Chapter Four.How I met a Runaway Scholar.As I entered the poor kitchen of the inn—for it was a sorry shed altogether—there rose to meet me a figure which, if I live to Methuselah’s age, I shall not easily forget. He was tall and had the limbs of a giant. His hair was tawny and inclined to red, and hung in disorderly waves on his shoulders. His raiment—for he had flung his scholar’s cap and robe to a corner of the room—was poor and ragged, and seemed scarcely to hang together on his brawny back. His arms were long and nervous, and the hands at the end of them twitched uneasily even while the rest of his body was motionless. His carriage was erect and martial, and you knew not whether to admire most the weight and solidity of the man as he stood still, or the tiger-like spring in every limb when he moved.Yet it was not one of these things which made me stand almost in awe as I saw him. It was his face, which, if ever a man’s face deserved the name, was beautiful. I cannot explain why; for I have seen features more finely carved and better proportioned in faces which never seemed to me so beautiful as his. I have seen more strength of mouth, more light of eyes, many a time, and yet never looked twice; I have seen faces as noble which never struck me as his did. I know not how it was. I think it was the expression which moulded all his face into a look, partly wild, partly noble, partly sad, and wholly gentle. For as you watched it, it changed like an April day from cloud to fair, from thunder to lightning, from night to day; yet whatever came or went, the look of a gentle man remained.Man, did I say? He was scarcely my senior, even if he was my equal in years; and his beardless chin and the boyish glow on his cheek made him seem younger than he was.But why all this picture-drawing of a stray Oxford student, whom, while I talk about him, I keep standing in front of me on the floor of that poor kitchen? You shall hear.It was not to do me obeisance that he rose as I entered. His dirk was drawn and his face was thunderous as he took a step forward and spoke.“I want you not! So leave me.”My Lord Burleigh himself could not have spoken the words more royally, although he would have spoken them with less music and more of an English accent in his voice.Now, moved as I was by the look of my companion, it offended me to hear a loyal London ’prentice talked to thus like a dog, or, worse, like the drawer of the inn.“By your leave,” said I, and it was not often I said as much to any man, “unless you be the landlord of the place, I have as good a right to be here as you.”“Then,” said he, solemnly and, as I thought, sadly, “guard yourself.” I whipped out my sword. In my boastfulness, I thought I had too great an advantage with my long weapon against his short and not too highly-tempered blade, and I resolved with myself not to run him through if I could otherwise satisfy him. But my tune changed as soon as we closed. I could do nothing. My fine thrusts and parries wherewith I was wont to set Finsbury Fields a-gaping all went for nothing. He got in at me over my guard, under my guard, beside my guard, and through my guard. Nor could I even do myself justice. For while I fenced, I was fascinated by the flashing of his eyes and the noble gracefulness of his every motion. In two minutes he had me disarmed, pinned up against the wall, as helpless as a silly ox in the grip of a tiger.It mortified me as much as anything to find that when he had me thus at his mercy he dropped me half disdainfully, half pitifully, and put his dirk back into its sheath.“Will you go now?”“No,” said I, doggedly. For so chapfallen was I that I wished nothing better than that he should do his worst with me.At that he looked at me in solemn perplexity, and I expected to see his hand back at his girdle. But, to my confusion, he only shrugged his shoulders and turned away.This completed my humbling; for no man had ever disdained me thus before. I might easily have reached my sword, which lay at my feet, and run him through before he could face round; yet he did not even deign to notice me, and walked slowly to the fire, where he sat with his back to me.I could stand it no longer, and crossed the room to face him.“You have beaten me,” said I—and the words were hard to say—“take my sword, for, by heaven, I will never wear it again, and fare you well.”The cloud on his face broke into sunlight as he sprang to his feet, and, taking my arm, said—“No. Stay here and let us be friends. I am too poor to offer thee supper, but here’s my hand.”I took his hand like one in a dream. I could not help it, strange as it seemed.“Sir,” said I, “whoever you be, I strike hands on one condition only, that is, that you sup to-night with me. I’m a London ’prentice, but I know when I meet my match.”What that had to do with his supping with me, I know not; but I was so flurried with my late defeat and my enemy’s sudden friendliness, that I scarcely knew what I said.“If that be the price, I must even pay it,” said he, solemnly, “so long as we be friends.”So I called to the man of the house to bring us food quickly, and, while it was coming, set myself to know more of my new comrade.Yet when I came to question him I felt abashed. For he looked so grave and noble that, despite his ragged clothes, it seemed presumptuous to ask him who he was. While I doubted how to begin, he spared me the trouble.“Are you going to Oxford?” said he.“I am,” said I. “I was to reach there this night, but lost my way; and even yet do not know how near I am.”“Not an hour from the cursed place,” said he, giving his student’s cap, which lay on the floor at his feet, a little kick.“Then it agrees not with you?” said I.“Agrees!” said he, and then dropped silent, far more eloquently than if he had spoken a volume.“Pray, sir,” said I, after an awkward pause, “do you know one Master Penry of Saint Alban Hall?”He laughed at that.“The Welshman? Verily, I know him. What do you want with him?”“I am to deliver him a letter from my master. Can you take me to him?”“No,” said my companion, “for I shall never enter Oxford again.”“Is your term done, then?” I asked.“For me it is,” said he. “I have been here two months, and will have no more of it.”“But are you free to leave?” I asked—for my curiosity was roused.“Free!” said he: “I am here, that is enough. If my tutor come after me, there will be two men who will never see Oxford again.”I pitied his tutor, whoever he was, when he said that.“But where are you going then?” I asked.“To-night I shall lie here. The man of the place is my friend, and will shelter me, though I have nothing to pay him. To-morrow I shall take the road.”Here our supper came in: a fine big trout from the river, and a dish which mine host called mutton, but which I smelt to be venison.It smote me to the heart to mark the struggle in my comrade’s face to keep down the ravenous joy which for a moment hailed the coming in of these good things. But the ecstasy lasted only a moment, and when I bade him fall to, he said indifferently he had no appetite and wanted nothing.“But it was a bargain,” said I.So he took a small helping. It plainly cut him to the quick to receive hospitality from a ’prentice, and he would, I think, as soon have starved, but for his promise.I feigned not to notice what he took; yet I could not help marking the hungry way in which he devoured what was on his platter. Then when it was done, he rose and went to his seat at the fireplace, while I finished my supper at the table.Before I had done, I filled my cup, as was my wont, and drank to Her Majesty, bidding my guest do the same.He came gravely to the table at that, and filled a mug of ale to the brim. “Here’s to my Queen,” said he.This struck me as odd, for his tone and manner were as if he were drinking to another toast than mine. Yet I did not dare to question him about it, and only hoped so noble a youth was one of Her Majesty’s loyal servants.Our host had but one small room with a single bed in it to offer us, which accordingly we shared for the night. Nor was it long before we were each sound asleep, forgetful of our troubles and quarrels and weariness.Before we fell over, however, my comrade said:“When go you into Oxford?”“To-morrow, betimes,” said I, “for my message is urgent.”“You will have trouble enough,” said he. “There is little love between town and gown there, and unless you like knocks, you had better send your letter by the hand of one who does.”“I mind no knocks,” said I, groaning a little at the memory of some I had received that very evening; “besides, I am bound to give my letter by my own hand.”“Then,” said he, “take my cap and gown: they are no use to me and may be a passport to you. Lend me your cloak in exchange. It will serve to hide me, while it would but betray you as an intruder inside Oxford.”“This cloak,” said I, “is the gift of my dear mistress in London. But perhaps your advice is good. I will go into Oxford in a scholar’s garb, and you meanwhile shall shelter here in my cloak till I return about noon. Is it a bargain?”“As you please,” said he, and fell asleep.I was the more pleased with this exchange, as I remembered what Master Udal had said concerning the fancy Master Penry might take for my brave cloak. It would be safer here, protecting my comrade, than flaunting in the eyes of the ravenous youth of Oxford.When I arose next morning with the sun, my bedfellow still slept heavily. I could not forbear taking a look at him as he lay there. His face in sleep, with all the care and unrest out of it, looked like that of some boyish, resolute Greek divinity. His arm was flung carelessly behind his head, and the tawny hair which strayed over the pillow served as a setting for his fine-cut features.But I had no time for admiring Greek divinities just then; and slipping on the scholar’s robe and cap, which, to my thinking, made me a monstrous fine fellow, I left my own cloak at his bedside, and, taking my letter, started on my errand, afoot.In the clear morning I could plainly see the towers of the city ahead of me before I had been long on the road. But it is one thing to see and another to touch. The inn where I had lain was at the river’s bank, and yet no road seemed to lead to it or from it. As for mounting the river bank, that was impossible, by reason of the thickets which crowded down to the water’s edge. I had to tramp inland, through marsh and quagmire, in which more than once I thought to end my days, till, after much searching, I hit upon the road which led to the city. Before I entered it the bells were clanging from a score of steeples, and many a hurrying form, clad like myself, crossed my path.As I gained the east bridge, there was no small tumult in progress. For a handful of scholars, on their way to morning lecture, had fallen foul of a handful of yeomen bound for the fields, and were stoutly disputing the passage. When I appeared, I was claimed at once by the scholars as one of them, and willy-nilly, had to throw in my lot with them. The fight was a sharp one, for the yeomen had their sticks and shares and sickles, and laid stoutly about, whereas the scholars were unarmed, all except a few. At last, when two of our side had been pitched head first over the bridge, our leaders seemed inclined to parley; but the countrymen, puffed up with success, and calling to mind, perhaps, some old grievance, called, “No quarter! To the river with them, everyone,” and closed in.Then the scholars had to fight for their lives; and I, forgetting I was not really one of them, girt my gown about me, and, shouting to them to follow me, charged the varlets. They were sorry then they had not ended the matter sooner. Two or three of them went over the bridge to look for our comrades beneath, others were soundly cudgelled with their own sticks, while our fists slowly did the rest. All of a sudden up rode two or three horsemen, at whose coming our men showed signs of panic, while the townsmen cheered loudly and made a fresh stand. This vexed me sorely, for I had supposed the battle at an end. Wherefore, I made for the chief horseman, and, putting out all my strength, pulled him off his horse. Scarcely had I done so when my comrades behind raised a shout of “’Tis the Mayor!—’tis the Mayor! Fly!—fly!” and off they made, dragging me with them. To think that I, a loyal London apprentice, should have lived to assault a mayor! But there was no time for excuses or reproaches. The citizens were at our heels shouting and threatening, and as they followed, the whole town turned out in hue and cry. One by one the gownsmen dodged like rabbits into their holes, leaving me, who knew nothing of the city, almost alone. At last the enemy were almost up to me, and I was expecting every moment to be taken and perhaps hanged, when, as good luck would have it, just as I turned a corner, there faced me a wall not so high but that a good leaper might get over it. Over I scrambled just as the pack in full cry rushed round the corner.Then I laughed as I heard their yapping, and grumbling, and questioning what had become of me. But I gave them no time to find out, for, crossing the garden into which I had fallen, I quickly slipped out at the gate into a fair cloistered square where, adjusting my battle-stained gown, I marched boldly up to the house at the gate and knocked.A porter came at my summons and demanded, surlily enough, what I wanted.“I am a fresh man here,” said I, “and have lost my way. I pray you direct me to Saint Alban Hall.”“Saint Alban Hall?” said he. “Art thou a scholar of Saint Alban Hall?”“No,” said I, “but I bear a message to one there, Master Penry by name.”“How comes it,” demanded the porter, who, by the tone of him, might have been the chancellor himself, “that you wear that gown, sirrah?”“That is my business,” said I, seeing it was no profit to talk civilly to him, “and if you want not to see your neck wrung, give over questions, and tell me where is Saint Alban Hall.”He grew red in the face as I gripped his arm, which he could by no means get free till I let him.“This is Saint Alban Hall,” said he, “and Master Penry lives over my lodging.”Then I thought it better to be civil to the fellow, as he guessed I had no business there in a college gown. So I gave him a groat, and bad him take me up forthwith.Master Penry was a lean, wrathful-visaged Welshman, with deep grey eyes, and a large forehead, and a mass of straight black hair down his neck. As I entered his room, which was disordered and dirty, he was pacing to and fro, talking or praying aloud in his native tongue. He let me stand there a minute or two, amazed at his jargon, and scarcely knowing whether I had lit upon a sane man or not. Then he stopped suddenly in front of me and scanned me.“Well?” said he, in good English.“Are you Master Penry?” I asked.“I am. You have a message for me?”“I have; from Master Walgrave. Here it is,” said I, putting the letter into his hand.He tore it open and read it eagerly, and, as he did so, his face relaxed into a grim smile.“That is well, so far,” said he. Then, looking hard at me, he added, “Have you ridden from London in that disguise?”