Traitor or patriot?

by Mary C. Rowsell

CHAPTER XXII

Our sovereign lord the king,
Whose word no man relies on;
He never said a foolish thing,
And never did a wise one.

The king's private apartments in his ramshackle, patched-together, wandering old hunting-lodge, presented a vastly different scene from the like sacred precincts by courtesy misnamed "private" at Whitehall. There up to his bed-rails all was buzz and bustle; here in Newmarket his love of ease, and his good-will and pleasure, were so far consulted and respected that the swarm of courtly hangers-on was kept at bay by those velvet hangings; and Lee heard not a sound in the corridor they had entered but the rustling of the ladies' gowns and the echo of his own footfall.

Pausing before a door about midway along the right-hand wall of the corridor, and which bore on its heavy ebony panels the gilded royal cognizance and initials, the queen pushed it open with her own hand, and, followed by her companions, entered the apartment beyond. It was an oblong chamber, sparsely lighted at its further end by a couple of tall windows, in whose deep recesses some half-dozen lackeys were yawningly watching what might be going on in the courtyard below. At sight, however, of the queen they hurried into rank, and proceeded to throw open with much ceremony another double door, which brought them into a room, or rather vestibule of circular form, panelled with looking-glass deeply sunken in heavy gilded scrollwork, and which reflected in ghastly distorted fashion the gaudy elephantine ugliness of the crimson silk and ormolu furniture of the latest French fashion, ranged formally round the windowless walls; for the light of heaven only found its way into this dreary apartment through the blue and orange-coloured panes of a skylight let into the centre of its painted domed roof.

The King's chambers.

Here the queen paused; and having with a gesture dismissed the lackeys, and desired her ladies to await her return, she passed on alone with Lawrence Lee into a long straight corridor, richly carpeted and lighted by bull's-eye windows of coloured glass not larger than those of a ship's cabin. The silence and tortuous ways of the place oppressed Lee's senses like a nightmare dream; and he began to think that a guide through its dim passages was not altogether a mere courtly superfluity, but rather a thing of absolute necessity. "I'd sooner undertake to be finding my way for the first time through our hornbeam maze at home than in and out of all these crinkum-crankums," thought he; "and if this be your King Charles's merry court, give me the Nether Hall kitchen."

Under the royal eye.

A silvery peal of merriment, that rippled like dancing water on the sonorous laughter of men's voices, dispelled Lee's too hastily formed conclusions. He glanced at the queen. Was it his fancy? or did a shadow momentarily darken the composure of her face as she lifted the gorgeously embroidered Indian silk hangings before which they now stood, and with a sign to Lee to keep close, stepped over the threshold of a low-ceiled but spacious chamber, whose wainscot of ebonized wood was enriched with paintings, and gilded carved reliefs of fruit and flowers entwining emblems of the chase. Here at all events was no lack of life; for the apartment was thronged with persons of both sexes, and all so engrossed in talk and merriment that they did not observe the entrance of the queen, until it was marked by the quick glance of one pair of eyes, which all the others had a trick of following, despite their seeming carelessness. The expression in the face of the owner of these eyes, who was seated near the fire which burned upon the hearth curiously built into one of the corners of the room, soon brought to their senses the merry company nearest the door; and, subsiding into a decorous gravity, they fell apart into a sort of double thickset hedgeway of feathers and furbelows reaching clear up to the stone-canopied fireplace, whose logs, burning brilliantly between the brazen dogs, cast their light upon the swarthy countenance of King Charles the Second, where he sat leaning carelessly back in a tall carved elbow-chair, attired in a hunting suit of darkest olive velvet.

"Your majesty is astir betimes this morning," he said, rising a little hurriedly, and addressing the queen in tones which were not wanting in courtesy, if they might be in cordiality. "You have been to church?" he added, glancing at the little book in her hand.

The queen bowed her head. "'Tis the feast of my patron saint, Catharine, your majesty will remember," she said.

"Odds fish!" ejaculated Charles, vexedly cud gelling his brows, for he had in no wise remembered; and a flush of something like compunction crossed his swarthy features. "You have our hearty wishes, Catharine, for its many happy returns."

A lightless smile curved the queen's lips as she acknowledged with a deep inclination of her head the chorus of voices endorsing this tardy felicitation.

The King's breakfast.

"And now," continued Charles with a gesture of his hand towards the breakfast tables, glittering in their costly confusion, while his eyes travelled rather regretfully down over his long buff riding-boots, "does not your majesty propose to stay and breakfast with us? It is true—"

"That you have breakfasted," interrupted the queen with another faint smile. "Nay, I take it my absence will be more esteemed. Oh! no protests, gentlemen," she went on, lifting her hand as the polite chorus was repeated, "for I perceive, as to be sure I only anticipated, that you are all booted and spurred for your day's pleasure. And I had no intention of coming here to—to spoil it. But on my way from chapel this young gentleman—" and she made a motion towards Lawrence Lee—"a supplicant for a word with your majesty,—crossed it. And though some of your majesty's people would have denied him, his business—"

"Business!" groaned the king, sinking down again into his chair with a cavernous yawn.

"Was urgent, he said."

"We have no leisure for it;" and Charles's black brows knitted with angry impatience. "Let him carry it to Whitehall."

"He says," persisted Catharine, "that it concerns your majesty personally."

"Then its standing over can give the less offence. If we alone are concerned—"

Lawrence speaks out.

"We!" cried Lee, breaking to the front and sending all ceremony to the winds, and his bashfulness after it. "We! 'Tis there all the whole matter lies. 'Tis just because your majesty is 'We,' and never can be 'I.' The King is England, and England is the King!"

Charles's brow relaxed into an expression of amused curiosity at the earnestness of the speaker. "Your sentiments are loyal at all events," he said, as his dark eyes considered the young man's appearance from beneath their heavy lids. "Are we to feel assured that your heart is no traitor to them?"

Lee blushed. "'Tis my heart," he replied, "that bids me entreat your majesty to hear me."

"And a sweet heart I think it must be, by my faith, and your red cheeks," merrily laughed the king. "And a brave honest meaning one, I will not doubt. But we have seen too many shadows and mumbo-jumbos in our life, to be afraid of them. And," continued the king, glancing round at the company, all ready equipped for their expedition, "we are detaining these gentlemen, and the ladies too, from their pleasure."

"They could be spared," hopefully said Lee, who desired nothing better than to speak alone with the king.

Suspicion.

"But it is suspicious indeed—this!" cried a beautiful Frenchified-looking lady, coming close up beside Charles, and darting angry glances on the young farmer from her brilliant eyes. "His majesty loves not so well tête-à-têtes with persons of your condition," she added in haughty tones.

"He might hold them with less honest folks, madam," returned the queen still more haughtily. "And he asks not your leave, I doubt, to speak with his own English-born subjects."

"Come, come!" said the king, as the lady at his side poutingly drew a step back; "this grows troublesome. What is the bottom of your business with us, my good friend?"

"Treason!" curtly answered Lawrence.

"Soho! And assassination to follow—eh? The old parrot screech," he went on, as Lee nodded. "Some new plot to rid the world of our sacred presence. Is that it?"

"And of his Grace of York's, your majesty's august brother."

"Why, that of course," laughed Charles, casting a mischievous glance at a sombre-browed gentleman seated near his own chair; "for to a dead certainty no man in England would take my life to make thee king, James."

"Then," said the duke, accepting his brother's jest with a sullen smile, "if this young man is to be trusted—"

"Ay, ay, IF," chorused several of the impatient company. "There your grace hits the bull's-eye. IF."

"We are both doomed men," imperturbably concluded the duke. "And when," he added, addressing Lee, "is this to be?"

"Ten days hence. On your return from this place."

Charles wakes up.

"Ods-fish! So they would take us red hot in our pleasures, would they? The scurvy crew! and where, prithee?" demanded Charles.

"Near by Hoddesdon. Over against the Rye House."

"The Rye House! Is not that how they call the ancient moated place that looks upon Master Izaak Walton's favourite old hostelry on the banks of the Lea?"

"The same, your majesty."

"And belongs, if we mistake not, to one Rum—Rum—"

"—bold. Richard Rumbold, a maltster."

"Ay; a prick-eared, Puritan-looking, malignant of a fellow, your majesty," interposed a twinkling-eyed gentleman, "who owns 'one daughter, passing fair,' as the dull old person does in the dull old play we all went to sleep over, a week or two since. Yes, yes; I remember her charming face well, and how the old curmudgeon came and dragged her in, sans cérémonie, from the little postern in the big red wall, where she was standing as pretty a framed picture as Lely or Sir Godfrey might make, to see your majesty's coach pass by. I' faith! I recall her well."

"And your memory on such points is a proverb, my Lord of Dorset," laughed the king; "but in truth I remember myself thinking the picture so exquisite, that I intended asking who she was of the good hostess of the King's Arms, one Mistress—Mistress—"

A slip in a name.

"Sheppard," prompted Lee.

"Ay, Sheppard, to be sure. A murrain befall me for forgetting the name of one who always professes such loyalty. Professes, friend," added the king in a significant tone.

"'Tis but the expression of what her heart feels," replied Lawrence warmly. "Mistress Sheppard is as loyal as the sign that hangs before her door. Though for Master Sheppard—h'm, well, 'tis no matter," and Lawrence came to a dead halt.

"We like not half-told tales, friend," sternly said the duke. "What of this fellow Sheppard?"

"Nothing, I assure you, sir—my lord—your highness," floundered Lee. "Nothing. He is a man of straw, a poor weathercock of a creature a lamb could not fear."

"Then whom the plague are we to fear?" demanded Charles testily.

"Not the old gentleman, I suppose, who fathers the pretty daughter, and hasn't a thought beyond her, and his rye-sacks, and his homily books, if his face goes for anything. Faith! 'twas as sour looking as if't had risen out of his own yeast tubs!" cried the earl.

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the company, who made a point of always greeting the very smallest sally of my Lord of Dorset's wit with shouts of laughter.

"Not he, friend?" said the king, who had not failed to remark Lee's silence and slightly confused downcasting of the eyelids during Lord Dorset's speech. "By the by," he went on, still scanning the young man's face and figure with a sort of indolent curiosity, "what may be your name? All this time we have not heard that. Who may you be?"

A reminder.

"Lawrence Lee, of the Nether Hall Farm by Hoddesdon," answered Lee proudly. "My father served your majesty's father well. Though, 'tis possible, your majesty may not recall his name."

Short memory on such points, even when such services touched still closer home, and had been rendered to himself, was far from uncommon in Charles. Notwithstanding, his dark eyes kindled genially as he continued to look at the young man, and the bantering smile grew softer. "And Nether Hall," he said, "neighbours the house of Master Rum—Rum—how the plague did the fellow come by such a heathenish name?"

"'Tis fortunate," said the irrepressible Earl of Dorset, "that so fair a damsel as his daughter is scarce like to wear it to the end of her days."

"Nay," said the king, holding up a rebukeful finger at the earl, as he noted Lee's flushing cheek, and the ill-pleased gnawing of his nether lip; "that quite clearly concerns not our deciding; for here we have, it seems, a question of treason, and this pretty Mistress—Mistress—"

Sorry jesting.

"Ruth," said Lee in a low tone; "Ruth is her Christian name."

"I' faith! and such a sweet one, too, that it covers all the sinning of her father's—"

Lee started. "I said not—"

"You interrupt," smiled the king; "'twould go hard indeed for us all if fair Mistress Ruth should prove traitress."

"Your majesty has not a loyaller heart in all your kingdom than Ruth Rumbold," said Lee, conquering down his agitation.

"Say you so?" merrily returned the king; "then with such fair ladies for our champions, how can we fear the blackest treason in all Hertforshire? Here we have valiant Mistress Sheppard on one side of the road, and the loyal Mistress of the Rye House on the other—"

"Nay, be serious, Charles," frowned the duke, out of all patience at his brother's levity.

"Pah! I cannot," as impatiently returned the king, taking as he spoke a pair of riding-gloves from the table, and beginning to draw them on. "These would-be scares sicken one. 'Tis like the shepherd crying wolf."

"And when the real one came at last—" began the duke.

The royal pleasure.

"Ods-fish, man. For pity's sake, let us have no more of this," interrupted the king. "The lad means honestly enough, no doubt. But he has been picking up some ale-house tale, and got a nightmare of it, depend on't. Stay you, my dear brother, if you will, to hear it out. And hark you, when 'tis ended, don't forget to see the lad falls to and picks up a good breakfast for his melancholy entertainment of your grace. Do you propose to accompany us this morning, Catharine?" he continued, turning to the queen.

