The Parliamentarians followed up the victory at Naseby with victories at Langport, Bridgewater, Sherborne, and Bath. The King was desolate at Newark, relying on Rupert, who held Bristol, that famous city, and had promised to stand siege for four months and more, and on the Marquess of Montrose, who had roused the gallant Highlanders to fight for their ancient line of kings, who had already been triumphant in many engagements, and was now marching to meet General Leslie, Cromwell's comrade-in-arms at Marston Moor, who had crossed the Tweed to crush the Scotch royalists.

It might seem that the reckless bravery of Rupert and the reckless loyalty of Montrose were poor props with which to support a crown; but the King, unpractical in everything, dreamt that these two might save him yet, though his cause, since first he set his standard up at Nottingham, had never looked so desperate.

His private cabinet of papers which had been taken at Naseby had done him more harm than the defeat, for there were many documents, letters, and memoranda which proved to the victors the insincerity of his dealing with the Parliament, the sophistries of his arguments, the hollowness of his professions, and the unreliability of his word.

They proved also, if the Parliamentarians had cared to make the deduction, that Charles, however frivolous he might be, however unstable and changing, however much he had temporized and given way, was on some points adamant, and these points were his devotion to the Church of England, to his Crown and all its prerogatives, his unshaken belief in his own divine right, and the sacred justice of his cause.

Charles, indeed, had never meant to come to an honest understanding with Parliament, which he regarded as rebellious and traitorous. He might have played with it, cajoled it, lured it, deceived it; but he had never intended to do more. Promises had been forced from him, but he had always found some sophistry with which he consoled his conscience for breaking them; concessions might have been forced from him, but he always meant, at the first opportunity, to withdraw. He would, if he had had the power, have replaced the Star Chamber to-morrow and treated the Puritans as they had been treated after the Hampton Conference in his father's time.

And he scarcely made a secret of the way he intended to treat the rebels if they were ever at his mercy. They embodied all that was hateful to him, and he had Strafford, Laud, and deep personal humiliations to avenge. He might sometimes talk of toleration, but there was none in his heart: his graceful exterior concealed a fanaticism as stern, as convinced, as unyielding as any that burnt beneath the rough leather of Cromwell's Independents.

In the autumn of the year of Naseby, so disastrous to his cause, he was in the besieged city of Newark, one of the few holding out for him; he had, indeed, now only a few cities, such as Oxford, Bristol, Exeter, and Winchester, besides that in which he lay.

The Marquess of Newcastle, that faithful soldier and loyal subject, and many faithful Cavaliers and a small loyalist garrison were with him; they were not under any immediate fear of an attack, because Fairfax and Cromwell were harrying Goring and Hopton in the south, and the Parliamentary force in the north was occupied with Montrose.

The Prince of Wales had followed his mother to the Hague and then to Paris; the other sons, the Dukes of York and Gloucester, remained in St. James's Palace, together with the younger children. This safety of his wife and his heir gave the King a certain comfort and ease in his mind, and the long, idle autumn days did not pass unpleasantly in the beleaguered city for one whose delight was in dreams and repose and a retired leisure.

His soul was indeed sunk in melancholy, but it was a gentle sadness; and the quiet of the moment, the sunny days in the old castle and garden did not fail to touch with peace a soul so sensitive to surroundings.

He told Lord Digby, my Lord of Bristol's son (that nobleman having fled to Paris), that if he could not live like a king he could always die like a gentleman; no one, not the most insulting, crop-eared ruffian of them all, could take that privilege from him. So, too, he wrote to the Queen in reply to her letters, which always advised uncompromising courses and exhorted him not to give way on any single point in reality, though she said it might be well to yield in appearance.

Charles needed no such advice; he was calmly and patiently resolved to go to ruin on the question of episcopacy and his divine right rather than yield a tittle, and this was not any the less true that few believed it of him. Almost the entire country, including the Parliamentary leaders, thought that now the King was cornered he would make terms: their only concern was to find guarantees to make him keep these terms when made.

To some, in whom he put perfect trust, the King revealed his mind. Thus he had written to Rupert at Bristol: "Speaking as a mere soldier or statesman, I must say that there is no probability but of my ruin.

"But, speaking as a Christian, I must tell you that God will not suffer rebels and traitors to prosper or this cause to be overthrown. And whatever personal punishment it shall please Him to inflict on me must not make me repine, much less give over this quarrel.

"Indeed, I cannot flatter myself with expectations of good success more than this, to end my days with honour and a good conscience, which obliges me to continue my endeavours, as not despairing that God may in due time avenge His own cause.

"Though I must avow to all my friends—that he who will stay with me at this time must expect and resolve either to die for a good cause or (which is worse) to live as miserable in maintaining it as the violence of insulting rebels can make it."

As for the King's future plans, they were vague, uncertain, and waited on events. Every General in arms for him—Rupert, Goring, Hapton, Montrose—fought on their own, with no other guidance than what their talents and circumstances might give them, and Charles might either join the one of them who was most successful or return to Oxford, which had been for nearly three years his headquarters. He was not without hopes that the energies of the Queen might land another army in England, either Frenchmen supplied by her brother or Dutchmen sent by his son-in-law, the Prince of Orange.

