Volume One—Chapter Twenty Three.

Volume One—Chapter Twenty Three.The purport of the King’s missive to Scarthe did not appear to take Henry Holtspur much by surprise. His bearing betokened, that part of what it contained was known to him already; and the other part he might have been expecting. Enough, however, appeared, in his manner, to convince Gregory Garth, that he had given no offence to his old master in having stripped the courier of his despatch.Whilst Holtspur was still pouring over the paper, the Indian youth entered; and after standing a moment or two in solemn silence—as if to see whether he was required for any particular purpose—he took a lamp from the table. Having alighted it at the blaze of the fire, he again withdrew. He departed as silently as he had entered; leaving Gregory Garth gaping in true Saxon astonishment, and wondering what part of the world had given birth to this wordless foreigner!The cavalier after reading the despatch folded it up; and deposited it under the breast of his doublet, as something to be carefully kept. Then turning to the ex-footpad, and pointing significantly to some viands that appeared upon the shelf, he strode out into the corridor, and took his way towards the library—into which Oriole, with the lamp, had already preceded him.This was a large room, plainly and somewhat scantily furnished. An oaken table stood in the centre, with some chairs of like construction, set scatteringly around the sides. Against the walls were suspended a number of paintings—their subjects scarce distinguishable under an envelope of long neglected dust. Here and there stood bookcases, their shelves close-packed with huge antique tomes, equally the victims of long neglect. Other objects, lying negligently around, appeared to have seen more recent service. There were arms, accoutrements, riding gear, travelling valises, and such like paraphernalia—placedsans façonon chairs, tables, or the floor, and giving evidence that the house was tenanted by one who contemplated only a temporary sojourn.There was no one in the room as the cavalier entered it. The Indian, after depositing his lamp on the table, had gone out again; and was now seen standing on the stoup of the front entrance—silent and statue-like, as at the moment of his master’s return.“So, so,” muttered the cavalier, seating himself by the table, and once more perusing the despatch. “Scarthe sent down to recruit! And for what purpose? Not for a new campaign against the Scots? I think his Majesty has had enough of that enemy. There’s another may soon claim his attention—nearer home. Perhaps he is growing suspicious; and this may explain his instructions to the cuirassier captain. Well, let him obey them, if he can. As to recruiting, I fancy I’ve been before him in that work. He’ll not add many files to his troop in this county—if peasants’ promises are worth relying upon. Hampden’s persecution and popularity have secured Buckinghamshire for the good cause,—the yeomanry to a man; and as for the peasantry, I have gottheminto the right way of thinking. The gentry, one after another, come round to us. This day has decided Sir Marmaduke Wade; converting him from a passive spectator to an active partisan—conspirator, if the name rings better. Ah! Sir Marmaduke! henceforth I shall love you, almost as much as I love your daughter. No, no, no! That is a love which passes all comparison; for which I would sacrifice everything upon earth—ay,even the cause!“No one hears me: I am speaking to my own heart. It is idle to attempt deluding it. I may disguise my love from the world, but not from myself—no, nor fromher. She must know it ere this? She must have read it in my looks and actions? Not an hour passes that she is not in my mind,—not a minute. Even in my dreams do I behold her image—as palpably before me, as if she were present—that glorious image of feminine grace, crowned with red roses and yellow gold!“Can it be an illusion? Could it have beenall accident? Have these encounters been fortuitous—on my side only designed? And the last and dearest of all,—when was suffered to fall to the ground that snow-white souvenir, I have pinned so proudly to my beaver—tell me, ye spirits who preside over the destinies of Love—say that I am not the victim of a fancy false, as it would be fatal to my happiness!“I saw her—I spoke to her—I dared not ask herself. Though yearning for the truth—as the soul yearns for a knowledge ofhereafter—I dared not trust myself to demand it. I dreaded the answer, as one building castles in the air, may dread the tempest that in an instant may destroy them.“O God! I feel, that if this structure be destroyed—this last love of my life—I shall perish amid the ruins!”The cavalier paused, a deep sigh causing his bosom to heave upward—as if in terror at the contemplation of such a contingency.After a moment he resumed the thread of his reflections.“She must have seen her glove so conspicuously placed? She could not fail to recognise it? She could not mistake the motive of my wearing it? If, after all,heract was not intentional—if the gauntlet was reallylost—then amIlost. I shall pass in her eyes as an impertinent—a presumptive trickster. Instead of her love I shall be the object of her contempt—not pitied, but scorned! Even Scarthe, despite his defeat, will be thought worthier than I!“I am mad to think of her! More than mad to hope she should think of me! Worse than wicked to wish it. Even if sheshouldlove me, how can it end?Only in her undoing! Heaven keep me from the crime!“As Heaven is my judge, I have endeavoured to avoid it. I have triednotto love her; at times wished she should not love me. This was at first; but alas! no longer can I resist the sweet fascination. My heart has leaped beyond my control; and both soul and body must now obey its inclinings. Without the love of Marion Wade, I care not how soon my life may come to an end—not much either in what way—an ignominious gallows, or an honoured grave.“Sir Marmaduke I must speak to in person. Even a letter might not now reach him. ’Tis monstrous this act of hisGracious Majesty!” The cavalier pronounced the last words with a scornful emphasis. “Monstrous, as on the King’s part, stupidly foolish. It cannot fail to effect good service for our side; and I should rejoice were it any other than Sir Marmaduke. But, to think of this man, in his house—Richard Scarthe—the wily courtier—the notorious profligate—under the same roof with Marion Wade—in the same room—seated by the same table—in her presence at all hours, by night as by day—wielding that dangerous power that springs from an attitude of authority. O Heavens!”The painful thoughts which this train of reasoning produced, caused the cavalier to start to his feet, and rapidly pace the room—in hope of allaying his agitation.“Will Sir Marmaduke remain at Bulstrode?” he continued, after a time. “He cannot help himself? To go elsewhere would only bring down upon him the wrath of this queen-ridden tyrant—perhaps subject him to some still more severe infliction? But will he keep his family there—exposed among the swaggering soldiery—perhaps to be insulted—perhaps—?“Surely he will send them away—somewhere, anywhere until a better time? Thank Heaven, there is hope of a better! I shall see Sir Marmaduke to-morrow. I promised him I should. Withher, too, shall I seek an interview; although it may end in giving me chagrin—even if it should be the last.”Having muttered this somewhat reckless resolve, the cavalier once more threw himself into a chair; and with his elbows resting upon the table, and the palms of his hands crossed over his forehead, he seemed to give way to some profound and painful reflection.Whatever it was, he was not allowed long to indulge in it. The entrance of Oriole would scarce have aroused him from his reverie—for the mocassined foot of the Indian made no sound upon the floor—but at the same instant a noise of another kind was heard within the apartment—the grinding of a horse’s hoof on the gravel scattered outside the entrance door.Oriole, after entering, had stopped in an attitude that told he had something to communicate.“What is it, Oriole? Another visitor?”The Indian nodded in the affirmative.“On horseback? I need not ask: I hear the tread of his horse. A stranger?”With the same pantomime, as he had used when interrogated before, the Indian made reply—adding also, by a repetition of his former signs, that the visitor had come from a distance.“Show him in here; see to his horse, and find stabling for him. The gentleman may perhaps make stay for the night.”Without any other acknowledgment that he understood the instructions, than by proceeding to obey them, the taciturn attendant turned on his heel, and glided out of the apartment.The arrival of a guest at that, or any other hour, caused but little surprise to the host of Stone Dean. There was nothing unusual in the circumstance. On the contrary, more than a moiety of his visitors were accustomed to make their calls after midnight—not unfrequently taking their departure before morning. Hence the “perhaps” in the orders given to Oriole.“Who can he be?” was Holtspur’s self-interrogation, as his attendant passed out of the room. “I expected no one to-night.”The grave sonorous voice, at this moment interrogating the Indian, furnished no clue to the speaker’s identity. Holtspur did not recognise it.There was no reply on the part of Oriole; but his silent gesticulation must have proved sufficient: for, shortly after, the tread of a heavy boot, accompanied by a slight tinkling of rowelled spurs, sounded within the hall. In another moment a tall dark man made his appearance in the doorway; and without waiting further invitation, or even taking off his hat, stepped resolutely into the room.The individual, thus freely presenting himself, was a man of peculiar—almost rude—aspect. He was dressed in a suit of coarse brown cloth, a felt hat without any feather, and strong trusset boots—the heels of which were furnished with iron spurs, exceedingly rusty. Instead of lace, he wore a band of plain linen of the narrowest cut; which, with the closely-trimmed hair above it, betokened an affectation of the Puritan costume, whatever may have been the religious proclivities of the wearer.Notwithstanding the commonness of his attire, there was nothing, either in his countenance or demeanour, that proclaimed him a mere messenger, or servant. On the contrary, the slight salute which he vouchsafed to the cavalier, the non-removal of his hat, and the air of cool confidence which he continued to preserve, after entering the room, bespoke a man, who, whatever his rank in life, was not accustomed to cringe in the presence of the proudest.The face was rather serious than sour. The hair was dark—the skin slightly cadaverous—though the features were not disagreeable to look upon. Though far from cheerful in their expression, they were interesting from a certain cast denoting calmness and courage; traits of character further confirmed by the determined glance of a penetrating coal-black eye.“By the dust upon your doublet, Master,” said Holtspur, after returning the salutation of his visitor, “you have left some miles of road behind you, since setting foot in the stirrup?”“Twenty-five.”“That is just the distance to London. Thence, I presume?”“From London.”“May I ask your errand?”“I come fromJohn,” replied the stranger, laying a significant emphasis on the name.“You have a message for me?”“I have.”There was a pause—Holtspur remaining silent—as if awaiting the delivery of the message.“Before declaring my errand,” pursued the stranger, “I want a word, to make sure you are he for whom it is intended.”“The John who sent you, is the same who nobly resisted payment of theship money.”“Enough!” assented the messenger, taking a despatch from under the breast of his doublet, and, without farther hesitancy, handing it to his host.There was no superscription upon the folded paper; but, as the cavalier broke it open under the light of the lamp, at the head of the page could be seen something that resembled an address—written in hieroglyphics.The body of the despatch was in plain English, and as follows:“A cuirassier captain—Scarthe by name—has gone down with the skeleton of a troop to your neighbourhood. It is believed he has a commission to recruit. He is to be quartered on Sir Marmaduke Wade; but you will know all this before our messenger reaches you. It is well. Sir Marmaduke will surely hold out no longer? Make some excuse to see him, and ascertain how thisbenevolenceacts. Do all you can, without compromising yourself to make the recruiting unpopular. Call the friends together at the old rendezvous on the night of the 20th. Pym, and Martin, and I will be down, and perhaps young Harry Vane. If you could get Sir Marmaduke to attend, it would be a point. See that your invitations are conveyed with due secrecy, and by trusty hands. I give you but little time. Act with caution: for this cuirassier captain, who is a courtier of some note, is doubtless entrusted with other commissions, besides that of raising recruits. Keep your eye upon him; and keep his as much as may be off yourself. My Messenger returns here at once. Feed his horse, and despatch him. You may trust the man. He has suffered in the cause: as you may convince yourself by glancing under the brim of his beaver. Don’t be offended if he insist on wearing it in your presence. It’s a way he has. He will himself tell you his name, which for certain reasons may not be written here. The good work goes bravely on.”So ended the despatch.There was no name appended. None was needed; for although the handwriting was not that of the great patriot, Henry Holtspur well knew that the dictation was his. It was not the first communication of a similar kind that had passed between him and Hampden.The first thing which he did, after reading the despatch, was to cast a stealthy glance at the individual who had been its bearer; and directed towards that portion immediately under his hat.Holtspur could observe nothing there—at least nothing to explain the ambiguous allusion in the letter of his correspondent. One circumstance, however, was singular. On both sides, the brim of the beaver was drawn down, and fastened in this fashion by a strap of leather passing under the chin: as if the wearer had caught cold in his ears, and wished to protect them from the night air.The oddness of the style did not remain long a puzzle. He who had adopted it noticed the furtive scrutiny of the cavalier, and answered it with a grim smile.“You perceive that I wear my hat rather slouchingly—not to say ill-manneredly,” said he. “It has been my fashion of late. Why I’ve taken to it would be explained by my uncovering; but perhaps it would save trouble, if I tell you my name. I am William Prynne.”“Prynne!” exclaimed the cavalier, starting forward and eagerly grasping the Puritan by the hand. “I am proud to see you under my poor roof; and such hospitality as I can show—”“Henry Holtspur need not declare these sentiments to William Prynne,” said the earless Puritan, interrupting the complimentary speech. “The friend of the oppressed is well-known to all who have suffered; and I am of that number. I thank you for a hospitality which I can partake of for but a few minutes. Then I must bid you adieu, and be gone. The work of the Lord must not tarry. The harvest is fast ripening; and it behoves the reapers to get their sickles in readiness.”The cavalier was too much alive to the necessity of the times, to spend a moment in idle speech. Directing the messenger’s horse to be fed—a duty which the ex-footpad took upon himself to perform—he ordered Oriole to place a repast before his visitor.To this the hungry Puritan, notwithstanding his haste, proceeded to do ample justice; while Holtspur, throwing open his desk, hurriedly indited an answer to the letter of his correspondent.Like the despatch, it was neither directed nor signed by any name, that could compromise either the writer or him for whom it was intended. The greatest danger would be to him who was to be entrusted with its delivery. But the staunch partisan of religious liberty recked little of the risk. The great cause, glowing in his zealous heart, rendered him insensible to petty fears; and, after finishing his hurried meal, he once more betook himself to the saddle; shook the hand of his host with cold yet fraternal grasp; bade adieu to Stone Dean; and rode swiftly and silently away.

