“Sabrina!” “Richard?”—“Vaga!” “Eustace?”
Four names, pronounced in joyous exclamation amid the din, and by four distinct voices; all with the epithet “dear” conjoined.
Not another word then, not another moment there; for the pursuit must be continued. The capture of Prince Rupert would be a thing of consequence, independent of all private feelings; and Sir Richard longed to settle scores with Lunsford. So on went he, and his, in chase of the now scattered escort.
But not again to come up with the pair of profligates. The stoppage, short as it was, had given them time to make Framilode Ferry; where, leaping from their horses, and into a light boat, they were out of sword’s reach, and range of bullet, before the pursuers could close upon them.
Still within earshot of angry speech, however, hurled after them by the triumphant Foresters, with many a taunt, many the vile epithet bestowed.
A degradation deserved; and other men than they would have felt its sting and shame. But not this scion of Royalty, toast, type, and model of Cavalierism. Happy at having escaped with a whole skin, he but laughed back, rejoicing in the life still left him for future crimes to be committed.
And many the one was he afterwards guilty of; though short from that time was his rule in the city of Bristol. Once again, and soon, was it enfiladed by an armed force, not for siege or leaguer, but instant assault. For the man who commanded was he who, later on, gave laws to all England, gave her the only glimpse of real liberty she has ever enjoyed—the only gleam of true glory. When Cromwell stood before Bristol’s gates, and said “Surrender!” it was in no tone of doubting requisition, but stern demand. The son of Elector Palatinate, hearing it hastened to comply, but too glad to get terms for his life.
Which he got, with his liberty, and more—far too much being conceded by his generous conqueror—permitted to march out, bag and baggage, with a long retinue of bullies, sycophants, and strumpets, leaving behind a longer list of victims, among them the ill-starred Clarisse Lalande. As he passed away from the place he had made a “place of bawdry,” it was amid jeers and bitter curses.
A scene pleasanter to describe—one more congenial to honest pen—occurred shortly after in the sister city of Gloucester, within its ancient Cathedral, at whose altar simultaneously stood four couples in the act of being made man and wife.