Captain Mayne Reid (continued 5)

But not all making away were soldiers. In the stream of moving humanity were citizens, men and women, even whole families who had forsaken their homes, dreading ill-treatment at the hands of the Royalist soldiery; fleeing from Bristol as Lot from the doomed cities of the plain. Among these fugitives many a spectacle of wretchedness was presented, at which the unfeeling brutes who were witnesses but laughed.

Outside, and not far from the gate through which the motley procession was passing, Rupert sat in his saddle, the central figure of a group of splendidly uniformed officers. They were his personal staff, with the élite of his army, gathered there to gloat over the humiliation of adversaries who had oft humiliated them. Gentlemen as they deemed themselves, some could not resist gratifying their vengeful spleen, but gave exhibition of it, in speech coarse and ribald as any coming from the lips of their rank-and-file followers. In all of which they were encouraged by the approving laughter of their Prince and his high-toned entourage.

Never merrier than on that morn were these jovial gentry; believing as they did that the fall of Bristol was the prelude to their triumph over all England, and henceforth they would have it their own way.

While at the height of their exultation a troop came filing along the causeway, the sight of which brought a sudden change over the countenances of the jesters. It was composed of men in cavalry uniform, but afoot and without arms; only some half-dozen—the officers—on horseback. Its standard, too, taken from it, and, perhaps, well it had been. Flouted before the eyes of that Cavalier crew, alike regardless of oath and honour, the banner, showing Crown impaled by Sword, would have been torn to shreds; they bearing it set upon and cut to pieces.

But it needed no ensign, nor other insignia, to tell who the dismounted and dismantled troopers were. Many around Rupert had met, fought with, and fled from them; while all had heard of Sir Richard Walwyn’s Horse, and his big sergeant.

These they were, but in woefully diminished numbers—worse than their sorry plight. They had borne the brunt of battle on the southern side; and although they had slain hundreds of the Cornish men, it was with a terrible thinning of their own ranks.

But their gallant leader was still at their head and by his side Eustace Trevor, with his veteran trumpeter Hubert; while, though marching afoot, almost as conspicuous as the mounted ones, there too was the colossal sergeant erst deer-stealer, Rob Wilde. All proudly bearing themselves, notwithstanding what had transpired. No thought of having been conquered had they; instead, the consciousness of being conquerors. And less angry at the men with whom they had been fighting than at him for whom they had fought. Nathaniel Fiennes had either betrayed them and their cause, or proved incapable of sustaining it. It was on that account they looked scowling and sullen, as they filed past Rupert and his surrounding.

But if their black looks were given back by the Royalist officers, these forbore the taunting speech they had hitherto poured upon others. Something of shame, if not self-respect, restrained them. They knew it would but recoil on themselves, as with curs barking at lions.

As Sir Richard and his troop captain came opposite, two officers alongside Rupert exchanged looks with them of peculiar significance. Colonel Tom Lunsford and Captain Reginald Trevor these were. Both released from their imprisonment—the latter but the day before—they were now not only free, but in full feather and favour, appointed to the Prince’s staff.

The interchange of glances between the quartette was each to each; the ex-lieutenant of the Tower alone regarding the soldier knight, and with a sneer of malicious triumph. He would have added words, but dreaded getting words back that might rake up old scores, as when they last met at Hollymead, exposing his poltroonery. So he contented himself with a sardonic grin, to get in return for it a look of contempt, too scornful and lordly to care for expression in speech.

The play of eyes between the cousins was alike full of meaning, and equally unintelligible to lookers on who knew not the antecedents. But they passed words as well; only a remark with rejoinder, the former even unfinished. Reginald, still smarting from the incidents of that night at Montserrat House, could not restrain his tongue; and, as the other came close, he said, with his old affectation of superiority,—

“If I’d only had the chance to meet you on the ramparts yesterday morning, I would—”

“You would be there now, without me,” was the interrupting retort. “Down among the Cornish dead men. That’s what you intended telling me, isn’t it?”

Thus again getting the better in the encounter of words, with a light laugh Eustace rode on, leaving his cousin angrier than ever, more than ever desirous of crossing swords with him to the cry of “No Quarter!”

Chapter Thirty Nine.

A Princely Admirer.

“Mein Gott, what a sweet fraülein! A pair of them! Wunderschön!”

It was Prince Rupert who so exclaimed, his eyes turned upon two young girls in a gaze of more than ordinary interest.

Ladies they were, as grace, garb, and other surroundings proclaimed them. On horseback, an elderly gentleman along with them, riding in front; and behind a small retinue of servants, male and female. They had just issued out of the gate as part of the stream of people hastening away from the city, and were coming on towards the spot occupied by the Royalist commander and his staff.

Still looking after the Forest troop, not yet out of sight, Reginald Trevor faced round on hearing the Prince’s exclamatory words. Chafed already by the sharp retort of his cousin, what he saw now gave him a fresh spasm of chagrin. Ambrose Powell and his daughters setting off on a journey, evidently for Gloucester, whither Eustace was going too!

Lunsford had also caught sight of them, showing almost as much excitement, with more surprise. Just out of Berkeley Castle, where he had been incarcerated ever since the affair of Edgehill, he had not heard of the Powell family being in Bristol. And now beholding the woman whose beauty had so impressed him while tax-collecting in the Forest of Dean, it gave him a start, succeeded by a feeling of vexation to see she was going away, again to be beyond his reach.

By this the travelling party had got opposite, and were passing on. Poorly mounted all, on horses very different from those they would have been riding around Ruardean. But the sorriness of their nags made no difference as regarded the looks of the ladies. Dignity as theirs was not dependent on extraneous trifles, and for their beauty the very contrast, with the excitement of the situation, but rendered it the more piquant and conspicuous.

The cheeks of both flushed burning red as they came opposite the group of officers. No wonder, with so many eyes bent in bold gaze upon them. They heard words, too, offensive to female ears.

“It’s a pity, Vag,” said Sabrina, in an undertone, “we didn’t think of putting on our masks.”

“Oh! I don’t care,” rejoined the younger sister, with a jaunty toss of the head. “They may look their owlish eyes out—it matters not to me.”

Just then her own eyes encountered another pair, which brought a change over her countenance—Reginald Trevor’s. He was gazing at her with an intensity of expression that ill bore out the indifference he pretended when parting with her at the Lalandes’ ball. A frown it was now, equally affected, as she knew. And just because of knowing this she did not return it; instead, gave him a look half-kind, half-pitying. If a little coquettish, she was not cruel; and she felt repentful, remembering how on that night she had misled him.

At the same time there was a crossing of eyes between her sister and another officer close by Sabrina saw the man who had so impudently ogled her at Hollymead, knowing him to be Colonel Lunsford. In a similar manner was he acting now, only to get from her a glance of contemptuous scorn, which would have rebuked any other than a brazen Cavalier.

He did quail under it a little, feeling in his heart that if he ever received favour from that lady it would have to be a forced one.

“Who are they?” interrogated the Prince, after they had passed, still following them with his eyes. “You appear to know them. Colonel?”

It was Lunsford to whom he addressed himself, observing the look of recognition with which the latter was regarding them.

“Those ladies? Is it they your Royal Highness deigns to inquire about?” And he pointed to the party which had so interested all.

“Ya! Or only one of them, if you like—she with the golden locks. I care not to know the other.”

Reginald Trevor had overheard this with a singular revulsion of feeling. Bitter as it was to him to see Vaga Powell depart, it would now have been worse, the thought of her remaining in Bristol. Angry he was with her, but not so spiteful nor wicked, as to wish her a fate like that. Well knew he what danger there was to any woman whose beauty tempted Rupert.

Diametrically opposite were the feelings of Lunsford as he listened to the Prince’s declared preference. He had feared it was for the elder sister, which would spoil his own chances should such ever come. Relieved, he made answer,—

“They are sisters, your Royal Highness; the daughters of the gentleman you see along with them.”

“Egad! a rich father in the way of womankind. I wouldn’t mind pilfering a part of his wealth. That bit of saucy sweetness, with cheeks all roses, ought to be pleasant company. I haven’t seen anything to equal her in all your England.”

“Then, your Royal Highness, why do you allow them to go?” said Lunsford, speaking in an undertone. “As you see, they’re setting off for Gloucester, and it may be some time before an opportunity—”

“Ah! true,” interrupted the Prince, reflectively.

“If your Highness deign to say the word, they’ll be brought back. It’s not yet too late.”

The suggestion was selfish as it was base. For he who made it but wished them detained on his own account.

For a moment Rupert seemed inclined to fall in with it; and might have done so, but for a reflection that got the better of him.

“Nein, Colonel!” he said at length. “We dare not.”

“What dares not your Royal Highness?”

“That you propose. You forget the terms of capitulation? To infringe them would cause scandal, and of that we Cavaliers have had accusation already—as much as we can well carry. Ha-ha-ha!”

The laugh told how little he cared for it, and how lightly it sat upon his conscience.

“Your Highness, I’m aware of all that,” persisted Lunsford. “But these are excepted people—that is, the father.”

“How so?”

“Because of his being one of the King’s worst and bitterest enemies. But that’s not all. He’s been a recusant—is still. I myself attempted to levy on him for a loan by Privy Seal—three thousand pounds—the King required. I not only failed to get the money, but came near being set upon, and possibly torn to pieces, by a mob of Dean Foresters—very wolves—his adherents and retainers. Surely all that should be sufficient justification for the detaining of him and his.”

Prompted by his vile passions again, the Royal Sybarite seemed inclined to act upon the diabolical counsel. But, although the war’s history already bristled with chronicles of crime, nothing quite so openly scandalous, as that would be, had yet appeared upon its pages. Many such there were afterwards, when this Prince and his gallants had more corrupted England’s people, and better accustomed them to look lightly on the breaches of all law and all decency.

