The week which followed the fall of St. Quentin was a period of strenuous exertion on the part of the conquerors.

The dead were buried, the city was cleansed of its many impurities, and the devastating fires which had threatened the destruction of the whole town were at length subdued.

Of all the religious edifices in the city the cathedral alone remained unconsumed by the devouring element. Philip had himself superintended the efforts made for its preservation; streets were pulled down, strong buildings were blown up by gunpowder, and at length the noble building stood in grand isolation, but safe from fire.

A strong Spanish garrison was placed in possession of St. Quentin; the remainder of the army was under orders to prepare for instant and active service.

The neighbouring towns of Picardy, Catelet, Ham, and Chanley were to be besieged forthwith, and the camp was full of zeal and animation—for surely fresh spoils awaited the soldiers of Philip, and bright visions of glory and honour filled the minds of the chieftains. In the English camp alone these feelings held no sway. The war had never been popular with them—they felt that they were fighting the battles of King Philip, and not those of their own country.

And now that the main object of the expedition had been won, and the chief town in Picardy captured, the English contingent were eager to return home.

In the evening of a fine September day Lord Clinton's three aides-de-camp were reposing in their tent after a day's active exertion.

That day a courier had brought them letters from England, and the young men were eagerly discussing home news.

Susan had written to each of them, for she had much to tell.

The fires of Smithfield had burst forth anew, to the horror of the people and the grief of all good men. That very day three victims had perished, and the Queen's guards had scarce prevented the London people from attempting forcible rescue.

One condemned man had been pardoned by the Cardinal Archbishop, and many were said to have been freed by him after brief examination and apparent but doubtful submission.

Rumours were afloat in London, Susan said, that the Cardinal had fallen out of favour at Rome, and that the Pope (Paul IV) had deprived him of his legatine commission and had recalled him to Rome. The Archbishop was in bad health, and on this plea the Queen had refused to give him permission to leave the country.

These things brought great unhappiness to the Queen, and added to them was the increasing malignity of her disorder—she was evidently sinking into the grave—and there was none to pity her!

"Alas, poor Queen," wrote Susan, "unloved by her people, deserted by her husband, worried by the Pope, and conscious, above all, that she had failed in the one object of her life, and that her successor, the Princess Elizabeth, would undo all her work for the 'conversion' of England."

Yet Susan had some good news to tell them.

"Sir John was in excellent health, and he had lately received news from their beloved father that he and their dear Vicar were well, and were determined to return to England on the day when the Princess should be declared Queen.

"Oh, when will you three dear boys come home?" she wrote. "How I long for that day, how I picture ourselves at the beloved home in Sussex, the sweet old house at Chiddingly!

"I close my eyes, and my mind pictures to me the green woods and the noble sweep of the Sussex downs. I seem to hear the cawing of the rooks in the tall trees and the singing of the birds in the shrubberies. Oh, I grow mad with deep longing! God send you home quickly, safe and sound."

The boys listened to these words with bated breath—perhaps with moistened eyes—for Susan's passionate love for her Sussex home expressed their own deep longings.

"Here comes Lord Clinton," said Geoffrey suddenly, as he saw their lord's well-known figure approaching the tent.

They rose to receive him; then, as he took a seat, after some pleasant words of greeting, William spoke—

"We are happy to see you, my Lord; we are anxious to know if our marching orders have been given."

"It is on that very point that I am come to see you. I have my marching orders, but I am not sure that I shall take you with me."

The young "aides" started with surprise; but ere they could seek an explanation of his words Lord Clinton proceeded to say—

"I wish to hold a brief consultation with you. Count Mansfeld has just brought me some sinister news. He tells me that his reiters have discovered that it was Ralph's poniard which disabled the man who was afterwards hung from the cathedral turret, and they have sworn to avenge his death.

"He has sent them a message that he will sharply punish the perpetrators of any such an attempt, but Mansfeld tells me that his men are in a dangerous humour, and he wished me to warn you to keep to the limits of your own camp, and that even within those limits Ralph should never wander alone."

The young soldiers smiled disdainfully.

"Our swords can guard our heads, my Lord, we have no fear!" said Geoffrey.

"Yes, I know that," cried Clinton, "but I want to make assurance doubly sure.

"Now, listen. By to-day's courier the King has received some disquieting news. Guise is collecting a great army under King Henry's orders, and Philip has a suspicion that Calais is to be the object of his attack.

"From his spies at the French Court he hears that the Bishop of Acqs, the French envoy to England, has just returned home, and that he passed through Calais en route. He reports that the town is practically defenceless; the garrison is small, the fortifications are in a state of ruin.

