Chapter Sixty.

Chapter Sixty.Quartered upon the Enemy.Night had descended over Hollymead. A dark night, too, though there was no lack of light inside the house or around it. Nearing November the atmosphere had a frosty feel, and great wood fires were burning in the wide chimney places of the reception rooms. Without, in the centre of the courtyard, a very bonfire had been kindled, which sent its red glare and glow to the most distant corner of the inclosure. Around this were seated or standing, in every variety of attitude, such of the common soldiers of the escort as were not upon duty. Carousing, of course. For the rank and file of the Royalist army, especially that portion of it which acted under Rupert, followed the fashion of their officers; and one of the affectations of Cavalierism was to display a superior capacity for indulgence in drink.About the house they had found the wherewithal to give them a good supper, with more than drink enough to wash it down. For when Monmouth fell into the hands of the Parliamentarians, the Master of Hollymead, thinking it safe, had done something to restock his pastures, as also replenish larder and cellars! And once more these were in the way of getting speedily depleted; the thirsty troopers around the courtyard fire quaffing at free tap from a cask of ale they had rolled out upon the pavement; while they bandied coarse jests, told indecent stories, or sang songs of like character, roaring in chorus.Inside there was revelry also. Of a less rude kind; still revelry, and coarse enough, considering that they who indulged in it composed theentourageof a Prince. In the dining-hall was it being held, around a table on which stood a varied assortment of bottles and decanters, goblets and glasses. There had been a repast upon it, that same dinner-supper; but the dishes anddébrisof solids had been removed, and only the drinking materials remained. Nearly a score of guests encircled it, all gentlemen; and all in military uniform—being the officers of the escort—not a man in citizen garb seen among them. For the master of the house was not at the head of his own table, as might have been expected. Instead, shut up in one of the rooms adjacent; its door locked, and a sentry stationed outside!His daughters were upstairs, in their private apartment, from which they had never come down. Through the window they had seen their father brought back under guard, as a felon; saw it with indignation, but also fear. Greater became the last, when told they could not hold speech with him, or have access to the room in which he was confined. Denied interview with their own father, in their own house! Inhumanity that augured ill for what was to come after.What this might be they could neither tell nor guess. They even feared to reflect upon it; trembling at every footstep on the stairs. Though no key had been turned upon them, nor sentry set at their door, they were as much imprisoned as their father. For the Prince’s retinue of servants filled the house, tramping and roaming about everywhere, and bullying the family domestics. It was not safe to go out among them; and the young ladies had locked themselves up, dreading insult, if not absolute outrage. Even Gwenthian dared not trust herself downstairs, and shared their confinement.What did it all mean? Why such change in the behaviour of the Prince, so late pretending amiability? For his people must have sanction, or they would not be so acting.The explanation was simple, withal. Shortly after Rupert’s arrival at Hollymead, a courier, who had followed him from Monmouth, brought tidings of another Royalist reverse—Chepstow, with its castle, taken or closely beleaguered. Exasperated by the intelligence, he no longer resisted the wicked proposals of Lunsford, but gave willing assent to them. And now, having thrown off the mask, he had determined on taking the whole Powell family back with him to Bristol. As his prisoner there he could do with the “bit of saucy sweetness” as it might please him; as he had done with many other unfortunate women whom the chances of war had brought within his wanton embrace.It had been all settled, save some details about the departure from Hollymead, the time, and the return route. These were now being discussed between him and the commanding officer of his escort, as they sate at a side table to which they had temporarily withdrawn, to be out of earshot, of the others.“Should we remain here for the night,meinColonel, or make back to Monmouth? We can get there before midnight.”“That we could, easily enough, your Highness. But why go by Monmouth at all?”“Why not?”“There are two reasons against it, Prince. Both good ones.”“Give them, Sir Thomas.”“If it be true that Chepstow’s lost to us, there may be a difficulty in our crossing the Wye down there. Or getting over to the Aust passage of the Severn, with such a weak force as attends your Highness.”“Gott! yes; I perceive that. But what’s your other reason against Monmouth way?”“A more delicate one. To pass through that town with such a captive train as your Highness will have might give tongue for scandal. The venerable Marquis of Worcester is rather squeamish; besides not being your best friend. You know that, Prince?”“I do know it, and will some day make him sorry for it, the old Papist hypocrite. But what other route would you have us take?”“Down through the Forest direct, and across the Severn, either at Newnham or Westbury. There’s a ferry at both places, with horse-boats enough to take us all over in a trip or two. We may reach Berkeley Castle before daylight; where, if it be your Highness’s pleasure to lie up for the day, you could enter Bristol on the following night without all the world being the wiser as to the sort of prisoners we carried in.”“Egad! your reasons are good. I’m inclined to follow your advice, and return by the route you speak of. Are you well acquainted with it,meinColonel?”“Reasonably well, your Highness. But Captain Trevor knows it better than I. He was longer with Sir John Wintour, and is familiar with every crook and turn of the Forest roads in that quarter. There can be no danger of our going astray.”“But the night’s dark as pitch. So one has just told me.”“True it is now, your Highness. But there’ll be a moon this side midnight, and that will be time enough to start. We can make Berkeley before morning—prisoners, crossing the Severn, and all delays notwithstanding. Next night your Highness may sleep in your own bed within the walls of Bristol Castle, with a sweet creature to share it—whom I need not designate by name.”“Sheshallshare it!” rejoined the Royal reprobate, in reckless, but determined tone, his wicked passions fired by the wine he had been drinking. “And we go that way, Colonel. So see that all be ready for the route soon as the moon shows her sweet face. Meanwhile, let us back to our comrades and be merry.”Saying which he returned to the chair he had vacated at the head of the table, the other along with him; then, grasping a filled goblet, he called out the Cavalier’s orthodox sentiment “The Wenches!” adding,—“Colonel Lunsford will respond with a song, gentlemen!”Which the Colonel did; giving that they liked best, with a chorus they could all join in,—“We’ll drink, drink;And our goblets clink,Quaffing the blood-red wine.The wenches we’ll toast,And the Roundheads we’ll roast,The Croppies and all their kind.”The coarse refrain, with the ribald jests that followed it, could be heard all over the house, reaching the ears of its imprisoned owner. Even those of his daughters, more distant, did not escape being offended by them. No wonder at both having in their hearts, if not on their lips, the prayer,—“God speed Win upon her errand!”

Night had descended over Hollymead. A dark night, too, though there was no lack of light inside the house or around it. Nearing November the atmosphere had a frosty feel, and great wood fires were burning in the wide chimney places of the reception rooms. Without, in the centre of the courtyard, a very bonfire had been kindled, which sent its red glare and glow to the most distant corner of the inclosure. Around this were seated or standing, in every variety of attitude, such of the common soldiers of the escort as were not upon duty. Carousing, of course. For the rank and file of the Royalist army, especially that portion of it which acted under Rupert, followed the fashion of their officers; and one of the affectations of Cavalierism was to display a superior capacity for indulgence in drink.

About the house they had found the wherewithal to give them a good supper, with more than drink enough to wash it down. For when Monmouth fell into the hands of the Parliamentarians, the Master of Hollymead, thinking it safe, had done something to restock his pastures, as also replenish larder and cellars! And once more these were in the way of getting speedily depleted; the thirsty troopers around the courtyard fire quaffing at free tap from a cask of ale they had rolled out upon the pavement; while they bandied coarse jests, told indecent stories, or sang songs of like character, roaring in chorus.

Inside there was revelry also. Of a less rude kind; still revelry, and coarse enough, considering that they who indulged in it composed theentourageof a Prince. In the dining-hall was it being held, around a table on which stood a varied assortment of bottles and decanters, goblets and glasses. There had been a repast upon it, that same dinner-supper; but the dishes anddébrisof solids had been removed, and only the drinking materials remained. Nearly a score of guests encircled it, all gentlemen; and all in military uniform—being the officers of the escort—not a man in citizen garb seen among them. For the master of the house was not at the head of his own table, as might have been expected. Instead, shut up in one of the rooms adjacent; its door locked, and a sentry stationed outside!

His daughters were upstairs, in their private apartment, from which they had never come down. Through the window they had seen their father brought back under guard, as a felon; saw it with indignation, but also fear. Greater became the last, when told they could not hold speech with him, or have access to the room in which he was confined. Denied interview with their own father, in their own house! Inhumanity that augured ill for what was to come after.

What this might be they could neither tell nor guess. They even feared to reflect upon it; trembling at every footstep on the stairs. Though no key had been turned upon them, nor sentry set at their door, they were as much imprisoned as their father. For the Prince’s retinue of servants filled the house, tramping and roaming about everywhere, and bullying the family domestics. It was not safe to go out among them; and the young ladies had locked themselves up, dreading insult, if not absolute outrage. Even Gwenthian dared not trust herself downstairs, and shared their confinement.

What did it all mean? Why such change in the behaviour of the Prince, so late pretending amiability? For his people must have sanction, or they would not be so acting.

The explanation was simple, withal. Shortly after Rupert’s arrival at Hollymead, a courier, who had followed him from Monmouth, brought tidings of another Royalist reverse—Chepstow, with its castle, taken or closely beleaguered. Exasperated by the intelligence, he no longer resisted the wicked proposals of Lunsford, but gave willing assent to them. And now, having thrown off the mask, he had determined on taking the whole Powell family back with him to Bristol. As his prisoner there he could do with the “bit of saucy sweetness” as it might please him; as he had done with many other unfortunate women whom the chances of war had brought within his wanton embrace.

It had been all settled, save some details about the departure from Hollymead, the time, and the return route. These were now being discussed between him and the commanding officer of his escort, as they sate at a side table to which they had temporarily withdrawn, to be out of earshot, of the others.

“Should we remain here for the night,meinColonel, or make back to Monmouth? We can get there before midnight.”

“That we could, easily enough, your Highness. But why go by Monmouth at all?”

“Why not?”

“There are two reasons against it, Prince. Both good ones.”

“Give them, Sir Thomas.”

“If it be true that Chepstow’s lost to us, there may be a difficulty in our crossing the Wye down there. Or getting over to the Aust passage of the Severn, with such a weak force as attends your Highness.”

“Gott! yes; I perceive that. But what’s your other reason against Monmouth way?”

“A more delicate one. To pass through that town with such a captive train as your Highness will have might give tongue for scandal. The venerable Marquis of Worcester is rather squeamish; besides not being your best friend. You know that, Prince?”

