of man should be wearing who had so late gained glory—reaped a very harvest of laurels—on more than one battlefield. The exciting topics just discoursed upon had for a time chased it away, but there it was once more.“Bless me, Walwyn! what is the matter with you?” asked Kyrle, as he pushed the refilled goblet towards him. “You could not look more sadly solemn if I were Prince Rupert, and you my prisoner. Well, old comrade,” he went on, without waiting for explanation, “if what’s troubling you be a secret, I shan’t press you to answer. A love affair, I suppose, so won’t say another word.”“Itisa love affair in a way.”“Well, Walwyn! you’re the last man I’d have looked for to get his heart entangled—”“You mistake, Kyrle. It has nothing to do with my heart—in the sense you’re thinking of.”“Whose heart then, or hearts? For there must be a pair of them.”“You know young Trevor?”“I know all the Trevors—at least by repute.”“He I refer to is Eustace—son of Sir William, by Abergavenny.”“Ah! him I’m not personally acquainted with; though he’s been here for several days—in prison. Lingen’s men took him at Hollymead House, near Ruardean; brought him on to Monmouth on their way to Beachley; and going back have carried him with them to Goodrich Castle. They left but yesterday, late in the evening. He’s got a wound, I believe.”“Yes. It’s about that I’m uneasy. Can you tell me anything as to the nature of it? Dangerous, think you?”“That I can’t say, not having seen him myself. Some one spoke of his arm being in a sling. Likely it’s but a sword cut, or the hack of a halbert. But why are you so concerned about him, Dick? He’s no relative of yours.”“He’s dearer to me than any relative I have, Kyrle. I love him as I would a brother. Besides, one, in whom I am interested, loves him in a different way.”“Ah, yes! the lady of course; prime source and root of all evil.”“In the present case the source of something good, however. But for the lady, in all likelihood Monmouth would still be under Royalist rule—nay, I may say surely would.”“How so, Walwyn? What had she to do with the taking of Monmouth?”“A great deal—everything. She was the instigator; her motive you may guess.”“I see; to get young Trevor out of prison. Well!”“I had some difficulty in convincing Massey the thing was possible; and, but for her intercession with him, I might have failed doing so. Our success at Beachley, however, settled it; especially when I laid before him the scheme we’ve been so fortunate in accomplishing.”“Well, we should thank the lady for it. May I know who she is?”“Certainly. The daughter of Ambrose Powell, of Hollymead.”“Ah! That explains why Trevor was there when taken?”“In a way, it does.”“I’ve but slight acquaintance with Powell, myself; though, as neighbours, we were always on friendly terms. He and his family are now in Gloucester, are they not?”“They are. For a time they stayed at Bristol—up to the surrender.”“Luckily they’re not there now. A sweet place that for anything in the shape of a young lady. Master Powell may thank his good star for getting him and his out of it. Two daughters he has, if I remember rightly, with names rather singular—Sabrina and Vaga?”“They are so named.”“With whom is young Trevor in relations?”“The younger, Vaga. Poor girl! she’ll be terribly disappointed when she hears of his having been carried on out of our reach, and so near being rescued!”“Out of our reach!” said Kyrle, an odd expression coming over his features, as if some thought had struck him. “Is that so sure?”“Why not? He’s in Goodrich Castle. You don’t think it possible for us to take it?”“Not at present; though, by-and-by, it may be within the possibilities. No man wishes more than I to see the proud pile razed to the ground, and Henry Lingen hanged over the ruins. Many the fright he has given my poor father with his cowardly threats. But I hope getting quits with him before the game’s at an end.”“What chance then of rescuing Trevor? Have you thought of any?”“I have. And not such a hopeless one either. You’re willing to risk something to get him free?”“Anything! My life, if need be.”“That risk will be called for; mine too, if we make the attempt I’m thinking of.”“An attempt! Tell me what it is. For heaven’s sake, Kyrle, don’t keep me in suspense!”“It’s this, then. Lingen, it appears, don’t intend lodging any prisoners in Goodrich Castle. Since the affair at Beachley he has some fear of his castle being besieged; and in a siege the more mouths the worse for him. By the merest accident I heard all this yesterday; and that the party he took away from here will be sent on to Hereford under escort first thing to-morrow morning—that is this morning, since it’s now drawing up to it.”“I think I comprehend you, Kyrle.”“You’d be dull if you didn’t, Walwyn.”“You mean for us to strike out along the Hereford Road, and intercept the escort?”“Just so. ’Twill be venturing into the enemy’s ground dangerously far; but with a bold dash we may do it.”“Wewilldo it!”“What about leave from Massey? Do you think there will be any difficulty in our getting that?”“I don’t anticipate any. In my case he can’t object. My command is independent of him; the troop my own; and, though now numbering little over a hundred, they are Foresters, and I’ve no fear to match them against twice their count of Lingen’s Lancers—the gentlemen of Hereford, as they style themselves.”“Then you agree to it? We go if Massey gives permission?”“I go, whether he gives it or not. In fact, I don’t feel much caring to ask him.”“Egad! that may be the best way, and I’m willing to risk it too. Suppose we slip out without saying a word? Time’s everything. Our only chance with the escort will be to take them by surprise—an ambuscade. For that we’ll have to be well along the Hereford road before daylight. I know the very spot; but we must be into the saddle at once.”“Then at once let us into it!”

“Well, Dick, for a man who’s just captured a city, you look strangely downhearted—more like as if you’d been captured yourself.”

It was Colonel Robert Kyrle who made the odd observation; he to whom it was addressed being Colonel Sir Richard Walwyn. The time was between midnight and morning, some two hours after Monmouth had succumbed to their strategiccoup-de-main; the place Kyrle’s own quarters, whither he had conducted his old comrade-in-arms to give him lodgment for the rest of the night.

Snug quarters they were, in every way well provided. Kyrle was a man of money, and liked good living whether he fought for King or for Parliament. A table was between them, on which were some remains of a supper, with wines of the best, and they were quaffing freely, as might be expected of soldiers after a fight or fatiguing march.

“Yet to you,” added Kyrle, “Massey owes the taking of Monmouth.”

“Rather say to yourself, Kyrle. Give the devil his due,” returned the knight, with a peculiar smile.

Notwithstanding his serious mood at the moment, he could not resist a jest so opportune. He knew it would not offend his old comrade, as it did not. On the contrary, Kyrle seemed rather to relish it, with a light laugh rejoining,—

“Little fear of him you allude to being cheated of his dues this time. No doubt for all that’s been done I’ll get my full share of credit, however little creditable to myself. They’ll call me all sorts of names, the vilest in the Cavalier vocabulary; and, God knows, it’s got a good stock of them. What care I? Not the shaking of straw. My conscience is clear, and my conduct guided by motives I’m not ashamed of—never shall be. You know them, Walwyn?”

“I do, and respect them. I was just in the act of explaining things to Massey up by the Buckstone when your letter came—that carried in the cadger’s wooden leg.”

“Most kind of you, Dick; though nothing more than I expected. Soon as I heard of your being at the High Meadow, I made up my mind to join you there, even if I went alone as a common deserter. Never was man more disgusted with a cause than I with Cavalierism. It stinks of the beerhouse andbagnio; here in Monmouth spiced with Papistry—no improvement to its nasty savour. But the place will smell sweeter now. I’ll make it. Massey has told me I’m to have command.”

