In the moments while the besieged held their fire, a hush came upon the church. Hugh could hear the footfalls startlingly loud as he led his squadron briskly to the main door, but it did not seem it was himself who went forward. He saw the floor slip by him and heard his own tread, but it was in an impersonal way, as if it were another man who was to fight that last fight, while he stood by, unmoved and unaffected, and watched and passed judgment. Before him now he saw the entrance door, with the broken pews heaped in a stiff barricade; to the right, beneath the window, the ends of the barrier furnished some foothold, so he started to scramble up and reconnoitre. His injured arm made him awkward; at the first step he tottered, and was glad that one of his followers caught him about the body to steady him. Glancing down he saw that it was Hardwyn, but he felt no surprise; everything now was beyond wonder. “Keep hold on me, Corporal,” he said, as if Hardwyn had never been any but his obedient underling, and made a move to step to the next projection.

Just there the heavy stillness of the church was broken by a jarring rattle of carabine fire that sent a cracking echo through the high roof. Looking over his shoulder Hugh saw gray smoke belch across the nave, and saw the ordered movement of the men as the second line, with their carabines raised, stepped forward to the breach. Right as he looked the second volley rolled out, and there came a cracked and dry-throated cheering from the men. “Four volleys left,” he heard Hardwyn beside him mutter. “Best cheer while we can.”

Once more there was a lull, and Hugh, getting his sound hand on the window ledge, pulled himself up, balancing precariously upon the broken boards, and peered out. He could see the white walk that ran up to the porch, and on either hand the untroubled graves, but he beheld no enemy astir. Venturing to lean a little from the window, he saw the roadway beyond the church wall, the arch of the bridge, the water beneath, bright in the sun, and across it the slope of hillside road. There Hugh’s eyes rested, and then his voice came high and shrill so he scarcely knew it: “Hardwyn, look, look you there! What is coming?”

Hardwyn was elbowing him at the window; through the crash of the fourth volley he heard the barrier creak under the weight of the rest of the little squadron as they pressed up about him. But he did not take his eyes from the hilltop till, black and clear against the sky, a moving line of horse swung into view.

“Cavalry, sir,” spoke Hardwyn, imperturbably, but Hugh had already turned from the window. “Run to the captain, Saxon,” he cried. “Tell him they are coming. Relief, relief!” His voice rose to a shout that carried through the church, and his squadron took up the cry, and ended with a cheer that spread even to the fighters at the breach.

Through the uproar sounded Captain Gwyeth’s voice: “If they will have it, out at them!”

The besieged swarmed forth at the breach, and Hugh, plunging headlong down off the barrier, ran to join them. The stones slipped noisily beneath his feet, and as he stumbled over the crest of the debris he turned his ankle. Outside the hot blur of sunshine dazzled him; he was conscious of light, light all around him, and men, grappling, clubbing, stabbing, in a tumult that bewildered his brain. Loud amidst the shrieks and oaths and cries for quarter rattled the crack, crack of carabines and small arms, but through it all he could hear the hollow thud, thud of horses thundering across the bridge. Some one struck at him, and instinctively he defended himself, though it was hard to swing a sword in the press. Then, getting sight of his father’s red head, clear from the breach in the thick of the fight, he forced his way down to his side. At the foot of the fallen stones he stumbled over a man and, as he recovered himself, came one who tried to strike him with a clubbed musket. Hugh ducked, and, as he bent, saw the trampled grass beneath his feet, then, thrusting low, came away unscathed. Still he heard the thud, thud of coming horses, and now, too, he caught clearly from the undistinguishable shouts and yells the cry: “For a king! God and the king!”

Hugh had one glimpse of horsemen leaping the low wall; then he was guarding himself from the slashes of a Roundhead trooper, and only just saved his head. He gave the man back an undercut, when suddenly the fellow cast the sword from his hand. “I yield me, sir. Quarter!” he cried.

