Fox hastened back to Kilworthy. He also knew that time was precious. His father was in a fever of excitement about the landing of Monmouth, and was certain to give him all the assistance in his power both with men and with money. Not only so, but he would so compromise himself that, in the event of the miscarriage of Monmouth's venture, he would run the extremest risk of life and fortune.

He had for some time past been acting for the Duke in enlisting men in his cause. The whole of the West of England was disaffected to the King—was profoundly irritated at his overbearing conduct, and alarmed lest he should attempt to bring the realm back to Popery. The gentry were not, however, disposed to risk anything till they saw on which side Fortune smiled. They had suffered so severely during the Civil War, and at the Restoration had encountered only neglect, so that the advisability of caution was well burnt into their minds. The Earl of Bedford, who owned a vast tract of property about Tavistock, secretly favoured Monmouth, but was indisposed to declare himself. He had not forgotten—he bitterly resented the execution of his son, Lord William Russell, for complicity in the Rye House Plot—a plot as mythical as the Popish Plot revealed by Titus Oates, and which he attributed to the resentment of the Catholic party. He was willing that Squire Crymes should act for him, and run the risk of so doing.

Fox had the shrewdness to see this, but his father was too sincere an enthusiast, and too indifferent to his own fortunes to decline the functions of agent for Monmouth pressed on him by the Earl of Bedford.

"What dost want? I cannot attend to thee," said Mr. Crymes, when his son entered the room. On the table lay piled up several bags tied with twine, and sealed.

"What do I want?" retorted Fox. "Why, upon my honour, you have forestalled my thought. I came for money; and, lo! there it is."

"I am busy," said the old man. "Dost see, though it be night, I am ready for a journey? I have the coach ordered to be prepared. I must travel some way ere day-dawn."

"If you are going away, father, so much the more reason why you should give ear to me now."

"Nay, I cannot. I have much to do—many things to consider of. I would to God thou wast coming with me! But, as in the case of those that followed Gideon, only such as be whole-hearted and stout may go to the Lord's army."

"I have the best plea—a scriptural one—for biding at home," laughed Fox; "for I am going to be married. Ere ten days be passed, Bess Cleverdon will be my wife."

"I am sorry for her. I esteem her too well," said the old man, impatiently. "But away with thy concerns; this is no time for marrying and giving in marriage, when we approach the Valley of Decision in which Armageddon will be fought. Go out into the yard and see if any be about the coach."

"I passed through the court in coming here. The coach was there—no horses, no servants."

"I must take the coach," said the old man. "I was a poor rider when young; I cannot mount a horse now in my age."

"Then, verily, father, thy coach and four will be out of place in the Valley of Decision," scoffed Fox. "Of what good canst thou be in an army—in a battle—if unable to mount a horse? Stay at home, and let the storm of war blow across the sky. If thou wantest Scripture to justify thee, here it is: 'Rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft.'"

"The cause of true religion is in jeopardy," retorted the father. "I know what is right to be done, and I will do it. Go I must, for, though I cannot fight myself, my counsel may avail; and I bear to the Duke the very nerves of war." He pointed to the money-bags.

"I did not know thou hadst so much gold by thee, in the house," said Fox, going to the table, taking up, and weighing one of the bags.

"A hundred pounds in each," said his father; "and good faith! I had not the coin. There, thou art right. But it has fallen out that the Earl of Bedford has called to mind certain debts to me, or alleged debts for timber, wool, and corn, and has sent orders to the steward to pay me for the same in gold. The Earl—" he stopped himself. "But there, I will say no more. The money is not mine."

"What, no real debt?"

"I say nothing. I take it with me, whether mine or not signifies naught to thee; it goes to the Duke of Monmouth."

"It concerns me, father, for I want, and must have money. I am shortly to be married, and I cannot be as a beggar. I have sent to the College of Arms for licence to change my name, and that will cost me a hundred pounds. I want the money."

"I cannot let you have it."

"But it is here. Let me toll it."

"Never—get thee away, I cannot attend to thee now."

"But, father; I cannot be left thus, your clearing away all the money in the house, and I about to marry; who can say but Armageddon may turn all contrary to your expectations."

"Put off the marriage till I return."

"It cannot be put off. What if all goes wrong, and the land be given up to the Jesuits? What then with thy neck? What with thy money? Will either be spared? Give me, at least, the gold, and take care of thy neck thyself; then one will be safe at all events."

"If it be the Lord's will," said the old man, with a look of dignity, "I am well content. If I follow Lord William Russell's steps, I follow a good man, and die in a righteous cause. I shall seal my faith with my blood."

"And the Jesuits will lay their hands on all thou hast——"

"I have nothing. Kilworthy belongs to thy sister. As for what I have saved, it is not much. I have some bills, I have contributed to the suffering saints, I have helped the cause of the Gospel with my alms——"

"More the reason, if so much has been fooled away that this should be secured. The cause of the Gospel is the providing for thine own household, and there never yet was a more suffering saint than myself. I will lay hands on this coin, and take it as my wedding portion!"

"Hands off!" shouted the old man, half drawing his sword. "Though thou art mine own son, I would run thee through the body or ever thou shouldst touch this, which is for the justest, truest, holiest cause, and I am a steward that must give account for the same. I will give thee twenty pounds."

