Volume One—Chapter Nineteen.

Volume One—Chapter Nineteen.From the commanding eminence, on which were clustered the “quality folks,” the preparations had been watched with a vivid interest, and with emotions varying in kind.“Splendid!” exclaimed Dorothy Dayrell, as the sword-blades were seen clashing together. “Beats the morris dancers all to bits! Just what I like! One of those little interludes not mentioned in the programme of the entertainment. Surely we’re going to see a fight?”Lora Lovelace trembled, as she listened to these speeches.“Oh, Dorothy Dayrell!” said she, turning upon the latter an upbraiding look, “’Tis too serious for jesting. You do not mean it?”“But I do mean it, Mistress Lovelace. I’m not jesting. Not a bit of it. I’m quite in earnest, I assure you.”“Surely you would not wish to see blood spilled?”“And why not? What care I, so long as it isn’t my own blood; or that of one of my friends. Ha! ha! ha! What are either of these fellows to you, or me? I know neither. If they’re angry with each other, let them fight it out. Foh-poh! They maykillone another, for aught I care.”“Wicked woman!” thought Lora, without making rejoinder.Marion Wade overheard the unfeeling utterances; but she was too much occupied with what was passing on the plain below, to give heed to them. That incipient suspicion, though still unsatisfied, was not troubling her now. It had given place to a feeling of apprehension, for the safety of him who had been its object.“My God!” she murmured in soliloquy, her hands clasped over her bosom—the slender white fingers desperately entwining each other. “If he should be killed! Walter! dear Walter!” she cried, earnestly appealing to her brother, “Go down, and stop it! Tell him—tell them they must not fight. O father,youwill not permit it?”“Perhaps I may not be able to hinder them,” said Walter, springing out from among the circle of his acquaintances. “But I shall go down. You will not object, father? Mr Holtspur is alone, and may stand in need of a friend.”“Go, my son!” said Sir Marmaduke, pleased at the spirit his son was displaying. “It matters not who, or what, he be. He is our guest, and has been your protector. If they are determined on fighting, see that he be shown fair play.”“Never fear, father!” rejoined Walter, hurrying down the slope. “And if that drunken cornet dare to interfere,” continued he, half speaking to himself—“I’ll givehima taste ofmytemper, very different from what he had last night.”As he gave utterance to this threat, the ex-courtier passed through the crowd, followed by several other gentlemen; who, from different motives, were also hastening towards the scene of contention.“Come, Mistress Marion Wade!” whispered Dorothy, in a significant way. “It is not your wont to be thus tender-hearted. What is it to us, whether they fight or no? It isn’tyourquarrel. This elegant cavalier, who seems to set everybody beside themselves, is notyourchampion, is he? If any one has reason to be interested in his fate, by my trow, I should say it was the Maid Marian—aliasBet Dancey. Andcertes, she does seem to take interest in him. See! What’s she doing now, the modest creature? By my word, I believe the wench is about to throw herself upon his breast, and embrace him!”These words entered the ears of Marion Wade with stinging effect. Suddenly turning she looked down upon the sea of faces, that had thickened, and was swerving around the two men; who were expected soon to become engaged in deadly strife. Many of the cuirassiers had arrived upon the ground, and their steel armour now glittered conspicuously among the more sombre vestments of the civilian spectators.Marion took no note of these; nor of aught else, save the half score figures that occupied the centre of the ring. Scarthe and his cornet, Henry Holtspur, Robin Hood, Little John, and the Friar were there; and there, too, was Maid Marian! What wasshedoing in the midst of the men? She had thrown herself in front of the cavalier—between him and his adversary. Her hands were upraised—one of them actually resting upon Holtspur’s shoulder! She appeared to be speaking in earnest appeal—as if dissuading him from the combat!“In what way could the daughter of Dick Dancey be interested in the actions of Henry Holtspur?”The question came quickly before the mind of Marion Wade, though it rose not to her lips.“Bravo!” cried Dorothy Dayrell, as she saw that the cavalier was being equipped. “It’s going to go on! A combat in full armour! Won’t that be fine? It reminds one of the good old times of the troubadours!”“O Dorothy!” said Lora, “to be merry at such a moment!”“Hush!” commanded Marion, frantically grasping the jester by the arm, and looking angrily into her eye. “Another word, Mistress Dayrell—another trifling speech—and you and I shall cease to be friends.”“Indeed!” scornfully retorted the latter. “What a misfortune that would be for me!”Marion made no rejoinder. It was at this moment that Scarthe had flung out his taunt, about the glove in the hat of his antagonist.Maid Marian heard the speech, and saw the action.“Whose glove?” muttered she, as a pang passed through her heart.Marion Wade heard the speech, and saw the action.“My glove!” muttered she, as a thrill of sweet joy vibrated through her bosom.The triumphant emotion was but short-lived. It was soon supplanted by a feeling of anxious apprehension, that reached its climax, as the two cavaliers, each bestriding his own steed, spurred their horses towards the centre of the camp—the arena of the intended combat.With the exception of that made by the horsemen, as they rode trampling over the turf, not a movement could be observed within or around the enclosure of the camp. The dark circle of human forms, that girdled the ground, were as motionless, as if they had been turned into stones; and equally silent—men and women, youths and maidens, all alike absorbed in one common thought—all voicelessly gazing.The chirrup of a grasshopper could have been heard throughout the encampment.This silence had only commenced, as the combatants came forth upon the ground, in readiness to enter upon action. While engaged in preparation, the merits of both had been loudly and freely discussed; and bets had been made, as if the camp were a cockpit, and the cavaliers a main of game birds about to be unleashed at each other.The popular feeling was not all on one side, though the “black horseman” was decidedly the favourite. There was an instinct on the part of the spectators that he was thepeople’s friend, and, in those tyrannous times, the phrase had an important signification.But the crowd was composed of various elements; and there was more than a minority who, despite the daily evidence of royal outrages and wrongs, still tenaciously clung to that, the meanest sentiment that can find home in the human heart—loyalty. I meanloyalty to a throne.In the captain of cuirassiers they saw the representative of that thing they had been accustomed to worship and obey—that mysterious entity, which they had been taught to believe was as necessary to their existence as the bread which they ate, or the beer they drank—a thing ludicrously styled “heaven-descended”—deriving its authority from God himself—a king!Notwithstanding the insult he had put upon them, there were numbers present ready to shout—“Huzza for the cuirassier captain!”Notwithstanding his championship of their cause, there were numbers upon the ground ready to vociferate—“Down with the black horseman!”All exhibitions of this sort, however, had now ceased; and, in the midst of a profound silence, the mounted champions, having ridden clear of the crowd, advanced towards each other with glances reciprocally expressive of death and determination.

From the commanding eminence, on which were clustered the “quality folks,” the preparations had been watched with a vivid interest, and with emotions varying in kind.

“Splendid!” exclaimed Dorothy Dayrell, as the sword-blades were seen clashing together. “Beats the morris dancers all to bits! Just what I like! One of those little interludes not mentioned in the programme of the entertainment. Surely we’re going to see a fight?”

Lora Lovelace trembled, as she listened to these speeches.

“Oh, Dorothy Dayrell!” said she, turning upon the latter an upbraiding look, “’Tis too serious for jesting. You do not mean it?”

“But I do mean it, Mistress Lovelace. I’m not jesting. Not a bit of it. I’m quite in earnest, I assure you.”

“Surely you would not wish to see blood spilled?”

“And why not? What care I, so long as it isn’t my own blood; or that of one of my friends. Ha! ha! ha! What are either of these fellows to you, or me? I know neither. If they’re angry with each other, let them fight it out. Foh-poh! They maykillone another, for aught I care.”

“Wicked woman!” thought Lora, without making rejoinder.

Marion Wade overheard the unfeeling utterances; but she was too much occupied with what was passing on the plain below, to give heed to them. That incipient suspicion, though still unsatisfied, was not troubling her now. It had given place to a feeling of apprehension, for the safety of him who had been its object.

“My God!” she murmured in soliloquy, her hands clasped over her bosom—the slender white fingers desperately entwining each other. “If he should be killed! Walter! dear Walter!” she cried, earnestly appealing to her brother, “Go down, and stop it! Tell him—tell them they must not fight. O father,youwill not permit it?”

“Perhaps I may not be able to hinder them,” said Walter, springing out from among the circle of his acquaintances. “But I shall go down. You will not object, father? Mr Holtspur is alone, and may stand in need of a friend.”

“Go, my son!” said Sir Marmaduke, pleased at the spirit his son was displaying. “It matters not who, or what, he be. He is our guest, and has been your protector. If they are determined on fighting, see that he be shown fair play.”

“Never fear, father!” rejoined Walter, hurrying down the slope. “And if that drunken cornet dare to interfere,” continued he, half speaking to himself—“I’ll givehima taste ofmytemper, very different from what he had last night.”

As he gave utterance to this threat, the ex-courtier passed through the crowd, followed by several other gentlemen; who, from different motives, were also hastening towards the scene of contention.

“Come, Mistress Marion Wade!” whispered Dorothy, in a significant way. “It is not your wont to be thus tender-hearted. What is it to us, whether they fight or no? It isn’tyourquarrel. This elegant cavalier, who seems to set everybody beside themselves, is notyourchampion, is he? If any one has reason to be interested in his fate, by my trow, I should say it was the Maid Marian—aliasBet Dancey. Andcertes, she does seem to take interest in him. See! What’s she doing now, the modest creature? By my word, I believe the wench is about to throw herself upon his breast, and embrace him!”

These words entered the ears of Marion Wade with stinging effect. Suddenly turning she looked down upon the sea of faces, that had thickened, and was swerving around the two men; who were expected soon to become engaged in deadly strife. Many of the cuirassiers had arrived upon the ground, and their steel armour now glittered conspicuously among the more sombre vestments of the civilian spectators.

Marion took no note of these; nor of aught else, save the half score figures that occupied the centre of the ring. Scarthe and his cornet, Henry Holtspur, Robin Hood, Little John, and the Friar were there; and there, too, was Maid Marian! What wasshedoing in the midst of the men? She had thrown herself in front of the cavalier—between him and his adversary. Her hands were upraised—one of them actually resting upon Holtspur’s shoulder! She appeared to be speaking in earnest appeal—as if dissuading him from the combat!

“In what way could the daughter of Dick Dancey be interested in the actions of Henry Holtspur?”

The question came quickly before the mind of Marion Wade, though it rose not to her lips.

“Bravo!” cried Dorothy Dayrell, as she saw that the cavalier was being equipped. “It’s going to go on! A combat in full armour! Won’t that be fine? It reminds one of the good old times of the troubadours!”

“O Dorothy!” said Lora, “to be merry at such a moment!”

“Hush!” commanded Marion, frantically grasping the jester by the arm, and looking angrily into her eye. “Another word, Mistress Dayrell—another trifling speech—and you and I shall cease to be friends.”

“Indeed!” scornfully retorted the latter. “What a misfortune that would be for me!”

Marion made no rejoinder. It was at this moment that Scarthe had flung out his taunt, about the glove in the hat of his antagonist.

Maid Marian heard the speech, and saw the action.

“Whose glove?” muttered she, as a pang passed through her heart.

Marion Wade heard the speech, and saw the action.

“My glove!” muttered she, as a thrill of sweet joy vibrated through her bosom.

The triumphant emotion was but short-lived. It was soon supplanted by a feeling of anxious apprehension, that reached its climax, as the two cavaliers, each bestriding his own steed, spurred their horses towards the centre of the camp—the arena of the intended combat.