"The King is sending swift messengers to Queen Mary to urge her to remedy this condition of things, but he wishes to obtain proof that the Bishop's statements are true. I have offered him your services, if you are willing to undertake the duty. What say you?

"Your mission will be a secret one, and it will be attended with many dangers both by land and sea; but it will bring you much honour if you succeed. From Calais you would proceed direct to Dover, and so to London to lay your report before the Queen."

The boys listened with glistening eyes; this was the Heaven-sent fulfilment of their dearest hopes! With one voice they cried—

"We accept!"

"I knew that you would do so," replied Clinton, "and I go to ask the King to give you a letter to be presented to Lord Wentworth, the Governor of Calais. Make your preparations with all possible secrecy—you will start to-night under cover of darkness. Your route will be to Brussels, and thence to Antwerp, where you will embark on a King's ship for Calais.

"I will provide you with three strong horses; at Brussels you will change these for three others, which you will leave at Antwerp. There is no moon to-night, happily; you must start at eight o'clock, and I will be here to give you money and your last instructions. Now I go to the King; commence your preparations at once; I return to you in an hour's time," and therewith Lord Clinton left them.

What joy he left behind him! The three boys flung their caps in the air, they shook each other by the hand, they would have given hearty cheers but for the remembrance that secrecy had now become their watchword.

Their preparations would be few, but even for these they required the help of their three faithful serving lads, strong Chiddingly lads of approved courage, who loved their young masters better than their lives.

"Oh, that we might take the lads with us," cried Ralph. "I will follow Lord Clinton and seek his permission," he added.

"That you may not do," said Geoffrey firmly; "do you not remember that you are not to leave the tent alone? If you go we must accompany you.

"But stay; is there not a better way? If Lord Clinton consent, the three lads can ride on our horses, though they are somewhat sorry nags; we will lay the matter before him when he returns at eight o'clock. Meanwhile, they can help us furbish our weapons and prepare our travelling packs, they can feed the horses and have them ready to set forth, we need not tell them more than is necessary, that we have to ride forth on the King's business to-night will suffice."

So it was decided.

The lads occupied an adjoining tent; they were at this moment awaiting their masters' summons to prepare their simple evening meal. They were called in, and speedily all things were proceeding according to Geoffrey's suggestions.

The shades of night were deepening as they sat down to supper, it was a quarter to eight o'clock. The camp fires were being lit, and the soldiers of the English contingent were gathering around them in merry groups.

It was eight o'clock and the young Englishmen had supped, all their preparations were complete.

The flap of the tent lifted silently, and two cloaked figures entered, their features hidden in the folds of their outer garments. These they now cast aside, and by the dim light which illumined the tent the "aides" recognized Lord Clinton, and with him the King!

Instantly the young men knelt on one knee before him and kissed his hand.

Philip gazed intently upon their countenances: he knew them fairly well, but it seemed as if he wished to reassure himself. Then in a low, cold, but distinct voice he said to Lord Clinton—

"They will do; we have met under many different circumstances, and I know them to be brave men."

"Your Majesty is right," replied Lord Clinton, "they will do their duty or die in endeavouring to fulfil it."

Then Philip addressed the Englishmen.

Their mission required secrecy, speed, courage and endurance. They were to make close inspection of the fortifications, guns, material of war, and the garrison of Calais with Lord Wentworth's help, to whom he had written. This letter, which he now gave them, must never fall into the hands of the enemy, to whom it would reveal all his suspicions and plans. He delivered this letter into the hands of Monsieur de Fynes, as the eldest of the three. If danger befell them it were better that the two younger men should perish, so long as the bearer of the letter escaped. If he fell into the hands of the foe let him see that the letter was destroyed at all hazards. The perilous part of their journey would be the portion of it which lay in French territory, but twelve hours hard riding would carry them into Flanders, after which there would be little danger, yet let them never remit their precautions.

The King then handed to each man a heavy purse of gold wherewith to defray expenses, the surplus, if any, would be their own.

"I hear the sound of your horses outside the tent," said the King; "have I made all explicit, is there any question you would like to ask?"

The young men looked at each other. Then Geoffrey spoke—

"Your Majesty may rely on our carrying out your gracious commands, or we shall perish in the attempt. We have but one thing to suggest, and that is that our three faithful servants may accompany us; they can ride our own horses and they will be of great service to us."

The King and Lord Clinton conversed in low tones, then Clinton announced their decision.

"His Majesty agrees to your request," he said; "we think it will attract less observation and suspicion if three gentlemen be accompanied by their serving men than if they travelled alone: it is a wise suggestion on your part."

