Transcriber's Notes: 1. Page scan source:
https://books.google.com/books?id=RKhEAAAAYAAJ
(The University of Virginia).

Darnley:

or,

The Field of the Cloth of Gold

Darnley.

By

G. P. R. JAMES

LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE
AND SONS LIMITED
MDCCCCIII.

The Introduction is written by Laurie Magnus, M.A.: the Title-page is designed by Ivor I. J. Symes.

INTRODUCTION.

George Payne Rainsford James, Historiographer Royal to King William IV., was born in London in the first year of the nineteenth century, and died at Venice in 1860. His comparatively short life was exceptionally full and active. He was historian, politician and traveller, the reputed author of upwards of a hundred novels, the compiler and editor of nearly half as many volumes of letters, memoirs, and biographies, a poet and a pamphleteer, and, during the last ten years of his life, British Consul successively in Massachusetts, Norfolk (Virginia), and Venice. He was on terms of friendship with most of the eminent men of his day. Scott, on whose style he founded his own, encouraged him to persevere in his career as a novelist; Washington Irving admired him, and Walter Savage Landor composed an epitaph to his memory. He achieved the distinction of being twice burlesqued by Thackeray, and two columns are devoted to an account of him in the new "Dictionary of National Biography." Each generation follows its own gods, and G. P. R. James was, perhaps, too prolific an author to maintain the popularity which made him "in some ways the most successful novelist of his time." But his work bears selection and revival. It possesses the qualities of seriousness and interest; his best historical novels are faithful in setting and free in movement. His narrative is clear, his history conscientious, and his plots are well-conceived. English learning and literature are enriched by the work of this writer, who made vivid every epoch in the world's history by the charm of his romance.

The parodists of G. P. R. James have been quick to remark the sameness of his openings. He has established a kind of 'James-gambit' in historical fiction, and the present romance is no exception to the rule. Once more the irrepressible horseman is riding along the inevitable road, and once more the first chapter is devoted to a careful description of the traveller's accoutrements--material and moral. It is not inappropriately, therefore, that James selected as his motto for this chapter Dryden's conventional lines,

"In this King Arthur's reign,
A lusty knight was pricking o'er the plain."

Donne, Cowley, Ben Jonson, Dryden, Shakespeare, these are the authors to whom James has chiefly gone for his poetical headings to the chapters of this novel. The feature is a rare one in his works, nor can it truthfully be said that the literary flavour thus imparted is maintained by the text of the book. There is more familiarity, more banality, in its style than is common in James's writings. It is odd, for instance, to read the first paragraph of Chapter XVII.--"Oh, the man in the moon! the man in the moon! What a prodigious sackful of good resolutions you must have, all broken through the middle ...."--immediately after a solemn quotation from Macbeth; and a yet more flagrant example occurs at the beginning of Chapter XXXIX., where a couplet from Shakespeare is again used to usher in the following triumph of bathos: "And where was Osborne Darnley all this while? Wait a little, dearly-beloved, and you shall hear more." It should be added that the first sentence is not an intentional pentameter. But, however severely the shortcomings of style may be criticised in a writer who 'broke the record' for rapidity of production, James hardly ever fails to tell a good story, with plenty of adventure and accuracy of learning. "Darnley" does not fall behind the rest in these respects. The date is fixed in the first line, as well as in the sub-title, and the gorgeous festivities of Midsummer, 1520, as well as the character of King Henry VIII., are admirably conceived and described. The original picture of the scene in the Field near Calais, which is preserved at Hampton Court, should be visited by readers of this volume. Those curious in bibliography, by the way, will discover on page 372 a notable instance of want of skill in the abridgment of "Darnley" by James or his editors.

DARNLEY.

CHAPTER I.

In this King Arthur's reign,
A lusty knight was pricking o'er the plain.--Dryden.

On the morning of the 24th day of March, 1520, a traveller was seen riding in the small, rugged cross-road which, traversing the eastern part of Kent, formed the immediate communication between Wye[^[1]] and Canterbury. Far be it from me to insinuate that this road pursued anything like a direct course from the one place to the other: on the contrary, it seemed, like a serpent, to get on only by twisting; and yet truly, as its track now lies pictured on the old county map before me, I can discover no possible reason for its various contortions, inasmuch as they avoid neither ascents nor descents, but proceed alike over rough and smooth, hill and dale, appearing only to wind about for the sake of variety. I can conceive the engineer who planned it laughing in his sleeve at the consummate meanderings which he compelled his travellers to undergo. However, as at the time I speak of this was the only road through that part of the country, every traveller was obliged to content himself with it, such as it was, notwithstanding both its circumvolutions and its ruggedness.

Indeed, the horseman and his beast, who on the afore-mentioned morning journeyed on together towards Canterbury, were apparently well calculated to encounter what the profane vulgar call the ups and downs of life; for never a stouter cavalier mounted horse, and never a stouter horse was mounted by cavalier; and there was something in the strong, quadrate form of each, in the bold, free movement of every limb, and in the firm, martial regularity of their pace, which spoke a habitual consciousness of tried and unfailing power.

The rider was a man of about five or six-and-twenty, perhaps not so old; but the hardy exposed life which had dyed his florid cheek with a tinge of deep brown, had given also to his figure that look of set, mature strength which is not usually concomitant with youth. But strength with him had nothing of ungracefulness, for the very vigour of his limbs gave them ease of motion. Yet there was something more in his aspect and in his carriage than can rightly be attributed to the grace induced by habits of martial exercise, or to the dignity derived from consciousness of skill or valour: there was that sort of innate nobility of look which we are often weakly inclined to combine in our minds with nobility of station, and that peculiar sort of grace which is a gift, not an acquirement.

To paint him to the mind's eye were very difficult, though to describe him were very easy; for though I were to say that he was a tall, fair man, with the old Saxon blood shining out in his deep blue eye, and in his full, short upper lip, from which the light brown moustache turned off in a sweep, exposing its fine arching line; though I were to speak of the manly beauty of his features, rendered scarcely less by a deep scar upon his forehead; or were I to detail, with the accuracy of a sculptor, the elegant proportion of every limb, I might, indeed, communicate to the mind of the reader the idea of a much more handsome man than he really was; but I should fail to invest the image with that spirit of gracefulness which, however combined with outward form, seems to radiate from within, which must live to be perfect, and must be seen to be understood.

His apparel was not such as his bearing seemed to warrant: though good, it was not costly, and though not faded, it certainly was not new. Nor was the fashion of it entirely English: the gray cloth doublet slashed with black, as well as the falling ruff round his neck, were decidedly Flemish; and his hose of dark stuff might probably have been pronounced foreign by the connoisseurs of the day, although the variety of modes then used amongst our change-loving nation justified a man in choosing the fashion of his breeches from any extreme, whether from the fathomless profundity of a Dutchman's ninth pair, or from the close-fitting garment of the Italian sworder. The traveller's hose approached more towards the latter fashion, and served to show off the fair proportions of his limbs without straitening him by too great tightness, while his wide boots of untanned leather, pushed down to the ankle, evinced that he did not consider his journey likely to prove long, or, at least, very fatiguing.

In those days, when, as old Holinshed assures us, it was not safe to ride unarmed, even upon the most frequented road, a small bridle path, such as that which the traveller pursued, was not likely to afford much greater security. However, he did not appear to have furnished himself with more than the complement of offensive arms usually worn by every one above the rank of a simple yeoman; namely, the long, straight, double-edged sword, which, thrust through a broad buff belt, hung perpendicularly down his thigh, with the hilt shaped in form of a cross, without any farther guard for the hand; while in the girdle appeared a small dagger, which served also as a knife: added to these was a dag or pistol, which, though small, considering the dimensions of the arms then used, would have caused any horse-pistol of the present day to blush at its own insignificance.

In point of defensive armour, he carried none, except a steel cap, which hung at his saddle-bow, while its place on his head was supplied by a Genoa bonnet of black velvet, round which his rich chesnut hair curled in thick profusion.

Here have I bestowed more than a page and a half upon the description of a man's dress and demeanour, which, under most circumstances, I should consider a scandalous and illegitimate waste of time, paper, and attention; but, in truth, I would fain, in the present instance, that my reader should see my traveller before his mind's eye, exactly as his picture represents him, pricking along the road on his strong black horse, with his chest borne forward, his heel depressed, his person erect, and his whole figure expressing corporeal ease and power.

Very different, however, were his mental sensations, if one might believe the knitted look of thought that sat upon his full, broad brow, and the lines that early care seemed to have busily traced upon the cheek of youth. Deep meditation, at all events, was the companion of his way; for, confident in the surefootedness of his steed, he took no care to hold his bridle in hand, but suffered himself to be borne forward almost unconsciously, fixing his gaze upon the line of light that hung above the edge of the hill before him, as if there he spied some object of deep interest, yet, at the same time, with that fixed intensity which told that, whilst the eye thus occupied itself, the mind was far otherwise employed.

It was a shrewd March morning, and the part of the road at which the traveller had now arrived opened out upon a wide wild common, whereon the keen north-west blast had full room to exercise itself unrestrained. On the one side the country sloped rapidly down from the road, exposing an extensive view of some fine level plains, distributed into fields, and scattered with a multitude of hamlets and villages; the early smoke rising from the chimneys of which, caught by the wind, mingled with the vapour from a sluggish river in the bottom, and, drifting over the scene, gave a thousand different aspects to the landscape as it passed. On the other hand, the common rose against the sky in a wide sloping upland, naked, desolate, and unbroken, except where a clump of stunted oaks raised their bare heads out of an old gravel-pit by the road-side, or where a group of dark pines broke the distant line of the ground. The road which the traveller had hitherto pursued proceeded still along the side of the hill, but, branching off to the left, was seen another rugged, gravelly path winding over the common.

At the spot where these two divaricated, the horseman stopped, as if uncertain of his farther route, and looking for some one to direct him on his way. But he looked in vain; no trace of human habitation was to be seen, nor any indication of man's proximity, except such as could be gathered from the presence of a solitary duck, which seemed to be passing its anchoritish hours in fishing for the tadpoles that inhabited a little pond by the road-side.

The traveller paused, undetermined on which of the two roads to turn his horse, when suddenly a loud scream met his ear, and, instantly setting spurs to his horse, he galloped towards the quarter from whence the sound seemed to proceed. Without waiting to pursue the windings of the little path, in a moment he had cleared the upland, towards the spot where he had beheld the pines, and, instead of finding that the country beyond, as one might have imagined from the view below, fell into another deep valley on that side, he perceived that the common continued to extend for some way over an uninterrupted flat, terminated by some wide plantations at a great distance.

In advance, sheltered by a high bank and the group of pines above mentioned, appeared a solitary cottage formed of wood and mud. It may be well supposed that its architecture was not very perfect, nor its construction of the most refined taste; but yet there seemed some attempt at decoration in the rude trellis that surrounded the doorway, and in the neat cutting of the thatch which covered it from the and weather. As the traveller rode towards it the scream was reiterated, now, guided by his ear, he proceeded direct towards a little garden, which had been borrowed from the common, and enclosed with a mud wall. The door of this enclosure stood open, and at once admitted the stranger into the interior, where he beheld--what shall be detailed in the following chapter.

CHAPTER II.

Patient yourself, madam, and pardon me.--Shakspere.

Now, doubtless, every romance-reading person into whose hands this book may fall will conclude and determine, and feel perfectly convinced in their own minds, that the scream mentioned in the last chapter announces no less important a being than the heroine of the tale, and will be very much surprised, as well as disappointed, to hear that when the traveller rode through the open gate into the little garden attached to the cottage, he perceived a group which certainly did not derive any interest it might possess from the graces of youth and beauty. It consisted simply of an old woman, of the poorest class, striving, with weak hands, to stay a stout, rosy youth, of mean countenance but good apparel, from repeating a buffet he had bestowed upon the third person of the group, a venerable old man, who seemed little calculated to resist his violence. Angry words were evidently still passing on both parts, and before the traveller could hear to what they referred, the youth passed the woman, and struck the old man a second blow, which levelled him with the ground.

If one might judge from that traveller's appearance, he had seen many a sight of danger and of horror; but there was something in the view of the old man's white hair, mingling with the mould of the earth, that blanched his cheek, and made his blood run cold. In a moment he was off his horse, and by the young man's side. "How now, sir villain!" cried he, "art thou mad, to strike thy father?"

"He's no father of mine," replied the sturdy youth, turning away his head with a sort of dogged feeling of shame. "He's no father of mine; I'm better come."

"Better come, misbegotten knave!" cried the traveller; "then thy father might blush to own thee. Strike an old man like that! Get thee gone, quick, lest I flay thee!"