“I do know it, and will some day make him sorry for it, the old Papist hypocrite. But what other route would you have us take?”

“Down through the Forest direct, and across the Severn, either at Newnham or Westbury. There’s a ferry at both places, with horse-boats enough to take us all over in a trip or two. We may reach Berkeley Castle before daylight; where, if it be your Highness’s pleasure to lie up for the day, you could enter Bristol on the following night without all the world being the wiser as to the sort of prisoners we carried in.”

“Egad! your reasons are good. I’m inclined to follow your advice, and return by the route you speak of. Are you well acquainted with it,meinColonel?”

“Reasonably well, your Highness. But Captain Trevor knows it better than I. He was longer with Sir John Wintour, and is familiar with every crook and turn of the Forest roads in that quarter. There can be no danger of our going astray.”

“But the night’s dark as pitch. So one has just told me.”

“True it is now, your Highness. But there’ll be a moon this side midnight, and that will be time enough to start. We can make Berkeley before morning—prisoners, crossing the Severn, and all delays notwithstanding. Next night your Highness may sleep in your own bed within the walls of Bristol Castle, with a sweet creature to share it—whom I need not designate by name.”

“Sheshallshare it!” rejoined the Royal reprobate, in reckless, but determined tone, his wicked passions fired by the wine he had been drinking. “And we go that way, Colonel. So see that all be ready for the route soon as the moon shows her sweet face. Meanwhile, let us back to our comrades and be merry.”

Saying which he returned to the chair he had vacated at the head of the table, the other along with him; then, grasping a filled goblet, he called out the Cavalier’s orthodox sentiment “The Wenches!” adding,—

“Colonel Lunsford will respond with a song, gentlemen!”

Which the Colonel did; giving that they liked best, with a chorus they could all join in,—

“We’ll drink, drink;And our goblets clink,Quaffing the blood-red wine.The wenches we’ll toast,And the Roundheads we’ll roast,The Croppies and all their kind.”

“We’ll drink, drink;And our goblets clink,Quaffing the blood-red wine.The wenches we’ll toast,And the Roundheads we’ll roast,The Croppies and all their kind.”

The coarse refrain, with the ribald jests that followed it, could be heard all over the house, reaching the ears of its imprisoned owner. Even those of his daughters, more distant, did not escape being offended by them. No wonder at both having in their hearts, if not on their lips, the prayer,—“God speed Win upon her errand!”

Chapter Sixty One.A Courageous Wader.The Severn was in flood, its wide valley a sheet of water, which extended miles from either bank, and far up north towards Worcester. Viewed from an eminence, it looked as if the primeval sea which once washed the foots of the Malvern Hills had rolled back over its ancient bed.The city of Gloucester seemed standing on an island, some of its houses, that lay low, submerged, and only approachable by boats; while the causeways of the roads leading from it were under water, in places to a depth of several feet.This it was which had hindered Ambrose Powell arriving at Hollymead House many hours earlier than that on which he was taken to it a prisoner. For, soon as receiving news of the re-capture of Monmouth, instinctively apprehending danger to the dear ones so unwisely left alone, he had hurriedly started homeward; to be delayed by the obstructing flood. Nearing home with heart a prey to anxiety, harassed by the thought of his own imprudence; at length reaching it to find his worst fears realised; himself no longer free.The waters still prevailing in the Severn Valley and around Gloucester, it seemed impossible to enter that city, save by boat. Yet on that same night a pedestrian could have been seen making towards it from the direction of Mitcheldean; one who meant it as the objective point of her journey—for it was a woman.The great cathedral clock was just tolling nine p.m. as she descended into the lowlands near Highnam, and came to a stop by the edge of the inundated district. It was dark, the moon still below the horizon; but her precursory rays, reflected from fleecy clouds above it, threw a faint light over the aqueous surface, sufficient to make objects distinguishable at a good hundred yards’ distance. Copses that seemed islets, with the tufted heads of pollarded willows rising weirdlike out of the water, were the conspicuous features of the flooded landscape. Rows of the latter marked the boundaries of meadows; but two running parallel, with a narrower list between, indicated the causeway of the road.The woman had approached this point at a rapid pace; and, though brought to a stand, it was but a momentary pause, without thought of turning back. Her attitude, and the expression upon her features, told of a determination to continue on, and get inside Gloucester if that were possible. In all haste, too; for as the strokes of the great clock-bell came booming over the water, she counted them with evident anxiety, in fear of their tolling ten instead of nine. Even the lesser number seemed scarcely to satisfy her; as if, withal, she might be too late for the business she was bent upon.She but waited for the final reverberation; then, drawing her skirts knee high, walked boldly into the flood, and onward.Ankle-deep at the first step, she was soon in water that washed around her garters. Here and there, with a current too, which threatened to sweep her off her feet. But it did not deter her from advancing; and on went she, without stop or show of hesitation; no sign of quailing in her eye.At knee’s depth, as ere long she was, still enough of her showed above the surface to represent the stature of an ordinary woman. For she was not an ordinary woman, in height or otherwise—being Winny, the cadgeress.On tramped the courageous wader, on plunged, till the water was up to mid thigh. No more then did her face show fear; nor sign of intention to turn back. She would have gone on, had it come to swimming. For swim she could; many the time having bathed her body in both Severn and Wye. That was not needed now, though very near it. Even over the raised ridge of the causeway the flood was feet deep. But, familiar with the route, having the landmarks in her memory—for it was not her first time to travel that road when submerged—she knew all its turns and bearings; how to take them; took them; and at length having passed the deepest depths, saw before her the Severn’s bridge, with its elevatedtête-de-pont; and, beyond, the massive tower of the cathedral, amidst a surrounding of roofs and chimneys.Her perilous journey was near its end, the toilsome journey nigh over; and she felt happy. For, as through frost some twelve months before, she had approached Bristol with pleasant anticipations, so now was she about to enter Gloucester with the same, and from a similar cause.Her expectancy was realised sooner than she had hoped for; the result identical to a degree of oddness. For just as upon that night at Bristol, so on this at Gloucester, Rob Wilde chanced to be guard-sergeant of the gate by which she sought admission.And once again went their great arms around each other; their lips closing in kisses loud and fervent as ever.“God Almighty, Win!” he exclaimed, still holding her in honest, amorous embrace, “what bet now? Why hast thee comed hither through the flood? Dear girl! ye be’s wet up to the—”“No matter how high, Rob,” she said, interrupting, “if ’twor up to the neck, there be good reasons for’t.”“What reasons?”“News I ha’ brought frae Ruardean; rayther us ought say Hollymead.”“Bad news be they? I needn’t axe; I see’t in your face.”“Bad enough; though nothin’ more than might ha’ been expected after the Cavalières bein’ back at Monnerth, an’ master’s theer. Ye ha’ heerd that, I suppose?”“Oh, certainly! The news got here day afore yesterday, in the night. But fra Hollymead?”“A troop o’ ’em there, numberin’ nigh two hundred; horse sodjers in scarlet, wi’ all sorts o’ grand trappins; the Prince Rupert’s they be. Us ha’ come wi’ a message to Sir Richard. So I needn’t tell ye who’t be from.”“No, you needn’t. I can guess. Then ye maun see him at once?”“Wi’ not a minute’s delay. Us ha’ got a letter for him; an’ she as sent it sayed the deliverin’ be a thing o’ life an’ death. I knows that myself, Rob.”“Come along, love! The colonel be in his quarters, I think. He wor by the gate here only a short whiles ago, and gied me orders for reportin’ to him there. Another kiss, Win dear, fore’s we get into company.”The favour was conceded soon as asked; and, after another hug, with more, than one osculation, the two great figures moved off side by side through the darkness.

The Severn was in flood, its wide valley a sheet of water, which extended miles from either bank, and far up north towards Worcester. Viewed from an eminence, it looked as if the primeval sea which once washed the foots of the Malvern Hills had rolled back over its ancient bed.

The city of Gloucester seemed standing on an island, some of its houses, that lay low, submerged, and only approachable by boats; while the causeways of the roads leading from it were under water, in places to a depth of several feet.

This it was which had hindered Ambrose Powell arriving at Hollymead House many hours earlier than that on which he was taken to it a prisoner. For, soon as receiving news of the re-capture of Monmouth, instinctively apprehending danger to the dear ones so unwisely left alone, he had hurriedly started homeward; to be delayed by the obstructing flood. Nearing home with heart a prey to anxiety, harassed by the thought of his own imprudence; at length reaching it to find his worst fears realised; himself no longer free.

The waters still prevailing in the Severn Valley and around Gloucester, it seemed impossible to enter that city, save by boat. Yet on that same night a pedestrian could have been seen making towards it from the direction of Mitcheldean; one who meant it as the objective point of her journey—for it was a woman.

The great cathedral clock was just tolling nine p.m. as she descended into the lowlands near Highnam, and came to a stop by the edge of the inundated district. It was dark, the moon still below the horizon; but her precursory rays, reflected from fleecy clouds above it, threw a faint light over the aqueous surface, sufficient to make objects distinguishable at a good hundred yards’ distance. Copses that seemed islets, with the tufted heads of pollarded willows rising weirdlike out of the water, were the conspicuous features of the flooded landscape. Rows of the latter marked the boundaries of meadows; but two running parallel, with a narrower list between, indicated the causeway of the road.

The woman had approached this point at a rapid pace; and, though brought to a stand, it was but a momentary pause, without thought of turning back. Her attitude, and the expression upon her features, told of a determination to continue on, and get inside Gloucester if that were possible. In all haste, too; for as the strokes of the great clock-bell came booming over the water, she counted them with evident anxiety, in fear of their tolling ten instead of nine. Even the lesser number seemed scarcely to satisfy her; as if, withal, she might be too late for the business she was bent upon.

She but waited for the final reverberation; then, drawing her skirts knee high, walked boldly into the flood, and onward.

Ankle-deep at the first step, she was soon in water that washed around her garters. Here and there, with a current too, which threatened to sweep her off her feet. But it did not deter her from advancing; and on went she, without stop or show of hesitation; no sign of quailing in her eye.

At knee’s depth, as ere long she was, still enough of her showed above the surface to represent the stature of an ordinary woman. For she was not an ordinary woman, in height or otherwise—being Winny, the cadgeress.