Then the King and Lord Clinton arose from their seats and prepared to depart. The King extended his hand, which the young men again knelt to kiss, and he bade them farewell. Lord Clinton shook hands warmly with them.

"Adieu! mes braves gens," he said: "God grant you a safe and successful journey. We shall next meet in London, I trust. Farewell, farewell." And so they left the tent.

The young men stood in silence for a moment, then Geoffrey spoke—

"The King has laid a heavy trust upon us," he said, "and therein has conferred on us great honour, for we shall now be doing service to our own dear country as well as to his. Let us ask a greater King than Philip, even our Heavenly Father, to bless our enterprise."

With one impulse the young men knelt, and for a few minutes held silent converse with God. Ere they left the tent William spoke.

"In this matter, my brothers, we need a leader whom we swear to obey in all things. I propose that Geoffrey be our captain."

"Nay," urged Geoffrey; but ere he could proceed further Ralph intervened.

"I consent, and that most heartily," he said.

Geoffrey grasped the hands of his two comrades and said—

"Let it be as you wish, my brothers, and my first word of command is to horse! to horse!"

It was a lovely night, the stars shone brilliantly in the autumnal sky, a light refreshing breeze had sprung up.

Outside the tent six horses stood awaiting their riders. Three of these were held by Lord Clinton's grooms; they were great Flemish war-horses of a renowned breed, beside which the three English horses, held by the Sussex lads, looked small and insignificant. Yet these latter were wiry and strong; happily they were in excellent condition and fit for the long journey before them.

Before they mounted their horses the Englishmen closely inspected every part of the harness, to assure themselves that nothing was amiss. The lads' horses were examined with equal care, and the weapons of their riders underwent Geoffrey's keen scrutiny. Every man was armed with a brace of pistolets and with poniard and dagger. The inspection was over, and, at the word of command, the six men swung into their saddles.

"Slowly through the camp," said Geoffrey in a low voice.

As they moved forward a camp follower, apparently the worse for drink, lurched heavily against one of the lads' horses and caught at his stirrup to steady himself.

"Where away, comrade?" he hiccuped to the lad, who in reply slashed at the impudent villain with his whip.

Geoffrey's quick ear had caught the sound of a voice, and he instantly reined up his horse.

"Stop that man," he cried; but it was too late, he had darted out of sight in the darkness.

The party went on, the three young masters riding abreast, the lads following closely behind. They wound their way carefully through the camp, now thronged with soldiers, sutlers and followers of all kinds.

It was a striking sight. Huge fires burned high at regular intervals, and around them all the revelry of a camp in time of war was beginning.

At ten o'clock a gun would be fired and all fires would be put out, all strangers turned out of camp, and stillness would come down where pandemonium had so lately held sway.

The passing of the travellers through the camp excited no observation nor surprise. Armed couriers were frequently sent out to the outlying posts and the neighbouring towns. These latter were falling daily into the possession of the conquering army.

So the party rode forward unmolestedly and slowly till the confines of the camp were reached. Before them lay the broad trackway which led to Brussels. It was a rough, rugged road, but it was sufficiently plain to follow, even in the semi-darkness of the night. The late contending armies had passed along it recently, and all wayside inns and even private houses had been ruthlessly plundered and, in most cases, burnt. The despoiled inhabitants, the peasantry, the woodsmen, the charcoal burners, and a host of others had fled into the woods for safety. Desperate and starving, the men had formed themselves into marauding bands, and many a fair chateau, many a quiet, peaceful farm-house and village hamlet had been plundered by them in turn.

Each night the reddened sky told of some dreadful fire, and for the moment the law was powerless. Woe to the unarmed traveller, woe to the wounded straggler who limped behind his regiment if they fell into the hands of a furious peasantry!

This was one of the dangers which Philip had in his mind when he told the young men that their chief peril would be as they passed through French territory.

"Halt!" cried Geoffrey, as the party entered upon the military road, and all drew rein and gathered around him. "It is right, my lads," said he, "that you should know whither we ride to-night, and, as you will share whatever perils may befall us, whither we go. We ride on the King's business to Brussels, that is our first halting-place. Before us lies a long journey, perhaps of ten or twelve hours in duration, through the enemy's country. Be wary, be watchful, see that your pistols are ready for service and your swords loose in their sheaths. We ride at a hand-gallop, not too fast lest we distress our horses too soon. You, Robin, will be our advance-guard, and you will ride a hundred yards ahead of us. You, Hal, will ride a hundred yards behind us, and you, Tom, will keep close to our rear, we may need you as a messenger. A shrill whistle will be the signal that we all unite in one body, that danger is near. The advance-guard will ever be on the alert to see that the road is clear, that no obstacles be placed in our way by the 'gueux' who haunt these devastated regions. The rear-guard will see, above all things, that we are not followed by foes. Now have I made all things clear?"