"Get thee gone thyself!" answered the other, his feeling of reprehension being quickly fled; and turning sharply round, with an air of effrontery which nought but the insolence of office could inspire, he added: "Who art thou, with thy get thee gones? I am here in right of Sir Payan Wileton, to turn these old vermin out; so get thee gone along with them!" And he ran his eye over the stranger's simple garb with a sneer of sturdy defiance.

The traveller gazed at him for a moment, as if in astonishment at his daring; then, with a motion as quick as light, laid one hand upon the yeoman's collar, the other upon the thick band of his kersey slop breeches, raised him from the ground, and giving him one swing back, to allow his arms their full sweep, he pitched him at once over the low wall of the garden into the heath-bushes beyond.

Without affording a look to his prostrate adversary, the stranger proceeded to assist the old man in rising, and amidst the blessings of the good dame, conveyed him into the cottage. He then returned to the little garden, lest his horse should commit any ravages upon the scanty provision of the old couple (for he was, it seems, too good a soldier even to allow his horse to live by plunder), and while tying him to the gate-post, his eye naturally turned to the bushes into which he had thrown his opponent.

The young man had just risen on his feet, and in unutterable rage, was stamping furiously on the ground; without, however, daring to re-enter the precincts from which he had been so unceremoniously ejected. The stranger contented himself with observing that he was not much hurt; and after letting his eye dwell for a moment on the cognisance of a serpent twined round a crane, which was embroidered on the yeoman's coat, he again entered the cottage, while the other proceeded slowly over the common, every now and then turning round to shake his clenched fist towards the garden, in the last struggles of impotent passion.

"Well, good father, how fares it with thee?" demanded the traveller, approaching the old man. "I fear that young villain has hurt thee."

"Nay, sir, nay," replied the other, "not so; in faith he did not strike hard: an old man's limbs are soon overthrown. Ah! well, I remember the day when I would have whacked a score of them. But I'm broken now. Kate, give his worship the settle. If our boy had seen him lift his hand against his father, 'faith, he'd have broken his pate. Though your worship soon convinced him: God's blessing upon your head for it!"

The stranger silently sat himself down in the settle, which the old woman placed for him with a thousand thanks and gratulations, and suffered them to proceed undisturbed with all the garrulity of age, while his own thoughts seemed, from some unapparent cause, to have wandered far upon a different track. Whether it was that the swift wings of memory had retraced in a moment a space that, in the dull march of time, had occupied many a long year, or that the lightning speed of hope had already borne him to a goal which was still far beyond probability's short view, matters little. Most likely it was one or the other; for the present is but a point to which but little thought appertains, while the mind hovers backwards and forwards between the past and the future, expending the store of its regrets upon the one, and wasting all its wishes on the other. He awoke with a sigh. "But tell me," said he to the old man, "what was the cause of all this?"

"Why, heaven bless your worship!" replied the cottager, who had been talking all the time, "I have just been telling you."

"Nay, but I mean, why you came to live here?" said the traveller, "for this is but a poor place;" and he glanced his eye over the interior of the cottage, which was wretched enough. Its floor formed of hardened clay; its small lattice windows, boasting no glass in the wicker frames of which they were composed, but showing in its place some thin plates of horn (common enough in the meaner cottages of those times), admitting but a dull and miserable light to the interior; its bare walls of lath, through the crevices of which appeared the mud that had been plastered on the outside: all gave an air of poverty and uncomfort difficult to find in the poorest English cottage of to-day. "I think you said that you had been in better circumstances?" continued the traveller.

"I did not say so, your worship," replied the old man, "but it was easy to guess; yet for twelve long years have I known little but misery. I was once gate-porter to my good Lord Fitzbernard, at Chilham Castle, here hard-by; your worship knows it, doubtless. Oh! 'twas a fair place in those days, for my lord kept great state, and never a day but what we had the tilt-yard full of gallants, who would bear away the ring from the best in the land. My old lord could handle a lance well, too, though he waxed aged; but 'twas my young Lord Osborne that was the darling of all our hearts. Poor youth! he was not then fourteen, yet so strong, he'd break a lance and bide a buffet with the best. He's over the seas now, alas! and they say, obliged to win his food at the sword's point."

"Nay, how so?" asked the traveller. "If he were heir of Chilham Castle, how is it he fares so hardly, this Lord Osborne?"

"We call him still Lord Osborne," answered the old woman, "for I was his nurse, when he was young, your worship, and his christened name was Osborne. But his title was Lord Darnley, by those who called him properly. God bless him for ever! Now, Richard, tell his honour how all the misfortunes happened."

"'Twill but tire his honour," said the old man. "In his young day he must have heard how Empson and Dudley, the two blackest traitors that ever England had, went through all the country, picking holes in every honest man's coat, and sequestrating their estates, as 'twas then called. Lord bless thee, Kate! his worship knows it all."

"I have heard something of the matter, but I would fain understand it more particularly," said the stranger. "I had learned that the sequestrated estates had been restored, and the fines remitted, since this young king was upon the throne."

"Ay, truly, sir, the main part of them," answered the old man; "but there were some men who, being in the court's displeasure, were not likely to have justice done them. Such a one was my good lord and master, who, they say, had been heard to declare, that he held Perkyn Warbeck's title as good as King Harry the Seventh's. So, when they proved the penal statutes against him, as they called it, instead of calling for a fine, which every peasant on his land would have brought his mite to pay, they took the whole estate, and left him a beggar in his age. But that was not the worst, for doubtless the whole would have been given back again when the good young king did justice on Empson and Dudley; but as this sequestration was a malice, and not an avarice like the rest, instead of transferring the estate to the king's own hand, they gave it to one Sir Payan Wileton, who, if ever a gallows was made higher than Haman's, would well grace it. This man has many a friend at the court, gained they say by foul means; and though much stir was made some eight years agone, by the Lord Stafford and the good Duke of Buckingham, to have the old lord's estates given back again, Sir Payan was strong enough in abettors to outstand them all, and then----; but I hear horses' feet. 'Tis surely Sir Payan sent to hound me out even from this poor place."

As he spoke, the loud neighing of the stranger's horse announced the approach of some of his four-footed fraternity, and opening the cottage door, the old man looked forth to ascertain if his apprehensions were just.

The cloud, however, was cleared off his brow in a moment, by the appearance of the person who rode into the garden.

"Joy, good wife! joy!" cried the old man; "it is Sir Cesar! It is Sir Cesar! We are safe enough now!"

"Sir Cesar!" cried the traveller; "that is a strange name!" and he turned to the cottage door to examine the person that approached.

Cantering through the garden on a milk-white palfrey, adorned with black leather trapping, appeared a little old man, dressed in singular but elegant habiliments. His doublet was of black velvet, his hose of crimson stuff, and his boots of buff. His cloak was black like his coat, but lined with rich miniver fur, of which also was his bonnet. He wore no arms except a small dagger, the steel hilt of which glittered in his girdle; and to turn and guide his palfrey he made use of neither spur nor rein, but seemed more to direct than urge him with a peeled osier stick, with which he every now and then touched the animal on either ear.

His person was as singular as his dress. Extremely diminutive in stature, his limbs appeared well formed, and even graceful. He was not a dwarf, but still considerably below the middle size; and though not misshapen in body, his face had that degree of prominence, and his eye that keen vivacious sparkle, generally discovered in the deformed. In complexion he was swarthy to excess, while his long black hair, slightly mingled with gray, escaped from under his bonnet and fell upon his shoulders. Still, the most remarkable feature was his eye, which, though sunk deep in his head, had a quickness and a fire that contradicted the calm, placid expression of the rest of his countenance, and seemed to indicate a restless, busy spirit; for, glancing rapidly from object to object, it rested not a moment upon any one thing, but appeared to collect the information it sought with the quickness of lightning, and then fly off to something new.

In this manner he approached the cottage, his look at first rapidly running over the figures of the two cottagers and their guest; but then turning to their faces, his eye might be seen scanning every feature, and seeming to extract their meaning in an instant: as in the summer we see the bee darting into every flower, and drawing forth its sweet essence, while it scarcely pauses to fold its wings. It seemed as if the face was to him a book, where each line was written with some tale or some information, but in a character so legible, and a language so well known, that a moment sufficed him for the perusal of the whole.

At the cottage-door the palfrey stopped of itself, and slipping down out of the saddle with extraordinary activity, the old gentleman stood before the traveller and his host with that sort of sharp, sudden motion which startles although expected. The old man and his wife received their new guest with reverence almost approaching to awe; but before noticing them farther than by signing them each with the cross, he turned directly towards the traveller, and doffing his cap of miniver, he made him a profound bow, while his long hair, parted from the crown, fell over his face and almost concealed it. "Sir Osborne Maurice," said he, "well met!"

The traveller bowed in some surprise to find himself recognised by the singular person who addressed him. "Truly, sir," he answered, "you have rightly fallen upon the name I bear, and seem to know me well, though in truth I can boast no such knowledge in regard to you. To my remembrance, this is the first time we have met."

"Within the last thousand years," replied the old man, "we have met more than a thousand times; but I remember you well before that, when you commanded a Roman cohort in the first Punic war."

"He's mad!" thought the traveller, "profoundly insane!" and he turned an inquiring glance to the old cottager and his wife; but far from showing any surprise, they stood regarding their strange visiter with looks of deep awe and respect. However, the traveller at length replied, "Memory, with me, is a more treacherous guardian of the past; but may I crave the name of so ancient an acquaintance?"

"In Britain," answered the old man, "they call me Sir Cesar; in Spain, Don Cesario; and in Padua, simply Cesario il dotto."

"What!" cried Sir Osborne, "the famous----?"

"Ay, ay!" interrupted the old man; "famous if it may so be called. But no more of that. Fame is but like a billow on a sandy shore, that when the tide is in, it seems a mighty thing, and when 'tis out, 'tis nothing. If I have learned nought beside, I have learned to despise fame."

"That your learning must have taught you far more, needs no farther proof than your knowledge of a stranger that you never saw, at least with human eyes," said Sir Osborne; "and in truth, this your knowledge makes me a believer in that art which, hitherto, I had held as emptiness."

"Cast from you no ore till you have tried it seven times in the fire," replied Sir Cesar; "hold nothing as emptiness that you have not essayed. But, hark! bend down thine ear, and thou shalt hear more anon."

The young traveller bowed his head till his ear was on a level with the mouth of the diminutive speaker, who seemed to whisper not more than one word, but that was of such a nature as to make Sir Osborne start back, and fix his eyes upon him with a look of inquiring astonishment, that brought a smile upon the old man's lip. "There is no magic here," said Sir Cesar: "you shall hear more hereafter. But, hush! come into the cottage, for hunger, that vile earthly want, calls upon me for its due: herein, alas! we are all akin unto the hog: come!"

They accordingly entered the lowly dwelling, and sat down to a small oaken table placed in the midst; Sir Cesar, as if accustomed to command there, seating the traveller as his guest, and demanding of the old couple a supply of those things he deemed necessary. "Set down the salt in the middle, Richard Heartley; now bring the bread; take the bacon from the pot, dame, and if there be a pompion yet not mouldy, put it down to roast in the ashes. Whet Sir Osborne's dagger, Richard. Is it all done? then sit with us, for herein are men all alike. Now tell me, Richard Heartley, while we eat, what has happened to thee this morning, for I learn thou hast been in jeopardy."

Thus speaking, he carved the bacon with his dagger, and distributed to every one a portion, while Sir Osborne Maurice looked on, not a little interested in the scene, one of the most curious parts of which was the profound taciturnity that had succeeded to garrulity in the two old cottagers, and the promptitude and attention with which they executed all their guest's commands.

The old gentleman's question seemed to untie Richard Heartley's lips, and he communicated, in a somewhat circumlocutory phrase, that though he had built his house and enclosed his garden on common land, which, as he took it, "was free to every one, yet within the last year Sir Payan Wileton had demanded for it a rent of two pounds per annum, which was far beyond his means to pay, as Sir Payan well knew; but he did it only in malice," the old man said, "because he was the last of the good old lord's servants who was left upon the ground; and he, Sir Payan, was afraid, that even if he were to die there, his bones would keep possession for his old master; so he wished to drive him away altogether."

"Go forth on no account!" interrupted Sir Cesar. "Without he take thee by force and lead thee to the bound, and put thee off, go not beyond the limits of the lordship of Chilham Castle; neither pay him any rent, but live house free and land free, as I have commanded you."

"In truth," answered the old man, "he has not essayed to put me off; but he sent his bailiff this morning to demand the rent, and to drive me out of the cottage, and to pull off the thatch, though our Richard, who has returned from the army beyond the seas, is up at the manor to do him man service for the sum."

