Captain Mayne Reid

"The White Gauntlet"

Volume One—Chapter One.

A woman in a wood—encountered accidentally, and alone. ’Tis an encounter to challenge curiosity—even though she be but a gipsy, or a peasant girl gathering sticks.

If a high-born dame, beautiful,—and, above all, bright-haired,—curiosity is no longer the word; but admiration, involuntary, unrestrained—bordering upon adoration. It is but the instinct of man’s heart to worship the fairest object, upon which man’s eye may rest; and this is a beautiful woman, with bright hair, met in the middle of a wood.

Marion Wade possessed all the conditions to merit such exalted admiration. She was high-born, beautiful, and bright-haired. She was alone in a wood.

It did not detract from the interest of the situation, that she was mounted on a white horse, carried a hawk on her hand, and was followed by a hound.

She was unaccompanied by human creature—hawk, hound, and horse being her only companions.

It must have been her choice to be thus unattended. Wishing it, the daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade might have had for escort a score of retainers.

Autumn was in the sky: and along with it a noon-day sun. The golden light straggling through the leaves was reflected upon a field of blue, brilliant as the canopy whence it came. It was not the blue of the hyacinth gleaming in the forest glade, nor the modest violet that empurples the path. In October it could not be either. More attractive was that cerulean tint, seen in the iris of a woman’s eye—the eye of Marion Wade.

The sunbeams danced upon her yellow hair, with apparent delight, kissing its tresses of kindred colour—kissing her radiant cheek, that, even under the shadow of the trees, looked luminous.

What does she in the wild wood unguarded—unattended? Is she a-hawking?

The kestrel perched upon her gloved hand should say, yes. But more than once game has sprung up temptingly before her; and still the hood has been suffered to stay upon the hawk, and its jesses are retained in leash.

Has she lost her way—is she wandering?

Equally unlike. She is upon a path. A noble park is in sight, with a road that runs parallel to its palings. Through the trees she can obtain glimpses of a stately mansion standing within its enclosure. It is the famed park of Bulstrode—ancient as Alfred the Great. As she is the mistress of its mansion she cannot have lost her way? She cannot be wandering?

And yet, why does she fret her palfrey in its paces—now checking, now urging it onward? If not wandering in her way, surely is she astray in her thoughts?

She does not appear to be satisfied with the silent solitude of that forest path: she stops at short intervals, and leans forward in her saddle, as if listening for sounds.

Her behaviour would lead to the belief, that she is expecting some one?

A hoof-stroke is heard. There is a horseman coming through the wood. He is not yet in sight; but the sound of his horse’s hoofs striking the solid turf—tells that he is riding upon the track, and towards her.

There is an opening in the forest glade, of some six roods in extent. It is cut in twain by a path, which parts from the high road near one of the gates of Bulstrode Park; thence treading over the hills in a north-westerly direction.

On this path rides Marion Wade, straying, or dallying—certainly not travelling.

She has entered the aforementioned opening. Near its centre stands a tree—a beech of magnificent dimensions—whose wide-spreading boughs seem determined to canopy the whole area of the opening. The road runs beneath its branches.

Under its shadow, the fair equestrian checks her palfrey to a stand—as if to shelter, hawk, hound, and horse, from the fervent rays of the noon-day sun.

But no: her object is different. She has halted there to wait the approach of the horseman; and, at this moment, neither hawk, hound, nor horse claims the slightest share of her thoughts.

She sits scanning the road in the direction whence the hoof-strokes are heard. Her eyes sparkle with a pleasant anticipation.

The horseman soon appears, cantering around a corner—a rustic in rude garb, astride of a common roadster!

Surely he is not the expected one of Marion Wade?

The question is answered by the scornful exclamation that escapes from her pouted lips.

“’Sh! I might have known by the clattering it wasn’t the footfall of that noble steed. A peasant!”

The despised rustic rides on—as he passes making awkward obeisance, by a spasmodic pluck at his forelock.

His salutation is scarcely returned: or only with a nod, apparently supercilious. He wonders at this: for he knows that the lady is the daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade—Mistress Marion—usually so condescending to, and a favourite with, all of his class. He cannot guess the chagrin he has given her.

He is soon out of her sight, and equally out of her thoughts: for it is not the sound of his departing hoof-strokes her ear is now re-quickened to catch; but others of bolder bound, and clearer resonance awaking the echoes of the wood.

These are soon heard more distinctly; and presently a second horseman appears, advancing around an angle of the road.

A striking contrast does the new comer present to the rustic who has just ridden past. A cavalier of elegant carriage, spurred and plumed; mounted on a superb steed, of jet-black colour—his counter clouted with flakes of snow-white froth loosened from his chamfering lips.

A glance at the horse is sufficient to show that he is the “noble steed” mentioned in that muttered soliloquy; and half a glance at the rider proclaims him the individual for whom Marion Wade has been waiting.

As yet she has not given him half a glance. She has not even turned her eyes in the direction whence he is approaching. She sits silent in her saddle, and to all appearance calmly indifferent. But this air of insouciance is only assumed. The quivering of the kestrel, roosted upon her wrist, tells that she is trembling; while the high heaving of her bosom indicates the presence of some strong emotion.

Going at a gentle gallop, the horseman glides out into the opening.

Perceiving the lady, he checks his steed to a slower pace—as if to pass more respectfully.

Marion continues to affect an air of non-observance—studied and severe: though the cavalier coming forward, is at that moment the sole subject of her thoughts.

Her reflections will disclose the character of these thoughts; and enable us to obtain an insight into the relations existing between these two splendid equestrians, whom chance, or design, has brought together upon the lonely forest road.

“If he should speak to me,” soliloquises the lady, “what shall I say to him? What can I? He must know it is not accident that has brought me hither—and now so often. If I thought he knew the truth, I should die of shame!

“I wish him to speak; and yet I fear it. Ah! there need be no fear. He will not. How many times has he passed me without a word! And yet his glances—do they not tell me that he would—Oh!—this etiquette of out high life—that without shame strangers may not be civil to one another!

“Would I were a peasant—and he the same—only handsome as he is now! ’Tis cruel, to be thus constrained by silly social custom! My sex, too, against me. I dare not speak first. Even in his eyes it would undo me!

“He is going to pass me as before? Is there no way by which this painful reticence may be removed?”

The fair equestrian appeared to ponder on some plan—only half-formed and half-resolved, as her muttered reflections indicated.

“Dare I do it? What would my proud father say, if he were to know? Even gentle cousin Lora would chide me? A stranger whose name I only know, and that’s all. Perhaps not a gentleman? Oh—yes—yes—yes! He can not be other. He may not be a lord of the land—but he is lord of my poor heart! I cannot restrain myself from soliciting him—even if it bring shame and repentance. I shall do it—I shall do it!”

The speech betrayed a determination. To do what?

The act itself, following close upon the words, answered the question. With a quick jerk the lady dislodged the kestrel from its perch, tossing the bird to the neck of her palfrey—where it clung, clutching the snow-white mane. Then drawing off her glove, a white gauntlet, she dropped it negligently by her side—permitting it to slide down the skirt of her riding-dress. It fell into the middle of the road.

A short moment intervened. The lady apparently unconscious of the loss she had sustained, tightened the rein upon her palfrey, and with a slight touch of the whip moved out from under the branches of the beech—her horse’s head turned in a direction opposite to that in which the cavalier was approaching.

At first she rode slowly—apparently desirous of being overtaken. Presently she increased the pace; then faster, and faster, until she went at a gallop—as though by a sudden change of thought she had determined to avoid an interview! The thick tresses of her golden hair escaping from the comb swept down upon the croup behind her. The natural red of her cheeks had become heightened to the hue of carmine. It was the suffusion of burning blushes. Her eyes were flashing with a strange excitement in an expression that spoke of something like shame. She had repented of what she had done, and dreaded to wait the consequence of the act!

For all that she was dying to look back, but dared not.

A turn in the road, at length, offered her the opportunity. As she reined her palfrey around the corner, she glanced towards the spot where she had abandoned her glove.

The tableau that saluted her eye was not displeasing. The cavalier, bending down from his saddle, was just lifting the gauntlet upon the point of his glistening rapier!

What would he do with it?

She waited not to see. Her palfrey passed behind the trees, and the horseman was hidden from her sight. On that splendid steed he might easily have overtaken her: but, although listening, as she rode on, she heard no hoof-stroke behind her.

She did not desire to be overtaken. For that day she had submitted herself to sufficient humiliation—self-administered—it is true; but she slackened not the pace, till she has passed through the gates of the park, and sighted the walls of the paternal mansion.

Volume One—Chapter Two.

If tumultuous were the emotions of Marion Wade, as she let fall that significant token, not less so were those of Henry Holtspur as he took it up.

Had the lady remained a moment longer looking back, she would have seen her glove taken gently from the point of the cavalier’s sword, pressed with a wild fervour to his lips, and proudly placed alongside the plume in the frontlet of his beaver.

She only saw that her challenge had been accepted; and, with a thrill of sweet satisfaction, contending against a sense of shame, she had ridden rapidly away.

The cavalier, equally gratified, appeared also perplexed: as if hesitating whether he should follow. But the abrupt departure of the lady seemed to say that pursuit was prohibited; and, checking his ardour, along with his steed, he remained by the tree, under the shadow of which he had halted.

For some minutes he sate in his saddle, apparently absorbed in reflections. That they were not all of one character was evinced by the expression upon his countenance, which kept continually changing. Now it betokened triumph, with its concomitant pleasure; anon could be traced the lines that indicated doubt, accompanied by pain; and, once or twice, an expression that told of regret, or remorse, was visible. These facial changes will be better understood by giving in detail the thoughts that were causing them.