On tramped the courageous wader, on plunged, till the water was up to mid thigh. No more then did her face show fear; nor sign of intention to turn back. She would have gone on, had it come to swimming. For swim she could; many the time having bathed her body in both Severn and Wye. That was not needed now, though very near it. Even over the raised ridge of the causeway the flood was feet deep. But, familiar with the route, having the landmarks in her memory—for it was not her first time to travel that road when submerged—she knew all its turns and bearings; how to take them; took them; and at length having passed the deepest depths, saw before her the Severn’s bridge, with its elevatedtête-de-pont; and, beyond, the massive tower of the cathedral, amidst a surrounding of roofs and chimneys.

Her perilous journey was near its end, the toilsome journey nigh over; and she felt happy. For, as through frost some twelve months before, she had approached Bristol with pleasant anticipations, so now was she about to enter Gloucester with the same, and from a similar cause.

Her expectancy was realised sooner than she had hoped for; the result identical to a degree of oddness. For just as upon that night at Bristol, so on this at Gloucester, Rob Wilde chanced to be guard-sergeant of the gate by which she sought admission.

And once again went their great arms around each other; their lips closing in kisses loud and fervent as ever.

“God Almighty, Win!” he exclaimed, still holding her in honest, amorous embrace, “what bet now? Why hast thee comed hither through the flood? Dear girl! ye be’s wet up to the—”

“No matter how high, Rob,” she said, interrupting, “if ’twor up to the neck, there be good reasons for’t.”

“What reasons?”

“News I ha’ brought frae Ruardean; rayther us ought say Hollymead.”

“Bad news be they? I needn’t axe; I see’t in your face.”

“Bad enough; though nothin’ more than might ha’ been expected after the Cavalières bein’ back at Monnerth, an’ master’s theer. Ye ha’ heerd that, I suppose?”

“Oh, certainly! The news got here day afore yesterday, in the night. But fra Hollymead?”

“A troop o’ ’em there, numberin’ nigh two hundred; horse sodjers in scarlet, wi’ all sorts o’ grand trappins; the Prince Rupert’s they be. Us ha’ come wi’ a message to Sir Richard. So I needn’t tell ye who’t be from.”

“No, you needn’t. I can guess. Then ye maun see him at once?”

“Wi’ not a minute’s delay. Us ha’ got a letter for him; an’ she as sent it sayed the deliverin’ be a thing o’ life an’ death. I knows that myself, Rob.”

“Come along, love! The colonel be in his quarters, I think. He wor by the gate here only a short whiles ago, and gied me orders for reportin’ to him there. Another kiss, Win dear, fore’s we get into company.”

The favour was conceded soon as asked; and, after another hug, with more, than one osculation, the two great figures moved off side by side through the darkness.

Chapter Sixty Two.Their Dear Ones in Danger.As the sergeant conjectured, Colonel Walwyn was in his quarters; Eustace Trevor, his almost constant companion, along with him. The ever-active Governor of Gloucester was absent on another of his many expeditions, and had left Colonel Broughton in chief command of the garrison, Sir Richard commanding its cavalry force, with a separate jurisdiction.The duties of the day over, with all guards stationed for the night, he, with his young troop captain, having just completed the “Grand Rounds,” had returned to quarters, and taken seat by a brisk wood fire; the night, as already said, being chill.Hubert was bustling about in attendance upon them; for, though a gaudy trumpeter, he took delight in serving his revered colonel in every possible capacity. There was nothing menial in waiting upon such a master—so thought the faithful henchman.He had uncorked a bottle of claret, and placed it on the table between them, which they proceeded to discuss as they reviewed the events of the day. The knight was no anchorite, neither theci-devantgentleman-usher; both accustomed to take their wine in a moderate way. And both habitually cheerful, save when some reverse of arms gave reason for their being otherwise.Such there was now, or lately had been—that of Monmouth still in their minds. Sir Richard regretted not having been himself charged to keep the place he had been chiefly instrumental in capturing. Had it been so, the enemy would not so easily have retaken it. That he might well think or say, without any self-conceit. For in the most blundering manner had Major Throgmorton, left in temporary command, managed its defence; in truth, making no defence at all, but allowing the Royalists to re-enter almost without striking blow.The affair was truly farcical, however serious for the Parliament. Its County Committee was at the time in session; decreeing fines and sequestrations against the Monmouthshire “malignants”; when all at once confronted by the very men with whose estates and chattels they were playing at confiscation; these armed, and angrily vociferating—“Surrender! you are our prisoners!”Never were judicial deliberations brought to a more abrupt ending; never transfer of authority more ludicrously sudden. Though it was aught but a jesting matter to the dispossessed ones, who from a comfortable council-chamber were instantly hurried off to the cells of a dismal jail.Of course the Cavaliers made much fun over the affair; while reversely their adversaries were chagrined and humiliated by it.Few grieved over the event in a greater degree than Colonel Walwyn and Captain Eustace Trevor; for they had special reasons.“I only wish I’d known of that danger when we got Massey’s order to march hither,” observed the former, as they sat sipping their wine.“What would you have done, Sir Richard?”“Disobeyed it; and marched our men in opposite direction—to Monmouth.”“Ah, true! A pity you didn’t. It might have been the saving of the place.”“No use lamenting the disaster now it’s done. Would that the taking of the town were all you and I, Trevor, have concern about! Unfortunately it isn’t. What madness leaving the girls at Hollymead—absolute insanity?”“It was. I thought so at the time, as did Vaga.”“Sabrina too; everybody but Powell himself. He couldn’t be convinced there was any danger; and I still hope there may not be. But who knows what the upshot now? I tremble to think of it.”“It’s to be regretted, we didn’t more press him to come away with us.”“Oh! that would have been of no use. I did urge it on him—far as I could becomingly. But he had one of his obstinate, pig-headed fits upon him that day, and would listen to no reason. It’s not pleasant having to speak so of him, whom we both look forward to as our future father-in-law; but when he’s in that frame of mind Heaven and earth wouldn’t move him. Nor the devil frighten him either. You remember how he braved Lunsford, and that precious cousin of yours, when they came to collect the King’s loan. True, he had us, and something besides, at his back. But without that he’d have defied them all the same; ay, had the whole Royalist army been there threatening him with instant death.”“That I fully believe. Yet one cannot help admiring his independence of spirit—so much of manhood in it, and so rare!”“Ay, true. But in that case too much recklessness. It has begot danger, and may bring disaster upon all of us—if it hasn’t already.”The last words, spoken in a grave, almost despondent tone, fell unpleasantly on the ear of Eustace Trevor, already sufficiently apprehensive of the thing hinted at.“In what way, colonel?” he queried anxiously. “Are you thinking of any special danger?”“I am, indeed; and to our dear ones.”“But how? From what—whom?”“Rather ask ‘from where?’ and I’ll answer ‘Monmouth.’ Now that the Royalists are masters there, almost for certain they’ll be raiding up into the Forest; and likely, too likely, a party pay visit to Hollymead. That, as you know, Trevor, were danger enough to those we have fears for?”“But now that their father has gone to fetch them away? He should be there long before this.”“And long before this may be too late. Just what I’m most anxious about—the time of his arrival at Hollymead; for I know he won’t stay there an instant. Poor man! he’s sadly repentant of his imprudent act, and will make all haste to bring them back with him. The fear is of the flood having delayed him too long at starting—my fear.”“Good Heavens?” exclaimed the young officer; “let us hope not.”“If Massey were here,” continued the other, a thought striking him, “I’d ask leave to go after him. Indeed, I feel half-inclined to take it, without asking.”“And why not, Colonel? We could be at Ruardean and back before morning—riding at a pace.”Sir Richard was silent, seeming to ponder. Only for a few seconds; when, as if resolved, he sprang to his feet, saying,—“I’ll risk it, whatever the result. And we shall start at once, taking our own fellows along with us. Hubert!”Quick as the call came the trumpeter from aft ante-room, where he had stayed in waiting. To receive the order,—“To the men’s quarters, and sound the ‘Assembly’! Lose not a moment!”And not a moment lost the trumpeter, knowing that when Colonel Walwyn gave an order in such excited strain it meant promptest obedience. Snatching up his trumpet, as he hurried out through the ante-room, he was in the street in an instant hurrying towards the cavalry quarters.

As the sergeant conjectured, Colonel Walwyn was in his quarters; Eustace Trevor, his almost constant companion, along with him. The ever-active Governor of Gloucester was absent on another of his many expeditions, and had left Colonel Broughton in chief command of the garrison, Sir Richard commanding its cavalry force, with a separate jurisdiction.

The duties of the day over, with all guards stationed for the night, he, with his young troop captain, having just completed the “Grand Rounds,” had returned to quarters, and taken seat by a brisk wood fire; the night, as already said, being chill.

Hubert was bustling about in attendance upon them; for, though a gaudy trumpeter, he took delight in serving his revered colonel in every possible capacity. There was nothing menial in waiting upon such a master—so thought the faithful henchman.

He had uncorked a bottle of claret, and placed it on the table between them, which they proceeded to discuss as they reviewed the events of the day. The knight was no anchorite, neither theci-devantgentleman-usher; both accustomed to take their wine in a moderate way. And both habitually cheerful, save when some reverse of arms gave reason for their being otherwise.

Such there was now, or lately had been—that of Monmouth still in their minds. Sir Richard regretted not having been himself charged to keep the place he had been chiefly instrumental in capturing. Had it been so, the enemy would not so easily have retaken it. That he might well think or say, without any self-conceit. For in the most blundering manner had Major Throgmorton, left in temporary command, managed its defence; in truth, making no defence at all, but allowing the Royalists to re-enter almost without striking blow.

The affair was truly farcical, however serious for the Parliament. Its County Committee was at the time in session; decreeing fines and sequestrations against the Monmouthshire “malignants”; when all at once confronted by the very men with whose estates and chattels they were playing at confiscation; these armed, and angrily vociferating—“Surrender! you are our prisoners!”

Never were judicial deliberations brought to a more abrupt ending; never transfer of authority more ludicrously sudden. Though it was aught but a jesting matter to the dispossessed ones, who from a comfortable council-chamber were instantly hurried off to the cells of a dismal jail.

Of course the Cavaliers made much fun over the affair; while reversely their adversaries were chagrined and humiliated by it.

Few grieved over the event in a greater degree than Colonel Walwyn and Captain Eustace Trevor; for they had special reasons.

“I only wish I’d known of that danger when we got Massey’s order to march hither,” observed the former, as they sat sipping their wine.

“What would you have done, Sir Richard?”

“Disobeyed it; and marched our men in opposite direction—to Monmouth.”