"Hold!" cried Sir Cesar, "let thy son do him man service, if he will, but do thou him no man service, and own to him no lordship. Sir Payan Wileton has but his day; that will soon be over, and all shall be avenged; own him no lordship, I say!"

"Nay, nay, sir, I warrant you," replied the old man; "'twas even that that provoked Peter Wilson, the young bailiff, to strike me, because I said Sir Payan was not my lord, and I was not his tenant, and that if he stood on right, I had as much a right to the soil as he."

"Strike thee! strike thee! Did he strike thee?" cried Sir Cesar, his small black eyes glowing like red-hot coals, and twinkling like stars on a frosty night. "Sure he did not dare to strike thee?"

"He felled him, Sir Cesar," cried the old woman, whose tongue could refrain no longer; "he felled him to the ground. He, a child I have had upon my knee, felled old Richard Heartley with a heavy blow!"

"My curse upon him!" cried the old knight, while anger and indignation gave to his features an expression almost sublime; "my curse upon him! May he wither heart and limb like a blasted oak! like it, may he be dry and sapless, when all is sunshine and summer, without a green leaf to cover the nakedness of his misery; without flower or fruit may he pass away, and fire consume the rottenness of his core!"

"Oh! your worship, curse him not so deeply; we know how heavy your curses fall, and he has had some payment already," said the old cottager: "this honourable gentleman heard my housewife cry, and came riding up. So, when he saw the clumsy coward strike a feeble old man like me, he takes him up by the jerkin and the slops, and casts him as clean over the wall on the heath as I've seen Hob Johnson cast a truss out of a hay-cart."

"Sir Osborne, you did well," said the old knight; "you acted like your race. But yet I could have wished that this had not happened; 'twould have been better that your coming had not been known to your enemies before your friends, which I fear me will now be the case. He with whom you have to do is one from whose keen eye nought passes without question. The fly may as well find its way through the spider's web, without wakening the crafty artist of the snare, as one on whom that man has fixed his eye may stir a step without his knowing it. But there is one who sees more deeply than even he does."

"Yourself, of course," replied Sir Osborne; "and indeed I cannot doubt that it is so; for I sit here in mute astonishment to find that all I held most secret is as much known to you as to myself."

"Oh, this is all simplicity!" replied the old man; "these are no wonders, though I may teach you some hereafter. At present I will tell you the future, against which you must guard, for your fortune is a-making."

"But if our fate be fixed," said Sir Osborne, "so that even mortal eyes can see it in the stars, prudence and caution, wisdom and action, are in vain; for how can we avoid what is certainly to be?"

"Not so, young man," replied Sir Cesar: "some things are certain, some are doubtful: some fixed by fate, some left to human will; and those who see such things are certain, may learn to guide their course through things that are not so. Thus, even in life, my young friend," he continued, speaking more placidly, for at first Sir Osborne's observation seemed to have nettled him; "thus, even in life, each ordinary mortal sees before him but one thing sure, which is death. It he cannot avoid; yet, how wholesome the sight to guide us in existence! So, in man's destiny, certain points are fixed, some of mighty magnitude, some that seem but trivial; and the rest are determined by his own conduct. Yet there are none so clearly marked that they may not be influenced by man's own will, so that when the stars are favourable he may carry his good fortune to the highest pitch by wisely seizing opportunity; and when they threaten evil or danger, he may fortify himself against the misfortunes that must occur, by philosophy; and guard against the peril that menaces, by prudence. Thus, what study is nobler, or greater, or more beneficial, than that which lays open to the eye the book of fate?"

The impressive tone and manner of the old man, joined even with the singularity of his appearance, and a certain indescribable, almost unearthly fire, that burned in his eye, went greatly in the minds of his hearers to supply any deficiency in the chain of his reasoning. The extraordinary, if it be not ludicrous, is always easily convertible into the awful; and where, as in the present instance, it becomes intimately interwoven with all the doubtful, the mysterious, and the fearful in our state of being, it reaches that point of the sublime to which the heart of every man is most sensible. Those always who see the least of what is true are most likely to be influenced by what is doubtful; and in an age where little was certainly known, the remote, the uncertain, and the wild, commanded man's reason by his imagination.

Sir Osborne Maurice mused. If it be asked whether he believed implicitly in that art which many persons were then said to possess, of reading in the stars the future fate of individuals or nations, it may be answered, No. But if it be demanded whether he rejected it absolutely, equally No. He doubted; and that was a stretch of philosophy to which few attained in his day, when the study of judicial astrology was often combined with the most profound learning in other particulars; when, as a science, it was considered the highest branch of human knowledge, and its professors were regarded as almost proceeding a step beyond the just boundary of earthly research: we might say even more, when they produced such evidence of their extraordinary powers as might well convince the best-informed of an unlettered age, and which affords curious subjects of inquiry even to the present time.

In the mean while, Sir Cesar proceeded: "I speak thus as preface to what I have to tell you; not that I suppose you will be dismayed when you hear that immediate danger menaces you, because I know you are incapable of fear; but it is because I would have you wisely guard against what I foretell. Know, then, I have learned that you are likely to be in peril to-morrow, towards noon; therefore, hold yourself upon your guard. Divulge not your proceedings to any one. Keep a watchful eye and a shrewd ear. Mark well your company, and see that your sword be loose in the sheath."

"Certainly, good Sir Cesar, will I follow your counsel," replied Sir Osborne. "But might I not crave that you would afford me farther information, and by showing me what sort of danger threatens me, give me the means of avoiding it altogether?"

"What you ask I cannot comply with," answered the old man. "Think not that the book of the stars is like a child's horn-book, where every word is clearly spelled. Vague and undefined are the signs that we gain. Certain it is, that some danger threatens you; but of what nature, who can say? Know that, at the same time as yourself, were born sixty other persons, to whom the planets bore an equal ascendancy; and at the same hour to-morrow, each will undergo some particular peril. Be you on your guard against yours."

"Most assuredly I will, and I give you many thanks," replied Sir Osborne. "But I would fain know for what reason you take an interest in my fate more than in any of the other sixty persons you have mentioned."

"How know you that I do so?" demanded Sir Cesar drily. "Perchance had I met any one of them in this cottage, I might have done him the same good turn. However, 'tis not so. I own I do take an interest in your fate, more than that of any mortal being. Look not surprised, young man, for I have cause: nay more--you shall know more. Mark me! our fates are united for ever in this world, and I will serve you; though I see, darkling through the obscurity of time, that the moment which crowns all your wishes and endeavours is the last that I shall draw breath of life. Yet your enemy is my enemy, your friends are my friends, and I will serve you, though I die!"

He rose and grasped Sir Osborne's hand, and fixed his dark eye upon his face. "'Tis hard to part with existence--the warm ties of life, the soft smiling realities of a world we know--and to begin it all again in forms we cannot guess. Yet, if my will could alter the law of fate, I would not delay your happiness an hour; though I know, I feel, that this thrilling blood must then chill, that this quick heart must stop, that the golden light and the glorious world must fade away; and that my soul must be parted from its fond companion of earth for ever and for ever. Yet it shall be so. It is said. Reply not! Speak not! Follow me! Hush! hush!" And proceeding to the door of the cottage, he mounted his palfrey, which stood ready, and motioned Sir Osborne to do the same. The young knight did so in silence, and rode along with him to the garden-gate, followed by the old cottagers. There Richard Heartley, as if accustomed so to do, held out his hand; Sir Cesar counted into it nine nobles of gold, and proceeded on the road in silence.

CHAPTER III.

Illusive dreams in mystic forms expressed.--Blackmore.

That which is out of the common course of nature, and for which we can see neither cause nor object, requires of course a much greater body of evidence to render it historically credible than is necessary to authenticate any event within the ordinary operation of visible agents. Were it not so, the many extraordinary tales respecting the astrologers, and even the magicians of the middle ages, would now rest as recorded truth, instead of idle fiction, being supported by much more witness than we have to prove many received facts of greater importance.

Till the last century, the existence of what is called the second sight, amongst the Scots, was not doubted: even in the present day it is not disproved; and we can hardly wonder at our ancestors having given credence to the more ancient, more probable, more reasonable superstition of the fates of men being influenced by the stars, or at their believing that the learned and wise could see into futurity, when many in this more enlightened age imagine that some of the rude and illiterate possess the same faculty.

It is not, however, my object here to defend long-gone superstitions, or to show that the predictions of the astrologers were ever really verified, except by those extraordinary coincidences for which we cannot account, and some of which every man must have observed in the course of his own life. That they were so verified on several occasions is nevertheless beyond doubt; for it is not the case that, in the most striking instances of this kind, as many writers have asserted, the prediction, if it may be so called, was fabricated after its fulfilment. On the contrary, any one who chooses to investigate may convince himself that the prophecy was, in many instances, enounced, and is still to be found recorded by contemporary writers, before its accomplishment took place. As examples might be cited the prognostication made by an astrologer to Henry the Second of France, that he should be slain in single combat; a thing so unlikely that it became the jest of his whole court, but which was afterwards singularly verified, by his being accidentally killed at a tournament by Montgomery, captain of the Scottish guards. Also the prediction by which the famous, or rather infamous, Catherine de Medicis was warned that St. Germains should be the place of her death. The queen, fully convinced of its truth, never from that moment set foot in town or palace which bore the fatal name; but in her last moments, her confessor being absent, a priest was called to her assistance, by mere accident, whose name was St. Germains, and actually held her in his arms during the dying struggle.

These two instances took place about fifty years after the period to which this history refers, and may serve to show how strongly rooted in the minds of the higher classes was this sort of superstition, when even the revival of letters, and the diffusion of mental light, for very long did not seem at all to affect them. The habits and manners of the astrologers, however, underwent great changes; and it is, perhaps, at the particular epoch of which we are now writing, namely, the reigns of Henry the Eighth of England and Francis the First of France, that this singular race of beings was in its highest prosperity.

Before that time, they had in general affected strange and retired habits, and, whether as magicians or merely astrologers, were both feared and avoided. Some exceptions, however, must be made to this, as instances are on record where, even in years long before, such studies were pursued by persons of the highest class, and won them both love and admiration; the most brilliant example of which was in the person of Tiphaine Raguenel, wife of the famous Constable du Guesclin, whose counsels so much guided her husband through his splendid career.

The magicians and astrologers, however, who were scattered through Europe towards the end of the fifteenth century, and the beginning of that which succeeded, though few in number, from many circumstances, bore a much higher rank in the opinion of the world than any who had preceded them. This must be attributed to their being in general persons of some station in society, of profound erudition, of courtly and polished manners, and also to their making but little pretension on the score of their supposed powers, and never any display thereof, except they were earnestly solicited to do so.

There was likewise always to be observed in them a degree of eccentricity, if a habitual difference from their fellow-beings might be so called, which, being singular, but not obtrusive, gave them an interest in the eyes of the higher, and a dignity in the estimation of the lower classes, as a sort of beings separated by distinct knowledge and feeling from the rest of mankind. In those ages, a thousand branches of useful knowledge lay hid, like diamonds in an undiscovered mine; and many minds, of extraordinary keenness and activity, wanting legitimate objects of research, after diving deep in ancient lore, and exhausting all the treasures of antiquity, still unsated, devoted themselves to those dark and mysterious sciences that gratified their imagination with all the wild and the sublime, and gained for them a reverence amongst their fellow-creatures approaching even to awe.

As we have said before, whatever was the reality of their powers, or however they contrived to deceive themselves, as well as others, they certainly received not only the respect of the weak and vulgar; but if they used their general abilities for the benefit of mankind, they were sure to meet with the admiration and the friendship of the great, the noble, and the wise. Thus, the famous Earl of Surrey, the poet, the courtier, the most accomplished gentleman and bravest cavalier of that very age, is known to have lived on terms of intimacy with Cornelius Agrippa, the celebrated Italian sorcerer, to whose renown the fame of Sir Cesar of England is hardly second; though early sorrows, of the most acute kind, had given a much higher degree of wildness and eccentricity to the character of the extraordinary old man of whom we speak, than the accomplished Italian ever suffered to appear.

In many circumstances there was still a great degree of similarity between them: both were deeply versed in classical literature, and were endowed with every elegant attainment; and both possessed that wild and vivid imagination which taught them to combine in one strange and heterogeneous system the pure doctrines of Christianity, the theories of the Pagan philosophers, and the strange, mysterious notions of the dark sciences they pursued. Amongst many fancies derived from the Greeks, it seems certain that both Sir Cesar and Cornelius Agrippa received, as an undoubted fact, the Pythagorean doctrine of the transmission of the souls through the various human bodies for a long period of existence: the spirit retaining, more or less, in different men, the recollection of events which had occurred to them at other periods of being.

