"I honour Barton," replied Eustace; "I honour him even for that severity. His word has been plighted to his employers, and he must deliver us up prisoners. But what think you of Isabel's gallant officer, that resemblance of the noble, ingenuous Evellin. I will never study physiognomy under you, sister."
Isabel was more pained at this reproach than usual. Eustace perceived her droop. "Come, dear girl," said he, "we will talk of him no more. You shall never want a faithful protector while I live, and ardently as I pant to break these bonds and to be in action, I will make no attempt at freedom, unless I can also liberate you."
They stopped that night at Northampton. Barton was reserved and silent, and at length remarked, that in two days their party would reach London.—"I have never seen London," said Isabel. "Come, describe it to us, and say where shall we be confined. I suppose we shall meet with only warm, steady, common-wealth's men."
"It is the seat of discord," answered Barton; "there are as many factions as there are orators, all striving for mastery; yet all united against the King, by a persuasion of his insincerity, and by apprehensions that he would sacrifice them to his vengeance, in case he were reconciled to the Parliament."
"Can it be supposed," said Eustace, "that after the wrongs and iniquities he has endured, he ever can forgive! Where is the oblivious draught that can drown the recollection of a nation rising in arms against its Sovereign?"
Baron answered—"The nation and the King must both forgive, or war must be eternal. You have seen its aspect; what think you? Is this great quarrel like the mere abstract question which is cooly discussed in the cabinet of Princes, when they talk of risking ten thousand lives for a victory, and laying waste a province to cut off the resources of the enemy? Let us not balance misery against forgiveness. It is childish reasoning to keep ourselves in torment, because we will not forget the injuries we have suffered. Peace only can heal our putrifying wounds, and peace can never be bought too dear, unless the price is conscience or safety."
They now separated for the evening; anxious thoughts kept the captives awake. But after all was silent in the inn, Isabel heard a gentle tap at the chamber-door. In a state of agitation, every sound is alarming. She listened, and heard Barton whisper, "Arise." Before she could open the door, the watchful Eustace had flown to their protection. Barton was closely muffled in his cloak, and inquired if they dared to trust themselves with him. Constantia drew back, and looked alarmed, while Isabel accepted his offered arm. "The night is dark," said Eustace, "and would conceal evil designs."—"Peradventure," replied Barton, "it will also prosper good ones; I speak but three words—speed, silence, liberty."
Encouraged by these animating sounds, Eustace cheered the trembling Constance, and following their guide, they hurried along by the street which led to the castle. As the avenues to the King's quarters were more vigilantly watched, their danger was here most imminent; but Barton had secured a friend, who suffered them to pass through his garden, and by close unfrequented passages they gained the fields. The rising moon now discovered some indefinite objects, concealed among brush-wood. Barton whistled, and the countersign, "Banbury," was returned in a voice which they knew to be that of Williams. He ran for their horses, which were fastened at a little distance, while Barton alternately embraced his young friends, and affectionately bade them God-speed.—"Excellent man," said the ardent Eustace, whose over-flowing gratitude now seemed to exceed his former suspicions, "why did you not tell us your design?"
"Because," replied he, "I saw not in you that property of discretion, which would allow me to trust you with your own safety."
"Yet," resumed Eustace, "if I am rash, I am not base, nor will I accept freedom if it endangers your safety or wounds your conscience."