And after another very brief delay, they went forth upon their perilous journey.
The strange cavalier, with his train, rode from the gate at the same time—a singular contrast. The much-lauded, gay, graceful, gallant cavalier, with his noble blood, his inheritance of chivalrous feeling, and honor, his peculiar attribute of personal bravery, on prancing steed and with clang of spur and warlike sword, went out, holding his noble head high, a fugitive flying before the Plague. And beside him rode forth the grave man and the delicate girl, traveling with their lives in their hands, for their Lord’s sake, and their people’s, to meet the great enemy in its stronghold; making no vaunt of their resolve, having no presumption in their stout hearts—grave, heroic, silent—loyal to a king who hath more thrones in his wide dominion than that of England.
The father and the daughter conversed little; it was a solemn journey. Along those peaceful highways, past those homely cottages, in the abundance of their rude health and security, skirting the draped feet of those serene and everlasting hills, while perchance this same May sunshine should fall upon some fearful indiscriminate grave in yonder distant city, which alone could record that there they died.
It was no time for speech—in awe and grave valor they traveled on.
They had proceeded thus for some few hours on their way, when the sound of a horse’s feet behind, made Master Field turn his head. Sir Philip Dacre was riding in haste after them, considerably in advance of his attendants. He was a young man of moderately good looks, with a mien more scholar-like than courtly. Edith had heard his name mentioned only in the must cursory manner before this day; but it seemed from the conversation that ensued, that her father knew him.
“Master Field,” said Sir Philip, eagerly, as he joined them, “you also must have heard of this scourge which has entered London. I pray you tell me if those who are flying from it do not aggravate its terrors. Is it indeed as fatal as men say?”
“I fear me, Sir Philip,” was the grave answer, “that men know not yet a tithe of those terrors they speak of; but it is true that a universal panic hath seized the city, and without doubt the servile passion of fear is one of its many allies, and doth prepare its way.”
“I am hastening thither,” said Dacre. “I fear over-boldness more than panic—and I must endeavor to bring my mother away.”
The Puritan made no answer; Edith felt a slight thrill through his strong frame, and he quickened his horse’s pace.
“Master Field,” said Sir Philip, with emotion, “long ago, when I met with you at Oxford, you returned good for evil; now, in the face of death, shall we not be at peace? Yonder hostess told me you were bound for London. I divine your errand; you go to face this Plague. Ah, sir! shall I bid you then forget what your magnanimous heart forgave so nobly, when the power to protect and help was on your side? Since that time, I have seen other laws than those of England. Evil deeds of men to whose party I belong by inheritance and hereditary right, I repudiate heartily and with sincerity. I have no share with this impure court, this arbitrary government. Your personal wrong, Master Field—”