The purport of the King’s missive to Scarthe did not appear to take Henry Holtspur much by surprise. His bearing betokened, that part of what it contained was known to him already; and the other part he might have been expecting. Enough, however, appeared, in his manner, to convince Gregory Garth, that he had given no offence to his old master in having stripped the courier of his despatch.

Whilst Holtspur was still pouring over the paper, the Indian youth entered; and after standing a moment or two in solemn silence—as if to see whether he was required for any particular purpose—he took a lamp from the table. Having alighted it at the blaze of the fire, he again withdrew. He departed as silently as he had entered; leaving Gregory Garth gaping in true Saxon astonishment, and wondering what part of the world had given birth to this wordless foreigner!

The cavalier after reading the despatch folded it up; and deposited it under the breast of his doublet, as something to be carefully kept. Then turning to the ex-footpad, and pointing significantly to some viands that appeared upon the shelf, he strode out into the corridor, and took his way towards the library—into which Oriole, with the lamp, had already preceded him.

This was a large room, plainly and somewhat scantily furnished. An oaken table stood in the centre, with some chairs of like construction, set scatteringly around the sides. Against the walls were suspended a number of paintings—their subjects scarce distinguishable under an envelope of long neglected dust. Here and there stood bookcases, their shelves close-packed with huge antique tomes, equally the victims of long neglect. Other objects, lying negligently around, appeared to have seen more recent service. There were arms, accoutrements, riding gear, travelling valises, and such like paraphernalia—placedsans façonon chairs, tables, or the floor, and giving evidence that the house was tenanted by one who contemplated only a temporary sojourn.

There was no one in the room as the cavalier entered it. The Indian, after depositing his lamp on the table, had gone out again; and was now seen standing on the stoup of the front entrance—silent and statue-like, as at the moment of his master’s return.

“So, so,” muttered the cavalier, seating himself by the table, and once more perusing the despatch. “Scarthe sent down to recruit! And for what purpose? Not for a new campaign against the Scots? I think his Majesty has had enough of that enemy. There’s another may soon claim his attention—nearer home. Perhaps he is growing suspicious; and this may explain his instructions to the cuirassier captain. Well, let him obey them, if he can. As to recruiting, I fancy I’ve been before him in that work. He’ll not add many files to his troop in this county—if peasants’ promises are worth relying upon. Hampden’s persecution and popularity have secured Buckinghamshire for the good cause,—the yeomanry to a man; and as for the peasantry, I have gottheminto the right way of thinking. The gentry, one after another, come round to us. This day has decided Sir Marmaduke Wade; converting him from a passive spectator to an active partisan—conspirator, if the name rings better. Ah! Sir Marmaduke! henceforth I shall love you, almost as much as I love your daughter. No, no, no! That is a love which passes all comparison; for which I would sacrifice everything upon earth—ay,even the cause!

“No one hears me: I am speaking to my own heart. It is idle to attempt deluding it. I may disguise my love from the world, but not from myself—no, nor fromher. She must know it ere this? She must have read it in my looks and actions? Not an hour passes that she is not in my mind,—not a minute. Even in my dreams do I behold her image—as palpably before me, as if she were present—that glorious image of feminine grace, crowned with red roses and yellow gold!

“Can it be an illusion? Could it have beenall accident? Have these encounters been fortuitous—on my side only designed? And the last and dearest of all,—when was suffered to fall to the ground that snow-white souvenir, I have pinned so proudly to my beaver—tell me, ye spirits who preside over the destinies of Love—say that I am not the victim of a fancy false, as it would be fatal to my happiness!

“I saw her—I spoke to her—I dared not ask herself. Though yearning for the truth—as the soul yearns for a knowledge ofhereafter—I dared not trust myself to demand it. I dreaded the answer, as one building castles in the air, may dread the tempest that in an instant may destroy them.

“O God! I feel, that if this structure be destroyed—this last love of my life—I shall perish amid the ruins!”

The cavalier paused, a deep sigh causing his bosom to heave upward—as if in terror at the contemplation of such a contingency.

After a moment he resumed the thread of his reflections.

“She must have seen her glove so conspicuously placed? She could not fail to recognise it? She could not mistake the motive of my wearing it? If, after all,heract was not intentional—if the gauntlet was reallylost—then amIlost. I shall pass in her eyes as an impertinent—a presumptive trickster. Instead of her love I shall be the object of her contempt—not pitied, but scorned! Even Scarthe, despite his defeat, will be thought worthier than I!

“I am mad to think of her! More than mad to hope she should think of me! Worse than wicked to wish it. Even if sheshouldlove me, how can it end?Only in her undoing! Heaven keep me from the crime!

“As Heaven is my judge, I have endeavoured to avoid it. I have triednotto love her; at times wished she should not love me. This was at first; but alas! no longer can I resist the sweet fascination. My heart has leaped beyond my control; and both soul and body must now obey its inclinings. Without the love of Marion Wade, I care not how soon my life may come to an end—not much either in what way—an ignominious gallows, or an honoured grave.

“Sir Marmaduke I must speak to in person. Even a letter might not now reach him. ’Tis monstrous this act of hisGracious Majesty!” The cavalier pronounced the last words with a scornful emphasis. “Monstrous, as on the King’s part, stupidly foolish. It cannot fail to effect good service for our side; and I should rejoice were it any other than Sir Marmaduke. But, to think of this man, in his house—Richard Scarthe—the wily courtier—the notorious profligate—under the same roof with Marion Wade—in the same room—seated by the same table—in her presence at all hours, by night as by day—wielding that dangerous power that springs from an attitude of authority. O Heavens!”

The painful thoughts which this train of reasoning produced, caused the cavalier to start to his feet, and rapidly pace the room—in hope of allaying his agitation.

“Will Sir Marmaduke remain at Bulstrode?” he continued, after a time. “He cannot help himself? To go elsewhere would only bring down upon him the wrath of this queen-ridden tyrant—perhaps subject him to some still more severe infliction? But will he keep his family there—exposed among the swaggering soldiery—perhaps to be insulted—perhaps—?

“Surely he will send them away—somewhere, anywhere until a better time? Thank Heaven, there is hope of a better! I shall see Sir Marmaduke to-morrow. I promised him I should. Withher, too, shall I seek an interview; although it may end in giving me chagrin—even if it should be the last.”

Having muttered this somewhat reckless resolve, the cavalier once more threw himself into a chair; and with his elbows resting upon the table, and the palms of his hands crossed over his forehead, he seemed to give way to some profound and painful reflection.

Whatever it was, he was not allowed long to indulge in it. The entrance of Oriole would scarce have aroused him from his reverie—for the mocassined foot of the Indian made no sound upon the floor—but at the same instant a noise of another kind was heard within the apartment—the grinding of a horse’s hoof on the gravel scattered outside the entrance door.

Oriole, after entering, had stopped in an attitude that told he had something to communicate.

“What is it, Oriole? Another visitor?”

The Indian nodded in the affirmative.

“On horseback? I need not ask: I hear the tread of his horse. A stranger?”

With the same pantomime, as he had used when interrogated before, the Indian made reply—adding also, by a repetition of his former signs, that the visitor had come from a distance.

“Show him in here; see to his horse, and find stabling for him. The gentleman may perhaps make stay for the night.”

Without any other acknowledgment that he understood the instructions, than by proceeding to obey them, the taciturn attendant turned on his heel, and glided out of the apartment.

The arrival of a guest at that, or any other hour, caused but little surprise to the host of Stone Dean. There was nothing unusual in the circumstance. On the contrary, more than a moiety of his visitors were accustomed to make their calls after midnight—not unfrequently taking their departure before morning. Hence the “perhaps” in the orders given to Oriole.

“Who can he be?” was Holtspur’s self-interrogation, as his attendant passed out of the room. “I expected no one to-night.”

The grave sonorous voice, at this moment interrogating the Indian, furnished no clue to the speaker’s identity. Holtspur did not recognise it.

There was no reply on the part of Oriole; but his silent gesticulation must have proved sufficient: for, shortly after, the tread of a heavy boot, accompanied by a slight tinkling of rowelled spurs, sounded within the hall. In another moment a tall dark man made his appearance in the doorway; and without waiting further invitation, or even taking off his hat, stepped resolutely into the room.

The individual, thus freely presenting himself, was a man of peculiar—almost rude—aspect. He was dressed in a suit of coarse brown cloth, a felt hat without any feather, and strong trusset boots—the heels of which were furnished with iron spurs, exceedingly rusty. Instead of lace, he wore a band of plain linen of the narrowest cut; which, with the closely-trimmed hair above it, betokened an affectation of the Puritan costume, whatever may have been the religious proclivities of the wearer.

Notwithstanding the commonness of his attire, there was nothing, either in his countenance or demeanour, that proclaimed him a mere messenger, or servant. On the contrary, the slight salute which he vouchsafed to the cavalier, the non-removal of his hat, and the air of cool confidence which he continued to preserve, after entering the room, bespoke a man, who, whatever his rank in life, was not accustomed to cringe in the presence of the proudest.

The face was rather serious than sour. The hair was dark—the skin slightly cadaverous—though the features were not disagreeable to look upon. Though far from cheerful in their expression, they were interesting from a certain cast denoting calmness and courage; traits of character further confirmed by the determined glance of a penetrating coal-black eye.

