"Sir Ludar" (continued 5)

So to me the pleasure of marching once again under the royal flag of my Queen was tempered by the concern I felt for my master.

A vast rabble lined the roads to see the doughty Sorley Boy—the hero of the North, against whose arms England had fought in vain—march thus, to the tune of English trumpets, to her Majesty’s Castle. But if any looked to see a hanging head or a meek demeanour they were sore mistaken. For, as the procession moved on and the shouts grew louder, the spirit seemed to come back into the old warrior, and he walked rather as one who marches to war than to peace. Perhaps, had the way been a mile longer, or had the smirking Lord Deputy looked round oftener, this notable treaty would never have come about; for, by the time Sorley Boy reached the Castle gate, he was glaring round him defiantly, and the hilt of his sword was an inch out of the scabbard.

At the gate the Deputy stood and bade him enter. The old fox gave a suspicious look round, like one that suspects a trap, and then beckoned to Ludar.

“Stay here with the men. Let your squire follow me.”

So Ludar stayed with the McDonnells at the gate, while I followed Sorley Boy, amid shouts and flourish of trumpets, into the Castle. All was prepared to do the old Chief honour. Attendants bowed, guards saluted, and my Lord Deputy’s womenkind waved handkerchiefs from the windows. Sir John Perrott himself, all smiles, chatted affably. But never a word spake Sorley Boy.

He stalked on at a pace which made the Deputy trot at his side, and, heedless of lackeys, guards, ladies and all else, flung into the great hall.

I followed as in duty bound; and beside me no man but Sir John and Sir John’s secretary.

Then followed a strange scene.

“Sir Sorley Boy,” began the Deputy, motioning his guest to a high chair on the daïs, “this is a happy occasion; and I would her Majesty had a Deputy more—”

“Enough of this,” said the Chieftain impatiently. “I came not from Dunluce to make speeches or bandy words with you. I owe you naught—or if I do, ’tis a debt you had rather I paid not.”

“I,” said Sir John, pulling himself up, “as representing her gracious Majesty—”

Here Sorley Boy stalked off to where a miniature picture of her Majesty hung on the wall.

“Is this Elizabeth?” demanded he.

“That is a presentment, far short in splendour, of her Majesty’s admirable presence,” said the Deputy.

Sorley Boy took the picture in his hand and mused on it in silence. At length:

“Pray heaven she be no worse favoured in the flesh! Yet, being a woman, I do her homage.”

And, like an old gallant, he doffed his hat, and raised the picture to his lips.

Thus it was the McDonnell made his peace with the Sassenach. He handed the picture to me gloomily to replace; which I did after humbly doing it obeisance on bended knee. Then he summoned me to follow him from the hall.

Sir John witnessed this strange scene in bewilderment and displeasure. He had reckoned on the satisfaction of hearing his old foe renounce his enmity and sue for terms; and it vexed him to find the ceremony thus taken out of his hands and curtly disposed of by the proud old Scot. Yet he knew enough of Sorley Boy to take what he could get, and must needs pocket his pride. Only he made one effort to save his own dignity.

“Sir Sorley, in her Majesty’s name I accept your dutiful homage. It remains for you to sign this written document of fealty, in return for which I am bidden hand you her Majesty’s gracious permission to you and your heirs to enjoy your territories without let or hindrance.”

The old man laughed scornfully.

“My lands are my own. Let who dares come and take them. Keep your papers, John Perrott. Come, squire; out into the fresh air.”

And he stalked out, followed angrily by the Deputy.

At the Castle gate we found a tumult afoot. For the hot-headed Scots who waited there face to face with their old enemies had not been able to restrain their impatience; and, goaded alike by the jeers of the rabble and the taunts of the Englishmen, had answered threat by threat and gibe by blow. Ludar himself, already exasperated, had said not a word to hold them back; and, as the old chief and I came out the gate, the street was full of war, and dead men lay strewn on either hand.

A shout from Sorley Boy restored order among the redshanks in a moment; and, without waiting for further parley with the Deputy, he stalked to the head of his men, and with the single order “To Dunluce!” turned his back on her Majesty’s Castle at Dublin.

But Sir John, fearful, perhaps, of an outbreak in the city, or in pursuit of a still deeper design, mounted his horse and bade his men form again the procession to conduct the Queen’s new ally to the city gate. He himself rode forward at a hand’s pace beside the old chief, who heeded him no more than if he had been me or Ludar.

We had come to the gate at the bridge, and the English troops were halting to let us go out. The strange ceremony of the day was near ending, and the free country beyond shone in the winter sun, when the Deputy, suddenly bending level with the old man’s ear, said:

“Look up. Behold your son’s head!”

Sorley Boy, stood, as did we, and looked up. There on a pole, rocking in the breeze, above the city gate, looked down upon us a head, livid and scarred, with eyes set and tawny locks streaming in the wind. ’Twas a terrible ghastly sight! for, battered as it was, even I could recognise the once noble features of Alexander McDonnell, as I had seen him last, reeling under the cowardly blow of that foul Englishman.

The old chief uttered a cry scarcely less terrible to hear than the head was to see. Then, suddenly commanding himself, he blazed round on the Deputy and hissed through his teeth:

“My son hath many heads!”

I never saw a man change colour as did Sir John Perrott when he met that look and heard those bitter words. Men say he went home that afternoon with that look burned into his breast, and those words dinging in his ears. Nor, go where he would, could he escape the one or the other. They possessed him waking and sleeping, in council and in war, at home and abroad. And, when at last he died, some say he was found crouched in a corner of his room with his fingers over his eyes and his thumbs on his ears.

Nor, after what I saw, did I find it in my heart to pity him.

As for Sorley Boy, he walked out of Dublin like a man in a dream. None of us durst speak to him, or say so much as a word in his hearing. Nor had we the heart to do it. Ludar with his clenched teeth looked straight before him; and the Scots who followed, only half comprehending what had happened, dropped into sullen silence, and gave no sound but the dull beat of their steps on the road.

About an hour beyond Dublin, Sorley Boy halted and turned to Ludar.

“Ludar McDonnell,” said he, sternly, “we part here. I have no son—no son. Farewell.”

And he and the soldiers marched on without another word, leaving Ludar and me looking after them, and marvelling if all this were what it seemed or some horrid vision.

Ludar recovered himself sooner than I.

“Come,” said he; “why stand you here, Humphrey, when all the world, except Dunluce, is before us? Let us back to the city.”

I knew why he wished to go back. He was thinking not of Sorley Boy or Dunluce, but of that cruel trophy above the city gate. And in my heart I pitied the keepers, should they chance to withstand him in his purpose.

’Twas dark when we crossed the bridge and found ourselves once more within the walls. The streets were empty, for the night was bleak, and the troops had long since been called into their quarters. Only a few sentinels stood about the gate, who, to keep away the cold and cheer their stomachs, huddled together in a sheltered nook and discussed the news of the day over ale and sack. Little heeded they the creaking pole with its horrible burden, as it rocked and swung in the winter wind above them!

While we waited the snow began to fall and drove the tipplers further into the shelter of the guard-room, where was a merry fire. Now was our chance. Ludar led me round to where, over some tumbled stones, we were able to scramble on to the wall, and thence back towards the gate. So thick fell the snow that, as we crawled along, we were as white as the ramparts we passed over, and not a soul could have heard or seen us had any been there. It was easy to get from the wall on to the gate, and all might have gone well had not a wolf-hound, imprisoned in the tower, or left there to do the watching which the sentinel neglected, sprung out to meet us as we stepped on to the battlement with a mighty howl.

So sudden was his leap that he had Ludar by the throat before we knew what had happened; and ere I had drawn my sword and saved my master from so savage a death there was a noise, with shouting and lights, in the road below.

“Quick!” cried Ludar, springing to his feet and running to the pole.

In a minute he had scaled it and robbed it of its fearful burden. Already I could tell by the shouts below that we were pursued, but Ludar, as he stood there, panting, with his precious burden held to his breast, heeded nothing.

“Come,” said I; “we are followed.”

He laughed bitterly.

“Humphrey,” said he, “as you love me, cut me this hound’s head off and put it there, where my brother’s head stood. Quick!”

I did as he bade me, though it cost us precious moments. Nor would he budge till the grim exchange was made. Then suddenly he descended on the far side of the gateway. It was well he did so, for there being no regular way on to the wall that side, our pursuers had mounted by the other, leaving only a couple of stupid sentinels to watch below. Happily for us, the snow lay thick and soft; for more than once we fell as we scaled the ramparts, and might have broken our limbs. Our pursuers behind, having come to the gate top and finding no one there, liked not to follow us the way we had gone, and contented themselves with discharging their pieces into the darkness our way. But we were out of their reach. For, once on the wall, ’twas easy going, and instead of descending we made a quarter of the way round the city, till, somewhere near the north-eastern tower, we slid down by a drift of snow into the deserted street.