One striking difference, however, existed between these two celebrated men. Cornelius Agrippa was all mildness, gentleness, and suavity; while Sir Cesar, irritated by the memory of much sorrow, was wild, vehement, and impetuous; ever striving to do good, it is true, but hasty and impatient under contradiction. The same sort of mental excitement hurried him on to move from land to land and place to place, without seeming ever to pause for any length of time; and as he stood not upon the ceremony of introduction, but made himself known to whomsoever the fancy of the moment might lead him, he was celebrated in almost every part of the world.

So much as we have said seemed necessary, in order to give our readers some insight into the character of the extraordinary man whose history is strongly interwoven with the web of the present narrative, and to prevent its being supposed that he was an imaginary being devised for the nonce; but we shall now proceed with him in his proper person.

"Let us reason," said Sir Cesar, breaking form abruptly, after he had ridden on with the young knight some way in silence; "let us reason of nature and philosophy; of things that are, and of things that may be; for I would fain expel from my brain a crowd of sad thoughts and dark imaginings, that haunt the caverns of memory."

"I should prove but a slow reasoner," replied the young knight, "when compared with one whose mind, if report speak truth, has long explored the deepest paths of science, and discovered the full wealth of nature."

"Nay, nay, my friend," answered the old man; "something I have studied, it is true; but nature's full wealth who shall ever discover? Look through the boundless universe, and you shall find that were the life of man extended a thousand fold, and all his senses refined to the most exquisite perfection, and had his mind infinite faculty to comprehend, yet the portion he could truly know would be to the great whole as one grain of sand to the vast foundation of the sea. As it is, man not only contemplates but few of nature's works, but also only sees a little part of each. Thus, when he speaks of life, he means but that which inspires animals, and never dreams that everything has life; and yet it is so. Is it not reasonable to suppose that everything that moves feels? and we cannot but conclude that everything that feels has life. The Indian tree that raises its branches when any living creature approaches must feel, must have sensation; the loadstone that flies to its fellow must know, must perceive that that fellow is near. Motion is life; and if viewed near, everything would be found to have motion, to have life, to have sensation."

Sir Osborne smiled. "Then do you suppose," demanded he, "that all vegetables and plants feel?"

"Nay, more, much more!" answered the old man. "I doubt not that everything in nature feels in its degree, from the rude stone that the mason cuts, to man, the most sensitive of substantial beings."

"It is a bold doctrine," said the young knight, who, willing to gain what insight he could into his companion's character, pressed him for a still further exposition of his opinions, though at the same time he himself felt not a little carried away by the energy of manner and rich modulation of tone with which the old man communicated his singular ideas. "It is a bold doctrine, and would seem to animate the whole of nature. Could it be proved, the world would acquire a glow of life, and activity of existence, where it now appears cold and silent."

"The whole of nature is animated," replied Sir Cesar. "Life combined with matter is but a thousandth part of life existent. The world teems with spirits: the very air is thick with them. They dance in the sunshine, they ride upon the beams of the stars, they float about in the melodies of music, they nestle in the cups of the flowers; and I am forced to believe that never a flower fades, or a beam passes away, without some being mourning the brief date of loveliness on earth. Doubt not, for this is true; and though no one can prove that matter is sensitive, yet it can be proved that such spirits do exist, and that they may be compelled to clothe themselves with a visible form. It can be proved, I say, and I have proved it."

"I have heard the same reported of you," replied Sir Osborne, "when you, with the renowned Cornelius Agrippa, called up a spirit to ascertain what would be the issue of the battle of Ravenna. Was it not so?"

"Speak not of it!" cried the old man, "speak not of it! In that battle fell the bright, the gallant, the amiable Nemours. Though warned by counsel, by prophecy, and by portent, he would venture his life on that fatal battle, and fell. Speak not of it! But now to you and yours. Whither go you?"

"My first care," replied Sir Osborne, "must be to seek my father, at whose wish I have now returned to England. To you, who know far more of me and mine than I ever dreamed that mortal here had heard, I need not say where my father dwells." As he spoke, Sir Osborne drew up his horse, following the example of his companion, whose palfrey had stopped at a point where the road, separating into two branches, gave the traveller the option of proceeding either towards Canterbury or Dover, as his business or pleasure might impel. At the same time the young knight fixed his eye upon the other's face, as if to ascertain what was passing in his mind, seeking, probably, thence to learn how far the old man's knowledge really extended in respect to himself and his concerns.

"It is a long journey," said Sir Cesar, thoughtfully, "and 'twill take you near three weeks to travel thither and back. Much may be lost or won in three weeks. You must not go. Hie on to Dover, and thence to London: wait there till I give you farther news, and be sure that my news shall be of some avail."

"It cannot be," answered Sir Osborne Maurice. "Before I take any step whatever I must see my father; and though I doubt not that your advice be good, and your knowledge more than natural, I cannot quit my road, nor wait in any place, till I have done the journey to which duty and affection call me."

"Your own will then be your guide, though it be a bad one," answered Sir Cesar. "But mark, I tell you, if you pursue the road you are on you will meet with danger, and will lose opportunity. My words are not wont to fall idly."

"Whatever danger may occur," replied Sir Osborne, "my road lies towards London, and it shall not be easy to impede me on my way."

"Ho, ho! so headstrong!" cried the old knight. "I' God's name, then, on! My palfrey goes too slow for your young blood. Put spurs to your steed, sir, and get quick into the perils from which you will need my hand to help you out. Spur, spur, sir knight; and good speed attend you!"

"By your leave, then," replied Sir Osborne, taking the old man at his word, and giving his horse the spur. "Sir Cesar, I thank you for your kindness: we shall meet again, when I hope to thank you better; till then, farewell!"

"Farewell, farewell!" muttered the old knight; "just the same as ever! If I remember right he was killed in the first Punic war, for not taking the advice of Valerius the soothsayer; and though now his soul has passed through fifty different bodies, he is just as headstrong as ever." And with these sage reflections Sir Cesar pursued his way.

Leaving him, however, to his own meditations, we must now, for some time, follow the track of Sir Osborne Maurice, whose horse bore him quickly along that same little tortuous road in the midst of which we first encountered him. To say sooth, some speed was necessary; for whatever might be the cause that induced the young knight to linger at the cottage of old Richard Heartley, and whatever might have been the ideas that had occupied him during so long a reverie, he had wasted no small portion of the day, between listening to the garrulity of the old man, thinking over the circumstances which that garrulity called up to memory, and conversing with the singular being from whom he had just parted; and yet, within a mile of the spot where he had left the astrologer, Sir Osborne drew in his bridle, and standing in the stirrup, looked round him on both sides over the high bank of earth which in that place flanked the road on either hand.

After gazing round for a moment, and marking every trifling object with an attention which was far more than the scenery merited from any apparent worth or picturesque beauty, he turned his horse into a small bridle-path, and riding on for about a mile, came in front of a mansion, which, even in that day, bore many a mark of venerable antiquity.

A small eminence, at about five hundred yards' distance from it, gave him a full view of the building, as it rose upon another slight elevation, somewhat higher than that on which he stood. Through the trees which filled up the intermediate space was seen gliding a small river, that, meandering amongst the copses, now shone glittering in the sun, now hid itself in the shades, with that soothing variety, gay yet tranquil, placid but not insipid, which is the peculiar characteristic of the course of an English stream. The wind had fallen, the clouds had dispersed, and the evening sun was shining out, as if seducing the early buds to come forth and yield themselves to his treacherous smile, and all the choir of nature was hymning its song of joy and hope in the prospect of delightful summer. Above the branches, which were yet scarcely green with the first downy promise of the spring, was seen rising high the dark octagon keep of Chilham Castle. It was a building of the old irregular Norman construction; and the architect, who probably had forgot that a staircase was requisite till he had completed the tower, had remedied the defect by throwing out from the east side a sort of square buttress, which contained the means of ascending to the various stories of which it was composed. On the west side of the keep appeared a long mass of building of a still more ancient date, surrounded by strong stone walls overgrown with ivy, forming a broken but picturesque line of architecture, stretching just above the tops of the trees, and considerably lower than the tower, while a small detached turret was seen here and there, completing the castellated appearance of the whole.

Sir Osborne paused and gazed at it for five or ten minutes in silence, while a variety of very opposite expressions took possession of his countenance. Now it seemed that the calm beauty of the scene filled him with thoughts of tranquillity and delight; now that the view recalled some poignant sorrow, for something very bright rose and glistened in his eye. At last his brow knit into a frown, and anger seemed predominant, as, grasping the pommel of his sword with his left hand, he shook his clenched fist towards the antique battlements of the castle, and then, as if ashamed of such vehemence of passion, he turned his horse and galloped back on the road he came.

The moment after he had again entered upon the road to Canterbury, a sudden change took place in the pace of his horse, and perceiving that he had cast a shoe, the young knight was forced, although the sun was now getting far west, to slacken his pace; for the lady who walked over the burning ploughshares would have found it a different story, had she tried to gallop over that road without shoes. Proceeding, therefore, but slowly, it was nearly dark when he reached the little village of Northbourne, where, riding up to the smithy, he called loudly for the farrier. No farrier, however, made his appearance. All was silent, and as black as his trade; and the only answer which Osborne could procure was at length elicited from one of a score of boys, who, with open eyes and gaping mouths, stood round, listening unmoved for a quarter of an hour, while the knight adjured the blacksmith to come forth and show himself.

"Can I have my horse shod here or not, little varlet?" cried he at length to one of the most incorrigible starers.

"Ye moy, if ye loyke," answered the boy, with that air of impenetrable stupidity which an English peasant boy can sometimes get up when he is half frightened and half sullen.

"He means ye moy if ye can," answered another urchin, with somewhat of a more intellectual face: "for Jenkin Thumpum is up at the hostel shoeing the merchant's beast, and Dame Winny, his wife, is gone to hold the lantern. He! he! he!"

"Ha! ha! ha!" roared his companions, to whose mind Dame Winny holding the lantern was a very good joke. "Ha! ha! ha! wherever Jenkin Thumpum is, there goes Dame Winny to hold the lantern. Ha! ha! ha!"

"But how far is it to the inn, my good boy?" demanded Sir Osborne.

"Oh! it's for half an hour up the road, ye see," replied the boy, who still chuckled at his own joke, and wanted fain to repeat it.

"But are you sure the blacksmith is there?" demanded Sir Osborne.

"Oy, oy!" replied the boy; "as sure as eggs are bacon, if he's not coming back again. So, if ye go straight up along, you'll meet Jenkin coming, and Dame Winny holding the lantern. Ha! ha! ha!"

CHAPTER IV.

The first, forgive my verse if too diffuse,
Performed the kitchen's and the parlour's use.

It was quite dark when Sir Osborne Maurice arrived at the gate of the hostel or inn, which consisted of a long row of low buildings, running by the side of the road, with a straw-yard at the nearer end. Into this the traveller guided his horse by the light of a horn lantern, which was held by no other person than Dame Winny herself, while her husband, Master Thumpum, pared the hoof of a stout gelding which stood tied to the stable-door. Things were arranged differently in those days from what they are now.

As soon as the good lady heard the sound of a horse's feet entering the court, she raised her melodious voice to notify to the servants of the house a traveller's arrival.

"Tim Chamberlain! Tim Chamberlain!" cried she, "here's a master on horseback."

The chamberlain, for by such sonorous title did he designate himself, came forth at the summons, presenting not only the appearance of an ostler, but of a bad ostler too; and after assisting the knight to dismount, he took from the saddle the leathern bags which commonly accompanied a traveller on a journey in those days, and running his hand over the exterior, with the utmost nonchalance, endeavoured to ascertain whether the contents were such as might be acceptable to any of his good friends on the road.

Sir Osborne's first care was of his horse, which he ordered to be shod, for the purpose of proceeding immediately; but finding its foot somewhat tender, he at length determined upon passing the night at the inn rather than injure an animal on which his farther journey greatly depended; and leaving the chamberlain to examine his bags more at his leisure, he entered the kitchen, which was then the common room of reception.

Night had by this time rendered the air chilly; and the sight of a large fire, which greeted his eye as he pushed open the door, promised him at least that sort of reception for which he was most anxious, as he did not propose to himself any great communion with those who might be within. The apartment was not very inviting in any other particular than the cheerful blazing of the large logs of wood with which the earth was strewed, for the floor was of battened mud, and the various utensils which hung round did not do great credit to the hostess's housewifery.