“Ah, true! A pity you didn’t. It might have been the saving of the place.”

“No use lamenting the disaster now it’s done. Would that the taking of the town were all you and I, Trevor, have concern about! Unfortunately it isn’t. What madness leaving the girls at Hollymead—absolute insanity?”

“It was. I thought so at the time, as did Vaga.”

“Sabrina too; everybody but Powell himself. He couldn’t be convinced there was any danger; and I still hope there may not be. But who knows what the upshot now? I tremble to think of it.”

“It’s to be regretted, we didn’t more press him to come away with us.”

“Oh! that would have been of no use. I did urge it on him—far as I could becomingly. But he had one of his obstinate, pig-headed fits upon him that day, and would listen to no reason. It’s not pleasant having to speak so of him, whom we both look forward to as our future father-in-law; but when he’s in that frame of mind Heaven and earth wouldn’t move him. Nor the devil frighten him either. You remember how he braved Lunsford, and that precious cousin of yours, when they came to collect the King’s loan. True, he had us, and something besides, at his back. But without that he’d have defied them all the same; ay, had the whole Royalist army been there threatening him with instant death.”

“That I fully believe. Yet one cannot help admiring his independence of spirit—so much of manhood in it, and so rare!”

“Ay, true. But in that case too much recklessness. It has begot danger, and may bring disaster upon all of us—if it hasn’t already.”

The last words, spoken in a grave, almost despondent tone, fell unpleasantly on the ear of Eustace Trevor, already sufficiently apprehensive of the thing hinted at.

“In what way, colonel?” he queried anxiously. “Are you thinking of any special danger?”

“I am, indeed; and to our dear ones.”

“But how? From what—whom?”

“Rather ask ‘from where?’ and I’ll answer ‘Monmouth.’ Now that the Royalists are masters there, almost for certain they’ll be raiding up into the Forest; and likely, too likely, a party pay visit to Hollymead. That, as you know, Trevor, were danger enough to those we have fears for?”

“But now that their father has gone to fetch them away? He should be there long before this.”

“And long before this may be too late. Just what I’m most anxious about—the time of his arrival at Hollymead; for I know he won’t stay there an instant. Poor man! he’s sadly repentant of his imprudent act, and will make all haste to bring them back with him. The fear is of the flood having delayed him too long at starting—my fear.”

“Good Heavens?” exclaimed the young officer; “let us hope not.”

“If Massey were here,” continued the other, a thought striking him, “I’d ask leave to go after him. Indeed, I feel half-inclined to take it, without asking.”

“And why not, Colonel? We could be at Ruardean and back before morning—riding at a pace.”

Sir Richard was silent, seeming to ponder. Only for a few seconds; when, as if resolved, he sprang to his feet, saying,—

“I’ll risk it, whatever the result. And we shall start at once, taking our own fellows along with us. Hubert!”

Quick as the call came the trumpeter from aft ante-room, where he had stayed in waiting. To receive the order,—

“To the men’s quarters, and sound the ‘Assembly’! Lose not a moment!”

And not a moment lost the trumpeter, knowing that when Colonel Walwyn gave an order in such excited strain it meant promptest obedience. Snatching up his trumpet, as he hurried out through the ante-room, he was in the street in an instant hurrying towards the cavalry quarters.

Chapter Sixty Three.An Exciting Epistle.“Trevor!” cried the colonel to his troop captain, now also upon his feet, and sharing his excitement; “send out an orderly to summon Harley and our other officers. Perhaps you had best go yourself. You know where to find them, I suppose?”“I think I do, colonel.”“Use all despatch. As we’ve made up our minds to this thing, the sooner we’re in the saddle the better.”The counsel to make haste was little called for. Eustace Trevor itched to be in the saddle, as ever disciple of Saint Hubert on the first day of foxhunting. But just as he was about to step over the threshold of the outer door, he saw a party approaching evidently with the design to enter. Two individuals they were, a man and woman, still within the dim light of the overshadowing houses. For all, he had no difficulty in recognising them. Colossal stature as theirs was far from common; the pair being Rob Wilde and Winny.He saw them with some surprise—at least the woman. For he had not expected seeing her there. There she was, though; and, as quick intuition told him, her presence might have some bearing on that he was about to issue forth, for he awaited their coming up.Soon they stood at the door, face to face with him; the sergeant saluting soldier fashion, while the woman curtseyed.“You, Winifred!” exclaimed the young officer. “I was not aware of your being in Gloucester.”“Her han’t been in it more’n ten minutes, captain,” said the sergeant, speaking for her. “I ha’ just lets her in at the gate. Her be wantin’ a word wi’ the colonel.”“She’ll be welcome to that, I’m sure. But first go in yourself and see.”This was in accordance with military etiquette, indeed regulations; no stranger admitted to the presence of a commanding officer without being announced, and permission given. Rob himself came not under the rule, and was about to pass inside; when a thought occurring to Captain Trevor, the latter turned upon his heel and preceded him.“Well, Wilde, what is it?” asked Sir Richard, as they entered the room. Eagerly, too, seeing that the features of the big sergeant wore a portentous expression. “Any trouble with your gate-guard?”“No, Colonel; nothin’ o’ that.”“Some news come in?”“Just so, Sir Richard; an’ not o’ the best neyther.”“Indeed! What news? Whence?”“Fra Ruardean, or, to speak more partickler, fra Hollymead House.”Both colonel and captain were now all ears. No spot on the habitable globe had such interest for them as Hollymead House, and from nowhere was intelligence so eagerly desired.“Tell it, sergeant!” was the impatient command.“A party o’ the King’s soldiers be quartered there—cavalry.”“O God?” exclaimed Eustace Trevor, almost in a groan; the knight also showing grievously affected. “How did you get this news?”“Win ha’ brought it.”“Win?”“Yes, colonel. Her be outside the door—waitin’ permission to speak wi’ you. She ha’ been trusted wi’ a letter from the young ladies.”“Bring her in—instantly!”“Singular coincidence, Trevor!” said Sir Richard, as the sergeant passed out. “Already at Hollymead! Just what we’ve been fearing!”“Indeed, so. And all the more reason for our being there too.”“I wonder who they are. Lingen’s, think you?”“Rob says they’re quartered there. That would hardly be Lingen’s—so near his own garrison at Goodrich? More like some of Lord Herbert’s Horse from Monmouth. And I hope it may be they.”“Ah! true; it might be worse. But we’ll soon hear. The cadgeress can tell, no doubt; or it’ll be in the letter.”The door, reopening, showed the Forest Amazon outside, Rob conducting her in. They could see that she was wet to the waist, her saturated skirt clinging around limbs of noble outline; while her heaving bosom with the heightened colour of her cheeks, told of a journey but just completed, and made in greatest haste.“You have a letter for me?” said Sir Richard interrogatively, as she stepped inside the room. “Yes, your honner, fra Hollymead.” She spoke with hand raised to her head, as if adjusting one of the plaits of her hair. Instead, she was searching among them for the concealed epistle. Which, soon found, was handed over to him for whom it was intended.No surprise to Sir Richard at seeing a thing more like curl-paper than letter. It was not the first time for him to receive such, in a similar way; and, straightening it out under the lamplight, he was soon acquainted with its contents.So far from having the effect of allaying his excitement they but increased it, and he cried out to the sergeant, as he had to the trumpeter,—“Quick to the men’s quarters, Wilde, and help getting all ready for the route! Hubert’s there by this time, and will have sounded the ‘Assembly.’ Read that, Trevor! There’s something that concerns you,” and he handed the letter to his troop captain.The sergeant hurried away, leaving Win to be further questioned by the colonel. And while this was going on the young officer perused the epistle, to be affected by it in a similar fashion. It ran thus:—“Ill tidings, Richard. Prince Rupert here, with his escort—about two hundred. Has just arrived, and intends staying the night; indeed, till father return home, he says. I hope father will not come home, unless you come with him. I’m sure they mean him harm. That horrid man, Lunsford, is in the Prince’s suit; Reginald Trevor too. Winny will tell you more; I fear to lose time in writing.Dear Richard! come if you can.”So the body of the epistle, with below a postscript, in a different handwriting, well-known to Eustace Trevor:—“Dearest Eustace! we are in danger, Idobelieve.” The words were significant; and no form of appeal for rescue could have been more pressing. Nor was such needed; neither any urging of haste upon the men thus admonished.Never was squadron of cavalry sooner in the saddle, after getting orders, than was “Walwyn’s Horse” on that night. In less than twenty minutes later, they went at a gallop through the north-western gate of Gloucester, opened to give them exit; then on along the flooded causeway, riding rowells deep, plunging and flinging the spray-drops high in air, till every man was dripping wet, from the plume in his hat to the spurs upon his heels.

“Trevor!” cried the colonel to his troop captain, now also upon his feet, and sharing his excitement; “send out an orderly to summon Harley and our other officers. Perhaps you had best go yourself. You know where to find them, I suppose?”

“I think I do, colonel.”

“Use all despatch. As we’ve made up our minds to this thing, the sooner we’re in the saddle the better.”

The counsel to make haste was little called for. Eustace Trevor itched to be in the saddle, as ever disciple of Saint Hubert on the first day of foxhunting. But just as he was about to step over the threshold of the outer door, he saw a party approaching evidently with the design to enter. Two individuals they were, a man and woman, still within the dim light of the overshadowing houses. For all, he had no difficulty in recognising them. Colossal stature as theirs was far from common; the pair being Rob Wilde and Winny.

He saw them with some surprise—at least the woman. For he had not expected seeing her there. There she was, though; and, as quick intuition told him, her presence might have some bearing on that he was about to issue forth, for he awaited their coming up.

Soon they stood at the door, face to face with him; the sergeant saluting soldier fashion, while the woman curtseyed.

“You, Winifred!” exclaimed the young officer. “I was not aware of your being in Gloucester.”

“Her han’t been in it more’n ten minutes, captain,” said the sergeant, speaking for her. “I ha’ just lets her in at the gate. Her be wantin’ a word wi’ the colonel.”

“She’ll be welcome to that, I’m sure. But first go in yourself and see.”

This was in accordance with military etiquette, indeed regulations; no stranger admitted to the presence of a commanding officer without being announced, and permission given. Rob himself came not under the rule, and was about to pass inside; when a thought occurring to Captain Trevor, the latter turned upon his heel and preceded him.

“Well, Wilde, what is it?” asked Sir Richard, as they entered the room. Eagerly, too, seeing that the features of the big sergeant wore a portentous expression. “Any trouble with your gate-guard?”

