I suppose it was all over in a few moments, for the Roundheads, riding full tilt into an ambuscade, had never a chance, and were overwhelmed in point of numbers into the bargain. But as the fight ebbed away I seized Alison’s arm. “Look, look!” I cried, and pointed to the road beneath.
There was a sort of small courtyard immediately before us, and within it, swept aside by the struggling mass of men and horses about them, Anthony Dacre and the Royalist officer fought, foot to foot. Both were covered with blood, and both fought fiercely as if for life. But the Royalist was pressing Anthony hard; he retreated yard by yard until the wall lay close behind him; I saw in his face the look that comes to a man’s eyes when he knows that death is at last before him, not to be denied. And at that I threw open the casement to lean out and see the end. At the sound, Anthony Dacre looked up. He saw me, and Alison at my shoulder, and I saw his lips form a curse. And at the same instant the Royalist’s sword passed through his heart, and I caught Alison away lest she should see him fall and die. But at the sound of a bugle I went back to the window, and saw the troop that we had waited for riding up to the ferry to find their comrades hot with the heat of victory over the Roundheads who lay dead or dying in the middle of the highway.
And so it was all over, and we were free of our enemies. Late that night Alison and I, with Merciful Wiggleskirk in attendance, were in the Market Place at Hull, weary and sore bespent, but devoutly thankful. Ere daybreak next morning we were sailing down the Humber, and so at last I had some leisure to look at my wife and assure myself that all the events of the past week were realities rather than dreams. But that they were realities her sweetness did most abundantly prove to me, and in spite of the fact that we were exiles, she and I spent our first years of married life in Holland, in as sweet a contentment as lovers could wish for.
But after many years we came back to England and to the old house. And since it was half-ruined, I set to work to rebuild it, and somewhat altered it in appearance and design. We transferred Sir Nicholas’s body from its first quarters to its proper resting-place. On the spot where we first buried him I now spend many hours, sitting in his chair, and telling my eldest son, Nicholas, of the brave doings that I have had in our old house. And for the sake of him and of his brothers and sisters—for I warrant you we have been blessed with a numerous progeny!—I have written down this chronicle at such times as I have had naught better to do.
When I showed the first pages of this book to my wife, she took some objection.
“Sure,” says she, “I never called you Master Poltroon.”
“Sweetheart,” says I, “you did.”
“But you called me Mistress Spitfire,” says she.
“And that’s what you were,” says I.