Much was the confusion which reigned amidst pans, kettles, pots, and plates; and sundry were the positions of spits, gridirons, and ladles: in short, it seemed as if the implements of cooking had all got drunk after a hard day's work, and had tumbled over one another the best way they could in search of repose. From the large black rafters overhead, however, hung much that might gratify the eye of the hungry traveller, for the kitchen seemed to serve for larder as well as drawing-room. There might be seen the inimitable ham of York, with manifold sides of bacon, and dangling capons, and cheeses store; and there, too, was the large black turkey, in its native plumes, with endless strings of sausages, and puddings beyond account. Nor was dried salmon wanting, nor a net full of lemons, nor a bag of peas: in a word, it was a very comfortably garnished roof, and in some degree compensated for the disarray of the room that it overhung.

In those days, the close of evening was generally the signal for every traveller to betake himself to the nearest place of repose; and with his circle round the fire, and his own peculiar chair placed in the most approved corner of the vast chimney, mine host of the inn seldom expected the arrival of any new guest after dark. It was then, if his company were somewhat of his own degree, that he would tell his best story, or crack his best joke; and sometimes even, after many an overflowing flagon had gone round at the acknowledged expense of his guests, he himself, too, would club his tankard of toast and ale, for which, it is probable, he found sufficient means to make himself kindly reparation in some other manner.

In such course flowed by the moments at the inn, when Sir Osborne Maurice, pushing open the door of the kitchen, interrupted the landlord in the midst of an excellent good ghost story, and made the whole of the rest of the party turn their heads suddenly round, and fix their eyes upon the tall, graceful figure of the young knight, as if he had been the actual apparition under discussion.

The assembly at the kitchen-fire consisted only of six persons. Mine host, as above stated, in his large arm-chair, was first in bulk and dignity. Whether it be or not a peculiar quality in beer to turn everything which contains a great quantity of it into the shape and demeanour of a tun, has often struck me as a curious question in natural philosophy; but certain it is that many innkeepers, but more peculiarly the innkeeper in question, possess, and have possessed, and probably will possess, so long as such a race exists, the size, rotundity, profoundness, and abhorrence of locomotion, which are considered as peculiar attributes of the above-named receptacle, as well as the known quality of containing vast quantities of liquor. Mine host was somewhat pale withal; but sundry carbuncles illuminated his countenance, and gave an air of jollity to a face whose expression was not otherwise very amiable.

Next to this dignitary sat a worthy representative of a race now, alas! long, long extinct, and indeed almost unrecorded.

Oh! could old Hall or Holinshed have divined that the Portingal captain would ever become an animal as much extinct as the mammoth or the mastodon, leaving only a few scattered traces to mark the places through which he wandered, what long and elaborate descriptions should we not have had, to bear at least his memory down to coming ages! But in the days of those worthy writers, Portugal, or, as they wrote it, Portingal, was the land from which adventure and discovery issued forth over the earth, ay, and over the water, too; and they never dreamt that the flourishing kingdom whose adventurous seamen explored every corner of the known world, and brought the fruits and treasures of the burning zone to the frigid regions of the north, would ever dwindle away so as to be amongst the nations of Europe like a sprat in a shoal of herrings; or certainly they would have given us a full and particular description of a Portingal captain, from the top of his head down to the sole of his shoe.

Luckily, however, the learned Vonderbrugius has supplied this defect more to my purpose than any other writer could have done, not only by describing a Portingal captain in the abstract, but the very identical Portingal captain who there, at that moment, sat by the fireside.

I have already hinted that the learned Theban's Latin is somewhat obscure, and I will own that the beginning of his definition rather puzzled me:--"Capitanus Portingalensis est homo pedibus sex----"

It was very easy to construe the first four words, like a boy at school: Capitanus Portingalensis, a Portugal captain; est homo, is a man. That was all very natural; but when it came to pedibus sex, with six feet, I was very much astonished, till I discovered that the professor meant thus elegantly to express that he was six feet high.

But before I proceed with the particular account, it may be necessary to say a word or two upon the general history and qualifications of the Portingal captains of that day. Portugal, as has been observed, was then the cradle of adventurous merchantmen; that is to say, of men who gained an honest livelihood by buying and selling, fetching and carrying, lying and pilfering, thieving wholesale and retail, swearing a great deal, and committing a little manslaughter when it was necessary. With these qualifications, it may well be supposed that the Portingal captains were known and esteemed in every quarter of the globe except America; and as they were daring, hardy, boasting fellows, who possessed withal a certain insinuating manner of giving little presents of oranges, lemons, nutmegs, cinnamon, &c. to the good dames of the houses where they were well received, as well as of rendering every sort of unscrupulous service to the male part of the establishment, it may equally well be supposed that some few people shut them out of their houses, and called them 'thievish vagabonds,' while a great many took them in, and thought them 'nice, good-humoured gentlemen.'

Freeholders of the ocean, their own country bound them by no very strict laws; and if they broke the laws of any other, they took to their ship, which was generally near, and, like the Greenwich pensioner, 'went to sea again.' Speaking a jargon of all languages, accommodating themselves to all customs, cheating and pilfering from all nations, and caring not one straw more for one country than another, they furnished the epitome, the beau-ideal of true citizens of the world.

The specimen of this dignified race who occupied a seat between mine host and hostess was, as we have seen, six feet high, and what sailors would term broad over the beam. His neck was rather of the longest, and at the end of it was perched a mighty small head, whose front was ornamented with a large nose, two little, dark, twinkling eyes under a pair of heavy black brows, and a mouth of quite sufficient size to serve a moderate-minded pair. Any one who has heard of a red Indian may form some idea of his complexion, which would remind one of a black sheep marked with red ochre; and from this rich soil sprang forth and flourished a long thin pair of mustachios, something after the Tartar mode. His dress was more tolerable than his face, consisting of a dark-brown doublet slashed with light green, much resembling a garden full of cabbage stalks, with trunks and hosen to correspond; while in his belt appeared a goodly assortment of implements for cutting and maiming, too numerous to be recited; and between his legs, as he sat and rocked himself on his chair, he held his long sword, with the point of which he ever and anon raked fresh ashes round a couple of eggs that were roasting on the hearth.

Smiling on this jewel of a captain sat our landlady in the next chair, a great deal too pretty to mind the affairs of her house, and a great deal too fine to be very good. Now, the captain was a dashing man, and though he did not look tender, he looked tender things; and besides, he was an old friend of the house, and had brought mine hostess many a little sentimental present from parts beyond the sea; so that she found herself justified in flirting with so amiable a companion by smiles and glances, while her rotund husband poured forth his ale-inspired tale.

On the right hand of the hostess stood the cook, skewering up a fine breast of house-lamb, destined for the rere-supper of a stout old English clothier, Jekin Groby by name, who, placed in the other seat of honour opposite mine host, leaned himself back in a delicious state of drowsiness between sleeping and waking, just hearing the buzzing of the landlord's story, with only sufficient apprehension left to catch every now and then "the ghost, the ghost," and to combine that idea with strange, misty phantasies in his sleep-embarrassed brain. The sixth person was the turnspit-dog, who, freed from his Ixionian task, sat on his rump facing his master, on whose countenance he gazed with most sagacious eyes, seeming much more attentive to the tale than any one else but the cook.

As I have said, Sir Osborne threw open the door somewhat suddenly, startling all within. Every one thought it was the ghost. The landlord became motionless; the lady screamed, the cook ran the skewer into her hand; the turnspit-dog barked; Jekin Groby knocked his head against the chimney; and the Portingal captain ran one of the eggs through the body with the point of his sword.

It has been said that a good countenance is a letter of recommendation, and to the taste of mine hostess it was the best that could be given. Thus, after she had finished her scream, and had time to regard the physiognomy of the ghost who threw open the kitchen-door, she liked it so much better than that of the Portingal captain, that she got up with her very best courtesy; drew a settle to the fire next to herself; bade the turnspit hold his tongue; and ordered Tim Chamberlain, who followed hard upon Sir Osborne's footsteps, to prepare for his worship the tapestry-chamber.

"I seem to have scared you all," said Sir Osborne, somewhat astonished at the confusion which his entrance had caused. "What is the matter?"

"Nay, marry, sir, 'twas nothing," replied the landlady, with a sweet simper, "but a foolish ghost that my husband spoke of."

"The foolish ghost has broke my head, I know," said Jekin Groby, rubbing his pole, which had come in contact with the chimney.

"Nay, then, the ghost was rude as well as foolish," remarked Sir Osborne, taking his seat.

"Ha! ha! well said, young gentleman," cried the honest clothier. "Nay, now, I warrant thou hast a merry heart."

"Thou wouldst be out," answered Sir Osborne: "my heart's a sad one;" and he added a sigh that showed there was some truth in what he said, though he said it lightly.

"They sayo that thin doublets cover alway gay heart," said the Portingal captain. "Now, senhor! your doublets was not very thick, good youth."

"Good youth!" said Sir Osborne, turning towards the speaker, whom he had not before remarked, and glancing his eye over his person; "good youth! what mean you by that, sir?" But as his eye fell upon the face of the Portingal, his cheek suddenly reddened very high, and the glance of the other sunk as if quelled by some powerful recollection. "Oh, ho!" continued the knight, "a word with you, sir;" and rising, he pushed away the settle, and walked towards the end of the room.

"Pray don't fight, gentlemen!" cried the hostess, catching hold of the skirt of Sir Osborne's doublet. "Pray don't fight! I never could bear to see blood spilled. John Alesop! Husband! you are a constable; don't let them fight!"

"Leave me, dame; you mistake me. We are not going to fight," said Sir Osborne, leading her back to the fire; "I merely want to speak one word to this fellow. Come here, sir!"

The Portingal captain had by this time risen up to his full height; but as he marched doggedly after the young knight, there was a swinging stoop in his long neck that greatly derogated from the dignity of his demeanour. Sir Osborne spoke to him for some time in a low voice, to which he replied nothing but "Dios! It's nothing to I! Vary well! Not a word!"

"Remember, then," said the knight, somewhat louder, "if I find you use your tongue more than your prudence, I will, slit your ears!"

"Pan de Dios! you are the only man that dare to say me so," muttered the captain, following towards the fire, at which the knight now resumed his seat, and where mine host was expatiating to Jekin Groby, the hostess, the cook, and the turnspit-dog, upon the propriety of every constable letting gentlemen settle their differences their own way. "For," said he, "what is the law made for? Why, to punish the offender. Now, if there is no offence committed, there is no offender. Then would the law be of no use; therefore, to make the law useful, one ought to let the offence be committed without intermeddling, which would be rendering the law of no avail."

"Very true," said his wife.

"Why, there's something in it," said Jekin Groby; "for when I was at court, the king himself ordered two gentlemen to fight. Lord a' mercy! it seemed to me cruel strange!"

"Nay, when wert thou at court, Master Jekin?" demanded the landlord.

"Why, have I ate lamb and drank ale at thy house twice every year," demanded the indignant clothier, "and knowest thou not, John Alesop, that I am clothier, otherwise cloth merchant, to his most Gracious Grace King Henry? And that twice he has admitted me into his dignified presence? And once that I staid six weeks at the Palace at Westminster? Oh! it is a prince of a king! Lord a' mercy! you never saw his like!"

"Nay, nay, I heard not of it," replied the landlord. "But come, Master Jekin, as these gentlemen don't seem inclined to fight, tell us all about the court, and those whom you saw there, while the lamb is roasting."

The honest clothier was willing enough to tell his story, and, including even the knight, every one seemed inclined to hear him, except indeed the Portingal captain, who was anxious to recommence his flirtation with Master Alesop's dame. But she, having by chance heard a word or two about slitting of ears, turned up her nose at her foreign innamorato, and prepared herself to look at Sir Osborne Maurice, and to listen to Jekin Groby.

"Oh! it is a prodigious place, the court!" said the clothier, "a very prodigious place, indeed. But, to my mind, the finest thing about it is the king himself. Never was such a king; so fine a man, or so noble in his apparel! I have seen him wear as many as three fresh suits a day. Then for the broidery, and the cloth of gold, and the cloth of silver, and the coat of goldsmiths' work: there was a world of riches! And amongst the nobles, too, there was more wealth on their backs than in their hearts or their heads, I'll warrant. The nobility of the land is quite cast away, since the youngsters went to fetch back the Lady Mary from France, after her old husband the French king died. None but French silks worn; and good English cloth, forsooth, is too coarse for their fine backs! And then the French fashions, too, not only touch the doublet, but affect the vest and the nether end; so that, with chamfreed edging, and short French breeches, they make such a comely figure, that except it were a dog in a doublet, you shall not see any so disguised as our young nobility."[^[2]]

While the good clothier proceeded, the Portingal had more than once fidgeted on his seat, as if with some willingness to evade the apartment; and at length had risen and was quietly proceeding towards the door, when the eye of Sir Osborne Maurice fixed upon him, with a sort of stern authority in its glance, which he seemed well to understand; for, without more ado, he returned to his settle, and showed as if he had merely risen to stretch the unwieldy length of his legs by a turn upon the floor.

