Captain Mayne Reid (continued 7)

She looked at him with a puzzled expression. What a strange remark to make about her sister, whom he could never have seen, save that once as they passed him going out of Bristol! But she understood it, on his adding,—

“The little beauty is yours, I take it?”

“No, your Highness,” she answered, without making any allusion to the implied compliment, though its braverie jarred upon her ear. “The merlin belongs to my sister. The peregrines are mine.”

“Happy peregrines!” he exclaimed, pretending to apostrophise the two great falcons, that, now hooded, had been returned to their kedge. “How I should like to be one of you! Ay; would consent to be held in leash for life, could I but hope for caresses, such as you receive from the hands of your beautiful mistress. Ah! that must be sweet?”

There could be no mistaking the character of speech like this, rude even to impertinence. It brought the red into the young girl’s cheeks, and she would have angrily resented it, but was restrained by the caution late received from her sister. Still, to let it pass unnoticed was out of the question, and would likely lead to her being yet further insulted. Making an effort to curb her kindling indignation, she rejoined, calmly as she could,—

“Such language may befit the fine Court ladies, with whom your Highness is accustomed to hold conversation. We simple country girls are not used to it.”

Regardless of modest manners, even of common decency, as was this German Prince, he felt the rebuke, and quailed under it. For the glance of quiet scorn that went with the words told him he was putting on airs, and paying compliments to no purpose. In that quarter all would be thrown away.

With a light laugh he endeavoured to conceal his discomfiture, saying apologetically,—

“Oh! mistress, you must pardon the free speech of a Cavalier. Our tongues, as our swords, often fly out without reflection. Be assured I meant not to offend—far from it.”

Apology was a bitter pill for Prince Rupert to swallow; but he gulped it down with a better grace, confident of having the “bit of saucy sweetness” in his power. If he failed to make conquest of her, there was another way to fall back upon; that to which his low familiar, Lunsford, had been all along counselling him.

The little désagrément brought their tête-à-tête to an end, the Prince not caring to continue it. It could be resumed at a more favourable opportunity, which he meant to find before leaving Hollymead. Seeming suddenly to recollect himself, he said, in voice loud enough to be heard by the elder sister, as he intended it,—

“But, ladies! I’ve only half apologised for our intrusion, and trust you will pardon it, when you hear my excuses. I was on the way to visit your worthy father, with whom I have some business. When hearing the hooha-ha!—ardent falconer as I am—I couldn’t resist coming across to learn the result. Permit me to take leave of you, with thanks for your gracious reception. Unless, indeed, you do me the further honour of letting me escort you to the house. If I dared make so free, I would even ask the favour of being introduced by you to your father, with whom I regret not having personal acquaintance.”

“Our father is not at home,” said Sabrina, speaking for both.

“Indeed?” he exclaimed, looking half-disappointed, half-pleased. “That’s unfortunate. But I suppose you expect him soon?”

“We cannot tell what time he may return, your Highness.”

“Ah! he’s gone upon a journey, then. May I ask whither? You’ll pardon the inquiry, in view of my business with him?”

“To Gloucester,” she answered, without hesitation, too glad to have the questioner think that he inquired about was in that safe city.

“His absence is disappointing,” said the Prince—half in soliloquy, and half addressing himself to Captain Trevor. “It will necessitate our staying here for the night.” This loud enough for the ladies to hear. “I regret that,” he pursued, again turning to them, “not on my own account, but because the quartering of my escort at Hollymead cannot be over agreeable to you. However, I can promise best behaviour on their part; and should your servants have any rudeness to complain of it shall be punished with all severity.”

This self-invitation to the hospitality of Hollymead House, however vexatious to the daughters of its absent owner, did not at all surprise them. They had been expecting it as the upshot; for, despite his fine phrases of apology—all pretence—the Prince’s bearing and manner told them how much he felt himself their master.

Withal, they were not dismayed, Sabrina making calm rejoinder, with some formal words, that Hollymead would be too much honoured by his presence. Then in a whisper to Vaga, as they drew side by side to ride home,—

“Keep up courage, Vag. Above all keep your temper. Everything may depend on that. We’re among wolves, that may tear us if angered.”

“Go back, Captain!” called the Prince to Trevor. “Give my commands to Colonel Lunsford, and tell him to bring the escort on to the house.”

“Lunsford along with them!” ejaculated Sabrina, in undertone to her sister. “That makes my words good. We are among wolves.”

The evil repute of this man justified her speech. It had been spreading day by day, till his name was now become a synonym of inhumanity—a bogie to stop the crying of the babes in the cradle.

Chapter Fifty Seven.

A Crime in Contemplation.

Still self-invited, Rupert accompanied the ladies to the house, and assisted them to dismount with great show of courtesy and respect. The little ruffle with Vaga had determined him not to try on that tack again.

He did not go inside with them, having some directions to give to his suite, seen approaching up the avenue. Besides, it was nearing dinner hour, and they must needs repair to their dressing-rooms.

Left by himself, the Prince seemed all impatience for his escort to come up. He had even shown haste when helping the ladies out of their saddles, as if wishing to be disembarrassed of them with the least delay. Some new thought, or scheme, had evidently entered his mind; and recently, or since despatching Trevor with the order to Lunsford, as then he had said nothing about time.

When they were near enough to hear him he called out, making a sign to the officer at their head to hasten them on. This was Lunsford himself, who, perceiving that something was wanted, separated from the cavalcade, spurring his horse to a quick canter. As the haw-haw gate had already been opened, he passed through it without. Stop or interruption, on to the house.

“Come up—nearer!” said the Prince, speaking low, and in a cautious manner as if he feared being overheard. He was standing in the porch, a little elevated above the ground, and as the other drew alongside, seated in the saddle, their heads were close enough for conversing in whispers.

“What is it, your Highness?” asked Lunsford, wondering at the air of mystery.

“I suppose Trevor has told you the pater isn’t at home?”

“He has, Prince; but I knew it before.”

“Indeed! How learnt you? When?”

“Just after your Highness rode away from us. One of Powell’s people, a sort of shepherd, or cowboy, chanced to be coming into the park; and with a little cross-questioning I got out of him, both the fact of his master’s absence, and the whereabouts.”

“He’s at Gloucester.”

“Yes, Prince. But the affair of Monmouth will draw him home, soon as he receives news of it. He should have had that long ago; so may be expected here at any moment.”

“Just so. But if he get word of our being here before him, he may turn back and give us the go-by. So I want half a dozen files detached, and sent off along the Gloucester road, under a trusty officer, in all haste. If they meet him, he’s to be made prisoner at once.”

“It’s already done, your Highness.”

“What! Has Powell been taken?”

“No, Prince; pardon me. I meant the detachment has been sent to intercept him. I took the liberty of doing that without your orders. There was not time to communicate with your Highness, unless at the risk of being too late.”

“True, Colonel, true.”

“And it would have been too late,” he went on to explain in justification of his act. “As your Highness started to join the hawking party, perhaps you may not have noticed a man separating from it, and riding back through the trees?”

“Nein, Colonel. I did not.”

“But I did, Prince. He appeared to be one of their attendants—a groom—though in the distance one couldn’t be sure what. But from the way he went off I suspected it had something to do with our being seen. Soon as I learnt the other thing, I was sure of it. Besides, shortly after he had passed out of sight behind the firs, I distinctly heard hoof-strokes, as of a horse in full gallop. Putting that and that together it occurred to me he might have gone off to give the very warning your Highness apprehended.”

“If such were his intent, he may still?”

“No, Prince; not likely. He won’t be in time. Going out by a back gate he’ll have to ride the whole round of the park before he can get upon the Drybrook road, which is that for Gloucester. The detachment started only a few minutes—less than five—after; and on the direct route will easily head him off. They have orders to lay him by the heels, and bring him back here; it’s to be hoped the other with him.”

“Gott, Colonel! you’ve been clever. A capital stroke of strategy. If it fail, I shan’t blame you.”

“Your Highness’s approval gratifies me. I think we need not fear failure. At all events the messenger, if such he is, will be stopped, and something will be squeezed out of him as to his errand. I gave instructions that a file be sent back with him, soon as taken. So we may expect seeing him ere long. I suppose your Highness designs to quarter here for the night?”

“Any number of nights, Colonel, if one be not enough for accomplishing my purpose.”

“Half a one will be enough for that, Prince, if you proceed to accomplishing it in the way I would advise you. No timid measures will avail here; only the bold course, which conquest gives a right to, all over the world.”

Without a blush did the ruffian give utterance to his atrocious counsels; for he knew they were congenial to him into whose ears he was pouring them.

“Belike, that will be the best way,” rejoined the Prince, well knowing what was hinted at. “I come to be of your mind, Colonel. But now, return to the escort. Give directions for their going into quarters. See that sentries are set round the house, with outlying pickets. We cannot be too careful, though Monmouth is in our hands. When you have everything settled, come to me inside. Then we can talk about further action.”

Light of heart, Lunsford proceeded to the execution of the orders thus given. By the Prince’s manner—and speech, half admitting—he saw that the latter had received a rebuff, and was in the mood for violence, even to outrage. It would be nothing new to him; nor the first time for the ex-Lieutenant of the Tower to be his aid and companion in such a criminal escapade as that they were now contemplating.

Verily were Ambrose Powell’s daughters in danger! And a danger neither had conception or suspicion of.

Chapter Fifty Eight.

A Messenger Despatched.

The girls had gone upstairs, their maid, Gwenthian, attending upon them to dress for dinner, of which something had been said to the Prince when parting with him at the door.

Once inside the dressing-room, however, Sabrina, instead of proceeding to change her attire, made direct for an escritoire, the flap of which she pulled open. Then seating herself before it, she drew a sheet of paper from its drawer, and commenced writing with nervous haste.