Then, Ludar leading, we returned some distance along by the foot of the very wall on whose top we had lately crept, to where stood a church, with a graveyard verging on the wall. Here my comrade halted, and reverently set down his burden, and between us, as we knelt in the snow, we digged a grave to shelter it. Our swords served us for spades, nor, alack! did it need many inches of kind mother earth to hold all that remained of Alexander McDonnell. With a prayer each, Ludar in his way, I in mine, we buried that dear relic. Then, beside the place, Ludar drove his sword deep into the earth, till the hilt stood up like an iron cross to mark the spot. We stood in silence while the pure snow fell and laid its white shroud upon the grave. Then, when all was done, he took my arm, and we walked sadly away.

As we passed down a street not far off, the glow of a tavern fire and the sound of voices within brought us to a halt. For we were cold and famished and weary, and the good cheer of the place tempted us. Within was mine host, a merry Irishman, who loved every man that drank his ale. Round his great fire sat half-a-dozen guests, two wayfarers like ourselves, a soldier, a merchant, a sailor, and one who seemed by his look a private gentleman.

They gave us little enough heed as we entered. Even when mine host, catching sight of us, came to take our orders, they went on with their carouse and pulled their benches closer round the fire, with scarcely a blink our way.

As we sat apart, thawing our frozen limbs in the warmth of the room, and reviving our inner man with food and drink—we had staked nearly all we had on this meal—we could not forbear hearing some of the talk that went on at the fireside.

“By my valour,” said the soldier, “I was there and saw it with my own eyes. The old dotard turned the colour of my teeth when he looked up and spied it.”

“Ay, ay,” said the merchant, “I know it was he. I saw the lad in Cantire once, and a fine lad he was.”

“They tell me,” said mine host, “a woman was at the bottom of it, as usual. This Captain Merriman (who oweth me a pretty score for entertainment in this house), and this lad had a quarrel over a wench, and ’twas for that he pursued him as he did. Why, sirs, for six weeks the lad lay hidden in a cave, and for a week more lay quick in a grave, before Sir Captain, who had never ceased to hunt him, caught him, and sent up his head to the Deputy here. And now, they say, the wench, who is particular, not fancying a headless trunk, hath struck her colours and said yea to the next best man. Poor lass! who’s to blame her?”

“Not I,” said the soldier, “albeit you are all wrong, mine host, about this quarrel, for I heard of it from Tom Price, the Captain’s man. It was this headless chief’s brother the lass doated on. But it’s like enough she thinks the head was her sweetheart’s.”

“There was a son of old Sorley’s in the pageant to-day; a plaguey ill-favoured hound, who walked with his father,” said the landlord, “with a face sour enough to curdle all the milk in Dublin.”

“That was Sir Ludar,” said one of the strangers. “I had it from one of the redshanks.”

“Ludar?” said the soldier; “the very man. ’Tis his wench the Captain hath run away with. She thinketh him gibbeted, and—”

Here the door was flung open suddenly, and in rushed another soldier.

“Have you heard the news?” he cried.

“News?” cried the others, turning round to look at him.

“Why, yes. Her Majesty hath been robbed of a jewel. The traitor’s head that grinned on the gate hath been stolen, I tell you, and there sticketh a dog’s head in its place. ’Tis true.”

“Who has done it?”

“That’s the point,” said the messenger, who was plainly proud to have so much news to tell. “That’s the point. For we were all on guard, I tell you. Not a soul passed us. ’Tis said ’twas some spirit.” Here he doffed his cap. “We stood below, I tell you, when there came a blast of wind in our faces with a smell of brimstone in it. I smelt it. Then something curled up past us, like a white shroud, and shrieked as it went up. And, before we could look in one another’s faces, a great howl of devilish laughter broke over our heads, and drops of blood! Yes. I felt them. Here’s one on my sleeve—it burns like fire, I tell you. That was all. We fetched lights and went aloft (who is to be afraid of a spirit or two?) but we saw naught. Not a footstep in the snow, or a sign of man or fiend either—except only a headless dog. Ay, you may stare, but I saw it—it smoked brimstone, neighbours, and the snow all around it was red-hot! And what was most horrible of all, when we cast up our lights, I tell you, the Scot’s head had changed to the head of a dog, which grinned and leered at us, with eyes like coals and tongue all ablaze, till we could scarce stay where we were. That’s all. And ere I go back to that gate, neighbours, may I turn Pope and Spaniard! Give me a drink, host, for, by my soul, I know not which end of me is uppermost.”

By this time the company had left their benches and were scattered about the room, gossiping over this last great news and questioning the fellow more. Some came to the table where Ludar and I sat; and the soldier, looking hard at me, exclaimed:

“Where saw I that gallows face before? Who be you, sirrah?”

“A printer,” said I.

“You lie,” said he, “for I saw you to-day accompany the old Scotsman to the Castle. And, by my body, that slouching dog there should be— Hillo! comrades,” cried he, amazed at his discovery, “more ghosts! May I perish if there have not been sitting in this very room while we talked of him this same sour-faced, love-sick clown, Master Ludar, and one of his merry men. Marry come up! The very man, skulking here, while his light-of-love is on her honeymoon, and the old dotard, his father, with his pockets full of English gold—”

He said no more. Ludar had no sword, but the blow he gave him silenced his foul tongue for a week. Instantly the room was turned into a shambles. ’Twas no time to mince words or blows, and we did neither. Nor were we two left alone to withstand all the rest; for the gentleman of the party (whom I have mentioned), sided with us, as did also the sea captain, who owed mine host a long score, and saw a good way to cry quits without shortening his purse. Among us, we made so good an account of ourselves, that when at length we took our leave, not a man bade us stay.

“Come,” said the captain, “my ship lies at the bridge. To-morrow we shall see England.”

Chapter Eighteen.

How I found myself again in London.

Three days later, as our ship laboured up the gulf of the Solway, Ludar came to me, as I stood on the poop, and said:

“Humphrey, I have news.”

“Good or bad?” I asked.

“Neither,” said he, “for it means we must part.”

“I call that bad news. How is it, Ludar?”

“Our fellow-voyager,” said he, and I could see he spoke nervously like one who doubts his listener, “is in the service of my Queen, Mary of Scotland. There! fly not out, Humphrey; I never said she was your Queen.”

“Heaven forbid!” said I. “And as for this stranger, I mistrusted him all along. How calls he himself?”

“He is one Captain Fortescue, and hath a commission to engage loyal men to the Queen’s service. And, indeed, she needs it; for she lies in prison, watched and solitary, with scarce a face about her that is not an enemy’s. What would you do, Humphrey, were your Queen in such a plight?”

“Were my Queen a traitor—” I began, and stopped.

“I cannot help myself,” said he. “I owe her my life. Only one woman else could claim it, and her I have lost.”

“But,” said I, “are you sure of this man? May this not be some trap to your ruin? What if he be a spy and no more?”

Ludar laughed.

“If so,” said he, “he would have better sport on foot than to practise on an outlaw like me. No, Humphrey, he is a loyal man, as, pray heaven, so am I. And he commands me in a name I cannot resist.”

“Then,” said I, sadly, “we part. I would have served you, Ludar, on any other service. But I, too, have a Queen, who owns me.”

“So be it,” said he. “I expected it; and naught else could part me from you. Be sure we shall meet again, Humphrey, when all is over.”

“Who knows but it may be on the field of battle?” said I, sadly. “Yet, tell me where I shall hear of you; and take note where you shall hear of me. For I will back to London—”

“To your love,” said he, with a sigh. “So be it. You shall hear of me there, Humphrey.”

“And, before we part,” said I, taking his great hand, “swear me an oath, Ludar, that you will not forget me.”

He flung my hand away impatiently.

“Do you take me for a knave, brother? I swear to you, that next to my Queen, my father, and the memory of her who once loved me, you have the chiefest right to say, ‘Ludar, help me,’ and if I forget you, ’twill be that I have forgotten I am a man.”

That comforted me vastly, and I too made my vow.

“Next to my Queen,” said I, “and no one besides, you are still my master; and my life goes for nothing, so it shall serve you and her you love, who, I am sure, is true to you still, and waits for you somewhere, whatever men say.”

He gripped my hand hard at that; and, sorrowful as it was, we loved one another the more at that parting than ever before.

Next day we landed. Captain Fortescue, suspecting me to be no friend to him or his cause, was in haste to reach Carlisle, and shortened our leave-taking in consequence. We had but time to renew our vows, when the boat which was to carry my friend and his new master from me came alongside and severed us. I watched him till the envious hills came in between; and, as I saw him last, standing and waving his hat, methought a great piece had gone out of my life, and that there was left of me but half the man I once was.

And now must my story hasten on by strides, such as never the laggard months took after I had said farewell to Ludar. For ’tis of him, not of Humphrey Dexter, that I am the chronicler, and till my history meet him once more my reader is without his hero.

Yet there are one or two scenes a-wanting to fill up the gap; which, even though they concern chiefly me, I must relate in their proper place.