At a later period Rupert would not have regarded them, as indeed he did not twelve months after in this same city of Bristol. Of his behaviour then thus wrote one of his attached servitors to the Marquis of Ormonde,—

“Prince Rupert is so much given to his ease and pleasure that every one is disheartened that sees it. The city of Bristol is but a great house of bawdry.”

Things were not so on that day succeeding its surrender, and public opinion had still some restraint upon him. Enough to deter him from the outrage he would otherwise willingly have perpetrated.

“Never mind, Colonel,” he at length said resignedly. “We must let the birds go, and live in hopes of seeing them again. You know their roosting place, I suppose?”

“I do, your Royal Highness.”

“So, well! When we’ve settled things with the sword, which we soon shall now, I may want you to pilot me thither. Meanwhile, laszt es gehen.”

At which the dialogue ended, unheard by all save Reginald Trevor. And he only overheard snatches of it; still enough to make him apprehensive about the fate of Vaga Powell. If he wanted her for himself it was not in the way Prince Rupert wanted her.

Chapter Forty.

The Cadgers on the Kymin.

“Laws, Jack! fear us be takin’ back bad news to Sir Richard. An worse for the poor young lady at Glo’ster. Rob’s tolt me her wor well-nigh deestract when her heerd he wor took pris’ner. What’ll it be as her get to hear o’ his bein’ bad wounded too? Her knows nothin’ o’ that.”

“Maybe ’tant so much o’ a wownd after all, nothin’ for he to go dead on. Folks allays zagerates sich things. An’ if he live it through, like ’nough ’twon’t be very long fores they git un free o’ his ’prisonment. I ha’ an idea, Winny dear, the letter us ha’ got be relatin’ to that same. Else-wise why shid the Colonel Kyrle, who wor onct on the Parlamenteery side, an’s now on t’other why shid him be writin’ to Sir Richard, or Sir Richard to he? Beside, all this queery business us be a doin’. It seem to mean somethin’ ’bout gittin’ the young gen’lemen out o’ gaol; maybe by changin’ he for another. Don’t ee think so?”

“Like it do.”

She knew it meant that, and more. For Rob Wilde had given her a hint of why they had been sent to Monmouth market—ostensibly cadging on their own account, but in reality as messengers in the pay and employ of Sir Richard Walwyn. Though Jack was personally the bearer of the secret despatches, Winny was the one entrusted with the diplomacy, and knew more than she thought necessary to confide to him.

They were on return from the market—for it was afternoon—and once more climbing a steep hill; this time not the Cat’s but the Kymin—the old Roman Road (Camen), which, crossing the Wye at Monmouth (Blestium), led up to the Forest table-land by Staunton. The ascent commences at the bridge, winding for miles through romantic woods and scenery unsurpassed in England. The bridge as then was a quaint, massive structure, having a towered gate on its tête de pont, with portcullis, draw-arch, and guard-house. A guard of Royalist soldiers were stationed on it; for ever since the breaking out of the war Monmouth had been kept for the King. But the cadgers had found no difficulty in passing this guard, either at going in, or coming out. It was market day, and Jinkum was laden with marketable commodities—a motley collection of farmyard fowls—hens, ducks, and geese—making a very pandemonium in the panniers. Had the soldiers upon the bridge but known what the little limping man carried inside his wooden leg, like enough they would have pitched him over the parapet. It was after getting clear of them, and well uphill, that the brother and sister were unburthening themselves to one another, as above described. The dialogue had commenced by Jack chuckling over the way they had outwitted the bridge guards, and referring back to how they had done the same, some fifteen months before, with the “Cavalières,” encountered on the Bristol road by Berkeley. He was in high glee, jesting about and praising his artificial leg—which had proved worth more to him than the real one—again in pleasant anticipation of a like remunerative result. The sister, however, was not joyous as he; her thoughts just then dwelling on that poor young lady described by Rob Wilde as having been “well-nigh deestract.” That was it which had turned their conversation into the channel it had taken.

There was a short interregnum of silence after Winny’s assenting rejoinder. Broken by Jack with an observation bearing on the same topic of discourse, but about a different place and time.

“’Twor a pity the Captain goed back to Hollymead wi’ so few o’ his sodgers along. I cud a tolt he that wan’t safe, seein’ the Colonel Lingen ha’ his quarters so near by, in Goodrich Castle. Him be a dangerous neighbour, an’ master o’ all round about theer now.”

“Ye be right, Jack; ’twor a pity,” she answered, echoing his first reflection. “But theer wor a good reason for ’t, Rob’s gied me. Seems Master Powell had somethin’ at Hollymead—him wanted gettin’ to Glo’ster, so’s to be safer theer. ’Twor a thing o’ great value him had hid away, fores leavin’ for Bristol that time, an’ the Captain volunteered like to go for it. How could him know o’ the danger frae Goodrich? That wor brought about by treezun; one o’ his men, who stepped away in the night an’ warned the Colonel Lingen. So him got tooked by surprise.”

“Well, they didn’t take he, ’ithout gettin’ a taste of his steel; a sharp taste, too; beside more frae his sodgers, few as they wor. Jim Davis, who wor up to the house, mornin’ after, seed blood all ’bout the place; more’n could a’ comed o’ them as lay killed. The Cavalières had carried away the wounded a’ both sides, wi’ theer own dead; as Jim think a good dozen.”

“That be true enough; more nor a dozen, I ha’ myself heerd. But what do it signify how many o’ Lingen’s wolves be gone dead, if that handsome young gentlemen ha’ to die, too? Sure as we be on Kymin hill, ’twill break Mistress Vaga’s heart.”

“Stuff an’ nonsense! Hearts beant so eezy broke.”

“Ah! that’s all you know about it.”

She could make the remark with confidence in its truth. There was no record of Jerky ever having had sweetheart, or feeling the soft sentiment of love. And for herself, some pangs of jealousy which Rob Wilde had occasioned her, though unconsciously, made her a believer that hearts could be broken. For this great Forest woman loved like a lioness, and could be jealous as a tigress.

“Oh, well!” rejoined the amiable brother, without taking notice of the slur on his lack of his amatory experience, “it mout be as ye say, sister Winny; supposin’ the young gen’leman’s wounds to prove mortyal. But that an’t like, from all us ha’ heerd the day. So let’s we live in hope. An’ I wudn’t wonner,” he added, in a more cheerful tone; “wudn’t a bit wonner, if, inside this timmer leg o’ mine, theer be somethin’ to tell Sir Richard the Captain an’t in any great danger. Maybe to say him will soon be out o’ prison, an’ bade in his saddle, to cut down another Cavalière or two.”

“Hope that’s the news us be takin’ to High Meadow. Whativer ’tis, let we get theer quick’s us can. Whack on the creetur.”

The final admonition referred to Jinkum; and his master, in obedience to it, gave out the customary “yee-up!” accompanied by the less usual application of cudgel.

A good deal of this last the donkey now needed. The morning had been hot, with the panniers full and heavy, toward the market. Now, on return, it was still sultry, and the wicker weighted as ever, Sir Richard Walwyn was not the strategist to let his scheme have a chance of miscarrying; and Jinkum was bearing back into the Forest country a large consignment of grocery goods; for which the consignee would care little, save as to the time of delivery. But about this he would be particular to an instant, as the cadgers knew; and so, on up the Kymin, Jinkum caught stick, in showers thick as had ever rained upon his hips, even when climbing the sharper and more familiar pitches of Cat’s Hill.

Chapter Forty One.

By the “Buckstone.”

On the highest point of the Forest of Dean district—just one thousand feet above ocean’s level—is a singular mass of rock known as the “Buckstone.” An inverted pyramid, with base some fifteen feet in diameter, poised upon its apex, which rests on another rock mass of quadrangular shape as upon a plinth. Into this the down-turned apex seems indented so far as to make the apparent surface of contact but a few square feet. In reality the two masses are detached, the superimposed one so loose as to have obtained the character of a “rocking stone.” Many the attempt to rock it; many the party of tourists who had laid shoulders against it to stir it from its equilibrium; not a few taking departure from the place fully convinced they had felt, or seen it, move.

And many the legend belonging thereto, Druidical and demoniac; some assigning it an artificial, others a supernatural, origin.

Alas for these romantic conjectures! the geologist gives them neither credence nor mercy. Letting the light of science upon the Buckstone, he shows how it comes to be there; by the most natural of causes—simply through the disintegration of a soft band of the old red sandstone interposed between strata of its harder conglomerate.

From beside this curious eccentricity of the weather-wearing forces is obtained one of the finest views of all England, or rather a series of them, forming a circular panorama. Turn what way one will the eye encounters landscape as lovely as it is varied. To the east, south-east, and south can be seen the far-spreading champaign country of Gloucester, Somerset, and Devon, here and there diversified by bold, isolated prominences, as the Cotswolds and Mendips, with a noble stream, the Severn, winding snake-like along, and gradually growing wider, till in funnel-shape it espouses the sea, taking to itself the title of Channel.

From the shores of this, stretching away northward, but west from the Buckstone, is a country altogether different. No plains in that direction worth the name, but hills and undulating ridges, rolling up higher and higher as they recede, at length ending in a mountain background, blue black, with a horizontal line which shows many a curious col and summit.

The greater portion of this view is occupied by the shire of Monmouth, its foreground being the valley of the Wye, where this river, after running the gauntlet between English Bicknor and the Dowards, comes out surging and foam-crested as a victorious warrior with his plumes still unshorn. And as he in peaceful times might lay them aside, so the fretted and writhing river, clot after clot, casts off its snowlike froth, and, seemingly appeased, flows in tranquil current through the narrow strip of meadow land on which stands the miniature city of Monmouth.

