Chapter Sixteen.How Sorley Boy McDonnell came Home to his own.I was not left for long to a solitary watch at the maiden’s tower. For, just as dawn began to break, and my head, after the labours of the night, began to nod, I was roused with a thwack betwixt my jaw and my ear which sent me backwards to the ground. When I picked myself up, I found it was the English fellow whom Ludar had put snugly to roost on the parapet an hour or two since. He had come to in no very merry frame of mind; and, finding the castle in the hands of the besiegers, and his own life not worth an hour’s purchase, was minded to hit out a bit for his Queen before giving up the ghost.More than that, I suspect, he was a little jealous to find me on guard at the maiden’s tower, where, till now, he had stood sentinel. Anyhow he caught me a crack which I have scarce forgotten yet, and which might have left me lying on my back to this day, but for the blow which Ludar had dealt him first.He was unarmed, so that I could not make an end of him as shortly as I was minded. Nor had I sword to offer him to cross with mine; so I had him by the leg and the collar and walked him to the cliff’s edge.“You will do less harm down there,” said I, “than here. So say your prayers.”“As you please, comrade,” said he. “I should have sooner have had breakfast first. As for the blow I gave you, I thought you saw me come at you, else I would have woke you up first, and knocked you down next.”I set him down at that.“If that be so,” said I, “you are not the cur I took you for; for I had no business to be nodding. Stay here, and I will fetch you a sword, and you shall die like an Englishman.”“I ask nothing better,” said he, “even if it be at the hands of an Englishman turned traitor.”That took the spirit clean out of me. Was it not true? Was not this fellow a truer servant of her Majesty than I, who for months had done naught but break her laws, assault her mayors, fire on her flag, and slay her soldiers? Yet, how could I help it?The fellow’s gibe made me so miserable that instead of fetching him a sword, I gave him mine, and bade him do to me as I deserved.He laughed.“By my soul, no!” said he. “If you be a servant of her Majesty, ’tis not for me to touch you. If you be not, the sword belongs to you, and I call it no shame to die by it. Yet, if you are minded to fetch me a weapon, I warrant you I shall not run away till you come again.”So I went and fetched him a sword. And we fought there a half-hour by the clock, till our breath failed us, and never a blow could we get home on one another. I had no stomach for the business; and yet, when I found him so stubborn a swordsman, my blood got up, and I think I should have run him through if I could. But he had no mind to let me, and put me to it hard to keep my own skin whole.So we halted to fetch breath, and before we could go to it again, the maiden came out of her lodging and stood betwixt us.“Put by your swords,” said she, “I command you both. What is your quarrel? and have you no work for your captain, that you thus bring civil war into his castle?”“By your leave, fair maiden,” said the Englishman, “no man here is my captain. This brave lad is an enemy to my Queen; therefore it is my duty to slay him.”“If so,” said the maiden, “I too must be slain, for I love not your Queen.”“But you be no traitor like this—”Here I whipped out my sword, and we were at it again, ere the maiden, with flashing eyes, could step once more between us.“Humphrey Dexter!” cried she in a voice I hope I may not hear from her lips again, “give me your sword, sir.”I obeyed meekly. ’Twould have been impossible to do aught else.“And you, sir,” said she, turning to the Englishman, “give me yours.”“Marry! ’tis yours already,” said he, handing it up. “Mine was shivered by a blow from the young McDonnell, and I am his prisoner. But, by your leave,” added he, looking hard at me, “did you call this honest lad Humphrey Dexter? Why, may I perish if it is not the same swashbuckling ruffler I once knew in London town! I thought I had seen his gallows face before! Why, Humphrey, my lad, dost thou remember how I cracked thy skull at quarter-staff a year since in Finsbury Fields, and how thy Jack ’prentices groaned to see thee bite the dust? I liked thee none the less for it, though I beat thee. For ’twas a fair fight! Come, since ’tis thou, give us thy hand, and tell me how thou comest here amongst the enemies—”“Ay, ay, I’ll tell you,” said I, not wanting to hear the end of the sentence.Sure enough, this was a brawling soldier lad I had once met in the fields—Jack Gedge, by name—with whom I had had a bout at the quarter-staff. But he lied vilely when he said he beat me thereat; for, although he felled me once, I had him down three times, and the last time so that he had to be carried from the place by his legs and arms.Howbeit, ’twas strange enough to see him here; and when, after the maiden had left us (having restored us our swords under promise of peace), I told him my story, he took my hand, and said, had he been in my shoes, he had been a traitor too. Yet he thanked his God he stood in his own.And now, it may have been ten o’clock, there came a great shouting and noise of guns from the outer walls, and presently Ludar came into the hold, sword in hand, and told us that Captain Merriman and his soldiers had arrived from Castleroe, and were preparing to assault the place.“Humphrey,” said he, “whate’er betide, I commit the maiden to your care, till this fighting be over. This prisoner of mine,” added he, pointing to the soldier, “will also stand by you, unless I mistake him.”“Marry! so will I,” said the man; “for a maiden in distress is no alien to a true servant of the maiden Queen. Count on me for so much, Captain.”“I do. Humphrey, I must go out and meet my enemy. He is in force, and must be scattered before he can blockade our ill-provisioned hold. Capture it he cannot; but he may starve it.”“Go then,” said I. “Yet, will you not see the maiden first? She would be sorry not to bid you god-speed.”He seemed for a moment as though he would refuse. Then a look of great longing came into his face as he glanced up at the turret window.While he debated, a messenger arrived with news that Alexander McDonnell and his men were at hand, and that the English—seeing their constable hang from the walls on one side (for we had found his body, and displayed it thus as a signal of our triumph), and hearing the shouts of the McDonnells on the other—were falling back, and making ready to turn tail.It was even so. While he spoke, we could see on the cliffs eastward the McDonnell standard, and hear the shouts of Alexander’s company as they bore down upon the English, who for a moment ceased their assault on the castle, and turned doubtfully to face them.Ludar laughed.“If Alexander be there,” said he, “our minds may be easy. Call in our men, and keep them within the walls. For he who yielded me the glory of taking Dunluce, shall not be robbed by me of the glory of sending these knaves packing. It needs not two McDonnells to do that. Humphrey see to this, keep a watch how the battle goes, and come again presently. You know where to find me.”And he went, with a light heart, into the maiden’s tower.I know not why, I grudged to see him go in. ’Twas not jealousy—I was beyond that now. Nor was it that his help was needed without. For Alexander, I guessed, would have easy work with the foe; and ’twas like Ludar’s nobleness to leave this new glory to his brother. ’Twas not that he did not deserve the rest and comfort, for he had worked like a lion that night, and denied himself till now the greeting the maiden owed to her preserver. Yet, for all that, I know not why, I had sooner he had remained, sword in hand, on the walls with us.I scorned myself for my silly qualms, and hastened to call in our men, and bid them give fair field to Alexander and his company. They obeyed with difficulty; yet, when they heard that it was Ludar’s order that no man should baulk his brother, they came in, and lined the walls to view the combat.The McDonnells on the cliff, when they saw the constable hang over the castle walls, and perceived the great bunch of heather on our topmost tower, stopped a moment to cheer and wave their bonnets. Then Alexander shouted to them in a voice we could hear half-a-mile away, and they broke into a run.Meanwhile, Captain Merriman’s party was, as I said, taken aback by this new danger, and threatened to draw off. But when they saw our party retire into the castle, and understood that the battle was between them and Alexander only, they stood their ground again, and wheeled round to meet him. They were some five hundred men against the McDonnells’ three hundred, and contained not a few of O’Neill’s men in their number.From where we stood we could see but little of the fight, except that within a few yards of the enemy Alexander halted his men, and then, stepping forward sword in hand, boldly dared the English leader, whoever he might be, to single combat. I marvelled to see if Captain Merriman would accept the challenge. For a while, amid the shouting and threatening on either side, I could not discern what followed, but presently, as Alexander, brandishing his sword, stepped up and repeated his challenge, there sprang out upon him, without warning, a huge gallowglass of the O’Neill’s men, who with a club smote the young chief to the earth. The blow was so sudden and unexpected (for Alexander was not even looking that way), that the McDonnell was reeling back in the arms of his men before friend or foe knew what had happened. Then, with a terrible yell, the Scots seized their weapons and closed on the enemy.But Alexander, staggering to his feet, his head streaming blood, called to them once more to halt, as he leapt forward, half stunned, on his assailant. The duel was short and swift. For at the first onset the great gallowglass, amazed to see his man yet living, and ashamed, perchance, of his foul stroke, missed his mark and tumbled in a heap upon his foeman’s sword. Then with a mighty shout (for all thought this was the English leader slain), the two bands closed in, and a deadly fight began.But I kept my eye on Alexander, whom, despite his prowess, I could see to be wounded hard. Gradually, as his men fell on the enemy and the battle roared off eastward, he himself drooped, and drew out of the fray. I could see him stand a moment, waving his sword, but his body swayed like that of a drunken man, and he leaned at last against a rock to keep from falling.Then it was, before I could determine whether to warn Ludar of this accident or no, that a horrible deed was done.For I was not the only one who had kept his eyes on the wounded chief. While he stood there fainting, yet still shouting his men forward, Captain Merriman (an Englishman!) who had lagged behind his host, crept stealthily round the hill to where he stood, and suddenly fronting him, dared the dying man to single combat! From where I stood I could mark the curl of scorn on the young chief’s lips, as he drew himself up and strove to lift his drooping arm. Next moment the English captain’s weapon flashed between, and as Alexander fell the coward’s blade plunged through him twice.Instantly a mighty cry went up from the enemy, for Captain Merriman, waving his bloody sword above his head, ran through the ranks yelling, “Victory! McDonnell is slain!” and the McDonnells, when they heard the shout, reeled under it in a panic and were slain by the score.As for me, I had stood there like a lump of stone, not able to stir or shout. But at last, by a huge effort, I sprang to the ground, and with a cry of horror rushed to find Ludar.I found him standing on the cliff-edge, grave and happy, with the maiden beside him, looking down at the great Atlantic waves as they flung their eternal surge up at the castle rock. His sword lay on the ground at her feet. She was fixing a tuft of flowers in his cap, singing softly as she did so. And he, as he gazed now at her, now at the sea below, looked as if cloud could never come more between the sun and his noble face.Alack! that I myself must bring the cloud.“Ludar to the front! Something is wrong. Your brother—”May I never hear again the cry with which he snatched up his sword and rushed to the gate!I followed close to his heels, only bidding the maiden get to her tower whither I would send her English squire to guard her. But Ludar, as we reached the gate, turned and ordered me back.“Stay,” said he, hoarsely, and white as a sheet, “stay here!”Then, as he waited for the portcullis to open, I hastily told him what I had witnessed, and where he would find his brother.“My brother!” he groaned, “my brother! Humphrey, if I ever return here it shall be with this dog’s blood on my sword. Farewell.”And in a moment he had passed the bridge and was rushing headlong on the foe. My heart sank as I saw him go thus; and, whether it vexed him or not, I shouted aloud: “Who follows Ludar? Follow! follow!” Instantly a hundred McDonnells started at the call, and leapt over the bridge. Then with my own hand I let down the gate, and bade the rest, in their chief’s name, stand and guard the walls.Alexander’s party were already in retreat, half-a-mile away, for they had no leader; and the English, flushed with victory, and strong in numbers, were pushing them back at the sword’s point. Nor did this new company help them much, for Ludar, when he saw who followed him, angrily ordered them to stand, while he went alone to the place I had told him of, in search of his brother.But brother there was none. I could see my friend from where I stood stalk round the place, now deserted of friend and foe, shouting and calling like a man possessed. Perhaps the murderer had taken off the body as a trophy; or perhaps—perhaps Alexander yet lived, and was safe. But sign of him there was none. For a weary hour Ludar called and searched; then, weary and sick at heart, I saw him call his men, and march off in pursuit of the enemy.Thus all that day we stood and waited in Dunluce, and not a man spoke to his fellow. For the joy of our victory was turned into mourning. The Clan had lost one hero; and who should say whether the Banshee’s warning was not to be fulfilled on another?The only man who kept up heart was the Englishman.“These McDonnells,” said he, “have the lives of cats. You shall see your lordling back yet. He oweth me a bout, and is too honest a man to rob even an enemy. But, Humphrey lad,” added he, “I pray you see to these women. There is sore distress in their camp, and I durst not put in my head. Besides, I know not if they have so much as a crust of bread to eat.”The honest fellow was right. When I went in, the maiden was in strange woe, pacing up and down her chamber with pale face and heaving breast.“Humphrey,” said she, and her voice was dry and hoarse, “this is my fault, my fault! He will love me no more! I tempted him to stay when he should have been at his brother’s side. I, for my own comfort, made a woman of him, who should have helped make him a hero.”“Nay,” said I, “you are wrong, maiden. Had he been there he could not have helped this. It was in nature he should—”“Humphrey!” she exclaimed, in a voice which staggered me, “talk not like a fool. I have forfeited his love. He did well to leave me without a word! I have been worse to him than his worst enemy. I dare not see him again, for he will loathe me. You must take me hence, or, truly, I will go without leave.”