In the hall again, seated in the window, is Urith. The window is planted high in the wall, so high, that to look out at it a sort of dais must be ascended, consisting of a step. On this dais is an ancient Tudor chair, high in the seat, as was usual with such chairs, made when floors were of slate and were rush-strewn, calculated to keep the feet above the stone, resting on a stool. Thus, elevated two steps above the floor, to whit, on the dais and the footstool, sat Urith as an enthroned queen, but a queen most forlorn, deadly pale, with sunken eyes that had become so large as to seem to fill her entire face, which remained entirely impassive, self-absorbed.
She made no allusion to Anthony; after he had withdrawn, she forgot that she had seen him. His presence when before her rendered her uneasy, so that, out of pity for her distress, he removed, when at once she sank back into the condition which had become fixed. But Anthony was again in the hall on this occasion, resolved again to try to draw her from her lethargy.
She sat uptilted in her chair, trifling with a broken token. She was swinging it like a pendulum before her, and to do this she leaned forward that the ribbon might hang free of her bosom. Though her eyes rested on the half-disc, its movement did not seem to interest her, and yet she never suffered the sway entirely to cease. So soon as the vibration became imperceptible, she put a finger to the coin and set it swinging once more.
Anthony had seated himself on the dais step, and looked up into her face, and, as he looked, recalled how he had gazed in that same face on Devil Tor, when he had carried her through the fire. An infinite yearning and tenderness came on him. His heart swelled, and he said low, but distinct, with a quiver in his voice——
"Urith!"
She slowly turned her head, fixed her eyes on him, and said, "Aye."
"Urith! Do you not know me?"
She had averted her head again. Slowly, mechanically, she again turned her face to him, seemed to be gathering her thoughts, and then said:
"You are like Anthony. But you are not he. I cannot tell who you are."
"I am your Anthony!"
He caught her elbow to draw her hand to him, to kiss it, but she started at the touch, shivered to her very feet, so as to rattle the stool under them, plucked her arm from him, and said quickly:
"Do not touch me. I will not be touched."
He heaved a long breath, and put his hand to his head.
"How can you forget me, Urith? Do you not recall how I had you in my arms, and leaped with you through the fire, on Devil Tor?"
"I was carried by him—he is dead—not by you." She looked steadily at him. "No—not by you."
"It was I!" he exclaimed, with vehemence. "I set you on my horse, dearest. It was I—I—I. Oh, Urith! do not pretend not to know me! I have been away, in danger of my life, and I thought in the battle of you, only of you. Urith! my love! Turn your eyes on me. Look steadily at me. Do you remember how, when I had set you on my horse, I stood with my hand on the neck, and my eyes on you. You dazzled me then. My head spun. Urith! dear Urith, then I first knew that you only could be mine, that nowhere in the whole world could I find another I would care for. And yet—whilst I discovered that, I foresaw something dreadful, it was undefined, a mere shadow—and now it has come. Look me in the eyes, my darling! look me in the eyes, and you must know me."
She obeyed him, in the same mechanical, dead manner and said, "I will not thus be addressed, I am no man's darling. I was the darling of Anthony once—a long time ago; but he ceased to love me; and he is dead. I killed him."
"Anthony never ceased to love you. It is false. He always loved you, but sometimes more than at other times, for his self-love rose up and smothered his love for you—but never for long."
"Did Anthony never cease to love me? How do you know that? How can you know that? You are deceiving me."
"It is true. None know it as I do."
She shook her head.
"Listen to me, Urith. Anthony never loved any but you."
"He had loved Julian," answered Urith. "He had from a child, and first love always lasts, it is tough and enduring."
"No, he never loved her. I swear to you."
She shook her head again, but drew a long breath, as though shaking off something of her load. "I cannot think you know," she said, after a pause.
"I knew Anthony as myself." He caught her hand. "I insist—look me steadily in the face."
She obeyed. Her eyes were without light, her hand was cold and shrinking from his touch, but he would not let it go. For a while there was symptom of struggle in her face, as though she desired to withdraw her eyes from him, but his superior will overcame the dim, half-formed desire, and then into her eyes came a faint glimmer of inquiry, then of vague alarm.
"Urith?"
"It is a long way down," she said.
"A long way down? What do you mean?"
"I am looking into hell."
"What! through my eyes?"
"I do not know; I am looking, and it goes down deep, then deeper, and again deeper. I am sinking, and at last I see him, he is far, far away down there in flames." She paused, and intensity of gaze came into her eyes. "In chains." She still looked, the iris of each orb contracting as though actually strained to see something afar off. "Parched." Then she moaned, and her face quivered. "All because he loved Julian when he was mine, and I shall go there too—for I killed him. I do not care. I could not be in heaven, and he there. I will be there—with him. I killed him."
Anthony was dismayed. It seemed impossible to bring her to recognition. But he resolved to make one more attempt.
He had let go her hand, and as he withdrew his eyes, her head returned to its former position; and once more she began to play with the pendant token.
Her profile was against the window. The consuming internal fire had burnt away all that was earthly, common in her, and had etherialised, refined the face.
"Urith!"
"Why do you vex me?"
"Turn fully round to me, Urith. What is that in your hand?"
"A token."
"Who gave it you?"
"It belonged to my father."
"It is broken."
"Everything is broken. Nothing is sound. Faith—trust—love." She paused between each word, as gathering her thoughts. "Everything is broken. Words—promises—oaths—." Then she looked at the token. "Everything is broken. Hearts are broken—lives—unions—nothing is sound."
"Look at this, Urith."
Anthony drew from his breast the half-token that had belonged to his mother, and placed it against that which Urith held.
"See, Urith! they fit together."
It was so, the ragged edge of one closed into the ragged edge of the other.
She looked at it, seemed surprised, parted the portions, and reclosed them again.
"Everything broken may be mended, Urith," said Anthony. "Faith—trust—love. Do you see? Faith shaken and rent may become firm and sound again, and trust may be restored as it was, and love be closed fast. Unions—a little parted by misunderstanding, by errors, may be healed. Do you see—Urith?"
She looked questioningly into his eyes, then back at the token, then into his eyes again.
"Is it so?" she asked, as in a dream.
"It is so, you see it is so. See—this broken half-token belonged to your father; that to my mother. Each had failed the other. All seemed lost and ruined forever and ever. But it could not be—the broken pledge must bemade whole, the promises redeemed, the parts must be reunited—and Urith! they are so in us."
He caught her by both hands, and looking into her face, began to sing, in low, soft times:—
An evening so clearI would that I wereTo kiss thy soft cheekWith the lightest of air.The star that is twinklingSo brightly aboveI would that I might beTo enlighten my love!