Hugh paused, and, glancing about him now, saw the battle was indeed over. Down in the road troopers in red sashes were guarding the way, and men of the same color were swarming up through the churchyard, but there was no resistance, save here and there where single conflicts were still contested to the end. Then Hugh spied Alan Gwyeth, picking himself up from the grass at the foot of the shattered wall, and he ran thither, just as the captain dragged to his feet the man with whom he had been grappling. It was Thomas Oldesworth, Hugh saw, with the dirt grimed into his coat and his face streaming blood; he stood unsteadily with one hand pressed to his side, but his lips were hard set as ever. “Take him within the church and look to him,” the captain bade Ridydale, and then there was no room for thought of the vanquished, for Captain Turner came riding comfortably up the slope and hailed them: “Good day to you, Captain Gwyeth. Is there enough of the troop left to pay us for posting hither to rescue you?”

“Rescue be hanged!” said the captain, ungraciously, as he stood wiping the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “We could a held out three hours longer.”

“Vour hours und more,” put in the stolid Von Holzberg, and such of the troop as had gathered thither murmured a resentful assent.

“Well, well, I crave all your pardons for coming so inopportunely,” Turner answered dryly, and then: “So that lad of yours got through in safety? Better go look for Lieutenant Strangwayes, Master Gwyeth; I think he’s troubled about you. He has ridden on the trail of the rebels a piece.”

Hugh started down the slope, but, chancing to glance back, saw Michael Turner had dismounted, and he and Captain Gwyeth were embracing each other amicably. Then he went on down the sunny hillside, and across one mound saw a man lying motionless on his back, and down by the wall one who, pulling himself up on his elbow, called for water. But Hugh could give him no heed, for up the white, hot roadway he saw a squadron coming, and at its head a black horse that he knew. He scrambled up on the low wall and stood staring and meaning to call, but could not find voice till the black horse had shot out from the bulk of the squadron, and Dick Strangwayes had reined up by the wall. “Hugh! And safe?” he asked in a low tone.

Hugh came down off the wall and reached up to grasp Dick’s hand. “Safe, I think; I’m not sure yet. And, Dick, ’tis all well now between my father and me.” Then he stood a moment with his head leaning against Black Boy’s neck, and gazed up into Dick’s face and the dazzle of blue sky beyond, but found nothing he could say.

“So you’re alive, old Hugh?” came Frank’s voice behind him. “Faith, you’re a lucky lad. Here’s your bay horse I borrowed, turn and turn about. You can ride him back, for we’ll have enough and to spare.”

There they must break off speech, for Turner, leading his horse carefully, came down from the church and with him Captain Gwyeth. “Call the troop to saddle again, Lieutenant,” Turner ordered; “we’ll ride for Everscombe and entreat these people give the captain back his horses.”

“I’ll ride with you,” spoke Alan Gwyeth; “I want to see the house again.” Then he turned to Hugh and asked in a low tone: “You say ’twas your grandfather took you out of Captain Oldesworth’s hands?”

“Yes, sir. He sent me dinner, too, though I was not feeling hungry then.”

The captain smiled a bit. “I’ll remember it to his credit,” he said. “Now keep you quiet at the church and save your hurt arm.” He walked off to mount upon a spare horse, and Hugh watched him till he rode away with Turner’s troop.

As he was clambering back over the wall into the graveyard, Frank came panting in his trail. “Captain Turner bade me stay with you,” he announced; “sure, he has less liking to me as a volunteer than as an officer.”

“Nonsense! ’Tis only that he does not wish to take you home wounded. And if they find The Jade at Everscombe they’ll bring her—”

“Oh, I have The Jade safe already,” Frank answered cheerfully, as he kept step with Hugh up into the churchyard; “they found her grazing in the fields beyond Tamworth yesterday morning with her stirrups flapping loose. Dick shut his mouth then as he does on occasion, and before nightfall Turner’s and Leveson’s men got off to bring help. I know not how they’ll do without us,” he went on, “for Captain Marston’s troop was the only one recalled to Tamworth. But we are to make a forced march back to-night, if ’tis in our horses. And that reminds me, Hugh, you’re not fit to be trusted with a good piece of horse-flesh. The Jade has strained the tendons of her near foreleg, and her coat is rough as a last year’s stubble-field. Not but I’m glad she could serve you,” Frank corrected himself with tardily remembered courtesy. “And, faith, I am glad as Dick that you are still alive.”

