Chapter Twenty Eight.

Chapter Twenty Eight.How I enlisted on a New Service.London was merry-making, with bonfires and pealing of bells, when Will Peake and I entered it. Every day that passed, men took in more of the great victory which had been gained against the King of Spain, and rejoiced louder and louder at the deliverance God had vouchsafed the land.So, when it became known (as it soon did among our old friends), that Will and I had fought in that glorious fight, we lacked neither food nor shelter for our poor bodies. At first Will fared better than I; for he was monstrous little altered from the swaggering lad who tried a bout with me years before at Finsbury Fields. But as for me, men looked once, twice, and thrice at me before they would believe it was Humphrey Dexter. And when one day in a tavern I came upon a mirror I learned the cause. My beard, unkempt now for many weeks, had grown till it made my face look very fierce and manly; and my hair, once close-cropped, now fell heavily below my ears. And the scar I got on theRatagave me so ferocious a look that I had a mind well-nigh to doubt myself, when first I saw it.“’Tis little wonder if they know thee not,” said Will, “for thou art passably handsome now, whereas once—”Here he left me to guess what I had been.Be that as it may, I was pleased enough with the change for so far, and spared my fee to the barber. And as for my old comrades, I had other signs to make myself known to them, as they soon discovered by the aching of their heads and the soreness of their ribs. For I soon shook off my sickness and was as ready for knocks as ever.Yet you may guess if, with it all, I was merry!The printing-house without Temple Bar was as black and desolate as a tomb, with a great lock belonging to the Stationers’ Company hanging on the door. When I asked the neighbours concerning my master, they pulled long faces and told me he was given over to desperate ventures, and with his family had fled the country; and ’twas well for him, said they, no one knew where he hid.I knew not which way to turn. My sweet Jeannette was far away amid perils I little dreamed of. Ludar was, perhaps, even now a prisoner in Spain. My occupation was gone, and my pocket and my stomach were both empty.Could I have lived on naught, I think I should even have tried to make my way to Spain (as if it were no bigger a place than Temple Gardens!) and so find Ludar. Then I changed my mind and thought to set out for Ireland to seek Jeannette. Then, when I saw a fellow enlisting troopers for the Dutch wars, I well-nigh sold myself to him.I might have done so straight out, had not there come a loud thump on my back as I stood in the crowd, and a voice in my ear that made me start.“Are you so weary of life, comrade, that you want a leaden pill or two to cure it?”“Verily, I am,” said I, wheeling round and facing Tom Price, Captain Merriman’s man.At first he knew me not, nor when I told him my name would he believe he spake to Humphrey Dexter. But when at last he knew me, he clapped me again on the back and said—“Thou’rt well met, my little Lord Mayor. By my soul, I might have walked a league and never met thee.”“You might have walked farther than that,” said I. “What villainy are you and your master now upon? for I take it you still serve the Captain?”He laughed. “As for my master, let him be. He’s snug enough. I left him— Look you here, comrade,” said he, taking my arm and looking hard at me, “where saw I thee last?”“Once when you lay as drunk as a dog in Finsbury Fields. And a good turn you did me, comrade, and more than me, by what you blabbed then.”He gaped rather foolishly at this, and asked did I want my ears slit for a noisy malapert?Then I told him just what passed, and how I had been able thereby to save the maiden from the Captain’s clutches. When he heard that he laughed, and swore and thwacked me on the back till I nearly dropped.“By my life, you gallows dog you, if my master only knew what he owed you! Why, my pretty lad, I never saw a man so put about as he was when he came back from Canterbury that time without his prey.”“Where is he now?” I asked.“Where else, do you suppose, but smacking his lips near the dove’s nest? He hath comforted himself for all he hath suffered, ere now, I warrant thee!”“What!” I shouted. “Has he followed the maiden to Ireland?”He laughed.“So, then, you know where the pretty one has flown? I warrant thee, if thou couldst see her at this moment, thou wouldst see my master not a bow-shot away. Ha! ha! I do not say nearer; for when I left, the fair vixen still held him at arm’s length. But he is getting on; and now, since the maid’s lover is dead—”“He is not dead,” said I; “I parted from him scarce a month ago!” And I told him where and how.He shrugged his shoulders.“A fig for his life if that be his case,” said he. “At any rate he is believed to be dead; and the Captain, as I say, is getting on, having made himself monstrous civil to Turlogh Luinech O’Neill, who, I think, favours him somewhat for a son-in-law.”“The foul dog!” I exclaimed. “Would I had him standing here, for my friend’s sake. Tell me, Tom, what of a little maid who went from London as waiting gentlewoman to the lady. How fares she?”“Sadly, I hope, since she and I are parted,” said he. “For, to tell you the truth, Master Dexter, she is the sweetest wench and hath looked kindly on me. Indeed, ’twas for this reason I think my master sent me off here on this business to get him more men. For he is apt to amuse himself, while he waits for the mistress, with the maid; and I doubt when I return I shall find the little witch hath clean forgotten how to smile on me.”I hope I may be forgiven the words I uttered when I heard this. I flew at honest Tom Price like a wolf and cried: “Why, what mean you, hound? What does he dare to do?”Tom shook me off roughly, and pulled out his sword.“Look ’ee here, Master Humphrey, if that be the way you ask your questions, your ribs shall know the way I answer them.”“I ask your pardon,” said I, panting hard. “But for God’s mercy say what all this means?”“It means,” said he, “that you are mightily concerned with this same little waiting lass.”“She is my sweetheart,” said I, “and is to be my wife.”It was his turn to look blank now, and catch his breath. He whistled, and stared at me from head to foot, and whistled again. Then he found words, and held out his hand.“If she be thy sweetheart, she is none of mine. I go halves with no man.”“And this Merriman?” I asked, scarce heeding what he said.“This Merriman!” said he; “why, take a shame on yourself that you stand skulking here, and leave the defence of those two fair maids to a crack-brained poet and a swashbuckling soldier. I tell you, Humphrey Dexter, those two fellows, little as I love them, are your friends and your master’s; and, if the maids be still safe, they owe it to them, and not to your idle whimpering here.”“Heaven bless them!” said I. “But, Tom Price, how can I, who have scarce shoes to stand in, or food for one day, go to them?”“This way,” said he; “I am here to engage men for my master’s troop—join us.”“What!” I exclaimed; “serve that villain? I had as soon serve the devil himself.”“May be you can serve both at one time,” said he, with a laugh; “but join us you must.”“He would hang me at the nearest tree, so soon as he saw me.”“He would never know you. I scarce did.”We stood eyeing one another a minute. Then I held out my hand.“When do you start?”“In two days, if I can find the men by then. Meanwhile, come with me and put your big carcase in a soldier’s trappings, and drink health to her Majesty and Captain Merriman.”A week passed before Tom Price got his company together. I chafed and grumbled at every hour that passed. On the day before we set out, I went to show myself in my soldier’s bravery to Will Peake, on London Bridge.“Every man to his taste,” said the latter. “I think thee not as fine as thou thinkest thyself. By the way, thou art like to have knocks enough where thou goest, I hear, for news is come that the Spaniards mean to land on Irish shore, and strike at us from that quarter.”This was great news to me; and on every hand I heard it repeated, till, at nightfall, there was something near a panic in London, and orders were given for all troops possible to set out forthwith. Therefore, Tom Price, though his company still wanted a few of its number, bade us be within call and ready spurred at daybreak.The road from London to Chester was full of straggling companies of soldiers, hastened forward like us by the alarm of the Spanish attack on Ireland. We, being mounted, distanced most of them. And so eager were the country folk along the march to see our backs, that, had we been minded to tarry long in any place, we should have soon outworn our welcome.I saw little of Tom Price during the early part of our march. But when, presently, he had leisure to gossip, he told me one piece of news which moved me not a little.It was that Sorley Boy, being now an old man and broken down in spirit, longed for his lost son, Sir Ludar, as eagerly as he had hated him not long since. He lived a restless life at Dunluce, often and again stalking abroad as of old, and seeming to expect him who was lost. He had even made friends with Turlogh; and the only time that Captain Merriman had hung his head and slunk out of Castleroe, said Tom, was when the Lord of Dunluce came thither to visit his new ally. So long as he stayed, the Captain found business elsewhere.Sorley Boy, when at Castleroe, saw the maiden, who, after what had passed, scarcely durst meet him. But by degrees her sweet, brave ways took the old man captive, and, ere he left, he knew her whole story, and loved her as if she were indeed already his daughter.He well-nigh broke his truce with the O’Neill, because he would not permit the maid to visit Dunluce; for Turlogh (dreading, perhaps, the ill graces of the Captain), would not part with her from Castleroe. So Sorley Boy departed discontented, like a man robbed.All this I heard, and more than ever chafed at the slackness of our laggard steeds. How I wished that, looking round, I might but see Ludar spurring at my side!Alas! I saw him not. But one day, as we neared Chester, I did see a face in a troop that had joined ours on the road, that made me rub my eyes, and wonder if ghosts truly walked on earth.If it was not Peter Stoupe, my old fellow ’prentice, it was as like him as one pea is to another. Nay, once, when, to satisfy myself, I made a pretext to ride near him, I could have sworn I heard the humming of a psalm-tune amid the clatter of the hoofs.Our troops parted company a day after, and I was left marvelling if all this world and the next were marching towards Ireland.Early next day I had no leisure left me to cogitate more on that; for Tom Price reined his horse in beside mine, and said:“Humphrey, here is a message come from the Captain in hot haste, to prevent our going north, and ordering us to Dublin.”I let my reins fall with a groan on my steed’s neck. Tom heeded it not, but continued:“The Spaniard, it is said, has been gathering in the northern seas, and is coming down on the western Irish coast, where he counts on the papists of the country to further him. We are ordered to stay in Dublin for orders from my Lord Deputy. Why, how black you look, comrade!”“Who would not? You know, Tom Price, why I came on this venture. I were better in London, unless our journey lead us to Castleroe.”Tom laughed, and I could have knocked him from his horse, had he not quickly added:“Gently, my fire-eating jack printer. I came not to tell thee only this. The Captain addeth these words: ‘Send me six trusty men here, for my affairs require such before I am free to join you. Send them forward with all speed. Do you cross leisurely to Dublin, and there await me. I am in hopes it may not be needful for me to return again thither. Send trusty men, and speedily.’ What say you, Humphrey? Art thou a trusty lad? Could I trust thee to pick out five honest fellows like thyself and show them the way to a certain pair of black eyes and rosy lips on the banks of the Bann?”I loved Tom Price like a brother then, and told him as much. In an hour’s time I had chosen five stout fellows, all of whom I could trust with my last farthing, and whom I could count on for any service. I had them armed to the teeth, well mounted and provisioned; and then, without a moment lost, called them to horse.“Farewell, comrade,” said Tom, as he saw me go. “I could even envy thee, though it is like to cost thee somewhat. For the Captain hath twenty men already, and hath eyes and ears in his head. Commend me to thy lass, and let her know she hath had a narrow escape of a sweetheart in Tom Price.”“She shall thank you for your honesty, comrade, with her own sweet lips,” said I, and hallooed my men forward.Next day we were at the sea, and embarked—horses and all—on a barque that was even then weighing anchor with other troops on board for Knockfergus.To my surprise, among the men that crowded the deck was the fellow I had seen two days ago, who had reminded me of Peter Stoupe. When I saw him now, I knew for certain it was he.I stood full in front of him, to see if he would know me again, for I cared not if he did. He looked at me meekly without a sign of recognition, and humming ever, passed his eyes to some other place.“So, so, Peter,” thought I, “as you know not your old shopmate, why should I disturb your humming?”And I carelessly asked a man who stood next him whither his company was bound and on what service.—“Westward,” he said, “to look for Spaniards. And you?”“To join one Captain Merriman in the north.”It tickled me much to see Peter start and change colour at that.“Ah, ’tis a brave gallant, I’m told,” said the man. “’Twas he slew Sorley Boy’s son, was it not?”“Ay, a brave deed that was,” said I. “I saw it.”The fellow laughed.“You know him, then? Ha! ha! You can satisfy Peter here better than I can. He desireth to know the Captain’s whereabouts; and when I tell him he is no further off than the nearest pretty face, he turneth up his eyes as if he expected to see him at his own side. He! he! What say you, Peter?”“I say, alack that such men should wear her Majesty’s colours,” said he, with a snivel.“Amen to that,” said I, giving him a thwack on the back that made him jump. “’Tis a pity her Majesty hath not more like you, Peter. How do you call your name?”“Stoupe,” said he, looking up at me meekly and rubbing his shoulder.After that we went to look to our horses, and I saw little more of him that voyage; for from the moment we put out to sea he fell as sick as a dog, and lay on the floor of the ship praying Heaven to put an end to his sorrows, till we reached Knockfergus.There I suddenly missed him, and heard he had had so sorry a time serving her Majesty thus far, that he had skulked so soon as ever the ship came to land, and made for the hills, where no doubt he meant to lie till he could go back the way he had come.Whereat I laughed, and ordered my men to horse.At the town gate, much to my vexation, we were met by a guard, who ordered us to report ourselves to the English governor. I had looked to get a fair start of the other troops going west. But now, so far from that, two days passed idle on my hands before I even got audience of the governor, and by that time many companies had started westward. For the panic of the Spanish invasion was very great among the English soldiery at Knockfergus; and every man that could be had was being hurried across the country.When I saw the governor and told him my orders, he said, shortly: “Captain Merriman has already had orders to go forward to Tyrone’s land, and will have left Castleroe before now. You will join him sooner by sea than by land. Be ready to sail three days hence. Till then, leave not the town, but abide at the hostel for further orders.”This was a thunderbolt to me. I knew the Captain well enough to be sure that, if he had indeed left Castleroe, he had either not left it alone or had left worse than desolation behind him. He was too well-known to his comrades in these parts to leave much doubt of that; and when that same night I heard by chance that Turlogh for a month past had been away in Dublin, leaving the protection of his castle to this English champion of his, I made sure, what I had feared all along, that I was come too late.One thing I was resolved on. Come what would, I would make for Castleroe and learn the worst for myself. ’Twould be better even to be hanged for a deserter than live a day longer in this misery and suspense.So I bade my men, if they were minded still to serve me, be ready and stand by for the first chance of escape.It came soon enough. Bands of soldiers were coming in and going out of Knockfergus all the night long; and while we sat in the hostelry and watched them depart with longing eyes, like prisoners through a dungeon cage, I suddenly found myself calling myself a fool and starting to my feet.“Follow me,” I cried to my men, and led them to where our horses stood, still saddled, in the stable.“Mount,” I said, “and stay under the shadow of this wall, till you see me ride out. Then fall in quietly at my heels.”Presently, as we stood there, came a noise of trumpets and a clatter of hoofs down the steep street. As they passed, we could see by the torches of those that marched beside them that this was a great company of foot and horse, dragging a gun or two with them. ’Twas more of a rabble than a troop; for the horses, frightened by the glare of the torches and the shouts of the footmen, reared and plunged, and scattered the townsfolk who had turned out to see them pass, right and left.As they passed the corner where we lurked, some of the horses plunged in among us, and in the darkness all was confusion for a moment.Then I quietly rode in among them with my five men at my heels, and so, unseen and unheeded, we joined the troop and passed the gate in safety into the black country beyond.Once outside, ’twas easy enough to get clear. I bade my men lag behind all they could; till at last we must have dropped fifty yards or so, where, in the darkness, we were quite lost to view. Then I gave the order to gallop; and overtaking the company, as in hot haste, I rode up to the officer and saluted.“A good journey to you, Captain,” said I. “’Twill be slower than ours, for the troop we are to join is already beyond the Bann, and we ride post-haste to overtake it.”“You are of Merriman’s troop then?” said the officer.“That are we. Good-night to you, Captain. Lay to, my men, and spurs all!” And so we rode forward.

