The miller, along with the knight, as speedily as possible retreated to the extremity of the town, and proceeded homeward.
Sir Robert Bradley’s mansion was near the romantic vale of Lonsdale. He was not a native of the county, but had retired there after a life spent at the court of James, when he observed that that sovereign’s successor, although young and inexperienced, could not brook anything but honied words, and pleasant flattery, from his councillors; and that to be faithful was to make him their enemy. Nursed by two lovely and affectionate daughters, he enjoyed a peaceful happiness he had never known amidst all the bustle, intrigue, and rivalry of his younger days.
A few weeks ago, his nephew, who had joined the Parliamentary troops, without his consent, and against his expressed wish, had been captured in the field of battle, and the fate decreed by the king, was death. The old knight had cursed the youthful roundhead, but now, even more than his ancient fondness had returned for his brother’s son, whom he had educated from a boy; and an uncle’s blessing was given to the memory of the dead, whilst he imprecated vengeance on the king. But there was one of the family to whom the tidings came a darker message, and a more bitter loss. Not only were the hopes, but the very existence of that one—dependant. Sweet Madeline Bradley, the knight’s younger daughter, had been betrothed to her cousin from childhood. They had tripped the same path in the vale many a morn; and as many an eve they had bent to unbuckle the old man’s shoes, their loving hands touching each other, and their luxurious tresses failing together. And when Madeline grew up into beautiful womanhood, when love mingles with awe and worship, bashfulness and timidity only served to explain their intimacy better. When she heard of his death, she started not. Amidst the tears of her sister Sarah, and the grief of her father for him who had been the family’s favourite, she wept not for him who had been her lover. She raved not. Sir Robert thought that she bore it lightly, till one evening at sunset, about a week after the mournful news had been told her, he was seated in the arbour. He heard a light step approaching, and then a low sweet voice, as if afraid to be heard, making such a request, breathed its silvery accents.
“Cousin, the night is so beautiful. Come, let us to the vale, if you would rather not be alone, Cousin.”
And when her father stepped forth, the truth came to her remembrance. Still she fainted not; but she became deadly pale, and leaned for support against the young trees at the entrance. Alas! her’s was a broken heart, although unknown; and the knight as he blessed her in fondness at every return of the hour of rest, might have read something in her deep blue eyes, raised so earnestly, that would have told him that she was not certain whether she could awake for him any more. With what regret she then parted from him! She followed him to the door of his sleeping apartment, that a latest farewell might be allowed. But the good knight saw not the awful progress that death was making.
The miller and the knight, on their way home, conversed about the arrival of the enemy.
“My good friend,” said Sir Robert, “trust me, that if the troops be headed by Cromwell, the Governor of Lancaster Castle may yield at discretion. What a deep, a burning enthusiasm, there is in that wonderful man, although he be turned on the wrong side of forty! I cannot but believe that it is the fire of heaven.”
“Verily,” replied Hans Skippon, “it will soon destroy the temples of Baal. But here is the footpath leading to my quiet cottage. God grant that the soldiers be not near it.”
They parted. The miller, on entering into the wide glen, started as he beheld the roundhead soldiers there encamped. They were engaged in religious services. A solemn hush, disturbed alone by the shrill notes of the curlew and the plover, as they arose from the long tufted grass, was over the band as they listened to the exhortations of one of their preachers, who stood on a mass of grey rock. Hans was inclined to join them in their sabbath employments, but he dreaded lest he should be retained by them, and pressed into their lists, although he might have been free from all fears upon the latter point, as he would have been no acquisition to the disciplined veterans of Cromwell. He, accordingly, avoided them by a circuitous rout, on the back of a neighbouring hill, and without hindrance or obstruction, at length reached his cottage. He paused at the door. He heard a stranger’s voice. It was low and husky;—but, unaccountably, by its very tones, he was spell-bound, and compelled to listen.
“Maiden,” were the words, “thy sorrows and thy history, are those of our mother country. I know that thou wert formed by God for happiness, and was not England? Now she is bowed in the dust,—but there is an outstretched rod for the oppressor, and an outstretched arm of deliverance for the oppressed. Both gleam from the clouds of her adversity, and soon, soon they reach those for whom they are destined! Liberty cannot die while man has one heart-string. My maiden, cheer is for thee. Thy father lost his head, sayest thou? Others may lose theirs also.”