Two months had gone by, and in the budding woods the spring birds were wakening the earth out of her winter sleep, when I stood once more, footsore and friendless, in the streets of London. How I had got so far it matters not, nor how like a vagabond I begged and worked my way; staying now here for a few days ploughing, now there to break in a colt; held in bondage in one town because I lacked the money to pay my score, and chivied from the next for a rogue, which I was not. Not a few men I fought by the way—for I clung to my sword through all—and not a few constables I laid by the heels (Heaven forgive me!) in mine own defence. Be all that as it may, I stood again in London town, whence, it seemed, I had been absent not nine months but nine years. With tattered hose and doublet, with coat that scarce held together at my back, with no cap to my head, and scarce one shoe to divide betwixt my two feet, ’twas little wonder if no man but the watch heeded me, still less suspected me to be the once famous captain of the clubs without Temple Bar.

My way into the city led by Finsbury Fields, where were many ’prentices at their sports, and citizens taking their sweethearts to sniff the sweet spring air. No one wanted me there. The lads bade me make way for my betters, and the maids held back their skirts as they swept by. So I left them and wandered citywards.

I marvelled to see all so little changed, forgetting how short a time I had been away. There stood Stationers’ Hall, as lordly as ever, and Timothy Ryder, the beadle, taking his fees at the compter. There, too, was the great Cathedral with its crowd of loungers, and Fleet Street full of swaggering ’prentices, and the River sparkling in the sun.

Then, as I came near Temple Bar, my heart fell a thumping. Not that I forgot the place was deserted and the old home broken; but because it reminded me of what once was before all these troubles began. I crawled at a snail’s pace, wishing to put off the pang as long as possible. In fancy I was at my case, as I had been a year ago, clicking the letters into my stick, in time to the chirping of my little mistress who sang at her work within. At my side I could hear the dull groaning of the heavy press, and not far off the whining of Peter Stoupe’s everlasting psalm-tune. All was as if—

Was I dreaming? or was this the self-same psalm-tune come again to life, and, to accompany it, the dull grinding of the self-same press? Strange, that the bar was off the door, and, as I came to it, a fellow with a ream on his back laboured out. I had expected naught but the desolation and silence which I last remembered in the place, and it staggered me to find all going on as before. No doubt here was some upstart printer, standing in my late master’s shoes and working at his forfeited press!

In no pleasant mood I walked, ragged and travel-stained as I was, into the shop. Sure enough, it was Peter Stoupe, my late fellow-apprentice, who was whining, and beside him a new journeyman lugged at the press.

Peter knew me not at first, so changed and unkempt was I with my long journeyings.

“Come,” said he, surlily, “bustle hence, thou varlet. We keep nought here but sticks for rogues like thee to taste. Get you gone!”

And he advanced on me with the stick.

Just to remind him of old days, I whipped it from his hand and gave him a crack on the skull, which brought him to himself at once.

“Why,” said he, dropping his jaw, and gaping at me as if I had been a ghost, “if it be not Humphrey Dexter, as I’m a sinner!”

“As certain as thou art a sinner,” said I, “it is none other. What of that, Peter Stoupe?”

“Why,” said he, “I warn thee to pack hence. For Master Walgrave hath had enough of thee, I warrant; and there is none else here wanteth thee.”

“Then Master Walgrave is out of gaol?” I asked.

“No thanks to thee; he hath made his peace with the Company, and is restored to his own.”

“And my mistress, and Jeannette, and the lad?” I asked.

“They are naught to thee,” answered he, curtly.

“Are they here?” I asked again.

“I tell thee that is naught to thee, Humphrey Dexter. I marvel, after what is past, you dare name them.”

“By heavens, you shall have something to marvel at,” said I, laying hold of him by the collar, and shaking him till his bones rattled. “Answer me, are they here?”

“To be sure, to be sure,” gasped he. “I pray you unhand me, Humphrey; my old friend, you are too rough.”

I flung him off, to the mirth of the new journeyman (who, it was plain, loved him no more than I), and walked through the shop to the parlour behind.

There in a nook beside the window, which was open to let in the sweet scent of the spring and the merry chirping of the birds, sat my sweet young mistress, Jeannette, reading out of a book to the little sister who sat on her knee; and ever and anon looking out at the swift, shining river, as it washed past the garden wall.

I remember the very words she was reading as I entered unheeded.

“‘So it fell, that knight returned, and none knew him; no, not even the dog in the outer court. But when he spake, there was a certain little maid knew his voice, whom, as a child, he was wont to make sport with. But now, because she was grown from child to woman, and her mirth was turned to love, did she say never a word when he appeared, but ran away and hid herself.’”

“And do tall knights and ladies play at hide-and-go-seek, like boys and girls?” asked the little sister.

Jeannette laughed at the question, and as she did so, she looked up and saw me standing there.

She, at least, knew me!

For a moment the colour left her cheeks, in fear and doubt. Next, it rushed back in a crimson flood; then she uttered my name, and hid her face in the bosom of the little child.

I was but a plain ’prentice with no more than my share of brains. Yet, I had need to be slow-witted indeed, not to read a long, wonderful story in what I saw then.

“Ay,” said I, stepping forward, and answering the little’s one’s question, “and sometimes they find one another too.”

And, as in the old days, I kissed them both, and was very happy.

When, presently, Master Walgrave returned and saw me there, he seemed not too well pleased. Yet, I suspected he was not altogether discontented to see me back, for he counted me a proper workman and handy at my craft. And when I set-to and told them a plain tale of what had befallen me, and how ill I had been slandered by my fellow ’prentice, and how ready I was to serve them now, he grew less sullen, and bade me abide where I was till he considered the matter.

From my mistress in turn I learned something of their doings since I saw them last in the street of Kingston. The minister, she said, had pinched himself to shelter them for many a week, while they worked for him among the harvesters and in the dairy, in return. But at last when Autumn came, and they could do no more to serve him, they departed, and petitioned the Company to admit them back to the printing house; which, after much ado, was granted, and so they continued with much labour to subsist. But Peter, I was told afterwards, made himself master of everything, and, in return for his services, exacted all the profit, little as it was, they made by the printing. At last, after lying six months in gaol, Master Walgrave grew weary, and permitted his wife to sue for him to the Bishop; which she did, and so prettily, that his Grace allowed the prisoner to go free, on his submission. Since then, all had fared well. Peter Stoupe, who could hardly be parted with, was put back to his place and a new journeyman obtained. Business came back, winter went, springtime returned, and roses blossomed once more in sweet Jeannette’s cheeks; and all went merrily.

As for Mistress Jeannette’s cheeks, it seemed to me, as I sat and watched her that evening, that the roses had not done blossoming yet. But I said little to her, for I guessed she would not talk. Only, when bed-time came, and I went, as of old, to carry her up the steep stairs, she looked up brightly and said:

“I can walk now, Humphrey; voilà. That was one good thing your going did for me.”

“I would it had been any other good,” said I, “for it was pleasant to help you. But, see, you still want some help.”

“Well, sometimes I walk better. But to-night—no, I am not a baby, truly,” said she, laughing as I offered to take her up. “Give me your arm, Humphrey; that is enough.”

So I helped her up the stairs, and at the top she thanked me, and said she was glad I was come back, for her father’s sake—meaning Master Walgrave, her step-father.

I asked was she glad for no reason else? and she said, perhaps for my sake ’twas good to be at work once more.

“Anyone’s sake besides?”

“Peut-être,” said she in her French jargon, vanishing into her chamber. I was a better scholar than I once was, and could translate the words in a way that made my heart beat.

So I left her and came down to supper.

There I found Peter Stoupe, very black in the face, awaiting me. He tried to look civil as I came to the table, but ’twas plain he had little stomach for his meal.

“My master telleth me,” said he, “he is content to give thee another trial, Humphrey. Pray heaven he may never hear how much it is he forgiveth thee. As for me, this folly of his is like to cost him my service, as I told him.”

“When are you going?” I asked.

“That concerns myself,” said Peter. “But since we be alone, Humphrey Dexter, let me say to you one thing. Whether I go or stay, know that I desire you hold no converse with my mistress’ daughter, and that for a very sufficient reason. She is promised to me.”

I laughed at this.

“Since when?” I asked.

“That too concerneth me,” said Peter, who liked not my mirth. “I shall wed her anon; and till then I would have her kept clear of your company.”

“Pass the mug, Peter Stoupe, and cease your funning. The day sweet Jeannette weds with you, I will saddle the horse shall carry you to church. Till then, if I catch so much as her name on your foul lips, I will drop you, feet uppermost, in the mud of Fleet Ditch. So make a bargain of it.”

He turned green at that, for he guessed I meant what I said.

“What?” began he; “you who ruined my master, and robbed—”

Here I sprang to my feet, and he stopped short.

“Robbed whom?” demanded I.

“Enough,” said he, motioning me to sit down. “I resolved, when you came, to hold no parley with you, and I repent me I have done so. Henceforth, Humphrey Dexter, we are strangers.”

