The buxom landlady of “The Angel” remembered Frances and her four former visits to the inn, so she took charge of the girl in the most motherly way, fussing over her and seeing to her comfort.

“No, nothing is changed here,” she said, “though dear knows there’s trouble enough in the land, and strife and what not; good men going away and never coming home again, or coming back broken and torn. I’m sure I don’t know who’s in the right, but somebody’s deeply in the wrong, and God’s heavy hand is on us all. England will never be England again, I’m thinking. I waited on the King my own self in these rooms when he went north not so long ago, and kind and gentle he was to all about him. I’m sure I don’t know what he has done that his own folk should rise against him and pen him up in Oxford, as if God’s Providence had ended on earth, and His anointed was no more than Jack Lorimer the sweep. And the name of God is always on their lips, but I’m thinking if they talked less of Him and were kinder to His creatures they would be fitter to meet Him when their time came. But, dearie, I must n’t run on like this, for there are listening ears all about us, and a poor old body like me has been warned more than once. I fear it is not the King that is to blame, but them foreign people that’s ever at his ear, and I thought little of them when they were here. There must be something fell wrong when the nobility themselves turn against him. Well I mind when the great Earl of Strafford himself came south and stayed the night here. If he had lived things would have been different, for he looked more the King than the King himself. Ah, he was a man for you! There, there, dearie, you’re tired, and I go chattering along. But don’t you cry again, dearie, for it’s all long past and done with, and doubtless for the best, though our finite sight may not see that. What a babbling, thoughtless old wife I am; for I remember now, when you were here last, and I showed you the oriel window where Strafford sat, and told you the glint of your eye and the hold of your head reminded me of him, you sat there and wept and wept as if your heart would break. Kind-hearted you were, dearie, and I often thought of you and wondered how you were getting on. But now is not the time for tears, but for joy if ever you are to have it. I knew so comely a lass would not wander long alone, and that’s a fine man you’ve got. I saw how it was the moment you came, for the light in his face when he helped you down from your horse comes but once in a man’s lifetime and your own.”

“No, no, no, no! You are wrong. He is almost a stranger to me, but is a friend of my brother. He is nothing to me.”

“Do you tell me that? Well, well, we never know what the future holds for us, dearie, and unless I’m very much——”

“He was travelling this way, and my brother asked him to give me company. My brother was wounded and could not come.”

“Wounded? Oh, I am grieved at that. Many a brave lad——is it dangerous?”

“They say it is not, but it frightens me.”

“Yes, yes, dearie; but them that know are like to be right, and we must always hope for the best. Now here’s the meal for you, and you will not get a better between York and London. Your man—ah, there I go again—the stranger is looking to his horse, no doubt, as a careful traveller should, and we will see to him when he comes in, so do not you wait.”

It was late when Armstrong returned from the stables, for old John’s pack-horse showed signs of distress from travelling between seventy and eighty miles that day, and as the slowest horse in the party sets the pace, the animal had to be seen to and cared for.

After his bounteous supper the young man strolled about the rambling inn, and to his surprise came upon a lonely figure in a dim alcove.

“Dear lass!” he cried, “you should have been at your rest long ago. This will never do,”—but he sat down beside her. The place was narrow and very cosy, as if the oriel window recess had been constructed for two lovers.

“I am not tired,” she said, “and have much to think of, so I knew I could not sleep.”

“You should sleep well after so long a day in the open air. Deep thinking is the enemy of rest, and rather useless in the main. I’ll wager you’re wishing for news from the North.”

“Yes, I was.”

“Well, see the uselessness of that.”

“I know it, but how can one guide one’s thoughts?”

“Oh, it can be done. They say Cromwell has the power of dropping to sleep the instant he gets half an hour to himself. He has plenty to think of, and yet he must be able to guide his thoughts or abolish them for the moment, or he could not do that.”