“By the dust upon your doublet, Master,” said Holtspur, after returning the salutation of his visitor, “you have left some miles of road behind you, since setting foot in the stirrup?”

“Twenty-five.”

“That is just the distance to London. Thence, I presume?”

“From London.”

“May I ask your errand?”

“I come fromJohn,” replied the stranger, laying a significant emphasis on the name.

“You have a message for me?”

“I have.”

There was a pause—Holtspur remaining silent—as if awaiting the delivery of the message.

“Before declaring my errand,” pursued the stranger, “I want a word, to make sure you are he for whom it is intended.”

“The John who sent you, is the same who nobly resisted payment of theship money.”

“Enough!” assented the messenger, taking a despatch from under the breast of his doublet, and, without farther hesitancy, handing it to his host.

There was no superscription upon the folded paper; but, as the cavalier broke it open under the light of the lamp, at the head of the page could be seen something that resembled an address—written in hieroglyphics.

The body of the despatch was in plain English, and as follows:

“A cuirassier captain—Scarthe by name—has gone down with the skeleton of a troop to your neighbourhood. It is believed he has a commission to recruit. He is to be quartered on Sir Marmaduke Wade; but you will know all this before our messenger reaches you. It is well. Sir Marmaduke will surely hold out no longer? Make some excuse to see him, and ascertain how thisbenevolenceacts. Do all you can, without compromising yourself to make the recruiting unpopular. Call the friends together at the old rendezvous on the night of the 20th. Pym, and Martin, and I will be down, and perhaps young Harry Vane. If you could get Sir Marmaduke to attend, it would be a point. See that your invitations are conveyed with due secrecy, and by trusty hands. I give you but little time. Act with caution: for this cuirassier captain, who is a courtier of some note, is doubtless entrusted with other commissions, besides that of raising recruits. Keep your eye upon him; and keep his as much as may be off yourself. My Messenger returns here at once. Feed his horse, and despatch him. You may trust the man. He has suffered in the cause: as you may convince yourself by glancing under the brim of his beaver. Don’t be offended if he insist on wearing it in your presence. It’s a way he has. He will himself tell you his name, which for certain reasons may not be written here. The good work goes bravely on.”

So ended the despatch.

There was no name appended. None was needed; for although the handwriting was not that of the great patriot, Henry Holtspur well knew that the dictation was his. It was not the first communication of a similar kind that had passed between him and Hampden.

The first thing which he did, after reading the despatch, was to cast a stealthy glance at the individual who had been its bearer; and directed towards that portion immediately under his hat.

Holtspur could observe nothing there—at least nothing to explain the ambiguous allusion in the letter of his correspondent. One circumstance, however, was singular. On both sides, the brim of the beaver was drawn down, and fastened in this fashion by a strap of leather passing under the chin: as if the wearer had caught cold in his ears, and wished to protect them from the night air.

The oddness of the style did not remain long a puzzle. He who had adopted it noticed the furtive scrutiny of the cavalier, and answered it with a grim smile.

“You perceive that I wear my hat rather slouchingly—not to say ill-manneredly,” said he. “It has been my fashion of late. Why I’ve taken to it would be explained by my uncovering; but perhaps it would save trouble, if I tell you my name. I am William Prynne.”

“Prynne!” exclaimed the cavalier, starting forward and eagerly grasping the Puritan by the hand. “I am proud to see you under my poor roof; and such hospitality as I can show—”

“Henry Holtspur need not declare these sentiments to William Prynne,” said the earless Puritan, interrupting the complimentary speech. “The friend of the oppressed is well-known to all who have suffered; and I am of that number. I thank you for a hospitality which I can partake of for but a few minutes. Then I must bid you adieu, and be gone. The work of the Lord must not tarry. The harvest is fast ripening; and it behoves the reapers to get their sickles in readiness.”

The cavalier was too much alive to the necessity of the times, to spend a moment in idle speech. Directing the messenger’s horse to be fed—a duty which the ex-footpad took upon himself to perform—he ordered Oriole to place a repast before his visitor.

To this the hungry Puritan, notwithstanding his haste, proceeded to do ample justice; while Holtspur, throwing open his desk, hurriedly indited an answer to the letter of his correspondent.

Like the despatch, it was neither directed nor signed by any name, that could compromise either the writer or him for whom it was intended. The greatest danger would be to him who was to be entrusted with its delivery. But the staunch partisan of religious liberty recked little of the risk. The great cause, glowing in his zealous heart, rendered him insensible to petty fears; and, after finishing his hurried meal, he once more betook himself to the saddle; shook the hand of his host with cold yet fraternal grasp; bade adieu to Stone Dean; and rode swiftly and silently away.