Was it intended for a challenge? Can I doubt it? Had the incident been alone, I might have deemed it accidental. But the many times we have met—and upon this lone road! Why should she come this way, unless—? And her looks? On each occasion bolder, and lovelier! Oh! how sweet to be thus favoured! How different from that other love, that has had such unhappy ending! Then I was prized but for my position, my prospects, and my fortune. When these fell from me, only to be forsaken!

“If she love me, her love cannot rest on circumstances like these. She knows me not—not even my name! That she may have heard, can suggest neither rank, nor fortune. If she love me, it must be for myself? ’Tis a thrilling thought—thus to believe!”

The eye of the cavalier lighted up with an expression of triumph; and he sate proudly erect in his saddle.

Only for a short time did he preserve this high attitude. Reflections of a far different character succeeded, dissipating the happiness he had for the moment experienced.

“She will know in time? She must know? Even I, myself, must tell her the terrible secret. And then what is to become of this sweet, but transient, dream? It will be all over; and instead of her love, I shall become the object of her hatred—her scorn? O God! To think it must end thus! To think that I have won, and yet can never wear!”

The features of the speaker became overspread with a deep gloom.

“Why did I enter upon this intrigue? Why have I permitted it to proceed? Why do I desire its continuance? To all these questions the answer is the same. Who could have resisted? Who could resist? It is not in man’s nature to behold such beauty, without yearning to possess it. As Heaven is my witness, I have struggled to subdue this unholy passion—to destroy it—to pluck it forth from my bosom. I have tried to shun the presence of her who inspires it. Perhaps I might have succeeded, had not she. Alas! I have no longer the power to retreat. That is gone, and the will as well. I must on—on—like the insect lured by some fatal light, to a self-sought and certain destruction!”

It was then that remorse became plainly depicted upon the countenance of the cavalier. What could be causing it? That was a secret he scarcely dared declare to himself.

“After all,” he continued, a new train of thought seeming to suggest itself, “what if it be an accident—this, that has made me at once so happy, and yet so wretched? Her looks, too—those glances that have gladdened my heart, at the same time awaking within me a consciousness of wrongdoing, as, too ardently, I gave them back—may I not have misinterpreted them? If she intended that I should take up this glove—that I should restore it to her—why did she not stay to receive it? Perhaps I have been misconceiving her motives? After all, am I the victim of an illusion—following but an ignis fatuus kindled by my own vanity?”

At the moment the look of remorse gave place to one of chagrin. The cavalier appeared no longer to regret being too much loved; but rather that he might not be loved at all—a reflection far more painful.

“Surely! I cannot be mistaken. I saw it on her hand but the instant before—with the hawk perched upon it. I saw her suddenly fling the bird to the neck of the horse, and draw off the gauntlet, which the next moment fell from her fingers! Surely it was design?”

He raised his hand to his hat; took the glove from its place; and once more pressed it to his lips.

“Oh, that her hand were in it!” he enthusiastically exclaimed, yielding to a sweet fancy. “If it were her fingers I held thus to my lips—thus unresisting—then might I believe there was bliss upon earth!”

A footstep, falling upon his ear, interrupted the enraptured speech. It was light, betokening the proximity of a woman, or rather the presence of one: for, on turning, his eye rested upon a female figure, standing by the side of his horse.

The cavalier saw before him a comely face—and something more. He might have deemed it beautiful; but for that other still present to his intellectual eye, and altogether engrossing his thoughts.

It was a young girl who had thus silently intruded: and one worthy of a gracious reception, despite the peasant garb in which she had presented herself.

Both face and figure were such as could not be regarded with indifference, nor dismissed without reflection. Neither owed aught to the adornment of art; but to both had nature been liberal, even to profuseness.

A girl, closely approximating to womanhood, largely framed, and finely developed—in arms, limbs, bust, and body, exhibiting those oval outlines that indicate the possession of strong passions and powers.

Such was the creature who stood by the horse of Henry Holtspur.

But for their blackness, her eyes might have been likened to those of an eagle; but for its softness, her hair resembled the tail of his own steed—equally long and luxuriant; and her teeth—there could have been nothing whiter, even among the chalk of the Chilterns—her native hills.

Robed in silk, satin, or velvet, it was a form that would have done no discredit to a queen. Encircled with pearls or precious diamonds, it was a face of which a princess might have been proud. Even under the ordinary homespun of a rustic gown, that form looked queenly—beneath those glossy plaits of crow-black hair—bedecked with some freshly-plucked flowers—that face might have inspired envy in a princess.

In the glance bestowed upon her by the cavalier there was no sign—either of surprise or admiration. It was simply a look of recognition, accompanied by a nod, acknowledging her presence.

In the eye of the maiden there was no such indifference. The most careless observer could have told, that she was in love with the man upon whom she was now gazing.

The horseman took no heed of her admiring glances. Perhaps he noticed them not. His attention was altogether given to an object, which the girl held in her outstretched hand, and which was instantly transferred to his. It was a letter, sealed and directed to himself.

“Thanks!” said he, breaking open the seal. “Your father has brought this from Uxbridge, I suppose?”

“He has, sir. He sent me with it; and bid me ask you if there be an answer to go back. As you were not at the house, I brought it here. I hope I have done right, sir?”

“Oh, certainly! But how did you know where to find me? My tongueless attendant, Oriole, could not have told you?”

“He made sign, sir, that you had taken this road. I thought I should meet you here; and father said it might be important for you to have the letter at once.”

The red blood mantled higher upon the girl’s cheeks, as she offered this explanation. She knew she had exceeded her father’s instructions; which had been, simply, to leave the letter at “Stone Dean,” the residence of Henry Holtspur.

The cavalier, occupied with the epistle, noticed neither her blushes nor embarrassment.

“’Tis very considerate of you,” said he, turning gratefully towards the girl, as he finished reading the letter. “Your father has guessed correctly. It is of the greatest importance that I should have had this letter in good time. You may tell him that it needs no reply. I must answer it in person, and at once. But say, Mistress Betsey; what return can I make you for this kind service? You want a ribbon for your beautiful black hair? What colour is it to be? I think blue—such as those flowers are—does not so well become you. Shall it be a red one?”

The words, though courteously intended, fell with an unpleasant effect upon the ear of her to whom they were addressed. They were not the speeches to which she would fain have listened.

“Thanks, sir,” said she, in a tone that betrayed pique, or some other unlooked-for emotion. “A fine ribbon would scarce suit my coarse common hair. These flowers are good enough for it!”

“Ah! Mistress Betsey! Your beautiful tresses can bear this disparagement: you know they are neither coarse nor common. Nay; if you refuse the ribbon, you must accept the price of one. I cannot allow, that the essential service you have done me should go unrewarded. Take this piece of gold; and make purchase with it to suit yourself—scarf, gown, or gloves—whichever you please.”

Somewhat to the cavalier’s surprise, his liberal largess was rejected—not with scorn, but rather with an air of sadness—sufficiently marked to have been noticed by him, had he not been altogether unsuspicious of the cause.

“Well—well,” said he, putting back the coin into his purse, “I am sorry you will not permit me to make some amends for your kindness. Perhaps I may find an opportunity on some future occasion? Meanwhile I must be gone. The letter you have delivered summons me hence,—without delay. Many thanks, Mistress Betsey, and a fair good morning to you!”

A touch of the spur caused his chafing steed to spring out into the middle of the road; and the rider, heading him for the highway that conducted towards Uxbridge, soon swept round the corner—at the same instant, becoming lost to the sight of the dark-eyed damsel—whose glance, full of passion and disappointment, had followed him to the point of his disappearance.

Volume One—Chapter Three.

The girl listened awhile to the departing hoof-strokes, as they came back with clear resonance from the hard causeway. Then, dropping her eyes to the ground, she stood silent under the tree—her swarth complexion still further darkened by sombre shadows, now overspreading every feature of her face.

Not long did she continue in this silent attitude.

“I would have taken the ribbon,” muttered she, “as a gift—if he had meant it that way. But it wasn’t so. No. It was only as wages he offered it to me; and his money—that was worse. Had it been a lock of his hair. Ah! I would rather he gave me that than all the gold coins in his purse, or all the silk in the shops of Uxbridge.”

“He called my hair beautiful: twice he said so!”

“Did he mean it? Or was it only mocking of me? I am sure I do not think so myself, though others have told me the same. I wish it were fair, instead of dark, like that of Mistress Marion Wade. Then perhaps, it would be beautiful?

“Blue don’t become me, he says. Lie there despised colour! Never more shall blue blossom be seen in the hair of Bet Dancey.”

As she said this she plucked the bunch of hare-bells from behind her comb, and flung the flowers at her feet.

“It was Will that gave them to me,” she continued. “He only gathered them an hour ago. What if he were to see them now? Ah! what care I? What should I care? I never gave him reason—not the least bit. They were worn to-day, not to please him; but in hopes of pleasing one I do care for. Had I thought that that one liked not blue, there were plenty of red ones in the old garden of Stone Dean. I might have gathered some as I came through it. What a pity I didn’t know the colour he likes best!”

“Ha!” she exclaimed, starting forward upon the path, and bending down over the spot where the flowers had fallen—and where the dust shewed signs of having been recently disturbed. “That is not the track of his horse. That little shoe—I know it—Mistress Marion Wade!”

For a second or two, the speaker preserved her stooping attitude, silently regarding the tracks. She saw they were fresh—that they had been made that morning—in fact, within the hour.

Her father was a forester—a woodman by calling—at times, a stealer of deer. She had been born in the forest—brought up under the shadow of its trees. She was capable of interpreting that sign—too capable for the tranquillity of her spirit.

“Mistress Marion has been here!” she muttered. “Of late, often have I seen these tracks; and twice the lady herself. What brings her along this lonely road? What has she been doing here this morning?—Could it be to meet him?”