“No, Colonel; nothin’ o’ that.”

“Some news come in?”

“Just so, Sir Richard; an’ not o’ the best neyther.”

“Indeed! What news? Whence?”

“Fra Ruardean, or, to speak more partickler, fra Hollymead House.”

Both colonel and captain were now all ears. No spot on the habitable globe had such interest for them as Hollymead House, and from nowhere was intelligence so eagerly desired.

“Tell it, sergeant!” was the impatient command.

“A party o’ the King’s soldiers be quartered there—cavalry.”

“O God?” exclaimed Eustace Trevor, almost in a groan; the knight also showing grievously affected. “How did you get this news?”

“Win ha’ brought it.”

“Win?”

“Yes, colonel. Her be outside the door—waitin’ permission to speak wi’ you. She ha’ been trusted wi’ a letter from the young ladies.”

“Bring her in—instantly!”

“Singular coincidence, Trevor!” said Sir Richard, as the sergeant passed out. “Already at Hollymead! Just what we’ve been fearing!”

“Indeed, so. And all the more reason for our being there too.”

“I wonder who they are. Lingen’s, think you?”

“Rob says they’re quartered there. That would hardly be Lingen’s—so near his own garrison at Goodrich? More like some of Lord Herbert’s Horse from Monmouth. And I hope it may be they.”

“Ah! true; it might be worse. But we’ll soon hear. The cadgeress can tell, no doubt; or it’ll be in the letter.”

The door, reopening, showed the Forest Amazon outside, Rob conducting her in. They could see that she was wet to the waist, her saturated skirt clinging around limbs of noble outline; while her heaving bosom with the heightened colour of her cheeks, told of a journey but just completed, and made in greatest haste.

“You have a letter for me?” said Sir Richard interrogatively, as she stepped inside the room. “Yes, your honner, fra Hollymead.” She spoke with hand raised to her head, as if adjusting one of the plaits of her hair. Instead, she was searching among them for the concealed epistle. Which, soon found, was handed over to him for whom it was intended.

No surprise to Sir Richard at seeing a thing more like curl-paper than letter. It was not the first time for him to receive such, in a similar way; and, straightening it out under the lamplight, he was soon acquainted with its contents.

So far from having the effect of allaying his excitement they but increased it, and he cried out to the sergeant, as he had to the trumpeter,—

“Quick to the men’s quarters, Wilde, and help getting all ready for the route! Hubert’s there by this time, and will have sounded the ‘Assembly.’ Read that, Trevor! There’s something that concerns you,” and he handed the letter to his troop captain.

The sergeant hurried away, leaving Win to be further questioned by the colonel. And while this was going on the young officer perused the epistle, to be affected by it in a similar fashion. It ran thus:—

“Ill tidings, Richard. Prince Rupert here, with his escort—about two hundred. Has just arrived, and intends staying the night; indeed, till father return home, he says. I hope father will not come home, unless you come with him. I’m sure they mean him harm. That horrid man, Lunsford, is in the Prince’s suit; Reginald Trevor too. Winny will tell you more; I fear to lose time in writing.Dear Richard! come if you can.”

So the body of the epistle, with below a postscript, in a different handwriting, well-known to Eustace Trevor:—“Dearest Eustace! we are in danger, Idobelieve.” The words were significant; and no form of appeal for rescue could have been more pressing. Nor was such needed; neither any urging of haste upon the men thus admonished.

Never was squadron of cavalry sooner in the saddle, after getting orders, than was “Walwyn’s Horse” on that night. In less than twenty minutes later, they went at a gallop through the north-western gate of Gloucester, opened to give them exit; then on along the flooded causeway, riding rowells deep, plunging and flinging the spray-drops high in air, till every man was dripping wet, from the plume in his hat to the spurs upon his heels.

Chapter Sixty Four.A House on Fire.The moon had risen, but only to be seen at intervals. Heavy cumuli drifting sluggishly athwart the sky, now and then drew curtain-like over her disk, making the earth dark as Erebus. Between these recurrent cloud eclipses, however, her light was of the clearest; for the atmosphere otherwise was without haze or mist.She was shining in full effulgence, as a body of horsemen commenced breasting the pitch which winds up from Mitcheldean to the Wilderness. Their distinctive standard was sheathed—not needing display in the night; but the green uniforms, and the cocks’-tail feathers pluming their hats, told them to be Walwyn’s Horse—the Foresters.They were still wet with the flood-water through which they had waded after clearing the gates of Gloucester. Their horses too; the coats of these further darkened by sweat, save where the flakes of white froth, tossed back on their necks and counters, gave them a piebald appearance. All betokened a terrible pace, and such had they kept up, scarce slowing for an instant from the flood’s edge till they entered the town of Mitcheldean.Then it was but a momentary halt in the street, and without leaving the saddle; just long enough to inquire whether Master Ambrose Powell had that day passed through the place. He had; late in the afternoon. On horseback, without any attendant, and apparently in great haste.“Prisoner or not, they have him at Hollymead now,” observed Sir Richard to Eustace Trevor, as they trotted on through the town to the foot of the hill where the road runs up to the Wilderness.To gallop horses already blown against that steep acclivity would have been to kill them. But the leader of the party, familiar with it, did not put them to the test; instead, commanded a walk. And while riding side by side, he and his troop captain held something of a lengthened conversation, up to that time only a few hurried words having been exchanged between them.“I wish the letter had been a little more explicit as to their numbers,” said Sir Richard. “About two hundred may mean three, or only one. A woman’s estimate is not the most reliable in such matters.”“What did the cadgeress say of it, Colonel? You questioned her, I suppose?”“Minutely; but to no purpose. She only came to the house after they had scattered all around it, and, of course, had no definite idea of their number. So we shan’t know how many we’ll have to cross swords with, till we get upon the ground.”“If we have the chance to cross swords with any. I only wish we were sure of that.”“The deuce! They may be gone away, you think?”“Rather fear it, Sir Richard. Powell must have reached Hollymead before nightfall; and if they intended making him a prisoner ’twould be done at once; with no object for their staying afterwards.”“Unless they have done a long day’s march, and meant to quarter there for the night. If they went thither direct from Bristol, which is like enough, that’s just what they’d do; stay the night, and start back for Bristol in the morning.”“I have fears, Colonel, we won’t find it so. More likely the Prince was at Monmouth on account of what’s happened there; and will return to it—has returned already.”“If so, Trevor, ’twill be a black night for you and me; a bitter disappointment, and something worse. If he’s gone from Hollymead, so will they—father, daughters, all. Rupert’s not the sort to leave such behind, with an abettor like Tom Lunsford. As for your cousin, remember how you crossed him. It’s but natural he should feel spiteful, and show it in that quarter.”“If he do, I’ll cross him worse when we come to crossing swords. And I’ll find the chance. We’ve made mutual promise to give no quarter—almost sworn it. If ill befall Vaga Powell through him, I’ll keep that promise faithfully as any oath.”“But right you should. And for settling scores you may soon have the opportunity; I trust within the hour.”“Then, Colonel,youthink they’ll still be at Hollymead.”“I hope it rather; grounding my hope on another habit of this German Prince. One he has late been indulging to excess, ’tis said.”“Drink?”“Just so. In the which Lunsford, with head hard as his heart, will stand by him cup for cup.”“But can that affect their staying at Hollymead?”“Certainly it can; probably will.”“How, Sir Richard?”“By their getting inebriated there; or, at all events, enough so to make them careless about moving off before the morning. The more, as they can’t be expecting any surprise from this side. You remember there was a fair stock of wine in the cellars when we were there, best sorts too. Let loose at that, they’re likely to stay by it as long as the tap runs.”“God grant it may run till morning then?” was the prayer of the young officer, fervently spoken. In his ways of thought and speech two years’ campaigning had made much change, deepening the gravity of one naturally of serious turn.“No matter about morning,” rejoined Sir Richard. “If it but hold out for another hour, and we find them there, something else will then be running red as the wine. Ah, Master Lunsford! One more meeting with you, that’s what I want now. If I’m lucky enough to have it this night, this night will be the last of your life.”The apostrophe, which was but a mental reflection, had reference to something Sabrina had been telling him, vividly recalled by the words in her latest letter, “that horrid man.”At the same instant, and in similar strain, was Eustace Trevor reflecting about his Cousin Reginald; making mental vow that, if Vaga suffered shame by him, neither would his life be of long endurance.By this they had surmounted the pitch, and arrived at a spot both had good reason to remember. It was the piece of level turf where once baring blades they had come so near sending one or other out of the world. Their horses remembered it too—they were still riding the same—and with a recollection which had a result quaintly comical. Soon as on the ground, without check of rein or word said, they came to a sudden halt, turned head to head, snorting and angry-like, as if expecting a renewal of the combat!All the more strange this behaviour on the part of the animals, that, since their hostile encounter, for now over two years they had been together in amiable association!A circumstance so odd, so ludicrous, could not fail to excite the risibility of their riders; and laugh both did, despite their serious mood at the moment. To their following it but caused surprise; two alone comprehending, so far as to see the fun of it. These Hubert, the trumpeter, and the “light varlit” then so near coming to blows with him, who through thick and thin, had ever since stuck to the ex-gentleman-usher, his master.No doubt the little interlude would have led to some speech about it, between the chief actors in the more serious encounter it recalled, but for something at that moment seen by them, turning their thoughts into a new channel. Away westward, beyond Drybrook, beyond Ruardean Ridge, the sky showed a clearness that had nought to do with the moon’s light; instead was ruddier, and shone brighter, as this became obscured by a thick cloud drifting over her disk. A glowing, gleaming light, unusual in a way; but natural enough regarded as the glare of a conflagration—which in reality it was.“House on fire over yonder?” cried one of the soldiers.“May be only a haystack,” suggested a second.“More like a town, judgin’ by the big blaze,” reasoned a third.“There’s no town in that direction; only Ruardean, where’s we be goin’.”“Why maunt it be Ruardean, then?” queried the first speaker; “or the church?”“An’ a good thing if’t be the church,” put in one of strong Puritan proclivities. “It want burnin’ down, as every other, wi’ their altars an’ images. They be a curse to the country; the parsons too. They’ve taken sides wi’ the stinkin’ Cavaliers, agaynst Parliament and people, all along.”“That’s true,” endorsed another of like iconoclastic sentiments; “an’ if it a’nt the church as be givin’ up that light, let’s luminate it when we get there. I go for that.”A proposal which called forth a chorus of assenting responses.While this play of words was in progress along the line of rank and file rearwards, the Colonel and Captain Trevor, at its head, were engaged in a dialogue of conjectures about the same—a brief one.“What think you it is?” asked Sir Richard, as they sat halted in their saddles regarding the garish light. “It looks to be over Ruardean, or near it.”“A fire of some kind, Colonel. No common one either.”“A farmer’s rick?”“I fear not; would we were sure of its being only that!”“Ha! A house you think?”“I do, Sir Richard.”“And—?”“The one we’re making for!”“By Heavens! I believe it is. It bears that way to a point. Ruardean’s more to the right. Yes, it must be Hollymead!”Both talked excitedly, but no more words passed between them there and then. The next heard was the command—“March—double quick!” and down the hill to Drybrook went they at a gallop over the tiny stream, and up the long winding slope round the shoulder of Ruardean Hill—without halt or draw on bridle. There only poising for an instant, as they came within view of the village and saw the conflagration was not in, but wide away from it; the glare and sparks ascending over the spot where Hollymead House should be, but was no more.As, continuing their gallop, they rode in through the park gates, it was to see a vast blazing pile, like a bonfire built by Titans—the fagots’ great beams heaped together confusedly—from which issued a hissing and crackling, with at intervals loud explosions, as from an ordnance magazine on fire.