Although below the Buckstone, at least nine hundred of the thousand feet by which this surmounts the sea’s level, the point blank distance between them is inside the range of modern great guns. And so well within that of a field-glass that from the overhanging Forest heights men could be distinguished in the streets of the town, or moving along the roads that lead out of it.

As already said, one of these is the Kymin, then the main route of travel to Gloucester, by Coleford and Mitcheldean. Near where it attains the Forest elevation, at the picturesque village of Staunton, a lane branches off leading to the higher point on which stands the Buckstone; a path running through woods, only trodden by the tourist and others curious to examine the great balanced boulder.

On that same afternoon and hour when the cadgers were toiling up the Kymin Hill, two personages of very different appearance and character—both men—might have been seen entering into the narrower trackway, and continuing on up towards the rock-crowned summit.

On reaching it one of them drew out a telescope, and commenced adjusting the lens to his sight. If his object was but to view the scenery there was no need for using glass. Enough could be taken in by the naked eye to satisfy the most ardent lover of landscape, though in September the woods still wore their summer livery; for on Wye side it is late ere the foliage loses its greenery, and quite winter before it falls from the trees. Here and there only a dash of yellow, or a mottling of maroon red, foreshadowed the coming change; but no russet-grey as yet. The afternoon was one of the loveliest; not a cloud in the azure sky save some low-lying fleecy cumuli, snow-white but rose-tinted, towards which the sun seemed hastening as to a couch of repose. A cool breeze had succeeded the sultriness of the mid-day hours; and, aroused from its torpor, all animated nature was once more active and joyous. Out of the depths of the High Meadow woods came the whistling call of stag and the bleat of roebuck; from the pastures around Staunton the lowing of kine, mingled with the neighing of a mother mare, in response to the “whigher” of unweaned foal, while in Forest glade might now and then be heard shrill cries of distress, where fierce polecat or marten had sprung upon the shoulders of some hapless hare, there to clutch and cling till the victim dropped dying on the grass.

All the birds were abroad, some upon the trees, singing their evensong, or making their evening meal; others soaring above, with design to make a meal of them. Of these a host; for nowhere are the predatory species more numerously represented than along the lower Wye. More numerous then than now; though still may be seen there the fish-eating osprey; oftener the kite, with tail forked as that of salmon; not unfrequently the peregrine falcon in flight swift as an arrow, and squeal loud as the neigh of a colt; and at all times the graceful kestrel, sweeping the air with active stroke of wing, or poised on quivering pinions, as upon a perch.

In those days, eagles were common enough on the Wye; and just as the two men had taken stand by the Buckstone, a brace of these grand birds came over; the owners of an eyrie in the Coldwell rocks, or the Windcliff. After a few majestic gyrations around the head of Staunton-hill, with a scream, they darted across the river to Great Doward, and thence on to quarter Coppet Wood.

But he using the telescope, as his companion, took no more notice of them than if they had been but skylarks. Nor looked they on that lovely landscape with any eye to its beauties. They were neither tourists nor naturalists, but soldiers; and just then, man, with his ways alone, had interest for them.

Both were in uniform; the elder—though there was no great difference in their ages—wearing that of a Colonel in the Parliamentary army; a rank which, in these modern days, when military titles are so lavishly bestowed, would seem as nothing. But in those times of a truer Conservatism, even though the social fabric was being shaken to its foundation, a colonel held as high command as a major-general now. So with him who had the telescope to his eye; for it was Colonel Edward Massey, the military Governor of Gloucester.

And the other was a colonel, too, on the Parliamentary side; though in uniform of a somewhat irregular kind. Dressed as a Cavalier, but with certain insignia, telling of hostility to the Cavalier’s creed; one especially proclaiming it, with bold openness—this, a bit of gold embroidery on the velvet band of his hat, representing a crown, thrust through and through by a rapier. Fair fingers had done that deft needlework, those of Sabrina Powell. For he who displayed the defiant symbol was Sir Richard Walwyn.

Why the two colonels were together, and there, needs explanation. Many a stirring event had transpired, many a bloody battle been fought, since the surrender of Bristol to Rupert; and among them that most disastrous to him as to the King’s cause—Marston Moor. It had changed everything; as elsewhere, freeing the Forest of Dean from the Royalist marauders, who had been so long its masters. Massey had himself dealt them a deadly blow at Beachley; routing Sir John Wintour’s force, caught there in the act of fortifying the passage a crass the Severn.

That occurred but three days before, and the active Governor of Gloucester having hastened on to Staunton, was now contemplating a descent upon Monmouth.

There was one who had pressed him to this haste, having also counselled him to attempt the capture of the town. This, the man by his side. But a woman, too, had used influence to the same end. Before sallying forth from Gloucester, for Beachley, a girl—a beautiful girl—had all but knelt at his feet, entreating him to take Monmouth. Nor did she make any secret of why she wished this. For it was Vaga Powell, believing that in Monmouth Castle there was a man confined, whose freedom was dear to her as her own. But she feared also for his life, for it had come to that now. The lex talionis was in full, fierce activity, and prisoners of war might be butchered in cold blood, or sent abroad, and sold into slavery—as many were!

Luckily for the young lady, her intercession with Massey was made at the right time, he himself eagerly wishing the very thing she wanted. Ever since becoming Governor of Gloucester, Monmouth had been a sharp thorn in his side, compared with which Lydney was but a thistle. And now, having laid the latter low—as it were, plucked it up by the roots—he meant dealing in like manner with the former. To capture the saucy little city of the Wye would be a coup, worth a whole year’s campaigning. With it under his control, soon would cease to be heard that cry hitherto resonant throughout South Wales, “For the King!” To still the hated shibboleth—alike hated by both—he and Sir Richard Walwyn were now by the Buckstone, with eyes bent upon Monmouth.

Chapter Forty Two.

A Reconnaissance.

Instead of viewing the rural scenery, the two colonels had come there to make a reconnaissance. The town itself, its fortified enceinte, the gates piercing it, and the roads around, were the objects to which their glances were given. And, for a time, all their attention was engrossed by them, neither speaking a word.

At length Massey, having made survey of them through the telescope, handed it to the knight, saying,—

“So you think there’s a chance of our taking the place?”

Sir Richard but ran the glass around hastily. He had been up there before, and more carefully reconnoitred, their chief object being to ascertain the strength of the garrison.

“Yes, your Excellency,” he rejoined, “a chance, and something more, if Kyrle prove true; or rather should I say, traitor. And,” he added, with a significant smile, “I think we can trust him to do that.”

“As it wouldn’t be the first time for him, no doubt we can. He has twice turned coat already. And’s no doubt itching to give it another shift, if he can but see the way without getting it torn from his back. Marston Moor has had its effect on him, too, I suppose.”

“It has, and our affair at Beachley will strengthen it. He’ll want to be back on what he believes the winning side now more than ever. His communication to me, though carefully worded, means that, if anything. But we’ll be better able to judge when our despatch-bearers report themselves at High Meadow House. I think we may look for a letter from him.”

It was at High Meadow House their men were encamped; the main body under Massey having just arrived, while Sir Richard, with his troopers in advance, had been there overnight. And that same morning the cadgers, hastily summoned from their home at Ruardean, had been despatched to Monmouth market: Jack, or rather the sister, with secret instructions, and Jinkum with full panniers.

“They ought to be back soon now,” added Sir Richard, again raising the glass to his eye, and turning it on the town, his object to see if the market people had all gone away.

When he last looked, they were streaming out through the gates, the commercial business of the market being over long ago. And now there were only some stragglers on the outgoing roads, men who had lingered by the ale-houses in gossip, or standing treat to the ever-thirsty soldiery.

Just then there came within his field of view a group composed of elements altogether different from the home-returning rustics.

“What do you see?” asked Massey, observing the telescope steadied, and the knight looking through it with fixed, earnest gaze.

“A party of horse, carrying the lance—most of them.”

“Where?”

“Just coming out of the northern gate.”

“A patrol, perhaps?”

“No; something more. There are too many of them for that. Over a hundred have passed out already. And—yes; prisoners with them?”

“Let me have a look,” said the Governor, stretching out his hand for the telescope, which, of course, the other surrendered to him. Reluctantly though, as Sir Richard felt more than a common interest in the prisoners so escorted.

“You’re right,” said Massey, soon as sighting them. “Prisoners they have. But whither can they be taking them? That’s the road to Ross.”

“To Hereford also, your Excellency. The route; are the same as far as Whitchurch.”

“Ah, true. Still it’s odd their starting out at such an hour! And why carrying prisoners away to Hereford? Surely Monmouth Castle affords gaol room enough. I hope it’s not so full. If so, all the more reason for our doing what we can to empty it.”

“I don’t think they’re for Hereford, either. If I’m not mistaken, I saw something which tells of a different destination. If your Excellency will allow me another look through the telescope, perhaps—”

“Oh, by all means, take it!” said the Governor, interrupting, and again handing over the glass.

“Yes! just as I supposed they were—Harry Lingen’s Horse!” exclaimed Sir Richard, after viewing them for a second or two. “And those poor fellows, their prisoners, likely enough are my own men—one of them, though I can’t identify him, my unfortunate troop captain, young Trevor. They’re en route neither for Ross nor Hereford, but Goodrich Castle, where Lingen has his headquarters. It’s but a short six miles, which may account for their setting out so late.”

“But Trevor’s party was taken at a place near Ruardean—Hollymead House, if I recollect aright.”

“True; the house of Master Ambrose Powell. It was there Lingen surprised them, through a scoundrel who turned traitor.”

“Then why were they brought to Monmouth at all? Ruardean’s but a step from Goodrich.”

