There was a note of bitterness in Marlborough's voice.
"Your pity, I fear, was ill-deserved, my lord," said the Squire. "I know the man. He fought at Blenheim, indeed, but on the other side, and for treasonable practices was sent some six years ago on a long term to the Plantations. He must have escaped."
"Poor wretch! He had a miserable end. In spite of what you tell me, Mr. Berkeley, I pity him. Such is the fate of too many loyal soldiers also, the innocent victims of war. You who live a quiet country life have certainly chosen the better part. The prizes of court and camp are in the end but Dead-Sea fruit. 'Put not your trust in princes': 'tis the truest of warnings, as we old stagers—eh, my lord?—have reason to know."
A cheerful fire, good fare, and a fine vintage of much-travelled Madeira had completed the good impression made by the host. The elder men began to talk freely, with none of the constraint which the presence of a younger man and a stranger might in other circumstances have produced. Harry was amused to find that the passage of years had altered him beyond recognition, and wondered when a suitable opportunity would occur of recalling himself to the recollection of his guests. All at once Lord Godolphin said:
"'Tis strange, Mr. Berkeley, that I am for the second time detained in this village by an accident. My host on that occasion was, I think, a Mr. Fanshawe. Is he still living? It was ten years ago."
"Sir Godfrey Fanshawe is dead, my lord; his son now owns the Grange."
"It all comes back to me. We were travelling to London—Frank and I, Jack—and our coach broke down as we left a cricket match. Sir Godfrey Fanshawe was good enough to give us beds for the night, and we had gone but a few miles on the road next morning when we were pulled up by a fallen tree, and in a trice were looking down the muzzles of half-a-dozen horse pistols. I had sent some of my young men ahead to arrange a change of horses; the others bolted, and there we were in the midst of the gang. 'Twas an uncommonly tight place; Frank, always handy with his pistol, got in a shot, but in another half-minute we should have been stripped or worse when there came from the wall at our left a wild hullabaloo worse than a dozen Thames bargemen touting for a fare. The rascals turned tail and bolted; over the wall sprang a man and a boy, and egad, I remember now how I laughed when they told me they'd done the trick betwixt 'em. 'Twas a rare flam. And the boy——"
"I think, my lord——" began Harry, feeling somewhat uncomfortable; but Marlborough, setting his glass down on the table, bent forward and interrupted.
"Egad, Godolphin, you bring things back to me. The boy—we were always going to do something for him. He found his way to the Low Countries, and showed himself a lad of mettle. I came across him once or twice; noted him—for the second time, by the way—for an ensigncy, and found that he was already a cornet in a Dutch regiment. He did well with Eugene, I believe. Rochester—that was his name—Harry Rochester. I wonder what became of him! Certainly he owed nothing to patronage—yours or mine. Wasn't he the son of the parson here? Mr. Berkeley, has he ever revisited these parts? 'Pon my soul, I should like to meet him again."
"I was about to explain, your grace, that—I am that Harry Rochester."