“You are the man for it,” said the knight approvingly. “And I am glad he has given it to you. Nothing more than you’re entitled to, after what you’ve done.”

“Ah! ’tis you who did everything—planned everything. What clever strategy your thinking of such a ruse!”

“Not half so clever as your carrying it out.”

“Well, Dick, between us we did the trick neatly, didn’t we?”

“Nothing could have been better. But how near it came to miscarrying! When they flung that Cornet in your teeth I almost gave it up.”

“I confess to some misgiving myself then. It looked awkward for a while.”

“That indeed. And how you got out of it! Your tale of his cowardice, and threat to make short work with him, were so well affected I could scarce keep from bursting into laughter. But what a simpleton that fellow who had command of the bridge guard! Was he one of those we cut down, think you?”

“I fancy he was, and fear it. Among my late comrades there were many I liked less than he.”

“And the Cornet, to whom you gave credit for making such good use of his heels. Has he escaped?”

“I’ve no doubt he’s justified what I said of him by using them again. He’s one that has a way of it. I suspect a great many of them got off on the other side—more than we’ve netted. But we shall know in the morning when we muster the birds taken, and beat up the covers where some will be in hiding. Hopelessly for them, as I’m acquainted with every hole and corner in Monmouth.”

There was a short interval of silence, while Kyrle, as host, leant over the table, took up a flagon of sack, and replenished their empty cups. On again turning to his guest he could see that same expression, which had led to him thinking him downhearted. Quite unlike what face of man should be wearing who had so late gained glory—reaped a very harvest of laurels—on more than one battlefield. The exciting topics just discoursed upon had for a time chased it away, but there it was once more.

“Bless me, Walwyn! what is the matter with you?” asked Kyrle, as he pushed the refilled goblet towards him. “You could not look more sadly solemn if I were Prince Rupert, and you my prisoner. Well, old comrade,” he went on, without waiting for explanation, “if what’s troubling you be a secret, I shan’t press you to answer. A love affair, I suppose, so won’t say another word.”

“Itisa love affair in a way.”

“Well, Walwyn! you’re the last man I’d have looked for to get his heart entangled—”

“You mistake, Kyrle. It has nothing to do with my heart—in the sense you’re thinking of.”

“Whose heart then, or hearts? For there must be a pair of them.”

“You know young Trevor?”

“I know all the Trevors—at least by repute.”

“He I refer to is Eustace—son of Sir William, by Abergavenny.”

“Ah! him I’m not personally acquainted with; though he’s been here for several days—in prison. Lingen’s men took him at Hollymead House, near Ruardean; brought him on to Monmouth on their way to Beachley; and going back have carried him with them to Goodrich Castle. They left but yesterday, late in the evening. He’s got a wound, I believe.”

“Yes. It’s about that I’m uneasy. Can you tell me anything as to the nature of it? Dangerous, think you?”

“That I can’t say, not having seen him myself. Some one spoke of his arm being in a sling. Likely it’s but a sword cut, or the hack of a halbert. But why are you so concerned about him, Dick? He’s no relative of yours.”

“He’s dearer to me than any relative I have, Kyrle. I love him as I would a brother. Besides, one, in whom I am interested, loves him in a different way.”

“Ah, yes! the lady of course; prime source and root of all evil.”

“In the present case the source of something good, however. But for the lady, in all likelihood Monmouth would still be under Royalist rule—nay, I may say surely would.”

“How so, Walwyn? What had she to do with the taking of Monmouth?”

“A great deal—everything. She was the instigator; her motive you may guess.”

“I see; to get young Trevor out of prison. Well!”

“I had some difficulty in convincing Massey the thing was possible; and, but for her intercession with him, I might have failed doing so. Our success at Beachley, however, settled it; especially when I laid before him the scheme we’ve been so fortunate in accomplishing.”

“Well, we should thank the lady for it. May I know who she is?”

“Certainly. The daughter of Ambrose Powell, of Hollymead.”

“Ah! That explains why Trevor was there when taken?”

“In a way, it does.”

“I’ve but slight acquaintance with Powell, myself; though, as neighbours, we were always on friendly terms. He and his family are now in Gloucester, are they not?”

“They are. For a time they stayed at Bristol—up to the surrender.”

“Luckily they’re not there now. A sweet place that for anything in the shape of a young lady. Master Powell may thank his good star for getting him and his out of it. Two daughters he has, if I remember rightly, with names rather singular—Sabrina and Vaga?”

“They are so named.”

“With whom is young Trevor in relations?”

“The younger, Vaga. Poor girl! she’ll be terribly disappointed when she hears of his having been carried on out of our reach, and so near being rescued!”

“Out of our reach!” said Kyrle, an odd expression coming over his features, as if some thought had struck him. “Is that so sure?”

“Why not? He’s in Goodrich Castle. You don’t think it possible for us to take it?”

“Not at present; though, by-and-by, it may be within the possibilities. No man wishes more than I to see the proud pile razed to the ground, and Henry Lingen hanged over the ruins. Many the fright he has given my poor father with his cowardly threats. But I hope getting quits with him before the game’s at an end.”

“What chance then of rescuing Trevor? Have you thought of any?”

“I have. And not such a hopeless one either. You’re willing to risk something to get him free?”

“Anything! My life, if need be.”

“That risk will be called for; mine too, if we make the attempt I’m thinking of.”

“An attempt! Tell me what it is. For heaven’s sake, Kyrle, don’t keep me in suspense!”

“It’s this, then. Lingen, it appears, don’t intend lodging any prisoners in Goodrich Castle. Since the affair at Beachley he has some fear of his castle being besieged; and in a siege the more mouths the worse for him. By the merest accident I heard all this yesterday; and that the party he took away from here will be sent on to Hereford under escort first thing to-morrow morning—that is this morning, since it’s now drawing up to it.”

“I think I comprehend you, Kyrle.”

“You’d be dull if you didn’t, Walwyn.”

“You mean for us to strike out along the Hereford Road, and intercept the escort?”

“Just so. ’Twill be venturing into the enemy’s ground dangerously far; but with a bold dash we may do it.”

“Wewilldo it!”

“What about leave from Massey? Do you think there will be any difficulty in our getting that?”

“I don’t anticipate any. In my case he can’t object. My command is independent of him; the troop my own; and, though now numbering little over a hundred, they are Foresters, and I’ve no fear to match them against twice their count of Lingen’s Lancers—the gentlemen of Hereford, as they style themselves.”

“Then you agree to it? We go if Massey gives permission?”

“I go, whether he gives it or not. In fact, I don’t feel much caring to ask him.”

“Egad! that may be the best way, and I’m willing to risk it too. Suppose we slip out without saying a word? Time’s everything. Our only chance with the escort will be to take them by surprise—an ambuscade. For that we’ll have to be well along the Hereford road before daylight. I know the very spot; but we must be into the saddle at once.”

“Then at once let us into it!”

