“So I perceived,” says he, “for he immediately straightened himself up and looked at me very fierce. ‘Hah!’ says he. ‘Bring thy horse after us—I have forgotten thy first description of thyself, young man.’ So I walked after him, the young gentlewoman having gone on before, and presently he turns aside into an ancient courtyard that lay within the gates of an old manor-house. ‘There,’ says he, ‘take thy beast into the stable and doctor him—God forbid that I should not do thee mercy, even if thou art an enemy.’ ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘I am no enemy to you, but your very much obliged servant.’ ‘Tut, tut,’ says he, and goes into his house. So I made for the stable with my horse and there put his wound to rights, and felt thankful that I had fared so well. But my story is wearisome to you, Master Coope?”
“Sir,” says I, “since you introduced my worshipful uncle into it, it has possessed the keenest interest for me.”
“Well,” he says, “while I was repairing the damage to my beast’s knee, the old gentleman, your uncle, came to me again and looked at me with some curiosity. ‘So thou art in good sooth, a rebel?’ says he, at last. ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘I am what you call a rebel, and you are what I call a rebel.’ ’Tis a mere difference of opinion between us.’ ‘Hah!’ says he. ‘Well I grieve for thee, young man. Be advised; go home, and serve the king loyally.’ ‘Sir,’ I says, ‘I serve a greater Power than the king, and am on its business now.’ At that he walks up and down the stable awhile with his head bent and his hands behind his back.”
“A favourite position of his,” says I, my thoughts going back to other times.
“Then he comes back to me and looks me squarely in the face. ‘Art thou by any chance going nigh to the army commanded by the traitor Essex?’ says he. ‘Sir,’ I says, ‘as between Royalist and Parliamentarian, no; as between gentleman and gentleman, yes.’ He takes another turn or two. ‘I have a lad, my nephew, with that army,’ says he. ‘Wilt thou take a message to him?’ ‘Of a surety,’ says I, ‘if I should chance to come across him.’ ‘I have no certain news of his whereabouts,’ says he, ‘but if thou canst find him—his name it is Richard Coope—tell him that—nay,’ he says, ‘why should not I write him letters with my own hand?’ ‘Why not, indeed?’ says I. ‘But canst thou tarry?’ says he. ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘I will tarry an hour to please you.’ Now at that he bustled me into the house and had me into his hall, where I found the young gentlewoman I spoke of plying her distaff, and conversing with a man of sinister countenance, yet handsome withal——”
“Anthony Dacre!” says I.
“That indeed was his name. Well, the old gentleman bids the girl see to my wants, and faith! she caused to be set up before me a noble collation, with good wine, but not one word would she exchange with me of conversation, but was as coldly polite as you can imagine. However, the man talked with me somewhat freely, and seemed desirous of hearing something of my business, as to which, you may be sure, I said naught to him. After a time back comes the old knight and gives me this packet, whereupon I took my leave. The sinister-faced man came forth with me. ‘As you are riding towards Doncaster,’ says he, ‘I will set you on your road for a mile or two.’ ‘’Tis agreeable,’ says I, and away we rode at an easy pace. Now within the half-hour we came to a steep bit of road where there were many trees on either side.”
“’Tis Barnsdale,” says I, mighty interested.
“I don’t know the name,” says he, “but I have lively recollections of what took place there. This fellow that was riding at my side suddenly whips out a pistol and presents it at my face. ‘Give me that packet!’ says he. ‘If you value your life, give it to me on the instant!’ Now I then knew what I was dealing with, so I made a rapid movement with my horse and suddenly knocked the pistol out of the fellow’s hand, and had drawn my own ere he could get at his sword. ‘Softly, good sir,’ says I, and lets him see that I meant to shoot him at the least sign of resistance. ‘What is your meaning?’ I says. But he began to scowl and swear, whereupon I relieved him of his weapons and secured them to my own saddle bow. ‘I perceive,’ says I, ‘that this packet bears some news for Master Richard Coope which you have no mind for him to receive.’ ‘Now,’ I says, ‘I don’t know where Master Coope is, or if he be dead or alive, but if the latter I’ll see that this letter reaches him.’ And with that I left him—‘and here,’ he says, handing me the packet, ‘is your worshipful uncle’s epistle, Master Richard—and faith! I think you’ll acknowledge that I had some slight adventures in carrying it safe to you.’”