An evening so clearI would that I wereTo kiss thy soft cheekWith the lightest of air.The star that is twinklingSo brightly aboveI would that I might beTo enlighten my love!
An evening so clearI would that I wereTo kiss thy soft cheekWith the lightest of air.The star that is twinklingSo brightly aboveI would that I might beTo enlighten my love!
An evening so clear
I would that I were
To kiss thy soft cheek
With the lightest of air.
The star that is twinkling
So brightly above
I would that I might be
To enlighten my love!
A marvellous thing took place as he sang.
As he sang he saw—he saw the gradual return of the far-away soul. It was like Orpheus in Hades with his harp charming back the beloved, the lost Eurydice.
As he sang, step by step, nay, hardly so, hair'sbreadth by hair'sbreadth, as the dawn creeps up the sky over the moor, the spirit returned from the abysses where it had lost its way in darkness.
As he sang, Anthony doubted his own power, feared the slightest interruption, the least thing to intervene and scare the tremulous spirit-life back into the profound whence he was conjuring it.
The soul came, slow as the dawn, and yet, unlike the dawn in this, that it came under compulsion. It came as the treasure heaved from a mine, responsive to the effort employed to lift it; let that strain be desisted from, and it would remain stationary or fall back to where it was before.
An explosion of firearms, the crash of broken glass, and the rattle of bullets against the walls.
Instantly Anthony has leaped to his feet, caught Urith in his arms, and carried her where she was protected by the walls, for the bullets had penetrated the window and whizzed past her head.
At the same moment he saw Solomon Gibbs, who plunged into the hall, red, his wig on one side, shouting, "Tony! for God's sake, fly! the troopers are here, sent after you. I've fastened the front door. Quick—be off. They'll string you up to the next tree."
He was deafened by blows against the main entrance, a solid oak door on stout iron hinges let into the granite. It was fastened by a cross-bar—almost a beam—that ran back into a socket in the jamb, when the door was unbarricaded.
"Tony! not an instant is to be lost. Make off. But by the Lord! I don't know how. They are clambering over the garden wall to get at the back door. There are a score of them—troopers under Captain Fogg."
Anthony had Urith in his arms. He looked at her, her eyes were fixed on him, full of terror, but also—intelligence.
"Anthony!" she said, "what is it? Are you in danger?"
"They seek my life, dearest. It is forfeit. Never mind. Give me a kiss. We part in love."
"Anthony!" she clung to him. "Oh, Anthony! What does it all mean?"
"I cannot tell you now. I suppose it is over. Thank God for this kiss, my love—my love."
The soldiers were battering at the door; two were up at the hall window, ripping and smashing at the panes. But there was no possibility of getting in that way, as each light was protected by stout iron stanchions.
"By the Lord! Tony. I'll fasten the back-door!" shouted Gibbs. "Get out somehow—Urith! if you have wits, show him the trapway. Quick! not a moment is to be lost—whilst I bar the back-door." Solomon flew out of the hall.
"Come," said Urith. "Anthony! I will show you." She held his hand. She drew it to her, and pressed it to her bosom. It touched the broken token—and she had his half-token in her hand. "Anthony! when joined—to be again separate?"
They passed behind the main door, whilst the troopers thundered against it, pouring forth threats, oaths, and curses. They had drawn a great post from the barn over against the porch, and were driving this against the door. That door itself would stand any number of such blows, not so the hinges, or rather the granite jambs into which the iron crooks on which the hinges turned were let; as Anthony and Urith went by, a piece of granite started by the jar flew from its place, and fell at their feet. Anotherblow, and the crook would be driven in, and with it the upper portion of the door.
On the further side of the entrance passage, facing the door into the hall, was one that gave access to a room employed formerly as a buttery. In it were now empty casks, old saddles, and a variety of farm lumber, and, amongst them that cradle that Anthony had despised, the cradle in which Urith had been lulled to her infantine slumbers.
Urith thrust the cradle aside, stooped, lifted a trap-door in the wooden-planked floor, and disclosed steps.
"Down there," she said, "fly—be quick—grope your way along, it runs in the thickness of the garden wall, and opens towards the chapel."
"One kiss, Urith!"
They were locked in each other's arms. Then Anthony disengaged himself.
A shout! The door had fallen in. A shot—it had been fired through the window by a soldier without who had distinguished figures, though seen indistinctly, through the cobwebbed, dusky panes of the buttery window. Anthony disappeared down the secret passage. Urith put her hand to her head a moment, then a sudden idea flashed through her brain; she caught with both arms the cradle, and crashed it down the narrow passage, blocking it completely, and threw back the door that closed the entrance.
Next moment she and Solomon Gibbs were in the hands of the troopers who had burst in.
"Let go—that is a woman!" called the commanding officer. "Who are you?" This to Mr. Gibbs. "Are you Anthony Cleverdon? You a rebel?"
"I!—I a rebel! I never handled a sword in my life," answered Mr. Gibbs, without loss of composure; "but, my lads, at a single-stick, I'm your man."
"Come!—who are you?"
"I am a man of the pen, Mr. Solomon Gibbs, attorney," answered the old fellow; "and, master—whatever be your name, I'd like to see your warrant—breaking into a house as you have done. I can't finger a sword or a musket, but, by Saint Charles the Martyr, I can make you skip and squeak with a goose-quill; and I will for this offence."
"Search the house," ordered Captain Fogg, the officer in command of the party. "I know that the rebel is here;he has been seen. He cannot have escaped; he is secreted somewhere. Meanwhile keep this lawyer-rascal in custody. Here—you, madame!"—to Urith—"what is your name, and who are you?"
"I am Anthony Cleverdon's wife."
"And he—where is he?"
"Gone."
"Where is he gone to."
"I do not know."
"Who is this fellow in the hands of my men?"
"He is my uncle, my mother's brother, Mr. Solomon Gibbs."
"Search the house," ordered the captain. "Madame, if we catch your husband, we shall make short work of him. Here is a post with which we broke open the door; we will run it out of an upstair window and hang him from it."
"You will not take him; he is away."
In the mean time the soldiers had overrun the house. No room, no closet, not the attics were unexplored. Anthony could not be found.
"What have we here?" A couple of troopers had lifted the trap and discovered the passage.
"It is choked," said the captain. "What is that? An old cradle thrust away there? 'Fore heaven! he can't have got off that way, the cradle stops the way. The bird had flown before we came up the hill."