"Aye, aye, sir," cried the men.

"Then let us ride on, in God's name," said Geoffrey.

Robin galloped forward, the four men followed in close order, the rear-guard took up his allotted position. The lights from the camp illumined the country in the rear, and for a long time the hum of the warlike multitude filled the air.

Thus half-an-hour passed; they were galloping at a fairly easy pace along the rough road, and the great Flemish horses were warming to their work, sometimes neighing gaily as they tossed their heavy manes in the air.

Not a sound now broke the solemn silence of the night, save the beating of the horses' hoofs on the hard road.

They passed through hamlets once full of happy and industrious peasantry, now scenes of black ruin and dire desolation.

Sometimes starving dogs would follow them with a fierce howl, and it became necessary to beat off the poor animals with the whip. Sometimes a solitary shout, or the shrill scream of a woman's voice reached their ears, and the young men would have halted out of pure compassion. But it might not be!

"On, on!" cried Geoffrey; "we may not draw rein for man nor woman, for foe nor friend, till we have done the King's business."

The signs of the works of the Prince of Darkness were often visible, and the sky in a dozen places reflected the red glare of lurid flames.

Once they came very near to a scene of fierce conflict—men were besieging a strong stone mill and the valiant miller was making a hard fight for his life and homestead.

Ralph was strongly moved at this sight, all his keen soldierly instincts arose in his soul, and he laid his hand on Geoffrey's arm as he cried—

"Oh! may we not make one gallant charge on that murderous mob? we should scatter them as chaff before the wind. Oh! Geoffrey, give leave, I prithee!"

"And lose the King's letter, perhaps. Nay, my brave boy, it must not be," answered Geoffrey, as they galloped on.

On, on into the darkness they rode, their gallant horses neither faltering nor failing. As they rode a shrill cry as of some stricken creature in its last agony burst upon their ears; they could not avoid this case of distress, it lay in their very road.

A group of men could be dimly discerned at the roadside. They had heeded not the approach of a single horseman as Robin swept past them, but as the central group came thundering on the men leapt into the adjoining wood.

"Halt!" cried Geoffrey, and he blew his signal to the advance-guard.

A man was evidently bound to a tree; at his feet was a half-extinguished fire.

Seizing a firebrand and swinging it into flame, the lad Tom (who had dismounted) held it close to the prisoner's face, then cut his bonds with his dagger. The man was a Jewish peddler, and his mutilated hands showed the cause of his cries of anguish, three of his fingers had been roughly cut away.

"Speak, man!" cried Geoffrey; "tell us quickly your case, for we may not tarry."

Then the peddler told them, in hurried words, that he had fallen into the hands of robbers, and that they were torturing him until he should tell them where he had concealed his pack.

"And where is your pack?" said Geoffrey.

The man hesitated, he cast a suspicious eye on Geoffrey.

"Put aside your fear, man," said Geoffrey; "we are Englishmen on service for King Philip, and we are in hot haste."

"At Busigney, my lord," said the peddler, regaining confidence.

Geoffrey consulted with his comrades for a few moments. They would pass Busigney shortly on their route, they could not leave the man to perish; a decision was soon reached.

"We will take you to Busigney," said Geoffrey; "mount behind me, my horse is strong and will carry two as well as one."

"Heaven bless you, my lord," replied the man, and by the help of the lad Tom he was soon seated behind Geoffrey.

"Forward!" cried Geoffrey, "we have lost valuable time and we must make up for it," and the whole party galloped on at increased speed.

But ere they had gone far the lad in the rear overtook them at a hot pace.

"There is a strong body of cavalry coming up behind us, and in a few moments they will over-take us—they are riding furiously."

Geoffrey called all his party together, still riding onward.

"Which is it, boys," he cried, "fight or flight? The first may be fatal to our mission, the second may fail."

Then the peddler spake—

"If I may venture my advice, gentlemen, you will neither fight nor fly, at least until you know who these men are. A hundred yards ahead there is a deep dell overhung with trees. Under their shelter you may let this band of cavalry pass on, after you have seen them you may take better counsel as to your action."

"Right!" cried Geoffrey; and in a few moments they reached, under the peddler's direction, the place of temporary safety.

They had not long to wait. In two or three minutes a band of from twenty to thirty schwartzreiters came thundering on.

"How did they know of our journey?" whispered Ralph.

"Remember the drunken camp follower ere we left the camp?" replied Geoffrey. "I knew he was a spy."