“Be what you will,” said I, “only keep a civil tongue in your head.”

And I went up to bed.

Now this was yet another trial to Peter, who had been used to lie alone while I was absent, and now loathed that I should rob him thus of half his kicking room. But he durst say naught. Only he lay at the far edge, and, instead of saying his prayers, cursed me between his teeth.

It was in my heart to pity Peter Stoupe that night. For it was plain I had come in an evil hour for him. Master Walgrave had been hoodwinked by his smooth manners and lying tongue, and was fain to believe he owed him more for the duty he had done while his master was in gaol than in truth he did. Nor durst my mistress thwart him over much for the same cause. As for Jeannette—if she humoured him and endured his civilities, ’twas because she was ever kind. So all was going well with Peter when I chanced home, who knew him for his worth and promised to spoil his sport. Little wonder, then, if he hated to see me, and kept at the far edge of the bed.

However, I had more to think of than him; and, finding him deaf, even when I tried to be civil, I busied myself with other thoughts, and fell asleep, to dream a jumbled dream of Ludar, and Jeannette, and the captain of the Miséricorde.

I remember I dreamed that Ludar and Jeannette were keeping the watch on deck while I slept below; and that my hour being come, the captain had come down to fetch me, and was standing over me; when I awoke suddenly, and, in the dim moonlight, saw a real figure at the bedside. It was Peter Stoupe, and, though I could scarce see his face, I knew he was glowering on me, white in his hand he slowly lifted a knife above my heart. I was motionless, not with terror—for his hand trembled so it could scarce have dealt a deadly blow—but with horror to find such a man at such a deed. So, though my eyes were open, he saw not that I was awake, and with a gasp brought down his hand. Mine was out in time to catch him by the wrist. “Peter Stoupe!” I cried; “are you gone mad?”

’Twas pitiful to see him then drop on his knees, his face as white as the sheets, and with quaking lips beg for mercy.

“Oh, Humphrey!” he gasped; “forgive—I knew not what I was— Yes, I was mad—forgive this once—”

“Forgive!” said I, “you ask the wrong person. You are on your knees; ask Him who is above to forgive you! ’Tis Him you have wronged, more than me. And when you have done, come back to bed, for I am weary.”

I know not if he prayed, or what he did. But presently, when he came back to bed, he lay very still and cold, and when we rose in the morning never a word spake either of us of what had passed that night.

But, as I expected, we were none the better friends for all that. For though he durst never lift his voice in my hearing again, he scowled at me under his brows, and, as I suppose, wished he had done what he tried to do that night. I found it best to let him be, even when he made up to Jeannette, which happened but seldom, and then little to his comfort. But when, after a month or more, his articles being ended, he took his hat and left the shop for good, I was not surprised, nor were my master or mistress over-much cast down.

As for me, I had a shrewd guess Peter Stoupe had not yet done with me.

All went happily, then, in the house without Temple Bar. Only my little mistress held me off more than she had been wont, and was graver with me. Yet it was happiness to see she counted somewhat on my company, and scorned not to ask my arm whenever she needed its help.

Often and often she made me tell her of my journeyings, and of Ludar and the maiden. And her bright eyes would glisten as she heard how they were parted and what they had suffered for one another. And she longed to see both, and was ever wondering where they were and how they fared. But the spring wore into summer, and the summer grew towards autumn, before a word of news came.

Then one Sunday, Will Peake, my old adversary, walked into the shop with a monstrous letter in his hand, tied round with blue silk and sealed black at either end.

I had seen Will often since I came back to London, but had always forgotten to tell him, that when I was put to it to advise Ludar where he might hear of me, I had told him to send to my brother ’prentice on London Bridge, who, if any, might be counted on to know where I was to be found.

So now, when a letter was come, Will was vastly wroth that he should be mixed up in the matter, and needed much satisfying that ’twas a sign of friendship and nothing else that made me give his name, he being—as I told him—the only trusty man of my acquaintance in London.

“I like it not, Humphrey Dexter,” said he, tossing down the letter. “The air is full of treason. Only to-day there is talk in the city of some new conspiracy in the North, and ’tis not safe to get a missive from so much as your lady-love. There, take it. I am rid of it; and, hark you, let no man know I had it in my fingers. Farewell.”

The letter was in a great and notable hand, which, I was sure, did not belong to Ludar. Yet it was addressed:

“To the worthy ’prentice Humphrey Dexter, by the hand of one Will Peake, a mercer’s man on London Bridge, give these—”

With beating heart, I took the letter to where Jeannette sat in the garden, and bade her break the seal.

Chapter Nineteen.

How I was concerned in Treason and Love.

The first words of the letter left me in no doubt as to who the writer might be.

“To a certain Hollander, once my servant, and honoured still to live in my memory. Know, my son of Neptune, fledgeling of the Nymphs, and half-brother to the Tritons, that he whom thou knewest once in Parnassus’ grove (whither he himself led thy halting feet), respireth still in sighs for beauty and exhalations of sweet verse. Know, too, that he hath of late composed a notable and admirable epic in praise of the Sun, which, if it please Heaven to bring him, ere the year fall, to London, thou mayest have the high honour of setting in print, thereby assisting at the birth of an immortal.

“Know further, that after many bufferings from the jade Fortune, and tossing, such as ships ne’er endured on thy brawling element, my Hollander, I am here in Chester, beloved of the Muse, yet ill-beholden to the men of the place, who, as the Mantuans their Maro, clapped me in ward because forsooth I stirred the rabble with my moving measures. The moon hath not kissed the golden locks of Galatea four times since I was let out. Now is no zephyr freer than I—or emptier. Yet hath heaven need of her needy sons, and the meanest of Olympus, denizens hath his part to play amidst the earthlings. Know, then, that on the second day after I had ceased to eat my bread at her Majesty’s cost, I met, in eager haste, a certain Irish Achilles who knoweth more of war than verse, and whose arm is more terrible with the sword than is my hand with the pen. This Sir Ludar—such is gratitude and reverence!—O tempora! O mores!—would have given me the go-by, had I not stood boldly in his way, that he might at least see how great an honour he avoided. When he saw me, to be brief, my Hollander, he honoured himself by seeing in me the god Mercury, who beareth messages to the dim regions of the earth. He bade me tell thee, by a means the receipt hereof will apprise thee, that the cause goeth perilously. What cause, I know not; but, be it what it may, it taketh him hence, on what, perchance, may be his last journey. He biddeth you remember your oath, and would have me advertise you that one Merriman hath been heard of in these parts, travelling for London, with a party, of whom one is the lady of the castle on the river, with her ward. He is a dark mysterious man, this Irish wolf-hound of thine, my Hollander, and, did I not suspect him to have a secret tooth for the olives of Parnassus, I had not thus condescended to act as go between you. When I enquired of him concerning her, that incomparable swan, that bright and shining star, that white snowflake, that Cupid’s elder sister, my lady-love—to serve whom I counted as nought the perils of a certain fell voyage you wot of—when I enquired him of her, he asked me back, Did I desire to flounder in the castle moat? By which talk it appeared to me much care hath weakened his mind, and I misdoubt me his present journey bodes no good. My Hollander, I beg not any man’s bread, yet am I hard put to it to show the world that heaven doth not desert her favourites. If the pity of a ’prentice can reach from you to Chester, lend it me, I pray you, as I sit here gazing into the empyrean for my next meal. If I may, I shall shorten the space betwixt us. Meanwhile, count for thyself a lodging in at least one poetic breast, which is that of thy patron and friend, Thomas Graves.

“Post Scriptum: I have overtook my messenger—a poor country carrier—to tell thee strange news. This Ludar hath returned suddenly from his journey in the custody of a troop. I saw him marched through the streets but just now, amid cries of ‘Treason!’ ‘Away with him!’ ‘Hang him!’ sad to hear. The talk runneth that he is party in some great conspiracy against her glorious Majesty, whose foes may Heaven confound! If it be true, then is our Achilles wounded in the heel, and is like enough to journey from here to Tyburn free of charges. Farewell, from thy well-wisher.”

This letter cast me into terrible woe; for it was plain by it that Ludar was in mortal peril, and without a friend to help him. I could do naught, for I knew not where he was taken, or if I did, what could I, outside a stone wall, do for him within? Besides, the message about the maiden put a service on me I was bound to fulfil. Yet what could I do?

Jeannette saw my trouble and shared it; and, being a shrewd lass, advised me to go to Will Peake and hear what was this news of a new-discovered treason, and who were in it?

So I went and found the Bridge (Sunday as it was), in a flutter. Will Peake I could not see, but from another gossip I heard that news was come of a terrible plot to murder her sacred Majesty and place on her throne, with the help of Spanish rogues, the upstart Mary of Scotland. Many wild stories were afloat concerning the business. One, that not a few of her Majesty’s trusted advisers were mixed in it; others, that the Scotchwoman herself was prime mover; another, that it was the work of the Spanish king, whose armies were on the coast waiting the signal to land.