Volume One—Chapter Twenty Four.Before the hoof-strokes of the Puritan’s horse had ceased grinding on the gravelled path, Holtspur summoned the ex-footpad into his presence.During the interval that had elapsed, the latter had not been idling his opportunity: as was indicated by the condition of the haunch of cold venison of which he had been invited to partake; and which was the same set before the traveller who had just taken his departure. A hugecrevasse, scooped crosswise out of the joint, told incontestably that Garth had supped to his satisfaction; while a tankard of strong ale, which accompanied the missing meat, had set his spirits in a very satisfactory state.As he had previously obtained sufficient sleep—to compensate for his loss of that necessary restorative on the preceding night—he was now ready for anything—according to his own declaration “anything, from pitch and toss up to manslaughter!”It was fortunate he was in this prime condition: since his services—though not for any sanguinary purpose—were just then needed.“Garth!” began the cavalier, as his old retainer entered the room, “I hinted to you, that a good cause might stand in need of you soon. It needs younow.”“I’m ready, Master Henry, to do your bidding an’ though I never cut throat in my life, ifyousay the word—”“Shame—shame! Gregory! Don’t, my good fellow allow your thoughts to run into such frightful extremes. Time enough to talk of throat-cutting when,”—here the cavalier paused in his speech; “never mind when,” he continued—“I want you just now for a purpose altogether pacific.”“Oh, anything ye like, Master Henry. I’m ready to turn Puritan, an’ go a preechin’, if you’re in the mind to make a ‘missioner’ o’ me. I had a word or two with that theer ’un, whiles ye war a writin’ him out his answer; an’ he gied me a consid’rable insight into theer way o’ translatin’ the Scripter. I reckon it be the right way; though ’taint accordin’ to old Master Laud an’ his Romish clargy.”“Come, Garth!” said the cavalier, speaking impatiently; “the service for which I want you has nothing to do with religious matters. I’m in need of a messenger—one who knows the county—more especially the residences of a number of the gentry, to whom I have occasion to send letters. How long have you been living in Buckinghamshire?”“Well, Master Henry, I’ve been in an’ about old Bucks a tidyish time—off an’ on I reckon for the better part o’ the last ten year—indeed, iver since I left the old place, you know—but I han’t niver been over a entire year in one partikler place at a time, d’ye see. My constitution ha’ been rather delicate at times, an’ needed change o’ air.”“You know the topography of the county, I suppose?”“I doan’t understand what ye mean by that ere topografy. It be a biggish sort o’ a word. If you mean theroads, I knowsthem, putty nigh as well as the man that made ’em—specially them as runs atween here an’ Oxford.”“Good! That’s the very direction in which I stand in need of a trusty messenger. I have others I can send towards the north and south, but none who know anything of the Oxford side. You will do. If you are familiar with the roads in that direction, then you must also be acquainted with most of the residences near them—I mean those of the gentry.”“Oh! ye-e-s,” assented Gregory, in a thoughtful drawl. “I’ve heerd speak o’ most on ’em; an’ I dar say most o’ ’em’s heerd speak o’ me.”“Could you deliver letters to H— L—, to Sir K. F—, to young M—, son of Lord S., to R— M—, of Cheveley Park, and to Master G. C., a magistrate of the borough of High Wycombe?”The cavalier, in putting this question, gave the names in full.“Well,” replied the ex-footpad, “I dare say I kud deliver letters to all the gents you’ve made mention o’—that be in the order as you’ve named ’em. But if I war to begin whar you’ve left off, then I shud be obligated to leave off, just whar I hed begun.”“What! I don’t understand you, Gregory.”“Why, it be simple enough, Master Henry. War I to carry a letter to that old pot-guts Justice o’ High Wycombe, ’taint likely I shud bring back the answer,—much less get leave to go on to the tothers, as you’ve named.”“How’s that, Garth?”“Kase ye see Old Wyk an’ haehad a leetlish bit o’ a quarrel—oncest on a time; an’ if he war to see me agin, he might remember that ere diff’rence atween us, an’jugme. I’ll take yer letters to the tothers; an’ him last o’ all, if ye insist on’t; but if ye do, Master Henry, I won’t promise to bring back any answers.”“Never mindhim, then,” said the cavalier, appearing to give up the idea of communicating with the Wycombe Justice. “You can safely visitallthe others, I suppose?”Gregory nodded assent.“You must start at once. Ah! I did not think of it; you will stand in need of a horse?”“No, I woant,” replied the footpad, with a significant smile, “I’ve got one.”“Oh! the horse you—”The cavalier hesitated to finish the speech that had risen to his tongue.“Why, ye-e-s,” drawled the ex-footpad, “it’s a anymal as has done the King sarvice; an’ I doant see why it shudn’t now be employed in the sarvice o’ the People. If I be allowed to ha’ my guess, Master Henry, I shud say, that’s the errand on which ye be sendin’ me.”“It is,” assented the cavalier, with emphasis.“I am glad o’ ’t,” exclaimed Garth, in a tone that betrayed a certain degree of enthusiasm. “Write yer letters, Master Henry; I’ll take ’em whar they’re directed—even if one o’ ’em be tothe jailero’Newgate!”The cavalier, gratified by this ebullition, turned smilingly to the table, and commenced preparing the epistles.In less than an hour the ex-footpad was transformed into a postman; and, mounted upon the stolen steed of the King’s courier, was making his way along the main road that runs between the city of London and the city of Colleges.At his departure the Indian attendant was called into the room.“Oriole!” asked the cavalier. “Do you think you can find the way to the cottage of Dick Dancey—the woodman who comes here so frequently? You have been over to his wigwam, haven’t you?”The Indian made a sign of assent.“You know the way, then? The moon is still shining. I think you will have no difficulty in finding the place—although there’s not a very clear path to it.”Oriole’s only rejoinder to this was a slight scornful curling of the lip, as much as to say, “Does the pale-face fancy that I am like one of his own race—a fool to lose my way in a forest?”“All right, my red-skin!” continued the cavalier, in a jocular strain, “I see you can find the road to Dancey’s. But I want you to go beyond. In the same direction, only half a mile farther on, there is another hut inhabited by another woodman. You have seen him here also—the young man with the hay-coloured hair, and white eyebrows?”Oriole signified that he had seen the individual; though a certain expression—just discernible in the Indian’s eye—betokened repugnance to the person so described.“Very well,” continued the cavalier, without appearing to notice the expression. “I want both Dancey and the light-haired man to come to me—so soon as you can summon them. Go to Dancey’s first; and, if you think you cannot find the other, Dancey will go along with you. Tell both to come prepared for a journey of two days. What a pity you can’t talk, my poor fellow! But no matter for that: Dancey will understand your signs.”The Indian, as if he either did not hear, or heeded not, this expression of sympathy, turned towards the door; and without either sign or ceremony made his spectral-like departure.“The night of the 29th,” soliloquised Henry Holtspur, as he sate once more pen in hand before his writing-table. “Not much time have they given me. Dick and his prospective son-in-law must start at once. By-the-way, I don’t know whether it’s safe to trust this Walford—though the old deer-stalker believes in him. I’m always suspicions of white eyebrows. I’ve noticed something in his grey green eyes I don’t like; and this very day—after I had espoused the quarrel of his sweetheart too—I saw him looking at me with glances not altogether grateful! Jealous, perhaps, of the girl having given me those flowers? Ah! if he only knew how little her token was cared for, alongside that other token—if he knew how I myself was suffering—perhaps ’twould cure him of his spleen?“After all he’s but a brutal fellow—far from worthy of being the favourite of this bold forest bird, Bet Dancey. I’faith she’s a hen-hawk, that deserves an eagle for her mate; and I might have given this rough rustic cause to be uncomfortable, but that his black beauty is eclipsed under the glare of that dazzling sunbeam. Ah! Marion! Marion! in thy presence—or absence either—all other faces seem ill-favoured. Charming, or ugly, to my eyes all are alike!“Come!” continued the cavalier, as the train of his reflections was interrupted by some thought prompting him to the necessity of action. “I must get these letters ready against the arrival of my messengers. There are a dozen, and I’m but an indifferent scribe. Luckily, as they’re only ‘notes of invitation,’ a word to each will be sufficient.”Saying this, he drew his chair nearer to the table; and proceeded to pen the epistles.He did not desist from his task, until some ten or twelve letters—sealed and addressed to various individuals, all gentlemen of the county—lay on the table before him.“These, I think, are all,” muttered he, as he ran his eye over the addresses. “Along with those, whom Garth has gone to summon, a goodly array they will make—all true friends to the cause of England’s liberty!”This soliloquy was succeeded by the entrance of the Indian—whose dark form came stealing like a shadow under the light of the lamp.By a pantomimic gesture, his master was told—that the two men, he had gone to fetch, had arrived along with him, and were waiting orders outside.“Send them in here,” commanded the cavalier. “One at a time. First, Dancey; the other, after Dancey has gone out.”Oriole instantly vanished; and soon after the tread of a heavily-shod foot was heard in the hall, outside.There was a single knock, followed by the spoken permission to “Come in.”The door opened; and the noted deer-stealer stepped into the apartment.He was a man of immense body and large limbs, somewhat loosely put together; but from sheer size seemingly endowed with herculean strength.About his face there was nothing to indicate any evil disposition. On the contrary, it had a cheerful honest look; which rather contradicted the character implied by the appellation ofdeer-stealer. As with his representative of modern days—the poacher—perhaps the stealing of a deer as the snaring of a pheasant, could scarce have been looked upon in the light of a positive theft. At all events, Dick Dancey, who was notorious in this line, was otherwise well regarded by those who had dealings with him.He was no ordinary man—either in physical or mental conformation; and his huge muscular form, crowned by a capacious head—in which glanced a pair of dark brown eyes keen as an eagle’s—gave him an imposing, if not a fearful, aspect. He was dressed in a doublet of faded cotton velveteen, with trunks of coarser material reaching down to mid thigh. From the bottoms of these to the tops of his heavy cow-skin boots, his limbs were protected by thick woollen hose; while on his head appeared a full-crowned cap made out of the skin of a spotted dog, the long hair ruffing out around the rim.The accoutrements of this formidable forester were of the simplest. A skin wallet, suspended by a belt passing over his shoulders, hung by his right side; while as if to balance it, a heavy hanger—half-sword, half-knife—dangled against his left hip. A large knotted stick, carried in hand, completed his equipment for the journey—of the nature of which he seemed to have had some previous acquaintance.“Dancey!” said the cavalier, as soon as the deer-stealer was fairly inside the room, “I want you upon a matter of business. You are an accomplished traveller, I know. Have you any objection to play errand-boy for a couple of days?”“To carry any message for you, sir,” rejoined the woodman, with a grotesque effort at a bow, “I’d esteem an honour, ’specially after what happened this day, sir; or I moat say yesterday—seein’ it be now near the morrow mornin’. My daughter, sir—I can answer for Bet—she’s a good-hearted gurl, sir, though may be a little too forrard, or that sort; but she be wonderful obleeged, sir, to you, sir.”“Poh-poh, Dancey; I am not deserving of your daughter’s thanks. What I did in her behalf was only a duty; which I should equally have felt bound to perform for the humblest individual on the ground. Indeed your beautiful daughter did not seem to stand in need of my interference. She had already found a sufficiently chivalric champion in bold Robin Hood—”“Ah! sir,” interrupted the deer-stealer, bending down towards his patron, and speaking in a tone of serious confidence, “That’s just where the trouble be. She han’t thankedhim; and the poor fellow’s beside hisself, because she won’t make more o’ him. I do all I can to get her take on to him; for I believe Wull Walford to be a worthy lad: an’ he mean well for my gurl. But ’taren’t no use, sir, ne’er a bit on’t. As the sayin’ be, one man may take a horse to the water, but forty can’t make the anymal drink, if he an’t a mind to.”“I think, friend Dancey,” quietly rejoined the cavalier, “you’ll do well to leave your daughter free to follow her own inclinations—especially in a matter of the kind you speak of. Perhaps her instincts of what’s best for her, in that regard, may be more trustworthy than yours.”“Ah! sir,” sighed the fond parent of the beautiful Betsey, “If I’d leave her free to foller her own ways, she’d go clear to the devil—she would. Not that she’s a bad sort, my Bet aren’t. No—no—she be a good-hearted gurl, as I’ve already sayed; but she’s too forrard, sir—too forrard, and proud enough to have inclinings for them as be far above her. That’s why she looks down upon Wull: because ye see, sir, he be only a poor woodman; tho’ that’s as much as I be myself.”The cavalier might have suspected the beautiful Betsey of having other reasons for disliking “Wull Walford;” but it was not the time to talk upon such a theme; and, without further parley he changed the conversation to the business for which he had summoned the old woodman into his presence.“Here are six letters I want you to deliver,” said he, taking that number from the table.“You perceive,” he added, holding them up to the light of the lamp, “that I have numbered the letters—in the order in which you will arrive at the houses where you are to deliver them—so that there may be no mistake. I need not add, Dancey, that each is to bedelivered with your own hand, or else not at all.”“I understand what you mean, sir. I don’t part wi’ ere a one o’ ’em, ’cept to the party hisself. You can trust Dick Dancey for that.”“I know it, Dick; and that’s why I’m giving you all this trouble. I only wish you could have taken these others; but it’s impossible. They’re for a different section of the county; and must go by another hand.”“Wull Walford’s wi’ me, sir. Ye sent for him too, didn’t ye?”“I did. You say he can be trusted, Dancey?”“Oh sir! there’s no fear o’ him. He han’t no love for eyther Church, or King. He has been in the stocks once too often for that.”“Ha! ha!” laughed the cavalier, “that is but slight recommendation of his trustworthiness. It don’t matter, however. He shall not know much of the nature of his errand; and, therefore there will be no great danger in his carrying the letters.”Dancey saw that he was expected to take the road at once; and, without further parley, he started off on his distant round of delivery: before leaving the house, however, having fortified himself against the raw air of the night, by a stoup of strong ale—with which Oriole had been directed to supply him.Will Walford—who among thedramatis personaeof the morris dance had performed therôleof Robin Hood—next presented himself to receive his chapter of instructions.This worthy had doffed his tunic of Kendal green, and now figured in his proper costume—a jerkin of grey homespun russet, with wide petticoat breeches reaching to mid thigh. The green woollen stockings, in which he had personated the outlaw, still appeared upon his legs—with a pair of heavy hobnailed buskins on his feet. On his head was the high-crowned hat worn at thefête, with a portion of the plume of cock’s feathers still sticking behind its band of scarlet coloured tape.Altogether the costume of the woodman was not inelegant; and the wearer affected a certain air of rustic dandyism, which showed him conceited of his personal appearance.He had but slight reason for this vanity, however. At thefêtehe had proved himself but a poor representative of the chivalrous outlaw of Sherwood-Forest; and, now that he stood partially plucked of his borrowed feathers, he looked altogether unlike the man, whom the beautiful Bet Dancey would have chosen for her champion.It was a countenance, though naturally of an evil aspect, more sullen than sinister; while the glance of a watery otter-like eye, along with a certain expression of cowardice, betrayed insincerity.Will Walford was evidently a man not to be trusted—very far. He appeared like one who, to gratify a passion, would turn traitor upon a partisan.It was just such a suspicion of his character that hindered Henry Holtspur from revealing to him the secret contained within those half-dozen letters—which he now entrusted to him for delivery, after giving him the names of the gentlemen for whom they were intended.With a promise to perform the duty—apparently sincere—the woodman walked out of the room; but, as he turned off into the shadowy hall, a glance flung back over his shoulder betrayed some feeling towards his patron, anything but friendly.Still more surly was the look cast upon the young Indian, as the latter—apparently with an unwilling grace—presented him with the parting cup.There was no word spoken, no health drunk—neither of master, nor man. The ale vessel was emptied in sullen silence; and then thanklessly tossed back into the hands from which it had been received.A gruff “good-night,” and Will Walford, striding off through the corridor, was soon lost to view.Oriole turned back into the room occupied by his master; and, stopping near the door, stood waiting, for the latter to look round. On his doing so, the Indian elevated his right arm; and holding it horizontally, with the back of his hand upwards, he described a wide curve in an outward direction from his body.“Good, you say? Who is good?”The Indian made a motion, to signify that he had not completed his pantomime.“Ah! you’ve something to add? Go on!”The hand was again carried out from the body in a waving direction; but this time with the thumb turned upwards.“No,” said the cavalier, translating the sign, “not good, you mean to say? He who has just gone off?”Oriole nodded assent—at the same time placing his fore and middle fingers, joined together, over his mouth; and then separating them as he carried them away from his lips:—thus signifying, that the words of the woodman would proceed in two directions: otherwise, that he wasdouble tongued.“A liar—a deceiver, you think, Oriole? I have some suspicion of it myself. Do not be afraid; I shall not trust him too far. But come! my faithful red-skin; you must be tired sitting up? Close the door, to keep out the rats and robbers; and get to your bed. I hope we shall have no more visitors to trouble us, till we’ve both had a good night’s rest. Go sleep, my lad.”So saying, the cavalier lifted up the lamp; stepped forth from the library; and betook himself to his own sleeping apartment.

Before the hoof-strokes of the Puritan’s horse had ceased grinding on the gravelled path, Holtspur summoned the ex-footpad into his presence.

During the interval that had elapsed, the latter had not been idling his opportunity: as was indicated by the condition of the haunch of cold venison of which he had been invited to partake; and which was the same set before the traveller who had just taken his departure. A hugecrevasse, scooped crosswise out of the joint, told incontestably that Garth had supped to his satisfaction; while a tankard of strong ale, which accompanied the missing meat, had set his spirits in a very satisfactory state.

As he had previously obtained sufficient sleep—to compensate for his loss of that necessary restorative on the preceding night—he was now ready for anything—according to his own declaration “anything, from pitch and toss up to manslaughter!”

It was fortunate he was in this prime condition: since his services—though not for any sanguinary purpose—were just then needed.

“Garth!” began the cavalier, as his old retainer entered the room, “I hinted to you, that a good cause might stand in need of you soon. It needs younow.”

