The sun was setting when he rode into Bath, and the Abbey tower outlined against a saffron sky rose in solemn grandeur, which unconsciously soothed his troubled mind, though, like most of his generation, he had very little feeling for the beautiful. What he had was gained almost entirely from the poetry of the Bible—a Book which had been to him and to his father before him the great educator, and to which, in common with all the best of the Puritans, he owed the sterling honesty and the moral courage that characterised him. To the modern world he would have seemed primitive and unsophisticated. But there is a certain kind of simplicity that is very ill compensated by æstheticism, and sturdy Puritan uprightness is sorely needed in these latter days of luxury, lying and greed of gain.
Having delivered the letter from Sir Ralph Hopton, and Dick Heyworth’s letter to his brother, into the General’s keeping, he went in search of Major Locke, and to his great delight found the rare treat of a letter from home awaiting him. His father gave him the new’s of Mrs. Unett’s death, and overwhelmed with the sense of what Hilary’s desolation would be, he lost no time in writing to her. But it is one thing to write a letter in time of war, and quite another to send it safely to its destination.
The next night the troops were ordered into the Bradford Valley, and a strong position was taken up on Claverton Down, for scouts had brought word that the Royalists meant to attempt Bath from that quarter. Some days passed before Gabriel found any one to whom he could entrust the letter, but at last Major Locke’s servant Tobias, who was carrying a packet to Mistress Helena at Gloucester, consented to take charge of it. Tobias, however, though thoroughly honest, was not blessed with brains. Thinking to save himself, he made what he fondly hoped was a short cut across the down, instead of availing himself of the sheltered valley. To his utter dismay, he came across a Royalist officer and a couple of scouts who were reconnoitering to see whether it would be possible after all to capture the city from the Bradford Valley, and while Hopton’s men were making a vigorous attack on the position at Claverton, poor Tobias found that his venture was like to cost him his life.
The scouts seized him and one glance at the face of the officer told him that his last hour was at hand.
“You come from Waller’s camp,” said Colonel Norton, sharply. “Don’t deny it, I can read it in your craven face. What strength has he there?”
Tobias told the number of the troops.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was but on an errand,” faltered the poor fellow. “I am nought but a servant, sir.”
“Whose servant?”
“Major Locke’s, sir,” said Tobias, sealing his own doom by the words.