“No,” said I, “this gown was lent me by a friend to protect me against annoyance from the wild men of the town.”His face suddenly turned pale and passionate.“Then where is the cloak your master speaks of in this letter?”“The cloak!” I knew from the very first there would be trouble about that, and I was glad now I had left it behind in the safe keeping of my comrade at the inn.“What is my cloak to you?” said I, not relishing the tone of his voice, “I have given it away to my friend.”“Fool and jackass!” said he, gnashing his teeth, “do you know you have ruined me and your master by this?”“No, I do not,” said I, “and as for the foul names you call me, take them back on the instant, or I swear I will ram them down your mouth!”He took no notice whatever of my wrath, but went on, breaking in on his speech every now and then with Welsh words which I took to be curses.“You must get it back at any price,” said he. “Lose not a moment! Where is this friend? Who is he? If he resist you, you must slay him, so as you get it back. If it fall into the hands of an enemy, you and I, ay and your master, and all that belongs to you will perish. Ah, the folly of the man to trust such a missive to this thick-headed blunderer! What time lost, what labour wasted, what peril run, what ruin on our holy cause!”I was well out of temper by this time, and, but that he looked so miserable and ill-fed, I would have rattled his bones a bit. At last:“That cloak,” said he, coming up to me, “contained papers sent by your master to me; which, if they be found on any one’s person, mean Tyburn. Do you understand that?”“Yes,” said I, beginning to see the drift of his coil, “and if you had told me so at first, I had been half-way back to get it by this time. Heaven is my witness, you are welcome to the cloak if that is what it contains; and I doubt not my friend will give it up to do you a pleasure.”“Hasten!” cried he, with tears of vexation in his eyes, “there is not a moment to be lost—nay, I will go with you. Where did you leave it? Come!”“Nay,” said I, remembering it for the first time, “I am not very sure where it was. ’Twas at a river-side inn, about four miles from here.”“And who is your friend? Is he a true man?”“I know not that either,” said I. “He is a valiant man, and hath a dirk at his girdle; and I pity the man who tries to take the cloak from him by force.”Master Penry made another speech to himself in Welsh.“Fool!” exclaimed he, half blubbering. “This precious missive you leave at an inn you know not where; with a man you know not whom; and yet your master speaks of you as a trusty lad. Bah! Lead on!”I swallowed my wrath and obeyed him. He stalked impatiently at my side, saying nothing, but urging me forward so that I could scarcely keep pace with him. I was in luck, in one way, to have his escort; for as I came near the East Bridge, there lurked not a few of the townsmen who had been in the fight when I assaulted the Mayor. Seeing me with Master Penry, who, I suppose, was a man of some standing, they did not look twice at me; else I might have been caught, and put to rest my limbs in the cage. When we had crossed the bridge, and were in the country, my companion suddenly stopped.“This friend of yours,” said he, “with the dirk in his girdle. Was he a scholar?”“He lent me this gown,” said I.“An Irishman?”“I know not. He spoke good English, with a foreign trip of the tongue.”“A great big boy, with wild fair hair, and hands that never are still?”“The very man. You know him?”“Do I know him? For two months I have endured the pains of the lost through him. A wild, untameable savage, subject to no laws, a heathen, a butcher, a scoffer at things holy, an idler, a highwayman, a traitor, a rebel, an Irish Papist wolf-hound! Do I know my own pupil? And—oh my God!—is it he who has the coat? Oh, we are doubly lost! Knaves, fools, all conspire to ruin us!”I let him run on, for he was like one demented. But you may suppose I opened my eyes as I heard this brave character of my new friend.“Your pupil, is he?” said I at last; “then I counsel you to stay where you are; for he will assuredly eat you alive if he gets you.”The Welshman paid no head to this warning, but rushed on, jabbering in Welsh to himself, and groaning, ay, and even sobbing now and then in his excitement.At last, after an hour’s hard work, we came to where I had found the road that morning. Then, for another hour, I dragged him through the swamps and marshes. His strength had begun to fail him long ere we reached the river’s bank; and he was fain, when at last we felt solid earth under our feet, to cry a halt.“I must rest for one moment,” said he, puffing and panting and clutching at his side in a way that made me sorry for him. Then he fell on his knees and prayed in his own tongue, and before he was done, sunk half-fainting on a tree-trunk.“Master Penry,” said I, helping him from the ground, “you are not fit to go on. I pray you, let me go alone. This pupil of yours is my friend, and will give me the cloak. Stay here, unless you would spoil all; for assuredly if he see you, he will turn at bay and yield nothing. The inn is but a mile from here. In less than an hour I will be back with the cloak, that I vow.”He had no strength in him to protest. So I left him there and ran on towards the inn.
As I entered the poor kitchen of the inn—for it was a sorry shed altogether—there rose to meet me a figure which, if I live to Methuselah’s age, I shall not easily forget. He was tall and had the limbs of a giant. His hair was tawny and inclined to red, and hung in disorderly waves on his shoulders. His raiment—for he had flung his scholar’s cap and robe to a corner of the room—was poor and ragged, and seemed scarcely to hang together on his brawny back. His arms were long and nervous, and the hands at the end of them twitched uneasily even while the rest of his body was motionless. His carriage was erect and martial, and you knew not whether to admire most the weight and solidity of the man as he stood still, or the tiger-like spring in every limb when he moved.
Yet it was not one of these things which made me stand almost in awe as I saw him. It was his face, which, if ever a man’s face deserved the name, was beautiful. I cannot explain why; for I have seen features more finely carved and better proportioned in faces which never seemed to me so beautiful as his. I have seen more strength of mouth, more light of eyes, many a time, and yet never looked twice; I have seen faces as noble which never struck me as his did. I know not how it was. I think it was the expression which moulded all his face into a look, partly wild, partly noble, partly sad, and wholly gentle. For as you watched it, it changed like an April day from cloud to fair, from thunder to lightning, from night to day; yet whatever came or went, the look of a gentle man remained.
Man, did I say? He was scarcely my senior, even if he was my equal in years; and his beardless chin and the boyish glow on his cheek made him seem younger than he was.
But why all this picture-drawing of a stray Oxford student, whom, while I talk about him, I keep standing in front of me on the floor of that poor kitchen? You shall hear.
It was not to do me obeisance that he rose as I entered. His dirk was drawn and his face was thunderous as he took a step forward and spoke.
“I want you not! So leave me.”
My Lord Burleigh himself could not have spoken the words more royally, although he would have spoken them with less music and more of an English accent in his voice.
Now, moved as I was by the look of my companion, it offended me to hear a loyal London ’prentice talked to thus like a dog, or, worse, like the drawer of the inn.
“By your leave,” said I, and it was not often I said as much to any man, “unless you be the landlord of the place, I have as good a right to be here as you.”
“Then,” said he, solemnly and, as I thought, sadly, “guard yourself.” I whipped out my sword. In my boastfulness, I thought I had too great an advantage with my long weapon against his short and not too highly-tempered blade, and I resolved with myself not to run him through if I could otherwise satisfy him. But my tune changed as soon as we closed. I could do nothing. My fine thrusts and parries wherewith I was wont to set Finsbury Fields a-gaping all went for nothing. He got in at me over my guard, under my guard, beside my guard, and through my guard. Nor could I even do myself justice. For while I fenced, I was fascinated by the flashing of his eyes and the noble gracefulness of his every motion. In two minutes he had me disarmed, pinned up against the wall, as helpless as a silly ox in the grip of a tiger.
It mortified me as much as anything to find that when he had me thus at his mercy he dropped me half disdainfully, half pitifully, and put his dirk back into its sheath.
“Will you go now?”
“No,” said I, doggedly. For so chapfallen was I that I wished nothing better than that he should do his worst with me.
At that he looked at me in solemn perplexity, and I expected to see his hand back at his girdle. But, to my confusion, he only shrugged his shoulders and turned away.
This completed my humbling; for no man had ever disdained me thus before. I might easily have reached my sword, which lay at my feet, and run him through before he could face round; yet he did not even deign to notice me, and walked slowly to the fire, where he sat with his back to me.
I could stand it no longer, and crossed the room to face him.
“You have beaten me,” said I—and the words were hard to say—“take my sword, for, by heaven, I will never wear it again, and fare you well.”
The cloud on his face broke into sunlight as he sprang to his feet, and, taking my arm, said—
“No. Stay here and let us be friends. I am too poor to offer thee supper, but here’s my hand.”
I took his hand like one in a dream. I could not help it, strange as it seemed.
“Sir,” said I, “whoever you be, I strike hands on one condition only, that is, that you sup to-night with me. I’m a London ’prentice, but I know when I meet my match.”
What that had to do with his supping with me, I know not; but I was so flurried with my late defeat and my enemy’s sudden friendliness, that I scarcely knew what I said.
“If that be the price, I must even pay it,” said he, solemnly, “so long as we be friends.”
So I called to the man of the house to bring us food quickly, and, while it was coming, set myself to know more of my new comrade.
Yet when I came to question him I felt abashed. For he looked so grave and noble that, despite his ragged clothes, it seemed presumptuous to ask him who he was. While I doubted how to begin, he spared me the trouble.
“Are you going to Oxford?” said he.
“I am,” said I. “I was to reach there this night, but lost my way; and even yet do not know how near I am.”
“Not an hour from the cursed place,” said he, giving his student’s cap, which lay on the floor at his feet, a little kick.
“Then it agrees not with you?” said I.
“Agrees!” said he, and then dropped silent, far more eloquently than if he had spoken a volume.
“Pray, sir,” said I, after an awkward pause, “do you know one Master Penry of Saint Alban Hall?”
He laughed at that.
“The Welshman? Verily, I know him. What do you want with him?”
“I am to deliver him a letter from my master. Can you take me to him?”
“No,” said my companion, “for I shall never enter Oxford again.”
“Is your term done, then?” I asked.
“For me it is,” said he. “I have been here two months, and will have no more of it.”
“But are you free to leave?” I asked—for my curiosity was roused.
“Free!” said he: “I am here, that is enough. If my tutor come after me, there will be two men who will never see Oxford again.”
I pitied his tutor, whoever he was, when he said that.
“But where are you going then?” I asked.
“To-night I shall lie here. The man of the place is my friend, and will shelter me, though I have nothing to pay him. To-morrow I shall take the road.”
Here our supper came in: a fine big trout from the river, and a dish which mine host called mutton, but which I smelt to be venison.
It smote me to the heart to mark the struggle in my comrade’s face to keep down the ravenous joy which for a moment hailed the coming in of these good things. But the ecstasy lasted only a moment, and when I bade him fall to, he said indifferently he had no appetite and wanted nothing.
“But it was a bargain,” said I.
So he took a small helping. It plainly cut him to the quick to receive hospitality from a ’prentice, and he would, I think, as soon have starved, but for his promise.
I feigned not to notice what he took; yet I could not help marking the hungry way in which he devoured what was on his platter. Then when it was done, he rose and went to his seat at the fireplace, while I finished my supper at the table.
Before I had done, I filled my cup, as was my wont, and drank to Her Majesty, bidding my guest do the same.
He came gravely to the table at that, and filled a mug of ale to the brim. “Here’s to my Queen,” said he.
This struck me as odd, for his tone and manner were as if he were drinking to another toast than mine. Yet I did not dare to question him about it, and only hoped so noble a youth was one of Her Majesty’s loyal servants.
Our host had but one small room with a single bed in it to offer us, which accordingly we shared for the night. Nor was it long before we were each sound asleep, forgetful of our troubles and quarrels and weariness.
Before we fell over, however, my comrade said:
“When go you into Oxford?”
“To-morrow, betimes,” said I, “for my message is urgent.”
“You will have trouble enough,” said he. “There is little love between town and gown there, and unless you like knocks, you had better send your letter by the hand of one who does.”
“I mind no knocks,” said I, groaning a little at the memory of some I had received that very evening; “besides, I am bound to give my letter by my own hand.”
“Then,” said he, “take my cap and gown: they are no use to me and may be a passport to you. Lend me your cloak in exchange. It will serve to hide me, while it would but betray you as an intruder inside Oxford.”
“This cloak,” said I, “is the gift of my dear mistress in London. But perhaps your advice is good. I will go into Oxford in a scholar’s garb, and you meanwhile shall shelter here in my cloak till I return about noon. Is it a bargain?”
“As you please,” said he, and fell asleep.
I was the more pleased with this exchange, as I remembered what Master Udal had said concerning the fancy Master Penry might take for my brave cloak. It would be safer here, protecting my comrade, than flaunting in the eyes of the ravenous youth of Oxford.
When I arose next morning with the sun, my bedfellow still slept heavily. I could not forbear taking a look at him as he lay there. His face in sleep, with all the care and unrest out of it, looked like that of some boyish, resolute Greek divinity. His arm was flung carelessly behind his head, and the tawny hair which strayed over the pillow served as a setting for his fine-cut features.
