“Scoundrels,” he cried, “will you kill your King?”
“We will have the money which the King carries,” cried one of his assailants. “The price of three knighthoods and the taxes of two shires we will have.”
One of the King’s gentlemen had fallen, and another was wounded. Lord Rippingdale was hard pressed, but in what seemed the last extremity of the King and his party there came a shout from the other side of the stream:
“God save the King! For the King! For the King!”
A dozen horsemen splashed their way across the stream, and with swords and pistols drove through the King’s assailants and surrounded his coach. The ruffians made an attempt to rally and resist the onset, but presently broke and ran, pursued by a half-dozen of his Majesty’s defenders. Five of the assailants were killed and several were wounded.
As Lord Rippingdale turned to Charles to raise him, the coach-door was opened upon the other side, a light was thrust in, and over the unconscious body of the King my lord recognised John Enderby.
“His Majesty”—began John Enderby.
“His Majesty is better,” replied Lord Rippingdale, as the King’s eyes half opened. “You lead these gentlemen? This should bring you a barony,—Sir John,” my lord added, half graciously, half satirically; for the honest truth of this man’s nature vexed him. “The King will thank you.”
“John Enderby wants no reward for being a loyal subject, my lord,” answered Enderby.
Then with another glance at the King, in which he knew that his Majesty was recovered, he took off his hat, bowed, and, mounting his horse, rode away without a word.