But as we stood, there came a mighty shouting from the Tower Hill, and, running thither, we saw a man in a cart being conducted by twenty horsemen to the prison. He was clad as a papist priest—yet, when I looked at him, I seemed to know his face.

“Who goes there?” I asked of one who stood near.

“The head and front of it all,” said he; “a renegade priest, Ballard by name.”

“Who hath travelled,” said another, “on this accursed business in the garb of a soldier by the name of Captain Fortescue.”

“Fortescue!” cried I. “Why, to be sure, it was he! I knew I had seen him.”

“You saw him, where? what know you of this?” asked several persons round, suspiciously. “If you be a friend of his, get you up on the cart beside him.”

I had a mind to make a rush that way, if haply I might get a single word with the traitor as to where Ludar was. But I might as soon have tried to get within hail of the Scotch Queen herself, so closely was he fenced in.

“He is no friend,” growled I, “but a vile enemy and traitor, whom I would to God I had run through the body when I had the chance at Carlisle, months since.”

Then to avoid more questions and get away from the rabble, I hastened back and told all to Jeannette. She was very grave. “What think you now?” she asked.

“I can think nothing,” said I, “save that, whatever has befallen Ludar, he could not knowingly be guilty of plotting against the life of a woman, even if she be the Queen herself. Jeannette,” said I, “I could no more believe that than I would believe you to be unkind or untrue.”

She smiled at that and said she, too, could not think so ill of this Ludar of mine.

As the days passed, news came in thick and fast. The plot, we heard, was a devilish one to murder the Queen and her ministers, and give England up to the heretic Spaniard. Men stood aghast as they heard of it. Presently came word that the worst of the traitors were in hiding in London, being mostly young gentlemen of the Court, who had fed at the table of the very Lady they plotted to slay. Try all I would, I could hear nothing of Ludar. Nor durst I name him to my comrades, for fear I should bring him mischief thereby.

One day in the middle of August it was, a man came into our shop in hot haste to tell Master Walgrave that the company had been taken, hidden in a barn in Harrow. Never shall I forget the joy of the City as the news spread like wildfire through the wards. No work did we ’prentices do that day. We marched shouting through the streets, calling for vengeance on the Queen’s enemies, and waiting till they should be brought in, on their way to the Tower.

As for me, my joy was mingled with strange trouble; for, if Ludar should be among them—

“The leader of them is one Babington,” said Will Peake, “and besides him are half-a-dozen dogs as foul—English, all of them.”

“Save one,” said another, “who I hear is Irish.”

“Irish!” cried I, as white as paper. “What is his name?”

“Not Dexter,” said the fellow, looking at me in amaze. “Why, man, what ails you?”

“Tell me his name, as you love me,” said I.

“How should I know the name of every cowardly hound that walks the streets? Go and ask them that can tell you.”

I walked away miserable, and waited at the Aldersgate to see the prisoners come by.

When at last the cry was raised, I scarcely durst look up, for fear that among them should tower the form of Ludar. But when I lifted my eyes and saw only six hang-dog men, who held their hands to their ears to keep out the yelling of the mob, and shrunk closer to their guards to save them from a worse fate than the hangman’s, the beating of my heart eased. For he was not amongst them. So joyful was I that I could even lend my voice for a while to the general cry, and, when night fell, bring my torch to the flaming barrels that blazed on Finsbury Fields.

Yet I came home that night ill at ease. Fresh news had arrived already that other men had been taken in the country—amongst them, certain who had been in attendance on the Scotch Queen. Yet, ask all I would, never once could I hear of Ludar by name, or of any man resembling him.

A month later we ’prentices had another holiday, this time to witness the end of that terrible business on Tyburn Hill. ’Twas a horrible sight—I would I could forget it—to see those traitors die, foul as their crime had been. Yet what sickened me the most was to think that Ludar perchance might presently follow to the same fate, if indeed he had not already shared it.

But no news came. The weeks slipped by. Men ceased to talk of Babington, and spoke rather of the coming trial of the Scotch Queen for her life. And presently a time came when they even ceased to speak of that. And all the while, never a whisper came to me of Ludar.

Now you are not to think that all this time I had forgot the message contained in the poet’s letter concerning Captain Merriman and the maiden. Far from it. I haunted Whitehall after work hours in the hope of seeing or hearing something of them. But all in vain. It would have been easier to hear of Ludar, I think, than to get any news of an Irish maiden and her step-dame at Court, or of a swaggering captain.

“What is that to thee?” said most whom I asked; and others pricked me out of their company with their swords.

But late in the year, chance put in my way what all my pains had failed to procure.

I remember, it was that same day that the news came to town that Mary Queen of Scots was condemned to die. London went mad with joy at the news. For our pity of the woman was swallowed up in joy that the evil destiny of our country was mastered, and that our gracious Queen was to be freed at one stroke from all her enemies. Be that as it may, we burned bonfires that night in Moorfields, and I had my mistress’ leave to take Jeannette with me to see the sport. For by this time the sweet maid’s lameness was nearly cured, and, like a prisoner newly uncaged, she loved to spread her wings a bit and go abroad.

Had the arm she leaned on been that of Peter Stoupe instead of mine, I wondered if she would have mended as fast as she did? I was a vain coxcomb those days, and thought, no. Yet, for anything she said to me or I to her, we were still ’prentice and young mistress. Only, the duty I owed her was my great joy; and the service she had a right to claim of me, she sometimes prettily asked as a gift.

’Twas a wild, weird scene—those hundreds of citizens lit up by the fierce glare of the bonfires, whose roar mingled with the shoutings, and whose heat was less than the loyal fires which blazed in our bosoms. I could feel Jeannette’s hand tighten on my arm as the rabble surged closer round; and presently, seeing her tired and frightened, I made a way for her through the crowd.

As we reached the skirts there reeled against us a drunken man who, had I not caught him in my arm, would have fallen against my young mistress and done her some hurt. He was not so drunk but that, when I set him on his feet and gave him a kick or two, he was able to stand upright and talk. And at the first word he uttered, I recognised the voice of my old acquaintance, Tom Price, the Captain’s man; whom I had seen last with his master the day Alexander McDonnell fell outside Dunluce.

So dark was it away from the fire, that but for his voice I might not have known him. Certainly he, as he then was, could hardly know me.

“Patience,” whispered I to Jeannette, “here is a man can give us some news. He shall not hurt you; only I must speak with him. Hold close to me.”

And to guard her better, I put an arm around her, while I parleyed with the sergeant.

“Come, comrade,” said I, concealing my voice as best I could, “’tis time you were in quarters. The Captain will be calling for thee.”

“Captain me no captains. Stand thee still, steady—when came he—ugh?”

“He’ll be here to look for thee I warrant, an thou go not home.”

“Got back? what for? when came— Harkee, comrade—keep it snug—he’ll not find her—he, he! he’ll not find her.”

“Not he,” said I, making a guess. “We know where she is, though. Eh, Tom?”

“He, he! do we! So doth that other varlet. But, keep it mum, comrade—the wall is none too high, but my Captain may climb it.”

“Ay,” said I, “but he must needs find it first. Eh? That will trouble him, eh? honest Tom.”

“Honest! thou art right, comrade. Ere he learn where she be I’ll—I’ll—harkee, friend I like not that other varlet. What needs she with two of us? Am not I man enough? eh? thou and I, without him? By my soul, comrade, I will slay him.”

“So, he is there, too, where she is?”

“Ho, he! Jack Gedge in a convent? ho, he! Ne’er such luck for him, or thee, or me; eh? ho, ho! Jack in a convent? No, but, comrade,” here he took my arm and whispered, “he ne’er quitteth the city, and no man can get at her but he knows it. ’Tis a very bulldog. Hang him, comrade, hang him, I say.”

“Ay, I am with you there,” said I. “What right hath he to stand betwixt her and honest folk like you and me?”

“Harkee, friend. This varlet, they say, was appointed to the service by one—hang the name of him—an Irish knave that made eyes at her. You know him—”

“Ay, ay,” said I. “Lubin, or Ludar, or some such name.”

“Thou hast it. Ludar. Well, as I told thee, this varlet is appointed to the charge by this Lu— Say it again, comrade.”

“Ludar,” said I.

“Ay, Ludar. Well, this varlet, as I—”

“And where is the villain now?”

“Why, as I told thee, dullard, he lurks in Canterbury city hard by the convent—and though ’twas I helped her there—I or thou, I forget if thou didst assist—I say, though ’twas I—or I or thou—or I and thou—helped her there, this dog now keepeth guard like a very bulldog.”

“Well,” said I, trembling to have so much news, “may be he doeth no harm. The lady oweth more to thee than him.”