But I had no time for admiring Greek divinities just then; and slipping on the scholar’s robe and cap, which, to my thinking, made me a monstrous fine fellow, I left my own cloak at his bedside, and, taking my letter, started on my errand, afoot.
In the clear morning I could plainly see the towers of the city ahead of me before I had been long on the road. But it is one thing to see and another to touch. The inn where I had lain was at the river’s bank, and yet no road seemed to lead to it or from it. As for mounting the river bank, that was impossible, by reason of the thickets which crowded down to the water’s edge. I had to tramp inland, through marsh and quagmire, in which more than once I thought to end my days, till, after much searching, I hit upon the road which led to the city. Before I entered it the bells were clanging from a score of steeples, and many a hurrying form, clad like myself, crossed my path.
As I gained the east bridge, there was no small tumult in progress. For a handful of scholars, on their way to morning lecture, had fallen foul of a handful of yeomen bound for the fields, and were stoutly disputing the passage. When I appeared, I was claimed at once by the scholars as one of them, and willy-nilly, had to throw in my lot with them. The fight was a sharp one, for the yeomen had their sticks and shares and sickles, and laid stoutly about, whereas the scholars were unarmed, all except a few. At last, when two of our side had been pitched head first over the bridge, our leaders seemed inclined to parley; but the countrymen, puffed up with success, and calling to mind, perhaps, some old grievance, called, “No quarter! To the river with them, everyone,” and closed in.
Then the scholars had to fight for their lives; and I, forgetting I was not really one of them, girt my gown about me, and, shouting to them to follow me, charged the varlets. They were sorry then they had not ended the matter sooner. Two or three of them went over the bridge to look for our comrades beneath, others were soundly cudgelled with their own sticks, while our fists slowly did the rest. All of a sudden up rode two or three horsemen, at whose coming our men showed signs of panic, while the townsmen cheered loudly and made a fresh stand. This vexed me sorely, for I had supposed the battle at an end. Wherefore, I made for the chief horseman, and, putting out all my strength, pulled him off his horse. Scarcely had I done so when my comrades behind raised a shout of “’Tis the Mayor!—’tis the Mayor! Fly!—fly!” and off they made, dragging me with them. To think that I, a loyal London apprentice, should have lived to assault a mayor! But there was no time for excuses or reproaches. The citizens were at our heels shouting and threatening, and as they followed, the whole town turned out in hue and cry. One by one the gownsmen dodged like rabbits into their holes, leaving me, who knew nothing of the city, almost alone. At last the enemy were almost up to me, and I was expecting every moment to be taken and perhaps hanged, when, as good luck would have it, just as I turned a corner, there faced me a wall not so high but that a good leaper might get over it. Over I scrambled just as the pack in full cry rushed round the corner.
Then I laughed as I heard their yapping, and grumbling, and questioning what had become of me. But I gave them no time to find out, for, crossing the garden into which I had fallen, I quickly slipped out at the gate into a fair cloistered square where, adjusting my battle-stained gown, I marched boldly up to the house at the gate and knocked.
A porter came at my summons and demanded, surlily enough, what I wanted.
“I am a fresh man here,” said I, “and have lost my way. I pray you direct me to Saint Alban Hall.”
“Saint Alban Hall?” said he. “Art thou a scholar of Saint Alban Hall?”
“No,” said I, “but I bear a message to one there, Master Penry by name.”
“How comes it,” demanded the porter, who, by the tone of him, might have been the chancellor himself, “that you wear that gown, sirrah?”
“That is my business,” said I, seeing it was no profit to talk civilly to him, “and if you want not to see your neck wrung, give over questions, and tell me where is Saint Alban Hall.”
He grew red in the face as I gripped his arm, which he could by no means get free till I let him.
“This is Saint Alban Hall,” said he, “and Master Penry lives over my lodging.”
Then I thought it better to be civil to the fellow, as he guessed I had no business there in a college gown. So I gave him a groat, and bad him take me up forthwith.
Master Penry was a lean, wrathful-visaged Welshman, with deep grey eyes, and a large forehead, and a mass of straight black hair down his neck. As I entered his room, which was disordered and dirty, he was pacing to and fro, talking or praying aloud in his native tongue. He let me stand there a minute or two, amazed at his jargon, and scarcely knowing whether I had lit upon a sane man or not. Then he stopped suddenly in front of me and scanned me.
“Well?” said he, in good English.
“Are you Master Penry?” I asked.
“I am. You have a message for me?”
“I have; from Master Walgrave. Here it is,” said I, putting the letter into his hand.
He tore it open and read it eagerly, and, as he did so, his face relaxed into a grim smile.
“That is well, so far,” said he. Then, looking hard at me, he added, “Have you ridden from London in that disguise?”
“No,” said I, “this gown was lent me by a friend to protect me against annoyance from the wild men of the town.”
His face suddenly turned pale and passionate.
“Then where is the cloak your master speaks of in this letter?”
“The cloak!” I knew from the very first there would be trouble about that, and I was glad now I had left it behind in the safe keeping of my comrade at the inn.
“What is my cloak to you?” said I, not relishing the tone of his voice, “I have given it away to my friend.”
“Fool and jackass!” said he, gnashing his teeth, “do you know you have ruined me and your master by this?”
“No, I do not,” said I, “and as for the foul names you call me, take them back on the instant, or I swear I will ram them down your mouth!”
He took no notice whatever of my wrath, but went on, breaking in on his speech every now and then with Welsh words which I took to be curses.
“You must get it back at any price,” said he. “Lose not a moment! Where is this friend? Who is he? If he resist you, you must slay him, so as you get it back. If it fall into the hands of an enemy, you and I, ay and your master, and all that belongs to you will perish. Ah, the folly of the man to trust such a missive to this thick-headed blunderer! What time lost, what labour wasted, what peril run, what ruin on our holy cause!”
I was well out of temper by this time, and, but that he looked so miserable and ill-fed, I would have rattled his bones a bit. At last:
“That cloak,” said he, coming up to me, “contained papers sent by your master to me; which, if they be found on any one’s person, mean Tyburn. Do you understand that?”
“Yes,” said I, beginning to see the drift of his coil, “and if you had told me so at first, I had been half-way back to get it by this time. Heaven is my witness, you are welcome to the cloak if that is what it contains; and I doubt not my friend will give it up to do you a pleasure.”
“Hasten!” cried he, with tears of vexation in his eyes, “there is not a moment to be lost—nay, I will go with you. Where did you leave it? Come!”
“Nay,” said I, remembering it for the first time, “I am not very sure where it was. ’Twas at a river-side inn, about four miles from here.”
“And who is your friend? Is he a true man?”
“I know not that either,” said I. “He is a valiant man, and hath a dirk at his girdle; and I pity the man who tries to take the cloak from him by force.”
Master Penry made another speech to himself in Welsh.
“Fool!” exclaimed he, half blubbering. “This precious missive you leave at an inn you know not where; with a man you know not whom; and yet your master speaks of you as a trusty lad. Bah! Lead on!”
I swallowed my wrath and obeyed him. He stalked impatiently at my side, saying nothing, but urging me forward so that I could scarcely keep pace with him. I was in luck, in one way, to have his escort; for as I came near the East Bridge, there lurked not a few of the townsmen who had been in the fight when I assaulted the Mayor. Seeing me with Master Penry, who, I suppose, was a man of some standing, they did not look twice at me; else I might have been caught, and put to rest my limbs in the cage. When we had crossed the bridge, and were in the country, my companion suddenly stopped.
“This friend of yours,” said he, “with the dirk in his girdle. Was he a scholar?”
“He lent me this gown,” said I.
“An Irishman?”
“I know not. He spoke good English, with a foreign trip of the tongue.”
“A great big boy, with wild fair hair, and hands that never are still?”
“The very man. You know him?”
“Do I know him? For two months I have endured the pains of the lost through him. A wild, untameable savage, subject to no laws, a heathen, a butcher, a scoffer at things holy, an idler, a highwayman, a traitor, a rebel, an Irish Papist wolf-hound! Do I know my own pupil? And—oh my God!—is it he who has the coat? Oh, we are doubly lost! Knaves, fools, all conspire to ruin us!”
I let him run on, for he was like one demented. But you may suppose I opened my eyes as I heard this brave character of my new friend.
“Your pupil, is he?” said I at last; “then I counsel you to stay where you are; for he will assuredly eat you alive if he gets you.”
The Welshman paid no head to this warning, but rushed on, jabbering in Welsh to himself, and groaning, ay, and even sobbing now and then in his excitement.
At last, after an hour’s hard work, we came to where I had found the road that morning. Then, for another hour, I dragged him through the swamps and marshes. His strength had begun to fail him long ere we reached the river’s bank; and he was fain, when at last we felt solid earth under our feet, to cry a halt.
“I must rest for one moment,” said he, puffing and panting and clutching at his side in a way that made me sorry for him. Then he fell on his knees and prayed in his own tongue, and before he was done, sunk half-fainting on a tree-trunk.
“Master Penry,” said I, helping him from the ground, “you are not fit to go on. I pray you, let me go alone. This pupil of yours is my friend, and will give me the cloak. Stay here, unless you would spoil all; for assuredly if he see you, he will turn at bay and yield nothing. The inn is but a mile from here. In less than an hour I will be back with the cloak, that I vow.”
He had no strength in him to protest. So I left him there and ran on towards the inn.
