Arrah Neil; or, Times of Old

by G. P. R. James

CAPTAIN BARECOLT'S STORY.

"There is a little town called Le Catelet, just upon the French frontier, which was besieged by the Spanish army, after the French had taken it and held it for about a year. The attack began in the winter, and a number of honourable gentlemen threw themselves into it, to aid in the defence as volunteers. Amongst the rest were two friends who had fought in a good many battles together. One was called the Viscount de Boulaye, and the other the Capitaine la Vacherie. Every day there were skirmishes and sallies, and one night when they were sitting drinking and talking together, after a very murderous sortie, Capitaine la Vacherie said to his friend--

"'How cold those poor fellows must be whom we left dead in the trenches to-day!'

"'Ay, that they must!' said Boulaye; 'and 'pon my life, La Vacherie, I am glad the place is so full that you and I have but one room and one bed between us, otherwise I know not how we should keep ourselves warm.'

"'Nor I either,' replied La Vacherie. 'Mind, Boulaye, if I am some day left in the trenches, you come and look for me, and bring me out of the cold wind.'

"He spoke laughing, and the viscount answered in the same way--

"'That I will, La Vacherie; don't you be afraid.'

"Well, about a fortnight after, the Spaniards attempted to storm the place; but they were driven back, after fighting for near an hour, and Boulaye and La Vacherie, with the regiment of Champagne, pursued them to their entrenchments. Boulaye got back, safe and sound, to the town just as it was growing dark, and went to the governor's house, talked for an hour over the assault, and then returned to his room, and asked his servant if Capitaine la Vacherie had come back. The man answered No; and so Boulaye swore that he would be hanged if he would wait for his supper. When supper came and La Vacherie did not, the viscount began to think, 'I should not wonder if that poor devil, La Vacherie, had left his bones outside;' and after he had eaten two or three mouthfuls, and drunk a glass or two of wine, he sent the servant to the quarters of the regiment of Champagne, to see if he could hear anything of his friend. But the servant could find no one who knew anything of him; and when he came back, he found the viscount sitting with the table and the wine upon his right hand, and his feet upon the two andirons, with a warm fire of wood blazing away before him. When he told him that he could learn nothing, Boulaye exclaimed--.

"'Sacrement! I dare say he is dead: poor fellow, I am very sorry;' and he filled himself another glass of wine, and kept his foot on the andirons. In about half-an-hour more he went to bed, and, just as he was getting comfortable and beginning to doze, seeing the fire flickering against the wall one minute and not seeing it the next, he heard a step upon the stairs, and instantly recollected La Vacherie's, who came up singing and talking just as usual.

"'Ah!' cried he, 'La Vacherie, is that you? I thought you had been killed!'

"'The deuce you did, Boulaye,' replied La Vacherie; and he began to move about the bottles and glasses as if he were feeling for a candle to light it.

"'Well, don't make a noise, there's a good man,' said Boulaye; 'for I am tired, and have a good deal to do tomorrow.'

"'I'm sure so have I,' replied La Vacherie, 'so I will go to bed at once.'

"'Had you not better have some supper?' asked the viscount.

"'No,' replied his friend; 'I've had all the supper I want;' and accordingly he pulled off his clothes and lay down beside his comrade. But by that time the viscount was asleep, so that they had no further conversation that night. The next morning when Viscount de Boulaye awoke, he found that La Vacherie had already risen, and left his nightcap upon the pillow, and he did not see him again till night, for the enemy made several fierce attacks, and all the troops of the garrison were busy till sunset. Well, he supped alone that night as before, and just as he got into bed, he heard La Vacherie's step again, and again he came in, and again he would eat no supper, but went to bed as before. The viscount, however, did not sleep so easily this night, for he thought there was something odd about his friend. So after lying for about half-an-hour, he said, 'La Vacherie, are you asleep?'

"'Not yet,' replied La Vacherie; 'but I shall soon be so.'

"'Well, I want to ask you something,' said Boulaye, turning himself sharp round, and as he did so, his hand came against La Vacherie's. It was like a bit of ice!

"'Why, how cold you are!' cried the viscount.

"'And how can you expect me to be otherwise,' replied La Vacherie, in a terrible voice, 'when you left me out there in the trenches through two long January nights?' and that moment he jumped out of bed, threw open the window, and went off. His body was found next morning where he had been killed two days before."

Arrah Neil was silent; but Falgate, who, while riding on at his slow pace had kept one ear always open to his companion's story, turned round and asked, "But what became of the viscount?"

"Why, when the town capitulated," replied Barecolt, "he went into a Capuchin convent, and was called Father Henry.--But, hark! There is the sound of a trumpet, by the Lord Harry! Gallop, Falgate! gallop! or I'll drive my sword through you!" and at the same time he drew the weapon and pricked forward the horse of his companion with the point.

The Galloway, for it deserved no higher title, started on, lashing out behind in a manner that had nearly sent the poor painter out of the saddle and over its head; but when once the beast had fairly started in a gallop, Falgate found his seat much more comfortable than at a trot; and away the whole party went at full speed over hill and dale for about a mile and a half, when suddenly, to Barecolt's surprise, the sound of a trumpet was again heard upon his left nearer than before. After pausing for a moment to listen, he made up his mind that whatever body of men were near, they did not come from the side of Hull; but judging that when escorting treasure or a lady he should best show his valour by discretion, the renowned captain turned sharp off from the high-road down a lane to his right, and after having gone rather more than one mile in that direction, through pleasant rows of trees, without hearing any more of the sounds which had alarmed him, he pulled up at a house, from the front of which a pole bearing a garland protruded over the road, indicating that some sort of entertainment would there be found for way-faring travellers.

"We will here water our horses, Mistress Arrah," he said; "and keeping in mind that we may not find loyal subjects in every house, we will refresh the inner man with gravity and moderation;" and assuming a sad and sanctimonious air, he addressed a dry-looking man who presented himself, asking if they could obtain wherewithal to strengthen themselves for their further journey. A ready affirmative was given, and, aiding Arrah Neil from her horse, Barecolt led her in, and then, never forgetting his military habits, returned to see that the beasts were taken care of. The landlord followed him out, and the worthy captain continued to eye him with a considerate glance as he aided in washing the horses' mouths and taking out their bits. By the time this was accomplished, Barecolt's opinion of his companion was completely formed, and when the latter remarked, "You seem to have been riding very bard, master," he replied in a solemn tone, much to the astonishment of Diggory Falgate--

"Yea, verily have we, for the sound of a trumpet met our ears, and we feared, being few in number, to fall in with a party of the swaggering malignants who we hear are riding about the country. Wilt thou get the horses, little corn, my friend?"

"Right willingly, master," replied the host; "I see thou art a godly man, and I am glad to serve thee."

The moment he was gone, Barecolt whispered to Falgate, who had remained silent, partly from fatigue and partly from surprise, "We must cozen the crop-eared knave. Whine, cant, and look devout, Master Falgate, and forget your swagger if you can."

"By St. Winifred!" replied Falgate, "this rough beast has taken all the swagger out of me. I can hardly stand, captain."

"Well, get thee in," replied Barecolt, "and leave me to deal with him. The best thing for thee to do is to hold thy tongue, for if thou once openest thy mouth we shall see some profane saint or other popping out, and marking thee for a malignant in a minute."

After remaining for some ten minutes more at the door, in slow and solemn converse with the host, Barecolt stalked into the house, and found Arrah Neil sitting with her beautiful head leaning on her fair hand, and her elbow resting on a table very respectably covered with provisions.

"Now let us to our meat," said Barecolt, "for we must soon be on our way again."

Falgate was instantly settling himself upon a stool to fall to, without further ceremony; but the captain gave him a grave admonishing look, and standing before the table with his clasped hands resting on his stomach, and the two thumbs elevated towards his chin, began a grace which had well nigh exhausted the patience of Falgate before it was done, but which greatly edified the master of the house. After this was concluded, they all sat down to meat; and Barecolt, who well knew that the portion of good things which the saintly men of his day allotted themselves was by no means small, carved away at the joints without any modesty, and loaded his own plate amongst others with a mess sufficient for an ogre.

Alas for the brief period of mundane felicity! Scarcely had three mouthfuls passed between Ins grinders, scarcely had one deep draught from the foaming tankard wetted his lips, when the sound of many horses' feet was heard, and the next instant the detestable blast of the trumpet was once more heard before the door. The landlord, who, as was then very customary, had sat down to share the meal prepared for his guests, started up, and ran out to the door, while Barecolt quietly approached the window and looked forth; then returning to the table, he whispered in a low voice to Diggory Falgate and Arrah Neil, "A party of the drunken tapsters and pimpled-nosed serving-men whom the roundhead rebels call cavalry. Master Falgate, be as silent as a church mouse, I command you, and answer not more than a monosyllable, whatever is asked you."

Are they from Hull?" demanded Arrah Neil, in a tone of alarm, as Barecolt resumed his seat and began to eat.

"No, I think not," replied the gallant captain; "but we shall soon see, for here come some of them along the passage;" and as he spoke the door opened, giving admission to a stout, short-set man in a well-worn buff coat.

[CHAPTER XXVI.]

The parliamentarian looked at Captain Barecolt, and Captain Barecolt looked at the parliamentarian. The former had a cynical sort of smile on his countenance, as if he recognised in the worthy captain a personage whom he had seen before under different circumstances; but Barecolt's face was a perfect blank, at least if that which bore so prominent a gnomon could be called so. At all events it said nothing; there was not the slightest glance of recognition in his eyes; there was not the smallest curl of consciousness round his mouth. He looked full in the officer's face, with the stare of a stranger, for very nearly a minute, and then civilly asked him if he would not sit down and join their party.

"No, I thank you," replied the parliamentarian, with the same sneering smile; "but I think I shall ask you to join ours."

"I am much obliged, my friend," replied Barecolt, without any change of countenance; "but I have nearly dined."

"Dined or not dined," rejoined the other, "you must come along with me."

"How now?" cried Barecolt, rising with a look of indignation; "I thought, from your look, that you were a God-fearing and worthy man; but if you be, as I now judge from your words, one of the malignant fermenters of strife in Israel, I tell you you are in the wrong part of the country to play your pranks, even if you had a company of swaggering rakehelly troopers at your heels."

"Come, come," replied the other, "I am what I seem, and what you know me right well to be. Did you ever hear of a certain Captain Batten, sir? Were you ever at such a place as Bishop's Merton?"

"Of a Captain Batten I have heard when I was in London," replied Barecolt, boldly, "and I have seen him too, but you are not he; for, in the first place, he is a godly and well-disposed person, and in the next place I do not recollect you. Then, as for Bishop's Merton, the very name of it is naught, and smacks of Prelacy and Popery."

"I am not Captain Batten, certainly," replied the other; "but I was cornet of his troop when you were at Bishop's Merton, and I watched you well along the road for forty miles and more, after you had made him prisoner. You have changed your dress, but I know you, Captain Barecolt."

"Captain Barecolt!" cried our worthy friend, lifting up his hands and eyes with a look of astonishment and indignation; "am I never to have done with Captain Barecolt? This is the third time within these four days that I have been mistaken for that good-for-nothing, worthless fellow. If ever I meet him I will cut off that nose of his, or he shall cut off mine, that there may be no more mistaking between us. However, sir, if you are really, as you say, a cornet of Captain Batten's troop, I am glad to meet you: there is my hand, and I am quite prepared to show you to your satisfaction that I am not the swaggering malignant you take me for, but a poor officer of French extraction, whose parents took refuge in this land during the persecutions of those who fought as I do for the cause of true faith and freedom of conscience. My name is Jersval, and you must, most likely, have heard of it, as I have for the last three months been assisting that worthy and pious man, Sir John Hotham, in strengthening the fortifications of Hull."

The officer looked at him for a moment or two with a bewildered stare; for, though he thought he could have sworn to the person of the man who had been pointed out to him, not many weeks before, as Captain Barecolt, a notorious malignant, yet the captain's coolness and effrontery were so great as almost to overbear his belief. He was not convinced, indeed, but he was staggered; and being somewhat of a dogged nature, he resolved to resist giving credence to mere assertions, however boldly made.

"Come, come," he said, "you say you can give me proofs. Where are they? I know your face quite well. The proofs--the proofs, man, or you must away with me to Hull."

"Be that at your peril, sir," replied Barecolt, with an air of dignity. I am travelling on business of importance for the governor, and I will resist being stopped to the shedding of blood. As to the proofs, here they are. You probably know Sir John Hotham's signature; and as he spoke, he drew forth from his pocket the pass which he had obtained from the governor of Hull.

So well had he combined all the particulars of his story, that every word in the pass tallied exactly with what he had said before. He was called therein the French officer, Captain Jersval, employed upon the fortifications; and all the authorities of the town and its dependencies, as well as all persons well affected to the state, were enjoined to give him free passage, aid, and assistance on all lawful occasions. The parliamentarian, as he read, became more and more bewildered, and indeed somewhat doubtful of Captain Barecolt's identity. The landlord also joined in on behalf of his guest, and vouched for his having behaved himself in a very comely and discreet manner. The Roundhead was, however, of a stubborn and stiff-necked race, as I have before hinted. He was far more inclined to believe his own eyes than any piece of paper in the world; and although he read the pass twice, he looked at Captain Barecolt often, each time muttering between his teeth an expression of conviction that he was right after all.

"Well, it does not signify," he said aloud, at length; "you shall go to Hull. You may have stolen this pass, or forged it, for aught I know. Unless some one can swear that you are the same man here spoken of, back you shall troop."

"That I can swear," cried Diggory Falgate, starting up, and forgetting his companion's injunctions to silence.

"And who, in the fiend's name, may you be?" demanded the parliamentary soldier, growing hot; for Barecolt had by this time quietly freed his long sword from the sheath, and placed his back towards the corner, giving a glance as he did so to the window, across which two other figures on horseback passed at the moment.

"Who am I?" said Falgate; "a citizen of Hull, sir; and I am ready to swear that I saw that gentleman walking and talking with the governor yesterday, and that he is the same to whom that pass was given."

"Go to, go to!" said the parliamentarian scornfully; "you seem some mechanic, who can know nought of such matters. Meddle with what concerns you, good man. Landlord, call in two of my troopers."

"Be it at your peril and theirs," replied Barecolt, in a voice of extraordinary loudness, bringing the point of his weapon towards the chest of his opponent who had taken a step forward. "Whoever says I am not Captain Jersval, lately employed by Sir John Hotham on the fortification of Hull, is a liar, and the consequence be upon his own head."

Just as he was pronouncing in a stentorian voice this recapitulation of the qualities and titles he thought fit to assume, and while Arrah Neil was drawing back to the farther side of the room with some alarm, but with the profound silence she had preserved throughout this scene, the landlord opened the door to obey the order he had received; but he was encountered at the threshold by two gentlemen, whom, to say truth, Captain Barecolt had seen a minute or two before, crossing the window on horseback. Now our worthy friend, at his heart, did not know whether to be sorry or rejoice at their presence, for there was much matter for very mingled feelings in their sudden appearance.

The first face that presented itself was that of Lord Beverley; and with all Barecolt's bad qualities he had a certain degree of chivalrous generosity in his nature, which made him unwilling to have another engaged in the same awkward scrape as himself, especially when, as in the case of the earl, many important interests he feared might be periled by his capture, while his own apprehension would principally affect his own neck. He had therefore shouted aloud, as soon as he saw his noble companion dismount to enter the inn, for the purpose of giving him some notice of what was going on within; nor had his words failed to catch the earl's ear, for the distance from the door of the room to the door of the house was but a step, and the windows were open.

If, however, the sight of the earl caused Captain Barecolt as much alarm as pleasure, the face of the personage who followed was anything but satisfactory in his eyes; for the last time he had seen it was in earnest and apparently secret conference with Sir John Hotham; and our friend had no means whatsoever of knowing whether his evasion from Hull had become public before the earl and his companion had set out.

What was his surprise, however, when Lord Beverley advanced towards him, holding out his hand and exclaiming, "Ah! Captain Jersval, I was afraid I should have missed you, for we came by the cross-roads. But what is all this? Sword in hand, my gallant captain! What is all this, sir?" he continued, turning to the parliamentary officer with an air of authority. "I hope you are not molesting this gentleman, who is a very grave and respectable person, and not one to draw his sword upon anybody without just occasion."

Barecolt was for once in his life wise enough not to say a word. He did not venture to hint at his feats in the Cevennes; he said nothing of Navarre or Arragon; he uttered not the name of Rochelle, but quietly left the earl to settle it all his own way.

Falgate, too, was overpowered at the sudden recognition of Captain Barecolt as Captain Jersval, and the Roundhead officer looked foolish and confounded, muttering for a moment or two something about "a mistake," till he recovered himself sufficiently to return to his point and declare, "that if ever human eyes were to be trusted, the man calling himself Jersval was no other than one Captain Barecolt, a notorious malignant."

"And pray, sir, do you know me?" demanded the earl; "for you seem to be much more knowing than your neighbours."

"No, I never saw you before," replied the man, bluffly.

"But I know you, Master Stumpborough," said the earl's companion, advancing in turn. "At least, if I am not mistaken, you are the man I was told to look for while accompanying this gentleman on his road. You are the cornet of Batten's troop of horse, are you not?"

"The same, sir," replied the other with a stiff bow; "it seems we shall get at the truth of the matter now."

"It is only your stupid thick head that has prevented your getting at it before, Master Stumpborough," replied the gentleman. "This person whom you persist in calling Barecolt--you must be a bare colt yourself for your pains--is Captain Jersval, who has been employed by Sir John Hotham in strengthening the defences of our town, and who is now going on with this gentleman upon business of importance. We have been looking for him all along the road; so, if you had stopped or injured him, you would have lost your ears for your pains."

"I told him so! I told him so! I told him so!" cried Barecolt, at every pause in the other's words.

But the gentleman from Hull proceeded to hand a small paper to the parliamentarian. "There is a word or two for you from Sir John. Now get ready to march on without further delay. I will return with you. I think, sir," he continued, addressing the earl, "you will not want me any more."

"No, I thank you, sir," replied Lord Beverley; "I can find my way on with my companions here. Commend me to Sir John, and accept my best thanks for your company so far."

While these few words were passing between the royalist nobleman and his companion of the road, the Roundhead officer had been spelling through Sir John Hotham's note, looking both puzzled with the writing and confounded with all that had lately taken place. When he had done, however, he thought fit to make an apology to Barecolt for taking him for the man he really was.

"I will never believe my eyes again, sir," he said, "for I would have sworn that you were that blaspheming ribaldy varlet, Barecolt, only dressed in a brown suit and with a steeple-crowned hat on. You are as like as two peas; only, now I think of it, he may be a little taller. But I hope you do not bear malice, sir; now I know who you are, I am satisfied; I only wished to do my duty."

"I certainly do not thank you, sir, for taking me, a peaceable and God-fearing man, for a blaspheming ribaldy varlet," replied Barecolt, with a solemn air, "but I forgive you, sir, I forgive you! Every man needs forgiveness more or less, and so farewell; but use your eyes to better purpose another time, and if ever you see Captain Barecolt, tell him that when next he and Jersval meet, I will set such a mark upon him that there shall be no more mistakes; and so fare you well."

A few words had in the meanwhile passed in a low tone between the earl and his companion from Hull, and the latter then took his leave, seeing the commander of the party of troopers and the landlord of the house out before him. Barecolt immediately turned a glance full of merriment to Lord Beverley; but that nobleman with a grave face put his finger to his lips, and then, seating himself at the table, said--"Well, Captain Jersval, by your leave I will share your dinner, which, by the fulness of the plates, seems to have been somewhat unpropitiously interrupted."

"Certainly, certainly, sir," said Barecolt, resuming his seat at the head of the table. "Come, Falgate; come, Mistress Arrah Neil."

At the latter name the earl started, and gazed at Arrah for a moment; but took no further notice, and only whispered to Barecolt, "Make haste!"

[CHAPTER XXVII.]

There was a jingling of arms and a shouting of words of command at the door of the inn, somewhat too much of the trumpet, and a great deal too much talking for a veteran force; and then the order was given to march, followed by trampling of horses' feet in not the most orderly progression upon the road. The mouth of Captain Barecolt had been busy for the last five minutes upon beef and cabbage, and much execution had it done in that course of operations; but no sooner had the sounds of the retiring party diminished than it opened, evidently with the purpose of giving utterance to the pent-up loquacity which had long been struggling in his throat. But the Earl of Beverley made him a second significant sign to be silent, and his caution was not unnecessary, for at that moment mine host was standing at the back of the door with a few silver pieces in his hand, grumbling internally at the small pay of the parliamentary party, and ready to overhear anything that was said by his other guests. The next moment he opened the door of the room in which they were dining, and found them all eating and drinking in very edifying silence. His presence did not seem to discompose them in the least, and the only effect it had upon any one, was to induce the earl to point to the huge black jack in the midst of the table, saying the few but gratifying words "More ale!"

The landlord hastened to replenish the tankard; but as there were no ingenious contrivances in those days for conjuring up various sorts of beer at will from the depths of a profound cellar, and, as the house boasted no tapster, the host himself had to draw the liquor from the cask, and the earl took advantage of his absence to say to Barecolt and Falgate, "One more draught, my friends, if you will, and then to our horses' backs. Are you rested enough to travel on, fair lady, for I have business of much importance on hand?"

"Quite, sir," replied Arrah Neil; "I am only too glad to go on."

"I am rejoiced to see you here," continued the earl; "but we must not venture to speak more till we have nothing but the free air around us."

The next instant the landlord re-appeared, and the earl, taking the black jack from his hands, put his lips to it, but passed it on, after barely tasting the contents. Barecolt did it more justice, in a long deep draught; and Falgate well nigh drained it to the bottom. As soon as this ceremony was concluded. Barecolt and the rest of the party rose, and the earl returned thanks for the daily bread they had received, at less length, but with greater devotion than his companion might have done.

"Now, Captain Jeraval," he said, when this was done, "you see to the horses, while I pay the score." And when Barecolt returned, he found the face of his host bearing a much better satisfied look, after settling with his present guests, than it had assumed after the departure of him whom the good man mentally termed a beggarly cornet of horse.

The earl then placed Arrah Neil in the saddle, sprang upon the back of a handsome, powerful charger, and, followed quickly by Barecolt, and slowly by Falgate, took his way along the lane in which the house stood, choosing without hesitation many a turning and many a by-path, much to the admiration of the worthy captain, who had a natural fondness for intricate ways.

"You seem to know the road right well," he said in a low tone to the earl, when he could refrain no longer.

"I have known it from my boyhood," replied Lord Beverley; but he made no farther answer, and rode on in silence till the path they followed opened out upon one of the wide open moors, not unfrequently met with even now in that part of the country, and which at that season was all purple with the beautiful flower of the heath.

"Now," observed the earl, "we can speak freely. You are full of wonder and curiosity, I know, captain; but first tell me," he continued, looking behind towards Diggory Falgate, who was labouring after them about three hundred yards in the rear, "whom have you got there?"

"Oh! a very honest fellow, my lord," replied Barecolt; "who must needs go join the king, and be a soldier."

"Put him into the infantry, then," said the earl. "But are you sure of him?"

"Quite," replied Barecolt; "he aided me last night to get speech with you in the block-house; and would not have cared if it had put his neck in a noose."

"Enough--enough!" said the earl; "it had well nigh been an unlucky business for all; but that matters not. The man showed his devotion, and therefore we may trust him; and now, fair lady, so long, and so anxiously sought, I can scarcely believe my eyes to find you here upon the coast of Yorkshire. But, doubtless, you do not know me; let me say that I am an old friend of Lord Walton."

"Oh! yes, sir," replied Arrah Neil; "I remember you well. You were at Bishop's Merton that terrible night before the fire. You passed me as I sat by the well watching for Lord Walton's return, to tell him what they plotted against him; and you asked your way, and spoke kindly to me. Oh I remember you well; but I wonder you remember me, for I am much changed."

"You are, indeed," replied the earl, "not only in dress but in speech. I could hardly at that time wring a word from you, though I was anxious to know if I could give you aid or help."

"I was at that time in deep grief," replied Arrah Neil, "and that with me is always silent; but, besides, I had one of my cloudy fits upon me--those cloudy fits that are now gone for ever."

"Indeed!" said the earl; "what has happened to dissipate them?"

"Memory," replied Arrah Neil. "At that time all the past was covered with darkness, previous to that period at which I arrived at Bishop's Merton; but still, in the darkness it seemed as if I saw figures moving about, different from those that surrounded me, and as if I heard tongues speaking that had ceased to sound upon my ear. And so longingly, so earnestly, used I to look upon that cloud over the past--so completely used it to withdraw my thoughts from the present--so anxious used I try to see those figures, and to hear those voices more distinctly, that I do not wonder people thought me mad. I thought myself so at times."

"But still," rejoined Lord Beverley, "how has all this been removed?"

"Because the cloud is gone," replied Arrah Neil, with a smile that made her fair face look angelic--"because to remember one scene, one hour, one person, connected with the past, woke up memory as if she had been sleeping; and daily and hourly since she has been bringing up before me the pictures of other days, till all is growing clear and bright."

"I can understand all that," said the earl, with interest; "but I would fain hear how it happened, that memory had for so long failed you at a particular point."

"It is strange, indeed," said Arrah Neil, thoughtfully; "but I suppose it sometimes happens so, after such a terrible fever as that which I had at Hull, and of which my poor mother died."

"That explains the whole," replied the earl; "such is by no means an uncommon occurrence. Was this many years ago?"

"Oh, yes," replied Arrah Neil; "when I was very young. I could not be more than eight or nine years old; for that good kind woman, the landlady of the inn, where we then lodged, told me the other day that it was between nine and ten years ago. Those were sad times," she said.

"They were, indeed," said the Earl of Beverley, a deep shade coming over his brow; "as sad to you it seems as to me, for we both then lost those that were dearest to us."

He paused for a moment or two, looking down upon his horse's crest with a stern and thoughtful expression of countenance; and then, raising his head, he shook his rein with a quick and impatient gesture, saying, "It is not good to think of such things. Come, Barecolt, now to satisfy your curiosity as far as is reasonable. I see that you have scarcely been able to keep it within bounds; but first let me thank you for your efforts to set me free; and, understand me, I am not one to limit my gratitude to words."

"But your lordship said it had well nigh been an unlucky business for us all," exclaimed Captain Barecolt; "and, to say truth, as soon as the door was open, I saw that I had got into the wrong box, as it is called. There was somebody behind the curtain, I suspect; and I do not know," he continued, "whether it would be discreet to ask who it was."

"There need be no secret about it now;" replied the earl. "It was no other than my worthy friend Sir John Hotham, the governor, who wished to hold some private communication with me. He feared when you tried to open the door, that it was some one come to spy upon his actions; and to tell the truth, I was very apprehensive lest your inopportune appearance should be the means not only of breaking off my conversation with him, but of getting you yourself hanged for a spy. I had no time for consideration, and therefore it was that I told you to get out of Hull as fast as possible, and wait for me on the road. I had still less time to think of what account I should give of you to Sir John; but the truth when it can be told, my good captain, is always the best; and as the governor had already promised to set me at liberty speedily, I thought fit to tell him that you were an attached dependant of mine, who had foolishly thought fit to risk your own life to set me free. I told him, moreover, that I had directed you to get out of the town as soon as you could, and wait for me on the road, trusting to his promise for speedy liberation. He pronounced the plan a good one, and made arrangements for sending Colonel Warren with me to insure my passing safe, if I should meet this party of horse with whom I just now found you embroiled."

"This Colonel Warren must be quick at taking a hint." replied Barecolt; "for he certainly entered into your lordship's schemes in my poor favour with great skill and decision."

"He is a very good man, and well affected," replied the earl; "the only one, indeed, in Hull on whom Sir John Hotham can rely. He was prepared, however; for, just before we set out this morning, as he told me afterwards, first a rumour, and then a regular report from the gates, reached the governor, to the effect that you had run away from the town. Sir John replied coldly to the officer who brought him the intelligence, that you had not run away, but had been sent by him on business of importance; and that for the future, when on guard at the gates, he had better mind his own business, which was to prevent the enemy from coming in, and not to meddle with those who went out. He then explained to Warren that we should find you on our way; and in half-an-hour we came up the river in a boat, mounted the horses which had been sent to meet us a couple of miles from the town, and fell in with the party of horse, as you know."

"Truth is best, as you say," replied Barecolt; "but yet I do honour a man who, when need compels him, can tell a sturdy lie with a calm and honest countenance; and in this respect the worthy Colonel Warren certainly deserves high renown, for he vouched for my being Captain Jersval, with as sincere and as innocent a face as a lamb's head at Easter."

"I fear he does not merit your praise." replied the earl, "and I do not think he would exactly covet it; but at all events he did not know you to be any other than Captain Jersval; for my conversation about you with Sir John Hotham was but short, and it did not occur to me to mention your real name."

"Lucky discretion!" cried Barecolt; "but, in good sooth, my lord, we must wait a little for my good friend, Diggory Falgate, whose bones are already aching from his first acquaintance with a horse's back, and who cannot keep up with us at the pace we go."

"What hour is it?" said the earl. "We have not yet made much way, and I would fain be at Market Wighton or at Poklington before night. We have taken a great round to avoid some dangers on the Beverley road, otherwise the distance to York is not more than forty miles."

Having ascertained that it was not yet more than two o'clock, the earl agreed to pause a little for the benefit of good Diggory Falgate, and, about two miles farther on, stopped at a little village to feed the horses, in order to enable them to make as long a journey as possible before night.

The aspect of the landlord and landlady of the house at which they now paused was very different from that of their late host. The latter was a buxom dame of forty-five, with traces of beauty passed away, a coquettish air, a neat foot and instep, and a bodice laced with what the Puritans would have considered very indecent red ribbons. Her husband was a jovial man, some ten years older than herself, with a face as round and rosy as the setting sun, a paunch beginning to be somewhat unwieldy, but with a stout pair of legs underneath it, which bore it up manfully. He wore his hat on one side as he came out to greet his new guests, and a cock's feather therein, as if to mark peculiarly his abhorrence of puritanical simplicity.

The first appearance of Lord Beverley and his party, the plainness of their dress, and the soberness of their air, did not seem much to conciliate his regard; but the nose of Captain Barecolt had something pleasant and propitious in his eyes, and the light ease with which the Earl of Beverley sprang to the ground and lifted Arrah Neil from the saddle also found favour in his sight; for the worthy landlord had a very low estimation of the qualities of all the parliamentary party, and could not make up his mind to believe that any one belonging to it could sit a horse, wield a sword, or fire a shot, with the same grace and dexterity as a Cavalier.

Just as the earl was leading in Arrah Neil, however, and Barecolt was following, Diggory Falgate, to use a nautical term, hove in sight; and the landlord, who was giving orders to his ostler for the care of the horses, rubbed his eyes and gazed, and then rubbed his eyes again, exclaiming, "By all the holy martyrs! I do believe that it is that jovial blade Falgate, who painted my sign, and kept us in a roar all the time it was doing."

"Ay, sir, that's just Diggory," answered the ostler, "though I wonder to see him a-horseback; for, if you remember, he once got upon our mare, and she shot him over her head in a minute."

"Ah, jolly Falgate!" cried the landlord, advancing towards him; "how goes it with you?"

"Hardly, hardly, good Master Stubbs," answered the painter. "This accursed beast has beaten me like a stockfish; and I am sure that my knees, with holding on, are at this moment all black and blue, and green and yellow, like an unscraped pullet."

"Faith, I am sorry to hear it," replied the landlord; "but you will come to it--you will come to it, Master Falgate. All things are beaten into us by an application on the same part, from our first schooling to our last. But tell me, do you know who these people are who have just come?"

"Tell you! To be sure," cried Diggory Falgate; "I am of their party. One is a great lord."

"What! the long man with the nose?" cried the worthy host. "'Tis a lordly nose--that I'll vouch for."

"No, no; not he," replied the painter: "he is a great fire-eating captain, the devil of a fighting soldier, who swallows you up a whole squadron in a minute, and eats up a battalion of infantry, pikes and all, like a boy devouring a salt herring, and never caring for the bones. No, no; 'tis the other is the lord."

"He's mighty plainly dressed for a lord," replied the host. "Why, my jerkin's worth his, and a shilling to boot!"

"Ay, because we have just made our escape from Hull," replied the painter, "and we are all in disguise; but I can tell you, nevertheless, that he is a great lord, and very much trusted by the king."

"Then I'm the man for him!" said the landlord; and hurrying in, hat in hand, he addressed the Earl of Beverley, saying, "What's your lordship's pleasure? What can I get for you, my lord? Has your lordship any news from Nottingham or York? I am upon thorns till I hear from Nottingham; for I've got two sons--fine boys as ever you set your eyes upon--gone to join the king there, just a week ago last Monday, and my two best horses with them."

"In whose regiment are they?" asked the earl.

"Oh, in the noble Earl of Beverley's," replied the host; "he's our lord and master here, and as soon as one of his people came down to raise men, my boys vowed they'd go."

"They shall be taken care of," said the earl, laying his hand upon the landlord's shoulder, with a meaning smile, which let worthy Master Stubbs into the secret of his name in a moment. "And now, my good friend," he continued, "forget 'your lordship' with me, and, if you want really to serve me, send somebody to the top of the hill, to bring me word if he sees any parties moving about in the country. I have heard of such things, and would be upon my guard."

The landlord winked one small black eye till it was swallowed up in the rosy fat that surrounded it. Then, shutting the door of the room, he approached the earl, saying in a mysterious tone, "You are quite right--you are quite right, my lord. There are such things in the country. One troop passed through the village this morning, and there is another handful of them left over at the hamlet, beyond the edge, as we call the hill. There are not above a score of them; and if they were to come into the village, we would soon show them the way out, for we have surly fellows amongst us, and do not love Roundheads here. I will send over to watch them, sure enough; but if your lordship would like to make a sweep of them, we could mount half-a-dozen men in the village, who would break some heads with right good will; and in two or three hours we could have help over from the Lady Margaret Langley's, for one of her people was here yesterday, and told me that they expected a party of Cavaliers there, either that day or to-day."

Lord Beverley paused and meditated for a moment; but he then replied, "No, my good friend--no. The business I am on is too important to run any risks before it is accomplished; and, in the next place, it would not be right to bring down the vengeance of these people upon good Lady Margaret. It is about nine miles to her house, I think, too; so that would cause delay. Send some one to watch the gentry from the hill. Have the horses fed with all despatch, and give us a flagon of wine, for we have two thirsty men in our company."

"You shall have of the best in the land, my lord," replied the jolly host. "Only to think of my not knowing you!"

The wine was soon brought; and Barecolt, who had been delivering himself of a few marvels in the kitchen, followed it quickly and shared in the draught. The horses, accustomed to hard work, were not without appetite for their provender, so that their meal was speedily despatched. But when the earl and his companions once issued forth to pursue their way, he was surprised to find four stout men mounted and armed by the care of the good landlord, to escort him on his journey. He might perhaps have preferred a less numerous party, in the hope of passing unobserved; but, while he was discussing the matter with the host, a boy who had been sent up to watch ran back into the village, bringing the news that the men were moving from Little Clive, along the high-road towards the top of the hill.

"Well, then, I will take the road to the right--towards Beverley," said the earl. "Mount, mount! and let us away with all speed. Amongst the trees they will hardly see us, if we can get a mile on the way. Come, Master Falgate; we must have no lagging behind, or, by heaven, you will fall into their hands!"

"I would rather be bumped to death," replied Falgate, clambering up into his saddle; "and that wine has healed some of my bruises."

"We'll make a good fight of it if they do catch us," said one of the mounted men: "there are not above a score of them."

"Come on, then--come on quick!" cried the earl; and setting spurs to his horse, he rode out of the village, fair Arrah Neil placed between himself and Barecolt, Falgate with their escort bringing up the rear.

They had reached the wooded lane which led along under the slope towards Beverley before the party of horse which had been seen by the boy appeared upon the top of the hill. But a break of some two or three hundred yards in length in the hedgerow occurred at the distance of about a mile, and by the movements that the earl remarked amongst the troopers, whom he now saw distinctly, he judged that his little party was also observed.

"Spur on, my lord!" cried Barecolt, who had also turned round to look. "They are coming after us; but we have got a fair start. Spur on, Falgate, or you will be caught!" and, putting their horses to their utmost speed, they rode along the lane, while the faint blast of a trumpet was borne by the wind from above, and the small body of cavalry was seen to take its way quickly over the open fields, as if to cut them off.

[CHAPTER XXVIII.]

Leaving the fugitives in that period of their flight with which the last chapter closes, I must, with the benevolent reader's good leave, return to personages whom I have left somewhat too long, and for whom I own a deep interest.

Annie Walton--sweet Annie Walton--stood, as the reader may recollect, conversing with her worthy aunt, Lady Margaret Langley, and had just announced that amongst the voices she heard below was one, the tones of which recalled a person who ought to have been over the sea long before. Now, it may be supposed, and, considering all things, not unnaturally, that she alluded thus vaguely to the Earl of Beverley. Such, however, was not the case; for the voice of Lord Beverley was rich and musical, while the sounds she heard were far from being particularly harmonious; and an oath or two, pronounced in a somewhat loud tone, and intermixed with laughter, were certainly not of the vocabulary which he was most accustomed to employ.

At the same time, the stag-hound which followed them along the passages pricked up his ears with a sharp growl, and took two or three quick steps in advance, as if to spring forward on the first occasion. Lady Margaret chid him back, however. "Who is it, child?" she asked. "Who do you fancy it is? I expect no one."

"I think the voice is that of a certain Captain Barecolt," replied Miss Walton; "not a very pleasing personage, dear aunt, but one who once did us very good service--a brave man and a good soldier, my brother says, but sadly given to gasconade."

"If he be a brave man and a good soldier, a loyal subject, and have done you and Charles good service, he shall be right welcome, Annie," replied the old lady; "and he may gasconade to the moon if he pleases. Down, sir! down! Will you show your white teeth when I forbid you? But what can they be about, Annie? Never did I hear such a bustle. Hark! there is Charles's voice as loud as the other. Come quickly! let us see."

"Quick! out with the horses!" tried the voice of Lord Walton below. "See them out like lightning. Lie there, Francis, for a moment. Call my aunt--call my sister! By heaven, they shall rue it! Which way did they seem to take?"

"They halted before the house," said a faint voice, which made Miss Walton's cheek turn pale; "flushed with their success, they may dare to attack it. Captain, I owe you my life."

"Nothing, nothing, my lord!" rejoined the voice of Barecolt. "But we must be quick, Lord Walton, or their courage may fail, and they may run away, taking her with them. Can I get any better arms? for we had nothing but our swords--'twas that which ruined us."

"There are plenty in the hall," exclaimed Lady Margaret Langley, who was now entering the room in which she had left her nephew. At the same moment, one of Lord Walton's servants appeared at the other door, saying, "The horses are ready, my lord. The people seem going up the lane."

The scene the room presented was very different from that which it had displayed when Annie Walton and Lady Margaret left it. Lying on some cushions which had been cast down upon the ground, was the graceful form of the Earl of Beverley, evidently wounded, and somewhat faint. By his side stood Lord Walton, holding a light in his hand, and gazing down upon his friend's countenance, while two stout countrymen, one with a drawn sword in his hand, appeared a little behind, and the tall figure of Captain Barecolt was seen through the open door in the vestibule beyond, reaching down some arms from the wall.

"Dear Annie--dear aunt--look to the earl," cried Charles Walton. "He is shot through the leg; I cannot stop to tell you more; I must pursue them. Ha! see, he is bleeding terribly--'tis that which makes him faint."

"Go, Charles! go!" exclaimed the earl. "I shall do well enough. The wound is nothing; 'tis but the loss of blood. Quick, quick! away, or you will not catch them."

Lord Walton gave one more look to his friend, and a sign to his sister to attend to the earl immediately, and then quitted the room. The sound of prancing hoofs and jingling arms was heard without, then the creaking of the drawbridge as it was lowered, and then the fierce galloping of horse along the lane. Lady Margaret and Miss Walton knelt by the wounded man's side and asked him regarding his wound; but the voice of Annie was faint and low, and her hand trembled so that she could hardly hold the light while her aunt endeavoured to staunch the blood. More effectual assistance, however, was rendered by the servant William, who ran in the moment he had secured the bridge, and with his aid the wound was soon discovered, pouring forth a torrent of blood from some large vessel cut by the ball, which had passed quite through the leg a few inches below the knee. Lady Margaret, however, had some skill in leechcraft, and William was by no means an inexperienced assistant. Bandages were speedily procured, and with little trouble and no loss of time the wound was bound up and the bleeding stopped.