Chapter Forty Eight.Between Two Prisons.In Parliamentary war times English roads were very different from what they are of to-day. Those of the shires bordering Wales were no better than bridle paths, generally following the routes of ancient British trackways, regardless of ups and downs. Travel over them was chiefly in the saddle or afoot, traffic by pack-horse, wheels rarely making mark on them save when some grand swell of the period transported his family from town to country house. Then it was a ponderous coach of the chariot order, swung on leathern springs—such as the gossipy Pepys and Sir Charles Grandison used to ride in—calling for at least four horses, with a retinue of attendants. These last armed with sword and pistol for protection against robbers, but also, pioneer fashion, carrying spade and axe to fill up ruts, patch broken bridges, and cut down obstructing trees.Where the routes ran over hills, the causeway, sunk below the level of the adjacent land, was more like the bed of a dry watercourse than a highway of travel; this due to the wear of hoof and washing away by rains. There was no Macadam then to keep the surface to its normal height by a compensating stratum of stone; and in many places the tallest horseman, on the back of a sixteen-hands horse would see a cliff on either side of him, its crest barely touchable with the stock of his whip. Often half a mile or more of this ravine-like road would be encountered, so narrow that vehicles meeting upon it could not by any possibility pass each other; one of them must needs back again, perhaps, hundreds of yards! To avoid suchcontretemps, the husbandman who had occasion to carry corn to the mill, or produce to the market town, in his huge lumbering wain, was compelled by law to announce its approach by a jangle of big bells, or the blowing of a horn!Yet over these ancient highways—many of them still in existence—the Roman legionaries of Ostorius Scapula had borne their victorious eagles; and along them many a Silurian warrior, standing erect in his scythe-winged chariot, was carried to conquest or defeat.At a later period had they echoed the tramp of armed men, when Henry the Fourth, father of Agincourt’s hero, made war upon the Welsh. Later still, twice again, in the days of the gallant Llewellyn and those of the bold Glendower; and still farther down the stream of time were they stained with blood as of brother shed by brother, when England’s people—those of Wales as well—King-mad and King-cursed, took a fancy, or frenzy, to cut one another’s throats about the colour of a rose.And now, on these same roads, two centuries later, they were again engaged in a fratricidal strife, though not as before with both sides infatuated through kingcraft. One was fighting for a better cause—the best of all—a people’s freedom. The first time they had struck blow for this or themselves; their stand for Magna Charta, so much vaunted, being a mere settling of disputes between barons and king; no quarrel of theirs, nor its results much gain to them. Neither would it be far from the truth to say, it was thelasttime for them to draw sword on the side of human liberty; indeed difficult to point out any war in which Great Britain has been engaged since not undertaken for the propping up of vile despotisms, or for selfish purposes equally vile, to the very latest of them—Zululand and Afghanistanvidelicet.But the rebellion against Charles Stuart had a far different aim, all who upheld it being actuated by higher and nobler motives; and, though the war was internecine, it need never be regretted. For on the part of England’s people it brought out many a display of courage, devotion to virtue, and other good qualities, of which any people might be proud.Nor was it all fruitless, though seeming so. From it we inherit such fragment of liberty as is left us, and to it all such aspirations turn. Not all stifled by the corruption which came immediately after under the rule of the Merry Monarch; nor yet by what followed further on, during the foul reign of “Europe’s first gentleman;” and let us hope still to survive through one foreshadowing, nay, already showing, corruption great as either.Though in the Parliamentary wars no great battle occurred in the counties of Monmouth or Hereford, in both there was much partisan strife, at first chiefly along their eastern borders. Their interior districts, save during the Earl of Stamford’s brief occupation, and Waller’s sweeping raid, had been hitherto in the hands of the Royalists; and no traveller thought of venturing on their roads who was not prepared upon challenge to cry “For the King!”Two routes were especially frequented; but more by warlike men than peaceful wayfarers. One of them ran due north and south between their respective capitals. The other passed through the same, but with a bow-like bend eastward, keeping to the valley of the Wye, and about midway communicating with the town of Ross. Between them lay a wild-wooded district of country, the ancient kingdom of Erchyn, to this day known as the Hundred of Archenfield. Through this was a third road, leading from Goodrich Castle north-west; which, on the shoulder of a high hill, Acornbury, some six miles south of Hereford, met the more direct route from Monmouth—the two thence continuing the same to the former city.On the morning of the capture of Monmouth, at the earliest hour of dawn, a cavalcade was seen issuing from the gates of Goodrich Castle, and turning along this road in the direction of Hereford. It numbered nigh an hundred files, riding “by twos,” a formation which the narrow trackway rendered compulsory. Most of the men comprising it carried the lance, a favourite weapon with Colonel Sir Henry Lingen, its commanding officer. But some twenty were without arms of any kind, though on horseback: the prisoners of whom Kyrle had spoken as likely to be transferred from Goodrich to the capital. The information accidentally received by him was correct; they were now in transit between the two places, escorted by nearly all the castle’s garrison, Lingen himself at the head.Had he known of Monmouth being in the hands of the enemy, he would not have been thus moving away from his stronghold. But, by some mischance, the messenger sent to apprise him of the disaster, did not reach Goodrich till after his departure for Hereford.Nor was his errand to the latter place solely to see his prisoners safely lodged. He had other business there, with its Governor, Sir Barnabas Scudamore; hence his going along with them. For taking such a large retinue there was the same reason. Sir Barnabas contemplated an attack on Brampton Bryan Castle; so heroically defended by Lady Brilliana Harley, who had long and repeatedly foiled his attempts to take it.The High Sheriff of Hereford county—for such was Lingen—took delight in a grand Cavalier accompaniment—many of his followers belonging to the best families of the shire—and along the route they were all jollity, talking loud, and laughing at eachjeu d’espritwhich chanced to be sprung. Just come from hard blows at Beachley, and crowded quarters in Monmouth, they were on the way to a city of more pretension, and promising sweeter delights. Hereford was at the time a centre of distinction, full of gentry from the surrounding shires; above all, abounding in the feminine element, with many faces reputed fair. Lingen’s gallants meant to have a carousal in the capital city, and knew they would there find the ways and means, with willing hosts to entertain them.Different the thoughts of those whom they were conducting thither as captives. No such prospects to cheer or enliven them; but the reverse, as their experience of prison life had already taught them.Most of all was Eustace Trevor dejected, for he was among them. It had been a trying week for the ex-gentleman-usher. Captured, wounded—by good fortune but slightly—transported from prison to prison, taunted as a rebel, and treated as a felon, he was even more mortified than sad. Enraged also to the end of his wits; he the proud son of Sir William Trevor to be thus submitted to ignominy and insult; he to whom, at Whitehall Palace, but two short years before, earls and dukes had shown subservience, believing him the favourite of a Queen!Harrowing the reflections, and bitter the chagrin, he was now enduring, though the Queen had nought to do with them. All centred on a simple girl, in whose eyes he had hoped to appear a hero. Instead, he had proved himself an imbecile; been caught as in a trap! What would she—Vaga Powell—think of him now?Oft since his capture had he anathematised his ill-fate—oft lamented it. And never more chafed at it than on this morning while being marched towards Hereford. While at Monmouth he had entertained a hope of getting rescued. A rumour of the affair at Beachley had penetrated his prison; and he knew Massey had been long contemplating an expedition across the Forest and over the Wye. But Hereford was in the heart of the enemy’s country, a very centre of Royalist strength and rule. Not much chance of his being delivered there; instead, every mile nearer to it the likelier his captivity to be of long continuance.Hope had all but forsaken him; yet, in this his darkest hour of despondence, a ray of it scintillated through his mind, once more inspiring him with thoughts of escape. For something like a possibility had presented itself, in the shape of a horse—his own. The same animal he bestrode in his combat with Sir Richard Walwyn, and that had shown such spirit after a journey of nigh fifty miles. Many a fifty miles had it borne him since, carried him safe through many a hostile encounter.He was not riding it now, alas! but astride the sorriest of nags. “Saladin,” the name of the tried and trusty steed, had been taken from him at Hollymead, and become the property of a common soldier, one of those who had assisted in his capture, the same now having him in especial charge. For each of the prisoners was guarded by one of the escort riding alongside.It was by a mere accidental coincidence that the late and present owners of Saladin were thus brought into juxtaposition; and at first the former only thought of its singularity, with some vexation at having been deprived of his favourite charger, which he was not likely to recover again. By-and-by, however, the circumstance became suggestive. He knew the mettle of the horse, no man better. Perhaps, had Sir Harry Lingen, or any of his officers, known it as well, a common trooper would not have been bestriding it. But as yet the animal’s merits remained undiscovered by them, none supposing that in heels it could distance all in their cavalcade, and in bottom run them dead down.On this, and things collateral, had Eustace Trevor commenced reflecting; hence his new-sprung hope. Wounded, with his arm in a sling, he was not bound—such precaution seeming superfluous. Besides, badly mounted as he was, any attempt at flight would have been absurd, and could but end in his being almost instantly retaken. So no one thought of his making it, save himself; but he did—had been cogitating upon it all along the way.“If I could but get on Saladin’s back!” was his mental soliloquy, “I’d risk it. Three lengths of start—ay, one—and they might whistle after me. Their firelocks and lances all slung, pistols in the holsters buckled up; none dreaming of—Oh! were I but in that saddle!”It was his own saddle to which he referred, now between the legs of the trooper, who had appropriated it also.Every now and then his eyes were turned towards the horse in keen, covetous look; which the man at length observing, said,—“Maybe ye’d like to get him back, Master Captain? He be precious good stuff; an’ I don’t wonder if ye would. Do ye weesh it?”It was just the question Saladin’sci-devantowner desired to be asked, and he was on the eve of answering impressively, “Very much.” A reflection restraining him, he replied, in a careless indifferent way,—“Well, I shouldn’t mind—if you care to part with him.”“That would depend on what ye be willin’ to gie. How much?”This was a puzzler. What had he to give? Nothing! At his capture they had stripped him clean, rifled his pockets, torn from his hat the jewelled clasp and egret’s plume—that trophy of sweet remembrance. Even since, in Monmouth gaol, they had made free with certain articles of his attire; so that he was not only unarmed and purseless, but rather shabbily dressed; anything but able to make purchase of a horse, however moderate the price.Would the man take a promise of payment at some future time—his word for it? The proposal was made; a tempting sum offered, to be handed over soon as the would-be purchaser could have the money sent him by his friends; but rejected.“That’s no dependence, an’ a fig for your friends?” was the coarse response of the sceptical trooper. “If ye can’t show no better surety for payin’, I hold on to the horse, an’ you maun go without him. ’Sides, Master Captain, what use the anymal to ye inside o’ a prison, where’s yer like to be shut up, Lord knows how long?”“Ah, true!” returned the young officer, with a sigh, and look of apparent resignation. “Still, corporal,”—the man had acheveronon his sleeve—“it’s killing work to ride such a brute as this. If only for the rest of the way to Hereford, I’d give something to exchange saddles with you.”“If ye had it to gie, I dare say ye would,” rejoined the corporal, with a satirical grin, as he ran his eye over the bare habiliments of his prisoner. “But as ye han’t, what be the use palaverin’ ’bout it? Till ye can show better reezon for my accommodatin’ you, we’ll both stick to the saddles we be in.”This seemed to clinch the question; and for a time Eustace Trevor was silent, feeling foiled. But before going much farther a remembrance came to his aid, which promised him a better mount than the Rosinante he was riding—in short, Saladin’s self. The wound he had received was a lance thrust in the left wrist—only a prick, but when done deluging the hand in blood. This running down his fingers had almost glued them together, and the kerchief hastily wrapped round had stayed there ever since, concealing a ring which, seen by any of the Cavalier soldiers, would have been quickly cribbed. None had seen it; he himself having almost forgotten the thing, till now, with sharpened wits, he recalled its being there; knew it to be worth the accommodation denied him, and likely to obtain it.“Well, corporal,” he said, returning to the subject, “I should have liked a ride on the horse, if only for old times’ sake, and the little chance of my ever getting one again. But I’d be sorry to have you exchange without some compensation. Still, I fancy, I can give you that without drawing upon time.”The trooper pricked up his ears, now listening with interest. He was not inexorable; would have been willing enough to make the temporary swop, only wanted aquid pro quo.“What do you say to this?” continued the young officer.He had slipped his right hand inside the sling; and drawn forth the golden circlet, which he held out while speaking. It was a jewelled ring, the gems in cluster bedimmed with the blood that had dried and become encrusted upon them. But they sparkled enough to show it valuable; worth far more than what it was being offered for. And there was a responsive sparkle in the eyes of him who bestrode Saladin, as he hastened to say,—“That’ll do. Bargain be it?”

