IT was evening when the rebel leader stood upon the heights of Hampstead and looked before him, by the light of the setting sun, upon the hazy and indistinct mass of the great city which he was come to conquer. Behind him his ten thousand men, with twice ten thousand followers, were erecting their tents and setting up the camp with a mighty bustle, noise, and clamour. Yet there was no confusion. Thanks to the administrative capacity of Algy Dunquerque, all was done in order. The Professor, who had left her carriage, stood beside Lord Chester. He was dismounted, and, with the aid of a glass, was trying to make out familiar towers in the golden mist that rested upon the great city.

‘So far, my lord, we have sped well,’ she said softly.

He started at her voice.

‘Well, indeed, my dear Professor,’ he replied. ‘I would to-morrow were over.’

‘Fear not; your men will answer to your call.’

‘I do not fear. They are brave fellows. Yet—to think that their blood must be spilt!’

‘There spoke Lord Chester of the past, not the gallant Prince of the present. Why, what if a few hundreds of dead men strew this field to-morrow provided the Right prevails? Of what good is a man’s life to him, if he does not give it for the sacred cause? To give a life—why, it is to lend a thing; to hasten the slow course of time; to make the soul take at a single leap the immortality which comes to others so slowly. Fear not for the blood of martyrs, my lord.’

‘You always cheer and comfort me, Professor.’

‘It is because I am a woman,’ she replied. ‘Let me fulfil the highest function of my sex.’

They were interrupted by an aide-de-camp, who came galloping across the Heath.

‘From Captain Dunquerque, my lord,’ he began. ‘The Convict Wardens are encamped in force in Hyde Park; they number ten thousand, and have got thirty guns; they march to-morrow morning.’

‘Very good,’ said the Chief; and the young officer fell back.

‘Ten thousand strong!’ said the Professor. ‘Then they have left the prisons almost without a guard. When these are dispersed, where will they find a new army? They are delivered into your hands.’

Hampstead Heath may be approached by two or three roads: there is the direct road up Haverstock Hill; or there is the way by the Gospel Oak and the Vale of Health; or, again, there is the road from the north, or that from Highgate. But the way by which the Convict Wardens would march from Hyde Park was most certainly that of Haverstock Hill; and they would emerge upon the Heath by one of the narrow roads known as Holly Hill, Heath Street, and the Grove,—probably by all three. Or they might attempt the upper part of the Heath by the Vale of Health.

The plan of battle was agreed to with very little debate, because it was simple.

The cannon, loaded with grape-shot and masked by bushes, were drawn up to command these three streets.

Behind the cannon the Guards were to lie, ready to spring to their feet and send in a volley after the first discharge of grape-shot.

The cavalry were to be posted among the trees, on the spot called after a once famous tavern which formerly stood there—Jack Straw’s Castle; the infantry, now divided into five battalions, each two thousand strong, were to lie in their places behind the Guards. These simple arrangements made, the Chief rode into the camp to encourage the men.

They needed little encouragement; the men were in excellent spirits; the news that they would have to fight those enemies of mankind, the Convict Wardens, filled them with joy. Not one among them all but had some friend, some relation, immured within the gloomy prisons, for disobedience, mutiny, or violence; some had themselves experienced the rigours of imprisonment, and the tender mercies of the ruffians who were allowed to maintain discipline with rod and lash, rifle and bayonet. These were the men who were coming out to shoot them down! Very good; they should see.

Lord Chester and his Staff rode about the camp, making speeches, cheering the men, drinking with them, and encouraging them. Their liberties, he told them, were in their own hand: one victory, and the cause was won. Then he inspired them with contempt as well as hatred for their opponents. They were men who could shoot down a flying prisoner, but had never stood face to face with a foe: they were coming out, expecting to find a meek herd, who would fly at the first shot; in their place they would meet an army of Englishmen. The men shouted and cheered: their spirit was up. And later on, about ten o’clock, a strange thing happened. No one ever knew how it began, or who set it going; but from man to man the word was passed. Then all the army rose to their feet, and shouted for joy; then the company of girls came, and shed tears among them, but for joy; and some, including the girl they had called Susan, fell upon the necks of their old sweethearts, and kissed them, bidding them be brave, and fight like men; and those who were old men wept, because this good thing had come too late for them.

For the word was—Divorce!

The young men, they said, were to abandon the wives they had been forced to marry. With Victory they were to win Love!

It was about ten o’clock when Lord Chester sought the Bishop’s tent. He had just concluded an Evening Service, and was sitting with his wife, his daughters, and Clarence Veysey.

With the Chief came Algernon Dunquerque.

‘We are here,’ said Lord Chester, ‘for a few words—it may be of farewell. My Lord Bishop, are you contented with your pupils?’

‘I give you all,’ he said solemnly, ‘my blessing. Go on and prosper. But as we may fail and so die, because victory is not of man, let those who have aught to say to each other say it now.’

Algernon spoke first, though all looked at each other.