“Just so, your Excellency, I was puzzled about that myself up till this morning. Now I know why, having got the information from our cadger friends. It appears that when Lingen made his swoop on Hollymead he was on the way to join Wintour at Beachley, so kept straight on through Monmouth, where he dropped his impedimenta of prisoners. On return he’s now picked them up again, and’s taking them on to his own stronghold.”

“That’s it, no doubt,” assented Massey. “But,” he added, with a smile of triumphant satisfaction, “whoever those captives be, pretty sure none of them have been brought up from Beachley. Nor is their escort as large as it might have been had Lingen left Wintour to himself. We gave their ranks a good weeding there—all round.”

“Yes, indeed,” rejoined the knight, rather absently, and with the telescope still at his eye. He was endeavouring to make good the identity of the captive party, and assure himself whether it was really what he had conjectured it to be.

But he could have little doubt, as he had none about the soldiers forming their escort—Lingen’s Horse to a certainty—a partisan troop, variously armed, but most carrying the lance. And while he still continued gazing at them, they commenced the ascent of the Ley’s pitch, which passes over the col between Little Doward and the Table Mount, the road running through woods all the way. Under these they were soon lost to his sight, and as the last lance with its pennon disappeared below the tops of the trees, he lowered his telescope with a sigh, saying,—

“What a pity the river’s between, with a flood on! But for that we might have crossed at Huntsholme, and caught up with them ere they could—”

He broke off abruptly at sound of footsteps: the tread of heavy boots, with the chink of spurs, and the louder clank of a steel scabbard striking against them.

He making all these formidable noises was Sergeant Rob Wilde, seen ascending the steep pitch, and evidently on some errand that called for haste.

Sir Richard, advancing to meet him, saw that he had something in his hand, with a good guess as to what it was.

“Jerky Jack ha’ brought this, colonel,” said the sergeant, saluting, as he held out a slip of paper, folded and sealed. “He ha’ just got up fra Monnerth; an’, accordin’ to your command, I took it out o’ his leg.”

“You did quite right, sergeant. Was there nothing more in the leg?”

“Only some silver, colonel; the difference o’ the money he got for the fowls an’ what he gied for the grocer goods. He stowed it theer, afeerd o’ the King’s sodgers strippin’ him o’t.”

“A wise precaution on Jerky’s part,” observed the knight, with a smile. “And called for, no doubt.”

Then, returning to where Massey stood awaiting him, he said,—

“We shall know now, your Excellency, what Kyrle means doing. This is from him—I recognise the script.”

The superscription on the letter was only the initials “R.W.,” Sir Richard’s own, who otherwise knew it was for himself, and while speaking had broken open the seal.

Unfolding the sheet, he saw what surprised and at first fretted him—that device borne on his hat and the standard of his troop—the sword-pierced crown. It appeared at the head of the page, in rough pen-and-ink sketch, and might be meant ironically. But no; the writing underneath gave the explanation:—

“By the symbol above R.W. will understand that K. abjures the hatred thing called ‘Kingship’ henceforth and for ever. After this night he will never draw sword in such a cause, and this night only to give it a back-handed blow. R.W.’s proposal accepted. Plan of action thus:—M. at once to retire troops from High Meadow, news of which a messenger already warned will bring hither post haste. But good reason must be given for retiring, else K. might have difficulty getting leave to go in pursuit. Withdrawal appearing compulsory, there will be none. H., who commands here, is a conceited ass, ambitious to cut a figure, and will rush into the trap as a rat after cheese. R.W. may show this to M., and himself feel assured that if the sword of his old comrade-in-arms be again employed in the service of the P., it will cut keen enough to make up for past deficiencies, which K. hopes and trusts will be forgiven and forgotten.”

No name was appended to the singular epistle nor signature of any kind. It needed none. Sir Richard Walwyn knew the writer to be Robert Kyrle, a lieutenant-colonel in the Royalist army, who at the beginning of the war had drawn sword for the Parliament. In days gone by they had fought side by side in a foreign land,—more recently in their own,—and Kyrle could well call Sir Richard an “old comrade-in-arms.” Now they were in opposite camps; but if that letter could be relied upon as a truthful exponent of the writer’s sentiments, they were likely soon to be in the same again. Already there had been a passage of notes between them, and the knight had now a full comprehension of what his anonymous correspondent meant, knew to whom the various initials referred—in short, understood everything purposed and proposed.

“What’s your opinion of it, Colonel Walwyn?” asked the Governor, after hearing the letter read, and receiving some necessary explanations. “Do you think we can trust him?”

“I do, your Excellency; feel sure of it now. I know Kyrle better than most men, and something of his motives for going over to the other side. Nothing base or cowardly in them; instead, rather honourable thin otherwise. For, in truth, it was out of affection for his old father, whose property was threatened with wholesale confiscation. Walford, up the river, this side Ross, is their home. It is within cannon range of Goodrich Castle, right under, and Lingen would have been sure to make a ruin of it had Kyrle not gone over to the King. Now that the chances of war are with us again, and he thinks that danger past, his heart bounds back to what it once warmly beat for. I know it did, as he has oft told me, in tent and by camp fire.”

“To what?” asked Massey, himself a veteran of the Low Country campaigns, and feeling interest in souvenirs of sentiment.

“This?” answered the knight, pointing to the device inside the letter, still in his hand. “I believe he will be true to it now, as he promises; and if we get nothing more by it than his sword, it’s one worth gaining, your Excellency. Than Kyrle I don’t know braver or better soldier.”

“Well, Colonel, since you seem so disposed to this thing, and confident of success, I’m willing we should make the attempt. At the worst we can but fail, though, indeed, failure may cost us a good many of our best men. Best they must be to form the forlorn hope.”

“If your Excellency permit, I and my Foresters will form that. With my confidence in them, and faith in Kyrle, I have no fear of failure—if the details of our scheme be carried out as designed.”

“They shall be, Sir Richard, so far as I can effect it. You may rely upon me for that. Nay, I leave the ordering and arrangement of everything to yourself.”

“Thanks, your Excellency. But the sooner we set about it the better. Kyrle, as you see, counsels the withdrawal at once.”

“But what about the reasons for doing so? Without that, he tells us—”

“I’ve thought of that, too,” interrupted Sir Richard, now all haste. “It’s part of my plan already arranged. But it will take a little time to procure this reason, so that it may appear plausible—the time it will take a man, mounted on a good horse, to gallop to Coleford and back.”

“I don’t quite comprehend you, Colonel. For what purpose this galloping to Coleford?”

“To get news from Gloucester—telling us it is threatened by Rupert.”

The Governor gave a start, as if actually being told it was so. Then, recovering himself, as he saw the smile on Sir Richard’s face, at the same time catching the purport of his dubious words, he smiled, too, admiringly upon the soldier knight, as he rejoined,—

“An admirable idea! It will do! But, as you say, Colonel, there must be no time lost. The messenger must be despatched at once. So let us back to High Meadow House.”

Saying which, he started off down the hill.

Sir Richard was about to follow when his big sergeant, who had been all the while standing near, stepped up to him, and saluting, said,—

“There be a woman as wants a word wi’ ye, Colonel.”

“A woman! Who, Rob?”

“Cadger Jack’s sister.”

“Where is she?”

“A little ways down the lane. I didn’t like bringin’ she up, fears you or the Governor mightn’t wish bein’ intruded on. Besides, her business be more wi’ yerself, Colonel.”

“Well, Wilde,” half jocularly returned the knight, “your discretion seems on a par with your valour. But let us down, and hear what the cadgeress has to say. If it be a question of squaring the market account, you can take that upon yourself. I give you carte blanche to settle scores; and if they’ve brought back groceries, you may distribute them among the men.”

“It bean’t nothin’ o’ that Win want to speak ye about?”

“What is it, then? You seem, to know.”

“There be herself, Colonel. Her can tell you better’n me.”

He pointed to the Forest Amazon, who but a short distance below stood by the trunk of a tree, from behind which she had just stepped, Massey having passed without seeing her.

“Well, Mistress Winifred,” said the knight, when near enough to commence conversation, “my sergeant tells me you’ve something to say.”

“Only a word, your honour; an’ I be’s most feered to speak it, since it ant a pleasant one.”

“Out with it, anyhow.”

“Him be wounded.”

“Who?”

“The young officer as wor took at Hollymead—Captain Trevor.”

“Ha! Wounded, too! Who told you that?”

“’Twor all about Monnerth the day, wheres him be in prison. I tried get a chance to speak wi’ he, but couldn’t, bein’ watched by the sodgers roun’ the Castle.”

“Did you hear whether his wound be serious?”

“No, Sir Richard; nothin’ more than that it wor from a gunshot, an’ had laid he up. Hope it won’t signify no great deal; but I thought it better you be told o’t fores it reach the young lady at Gloster—so’s yer honour might break it to her a bit easier.”

“Very thoughtful of you, Mistress Winifred, and thanks! I’ll endeavour to do that.”

He passed on with quickened step and shadowed countenance. Eustace Trevor, whom he had grown to regard as a brother, wounded! This was news to him. And a gunshot wound which had laid him up—that looked grave.

All the more reason for taking Monmouth, and soon. But however soon, he had a presentiment, and something more, it would be too late—so far as finding Eustace Trevor there. He felt almost sure that, whether slightly or severely wounded, his troop captain had been taken on to Goodrich.

Chapter Forty Three.

High Meadow House.

High Meadow House, where Massey’s troops were quartered, was but a step from the Buckstone. A first-class mansion it was, belonging to a gentleman, by name Benedict Hall, and inhabited by him till within a few days before. A large landowner, with estates both in the shires of Gloucester and Hereford, he commanded some influence throughout the Forest country, and being a bigoted Papist, he, of course, went for the King and the devil, as those of his sort have ever done since Vaticanism became a power upon the earth.