London was merry-making, with bonfires and pealing of bells, when Will Peake and I entered it. Every day that passed, men took in more of the great victory which had been gained against the King of Spain, and rejoiced louder and louder at the deliverance God had vouchsafed the land.

So, when it became known (as it soon did among our old friends), that Will and I had fought in that glorious fight, we lacked neither food nor shelter for our poor bodies. At first Will fared better than I; for he was monstrous little altered from the swaggering lad who tried a bout with me years before at Finsbury Fields. But as for me, men looked once, twice, and thrice at me before they would believe it was Humphrey Dexter. And when one day in a tavern I came upon a mirror I learned the cause. My beard, unkempt now for many weeks, had grown till it made my face look very fierce and manly; and my hair, once close-cropped, now fell heavily below my ears. And the scar I got on theRatagave me so ferocious a look that I had a mind well-nigh to doubt myself, when first I saw it.

“’Tis little wonder if they know thee not,” said Will, “for thou art passably handsome now, whereas once—”

Here he left me to guess what I had been.

Be that as it may, I was pleased enough with the change for so far, and spared my fee to the barber. And as for my old comrades, I had other signs to make myself known to them, as they soon discovered by the aching of their heads and the soreness of their ribs. For I soon shook off my sickness and was as ready for knocks as ever.

Yet you may guess if, with it all, I was merry!

The printing-house without Temple Bar was as black and desolate as a tomb, with a great lock belonging to the Stationers’ Company hanging on the door. When I asked the neighbours concerning my master, they pulled long faces and told me he was given over to desperate ventures, and with his family had fled the country; and ’twas well for him, said they, no one knew where he hid.

I knew not which way to turn. My sweet Jeannette was far away amid perils I little dreamed of. Ludar was, perhaps, even now a prisoner in Spain. My occupation was gone, and my pocket and my stomach were both empty.

Could I have lived on naught, I think I should even have tried to make my way to Spain (as if it were no bigger a place than Temple Gardens!) and so find Ludar. Then I changed my mind and thought to set out for Ireland to seek Jeannette. Then, when I saw a fellow enlisting troopers for the Dutch wars, I well-nigh sold myself to him.

I might have done so straight out, had not there come a loud thump on my back as I stood in the crowd, and a voice in my ear that made me start.

“Are you so weary of life, comrade, that you want a leaden pill or two to cure it?”

“Verily, I am,” said I, wheeling round and facing Tom Price, Captain Merriman’s man.

At first he knew me not, nor when I told him my name would he believe he spake to Humphrey Dexter. But when at last he knew me, he clapped me again on the back and said—

“Thou’rt well met, my little Lord Mayor. By my soul, I might have walked a league and never met thee.”

“You might have walked farther than that,” said I. “What villainy are you and your master now upon? for I take it you still serve the Captain?”

He laughed. “As for my master, let him be. He’s snug enough. I left him— Look you here, comrade,” said he, taking my arm and looking hard at me, “where saw I thee last?”

“Once when you lay as drunk as a dog in Finsbury Fields. And a good turn you did me, comrade, and more than me, by what you blabbed then.”

He gaped rather foolishly at this, and asked did I want my ears slit for a noisy malapert?

Then I told him just what passed, and how I had been able thereby to save the maiden from the Captain’s clutches. When he heard that he laughed, and swore and thwacked me on the back till I nearly dropped.

“By my life, you gallows dog you, if my master only knew what he owed you! Why, my pretty lad, I never saw a man so put about as he was when he came back from Canterbury that time without his prey.”

“Where is he now?” I asked.

“Where else, do you suppose, but smacking his lips near the dove’s nest? He hath comforted himself for all he hath suffered, ere now, I warrant thee!”

“What!” I shouted. “Has he followed the maiden to Ireland?”

He laughed.

“So, then, you know where the pretty one has flown? I warrant thee, if thou couldst see her at this moment, thou wouldst see my master not a bow-shot away. Ha! ha! I do not say nearer; for when I left, the fair vixen still held him at arm’s length. But he is getting on; and now, since the maid’s lover is dead—”

“He is not dead,” said I; “I parted from him scarce a month ago!” And I told him where and how.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“A fig for his life if that be his case,” said he. “At any rate he is believed to be dead; and the Captain, as I say, is getting on, having made himself monstrous civil to Turlogh Luinech O’Neill, who, I think, favours him somewhat for a son-in-law.”

“The foul dog!” I exclaimed. “Would I had him standing here, for my friend’s sake. Tell me, Tom, what of a little maid who went from London as waiting gentlewoman to the lady. How fares she?”

“Sadly, I hope, since she and I are parted,” said he. “For, to tell you the truth, Master Dexter, she is the sweetest wench and hath looked kindly on me. Indeed, ’twas for this reason I think my master sent me off here on this business to get him more men. For he is apt to amuse himself, while he waits for the mistress, with the maid; and I doubt when I return I shall find the little witch hath clean forgotten how to smile on me.”

I hope I may be forgiven the words I uttered when I heard this. I flew at honest Tom Price like a wolf and cried: “Why, what mean you, hound? What does he dare to do?”

Tom shook me off roughly, and pulled out his sword.

“Look ’ee here, Master Humphrey, if that be the way you ask your questions, your ribs shall know the way I answer them.”

“I ask your pardon,” said I, panting hard. “But for God’s mercy say what all this means?”

“It means,” said he, “that you are mightily concerned with this same little waiting lass.”

“She is my sweetheart,” said I, “and is to be my wife.”

It was his turn to look blank now, and catch his breath. He whistled, and stared at me from head to foot, and whistled again. Then he found words, and held out his hand.

“If she be thy sweetheart, she is none of mine. I go halves with no man.”

“And this Merriman?” I asked, scarce heeding what he said.

“This Merriman!” said he; “why, take a shame on yourself that you stand skulking here, and leave the defence of those two fair maids to a crack-brained poet and a swashbuckling soldier. I tell you, Humphrey Dexter, those two fellows, little as I love them, are your friends and your master’s; and, if the maids be still safe, they owe it to them, and not to your idle whimpering here.”

“Heaven bless them!” said I. “But, Tom Price, how can I, who have scarce shoes to stand in, or food for one day, go to them?”

“This way,” said he; “I am here to engage men for my master’s troop—join us.”

“What!” I exclaimed; “serve that villain? I had as soon serve the devil himself.”

“May be you can serve both at one time,” said he, with a laugh; “but join us you must.”

“He would hang me at the nearest tree, so soon as he saw me.”

“He would never know you. I scarce did.”

We stood eyeing one another a minute. Then I held out my hand.

“When do you start?”

“In two days, if I can find the men by then. Meanwhile, come with me and put your big carcase in a soldier’s trappings, and drink health to her Majesty and Captain Merriman.”

A week passed before Tom Price got his company together. I chafed and grumbled at every hour that passed. On the day before we set out, I went to show myself in my soldier’s bravery to Will Peake, on London Bridge.

“Every man to his taste,” said the latter. “I think thee not as fine as thou thinkest thyself. By the way, thou art like to have knocks enough where thou goest, I hear, for news is come that the Spaniards mean to land on Irish shore, and strike at us from that quarter.”

This was great news to me; and on every hand I heard it repeated, till, at nightfall, there was something near a panic in London, and orders were given for all troops possible to set out forthwith. Therefore, Tom Price, though his company still wanted a few of its number, bade us be within call and ready spurred at daybreak.

The road from London to Chester was full of straggling companies of soldiers, hastened forward like us by the alarm of the Spanish attack on Ireland. We, being mounted, distanced most of them. And so eager were the country folk along the march to see our backs, that, had we been minded to tarry long in any place, we should have soon outworn our welcome.

I saw little of Tom Price during the early part of our march. But when, presently, he had leisure to gossip, he told me one piece of news which moved me not a little.

It was that Sorley Boy, being now an old man and broken down in spirit, longed for his lost son, Sir Ludar, as eagerly as he had hated him not long since. He lived a restless life at Dunluce, often and again stalking abroad as of old, and seeming to expect him who was lost. He had even made friends with Turlogh; and the only time that Captain Merriman had hung his head and slunk out of Castleroe, said Tom, was when the Lord of Dunluce came thither to visit his new ally. So long as he stayed, the Captain found business elsewhere.

Sorley Boy, when at Castleroe, saw the maiden, who, after what had passed, scarcely durst meet him. But by degrees her sweet, brave ways took the old man captive, and, ere he left, he knew her whole story, and loved her as if she were indeed already his daughter.

He well-nigh broke his truce with the O’Neill, because he would not permit the maid to visit Dunluce; for Turlogh (dreading, perhaps, the ill graces of the Captain), would not part with her from Castleroe. So Sorley Boy departed discontented, like a man robbed.