She had no time to conjecture a response to this self-asked interrogatory. As the words passed from her lips, her attention was attracted to the sound of hoofs—a horse moving at a gallop along the main road.

Could it be the cavalier coming back?

No. It was a peasant, on a sorry steed—the same who had passed the other way scarcely an hour before—the same who had given chagrin to Mistress Marion Wade.

It was the woodman, Will Walford.

The girl appeared desirous of shunning him; but he had caught sight of her crimson cloak, and an encounter was unavoidable.

“Aw, Bet! be it thee, girl?” he cried out, as he came within speaking distance. “Why it beeant all o’ an hour since I left thee at thy hum! What’s brought thee this way?”

“Father got home, soon after you left. He came by the wood path, and missed you, I suppose.”

“Like enough for that part o’ the story,” replied the man, appearing to suspect prevarication; “But that a’nt giein a answer to my question. I asked as how you yerself coomed this way?”

“Oh! me you mean, Will?”

“Ees—myself Bet!”

“Father brought a letter from Uxbridge for Master Holtspur. He was tired when he got home; and, as you had the old horse, he sent me over to Stone Dean with it.”

“But Stone Dean a’nt here—not by a good half-mile.”

“I went there first. Master Holtspur wasn’t at home; and as the dummy made signs that he was gone along the road, and would be soon back, I followed him. Father said the letter was important; and told me to give it to Master Holtspur at once.”

“You seed Holtspur then?”

“I did; Will. I overtook him where he was stopping here, under the old beech tree.”

“And what did thee then?”

“Give him the letter—what else should I do?”

“Ay, what else? Dang it, Bet Dancey, thee art too fond o’ runnin’ after other people’s business, an’ this Master Holtspur’s in particklar—that’s what thee be.”

“It was my father’s business. What had I to do with the letter but deliver it, as I was told?”

“Never mind about it then!” rejoined the surly sweetheart, whose incipient jealousy was somewhat appeased by the explanation. “Jump up, an’ ride behint! I han’t got the pillion; but you won’t mind that: since it’s your own nag, and knows it’s you, Bet. He’ll make his old rump soft as a cushion for you. Hi—hullo! where’s the blue blossoms I gied you for your hair? Dang me if that beant them, scattered over the ground thear!”

“Indeed!” said Bet, with a feigned look of surprise, “so it is! They must have fallen out, as I was fixing my comb. Father started me off in such a hurry, I hadn’t half time to put it in its place. This hair of mine’s a bother, anyhow. It’s by half too thick, and gives me constant trouble to keep it pinned up. I shall have it cut short, I think; like those Puritan people, who are getting to be so plenty. How would you like that, Will?”

“Dang it! not at all. It would never do to crop thy bonny locks that fashion. ’Twould complete spoil it. Never mind them flowers, lass! Thear be plenty more where they coom from; an’ I’m a bit hurried just now to see thy father. Yee up, then; an’ let us haste home’rd.”

The girl, not without some show of reluctance, obeyed, what appeared as much a mandate as a request; and, climbing to the croup, she extended her arms round the waist of him, who—though calling himself her lover—was, to her, an object of fear rather than affection.

Volume One—Chapter Four.

Having re-entered the gates of the park, Marion Wade checked her palfrey into a walk; and, at this pace, continued on towards the paternal mansion.

The scarlet that late tinted her cheeks had become subdued. There was pallor in its place. Her lips even showed signs of blanching.

In her eye there was a cowed look—as if she had committed crime, and feared discovery! But gazing on that face, you could scarce think of crime. It was too fair to be associated with sin.

She sate negligently in her saddle—the undulating outlines of her majestic form rendered more conspicuous by the movements of her palfrey, as it strained up the acclivity of the hill.

The hawk had been restored to its perch; but the gauntlet no longer shielded her wrist; and the pounces of the bird, penetrating the tender skin, had drawn blood. A tiny stream laced the silken epidermis of her hand, and trickled to the tips of her fingers.

She felt not the wound. She beheld not the blood. The emotions of her soul deadened the external senses; and, absorbed in the contemplation of her rash act—half repenting of it—she was conscious of nought else, till her palfrey came to a stop under the windows of the dwelling.

Giving her bridle to a groom, she dropped lightly to her feet; and glided silently towards a side-door of the house—intending to enter unobserved. In her own chamber she might more securely give way to that tumult of thoughts and passions, now agitating her bosom.

Her design was frustrated. As she approached the portal, a clear voice, ringing along the corridor, called her by name; and, the instant after a fair form—almost as fair as her own—issuing forth, glided up by her side.

It was Lora—the cousin spoken of in her late soliloquy—Lora Lovelace.

“Give me the little pet,” cried Lora, reaching forward, and lifting the hawk from its perch. “Oh, Marion!” continued she, drawing back at sight of the blood. “What is this? You are wounded?”

“Ah! indeed yes. I did not notice it before. The kestrel must have caused it. The wicked jade. Her claws need coping. Don’t trouble about it, child. It’s nothing.”

“But where is your gauntlet, Marion? If it had been on your hand, you would not have got scratched in this fashion?”

“Ah! the gauntlet? Where is it? Let me see!”

Marion made search about her dress—in the crown of her beaver—everywhere that might give concealment to a glove. An idle search.

“I must have dropped it!” added she, feigning surprise. “Perhaps it is sticking somewhere about the saddle? If not, I must have lost it upon the road. It don’t signify. I must buy me a new pair—that’s all.”

“Dearest cousin!” said Lora, speaking in a tone of earnest appeal, “the sight of blood always makes me think of danger. I am never happy when you are out alone on these distant hawking excursions. Marion, you should take attendants with you, or remain within the enclosures. I am sure there’s danger outside.”

“Danger outside! Ha! Ha! Perhaps you are right there, little Lora. Perhaps it’s that which lures me beyond the palings of the park! When I go forth to hawk or hunt, I don’t care to be cooped up by enclosures. Give me the wild game that has free range of the forest.”

“But think, Marion! You know what we’ve heard about the highwaymen? It’s true about the lady being stopped on Red Hill—in her carriage, too. Uncle says it is; and that these robbers are growing bolder every day, on account of the bad government. Oh, cousin! take my advice, and don’t any more go out alone.”

“Good counsel, daughter; though it be given you by one younger than yourself. I hope you will set store by it; and not leave me under the necessity of strengthening it by a command.”

The tall middle-aged gentleman, of noble serious mien—who stepping forth, had entered thus abruptly into the conversation—was Sir Marmaduke Wade, the father of Marion, and uncle of Lora.

“Your cousin speaks truly,” continued he, “and it’s well I am reminded of it. There’s no longer any safety on the roads. Not much in one’s own house, so far as that goes: for there are two kinds of robbery just now rife in this unhappy land—in the king’s court, as on the king’s highway. Henceforth, children, confine your rambles within the limits of the park. Even with attendants, you may not be safe outside.”

“That is true,” affirmed Lora. “The lady who was stopped had several attendants—I think you said so, uncle?”

“Six, of different sorts, escorting her carriage. In sooth a valiant escort! They all scampered off. Of course they did. How could they be loyal, with a corrupt administration, such as ours, destroying every vestige of loyalty and honesty in the realm? Men are sure to become vile—if only to imitate their masters. But come, my children! Let us hope for better times: and, to keep up the character of merry Old England, I’ve planned an entertainment for you—one that all our friends and neighbours are to take part in.”

“What is it?” asked Lora, whose spirit was, at the moment, more highly attuned to the idea of pastime, than that of her silent cousin.

“A fête champètre.”

“Where? Here? In our own park?”

“In our own park, of course.”

“And who are to be invited, dear uncle?”

“Everybody for ten miles round; and farther, if they choose to come. I don’t mind an ox or two extra for the occasion.”

“Occasion! what, uncle? It isn’t Christmas!—it isn’t Whitsuntide!—nor yet May-day!”

“Can you think of nothing except holidays? What say you to a birthday?”

“Oh! true; Walter’s will be next week. But, papa, is brother coming home?”

“That’s it. He is to arrive on the eve of his birthday. Poor lad! he’s been a long while from us; not long enough, I hope, to get spoiled in a dangerous school. Well, we must give him a welcome worthy of old Bucks. And now, girls! go to work; and see that you do your share in making preparation for our guests.”

With this parting injunction, the knight turned back into the house, leaving his niece and daughter to discuss the pleasant subject he had placed before them.

For some seconds, after he was gone, there was no exchange of speech between the cousins. Each was absorbed in her own thoughts.

“Oh! ’twill be a happy day: for Walter will be here!” was the secret reflection of Lora.

Marion’s, in a somewhat similar strain, were less affirmative:—

“Oh! ’twould be a happy day, if Holtspur should be here!”

Volume One—Chapter Five.

Autumn was still in the sky; but it had passed its mid time, and the beechen forests of Bucks were enrobed in their livery of yellow green. The cuckoo had forsaken the copse; and the swallows were making rendezvous on the spire of the village church. The ringdove sate silent in the dell; and the wood-quests were gathering into groups. The pheasant ventured with her young brood beyond the cover-edge; the partridge carried her chicks across the stubble; and finch, sparrow, and linnet were forming their respective families into full-fledged cohorts—in preparation for those dark, chill days, when they should need such companionship to cheer them.

In truth, it is a right fair land, this same shire of Bucks—lovely in its spring-tide, fair in its summer bloom, and fairer still in its October. You may travel far, without beholding a spot more bewitching than the land of the beechen “weed;” and embosomed within the undulating arms of the Chilterns is many a spot worthy of wider renown. The mountain you meet not; the lake is rare; but the softly-swelling hill, and deep romantic dale, are ever before and around you; and the eye of traveller, or tourist, is continually attracted to scenes of sylvan beauty, upon which it long delights to linger.