Chapter Five.How I parted with my Cloak.My mind was all in confusion as I hurried forward to the river-side inn. Everything seemed to be going wrong with me, and I wished heartily I was back in London with my fellow ’prentices, and my kind mistress, and the sweet Jeannette. They, at least, believed in me; but here, everyone with one consent conspired to tell me I was but a fool. I had made myself a laughing-stock at Maidenhead; I had been pinned up against the wall, by a boy my own age, in this place; I had assaulted a Mayor at Oxford; I had parted with my cloak, which contained life and death in the lining of it, to a stranger; and more than all, I had given my love to a fellow who, if the Welshman was right, was a horrible traitor and Papist! A fine piece of work, verily, and little wonder if my conceit was somewhat abated after it all!Yet, as I ran on, I thought more about my wild friend at the inn, than about any one else. I could hardly believe him to be a rogue; although all that the Welshman said of him tallied with my own observation. Nay, more, to my dismay, I found by my heart that even were he all the rogue he was painted, I could scarcely bring myself to like him the less.“At least,” thought I, “if he be a knave, he is an honest one; and my cloak will be safe with him.”As I came to the inn, which I had scarcely yet seen by daylight, it seemed gayer and more bustling that I had found it last night. Three brave horses stood saddled and bridled at the door, and voices of good cheer from within showed me that mine host was having some little custom for his sack. I wondered if my solemn scholar was of the party, or whether, the better to avoid detection, he still lay abed.As I entered, I recognised the chief of the four men who sat at the table as my friend the Bishop’s man, whom I had met on the road two days ago, but whom, as well as my promise to meet him to-day, I had since clean forgotten. He hailed me gaily, as if he expected me.“Welcome, lad; you are a man of your word. I knew you would come. Come and join us, there is brave sport afoot.”I coloured up, to be thus commended for what I did not merit.“Indeed,” said I, “I—I am glad to meet you again, but—but (how I stammered), just now I am looking for my friend.”“What! Have you not done your errand?” said he. “You told me it was in Oxford.”“It was. I have done it—but I left a friend here. Mine host,” said I, turning to the man of the place, “is my comrade astir yet?”The host crammed his apron in his mouth to keep in a laugh.“Astir! Sir Ludar astir! I warrant thee half the bucks in Shotover Wood are astir too before now.”“What!” said I, my face falling suddenly, “is he gone then?”“An hour since; and by your leave, young sir,” added mine host, “I would take leave to remind your grandeur that the score of last night’s supper, and a trifle my lord took for his breakfast, with the shoeing and meat of the horse, and the price of your night’s lodging, awaits your noble acquittance.”“Gone!” cried I, not heeding all the rest. “And did he leave aught for me?”“I doubt not he left his blessing, but nothing else.”“But my cloak, he had my cloak.”“If he have it not still, ay, and the nag too, it will be because he has met a stronger man than ever I saw yet on earth,” said mine host.“But the cloak!” roared I, “that cloak had papers in it; it was—”Here the Bishop’s man put down his mug and pricked up his ears.“Which way did he go?” cried I. “Saddle me my horse. I must overtake him or all is lost.”“Papers?” said the Bishop’s man. “What sort of papers, prithee?”“I know not,” said I. “Oh, that cursed cloak!”“Harkee, my lad,” said the man sternly, “answer me two questions, if you will.”He laid hold of my arm, and looked so menacing that I was fairly taken aback.“And if I do not,” said I, as I began suddenly to see what it all led to.“Then in the Queen’s name I shall know what to do with you,” said he, beckoning to his three men, who rose and approached me.I was fairly in a corner now, for a man who held the Queen’s warrant was not one lightly to be resisted. Yet what could I tell him?“Let me hear your questions,” said I, as civilly as I could, and edging a little towards the door, “perhaps I can answer them.”“That’s a wise lad,” said he, mollified, “I know you are but a tool—men, stand back there—I blame you not for doing your duty, but you must tell me here, the name of the man, your master, who sent you this errand, and the name of him to whom you bore it.”“I can tell you neither,” said I.He turned to his men, but before they could rise, I had rushed to the door and was outside. A key stood in the outside of the lock, which mine host used to turn and take with him when business called him to leave his inn empty. I had just time to turn this and vault on one of the three horses, when the window was flung open and the leader of the band sprang on to the casement.But he was too late; for before he could level his musket at me, I was twenty yards away at a gallop, leading by the bridle the two spare horses which had stood at the door beside the one I rode.The shot, badly aimed, whistled past my ear, and served to urge on the horses to a wilder pace, so that, before even the party was outside, hallooing after me, I was a furlong off, plunging deep into the wood.I had no time to think if I had done well or ill, or what the upshot of it all was like to be. Time enough for that when I had won clear. The led horses, after their first fright, jibbed at the reins and struggled to get free. So, as they checked my speed, I let them go, and saw them plunge away among the trees, no easy capture for their lawful owners. Meanwhile, I dashed forward whithersoever the horse took me. I remember, even amid my panic, what a delight it was to sit astride of so noble a beast, who seemed to scorn my weight, and skim the earth as lightly as if he carried a child. Had it been my own sorry nag I should long since have been by the heels.Once clear of the wood I suddenly sighted Oxford towers to my left, and found myself on the road by which I had passed but an hour ago with the angry Welshman. I had forgotten him, and ’twas well for him that I had.I had no mind to put myself again within reach of his worship, the Mayor of Oxford, and his merry men; so I tugged my right rein and kept my horse’s head turned to the wooded hills northward. There, thought I, I can at least find time to draw breath and determine what must be done next. To the forest I sped, then, marvelling at the pace of my brave horse, and wondering if the Bishop’s man was yet on the road at my heels.On the steeper ground my horse slackened a bit, but I urged him forward till we were deep in the wood, with a choice of four or five paths, any of which led, heaven knows where. Here I let him stand and get his wind, while I turned over in my mind what should be my best course.While I was debating, to my surprise, my horse pricked up his ears and gave a loud neigh, which was answered from no great distance by another. At first I supposed his companions had followed us, or that our pursuers were nearer than I reckoned for. But, on listening, I perceived that the strange horse was ahead of us, not behind. I therefore moved slowly forward in the direction of the sound. What was my surprise when I saw my own poor nag tethered to a tree, with my cloak—the cause of all this trouble—laid carelessly over his back.Master Penry’s wild pupil was nowhere near, yet I scarce gave him a thought at the time, so overjoyed was I to recover my long-lost prize. I sprang from my borrowed horse, letting him stray where he would, and fell upon the garment like a mother on her lost child, except that I, having taken it to my arms, whipped out my knife and proceeded to rip it up from top to bottom.Master Penry had been right! The cloak was stoutly padded with printed sheets, of which I took out fully three score. They were all the same, a short tractate of twelve pages duodecimo, set in my master’s type (for I recognised the letter and the flowered initials), and printed, there was no doubt now, at his secret press.The title of the tractate was “A Whip for the Bishops,” and to my wrath and confusion as I read, I found it contained wicked and scandalous abuse of their Graces of Canterbury and London, whom it called wolves in sheep’s clothing, antichrists, and I know not what horrid names besides! And it was to carry this wicked libel I had been sped on this journey, decked with my brave cloak, and commended to that Welsh varlet, who, no doubt, was the author, and counted on me as the tool to help him to disseminate his blasphemous treason! He little knew Humphrey Dexter. Although I had put a queen’s officer in the duck-pond; although I had assaulted a mayor; although I had defied a bishop’s warrant, and made off on a bishop’s horse, I yet was a loyal subject of Her Majesty, and hated schismatics as I hated the Pope himself. They had played me a trick among them; I would play them one back.So I gathered up the libels, and dropped them one and all, together with the false lining of the coat, into the hollow of a rotten tree; where, for all I know, they may be to this day. And if, years hence, some lover of the curious should seek to add to the treasures of his library a true copy of that famous lost tract, “A Whip for the Bishops,” let me tell him in his ear, the book is to be had cheap, midway across Shotover wood, somewhere to the left of the lower path which leads to Heddendon. Nowhere else was it ever published, to that I can vouch.I had scarcely finished my task when I heard a whoop from among the trees, followed immediately by the whiz of an arrow which glanced betwixt my cheek and my shoulder, and buried its head deep in the trunk of a near tree.I had scarcely time to face round and draw my sword, when I perceived coming down the glade my wild scholar with a bow in his hand, and a dead fox on his back. He had plainly not seen who I was at first, but recognised me as soon as I turned. He marched gravely towards me, equally heedless of my drawn sword, and of the shaft which a moment ago had all but taken my life.“Is it you?” said he; “I took you, in your cap and gown, for my tutor.”“You all but killed me, too,” said I, wrathfully.“Ay, it was a bad shot. Yet, had you not moved your head, it would have spiked you by the ear to that tree. What brings you here?”I was taken aback by the coolness of the fellow, who talked about spiking me by the ear as if I had been the fox he carried on his back.“Marry,” said I, “you should know what brings me here. My horse and my cloak, they brought me here, sirrah.”“Nay, they brought me here; but I am not sorry to see you. I was about to return to the inn, to look for you.”I flushed to the roots of my hair, to think how readily I had set this man down as a runaway thief. Never was a face less deceitful, or a manner less suspicious; and I, if I had not been a fool, might have known as much.“I did you an injustice,” said I, returning my sword, “I believed you had given me the slip, and were—”“A thief,” said he, with a scornful curl on his lips. “I thank you, master ’prentice.”I would sooner he had cut at me with his dirk. But further parley was ended by a sudden noise of horns and a tramp of horses close by.I sprang to the alert in an instant.“The bishop’s men!” cried I, “we are pursued. Fly!”“Too late for that,” said my comrade, as a party of huntsmen, some mounted, some on foot, broke through the glade at the very spot where we stood.It was not the bishop’s men; but to my horror I recognised in the leading horseman, his worship the Mayor.At sight of me in my cap and gown, and of my comrade with his bow and the dead fox, and of the horse tethered to the tree—(the bishop’s horse had strayed, I know not whither)—the hunters raised a loud cry, and closed upon us.“Seize the varlets,” cried the mayor, “they are caught at last. By my life, a scholar, too. If he smart not for this, and something else, call me a dullard.”I saw by that he did not recognise me, although he cherished a lively memory of that morning’s adventure.My comrade, somewhat to my surprise, submitted quietly to superior numbers, and I was fain to do the like. It were better to be punished for poaching, than to be arraigned before the High Court of Star Chamber for publishing seditious libels.“Bring them away, bring them away,” cried the mayor, who was in no amiable mood. “I warrant they shall learn one lesson well, for once in their lives. Scholars indeed! a parcel of lewd, blood-thirsty, poaching scoundrels, with no more conscience than a London apprentice. Come, away with them to the city.”At this a gay young stripling rode up.“Father,” he said, “is our day’s sport to be spoiled for a brace of rogues like these? Surely they will keep an hour or two, while we have our chase. Let some one guard them in the ranger’s house, and we can take them up with us as we return at evening.”His young companions seconded his request. So the Mayor, who would have enjoyed more to clap us in the pillory than to win half the antlers in Shotover woods, consented, and bade three of his men conduct us to the ranger’s lodge hard by, and keep us there till the party returned.I saw my comrade’s eye light up at this, but he said nothing; and looking very crestfallen and abashed we followed our guard, with hands tied, and heard the huntsmen’s horns tantivy merrily away for their day’s sport.The ranger’s lodge was a hut of but a single room, into which our keepers thrust us with little ceremony, and made to the door. They were stout men, all of them, and carried cross bows, besides the daggers at their girdles. We heard them grumble angrily to be baulked of their day’s sport by a couple of college boys like us, and to be shut up here all day long with neither drink nor food nor anything with which to make good cheer.Whereat one of the party pulled out a box of dice, and for lack of better sport they began to play.Meanwhile, I watched my comrade, who, on entering, had thrown himself on the floor, and composed himself as if to sleep. But though he lay with his head on his hands, it was plain to see he was not dreaming; for the muscles of his face were working, and his body once or twice seemed exercised as with some effort. What this was, I guessed soon enough. He was gnawing the cord which bound his wrists; whereupon I set-to do the same, and, in a quarter of an hour I was free. Already my comrade had signalled to me that he was rid of his bonds, but warned me to give no sign, but wait the signal from him. So we both lay still, and I, the better to keep up the part, snored long and loud.Our keepers, meanwhile, gave us no heed, but played deep and eagerly. We could hear by the growls and oaths that kept company with the rattle of the dice, that the luck was not going even. One of the three won the throw, time after time, and crowed so loud at each success, that the others (as was only natural), turned first surly, then angry. But the winner heeded not their wrath, but continued to cackle insultingly, until their patience being all spent, they knocked over the table, and fell to blows. Now, surely, thought I, is the time for us. But my comrade still lay low, and signed to me to do the same. For we were unarmed, and had we been too soon, all had been spoiled.The fight that followed was short and sharp. The single man held his own for a few minutes, but fell at last, borne down by superior numbers and a stab in the thigh from one of his assailants. Then, when in dismay, the two dropped their daggers and knelt to see if he were dead or alive, my comrade gave the signal, and we sprang at one bound to our feet. In a moment the two men were in our grip, and at our mercy, and so taken aback were they by our sudden attack, that they cried quarter, even without a struggle, and let themselves be bound with the cords of which we just now rid.As for the third, he was wounded, though not badly, and we left him unfettered. Then arming ourselves with a cross bow apiece (the spoils of war), and our own blades, we locked the door on our keepers, and bade them farewell. One thing troubled me in our escape, which was this, that my nag (or rather, Master Udal’s), and my cloak were both gone a-hunting with the mayor. However, we could not both have ridden the one, or worn the other, and we might perchance run less risk without them than with them. As for the college cap and gown, my comrade nailed them with our keeper’s two daggers on the outside of the door when we left, in token that here he bade farewell for ever to the life of a scholar.It was scarcely three o’clock in the afternoon when we made good our escape. Before sundown, thanks to my comrade’s knowledge of the country (which was all the more wonderful that he had been only two months at Oxford), we had fetched a wide circuit round the north of the city, and were safe on the Berkshire side of the river beyond Wightham, on the road to Abingdon.For four hours my comrade had paced at my side without a word, and I, finding nothing to say, had been silent too. When, however, all danger from our pursuers was past, and night invited us to halt at the first convenient shelter, he stopped in the road and broke silence.“Friend,” said he, “what is your name?”“Humphrey Dexter, at your service,” said I. “May I ask yours?”“You may call me Sir Ludar,” said he, gravely. “And since we two have been comrades in peril, give me your hand, and let heaven witness that we are friends from this day.”I gripped his hand in silence, for I knew not what to say. My heart went out to this wild, odd comrade of mine, of whom I knew nothing; and had he bidden me follow him to the world’s end, I should yet have thought twice before I refused him.That night, as we lay in a wayside barn (for my purse was run too low to afford us an inn), Sir Ludar told me something of his history: and what he omitted to tell, I was able to guess. He was the youngest son, he said, of an Irish rebel chieftain, Sorley Boy McDonnell by name; who, desiring at one time to cement a truce with the English, had given his child in charge of a Sir William Carleton, an English soldier to whom he owed a service, to be brought up by him in his household, and educated as an English scholar and gentleman. The boy had never seen his father since; for though his guardian began by treating him well, yet when McDonnell turned against the English, as he had done, Sir William’s manner changed. He kept hold of the boy, not so much as a ward but as a hostage, and ruled him with an iron rod. The lad had been handed over from governor to governor, from school to school, but they could do nothing with him. Some of his masters he had defied, others he had scorned, one he had nearly slain. His guardian had flogged him times without number, and threatened him still oftener. His guardian’s lady had tried to tame him with gentleness and coaxing. He had been admonished by clergy, and arraigned before magistrates. But all to no purpose. He snapped his fingers at them all, and went his own way, consorting with desperate men, breaking laws and heads, flinging his books to the four winds, making raids on her Majesty’s deer, flouting the clergy, denying the Queen, and daring all the Sir William Charletons on this earth to make an English gentleman of him. At last his guardian (who really, I think, meant well by the lad, rebel as he was), sent him to Oxford, to the care of Master Penry, the Welshman, who, by all signs, must have had a merry two months of it. At least, I could understand now why he had been more anxious to get back my cloak than his truant pupil. Nor could I blame him if he sighed with relief when Ludar, having fallen foul of every one and everything at Oxford, and learned nothing save a smattering of Spanish from a Jesuit priest, took up his cap and gown and shook the dust of the University from his feet.“And so,” said my comrade, who, as I say, left me to guess the half of what I have written down, “I am rid of them all; and, thank the saints, I am no gentleman yet.”Whereupon he dropped asleep.