A letter it was of no very great length, and in a few seconds finished. But before folding it up she turned to the maid saying,—

“Gwenth! Go down to the back door, and stay about there till you see cadger Jack’s sister. I expect her to come up to the house; and if nothing has hindered, she should be here very soon now. When she arrives bring her to me, without losing a moment. Do it all quietly.”

Gwenth signified her comprehension of the orders, and was about starting to execute them, when her mistress said, “Stay!” Then, after reflecting a moment, added,—

“Go into the kitchen, and tell the cook dinner is not to be served before Winny goes away—that is, if she come. In any case, it’s not to be put on the table till she has further directions about it.”

“But must we really dine along with him?” asked Vaga, as the maid passed out of the room. She had commenced making her toilette, and, inattentive to what her sister had been doing, only overheard what she said about the dinner.

“Either that or give offence. I had to speak of dinner—could not help it—and the Prince will expect us to sit at the table.”

“I’d rather sit down with Beelzebub. Oh, Sab! you can’t conceive what a vile, vulgar man—Prince though he be.”

“Yes I can; know it. Richard has told me all about him. But we must bear, and dissemble; do our best to entertain both him and his officers. I think we needn’t fear any special rudeness just yet; and if we can keep them to their good behaviour for twelve hours I ask no more.”

“Why do you say twelve hours?”

“Read that.”

It was the note she had just written; and, soon as the other had run her eyes over it, she added,—

“Now you understand?”

“I do. But how is it to be taken there?”

“By Winny. It’s just for that I gave Rees orders to send her up.”

“Couldn’t Rees have taken it himself? On horseback he would go much faster.”

“True, he might, if permitted to start. But he wouldn’t be—not the least likelihood of it. If he return to the house—which I hope he won’t—they’ll not let him leave it again. But Win will do better every way. We can trust her, and for speed she’ll get to her journey’s end quick as any courier on horseback. She knows all the short cuts and by-ways through the Forest. That will be in her favour to save time—besides safety otherwise. The fear I have is her not being at home. What a pity we didn’t know of their coming, when she was with us in the morning!”

“Perhaps not so much,” rejoined Vaga, whose subtle ear had caught the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs; two sets of them, as told by the lighter and heavier tread. “That’s Win now coming up with Gwenth. I’m almost sure of it.”

In a few seconds after both were sure of it, as the opened door discovered their maid outside on the landing with the cadgeress close behind.

“Oh, Win! we’re so glad!” exclaimed the sisters in a breath, as she was ushered into the room.

“Glad o’ what, my ladies?” asked the woman, with a puzzled look. She did not understand how they could be joyful under the circumstances.

“At your being here,” answered Sabrina. “We were afraid you might not be at home, or unable to come to us.”

“Well, mistress, I wor at home, an’ comed soon’s I got your message. But my comin’ wor nigh all bein’ for nothin’.”

“How so?”

“The Cavalière sodgers warn’t for lettin’ me in o’ the house, nor yet through the back gate. They ha’ got sentries all roun’. Besides, the yard be full o’ them wi’ their horses, an’ their imperence too.”

“They were impudent to you?”

“’Deed, yes, my ladies. Swored at me, an’ said I mauna set foot inside the gate.”

“You see what courteous guests we’ve got, sister?” said Vaga. “The attendants of a Prince! I thought it would end so.”

“Me tried to get past they,” continued the cadgeress, “by tellin’ a bit fib. I sayed us wor the washwoman come for the clothes.”

“How clever!” exclaimed Vaga, admiringly.

“Not much o’ that, mistress. Anyways it warn’t no use. Them wouldn’t allow me in after all; if’t hadn’t been for a young officer, who chanced be near, an’ ordered they let me pass. He spoke me kindly too, which wor the strangest thing o’ all.”

“Why strange?” asked Sabrina.

“On account o’ who him wor, my lady.”

“Who?”

“Captain Trevor, the one’s used to come to Hollymead fores the war.”

She had no need to particularise which. The sisters knew, and exchanged glances; that of the elder showing a peculiar intelligence.

“Odd o’ he bein’ civil to me,” pursued the woman. “Him must ’a knowed we well enough, an’ had remembrance o’ what happened on the Cat’s Hill two years ago. I tolt you about it, my ladies.”

“You did,” said Sabrina. “And it does seem a little strange of Captain Trevor not being, spiteful if he recognised you, as he must have done. But,” she added, becoming impatient, “no matter for that now. Time is pressing, and we want you to do us a service, Win. You will?”

“Why needs thee ask if us will?”

“Because there’s some danger in it.”

“That be no reason; and don’t speak o’ the danger. Please to say what’s weeshed done, Mistress Sabrina; an’ ’t shall be did if in the power o’ we to do’t.”

“This then, dear Winny. We want it taken to Gloucester.”

She held out what appeared a spill for lighting pipe or candle. It was the note she had just written, folded and doubled-folded till no longer recognisable as a sheet of paper, much less a letter. For all the cadgeress knew it to be such; and not the first of its kind she had received from the same hands, for surreptitious conveyance.

“It shall be tookt theer,” she said, in a determined way, “if the Cavalières don’t take’t from me on the way. Them won’t find it without some searchin’, though.”

Saying which, she made further reduction in the dimensions of the sheet by double knotting it; then thrust it under the coils of her luxuriant hair, and by a dexterous play of fingers so fixed it that, only undoing the plaits, could it be discovered.

The letter bore no address, nor was name signed to it. Neither inquired the cadgeress to whom it was to be delivered. Enough that Mistress Sabrina had given it to her, and it was for Gloucester. She knew there was a man there it must be meant for; she herself, for a special reason, being always well posted up as to the whereabouts of Sir Richard Walwyn and his Foresters.

“Thee weesh me to start immediate I suppose, my lady?”

“At once—soon as you can get off. How long will it take you to get to Gloucester?”

“Well, for usual me an’ Jack be’s ’bout four hours fra Ruardean. But I once’t did the journey myself in a bit less’n three, an’ can go t’ same again.”

“It’s now a little after six—only ten minutes,” said Sabrina, consulting her three-cornered watch. “Do you think you could get there by nine?”

“Sure o’ that; an afores, if us be alive, an’ nothin’ happen to stop we on the way.”

“Oh! I hope there won’t, dear Winny. Time is of such importance; so much depending upon it. Ay, it may be lives.”

She leant forward, and whispered some words into the woman’s ear; either a last pressing injunction, or, it might be, promise of reward for the service to be performed. Whatever it was, on the face of the Forest Amazon there was an expression of ready assent; then a humorous smile, as she made haste to be gone, saying,—

“Now, Gwenthy! gie us the clothes for the wash!”

The maid, as her mistress, looked a little puzzled. But quickly comprehending, all three set to collecting such lingerie as they could lay hands on, soon making up a bundle big enough to represent a week’s consignment for the laundry.

Which the pretended washerwoman having hoisted on her head, started downstairs with it; Gwenthian, by direction, going along to see her out of doors, assist her in cajoling the sentries, and bring back report whether these had been safely passed.

Chapter Fifty Nine.

Brought Home a Prisoner.

After the cadgeress had gone out of the room the anxiety of the sisters was, for a while, of the keenest. The first flush of excitement over, they saw danger in what they had done. Should their messenger be stopped outside, and the note found upon her, there was that in it which could not fail to compromise them. Moreover its contents had reference to an important matter, a design that would be all defeated.

Luckily they had not long to endure suspense. A light tread on the stairs told of Gwenthian returning; and as she appeared in the doorway, kept open for her, the joyous expression on her face betokened a successful issue to the affair she had been sent upon.

“Win’s got safe away?” was her triumphant announcement, as she tripped lightly into the room.

“Good!” exclaimed both, Sabrina going on to inquire particulars.

“Did they let her pass without any questioning?”

“No, indeed, mistress. The sentries at the back gate—there are two at it—stopped her; and one pulled the bundle off her head. They were going to open and examine it, when Captain Trevor came up, and ordered them to put it back again. Then he passed her through the gate, saying something—like in a friendly way.”

“Did you hear what he said?”

“Only to the soldiers; telling them to let the washerwoman alone. But Win gave them a bit of her tongue too, as if she was real angry?”

“You saw her well away?”

“Yes, mistress; beyond where there were any of the people. She took the path to the falconer’s lodge, where she’s to leave the things.”

“Why leave them there?”

“Because she don’t intend returning to her own cottage. That, she said, would delay her; besides, some of the soldiers might be straying along the Ruardean road, and stop her again. She’s gone the way through the woods.”

The ladies felt relieved. Win would manage it if woman could; and should she succeed in reaching Gloucester, they might ere long look for other relief from the dangers that environed them.

But there was something to be done meanwhile; their unwelcome visitors to be entertained. And how to extend hospitality to such was a perplexing problem. Not only their numbers, but their character made it so. The common soldiers could take care of themselves outside; the signs and sounds told they were already doing so; but the Prince himself, and the officers in his suite, would have to be treated in a different way. Dinner had been spoken of—supper as called then—and this was the first thing to be thought about.

“Go down again, Gwenth,” commanded Sabrina, acting mistress of the mansion, “tell the cook to set it upon the table as soon as it is ready.”

“For how many, my lady?”

“Oh! I can’t tell. Let her count for, say a score; and send in all the eatables she can command.”