So thought a youthful stripling, astride a stout steed, as, emerging from the town-end of Uxbridge, he rode over the old bridge crossing the Colne.

The sun was just sinking behind the Chiltern hills, whose forest-clad spurs stretched down into the plain—as if to meet and welcome him.

It was a fair landscape that unfolded itself before his eyes. Upon the ridge of Red Hill the rays of the descending sun slanted among the leaves of the beeches, heightening their yellow sere to the hue of gold. Here and there the wild cherry tree, of more radiant foliage, the green oak, and the darker green of the holly, mottled the slope; while on either flank, lying low among the hills, the valleys of Alderbourne and Chalfont were gradually becoming shrouded under the purple shadows of the twilight.

Right and left meandered the Colne, through meadows of emerald verdure—its broad unrippled surface reflecting the sapphire sky; while on its banks appeared herds of sleek kine, slowly lounging along the grassy sward, or standing motionless in the stream—as if placed there to give the last touch to a scene typical of tranquillity and contentment.

It was a scene worthy of Watteau or Cuyp—a picture calculated to create a quiet joy even in the breast of a stranger. So might have thought Walter Wade, who, after long absence from this his native shire, now, gazing on its wood-embowered hills and valleys recognised the mise en scène of his boyhood’s home!

The young traveller felt such a happiness. On cresting the high causeway of the old bridge—which brought the Chilterns full before his view—he reined up his horse in the middle of the road; while at the same time an ejaculation escaped from his lips, indicative of the pleasure which the sight afforded.

“Dear old Chilterns!” he exclaimed. “Friends you seem, with arms outstretched to receive me! How bright and fresh you look to one coming from that sooty London! What a pity I did not start an hour earlier—so that I might have enjoyed this fine sunset from the summit of Red Hill! No matter. There will be moonlight anon; and that will do just as well. Sunlight or moonlight, give me a ride through the beechen woods of Bucks. Charming at all hours!”

“I ’faith, I wonder,” continued he, becoming more reflective in his soliloquy, “how any one can fancy a city life! I’m sure, I’ve been well enough placed to enjoy it. The queen has been very kind—very kind indeed. She has twice kissed me. And the king, too, has complimented me on my service—only at parting he was very angry with me. I don’t know why. I did nothing to anger him.

“I wonder why I’m summoned home? Father don’t say in his letter; but I suppose he’ll tell me when I arrive there. No matter. I’m only too glad to get back to dear old Bulstrode. I hope that inveterate deer-stealer, Dick Dancey, hasn’t killed off all our deer. I mean to go in for some grand stalking this winter—that do I.”

“Let me see! Three years—no; it will be three come Christmas—since I took service at Court. I shouldn’t be surprised if cousin Lora is grown a big girl by this, and sister Marion too? Ah! Marion was big enough when I left. Lora won’t be as tall as she. No: she wasn’t the make for that Lora would be what the queen calls petite. For all that, I dare say she’s got to be a grown woman. She was just my own age; and I think I may say, that I’m now a man. Heigho! how time passes!”

And, as if the reflection had suggested the necessity of making as much of the time as possible, the young horseman gave the whip to his steed; shot out from between the parapet walls of the bridge; and passed on at a canter.

Though Walter Wade had pronounced himself a man—somewhat modestly it must be admitted—the statement was scarcely correct; and the error must be attributed to a very common and pardonable weakness of boyhood, ambitious of entering upon manhood.

He was still only a stripling—a youth of nineteen—though well grown for his age; and in point of size might have passed muster among men. A slight moustache already appeared upon his upper lip. It was light-coloured, like his hair—neither of which was red, but of that Saxon “yellow” so often associated with eyes of blue, and which, when met with in woman, presents the fairest type of female beauty.

The Greeks—themselves a dark people, above all others skilled in feminine charms—have acknowledged this truth; though, by that acknowledgment, ignoring the claims of their own race.

To the spume of the sea was the Cyprian goddess indebted for the whiteness of her skin—to the blue sky for the colour of her eyes—to the golden sun for the hue of her hair. Among the classic ancients, the dark-haired Venus elicited but little admiration.

And not very different is the partiality of the moderns. The belle of the ball-room is invariably a blonde; and even the nymphe du pavé, who trails golden pennants from under the rim of her coquettish hat, looks scornfully askance at the darker tresses of her sister in sin!

It is odd that blue eyes do not admire blue eyes—that light-coloured tresses do not wish to be interwoven with those of a like hue. Is there an instinct of approximation between extremes? Do contrasts possess an innate desire for contiguity? If so, it would explain the penchant of the dark Athenians for the fair-skinned Cytherea.

There are fair-haired youths whom man may admire, and woman love. Walter Wade was such an one.

A forehead of fine expanse, crested with curling hair—a nose sufficiently aquiline to exhibit the true aristocratic breed—a chin prominent—lips typical of contempt for aught that was mean. Such were his features.

Gazing upon his face, you might not pronounce it handsome. For a man, it might appear too feminine. But if you were at all skilled in Saxon physiognomy, on seeing such a face, and knowing that the owner of it had a sister, you might safely set her down as a being of incomparable beauty.

It was not necessary to have overheard his soliloquy, to tell that he who made it was the scion of some distinguished house. The good steed he bestrode, caparisoned in costly fashion; the rich costume he wore; his sharply chiselled features, and aristocratic bearing—all betokened the filius nobilis.

He was, in effect, the son of Sir Marmaduke Wade, of Bulstrode Park; who could point to an ancestry older than the Conquest; and whose Saxon sires—along with the Bulstrodes, the Hampdens, and the Penns—had so doughtily defended their beechen woods and broad fields against the Norman invader, that the great Conqueror was pleased to compound with them for a continuance of their tenure. It was a family with whom kings had never been favourites. It had figured among the barons, who had forced the tyrant John to set his signature to the celebrated Charter of English liberty; and elsewhere have its representatives been found in the front rank of the champions of Freedom.

It may be wondered why young Walter Wade had been in the service of the Court—as declared in his soliloquy. That, however, is easily explained. An ambitious mother, of queenly inclinings—an uncle in high office near the throne—these will account for the son of Sir Marmaduke having stood as a page in the Presence.

But the mother’s influence was now at an end. She was no more. And that of her brother—the uncle—was not strong enough to prevent Sir Marmaduke recalling his son from a Court—whose immorality had become the theme of every tongue; and whose contamination the fond father but too justly dreaded.

This was why the stripling was on his return to the paternal mansion; and why the king had shown displeasure at parting with him. It was a bold act on the part of the knight; and it might need all the influence of his official brother-in-law, to avert from him the vengeance of Charles—that most contemptible of tyrants.

It was not upon these things that Walter Wade was reflecting, as he rode onward. A pleasanter theme was the subject of his thoughts—his cousin Lora.

It was love’s young dream—by some deemed the sweetest in life; is, perhaps, the most evanescent.

With Walter, it had not been so very fleeting. Starting at sixteen, it was now nearly three years old. It had stood the test of a long absence, and under circumstances most unfavourable to love’s endurance: amid smiling maids of honour, and dames of high degree. Yes; Walter’s heart had nobly repelled the blandishments of more than one belle; and this too in a Court famed for its fair.

That kiss, somewhat coyly granted by his cousin, “deep in a forest dell,” where they had wandered in search of wild flowers—that soft pressure of Lora’s little hand—those thrilling words, “Dear Walter,” that on the same occasion had fallen from Lora’s pretty lips—all were remembered, as if they had been incidents of yesterday.

Did she remember them with equal interest? This was the thought upon which Walter Wade had been dwelling, ever since parting from the portals of Whitehall Palace.

During his two years of absence, he had not been left altogether uninformed of what was passing at Bulstrode. Though in those days letters were written at long intervals—and then only on matters of grand importance—Walter had kept up a correspondence with Marion; with whom epistles had been exchanged regularly once a month. He dared not write to Lora—nor even about her. He knew what he said to his sister would be communicated to his little mistress; and he feared to show himself too solicitous. Every word in his letters, relating to his cousin, had been carefully studied—as to the impression it might produce—for in this sort of strategy, young love is as cunning as that of older hearts. At times the boy courtier even affected indifference about his cousin’s affairs; and more than once there was danger of a quarrel—or at least a coolness. This was more especially the case, when his sister—ignorant of the pain she was producing—spoke of Lora’s great beauty, and the havoc it was making among the hearts of the county beaux.

Perhaps had Marion passed these pretty compliments upon herself, she would have said nothing beyond what was true: for although Walter’s cousin was beautiful and a belle, his sister was at that time the acknowledged “belle of the shire.”

Volume One—Chapter Six.

For the first half-mile after crossing the Colne, the thoughts of the young courtier had been given exclusively to his cousin. He recalled the old time—that scene in the silent dell—the kiss among the wild flowers—that proved her partiality for him. He remembered all these occurrences with a strong confidence in Lora’s loyalty.

His fanciful reflections were suddenly, and somewhat rudely, interrupted.

On arriving at an inn that stood by the roadside, a spectacle was presented to his eyes which turned his thoughts into a different channel.

In a wide open space in front of the hostelry was a troop of horsemen. By their armour and equipments, Walter knew them to be cuirassiers, in the service of the king.

There were about fifty in the troop; and from the movements of the men, and the condition of their horses—still smoking from the march—it was evident they had come to a halt only a few minutes before.

The troopers had dismounted. Some of them were still occupied with their horses, helping them to provender; while others, who had already performed this duty, were seated under a huge old elm tree—joyously, as well as noisily, regaling themselves with such cheer as the hostelry afforded.

A glance at these roisterers told the young cavalier who and what they were:—a troop of the returned army from the north, that had been lately, and somewhat clandestinely, brought southward by the king.