But few words were spoken while this took place, for good Lady Margaret, feeling herself in a position of authority, imposed silence upon all around her. She was too much occupied herself in her surgical operations to remark the pale countenance and anxious eyes of her niece, or the smile of confidence and encouragement with which the earl strove to quiet her apprehensions.

Just as the old lady had finished her task, however, through the doors of the vestibule and hall, which had been left open, was heard the sharp report of pistol-shots, and a confused murmur as of distant tumult. Lady Margaret started and looked round, murmuring, "Ay, strife, strife! This is the world thereof."

Miss Walton pressed her hand upon her heart, but said nothing, and the earl, giving a glance to the servant William, exclaimed--

"For God's sake, run out and see! Have the drawbridge ready, too. If we could have got in at once, the worst part of the mischief would have been spared."

"I must go--indeed I must," said Annie Walton. "Oh, poor Charles! heaven protect him!" And running out of the room, she crossed the stone court, and bending over the low wall at the further angle, she gazed down the road in the direction from which the sounds appeared to come. Night had now set in, but yet the darkness was not very profound, and Miss Walton fancied that she beheld several moving figures at some distance up the long straight avenue. The next moment there was a flash, followed by a sharp report--then another and another; and on each occasion the sudden light showed her for an instant a number of men and horses, all grouped together in wild and confused strife. The instant after, a horseman came down the road at headlong speed, and Annie Walton exclaimed, "Oh! the drawbridge! William, let down the drawbridge."

"Wait a minute, my lady," replied the servant; "it is not every man that gallops who is coming here."

He calculated more accurately in his coolness than the lady had done in her apprehensions, for the fugitive passed without drawing a rein, and William turned round to give her comfort, saying, "That's a sign my young lord has won the day--or rather the night I should call it. Hark! there are some more coming. It is he this time, for their pace is more quiet."

Annie Walton approached nearer to the bridge, murmuring a prayer to God for her brother's safety, and straining her eyes upon the advancing body of horsemen, who came on at an easy trot down the road. At their head was a figure which she felt sure was that of her brother, but yet she could not be satisfied till she exclaimed--

"Charles, is that you? Are you safe?"

"Yes, yes; all safe," replied the voice of Lord Walton; "some of us a little hurt, but not seriously, I hope. We have made them pay dearly for their daring. Run in, Annie; run in, and I will join you in a minute."

While William and old Dixon unhooked the chains of the drawbridge from the posts and let it slowly down, Miss Walton returned to her room, where she had left her aunt and the Earl of Beverley, exclaiming with a heart relieved--

"He is safe! he is safe!"

Lord Beverley took her hand as she approached his side, gazing earnestly in her face, and saying, "Thank God!"

Annie Walton felt his look and his words almost as a reproach for having forgotten him in her anxiety for her brother; though, in truth, such was far from the earl's meaning, his only thought at that moment being, what might have been the fate of that sweet girl, had she lost both her brother and her lover in one night.

"And how are you, Francis?" said Annie Walton, wishing, with all the frankness of her heart, to make up for her absence by giving him the name she knew he would love the best upon her lips. "Forgive me for leaving you; but, oh! I was terrified for Charles."

Before the earl could reply, there was the sound of many persons' feet in the hall and the vestibule, and the voice of Lord Walton was heard giving various orders, and making inquiries concerning the wounds which his followers had received. It seemed that they were but slight, or at all events that the men made light of them, for they all protested that there was no harm done, and the only one who seemed to complain was the gallant Captain Barecolt, who replied to the young nobleman's inquiries--

"It is the most unfortunate thing in the world, my lord. I had rather the fellow had run me through the body."

"But it is not serious, surely, captain," said Lord Walton. "Let me see."

"Serious, my lord! it is ruin!" replied Barecolt. "It is right across my nose. I am marked for life, so that I shall never be able to conceal myself or pass for Captain Jersval any more."

Lord Walton laughed, replying--

"You will do so better than ever, captain; for you are so well known without the mark that no one will know you with it."

"That is true, too," replied Captain Barecolt; and the next moment Lord Walton, advancing through the vestibule, pushed open the door, which his sister had left ajar, and entered Lady Margaret's sitting-room.

He was not alone, however; for by the hand he led poor Arrah Neil, somewhat pale, and with her hair dishevelled, but perhaps only looking the more exquisitely beautiful, as the large chesnut curls fell wildly round her fair brow, and over her soft rounded cheek.

With a cry of joy and surprise, Annie Walton sprang forward and took the poor girl in her arms, exclaiming--

"Ah, dear Arrah! this is a glad sight indeed!"

But the effect of this sudden apparition upon Lady Margaret Langley was even greater than upon her niece. She gazed upon Arrah Neil with a look expressive of more than wonder; and then hurrying forward, she took her by the hand, fixing her eyes upon her countenance, and asked in a tremulous voice--

"Who is this?"

"It is Arrah Neil, a much-valued friend of ours," replied Annie Walton, unwilling to enter into any explanation of the poor girl's history and circumstances in her presence.

"Arrah Neill," repeated Lady Margaret, in a thoughtful and even melancholy tone, and then, waving her head sadly to and fro, she let go Arrah's hand, retreated to the other side of the room, and, casting herself into her usual chair, fell into a deep fit of thought. At the same time Lord Walton led Arrah to a seat, and bending down spoke few words to her in a low voice, to tranquillize her and make her feel at ease. But, while he was still speaking, the large stag-hound rose up from the side of Lady Margaret's chair, walked slowly across the room, and laid his huge muzzle on Arrah's knee. She showed no fear, and indeed took little heed, only gently patting the dog's head, as he fixed his keen, bright eyes on her face. The next moment, however, he raised himself a little and licked her hand, and Lady Margaret Langley, moved by emotions which she explained to no one, pressed her handkerchief upon her eyes and burst into tears.

Neither Lord Walton nor his sister judged it right to take any notice of the good old lady's agitation; but, while Miss Walton stood beside poor Arrah Neil and conversed with her quietly, making her own remarks meanwhile upon the great change which had taken place in her manners and appearance, the young nobleman crossed the room to the side of his wounded friend, and inquired how he felt himself.

"Oh! better, better!" replied the earl. "It was but loss of blood, Charles: the shot that passed through my leg and killed my charger must have cut some large blood-vessel, and I, not knowing that, went on fighting on foot by the side of that poor young lady, whose horse----"

"I know, I know!" said Lord Walton. "It fell with her. She told me; but what happened then?"

"Why, after a time," replied the earl, "a sort of giddiness came over me, and I fell. The scoundrel Batten had just got his sword to my throat, when that gallant fellow Barecolt, after having despatched another, sprang to the ground beside me and threw the Roundhead back. Two of them were then upon him at once; but, on my honour, we have done him injustice in thinking all his strange stories mere rhodomontade; for hand to hand with them he kept up the fight, giving them blow for blow on either side, with a skill in the use of his arms such as I have seldom seen, till at length I got upon my feet again, and, though staggering like a drunken man, contrived to call one of them off, while he put an end to Batten, sending his sword through and through him, cuirass and all. We then got the lady on horseback, for the other man turned for a moment and ran, and catching Batten's horse, I mounted, and we began our retreat hither. The fellows who had been driven off, rallied however, and charged us just as we got to the gates, for the bridge was up and we could not pass; but Barecolt plunged through the stream, clambered over the wall, and unhooked the chains. We were all by this time in confusion and disarray--I so faint that I could scarcely strike a blow, and the rest scattered about, fighting as they could. We made a stand at the bridge till I thought all had entered, and then raised it. When in the court, however, I found that the poor girl was left behind. That discovery, together with the loss of blood, made me fall as I was dismounting, and they carried me in hither, where I have lain, as you know, ever since. But, hark you, Charles! ask your good aunt if she have not some cordial, as these good ladies sometimes have, which will bring back my strength speedily, for on my life I must go forward tomorrow morning early."

"Impossible, Francis!" replied Lord Walton; "quite impossible. At the best, you cannot travel for a week or more."

"Good faith! but I must," replied the earl. "I have tidings of the utmost importance for the king."

"Then you must trust them to me," replied Lord Walton; "for the journey to York would cost you your life. If it be absolutely necessary for you to see the king yourself; I will send a litter for you and an escort from York; but, if the tidings be immediate, you had better trust them to me."

"It is but weakness--it is but weakness," said the earl. "To-morrow I shall be better. Ask your aunt, Charles, if she have not some of those strength-giving balms that poets and doctors talk of. But what has affected her thus? She has been weeping."

"Indeed, I know not," answered Lord Walton. "I will go and speak to her;" and, moving quietly across the room, he seated himself by the side of Lady Margaret, who by this time had taken the handkerchief from her eyes, and was gazing sadly and steadfastly upon the floor.

"What is the matter, my dear aunt?" he said, in a low tone, "What has affected you thus?"

"A dream, Charles," replied the old lady; "a dream of the past. But it is gone. I will no more give way to such visions." And rising from her chair she advanced directly towards Arrah Neil, and again taking her hand, she kissed her tenderly, saying, "You are so like one that is gone and who was very dear, that I was overcome, sweet child. But I shall love you well, and you must love me too."

"Oh! that I will," replied Arrah Neil; "I always love those that are good to me; and because they have been few I love them the better."

"Right, right!" exclaimed Lady Margaret. "Love few, and love well. But, now to other things. Charles, this noble friend of yours must be carried to bed, there to lie till we are sure the wound will not burst forth again."

"Why, my dear aunt," replied Lord Walton, "his rash lordship tells me he would fain go on to York to-morrow."

"Madness!" answered Lady Margaret; "but all his family were mad before him," she added, in a lower voice. "His father thought to win honour and gratitude by doing good; his mother died of grief. Madness, you see, on both parts. He has told me who he is, so I wonder not at any insanity. Now, I will answer for it, he thinks it a duty to go on; but I will tell him it cannot be. My lord the earl, you are a prisoner here till further orders. It is vain to think to move me. For your dear mother's sake, I will be your jailer, let the business that calls you hence be what it will. So now to bed, my lord: you shall have that which will restore your strength as quickly as may safely be, but we must have no fever if we can help it; and I will tell you plainly, that, were you to attempt to reach York tomorrow, you would go no farther. I will have the people in to carry you to the room prepared for Charles: it is close at hand. He must shift with another."

"Nay, nay!" said the earl; "I can walk quite well, dear lady. I am better now; I am stronger. Charles will lend me his arm."

"Take care, then," replied Lady Margaret, "and do not bend your knee, or we shall have it gushing forth again. Here, tall man, whoever you are," she continued, turning to Captain Barecolt, who entered the room at the moment, "put your hand under the earl's arm, while my nephew aids him on the other side. There--that will do; now, gently. I will go before. Call some of the people, Annie."

Thus aided and escorted, the Earl of Beverley moved easily to the room which had been prepared for Lord Walton on the same floor, while Miss Walton followed anxiously, and paused for a moment while her aunt examined the bandages round his knee. Her lover marked the look of painful expectation with which she gazed; and perhaps no balm in all Lady Margaret's stores could have tended so much to restore health and strength as the deep interest that shone in her eyes.

"Do not be alarmed," he said, holding out his hand to her; "this is a mere nothing, and they are all making more of it than it deserves. Go and comfort your fair companion, for she needs it much; but I shall see you tomorrow--shall I not, Annie?"

The last word was uttered in a low tone, as if he almost feared to speak it; but there are moments when a woman's heart grows bold, and those moments are especially when it is necessary to cheer and to console.

"Oh, certainly, Francis!" replied Miss Walton. "I will see you, beyond doubt: my aunt and I will be your nurses. For the present, then, farewell. I will go and comfort poor Arrah, as you say."

When Annie Walton returned to the room where she had left Arrah Neil, she found her still seated, but with the great stag-hound, now with one paw upon her knee, looking up in her face as if he would fain have held some conversation with her, had he but possessed the gift of speech. Arrah, too, was bending down and talking to him--smoothing his rough head with her hand, and seeming as much delighted with his notice as he appeared to be with hers. As soon as Miss Walton entered, however, she turned from her shaggy companion to her friend, and, advancing towards her, threw herself into her arms. For a moment she remained silent, with her eyes hid on the lady's shoulder, and when she raised them they were wet with bright drops; but Annie remarked, though without one spark of pride, that there was a great difference in the manner of Arrah Neil towards her. There was a something gone--something more than the mere look of deep, absent thought, which used so frequently to shade her countenance. There had been a reserve, a timidity, in answering or addressing her, more than mere humility, which was no longer there. Often had she striven to reassure the poor girl, and to teach her to look upon the family at Bishop's Merton rather as friends than mere protectors; but, though Arrah Neil had ever been frank and true in her words, there seemed always a limit drawn in her manner which she never passed, except perhaps at times when she was peculiarly earnest towards the young lord himself: It had seemed as if she felt even painfully that she was a dependant, and resisted everything that might make her forget it for a moment.

Now, however, that restraint was gone: she gazed upon Annie Walton with a look of deep love; she kissed her as she would have kissed a sister; she poured forth her joy at seeing her again, in words full of feeling--ay, and of poetry; and the lady was glad that she did so. She would not for the world have said one syllable to check such familiarity, for the character and fate of Arrah Neil had been to her a matter of deep thought and deep interest. She felt, indeed, also, that after all that had passed--after the scenes they had shared in, and the anxieties and fears they had felt for each other--Arrah Neil could never be to her what she had formerly been; that there was something more in her bosom than pity and tenderness towards the poor girl; that there were affection, tenderness, companionship--not the mere companionship of hours and of dwelling-places, but the companionship of thoughts and interests, which is perhaps the strongest and most enduring of all human ties. There was even more than all this. The change in Arrah Neil went beyond mere manner; the tone of her mind and of her language had undergone the same: it seemed elevated, brightened, enlarged. She had always been graceful, though wild and strange. There had been flashes of a glowing fancy, breaking forth, though oppressed and checked, like the flickering bursts of flame that rise fitfully up from a half-smothered fire; but now the mind shone out clear and unclouded, giving dignity and ease to every expression and every act, however plain the words or ordinary the movements; and Annie Walton felt that from that hour poor Arrah Neil must be to her as a friend.

"Come, dear Arrah," she said, "sit down beside me, and let us talk calmly. You are now amongst friends again--friends from whom you must never part more; and yet we will not speak now over anything that can agitate you. Lord Beverley tells me you have had much to suffer; and I am sure all the scenes you have gone through this day, and the fatigues you have endured, must have well-nigh worn you out and overpowered you."

"I am weary," she replied, wiping away some drops that still trembled on her eyelids; "but I have not suffered as you would do, were you to pass through the same. It is my fate to encounter terrible things--to pass through scenes of danger and difficulty. Such has been my course from childhood; such, perhaps, it may be to the end of life. I am prepared and ready: nay, more--accustomed to it; and when any new disaster falls upon me, I shall henceforth only look up to heaven, and say, 'Oh God! thy will be done! I am not a garden-plant, as you are, Annie. I am a shrub of the wilderness, and prepared to bear the wind and storm."

"Heaven forbid you should meet with many more, Arrah!" answered Miss Walton. "There are turns in every one's fate, and I trust that for you there are bright days coming."

"Still with an even mind will I try to bear them, be they fair or foul," said Arrah Neil--"more calmly now than before; for much has happened to me that I will tell you soon; and I have found that those things which gave me most anguish have brought me happiness that I never dreamt of finding, and that there is a smile for every tear, Annie--a reward for every endurance."

"You have learned the best philosophy since we parted, dear girl," replied Miss Walton; "and in truth you are much changed."

"No, no!" said Arrah Neil, eagerly: "I am not changed; I am the same as ever--just the same. Have you not seen a little brown bud upon a tree in the spring-time, looking as if there were nothing in its heart but dry leaves? and then the sun shines upon it for an hour, and out it bursts all green and fresh. But still it is the same bud you looked at in the morning. As for my philosophy, if such be the name you give it, I have learned that in the course of this day. As I rode along, now hither, now thither, in our flight from Hull, I thought of all that has passed within the last two or three months: I thought of how I had grieved, and how I had wept when they dragged me away from you and your kind brother; and at the same time I remembered what all that pain had purchased for me, and I asked myself if it might not be always so here, even on the earth. Ay, and more, Annie; if the grief and anguish of this world might not have its compensation hereafter. So, when I found myself surrounded by the troopers without, and saw that good lord borne in here wounded, and the bridge raised behind him, I said, 'Now is the trial; O God! thy will be done.'"

Annie Walton gazed upon her with surprise, increasing every moment; but she would not suffer the effect produced upon her mind to be seen, lest she should alarm and check the fair being beside her: fearing, too, that at any moment one of those fits of deep, sad abstraction of mind should come upon her, which she could not believe to have wholly passed away.

She merely replied, then, "You say, dear Arrah, that the pain you felt in parting with us has purchased you some great happiness. May I ask you what it is?--from no idle curiosity, believe me, but merely because, as I have often shared and felt for your sorrows, Arrah, I would fain share and sympathize with your joy."

"I will tell you; I will tell you all," replied Arrah Neil, laying her hand upon Miss Walton's; "I must tell you, indeed very soon; for I could not keep it in my own bosom, lest my heart should break with it. But I would fain tell him first--I mean your brother, who has been so kind and noble, so good and generous towards a poor girl like me, whom he knew not."

But, before she could conclude the sentence, Captain Barecolt returned from the chamber of the Earl of Beverley, and a conversation interesting to both was brought for the time to an abrupt conclusion.

[CHAPTER XXIX.]

The beauty of the illustrious Captain Barecolt, in its kind, was rather heightened than diminished by a large stripe of black plaster which he had drawn across the bridge of his egregious nose; for he was one of those provident men who never go without a certain store of needful articles in their pockets, and his professional habits had taught him exactly what sort of small commodities were most frequently required. Thus, there were few occasions on which that personage would have been found unprovided with a piece of strong cord, a sharp pocket-knife, a lump of wax, a corkscrew, a hand's-breadth of good sticking-plaster, and a crown-piece. I do not say more than one, for but too frequently the piece of silver was a mere unity; and, indeed, he seemed to have a pleasure in reducing it to solitude; for, no sooner had it any companions, than he took the most expeditious means of removing them. At the last crown, however, he always paused; and it seldom happened, what between good luck and occasional strong powers of abstinence, that sheer necessity compelled him to spend that piece before he had recruited his stock.

He now advanced towards Arrah Neil and Miss Walton with all the consciousness of great exploits about him; and, after a long inquiry regarding their health, began a recapitulation of all his deeds that day, notwithstanding the presence of an eye-witness, by which it would have appeared that he had killed at least seven of the enemy with his own hand; regretting indeed, in a deprecatory tone, that he had not killed more, but attributing this short-coming, in comparison with his usual achievements, to the care he had been obliged to take of the earl after he was wounded; otherwise, he hinted, he might have destroyed the whole force. He was still in full career when Lord Walton and Lady Margaret reappeared; and, whether it was to be attributed to the fact of his having delivered himself of a sufficient quantity of long-pent-up hyperbole, or whether it was that he knew that the young lord was not likely to give entire credit to his military statements, certain it is that his tone became moderated as soon as that gentleman appeared.

Captain Barecolt, however, was obliged to answer several questions; for, while the lady of the house went to give orders for the accommodation of the numerous unexpected visiters by whom her house was thronged, Lord Walton proceeded to inquire how all the events of the day had come about, and especially how it had happened that a party of five or six persons, quietly crossing the country, were charged by a body of the parliamentary horse.

"This is worse than civil war," he exclaimed; "and if such a state of things is to be established, we shall have nothing but anarchy from one end of the country to the other. Had you been an armed party, bearing the royal colours, with drum or trumpet, it might have been excusable, considering these lamentable dissensions; but to attack you thus, without cause and without warrant, was the act of a mere marauder. This Captain Batten, whom you have killed, I find, has met with too honourable a fate. He deserved to die by the hands of the hangman and not by those of a gentleman."

"Yes, my lord," replied Barecolt, with an air of calm grandeur; "I put him to death, amongst others, and we had no time to consider what sort of fate was meet for them. However, I must do the men justice, and say that I suspect they did not act without a motive, or perhaps without many. In the first place, I believe that I was the unhappy object of their enmity. I had been recognised at the first inn where we stopped by the cornet of this Captain Batten's troop; and though we were speedily joined by the noble earl and a certain Colonel Warren, the latter of whom vowed manfully that I was not the Captain Barecolt of whose little exploits they had heard so much, but one Captain Jersval, an officer employed by Sir John Hotham on the fortifications of Hull--I never heard a man lie so neatly in my life, and he deserves great credit for the same: although, I say, this Colonel Warren delivered me from the first danger, and carried Cornet Stumpborough back with him to Hull, yet I saw clearly that the worthy Roundhead was not convinced, and afterwards, as we were riding along, I caught a glimpse of a man, very like a trumpeter, going at full speed on our left."

"But what would that imply?" demanded Lord Walton.

"Simply, that Cornet Stumpborough had sent off a messenger to tell his commander, Captain Batten, who knew me well from having seen me with your lordship on the march from Bishop's Merton, that he would catch me on the road if he looked out sharply. In this opinion I am confirmed from having heard in the kitchen of an inn where we stopped to feed the horses, that this same trumpeter had been seen half-an-hour before galloping round on the outside of the village, and taking his way in the direction of Captain Batten's party. This might be one plea for attacking us; and another might be, that we were certainly riding as fast as we could go. Now every beast, my lord, has an inclination to run after another beast which it sees run away. Then again, when they had nearly come up with us, they commanded us to halt, an order which we disobeyed to the best of our ability. The natural consequence was, they charged us immediately, and brought us fighting along the road for half-a-mile. Nevertheless, I am very much afraid that your lordship's humble servant was the great object of the attack."

"However that might be," replied Lord Walton, "my friend the Earl of Beverley has informed me of the gallant service you rendered on this occasion; and you may depend upon it, Captain Barecolt, that his majesty will have a full report thereof."

"A trifle, my lord, a mere trifle;" replied the worthy captain, with an indifferent air: "these are things that happen every day, and are hardly worthy of notice. If I have an opportunity afforded to me, indeed, of performing the same deeds that I achieved at Rochelle and in the Cevennes, then there will be something to talk of. The only thing, at present, for which I shall claim any credit," he continued, turning towards Arrah Neil, "is for the skill and dexterity which I displayed in setting free this young lady, and enabling her to acquire certain information regarding her birth, parentage, and education, as the broadsheet has it, which may be of vast importance to her."

"Indeed, sir, you have been most kind, zealous, and resolute in my behalf," replied Arrah Neil; "and though, perhaps, I may never have the means of showing you how grateful I am except in words, yet I shall be ever grateful, and there is One who rewards good deeds, even when those for whom they are done have no power to offer a recompense."

"Whatever he has done for you, my poor Arrah," said Lord Walton, "shall not go without reward, if I can give it. But what is this Captain Barecolt says about your birth and parentage? He rouses my curiosity."

"I will tell you all, my lord, when I can tell you alone," replied Arrah. "I mean all that I have heard, for I have no proof of the facts."

"But I have some proof," said Captain Barecolt, "for I have a copy of the paper I found amongst the old knave's goods--one Mr. Dry, of Longsoaken, whom your lordship may remember. He did not carry off Mistress Arrah without a motive, and the paper shows clearly that she is not what she seems to be; that she is of high race, and if I judge right, of large property."

Lord Walton paused and mused; but his sister threw her arm round Arrah Neil, exclaiming, "Oh, dear child! I do rejoice at this indeed."

"And so do I," said Arrah Neil with a sigh; "but as I was enjoined strictly not to mention any of the facts but to you, Annie, or to your brother--the person who told me said, on many accounts--I hope Captain Barecolt, who has been so kind in all this business, will not mention what he believes to be the truth till he have his lordship's leave to do so."

Captain Barecolt laid his hand upon his heart and made her a low bow; but Lord Walton shook his head with a half-reproachful smile, saying, "When you were a poor unfriended girl, Arrah, you used to call me Charles Walton, and, now you are to become a great lady it seems, you give me no other name but 'my lord.'"

The blood spread warm over Arrah Neil's fair cheek and brow. "Oh! no, no!" she exclaimed: "I know not why I did it; but I will call you so no more. You will be always Charles Walton to me, the noble, the good and true, who fondled me as a child, and protected me in my youth, did not despise me in my poverty, and cheered and consoled me in my distress."

Her face was all glowing, her eyes were full of tears, when Lady Margaret returned; but for a moment or two Lord Walton did not speak. The look, the manner of Arrah Neil produced emotions in his mind that he did not rightly understand, or rather roused into activity feelings that he did not know were there. On Lady Margaret Langley, too, the poor girl's appearance at that moment seemed to produce a strange effect. She stopped suddenly as she was crossing the room, gazed intently upon her; and then, as the stag-hound rose and walked slowly up to her, she stopped and patted his head, saying, "Ah, Basto we might well be both mistaken. Come," she continued, turning to her nephew, "supper is ready in the hall; and in the good old fashion of other days we will all take our meal together, and then to rest. For you, my sweet child, whose name I do not yet know----"

"They call me Arrah Neil," replied the girl to whom she addressed herself.

"Well, then, Arrah, I have ordered a chamber for you near my own."

"Nay," said Annie Walton, "Arrah shall share mine; it is not the first time she has done so."

"That is better, perhaps," answered Lady Margaret; "you will doubtless have much to speak of, but I must have my share of her, Annie; for when I look at those eyes, it seems as if twenty sad years were blotted out, and I were in bright days again. But come; the people are waiting for us in the hall, with furious appetites, if I may judge from what I saw of them as I passed through."

Thus saying, she led the way; and in a few moments they were all seated at a long table, the followers of Lord Walton and the men who had accompanied the Earl of Beverley being ranged on either side below the more dignified part of the company.

It was altogether a somewhat curious and interesting scene, as they supped in the old oak-lined hall, with the light flashing upon twelve suits of armour placed between the panels, and showing, seated round, a body of men, scarcely one of whom was without some wound recently received. One had his hand bound up in a napkin, another his arm in a sling, a third had his coat thrown back from his shoulder, having received a pistol-shot in the fleshy part of his breast; another had a deep gash upon his cheek, not very neatly plastered up by the hands of some of Lady Margaret's servants; while Captain Barecolt appeared at the head of the file with a large black patch across his nose.

Not much conversation took place during the first part of the meal, for Lord Walton was grave and thoughtful; and every one at his end of the table, except Captain Barecolt, was too much occupied with busy memories of the past, or deep interest in the present, to be very loquacious.

The persons at the lower part of the board were restrained by respect for those above them from talking in aught but whispers; and Captain Barecolt himself; with that provident disposition which has been remarked in him, always thought it best to secure his full share of the good things of this life while they were going, and to keep his eloquence in reserve for a season of leisure.

The lady of the house, with her two fair guests, rose as soon as the actual meal was over and quitted the hall; and all the inferior persons also retired, with the exception indeed of Captain Barecolt, if he can be included in that class. He, however, though Lord Walton had also risen, remained seated, eyeing a half-empty tankard which stood at his right hand, with an evident dislike to abandon its society while anything remained within its shining sides. Knowing well the habits of this peculiar species of Cavalier, Lord Walton pointed to the tankard, saying, "Go on, captain, you will soon finish it, and then I must see the earl and go to rest, for I depart early to-morrow. But, in the mean while, I would fain hear more particularly how you met with our fair Mistress Arrah, and, indeed, how you and Lord Beverley happen to be here at all, for I cannot imagine that you can have fulfilled the mission with which you were charged.

"Faith, my lord," replied the worthy captain, after a deep draught, "our mission was cut wondrous short, as your lordship shall hear," and he proceeded to give his noble companion a full account of all that had occurred, from Lord Beverley's departure from the court till they found themselves prisoners at Hull.

Lord Walton listened, without making the slightest comment, to the tale with which the reader is already acquainted; but he could not refrain from a smile as Barecolt went on to detail all his proceedings with regard to Sir John Hotham; and as the narrator clearly saw he amused his listener, he dwelt perhaps longer than necessary upon all the particulars. At length, however, growing somewhat impatient for facts, the young nobleman again pointed to the tankard, saying, "Drink, captain, and let me hear of your meeting with my sister's young friend. I see how you obtained your own freedom--what more?"

"Why, you see, my lord," replied Barecolt, "as I hinted to your lordship just before I left the good town of Nottingham, I had obtained a little information, which showed me that Master Dry, of Longsoaken, had taken pretty Mistress Arrah to Hull, and I had laid a little scheme for setting her free, thinking that I should thereby pleasure your lordship."

"Undoubtedly!" replied Lord Walton, gravely, "nothing could give me greater pleasure than to have this young lady freed from the hands of one who combines the characters of hypocrite, cheat, and ruffian in his own person."

"Well, my lord, such being the case," continued Barecolt, "and finding myself suddenly in Hull, I determined to seek even if I did not find; and as the man who was sent with me, partly as my guide, partly as a spy, was walking with me through the town to seek for an inn at which to lodge, I determined, if possible, to ascertain if Dry was in any of them, and to take up my quarters in the same. He recommended the 'Lion' and the 'Rose,' and half-a-dozen places; but I thought to myself; 'Dry will not put up at a first-rate victualler's;' and I accordingly fixed upon one which I judged to be the sort of house at which he would stop. In I accordingly went; and while taking a glass of wine in the bar, who should appear, followed close by the watch, but the worshipful Mr. Dry, of Longsoaken, beastly drunk! He was speedily carried to his bed, and from that moment I determined to remain at the 'Swan,' and make use of my advantages. I found the landlady an excellent good woman, and speedily opened a communication with her upon the subject of the young lady. She was a little shy at first, indeed, but I soon brought matters round by telling her that I had been sent especially to Hull by your lordship to set Mistress Arrah free.

"That was wrong," said Lord Walton, somewhat sternly: "however, no matter, as it did no harm. What did you discover there?"

"Why, I found out," continued Captain Barecolt, "that the very inn at which we were was that where the poor young lady had been brought when first she came to England; that her mother was a very beautiful lady at that time, much like herself; but taller; that she died in that house of a terrible fever that was then raging; that Mistress Arrah herself had well-nigh died of it; and that an old man, whom they called Sergeant Neil, was then in attendance upon the two ladies, as a sort of servant, though he afterwards passed as her grandfather, they say."

"He did, he did," answered Lord Walton, musing. "This is a strange story, Captain Barecolt; let me hear more."

"Why, I suspect the young lady knows more than I do, my lord," replied Barecolt, "and the tankard is empty."

"There is more here," answered Lord Walton, pushing over another flagon from the opposite side of the board: "what more did you hear?"

"Why, I instantly went and saw Mistress Arrah herself," continued Barecolt, after having assuaged his thirst, "and found that old Dry had swept Sergeant Neil's house of all his papers at his death, especially some that the old man had told the young lady where to find; and that he now dragged her about with him, treating her sometimes well, sometimes ill, as he was in the humour, pretending to be her guardian, and asking for a Mister O'Donnell, who lives in Hull. From all this, I divined that the old hypocrite had got better information out of the old sergeant's papers than we had, and that he intended to marry the young lady, or perhaps gain possession of her property."

"Marry her!" exclaimed Lord Walton, with a scornful smile curling his lip.

"Well, my lord, I do not know," answered Barecolt; "but, as she is so very beautiful, even such a stockfish as that might think it no unpleasant way of getting hold of her fortune, to make her his wife. But, as I was saying, having taken this fancy, I determined to see what papers the old man had with him, and consequently I walked straight into his room, where he lay like a drunken sow, snoring in his bed; and I rummaged his bags till I found all the papers he had with him. I found only one that referred to this business, however, and it was but a string of questions to be asked of this Mister O'Donnell. However, they proved clearly that what the good landlady of the 'Swan' had told was quite true, as your lordship shall see presently."

The worthy captain then went on to tell all that had taken place subsequently, mingling what portion of falsehood with his truth he might think proper, and taking especial care to make whatever advantage fell in his way by accident appear to have been obtained by his own skill and calculation. Lord Walton was not deceived by his representations; nor can he be said to have been aware of his misrepresentations. He took in the general facts, casting away, as is usually the case with men of high mind, the minor circumstances. Thus he was aware that Captain Barecolt had greatly served one in whom he took a deep interest; but the small particulars of that personage's skill and judgment in effecting the object, he cared very little about, and gave no attention to them whatever, hearing the details indeed, but without pausing upon them for consideration, and waiting for the principal results.

"We must find means," he said at length, "of having further information from this Master O'Donnell. He is evidently aware of all the facts."

"Ay, and he has made the lady aware of them too, my lord," rejoined Barecolt, emptying the second tankard, "or at least some of them; for when I came up after having lingered behind at the gates for a short time, in order to give the enemies the change, I found him in close conference with her, and the last words he spoke were to bid her tell no one but yourself or your sister."

"So she said, I recollect," replied Lord Walton; "I will hear more from her, and perhaps, Captain Barecolt, if you be not otherwise engaged in the king's service, I may ask you to have the goodness to employ yourself farther in this affair."

"That I will do most gladly, my lord," replied Barecolt. "I remember well, when in the year thirty-five I was requested by----"

"Oh, I neither doubt your capacity nor your zeal, my good sir," answered the young nobleman, interrupting the anecdote, "and the reward shall be equal to the service performed. I will now, however, go and converse with my friend, Lord Beverley, for a short time; to-morrow I will talk over the matter with Mistress Arrah Neil; and, as I suppose you will think it fit to hasten over to give an account to his majesty of what has taken place, we by the way can speak of what is further to be done. In the mean time, let me see the paper you mentioned; I should like to think over the contents during the night."

Barecolt put his hand in his pocket, but the moment after he gave a sudden start, and then looked round the table from place to place, as if he were trying to recollect who had sat in each particular seat. Then turning to Lord Walton, with a look of horror and consternation, he exclaimed--"Diggory Falgate! where is poor, jolly Diggory Falgate?"

"I do not know whom you speak of," replied Lord Walton; "what has he to do with this affair?"

"The paper is in his bundle," cried Barecolt, with increasing dismay; "and we have left the poor devil outside in the hands of those rascally Roundheads, whom he hates as a cat hates salt."

"But who is he?" demanded Lord Walton; "this is the first time you have mentioned his name."

As Captain Barecolt was about to give a true and particular account of Diggory Falgate, however, William, Lady Margaret's servant, entered the hall, and addressing the young nobleman, informed him that the Earl of Beverley would be glad to speak with him as soon as he had done supper.

"I will come to him directly," replied Charles Walton, taking a step or two towards the door; and then pausing, he turned again to Barecolt, saying, "As to this friend of yours, I think you had better take any of the people who may be still up, and seek for him with torches as far as the fight continued. The road must be clear by this time, for the adversary suffered much, and would not like the neighbourhood; but you had better have five or six men with you, and fire-arms. A watch shall be kept in case you need help, and I shall not be in bed for an hour or two. The poor fellow may be lying wounded."

"Oh, I need little help in such cases, my lord," replied Barecolt; "but, as we may have to carry him hither if he be wounded, I will take some men with me and go directly."

While our worthy captain proceeded to execute this resolution, Lord Walton walked on towards the chamber which had been assigned to his wounded friend; but as he passed through the room in which Lady Margaret usually sat, he turned thither for a moment to see whether his sister and fair Arrah Neil had yet retired to rest. He found his aunt alone, however; and in answer to his inquiries she replied, "I have sent them both to bed, Charles. Poor things! they have had much fatigue of body and more of mind. I never leave my book till the house-clock strikes one; but that was no reason why I should keep them waking."

"Well, dear Aunt Margaret, I am going to see Francis Beverley, and will return to you ere you retire to rest," said Charles Walton; and proceeding on his way, he found with some difficulty his friend's room, and went in.

"Charles," said the earl, who was lying with a lamp on the table beside him, and several papers in his hand, which he seemed to have been reading attentively, "I feel that I cannot ride to-morrow, and the time it would take to send a litter hither from York is too valuable to be lost. You must take the first tidings to the king, and I will follow as soon as some conveyance arrives. I will relate to you all that has happened since we parted, but tell his majesty, I beg, that it was no weak idleness which prevented me from hurrying on to give him all the information I possess."

"He knows you too well to imagine such a thing," replied Lord Walton; "but I can shorten your narrative till your arrival at Hull. All your first adventures I have heard from Captain Barecolt."

"And a glorious tale he has made of it, doubtless," said the earl: "however, all that is of little importance in comparison with that which is to follow." He then went on to give an account of his various interviews with Sir John Hotham, of which, as the reader is already acquainted with the particulars, I will give no detail. The result, however, is still to be told, and it was stated by Lord Beverley in few words.

"At length," he said, "I found that the good governor was so tired of his position, so deeply offended with the conduct of the parliament, so desirous of returning to his duty, and so willing to risk all but his head to restore Hull to the king, that it wanted but some excuse to save his honour to induce him to do all that we can desire. It was finally agreed between us, then, that if the king would advance against the city and fire but a shot at it, Sir John would capitulate, and deliver that important place into his majesty's hands. There are many minor particulars to be told; but this principal fact should be communicated to the king without the loss of a day, as it may decide his future movements."

"Without the loss of an hour," replied Lord Walton; "for when I left his majesty, he told me that I had barely time to reach this place and return before the army would be in motion. This is an important affair indeed; for the example set by Hull would bring over a dozen other towns; and, even if it did not, the possession of a port in the north is worth any jewel in his crown. I would set off this very moment, but that both men and horses are so much fatigued that we should lose more time by going than by staying for a few hours' repose. To-morrow morning, however, at daybreak, I will set out. I shall not be able to see my sister, indeed; but it is perhaps as well to avoid leave-taking, and you must console her, Francis. Had you not better write to the king?"

"No," answered the earl, "I think not. I have been considering that question while you were away; but, looking to the danger of the roads and the risk of your being intercepted, as well as the peril to Sir John Hotham, if such should be the case it will be more prudent to bear nothing but the tidings by word of mouth."

"I believe you are right," replied Lord Walton "and such being the case, Beverley, I will at once go and prepare for the journey. Having all the facts, I need not disturb you to-morrow morning before I go."

"Perhaps I had better see you," answered the earl, "for something might strike me in the night which I might wish to say."

"Well, then, I will come in," rejoined Lord Walton; "and now, good night. Sleep if you can, Francis, and let not all the thoughts of this affair disturb your repose."

"I want that quality of a great man, Charles," answered the earl with a smile. "I cannot cast off the thought of things that have occupied me, the moment that action has ceased. A quick imagination is a curse as well as a blessing. In bright days it is a happiness indeed, but in those of shadow and darkness it but tends to increase the gloom. Good night, good night!"

Lord Walton shook his hand and retired, and then, rejoining Lady Margaret, announced to her his intention of setting off at daybreak the next morning. We will not pause upon all the little particulars of their conversation--the discussion which took place as to whether it would be better and kinder for the young nobleman to take leave of his sister or not, or the after arrangements that he made for leaving four of his men behind him to give aid and protection to Lady Margaret and her household, several of her own servants being absent at the time. Before he retired to rest, he wrote a short note to his sister, and another to Arrah Neil, begging her to write the statement which the hurry of his departure prevented him from hearing in person; and then, giving orders for his horses to be saddled by daybreak, he only further paused to inquire whether poor Falgate had been found. Barecolt and his companions, however, had not yet returned; but, while Charles Walton was undressing, the gallant captain made his appearance in the room, and with a woeful face informed him that no trace of the merry painter could be discovered.

"Then he has certainly been taken prisoner," replied Lord Walton, "and we cannot help him. We have more important business in hand, Captain Barecolt, now: by what Lord Beverley tells me, I am induced to return to the king with all speed. I think you had better accompany me, and if so, remember I shall be in the saddle by daybreak."

"I am with you, my lord," replied Barecolt; "and as human beings must sleep, I will even go to bed for the present."

"Do so," replied Lord Walton; "I shall follow the same course."

But before he put his resolution into effect, after Captain Barecolt left him, the young nobleman fell into a fit of deep thought, from which he did not rouse himself for nearly an hour. When he did rise from his seat, however, he said to himself in a low, sad voice, "'Tis as well I am going."

Annie Walton slept well, but Arrah Neil was restless and agitated, and after a few hours of disturbed slumber she awoke, and saw the blue, faint light of the first dawn through the curtains of the room. She turned to gaze upon her fair companion, and remarked with a smile the tranquil repose she was enjoying. "Sleep, sleep, sweet lady!" she murmured; "and, oh! may no heartache ever keep your eyes from rest!"