In Parliamentary war times English roads were very different from what they are of to-day. Those of the shires bordering Wales were no better than bridle paths, generally following the routes of ancient British trackways, regardless of ups and downs. Travel over them was chiefly in the saddle or afoot, traffic by pack-horse, wheels rarely making mark on them save when some grand swell of the period transported his family from town to country house. Then it was a ponderous coach of the chariot order, swung on leathern springs—such as the gossipy Pepys and Sir Charles Grandison used to ride in—calling for at least four horses, with a retinue of attendants. These last armed with sword and pistol for protection against robbers, but also, pioneer fashion, carrying spade and axe to fill up ruts, patch broken bridges, and cut down obstructing trees.

Where the routes ran over hills, the causeway, sunk below the level of the adjacent land, was more like the bed of a dry watercourse than a highway of travel; this due to the wear of hoof and washing away by rains. There was no Macadam then to keep the surface to its normal height by a compensating stratum of stone; and in many places the tallest horseman, on the back of a sixteen-hands horse would see a cliff on either side of him, its crest barely touchable with the stock of his whip. Often half a mile or more of this ravine-like road would be encountered, so narrow that vehicles meeting upon it could not by any possibility pass each other; one of them must needs back again, perhaps, hundreds of yards! To avoid suchcontretemps, the husbandman who had occasion to carry corn to the mill, or produce to the market town, in his huge lumbering wain, was compelled by law to announce its approach by a jangle of big bells, or the blowing of a horn!

Yet over these ancient highways—many of them still in existence—the Roman legionaries of Ostorius Scapula had borne their victorious eagles; and along them many a Silurian warrior, standing erect in his scythe-winged chariot, was carried to conquest or defeat.

At a later period had they echoed the tramp of armed men, when Henry the Fourth, father of Agincourt’s hero, made war upon the Welsh. Later still, twice again, in the days of the gallant Llewellyn and those of the bold Glendower; and still farther down the stream of time were they stained with blood as of brother shed by brother, when England’s people—those of Wales as well—King-mad and King-cursed, took a fancy, or frenzy, to cut one another’s throats about the colour of a rose.