This corps had originally been recruited in the Low Countries, and among them were several foreigners. Indeed, the smaller number were Englishmen; while there were many countenances of the true Gallic type, and a still larger proportion of those famed hirelings—who figured so largely in the wars of the time—the Walloons.

Amid the clamour of voices, with which the ears of the young courtier were assailed, he could hear French and Flemish commingled with his native tongue; while the oaths peculiar to all three nations, thickly interlarding the conversation, told him that he was in the presence of a remnant of that army that “swore so terribly in Flanders.”

A crowd of the neighbouring rustics had collected around the inn; and stood with mouths agape, and countenances expressing unlimited astonishment at the sayings and doings of the strange steel-clad cavaliers who had dismounted in their midst.

To Walter Wade there was nothing either new or surprising in the spectacle. He had seen the like in London; and often of late. He had been expecting such a sight—partly from having heard, in passing through Uxbridge, that a troop of horse was before him; and partly from having observed their tracks along the dusty road upon which he had been travelling.

He did not know why they were going down into Buckinghamshire; but that was the king’s business, not his. In all likelihood they were on their way to Oxford, or some garrison town in the west; and were making their night halt at the inn.

Giving but a moment’s thought to some such conjecture, the young courtier was about riding past—without taking notice of the coarse jests flung towards him by the rough troopers under the tree—when a voice of very different intonation, issuing from the door of the hostelry, commanded him to halt.

Almost simultaneous with the command, two cavaliers stepped forth out of the inn; and one of them, having advanced a few paces towards him, repeated the command.

Partly taken by surprise at this rude summons—and partly believing it to proceed from some old Court acquaintance—Walter drew bridle, and stopped.

It was easy to tell that the two men, who had so brusquely brought themselves under his notice, were the officers in command of the troop. Their silken doublets—only partially concealed by the steel armour—their elegant Spanish leather boots, with lace ruffles at the tops; the gold spun upon their heels; the white ostrich plumes waving above their helmets; and the richly-chased scabbards of their swords—all indicated rank and authority. This was further made manifest, by the tone of command in which they had spoken, and their bearing in presence of the troopers.

The latter, on seeing them come forth from the house, desisted from their jargon; and, though they continued to pass their beer cans, it was in a constrained and respectful silence.

The two officers wore their helmets; but the visors of both were open; and Walter could see their faces distinctly.

He now perceived that neither of them was known to him; though one of them he thought he had seen before, a few days before—only for a moment, and in conference with the queen!

This was the older of the two, and evidently the senior in rank—the captain of the troop. He was a man of thirty, or thereabouts; with a face of dark complexion, and not unhandsome; but with that rakish expression that drink, and the indulgence of evil passions, will imprint upon the noblest features. His had once been of the noblest—and still were they such that a gentleman need not have been ashamed of—had it not been for a cast half-cynical, half-sinister, that could be detected in his eyes, sadly detracting from a face otherwise well favoured. Altogether it was a countenance of that changing kind, that, smiling, might captivate the heart, but scowling could inspire it with fear.

The younger man—who from the insignia on his shoulder was a cornet—presented a very different type of physiognomy. Though still only a youth, his countenance was repulsive in the extreme. There was no need to scan it closely, to arrive at this conclusion. In that reddish round face, shaded by a scant thatch of straight hay-coloured hair, you beheld at a glance a kindred compound of the stupid, the vulgar, and the brutal.

Walter Wade had never looked on that countenance before. It inspired him with no wish to cultivate the acquaintance of its owner. If left to his own inclinations, the young courtier would not have desired ever to look upon it again.

“Your wish?” demanded he, rising proudly up in his stirrups, and confronting the officer who had addressed him. “You have summoned me to stop—your wish?”

“No offence, I hope, young gallant?” replied the cuirassier captain. “None meant, I assure you. By the sweat upon your horse—not a bad-looking brute, by the way. A good nag. Isn’t he, Stubbs?”

“If sound,” laconically rejoined the cornet.

“Oh! sound enough, no doubt, you incorrigible jockey! Well, youngster; as I was saying, the sweat upon your horse proves that you have ridden fast and far. Both you and he stand in need of refreshment. We called to you, merely to offer the hospitality of the inn.”

“Thanks for your kindness,” replied Walter, in a tone that sufficiently expressed his true appreciation of the offer; “but I must decline availing myself of it. I am not in need of any refreshment; and as for my horse, a short five miles will bring him to a stable, where he will be well cared for.”

“Oh! you are near the end of your journey, then?”

“By riding five miles further I shall reach it.”

“A visit to some country acquaintance, where you can enjoy the balmy atmosphere of the beech forests—have new-laid eggs every morning for breakfast, and new-pulled turnips along with your bacon for dinner, eh?”

The choler of the high-bred youth had been gradually mounting upward, and might soon have found vent in angry words. But Walter Wade was one of those happy spirits who enjoy a joke—even at their own expense—and, perceiving that his new acquaintances meant no further mischief, than the indulgence in a little idle badinage, he repressed his incipient spleen; and replied in the same jocular and satirical strain.

After a sharp passage of words—in which the young courtier was far from being worsted—he was on the point of riding onward; when the captain of the cuirassiers again proffered the hospitality of the inn—by inviting him to partake of a cup of burnt sack, which the landlord had just brought forth from the house.

The offer was made with an air of studied politeness; and Walter, not caring to appear churlish, accepted it.

He was about raising the goblet to his lips, when his entertainers called for a toast.

“What would you?” asked the young courtier.

“Anything, my gallant! Whatever is uppermost in your mind. Your mistress, I presume?”

“Of course,” chimed in the cornet. “His mistress, of course.”

“My mistress, then!” said Walter, tasting the wine, and returning the cup to the hand from which he had received it.

“Some pretty shepherdess of the Chilterns—some sweet wood nymph, no doubt? Well, here’s to her! And now,” continued the officer, without lowering the goblet from his lips, “since I’ve drunk to your mistress, you’ll not refuse the same compliment to my master—the King. You won’t object to that toast, will you?”

“By no means,” replied Walter, “I drink it willingly; though the king and I have not parted the best of friends.”

“Ha! ha! ha! friends with the king! His Majesty has the honour of your acquaintance, eh?”

“I have been nearly three years in his service.”

“A courtier?”

“I have been page to the queen.”

“Indeed! Perhaps you have no objection to favour us with your name?”

“Not the slightest. My name is Wade—Walter Wade.”

“Son of Sir Marmaduke, of Bulstrode Park?”

“I am.”

“Ho! ho!” muttered the questioner, in a significant tone, and with a thoughtful glance at the young courtier.

“I thought so,” stammered the cornet, exchanging a look of intelligence with his superior officer.

“Son to Sir Marmaduke, indeed!” continued the latter, “In that case, Master Wade, we are likely to meet again; and perhaps you will some day favour me with an introduction to your sweet shepherdess. Ha! ha! ha! Now for the toast of every true Englishman—‘The King!’”

Walter responded; though with no great willingness: for the tone of the challenger, as well as his words, had produced upon him an unpleasant impression. But the toast was one, that, at the time, it was not safe to decline drinking; and partly on this account, and partly because the young courtier had no particular reason for declining, he raised the goblet once more to his lips, as he did so, repeating the Words—“to the king.”

The cornet, drinking from a cup of his own, echoed the sentiment; and the troopers under the tree, clinking their beer measures together, vociferated in loud acclaim:—“the king—the king!”

Volume One—Chapter Seven.

After this general declaration of loyalty, there was a lull—an interval of profound silence—such as usually succeeds the drinking of a toast.

The silence was unexpectedly broken, by a voice that had not yet mingled in the chorus; and which was now heard in clear, firm tones, pronouncing a phrase of very different signification:—“the people!”

A sentiment so antagonistic to the one so late issuing from the lips of the troopers, produced among them an instantaneous commotion. The soldiers, seated under the tree, started to their feet; while the officers faced in the direction whence the voice had come—their eyes angrily flashing under the umbrils of their helmets.

He, who had so daringly declared himself, was not concealed. A horseman, of elegant appearance, had just ridden up, and halted in the middle of the road; where the landlord—apparently without orders, and as if accustomed to the service,—was helping him to a goblet of wine. It was this horseman who had called out: “The People!”

In the enthusiasm of their loyalty, his arrival had either not been observed by the troopers,—or at all events no notice had been taken of it,—until the emphatic pronunciation fell upon their ears like the bursting of a bomb. Then all eyes were instantly turned towards him.

As he gave utterance to the phrase, he was in the act of raising the wine cup to his lips. Without appearing to notice the effect which his speech had produced, he coolly quaffed off the wine; and with like sang froid, returned the empty goblet to the giver.

The defiant insolence of the act had so taken the troopers by surprise, that they stood in their places—just as they had started up—silent, and apparently stupefied. Even the officers, after hurrying forward, remained speechless for several seconds—as if under the influence of an angry amazement. The only sounds for a while heard were the voices of the spectators—tapsters, stable-helpers, and other idlers—who had clustered in front of the inn—and who now formed an assemblage, as large as the troop itself. Despite the presence of the armed representatives of royalty, the sentiment of these was unmistakeably the same, as that to which the strange horseman had given voice; and they were emphatically complimenting themselves, when they clinked their pewter pots, and in chorus, proclaimed: “The People!”

Most of them, but the moment before, and with equal enthusiasm, had drunk “the King;” but in this sudden change of sentiment they only resembled most politicians of modern times, who have been dignified with the name of “Statesmen!”

But even among these tapsters and stable-helpers, there were some who had refrained from being forced into a lip loyalty; and who echoed the second sentiment with a fervent spirit, and a full knowledge of its everlasting antagonism to the first.