Immediately after Sedgemoor, a small detachment had been sent under Captain Fogg to Tavistock from the Royal Army to seek out and arrest, and deal summarily with, such volunteers as had joined the rebels from thence. Not only so, but the officer was enjoined to do his utmost to obtain evidence as to what gentlemen were disaffected to the King in that district; and to discover how far they were compromised in the attempt of Monmouth. Mr.Crymes's papers had been secured in his coach. They contained correspondence, but, for the most part, letters of excuse and evasion of his attempt to draw other men of position into the rebellion. With the letters were lists of the volunteers, and names of those who, it was thought, might be induced later to join the movement.
There existed in the mind of James and his advisers a suspicion that the Earl of Bedford, angry at the judicial murder of his son, was a favourer of Monmouth, and Captain Fogg was particularly ordered to find out, if such existed, proofs of his complicity.
The part Anthony had taken was too well known for him to remain neglected; and Fogg had been enjoined to seize and make short work of him.
Between two of the tors or granite crags that tower above the gorge of the Tavy where it bursts from the moor, at the place called The Cleave, are to be seen at the present day the massive remains of an oblong structure connecting the rocks, and forming a parallelogram. This was standing unruined at the time of our story. For whatever purpose it may have served originally, it had eventually been converted into a shelter-hut for cattle and for shepherds.
There was a doorway, and there were narrow loophole windows; the roof was of turf. At one end, against the rock, a rude fireplace had been constructed; but there was no proper chimney—the smoke had to find its way as best it might out of a hole in the roof above, which also admitted some light and a good deal of rain. A huge castle of rock in horizontal slabs walled off the hut from the north, and gave it some shelter from the storms that blew thence. There was a door to the opening that could be fastened, which was well, as it faced the southwest, whence blew the prevailing wind laden with rain; but the windows were unglazed—they were mere slots, through which the wind entered freely. The floor was littered with bracken, and was dry. The crushed fern exhaled a pleasant odour.
Outside the hut, in early morning, sat Anthony with Urith among the rocks, looking down into the gorge. The valley was full of white mist, out of which occasionally a grey rock thrust its head. Above the mist the moor-peaks and rounded hills glittered in the morning sun.
Anthony sat with his arm about Urith; he had drawnher head upon his breast, and every moment he stooped to kiss it. Tears were in her eyes—tears sparkling as the dewdrops on bracken and heather—tears of happiness. The dusky shadows of the past had rolled away: a shock had thrown her mind off its balance, and a shock had restored it. What led to that brief period of darkness, what occurred during it, was to her like a troubled dream of which no connected story remained—only a reminiscence of pain and terror. She knew now that Anthony loved her, and there was peace in her soul. He loved her. She cared for nothing else. That was to her everything. That he was in danger she knew. How he had got into it she did not dare to inquire. But one thought filled her mind and soul, displacing every other—he loved her.
It was so. Anthony did love her, and loved her alone. When he was away—in the camp, on the march, in the battle-field—his mind had turned to Urith and his home. Filled with anxiety about her from what he had heard from Mr. Crymes, he had become a prey to despair; and, if he had fought in the engagement of Sedgemoor with desperate valour, it had been in the hopes of falling, for he believed that no more chance of happiness remained to him.
After his escape, an irresistible longing to see Urith once more, and learn for certain how she was, and how she regarded him, had drawn him to Willsworthy. And now, that she was restored to him in mind and heart, he stood, perhaps, in as great peril as at any time since he had joined the insurgents. He knew this, but was sanguine. The vast extent of the moor was before him, where he could hide for months, and it would be impossible for an enemy to surprise him. Where he then was, on the cliffs above the Tavy, he was safe, and safe within reach of home. No one could approach unobserved, and opportunities of escape lay ready on all sides—a thousand hiding-places among the piles of broken rock, and bogs that could be put between himself and a pursuer. Nevertheless, he could not remain for ever thus hiding. He must escape across the seas, as he was certain to be proscribed, and a price set on his head. That he must be with Urith but for a day or two he was well aware, and every moment that she was with him was to him precious. She did not know this:she thought she had recovered him for ever, and he did not undeceive her.
Now he began to tell her of his adventures—of how he had joined the Duke, and been appointed Captain of the South Devon band; of how they had been received in Taunton; how they had marched to Bristol, and almost attacked it; and then of the disastrous day at Sedgemoor.
"Come!" said Anthony, "let us have a fire. With the mists of the morning rising, the smoke from the hut will escape notice."
The air of morning was cold.
Holding Urith still to his side, he went with her into the hut. It was without furniture of any sort. Blocks of stones served as seats; but there was a crook over the hearth, and an iron pot hanging from it. A little collection of fuel stood in a corner—heather, furze-bushes, dry turf—that had been piled there by a shepherd in winter, and left unconsumed.
Urith set herself to work to make a fire and prepare. They were merry as children on a picnic, getting ready for a breakfast. Urith had brought up what she could in a basket from Willsworthy, and soon a bright and joy-inspiring fire was blazing on the hearth.
Anthony rolled a stone beside it and made Urith sit thereon, whilst he threw himself in the fern at her feet, and held her hand. They talked watching and feeding the fire, and expecting the pot to boil. They did not laugh much, they had no jokes with each other. Love had ceased to be a butterfly, and was rather the honey-bearing bee, and the honey it brought was drawn out of the blossoms of sorrow.
To Urith it gave satisfaction to see how changed Anthony was from the spoiled, wayward, dissatisfied fellow who had thought only of himself, to a man resolute, tender, and strong. As she looked at him, pride swelled in her heart, and her dark eyes told what she felt. But a little time had passed over both their heads, and yet in that little while much had been changed in both. How much in herself she did not know, but she marked and was glad to recognise the change in him.
As they talked, intent in each other, almost unable towithdraw their eyes from each other, the door opened, and Mr. Solomon Gibbs entered.
"There!—there!" said he, "a pretty sharp watch you keep. You might have been surprised for aught of guard you kept."
"Come here," said Anthony; "sit by the fire and tell me what is being done below."
Mr. Solomon Gibbs shook his head. "You cannot remain here, Tony; you must be off—over the seas—and I will take care of Urith, and have the windows patched at Willsworthy."
"I know I must," said Anthony, gloomily, and he took Urith's hand and drew it round his neck; never had she been dearer to him than now, when he must part from her.
"Oh! uncle!" exclaimed Urith, "he must not indeed go hence now that he has returned to me."
"I am safe here for a while," said Anthony, and he pressed his lips to Urith's hand.
"Can you say that, with the rare look-out you keep?" asked Mr. Gibbs. Then he gazed into the fire, putting up his hand and scratching his head under the wig. He said no more for a minute, but presently, without looking at Anthony, he went on. "Those fellows under their Captain—Fogg is his name—are turning the place upside down; they have visited pretty nigh every house and hovel in quest of rebels, as they call them. The confounded nuisance is that they have a list of the young fellows who went from these parts. As fast as any of them come home, if they have escaped the battle, they drop into the hands of the troopers."