The moon had risen, but only to be seen at intervals. Heavy cumuli drifting sluggishly athwart the sky, now and then drew curtain-like over her disk, making the earth dark as Erebus. Between these recurrent cloud eclipses, however, her light was of the clearest; for the atmosphere otherwise was without haze or mist.

She was shining in full effulgence, as a body of horsemen commenced breasting the pitch which winds up from Mitcheldean to the Wilderness. Their distinctive standard was sheathed—not needing display in the night; but the green uniforms, and the cocks’-tail feathers pluming their hats, told them to be Walwyn’s Horse—the Foresters.

They were still wet with the flood-water through which they had waded after clearing the gates of Gloucester. Their horses too; the coats of these further darkened by sweat, save where the flakes of white froth, tossed back on their necks and counters, gave them a piebald appearance. All betokened a terrible pace, and such had they kept up, scarce slowing for an instant from the flood’s edge till they entered the town of Mitcheldean.

Then it was but a momentary halt in the street, and without leaving the saddle; just long enough to inquire whether Master Ambrose Powell had that day passed through the place. He had; late in the afternoon. On horseback, without any attendant, and apparently in great haste.

“Prisoner or not, they have him at Hollymead now,” observed Sir Richard to Eustace Trevor, as they trotted on through the town to the foot of the hill where the road runs up to the Wilderness.

To gallop horses already blown against that steep acclivity would have been to kill them. But the leader of the party, familiar with it, did not put them to the test; instead, commanded a walk. And while riding side by side, he and his troop captain held something of a lengthened conversation, up to that time only a few hurried words having been exchanged between them.

“I wish the letter had been a little more explicit as to their numbers,” said Sir Richard. “About two hundred may mean three, or only one. A woman’s estimate is not the most reliable in such matters.”

“What did the cadgeress say of it, Colonel? You questioned her, I suppose?”

“Minutely; but to no purpose. She only came to the house after they had scattered all around it, and, of course, had no definite idea of their number. So we shan’t know how many we’ll have to cross swords with, till we get upon the ground.”

“If we have the chance to cross swords with any. I only wish we were sure of that.”

“The deuce! They may be gone away, you think?”

“Rather fear it, Sir Richard. Powell must have reached Hollymead before nightfall; and if they intended making him a prisoner ’twould be done at once; with no object for their staying afterwards.”

“Unless they have done a long day’s march, and meant to quarter there for the night. If they went thither direct from Bristol, which is like enough, that’s just what they’d do; stay the night, and start back for Bristol in the morning.”

“I have fears, Colonel, we won’t find it so. More likely the Prince was at Monmouth on account of what’s happened there; and will return to it—has returned already.”

“If so, Trevor, ’twill be a black night for you and me; a bitter disappointment, and something worse. If he’s gone from Hollymead, so will they—father, daughters, all. Rupert’s not the sort to leave such behind, with an abettor like Tom Lunsford. As for your cousin, remember how you crossed him. It’s but natural he should feel spiteful, and show it in that quarter.”

“If he do, I’ll cross him worse when we come to crossing swords. And I’ll find the chance. We’ve made mutual promise to give no quarter—almost sworn it. If ill befall Vaga Powell through him, I’ll keep that promise faithfully as any oath.”

“But right you should. And for settling scores you may soon have the opportunity; I trust within the hour.”

“Then, Colonel,youthink they’ll still be at Hollymead.”

“I hope it rather; grounding my hope on another habit of this German Prince. One he has late been indulging to excess, ’tis said.”

“Drink?”

“Just so. In the which Lunsford, with head hard as his heart, will stand by him cup for cup.”

“But can that affect their staying at Hollymead?”

“Certainly it can; probably will.”

“How, Sir Richard?”

“By their getting inebriated there; or, at all events, enough so to make them careless about moving off before the morning. The more, as they can’t be expecting any surprise from this side. You remember there was a fair stock of wine in the cellars when we were there, best sorts too. Let loose at that, they’re likely to stay by it as long as the tap runs.”

“God grant it may run till morning then?” was the prayer of the young officer, fervently spoken. In his ways of thought and speech two years’ campaigning had made much change, deepening the gravity of one naturally of serious turn.

“No matter about morning,” rejoined Sir Richard. “If it but hold out for another hour, and we find them there, something else will then be running red as the wine. Ah, Master Lunsford! One more meeting with you, that’s what I want now. If I’m lucky enough to have it this night, this night will be the last of your life.”

The apostrophe, which was but a mental reflection, had reference to something Sabrina had been telling him, vividly recalled by the words in her latest letter, “that horrid man.”

At the same instant, and in similar strain, was Eustace Trevor reflecting about his Cousin Reginald; making mental vow that, if Vaga suffered shame by him, neither would his life be of long endurance.

By this they had surmounted the pitch, and arrived at a spot both had good reason to remember. It was the piece of level turf where once baring blades they had come so near sending one or other out of the world. Their horses remembered it too—they were still riding the same—and with a recollection which had a result quaintly comical. Soon as on the ground, without check of rein or word said, they came to a sudden halt, turned head to head, snorting and angry-like, as if expecting a renewal of the combat!

All the more strange this behaviour on the part of the animals, that, since their hostile encounter, for now over two years they had been together in amiable association!

A circumstance so odd, so ludicrous, could not fail to excite the risibility of their riders; and laugh both did, despite their serious mood at the moment. To their following it but caused surprise; two alone comprehending, so far as to see the fun of it. These Hubert, the trumpeter, and the “light varlit” then so near coming to blows with him, who through thick and thin, had ever since stuck to the ex-gentleman-usher, his master.

No doubt the little interlude would have led to some speech about it, between the chief actors in the more serious encounter it recalled, but for something at that moment seen by them, turning their thoughts into a new channel. Away westward, beyond Drybrook, beyond Ruardean Ridge, the sky showed a clearness that had nought to do with the moon’s light; instead was ruddier, and shone brighter, as this became obscured by a thick cloud drifting over her disk. A glowing, gleaming light, unusual in a way; but natural enough regarded as the glare of a conflagration—which in reality it was.

“House on fire over yonder?” cried one of the soldiers.

“May be only a haystack,” suggested a second.

“More like a town, judgin’ by the big blaze,” reasoned a third.

“There’s no town in that direction; only Ruardean, where’s we be goin’.”

“Why maunt it be Ruardean, then?” queried the first speaker; “or the church?”

“An’ a good thing if’t be the church,” put in one of strong Puritan proclivities. “It want burnin’ down, as every other, wi’ their altars an’ images. They be a curse to the country; the parsons too. They’ve taken sides wi’ the stinkin’ Cavaliers, agaynst Parliament and people, all along.”

“That’s true,” endorsed another of like iconoclastic sentiments; “an’ if it a’nt the church as be givin’ up that light, let’s luminate it when we get there. I go for that.”

A proposal which called forth a chorus of assenting responses.

While this play of words was in progress along the line of rank and file rearwards, the Colonel and Captain Trevor, at its head, were engaged in a dialogue of conjectures about the same—a brief one.

“What think you it is?” asked Sir Richard, as they sat halted in their saddles regarding the garish light. “It looks to be over Ruardean, or near it.”

“A fire of some kind, Colonel. No common one either.”

“A farmer’s rick?”

“I fear not; would we were sure of its being only that!”

“Ha! A house you think?”

“I do, Sir Richard.”

“And—?”

“The one we’re making for!”

“By Heavens! I believe it is. It bears that way to a point. Ruardean’s more to the right. Yes, it must be Hollymead!”

Both talked excitedly, but no more words passed between them there and then. The next heard was the command—“March—double quick!” and down the hill to Drybrook went they at a gallop over the tiny stream, and up the long winding slope round the shoulder of Ruardean Hill—without halt or draw on bridle. There only poising for an instant, as they came within view of the village and saw the conflagration was not in, but wide away from it; the glare and sparks ascending over the spot where Hollymead House should be, but was no more.

As, continuing their gallop, they rode in through the park gates, it was to see a vast blazing pile, like a bonfire built by Titans—the fagots’ great beams heaped together confusedly—from which issued a hissing and crackling, with at intervals loud explosions, as from an ordnance magazine on fire.