With the exception of that made by the horsemen, as they rode trampling over the turf, not a movement could be observed within or around the enclosure of the camp. The dark circle of human forms, that girdled the ground, were as motionless, as if they had been turned into stones; and equally silent—men and women, youths and maidens, all alike absorbed in one common thought—all voicelessly gazing.

The chirrup of a grasshopper could have been heard throughout the encampment.

This silence had only commenced, as the combatants came forth upon the ground, in readiness to enter upon action. While engaged in preparation, the merits of both had been loudly and freely discussed; and bets had been made, as if the camp were a cockpit, and the cavaliers a main of game birds about to be unleashed at each other.

The popular feeling was not all on one side, though the “black horseman” was decidedly the favourite. There was an instinct on the part of the spectators that he was thepeople’s friend, and, in those tyrannous times, the phrase had an important signification.

But the crowd was composed of various elements; and there was more than a minority who, despite the daily evidence of royal outrages and wrongs, still tenaciously clung to that, the meanest sentiment that can find home in the human heart—loyalty. I meanloyalty to a throne.

In the captain of cuirassiers they saw the representative of that thing they had been accustomed to worship and obey—that mysterious entity, which they had been taught to believe was as necessary to their existence as the bread which they ate, or the beer they drank—a thing ludicrously styled “heaven-descended”—deriving its authority from God himself—a king!

Notwithstanding the insult he had put upon them, there were numbers present ready to shout—

“Huzza for the cuirassier captain!”

Notwithstanding his championship of their cause, there were numbers upon the ground ready to vociferate—

“Down with the black horseman!”

All exhibitions of this sort, however, had now ceased; and, in the midst of a profound silence, the mounted champions, having ridden clear of the crowd, advanced towards each other with glances reciprocally expressive of death and determination.

Volume One—Chapter Twenty.It was a terrible sight for the soft eye of woman to look upon. The timid Lora Lovelace would not stay; but ran off towards the house, followed by many others. Dorothy Dayrell called after them, jeering at their cowardice!Marion remained. She could not drag herself from the approaching spectacle, though dreading to behold it. She stood under the dark shadow of a tree; but its darkness could not conceal the wild look of apprehension, with which she regarded the two mailed horsemen moving from opposite sides of the camp, and frowningly approaching one another.Out rang the clear notes of the cavalry bugle, sounding the “charge.” The horses themselves understood the signal, and needed no spurring to prompt their advance.Both appeared to know the purpose for which they had been brought forth. At the first note, they sprang towards one another—snorting mutual defiance—as if they, like their riders, were closing in mortal combat!It was altogether a duello with swords. The sword, at that time, was the only weapon of the cuirassier cavalry, excepting their pistols; but by mutual agreement these last were not to be used.With blades bare, the duellists dashed in full gallop towards each other, Scarthe crying out: “For the King;” while Holtspur, with equal energy raised the antagonistic cry: “For the People!”At their first meeting, no wound was given or received. As the steeds swept past each other, the ring of steel could be heard—sword-blades glinting against cuirass and corslet—but neither of the combatants appeared to have obtained any advantage.Both wheeled almost at the same instant; and again advanced to the charge.This time the horses came into collision. That of the cuirassier was seen to stagger at the shock; but although, during the momentary suspension of the gallop, the sword-blades of the combatants were busy in mutual cut and thrust, they separated as before, apparently without injury on either side.The collision, however, had roused the ire both of horses and riders; and, as they met for the third time, the spectators could note in the eyes of the latter the earnest anger of deadly strife.Again rushed the horses together in a charging gallop, and met with a terrific crash—both weapons and defensive armour colliding at the same instant. The steed of the cuirassier recoiled from the impetus of his more powerful adversary. The black horse swept on unscathed; but as he passed to the rear, the hat of Holtspur was lifted upon the breeze; and fell behind him upon the grass.Trifling as was the incident, it looked ominous. It was the first that had the appearance of a triumph; and elicited a cheer from the partisans of the cuirassier captain.It had scarce reached its climax, ere it was drowned by the more sonorous counter-cheer that hailed the performance of the black horseman.Having wheeled his horse with the rapidity of thought, he rode back; and, spitting his beaver upon the point of his sword, he raised it up from the ground, and once more set it firmly upon his head!All this was accomplished, before his antagonist could turn to attack him; and thesang froidexhibited in the act, along with the graceful equitation, completely restored the confidence of his supporters.The fourth encounter was final—the last in which the combatants met face to face.They closed at full gallop; thrust at each other; and then passed on as before.But Holtspur had now discovered the point in which he was superior to his adversary; and determined to take advantage of it.The steeds had scarce cleared one another, when that of the cavalier was seen suddenly to stop—reined backward, until his tail lay spread upon the grass. Then turning upon his hind hoofs, as on a pivot, he sprang out in full gallop after the horse of the cuirassier.The black horseman, waving his sword in the air, gave out a shout of triumph—such as he had erst often uttered in the ears of Indian foemen—while the horse himself, as if conscious of the advantage thus gained, sent forth a shrill neigh, that resembled the scream of a jaguar.With a glance over his shoulder, Scarthe perceived the approaching danger. By attempting to turn, he would expose himself sideways to the thrust of his adversary’s sword.There was no chance to turn just then. He must make distance to obtain an opportunity. His only hope lay in the fleetness of his steed; and, trusting to this, he sank the spurs deeply, and galloped on.This new and unexpected manoeuvre had all the appearance of a retreat; and the camp rang with cries of:—“Coward!” “He is conquered!”“Huzza for the black horseman!”For a moment Marion Wade forgot her fears. For a moment proud pleasant thoughts swept through her breast. Her bosom rose and fell under the influence of triumphant emotions. Was he not a hero—a conqueror—worthy of that heart she had wholly given him?She watched every spring of the two steeds. She longed to see the pursuer overtake the pursued. She was not cruel; but she wished it to be over: for the suspense was terrible to endure.Marion was not to be tortured much longer. The climax was close at hand.On starting on that tail-on-end chase, the cuirassier Captain had full confidence in his steed. He was a true Arab, possessing all the strength and swiftness of his race.But one of the same race was after him, stronger and swifter than he. Like an arrow from its bow the steed of the cuirassier shot across the sward. Like another arrow, but one sent with stronger nerve, swept the sable charger in pursuit. Across the camp—out through the cleared causeway—over the open pasture of the park—galloped the two horsemen, as if riding a race. But their blazing armour, outstretched shining blades, angry looks and earnest attitudes—all told of a different intent.Scarthe had been for some time endeavouring to gain distance, in order to have an opportunity of turning face to his antagonist. With the latter clinging closely behind him, he knew the manoeuvre to be dangerous, if not impossible—without subjecting himself to the thrust of Holtspur’s sword. He soon began to perceive another danger—that of being overtaken.The spectators had discontinued their shouts; and once more a profound silence reigned throughout the camp. It was like the silence that precedes some expected catastrophe—some crisis inevitable.From the beginning his pursuer had kept constantly gaining upon him. The fore hoofs of the sable charger now appeared at every bound to overlap the hind heels of his own horse. Should the chase continue but a minute longer, he must certainly be overtaken; for the blade of the cavalier was gleaming scarce ten feet behind his back. The climax was near.“Surrender, or yield up your life!” demanded Holtspur in a determined voice.“Never!” was the equally determined reply. “Richard Scarthe never surrenders—least of all to—”“Your blood on your own head, then!” cried the black horseman, at the same instant urging his horse to a final burst of speed.The latter gave a long leap forward, bringing him side by side with the steed of the cuirassier. At the same instant Holtspur’s sword was seen thrust horizontally outwards.A cry went up from the crowd, who expected next moment to see the cuirassier captain impaled upon that shining blade. The cuirass of the time consisted only of the breast-plate; and the back of the wearer was left unprotected.Undoubtedly in another instant Scarthe would have received his death wound, but for an accident that saved him. As Holtspur’s horse leaped forward the hind heels of the other struck against his off fore leg causing him slightly to swerve, and thus changing the direction of the sword-thrust. It saved the life of Scarthe, though not his limbs: for the blade of his antagonist entering his right arm, just under the shoulder, passed clear through—striking against the steel rear-brace in front, and sending his own sword shivering into the air.The cuirassier captain, dismounted by the shock, in another instant lay sprawling upon the grass; while his horse, with trailing bridle, continued his onward gallop, wildly neighing as he went.“Cry quarter, or die!” shouted the cavalier, flinging himself from his saddle, and with his left hand grasping the cuirassier by the gorget, while in his right he held the threatening blade. “Cry quarter, or die!”“Hold!” exclaimed Scarthe. “Hold!” he repeated, with the addition of a bitter oath. “This time the chance has been yours. I take quarter.”“Enough,” said Holtspur, as he restored his sword to its sheath. Then turning his back upon his vanquished antagonist, he walked silently away.The spectators descended from their elevated position; and, clustering around the conqueror, vociferated their cheers and congratulations. A girl in a crimson cloak ran up, and kneeling in front, presented him with a bunch of flowers. It was the insulted maiden, who thus gracefully acknowledged her gratitude.There were two pairs of eyes that witnessed this last episode, with an expression that spoke of pain: the blue eyes of Marion Wade, and the green ones of Will Walford—the representative of England’s outlaw. The original Robin could never have been more jealous of the original Maid Marian.Marion Wade witnessed the presentation of the flowers, and their reception. She saw that the gift was acknowledged by a bow and a smile—both apparently gracious. It never occurred to her to ask herself the question: whether the recipient, under the circumstances, could have acted otherwise?She stayed not to witness more; but, with brain distraught, and bosom filled with fell fancies, she glided across the glacis of the old encampment, and in hurried steps sought the sacred shelter of her father’s roof.Thoughhors de combat, Scarthe was not fatally hurt. He had received only the one thrust—which, passing through his right arm, had disabled him for the time; but was not likely to do him any permanent injury.He was worse damaged in spirit than in person; and the purple gloom that overshadowed his countenance, told his followers, and others who had gathered around him, that no expression either of sympathy, or congratulation, would be welcome.In silence, therefore, assistance was extended to him, and in silence was it received.As soon as the braces had been stripped from his wounded arm, and the semi-surgeon of his troop having stemmed its bleeding, had placed it in a sling, he forsook the spot where he had fallen; and walked direct towards the place occupied by Sir Marmaduke and his friends.The ladies had already taken their departure—the sanguinary incident having robbed them of all zest for the enjoyment of any further sports.The knight had remained upon the ground—chiefly for the purpose of discovering the object of Captain Scarthe’s presence in his park.He was determined no longer to remain in ignorance as to the cause of the intrusion; and was about starting out to question the intruder himself, when the approach of the latter admonished him to keep his place.From Scarthe’s looks, as he came forward, it was evident that anéclaircissementwas at hand.Sir Marmaduke remained silent—leaving the stranger to commence the colloquy, which was now inevitable.As soon as Scarthe had got within speaking distance, he demanded, in an authoritative tone, whether Sir Marmaduke Wade was present upon the ground.The interrogatory was addressed to the rustics standing upon the sward below.They, perceiving that Sir Marmaduke had himself heard it, kept silence—not knowing whether their host might desire an affirmative answer to be given.The tone of impertinence prevented Sir Marmaduke from replying; and the interrogatory was repeated.Sir Marmaduke could no longer preserve silence.“Heispresent,” said he, without qualifying his answer by any title, or salutation. “Iam Sir Marmaduke Wade.”“I am glad of it, good sir. I want to speak a word with you. Shall it be private? I perceive you are in company.”“I can hold no private conversation with strangers,” replied the knight, drawing himself proudly up. “Whatever you have to say, sir, may be spoken aloud.”“As you wish, Sir Marmaduke,” acquiesced Scarthe, in a tone of mock courtesy. “But if, to my misfortune, you and I have been hitherto strangers to each other, I live in hope that this unpleasant condition of things will soon come to an end; and that henceforth we shall be better acquainted.”“What mean you, sir? Why are you here?”“I am here, Sir Marmaduke, to claim the hospitality of your house. By the way, a very handsome park, and apparently a commodious mansion. Room enough for all my people, I should think? It would scarce be courtesy between us, if eating, drinking, and sleeping under the same roof, we should remain strangers to one another?”“Eating, drinking, and sleeping under the the same roof! You are merry, sir!”“With the prospect of such pleasant quarters, could you expect me to be otherwise, Sir Marmaduke?”“After the lesson you have just received,” replied the knight, returning irony for irony, “one might expect to find you in a more serious frame of spirit.”“Captain Scarthe can show too many scars to trouble himself about such a trifle as that you allude to. But we are wasting time, Sir Marmaduke. I am hungry: so are my troopers; and thirsty. We feel inclined to eat and drink.”“You are welcome to do both one and the other. You will find an inn three miles farther up the road.”“Nearer than that,” rejoined Scarthe, with an insulting laugh, “that’sourinn.”And as he said this, he pointed to the mansion of Sir Marmaduke, standing proud and conspicuous on the crest of the opposite hill.“Come, sir!” said the knight, losing patience, “speak no longer in enigmas. Declare openly, and at once, what you are driving at!”“I am only too desirous to oblige you, Sir Marmaduke. Standing in need of refreshments as I do, I can assure you I have no wish to procrastinate this unseemly interview. Cornet Stubbs!” he continued, turning to his subaltern; “if I’m not mistaken, you carry a piece of royal parchment in your pocket. Please draw it forth; and do this worthy gentleman the favour to make him acquainted with its contents.”The cornet, who had re-encased himself in his suit of steel, inserted his fingers under the breast-piece of his cuirass; and presently produced a folded parchment, upon which a large red seal was conspicuous. Unfolding it, he read aloud:—“The King to Sir Marmaduke Wade.“His Majesty hearing by good report, of ye loyalty of Sir Marmaduke Wade, of Bulstrode Park, in ye shire of Buckingham, doth hereby entrust to him ye keep and maintenance of ye Captain Scarthe and his troop of horse till such time as his Majesty may need ye same for ye service of his kingdom; and, furthermore, his Majestie do recommend ye said Captain Scarthe to ye hospitality of Sir Marmaduke as a worthy and gallant officer and gentleman, who has done good service to his country and king.“Given under ye great seal of his Majestie, at Whitehall Palace, this 15th day of October, Anno Domini, 1640.“Carolus Rex.”