‘I love your daughter Faith. Give us your consent, my Lord Bishop, before we go out to fight.’

The Bishop took the girl by the hand, and gave her to the young man, saying, ‘Blessed be thou, O my daughter!’

Then Clarence Veysey spoke likewise, and asked for Grace; and with such words did the father give her to him.

‘Now,’ said Algernon, ‘there needs no more. If we fall, we fall together.’

‘Yes,’ said Grace quietly, ‘we should not survive the cause.’

‘I hope,’ said Lord Chester, smiling gravely, ‘that one of you will live at least long enough to take my last message to Lady Carlyon. You will tell her, Grace, or you, my dear Professor, that my last thought was for her.’ But as he spoke the curtain of the tent was pulled aside, and Constance herself stood before them.

She was pale, and tears were in her eyes. She wore a riding-habit; but it was covered with dust.

‘Edward!’ she cried. ‘Fly ... fly ... while there is time! All of you fly!’

‘What is it, Constance? How came you here?’

‘I came because I can bear it no longer. I came to warn you, and to help your escape, if that may be. The Duchess has issued a warrant for my arrest,—for High Treason: that is nothing,’ with a proud gesture. ‘They will say I ran away from the warrant: that is false. Edward, your life is gone unless you are twenty miles from London to-morrow!’

‘Come, Constance,’ said the Professor, ‘you are hot and tired. Rest a little; drink some water; take breath. We are prepared, I think, for all that you can tell us.’

‘Oh, no!... no!... you cannot be. Listen! They have ten thousand Convict Wardens in Hyde Park ...’

‘We know this,’ said Algernon.

‘Who will attack you to-morrow.’

‘We know this too.’

‘Their orders are to shoot down all without parley; all—do you hear?—who are found with arms. The Chiefs are to be taken to the Tower!’ she shuddered.

‘We know all this, Constance,’ said Lord Chester.

‘You know it! and you can look unconcerned?’

‘Not unconcerned entirely, but resigned perhaps, and even hopeful.’

‘Edward, what can you do?’

‘If they have orders to shoot all who do not fly, my men, for their part, have orders not to fly, but to shoot all who stand in their way.’

‘Your men? Poor farm-labourers! what can they do?’

‘Wait till morning, Constance, and you shall see. Is there anything else you can tell me?’

‘Yes. After the Wardens have dispersed the rebels, the Horse Guards are to be ordered out to ride them down.’

‘Oh!’ said Lord Chester. ‘Well ... after we are dispersed, we will consider the question of the riding down. Then we need not expect the Horse Guards to-morrow morning?’

‘No; they will come afterwards.’

‘Thank you, Constance; you have given me one piece of intelligence. I confess I was uncertain about the Guards. And now, dear child,’—he called her, the late Home Secretary, ‘dear child,’—‘as this is a solemn night, and we have much to think of and to do ... one word before we part. Constance, you have by this act of yours, cast in your lot with us, because you thought to save my life. Everything is risked upon to-morrow’s victory. If we fail we die. Are you ready to die with me?’

She made no reply. The old feeling, the overwhelming force of the man, made her cheek white and her heart faint. She held out her hands.

He took her—before all those witnesses—in his arms, and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Stay with us, my darling,’ he whispered; ‘cast in your lot with mine.’

She had no power to resist, none to refuse. She was conquered; Man was stronger than Woman.

‘Children,’ said the Bishop solemnly, ‘you shall not die, but live.’

Constance started. She knew not this kind of language, which was borrowed from the Books of the Ancient Faith.

‘There are many things,’ said the Bishop, ‘of which you know not yet, Lady Carlyon. After to-morrow we will instruct you. Meantime it is late; the Chief has business; I would be alone. Go you with my daughters and rest, if you can, until the morning.’

The very atmosphere seemed strange to Constance: the young men in authority, the women submissive; this old man speaking as if he were a learned divine, reverend, grave, and accustomed to be heard; and, outside, the voices of men ringing, of arms clashing, of music playing,—all the noise of a camp before it settles into rest for the night.

‘Can they,’ Constance whispered to Grace Ingleby, looking round her outside the tent—‘will they dare to fight these terrible and cruel Convict Wardens?’

‘Oh, Lady Carlyon!’ Grace replied, ‘you do not know, you cannot guess, what wonderful things Lord Chester has done with the men in the last fortnight. From poor, obedient slaves, he has made them men indeed.’

‘Men!’ Constance saw that she could not understand the word in the sense to which she had been accustomed.

‘Surely you know,’ Grace went on, ‘that our object is more than we have ventured to proclaim. We began with the cry of “Youth for the Young.” That touched a grievance which was more felt, perhaps, in country districts, where men retained some of their independence, than in towns. But we meant very much more. We shall abolish the Established Church, and the supremacy of Woman. Man will reign once more, and will worship, after the manner of his ancestors, the real living Divine Man, instead of the shadowy Perfect Woman.’

‘Oh!’ Constance heard and trembled. ‘And we—what shall we do?’