Up in the church, whither the wounded and prisoners were being brought, Hugh reported himself to Von Holzberg, who despatched him with a squad to forage out food in the village. The Roundheads had already stripped it pretty clean, but in an hour’s time Hugh secured enough for his father’s hungry troop, and, leaving Frank idling in the village street, led his men back to the church. In the shade outside several of Gwyeth’s troop, battered and weary, were easing themselves with grumbling that they had not been suffered to come share in the plunder of Everscombe. The word put it in Hugh’s head that now he had eaten and felt a bit like himself he would gladly ride to the manor house and, if he could, thank his grandfather for the kindness he had thought to show him. With that intention he passed into the church to seek Von Holzberg and get his permission for the journey.

At first, as he came from the bright sunlight, the shadows within the church blinded him, but he could hear the sorry groaning of injured men, and presently made out that the wounded were laid in the transept before him. It was an ugly, pitiful sight, and knowing his helplessness to aid he passed on quickly into the choir, where he had caught sight of Ridydale. Once more the corporal was seated with his carabine on the altar stairs, but he now had on his grimmest look, for down in Hugh’s old place lay Captain Oldesworth. They must have looked to his hurts somewhat, for the blood had been washed from his face, and his coat was flung open as if his side had been bandaged; he lay quiet now, with his eyes closed and his lips white, but Hugh, remembering how mercilessly the man had dealt by him, told himself he did not pity him. Without heeding the captain he stepped over to Ridydale and asked him where Lieutenant von Holzberg might be found. “He has just passed down into the nave, Master Hugh,” said Ridydale relaxing his grimness a trifle. “Crave your pardon, sir, I should have called you Cornet Gwyeth now.”

“Perhaps not yet,” Hugh answered discreetly; “Sir William Pleydall will have a word to say in the matter.”

“Humph!” Ridydale retorted conclusively. “Hasn’t Colonel Gwyeth said you were his cornet? What more would you have?”

Hugh laughed, and was turning away, when he perceived that Captain Oldesworth had opened his eyes and was watching him; he halted short and waited, for he would not be the first to speak. “So it’s your day now,” Oldesworth began, in an even tone that might be construed a dozen ways.

“Fortune of war, sir,” Hugh answered coldly.

“You got in, after all,” the captain pursued, with something like a groan. “That comes of letting a civilian meddle with military matters. If you had remained in my hands—” There he broke off. “I crave your forgiveness, sir,” he finished, with a bitterness that angered Hugh, yet moved him to something faintly like compassion, “I had forgot; a prisoner should be circumspect in speech.”

It was on Hugh’s tongue to retort that Cavalier gentlemen were not wont to mishandle their prisoners, but he thought on Dennis Butler, and that speech was silenced. He merely said: “My father will not abuse you, sir,” and had half a mind to pass on, when Oldesworth struggled up on his elbow. “Tell me one thing, Hugh,” he broke out as if against his will, “has Peregrine been taken?”

“No, sir, not here at Kingsford.”

Oldesworth sank down again with his head on his arm. “He ran away, then,” he said in a constrained voice. “He should have come in with the other squadron. We need not have been so cut to pieces had the whole troop been there. Lieutenant Ingram came in with me; he was killed at the breach. And Peregrine ran away.” He paused a moment, then spoke half to himself, “If I come free again I’ll strip him out of his commission for this.”

Hugh dropped on one knee beside his uncle. “I pray you, sir, take it not so to heart,” he urged, “mayhap ’twas not that he ran away—”

“Nay, I know Peregrine,” Captain Oldesworth answered. “I would ’twere he had turned Cavalier and you had stayed Roundhead; you’d not have slunk off to save your skin.” But next moment he spoke in his bitterest tone: “Nay, get you hence, lad. I don’t want your pity; I’d liefer have your hate.” Then he turned his face to the wall, still with his mouth hard set, and closed his eyes.