All this I heard, and more than ever chafed at the slackness of our laggard steeds. How I wished that, looking round, I might but see Ludar spurring at my side!

Alas! I saw him not. But one day, as we neared Chester, I did see a face in a troop that had joined ours on the road, that made me rub my eyes, and wonder if ghosts truly walked on earth.

If it was not Peter Stoupe, my old fellow ’prentice, it was as like him as one pea is to another. Nay, once, when, to satisfy myself, I made a pretext to ride near him, I could have sworn I heard the humming of a psalm-tune amid the clatter of the hoofs.

Our troops parted company a day after, and I was left marvelling if all this world and the next were marching towards Ireland.

Early next day I had no leisure left me to cogitate more on that; for Tom Price reined his horse in beside mine, and said:

“Humphrey, here is a message come from the Captain in hot haste, to prevent our going north, and ordering us to Dublin.”

I let my reins fall with a groan on my steed’s neck. Tom heeded it not, but continued:

“The Spaniard, it is said, has been gathering in the northern seas, and is coming down on the western Irish coast, where he counts on the papists of the country to further him. We are ordered to stay in Dublin for orders from my Lord Deputy. Why, how black you look, comrade!”

“Who would not? You know, Tom Price, why I came on this venture. I were better in London, unless our journey lead us to Castleroe.”

Tom laughed, and I could have knocked him from his horse, had he not quickly added:

“Gently, my fire-eating jack printer. I came not to tell thee only this. The Captain addeth these words: ‘Send me six trusty men here, for my affairs require such before I am free to join you. Send them forward with all speed. Do you cross leisurely to Dublin, and there await me. I am in hopes it may not be needful for me to return again thither. Send trusty men, and speedily.’ What say you, Humphrey? Art thou a trusty lad? Could I trust thee to pick out five honest fellows like thyself and show them the way to a certain pair of black eyes and rosy lips on the banks of the Bann?”

I loved Tom Price like a brother then, and told him as much. In an hour’s time I had chosen five stout fellows, all of whom I could trust with my last farthing, and whom I could count on for any service. I had them armed to the teeth, well mounted and provisioned; and then, without a moment lost, called them to horse.

“Farewell, comrade,” said Tom, as he saw me go. “I could even envy thee, though it is like to cost thee somewhat. For the Captain hath twenty men already, and hath eyes and ears in his head. Commend me to thy lass, and let her know she hath had a narrow escape of a sweetheart in Tom Price.”

“She shall thank you for your honesty, comrade, with her own sweet lips,” said I, and hallooed my men forward.

Next day we were at the sea, and embarked—horses and all—on a barque that was even then weighing anchor with other troops on board for Knockfergus.

To my surprise, among the men that crowded the deck was the fellow I had seen two days ago, who had reminded me of Peter Stoupe. When I saw him now, I knew for certain it was he.

I stood full in front of him, to see if he would know me again, for I cared not if he did. He looked at me meekly without a sign of recognition, and humming ever, passed his eyes to some other place.

“So, so, Peter,” thought I, “as you know not your old shopmate, why should I disturb your humming?”

And I carelessly asked a man who stood next him whither his company was bound and on what service.—

“Westward,” he said, “to look for Spaniards. And you?”

“To join one Captain Merriman in the north.”

It tickled me much to see Peter start and change colour at that.

“Ah, ’tis a brave gallant, I’m told,” said the man. “’Twas he slew Sorley Boy’s son, was it not?”

“Ay, a brave deed that was,” said I. “I saw it.”

The fellow laughed.

“You know him, then? Ha! ha! You can satisfy Peter here better than I can. He desireth to know the Captain’s whereabouts; and when I tell him he is no further off than the nearest pretty face, he turneth up his eyes as if he expected to see him at his own side. He! he! What say you, Peter?”

“I say, alack that such men should wear her Majesty’s colours,” said he, with a snivel.

“Amen to that,” said I, giving him a thwack on the back that made him jump. “’Tis a pity her Majesty hath not more like you, Peter. How do you call your name?”

“Stoupe,” said he, looking up at me meekly and rubbing his shoulder.

After that we went to look to our horses, and I saw little more of him that voyage; for from the moment we put out to sea he fell as sick as a dog, and lay on the floor of the ship praying Heaven to put an end to his sorrows, till we reached Knockfergus.

There I suddenly missed him, and heard he had had so sorry a time serving her Majesty thus far, that he had skulked so soon as ever the ship came to land, and made for the hills, where no doubt he meant to lie till he could go back the way he had come.

Whereat I laughed, and ordered my men to horse.

At the town gate, much to my vexation, we were met by a guard, who ordered us to report ourselves to the English governor. I had looked to get a fair start of the other troops going west. But now, so far from that, two days passed idle on my hands before I even got audience of the governor, and by that time many companies had started westward. For the panic of the Spanish invasion was very great among the English soldiery at Knockfergus; and every man that could be had was being hurried across the country.

When I saw the governor and told him my orders, he said, shortly: “Captain Merriman has already had orders to go forward to Tyrone’s land, and will have left Castleroe before now. You will join him sooner by sea than by land. Be ready to sail three days hence. Till then, leave not the town, but abide at the hostel for further orders.”

This was a thunderbolt to me. I knew the Captain well enough to be sure that, if he had indeed left Castleroe, he had either not left it alone or had left worse than desolation behind him. He was too well-known to his comrades in these parts to leave much doubt of that; and when that same night I heard by chance that Turlogh for a month past had been away in Dublin, leaving the protection of his castle to this English champion of his, I made sure, what I had feared all along, that I was come too late.

One thing I was resolved on. Come what would, I would make for Castleroe and learn the worst for myself. ’Twould be better even to be hanged for a deserter than live a day longer in this misery and suspense.

So I bade my men, if they were minded still to serve me, be ready and stand by for the first chance of escape.

It came soon enough. Bands of soldiers were coming in and going out of Knockfergus all the night long; and while we sat in the hostelry and watched them depart with longing eyes, like prisoners through a dungeon cage, I suddenly found myself calling myself a fool and starting to my feet.

“Follow me,” I cried to my men, and led them to where our horses stood, still saddled, in the stable.

“Mount,” I said, “and stay under the shadow of this wall, till you see me ride out. Then fall in quietly at my heels.”

Presently, as we stood there, came a noise of trumpets and a clatter of hoofs down the steep street. As they passed, we could see by the torches of those that marched beside them that this was a great company of foot and horse, dragging a gun or two with them. ’Twas more of a rabble than a troop; for the horses, frightened by the glare of the torches and the shouts of the footmen, reared and plunged, and scattered the townsfolk who had turned out to see them pass, right and left.

As they passed the corner where we lurked, some of the horses plunged in among us, and in the darkness all was confusion for a moment.

Then I quietly rode in among them with my five men at my heels, and so, unseen and unheeded, we joined the troop and passed the gate in safety into the black country beyond.

Once outside, ’twas easy enough to get clear. I bade my men lag behind all they could; till at last we must have dropped fifty yards or so, where, in the darkness, we were quite lost to view. Then I gave the order to gallop; and overtaking the company, as in hot haste, I rode up to the officer and saluted.

“A good journey to you, Captain,” said I. “’Twill be slower than ours, for the troop we are to join is already beyond the Bann, and we ride post-haste to overtake it.”

“You are of Merriman’s troop then?” said the officer.

“That are we. Good-night to you, Captain. Lay to, my men, and spurs all!” And so we rode forward.