“Maiden,” said I, “have patience. This is the act of God, not of man; and Ludar when he returns may need your comfort sorely.”She laughed bitterly.“I know Ludar,” she said; “you know him not. Think you the sight of me will not drive him mad when he comes back, brotherless?”“At least,” said I, “be content to wait here till to-morrow. I should be a traitor to him and myself were I to let you depart unattended; and I may not leave, here till he or the old chief comes.”“Will Sorley Boy be here to-morrow?” asked she.“He will; he has said so.”“Then,” said she, “I stay on this condition. Tell him naught of me but that I am an O’Neill, a prisoner here, who demand to be restored to my father, Turlogh Luinech O’Neill. Ludar will not return yet. When he does, he shall find me gone. Go back to the wall, Humphrey. No man shall say again I stood between him and his duty.”I returned sadly enough to my post; and all that night we kept weary watch on the walls, straining our ears for Ludar’s call or news of the battle.But neither Ludar nor news of him came.At daybreak, however, as the sun rose over the headlands, there came a noise of pipes and shouting, and a flutter of pennons on the hill-tops. Then we knew Sorley Boy had come.Before him fled scattered parties of the enemy, yet far enough beyond our range; nor, when they sped away into the hills westward, did the chief allow his men to continue the chase. The McDonnells gave a wild, mighty cheer, when they saw the heather of the clan flying aloft on their ancient castle; and in the silence that followed I could see the old chief stand a moment to pass his hand across his eyes, as if to make sure he saw aright.Then, erect, with a proud step, he advanced at the head of his men and crossed the bridge. Our men, waving their hats aloft, answered back the cheers, and, as the gate swung up to let them in, all else seemed forgotten in the triumph of this home-coming of the grand old chief.But when, a moment after, he halted and looked round him, the shouting suddenly ceased and there fell a dead silence.“My sons,” said he, “where are they?”No one seemed ready to answer, so that I was fain to step forward.“Sir,” said I, saluting, “Sir Ludar, your son, renders you your castle, which he won by his own arm two nights ago. He is not here to salute himself, as he is tending his brother who was traitorously wounded in the battle yesterday.”The old man said nothing, but blazed on me with his eyes as though he would blast me where I stood. Had I been the murderer myself, I could not have trembled more. At length:“Alexander, where is he?” he demanded in a hollow voice.I said I had seen him last near the hill, but that Ludar, not finding him there, had gone to seek him, I know not whither.Then the old man handed his great sword to his esquire, and flinging off his cloak, walked into the hall of the castle, where none durst follow him. I longed to ask his permission to follow Ludar, besides making the maiden’s petition. But his look that day was too terrible to be faced. So we stood to our guard, as we had stood all day long.When at evening no sign came yet of Ludar, I braced myself up with a great courage, and entered the hall.The old warrior was sitting at the head of the empty table, immovable, like a man stunned, looking straight before him. But when he saw me, he seemed to recover himself and said:“What news?”“None,” said I, “but as his servant, I pray you let me go and seek Sir Ludar.”“You shall not go,” said he. And there was naught left to say after that.“I obey you, sire,” said I. “There is, by your leave, a maiden in this castle, a prisoner, and daughter to the O’Neill. She craves your permission to return to her father; and hath bidden me ask it of you.”He nodded his head, as if the petition were too trifling to be heeded; and, having got what I was in need of, I withdrew, thankful.Next day, at daybreak, the maiden, white as a sheet, and with lips close-pressed to hinder their trembling, walked slowly across the bridge to the castle gate. I had got her two horses, one for her and one for the old nurse; and a trusty escort of six McDonnells and the English soldier to conduct her to Toome.At parting she held out her hand.“Humphrey,” said she, “tell him of this; and may she who loves you never lose you as I have lost him.”“All is not lost,” said I, “we shall meet again, and all will be happy yet.” And I lifted her to her horse.“Now, sirrah,” said the old nurse, as I did the like service for her, “be happy for a year and a day! You have broken a sweet heart among you, and what matters it to you, so you be rid of us? Mark my word; some heads shall ache for this! What is to become of us, do you suppose, in this O’Neill’s house? Little trouble to you to send us from one cruel fate to a worse! Be proud that you, a soldier, forsooth, and calling yourself an honest man, thus betray my poor maiden to her step-dame and your English Captain.”“He is dead by now,” said I.“Not he,” said she. “What is to become of us, dost thou hear? Who is to help us now?”“Dame,” said I, “is there no God in heaven that you chide thus? Farewell, we shall meet again, I think, in a happier season.”Then I stepped once more to the maiden and said:“Lady, that maiden’s name we spoke of is young Mistress Walgrave, the printer’s daughter in London. Should chance bring you thither, she will be your friend for my sake. If it be possible, pray send us word presently of your welfare by this English fellow.”Thus that maiden left Dunluce; and still the days passed and no tidings of Ludar.But one evening, as I watched at the gate, a haggard figure crossed the bridge, scarce dragging one foot after another for weariness.“Ludar!” said I, as I admitted him. “What news?”“No news!” said he between his teeth, and he flung his sword with what little strength was left him to the earth. Then he himself fell beside it; and, when we carried him within, he was in a fever and raving.
I was not left for long to a solitary watch at the maiden’s tower. For, just as dawn began to break, and my head, after the labours of the night, began to nod, I was roused with a thwack betwixt my jaw and my ear which sent me backwards to the ground. When I picked myself up, I found it was the English fellow whom Ludar had put snugly to roost on the parapet an hour or two since. He had come to in no very merry frame of mind; and, finding the castle in the hands of the besiegers, and his own life not worth an hour’s purchase, was minded to hit out a bit for his Queen before giving up the ghost.
More than that, I suspect, he was a little jealous to find me on guard at the maiden’s tower, where, till now, he had stood sentinel. Anyhow he caught me a crack which I have scarce forgotten yet, and which might have left me lying on my back to this day, but for the blow which Ludar had dealt him first.
He was unarmed, so that I could not make an end of him as shortly as I was minded. Nor had I sword to offer him to cross with mine; so I had him by the leg and the collar and walked him to the cliff’s edge.
“You will do less harm down there,” said I, “than here. So say your prayers.”
“As you please, comrade,” said he. “I should have sooner have had breakfast first. As for the blow I gave you, I thought you saw me come at you, else I would have woke you up first, and knocked you down next.”
I set him down at that.
“If that be so,” said I, “you are not the cur I took you for; for I had no business to be nodding. Stay here, and I will fetch you a sword, and you shall die like an Englishman.”
“I ask nothing better,” said he, “even if it be at the hands of an Englishman turned traitor.”
That took the spirit clean out of me. Was it not true? Was not this fellow a truer servant of her Majesty than I, who for months had done naught but break her laws, assault her mayors, fire on her flag, and slay her soldiers? Yet, how could I help it?
The fellow’s gibe made me so miserable that instead of fetching him a sword, I gave him mine, and bade him do to me as I deserved.
He laughed.
“By my soul, no!” said he. “If you be a servant of her Majesty, ’tis not for me to touch you. If you be not, the sword belongs to you, and I call it no shame to die by it. Yet, if you are minded to fetch me a weapon, I warrant you I shall not run away till you come again.”
So I went and fetched him a sword. And we fought there a half-hour by the clock, till our breath failed us, and never a blow could we get home on one another. I had no stomach for the business; and yet, when I found him so stubborn a swordsman, my blood got up, and I think I should have run him through if I could. But he had no mind to let me, and put me to it hard to keep my own skin whole.
So we halted to fetch breath, and before we could go to it again, the maiden came out of her lodging and stood betwixt us.
“Put by your swords,” said she, “I command you both. What is your quarrel? and have you no work for your captain, that you thus bring civil war into his castle?”
“By your leave, fair maiden,” said the Englishman, “no man here is my captain. This brave lad is an enemy to my Queen; therefore it is my duty to slay him.”
“If so,” said the maiden, “I too must be slain, for I love not your Queen.”
“But you be no traitor like this—”
Here I whipped out my sword, and we were at it again, ere the maiden, with flashing eyes, could step once more between us.
“Humphrey Dexter!” cried she in a voice I hope I may not hear from her lips again, “give me your sword, sir.”
I obeyed meekly. ’Twould have been impossible to do aught else.
“And you, sir,” said she, turning to the Englishman, “give me yours.”
“Marry! ’tis yours already,” said he, handing it up. “Mine was shivered by a blow from the young McDonnell, and I am his prisoner. But, by your leave,” added he, looking hard at me, “did you call this honest lad Humphrey Dexter? Why, may I perish if it is not the same swashbuckling ruffler I once knew in London town! I thought I had seen his gallows face before! Why, Humphrey, my lad, dost thou remember how I cracked thy skull at quarter-staff a year since in Finsbury Fields, and how thy Jack ’prentices groaned to see thee bite the dust? I liked thee none the less for it, though I beat thee. For ’twas a fair fight! Come, since ’tis thou, give us thy hand, and tell me how thou comest here amongst the enemies—”
“Ay, ay, I’ll tell you,” said I, not wanting to hear the end of the sentence.
Sure enough, this was a brawling soldier lad I had once met in the fields—Jack Gedge, by name—with whom I had had a bout at the quarter-staff. But he lied vilely when he said he beat me thereat; for, although he felled me once, I had him down three times, and the last time so that he had to be carried from the place by his legs and arms.
Howbeit, ’twas strange enough to see him here; and when, after the maiden had left us (having restored us our swords under promise of peace), I told him my story, he took my hand, and said, had he been in my shoes, he had been a traitor too. Yet he thanked his God he stood in his own.
And now, it may have been ten o’clock, there came a great shouting and noise of guns from the outer walls, and presently Ludar came into the hold, sword in hand, and told us that Captain Merriman and his soldiers had arrived from Castleroe, and were preparing to assault the place.
“Humphrey,” said he, “whate’er betide, I commit the maiden to your care, till this fighting be over. This prisoner of mine,” added he, pointing to the soldier, “will also stand by you, unless I mistake him.”
“Marry! so will I,” said the man; “for a maiden in distress is no alien to a true servant of the maiden Queen. Count on me for so much, Captain.”
“I do. Humphrey, I must go out and meet my enemy. He is in force, and must be scattered before he can blockade our ill-provisioned hold. Capture it he cannot; but he may starve it.”
“Go then,” said I. “Yet, will you not see the maiden first? She would be sorry not to bid you god-speed.”
He seemed for a moment as though he would refuse. Then a look of great longing came into his face as he glanced up at the turret window.
While he debated, a messenger arrived with news that Alexander McDonnell and his men were at hand, and that the English—seeing their constable hang from the walls on one side (for we had found his body, and displayed it thus as a signal of our triumph), and hearing the shouts of the McDonnells on the other—were falling back, and making ready to turn tail.
It was even so. While he spoke, we could see on the cliffs eastward the McDonnell standard, and hear the shouts of Alexander’s company as they bore down upon the English, who for a moment ceased their assault on the castle, and turned doubtfully to face them.
Ludar laughed.
“If Alexander be there,” said he, “our minds may be easy. Call in our men, and keep them within the walls. For he who yielded me the glory of taking Dunluce, shall not be robbed by me of the glory of sending these knaves packing. It needs not two McDonnells to do that. Humphrey see to this, keep a watch how the battle goes, and come again presently. You know where to find me.”
And he went, with a light heart, into the maiden’s tower.
I know not why, I grudged to see him go in. ’Twas not jealousy—I was beyond that now. Nor was it that his help was needed without. For Alexander, I guessed, would have easy work with the foe; and ’twas like Ludar’s nobleness to leave this new glory to his brother. ’Twas not that he did not deserve the rest and comfort, for he had worked like a lion that night, and denied himself till now the greeting the maiden owed to her preserver. Yet, for all that, I know not why, I had sooner he had remained, sword in hand, on the walls with us.
I scorned myself for my silly qualms, and hastened to call in our men, and bid them give fair field to Alexander and his company. They obeyed with difficulty; yet, when they heard that it was Ludar’s order that no man should baulk his brother, they came in, and lined the walls to view the combat.
The McDonnells on the cliff, when they saw the constable hang over the castle walls, and perceived the great bunch of heather on our topmost tower, stopped a moment to cheer and wave their bonnets. Then Alexander shouted to them in a voice we could hear half-a-mile away, and they broke into a run.
Meanwhile, Captain Merriman’s party was, as I said, taken aback by this new danger, and threatened to draw off. But when they saw our party retire into the castle, and understood that the battle was between them and Alexander only, they stood their ground again, and wheeled round to meet him. They were some five hundred men against the McDonnells’ three hundred, and contained not a few of O’Neill’s men in their number.
From where we stood we could see but little of the fight, except that within a few yards of the enemy Alexander halted his men, and then, stepping forward sword in hand, boldly dared the English leader, whoever he might be, to single combat. I marvelled to see if Captain Merriman would accept the challenge. For a while, amid the shouting and threatening on either side, I could not discern what followed, but presently, as Alexander, brandishing his sword, stepped up and repeated his challenge, there sprang out upon him, without warning, a huge gallowglass of the O’Neill’s men, who with a club smote the young chief to the earth. The blow was so sudden and unexpected (for Alexander was not even looking that way), that the McDonnell was reeling back in the arms of his men before friend or foe knew what had happened. Then, with a terrible yell, the Scots seized their weapons and closed on the enemy.