There was nothing more to be said, Hugh saw, so he came to his feet slowly, with a feeling that after all he was sorry for Oldesworth, in his pain and bitter humiliation, much though he had deserved it. He turned again to Ridydale and said under his breath: “Corporal, if you love me put on a less appalling face and use the gentleman more civilly. After all, he is my kinsman.”

Then he walked away to seek Von Holzberg, and, getting his permission to ride to Everscombe, routed out Saxon to make ready Bayard and two other horses, while he went in search of Frank, for whom he had a feeling of responsibility. Not finding him at first, he was a bit worried till, chancing to step into one of the deserted cottages, he came upon the lad, curled up snugly on a settle and fast asleep. He jumped to his feet in a hurry as Hugh’s hand was laid on his forehead, and after a first bewildered stare put on a great assumption of alertness and came stumbling out into the roadway. “You see, we were in the saddle all yesternight,” he found tongue to explain, as the two boys, with Saxon in their wake, rode out from Kingsford. “So perhaps ’tis no great blame I just shut my eyes a moment. But, Hugh, I’d take it kindly if you did not tell Dick I went to sleep for so little. And by no means let Captain Turner know.”

Hugh promised soberly, then, as they trotted along the highway, relapsed into heavy silence. But Frank still chattered on gayly, insisting on a rejoinder: “How does it seem to come home thus? Sure, you’re a dutiful lad to ride this distance to see your grandfather.”

Hugh blinked at Bayard’s erect ears, and told himself in dull fashion that while he was at Everscombe he would see Lois again and thank her, but he did not hold it necessary to speak it all to Frank.

A little patrol of horse guarded the park gate, but knowing Hugh they suffered him pass through with his companions. For all the roadway was cut with horse hoofs they ventured a brisk trot, and so came speedily out into the open, and following the track across the lawn drew up by the west wing. The rest of the house was silent, but here were stationed two sentinels of Turner’s troop, a wagon had just been brought lumbering to the door, and from within the long guardroom Strangwayes himself hailed them: “Get off your horse, and come in, Master Cornet. I’ve recovered my cuirass from the plunder of these crop-eared thieves, and I’m thinking I’ve lighted on your buff coat and sword.”

Sliding off his horse, Hugh strode briskly into the big room. At one side a long table had been hastily set forth, at which a squad of Turner’s men were making a nondescript meal, but the rest of the hall was littered with arms and accoutrements that the troopers were still fetching in noisily; they must have stripped the manor house of every warlike furnishing. “Yes, the work is near done, and we can be off,” Strangwayes said low to Hugh. “Sure, I’m not the man will be sorry. Did you know, my lad, there’s a harder thing than storming a town, and that’s to keep your troop from stealing the town after you’ve taken it? As ’tis a sort of family matter Captain Gwyeth is loath to have this house plundered, so we’ve done our best. But it’s well Leveson’s thieves have been used in clearing the stable; our own men have held the house, and they are the best and most obedient in the regiment. I’ve knocked down one or two of them, and put three under arrest, and promised a few floggings, but barring that they’ve been good as lambs and not stole from the house more than each man can hide in his pockets. Trust them? I’d trust my troop anywhere, that I had my eyes on it,” he concluded lugubriously. “But now I’m going to risk taking one eye off them and leave Griffith to see the spoils loaded in the wagons, while I tie up your hurts again.”

Accordingly, Strangwayes sent men running for water and bandages, and, putting Hugh on a bench against the wall, was dressing his head and arm, when Captain Gwyeth came in. Hugh caught sight of him as he paused an instant in the doorway, and at the changed expression of the man’s face a sudden fear struck him, for it came home to him that, though the captain forgave the son who had defied him, he might never forgive the son’s friend who had threatened to bar the door upon him. It was a new thought, and it checked Hugh’s first impulsive movement to rise to meet his father; instead he moved a bit nearer Dick. There was an instant’s dangerous silence, then Master Frank, nodding half-asleep at Hugh’s side, perceived Captain Gwyeth and ran to him. “Why, this is a lucky meeting,” he cried, leading the captain over to the bench. “And did I not tell you, sir, when once you were acquainted with Hugh, he was a right friendly, generous fellow for all his stubborn face?”