"If your majesty commands," she answered, in slow almost hesitating tones, and as if her thoughts were elsewhere engaged.

"Nay, not command, Catharine," said the king; "but we do not forget it is your patron saint's day," he added, in tones that conveyed also a strong intimation of his will; "and it is our pleasure."

"And that is mine," said the queen, too well content to hesitate longer.

CHAPTER XXIII.
"DID YOU NOT KNOW?" SHE SAID.

Slowly the gatehouse clock tolled out the hours succeeding Lawrence's departure. Terrible and solemn ones they were for Ruth, maintaining her solitary watch beside the secret panel where the wounded man lay, with eyes closed, and now breathing heavily, now catching feeble gasping breaths, so feeble that more than once Ruth thought life had left him.

She had done her best, poor Ruth, and like any Lady Bountiful of treble her years, had got out her little stock of salves and simples and old linen rag, and gently and tenderly dressed the gaping wound; but it was all of just as much and no more use than the endeavours of the skilfullest doctors would have been.

"I am past thy surgery, child," he said in feeble but distinct tones, when towards two o'clock he stirred a little and opened his eyes. "The knife did its work. But give me a drink—ay, a cordial if you have it in your store. So," and he eagerly drank the contents of the little cup which Ruth filled from a flask upon the table, and shouldering himself feebly on his right side, his eyes wandered wistfully round the shadowy chamber as if in search of something, and rested at last on a little table of carved oak, bearing materials for writing. "Bring it here," he said. "Yes, that is well," he went on, as Ruth, marking his wish, even before he had given it utterance, brought the table beside the panel and set it close within his reach. "For I have a message to leave behind me, and my hours are numbered. My minutes belike," and his eyes closed; but in a few seconds he opened them again, and stretched out a trembling hand. "Quick!" he went on. "Pen and paper, dear child, as thou'rt a God-fearing maiden, and hop'st for heaven at last."

The dying man.

"As you do," gently murmured Ruth, spreading the paper as well as she could out upon the narrow bed, and placing the pen in his hand. "As you do, dear Master Goodenough."

"Nay," moaned the dying man. "Sin lies heavy on my soul."

"But God is love, dear Master Goodenough," said Ruth, dashing aside the tears that blurred her sight.

"Who taught thee thy creed?" said the sheriff, wonderingly fixing his hollow eyes on her pitying face. "'Tis none of the master's of this house, for his is a gospel of wrath, and of vengeance for our ill deeds."

"'I will have mercy and not sacrifice.' Does not the Bible say that, Master Goodenough? and the Lord Christ, did not He say 'There is joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth.'"

A last message.

"I doubt," murmured the wounded man, "had I been thy pupil, I had not been in this plight now." Then he gazed down at the blank paper, and thoughtfully setting the pen to it, while Ruth knelt upon the floor beside him and held the lamp close, began to write. "'I Thomas Goodenough, being now at the point of death'—Thy lamp burns very dim, there is a mist about it," he went on, labouring at his self-imposed task, while Ruth trimmed the flame, and made it shine brightly enough, but it remained only a poor dim thing enough for the eyes that never on this world's sea or shore, would see the light again—"'by the hand of the man, Richard Rumsey, who has thus now destroyed my body, as first he did my soul—'

"As first he strove to do that," amended Ruth, watching the words, as one by one the labouring tremulous fingers produced them.

"Take you the pen, and alter it then if you can write, for my hand will not reach to't," said Goodenough, "and may it be as you say, little one," he went on, a gleam of something like content breaking upon his pallid lips as Ruth took the pen, and neatly wrote in her little amendment between the crooked-back up-hill-and-down-dale lines. "'As first he strove to ruin my soul, by—' Nay, but write on, and I will sign—quick—'by fair and reasonable seeming words; persuading me to enrol myself into the foul plot which hath been hatched for the making away of the persons of His Majesty, and of His Majesty's Brother, James, Duke of York; thereby.' Hast thou it all down? 'thereby,'" continued Goodenough, as Ruth nodded, "'to rid the country of the race of Stuarts; and to set up rulers of their own choosing.'"

"Choosing," said Ruth as she wrote the last word.

A tale of murder.

"'It now appeareth,' went on Goodenough after a brief silence, 'by this night's work, that there has further been intended the compassing of the murder of the king, and of his brother, by these bloody-minded men'—write on, child, quick, quick!" Ruth's hand trembled cruelly, and a huge drop of ink fell from her pen; but she wrote on: "'by their waylaying of the coach in which the king shall return from Newmarket;' where's the cup, child? give me another drink. Now, thy pen again—stay, my brain grows confused—ay, from Newmarket, 'upon the by-road which runs by the Rye House, over against Hoddesdon, and there stopping the coach by the overturning of a cart across the narrow way, to shoot the guards from the hedges, and so in cold blood to kill the king and his brother.' Hast thou that all down in black and white?"

"Yes," answered Ruth, though in sober truth the characters glared fiery red from the fair white paper in her fevered eyes.

"'And hereby,' faltered on the dying man, 'I, with these my last perishing breaths do declare, that of the forty conspirers in this plot, I take not upon myself to single out the more guilty, and murderously disposed ones; save only that my own soul is innocent of all desire and intent to shed blood; and furthermore I do desire to state, that of those plotters who gathered this night to discuss the ways and means for His Majesty's death, the young man Lawrence—'"

"Lee; yes, yes, Lawrence Lee," rapidly wrote on Ruth. "I know, Master Goodenough."

"Thou dost? so much the better, the brave lad who would—who would—"

"Ay, who would have saved you from that fearful man if he could."

Goodenough nodded. "Lawrence Lee was not one,' and—and—" Goodenough's voice sank to a whisper, and his dim eyes closed. "I can say no more. I would have—liked to—tell—the noble turn he did me—and—how—thou, whoever thou art—"

The light grows dim.

Slower and slower, fainter and fainter, rose and fell the dying man's voice upon the silence; until suddenly his eyes opened, and fixing wistfully for a little while upon Ruth's face, wandered from it to the paper under her hand. "Set thy name to it," he said, "for—a living witness."

"'Tis well," he went on, when she had obeyed. "And now, give it me here again under my hand, and thy pen—and hold the light close, for it grows so dark—dark—nay, but I cannot see the place;" and his fast glazing eyes strayed helplessly over the paper.

"Here, dear Master Goodenough," said Ruth, taking the cold hand and gently placing it aright, "here is where I have written my name."

The signatures.

He made a desperate but ineffectual effort to steady the pen on the spot she indicated. "I cannot do it," he said, as the quill dropped loosely in his numbed fingers; "and my mark must suffice. But 'twill serve—'twill serve. Set the paper close—closer;" and then with infinite labour he made the cross mark. "Ruth Rumbold!" he cried, as he moved his hand, and the full light of the lamp fell upon the clear, boldly-marked characters of her signature beneath. "This man—Richard Rumbold's—daughter!" and his eyes fixed upon her in a stare of mingled horror and pity.

She nodded her head slowly up and down. "Did you not know?" she said, meeting his gaze with sad, appealing looks—"did you not know he was my father?"

"Then Heaven help thee, poor child, and comfort thee, for thou hast need of it indeed, poor innocent!"

Then his voice fell away into uneasy inaudible murmurings. His eyes closed again, and presently he seemed to sleep. And so till dawn slowly began to silver the fresh young leaves about the ivy panes, and creep on into the room towards the dark recess, spreading itself gently on the white, still face of the dying man, and the hardly more life-like one of the watcher, there was silence. But just as the song of the birds trilled cheerily forth, he stirred slightly. "Art thou there?" he murmured, feebly stretching out his hand.

"I am here, dear Master Goodenough!" she said, kneeling beside him and covering the pale fingers in her gentle clasp.

"God bless thee, child!" and he drew her hand close towards his lips: "for thy sweet charity God bless—"

Death of Goodenough.

And in a smile of content the lips parted slightly, a low sigh broke from them, and Master Goodenough was dead.

CHAPTER XXIV.
LAWRENCE SLEEPS ON IT.

"Now, Friend What-d'ye-call-'em, are you going to accept his majesty's polite invitation? or d'ye mean to stand staring all day like a stuck pig, at your brother-porker's pate here?"

The dig in the ribs accompanying these words, which were rendered bewilderingly indistinct by reason of the quantity of the toothsome edibles he referred to, filling the speaker's mouth, materially assisted Lee to catch something of their signification; and he started from the reverie into which he had fallen. "Your majesty—" he began, looking round with dazed, uneasy eyes, and staggering forward a pace or two.

"Ha! ha! ha! That's excellent!" broke out a laughing chorus. "Your majesty! Hear the fellow! Are his wits clean gone? I' faith, he looks something like it! Majesty forsooth! There's none of it here, friend; unless we're to be having you for a change. Come, Master Up-in-the-clouds, out with you! Was ever such insolence! Out with you! D'ye hear?"

It was the most doubtful question in the world whether he did. If so, it was, at all events, without a spark of comprehending; and Lawrence Lee continued to lie back, pale and more than half senseless, in the king's chair, whither he had staggered forward as he had uttered those last words, and with a twist and a reel, sunk among its crimson cushions.

"Nay," said another of the crowd of lackeys; "leave him alone. Let him bide a minute. I saw 'twas a comin' over him before the king had done speakin' to him. He went on gettin' whiter and whiter. Come, man, drink a drop o' this;" and he took a tall ruby-red Venice goblet of wine from the table and placed it to the young man's lips. "So; that's brave!" he went on in kindly tones, as Lawrence drank a little of the wine and roused up. "Finish it, man, and have another atop o't. One leg o' mutton drives down another. Oh! eh! but we don't take noes here. Drink, I tell 'ee;" and refilling the goblet, the well-meaning fellow forced Lawrence to drain it again, in spite of his efforts at resistance.

Where is the King?

"Where's the king?—the king?" said Lawrence as consciousness all broke in upon him, and he sat up. "I must speak to him. I haven't told him half—"

"Then t'must wait!" cried another lackey, "for the king's gone."

"Gone!"

"Ay; ever so far by now. He wasn't going to stop here all day listening to your wild-goose tales, I doubt. He's half-way across the heath by now, and all the lot after him."

"But the queen!"

"Ay; her too. Didn't you see them all go? Where had your eyes got to?"

"Gone a wool-gathering along of his wits!" laughed another.

And while their shouts of boisterous laughter made the old walls echo again, Lawrence pressed the palms of his hands on the top of his aching head and made an effort to recall all that had passed, and to solve the puzzle of the strange condition in which he found himself. Possibly the fact of neither food nor drink having passed his lips since a hasty meal snatched at the Nether Hall early dinner of the previous day, was accountable for much of it. Neither can long-fasting men ride a score and a half of miles and retain their wits in good working order; and strong wine, if it be a temporary remedy, is scarcely one to be recommended, as these noisy court lackeys seemed bent on doing. And when he refused the dainty food they hospitably pressed upon him with the savageness only those who have lost all desire for eating, from too long going without it, can ever be guilty of, they forced more wine upon him, challenging him with a toast he neither dared nor willed to refuse.

A loyal toast.

"The king! the king!" they cried, filling all round for themselves, and brimming the goblet in his hand. "Come, Master Stranger, we must see what metal you're made of. Drink a bumper to the king's majesty, and no heeltaps. Here's confusion to all crop-eared knaves."

"Ay, ay!" shouted Lee, starting to his feet, and waving the goblet high over his head. "Confusion to all crop-eared knaves. And now a toast. A toast!"

"Silence! Oh, yes; oh, yes! Listen!" shrieked the noisy crew. "Fill high. His majesty the chairman proposes a toast."

"The queen. God bless her!" cried Lee, putting the glass to his lips and draining it to the last drop.

"Ho! ho! Ha! ha! Queen? Which queen?" cried the roysterers. "Which queen?—"

"Queen Ruth, to be sure!" shouted one, hooking his arm into Lawrence's as Lee rose from the chair. "She of the Rye House, you blockheads. Queen Ruth!"

Lawrence escapes.

The sound of her name steadied Lee's senses like the working of a charm. He straightened himself to his full height, and striking out right and left, sent the troublesome fellows stumbling and tripping pell-mell among the chairs and tables. Then with a parting fling of his empty glass at the one who had dared to make a jest of the dear name, he rushed from the room—on, on—by the now entirely deserted ante-chambers, headlong down the grand staircase, through pitch dark interminable passages, until he found himself standing spent and breathless in the open air, the cloudless blue sky above him, and his feet ankle-deep in a miry lane.