But Alexander, staggering to his feet, his head streaming blood, called to them once more to halt, as he leapt forward, half stunned, on his assailant. The duel was short and swift. For at the first onset the great gallowglass, amazed to see his man yet living, and ashamed, perchance, of his foul stroke, missed his mark and tumbled in a heap upon his foeman’s sword. Then with a mighty shout (for all thought this was the English leader slain), the two bands closed in, and a deadly fight began.
But I kept my eye on Alexander, whom, despite his prowess, I could see to be wounded hard. Gradually, as his men fell on the enemy and the battle roared off eastward, he himself drooped, and drew out of the fray. I could see him stand a moment, waving his sword, but his body swayed like that of a drunken man, and he leaned at last against a rock to keep from falling.
Then it was, before I could determine whether to warn Ludar of this accident or no, that a horrible deed was done.
For I was not the only one who had kept his eyes on the wounded chief. While he stood there fainting, yet still shouting his men forward, Captain Merriman (an Englishman!) who had lagged behind his host, crept stealthily round the hill to where he stood, and suddenly fronting him, dared the dying man to single combat! From where I stood I could mark the curl of scorn on the young chief’s lips, as he drew himself up and strove to lift his drooping arm. Next moment the English captain’s weapon flashed between, and as Alexander fell the coward’s blade plunged through him twice.
Instantly a mighty cry went up from the enemy, for Captain Merriman, waving his bloody sword above his head, ran through the ranks yelling, “Victory! McDonnell is slain!” and the McDonnells, when they heard the shout, reeled under it in a panic and were slain by the score.
As for me, I had stood there like a lump of stone, not able to stir or shout. But at last, by a huge effort, I sprang to the ground, and with a cry of horror rushed to find Ludar.
I found him standing on the cliff-edge, grave and happy, with the maiden beside him, looking down at the great Atlantic waves as they flung their eternal surge up at the castle rock. His sword lay on the ground at her feet. She was fixing a tuft of flowers in his cap, singing softly as she did so. And he, as he gazed now at her, now at the sea below, looked as if cloud could never come more between the sun and his noble face.
Alack! that I myself must bring the cloud.
“Ludar to the front! Something is wrong. Your brother—”
May I never hear again the cry with which he snatched up his sword and rushed to the gate!
I followed close to his heels, only bidding the maiden get to her tower whither I would send her English squire to guard her. But Ludar, as we reached the gate, turned and ordered me back.
“Stay,” said he, hoarsely, and white as a sheet, “stay here!”
Then, as he waited for the portcullis to open, I hastily told him what I had witnessed, and where he would find his brother.
“My brother!” he groaned, “my brother! Humphrey, if I ever return here it shall be with this dog’s blood on my sword. Farewell.”
And in a moment he had passed the bridge and was rushing headlong on the foe. My heart sank as I saw him go thus; and, whether it vexed him or not, I shouted aloud: “Who follows Ludar? Follow! follow!” Instantly a hundred McDonnells started at the call, and leapt over the bridge. Then with my own hand I let down the gate, and bade the rest, in their chief’s name, stand and guard the walls.
Alexander’s party were already in retreat, half-a-mile away, for they had no leader; and the English, flushed with victory, and strong in numbers, were pushing them back at the sword’s point. Nor did this new company help them much, for Ludar, when he saw who followed him, angrily ordered them to stand, while he went alone to the place I had told him of, in search of his brother.
But brother there was none. I could see my friend from where I stood stalk round the place, now deserted of friend and foe, shouting and calling like a man possessed. Perhaps the murderer had taken off the body as a trophy; or perhaps—perhaps Alexander yet lived, and was safe. But sign of him there was none. For a weary hour Ludar called and searched; then, weary and sick at heart, I saw him call his men, and march off in pursuit of the enemy.
Thus all that day we stood and waited in Dunluce, and not a man spoke to his fellow. For the joy of our victory was turned into mourning. The Clan had lost one hero; and who should say whether the Banshee’s warning was not to be fulfilled on another?
The only man who kept up heart was the Englishman.
“These McDonnells,” said he, “have the lives of cats. You shall see your lordling back yet. He oweth me a bout, and is too honest a man to rob even an enemy. But, Humphrey lad,” added he, “I pray you see to these women. There is sore distress in their camp, and I durst not put in my head. Besides, I know not if they have so much as a crust of bread to eat.”
The honest fellow was right. When I went in, the maiden was in strange woe, pacing up and down her chamber with pale face and heaving breast.
“Humphrey,” said she, and her voice was dry and hoarse, “this is my fault, my fault! He will love me no more! I tempted him to stay when he should have been at his brother’s side. I, for my own comfort, made a woman of him, who should have helped make him a hero.”
“Nay,” said I, “you are wrong, maiden. Had he been there he could not have helped this. It was in nature he should—”
“Humphrey!” she exclaimed, in a voice which staggered me, “talk not like a fool. I have forfeited his love. He did well to leave me without a word! I have been worse to him than his worst enemy. I dare not see him again, for he will loathe me. You must take me hence, or, truly, I will go without leave.”
“Maiden,” said I, “have patience. This is the act of God, not of man; and Ludar when he returns may need your comfort sorely.”
She laughed bitterly.
“I know Ludar,” she said; “you know him not. Think you the sight of me will not drive him mad when he comes back, brotherless?”
“At least,” said I, “be content to wait here till to-morrow. I should be a traitor to him and myself were I to let you depart unattended; and I may not leave, here till he or the old chief comes.”
“Will Sorley Boy be here to-morrow?” asked she.
“He will; he has said so.”
“Then,” said she, “I stay on this condition. Tell him naught of me but that I am an O’Neill, a prisoner here, who demand to be restored to my father, Turlogh Luinech O’Neill. Ludar will not return yet. When he does, he shall find me gone. Go back to the wall, Humphrey. No man shall say again I stood between him and his duty.”
I returned sadly enough to my post; and all that night we kept weary watch on the walls, straining our ears for Ludar’s call or news of the battle.
But neither Ludar nor news of him came.
At daybreak, however, as the sun rose over the headlands, there came a noise of pipes and shouting, and a flutter of pennons on the hill-tops. Then we knew Sorley Boy had come.
Before him fled scattered parties of the enemy, yet far enough beyond our range; nor, when they sped away into the hills westward, did the chief allow his men to continue the chase. The McDonnells gave a wild, mighty cheer, when they saw the heather of the clan flying aloft on their ancient castle; and in the silence that followed I could see the old chief stand a moment to pass his hand across his eyes, as if to make sure he saw aright.
Then, erect, with a proud step, he advanced at the head of his men and crossed the bridge. Our men, waving their hats aloft, answered back the cheers, and, as the gate swung up to let them in, all else seemed forgotten in the triumph of this home-coming of the grand old chief.
But when, a moment after, he halted and looked round him, the shouting suddenly ceased and there fell a dead silence.
“My sons,” said he, “where are they?”
No one seemed ready to answer, so that I was fain to step forward.
“Sir,” said I, saluting, “Sir Ludar, your son, renders you your castle, which he won by his own arm two nights ago. He is not here to salute himself, as he is tending his brother who was traitorously wounded in the battle yesterday.”
The old man said nothing, but blazed on me with his eyes as though he would blast me where I stood. Had I been the murderer myself, I could not have trembled more. At length:
“Alexander, where is he?” he demanded in a hollow voice.
I said I had seen him last near the hill, but that Ludar, not finding him there, had gone to seek him, I know not whither.
Then the old man handed his great sword to his esquire, and flinging off his cloak, walked into the hall of the castle, where none durst follow him. I longed to ask his permission to follow Ludar, besides making the maiden’s petition. But his look that day was too terrible to be faced. So we stood to our guard, as we had stood all day long.
When at evening no sign came yet of Ludar, I braced myself up with a great courage, and entered the hall.
The old warrior was sitting at the head of the empty table, immovable, like a man stunned, looking straight before him. But when he saw me, he seemed to recover himself and said:
“What news?”
“None,” said I, “but as his servant, I pray you let me go and seek Sir Ludar.”
“You shall not go,” said he. And there was naught left to say after that.
“I obey you, sire,” said I. “There is, by your leave, a maiden in this castle, a prisoner, and daughter to the O’Neill. She craves your permission to return to her father; and hath bidden me ask it of you.”
He nodded his head, as if the petition were too trifling to be heeded; and, having got what I was in need of, I withdrew, thankful.
Next day, at daybreak, the maiden, white as a sheet, and with lips close-pressed to hinder their trembling, walked slowly across the bridge to the castle gate. I had got her two horses, one for her and one for the old nurse; and a trusty escort of six McDonnells and the English soldier to conduct her to Toome.
At parting she held out her hand.
“Humphrey,” said she, “tell him of this; and may she who loves you never lose you as I have lost him.”
“All is not lost,” said I, “we shall meet again, and all will be happy yet.” And I lifted her to her horse.
“Now, sirrah,” said the old nurse, as I did the like service for her, “be happy for a year and a day! You have broken a sweet heart among you, and what matters it to you, so you be rid of us? Mark my word; some heads shall ache for this! What is to become of us, do you suppose, in this O’Neill’s house? Little trouble to you to send us from one cruel fate to a worse! Be proud that you, a soldier, forsooth, and calling yourself an honest man, thus betray my poor maiden to her step-dame and your English Captain.”
“He is dead by now,” said I.
“Not he,” said she. “What is to become of us, dost thou hear? Who is to help us now?”
“Dame,” said I, “is there no God in heaven that you chide thus? Farewell, we shall meet again, I think, in a happier season.”
Then I stepped once more to the maiden and said:
“Lady, that maiden’s name we spoke of is young Mistress Walgrave, the printer’s daughter in London. Should chance bring you thither, she will be your friend for my sake. If it be possible, pray send us word presently of your welfare by this English fellow.”
Thus that maiden left Dunluce; and still the days passed and no tidings of Ludar.
But one evening, as I watched at the gate, a haggard figure crossed the bridge, scarce dragging one foot after another for weariness.
“Ludar!” said I, as I admitted him. “What news?”
“No news!” said he between his teeth, and he flung his sword with what little strength was left him to the earth. Then he himself fell beside it; and, when we carried him within, he was in a fever and raving.