But in something more than a mere sentimental way had the master of High Meadow shown his political inclinings. Second only to those of the silly old Marquis of Worcester, and the wicked Sir John Wintour, were his services to the Royal cause in that quarter, his great wealth enabling him to pay for soldiers, if he could not himself handle them. More than one well-appointed squad had he armed and equipped at his own expense, now sending subsidies to Wintour at Lydney, and now helping Lord Herbert on the Monmouth side. Moreover, at the breaking out of hostilities he had fortified High Meadow House, and ever since held it with his own servants and hired retainers.

His wife, a priest-ridden woman, had been prime inspirer and chief instigator to all this, herself moving about among the men employed on the defensive works, encouraging them with speech, and promises of reward for devotion to the King’s cause.

There came a time, however, when this ultraloyal couple began to get tired of the bauble which was costing them so dearly. For over two years it had been a constant drain upon their resources: all output and nothing returned, save the scantiest of thanks—such gratitude as might be expected from princes, above all, one like Rupert. Had Benedict Hall better held by his Bible, it would have warned him against the hollow trust. The battle of Marston Moor did that more effectively than the sacred Book; showed him the fool’s part he had been playing, and that likely a day was on the dawn when England’s people would no longer be the consenting slaves of Royal caprice. So, bitter Papists and malignants as were he and his wife, their worship for Pope and King did not blind them to coming events; and they had now turned their thoughts to the rising sun. When the news came from the North of the Royalist rout, and was followed by other adverses to the King’s cause, Benedict Hall, like many others of higher rank, hastened to change sides, or, at all events, save himself by “compounding.” Which, in reality, he afterwards did, the wife, clever woman, conducting the negotiations with the Parliamentary Committee.

Ere this, however, on hearing of Wintour’s defeat by the Wye’s mouth, they had forsaken their fortified mansion at High Meadow, betaking themselves to Bristol; just as the master of Hollymead with his family had fled to it many months before—both seeking it as a city of refuge, but from enemies the very opposite!

Even more abruptly, and in greater haste, had the Halls abandoned their home, leaving behind, not only their furniture, but some of their most cherished household gods. Provisions, too, in plenty—eatables and drinkables, with the still undischarged staff of domestics. Snug quarters for the Parliamentarians, fatigued after their sharp conflict at Beachley, and difficult march through the Forest, with its tortuous routes and steep pitches.

As already said, Colonel Walwyn and his troopers had come on in advance, Massey’s men having but just arrived, when, forsaking saddle, he and Sir Richard started off to the Buckstone to reconnoitre.

Now returned from it, they looked upon a spectacle which, though of a striking character, was not new to either of them. Huge fires blazed up everywhere, with great joints of meat spitted and sputtering over them; soldiers, with doublets off and shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, knife in hand, still engaged in cutting up the beeves they had butchered; hundreds of horses, with saddles off, standing haltered along the walls, munching corn, which the master of High Meadow House had been hoarding up for visitors who would have been more welcome. For, up to a late period, he had been expecting Rupert and his Cavaliers to come that way.

The soldiers were in high glee, congratulating one another on the comfortable quarters into which they had dropped. For at High Meadow House they found not only full granaries, but a well-stocked larder and cellar containing various potables. A portion of the last had been already dealt out to them, and they were quaffing and laughing, one giving ironical thanks to the absent host for having so thoughtfully provided the entertainment, another in like strain drinking his health.

The arrival of the Governor on the ground caused but a momentary suspension of their boisterous mirth. Though a strict disciplinarian in a military sense, Massey was aught but puritanical, and rather liked seeing his soldiers enjoy themselves in a harmless way. Besides, he and Colonel Walwyn—who, hurrying after, had overtaken him—at once went inside the house, where dinner, already prepared, was awaiting them and the other officers.

Before sitting down to it, the Governor called for pen, ink, and paper, and writing to Sir Richard’s dictation, hastily scratched off a note, which he handed to the latter, as they exchanged some words in undertone.

The knight, on taking it, passed hurriedly out to see close to the door a horse under saddle and bridled with a trooper standing by his head. That he expected this was evident by his saying,—

“You can mount now. Take this to Coleford. Give it to Major Rowcroft,—into his own hands, mind you,—and stay there till he sends you back. Don’t spare your horse: ride whip and spur all the way.”

The soldier, an orderly, simply saluted as he took the folded sheet, then slipping it under his doublet, sprang to the saddle, and went off at a gallop through the gate.

The bivouackers, inside the courtyard and without, having commenced their Homeric repast, paid little heed to an incident so slight and of such common occurrence. They were more interested in the roast beef, with which the pastures around High Meadow House had provided them, and the beer drawn from its subterraneous depositories. Good store of sack had been found there too, with claret, metheglin, and other dainty drinks. But these were reserved for the officers, who, in a somewhat similar fashion, were making merry inside.

For the better part of an hour was the feasting kept up, amid jest and laughter, then, interrupted by the hoof-stroke of a horse in gallop, afar off in the Forest when first heard, but at each repetition louder and nearer, till at length the sound abruptly ceased.

All listening knew why. The fast-riding horseman, whoever he was, had pulled up by the out-picket, whose challenging hail could be faintly heard through the trees.

Time enough elapsed for the necessary parley and permission to pass on, when the trampling recommenced, and soon after horse and rider were in sight, still at a gallop, making direct for the gate of the fortified mansion.

Some who were expecting to see the orderly that had late ridden off saw a different man, though to many of them no stranger. A dragoon orderly too, but acting with the detachment at Coleford. His horse was in a lather of sweat, tossing clots of froth from the champed bit back upon his counter, as dashing in through the outer gate, he was drawn up at the house door.

On the stoup were several officers, who had just stepped out after finishing dinner, Massey himself in their midst.

“What is it?” he demanded, as the dragoon, springing down from the saddle, advanced towards him. He was feigning ignorance, for he well knew what it was.

“Despatch from Major Rowcroft, your Excellency,” answered the orderly, presenting it. “H. commanded it brought in all haste, saying ’twas of great importance.”

“Yes!” exclaimed the Governor, after tearing the sheet open, and giving but a glance to the writing. “Major Rowcroft is right: it is of great importance. Gentlemen,” he added, turning to his officers, and speaking loud enough to be heard all over the place, “this is a serious matter. Rowcroft advises me of news just reached Coleford that the Princes Rupert and Maurice have united their forces, taken Stroud, Cirencester too, and are supposed to be en route for Gloucester. Our own city threatened, we mustn’t think more of Monmouth. Glorious old Gloucester, that has so long defied all the strength of Cavalierism, with all its malevolent spite! But we shan’t let it fall; no! Let us get back there without a moment’s delay. So each of you to your respective commands. Have your men in marching order within twenty minutes. I give you that, and no more.”

No more was needed. The troops under Massey were too well-disciplined, too often summoned into action with like suddenness, to go bungling about getting ready for the route.

Quick after his words came the notes of a bugle sounding the “assembly,” with other calls taken up by the trumpeters of the respective corps, followed by a hurrying to and fro—horses un-haltered, bitted and saddled, men buckling on swords, grasping lances, or adjusting accoutrements; then trumpets once more commanding the “march,” and in less than the prescribed time neither trooper nor soldier of any sort could be seen within the precincts of High Meadow House, or anywhere around.

But the place was not altogether deserted. The domestics and outdoor servants of its absent owner were still there. In greater numbers now, as many—came stealing from holes and corners, where they had been all day hiding in fear of rough treatment by the Roundheads.

Hall’s head man, the steward of the estate, was among them, he too having come from a place of concealment as soon as warned that the troops had taken departure. Different from the rest, he was on horseback. Nor did he alight. Instead, after getting their report, from such of the house-servants as had been there all the while and heard everything, he reined about and rode off again. Not to follow the retiring Parliamentarians, but in quite the contrary direction.

So, while Massey and his troops were on the march from High Meadow, apparently en route for Gloucester, a man—this same steward—was riding down the Kymin at a breakneck pace, the bearer of glad news to the Governor of Monmouth.

Chapter Forty Four.

Out in the Storm.

Though clear and placid had been the sky when the two colonels stood by the Buckstone, in a few hours after it was all clouded. Night had descended, but in addition to its natural darkness, the white fleecy cumuli along the western horizon had turned black at the setting of the sun; then rolled upward, overspreading heaven’s whole canopy as with a pall. But the obscurity was not continuous. The extreme sultriness of the day had disturbed the electrical equilibrium of the atmosphere, resulting in a thunderstorm of unusual violence. At intervals vivid sheets of lightning illumined the firmament, while red zig-zagging bolts, like arrows on fire, pierced the opaque clouds, bringing down rain as at the Deluge.

Between the flashes all was darkness; so dense that a traveller on the Forest roads must needs stop till the blaze came again, else run the risk of straying from the track, possibly to bring up against the trunk of a tree. But it was a night on which no traveller would think of venturing forth, and one already on the road would make for the nearest shelter.

Yet were there traveller abroad, or at least men on horseback, who neither sought this nor seemed to regard the raging elements. About a mile from High Meadow House, on the Coleford Road, a party of four might be seen seated in the saddle under a spreading tree. That they were not sheltering from the rain could be told by its pouring down upon them through the leaves quickly as elsewhere, and their being already wet to the skin. Shadow, for concealment, was evidently their object, though at intervals the lightning interfered with it. But they were in such position as to command a view of the road, and any one coming along it, before being themselves observed. As now and then the blue electric light gleamed around them, it could be seen that they were in uniform—an officer and three common troopers, one with trumpet in hand—while their attitude of listening proclaimed them on picket duty. A vidette it was, stationed to watch the approaches and give warning to a larger force.