The moment after, she heard the sound of arms and of horses' feet, and rising quietly she approached the window and looked out. The opposite room, which, as we have described it, was destined for a sitting-room, commanded the view at the back of Langley Hall, but the bed-room was turned towards the court and the drawbridge; and as poor Arrah Neil gazed forth from the window, she saw a party of five horsemen mounted, and Lord Walton putting his foot in the stirrup. The next moment he was in the saddle; and after speaking a few words to his aunt's servant William, who was standing beside his horse, he rode over the drawbridge and at a quick pace pursue the way to York.

"He is gone without my seeing him," murmured Arrah Neil to herself; and then, creeping quietly to bed again, she turned her face to the pillow and deluged it with tears.

[CHAPTER XXX.]

"Nay, do not drag me so; I will go right willingly, my masters!" cried poor Diggory Falgate. "I was there with them upon compulsion. It is hard to be made prisoner by one's friends as well as by one's enemies."

"Hold thy prating tongue, liar!" replied one of the troopers, who were bearing off the painter across the country towards Hull, which lay at about ten miles' distance, the course that the earl and his party had pursued having been rendered very circuitous by the various accidents of the journey. "Hold thy prating tongue, liar, or I will strike thee over the pate! Did we not see thee at their heels, galloping with the best?"

"But no man can say that he saw me draw a sword in their behalf," answered Falgate.

"Because thou hadst no sword to draw," rejoined the man. "And thou mayst be sure that to-morrow morning thou wilt be swinging by the neck in the good town of Hull, for the death of Captain Batten and the rest."

"I killed them not," said Falgate, in a deprecatory tone.

"What! wilt thou prate?" rejoined the trooper, striking him in the ribs with the hilt of his sword. But at that moment one who seemed in command rode back from the front, and bade the man forbear.

"Come hither beside me," he said, addressing Falgate, who in the darkness could not see his face, to judge whether it was stern or not. "You are a malignant--deny it not, for it will not avail you. You are a malignant, and the blood of Christian men has been shed by those who were with you. Your life is forfeit, and there is but one way by which to save it."

"What is that?" asked Falgate. "Life is not like a bad groat, only fit to be cast into the kennel; and I will save mine if I can."

"That is wise," answered the soldier. "You can save it if you will. You have but to tell truly and honestly who they are who were with you, and what was their errand in these parts. You know it right well; therefore deny it not."

"Nay, I do not know, right worshipful sir," replied the painter.

"I am not worshipful," answered the man; "but if thou dost not know, I am sorry, for thou hast lost a chance of life."

"But only hear how I came to be with them," cried poor Falgate. "I met the long-nosed man by chance in Hull; and finding him in godly company, and some of the governor's people with him, I thought there could be no harm in going with him to York, whither business called me."

"But he in the buff coat?" asked the soldier; "who is he?"

"Of him I know less than the other," rejoined the painter; "for he came up with us on the road, as we stopped at a little inn to bait our horses. There was with him then a Colonel Warren, who, after leaving us returned to Hull with a pious man, one Stumpborough, who had with him a troop of horse----"

"We know all that," replied the soldier gravely. "But, as it is so, you must prepare to die to-morrow. I say not that you lie unto us. It may be that you speak truth; but it is needful in these times that one should die for an example; and as you are a malignant, for your speech proves it, 'tis well you should be the man." Thus saying, he rode on again without giving time for Falgate to answer, and leaving him in the hands of the troopers as before.

The party, however, had suffered such loss that the number was now but small; and the poor painter, who by no means loved the idea of his promised suspension in the morning air of Hull, could hear the buzz of an eager but low-toned conversation going on in front, without being able to distinguish the words. He thought, indeed, that he caught the term "church" frequently repeated; but of that he was not sure. And though with a stout heart he resolved to say nothing, either of what he knew or suspected, it must be confessed he shook a little as he rode along.

At length, after an hour and a half's farther ride, they began to approach the Humber, and the moon shining out showed Falgate scenes which he had often passed through in former days, upon journeys of business or of pleasure. Now they came to a village in which was swinging, before a fast-closed house, a sign of his own painting; and now a hamlet in which he had enjoyed many a merry dance; till at length, passing over a long, bare, desolate piece of land, without tree, or hedgerow, or house, or break, running along the water's edge, they perceived upon a slight elevation, an old time-worn church, the resort of parishioners from a wide and thinly-populated tract, the old stone monuments and gloomy aisles of which had often filled the somewhat imaginative head of the painter with strange and awful visions, when he visited it on the Sunday evening in the decline of the year. At about five hundred yards farther on was a solitary house where the sexton lived; and stopping suddenly before the gate of the church-yard, the commander of the party bade one of his men ride on and get the key.

"What are they going to do?" thought Falgate. "The profane villains are not going to stable their horses in a church surely. Well, I shall be glad enough of rest anywhere, for Hull is three miles off; and I do not think my skin would hold out."

While he had been thus reasoning with himself, one of the troopers had got off his horse, and advancing through the little wicket of the church-yard, tried the door of the church.

"It is open," he cried; "they have left their steeple-house open."

The other man was instantly called back, and Falgate was then ordered to dismount. He observed, however, that the soldiers in general kept their saddles, and he advanced with some trepidation, accompanied by the commander, to the door where the other trooper still stood. There he halted suddenly, however, asking in a lamentable tone--

"You are not going to leave me here alone all night, surely?"

"Not alone!" answered the man; "we will put a guard in the porch to watch you; and you will have full time to prepare your mind for to-morrow morning, and to turn in your head whether you will tell us who your companions were, before the rope is round your neck. You may speak now, if you will."

But Falgate was faithful to the last; and though he by no means approved of being shut up in the church all night, he repeated that he could not tell, for he did not know.

"Well, then," rejoined his captor, "here you must rest; but think well of the condition of your soul, young man, for nothing will save you if you remain obstinate."

Thus saying, he thrust him into the building, and closed the door. The poor painter now heard some conversation without in regard to the key, which, it appeared, was not in the lock; and a consultation was held as to whether it should be sent for; but the voice of the commander was heard at length, saying--

"Never mind. We have not time to stay. Keep good watch; that is all that is needed."

"But if he try to escape?" asked the trooper.

"Shoot him through the head with your pistol," answered the other voice. "As well die so as by a cord."

The conversation then ceased, and Falgate heard the sound of horses' feet the next minute marching down the hill. The situation of Diggory Falgate was to himself by no means pleasant, and, indeed, few are the men who would find themselves particularly at their ease, shut up for a whole night within an old church, and with even the probability of death before them for the next morning. Silence, and midnight solitude, and the proximity of graves, and shrouds, and mouldering clay, are things well calculated to excite the imagination even of the cold and calculating, to damp the warm energies of hope, and open all the sources of terror and superstitious awe within us. How often, in the warm daylight, and in the midst of the gay and busy world, does man, roused for a moment by some accidental circumstance to a conviction of the frail tenure by which life is held, think of death and all that may follow it with no other sensation than a calm melancholy. It is because every object around him, everything that he sees, everything that he hears, and everything that he feels, are so full of life, that he cannot think death near. He sees it but in the dim and misty perspective of future years, with all its grim features softened and indistinct. But when he hears no sound of any living thing, when his eye rests upon nothing moving with the warm energies of animation, when all is as dark as the vault, as silent as the grave--it is then, that, if the thought of death presents itself, it comes near--horribly near. Clearer from the obscurity around, more distinct and tangible from the stillness of all things, death becomes a living being to our fancy, with his icy hand upon our brow, his barbed dart close at our heart. We see him, feel him, hear the dread summons of his charnel voice; and prepare for the extinction of the light within the coffin's narrow bed, the mould and corruption of the tomb.

Poor Falgate had hitherto tried to fancy that the announcement of his fate for the morrow had been merely a threat: but now, when he was left alone in the old church, with no one near him to speak to, with not a sound but the sighing of the night wind through some broken panes in the high casement, his convictions became very different. He felt his way with his hands from pillar to pillar, towards a spot where a thin streak of moonlight crossed the nave, and seated himself sadly upon a bench that he found near. He there sat and tortured himself for half an hour, thinking over all the bold and infamous things the parliament party had done, and clearly deducing thence what they might probably do in his own case. He loved not the thought of death at all as it now presented itself to his mind; the hero's enthusiasm was gone; he had no desire to be a martyr; but of all sorts of death that of the cord seemed the worst. And yet, what was to be done? Could he betray the confidence of others, could he flinch from what he conceived to be a duty? No; though he felt a little weakness, he was not the man to do that; and he said again to himself that he would rather die. But still he turned with repugnance from that close grappling with the thought of dying which the scene and the hour forced upon him: he tried to think of something else; he strove to recal the early days when he had last stood in that aisle, and many a boyish prank he had played in years long gone; but the image of death would present itself amidst all, like a skull in a flower-garden, and the very sweet ideas that he summoned up to banish it but made it look more terrible.

In the mean while, the moon gradually got round, till she poured a fuller flood of light into the building, showing the tombs and old monumental effigies upon the walls and in the aisle; and many a wild legend and village tale came back to Falgate's memory, of ghosts having been seen issuing from the vaults beneath the church, and wandering down even to the gates of Hull. The painter was a firm believer in apparitions of all kinds, and he had often wished, with a sort of foolish bravado, to see a ghost; but now, when, if ever, he was likely to be gratified, he did not quite so much like the realization of his desires. He thought, nevertheless, that he could face one, if one did come; but then arose the sad idea, that he might very soon be one of their shadowy companions himself; wandering for the allotted term beneath "the pale glimpses of the moon."

Suddenly a thought struck him. Might he not, perchance, employ the semblance of that state to facilitate his own escape? Doubtless, the man placed to keep guard would not long remain upon his dull watch without closing an eye, after a long day's march and a hard fight; the door was not locked; he could open it and go out and, could he but so disguise himself as to appear like the inhabitant of another world, if the sentinel did wake, he would most likely be so stupified and alarmed, that he would let him pass, or miss his aim if he fired. Falgate remembered the words of the officer as he had retired: "As well die so as by a cord;" and he resolved he would at least make the attempt. A daring and enterprising spirit seized him; he felt he could be a hero in ghostly attire, and the only difficulty was to procure the proper habiliments. At first he thought of making a shift with his own shirt; but then he remembered that the length thereof was somewhat scanty, and he had never heard of ghosts with drapery above their knees.

However, as, when one schoolboy opens a door into forbidden piece of ground, and puts his head out, a dozen more are sure to follow and hurry him on before them, so the thought of becoming a ghost seemed to bring a thousand other cunning devices with it; and at length good Diggory Falgate asked himself if the vestry might not be open, and if a surplice might not be found therein. He determined to ascertain; and creeping up to the door which he had often seen the parson of the parish pass through, he lifted the latch, and to his joy found that it was not locked. All, however, was dark within, and the poor painter, entering cautiously, groped about, not knowing well where to seek for that which he wanted. Suddenly his hand struck against something, hanging apparently from a peg in the wall; but he soon ascertained that the texture was not that of linen, and went on, still feeling along the sides of the little room. In a moment after, he came to something softer and more pliant, with the cold, glassy feel of linen upon it, and taking it down he mentally said, "This must be the surplice." He crept back with it into the moonlight in the church, treading like a ghost, not only in anticipation of the character he was about to assume, but also in palpable terror lest he should call the attention of the guard at the church door, by tripping over a mat or stumbling against a bench. The white and snowy garment, however, the emblem of innocence, was there in his hand, and he gazed all over it, inquiring in his own mind how he was to put it on. He knew not the back from the front; he scarcely knew the head from the tail; and seldom has a poor schoolboy gazed at the "ass's bridge," in the dry but reason-giving pages of Euclid, with more utter bewilderment and want of comprehension than Diggory Falgate now stared at the surplice. As he thus stood, addressing mock inquiries to the folds of white linen, he suddenly started, thinking he heard a noise; but after listening a moment without catching any further sound, he quietly crept up to the great door of the church, and bent both eye and ear to the keyhole, to ascertain whether the sentinel was awake and watching or not.

The only noise that met his ear, when he first applied the latter organ to the task of discovery, was a loud and sonorous snore; and looking through the aperture, he found, by the light of the moon, which was shining into the porch, that the guard had seated himself on one of the benches at the side of the door, and, with his legs stretched out across the only means of egress, had given way to weariness, and was indulging in a very refreshing sleep, while his horse was seen cropping the grass within the wall of the churchyard.

The poor painter was calculating the chances of being able to pass the outstretched limbs of the sentinel without awakening him, and, screwing his courage to the sticking point--to use Lady Macbeth's pork-butcherish figure--when suddenly he was startled and cast into a cold perspiration by hearing a sound at the farther end of the church. All was silent the moment after; but the noise had been so distant while it lasted, that there was no doubting the evidence of his ears; and the only question was, what it could proceed from--was it natural or supernatural? was it accidental or intentional? Diggory Falgate could not at all divine, till at length, encouraged by its cessation, he began to think that he might have left the door of the vestry open, and the wind might have blown down some book. Yet the sound had been sharp as well as heavy--more like the fall of a piece of old iron than that of a volume of homilies, the prayer-book, or the psalter. He determined to see, however; and sitting down for a moment to gather courage, and to ascertain that the trooper without had not been roused by the noise that had alarmed himself, he listened till, mingled with the beating of his own heart, he heard the comfortable snore of the guard once more. Then, thinking that at any time he could call the good man to his aid if he encountered ghost or goblin too strong for him, he shuffled himself into the surplice, and with the stealthy step of a cat crept up the nave towards the vestry.

When he was about two-thirds up the church, and was just leaning against a bench to take breath, another sound met his ear. It was that of a deep voice speaking low, and seemed to come almost from below his feet.

"They must be gone now," said the invisible tongue. "All is silent you hear."

"I do not know," said another, in tones somewhat shriller. "Hush! I thought I heard a noise."

"Pooh! the rustling of the casements with the wind," rejoined the other; "I cannot stay all night: unshade the lantern and let us to work."

If a fragment of superstitious doubt as to the interlocutors of this dialogue being of a ghostly character had lingered in the mind of Diggory Falgate, the words about unshading the lantern removed it completely; and the next instant a faint and misty light was seen issuing from a low narrow doorway, which had apparently been left open on the opposite side of the church, towards the eastern angle.

"Some vagabonds robbing the vaults," thought the painter to himself: "I will see what they are about, at all risks. Perchance I may frighten them, make them run over the sentinel, and escape in the confusion. If he shoots one of them instead of me, it will be no great matter; and of course, if these men are as anxious to get away as I am, we shall make common cause and be too strong for him. But I will watch for a minute first; and let them be fairly at their work, as they call it, before I show myself."

Thus thinking, with a noiseless step he advanced towards the door leading from the main body of the building to the vaults below, guided by the light, which continued to glimmer faintly up, casting a misty ray upon the communion-table. When he approached the arch, he looked carefully forward at every step; but nothing could he see till he came to the top of the stone stairs, when he perceived a dark lantern, with the shade drawn back, standing on the ground at the bottom. No human beings were visible, however, though he heard a rustling sound in the vault, as if some living creatures were at no great distance; and the next moment there came a sort of gurgling noise, as if some fluid were poured out of a narrow-necked bottle. An instant after, the first voice he had heard observed, in a pleasant and well-satisfied tone, "That's very good! genuine Nantz, I declare."

"Ay, that it is," answered the second voice: "the stomach requires comfort in such a cold and dismal place as this."

"Oh, 'tis nothing when one is used to it," rejoined the first speaker; "but come, we had better do the business. There stands the coffin. You bring the mallet, and I will take the chisel and bar."

Diggory Falgate did not like their proceedings at all, though he would by no means have objected to a glass of cordial waters himself. But they were evidently about to break open one of the coffins--every word showed it; to violate the sanctity of the grave--to disturb the ashes of the dead; and the poor painter had sufficient refinement of feeling to think that the drinking of intoxicating liquors, while so engaged, was an aggravation of their offence. The collocation of "genuine Nantz, I declare," with "there stands the coffin," shocked and horrified him; and he paused for a moment to consider, feeling as if it would render him almost a partaker in the sacrilege if he were to descend into the vault. A moment's thought, however, settled this case of conscience; and by the time that he had settled his plan he heard a hollow noise, as if some hard substance had struck against an empty chest.

"Now is the time," he thought; "they are busy at their hellish work."

There stood the lantern on the ground beneath; the men were evidently at some small distance. If he could get possession of the light and shade it, they were at his mercy; and the only difficulty was how to descend the stairs without calling their attention. Recollecting, however, that it was the invariable practice of ghosts, whatever sounds they might produce with any other organs with which they may be endowed, to make no noise with their feet, the good painter stooped down, took off his shoes, and put them in his pockets. Then with a quiet and stealthy step he began the descent, totally unperceived by those who were by this time busily engaged wrenching and tearing some well-fastened woodwork.

Stooping down before he quite reached the bottom of the steps, Diggory Falgate looked into the vault, and immediately perceived two men, both of them somewhat advanced in life--one a thin, tall, puritanical-looking person, dressed in black, raising with a chisel and mallet the lid of a coffin which stood upon the ground. Forty or fifty other coffins, some small and narrow, some large, were within the pale glimpse of the lantern, and the painter's imagination filled up the dark space which the rays did not reach with similar mementoes of mortality. On his left hand, near the foot of the stairs, were four coffins placed in a row, with three others laid crosswise upon them, and all raised two or three feet from the floor by trestles. There was a narrow sort of lane behind, between them and the damp wall, and taking another step down, he brought himself as far on that side as possible.

Just at that moment one of the men turned a little, so as to bring his profile within the painter's view, and he instantly recognised a face that he had seen at the "Swan" Inn in Hull, the day before his expedition with Captain Barecolt and Arrah Neil.

"I'll wager any money it is that old villain, Dry, of Longsoaken, whom I have heard them talk so much about," thought Falgate; but he was not suffered to carry his meditations on that subject farther, for Mr. Dry, turning his head away again towards his companion, said-- "I cannot see; get the lantern."

The painter had just time to slip behind the pile of coffins he had observed, and to crouch down, before the other man, after having given another vigorous wrench at the lid, laid down the bar he had in his hands and moved towards the foot of the stairs. The rustle of the surplice seemed to catch his ear, for he stopped for a moment, apparently to listen; but the next instant he advanced again, took up the lantern, looked round with a somewhat nervous stare, and then returned to Mr. Dry.

"Did you not hear a noise?" he asked in a low voice.

Mr. Dry stopped in his proceedings and evidently trembled. Their agitation gave courage to the painter, and creeping on so as to bring himself nearly on a line with them, he ventured to utter a low groan. Both the culprits started, and gazed around with hair standing on end and teeth chattering.

"Now's the time!" thought Falgate, and taking two steps farther towards the end of the lane formed by the coffins and the wall, he uttered another groan, followed by a shrill unearthly shriek, and then started up to his full height, as if he were rising from the midst of the pile of mortal dust upon his right. The rays fell straight upon the white garments and the face of this unexpected apparition, pale and worn as he was by fatigue and fear. Struck with terror and consternation, the limbs of the two men at first refused to move; but when they saw this awful figure advancing straight towards them with another hollow groan, they both darted away, the one crying--

"Through the church! through the church! It will catch you before you can reach the other door!" and Mr. Dry followed at full speed towards the steps by which Falgate had descended.

Not liking to be left in the vault in the dark, the painter sprang after them with another wild shriek. Fortune favoured him more than skill; for, just as the foremost of the fugitives was mounting the steps, Mr. Dry seized hold of his cloak to stay his trembling limbs; the other, who was the sexton, in the agony of his terror fancied the ghost had caught him, dropped the lantern and rushed on, his companion clinging close to him. Falgate instantly picked up the light before it was extinguished, and drew the shade over it; and almost at the same moment he heard the door above banged to by those he was pursuing, and a bolt drawn; for they did not stay to inquire whether spiritual beings are to be stopped by material substances or not.

The painter paused and listened; he heard quick steps beating the pavement above, and then a door opening. The next instant came a loud shout, and then the report of a pistol; then a shout again, then a momentary silence, and lastly the quick galloping of a horse.

"Ha! Ha! Ha!" laughed Diggory: "they have cleared the way for me, and left me master of the field of battle;" and he drew back the blind from the lantern and looked about him.

[CHAPTER XXXI.]

Leaving poor Diggory Falgate to find his way out of the vault as best he might, or, if he rather chose to stay there, to make what discoveries he could, we must return by the reader's good leave to some of the more important personages of our tale; premising, however, that although we have dwelt thus long upon the adventures of the worthy sign-painter, those adventures were by no means without their influence upon the fate of the other personages in their history. We must also pass over a period of several days since last we were at Langley Hall, allowing the reader's imagination to supply the few and quiet changes which time had brought about, no event of any consequence having taken place in the interim.

It was a warm and glowing evening, though Autumn had spread his brown mantle over the trees; and while fair Arrah Neil and Lady Margaret Langley sat in the old lady's usual drawing-room, with the windows open as in midsummer, Annie Walton was seated under a little clump of beeches at the back of Langley Hall, the Earl of Beverley, somewhat recovered from his wound, stretched on the dry grass at her feet.

They were happy enough to enjoy long pauses in conversation; for their mutual love, as the reader has already been given to understand, was known and acknowledged by each; and their minds, starting from one common point, would run on in meditation along paths, separate indeed, but not far distant, and then, like children playing in a meadow, would return to show each other what flowers they had gathered.

"How calm and sweet the evening is!" said the earl, after one of these breaks. "One would hardly fancy the year so far advanced. I love these summer days in autumn, dearest. They often make me look on to after years, and think of the tempered joys and tranquil pleasures of old age, calling up the grand picture of latter life left us by a great Roman orator, when the too vivid sun of youth and manhood has somewhat sunk in the sky, and we have freshness as well as warmth, though not the fervid heat of midsummer."

"I love them too," answered Miss Walton; "and I think that in every season of the year there are days and hours of great beauty and grandeur. Though I like the early summer best, yet I can admire the clear winter sky, and the dazzling expanse of white that robes the whole earth as if in ermine, and even the autumnal storm with its fierce blast, loaded with sleet, and hail, and withered leaves. But I was thinking, Francis, of how peaceful all things seem around, and what a horrible and sinful thing it is for men to deform the beautiful earth, and disturb the quiet of all God's creation with wild wars and senseless contests."

"A woman's thought, dear Annie," replied the earl, "and doubtless it is sinful; but, alas? the sin is shared amongst so many, that it would in any war be difficult to portion it out. 'Tis not alone to be divided amongst those who fight or amongst those who lead; it is not to be laid at the door of those who first take arms or those who follow; it is not to be charged to the apparent aggressor: but every one who, by folly, weakness, passion, prejudice, or hatred, lays the foundation for strife in after years, has a share in the crime. Oh! how many are the causes of war! Deeds often remote by centuries have their part; and always many an act done long before rises up--like an acorn buried in the ground and springing up into a tree--and is the seed from which after contentions spring. Even in this very contest in which we are now engaged, though we may see and say who is now right and who is wrong, yet what man can separate the complex threads of the tangled skein of the past, and tell who most contributed to bring about that state which all wise men must regret? Years, long years before this, the foundation was laid in the tyranny of Henry, in the proud sway of Elizabeth, in the weak despotism of James, in the persecution of the Papists of one reign, in that of the Puritans in another; in lavish expenditure, in vicious indulgence, in favouritism and minions, in the craving ambition of some subjects, in the discontented spirit of others, in the interested selfishness, the offended vanity, the mortified pride of thousands; in weak yieldings to unjust demands, in stubborn resistance of just claims, in fond adherence to ancient forms, in an insatiate love of novelty and change: and all this spread through generations, dear Annie, all of which have their part in the result and the responsibility."

"Too wide a range, Francis, for my weak mind to take in," replied the lady; "but I do know it is sad to see a land that once seemed happy overspread with rapine and wrong, and deluged in blood."

"To hear no more the church-bells ringing gaily," said the earl with a smile, "or to see the market and the fair deserted. These may indeed seem trivial things; but yet they are amongst those that bring home to our hearts most closely the disruption of all those ties that bind men together in social union."

"But there are in the home of every one more terrible proofs than that of the great evil," answered Miss Walton. "Never to see a friend, a brother, a father, quit our side without the long train of fearful inquiries--When shall I see him again? Will it be for ever? How shall we meet, and where? Oh, Francis! how many a heart feels this like mine throughout the land! Danger, accident, and death, at other times dim, distant forms that we hardly see, are now become familiar thoughts, the companions of every fireside; and calm security and smiling hope are banished afar, as if never to return."

"Oh! they will come back, dear Annie," replied the earl. "This is a world of change. The April day of man's fluctuating passions has never cloud or sunshine long. No sooner does the calm light of peace overspread the sky than storms are seen gathering on the horizon; and no sooner do war and tumult imitate the tempest in destruction and ruin than a glimpse of the blue heaven gleams through the shadow, and gives promise of brighter moments at another hour."

"But that hour is often a lifetime," answered the lady. "We are but at the beginning shall we ever see the close?"

"Who can say?" rejoined Lord Beverley; "but one thing is certain, Annie. We are under God's will, my beloved. He can lengthen or shorten the time of trial at his pleasure; we ourselves, and all the men with whom or against whom we may act, are but his instruments. We can no more stride beyond the barrier he has fixed than the sea can pass the boundary of sands with which he has surrounded it. Our task is to do that which we conscientiously believe it is our duty to him to do in the circumstances wherein he has placed us; and we may be sure that, however much we may be mistaken, if such is our object and purpose, the errors of understanding will never be visited on our heads as crimes by him who knows the capabilities of every creature that he has made, and can judge between intention and execution. God punishes sins and not mistakes, dear girl; he tries the heart as well as the actions, and holds the balance even between each; and though we may suffer in this world for the errors of others or for our own, there is exhaustless compensation in the hand of the Almighty for those who seek to do his will, and those who wilfully disobey it."

"I have learned a lesson on that score from the dear girl within there," replied Miss Walton; and as she spoke she naturally turned her eyes to the room where she knew Arrah Neil was sitting. "What can be the matter?" she continued instantly: "see! Arrah is making eager signs to us to come in!"

The earl rose slowly and with difficulty; and before he had advanced more than a step or two with Annie Walton, who hastened anxiously to return to the house, Arrah Neil, with her sunny brown hair floating wildly about her face, came running out to meet them.

"Quick, quick, my lord, for pity's sake!" she cried "there is a large body of men before the drawbridge. The people are holding them in parley; the Lady Margaret says she can conceal you from all eyes if you make haste." She spoke with breathless eagerness; and Lord Beverley hurried his pace as much as possible, but with perfect calmness, turning with a smile to Annie Walton, and saying--

"Fresh evils of civil war, Annie; but I fear not the result."

The time occupied in crossing to the house seemed fearfully long to Miss Walton and Arrah Neil; but they found Lady Margaret waiting tranquilly enough at the small door that led into the meadow, and the old lady's only words were--

"Follow;" to the earl; and "Wait in the withdrawing-room--they will not let them in till I order it," to her two fair guests. Then leading the way with a calm step, she conducted Lord Beverley up the same stairs and through the same passages which she had followed with her niece on the first night of her stay at Langley Hall; but turning a little to the right at the door of Annie Walton's chamber, she brought the earl into a small detached room, which seemed isolated from every other part of the building.

"Here you will be safe," she said.

"I think not, dear Lady Margaret," replied Lord Beverley, with a smile at what he thought her want of experience in such matters.

"We will see," she answered, advancing to the other side of the room, where stood a huge antique fireplace, with a chimney-piece of rich wrought stone. "No moving pictures, no sliding panels here," said Lady Margaret; "but place your hand upon that pillar, my good lord, and push it strongly--more strongly towards the hearth. There," she continued, as the whole mass swung back, displaying an aperture large enough for a man to pass, but not without stooping; "you will find a bolt within which will make it as fast as masonry. The stairs lead you into rooms below, where no one can come without my leave. You shall be supplied with all you want.--But, hark! On my life, they have let the men in! Quick, my lord, and bolt the door. I will send somebody soon but I must go down lest those girls make some mistake if questioned."

Lord Beverley entered at once, and feeling over the face of the stone for the bolt, pushed it home, and made the whole secure. He then paused and listened, waiting patiently for several minutes. At first he could hear no sound in the remote and well-covered place where he was concealed; but at length he caught the noise of voices and steps running hither and thither in the house. They came near, passed away into other chambers on the left, returned, sounded in the passage, and then in the adjoining room. He could perceive that several men entered, examined the wainscot, tried every panel, moved every article of furniture, and at length shook the mantel-piece and the stone pillars on either side of the chimney; but the bolt held close and fast, and the receding steps showed him that these unwelcome visiters had turned their course elsewhere.

[CHAPTER XXXII.]

Good Lady Margaret Langley had seen troublous days, and was well fitted by a strong understanding to deal with them; but one of the advantages of misfortune, if I may use so strange a phrase, is, that experience of danger suggests precautions which long prosperity knows not how to take, even in the moment of the greatest need. As soon as she had left the Earl of Beverley, instead of going direct to the part of the house where she heard the voices of her unwished-for visiters, she directed her steps through sundry long and intricate passages, which ultimately led her to a small door communicating with the garden, smiling as she did so at distinguishing the fierce growl of her good dog Basto in the hall, and the querulous tone of an old man calling loudly for some one to remove the hound, showing apparently that some visiting justice was kept at bay by that good sentinel. Passing through the garden and round by the path across the lawn, Lady Margaret approached the windows of her own withdrawing-room, just as a party, consisting of five militia-men with the parliamentary justice of Beverley, entered the chamber in haste; and she heard the justice demand in a sharp tone, addressing Miss Walton and Arrah Neil--

"Who are you, young women? What are your names?"

The old lady hurried in, to stop anything like an imprudent reply; but she had the satisfaction of hearing her niece answer--

"Nay, sir; methinks it is for us to ask who are you, and what brings you hither in such rude and intrusive guise."

"Well said, my sweet Annie!" thought Lady Margaret; but entering quickly she presented herself before the justice, whom she knew, exclaiming--

"Ha, Master Shortcoat! good morning to you. What brings you hither? and who are these men in buff and bandolier? I am not fond of seeing such in my house. We had trouble enough with them or their like, a few nights ago."

"Ay, lady, that is what brings us," replied the justice. "I have orders from Hull to inquire into that affair, and to search your house for the bloody-minded malignants here concealed, who slaughtered like lambs a number of godly men even within sight of your door, and then took refuge in Langley Hall. I must search, lady--I must search."

"Search, if you will, from the cellars to the garret," replied Lady Margaret; "but the story told me by those who did take refuge here was very different, Master Shortcoat. They said that, peaceably passing along the country, they were attacked by a body of bloody-minded factious villains, who slaughtered some of them, and drove the rest in here, where finding some of their companions waiting for them, they issued forth again to punish the knaves who had assailed them."

"It's all a lie, good woman!" exclaimed an officer of militia. "But who are these girls? for there was a woman amongst them."

"You are a rude companion, sirrah!" answered Lady Margaret. "These ladies are of my own family--this one my niece, Mistress Anne Walton; and this my cousin, Mistress Arabella Langley."

"Come, come," said another, interposing; "we are wasting time, while perhaps those we seek may be escaping. It is not women we want, but men. Search the house, Master Justice, with all speed. I will go one way with two or three of the men--go you another with the rest."

"Stay, stay!" said Justice Shortcoat; "you are too quick: we cannot make due inquest if you interrupt us so. Lady, I require to know who were the persons in your house who went forth to assist the malignants on the night of Wednesday last."

"Why, I have told you already, Master Shortcoat. You must be hard of hearing. Did I not say they were friends of theirs who were waiting here for them? In these times, when subjects are governors and servants masters, how can I keep out any one who chooses to come in? That very night one of the men swam the moat, and let down the drawbridge for himself. How am I to stop such things? If I could, I would keep every party out that appeared with more than two, be they who they might. I seek but to live a peaceable life; but you, and others like you, break in at all hours, disturbing my quiet. Out upon you all! Search, search where you will! You can find nothing here but myself and my own people."

"Well, we will search, lady," replied the officer of militia who had spoken before. "Come, worshipful Master Shortcoat--let us not waste more time;" and seizing him by the arm, he dragged rather than led him away.

The moment he was gone, Lady Margaret whispered in Annie Walton's ear, "Quick, Annie! run to the room where all the maidens sit, and tell them, if asked what mean the clothes in the earl's chamber and the blood upon them, to say that they are those of one who was killed the other night, and that the body was carried away by his comrades. I will go to the men's hall and to the kitchen, and do the same. You hear, sweet Arrah? such must be our tale;" and away the old lady went. But she found the task of communicating this hint somewhat more difficult than she had expected, for the hall was half full of the parliamentary militia, and she had to send her servants to different parts of the house, one upon one pretence, and another upon another, before she could find the opportunity of speaking with them in private.

In the mean while she heard with a smile the feet of the justice and his companions running through all the rooms and passages of this wide, rambling pile of building, except those which, separated from the rest by stone partitions, and forming a sort of house within the house, could only be discovered either by one already acquainted with some of the several entrances, or by the line and rule of the architect. She had just done instructing her servants, not having omitted, as she thought, one of the household, when feet were heard descending the principal stairs, and the perquisitions were commenced in that wing of the hall in which the room inhabited by the Earl of Beverley was situated.

In a few minutes the justice and one of the militia-men returned, carrying a cloak and a heavy riding-boot, and demanding with a triumphant laugh, "Where is he to whom these belong?"

"In the grave, probably," replied Lady Margaret, with perfect composure. "If you are authorized to take possession of dead men's property, you may keep them; and indeed you have a better right to them than I have, for your people shot him, so that you have only to divide the spoil."

"Do you mean to say, Lady Margaret, that the man is dead?" asked Justice Shortcoat, with a look of some surprise and consternation.

"All the better if he be," exclaimed the officer of militia; "'tis but one malignant the less in the world. But let us hear more, worshipful Master Shortcoat. I don't believe this story. Let us have in the servants one by one----"

"Ay, one by one," said the justice, who was one of the men who may be called Echoes, and who repeat other men's ideas in a very self-satisfied tone. "You see about it, sir, and ensure that there be no collusion."

The whole matter was soon arranged; and Lady Margaret, taking her wonted chair, drew an embroidery-frame towards her, through which she passed the needle to and fro with the utmost calmness, while sweet Annie Walton sat with a beating heart beside Arrah Neil, who, with the tranquil fortitude that had now come over her, watched the proceedings of the intruders as if she had been a mere spectator. The magistrate placed himself pompously at the table in the midst; the officer, who had now been joined by two companions with various other articles from the earl's chamber, stood at Master Shortcoat's right hand to prompt him; and then the servants were called in singly, and asked to whom the clothes belonged which had been found.

"To the gentleman who was killed," replied the man, William, who was first examined.

"And where is the corpse?" demanded the officer of militia.

"I do not know," replied the servant; "they took it away with them."

"Was he killed at once, or did he die here?" asked the officer

"He lingered a little, I believe," answered William.

The justice looked at the officer, and the latter said, "You may go; see him through the hall, Watson."

Another and another servant was called, and all gave the same answers till they came to the maids, who had not been so well or fully instructed by fair Annie Walton as the men had been by her aunt. Their first reply, indeed, was the same--that he was dead; but when they were interrogated as to the time of his death, they hesitated and stumbled a little; but they were generally girls of good sense, and contrived to get out of the scrape by saying that they did not know, as they had not seen him till he was dead; and all agreed that the corpse had been taken away.

At length, however, at the last, appeared the scullion; and Lady Margaret's face for the first time showed some anxiety, as the girl had not been in the kitchen when she visited it, and, to say truth, had been hearing some sweet words from a soldier in the court. When the usual first question was asked her, namely, whom the clothes belonged to, she replied--

"To the gentleman who was brought in wounded."

"And who died shortly after," said Lady Margaret, fixing her eyes upon her.

"Do not venture to prompt her, lady," said the officer, turning sternly towards her. "Speak, girl, and tell truth. Did he die?"

"I never heard as he died," answered the scullion.

"Do you know where he is now?" asked the justice.

"No, that I don't," replied the girl. "I have not seen him to-day."

Both judge and officer gazed at her with a frowning brow, and demanded, one after the other--

"Did you see him yesterday?"

Poor Annie Walton's heart fluttered as if it would have broken through her side; but the girl, after a moment's consideration, replied, somewhat confusedly--

"I don't know as I did."

"Then, when did you see him last?" inquired the militia-man.

"I can't tell," answered the scullion. "I don't justly know. I saw him the night he was brought in, for the men laid him down on the floor there, and I saw him through the door chink, just where Basto is lying."

She pointed to the dog as she spoke, and he, with whom she was by no means a favourite, started up with a sharp growl and rushed towards her. He was checked by his mistress's voice, however; but the girl, uttering a terrified shriek, ran out of the room, and the officers with the justice laid their heads together over the table, conversing for some minutes in a low tone.

At length the worshipful magistrate raised his eyes, and turning to Lady Margaret he said--

"Madam, it is clear that this is a very dark and mysterious affair; and any one can see with half an eye that you have given shelter and comfort to notorious malignants. It is, therefore, my unpleasant duty to quarter upon you a guard of twenty men, under this worshipful gentleman, who will take what means he may think proper for discovering the dark practices which clearly have occurred here."

"In this dark clear case, sir," replied Lady Margaret, with a stiff and haughty air, "will it not be better to furnish them with a general warrant? Its having been pronounced illegal will be no obstacle with those who set all law at defiance. As to quartering those men upon a widow lady, I care little about it, so that I do not see them. Keep them away from the apartments of my family, and you may put them where you like. If they come near me, I will drive them forth with that feather broom. Away with you all, and keep out of my sight, wheresoever you bestow yourselves. Or do you intend to spoil the Egyptians, and take my beef and beer, or my goods and chattels?"

"Though you are uncivil to us, lady," said the officer, who, perhaps, thought that the comfort of his quarters might depend upon fair words, "we do not intend to be uncivil to you. We will give you no trouble so long as you and your people comport yourselves properly; and in the trust that you will do so, I shall now retire, and fix the rooms for my men as I shall judge expedient, of course not interfering with your accommodation. Come, Master Shortcoat."

"Stay, sir!" said Lady Margaret. "You speak well. Perhaps I was too warm; but all these intrusions into a peaceable household do heat one. I will see that you have all that you want and can desire; I wish to show you no inhospitality," and she bowed with graceful dignity as the Roundhead party retired.

[CHAPTER XXXIII.]

Night had succeeded to day, and that day had been an uneasy one; for during the hours of light that remained after the parliamentary militia had taken possession of Langley Hall, Lady Margaret had in vain endeavoured to find some opportunity of opening one of the several doors which led into the private rooms and passages of the house. Wherever she went she found one or other of the soldiers on the watch, and she became alarmed lest the want of necessary food should, in the earl's weakened state, prove detrimental to his health.

Miss Walton said nothing; but her beautiful eyes were so full of anxious thought, that whenever they turned upon her aunt, the good old lady felt her heart ache for the painful apprehensions which she knew were in her fair niece's bosom; and as the shades of evening fell, she rang for her servant William, and asked him several questions in a low tone. What his answers were, neither Annie Walton nor Arrah Neil could hear for some time; but at length, in reply to some injunction of his mistress, he said aloud, "I will try, my lady; but I do not think it will do. He is a sad, sober man, and when they were eating, shortly after they came, he would drink little or nothing."

"Well, give him my message," said Lady Margaret, "and if he will not drink, we must find another means. Warn all the tenants, William, to-morrow early, that they may be wanted; but now go, and see the wine be the best in the cellar."

The man retired, but in a few minutes after he opened the door again, announcing Captain Hargood, and the commander of the small force left at the Hall made his appearance with a ceremonious bow.

"Madam," he said, "I hope you do not put yourself to inconvenience or restraint to ask a stranger to your table who is here against your will, and in some degree against his own."

"Not in the least, Captain Hargood," answered Lady Margaret; "I always have loved and esteemed brave men, whatever be their party; and though, in all that is justifiable, I would never scruple to oppose to the death an enemy, yet where we are not antagonists I would always wish to show courtesy and forget enmity."

"I hope, madam, you will not consider me as an enemy," replied the officer.

"Whoever keeps forcible possession of my fortress," said the old lady, with a smile, "must be so for the time; but let us not speak of unpleasant things--supper must be served," and advancing unembarrassed, she rested her hand upon the arm of her unwelcome guest, and led the way with him to the hall.

