Silencing some internal feelings of doubt and reluctance by such reasoning as this, Markham Everard continued in his resolution to unite himself with Cromwell in the struggle which was evidently approaching betwixt the civil and military authorities; not as the course which, if at perfect liberty, he would have preferred adopting, but as the best choice between two dangerous extremities to which the times had reduced him. He could not help trembling, however, when he recollected that his father, though hitherto the admirer of Cromwell, as the implement by whom so many marvels had been wrought in England, might not be disposed to unite with his interest against that of the Long Parliament, of which he had been, till partly laid aside by continued indisposition, an active and leading member. This doubt also he was obliged to swallow or strangle, as he might; but consoled himself with the ready argument, that it was impossible his father could see matters in another light than that in which they occurred to himself.
CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.
Determined at length to dispatch his packet to the General without delay, Colonel Everard approached the door of the apartment, in which, as was evident from the heavy breathing within, the prisoner Wildrake enjoyed a deep slumber, under the influence of liquor at once and of fatigue. In turning the key, the bolt, which was rather rusty, made a resistance so noisy, as partly to attract the sleeper’s attention, though not to awake him. Everard stood by his bedside, as he heard him mutter, “Is it morning already, jailor?—Why, you dog, an you had but a cast of humanity in you, you would qualify your vile news with a cup of sack;—hanging is sorry work, my masters—and sorrow’s dry.”
“Up, Wildrake—up, thou ill-omened dreamer,” said his friend, shaking him by the collar.
“Hands off!” answered the sleeper.—“I can climb a ladder without help, I trow.”—He then sate up in the bed, and opening his eyes, stared around him, and exclaimed, “Zounds! Mark, is it only thou? I thought it was all over with me—fetters were struck from my legs—rope drawn round my gullet—irons knocked off my hands—hempen cravat tucked on,—all ready for a dance in the open element upon slight footing.”
“Truce with thy folly, Wildrake; sure the devil of drink, to whom thou hast, I think, sold thyself”—
“For a hogshead of sack,” interrupted Wildrake; “the bargain was made in a cellar in the Vintry.”
“I am as mad as thou art, to trust any thing to thee,” said Markham; “I scarce believe thou hast thy senses yet.”
“What should ail me?” said Wildrake—“I trust I have not tasted liquor in my sleep, saving that I dreamed of drinking small-beer with Old Noll, of his own brewing. But do not look so glum, man—I am the same Roger Wildrake that I ever was; as wild as a mallard, but as true as a game-cock. I am thine own chum, man—bound to thee by thy kind deeds— devinctus beneficio—there is Latin for it; and where is the thing thou wilt charge me with, that I wilt not, or dare not execute, were it to pick the devil’s teeth with my rapier, after he had breakfasted upon round-heads?”