Another might have been found at no great distance off, in a sequestered glade of the forest, some hundreds of horsemen, who, as the party under the tree, were all in their saddles, and alike disregarding the rain. Silent as spectres were they, here and there only a muttered word, with the champing of bits, and occasionally the louder clink of scabbard against stirrup as some horse shied at the blinding flash.

They, too, seemed listening, as indeed were they—especially a group of officers near the outgoing of the glade—listening for a signal preconcerted, and expected to come from the trumpeter under the tree.

Nor were these the only soldiers abroad and voluntarily exposing themselves to that drenching storm. While it was at its worst, a party of Horse issued out of Monmouth, and, crossing the Wye bridge, took the route up Kymin Hill. A small body it was, about forty in all, with but two officers—he who commanded and a cornet, their arms and accoutrements, as the light caparison of their horses, proclaiming them on scout.

As the lightning flashed upon a banneret carried by the cornet, it could be seen to bear the emblem of a crown, while other specialities of uniform and equipment betokened the little troop as belonging to the army of the King, and therefore hostile to those halted in the forest glade, whose insignia told them to be of the opposite party.

It wanted an hour or more of midnight when the party from Monmouth, after surmounting the Kymin steep, entered Staunton—to find the villagers still awake and stirring. They had received news of Massey’s departure from the neighbourhood, so hastily as to seem a retreat, and, indeed, knew the reason, or supposed they did, from the contents of that Coleford despatch. Most of them being of Royalist proclivities, they were sitting up in jubilance over the event.

The soldiers made but short halt among them; just long enough to get answer to some inquiries; then on to High Meadow House.

Why thither none of the rank and file knew, not even the cornet. Alone their commanding officer, who kept the true reason to himself, giving a spurious one—that his object was to make sure of the place being in reality abandoned. A weak force as they were, it would not do to advance farther along the Coleford road, should there chance to be an enemy in their rear.

This seemed reasonable enough, nor were the men loth to accept it. On such a night shelter was above all things desirable, and they were sure to find snug quarters at the mansion of High Meadow, hoping their commander would let them stay there till the storm came to an end.

Just as they turned off the high road, or scarce a minute after, a solitary figure came gliding along from the Staunton side, and passed on towards Coleford. Afoot it was, wrapped in a cloak, with hood, which, covering the head, left visible only a portion of the face. Tall, and of masculine proportions, otherwise it might have been taken as the figure of a man, but for a certain boldness, yet softness of outline, which betokened it that of a woman. And a woman it was—the cadgeress.

She had followed the Royalist troopers from Staunton, silently, stealthily, and at safe distance behind. But as they turned off the main road, she, still keeping to it, broke into a run, not slowing again till she stood under the tree where the four Parliamentarians were on picket. By the fitful flashes these had seen her making approach, at least three of the four knowing who it was—Sir Richard Walwyn; he who had the trumpet, Hubert; and one of the troopers, wearing the chevrons of a sergeant, Rob Wilde.

That she in turn recognised them, and had been expecting to find them there, was evinced by her behaviour. For when she thought herself within hearing, she called out,—

“Cavalières turned off and goed for High Meadow House. ’Bout forty theys be in all.”

“Sound the signal, Hubert!” said Sir Richard, in command to his trumpeter, adding to the big sergeant, “Ride back, Rob, and tell Captain Harley to bring on our men as rapidly as possible.”

The lightning still flashed and forked, with loud thunder, now in quick claps, now in prolonged reverberation. But between came the notes of a cavalry bugle, in calls, which, reaching the glade where Massey’s men sat waiting in their saddles, caused a pricking of spurs, and a quick forward movement at the command, “March!”—word most welcome to all.

Meanwhile, the soldiers from Monmouth had reached Hall’s house to find no enemy there, only some servants, who at first took them for a returned party of Parliamentarians. But the steward, who had been detained on the way, riding up the instant after, reassured the frightened domestics.

Besides what these had to tell, there were other evidences of the hurried evacuation. On tables everywhere was a spread of viands only partially consumed, with tankards of ale unemptied, and inside the house bottles of wine, some yet uncorked.

The Cavalier soldiers were not the sort to hasten away and leave such tempting commodities untouched. And, as their commanding officer seemed not objecting, they were out of their saddles in a trice, eating and drinking as though they had that day gone without either breakfast or dinner.

The stable mangers, too, were full of beans and barley, left uneaten by the horses of the Parliamentarians, to which their own animals fell with a hungry voracity equalling that of their masters.

Short time was allowed them for this greedy gormandising. Scarce had they taken seat by the tables when a trampling of hoofs was heard all around the house, louder on the stone pavement by the gate, from which came the shout “Surrender!” the same voice adding, “’Twill be idle for you to resist. We are Massey’s men, and fifty to your one. If you wish your lives spared, cry ‘Quarter,’ or we cut you to pieces.”

The carousing Royalists were taken completely by surprise. In fancied security, thinking the Parliamentarian force en route for Gloucester, and far on the way, they had neither placed picket nor set sentry; and the house being fortified, there was no exit from it save by the one gate, now blocked up, as they could see, by a solid body of horse. They were literally in a trap, with no chance to get out of it, for, by the multitudinous hoof-clattering outside, they knew the words “fifty to one” were not far from the truth.

Alone, the cornet got off afoot by a desperate leap into the ditch at back; stealing away unseen in the darkness. The rest made no attempt, either at escape or resistance. They but stood, terror-stricken, to hear the threat—

“Speak, quick, or we open fire on you!” Then, at least, half of them called out “Quarter!” without waiting word or sign from their leader.

What followed, however, showed that he sanctioned it. As the Parliamentarian troopers came riding in through the gate he advanced to meet them, with drawn sword, hilt outward, which he handed to the officer at their head.

As the latter took it, a smile of peculiar significance was exchanged between the two, with words equally strange, inaudible save to themselves.

“Glad to have you back with us, Kyrle.”

“Not more than I to get back, Walwyn. God knows! I’ve had enough of Rupert, and his rascals.”

Chapter Forty Five.

A Town Cleverly Taken.

About an hour after the capture of Kyrle’s party, a body of horse, numbering over one hundred, might have been seen descending the Kymin towards Monmouth. The fury of the storm had worn itself out, the downpour of rain being succeeded by a drizzle, while the lightning only flickered faintly, and at long intervals, the thunder muttering low and distant. But the darkness was deep as ever, and the horsemen rode down the steep incline at a slow, creeping pace, as if groping their way. In silence too, neither word of command, nor note of bugle, directing their march.

Had there been light enough to give a good view of them, it might have been guessed that something other than the darkness and difficulty of the path was causing them to advance in this noiseless, deliberate manner. For at their head would have been seen Kyrle himself; no prisoner now, on parole or otherwise, but with sword restored, and in every way acting as their commanding officer! And by his side one who carried a troop flag, with a crown upon its field, the same which had been left behind by the escaped cornet. The captured troopers were there too—as at first glance any one would suppose—forming a half-score files in front of the marching line, with a like number in rear. Only in seeming, however—only their uniforms and equipments—for they themselves were at that moment shut up in a cellar of High Meadow House, where Benedict Hall had erst incarcerated many a rebel and recusant.

A different set of men were now wearing their doublets and carrying their accoutrements in the descent of the Kymin Hill, and any one familiar with the faces of Sir Richard Walwyn’s Foresters would have recognised some forty of them thus partially disguised, with nigh twice as many more in their uniforms there, the last apparently disarmed and conducted as prisoners, their place being central in the line!

In rear of all was the knight himself, with his new troop captain, Harley; Sergeant Wilde and Hubert the trumpeter constituting the file immediately in front of them—all four, as the others, seemingly without arms.

That his oddly composed cohort had some strategic scheme in view was evident from the cautious silence in which they advanced. And at intervals, Kyrle, reining his horse to one side, would wait till the rearmost file came up; then, after exchanging a word or two with Colonel Walwyn, spur back to his place in the lead.

Thus noiselessly they descended the long, winding slope; but when near its bottom, and within some three or four hundred yards of the bridge, all was changed. The troopers began to talk to one another, Kyrle himself having given them the cue. Loudly and boisterously, with a tone of boasting, their speech interspersed with peals of light, joyous laughter. All this meant for the ears of those on guard at the bridge gate.

A sufficiently strong force was stationed there, and with fair vigilance were they guarding it. For although Massey had been reported as on hurried return to Gloucester, the fugitive cornet, having found his way back, had brought with him a different tale. Afoot, and delayed by losing his way, he had but just passed over the bridge and on to the castle, after saying some words that left the guard in a state of alarm.

It was more bewilderment, as the men seemingly so merry drew near, invisible through the pitchlike darkness. At least a hundred there must be, as told by the pattering of their horses’ hoofs on the firm causeway. Kyrle’s scouting party had gone out not half this number, yet there was Kyrle himself, talking and laughing the loudest. Many of the guard—officers and soldiers—knew his voice well, and could not be mistaken about it. What then meant the sooner return of the cornet, without his standard, and with a tale of disaster? Had he retreated from a conflict still undecided, afterwards ending in favour of the Royalist forces? It might be so.

By this the approaching party had got nearly up to the gate, in front of which the causeway showed a wide gap, and through it, far below, the flooded river surging angrily on. The officer in command of the guard was about to call out, “Who comes?” when anticipated by a hail from the opposite side, pronounced in tone of demand,—“Hoi over there! Let the drawbridge down!”

“For whom?”

“Kyrle and party. We’ve taken prisoners threescore Roundheads, and sent as many more to kingdom come. Be quick, and let us in. We’re soaking wet, and hungry as wolves!”