The King's garden.

The place seemed to form a sort of thoroughfare to the back premises of the palace, whose walls skirted its length on one side, while the other was bounded by a tall privet-hedge. Between the ragged twigs he could discern the broad flat stretch of country beyond. On the left, some fifty yards off, stood the timbered plaster fronts of a row of street cottages, and a few paces to his right a high narrow iron gateway, flanked by a couple of moss-grown stone pillars surmounted respectively by the royal lion and unicorn. Through this gate's filigreed iron-work, at the end of a somewhat broad, gravel, yew-bordered path, Lee could see a podgy marble Cupid spouting water through a hunting-horn into a basin. Lured by the gentle plash of the water, he approached the gate and attempted to push it open. With a faint screech, as if of surprise at being disturbed, it yielded, and undeterred by its stone guardians, whose jaws seemed indeed to grin less in defiance of his intrusion, than in wonder and derision at his fancy for exploring the deserted place, Lee entered, and strolled towards the fountain. On its broad edge he seated himself, to the great confusion of the gold and silver fish moving about its weedy depths, and found that it formed the centre of a fair-sized garden, the path by which he had come being one of four, radiating off at equal distances between grass-plots, towards the lofty red brick boundary walls, gay now with the snowy blossom of espaliered fruit-trees.

Here and there white stone gods and goddesses gleamed amidst the dark yew paths, and would have seemed to render the silence of the place still more intense, had it not been broken by the voices of the myriad insect creatures footing it merrily among the parterres, and the darting butterflies, while stout old bumble-bees hummed cogitatively as they gathered in their wealth, as if they were mentally reckoning the probable sum total of its returns; and all to the music of Sir Cuckoo, who had a vast deal to promise of the good time coming.

A reverie.

Well, well; and Lawrence Lee, rising from his seat on the fountain's brink, and strolling listlessly onward by the nearest path, heaved a prolonged and heart-vexed sigh, making all the while not too flattering comparisons between these careless denizens of the king's pleasaunce—the bees, of course, simply proving his case by their exceptional prudence—who troubled their feather-brains not one doit about to-morrow's storms, which were as likely as not—more likely than not, indeed, to fall; as you might see if you would but spare half an eye towards the south-eastward horizon—and the king himself. As to the idiotic, selfish, frivolous lot about him, they were beneath contempt, Lawrence considered. To compare them with the butterflies and gnats would be an insult—to the insects.

This stage of his meditations brought him so near to the foot of a flight of rustic wooden steps that he tripped upon the lowermost one; and looking upward, as he recovered his balance, he saw that they wound up to some height, terminating at the entrance of a pavilion of octagon shape, built into the angle of the wall, and partly overhanging the road running beneath. For sheer lack of something better to wile away his enforced leisure—for to see the king again, by hook or by crook, Lawrence was determined—he ascended the steps, and found himself in a small eight-sided chamber. Its walls were studded with morsels of spar, bright-coloured shells, and bits of looking-glass disposed in various and eye-fatiguing geometrical devices, sparkling like Hassan's cave in the rays of sun, now beating fiercely through the two windows. One of these looked upon the road, the other, commanding a view of the rear of the palace, admitted light into the place; but in accordance with the rule of such pleasure-houses, no air, since they were "not made to open."

The summer house.

Nevertheless, a cool breeze rustled in through the doorless entrance; and Lawrence, wearied out, and still dizzy with the fumes of the wine which had been forced upon him, sank upon the part of the bench running round the wall which was nearest the inner window, and fell to a listless contemplation of the scene before him.

Ugly, or altogether unpicturesque it assuredly could not be called; but incongruous and disorderly it was, with its queer irregular mass of wall and roof, new and old, time stained and brand new, all flung together without apparent rhyme or reason, as if they might settle down as they could.

It was some time before Lawrence was able to distinguish, amid such countless odd holes and corners, the door by which he had found his way into the open air; and longer still before, carrying his eye to the upper story, he discovered the row of little bull's-eye casements which lighted the corridor conducting to the king's apartments. That it ran to the rear of the palace he had some hazy sort of notion; since through one of those casements he had caught a glimpse of waving green beechen boughs, and had guessed at the possibility of a garden beyond, while not a single tree shaded the street front of the palace.

A long nap.

The last straw, eastern wiseacres say, breaks the camel's back; and it is possible that his toilsome little ascent to the pavilion, and the burning sunbeams pouring in through the glass on Lawrence's head bore their share in producing the drowsy sensations stealing so rapidly upon him, that all the scene before him dissolved as he looked, into one confusing haze. "'Tis like a dream," he murmured to himself, pressing the palms of both his hands on his throbbing temples, in a desperate effort to shake off their oppression. "A murrain on those rascals for drenching me with that stuff till I feel as if I was spinning in an Epping Fair merry-go-round. Like a dream—a bad dream"—and his head drooping lower and lower upon his arms outspread upon the broad window-seat, rested a dead weight there at last, and he fell asleep.

Heavily as one of the Seven Sleepers he slept on. Ten, eleven, mid-day came and went; and still, as afternoon lengthened, and the shadows grew deep upon the grass, he stirred only to sink back again into the unrefreshing sleep of utter fatigue and exhaustion. Sultry as midsummer the sunbeams poured into the airless chamber, till its walls seemed sheeted in parti-coloured flame, which grew but the more dazzling as the time of parting drew on, and the gray evening mists began to spread over the low-lying fields.

A sudden waking.

High aloft in the greenish blue sky the young May moon rose and mingled her mild beams with the fiery westward glow, and still he slept on; but restlessly now, and muttering hurried but inarticulate words, as if he was dreaming uneasy dreams. How much longer he would have drowsed the precious hours away, it is hard to guess, had it not been for a sudden and deafening blare of French horns and all kinds of music, mingled with shouts of gay laughter and voices which broke just beneath the window, sending Lee to his feet with a start and a cry of terror. "Fire! Fire!" he shouted, staggering to the middle of the floor and gazing in wild distraction round the pavilion, while he gasped for breath in its stifling atmosphere. Could it be that he was dreaming still? Strange ugly visions of—Nay, now, but see what things are dreams! and what is it after all but the setting-sun blaze? And as Lee stumbled tremblingly back against the trellised doorway, greedily drinking in the cool evening air, his senses dawned upon him.

"Ay, ay," he said to himself, with a faint smile of amusement at his own fancies, as he stretched his neck over the wall, just in time to obtain a glimpse of the brilliant cavalcade turning the street corner in a cloud of white dust, and caught the shouts of the little crowd collected to see the king pass. "Come back, has he? Yes, yes, God save him, with all my heart and soul—God save the king! But the question is, you see, good people. The question is—" and then Lawrence Lee came to a dead pause, and fell into a deep reverie. "How was he to be saved?" pondered on the young man, his brows knitting painfully. This happy-go-lucky Charles, who suspected no foul play, because he would persist in judging others by himself, despite all his harsh experiences, and thought no one capable of taking so much trouble as to contrive it. This good-natured gentleman, whose manner of speaking, far more than the words he spoke, had won Lawrence Lee's heart, as they were apt to win all who approached him. How—so the young man now asked himself, could he ever have been brought to nurse one traitorous thought towards him? Ay, now indeed he understood, as never he had before, his mother's glowing look, when with the proud tears glistening star-bright in her eyes, she would say: "Thy father died for his king, lad."

What is to be done?

The last shout sank to silence. The birds' song ceased. The last ray of the sunset glory faded, and only the plash of the fountain broke the silence, and still Lawrence Lee stood leaning against the ivied wall so motionless, and his face showing so white and fixed in the dazzling moonlight, that he might have been taken for one of the garden's statues; but at last, as eight o'clock struck in the town belfries, and far-off village church towers chimed it back, he stirred, and slowly descended the little rustic steps.

A deep resolve.

"Rest thee well, father," he murmured, reverently folding his hands as he went. "The world may blame me, and say what it lists. The king shall be saved, though my life should answer for it. Father—only let heaven count me worthy to be called thy son."

And so across the garden, and through the gate, still standing half open as he had left it, he passed on into the street.

CHAPTER XXV.
SUPPER AT THE SILVER LEOPARD.

"Oh, all that I grant you; 'tis indeed a mockery of hospitality which moves a man to press his good things on his guest beyond his appetite; and the rascals were to blame—much to blame. But, my good Master Lee, you're absolutely no trencherman."

And as he spoke, Master Alworth laid a tempting cut from the huge sirloin before him upon Lawrence Lee's plate. "A strapping fellow of your inches," he went on, "should know better how to dispose of a glass, and to ply his knife and fork."

"Nay," answered Lee, toying with the implements in question till he seemed to be making grand havoc with the slice of beef. "But I have supped excellently," and he glanced in courteous admiration at the temptingly loaded table. "Such good things would almost charm a dead man."

"And 'tis almost what he looks," thought the goldsmith, as he secretly scanned Lee's colourless face; colourless save where on either cheek two spots burned crimson red.

A good servant.

"Though I doubt dead men's eyes never shone like his," he mentally added. "What the mischief ails the lad?" but aloud he only replied in well-pleased tones: "They're wholesome enough; and to speak no treason, Master Lee, the king's own kitchen, at least here in Newmarket, boasts not such a hand as my old Margery's at turning a venison pasty; try a morsel of it. No? well then, drink, man, drink. There's no finer colouring for white cheeks like your's, than a glass of my old Tokay. What! you won't neither?" said his hospitable host with a shrug, as Lee drew the massive silver-gilt goblet smilingly but resolutely on one side. "I' faith! I like not sots and topers," he went on, as he filled his own glass to the brim, "and as worthy Warwickshire Will—Oh, no offence, young gentleman—out of date Master Shakspere may be, but mind you, he can frame as wise and witty a phrase when he pleases, as any of your Shadwells or Rochesters, or your long-winded Master Drydens either, and he says ''tis a shame for men to put an enemy in their mouths, to steal away their brains.' But wine need be no man's enemy. It should rather be his trusty servant and helper. For wine, as another wise man hath it, is a good servant, though it be a tyrant master, just as fire—"

"Fire! Fire!" loudly echoed Lawrence, starting from the brown study into which he had fallen during his entertainer's disquisition.

"Why, bless the good fellow!" ejaculated the goldsmith under his breath, as he leant back in his well-cushioned chair, and tipping together the points of his ten fingers, contemplated Lawrence through his half-closed eyelids with no small curiosity. "'Tis but a cloud-brained lad after all; one would ha' guessed I'd flashed a musket-shot in his ear, to see him start."

"Ay," he added aloud, "I was but remarking that fire is a good servant, but a bad master, since 'tis easier to kindle a flame than to put it out. But come, tell me now. How did your suit prosper to-day with his majesty? Though in truth what its nature was I know not; nor desire to be inquisitive," he added good-humouredly, as he perceived that Lee showed little willingness to enlighten him. "But you succeeded in it?"

"No—yes, no—that is, I saw the king."

"And spoke with him?"

"And spoke with him—Oh yes."

"And what think you of his majesty?" catechised on his host, just a thought drowsily. "A right debonair and gracious gentleman, is he not so?"

"Every inch a king," enthusiastically cried Lee.

Lawrence drinks another toast.

"Oh ho! have I warmed the ice at last?" thought the goldsmith, with a twinkle in his eyes. "Why, so say I, Master Lawrence," he cordially rejoined. "And—come now, a challenge, you can't refuse—nay, i' faith! but you must drain it. I shall hold you a double-dyed traitor else indeed. Here's to King Charles," and reaching the bottle over Lee's goblet, he filled it, unchecked this time, and rose to his feet. "God bless him, and confusion to his foes by land and sea."

"Confusion to his foes!" echoed Lawrence, rising too, and draining the cup to its dregs.

"And, since his majesty so well pleases you, what think you of his Newmarket palace?" continued Alworth, as both resumed their seats, manfully struggling to keep up the lagging ball of conversation, though, to own the truth, a long day over his ledgers, the dulness of his companion, who did not seem to be able to originate one single observation, and the supper he had eaten, were beginning to work more and more soporifically upon him.

A rat-hole for a palace.

"Palace!" cried Lee with sudden animation. "A rat-hole; just a rat-hole. Only fit to be smoked out!"

