“Robin Hilyard,” said Warwick, “I have mused much how to reconcile my service to the king with the gratitude I owe to a man who saved me from great danger. In the midst of thy unhappy and rebellious designs thou wert captured and brought to me; the papers found on thee attest a Lancastrian revolt, so ripening towards a mighty gathering, and so formidable from the adherents whom the gold and intrigues of King Louis have persuaded to risk land and life for the Red Rose, that all the king’s friends can do to save his throne is now needed. In this revolt thou hast been the scheming brain, the master hand, the match to the bombard, the fire brand to the flax. Thou smilest, man! Alas! seest thou not that it is my stern duty to send thee bound hand and foot before the king’s council, for the brake to wring from thee thy guilty secrets, and the gibbet to close thy days?”
“I am prepared,” said Hilyard; “when the bombard explodes, the match has become useless; when the flame smites the welkin, the firebrand is consumed!”
“Bold man! what seest thou in this rebellion that can profit thee?”
“I see, looming through the chasms and rents made in the feudal order by civil war, the giant image of a free people.”
“And thou wouldst be a martyr for the multitude, who deserted thee at Olney?”
“As thou for the king who dishonoured thee at Shene!”
Warwick frowned, and there was a moment’s pause; at last, said the earl: “Look you, Robin, I would fain not have on my hands the blood of a man who saved my life. I believe thee, though a fanatic and half madman,—I believe thee true in word as rash of deed. Swear to me on the cross of this dagger that thou wilt lay aside all scheme and plot for this rebellion, all aid and share in civil broil and dissension, and thy life and liberty are restored to thee. In that intent, I have summoned my own kinsman, Marmaduke Nevile. He waits without the door; he shall conduct thee safely to the seashore; thou shalt gain in peace my government of Calais, and my seneschal there shall find thee all thou canst need,—meat for thy hunger and moneys for thy pastime. Accept my mercy, take the oath, and begone.”
“My lord,” answered Hilyard, much touched and affected, “blame not thyself if this carcass feed the crows—my blood be on mine own head! I cannot take this oath; I cannot live in peace; strife and broil are grown to me food and drink. Oh, my lord! thou knowest not what dark and baleful memories made me an agent in God’s hand against this ruthless Edward!” and then passionately, with whitening lips and convulsive features, Hilyard recounted to the startled Warwick the same tale which had roused the sympathy of Adam Warner.
The earl, whose affections were so essentially homely and domestic, was even more shocked than the scholar by the fearful narrative.
“Unhappy man!” he said with moistened eyes, “from the core of my heart I pity thee. But thou, the scathed sufferer from civil war, wilt thou be now its dread reviver?”