Chapter Seventeen.How a Dog’s Head was set on Dublin Gate.Three months after, as the February snow lay deep on roof and road, Ludar and I walked in a strange procession through the streets of Dublin. In front went three trumpeters on horseback, with the pennon of England drooping from their trumpets. Behind them rode a picked troop of English horse, gaily caparisoned and very brave with ribbons and trappings. Then, alone, went Sir John Perrott, the Lord Deputy, a smirking man who seemed to doubt the whole business. He was mounted too, and at his tail rode three officers of his house, and after them more trumpeters and troopers. Then came the strange part of the procession, for at the heels of these English cavaliers stalked fifty huge redshanks with the McDonnell’s heather in their bonnets, and their hands on their sword-hilts.Yet still stranger was what came next. For, unarmed, with long, slow strides, walked a noble figure of commanding stature, whose eyes flashed now and again on the shouting rabble, and whose white hair, escaped from his cap, waved tempestuously in the winter wind. There walked Sorley Boy, upright, sullen, disdainful; and behind him came Ludar, with tight-pressed lips and thunderous brow, his fingers twitching nervously on his belt, and his feet at every step kicking the snow impatiently from his path. I followed my master as in duty bound, and behind us stalked fifty more silent Scots.Such was the procession which conducted Sorley Boy McDonnell at the end of his stormy career to do homage to the English Queen. How it all came to pass I know not. But once possessed of Dunluce, with his favourite son gone from his side, the old man broke down, and sighed for peace. ’Twas said the English paid a good price for his alliance, in territory for himself, and lands and title for his elder sons. Be that as it may. He sheathed his sword, and called in his fighting men all round. He heeded not Ludar’s demand for vengeance on his brother’s murderers; and, indeed, forbade any man to mention Sir Alexander’s name in his hearing. Yet day by day the empty chair stood beside his in the castle hall; and day by day, at the muster call, the young chief’s riderless horse fell into its place betwixt that of the father and the second son, Sir Randal.As for Ludar, when after many weeks the fever left him and he rose from his bed, his father and he met rarely, and spoke less. For the old man (sad to tell), from the day that he came into his own, had changed towards his youngest son, and, blaming him for the ill that had befallen the house, ceased not to reproach and scorn him for his brother’s fate.Never did I see Ludar so noble a man as during those gloomy months. Never once did he waver in his loyalty to his father; never once did he suffer a word to be said to rebuke the old man’s harshness; never once did he complain if more than a common soldier’s hardships, with a common soldier’s fare, fell to his lot; never once would he allow the men, who were ready to die for him, raise a shout when he came among them, or even salute him in his father’s presence. He took his punishment as beseemed a hero; and it was the hard work and stern discipline of those few months, I think, which braced him up once again into his former manhood and brought back the glow into his cheeks and the fire into his eyes.Concerning the maiden he spake not a word; nor would he suffer me to speak of her. Only when the English fellow returned who had escorted her to her father did Ludar order him back, charging him to look to her safety as he valued his own life; which charge the faithful fellow cheerfully accepted, and departed.Of all his trials, this journey of submission to Dublin was the bitterest to Ludar; and I, as I walked at his heels that day in Dublin city, could see that every step was a pang. The old man chose to bring Ludar and not his elder brothers for this very reason; and never a duty taxed the lad’s courage and loyalty more.So to me the pleasure of marching once again under the royal flag of my Queen was tempered by the concern I felt for my master.A vast rabble lined the roads to see the doughty Sorley Boy—the hero of the North, against whose arms England had fought in vain—march thus, to the tune of English trumpets, to her Majesty’s Castle. But if any looked to see a hanging head or a meek demeanour they were sore mistaken. For, as the procession moved on and the shouts grew louder, the spirit seemed to come back into the old warrior, and he walked rather as one who marches to war than to peace. Perhaps, had the way been a mile longer, or had the smirking Lord Deputy looked round oftener, this notable treaty would never have come about; for, by the time Sorley Boy reached the Castle gate, he was glaring round him defiantly, and the hilt of his sword was an inch out of the scabbard.At the gate the Deputy stood and bade him enter. The old fox gave a suspicious look round, like one that suspects a trap, and then beckoned to Ludar.“Stay here with the men. Let your squire follow me.”So Ludar stayed with the McDonnells at the gate, while I followed Sorley Boy, amid shouts and flourish of trumpets, into the Castle. All was prepared to do the old Chief honour. Attendants bowed, guards saluted, and my Lord Deputy’s womenkind waved handkerchiefs from the windows. Sir John Perrott himself, all smiles, chatted affably. But never a word spake Sorley Boy.He stalked on at a pace which made the Deputy trot at his side, and, heedless of lackeys, guards, ladies and all else, flung into the great hall.I followed as in duty bound; and beside me no man but Sir John and Sir John’s secretary.Then followed a strange scene.“Sir Sorley Boy,” began the Deputy, motioning his guest to a high chair on the daïs, “this is a happy occasion; and I would her Majesty had a Deputy more—”“Enough of this,” said the Chieftain impatiently. “I came not from Dunluce to make speeches or bandy words with you. I oweyounaught—or if I do, ’tis a debt you had rather I paid not.”“I,” said Sir John, pulling himself up, “as representing her gracious Majesty—”Here Sorley Boy stalked off to where a miniature picture of her Majesty hung on the wall.“Is this Elizabeth?” demanded he.“That is a presentment, far short in splendour, of her Majesty’s admirable presence,” said the Deputy.Sorley Boy took the picture in his hand and mused on it in silence. At length:“Pray heaven she be no worse favoured in the flesh! Yet, being a woman, I do her homage.”And, like an old gallant, he doffed his hat, and raised the picture to his lips.Thus it was the McDonnell made his peace with the Sassenach. He handed the picture to me gloomily to replace; which I did after humbly doing it obeisance on bended knee. Then he summoned me to follow him from the hall.Sir John witnessed this strange scene in bewilderment and displeasure. He had reckoned on the satisfaction of hearing his old foe renounce his enmity and sue for terms; and it vexed him to find the ceremony thus taken out of his hands and curtly disposed of by the proud old Scot. Yet he knew enough of Sorley Boy to take what he could get, and must needs pocket his pride. Only he made one effort to save his own dignity.“Sir Sorley, in her Majesty’s name I accept your dutiful homage. It remains for you to sign this written document of fealty, in return for which I am bidden hand you her Majesty’s gracious permission to you and your heirs to enjoy your territories without let or hindrance.”The old man laughed scornfully.“My lands are my own. Let who dares come and take them. Keep your papers, John Perrott. Come, squire; out into the fresh air.”And he stalked out, followed angrily by the Deputy.At the Castle gate we found a tumult afoot. For the hot-headed Scots who waited there face to face with their old enemies had not been able to restrain their impatience; and, goaded alike by the jeers of the rabble and the taunts of the Englishmen, had answered threat by threat and gibe by blow. Ludar himself, already exasperated, had said not a word to hold them back; and, as the old chief and I came out the gate, the street was full of war, and dead men lay strewn on either hand.A shout from Sorley Boy restored order among the redshanks in a moment; and, without waiting for further parley with the Deputy, he stalked to the head of his men, and with the single order “To Dunluce!” turned his back on her Majesty’s Castle at Dublin.But Sir John, fearful, perhaps, of an outbreak in the city, or in pursuit of a still deeper design, mounted his horse and bade his men form again the procession to conduct the Queen’s new ally to the city gate. He himself rode forward at a hand’s pace beside the old chief, who heeded him no more than if he had been me or Ludar.We had come to the gate at the bridge, and the English troops were halting to let us go out. The strange ceremony of the day was near ending, and the free country beyond shone in the winter sun, when the Deputy, suddenly bending level with the old man’s ear, said:“Look up. Behold your son’s head!”Sorley Boy, stood, as did we, and looked up. There on a pole, rocking in the breeze, above the city gate, looked down upon us a head, livid and scarred, with eyes set and tawny locks streaming in the wind. ’Twas a terrible ghastly sight! for, battered as it was, even I could recognise the once noble features of Alexander McDonnell, as I had seen him last, reeling under the cowardly blow of that foul Englishman.The old chief uttered a cry scarcely less terrible to hear than the head was to see. Then, suddenly commanding himself, he blazed round on the Deputy and hissed through his teeth:“My son hath many heads!”I never saw a man change colour as did Sir John Perrott when he met that look and heard those bitter words. Men say he went home that afternoon with that look burned into his breast, and those words dinging in his ears. Nor, go where he would, could he escape the one or the other. They possessed him waking and sleeping, in council and in war, at home and abroad. And, when at last he died, some say he was found crouched in a corner of his room with his fingers over his eyes and his thumbs on his ears.Nor, after what I saw, did I find it in my heart to pity him.As for Sorley Boy, he walked out of Dublin like a man in a dream. None of us durst speak to him, or say so much as a word in his hearing. Nor had we the heart to do it. Ludar with his clenched teeth looked straight before him; and the Scots who followed, only half comprehending what had happened, dropped into sullen silence, and gave no sound but the dull beat of their steps on the road.About an hour beyond Dublin, Sorley Boy halted and turned to Ludar.“Ludar McDonnell,” said he, sternly, “we part here. I have no son—no son. Farewell.”And he and the soldiers marched on without another word, leaving Ludar and me looking after them, and marvelling if all this were what it seemed or some horrid vision.Ludar recovered himself sooner than I.“Come,” said he; “why stand you here, Humphrey, when all the world, except Dunluce, is before us? Let us back to the city.”I knew why he wished to go back. He was thinking not of Sorley Boy or Dunluce, but of that cruel trophy above the city gate. And in my heart I pitied the keepers, should they chance to withstand him in his purpose.’Twas dark when we crossed the bridge and found ourselves once more within the walls. The streets were empty, for the night was bleak, and the troops had long since been called into their quarters. Only a few sentinels stood about the gate, who, to keep away the cold and cheer their stomachs, huddled together in a sheltered nook and discussed the news of the day over ale and sack. Little heeded they the creaking pole with its horrible burden, as it rocked and swung in the winter wind above them!While we waited the snow began to fall and drove the tipplers further into the shelter of the guard-room, where was a merry fire. Now was our chance. Ludar led me round to where, over some tumbled stones, we were able to scramble on to the wall, and thence back towards the gate. So thick fell the snow that, as we crawled along, we were as white as the ramparts we passed over, and not a soul could have heard or seen us had any been there. It was easy to get from the wall on to the gate, and all might have gone well had not a wolf-hound, imprisoned in the tower, or left there to do the watching which the sentinel neglected, sprung out to meet us as we stepped on to the battlement with a mighty howl.So sudden was his leap that he had Ludar by the throat before we knew what had happened; and ere I had drawn my sword and saved my master from so savage a death there was a noise, with shouting and lights, in the road below.“Quick!” cried Ludar, springing to his feet and running to the pole.In a minute he had scaled it and robbed it of its fearful burden. Already I could tell by the shouts below that we were pursued, but Ludar, as he stood there, panting, with his precious burden held to his breast, heeded nothing.“Come,” said I; “we are followed.”He laughed bitterly.“Humphrey,” said he, “as you love me, cut me this hound’s head off and put it there, where my brother’s head stood. Quick!”I did as he bade me, though it cost us precious moments. Nor would he budge till the grim exchange was made. Then suddenly he descended on the far side of the gateway. It was well he did so, for there being no regular way on to the wall that side, our pursuers had mounted by the other, leaving only a couple of stupid sentinels to watch below. Happily for us, the snow lay thick and soft; for more than once we fell as we scaled the ramparts, and might have broken our limbs. Our pursuers behind, having come to the gate top and finding no one there, liked not to follow us the way we had gone, and contented themselves with discharging their pieces into the darkness our way. But we were out of their reach. For, once on the wall, ’twas easy going, and instead of descending we made a quarter of the way round the city, till, somewhere near the north-eastern tower, we slid down by a drift of snow into the deserted street.Then, Ludar leading, we returned some distance along by the foot of the very wall on whose top we had lately crept, to where stood a church, with a graveyard verging on the wall. Here my comrade halted, and reverently set down his burden, and between us, as we knelt in the snow, we digged a grave to shelter it. Our swords served us for spades, nor, alack! did it need many inches of kind mother earth to hold all that remained of Alexander McDonnell. With a prayer each, Ludar in his way, I in mine, we buried that dear relic. Then, beside the place, Ludar drove his sword deep into the earth, till the hilt stood up like an iron cross to mark the spot. We stood in silence while the pure snow fell and laid its white shroud upon the grave. Then, when all was done, he took my arm, and we walked sadly away.As we passed down a street not far off, the glow of a tavern fire and the sound of voices within brought us to a halt. For we were cold and famished and weary, and the good cheer of the place tempted us. Within was mine host, a merry Irishman, who loved every man that drank his ale. Round his great fire sat half-a-dozen guests, two wayfarers like ourselves, a soldier, a merchant, a sailor, and one who seemed by his look a private gentleman.They gave us little enough heed as we entered. Even when mine host, catching sight of us, came to take our orders, they went on with their carouse and pulled their benches closer round the fire, with scarcely a blink our way.As we sat apart, thawing our frozen limbs in the warmth of the room, and reviving our inner man with food and drink—we had staked nearly all we had on this meal—we could not forbear hearing some of the talk that went on at the fireside.“By my valour,” said the soldier, “I was there and saw it with my own eyes. The old dotard turned the colour of my teeth when he looked up and spied it.”“Ay, ay,” said the merchant, “I know it was he. I saw the lad in Cantire once, and a fine lad he was.”“They tell me,” said mine host, “a woman was at the bottom of it, as usual. This Captain Merriman (who oweth me a pretty score for entertainment in this house), and this lad had a quarrel over a wench, and ’twas for that he pursued him as he did. Why, sirs, for six weeks the lad lay hidden in a cave, and for a week more lay quick in a grave, before Sir Captain, who had never ceased to hunt him, caught him, and sent up his head to the Deputy here. And now, they say, the wench, who is particular, not fancying a headless trunk, hath struck her colours and said yea to the next best man. Poor lass! who’s to blame her?”“Not I,” said the soldier, “albeit you are all wrong, mine host, about this quarrel, for I heard of it from Tom Price, the Captain’s man. It was this headless chief’s brother the lass doated on. But it’s like enough she thinks the head was her sweetheart’s.”“There was a son of old Sorley’s in the pageant to-day; a plaguey ill-favoured hound, who walked with his father,” said the landlord, “with a face sour enough to curdle all the milk in Dublin.”“That was Sir Ludar,” said one of the strangers. “I had it from one of the redshanks.”“Ludar?” said the soldier; “the very man. ’Tis his wench the Captain hath run away with. She thinketh him gibbeted, and—”Here the door was flung open suddenly, and in rushed another soldier.“Have you heard the news?” he cried.“News?” cried the others, turning round to look at him.“Why, yes. Her Majesty hath been robbed of a jewel. The traitor’s head that grinned on the gate hath been stolen, I tell you, and there sticketh a dog’s head in its place. ’Tis true.”“Who has done it?”“That’s the point,” said the messenger, who was plainly proud to have so much news to tell. “That’s the point. For we were all on guard, I tell you. Not a soul passed us. ’Tis said ’twas some spirit.” Here he doffed his cap. “We stood below, I tell you, when there came a blast of wind in our faces with a smell of brimstone in it. I smelt it. Then something curled up past us, like a white shroud, and shrieked as it went up. And, before we could look in one another’s faces, a great howl of devilish laughter broke over our heads, and drops of blood! Yes. I felt them. Here’s one on my sleeve—it burns like fire, I tell you. That was all. We fetched lights and went aloft (who is to be afraid of a spirit or two?) but we saw naught. Not a footstep in the snow, or a sign of man or fiend either—except only a headless dog. Ay, you may stare, but I saw it—it smoked brimstone, neighbours, and the snow all around it was red-hot! And what was most horrible of all, when we cast up our lights, I tell you, the Scot’s head had changed to the head of a dog, which grinned and leered at us, with eyes like coals and tongue all ablaze, till we could scarce stay where we were. That’s all. And ere I go back to that gate, neighbours, may I turn Pope and Spaniard! Give me a drink, host, for, by my soul, I know not which end of me is uppermost.”By this time the company had left their benches and were scattered about the room, gossiping over this last great news and questioning the fellow more. Some came to the table where Ludar and I sat; and the soldier, looking hard at me, exclaimed:“Where saw I that gallows face before? Who be you, sirrah?”“A printer,” said I.“You lie,” said he, “for I saw you to-day accompany the old Scotsman to the Castle. And, by my body, that slouching dog there should be— Hillo! comrades,” cried he, amazed at his discovery, “more ghosts! May I perish if there have not been sitting in this very room while we talked of him this same sour-faced, love-sick clown, Master Ludar, and one of his merry men. Marry come up! The very man, skulking here, while his light-of-love is on her honeymoon, and the old dotard, his father, with his pockets full of English gold—”He said no more. Ludar had no sword, but the blow he gave him silenced his foul tongue for a week. Instantly the room was turned into a shambles. ’Twas no time to mince words or blows, and we did neither. Nor were we two left alone to withstand all the rest; for the gentleman of the party (whom I have mentioned), sided with us, as did also the sea captain, who owed mine host a long score, and saw a good way to cry quits without shortening his purse. Among us, we made so good an account of ourselves, that when at length we took our leave, not a man bade us stay.“Come,” said the captain, “my ship lies at the bridge. To-morrow we shall see England.”