Chapter Twenty Nine.How Captain Merriman came and went betwixt me and the Light.Our speed did not last long; for very soon the hard road turned off to the coast, whereas I, being chary, even of minutes, resolved to strike inland and make direct for the Bann.I was a fool for my pains, as I presently found; for we were soon crawling and floundering among thickets and morasses like blind men.Add to that that the weather grew boisterous and stormy, that our provisions were sunk very low, that now and again we were set upon by the clansmen of the Glynns, who, for all the truce, hated England with all their hearts, and you may guess if we made quick progress.At length we captured a countryman, who, to save his neck, offered to guide us out into the Route country, where Castleroe was. But ten precious days had been lost us in that journey; during which, who was to say what evil might not be befalling those two helpless maids?’Twas a dark evening when at last we swam the river and rode to the gate of Turlogh’s house. Well I remembered the place!Lights were moving in the courtyard. There was a noise of horses standing, and of men calling to one another. Even the sentry at the gate was not at his post to challenge us, and we rode in almost unobserved.“Where is your Captain?” demanded I, dismounting, and addressing a fellow who stood busily harnessing his horse.He looked round, and, seeing a stranger, dropped his saddle and shouted:“Here they be at last! Tell the Captain.”Presently, as I waited, scarcely knowing what to make of it, Captain Merriman himself came up. And at sight of him ’twas all I could do to hold my hand from my sword.He ordered lights to be fetched, and when they came said:“So you are here at last, sirrah? By my soul, I know not what Tom Price calls nimble men; but I could have walked as far on foot in the time. Come, who is your leader? Let me see your papers.”I stood forth and handed him Tom’s letter, whereby the Captain was to know we were the good men and true he was in need of. He eyed me keenly, and said:“Had you come an hour later, you would have had a longer ride still, for we are even now setting out westward. Nevertheless, laggards as you be, you are come in good time. Harkee, you,” said he, beckoning me aside, “a word in your ear.”I was ready to make an end of the villain then and there; for I smelt falsehood and devilry in every word he spoke. But I waited to let him say his say out first. There was little fear in the dark night, and the unsteady flare of the torches, of his guessing to whom he spoke.“I require you and your men to stay here,” said he, “to guard this place. Tom Price tells me you are a trusty fellow, that understands his business and asks no questions, which is well. In this house are two fair maidens, who, when we leave, will have no other protector but you and your men. Now then, I bid you, guard them close. Let no one in to them, and see they go not out. They are my captives, and but for this cursed war I should not be leaving the charge of them thus to a stranger. Hold no talk with them, and, if they be riotous, lock them fast in their chambers. So soon as I have shown myself to the Deputy Lord I shall return; or I may send you word to bring the maids to me. Remember, hands-off; and if you serve me well in this, I may, perchance—for they are both fair—”“Enough!” exclaimed I through my teeth, and digging my fingers into the palms of my hands till the blood came.“I understand you, Captain. Depend on me.”“Thanks, good fellow,” said he, not heeding my troubled voice. “We shall meet again soon. And, by the way, see specially that a certain hare-brained poetic fool and a swaggering bully, his companion, come not near the place. If you catch them, you will do well to hang them on the gate. Heaven knows they have marred sport enough! And now, farewell. Your hand on this.”I gave him such a grip that he well-nigh danced with pain, and let him go.I was in a state of wild tumult. Within those very walls, then, unconscious of all that came and went, lay the two sweet maids, for whose sake I have travelled thus far from London. And this fool of a villain was even now leaving me to guard them, while he, deferring his crime for a more convenient season, went to show himself to my Lord Deputy! ’Twas more like a dream of good fortune than real fact; and I dreaded every moment to find myself awake with all my hopes vanished.But no. The Captain and his men went to horse, and presently the order was given to march out.“Farewell,” cried he to me as he rode forth; “be trusty and vigilant. Draw up the gate after we be gone, for there be rogues in plenty about. We shall meet again. Meanwhile, when you see my angel, tell her I left in tears, breathing her name. Ha! ha!”And he spurred off gaily.I stood stock-still, I know not how long, till the sound of the hoofs had clattered away into silence, and the voices were lost in the gentle moaning of the night-wind among the trees. Then I turned and glanced up at the house. All was dark; not a light flickered, nor was there aught to show behind which of these windows slumbered my sweet Jeannette or her fair mistress.“Sleep on for to-night, dear hearts,” said I. “To-morrow by this time ye shall be safe for ever from the talons of yon cursed hawk.”Then, bidding my men draw up the gate and dispose themselves for the night, I took up my post by the door, and waited patiently for the morning.My men were soon snoring, for we had travelled hard and long. But sleep was never further from my eyes. As I sat there, listening to the rising wind in the trees, and the rush of the river below, with now and again the wail of a sea-bird crying out seaward, I grew to hate the darkness. Despite the fair innocents who slumbered within and the sturdy rogues who slept without, the loneliness of the place took hold upon me, and made me uneasy and anxious. Once I thought I heard returning footsteps without, and rushed to the gate. But it was only a creaking of the trees. Another time I seemed to hear a calling from within, and sprang wildly to the door. But it was only a hoot-owl. And when the leaves tapped on the window above, I looked up expecting a face to appear there. And when a horse in the stable whinnied, I imagined it the mocking laughter of a troop of traitors left behind to rob me of my trust.At length I grew so restless and weary of waiting, that I determined to delay no longer, but enter the house.As I stood a moment at the door, hesitating, the wind suddenly dropped, and there fell a silence on the place which made me shudder, and tempted me after all to await the dawn. But, with a mighty effort, I gathered up my courage, and, laughing at my qualms, pushed the door.It was not even shut to, so that, giving way unexpectedly under my hand, I stumbled heavily into the hall. As I did so, I struck my face against something icy cold.In the darkness I could see nothing; but I felt the thing swing away from my touch; and before I could step back, or put out my hand, it returned and struck me once more, harder than before. I clutched at it wildly; then, with a gasp of horror, flung it from me, and rushed, shouting to my men, into the open air.For what had touched my face was the hand of a dead man!It seemed an age before, amongst us all, we could strike light enough to kindle a torch. Then, shuddering in every limb, I returned to the house.There, just within the open door, from a beam in the hall roof, hung a corpse, still swinging slowly to and fro. And when I held up the torch to look at his face, there leered down upon me the eyes of my old fellow ’prentice Peter Stoupe! At the sight the torch fell from my hands, and I reeled back into my comrade’s arms, stark and cold, well-nigh as the corpse itself. Then there came upon me, with a rush, an inkling of what all this meant. I seized the light again, and dashed past the hall and up the staircase. Every room was still and empty as death. We searched every nook and corner, and called aloud, till the place rang with our shouts. The only occupant of Turlogh Luinech O’Neill’s house was that lonely corpse swinging in the hall.Now all the truth dawned upon me, as if I had read it in a book. Peter, little as I dreamed it, had both known me and guessed my errand. He had overheard enough to know where the Captain was, and how he might revenge himself on me. He had contrived to slip away at Knockfergus, and, being better guided than we, had reached Castleroe in time to warn the villain of my coming. Whether he lent his hand to the carrying off of the two maids, ’twas hard to say. But it seemed plain that, at the first warning, they had been carried off, and that the Captain that night had ridden away, not to leave them behind, but to make good his possession of them elsewhere. Why Peter should be left hanging thus, ’twas not hard to guess. He never played straight even in villainy, and doubtless had given the Captain reason to desire the shortest way to be rid of him. As for me, thanks to Peter, the villain had known me through my disguise, and, God knows! he had had his revenge on me this night.While I speculated thus, I wandered to and fro in the house like a man distraught, till presently my footsteps brought me back to a little chamber at the end of the long passage into which I had scarce dared peep before. The dawn had already begun to chase the night away, and was flooding the room with a flush of light that suited its sacredness better than my flaring torch. So I left that without and entered in the twilight.All was in the sweet confusion of a chamber whose owner expects to return to it anon. The bed had not been disturbed since it was last settled. Raiment lay scattered here and there. On the table lay a book open, and beside it a jewel. What moved me most was a little scarf which lay for a coverlet over the pillow on the bed. For it was the self-same scarf I had once seen Ludar fasten round the maiden’s neck that night she took the helm beside him on board theMiséricorde.I durst touch nothing I saw, yet that single glance roused fires within me which, if it be a sin to hate one’s enemy, will assuredly stand to my hurt in the day of reckoning. Yet how could mortal man stand thus and not be stirred?I passed on softly into the tiny chamber beyond.There the air was fragrant with the scent of a sprig of honeysuckle that lay yet unwithered in the window. On the floor lay scattered a few papers, written in a notable poetic hand, and addressed—as I could not but read—“To one who bade the poet give o’er his singing,” or “To the fair moon, handmaiden to the glorious sun,” or in such wise. On a chair was another paper half written, and beside it a pen: “Humphrey,” it said, in Jeannette’s loved hand—“Humphrey, come over and help—” Here the pen had hastily ceased its work.This mute appeal, lying thus to greet me, roused the whole man in every pulse of my body. I seized the dear paper in my hands and kissed it, and then, placing both it and the maiden’s scarf in my bosom, I dashed from the room with drawn sword and called my men to horse.“To horse!” I cried, “and ride as you never rode before, men; for I vow to heaven I will not quit this saddle till I find the foul dog who has robbed me of my dearest jewel.”They obeyed quickly and cheerily, for the horror of that night had given them enough and to spare of Castleroe.A mile through the forest road was a woodman’s hut whose master looked out curiously to see us pass. It seemed to me worth while, being the first man we had met, to question him. So I ordered a halt.“You are an O’Neill?” said I.“Who told you so?” growled he in Irish; and I guessed from the look of him that he was the man I wanted.I signalled to two of my men to dismount and seize him.“Now,” said I, fumbling my pistol, “time presses. Tell me which way the O’Neill has gone.”“How do I know?” said he.I cocked my pistol and laid it across my saddle.“He went to Dublin, a month since,” said the fellow, quickly.“And the English Captain?”He growled a curse, and said:“He passed here last night for Tyrone’s country.”“And the Lady Rose O’Neill and her maid. Who carried them off, and when?”He paused and looked doggedly at me.I raised my pistol and laid it at his head.“Two days since they rode hence under escort of three of the Captain’s men.”“And whither went they?”“The Captain knows. Follow him and you shall find them.”“Look you here,” said I, “if what you say be true, you shall have your life. If not—”“I’m no liar,” said he, “and I curse the English.”“Then,” said I, “help me and my men to save your chief’s daughter, and slay yonder Captain.”He pricked up his ears at that.“’Tis too late, I doubt,” said he. “The villain works quickly. ’Twere better to find the maids dead. It took him not many hours to rob this house of all its light.”“’Tis not too late so long as a breath is in this body,” said I. “Come, take us to him, as you are a loyal clansman.”“I know no more than I have told you,” answered he. “He is gone to Tyrone’s country, and the maids have been carried thither before him. I will guide you so far.”Without more words he came, springing at our sides over the heather and along the mountain paths at a pace that put our nags to shame. ’Twas easy to follow the tracks of the soldiers on the wet ground; and once, towards evening, as we mounted a tall ridge, I fancied I could descry on the crest opposite some figures that moved.At our first halting-place, where we paused but to give our horses and ourselves a hasty meal, we heard that about mid-day certain English soldiers had passed the place at full gallop. And two days back, as night fell, some travellers, amongst whom rode two women, had likewise hurried by, westward.With news such as this we could scarce afford our weary horses the rest they needed, before we set forth again. Our guide led us down a steep track into the valley, and then, striking straight across, we toiled up the mountain path which ascended the high ridge opposite.He checked our pace as we neared the top, advising us to await daylight for the descent.When at length at our backs rose the glorious sun over the eastern hills, flashing his light past us into the valley below, we saw, stretched out, a great plain like a map, through which the windings of a river sparkled; while, beyond, rose another ridge of hills higher still than that on which we stood.Our guide beckoned us to a place whence we could look-out without being exposed to the view of any one in the valley. For awhile we searched the plain in vain. Only a few herds drove their cattle afield; and now and then the sharp bark of a dog broke the stillness. At length, on the slope of the hill opposite, we saw a flock of sheep break suddenly into panic flight; and there appeared, crawling up the ascent, a body of horsemen, who, by the occasional glancing of the sun upon steel, we knew to be soldiers.Whether they were the troops we sought, and whether amongst them they carried the captive maidens, ’twas too far to determine. But at sight of them we plunged with new hope towards the valley.Half-way down, in a wood, we found a wounded trooper prone on the ground and gasping for breath; while beside him grazed his horse. He was bleeding from his side, and too faint to turn his head as we came up.Our guide started as he saw him, and whispered:“This is one of Merriman’s men.”I knelt beside him and tried, in my clumsy way, to bind his wound, and help him back to life. But ’twas plain we were all too late for that. He lay gasping in my arms, his eyes, already glazed, looking vacantly skyward, and his arms feebly tossing in his battle for breath. Twas no time for questions. I ventured but one:“Where is O’Neill’s daughter?” I asked in his ear.He turned his head and stopped his panting for a moment.“I could not save her,” he gasped; “Merrim—” and here he fell back in my arms a dead man.We covered him hastily with the fallen leaves, and, taking his horse for our guide’s use, spurred grimly on.There was no doubt now. The villain’s plot had succeeded only too well, and the fair innocents were already delivered over to his clutches.At a little cluster of houses in the valley we halted a moment longer.“Has a troop passed this way?” asked our guide of a cow-herd.“Surely,” said he, “they will scarce be over the hill by now.”“Carried they two women in their company?”He laughed and said no.“Have not two women been carried this way lately?”“I’ll be hanged if there was a sign of a woman,” said he.We looked blank at one another. The fellow seemed to speak true. Yet his story agreed not with that of the dying man.There was naught but to spur on, and by all means come level with the villain, wherever he was.As we commenced the steep ascent, we could discern the moving figures of horsemen on the skyline above—as it seemed to us, in two bands, one of which suddenly disappeared on the other side, while the other, numbering some half-dozen men, made southward along the ridge. As we came higher we saw these last still there, moving hurriedly to and fro, as though seeking what they found not. It could hardly be us they looked for, for their faces were set southward, nor was it till we came within a mile of where they stood that they turned and suddenly perceived us. Then they too vanished below the skyline and we lost them.By the time we reached the ridge top, the first party was clattering far down the plain, raising a cloud of dust at their heels, and, as it seemed, pushing on with all speed to their journey’s end.Of the other party for a while we saw nothing, till presently our guide pointed to them as they stole from out a wood below us and suddenly broke into a canter in a southward direction.It seemed to us their desire was, by doubling on their track, to regain once more the ridge on which we had first discovered them. Whereupon, smelling mischief, I called to my men, and, turning after them, gave chase.’Twas a fool’s errand! For, whatever their purpose had been, they abandoned it, and half-an-hour later we spied them striking westward once more, as in haste to overtake their fellows. So near upon them were we by this time, that not only could we count their number, which was seven, but could spy the feather on their leader’s hat, by which I knew for certain that this was indeed the man I sought. For an hour and more we followed close on his heels, sighting him now, missing him now, and neither nearer nor further for all our riding.At last, towards afternoon, when, after swimming a strong river and skirting a town, we already stood, as our guide told us, in Tyrone’s country, we could see the party suddenly halt and hold a hurried parley. The result was that while the leader rode on, his six men stood, and, spreading themselves across the road, waited for us. ’Twas a spot not ill chosen for standing at bay. For, on either side of the steep track, the land fell away in desolate bog, on which we scarce dare venture; so that there was nought to do but either fall back ourselves or come face to face with those who stood in the way.“Men,” said I, “for me there is but one goal, and that is yonder flying villain. I keep my sword for him. Look you well to the others. They must not hinder me.”And before the lurkers had time to prepare for our coming, we charged in upon them full tilt, and I, slashing right and left, cut my way to the far side, while those who followed me held them there in hand-to-hand fight.How that battle betwixt Englishmen and Englishmen sped I know not, for before it was at an end I was a mile on the road, with my prey little farther beyond. Yet, to my woe, I perceived him to be better mounted than I, and better acquainted with the roads. So that every hour the distance betwixt us widened, till at last, when night fell, I could see him disappear, with a defiant wave of his hand, over a hill well-nigh a league ahead.I know not how my wearied horse ever carried me that night; but when at sunrise I staggered into the yard of a wayside farm, he sunk dead-beat beneath me. Therefore my vaunted boast not to quit my saddle till I had met my man went the way of other boasts, and came to the ground too.The lad who came out of the barn to meet me told me that an hour since a soldier had gone through at a hand’s pace bound for the coast, where already, it was said, the Spaniard had landed and was devouring the land like locusts. Of women, either to-day or for many a day, he had seen or heard nothing.My faithful beast was too feeble, even after a halt, to carry me farther, and I had perforce to proceed on foot. My one hope was that ere long the Captain might find himself in a like plight. But that was not to be for many an hour yet.Towards night the wind, which had been blowing in gusts over the hill-tops and along the valleys, gathered into a gale; and in it I could hear the distant boom of surf on an iron-bound coast. Ever and again I met country folk hurrying inland, with now and then a soldier in their company. And once, as I passed a lonely moor, there slunk past me a fellow who by his swarthy face and black flashing eyes I knew to be a Spaniard.As hour passed hour through the night the storm raged fiercer, till presently I could scarce make head against it and sank for an hour on the turf, praying only that this weariness might befall mine enemy also.When at dawn I struggled to the hill-top and looked out, I dreaded to find him vanished. But no. My prayer must surely have been answered, for he staggered on scarce a mile ahead of me down towards the valley.Twas a narrow valley, with a swampy tract below, and rising again sharply to the hill opposite. Half-way along that hill, through a narrow gap, I, standing on higher ground, could catch a glimpse of the grey ocean beyond, sending its white horses in on the land, and moaning with a cry that mingled dismally with the rush of the wind. Surely our long journey was near its end now.Looking again towards the gap, I perceived—what my enemy below must have missed—the form of a man who stood there, motionless, clear cut against the sky, with his back on us as he gazed seaward. He was too far off for me to see if he were a soldier or only a peasant. Yet I remember marking that he was great of stature; and as he stood there, with his hair floating in the wind, he seemed some image of a giant god set there to stand sentinel and brood over the wild landscape.Then, as the sun broke out from behind the sweeping clouds, it flashed on a sword in his hand, and I concluded this must be an English soldier placed there to keep the road inland against the invading Spaniard.’Twas a fine post of defence, verily; for, looking round, I perceived that the hills on every hand seemed to close in and stand like the walls of a basin, with no outlet save the crest on which I stood on the one hand, and a gap where he stood on the other; while betwixt us stretched the moist plain, across which the Captain was even now spurring.So intent had I been on the solitary sentinel, and the strange form of this wild hollow, that I had forgot for a moment my quest. But I remembered it as the sun suddenly fell on the form of my enemy labouring heavily through the swamp below.A sudden fierceness seized me as I flung myself forward in pursuit; I shouted to him with all my might to stand and face me where he stood.I can remember seeing the form of the soldier in the gap turn quickly and look my way. Next moment there rose, below me, a yell; and I stood where I was, like a man petrified.For the Captain, having spurred his jaded steed some way into the bog, reined up suddenly, and tried to turn back. The horse’s legs were already sunk to the knees, and in his struggle to get clear plunged yet a yard or two farther towards the middle. Then he sank miserably on his side, throwing his rider to the ground. The man, with a wild effort, managed to fling himself on the flank of the fast sinking beast; but ’twas a short-lived support. With a yell that rings in my ears as I write, he struggled again to his feet and tried to run. But the bog held him and pulled him down inch by inch—so quickly that, before I could understand what was passing, he was struggling waist-deep like a man swimming for his life. Next moment I saw his hands cast wildly upwards. After that, the bog lay mirky and silent, with no record of the dead man that lay in its grip.Before I could fling off the awful spell that held me and rush to the place, the man on the other side of the valley had uttered a cry and dashed in the same direction.And, as we stood thus, parted by the fathomless depth of the dead man’s grave, we looked up and knew one another.For this was Ludar.