But the stout Roundhead was not one to lose his active watchfulness by indulging in the pleasures of the table. The wine was excellent, and the servants were always ready to fill for him; but he drank sparingly, and Lady Margaret did not venture to press him, lest her purpose should become apparent, and lead to suspicions beyond.

After partaking lightly of the wine, she rose, and with her two fair companions retired, leaving him with the potent beverage still on the board, in the hope that he might indulge more freely when he was alone. As soon as they were in the withdrawing-room, she explained to Annie Walton and Arrah Neil, in low but earnest tones, the exact position of the room in which was the entrance to the secret passage which she had opened for Lord Beverley, and the means of making him hear and withdraw the bolt.

"I will send up a basket of food and wine to your chamber, Annie," she said; "and as soon as all seems quiet in the house, you and our dear Arrah go, by the moonlight if you can, to that place, and try to gain admission. If you should fail, or if you should find any one on the watch, come down to me. They have so scattered their men about, that it is well-nigh hopeless before they go to sleep. It would almost seem that they knew whereabouts the doors lie. There is one means, indeed, and that must be taken if all others fail; yet I would fain shrink from it."

"What means is that, dear aunt?" asked Annie Walton.

But the old lady replied that it mattered not; and shortly after they separated, and the two fair girls retired to their chamber. Miss Walton's maids were there ready to aid her in undressing; and though Annie and her friend had much to say to each other, all private conversation was stayed for the time. Shortly after Lady Margaret's chief woman appeared with a covered basket, set it down, and retired without saying a word; and in a few minutes more Annie sent her maidens to bed, saying that she would sit up for a while, and adding, "Leave me a lamp on that table."

But, now that they had the opportunity of speaking more freely, Arrah Neil and her noble friend could but poorly take advantage of it, so eager were they to watch for the diminution of all sounds in the hall. They did speak, indeed, words of kindly comfort and support; and manifold dreamy reasonings took place on all the events of the day, and their probable consequences; but still they interrupted their speech continually to listen, till all at length seemed profoundly still, and Arrah whispered--

"Now I think we may go."

"Yet but a moment or two, dear Arrah," replied Miss Walton. "Let them be sound asleep."

In deep silence they remained for about a quarter of an hour, but then Annie herself rose and proposed to go.

"I am grown such a coward, Arrah," she said, "that I would fain perform this task speedily, and fain escape it too."

"'Tis the desire to do it," answered her fair companion, "that creates the fear of failing. But let me go, Annie, if you dread it so much."

"Nay, nay! No hand but mine, for worlds!" exclaimed the young lady. "But come, I am ready; let us go."

Slowly and quietly opening the door, they issued forth into the passages, and, remembering as well as they could Lady Margaret's direction, were making their way towards the room to which she had led the earl, when suddenly, out of a neighbouring chamber, walked the officer of militia, and stood confronting them in the midst of the passage. Annie Walton trembled, and caught poor Arrah's arm to stop her; but her fair companion was more self-possessed, and whispering, "Come on; show no fear!" she advanced straight towards the officer, saying aloud--

"Will you have the kindness, sir, to accompany us to the door of Lady Margaret's chamber? We are afraid of meeting some of your men, who might be uncivil."

"Do you not think that Lady Margaret may be asleep by this time?" asked the officer, with a doubtful smile.

"Oh, dear, no!" replied Annie Walton, who had gained courage from her fair companion's presence of mind. "She never goes to bed till one or two. Perhaps we may even find her in the withdrawing-room."

"I think not," said the officer; "but we can easily see." And thus speaking, he led the way down, having made himself thoroughly acquainted with the ordinary passages of the house.

The door of the usual sitting-room was ajar, a light was within, and the officer put in his head. Instantly perceiving Lady Margaret Langley seated reading, and recollecting her threatened vengeance if any one of his band approached her apartments, he said, "I have escorted these two young ladies hither, madam, as they were afraid to come alone."

"I thank you, sir," replied the old lady, laying down the book. "Down, Basto! down! Come hither, Annie. Close the door, my sweet Arrah. I thank you, sir. Good night. They are foolish, frightened girls; but I will see them back when we have done our evening duties."

The perfect tranquillity of the old lady's manner removed the suspicion which Captain Hargood had certainly entertained; and closing the door, he retired to the room he had chosen for himself.

As soon as he was gone, Lady Margaret said, in a low tone, "So you were stopped, I suppose, by that rascal?"

"Yes, indeed," replied Annie Walton: "we had scarce taken twenty paces when he met us, and I was fool enough to lose all judgment; but this dear girl saved us both."

"Well," rejoined Lady Margaret, "there is but one means, then. I am weak, girls--very weak--or I would not have kept the good earl so long in darkness and in hunger for my own foolish thoughts. Come with me;" and, opening the door which led from the right-hand side of the withdrawing-room to her own chamber, she went in, closing it again when they had both passed, and fastening it with a bolt. She then paused for a moment in the midst, gazing down upon the floor with a look of deep sadness, and then approached a large closet, which she opened. It was full of shelves; but, putting her hand upon one of them, Lady Margaret drew it forth, laid it down beside her, and pushed hard against the one below. It instantly receded with the whole back of the closet, showing the entrance to a room beyond.

"See, but say nothing," whispered the old lady; and while Annie Walton followed with the lamp, she entered before them.

It was a small room, fitted up somewhat like a chapel, but hung with tapestry. At the farther end was a table or altar, covered with a linen cloth yellow with age, and having beneath what Annie Walton imagined to be the chalice and plate of the communion. Above, however, hung the picture of a very young woman, whose sweet and radiant look, yet tender and mournful eyes, might well have accorded with a representation of the Blessed Virgin; but the figure was dressed in the fashion of no very remote time; and as soon as Lady Margaret raised her eyes to it, the tears rose in them, and tottering to one of the large crimson chairs that were ranged along the side, she sank into it and bent her head in silence.

Annie Walton and Arrah Neil stood and gazed upon the picture as if they were both fascinated, but neither spoke; and at length Lady Margaret rose again, saying abruptly, "I am a fool, and will be so no more. This is the chamber of retribution, my sweet Arrah," she continued, approaching the two fair girls, and taking the lamp out of the hand of Miss Walton. "Here for many a year I and one now gone wept and prayed for forgiveness;" and, holding up the lamp towards the picture, she gazed at it with a mournful look. Then, laying her hand upon the edge of the cloth which covered the table, she seemed about to withdraw it, but paused, and her face became almost livid with emotion. "I will do it!" she said at length; "I will do it--but say nothing--ask no question--utter not a word!"

As she spoke, she cast back the cloth; and lying on the table, which was covered with crimson velvet, appeared a pale and gory human head, severed at the neck. The face was turned up, the eyes were closed, the mouth was partly open, and the fine white teeth were shown. Though pale as ashes, the traces of great beauty remained in the finely-chiselled features: the curling lip, covered with the dark moustache; the wide, expansive brow, the high forehead, the blue tinge of the eyes shining through the dark-fringed lids--all showed that in life it must have been the face of as handsome a man as ever had been seen, but over all was the grey shade of death.

Annie Walton started back in terror; but Lady Margaret turned to her sternly and sadly, saying, "Foolish girl! it is but wax. For you it has none of those memories that give it life for me. There--you have seen enough!" and she drew the cloth back again over that sad memento. Then, gazing for a moment again at the picture, the old lady set the lamp down upon the table; and casting her arms round the fair neck of Arrah Neil, she leaned her eyes upon her shoulder and wept bitterly.

Annie Walton would not intrude upon her aunt's grief, either by asking any questions or by calling to her remembrance the situation of the Earl of Beverley, although, as soon as the first impression of the extraordinary spectacle which had been presented to her had passed away, the state in which her lover had been so long kept naturally occurred to her mind. But Lady Margaret, herself a woman of strong and vigorous character, though somewhat eccentric in her habits of thought, soon roused herself, and starting up she wiped the tears from her eyes, exclaiming, "This is not all folly, my child; but yet any grief, if it prevent us from doing our duty, is a weakness and a wrong. Come, we will soon find the earl."

Miss Walton took up the basket; and Lady Margaret, with the light, approached a door on the other side of the room which led to a narrow and very steep staircase; but Arrah Neil paused till the light was nearly gone, to gaze at the picture, and when she at length followed, her eyes too were running over with bright drops. A long passage at the top of the stairs conducted them to a door, which Lady Margaret gently opened, exposing a room within, furnished with a chair, a bed, and a small table, by which the earl was sitting, his head resting on his hand.

As may readily be supposed, he was well pleased to see his visiters; for long solitude in darkness and uncertainty, without occupation, will have a depressing effect upon the firmest heart and best regulated mind. The cause of their long absence was soon explained; and, the acceptable stores which they brought being taken from the basket and deposited on the table, though Annie Walton would fain have remained some time to console her lover in his imprisonment, he too strongly felt the danger of her so doing to permit it; and, only petitioning that when any one returned some books might be added to his store, to while away the hours of solitude, he saw them depart, though not without a sigh. No interruption took place on the return of the two young ladies to their room, and the night passed over without any other event deserving of notice.

[CHAPTER XXXIV.]

Tan household of Lady Margaret Langley was increased, during the day following the adventures related in the last two chapters, by the return of two stout servants, whom she had sent upon various errands to a considerable distance from Langley Hall; and in the evening the steward and his man came back, as they termed it--though, in truth, they both ordinarily lived in a house and cottage about two miles off--to the dwelling of the good lady. The hind, too, arrived, and took up his lodging in the house; and the shrewd servant, William, was busy amongst the farmers and tenants, talking with one, whispering with another, winking at a third. Langley Hall in truth became quite a gay place; for, in addition to the militia-men from Beverley, every morning saw five or six good yeomen, sometimes eight or nine, attending Lady Margaret's orders and directions about farming matters. Captain Hargood felt somewhat uneasy; for these visiters, all stout men and generally armed, became so numerous that he saw it was not at all unlikely that in process of time he might be outnumbered in the Hall. He perceived that, should such be the case, at any unexpected moment he might easily be overpowered, if the disposition which he had at first made of his men continued; for, scattered over that large, rambling mansion, in order to watch what was taking place in every part at once, there were not to be found more than two or three of the militia together at any one given point; and it was by no means an easy or rapid process to gather them from their several quarters into one body for the stairs and passages, the rooms and ante-rooms, the lobbies and galleries, the halls and corridors, were so intricate and in such number, that it was a good half-hour's march from one end of the house to the other; and the shutting of a door or barricading of a passage might in a moment isolate any one party from the rest. He could not help fancying, too, that Lady Margaret felt the advantage of her position, and that there was something more than chance in this influx of tenantry; and thus the feeling of security with which he had taken possession of Langley Hall soon disappeared, and he became very uneasy indeed.

In after periods of the civil war, when the bold and decided tone of the parliament had spread to the whole party, and the simple justice or petty commissioner, knowing that any violence against a malignant would receive countenance and applause from those who had the power of the state in their hands, ventured every excess against their enemies, Captain Hargood would have overcome the difficulty at once by marching off Lady Margaret and the principal members of her household to Beverley or Hull. But the Roundhead party, in remote provinces, had not yet acquired full confidence either in its strength or in its leaders; and steps afterwards taken as a matter of course were now not even thought of. His only resource, therefore, was to reinforce his numbers, if possible, and to make such changes in the disposition of his men in the mean while as would guard against surprise.

During the hours, then, at which the hall was thronged with the tenants and farmers, he gathered his men together into one part of the house, and there kept them till he found that the visiters who alarmed him were departing. But this was all that Lady Margaret desired; and, the unpleasant espial being removed from about nine in the morning till about one o'clock, ample time was afforded for very easy communication with the Earl of Beverley, both to cheer him by the society of his friends and supply him with all that might be necessary to his comfort.

As only one of the party could venture to be absent at a time, it may easily be supposed that Annie Walton was the person most frequently fixed upon, as she was certainly the one best fitted to console the weary hours of the earl in the strange sort of captivity to which he was reduced; and many and many a happy hour, during the next four days, did the two lovers spend together.

Of the present they had but little to say. No news of any importance reached the Hall, and the brief laugh excited by the success of Lady Margaret's stratagem for driving the militia-men into one particular portion of the house soon passed away. It was upon the past and upon the future, then, that their thoughts and conversation principally turned; but, though the mind of Annie Walton certainly rested more often and more anxiously upon the coming years than upon the past, yet the apprehensions that she entertained regarding them, the too intense interest they excited, and the agitation which the contemplation of all that might take place produced, naturally led her to seek relief in the softened influences of the past; and she would willingly dwell with her lover upon all the thousand little events of early days, showing him, without reserve, all the secrets of her own pure and guileless heart, and seeking playfully and yet eagerly to discover those of his.

Nor did he much strive to conceal them, although there were, of course, some things that he would not say; but whenever he saw that she was deeply interested, and that mystery might create doubts injurious to her peace, he was as frank and free as she was: sporting, perhaps, a little with her curiosity, but always satisfying it in the end. He did not, indeed, amuse himself or her, to use the words of a sweet old song that one time cheered my infancy, by

Tales telling of loves long ago,

although she was curious to know whether the heart, the possession of which she so much valued, had never been given to any but herself; and indeed could hardly believe that, amongst all the scenes through which he had passed, amongst the fair and beautiful with whom he had mingled, and in all the varying events in which he had taken a part, some one had not been found to love and be beloved, by one whom she felt it difficult to imagine any woman could behold without feeling the same sensation towards him that she experienced herself.

At first, indeed, she did not venture to question, but merely suggested with playful smiles the confession which she strove to extort. Then, when he spoke of beautiful scenes in other lands, or of bright and happy moments in former days, she would laugh, and ask whether there had not been some one near to give light to the light and add sweet to the sweetness; and he would reply sportively, "Oh! a multitude, dear Annie! I can assure you that in those days every woman was fair to my young eyes, and every smiling jest was full of wit."

But when she pressed him closer still, and inquired whether, amongst the many, there had not been one brighter than them all, who had found means to eclipse the loveliness around and make herself the beloved, the earl would draw her closer to him, and, gazing on the lids of her downcast eyes, would answer, "Nay, Annie, but I must have your confession first. Have you never loved before? Has no one, ere I knew you, brushed off with a touch the bloom of that dear heart before it was ripe for me?"

"Never, never!" she cried. "Never, Francis! I have had no one to love. Little as I have seen of the world, few as were those who have frequented our house since I was a mere girl, it was not likely, that I should meet with any who should either care to make themselves agreeable to me or have the power of doing so. I can assure you that, had it not been for my brother Charles, till I met with you I should have thought men very dull things indeed. We had, it is true, more than once, a crowd of roystering Cavaliers, and, more frequently still, half-a-dozen prim Puritans, staying in the house or in the neighbourhood; but the first were all too gay for me, the others all too sad; the one set too fond of their fine clothes and their fine horses, the others too fond of their own selves, for them to care for me or I to care for them. One man, indeed, asked my father for my hand when I was a girl of fifteen; but my father saved me the trouble of saying no, by valuing me at too high a price to part with me. But with you, Francis, it is very different: you have mingled with the bright dames of France and the beautiful ones of Italy and Spain; and I cannot even hope that you should have escaped heart-whole, to lay your first affections at the feet of poor Annie Walton, a country girl, well-nigh ignorant of courts, and of all the graces that you must have seen elsewhere."

"I have seen none like her, Annie," said Lord Beverley, in a tone of deep earnestness; "and I will tell you in truth and sincerity, I never loved till I did see her. I may have admired; I may have been pleased; but there have been things in my fate and history which came dimly between me and all others, like those glasses which star-gazers use to look upon the sun without having their eyes dazzled; and even, dearest Annie, when that thick veil was over me the moat, I was still the gayest, jesting with the light, laughing with the gay, and draining the bowl of pleasure to the dregs, even when the draught was most tasteless to my lips."

"Indeed!" said Annie Walton, gravely; "that seems strange to me."

"And yet it is true," replied the earl: "nay, more--it is common, Annie. Every man has his own secrets in his heart, and each his own way of hiding them--one in a dark, gloomy pall, one in a gay and glittering veil; and the latter was my case, sweet one. But perchance you have never heard the tale of what happened to my house in older times. My mother's brother was an Irish lord of a high and noble nature--wild, daring, and somewhat rash. For some poor and trifling fault he was pursued, unjustly, I believe--at all events, with unjust severity--in courts he did not recognise, to the confiscation of his property. He laughed such laws to scorn, however, defied them to take him from his mountain-holds, and added attainture to the judgment against him; but he had strong enemies even in his native country. Troops were led up through passes that he thought secure, by men who knew them but too well. His castle--for it was a house well fortified--was attacked and stormed, he being absent from it at the time; and my poor sister, a young child I loved most dearly, then but waiting for an opportunity of returning to her own home, perished in the flames, for they burned his dwelling to the ground. He himself was taken on his return, and, with indecent haste and many illegal circumstances, was condemned and executed."

"Good heaven!" cried Annie Walton, a wild fancy suddenly presenting itself to her mind. "Can it be that Arrah Neil is your sister? There are several strange things regarding her, and I may tell you she is not what she seems."

"No," answered Lord Beverley; "oh, no, my beloved! that could not be. My sister would now be seven or eight years older than poor Arrah, and, besides, the body was not so disfigured that it could not be recognised. She died beyond all doubt. In grief and indignation my father and my mother appealed to the king of England, strove to remove my uncle's trial to some more fit and competent tribunal before his sentence was pronounced, showed the evident illegality of many of the proceedings against him, petitioned, prayed--in vain. He died as I have said, and then to remonstrances they added complaints and reproaches, withdrew from the court, and uttered words which were construed into high offences; fines and punishments followed upon those whose hands had aided to uphold the monarch, and in bitter disgust at man's ingratitude, in abhorrence of his falsehood and indignation at his injustice, I quitted England, wandering over many distant lands, and resolving never to return. I sought forgetfulness, Annie; I sought pleasure, amusement--anything which, if it could not take the thorn out of my heart, might at least assuage the pain.--But, hark! there is the signal that you must return," and with one brief caress they parted.

[CHAPTER XXXV.]

Annie Walton, on her return to Lady Margaret's sitting-room, accompanied by Arrah Neil, who had given the signal agreed upon as a notification that longer stay would be dangerous, found her good aunt seated, her head leaning on her hand, listening to some intelligence brought by her faithful servant William, who stood before her, with his usual well-satisfied and shrewd look, detailing a valuable discovery which he had just made.

"It is indeed so, my lady," he said: "they have corrupted her, there can be no doubt. Give me a Puritan for ploughing with the heifer. I saw the fellow Jones and the girl, with their two heads near together, in the court; and as I was close to the casement and the casement was open, I drew up against the wall, saying to myself, traitors make eaves-droppers."

"What did they say? what did they say?" demanded Lady Margaret. "We must come to a quick decision, William."

"Why, all I heard, my lady, was, that the trullion said to the Roundhead, 'It is quite sure, for I saw her go in myself, and when she had been there for two or three minutes I walked in too, just as if I was going to look for something. There's no other way out of the room to be seen, and yet she was not there. She didn't come out for an hour either, for I watched.' Then the man answered, 'Well, we must wait till to-morrow, when the reinforcements are coming up from Beverley. We shall be enough then to overpower all resistance.'"

"Said he so? said he so?" cried Lady Margaret, with a thoughtful air. "We must contrive means to frustrate them. Quick, William!" she continued after a moment's meditation; "go and keep the people here. Tell the farmers I will give them a supper; and if you can, contrive to get more to come up. Then let some one go out and gather news in the country; see what's the truth of this report that came last night, of troops marching, and who they are."

The man hastened away to obey her orders, and Miss Walton gazed anxiously in her aunt's face, inquiring--

"Do you think they have discovered him?"

"They have discovered something, Annie--that is clear," replied Lady Margaret, "and enough to lead them to more; but they shall not have him notwithstanding, even if we should fight for it. I know the house better than they do, and could lead them into many a pretty trap if I liked it. We can get fifteen or sixteen men together, and then they are but twenty. Then there's Basto; he's worth three Roundheads at any time, though he's but an old dog--and all the women besides. Why, you would fight for this good earl--wouldn't you, Annie, my love?--else you are not fit for a soldier's bride. On my life, I should like to see you in a pair of jack-boots!" and the old lady laughed gaily enough, to cheer her fair niece, whose heart was more easily alarmed than her own.

"Could he not escape in the night, dear Lady Margaret?" said Arrah Neil. "I went to walk out by the moonlight last night, and no one noticed me."

"Because you are a woman, dear child," answered Lady Margaret. "He must have a horse, too, for, though his wound is well enough now, he could not walk far. However, it must be thought of if other things should fail. But we must go and hold counsel with this good lord. Well, William, what more?"

"Why, only, my lady, I have been asking Farmer Heathcote about the troops moving, and he says he is sure of it; he saw the men himself. They seem to be Cavaliers, too, and a good troop of them; but that was yesterday evening, and they were then ten miles off."

"That's unfortunate," replied his lady; "for, if we could have given them notice, we might have had help, and it would have been some satisfaction to enclose these rat-catchers in their own trap. However, you go now and watch Madam Maud for the next two hours; never take your eye off her, and be sure she does not come into this part of the house. You two girls stay here--I will be back presently;" and thus saying she retired to her own chamber, sought the private passage into the apartments where the earl was concealed, and, passing with a grave look through that which she called the "chamber of atonement," threaded a long and narrow corridor constructed in the wall of the building, and mounted a staircase of no greater width, which led to the sleeping-room of Lord Beverley, where she found him reading one of the books with which she had taken care to supply him.

"Well, my dear lord," she said, "they have found us out, I fear."

"Indeed, Lady Margaret!" replied the earl calmly; "then I suppose the sooner I quit my present quarters the better."

"I don't think so, my lord," replied the old lady: "I am not sure that it will not be wise to have a struggle for it, and that very speedily. We have got fifteen stout men in the house, and you make sixteen. They with their captain are twenty-one. I have a good store of arms here, too, and I could bring the people round, or part of them, through these passages to fall upon them in the rear, while the others attacked them in the front."

"No, no, my dear lady," replied the earl, smiling; "that must not be done on any account. In the first place, we might lose the day, and then you and yours, and all that is most dear to me on earth, would be exposed to violence of which I dare not think. The fire of musketry, too, in such a house as this, might lead to terrible disasters; and, besides, whatever were the result, unless Hull fall and the king can hold this part of Yorkshire, you would be obliged to fly from your own dwelling, and give it up as a prey to the parliamentary soldiery. It must not be thought of. If you can but keep these men from pushing their discoveries farther till nightfall, and get me out by the most private way, I will go and take my chance alone. It is the only course, depend upon it."

"Oh! we will keep them at bay," replied Lady Margaret. "They have been quaking for their lives the last three days, and, while my stout yeomen remain in the house, dare not stir one from another for fear of being taken unawares. I have ordered my men to remain all day, and have promised them supper at nightfall; so we are secure till then, and in the mean while you may rest safe; for, sooner than they should break in here, I will burn the house about their ears. If you are resolved to go----"

"Quite," replied the earl.

"Then I will despatch one of the young men," replied Lady Margaret, "as if he were going home, to have a horse ready for you on the road to York. He can come back again to help us when it is done. In the mean while I will send you food and wine, that you may be strong for your ride; but I must tell you that there is a party of horse out about Market Weighton, said to be Cavaliers, and it were well that you should be upon your guard if you fly that way, lest they should prove daws in peacocks' feathers."

"Nay, that cannot well be," replied the earl. "If I be not much mistaken, the news I sent by Walton will soon bring the king before the gates of Hull. It would not surprise me if these were some of his majesty's own parties, and I will direct my steps towards them with all speed."

Some further conversation took place regarding the arrangements to be made; and it was agreed that, as soon as Lady Margaret thought the earl's escape might be attempted with a probability of success, either she herself or one of her fair companions should visit him and give him notice; and after all had been thus settled, Lady Margaret, taking her leave of him, returned to the room where she had left her niece and Arrah Neil.

She found them speaking eagerly, poor Arrah's colour somewhat heightened, and Annie Walton's eyes bent down, with dewy drops resting on the lids.

"Nay, but tell my aunt," said Miss Walton. "Indeed, dear Arrah, you should tell her."

"No," replied Arrah Neil, with her own wild eagerness, "I will tell no one;" and then turning to Lady Margaret, she laid her hand upon her arm, gazing with an appealing look in her face, and saying, "I have a scheme, dear lady--a scheme which Annie opposes; but it is a good scheme too, and she only fears it on account of danger to myself. Now, I fear no danger in a good cause; and I am sure you will trust me--will you not, dear Lady Margaret?"

"That I will, my child," replied Lady Margaret Langley, "and ask no questions either."

"Nay, but hear," cried Annie Walton: "she is always ready to sacrifice herself for others, and if she does not tell you, I will, my dear aunt."

"Nay, nay," replied Lady Margaret; "you will not betray counsel, Annie, I am sure. Let her have her own way. It is right, I will answer for it; and if it be too generous for men, God will repay it. I will trust her."

Annie Walton shook her head; but the conversation dropped there, and the good old lady proceeded to make all her preparations for the execution of her scheme.

The hours went by; the yeomen still remained at the Hall. Captain Hargood continued to act upon the plan which he had previously followed, but showed no slight symptoms by uneasiness at the prolonged occupation of the house of Lady Margaret's tenantry, appearing from time to time with an indifferent and sauntering air, which ill-concealed no small degree of apprehension at all that he remarked, and retiring speedily to his men again, without venturing to suffer them to separate for a moment.

The hour of supper came on, and the table in the hall was crowded. Lady Margaret appeared for a moment, and bade her guests make merry; but two of her servants were stationed in the vestibule beyond, which communicated with the stairs and passages that led to the part of the house in possession of the militia, and whenever a step was heard above, one of them approached the foot of the staircase, and listened, to provide against surprise.

Night fell, and as soon as it was completely dark, Annie Walton accompanied her aunt to the good, dame's own chamber, and, while Lady Margaret herself remained there, proceeded with a lamp through the dark passages in the wall, to give her lover the warning agreed upon.

They might be pardoned if they lingered a moment or two together; but at length, descending with a rapid step, they approached the chamber where Lady Margaret was waiting. As soon as the door opened the old lady held up her finger, saying, "Hush! I heard a noise just now; but I think it is merely those clowns in the hall roaring over their liquor. Let us listen, however."

They paused for a minute or two, but all was quite still.

"It is quiet now," said the earl. "We should hear it any one were in your sitting room, and I am to go out into the fields by that way, you say."

"Yes, it is all quiet now," said Lady Margaret; and, advancing to the door which led to the withdrawing-room, she opened it quietly but quickly, followed closely by the earl and Annie Walton. No sooner was it open, however, than Lady Margaret stopped with a start; and Annie Walton with a low cry clung to her lover's arm, for the room before them was full of soldiery.

[CHAPTER XXXVI.]

"Ha! Ha! ha!" cried Hargood, with a dry, mocking laugh, "So the dead have come to life again! Stand, sir, and give an account of yourself. Lady, you are a mighty skilful plotter, but we have doubled upon you, and I will not quit this house till I find this bird's nest."

"Run round, Annie," whispered Lady Margaret to her niece, "through the secret chamber, by the passage to the left and the door in the wall, where you will see a bolt. It will lead you to the hall. Bring our men upon them from behind: we will fight for it still."

Miss Walton took a step to obey; but the movement was not unperceived by the captain of the militia, who exclaimed in a loud voice, turning his head slightly towards his men--

"Cover them with your guns! If any one stirs a step, I order them to fire!" he added, addressing the party at the entrance of the room.

But the stout-hearted old lady was not to be daunted; and, motioning the earl back, she suddenly shut to the door, turned the key, and stepped behind the shelter of the wall, drawing Annie with her.

There was a momentary pause, to hear if Captain Hargood would keep his word; but not a gun was fired, and Lady Margaret reiterated her desire that Annie would run round and bring her tenantry from the hall, into the rear of the Roundheads.

"But no," she cried, interrupting herself. "Come with me, Annie. Come with me, my lord. They must be some time breaking in."

"It is useless, I fear, dear lady," said the earl. "They have better information than we imagined, and I think have been reinforced. There seem to me to be more than twenty men, so that most probably your people are disarmed."

"Hark!" cried Annie Walton; "there is a trumpet without! Oh! they have many more with them, you may depend upon it!"

"A trumpet!" cried Lady Margaret, listening, and her withered face assuming a look of joy as she heard the long, shrill blast ringing upon the air. "So there is; so there is! Cavaliers to the rescue! This is our dear Arrah's doing. These are king's troops, my lord. No roundheaded Puritan ever blew a blast like that."

"On my life, I believe it is true!" cried the earl, approaching the window and looking out. "A party have crossed the stream and are coming over the meadows."

As he spoke, there was a loud murmuring noise in the neighbouring chamber, and then the sound of a blow, as if from an axe, upon the door of the room in which they were. The earl instantly threw open the casement and vaulted out; and the next moment his voice was heard, calling loudly, "Hither, hither!" At the same time, however, the blows upon the door were repeated, and though made of strong solid oak, it crashed, and one panel gave way.

"Quick, Annie!" cried Lady Margaret; "let us through the other door. We can set them at defiance yet." But, just as they reached it, a still heavier blow of the axe dashed the lock from its fastenings, and the broken door flew back.

At the same moment, however, a man sprang into the open window. It was the Earl of Beverley, but another and another followed. The casement on the right, too, was burst open, and two or three leaped in at a time, casting themselves in the way of the advancing militia-men.

"Down with your arms, traitors!" cried a voice that Miss Walton thought she remembered.

"Back, Annie! Back, my beloved! Away, Lady Margaret! Keep out of the fire!" exclaimed the earl; and, drawing her niece with her, the old lady retired into what she called the "chamber of atonement," pushing the door nearly to.

The next instant a musket was discharged; then came volley after volley, then the clash of swords, and cries, and shouts, and words of command, with every now and then a deadly groan between, while through the chink of the door that was left open crept the pale blue smoke, rolling round with a sulphurous smell, and the blast of the trumpet echoed from without, as if calling up fresh spirits to the fray.

Lady Margaret Langley held her niece's hand firmly in hers, while Annie Walton bent her fair brow upon her old relation's shoulder, and struggled with the tears that would fain have burst forth.

The strife in the neighbouring room seemed to last an age, though in truth its duration was but a few minutes, and then came a pause, not of absolute silence, for the sounds were still various and many, but there was a comparative stillness, and a voice was heard speaking, though the words were indistinct. The moment after, some one near exclaimed--

"Lay down your arms, then, traitors! We will grant no conditions to rebels with arms in their bands. Hie to Major Randal, Barecolt. Tell him to guard well every door, that no one escape. Now, sir, do you surrender?"

Annie Walton recognised her brother's voice, and murmured, "He at least is safe."

"We will surrender upon quarter, sir," answered the voice of Captain Hargood.

"You shall surrender at discretion, or die where you stand," answered Lord Walton. "Make your choice quickly, or we fire!"

Almost as he spoke, there came a dull clang, as of arms grounded suddenly on the wooden floor; and, greatly to the relief of poor Annie Walton's heart, the voice of Lord Beverley was heard exclaiming--

"Treat them gently, treat them gently! They are prisoners, and must abide his majesty's pleasure."

"Thank God!" said Miss Walton; "thank God!"

"Hush!" said Lady Margaret. "Let us look out, Annie. There is a smell of burning wood."

As she spoke, she approached the door and opened it. Annie Walton followed close upon her steps, and gazed into the room beyond. It was a sad and fearful scene. The bed-chamber of Lady Margaret, in which the principal struggle had taken place, was comparatively dark, receiving its only light from the glare of the lamp and sconces in the drawing-room on the other side. The room was well-nigh filled with men; others were seen through the open door, and every sort of attitude into which the human figure can be thrown was displayed amongst them. At the further end of the table appeared Captain Hargood and some eight or nine of the militia, their arms cast down, and gloomy, sullen despondency upon their faces. Near them lay three or four others, still and motionless; one fallen upon his back, with his arms extended; one upon his face, his limbs doubled up beneath him. A little more in advance was another militia-man, sitting on the ground, supporting himself with one hand upon a chair, while the other was pressed tightly upon his side; and beside Lady Margaret's bed knelt a young Cavalier, his long and fair curling hair streaming down his shoulders, and his face buried in the bed-clothes. Several of the royalist party were stretched upon the ground near; the faces and hands of most of the others were bloody and begrimed with gunpowder; and several were seen in different parts of the room, tying up the wounded limb or staunching the flowing blood.

In the front stood Lord Walton and the Earl of Beverley; the one armed, and with the stern frown of vehement excitement upon his lofty brow; the other with no arms but a sword, and with his fine and speaking countenance animated certainly, but calm and open. Hanging in a thick cloud over the whole were wreaths of smoke, and a stream of a lighter colour was finding its way through the open door, and slowly mingling with that which the discharge of firearms had produced.

The party of the Cavaliers was by far the more numerous, and at the moment when Lady Margaret looked in, several of them were advancing to secure the prisoners. Lord Walton was in the act of giving various orders, from which it was apparent that the house was surrounded by a considerable party of the royalist cavalry; but no one seemed to notice, in the interest of the scene before them, the fact that there was, as Lady Margaret had observed, a strong and growing smell of burning wood, or that ever and anon, across the smoke which was finding its way in from the next room, came a fitful flash, unlike the quiet and steady light of the candles.

For a short time, even Lady Margaret's attention was withdrawn from what she had remarked to the striking scene before her; but after a moment's pause she exclaimed--

"Charles, Charles! there is something on fire in the drawing-room."

Lord Walton started and turned round, gave a smile to Annie and his aunt, and then, seeming suddenly to catch the meaning of her words, he directed a look towards the door, and instantly strode forward, passing Captain Hargood and the prisoners, and entered the drawing-room.

The moment that he was actually within that chamber, his voice was heard exclaiming aloud--

"Here, Wilson! Hardy! Help here! the place is on fire!" and a general rush was made towards the other room, where it was found that some spark or piece of lighted wadding, having fallen upon the low hangings, had set the whole in a flame, which, communicating itself to the old dry panelling and carved cornices, was running round the chamber on all sides.

Every exertion was now made to extinguish the fire. Some of the soldiers were sent, under Lady Margaret's direction, to get buckets from the hall, where they found and released the tenantry and servants, who had been locked in by the militia and secured under a guard. All efforts, however, proved vain. The flames spread from room to room; but little water was to be procured except from the stream, and Lord Walton and the earl soon turned their attention to save the valuable furniture, pictures, and plate.

The scene of confusion that ensued is indescribable; and indeed, to the mind of Annie Walton herself, it all seemed more like a dream than a reality, till she found herself standing in the gardens of the house, her hands clasped in those of Arrah Neil, and old Major Randal saying a few words of somewhat dry but kindly compliment; while Lady Margaret at her side patted the head of her old dog Basto, murmuring, "Let it burn, boy! let it burn! It has lasted its time and seen many a heartache. So let it burn, for the villains have not had their way and the right has triumphed."

To Annie Walton, however, it was a sad sight. Twice within a few months had she beheld the place where she had made her home a prey to the flames; and though she was not one to give way to idle superstitions, it seemed as if it were a warning that she was no more to have a fixed abode, and she said to herself with a sigh--

"Well, I will follow Charles wherever fortune shall lead him. Peace and repose, security and comfort, are gone from the land, and I must share the troubles of the rest."

A little in advance of the spot where she stood, guarded by two of the soldiers of the troop, were a large pile of plate and a number of other valuable articles; and as Miss Walton was thus thinking, her brother approached Lady Margaret at a rapid pace from the house, saying--

"My dear aunt, I fear it is impossible to save any part of the building. Where shall we send these things for safety?"

"Let the house burn, my boy! let the house burn!" said Lady Margaret. "It is not worth the hair of an honest man's head to save it. Take the pictures, and all the rest of the things but the plate, down to the steward's, and especially the papers. As to the silver, we will carry it away to the king at York. He may need it more than I shall."

"He is not at York, my dear aunt," replied Lord Walton. "Ere noon to-morrow I trust he will be in Hull, Luckily, we were on our march, and not very far distant from the Hall, when our dear Arrah here found us out and told us of the strait in which you were placed." As he spoke he took Arrah Neil's fair hand, and pressed his lips upon it warmly; and Lady Margaret, suddenly laying her hand upon his arm, exclaimed--

"Ah, Charles! when I am dead you must be her protector."

"I will," replied Lord Walton; and then repeated still more earnestly, "I will."

Arrah Neil gazed steadfastly in his face, and her beautiful eyes filled with tears.

[CHAPTER XXXVII.]

It is quite abominable to have left Diggory Falgate for such a length of time in a cold damp vault, without anybody to keep him company but rats and mice and such small deer; but yet, dearly-beloved reader, it could not be helped without evident injustice to more important personages. Not that Diggory Falgate was an unimportant person, nor that his stay in the vault was unimportant to this history; far from it, as you shall speedily hear. The reader has already perceived that he was a man of action, fond of an enterprise, liking a certain sort of excitement; not always, indeed, quite confident of himself, and consequently exaggerating a little his sayings and doings, in order to keep himself up to the mark.

He drew back the shade of the lantern, then, as we have before said, and looked about. His next step was not quite determined, and it was wise to look about him. It always is wise, indeed, to look about one before one acts; but, nevertheless, the glance that Diggory gave around did not serve to strengthen him in any resolution or guide him in any course of action. On the contrary, it confused his mind and shook his firmness. The first feeling when Mr. Dry and the sexton made their escape from his pursuit, taking him to be a ghostly enemy, was one of triumph; but when he came to examine in what that triumph consisted, he felt induced to exclaim, like Napoleon, "Is this a victory?"

He was master of the field, it was true; the foe had fled; but there he was, left alone, with nothing but coffins, and shrouds, and other remnants of humanity, scattered around him. The door, too, was bolted; he had heard them fasten it; the other door they had talked of might be locked, and he might have to remain where he was till some person in the neighbourhood chose to die and be buried, or till hunger, fright, cold, and solitude, added his bones to the bones that were mouldering around. He calculated the chances; he entered into the details with painful minuteness; he knew that the parish was large, but very thinly peopled. There might be a funeral once a quarter, but not more, except when some epidemic raged in Hull, and people took a fancy for country lodging before or after death. Then he thought, with a glimpse of hope, that on Sunday there would be a congregation in the church, and he could make them hear; but Sunday was a long way off, for this was only Wednesday, and Diggory Falgate set himself to compute how long he could hold out. Thursday, Friday, Saturday--three days and a half! He had often fasted two, for very good reasons, but then it was not in a vault; it was not amongst dead corpses: it was under the free sky, with the fresh breath of heaven blowing on his cheek, and beautiful nature refreshing him with bright sights. The case was very different at present, and his knees began to shake at the very thought.

Then, however, he did what he should have done at first, but that Imagination, when she gets the bit between her teeth, is such a runaway jade that she carries one through all the ponds and quagmires of possibility in five minutes. He set out in search of the other door, to see whether there was any need of alarming himself at all. He took two steps forward, and then a third; the fourth struck against something that made a sort of creaking sound--something even softer than the skull of a man of fashion; and holding down the lantern he perceived the basket of Ezekiel Dry. His heart was instantly revived, and stooping over it he drew forth the bottle of genuine Nantz which the worthy Puritan had boasted of, and with a good conscience he put it to his mouth. The contents had certainly been diminished by the original proprietor and his friend; but still there was nearly half a bottle left, and that would, he thought, with prudence and economy, serve to keep him up till he could get help. There was some bread and cheese, too, in the basket, and the mouthful of spirits having acted speedily with cheering effect, he looked upon himself as provided against the worst contingency; and in a moment after his eye lighted on a crowbar, a mallet, and a chisel, with which he flattered himself he could unbar any door that ever yet was closed.

All Diggory Falgate's speculations, however, were vain, useless, unnecessary, as nine out of ten of all our speculations are. When he walked on, threading the lanes of coffins, till he reached a part of the vault where it was crossed by another under the chancel, there on his right hand stood the door that led into the churchyard, wide open, and moonlight shining in quite pleasantly. All his alarm took flight in a moment, the lion returned to his heart, and after an instant's pause he said to himself, "Hang me if I do not see before I go what these fellows were hunting after!" and with this doughty resolution he walked back, and began to examine the scene of Mr. Dry's operations.

There stood the coffin on the ground, the lid raised by tearing the screws out of the woodwork, and only holding by one at the end where the feet were placed. It was a very plain coffin; no velvet, no gilding spoke it to be that which contained the dust of high estate or noble birth; but simple black cloth was the covering, and a small lacquered plate upon the lid bore inscribed some letters, which the painter held the lantern to decipher. It was not without difficulty that he did so, and then could make nothing of them, for they were but

A: E: T:

A.D. MDCXXXIII.