Three months after, as the February snow lay deep on roof and road, Ludar and I walked in a strange procession through the streets of Dublin. In front went three trumpeters on horseback, with the pennon of England drooping from their trumpets. Behind them rode a picked troop of English horse, gaily caparisoned and very brave with ribbons and trappings. Then, alone, went Sir John Perrott, the Lord Deputy, a smirking man who seemed to doubt the whole business. He was mounted too, and at his tail rode three officers of his house, and after them more trumpeters and troopers. Then came the strange part of the procession, for at the heels of these English cavaliers stalked fifty huge redshanks with the McDonnell’s heather in their bonnets, and their hands on their sword-hilts.
Yet still stranger was what came next. For, unarmed, with long, slow strides, walked a noble figure of commanding stature, whose eyes flashed now and again on the shouting rabble, and whose white hair, escaped from his cap, waved tempestuously in the winter wind. There walked Sorley Boy, upright, sullen, disdainful; and behind him came Ludar, with tight-pressed lips and thunderous brow, his fingers twitching nervously on his belt, and his feet at every step kicking the snow impatiently from his path. I followed my master as in duty bound, and behind us stalked fifty more silent Scots.
Such was the procession which conducted Sorley Boy McDonnell at the end of his stormy career to do homage to the English Queen. How it all came to pass I know not. But once possessed of Dunluce, with his favourite son gone from his side, the old man broke down, and sighed for peace. ’Twas said the English paid a good price for his alliance, in territory for himself, and lands and title for his elder sons. Be that as it may. He sheathed his sword, and called in his fighting men all round. He heeded not Ludar’s demand for vengeance on his brother’s murderers; and, indeed, forbade any man to mention Sir Alexander’s name in his hearing. Yet day by day the empty chair stood beside his in the castle hall; and day by day, at the muster call, the young chief’s riderless horse fell into its place betwixt that of the father and the second son, Sir Randal.
As for Ludar, when after many weeks the fever left him and he rose from his bed, his father and he met rarely, and spoke less. For the old man (sad to tell), from the day that he came into his own, had changed towards his youngest son, and, blaming him for the ill that had befallen the house, ceased not to reproach and scorn him for his brother’s fate.
Never did I see Ludar so noble a man as during those gloomy months. Never once did he waver in his loyalty to his father; never once did he suffer a word to be said to rebuke the old man’s harshness; never once did he complain if more than a common soldier’s hardships, with a common soldier’s fare, fell to his lot; never once would he allow the men, who were ready to die for him, raise a shout when he came among them, or even salute him in his father’s presence. He took his punishment as beseemed a hero; and it was the hard work and stern discipline of those few months, I think, which braced him up once again into his former manhood and brought back the glow into his cheeks and the fire into his eyes.
Concerning the maiden he spake not a word; nor would he suffer me to speak of her. Only when the English fellow returned who had escorted her to her father did Ludar order him back, charging him to look to her safety as he valued his own life; which charge the faithful fellow cheerfully accepted, and departed.
Of all his trials, this journey of submission to Dublin was the bitterest to Ludar; and I, as I walked at his heels that day in Dublin city, could see that every step was a pang. The old man chose to bring Ludar and not his elder brothers for this very reason; and never a duty taxed the lad’s courage and loyalty more.
So to me the pleasure of marching once again under the royal flag of my Queen was tempered by the concern I felt for my master.
A vast rabble lined the roads to see the doughty Sorley Boy—the hero of the North, against whose arms England had fought in vain—march thus, to the tune of English trumpets, to her Majesty’s Castle. But if any looked to see a hanging head or a meek demeanour they were sore mistaken. For, as the procession moved on and the shouts grew louder, the spirit seemed to come back into the old warrior, and he walked rather as one who marches to war than to peace. Perhaps, had the way been a mile longer, or had the smirking Lord Deputy looked round oftener, this notable treaty would never have come about; for, by the time Sorley Boy reached the Castle gate, he was glaring round him defiantly, and the hilt of his sword was an inch out of the scabbard.
At the gate the Deputy stood and bade him enter. The old fox gave a suspicious look round, like one that suspects a trap, and then beckoned to Ludar.
“Stay here with the men. Let your squire follow me.”
So Ludar stayed with the McDonnells at the gate, while I followed Sorley Boy, amid shouts and flourish of trumpets, into the Castle. All was prepared to do the old Chief honour. Attendants bowed, guards saluted, and my Lord Deputy’s womenkind waved handkerchiefs from the windows. Sir John Perrott himself, all smiles, chatted affably. But never a word spake Sorley Boy.
He stalked on at a pace which made the Deputy trot at his side, and, heedless of lackeys, guards, ladies and all else, flung into the great hall.
I followed as in duty bound; and beside me no man but Sir John and Sir John’s secretary.
Then followed a strange scene.
“Sir Sorley Boy,” began the Deputy, motioning his guest to a high chair on the daïs, “this is a happy occasion; and I would her Majesty had a Deputy more—”
“Enough of this,” said the Chieftain impatiently. “I came not from Dunluce to make speeches or bandy words with you. I oweyounaught—or if I do, ’tis a debt you had rather I paid not.”
“I,” said Sir John, pulling himself up, “as representing her gracious Majesty—”
Here Sorley Boy stalked off to where a miniature picture of her Majesty hung on the wall.
“Is this Elizabeth?” demanded he.
“That is a presentment, far short in splendour, of her Majesty’s admirable presence,” said the Deputy.
Sorley Boy took the picture in his hand and mused on it in silence. At length:
“Pray heaven she be no worse favoured in the flesh! Yet, being a woman, I do her homage.”
And, like an old gallant, he doffed his hat, and raised the picture to his lips.
Thus it was the McDonnell made his peace with the Sassenach. He handed the picture to me gloomily to replace; which I did after humbly doing it obeisance on bended knee. Then he summoned me to follow him from the hall.
Sir John witnessed this strange scene in bewilderment and displeasure. He had reckoned on the satisfaction of hearing his old foe renounce his enmity and sue for terms; and it vexed him to find the ceremony thus taken out of his hands and curtly disposed of by the proud old Scot. Yet he knew enough of Sorley Boy to take what he could get, and must needs pocket his pride. Only he made one effort to save his own dignity.
“Sir Sorley, in her Majesty’s name I accept your dutiful homage. It remains for you to sign this written document of fealty, in return for which I am bidden hand you her Majesty’s gracious permission to you and your heirs to enjoy your territories without let or hindrance.”
The old man laughed scornfully.
“My lands are my own. Let who dares come and take them. Keep your papers, John Perrott. Come, squire; out into the fresh air.”
And he stalked out, followed angrily by the Deputy.
At the Castle gate we found a tumult afoot. For the hot-headed Scots who waited there face to face with their old enemies had not been able to restrain their impatience; and, goaded alike by the jeers of the rabble and the taunts of the Englishmen, had answered threat by threat and gibe by blow. Ludar himself, already exasperated, had said not a word to hold them back; and, as the old chief and I came out the gate, the street was full of war, and dead men lay strewn on either hand.
A shout from Sorley Boy restored order among the redshanks in a moment; and, without waiting for further parley with the Deputy, he stalked to the head of his men, and with the single order “To Dunluce!” turned his back on her Majesty’s Castle at Dublin.
But Sir John, fearful, perhaps, of an outbreak in the city, or in pursuit of a still deeper design, mounted his horse and bade his men form again the procession to conduct the Queen’s new ally to the city gate. He himself rode forward at a hand’s pace beside the old chief, who heeded him no more than if he had been me or Ludar.
We had come to the gate at the bridge, and the English troops were halting to let us go out. The strange ceremony of the day was near ending, and the free country beyond shone in the winter sun, when the Deputy, suddenly bending level with the old man’s ear, said:
“Look up. Behold your son’s head!”
Sorley Boy, stood, as did we, and looked up. There on a pole, rocking in the breeze, above the city gate, looked down upon us a head, livid and scarred, with eyes set and tawny locks streaming in the wind. ’Twas a terrible ghastly sight! for, battered as it was, even I could recognise the once noble features of Alexander McDonnell, as I had seen him last, reeling under the cowardly blow of that foul Englishman.
The old chief uttered a cry scarcely less terrible to hear than the head was to see. Then, suddenly commanding himself, he blazed round on the Deputy and hissed through his teeth:
“My son hath many heads!”
I never saw a man change colour as did Sir John Perrott when he met that look and heard those bitter words. Men say he went home that afternoon with that look burned into his breast, and those words dinging in his ears. Nor, go where he would, could he escape the one or the other. They possessed him waking and sleeping, in council and in war, at home and abroad. And, when at last he died, some say he was found crouched in a corner of his room with his fingers over his eyes and his thumbs on his ears.
Nor, after what I saw, did I find it in my heart to pity him.
As for Sorley Boy, he walked out of Dublin like a man in a dream. None of us durst speak to him, or say so much as a word in his hearing. Nor had we the heart to do it. Ludar with his clenched teeth looked straight before him; and the Scots who followed, only half comprehending what had happened, dropped into sullen silence, and gave no sound but the dull beat of their steps on the road.
About an hour beyond Dublin, Sorley Boy halted and turned to Ludar.
“Ludar McDonnell,” said he, sternly, “we part here. I have no son—no son. Farewell.”
And he and the soldiers marched on without another word, leaving Ludar and me looking after them, and marvelling if all this were what it seemed or some horrid vision.
Ludar recovered himself sooner than I.
“Come,” said he; “why stand you here, Humphrey, when all the world, except Dunluce, is before us? Let us back to the city.”
I knew why he wished to go back. He was thinking not of Sorley Boy or Dunluce, but of that cruel trophy above the city gate. And in my heart I pitied the keepers, should they chance to withstand him in his purpose.
’Twas dark when we crossed the bridge and found ourselves once more within the walls. The streets were empty, for the night was bleak, and the troops had long since been called into their quarters. Only a few sentinels stood about the gate, who, to keep away the cold and cheer their stomachs, huddled together in a sheltered nook and discussed the news of the day over ale and sack. Little heeded they the creaking pole with its horrible burden, as it rocked and swung in the winter wind above them!
While we waited the snow began to fall and drove the tipplers further into the shelter of the guard-room, where was a merry fire. Now was our chance. Ludar led me round to where, over some tumbled stones, we were able to scramble on to the wall, and thence back towards the gate. So thick fell the snow that, as we crawled along, we were as white as the ramparts we passed over, and not a soul could have heard or seen us had any been there. It was easy to get from the wall on to the gate, and all might have gone well had not a wolf-hound, imprisoned in the tower, or left there to do the watching which the sentinel neglected, sprung out to meet us as we stepped on to the battlement with a mighty howl.
So sudden was his leap that he had Ludar by the throat before we knew what had happened; and ere I had drawn my sword and saved my master from so savage a death there was a noise, with shouting and lights, in the road below.
“Quick!” cried Ludar, springing to his feet and running to the pole.
In a minute he had scaled it and robbed it of its fearful burden. Already I could tell by the shouts below that we were pursued, but Ludar, as he stood there, panting, with his precious burden held to his breast, heeded nothing.
“Come,” said I; “we are followed.”
He laughed bitterly.
“Humphrey,” said he, “as you love me, cut me this hound’s head off and put it there, where my brother’s head stood. Quick!”