That made Dick turn and come to his feet, stiff and respectful. “Maybe ’twill please you look to Hugh’s hurt now, sir,” he said, with a slight bow.

“Nay, you’ve looked to his hurts before this, Lieutenant,” the captain said slowly. “You’ve the right to do so now.” He hesitated, then held out his hand, and Strangwayes took it.

Next moment Strangwayes was tying the bandage about Hugh’s arm again, while he talked briskly with Captain Gwyeth of the ill ride they had had from Tamworth, and the worse ride they were like to have back, to which the captain replied with a satisfied account of the good spoil of horses and arms they had made in compensation for those lost at the first overthrow of his troop. “So soon as the carts are laden, you are to quit the house, so Captain Turner bids,” Captain Gwyeth finished in an everyday tone. “We must be out of the village before sunset.”

Then as Strangwayes, ending his surgery, jumped to his feet to aid Griffith in superintending the loading, the captain turned to Hugh: “I bade you stay rest at the church, but since you’ve taken your way and come hither you can do me service.” He dropped his voice a little, though they were screened well enough under the racket of the men who were carrying forth the captured arms: “Get you to the east wing of the house, where the family have withdrawn, and, if you can, procure access to Master Oldesworth. He denied it unto me. Tell him from me that it is for the sake of his daughter and his daughter’s son that I have saved his house from utter spoil to-day. And tell him that I will use Tom Oldesworth better than he deserves, and exert my influence to have him speedily exchanged. That’s all.”

Hugh passed out through the confusion to the front of the house, where the carts were loading, and with a rather dubious foreboding crossed the terrace to the east wing. Within, the hall was cool and dark with long afternoon shadows; the din of the western quarter drifted hither only faintly, so his mind went back with a vaguely homesick feeling to the peaceful, humdrum days at Everscombe a year ago. It seemed like a bit of the old life to go to the door of the east parlor and knock and hear his grandfather’s voice bidding him enter.

But once inside, Hugh knew a year had passed since last he faced Master Oldesworth there. Not only did a glance at his own buff coat and high boots, his sword and bandaged arm recall the change, but he could see his grandfather bent a little in his chair, and his head looked whiter even than it had looked two days before. The old man was sitting by the window, but at Hugh’s step he turned toward him with a cold, angry face that made the boy hesitate at first; then taking courage he repeated his father’s message respectfully. Master Oldesworth’s face relaxed a little at the word of Captain Oldesworth, and at that Hugh ventured to add in his own behalf: “And, aside from my father’s message, sir, I wished to come hither and thank you that you used me so kindly the other day.”

“I would use you still better if your stiff-necked childishness did not prevent,” the old man answered sternly. “So you will yet refuse what I would offer and follow this man because he is your father?”

“Nay, ’tis not for that now, sir,” Hugh replied happily, “’tis because he saved my life yesterday, and he has made me his officer. ’Tis because I know him to be a valiant and a kindly gentleman, though his temper is hot. And I must go, too, because my friends all fight for the same cause as he.”

“So you will play your mother’s part over again,” Master Oldesworth said sharply, and gazed out at the window so long that Hugh made a motion to go, when the old man rose and bade him come to him. “You are set to go your own way, and ’tis a foolish way,” he began, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “’Twas her way, too. Yet spite of all I loved her best of all my daughters or yet of my sons. Well, well, Hugh, I would not say it the first time you went, but now if God can look on a man who fights in so unjust a cause I pray He may keep you uncorrupted and turn your heart aright while there is time. Now go your way.”

He turned to the window, and Hugh murmured that he thanked him from his heart and would strive never to shame him by his conduct.