Our speed did not last long; for very soon the hard road turned off to the coast, whereas I, being chary, even of minutes, resolved to strike inland and make direct for the Bann.

I was a fool for my pains, as I presently found; for we were soon crawling and floundering among thickets and morasses like blind men.

Add to that that the weather grew boisterous and stormy, that our provisions were sunk very low, that now and again we were set upon by the clansmen of the Glynns, who, for all the truce, hated England with all their hearts, and you may guess if we made quick progress.

At length we captured a countryman, who, to save his neck, offered to guide us out into the Route country, where Castleroe was. But ten precious days had been lost us in that journey; during which, who was to say what evil might not be befalling those two helpless maids?

’Twas a dark evening when at last we swam the river and rode to the gate of Turlogh’s house. Well I remembered the place!

Lights were moving in the courtyard. There was a noise of horses standing, and of men calling to one another. Even the sentry at the gate was not at his post to challenge us, and we rode in almost unobserved.

“Where is your Captain?” demanded I, dismounting, and addressing a fellow who stood busily harnessing his horse.

He looked round, and, seeing a stranger, dropped his saddle and shouted:

“Here they be at last! Tell the Captain.”

Presently, as I waited, scarcely knowing what to make of it, Captain Merriman himself came up. And at sight of him ’twas all I could do to hold my hand from my sword.

He ordered lights to be fetched, and when they came said:

“So you are here at last, sirrah? By my soul, I know not what Tom Price calls nimble men; but I could have walked as far on foot in the time. Come, who is your leader? Let me see your papers.”

I stood forth and handed him Tom’s letter, whereby the Captain was to know we were the good men and true he was in need of. He eyed me keenly, and said:

“Had you come an hour later, you would have had a longer ride still, for we are even now setting out westward. Nevertheless, laggards as you be, you are come in good time. Harkee, you,” said he, beckoning me aside, “a word in your ear.”

I was ready to make an end of the villain then and there; for I smelt falsehood and devilry in every word he spoke. But I waited to let him say his say out first. There was little fear in the dark night, and the unsteady flare of the torches, of his guessing to whom he spoke.

“I require you and your men to stay here,” said he, “to guard this place. Tom Price tells me you are a trusty fellow, that understands his business and asks no questions, which is well. In this house are two fair maidens, who, when we leave, will have no other protector but you and your men. Now then, I bid you, guard them close. Let no one in to them, and see they go not out. They are my captives, and but for this cursed war I should not be leaving the charge of them thus to a stranger. Hold no talk with them, and, if they be riotous, lock them fast in their chambers. So soon as I have shown myself to the Deputy Lord I shall return; or I may send you word to bring the maids to me. Remember, hands-off; and if you serve me well in this, I may, perchance—for they are both fair—”

“Enough!” exclaimed I through my teeth, and digging my fingers into the palms of my hands till the blood came.

“I understand you, Captain. Depend on me.”

“Thanks, good fellow,” said he, not heeding my troubled voice. “We shall meet again soon. And, by the way, see specially that a certain hare-brained poetic fool and a swaggering bully, his companion, come not near the place. If you catch them, you will do well to hang them on the gate. Heaven knows they have marred sport enough! And now, farewell. Your hand on this.”

I gave him such a grip that he well-nigh danced with pain, and let him go.

I was in a state of wild tumult. Within those very walls, then, unconscious of all that came and went, lay the two sweet maids, for whose sake I have travelled thus far from London. And this fool of a villain was even now leaving me to guard them, while he, deferring his crime for a more convenient season, went to show himself to my Lord Deputy! ’Twas more like a dream of good fortune than real fact; and I dreaded every moment to find myself awake with all my hopes vanished.

But no. The Captain and his men went to horse, and presently the order was given to march out.

“Farewell,” cried he to me as he rode forth; “be trusty and vigilant. Draw up the gate after we be gone, for there be rogues in plenty about. We shall meet again. Meanwhile, when you see my angel, tell her I left in tears, breathing her name. Ha! ha!”

And he spurred off gaily.

I stood stock-still, I know not how long, till the sound of the hoofs had clattered away into silence, and the voices were lost in the gentle moaning of the night-wind among the trees. Then I turned and glanced up at the house. All was dark; not a light flickered, nor was there aught to show behind which of these windows slumbered my sweet Jeannette or her fair mistress.

“Sleep on for to-night, dear hearts,” said I. “To-morrow by this time ye shall be safe for ever from the talons of yon cursed hawk.”

Then, bidding my men draw up the gate and dispose themselves for the night, I took up my post by the door, and waited patiently for the morning.

My men were soon snoring, for we had travelled hard and long. But sleep was never further from my eyes. As I sat there, listening to the rising wind in the trees, and the rush of the river below, with now and again the wail of a sea-bird crying out seaward, I grew to hate the darkness. Despite the fair innocents who slumbered within and the sturdy rogues who slept without, the loneliness of the place took hold upon me, and made me uneasy and anxious. Once I thought I heard returning footsteps without, and rushed to the gate. But it was only a creaking of the trees. Another time I seemed to hear a calling from within, and sprang wildly to the door. But it was only a hoot-owl. And when the leaves tapped on the window above, I looked up expecting a face to appear there. And when a horse in the stable whinnied, I imagined it the mocking laughter of a troop of traitors left behind to rob me of my trust.

At length I grew so restless and weary of waiting, that I determined to delay no longer, but enter the house.

As I stood a moment at the door, hesitating, the wind suddenly dropped, and there fell a silence on the place which made me shudder, and tempted me after all to await the dawn. But, with a mighty effort, I gathered up my courage, and, laughing at my qualms, pushed the door.

It was not even shut to, so that, giving way unexpectedly under my hand, I stumbled heavily into the hall. As I did so, I struck my face against something icy cold.

In the darkness I could see nothing; but I felt the thing swing away from my touch; and before I could step back, or put out my hand, it returned and struck me once more, harder than before. I clutched at it wildly; then, with a gasp of horror, flung it from me, and rushed, shouting to my men, into the open air.

For what had touched my face was the hand of a dead man!

It seemed an age before, amongst us all, we could strike light enough to kindle a torch. Then, shuddering in every limb, I returned to the house.

There, just within the open door, from a beam in the hall roof, hung a corpse, still swinging slowly to and fro. And when I held up the torch to look at his face, there leered down upon me the eyes of my old fellow ’prentice Peter Stoupe! At the sight the torch fell from my hands, and I reeled back into my comrade’s arms, stark and cold, well-nigh as the corpse itself. Then there came upon me, with a rush, an inkling of what all this meant. I seized the light again, and dashed past the hall and up the staircase. Every room was still and empty as death. We searched every nook and corner, and called aloud, till the place rang with our shouts. The only occupant of Turlogh Luinech O’Neill’s house was that lonely corpse swinging in the hall.

Now all the truth dawned upon me, as if I had read it in a book. Peter, little as I dreamed it, had both known me and guessed my errand. He had overheard enough to know where the Captain was, and how he might revenge himself on me. He had contrived to slip away at Knockfergus, and, being better guided than we, had reached Castleroe in time to warn the villain of my coming. Whether he lent his hand to the carrying off of the two maids, ’twas hard to say. But it seemed plain that, at the first warning, they had been carried off, and that the Captain that night had ridden away, not to leave them behind, but to make good his possession of them elsewhere. Why Peter should be left hanging thus, ’twas not hard to guess. He never played straight even in villainy, and doubtless had given the Captain reason to desire the shortest way to be rid of him. As for me, thanks to Peter, the villain had known me through my disguise, and, God knows! he had had his revenge on me this night.

While I speculated thus, I wandered to and fro in the house like a man distraught, till presently my footsteps brought me back to a little chamber at the end of the long passage into which I had scarce dared peep before. The dawn had already begun to chase the night away, and was flooding the room with a flush of light that suited its sacredness better than my flaring torch. So I left that without and entered in the twilight.

All was in the sweet confusion of a chamber whose owner expects to return to it anon. The bed had not been disturbed since it was last settled. Raiment lay scattered here and there. On the table lay a book open, and beside it a jewel. What moved me most was a little scarf which lay for a coverlet over the pillow on the bed. For it was the self-same scarf I had once seen Ludar fasten round the maiden’s neck that night she took the helm beside him on board theMiséricorde.

I durst touch nothing I saw, yet that single glance roused fires within me which, if it be a sin to hate one’s enemy, will assuredly stand to my hurt in the day of reckoning. Yet how could mortal man stand thus and not be stirred?

I passed on softly into the tiny chamber beyond.

There the air was fragrant with the scent of a sprig of honeysuckle that lay yet unwithered in the window. On the floor lay scattered a few papers, written in a notable poetic hand, and addressed—as I could not but read—“To one who bade the poet give o’er his singing,” or “To the fair moon, handmaiden to the glorious sun,” or in such wise. On a chair was another paper half written, and beside it a pen: “Humphrey,” it said, in Jeannette’s loved hand—“Humphrey, come over and help—” Here the pen had hastily ceased its work.

This mute appeal, lying thus to greet me, roused the whole man in every pulse of my body. I seized the dear paper in my hands and kissed it, and then, placing both it and the maiden’s scarf in my bosom, I dashed from the room with drawn sword and called my men to horse.

“To horse!” I cried, “and ride as you never rode before, men; for I vow to heaven I will not quit this saddle till I find the foul dog who has robbed me of my dearest jewel.”