My mind was all in confusion as I hurried forward to the river-side inn. Everything seemed to be going wrong with me, and I wished heartily I was back in London with my fellow ’prentices, and my kind mistress, and the sweet Jeannette. They, at least, believed in me; but here, everyone with one consent conspired to tell me I was but a fool. I had made myself a laughing-stock at Maidenhead; I had been pinned up against the wall, by a boy my own age, in this place; I had assaulted a Mayor at Oxford; I had parted with my cloak, which contained life and death in the lining of it, to a stranger; and more than all, I had given my love to a fellow who, if the Welshman was right, was a horrible traitor and Papist! A fine piece of work, verily, and little wonder if my conceit was somewhat abated after it all!
Yet, as I ran on, I thought more about my wild friend at the inn, than about any one else. I could hardly believe him to be a rogue; although all that the Welshman said of him tallied with my own observation. Nay, more, to my dismay, I found by my heart that even were he all the rogue he was painted, I could scarcely bring myself to like him the less.
“At least,” thought I, “if he be a knave, he is an honest one; and my cloak will be safe with him.”
As I came to the inn, which I had scarcely yet seen by daylight, it seemed gayer and more bustling that I had found it last night. Three brave horses stood saddled and bridled at the door, and voices of good cheer from within showed me that mine host was having some little custom for his sack. I wondered if my solemn scholar was of the party, or whether, the better to avoid detection, he still lay abed.
As I entered, I recognised the chief of the four men who sat at the table as my friend the Bishop’s man, whom I had met on the road two days ago, but whom, as well as my promise to meet him to-day, I had since clean forgotten. He hailed me gaily, as if he expected me.
“Welcome, lad; you are a man of your word. I knew you would come. Come and join us, there is brave sport afoot.”
I coloured up, to be thus commended for what I did not merit.
“Indeed,” said I, “I—I am glad to meet you again, but—but (how I stammered), just now I am looking for my friend.”
“What! Have you not done your errand?” said he. “You told me it was in Oxford.”
“It was. I have done it—but I left a friend here. Mine host,” said I, turning to the man of the place, “is my comrade astir yet?”
The host crammed his apron in his mouth to keep in a laugh.
“Astir! Sir Ludar astir! I warrant thee half the bucks in Shotover Wood are astir too before now.”
“What!” said I, my face falling suddenly, “is he gone then?”
“An hour since; and by your leave, young sir,” added mine host, “I would take leave to remind your grandeur that the score of last night’s supper, and a trifle my lord took for his breakfast, with the shoeing and meat of the horse, and the price of your night’s lodging, awaits your noble acquittance.”
“Gone!” cried I, not heeding all the rest. “And did he leave aught for me?”
“I doubt not he left his blessing, but nothing else.”
“But my cloak, he had my cloak.”
“If he have it not still, ay, and the nag too, it will be because he has met a stronger man than ever I saw yet on earth,” said mine host.
“But the cloak!” roared I, “that cloak had papers in it; it was—”
Here the Bishop’s man put down his mug and pricked up his ears.
“Which way did he go?” cried I. “Saddle me my horse. I must overtake him or all is lost.”
“Papers?” said the Bishop’s man. “What sort of papers, prithee?”
“I know not,” said I. “Oh, that cursed cloak!”
“Harkee, my lad,” said the man sternly, “answer me two questions, if you will.”
He laid hold of my arm, and looked so menacing that I was fairly taken aback.
“And if I do not,” said I, as I began suddenly to see what it all led to.
“Then in the Queen’s name I shall know what to do with you,” said he, beckoning to his three men, who rose and approached me.
I was fairly in a corner now, for a man who held the Queen’s warrant was not one lightly to be resisted. Yet what could I tell him?
“Let me hear your questions,” said I, as civilly as I could, and edging a little towards the door, “perhaps I can answer them.”
“That’s a wise lad,” said he, mollified, “I know you are but a tool—men, stand back there—I blame you not for doing your duty, but you must tell me here, the name of the man, your master, who sent you this errand, and the name of him to whom you bore it.”
“I can tell you neither,” said I.
He turned to his men, but before they could rise, I had rushed to the door and was outside. A key stood in the outside of the lock, which mine host used to turn and take with him when business called him to leave his inn empty. I had just time to turn this and vault on one of the three horses, when the window was flung open and the leader of the band sprang on to the casement.
But he was too late; for before he could level his musket at me, I was twenty yards away at a gallop, leading by the bridle the two spare horses which had stood at the door beside the one I rode.
The shot, badly aimed, whistled past my ear, and served to urge on the horses to a wilder pace, so that, before even the party was outside, hallooing after me, I was a furlong off, plunging deep into the wood.
I had no time to think if I had done well or ill, or what the upshot of it all was like to be. Time enough for that when I had won clear. The led horses, after their first fright, jibbed at the reins and struggled to get free. So, as they checked my speed, I let them go, and saw them plunge away among the trees, no easy capture for their lawful owners. Meanwhile, I dashed forward whithersoever the horse took me. I remember, even amid my panic, what a delight it was to sit astride of so noble a beast, who seemed to scorn my weight, and skim the earth as lightly as if he carried a child. Had it been my own sorry nag I should long since have been by the heels.
Once clear of the wood I suddenly sighted Oxford towers to my left, and found myself on the road by which I had passed but an hour ago with the angry Welshman. I had forgotten him, and ’twas well for him that I had.
I had no mind to put myself again within reach of his worship, the Mayor of Oxford, and his merry men; so I tugged my right rein and kept my horse’s head turned to the wooded hills northward. There, thought I, I can at least find time to draw breath and determine what must be done next. To the forest I sped, then, marvelling at the pace of my brave horse, and wondering if the Bishop’s man was yet on the road at my heels.
On the steeper ground my horse slackened a bit, but I urged him forward till we were deep in the wood, with a choice of four or five paths, any of which led, heaven knows where. Here I let him stand and get his wind, while I turned over in my mind what should be my best course.
While I was debating, to my surprise, my horse pricked up his ears and gave a loud neigh, which was answered from no great distance by another. At first I supposed his companions had followed us, or that our pursuers were nearer than I reckoned for. But, on listening, I perceived that the strange horse was ahead of us, not behind. I therefore moved slowly forward in the direction of the sound. What was my surprise when I saw my own poor nag tethered to a tree, with my cloak—the cause of all this trouble—laid carelessly over his back.
Master Penry’s wild pupil was nowhere near, yet I scarce gave him a thought at the time, so overjoyed was I to recover my long-lost prize. I sprang from my borrowed horse, letting him stray where he would, and fell upon the garment like a mother on her lost child, except that I, having taken it to my arms, whipped out my knife and proceeded to rip it up from top to bottom.
Master Penry had been right! The cloak was stoutly padded with printed sheets, of which I took out fully three score. They were all the same, a short tractate of twelve pages duodecimo, set in my master’s type (for I recognised the letter and the flowered initials), and printed, there was no doubt now, at his secret press.
The title of the tractate was “A Whip for the Bishops,” and to my wrath and confusion as I read, I found it contained wicked and scandalous abuse of their Graces of Canterbury and London, whom it called wolves in sheep’s clothing, antichrists, and I know not what horrid names besides! And it was to carry this wicked libel I had been sped on this journey, decked with my brave cloak, and commended to that Welsh varlet, who, no doubt, was the author, and counted on me as the tool to help him to disseminate his blasphemous treason! He little knew Humphrey Dexter. Although I had put a queen’s officer in the duck-pond; although I had assaulted a mayor; although I had defied a bishop’s warrant, and made off on a bishop’s horse, I yet was a loyal subject of Her Majesty, and hated schismatics as I hated the Pope himself. They had played me a trick among them; I would play them one back.
So I gathered up the libels, and dropped them one and all, together with the false lining of the coat, into the hollow of a rotten tree; where, for all I know, they may be to this day. And if, years hence, some lover of the curious should seek to add to the treasures of his library a true copy of that famous lost tract, “A Whip for the Bishops,” let me tell him in his ear, the book is to be had cheap, midway across Shotover wood, somewhere to the left of the lower path which leads to Heddendon. Nowhere else was it ever published, to that I can vouch.
I had scarcely finished my task when I heard a whoop from among the trees, followed immediately by the whiz of an arrow which glanced betwixt my cheek and my shoulder, and buried its head deep in the trunk of a near tree.
I had scarcely time to face round and draw my sword, when I perceived coming down the glade my wild scholar with a bow in his hand, and a dead fox on his back. He had plainly not seen who I was at first, but recognised me as soon as I turned. He marched gravely towards me, equally heedless of my drawn sword, and of the shaft which a moment ago had all but taken my life.
“Is it you?” said he; “I took you, in your cap and gown, for my tutor.”
“You all but killed me, too,” said I, wrathfully.
“Ay, it was a bad shot. Yet, had you not moved your head, it would have spiked you by the ear to that tree. What brings you here?”
I was taken aback by the coolness of the fellow, who talked about spiking me by the ear as if I had been the fox he carried on his back.
“Marry,” said I, “you should know what brings me here. My horse and my cloak, they brought me here, sirrah.”
“Nay, they brought me here; but I am not sorry to see you. I was about to return to the inn, to look for you.”
I flushed to the roots of my hair, to think how readily I had set this man down as a runaway thief. Never was a face less deceitful, or a manner less suspicious; and I, if I had not been a fool, might have known as much.
“I did you an injustice,” said I, returning my sword, “I believed you had given me the slip, and were—”
“A thief,” said he, with a scornful curl on his lips. “I thank you, master ’prentice.”
I would sooner he had cut at me with his dirk. But further parley was ended by a sudden noise of horns and a tramp of horses close by.
I sprang to the alert in an instant.
“The bishop’s men!” cried I, “we are pursued. Fly!”
“Too late for that,” said my comrade, as a party of huntsmen, some mounted, some on foot, broke through the glade at the very spot where we stood.
It was not the bishop’s men; but to my horror I recognised in the leading horseman, his worship the Mayor.
At sight of me in my cap and gown, and of my comrade with his bow and the dead fox, and of the horse tethered to the tree—(the bishop’s horse had strayed, I know not whither)—the hunters raised a loud cry, and closed upon us.
“Seize the varlets,” cried the mayor, “they are caught at last. By my life, a scholar, too. If he smart not for this, and something else, call me a dullard.”
I saw by that he did not recognise me, although he cherished a lively memory of that morning’s adventure.
My comrade, somewhat to my surprise, submitted quietly to superior numbers, and I was fain to do the like. It were better to be punished for poaching, than to be arraigned before the High Court of Star Chamber for publishing seditious libels.
“Bring them away, bring them away,” cried the mayor, who was in no amiable mood. “I warrant they shall learn one lesson well, for once in their lives. Scholars indeed! a parcel of lewd, blood-thirsty, poaching scoundrels, with no more conscience than a London apprentice. Come, away with them to the city.”
At this a gay young stripling rode up.
“Father,” he said, “is our day’s sport to be spoiled for a brace of rogues like these? Surely they will keep an hour or two, while we have our chase. Let some one guard them in the ranger’s house, and we can take them up with us as we return at evening.”
His young companions seconded his request. So the Mayor, who would have enjoyed more to clap us in the pillory than to win half the antlers in Shotover woods, consented, and bade three of his men conduct us to the ranger’s lodge hard by, and keep us there till the party returned.
I saw my comrade’s eye light up at this, but he said nothing; and looking very crestfallen and abashed we followed our guard, with hands tied, and heard the huntsmen’s horns tantivy merrily away for their day’s sport.
The ranger’s lodge was a hut of but a single room, into which our keepers thrust us with little ceremony, and made to the door. They were stout men, all of them, and carried cross bows, besides the daggers at their girdles. We heard them grumble angrily to be baulked of their day’s sport by a couple of college boys like us, and to be shut up here all day long with neither drink nor food nor anything with which to make good cheer.
Whereat one of the party pulled out a box of dice, and for lack of better sport they began to play.