A: Æ: 25.

The painter paused and gazed in silence. "There must be something more under this," he said at length, "or that old villain would not have come here to break open the coffin. I wish Captain Barecolt had told me more, for I cannot help thinking that he and that pretty young lady have some interest in this affair. I have a great mind to see what is in the inside: there is but one screw left in; it would be easily taken out."

He stooped and took up the chisel, but then paused again in doubt and hesitation. "Well," he said, "I can put it in again if I find anything. There is no harm in looking;" and quietly applying the chisel to the purposes of a turnscrew, without venturing to use any such violence as those who preceded him had displayed, he drew out the last remaining screw, and looked with an anxious face at the coffin-lid, with some feelings of awe and reluctance. Then giving a glance round the vault, he removed the covering and laid it down against the neighbouring pile.

Lifting the lantern, Falgate looked into the last receptacle of what had once been young, and fresh, and beautiful.

There was the dusty shroud, somewhat mouldy, but not decayed; and as the face of the dead was covered with a cloth, none of the ghastly appearances of corruption were visible; but the falling of the drapery of death, the sharp lines and angles that the folds presented, told plainly and solemnly that the flesh had long returned to dust, and that nothing but the bones remained uncrumbled. One thing, however, instantly attracted the poor painter's attention: a piece of parchment, covered with writing, lay upon the breast, and taking it up he read it with care. The words seemed to direct him to a further search, and putting his hand to the left side of the shroud, though with some reluctance, he drew forth a small packet folded up and sealed. Blowing away the dust from it, after a few moments' consideration he wrapped it in the parchment, and put it into his pocket, saying, "If I do not take it, others will, who may make a bad use of it. I will convey it to those who have a right to have it, if God helps me out of this scrape."

Then replacing the lid of the coffin nearly as he had found it, he ate some of the bread and cheese, applied his lips again to the bottle of Nantz, and walking to the door, peeped out into the churchyard. All was still and quiet, the moon shining upon the gravestones, and the wind whispering through the old yews; and stripping of the surplice which he had found in the vestry, Diggory Falgate stole forth into the open air, got over the low wall, and made speed toward some trees that he saw at a distance.

[CHAPTER XXXVIII.]

The small town of Beverley was as full as it could hold. It does not, indeed, seem at any time well calculated to hold a great many; but it is wonderful how elastic towns and even houses are when the inhabitants have a good mind to make room for others. It was, or seemed to be, as full as it could hold, however, as I have said, when about noon a body of some three hundred horse, followed at the distance of a quarter of a mile by a mixed troop of gentlemen and ladies, with a small party escorting some thirty-five or forty prisoners and two or three wagons, entered the place and marched up the principal street. A number of gay Cavaliers were lounging about at the doors of inns and private houses; some companies of train-bands were seen in the more open spaces, and guards appeared at the doors of the town-house, from the windows of which several heads were leaning forth, gazing listlessly upon the scene below. All was gay and pleasant confusion; for the party of the parliament took care to keep out of sight, and the royalists, exulting in the arrival of the king, were doing their best to show a hearty welcome to his court. Though somewhat less than two thousand cavalry, and a small infantry force, consisting entirely of train-bands, with half-a-dozen light pieces of artillery, certainly did not show much like an army, yet hope and excitement magnified the numbers; and the good townsmen of Beverley, as they reckoned up, with the exaggerating powers of imagination, more noblemen than they had ever seen in the parish before, and calculated the troop which each could bring into the field if he were willing, never doubted that, if the king had been so pleased, he might have brought a much larger host to the siege of Hull, and believed that many more would actually follow.

In this supposition, indeed, they were encouraged by a number of houses being already marked out as quarters for different persons who had not yet appeared. Amongst the rest, a handsome brick building, in a garden, on the side of Hull, had been assigned to the expected party of Lord Walton; and as soon as the head of the troop I have mentioned appeared, a man who had been waiting by the side of a saddled horse, at the door of the town-house, sprang into the saddle, and riding up to the commanding officer--our old friend Major Randal--informed him of the direction he was to take.

This old officer halted his men to let the party behind come up, and two or three gentlemen on foot advanced and spoke with him for a moment or two, while such exclamations as--"Indeed burned to the ground do you say?" "What! Langley Hall burned down? I saw a light over that way as I was marching. About nine, was it not?"--were heard as they conversed.

"Pooh!" cried Randal, as one of the gentlemen, for want of other amusement, asked him to describe all that had taken place; "I am not good at telling stories, my lord. Ask Barecolt there; he has always one ready, and if not, he will make one. But here come Lord Walton and the Earl of Beverley, with the ladies from the Hall, and we must go on. March!"

The troop followed, and on the whole party went to the quarters which had been provided for them; the soldiery billeted in certain ale-houses and cottages in the vicinity, and the higher personages in the house which has been mentioned.

The bustle of arrival was soon over; all orders were given, all arrangements made; and the ladies and gentlemen in whom we are most interested were assembled in the hall of the house--a large and handsome room, lined with dark carved oak, and possessing four windows, which looked out into a garden, well arranged according to the taste of that day, and surrounded by high walls.

In the march from Langley Hall, as may be supposed, much had been told to Lord Walton, but it had been confined to the events that had taken place since his departure from York, and there was another subject upon which he was anxious for information. As he stood talking with Lady Margaret, while the Earl of Beverley and Miss Walton gazed forth from one of the windows, the young nobleman's eye fixed upon Arrah Neil, who, seated in a choir at some distance, her look full of deep but tranquil thought, was caressing the large dog, which, from her very first arrival at Langley Hall, had shown so strange a partiality for her.

"Tell me, my dear aunt," said Lord Walton, interrupting what the good lady was saying in respect to a proposed visit to the king; "tell me what is all this about that sweet girl. Annie says she has a strange tale to relate, and Captain Barecolt has already roused my curiosity. Has anything more been heard since I went to York?"

"Nothing, Charles; nothing," replied Lady Margaret. "A strange tale, did Annie say? I have heard nothing of it, and yet I cannot cast from my mind the belief, that if that poor dog could speak he would tell us as strange a tale as one could wish to hear. Oh! those dumb witnesses of all the many acts done, as we think, in secresy and solitude--if they had but a voice, what dark and fearful things would be trumpeted to the ear! 'Tis as well that they have not. But let us go and ask her;" and, walking up to Arrah, who looked up at her approach, she laid her hand kindly on her shoulder, saying, "Annie has told Charles, dear child, that you have something strange to relate to him. You had better speak soon, my Arrah, for no one can count upon these soldiers for a minute. They go hither and thither like the winds and clouds."

The blood mounted slightly into the cheek of Arrah Neil, and she said, after a slight hesitation, "I must tell him alone, dear Lady Margaret. I would fain tell you too, because I know you would advise and help me well; but they made me promise that I would only tell him and Annie."

"Nay, my child, I seek not to know," replied Lady Margaret; "I have had too many sad secrets in my life, and desire no more. And yet, Arrah, and yet," she added, "there might be a tale for you to tell; but it is a dream--wild, idle dream: no more of it! Go with him into the gardens, my child, and tell him what you have to say."

Arrah Neil rose timidly, and raised her eyes to Lord Walton's face as he stood beside his aunt; but, grave and somewhat stern, as he sometimes seemed to others, to her he was always gentleness itself, and taking her hand he drew her harm through his and led her towards the gardens.

Lady Margaret seated herself where Arrah had been sitting, and, bending down her head over the dog, continued talking to him in a low murmuring voice for some minutes. Annie Walton and the Earl of Beverley remained conversing in the window, and their eyes soon rested upon Lord Walton and Arrah Neil, as they walked up and down one of the broad gravel-walks. The face of the young nobleman was grave and attentive; but from time to time he raised his look to his fair companion's countenance, and seemed to ask some questions, Arrah Neil's gaze was most frequently bent upon the ground, but nevertheless at different periods of their conference she glanced for a single instant eagerly at the face of Charles Walton, as if seeking to discover what impression her story made upon him, and then with downcast eyes again went on with her tale.

Annie Walton felt for her; for there was something is her heart that made her sure the telling of that tale to the ear that heard it would be matter of no light emotion to poor Arrah Neil. She would have given worlds to see her brother smile, to know that he spoke gentle words and kind encouragement; but he turned up and down the walk, again and again, with the same thoughtful air, the same high and lofty bearing--not proud, not harsh, but grave and calm. And yet it was better as it was, for Arrah Neil knew him well and loved him dearly as he was; and any deviation from his natural character, any softer, any more tender movement, might have agitated her and rendered her incapable of going on with tranquil clearness. At length, however, when it seemed all at an end--the story told as far as she could tell it--the whole truth known as far as she knew it herself--Lord Walton suddenly paused, and casting his arms suddenly round her who had been the object of his house's bounty, pressed a warm kiss upon her glowing cheek. Then taking her hand in his, he drew it within his arm again and led her back towards the house, her face crimson and her limbs trembling with deep emotion.

The Earl of Beverley turned to Annie Walton with a smile.

"God's blessing on them," he said, "and on all hearts that love!"

Miss Walton started. "You do not understand it, Francis," she replied.

"Yes, dear one, I do," said her lover; "I have long seen it. I know Charles Walton well, and the share that generous enthusiasm and calm reasoning prudence have in his nature. He has loved rashly, and checked his love. Some great obstacle is gone, and love has now the sceptre. He is not a man to debase that which he loves, or I should have feared for poor Arrah Neil; but he is not one either to sacrifice what he thinks right, even to his heart's dearest affections; and therefore, dear Annie, I have grieved for him. But, my beloved," he added, speaking even lower than before, "between us there is no such barrier as has always existed between them. A period of repose must soon come, and then, surely----"

Annie Walton cast down her eyes and the colour mounted in her cheek; but ere the earl's sentence was concluded Lord Walton and his fair companion re-entered the hall, and she turned towards them without reply. Her lover gently detained her, however, gazing into her face half-reproachfully; and she murmured in a low tone--

"I am always ready to fulfil my promises."

"Thanks, dear one! thanks!" answered the earl; and turning to Lady Margaret, he released her hand, seeing that her brother beckoned her towards him.

"You know all she tells me, Annie," said Charles Walton, as his sister joined him and Arrah at the other side of the room; "but this must be kept secret for the present. We must have the further proofs ere we say aught to any one."

"Even to my aunt?" asked his sister.

"Ay, to her more than all," answered Lord Walton; "but I will soon find means to clear up the whole. This man, O'Donnell, must be seen if possible. But here comes a message from his majesty. I trust we shall soon be in Hull, and then we shall have ample means of obtaining all the information that may be required."

The royal officer, as Lord Walton expected, brought him and the Earl of Beverley a summons to the presence of the king, to whom their arrival in the town had been immediately notified; and, hastening to the house, they found the unhappy monarch surrounded by the nobility, who were crowding to his standard. The scene was very different now from that presented by the court at Nottingham. Hope and expectation were in all faces, and even the melancholy countenance of Charles bore the look of satisfaction it so seldom assumed.

Commissioned by Lady Margaret Langley, the first act of Lord Walton was to present to his sovereign all the plate and jewels which had been brought from Langley Hall--an act which was imitated during the civil war by many of the noble families of the day; for loyalty was then a sentiment amongst a great number of the British nation, and attachment to the throne was not a matter of trade and calculation.

"My aunt commissions me to say, sire," the young nobleman continued, "that did her strength or her sex permit, no one would fight more zealously than herself in defence of your throne; but as she can bring you nought else, she brings you this small offering of good-will, to the value, she esteems it, of about ten thousand pounds, which will at least aid in the maintenance of your troops."

"I accept it as a loan, my lord," replied Charles, "which would be soon repaid if many more of my subjects would show such devoted loyalty. However, as a loan or as a gift it commands my sincere gratitude; and if God should bless my cause, as I trust he will, this is one of the acts that will not be forgotten."

The monarch then turned to other subjects, and with graceful courtesy inquired into the destruction of Langley Hall, and expressed his deep regret that, for attachment to his cause, a lady so far advanced in life as Lady Margaret should have been exposed to such inconvenience, alarm, and danger.

The audience of the two noblemen was long; and to Lord Beverley in particular the king addressed numerous questions, making him repeat over and over again the substance of his conversations with Sir John Hotham, and pondering over his replies, as if seeking to confirm in his own breast the hopes he feared to entertain. At length, however, the monarch put the question plainly to the earl--

"What is your own sincere opinion, my lord? Will Sir John keep his word?"

"If I must speak plainly, sire," replied the earl, "I can but reply that I think he will if he can: nay, I am sure of it. But I have some doubts as to his power of doing so;" and he proceeded to explain that an evident jealousy was entertained of the governor of Hull by the parliament; that his own son was in fact merely a spy upon him in the place where he appeared to command; and that before his (Lord Beverley's) departure he had heard of the arrival of several parliamentary officers, and that others were expected, whose presence in the town might act as a check upon Sir John Hotham, and prevent him from executing that which he intended.

Such a view of the case gave the king subject for further meditation; and at length he repeated twice--

"It were much to be wished that through a confidential person we could find some means of holding communication with the governor."

The Earl of Beverley was silent for a moment or two, for he had been dreaming happy dreams, and felt painfully reluctant to put their accomplishment to hazard by placing himself in peril of what seemed almost more terrible than death--a long and indefinite imprisonment. When the king repeated nearly the same words, however, and he felt that their application was to himself, he bowed with a grave and resolute air, saying--

"If your majesty thinks that my return to Hull can be for your service, I am ready to undertake it."

"It will be greatly for my service, my noble friend," replied Charles, "though it grieves me to place you in a situation of such danger, after all you have suffered in this cause."

"Well, sire," replied the earl with a sigh, "it will be better for me to set out immediately; for, in order to maintain the character I formerly assumed, I must come upon Hull upon the other side, and it is already late. I fear, moreover, my communications with your majesty must be through York, so that a good deal of inevitable delay will take place."

The further arrangements between the king and his loyal subject were soon made; and after spending one more brief hour with her he loved, Lord Beverley was again in the saddle, to execute the perilous commission he had undertaken.

In a brief conversation between himself and Lord Walton, the latter besought him to seek out the person named O'Donnell, and to gain from him every information he might possess regarding the early history of Arrah Neil. A note was added in Lord Walton's own hand, begging the Irish merchant to confide fully in the bearer; and undertaking the commission willingly, the earl rode away towards the banks of the Humber.

[CHAPTER XXXIX.]

When the Earl of Beverley had ridden on about five miles, musing over no very pleasant anticipations, he thought he heard the sound of a horse's feet coming at full speed, and turned round to look. He himself was riding fast, but he now beheld a single horseman spurring on still faster; and supposing that the personage who appeared might be some messenger sent after him, with further directions from the king, he drew in his rein and suffered him to ride up.

"Ha, Captain Barecolt!" he exclaimed, as soon as the other came near. "Is anything the matter? have you any message from his majesty!"

"None, my lord," replied Barecolt; "but having heard of your expedition, with a hint that as I had accompanied you before I might do so again, I lost no time in following; but I was obliged to stop a while to change my dress and put on Captain Jersval."

"This is very rash," said the earl, after a moment's thought; "very rash indeed, my good friend. You have been seen by so many in your own character, that you have no chance of remaining undiscovered."

"Nor your lordship either," answered Barecolt.

"You do not understand the matter you speak of, sir," replied the earl. "Even if I am discovered, it may effect my personal safety, but not the king's service; whereas, it you are recognised as one of his majesty's officers in my company, it may entirely frustrate the objects of my journey. You forget, sir, that the remains of Captain Batten's troops are in Hull, and----"

"The remains of Captain Batten's troops are at Boston, my lord," answered Barecolt. "So much have I learned in Beverley. Sir John Hotham would not receive them, saying that he had no need of cavalry, and that, threatened as he was with siege, they would but eat up his provisions. I know my phiz is a remarkable phiz; but you forget that the beauty thereof has been spoiled by this accursed cut over the nose; and, besides, the very object of my going is to make a formal complaint to Sir John Hotham of the conduct of Captain Batten in attacking me and my friends--amongst whom I shall take care not to specify your lordship--and against one Cornet Stumpborough for stopping me. Do not fear, my lord, but that I will extricate myself; and if you have any qualms about taking me with you, why, I can easily go in at another gate, and be ready to help you at any moment."

"Well, we will see," answered Lord Beverley; "we will see. I will think over it by the way;" and, entering into conversation with his companion, he rode on. The various subjects discussed between the noble earl and our renowned friend might not, perhaps, be very interesting to the reader; for, although the dauntless captain at various times approached the subject of those wonderful and surpassing exploits which he had performed during preceding periods of his history, and the recital of which could not fail to excite the admiration and attention of any one possessing common powers of imagination, yet his cruel companion harshly checked him in all such digressions, and forced him to confine his narrative to the precise sorts and kinds of information which he himself desired to obtain. Thus we shall pass over all that took place till the two gentlemen approached within about a mile and a half of the town of Hull, when they perceived a small body of cavalry, apparently reconnoitring the place.

"Let us spur on as fast as possible, my lord," said Captain Barecolt, as soon as he perceived this little force.

But the earl, who had by this time determined that it might be as well that the worthy captain should enter the town with him, though apparently only as a chance companion of the way, and who moreover judged at once that the body which they saw was merely a party of the king's troops examining the fortifications of Hull, replied in a quiet tone; "There is no need for any such speed, my good sir. Those are friends."

"The more reason, my lord, why we should seem to think them enemies," replied Captain Barecolt, who never neglected any opportunity of a ruse.

"You are right, you are right, captain," replied the earl, "and are indeed a great master of stratagem."

Thus saying, he spurred his horse into a gallop, and at that pace pursued his way towards the gates. The natural propensity which every creature has to follow another who runs away from it caused half-a-dozen of the Cavaliers to gallop after the two apparent fugitives; but the earl and his companion had a start of some distance, and when they arrived at the gates were about two hundred yards before their pursuers. The whole of this proceeding was seen from the walls, upon which a considerable number of the citizens were assembled; and a few musket-shots were fired upon the party of Cavaliers, as soon as the two gentlemen were under cover. The fire did not injure any one, indeed; but it had the effect of inducing the chasing party to halt and retreat very speedily, and the gates being opened, the Earl of Beverley rode in, followed by Barecolt, with their horses panting from the quick pace at which they had come.

All these circumstances were sufficient indications of hostility towards the royalist party to satisfy the officers of the train-bands at the gates; and with very slight inspection of their passes the earl and his companion were suffered to ride on into the town; but, separating from his noble companion at the corner of the first street, Captain Barecolt rode away towards the "Swan," with instructions from the earl to seek out Mr. O'Donnell, and to make arrangements with him for a meeting on the following day.

In the mean while, the earl rode on towards the house of the governor, and dismounting in the court, demanded with a foreign accent, as before, to speak with Sir John Hotham. The personage to whom he addressed himself was one of the serving-men of that day, known by the general term of "blue-bottles;" but unfortunately, as it turned out, he was attached to the person of Colonel Hotham, and carried the earl's message to him immediately, without any communication with the governor.

After Lord Beverley had been kept waiting about five minutes in a hall, while several persons passed to and fro, and examined him more curiously than was at all pleasant to him, the serving-man reappeared, saying, "Be so good as to follow me, sir;" and led the young nobleman through several long passages, to a small gloomy room on the ground-floor, where he found Colonel Hotham standing by a table, his brow heavy and his eyes bent upon the door. He inclined his head slightly as the earl entered, and said, without asking him to be seated, "Be so good, sir, as to explain your business to me. Sir John Hotham, my father, is too ill to receive you, and I am entrusted with his functions during his indisposition."

"Your pardon, sir," replied the earl calmly, though the meeting was by no means satisfactory to him, and he remarked that the serving-man remained at the door, while the tramp of feet was heard in the passage beyond. "My business is with Sir John Hotham alone, and if he be ill I must wait till he has recovered, for I can communicate with no one but himself."

"You refuse then?" rejoined Colonel Hotham, with a heavy frown and a sharp tone: "you refuse? If so, I shall know what to suppose.

"Really, sir, I know not what you may think fit to suppose," answered Lord Beverley; "but very straightforwardly and simply I do refuse to communicate business concerning Sir John Hotham to any one but himself."

"Then, sir, it is clear you came hither as a spy," said Colonel Hotham, "and you shall be dealt with as such."

The Earl of Beverley smiled, and producing the pass he had received from the governor of Hull, put it in the hands of the parliamentary officer, saying, "That mistake is easily corrected. Here is my pass in due form, under your father's hand and seal."

Colonel Hotham gazed at it with an angry look; and at the same moment the door by which the young nobleman had been introduced opened, and a party of four or five of the train-bands entered, with a prisoner between the two foremost. Lord Beverley turned round at the noise of their feet, and, somewhat to his consternation, beheld in the captive no other than good Diggory Falgate. Had it been Barecolt, he would have counted upon his wit and discretion; but the poor painter had displayed no traits, during the earl's short journey with him, which could at all reassure him, so he expected every moment to hear him claim his acquaintance. But Falgate showed better judgment than was expected; and Colonel Hotham, after staring at the pass for a moment or two, with a good deal of heat but some indecision in his countenance, suddenly seemed to take his resolution, and tore the paper in pieces, saying--

"This is all folly and nonsense! A pass under a feigned name is invalid."

"Sir, you have committed an act of gross injustice!" exclaimed the earl indignantly; "and some day, sooner than you think, you may have to answer for it."

"Indeed!" cried the parliamentarian, with a sneer. "Well, sir, I shall be ready to answer for my acts when needful. See that you be prepared to answer for yours by to-morrow morning. Let loose that fellow!" he continued, turning to the guard; "I can find nothing against him--he is a citizen, it seems; and convey this worthy person to the strong room. Put a sentry over him, and send Captain Marden to me. Take him away, take him away!"

"And what are we to do with this 'un?" asked one of the soldiers.

"Let him loose, fool!" replied Colonel Hotham, waving his hand, and the earl was removed in custody of the party, giving a significant glance to Falgate as he passed. The painter returned it, but said nothing; and Lord Beverley was led along to a small close room, with one high grated window, where the heavy iron-plated door was closed upon him, locked and barred.

The earl seated himself on the only stool, rested his elbow on the table and his head upon his hand, while the struggle between strong resolution and painful anticipations went on in his mind for nearly half-an-hour. His was a heart not easily daunted--well fitted by high principles and a calm and equal temper to endure the rougher and more painful things of life, and to encounter the perils and disasters of a troublous epoch better than lighter and gayer characters and less thoughtful minds. Nevertheless, he could not but feel the bitter disappointment which but too frequently follows on the indulgence of bright and high hopes in this our earthly career. He almost blamed himself for the joyful dreams which he had suffered to rest in his imagination, while standing with sweet Annie Walton at the window of the house in Beverley; and his thoughts ran back from those dear moments into earlier days, recalling every bright spot in the past, thinking of enjoyments gone and pleasures fled away, with a deep and sad consciousness of the transitory nature of every earthly good. Memory is the true "Old Mortality" of the heart, wandering sadly through the scenes of the past, and refreshing the tombstones of joys gone for ever.

As he thus sat, the light began to fade away and night to fall over the earth; but ere it was quite dark he heard footsteps without, and a voice speaking low to the guard at his door. The conversation ceased, but there was no noise of receding steps, and the earl thought, "They are watching how I bear it. They shall know nothing from that. I will sing;" and, folding his arms upon his chest, he raised his eyes to the faint spot of light that still appeared through the high window, and sang, to a plaintive air of the time, some lines composed towards the end of the preceding reign, perhaps by some victim to the coarse tyranny of James I.

Life's brighter part has passed away;

The dark remains behind:

The autumn brown rests on the earth;

Loud howls the wintry wind.

But steadfast hope and faith sincere

Shall still afford their light:

While these remain, this mortal gloom

Cannot be wholly night.

The summer flowers that once were here

Have faded from the eye;

The merle has ceased to cheer the shade,

The lark to wake the sky.

Green leaves have fallen from the trees,

Dark clouds are overhead;

And withered things, beneath my feet,

Rustle where'er I tread.

But yet I know there is a land

Where all that's lost on earth

Revives to blossom and to bloom

With undecaying birth.

Thus steadfast hope and faith sincere

Shall still afford me light,

Till other suns shall dissipate

The gloom or mortal night.

[CHAPTER XL.]

While such misadventures had been the lot of the Earl of Beverley, Captain Barecolt had ridden on unopposed and peaceably to the "Swan" Inn. He was in some apprehension, indeed, lest he should encounter worthy Mr. Dry, of Longsoaken, at the house of good Mrs. White; but his mind was prepared to meet any emergency, and therefore he would not be turned from his course by the fear of "any Dry that ever yet was born." Alighting then at the door, he threw the rein of his horse over a hook provided for that especial purpose, and then, mounting the steps, looked in through the panes of glass in the door, which, to say the truth, afforded him no very clear insight into the passage beyond, as each separate square, being manufactured in a somewhat rude fashion, was furnished with a thick green knot or bump in the centre, which greatly impeded the view. All seemed clear, however, and marvellously silent; and, having carried his inspection as far as he judged necessary, the renowned captain opened the door and walked in. As soon as he did so, he perceived the good landlady seated in her little glass-case, alone, and busily engaged in hemming a wimple for her own proper person. She raised her eyes, as usual, at the sound of the opening door, and her face lighted up at the sight of the long limbs that presented themselves, in a manner which showed the illustrious commander that no danger was to be apprehended. Approaching, then, with a gallant air, Captain Barecolt unceremoniously entered the parlour, and saluted the fair hostess, who expressed herself right glad to see him, asking him a thousand questions about "the dear young lady and her adventures on the road."

"All in good time, Mrs. White--all in good time," answered Captain Barecolt. "To-night, God willing, I will give you a true and particular account of all that has happened since last we met; but now I have other things to think of. In the first place, my mouth is as dry as a sick dog's nose, and I would fain have a chopin of something to moisten it."

"That you shall, captain, in a minute," replied the landlady. "You look dusty and tired, as if you had ridden hard."

"And so I am, sweet hostess," answered Barecolt; "and the dust is not more on my garments than between my teeth. My tongue is as parched as a bowl of split peas. Do you not hear it rattle? But do not go yourself for the wine, Mrs. White. Transfer that function to one of your nymphs, and listen to me."

"La, captain! I have no nymphs," answered the landlady, half offended; but our hero waved his hand, saying--

"Well, your maidens then, Mrs. White. Call Sally, and then answer me two or three questions; but first send some one to stable my horse, which is at the door, and, being a modest beast, may as well be removed from the lewd gaze of the townsfolk."

All was performed according to his command; and when Mrs. White returned, Captain Barecolt proceeded, after a deep draught, to put his questions.

"First and foremost, Mrs. White," he said, "what of old Dry?"

"Lord, sir! he is up-stairs, sick in bed!" replied Mrs. White.

"There let him lie, and be the bed on him, white-livered renegade!" said Captain Barecolt. "Then he did not discover that you had aided and abetted in the escape of our fair demoiselle?"

"Oh, not a whit!" replied the landlady. "He was in a mighty rage, to be sure, at first, and he had search made, and a great fuss; but it all ended in nothing, and I managed slily, pretending to help with all my might; so that he grew quite fond and familiar--the nasty old worm! Howsomever, he went out of the gates one day, leaving all his things here, and what happened I don't know; but he came back the next morning, as dull and as dirty-looking as a mixen, took to his bed directly, and has had a doctor at him ever since. I think something must have frightened him sadly, for he has been constantly whining and praying, and the doctor said he had had a turn; but he is much better to-day."

"So far so well, Mrs. White," said Barecolt; "but we must now look to other matters. Do you know aught about Mr. O'Donnell? for, if possible, I must see him tonight."

"I should think you would find him, sir," answered the hostess, "for he keeps himself a great deal at home just now. These are sad times in Hull, sir. There is great suspicion about; and every one whom they fancy to be what they call a malignant is pointed at and watched night and day; and even a poor widow woman like me they cannot help looking after, as if I were a regiment of soldiers; so that customers are afraid to come."

"Well, what of O'Donnell? what of O'Donnell?" demanded Captain Barecolt. "What has this to do with him, my good hostess?"

"Why, bless you, captain don't you know that people say he is a Papist?" exclaimed Mrs. White; "and so they are likely to be more sharp upon him than any one else: that is to say, not the governor, who is very fond of him, people say, because he supplies him with Dantzic and other strong waters better than he can get at home; but since Sir John has been ill of the gout, the colonel, his son, rules everything here in Hull; and a hard rule is his for every one but Roundheads. They may do as they like; some men may lie in bed and sleep, whilst others must get up early in the morning."

All this was news to Captain Barecolt, and news of a very unpleasant character, which made him ponder deeply for several minutes. Being of an active and inquiring turn of mind, he had not left his leisure time unemployed since he quitted Hull; and partly by no very definite hints, sewn together by surmises, and partly by open avowals and accidental conversations, he had been led to the conclusion that some very intimate communication had been opened between Sir John Hotham and the Earl of Beverley, which the illness of the former and the new state of things in the town might sadly derange. He longed eagerly to gain some intelligence of the proceedings of his noble fellow-traveller; and though he had a sufficient portion of the free companion in his character to act upon his own judgment, with very little deference for the commands he received, when it suited his own purpose, yet he had also sufficient of the old soldier in him to obey orders punctually when he could do no better. He therefore resolved to set out for O'Donnell's house at once, though he could not bring his mind to do so without draining another can; and while the worthy landlady went to draw it with her own fair hands, he sat pondering over what was to be done next, with no inconsiderable misgivings in regard to the termination of their expedition. At one time, indeed, he thought of cutting the whole matter very short, walking to the governor's house, demanding to see Colonel Hotham, running him through the body with his Toledo, and, with the assistance of the more loyal inhabitants, taking possession of the town in the king's name. It seemed to the eyes of imagination an exploit worthy of a Barecolt; but reflection suggested to him various little objections, which made him abandon his scheme, though he did it with reluctance. The vision of becoming governor of Hull--a post which the king, he thought, could never refuse to grant him, if he took the city with his own right hand--was just fading away from his mind, when the outer door of the inn was thrown vehemently open, and some one entered the passage with a quick and agitated step. Captain Barecolt looked up, and gazed forth from Mrs. White's glass-case, at the same time laying his hand upon his sword, for he was full of desperate and sanguinary thoughts. In a moment, however, his countenance lighted up, and exclaiming, "Ah, Diggory Falgate! honest Diggory Falgate!--something may perhaps be done now--his knowledge of the place and the people may aid us at this pinch, and my hand shall execute what his information suggests"--he opened the door, and went out to meet the poor painter, extending his hand to him in friendly guise.

Diggory Falgate started back as if he had seen an apparition; but the next moment he grasped Barecolt's hand, and exclaimed--

"This is lucky indeed! Who would have thought to see you here, captain? But listen to me. I have got a story to tell you that will make your hair stand on end;--two, indeed, but one first, for that presses; and if something is not done immediately, the earl is a dead man!"

"What earl?" demanded Barecolt, in horror and consternation.

"Why, our earl, to be sure!" replied Falgate, walking on into Mrs. White's sanctum sanctorum. "The Earl of Beverley, no other; and that Saracen of a colonel will have him shot to-morrow morning, as sure as I'm a living man, if something is not done to-night to prevent it!"

"I'll cut his throat first!" exclaimed Barecolt, half drawing his sword. "But he dare not--he dare not, Master Falgate. 'Tis all nonsense."

"He shot two men yesterday morning by the water-side," replied Falgate. "Didn't he, Mrs. White?"

The latter words were addressed to the worthy landlady, just as she returned with a fresh chopin; and while Captain Barecolt drained it down at one single indignant draught, she confirmed the poor painter's account, saying--

"Ay, that he did, the bloodthirsty brute! and better men than himself, too."

"What's to be done now?" asked Barecolt. "The only way will be to go and put him to death at once."

"You will only get yourself killed, and do no good," exclaimed the painter and landlady together; and then Falgate, proceeding alone, went on to add, "There is but one way to help the noble lord, captain, if we can but arrive at it, and that is, to get some one to tell Sir John Hotham himself. He'd never suffer all this to go on, if he knew it; and it is only since he fell ill the day before yesterday morning that his son dared to go on so."

"I'll write him a note," said Barecolt.

"Phoo! that will never do," replied the painter, "unless you can get some one to deliver it to Sir John himself."

"I am talking without guide, indeed," said the gallant captain, who began to feel that his nonsense was a little too gross even for the intellects of the landlady and the painter. "I do not yet know the whole circumstances. Pray, Master Falgate, have the goodness to relate all you know, and how you know it; and then I will decide upon my plan from the intelligence I receive. Be so good as to avoid superfluous particulars, and yet be sufficiently minute in your details to afford me a distinct knowledge of the facts."

Assuming a grave and sententious look of wisdom, he sat with his hands folded upon his knees, while Diggory Falgate went on to inform his auditors, that he had been arrested while entering the town three days before, and placed in the custody of a body of the train-bands, with some of whom he was personally acquainted and on very friendly terms. He had remained in terror of his life under their guard till that evening, receiving accounts from time to time of the wrath and fury which Colonel Hotham was exercising upon the unfortunate Cavaliers of the place, and employing all the interest he could make to obtain his own liberation. That afternoon he had been brought in, he said, not knowing whether the next word was to be life or death, when, to his surprise and grief, he beheld the earl in the presence of the governor's son. He then related all the particulars which he had witnessed, and a new consultation took place, which bade fair to have no end, when suddenly the worthy hostess exclaimed--

"Mr. O'Donnell's the man! He can do it. He can do it, I tell you, when no one else can."

"Do what?" exclaimed Captain Barecolt. "Prithee, my excellent lady, what can he do?"

"Why, get in to speak with Sir John Hotham," rejoined the worthy landlady, "and tell him all about it."

"Then, as I said before," exclaimed the renowned captain, "I will go to him this minute. Come along, Falgate--you shall go with me, for there's no time to be lost."

"That there isn't," replied Diggory Falgate. "I'm your man, captain."

And away they went, begging Mrs. White not to go to bed till they returned.

[CHAPTER XLI.]

It was nearly dark when the renowned Captain Barecolt and Diggory Falgate issued forth into the streets of Hull, and silence, almost solitude, had fallen over the town, for the people of that good city were ever particularly attentive to the hour of supper, which was now approaching. Captain Barecolt then ventured to give his companion a familiar and patronizing slap on the shoulder, saying--

"Ah, Diggory Falgate I honest Diggory Falgate! I never thought to see thee again in the land of the living."

"I certainly thought," replied the painter, in a grave tone, "that I was on the high-road to the land of the dead. But it was not fair of you, captain, upon my life, to leave me outside in the hands of those men. Why, they talked of hanging me without benefit of clergy."

"Fair!" cried Barecolt, indignantly. "How could I help it, Diggory? Did I not work more wonders than a man to save all of the party? Did I not kill six Roundheads with my own hand? Did I not swim the moat, open the gates, fight in the front, protect the rear, kill the captain, disperse the troopers, and effect the retreat of my party with the loss of none but you, my poor old Diggory? What more could man do? You were but as a cannon, a falconer, a saker, which we were obliged to leave in the hands of the enemy; nor was it discovered for some time that you were not with us. When it was discovered, too, what did I do? Did I not issue forth, and, thinking that you might be lying covered with honourable wounds in some foul ditch by the roadside, did I not search for you for miles around the field of battle?"

"No! did you, though?" said Diggory Falgate. "Well, that was kind, captain."

"Nay, did I not pursue the search till after midnight?" continued Barecolt. "Ask Lord Walton; ask the noble earl. But now that I have found you, worthy Diggory, I would fain hear how you contrived to escape from the hands of the Philistines. You are not exactly a Samson, Diggory, and I should have thought they would have bound you with bands you could not break."

"Hush!" said the painter; "here is some one coming."

The person who approached was merely a labouring man, who had been detained somewhat late at his work, and he passed on without speaking; but the pause thus obtained in the conversation between Captain Barecolt and Diggory Falgate afforded the latter time for a little reflection. It had been his purpose to communicate to his companion the whole of his adventures, and what he had discovered in the church on the hill; but as he pondered on the matter this design was altered. A conviction had gradually impressed itself upon his mind, since first he had become acquainted with the grandiloquent Captain Barecolt, that the great warrior was in the habit of attributing to himself the actions and discoveries of others, or at all events of taking more than his due share of credit for anything in which he had part; and as Falgate seldom had had an opportunity of distinguishing himself in any way, except by painting strange faces, coats of arms, or wonderful beasts upon signboards, he wisely judged that it would be expedient not to let slip any part of the occasion which, as he thought, now presented itself.

When Captain Barecolt, therefore, returned to the charge, and required a detail of all his adventures, Falgate gave him such an account as was perfectly satisfactory to his interrogator, and which, moreover, had the advantage of being true, though that very important item in the Old Bailey oath, "the whole truth," was not exactly stated. He related how he had been carried off by the Roundhead party; how he had been questioned touching the gentleman with whom he had been lately consorting; how he had refused stoutly to answer, and had been threatened with death; how he had been shut up in the old church, and left there under a guard.

There, however, the minute exactitude of the painter's statement halted, and he merely added, that finding the door leading from the church into the vaults open, he had escaped by that means of exit; and, after hiding for some time in the neighbourhood, had heard that the troop which had taken him had been sent to Boston, upon which he ventured to return to Hull.

For his faithful discretion Captain Barecolt bestowed upon him high commendation, declared that some day he would be a great man if he would but learn to ride, and offered to be himself his instructor in that elegant art. By the time that the praises of the worthy officer came to an end, however, they were approaching the out-of-the-way spot at which the dwelling of Mr. O'Donnell was situated; but in attempting to approach the water-side they were turned back by a sentinel, who, on being asked how they were to get to the house they wanted to visit, replied, they must go to the back-door if it had one.

Luckily, Diggory Falgate was acquainted with the street in which that back-door was situated, and to it they accordingly went, pulled the ring of a bell, and produced the slow appearance of the tidy old woman whom Barecolt had seen before. In reply to his inquiries for Mr. O'Donnell, however, on this occasion, she asserted boldly that he was out; but the worthy captain, whose senses, as the reader knows, were generally on the alert, finished the sentence for her by saying--

"Out of tobacco, do you mean, madam? Good faith! if he smokes away at the rate he is now doing in the parlour, he may well consume a quintal in a short space. Go in, my good lady, and tell him that a gentleman is here who bears him news of old Sergeant Neil's grand-daughter."

The poor woman was confounded at the worthy captain's quickness; and, too well accustomed to the vapour of tobacco to smell it herself, could not divine how the visiter had discovered that her master was smoking in the parlour, unless he had looked through a crack in the window. Without more ado, then, she retreated, leaving the strangers in possession of the passage; and in a moment after Mr. O'Donnell's head was thrust out of a door at the farther end, taking a view of his two visiters.

"Oh, come in, come in!" he said at length, as he recognised Barecolt. "Whom have you got there with you? Come in----Ah, painter! is that you?"

Without replying to his various questions, Barecolt and Falgate walked on into his little room, which they found cloudy with smoke, while a huge jug, emitting the steam of hot water, kept company with a large black bottle, with the cork half out, which apparently contained a stronger fluid. O'Donnell shut the door carefully, and then at once began to interrogate Barecolt in regard to Arrah Neil, asking how she had fared on the journey, whether she had found Lord Walton and his sister, and where she actually was.

During the progress of these questions, which were put with great rapidity, Falgate sat silent, but noted attentively every word that was said, and marked the name of Lord Walton particularly in his memory, as apparently the chief friend of the young lady in whose escape he had assisted.

"She got off well, though it was through a hailstorm of dangers, Master O'Donnell," replied Barecolt, in a quick, hurried tone. "She has rejoined Lord Walton and his sister, and is now in Beverley. Ask no more questions at present; but listen, and you shall have further information concerning poor Arrah to-morrow, God willing. At present we have other things to think of--business of life and death, Master O'Donnell."

"Ah, devil fly away with it!" cried the Irishman; "that is always the way. Nothing but business of life and death now-a-days. A plain man can't drive a plain trade quietly without being teased about business of life and death. But I will have nothing to do with it, I tell you. I am a peaceable, well-disposed man, who hates secrets and abominates business of life and death. There, take some Geneva and water, if you will. It is better than all the business in the world. Run and get some drinking-cups, Master Painter."

Falgate, who seemed to have been in the house before, did as he was directed; and as soon as his back was turned O'Donnell demanded--

"What is this business? One cannot speak before your companion. He is a rattle-pated, silly fellow."