They obeyed quickly and cheerily, for the horror of that night had given them enough and to spare of Castleroe.

A mile through the forest road was a woodman’s hut whose master looked out curiously to see us pass. It seemed to me worth while, being the first man we had met, to question him. So I ordered a halt.

“You are an O’Neill?” said I.

“Who told you so?” growled he in Irish; and I guessed from the look of him that he was the man I wanted.

I signalled to two of my men to dismount and seize him.

“Now,” said I, fumbling my pistol, “time presses. Tell me which way the O’Neill has gone.”

“How do I know?” said he.

I cocked my pistol and laid it across my saddle.

“He went to Dublin, a month since,” said the fellow, quickly.

“And the English Captain?”

He growled a curse, and said:

“He passed here last night for Tyrone’s country.”

“And the Lady Rose O’Neill and her maid. Who carried them off, and when?”

He paused and looked doggedly at me.

I raised my pistol and laid it at his head.

“Two days since they rode hence under escort of three of the Captain’s men.”

“And whither went they?”

“The Captain knows. Follow him and you shall find them.”

“Look you here,” said I, “if what you say be true, you shall have your life. If not—”

“I’m no liar,” said he, “and I curse the English.”

“Then,” said I, “help me and my men to save your chief’s daughter, and slay yonder Captain.”

He pricked up his ears at that.

“’Tis too late, I doubt,” said he. “The villain works quickly. ’Twere better to find the maids dead. It took him not many hours to rob this house of all its light.”

“’Tis not too late so long as a breath is in this body,” said I. “Come, take us to him, as you are a loyal clansman.”

“I know no more than I have told you,” answered he. “He is gone to Tyrone’s country, and the maids have been carried thither before him. I will guide you so far.”

Without more words he came, springing at our sides over the heather and along the mountain paths at a pace that put our nags to shame. ’Twas easy to follow the tracks of the soldiers on the wet ground; and once, towards evening, as we mounted a tall ridge, I fancied I could descry on the crest opposite some figures that moved.

At our first halting-place, where we paused but to give our horses and ourselves a hasty meal, we heard that about mid-day certain English soldiers had passed the place at full gallop. And two days back, as night fell, some travellers, amongst whom rode two women, had likewise hurried by, westward.

With news such as this we could scarce afford our weary horses the rest they needed, before we set forth again. Our guide led us down a steep track into the valley, and then, striking straight across, we toiled up the mountain path which ascended the high ridge opposite.

He checked our pace as we neared the top, advising us to await daylight for the descent.

When at length at our backs rose the glorious sun over the eastern hills, flashing his light past us into the valley below, we saw, stretched out, a great plain like a map, through which the windings of a river sparkled; while, beyond, rose another ridge of hills higher still than that on which we stood.

Our guide beckoned us to a place whence we could look-out without being exposed to the view of any one in the valley. For awhile we searched the plain in vain. Only a few herds drove their cattle afield; and now and then the sharp bark of a dog broke the stillness. At length, on the slope of the hill opposite, we saw a flock of sheep break suddenly into panic flight; and there appeared, crawling up the ascent, a body of horsemen, who, by the occasional glancing of the sun upon steel, we knew to be soldiers.

Whether they were the troops we sought, and whether amongst them they carried the captive maidens, ’twas too far to determine. But at sight of them we plunged with new hope towards the valley.

Half-way down, in a wood, we found a wounded trooper prone on the ground and gasping for breath; while beside him grazed his horse. He was bleeding from his side, and too faint to turn his head as we came up.

Our guide started as he saw him, and whispered:

“This is one of Merriman’s men.”

I knelt beside him and tried, in my clumsy way, to bind his wound, and help him back to life. But ’twas plain we were all too late for that. He lay gasping in my arms, his eyes, already glazed, looking vacantly skyward, and his arms feebly tossing in his battle for breath. Twas no time for questions. I ventured but one:

“Where is O’Neill’s daughter?” I asked in his ear.

He turned his head and stopped his panting for a moment.

“I could not save her,” he gasped; “Merrim—” and here he fell back in my arms a dead man.

We covered him hastily with the fallen leaves, and, taking his horse for our guide’s use, spurred grimly on.

There was no doubt now. The villain’s plot had succeeded only too well, and the fair innocents were already delivered over to his clutches.

At a little cluster of houses in the valley we halted a moment longer.

“Has a troop passed this way?” asked our guide of a cow-herd.

“Surely,” said he, “they will scarce be over the hill by now.”

“Carried they two women in their company?”

He laughed and said no.

“Have not two women been carried this way lately?”

“I’ll be hanged if there was a sign of a woman,” said he.

We looked blank at one another. The fellow seemed to speak true. Yet his story agreed not with that of the dying man.

There was naught but to spur on, and by all means come level with the villain, wherever he was.

As we commenced the steep ascent, we could discern the moving figures of horsemen on the skyline above—as it seemed to us, in two bands, one of which suddenly disappeared on the other side, while the other, numbering some half-dozen men, made southward along the ridge. As we came higher we saw these last still there, moving hurriedly to and fro, as though seeking what they found not. It could hardly be us they looked for, for their faces were set southward, nor was it till we came within a mile of where they stood that they turned and suddenly perceived us. Then they too vanished below the skyline and we lost them.

By the time we reached the ridge top, the first party was clattering far down the plain, raising a cloud of dust at their heels, and, as it seemed, pushing on with all speed to their journey’s end.

Of the other party for a while we saw nothing, till presently our guide pointed to them as they stole from out a wood below us and suddenly broke into a canter in a southward direction.

It seemed to us their desire was, by doubling on their track, to regain once more the ridge on which we had first discovered them. Whereupon, smelling mischief, I called to my men, and, turning after them, gave chase.

’Twas a fool’s errand! For, whatever their purpose had been, they abandoned it, and half-an-hour later we spied them striking westward once more, as in haste to overtake their fellows. So near upon them were we by this time, that not only could we count their number, which was seven, but could spy the feather on their leader’s hat, by which I knew for certain that this was indeed the man I sought. For an hour and more we followed close on his heels, sighting him now, missing him now, and neither nearer nor further for all our riding.

At last, towards afternoon, when, after swimming a strong river and skirting a town, we already stood, as our guide told us, in Tyrone’s country, we could see the party suddenly halt and hold a hurried parley. The result was that while the leader rode on, his six men stood, and, spreading themselves across the road, waited for us. ’Twas a spot not ill chosen for standing at bay. For, on either side of the steep track, the land fell away in desolate bog, on which we scarce dare venture; so that there was nought to do but either fall back ourselves or come face to face with those who stood in the way.

“Men,” said I, “for me there is but one goal, and that is yonder flying villain. I keep my sword for him. Look you well to the others. They must not hinder me.”

And before the lurkers had time to prepare for our coming, we charged in upon them full tilt, and I, slashing right and left, cut my way to the far side, while those who followed me held them there in hand-to-hand fight.

How that battle betwixt Englishmen and Englishmen sped I know not, for before it was at an end I was a mile on the road, with my prey little farther beyond. Yet, to my woe, I perceived him to be better mounted than I, and better acquainted with the roads. So that every hour the distance betwixt us widened, till at last, when night fell, I could see him disappear, with a defiant wave of his hand, over a hill well-nigh a league ahead.

I know not how my wearied horse ever carried me that night; but when at sunrise I staggered into the yard of a wayside farm, he sunk dead-beat beneath me. Therefore my vaunted boast not to quit my saddle till I had met my man went the way of other boasts, and came to the ground too.

The lad who came out of the barn to meet me told me that an hour since a soldier had gone through at a hand’s pace bound for the coast, where already, it was said, the Spaniard had landed and was devouring the land like locusts. Of women, either to-day or for many a day, he had seen or heard nothing.

My faithful beast was too feeble, even after a halt, to carry me farther, and I had perforce to proceed on foot. My one hope was that ere long the Captain might find himself in a like plight. But that was not to be for many an hour yet.

Towards night the wind, which had been blowing in gusts over the hill-tops and along the valleys, gathered into a gale; and in it I could hear the distant boom of surf on an iron-bound coast. Ever and again I met country folk hurrying inland, with now and then a soldier in their company. And once, as I passed a lonely moor, there slunk past me a fellow who by his swarthy face and black flashing eyes I knew to be a Spaniard.

As hour passed hour through the night the storm raged fiercer, till presently I could scarce make head against it and sank for an hour on the turf, praying only that this weariness might befall mine enemy also.

When at dawn I struggled to the hill-top and looked out, I dreaded to find him vanished. But no. My prayer must surely have been answered, for he staggered on scarce a mile ahead of me down towards the valley.

Twas a narrow valley, with a swampy tract below, and rising again sharply to the hill opposite. Half-way along that hill, through a narrow gap, I, standing on higher ground, could catch a glimpse of the grey ocean beyond, sending its white horses in on the land, and moaning with a cry that mingled dismally with the rush of the wind. Surely our long journey was near its end now.

Looking again towards the gap, I perceived—what my enemy below must have missed—the form of a man who stood there, motionless, clear cut against the sky, with his back on us as he gazed seaward. He was too far off for me to see if he were a soldier or only a peasant. Yet I remember marking that he was great of stature; and as he stood there, with his hair floating in the wind, he seemed some image of a giant god set there to stand sentinel and brood over the wild landscape.

Then, as the sun broke out from behind the sweeping clouds, it flashed on a sword in his hand, and I concluded this must be an English soldier placed there to keep the road inland against the invading Spaniard.

’Twas a fine post of defence, verily; for, looking round, I perceived that the hills on every hand seemed to close in and stand like the walls of a basin, with no outlet save the crest on which I stood on the one hand, and a gap where he stood on the other; while betwixt us stretched the moist plain, across which the Captain was even now spurring.

So intent had I been on the solitary sentinel, and the strange form of this wild hollow, that I had forgot for a moment my quest. But I remembered it as the sun suddenly fell on the form of my enemy labouring heavily through the swamp below.

A sudden fierceness seized me as I flung myself forward in pursuit; I shouted to him with all my might to stand and face me where he stood.

I can remember seeing the form of the soldier in the gap turn quickly and look my way. Next moment there rose, below me, a yell; and I stood where I was, like a man petrified.

For the Captain, having spurred his jaded steed some way into the bog, reined up suddenly, and tried to turn back. The horse’s legs were already sunk to the knees, and in his struggle to get clear plunged yet a yard or two farther towards the middle. Then he sank miserably on his side, throwing his rider to the ground. The man, with a wild effort, managed to fling himself on the flank of the fast sinking beast; but ’twas a short-lived support. With a yell that rings in my ears as I write, he struggled again to his feet and tried to run. But the bog held him and pulled him down inch by inch—so quickly that, before I could understand what was passing, he was struggling waist-deep like a man swimming for his life. Next moment I saw his hands cast wildly upwards. After that, the bog lay mirky and silent, with no record of the dead man that lay in its grip.

Before I could fling off the awful spell that held me and rush to the place, the man on the other side of the valley had uttered a cry and dashed in the same direction.

And, as we stood thus, parted by the fathomless depth of the dead man’s grave, we looked up and knew one another.

For this was Ludar.