When the ultimate syllable of this sacred phrase had died upon the ear of the assembled crowd, it was succeeded by a silence ominous and expectant. Two individuals commanded the attention of all—the captain of the cuirassiers, and the horseman who had halted upon the road: the toaster of the “king,” and the proposer of the “people.”

The soldier should speak first. It was to him that the challenge—if such he chose to consider it—had been flung forth.

Had it been a rustic who had uttered it—one of the assembled crowd—even a freehold farmer of puritanic pretensions—the cuirassier captain would have answered him on the instant, perhaps with steel added to the persuasion of his tongue. But a cavalier, of broad bands, and gold spurs buckled over Spanish leather boots—astride a noble steed—with a long rapier hanging handy anent his hip—was an individual not to be ridden over in such haste, and one, whose “argument” called for consideration.

“Zounds, sir!” cried the captain of the cuirassiers, stepping a pace or two forward, “from what Bedlam have you broken loose? Me thinks you’ve been tasting too freely of the Saint Giles’s tap; and ’tis that which makes your speech smell so rankly. Come, fellow! Uncover your head, and tune your tongue to a different strain. You go not hence, till you’ve purged your traitorous throat by drinking the toast of every true and loyal gentleman of England—‘The King.’”

“Fellow, indeed!” exclaimed the cavalier, looking scornfully askance at him who had dictated the insulting proposition. “A fellow!” he continued, in a calm but satirical tone, “not in the habit of drinking toasts with strangers. Yours is not to his liking, any more than your fashion. If he had the fancy to drink to England’s king, it would not be in the company of those who have disgraced England’s fame—at the ford of Newburn.”

Gathering up his reins as he spoke, and giving utterance to a taunting laugh, the strange horseman pressed the spur against the sides of his splendid steed, and started off at a swinging gallop along the road.

It was only when that laugh rang in his ears, that the cuirassier captain became roused to the full frenzy of rage; and, with eyes on fire, and brow black as midnight, he rushed forward, sword in hand, in a frantic attempt to strike down the insulter.

“Disloyal knave!” cried he, lungeing out to the full length of his arm, “thou shalt drink the king’s health in thine own blood! Ha! stop him!” he continued, as the horseman glided beyond his reach—“My pistols!”

“Ho, there!” shouted he to his followers. “Your carbines! Fire upon him! Where are your weapons, you careless vagabonds? To horse, and follow!”

“An ye take my advice, masters,” put in the landlord of the inn—a sturdy tapster of independent speech—“ye’ll stay wheer ye are. An ye doan’t, ye’ll be havin’ yeer ride for nothin’. Ye mawt as well gie chase to a wild goose. He’ll be two mile frae this, ’fore you can git astride o’ your nags.”

“What, varlet!” cried the cuirassier captain, turning furiously upon the speaker—“you presume—”

“Only, great coronel, to gie ye a bit o’ sound advice. Ye ma’ folla it or no’ an’ ye pleeze; but if ye folla him ye won’t catch him—not this night, I trow, though theer be a full moon to light ye on his track.”

The air of imperturbable coolness, with which the Saxon Boniface made rejoinder, instead of increasing the fury of the officer, seemed rather to have the effect of tranquillising him.

“You know him, then?” demanded he in an altered tone.

“Well, e-e’s! a leetlish bit only. He be one o’ my customers, and have his drink occasional as he passes by here. I know his horse a bit better mayhap. That be a anymal worth the knowin’. I’ve seed him clear that geeat—it be six-feet-high—moren once, wee’ve seed him do it. Ha’nt we, lads?”

“That we have, Master Jarvis,” replied several of the bystanders, to whom the appeal had been made.

“E-ees, indeed, great coronel,” continued the landlord, once more addressing his speech to the captain of cuirassiers, “an’ if yer fellows want to folla him, they maun be up to ridin’ cross country a bit, or else—”

“His name!” eagerly interrupted the officer, “You know where the knave lives?”

“Not exactly—neyther one nor t’other,” was the equivocal reply. “As for his name, we only knows him ’bout here as the Black Horseman, an’ that he belong som’ere among the hills up the Jarret’s Heath way—beyond the great park o’ Bulstrode.”

“Oh! he lives near Bulstrode, does he?”

“Somer bot theer, I dar say.”

“I know where he lives,” interposed one of the rustics who stood by. “It be a queery sort o’ a place—a old red brick house; an’ Stone Dean be the name o’t. It lie in the middle o’ the woods ’tween Beckenfield an’ the two Chaffonts. I can take ye theer, master officer, if ye be a wantin’ to go.”

“Jem Biggs!” said the landlord, sidling up to the last speaker, and whispering the words in his ear, “thee be a meddlin’ ’ficious beggar. If thee go on such a errand, don’t never again show thy ugly mug in my tap room.”

“Enough!” impatiently exclaimed the officer; “I dare say we shall easily find the fellow. Dismount, men,” continued he, turning to some of the troopers, who had sprung into their saddles. “Return your horses to their stalls. We may as well stay here for the night,” he added in a whisper, to his cornet; “it’s no use going after him till the morning. As the old prattler says, we might have our ride for nothing. Besides, there’s that little appointment in Uxbridge. By the angel Gabriel! I’ll find the knave if I should have to scour every corner of the county. More wine, landlord!—burnt sack!—and beer for these thirsty vagabonds! We’ll drink the king once more, with three times three. Ha! where’s our courtier? Gone too?”

“He’s just ridden off, captain,” answered one of the troopers, still seated in his saddle. “Shall I gallop after, and bring him back?”

“No,” replied the officer, after a moment’s consideration. “Let the stripling go his way. I know where he’s to be found; and shall do myself the honour of dining with him to-morrow. The wine! Come! fill your cans, you right royal rascals, and drink—The King!”

“The King! Hurraw!”

Volume One—Chapter Eight.

Desirous of escaping from the disagreeable companionship—into which he had been so unceremoniously, as well as unwillingly, drawn—the young courtier had taken advantage of the confusion, and trotted quietly away.

On rounding a corner—beyond which the road was not visible from the inn—he put spurs to his horse, and urged the animal into a gallop.

Though he had given no offence, he was not without apprehension, that he might be followed, and summoned back: for the brace of bullies, from whom he had just parted, appeared quite capable of committing further outrage. He knew that, in the name of the king, excesses were of every-day occurrence. The Monarch’s minions had become accustomed to insult the people with impunity. The soldiers in particular bore themselves offensively—more especially those hungry troopers, who, returning unpaid from the Northern campaign, were thrown idle upon the country. The disgrace they had fairly earned—by fleeing before the Scots, from the ford of Newburn—had deprived them of the sympathies of their own countrymen: as a natural consequence provoking towards the latter a sort of swaggering and reckless hostility.

The incident which had occurred, and in which he had been an involuntary actor, inspired Walter Wade with some emotions that were new to him: and, as he slackened his pace, after a sharp canter, he fell into a train of reflections very different from those hitherto engaging his thoughts.

He was still too young to have entered into the politics of the time. He knew that there was trouble between the king and his people; but, breathing only the atmosphere of the “Presence,” he could have no other belief, than that the right was on the side of royalty.

He knew that the king, after an interregnum of eleven years, had summoned a Parliament, to settle the differences between himself and his subjects. He knew this, from having been officially present at its opening. He knew, moreover, that this Parliament, after sitting only a few days, had been summarily dismissed: for he had been also present at its prorogation.

What should the young courtier care for such incidents as these—however significant they might be to the patriot, or politician?

To do him justice, however, Walter Wade, young as he was, was not altogether indifferent to what was passing. The spirit of his ancestry—that love of liberty, that had displayed itself at Runnymede—was not absent from his bosom. It was there; though hitherto held in check by the circumstances surrounding him. He had witnessed the punishments of the pillory—by summary sentence of Star Chamber and High Commission Court; he had been present at fearful spectacles, of ear-croppings and other mutilations; and, although among companions, who beheld such scenes with indifference—or often regarded them as sources of amusement—more than once had he been profoundly affected by them. Stripling though he was, more than once had he reflected upon such royal wrongs. Circumstances, however, had placed him among the ranks of those, to whom the smiles of a tyrant were sweet; and he was still too young and unreflecting, to give other than a passing thought to the theme of Liberty.

That the enemies of the king suffered justly, was the belief that was breathed around him. He heard the statement on all sides, and from pretty lips—from the lips of a queen! How could he question its truth?

His encounter with the cuirassiers had produced an impression upon him, calculated to shake his political sentiments—almost to change them.

“A scandal!” muttered he to himself. “That these military bullies should be allowed to act as they please! I wonder the king permits it. Perhaps it may be true what ‘wicked Pym,’ as the queen calls him—said in the Parliament House:—that his Majesty encourages their insubordination. Ah! if I had thought so, I should have joined that brave fellow, who drank just now to the people. By-the-bye, who can he be? He’s gone up the road—as if he lived our way. A splendid rider, and a horse worthy of him. I never saw either before. If he be of Bulstrode neighbourhood, he must have come into it since my time. Perhaps a traveller only? And yet his horse looked fresh, as if he had just stepped out of the stable. He could not have ridden him farther than from Uxbridge?

“I thought those fellows were preparing to pursue him,” continued he, glancing back over his shoulder. “They must have given up the idea: else I should hear them behind me. If they come on, I shall slip aside among the trees, and let them pass. I don’t want any more converse with such companions as Captain Scarthe—that’s what his cornet called him, I think; nor yet with Master Cornet Stubbs himself. Stubbs indeed! Surely, there must be something in names?”

On finishing this series of reflections, the young courtier drew bridle, and halted for the purpose of listening.

He could hear voices behind—at the inn—a chorus of rough voices in loud vociferation. It was the “hip hurrah,” of the troopers responding to the toast of “the king” There were no other sounds—at least none to indicate that the pursuit was being continued.

“Good! they are not following him. Prudent on their part, I should say. If he has kept on, as he started he will be miles off by this.”