"Scarce big enough, truly, to swing a cat in," laughingly acquiesced Alworth. "'Tis a mean place, as you say, with its chimneys huddled away in corners and crannies, as if they were ashamed of themselves; and the house abutting, like any common one, upon the street, without any court or avenue to't."[[1]]

[[1]] Evelyn's Diary.

"I looked to find it built somewhere upon the course itself," said Lee.

"As it should ha' been," replied the goldsmith. "Upon the very carpet, as one might say, where the sports are celebrated. My own identical words to Mr. Samuel, the—the gods forgive us!—the architect. 'But,' says he, 'Master Alworth, his majesty is bent on the purchase of this wretched old house.' And his majesty has a rare obstinate head-piece of his own, like the one they cut off his father's neck before him—heaven rest his soul! And so there's his fine house, and a mighty improper one too, in my poor judgment, for sport and pleasure, Mr. Samuel has made of it. Though, to give even him his due, you may go far before you find better turned arches than the supports of the cellars that run beneath the king's private apartments.

"Which lie to the back of the house, if I mistake not," said Lee.

"You do not. And cut off almost entirely from the rest of it, a perfect network of pillars, and arches beneath, that one might go losing one's self in, like any trapped mouse, if you didn't know the trick of them," added the goldsmith half absently, half as if amused by some suggested thought, and toying with an ancient-looking little twisted and chased bar of silver which hung upon the massive gold chain he wore round his neck. "Tho' that would scarcely be my case; for here I have an open Sesame, that, if I had a mind to't, would bring me straight into Hassan's Cave. In other words—"

Lawrence learns a secret.

"The king's own bed-chamber?" eagerly cried Lee.

"Why, you are quite right," said Alworth, looking up with wide open astonished eyes. Was this young farmer such a dull-pated clodpole after all? "Though how you should guess—"

"Oh! I have heard of such contrivances as these subterranean ways," said Lawrence carelessly. "Where does it lead from?"

"Under your nose almost!" laughed Alworth, pointing to one of the large buttons, or bosses, carved on the intersections of the oaken framework of the wainscoting which lined the room.

"The dog's face?" asked Lee, carefully noting his glance.

"Nay, 'tis a sphinx's. And right well 'tis said she has guarded her secret for the three hundred years this house has been built."

"So long?"

"Ay. Just about the same time that the original foundations of what is now the king's palace were set. Some say that the lord of it, and my grandfather six or seven times removed, had dealings together in the black art,—but that is a way folks have of talking of honest traders when they happen to grow rich,—and that the two would meet together alone in the vaults at dead of night over their crucibles, to find out the secret of making gold."

"Was he of your craft, Master Alworth?" asked Lawrence.

"Ay; and a skilful master of it he must have been," said Alworth proudly, detaching the key from its chain and handing it to Lawrence for his inspection, "to have been able to cast such a pretty thing as this."

The sphinx's throat.

"And the lock it fits to," said Lawrence, taking the key and examining it curiously, "lies, you say, in the sphinx's throat yonder?"

The goldsmith nodded. "And the tale goes on to say," he added, "as I tell you, that they who push far enough along the passage, when they get to the bottom of the little staircase the panel opens upon, would find themselves in the room that is now the king's own bed-chamber. But I'd not care to be making the quest."

"Why not?"

The key.

"I' faith! 'tis possible, for one thing, his majesty might not care for the intrusion," laughed Alworth; "and for a greater reason, I've no fancy to be breaking my shins over broken-backed old stone floors and slimy steps, or running my head against these fine new stone posts of Master Samuel's, let them be never so mighty well turned. No; thank you for nothing!" continued Alworth with a sapient shake of his grizzled periwig. "I'm quite content to be in possession of the secret without putting my knowledge to the proof. And hark you, young gentleman," he went on more gravely, "if I've confided it to you, 'tis because—. Eh! eh! somehow I tripped upon it; but 'tis safe enough with you. You're not a man to betray secrets. You'll not put your knowledge to any ill use," he went on, as Lawrence made no reply, but bent his head lower and lower over the key. "'Twill go in at one ear and out at t'other, eh? By your leave," he went on, stretching out his hand for the key, which, however, Lawrence seemed in no hurry to give back, but sat dangling it in his fingers, lost, apparently, in deep thought.

"Ah, ha! I see how it is," laughed the goldsmith; "you'd be for reading my sphinx's riddle, Master Harum-Scarum Christopher Columbus. But I'll have none o' that. Come, no tricks. Give it back. No tricks," continued Alworth, as Lawrence obeyed and gave up the precious key. "So, lie you there safe and snug," he went on, slipping the key on to the chain again, and putting it neatly into the breast of his coat,—"safe and snug, little friend. And as for you, Master Lee, if you'll take my advice you'll be getting between the sheets Marjory has spread for you in the Blue Room above stairs."

"Many thanks," replied Lawrence, shaking his head; "but that is not possible. I should be back at Nether Hall before mid-day to-morrow; and 'tis a longish journey. In an hour's time I ought to be upon the road."

Nature's soft nurse.

"Tut, tut, man. Bed is the place for you to-night, and not a horse's saddle. Already your eyes shine like candles kindled at both ends. Six-and-thirty-hours it is, by your own showing, since you've closed 'em; and you know what Will of Warwick—and he speaks sound sense, mind you, does Will—of Warwick; as good as any of your modish Sedleys, and Shadwells, and—and—'sleep, sleep, Nature's'—how does it go? Why, to be sure—'Nature's soft—nurse.' Come, Master Lee, how goes it? You should know. By my faith, but you should. Ay—so it runs—'How have I frighted thee.' Marry, come up! What's next? 'That thou—no more shouldst weigh mine eyelids down'—and—and—"

But then, like a wise physician who puts faith in his own prescription, Master Alworth's senses sank steeped in forgetfulness, his head drooped gently among the cushions, and a profound snore fell upon the silence.

Lawrence's face grew dark with vexation. Could anything be more tiresome and inopportune? The church clock struck eleven. A fearfully late hour for those good old times, when "early to bed, and early to rise" made everybody "so healthy, and wealthy, and wise."

"Master Alworth," said Lee gently, though he was biting his lip all the while with impatience. "Master Alworth, by your leave—I will bid you good-night."

A second and deeper snore was the response.

"And farewell," shouted Lee.

"Eyelids down; eyelids—down," murmured the sleeper.

How to save the King?

"Nay, but begone I must," muttered Lawrence, starting up and pushing back his chair, while his eyes despairingly contemplated his slumbering host, until suddenly a light flashed into them. "Let's see what a shake will do," he went on to himself, approaching Alworth's chair, and suiting his action to his words with no gentle hand. It produced no effect beyond an angry snort of remonstrance from the sleeper, who turned in his chair only to settle more comfortably. "What is to be done?" ejaculated Lawrence, casting desperate glances towards the door, as if he intended making a run for it. "Another half hour—a quarter, even, and—"

Something which fell with a faint jingle and a clash to the floor at his feet, interrupted his speculations. He stooped to pick it up.

It was Master Alworth's gold chain, whose elaborate fastening had apparently missed touching home in his drowsy attempts to clasp it.

"Adieu, then," he said, placing the chain noiselessly beside his host's plate, and wafting him a kiss from his finger-tips; "for I must be taking French leave, if you will not be having an English one," and he turned to escape noiselessly from the room.

The first step he took, however, brought his foot down upon some small hard object. He picked it up. It was the key, which must have slipped from the goldsmith's chain when it glided from his neck to the cushions of the chair, and thence, as he had turned himself about, to the floor.

Mad fancies

"Oh, ho!" laughed Lee, looking at the key as it lay in the palm of his hand; "you're a mighty slippery little customer!" and he was about to lay it with the chain, when he gave a start, and stood stock still, as if some sudden idea had mastered him; and still holding the key, he gazed from it towards the sphinx with thoughtful speculative eyes. Could it be that she was winking her heavy lids? Were her grim lips curving into a meaning smile until her very jaws seemed to be opening? or was it all only the shadowy flicker of the dying lamp? or perhaps a mere delusion of the young man's already highly excited brain.

Lawrence knew only that the half-mocking, half-goodnatured face beckoned him irresistibly.

The false panel.

One instant he stood hesitating. The next, he had seized the lamp, and with the key in his hand was on his knees before the panel.

CHAPTER XXVI.
"FIRE! FIRE!"

Silent and dark as any city of the dead lies Newmarket under the starless sky. Not so much as a glimmer to be seen even about the palace, excepting from the mullioned lattices of the king's own bedchamber.

Two hours since, Charles bade good-night to his courtiers, who, despite their best efforts to be entertaining, were yawning frightfully after their long day's pleasure; and then, retiring to his dressing-room, he dismissed also his drowsy valets, who, evidently for once in a way, seemed not indisposed to allow him to draw on his own night-cap instead of doing it for him, "for all the world," as he used to complain, as if he were "some poor Tyburn gallows-wretch."

Whether he was too tired for sleep, which is sometimes the case with people, or not tired enough, it was certain the king himself was in no mood for sleep; and wrapping his silken dressing-gown about him, and trimming the wick of the massive silver lamp upon the table with his own august fingers, he drew it towards him, and stretching himself upon a couch, took up a book which lay tumbled face downwards among its cushions.

Charles sits up to read.

"A fair outside truly," he murmured half aloud to himself as he carelessly scanned its richly emblazoned velvet and gilt binding, and then proceeded as carelessly to turn its embossed pages; "and with such a mighty pretty dedication to my sacred majesty, that my poor privy-purse will suffer cruelly, I fear. Tho' I'll dare swear that 'tis all as full of emptiness, or at best of fulsome fawning flatteries, as my fine lords and ladies, who hang upon my skirts, and care no more for me than this little Médor here," and he gently caressed the satin soft ears of the little dog who had jumped to its favourite spot between himself and the downy cushions, "who loves me—for the cake and comfits I carry in my pocket. Nay, but I do thee an ill compliment after all, Médor; for though to be sure thou mightst not be at the pains to stretch out one of thy fringy paws here to help me in my need, at least thou'dst not turn against me, as some I wot of would, who have fed upon my bounty. But what have we here?" continued the king, turning on again at the pages of his book. "Nay, now, fie, fie, Master Poetaster! but is not your choice of mottoes here uncourtly, to say the least?

"'For kings and mightiest potentates must die.
For that's the end of human misery.'

"I' faith! and I doubt 'twould trouble you no more than the rest of the herd, were I to die to-night, so long as your dedication money were safe to you. All—all alike, every man jack, and woman jill of you. 'The king is dead,' you'd cry, 'alack! alack!' though I doubt your breath might not reach to so much as that—'The king is dead—'"

A startling visitor.

"God save the king!"

"Who goes there?" cried the king, starting to his feet and flinging down the book. What voice was this, snatching, as it were from his lips the very words that were upon them, and in tones so deep and significant, from the darkest recesses of the dimly lighted chamber? "Who goes there?" he reiterated, peering hard into the obscurity, till at last his keen gaze caught the outlines of a figure enveloped in a black riding cloak.

"A friend," answered the voice in hurried tones.

Charles laughed bitterly. "Our foes in disguise call themselves that," he said. "Come forward—friend, into the lamplight here."

The intruder needed not to do so much in order to reveal his identity; for the words had not left the king's lips before a glare of light lit up the whole apartment, and revealed the face of Lawrence Lee. An exclamation of anger broke from Charles; and he darted a look of mingled suspicion and defiance on Lee.

"Ha! I thought as much, Master Talebearer," he cried; "and this is your vaunted loyalty—this is—"

"Fire! fire! your majesty," and Lee rushed forward with outspread arms. "Come quick! for God's sake, come! afterwards hang me—kill me—do as you will. But now—now—the palace is on fire, I say! and there's not an instant to lose."

Madness indeed.

"Fire?" cried the king, casting a rapid glance upward at the dazzling glare lighting up every object in the room, and hurrying towards the curtained entrance, only to stagger backward into Lee's arms, overcome with the smoke and flame bursting from the heavy drapery as he lifted it.

"No, no! great heavens! not that way!" shouted Lee. "Already the corridors have caught, and communication will be cut off. Come for your life;" and he dragged the half-breathless king across the room. "Here, by the private staircase!"

"What private staircase?" demanded Charles, reeling forward after Lee, with his hand to his month. "I tell thee, man," he went on, in tones of anger as well as of fear, "there is no private stair—"

"Come! come!" shouted his deliverer with a laugh of triumph which rang through the burning room, and he seized the king round the waist with both arms; "we are safe enough this way—as yet."