In the mean time, Jekin Groby went on.

"It is a lewd age and a bad, I wot, and the next will be a worse, seeing that all our young gallants are so full of strange phantasies; that is, not to say all, for there is the young Earl of Derby, God bless his noble heart! He is an honest one and a merry, and right English to the core. One day he meets me in the ante-chamber, where I had always leave to stand to see all the world go in and out, and he says to me, 'Honest Jekin Groby,' says he, 'dost thou stand here in the ante-room waiting for my Lord Cardinal's place, if he should chance to die?' 'Nay, my good lord,' I was bold to answer, 'I know that here I am out of place, yet my Lord Cardinal's would not suit me.' So then he laughed. 'Why not?' says he, 'for certainly thou art of the cloth.' But hark! they are crying in the court."

The honest clothier was right, for sundry sounds began to make themselves heard in the court-yard, announcing the arrival of no inconsiderable party, which, if one might judge by the vociferation of the servants, consisted of people that made some noise in the world.

Up started mine host as well as his rotundity would let him; up started mine hostess, and out rushed the cook; while, at the same moment, a bustling lacquey with riding-whip in hand, pushed into the kitchen, exclaiming, "What's this! what's this! But one tapestried room, and that engaged? Nonsense! it must be had, and shall be had, for my young lady and her woman!"

"A torch! a torch!" cried a voice without. "This way, lady. The rain is coming on very hard; we shall be much better here."

All eyes turned towards the door with that anxious curiosity which every small body of human beings feels when another person is about to be added to the little world of the moment. But fastidious, indeed, must have been the taste that could have found anything unpleasing in the form that entered. It was that of a sweet, fair girl, in the spring of womanhood: every feature was delicate and feminine, every limb was small and graceful: yet with that rounded fulness which is indispensable to perfect beauty. Her colour was not high, but it was fine; and when she found herself before so many strangers, it grew deeper and deeper, till it might have made the rose look pale. I hate long descriptions. She was lovely, and I have said enough.

By this time the hostess had advanced, and a venerable old man in a clerical robe had followed into the room, while mine host himself rolled forward to see what best could be done for the accommodation of the large party that seemed willing to honour his inn with their presence.

"I heard something about the best chamber being engaged," said the young lady, in a voice that sweetly corresponded with her person, at the same time turning half towards the hostess, half towards the clergyman. "I beg that I may disturb no one. Any chamber will do for me and my woman, if you think we cannot reach the manor to-night."

"Ay! but if we can have the best chamber, I don't see why not, lady," said the lady's-maid, who by this time had followed.

Sir Osborne Maurice advanced. "If it is to me," said he, "that the best chamber has been assigned, I shall feel myself honoured in resigning it to a lady, but infinitely more, if my memory serves me right, and that lady be Lady Constance de Grey."

"Good heaven, Master Osborne Maurice!" said the lady, colouring again with evidently no very unpleasant feelings. "I thought you were in Flanders. When did----?"

But she had no time to finish her phrase, for the old clergyman cast himself upon Sir Osborne's neck, and wept like a child. "My dear Osborne!" cried he, "how? when? where? But I am a fool; how like you have grown to your dear lady mother! Pardon me, my lord--I mean, sir--I don't know what I'm talking of. But you know you were my first pupil, and like my child; and I never thought to see you again before my old eyes were covered with the dust. Alack! alack! what a fine man thou art grown! 'Tis just five years, come May, since you came to take leave of me at the house of this my honoured lady's father; and mind you how you taught her to shoot with the bow, and how pleased my good lord her father was to see you?"

"I have not forgotten one circumstance of the kind hospitality I then received," said Sir Osborne, "and never shall, so long as I have memory of anything."

"Ay, but she has lost the archery," said the old clergyman. "She has lost it entirely."

"But I have not lost the bow, Master Osborne," said the lady, with a smile: "I have it still, and shall some day relearn to draw it."

There was a strange difference between the manner of the clergyman and that of the lady, when addressing the young knight. Lady Constance evidently saw him with pleasure; but she seemed to feel, or to suppose, that there existed between them a difference of rank, which made some reserve on her part necessary, while, on the contrary, the old man gave way to unlimited joy at meeting with his former pupil, though qualified by an air of respect and deference which mingled strangely with the expressions of fondness that he poured forth.

By this time, the host and hostess having removed from the fire, and the Portingal captain having quietly slipped away in the bustle, no one remained near it but Jekin Groby; and, he not being very terrific of aspect, Lady Constance placed herself in one of the vacant seats till such time as her chamber should be prepared. Sir Osborne wrung the old tutor's hand affectionately, and whispered, while he followed to the side of Lady Constance, "I have a word to say to you, and much upon which to consult you."

"Good, good!" replied the old man, in the same subdued tone, "when the lady has retired."

Having seated themselves round the fire, the conversation was soon renewed, especially between the tutor and Sir Osborne: Lady Constance sometimes joining in with her sweet musical voice, and her gentle, engaging manner, and sometimes falling into deep reveries, which seemed not of the happiest nature, if one might judge by the grave, and even sad cast that her countenance took, as she fixed her eyes upon the embers, and appeared to study deeply the various forms they offered to her view.

In the mean time, the clergyman gradually engaged Sir Osborne to detail some of the adventures which he had met with during the five years that he had served in the Imperial army then combating in Flanders; and then he spoke of "moving accidents by flood and field, of hair-breadth 'scapes in th' imminent deadly breach," and of much that he had seen, mingled with some small portions of what he himself had done; and yet, when he told any of his own deeds that had met with great success, he took care to attribute all to his good fortune and a happy chance. It was thus, he said, that, by a most lucky coincidence, he happened to take two standards of the enemy before the eyes of the late Emperor Maximilian, who, as a recompense, honoured him with knighthood from his own sword.

"Indeed!" exclaimed Lady Constance, waking from her reverie; "then I do congratulate you most sincerely. The road to fortune and to fame is now open to you, Sir Osborne, and I feel sure, I know, that you will reach the goal."

"A thousand thanks, lady, for your good augury!" replied the knight; "nor do I lack hope, though there are so many competitors in the field of fame that the difficulty of winning renown is increased. In the army of Flanders there is many an aspirant with whom it is hard to contend."

"True," replied Lady Constance; "but even that makes the contention more honourable. Oh! we have heard of that army, and its feats of arms, even here. We cannot be supposed to have received the names of all those who have done high deeds; but they say that the young Lord Darnley, the son of the unhappy Earl Fitzbernard, is realizing the tales of the knights of old. You must have met him, Sir Osborne Maurice. Do you know him?"

"I cannot say that I know him well," replied the knight, "though we have served long in the same army. He has gained some renown, it is true, but there are many men-at-arms as good as he."

"I know not well why," said Lady Constance after a pause; "but I have always been much interested in that young gentleman's history. The unexpected, and seemingly undeserved, train of misfortunes that fell upon his house, and the accounts that all men give of his gallantry and daring, his courtesy and accomplishments, have made him quite one of my heroes of romance."

Whether it, be true that very high praises of another will frequently excite some small degree of envy, even in the most amiable minds, matters not; but Sir Osborne did not seem very easy in his chair while Lady Constance recited the high qualities of his companion in arms. "I have heard," replied he at length, "that the fame which Lord Darnley has acquired, either justly or unjustly, has even reached the ears of our sovereign lord the king, and has worked much in favour of those claims which his family make to their forfeited estates. It is well known that his grace is the flower of this world's chivalry; and as the young lord is somewhat skilful in the tournois, and at the barriers, the king has, I hear, expressed a wish to see him, which, if he should come over, may turn favourably to his cause."

"God grant it may!" said Lady Constance, "although I have never seen the young gentleman, and though the person who now holds his estates is cousin to my deceased father----"

"Good God! is it possible?" exclaimed Sir Osborne, "that my lord your father is dead? But I might have divined it from seeing you here alone."

Lady Constance sighed. "I am indeed alone in all the world," said she. "My father has been dead these three years. My Lord Cardinal Wolsey claims me as ward of the crown; and as I am now in my one-and-twentieth year, he calls me to a place I hate: the court. Knowing no one there, loved of no one there, I shall feel like an inexperienced being in a sad, strange world. But when the time comes that I may command my own actions, if they will ever let me do so, I will return to my father's halls, and live amongst my own tenantry. But to change a painful subject, my good father," she continued, turning to the clergyman, "were it not well to send a messenger to Sir Payan Wileton, to let him know that we shall not arrive at his house to-night, though we will take our forenoon meal with him to-morrow?"

The old clergyman seemed somewhat embarrassed. "I know not what to do," said he. "'Twould be better not to go at all, yet what can be done? You promised to go as you went to London, and one ought always to keep one's promise. So what can the lady do?" And he turned abruptly to Sir Osborne, not so much as if he asked his advice as if he made him an apology.

"Why, the lady had certainly better keep her word," answered Sir Osborne, with a smile; "but you know, my good old friend, that I cannot judge of the circumstances."

"Ay, true; I forgot," answered the other. "She must go, I am afraid, though she knows what the man is, and dislikes him as much as any one----"

At this moment the chamberlain entered, with Lady Constance's woman, announcing that the tapestry chamber was now warmed and lighted; and the young lady left them, with many apologies to Sir Osborne for depriving him of his apartment.

"I warrant you, madam," said Tim Chamberlain, "his worship will be well lodged; for 'tis but the next room to that he had, and 'tis all as good, bating the tapestry."

"I am a soldier, lady," said Sir Osborne, "and not much accustomed to tapestry to my chamber, without it be the blue hangings of the sky, spangled with the starry broidery of heaven; but in truth I wish they had given me but a tramper's garret, that I might at least have had some merit in giving up the room."

As the honest clothier, Jekin Groby, who was little heedful of ceremony, still sat by the fire, though apparently dipped deeply in the Lethean stream of an afternoon's doze, the conversation of Sir Osborne Maurice with his old tutor could not be so private as they could have wished, especially as the cook and the chamberlain were bustling about laying forth a table for the rere-supper, and two or three lacqueys who had accompanied the litter of Lady Constance were running in and out, endeavouring to make as much noise as possible about nothing. However, they found an opportunity to appoint a place of meeting in London, to which both were journeying, and it was agreed that the first arrived should there wait for the other. Many questions concerning the state of England did Sir Osborne ask of the old man, for whom he seemed to entertain both reverence and love, and deeply did he ponder all the answers he received. Often also did the tutor look anxiously in the face of the young knight, and often did Sir Osborne return it with the same kind of hesitating glance, as if there were some subject on which they both wished to speak, yet doubted whether to begin.

At length Sir Osborne spoke out, more to the clergyman's thoughts than his words. "We will talk of all that hereafter in London," said he; "'twere too long to expose now. But, tell me one thing: know you, my good father, a celebrated man called in Italy Cesario il dotto? Is he to be trusted? For I met with him to-day, when he much astonished me, and much won upon my opinion; but I knew not how far I might confide in him, though he is certainly a most extraordinary man."

"Trust your life in his hands!" exclaimed the tutor. "He is your father's best and dearest friend, and never has he ceased his efforts to serve him. We used much to dispute, for I am bound by my calling to hold his studies as evil; but certainly his knowledge was wonderful, and his intentions were good. God forgive him if he err in his opinions! as in truth he does, holding strange phantasies of many sorts of spirits, more than the church allows, with various things altogether heretical and vain. But, as I have said, trust him with your life, if it be necessary; for he is a true friend and a good man, although his knowledge and his art be altogether damnable and profane."

"'Tis strange I never heard my father name him," said Sir Osborne.

"Oh! he bore another name once," replied the tutor, "which he changed when he first gave himself to those dangerous studies that have since rendered him so famous. It is a custom among such men to abjure their name; but he had another reason, being joined in a famous conspiracy some thirty years ago."

"Why," said Sir Osborne, "he does not seem a very old man now!"

"He is full eighty," replied the clergyman; "and there is the wonder, for he seems never to change. For twenty years he was absent from England, except when he came to be present at your birth. At length everybody had forgotten him but your father, and he is now only known by the name of Sir Cesar. Yet, strange as it may seem, he is received and courted by the great; he knows the secrets and affairs of every one, and possesses much influence even in the court. It is true I know his former name, but under so strict a vow to conceal it that it can never pass my lips."