“Ay—’twas a deft trick, spiriting her thither—and the Captain little knows ’twas honest Tom Price baulked him. Not but—harkee,”—here he whispered again—“not but the lady did not make it worth the while, eh? I have a noble of it left still, comrade. As I told thee, the Captain knoweth naught. He! he! he hath followed her hither and thither. But, mercy on us, he’d as soon look in the Fleet Ditch as in Canterbury. Harkee, comrade, that other varlet is a knave. Hang him, I say. ’Twas thou and I helped her there—he knew naught till—how a plague found he us out? Honest friend, I pray thee slay me this dog.”

“Where in Canterbury shall I find him?” said I.

“Thou knowest a certain tavern, or inn, or hostel by the sign of the Oriflame, neighbour. Well, ’tis but a stone’s-throw from the convent; and I warrant the sot will be not far away. Fetch me his head, comrade; and I vow thou shalt share my noble. Get thee gone.”

That moment Jeannette gripped my arm and pointed to a figure which slouched away from us towards the fire. I got but one glimpse of him. He may have been anyone; for the crowd was spreading fast. Yet Jeannette and I both fancied the form was like that of Peter Stoupe, whom we had already seen once in the crowd that evening.

“Poor Peter,” said I, “no doubt he envies me my charge of you, Jeannette.”

She disengaged herself from my arm, and put her hand on my sleeve.

“Let us begone,” said she, uneasily. “I am sorry I came here.”

So I left Tom Price sitting on the grass, singing to himself; and full of my great news, yet troubled at Jeannette’s speech I walked with her silently homewards.

As we neared Temple Bar, I could not refrain from questioning her.

“You are silent, Jeannette?” said I.

“The better company for you,” said she.

“Are you tired?”

“Yes.”

“And vexed?”

“Yes.”

“Because Peter—if it was Peter—saw me with my arm around thee?”

“He would not know that it was only because I feared the drunken man,” said she.

“He would suspect me, instead, of being thy sweetheart?” asked I.

“Ay,” said she, “Peter hath a long tongue.”

“What if he suspect me aright, Jeannette?”

I felt the hand on my arm give a little start, as she dropped her eyes, and quickened her flagging steps.

She said nothing. But you might have heard the beating of my heart, as I looked down at her, and laid my hand on hers.

“If Peter guessed aright,” repeated I, “what then, Jeannette?”

This time her hand lay very quiet, and her footsteps grew slower, till at last they stood still.

Then she lifted her head and looked me in the face.

“Then, Humphrey, I should not mind what anybody said.”

So all was peace betwixt us two; and we were sorry when our walk was ended.

Chapter Twenty.

How there came Visitors to Master Walgrave’s House.

So occupied was I with my new joy, that for a day or two what I had heard from drunken Tom Price in Moorfields slipped me. Or, if I thought of it, it seemed all was well. For I gathered from his wild talk that the maiden—left no doubt by her harsh step-dame to fight her own battles—had fled from the Captain’s persecutions with the help of Tom, to Canterbury, where (as I knew), was the convent school in which she had been brought up. Here she was safe from his clutches, even if he knew where she was, which Tom took care he should not. And, to make all surer, there was that English soldier—Ludar’s prisoner, whom he had charged to protect her—hovering near, true to his trust and ready to defend her from all and every foe that should assail her.

Therefore, I felt easy in my mind to leave her thus secure, and set myself to win my mistress’ and master’s good-will for my match with the sweet Jeannette.

’Twas no easy task. For my mistress said the child was over young; and my master told me I had somewhat else to think of than such tomfoolery. Howbeit, when I told them that, say what they pleased, Jeannette was mine, and that so soon as my time was up two years hence I should take her to myself with leave or without, they thought better of it, and yielded somewhat.

My mistress said, two years hence we should all be grown older, and if we were then of the same mind perchance she might be of another. My master, too, counting to retain me in his service as a son-in-law, said there was time enough betwixt now and then. And thus it came to pass Jeannette and I were left to our hopes, and needed no sweeter comfort to make the weeks fly.

But, one day early in February, as I walked on my master’s business near Charing, I saw a sight which made me uneasy on another’s behalf. For there, at the road corner as you go to Whitehall, I perceived a man who pulled out a purse and gave it to another; and when I looked closer, I saw that he who gave was Captain Merriman, and he who received was my old fellow-apprentice, Peter Stoupe.

Instantly, although I heard not a word, and there might have been a hundred other considerations, I took it into my head that this business meant mischief to Ludar. And, cudgelling my brains further, I called to mind how, that memorable night in Moorfields, while I talked with the drunken sergeant, Peter had sneaked past us, and put my sweet little mistress in a flutter.

What if, instead of heeding us, he had been listening to what the soldier said? He knew or guessed enough of the maiden’s story—having heard me tell it often—to put two and two together. What if he, as well as I, had learned the soldier’s secret; and, to despite me and profit himself, had sold it to the one man from whom it was by all means to be kept?

I cursed my wickedness, who, lapped in my own happy fortune, had thus neglected my absent master’s interest and let this knave get beforehand with me. For, be Ludar alive or dead, I owed it to him to save the maiden from the Captain, even if it cost me my life.

So, as I say, this vision of the passing of the purse woke me out of my dream, and warned me that there was danger in the wind.

That afternoon, the same Providence which gave me the alarm put into my way a means of acting upon it.

My master I found in a sore state of vexation because a certain book he was printing, from which he expected some profit, was refused a licence by the Stationers’ Company. They liked it not, said the clerk, and had sent it on to his Grace, who had other matters to think of, and was, besides, away in Canterbury on a visitation.

At this my ears pricked.

“By your leave, Master Walgrave,” said I, “here is a matter that presses. If we get not his Grace’s licence now, the occasion for the book will be gone by. How if you let me go to Canterbury, to wait upon him?”

Master Walgrave shrugged his shoulders.

“Have you forgot your last journey for me?” said he. “For if you have, I have not.”

“Oh,” said I, rather sheepish, “I am older than that now. Besides, I know what I go for this time, and have not my business sewn up in my cloak’s lining.”

“’Tis bad weather for so long a journey,” said my mistress.

“I heed not that,” said I, like a hypocrite, “so I get my master his licence.”

“Beside,” said Jeannette, who knew what was afoot, “Humphrey likes to travel, and he pines, I know, to be freed a day or so from my apron strings.”

I vowed she wronged me there; but between us all, my master yielded and said I should start next day to see his Grace.

“Nay,” said I, “I will start to-night. There is no time to lose.”

But they would not hear of that, and for fear of betraying myself, I forbore to press it, and went betimes to bed, promising to be away before daybreak on the morrow.

Early as I was next morning, Jeannette was astir to bid me God-speed and give me my breakfast.

“Humphrey, mon ami,” said she. “I should not grudge to see thee go on so good an errand. Yet, I shall be glad to see thee home.”

“Perhaps,” said I, “it is all for nothing, and Ludar’s maiden may be safe from harm. Yet, something tells me she needs my help.”

“You may tell that maiden,” said Jeannette, “that I lend you to her; and if she need shelter, she shall have it here.”

I thanked her for that brave speech, and tore myself away. By dint of hard walking—for I had no nag to carry me this time—I arrived late that night at Rochester, where I was glad enough to turn into the first inn I met, and sleep.

I know not how it was. I dreamed all night that Ludar was calling to me to turn back, while the maiden was bidding me go forward; and betwixt them I was torn in two, and lay kicking all night, listening to the clatter of hoofs that went past, and fancying that while I tarried there, his Grace of Canterbury was carrying off my sweet Jeannette, I know not whither. It must have been towards morning when at last I shook off my nightmares and fell asleep. And thus it happened that, instead of being far on my road, at ten of the clock I still lay snoring, with all my day’s work before me to reach Canterbury that night.

As it fell out, I did not even do that. For close by Feversham I met a parcel of knaves who laid hold of me and rifled me of all I had, save one noble that I had hid in my hat. And because I showed fight, and ran two of them through, they wanted to hang me at the roadside and so end my travelling days for ay. But as they must needs find a tall tree, which was not to be had at the roadside, they hauled me away to the wood to make an end of me there. And since I walked meekly with my head hung down, they slackened their guard of me, so that presently I was able to make a dash away from them, and hide myself in the forest.

I escaped them, but it cost me a whole afternoon. For I lost myself among the trees; and daring not to show myself, must needs lie low while the hue and cry lasted, and afterwards find my road under shelter of night as best I could.

You may guess if I chafed not under this delay; specially as the way from there to Canterbury was too hard to be walked in the dark. Halt where I was, I must; but I did it, feeling that I might be too late, and that each moment lost to me was a gain to that foul Captain.

At early dawn I was afoot, and before mid-day stood in the city of Canterbury. As in duty bound, I asked my way first of all to his Grace’s palace (which was hard by the great Church), where I longed to have my master’s business disposed of.

Alack! his Grace was not to be seen, being away on a visitation; and his Grace’s secretary had other matters to attend to, and sent word to me to enquire again to-morrow about the same time. So I was forced to let the business wait, much to my sorrow, and meanwhile seek to hear some news of Ludar’s maiden.