It was a terrible sight for the soft eye of woman to look upon. The timid Lora Lovelace would not stay; but ran off towards the house, followed by many others. Dorothy Dayrell called after them, jeering at their cowardice!

Marion remained. She could not drag herself from the approaching spectacle, though dreading to behold it. She stood under the dark shadow of a tree; but its darkness could not conceal the wild look of apprehension, with which she regarded the two mailed horsemen moving from opposite sides of the camp, and frowningly approaching one another.

Out rang the clear notes of the cavalry bugle, sounding the “charge.” The horses themselves understood the signal, and needed no spurring to prompt their advance.

Both appeared to know the purpose for which they had been brought forth. At the first note, they sprang towards one another—snorting mutual defiance—as if they, like their riders, were closing in mortal combat!

It was altogether a duello with swords. The sword, at that time, was the only weapon of the cuirassier cavalry, excepting their pistols; but by mutual agreement these last were not to be used.

With blades bare, the duellists dashed in full gallop towards each other, Scarthe crying out: “For the King;” while Holtspur, with equal energy raised the antagonistic cry: “For the People!”

At their first meeting, no wound was given or received. As the steeds swept past each other, the ring of steel could be heard—sword-blades glinting against cuirass and corslet—but neither of the combatants appeared to have obtained any advantage.

Both wheeled almost at the same instant; and again advanced to the charge.

This time the horses came into collision. That of the cuirassier was seen to stagger at the shock; but although, during the momentary suspension of the gallop, the sword-blades of the combatants were busy in mutual cut and thrust, they separated as before, apparently without injury on either side.

The collision, however, had roused the ire both of horses and riders; and, as they met for the third time, the spectators could note in the eyes of the latter the earnest anger of deadly strife.

Again rushed the horses together in a charging gallop, and met with a terrific crash—both weapons and defensive armour colliding at the same instant. The steed of the cuirassier recoiled from the impetus of his more powerful adversary. The black horse swept on unscathed; but as he passed to the rear, the hat of Holtspur was lifted upon the breeze; and fell behind him upon the grass.

Trifling as was the incident, it looked ominous. It was the first that had the appearance of a triumph; and elicited a cheer from the partisans of the cuirassier captain.

It had scarce reached its climax, ere it was drowned by the more sonorous counter-cheer that hailed the performance of the black horseman.

Having wheeled his horse with the rapidity of thought, he rode back; and, spitting his beaver upon the point of his sword, he raised it up from the ground, and once more set it firmly upon his head!

All this was accomplished, before his antagonist could turn to attack him; and thesang froidexhibited in the act, along with the graceful equitation, completely restored the confidence of his supporters.

The fourth encounter was final—the last in which the combatants met face to face.

They closed at full gallop; thrust at each other; and then passed on as before.

But Holtspur had now discovered the point in which he was superior to his adversary; and determined to take advantage of it.

The steeds had scarce cleared one another, when that of the cavalier was seen suddenly to stop—reined backward, until his tail lay spread upon the grass. Then turning upon his hind hoofs, as on a pivot, he sprang out in full gallop after the horse of the cuirassier.

The black horseman, waving his sword in the air, gave out a shout of triumph—such as he had erst often uttered in the ears of Indian foemen—while the horse himself, as if conscious of the advantage thus gained, sent forth a shrill neigh, that resembled the scream of a jaguar.

With a glance over his shoulder, Scarthe perceived the approaching danger. By attempting to turn, he would expose himself sideways to the thrust of his adversary’s sword.

There was no chance to turn just then. He must make distance to obtain an opportunity. His only hope lay in the fleetness of his steed; and, trusting to this, he sank the spurs deeply, and galloped on.

This new and unexpected manoeuvre had all the appearance of a retreat; and the camp rang with cries of:—“Coward!” “He is conquered!”

“Huzza for the black horseman!”

For a moment Marion Wade forgot her fears. For a moment proud pleasant thoughts swept through her breast. Her bosom rose and fell under the influence of triumphant emotions. Was he not a hero—a conqueror—worthy of that heart she had wholly given him?

She watched every spring of the two steeds. She longed to see the pursuer overtake the pursued. She was not cruel; but she wished it to be over: for the suspense was terrible to endure.

Marion was not to be tortured much longer. The climax was close at hand.

On starting on that tail-on-end chase, the cuirassier Captain had full confidence in his steed. He was a true Arab, possessing all the strength and swiftness of his race.

But one of the same race was after him, stronger and swifter than he. Like an arrow from its bow the steed of the cuirassier shot across the sward. Like another arrow, but one sent with stronger nerve, swept the sable charger in pursuit. Across the camp—out through the cleared causeway—over the open pasture of the park—galloped the two horsemen, as if riding a race. But their blazing armour, outstretched shining blades, angry looks and earnest attitudes—all told of a different intent.

Scarthe had been for some time endeavouring to gain distance, in order to have an opportunity of turning face to his antagonist. With the latter clinging closely behind him, he knew the manoeuvre to be dangerous, if not impossible—without subjecting himself to the thrust of Holtspur’s sword. He soon began to perceive another danger—that of being overtaken.

The spectators had discontinued their shouts; and once more a profound silence reigned throughout the camp. It was like the silence that precedes some expected catastrophe—some crisis inevitable.

From the beginning his pursuer had kept constantly gaining upon him. The fore hoofs of the sable charger now appeared at every bound to overlap the hind heels of his own horse. Should the chase continue but a minute longer, he must certainly be overtaken; for the blade of the cavalier was gleaming scarce ten feet behind his back. The climax was near.

“Surrender, or yield up your life!” demanded Holtspur in a determined voice.

“Never!” was the equally determined reply. “Richard Scarthe never surrenders—least of all to—”

“Your blood on your own head, then!” cried the black horseman, at the same instant urging his horse to a final burst of speed.

The latter gave a long leap forward, bringing him side by side with the steed of the cuirassier. At the same instant Holtspur’s sword was seen thrust horizontally outwards.

A cry went up from the crowd, who expected next moment to see the cuirassier captain impaled upon that shining blade. The cuirass of the time consisted only of the breast-plate; and the back of the wearer was left unprotected.

Undoubtedly in another instant Scarthe would have received his death wound, but for an accident that saved him. As Holtspur’s horse leaped forward the hind heels of the other struck against his off fore leg causing him slightly to swerve, and thus changing the direction of the sword-thrust. It saved the life of Scarthe, though not his limbs: for the blade of his antagonist entering his right arm, just under the shoulder, passed clear through—striking against the steel rear-brace in front, and sending his own sword shivering into the air.

The cuirassier captain, dismounted by the shock, in another instant lay sprawling upon the grass; while his horse, with trailing bridle, continued his onward gallop, wildly neighing as he went.

“Cry quarter, or die!” shouted the cavalier, flinging himself from his saddle, and with his left hand grasping the cuirassier by the gorget, while in his right he held the threatening blade. “Cry quarter, or die!”

“Hold!” exclaimed Scarthe. “Hold!” he repeated, with the addition of a bitter oath. “This time the chance has been yours. I take quarter.”

“Enough,” said Holtspur, as he restored his sword to its sheath. Then turning his back upon his vanquished antagonist, he walked silently away.

The spectators descended from their elevated position; and, clustering around the conqueror, vociferated their cheers and congratulations. A girl in a crimson cloak ran up, and kneeling in front, presented him with a bunch of flowers. It was the insulted maiden, who thus gracefully acknowledged her gratitude.

There were two pairs of eyes that witnessed this last episode, with an expression that spoke of pain: the blue eyes of Marion Wade, and the green ones of Will Walford—the representative of England’s outlaw. The original Robin could never have been more jealous of the original Maid Marian.

Marion Wade witnessed the presentation of the flowers, and their reception. She saw that the gift was acknowledged by a bow and a smile—both apparently gracious. It never occurred to her to ask herself the question: whether the recipient, under the circumstances, could have acted otherwise?

She stayed not to witness more; but, with brain distraught, and bosom filled with fell fancies, she glided across the glacis of the old encampment, and in hurried steps sought the sacred shelter of her father’s roof.

Thoughhors de combat, Scarthe was not fatally hurt. He had received only the one thrust—which, passing through his right arm, had disabled him for the time; but was not likely to do him any permanent injury.

He was worse damaged in spirit than in person; and the purple gloom that overshadowed his countenance, told his followers, and others who had gathered around him, that no expression either of sympathy, or congratulation, would be welcome.

In silence, therefore, assistance was extended to him, and in silence was it received.

