Lentfield Manor, on the borders of Dorsetshire, was a square house set against a background of woods, with an expanse of park land in front of it. There was no particular beauty about it; indeed, it had a dreary look, and evidences of economy were not wanting. Thomas Crosby, never at any time to be reckoned a wealthy man, had expended much in the cause of the Parliament, and had left his son Gilbert a comparatively poor man. Within, the house was spacious and comfortable, with many a hiding-place in it which had been turned to account before now, and, if the furniture had grown shabby and showed its age unmistakably, Gilbert had become so accustomed to it that he hardly noticed its deficiencies. Lenfield was the home he loved, and this fact touched it, and everything in it and about it, with magical colours. Lately he had had visions of a fair woman descending the low, broad stairs, smiling at him as she came; in fancy he had seen her flitting from room to room, filling them with laughter and sunshine. So much power had a length of white ribbon which had once belonged to such a woman.

Crosby returned to Lenfield by many by-roads, more careful, even, than he had been when riding towards Bridgwater. Once he had turned aside to avoid a band of militiamen, for he had no desire to be questioned. This insurrection in the West would bring suspicion on many an innocent person, and Thomas Crosby had been so well known a Puritan that it would be well for his son to be found at home when he was inquired for. If King James persisted in his struggle for popery, there was a much greater rebellion than Monmouth's to come, infinitely more far-reaching. In that outburst Gilbert Crosby intended to play his part, but until then he would safeguard himself as much as possible. There would be refugees from Monmouth's ragged army presently, he must help them if he could, but he would play no part in active rebellion.

An old man, who had been servant to the Crosbys when Gilbert was born, met him in the hall.

"I've been anxious, Master Gilbert," he said, "very anxious indeed, and the Lord be praised that you've returned in safety. I began to fear you might have ridden West to join Monmouth."

"Why should you think that, Golding?"

"When one is anxious one thinks of all the worst things that could possibly happen."

"It seems that they fight in a good cause, Golding."

"Don't let a soul hear you say so, Master Gilbert. They've arrested two hundred or more in London already, honest merchants many of them, and they say the gaol at Oxford is full of prisoners. No Puritan is really safe in these days."

"You've heard far more than I have, Golding. Who has brought you such news?"

"A gentleman who came to see you yesterday," the man answered. "He called me a round-headed old scoundrel, but I think there was no malice in it."

"Who was he?"

"He gave no name, but he wrote you a letter. I told him you were in
London, and that I was hourly expecting your return."

"I did not say I had ridden to London," said Crosby.

"No, Master Gilbert, but he asked me where you were, and I thought it best to be definite."

"Where is this mysterious stranger's letter?"

Gilbert Crosby looked at the writing on the outside, which told him nothing. The contents mystified him, and he had no knowledge of the man who signed it.

"Sir," he read, "I have waited for you, having broken my journey to the West against these rebels on purpose to see you. This I have done, at some hazard to myself, at the bidding of one who honours me with commands. Since I cannot see you I must needs write, a dangerous proceeding, but your servant seems honest. Know then, sir, that you have enemies, men who will seek to find occasion to accuse you of disloyalty, and they may well find an easy opportunity now that Monmouth has landed. You are likely to be accused of helping his venture, and will know how best to secure yourself against such an accusation. For myself I know nothing of your aims, but the person who commands me believes you incapable of a base action, and would do you a service. This manor of yours is too near the West to be a safe place for you with an enemy so bent on your overthrow, and I am commanded to suggest that, for the present, you go to London and give no occasion for suspicion. The trust I have in my employer in this matter compels me to urge you to take heed of this letter, and moreover to offer you my help if at any time I can be of service to you.—Yours most obediently, Sydney Fellowes."

"The danger I can understand," Crosby murmured, having read the letter a second time; "the meaning of this gentleman's warning is beyond my comprehension. I have no knowledge of him, and who can the person be who commands him?"

"May I inquire if the communication is serious, Master Gilbert?" Golding asked presently.

"No, no, a kindly message from a man who would do me a service," Crosby answered. "If I am inquired for, Golding, at any time, or by anyone, show no hesitation, but bring them to me at once; we have nothing to hide at Lenfield," and then, when the old man had gone, he added, "at present, at any rate."

During the following days Crosby did not move abroad, did not leave the grounds of the manor except to walk into the village and gather any news he might. It was meagre enough, and was always to the effect that Monmouth was hard pressed. It was sadly told, too, for in the village the sympathy was with the Duke.