"The dog! the dog!" cried the king, struggling in Lee's embrace, and pointing towards poor Médor, whose piteous yelpings resounded from the couch.

LAWRENCE LEE SAVES THE KING

"Ay, come, then," said Lawrence, turning, and catching up the little animal with one hand, he thrust it into his pocket. Then tightening his clutch upon the king, he dragged him to a square hole in the side of the wainscoted wall as yet untouched by the flames, and almost flung him down on his knees as with a vigorous push he thrust him through the aperture.

"What is the meaning of this, sirrah?" angrily demanded the king, as, after a maddening interval passed in stumbling and sliding through pitch darkness encircled by Lee's arms, he went round and round, down and down, as if in some hideous nightmare dream, till at last his feet were safely deposited on level ground, and his shoulders against a rough stone wall, which struck ice cold through his silken dressing-gown. "Say! what does it all mean?"

Fire on the brain.

"Fire! fire! your majesty," was all Lawrence could find breath to articulate, as, reeling from the weight of his burden, he advanced towards a lamp whose rays sufficed dimly to reveal a low stone vaulted roof, supported by thick pillars, whose outlines loomed ghost-like through the obscurity. "The palace is on fire;" and catching up the lamp, and again seizing the king, this time, however, only by the arm and with a more gentle grip, he succeeded in dragging him a few paces farther.

"This way! this way—"

"No," said the king, wrenching himself free, and coming to a dead standstill with his back resolutely planted against the wall! "I'll go no farther; not a yard. 'Tis some plot," he added, casting suspicious looks round from Lee's face to the darkness visible, and then again to the eager agitated countenance of the young man. "Some scurvy plot. Villain!" he cried, suddenly seizing Lawrence by the throat. "How many are there of you? Speak!"

It was only by something like a miracle, however, that Lee was still able to breathe. "Speak!" shouted the king, and his imperious tones echoed again and again through the vaulted place, till for the moment he might well have fancied that a host of conspirators were hidden away behind the pillared arches; but not a creature came to the rescue, and Charles's grip relaxed. "I cry your pardon," he said then, a little shamefacedly, and retaining his hold about Lee's shoulder more in kindness now than in anger. "Such doubts are unworthy. A miserable requital indeed for this good service you have shown me. Your face should be no traitor's. Nay, never blush. I thought this morning that 'twas as honest a one as I had seen for many a day, and should tell its own story."

A desperate plan.

"Yet even though my tongue helped it, your Majesty would not listen. Yet here as we stand," went on Lee, as Charles replied only by a shrug of his shoulders, "man to man, liege-man to his lord," and Lawrence fell on his knees at the king's feet, "I swear I spoke the truth. But it was to worse than deaf ears. All in vain—and so—and so—" his voice faltered.

"And so—Ods-fish, man!" cried Charles in bewildered astonishment at the agitation of Lee's face. "Don't be afraid. Speak out. And so?"

"I fired the palace."

"You!" cried the king, recoiling in horror.

"What else was to be done?" asked Lee, regaining his composure, and shrugging his shoulders in his turn! "We smoke out the fox's hole when we can't unearth him."

"To kill him after all, poor fellow," said the king, with a half smile, and a faint glimmer of the old suspicion in his dark eyes fixed on Lawrence, as though he was striving to penetrate to his inmost heart.

"Nay," bluntly answered the young man, "I have no wit for carrying on conceits of that kind, nor time for it neither. If I burnt out the fox, 'twas to save him from himself, and get him to make off out of harm's way."

"And what of the queen, and all my poor people?" cried the king, looking with troubled eyes along the way they had come. "A heavy ransom they are paying for my rescue. Let us get out of this place, and help, before every one of them is burned in bed."

Out of danger.

"'Tis but little enough harm they'll come to, I'll warrant," said Lee, in cool tones, and detaining the king with a firm hand. "The fire had a mighty pretty effect," he continued, with pride, "a mighty pretty effect; and so do a man's frills and furbelows, though he hasn't a thread of shirt underneath to bless himself with; and 'twas just that and no more—a flash in the pan, a snap-dragon, that has but just burned up all your Majesty's little favourite odds and ends, and rattle-traps, but I doubt it had not done a groat's worth of harm."

"That's reassuring," said the king dismally.

"Your Majesty may take my word for it," continued Lawrence. "I did but fire the wainscot of your chamber, as close as I could by the stone corridor, which I know cuts off all communication with the rest of the palace."

"But how did you know that?"

"One may learn a great deal—"

"By opening one's mouth, hey, and asking questions?"

Lawrence dictates to the King.

"By keeping it shut, and listening," said Lawrence. "Your Majesty may trust me for minding what I was about, and that I risked no chance against that sweet lady's life, just for the sake of saving your Majesty's."

"Well, well," said Charles, feeling more and more satisfied that he might place confidence in his deliverer. "But I like not these extremes," he went on, shivering and dragging his thin Indian silk garment about him. "First, you frizzle me within an inch of my life, and then you freeze me to the marrow. How long is it your pleasure that we stop in this dreary cellar?"

"So please your Majesty's own pleasure, you might be sleeping in your own bed-chamber at Whitehall by this time to-morrow night? 'Twould be the best course I can advise."

"I might do worse, I doubt," shivered the king.

"But you must leave Newmarket unattended and secretly. My horse stands at your Majesty's service."

"And a pretty figure I should cut upon him!" ruefully laughed the king, looking down at his airy attire. "To say nothing of my singed periwig here," and he passed his hand over the spot where the coal-black locks had been scorched and burnt.

"Your Majesty would in any case be safer for finding one of another colour to travel in; and if you'll but keep moving, I'll warrant that Master Alworth will help you to it, and all else you may need."

"Alworth! Richard Alworth!" cried Charles.

"Ay," said Lawrence. "Your Majesty, I take it, can trust him."

"With untold gold," warmly said the king—"with my crown jewels—"

"With yourself, then."

"Have with you, Master Lee;" and the last lingering doubt faded from his face. "Which way?"

The private stair.

"Up by this little staircase."

CHAPTER XXVII.
"IN THE NIGHT ALL CATS ARE GRAY."

The after-supper nap indulged in by Master Alworth was no little affair of forty winks; and he would possibly have slept on till morning's light, had not the sound of countless tramping feet, and a deafening uproar of voices outside in the street, disturbed his repose.

"Hey day! morning already!" he grumbled, sitting up shiveringly, and cramped in every limb. "Ha! what's that?" he went on, blinking and rubbing his eyes, as a flare of red light broke across the green-tinted traceried lattice of the window looking into the High Street, and lit up the room clear as day. The next moment he was in utter darkness, for the lamp had disappeared. "Mercy alive, 'tmust be fire!" ejaculated the goldsmith, as another and another flash rose and fell; and aided by the fitful light, he groped, stumbling among the chairs to the window-seat, where he sank down staring horror-stricken at the showering sparks, as they fell on the heads of the crowd surging in the street, as far as his eyes could reach. "What, where is it?" he gasped, dashing open a pane, and seizing the nearest gaper by the chin.

Quick work.

"The king's private apartments, so 'tis said," answered the man, shaking himself free, and rushing onward with the rest. "And the king! the king!" shrieked Alworth, in a frenzy of dismay as he turned from the window, and groping forward in the direction of the door, stumbled into a pair of strong supporting arms.

"Here, Master Alworth, safe and sound," said the unmistakable sonorous tones of Charles, as he set the trembling old man on his feet again. "Thanks to my young friend here."

"But how—how—" began Alworth, gasping like a stranded fish.

"The sphinx helped me, Master Alworth," said Lee, as he lighted a couple of waxen tapers which stood on the buffet, by the flame of the almost spent lamp. "But we'll talk about all that another time. Meanwhile there's a plot being hatched against the king's life; and if he stays here till folks from the palace yonder find him, and he be detained, and no doubt they are already in search of him, 'tis likely to go hard but his life runs in danger."

"What's to be done?" cried Alworth, gazing with scared eyes from Lee to the king. "What is to be done?" he went on, wringing his hands. "What can I do?"

"Lend him your coat, and the rest of it, and your hat, and spare him your periwig—Eh?" added Lee, laying despoiling hands on the grizzled article in question. "So, by your leave, 'in the night all cats are gray.'"

"I would give my skin to save your Majesty," murmured the goldsmith, as he watched Lee tear off Charles's singed perruque, and assist him in fitting on the more venerable borrowed locks.

"Nay," laughed the king, "'tis not a flaying question, I trust, though it comes pretty near it, to be sure," he added, with a compassionate glance at Alworth's coatless bald-pated figure. "Here, Master Alworth, take this for pity's sake. Exchange is no robbery;" and tearing off his gorgeous robe de chambre, he flung it across the shoulders of Alworth, who, as he proudly drew the garment about him, produced an effect less beautiful than striking, and as much as possible like some Chinese idol with his smooth shining crown adorned by its tight little wisp of hair. "Your Majesty," he said, as Lee put his finishing touches to the king's rapid toilette, "looks charming—perfection!" he went on, clasping his hands. "The very double of myself. No one would ever take you for the—h'm—the sort of person you are."

Ready for the road.

"I look like a better man, I doubt," answered the king, turning to survey himself in a mirror. "And now, Master Lee, what next?"

"Stars and Garters," said Lee.

"Ods-fish, man!" cried Charles, opening his eyes. "Hadn't we best be leaving those alone? They'd be telling tales."

"Stars and Garters is the name of my mare," smiled Lee, "who is to carry your Majesty."

"To London?"

"Nay, not so far as that, only to the King's Arms by Hoddesdon Rye."

Into the lion's mouth.

"What?" cried Charles, with a little start of surprise. "Into the lion's mouth?"

"And the unicorn's. Your Majesty will find no loyaler hearts than beat there, where danger most threatens you."

"I could get to London by another road; 'twould be better, even if it were ever such a circuitous one," said the king dubiously.

"'Twould be safer to take the road I propose," said Lee, "since it is the one by which I must return home; and I must have further speech with your Majesty."

"Is your horse a good one?"

"Her better is not to be found in your Majesty's stables. She'll prove worth the cost of her feed. I'll warrant your Majesty will be telling me that, when next we meet."

"At the King's Arms?"

"To-morrow afternoon; and there are those who will not be far behind your Majesty on the road."

And then Lee, kneeling at the king's feet, took his hand, and, kissing it, turned to go.

"Wait a bit," said Charles, detaining him; "what—who the mischief am I?"

"For the next eighteen hours you cannot be a better person than Master Alworth, called on sudden pressing business affairs to London."

"That's all very well," said the king, still rather perplexedly; "but I don't clearly comprehend—"

"Then your Majesty must pardon me for saying you are not Master Alworth."

Masquerading.

"Well, well," laughed Charles, "'tis not the first time Charles Stuart has been driven to exercise his wits."

"And Stars and Garters," continued Lee, "will serve the King of England at his need every whit as well as ever Royal Oak did. In ten minutes she will be at the street corner."

And bidding a warm adieu to the goldsmith, Lawrence Lee hurried away.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
FATHER AND DAUGHTER.

And so as the shadows fled away, and breaking day cast its pale gleams across the face of the dead conspirator, Ruth drew the panel back into its place; for down in the malting-yard she could hear the voices of the men getting to their work, and she turned away, making an effort to collect her thoughts.

It was no easy task; and she was still far from having achieved it when she was roused by the apparition of Maudlin Sweetapple's head through the tapestry.

"Marry come up! Dressed a'ready!" cried the old woman grumblingly. "We shall be havin' thee astir in the middle o' the night next! That comes o' the maaster sendin' o' thee off to bed at sundown, like he's bin so fond o' doin' o' late. Oh, ay! they may say what pleases 'em," continued Maudlin, searchingly scanning Ruth's face in the young yellow sunshine; "but I say it don't agree with thee, child. Thy cheeks are as white as turnips; an' thy face as gastered as if thou'dst bin seein' of spirits. And—for the gracious power's sake!" she shrieked in terror as a rattling at the locks of the opposite door suddenly made itself audible, "what's that? Master Rumbold, as I'm a livin' soul! And me—"

Rumbold home again.

The rest was lost in the privacy of her own apartment, into which Maudlin speedily withdrew her benightcapped head.

"I may come in, Ruth?" said the maltster, as he pushed open the door, and paused for an instant on its threshold for her reply, casting, as he did so, one swift keen glance round the room. "I was upon the drawbridge and saw you opening the window. Up and dressed earlier than usual; is it not so?"