And now, on these same roads, two centuries later, they were again engaged in a fratricidal strife, though not as before with both sides infatuated through kingcraft. One was fighting for a better cause—the best of all—a people’s freedom. The first time they had struck blow for this or themselves; their stand for Magna Charta, so much vaunted, being a mere settling of disputes between barons and king; no quarrel of theirs, nor its results much gain to them. Neither would it be far from the truth to say, it was thelasttime for them to draw sword on the side of human liberty; indeed difficult to point out any war in which Great Britain has been engaged since not undertaken for the propping up of vile despotisms, or for selfish purposes equally vile, to the very latest of them—Zululand and Afghanistanvidelicet.

But the rebellion against Charles Stuart had a far different aim, all who upheld it being actuated by higher and nobler motives; and, though the war was internecine, it need never be regretted. For on the part of England’s people it brought out many a display of courage, devotion to virtue, and other good qualities, of which any people might be proud.

Nor was it all fruitless, though seeming so. From it we inherit such fragment of liberty as is left us, and to it all such aspirations turn. Not all stifled by the corruption which came immediately after under the rule of the Merry Monarch; nor yet by what followed further on, during the foul reign of “Europe’s first gentleman;” and let us hope still to survive through one foreshadowing, nay, already showing, corruption great as either.

Though in the Parliamentary wars no great battle occurred in the counties of Monmouth or Hereford, in both there was much partisan strife, at first chiefly along their eastern borders. Their interior districts, save during the Earl of Stamford’s brief occupation, and Waller’s sweeping raid, had been hitherto in the hands of the Royalists; and no traveller thought of venturing on their roads who was not prepared upon challenge to cry “For the King!”

Two routes were especially frequented; but more by warlike men than peaceful wayfarers. One of them ran due north and south between their respective capitals. The other passed through the same, but with a bow-like bend eastward, keeping to the valley of the Wye, and about midway communicating with the town of Ross. Between them lay a wild-wooded district of country, the ancient kingdom of Erchyn, to this day known as the Hundred of Archenfield. Through this was a third road, leading from Goodrich Castle north-west; which, on the shoulder of a high hill, Acornbury, some six miles south of Hereford, met the more direct route from Monmouth—the two thence continuing the same to the former city.

On the morning of the capture of Monmouth, at the earliest hour of dawn, a cavalcade was seen issuing from the gates of Goodrich Castle, and turning along this road in the direction of Hereford. It numbered nigh an hundred files, riding “by twos,” a formation which the narrow trackway rendered compulsory. Most of the men comprising it carried the lance, a favourite weapon with Colonel Sir Henry Lingen, its commanding officer. But some twenty were without arms of any kind, though on horseback: the prisoners of whom Kyrle had spoken as likely to be transferred from Goodrich to the capital. The information accidentally received by him was correct; they were now in transit between the two places, escorted by nearly all the castle’s garrison, Lingen himself at the head.

Had he known of Monmouth being in the hands of the enemy, he would not have been thus moving away from his stronghold. But, by some mischance, the messenger sent to apprise him of the disaster, did not reach Goodrich till after his departure for Hereford.

Nor was his errand to the latter place solely to see his prisoners safely lodged. He had other business there, with its Governor, Sir Barnabas Scudamore; hence his going along with them. For taking such a large retinue there was the same reason. Sir Barnabas contemplated an attack on Brampton Bryan Castle; so heroically defended by Lady Brilliana Harley, who had long and repeatedly foiled his attempts to take it.

The High Sheriff of Hereford county—for such was Lingen—took delight in a grand Cavalier accompaniment—many of his followers belonging to the best families of the shire—and along the route they were all jollity, talking loud, and laughing at eachjeu d’espritwhich chanced to be sprung. Just come from hard blows at Beachley, and crowded quarters in Monmouth, they were on the way to a city of more pretension, and promising sweeter delights. Hereford was at the time a centre of distinction, full of gentry from the surrounding shires; above all, abounding in the feminine element, with many faces reputed fair. Lingen’s gallants meant to have a carousal in the capital city, and knew they would there find the ways and means, with willing hosts to entertain them.

Different the thoughts of those whom they were conducting thither as captives. No such prospects to cheer or enliven them; but the reverse, as their experience of prison life had already taught them.

Most of all was Eustace Trevor dejected, for he was among them. It had been a trying week for the ex-gentleman-usher. Captured, wounded—by good fortune but slightly—transported from prison to prison, taunted as a rebel, and treated as a felon, he was even more mortified than sad. Enraged also to the end of his wits; he the proud son of Sir William Trevor to be thus submitted to ignominy and insult; he to whom, at Whitehall Palace, but two short years before, earls and dukes had shown subservience, believing him the favourite of a Queen!

Harrowing the reflections, and bitter the chagrin, he was now enduring, though the Queen had nought to do with them. All centred on a simple girl, in whose eyes he had hoped to appear a hero. Instead, he had proved himself an imbecile; been caught as in a trap! What would she—Vaga Powell—think of him now?

Oft since his capture had he anathematised his ill-fate—oft lamented it. And never more chafed at it than on this morning while being marched towards Hereford. While at Monmouth he had entertained a hope of getting rescued. A rumour of the affair at Beachley had penetrated his prison; and he knew Massey had been long contemplating an expedition across the Forest and over the Wye. But Hereford was in the heart of the enemy’s country, a very centre of Royalist strength and rule. Not much chance of his being delivered there; instead, every mile nearer to it the likelier his captivity to be of long continuance.

Hope had all but forsaken him; yet, in this his darkest hour of despondence, a ray of it scintillated through his mind, once more inspiring him with thoughts of escape. For something like a possibility had presented itself, in the shape of a horse—his own. The same animal he bestrode in his combat with Sir Richard Walwyn, and that had shown such spirit after a journey of nigh fifty miles. Many a fifty miles had it borne him since, carried him safe through many a hostile encounter.

He was not riding it now, alas! but astride the sorriest of nags. “Saladin,” the name of the tried and trusty steed, had been taken from him at Hollymead, and become the property of a common soldier, one of those who had assisted in his capture, the same now having him in especial charge. For each of the prisoners was guarded by one of the escort riding alongside.

It was by a mere accidental coincidence that the late and present owners of Saladin were thus brought into juxtaposition; and at first the former only thought of its singularity, with some vexation at having been deprived of his favourite charger, which he was not likely to recover again. By-and-by, however, the circumstance became suggestive. He knew the mettle of the horse, no man better. Perhaps, had Sir Harry Lingen, or any of his officers, known it as well, a common trooper would not have been bestriding it. But as yet the animal’s merits remained undiscovered by them, none supposing that in heels it could distance all in their cavalcade, and in bottom run them dead down.

On this, and things collateral, had Eustace Trevor commenced reflecting; hence his new-sprung hope. Wounded, with his arm in a sling, he was not bound—such precaution seeming superfluous. Besides, badly mounted as he was, any attempt at flight would have been absurd, and could but end in his being almost instantly retaken. So no one thought of his making it, save himself; but he did—had been cogitating upon it all along the way.

