The mansion of Corbiton was a large and rambling structure, two stories in height for the most part, although in some places it rose to three, as in others it subsided into one. It was built partly of stone, partly of brick, and partly of timber and plaster, with many gables, and picturesque windows in the wide extending roof. Each of its owners had added to it as his needs required or his taste dictated, and now it was composed of many styles of architecture; but the jumble, as a whole, was beautiful rather than incongruous, as might have been expected. Time, moss, and ivy had blended the differing parts into one harmonious mass. The house faced the south, fronting a broad lawn that had once been smooth and level as a table, but was now cut up by horse’s hoofs. A mutilated sun-dial leaned from the perpendicular in the centre. One gable contained a wide and tall mullioned window, which had formerly been filled with painted glass, but the soldiers, knowing nothing of art, and strenuous against idolatry, had smashed many of the pictured panes, but, finding that glass, whether colored or plain, kept out wind and rain, they had partially remedied the results of their own enthusiasm by stuffing the apertures with gaily-colored cloths, remnants of doublets or silken trousers, until the window was a gaudy display of brilliant rags, the odds and ends of a cavalier wardrobe; and thus the gay gable, from being an allegory of the days of chivalry, had become typical of the ruin that had overtaken the cause of the King.

Sir Richard Corbiton had been one of the first to fall in the Civil War, dashing with gallant recklessness against the pikes of the yeomen. Theoretically these coarsely garbed pikemen were the scum of the earth, cowardly dogs who, when they saw gentlemen bearing down upon them, should have turned and fled; but actually they stood grim and silent, and when the charge broke against this human rock, although many a lowly hut was then masterless, many a mansion was without an owner, Corbiton among the rest. Sir Richard, dying, paid the price of a fool, and in the struggle exacted the same tribute from others.

As evening drew on, the thin crescent of a new moon shed a faint mysterious light over the scene, as if it were a white sickle hung up in the sky, useless because there was no harvest in England to reap, save that of death. The dim lustre outlined the mansion, but failed to reveal the wounds it had received, and the aspect was one of peace, scarcely troubled by the footfall of a sentinel slouching along the grass in front, carelessly trailing his pike, with nothing of alert military manner about him. From one wing of the building came the somnolent drone of a hymn, but this was counterbalanced by the more intermittent hoarse chorus of a ribald song, mingled with a rattle of flagons from another part of the house, for the ale in the cellars was strong, and not all of the Parliamentary army were Praise-God-Bare-Bones. The torches within the house struck flamelike color from the remnants of the pictured glass in the great window, which gave a chromatic touch to an otherwise sombre scene unrelieved by the pallid half-light of the moon.

The sentinel stopped in his walk and stood for a moment by the battered sun-dial, listening. Faintly in the still night air came to him across the fields the beating of horses’ hoofs on the hard road. Striding athwart the broken lawn to an oaken door, he smote it with the butt of his pike, crying,—“Peace within there; the General is coming.” There was an instant hushing of the coarse song, then a laugh, and when some one in nasal tones raised the slow tune of a hymn the laughter became more uproarious, subsiding gradually, however, as voice after voice joined the drone. The sentinel now walked over to the main entrance, and said to some one within the hall,—“I think the General is coming.”

The watchman now resumed his promenade, but he shouldered his weapon and marched more like a man on guard. Several officers came out of the hall and stood listening on the broken sward. From the darkness emerged three horsemen, two following a leader, a thickset man, who came somewhat stiffly to the ground, as if fatigued with hard riding. To the one who sprang to the bridle he said curtly,—“See the horse well rubbed down, and in half an hour feed him with corn,” Then to his two followers, “Look to your horses first, and to yourselves afterward. Be ready in an hour.”

The chief officer now stepped forward and said:

“You will surely stop the night, Excellency? Everything is prepared.”

“No. Did my order to stay the execution of Wentworth reach you in time, Colonel Porlock?”

“Yes, Excellency. I would not have ventured to execute him without your sanction, although the death sentence was the unanimous finding of the court martial.”

“The sentence was just. It may yet be carried out, or it may prove that the Lord has other use for him. Lead the way within.”

General Cromwell gave no greeting to the different groups as he passed them, his heavy riding-boots swish-swashing against each other as he followed Colonel Porlock into the hall. He strode awkwardly, like a man more accustomed to a horse’s back than a tiled floor. The Colonel led him into the great dining-room, one end of which was occupied by the shattered window, while the other was crossed by a gallery, and above all, very dim in the feeble illumination of two candles and some smoky torches, could be distinguished the knobs and projections of a timbered roof.