Anthony said nothing, he was troubled. Urith's large dark eyes were fixed on her uncle.
"The Duke of Monmouth has been taken, I hear; he hid in a field, in a ditch among the nettles. No chance for him. His Majesty, King James, will have no bowels of compassion for such a nephew. For the Protestants of England there is now no hope save in the Prince of Orange."
Then Uncle Solomon put his hand round behind Anthony and nudged him, so as not to attract the attention of Urith.
"And whilst we are waiting we may be consumed," said Anthony.
Then Solomon nudged Anthony again, and winked at him, and made a sign that he desired to have a word with him outside the door.
"'Fore Heaven, Tony!" said he, "we are as careless as before. I who bade you keep a watch have forgotten myself in talking with you. Go forth, lad, and cast a look about thee."
Anthony rose from the fern, and went to the door. He stood in it a moment, looking from side to side, then closed the door, and went further.
Mr. Gibbs took off his wig and rubbed his head. "The mist in the valley has taken the curl out, Urith. I wish you would dry my wig by the blaze, and I will clap my hat on and go out and help Anthony to see from which quarter the wind blows, and whether against the wind mischief comes."
Then he also went forth.
Urith at once set herself to prepare the food for breakfast; her heart was heavy at the thought of losing Anthony again as soon as she had recovered him, when all the love of their first passion had rebloomed with, if not greater beauty, yet with more vigour.
When Anthony re-entered the hut, he was alone, very pale, and graver than before; Urith saw him as he passed the ray of light that entered from one of the loop-holes, and she judged at once that some graver tidings had been given him than Uncle Sol had cared to communicate in her presence.
She uttered a half-stifled cry of fear, and started to her feet. "O Anthony! What is it? Are the soldiers drawing near?"
"No, my darling, no one is in sight."
"But what is it, then? Must I lose you? Must you go from hence?"
She threw herself on his breast and clung to him.
"Yes, Urith, I must go. You must be prepared to lose me."
"But I shall see you again—soon?"
"We shall certainly meet again."
She understood that he was no longer safe there, thathe must fly further, and that she could not accompany him on his flight; but her heart could not reconcile itself to this conviction.
He spoke to her with great affection, he stroked her head, and kissed her, and bade her take courage and gather strength to endure what must be borne.
"But, Tony!—for how long?"
"I cannot say."
"And must you cross the seas?"
He hesitated before he answered. "I must go to a strange land," he replied in a low tone, and bowed his head over hers. She felt that his hand that held her head was trembling. She knew it was not from fear, but from the agony of parting with her. She strove to master her despair when she saw what it cost him to say "Farewell" to her. If she might not share his fate, she could save it from being made more heavy and bitter by her tears and lamentations.
"Tony," she said, "you gave me that other half-token, take it again; hang it about your neck as a remembrance of me, and I will wear the other half—wherever we may be, you or I, it is to each only a half, a broken life, an imperfect life, and life can never be full and complete to either again till we meet."
"No," he said, and took the token, "no, only a half life till we meet."
He hung the ribbon round his neck, and placed the half token in his breast. Then he said:
"I must go at once, Urith. Come with me a part of the way. Uncle Sol will take you from me."
They left the hut together. Urith pointed to the food, but Anthony's appetite was gone. He drew her to his side, and so, silently, folded together with interlaced arms, they walked over the dewy short grass without speaking. After a while they reached a point where Solomon Gibbs was awaiting them, a point at which their several ways parted.
There Anthony staved his feet. Overcome by her grief Urith again cast herself into his arms. He put his hands to her head and thrust it back, that he might look into her eyes.
"Urith!" he said.
"Yes, Anthony!" She raised her eyes to his.
He was pale as death.
"Urith, your forgiveness for all the sorrow I have caused you."
"Oh, Anthony!" she clung to him, quivering with emotion. "It is I—it is I—who must——"
"We have been neither of us free from blame. One kiss—a last—in token of perfect reconciliation."
A kiss that was long—which neither liked to conclude—but Anthony at length drew his lips away.
"We shall meet again," he said, "and then to part no more."
Anthony had seen Urith for the last time. They would meet again only in Eternity. Though the moor was wide before him and he was free to escape over it, yet he might not fly. Captain Fogg had taken his father prisoner, had conveyed him to Lydford Castle, which he made his headquarters, and had given out that, unless Anthony Cleverdon the younger, the rebel, who had commanded the insurgent company from the neighbourhood of Tavistock, surrendered himself within twenty-four hours, he would hang the old man from the topmost window of the castle keep.
This was the tidings that Mr. Solomon Gibbs had brought to Anthony. Mr. Gibbs made no comment on it, he left Anthony to act on what he heard unpersuaded by him, to sacrifice himself for his father, or else to let the old man suffer in his stead.
There could be little doubt that Squire Cleverdon had done his utmost to forfeit the love of his children.
All the unhappiness that had fallen on Anthony, Urith, and Bessie was due in chief measure to his pride and hardness of heart; nevertheless, the one great fact remained that he was the father of Anthony, and this fact constituted an ineradicable right over the son, obliging him to do his utmost to save the life of his father.
Moreover, the old man was guiltless of rebellion. Anthony's life was forfeit, because he had borne arms against his rightful sovereign, and his father had not compromised his loyalty in any way. Anthony had never, as a boy, endured that a comrade should be punished for his faults, and could he now suffer his father to be put to death for the rebellious conduct of the son?
Not for one moment did Anthony hesitate as to his duty. But a struggle he did undergo. He thought of Urith. He had sinned against her, led astray by his vanity and love of flattery; and, after having suffered, he had worked his way to a right mind. And at the very moment of reunion, when his love and exultation over his recovered wife shot up like a flame—at that very moment he must pronounce his own sentence of death; at the moment that he had felt that she forgave him, and that all was clear for beginning a new and joyous life together, he must be torn from her, and exchange the pure and beautiful happiness just dawning on him for a disgraceful death, and the grave.
He knew that Urith's grief over his death would be intense, and, maybe, bring her down almost into the dust; but he knew, also, that the day would come when she would acknowledge that he had acted rightly, and then she would be proud of his memory. On the other hand, were he to allow his father to die in his room, he would remain for ever dishonoured in his own sight, disgraced before the world, and would lose the respect of his wife, and with loss of respect her love for him would also go.
The worst was over: he had bidden her farewell without betraying to her that the farewell was for ever. He took his way to Lydford, there to hand himself over to the Royal officers.
He had not left the moor, but was on the highway that crosses an outlying spur of it, when he suddenly encountered Julian Crymes.