“They say also that he has some secret power by which he gets news before any one else, and thus appears where he is most needed at the time he is least expected.”

“I doubt that. He has well-trained men in his service, which is the whole secret. Do you like Cromwell?”

“I do not.”

“You surprise me. I thought you were a partizan of his. You remember what I said when we were approaching this inn?”

“You said many things.”

“Aye. But I said one in particular that I would have wished recalled if it had been said to any one but you. I promised to let you know all about it some day, but I’ve thought over the matter and I’m going to tell you now.”

“No, no! I do not wish to hear.”

“But listen a moment——”

“No! I have been trying to forget what you said.”

“It is not fair to you that you should be exposed to an unknown scath. This did not occur to me when I set out, but your journey may be jeopardized because of my being deeper in dangerous projects than you have any suspicion of. So I have need to tell you my real errand in the South.”

“Mr. Armstrong, I refuse to hear you. I will not be burdened with what does not concern me. Is your memory so short that you forget what has befallen yourself and your kin by trusting to strangers? I warn you to beware of me, and to treat me as if I were an enemy.”

“As if I could!”

“As if you must. I have no patience with a confiding man, who needs ever to be kneeling at the confessional. I wish to know nothing of your affairs.”

“At the confessional? Indeed, and you are right about that. But I have no desire to confess for confession’s sake. I wished but to warn you.”

“Very well; I turn the tables and warn you. I ask you to think of the injustice of what you were about to do. If you are on some secret mission, there are others besides yourself involved. It is most unfair to them that you should make a confidant of any person without their consent.”

“You say sooth. If you take my hint and promptly disown me should I become involved, I am satisfied.”

“I can the more readily disown you if I know nothing of the traffic you are engaged in.”

“True, true!”

“They say this inn is part of what was once the monastery of the Templars, and I think the influence of these warrior priests remain in it; for I, too, was tempted to confession when you came. But we must have none of that.”

“My lady, you would find me a more eager listener to a penitent than you proved to be. This alcove is like a niche in a temple, and doubtless has heard many a confidence since the Templars built it.”

“It shows us a good example; it keeps silent about them.”

The two were startled by a deep voice that broke in upon their discourse. They had heard no one approach, but now there stood before them at the outlet of the recess a tall, gaunt figure in the sombre garb of the Parliamentarian, as if he were the spirit of some forgotten Templar of whom they had just been speaking; indeed he seemed the modern embodiment of one of that fanatic, sinister band, for while his bearing betokened the fervid exhorter, a sword by his side indicated that he used the physical as well as the spiritual arm. His cheeks were sunken, and a two-days stubble on his chin emphasized not only the emaciation of his face, but the unhealthy clay colour of his skin.

“A word with you. Who are you? Whence come you? Whither are you bound, and to what purpose?”

“Egad!” muttered Armstrong under his breath, “here’s a father-confessor indeed, and right willing to take on the task with no misgiving.”

The girl wondered how long the apparition had been standing there, and rapidly ran over in her mind what had been said between herself and her companion since he came. Armstrong spoke up, and, while speaking, proffered his pass to the interloper.

“Sir, that document will possibly satisfy all your questionings.” The stranger, taking it, held it near the lamp and read its brief wording.

“This answers none of my questions, except, and then by inference only, that you are perchance destined for Oxford.”

“Is not the signature sufficient passport, so long as you do not find us south of Oxford or north of Carlisle? We are within the region over which the passport extends.”

“For the second time I propound my inquiries.”

“Then for the first time I return them to you. Who are you? Whence come you? Whither are you bound, and to what purpose?”

The man answered without the slightest show of resentment against what he must have known to be an intended impertinence.

“I am Hezekiah Benton, an humble preacher of the Word, and, if need be, a wielder of the sword. I came from Newark, and purpose returning thither, God willing, with more knowledge concerning you than you gave when you passed the gate.”