I did as he bade me, though it cost us precious moments. Nor would he budge till the grim exchange was made. Then suddenly he descended on the far side of the gateway. It was well he did so, for there being no regular way on to the wall that side, our pursuers had mounted by the other, leaving only a couple of stupid sentinels to watch below. Happily for us, the snow lay thick and soft; for more than once we fell as we scaled the ramparts, and might have broken our limbs. Our pursuers behind, having come to the gate top and finding no one there, liked not to follow us the way we had gone, and contented themselves with discharging their pieces into the darkness our way. But we were out of their reach. For, once on the wall, ’twas easy going, and instead of descending we made a quarter of the way round the city, till, somewhere near the north-eastern tower, we slid down by a drift of snow into the deserted street.
Then, Ludar leading, we returned some distance along by the foot of the very wall on whose top we had lately crept, to where stood a church, with a graveyard verging on the wall. Here my comrade halted, and reverently set down his burden, and between us, as we knelt in the snow, we digged a grave to shelter it. Our swords served us for spades, nor, alack! did it need many inches of kind mother earth to hold all that remained of Alexander McDonnell. With a prayer each, Ludar in his way, I in mine, we buried that dear relic. Then, beside the place, Ludar drove his sword deep into the earth, till the hilt stood up like an iron cross to mark the spot. We stood in silence while the pure snow fell and laid its white shroud upon the grave. Then, when all was done, he took my arm, and we walked sadly away.
As we passed down a street not far off, the glow of a tavern fire and the sound of voices within brought us to a halt. For we were cold and famished and weary, and the good cheer of the place tempted us. Within was mine host, a merry Irishman, who loved every man that drank his ale. Round his great fire sat half-a-dozen guests, two wayfarers like ourselves, a soldier, a merchant, a sailor, and one who seemed by his look a private gentleman.
They gave us little enough heed as we entered. Even when mine host, catching sight of us, came to take our orders, they went on with their carouse and pulled their benches closer round the fire, with scarcely a blink our way.
As we sat apart, thawing our frozen limbs in the warmth of the room, and reviving our inner man with food and drink—we had staked nearly all we had on this meal—we could not forbear hearing some of the talk that went on at the fireside.
“By my valour,” said the soldier, “I was there and saw it with my own eyes. The old dotard turned the colour of my teeth when he looked up and spied it.”
“Ay, ay,” said the merchant, “I know it was he. I saw the lad in Cantire once, and a fine lad he was.”
“They tell me,” said mine host, “a woman was at the bottom of it, as usual. This Captain Merriman (who oweth me a pretty score for entertainment in this house), and this lad had a quarrel over a wench, and ’twas for that he pursued him as he did. Why, sirs, for six weeks the lad lay hidden in a cave, and for a week more lay quick in a grave, before Sir Captain, who had never ceased to hunt him, caught him, and sent up his head to the Deputy here. And now, they say, the wench, who is particular, not fancying a headless trunk, hath struck her colours and said yea to the next best man. Poor lass! who’s to blame her?”
“Not I,” said the soldier, “albeit you are all wrong, mine host, about this quarrel, for I heard of it from Tom Price, the Captain’s man. It was this headless chief’s brother the lass doated on. But it’s like enough she thinks the head was her sweetheart’s.”
“There was a son of old Sorley’s in the pageant to-day; a plaguey ill-favoured hound, who walked with his father,” said the landlord, “with a face sour enough to curdle all the milk in Dublin.”
“That was Sir Ludar,” said one of the strangers. “I had it from one of the redshanks.”
“Ludar?” said the soldier; “the very man. ’Tis his wench the Captain hath run away with. She thinketh him gibbeted, and—”
Here the door was flung open suddenly, and in rushed another soldier.
“Have you heard the news?” he cried.
“News?” cried the others, turning round to look at him.
“Why, yes. Her Majesty hath been robbed of a jewel. The traitor’s head that grinned on the gate hath been stolen, I tell you, and there sticketh a dog’s head in its place. ’Tis true.”
“Who has done it?”
“That’s the point,” said the messenger, who was plainly proud to have so much news to tell. “That’s the point. For we were all on guard, I tell you. Not a soul passed us. ’Tis said ’twas some spirit.” Here he doffed his cap. “We stood below, I tell you, when there came a blast of wind in our faces with a smell of brimstone in it. I smelt it. Then something curled up past us, like a white shroud, and shrieked as it went up. And, before we could look in one another’s faces, a great howl of devilish laughter broke over our heads, and drops of blood! Yes. I felt them. Here’s one on my sleeve—it burns like fire, I tell you. That was all. We fetched lights and went aloft (who is to be afraid of a spirit or two?) but we saw naught. Not a footstep in the snow, or a sign of man or fiend either—except only a headless dog. Ay, you may stare, but I saw it—it smoked brimstone, neighbours, and the snow all around it was red-hot! And what was most horrible of all, when we cast up our lights, I tell you, the Scot’s head had changed to the head of a dog, which grinned and leered at us, with eyes like coals and tongue all ablaze, till we could scarce stay where we were. That’s all. And ere I go back to that gate, neighbours, may I turn Pope and Spaniard! Give me a drink, host, for, by my soul, I know not which end of me is uppermost.”
By this time the company had left their benches and were scattered about the room, gossiping over this last great news and questioning the fellow more. Some came to the table where Ludar and I sat; and the soldier, looking hard at me, exclaimed:
“Where saw I that gallows face before? Who be you, sirrah?”
“A printer,” said I.
“You lie,” said he, “for I saw you to-day accompany the old Scotsman to the Castle. And, by my body, that slouching dog there should be— Hillo! comrades,” cried he, amazed at his discovery, “more ghosts! May I perish if there have not been sitting in this very room while we talked of him this same sour-faced, love-sick clown, Master Ludar, and one of his merry men. Marry come up! The very man, skulking here, while his light-of-love is on her honeymoon, and the old dotard, his father, with his pockets full of English gold—”
He said no more. Ludar had no sword, but the blow he gave him silenced his foul tongue for a week. Instantly the room was turned into a shambles. ’Twas no time to mince words or blows, and we did neither. Nor were we two left alone to withstand all the rest; for the gentleman of the party (whom I have mentioned), sided with us, as did also the sea captain, who owed mine host a long score, and saw a good way to cry quits without shortening his purse. Among us, we made so good an account of ourselves, that when at length we took our leave, not a man bade us stay.
“Come,” said the captain, “my ship lies at the bridge. To-morrow we shall see England.”
Chapter Eighteen.How I found myself again in London.Three days later, as our ship laboured up the gulf of the Solway, Ludar came to me, as I stood on the poop, and said:“Humphrey, I have news.”“Good or bad?” I asked.“Neither,” said he, “for it means we must part.”“I call that bad news. How is it, Ludar?”“Our fellow-voyager,” said he, and I could see he spoke nervously like one who doubts his listener, “is in the service of my Queen, Mary of Scotland. There! fly not out, Humphrey; I never said she was your Queen.”“Heaven forbid!” said I. “And as for this stranger, I mistrusted him all along. How calls he himself?”“He is one Captain Fortescue, and hath a commission to engage loyal men to the Queen’s service. And, indeed, she needs it; for she lies in prison, watched and solitary, with scarce a face about her that is not an enemy’s. What would you do, Humphrey, were your Queen in such a plight?”“Were my Queen a traitor—” I began, and stopped.“I cannot help myself,” said he. “I owe her my life. Only one woman else could claim it, and her I have lost.”“But,” said I, “are you sure of this man? May this not be some trap to your ruin? What if he be a spy and no more?”Ludar laughed.“If so,” said he, “he would have better sport on foot than to practise on an outlaw like me. No, Humphrey, he is a loyal man, as, pray heaven, so am I. And he commands me in a name I cannot resist.”“Then,” said I, sadly, “we part. I would have served you, Ludar, on any other service. But I, too, have a Queen, who owns me.”“So be it,” said he. “I expected it; and naught else could part me from you. Be sure we shall meet again, Humphrey, when all is over.”“Who knows but it may be on the field of battle?” said I, sadly. “Yet, tell me where I shall hear of you; and take note where you shall hear of me. For I will back to London—”“To your love,” said he, with a sigh. “So be it. You shall hear of me there, Humphrey.”“And, before we part,” said I, taking his great hand, “swear me an oath, Ludar, that you will not forget me.”He flung my hand away impatiently.“Do you take me for a knave, brother? I swear to you, that next to my Queen, my father, and the memory of her who once loved me, you have the chiefest right to say, ‘Ludar, help me,’ and if I forget you, ’twill be that I have forgotten I am a man.”That comforted me vastly, and I too made my vow.“Next to my Queen,” said I, “and no one besides, you are still my master; and my life goes for nothing, so it shall serve you and her you love, who, I am sure, is true to you still, and waits for you somewhere, whatever men say.”He gripped my hand hard at that; and, sorrowful as it was, we loved one another the more at that parting than ever before.Next day we landed. Captain Fortescue, suspecting me to be no friend to him or his cause, was in haste to reach Carlisle, and shortened our leave-taking in consequence. We had but time to renew our vows, when the boat which was to carry my friend and his new master from me came alongside and severed us. I watched him till the envious hills came in between; and, as I saw him last, standing and waving his hat, methought a great piece had gone out of my life, and that there was left of me but half the man I once was.And now must my story hasten on by strides, such as never the laggard months took after I had said farewell to Ludar. For ’tis of him, not of Humphrey Dexter, that I am the chronicler, and till my history meet him once more my reader is without his hero.Yet there are one or two scenes a-wanting to fill up the gap; which, even though they concern chiefly me, I must relate in their proper place.Two months had gone by, and in the budding woods the spring birds were wakening the earth out of her winter sleep, when I stood once more, footsore and friendless, in the streets of London. How I had got so far it matters not, nor how like a vagabond I begged and worked my way; staying now here for a few days ploughing, now there to break in a colt; held in bondage in one town because I lacked the money to pay my score, and chivied from the next for a rogue, which I was not. Not a few men I fought by the way—for I clung to my sword through all—and not a few constables I laid by the heels (Heaven forgive me!) in mine own defence. Be all that as it may, I stood again in London town, whence, it seemed, I had been absent not nine months but nine years. With tattered hose and doublet, with coat that scarce held together at my back, with no cap to my head, and scarce one shoe to divide betwixt my two feet, ’twas little wonder if no man but the watch heeded me, still less suspected me to be the once famous captain of the clubs without Temple Bar.My way into the city led by Finsbury Fields, where were many ’prentices at their sports, and citizens taking their sweethearts to sniff the sweet spring air. No one wanted me there. The lads bade me make way for my betters, and the maids held back their skirts as they swept by. So I left them and wandered citywards.I marvelled to see all so little changed, forgetting how short a time I had been away. There stood Stationers’ Hall, as lordly as ever, and Timothy Ryder, the beadle, taking his fees at the compter. There, too, was the great Cathedral with its crowd of loungers, and Fleet Street full of swaggering ’prentices, and the River sparkling in the sun.Then, as I came near Temple Bar, my heart fell a thumping. Not that I forgot the place was deserted and the old home broken; but because it reminded me of what once was before all these troubles began. I crawled at a snail’s pace, wishing to put off the pang as long as possible. In fancy I was at my case, as I had been a year ago, clicking the letters into my stick, in time to the chirping of my little mistress who sang at her work within. At my side I could hear the dull groaning of the heavy press, and not far off the whining of Peter Stoupe’s everlasting psalm-tune. All was as if—Was I dreaming? or was this the self-same psalm-tune come again to life, and, to accompany it, the dull grinding of the self-same press? Strange, that the bar was off the door, and, as I came to it, a fellow with a ream on his back laboured out. I had expected naught but the desolation and silence which I last remembered in the place, and it staggered me to find all going on as before. No doubt here was some upstart printer, standing in my late master’s shoes and working at his forfeited press!In no pleasant mood I walked, ragged and travel-stained as I was, into the shop. Sure enough, it was Peter Stoupe, my late fellow-apprentice, who was whining, and beside him a new journeyman lugged at the press.Peter knew me not at first, so changed and unkempt was I with my long journeyings.“Come,” said he, surlily, “bustle hence, thou varlet. We keep nought here but sticks for rogues like thee to taste. Get you gone!”And he advanced on me with the stick.Just to remind him of old days, I whipped it from his hand and gave him a crack on the skull, which brought him to himself at once.“Why,” said he, dropping his jaw, and gaping at me as if I had been a ghost, “if it be not Humphrey Dexter, as I’m a sinner!”“As certain as thou art a sinner,” said I, “it is none other. What of that, Peter Stoupe?”“Why,” said he, “I warn thee to pack hence. For Master Walgrave hath had enough of thee, I warrant; and there is none else here wanteth thee.”“Then Master Walgrave is out of gaol?” I asked.“No thanks to thee; he hath made his peace with the Company, and is restored to his own.”“And my mistress, and Jeannette, and the lad?” I asked.“They are naught to thee,” answered he, curtly.“Are they here?” I asked again.“I tell thee that is naught to thee, Humphrey Dexter. I marvel, after what is past, you dare name them.”