As the maid went kitchenward to deliver the somewhat indefinite directions, her young mistresses turned to making their toilette at length and at last. And, perhaps, never was one made more reluctantly, or less elaborately, for a Prince of the blood Royal. Little cared they how they might look in his eyes, or any other eyes that were to be upon them. For their hearts were full of heaviness; oppressed by keen anxiety about their father—still apprehending his return home. They knew how much he was compromised with the King’s party; had been ever since the rebellion began, and before. For, ere blow had been struck, or sword drawn, had he not resisted the loan by Privy Seal? And here again at Hollymead were the two men who had attempted to levy that loan upon him—Colonel Lunsford and Captain Reginald Trevor! They would be satisfied with no money contribution now; but meant making him their prisoner, with some severe punishment for his “delinquency.”

So feared his daughters at that hour; and, as a consequence, had little care or thought about anything besides; even of the peril impending over themselves.

“It’s strange, Rej Trevor behaving in such a way to Win,” remarked Vaga, as she stood before the mirror adjusting her rebellious tresses. “He couldn’t help knowing her, as she herself says. Once seen she’s not the sort to be easily forgotten. And after that encounter they had on the Cat’s Hill! Very strange, isn’t it?”

“Yes, indeed,” assented Sabrina; “I’ve been wondering at it myself, and at something besides.”

“What besides?”

“His behaviour in every way. He seems altogether changed.”

“I’ve had no opportunity of observing it. What makes you think so?”

“While you were apart with the Prince we had some conversation. He talks quite differently from his old frivolous way. And no more has he the swaggering manner which used to be so offensive.”

“Then he’s not the conceited Cavalier of twelve months ago?”

“Anything but that. Had I not known him in the past I should set him down for a modest young fellow, of rather melancholy temperament; or more like one who had some sorrow preying upon him.”

“What can it be, I wonder?” She had her conjecture as to what, but forbore declaring it. She had not forgotten—how could she?—his confession, made in passionate appeal, at their last interview. She knew his indifference at their parting was the purest affectation, and that the fish he had gone to catch had not been caught.

Recalling that scene, her sister could have answered the question with a near approach to the truth. But she, too, retentive of her real thoughts, but said in careless rejoinder,—

“Oh! I suppose the events of the war, which have had a saddening effect on everybody.”

“Not everybody. These self-invited guests of ours are at least an exception. Listen to them!” By this the officers of the Prince’s escort had entered the house; and from their loud talk and laughter were evidently making themselves at home and free with everything. They could be heard issuing commands, and calling out orders to the servants, as though the place were a public inn.

“Like as not,” continued Vaga, still incredulous about Reginald Trevor’s conversion, “like as not your ‘modest young fellow of rather melancholy temperament’ is laughing among the loudest of them. I fancy I hear his voice.”

“No, Vag, I don’t think you do. I can’t.”

“Well, may be not. And it’s to be hoped he’s sobered, as you say. He needed it. Strange if he is though, in the retinue of Prince Rupert, whose precept and example are more likely to have a reverse tendency. Possibly Master Rej is only humble in the presence of the High Mightiness, his master. When the big dog is by, the little one has to be on its good behaviour.”

“I scarce think it’s that; and you may be wronging him.”

“If I am I shall be glad to know it. But how odd all this?” she added, yielding to a sudden recollection. “Time was when you, Sab, were all the other way about Rej Trevor; used to caution me against him!”

She had faced towards her sister, and stood with hands full of loose hair that fell as a cataract of molten gold over her ivory shoulders.

“True, I did. And with reasons then. Our father was against him more than I; which may have influenced me.”

“And now?”

“Now I admit never having believed him so very bad—I mean at heart.”

“Oh! nobody ever said he had a very bad heart. His head was more blamed for getting him ill repute.”

“His habits rather.”

“Say habits, then. But why are you thus defending him?”

“Because of his seeming so friendly to us. All he said to me just now, with his manner, was as one who felt sorry at our being thus intruded on. He knows it’s not agreeable to us—cannot be. And his behaviour to Win—that confirms my belief that he has no hostile feelings to us.”

“Don’t be so confident till we’re sure she’s safe off. It may be only a trap to catch us. How know we he hasn’t followed to bring her back again, and so win favour from his princely patron. I wouldn’t wonder if it’s something of that kind. For in what other way is his conduct to be accounted for?”

“Heaven help us if it be that! But I won’t—can’t believe it.”

“Well, we shall soon know, now. If Win get away, I’ll think better of Rej Trevor than I’ve ever done.”

“If she do, to-morrow’s sun may see soldiers here in green uniforms, with red ones as their prisoners, and you and I, sister, will have done something for the good cause—for Liberty!”

In her most tranquil mien Sabrina Powell was an imposing personage; but now, excited to enthusiasm by the word “Liberty” on her lips, and its inspiration in her heart, with her grand eyes aglow, she looked its very Goddess.

She had finished her toilette, and stood at the window, a front one, commanding view of the avenue and entrance gate of the park. But not long was she there before seeing that which brought a black shadow upon her brow, with chill fear into her heart.

“Oh, Vaga?” she called to her sister, still at the mirror, “come hither! See what’s down yonder!”

The summons, in tone almost of agony, drew the other instantly to her side, with tresses trailing. To see three horsemen, who had just passed through the gate, and were coming on for the house. They rode abreast; he in the middle being in sombre civilian garb, the two who flanked him wearing the scarlet uniform of the soldiers already around the house.

“’Tis Rees!” exclaimed Sabrina, recognising the groom. “They’ve taken him prisoner!”

“Indeed, yes; ’tis he. Oh, sister, dear! if father should be coming home now? I hope he’s still in Gloucester!”

Vain hope; almost on the instant to know disappointment. For before those already entered were half-way up the long avenue, more red coats were seen riding through the gate, in their midst a man in dark dress—he, too, evidently conducted as a prisoner. “’Tis father!”

Chapter Sixty.

Quartered upon the Enemy.

Night had descended over Hollymead. A dark night, too, though there was no lack of light inside the house or around it. Nearing November the atmosphere had a frosty feel, and great wood fires were burning in the wide chimney places of the reception rooms. Without, in the centre of the courtyard, a very bonfire had been kindled, which sent its red glare and glow to the most distant corner of the inclosure. Around this were seated or standing, in every variety of attitude, such of the common soldiers of the escort as were not upon duty. Carousing, of course. For the rank and file of the Royalist army, especially that portion of it which acted under Rupert, followed the fashion of their officers; and one of the affectations of Cavalierism was to display a superior capacity for indulgence in drink.

About the house they had found the wherewithal to give them a good supper, with more than drink enough to wash it down. For when Monmouth fell into the hands of the Parliamentarians, the Master of Hollymead, thinking it safe, had done something to restock his pastures, as also replenish larder and cellars! And once more these were in the way of getting speedily depleted; the thirsty troopers around the courtyard fire quaffing at free tap from a cask of ale they had rolled out upon the pavement; while they bandied coarse jests, told indecent stories, or sang songs of like character, roaring in chorus.

Inside there was revelry also. Of a less rude kind; still revelry, and coarse enough, considering that they who indulged in it composed the entourage of a Prince. In the dining-hall was it being held, around a table on which stood a varied assortment of bottles and decanters, goblets and glasses. There had been a repast upon it, that same dinner-supper; but the dishes and débris of solids had been removed, and only the drinking materials remained. Nearly a score of guests encircled it, all gentlemen; and all in military uniform—being the officers of the escort—not a man in citizen garb seen among them. For the master of the house was not at the head of his own table, as might have been expected. Instead, shut up in one of the rooms adjacent; its door locked, and a sentry stationed outside!

His daughters were upstairs, in their private apartment, from which they had never come down. Through the window they had seen their father brought back under guard, as a felon; saw it with indignation, but also fear. Greater became the last, when told they could not hold speech with him, or have access to the room in which he was confined. Denied interview with their own father, in their own house! Inhumanity that augured ill for what was to come after.

What this might be they could neither tell nor guess. They even feared to reflect upon it; trembling at every footstep on the stairs. Though no key had been turned upon them, nor sentry set at their door, they were as much imprisoned as their father. For the Prince’s retinue of servants filled the house, tramping and roaming about everywhere, and bullying the family domestics. It was not safe to go out among them; and the young ladies had locked themselves up, dreading insult, if not absolute outrage. Even Gwenthian dared not trust herself downstairs, and shared their confinement.

What did it all mean? Why such change in the behaviour of the Prince, so late pretending amiability? For his people must have sanction, or they would not be so acting.

The explanation was simple, withal. Shortly after Rupert’s arrival at Hollymead, a courier, who had followed him from Monmouth, brought tidings of another Royalist reverse—Chepstow, with its castle, taken or closely beleaguered. Exasperated by the intelligence, he no longer resisted the wicked proposals of Lunsford, but gave willing assent to them. And now, having thrown off the mask, he had determined on taking the whole Powell family back with him to Bristol. As his prisoner there he could do with the “bit of saucy sweetness” as it might please him; as he had done with many other unfortunate women whom the chances of war had brought within his wanton embrace.

It had been all settled, save some details about the departure from Hollymead, the time, and the return route. These were now being discussed between him and the commanding officer of his escort, as they sate at a side table to which they had temporarily withdrawn, to be out of earshot, of the others.

“Should we remain here for the night, mein Colonel, or make back to Monmouth? We can get there before midnight.”

“That we could, easily enough, your Highness. But why go by Monmouth at all?”

“Why not?”

“There are two reasons against it, Prince. Both good ones.”

“Give them, Sir Thomas.”

“If it be true that Chepstow’s lost to us, there may be a difficulty in our crossing the Wye down there. Or getting over to the Aust passage of the Severn, with such a weak force as attends your Highness.”

“Gott! yes; I perceive that. But what’s your other reason against Monmouth way?”

“A more delicate one. To pass through that town with such a captive train as your Highness will have might give tongue for scandal. The venerable Marquis of Worcester is rather squeamish; besides not being your best friend. You know that, Prince?”