Julian had heard of the return of Anthony before Captain Fogg and his soldiers arrived. She heard he was at Willsworthy, but he had not been to see her; and yet he had an excellent excuse for so doing—he must be able to tell her about her father. She had waited impatiently,hourly expecting him, and he had not come. She did not like to leave the house for a minute, lest he should come whilst she was away. Every step on the gravel called her to the window, every strange voice in the house caused her heart to bound. Why did not he come?
She went to the window of her little parlour and looked forth; and as she looked, her hot, quick breath played over the glass, and in so doing brought out the interwoven initials "A" and "U." They had long ago faded, and yet under the breath they reappeared.
When she had heard a rumour of his return, the life blood had gushed scalding through her veins, her eye had flashed, and her cheek flamed with expectation. Her father was dead, but the sorrow she felt for his loss was swallowed up in the joy that Anthony was home and in safety. Now all was right again, and in glowing colours she imaged to herself their meeting. She could hardly contain the exultation within; yet her reason told her that he could be no nearer to her than he was; he was still bound to Urith. The reproaches of Bess had stung her, but the sting was no longer felt when she heard that he was back.
But as she breathed on the window-pane, and first the interwoven initials "A" and "U" reappeared, and then the smirch where Anthony had passed his hand over her own initials linked to his, it sent a curdle through her arteries. He came not near her. He loved her no more—he had forgotten her. Little by little the suspicion entered, and made itself felt, that he did not love her. It became a conviction, forming as an iron band about her heart, rivetted with every hour, firmer, contracting, becoming colder. She was too haughty to betray her feelings, and she had not suffered a question relative to Anthony to pass over her lips.
Then she heard that Captain Fogg had arrived, and was searching the neighbourhood for Anthony, and was arresting every returned insurgent. The Captain visited Kilworthy, and explored the house for treasonable correspondence, but found none.
The anxiety and alarm of Julian for the safety of Anthony became overmastering. She could no longer endure imprisonment in her own house. Moreover, there was now no need for her to remain there. Anthony was inhiding somewhere, or he was taken—she knew not which—and could not come to her.
She had not slept all night, and when morning dawned she rode forth, unattended, to obtain some tidings about him. She would not go to Willsworthy. She could not face Urith, but she would hover about between Willsworthy and Hall, and wait till she could hear some news concerning him.
In this restless, anxious condition of mind, Julian Crymes was traversing the down when she lit on Anthony himself.
She greeted him with an exclamation of joy, rode up to him, sprang from her horse, and said, "But surely, Tony! this is reckless work coming on to the highway when they seek thy life."
"They will not have long to seek," said he.
"What do you mean?"
He made no answer, and strode forward to pass her, and continue his course to Lydford.
"Anthony!" exclaimed Julian, "you shall not meet and leave me thus. I have not seen you since your return."
"I cannot stay now."
"But you shall!" She threw herself in his road, holding the reins of her horse with one hand, and extending her whip in the other. "Anthony! what is the meaning of this?"
"I must pass," said he, stepping aside to circumvent her.
"Anthony!" she cried—there was pain and despair in her tone—"where are you going? and why will you not speak to me?"
He stood still for a moment, and looked steadily at her; then she saw how pale he was.
"Julian," said he, quietly, "you have acted towards me in a heartless——"
"Heartless, Tony!"
"In an utterly cruel manner, and have brought me to this. It was you who sowed the seeds of strife between Urith and me; you who drove her off her mind; you who forced me to leave home and go to the standard of the Protestant Duke; and it is you now who bring me to the gallows."
"The gallows!"
"The captain at the head of the troopers has taken my father, and threatens to hang him within a day unless I surrender to the same fate."
"But, Anthony!" She could hardly speak, she was trembling, and her colour flying about her face like storm-driven cloudlets lit by a setting sun, red and threatening. "Anthony!—not to—to death?"
"To death, Julian!"
She uttered a cry, let go the bridle, dropped her whip, and ran to him with extended arms. "Anthony!—O Anthony!"
He put forth his hand and held her from him. No; not on his breast where his Urith had just lain, that should never be touched by another—not by such another as Julian Crymes.
"Stand back," he said, sternly.
"Anthony! say you love me! You know you have—have always loved me."
"I never loved you, Julian. No—never."
She shook herself free, drew back, pressed her clenched fists against her bosom. "You dare to tell me that—you!"
"I never loved you," he said.
Her face became white as that of a corpse. She drew on one side and said, "Go—and may you be hanged! I hate you. I would I were by to see you die."
Julian was left alone. She watched Anthony depart, till he had disappeared round a turn of the road and a fall of the hill; then she cast herself upon the heather in a paroxysm of agony. She drove her fingers into the bushes of dwarf gorse, and the needles entered her flesh and drew the blood; but she heeded it not. The rough heather was against her cheek, a storm of sobs and tears shook and wetted the harsh, dry flowers. He did not love her! Henever had loved her! She had fought against this conviction that, like a cold, gliding snake, had stolen into her heart and dripped its poison there.
Now she could resist it no more. It was not told her by Bessie—it was not a new conjecture formed on certain scribblings on the glass; it had been proclaimed by his own lips, and at a solemn moment when he would not lie—when he was on his way to death.
He had trifled with her heart, and he dared to reproach her! She had loved him before ever he had known Urith, and then he had shown her attention. Had she mistaken that attention for love? Had not her own flaming passion seen in the reflection it called up in him a real reciprocal flame?
After he was married she could not hide from her conscience that she had made a struggle to win back his heart—had disregarded the counsels of prudence and the teachings of religion in the furious resistance she had offered to the established fact that he had been given to another, and belonged to that other.
He did not love her! He never had loved her! And his life had been to her precious only because she loved him, and believed that he loved her.
She drew herself up in the heather; her cheeks were flaming, scratched by the heather branches, and her hair dishevelled. Her great dark eyes were like a storm-cloud full of rain, and yet with fire twinkling and flashing out of it. He was on his way to death. He would be no more in this life to be fought for, to be won by her or by Urith.
"I am glad he is going to die!" she cried, and laughed. Then she threw herself again on the ground in another convulsive fit of sobs.
Urith had won. She—Julian, had dared her to the contest for the prize. Each had come off ill; but Urith had gained the object—gained it only to lose it—won Anthony's heart, only to have it broken as her own brain was broken.
"It is well," moaned Julian, catching at the tufts of heath and tearing at them, but unable either to break them or root them up. "It is well! I would never have suffered her to regain him. I would have killed her!"
Rage and disappointment tore her, as the evil spirit torethe possessed under Tabor, and finally left her, exhausted and sick at heart. A cool air came down off the moor and fanned her hot cheek, and dried the tears that moistened them.