"That will not pay the clerks of the Herald's College."

"I will not pay for that—to change the ancient name of Crymes for another."

"What! Not when one name brings to me a vile twenty pounds, and the other name will give me a thousand pounds a year!"

"Heaven gave thee to me, for my sorrow," said the old man, "and in giving thee to me, covered thee with my name. It is tempting heaven to cast it off and take another. But there! I have no time for talk. Would God I could persuade thee to draw a sword for the good cause."

"Not a bodkin!" mocked Fox, who was very angry. The sight of the bags of money fevered him. "But you have one after your own heart ridden forward, and that is 'Tony Cleverdon. I heard as much from Luke."

"'Tony Cleverdon!" repeated Mr. Crymes. "I am rejoiced at that. Ah! would that Providence had given him to me as a son! 'Tony Cleverdon! That is well. He will take my place at the head of a brigade from this region. My infirmities and age will not suffer me to ride, but I will speak to the Duke, and he shall be the captain over our men from Tavistock. But come now, and be of good mind for once, and help me, lad." The old man took up one of the money bags. "I have sent the men to the kitchen for their supper, and I would remove all these to the carriage whilst they are away, as they know naught about the treasure, and it is well that they should remain ignorant. Not that I misdoubt them, they be honest men and true, and would not rob me of a shilling, but their tongues might clack at the taverns, and so it get noised that there was money in the coach, and come to the ears of scoundrels, and we be waylaid. Not but that we shall be well provided against them; for I shall be armed, so also the footman on the box beside the driver, and there will be two riders armed, with each a horse led to hitch on when we go up the hills, so as to have six to pull the coach up. And I shall have two of our recruits to go on, with carbines, ahead, and spy about, that there be no highwaymen awaiting us on the road. So! Anthony Cleverdon is gone on without tarrying for me to ask him. That is like the lad. 'Fore Heaven! even were a party of footpads to waylay us, if I said, 'Gentlemen of the Road, I am travelling for the Protestant cause, bearing specie to the camp, and we are rising against the Jesuits and the Inquisition, and the Pope of Rome, join us and march along!' I believe not one of them would touch a coin, but all would give a cheer and come along. Why, who will stay us? There is but the High Sheriff, John Rowe, is a Catholic, and perhaps three or four more among the gentry, and among the common, simple folk ne'er an one that would stay us, and not wish us God speed! Come, lend a hand with the bags; I will hold the candle. Let all be stowed away whilst the men are supping."

In the courtyard of Kilworthy stood the glass coach of Mr. Crymes—a huge and cumbrous vehicle, so cumbrous that it required four horses to draw it along the roads, and six to convey it to the top of a hill. Travelling on the highways was not smooth and swift in those days; the roads were made by filling the ruts with unbroken stones of all sizes, unbroken as taken off the fields. Where there was a slough, faggots were laid down, and the horses stumbled over the faggots and soused into the mire between them as best they could. Travelling in saddle was in those days slow, especially in wet weather, but travelling in a coach was a snail-like progress, and the outrunners had not to exert themselves extraordinarily to distance the horses, for they could trip along on the turf at the side of the ways, which were part slough, part rubble-beds of torrents, without the inconvenience and perils that assailed the travellers on wheels.

Mr. Crymes always journeyed in his coach, for, owing to an internal malady, he was unable to sit a horse; but a coach-journey tried him greatly, owing to his age, and the jolting he went through in his conveyance.

The courtyard was deserted, the monstrous vehicle looked in the darkness like a hearse, so black and massive was it, only the flicker from the reflection of the light relieved its sombreness as Mr. Crymes crept round to the back with his lantern, and a bag of gold under one arm.

Fox sulkily obeyed his father. At the back of the carriage was the boot that had a flap which, when unlocked, fell down. The old man fumbled for and produced the key, unfastened the receptacle, and thrust his bag inside.

"Now give me thine, and go for two more," said he, "and I will tick them off in my note-book as they are placed in the boot."

"It is a pity, father," said Fox, "that you have not a stouter lock."

"Nay, it sufficeth," answered Mr. Crymes. "None will know what is fastened within. If we were—and the chance is not like to come—overpowered by highwaymen, I trow they would demand the key and open the boot though the lock were twice as strong. My own luggage shall travel in the front boot. Go, lad, fetch me more of the gold. Even in the best cause men will fight faintly unless they be paid."

Fox obeyed, and brought all the bags in pairs to the carriage, and saw the old man stow them away. He was in an ill-humour, and cursed his father's folly in his heart.

"How if the venture fails?" he asked, "and then you be led to Tyburn. It will be a sorry end to have lost all this gold as well as thy life. Thy life is thine own to throw away, but the gold I may claim a right to. I am thy son, I want it; I am about to be married, and have a use for the money; now it will all go into the pockets of wretched country clowns, who will shoulder a musket and trail a pike for a shilling—if it were given to me, I could put it to good usage."

"Come with me to my study," said the old man. "Here come Jock and Jonas from the kitchen. Come along with me, and thou shall have twenty pound in silver and gold, and a hundred more in bills that may be discounted when the present troubles are over."

"I will ride with thee, father, some part of the road as thy guard—till the daybreak."