“I’m ready, Master Henry, to do your bidding an’ though I never cut throat in my life, ifyousay the word—”

“Shame—shame! Gregory! Don’t, my good fellow allow your thoughts to run into such frightful extremes. Time enough to talk of throat-cutting when,”—here the cavalier paused in his speech; “never mind when,” he continued—“I want you just now for a purpose altogether pacific.”

“Oh, anything ye like, Master Henry. I’m ready to turn Puritan, an’ go a preechin’, if you’re in the mind to make a ‘missioner’ o’ me. I had a word or two with that theer ’un, whiles ye war a writin’ him out his answer; an’ he gied me a consid’rable insight into theer way o’ translatin’ the Scripter. I reckon it be the right way; though ’taint accordin’ to old Master Laud an’ his Romish clargy.”

“Come, Garth!” said the cavalier, speaking impatiently; “the service for which I want you has nothing to do with religious matters. I’m in need of a messenger—one who knows the county—more especially the residences of a number of the gentry, to whom I have occasion to send letters. How long have you been living in Buckinghamshire?”

“Well, Master Henry, I’ve been in an’ about old Bucks a tidyish time—off an’ on I reckon for the better part o’ the last ten year—indeed, iver since I left the old place, you know—but I han’t niver been over a entire year in one partikler place at a time, d’ye see. My constitution ha’ been rather delicate at times, an’ needed change o’ air.”

“You know the topography of the county, I suppose?”

“I doan’t understand what ye mean by that ere topografy. It be a biggish sort o’ a word. If you mean theroads, I knowsthem, putty nigh as well as the man that made ’em—specially them as runs atween here an’ Oxford.”

“Good! That’s the very direction in which I stand in need of a trusty messenger. I have others I can send towards the north and south, but none who know anything of the Oxford side. You will do. If you are familiar with the roads in that direction, then you must also be acquainted with most of the residences near them—I mean those of the gentry.”

“Oh! ye-e-s,” assented Gregory, in a thoughtful drawl. “I’ve heerd speak o’ most on ’em; an’ I dar say most o’ ’em’s heerd speak o’ me.”

“Could you deliver letters to H— L—, to Sir K. F—, to young M—, son of Lord S., to R— M—, of Cheveley Park, and to Master G. C., a magistrate of the borough of High Wycombe?”

The cavalier, in putting this question, gave the names in full.

“Well,” replied the ex-footpad, “I dare say I kud deliver letters to all the gents you’ve made mention o’—that be in the order as you’ve named ’em. But if I war to begin whar you’ve left off, then I shud be obligated to leave off, just whar I hed begun.”

“What! I don’t understand you, Gregory.”

“Why, it be simple enough, Master Henry. War I to carry a letter to that old pot-guts Justice o’ High Wycombe, ’taint likely I shud bring back the answer,—much less get leave to go on to the tothers, as you’ve named.”

“How’s that, Garth?”

“Kase ye see Old Wyk an’ haehad a leetlish bit o’ a quarrel—oncest on a time; an’ if he war to see me agin, he might remember that ere diff’rence atween us, an’jugme. I’ll take yer letters to the tothers; an’ him last o’ all, if ye insist on’t; but if ye do, Master Henry, I won’t promise to bring back any answers.”

“Never mindhim, then,” said the cavalier, appearing to give up the idea of communicating with the Wycombe Justice. “You can safely visitallthe others, I suppose?”

Gregory nodded assent.

“You must start at once. Ah! I did not think of it; you will stand in need of a horse?”

“No, I woant,” replied the footpad, with a significant smile, “I’ve got one.”

“Oh! the horse you—”

The cavalier hesitated to finish the speech that had risen to his tongue.

“Why, ye-e-s,” drawled the ex-footpad, “it’s a anymal as has done the King sarvice; an’ I doant see why it shudn’t now be employed in the sarvice o’ the People. If I be allowed to ha’ my guess, Master Henry, I shud say, that’s the errand on which ye be sendin’ me.”

“It is,” assented the cavalier, with emphasis.

“I am glad o’ ’t,” exclaimed Garth, in a tone that betrayed a certain degree of enthusiasm. “Write yer letters, Master Henry; I’ll take ’em whar they’re directed—even if one o’ ’em be tothe jailero’Newgate!”

The cavalier, gratified by this ebullition, turned smilingly to the table, and commenced preparing the epistles.

In less than an hour the ex-footpad was transformed into a postman; and, mounted upon the stolen steed of the King’s courier, was making his way along the main road that runs between the city of London and the city of Colleges.

At his departure the Indian attendant was called into the room.

“Oriole!” asked the cavalier. “Do you think you can find the way to the cottage of Dick Dancey—the woodman who comes here so frequently? You have been over to his wigwam, haven’t you?”

The Indian made a sign of assent.

“You know the way, then? The moon is still shining. I think you will have no difficulty in finding the place—although there’s not a very clear path to it.”

Oriole’s only rejoinder to this was a slight scornful curling of the lip, as much as to say, “Does the pale-face fancy that I am like one of his own race—a fool to lose my way in a forest?”

“All right, my red-skin!” continued the cavalier, in a jocular strain, “I see you can find the road to Dancey’s. But I want you to go beyond. In the same direction, only half a mile farther on, there is another hut inhabited by another woodman. You have seen him here also—the young man with the hay-coloured hair, and white eyebrows?”

Oriole signified that he had seen the individual; though a certain expression—just discernible in the Indian’s eye—betokened repugnance to the person so described.

“Very well,” continued the cavalier, without appearing to notice the expression. “I want both Dancey and the light-haired man to come to me—so soon as you can summon them. Go to Dancey’s first; and, if you think you cannot find the other, Dancey will go along with you. Tell both to come prepared for a journey of two days. What a pity you can’t talk, my poor fellow! But no matter for that: Dancey will understand your signs.”

The Indian, as if he either did not hear, or heeded not, this expression of sympathy, turned towards the door; and without either sign or ceremony made his spectral-like departure.

“The night of the 29th,” soliloquised Henry Holtspur, as he sate once more pen in hand before his writing-table. “Not much time have they given me. Dick and his prospective son-in-law must start at once. By-the-way, I don’t know whether it’s safe to trust this Walford—though the old deer-stalker believes in him. I’m always suspicions of white eyebrows. I’ve noticed something in his grey green eyes I don’t like; and this very day—after I had espoused the quarrel of his sweetheart too—I saw him looking at me with glances not altogether grateful! Jealous, perhaps, of the girl having given me those flowers? Ah! if he only knew how little her token was cared for, alongside that other token—if he knew how I myself was suffering—perhaps ’twould cure him of his spleen?

“After all he’s but a brutal fellow—far from worthy of being the favourite of this bold forest bird, Bet Dancey. I’faith she’s a hen-hawk, that deserves an eagle for her mate; and I might have given this rough rustic cause to be uncomfortable, but that his black beauty is eclipsed under the glare of that dazzling sunbeam. Ah! Marion! Marion! in thy presence—or absence either—all other faces seem ill-favoured. Charming, or ugly, to my eyes all are alike!

“Come!” continued the cavalier, as the train of his reflections was interrupted by some thought prompting him to the necessity of action. “I must get these letters ready against the arrival of my messengers. There are a dozen, and I’m but an indifferent scribe. Luckily, as they’re only ‘notes of invitation,’ a word to each will be sufficient.”

Saying this, he drew his chair nearer to the table; and proceeded to pen the epistles.

He did not desist from his task, until some ten or twelve letters—sealed and addressed to various individuals, all gentlemen of the county—lay on the table before him.

“These, I think, are all,” muttered he, as he ran his eye over the addresses. “Along with those, whom Garth has gone to summon, a goodly array they will make—all true friends to the cause of England’s liberty!”

This soliloquy was succeeded by the entrance of the Indian—whose dark form came stealing like a shadow under the light of the lamp.

By a pantomimic gesture, his master was told—that the two men, he had gone to fetch, had arrived along with him, and were waiting orders outside.

“Send them in here,” commanded the cavalier. “One at a time. First, Dancey; the other, after Dancey has gone out.”

Oriole instantly vanished; and soon after the tread of a heavily-shod foot was heard in the hall, outside.

There was a single knock, followed by the spoken permission to “Come in.”

The door opened; and the noted deer-stealer stepped into the apartment.

He was a man of immense body and large limbs, somewhat loosely put together; but from sheer size seemingly endowed with herculean strength.

About his face there was nothing to indicate any evil disposition. On the contrary, it had a cheerful honest look; which rather contradicted the character implied by the appellation ofdeer-stealer. As with his representative of modern days—the poacher—perhaps the stealing of a deer as the snaring of a pheasant, could scarce have been looked upon in the light of a positive theft. At all events, Dick Dancey, who was notorious in this line, was otherwise well regarded by those who had dealings with him.

He was no ordinary man—either in physical or mental conformation; and his huge muscular form, crowned by a capacious head—in which glanced a pair of dark brown eyes keen as an eagle’s—gave him an imposing, if not a fearful, aspect. He was dressed in a doublet of faded cotton velveteen, with trunks of coarser material reaching down to mid thigh. From the bottoms of these to the tops of his heavy cow-skin boots, his limbs were protected by thick woollen hose; while on his head appeared a full-crowned cap made out of the skin of a spotted dog, the long hair ruffing out around the rim.

The accoutrements of this formidable forester were of the simplest. A skin wallet, suspended by a belt passing over his shoulders, hung by his right side; while as if to balance it, a heavy hanger—half-sword, half-knife—dangled against his left hip. A large knotted stick, carried in hand, completed his equipment for the journey—of the nature of which he seemed to have had some previous acquaintance.

“Dancey!” said the cavalier, as soon as the deer-stealer was fairly inside the room, “I want you upon a matter of business. You are an accomplished traveller, I know. Have you any objection to play errand-boy for a couple of days?”

“To carry any message for you, sir,” rejoined the woodman, with a grotesque effort at a bow, “I’d esteem an honour, ’specially after what happened this day, sir; or I moat say yesterday—seein’ it be now near the morrow mornin’. My daughter, sir—I can answer for Bet—she’s a good-hearted gurl, sir, though may be a little too forrard, or that sort; but she be wonderful obleeged, sir, to you, sir.”

“Poh-poh, Dancey; I am not deserving of your daughter’s thanks. What I did in her behalf was only a duty; which I should equally have felt bound to perform for the humblest individual on the ground. Indeed your beautiful daughter did not seem to stand in need of my interference. She had already found a sufficiently chivalric champion in bold Robin Hood—”

“Ah! sir,” interrupted the deer-stealer, bending down towards his patron, and speaking in a tone of serious confidence, “That’s just where the trouble be. She han’t thankedhim; and the poor fellow’s beside hisself, because she won’t make more o’ him. I do all I can to get her take on to him; for I believe Wull Walford to be a worthy lad: an’ he mean well for my gurl. But ’taren’t no use, sir, ne’er a bit on’t. As the sayin’ be, one man may take a horse to the water, but forty can’t make the anymal drink, if he an’t a mind to.”

“I think, friend Dancey,” quietly rejoined the cavalier, “you’ll do well to leave your daughter free to follow her own inclinations—especially in a matter of the kind you speak of. Perhaps her instincts of what’s best for her, in that regard, may be more trustworthy than yours.”

“Ah! sir,” sighed the fond parent of the beautiful Betsey, “If I’d leave her free to foller her own ways, she’d go clear to the devil—she would. Not that she’s a bad sort, my Bet aren’t. No—no—she be a good-hearted gurl, as I’ve already sayed; but she’s too forrard, sir—too forrard, and proud enough to have inclinings for them as be far above her. That’s why she looks down upon Wull: because ye see, sir, he be only a poor woodman; tho’ that’s as much as I be myself.”