He had some encouragement, too, to believe that the Scots, who disliked Independency almost as much as Prelacy, might yet be detached from their alliance with the Parliament. It was known that they did not love Cromwell nor he them, and the more that he gained in importance the more their ardour for the cause he represented cooled. It was said that they had even viewed the defeat of the malignants at Naseby with a cold and dubious eye, as they considered the discomfiture of the royalists quite balanced by the triumph of the Sectarists, Schismists, and Anabaptists who composed Cromwell's Ironsides.

Charles, therefore, nourished some fantastic hope that by deluding the Scots into thinking he would take the Covenant that was their shibboleth, he might altogether detach them from his enemies. It was a subtle and difficult piece of policy, and could only be accomplished by those intrigues which had so often damaged the King before; but Charles dallied with the idea, while he waited for the news of a victory from Montrose which would put Scotland in a more submissive attitude.

The middle of September came, and there was no message from the Marquess. Charles soothed himself with memories of the Graeme's victories at Aberdeen, Perth, Inverlochy, and Kilsyth, and whiled away the time with reading, meditation, and the elegant companionship of the cultured and poetical Newcastle and the fantastical and brilliant Digby.

These two were with the King in the garden of the house, or castle, where he lodged in the afternoon of one lovely day when the sun sent a bloom of gold over the majestic scenery and glittered in the stately windings of the Trent.

The talk fell on the Marquess of Winchester, who had so long held Basing against the Parliament that the Cavaliers had come to call it Loyalty House and the Puritans to curse it as a cesspool of Satan or outpost of hell.

"I would that my noble lord was here," said Charles, with feeling.

"He doth better service to Your Majesty," returned Lord George Digby, "in defying the rebels from Basing House."

"But how long can he defy them?" asked the King. "Can a mere mansion withstand the onslaughts of an army? Nay," he added, in a melancholy tone, stooping to pat the white boarhound which walked beside him, "my Lord Winchester will be ruined like all my friends, and Loyalty House will be but burnt walls blackened beneath the skies, even as so many others which have been besieged and beleaguered by the rebels."

"Speak words of good omen, sir," said Newcastle, who had himself staked (and lost, it seemed) the whole of a princely fortune on the royal cause. "Methought that to-day you did have a more cheerful spirit and a more uplifted heart."

"Alas!" replied Charles. "I hope on this, on that, I trust in God, I believe that my own fate is in my own hands, and that I can make it dignified or mean as I will; but when I consider those who are ruined for me, then, I do confess, I have no strength but to weep and no desire but to mourn."

"Sir," said the Marquess, much moved, "Your Majesty's misfortunes but endear you the more to us; and as for any inconveniences or losses we may have suffered, what are they compared to the joy of being of even a little service to your sacred cause? Sir, the rebels may wax strong and successful, but believe me there are still thousands of gentlemen in England who would gladly lay down their lives for you."

"I do believe it, Newcastle," answered the King affectionately, "and therefore I am sad that I must see those suffer whom I would protect and reward."

They had now, in their leisurely walking, reached a portion of the garden laid out on some of the old disused fortifications of the castle, and looking towards the town.

The ancient earthworks and moat had been planted with grass and trees, and sloped to a shady park full of deer which stretched to the walls of the city.

The castle being upon gently rising ground, Charles and his companions, on leaving that part of the garden which was walled in, came upon a scene that was perfect in English fairness.

It had been a wet summer, and grass and trees were not yet dried or faded; an exquisite sweep of verdure filled the moat, and beyond the emerald lawns of the deer park rested, half in the shadow of majestic elms and oaks and half in the soft light of the sun striking open glades. Beyond was the strongly fortified town; towers, gables, roofs, and spires, interspersed with trees, shimmered in the ineffable glow of autumn, and between them rolled the golden length of the Trent.

The castle, which stood as an outpost to the town, was grimly fortified at the base, and the walls of Newark held cannon and soldiery; but none of this was visible to the three on the old ramparts. The scene was one of perfect peace, of that peculiar rich and tender beauty which seems only possible to England, and which not even civil war had here been able to destroy.

The King seated himself on a bench which stood against one of the buttresses of the castle, the white dog gravely placed himself at his feet, while the two Cavaliers remained standing. The three figures, aristocratic, finely dressed, at once graceful and careless, well fitted the scene.

The King, though worn and haggard, was still a person eminently pleasing to the eye; the Marquess, a little past the meridian of life, was yet notable for his splendid presence; and Lord Digby, at once a philosopher and a courtier, set out a handsome appearance with rich clothes, both gorgeous and tasteful.

Charles, after being sunk for some minutes in contemplation of the prospect below him, turned to Newcastle with a smile both tender and whimsical.

"The Queen writes me, my lord," he said, "that there is a certain gentlewoman with her in Paris who often discourseth of your excellencies. Have you any knowledge of whom this lady can be?"