Doubtless through the length and breadth of the land there was sympathy, but it had little power to help. It did not bring arms to the rebel camp; it did not bring the men Monmouth had expected to fly to his standard. He knew, no one better, that with such an army as he possessed there could be no real success. His one hope was that, by holding out and perchance by driving back the enemy in some skirmish which might get magnified into an important engagement, the men he so longed for—the great body of the Whigs—would be persuaded to flock to him. He did not let go this hope even after Crosby's visit to Bridgwater. The one thing he could not afford was to be inactive, so he marched to Glastonbury, then to Wells, then to Shepton Mallet, harassed the whole way by a handful of troops under Churchill, drenched by continuous and heavy rain. Then he turned to seize Bristol, but, checked at Keynsham, he turned towards Wiltshire. Bath shut its gates against him, and at Philip Norton Feversham was close upon his heels. For one wild moment he contemplated an advance on London, but fell back on Wells, and from there returned to Bridgwater. Ten days of constant marching had wearied an army ill-prepared for such toil, and nothing had been accomplished.

This was the news that filtered through to Lenfield, and Crosby waited for the great disaster which he knew must come.

Feversham, with the King's forces, lay encamped on Sedgemoor, and with him were some of the very men who had fought with Monmouth at Bothwell Bridge. As Monmouth surveyed the position of the enemy from the top of Bridgwater Church there leapt into his heart a wild hope that these men might desert and fight by his side in the day of battle. A desperate courage came to him. Feversham was not a general to inspire trust in his men; it was said that the camp was full of drunkenness. With drunken soldiers to command even Churchill might find ill-armed but enthusiastic peasants too much for him. The time to strike had come. Heaven itself lent aid to the rebels, for the night brought a thick fog over Sedgemoor as Monmouth left Bridgwater for the last time. Not a drum beat to the attack, not a shot was fired; only the word "Soho" was whispered that men might recognise their friends in the darkness.

Two of the broad trenches which intersected the moor, and where the fog was thickest, were crossed in silence, but there was a third, protecting the camp, of which Monmouth knew nothing. The check brought confusion, and some man in his excitement fired a pistol. The battle had begun, and although the camp was taken by surprise, and drink made many heavy sleepers, the drums beat quickly to arms and the peasant warriors had little advantage. Grey's motley cavalry was scattered in a moment, and Lord Rosmore, who was amongst those who charged upon them, laughed aloud. This was a rabble, not an army.

But while darkness lasted the peasants did not lose heart. Monmouth was in the midst of them, fighting with them, pike in hand. He might know that the battle was lost, might long for some friendly enemy to deal him his death blow. His enterprise would fail, but his end would be glorious. Men fell on every side of him, while he remained untouched, and ever the light grew stronger in the east. The light meant defeat; Monmouth knew it. Death would not come to him, and life suddenly seemed precious. They still fought, these soldiers of his; the scythes were red with blood; the Mendip miners still faced the enemy, and were cut down as they stood; and Monmouth in his flight turned for a moment to look back, and shuddered. His courage was gone. Fear took hold of him, and, hiding the blue riband and his George, he galloped away with Grey and Buyse, first towards the Bristol Channel, and then, turning, made towards Hampshire. He remembered that Gilbert Crosby had promised to find him a hiding-place, and if he could reach Lenfield he might be safe. The pursuers followed hard after him, Lord Rosmore amongst them, and he, too, thought of Lenfield Manor and Gilbert Crosby.

No news reached the village on the Sunday or the Monday. Crosby waited anxiously. The last he had heard was that Feversham was on Sedgemoor and that a battle was imminent. He walked through the woods to the high road, and if he saw a peasant whose face was unfamiliar, waited for him lest he should prove a fugitive and bring news. On Tuesday Lenfield knew that Sedgemoor had been fought and lost, and that Monmouth was a fugitive. In which direction he had fled was not known, but Crosby hazarded a guess and rode some distance towards Cranbourne Chase.

"Be careful, Master Gilbert," Golding whispered. "They've arrested men on less suspicion than you're giving occasion for."

Crosby was quite aware of this, but he had made a promise. He had not been prepared to fight for a rebellious Monmouth, but he was prepared to risk much now that he was defeated and a fugitive. Still, he went carefully, not seeking danger, and soon had reason to be convinced that Monmouth had fled in the direction of Lenfield. Men of the Somerset Militia were beating the country, and Crosby barely escaped falling in with them.

When he returned to the Manor at nightfall Golding was full of news. Lord Grey of Wark had been taken that morning, but Monmouth was still at large.

"But he is surrounded, Master Gilbert; there is no escape for him."

"No one has been to the Manor?" Crosby asked.