A few hours—perhaps only an hour—and Anthony would be dead. She saw the gallows set up below Lydford Castle, and Anthony brought forth, in his shirt; his eyes bandaged; his hands bound behind his back. She heard the voices of the soldiers, and the hum of compassion from the bystanders. She saw the rope fastened about his neck, and cast over the crosstree of the gallows. Then one of the soldiers leaped, and caught the free end of the rope, and began to haul at it. Julian uttered a cry of horror, struggled to her knees, clasped her palms over her eyes, as though to shut out a real sight from them, and swayed herself to and fro on her knees.
The black 'kerchief, with the jerk, fell from his eyes, and he looked at her. Julian threw up her hands to heaven, and screamed, with horror, "My God, save him!"
Then she saw, indistinctly, through her tears, and out of her horror-distended eyes, some one standing before her. She could not see who it was; but, overmastered by her terror, she cried, "Save him! Save him!"
"Julian!" said a voice; and it had a composing effect at once on her disordered feelings.
"Bess! O, Bess! is that you? O, Bessie! do you know? He has given himself up. Anthony! Anthony!" She cowered no more; her bosom labored, and she bowed herself, with her head in her lap, and wept again.
Bessie put her hand under her arm, and raised her. "Stand up, Julian. I did not know it; but I was quite sure he would do this. I am glad he has. It was right."
"Bess, you are glad?"
"It is like himself; he has done right. He is my own dear, dear Anthony."
"O Bess!—such a death!"
"The death does not dishonour; to live would have dishonoured. He has done right."
"He has betrayed my love!" gasped Julian, "and I should be glad he died, yet—I cannot bear it. Indeed—indeed, I cannot. O Bess! I would that it were I who wasto die—not he. Bess! will they take me and let him go? He has been false to me, and I am true to him."
"He has not been false to you," said Bessie; "he has come to a sense of the wrong course he was engaged in, into which you drew him. But he never was false to you, for he never cared for you. Come! poor unhappy girl. I know how full of sorrow you must be—so must all who love Tony."
"But, Bess! is there no way of saving him?"
Elizabeth shook her head, and said:—
"I do not suppose so. It is true that Gloine has got off, and there is a whisper that his uncle saw the captain, and some money passed, but——"
"Oh! if money were all——"
"But, remember, Gloine was only a common soldier, and Anthony was the captain who led the men from these parts. I do not think any money could save him."
"Let us try." Julian sprang to her feet.
"Where is money to be had? Enough, I mean. You know the state we are in."
"But Fox has it."
"Fox!" Bessie considered; then, turning colour, said, "I do not think that even to save Anthony's life I would ask a favour of Fox."
"Then I will. He can and must save Anthony. Where is he?"
"At Hall. He has gone over there; that is why I left, and I was on my way to Willsworthy when I saw your horse; I caught him by the bridle, I knew whose it was, and came in search of you. I feared some accident. But, Julian, I am very certain nothing can be done for Anthony, save by our prayers. I have heard that special orders were issued that he was to be hung. The captain came here on purpose to take and execute him. He cannot, he dare not spare him."
"O Bess!—we will try!"
"Prayer alone can avail," said Bessie, sadly.
"Come with me. Come back to Hall. You must be with me. I will see Fox. He alone can help us."
"I will go with you," said Bessie. "But I know that it is hopeless."
"He must be saved. He must not die!" gasped Julian.
She remounted her horse, mechanically, and Bessie walked at her side.
Julian said no more. She was a prey to conflicting emotions. A little while ago she had wished Anthony's death, and now she was seeking to save it. If she did succeed in saving it, it was for whom? Not for herself. He did not love her—he never had loved her. For Urith—for her rival, her enemy! She knew that Urith was in a strange mental condition. She did not know that she was recovered from it. But she gave no heed to the state in which Urith was. She thought of her as she had seen her, handsome, sullen, defiant. That was the girl Anthony had preferred to herself, and she would save Anthony to give him to the arms of Urith, that Urith might take him by the neck, and cover his face with kisses, and weep tears of joy on his breast. Julian set her teeth. Better that he should die than this! But, next moment, her higher nature prevailed. She had loved Anthony—she did love Anthony—and true love is unselfish. She must forget herself, her own wrongs, real or imagined, and do her utmost for him. How could she love him, and let him die an ignominious death? How could she let him die, when, by an effort, she might save him, and bear to live an hour longer? She would feel as though his blood lay at her door.
"Bessie, I cannot stay. You walk. I must ride on as fast as I can. Time must not be wasted. Every moment is important."
Then she struck her horse, and galloped in the direction of Hall. Her hair, wild and tangled, flew about her ears. Her hands were full of gorse-spikes, and every pressure on the bridle made the pain great, but she did not regard this. Her mind was tossed with waves of contrary feeling, and yet, as in a storm, when the surges seem to roll in every direction, there is yet a prevailing set, so was it now. There had been a conflict in her heart, but her nobler, truer nature had won the day.
As she drew up in the courtyard of Hall, Fox came out, and uttered an exclamation of surprise at seeing her.
He was in a high condition of excitement. Without waiting to hear her speak, he burst forth into a torrent of complaint.
"I will have the law of them—soldiers though they be,and with a search-warrant, they are not entitled to rob—we have been treated as though we were foreigners, and subjected to all the violence of a sack. They have torn open every cupboard, broken into every drawer and cabinet, thrown the books and letters about—I can find nothing, and what is worst, I cannot lay my hands on the money. To-morrow is the last day, to-morrow the mortgage must be paid, and I know that my father-in-law had some coin in the house. By the Lord! I wonder whether he had the wit to secrete it somewhere, or left it where any plunderer would go straight in quest of it. And he is to be hanged in an hour, and I cannot ask him."
"Fox, it is not true; Master Cleverdon escapes."
"I know he will be hanged, and I do not suppose that set of ruffians will let me see him and find out where the money is. I have searched everywhere, and found nothing but broken cabinets and overturned drawers, account-books, title-deeds, letters, bills, all in confusion along with clothing. It drives me mad. And—unless the money be forthcoming to-morrow, Hall is lost. I have heard that the agent of the Earl of Bedford will offer a price for it—and that there is like to be another offer from Sir John Morris. They would out-bid me. The mortgage must be paid, or Hall lost, and if the old man be hanged to-day, Hall is mine by this evening. It will drive me crazed—where can the money be? He was fool enough for anything—to put it in his cabinet, or in a box under his bed, or in the chimney, tied in an old nightcap like as would have done any beldame. If he has done that—then the soldiers have taken it. Who was to interfere? Who to observe them? They drove all the servants out. They took the Squire in custody, and I was not here. I was at Kilworthy, as you know."