The Marquess flushed at this unexpected allusion, and his right hand played nervously at his embroidered sword band.

"I only know one lady in Her Majesty's service," he smiled, "and she is scarce like to flatter me or any man, being most cold, most shy. Sir, it is Margaret Lucas, and I met her when she was attending the Queen at Oxford."

"It is Margaret Lucas that I speak of," replied Charles. "Dear Marquess, I think her a very noble lady. Will you not write to her in Paris and console her exile?"

The Marquess answered with a firm sadness—

"If Mrs. Lucas would accept of me I would take her for my wife. But these are not the times to think of such toys as courtships."

"Ah, my lord," said Charles earnestly, "a true and loyal love shall console thee in any times. What adversity is there a faithful woman cannot soften? Whatever be before thee, take, whilst thou may, this gentlewoman's love—thy sacrifices would not so vex my soul if I could see thee with a gentle wife."

He sighed as he finished, his thoughts perhaps turning to the one deep passion of his own life—the Queen—now so far away and so divided from him by dangers and difficulties. When would he again behold her in her rich chamber singing at her spinet, with roses at her bosom and her dark eyes flashing with love and joy? When again would he behold her among her court at Whitehall, honoured and obeyed? When again take her hand and look into her dear, dear face?... Were these days indeed over for ever, to be numbered now with dead things?...

He rose with a sharp exclamation under his breath: these reflections were indeed intolerable.

"Ah," he said impatiently, "this dearth of news is bitter to the spirit. I sometimes think it would be well to gather my faithful remnant round me and make a sortie into Scotland to join my Lord Montrose."

This was quite to the taste of the two noblemen, who were also tired of Newark, and Lord Digby, for whom no scheme was too fantastic, began to discourse on the advantages of the King's sudden appearance in the Highlands.

But the mood of Charles quickly changed; his resignation and melancholy returned.

"Nay," he said, "I must better the Scots by wits, not force. What would it avail to fall into the hands of the cunning Argyll and his Covenanters, and give the squinting Campbell the pleasure of making us prisoner?"

The Cavaliers were silent, and the three began to slowly continue their walk round the old ramparts.

"Methinks this might be the garden of the Hesperides," said Newcastle presently. "See how bright the gilded light falleth, how gently move the dappled deer, and how softly all the little leaves quiver. And all the young clouds that come abroad are soft as a lady's veil."

"It were good to die in such a place, at such an hour, if God gave us any choice," said Charles. "For one could think, in such a moment, that it was well to leave all sordid things and let the soul leap into the sunset sky as gladly as the body leapeth in cool water on a dusty day. But we must live and endure bloody times—and may the angels give us constancy!"

As he spoke he idly turned and saw, coming towards him, one of the gentlemen of his bedchamber.

He stood still.

"This is some news," he said. "Go forward, my lord,"—touching Lord Digby on the arm—"and ask."

He had become notably pale, and he looked down at the roses on his shoes and put his hand to his side as the two gentlemen came up to him.

Momentous news had arrived at last: one of Rupert's troopers had brought a dispatch from that Prince, and within a few minutes of him had come a Captain of some Irish who had been with Montrose.

He brought no dispatch; he had made his way with danger, difficulty, and great delay from Scotland. His news was put in a few words, but they were words which Lord Digby could scarcely stammer to the pale King.

"There is news come, sir—that David Leslie——"

"A battle," asked Charles, swiftly looking up. "There hath been a battle?"

"Alas! Your Majesty must speak with this Captain of Irish yourself," said the gentleman, in dismay. "He saith Leslie fell on the noble Marquess near Selkirk, and did utterly defeat and overwhelm him; it was at Philiphaugh, sir—and all the Scottish clans were broken and the Marquess is fled."

Newcastle gave an exclamation of bitter grief and rage. Charles stood silent a full minute, then said in a low voice—

"The Marquess is not taken?"

"Not that this Captain knoweth——"

"Then we have some mercy," said the King, with a proud tenderness infinitely winning. "My dear lord, what bitterness is thine to-day! Alas! Alas!"

Digby, with tears in his eyes, took the dispatch and gave it to the King, hoping that it might contain news that would soften the bitterness of Montrose's overthrow.

But for a while the King, struggling with his stinging disappointment and mortification, could not read, and when he did break the seals it was with a distracted air.

The very heading of the paper brought the hot blood to his pallid cheeks: it was not "Bristol," but "Oxford."

The Prince wrote laconically to say he had surrendered Bristol to Fairfax and Cromwell, and had gone under parliamentary convoy to Oxford.

When the King had read the letter he stared round upon his gentlemen.

"Is this my sister's son," he cried, with quivering lips, "or a hireling Captain? Was this my own blood did this thing? Rupert whom I trusted?"

None of them dare speak. Charles was so white that they feared that he would fall in a fit or swoon.

"My city, my loyal city!" he muttered; then he cast the Prince's letter on to the grass, as if it soiled his fingers, and turned slowly away. He had the look of a broken man.