“If I could but get on Saladin’s back!” was his mental soliloquy, “I’d risk it. Three lengths of start—ay, one—and they might whistle after me. Their firelocks and lances all slung, pistols in the holsters buckled up; none dreaming of—Oh! were I but in that saddle!”

It was his own saddle to which he referred, now between the legs of the trooper, who had appropriated it also.

Every now and then his eyes were turned towards the horse in keen, covetous look; which the man at length observing, said,—

“Maybe ye’d like to get him back, Master Captain? He be precious good stuff; an’ I don’t wonder if ye would. Do ye weesh it?”

It was just the question Saladin’sci-devantowner desired to be asked, and he was on the eve of answering impressively, “Very much.” A reflection restraining him, he replied, in a careless indifferent way,—

“Well, I shouldn’t mind—if you care to part with him.”

“That would depend on what ye be willin’ to gie. How much?”

This was a puzzler. What had he to give? Nothing! At his capture they had stripped him clean, rifled his pockets, torn from his hat the jewelled clasp and egret’s plume—that trophy of sweet remembrance. Even since, in Monmouth gaol, they had made free with certain articles of his attire; so that he was not only unarmed and purseless, but rather shabbily dressed; anything but able to make purchase of a horse, however moderate the price.

Would the man take a promise of payment at some future time—his word for it? The proposal was made; a tempting sum offered, to be handed over soon as the would-be purchaser could have the money sent him by his friends; but rejected.

“That’s no dependence, an’ a fig for your friends?” was the coarse response of the sceptical trooper. “If ye can’t show no better surety for payin’, I hold on to the horse, an’ you maun go without him. ’Sides, Master Captain, what use the anymal to ye inside o’ a prison, where’s yer like to be shut up, Lord knows how long?”

“Ah, true!” returned the young officer, with a sigh, and look of apparent resignation. “Still, corporal,”—the man had acheveronon his sleeve—“it’s killing work to ride such a brute as this. If only for the rest of the way to Hereford, I’d give something to exchange saddles with you.”

“If ye had it to gie, I dare say ye would,” rejoined the corporal, with a satirical grin, as he ran his eye over the bare habiliments of his prisoner. “But as ye han’t, what be the use palaverin’ ’bout it? Till ye can show better reezon for my accommodatin’ you, we’ll both stick to the saddles we be in.”

This seemed to clinch the question; and for a time Eustace Trevor was silent, feeling foiled. But before going much farther a remembrance came to his aid, which promised him a better mount than the Rosinante he was riding—in short, Saladin’s self. The wound he had received was a lance thrust in the left wrist—only a prick, but when done deluging the hand in blood. This running down his fingers had almost glued them together, and the kerchief hastily wrapped round had stayed there ever since, concealing a ring which, seen by any of the Cavalier soldiers, would have been quickly cribbed. None had seen it; he himself having almost forgotten the thing, till now, with sharpened wits, he recalled its being there; knew it to be worth the accommodation denied him, and likely to obtain it.

“Well, corporal,” he said, returning to the subject, “I should have liked a ride on the horse, if only for old times’ sake, and the little chance of my ever getting one again. But I’d be sorry to have you exchange without some compensation. Still, I fancy, I can give you that without drawing upon time.”

The trooper pricked up his ears, now listening with interest. He was not inexorable; would have been willing enough to make the temporary swop, only wanted aquid pro quo.

“What do you say to this?” continued the young officer.

He had slipped his right hand inside the sling; and drawn forth the golden circlet, which he held out while speaking. It was a jewelled ring, the gems in cluster bedimmed with the blood that had dried and become encrusted upon them. But they sparkled enough to show it valuable; worth far more than what it was being offered for. And there was a responsive sparkle in the eyes of him who bestrode Saladin, as he hastened to say,—“That’ll do. Bargain be it?”