As soon as the braces had been stripped from his wounded arm, and the semi-surgeon of his troop having stemmed its bleeding, had placed it in a sling, he forsook the spot where he had fallen; and walked direct towards the place occupied by Sir Marmaduke and his friends.

The ladies had already taken their departure—the sanguinary incident having robbed them of all zest for the enjoyment of any further sports.

The knight had remained upon the ground—chiefly for the purpose of discovering the object of Captain Scarthe’s presence in his park.

He was determined no longer to remain in ignorance as to the cause of the intrusion; and was about starting out to question the intruder himself, when the approach of the latter admonished him to keep his place.

From Scarthe’s looks, as he came forward, it was evident that anéclaircissementwas at hand.

Sir Marmaduke remained silent—leaving the stranger to commence the colloquy, which was now inevitable.

As soon as Scarthe had got within speaking distance, he demanded, in an authoritative tone, whether Sir Marmaduke Wade was present upon the ground.

The interrogatory was addressed to the rustics standing upon the sward below.

They, perceiving that Sir Marmaduke had himself heard it, kept silence—not knowing whether their host might desire an affirmative answer to be given.

The tone of impertinence prevented Sir Marmaduke from replying; and the interrogatory was repeated.

Sir Marmaduke could no longer preserve silence.

“Heispresent,” said he, without qualifying his answer by any title, or salutation. “Iam Sir Marmaduke Wade.”

“I am glad of it, good sir. I want to speak a word with you. Shall it be private? I perceive you are in company.”

“I can hold no private conversation with strangers,” replied the knight, drawing himself proudly up. “Whatever you have to say, sir, may be spoken aloud.”

“As you wish, Sir Marmaduke,” acquiesced Scarthe, in a tone of mock courtesy. “But if, to my misfortune, you and I have been hitherto strangers to each other, I live in hope that this unpleasant condition of things will soon come to an end; and that henceforth we shall be better acquainted.”

“What mean you, sir? Why are you here?”

“I am here, Sir Marmaduke, to claim the hospitality of your house. By the way, a very handsome park, and apparently a commodious mansion. Room enough for all my people, I should think? It would scarce be courtesy between us, if eating, drinking, and sleeping under the same roof, we should remain strangers to one another?”

“Eating, drinking, and sleeping under the the same roof! You are merry, sir!”

“With the prospect of such pleasant quarters, could you expect me to be otherwise, Sir Marmaduke?”

“After the lesson you have just received,” replied the knight, returning irony for irony, “one might expect to find you in a more serious frame of spirit.”

“Captain Scarthe can show too many scars to trouble himself about such a trifle as that you allude to. But we are wasting time, Sir Marmaduke. I am hungry: so are my troopers; and thirsty. We feel inclined to eat and drink.”

“You are welcome to do both one and the other. You will find an inn three miles farther up the road.”

“Nearer than that,” rejoined Scarthe, with an insulting laugh, “that’sourinn.”

And as he said this, he pointed to the mansion of Sir Marmaduke, standing proud and conspicuous on the crest of the opposite hill.

“Come, sir!” said the knight, losing patience, “speak no longer in enigmas. Declare openly, and at once, what you are driving at!”

“I am only too desirous to oblige you, Sir Marmaduke. Standing in need of refreshments as I do, I can assure you I have no wish to procrastinate this unseemly interview. Cornet Stubbs!” he continued, turning to his subaltern; “if I’m not mistaken, you carry a piece of royal parchment in your pocket. Please draw it forth; and do this worthy gentleman the favour to make him acquainted with its contents.”

The cornet, who had re-encased himself in his suit of steel, inserted his fingers under the breast-piece of his cuirass; and presently produced a folded parchment, upon which a large red seal was conspicuous. Unfolding it, he read aloud:—

“The King to Sir Marmaduke Wade.

“His Majesty hearing by good report, of ye loyalty of Sir Marmaduke Wade, of Bulstrode Park, in ye shire of Buckingham, doth hereby entrust to him ye keep and maintenance of ye Captain Scarthe and his troop of horse till such time as his Majesty may need ye same for ye service of his kingdom; and, furthermore, his Majestie do recommend ye said Captain Scarthe to ye hospitality of Sir Marmaduke as a worthy and gallant officer and gentleman, who has done good service to his country and king.

“Given under ye great seal of his Majestie, at Whitehall Palace, this 15th day of October, Anno Domini, 1640.

“Carolus Rex.”

Volume One—Chapter Twenty One.The traveller, journeying among the Chiltern Hills, will often find himself on the summit of a ridge, that sweeping round upon itself, encloses a deep basin-like valley, of circular shape.Many of these natural concavities are of considerable size—having a superficial extent of several hundreds of acres. Often a farm homestead may be seen nestling within their sheltered limits; and not unfrequently a noble mansion, surrounded by green pastures—these again bordered by a belt of forest trees, cresting the summit of the surrounding ridge,—the whole appearing like some landscape picture, set in a circular frame.Such a picture was presented in the valley of Stone Dean: a fair mansion in the centre of a smiling park, with a rustic framework of beechen forest, coping the hills that encircled it.The day was when the park and mansion of Stone Dean may have been kept in better repair. At the period of which we write, about both was visible an air of neglect—like a painting that has hung unheeded against the wall, till tarnished by dust and time.Both dwelling and outbuildings exhibited evidence of decay, and but little sign of occupation. But for the smoke rising out of one of its tottering chimneys—and this not always to be seen—one viewing the house from the ridge above, would have come to the conclusion that it was uninhabited. The shrubbery had become transformed into a thicket; the pastures, overgrown with gorse, genista, and bramble, more resembled a waste than a park enclosure; while the horned cattle wandering over them, appeared as wild as the deer browsing by their side; and, when startled by the step of the intruder, were equally alert in seeking the concealment of the surrounding forest.Neither domesticated quadruped, nor bird appeared about the walls or within the enclosures; where a human voice was rarely heard to interrupt the shrill screech of the jay from the bordering woods, the clear piping of the blackbird amid the neglected shrubbery, and the monotonous cawing of the rooks upon the tops of the tall elm trees, that, holding hundreds of their nests, darkly overshadowed the dwelling.In truth, Stone Dean had been a long time untenanted, except by one of those peculiar creatures termed “caretakers;” a grey-headed old veteran, who appeared less an occupant than a fixture of the place. He, his dog—old like himself—and a cat equally venerable, had for many years been the sole denizens of the “Dean.”No one in the neighbourhood knew exactly to whom the estate belonged. Even its last occupier had been only a tenant at will; and the real owner was supposed to reside somewhere abroad—in the plantations of Virginia, it was believed.There were not many who troubled their heads by conjectures upon the subject: for Stone Dean lay so much out of the line of the ordinary roads of the county, that but few persons ever found occasion to pass near it. Few could say they had ever been in sight of it. There were people living within five miles of the place that did not even know of its existence; and others who had once known, and forgotten it.Of late, however, the “Old house of Stone Dean” had become a subject of some interest; and at the fairs, and other village gatherings, its name was often pronounced. This arose from the circumstance: that a new tenant had displaced the old fixture of a caretaker—the latter disappearing from the place as quietly and inexplicably as he had occupied it!About the new comer, and his domesticménage, there was an air of peculiarity approaching the mysterious. Such of the peasants, as had found pretext for visiting the house, reported that there was but one servant in the establishment—a young man, with a copper-coloured skin, and long straight black hair, who answered to the name of “Oriole;” and who appeared to be of the race of American Indians—a party of whom from the Transatlantic Plantations had about that time paid a visit to England.It was further known that Oriole either could not speak English, or would not. At all events, the visitors to Stone Dean had not been able to elicit from the servant any great amount of information respecting the master.The master himself, however, was not long resident in the county of Bucks before he became well enough known to his neighbours. He was in the habit of meeting them at their markets and merry-makings; of entering into free converse with them on many subjects—more especially on matters appertaining to their political welfare; and seemed to lose no opportunity of giving them instructive hints in regard to theirrights, as well aswrongs.Such sentiments were neither new, nor uncongenial, to the dwellers amongst the Chilterns. They had long been cherished in their hearts; but the dread of the Star chamber hindered them from rising to their lips. The man, therefore, who had the courage to give speech to them could not fail to be popular among the worthy yeomanry of Bucks; and such, in reality, had become the occupant of Stone Dean, in a few short weeks after taking up his residence in their county.This individual possessed other claims to popular favour. He was a gentleman—nobly born and highly bred. His appearance and behaviour proclaimed these points beyond cavil; and in such matters the instinct of the rustic is rarely incorrect. Furthermore, the stranger was a person of elegant appearance; perhaps not regularly handsome, but with that air ofsavoir faire, and bold bearing, sure to attract admiration. Plainly, but richly dressed; a splendid horseman, and riding a splendid horse withal; frank and affable, not as if condescending—for at this the instinct of the rustic revolts—but distinguished by that simple unselfish spirit, which characterises the true gentleman, how could Henry Holtspur fail to be popular?Such was the cavalier, who had conquered the arm of Captain Scarthe, and the heart of Marion Wade.It was the night of that same day, on which thefêtehad been held in the park of Sir Marmaduke Wade. The unexpected arrival of the cuirassiers—with the exciting circumstances that succeeded—had brought the sports to an early termination.After incidents of so tragical a character, it was not likely that any one should care to continue the tame diversion of quoits, or balloon. Even single-stick and wrestling appeared insipid—succeeding to that strife, that had well-nigh proved deadly.Long before night, the old camp had become cleared of its crowd. Though groups lingered later in the park, it was not in pursuance of sport, but out of curiosity, and to converse about what was passing at the mansion—whither the cuirassier captain and his troopers had transported themselves, after reading that ironical appeal to the hospitality of its owner.Among the earliest who had left the ground was the conqueror in the equestrian combat. He could not have gone direct home; or he must have again ridden abroad: since at a late hour of the night—his horse dappled with sweat and foam—he was seen turning out of the king’s highway, into the bridle-road already described, as running over the ridges in the direction of Stone Dean.As the woods extended nearly the whole of the way, he rode in shadow—though a bright moon was beaming in the heavens above. He rode in silence too. But the subject of his thoughts may be easily conjectured. Treading a track oft hallowed by her presence, what but Marion Wade could he be thinking of?More unerringly might his sentiments be divined, when, on reaching the open glade, he stopped under the spreading beech, raised his beaver from his head, and gazed for some seconds upon the white glove, glistening beneath itspanacheof black plumes.As he did so, his features exhibited a mingled expression—half fondness, half fear—as if his mind was wavering between confidence and doubt. It was an expression difficult to read; and no one ignorant of the circumstances of his life—perhaps no one but himself—could have given it the true interpretation.Henry Holtspur had more than one thought to sadden his spirit; but the one which most troubled him then was, that she, who had given the glove—for he fondly clung to the belief that it had been a gift—that she had ceased to think either of it or of him. It was now six days since that token had been received; and, excepting at thefête, he had not met her again. She came no more outside the enclosure of the park—no more was the track of her palfrey impressed upon the forest path.Why had she discontinued those lonely rides—those wanderings in the wood, that had led to such sweet encounters?For days past, and every hour of the day, had Holtspur been asking himself this question; but as yet it remained unanswered.Little did young Walter Wade suspect the profound though well—concealed pleasure with which his fellow traveller had heard, and accepted his proffered hospitality. The promised introduction on the morrow would surely enable the lover to obtain some explanation—if only a word to resolve the doubt that had begun to torture him?That morrow had arrived. The introduction had been given. The interview had ended; ill-starred he might deem it: since the conduct of Marion remained inexplicable as ever. Her speeches during the brief dialogue held between them had appeared even cold. With more pain than pleasure did Holtspur now recall them.Man of the world as he was—far from being unskilled in woman’s heart, or the way of winning it—he should have reasoned differently. Perhaps had the object of this new passion been an ordinary woman, he might have done so. Many had been his conquests; maidens of many climes, and of many shades of complexion—dark and fair, brunette and blonde—all beautiful; but none so brilliantly beautiful as that blue-eyed golden-haired Saxon girl, who had now made conquest ofhisheart, and held even his reason in captivity.He gazed upon the glove with a glance at once tender and inquiring—as if he might obtain from it an answer to that question of all-absorbing interest:—whether, under the shadow of that sacred tree it had fallen to the ground by accident, or whether it had been dropped by design?His steed struck the turf with impatient hoof, as if demanding a reply.“Ah! Hubert,” muttered his rider, “much as I love you—even despite the service you have this day done me—I should part with you, to be assured, that I ought to esteem this spot the most hallowed upon all the earth. But, come, old friend! that’s no reason why you should be kept any longer out of your stall. You must be tired after your tournament, and a trot of twenty miles at its termination. I’faith, I’m fatigued myself. Let us home, and to rest!”So saying, the cavalier, by a slight pressure of his knees against the side of his well-trained steed—a signal which the latter perfectly understood—once more set Hubert in motion; who carried him silently away from that scene of uncertain souvenirs.