"But how came he present at my birth?" demanded Sir Osborne, whose curiosity was now highly excited.

"He came to calculate your nativity," replied the tutor, "which he did upon a scroll of parchment----"

"Fifty-six yards long by three yards broad," said Jekin Groby, waking, "which makes just one hundred and sixty-eight: yaw---- Bless me, I forgot! Is supper ready? Host, host! Cook, serve quick, and these gentles will take a bit of my lamb, I am sure."

"I thank you, good sir," said the knight, "but I must to bed, for I ride betimes to-morrow."

"So do I, faith," said the clothier; "and by your leave, sir knight, I'll ride with you, if you go toward Lunnun; for my bags are well lined, and company's a blessing in these days of plunder and robbery."

"With all my heart," replied Sir Osborne; "so that you have your horse saddled by half-past five, we will to Canterbury together."

"Well, I'll be ready, I'll be ready," said the clothier; "but sure you'll stay and taste the lamb and ale? See how it hisses and crackles! Oh! 'tis a rare morsel, a neck of lamb! Stay stay!"

"I thank you, 'tis not possible," replied the knight. "Good night, my excellent old friend!" he continued, pressing the tutor's hand. "We shall soon meet, then, at the house of your relation, Doctor Butts: till then, farewell!"

CHAPTER V.

You have the captives, Who were the opposites of this day's strife! We do require them of you, so to use them As we shall find their merits and our safety May equally determine.--Shakspere.

The chamber of Sir Osborne Maurice was next to that of Lady Constance de Grey, and from time to time he could hear through the partition the sweet murmuring of her voice, as she spoke to the woman who undressed her. Whatever were the thoughts these sounds called up, the young soldier did not sleep, but lay pondering over his fate, his brain troubled by a host of busy meditations that would not let him rest. It was not that he either was in love with Lady Constance, or fancied himself in love with her, though he neither wanted ardour of feeling nor quickness of imagination; and yet he thought over all she said with strange sensations of pleasure, and tried to draw the graceful outline of her figure upon the blank darkness of the night. And then, again, he called up the fortnight that he spent some five years before at the mansion of her father, when he had gone thither to bid farewell to his old tutor; and he remembered every little incident as though 'twere yesterday. Still, all the while, he never dreamed of love. He gave way to those thoughts as to a pleasant vision, which filled up sweetly the moments till sleep should fall upon his eyelids; and yet he found that the more he thought in such a train, the less likely was he to slumber. At length the idea of the Portingal captain crossed his mind, and he strove to fix at what moment it was that that worthy had quitted the kitchen of the inn, by recalling the last time he positively had been there. He tried, however, in vain, and in the midst of the endeavour he fell asleep.

The sun had fully risen by the time Sir Osborne awoke; and finding himself later than he had intended, he dressed himself hurriedly and ran down to the court, where he met the honest clothier already prepared to set out. His own horse, thanks to the care of Jekin Groby, had been accoutred also; and as nothing remained for him to do but to pay his reckoning and depart, all was soon ready, and the travellers were on the road.

"Ah, ha! sir knight," said the clothier, with good-humoured familiarity, as Sir Osborne sprang into the saddle, "what would they say in camp if it were known that Jekin Groby, the Kentish clothier, was in the field before you? Ha, ha, ha! that's good! And you talked, too, of being off by cock-crow! Lord 'a mercy! poor old chanticleer has almost thrawn his own neck with crowing, and you never heeded his piping."

"I have been very lazy," said the knight, "and know not, in truth, how it has happened. But tell me, honest Master Groby, did you remark last night at what hour it was that the vagabond Portingallo took his departure?"

"Why, 'twas just when my young lady, Mistress Constance, came in," said the clothier; "he slipped away, just as I've seen a piece of cloth slip off a shelf, fold by fold, so quietly that no one heard it, till, flump! it was all gone together. But, bless us!" he continued, "how comical! our horses are both of a colour. Never did I see such a match, only mine has got a white foot, which is a pity. Bought him in Yorkshire when I went down after the cloth. Them damned cheats, however, painted me his white foot, and 'twas not till I'd had him a week that I saw his foot begin to change colour. Vast cheats in Yorkshire! Steal a man's teeth out of his head if he sleeps with his mouth open."

"It is a good horse, though," said Sir Osborne; "rather heavy in the shoulder. But it is a good strong horse, and would bear a man-at-arms well, I doubt not."

Jekin Groby was somewhat of a judge in horse-flesh, notwithstanding his having been gulled by the Yorkshire jockeys; and, what was more, he piqued himself upon his knowledge, so that he soon entered upon a strain of conversation with Sir Osborne which could only be interesting to connoisseurs. This continued some way as they trotted along the road, which offered no appearance of anything bearing the human form divine, till they came to a spot where the way had been cut between two high banks, formed of chalky soil mingled with veins of large flints. On the summit of one of these banks was perched a man, who seemed looking out for something, as he stood motionless, gazing down the road towards them. Upon his shoulder he carried a pole, or staff, as it was called, some thirteen feet long, with a sharp iron head, such as was frequently carried by the people of the country in those days, serving both as a means of aggression or defence, and as a sort of leaping-pole wherewith they cleared the deep ditches by which the country was in many parts intersected. The man himself was apparently above the ordinary height. Whoever he was, and whatever was his occupation, no sooner did he see the travellers, than, descending the bank by means of the veins of flint, which served him as steps, he ran on as hard as he could, and then, turning off through a little stile, was seen proceeding rapidly across a field beyond.

"Did you remark that fellow with his long pole?" demanded Sir Osborne. "We have frightened him: look, he runs!"

"He is vexed to see more than one at a time, sir knight," replied Jekin Groby. "God's fish! I am glad I had your worship with me."

"Why, he can mean us no harm," said Sir Osborne. "The moment a man flies he changes from your enemy and becomes his own. But that fellow was evidently looking out for some one: now, if he know not that you are travelling here with your bags well lined, as you express it, which doubtless you are too wise a man to give notice of to every one, he cannot be watching for us, for my plunder would not be worth his having. I rather think he is some fellow hawking fowl, by the long staff he has on his shoulder."

"It may be so," replied the cloth-merchant. "One is bound to think charitably, and never to judge rashly; but i'faith, I am mistaken if he is not a vast rogue. As to their not knowing that my bags are pretty full of angels, trust them for that. No one is robbed without the consent of the chamberlain or hostler where last he lodged. The moment you are off your beast, they whip you up your cap-case or budget, as it may happen; and if they can't find out by the weight, they give it a shake, after such a sort as to make the pieces jingle. Then again, as for his pole or staff, as you term it, those fellows with their staves are so commonly known for robbery on the road, that no honest man rides without his case of dags at his saddle-bow, or something of the kind to deal with them out of reach of their pike, which sort of snapper, truly, I see your worship has got as well as myself."

"Oh! you need not fear them," said Sir Osborne, somewhat amused at the alarm of the clothier, though willing to allay it. "You are a stout man, and I am not quite a schoolboy."

"Oh! I fear them! I don't fear them," replied Jekin, affecting a virtue which he had not; for though, in truth, not very sensible to fear of a mere personal nature, yet his terror at the idea of losing his angels was most pious and exemplary. "A couple of true men are worth forty of them; and besides, the fellow has run away. So now to what I was telling your worship about the horse. He cleared the fence and the ditch on t'other side; but then there was again another low fence, not higher, nor--let me see--not higher nor---- Zounds! there's Longpole again! Lord! how he runs! He's a-poaching, sure enough." But to continue.

During the next mile's journey, the same occurrence was repeated four or five times, till at last the appearance of the man with the staff, whom Jekin Groby had by this time christened Longpole, was hardly noticed either by the knight or his companion. In the mean time the horsemen proceeded but slowly, and at length reached a spot where the high bank broke away, and the hedge receding left a small open space of what appeared to be common ground. Its extent perhaps might be half an acre, lying in the form of a decreasing wedge between two thick hedges, full of leafless stunted oaks, terminated by a clump of larger trees, which probably hung over a pond. Thus it made a sort of little vista, down which the eye naturally wandered, resting upon all the tranquil, homely forms it presented, with perhaps more pleasure than a vaster or a brighter scene could have afforded. Sir Osborne looked down it for a moment, then suddenly reined in his horse, and pointing with his hand, cried to Jekin Groby, who was a little in advance, "I see two men hiding behind those trees, and a third there in the hedge. Gallop quick; 'tis an ambush!"

The clothier instantly spurred forward his horse; but his passage was closed by two sturdy fellows, armed with the sort of staves which had obtained for their companion the name of Longpole. Animated with the same courage in defence of his angels that inspires a hen in protection of her chickens, Jekin Groby drew forth his dags, or horse-pistols, and, with the bridle in his teeth, aimed one at the head of each of his antagonists. The aggressors jumped aside, and would probably have let him pass, had he not attempted too boldly to follow up his advantage. He pulled the triggers, the hammers fell, but no report ensued; and it was then he felt the folly of not having well examined his arms before he left the inn.

In the mean while Sir Osborne Maurice was not unemployed. At the same moment that Jekin Groby had been attacked, a man forced his way through the hedge, and opposed himself to the knight, while sundry others hastened towards them. Sir Osborne's first resource was his pistol, which, like those of the clothier, had been tampered with at the inn. But the knight lost not his presence of mind, and spurred on his horse even against the pike. The animal, long accustomed to combat where still more deadly weapons were employed, reared up, and with a bound brought the knight clear of the staff, and within reach of his adversary, on whose head Sir Osborne discharged such a blow with the butt-end of his pistol as laid him senseless on the ground.

With a glance of lightning he saw that at least a dozen more were hurrying up, and that the only chance left was to deal suddenly with the two, who were now in a fair way to pull the clothier off his horse, and having despatched them, to gallop on with all speed. Without loss of a moment, therefore, he drew his sword and spurred forward. One of honest Jekin's assailants instantly faced about, and, with his pike rested on his foot, steadfastly opposed the cavalier. However, he was not so dexterous in the use of his weapon that Sir Osborne could not by rapidly wheeling his horse obtain a side view of the pike, when by one sweeping blow of his long-sword he cleft it in twain. One moment more and the unhappy pikeman's head and shoulders would have parted company, for an arm of iron was swaying the edge of the weapon rapidly towards his neck, when suddenly a powerful man sprang upon the knight's horse behind, and pinioned his arms with a force which, though it did not entirely disable him, saved the life of his antagonist.

Using a strong effort, Sir Osborne so far disengaged his arms as to throw back the pommel of his sword into the chest of this new adversary, who in a moment was rolling in the dust; but as he fell, another sprang up again behind the knight, and once more embarrassed his arms: others seized the horse's bridle, and others pressed upon him on every side. Still Sir Osborne resisted, but it was in vain. A cord was passed through his arms, and gradually tightened behind, in spite of his struggling, where, being tied, it rendered all further efforts useless.

Hitherto not a word had been spoken by either party. It seemed as if, by mutual understanding, the attacking and the attacked had forborne any conversation upon a subject which they knew could not be decided by words.

At length, however, when they had pulled Sir Osborne Maurice off his horse, and placed him by the side of Jekin Groby, who had now long been in the same situation, the tallest of the party, evidently no other than the agreeable gentleman who had watched them along the road with such peculiar care, and whom we shall continue to call Longpole, advanced, holding his side, which was still suffering from the pommel of Sir Osborne's sword; and after regarding them both, he addressed himself to the knight, with much less asperity than might have been expected from the resistance he had met with. "Thou hit'st damned hard!" said he; "and I doubt thou hast broken one of my ribs with thy back-heave. Howsoever, I know not which of you is which, now I've got you. Faith, they should have described me the men, not the horses; both the horses are alike."

"Is your wish to rob us or not?" said Sir Osborne; "because in robbing us both you are sure to rob the right. Only leave us our horses, and let us go; for to cut our throats will serve you but little."

"If I wished to rob thee, my gentleman," answered Longpole, "I'd cut thy throat too, for breaking my companion's head, who lies there in the road as if he were dead, or rather as if he were asleep, for he's snoring like the father-hog of a large family, the Portingallo vagabond! However, I'll have you both away; then those who sent to seek you will know which it is they want. Hollo there! knock that fellow down that's fingering the bags. If one of you touch a stiver I'll make your skins smart for it."

"I see several Portingals," said Sir Osborne, "or I mistake. Is it not so?"

"Ay, Portingals and Dutchers, and such like mixed," replied Longpole. "But come; you must go along."