“But, Colonel Kyrle,” doubtingly objected the officer, “your cornet has just passed in, with the report that you and your party were made prisoners! How is it—”

“Oh, he’s got back, has he?” interrupted the ready Kyrle, though for an instant non-plussed. “The coward! And double scoundrel, telling such a tale to screen himself! Why, he dropped his standard at sight of the enemy, and skulked off before we had come to blows! Ah! I’ll make short work of it with him.”

While he was speaking there came a flash of lightning more vivid than any that had late preceded, bright enough and sufficiently prolonged for the soldiers on guard to see those on the other side of the chasm throughout the whole extended line. In front some half-score files of Kyrle’s Light Horse, whose uniform was well-known, with a like number in the rear, and between, with heads drooped, and looking dejected, the prisoners he had spoken of.

The spectacle seemed to prove his words true. Under the circumstances who could think them false? Who suspect him of treason?

Not the officer in command of that guard, anyhow; who, without further hesitation or parley, gave orders for the lowering of the bridge.

Down it went, and over it rode a hundred and odd men, counting the supposed Royalists and their unarmed prisoners. But soon as inside the gate, all seemed to be armed, prisoners as well as escort, the former suddenly bristling with weapons, which they had drawn from under their doublets to the cry, “For God and Parliament!” The opposing shout, “For God and the King?” was stifled almost soon as raised, the bridge guard being instantly overpowered, many of them cut down, and killed outright.

Then a larger and heavier force, that had been following down the Kymin Hill, Massey’s main body, came on at full gallop, over the drawbridge and through the gate. There, taking up the cry, “God and Parliament!” they went rattling on through the streets of the town, clearing them of all hostile opposition, and capturing everybody who showed a rag of Royalist uniform.

When the morning’s sun rose over Monmouth, from its castle turrets floated a flag very different from that hitherto waving there. The glorious standard of Liberty had displaced the soiled and blood-stained banner of the Stuart Kings.

Chapter Forty Six.

Awaiting War News.

“What a life we’ve been leading, Sab! Shut up in cities as birds in a cage! Now nearly two years of it, with scarce ever a peep at the dear, delightful country. Oh! it’s a wretched existence.”

“It’s not the pleasantest, I admit.”

“And in this prosaic city, Gloucester.”

“Ah, Vag, don’t speak against Gloucester. Think what her citizens have suffered in the good cause. And how well they have borne themselves! But for their bravery and fidelity, where might we be now? Possibly in Bristol. How would you like that?”

“Not at all,” returned Vag, with a shrug and grimace, the name of Bristol recalling souvenirs aught but agreeable to her.

“Well,” resumed Sabrina, “life there is not prosaic, anyhow—if there be poetry in scandal. Very much the reverse, I should say, supposing half of what’s reported be true. But I wonder how our foolish aunt, and equally foolish cousin, are comporting themselves under the changed circumstances?”

“Oh! they’re happy enough, no doubt; everything just as they wished it. Plenty of titled personages flitting and figuring around—at least three princes of the blood royal, with an occasional chance of their seeing the King himself. Won’t Madame open wide the doors of Montserrat House. As for Clarisse, I shouldn’t be surprised at her making a grand marriage of it, becoming baroness duchess, or something of that sort. Well, I won’t envy her.”

Vaga Powell could afford to speak thus of her Creole cousin, with light heart now, all envy and jealousy having long since gone out of it.

“Let us hope nothing worse,” rejoined the elder sister, with a doubting look, as though some painful thought were in her mind. “Clarisse is very, very imprudent, to say the least of it.”

“And very wicked, to say nothing more than the most of it. But what need we care, Sab, since we neither of us ever intend going near the Lalandes again? After the way they behaved to us, well—”

“Well, let us cease speaking of them, and turn to some pleasanter subject.”

“Ay, if that were possible. Alas! there’s none very pleasant now—every day new anxieties, new fears. I wish this horrid war were at an end, one way or the other, so that we might get back to dear old Hollymead.”

“Don’t say one way or the other, Vag. If it should end in the King being conqueror, Hollymead will be no more a home for us. It would even cease to belong to us.”

“I almost wish it never had.”

“Why that?”

“You should know, Sab. But for my father sending him there after those worthless things, he would not now be—”

“Dear Vaga!” interrupted the elder sister entreatingly. “For your life do not let father hear you speak in that strain. ’Twould vex him very much, and, as you yourself know, he has grieved over it already.”

“Ah, true. I won’t say a word about it again, in his hearing, anyhow—you may trust me. But it’s hard to think of my dear Eustace being in a prison—shut up in a dark dungeon, perhaps hungering, thirsting, and, worse than all, suffering ill-treatment at the hands of some cruel jailer.”

She was justified in calling him her “dear Eustace” now, and giving him all her sympathies. Since that night of perverse misconceptions at Montserrat House there had been many an interview between them; the thread of their interrupted dialogue by Ruardean Hill had been taken up again, and spun into a cord which now bound them together by vows of betrothal.

Of their engagement Sabrina was aware, and under the like herself, she could well comprehend her sister’s feelings. True, her betrothed was not in a prison, but she knew not how soon he might be—or worse, dead on the battlefield. Invincible as she believed him, war had its adverse fates, was full of perils, every day, as the other had said, fraught with new anxieties and fears. Concealing her own, she essayed to dispel those of her sister, rejoining,—

“Nonsense, Vag. Nothing so bad. Why should they treat him with cruelty?”

“You forget that they call him renegade. And they on the King’s side are most spiteful against all who turn from them. Think how his own cousin acted towards him; and ’tis said his father disowned him. Besides, other prisoners have been scandalously treated by the Cavaliers, some even tortured. And they may torture him.”

“No fear of their doing that. Even if disposed they’re not likely to have the opportunity.”

“But they have it now.”

“Not quite.”

“I don’t comprehend you, Sab.”

“It’s very simple. Heartless as many of the Royalists leaders are, and vindictive, they will be restrained by the thought of retaliation. At this time our people hold two prisoners to their one. A large number of these Monmouth men, with their officers, have been taken at Beachley, and that will insure humane treatment to your Eustace. So make you mind easy about him.”

It became easier as she listened to the cheering words, almost reassured by others spoken in continuation.

“In any case,” pursued Sabrina, “his captors are not likely to have the time for torturing, as you put it. Richard’s last letter says he and his troops were at High Meadow House—the Halls’, near Staunton, you know?”

“That Papist family; great friends of Sir John and Lady Wintour. I remember their place. Well?”

“He was there in advance, awaiting the Governor to come up, with every hope of their being able to take Monmouth. If they succeed, and they will—I feel sure they will, Vag—then Eustace will be a free man, and all of us go back to Hollymead, with not much danger of being again molested.”

“Oh?” exclaimed the younger sister, overjoyed by the prospect thus shadowed forth, “wouldn’t that be delightful! Back at the dear old place. Once more our walks and rides through the Forest. Our hawking, too. Bless me! my pretty Pers and your Mer, I suppose they won’t know us! I trust Van Dom hasn’t neglected them, nor my Hector either.”

And so she ran on, in the exuberance of her new-sprung hopes seemingly forgetting him around whom they all centred. Only for an instant though. Without Eustace Trevor by her side the Forest walks and rides, with Hollymead and its hawking,—would have less attraction for her now. Wherever he might be, that were the place of her choice, thenceforth and for ever. So soon the thought of his being in a prison, with fears of something worse, came back in all its bitterness.

And the shadow of returned anxiety was again visible on the brow of Sabrina. A fortified town to be taken there would needs be fighting of a desperate kind—her lover in the thick of it. A forlorn hope for storming, who so like as her soldier knight to be the leader of it? He had been so at Beachley, and proud was she on hearing of his achievements there. But at the thought of his now again undergoing such risk, with all the uncertainties of war—that he might fall before the ramparts of Monmouth, even at that moment be lying lifeless in its trenches—her heart sank within her.

For a time both were silent. Then Sabrina, with another effort to cast-off the gloomy reflections, which she saw were also affecting her sister, said,—

“Richard promised to write again last night, or early this morning, if there should be anything worth writing about. He hasn’t written last night, or the letter would have been here now. If this morning, I may soon expect it. His messengers are never slow, and a man on a swift horse should ride from High Meadow House to Gloucester in two hours, or a little over.”

From her belt she drew a quaint, three-cornered watch to ascertain the correct time. Correct or not, its hands pointed to 10 a.m. A messenger from the High Meadow could have been there before if sent off at an early hour, and on an errand calling for courier-speed.

Perhaps no reason had arisen for such, and consoling herself with this reflection, she resumed speech, saying,—

“Anyhow, we may make sure of getting news before noon, some kind or other. The Governor will be sending a despatch to the Committee, and one may have already reached them. We shall know when father returns.”

The last remark had reference to the fact of Ambrose Powell being one of the Parliamentary Commissioners for the Gloucester district, and just then in committee.

But the anticipated news reached them without being brought by him. As they stood conversing in an embraced window, which, terrace-like, overhung the street, they heard a clattering of hoofs, almost at the same instant to see a horseman coming on at quick pace. When opposite the house in which they were, he halted, flung himself out of the saddle, and disappeared from their sight under the projecting balcony. Long ere this they had recognised Sir Richard’s henchman Hubert.

There was a loud rat-tat-tat at the street door, and soon after a gentle tapping against that of their room, which both recognised as from the knuckles of Gwenthian, simultaneously exclaiming, “Come in.”

In came she with a letter that seemed terribly soiled and crumpled.

“Hubert has brought this, my lady,” she said, holding it towards Sabrina, for whom the sharp-witted Welsh maid knew it was meant. “Poor man! he be wet to the skin, and all over mud, and looks as if just dropped out of a duck pond.”

The “poor man” was but a mild, evasive form of expressing her sympathy. Had she put it as she felt, it would have been “dear man,” for long ago had Gwenthian entered into tender relations with the trumpeter.