Chapter Forty Nine.An Uphill Chase.At sight of the glistening gems a sudden change had come over the features of the trooper, their expression of surliness being displaced by that of intense cupidity. But for this he might have considered why the offer of such valuable consideration for so trifling a service. As it was, he had no suspicion of it; though on both sides the dialogue had been carried on in guarded undertone. For this their reasons were distinct, each having his own. That of the prisoner is already known; while a simple instinct had guided the corporal—a fear that the negotiation between them might not be altogether agreeable to his superiors.More cautious than ever after declaring it a bargain, he glanced furtively to the front, then rearward, to assure himself they had not been overheard, nor theirtête-à-têtenoticed by any of the officers.It seemed all right, none of these being near; and his next thought was how to effect the exchange agreed upon. The files were wide apart, with very little order in the line of march—a circumstance observed by Eustace Trevor with satisfaction, as likely to help him in his design. They were passing though a district unoccupied by any enemy and where surprise was the last thing to be thought of. But even straggled out as was the troop, any transfer of horses, however adroitly done, would not only be remarked upon, but cause a block in the marching column, the which might bring about inquiry as to the reason, and the guard, if not the prisoner, into trouble.“Ye maun ha’ patience for a bit,” said the former, in view of the difficulty. “’Tan’t safe for me to be seen changin’ horses on the road. But ye won’t ha’ long to wait; only till we get to the bottom o’ that hill ye see ahead, Acornbury it be called. There we can do the thing.”“Why there?”The question was put with a special object, apart from the questioner’s impatience.“Cause o’ an inn that be theer. It stand this side o’ where the pitch begins. The Sheriff always stops at it goin’ from Goodrich to Hereford, an’ he be sure o’ makin’ halt the day. When’s we be halted—ye comprehend, Captain?”The man had grown civil almost to friendliness. The prospect of becoming possessed of a valuable ring for but an hour’s loan of his new horse had worked wonders. Could he but have known that he was hypothecating the more valuable animal with but slight chance of redeeming it, the bargain would have been off on the instant. His avarice blinded him; and his prisoner now felt good as sure he would soon have Saladin once more between his knees.“I do comprehend—quite,” was the young officer’s satisfied response; and they rode on without further speech, both purposely refraining from it.The corporal might have saved his breath in imparting the situation of the inn under Acornbury Hill. Eustace Trevor knew the house well as he; perhaps better, having more than once baited his horse there. Familiar was he with the roads and country around, not so far from his native place by Abergavenny. Besides, he had an uncle who lived nearer, and as a boy, with his cousins, had ridden and sported all over the district. This topographical knowledge was now likely to stand him in stead; and as he thought of the Monmouth road joining that he was on near the head of Acornbury pitch, he fairly trembled with excitement. Could he but reach their point of junction on Saladin’s back he would be free.How he longed to arrive at the roadside hostelry! Every second seemed a minute, every minute an hour!It was reached at length, and his suspense brought to an end. True to expectation, a halt was commanded; and the extended line, closing up, came to a stand on the open ground before the inn. A scrambling house of antique architecture, its swing sign suspended from the limb of an oaken giant, whose spreading branches shadowed a large space in front.Under this Lingen and his officers made stop, still keeping to their saddles, and calling to Boniface and his assistants to serve them there. It was only for a draught they had drawn up, the journey too short to need resting their horses. Nor was there any dismounting among the rank and file rearward, save where some trooper whose girths had got loosened took the opportunity to drop down and tighten them.Seeming to do the same was the corporal in charge of Eustace Trevor, his prisoner too, both on the ground together. Only an instant till they were in the saddle again, but with changed horses, and the blood-crusted ring at the bottom of the corporal’s pocket. Meanwhile the officers under the tree had got served, and, cups in hand, were quaffing joyously. In high glee all; for the sun, now well up, promised a day gloriously fine, and they were about to make entry into Hereford with flying colours. Nearly twenty prisoners, it would be as a triumphal procession.A cry, strangely intoned, brought their merriment to an abrupt end; a chorus of shouts, quick following with the clatter of hoofs. Turning, they saw one on horseback just parting from the troop, as if his horse had bolted and was running away with him!But no. “Prisoner escaping!” came the call, as every one could now see it was. The man in rich garb, but soiled and torn; the horse a bit of blood none of their prisoners had been riding. One of the officers they had taken—which?The question was answered by the High Sheriff himself—“Zounds! it’s that young renegade, Trevor! He mustn’t escape, gentlemen. All after him!”Down went tankards and flagons, dashed to the ground, spilling the wine they had not time to drink; and off all set, swords drawn, and spurs buried rowel deep.The common men, save those cumbered with prisoners, joined in the pursuit; some unslinging lances or firelocks, others plucking pistols from their holsters.“Shoot!” shouted Lingen. “Bring him down, or the horse!”It was the critical moment for the fugitive, and in modern days would have been fatal to him. But the oldsnap-hansand clumsy horse pistol of the Stuart times were little reliable for a shot upon the wing, and as a winged bird Saladin was sweeping away. Both volley and straggling fire failed to stay him; and ere the pursuers were well laid on, the pursued was at least fifty lengths ahead of the foremost.Up the hill, towards Hereford, was he heading! This a surprise to all. In that direction were only his enemies; and he could as easily have gone off in the opposite, with hope of getting to Gloucester. At starting he had even to pass the group of officers under the tree. And why setting his face for Hereford—as it were rushing out of one trap to run into another?He knew better. Fleeing to the capital of the county was the farthest thing from his thoughts. His goal was Monmouth; but first the forking of the roads on the shoulder of Acornbury Hill. That reached, with nocontretempsbetween, he might bid defiance to the clattering ruck in his rear.The distance he was so rapidly gaining upon them told him he had not been mistaken about the superior qualities of his steed. If the latter should show bottom as it already had heels, his chances of escape were good. And the omens seemed all in his favour: his own horse so oddly restored to him; the luck of that ring left un-pilfered during his imprisonment; and, lastly, to have come unscathed out of the shower of bullets sent after him! They had whistled past his ears, not one touching him or the horse.He thought of these things when far enough ahead to reflect; and the farther he rode the greater grew his confidence. Saladin would be sure to justify his good opinion of him.And Saladin seemed to quite comprehend the situation. He at least knew his real owner and master was once more on his back, which meant something. And having received word and sign for best speed—the first “On!” the last a peculiar pressure of the rider’s knees—he needed no urging of whip or spur. Without them he was doing his utmost.Up the pitch went he as hare against hill; up the channel-like trackway between escarpments of the old red sandstone that looked like artificial walls; on upward, breasting the steep with as much apparent ease as though he galloped along level ground. No fear of anything equine overtaking him; no danger now, for the pursuers were out of sight round many turnings of the road; the hue and cry was growing fainter and farther off, and the stone which marked the forking of the routes would soon be in sight.Eustace Trevor’s heart throbbed with emotions it had long been a stranger to, for they were sweet. He now felt good as sure he would get off, and to escape in such fashion would do something to restore his soldierly repute, forfeited by the affair of Hollymead. Nothing had more exasperated him than his facile capture there; above all, the light in which a certain lady would regard it; but now he could claim credit for a deed—“Not done yet!” was his muttered exclamation, interrupting the pleasant train of thought, as he reined his horse to a sudden halt.He was approaching the head of the pitch, had almost surmounted it, when he saw what seemed to tell him his attempt at escape was a failure; all his strategy, with the swiftness of his steed, to no purpose. A party of mounted men, just breaking cover from among some trees, and aligning themselves across the road. At the same instant came the customary hail,—“Who are you for?”The dazzle of the sun right before his face, and behind their backs, hindered his seeing aught to give a clue to their character—only the glance of arms and accoutrements proclaiming them soldiers. And as no soldiers were like to be there save on the Royalist side, to declare himself truthfully, and respond “For the Parliament,” would be to pronounce his own doom. Yet he hated in his heart to cry “For the King.” Nor would the deception serve him. They coming on behind would soon be up, and lay it bare.He glanced to right and left, only to see that he was still between high banks of the sunken causeway. On neither side a possibility of scaling them to escape across country. It was but a question, then, to which he should surrender—the foe in front, or that he had late eluded?There was not much to choose between them; in either case he would be returned to the Sheriff of Hereford; but to cut short suspense he decided on giving himself up at once. The road was blocked by the party of horse, and, weaponless, to attempt running the gauntlet of them would be to get piked out of his saddle, or cut to pieces in it.These observations and reflections occupied but an instant, to end in his responding,—“For the Parliament?”He might as well make a clean breast of it, and tell the truth.“We see you are. Come on!”Surprised was he at the rejoinder as at the voice that gave utterance to it, which seemed familiar to him. But his surprise became astonishment when the speaker added, “Quick, Trevor! we’re in ambuscade;” and drawing nearer, the sun now out of his eyes, he saw that well-known banneret, with sword-pierced crown in its field, waving above the head of Sir Richard Walwyn!

At sight of the glistening gems a sudden change had come over the features of the trooper, their expression of surliness being displaced by that of intense cupidity. But for this he might have considered why the offer of such valuable consideration for so trifling a service. As it was, he had no suspicion of it; though on both sides the dialogue had been carried on in guarded undertone. For this their reasons were distinct, each having his own. That of the prisoner is already known; while a simple instinct had guided the corporal—a fear that the negotiation between them might not be altogether agreeable to his superiors.

More cautious than ever after declaring it a bargain, he glanced furtively to the front, then rearward, to assure himself they had not been overheard, nor theirtête-à-têtenoticed by any of the officers.

It seemed all right, none of these being near; and his next thought was how to effect the exchange agreed upon. The files were wide apart, with very little order in the line of march—a circumstance observed by Eustace Trevor with satisfaction, as likely to help him in his design. They were passing though a district unoccupied by any enemy and where surprise was the last thing to be thought of. But even straggled out as was the troop, any transfer of horses, however adroitly done, would not only be remarked upon, but cause a block in the marching column, the which might bring about inquiry as to the reason, and the guard, if not the prisoner, into trouble.

“Ye maun ha’ patience for a bit,” said the former, in view of the difficulty. “’Tan’t safe for me to be seen changin’ horses on the road. But ye won’t ha’ long to wait; only till we get to the bottom o’ that hill ye see ahead, Acornbury it be called. There we can do the thing.”

“Why there?”

The question was put with a special object, apart from the questioner’s impatience.

“Cause o’ an inn that be theer. It stand this side o’ where the pitch begins. The Sheriff always stops at it goin’ from Goodrich to Hereford, an’ he be sure o’ makin’ halt the day. When’s we be halted—ye comprehend, Captain?”