The traveller, journeying among the Chiltern Hills, will often find himself on the summit of a ridge, that sweeping round upon itself, encloses a deep basin-like valley, of circular shape.

Many of these natural concavities are of considerable size—having a superficial extent of several hundreds of acres. Often a farm homestead may be seen nestling within their sheltered limits; and not unfrequently a noble mansion, surrounded by green pastures—these again bordered by a belt of forest trees, cresting the summit of the surrounding ridge,—the whole appearing like some landscape picture, set in a circular frame.

Such a picture was presented in the valley of Stone Dean: a fair mansion in the centre of a smiling park, with a rustic framework of beechen forest, coping the hills that encircled it.

The day was when the park and mansion of Stone Dean may have been kept in better repair. At the period of which we write, about both was visible an air of neglect—like a painting that has hung unheeded against the wall, till tarnished by dust and time.

Both dwelling and outbuildings exhibited evidence of decay, and but little sign of occupation. But for the smoke rising out of one of its tottering chimneys—and this not always to be seen—one viewing the house from the ridge above, would have come to the conclusion that it was uninhabited. The shrubbery had become transformed into a thicket; the pastures, overgrown with gorse, genista, and bramble, more resembled a waste than a park enclosure; while the horned cattle wandering over them, appeared as wild as the deer browsing by their side; and, when startled by the step of the intruder, were equally alert in seeking the concealment of the surrounding forest.

Neither domesticated quadruped, nor bird appeared about the walls or within the enclosures; where a human voice was rarely heard to interrupt the shrill screech of the jay from the bordering woods, the clear piping of the blackbird amid the neglected shrubbery, and the monotonous cawing of the rooks upon the tops of the tall elm trees, that, holding hundreds of their nests, darkly overshadowed the dwelling.

In truth, Stone Dean had been a long time untenanted, except by one of those peculiar creatures termed “caretakers;” a grey-headed old veteran, who appeared less an occupant than a fixture of the place. He, his dog—old like himself—and a cat equally venerable, had for many years been the sole denizens of the “Dean.”

No one in the neighbourhood knew exactly to whom the estate belonged. Even its last occupier had been only a tenant at will; and the real owner was supposed to reside somewhere abroad—in the plantations of Virginia, it was believed.

There were not many who troubled their heads by conjectures upon the subject: for Stone Dean lay so much out of the line of the ordinary roads of the county, that but few persons ever found occasion to pass near it. Few could say they had ever been in sight of it. There were people living within five miles of the place that did not even know of its existence; and others who had once known, and forgotten it.

Of late, however, the “Old house of Stone Dean” had become a subject of some interest; and at the fairs, and other village gatherings, its name was often pronounced. This arose from the circumstance: that a new tenant had displaced the old fixture of a caretaker—the latter disappearing from the place as quietly and inexplicably as he had occupied it!

About the new comer, and his domesticménage, there was an air of peculiarity approaching the mysterious. Such of the peasants, as had found pretext for visiting the house, reported that there was but one servant in the establishment—a young man, with a copper-coloured skin, and long straight black hair, who answered to the name of “Oriole;” and who appeared to be of the race of American Indians—a party of whom from the Transatlantic Plantations had about that time paid a visit to England.

It was further known that Oriole either could not speak English, or would not. At all events, the visitors to Stone Dean had not been able to elicit from the servant any great amount of information respecting the master.

The master himself, however, was not long resident in the county of Bucks before he became well enough known to his neighbours. He was in the habit of meeting them at their markets and merry-makings; of entering into free converse with them on many subjects—more especially on matters appertaining to their political welfare; and seemed to lose no opportunity of giving them instructive hints in regard to theirrights, as well aswrongs.

Such sentiments were neither new, nor uncongenial, to the dwellers amongst the Chilterns. They had long been cherished in their hearts; but the dread of the Star chamber hindered them from rising to their lips. The man, therefore, who had the courage to give speech to them could not fail to be popular among the worthy yeomanry of Bucks; and such, in reality, had become the occupant of Stone Dean, in a few short weeks after taking up his residence in their county.

This individual possessed other claims to popular favour. He was a gentleman—nobly born and highly bred. His appearance and behaviour proclaimed these points beyond cavil; and in such matters the instinct of the rustic is rarely incorrect. Furthermore, the stranger was a person of elegant appearance; perhaps not regularly handsome, but with that air ofsavoir faire, and bold bearing, sure to attract admiration. Plainly, but richly dressed; a splendid horseman, and riding a splendid horse withal; frank and affable, not as if condescending—for at this the instinct of the rustic revolts—but distinguished by that simple unselfish spirit, which characterises the true gentleman, how could Henry Holtspur fail to be popular?

Such was the cavalier, who had conquered the arm of Captain Scarthe, and the heart of Marion Wade.

It was the night of that same day, on which thefêtehad been held in the park of Sir Marmaduke Wade. The unexpected arrival of the cuirassiers—with the exciting circumstances that succeeded—had brought the sports to an early termination.

After incidents of so tragical a character, it was not likely that any one should care to continue the tame diversion of quoits, or balloon. Even single-stick and wrestling appeared insipid—succeeding to that strife, that had well-nigh proved deadly.

Long before night, the old camp had become cleared of its crowd. Though groups lingered later in the park, it was not in pursuance of sport, but out of curiosity, and to converse about what was passing at the mansion—whither the cuirassier captain and his troopers had transported themselves, after reading that ironical appeal to the hospitality of its owner.

Among the earliest who had left the ground was the conqueror in the equestrian combat. He could not have gone direct home; or he must have again ridden abroad: since at a late hour of the night—his horse dappled with sweat and foam—he was seen turning out of the king’s highway, into the bridle-road already described, as running over the ridges in the direction of Stone Dean.

As the woods extended nearly the whole of the way, he rode in shadow—though a bright moon was beaming in the heavens above. He rode in silence too. But the subject of his thoughts may be easily conjectured. Treading a track oft hallowed by her presence, what but Marion Wade could he be thinking of?

More unerringly might his sentiments be divined, when, on reaching the open glade, he stopped under the spreading beech, raised his beaver from his head, and gazed for some seconds upon the white glove, glistening beneath itspanacheof black plumes.

As he did so, his features exhibited a mingled expression—half fondness, half fear—as if his mind was wavering between confidence and doubt. It was an expression difficult to read; and no one ignorant of the circumstances of his life—perhaps no one but himself—could have given it the true interpretation.

Henry Holtspur had more than one thought to sadden his spirit; but the one which most troubled him then was, that she, who had given the glove—for he fondly clung to the belief that it had been a gift—that she had ceased to think either of it or of him. It was now six days since that token had been received; and, excepting at thefête, he had not met her again. She came no more outside the enclosure of the park—no more was the track of her palfrey impressed upon the forest path.

Why had she discontinued those lonely rides—those wanderings in the wood, that had led to such sweet encounters?

For days past, and every hour of the day, had Holtspur been asking himself this question; but as yet it remained unanswered.

Little did young Walter Wade suspect the profound though well—concealed pleasure with which his fellow traveller had heard, and accepted his proffered hospitality. The promised introduction on the morrow would surely enable the lover to obtain some explanation—if only a word to resolve the doubt that had begun to torture him?

That morrow had arrived. The introduction had been given. The interview had ended; ill-starred he might deem it: since the conduct of Marion remained inexplicable as ever. Her speeches during the brief dialogue held between them had appeared even cold. With more pain than pleasure did Holtspur now recall them.

Man of the world as he was—far from being unskilled in woman’s heart, or the way of winning it—he should have reasoned differently. Perhaps had the object of this new passion been an ordinary woman, he might have done so. Many had been his conquests; maidens of many climes, and of many shades of complexion—dark and fair, brunette and blonde—all beautiful; but none so brilliantly beautiful as that blue-eyed golden-haired Saxon girl, who had now made conquest ofhisheart, and held even his reason in captivity.

He gazed upon the glove with a glance at once tender and inquiring—as if he might obtain from it an answer to that question of all-absorbing interest:—whether, under the shadow of that sacred tree it had fallen to the ground by accident, or whether it had been dropped by design?

His steed struck the turf with impatient hoof, as if demanding a reply.

“Ah! Hubert,” muttered his rider, “much as I love you—even despite the service you have this day done me—I should part with you, to be assured, that I ought to esteem this spot the most hallowed upon all the earth. But, come, old friend! that’s no reason why you should be kept any longer out of your stall. You must be tired after your tournament, and a trot of twenty miles at its termination. I’faith, I’m fatigued myself. Let us home, and to rest!”

So saying, the cavalier, by a slight pressure of his knees against the side of his well-trained steed—a signal which the latter perfectly understood—once more set Hubert in motion; who carried him silently away from that scene of uncertain souvenirs.