A light now broke upon the mind of Sir Osborne. "Listen," cried he to the Englishman, as he was preparing to lead them away; "how comes it that you Englishmen join yourselves with a beggarly race of wandering vagabonds to revenge the quarrel of a base-born Portingallo captain upon one of your own countrymen? Give me but a moment, and you shall hear whether he did not deserve the punishment I inflicted."

Longpole seemed willing to hear, and one or two others came round, while the rest employed themselves in quieting the knight's horse, that, finding himself in hands he was unaccustomed to, began plunging and kicking most violently.

"I will be short," said the knight. "This Portingal had agreed to furnish a cargo of fruits to the Imperial army in Flanders; 'tis now two years ago, for we had a malignant fever in the camp. He got the money when they were landed, and was bringing them under a small escort, which I commanded, when we found our junction cut off by the right wing of the enemy's army, which had wheeled. The greatest exertion was necessary to pass round through a hollow way; the least noise, the least flutter of a pennon, would have betrayed us to the French outposts, who were not more than a bow-shot from us, when our Portingal stopped in the midst, and vowed he would not go on, unless I promised to pay him double for the fruit, and not to tell anybody of what he had done. If I had run my lance through him, as I was tempted, his companions would have made a noise, and we were lost; so I was obliged to promise. He knew he could trust the word of an English knight, so he went on quietly enough, and got his money; but then I took him out into a field, and after a struggle, I tied him to a tree, and lashed him with my stirrup-leathers till his back was flayed. He was not worth a knight's sword, or I would have swept his head off. But tell me, is it for this a party of Englishmen maltreat their countrymen?"

"You served him right, young sir," answered Longpole; "and I remember that malignant fever well, for I was then fletcher to Sir John Pechie's band of horse archers. But, nevertheless, you must come along; for the Portingallo and his men only lend a hand in taking you to Sir Payan Wileton, who tells us a very different story, and does not make you out a knight at all."

Sir Osborne replied nothing (for it seemed that the name of Sir Payan Wileton showed him reply was in vain), but suffered himself to be led on in silence by Longpole and five of bid stoutest companions, while the rest were directed to follow with Jekin Groby and the two horses, as soon as the Portuguese whom the knight had stunned should be in a fit state to be removed.

For some way Sir Osborne was conducted along the highroad without any attempt at concealment on the part of those who guarded him; and even at a short distance from the spot where the affray had happened they stopped to speak with a carter, who was slowly driving his team on to the village. "Ah! Dick," said he, addressing Longpole, "what hast been at?"

"Why, faith," answered the other, "I don't well know. It's a job of his worship's. You know he has queer ways with him; and when he tells one to do a thing, one knows well enough what the beginning is, but what the end of it is to be no one knows but himself. He says that this gentleman is the man who excited the miners on his Cornish lands to riot and insurrection, and a deal more, so that he will have him taken. He don't look it, does he? If it had been to-morrow I'd not have gone upon the thing, for to-day my sworn service is out."

"Ay! ay!" said the other; "'tis hard to know Sir Payan. Howsomdever, he has got all the land round about, one way or t'other, and everything must yield to him, for no one ever withstood him but what some mischance fell upon him. Mind you how, when young Davors went to law with him, and gained his cause, about seven acres' field, he was drowned in the pond when out hawking, not a year after? Do not cross him, man! do not cross him! for either God's blessing or the devil's is upon him, and you'll come to harm some way if you do!"

"I'll not cross him, but I'll leave him," said Longpole; "for I like neither what I see nor what I hear of him, and less what I do for him. So, fare thee well, boy."

Sir Osborne Maurice had fallen into a profound reverie, from which he did not wake during the whole of the way. The astrologer's prediction of approaching evil, and a thousand other circumstances of still more painful presage, came thronging upon his mind, and took away from him all wish or power either to question his conductors or to devise any plan for escape, had escape been possible.

The way was long, and the path which Longpole and his companions followed led through a variety of green fields and lanes, silent and solitary, which gave the young knight full time to muse over his situation. Had he given credit to the words of his conductor, and for an instant supposed that the reason of his having been so suddenly seized was the charge of instigating a body of Cornish miners to tumult, he would have felt, no apprehension; for he knew it would be easy to clear himself of crimes committed in a county which he had never seen in his life. But Sir Osborne felt that if such a charge were brought forward, it would merely be as a pretext to place him in the power of his bitterest enemies.

The manner in which he had been made a prisoner, so different from the open, fair course of any legal proceeding, the persons who had seized him bearing no appearance of officers of the law, the doubt that the chief of them had himself expressed as to the veracity of the charge, and the presence of a set of smuggling Portuguese sailors, all showed evidently to Sir Osborne that his detention solely originated in some deep wile of a man famous for his daring cunning and his evil deeds. Yet still, knowing the full extent of his danger, and blessed with a heart unused to quail to any circumstance of fate, the knight would have felt no apprehension, had not odd little Human Nature, who always keeps a grain or two of superstition in the bottom of her snuff-box, continually reminded him of the prophecy of his singular companion of the day before, and reproached him for not having followed the advice which would infallibly have removed him from the difficulties by which he was now surrounded. The mysterious vagueness, too, the shadowy uncertainty, of the predicted evil, which seemed even now in its accomplishment, in despite of all his efforts, weighed upon his mind; and it was not till the long, heavy brick front of an old manor-house met his view, giving notice that he was near the place of his destination, that he could arouse his energies to encounter what was to follow.

The large folding-doors leading into a stone hall were pushed open by his conductors, and Sir Osborne was brought in, and made to sit down upon a bench by the fire. One or two servants only were in the hall; and they, unlike the persons who brought him, were dressed in livery, with the cognizance of Sir Payan--a snake twisted round a crane--embroidered on the sleeve. "His worship is in the book-room, Dick," said one of the men; "take your prisoner there."

These few words were all that passed, for an ominous sort of silence seemed to hang over the dwelling, and affected all within it. Without reply, Longpole led the young knight forward, followed by two of those who had assisted in securing him; and at the end of a long corridor, which terminated the hall, knocked at a door in a recess.

"Come in!" cried a voice within; and the moment after, Sir Osborne found himself confronted with the man whose name we have often had occasion to mention with but little praise in the course of the preceding pages, Sir Payan Wileton. He was seated in an arm-chair, at the farther end of the small book-room, which, all petty as it was, when compared with the vast libraries of the present day, offered a prodigy in point of literary treasure, in those times when the invention of the press had made but little progress towards superseding the painful and expensive method of manual transcription. About a hundred volumes, in gay bindings of vellum and of velvet, ornamented the shelves, and two or three others lay on a table before him, at which also was seated a clerk, busily engaged in writing.

Sir Payan himself was a man of about fifty, of a deep ashy complexion, and thin, strongly-marked features. His eyes were dark, shrewd, and bright, and sunk deep below his brows, in the midst of which was to be observed a profound wrinkle, which gave his face a continual frown. His cheek-bones were high, his hair was short and grizzled, and his whole appearance had, perhaps, more of sternness than of cunning.

On the entrance of Sir Osborne Maurice, for a moment no one spoke, and the two knights regarded each other in silence, with an austere bitterness that might have spoken them old enemies. But while he gazed on the young knight, Sir Payan's hand, which lay on some papers before him, gradually contracted, clenched harder and harder, till at length the red blood in his thin knuckles vanished away, and they became white as a woman's by the force of the compression. But it was in vain! Sir Osborne's glance mastered his, and dashing his hand across his brow, he broke forth:--

"So, this is he who excited my tenants and labourers to revolt against the king in that unfortunate Cornish insurrection, and who led them on to plunder my bailiff's dwelling, and to murder my bailiff! Clerk, make out instantly the warrant for his removal to Cornwall, with copies of the depositions taken here, that he may be tried and punished for his crimes on the spot where they were committed."

"Sir Payan Wileton," said the knight, still regarding him with the same steady, determined gaze, "we meet for the first time to-day; but I think you know me."

"I do, sir; I do!" replied Sir Payan, without varying from the hurried and impatient manner in which he had spoken at first. "I know you for a rebellious instigator to all kinds of mischief, and for a homicide. Speak, Richard Heartley; did the prisoner offer any resistance? Has he added any fresh crimes to those he has already perpetrated?"

"Resist!" cried Longpole; "ay, your worship, he resisted enough, and broke one of the Portingallos' heads, but not more than was natural or reasonable. The other one resisted too; yet it was easy to see that this one was of gentle blood, which was what your worship wanted, I doubt not. But, however, as they were both mounted on strong black horses, such as your honour described, we brought them both up."

"Umph!" said Sir Payan, biting his lip; "there were two, were there?" And he muttered something to himself. "Send me here the captain ----, or Wilson the bailiff. It must be ascertained which is which--though there can be no doubt--there can be no doubt!"

"Mark me, Sir Payan Wileton," said Sir Osborne, the moment the other paused. "Mark me, and take good heed before you too far commit yourself. We know each other, and, therefore, a few words will suffice. Five people in England are aware of my arrival, and equally aware of where I slept last night, and when I set out this morning. Judge, therefore, whether it will not be easy to trace me hither, and to free me from your hands."

Sir Payan Wileton had evidently been agitated by some strong feeling on first beholding the young knight; but by this time he had completely mastered it, and his face had resumed that rigid austerity of expression with which he was wont to cover all that was passing in his mind.

"Railing, sir, and insinuations will be found of no use here," he said, calmly. "Clerk, make good speed with those warrants! Oh! here is Wilson. Now, Wilson, look at the prisoner well, and tell me if you are sure that he is the person who assaulted you yesterday, and who led the miners when they burned your father's house in Cornwall. Look at him well!"

The young man, whom it may be remembered Sir Osborne Maurice had dispatched so unceremoniously over the wall of old Richard Heartley's garden, now advanced, and regarded the knight with a triumphant grin.

"Oh, ho! my brave bird, what! you're limed, are you?" he muttered; and then, turning to Sir Payan, "yes, your worship, 'tis he," he continued. "I'm ready to swear that 'twas he led the men that burned Pencriton House, and that threw me over the wall, because I struck old Heartley for calling your worship a usurping traitor and----"

But at that moment Longpole laid a grasp upon his collar that almost strangled him.

"You struck my father, did you?" exclaimed he; "then pray God to make all your bones as soft as whit-leather, for if they're but as crisp as buttered toast, I'll break every one in your skin!"

"Silence!" cried Sir Payan Wileton; "silence, Heartley! If your father has been struck, I will take care he shall have satisfaction."

"With your worship's good leave, I will take care of it myself," replied Longpole. "I never trust any one to give or to receive a drubbing for me. I like always to calculate my own quantity of crabstick."

"Silence!" said Sir Payan; "again I say, silence! My good Richard, I assure you, you shall be satisfied. Clerk, swear Wilson to the depositions he made. Oh! here is the Portingallo. Captain, is that the man you remember having seen in Cornwall when you were last there?"

"Yes, yes, el Pero! that was himself!" cried the captain; "I sawed him at the ale-house at Penzance with my own eye, when I went to fetch the cargo of coal."

"You mean of tin, captain," said Sir Payan.

"Yes, yes, of ten," replied the Portuguese. "It was just ten, I remember."

Sir Osborne's patience was exhausted.

"Vagabond! thief!" cried he, "do you remember my scourging you with the stirrup-leathers in Flanders, till there was not an inch of skin upon your back?"

"Yes, yes, that was your turn," said the captain; "I scourge you now."

"Remark what he says," cried Sir Osborne, to those who stood round, "and all of you bear witness in case----"

"Prisoner, you stand committed," cried Sir Payan, in a loud voice. "Take him away! Suffer him not to speak! Richard Heartley, place him in the strong-room at the foot of the stair-case, and having locked the door, keep guard over him. Captain, stay you with me; all the rest, go."

The commands of Sir Payan were instantly obeyed; and the room being cleared, he pressed his hands before his eyes, and thought deeply for some moments.

"He is mine!" cried he at length, "he is mine! And shall I let him out of my own hands now that I have him, when 'twould be so easy to furnish him with a hook and a halter wherewith to hang himself, as the good chaplain and John Bellringer did to the heretic Hun, in the Lollards' Tower last year? But no, that is too fresh in the minds of men, and too many suspicions are already busy. So, my captain--I forgot. Sit down, my good captain. I am, as we agreed, about to give this young man into your hands to take to Cornwall. Why do you laugh?"

"He! he! Cornwall," cried the captain; "I do not go in Cornwall."

"Nay, some time in your life you will probably voyage to Cornwall as well as to other lands," said Sir Payan. "Now, 'tis the same to me whether you take him there now or a hundred years hence: you may carry him all over the world if you will, and drop him at the antipodes."