"But a very faithful one," answered Barecolt, doing the poor painter justice; "and he knows all about this affair already. But the matter is shortly this, my good friend!--A noble gentleman is here in Hull, having business with Sir John Hotham, and charged, moreover, by Lord Walton, to speak with you concerning Mistress Arrah Neil. He is my particular friend; and while he went on to the governor's house I went to the 'Swan,' requested by him to see you end fix a meeting for to-morrow morning. However, when he arrives at Sir John Hotham's, he finds no one but his son, Sir John being very ill----"

"Ah, by----! here's a pretty affair!" cried O'Donnell. "Very ill Sir John is not. He has got the gout in one foot and both hands, and is as cross as the yards of a ship; but his son takes all upon himself, and a base business he makes of it. What more? what more?"

"Why, the son causes this noble gentleman to be arrested immediately for a spy, tears his pass to pieces, will not let him see the governor, and threatens to shoot him to-morrow morning."

"And so he will, to be sure!" cried O'Donnell. "But what's to be done? How, in the fiend's name, can I help you? I'll not meddle with it--not a whit! I shall get shot some day myself if I don't mind."

As he was speaking, Diggory Falgate returned with two drinking-cups; and without waiting for Barecolt's reply, he tapped O'Donnell on the shoulder, saying--

"I'll tell you how you can help us, Master O'Donnell. Nothing so easy in life, and no danger to yourself either, though you are not a fellow to fear that if there were. All that is wanted is to let the governor know what is going on, and he'll soon stop the colonel's doings; for the pass which that wild beast tore was in his own handwriting; and it will be an eternal blot upon his honour--worse than a black bend sinister on the shield of his arms--if any harm happens to the earl after giving him that."

"The earl!" said O'Donnell. "Oh, ho! He is an earl, is he?"

"What have you said, you fool?" cried Barecolt, turning angrily upon Falgate; but the painter, though he turned somewhat red, put the best face he could upon it, saying--

"Well, it's a slip of the tongue, captain; but it can't be helped, and you know you can trust him."

"Ay, ay! trust me, sure enough," answered the Irishman. "But how am I to do anything in this?" and leaning his head upon his hand, he mused, while Barecolt mixed himself some Geneva and hot water, not particularly potent of the latter; and Falgate stood gazing at the master of the house, as if waiting for him to speak further.

"I'll tell you what you can do, Master O'Donnell," said the painter at length, laying his hand upon the other's arm; "you can put on your hat and cloak, go down to Sir John Hotham, and ask to speak with him for a moment about his gout. We know he will see you, for Mrs. White told us all about it."

"And if you have a snug little bottle of cordial waters under your arm, you are sure to get in," added Barecolt. "Come, come, Master O'Donnell; do not hesitate. There is no time to be lost."

"On my life, that's a pretty joker!" cried O'Donnell, starting up: "that I am to go and put my neck in peril for a man I never saw in my life. I tell you, I'll have nothing to do with it. It's a bad case; and if they shoot him, they must."

In vain, to all appearance, were the eloquence of Barecolt and the arguments of the painter. The best they could obtain from O'Donnell was a vague and unsatisfactory reply, that he would go on the morrow, or that he would see about it. He asked, nevertheless, a number of questions, as if he felt some interest in the affair, which for nearly half-an-hour had the effect of inducing his two visiters to believe that their entreaties would ultimately prove effectual; but at length he suddenly turned the conversation to another subject, and once more inquired of Arrah Neil; and Barecolt, rising, wished him good-night in a sullen and disappointed tone, saying that, as he would have no hand in it, some one else must be found who would undertake the task which he declined.

As soon as the mighty captain issued forth into the street, however, he burst into a laugh, much to Falgate's surprise. But Barecolt laughed again, saying, "He will do it, Master Falgate! He will do it, take my word for it. He is a cunning old chap, that Master O'Donnell, and he will not let us know what he is going to do; but he'll go."

"I don't think it, Captain Barecolt; I don't think it," replied Falgate, sadly; "and we cannot trust the good earl's safety to such a chance."

"I don't intend to trust to any chance at all, Diggory Falgate," answered Barecolt, in one of his supreme tones. "You do not suppose an officer of my experience will rest satisfied without clear knowledge of what he is about? Draw back with me, Master Falgate. Go you under the shadow of that entry, where you can see his door in front. I will post myself by that penthouse, where I command both streets. He cannot escape us then, and we will give him twenty minutes. But if he comes forth, say not a word, move not a finger; rest as quiet as one of the door nails till he has gone on, and then come and join me."

Not five of the twenty minutes which Captain Barecolt had allowed for the issuing forth of Mr. O'Donnell had elapsed when the door of his house opened, and a tall figure appeared, which, turning back its head, said aloud, "Turn the lock, Dorothy," and then took its way up the street, without observing either of the two watchers.

Diggory Falgate was soon by Barecolt's side, and they followed together upon the steps of the worthy Irishman, till they saw him approach the governor's house and enter the court; after which they again ensconced themselves under a gateway, in order to obtain the means of judging, by the duration of O'Donnell's stay, whether he was admitted to the presence of Sir John Hotham or not. Ten minutes, a quarter of an hour, half-an-hour passed, and, O'Donnell not having appeared when the clock struck ten, Barecolt and his companion, satisfied that their end was so far accomplished, made the best of their way back to the "Swan." The cautious captain, however, to make assurance doubly sure, directed Falgate to proceed once more to the merchant's house at break of day, and to question him closely in regard to the result of his visit; after which, having communicated to Mrs. White what success they had achieved, and received her opinion that Master O'Donnell would leave no stone unturned to effect their object, they sat down to a good supper, which she had prepared for them in the room where Mr. Dry had dined with Arrah Neil, and enjoyed themselves for half-an-hour.

At the end of that time, Falgate, pronouncing himself tired, left Captain Barecolt with the flagon (which he did not propose to quit for another hour), and retired, taking care to close the door after him. His course, however, did not lie straight to bed; for, finding the worthy landlady locking up her spoons and ladles in her little parlour, he joined her there, and entered into conversation with her in a low and confidential tone. Their conference lasted a considerable time, and was carried on apparently with some reluctance by Mrs. White at first, but gradually became animated on her part also; and at length, when Falgate asked her, "You are quite sure she was buried there, and that what I tell you was on her coffin?"

"I'll take my oath of it," she replied; "I'll give it under my hand if you like."

"I wish you would, Mrs. White," answered the painter; and, receiving her promise that it should be done on the following day, he retired to bed.

Before we close this somewhat long chapter, it may be necessary to trace to a certain point the proceedings of our worthy friend O'Donnell; but we will do so very briefly. Having passed the sentinel in the court of the governor's house, he approached a small door at the side and knocked for admission. A servant appeared almost immediately; but, far from asking directly to speak with Sir John Hotham, he said, "Ah, Master Wilson! is Oliver within? I want a chat with him."

"Walk in, Master O'Donnell," replied the man, "and I will seek for him. He was with Sir John a moment ago."

O'Donnell wasted no more words, but entered in silence, and after having been kept for a minute or two in the dark passage, he was joined by Oliver, the governor's body-servant, as he was called, with a light. The two shook hands with great good-will, and Master Oliver drew his Irish friend into a little room on the left, where immediately O'Donnell produced two large, flat-sided, long-necked bottles from under his cloak, and setting one down on the table he said, "That's for you, Noll, and this is some gout-cordial for the governor, which will soon send all his ailments away."

"God grant it!" replied the man, "for he is in a devil of a humour. Shall I take it to him, Master O'Donnell? Many thanks for the good stuff!"

"Welcome, welcome!" replied his companion: "but you must get me speech of Sir John this very night, for I have got a dozen bottles of cinnamon, such as you never tasted in your days, and a gentleman in the town wants them. So I promised to give him an answer before I went to bed, but thought it only dutiful to talk to the governor about them first, in case he should like any."

"Ah! he'll talk about that," replied the servant, "though he won't talk of anything else. Come up with me to his door, and we'll soon see if he'll speak with you. Bring your bottle with you. That's as good as a pass."

"Better sometimes," replied O'Donnell, drily; and following the servant up-stairs and into the better part of the house, he was kept for a moment or two in the corridor, and then admitted into the presence of Sir John Hotham.

[CHAPTER XLII.]

Day dawned at length into the dark and lonely prison of the Earl of Beverley--the bright warm day, clear and beautiful, and rosy with the hue of the rising sun. A long ray of light streamed through the high window and painted the opposite wall; then slowly descending, as the orb rose higher in the heaven, rested on the graceful figure and the rich curling hair of the captive, as he still sat at the table, but fast asleep with his head now bent down on his folded arms. The quiet sunshine did not wake him, for he had watched, with anxious thoughts for his only companions, through the greater part of the night; and not till about an hour before morning had slumber fallen upon him. But he was not destined long to know repose; for shortly after dawn a voice was heard in the room, saying, "Is there any one below?"

The sound but not the sense caught his ear; and starting up he gazed round the room. All was vacant, however, and he thought he had been dreaming, when suddenly the question was repeated--

"Is there any one below?"

It seemed to come from the chimney; and approaching, he replied aloud--

"Yes! Who speaks?"

"Who are you? what is your name?" demanded the voice; but, though the tones seemed not unfamiliar to Lord Beverley's ear, he could not of course venture to give his real name to a person he did not see; and he replied--

"That is nothing to any one. Who is he that talks to me?"

"My name is Ashburnham," replied the person, who seemed speaking from some room above; "a prisoner like yourself, if you be one."

"I am, indeed, Ashburnham," answered the earl. "I will not utter my name, lest there should be other ears listening; but I am he whom you joined going to France, and who was taken with you."

"Bad luck indeed!" said Colonel Ashburnham. "Hotham has lied, then, for he told me you were gone."

"He spoke truth there," answered the earl; "but, as ill fortune would have it, I returned last night on business and was arrested by his son, who tore my pass, and vows he will try me as a spy."

"Ay, a curse fall upon him!" cried the other voice. "He respects no rules of honour or courtesy, and, since his father fell ill, has put me in close confinement. If Hotham could know, he would treat you vetter; but I cannot help you, for I am locked in here."

"Hush!" cried the earl; "here are steps coming."

The next moment the key was turned in the lock, the bar taken down, and two soldiers appeared. In a dull and indifferent tone, as if he were bidding the prisoner come to the morning meal, one of the men told Lord Beverley to follow to the colonel's council; and obeying, with very little hope that anything he could say would change the stern purpose of the parliamentary officer, the earl was led along the passage to what seemed a dining-hall on the same floor, in which he found Colonel Hotham seated at a table, with four inferior officers round him. Two wore the garb of the train-bands, the others seemed strangers to the city; for when the prisoners entered they were asking some questions concerning the fortifications. His appearance, however, instantly drew their eyes upon himself; and, walking with a firm step to the end of the table, he gazed calmly over them, scanning the countenance of each of those who seemed assembled to judge him, not at all abashed by the somewhat fierce stare with which one or two of them regarded him.

Colonel Hotham had in general chosen his men well. The two Londoners he had long known as very unscrupulous and fiery zealots in the cause of the parliament; and Captain Marden, one of the officers of the train-bands, whom he had called to his aid, had made himself somewhat remarkable on several occasions by his gloomy fierceness of disposition. He had commanded the party by whom the two unfortunate men mentioned by Falgate had been put to death, and he had seemed only the more morose and dogged after the horrid scene in which he had borne a part. The fourth officer was known as a religious enthusiast, a preacher in one of the conventicles of the city, and, as was generally supposed, as wild and unsparing as the rest, so that Colonel Hotham entertained no doubt that his purposes towards the prisoner would receive the sanction of these men's authority, without scruple or hesitation on their part.

After pausing for a moment, while the earl stood at the end of the table as we have described, the parliamentary commander demanded, in a sharp tone--

"What is your name?"

"Not knowing that you have any authority to ask it," replied the earl, with perfect calmness, "I shall, most undoubtedly, refuse to answer."

"That will serve you little, sir," said one of the men from London; "for if you do refuse, the court will proceed to try you without further ceremony."

"What court?" demanded the earl. "I see five persons sitting round a table, but no court."

"This, sir, is a summary court-martial," replied Colonel Hotham, "called to try a person accused of entering a garrisoned town as a spy."

"With a pass from the governor?" added Lord Beverley.

"But that pass, we have every reason to believe," replied Colonel Hotham, "was obtained by a false representation of your name and quality, and as such was invalid."

"That point will be easily established," replied the earl, "by calling the governor himself. I maintain that he gave it to me with full knowledge of my person; and I therefore require that he be called, to testify as to the the validity of the pass which you, sir, most dishonourably and dishonestly tore to pieces last night."

"The governor is too ill, sir, to give his evidence," said one of the officers from London.

"If, gentlemen, your purpose is to commit a cold, deliberate murder," said the earl, "you may do it without all this ceremony. I am in your hands, have no power to resist you, and no means of obtaining justice; but I will not further your views by recognising this as a court, which is in fact none at all. If Sir John Hotham is too ill to attend, delay the inquiry till he is better. I stand upon the safe-conduct which I received from him; and if you violate it you are murderers, and not men of honour."

"Had he a pass?" demanded the preacher officer of the train-bands, turning gloomily to Colonel Hotham.

"He had, but under a feigned name," replied Hotham.

"What proof have you?" demanded the enthusiast. "Remember, sir, 'whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed!' If you bring not your father to testify, how can we know that this safe-conduct was wrongly obtained?"

Colonel Hotham's cheek turned red, for he loved not such opposition; and he paused for a moment ere he replied, feeling that he was angry, and fearing that he might commit himself.

"I think," he answered at length, in a tone so soft that it betrayed the struggle to keep down his passion--"I think that we can prove that it was obtained under a false name by other witnesses, without disturbing my father, which might be dangerous;" and then, turning to the two guards who remained at the door, he said, "Where is the other prisoner? Let him be brought in. Has the other man been summoned, who is said to know something of these persons?"

"Yes, colonel," replied the man to whom he spoke; "they are both without there--one in one room, and the other in another."

"Bring in the prisoner first," said Colonel Hotham; "we will confront them together, gentlemen."

A pause ensued for the space of about two minutes, during which no one spoke except one of the officers of the train-bands, who said a few words to the other in a low voice, and then the door opened; and turning round his head, the earl, as he had apprehended, beheld the renowned Captain Barecolt marched in amongst some soldiers. As it was not the first time that the worthy officer had found himself in such an unpleasant position, he showed himself very little disturbed by his situation, and walked up to the end of the table with a bold countenance, smoothing down his moustaches, and drawing his beard to a point between his fingers, as if he had not had time to complete his toilet are he was brought from the inn.

The cool self-sufficiency of his air seemed to move the wrath of Colonel Hotham, who instantly addressed him, saying--

"What is your name, fellow?"

"I be not your fellow, sair," replied Barecolt, boldly, "and am not so call. My name vere Captain Jersval, for your service, gentlemen."

"And now speak out, and speak the truth," continued the colonel, while Barecolt bowed ceremoniously round the table; "leave your mumming, sir, and answer. Who is this person, with whom you entered the town yesterday evening? Answer truly, for your life depends upon it."

"Begar, it vere one very difficult thing for me to tell," replied Barecolt in the same unconcerned tone. "First, sair, it cannot alvay be easy to tell who one be oneself; and much more uneasy to tell who de oder man be."

"What does the fool mean?" demanded one of the Roundhead officers; "not always easy to tell who you are yourself! What do you mean, man?"

"Vhy, sair," replied Barecolt, with an agreeable laugh, "one day, not so very long time ago, I met vid one saucy man who to my face--to my very beard, sair--swear I vas one oder man but myself. He swear I vere not Jersval, but Barecole--one Capitaine Barecole, a very great man in dese parts--a famous man, I hear."

"Cease this foolery, sir," cried Colonel Hotham, "and answer my question directly, or prepare to walk out to the water-gate and receive a volley. Who is the person, I say, now standing beside you?"

"Pardi! how de devil should I know?" rejoined Barecolt, with some heat of manner; "I have seen him twice, dat is all; once aboard de sheep vere he was very seek, and once I meet him just half-a-league out of de gate. Ve vere chase hard by a party of vat you call Cavalier malignant, and ride togeder for our lifes."

"That is true, for I saw them," said one of the officers of the train-bands.

"And do you pretend to say you do not know his name?" demanded Colonel Hotham, gazing with the fierceness of disappointment upon the worthy Captain's face.

"Oh, I tink I heard his name on board de sheep," answered Barecolt; "but I cannot be too sure. Let me see. It vas de Colonel de Mery: vas it not dat you told me, sair?" and he turned to the earl with a low bow.

"I answer no questions here, sir," replied Lord Beverley. "This is no lawful court, and the people are not seeking justice, but a pretext for murder."

"Ah! murder--dat be very bad;" cried Captain Barecolt, with a shrug of his shoulders; "men may kill one de oder in fair fight very vell, but murder be very bad indeed! Perhaps dey murder me too!"

"Very likely," answered the earl, drily; but Colonel Hotham exclaimed, "Silence! I have given you an opportunity, sir, of saving your life by telling plainly who this man is. You would not take it, and now we shall soon see who you are yourself. Bring in that Mr. Dry."

Captain Barecolt's countenance fell, for he had remarked the room-door of Mr. Dry open on the preceding night, as he walked somewhat late to bed; and, though he had not been aware at the time that the worthy master of Longsoaken was awake and watching, he doubted not now that his own arrest was owing to that gentleman's good offices. He prepared for the worst, however, and determined to adhere stoutly to his story, thanking his stars that he had alluded to his recontre with Cornet Stumpborough, before Mr. Dry was called.

He was not long kept in suspense, however; for not more than half-a-minute elapsed before Mr. Dry, of Longsoaken, entered the room, with his face very pale and his nose very blue, as if recovering from a severe illness; and taking his place at a convenient distance from the renowned captain, replied at once to Colonel Hotham's first question--

"That, worshipful sir?--that is one Captain Barecolt, a notorious malignant, now actually in arms against the authority of the two houses."

"Oh, I tell you so!" cried Barecolt, with a well-feigned look of impatience; "Capitaine Barecole again! Cuss Capitaine Barecole! Now he swear me black in de face dat I vere Capitaine Barecole just as de oder did."

"I will swear, to be sure," replied Mr. Dry; "for, as I have a conscience and a soul to be saved, you are the man. We all know you are very cunning, Captain Barecolt; but if you can cheat in other matters, you cannot cheat in this. I know you well enough, after having been carried along as a captive in bonds, by you and other Amorites like you, for several mortal days."

"What he mean by Amorite?" asked Barecolt, with a look of ignorance; but Colonel Hotham interposed, saying--

"That will do, sir; stand down! You shall hear more as soon as you could wish. Now, worshipful Master Dry, be so good as to look well at that other person, and say if you have seen him before."

Mr. Dry did as he was directed, but the appearance of the earl puzzled him more; for, though the beauty of his features was remarkable, yet, even to those who had seen him often, the black dye with which he had tinged his hair and beard made so great a change that it would have been difficult to recognise him.

"Yes," said the master of Longsoaken, at length--"yes, I am very sure I have seen him before, though I think his hair was of a different colour then. I met him as he was riding up to the house of the malignant Lord Walton, at Bishop's Merton. He staid there all night, I heard, on the day when the house took fire. I am quite sure it is the same, though, his hair is dyed."

"It is," replied Colonel Hotham, in a stern and determined tone, "and I will tell you who he is, gentlemen; for, though he thinks I do not know him, yet I do. I was fool not to recognise him at first. This, sirs, is the noble Earl of Beverley, who has now come into this garrison of Hull as a spy, and deserves death by all the laws of war."

"It is false, sir!" answered the earl, gazing on him fixedly. "Whoever I am, I came not here as a spy."

"Do you mean to deny your name, my lord?" demanded Colonel Hotham.

"I mean to answer no questions, sir," said the earl, "but merely to give you the lie in your teeth, when you assert a falsehood. I stand upon your father's safe-conduct, and call him to witness that he gave it to me."

"The pass I tore was not in favour of the Earl of Beverley," replied the officer; "and that you are he will soon be proved, though I thought fit to call upon these men first. Ask Colonel Jackson to step hither," he continued, speaking to the guard, "and the two other gentlemen in the red room."

The name he mentioned was familiar to the ear of Lord Beverley, who remembered that Colonel Jackson was in the hall where he had had his first interview with Sir John Hotham, but, owing to the disguise which he had assumed, had not recognised him on that occasion. He could little hope, however, that the parliamentary officer would fail to do so now, when his attention was particularly drawn to the examination, and the matter was but too soon decided. Three gentlemen were one by one introduced into the room, and told to examine the earl and state who he was; and each, though with apparent reluctance, pronounced the words, "Lord Beverley."

"The case is clear, gentlemen," said Colonel Hotham. "The Earl of Beverley, under a feigned name and with an invalid pass, has introduced himself into this garrison. It is for you to say, whether, under these circumstances, he is or is not a spy, and subject to the invariable law of such cases."

"Remembering always," rejoined the earl, "that you have no proof that the safe-conduct was invalid, Colonel Hotham having torn it, so that it has never been beneath your eyes; and not forgetting that, even supposing this to be a lawfully-constituted court-martial--which I deny, he having no authority to summon one--he has refused to call the only witness I judged necessary to my defence."

He spoke calmly and firmly, with his cheek perhaps a shade paler than it usually was, but with no other visible sign of emotion, while the countenance of Colonel Hotham, on whom his eyes were fixed, worked with many mingled passions which resisted control.

"This is all vain and foolish!" cried the latter; "I will tell the earl that I have authority, which I should not scruple to exercise, to put him to death at once, but that I have thought it better to give him the chance of this investigation."

"Young man," said the military preacher, addressing Hotham in a solemn tone, "if you give a man in bonds a chance, it should be a fair one. Such has not been afforded the prisoner. Why did you tear the paper? Why do you now refuse to confront him with the witness he calls?--and if that witness be too ill, why not wait till he be well, as he requires? Why not, if not to doom him to death at your pleasure? I will go no farther in this--I wash my hands of this blood."

"Well, then, we will put it to the vote," cried Colonel Hotham, fiercely; "and look to yourself, Captain Marsh. He that puts his hand to the plough must not turn back. Look to yourself, I say."

"I will," replied the old officer of the train-bands, "and I am not to be frightened from a righteous course by loud words or frowning brows. I fear not what man can do unto me."

"Pshaw!" cried Colonel Hotham, turning away. "Your verdict, sir, upon these two men--guilty or not guilty?"

"Guilty," said the Londoner to whom he spoke, without a moment's pause.

"Guilty," said the other, on the colonel's left, answering a mere look.

"I doubt," replied Captain Marden of the train-bands, when Hotham turned to him.

"But I do not," rejoined that officer; "and I say guilty too--so there are three voices against two. They are condemned. Take them hence to the water-gate, call out a file of men, and the rest--as yesterday. I spare you the rope, Lord Beverley, in consideration of your rank. You shall die as a soldier."

"And you as a murderer!" shouted Barecolt, rushing towards him so suddenly, that he caught him by the throat with both hands before any one could interpose.

The two parliamentary officers drew their swords; the guards were rushing up from the door; but, under the strong pressure of Captain Barecolt's fingers, Colonel Hotham was turning black in the face, and might have been strangled before he could have been delivered, when suddenly a voice was heard exclaiming, "Halt! Not a man stir! Guard the door!" and all was silence.

Captain Barecolt slightly relaxed his grasp, the parliamentary officers drew back, and Sir John Hotham, with an excited and angry countenance, and evidently in great pain, walked up the room and took his place at the head of the table.

"What is all this?" he demanded. "Unloose my son, sir! What is the meaning of this, Colonel Hotham?"

"Pardi! I will unloose him, now you be come, gouverneur," replied Barecolt, taking away his hands and drawing back; "but, begar, if you had not come, he be strangle!"

Colonel Hotham sank in a chair, gasping for breath, and one of the officers from London took upon him to reply: "This is a court-martial, Sir John, summoned to try----"

"And by whose authority?" demanded the governor, fiercely; "who dares to summon a court-martial in Hull but myself?"

"But you were ill, sir," replied the officer, "and Colonel Hotham judged it expedient to summon us."

"He did! did he?" cried the governor. "Colonel Hotham, give up your sword. You are under arrest. Remove him, wards; take him away! This is no court--all its proceedings are illegal, and shall so be dealt with. Gentlemen, you are dismissed. Away! We have had too much of you."

Some of those present were inclined to remonstrate; but the old man who alone had interfered in behalf of the earl said aloud, "You are quite right, Sir John. The court and all its proceedings were illegal and iniquitous."

Colonel Hotham, too, strove to make himself heard; but the governor exclaimed, in a loud and angry tone, "Away! have I not said it? Guards, clear the room, and take that young man away. Place a sentry at his chamber-door; he is under arrest."

Sir John Hotham had not come alone, for the further end of the hall displayed a considerable party of the train-bands; and, muttering some very unpleasant observations on his father's conduct, Colonel Hotham was removed, while the rest of the body whom he had chosen to constitute a court-martial retired slowly and sheepishly, leaving the governor with two prisoners, Mr. Dry, of Longsoaken, and a party of the guard.

[CHAPTER XLIII.]

Sir John Hotham gazed alternately at Lord Beverley, Captain Barecolt, and Mr. Dry, of Longsoaken, with not a little of that irascibility which is common in the complaint from which he was suffering still evident in his countenance, and ready to fall upon any one who said a word to provoke his wrath. As several of the guard were in the room, Lord Beverley thought it most prudent to remain perfectly silent; and the governor at length began the conversation by exclaiming, "And who the devil is this fellow?" At the same time he pointed to Mr. Dry, with no very placable looks.

"I am a poor, God-fearing man, worshipful sir," began the personage of whom he spoke; but Captain Barecolt interrupted him before he could say more.

"He is von of de greatest rogue in all de Christendom," he said, turning to the governor; "I know he very vell. He sheat de king, he sheat de parliament, he sheat everybody. He be von grand imposture."

"The devil he is!" exclaimed the governor. "Is this true, sir?" And he looked to Lord Beverley for an answer.

"Perfectly, Sir John," replied the earl. "I have heard a good deal of this gentleman from various quarters; and I know that he carried off a young gentlewoman from her friends, and brought her hither to Hull, with very sinister views indeed."

Mr. Dry held up his hands and showed the whites of his eyes; but the governor exclaimed, "Ay, by ----!" and he added a very unsanctified oath: "I recollect the scoundrel now. He came here two or three days ago; he came here making a great noise about this girl, and asking for warrants, and I know not what: he declared that she was his ward. Take him by the ears, fellows, and turn him out of the town. We want no such vagabonds amongst us."

"I warn you, worshipful sir; I warn you," cried Mr. Dry while two of the guards took him by the arms, "that these are two malignants and prelatic conspirators. Did not false witnesses rise up against----"

"Away with him!" shouted Sir John Hotham before he could finish the sentence; "away with him! and if he continues to bawl, put him in the stocks and let him bawl there."

The soldiers removed Mr. Dry, of Longsoaken, without further resistance; for he, like Erasmus, was not of the stuff from which they make martyrs, and the name of the stocks had a great effect upon him. The governor then directed the rest of the soldiers to quit the room, but to wait in the passage without, adding, "I will examine into the case of these gentlemen myself."

As soon as the room was clear he turned to the Earl of Beverley, saying, "This is an unfortunate affair, my lord. You see how things go. What can I do?"

"Why, methinks, Sir John," rejoined the earl, approaching the governor, and speaking in a whisper, "the only thing for you to do is, to throw open the gates at once to his majesty's forces and declare your loyalty. A few hours would bring the army hither."

"Impossible! impossible!" cried Hotham aloud, with an impatient look. "You know not what you talk of, sir. Everything is changed since you were here. This place is full of people sent down from the parliament. It will be as much as I can do to get you out safely, and unless my son had given me cause to shut him up, I could not even do that. He cannot be kept in long, however, for ere noon I shall have remonstrances enow, and your only safety is in immediate departure. You shall have a new pass without delay, and then the sooner your back is turned on Hull the better."

"But what shall I say to the king?" demanded the earl, willing to make one more effort for the grand object of his coming; "he fully expects----"

"Expects what cannot be done!" exclaimed the governor, impatiently. "Give my humble duty to his majesty, and say I will lose no opportunity to do him service, but that I am no longer master in Hull. Tell him he had better withdraw his troops as soon as may be, for if they come before the walls the cannon must be fired on them, which I would fain avoid. But say, sir--say that my heart is with him, and that it is against my will I close the gates."

As he spoke, he drew the inkstand closer, and wrote a fresh pass for the earl, looking up and adding, "But I will send people with you to see you clear of the gates. On my life, I scarce know what contempt these men will show to my orders; and as likely as not that they would stop you and hang you in the streets if you had not a guard."

"Begar, den, de sooner we vish them good morning de better!" cried Captain Barecolt.

"But, Sir John, there is another matter," said Lord Beverley, as the governor put his signature to the paper. "You have here in bonds my friend and the king's faithful servant, Colonel Ashburnham. I do beseech you, for my sake, and for your loyalty's sake, set him free also."

"Nay, I know not how that may be," replied Sir John Hotham: "the parliament have written to my son, I hear, to send him up to Westminster."

"But your son is not governor of Hull," answered the earl "if the mandate came to him, not to you, there can be no cause why you should know or recognise it. If you miss this opportunity of sending him away with us, you may regret it when you have no longer the power to show such an act of courtesy."

"True, true!" replied Sir John Hotham: "I have promised him his freedom, and he shall have it, if the devil himself keep the gates. Stay here a minute--stay here!" and rising from his chair he limped away, and left Captain Barecolt and the earl alone in the hall.

A few minutes passed in explanations between the two Cavaliers; but then they began to be somewhat impatient for the governor's return, as they were but too well aware that their situation was still full of danger and difficulty. Minute after minute passed, however, without his coming; and a considerable degree of noise in the house, the moving about of many feet, and a good deal of bustle and confusion, did not tend to quiet their apprehensions.

"By heaven, my lord!" cried Barecolt, at length, "I fear your lordship has gone farther than that worthy gentleman of old times who sacrificed himself for his friend; for I've a great notion that you have sacrificed me also for this good colonel, who was the original cause of all our mishap. I would have let him take his chance and get out as he could."

But, while the renowned captain was thus remonstrating, the door again opened and Sir John Hotham reappeared, followed by Colonel Ashburnham. "Quick, quick!" cried the governor, "you must lose no more time, but all get away together. Here is already a deputation to remonstrate, but I have shut the fellows up in a room above, and they shall wait long enough before they see me."

"But we must provide a horse for my good friend here," said Lord Beverley, who was shaking Ashburnham by the hand.

"That's all done, that's all done!" said Sir John Hotham: "his horse and yours are both waiting in the court, and a party of men to see you safe out of the town, and to ensure that you speak with no one as you go. We must treat you as enemies, my lord, though we could wish you were friends."

"But my horse!" cried the renowned Captain Barecolt: "I have left him at the inn."

This intelligence somewhat discomposed Sir John Hotham; but it was at length determined that Barecolt should have a fresh pass made out in his own name, and should be left with this security, to find his way out of Hull as best he might; and the whole party, issuing forth into the court, left Sir John Hotham to account for his conduct, in the matter of their liberation, to the partisans of the parliament in the town. In taking leave of him, also, we need only remind the reader that these very events, not long afterwards, brought his head to the block.

[CHAPTER XLIV.]

Parties of the royalist army were moving in every direction round Hull, and from time to time saker and falconet, and such other artillery as the garrison had been able to muster on the walls, were discharged at the adventurous Cavaliers who approached too near, when Mr. Dry, of Longsoaken, having been permitted by the guard who had him in charge to gather his baggage hastily together at the "Swan," and to saddle his horse, issued forth from the gates, leaving behind him, in the hands of Mrs. White, in part payment of his bill, the horse on which Arrah Neil had ridden thither. Not that Mr. Dry had come unprovided with the needful means of meeting any expenses he might incur; far from it, for he was a wealthy man, and for many years had never known what even temporary want was; but he loved barter, and generally gained by; and though he was indeed obliged to dispose of the nag to the good landlady at a loss, yet this loss, as he contrived it, was less than would have been incurred by any other process.

However, when he stood without the gates and saw them closed behind him; when he beheld, wherever he turned, some body of horse or foot at the distance of less than a mile: and, more than all, when he heard a cannon boom over his head from above, the heart of Mr. Dry, of Longsoaken, sank, and he felt a degree of trepidation he had never known in life before. What to do he could not tell; but after much deliberation he resolved to stay where he was till the royalist troops were withdrawn, calculating justly that they would not approach so near as to do him any harm, and that the troops within would not issue forth while the others were in sight.

One point, indeed, he did not foresee. The Earl of Beverley and Colonel Ashburnham had passed out while he was at the inn, but the redoubtable Captain Barecolt was still behind; and, as the evil fate of Mr. Dry would have it, just after he had remained under shelter of the archway to one hour and a quarter by the great clock, holding his horse by the bridle all the time, the gate behind him suddenly began to clank and rattle in the painful operation of giving exit to that great hero.

Mr. Dry started up and looked behind him, lifting his foot towards the stirrup at the same moment; and as soon as he beheld Captain Barecolt, he scrambled into the saddle as well as he could; but, alas! that renowned officer was already mounted, and Mr. Dry had to perform an operation which was difficult to him. He had got his left foot in the stirrup; he had swung himself up into the saddle; but before his right foot could find its place of repose (and Mr. Dry did not venture to spur on till it had), the gates were closed behind Captain Barecolt, and he himself was by the Puritan's side.

"Ha, ha! old drybones!" said that officer, "have I caught thee at length?"

"What want you with me, man of Belial?" demanded the master of Longsoaken, with the cat-in-a-corner courage of despair. "Get you gone upon your way, and let better men than yourself follow theirs."

"Nay, good faith!" answered Barecolt, stretching out his left hand and grasping Mr. Dry's rein: "I always love that better men than myself should bear me company, and such is to be thy fate, O Dry! so do not think to escape it; for, as sure as my name is de Capitaine Jersval, if you attempt any one of all those running tricks which you know so well how to practice, I will slit your weasand incontinent. It matters not two straws to me whether I have you alive or dead, but have your corpus I will, as the prisoner of my bow and spear, as you would call it. Come, use your spurs, or I must spur your beast for you. You see that party of honest Cavaliers there on the hill--terrible malignants, every one of them, that would have a pleasure in roasting you by a slow fire, like a tough old goose, and basting you with those strong waters that you love so well. To them we are going, so spur on with the alacrity which your good luck deserves. What! you will not? Oh, then, I must make you!" and drawing his sword, he pricked Mr. Dry's horse so close to that worthy gentleman's thigh, that he started and rose in the stirrups.

The poor beast darted on in an instant, and in so doing shook Mr. Dry a good deal; but whether the concussion elicited a brilliant thought from his brain or not, he exclaimed immediately after--

"Harkye, Captain Barecolt! I have a word for ye. Do not let us ride so fast. I have an offer to make. Listen a moment."

Mr. Dry understood the peculiar genus of captain to which Barecolt belonged, but he did not understand the exact variety. He knew that, with most adventurous soldiers like himself, the food for which they hungered was gold. Drink might do much, dice might do much, fair ladies might do more; but gold, gold was paramount--an attraction not to be resisted. Mr. Dry loved gold, too, and overvalued its importance; but he felt a strong internal conviction that, if carried at once to the quarters of Lord Walton, life, which was the grand means of getting and enjoying gold, would be of a very short duration. He saw a noose dangling from a cross-tree before his eyes, and he wisely calculated that it would be better to sacrifice some portion of the less valuable commodity to save the more valuable; and therefore he prepared to tempt his companion's cupidity--not without a faint hope of cheating him after all, but with the resolution of giving anything that might save his life.

A sudden thought, too, had struck Captain Barecolt, which he proceeded to follow out, as will be seen presently; but its first effect was to make him draw in his rein, and also check the horse of Mr. Dry, over which he exercised supreme command; and as he did so, he said in a dry and bantering tone--

"Well, worshipful Mr. Dry, speak what you have to speak. As you will not have leisure to use your tongue much more on earth, it would be hard to deny you a few words. You are going to the gallows, Mr. Dry--you are going to the gallows; and though I cannot promise that you shall swing as high as Haman, yet you shall have as decent an execution as time and circumstances permit, and plenty of room for your feet.

"Nay," said Dry, with a sort of sobbing sigh, "you would not be so barbarous, so unchristian, especially when I am willing to pay ransom. Listen, captain--listen, noble Captain Barecolt: if you will not take me and put me into the hands of yonder men of Belial, I will--I will go as far as a hundred pounds."

"Men of Belial, sirrah!" cried Barecolt, turning upon him fiercely. "How dare you call his majesty's forces men of Belial. Those very words shall cost you five hundred pounds, if you would save your life."

Though the captain's words were fierce, yet they served to show that he was not quite inaccessible, and Mr. Dry began at once to higgle about his ransom; but Barecolt showed himself as hard a bargainer as he was himself; and as he perceived that every step they took in advance increased the trepidation of the worthy man of Longsoaken, he used the screw thus afforded him to squeeze Mr. Dry very painfully. Now he pushed on his horse--now he slackened his pace--now he pointed out a party of Cavaliers approaching very near; and, discovering exactly what Mr. Dry had upon his person, he took care to make his demand much more, in order that he might have the opportunity of keeping him in his hands till the sum was paid, which was indeed the principal object he had in view.

Some difficulties, totally independent of Mr. Dry's natural reluctance to part with his money, even to save his life, occurred in the course of the negotiation. Barecolt was well aware, from what he had seen of the king's conduct, that if the prisoner were taken to the camp, instead of mounting a ladder, he would more likely regain his liberty very speedily; and the worthy Puritan, on the contrary, was terrified at the very thought of approaching the royal quarters, his consciousness of offences grave and manifold presenting instant death to his imagination as the only result. What then was to be done with him while he remained in the custody of Captain Barecolt? That valiant gentleman proposed that he should assume a false name, and pass as a friend of his in the camp; but Mr. Dry, remembering that he was known to many in Lord Walton's troop, rejected this idea as totally inconsistent with his own safety.

"You might as well hang me at once," he said.

"That might be pleasant enough," answered Barecolt, "were it not that you have only a hundred and fifty pounds about you, Master Dry. However, let me see: if we take this little hollow way to the left, methinks it will lead us to the hamlet just below the old church. I could stow you away in that building, as a young friend of mine was once served by some of your people, while I send for some of my own men to keep guard over you, and I go and report myself."

"No, not there! not there!" cried he of Longsoaken, turning paler than ever. "No, no! But there is an alehouse farther on, where we could find accommodation. They are good and pious people there."

"For which reason I will have nothing to do with them," answered the profane captain. "No, but I know of a tavern just a mile from Beverley, where you can be lodged safely, Mr. Dry; and as, if you are taken and hanged, I lose five hundred good pounds, you may be quite sure that I will take as much pains to keep your neck out of the halter as I will to guard against your escape. We will talk about the means of getting the money from Bishop's Merton hereafter; so now come on quick. We shall turn the flank of that party we saw upon the hill in five minutes, without their seeing us, if we keep in the hollow way; and should we meet any stragglers, you must either keep a silent tongue in your head or curse and swear like a trooper."

"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Mr. Dry, turning up his eyes.

"Phoo!" cried Captain Barecolt, "I know you would trample on the cross as the Dutchmen do in Japan, to save your life;" and after the assertion of this undeniable fact he hurried forward, nor drew a rein till they reached the village, and the inn which he had mentioned.

They found three or four of the inferior followers of the court in possession of the public-house; but, though two of them were known to the politic captain, they were not personages whom he chose to trust; and, conveying Mr. Dry to an upper room, he bestowed a small piece of silver upon one of the boys of the place, to run up to Beverley and bring down one Corporal Curtis from his troop. In the mean while, he informed Mr. Dry that it would be as well if he would give up into his secure keeping, to be duly accounted for at an after period, all his worldly goods and chattels, including his tawny-sheathed steel-mounted sword; and, though that worshipful person submitted with but an ill grace to the law of necessity, the pitiless captain employed very searching measures to ascertain that he retained nothing, either on his person or in his saddle-bags, but a decent change of apparel. When this was done, as Corporal Curtis had not yet appeared, Captain Barecolt called for a pottle of good wine, the cost of which he disbursed from Mr. Dry's store, noting it carefully down in a small, dirty memorandum-book, as he sagely remarked that he would have to reckon with that gentleman when they parted. The last cup was in the pottle-pot, and the gallant officer was seriously thinking of calling for more, when a tall, athletic man was ushered in, having some resemblance to Barecolt himself, into whose hands the captain consigned Mr. Dry, with a positive and loud injunction not to lose sight of him even for a moment, and to shoot him through the head if he attempted to escape.