“There’s no chance of my overtaking him!” continued he, once more heading his horse to the road. “My faith! I wish I could. Now that I remember the circumstance, I’ve heard there are robbers on this route. Sister wrote me about them, not long since. They stopped a lady’s coach, and plundered it; though they did no hurt to the lady beyond stripping her of her jewels—even to the rings in her ears! Only one of them—the captain I suppose—came near the coach. The others stood by, but said not a word. How very funny of the fellows to act so! Well, if it be my ill-fortune to encounter robbers, I hope it may also be my good fortune to find them equally well-mannered. I don’t mind giving them all I’ve got,—it’s not much—if they’ll only let me pass on, unmolested like the lady. I’faith, I’ve been a fool to leave London so late: and that unlucky adventure at the inn has made it later. It’s quite right. There’s a beautiful moon, to be sure; but what of that, in this lonely place? It would only help to give light to the rascals; and enable them all the more easily to strip me of my trappings.”

Notwithstanding his apparent indifference to an encounter with robbers, which these reflections might indicate, the young traveller was not without some apprehension. At the time, the roads of England were infested with highwaymen, and footpads. Robberies were incidents of daily occurrence—even on the very skirts of the metropolis; and on the highways, and byeways, the demand for your purse was almost as common as the modern solicitation for alms.

In general, the “gentlemen of the road” were not sanguinary in their disposition. Some were even courteous. In truth, many of them were men who, by the tyrannous exactions of the Sovereign, had been beggared in fortune, and forced to adopt this illegal mode of replenishing their exchequers. They were not all ruffians by instinct. Still there were some of them, with whom “Stand and deliver!” meant “Death if you do not!”

It was not without a feeling of nervousness, that Walter Wade scanned the long slope of road extending towards the crest of Red Hill—at the bottom of which he had now arrived. It was on this very hill—as stated in the correspondence of his sister—that the coach had been stopped, and the lady rifled of her rings.

The road running up the steep acclivity was of no great width—nothing resembling the broad macadamised “turnpike” of modern times. It was a mere track, just wide enough for wheels—bordered by a beechen forest, through which the path wound upward; the trees standing close along each side, and in some places forming arcades over it.

The young traveller once more reined up, and listened. The voices from the inn no longer reached his ear—not even in distant murmuring. He would have preferred hearing them. He almost wished that the pursuit had been continued. Little as he might have relished the companionship of Captain Scarthe, or Cornet Stubbs, it would have been preferable to falling into that of a party of highwaymen or footpads.

He bent forward to catch any sound that might come from the road before him. He could hear none—at least, none of a character to make him uneasy. The soft monotone of the goatsucker fell upon his ear, mingled with the sharper note of the partridge, calling her young across the stubble. He heard, also, the distant barking of the watch-dog, and the sheep-bell tinkling in the fold; but these sounds, though characteristic of tranquil country life—and sweet to his ear, so long hindered from hearing them—were not inconsistent with the presence either of footpad or highwayman; who, lurking concealed among the trees, need not interrupt their utterance.

Walter Wade was far from being of a timid disposition; but no youth of eighteen could be accused of cowardice, simply because he did not desire an encounter with robbers.

It did not, therefore, prove poltroonery on his part, when, proceeding along the road, his heart beat slightly with apprehension,—no more, when on perceiving the figure of a horseman dimly outlined under the shadow of the trees, he suddenly came to a halt, and hesitated to advance.

The horseman was about a score of paces from where he had stopped—moving neither one way nor the other, but motionless in the middle of the road.

“A highwayman!” thought Walter, undecided whether to advance, or ride back.

“But no, it can scarce be that? A robber would not take stand so conspicuously. He would be more likely to conceal himself behind the trees—at least until—”

While thus conjecturing, a voice fell upon his ear, which he at once recognised as the same he had late heard so emphatically pronouncing “The People!”

Reassured, the young traveller determined to advance. A man of such mien, as he who bestrode the black steed—and actuated by such a sentiment, as that he had so boldly announced—could scarcely be a disreputable person—much less a highwayman? Walter did not wrong him by the suspicion.

“If I mistake not,” said the stranger, after the preliminary hail, “you are the young gentleman I saw, a short while ago, in rather scurvy company?”

“You are not mistaken: I am.”

“Come on, then! If you are my only pursuer, I fancy I shall incur no danger, in permitting you to overtake me? Come on, young sir! Perhaps on these roads it may be safer for both of us, if we ride in company?”

Thus frankly solicited, the young courtier hesitated no longer; but, pricking his horse with the spur, rode briskly forward.

Together the horsemen continued the ascent of the hill.

Half way up, the road swerved towards the south-west. For a short distance the track was clear of trees, so that the moonlight fell full upon it. Here the two travellers, for the first time, obtained a distinct view of one another.

The stranger—who still retained his incognito—merely glanced towards his companion; and, seemingly satisfied with a slight inspection, allowed his eyes to wander elsewhere.

Perhaps during his halt before the hostelry, he had made a more elaborate examination of the young courtier.

Walter, on the other hand, had at the Inn caught only a glimpse of the black horseman. Now, though out of courtesy, looking furtively and askaunce, he proceeded to examine him more minutely.

The personal appearance of the latter was striking enough to court examination. Walter Wade was impressed with it—even to admiration.

He saw beside him, not a youth like himself, but a man in the full prime and vigour of manhood—perhaps over thirty years of age. He saw a figure of medium size, and perfect shape—its members knitted together, with a terseness that indicated true strength. He saw shoulders of elegant tuornure; a breast of swelling prominence; a full round throat, with jaws that by their breadth proclaimed firmness and decision. He saw dark brown hair, curling around a countenance, that in youth might have appeared under a fairer complexion, but was now slightly bronzed, as if stained with the tan of travel. He saw eyes of dark hazel hue—in the moonlight shining softly and mildly as those of a dove. But Walter knew that those same eyes could flash like an eagle’s: for he had seen them so fired, on first beholding them.

In short the young courtier saw by his side a man that reminded him of a hero of Middle Age romance—one about whom he had been lately reading; and whose character had made a deep impression upon his youthful fancy.

The dress of the cavalier was in perfect keeping with his fine figure and face. It was simple, although of costly material. Cloak, doublet, and trunks were of silk velvet of dark maroon colour. The boots were of the finest Spanish leather, and his hat a beaver—the brim in clasp coquettishly turned up, with a jewelled front holding a black ostrich feather that swept backward to his shoulder. A scarlet sash of China crape, looped around the waist—an embroidered shoulder-belt crossing the breast, from which dangled a rapier in richly-chased sheath; buff-coloured gloves, with gauntlets attached; cuffs of white lawn covering the sleeves of his doublet; and broad collar of the same extending almost to his shoulders. Fancy all these articles of costly fabric, fitted in the fashion of the time to a faultless manly figure, and you have a portrait of the cavalier whose appearance had won the admiration of Walter Wade.

The horse was in keeping with the rider—a steed of large size and perfect proportions—such as an ancient paladin might have chosen to carry him upon a crusade. He was of the true colour—a deep pure black, all except his muzzle where the velvet-like epidermis was tinged with yellowish red, presenting the hue of umber. Had his tail been suffered to droop, its tip would have touched the ground; but even while going into a walk it swung diagonally outward, oscillating at each step. When in the gallop, it floated upon the air spread and horizontal.

The spotted skin of a South American jaguar, with housings of scarlet cloth, caparisoned the saddle; over the pommel of which hung a pair of holsters, screened by the thick glossy fur of the North American beaver.

The bit was a powerful mameluke—about that time introduced from the Spanish peninsula—which, clanking between the teeth of the horse, constantly kept his mouth in a state of foam.

This beautiful steed had a name. Walter had heard it pronounced. As the young courtier rode up, the horse was standing—his muzzle almost in contact with the road—and pawing the dust with impatience. The short gallop had roused his fiery spirit. To tranquillise it, his rider was caressing him—as he drew his gloved hand over the smooth skin of the neck, talking to him, as if he had been a comrade, and repeating his name. It was “Hubert.”

After exchanging salutations, the two horse men rode side by side for some moments, without vouchsafing further speech. It was the silence consequent upon such an informal introduction. The rider of the black steed was the first to break it.

“You are Walter Wade—son to Sir Marmaduke, of Bulstrode Park?” said he, less by way of interrogative, than as a means of commencing the conversation.

“I am,” answered the young courtier, showing some surprise. “How learnt you my name, sir?”

“From your own lips.”

“From my own lips! When, may I ask?” inquired Walter, with a fresh scrutiny of the stranger’s countenance. “I don’t remember having had the honour of meeting you before.”

“Only within the last half-hour. You forget, young sir, having given your name in my hearing?”

“Oh! true—you overheard then—you were present—?”

“I rode up just as you were declaring your identity. The son of Sir Marmaduke Wade has no need to conceal his name. It is one to be proud of.”

“In my father’s name I thank you. You know him, sir?”

“Only by sight and—reputation,” answered the stranger, musingly. “You are in the service of the Court?” he continued, after a pause.

“No longer now. I took leave of it this very morning.”

“Resigned?”

“It was my father’s wish I should return home.”

“Indeed! And for what reason? Pardon my freedom in asking the question.”

“Oh!” replied the young courtier, with an air of naïveté, “I should make you free to the reason, if I only knew it myself. But in truth, sir, I am ignorant of it. I only know that my father has written to the king, asking permission for me to return home; that the king has granted it—though, I have reason to think, with an ill grace: since his Majesty appeared angry with me at parting; or, perhaps, I should say, angry with my father.”

The intelligence thus communicated by the ci-devant courtier, instead of eliciting any expression of regret from his companion, seemed rather to gratify him.

“So far good!” muttered he to himself. “Safe upon our side. This, will secure him.”