“I do know it, and will some day make him sorry for it, the old Papist hypocrite. But what other route would you have us take?”

“Down through the Forest direct, and across the Severn, either at Newnham or Westbury. There’s a ferry at both places, with horse-boats enough to take us all over in a trip or two. We may reach Berkeley Castle before daylight; where, if it be your Highness’s pleasure to lie up for the day, you could enter Bristol on the following night without all the world being the wiser as to the sort of prisoners we carried in.”

“Egad! your reasons are good. I’m inclined to follow your advice, and return by the route you speak of. Are you well acquainted with it, mein Colonel?”

“Reasonably well, your Highness. But Captain Trevor knows it better than I. He was longer with Sir John Wintour, and is familiar with every crook and turn of the Forest roads in that quarter. There can be no danger of our going astray.”

“But the night’s dark as pitch. So one has just told me.”

“True it is now, your Highness. But there’ll be a moon this side midnight, and that will be time enough to start. We can make Berkeley before morning—prisoners, crossing the Severn, and all delays notwithstanding. Next night your Highness may sleep in your own bed within the walls of Bristol Castle, with a sweet creature to share it—whom I need not designate by name.”

“She shall share it!” rejoined the Royal reprobate, in reckless, but determined tone, his wicked passions fired by the wine he had been drinking. “And we go that way, Colonel. So see that all be ready for the route soon as the moon shows her sweet face. Meanwhile, let us back to our comrades and be merry.”

Saying which he returned to the chair he had vacated at the head of the table, the other along with him; then, grasping a filled goblet, he called out the Cavalier’s orthodox sentiment “The Wenches!” adding,—

“Colonel Lunsford will respond with a song, gentlemen!”

Which the Colonel did; giving that they liked best, with a chorus they could all join in,—

“We’ll drink, drink; And our goblets clink, Quaffing the blood-red wine. The wenches we’ll toast, And the Roundheads we’ll roast, The Croppies and all their kind.”

The coarse refrain, with the ribald jests that followed it, could be heard all over the house, reaching the ears of its imprisoned owner. Even those of his daughters, more distant, did not escape being offended by them. No wonder at both having in their hearts, if not on their lips, the prayer,—“God speed Win upon her errand!”

Chapter Sixty One.

A Courageous Wader.

The Severn was in flood, its wide valley a sheet of water, which extended miles from either bank, and far up north towards Worcester. Viewed from an eminence, it looked as if the primeval sea which once washed the foots of the Malvern Hills had rolled back over its ancient bed.

The city of Gloucester seemed standing on an island, some of its houses, that lay low, submerged, and only approachable by boats; while the causeways of the roads leading from it were under water, in places to a depth of several feet.

This it was which had hindered Ambrose Powell arriving at Hollymead House many hours earlier than that on which he was taken to it a prisoner. For, soon as receiving news of the re-capture of Monmouth, instinctively apprehending danger to the dear ones so unwisely left alone, he had hurriedly started homeward; to be delayed by the obstructing flood. Nearing home with heart a prey to anxiety, harassed by the thought of his own imprudence; at length reaching it to find his worst fears realised; himself no longer free.

The waters still prevailing in the Severn Valley and around Gloucester, it seemed impossible to enter that city, save by boat. Yet on that same night a pedestrian could have been seen making towards it from the direction of Mitcheldean; one who meant it as the objective point of her journey—for it was a woman.

The great cathedral clock was just tolling nine p.m. as she descended into the lowlands near Highnam, and came to a stop by the edge of the inundated district. It was dark, the moon still below the horizon; but her precursory rays, reflected from fleecy clouds above it, threw a faint light over the aqueous surface, sufficient to make objects distinguishable at a good hundred yards’ distance. Copses that seemed islets, with the tufted heads of pollarded willows rising weirdlike out of the water, were the conspicuous features of the flooded landscape. Rows of the latter marked the boundaries of meadows; but two running parallel, with a narrower list between, indicated the causeway of the road.

The woman had approached this point at a rapid pace; and, though brought to a stand, it was but a momentary pause, without thought of turning back. Her attitude, and the expression upon her features, told of a determination to continue on, and get inside Gloucester if that were possible. In all haste, too; for as the strokes of the great clock-bell came booming over the water, she counted them with evident anxiety, in fear of their tolling ten instead of nine. Even the lesser number seemed scarcely to satisfy her; as if, withal, she might be too late for the business she was bent upon.

She but waited for the final reverberation; then, drawing her skirts knee high, walked boldly into the flood, and onward.

Ankle-deep at the first step, she was soon in water that washed around her garters. Here and there, with a current too, which threatened to sweep her off her feet. But it did not deter her from advancing; and on went she, without stop or show of hesitation; no sign of quailing in her eye.

At knee’s depth, as ere long she was, still enough of her showed above the surface to represent the stature of an ordinary woman. For she was not an ordinary woman, in height or otherwise—being Winny, the cadgeress.

On tramped the courageous wader, on plunged, till the water was up to mid thigh. No more then did her face show fear; nor sign of intention to turn back. She would have gone on, had it come to swimming. For swim she could; many the time having bathed her body in both Severn and Wye. That was not needed now, though very near it. Even over the raised ridge of the causeway the flood was feet deep. But, familiar with the route, having the landmarks in her memory—for it was not her first time to travel that road when submerged—she knew all its turns and bearings; how to take them; took them; and at length having passed the deepest depths, saw before her the Severn’s bridge, with its elevated tête-de-pont; and, beyond, the massive tower of the cathedral, amidst a surrounding of roofs and chimneys.

Her perilous journey was near its end, the toilsome journey nigh over; and she felt happy. For, as through frost some twelve months before, she had approached Bristol with pleasant anticipations, so now was she about to enter Gloucester with the same, and from a similar cause.

Her expectancy was realised sooner than she had hoped for; the result identical to a degree of oddness. For just as upon that night at Bristol, so on this at Gloucester, Rob Wilde chanced to be guard-sergeant of the gate by which she sought admission.

And once again went their great arms around each other; their lips closing in kisses loud and fervent as ever.

“God Almighty, Win!” he exclaimed, still holding her in honest, amorous embrace, “what bet now? Why hast thee comed hither through the flood? Dear girl! ye be’s wet up to the—”

“No matter how high, Rob,” she said, interrupting, “if ’twor up to the neck, there be good reasons for’t.”

“What reasons?”

“News I ha’ brought frae Ruardean; rayther us ought say Hollymead.”

“Bad news be they? I needn’t axe; I see’t in your face.”

“Bad enough; though nothin’ more than might ha’ been expected after the Cavalières bein’ back at Monnerth, an’ master’s theer. Ye ha’ heerd that, I suppose?”

“Oh, certainly! The news got here day afore yesterday, in the night. But fra Hollymead?”

“A troop o’ ’em there, numberin’ nigh two hundred; horse sodjers in scarlet, wi’ all sorts o’ grand trappins; the Prince Rupert’s they be. Us ha’ come wi’ a message to Sir Richard. So I needn’t tell ye who’t be from.”

“No, you needn’t. I can guess. Then ye maun see him at once?”

“Wi’ not a minute’s delay. Us ha’ got a letter for him; an’ she as sent it sayed the deliverin’ be a thing o’ life an’ death. I knows that myself, Rob.”

“Come along, love! The colonel be in his quarters, I think. He wor by the gate here only a short whiles ago, and gied me orders for reportin’ to him there. Another kiss, Win dear, fore’s we get into company.”

The favour was conceded soon as asked; and, after another hug, with more, than one osculation, the two great figures moved off side by side through the darkness.

Chapter Sixty Two.

Their Dear Ones in Danger.

As the sergeant conjectured, Colonel Walwyn was in his quarters; Eustace Trevor, his almost constant companion, along with him. The ever-active Governor of Gloucester was absent on another of his many expeditions, and had left Colonel Broughton in chief command of the garrison, Sir Richard commanding its cavalry force, with a separate jurisdiction.

The duties of the day over, with all guards stationed for the night, he, with his young troop captain, having just completed the “Grand Rounds,” had returned to quarters, and taken seat by a brisk wood fire; the night, as already said, being chill.

Hubert was bustling about in attendance upon them; for, though a gaudy trumpeter, he took delight in serving his revered colonel in every possible capacity. There was nothing menial in waiting upon such a master—so thought the faithful henchman.

He had uncorked a bottle of claret, and placed it on the table between them, which they proceeded to discuss as they reviewed the events of the day. The knight was no anchorite, neither the ci-devant gentleman-usher; both accustomed to take their wine in a moderate way. And both habitually cheerful, save when some reverse of arms gave reason for their being otherwise.

Such there was now, or lately had been—that of Monmouth still in their minds. Sir Richard regretted not having been himself charged to keep the place he had been chiefly instrumental in capturing. Had it been so, the enemy would not so easily have retaken it. That he might well think or say, without any self-conceit. For in the most blundering manner had Major Throgmorton, left in temporary command, managed its defence; in truth, making no defence at all, but allowing the Royalists to re-enter almost without striking blow.

The affair was truly farcical, however serious for the Parliament. Its County Committee was at the time in session; decreeing fines and sequestrations against the Monmouthshire “malignants”; when all at once confronted by the very men with whose estates and chattels they were playing at confiscation; these armed, and angrily vociferating—“Surrender! you are our prisoners!”

Never were judicial deliberations brought to a more abrupt ending; never transfer of authority more ludicrously sudden. Though it was aught but a jesting matter to the dispossessed ones, who from a comfortable council-chamber were instantly hurried off to the cells of a dismal jail.

Of course the Cavaliers made much fun over the affair; while reversely their adversaries were chagrined and humiliated by it.