"Is it, father?" said Ruth mechanically.

"Ay, is it, is it," he rejoined in impatient tones. "Have you and your pillow quarrelled, that you are so soon astir?" he went on. "Come, can you not answer me?"

"I could not sleep, father," faltered she.

"And why not, mistress?" he demanded with the uneasy twitch of his lips which sometimes did duty with him for a smile. "Were the rats more troublesome than usual? A plague on the vermin for eating my malt till I shall be ruined; and vexing thy rest."

But Ruth only shook her head.

"Why, what then?" he insisted. "Was perhaps the White Woman walking? Ah! for shame, child, on thy foolish fancies!"

"Alack! father, 'twas no fancy," answered she. "It was no White Woman's spirit that haunted yonder room last night; but the black one of an evil, wicked-hearted man."

"Psha!" said Rumbold with an uneasy laugh. "Let us have done with riddles. I understand you now. You heard me and my boys—" He stopped with a confused, shamefaced smile. "That is what the foolish fellows, you know, love to call themselves. You heard, belike, I say, me and my friends—"

"Friends, father!" reproachfully interrupted she.

An anxious question.

A deep flush suffused Rumbold's face, but his tones of assumed careless indifference changed. "How now, mistress?" he demanded with sternly knitted brows. "Was it needful to be craving your leave for them to pay a little visit to the Warder's Room to—to inspect its pictures, and—and—its old oak chest, and—and—what not?" rather lamely concluded Rumbold, darting at the same time a keen sideways glance at her. "But let me tell you, Ruth, I like not these would-be prying ways of yours. 'Tis fortunate that these walls"—and he glanced with infinite satisfaction round the solid-looking wainscot—"were not made in to-day's gimcrack fashion, for the entertainment of every eaves-dropper who pleases to be lending his idle ear to—to concerns that are too high for him. You did hear nothing?" he added with ill-concealed anxiety after a moment's pause.

"Father—dearest, do you love me?" was all her answer. "In truth, do you love me?"

"Ay, ay. What a strange girl you are, Ruth! I love you dearer than life, little one;" and he drew her towards him, and laid her head down gently on his breast. "Far, far dearer than life. But hark you," and then all the wistful tenderness died out of his voice, "that says not that I love your faults. Among which I find this prying, curious habit—that accursed inheritance of which our poor unhappy mother Eve has bequeathed her daughters so large a share of."

"But, father—dearest—"

"Ay. Then let me see thee thy father's child. Seek truth and righteousness as he has always done; and put off,—as some one put off certain mountebank pink petticoats we wot of—eh, little Ruth?—the pride of life, and the lust of the eye and the ear; for these are but part and parcel all of things that lead to the soul's destruction; feeding vain imagination and empty fancy—"

"Father! father!" interrupted Ruth, wildly, "I would it were fancy, or that my poor silly imagination were to blame. But 'tis truth and fact indeed. See here!" and dragging him before the panel, she pushed it open with hasty trembling hands. "See what these—friends of yours have done!"

"Sheriff Goodenough!" cried Rumbold, recoiling in horror-struck amazement! "Dead?"

Murdered!

"Murdered—look. There is blood upon his hands."

"Who has done this? Who?—"

"Colonel Rumsey."

"The villain!" muttered Rumbold, grinding his teeth. "I knew," he went on meditatively, knitting his brows, "that their hearts were not at peace with one another. How came we to be so ill-advised as to leave them alone together?—Yet to dream of its coming to this! And how—" Then he paused. What need to ask how she had come by her information? The broken panel explained all. "What brought it about?" he said after another silence. "They came to high words?"

Ruth nodded.

"Concerning?—"

"The murder of the king."

"Master Goodenough being opposed to it?"

"And Master Rumsey," nodded Ruth, "all for striking him down—unawares—like he has poor Master Goodenough himself."

Honour among conspirators.

"Ay," said Rumbold, "I guessed as much; though he breathed no word of it. I suspected it, I say, to be in his thoughts. Heaven forgive him! I think now, he would not have hesitated at putting poison in—a man's food, be he Charles Stuart, or any other—or stabbing him in his sleep, so only that he might gain his end."

"But you, father, you?" almost joyfully cried Ruth.

"Nay, we are not assassins. I and my—friends. And this scum of the earth, Richard Rumsey was not fit to consort with men of honour like us—we looked, Walcot and the rest of us, we looked indeed to be the slayers, if heaven blessed our project, or the slain, and it saw fit. A fair fight, front to front—"

"Fair!" cried Ruth, "Fair? In that narrow by-way? Where the coach could not pass for the overturned cart!"

Rumbold frowned. "You have it all, seemingly, at your fingers' ends, mistress," he said, "and 'tis useless to dissemble with you; or to reason over nice and just distinctions with obstinate young maids' brains. Enough! See only that you make a discreet use of your indiscretion. Keep a silent tongue in your head. Do you hear me, mistress? Or by—"

"Father! father! kill me. Do with me what you will," cried Ruth, throwing herself at his feet. "By this time the king knows all!"

"Girl!" and in his fury he turned pale as the dead man beside him, and seized her by both wrists. "How? By what means? Who? This is Lawrence Lee's handiwork? Speak."

Her lips moved, but she made no answer.

The looming gallows.

"Betrayed!" he wailed forth in a paroxysm of impotent fury, "and brought to naught! Destroyed like any wind-bag. All our holy work—our sacred compact. By the machinations of a frivolous girl, and a love-sick Don Quixote of a boy! Oh, Ruth, Ruth! Little Ruth, was he indeed more to you than your father—and your very faith? Ay, but 'tis so—'tis so. What have you done? And is it nothing to you neither, that this brave night's work of your's must see me swing for it on Tyburn tree?"

"Father! father! No, no," shuddered Ruth. "There is time—time yet to escape."

"Ho! Is there so?" cried he with a grating bitter laugh. "I protest now, my daughter, you are really too tender and dutiful. Time is there? Time for me to play the poltroon's part, and make a byword and a scorn of myself while the world lasts! No, let them take me here. And yet—"

A father lost.

He paused, and his hold on Ruth's arms relaxed, so that she slowly fell away from him, while he stood sternly gazing into the chilly morning haze as though he saw in it some prophetic vision. "And yet," he murmured, "to be hunted down so. To let myself be trapped like vermin—when still I may be preserved, for an instrument to crush out the superstition and the tyranny of these evil days that darken more and more—"

"Father! father!" implored Ruth. "Quick! By the vaults. Before it is too late!"

"Yes," he went on, letting his keen glance drop on her for a moment, and then fixing it again like some prophetic seer, on empty space. "So it shall be. And my voice shall yet once more be uplifted to cry: Woe! woe! to the doers of wickedness in high places. Yes, I will live. I will live! I will stoop, even to the very dust beneath my feet—to conquer. I will live—and if every hair of my head were a man, I would venture them all in this quarrel."

Then he turned, and looked towards the door.

"Father!" cried Ruth, dashing aside the tangle of hair all fallen about her face, and clinging to him with agonized clutch. "Father! one kiss—one word—one little word before you go!" But his face was turned stonily upon the door.

"Father!"

Alone!

Then he was gone, leaving her stretched where at last he wrenched himself free of her clinging agonized hands, prone and senseless upon the threshold.

CHAPTER XXIX.
A WELCOME HOME.

"Past three o' the clock, and a fine starlight night," piped the old watchman, as he shuffled along, bell and lantern in hand, down Newmarket High Street. "Past three o' the clock."

"Hullo! Master Diogenes. Have a care where you're running to," cried a deep good-humoured voice, as the old fellow came trundling full-tilt against the tall, broad-shouldered figure of a man dressed in gray, who was just about to vault on to the back of a fine black horse standing before the door of the Silver Leopard. "Are you looking for an honest man?"

"I've found him anyhow, Master Alworth," replied the old man, half lifting his lantern to the face of the speaker, which was shaded by a hat of gray felt, whose broad brim almost covered the long iron-gray locks of his periwig. "'Tis the early bird that catches the worm, they say," continued he. "But you be astir betimes indeed, Master Alworth."

"I've a longish journey before me."

The watchman.

"Cambridge?" asked the old fellow.

"Nay. Farther by many a mile," answered the other, vaulting into the saddle.

"The powers alive! You don't say so! Well, you seem in mighty good trim for the task anyhow! 'Tis many a month,—years not to say—since I've noticed ye so springy-like about the knees, Master Alworth."

"H'm," said the traveller, passing his hand across the lower half of his face and then down his thighs. "But I must mind, or I shall be paying for my agility."

"Ay, ay. It don't do to be making too free when us is gettin' well on in our threescore, do it? But happen 'tis some good stroke o' business as is greasin' the wheels for ye," slyly laughed the old fellow. "Coin's a rare mender of a man's paces. 'Tis money—"

"Makes the mare to go," laughed the horseman. "Try the recipe yourself, friend," and he threw a crown-piece upon the ground.

Not without a half-suppressed exclamation of surprise at the goldsmith's unwonted liberality, albeit Master Alworth was no skinflint, the old man picked up the coin, and contemplated it with affectionate admiration. "I never see likenesses of old Rowley ever pleases me so well as these do," he said. "Eh, Master Alworth?"

"They're well enough," said the horseman, with a preoccupied shrug, as he stooped to adjust his stirrup.

"Tho', to be sure," continued the old man, "I grant you 'tis mightily handsomer than ever Charles was, or is like to be. For 'tis few on us grows comelier as we gets on in the years. And there's no doubt this here picture makes the best of him. But there, 'tis part o' kings' trades to be flattered, 'tan't oftentimes as they stumble upon truth."

"Ods-fish!" laughed the other, "'tis seemingly a deal more likely to stumble upon them!"

"Ay—Past three o' the clock! and a fine starlight night—you may say that, for stumblin' 'tis, an no mistake, when you get no heed nor thanks neither for your pains. Maybe as you've heard—for the tale's in everybody's mouth by now—that there came one yesterday mornin' to the king, to warn him o' some fresh plottin's that's hatchin'. And what does Charles do, but turn on his heel, along with all his tag-rag an' bobtail o' lords an' ladies, an' leave the young gentleman to take care o' himself—Past three o' the clock, an' a starlight night—what d'ye think o' that?"

"I think 'twas mightily ill-bred of him," said the horseman.

News.

"Well, pray Heaven the breedin' be the baddest part o't, and keep his majesty from any worse dangers than this night's," said the old man fervently.

"The fire, do you mean? But—'twas nothing after all?"

"Just a flash in the pan. An up-an'-ha'-done-wi't piece of business. Not so much, as far as I can make out, as a hair o' the tails o' one o' his little spannel dogs scorched."

"And the king?"

"He? oh ha!—near four o' the clock, an'—not to be found high nor low, so 'tis said. But what won't folks say? He knows where he is, depend upon't; 'tis not the first time as Charles has bin mislaid. He'll show up again, safe as the nose on your face. A cat with nine lives is old Rowley, God bless him!"

"Well, well, adieu, friend!"

"And a safe journey to your worship—Just four o' the clock, an' a bright sunshiny morning," called out the old man, trudging on and ringing his bell with such tremendous energy, as if to make up for any little delays, that it completely drowned the clatter of Stars and Garters' hoofs as she cantered over the cobble-stones of the High Street.

Another horseman.

Meanwhile Lawrence Lee, only halting to snatch a meal by the way, and to give his horse half an hour's rest, reached Stanstead Church, just as the youngsters let loose from morning dame school were pranking among the gravestones, and plundering the hawthorn hedges. Tired out, but lighter of heart than he could remember for many a long day, he threw them a gay quip as he passed. Bang, clash, rattle, went the churchyard wicket, away all over the dusty road the poor may blossoms, scattered and trampled under ruthless little feet all trotting after the big horse's legs. And no marvel neither; for let alone the merry jokes of Master Lee, who always was the most popular creature in the world with the young fry of the neighbourhood, there was a thing to be seen popping its head in and out of the deep pocket of his doublet in the most strange fashion. Head, forsooth! a bunch of brown satin ribbons you mean, or some fairing of the sort for Mistress Ruth Rumbold, that wobbled to and fro with the horse's movements.

"'Tis a dog."

"Naa, 'tes a dog, tell'ee," whispered a five-year-old wiseacre under his breath.

"Dog!" contemptuously laughed a wise virgin of six, whose canine circle of acquaintance was limited to huge farm mastiffs and gypsy curs. "'Tes a silk pincush'n for Madam Lee, cain't you see the brown and whoite bows to the corners o't."