Meanwhile, I watched my comrade, who, on entering, had thrown himself on the floor, and composed himself as if to sleep. But though he lay with his head on his hands, it was plain to see he was not dreaming; for the muscles of his face were working, and his body once or twice seemed exercised as with some effort. What this was, I guessed soon enough. He was gnawing the cord which bound his wrists; whereupon I set-to do the same, and, in a quarter of an hour I was free. Already my comrade had signalled to me that he was rid of his bonds, but warned me to give no sign, but wait the signal from him. So we both lay still, and I, the better to keep up the part, snored long and loud.
Our keepers, meanwhile, gave us no heed, but played deep and eagerly. We could hear by the growls and oaths that kept company with the rattle of the dice, that the luck was not going even. One of the three won the throw, time after time, and crowed so loud at each success, that the others (as was only natural), turned first surly, then angry. But the winner heeded not their wrath, but continued to cackle insultingly, until their patience being all spent, they knocked over the table, and fell to blows. Now, surely, thought I, is the time for us. But my comrade still lay low, and signed to me to do the same. For we were unarmed, and had we been too soon, all had been spoiled.
The fight that followed was short and sharp. The single man held his own for a few minutes, but fell at last, borne down by superior numbers and a stab in the thigh from one of his assailants. Then, when in dismay, the two dropped their daggers and knelt to see if he were dead or alive, my comrade gave the signal, and we sprang at one bound to our feet. In a moment the two men were in our grip, and at our mercy, and so taken aback were they by our sudden attack, that they cried quarter, even without a struggle, and let themselves be bound with the cords of which we just now rid.
As for the third, he was wounded, though not badly, and we left him unfettered. Then arming ourselves with a cross bow apiece (the spoils of war), and our own blades, we locked the door on our keepers, and bade them farewell. One thing troubled me in our escape, which was this, that my nag (or rather, Master Udal’s), and my cloak were both gone a-hunting with the mayor. However, we could not both have ridden the one, or worn the other, and we might perchance run less risk without them than with them. As for the college cap and gown, my comrade nailed them with our keeper’s two daggers on the outside of the door when we left, in token that here he bade farewell for ever to the life of a scholar.
It was scarcely three o’clock in the afternoon when we made good our escape. Before sundown, thanks to my comrade’s knowledge of the country (which was all the more wonderful that he had been only two months at Oxford), we had fetched a wide circuit round the north of the city, and were safe on the Berkshire side of the river beyond Wightham, on the road to Abingdon.
For four hours my comrade had paced at my side without a word, and I, finding nothing to say, had been silent too. When, however, all danger from our pursuers was past, and night invited us to halt at the first convenient shelter, he stopped in the road and broke silence.
“Friend,” said he, “what is your name?”
“Humphrey Dexter, at your service,” said I. “May I ask yours?”
“You may call me Sir Ludar,” said he, gravely. “And since we two have been comrades in peril, give me your hand, and let heaven witness that we are friends from this day.”
I gripped his hand in silence, for I knew not what to say. My heart went out to this wild, odd comrade of mine, of whom I knew nothing; and had he bidden me follow him to the world’s end, I should yet have thought twice before I refused him.
That night, as we lay in a wayside barn (for my purse was run too low to afford us an inn), Sir Ludar told me something of his history: and what he omitted to tell, I was able to guess. He was the youngest son, he said, of an Irish rebel chieftain, Sorley Boy McDonnell by name; who, desiring at one time to cement a truce with the English, had given his child in charge of a Sir William Carleton, an English soldier to whom he owed a service, to be brought up by him in his household, and educated as an English scholar and gentleman. The boy had never seen his father since; for though his guardian began by treating him well, yet when McDonnell turned against the English, as he had done, Sir William’s manner changed. He kept hold of the boy, not so much as a ward but as a hostage, and ruled him with an iron rod. The lad had been handed over from governor to governor, from school to school, but they could do nothing with him. Some of his masters he had defied, others he had scorned, one he had nearly slain. His guardian had flogged him times without number, and threatened him still oftener. His guardian’s lady had tried to tame him with gentleness and coaxing. He had been admonished by clergy, and arraigned before magistrates. But all to no purpose. He snapped his fingers at them all, and went his own way, consorting with desperate men, breaking laws and heads, flinging his books to the four winds, making raids on her Majesty’s deer, flouting the clergy, denying the Queen, and daring all the Sir William Charletons on this earth to make an English gentleman of him. At last his guardian (who really, I think, meant well by the lad, rebel as he was), sent him to Oxford, to the care of Master Penry, the Welshman, who, by all signs, must have had a merry two months of it. At least, I could understand now why he had been more anxious to get back my cloak than his truant pupil. Nor could I blame him if he sighed with relief when Ludar, having fallen foul of every one and everything at Oxford, and learned nothing save a smattering of Spanish from a Jesuit priest, took up his cap and gown and shook the dust of the University from his feet.
“And so,” said my comrade, who, as I say, left me to guess the half of what I have written down, “I am rid of them all; and, thank the saints, I am no gentleman yet.”
Whereupon he dropped asleep.
Chapter Six.How I walked with a Rebel.“Where do we go next?” asked I in the morning as we shook ourselves free of the hay which had been our bed, and sallied out into the air.He looked at me with a smile, as though the question were a jest.“To my guardian’s,” said he.“Why!” said I, “he will flog you for running away from Oxford.”“What of that?” said Sir Ludar. “He is my governor.”It seemed odd to me for a man to put himself thus in the lion’s maw, but I durst not question my new chief.“You shall come too, and see him,” said he. “It passes me to guess what he will do with me next, unless he make a lawyer or a priest of me.”“I must back to my master in London,” said I.“The printer!” said he, scornfully. “He is thy master no more; thou hast entered my service.”This staggered me. For much as I loved him, it had never occurred to me to bind myself to a penniless runaway.“Pardon me, sir,” said I. “I am bound to the printer by an oath. Besides, I know not yet what your service is.”“My service,” said he, “is to be free, and to put wrong right.”“’Tis a noble service,” said I, “but it fills no stomachs.”“You ’prentices are all stomach,” said he, sadly. “But ’tis always so. No man that ever I met believed in me yet. I must fight my battles alone.”This cut me to the quick.“Not so,” said I. “Last night I swore to be your friend. It was a mad oath, I know; but you shall see if I do not observe it. But till two years are past, I am bound by an oath to my master the printer, and him I must serve. Then, I am with you.”This I thought softened him.“Well,” said he, “who knows where we may be two years hence?”“God knows, and we are in his hands.”“So be it,” said Sir Ludar, crossing himself, to my grief. “Meanwhile, Humphrey, we are friends. I may claim your heart if not your hand?”“You may—or,” here I blushed, “a share of it.”“What mean you by that?” asked he, sharply. “What man holds the rest?”“No man,” said I.He laughed pleasantly at that.“A woman? I have heard of that distemper before. It comes and goes, I’m told. Had it been a man, I should have been jealous.”There was little sympathy in that for my sore heart, so I said no more.“Come,” said he presently, “you shall come to my guardian’s. He lives at Richmond, and it is on our way to London. If he turn me off, you shall take me to London, and make a printer of me, if you please.”I agreed to this, and we stepped out on our journey.A strange journey it was. My comrade, for the most part, stalked silently half a pace in front of me, sometimes, it seemed to me, heedless of my presence, and sometimes as if troubled by it. Yet often enough he brightened up, and began carolling some wild song; or else darted off the road after a hare or other game which he rarely failed to bring down with his arrow; or else rallied me for my silence, and bade me talk to him.At these times I asked him about his own country, and his father, and then his face lit up. For though he had not seen either since he was a child, it was clear he longed to be back.“What prevents your returning now?” said I.He looked at me in his strange wondering way.“Know you not that McDonnell is an exile, and that the hated Sassenach holds his castle?” demanded he.I confessed I did not; for a London ’prentice hears little of the news outside. Besides, though I durst not tell him as much, I did not know who McDonnell, his father, might be; or what he meant by Sassenach.“But he will feast in Dunluce once more,” cried he, “and I shall be there too. And the usurper woman Elizabeth shall—”Here I sprang at him, and felled him to the ground!The blood left my heart as I saw what I had done. As he lay there, I could hardly believe it was I who had done it; for I loved him as my own brother, and never more so than when he leapt to his feet, and with white lips and heaving chest stood and faced me.I was so sure he would fly at me, that I did not even wait for him to begin, but flung myself blindly on him. But he only caught me by the arm and shoulder, and flung me off with such strength that I reeled and staggered for a dozen yards before I finally fell headlong with my face in the dust.Then he turned on his heel and walked on slowly.It was no light thing, after that, to pick myself up and, spitting the dust from my mouth, go after him. But I did. He never turned as I came up behind, or heeded me till I stood before him and said:“Sir Ludar, I smote you just now for speaking ill of my Queen. A man who is disloyal to her is no friend of mine; therefore farewell.”He glanced me over, and his face had lost all its anger.“She is no Queen of mine,” said he. “I was born her enemy. For all that, you did well to strike when I spoke ill of her. I would do as much to you were you to speak evil of my Queen.” And here he raised his cap.“Your Queen?” said I. “And who may she be? There is but one Queen in these realms.”“I know it,” said he. “Her I serve.”“Do you mean,” said I, “that you serve—”“Hush!” said he, with his hand at his belt. “I serve Queen Mary, and all the saints in Heaven preserve her! Now, Humphrey Dexter, is it peace or war?”“I pray every day for the confusion of her Majesty’s enemies.”“Why not?” said he, “so you pray not aloud. I do the same.”“Not so,” said I, “or I should not have struck you. Nor shall it be peace if you dare to breathe her Majesty’s name again in my hearing.”“Heaven is my witness I have no wish to breathe it,” said he, with a curl of his lips. “Nor, if you breathe the name of mine, need you look for so gentle a tumble as I dealt you just now. Come, your hand on it.”So we struck hands for the third time and went on.My conscience troubled me sore the rest of that day. What had I come to, to assort thus with a declared enemy of our gracious Queen, and, more than that, to love him more every mile we walked? I could not help it, as I said before. He was so unlike a common rebel, and so big in his heart to every one and everything that claimed his aid.Once that day, as we toiled along the hot road, we overtook a poor woman carrying a bundle in one arm, while with the other she strove to help along a little, footsore child, who whimpered and stumbled at every step. Without a word, Sir Ludar took the child and bundle both from the scared mother, who gave herself up for lost, until he asked her gently whither she went, and might he help her so far with her burdens? Then she wept, and led us a clean four miles off our road to her cottage, where Sir Ludar put down the bundle and the now sleeping urchin and bade her adieu before she could thank him.Another time, as we were mounting a hill, we came up with a hay-cart which the patient horse could scarcely drag. Whereupon he set-to to push the cart behind, calling on me and the bewildered carter to do the same, till we had fairly hoisted it to the crown of the hill.Another time he fell foul of a parcel of gipsies who were ill-using an old man of their tribe, and a lively fight we had of it, we two against six of them, amongst whom was the old man himself. When at last we had got rid of them I hoped that our adventures for the day were done, for I was tired and wanted to rest my bones in a bed.But as we passed through Reading the righteous soul of my comrade was vexed by the sight of a boy sitting howling in the stocks.“No doubt he deserves punishment,” said I.“Deserve or not, he has had enough, for me,” said Ludar, and began kicking away at the boards.Of course there was a commotion at that, and the constable came to see what the noise was about. Ludar desired nothing better, for he made the fellow disgorge his key, which saved a vast power of kicking. Then, when the boy was free and had darted off to the woods. Sir Ludar, with a grim smile, locked up the beadle in his place, and flung the key into the pond. Then as the watch and a posse of the townsfolk turned out to see what the uproar was, we ran for it and got clear.This last proceeding did not please me. For it was defying the Queen’s law, and as I said to my comrade, it was not for us to set ourselves up against authority.But Sir Ludar would listen to no reason.“The lad was miserable where he was,” said he.“So is the beadle now,” said I.