"Fox," said Julian. "It is no matter to me whether Hall be saved or lost. Anthony has surrendered, and the Squire is free."
"Anthony surrendered!" Fox fell back and stared at her, then laughed. "'Fore heaven! we live in crack-brained times when folk take a delight in running their heads into nooses. There was my father did his best to get hung, drawn, and quartered. A merciful Providence sent him into the other world with a bullet in his heart,and saved the honour of the family, and made a more easy exit for him. And now there is Tony—runs to the gibbet as though to a May-dance! Verily! there are more fools than hares. For them you must hide the snare, for the fools expose it, cross-piece, loop, and rope, and all complete, and ring a bell and call—come and be hanged! Come!"
"Fox, we must save Anthony."
"Save him? Why, he will not be saved! He had the world before him, and he might have run where he would; now he has gone where he ought not, and must take the consequences. Save him! Let him be hanged. I want his father. I want to know what money he has, and where it is. I can't find the whole amount. I know he has, or had, some hundreds of sovereigns somewhere."
"Fox, you must assist me to save Anthony; we cannot let him die. I will not! I will not! He must not die!" Her passion overcame her, and she burst into tears.
"Pshaw! He is past salvation. If he is in the hands of Captain Fogg, he is in a trap that has shut on him and will not let him go. Besides—nothing can be done."
"Yes, there can. Gloine escaped. His uncle, the rich old yeoman at Smeardon, bought him off."
"No money will buy Anthony off. Besides, where is the money to come from?"
"You have some. Fogg let off Gloine, and he will let Anthony off if he be paid a sufficient sum. If he was a rascal in small game, he will be rascal in great."
"I do not care to have Tony escape; I owe him a grudge. Besides, and that is just as well, his father is not here; what money the old fellow has is hidden in some corner or other, where I cannot find it, unless it has been carried off by those vultures, those rats."
"If this is not available you must help."
"I! pshaw! I cannot, and I will not."
"You can; you have a large sum at your disposal."
Fox turned mottled in face. He stared at his sister with an uneasy look in his eye.
"What makes you suppose that?" he said. "It is a folly; it is not true. I am poor as the yellow clay of North Devon. No small sum would serve, and I have but a couple of groats and a crown in my pouch."
"You have the money; you yourself admitted it, twominutes ago. You said that if you could find the money Squire Cleverdon had laid by, you would be able to make up the rest."
"Oh! that was talk! I would mortgage my Buckland estate."
"You have the money. Fox, this is evasive."
"What will satisfy you? Here is a crown, and here two groats, and, by Heaven—there is a penny as well. Take this and go—try your luck with Captain Fogg."
"I will have nothing under five hundred pounds. Fox, you can help me, and you will."
"I have not the coin. If I had I would not spare it. I will not throw Hall away. What is Tony to me? If he puts his neck into the noose, who is to blame if the rope be pulled and he dangles? No; here is the extent of my help—a crown, two groats, and one penny."
"Fox! I will sell you all my rights in Kilworthy. I will make over to you everything I have there—land, house—all—all—if you will give me five hundred pounds in gold."
Fox looked down, considered, then shook his head.
"There is not time for it. By the time we had got the transfer engrossed and signed, all would be over. Fogg won't let the grass grow under his feet, nor the rope rot for lack of usage. No; if there were time, I might consider your offer; but, as there is not, I will not. Let Tony hang: it is his due. He ran his head into the loop."
"Your final answer is—you will not help?"
"To the extent of one crown, two groats, and a penny."
"Then, Fox, I shall help myself."
Old Squire Cleverdon had spent the night in Lydford Castle. The Castle was more than half ruinous; nevertheless, there were habitable rooms still in it, and one or two of these served as prison cells. The walls were damp, and the glass in the windows broken; but it mattered not, hehad but that night longer for earth, and the season was summer.
The Squire did not lose his gravity of deportment. He had held up his head before the world when things went well with him; he would look the world defiantly in the face as all turned against him. He knew that he must die. He did not entertain a hope of life; it may also be said that he was indifferent whether he lived or died. His only grievance was that the manner of his death would be ignominious. It was hardly likely that the news of his capture and of Captain Fogg's threat should reach Anthony. Where his son was he did not know, but he supposed that he had taken refuge in the heart of the wilderness of moors, and how could he there receive tidings of what menaced his father? Or, if the news did reach him, almost certainly it would reach him when too late to save his father. But, supposing he did hear, and in time, what was menaced, was it likely that he would give himself up for his father? His life was the more valuable of the two; it was young and fresh, he had a wife dependent on him, he had an estate—his wife's—to live on; and the old man was near the end of his natural term of life, was friendless, he had cast from him his children, and was acreless, he had lost his patrimony. Anthony would be a fool to give himself up in exchange for his father. What did the Squire care for the scrap of life still his? So little that he had been ready to throw it away; and if the mode of passage into eternity was ignominious, why it was the very method he had chosen for himself at the sawpit. He was an aged ruined man, who had failed in everything, and had no place remaining for him on earth. He did not ask himself whether he had been blameworthy in his conduct to his children, in his behaviour to Anthony. He slept better that night in Lydford Castle than he had for many nights, but woke early, and saw the dawn break over the peaks of the moor to the east. He would not be brought before the captain and sent to execution for a few more hours. From his cell he had heard and been disturbed by the riot and revelry kept up by the captain and some boon comrades till late.
The morning was well advanced when Julian Crymes rode to the Castle gates, followed by a couple of serving menand laden horses. At her command the men removed the valises from the backs of the beasts and threw them over their own shoulders. The weight must have been considerable, judging by the way in which the men walked under their burdens.
Julian asked for admittance. She would see Captain Fogg. The sergeant at the gate hesitated.
"Captain Fogg was at Kilworthy yesterday in search of papers—my father's papers. I have found them, and bring them to him—correspondence that is of importance."
The sergeant ascended to the room where was the captain, and immediately came down again with orders for the admission of Julian.
Followed by the men, she mounted the stone flight that led to the upper story, where Captain Fogg had taken up his quarters, and bade the servants lay their valises on the table and withdraw.
Captain Fogg sat at the table with a lieutenant at his side; he was engaged on certain papers, which he looked hastily over, as handed to him by the lieutenant, and scribbled his name under them.
Julian had time to observe the captain; he was a man of middle height, with very thick light eyebrows, no teeth, a blotched, red face, and a nose that gave sure indication of his being addicted to the bottle. He wore a sandy scrubby moustache and beard, so light in colour as not to hide his coarse purple lips. When he did look up, his eyes were of the palest ash colour, so pale as hardly to show any colour beside the flaming red of his face, and they had a watery and languid look in them. His appearance was anything but inviting.