Few grieved over the event in a greater degree than Colonel Walwyn and Captain Eustace Trevor; for they had special reasons.

“I only wish I’d known of that danger when we got Massey’s order to march hither,” observed the former, as they sat sipping their wine.

“What would you have done, Sir Richard?”

“Disobeyed it; and marched our men in opposite direction—to Monmouth.”

“Ah, true! A pity you didn’t. It might have been the saving of the place.”

“No use lamenting the disaster now it’s done. Would that the taking of the town were all you and I, Trevor, have concern about! Unfortunately it isn’t. What madness leaving the girls at Hollymead—absolute insanity?”

“It was. I thought so at the time, as did Vaga.”

“Sabrina too; everybody but Powell himself. He couldn’t be convinced there was any danger; and I still hope there may not be. But who knows what the upshot now? I tremble to think of it.”

“It’s to be regretted, we didn’t more press him to come away with us.”

“Oh! that would have been of no use. I did urge it on him—far as I could becomingly. But he had one of his obstinate, pig-headed fits upon him that day, and would listen to no reason. It’s not pleasant having to speak so of him, whom we both look forward to as our future father-in-law; but when he’s in that frame of mind Heaven and earth wouldn’t move him. Nor the devil frighten him either. You remember how he braved Lunsford, and that precious cousin of yours, when they came to collect the King’s loan. True, he had us, and something besides, at his back. But without that he’d have defied them all the same; ay, had the whole Royalist army been there threatening him with instant death.”

“That I fully believe. Yet one cannot help admiring his independence of spirit—so much of manhood in it, and so rare!”

“Ay, true. But in that case too much recklessness. It has begot danger, and may bring disaster upon all of us—if it hasn’t already.”

The last words, spoken in a grave, almost despondent tone, fell unpleasantly on the ear of Eustace Trevor, already sufficiently apprehensive of the thing hinted at.

“In what way, colonel?” he queried anxiously. “Are you thinking of any special danger?”

“I am, indeed; and to our dear ones.”

“But how? From what—whom?”

“Rather ask ‘from where?’ and I’ll answer ‘Monmouth.’ Now that the Royalists are masters there, almost for certain they’ll be raiding up into the Forest; and likely, too likely, a party pay visit to Hollymead. That, as you know, Trevor, were danger enough to those we have fears for?”

“But now that their father has gone to fetch them away? He should be there long before this.”

“And long before this may be too late. Just what I’m most anxious about—the time of his arrival at Hollymead; for I know he won’t stay there an instant. Poor man! he’s sadly repentant of his imprudent act, and will make all haste to bring them back with him. The fear is of the flood having delayed him too long at starting—my fear.”

“Good Heavens?” exclaimed the young officer; “let us hope not.”

“If Massey were here,” continued the other, a thought striking him, “I’d ask leave to go after him. Indeed, I feel half-inclined to take it, without asking.”

“And why not, Colonel? We could be at Ruardean and back before morning—riding at a pace.”

Sir Richard was silent, seeming to ponder. Only for a few seconds; when, as if resolved, he sprang to his feet, saying,—

“I’ll risk it, whatever the result. And we shall start at once, taking our own fellows along with us. Hubert!”

Quick as the call came the trumpeter from aft ante-room, where he had stayed in waiting. To receive the order,—

“To the men’s quarters, and sound the ‘Assembly’! Lose not a moment!”

And not a moment lost the trumpeter, knowing that when Colonel Walwyn gave an order in such excited strain it meant promptest obedience. Snatching up his trumpet, as he hurried out through the ante-room, he was in the street in an instant hurrying towards the cavalry quarters.

Chapter Sixty Three.

An Exciting Epistle.

“Trevor!” cried the colonel to his troop captain, now also upon his feet, and sharing his excitement; “send out an orderly to summon Harley and our other officers. Perhaps you had best go yourself. You know where to find them, I suppose?”

“I think I do, colonel.”

“Use all despatch. As we’ve made up our minds to this thing, the sooner we’re in the saddle the better.”

The counsel to make haste was little called for. Eustace Trevor itched to be in the saddle, as ever disciple of Saint Hubert on the first day of foxhunting. But just as he was about to step over the threshold of the outer door, he saw a party approaching evidently with the design to enter. Two individuals they were, a man and woman, still within the dim light of the overshadowing houses. For all, he had no difficulty in recognising them. Colossal stature as theirs was far from common; the pair being Rob Wilde and Winny.

He saw them with some surprise—at least the woman. For he had not expected seeing her there. There she was, though; and, as quick intuition told him, her presence might have some bearing on that he was about to issue forth, for he awaited their coming up.

Soon they stood at the door, face to face with him; the sergeant saluting soldier fashion, while the woman curtseyed.

“You, Winifred!” exclaimed the young officer. “I was not aware of your being in Gloucester.”

“Her han’t been in it more’n ten minutes, captain,” said the sergeant, speaking for her. “I ha’ just lets her in at the gate. Her be wantin’ a word wi’ the colonel.”

“She’ll be welcome to that, I’m sure. But first go in yourself and see.”

This was in accordance with military etiquette, indeed regulations; no stranger admitted to the presence of a commanding officer without being announced, and permission given. Rob himself came not under the rule, and was about to pass inside; when a thought occurring to Captain Trevor, the latter turned upon his heel and preceded him.

“Well, Wilde, what is it?” asked Sir Richard, as they entered the room. Eagerly, too, seeing that the features of the big sergeant wore a portentous expression. “Any trouble with your gate-guard?”

“No, Colonel; nothin’ o’ that.”

“Some news come in?”

“Just so, Sir Richard; an’ not o’ the best neyther.”

“Indeed! What news? Whence?”

“Fra Ruardean, or, to speak more partickler, fra Hollymead House.”

Both colonel and captain were now all ears. No spot on the habitable globe had such interest for them as Hollymead House, and from nowhere was intelligence so eagerly desired.

“Tell it, sergeant!” was the impatient command.

“A party o’ the King’s soldiers be quartered there—cavalry.”

“O God?” exclaimed Eustace Trevor, almost in a groan; the knight also showing grievously affected. “How did you get this news?”

“Win ha’ brought it.”

“Win?”

“Yes, colonel. Her be outside the door—waitin’ permission to speak wi’ you. She ha’ been trusted wi’ a letter from the young ladies.”

“Bring her in—instantly!”

“Singular coincidence, Trevor!” said Sir Richard, as the sergeant passed out. “Already at Hollymead! Just what we’ve been fearing!”

“Indeed, so. And all the more reason for our being there too.”

“I wonder who they are. Lingen’s, think you?”

“Rob says they’re quartered there. That would hardly be Lingen’s—so near his own garrison at Goodrich? More like some of Lord Herbert’s Horse from Monmouth. And I hope it may be they.”

“Ah! true; it might be worse. But we’ll soon hear. The cadgeress can tell, no doubt; or it’ll be in the letter.”

The door, reopening, showed the Forest Amazon outside, Rob conducting her in. They could see that she was wet to the waist, her saturated skirt clinging around limbs of noble outline; while her heaving bosom with the heightened colour of her cheeks, told of a journey but just completed, and made in greatest haste.

“You have a letter for me?” said Sir Richard interrogatively, as she stepped inside the room. “Yes, your honner, fra Hollymead.” She spoke with hand raised to her head, as if adjusting one of the plaits of her hair. Instead, she was searching among them for the concealed epistle. Which, soon found, was handed over to him for whom it was intended.

No surprise to Sir Richard at seeing a thing more like curl-paper than letter. It was not the first time for him to receive such, in a similar way; and, straightening it out under the lamplight, he was soon acquainted with its contents.

So far from having the effect of allaying his excitement they but increased it, and he cried out to the sergeant, as he had to the trumpeter,—

“Quick to the men’s quarters, Wilde, and help getting all ready for the route! Hubert’s there by this time, and will have sounded the ‘Assembly.’ Read that, Trevor! There’s something that concerns you,” and he handed the letter to his troop captain.

The sergeant hurried away, leaving Win to be further questioned by the colonel. And while this was going on the young officer perused the epistle, to be affected by it in a similar fashion. It ran thus:—

“Ill tidings, Richard. Prince Rupert here, with his escort—about two hundred. Has just arrived, and intends staying the night; indeed, till father return home, he says. I hope father will not come home, unless you come with him. I’m sure they mean him harm. That horrid man, Lunsford, is in the Prince’s suit; Reginald Trevor too. Winny will tell you more; I fear to lose time in writing. Dear Richard! come if you can.”

So the body of the epistle, with below a postscript, in a different handwriting, well-known to Eustace Trevor:—“Dearest Eustace! we are in danger, I do believe.” The words were significant; and no form of appeal for rescue could have been more pressing. Nor was such needed; neither any urging of haste upon the men thus admonished.

Never was squadron of cavalry sooner in the saddle, after getting orders, than was “Walwyn’s Horse” on that night. In less than twenty minutes later, they went at a gallop through the north-western gate of Gloucester, opened to give them exit; then on along the flooded causeway, riding rowells deep, plunging and flinging the spray-drops high in air, till every man was dripping wet, from the plume in his hat to the spurs upon his heels.

Chapter Sixty Four.

A House on Fire.

The moon had risen, but only to be seen at intervals. Heavy cumuli drifting sluggishly athwart the sky, now and then drew curtain-like over her disk, making the earth dark as Erebus. Between these recurrent cloud eclipses, however, her light was of the clearest; for the atmosphere otherwise was without haze or mist.

She was shining in full effulgence, as a body of horsemen commenced breasting the pitch which winds up from Mitcheldean to the Wilderness. Their distinctive standard was sheathed—not needing display in the night; but the green uniforms, and the cocks’-tail feathers pluming their hats, told them to be Walwyn’s Horse—the Foresters.