Then he passed out into the hall again, and, with his mind on what had just been said, was stepping slowly to the door, when from the stairway he heard his name called. Before he faced about he knew it was his sharp-tongued Aunt Delia, but the sensitive boyish dread of her was all gone now. He turned back briskly to learn her bidding, and as he turned he perceived Lois Campion standing by her at the foot of the stairs. “’Tis well you have come back, Hugh Gwyeth,” Mistress Oldesworth began in a cutting voice that might have made Hugh wince, only he told himself that she was Peregrine’s mother, and Peregrine was a coward and a runaway; she had need of words to vent her bitter sorrow. “There is one here maybe has claim on you, if you still hold in remembrance this gentlewoman,” she went on, leading Lois forward. “She has remembered you so well that she has forgotten her duty to her kindred and to—”

“Let me go, aunt!” Lois cried in a smothered tone. She had brushed by Hugh and run out at the open door before he fully comprehended, and without a glance at Mistress Oldesworth he ran after.

Out under the elms of the east terrace he overtook Lois, and catching her hand made her stay. “What is it? What does it mean?” he urged.

“Nothing,” she answered, with her head erect and her cheeks blazing. “Only, I can never go under that woman’s roof again. Some things even a poor weak-spirited creature like a girl will not endure.”

“But if you cannot stay at Everscombe,” Hugh repeated blankly, but next moment he was half laughing. “Faith, Lois, the time has come now; you shall run away with me. Come, we’ll be off at once.”

The most of the troop had already ridden for Kingsford, Hugh perceived, as they came to the front of the house, but by the west door Dick and Frank, with Saxon and a trooper or two, still stayed for him. Hugh led Lois up to his two friends, a bit slowly, for the girl’s steps faltered shyly. “Dick,” he began, “this is Mistress Campion of whom I have told you. They have cast her out from Everscombe because she set me free from them yesterday, so ’tis in my mind to take her unto Tamworth.”

Dick’s expressive eyebrows went up, but before Hugh had time for resentment, or even comprehension, he had swung round on the trooper who waited at Black Boy’s head: “Off to the stable with you and fetch a pillion. Frank, use your impudence well and bring out a cloak for Mistress Campion from the house. ’Tis well thought on, Hugh, for surely all the regiment is indebted to the gentlewoman who aided you to bear that message. Say, by Mistress Campion’s leave, we convey her to my cousin, Mistress Cresswell, in Worcestershire?”

“Did I not tell you, Lois, that Dick was the best good fellow ever lived?” Hugh broke out.

“Pshaw!” said Strangwayes. “Get to your saddle, you one-armed warrior. You’ll have all you can do to manage Bayard, so I shall entreat Mistress Campion to ride behind me.”

In such order they went from Everscombe in the late afternoon, and, urging the horses a trifle, for Captain Turner and Captain Gwyeth had long since ridden forth, came into Kingsford as the sun was setting. Already the troops were falling into marching order in the road, and Strangwayes, only pausing to bid Hugh look that he did not go to sleep and pitch over his saddle-bow ere he reached Tamworth, trotted ahead to take his place in the rear of Turners men. At a word from him Frank followed at his side, but Lois, seated behind Dick, kept her face turned back to Hugh.

He watched till they passed in the rear of the troop down to the bridge of the Arrow, then drew Bayard back to the little band that represented Gwyeth’s men; the troopers were all in the saddle; behind them Leveson’s squads were getting to horse, and the graveyard was deserted. The slope of the hill and the church were red in the sunset but very peaceful now; Hugh looked to the church tower and saw no flag was flying. Then he heard a voice at his elbow: “The colors, sir.”

He looked down at Ridydale, stiff and soldierly, who saluted and passed him up the red and gold cornet of the troop.

“Can you manage the flag, Hugh?” spoke Captain Gwyeth, getting leisurely to horse beside him. “Leave it to the corporal if your arm—”

“Sure, sir, I can manage it very well indeed,” Hugh broke in, much alarmed; he braced the staff against his stirrup and, resting it in the crook of his elbow, gathered the reins into his sound hand.