The cavalier might have suspected the beautiful Betsey of having other reasons for disliking “Wull Walford;” but it was not the time to talk upon such a theme; and, without further parley he changed the conversation to the business for which he had summoned the old woodman into his presence.

“Here are six letters I want you to deliver,” said he, taking that number from the table.

“You perceive,” he added, holding them up to the light of the lamp, “that I have numbered the letters—in the order in which you will arrive at the houses where you are to deliver them—so that there may be no mistake. I need not add, Dancey, that each is to bedelivered with your own hand, or else not at all.”

“I understand what you mean, sir. I don’t part wi’ ere a one o’ ’em, ’cept to the party hisself. You can trust Dick Dancey for that.”

“I know it, Dick; and that’s why I’m giving you all this trouble. I only wish you could have taken these others; but it’s impossible. They’re for a different section of the county; and must go by another hand.”

“Wull Walford’s wi’ me, sir. Ye sent for him too, didn’t ye?”

“I did. You say he can be trusted, Dancey?”

“Oh sir! there’s no fear o’ him. He han’t no love for eyther Church, or King. He has been in the stocks once too often for that.”

“Ha! ha!” laughed the cavalier, “that is but slight recommendation of his trustworthiness. It don’t matter, however. He shall not know much of the nature of his errand; and, therefore there will be no great danger in his carrying the letters.”

Dancey saw that he was expected to take the road at once; and, without further parley, he started off on his distant round of delivery: before leaving the house, however, having fortified himself against the raw air of the night, by a stoup of strong ale—with which Oriole had been directed to supply him.

Will Walford—who among thedramatis personaeof the morris dance had performed therôleof Robin Hood—next presented himself to receive his chapter of instructions.

This worthy had doffed his tunic of Kendal green, and now figured in his proper costume—a jerkin of grey homespun russet, with wide petticoat breeches reaching to mid thigh. The green woollen stockings, in which he had personated the outlaw, still appeared upon his legs—with a pair of heavy hobnailed buskins on his feet. On his head was the high-crowned hat worn at thefête, with a portion of the plume of cock’s feathers still sticking behind its band of scarlet coloured tape.

Altogether the costume of the woodman was not inelegant; and the wearer affected a certain air of rustic dandyism, which showed him conceited of his personal appearance.

He had but slight reason for this vanity, however. At thefêtehe had proved himself but a poor representative of the chivalrous outlaw of Sherwood-Forest; and, now that he stood partially plucked of his borrowed feathers, he looked altogether unlike the man, whom the beautiful Bet Dancey would have chosen for her champion.

It was a countenance, though naturally of an evil aspect, more sullen than sinister; while the glance of a watery otter-like eye, along with a certain expression of cowardice, betrayed insincerity.

Will Walford was evidently a man not to be trusted—very far. He appeared like one who, to gratify a passion, would turn traitor upon a partisan.

It was just such a suspicion of his character that hindered Henry Holtspur from revealing to him the secret contained within those half-dozen letters—which he now entrusted to him for delivery, after giving him the names of the gentlemen for whom they were intended.

With a promise to perform the duty—apparently sincere—the woodman walked out of the room; but, as he turned off into the shadowy hall, a glance flung back over his shoulder betrayed some feeling towards his patron, anything but friendly.

Still more surly was the look cast upon the young Indian, as the latter—apparently with an unwilling grace—presented him with the parting cup.

There was no word spoken, no health drunk—neither of master, nor man. The ale vessel was emptied in sullen silence; and then thanklessly tossed back into the hands from which it had been received.

A gruff “good-night,” and Will Walford, striding off through the corridor, was soon lost to view.

Oriole turned back into the room occupied by his master; and, stopping near the door, stood waiting, for the latter to look round. On his doing so, the Indian elevated his right arm; and holding it horizontally, with the back of his hand upwards, he described a wide curve in an outward direction from his body.

“Good, you say? Who is good?”

The Indian made a motion, to signify that he had not completed his pantomime.

“Ah! you’ve something to add? Go on!”

The hand was again carried out from the body in a waving direction; but this time with the thumb turned upwards.

“No,” said the cavalier, translating the sign, “not good, you mean to say? He who has just gone off?”

Oriole nodded assent—at the same time placing his fore and middle fingers, joined together, over his mouth; and then separating them as he carried them away from his lips:—thus signifying, that the words of the woodman would proceed in two directions: otherwise, that he wasdouble tongued.

“A liar—a deceiver, you think, Oriole? I have some suspicion of it myself. Do not be afraid; I shall not trust him too far. But come! my faithful red-skin; you must be tired sitting up? Close the door, to keep out the rats and robbers; and get to your bed. I hope we shall have no more visitors to trouble us, till we’ve both had a good night’s rest. Go sleep, my lad.”

So saying, the cavalier lifted up the lamp; stepped forth from the library; and betook himself to his own sleeping apartment.