They had not been perceived in the thick shades of the trees—but what now? It was equally dangerous to advance or retire.

It was at this dread and critical moment that a wonderful intervention came. There arose in the stillness of the night a great sound like the shock of battle or the fall of an avalanche.

"Oh, God! it is the barricade!" cried the peddler; "I passed it half-an-hour ago."

"What barricade?" said Geoffrey eagerly.

"The 'gueux' have filled the road with huge stones, gathered from the quarry hard by, it is their favourite trap to catch night travellers, and the reiters have fallen into it."

"And a moment more we should have fallen into it," cried Geoffrey.

"No," said the peddler, "for I was about to tell you of it. But, hark! the 'gueux' are attacking the fallen reiters."

"Come," cried Geoffrey, "we must see what is passing; keep close together, make no noise. If any reiter escapes from the mÊlÉe cut him down with your swords, or we shall be discovered."

The "gueux" possessed guns and fowling-pieces, and now they were pouring in a desultory fire upon the confused mass of fallen men around the barricade. There seemed to be hundreds of wild figures gathering to the scene of conflict, and fresh bodies of them were pouring from the woods.

Then a hand-to-hand fight ensued, so fierce in character that it was a combat of fiends rather than of men. No quarter was asked or given, it was a fight to the death.

Soon it was evident that the reiters were being overpowered, notwithstanding their superiority in equipment and discipline. Their foes were twenty to one, and many of the Germans were lying in a helpless mass of men and horses amid the great quarry stones. Their battle-cries grew feebler and feebler; Geoffrey saw that the end would soon come.

"But what then?" thought Geoffrey anxiously.

The "gueux" would be as dangerous to them as to the reiters, they would make no distinction between English and Germans, all fought alike for their detested enemy King Philip.

Once again the peddler intervened, as he sat behind Geoffrey.

"My lord, my lord," he said in an agitated voice, "we must be gone, or we shall likewise perish."

"We cannot pass the gueux," said Geoffrey, "and I cannot return to the camp; what third course is there?"

"My lord," said the man, "you saved my life, will you trust yours to me? I know every pathway of these woods, I can take you by a safe road to Busigney if you will take me as your guide; the bypath enters the woods just below here, and once at Busigney you are on the main road again."

For a minute Geoffrey consulted with his comrades, then he turned to the peddler.

"You seem to be an honest man, we will trust you," he said. "Lead on, we accept your services as guide."

The party retraced their steps for about a hundred yards.

"Here is the entrance into the woods," said the peddler, as a leafy avenue dimly disclosed itself on the left side of the road.

They turned into it, and now they were gently and noiselessly traversing the woods by a smoothly turfed trackway.

"To the right," cried the peddler, as they came to a crossway, and Geoffrey perceived that they were now riding in a parallel track to the road they had quitted.

The roar of battle had quieted down, but the wind brought to their ears the exultant shouts of the gueux, the victors in the deadly strife.

From time to time some dark body would rush across the track or dive into the forest, once indeed a musket-shot was fired at them randomly. These were marauders hastening to the scene of conflict, eager to participate in the spoils.

"We must ride quicker," said Geoffrey; "soon the gueux will know of our presence and we shall be pursued."

"Beware," said the peddler in reply, "sometimes there are fallen trees across the track. We rejoin the main road in a few minutes."

Geoffrey saw the wisdom of this advice, and they rode stealthily forward.

Presently they emerged into a clearing and, to their joy, saw the great military road in front of them. Once upon it they put their horses to their fullest speed, there were no further barricades to dread, the peddler told them.

In half-an-hour they were in the little town of Busigney, a town held to be neutral by both the contending armies, for it was the patrimony of Mary the Duchess of Burgundy, now the Regent of the Netherlands for Philip. In a few minutes they had drawn up in front of a little hotel, "L'Eperon d'Or," and the peddler, dismounting, entered the house. He quickly returned, accompanied by the "maitre d'hotel."

"Here, my lord," he said to Geoffrey, "you can refresh your horses and yourselves also, if you need it, yet I urge you to remember that your foes are near, therefore you may not tarry long."

"We owe you a thousand thanks," said Geoffrey. "Will you not take refreshment with us?"

"Nay, my lord, it is well-nigh midnight, and I must seek a chirurgeon this night to set my wounded hand in order."

"Ah! I had forgotten your grievous hurt," said Geoffrey. "You are a brave and gallant man, Mr. Peddler, may I not add a little golden salve to the remedy?" and he produced his purse.

"Nay, nay, my lord," said the man quickly, "you have already given me my reward, it was a life for a life!"

And forthwith he left them.