Chapter Thirty.How the Sun went down behind Malin.I think it was the sudden shock of this great discovery, and naught else, that arrested our feet in time and saved us from madly rushing on the doom of our lost enemy.At such a time how could we think even of him?Of all my long fierce journeyings, no part seemed half so long as the few minutes it took me to skirt round the fatal bog and reach the hand of my long-lost friend.“Humphrey,” said he presently, after we had stood silent awhile, “I scarce knew thee. How rose you from the dead?”“The God who parted us hath brought us together again,” said I. “Thanks be to Him.”“Amen,” said he. “Therefore, while I lead you to the Don—”“The Don!” cried I; “is he here then?”“Why not, since theRatacame ashore weeks ago on these coasts?”“And are the Spaniards all here too?” said I, with my hand feeling round my belt for my sword.“Nay,” said he, smiling. “That is my story. Tell me yours.”So I told him, and he listened, marvelling much. His brow grew black as thunder when I came to speak of the lost maidens. He wheeled round, and, laying his hand with a grip of iron on my arm, pointed to the black bog below us.“Is it certainly Merriman who lies there?”“As certain as this is you,” said I.“God forgive him!” said Ludar, and walked on.Then he told me how, missing me after the battle, and seeing the mast on which I had perched shot away, he had mourned for me as dead, and, for my sake, taken a gun with a good-will against my Queen. How, when after Gravelines the south wind sprang up and the Invincible Armada began to run, theRatasailed as rear-guard and bore the brunt of the few English ships that dogged them. How it was resolved by the Spanish captains, Don Alonzo himself not protesting, that the shortest way back to Spain now lay by way of the Orkneys and the Atlantic. How, thereupon, that glorious fleet trailed in a long draggled line northward, never looking behind them, even when the Englishmen one by one drew off and abandoned the chase. How, after a while, when they looked out one morning they found theRatastaggering through the stormy northern seas alone.“’Twas a sad sight,” said Ludar. “You would not have known the queenly vessel we had met scarce a month before off Ushant. Her main-mast clean gone, her tackle dishevelled as a wood-nymph’s hair; with flags and sails and pennons blown away, guns rusted in their ports, and the very helm refusing to turn. The bells, all save the dismal storm bell in the prows, were silent; the priests had crawled miserably to their holes. No one read aloud the King’s proclamation; and even the gallants of Spain sat limp and listless, looking seaward, never saying a word but to salute and cheer their beloved Don, or talk in whispers of the sunny hills of Spain.“Captain Desmond, the one man on board who, after you, was my friend, had died in the fight off Gravelines. I had not the heart or the wish to seek new comrades; and, save when the brave Don himself gave me a passing word of cheer, I forgot what it was to speak or listen.“Well, when off Cape Wrath (just as we sighted a few of our scattered consorts and hoped for food and comfort), a new storm overtook us from the north-east and drove us headlong, under bare poles, southward again. We none of us, I think, cared if the next gust sent us to the bottom. Many a weary young Don did I see fling himself in despair overboard; and but that we daily drew nearer to Ireland, I had been tempted to do the same.“How long we drove I forget, or what wrecks we passed; but one day we found ourselves flung into a great bay, where, for a while, we held on to our anchors against the storm. But theRatahad lost her best thews and muscles at Calais, and, after two days, dragged towards the shore and fell miserably over, a wreck.“We came to land in boats, or on floating spars, but only to meet worse hardships than on sea; for the savages on the coast, aided by your gallant Englishmen, fell on us, defenceless as we were, stripped us of all we had, and drove us from the shore in an old crank of a galleon, which, if it carried us thus far, did so only by the grace of God and His saints.”“And where be we now?” I asked.“At Killybegs,” said he, “and Heaven grant we may get out of it. For a while, Tyrone, the O’Neill in these parts, sheltered and fed us. But since the English came, he has left us to our fate, and the men lie rotting here as in a dungeon.”“Why,” said I, “’twas rumoured in England that the Spaniards had descended on Ireland to take it, and so strike across it at the Queen.”He laughed.“May your Queen ne’er have sturdier foes, Humphrey. Come and see them.”As we turned the corner of the hill, we came suddenly on three men, standing with their faces seaward and engaged in earnest talk. The oldest of them was white-haired and slight of build. But the nobleman shone through his ragged raiment and battered breastplate, and I knew him in a moment to be Don Alonzo da Leyva himself.He greeted Ludar kindly, and looked enquiringly at me.“Do the spirits of English printers walk on earth?” asked he.“No, Sir Don, not till their bodies be dead,” said I, saluting; “I am here to warn your Excellency that the English soldiers are drawing a cord around this place, and will fall speedily upon you in force.”“’Tis well they come only to slay and not to eat us,” said he, with a grim smile.And I perceived that both he and his companions were half-starved.“Yet they should not delay, for if they haste not, they will find us gone. Sir Ludar, theGerona,”—here he pointed to a large galliass that lay at anchor in the bay—“is ready, and sails to-night for the Scotch coast. I claim your services yet, as you claim those of your squire.”Ludar looked at me. I knew what passed in his mind, for ’twas in mine also. How could we leave Ireland thus, on a desperate venture, while those two fair maids—But before we could even exchange our doubts, there sprang out upon us from behind a rock half-a-dozen fellows with a horseman at their head, who waved his sword and called loudly on us, in the name of the Queen, to yield.I groaned inwardly as I pulled out my sword. Once more I was about wickedly and grievously to wage war on her Majesty, and break my vows of allegiance. Yet, how could I otherwise now?The Don deigned no reply, but waited calmly for the attack. We were but five to six, and the two Spaniards were so lean and ill-fed as scarce to count as a man betwixt them. At the first onset one of them dropped dead, and the other, after scornfully running his adversary through, fell back himself in a swoon of exhaustion.Meanwhile, the Don was struggling with the horseman. I can remember, occupied as I was with the sturdy rogue who flew at me, how noble he looked, as, with head erect and visage calm, he parried blow after blow, stepping back slowly towards the rock.’Twas a sharp fight while it lasted; for, though Ludar made short work of his first man, the other three were stubborn villains, and, being well-fed and well-armed, put us hard to it.Presently, he on the horse, enraged that, for all his advantage, he got no closer to his foe, pulled out a pistol from his holster and levelled it full at the Don’s head.With a shout like a lion’s, Ludar flung away his own assailant, and rushed between the two, dealing the horseman a blow which sent him headlong from his saddle and echoed among the rocks like a crack of thunder.He was none too soon, for the shot had flashed before ever the blow fell, and, only half diverted, rattled on the Don’s breastplate, hard enough to fell and draw blood, though, happily, not hard enough to kill.After that, Ludar and I had a merry time of it, with our backs against the rock, and four swords hacking at our two. I know not how it was; but as I found myself thus foot to foot again with my dearest friend, listening to his short, sharp battle snort, and seeing ever and anon the flash of his trusty steel at my side, I felt happy, and could have wished the battle to last an hour. I forgot all about my Queen, and, but for sundry knocks and cuts, had half forgotten my adversaries themselves. Nor were they any the better off for my daydream; for the four swords against us presently became but two, and these ere long were in the hands of flying men.When we had leisure to look at one another and see how we stood, we found we had been playing no child’s play. Ludar was pale, his sleeve was bloody, and his sword broken in two. As for me, drops were trickling through my hair and down my cheek, and I needed no astronomer to tell me the earth turned round. But the Don, when we came to him, was in a worse plight yet. For he lay where he had fallen, white as a marble statue, his eyes closed, his breath coming and going in quick, short gasps. As best we could we tore off his breastplate, and looked to the wound beneath. ’Twas but a gash, the ball having grazed the ribs and flattened itself on the steel beyond. But the blood he had lost thereby, and the feebleness of his ill-nourished body, made it more dangerous a wound by far than our vulgar scratches.We caught the Englishman’s riderless horse, which grazed quietly near, and laid the gallant gently on his back; and so, painfully and slowly, brought him off.Even as we did so, we could see on the crest of the far hills behind the figures of men on foot and horse moving our way; and, nearer at hand, when we stood and halted a moment, the sound of a trumpet broke the air.There was no time to lose, verily, if these worn-out Dons were to leave the place alive. And as for Ludar and me, wounded and weak as we were, what chance was there for us to break through the lines and wander on foot in search of our lost ones?“Humphrey,” said Ludar, guessing what was in my mind, “we sail with the Don to Scotland. Thence we will cross to the Glynns, and so be where we must be sooner than if we ventured by land.”“So be it,” said I.The sight of the wounded Don completed the panic which had already set in among the Spaniards at the report of the coming of the English.“To sea! to sea!” they cried, and followed us as we bore their beloved captain to the bay.TheGerona, Ludar told me, had been found on the coast, a half wreck, some weeks since, and, by dint of great labour and patching, had been made passably seaworthy.“She will carry but three out of every four of this company,” said he. “After the nobles are all on board, there will be but place, I hear, for one hundred beside, and these must work at the oars. Lots have already been drawn, and, unless I mistake, ’twill be a hard parting betwixt those who go and those who stay.”So indeed it was. No sooner had we the Don safely on board, and delivered him to the leech (to whom he opened his eyes, and showed signs of returning life), than a strange turbulent scene ensued on shore. The Don’s second in command, fine gentleman as he was, had little power to deal with a rabble that was fighting for dear life. He drew up his men on the beach and bade no man stir for the boats till his name was called, under penalty of death.While the young nobles (who, of course, were exempt from lot), silently and anxiously took their places in the boats and were rowed out to the ship, all stood gloomily by, mute and obedient. But when, these being safely embarked, the order was given for the hundred who had drawn the lot to follow, a hubbub and tumult began which it was pitiful to witness. Men, desperate with hunger and fear, fought tooth and nail to reach the boats. They that had the right and they that had none were mingled in a fray which strewed the water’s edge with corpses. Some flung themselves into the sea after the boats, yelling and cursing till the flash of a sword or the pitiless thud of an oar sent them back into silence. Some, rather than others should go and not they, tore the craft board from board, and fought with the fragments. Some with muskets poured fire on the boats. And some wreaked their vengeance on the haughty Spanish gallant and hurled him from the rock on which he stood into the depths below.’Twas a hideous scene; and when, after all was done, sixty gasping souls scrambled on board, glaring at one another like beasts of prey, and hissing defiant taunts at the wretches on shore, it boded ill—very—ill for this voyage.For a while neither Ludar nor I was fit to take our seat on the thwarts or lend a hand with the oars, much as help was needed.For two days, indeed, theGerona’ssails were of little service owing to the perverse south-wester, which threatened to imprison us in the bay of Killybegs, and well-nigh defied every effort of the crew to bring the galley beyond the great headland of Malinmore.But once out in the open, where the south-wester would have favoured our course to Scotland, the wind veered to westward and drove us in perilously near the rocks. So that we at the oars (for, by then, Ludar and I perforce had to take our share of the toil) were kept hard at work, and the roar of breakers on our starboard quarter never ceased, day nor night.TheGerona, moreover, had been but indifferently patched, and, in the heavy sea across which she laboured, answered her helm hardly, and could by no means be counted upon to sail more than a point or two out of the wind. So in this hard cross gale her canvas was all but useless, and, had it not been for the oars, she would have been on the rocks about the Bloody Foreland before a week was out.How we rounded that dreadful head I scarce know. Strong man as I was, I was well-nigh dead with the endless toil of the rowing, broken only by short snatches of repose when I laid my head down in the galley-slaves’ reeking hold. Ludar, on the contrary, grew mightier and bolder day by day. He neither wearied nor lost heart; but like a man who has recovered faith in his destiny, he talked as if each stroke brought us nearer, not to Scotland, but to the end of our hopes and the arms of those we loved.“Courage, Humphrey,” said he, “I can row for you and me both. Save your heart, brother, for those who shall welcome you when all this tossing and toil shall be passed.”“You talk of beyond the grave.”“Beyond the grave!” cried he. “I never talked less of it. Come, are you, too, like these Spanish gentles, down in the mouth for a puff of wind and a pailful or two of salt water over the deck? Courage, man. If you be an Englishman, show these Dons how an Englishman can hold up his head and keep a stiff upper lip.”That brought up the courage in me; and though for a day or so the weakness of my thews caused me to rest my hands idly on the oar, while he lugged at it cheerily and mightily, my heart came up from my boots and knocked louder and stronger within me day by day.So, after ten days out, we came off the black headland called Malin, where, as the wind still held westerly, the welcome order was given to ship oars and spread all canvas for the Scottish coast.Ludar alone looked grave when the order came, and pointed to the furious, livid swirl of purple clouds that crowded round the setting sun.“I have seen yon sky before,” said he, “often when I was a boy. And they taught us, when we saw it, to pray the saints for those at sea.”“May be there are saints ashore who see it and pray for us to-night,” said I.“There had need be,” said he, solemnly.

I think it was the sudden shock of this great discovery, and naught else, that arrested our feet in time and saved us from madly rushing on the doom of our lost enemy.

At such a time how could we think even of him?

Of all my long fierce journeyings, no part seemed half so long as the few minutes it took me to skirt round the fatal bog and reach the hand of my long-lost friend.

“Humphrey,” said he presently, after we had stood silent awhile, “I scarce knew thee. How rose you from the dead?”

“The God who parted us hath brought us together again,” said I. “Thanks be to Him.”

“Amen,” said he. “Therefore, while I lead you to the Don—”

“The Don!” cried I; “is he here then?”

“Why not, since theRatacame ashore weeks ago on these coasts?”