Chapter Sixty Five.Very Near an Encounter.Mitcheldean lies at the foot of the steepfaçadealready spoken of as forming a periphery to the elevated Forest district. The slope ascends direct from the western skirts of the little town; but outlying ridges also inclose it on the north, east, and south, so that even the tall spire of its church is invisible from any great distance. So situated, railways give it a wide berth; and few places better deserve the title “secluded.” The only sort of traveller who ever thinks of paying it a visit is the “commercial,” or some pedestrian tourist, crossing the Forest from the Severn side to view the more picturesque scenery of the Wye, with intention to make stoppage at the ancient hostelry of the Speech House, midway between.In the days of the saddle and pack-horse, however, things were different with Mitcheldean. Being on one of the direct routes of travel from the metropolis to South Wales, and a gate of entry, as it were, to the Forest on its eastern side, it was then a place of considerable note; its people accustomed to all sorts of wayfarers passing daily, hourly through it.Since the breaking out of the Rebellion these had been mostly of the military kind, though not confined to either party in the strife. One would march through to-day, the other to-morrow; so that, hearing the trample of hoofs, rarely could the townsmen tell whether Royalists or Parliamentarians were coming among them, till they saw their standards in the street.They would rather have received visit from neither; but, compelled to choose, preferred seeing the soldiers of the Parliament. So when Walwyn’s Horse came rattling along, their green coats, with the cocks’-tail feathers in their hats, distinguishable in the clear moonlight, the closed window shutters were flung open; and night-capped heads—for most had been abed—appeared in them without fear exchanging speech with the soldiers halted in the street below.Altogether different their behaviour when, in a matter of ten minutes after, a second party of horsemen came to a halt under their windows; these in scarlet coats, gold laced, with white ostrich feathers in their hats—the Prince of Wales’s plume, with its appropriate motto of servility, “Ich dien.”Seeing it, the townsmen drew in their heads, closed the shutters, and were silent. Not going back to their beds, however; but to sit up in fear and trembling, till the renewed hoof-strokes told them of the halt over, and the red-coated Cavaliers ridden off again.It need scarce be said that these were Rupert and his escort,en routefor Westbury; and had Walwyn’s Horse stopped ten minutes longer in Mitcheldean, the two bodies would have there met face to face; since they were proceeding in opposite directions. A mere accident hindered their encountering; the circumstance, that from the town two roads led up to the Forest, one on each side of the Wilderness, both again uniting in the valley of Drybrook. The northern route had been taken by the Parliamentarian party ascending; while the Royalists descended by the southern one, called the “Plump Hill.” Just at such time as to miss one another, though but by a few minutes. For the rearmost files of the former had barely cleared the skirts of the town going out, when the van of the latter entered it at a different point.The interval, however, was long enough to prevent those who went Forestwards from getting information of what they were leaving so close behind. Could they have had that, quick would have been their return down hill, and the streets of Mitcheldean the arena of a conflict to the cry, “No Quarter!”As it was, the hostile cohorts passed peacefully through, out, and onwards on their respective routes; though Prince Rupert knew how near he had been to a collision, and could still have brought it on. But that was the last thing in his thoughts; instead, soon as learning what had gone up to the Forest, who they were, and who their leader, his stay in Mitcheldean was of the shortest, and his way out of it not Forestwards but straight on for the Severn.And in all the haste he could make, cumbered as he was with captives. For he carried with him a captive train; a small one, consisting of but three individuals—scarce necessary to say, Ambrose Powell and his daughters. They were on horseback; the ladies wrapped in cloaks, and so close hooded that their faces were invisible. Even their figures were so draped as to be scarce distinguishable from those of men; all done with a design, not their own; but that of those who had them in charge. In passing through Mitcheldean precautions had been taken to hinder their being recognised; double files of their guards riding in close order on each side of them, so that curious eyes should not come too near. But, when once more out on the country road, the formation “by twos” was resumed; the trio of prisoners, each with a trooper right and left, conducted behind the knot of officers on the Prince’s personal staff, he himself with Lunsford leading.Soon as outside the town the two last, as usual riding together, and some paces in the advance, entered on dialogue of a confidential character. The Prince commenced it, saying,—“We’ve had a narrow escape, Sir Thomas.”“Does your Highness refer to our having missed meeting the party of Roundheads?”“Of course I do—just that.”“Then, I should say, ’tis they who’ve had the narrow escape.”“Nein, Colonel! Not so certain of that, knowing who they are. These Foresters fight like devils; and, from all I could gather, they greatly outnumber us. I shouldn’t so much mind the odds, but for how we’re hampered. To have fought them, and got the worst of it, would have been ruinous to our reputation—as to the other thing.”“It isn’t likely we’d have got the worst of it. Few get the better of your Highness that way.”Lunsford’s brave talk was not in keeping with his thoughts. Quite as pleased was he as the Prince at their having escaped an encounter with the party of Parliamentarians. For never man dreaded meeting man more than he Sir Richard Walwyn. Words had of late been conveyed to him—from camp to camp and across neutral lines—warning words, that his old enemy was more than ever incensed against him, and in any future conflict where the two should be engaged meant singling him out, and seeking his life. After what he had done now, was still doing, he knew another encounter with Walwyn would be one of life and death, and dreaded it accordingly.“Still, Prince,” he added, “as you observe, considering our encumbrances, perhaps it’s been for the best letting them off.”“Ay, if they let us off. Which they may not yet. Suppose some of the townsmen have followed, and told them of our passing through?”“No fear of that, Prince. If any one did follow it’s not likely they could be overtaken. They were riding as in a race, and won’t draw bridle till they see the blaze over Hollymead. Then they’ll but gallop the faster—in the wrong direction.”“The right one for us, if they do. But even so they would reach Hollymead in less than an hour; then turn short round to pursue, and in another hour be upon our heels. You forget that we can’t say safety, till we’re over the Severn.”“I don’t forget that, Prince. But they won’t turn round to pursue us.”“Why say you that, Sir Thomas? How know you they won’t?”“Because they won’t suspect our having come this way; never think of it. Before putting the torch to the old delinquent’s house, I took the precaution to have all his domestics locked up in an out-building; that they shouldn’t see which way we went off. As they and the Ruardean people knew we came up from Monmouth, they’ll naturally conclude that we returned thither. So, your Highness, any pursuit of us will take the direction down Cat’s Hill, instead of by Drybrook and down the Plump.”“Egad! I hope so, Colonel. For, to speak truth I don’t feel in the spirit for a fight just now.”It was not often Rupert gave way to cowardice, and more seldom confessed it; even in confidence to his familiars, of whom Lunsford was one of the most intimate. But at that hour he felt it to very fear. Perhaps from the wine he had drunk at Hollymead, now cold in him; and it might be his conscience weighted with the crime he was in the act of committing. Whatever the cause, his nervousness became heightened rather than diminished, as they marched on; and anxiously longed he to be on the other side of the Severn.Not more so than his reprobate companion, whose bravado was all assumed; his words of confidence forced from him to gloss over the mistake he had made, in recommending the route taken. Sorry was he now, as his superior, they had not gone by Monmouth. Within its Castle walls they would at that moment have been safe; instead of hurrying along a road, with the obstruction of a river in front, and the possibility of pursuit behind. Ay, the probability of it, as Lunsford himself knew well, feigning to ignore it.“In any case, your Highness,” he continued, in the same strain of encouragement, “we’ll be out of their way in good time. From here it’s but a step down to Westbury.”By this they had reached the head of the ravine-like valley in which stands Flaxley Abbey, and were hastening forward fast as theimpedimentaof captives would permit. The road runs down the valley, which, after several sinuosities, debouches on the Severn’s plain. But, long before attaining this, at rounding one of the turns, their eyes were greeted by a sight which sent tremor to their hearts.“Mein Gott!” cried the Prince, suddenly reining up, and speaking in a tone of mingled surprise and alarm, “you see, Sir Thomas?”Sir Thomas did see—sharing the other’s alarm, but without showing it—a sheet of water that shone silvery white under the moonlight overspreading all the plain below. The river aflood, and inundation everywhere!“We’ll not be able to cross at all?” pursued the Prince, in desponding interrogative. “Shall we?”“Oh yes! your Highness, I think so,” was the doubting response. “The water can’t be so high as to hinder us; at least not likely. There’s a pier-head at Westbury Passage on both sides, and the boats will be there as ever. I don’t anticipate any great difficulty in the crossing, only we’ll have to wade a bit.”“Gott! that will be difficulty enough—danger too.”“What danger, your Highness? Through the meadows there’s a raised causeway, and fortunately I’m familiar with every inch of it. While with Sir John Wintour I had often occasion to travel it; more than once under water. Even if we can’t make the Westbury Passage, we can that of Framilode, but a mile or two above. I’ve never heard of it being so flooded as to prevent passing over.”“It may be as you say, Sir Thomas. But the danger I’m thinking of has more to do with time than floods. Wading’s slow work; and there’s still the possibility of Walwyn and his green-coats coming on after us. Suppose they should, and find us floundering through the water?”“No need supposing that, Prince. There isn’t the slightest likelihood of it. I’d stake high that at this minute they’re at the bottom of Cat’s Hill, or, it may be, by Goodrich Ferry, seeking to cross over the Wye as we the Severn. And, like as not, Lingen will give them a turn if he gets word of their being about there. Sir Harry has now a strong force in the castle; and owes Dick Walwyn arevanche—for that affair on the Hereford Road the morning after Kyrle led them into Monmouth.”“For all, I wish we had gone Monmouth way,” rejoined Rupert, as his eyes rested doubtingly on the white sheet of water wide spread over the plain below. “I still fear their pursuing us.”“Even if they should, your Highness, we need have no apprehension. The pursuit can’t be immediate; and, please God, in another hour or so, we’ll be over the Severn, as likely they on the other side of the Wye, with both rivers between them and us.”“Would that I were sure of that, Colonel,” returned the Prince, still desponding, “which I’m not. However, we’ve no alternative now but to cross here—if we can. You seem to have a doubt of our being able to make the Passage of Westbury?”“I’m only a little uncertain about it, your Highness.”“But sure about that of Framilode?”“Quite; though the flood be of the biggest and deepest.”“Sehr wohl! with that assurance I’m satisfied. But we must have things secure behind, ere we commence making our wade. And we may as well take the step now. So, Colonel, ride back along the line, detach a rear-guard, and place it under some officer who can be trusted. Lose not a moment! stay at halt here, till you return to me.”The commanding officer of the escort, as much alive to the prudence of this precaution as he who gave the orders for it, hastened to carrying them out. Done by detailing off a few of the rearmost files, with directions to remain as they were, while the main body moved forward. Then instructions given to the officer who was to take charge of them; all occupying less than ten minutes’ time.After which, Lunsford again placed himself by the side of the Prince, and the march was immediately resumed, down the valley of Flaxley, on for the flooded plain.

Mitcheldean lies at the foot of the steepfaçadealready spoken of as forming a periphery to the elevated Forest district. The slope ascends direct from the western skirts of the little town; but outlying ridges also inclose it on the north, east, and south, so that even the tall spire of its church is invisible from any great distance. So situated, railways give it a wide berth; and few places better deserve the title “secluded.” The only sort of traveller who ever thinks of paying it a visit is the “commercial,” or some pedestrian tourist, crossing the Forest from the Severn side to view the more picturesque scenery of the Wye, with intention to make stoppage at the ancient hostelry of the Speech House, midway between.