“By heavens, you shall have something to marvel at,” said I, laying hold of him by the collar, and shaking him till his bones rattled. “Answer me, are they here?”“To be sure, to be sure,” gasped he. “I pray you unhand me, Humphrey; my old friend, you are too rough.”I flung him off, to the mirth of the new journeyman (who, it was plain, loved him no more than I), and walked through the shop to the parlour behind.There in a nook beside the window, which was open to let in the sweet scent of the spring and the merry chirping of the birds, sat my sweet young mistress, Jeannette, reading out of a book to the little sister who sat on her knee; and ever and anon looking out at the swift, shining river, as it washed past the garden wall.I remember the very words she was reading as I entered unheeded.“‘So it fell, that knight returned, and none knew him; no, not even the dog in the outer court. But when he spake, there was a certain little maid knew his voice, whom, as a child, he was wont to make sport with. But now, because she was grown from child to woman, and her mirth was turned to love, did she say never a word when he appeared, but ran away and hid herself.’”“And do tall knights and ladies play at hide-and-go-seek, like boys and girls?” asked the little sister.Jeannette laughed at the question, and as she did so, she looked up and saw me standing there.She, at least, knew me!For a moment the colour left her cheeks, in fear and doubt. Next, it rushed back in a crimson flood; then she uttered my name, and hid her face in the bosom of the little child.I was but a plain ’prentice with no more than my share of brains. Yet, I had need to be slow-witted indeed, not to read a long, wonderful story in what I saw then.“Ay,” said I, stepping forward, and answering the little’s one’s question, “and sometimes they find one another too.”And, as in the old days, I kissed them both, and was very happy.When, presently, Master Walgrave returned and saw me there, he seemed not too well pleased. Yet, I suspected he was not altogether discontented to see me back, for he counted me a proper workman and handy at my craft. And when I set-to and told them a plain tale of what had befallen me, and how ill I had been slandered by my fellow ’prentice, and how ready I was to serve them now, he grew less sullen, and bade me abide where I was till he considered the matter.From my mistress in turn I learned something of their doings since I saw them last in the street of Kingston. The minister, she said, had pinched himself to shelter them for many a week, while they worked for him among the harvesters and in the dairy, in return. But at last when Autumn came, and they could do no more to serve him, they departed, and petitioned the Company to admit them back to the printing house; which, after much ado, was granted, and so they continued with much labour to subsist. But Peter, I was told afterwards, made himself master of everything, and, in return for his services, exacted all the profit, little as it was, they made by the printing. At last, after lying six months in gaol, Master Walgrave grew weary, and permitted his wife to sue for him to the Bishop; which she did, and so prettily, that his Grace allowed the prisoner to go free, on his submission. Since then, all had fared well. Peter Stoupe, who could hardly be parted with, was put back to his place and a new journeyman obtained. Business came back, winter went, springtime returned, and roses blossomed once more in sweet Jeannette’s cheeks; and all went merrily.As for Mistress Jeannette’s cheeks, it seemed to me, as I sat and watched her that evening, that the roses had not done blossoming yet. But I said little to her, for I guessed she would not talk. Only, when bed-time came, and I went, as of old, to carry her up the steep stairs, she looked up brightly and said:“I can walk now, Humphrey;voilà. That was one good thing your going did for me.”“I would it had been any other good,” said I, “for it was pleasant to help you. But, see, you still want some help.”“Well, sometimes I walk better. But to-night—no, I am not a baby, truly,” said she, laughing as I offered to take her up. “Give me your arm, Humphrey; that is enough.”So I helped her up the stairs, and at the top she thanked me, and said she was glad I was come back, for her father’s sake—meaning Master Walgrave, her step-father.I asked was she glad for no reason else? and she said, perhaps for my sake ’twas good to be at work once more.“Anyone’s sake besides?”“Peut-être,” said she in her French jargon, vanishing into her chamber. I was a better scholar than I once was, and could translate the words in a way that made my heart beat.So I left her and came down to supper.There I found Peter Stoupe, very black in the face, awaiting me. He tried to look civil as I came to the table, but ’twas plain he had little stomach for his meal.“My master telleth me,” said he, “he is content to give thee another trial, Humphrey. Pray heaven he may never hear how much it is he forgiveth thee. As for me, this folly of his is like to cost him my service, as I told him.”“When are you going?” I asked.“That concerns myself,” said Peter. “But since we be alone, Humphrey Dexter, let me say to you one thing. Whether I go or stay, know that I desire you hold no converse with my mistress’ daughter, and that for a very sufficient reason. She is promised to me.”I laughed at this.“Since when?” I asked.“That too concerneth me,” said Peter, who liked not my mirth. “I shall wed her anon; and till then I would have her kept clear of your company.”“Pass the mug, Peter Stoupe, and cease your funning. The day sweet Jeannette weds with you, I will saddle the horse shall carry you to church. Till then, if I catch so much as her name on your foul lips, I will drop you, feet uppermost, in the mud of Fleet Ditch. So make a bargain of it.”He turned green at that, for he guessed I meant what I said.“What?” began he; “you who ruined my master, and robbed—”Here I sprang to my feet, and he stopped short.“Robbed whom?” demanded I.“Enough,” said he, motioning me to sit down. “I resolved, when you came, to hold no parley with you, and I repent me I have done so. Henceforth, Humphrey Dexter, we are strangers.”“Be what you will,” said I, “only keep a civil tongue in your head.”And I went up to bed.Now this was yet another trial to Peter, who had been used to lie alone while I was absent, and now loathed that I should rob him thus of half his kicking room. But he durst say naught. Only he lay at the far edge, and, instead of saying his prayers, cursed me between his teeth.It was in my heart to pity Peter Stoupe that night. For it was plain I had come in an evil hour for him. Master Walgrave had been hoodwinked by his smooth manners and lying tongue, and was fain to believe he owed him more for the duty he had done while his master was in gaol than in truth he did. Nor durst my mistress thwart him over much for the same cause. As for Jeannette—if she humoured him and endured his civilities, ’twas because she was ever kind. So all was going well with Peter when I chanced home, who knew him for his worth and promised to spoil his sport. Little wonder, then, if he hated to see me, and kept at the far edge of the bed.However, I had more to think of than him; and, finding him deaf, even when I tried to be civil, I busied myself with other thoughts, and fell asleep, to dream a jumbled dream of Ludar, and Jeannette, and the captain of theMiséricorde.I remember I dreamed that Ludar and Jeannette were keeping the watch on deck while I slept below; and that my hour being come, the captain had come down to fetch me, and was standing over me; when I awoke suddenly, and, in the dim moonlight, saw a real figure at the bedside. It was Peter Stoupe, and, though I could scarce see his face, I knew he was glowering on me, white in his hand he slowly lifted a knife above my heart. I was motionless, not with terror—for his hand trembled so it could scarce have dealt a deadly blow—but with horror to find such a man at such a deed. So, though my eyes were open, he saw not that I was awake, and with a gasp brought down his hand. Mine was out in time to catch him by the wrist. “Peter Stoupe!” I cried; “are you gone mad?”’Twas pitiful to see him then drop on his knees, his face as white as the sheets, and with quaking lips beg for mercy.“Oh, Humphrey!” he gasped; “forgive—I knew not what I was— Yes, I was mad—forgive this once—”“Forgive!” said I, “you ask the wrong person. You are on your knees; ask Him who is above to forgive you! ’Tis Him you have wronged, more than me. And when you have done, come back to bed, for I am weary.”I know not if he prayed, or what he did. But presently, when he came back to bed, he lay very still and cold, and when we rose in the morning never a word spake either of us of what had passed that night.But, as I expected, we were none the better friends for all that. For though he durst never lift his voice in my hearing again, he scowled at me under his brows, and, as I suppose, wished he had done what he tried to do that night. I found it best to let him be, even when he made up to Jeannette, which happened but seldom, and then little to his comfort. But when, after a month or more, his articles being ended, he took his hat and left the shop for good, I was not surprised, nor were my master or mistress over-much cast down.As for me, I had a shrewd guess Peter Stoupe had not yet done with me.All went happily, then, in the house without Temple Bar. Only my little mistress held me off more than she had been wont, and was graver with me. Yet it was happiness to see she counted somewhat on my company, and scorned not to ask my arm whenever she needed its help.Often and often she made me tell her of my journeyings, and of Ludar and the maiden. And her bright eyes would glisten as she heard how they were parted and what they had suffered for one another. And she longed to see both, and was ever wondering where they were and how they fared. But the spring wore into summer, and the summer grew towards autumn, before a word of news came.Then one Sunday, Will Peake, my old adversary, walked into the shop with a monstrous letter in his hand, tied round with blue silk and sealed black at either end.I had seen Will often since I came back to London, but had always forgotten to tell him, that when I was put to it to advise Ludar where he might hear of me, I had told him to send to my brother ’prentice on London Bridge, who, if any, might be counted on to know where I was to be found.So now, when a letter was come, Will was vastly wroth that he should be mixed up in the matter, and needed much satisfying that ’twas a sign of friendship and nothing else that made me give his name, he being—as I told him—the only trusty man of my acquaintance in London.“I like it not, Humphrey Dexter,” said he, tossing down the letter. “The air is full of treason. Only to-day there is talk in the city of some new conspiracy in the North, and ’tis not safe to get a missive from so much as your lady-love. There, take it. I am rid of it; and, hark you, let no man know I had it in my fingers. Farewell.”The letter was in a great and notable hand, which, I was sure, did not belong to Ludar. Yet it was addressed:“To the worthy ’prentice Humphrey Dexter, by the hand of one Will Peake, a mercer’s man on London Bridge, give these—”With beating heart, I took the letter to where Jeannette sat in the garden, and bade her break the seal.
Three days later, as our ship laboured up the gulf of the Solway, Ludar came to me, as I stood on the poop, and said:
“Humphrey, I have news.”
“Good or bad?” I asked.
“Neither,” said he, “for it means we must part.”
“I call that bad news. How is it, Ludar?”
“Our fellow-voyager,” said he, and I could see he spoke nervously like one who doubts his listener, “is in the service of my Queen, Mary of Scotland. There! fly not out, Humphrey; I never said she was your Queen.”
“Heaven forbid!” said I. “And as for this stranger, I mistrusted him all along. How calls he himself?”
“He is one Captain Fortescue, and hath a commission to engage loyal men to the Queen’s service. And, indeed, she needs it; for she lies in prison, watched and solitary, with scarce a face about her that is not an enemy’s. What would you do, Humphrey, were your Queen in such a plight?”
“Were my Queen a traitor—” I began, and stopped.
“I cannot help myself,” said he. “I owe her my life. Only one woman else could claim it, and her I have lost.”
“But,” said I, “are you sure of this man? May this not be some trap to your ruin? What if he be a spy and no more?”
Ludar laughed.
“If so,” said he, “he would have better sport on foot than to practise on an outlaw like me. No, Humphrey, he is a loyal man, as, pray heaven, so am I. And he commands me in a name I cannot resist.”
“Then,” said I, sadly, “we part. I would have served you, Ludar, on any other service. But I, too, have a Queen, who owns me.”
“So be it,” said he. “I expected it; and naught else could part me from you. Be sure we shall meet again, Humphrey, when all is over.”
“Who knows but it may be on the field of battle?” said I, sadly. “Yet, tell me where I shall hear of you; and take note where you shall hear of me. For I will back to London—”
“To your love,” said he, with a sigh. “So be it. You shall hear of me there, Humphrey.”
“And, before we part,” said I, taking his great hand, “swear me an oath, Ludar, that you will not forget me.”
He flung my hand away impatiently.
“Do you take me for a knave, brother? I swear to you, that next to my Queen, my father, and the memory of her who once loved me, you have the chiefest right to say, ‘Ludar, help me,’ and if I forget you, ’twill be that I have forgotten I am a man.”
That comforted me vastly, and I too made my vow.
“Next to my Queen,” said I, “and no one besides, you are still my master; and my life goes for nothing, so it shall serve you and her you love, who, I am sure, is true to you still, and waits for you somewhere, whatever men say.”
He gripped my hand hard at that; and, sorrowful as it was, we loved one another the more at that parting than ever before.
Next day we landed. Captain Fortescue, suspecting me to be no friend to him or his cause, was in haste to reach Carlisle, and shortened our leave-taking in consequence. We had but time to renew our vows, when the boat which was to carry my friend and his new master from me came alongside and severed us. I watched him till the envious hills came in between; and, as I saw him last, standing and waving his hat, methought a great piece had gone out of my life, and that there was left of me but half the man I once was.
And now must my story hasten on by strides, such as never the laggard months took after I had said farewell to Ludar. For ’tis of him, not of Humphrey Dexter, that I am the chronicler, and till my history meet him once more my reader is without his hero.
Yet there are one or two scenes a-wanting to fill up the gap; which, even though they concern chiefly me, I must relate in their proper place.