Walter partially overheard the soliloquised phrases, but without comprehending their import.

“Your father,” continued the stranger, “is likely to have good reasons for what he has done. No doubt, Master Walter, he has acted for your best interests; though it may be rather unpleasant for you, to exchange the gay pleasures of a royal palace for a quiet life in the country.”

“On the contrary,” replied the youth, “it is just what I was desiring. I am fond of hawking and hunting; not in the grand ceremonious fashion we’ve been accustomed to at Court—with a crowd of squalling women to fright away the game—but by myself on the quiet, among the hills here, or with a friend or two to take part. That’s the sport for me!”

“Indeed!” said the strange horseman, smiling as he spoke. “These are heterodox sentiments for a courtier? It’s rather odd to hear one of your calling speak disparagingly of the sex, and especially the ladies of the Court. The maids of honour are very interesting, are they not? I have understood that our French queen affects being surrounded by beauties. She has a long train of them, it is said?”

“Painted dolls!” scornfully rejoined the ex-courtier, “tricked in French fashions. Give me a genuine English girl—above all one who keeps to the country, and’s got some colour. And some conscience besides; for, by my troth, sir, there’s not much of either about the Court—except what’s artificial!”

“Bravo!” exclaimed the stranger, “a Court satirist, rather than a courtier. Well! I’m glad to hear my own sentiments so eloquently expressed. Give me also the genuine English girl who breathes only the pure air of the country!”

“That’s the style for me!” echoed Walter in the warmth of youthful enthusiasm.

“Well! there are many such to be met with among these Chiltern Hills. No doubt, Master Wade, you know some; and perhaps you have one in particular before your mind’s eye at this very moment? Ha! ha! ha!”

The colour came to Walter’s cheeks as he stammered out a reply, which only partially repudiated the insinuation.

“Your pardon!” cried the cavalier, suddenly checking his laughter. “I don’t wish to confess you. I have no right to do so. I have given you reason to think me unmannerly.”

“Oh! not at all,” said Walter, himself too free of speech to be offended by that quality in another.

“Perhaps you will excuse the curiosity of a stranger,” continued the black horseman. “I have been only a short time resident in this part of the country; and one is naturally curious to know something of one’s neighbours. If you promise not to be offended, I shall make bold to ask you another question.”

“I shall not be offended at any question one gentleman may ask of another. You are a gentleman, sir?”

“I have been brought up as one; and, though I have parted with, or rather been deprived of, the fortune that attaches to such a title, I hope I have not forfeited the character. The question I am about to put, may appear rather trivial after so elaborate an introduction. I merely wished to ask, whether you are the only member of your father’s family?”

“Oh! dear no,” frankly responded the youth; “I have a sister—sister Marion.”

“Grown up, like yourself?”

“She should be by this. She wasn’t quite grown, when I saw her last; but that will be three years come Christmas. She’s older than I; and, i’faith I shouldn’t wonder if she be taller too. I’ve heard say she’s a great, big girl—nearly the head taller than Lora.”

“Lora?”

“Lora Lovelace—my cousin, sir.”

“’Tis his sister—’tis Marion. I thought as much. Marion Wade! A noble name. It has a bold clarion sound—in keeping with the character of her who bears it. Marion! Now know I the name of her who for weeks I have been worshipping! Who for weeks—”

“My cousin,” continued the candid young courtier, interrupting the silent reflections of his travelling companion, “is also a member of my father’s family. She has been staying at Bulstrode Park now for many years; and will remain, I suppose, until—”

The heir of Bulstrode hesitated—as if not very certain of the time at which the stay of his cousin was to terminate.

“Until,” interrogated the cavalier, with a significant smile, “until when?”

“Really, sir,” said Walter, speaking rather confusedly, “I can’t say how long our cousin may choose to remain with us. When she comes to be of age, I dare say, her guardian will claim her. Papa is not her guardian.”

“Ah! Master Walter Wade, I’d lay a wager, that before Mistress Lora Lovelace be of age, she’ll choose her own guardian—one who will not object to her staying at Bulstrode for the remainder of her life. Ha! ha! ha!”

Instead of feeling indignant, the cousin of Lora Lovelace joined in the laugh. There was something in the insinuation that soothed and gratified him.

Conversing in this jocular vein, the two travellers reached the summit of the sloping declivity; and, continuing onward, entered upon a wild tract of country known as Jarret’s Heath.

Volume One—Chapter Nine.

Jarret’s Heath—now Gerrard’s Cross Common—was at the time of which we write, a tract of considerable extent—occupying an elevated plateau of the Chiltern Hills, and one of the largest. Commencing at the brow of Red Hill, it extended westward for a distance of many miles—flanked right and left by the romantic valleys of Chalfont and Fulmere.

At that time only the adjoining valleys showed signs of habitation. In the former stood the noble mansion of Chalfont House, with its synonymous village; while on the other side, quaintly embowered amid ancient trees, was the manorial residence of Fulmere. About two miles farther to the westward, where the plateau is broken by a series of rounded indications, stood the magnificent mansion of Temple Bulstrode, the residence of Sir Marmaduke Wade.

The elevated plain, lying between the above-named lordships, bore scarce a trace of human occupancy. It’s name, Jarret’s Heath, would indicate the condition of its culture. It was a waste—upon which the plough had never broken ground—thickly covered with high gorse and heather. Here and there appeared straggling groves and copses, composed chiefly of black and white birch trees, interspersed with juniper and holly; while on each side towards the valleys, it was flanked by a dense forest of the indigenous beech.

Lengthwise through this waste trended the King’s highway—the London and Oxford road—beyond it impinging upon the Park of Bulstrode, and running alongside the latter towards the town of Beaconsfield.

In the traverse of Jarret’s Heath the main road was intersected by two others—one passing from the manor house of Fulmere to the village of Chalfont Saint Peter’s: the other forming the communication between Chalfont and the country towards Stoke and Windsor. These were but bridle or packhorse paths, tracked out irregularly among the trees, and meandering through the gorse wherever it grew thinnest. That running from Stoke to Chalfont was the most frequented; and an old inn—the Packhorse—standing upon the Chalfont side of the waste, betokened traffic and travel. There was not much of either; and the hostelry bore only a questionable character.

Such as it was, however, it was the only sign of habitation upon Jarret’s Heath—if we except the remains of a rude hovel, standing by the side of the London road, just at the point where going westward from Red Hill, it debouched upon the waste.

This hovel had been long untenanted. Part of the roof had fallen in: it was a ruin. An open space in front, through which ran the road, might once have been a garden; but it was now overgrown with gorse, and other indigenous shrubbery—only distinguishable from the surrounding thicket by its scantier growth.

It was a singular spot to have been selected as a residence: since it stood more than a mile from any other habitation—the nearest being the suspected hostelry of the Packhorse. Perhaps it was this very remoteness from companionship that had influenced its original owner in the choice of a site for his dwelling.

Whether or no, it had been at best but a miserable tenement. Even with smoke issuing out of its clay chimney, it would have looked cheerless. But in ruins, with its roof falling piecemeal upon the floor, tall weeds standing close by its walls, gorse overgrowing its garden, and black birches clustering thickly around, it presented an aspect of wild and gloomy desolation: the very spot where one might expect to be robbed, or even murdered.

Conversing as we have described them, the two travellers had arrived near the edge of the opening in which stood this ruined hut. The moon was still shining brightly; and through the break in the brushwood, formed by the cleared causeway of the road, they could distinguish—though still at the distance of a mile or more—the tops of the magnificent trees, oaks, elms, and chestnuts, that crowned the undulating ridges of Bulstrode Park. They could even see a portion of the noble mansion of Norman architecture, gleaming red and white under the silvery sheen of the moonlight.

In ten minutes more Walter Wade would be at home.

It was a pleasant anticipation for the young courtier to indulge in. Home so near, after such a long protracted absence—home, that promised the sweet interchange of natural affection, and—something more.

The cavalier—whose journey extended farther up the road—was about congratulating his companion on the delightful prospect; when a rustling noise, heard to the right of the path suddenly stopped their conversation. At the same instant a harsh voice, sounded in their ears, pronouncing the significant summons:—“stand and deliver!”

The two travellers had already ridden into the open ground, in front of the ruined hut, out of which the voice appeared to proceed. But they had no time to speculate as to whence it came: for on the instant of its utterance, a man was seen rushing forward into the middle of the road, and placing himself in a position to intercept their advance.

His threatening attitude, combined with the mode in which he manipulated a long-handled pike—the point of which he held close to the heads of their horses—left no doubt upon the minds of the travellers that to stop them was his determination.

Before either could make reply to his challenge, it was repronounced in the same loud tone, and with a fresh gesture of menace—in which the pike played an important part.

“Stand and deliver?” interrogated the cavalier, slowly repeating the stereotyped phrase. “That’s your wish, is it, my worthy fellow?”

“It is!” growled the challenger, “an’ be quickish, if ye’ve any consarn for yer skins.”

“Well,” continued the cavalier, preserving the most perfect sang froid, “you can’t say but that we’ve been quick enough in obeying your first command? You see we have both come to a stand instanter? As for your second, it requires consideration. Before delivering, we must know the why, and the wherefore—above all, to whom we are to unburthen ourselves. You won’t object, to obliging us with your name—as also your reason for making such a modest request?”

“Curse your palaver?” vociferated the man, with an impatient flourish of the pike. “There be no names given on the road, nor reasons neyther. Yer money, or yer blood! It be no use yer tryin’ to get out o’ it. Look thear! Ye see there be a dozen o’ us! What’s the good o’ resistin’? Ye’re surrounded.”

And as he said this, the robber with a sweep of his formidable weapon indicated the circle of shrubbery—near the centre of which the scene was being enacted.