In the days of the saddle and pack-horse, however, things were different with Mitcheldean. Being on one of the direct routes of travel from the metropolis to South Wales, and a gate of entry, as it were, to the Forest on its eastern side, it was then a place of considerable note; its people accustomed to all sorts of wayfarers passing daily, hourly through it.

Since the breaking out of the Rebellion these had been mostly of the military kind, though not confined to either party in the strife. One would march through to-day, the other to-morrow; so that, hearing the trample of hoofs, rarely could the townsmen tell whether Royalists or Parliamentarians were coming among them, till they saw their standards in the street.

They would rather have received visit from neither; but, compelled to choose, preferred seeing the soldiers of the Parliament. So when Walwyn’s Horse came rattling along, their green coats, with the cocks’-tail feathers in their hats, distinguishable in the clear moonlight, the closed window shutters were flung open; and night-capped heads—for most had been abed—appeared in them without fear exchanging speech with the soldiers halted in the street below.

Altogether different their behaviour when, in a matter of ten minutes after, a second party of horsemen came to a halt under their windows; these in scarlet coats, gold laced, with white ostrich feathers in their hats—the Prince of Wales’s plume, with its appropriate motto of servility, “Ich dien.”

Seeing it, the townsmen drew in their heads, closed the shutters, and were silent. Not going back to their beds, however; but to sit up in fear and trembling, till the renewed hoof-strokes told them of the halt over, and the red-coated Cavaliers ridden off again.

It need scarce be said that these were Rupert and his escort,en routefor Westbury; and had Walwyn’s Horse stopped ten minutes longer in Mitcheldean, the two bodies would have there met face to face; since they were proceeding in opposite directions. A mere accident hindered their encountering; the circumstance, that from the town two roads led up to the Forest, one on each side of the Wilderness, both again uniting in the valley of Drybrook. The northern route had been taken by the Parliamentarian party ascending; while the Royalists descended by the southern one, called the “Plump Hill.” Just at such time as to miss one another, though but by a few minutes. For the rearmost files of the former had barely cleared the skirts of the town going out, when the van of the latter entered it at a different point.

The interval, however, was long enough to prevent those who went Forestwards from getting information of what they were leaving so close behind. Could they have had that, quick would have been their return down hill, and the streets of Mitcheldean the arena of a conflict to the cry, “No Quarter!”

As it was, the hostile cohorts passed peacefully through, out, and onwards on their respective routes; though Prince Rupert knew how near he had been to a collision, and could still have brought it on. But that was the last thing in his thoughts; instead, soon as learning what had gone up to the Forest, who they were, and who their leader, his stay in Mitcheldean was of the shortest, and his way out of it not Forestwards but straight on for the Severn.

And in all the haste he could make, cumbered as he was with captives. For he carried with him a captive train; a small one, consisting of but three individuals—scarce necessary to say, Ambrose Powell and his daughters. They were on horseback; the ladies wrapped in cloaks, and so close hooded that their faces were invisible. Even their figures were so draped as to be scarce distinguishable from those of men; all done with a design, not their own; but that of those who had them in charge. In passing through Mitcheldean precautions had been taken to hinder their being recognised; double files of their guards riding in close order on each side of them, so that curious eyes should not come too near. But, when once more out on the country road, the formation “by twos” was resumed; the trio of prisoners, each with a trooper right and left, conducted behind the knot of officers on the Prince’s personal staff, he himself with Lunsford leading.

Soon as outside the town the two last, as usual riding together, and some paces in the advance, entered on dialogue of a confidential character. The Prince commenced it, saying,—

“We’ve had a narrow escape, Sir Thomas.”

“Does your Highness refer to our having missed meeting the party of Roundheads?”

“Of course I do—just that.”

“Then, I should say, ’tis they who’ve had the narrow escape.”

“Nein, Colonel! Not so certain of that, knowing who they are. These Foresters fight like devils; and, from all I could gather, they greatly outnumber us. I shouldn’t so much mind the odds, but for how we’re hampered. To have fought them, and got the worst of it, would have been ruinous to our reputation—as to the other thing.”

“It isn’t likely we’d have got the worst of it. Few get the better of your Highness that way.”

Lunsford’s brave talk was not in keeping with his thoughts. Quite as pleased was he as the Prince at their having escaped an encounter with the party of Parliamentarians. For never man dreaded meeting man more than he Sir Richard Walwyn. Words had of late been conveyed to him—from camp to camp and across neutral lines—warning words, that his old enemy was more than ever incensed against him, and in any future conflict where the two should be engaged meant singling him out, and seeking his life. After what he had done now, was still doing, he knew another encounter with Walwyn would be one of life and death, and dreaded it accordingly.

“Still, Prince,” he added, “as you observe, considering our encumbrances, perhaps it’s been for the best letting them off.”

“Ay, if they let us off. Which they may not yet. Suppose some of the townsmen have followed, and told them of our passing through?”

“No fear of that, Prince. If any one did follow it’s not likely they could be overtaken. They were riding as in a race, and won’t draw bridle till they see the blaze over Hollymead. Then they’ll but gallop the faster—in the wrong direction.”

“The right one for us, if they do. But even so they would reach Hollymead in less than an hour; then turn short round to pursue, and in another hour be upon our heels. You forget that we can’t say safety, till we’re over the Severn.”

“I don’t forget that, Prince. But they won’t turn round to pursue us.”

“Why say you that, Sir Thomas? How know you they won’t?”

“Because they won’t suspect our having come this way; never think of it. Before putting the torch to the old delinquent’s house, I took the precaution to have all his domestics locked up in an out-building; that they shouldn’t see which way we went off. As they and the Ruardean people knew we came up from Monmouth, they’ll naturally conclude that we returned thither. So, your Highness, any pursuit of us will take the direction down Cat’s Hill, instead of by Drybrook and down the Plump.”

“Egad! I hope so, Colonel. For, to speak truth I don’t feel in the spirit for a fight just now.”

It was not often Rupert gave way to cowardice, and more seldom confessed it; even in confidence to his familiars, of whom Lunsford was one of the most intimate. But at that hour he felt it to very fear. Perhaps from the wine he had drunk at Hollymead, now cold in him; and it might be his conscience weighted with the crime he was in the act of committing. Whatever the cause, his nervousness became heightened rather than diminished, as they marched on; and anxiously longed he to be on the other side of the Severn.

Not more so than his reprobate companion, whose bravado was all assumed; his words of confidence forced from him to gloss over the mistake he had made, in recommending the route taken. Sorry was he now, as his superior, they had not gone by Monmouth. Within its Castle walls they would at that moment have been safe; instead of hurrying along a road, with the obstruction of a river in front, and the possibility of pursuit behind. Ay, the probability of it, as Lunsford himself knew well, feigning to ignore it.

“In any case, your Highness,” he continued, in the same strain of encouragement, “we’ll be out of their way in good time. From here it’s but a step down to Westbury.”

By this they had reached the head of the ravine-like valley in which stands Flaxley Abbey, and were hastening forward fast as theimpedimentaof captives would permit. The road runs down the valley, which, after several sinuosities, debouches on the Severn’s plain. But, long before attaining this, at rounding one of the turns, their eyes were greeted by a sight which sent tremor to their hearts.

“Mein Gott!” cried the Prince, suddenly reining up, and speaking in a tone of mingled surprise and alarm, “you see, Sir Thomas?”

Sir Thomas did see—sharing the other’s alarm, but without showing it—a sheet of water that shone silvery white under the moonlight overspreading all the plain below. The river aflood, and inundation everywhere!

“We’ll not be able to cross at all?” pursued the Prince, in desponding interrogative. “Shall we?”

“Oh yes! your Highness, I think so,” was the doubting response. “The water can’t be so high as to hinder us; at least not likely. There’s a pier-head at Westbury Passage on both sides, and the boats will be there as ever. I don’t anticipate any great difficulty in the crossing, only we’ll have to wade a bit.”

“Gott! that will be difficulty enough—danger too.”

“What danger, your Highness? Through the meadows there’s a raised causeway, and fortunately I’m familiar with every inch of it. While with Sir John Wintour I had often occasion to travel it; more than once under water. Even if we can’t make the Westbury Passage, we can that of Framilode, but a mile or two above. I’ve never heard of it being so flooded as to prevent passing over.”

“It may be as you say, Sir Thomas. But the danger I’m thinking of has more to do with time than floods. Wading’s slow work; and there’s still the possibility of Walwyn and his green-coats coming on after us. Suppose they should, and find us floundering through the water?”

“No need supposing that, Prince. There isn’t the slightest likelihood of it. I’d stake high that at this minute they’re at the bottom of Cat’s Hill, or, it may be, by Goodrich Ferry, seeking to cross over the Wye as we the Severn. And, like as not, Lingen will give them a turn if he gets word of their being about there. Sir Harry has now a strong force in the castle; and owes Dick Walwyn arevanche—for that affair on the Hereford Road the morning after Kyrle led them into Monmouth.”

“For all, I wish we had gone Monmouth way,” rejoined Rupert, as his eyes rested doubtingly on the white sheet of water wide spread over the plain below. “I still fear their pursuing us.”

“Even if they should, your Highness, we need have no apprehension. The pursuit can’t be immediate; and, please God, in another hour or so, we’ll be over the Severn, as likely they on the other side of the Wye, with both rivers between them and us.”

“Would that I were sure of that, Colonel,” returned the Prince, still desponding, “which I’m not. However, we’ve no alternative now but to cross here—if we can. You seem to have a doubt of our being able to make the Passage of Westbury?”

“I’m only a little uncertain about it, your Highness.”

“But sure about that of Framilode?”

“Quite; though the flood be of the biggest and deepest.”

“Sehr wohl! with that assurance I’m satisfied. But we must have things secure behind, ere we commence making our wade. And we may as well take the step now. So, Colonel, ride back along the line, detach a rear-guard, and place it under some officer who can be trusted. Lose not a moment! stay at halt here, till you return to me.”

The commanding officer of the escort, as much alive to the prudence of this precaution as he who gave the orders for it, hastened to carrying them out. Done by detailing off a few of the rearmost files, with directions to remain as they were, while the main body moved forward. Then instructions given to the officer who was to take charge of them; all occupying less than ten minutes’ time.

After which, Lunsford again placed himself by the side of the Prince, and the march was immediately resumed, down the valley of Flaxley, on for the flooded plain.

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