"Pincush'n! bows! Thems its ears an' its oyes a gogglin'. Pincush'ns doesn't goggle their oyes; 'tes a dog, ain't it, Marster Lee?"

"Something of the sort," answered Lee, carefully drawing the little King Charles from his snug hiding-place, and exhibiting its roly-poly body to the public gaze; but the shrieks of delight greeting its appearance, so startled its unaccustomed ears, that terror got the better of Master Médor's courtly breeding, and sent him scuffling back into the recesses of his friend's riding-coat; and amidst a general groan at this disappointing man[oe]uvre, Lee ambled on at a good round trot, which quickly brought him within sight of the grass-grown broken tower tops of Nether Hall. It was now close upon mid-day, and the sun shone hotly, so that the deserted look of the meadows where the haymakers had just commenced work would have occasioned their young proprietor small surprise, even could his preoccupied mind have spared the matter a thought. Just a day it was for creeping away into the shade of the hedges, or of the alders overhanging the cool water shallows, to munch your rye-bread and bacon, and drink your draught of milk or small-beer out of your old tin can; and one or two old crippled men and women seemed the only folks in the way to give the master a welcome home.

A posse comitatus.

Eager to relieve the anxiety he felt his long and unexpected absence must be causing his mother, Lawrence Lee had no eyes for the strange stares full of wonderment and suspicion the old gaffers and goodies threw after him; but he was startled out of himself as he reached the last field skirting the lane which led to the house, by a confused hubbub of voices and angry discussion, as if the whole parish had collected between its lofty hedgerows. The spot, ordinarily so peaceful and so silent, save for the singing of the birds in the big elm boughs overhead, was now a veritable Babel; and breaking through a gap in the hedge, fresh made by the trampling of a hundred hobnailed shoes, he leaped the intervening ditch, and alighting in their very midst, demanded in imperative tones, what they did there?

For one instant, all stood as if confounded by his apparition. A thunderbolt fallen among them would have startled them less. Here had they been scouring the country pretty well since daybreak, north, south, east, west, and all points of the compass between, among Epping glades, along Hainhault hedgerows, away over Amwell, Hoddesdon, Wideford, Ware, Waltham—far and wide, the hue and cry had gone. Deep into oozing ditches, and hollow tree trunks, and pigsties, and barns, and farmhouse cellars, and gable roofs, and canal barges, and river craft, pitchforks, and sticks, and cudgels of all sorts and sizes had prodded and poked in search of farmer Lawrence Lee.

"What is the meaning of this?" indignantly demanded Lee, as half a dozen strapping fellows clad in the local militia uniform broke through the crowd of smock-frocks, and closed round him. "Is this the way you do your duty, Master Sergeant?" he went on addressing that officer, who had seized his bridle-rein.

Arrested for murder.

"Ay, it be, Master Cap'n," grinned the fellow—for Lee was the head of their company—"an' a moighty proper pretty way too. You be our prisoner!"

"Prisoner!"

"Oy, oy, it be all roight, ship-shape. You be arrested."

"On what charge?"

"That be no business o' yourn."

"The murder o' Sheriff Goodenough," shrieked an open-mouthed matron. "The murder o' Sheriff Goodenough, Master Innocence. Him as lies dead in the Warder's Room at Master Rumbold's?"

"By whose charge?" said Lee, passing his hand across his eyes, like a man striving to see the light.

"You want to be knowing more than's good for you," sneeringly replied the sergeant; "'tis all roight. Him as asks no questions, woan't be telled no lies. I warrant ya 't be no use kickin'. Eh—yow! yow! stand still, you brute," yelled the brave Hector, as Lawrence's horse evinced a decided disposition to make a trial of his heels, and sent the by-standers to a safer distance. Lee, however, quieted the animal, and then with a composure of manner that worked everybody up to an unendurable pitch of exasperation, he again demanded his accuser's name.

"Colonel Richard Rumsey," answered the spokesman, thinking it wiser perhaps to comply.

"Very good," said Lawrence dismounting, and consigning his horse to one of his own stablemen who stood near.

"Come! Quick march, cap'n," said the sergeant, regaining all his wonted valour, as the sound of the departing horse's hoofs grew fainter and fainter.

"Where to?" said Lawrence, facing about.

"To the King's Arms!"

"The King's Arms, to begin with, and then—" the man chuckled.

"That will do," calmly said Lee. "What do you mean by this?" he added, a purple red flush of wounded pride suffusing all his face, as a stout cord was flung over his shoulders from behind, and a dozen hands secured it.

"Only a little compliment we pay to plotters and suchlike folk," laughed the sergeant.

Mob law.

Lawrence was about to make a violent resistance; but suddenly his face changed, a look of deep humiliation came over it, and he stopped short. "Do I not deserve this?" he said to himself, and then he submitted quietly; and as if he were in his old position as leader of these men, and not the led one, he turned and faced about for the Rye; only delaying for a moment to charge some of the terror-stricken women-servants of the farm with a cheering message for his mother, and to bid them conceal the truth from her, as up till now they had contrived to do—"till he should return," as he said, regardless of the mocking gibes of the rabble, pressing upon all sides.

CHAPTER XXX
A TRAVELLER FROM NEWMARKET.

"This a fair scene," said the king to himself, as between three and four o'clock in the afternoon he reached the rising ground which commanded the familiar prospect of the square battlemented roof and tall spiral chimney-shaft of the Rye House. "I think," he pondered on, "if I were not king of England, I would be a maltster, and live in such a corner of it, as this Master Rumbold does, without a care to fret me, and with one fair daughter, and my honest friend Farmer Lee for my nearest neighbour. But yonder," continued Charles, as his glance caught the gables of the King's Arms, "lies our rendezvous. Now, may my luck be as good as Master Isaak Walton's, and bring me as good a supper of fish out of yonder little silver stream, as he used to find under the old hostelry's roof. 'Tis quite certain at all events," he went on, smilingly to himself, as he caught sight of the buxom figure of Mistress Sheppard, who was standing at the porch expectantly, shading her eyes with her hand as she looked up the road, "that this present hostess of the King's Arms, is as cleanly and handsome-looking as her predecessor could be; and as to her civility, if Master Lee's word is to be taken—"

Pleasant quarters.

"Bless the darling!" murmured Mistress Sheppard, making a profound curtsey to the king, as Stars and Garters stopped of her own sweet will before the porch, and neighed a greeting.

"Pretty creature!" she murmured on under her breath, hardly knowing whether the sight of her favourite, or of her favourite's rider, more originated the agreeable fluttering about her heart; for at the first glimpse she had recognized the king; and guessed at the consequent success of Lawrence Lee's mission. "Will your Majesty be pleased to dismount?" she said in low glad tones, as she laid her hand lightly on the mare's neck.

"Why, bless my soul!" ejaculated Sheppard, who now made his appearance in the porch, to receive the new-comer, and rubbing his eyes to stare at the horse. "Stars and Garters—as I'm alive!"

"You're not alive, man. You're asleep," laughed his wife, a trifle nervously, and placing her ample figure in such a position as to intercept his view of the horse, as it disappeared under the ostler's care in the direction of the stables. "Stars and Garters! What next, I wonder? 'Tis all Stars and Garters in thy sleepy eyes! Come, stir about man. Waken up, and take his Ma—take this good gentleman indoors, an' lay the table, while I see about somethin' for him to eat."

"Not forgetting a trout. Eh, Mistress?" called the guest after her.

"Ay. I'll warrant your—worship. A right royal one 'tis too," answered the beaming hostess.

"One would ha' guessed she'd bin' expectin' of him," muttered Sheppard, still rubbing the mystification out of his eyes, while he preceded his guest to the inn parlour, "and him a moighty sort of a favourite too. Now, there's a many that comes along, as she thinks naught o' puttin' off with chub; nasty fork-boned watery skelintons o' things. But my foine old gentleman here, must be havin' his trout, and his curtseys, and down bobbins into the bargain." And Master Sheppard, who, as luck would have it, had been a bit put about all day with one thing and another, having first rather sulkily flicked a few stray crumbs with his snow-white apron from the bright oaken table to the floor, proceeded to lay the cloth.

"Any news stirring in these parts?" asked the guest in careless tones, as he threw himself comfortably among the cushions of a settle drawn up in the deep bay of the window looking upon the road.

A surly host.

Now there was a good deal of news stirring; but Sheppard, contrary to his garrulous wont, seemed in no mood to impart it; and he only replied by a shrug of his lean shoulders, and a shake of the head, casting at the same time uneasy and sheepish glances towards a stout broad-shouldered man, seated in the embrasure of a distant window smoking an enormous Dutch pipe, whose hat was drawn low down over his eyes, which were apparently absorbed in gloomy contemplation of the huge jack of ale on the table before him.

Meaning words.

"Be you from nor'ards, Master Traveller?" said Sheppard to the new-comer, as if in haste to turn the current of conversation.

"Cambridge," answered the guest, craning his neck towards the window, as if he expected somebody.

"Eh! be you, now?" said Sheppard, rousing up a little, and a gleam of intelligence breaking into his eyes. "Then I doubt you can tell me if 'tis true that May Queen has beat Satan by ten paces, as the talk goes she has?"

"Quite true."

"An' what," gleefully nodded Sheppard, "what's your notions over Flatfoot?"

"Oh! safe to win."

"The king's own horse, an't he?"

The traveller nodded.

"Maybe as you've a score on her yourself?" said Sheppard with a knowing wink.

"Rather a heavy one. Yes," replied the traveller, suppressing a faint sigh.

"Well, well," consolingly said Sheppard. "An' you'll make a potful, depend upon't. Trust Old Rowley for tellin' good horseflesh from carrion."

"Ay. As he's able to tell honest subjects from crop-eared knaves," laughed the stranger, drawing close up to the table, and pouring out a bumper of ruby red wine from the tall silver-lipped flagon which Mistress Sheppard had just brought in, and placed at his elbow. "Shall we drink his health, friend?" he added, brimming another glass, and pushing it toward Sheppard.

A more agonizing expression than the one breaking on Sheppard's face at this challenge, it would be impossible to conceive. Half-way his trembling fingers carried the goblet to his lips that quivered with strange contortions; then as his oblique stolen glances crossed those of the silent smoker, uplifted towards the shadows cast by the ivy half covering the lattice, his cheeks turned white as his apron, and he set down the glass untasted.

"Come man! what ails you?" said the stranger, looking up at the unhappy Sheppard, and then not without a touch of suspicion at the flagon. "Or is anything wrong with the wine?"

"No, no," gasped Sheppard, "it's very nice wine indeed;" and he gazed at the contents of his cup, with affectionate admiration. "Very nice. But I—I—I'm—ordered not—to—to—" Then he broke down hopelessly.

Dinner for a King.

"Not to touch it, eh?" and laughing heartily at his host's perturbation, the stranger turned his attention to the trout which Mistress Sheppard was now setting before him with her own fair hands. "And who's your medical adviser?" he continued, as he made a deep incision into the gleaming armour of the fish. "I' faith! if 'tis yonder gentleman," and he gave a half glance towards the silent stranger, "I'd seek another opinion if I were you. What is this?" he went on, turning to inspect the contents of a little cruet-tray which Mistress Sheppard was handing to him. "Verjuice and vinegar! Thanks, no. I'll have none of them. For though 'tis said they're good for the digestion, they always spoil mine," and he pushed away his plate, almost untasted, and his dark eyes wandered towards the silent guest. "What have you there?" he went on, as Sheppard with vast pomp and circumstance, placed on the table a large dish.

"Sirloin," answered Sheppard, flourishing off the silver cover, huge as Mambrino's helmet. "Sirloin—your worship," he reiterated obsequiously, as if he was anxious to patch up the appalling hole he had just now made in his manners. "Prime cut. Fit for a king."

Dangerous names.

"I'll have none of it. I cannot wait longer," said Charles, impatiently looking again towards the window. "I came here by appointment with a—friend, who does not appear disposed to be punctual. And yet, by his own tale, he lives not so far off from here. His name is—"

"Hush!" whispered Mistress Sheppard in his ear, as she bent to replace his plate with a clean one.

"H'm—No matter," went on Charles. "We—I am not accustomed to be kept waiting," and he rose, and took up his hat. "Tell the young gentleman when he does come, that he will find me at Whitehall—"

"Hush—sh!" again whispered Mistress Sheppard.