They were still wet with the flood-water through which they had waded after clearing the gates of Gloucester. Their horses too; the coats of these further darkened by sweat, save where the flakes of white froth, tossed back on their necks and counters, gave them a piebald appearance. All betokened a terrible pace, and such had they kept up, scarce slowing for an instant from the flood’s edge till they entered the town of Mitcheldean.

Then it was but a momentary halt in the street, and without leaving the saddle; just long enough to inquire whether Master Ambrose Powell had that day passed through the place. He had; late in the afternoon. On horseback, without any attendant, and apparently in great haste.

“Prisoner or not, they have him at Hollymead now,” observed Sir Richard to Eustace Trevor, as they trotted on through the town to the foot of the hill where the road runs up to the Wilderness.

To gallop horses already blown against that steep acclivity would have been to kill them. But the leader of the party, familiar with it, did not put them to the test; instead, commanded a walk. And while riding side by side, he and his troop captain held something of a lengthened conversation, up to that time only a few hurried words having been exchanged between them.

“I wish the letter had been a little more explicit as to their numbers,” said Sir Richard. “About two hundred may mean three, or only one. A woman’s estimate is not the most reliable in such matters.”

“What did the cadgeress say of it, Colonel? You questioned her, I suppose?”

“Minutely; but to no purpose. She only came to the house after they had scattered all around it, and, of course, had no definite idea of their number. So we shan’t know how many we’ll have to cross swords with, till we get upon the ground.”

“If we have the chance to cross swords with any. I only wish we were sure of that.”

“The deuce! They may be gone away, you think?”

“Rather fear it, Sir Richard. Powell must have reached Hollymead before nightfall; and if they intended making him a prisoner ’twould be done at once; with no object for their staying afterwards.”

“Unless they have done a long day’s march, and meant to quarter there for the night. If they went thither direct from Bristol, which is like enough, that’s just what they’d do; stay the night, and start back for Bristol in the morning.”

“I have fears, Colonel, we won’t find it so. More likely the Prince was at Monmouth on account of what’s happened there; and will return to it—has returned already.”

“If so, Trevor, ’twill be a black night for you and me; a bitter disappointment, and something worse. If he’s gone from Hollymead, so will they—father, daughters, all. Rupert’s not the sort to leave such behind, with an abettor like Tom Lunsford. As for your cousin, remember how you crossed him. It’s but natural he should feel spiteful, and show it in that quarter.”

“If he do, I’ll cross him worse when we come to crossing swords. And I’ll find the chance. We’ve made mutual promise to give no quarter—almost sworn it. If ill befall Vaga Powell through him, I’ll keep that promise faithfully as any oath.”

“But right you should. And for settling scores you may soon have the opportunity; I trust within the hour.”

“Then, Colonel, you think they’ll still be at Hollymead.”

“I hope it rather; grounding my hope on another habit of this German Prince. One he has late been indulging to excess, ’tis said.”

“Drink?”

“Just so. In the which Lunsford, with head hard as his heart, will stand by him cup for cup.”

“But can that affect their staying at Hollymead?”

“Certainly it can; probably will.”

“How, Sir Richard?”

“By their getting inebriated there; or, at all events, enough so to make them careless about moving off before the morning. The more, as they can’t be expecting any surprise from this side. You remember there was a fair stock of wine in the cellars when we were there, best sorts too. Let loose at that, they’re likely to stay by it as long as the tap runs.”

“God grant it may run till morning then?” was the prayer of the young officer, fervently spoken. In his ways of thought and speech two years’ campaigning had made much change, deepening the gravity of one naturally of serious turn.

“No matter about morning,” rejoined Sir Richard. “If it but hold out for another hour, and we find them there, something else will then be running red as the wine. Ah, Master Lunsford! One more meeting with you, that’s what I want now. If I’m lucky enough to have it this night, this night will be the last of your life.”

The apostrophe, which was but a mental reflection, had reference to something Sabrina had been telling him, vividly recalled by the words in her latest letter, “that horrid man.”

At the same instant, and in similar strain, was Eustace Trevor reflecting about his Cousin Reginald; making mental vow that, if Vaga suffered shame by him, neither would his life be of long endurance.

By this they had surmounted the pitch, and arrived at a spot both had good reason to remember. It was the piece of level turf where once baring blades they had come so near sending one or other out of the world. Their horses remembered it too—they were still riding the same—and with a recollection which had a result quaintly comical. Soon as on the ground, without check of rein or word said, they came to a sudden halt, turned head to head, snorting and angry-like, as if expecting a renewal of the combat!

All the more strange this behaviour on the part of the animals, that, since their hostile encounter, for now over two years they had been together in amiable association!

A circumstance so odd, so ludicrous, could not fail to excite the risibility of their riders; and laugh both did, despite their serious mood at the moment. To their following it but caused surprise; two alone comprehending, so far as to see the fun of it. These Hubert, the trumpeter, and the “light varlit” then so near coming to blows with him, who through thick and thin, had ever since stuck to the ex-gentleman-usher, his master.

No doubt the little interlude would have led to some speech about it, between the chief actors in the more serious encounter it recalled, but for something at that moment seen by them, turning their thoughts into a new channel. Away westward, beyond Drybrook, beyond Ruardean Ridge, the sky showed a clearness that had nought to do with the moon’s light; instead was ruddier, and shone brighter, as this became obscured by a thick cloud drifting over her disk. A glowing, gleaming light, unusual in a way; but natural enough regarded as the glare of a conflagration—which in reality it was.

“House on fire over yonder?” cried one of the soldiers.

“May be only a haystack,” suggested a second.

“More like a town, judgin’ by the big blaze,” reasoned a third.

“There’s no town in that direction; only Ruardean, where’s we be goin’.”

“Why maunt it be Ruardean, then?” queried the first speaker; “or the church?”

“An’ a good thing if’t be the church,” put in one of strong Puritan proclivities. “It want burnin’ down, as every other, wi’ their altars an’ images. They be a curse to the country; the parsons too. They’ve taken sides wi’ the stinkin’ Cavaliers, agaynst Parliament and people, all along.”

“That’s true,” endorsed another of like iconoclastic sentiments; “an’ if it a’nt the church as be givin’ up that light, let’s luminate it when we get there. I go for that.”

A proposal which called forth a chorus of assenting responses.

While this play of words was in progress along the line of rank and file rearwards, the Colonel and Captain Trevor, at its head, were engaged in a dialogue of conjectures about the same—a brief one.

“What think you it is?” asked Sir Richard, as they sat halted in their saddles regarding the garish light. “It looks to be over Ruardean, or near it.”

“A fire of some kind, Colonel. No common one either.”

“A farmer’s rick?”

“I fear not; would we were sure of its being only that!”

“Ha! A house you think?”

“I do, Sir Richard.”

“And—?”

“The one we’re making for!”

“By Heavens! I believe it is. It bears that way to a point. Ruardean’s more to the right. Yes, it must be Hollymead!”

Both talked excitedly, but no more words passed between them there and then. The next heard was the command—“March—double quick!” and down the hill to Drybrook went they at a gallop over the tiny stream, and up the long winding slope round the shoulder of Ruardean Hill—without halt or draw on bridle. There only poising for an instant, as they came within view of the village and saw the conflagration was not in, but wide away from it; the glare and sparks ascending over the spot where Hollymead House should be, but was no more.

As, continuing their gallop, they rode in through the park gates, it was to see a vast blazing pile, like a bonfire built by Titans—the fagots’ great beams heaped together confusedly—from which issued a hissing and crackling, with at intervals loud explosions, as from an ordnance magazine on fire.

Chapter Sixty Five.

Very Near an Encounter.

Mitcheldean lies at the foot of the steep façade already spoken of as forming a periphery to the elevated Forest district. The slope ascends direct from the western skirts of the little town; but outlying ridges also inclose it on the north, east, and south, so that even the tall spire of its church is invisible from any great distance. So situated, railways give it a wide berth; and few places better deserve the title “secluded.” The only sort of traveller who ever thinks of paying it a visit is the “commercial,” or some pedestrian tourist, crossing the Forest from the Severn side to view the more picturesque scenery of the Wye, with intention to make stoppage at the ancient hostelry of the Speech House, midway between.

In the days of the saddle and pack-horse, however, things were different with Mitcheldean. Being on one of the direct routes of travel from the metropolis to South Wales, and a gate of entry, as it were, to the Forest on its eastern side, it was then a place of considerable note; its people accustomed to all sorts of wayfarers passing daily, hourly through it.

Since the breaking out of the Rebellion these had been mostly of the military kind, though not confined to either party in the strife. One would march through to-day, the other to-morrow; so that, hearing the trample of hoofs, rarely could the townsmen tell whether Royalists or Parliamentarians were coming among them, till they saw their standards in the street.

They would rather have received visit from neither; but, compelled to choose, preferred seeing the soldiers of the Parliament. So when Walwyn’s Horse came rattling along, their green coats, with the cocks’-tail feathers in their hats, distinguishable in the clear moonlight, the closed window shutters were flung open; and night-capped heads—for most had been abed—appeared in them without fear exchanging speech with the soldiers halted in the street below.

Altogether different their behaviour when, in a matter of ten minutes after, a second party of horsemen came to a halt under their windows; these in scarlet coats, gold laced, with white ostrich feathers in their hats—the Prince of Wales’s plume, with its appropriate motto of servility, “Ich dien.”

Seeing it, the townsmen drew in their heads, closed the shutters, and were silent. Not going back to their beds, however; but to sit up in fear and trembling, till the renewed hoof-strokes told them of the halt over, and the red-coated Cavaliers ridden off again.