“Very well, Mr. Benton, I will be equally frank, pausing to note with surprise that the signature of his Excellency General Cromwell is invalid south of Newark——”

“I said not so,” interrupted the preacher.

“You imply as much by questioning after it has been shown to you.”

“If you are entitled to hold this pass, you will meet no obstruction within its limits. As no persons are named upon this paper, it is my duty to satisfy my superiors that it is not misused.”

“Pardon me, Mr. Benton, but has it not occurred to your superiors that if General Cromwell had wished the names known he would have set them down as fully as his own?”

Hezekiah thoughtfully scratched his stubbly chin, and was evidently nonplussed by the view so calmly presented to him. After turning the problem in his mind for a few moments, he replied: “Nevertheless you are travelling on the London road. This pass reads Carlisle to Oxford. Newark is not on the highway between these two towns.”

“Admirably reasoned, Mr. Benton, and I envy those who have opportunity of hearing your discourses. They listen to good logic, I stand warrant. But the apparent mystery is soon dissolved. This paper was written by his Excellency at Corbiton Manor, in the county of Durham, at about this hour of the night three days ago, what time, if I may so put it, I was the guest of his Excellency at that place. If you will bear the county of Durham instead of the county of Northumberland in mind, you will observe I have taken the quickest route to Oxford, when the state of cross-country roads is considered. So far as the London direction is concerned, we deflect from it to-morrow at Stamford, and will rest, God permitting us, at Northampton to-morrow night. Any further questions will be as cheerfully answered, for I know you would not ask them without authority and a full explanation to give to General Cromwell, should he chance to dislike the uncovering of that which he was at some pains to conceal.”

Hezekiah Benton made haste in returning the passport to the suave and eloquent man from whom he had obtained it.

“Sir, your disquisition is most complete and satisfactory. If but a tithe of it had been given at Newark I would have been saved a hurried journey, and you a cross-examination. I give you good-night, and God be with you.”

“May he see you safe in Newark again, and grant you length of days to expound His Word,” responded Armstrong devoutly, as he rose from his seat and bowed.

Frances rose also when their visitor had taken himself off.

“You are something of a diplomatist, Mr. Armstrong, but I fear diplomacy requires a touch of hypocrisy. Could you not have dismissed him without the benediction?”

“Why? I meant it thoroughly. I am a religious man with a creed as grim as his own; a Presbyterian. I meant every word of it. He is a good man; notice how mildly he answered my scoffing return of his own questions. He made me ashamed of my frivolity.”

“A religious man, are you?”

“Yes, why not?”

“I don’t know. I had not thought of you as such. Your account of another man’s pass did not seem strictly accurate.”

“It was true nevertheless. Every word I said was true. I never even hinted the pass belonged to me.”

The girl laughed and held out her hand.

“Yet you cannot deny that he gathered a wrong impression.”

“Ah, that was his fault, not mine. Hezekiah himself would tell you to possess the wisdom of the serpent as well as the harmlessness of the dove. But do not let me be too self-righteous. I will be honest with you, and admit at once that had a direct falsehood been necessary I would have used it. I was determined not to give him any name, for the pass I hold from Cromwell set Manchester as the limit, and we are now south of Manchester. I would have given the good Benton my name at York, but not at Grantham.”

“You think, then, that where great events are at stake,—a man’s life let us say, or a country’s welfare,—one is justified in using deception?”

“Most assuredly. I should have no hesitation in trying any ruse to save my friend or serve my country. Do you not agree with me?”

“I am trying to. Yes, I do agree with you. I do! I do! I do!” she cried with a sudden fervour that surprised him, for it seemed out of proportion to the importance of the ethical question they had been discussing. He had been holding her hand all this time, and she seemed to become newly aware of that fact and hastily withdrew it, blushing as she did so. She spoke rapidly, as if to cover her confusion:

“I use the words furnished me by our visitor. I give you good-night, and God be with you,”—and she was gone before his unreadiness could frame a response.