The vast room was almost completely bare of furniture, with the exception of a high-backed carved chair, which doubtless belonged to it, and a stout oaken table taken from some other part of the house, replacing the long hospitable board that had witnessed many a festive gathering, but which had been used for firewood by the troopers. The General gazed about the ample apartment for a moment, as one who had never seen it before, estimating his bearings with the shrewd eye of a practised soldier; then he pushed the table until it stood lengthwise with the room, instead of across, as before; glanced at the gallery and table, as if making some computation regarding their relative positions, drew up the chair and seated himself, setting the two candles by the edge farthest from him.

“Has Captain Bent arrived with his prisoner?”

“Yes, Excellency. He came at sunset.”

“Is he sure of his man?”

“He appears to be so, sir.”

“Were any papers found on him?”

“Yes, Excellency.”

“The other prisoner, Wentworth, is little more than a youth, I am told?”

“He is very young, Excellency.”

“How came he to be set on an important outward post that night?”

“There was no danger of attack, and I placed him there of deliberate purpose. He was most reluctant to go, making one excuse and then another, saying he was ill, and what not. For more than a month he has been under suspicion of communicating with malignants, although we had no direct proof. He had been seen stealing away from the domain of Lord Rudby, the chief of the disaffected in the district. On the night in question he was watched, and as soon as he supposed himself alone he deserted his post, put spurs to his horse, and rode straight across country to Rudby Hall.”

“And was arrested there?”

“No, Excellency. An unlooked-for event happened. He rode out from the grounds of the Hall, fighting his way, as it appeared, against a band of Rudby’s followers, who were attacking him, and ran into the arms of our men, who were watching for him. The attacking party, seeing, as they supposed, an unknown force of rescuers, turned and fled. The night was very dark, and the account of what took place is confused, but Wentworth was carried back to Corbiton, tried, and condemned for deserting while on duty and holding commerce with the enemy.”

“Umph! What version did Wentworth give of the affair?”

“He maintained he was no traitor, but did not give any explanation of his absence from duty.”

“I thought Rudby had surrendered all arms and had taken the oath to remain neutral?”

“His men were armed with staves only, and so Wentworth, better equipped, held his own against them.”

“What view did the court take of this affray?”

“They thought it merely a feint to cover the retreat of a discovered traitor. The night, as I said, was dark, and our men, being mounted, could not move silently. Knowing the house would be searched if Wentworth was hidden, this plan of seeming enmity against him was prepared beforehand, in case of discovery.”

“How old a man is Rudby?”

“Nearing fifty.”

“What family has he?”

“His two sons are supposed to be with the King at Oxford. There is one daughter at Rudby Hall.”

“Humph! Is this the young man who is said to be a son of the late scoundrel, Strafford?”

“Yes, Excellency.”

“In that very blood is hatred of the people, contumely, and all arrogance. At heart he must be a Royalist And yet—and yet——where was he brought up?”

“On the estate of Sir John Warburton, dead these some years back. Warburton was his grandfather.”

“Where is the Warburton estate?”

“It adjoins the lands of Rudby.”

“A-h! Is the boy’s mother living?”

“No. His only relative is a sister who seems to be the most bitter King-hater in all the land.”

“Is there not a chance the boy was on his way to see his sister?”

“It was thought not. She has been at liberty to visit him here, and has done so on various occasions.”

“Has Wentworth ever been in action?”

“Oh yes, Excellency, and he acquitted himself bravely enough.”

“No hanging back; no wavering in the face of the foe?”

“No, Excellency.”

“Humph. Send Captain Bent to me with the papers. When he is gone, I wish you to bring me a trooper, some silent man who can be depended upon; an unerring marksman.”

When Captain Bent arrived he handed to the General the papers he had taken from Armstrong. Cromwell examined them with great minuteness by the light of the candles, then set them in a bunch on the table without comment of any kind.

“Did your prisoner resist at all, or make any attempt at escape?”

“No, General.”

“He made no protest then?”

“He said England and Scotland were at peace, that he therefore needed no passport; that his arrest was illegal, and that you would be the first to admit as much.”

“Humph. Was he thoroughly searched? Are you sure he had no other papers than these?”

“Quite sure, General.”

“Very good. Bring the man here. If the door is open, come in with him. If it is shut, wait until you are called.”

When the Captain left the room the Colonel entered with his trooper, who bore a matchlock. Cromwell dismissed Porlock, then said to the trooper,—“You will take your place in that gallery and remain there, making no sound. Keep your ears shut, and your eyes open. A man will be standing before me. If I raise my hand thus, you will shoot him dead. See that you make no mistake, and I warn you to shoot straight. Go.”

The trooper, without a word, mounted to the gallery, and the General, rising, went round the table, standing on the other side. “Can you see plainly?” he cried to the man aloft.

“It would be better if both candles were at this end of the table, sir.” Cromwell moved the farther candle to a place beside its fellow, then stood again on the spot his prisoner would occupy. “That is well, sir,” said the man in the gallery. The General walked to the end of the room, threw open the door, and returned to his seat in the tall chair with the carved back.