I remembered what Tom Price in his drunken speech had said of the nunnery, hard by which was a certain tavern by name of the “Oriflame,” where I was like to hear of the English soldier, Jack Gedge. Thither, accordingly, I went, being told I should find it outside the walls on the Dover road.

’Twas a low, mean house, with little accommodation for man or beast, being, indeed, as much farmhouse as hostel, with naught but the flaming sign to tell me I might wade through the muck and litter to the door and there call for refreshment.

The host was a civil, stupid fellow, who eyed me like one from whom he suspected mischief, and seemed impatient till I had drained my pot and was gone.

But I had no thought of going, and bade him, since business kept me that night in Canterbury, get me a bed.

He declared he had none to spare, and that I might get better quarters in the town. But I replied I wanted no better quarters than the “Oriflame,” and if it came to a lack of beds, he and I could do with one betwixt us.

“Or,” said I, “if, as I am told, my old friend and comrade Jack Gedge, once a soldier, lodgeth here, he and I will not quarrel over our share of a crib.”

At that he looked uneasy and said Jack Gedge was not there. He would have me believe at first he knew no man of the name; but I wormed it out of him that a month back a fellow had come and taken service with him as drawer and labourer, calling himself plain Gedge. But only a week ago, as this same fellow was bringing in the pigs, a handful of men had set upon him, with a magistrate’s warrant, and arrested him as a deserted soldier, skulking to avoid her Majesty’s service, and had carried him away to Rochester gaol. I questioned him as to who his captors were, but he said he knew them not, but supposed them to be men in the company of the Captain whose colours the fellow had abandoned.

Knowing what I did, I guessed this was so, and that it had been part of a plan against the maiden thus to get one of her protectors out of the way.

“And have you had much company here of late,” I asked, “that your house is so full?”

He looked queerly at me, for he knew as well as I there was no guest but myself beneath the roof.

“By your leave,” said he, “I am ill prepared to make any guest welcome, and pray you do me the favour to seek entertainment elsewhere.”

“Nay,” said I, “I like the place. And if you suspect me, let me tell you I am a plain London printer’s ’prentice, come to seek my Grace’s licence for a book, which I hope to receive to-morrow.”

“I hope you say true,” said he, “for I have had trouble enough with guests here lately, not as honest as you. Why, sir,” said he, filling my mug, “only yesterday there came here such a surly-faced varlet as you never saw, who whined and sang psalms as he drank my ale; and then when the time came to pay, told me to score it to one Captain Merriman, in whose sendee he was, and who would come and pay it presently. I ask you, sir, how would you like that at your inn?”

“Thank Heaven I have no inn; but tell me, landlord, this varlet, was he a long pale fellow, with straight hair, and eyes half shut; and was this the tune he whined?” And I hummed Peter’s favourite tune.

“The very man,” said my landlord, rising to his feet with a start. “You have hit him to a point. And be you then this Captain Merriman that is to pay my score?”

“Not so,” said I, laughing, “and you may bid farewell to your money if you are to look for it to him. I know the villain, landlord, and if I saw him here, I warrant you this sword of mine would not be lying thus in its sheath. But tell me. This surly-faced rogue, what did he do? What was his business?”

“Indeed, I know not. Save to ogle all the women that came this way, not sparing the Popish nuns in yonder convent.”

And he pointed to a plain building close at hand, peeping from among the trees, and walled all round with a high wall.

“He asked so many questions of the place, and was so curious to see the sisters and their scholars walk abroad, that had I a daughter in keeping there, I would be glad to get her safe back under my roof.”

“And did he see them?”

“I warrant you, yes. For while he was questioning me the bell sounded, and they walked across to the Popish Chapel in the wood. And there was my gentleman, turned Papist all of a sudden, and must needs go and worship images too.”

“And where has he gone now?” I asked.

“I know not, neither do I care, so I am rid of him. But come, guest, if you must stay, get you to bed; for we be early folk here.”

I slept not a wink that night, and before daylight was astir and out of doors. For I, too, was curious concerning this nunnery and its inmates; and was minded to turn Catholic too for occasion, and see if, amongst the ladies, might appear the stately form of her whose fate had been so oddly woven with mine own.

But ill fortune attended me. For early as I was, matins had been sung an hour ago; nor was there another service till noon, and that only for the sisters. I must wait till evensong, to satisfy myself, and, with much misgiving at the delay, dragged myself back to the “Oriflame.”

Just as I turned off from the Dover road, there passed me in haste two men habited as priests, travel-stained, as coming off a long journey, yet apparently familiar enough with the path which led to the friendly shelter of the convent. I saw neither of their faces, for both were bent over the books they read; but I marked that one of them was tall and lean, while the other, who walked with more of a swagger, was shorter and better fed. I doubt if either of them saw me. But somehow I liked not the sight of them, or the path they took. It seemed to me to bode ill to the maiden; and I longed to have my business with his Grace ended that I might return and be near the place where she was.

For three mortal hours, that forenoon, was I kept kicking my heels in his Grace’s ante-chamber; and in the end was told curtly his Grace had no leisure at present for such business, and that I must come again on the morrow. I own I spake disrespectfully of his Grace when they gave me this message, and was fain, on that account, to retreat from the precincts more hastily than most suitors are wont to do. Here was another day wasted, and who was to say that the same put-off did not await me to-morrow?

It was late in the afternoon when I found myself again at the “Oriflame,” and there I found mine host in a monstrous flutter, thinking I, too, had given him the slip without paying my account. I made him happy on that score with the moiety of my gold piece, and thereby bound him to me for ever and a day. For he seemed a man whose wont it was never to get his due.

I was solacing my impatience as I waited for vespers, by pacing to and fro in the wood which divided the road to Dover from the convent wall; when I was startled to come suddenly upon a horse, saddled and bridled, tied up in a covert. It had a pillion on its back; and seemed like the beast on which a farmer and his wife might ride together to market. So, indeed, I thought it to be, when, looking about me, I perceived in the saddle-bow a knife, the hilt of which I had seen before. It was, in fact, a knife I had myself given to Peter, one day two years ago, when I had won a new one at Finsbury Fields, and when my fellow ’prentice and I were better friends than we became later on.

The sight of this knife suddenly brought the blood to my head with a mighty rush. For it showed that this horse waited here for Peter; and if for Peter, for what lady was the pillion provided? I had wit enough, without a moment’s delay, to hide myself among the trees; assured that whatever mischief was in the air, it would come at length to this trysting place. And so it fell out.

I heard the chapel bell begin to toll ere long, and pictured in my mind the sisters and their wards crossing devoutly from the convent garden to the little chapel in the wood. No doubt the sleek Peter would be there to eye them as they glided in; and when the service was done, perchance, he would seek to make his wicked swoop on that poor, unsuspecting lamb, and carry her off to his foul paymaster. In an hour—

What was that? I suddenly heard close to me staggering footsteps and a stifled groan, accompanied by the hard panting of a man who laboured with a heavy load. That they were coming my way was evident by the crackling of the underwood and the impatience of the horse. What a year did those two minutes seem as I waited there, sword in hand!

Then there broke into the covert a man, dragging on his arm the fainting form of her whom, though I had not seen her for a long year, I knew in a moment to be Rose O’Neill, my master Ludar’s maiden. But what amazed me most was the man who carried her. I had looked for Peter Stoupe to a certainty; but instead of him I saw the taller of the two priests whom I had passed only that morning on the way to the convent. The delusion lasted only a moment. For as he turned his head, I saw beneath the cowl the well-known, cadaverous, hungry visage of my masquerading ’prentice, and knew that I was right after all.

He flung his senseless burden to the ground with a curse, and was turning to the horse, when I stepped out, sword in hand, and faced him. I gave him no time for parley or excuse. I heeded not the yell he sent up as he saw who I was, and felt nothing of the one savage blow he aimed at me with his knife. Time was short. At any moment that other masquerading priest, whose name I guessed shrewdly enough now, might be here on the top of us. So I had at him and ran him through the carcase, and without waiting to look twice to see if he lived or no, or to restore his fainting victim, I lifted her on to the horse in front of me, and dashed, in the gathering night, through the forest roads.

Two days later, as the snow fell thick in the London streets, I stood with the maiden at my master’s door without Temple Bar. There were crowds in the Strand, I remember, talking over some notable news which had just come in; and so full was every one of the same, that we passed unheeded, and not a man had time to recognise me or wonder who was my companion. Even my master and mistress were abroad gossiping; so that, to my vast relief, when I opened the door and walked in, there was Jeannette to meet us and no one else.

“Thee art welcome, dear Humphrey,” said she, coming forward; “and so is this lady.”

And she dropped a curtsey as she turned to my companion. But seeing her pale face and sad looks, she went to her and, taking her hand, kissed her on the cheek. I think that sisterly welcome put new life into the maiden, for the colour came again to her face, and a smile to her lips, as she said—

“We are not strangers, sweet Jeannette. It does me good to see thee now.”