It need scarce be said that these were Rupert and his escort, en route for Westbury; and had Walwyn’s Horse stopped ten minutes longer in Mitcheldean, the two bodies would have there met face to face; since they were proceeding in opposite directions. A mere accident hindered their encountering; the circumstance, that from the town two roads led up to the Forest, one on each side of the Wilderness, both again uniting in the valley of Drybrook. The northern route had been taken by the Parliamentarian party ascending; while the Royalists descended by the southern one, called the “Plump Hill.” Just at such time as to miss one another, though but by a few minutes. For the rearmost files of the former had barely cleared the skirts of the town going out, when the van of the latter entered it at a different point.

The interval, however, was long enough to prevent those who went Forestwards from getting information of what they were leaving so close behind. Could they have had that, quick would have been their return down hill, and the streets of Mitcheldean the arena of a conflict to the cry, “No Quarter!”

As it was, the hostile cohorts passed peacefully through, out, and onwards on their respective routes; though Prince Rupert knew how near he had been to a collision, and could still have brought it on. But that was the last thing in his thoughts; instead, soon as learning what had gone up to the Forest, who they were, and who their leader, his stay in Mitcheldean was of the shortest, and his way out of it not Forestwards but straight on for the Severn.

And in all the haste he could make, cumbered as he was with captives. For he carried with him a captive train; a small one, consisting of but three individuals—scarce necessary to say, Ambrose Powell and his daughters. They were on horseback; the ladies wrapped in cloaks, and so close hooded that their faces were invisible. Even their figures were so draped as to be scarce distinguishable from those of men; all done with a design, not their own; but that of those who had them in charge. In passing through Mitcheldean precautions had been taken to hinder their being recognised; double files of their guards riding in close order on each side of them, so that curious eyes should not come too near. But, when once more out on the country road, the formation “by twos” was resumed; the trio of prisoners, each with a trooper right and left, conducted behind the knot of officers on the Prince’s personal staff, he himself with Lunsford leading.

Soon as outside the town the two last, as usual riding together, and some paces in the advance, entered on dialogue of a confidential character. The Prince commenced it, saying,—

“We’ve had a narrow escape, Sir Thomas.”

“Does your Highness refer to our having missed meeting the party of Roundheads?”

“Of course I do—just that.”

“Then, I should say, ’tis they who’ve had the narrow escape.”

“Nein, Colonel! Not so certain of that, knowing who they are. These Foresters fight like devils; and, from all I could gather, they greatly outnumber us. I shouldn’t so much mind the odds, but for how we’re hampered. To have fought them, and got the worst of it, would have been ruinous to our reputation—as to the other thing.”

“It isn’t likely we’d have got the worst of it. Few get the better of your Highness that way.”

Lunsford’s brave talk was not in keeping with his thoughts. Quite as pleased was he as the Prince at their having escaped an encounter with the party of Parliamentarians. For never man dreaded meeting man more than he Sir Richard Walwyn. Words had of late been conveyed to him—from camp to camp and across neutral lines—warning words, that his old enemy was more than ever incensed against him, and in any future conflict where the two should be engaged meant singling him out, and seeking his life. After what he had done now, was still doing, he knew another encounter with Walwyn would be one of life and death, and dreaded it accordingly.

“Still, Prince,” he added, “as you observe, considering our encumbrances, perhaps it’s been for the best letting them off.”

“Ay, if they let us off. Which they may not yet. Suppose some of the townsmen have followed, and told them of our passing through?”

“No fear of that, Prince. If any one did follow it’s not likely they could be overtaken. They were riding as in a race, and won’t draw bridle till they see the blaze over Hollymead. Then they’ll but gallop the faster—in the wrong direction.”

“The right one for us, if they do. But even so they would reach Hollymead in less than an hour; then turn short round to pursue, and in another hour be upon our heels. You forget that we can’t say safety, till we’re over the Severn.”

“I don’t forget that, Prince. But they won’t turn round to pursue us.”

“Why say you that, Sir Thomas? How know you they won’t?”

“Because they won’t suspect our having come this way; never think of it. Before putting the torch to the old delinquent’s house, I took the precaution to have all his domestics locked up in an out-building; that they shouldn’t see which way we went off. As they and the Ruardean people knew we came up from Monmouth, they’ll naturally conclude that we returned thither. So, your Highness, any pursuit of us will take the direction down Cat’s Hill, instead of by Drybrook and down the Plump.”

“Egad! I hope so, Colonel. For, to speak truth I don’t feel in the spirit for a fight just now.”

It was not often Rupert gave way to cowardice, and more seldom confessed it; even in confidence to his familiars, of whom Lunsford was one of the most intimate. But at that hour he felt it to very fear. Perhaps from the wine he had drunk at Hollymead, now cold in him; and it might be his conscience weighted with the crime he was in the act of committing. Whatever the cause, his nervousness became heightened rather than diminished, as they marched on; and anxiously longed he to be on the other side of the Severn.

Not more so than his reprobate companion, whose bravado was all assumed; his words of confidence forced from him to gloss over the mistake he had made, in recommending the route taken. Sorry was he now, as his superior, they had not gone by Monmouth. Within its Castle walls they would at that moment have been safe; instead of hurrying along a road, with the obstruction of a river in front, and the possibility of pursuit behind. Ay, the probability of it, as Lunsford himself knew well, feigning to ignore it.

“In any case, your Highness,” he continued, in the same strain of encouragement, “we’ll be out of their way in good time. From here it’s but a step down to Westbury.”

By this they had reached the head of the ravine-like valley in which stands Flaxley Abbey, and were hastening forward fast as the impedimenta of captives would permit. The road runs down the valley, which, after several sinuosities, debouches on the Severn’s plain. But, long before attaining this, at rounding one of the turns, their eyes were greeted by a sight which sent tremor to their hearts.

“Mein Gott!” cried the Prince, suddenly reining up, and speaking in a tone of mingled surprise and alarm, “you see, Sir Thomas?”

Sir Thomas did see—sharing the other’s alarm, but without showing it—a sheet of water that shone silvery white under the moonlight overspreading all the plain below. The river aflood, and inundation everywhere!

“We’ll not be able to cross at all?” pursued the Prince, in desponding interrogative. “Shall we?”

“Oh yes! your Highness, I think so,” was the doubting response. “The water can’t be so high as to hinder us; at least not likely. There’s a pier-head at Westbury Passage on both sides, and the boats will be there as ever. I don’t anticipate any great difficulty in the crossing, only we’ll have to wade a bit.”

“Gott! that will be difficulty enough—danger too.”

“What danger, your Highness? Through the meadows there’s a raised causeway, and fortunately I’m familiar with every inch of it. While with Sir John Wintour I had often occasion to travel it; more than once under water. Even if we can’t make the Westbury Passage, we can that of Framilode, but a mile or two above. I’ve never heard of it being so flooded as to prevent passing over.”

“It may be as you say, Sir Thomas. But the danger I’m thinking of has more to do with time than floods. Wading’s slow work; and there’s still the possibility of Walwyn and his green-coats coming on after us. Suppose they should, and find us floundering through the water?”

“No need supposing that, Prince. There isn’t the slightest likelihood of it. I’d stake high that at this minute they’re at the bottom of Cat’s Hill, or, it may be, by Goodrich Ferry, seeking to cross over the Wye as we the Severn. And, like as not, Lingen will give them a turn if he gets word of their being about there. Sir Harry has now a strong force in the castle; and owes Dick Walwyn a revanche—for that affair on the Hereford Road the morning after Kyrle led them into Monmouth.”

“For all, I wish we had gone Monmouth way,” rejoined Rupert, as his eyes rested doubtingly on the white sheet of water wide spread over the plain below. “I still fear their pursuing us.”

“Even if they should, your Highness, we need have no apprehension. The pursuit can’t be immediate; and, please God, in another hour or so, we’ll be over the Severn, as likely they on the other side of the Wye, with both rivers between them and us.”

“Would that I were sure of that, Colonel,” returned the Prince, still desponding, “which I’m not. However, we’ve no alternative now but to cross here—if we can. You seem to have a doubt of our being able to make the Passage of Westbury?”

“I’m only a little uncertain about it, your Highness.”

“But sure about that of Framilode?”

“Quite; though the flood be of the biggest and deepest.”

“Sehr wohl! with that assurance I’m satisfied. But we must have things secure behind, ere we commence making our wade. And we may as well take the step now. So, Colonel, ride back along the line, detach a rear-guard, and place it under some officer who can be trusted. Lose not a moment! stay at halt here, till you return to me.”

The commanding officer of the escort, as much alive to the prudence of this precaution as he who gave the orders for it, hastened to carrying them out. Done by detailing off a few of the rearmost files, with directions to remain as they were, while the main body moved forward. Then instructions given to the officer who was to take charge of them; all occupying less than ten minutes’ time.

After which, Lunsford again placed himself by the side of the Prince, and the march was immediately resumed, down the valley of Flaxley, on for the flooded plain.

Chapter Sixty Six.

On the Trail.

Words cannot depict the feelings of Sir Richard Walwyn and Eustace Trevor as they reined up by the burning house. With both it was anguish of the keenest; for they knew who were the incendiaries, and that incendiarism was not the worst of it. They who ruthlessly kindled the flames had, with like ruth, carried off their betrothed ones. And for what purpose? A question neither colonel nor captain could help asking himself, though its conjectural answer was agony. For now more vividly than ever did Sir Richard recall what had been told him of Lunsford’s designs upon Sabrina; while Trevor had also heard of Prince Rupert’s partiality for Vaga.

As they sate in their saddles contemplating the ruin, they felt as might an American frontiersman, returned home to find his cabin ablaze, fired by Indian torch, his wife or daughters borne off in the brutal embrace of the savage.