Volume One—Chapter Twenty Five.On the bold brow of one of the central hills of Bulstrode Park, stood the dwelling—a palatial structure of red brick, with facings of white stone—the latter transported over the sea from the quarries of Caen.The style of architecture was that known as “Norman”—with thick massive walls, having the circular Roman arch over the doors and windows.In front was a space appropriated to the purposes of parterre and shrubbery; while to the rearward extended the stables and other offices—enclosing an extensive courtyard between them and the dwelling.In rear of the outbuildings was the garden—approached through the courtyard by a strong iron wicket; while encircling all—grounds, garden, and houses—was a deep battlemented moat, which imparted to the mansion somewhat of the character of a fortified castle.On the morning after the fête in Bulstrode Park, the courtyard of the dwelling presented an unusual spectacle. A stranger, entering through the great arched gateway, might have mistaken the square enclosure inside for the yard of a barrack. Horses were standing in rows around the walls—their heads tied up to hooks that had been freshly driven into the mason-work; while men in topped boots, wide hanging hose, and grogram shirts—with sleeves rolled up to the elbows—were engaged in grooming them.Leathern buckets, containing water, stood by the heels of the horses—where the pavement appeared splashed and wet.Other men, of similar appearance, might have been seen seated upon benches, or squatted upon the coarse woollen covers of their horses—occupying themselves with the cleaning of armour—furbishing steel cuirasses, cuisses, and helmets, to the sheen of silver, and then hanging them against the walls, under a sort of shed that had been specially erected for their reception.Under the same shelter large demi-pique dragoon saddles had been placed in rows—astride of long trestles set up for the purpose.Every available space upon the walls was occupied by a bridle, a pair of spurs, pistols, or holsters, a sword with its belt, or some piece either of offensive, or defensive, armour.It is scarce necessary to say, that these horses and men—these saddles, bridles, arms, and armour—were the component parts of Captain Scarthe’s troop of cuirassiers, vieweden dishabille.What with the neighing of steeds that did not belong to the place, the barking of dogs that did, and the swearing and gibbering of threescore men in half-a-dozen distinct languages, the usually quiet courtyard of Sir Marmaduke’s mansion had been transformed into a sort of Pandemonium: for, to say nothing of any other sounds, the conversation usually carried on among Scarthe’s cuirassiers was not unlike what might be heard—could one only penetrate into that mythical locality.Notwithstanding their noted ruffianism, they appeared to be behaving better than was their wont—as if under some unusual restraint. They were merry enough—no doubt from being installed in such comfortable quarters—but they did not appear to exhibit any offensive attitude towards the inmates of the mansion.If by chance a pretty housemaid tripped across the courtyard—on some errand to the garden, or elsewhere—she was sure of being saluted by a volley ofjeux-d’espritin French, Flemish, or English; but beyond this, the behaviour of the troopers was no worse than that of most soldiers similarly quartered.Moreover, the men, instead of being permitted within the mansion, were contenting themselves to sleep in the outhouses: as testified by the straw beds scattered over the floors of the granary, and otheroffices, in which they had passed the night.This semi-courteous tolerance, on the part of Captain Scarthe’s followers towards their involuntary host—unlike the character of the former, as it was unexpected by the latter—requires some explanation; which the conversation between Scarthe himself and his cornet, occurring at that very moment, will supply.The two officers were in a large sitting-room, that had been assigned to them in the eastern wing of the dwelling. It is scarce necessary to say that the room was handsomely furnished: for the mansion of Sir Marmaduke Wade, besides being one of the oldest, was also one of the grandest of the time. The walls of the apartment specified were covered with Cordovan leather, stamped with heraldic devices; the huge bay window was hung with curtains of dark green velvet; while the pieces of massive furniture exhibited sculptural carvings not only elaborate, but perhaps of higher art than can be produced at the present time.A massive round table in the middle of the floor was covered by a heavy cloth of rich Damascus pattern; while the floor itself, in lieu of Brussels or Turkey carpet, was hidden under a mattress of smooth shining rushes, neatly woven into a variety of patterns.Scarthe was seated, or rather reclining on afauteuilcovered with crimson velvet; while his cornet, who had just entered the room, stood in front of him—as if in the reception, or delivery, of a message.Neither of the officers was in armour. The steel plates had been laid aside; or not fastened on for that day.Scarthe himself was habited in all the fantastic frippery fashionable at the time. A doublet of yellow satin, with trunk hose of the same—the latter fringed at the bottoms with silk ribbons, tipped with tags of gold. A broad Vandyke collar of point lace; cuffs to correspond; and a scarlet sash—also weighted with golden tags—adorned the upper part of his body; while boots of yellow Cordovan leather—with snow-white lawn puffing out at the ample tops—completed the list of his habiliments.Despite his pale face; despite a certain sinister cast of his countenance—not always to be observed—Richard Scarthe was a handsome man. The eyes of many a courtly dame had deemed him more than interesting; and as he reclined against the back of thefauteuilin an attitude of perfect ease, he looked not the less interesting, that the scarlet scarf passed over his right shoulder was crossed by another of more sombre hue—acting as asling, in which his right arm rested.A wounded man—especially if the damage has been received in a duel—is a dangerous object for the eye of a sentimental young lady to rest upon. It might be that Captain Scarthe was acquainted with this not very recondite truth. It might be, that some such thought had been in his mind that very morning, while making his toilette before the mirror.The cornet was neither so handsome as his captain, nor so daintily dressed; and yet one, previously acquainted with Stubbs’ rather slovenly habit, could not have failed to notice, on that particular morning, that more than ordinary pains had been taken withhis“make-up.”He was in a plain military suit of buff; but the collar and cuffs were clean; and so also his plump flesh-coloured face—a condition in which it was not always to be found.His hay-coloured hair, too, exhibited something of a gloss—as though the brush had been recently and repeatedly passed through it.There was a flush on Stubbs’ cheek, with a soft subdued light in his eye, that betokened some unusual emotion in his mind—some thought more refined than ordinarily held dominion there. In short, Stubbs had the look of a man who had been so unfortunate, as to fall in love!As we have said, the cornet was standing. He was silent also; as if he had already delivered his report, and was awaiting the reply.“I’m glad they’re taking it so quietly,” said the captain, in rejoinder to whatever communication his cornet had made. “Our fellows are not used to sleeping in stables—with a fine house standing close by. But we’re in England now, Stubbs; and it won’t do to keep up the fashions of Flanders. By so doing, we might get our good king into disgrace.”“We might, by Ged!” stiffly assented Stubbs.“Besides,” continued the captain, speaking rather to himself than to his subaltern, “I’ve another reason for not letting them forage too freely, just now. The time may come, when it will be more profitable to put the screw on. The cat plays with the mouse, before killing it. Did the vagabonds grumble at my order?”“Not a bit. No, by Ged! They’re too fond of you for that.”“Well, cornet; next time you go among them, you can promise them plenty of beef and beer. They shall have full rations of both, and double ones too. But no pickings and stealings. Tell them that the eighth commandment must be kept; and that nothing short of hanging will satisfy me if it be broken. They must be given to understand, that we’re no longer engaged in a campaign; though the Lord knows how soon we may be. From what I heard, and saw, yesterday among that rabble, I shouldn’t wonder if the king sets us to cutting their throats before spring.”“Like enough,” quietly assented Stubbs.“I don’t care how soon,” continued the cuirassier captain, musing as he spoke. “I shouldn’t care how soon—but—that, if it come to blows, we’ll be called away from here; and after the infernal marchings and countermarchings we’ve had for the last six months, I feel inclined for a little rest. I think I could enjoy thedolce far nientedevilish well down here—that is, for a month or so. Nice quarters, a’nt they?”“Are, by Ged!”“Nice girls too—you’ve seen them, haven’t you?”“Just a glimpse of them through the window, as I was dressing. There were two of them out on the terrace.”“There are only two—a daughter, and a niece. Come, cornet; declare yourself! Which?”“Well, the little un’s the one to my taste.She’s a beauty, by Ged!”“Ha! ha! ha! I might have known it?” cried the captain. “Well—well—well!” he continued speaking to himself in a careless drawl. “I believe, as I always did, that Nature has formed some souls utterly incapable of appreciating her highest works. Now here is a man, who actually thinks that dapper little prude more beautiful than her queenlike cousin; a woman that to me—a man of true taste and experience—is known to possess qualities—ah! such qualities! Ha! ha! ha! Stubbs sees but the bodice and skirt. I can perceive something more—never mind what—the soul that is concealed under them. He sees a pretty lip—a sparkling eye—a neat nose—a shining tress; and he falls over head and ears in love with one or other of these objects. To me ’tis neither lip, glance, nor tress: ’tis thetout ensemble—lips, nose, eyes, cheeks, andchevelure—soul and body all combined!”“By Ged! that would be perfection,” cried Stubbs, who stood listening to the enraptured soliloquy.“So it would, cornet.”“But where will you find such? Nowhere, I should say?”“You are blind, cornet—stone-blind, or you might have seen it this morning.”“I admit,” said the cornet, “I’ve seen something very near it—the nearest it I ever saw in my life. I didn’t think there was a girl in all England as pretty as that creature. I didn’t, by Ged.”“What creature?”“The one we’ve been speaking of, the little one—Mistress Lora Lovelace is her name. I had it from her maid.”“Ha! ha! ha! You’re a fool, Stubbs; and it’s fortunate you are so. Fortunate for me, I mean. If you’d been gifted with either taste or sense, we might have been rivals; and that, my killing cornet, would have been a great misfortune for me. As it is, our roads lie in different directions. You see something—I can’t, nor can you tell what—in Mistress Lora Lovelace. I see that in her cousin which I can, anddo, comprehend. I see perfection. Yes, Stubbs, this morning you have had before your eyes not only the most beautiful woman in the shire of Bucks, but, perhaps, the loveliest in all England. And yet you did not know it! Never mind, worthy cornet.Chacun a son goût. How lucky we don’t all think alike!”“Is, by Ged!” assented the cornet, in his characteristic fashion. “I like the little ’un best.”“You shall have her all to yourself. And now, Stubbs, as I can’t leave my room with this wounded wing of mine, go and seek an interview with Sir Marmaduke. Smooth over the little rudenesses of yesterday; and make known to him, in a roundabout way—you understand—that we had a cup of sack too much at the inn. Say something of our late campaign in Flanders, and the free life we had been accustomed to lead while there. Say what you like; but see that it be the thing to soften him down, and make him our friend. I don’t think the worthy knight is so disloyal, after all. It’s something about this young sprig’s being recalled from Court, that has got him into trouble with the king. Do all you can to make him friendly tous. Remember! if you fail, we may get no nearer to that brace of beauties, than looking at them through a window, as you did this morning. It would be of no use forcing ourselves into their company. If we attempt that, Sir Marmaduke may remove his chicks into some other nest; and then, cornet, our quarters would be dull enough.”“I’ll see Sir Marmaduke at once?” said the subaltern interrogatively.“The sooner the better. I suppose they have breakfasted ere this. These country people keep early hours. Try the library. No doubt you’ll find him there: he’s reported to be a man of books.”“I’ll go there, by Ged!”And with this characteristic speech, the cornet hastened out of the room.“I must win this woman,” said Scarthe, rising to his feet, and striding across the floor with an air of resolution: “‘I must win her, if I should lose my soul!’ Oh! beauty! beauty! the true and only enchanter on earth. Thou canst change the tiger into a tender lamb, or transform the lamb into a fierce tiger. What was I yesterday but a tiger? To-day subdued—tamed to the softness of a suckling. ’Sdeath! Had I but known that such a woman was watching—for she was there no doubt—I might have avoided that accursed encounter. She saw it all—she must have seen it! Struck down from my horse, defeated—’Sdeath!”The exclamation hoarsely hissing through his teeth, with the fierce expression that accompanied it, showed how bitterly he bore his humiliation. It was not only the pain of his recent wound—though that may have added to his irritation—but the sting of defeat that was rankling in his soul—defeat under such eyes as those of Marion Wade!“’Sdeath!” he again exclaimed, striding nervously to and fro. “Who and what can the fellow be? Only his name could they tell me—nothing more—Holtspur! Not known to Sir Marmaduke before yesterday! He cannot, then, have been known toher? He cannot have had an opportunity forthat? Not yet—not yet!”“Perhaps,” he continued after a pause, his brow once more brightening, “they have never met? She may not have witnessed the unfortunate affair? Is it certain she was on the ground? I did not see her.“After all the man may be married? He’s old enough. But, no: the glove in his hat—I had forgotten that. It could scarcely be his wife’s! Ha! ha! ha! what signifies? I’ve been a blessed Benedict myself; and yet while so, have worn my beaver loaded with love-tokens. I wonder to whom that glove belonged. Ha! Death and the devil!”Scarthe had been pacing the apartment, not from side to side, but in every direction, as his wandering thoughts carried him. As the blasphemous exclamation escaped from his lips, he stopped suddenly—his eyes becoming fixed upon some object before him!On a small table that stood in a shadowed corner of the apartment, a glove was lying—as if carelessly thrown there. It was a lady’s glove—with gauntlet attached, embroidered with gold wire, and bordered with lace. It appeared the very counterpart of that at the moment occupying his thoughts—the glove that had the day before decorated the hat of Henry Holtspur!“By heaven, ’tis thesame!” he exclaimed, the colour forsaking his cheeks as he stood gazing upon it. “No—not the same,” he continued, taking up the glove, and scrutinising it with care. “Not the same; but its mate—its fellow! The resemblance is exact; the lace, the embroidery, the design—all. I cannot be mistaken!”And as he repeated this last phrase, he struck his heel fiercely upon the floor.“There’s a mystery!” he continued, after the first painful pulsations of his heart had passed; “Not known to Sir Marmaduke until yesterday! Not known to Sir Marmaduke’s daughter! And yet wearing her gauntlet conspicuously in the crown of his hat! Was it hers? Isthishers? May it not belong to the other—the niece? No—no—though small enough, ’tis too large for her tiny claw. ’Tis the glove of Marion!”For some seconds Scarthe stood twirling the piece of doeskin between his fingers, and examining it on all sides. A feeling far stronger than mere curiosity prompted him to this minute inspection, as would be divined by the dark shadows rapidly chasing each other over his pallid brow.His looks betrayed both anguish and anger, as he emphatically repeated the phrase—“Forestalled, by heaven!”“Stay there!” he continued, thrusting the glove under the breast of his doublet. “Stay there, thou devilish tell-tale—close to the bosom thou hast filled with bitter thoughts. Trifle as thou seemest, I may yet find thee of serious service.”And with a countenance in which bitter chagrin was blended with dark determination, he continued to pace excitedly over the floor of the apartment.End of Volume One.

On the bold brow of one of the central hills of Bulstrode Park, stood the dwelling—a palatial structure of red brick, with facings of white stone—the latter transported over the sea from the quarries of Caen.

The style of architecture was that known as “Norman”—with thick massive walls, having the circular Roman arch over the doors and windows.

In front was a space appropriated to the purposes of parterre and shrubbery; while to the rearward extended the stables and other offices—enclosing an extensive courtyard between them and the dwelling.

In rear of the outbuildings was the garden—approached through the courtyard by a strong iron wicket; while encircling all—grounds, garden, and houses—was a deep battlemented moat, which imparted to the mansion somewhat of the character of a fortified castle.

On the morning after the fête in Bulstrode Park, the courtyard of the dwelling presented an unusual spectacle. A stranger, entering through the great arched gateway, might have mistaken the square enclosure inside for the yard of a barrack. Horses were standing in rows around the walls—their heads tied up to hooks that had been freshly driven into the mason-work; while men in topped boots, wide hanging hose, and grogram shirts—with sleeves rolled up to the elbows—were engaged in grooming them.

Leathern buckets, containing water, stood by the heels of the horses—where the pavement appeared splashed and wet.

Other men, of similar appearance, might have been seen seated upon benches, or squatted upon the coarse woollen covers of their horses—occupying themselves with the cleaning of armour—furbishing steel cuirasses, cuisses, and helmets, to the sheen of silver, and then hanging them against the walls, under a sort of shed that had been specially erected for their reception.

Under the same shelter large demi-pique dragoon saddles had been placed in rows—astride of long trestles set up for the purpose.

Every available space upon the walls was occupied by a bridle, a pair of spurs, pistols, or holsters, a sword with its belt, or some piece either of offensive, or defensive, armour.

It is scarce necessary to say, that these horses and men—these saddles, bridles, arms, and armour—were the component parts of Captain Scarthe’s troop of cuirassiers, vieweden dishabille.

What with the neighing of steeds that did not belong to the place, the barking of dogs that did, and the swearing and gibbering of threescore men in half-a-dozen distinct languages, the usually quiet courtyard of Sir Marmaduke’s mansion had been transformed into a sort of Pandemonium: for, to say nothing of any other sounds, the conversation usually carried on among Scarthe’s cuirassiers was not unlike what might be heard—could one only penetrate into that mythical locality.

Notwithstanding their noted ruffianism, they appeared to be behaving better than was their wont—as if under some unusual restraint. They were merry enough—no doubt from being installed in such comfortable quarters—but they did not appear to exhibit any offensive attitude towards the inmates of the mansion.

If by chance a pretty housemaid tripped across the courtyard—on some errand to the garden, or elsewhere—she was sure of being saluted by a volley ofjeux-d’espritin French, Flemish, or English; but beyond this, the behaviour of the troopers was no worse than that of most soldiers similarly quartered.

Moreover, the men, instead of being permitted within the mansion, were contenting themselves to sleep in the outhouses: as testified by the straw beds scattered over the floors of the granary, and otheroffices, in which they had passed the night.

This semi-courteous tolerance, on the part of Captain Scarthe’s followers towards their involuntary host—unlike the character of the former, as it was unexpected by the latter—requires some explanation; which the conversation between Scarthe himself and his cornet, occurring at that very moment, will supply.