And somehow I was overlooked in the talk that ensued betwixt those two, and so left them and went out to the street to hear what this great news might be.

It was indeed great news. Yesterday, in the early morning, the Scotch Queen had paid the penalty of her grievous treasons, and had been beheaded at Fotheringay Castle. Men seemed half dazed by the news. To many it had seemed that the dangers of which she was the author were to trouble England’s peace for ever; and now that, by a single blow, the cloud had been lifted, some of us fetched a great sigh of relief and had time to pity the fate of the fair woman, whose name we had so lately hated. So there was not much shouting or burning of bonfires. But every one felt something wonderful had happened, and rubbed their eyes, like those awakened out of some long drawn nightmare.

When I returned my master and mistress were still abroad. Jeannette, I found, had carried the maiden to her own bed, and having left her there to rest—and indeed she needed it, for we had travelled hard two days by long and tiresome roads—awaited me with a grave face.

“All this is passing strange,” said she, “and I love this maiden. But, my Humphrey, I have sad news to tell you since you left. Twas the evening of the very day you went; as I was helping the father draw his charges, there came suddenly into the shop a man, tall, haggard, but noble to look at, and seeming like a hunted lion. He looked round him wildly, and then asked, was this the printer’s house outside Temple Bar? The father answered shortly, yes. ‘Then,’ said he ‘is there one here, Humphrey Dexter by name?’ ‘No,’ said the father, who, I thought, mistrusted the fellow’s looks, and wanted to be rid of him. Without a word, then, he turned and left us; before I could so much as cry to him that you would be back anon. Where he went I know not, but that this was Sir Ludar, and that he goes in peril of his life I am as sure as that I speak now to thee.”

Now, I understood why, as I lay dreaming that night at Rochester, I had heard my master’s voice calling me back, while that of the maiden urged me forward. To think he had been here, in this very spot, calling for me, and I not at hand to answer! It was too bitter a cup; and late as it was, I rushed out once again into the street, in the foolish hope of seeing or hearing of him. But it was all too late!

Chapter Twenty One.

How a Certain Man was hanged at Tyburn.

Months passed, and the Irish maiden became one of Master Walgrave’s ordinary household. And she and my Jeannette were as sisters.

It was not without a struggle that my master and mistress were prevailed upon to open their home to the fair stranger. At first, my master, being sorely wroth with the miscarriage of my errand to his Grace, vowed so roundly that he would turn both me and my papist wench—so he called her—out of doors, that it seemed likely there would be broken heads as well as hearts over this business. For it was hard to keep my temper even with Jeannette’s step-father, when he talked like that.

But I deemed it wise to leave the management of the matter to daintier hands than mine; and when Jeannette, clinging to her father’s knees, besought him with tears at least to let the maiden stay a few days till she could find a shelter, he surlily yielded so much, provided she stayed in a chamber by herself, and brought not her papist blasphemy within earshot of any in the house. Then, when a day after, my mistress, being won over by her sweet daughter, saw how ill and withal how gentle the maiden was, it was even permitted her to walk in the garden and exchange civilities with the two ladies of the house. Soon after, yet another event served to put my master in humour. For a message came from his Grace’s secretary permitting the printing of the book. And that evening, as I observed, Master Walgrave even condescended to speak to the maiden himself. And last of all, when she told him prettily that she was rich enough to recompense him for his hospitality, and begged him take charge of her purse so long as she lodged with him, he had no more to say, but let her go in and out as she pleased, pledging her only to speak not a word of her religion to Jeannette or anyone else in his house.

It was not much I saw of her; for, despite her liberty, she never strayed beyond the little garden, and many a day kept close to her chamber. Yet often I heard of her from Jeannette, and now and again she herself enquired for me, and asked me to walk with her.

I soon learned what little she had to tell of her own adventures. After leaving Dunluce she had been kept close prisoner in Toome Castle by her old step-dame, despite her father’s protest, who had no more voice in his own house than a dog and was not sorry to escape from it to Castleroe. The English soldier who had been sent to guard her was not admitted within the walls, but paced—faithful fellow—outside, within sight of her window, the only reminder she had of the happiness she had lost. Presently rumours came that Ludar had been slain in battle; and after a while Captain Merriman came on a visit. Happily, this time, he returned not to the violence with which he had persecuted her at Castleroe, but tried to win her by civilities which were scarcely less loathsome to her than his old rudenesses. Amongst other things, he told her Ludar had cursed her for being his brother’s murderess; and that he believed it was true, as had been reported, that the young McDonnell was slain. And two days after, to confirm this, an officer came to the Castle with news that Ludar’s head was set on a pole above the gate at the Bridge of Dublin.

After that, the maiden said, she wished no longer to live. For she knew not what to believe; or how much was a wicked plot to deceive her into yielding to the Captain. Presently her father came home, and she begged him on her knees to send her to England. He consented; but when my Lady heard of it, she took the whim to go to Court too, and invited the Captain to be their escort. So nothing was gained by that move—or nothing would have been gained, had not Providence directed that Captain Merriman and my Lady should grievously fall out on the journey about some act of disrespect to herself, such as the neglecting to see her lifted to her horse before he assisted the maiden. Whatever the cause was, it saved the maiden much trouble during the journey; for the Captain was kept thereby at arm’s length and never permitted to come near. And, to add to her comfort, she had espied among the men who formed the escort the same English fellow who had escorted her from Dunluce to Toome, and who, it was clear, was still true to his trust.

But as they neared London, my Lady, feeling in need of some little pomp to make good her entry, took the Captain back once more into favour; and with that the maiden’s troubles began again. For the Captain bargained, as a price of his good-will, that he should wed the maiden so soon as they reached town. To this my Lady seemed to consent, and told her step-daughter, sternly enough, to prepare herself for what was no longer to be avoided.

Thus made desperate, on a certain morning about a day’s ride from London, the maiden made some pretence of her saddle being broken, and beckoned to the English fellow to come and attend to it. But instead of him, for his head was turned, came Tom Price the Captain’s sergeant. And while he made good the straps she took heart of grace and begged him, for pity’s sake, help her, and slipped into his hand some gold pieces. And he, having no liking to see his master married and himself, perhaps, cast out of service, willingly offered to help her when the time came. So she bade him be ready with a horse at midnight of the very day they reached London, and to bring the other English fellow, if needs be, also.

The rest of the story I knew. How Tom Price had carried her to her old nunnery school at Canterbury; and how the fellow Gedge (though Tom had no mind to share the reward with him), discovered what was afoot and went to Canterbury too. And how Peter Stoupe, having heard the secret from the drunken sergeant, had found out the Captain, and sold the same to him; and, finally, after getting the honest watchdog out of the way, how, disguised as priests, those two villains had invaded the convent and, but for the Providence which took me thither, might have had her across seas and at their mercy long since.

“So, my good Humphrey,” said the maiden, “once more I owe you more than my life. I cannot repay you, but Heaven will. Nay it is doing so already, in giving you this sweetest little Jeannette to love you.”

And then, as her eyes grew dim, and her bosom heaved, I could guess whither her thoughts had flown, and how my happy lot contrasted with her own.

I had told her all I knew of Ludar, up to the time of the poet’s letter. But for a long time I durst not tell her of his visit to my master’s house that evening while I was at Canterbury. At last, however, I summoned up courage, with Jeannette’s help, to tell her that; and it was pitiful to see how it moved her.

“Talk of it no more,” said she. “He will not return; or if he does, the sight of me—to whom he owes all these troubles, who tempted him to desert his duty and ruined his life—will drive him hence. Jeannette,” said she, taking my little mistress’ hand in hers, “why must one live when it would be so happy to die?”

“Maiden,” said Jeannette, boldly, “you do wrong to talk so, and I shall love you less if you say it again. Of course he will come, and of course he loves you, and of course all will be happy yet. Is the God you pray to less kind and strong than ours?”

The maiden said nothing, but her cheeks flushed as she lifted Jeannette’s little hand to her lips. And after that we seldom spoke together of Ludar. Yet he was in all our thoughts.

As for me, I wandered about the town night by night for many a week, hoping to hear of him. But never a word could I hear. And in time people ceased even to talk of the Scotch Queen and all the troublous times which had ended at her death. And a leaden weight was falling on my heart, as I wondered if I was never again to hold my friend’s hand in mine; when one day I chanced to stumble on news of him in the strangest way.

It was near midsummer that a journeyman came urgently one day to my master from Master Barker’s, her Majesty’s printer, desiring his aid in the setting up in type of certain matter which was to be printed forthwith, but which Master Barker (being crowded with other work), must needs hire out to be done. My master, who desired by all means to keep the good graces of the Queen’s printer, undertook to give the help asked for, and handed to me the paper to put in type. I opened it, and found it headed thus:—“A List of Persons who in these late grievous times have suffered punishment for treasonable acts against the state and person of her Most Gracious Majesty. To wit—”