He took no notice of Julian, but continued his work with a sort of sulky impatience to have it over.
Not so the younger officer, who looked at Julian, and was struck with her beauty. He turned his eyes so often upon her that he forgot what he was about, and Fogg had to call him to order. Then Fogg condescended to observe Julian.
"Well," said he, roughly, "what do you want? Are these papers? What is your name?"
"I sent up my name," answered Julian.
"Ah! to be sure—the daughter of that rebel. I know—I know. What do you want?"
"I have come to ask the life of Anthony Cleverdon," she answered. "He does not deserve death; it was all my fault that he joined the Duke. He was no rebel at heart; but I drove him to it. See what a man he is—to come and surrender himself in order to save his old father from death."
"Bah! A rebel! He commanded—a chief rebel! He shall die," answered Fogg, roughly.
"I implore you to spare him! Take my life, if you will. It was all my doing. But for me he never would have gone. I sent him from his home—I drove him into the insurgent ranks. I alone—I alone am guilty."
"And who are you that you plead for him so vehemently?" asked the Captain, his watery eye resting insolently on her beautiful, flushed face. "Are you his wife?"
"No—no; I am not."
"Ah, you are his sweetheart."
Julian's colour changed. "He does not love me. He is innocent, therefore I would buy his life."
"Buy!" echoed the Captain.
"Yes—buy it."
"It cannot be done. It is forfeit. In a quarter of an hour he dies! Look here, pretty miss: I have my orders. He is to die. I am a soldier: I obey orders. He dies."
He put his hand to his cravat and drew it upwards. The action showed how Anthony was to die.
"I have brought you here something worthy of your taking," said Julian, lowering her voice—"documents of the highest value. Documents, letters, and lists—what you have been looking for, and worth more than a poor lad's life. What is his body to you when you have driven out of it the soul? A cage without a bird. Here, in these valises, I have something of much more substantial value."
"Let me look," said Fogg.
"By heaven!" he swore, after he had leaned across the table and taken hold of one. "Weighty matters herein."
Julian gave him the key, and he opened; but not fully. Some suspicion of the contents seemed to have crossed his mind. He peered in and observed bags, tied up.
"Ah!" said he. "State secrets—State secrets only for those in the confidence of the Government. Friswell!" he turned to the lieutenant, "leave me alone for a few minutes with this good maiden. She has matters ofimportance to communicate that concern many persons high up—high up—and young ears like yours must not hear. Wait till you have earned the confidence of your masters."
The lieutenant left the room.
Then Captain Fogg signed to the soldiers at the door to stand without as well.
"So—matters of importance concerning the Government," said Fogg. "In confidence, tell me all—I mean about these valises and their contents."
"I have come here," said Julian, "to implore you to save the life of Anthony Cleverdon. I am come with five hundred guineas, some in silver, some in gold—some in five-guinea pieces, the rest in guineas; they are yours freely and heartily, if you will but grant me the life of your prisoner."
"Five hundred guineas!" exclaimed the Captain; and his pale eyes watered, and his cheeks became redder. "Let me look."
He thrust his hand into the saddle-bag before him on the table, and drew forth a canvas bag that was tied and sealed. He cut the string and ran out some five-guinea pieces on the table. A five-guinea piece was an attractive—a beautiful coin. James I. had struck thirty-shilling pieces, and Charles I. three-pound gold pieces, but the five-guinea coin had been first issued by Charles II. Noble milled coins, on the reverse with the shields arranged across, and each crowned. Captain Fogg took three in his hand, tossed them, rubbed one with his glove, put his hand into the bag and drew forth more.
"Five hundred guineas!" he said. "Upon my soul, it is more than the cocksparrow is worth. I wish I could do it. By the Lord, I wish I could. Give me up that other bag."
Julian moved another over the table to him.
"Why," said he, "what do you reckon it all weighs?"
"I cannot say for certain; one of my men thought about eighty pounds."
"More, I'll be bound; and mostly gold. Why, how come you by so much down here? You country gentry must be well off to put by so much; and all coins of his late Majesty. You may have been nipped and scraped under Old Noll, but under the King you have thriven. Fivehundred pounds! Where the foul fiend did you get it? You have not robbed the Exchequer?"
Julian made no answer.
The Captain continued to examine, rub, weigh, and try the coins; he ranged them in rows before him, he heaped them in piles under his nose.
"Upon my word, I never was more sorry in my life," he said. "But I can't do it. My orders are peremptory. If I do not hang him I shall get into trouble myself. But I'll tell you what I'll do—give him a silk sash, a soldier's sword-sash, and hang him in that. It's another thing altogether—quite respectable. Will that do?" After a pause.
"Now look at me," said the Captain; "it is cursed unpleasant and scurvy treatment we gentlemen of the sword meet with. I know very well that such prisoners as we deliver over to be dealt with by the law, supposing they be found guilty and sentenced to transportation or death, will be given the chance of buying off. Why, I've known it done for ten or fifteen pounds. Look at me and wonder! Ten or fifteen pounds in the pocket of this one or that—may be a Lady-in-Waiting. But here be I—an honest, blunt, downright soldier, and five hundred guineas, and many of them five-guinea pieces, too, that smile in one's face as innocent as a child, and as inviting as a wench, and, by my soul! I can't finger them. Orders are peremptory, I must hang him. 'Tis enough to make angels weep?"[7]
He wiped his watery eyes.
"By the Majesty of the King, I'll do my best for you, saving my honour. I'll hang the old man, the father, and let the young one go free."
"Sir," said Julian, "Anthony will never accept life on those terms."
"Then, by my sword and spurs, I can't help you! But I'll do what I can for you—I will, upon my soul! I'll make him dead drunk before I hang him. Will that do? Then he won't feel. Not a bit. He'll go off asleep, and wake inkingdom come, as easy as if he were rocked in a cradle. No unpleasantness at all, and I'll stand the liquor. He shall have what he likes. By Heaven, they're making noise enough outside! Here, help to put this money into the valise. I will call to order."
He set to work and pocketed as many five-guinea pieces as he could, then thrust the rest into the bags.
Having assumed a grave manner, he knocked with the hilt of his sword on the table, and roared to the sentinel to open the door.
He was at once answered. The commotion without had not ceased.
"I will go in. I insist!—I must see Captain Fogg."
"Who is without?" asked the Captain. "Who is that creating such an uproar?"
"It is some one who desires to be admitted into your presence, Captain!" said the Lieutenant. "He says he has been robbed; he claims redress."
"I can't see him—I am busy—— State secrets? Very well, let him in."
He changed his order as Fox burst into the room in spite of the efforts of the sergeant and sentinel to stay him.