Volume One—Chapter Twenty Two.It was late at night when Henry Holtspur passed between the ivy-mantled piers, that supported the dilapidated wooden gate of Stone Dean Park. The massive door of the old mansion was standing open, as he rode forward to it. A light, faintly flickering within the hall, showed in dim outline the wide doorway, with its rounded arch of Norman architecture.Midway between the jambs could be distinguished the figure of a man—standing motionless—as if awaiting his approach.The moon was shining upon this individual with sufficient clearness to show: that he was a young man of medium stature, straight as a lance, and habited in a sort of tunic, of what appeared to be dressed deerskin. His complexion was a reddish brown—darker from the shadowing of a shock of jet-black hair; while a pair of eyes, that glistened against the moonlight, like two circular discs of highly-polished ebony, exhibited no appearance of surprise at the approach of the horseman.Something resembling a turban appeared upon the young man’s head; while his legs were wrapped in leggings of similar material to that which composed the tunic, and his feet were also encased in achaussureof buckskin. A belt around his waist showed a pattern of coloured embroidery; with a short knife stuck behind it, resting diagonally over the region of the heart.Up to the moment that the horseman made halt in front of the doorway, this individual had neither spoken nor moved—not even as much as a finger; and with the moonlight full upon his face, and revealing his dusky complexion, it would not have been difficult for a stranger to have mistaken him for a statue of bronze—the stoop of the doorway appearing as its pedestal, and the arch above answering to the alcove in which it had been placed. It was only after the horseman had fairly checked his steed to a stand, that the statue condescended to step down from its niche!Then, gliding forward with the stealthy tread of a cat, the Indian—for such was this taciturn individual—caught hold of the bridle-rein, and stood waiting for his master to dismount.“Walk Hubert about for five minutes,” said the latter, as he leaped out of the saddle. “That ruined stable’s too damp for him after the exercise he has had. See that he’s well rubbed down, and freely fed, before you leave him.”To these directions, although delivered in his own native language, the copper-coloured groom made no verbal response.A slight motion of the head alone indicated that he understood, and consented to obey them.His master, evidently looking for no other sort of reply, passed on towards the doorway.“Has any one been after me, Oriole?” inquired he, pausing upon the steps.Oriole raised his right arm into a horizontal position, and pointed towards the open entrance.“Some one inside?”The interrogatory was answered by a nod in the affirmative.“Only one, or more?”The Indian held up his hand with all the fingers closed except one.“One only. Did he come a-foot, or on horseback?”Oriole made answer, by placing the fore and middle fingers of his right hand astride of the index finger of the left.“A horseman!” said the cavalier, translating the sign; “’Tis late for a visitor—especially as I did not expect any one to-night. Is he a stranger, Oriole?”The Indian signalled an affirmative, by spreading his fingers, and placing them so as to cover both his eyes.“Does he appear to have come from a distance?”The pantomimic answer to this was the right arm extended to its full length, with the fore finger held in a vertical position—the hand being then drawn slowly in towards the body.The horseman had come from a distance—a fact that the Indian had deduced from the condition of his horse.“As soon as you have stalled Hubert, show the stranger into my sitting-room. Be quick about it: he may not intend to stay.”Oriole, leading off the steed, passed out of sight as silently as if both had been the images of a dissolving view.“I hope it is one from London,” soliloquised the cavalier, as he entered the house. “I want a messenger to the City, and cannot spare either Dancey or Walford. Likely enough Scarthe’s coming down is known there before this; but Sir Marmaduke’s accession to the cause will be news, and good news, both to Pym and Hampden.”“I shall not wait for Oriole to show him into my room,” he continued, after a moment’s reflection. “He will be in the old dining-hall, I suppose. I shall go to him at once.”So reflecting, the cavalier entered the room where he expected to salute his nocturnal visitor.Finding it empty, he proceeded to explore another apartment, into which Oriole might have ushered the stranger; and then another; and at last the library—the apartment habitually used by himself, and where he had desired his guest to be shown in to him.The library was also found untenanted. No visitor was there.The cavalier was beginning to feel surprised; when a light glimmering in the kitchen, and a sound heard from it, led him to proceed in that direction.On entering this homely apartment, he beheld the individual, who had done him the honour to await his coming home at such a late hour of the night. A glance inside betrayed the presence of Gregory Garth.The ex-footpad was stretched along a large beechwood bench, in front of the fire; which, though originally a good one, was now in a somewhat smouldering condition—the half-burnt fagots having parted in twain, and tumbled down on each side of theandirons.There was no lamp; but from the red embers, and the blaze that intermittently twinkled, there came light enough to enable the cavalier to identify the form and features of his visitor.Their owner was as sound asleep, as if in his own house, and reclining under the coverlet of his own couch; whilst a stentorian snore, proceeding from his spread nostrils, proclaimed a slumber from which it would require a good shaking to arouse him.“So Gregory Garth!” muttered the cavalier, bending over the sleeper, and gazing with a half-quizzical expression, into the countenance of his quondam retainer. “It’s you, my worthy sir, I have the honour of entertaining?”A prolonged snore—such as might proceed from the nostrils of a rhinoceros—was the only response.“I wonder what’s brought him here to-night, so soon after—. Shall I awake him, and ask; or leave him to snore away till the morning?”Another trumpet-like snort seemed intended to signify the assent of the sleeper to the latter course of proceeding.“Well,” continued the cavalier, “I’m rather pleased to find him here. It looks as if he had kept his promise, and disbanded those terrible brigands of his. I trust he has done so. There’s a spark of good in the rascal, or used to be, though who knows whether it hasn’t been trampled out before this. Judging from the soundness of that slumber, one can scarcely think there’s anything very heavy upon his conscience. Whatever he has done, it’s to be hoped he has kept clear of—”The cavalier hesitated to pronounce the word that had come uppermost in his thoughts.“Holding a ten-foot pike within twelve inches of a man’s breast, is ugly evidence against him. Who knows what might have been the result, if I hadn’t identified those features in time?”“Shall I let him sleep on? It’s rather a hard couch; though I’ve often slept upon no better myself; and, I dare say, Gregory hasn’t been accustomed to the most luxurious style of living. He’ll take no harm where he is. I shall leave him till the morning.”Gregory’s former master was about turning away—with the intention of retiring to his own chamber—when something white in the hand of the sleeper caught his eye, causing him to step nearer and examine it.Touching up the embers with the toe of his boot, and starting a blaze, he saw that the white object was a piece of paper, folded in the form of a letter.It was one of goodly dimensions, somewhat shrivelled up between the fingers of the ex-footpad, that were clutching it with firm muscular grasp. A large red seal was visible on the envelope which the cavalier—on scrutinising it more closely—could perceive to bear the impress of the Royal Arms.“A letter from the King!” muttered he, in a tone of surprise. “To whom is it directed, I wonder? And how comes this worthy to have been so suddenly transformed, from a robber on the King’s highway into a King’s courier?”The first question might have been answered by reading the superscription; but this was hidden by the broad horny palm against which the back of the letter rested.To obtain the solution to either mystery it would be necessary to arouse the sleeper; and this the cavalier now determined upon doing.“Gregory Garth!” cried he, in a loud voice, and placing his lips within an inch of the footpad’s ear, “Gregory Garth! Stand and deliver!”The well-known summons acted upon the sleeper like an electric shock—as when often pronounced by himself it had upon others—though perhaps with a different significance.Starting into an erect attitude—and nearly staggering into the fire, before he could get upon his legs—Garth instinctively repeated the phrase:“Stand and deliver!”Then, in the confusion of his half-awakened senses, he continued his accustomed formula:—“Your money or your life! Keep your ground, comrades! They won’t resist. They’re civil gents—”“Ha! ha! ha!” interrupted the cavalier, with a shout of laughter, as he seized his ci-devant servitor by the shoulder, and pushed him back upon the bench. “Be quiet, Gregory; or you’ll scare the rats out of the house.”“O Lor—O Lord! Master Henry—you it be! I war a dreamin’—I arn’t awake yet—a thousand pardons, Master Henry!”“Ha! ha! ha! Well, Gregory—Fortunately there’s nothing but the rats to listen to these dreams of yours; else you might be telling tales upon yourself that would lead to the losing of your new commission.”“My new commission! What mean ye by that, Master Henry?”“Why, from that which you carry in your hand,” replied the cavalier, nodding significantly towards the letter. “I take it, you’ve turned King’s courier?”“Ah I now I understan’ ye. Master Henry, King’s cooreer ’ideed! That ’ud be a tidyish bizness for Gregory Garth. If I beant that myself tho’, I’ve been and met one as is. It war all ’bout this bit o’ a letter I coomed over here the night—else I’d a made my call at a more seezonable hour.”“Is it for me?”“Well, Master Henry, it aint ’zactly ’dressed to you, nor written to ye neyther; but, as far as I’m able to make out the meenin’ o’ ’t, I think as how there be somethin’ in’t you oughter know about. But ye can tell better after you ha’ read it.”Gregory handed the letter to the cavalier; who now perceived, that, although the seal was intact, the envelope had been torn open at the edges.“A king’s despatch! And you’ve opened it, Gregory?”“Ye-es, Master Henry,” drawled the footpad. “It coomed somehow apart atween my fingers. May be I’ve done wrong? I didn’t know it war a king’s despatch. And may be if Ihadknow’d,” he added in an under tone, “I should a opened it all the same.”The cavalier looked at the superscription:—ForYe Captain Scarthe, Command: H.M. Royal Cuirassiers,Bulstrode Park, Shire of Buckingham.“This is not for me, Garth. It is addressed to—”“I know all that, Master Henry; though I didn’t last night when I got the thing. I heerd o’ their coomin’ up the road this mornin’, but—”“But how came you by the despatch?”“How coomed I by it?”“Yes, who gave it to you?”“Well—Master Henry—I got it—a gentleman I met last night—he—he gin it me.”“Last night you say? At what hour?”“Well, it was lateish—considerably lateish i’ the night.”“Was it before, or after—?”“I met you, Master Henry? That be what ye would be askin’? Well, it war a—leetlish bit arter.”Gregory hung his head, looking rather sheepish, as he made the stammering acknowledgment. He evidently dreaded further cross-questioning.“What sort of gentleman was he?” inquired the cavalier, with an air of interest, that had something else for its cause than the backslidings of the footpad.“He was wonderful fine dressed, an’ rode a smartish sort o’ beast—he did. ’Ceptin’ that ere black o’ yours Master Henry, I han’t seed a better hoss for some time to coom. As for the gent hisself, he sayed he war jest what ye ha’ been a callin’ me—a King’s cooreer.”“And so you took this from the King’s courier?”“Oh! Master Hen—”“I am sure he did notgiveit to you?”“Well, Master Henry, it’s no use my telling you a lie ’bout it. I acknowledge Itukthe letter from him.”“And something else, no doubt. Come, Garth! no beating about the bush. Tell the whole truth!”“Good lor! Master; must I tell ye all?”“You must; or you and I never exchange words again.”“Lor—O Lord! I’ll tell you, then everything that happened atween us. Ye see, Master Henry,” continued he, disposing himself for a full confession, “you see, the gent had such fine things about him—as a king’s cooreer oughter have, I suppose—a watch an’ chain, and fine clothes, an’ a goold pencil, an’ a thing he called a locket, to say nothin’ o’—”“I don’t want the inventory, Garth,” interrupted the cavalier. “I want to know whatyoudid to him. You stripped him of all these fine things, I suppose?”“Well, Master Henry, since I must tell ye the truth o’t, I woant deny but I tuk some on ’em from him. He didn’t need ’em, nigh as much as myself—that hedn’t got nothin’ in the world, but them old duds as ye seed stuck up on sticks. I eased him o’ his trumpery; that I confess to.”“What more did you do to him?”This question was asked in a tone of stern demand.“Nothing more—I declare it, Master Henry—only—to make sure against his follerin’ o’ me—I tied him, hand and foot; and left ’im in the old hut by the roadside—whar there would be less danger o’ his catchin’ cold i’ the night air.”“How considerate of you! Ah, Gregory Garth! Gregory Garth! All this after what you promised me, and so emphatically too!”“I swar, Master Henry, I han’t broke my promise to ye. I swar it!”“Haven’t broken your promise! Wretch! you only make matters worse by such a declaration. Didn’t you say just now, that it was after parting with me, you met this messenger?”“That’s true; but you forgot, Master Henry, I promised to youthat nightshould be my last upon the road: an’ it has been, an’ will be.”“What mean you by this equivocation?”“’Twar jesteleven, when you an’ yer young friend rode off. Thear war still an hour o’ the night to the good; and, as ill-luck would have it, jest then the feller kim ridin’ up, glitterin’ all over in spangles an’ satin, like a pigeon, as kep’ sayin’ ‘Come an’ pluck me!’ What cud I do? He wanted pluckin’, and I hadn’t the heart to refuse him. I did it; but I swar to ye Master Henry—an’ I swar it, as I hope for mercy hereafter—that I had him strippedafore it struck twelve. I heard the bells o’ Peters Chaffont a ringin’ that hour, jest as I was ridin’ away from the ruin.”“Ridingaway! You took his horse then?”“Sure, Master Henry, you wouldn’t a had me to walk, with a beest standin’ ready, saddled on the road afore me? He couldn’t a been no use howsomedever to the cooreer: as he warn’t a’ goin’ any furrer that night. Beside ye see, I had all them clothes to carry. I couldn’t leavethembehind: not knowin’ as they mightn’t some day betray me—after I had turned honest.”“Garth! Garth! I doubt that day will never come. I fear you are incorrigible.”“Master Henry!” cried the ex-footpad, in a tone in which serious sincerity was strangely blended with the ludicrous. “Did you iver know o’ me to break a promise? Did ye iver in yer life?”“Well, in truth,” answered the cavalier, responding to the earnest appeal which his old servitor had addressed to him, “in theletterI do not remember that I ever have. But in thespirit—alas! Gregory,—”“Oh! Master; doan’t reproach me no more. I can’t abear it from you! I made that promise the t’other night, an’ ye’ll see if I don’t keep it. Ah! I’ll keep it if I shud starve. I will by—”And the ex-footpad uttering an emphatic phrase, as if more fixedly to clinch his determination, struck his right hand forcibly against his ribs—his huge chest giving out a hollow sound—as though it had received the blow of a trip-hammer.“Gregory Garth,” said the cavalier speaking in a serious tone, “if you would have me believe in the sincerity of your conversion, you must answer me one question, and answer it without evasion. I do not ask it either out of idle curiosity, or with any wish to use the answer, whatever it be, to your prejudice. You know me, Gregory; and you will not deceive me?”“Trust me for that, Master Henry—niver, niver! Ask your question. Whatsomever it be, I’ll gie ye a true answer.”“Answer it, only if ye can say, Yes. If your answer must be in the negative, I don’t want to hear it. Your silence will be sufficient.”“Put it, Master Henry; put it: I aint afeerd.” The cavalier bent forward, and whispered the interrogatory:—“Is your hand clear of—murder?” “O Lord!” exclaimed the footpad, starting back with some show of horror, and a glance half reproachful. “O lor, Master Henry! Could you a suspeecioned me o’ such a thing? Murder—no—no—never! I can swar to ye, I never thort o’ doin’ such a thing; and my hands are clear o’ blood as them o’ the infant in its kreddle. I’ve been wicked enough ’ithout that. I’ve robbed as ye know—war a’ goin’ to rob yourself an’ yer friend—”“Stay, Garth! what would you have done, had I not recognised you?”“Run, Master Henry! run like the old Nick! I’d a tuk to my heels the next minnit, after I see’d ye war in earnest; and if yer pistol hadn’t a put a stop to me, I’d a left my comrades to yer mercy. Oh! Master Henry; there aint many travellers as would have behaved like you. It be the first time I ever had to do more than threeten, an’ bluster a bit; an’ that war all I intended wi’ you an’ yer friend.”“Enough, Gregory!” said the cavalier, apparently satisfied that his old henchman had never shed innocent blood.“And now,” continued he, “I hope you will never have eventhreateningto reproach yourself with in the future—at least so far as travellers are concerned. Perhaps ere long I may find you adversaries more worthy of your redoubtable pike. Meanwhile, make yourself comfortable here, till the morning. When my attendant returns from the stable, he will see to getting you some supper, and a better bed than you’ve just been roused from.”“Oh! Master Henry!” cried Garth, seeing that Holtspur was about to retire. “Doant go! please doant, till you’ve read what’s inside that ere dokyment. It consarns weighty matters, Master Henry; an’ I’m sure it must be you among others as is spoken o’ in it.”“Concerns me, you think? Is my name mentioned in it?”“No, not your name; but thar’s some orders about somebody; and from what I know o’ ye myself, I had a suspeecion, as soon as I read it,—it mout be you.”“Gregory,” said the cavalier, drawing nearer to his old servant, and speaking in a tone that betrayed some anxiety as to the effect of his words, “What you know of me, and mine, keep to yourself. Not a word to any one of my past history, as you expect secrecy for your own. Here my real name is not known. That I go by just now is assumed for a time, and a purpose. Soon I shall not care who knows the other; but not yet, Gregory, not yet. Remember that!”“I will, Master Henry.”“I shall read this despatch, then,” continued the cavalier, “since you say that it contains something that may interest me; and, especially, since I do not commit the indiscretion of breaking it open. Ha! ha! Your imprudence, worthy Garth, will save my conscience the reproach of that.”With a smile playing upon his countenance, the cavalier spread out the despatch; and, holding it down to the light of the blazing logs, soon made himself master of its contents.