Corporal Curtis promised to obey, saying drily, with a nod at their companion, that he remembered the march from Bishop's Merton; and Barecolt, leaving him in such good hands, mounted his horse and rode off to Beverley. He was kept there for many hours before he could obtain a private audience of Lord Walton; but at the end of that period he was closeted with the young nobleman for a long time, and when their conference was at an end they walked away together to the quarters of Major Randal, where another long private conversation took place. What passed might be difficult as well as tedious to tell; but in the end, towards five o'clock of the afternoon, Captain Barecolt returned to the village, where he had left his captive, accompanied by two stout troopers selected by himself from his own troop; and ascending to the chamber of Mr. Dry, he announced to him, in a tone that admitted of no reply, that he must mount and accompany him at once towards Bishop's Merton.

"I have determined, most worshipful sir," he said, as soon as he had sent Corporal Curtis out of the room, "to see you safe on your way till we are within half-a-day's march of Longsoaken. You will then have the goodness to give an order for the payment of your ransom to one of my friends, who will rejoin us when he has received it, and then I will set you free."

"How do I know you will do that?" demanded Dry, of Longsoaken, in a sullen tone.

"By making use of your common sense, Mr. Dry," replied Captain Barecolt. "Could I not hang you now if I liked it? Can I not hang you now if it pleases me? Will I not hang you now if you affect to doubt the honour of a gentleman and a soldier? So no more on that score, but descend, mount, and march--as you needs must."

There was no remedy And Mr. Dry obeyed, with vague hopes indeed of making his escape by some fortunate accident on the way. He argued that, in the distracted state of the country, it was barely possible for Captain Barecolt to pass across a great part of England without either encountering some force of the opposite party or pausing in some town which had espoused the parliamentary cause, and he believed that in either case his liberation must take place. But he little knew the forethought of that great stratagetic mind. Barecolt had furnished himself with correct information regarding the views and feelings of all the places he had to pass; and, instead of taking his way by Coventry and Worcester, he led his little troop direct to Nottingham, Derby, and Shrewsbury, almost in the same course that the king followed shortly after; and at every halting-place Mr. Dry found himself so strictly watched that his hopes declined from hour to hour. He was never left alone, even for a moment, Captain Barecolt himself, or one of the three soldiers who accompanied him, remaining with him night and day. The only chance that seemed left was in meeting with some friends as the party approached Bishop's Merton; but when Mr. Dry remembered that he was totally unarmed, his heart, never the most firm or most daring, felt inconceivably low at the thought of a struggle; and the sanguinary and ferocious conversation of his captor, the list of slain that his arm had sent to their long account, the bloody battles he had seen, and the dire deeds he had done, made him tremble for the result of any attempt to escape.

At length familiar objects began to greet the eyes of Mr. Dry. He saw places and things which he had often seen before, and knew that he must be within one day's journey of Bishop's Merton; and the very feeling revived in some degree his fainting courage. "Surely," he thought, "the people here must have retained their devotion to the good cause." But, alas! as he rode one morning into a town where he had often bought and sold, he beheld a party of Lord Hertford's horse sitting jesting with the girls in the market-place; and the conversation which he heard as he went along showed him that times had changed, and that people had changed with them.

On leading him up, as had been the inviolable custom since they set out, to a high room in the inn, Captain Barecolt, with a stern tone and countenance, told Corporal Curtis to set a soldier at the door, and to suffer no one to enter. Then waving his captive to a seat, he took a stool opposite, and after a solemn pause addressed him thus:--

"Now, worshipful Master Dry, doubtless you have been puzzling the small wits that God has given you to discover how it happens that an officer like myself, high in the king's confidence, has been induced to traverse so great an extent of country, solely for the purpose of receiving from a mechanical and trading person like yourself the pitiful sum of five hundred pounds, which might have been transmitted by various other means; and it is but fitting that you should know the worst. I and other persons of high rank and station have been made acquainted how, on the death of a poor old man, one Sergeant Neil, you rifled his cottage, and possessed yourself, amongst other things, of sundry papers appertaining to a young lady, who for some years has gone under the name of Arrah Neil, and was supposed to be his grand-daughter.--Don't interrupt me. Having brought you thus far, it is necessary to tell you, that besides an order upon some wealthy man at Bishop's Merton for the five hundred pounds before mentioned, which I shall send on by one of my troopers, it is necessary to your safety and liberation that you should furnish Corporal Curtis with an exact statement of where the said papers are to be found in your house at Longsoaken, and with an order to your people there to aid and assist my said corporal in searching for and finding those documents, expressly stating that you have immediate need of them--don't interrupt me--which indeed is the exact truth; for you must know that I have authority, under the hand of competent persons, in case you should show any reluctance to deliver up property belonging to other people, which you have stolen, to hang you upon the branch of a convenient tree in Wilbury Wood, as one taken in arms in open rebellion, otherwise in flagrant delict, worshipful Master Dry. While dinner is getting ready, therefore, you will be good enough to think deliberately over these particulars, and make up your mind as to whether you will like the state of suspense at which I have hinted better than a surrender of that which is not yours."

The varieties of hue which Mr. Dry's countenance had assumed while he listened to this long oration cannot be described here, for the very attempt would require us to go through almost every shade that ever graced a painter's pallet. Captain Barecolt had three times told him not to interrupt him, but it was a very unnecessary caution, as that worthy gentleman was too much confounded and thunderstruck to be able to utter a word; and when at length his captor rose, and, going to the door, conversed with the soldier for a few minutes, he remained in a state of impotent rage, bitterness, and disappointment, which had the curious effect of making him bite his under lip well-nigh through with his teeth.

Captain Barecolt was inexorable, however; the dinner was served; and Mr. Dry, though he could with difficulty be brought to eat a mouthful, drank a good deal. The dinner was over, and Captain Barecolt called for writing materials, which were laid before the unfortunate Mr. Dry. He paused, and his hand shook; but the captain was wonderfully calm and composed. He enjoyed the operation very much.

"First, if you please, worshipful Master Dry," he said, "the order on some responsible citizen of Bishop's Merton for five hundred pounds, to be paid at sight; and you will be good enough to eschew the word 'ransom,' putting in that it is for your private necessities."

Mr. Dry wrote as he was directed, and then Captain Barecolt, having examined the paper, placed another sheet before him, saying, "Now for the order to your steward, housekeeper, and all others of your people at Longsoaken, to aid and assist Mr. Curtis: eschew the word 'corporal,' and merely style him 'your friend'--to search for, &c. &c."

Mr. Dry again paused, and Captain Barecolt added, "Remember, I do not press you. I have orders not to press you. If you sign, well; we will go on to a certain cave you know of in Wilbury Wood, where I will keep you company till my men return, and as soon as I find that all which is required comes safe to hand, I will instantly set you free without let or hindrance. But if you refuse to sign, I am not to press you--no, not in the least: I am only to hang you in Wilbury Wood as a terror to all offenders. No, I do not press you in the least, Mr. Dry. Act as in your judgment you shall think it expedient."

Mr. Dry took the pen once more, and with a wavering and uncertain hand wrote down the order, very nearly in the terms which Captain Barecolt had dictated. He then stopped a moment, dipped the pen in the ink, gazed in the officer's face, and then added his name.

"Hal ha! ha!" cried Captain Barecolt, taking the paper with a mocking laugh. "Here is a man who prefers giving up things that don't belong to him to being hung in a nice cool wood. What an extraordinary taste!" and walking to the door he put his head out, saying, "Saddle the horses."

"Devil!" cried Mr. Dry, of Longsoaken, setting his teeth hard; and at the same time, by a rapid but silent movement, he drew a long, sharp-pointed knife off the table, and hastily put it in his pocket.

"Come, Mr. Dry," said Barecolt, turning round, "we shall soon part if your people obey your orders and your correspondent pays the money; so we may as well have another tankard to drink to our next merry meeting. It will make but a small item in your bill. Holloa, there! Bring another tankard, and mind it be of the best."

But when the wine came Mr. Dry refused to drink, saying sullenly that he had had enough to quench his thirst for a week. Captain Barecolt laughed again, for the writhing of his victim was pleasant to him; and taking up the large jug of wine he replied, "We have not had you long enough amongst us, Mr. Dry: you should really bear us company a little longer, to learn to drink deep. This is the way a true soldado discusses a stoup of good Bordeaux," and setting the brim to his lips, he never took it away till the tankard was empty.

"Now, to horse! to horse!" he cried, and making Mr. Dry go down and mount before him, he sprang lightly upon horseback, seeming all the more brisk and active for his liquor.

After some little shaking of hands and bidding good-bye between Captain Barecolt and his men and the troopers of Lord Hertford, in the streets, the captain's little party rode out of the town, and were soon in the midst of fields and lanes again. Then came a wide, bare common, extending for three or four miles on every side; and as they crossed it, a large old wood appeared lying straight before them, and falling into deep waves of brown foliage, with misty dells between.

"Ay, there is old Wilbury Wood, Master Dry," said Captain Barecolt; "you know it well, I dare say."

"You seem to know it well too," answered the Puritan, eyeing him askance.

"To be sure I do," replied the renowned captain; "and while the men are gone upon their errand, I will tell you how. Keep your curiosity cool till then, Master Dry, and you shall be satisfied."

"I have no curiosity about it," growled the Puritan.

"Well, then, you shall hear, whether you have curiosity or not," answered the captain; and on they rode, following a somewhat lonely and unfrequented path into the heart of the wood. The old trees rose around them in wild groups and strange fantastic forms; the hares bounded away in the underwood, and the squirrels, crossing the path, ran gaily up the trees, while a jay flew on before and scolded them from a bough overhead.

"I think this should be the turning," said the gallant captain, at length. "Does not this lead to the cave, Master Dry?"

"Seek it yourself if you want it," said his companion.

"You are discourteous, knave!" said Barecolt, giving him a blow on the ribs that made the worthy gentleman's breath come short. "Learn to be civil to your betters;" and turning his horse up the path, at the mouth of which he had stopped, he led his little party with unerring sagacity to a high rocky promontory in the wood, in the base of which appeared a hollow, some ten or twelve feet deep. He there dismounted and made Mr. Dry do the same, and, seeing him safely lodged in the cave, he gave one of the papers to Corporal Curtis, saying, "Take Jukes with you, and do as I told you, corporal. Avoid the town, and be back before dark; for if they do not give up the papers, I shall want you to help to hang our friend there."

His back was turned to Master Dry; and as he uttered these words aloud, he winked upon the corporal significantly with one small eye.

"They will obey my order," said Dry.

"I trust they will," rejoined Barecolt, solemnly. "You, James, take this to Bishop's Merton, and get the money. You may tell Master Winkfield, on whom it is drawn, that Master Dry wants it sadly. So he does, poor man! Look about the town, too, before you return, and see what is going on. I heard this morning that they are turning loyal; and if so, I may honour them with a visit myself some day."

The men rode away, and Captain Barecolt, after having secured the horses to two trees, took his pistols from the saddle and rejoined his prisoner in the cave. There seating himself on the ground, with his long legs stretched out across the mouth of the excavation, he beckoned Mr. Dry with a commanding air to seat himself also. It was easy to perceive that Captain Barecolt had been rendered somewhat more grand in his own opinion by the last stoup of wine, which he had tossed off with no more ceremony than if it had been a gill; and his captive, feeling that it might be dangerous to oppose him even in a trifle, instantly seated himself on the ground, being at the time somewhat weary with a ride of more than thirty miles that morning.

Captain Barecolt first began by examining the priming of his pistols, the muzzles of which every now and then swept Mr. Dry's person in a manner that made him very uncomfortable; but when this operation was finished and the pistols were replaced in his belt, the royalist officer turned his looks upon Mr. Dry with a sort of compassionate contempt that was extremely irritating. "Ah! Master Dry, Master Dry!" he said, "both you and I know this wood very well. You often used to come here when you were an apprentice boy with old Nicholas Cobalter; and many a pound of sugar and salt you hid away in that corner, just behind where you are now sitting; many an ounce of pepper you laid in the nook just over your head, till you could dispose of your pilferings."

Mr. Dry said nothing, but gazed at Captain Barecolt from under his bent brows, with a look of hatred and fear, such as might be supposed to pass over his countenance if he had seen the infernal spirit.

"Ay," continued the officer, in a somewhat maudlin and sentimental tone, "those were pleasant days, Mr. Dry, especially when you used to take a walk in this wood with buxom Mrs. Cobalter, when her husband went to London town; and she used to say, if ever he died you should be her second, because you were tender of her feelings, and connived at her dealing with the pottle-pot more freely than her husband liked."

"And who the devil are you?" cried Mr. Dry, furiously, forgetting all his sanctity in the irritating state of apprehension and astonishment to which he was reduced.

"Ay, those were merry times, Master Dry," continued Barecolt, without noticing his intemperate question, and fixing one eye upon his companion's face, while the other rolled vacantly round the cave, as if searching for memories or ideas. "Yes, Master Dry, no one would have thought to see you the master of Longsoaken in those days. But it all came of the widow, and your stepping in, by her help, into all that old Cobalter left. Fair or foul, Master Dry, it matters not--you got it, and that made a man of you."

"And who in the fiend's name are you?" demanded the Puritan, almost springing at his throat.

"I will tell you, Ezekiel Dry," answered Barecolt, bending forward and gazing sternly in his face--"I will tell you. I am Daniel Cobalter--ay, little Daniel, the old man's only nephew--his brother's son, whom with the widow's aid you cheated of his uncle's inheritance, and left to go out into the world with five crown-pieces and a stout heart; and, now that I have you here face to face in Wilbury Wood, what have you to say why I should not blow your brains out for all that you have done to me and mine?"

Mr. Dry, of Longsoaken, shrank into nothing, while Barecolt continued to gaze upon him as sternly as if he could have eaten him alive. A moment after, however, the gallant captain's face relaxed its awful frown, and with a withering and contemptuous smile he went on:--"But set your mind at ease, worm! You are safe in my scorn. I have done better for myself than if I had been tied down to a mechanical life. But take warning by what has happened, and do not let me catch you any more at these tricks, or I will put my boot heel upon your head and tread your brains out like a viper's. There--sit there, and be silent till the men come back; for, if I see you move or hear you speak, you will raise choler in me."

The gallant captain rose, and stood for a minute in the mouth of the cave, then returned again and seated himself, looking at Dry with a sneering smile. "Now art thou hammering thy poor thin brains to find how Daniel Cobalter has become Captain Barecolt; but if thou twistest the letters into proper form, thou wilt find that I have not taken one from any man's name but my own. This is no robbery, Dry."

"Nay, I see! I see!" said the Puritan.

"Ay! dost thou so?" rejoined Barecolt; "then see and be silent;" and he leaned his head upon his hand and gazed forth from the mouth of the cave. Presently, Captain Barecolt's head nodded and his breath came more heavily. Dry, of Longsoaken, gazed at him with his small eyes full of fierce and baleful light; but his face did not grow red or heated with the angry passion that was evidently working within him; on the contrary, it was as white as that of a corpse. "Ruin!" he muttered in a low voice to himself--"ruin!" and at the same time he put his right hand into his pocket, where he had concealed the knife.

But Captain Barecolt suddenly raised his head. "You moved!" he said sternly.

"It was but for my ease," answered Dry in a whining tone; "this ground is very hard."

"Sit still!" rejoined the captain, frowning, and then resumed the same attitude. In two or three minutes he breathed hard again, and then he snored, for he had drunk much wine and ridden far. For a few minutes Mr. Dry thought he was feigning sleep, and yet it seemed very like reality--sound, heavy, dull.

"It must be speedily, or not at all!" he thought to himself; "the other men may soon be back. Softly! I will try him;" and rising, he affected to look out of the mouth of the cave. Captain Barecolt slept on.

Ezekiel Dry trembled very much, but he quietly put his hand once more into his pocket and drew forth the knife. He grasped it tight; he took a step forward to the sleeping man's side. Barecolt, accustomed to watch, started and was rising; but ere he could gain his feet the blow descended on his right breast, and, leaving the knife behind, Dry darted out of the cave.

The blood gushed forth in a stream; but with a quick and firm hand Barecolt drew a pistol from his belt, cocked it, took a step forward, levelled, and fired. Dry, of Longsoaken, sprang up a foot from the ground, and fell heavily upon the forest grass, his blood and brains scattered around.

"Ha!" cried Barecolt; "ha, Master Dry! But I feel marvellous faint--very faint: I will sit down;" and, resuming his seat, he leaned back, while his face became as pale as ashes and the pistol fell from his hands.

[CHAPTER XLV.]

The attempt upon Hull had been abandoned; and, mortified and desponding, Charles I. had quitted Beverley and pursued his march through the land. The Earl of Essex lay in force at Northampton; but no show of energy announced at this time the successes which the parliamentary armies were ultimately to obtain. The mightier spirits had not yet risen from the depth; and the ostensible engines with which faction worked were, as usual, the cunning artifice, the well-told lie, the exaggerated grievance, the suppressed truth, the dark insinuation, by which large classes, if not whole nations, may be stirred up either for good or evil. There was activity in all the small and petty arts of agitation; there was activity in those courses which prepare the way for greater things; but in that which was to decide all--arms--tardiness, if not sloth, was alone apparent.

It is strange, in reviewing all great political convulsions, to remark how petty are the events and how small are really the men by which great success is obtained, though insignificant incidents swell into importance by their mass, and mean characters gain a reflected sublimity from the vastness of the results by which their deeds are followed. Even individual vices and weaknesses acquire a certain grandeur under the magnifying power of important epochs, and from the uses to which they are turned; and the hypocrisy of Cromwell, and the bombast of Napoleon, which would have excited little but contempt in less prominent persons, appear in a degree sublime by being displayed on a wider stage, and employed as means to a mightier end. We are too apt to judge of efforts by results, as of people by their success, noticing but little, in the appreciation of men's characters, one of the chief elements which distinguish the great from the little--the objects which they propose to themselves--and, in our judgment of their skill, taking into small account the difficulties that opposed and the facilities that favoured the accomplishment of their designs; and it is curious to remark, that the revolutions which have carried great usurpers into power have always raised the ambitious, and left the patriotic behind, as if human selfishness were the only motive which can ensure that continuity of effort and unity of purpose which alone can command success amongst the struggles of diverse factions, and the development of infinitely varied opinions.

The Earl of Essex was a higher-minded man than Cromwell, but he had doubts and hesitations which Cromwell's ambition would not entertain; and there can be but little doubt that he was unwilling to strike the first irrevocable blow against an army commanded by his sovereign in person. Doubtless he fancied, as many did, that the small force collected tardily by a monarch without supplies would speedily melt away, and leave Charles, from sheer necessity, to accept any terms that the parliament chose to dictate; but whatever was the cause, the king was permitted to march to Shrewsbury unopposed, while the parliamentary forces lay inactive at Northampton. The reception given to the monarch in the town was such as to encourage high hopes in all; and as Wales was rising in his favour, it was judged expedient that Charles should visit the principality in person, while the army recruited itself on the banks of the Severn, and every effort was made to obtain a supply of arms and money. Provisions, indeed, were abundant; the royalist troops were regularly paid; greater order and more perfect discipline were maintained than had ever before been observed in the army; and a state of calm and cheerful enjoyment reigned in the good old town, which is but too seldom known in civil wars.

Such was the state of things when, one evening, a little before sunset, just after the king had left Shrewsbury for Wales, two persons, a gentleman and a lady, wandered along through the fields on the banks of the river, once more full of happy dreams and hopes of bright hours to come. Lord Beverley gazed down into his fair companion's eyes as she lifted her sunny look towards his fine expressive face, and he saw in those two wells of light the deep, pure love of which he had so often dreamed; while Annie Walton, in the countenance of him who regarded her with such fond thoughtfulness, read the intense and passionate tenderness which alone can satisfy the heart, and teach the spirit of woman to repose with calm security on the love of her future husband. It is too late in the tale either to paint the feelings which were in the bosom of each at that moment or to tell the words of dear affection that they spoke: the thrill of mutual attachment; the trembling flutter of the heart as she thought of the near-approaching hour; the glad eagerness of his to make her his own beyond the power of fate; the visions of future joy, and the long vistas of happy years which the warm imagination of each presented--not the less bright and sparkling because, on her side as on his, though from different causes, vague clouds and indistinct shadows hung over parts of the scene which fancy painted. Come what might, in a few days they were to be united; and that was enough for the hour.

They had been long talking over their plans and prospects; the old house of Longnar Hall was to be their abode for the next three weeks; their marriage was to be as private and quiet as even Annie Walton's heart could desire; and the circumstances of the times gave fair excuse for cutting off all ceremonies and casting away all formal delays. Of three weeks they thought themselves secure, and within that little space was bounded all the real lifetime of their hopes. Beyond!--what was beyond? Who could say? And yet they dreamed of days long after, and Fancy looked over the prison-walls of the present, and told them of fair scenes and glowing landscapes, which only her eye could descry.

"I could have wished," said Annie Walton, after a pause, "that Charles could have been married on the same day."

The earl smiled. "Then you see it now, beloved?" he replied.

"Nay, Francis, who could help seeing it?" asked Miss Walton. "Arrah herself must see and know it; and yet she seems not so happy, not so cheerful, as I should have thought such knowledge would make her, for I am very sure that she has loved him long, and at one time I feared for and pitied her."

"And he has loved her long too, Annie," replied the earl; "longer than you believe, or he himself knew. This passion has been growing like a flower in the spring; first in the bud, as pity; then showing its first hues as deep interest and tenderness; then partly expanding, like the timid blushing blossom, which seems to fear that even the green leaves around should look into its glowing breast, and at last, on a bright warm day, opening wide to the bright sun. Charles Walton, when first I saw your own dear eyes at Bishop's Merton, felt love, or something very like it, for Arrah Neil; and yet he would have been strangely hurt if any had told him that he ever thought of the poor, wild cottage girl with aught but mere compassion."

"You men are strange beings!" replied Annie Walton, with a sigh and a smile at the same time; "and yet I am not without my fears for that dear child. Unless the proofs of who she is can be found and clearly made out, what will be Charles's conduct?"

"I will tell you, love," answered Lord Beverley. "Pride will yield, Annie, to the noblest and strongest quality of your brother's heart--the sense of honour. He has displayed his love for her too openly to herself for Charles Walton to hesitate. Other men might do so, and think themselves justified in sacrificing both her peace and their own affection to the cold judgment of the world; but if a time should come when he has to ask himself what he is to Arrah Neil, still poor, still unknown in position, and even in name, he will feel himself plighted to her by the words and looks of these days, and as I have said, he will not hesitate."

"I trust it may be so," replied the lady; "and indeed I think it will, for he is generous and kind; but yet I wish this man would return with the papers that he undertook to bring. Here several weeks have passed, and no tidings have been heard of him. Surely that sad hypocrite, Dry, cannot have bribed him."

"Oh, no!" exclaimed the earl with a laugh: "all men have their own notions of honour, dearest; and though he is loose and dissolute, a babbler and a braggadocio, yet his courage and his fidelity are beyond doubt. If he is not dead he will come back.--But what is that lying in the grass?"

"Good heaven! it is a dead man!" cried Annie Walton, turning pale.

"Nay, some one asleep, rather," said her lover; "he is not like the dead. See! his arm is folded to pillow his head. Wait here a moment, Annie, and I will go and see."

Lord Beverley advanced to the spot where the person they had been speaking of was stretched in the long grass, and gazed upon him for an instant without speaking. Then, taking him by the arm, he shook him gently to rouse him, and with a start the sleeper sat up and gazed around.

"Good gracious me!" he cried, as he awoke, "where am I? Ah, my lord the earl! is that you? Well, this is a lucky chance indeed!"

"Why, how came you sleeping here, Master Falgate," inquired the earl; "and how did you get out of Hull?"

"I came here on the carriage provided by nature, my good lord," answered the painter; "and I was sleeping because I could not keep my eyes open. To get out of Hull was no difficulty, but to get out of Worcester was hard work indeed;" and he went on to relate how he had travelled on foot from Hull to Worcester, and there, having ventured upon some loyal speeches over a cup of ale, had found himself speedily under charge of a guard, from whom he escaped after innumerable obstacles (which need not be detailed to the reader), and had walked from that city to the neighbourhood of Shrewsbury, a distance of more than forty-seven miles, between the preceding midnight and one o'clock of that day, when, utterly exhausted, he had lain down to rest and fallen asleep.

"This is an old friend of mine, dear Annie," said the earl, turning to Miss Walton, who had come slowly up when she saw that the poor painter was not dead; "and as he showed good discretion in my case, at a very critical moment, we must do what we can for him. So, Master Falgate," he continued, "the good folks of Worcester seem very rebelliously inclined, to treat you so harshly for a few loyal words?"

"Good faith! my noble lord, the men of Worcester had little to do with it," replied Falgate. "It was Lord Essex's soldiers that were so barbarous to poor me. Have you not heard that he took up his quarters at Worcester yesterday?"

"No, indeed!" said the earl, a cloud coming over his countenance at the thought of fresh dangers and delays. "No, indeed; but come with us into the city, Falgate. Your intelligence must be valuable; and as for yourself; I must do what I can to place you in some good regiment of foot."

"No, no, my lord," answered the painter, "I have done with soldiering; I was never made for it. I do not like to paint men's faces with blood, or to see it done. All that you can do for me is to bring me to speak to a noble gentleman named Lord Walton, if such a thing is ever to take place; for I have hunted him to Beverley, to York, to Nottingham, and then, finding the Roundheads in the way, in an unlucky day took Worcester on my road hither. So I do think I shall never see him."

"Nothing can be more easy, my good friend," answered the earl: "Lord Walton is here, and this lady is his sister. Come with us, and you will see him in a few minutes."

The poor painter, who was not without his share of taste, was delighted at his meeting with Miss Walton, whose beautiful face and form were ready passports to his respect and admiration: nor did her words and manner produce less effect; for, to the heart of Annie, the least service rendered to him she loved made the doer interesting in her eyes; and with gentle tones and kindly looks she told poor Diggory Falgate that she had heard of him and of his discretion from Lord Beverley, and thanked him deeply for the caution he had shown. Had Diggory Falgate been Captain Barecolt, she would instantly have had a full account of all that had been done to save the earl, by informing Sir John Hotham of his situation, together with various additions and improvements, which would have left all the honour of his deliverance with the worthy narrator. But Falgate, to whom the presence of beauty had something almost awful in it, did not even take to himself the credit that was rightly his due, but walked on nearly in silence beside the earl and his fair companion, till, entering the town of Shrewsbury, they reached the house where Lady Margaret Langley and her young relations had taken up their abode, near the Wellington gate of the city.

"Is Lord Walton within?" the earl demanded, addressing one of the servants in the old porch, and the answer was, "Yes, my lord. He is in the small room on the left with my lady," and leading Annie on, Falgate following close behind, Lord Beverley entered the chamber, saying, "Here is a good friend of mine, Charles, who brings you tidings from Hull."

Lord Walton rose from a seat between that of Lady Margaret and fair Arrah Neil, gazing upon the painter through the dim evening light, which found its way in at the tall lattice window, without the slightest recollection of his face, as indeed he had never before seen him. But the moment that Falgate beheld Arrah Neil he advanced a step or two towards her, then stopped and hesitated, for her dress was much altered, and then went on again, but with a timid and doubtful air.

Arrah, however, welcomed him with a kindly smile, holding out her hand to him and saying, "Ah, Master Falgate! I am glad to see you safe. This is the person whom I mentioned, Charles, who aided my escape from Hull."

"He deserves all our thanks, dear Arrah," replied Charles Walton, "and every recompense that we can give him; but did I understand right, sir, that you have business with me?"

"Why, I had, my noble lord," answered Falgate, In a somewhat faltering tone; "but--but, as I have found this young lady, I think it is to her I should speak, for the business is her own. I only asked for your lordship because--because I had heard that you were her best friend."

"Oh, yes! indeed he is," exclaimed Arrah Neil, warmly; "and whatever is to be said had better be said to him: he can judge rightly of things that I do not understand."

"Well, then, speak to me here, sir," said Lord Walton, retiring towards the window. "You had better come, too, Arrah, for we may want you in our council."

Falgate followed to the other side of the room, and Arrah Neil rose and joined them, while Annie Walton seated herself beside her aunt, and Lord Beverley took a seat placed on the other side of Lady Margaret's chair, engaging her attention by an account of their walk. Nor was it accidentally that he did so; for he knew that at that moment, though the fine countenance of the old dame was calm, there were many thoughts and memories, many doubts and hopes, busy in her bosom--far too busy for her peace. In the mean time he turned his eyes every now and then towards the window, against which appeared the fine and dignified form of Lord Walton, the light of evening shining full upon his lordly brow and chiselled features, and the sweet profile of Arrah Neil, with the graceful outline of her figure, all in deep shade. The painter seemed speaking eagerly as they listened, and from time to time Charles Walton bent his head or asked a question; while Arrah Neil, her face inclined towards the ground, once or twice raised her handkerchief to her eyes, and seemed to wipe away a tear. At length the painter drew forth from his pocket a small packet (which he placed in Lord Walton's hands), and a slip of paper, which he held while the young nobleman eagerly examined the contents of the packet. They seemed various, some of them being letters and scraps of parchment, some small trinkets. While he gazed upon them all, one after the other, Charles Walton gave them to Arrah Neil--first, however, drawing her arm through his own, as if to support her. Then, taking the paper from Falgate's hand, he attentively read what was written on it; and, turning once more to his fair companion, he kissed her tenderly, adding a few words, the last of which sounded like "my dear cousin."

Lady Margaret Langley caught them and started up, but instantly resumed her seat; and Lord Walton, taking Arrah's hand in his, while he supported her trembling steps with his arm, led her forward to the old lady's chair. The fair girl sank upon her knees, and bent her head before Lady Margaret, while in a low and solemn voice the young nobleman said--

"My dear aunt, it is as you have dreamed. This sweet girl is your child's child."

Lady Margaret said not a word, but cast her arms round Arrah Neil, bent her brow upon her fair neck, and wept in silence; then raised her tearful eyes towards heaven, and sobbed aloud. The old stag-hound, too, as if he comprehended all and shared in all, approached, and with a low whine licked his mistress's withered hand. She speedily grew calm, however, and looking up to her nephew, without taking her arm from Arrah's neck, she asked--

"But is it all true, Charles? Is it all proved? Is she the heiress of my house?"

"Nothing but a few minute links in the chain of evidence are wanting," replied Lord Walton; "and quite enough is proved, my dear aunt, to leave no doubt whatever on our minds, as I will show you, though other papers indeed are wanting at present, which might be needful to establish her rights and legitimacy in a court of law. Whatever may be its decision, however, to us she must be ever our own dear cousin, Arabella Tyrone."

"Ah, no, no!" cried the poor girl, starting up and clasping her hands; "still Arrah Neil to you, Charles--to all of you, still Arrah Neil!"

Lord Walton gazed on her with a look of earnest tenderness, and a faint smile crossed his fine lip. Perhaps he thought that, whatever was her name for the time, she would soon be Arabella Walton; but he would not agitate her more at that moment, and was about to proceed with the account he was rendering to Lady Margaret, when Lord Beverley advanced and extended his arms to Arrah Neil. She gazed upon him in surprise; but he pressed her to his bosom warmly, eagerly, and kissed her brow, exclaiming--

"Fear not, dear child! fear not! The same blood flows in your veins as in mine. I am not deceived, Lady Margaret--her father was my mother's brother. Is it not so?"

"It is," said Lady Margaret. "Ask me no questions yet, my child. He is your cousin, and he and his have forgiven me and mine. I trust that God has forgiven us, and you may have to do so, too, when you hear all. Say, will you do it, Arrah?"

The fair girl fell upon her neck and kissed her; and Annie Walton then claimed her share of tenderness, though to her the tale had been developed more gradually, and was not heightened by surprise.

It was a strange and touching scene, however, even to one who witnessed it, like the poor painter, without any personal interest in the recovery of the lost lamb; and Falgate's eyes were as full of tears as those of the rest, when he was called forward by Lord Walton to give an account of how he had found the packet which he had brought that day. His tale was somewhat confused, and the particulars need not be related here, as the reader is already acquainted with them; but when he spoke of the account given by the good hostess of the inn, and pointed out the facts she had written down--when he detailed his visit to the vault and the opening of the coffin--Lady Margaret Langley sobbed aloud, exclaiming--

"My child! oh, my child! Ah! didst thou die so near me, and no mother's hand to close thine eyes?"

When she had somewhat recovered, however, she took the tokens and the papers which had been found in the coffin, and gazed upon them, one after the other, with many a sad comment. There were two rings she recollected well. One she had given herself, and a small gold circlet for the brow. It was on her child's sixteenth birthday, she said, the last she ever spent within her father's halls. Then she read the certificate of marriage, and a short statement of events, in a hand that she knew too well, wiping the bitter drops from her eyes that she might see the words; and then she kissed the name written below, and, drawing Arrah to her heart, embraced her long. At length she looked round and asked--

"What is there wanting, Charles? All doubt is done away."

"To us it is, my dear aunt," answered Lord Walton; "but the law will require proof that this dear girl, so long called Arrah Neil, is the same as the child whom old Sergeant Neil brought from Hull to Bishop's Merton many years ago. Those proofs, I hope, will soon be found. Indeed, I expected that they would have been brought hither ere now. Some strange delay has taken place, but doubtless some mere accident has caused it; and at all events we are satisfied."

Miss Walton whispered something to her brother as he ended, to which he replied quickly--

"You are right, Annie; I will do it. Stay with my aunt, and cheer her till we return. There is a tale to be told to this dear girl," he said, speaking to Lady Margaret, "which is too sad for you to tell. Let me do it, my dear aunt--I know all the facts."

"Ay, but not the feelings, Charles," replied the old lady; "yet do so if you will. I can tell the rest hereafter, when I am calmer, for this will pass away. I never thought to have shed tears again. I fancied the fountains were dried up. Tell her, Charles, tell her; but not here."

"No; I will speak with her in the dining-hall," replied Lord Walton. "Come, dear Arrah. It is better to perform a painful task at once; and taking her hand he led her from the room."

[CHAPTER XLVI.]

It was a large old hall, lined with black oak. The sun was setting, but setting in splendour; and the rich rosy light poured in through the windows, casting a faint glow upon the old carved wreaths and glistening panels.

"Perhaps," said Lord Walton, as they entered and he closed the door, "I had better order them to bring lights, dear Arrah, for the sun will be down ere my tale is told."

"Oh, no," answered Arrah Neil; "there will be light enough for so sad a story as this must be; and we can sit in this window, where we can see the last look of day."

Her cousin led her to one of those old-fashioned window-seats where many of us have sat in our own youth, and took his place beside his fair companion, gazing with her for a moment upon the evening sky. At length, with a start, as if he had forgotten for a time the cause of their coming, he said--

"But to my tale, Arrah. Many years ago, my poor aunt fancied herself the happiest of women--far from courts and crowds, in the midst of wild scenes that suited her turn of mind, with a husband who loved her deeply, and a daughter whom they both adored. Sir Richard was, however, a soldier of much renown, and in the wars of Ireland he carried Lady Margaret and their child to Dublin. They there became first acquainted with a young Irish nobleman, nearly related to that great man--for I must call him so, though he was a rebel--the celebrated Earl of Tyrone. Your mother was then but a child, dear Arrah, and this nobleman a youth; but after the return of Sir Richard and his wife to Langley Hall he came to visit his eldest sister, who was then married to the Earl of Beverley. Near neighbourhood produced intimacy; but the Irish noble and the English knight differed on many a point--in mere opinion, it is true; but the effect was such, that when the young man asked the hand of the old man's daughter, it was refused with some discourtesy. Lady Margaret herself would not hear of such a marriage, though rank, station, and fortune, all were his; but she loved not to part with her daughter, and still less to part with her for a land which she looked upon as barbarous and full of strife. Your father, Arrah, was rash and vehement, impatient of opposition and easily moved to every daring deed, though generous, kind, and full of honour. He had gained your mother's love, too, and he knew it; and when he left Langley Hall, rejected in his suit, he vowed that six months should not pass ere she should be his bride. Not six weeks went by when, after going out to walk, sad and lonely, as had become her custom, she did not return. Search was made, but she could not be found, and no certain information was to be obtained. One man had heard a distant cry; one had seen a ship hovering on the coast hard by, and several had met a troop of men--strangers, evidently, both from their dress and language--wandering near Langley Hall. A few weeks of terrible suspense passed, and then Lady Margaret received a letter in her daughter's hand, signed 'Arabella Tyrone.' It told of her marriage with him she loved, and that love was openly acknowledged. There was, indeed, a vague hint given that she had not gone willingly, nor intentionally disobeyed her parents; but no details were afforded.

"The answer was written in anger, bidding her neither see them nor write to them more; and Sir Richard, remembering the vow of him who was now his son-in-law, swore that he would find a time to make him beg for pardon on his knees. Years passed ere that bitter vow could be exercised. Your father, for the sake of an adored wife, bent his spirit to sue by letter for forgiveness and oblivion of the past; but that did not satisfy the stern old man, and at length his time came. Fresh troubles broke out in Ireland. Sir Richard Langley received a fresh command; and against your father--then alas! preparing to take arms against the government--he chiefly urged an expedition. That country has always had divisions and feuds in its own bosom; and a party of the enemies of Tyrone were easily found to join their efforts to a small body of regular troops, and guide them through the passes to your father's castle."

"I remember it well," said Arrah Neil, "and the terrace looking to the mountains."

"When Sir Richard found that he whom he sought was absent with his wife and child," continued Lord Walton, "and that there was likely to be the most desperate resistance without fruit, he was inclined to pause, and perhaps might have retreated; but those with whom he was now acting overruled his will. They would not hear of delay or hesitation, with their enemy's hold before them. He remonstrated in vain; the attack commenced; and though he took no part therein, and likewise restrained his men, he had the grief of seeing his daughter's dwelling taken, pillaged, and burned to the ground before his eyes. There, alas! perished, dear Arrah, the poor sister of my friend your cousin; and the sight of her blackened remains, which at first he would hardly believe were not yours, though he had before been told were not there, turned the heart of Sir Richard Langley to more charitable thoughts. He repented bitterly, but the cup of his chastisement was not yet full. Your father, after having seen your mother and yourself embark to seek refuge in Holland, was taken by a party of the old knight's troops, demanded by the government as a state prisoner, and in spite of every effort, remonstrance, prayer, and petition, was tried and executed as a traitor. Pardon me, dear Arrah, that I speak such harsh words, and do so without trying to soften them, for I wish to be as brief as may be."

Arrah Neil wept, but made no answer, and Lord Walton went on:--

"Amongst those who most earnestly entreated for your father's life were Sir Richard Langley and my aunt, Lady Margaret; but those were times, Arrah, when pampered sovereignty had never known the softening touch of adversity, and flatterers and knaves were heard when the honest and true were scorned. Nought availed and the old knight gave himself up to bitter remorse. Your poor mother was sought for, and every post took a letter to some one of those lands which it was supposed she might have visited; but no such person was found, and at length a vague rumour reached Langley Hall that she and her child were dead. Whence it came, what was its foundation, no one could discover; but, as year rolled on after year and no tidings arrived, the report was credited. The old man accused himself of murdering his daughter and her husband; inflicted on himself strange and superstitious punishments; and, though poor Lady Margaret, knowing that her heart was not burdened with the deeds that had taken place, bore her sad bereavement more tranquilly, yet she could not altogether exculpate herself from the charge of harshness, and she shared in all his penitence and took part in all his grief. Though remorse often goes with long life, yet such was not the case here. Sir Richard Langley died after four or five years of unavailing regret, and Lady Margaret remained as you have seen her--changed, very much changed, from what she once was, but yet with fine and noble principles at heart. She was always of a somewhat wild and enthusiastic temper of mind, and that disposition has deviated of late into great eccentricity of character. The thing that she has most loved and cherished, if not the only thing, has been that faithful dog, which was saved when young from the burning castle of your poor father, and which on the night of your arrival displayed such strange signs of recognition."

"Oh, I remember him well now!" replied Arrah Neil: "there was a sunny bank below the terrace, near a small lake, and I used to lie with my little arms round his shaggy neck, and laugh when in play he bit at the curls of my hair. It seems but as yesterday, now that the dark mist has been removed from my memory. But go on, Charles; I do but stop you."