The two officers were in a large sitting-room, that had been assigned to them in the eastern wing of the dwelling. It is scarce necessary to say that the room was handsomely furnished: for the mansion of Sir Marmaduke Wade, besides being one of the oldest, was also one of the grandest of the time. The walls of the apartment specified were covered with Cordovan leather, stamped with heraldic devices; the huge bay window was hung with curtains of dark green velvet; while the pieces of massive furniture exhibited sculptural carvings not only elaborate, but perhaps of higher art than can be produced at the present time.

A massive round table in the middle of the floor was covered by a heavy cloth of rich Damascus pattern; while the floor itself, in lieu of Brussels or Turkey carpet, was hidden under a mattress of smooth shining rushes, neatly woven into a variety of patterns.

Scarthe was seated, or rather reclining on afauteuilcovered with crimson velvet; while his cornet, who had just entered the room, stood in front of him—as if in the reception, or delivery, of a message.

Neither of the officers was in armour. The steel plates had been laid aside; or not fastened on for that day.

Scarthe himself was habited in all the fantastic frippery fashionable at the time. A doublet of yellow satin, with trunk hose of the same—the latter fringed at the bottoms with silk ribbons, tipped with tags of gold. A broad Vandyke collar of point lace; cuffs to correspond; and a scarlet sash—also weighted with golden tags—adorned the upper part of his body; while boots of yellow Cordovan leather—with snow-white lawn puffing out at the ample tops—completed the list of his habiliments.

Despite his pale face; despite a certain sinister cast of his countenance—not always to be observed—Richard Scarthe was a handsome man. The eyes of many a courtly dame had deemed him more than interesting; and as he reclined against the back of thefauteuilin an attitude of perfect ease, he looked not the less interesting, that the scarlet scarf passed over his right shoulder was crossed by another of more sombre hue—acting as asling, in which his right arm rested.

A wounded man—especially if the damage has been received in a duel—is a dangerous object for the eye of a sentimental young lady to rest upon. It might be that Captain Scarthe was acquainted with this not very recondite truth. It might be, that some such thought had been in his mind that very morning, while making his toilette before the mirror.

The cornet was neither so handsome as his captain, nor so daintily dressed; and yet one, previously acquainted with Stubbs’ rather slovenly habit, could not have failed to notice, on that particular morning, that more than ordinary pains had been taken withhis“make-up.”

He was in a plain military suit of buff; but the collar and cuffs were clean; and so also his plump flesh-coloured face—a condition in which it was not always to be found.

His hay-coloured hair, too, exhibited something of a gloss—as though the brush had been recently and repeatedly passed through it.

There was a flush on Stubbs’ cheek, with a soft subdued light in his eye, that betokened some unusual emotion in his mind—some thought more refined than ordinarily held dominion there. In short, Stubbs had the look of a man who had been so unfortunate, as to fall in love!

As we have said, the cornet was standing. He was silent also; as if he had already delivered his report, and was awaiting the reply.

“I’m glad they’re taking it so quietly,” said the captain, in rejoinder to whatever communication his cornet had made. “Our fellows are not used to sleeping in stables—with a fine house standing close by. But we’re in England now, Stubbs; and it won’t do to keep up the fashions of Flanders. By so doing, we might get our good king into disgrace.”

“We might, by Ged!” stiffly assented Stubbs.

“Besides,” continued the captain, speaking rather to himself than to his subaltern, “I’ve another reason for not letting them forage too freely, just now. The time may come, when it will be more profitable to put the screw on. The cat plays with the mouse, before killing it. Did the vagabonds grumble at my order?”

“Not a bit. No, by Ged! They’re too fond of you for that.”

“Well, cornet; next time you go among them, you can promise them plenty of beef and beer. They shall have full rations of both, and double ones too. But no pickings and stealings. Tell them that the eighth commandment must be kept; and that nothing short of hanging will satisfy me if it be broken. They must be given to understand, that we’re no longer engaged in a campaign; though the Lord knows how soon we may be. From what I heard, and saw, yesterday among that rabble, I shouldn’t wonder if the king sets us to cutting their throats before spring.”

“Like enough,” quietly assented Stubbs.

“I don’t care how soon,” continued the cuirassier captain, musing as he spoke. “I shouldn’t care how soon—but—that, if it come to blows, we’ll be called away from here; and after the infernal marchings and countermarchings we’ve had for the last six months, I feel inclined for a little rest. I think I could enjoy thedolce far nientedevilish well down here—that is, for a month or so. Nice quarters, a’nt they?”

“Are, by Ged!”

“Nice girls too—you’ve seen them, haven’t you?”

“Just a glimpse of them through the window, as I was dressing. There were two of them out on the terrace.”

“There are only two—a daughter, and a niece. Come, cornet; declare yourself! Which?”

“Well, the little un’s the one to my taste.She’s a beauty, by Ged!”

“Ha! ha! ha! I might have known it?” cried the captain. “Well—well—well!” he continued speaking to himself in a careless drawl. “I believe, as I always did, that Nature has formed some souls utterly incapable of appreciating her highest works. Now here is a man, who actually thinks that dapper little prude more beautiful than her queenlike cousin; a woman that to me—a man of true taste and experience—is known to possess qualities—ah! such qualities! Ha! ha! ha! Stubbs sees but the bodice and skirt. I can perceive something more—never mind what—the soul that is concealed under them. He sees a pretty lip—a sparkling eye—a neat nose—a shining tress; and he falls over head and ears in love with one or other of these objects. To me ’tis neither lip, glance, nor tress: ’tis thetout ensemble—lips, nose, eyes, cheeks, andchevelure—soul and body all combined!”

“By Ged! that would be perfection,” cried Stubbs, who stood listening to the enraptured soliloquy.

“So it would, cornet.”

“But where will you find such? Nowhere, I should say?”

“You are blind, cornet—stone-blind, or you might have seen it this morning.”

“I admit,” said the cornet, “I’ve seen something very near it—the nearest it I ever saw in my life. I didn’t think there was a girl in all England as pretty as that creature. I didn’t, by Ged.”

“What creature?”

“The one we’ve been speaking of, the little one—Mistress Lora Lovelace is her name. I had it from her maid.”

“Ha! ha! ha! You’re a fool, Stubbs; and it’s fortunate you are so. Fortunate for me, I mean. If you’d been gifted with either taste or sense, we might have been rivals; and that, my killing cornet, would have been a great misfortune for me. As it is, our roads lie in different directions. You see something—I can’t, nor can you tell what—in Mistress Lora Lovelace. I see that in her cousin which I can, anddo, comprehend. I see perfection. Yes, Stubbs, this morning you have had before your eyes not only the most beautiful woman in the shire of Bucks, but, perhaps, the loveliest in all England. And yet you did not know it! Never mind, worthy cornet.Chacun a son goût. How lucky we don’t all think alike!”

“Is, by Ged!” assented the cornet, in his characteristic fashion. “I like the little ’un best.”

“You shall have her all to yourself. And now, Stubbs, as I can’t leave my room with this wounded wing of mine, go and seek an interview with Sir Marmaduke. Smooth over the little rudenesses of yesterday; and make known to him, in a roundabout way—you understand—that we had a cup of sack too much at the inn. Say something of our late campaign in Flanders, and the free life we had been accustomed to lead while there. Say what you like; but see that it be the thing to soften him down, and make him our friend. I don’t think the worthy knight is so disloyal, after all. It’s something about this young sprig’s being recalled from Court, that has got him into trouble with the king. Do all you can to make him friendly tous. Remember! if you fail, we may get no nearer to that brace of beauties, than looking at them through a window, as you did this morning. It would be of no use forcing ourselves into their company. If we attempt that, Sir Marmaduke may remove his chicks into some other nest; and then, cornet, our quarters would be dull enough.”

“I’ll see Sir Marmaduke at once?” said the subaltern interrogatively.

“The sooner the better. I suppose they have breakfasted ere this. These country people keep early hours. Try the library. No doubt you’ll find him there: he’s reported to be a man of books.”

“I’ll go there, by Ged!”

And with this characteristic speech, the cornet hastened out of the room.

“I must win this woman,” said Scarthe, rising to his feet, and striding across the floor with an air of resolution: “‘I must win her, if I should lose my soul!’ Oh! beauty! beauty! the true and only enchanter on earth. Thou canst change the tiger into a tender lamb, or transform the lamb into a fierce tiger. What was I yesterday but a tiger? To-day subdued—tamed to the softness of a suckling. ’Sdeath! Had I but known that such a woman was watching—for she was there no doubt—I might have avoided that accursed encounter. She saw it all—she must have seen it! Struck down from my horse, defeated—’Sdeath!”

The exclamation hoarsely hissing through his teeth, with the fierce expression that accompanied it, showed how bitterly he bore his humiliation. It was not only the pain of his recent wound—though that may have added to his irritation—but the sting of defeat that was rankling in his soul—defeat under such eyes as those of Marion Wade!

“’Sdeath!” he again exclaimed, striding nervously to and fro. “Who and what can the fellow be? Only his name could they tell me—nothing more—Holtspur! Not known to Sir Marmaduke before yesterday! He cannot, then, have been known toher? He cannot have had an opportunity forthat? Not yet—not yet!”

“Perhaps,” he continued after a pause, his brow once more brightening, “they have never met? She may not have witnessed the unfortunate affair? Is it certain she was on the ground? I did not see her.

“After all the man may be married? He’s old enough. But, no: the glove in his hat—I had forgotten that. It could scarcely be his wife’s! Ha! ha! ha! what signifies? I’ve been a blessed Benedict myself; and yet while so, have worn my beaver loaded with love-tokens. I wonder to whom that glove belonged. Ha! Death and the devil!”

Scarthe had been pacing the apartment, not from side to side, but in every direction, as his wandering thoughts carried him. As the blasphemous exclamation escaped from his lips, he stopped suddenly—his eyes becoming fixed upon some object before him!

On a small table that stood in a shadowed corner of the apartment, a glove was lying—as if carelessly thrown there. It was a lady’s glove—with gauntlet attached, embroidered with gold wire, and bordered with lace. It appeared the very counterpart of that at the moment occupying his thoughts—the glove that had the day before decorated the hat of Henry Holtspur!

“By heaven, ’tis thesame!” he exclaimed, the colour forsaking his cheeks as he stood gazing upon it. “No—not the same,” he continued, taking up the glove, and scrutinising it with care. “Not the same; but its mate—its fellow! The resemblance is exact; the lace, the embroidery, the design—all. I cannot be mistaken!”

And as he repeated this last phrase, he struck his heel fiercely upon the floor.

“There’s a mystery!” he continued, after the first painful pulsations of his heart had passed; “Not known to Sir Marmaduke until yesterday! Not known to Sir Marmaduke’s daughter! And yet wearing her gauntlet conspicuously in the crown of his hat! Was it hers? Isthishers? May it not belong to the other—the niece? No—no—though small enough, ’tis too large for her tiny claw. ’Tis the glove of Marion!”

For some seconds Scarthe stood twirling the piece of doeskin between his fingers, and examining it on all sides. A feeling far stronger than mere curiosity prompted him to this minute inspection, as would be divined by the dark shadows rapidly chasing each other over his pallid brow.

His looks betrayed both anguish and anger, as he emphatically repeated the phrase—“Forestalled, by heaven!”

“Stay there!” he continued, thrusting the glove under the breast of his doublet. “Stay there, thou devilish tell-tale—close to the bosom thou hast filled with bitter thoughts. Trifle as thou seemest, I may yet find thee of serious service.”

And with a countenance in which bitter chagrin was blended with dark determination, he continued to pace excitedly over the floor of the apartment.

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