"No; but there have been scouts in the neighbourhood all day. Luke the blacksmith saw them and told me. They don't expect Monmouth to come to Lenfield, do they, Master Gilbert?"

"It seems certain that he has come in this direction, Golding."

"Then stay you at home, Master Gilbert," pleaded the old man.

"Nonsense. The presence of a few militia-men in the neighbourhood is no cause for fear. Tell them to let me have my horse at dawn."

Crosby did not sleep that night. Monmouth might come under cover of the darkness, and he waited and listened through the long hours. At break of day he was in the saddle again, but did not ride far afield. He hardly left his own land, and it was evident that Lenfield was surrounded. In the afternoon he returned home, unconscious that Monmouth had been taken during the morning, found in a ditch clad in a shepherd's dress, and was already on his way to Ringwood.

"Monmouth is taken," whispered Golding as Crosby dismounted.

"How do you know that? Who told you?"

"A man who came two hours ago. He is waiting."

"Is he a friend, do you think, Golding?"

"I do not know," Golding answered. "He said he would wait until you came, and then demanded to be taken to the stables, where he tended his own horse. A masterful man, Master Gilbert, but whether a friend or an enemy who can tell?"

"We will soon see," said Crosby; and as he turned to go to this stranger
Golding laid a hand on his arm.

"If there is danger, Master Gilbert, call. I have lost some strength with the passing of years, but I have never lost my ability to shoot straight," and he just showed him the butt of a pistol in the pocket of his coat.

Crosby patted him on the shoulder and went to his persistent and uninvited guest, wondering whether Monmouth were really taken, whether this might not be he.

Men still surrounded Lenfield. It was whispered amongst them that, although Monmouth was a prisoner, there was another important traitor yet to capture. They had been told so by Lord Rosmore, under whose command they were. Now they were ordered to draw in closer, and to take anyone who attempted to escape.

"Capture him if possible, but, if not, shoot him down," was Rosmore's command. Then, with a dozen men, he rode across the stretch of park land to the front entrance of the Manor. He made no attempt to surround it in such a manner that those within might take alarm. His men were in the woods, escape was impossible.

There was some little delay in answering his summons, and then a servant came to the door.

"Is your master, Mr. Gilbert Crosby, within?"

"I think he is asleep, sir; but will you be pleased to enter?"

The girl looked innocent enough, but Lord Rosmore was too well versed in artifice not to be cautious.

"My horse is restive, as you see. Will you request your master to come out and speak with me for a moment?"

The girl curtsied and departed with her message, leaving the door open.

"He suspects nothing," Rosmore whispered to a man beside him.

"I am not so certain," was the answer, "since the door is left so invitingly open. It would be natural to enter, and an ambush might await us within. That girl was over simple to be natural, it seemed to me."

"Keep watch upon the windows above, some of you," said Rosmore in a low tone. "If this is a well-baited trap we are not such fools as to walk into it."

The girl reappeared and came across the hall.

"I cannot find my master," she said. "He will be in the gardens somewhere. Will you not come in and wait?"

For a moment Rosmore hesitated, and then dismounted. He called to two or three men to come with him.

"If you see him coming tell him we are within," he said to the others. "Now, my girl, we will see if we can find your master," and he caught her roughly by the arm. "Where is he hiding, eh?"

"Hiding?"

"Yes, pretty innocence; and unless you tell me quickly I shall have to bare these shoulders of yours and see what the taste of a whip can accomplish."

At that moment there was a shout from the men without, and Rosmore rushed back to them. A horseman had suddenly ridden from the stables at the far end of the house.

"Where's that scoundrel Rosmore?" he cried. "He would take Crosby of Lenfield, would he? Well, now is his chance; and in taking him he will capture an even more notorious person, whom, rumour says, he has long desired to meet."

"Now I know!" Rosmore exclaimed as he flung himself into the saddle. "After him, and shout, all of you, to put the men in the woods on the alert."

The horseman turned and galloped across the park in a slanting direction.

"Don't ride too close, Rosmore," he shouted over his shoulder, "for I seldom miss the mark I aim at."

He suddenly altered his course. It was deftly done, and served to gain him a few yards on his pursuers.

"To the right and left to cut him off!" cried Rosmore. "We have him. The chase is over before it has well begun."

Well might he say so, for the fugitive was galloping straight towards a stiff fence that few horses would face and few horsemen would hazard their necks over.

He turned again and laughed, but rode straight on. The next moment, with inches to spare, the gallant animal had cleared the fence and dropped into the wood beyond.

A cry of wonder came from the men who were following him, a curse from Lord Rosmore, for the rider was the highwayman Galloping Hermit, and wore the brown mask.