No better fate seemed to have befallen the daughters of Ambrose Powell. White savages, very tigers, had seized upon and dragged them to their lair; it were no worse if red ones had been the captors. Rather would the bereaved lovers have had it so; sooner known their sweethearts buried under that blazing pile than in the arms of the profligate Rupert and Lunsford the “bloody.”

Only for an instant did they give way to their anguish, or the anger which accompanied it—rage almost to madness. Both were controlled by the necessity of action, and the first wild burst over, action was taken—pursuit of the ravishers.

Some time, however, before it could be fairly entered upon; inquiry made as to the direction in which they had gone. There were hundreds on the ground who could be interrogated. Half the people of Ruardean were there. Roused from their beds by the cry “Fire?” they had rushed out, and on to the scene of conflagration. But arrived too late to witness the departure of those who had set the torch, and could not tell what way they had gone. Neither could the house-servants, now released from their lock-up; for to hinder them doing so was the chief reason for their having been confined.

As it was known to all that the Royalists had come up from Monmouth, conjecture pointed to their having returned thither. But conjecture was not enough to initiate such a pursuit; and Colonel Walwyn was too practised a campaigner to rely upon it. Certainty of the route taken by the enemy was essential, else he might go on a wild-goose chase.

As that could not be obtained at the burning house, not a moment longer, stayed he by it. Scarce ten minutes in all from the time of their arrival till he gave the command “About?” and about went they, back down the long avenue, and through the park gate.

Soon as outside, he shouted “Halt!” bringing all again to a stand; he himself, however, with Captain Trevor and Sergeant Wilde, advancing along the road in the direction of Cat’s Hill. Only a hundred yards or so, when they reined up. Then, by command, the big sergeant threw himself out of his saddle; and, bending down, commenced examination of the ground.

Had Wilde been born in the American backwoods he would have been a noted hunter and tracker of the Leatherstocking type. As it was, his experience as a deer-stealer in the Forest of Dean had been sufficient to make the taking up a horse’s trail an easy matter, and easier that of a whole troop. He could do it even in darkness; for it was dark then—the moon under a cloud.

And he did it; in an instant. Scarce was he astoop ere rising erect again, and turning face to Sir Richard, as if all had been ascertained.

“Well, Rob,” interrogated the latter, rather surprised at such quick work, “you see their tracks?”

“I do, Colonel.”

“Going Cat’s Hill way?”

“No, Colonel. The contrary—comin’ from. None o’ ’em fresh neyther. Must a been made some time i’ the afternoon.”

“Have you assured yourself of that?”

“I have. But I’ll gie ’em another look, if ye weesh it, Colonel.”

“Do.”

The colossus again bent down and repeated his examination of the tracks, this time making a traverse or two, and going farther along the road. In a few seconds to return with a confirmation of his former report. A troop of cavalry had passed over it, but only in one direction—upward, and some hours before sunset.

“Sure am I o’ that, as if I’d been here an’ seed ’em,” was the tracker’s concluding words.

“Enough?” said Sir Richard. “Into your saddle, and follow me.”

At which he gave his horse the spur, and trotted back towards the park gate. Not to rejoin his men, still at halt, however. Instead, he continued on along the road for Drybrook; the other two keeping with him.

At a like distance from the halted line he again drew up, and directed the sergeant to make a similar reconnaissance.

Here the reading of the sign occupied the tracker some little longer time; as there was a confusion of hoof marks—some turned one way, some the other. Those that had the toe towards Hollymead gate he knew to have been made by their own horses; but underneath, and nearly obliterated, were hundreds of others almost as fresh.

“That’s the trail of the scoundrels,” said Sir Richard, soon as the sergeant reported the result of his investigation. “They’ve gone over to the Gloucester side; by Drybrook and Mitcheldean. How strange our not meeting them!”

“It is—very strange,” rejoined Trevor; “but could they have passed through Mitcheldean without our meeting them?”

“Oh yes they could, Captain,” put in Wilde, once more mounted; “theer be several by-ways through the Forest as leads there, ’ithout touchin’ o’ Drybrook. An’ I think I know the one them have took. Whens us get to where it branch off their tracks’ll tell.”

“Right; they will,” said Sir Richard, laying aside conjecture, and calling to the officer in charge of the men to bring them on at quick pace.

At quick pace they came; the Colonel, Captain Trevor, and the big sergeant starting off before they were up, and keeping several horse lengths ahead.

The route they were taking was the same they had come by—back for Drybrook. But coming and going their attitude was different. Then erect, with eyes turned upward regarding the glare over Hollymead; now bent down, cheeks to the saddle bow, and glances all given to the ground. For, as Wilde had said, there were several by-ways, any one of which the pursued party might have taken; and to go astray on the pursuit, even to the loss of ten minutes’ time, might be fatal to their purpose—the feather’s weight turning the scale.

But no danger now; the moon was giving a good light, and the road for long stretches was open, the trees on each side wide apart. So they had no difficulty in seeing what before they had not thought of looking for; the hoof marks of many horses, that had gone towards Drybrook. The tracks of their own, going the other way, had almost obliterated them; still enough of the under ones were visible to show that two bodies of horse had passed in opposite directions, with but a short interval of time between.

As this could be noted without the necessity of stopping or slowing pace, Colonel Walwyn carried his men on in a brisk canter, designing halt only at the branch road of which the sergeant had spoken.

But long before reaching it they got information which made stoppage there unnecessary, as also further call on the ex-deer-stealer’s skill as a tracker—for the time. Given by a man mounted on a hotel hack, who, coming on at a clattering gallop, met them in the teeth. His cry “For the Parliament?” without being challenged, proclaimed him a friend. And he was; the innkeeper of Mitcheldean, recognised on the instant by Sir Richard and Rob Wilde.

His coming up caused a halt; for his business was with Colonel Walwyn—an errand quickly told.

“Prince Rupert and two hundred horse, with prisoners, have passed through Mitcheldean!”

Half a dozen questions rapidly put, and promptly answered, elicited all the circumstances—the time, the direction taken, everything the patriotic Boniface could tell. They had come down the Plump Hill, and gone off by Abenhall—for Newnham or Westbury; or they might be making for Lydney.

Down the Plump Hill! That accounted for their not being met. And the time—so near meeting, yet missing them! All the way to Hollymead and back for nothing!

But lamenting the lost hours would not recover them. They must be made good by greater speed; and, without wasting another word, the spur was buried deeper, and faster rode the Foresters. Rode with a will; few of them whose heart was not in the pursuit. They were on the slot of a hated foe, against whom many had private cause of quarrel and vengeance. Prince Rupert, for the past twelve months, had been harrying the Forest district, making their homes desolate; his licentious soldiers abusing their wives, sisters, and daughters—no wonder they wanted to come up with him!

At mad speed they went dashing around Ruardean Hill, down into the vale of Drybrook; then up by the Wilderness, and down again to Mitcheldean; once more startling the townspeople from their slumbers, and filling them with fresh alarm; soon over on seeing it was the green-coats.

Only a glimpse of them was got, as they galloped on through; staying not a moment, never drawing bridle till they came to the forking of the roads by Abenhall—the right for Littledean, Newham, and Lydney; the left to Westbury. Then only for an instant, while Rob Wilde swung his stalwart form out of the saddle, and made inspection of the tracks. For the moon was once more clouded, and he could not make them out, without dismounting.

As before, brief time it took him; but a few seconds till he was back on his horse, saying, as he slung himself up,—

“They’re gone Westbury ways, Colonel.”

And Westbury ways went the pursuers, reins loose and spurs plied afresh, with no thought of halting again, but a hope there would be no need for it, till at arm’s length with the detested enemy.

Even when the turn in Flaxley Valley brought the Severn in sight, with its wide sheet of flood-water, they stayed not to talk of it. To them it was no surprise; but a few hours before they had waded it farther up. No more was it matter of apprehension, as it had been to the party pursued. Instead, something to gratify and cheer them on; for, extending right and left, far as eye could reach, it seemed a very net, set by God’s own hand, to catch the criminals they were in chase of!

Chapter Sixty Seven.

A Guard Carelessly Kept.

Notwithstanding Lunsford’s assurances—at best rather dubious—the river could not be crossed at Westbury, without much difficulty and delay. The large horse-boat had received some damage, and it would take time to repair it. So Rupert and his following were constrained to keep on to Framilode Passage, three miles farther up stream.

It would bring them into dangerous proximity with Gloucester; and should any of Massey’s men be raiding down the river, they might find an enemy in front, even when over it. Still this was little likely, as Massey was believed to be himself out of Gloucester, operating on the northern side in the direction of Ledbury. Besides, Walwyn must have had information of their being at Hollymead, to have drawn him into the Forest at that time of the night.

Still from behind was the Prince most apprehensive of danger; now greater by the traverse of flooded tracts that must needs be made before they could reach the Passage. His failure to get across at Westbury seemed ominous of evil; and he had grown more nervous than ever. What if he should fail also at Framilode? Then, indeed, would he have to risk encounter with the redoubtable Foresters, outnumbering his escort, as he knew.

Already had they passed across several stretches of inundated ground; at each the rear-guard being left on the dry land till the main body was well-nigh through; and then following on to the next. But now one of longer extent lay before them; more than a mile of road leading on to the ferry being under water. Still the causeway, or rather where it ran, could be told by certain landmarks; and these Lunsford, as others of the escort, was acquainted with. But the flood was high over it, and the fording must be done cautiously, entailing loss of time. Moreover, if caught on the narrow way, with no chance of manoeuvring, scarce width enough for an “about face,” any party pursuing would have them at a disadvantage—almost at mercy.