The man had grown civil almost to friendliness. The prospect of becoming possessed of a valuable ring for but an hour’s loan of his new horse had worked wonders. Could he but have known that he was hypothecating the more valuable animal with but slight chance of redeeming it, the bargain would have been off on the instant. His avarice blinded him; and his prisoner now felt good as sure he would soon have Saladin once more between his knees.

“I do comprehend—quite,” was the young officer’s satisfied response; and they rode on without further speech, both purposely refraining from it.

The corporal might have saved his breath in imparting the situation of the inn under Acornbury Hill. Eustace Trevor knew the house well as he; perhaps better, having more than once baited his horse there. Familiar was he with the roads and country around, not so far from his native place by Abergavenny. Besides, he had an uncle who lived nearer, and as a boy, with his cousins, had ridden and sported all over the district. This topographical knowledge was now likely to stand him in stead; and as he thought of the Monmouth road joining that he was on near the head of Acornbury pitch, he fairly trembled with excitement. Could he but reach their point of junction on Saladin’s back he would be free.

How he longed to arrive at the roadside hostelry! Every second seemed a minute, every minute an hour!

It was reached at length, and his suspense brought to an end. True to expectation, a halt was commanded; and the extended line, closing up, came to a stand on the open ground before the inn. A scrambling house of antique architecture, its swing sign suspended from the limb of an oaken giant, whose spreading branches shadowed a large space in front.

Under this Lingen and his officers made stop, still keeping to their saddles, and calling to Boniface and his assistants to serve them there. It was only for a draught they had drawn up, the journey too short to need resting their horses. Nor was there any dismounting among the rank and file rearward, save where some trooper whose girths had got loosened took the opportunity to drop down and tighten them.

Seeming to do the same was the corporal in charge of Eustace Trevor, his prisoner too, both on the ground together. Only an instant till they were in the saddle again, but with changed horses, and the blood-crusted ring at the bottom of the corporal’s pocket. Meanwhile the officers under the tree had got served, and, cups in hand, were quaffing joyously. In high glee all; for the sun, now well up, promised a day gloriously fine, and they were about to make entry into Hereford with flying colours. Nearly twenty prisoners, it would be as a triumphal procession.

A cry, strangely intoned, brought their merriment to an abrupt end; a chorus of shouts, quick following with the clatter of hoofs. Turning, they saw one on horseback just parting from the troop, as if his horse had bolted and was running away with him!

But no. “Prisoner escaping!” came the call, as every one could now see it was. The man in rich garb, but soiled and torn; the horse a bit of blood none of their prisoners had been riding. One of the officers they had taken—which?

The question was answered by the High Sheriff himself—

“Zounds! it’s that young renegade, Trevor! He mustn’t escape, gentlemen. All after him!”

Down went tankards and flagons, dashed to the ground, spilling the wine they had not time to drink; and off all set, swords drawn, and spurs buried rowel deep.

The common men, save those cumbered with prisoners, joined in the pursuit; some unslinging lances or firelocks, others plucking pistols from their holsters.

“Shoot!” shouted Lingen. “Bring him down, or the horse!”

It was the critical moment for the fugitive, and in modern days would have been fatal to him. But the oldsnap-hansand clumsy horse pistol of the Stuart times were little reliable for a shot upon the wing, and as a winged bird Saladin was sweeping away. Both volley and straggling fire failed to stay him; and ere the pursuers were well laid on, the pursued was at least fifty lengths ahead of the foremost.

Up the hill, towards Hereford, was he heading! This a surprise to all. In that direction were only his enemies; and he could as easily have gone off in the opposite, with hope of getting to Gloucester. At starting he had even to pass the group of officers under the tree. And why setting his face for Hereford—as it were rushing out of one trap to run into another?

He knew better. Fleeing to the capital of the county was the farthest thing from his thoughts. His goal was Monmouth; but first the forking of the roads on the shoulder of Acornbury Hill. That reached, with nocontretempsbetween, he might bid defiance to the clattering ruck in his rear.

The distance he was so rapidly gaining upon them told him he had not been mistaken about the superior qualities of his steed. If the latter should show bottom as it already had heels, his chances of escape were good. And the omens seemed all in his favour: his own horse so oddly restored to him; the luck of that ring left un-pilfered during his imprisonment; and, lastly, to have come unscathed out of the shower of bullets sent after him! They had whistled past his ears, not one touching him or the horse.

He thought of these things when far enough ahead to reflect; and the farther he rode the greater grew his confidence. Saladin would be sure to justify his good opinion of him.

And Saladin seemed to quite comprehend the situation. He at least knew his real owner and master was once more on his back, which meant something. And having received word and sign for best speed—the first “On!” the last a peculiar pressure of the rider’s knees—he needed no urging of whip or spur. Without them he was doing his utmost.

Up the pitch went he as hare against hill; up the channel-like trackway between escarpments of the old red sandstone that looked like artificial walls; on upward, breasting the steep with as much apparent ease as though he galloped along level ground. No fear of anything equine overtaking him; no danger now, for the pursuers were out of sight round many turnings of the road; the hue and cry was growing fainter and farther off, and the stone which marked the forking of the routes would soon be in sight.

Eustace Trevor’s heart throbbed with emotions it had long been a stranger to, for they were sweet. He now felt good as sure he would get off, and to escape in such fashion would do something to restore his soldierly repute, forfeited by the affair of Hollymead. Nothing had more exasperated him than his facile capture there; above all, the light in which a certain lady would regard it; but now he could claim credit for a deed—

“Not done yet!” was his muttered exclamation, interrupting the pleasant train of thought, as he reined his horse to a sudden halt.

He was approaching the head of the pitch, had almost surmounted it, when he saw what seemed to tell him his attempt at escape was a failure; all his strategy, with the swiftness of his steed, to no purpose. A party of mounted men, just breaking cover from among some trees, and aligning themselves across the road. At the same instant came the customary hail,—“Who are you for?”

The dazzle of the sun right before his face, and behind their backs, hindered his seeing aught to give a clue to their character—only the glance of arms and accoutrements proclaiming them soldiers. And as no soldiers were like to be there save on the Royalist side, to declare himself truthfully, and respond “For the Parliament,” would be to pronounce his own doom. Yet he hated in his heart to cry “For the King.” Nor would the deception serve him. They coming on behind would soon be up, and lay it bare.

He glanced to right and left, only to see that he was still between high banks of the sunken causeway. On neither side a possibility of scaling them to escape across country. It was but a question, then, to which he should surrender—the foe in front, or that he had late eluded?

There was not much to choose between them; in either case he would be returned to the Sheriff of Hereford; but to cut short suspense he decided on giving himself up at once. The road was blocked by the party of horse, and, weaponless, to attempt running the gauntlet of them would be to get piked out of his saddle, or cut to pieces in it.

These observations and reflections occupied but an instant, to end in his responding,—

“For the Parliament?”

He might as well make a clean breast of it, and tell the truth.

“We see you are. Come on!”

Surprised was he at the rejoinder as at the voice that gave utterance to it, which seemed familiar to him. But his surprise became astonishment when the speaker added, “Quick, Trevor! we’re in ambuscade;” and drawing nearer, the sun now out of his eyes, he saw that well-known banneret, with sword-pierced crown in its field, waving above the head of Sir Richard Walwyn!

Back to IndexNext