Neither of the sisters gave ear to what she was saying, for the elder had snatched the letter out of her hand, and torn it open on the instant, while the younger stood by in eager, anxious attitude.

There was contentment in Sabrina’s eyes as she glanced at the superscription. It became joy on reading the first words written inside, and she cried out, in tone of enthusiastic triumph,—

“Glorious news, sister! They’ve taken Monmouth?”

“They have! Heaven be praised!” Sabrina was about to read the letter aloud, when some words caught her eye which admonished first running it over to herself hastily, as the other was all impatience. It ran:—

“My love,—We are inside Monmouth, thanks to little strategy I was able to effect, with the help of an old Low Country comrade, Kyrle, of Walford, whom you may know. For all, we had some sharp fighting by the bridge gate, where Kyrle proved himself worthy of his ancient repute as soldier and swordsman. Had we failed there this letter would not have been written, unless, perhaps, inside a prison. And now on that subject I’m sorry to say E. Trevor is still in one, but, unluckily, not at Monmouth. Taken by Harry Lingen from the Hereford side, they have carried him off that way, likely to Goodrich Castle. What’s worse, he has been wounded; whether severely or not, I haven’t yet been able to ascertain. Soon as I can learn for certain where he is, and what the nature of his hurt, you shall hear from me, as I know your sister will be in a sad state of anxiety. We’ve made many prisoners, and now, commanding Monmouth, may hope to gather in a good many more. If we succeed in clearing the Wye’s western bank of the wolves so long infesting it you may all safely return to Hollymead.”

The letter did not conclude quite so abruptly. There were some expressions tenderer and of more private nature, which she was scarce permitted to read, much less dwell upon. For Vaga, all the while gazing in her face with a look of searching interrogation, saw a shadow pass over it, and unable longer to bear the suspense, cried out,—

“There’s something wrong? Ah! it’s Eustace; I know it is!”

“Nothing wrong with him more than we knew of already. He is still a prisoner; but, of course, not at Monmouth, or he’d have been released. They have taken him away from there, as Richard thinks, to Goodrich Castle.”

There was that in her manner, with the words and their tone of utterance, which led to a suspicion of either subterfuge or reticence. And Vaga so suspecting, with another searching look into her eyes, exclaimed,—

“You’ve not told me all. There’s something in that letter you fear to communicate. You need not, Sab. I’ll try to be brave. Better for me to know the worst. Let me read it.”

Thus appealed to the elder sister gave way. The thing she desired to conceal must become known sooner or later. Perhaps as well, if not better, at once.

Tearing off that portion of the sheet on which were the words of tenderness concerning only herself, she passed the other into the hands of her sister, saying,—

“All’s there that interests you, Vag; and don’t let it alarm you. Remember that wounds are always made more of than—”

“Wounded!” came the interrupting cry from Vaga’s lips, intoned with agony. “He’s wounded—it may be to death! I shall go to Goodrich. If he die, I die with him!”

Chapter Forty Seven.

Old Comrades.

“Well, Dick, for a man who’s just captured a city, you look strangely downhearted—more like as if you’d been captured yourself.”

It was Colonel Robert Kyrle who made the odd observation; he to whom it was addressed being Colonel Sir Richard Walwyn. The time was between midnight and morning, some two hours after Monmouth had succumbed to their strategic coup-de-main; the place Kyrle’s own quarters, whither he had conducted his old comrade-in-arms to give him lodgment for the rest of the night.

Snug quarters they were, in every way well provided. Kyrle was a man of money, and liked good living whether he fought for King or for Parliament. A table was between them, on which were some remains of a supper, with wines of the best, and they were quaffing freely, as might be expected of soldiers after a fight or fatiguing march.

“Yet to you,” added Kyrle, “Massey owes the taking of Monmouth.”

“Rather say to yourself, Kyrle. Give the devil his due,” returned the knight, with a peculiar smile.

Notwithstanding his serious mood at the moment, he could not resist a jest so opportune. He knew it would not offend his old comrade, as it did not. On the contrary, Kyrle seemed rather to relish it, with a light laugh rejoining,—

“Little fear of him you allude to being cheated of his dues this time. No doubt for all that’s been done I’ll get my full share of credit, however little creditable to myself. They’ll call me all sorts of names, the vilest in the Cavalier vocabulary; and, God knows, it’s got a good stock of them. What care I? Not the shaking of straw. My conscience is clear, and my conduct guided by motives I’m not ashamed of—never shall be. You know them, Walwyn?”

“I do, and respect them. I was just in the act of explaining things to Massey up by the Buckstone when your letter came—that carried in the cadger’s wooden leg.”

“Most kind of you, Dick; though nothing more than I expected. Soon as I heard of your being at the High Meadow, I made up my mind to join you there, even if I went alone as a common deserter. Never was man more disgusted with a cause than I with Cavalierism. It stinks of the beerhouse and bagnio; here in Monmouth spiced with Papistry—no improvement to its nasty savour. But the place will smell sweeter now. I’ll make it. Massey has told me I’m to have command.”

“You are the man for it,” said the knight approvingly. “And I am glad he has given it to you. Nothing more than you’re entitled to, after what you’ve done.”

“Ah! ’tis you who did everything—planned everything. What clever strategy your thinking of such a ruse!”

“Not half so clever as your carrying it out.”

“Well, Dick, between us we did the trick neatly, didn’t we?”

“Nothing could have been better. But how near it came to miscarrying! When they flung that Cornet in your teeth I almost gave it up.”

“I confess to some misgiving myself then. It looked awkward for a while.”

“That indeed. And how you got out of it! Your tale of his cowardice, and threat to make short work with him, were so well affected I could scarce keep from bursting into laughter. But what a simpleton that fellow who had command of the bridge guard! Was he one of those we cut down, think you?”

“I fancy he was, and fear it. Among my late comrades there were many I liked less than he.”

“And the Cornet, to whom you gave credit for making such good use of his heels. Has he escaped?”

“I’ve no doubt he’s justified what I said of him by using them again. He’s one that has a way of it. I suspect a great many of them got off on the other side—more than we’ve netted. But we shall know in the morning when we muster the birds taken, and beat up the covers where some will be in hiding. Hopelessly for them, as I’m acquainted with every hole and corner in Monmouth.”

There was a short interval of silence, while Kyrle, as host, leant over the table, took up a flagon of sack, and replenished their empty cups. On again turning to his guest he could see that same expression, which had led to him thinking him downhearted. Quite unlike what face of man should be wearing who had so late gained glory—reaped a very harvest of laurels—on more than one battlefield. The exciting topics just discoursed upon had for a time chased it away, but there it was once more.

“Bless me, Walwyn! what is the matter with you?” asked Kyrle, as he pushed the refilled goblet towards him. “You could not look more sadly solemn if I were Prince Rupert, and you my prisoner. Well, old comrade,” he went on, without waiting for explanation, “if what’s troubling you be a secret, I shan’t press you to answer. A love affair, I suppose, so won’t say another word.”

“It is a love affair in a way.”

“Well, Walwyn! you’re the last man I’d have looked for to get his heart entangled—”

“You mistake, Kyrle. It has nothing to do with my heart—in the sense you’re thinking of.”

“Whose heart then, or hearts? For there must be a pair of them.”

“You know young Trevor?”

“I know all the Trevors—at least by repute.”

“He I refer to is Eustace—son of Sir William, by Abergavenny.”

“Ah! him I’m not personally acquainted with; though he’s been here for several days—in prison. Lingen’s men took him at Hollymead House, near Ruardean; brought him on to Monmouth on their way to Beachley; and going back have carried him with them to Goodrich Castle. They left but yesterday, late in the evening. He’s got a wound, I believe.”

“Yes. It’s about that I’m uneasy. Can you tell me anything as to the nature of it? Dangerous, think you?”

“That I can’t say, not having seen him myself. Some one spoke of his arm being in a sling. Likely it’s but a sword cut, or the hack of a halbert. But why are you so concerned about him, Dick? He’s no relative of yours.”

“He’s dearer to me than any relative I have, Kyrle. I love him as I would a brother. Besides, one, in whom I am interested, loves him in a different way.”

“Ah, yes! the lady of course; prime source and root of all evil.”

“In the present case the source of something good, however. But for the lady, in all likelihood Monmouth would still be under Royalist rule—nay, I may say surely would.”

“How so, Walwyn? What had she to do with the taking of Monmouth?”

“A great deal—everything. She was the instigator; her motive you may guess.”

“I see; to get young Trevor out of prison. Well!”

“I had some difficulty in convincing Massey the thing was possible; and, but for her intercession with him, I might have failed doing so. Our success at Beachley, however, settled it; especially when I laid before him the scheme we’ve been so fortunate in accomplishing.”

“Well, we should thank the lady for it. May I know who she is?”

“Certainly. The daughter of Ambrose Powell, of Hollymead.”

“Ah! That explains why Trevor was there when taken?”

“In a way, it does.”

“I’ve but slight acquaintance with Powell, myself; though, as neighbours, we were always on friendly terms. He and his family are now in Gloucester, are they not?”

“They are. For a time they stayed at Bristol—up to the surrender.”

“Luckily they’re not there now. A sweet place that for anything in the shape of a young lady. Master Powell may thank his good star for getting him and his out of it. Two daughters he has, if I remember rightly, with names rather singular—Sabrina and Vaga?”

“They are so named.”

“With whom is young Trevor in relations?”

“The younger, Vaga. Poor girl! she’ll be terribly disappointed when she hears of his having been carried on out of our reach, and so near being rescued!”

“Out of our reach!” said Kyrle, an odd expression coming over his features, as if some thought had struck him. “Is that so sure?”