At this moment, her eye was arrested by a reflection of light in the distance. It was the gleam of arms, from a small body of soldiers; over whom the banner of Charles was waving.
In her joy, Anne Houghton clasped her hands, and fervently said, “Thank God! all are not traitors.” She turned round, and met the searching glance of Colonel Seaton, one of Cromwell’s spies.
“Fair lady—yonder troop is a loyal body. But—” and his countenance darkened with thought as he spoke,—“they have now encamped, and three horsemen leave the line, and are galloping in the direction of the tower. Well—for their reception!”
There seemed to be a concealed meaning in his tones, and in haste he strode away. Three men were now seen approaching the avenue which led to the gateway. The foremost seemed to have no armour, but a sword. He wore no helmet, but a low cap, with a white plume. He was clad in a mourning garb, and over his left arm his cloak was flung, as for a shield. Keen was his eye, though he had evidently passed the meridian of life, and the fair lady of the tower almost believed that she only stood at a short distance from him—so quick was its flash. Behind him was a handsome youth, equipped in light panoply, who seemed fitted either for contesting the battlefield—or for sighing, not unpitied, in a lady’s bower. Light was the rein which he passed over his charger, and yet, as it plunged furiously, the rider sat with indifference. The third horseman, who seemed altogether absorbed with papers on which he was glancing, was the most stalwart. His coat of mail was clasped over a breast, full and prominent, and his horse startled whenever his mailed hand was placed upon its mane, to urge it forward. His eye never sought the fortress of the tower, until they had arrived at the drawbridge—when the warder’s horn sounded the challenge, and Sir Gilbert appeared on the walls. The first horseman called out, “The Earl of Derby, with two friends, in the service of Charles.”
The drawbridge arose instantly, and, as they entered, Sir Richard gave the Earl a warm welcome. “In mourning, my noble friend? Is the Countess of Derby in health?”
“Yes,” was the reply—“But I wear these weeds for my late unfortunate master: and never shall they be exchanged—unless for a court dress, to appear with my heroic lady, in the palace of his son.”
“Never,” was the ejaculation of Colonel Seaton, who now bowed his homage to the loyal nobleman and his companions. The word seemed ominous—but it was intended to be more than ominous. A tear trembled in the Earl’s eye, and, although delicate was the hand which brushed it away, that hand seemed formed for the sword. “Excuse my weakness,” he added. “Loyalty costs me much; but for every tear which falls on the ground, that ground shall drink, till it be glutted, aye, dyed with the enemy’s blood.” This was said in no threatening tone, but, from its very mildness, was thrilling with the sternest revenge, and breathing the spirit of the deadliest resolution; as the still calm, sometimes truly announces the darkness and fury of the tempest.
“Sir Thomas Tyldesley and a distant relation, whom he calls his nephew;—dear to me for themselves, as well as for their loyalty, accompany me,” said Derby, introducing them to Sir Richard; “we met at Preston, in the royal name, once more to try the cause of Charles.”
“My sword,” replied Sir Thomas to the praise of the governor, “once intervened between the king and death; and gladly would I have intervened myself, to save him from his shameful end. I can do the same for his son: my nephew will support me,” and he looked with emotion upon his young relative. They informed Sir Richard, that at the head of six hundred men, they were on their march to possess themselves of Wigan, and then to join the army of the king. Colonel Seaton councilled them to delay their march till the morrow, and then some of the garrison might be prepared to accompany them. Meanwhile, he assured them that a messenger should be sent to the camp, to make known this resolution. He stepped aside to one of his men, and, in a low and firm voice said, “Mount horse ere another minute is gone, and meet Colonel Lilbourne, and bid him haste to seize upon Wigan. Stay—” as he bethought himself, “your course may be seen at present; in half-an-hour you will be favoured by the night,—and ride, as from death!” “Perhaps,” he muttered to himself, as he moved on to join the Earl, “Lilbourne may give them a welcome, if his friendship be hasty, in these very walls.”
Sir Richard Houghton had now conducted the new comers up to the battlements, through ponderous arches, and had asked Derby’s blessing upon his beautiful daughter. Kind was the Earl’s language to the maiden, as, gently taking her arm, he put it within that of young Tyldesley; “Let the smiles of beauty always honour and reward the young and brave royalist!”