‘We shall take our own place—we shall be the housewives; we shall be loving and faithful servants to men, and they will be our servants in return. Love knows no mastery. Yet man must rule outside the house.’

‘Oh!’ Constance could say no more.

‘Believe me, this is the true place of woman; she is the giver of happiness and love; she is the mother and the wife. As for us, we have reigned and have tried to rule. How much we have failed, no one knows better than yourself.’

Grace guided her companion to a great marquee, where the company of girls, sobered now, and rather tearful, because their sweethearts were to go a-fighting in earnest on the morrow, were making lint and bandages.

‘I must go on with my work,’ said Grace. Her sister Faith was already in her place, tearing, cutting and shaping. ‘Do you lie down’ here is a pile of lint—make that your bed, and sleep if you can.’

Constance lay down; but she could not sleep. She already heard in imagination the tramp of the cruel Convict Wardens; she saw her lover and his companions shot down; she was herself a prisoner; then, with a cry, she sprang to her feet.

‘Give me some work to do,’ she said to Grace; ‘I cannot sleep.’

They made a place for her, Grace and Faith between them, saying nothing.

By this time the girls were all silent, and some were crying; for the day was dawning—the day when these terrible preparations of lint would be used for poor wounded men.

When, about half-past five, the first rays of the September sun poured into the marquee upon the group of women, Grace sprang to her feet, crying aloud in a kind of ecstacy.

‘The day has come—the day is here! Oh, what can we do but pray!’

She threw herself upon her knees and prayed aloud, while all wept and sobbed.

Constance knelt with the rest, but the prayer touched her not. She was only sad, while Grace sorrowed with faith and hope.

Then Faith Ingleby raised her sweet strong voice, and, with her, the girls sang together a hymn which was unknown to Constance. It began:—

This act of worship and submission done, they returned to their work. Outside, the camp began gradually to awaken. Before six o’clock the fires were lit, and the men’s breakfast was getting ready; by seven o’clock everything was done—tents struck, arms piled, men accoutred.

Constance went out to look at the strange sight of the rebel army. Her heart beat when she looked upon the novel scene.

Regiments were forming, companies marching into place, flags flying, drums beating, and trumpets calling. And the soldiers!—saw one ever such men before? They were marching, heads erect and flashing eyes; the look of submission gone—for ever. Yes; these men might be shot down, but they could never be reduced to their old condition.

‘There is the Chief,’ said Faith Ingleby.

He stood without his tent, his Staff about him, looking round him. Authority was on his brow; he was indeed, Constance felt with sinking heart, that hitherto incredible thing—a Man in command.

‘We girls have no business here,’ said Faith; ‘let us go back to our tent.’

But as she spoke, Lord Chester saw them; and leaving his Staff, he walked across the Heath, bearing his sword in his hand, followed by Algernon Dunquerque.

‘Constance,’ he said gravely, ‘buckle my sword for me before the battle.’

She did it, trembling and tearful. Then, while Faith Ingleby did the same office for Algernon, he took her in his arms and kissed her lips in the sight of all the army. Every man took it as a lesson for himself. He was to fight for love as well as liberty. A deafening shout rent the air.

Then Lord Chester sprang upon his horse and rode to the front.

Everything was now in readiness. The cannon, masked by bushes, were protected by the pond in front; on either side were the guards ready to lie down; behind them, the regiments, massed at present, but prepared for open order; and in the trees could be seen the gleaming helmets and swords of the cavalry.

‘Let us go to my father,’ said Faith; ‘he and Clarence will pray for us.’

‘Algy,’ said Lord Chester cheerfully, ‘what are you thinking of?’

‘I was thinking how sorry Jack Kennion will be to have missed this day.’

And then there happened the most remarkable, the most surprising thing in the whole of this surprising campaign. There was a movement among the men in front, followed by loud laughing and shouting; and then a party of girls, some of the Company of women which followed the army, came flying across the Heath breathless, because they had run all the way from Marble Arch to convey their news.

‘They have run away, my lord!’ they cried all together.

‘Who have run away?’

‘The Army of Avengers—the Convict Wardens. They have all run away, and there is not one left.’

‘Run away? What does it mean? Why did they run away?’

Then the girls looked at each other and laughed, but were a little ashamed, because they were not quite sure how the Chief would take it.

‘It seemed such a pity,’ said one of them, presently, ‘that any of our own brave fellows should be killed.’

‘Such a dreadful pity,’ they murmured.

‘And by such cruel men.’

‘Such cruel, horrible men,’ they echoed.

‘So that we ... we stole into the camp when they were asleep and we frightened them; and they all ran away, leaving their arms behind them.’

Lord Chester looked at Captain Dunquerque.

‘Woman’s wit,’ he said. ‘Would you and I have thought of such a trick? Go, girls, tell the Bishop.’

But Algy looked sad.

‘And after all this drilling,’ he said, with a sigh, ‘and all our shouting, there is to be no fighting!’