Two months had gone by, and in the budding woods the spring birds were wakening the earth out of her winter sleep, when I stood once more, footsore and friendless, in the streets of London. How I had got so far it matters not, nor how like a vagabond I begged and worked my way; staying now here for a few days ploughing, now there to break in a colt; held in bondage in one town because I lacked the money to pay my score, and chivied from the next for a rogue, which I was not. Not a few men I fought by the way—for I clung to my sword through all—and not a few constables I laid by the heels (Heaven forgive me!) in mine own defence. Be all that as it may, I stood again in London town, whence, it seemed, I had been absent not nine months but nine years. With tattered hose and doublet, with coat that scarce held together at my back, with no cap to my head, and scarce one shoe to divide betwixt my two feet, ’twas little wonder if no man but the watch heeded me, still less suspected me to be the once famous captain of the clubs without Temple Bar.
My way into the city led by Finsbury Fields, where were many ’prentices at their sports, and citizens taking their sweethearts to sniff the sweet spring air. No one wanted me there. The lads bade me make way for my betters, and the maids held back their skirts as they swept by. So I left them and wandered citywards.
I marvelled to see all so little changed, forgetting how short a time I had been away. There stood Stationers’ Hall, as lordly as ever, and Timothy Ryder, the beadle, taking his fees at the compter. There, too, was the great Cathedral with its crowd of loungers, and Fleet Street full of swaggering ’prentices, and the River sparkling in the sun.
Then, as I came near Temple Bar, my heart fell a thumping. Not that I forgot the place was deserted and the old home broken; but because it reminded me of what once was before all these troubles began. I crawled at a snail’s pace, wishing to put off the pang as long as possible. In fancy I was at my case, as I had been a year ago, clicking the letters into my stick, in time to the chirping of my little mistress who sang at her work within. At my side I could hear the dull groaning of the heavy press, and not far off the whining of Peter Stoupe’s everlasting psalm-tune. All was as if—
Was I dreaming? or was this the self-same psalm-tune come again to life, and, to accompany it, the dull grinding of the self-same press? Strange, that the bar was off the door, and, as I came to it, a fellow with a ream on his back laboured out. I had expected naught but the desolation and silence which I last remembered in the place, and it staggered me to find all going on as before. No doubt here was some upstart printer, standing in my late master’s shoes and working at his forfeited press!
In no pleasant mood I walked, ragged and travel-stained as I was, into the shop. Sure enough, it was Peter Stoupe, my late fellow-apprentice, who was whining, and beside him a new journeyman lugged at the press.
Peter knew me not at first, so changed and unkempt was I with my long journeyings.
“Come,” said he, surlily, “bustle hence, thou varlet. We keep nought here but sticks for rogues like thee to taste. Get you gone!”
And he advanced on me with the stick.
Just to remind him of old days, I whipped it from his hand and gave him a crack on the skull, which brought him to himself at once.
“Why,” said he, dropping his jaw, and gaping at me as if I had been a ghost, “if it be not Humphrey Dexter, as I’m a sinner!”
“As certain as thou art a sinner,” said I, “it is none other. What of that, Peter Stoupe?”
“Why,” said he, “I warn thee to pack hence. For Master Walgrave hath had enough of thee, I warrant; and there is none else here wanteth thee.”
“Then Master Walgrave is out of gaol?” I asked.
“No thanks to thee; he hath made his peace with the Company, and is restored to his own.”
“And my mistress, and Jeannette, and the lad?” I asked.
“They are naught to thee,” answered he, curtly.
“Are they here?” I asked again.
“I tell thee that is naught to thee, Humphrey Dexter. I marvel, after what is past, you dare name them.”
“By heavens, you shall have something to marvel at,” said I, laying hold of him by the collar, and shaking him till his bones rattled. “Answer me, are they here?”
“To be sure, to be sure,” gasped he. “I pray you unhand me, Humphrey; my old friend, you are too rough.”
I flung him off, to the mirth of the new journeyman (who, it was plain, loved him no more than I), and walked through the shop to the parlour behind.
There in a nook beside the window, which was open to let in the sweet scent of the spring and the merry chirping of the birds, sat my sweet young mistress, Jeannette, reading out of a book to the little sister who sat on her knee; and ever and anon looking out at the swift, shining river, as it washed past the garden wall.
I remember the very words she was reading as I entered unheeded.
“‘So it fell, that knight returned, and none knew him; no, not even the dog in the outer court. But when he spake, there was a certain little maid knew his voice, whom, as a child, he was wont to make sport with. But now, because she was grown from child to woman, and her mirth was turned to love, did she say never a word when he appeared, but ran away and hid herself.’”
“And do tall knights and ladies play at hide-and-go-seek, like boys and girls?” asked the little sister.
Jeannette laughed at the question, and as she did so, she looked up and saw me standing there.
She, at least, knew me!
For a moment the colour left her cheeks, in fear and doubt. Next, it rushed back in a crimson flood; then she uttered my name, and hid her face in the bosom of the little child.
I was but a plain ’prentice with no more than my share of brains. Yet, I had need to be slow-witted indeed, not to read a long, wonderful story in what I saw then.
“Ay,” said I, stepping forward, and answering the little’s one’s question, “and sometimes they find one another too.”
And, as in the old days, I kissed them both, and was very happy.
When, presently, Master Walgrave returned and saw me there, he seemed not too well pleased. Yet, I suspected he was not altogether discontented to see me back, for he counted me a proper workman and handy at my craft. And when I set-to and told them a plain tale of what had befallen me, and how ill I had been slandered by my fellow ’prentice, and how ready I was to serve them now, he grew less sullen, and bade me abide where I was till he considered the matter.
From my mistress in turn I learned something of their doings since I saw them last in the street of Kingston. The minister, she said, had pinched himself to shelter them for many a week, while they worked for him among the harvesters and in the dairy, in return. But at last when Autumn came, and they could do no more to serve him, they departed, and petitioned the Company to admit them back to the printing house; which, after much ado, was granted, and so they continued with much labour to subsist. But Peter, I was told afterwards, made himself master of everything, and, in return for his services, exacted all the profit, little as it was, they made by the printing. At last, after lying six months in gaol, Master Walgrave grew weary, and permitted his wife to sue for him to the Bishop; which she did, and so prettily, that his Grace allowed the prisoner to go free, on his submission. Since then, all had fared well. Peter Stoupe, who could hardly be parted with, was put back to his place and a new journeyman obtained. Business came back, winter went, springtime returned, and roses blossomed once more in sweet Jeannette’s cheeks; and all went merrily.
As for Mistress Jeannette’s cheeks, it seemed to me, as I sat and watched her that evening, that the roses had not done blossoming yet. But I said little to her, for I guessed she would not talk. Only, when bed-time came, and I went, as of old, to carry her up the steep stairs, she looked up brightly and said:
“I can walk now, Humphrey;voilà. That was one good thing your going did for me.”
“I would it had been any other good,” said I, “for it was pleasant to help you. But, see, you still want some help.”
“Well, sometimes I walk better. But to-night—no, I am not a baby, truly,” said she, laughing as I offered to take her up. “Give me your arm, Humphrey; that is enough.”
So I helped her up the stairs, and at the top she thanked me, and said she was glad I was come back, for her father’s sake—meaning Master Walgrave, her step-father.
I asked was she glad for no reason else? and she said, perhaps for my sake ’twas good to be at work once more.
“Anyone’s sake besides?”
“Peut-être,” said she in her French jargon, vanishing into her chamber. I was a better scholar than I once was, and could translate the words in a way that made my heart beat.
So I left her and came down to supper.
There I found Peter Stoupe, very black in the face, awaiting me. He tried to look civil as I came to the table, but ’twas plain he had little stomach for his meal.
“My master telleth me,” said he, “he is content to give thee another trial, Humphrey. Pray heaven he may never hear how much it is he forgiveth thee. As for me, this folly of his is like to cost him my service, as I told him.”
“When are you going?” I asked.
“That concerns myself,” said Peter. “But since we be alone, Humphrey Dexter, let me say to you one thing. Whether I go or stay, know that I desire you hold no converse with my mistress’ daughter, and that for a very sufficient reason. She is promised to me.”
I laughed at this.
“Since when?” I asked.
“That too concerneth me,” said Peter, who liked not my mirth. “I shall wed her anon; and till then I would have her kept clear of your company.”
“Pass the mug, Peter Stoupe, and cease your funning. The day sweet Jeannette weds with you, I will saddle the horse shall carry you to church. Till then, if I catch so much as her name on your foul lips, I will drop you, feet uppermost, in the mud of Fleet Ditch. So make a bargain of it.”
He turned green at that, for he guessed I meant what I said.
“What?” began he; “you who ruined my master, and robbed—”
Here I sprang to my feet, and he stopped short.
“Robbed whom?” demanded I.
“Enough,” said he, motioning me to sit down. “I resolved, when you came, to hold no parley with you, and I repent me I have done so. Henceforth, Humphrey Dexter, we are strangers.”
“Be what you will,” said I, “only keep a civil tongue in your head.”
And I went up to bed.
Now this was yet another trial to Peter, who had been used to lie alone while I was absent, and now loathed that I should rob him thus of half his kicking room. But he durst say naught. Only he lay at the far edge, and, instead of saying his prayers, cursed me between his teeth.
It was in my heart to pity Peter Stoupe that night. For it was plain I had come in an evil hour for him. Master Walgrave had been hoodwinked by his smooth manners and lying tongue, and was fain to believe he owed him more for the duty he had done while his master was in gaol than in truth he did. Nor durst my mistress thwart him over much for the same cause. As for Jeannette—if she humoured him and endured his civilities, ’twas because she was ever kind. So all was going well with Peter when I chanced home, who knew him for his worth and promised to spoil his sport. Little wonder, then, if he hated to see me, and kept at the far edge of the bed.
However, I had more to think of than him; and, finding him deaf, even when I tried to be civil, I busied myself with other thoughts, and fell asleep, to dream a jumbled dream of Ludar, and Jeannette, and the captain of theMiséricorde.
I remember I dreamed that Ludar and Jeannette were keeping the watch on deck while I slept below; and that my hour being come, the captain had come down to fetch me, and was standing over me; when I awoke suddenly, and, in the dim moonlight, saw a real figure at the bedside. It was Peter Stoupe, and, though I could scarce see his face, I knew he was glowering on me, white in his hand he slowly lifted a knife above my heart. I was motionless, not with terror—for his hand trembled so it could scarce have dealt a deadly blow—but with horror to find such a man at such a deed. So, though my eyes were open, he saw not that I was awake, and with a gasp brought down his hand. Mine was out in time to catch him by the wrist. “Peter Stoupe!” I cried; “are you gone mad?”
’Twas pitiful to see him then drop on his knees, his face as white as the sheets, and with quaking lips beg for mercy.
“Oh, Humphrey!” he gasped; “forgive—I knew not what I was— Yes, I was mad—forgive this once—”
“Forgive!” said I, “you ask the wrong person. You are on your knees; ask Him who is above to forgive you! ’Tis Him you have wronged, more than me. And when you have done, come back to bed, for I am weary.”
I know not if he prayed, or what he did. But presently, when he came back to bed, he lay very still and cold, and when we rose in the morning never a word spake either of us of what had passed that night.
But, as I expected, we were none the better friends for all that. For though he durst never lift his voice in my hearing again, he scowled at me under his brows, and, as I suppose, wished he had done what he tried to do that night. I found it best to let him be, even when he made up to Jeannette, which happened but seldom, and then little to his comfort. But when, after a month or more, his articles being ended, he took his hat and left the shop for good, I was not surprised, nor were my master or mistress over-much cast down.
As for me, I had a shrewd guess Peter Stoupe had not yet done with me.
All went happily, then, in the house without Temple Bar. Only my little mistress held me off more than she had been wont, and was graver with me. Yet it was happiness to see she counted somewhat on my company, and scorned not to ask my arm whenever she needed its help.
Often and often she made me tell her of my journeyings, and of Ludar and the maiden. And her bright eyes would glisten as she heard how they were parted and what they had suffered for one another. And she longed to see both, and was ever wondering where they were and how they fared. But the spring wore into summer, and the summer grew towards autumn, before a word of news came.
Then one Sunday, Will Peake, my old adversary, walked into the shop with a monstrous letter in his hand, tied round with blue silk and sealed black at either end.
I had seen Will often since I came back to London, but had always forgotten to tell him, that when I was put to it to advise Ludar where he might hear of me, I had told him to send to my brother ’prentice on London Bridge, who, if any, might be counted on to know where I was to be found.
So now, when a letter was come, Will was vastly wroth that he should be mixed up in the matter, and needed much satisfying that ’twas a sign of friendship and nothing else that made me give his name, he being—as I told him—the only trusty man of my acquaintance in London.
“I like it not, Humphrey Dexter,” said he, tossing down the letter. “The air is full of treason. Only to-day there is talk in the city of some new conspiracy in the North, and ’tis not safe to get a missive from so much as your lady-love. There, take it. I am rid of it; and, hark you, let no man know I had it in my fingers. Farewell.”
The letter was in a great and notable hand, which, I was sure, did not belong to Ludar. Yet it was addressed:
“To the worthy ’prentice Humphrey Dexter, by the hand of one Will Peake, a mercer’s man on London Bridge, give these—”
With beating heart, I took the letter to where Jeannette sat in the garden, and bade her break the seal.