It was late at night when Henry Holtspur passed between the ivy-mantled piers, that supported the dilapidated wooden gate of Stone Dean Park. The massive door of the old mansion was standing open, as he rode forward to it. A light, faintly flickering within the hall, showed in dim outline the wide doorway, with its rounded arch of Norman architecture.

Midway between the jambs could be distinguished the figure of a man—standing motionless—as if awaiting his approach.

The moon was shining upon this individual with sufficient clearness to show: that he was a young man of medium stature, straight as a lance, and habited in a sort of tunic, of what appeared to be dressed deerskin. His complexion was a reddish brown—darker from the shadowing of a shock of jet-black hair; while a pair of eyes, that glistened against the moonlight, like two circular discs of highly-polished ebony, exhibited no appearance of surprise at the approach of the horseman.

Something resembling a turban appeared upon the young man’s head; while his legs were wrapped in leggings of similar material to that which composed the tunic, and his feet were also encased in achaussureof buckskin. A belt around his waist showed a pattern of coloured embroidery; with a short knife stuck behind it, resting diagonally over the region of the heart.

Up to the moment that the horseman made halt in front of the doorway, this individual had neither spoken nor moved—not even as much as a finger; and with the moonlight full upon his face, and revealing his dusky complexion, it would not have been difficult for a stranger to have mistaken him for a statue of bronze—the stoop of the doorway appearing as its pedestal, and the arch above answering to the alcove in which it had been placed. It was only after the horseman had fairly checked his steed to a stand, that the statue condescended to step down from its niche!

Then, gliding forward with the stealthy tread of a cat, the Indian—for such was this taciturn individual—caught hold of the bridle-rein, and stood waiting for his master to dismount.

“Walk Hubert about for five minutes,” said the latter, as he leaped out of the saddle. “That ruined stable’s too damp for him after the exercise he has had. See that he’s well rubbed down, and freely fed, before you leave him.”

To these directions, although delivered in his own native language, the copper-coloured groom made no verbal response.

A slight motion of the head alone indicated that he understood, and consented to obey them.

His master, evidently looking for no other sort of reply, passed on towards the doorway.

“Has any one been after me, Oriole?” inquired he, pausing upon the steps.

Oriole raised his right arm into a horizontal position, and pointed towards the open entrance.

“Some one inside?”

The interrogatory was answered by a nod in the affirmative.

“Only one, or more?”

The Indian held up his hand with all the fingers closed except one.

“One only. Did he come a-foot, or on horseback?”

Oriole made answer, by placing the fore and middle fingers of his right hand astride of the index finger of the left.

“A horseman!” said the cavalier, translating the sign; “’Tis late for a visitor—especially as I did not expect any one to-night. Is he a stranger, Oriole?”

The Indian signalled an affirmative, by spreading his fingers, and placing them so as to cover both his eyes.

“Does he appear to have come from a distance?”

The pantomimic answer to this was the right arm extended to its full length, with the fore finger held in a vertical position—the hand being then drawn slowly in towards the body.

The horseman had come from a distance—a fact that the Indian had deduced from the condition of his horse.

“As soon as you have stalled Hubert, show the stranger into my sitting-room. Be quick about it: he may not intend to stay.”

Oriole, leading off the steed, passed out of sight as silently as if both had been the images of a dissolving view.

“I hope it is one from London,” soliloquised the cavalier, as he entered the house. “I want a messenger to the City, and cannot spare either Dancey or Walford. Likely enough Scarthe’s coming down is known there before this; but Sir Marmaduke’s accession to the cause will be news, and good news, both to Pym and Hampden.”

“I shall not wait for Oriole to show him into my room,” he continued, after a moment’s reflection. “He will be in the old dining-hall, I suppose. I shall go to him at once.”

So reflecting, the cavalier entered the room where he expected to salute his nocturnal visitor.

Finding it empty, he proceeded to explore another apartment, into which Oriole might have ushered the stranger; and then another; and at last the library—the apartment habitually used by himself, and where he had desired his guest to be shown in to him.

The library was also found untenanted. No visitor was there.

The cavalier was beginning to feel surprised; when a light glimmering in the kitchen, and a sound heard from it, led him to proceed in that direction.

On entering this homely apartment, he beheld the individual, who had done him the honour to await his coming home at such a late hour of the night. A glance inside betrayed the presence of Gregory Garth.

The ex-footpad was stretched along a large beechwood bench, in front of the fire; which, though originally a good one, was now in a somewhat smouldering condition—the half-burnt fagots having parted in twain, and tumbled down on each side of theandirons.

There was no lamp; but from the red embers, and the blaze that intermittently twinkled, there came light enough to enable the cavalier to identify the form and features of his visitor.

Their owner was as sound asleep, as if in his own house, and reclining under the coverlet of his own couch; whilst a stentorian snore, proceeding from his spread nostrils, proclaimed a slumber from which it would require a good shaking to arouse him.

“So Gregory Garth!” muttered the cavalier, bending over the sleeper, and gazing with a half-quizzical expression, into the countenance of his quondam retainer. “It’s you, my worthy sir, I have the honour of entertaining?”

A prolonged snore—such as might proceed from the nostrils of a rhinoceros—was the only response.

“I wonder what’s brought him here to-night, so soon after—. Shall I awake him, and ask; or leave him to snore away till the morning?”

Another trumpet-like snort seemed intended to signify the assent of the sleeper to the latter course of proceeding.

“Well,” continued the cavalier, “I’m rather pleased to find him here. It looks as if he had kept his promise, and disbanded those terrible brigands of his. I trust he has done so. There’s a spark of good in the rascal, or used to be, though who knows whether it hasn’t been trampled out before this. Judging from the soundness of that slumber, one can scarcely think there’s anything very heavy upon his conscience. Whatever he has done, it’s to be hoped he has kept clear of—”

The cavalier hesitated to pronounce the word that had come uppermost in his thoughts.

“Holding a ten-foot pike within twelve inches of a man’s breast, is ugly evidence against him. Who knows what might have been the result, if I hadn’t identified those features in time?”

“Shall I let him sleep on? It’s rather a hard couch; though I’ve often slept upon no better myself; and, I dare say, Gregory hasn’t been accustomed to the most luxurious style of living. He’ll take no harm where he is. I shall leave him till the morning.”

Gregory’s former master was about turning away—with the intention of retiring to his own chamber—when something white in the hand of the sleeper caught his eye, causing him to step nearer and examine it.

Touching up the embers with the toe of his boot, and starting a blaze, he saw that the white object was a piece of paper, folded in the form of a letter.