“Nay, none shall take it from you, Cornet Gwyeth,” the captain laughed, and turned to the trumpeter to sound the order to march forward.

They rode slowly down the slope to the bridge. The water splashed beneath the archway, and the horses’ hoofs sounded hollow on the road; Hugh listened happily, while his thoughts sped back to the last time he had crossed the bridge, a friendless little runaway. On the thought he turned in his saddle and gazed back at the church that now showed black against the sunset sky. Did the mother who lay buried there, he wondered, know that at last he had found Alan Gwyeth? He faced slowly to the front again, and as he faced he met the captain’s eyes; there were no words between them, but each guessed something of the other’s thoughts. Hugh tightened his hold on Bayard’s bridle and drew close, so he rode knee to knee with his father.

“Picturesque in literary style, rich in local color, rising at times almost to tragic intentness, and bristling throughout with dramatic interest.”—The Record, Philadelphia.

"There is a wealth of historic detail which lends an interest to the story apart from the romantic love affair between Captain Jennico and the Princess Marie Ottilie of Lausitz. The hero’s great-uncle had been one of those lucky English adventurers whose Catholic religion and Jacobite leanings had debarred him from promotion at home, and who had found advancement in the service of Austria, and wealth with the hand of a Bohemian heiress. Such chances were not uncommon with ‘Soldiers of Fortune’ in the times of Queen Anne and the early Georges. At his uncle’s death, Captain Basil Jennico became the possessor of many millions (reckoned by the florins of that land), besides the great property of Tollendahl—fertile plains as well as wild forests, and of the isolated frowning castle of Tollendahl with its fathom-thick walls, its odd pictures of half-savage dead and gone Woschutzkis, its antique clumsy furniture, tapestries, trophies of chase and war. He became master, moreover, of endless tribes of dependents, heiducks and foresters; females of all ages whose bare feet in summer pattered oddly on the floors like the tread of animals, whose high boots in winter clattered perpetually on the stone flags of stairs and corridors; serf peasants, factors, overseers, the strangest mixture of races that can be imagined; Slovacks, Bohemians, Poles, to labor on the glebe; Saxons or Austrians to rule over them and cipher out rosters and returns; Magyars who condescended to manage his horse-flesh and watch over his safety if nothing else; the travelling bands of gypsies, ever changing, but never failing with the dance, the song and the music, which was as indispensable as salt to the life of that motley population.

“The story is largely historical, both German and English elements entering into it. The scene changes from the old castle of Tollendahl to an English country house and London club, always maintaining its old world flavor.”

“The tale is gracefully told, and owing partly to this fact and to the novelty of the setting given to Basil Jennico’s amazing experience, it gains for itself a place apart.... It is an artistic production and it is original.”—The York Tribune.

“One of the newest and best novels of the decade.”—The Budget (Boston).

“No such piece of inimitable comedy, in a literary way, has appeared for years.”—The Inter-Ocean (Chicago).

“This work, for any one of several solid reasons, must be regarded as of very unusual interest. In the matter of style alone, it is an achievement, an extraordinary achievement ...; in the matter of interpreting nature there are passages in this book that I have never seen surpassed in prose fiction.”

“The plot is boldly conceived and strongly sustained; the characters are vigorously drawn and are thrown into striking contrast.... It leads the reader far from the dusty highway; it is touched with the penetrating power of the imagination; it has human interest and idyllic loveliness.”—Book Reviews.

“A series of adventures as original as they are romantic.... ‘The Forest Lovers’ is a piece of ancient arras; a thing mysteriously beautiful, a book that is real and at the same time radiant with poetry and art. ‘The Forest Lovers’ will be read with admiration and preserved with something more than respect.”

“A story compounded of many kinds of beauty. It has, to begin with, enchanting beauty of background; or rather, it moves through a beautiful world, the play of whose light upon it is subtle, beguiling, and magical.”