Lord Walton had fallen into a reverie; a sweet one it was, to which he had been led by the picture that she drew of her fair self in infancy. He thought he saw her on the flowery bank, at sport with her rough companion, and he might have paused to gaze long at the pleasant sight, had not her words roused him.

"I have no more to tell, dear Arrah," he replied: "the rest of your fate and history you know better than I do; but yet there is one point----"

He stopped and gazed upon her, as far as the fading light would let him do so, and his heart beat more than he had thought anything on earth could have made it do. Arrah Neil raised her eyes with a look of inquiry to his face; but the inquiry was instantly answered by what she saw there, and with a cheek of crimson she withdrew her glance as soon as it was given.

"Arrah," said Lord Walton, in a low and agitated tone, "I have loved you long--longer, I now find, than I myself have known. Ay, Arrah, I have loved you from childhood; and lately I have thought, have hoped, have dreamed, perhaps, that you loved me."

Arrah Neil was silent for a moment--only a moment; but she did nothing like any one else; and once more raising her eyes to his face, she laid her soft hand on his and asked, "Whom have I ever loved but you?" and then the tears rolled over the long lashes and diamonded her cheek.

Charles Walton had felt in those few brief moments as he had never felt before--as he had never imagined that he could feel. He, the calm, the firm, the strong-minded, had felt timid as a child before the cottage-girl, the object of his long bounty, the partaker of his house's charity; and he knew from that strange sensation how powerful was the love within him; while she, though agitated, though moved, gained from the very pure singleness of the one strong passion which had dwelt in her breast for years, that strength to avow it which he seemed scarcely able to command.

But that avowal, once made on her part--though he knew it, though he could not doubt it before--at once restored him to himself again; and casting his arms round her, he called her his own dear bride.

A few minutes passed in sweet emotions--in words so broken and confused that they would seem nonsense if here written--in signs and tokens of the heart which form a sacred language that ought not to be transcribed. But then Charles Walton spoke of his sister's approaching marriage, and urged that she whom he loved would that day put the seal upon their fate also.

Arrah turned pale and shook her head; and when her lover, with soothing words and kind assurances, sought to remove what he believed to be the mere timid scruples of a young heart to so hasty a marriage, she answered--

"No, Charles, no! It is not that. I would not so ill repay your generous kindness; I would not so badly return my benefactor's love. But I cannot--no, I cannot--I ought not--nay, I dare not unite my fate with yours till all doubt is removed of who and what I am. Oh, Charles! I love you deeply. You know it--you must have seen it; but yet, in truth and deep sincerity, I tell you that, even if you had condescended to wed the poor, wild peasant girl, as you knew her long ago, Arrah Neil had too much love for Charles Walton to let him so degrade himself. No; as your equal by birth, however much inferior in mind and every other quality, I am yours when you will. I will not say a word: I will not plead even for a day's delay; but there must be no doubt--it must be all proved."

"My dearest Arrah," replied her lover, tenderly, "I have no doubt. All is clear--all is proved to me."

"But not to the world, Charles--not to the world," she answered. "You have yourself admitted it; and you must not, indeed you must not urge me, if you would not make me unhappy--unhappy either to refuse aught that you ask or to do that which I think wrong."

Still he would have persuaded, but she gazed at him reproachfully, saying, "Oh, Charles, forbear!" and he felt her heart beat violently beneath his arm.

"Well, then, Arrah," he said in a somewhat mournful tone, "remember, my beloved, you have promised that whenever these papers can be found--and I trust that will be soon--or that your birth be by any other means clearly established, you will be mine without delay."

"The instant that you ask me," replied Arrah Neil; and shortly after Charles Walton led her back to the arms of Lady Margaret Langley. He left her there, hurried out to the houses where his men were lodged, and seeking out old Major Randal, bade him to send a small party in the direction of Bishop's Merton, with orders to inquire for Captain Barecolt at every village on the way.

"In that part of the country," he said, anticipating the old soldier's objections, "I find that the parliamentary party dare not show their faces, and there can be no danger of a surprise. Lord Hertford's people keep the Roundheads down."

"Oh! I have no objection, my good lord," answered Major Randal, drily. "I could as ill spare Barecolt as your lordship, though he has been too much absent from his troop of late; but if it be for his majesty's service, I have nought to say. However, in time of need he always proves himself a good soldier, and in time of idleness he amuses me, which few things do now-a-days. I can hardly make him out yet, after having known him ten years or more; for I never knew any one but himself who was a braggart and a brave man, a liar and an honest one. However, I will send out a party to-night, as your lordship seems anxious."

The old officer went forth to do as he proposed; but Lord Walton did not return at once to his dwelling, as might be supposed. On the contrary, he remained in Major Randal's quarters, buried in deep thought, so intense, so absorbing, that several persons came and went without his perceiving them. For months he had struggled against the passion in his bosom. He had struggled successfully, not to crush, but to restrain it; and like a dammed-up torrent it had gone on increasing in power behind the barrier that confined it, till, now that the obstacle was removed, it rushed forth with overwhelming power. There was an eager, a vehement, an almost apprehensive longing to call her he loved his own, which can only be felt by a strong spirit that has resisted its own impulses. There was a fear that it never would be--a vague impression that some unforeseen impediment, some change, some danger--nay, perhaps, death itself--would interpose and forbid it; and when he roused himself with a start, he resolved to urge Arrah with every argument to cast aside all her scruples and be his at once.

He found her seated by Lady Margaret, the old woman's hand in hers and the stag-hound's head upon her knee, and there evidently had been agitating but tender words passing; for Arrah's eyes were full of tears, though there was a sweet smile upon her lip. Charles Walton was too full of his errand for any concealment: he told Lady Margaret all, and besought her to join her persuasions to his, which she did joyfully. But the fair girl resisted, gently, sweetly, yet firmly, even though he spoke of the chances of his own death. The thought brought bright drops into her eyes again; but still she besought him not to ask her, and looked so mournfully in his face when he seemed to doubt her love, that he was once more forced to yield.

What was it that made her resolute against his wishes--ay, against the dearest feelings of her own heart? There was a dread, a fancy, that if she became Charles Walton's wife, and the proofs of her birth should never be discovered, he might regret what he had done; that he might wish the words unspoken, the bond of their union broken. She did not do him full justice, but the very idea was agony; and though she knew that, whatever he might feel in such a case, he was too generous to let her perceive his regret, yet she saw sufficiently into her own heart to be sure that she should doubt and fear, and that no peace, no joy, would ever be hers, if in her marriage to him there was one cause which could produce reasonable regret.

[CHAPTER XLVII.]

It was a bright sunny morning, when walking forth, as if for some mere morning's excursion, the Earl of Beverley, with Lady Margaret Langley leaning on his arm, and Lord Walton with his sister, took their way to the old church in Shrewsbury. Arrah Neil, with old Major Randal, and one or two of the servants, had gone a different way; for Annie Walton, though the customs of those days were different, did not wish in the midst of civil war, confusion, and bloodshed, to chequer sadder scenes with the spectacle of a gay wedding. One by one they entered the church. There was no gazing crowd to witness. All was quiet, and even solemn; but the bright smile of the morning cheered the fair bride's heart, and lent to imagination an augury of happy hours. The ceremony was soon over; and Lord Walton gave his sister to his friend, undoubtedly with joy and satisfaction; yet he could not refrain one bitter sigh, or forbear from turning his eyes sadly and reproachfully to Arrah Neil; but that glance was met by so tender, so imploring a look from that fair and speaking face, that he easily read in it, that to hold her resolution cost her as much as it cost him.

Four or five days passed after sweet Annie Walton had become the wife of Lord Beverley, and still no news had been received from Bishop's Merton. The king had returned some time before to Shrewsbury; many bodies of men had flocked to his standard; reports favourable to his cause had been rife; risings in his favour on the road to London had been rumoured; and news had been received, that under the very walls of Worcester Prince Rupert's fiery horse had defeated a superior party of the enemy. Every one began to speak of a speedy advance towards the capital, and all seemed glad of the prospect except Charles Walton. At length the order for preparation was given, and all was bustle and activity. Lord Walton proposed to his aunt to remain with her he loved at Shrewsbury, but Lady Margaret answered--

"No, Charles; I will follow you as near as I can; and if I know Arrah aright, she would not stay behind. As soon as you know the direction of your march we will set out, and perhaps may be your harbingers to prepare your quarters for you. I fear not, my dear boy. These Roundheads are not anthropophagi, and will not eat up women and children."

The royal army marched on the following morning, the 12th October; but for ten days Arrah Neil only saw her lover once, at Bridgenorth, and Annie Walton only once saw her husband; for, though the king's leave was given that he should remain for a fortnight more with his bride at Longnar, even love could not keep him from his duty, and love and duty both taught her to follow where he went.

No news was heard of an enemy; the march of the king's force was unopposed, and the only inconvenience that was experienced was the frequent want of good provisions: for the false reports industriously spread by the agents of the parliament induced the people of the country to believe that the Cavaliers plundered wherever they went. Day by day, however, Arrah Neil or her fair cousin received letters or messengers from the army, and this was consolation under any privation; till at length, towards the end of October, the small party of ladies, with the servants that attended them, reached the village of South Newington, a few miles from Banbury, and obtained lodging at a large old farmhouse in the neighbourhood, close on the banks of the little Sarbrook. They were indeed glad to find shelter, for the weather was cold and stormy; and the good farmer received them willingly enough, and prayed the king might prosper; for the vicinity of a parliamentary garrison in Banbury had taught the peasantry, though somewhat late in the day, that gross tyranny can be exercised in the name of liberty, and bitter injustice practised by those who have ever equity on their lips. It was about three in the afternoon when they reached the farm-house, and while hasty preparations were being made for their accommodation, which the extent of the building rendered not very difficult, Arrah Neil stood at the window gazing out upon the fields, the sky, and the stream. Heavy leaden clouds hung overhead, and shut out the blue of heaven and the beams of the sun; a dull grey shower was pouring down upon the earth, dimming the bright colouring of the autumnal foliage; the stream ran turbid, with a sad and solemn murmur, and the hoarse wind howled as it passed the casement. Her thoughts were as gloomy as the scene, and something like the dark shadow which used formerly to come over her seemed to rest upon her spirit. The old stag-hound stalked up and put his muzzle in her hand, but she noticed him not; the servants came and went, but she saw them not; Lady Margaret spoke, but her ears did not catch the sounds. At length Lady Beverley pronounced her name, and Arrah Neil started, for the tones were like those of Lord Walton; and she was turning round to reply when her eye caught sight of two Cavaliers riding into the court. A look of joy instantly spread over her face, and she exclaimed--

"Oh Annie! dear Annie! there is Captain Barecolt, and Charles will be happy now!"

As soon as he could spring from his horse and find his way up the stairs, Captain Barecolt was in the room. He was very pale and very thin, and Annie Walton thought for a moment that he must be the bearer of evil tidings, but his well-satisfied smile soon set her fears at rest.

"What news? what news, sir?" exclaimed Lady Margaret, who had shared the apprehensions of her niece.

"None but what is good, madam," replied the captain. "Lord Walton has honoured me by making me his messenger from Edgecot, where he is now with his majesty. No enemy is near; Banbury is about to be besieged, and consequently cavalry is out of fashion; so we shall have three or four days' repose, for they will doubtless hold out that time for their honour; and, to say truth, I myself shall not be sorry for a little rest, having been let blood pretty sharply since I stood last in this fair presence. I can bear bleeding, methinks, as well as most men, being somewhat accustomed to the process; but this Master Dry, of Longsoaken, was an unskilful leech, and took so much that there was very little left, and I was obliged to lie in bed at Chippenham for ten days."

"But you are wet, Captain Barecolt, and fatigued," said Lady Beverley: "will you take some refreshment?"

"Not before I have done my errand, bright lady," replied the officer; "which is simply to tell you that my Lord Walton and your noble lord will be here with all speed, and to give this packet to another fair lady, in whose cause I have laboured and suffered successfully;" and approaching Arrah Neil, who had been listening with eager attention to every word that fell from his lips, he kissed her hand and gave her her lover's letter.

She took and read it eagerly, while her heart beat fast and her brain almost turned giddy with joy.

My own Beloved (it ran),--Barecolt joined me last night, delayed by accidents which he will tell you. He brings with him all the papers which were plundered from the cottage of poor old Neil; and they, beyond all question, together with the others we possess, establish your birth and your rights. I enclose them for your comfort. Show them to Lady Margaret; and, dearest Arrah, remember the promise that you made to me. We halt here for three days. I will be with you in an hour, not to part with you again till you are the bride of him who loves you more than life.

Charles Walton.

Arrah paused for a moment or two and leaned upon the table. Her hand that held the letter shook, and her cheek glowed; but there was light in her beautiful eyes and a smile upon her sweet lip. Then calmly gliding forward to Lady Margaret, she gave her the papers which her lover's letter had contained, saying, "Now indeed I am beyond all doubt your child."

Then turning to her cousin she placed Charles Walton's letter in her hand, gazing on her face while she read it, with a look calm, but full of many thoughts and feelings. Lady Beverley, when she had done, cast her arm round her, whispering, "My dear Arrah, now I think he has a right to expect----"

"Everything that love and gratitude can prompt," replied her fair companion. "I would not thwart him even in a thought, Annie. To you, sir," she continued, speaking aloud, and addressing Captain Barecolt, "I owe an infinite debt, which I must trust to those who can acquit it better to acknowledge fully and discharge. But indeed, Annie, he needs tendance and refreshment. See, Lady Margaret is moved; will you order him what is needful?"

"By your permission, fair ladies, I will even take care of myself," answered the redoubtable captain: "it is a trade I am accustomed to, I can assure you; and wherever bread and bacon, ale and wine, are to be found, I am quite equal to find them out."

"Pray do, sir; pray do," said Lady Beverley, and Captain Barecolt left them to themselves.

The moments that intervened before the arrival of those who were expected were full of agitation. The papers which Barecolt had recovered from the house of Dry, of Longsoaken, were carefully examined, and the full proofs of Arrah's birth were found beyond all doubt. Amongst the rest were several letters of Lady Margaret and her daughter, and a letter from the husband of the latter to his unhappy wife on the day preceding his execution. Besides these were several documents, showing that the small sum which had been annually paid to Sergeant Nell proceeded from a cousin of the poor girl's father, who had embraced the ecclesiastical profession, and was the abbot of a monastery on the Continent. He, O'Donnell, and old Neil himself; were the only persons entrusted with the secret of Arrah's birth; but it appeared from one of the letters of a late date that the Abbé Tyrone was still living; so that, if any further testimony had been required, he could have furnished it. Beneath these papers was a parchment, freshly written, signed and sealed by the king, and countersigned by the proper officers, reversing the attainder of poor Arrah's father, and declaring the confiscated estates restored. A momentary gleam of light beamed forth upon her dark fate--how soon to be eclipsed again!

Some half-hour was thus consumed, but then the thoughts of all turned happily to the expected arrival of those they loved. Ere an hour after Captain Barecolt's arrival had passed, Arrah Neil placed herself once more at the window to watch for their coming. She had not gazed long through the decreasing light when her ear caught the sound of horses' feet, and in a moment after Charles Walton and the earl, followed by a few servants, rode up at a quick pace. They were accompanied, however, by another gentleman in a black cassock, and a cloak to keep him from the rain, and the poor girl's heart fluttered wildly at the sight. But, still giving way to the impulse, she only paused to exclaim--"Here they are, dear Annie!" and running down to the door, was soon in Charles Walton's arms.

"Dear one! dear one!" said the young nobleman as he pressed her to his heart, reading her deep love in her eyes; "I have come to put you to a trial, my Arrah, and see whether you will keep your promise frankly."

"To the letter, and with pleasure, Charles," replied Arrah Neil, in a low murmur that reached no ear but his.

"To-night?" asked Lord Walton. "The king's chaplain must return. All forms are already cleared away."

"This very hour, if you desire it," answered she whom he loved; "your lightest wish is my law, henceforth till death."

Charles Walton could not reply, but taking her hand he led her to the chaplain, and then conducted him under her guidance to the room above.

We need not pause upon explanations. All was soon arranged and determined. After a brief and sober meal, and with none but one or two of the servants and Captain Barecolt present, the party formed a circle round and the chaplain opened the book. In the silence that succeeded, the howling of the wind and the pattering of the rain were heard, and Arrah Neil turned an anxious glance towards the casement; for, though her bosom was full of deep and strong emotions, there was something in the sound that seemed to connect itself with them. Charles Walton saw but her, thought of her alone; and after a brief pause the chaplain went on. Word by word he read the whole service through; the vow was plighted, the ring was on the finger; and, with joy he had feared that he might never know, Charles Walton held Arrah Neil to his bosom as his wife.

* * * * *

Silence had spread over the world for some hours. It was between two and three in the morning, and as dark as the grave, when first a horse's foot was heard coming at full speed, and then came loud knocking at the door. All those who slept roused themselves, and in a few minutes there were steps upon the stairs. The voice of Captain Barecolt was then heard speaking to the Earl of Beverley.

"The king has sent, my lord," he said, "to order us to draw to a rendezvous on the top of Edgehill, near Kineton. Lord Essex is in force in the valley below, and it is resolved to give him battle. We will cut him to mince-meat."

"Tell Lord Walton," said the voice of the earl--"knock at the opposite door;" but ere Captain Barecolt could follow these directions the young lord came out partly dressed.

"See that the horses be fed instantly, Barecolt," said Charles Walton, "and have them saddled. I will join you in a few minutes," and he retired. His bride rose and cast her arms around him in silence.

"Nay, Arrah, dear Arrah! I must go where my king commands," he said, struggling against the feelings of his own heart.

"I know it, Charles," she answered, in a far calmer tone than he had expected; "I would not keep you for aught on earth. But let me go with you, my dear husband. I shall have no fear; I will stay upon some hill as I did once before, and witness my hero fighting for his king."

"Impossible, impossible, dear girl?" he replied; "this is a very different affair. To-night I trust, in God's mercy, to return and tell you that we have won the victory and regained our monarch's throne. It must be so indeed, my beloved; you know not what you ask."

Arrah paused in sad and silent thought for a moment, and then said, "Well, let me be with you to the last before you go;" and dressing herself hastily she followed him down. Lady Beverley was soon by her side; few words were spoken; all was quick preparation; and ere four o'clock, with pale, anxious faces, those two fair girls took one more embrace, and saw their husbands ride away into the darkness. It had ceased raining, but it was bitter cold, and the wind blew sharply in; yet they gazed forth as long as even fancy could show the receding forms, and then, linked arm in arm, they retired to Lady Beverley's room to pray, each asking her own heart the question she did not dare to utter aloud, "Who will return? who rest upon the field?" There was a faint streak of grey in the sky when they parted, and Annie counselled her fair cousin to lie down and try to sleep.

[CHAPTER XLVIII.]

The morning of Sunday, the 21st of October, broke dull and cold; the grey clouds swept hurriedly over the sky, like charging squadrons, and the wind whistled through the branches of a solitary clump of old beeches, which marked the highest point of the sharp rise called Edgehill. From the brow might be seen a wide open slope, extending down nearly to the little town of Keinton, or Kineton, with some flat meadows at the bottom, having a number of hedges and enclosures on the left as one looked from the hill. On the other side all was at that time open, and the fair undulations of Warwickshire might be seen beyond, the brown woods clothed in a light mist. It was a peaceful and pleasant scene in the grey morning, notwithstanding the coldness and dulness of the day; and very soon after dawn the pale blue smoke began to rise from the early chimneys of the little town, rising slow till it was caught by the wind from the hill, and then hurrying away with a few light rolls and losing itself in air.

Shortly after, a drum was heard to beat below, and then came the blast of a trumpet, and soon troops might be descried forming slowly and quietly in the plain, as if about to commence a safe and easy march. Horse and foot took their places in long line, and here and there officers and camp-followers were seen walking carelessly about, while at the other spots some more rigid disciplinarians might be observed putting their men into better order, and galloping hither and thither in all the bustle of command.

Suddenly, however, some confusion was observed in one part of the plain, where a group of gentlemen on horseback had been visible for some time; and two persons detached themselves from the rest, and rode up at full speed towards the brow of the hill, towards which all eyes were now turned. What saw they there which caused such apparent surprise? It was a small party of horse, not more than twenty in number, which had just moved up from the other side, and now halted, gazing into the valley. There were scarfs, and plumes, and glittering arms amongst them, betokening no peaceful occupation; and after a moment's pause, a trumpeter mounted on a grey horse put his instrument to his lips, and blew a long, loud blast. The next moment fresh heads appeared above the hedge, and troop after troop rode forward, and in fair array took up a position at the summit.

All was changed on the plain below in a moment; activity and temporary confusion succeeded the quiet regularity which before had been observable. The two horsemen who had been detached to the group in front were hurriedly recalled; musketeers were seen filing off to the left; the cavalry was collected on the wings; the foot began to form line in the centre; and the party which had remained a little in advance were discovered moving slowly along quite across the valley, while from time to time a horseman dashed away from it, and seemed to convey orders to this or that regiment in different parts of the field.

Essex was now first aware of the presence of an enemy, and easily divined that he could march no farther without fighting; but it is more with those above that we have to do. Soon after the small body of Cavaliers on the hill had been discovered by the Roundhead army, up came at headlong speed, followed by some eight or ten gentlemen who could pace with him, a fiery-looking youth, with his beaver up and his eye lightening with eager impetuosity. He seemed barely one-and-twenty years of age; but there was on his brow the look of habitual command; and in the quick roll of his eye over the parliamentary army, the sudden pause it made here and there, and then its rapid turn towards another point, one might see how closely he scanned the forces of the enemy--how keenly he observed all that seemed worthy of attention.

"They see us, your highness," said one of the gentlemen who had arrived before him. "They were actually commencing their march when we appeared."

"They would not have marched far, my lord," replied Prince Rupert; "but 'tis as well as it is. There are more of them than I thought, but we must make valour supply numbers. I heard that they had left two regiments behind at Stratford."

"There are, sir, two of infantry and one of cavalry," replied Lord Walton; "but that seems to me the best of all reasons for giving battle as soon as possible."

The very best, answered the prince, with a smile. "Victory is more needful to us than food, and of that we have had no great plenty. But, by my life, there is not a regiment of foot within sight! The foot are sad encumbrances. Would that these times were like the days of old, when every gentleman fought on horseback! We are fallen upon vulgar days."

"I see the head of a regiment amongst those distant hedges," said the Earl of Beverley; "but our quarters were very much scattered last night."

"And some noble persons had fair young wives to visit, my good lord," replied the prince, bowing his head, with a smile.

"True," rejoined the earl; "but yet your highness sees they are not the last in the field; as how should they be, when they have such treasures to defend--such eyes for witnesses?"

The reply suited the prince well; and after some more gay conversation he dismounted from his horse, and seated himself under one of the beech-trees, watching attentively every movement of the enemy, and from time to time pointing out to those around him the measures taken by Lord Essex for defence.

"See!" he said; "he is filling those hedges with musketeers. Aston and his dragoons must clear them. I will not break my teeth upon such stones. He is forming a powerful reserve there, I suppose, under Ramsay or the Earl of Bedford, and he has got all his foot in the centre. Who is that on their left, I wonder? Well, I shall soon know, for I trust it will not be long before I see him closer. Would to heaven these tardy foot would come! We are giving him full time for every arrangement he could desire and you may be sure he will not stir from amongst those hedges till we dislodge him."

But the impatient prince had long to wait, for ten o'clock was near at hand ere the first regiment of royal artillery was on the ground. From that time, indeed, every quarter of an hour brought up some fresh body; but even then the men had marched far and needed some refreshment. All that could be given them was a brief space of repose and some cold water, for provisions were not to be obtained. The soldiery, however, were full of ardour, and many a gay jest and gibe passed amongst those who were never destined to quit that plain.

Amongst other events that have been noticed by historians is the fact that the king's guard, composed entirely of gentlemen volunteers, having heard as they followed the monarch some slight scoffs at their peculiar post near his person, besought him to dispense with their close attendance that day, and obtained permission to charge with the cavalry of Prince Rupert on the right. On the left a smaller body of horse, commanded by Commissary-General Wilmot, and a regiment of dragoons under Sir Arthur Aston, had the task of assailing the right of the parliamentary army, protected as it was by enclosures lined with musketeers; and to this service the small corps of the Earl of Beverley was also assigned. Lord Walton fought upon the right under the prince; and but one regiment of cavalry, led by Sir John Byron, was kept back as a reserve.

One o'clock had passed, when at length, after a short consultation with the Earl of Lindsay, the king commanded his forces to march slowly down the hill towards Kineton. The distance was considerable; and before the ground was reached on which it was thought advisable to begin the battle, the day had so far advanced that some old and experienced officers suggested a delay till the following morning. But sufficient arguments were not wanting to show that Essex must gain and his sovereign lose by such a course. The troops, too, were eager to engage; and a very general belief prevailed that few of the parliamentary regiments would really be brought to fight against their king. In the confusion of all accounts, it is hardly to be discovered how the battle really commenced; but certain it is that Prince Rupert burst into fury at the very thought of delay, and that his force of cavalry first commenced the fight by charging the left of the enemy. As he was waiting to give the word, with all his blood on fire at the thought of the approaching strife, he remarked Lord Walton twice turn round and gaze towards the hill in the rear, and he asked, in a sharp tone. "What look you for, my lord? Soldiers ever should look forward."

Charles Walton's brow became as dark as night, and it cost him a moment's thought ere he could reply with calmness--

"I looked, sir, for one I thought I saw upon the hill as we moved down; and as to the rest, Rupert of Bavaria has never been more forward on the field, nor ever will be, than Charles Walton. But there is other matter to attend to now. See you that regiment of horse advancing to the charge?"

The prince looked round, and beheld a considerable body of the enemy coming on at a quick pace, pistol in hand. He raised his sword above his head, about to speak the word; but at that moment the opposite party discharged their shot into the ground, and galloping on wheeled their horses into line with the Cavaliers. A buzz ran through the ranks of "Fortescue! Fortescue!" "He was forced to join the Roundheads;" "Many more are in the like case;" and at the same moment the cry of "Charge!" was heard; and, hurled like a thunderbolt against the mass of the enemy's cavalry on the left, with the prince at their head, the gallant force of Cavaliers rushed on. A fire, innocuous from the terror and confusion with which it was directed, was opened upon their advancing line; but ere swords crossed, the parliamentary cavalry of the left wing, with the exception of one small body, turned the rein and fled. The Cavaliers thundered on the flank and rear; men and horses rolled over together, and foremost in the fight, wherever a show of resistance was made, was the bridegroom of a day.

"Lightning and devils!" cried Captain Barecolt, who followed hard upon his steps. "See what love will make a man do! He has distanced the prince by six horse-lengths, and he will have that standard in a minute. Come, my lord, let a man have his share."

On, on they rushed, pursuers and pursued, along the plain, over the hill; down went steel jack, and buff coat, and iron morion. Some turned at last to strike one stroke for life, but still the fiery spurs of Rupert and of Walton were behind them, and Edgehill field was far away when the prince himself cried--

"Halt! Sound to the standard! Stay, Walton, stay you have outstripped me indeed."

Lord Walton drew his rein, but he raised not his visor,[^[1]] for he felt that he was pale.

"Methinks we are too far from the field, your highness," he replied. "I will ride back with speed, for my men have followed close behind me, while you rally the rest and bring them up. I fear some mischance, for the king is without guards."

"Go, go!" said the prince, instantly perceiving the error that had been committed; "I will come after with all speed. Sound trumpet! Sound trumpet! Sound to the standard!"

"Call them back, Barecolt, and follow!" exclaimed Lord Walton. "Old Randal is as mad as any of us. Bring him back quick. I fear we have spoiled the best day's deeds England has seen for long;" and gathering together what men he could, he spurred headlong back towards the field. Captain Barecolt followed on his steps, and he thought he saw the young lord waver somewhat in the saddle; a stream of blood, too, was trickling down his scarf from his right shoulder, and spurring on his horse to Charles Walton's side, he said, "You are wounded, sir; you are badly wounded! Let me lead you to----"

But at that moment the field of battle came again before their eyes, and Lord Walton exclaimed--

"Is this a time to talk of wounds? Look there!"

The aspect of the scene had indeed greatly changed from what it had been some half-an-hour before, when Wilmot and Aston on the left, and Rupert on the right, were driving the Roundhead cavalry before them. Firm in his position stood the Earl of Essex with his foot. His reserve of horse had come down and were charging the royal infantry. The right wing, the left, and the reserve of Charles's horse were far away, pursuing the flying foe; and the monarch himself with his two sons, only guarded by a small force of mounted Cavaliers, who had been too wise and loyal to follow the rash example set them by the prince appeared nearly surrounded by the parliamentary cavalry under Sir William Balfour.

As Lord Walton reappeared upon the field, the royal standard wavered and fell, and in the midst of the fierce fire that rolled along the front of the enemy's line, he charged upon the flank of Balfour's horse to rescue his sovereign from the peril he was in. As they galloped up, however, the standard rose again, and Essex's reserve began slowly to retire upon the infantry; but still the young nobleman urged on his little troop upon the retreating force; some fifty gentlemen detached themselves from the small body that surrounded the monarch, and charging in front, and cutting their way clear through, Charles Walton and Francis of Beverley met in the midst of the mêlée.

"How goes it, Charles?" said the earl, with a glad voice. "If the prince would but return we would have a glorious victory!"

"He is coming quickly," replied Lord Walton. "Rally your force with mine, Beverley, for one more charge;" and in another minute they were again in the midst of the retreating rebels.

At the same moments in sad confusion and disarray, came back Prince Rupert's Cavaliers. Discipline, and order were lost amongst them. Officers were without men, and men without officers. Some few joined the troops of Lord Beverley and Lord Walton.

But night was falling. Sir William Balfour led his horse in between the regiments of infantry steadily and skilfully, then turned to face the enemy; and the earl, finding that nothing could be effected without a larger force, retreated and galloped up to Prince Rupert, who now stood near the king, to urge one decisive charge upon the centre of the parliamentary line. The prince received him coldly, however--perhaps from a consciousness that he himself had done amiss; and some one suggested that the king should leave the field, pointing out how firmly Lord Essex kept his ground.

"For shame! for shame!" cried the earl. "The victory might still be ours, but certainly it is not his; and as long as his majesty remains, it cannot be so. The greater part of our foot is unbroken; our horse is victorious; and, whoever quits the field, I will remain upon it, dead or alive."

"And I too, most certainly, my lord," said Charles. "I will never do so unkingly an act as to forsake them who have forsaken all to serve me. There is no look of victory on my Lord of Essex's side. We keep the field. Let them advance to attack us if they dare. Take measures to withdraw those cannon from that little mound; restore what order may be, for night is falling fast; and set a sure guard, that we be not surprised."

For some time the discharge of musketry, which was still going on, continued upon both sides; but gradually, as the darkness increased, it slackened, revived, slackened again, fell into dropping shots, and then fires began to appear along the line of either army, while all the confusion and disarray which ever succeeds a drawn battle, where the combatants are only parted by the night, took place on either part. Hours were spent in giving some sort of order to the royalist forces; officers sought their men, soldiers looked for their officers, rumours of every kind were spread, and many accidents and misadventures happened, which cannot here be told.

But there was one sad subject of thought that occupied many a mind--"Who had fallen? Who remained wounded on the field?" It was impossible to discover; for the confusion was so great that no one knew where the other was to be found. Lord Beverley, however, had seen Charles Walton almost to the latest moment of the strife, and in sending off a messenger to Newington, to inform his fair bride of his own safety, he ventured to add that her brother also had escaped the slaughter of the day. About midnight, however, as he was lying by a fire, he heard a step approach, and looking up he saw Barecolt beside him.

The soldier's eyes gazed round the group, which lay in the glare, and before the earl could speak he said--

"So he is not here?"

"Do you mean Lord Walton?" asked the earl.

"Ay, to be sure, my lord," replied Barecolt. "I have been seeking you these two hours, and now we had better go and seek him, for depend upon it he is on the field. He was badly wounded with a shot in the side in that first charge, and he got another in the last; but perhaps he is not dead yet. The night is cold, and that staunches blood."

"We have no lights," said the earl, a cold foreboding coming over his heart. "Stay--the moon will be up in half-an-hour. Where saw you him last?"

"Within half musket-shot of the second regiment on the right," answered Barecolt: "we had better wait, too, till the moon rises. She will give some light, if she do not even chase the clouds; and yet I would fain go soon, for I have strange doubts."

"Of what?" asked the earl.

"Nay, I do not well know," replied the soldier; "but I know one thing--that sweet lady of his was not so far from the field as he wished and others thought. Just as we were moving down, I saw her or her ghost, and a countryman with his hand upon her horse's bridle, as if leading him over the rough ground on the left. Her lord saw her, too, or I am mistaken, for he more than once turned to look, and there were words between him and the prince about it."

The earl put his hand to his brow, in that sort of painful dread which, without taking any definite form, hangs like a dark cloud over the whole range of destiny.

"You saw her near the field?" he said; "you saw her here? When was this?"

"Why, I told you, my good lord--just as we were moving down, about one of the clock," answered Captain Barecolt; "but there is a little cottage, where a shepherd lives, up along the edge of the hill. Perhaps she has taken refuge there; or, it may be, she has gone back."

"God grant it!" said the earl; "I will send up to the cottage to see if she be there."

Barecolt, however, undertook the task himself, saying that in such a piercing night the walk would warm him. But he found the cottage deserted, and though there was sufficient light to guide him back to the spot where the Earl of Beverley lay, the moon did not show herself all night, the darkness remained as profound as ever, neither lantern nor torch could be procured, and it was perfectly hopeless to attempt a search under such circumstances. Weary hour by hour passed away beside the fire, till it died away for want of fuel; but still, notwithstanding all the fatigue that they had endured, Lord Beverley and his companion sat wakeful till the dawn of morning, and during their conversation Barecolt showed a depth of feeling and an interest in the fate of Charles Walton and Arrah Neil which raised him much in the opinion of the earl. As soon as the first grey streaks announced the coming day, Lord Beverley was on horseback with his troop; but there before him stood the parliamentary army, reinforced, rather than diminished, since the night before. It was impossible to approach the part of the field where Lord Walton had last been seen except with a large force; but four pieces of the enemy's artillery were seen, considerably in advance of their line in that direction; and at the suggestion of Barecolt the earl asked and obtained leave to make a charge with his own troop and that of Major Randal, to endeavour to capture some of the cannon. This, as is well known, was effected early in the morning, without much loss or opposition; but the chief object of the earl, the discovering of his friend's body, could not be accomplished.

The rest of the events of that day are familiar to every one. The greater part of the morning was spent in consultations on the royalist part, and in fruitless endeavours to induce the officers to make one great effort against the enemy, till, towards evening, both armies began to retire, the first movement of retreat being made by the parliament forces, which were followed for a considerable distance by the royalist cavalry.

For ten miles the Earl of Beverley joined in the pursuit, but then obtained leave to return to the field, and his sad search began.

It was long protracted, and night was again beginning to fall when a low fierce growl, as he walked along one of the hedges on the right, called his attention to a pit which had been dug at the foot of a small oak tree. A little path ran down amongst some bushes, and hurrying along it, with Barecolt and several of his men, he reached the bottom.

There they found two or three wounded soldiers, who had dragged themselves thither to die; but in the midst was the saddest sight of all. Prone upon the ground, with the head uncovered, lay the body of Charles Walton; but that head was pillowed on the arm of poor Arrah Neil. Her lips seemed to have been pressed upon his, for her fair face had fallen forward upon his neck, and her bosom rested on his steel cuirass, while her left arm hung over him, the hand half clasping his right. Beside them, gazing down upon the poor girl, with drooping ears and tail, stood the gaunt stag-hound, and the faithful beast turned fiercely upon the first man who approached. He recognised the earl, however, and took a step or two forward towards him with a faint howl, and then returned and gazed again on her with whom he had sported in her childhood.

Lord Beverley knelt down and gently took her hand: it was cold as ice; but there was a keen frost, and he touched her cheek, removing the rich ringlets of her hair, which had fallen over her face. There was some warmth left; and raising her in his arms he directed her to be carried into the little town of Kineton, now in possession of the royalist cavalry, with the body of her husband.

But Arrah never spoke again. It was evident that she had come in time to receive the last breath of him she loved, for the fingers of Lord Walton's left hand were found tightly closed upon her garments; but how she had found him, or when, could not be discovered. All that was ever learned was, that one of the ploughmen of the farm at Newington had guided her to Edgehill, and that from the summit she had witnessed the battle below; but at night, as she would not return, the man had left her, and all the rest was darkness. Every effort was made to recal her to herself, but all was in vain; and in about two hours after she had been removed to Kineton, the last feeble spark of life that was left went out; and she was buried in the same grave with her husband, in less than a week from her marriage-day.

Such was the fate of one of the fairest and the gentlest of human beings. It would be a sad fact, that virtue and good conduct, that the highest qualities of the mind and the heart, cannot always command success or ensure happiness but that we have the grand assurance, both in God's Word and in God's goodness, that there is a place where there is compensation and reward. That the very brightest and the very best of human efforts often do not obtain their recompense here, has been admitted by the most sceptical of philosophers as a strong evidence of a future state. Our hopes and expectations are founded on a higher and better basis, and we are permitted to see, even in the sorrows of the good, the trial of that faith which is the assurance of immortality.

We might well close our history here, and close it in sadness; but, as there are almost always some mitigating circumstances in the course of disastrous events, we may be allowed to take off a little from the tragic character of the conclusion of this tale by speaking of the after history of other persons who have figured in the scene; and the reader is always anxious more or less to hear the ultimate fate of those in whom he has taken an interest.

To speak of the more important personages, then:--In the first place, it may well be supposed that the Earl of Beverley mourned sincerely for his friend, and his grief was somewhat aggravated by the powers of imagination; for the fact that his persuasions had been the immediate cause of Lord Walton joining the royal standard connected itself closely with the dream which he had had in prison, and brought a shadow over him whenever the events of the day gave him time for thought. He himself went safely through all the scenes of the civil war, remaining uninjured, except from a slight wound which he received at Long Marston Moor. His fair lady followed him as closely as was possible throughout the whole of those eventful times, and she was as happy as unchanging love and affection could make her amidst the disasters of her country and the overthrow of the royal house to which she was attached. The fall of her brother and the death of his gentle bride affected Annie Walton deeply, and it was long ere she regained the original cheerfulness of her character; but that cheerfulness depended as much upon principle as upon mood, and instead of encouraging grief, she made every effort to regain her serenity.

After the total ruin of the Cavalier party, the earl and his wife retired to France, and continued to live there in almost total seclusion till the restoration of the house of Stuart brought them back to their native land, where, though they met with the neglect which, in those days, as it is in all, was too frequently the reward of good services, they bore it with perfect indifference, happy in mutual affection, and requiring nothing else to complete their felicity.

A short time before they quitted England, Lady Margaret Langley had left the troublous scene in which they were still moving, for the repose of that quiet mansion which she had long looked to only as a place of rest. But there is still one personage of whose after history we must say a few words. Captain Deciduous Barecolt continued to serve the king as long as any services could be available, and in no point or particular did he derogate from his high-established character. He fought as well, he drank as deeply, he lied as vigorously as we have seen him do in the past narrative; and, though in the succeeding wars he got into a thousand scrapes, in which it required all the genius of a Barecolt to extricate his neck from the halter or his throat from the knife, he contrived, with marvellous ingenuity, to find his way out of circumstances which would have overwhelmed any common man. Nor was he absent from Worcester field; on the contrary, some have asserted that he was taken prisoner on that occasion, and contrived to deceive the keenness of Cromwell himself. Certain it is, that after the restoration of Charles II. Barecolt returned to England, presented himself at Bishop's Merton, put in a claim to the property of Mr. Dry, of Longsoaken, as the direct heir of old Nicholas Cobalter, and having proved that the will under which Mrs. Cobalter had possessed his uncle's property was a forgery, he established such a debt against the estate of Mr. Dry as speedily rendered him the master of Longsoaken. There he continued to reside with an elderly man named Falgate, who played the character, partly of dependant, partly of attached friend, till he had well-nigh reached the age of eighty years, when, with a form somewhat bowed, a face somewhat white, and a nose which had gradually turned from red to blue, Colonel Barecolt, of Longsoaken, sank quietly into the grave, his last words being, "The pottle-pot's empty, Diggory."