It was one of goodly dimensions, somewhat shrivelled up between the fingers of the ex-footpad, that were clutching it with firm muscular grasp. A large red seal was visible on the envelope which the cavalier—on scrutinising it more closely—could perceive to bear the impress of the Royal Arms.

“A letter from the King!” muttered he, in a tone of surprise. “To whom is it directed, I wonder? And how comes this worthy to have been so suddenly transformed, from a robber on the King’s highway into a King’s courier?”

The first question might have been answered by reading the superscription; but this was hidden by the broad horny palm against which the back of the letter rested.

To obtain the solution to either mystery it would be necessary to arouse the sleeper; and this the cavalier now determined upon doing.

“Gregory Garth!” cried he, in a loud voice, and placing his lips within an inch of the footpad’s ear, “Gregory Garth! Stand and deliver!”

The well-known summons acted upon the sleeper like an electric shock—as when often pronounced by himself it had upon others—though perhaps with a different significance.

Starting into an erect attitude—and nearly staggering into the fire, before he could get upon his legs—Garth instinctively repeated the phrase:

“Stand and deliver!”

Then, in the confusion of his half-awakened senses, he continued his accustomed formula:—“Your money or your life! Keep your ground, comrades! They won’t resist. They’re civil gents—”

“Ha! ha! ha!” interrupted the cavalier, with a shout of laughter, as he seized his ci-devant servitor by the shoulder, and pushed him back upon the bench. “Be quiet, Gregory; or you’ll scare the rats out of the house.”

“O Lor—O Lord! Master Henry—you it be! I war a dreamin’—I arn’t awake yet—a thousand pardons, Master Henry!”

“Ha! ha! ha! Well, Gregory—Fortunately there’s nothing but the rats to listen to these dreams of yours; else you might be telling tales upon yourself that would lead to the losing of your new commission.”

“My new commission! What mean ye by that, Master Henry?”

“Why, from that which you carry in your hand,” replied the cavalier, nodding significantly towards the letter. “I take it, you’ve turned King’s courier?”

“Ah I now I understan’ ye. Master Henry, King’s cooreer ’ideed! That ’ud be a tidyish bizness for Gregory Garth. If I beant that myself tho’, I’ve been and met one as is. It war all ’bout this bit o’ a letter I coomed over here the night—else I’d a made my call at a more seezonable hour.”

“Is it for me?”

“Well, Master Henry, it aint ’zactly ’dressed to you, nor written to ye neyther; but, as far as I’m able to make out the meenin’ o’ ’t, I think as how there be somethin’ in’t you oughter know about. But ye can tell better after you ha’ read it.”

Gregory handed the letter to the cavalier; who now perceived, that, although the seal was intact, the envelope had been torn open at the edges.

“A king’s despatch! And you’ve opened it, Gregory?”

“Ye-es, Master Henry,” drawled the footpad. “It coomed somehow apart atween my fingers. May be I’ve done wrong? I didn’t know it war a king’s despatch. And may be if Ihadknow’d,” he added in an under tone, “I should a opened it all the same.”

The cavalier looked at the superscription:—

ForYe Captain Scarthe, Command: H.M. Royal Cuirassiers,Bulstrode Park, Shire of Buckingham.

ForYe Captain Scarthe, Command: H.M. Royal Cuirassiers,Bulstrode Park, Shire of Buckingham.

“This is not for me, Garth. It is addressed to—”

“I know all that, Master Henry; though I didn’t last night when I got the thing. I heerd o’ their coomin’ up the road this mornin’, but—”

“But how came you by the despatch?”

“How coomed I by it?”

“Yes, who gave it to you?”

“Well—Master Henry—I got it—a gentleman I met last night—he—he gin it me.”

“Last night you say? At what hour?”

“Well, it was lateish—considerably lateish i’ the night.”

“Was it before, or after—?”

“I met you, Master Henry? That be what ye would be askin’? Well, it war a—leetlish bit arter.”

Gregory hung his head, looking rather sheepish, as he made the stammering acknowledgment. He evidently dreaded further cross-questioning.

“What sort of gentleman was he?” inquired the cavalier, with an air of interest, that had something else for its cause than the backslidings of the footpad.

“He was wonderful fine dressed, an’ rode a smartish sort o’ beast—he did. ’Ceptin’ that ere black o’ yours Master Henry, I han’t seed a better hoss for some time to coom. As for the gent hisself, he sayed he war jest what ye ha’ been a callin’ me—a King’s cooreer.”

“And so you took this from the King’s courier?”

“Oh! Master Hen—”

“I am sure he did notgiveit to you?”

“Well, Master Henry, it’s no use my telling you a lie ’bout it. I acknowledge Itukthe letter from him.”

“And something else, no doubt. Come, Garth! no beating about the bush. Tell the whole truth!”

“Good lor! Master; must I tell ye all?”

“You must; or you and I never exchange words again.”

“Lor—O Lord! I’ll tell you, then everything that happened atween us. Ye see, Master Henry,” continued he, disposing himself for a full confession, “you see, the gent had such fine things about him—as a king’s cooreer oughter have, I suppose—a watch an’ chain, and fine clothes, an’ a goold pencil, an’ a thing he called a locket, to say nothin’ o’—”

“I don’t want the inventory, Garth,” interrupted the cavalier. “I want to know whatyoudid to him. You stripped him of all these fine things, I suppose?”

“Well, Master Henry, since I must tell ye the truth o’t, I woant deny but I tuk some on ’em from him. He didn’t need ’em, nigh as much as myself—that hedn’t got nothin’ in the world, but them old duds as ye seed stuck up on sticks. I eased him o’ his trumpery; that I confess to.”

“What more did you do to him?”

This question was asked in a tone of stern demand.

“Nothing more—I declare it, Master Henry—only—to make sure against his follerin’ o’ me—I tied him, hand and foot; and left ’im in the old hut by the roadside—whar there would be less danger o’ his catchin’ cold i’ the night air.”

“How considerate of you! Ah, Gregory Garth! Gregory Garth! All this after what you promised me, and so emphatically too!”

“I swar, Master Henry, I han’t broke my promise to ye. I swar it!”

“Haven’t broken your promise! Wretch! you only make matters worse by such a declaration. Didn’t you say just now, that it was after parting with me, you met this messenger?”

“That’s true; but you forgot, Master Henry, I promised to youthat nightshould be my last upon the road: an’ it has been, an’ will be.”

“What mean you by this equivocation?”

“’Twar jesteleven, when you an’ yer young friend rode off. Thear war still an hour o’ the night to the good; and, as ill-luck would have it, jest then the feller kim ridin’ up, glitterin’ all over in spangles an’ satin, like a pigeon, as kep’ sayin’ ‘Come an’ pluck me!’ What cud I do? He wanted pluckin’, and I hadn’t the heart to refuse him. I did it; but I swar to ye Master Henry—an’ I swar it, as I hope for mercy hereafter—that I had him strippedafore it struck twelve. I heard the bells o’ Peters Chaffont a ringin’ that hour, jest as I was ridin’ away from the ruin.”

“Ridingaway! You took his horse then?”

“Sure, Master Henry, you wouldn’t a had me to walk, with a beest standin’ ready, saddled on the road afore me? He couldn’t a been no use howsomedever to the cooreer: as he warn’t a’ goin’ any furrer that night. Beside ye see, I had all them clothes to carry. I couldn’t leavethembehind: not knowin’ as they mightn’t some day betray me—after I had turned honest.”

“Garth! Garth! I doubt that day will never come. I fear you are incorrigible.”

“Master Henry!” cried the ex-footpad, in a tone in which serious sincerity was strangely blended with the ludicrous. “Did you iver know o’ me to break a promise? Did ye iver in yer life?”

“Well, in truth,” answered the cavalier, responding to the earnest appeal which his old servitor had addressed to him, “in theletterI do not remember that I ever have. But in thespirit—alas! Gregory,—”

“Oh! Master; doan’t reproach me no more. I can’t abear it from you! I made that promise the t’other night, an’ ye’ll see if I don’t keep it. Ah! I’ll keep it if I shud starve. I will by—”

And the ex-footpad uttering an emphatic phrase, as if more fixedly to clinch his determination, struck his right hand forcibly against his ribs—his huge chest giving out a hollow sound—as though it had received the blow of a trip-hammer.

“Gregory Garth,” said the cavalier speaking in a serious tone, “if you would have me believe in the sincerity of your conversion, you must answer me one question, and answer it without evasion. I do not ask it either out of idle curiosity, or with any wish to use the answer, whatever it be, to your prejudice. You know me, Gregory; and you will not deceive me?”

“Trust me for that, Master Henry—niver, niver! Ask your question. Whatsomever it be, I’ll gie ye a true answer.”

“Answer it, only if ye can say, Yes. If your answer must be in the negative, I don’t want to hear it. Your silence will be sufficient.”

“Put it, Master Henry; put it: I aint afeerd.” The cavalier bent forward, and whispered the interrogatory:—

“Is your hand clear of—murder?” “O Lord!” exclaimed the footpad, starting back with some show of horror, and a glance half reproachful. “O lor, Master Henry! Could you a suspeecioned me o’ such a thing? Murder—no—no—never! I can swar to ye, I never thort o’ doin’ such a thing; and my hands are clear o’ blood as them o’ the infant in its kreddle. I’ve been wicked enough ’ithout that. I’ve robbed as ye know—war a’ goin’ to rob yourself an’ yer friend—”

“Stay, Garth! what would you have done, had I not recognised you?”

“Run, Master Henry! run like the old Nick! I’d a tuk to my heels the next minnit, after I see’d ye war in earnest; and if yer pistol hadn’t a put a stop to me, I’d a left my comrades to yer mercy. Oh! Master Henry; there aint many travellers as would have behaved like you. It be the first time I ever had to do more than threeten, an’ bluster a bit; an’ that war all I intended wi’ you an’ yer friend.”

“Enough, Gregory!” said the cavalier, apparently satisfied that his old henchman had never shed innocent blood.

“And now,” continued he, “I hope you will never have eventhreateningto reproach yourself with in the future—at least so far as travellers are concerned. Perhaps ere long I may find you adversaries more worthy of your redoubtable pike. Meanwhile, make yourself comfortable here, till the morning. When my attendant returns from the stable, he will see to getting you some supper, and a better bed than you’ve just been roused from.”

“Oh! Master Henry!” cried Garth, seeing that Holtspur was about to retire. “Doant go! please doant, till you’ve read what’s inside that ere dokyment. It consarns weighty matters, Master Henry; an’ I’m sure it must be you among others as is spoken o’ in it.”

“Concerns me, you think? Is my name mentioned in it?”

“No, not your name; but thar’s some orders about somebody; and from what I know o’ ye myself, I had a suspeecion, as soon as I read it,—it mout be you.”

“Gregory,” said the cavalier, drawing nearer to his old servant, and speaking in a tone that betrayed some anxiety as to the effect of his words, “What you know of me, and mine, keep to yourself. Not a word to any one of my past history, as you expect secrecy for your own. Here my real name is not known. That I go by just now is assumed for a time, and a purpose. Soon I shall not care who knows the other; but not yet, Gregory, not yet. Remember that!”

“I will, Master Henry.”

“I shall read this despatch, then,” continued the cavalier, “since you say that it contains something that may interest me; and, especially, since I do not commit the indiscretion of breaking it open. Ha! ha! Your imprudence, worthy Garth, will save my conscience the reproach of that.”

With a smile playing upon his countenance, the cavalier spread out the despatch; and, holding it down to the light of the blazing logs, soon made himself master of its contents.

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