"H'm—not far from the water stairs. But he knows my address. So come, Master Landlord, have with you, and find me a fresh horse. And pray be quick about it, for if I would sleep at home to-night, I must be brisk. I cry your pardon, Mistress Sheppard. You were about to speak?" he added in courteous tones, as he perceived his hostess smoothing her apron, and her lips opening and shutting, and opening again.

A fair visitor.

"So please you, there is one," answered Mistress Sheppard. "Nay, names matter little. One who earnestly desires an audience—a word with you, before you go. A young girl—"

"Let her come in," said Charles with animation.

CHAPTER XXXI.
RUMSEY MEETS HIS MATCH.

"Mistress, your servant," said the king, his voice dropping to a gentle gravity, as the door opened, and disclosed the gray-clad figure of Ruth Rumbold. "What can we do for you?" he added, striving to conceal the curiosity he could not but feel at sight of the pale face, and the sad wearied look of the beautiful downcast eyes. "Or do you perhaps bring me the reckoning?" he went on, as, encouraged by his kindly tones, she tendered him a large folded paper which she carried in her hand, making a profound curtsey as she did so, at the same time lifting her eyes to his friendly gaze, so that he could read in them of the heart too full for words.

"Ods-fish, it must be something of a heavy one!" he added laughingly, as he turned the paper about, examining its seal; "but it bears no superscription, Mistress—Mistress—are you not Mistress Ruth Rumbold?" She curtseyed again, "It bears no superscription?" he reiterated, and hesitating to break open the seal.

"It is meant for your—your—"

"Worship," prompted Mistress Sheppard.

"Your worship's reading," said Ruth.

Then without more ado, Charles opened the paper.

"Why, what have we here?" he said, glancing over its contents with awakened curiosity. "'Tis made out in two hands! 'I, Thomas'—who is it? 'Thomas Good'—I' faith! 'tis less like handwriting, than as if a spider had dipped his legs in ink, and then danced a coranto on this fair white paper meadow. Pray had the gentleman his wits when he indited this?"

"Indeed, indeed," cried Ruth, "he had, but not his strength—your worship. He was dying."

"Oh, I crave your pardon," said the king, growing grave again, and dropping his gaze from Ruth's troubled face, to the paper; "'being now at the point of death.' Ay, ay, I see now, I should have read further, 'by the hand of the man Richard'—what's that noise?" he went on, breaking off in his deciphering endeavours, as a distant chorus of yells and shouts and hideous cat-calls suddenly broke upon the drowsy afternoon silence. "Your neighbourhood," he added with an amused smile, as he turned to continue his task, "would appear to be less peaceful than it looks. 'The man Richard—'"

The strange guest speaks.

"Maybe 'tis your friend come at last to keep his appointment," said the stranger, whose eyes had for many minutes past been fixed on Charles. "Better late than never, you know," he added, putting his pipe back between his lips, which were curled into an ugly leer; and thrusting both hands into the pockets of his small clothes, he settled himself to watch the approach of a dense motley rabble enveloped in a cloud of dust, which suddenly broke with a renewed outburst of uproar, over the low wood garden-fence, trampling it under foot, till it lay scattered in all directions. On, on, tramp, tramp, surging to the very windows it came, amidst shrieks and whoops, and cries of "Shame! shame! give him a yard o' rope, fair play! God save the king!—The gallows tree's too good for him!"—Tramp, tramp, fell the heavy tread of hobnailed shoes, until the forest of pitchforks, cudgels, rusty firearms, spades, spuds, rakes, and every conceivable weapon and tool brandished aloft by the strange crew fell apart, and disclosed the cord-bound figure of Lawrence Lee.

The prisoner.

"What!" cried the king, starting in amazement. "Master Lee?"

"And a right magnificent progress he appears to have made," said the stranger, with an insolent laugh, as he carefully laid aside his pipe and rose from his seat. "Ho! come, guards," he shouted through the open window; "bring in your prisoner;" and hustled forward along the broad passage, despite the proddings and fisticuffs dealt right and left by his guards, against whom Mistress Sheppard seconded her indignant protests, by the vigorous aid of her own hands and finger nails, Lee, deprived of all power of helping himself, stumbled head first into the presence of the king.

"What does this mean?" cried Charles, as Lee, maintaining a stout resistance, succeeded for a moment in elbowing off the worst of the press, and hurrying forward, dropped, breathless and spent, upon one knee at the king's feet.

"Your Majesty," he began.

"The king?!!" broke in one universal shout of amazement from all present, excepting from the lips of Mistress Sheppard and Ruth Rumbold, and then an awe-stricken silence fell.

"Tell me—" began the king.

"I can tell your Majesty but this," said Lee, his voice falling clear and resonant through the utter stillness, "that I have been arrested by the order of the man who stands there, Richard Rumsey; but on what charge, I wait for him to say."

"On the charge," said Rumsey, advancing from the shadows, like some savage beast from its lair, with an evil twitching of his lips, and a serpent-like glitter in his cold eyes, which, however, carefully eluded the gaze of all present—"the charge of the murder of Sheriff Goodenough."

"What?!" shouted Lee, bounding to his feet.

"Committed," calmly continued Rumsey, still looking into space, "in the Warder's Room of Master Rumbold's house yonder yesterday morning."

The witness.

"Nay, that is false," broke in Ruth, "for it wanted almost ten minutes of midnight. The clock had not struck."

"Girl!" cried Rumsey starting, and turning upon her a face grown ghastly pale; but immediately collecting himself he added, addressing the king, with a baleful smile upon his lips, "Let it be so, your M——. The young woman may be right. She is in Master Lee's confidence I doubt not; and he has whispered the gentle secret of his exploit to her. Ten minutes to midnight it might have been."

"Villain!" furiously burst forth Lee.

"And since he has imparted in sweet confidence to this—in sooth I think she just now said her name was—"

The accuser.

"Ruth Rumbold, yes," cried the girl in a loud ringing voice. "And 'tis you—you, Richard Rumsey, are the murderer of Sheriff Goodenough!"

"You are certainly mighty wise, little mistress," he rejoined with a spasmodic twitch of his pallid lips. "Your Majesty," he went on, turning jauntily to the king, and with a careless wave of his hand towards Lee, "can see how the land lies betwixt these two. And this brave young bloodsucker is indeed to be envied so fair a special pleader. But it won't do, my dear," he added, addressing Ruth in jeering tones. "'Tis too grave a matter."

"Ay, truly," said the bewildered Charles, again glancing over the paper in his hands. "Grave indeed!"

"Scoundrel! double-dyed villain!" exclaimed Lee, writhing in his cords, and glaring at Rumsey. "Is it not enough that already your soul is black with its guilt, but you must accuse another of your crime?"

"Words break no bones," coolly laughed Rumsey. "If ever now," he went on, pointing at Lee's bound hands, whose every vein stood out to bursting in his struggles to get free, "these inconvenient little knots should be loosed, you shall certainly be set to rant it at Drury Lane playhouse. You'd make Manager Betterton's fortune in a week. In the meantime," he added, turning to the king, "your Majesty sees before you the slayer of Thomas Goodenough."

For the defence.

"Ay, ay; he speaks truth at last!" cried Mistress Sheppard, and dashing forward, and squaring up to Rumsey, she shook her clenched fist in his face.

"Woman!" he snarled, retreating a step, and his ashen lips quivering apart, like a half-cowed hyena's.

"Oh! woman me as much as you please," she stormed on. "That don't frighten me much, I reckon. Yes, yes, woman I am, and Ruth here has told me all about it; and how the others being gone away—"

"Others?" wonderingly interrupted the king. "Gone away?"

"Ay, for sure. The other conspirators, your Majesty—being gone down into the vaults with Master Rumbold, to see the way they should escape by, if—when—" She hesitated a moment.

"Go on, my good woman. I understand," said the king, "when their purpose should be accomplished."

"And they left Master Goodenough, who had fallen asleep in the window, alone with this Rumsey here; and Master Goodenough, who was not for—for your Majesty being murdered, but only for being made away with like, across the water—being presently wakened up, picked a quarrel with this fellow—that is, this fellow, who was all for hacking down your Majesty and his grace of York yonder in the lane, like any butcher's oxen, picked it with him, and—Come, Ruth, child;" and seizing Ruth by the arm, Mistress Sheppard dragged her forward. "Those were his words. Tell the king how those were his words."

"Lies!" hissed Rumsey through his livid lips. "Let her bring her witnesses. Just a string of lies!"

"Those are in thy foul mouth," retorted Mistress Sheppard. "Not in this gentle child's, who found courage, Heaven helping her, for the king's sake, to make herself certain of all your evil minds were hatchin'; and then spared not what was best and dearest to her, so only that the king should be apprised of your villainy. Oh, I trow they'll be well mated man an' wife," murmured on Mistress Sheppard, gazing with proud tears in her eager eyes, from Ruth to Lawrence Lee, "when please old Time's good leisure, he shall make her a trifle older."

A parenthesis.

"Keep to the point, dear Mistress Sheppard," said Lawrence, flushing a little.

"An' what am I doin', if I aren't keepin' to't?" demanded she. "Don't I say that she spared not even you, Lawrence Lee, to the perilsome journey to Newmarket? and didn't you right willingly mind her biddin'? Oh, I'll warrant me, little Ruth has told me all; and who but me was't, that girthed Stars and Garters, not waitin' to untie—savin' your Majesty's sacred presence—to untie my nightcap, and bid ye God-speed, and sent ye both gallopin' off together?"

"This is a strange tale," said the king, as Mistress Sheppard paused for lack of breath.

The evidence.

"Ay, 'tis indeed," she went on, "and Mistress Ruth has eyes an' ears, an' uses 'em to better purpose than some folks I know"—and she threw a significant glance at her bewildered better half—"as can only stand gaffin' and gawmin' at a body. An' she used 'em to bestest purpose of all, that moment when she hided, poor lamb, inside o' yonder panel that looks into the Warder's Room, an' saw you, Richard Rumsey, commit your foul deed. And so for your witness, if you want one, why here she stands."

"Unbind this young man's arms," said the king.

Rumsey started forward with looks of well-feigned concern. "Is your Majesty mad?" he said protestingly. "'Tis indeed too venturesome—too foolhardy, if I may say so. This fellow—taken red-handed—"

"We are surety for his not running away," interrupted the king with a faint smile.

"Shall she tell more?" went on Mistress Sheppard, looking on with triumphant satisfaction, while the king's commands were being obeyed. "Do you want to know how like the Lord's own blessed Bible Samaritan this child tended the poor bleeding sinful soul, an' strove to save his poor body; but Heaven would not have it so, an' called him to his account—"

"Does your Majesty," loftily broke in Rumsey, "accept the testimony of this ranting virago, and this puling girl, or the word of a soldier?"

"He can take it, or leave it," cried Mistress Sheppard, throwing all her court manners to the winds, "like pigs leave pearls for offal. The witness of living truth," she went on in slower and solemn tones, "and of loyal hearts, is no thing to be despised. But the testimony of the dead is mightier than the angel's last trumpet; and that looks his Majesty in the face;" and Mistress Sheppard pointed to the paper in the king's hands.

The tables turned.

"It is enough," said Charles, gazing with emotion on the poor faint signature of the dying man's hand, and the somewhat tremulous but clerkly little characters beneath it. "Richard Goodenough being dead, yet speaketh. Arrest that traitor!" and he pointed to Rumsey.

Like a wild beast at bay, the guilty wretch glared round him. All chance of escape was worse than hopeless; and the guard which now left Lawrence Lee a free man, and hastened to surround their new prisoner, had apparently an easy task in securing him. Ere, however, they could touch him, he plunged his hand into his breast, and with a heavy, but lightning-quick sideways lurch, eluded the grasp of his captors, and breaking into a low rageful howl stumbled forward within a couple of paces of the king. "So then!" he cried with an imprecation, snatching his hidden hand from the bosom of his doublet.

Rumsey's last attempt.

Time only to see that it clutches some gleaming weapon which he turns with a savage thrust upon the king's breast,—time only for a moment of dumb stricken horror instantly broken by shrieks and cries mingling with the deafening report of a pistol, whose smoke as it clears in thin bluish vapour reveals Rumsey prostrate at the king's feet beneath the grip of Lawrence Lee, the fingers of the would-be regicide's right hand still grasping the pistol, whose muzzle points straight upward to the broad beam overhead, shattered and charred, and riddled with its discharged contents!