“The better the lesson for him,” said Ludar.There was no use arguing, so we trudged on some miles further till night fell, and we took shelter again in a barn.The next day, guiding ourselves chiefly by the river, we came to Windsor, where I had much ado to hinder my comrade from going a-hunting in her Majesty’s forest. Had it not been that I persuaded him we might almost reach Richmond that night, I think, for mere spite of the law, he would have stayed.As it fell out, we were far from reaching Richmond that night. For the way was difficult with swamps and thickets, so that we were glad enough to reach Chertsey by sundown. I was for spending what little remained of my money at the inn, but this he would not hear of; so we took our supper, and then, as the night was fine, slept in a field of hay. Sweet lying it was too, and when early next day we plunged into the clear river and refreshed out travel-stained limbs, we felt men again.It was well on in the afternoon when we arrived at Richmond. We should have been there sooner, but that my comrade was for ever calling a halt or turning aside on some errand of chivalry. Mad enough I thought some of them, but then he never asked me what I thought; and if ever I hung back, he did what he needed without me. Yet whatever he did, it was to help some one weaker than himself, and if my patience now and then failed me, the honour I had for him grew, as I said, with every mile we went.I say it was afternoon when we reached Richmond. As we approached the place my comrade’s desire to see his guardian waxed cool, and he cast about him for an excuse, if not to avoid going to the house, at least to put it off till night. I proposed that we should rest ourselves under the trees in the park, to which he agreed. But it was an unlucky move. For we had not lain half an hour, enjoying the shade, and I half asleep, when he started up with a “hist,” and slipped an arrow into his bow.At that moment a fine buck went by. He had not spied us while we lay still, but the moment my comrade moved, he threw up his head and bounded off. Yet not before a quick twang from Sir Ludar’s bowstring had sent an arrow into his quarter. “Are you mad?” cried I, in terror, “it is the Queen’s deer!”“Follow! follow!” shouted Sir Ludar, who was every inch a sportsman.I tried to hold him back, but he heeded me no more than had I been a fly. With a loud whoop, he dashed away in pursuit. He had not gone twenty yards from me, when there was a great shout and clatter of horsemen, and before I well knew what had happened, I saw Sir Ludar disarmed in the clutches of half a dozen men. I rushed to his help, but could do nothing except share his fate. For they were too many for us, and we had no time even to hit out.“Where is the captain?” cried one of the men.Just then up rode a man at sight of whom the blood tingled in all my veins. I mean Captain Merriman.I do not know if he recognised me at first, for he scarcely gave us a look.“Away with them to your master,” said he, riding on, “and see they give you not the slip.”So we were marched off, a pretty end to our jaunt. And to make our plight worse, Sir Ludar whispered to me as we went along, “Unless I mistake, the master of these men is my guardian, Sir William Carleton.”Sure enough it was.The house we were conducted to stood in a large park with a view far over the river, perhaps the fairest view in England. Yet I had no mind just then to admire it; for the presence of that hated horseman made me forget all except one fair face, which I seemed to see as I had seen it that day at Finsbury Fields. He rode forward as we entered the park and bade the men bring us safely in.“Come, step out,” said one of the men, giving me a flick with his riding-whip, “we have been waiting for you these three weeks, my gentlemen; and I promise you a warm welcome from his worship. The captain, his visitor, will be in high favour, now that he has run the vermin to earth—what say you, Hugh?”“I warrant you that,” said Hugh. “For our master had set his heart on catching the vagabonds, and nothing could please him better.”“Heigho! It is we have had all the watching these weeks past; but this gay spark will have all the glory now. Well, so the world goes. I shall be glad to see him started on his Irish wars, for I like him not.”“Nor I—and yet we are not like to see the last of him soon, if the rumour which my lady’s maid hath whispered me, that some fair company is expected shortly at the hall, be true.”The other laughed.“No, truly, he is no proof against the flutter of a skirt, as some here know. Did I tell you what befel him not long since in London town, at the place where the ’prentice boys’ sport? I had it from one of his own men. But here we are at his worship’s. You shall hear the story another time, and I warrant you will crack your sides over it.”Sir William, being an old man and gouty to boot, saw his prisoners in his own room, whither we were accordingly conducted. I had no chance to get a word with my comrade, who, I noticed, kept his hand to his mouth, and pulled his cap over his eyes—I suppose, to conceal himself from those about the place who might know him. As for me, I had no desire to hide myself from the only man there who knew me.Sir William was a fine, red-faced, white-headed old gentleman, with something of the old soldier in his air, and (when he came to speak), a good deal of him in his words. He sat in a great chair, with one foot swaddled on a stool before him; and the oaths with which he greeted each twinge as it came, boded ill for us his prisoners.He kept us waiting a long time at the dimly lit end of the hall, while he spoke to his guest. At last he ordered us to be led forward. As we advanced, and their eyes fell on us, each uttered an exclamation. I kept my eye on Captain Merriman, and watched the storm that gathered on his brow, and the crimson flush that sprung to his cheeks. It was plain he knew me again, and I was content.As for Sir Ludar, he stared listlessly at his guardian till it should please his worship to speak.His worship began with a string of oaths.“Why, what means this, sirrah! How cameyouhere, you vagabond Irish whelp, in this company? Speak, or by my beard, I’ll—I’ll—”He did not say what he would do, for his foot gave him a twinge which demanded of him every word he could spare.“I have left Oxford, Sir Guardian,” said Ludar, “I liked not the place, or the ways of the place, or the Welshman, my keeper; and as for my present company,” said he, turning to me, “’tis good enough for me. It was I shot the deer, not he; and so pray bid these fellows loose him.”At this the angry old soldier nearly went off in a fit. He flourished his stick towards the offender, and even tried to rise from his chair, a proceeding which brought on fresh pangs, and set him swearing hard for a minute or more.“How now! what, a murrain on you, puppy! Am I to be told my duty by a raw-boned, ill-conditioned Irish gallowglass that I have fed at my table and spent half my life in making a gentleman of? What do you think of that, Sir Captain? How would you like to be saddled with a young wolf-hound cub like that—Sorley Boy’s son he is, no other, on my life—that I was fool enough to take wardship of when he was a puling puppy and his father an honest man? What do you think of that? Curse the whole tribe of them, say I.”“By your leave, Sir William,” said the captain in a smooth soft voice, that made every hair on my body bristle, “good deeds have always their reward; but as for the deer that was shot, your ward is generous enough to shield the real offender at his own cost. I should be sorry indeed had it been otherwise.”I could see the veins in my comrade’s neck swell while this talk went on. But he remained silent, while Sir William said:“By my soul, it wants but to look at the varlet to see poacher written in his face! And the Queen’s deer too! Come, you men, which of you was it caught the rogue?”Here one of the men, seeing how the wind lay, swore before heaven that he saw me shoot the deer, and took me red-handed, with my bow in my hand. And when one sheep leads the way, the others follow. They all swore it was I; while some added that my comrade lay asleep under a tree, and knew nothing of the matter till I was captured.Then Sir William grunted, and turned to his ward.“’Tis well for you, sir puppy, these honest fellows give you the lie. Had they done otherwise, I could have believed them; and I promise you, ward and all as you are, I would have hanged thee for slaying the Queen’s deer, as surely as I will hang this cunning rogue here. Let the boy go, men; and now you,” said he, turning to me, “you ill-looking hang-dog, you, say your prayers, for to-morrow you ride to the Assizes, and then the Lord have mercy on thy black soul!”It surprised me that Sir Ludar took his release quietly, and now stood by with thunderous face, but apparently heedless of my sentence.“Take him away there,” said his worship, “and make him fast in the cellar. These dogs are slippery vermin, so take care. When the rope is round his neck he may wriggle to his heart’s content. Come, be off with him.”I looked at Ludar, but his back was turned. I looked at Captain Merriman, and he was smiling to himself. I looked at his worship, and he was swearing at his foot. So as all seemed against me, I turned sadly enough and followed my guard to the dungeon. I cared little enough what came to me. Ever since I set foot out of London things had gone against me. I was steeped breast-high in disloyalty and lawlessness; I had staked my peace of mind on a rebel, and now it seemed even he had done with me. Yet I could not believe that. Had I done so, I think I should have beaten out my brains upon the wall of that damp cellar. As it was, I sat there, too bewildered to think. And so, for lack of anything else to do, I fell asleep.I know not how long I had slept, when I was aroused by a hand on my arm. As I might have known, it was Ludar. He had a dish of venison pasty and a flagon of wine in his hands, which he set before me, and in dumb show bade me eat. I obeyed heartily, for I had not tasted food since the morning. Then he took me by the hand, and led me in the darkness up the steps and into the open air. Once clear of the house he broke silence.“Farewell,” said he, “I may stay here. My guardian threatens to send me back to Oxford in charge of a troop, but I think I shall stay here a while.”“But,” said I, “will you not get yourself into trouble over this?”“Over what? your release?” said he, laughing, “I think not. The old gentleman will rave somewhat at first, but when it comes to hanging me or nobody, he will hold his peace. He cannot afford to see a ward of his swing with his feet off the ground. Moreover, as soon as I can hear news from the north, I shall go to find my father. So, farewell, Humphrey. Expect me in London ere long, and forget not our oath.”I gave him my hand in answer, and with a heavy heart started on my way.I had not gone many paces when he came after me.“Who and what sort of man is this Captain?” said he.“He is the Devil,” said I. And I told him what had passed between us. He laughed loud when I spoke of the duck-pond—so loud that I feared we should be heard.“Oh,” said he, when the tale was done, “that settles it.”“Settles what?” I asked.“I mean,” said he, “that I think I shall slay him.”And with that we parted, he back to the house, I, dismally enough, to London.
“Where do we go next?” asked I in the morning as we shook ourselves free of the hay which had been our bed, and sallied out into the air.
He looked at me with a smile, as though the question were a jest.
“To my guardian’s,” said he.
“Why!” said I, “he will flog you for running away from Oxford.”
“What of that?” said Sir Ludar. “He is my governor.”
It seemed odd to me for a man to put himself thus in the lion’s maw, but I durst not question my new chief.
“You shall come too, and see him,” said he. “It passes me to guess what he will do with me next, unless he make a lawyer or a priest of me.”
“I must back to my master in London,” said I.
“The printer!” said he, scornfully. “He is thy master no more; thou hast entered my service.”
This staggered me. For much as I loved him, it had never occurred to me to bind myself to a penniless runaway.
“Pardon me, sir,” said I. “I am bound to the printer by an oath. Besides, I know not yet what your service is.”
“My service,” said he, “is to be free, and to put wrong right.”
“’Tis a noble service,” said I, “but it fills no stomachs.”
“You ’prentices are all stomach,” said he, sadly. “But ’tis always so. No man that ever I met believed in me yet. I must fight my battles alone.”
This cut me to the quick.
“Not so,” said I. “Last night I swore to be your friend. It was a mad oath, I know; but you shall see if I do not observe it. But till two years are past, I am bound by an oath to my master the printer, and him I must serve. Then, I am with you.”
This I thought softened him.
“Well,” said he, “who knows where we may be two years hence?”
“God knows, and we are in his hands.”
“So be it,” said Sir Ludar, crossing himself, to my grief. “Meanwhile, Humphrey, we are friends. I may claim your heart if not your hand?”
“You may—or,” here I blushed, “a share of it.”
“What mean you by that?” asked he, sharply. “What man holds the rest?”
“No man,” said I.
He laughed pleasantly at that.
“A woman? I have heard of that distemper before. It comes and goes, I’m told. Had it been a man, I should have been jealous.”
There was little sympathy in that for my sore heart, so I said no more.
“Come,” said he presently, “you shall come to my guardian’s. He lives at Richmond, and it is on our way to London. If he turn me off, you shall take me to London, and make a printer of me, if you please.”
I agreed to this, and we stepped out on our journey.
A strange journey it was. My comrade, for the most part, stalked silently half a pace in front of me, sometimes, it seemed to me, heedless of my presence, and sometimes as if troubled by it. Yet often enough he brightened up, and began carolling some wild song; or else darted off the road after a hare or other game which he rarely failed to bring down with his arrow; or else rallied me for my silence, and bade me talk to him.
At these times I asked him about his own country, and his father, and then his face lit up. For though he had not seen either since he was a child, it was clear he longed to be back.
“What prevents your returning now?” said I.
He looked at me in his strange wondering way.
“Know you not that McDonnell is an exile, and that the hated Sassenach holds his castle?” demanded he.
I confessed I did not; for a London ’prentice hears little of the news outside. Besides, though I durst not tell him as much, I did not know who McDonnell, his father, might be; or what he meant by Sassenach.
“But he will feast in Dunluce once more,” cried he, “and I shall be there too. And the usurper woman Elizabeth shall—”
Here I sprang at him, and felled him to the ground!
The blood left my heart as I saw what I had done. As he lay there, I could hardly believe it was I who had done it; for I loved him as my own brother, and never more so than when he leapt to his feet, and with white lips and heaving chest stood and faced me.
I was so sure he would fly at me, that I did not even wait for him to begin, but flung myself blindly on him. But he only caught me by the arm and shoulder, and flung me off with such strength that I reeled and staggered for a dozen yards before I finally fell headlong with my face in the dust.
Then he turned on his heel and walked on slowly.
It was no light thing, after that, to pick myself up and, spitting the dust from my mouth, go after him. But I did. He never turned as I came up behind, or heeded me till I stood before him and said:
“Sir Ludar, I smote you just now for speaking ill of my Queen. A man who is disloyal to her is no friend of mine; therefore farewell.”
He glanced me over, and his face had lost all its anger.
“She is no Queen of mine,” said he. “I was born her enemy. For all that, you did well to strike when I spoke ill of her. I would do as much to you were you to speak evil of my Queen.” And here he raised his cap.