“And are the Spaniards all here too?” said I, with my hand feeling round my belt for my sword.

“Nay,” said he, smiling. “That is my story. Tell me yours.”

So I told him, and he listened, marvelling much. His brow grew black as thunder when I came to speak of the lost maidens. He wheeled round, and, laying his hand with a grip of iron on my arm, pointed to the black bog below us.

“Is it certainly Merriman who lies there?”

“As certain as this is you,” said I.

“God forgive him!” said Ludar, and walked on.

Then he told me how, missing me after the battle, and seeing the mast on which I had perched shot away, he had mourned for me as dead, and, for my sake, taken a gun with a good-will against my Queen. How, when after Gravelines the south wind sprang up and the Invincible Armada began to run, theRatasailed as rear-guard and bore the brunt of the few English ships that dogged them. How it was resolved by the Spanish captains, Don Alonzo himself not protesting, that the shortest way back to Spain now lay by way of the Orkneys and the Atlantic. How, thereupon, that glorious fleet trailed in a long draggled line northward, never looking behind them, even when the Englishmen one by one drew off and abandoned the chase. How, after a while, when they looked out one morning they found theRatastaggering through the stormy northern seas alone.

“’Twas a sad sight,” said Ludar. “You would not have known the queenly vessel we had met scarce a month before off Ushant. Her main-mast clean gone, her tackle dishevelled as a wood-nymph’s hair; with flags and sails and pennons blown away, guns rusted in their ports, and the very helm refusing to turn. The bells, all save the dismal storm bell in the prows, were silent; the priests had crawled miserably to their holes. No one read aloud the King’s proclamation; and even the gallants of Spain sat limp and listless, looking seaward, never saying a word but to salute and cheer their beloved Don, or talk in whispers of the sunny hills of Spain.

“Captain Desmond, the one man on board who, after you, was my friend, had died in the fight off Gravelines. I had not the heart or the wish to seek new comrades; and, save when the brave Don himself gave me a passing word of cheer, I forgot what it was to speak or listen.

“Well, when off Cape Wrath (just as we sighted a few of our scattered consorts and hoped for food and comfort), a new storm overtook us from the north-east and drove us headlong, under bare poles, southward again. We none of us, I think, cared if the next gust sent us to the bottom. Many a weary young Don did I see fling himself in despair overboard; and but that we daily drew nearer to Ireland, I had been tempted to do the same.

“How long we drove I forget, or what wrecks we passed; but one day we found ourselves flung into a great bay, where, for a while, we held on to our anchors against the storm. But theRatahad lost her best thews and muscles at Calais, and, after two days, dragged towards the shore and fell miserably over, a wreck.

“We came to land in boats, or on floating spars, but only to meet worse hardships than on sea; for the savages on the coast, aided by your gallant Englishmen, fell on us, defenceless as we were, stripped us of all we had, and drove us from the shore in an old crank of a galleon, which, if it carried us thus far, did so only by the grace of God and His saints.”

“And where be we now?” I asked.

“At Killybegs,” said he, “and Heaven grant we may get out of it. For a while, Tyrone, the O’Neill in these parts, sheltered and fed us. But since the English came, he has left us to our fate, and the men lie rotting here as in a dungeon.”

“Why,” said I, “’twas rumoured in England that the Spaniards had descended on Ireland to take it, and so strike across it at the Queen.”

He laughed.

“May your Queen ne’er have sturdier foes, Humphrey. Come and see them.”

As we turned the corner of the hill, we came suddenly on three men, standing with their faces seaward and engaged in earnest talk. The oldest of them was white-haired and slight of build. But the nobleman shone through his ragged raiment and battered breastplate, and I knew him in a moment to be Don Alonzo da Leyva himself.

He greeted Ludar kindly, and looked enquiringly at me.

“Do the spirits of English printers walk on earth?” asked he.

“No, Sir Don, not till their bodies be dead,” said I, saluting; “I am here to warn your Excellency that the English soldiers are drawing a cord around this place, and will fall speedily upon you in force.”

“’Tis well they come only to slay and not to eat us,” said he, with a grim smile.

And I perceived that both he and his companions were half-starved.

“Yet they should not delay, for if they haste not, they will find us gone. Sir Ludar, theGerona,”—here he pointed to a large galliass that lay at anchor in the bay—“is ready, and sails to-night for the Scotch coast. I claim your services yet, as you claim those of your squire.”

Ludar looked at me. I knew what passed in his mind, for ’twas in mine also. How could we leave Ireland thus, on a desperate venture, while those two fair maids—

But before we could even exchange our doubts, there sprang out upon us from behind a rock half-a-dozen fellows with a horseman at their head, who waved his sword and called loudly on us, in the name of the Queen, to yield.

I groaned inwardly as I pulled out my sword. Once more I was about wickedly and grievously to wage war on her Majesty, and break my vows of allegiance. Yet, how could I otherwise now?

The Don deigned no reply, but waited calmly for the attack. We were but five to six, and the two Spaniards were so lean and ill-fed as scarce to count as a man betwixt them. At the first onset one of them dropped dead, and the other, after scornfully running his adversary through, fell back himself in a swoon of exhaustion.

Meanwhile, the Don was struggling with the horseman. I can remember, occupied as I was with the sturdy rogue who flew at me, how noble he looked, as, with head erect and visage calm, he parried blow after blow, stepping back slowly towards the rock.

’Twas a sharp fight while it lasted; for, though Ludar made short work of his first man, the other three were stubborn villains, and, being well-fed and well-armed, put us hard to it.

Presently, he on the horse, enraged that, for all his advantage, he got no closer to his foe, pulled out a pistol from his holster and levelled it full at the Don’s head.

With a shout like a lion’s, Ludar flung away his own assailant, and rushed between the two, dealing the horseman a blow which sent him headlong from his saddle and echoed among the rocks like a crack of thunder.

He was none too soon, for the shot had flashed before ever the blow fell, and, only half diverted, rattled on the Don’s breastplate, hard enough to fell and draw blood, though, happily, not hard enough to kill.

After that, Ludar and I had a merry time of it, with our backs against the rock, and four swords hacking at our two. I know not how it was; but as I found myself thus foot to foot again with my dearest friend, listening to his short, sharp battle snort, and seeing ever and anon the flash of his trusty steel at my side, I felt happy, and could have wished the battle to last an hour. I forgot all about my Queen, and, but for sundry knocks and cuts, had half forgotten my adversaries themselves. Nor were they any the better off for my daydream; for the four swords against us presently became but two, and these ere long were in the hands of flying men.

When we had leisure to look at one another and see how we stood, we found we had been playing no child’s play. Ludar was pale, his sleeve was bloody, and his sword broken in two. As for me, drops were trickling through my hair and down my cheek, and I needed no astronomer to tell me the earth turned round. But the Don, when we came to him, was in a worse plight yet. For he lay where he had fallen, white as a marble statue, his eyes closed, his breath coming and going in quick, short gasps. As best we could we tore off his breastplate, and looked to the wound beneath. ’Twas but a gash, the ball having grazed the ribs and flattened itself on the steel beyond. But the blood he had lost thereby, and the feebleness of his ill-nourished body, made it more dangerous a wound by far than our vulgar scratches.

We caught the Englishman’s riderless horse, which grazed quietly near, and laid the gallant gently on his back; and so, painfully and slowly, brought him off.

Even as we did so, we could see on the crest of the far hills behind the figures of men on foot and horse moving our way; and, nearer at hand, when we stood and halted a moment, the sound of a trumpet broke the air.

There was no time to lose, verily, if these worn-out Dons were to leave the place alive. And as for Ludar and me, wounded and weak as we were, what chance was there for us to break through the lines and wander on foot in search of our lost ones?

“Humphrey,” said Ludar, guessing what was in my mind, “we sail with the Don to Scotland. Thence we will cross to the Glynns, and so be where we must be sooner than if we ventured by land.”

“So be it,” said I.

The sight of the wounded Don completed the panic which had already set in among the Spaniards at the report of the coming of the English.

“To sea! to sea!” they cried, and followed us as we bore their beloved captain to the bay.

TheGerona, Ludar told me, had been found on the coast, a half wreck, some weeks since, and, by dint of great labour and patching, had been made passably seaworthy.

“She will carry but three out of every four of this company,” said he. “After the nobles are all on board, there will be but place, I hear, for one hundred beside, and these must work at the oars. Lots have already been drawn, and, unless I mistake, ’twill be a hard parting betwixt those who go and those who stay.”

So indeed it was. No sooner had we the Don safely on board, and delivered him to the leech (to whom he opened his eyes, and showed signs of returning life), than a strange turbulent scene ensued on shore. The Don’s second in command, fine gentleman as he was, had little power to deal with a rabble that was fighting for dear life. He drew up his men on the beach and bade no man stir for the boats till his name was called, under penalty of death.

While the young nobles (who, of course, were exempt from lot), silently and anxiously took their places in the boats and were rowed out to the ship, all stood gloomily by, mute and obedient. But when, these being safely embarked, the order was given for the hundred who had drawn the lot to follow, a hubbub and tumult began which it was pitiful to witness. Men, desperate with hunger and fear, fought tooth and nail to reach the boats. They that had the right and they that had none were mingled in a fray which strewed the water’s edge with corpses. Some flung themselves into the sea after the boats, yelling and cursing till the flash of a sword or the pitiless thud of an oar sent them back into silence. Some, rather than others should go and not they, tore the craft board from board, and fought with the fragments. Some with muskets poured fire on the boats. And some wreaked their vengeance on the haughty Spanish gallant and hurled him from the rock on which he stood into the depths below.

’Twas a hideous scene; and when, after all was done, sixty gasping souls scrambled on board, glaring at one another like beasts of prey, and hissing defiant taunts at the wretches on shore, it boded ill—very—ill for this voyage.

For a while neither Ludar nor I was fit to take our seat on the thwarts or lend a hand with the oars, much as help was needed.

For two days, indeed, theGerona’ssails were of little service owing to the perverse south-wester, which threatened to imprison us in the bay of Killybegs, and well-nigh defied every effort of the crew to bring the galley beyond the great headland of Malinmore.

But once out in the open, where the south-wester would have favoured our course to Scotland, the wind veered to westward and drove us in perilously near the rocks. So that we at the oars (for, by then, Ludar and I perforce had to take our share of the toil) were kept hard at work, and the roar of breakers on our starboard quarter never ceased, day nor night.

TheGerona, moreover, had been but indifferently patched, and, in the heavy sea across which she laboured, answered her helm hardly, and could by no means be counted upon to sail more than a point or two out of the wind. So in this hard cross gale her canvas was all but useless, and, had it not been for the oars, she would have been on the rocks about the Bloody Foreland before a week was out.

How we rounded that dreadful head I scarce know. Strong man as I was, I was well-nigh dead with the endless toil of the rowing, broken only by short snatches of repose when I laid my head down in the galley-slaves’ reeking hold. Ludar, on the contrary, grew mightier and bolder day by day. He neither wearied nor lost heart; but like a man who has recovered faith in his destiny, he talked as if each stroke brought us nearer, not to Scotland, but to the end of our hopes and the arms of those we loved.

“Courage, Humphrey,” said he, “I can row for you and me both. Save your heart, brother, for those who shall welcome you when all this tossing and toil shall be passed.”

“You talk of beyond the grave.”

“Beyond the grave!” cried he. “I never talked less of it. Come, are you, too, like these Spanish gentles, down in the mouth for a puff of wind and a pailful or two of salt water over the deck? Courage, man. If you be an Englishman, show these Dons how an Englishman can hold up his head and keep a stiff upper lip.”

That brought up the courage in me; and though for a day or so the weakness of my thews caused me to rest my hands idly on the oar, while he lugged at it cheerily and mightily, my heart came up from my boots and knocked louder and stronger within me day by day.

So, after ten days out, we came off the black headland called Malin, where, as the wind still held westerly, the welcome order was given to ship oars and spread all canvas for the Scottish coast.

Ludar alone looked grave when the order came, and pointed to the furious, livid swirl of purple clouds that crowded round the setting sun.

“I have seen yon sky before,” said he, “often when I was a boy. And they taught us, when we saw it, to pray the saints for those at sea.”

“May be there are saints ashore who see it and pray for us to-night,” said I.

“There had need be,” said he, solemnly.

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