“Your Queen?” said I. “And who may she be? There is but one Queen in these realms.”
“I know it,” said he. “Her I serve.”
“Do you mean,” said I, “that you serve—”
“Hush!” said he, with his hand at his belt. “I serve Queen Mary, and all the saints in Heaven preserve her! Now, Humphrey Dexter, is it peace or war?”
“I pray every day for the confusion of her Majesty’s enemies.”
“Why not?” said he, “so you pray not aloud. I do the same.”
“Not so,” said I, “or I should not have struck you. Nor shall it be peace if you dare to breathe her Majesty’s name again in my hearing.”
“Heaven is my witness I have no wish to breathe it,” said he, with a curl of his lips. “Nor, if you breathe the name of mine, need you look for so gentle a tumble as I dealt you just now. Come, your hand on it.”
So we struck hands for the third time and went on.
My conscience troubled me sore the rest of that day. What had I come to, to assort thus with a declared enemy of our gracious Queen, and, more than that, to love him more every mile we walked? I could not help it, as I said before. He was so unlike a common rebel, and so big in his heart to every one and everything that claimed his aid.
Once that day, as we toiled along the hot road, we overtook a poor woman carrying a bundle in one arm, while with the other she strove to help along a little, footsore child, who whimpered and stumbled at every step. Without a word, Sir Ludar took the child and bundle both from the scared mother, who gave herself up for lost, until he asked her gently whither she went, and might he help her so far with her burdens? Then she wept, and led us a clean four miles off our road to her cottage, where Sir Ludar put down the bundle and the now sleeping urchin and bade her adieu before she could thank him.
Another time, as we were mounting a hill, we came up with a hay-cart which the patient horse could scarcely drag. Whereupon he set-to to push the cart behind, calling on me and the bewildered carter to do the same, till we had fairly hoisted it to the crown of the hill.
Another time he fell foul of a parcel of gipsies who were ill-using an old man of their tribe, and a lively fight we had of it, we two against six of them, amongst whom was the old man himself. When at last we had got rid of them I hoped that our adventures for the day were done, for I was tired and wanted to rest my bones in a bed.
But as we passed through Reading the righteous soul of my comrade was vexed by the sight of a boy sitting howling in the stocks.
“No doubt he deserves punishment,” said I.
“Deserve or not, he has had enough, for me,” said Ludar, and began kicking away at the boards.
Of course there was a commotion at that, and the constable came to see what the noise was about. Ludar desired nothing better, for he made the fellow disgorge his key, which saved a vast power of kicking. Then, when the boy was free and had darted off to the woods. Sir Ludar, with a grim smile, locked up the beadle in his place, and flung the key into the pond. Then as the watch and a posse of the townsfolk turned out to see what the uproar was, we ran for it and got clear.
This last proceeding did not please me. For it was defying the Queen’s law, and as I said to my comrade, it was not for us to set ourselves up against authority.
But Sir Ludar would listen to no reason.
“The lad was miserable where he was,” said he.
“So is the beadle now,” said I.
“The better the lesson for him,” said Ludar.
There was no use arguing, so we trudged on some miles further till night fell, and we took shelter again in a barn.
The next day, guiding ourselves chiefly by the river, we came to Windsor, where I had much ado to hinder my comrade from going a-hunting in her Majesty’s forest. Had it not been that I persuaded him we might almost reach Richmond that night, I think, for mere spite of the law, he would have stayed.
As it fell out, we were far from reaching Richmond that night. For the way was difficult with swamps and thickets, so that we were glad enough to reach Chertsey by sundown. I was for spending what little remained of my money at the inn, but this he would not hear of; so we took our supper, and then, as the night was fine, slept in a field of hay. Sweet lying it was too, and when early next day we plunged into the clear river and refreshed out travel-stained limbs, we felt men again.
It was well on in the afternoon when we arrived at Richmond. We should have been there sooner, but that my comrade was for ever calling a halt or turning aside on some errand of chivalry. Mad enough I thought some of them, but then he never asked me what I thought; and if ever I hung back, he did what he needed without me. Yet whatever he did, it was to help some one weaker than himself, and if my patience now and then failed me, the honour I had for him grew, as I said, with every mile we went.
I say it was afternoon when we reached Richmond. As we approached the place my comrade’s desire to see his guardian waxed cool, and he cast about him for an excuse, if not to avoid going to the house, at least to put it off till night. I proposed that we should rest ourselves under the trees in the park, to which he agreed. But it was an unlucky move. For we had not lain half an hour, enjoying the shade, and I half asleep, when he started up with a “hist,” and slipped an arrow into his bow.
At that moment a fine buck went by. He had not spied us while we lay still, but the moment my comrade moved, he threw up his head and bounded off. Yet not before a quick twang from Sir Ludar’s bowstring had sent an arrow into his quarter. “Are you mad?” cried I, in terror, “it is the Queen’s deer!”
“Follow! follow!” shouted Sir Ludar, who was every inch a sportsman.
I tried to hold him back, but he heeded me no more than had I been a fly. With a loud whoop, he dashed away in pursuit. He had not gone twenty yards from me, when there was a great shout and clatter of horsemen, and before I well knew what had happened, I saw Sir Ludar disarmed in the clutches of half a dozen men. I rushed to his help, but could do nothing except share his fate. For they were too many for us, and we had no time even to hit out.
“Where is the captain?” cried one of the men.
Just then up rode a man at sight of whom the blood tingled in all my veins. I mean Captain Merriman.
I do not know if he recognised me at first, for he scarcely gave us a look.
“Away with them to your master,” said he, riding on, “and see they give you not the slip.”
So we were marched off, a pretty end to our jaunt. And to make our plight worse, Sir Ludar whispered to me as we went along, “Unless I mistake, the master of these men is my guardian, Sir William Carleton.”
Sure enough it was.
The house we were conducted to stood in a large park with a view far over the river, perhaps the fairest view in England. Yet I had no mind just then to admire it; for the presence of that hated horseman made me forget all except one fair face, which I seemed to see as I had seen it that day at Finsbury Fields. He rode forward as we entered the park and bade the men bring us safely in.
“Come, step out,” said one of the men, giving me a flick with his riding-whip, “we have been waiting for you these three weeks, my gentlemen; and I promise you a warm welcome from his worship. The captain, his visitor, will be in high favour, now that he has run the vermin to earth—what say you, Hugh?”
“I warrant you that,” said Hugh. “For our master had set his heart on catching the vagabonds, and nothing could please him better.”
“Heigho! It is we have had all the watching these weeks past; but this gay spark will have all the glory now. Well, so the world goes. I shall be glad to see him started on his Irish wars, for I like him not.”
“Nor I—and yet we are not like to see the last of him soon, if the rumour which my lady’s maid hath whispered me, that some fair company is expected shortly at the hall, be true.”
The other laughed.
“No, truly, he is no proof against the flutter of a skirt, as some here know. Did I tell you what befel him not long since in London town, at the place where the ’prentice boys’ sport? I had it from one of his own men. But here we are at his worship’s. You shall hear the story another time, and I warrant you will crack your sides over it.”
Sir William, being an old man and gouty to boot, saw his prisoners in his own room, whither we were accordingly conducted. I had no chance to get a word with my comrade, who, I noticed, kept his hand to his mouth, and pulled his cap over his eyes—I suppose, to conceal himself from those about the place who might know him. As for me, I had no desire to hide myself from the only man there who knew me.
Sir William was a fine, red-faced, white-headed old gentleman, with something of the old soldier in his air, and (when he came to speak), a good deal of him in his words. He sat in a great chair, with one foot swaddled on a stool before him; and the oaths with which he greeted each twinge as it came, boded ill for us his prisoners.
He kept us waiting a long time at the dimly lit end of the hall, while he spoke to his guest. At last he ordered us to be led forward. As we advanced, and their eyes fell on us, each uttered an exclamation. I kept my eye on Captain Merriman, and watched the storm that gathered on his brow, and the crimson flush that sprung to his cheeks. It was plain he knew me again, and I was content.
As for Sir Ludar, he stared listlessly at his guardian till it should please his worship to speak.
His worship began with a string of oaths.
“Why, what means this, sirrah! How cameyouhere, you vagabond Irish whelp, in this company? Speak, or by my beard, I’ll—I’ll—”
He did not say what he would do, for his foot gave him a twinge which demanded of him every word he could spare.
“I have left Oxford, Sir Guardian,” said Ludar, “I liked not the place, or the ways of the place, or the Welshman, my keeper; and as for my present company,” said he, turning to me, “’tis good enough for me. It was I shot the deer, not he; and so pray bid these fellows loose him.”
At this the angry old soldier nearly went off in a fit. He flourished his stick towards the offender, and even tried to rise from his chair, a proceeding which brought on fresh pangs, and set him swearing hard for a minute or more.
“How now! what, a murrain on you, puppy! Am I to be told my duty by a raw-boned, ill-conditioned Irish gallowglass that I have fed at my table and spent half my life in making a gentleman of? What do you think of that, Sir Captain? How would you like to be saddled with a young wolf-hound cub like that—Sorley Boy’s son he is, no other, on my life—that I was fool enough to take wardship of when he was a puling puppy and his father an honest man? What do you think of that? Curse the whole tribe of them, say I.”
“By your leave, Sir William,” said the captain in a smooth soft voice, that made every hair on my body bristle, “good deeds have always their reward; but as for the deer that was shot, your ward is generous enough to shield the real offender at his own cost. I should be sorry indeed had it been otherwise.”
I could see the veins in my comrade’s neck swell while this talk went on. But he remained silent, while Sir William said:
“By my soul, it wants but to look at the varlet to see poacher written in his face! And the Queen’s deer too! Come, you men, which of you was it caught the rogue?”
Here one of the men, seeing how the wind lay, swore before heaven that he saw me shoot the deer, and took me red-handed, with my bow in my hand. And when one sheep leads the way, the others follow. They all swore it was I; while some added that my comrade lay asleep under a tree, and knew nothing of the matter till I was captured.
Then Sir William grunted, and turned to his ward.
“’Tis well for you, sir puppy, these honest fellows give you the lie. Had they done otherwise, I could have believed them; and I promise you, ward and all as you are, I would have hanged thee for slaying the Queen’s deer, as surely as I will hang this cunning rogue here. Let the boy go, men; and now you,” said he, turning to me, “you ill-looking hang-dog, you, say your prayers, for to-morrow you ride to the Assizes, and then the Lord have mercy on thy black soul!”
It surprised me that Sir Ludar took his release quietly, and now stood by with thunderous face, but apparently heedless of my sentence.
“Take him away there,” said his worship, “and make him fast in the cellar. These dogs are slippery vermin, so take care. When the rope is round his neck he may wriggle to his heart’s content. Come, be off with him.”
I looked at Ludar, but his back was turned. I looked at Captain Merriman, and he was smiling to himself. I looked at his worship, and he was swearing at his foot. So as all seemed against me, I turned sadly enough and followed my guard to the dungeon. I cared little enough what came to me. Ever since I set foot out of London things had gone against me. I was steeped breast-high in disloyalty and lawlessness; I had staked my peace of mind on a rebel, and now it seemed even he had done with me. Yet I could not believe that. Had I done so, I think I should have beaten out my brains upon the wall of that damp cellar. As it was, I sat there, too bewildered to think. And so, for lack of anything else to do, I fell asleep.
I know not how long I had slept, when I was aroused by a hand on my arm. As I might have known, it was Ludar. He had a dish of venison pasty and a flagon of wine in his hands, which he set before me, and in dumb show bade me eat. I obeyed heartily, for I had not tasted food since the morning. Then he took me by the hand, and led me in the darkness up the steps and into the open air. Once clear of the house he broke silence.
“Farewell,” said he, “I may stay here. My guardian threatens to send me back to Oxford in charge of a troop, but I think I shall stay here a while.”
“But,” said I, “will you not get yourself into trouble over this?”
“Over what? your release?” said he, laughing, “I think not. The old gentleman will rave somewhat at first, but when it comes to hanging me or nobody, he will hold his peace. He cannot afford to see a ward of his swing with his feet off the ground. Moreover, as soon as I can hear news from the north, I shall go to find my father. So, farewell, Humphrey. Expect me in London ere long, and forget not our oath.”
I gave him my hand in answer, and with a heavy heart started on my way.
I had not gone many paces when he came after me.
“Who and what sort of man is this Captain?” said he.
“He is the Devil,” said I. And I told him what had passed between us. He laughed loud when I spoke of the duck-pond—so loud that I feared we should be heard.
“Oh,” said he, when the tale was done, “that settles it.”
“Settles what?” I asked.
“I mean,” said he, “that I think I shall slay him.”
And with that we parted, he back to the house, I, dismally enough, to London.