J. S. Fletcher

Of my Reconciliation with Sir Nicholas, of his Last Wish, and of his Death and Our own Sore Straits.

I.

About eight o’clock on that, the second night of our investments, I sat eating my supper in the parlour, all my men being at their posts, and everything appearing of a satisfying nature. I had carefully watched the stable door during the evening, and had observed that when the darkness was fairly settled down there came out a man leading a horse which he mounted at the fold-gate. I made no doubt that this was Merciful Wiggleskirk, and that he was riding for Pomfret on a double mission. Although I recognised him for one of them that make a trade of canting hypocrisy I had reason to believe that he would deliver the despatch to Fairfax. That, then, was one errand; the other, I took to be the seeking of reinforcement for Anthony Dacre and his party. But in good sooth, it troubled me not at all that there was a prospect of our being attacked in greater force, for I had all along seen that if the enemy chose to invest us seriously we must ultimately give way to him. It had been my hope that Anthony would fail to find further help from Fairfax, or that he would think it dangerous to his own plans to seek it. Indeed, I was not without hope that the morning might find us with naught but Anthony and his own rascals to deal with, for it seemed to me more than likely that if Fairfax made enquiry in the matter of Merciful Wiggleskirk, he would withdraw him and the other trooper from Anthony’s service. But whether he did or not was all one to me, for however things turned I was in a corner, and saw no way of getting out of it.

As I drained the last dregs of ale from my tankard there came to my side the lad Walter, that had run about the house on one errand or another since the siege began, and whom but a moment before I had sent up to John Stirk with a message. He seemed in haste, and there was that in his face which made me start to my feet. “’Tis Mistress French,” says he; “she wishes to see you at Sir Nicholas’s chamber-door—I heard her say something to Barbara about his dying,” he says, staring at me.

“Say naught to the other men,” says I, and started for the stairs. I passed Peter and Benjamin at the garden window. “Keep a good watch, lads,” I says. “They may attempt something under cover of the night,” and I turned from them to see my cousin advancing to meet me. There was no lamp in the corridor, but she held a candle in her hand, and by its dim light I saw that her face was anxious and that she had been weeping. “You sent for me, cousin?” says I, and for the first time since I had entered the house I took her hand in mine. “I hope my uncle is no worse,” I says. “May I not see him?”

“He has been asking for you,” she says. “I think—nay, I am sure—that he is dying. He has been very quiet this long time, and has said but little. And his mind, somehow, seems so much clearer than it has been for some days—it frightens me to see how calm he is.”

“Why,” says I, wishful to comfort her, “do not lose heart, cousin, for it may be that he is somewhat better. But let me into his chamber since he has asked for me.”

She opened the door and motioned me to step within. There was no more light in the room than came from the logs burning in the hearth, but I saw that Barbara sat by the bedside, and that my uncle lay between the sheets very straight and still. “Here’s Master Richard come to see you, Sir Nicholas,” says Barbara, and got out of her chair with a sign to me to take it. “A’s failing fast,” she whispers, as I drew near the bed; “but a’s bent on seeing thee, Master Dick.”

I took the chair and leaned over towards my uncle’s face. “I hope I find you somewhat recovered, dear sir,” says I, feeling, as I think most men feel at such moments, very strange and ignorant of what to do or say. “Your pain, now—I trust ’tis abated since——”

“Is it Dick?” says he, opening his eyes and trying to turn his head on the pillow.

“Yes, sir,” says I.

“Ah!” says he, very slow and feeble in his speech. “I hear great news of thee. We are withstanding a siege, it appears. I could wish to give thee some advice as to what should be done, nephew.”

“I shall receive it gladly and with much respect, sir,” says I, “if it be not too much trouble for you to speak with me on these matters.”

“No trouble,” says he, “no trouble, nephew—in these times we must lay aside personal——”

But here Mistress Alison steps up to the other side of the bed and lays her hand on his. “Dear sir,” says she, very gentle and pitiful—faith! I could not have thought she was the same woman that had treated me to more than one sharp speech—“you will do yourself harm to talk so much. If you will but rest——”

“Pish!” says he, in his old peevish fashion. “Let me be, wench. Dick and me has matters to talk of. Hark ye, Alison, leave us to ourselves awhile—you women are for ever in the way when there is business of importance to discuss. See them out of the chamber, nephew, and come back to thy seat.”

I looked questioningly at Mistress Alison across the bed. She put the tip of her finger to her lips and nodded towards the door. As I held it open for her, “I shall remain just without,” she whispers. “If he seems worse, Master Richard, call me at once.” “Depend upon me,” says I, and shut the door on her and Barbara, and went back to the bedside. My uncle had managed to turn his head on the pillow and he stared hard at me as I approached. “Sit thee down, nephew,” says he. “’Tis poor work talking of serious matters when women are about. And how goes the siege, Dick—shall we withstand the enemy?”

“Why, sir,” says I, “I see no reason why we should not. I have taken care that all our defences are strengthened and that everything is in proper order.”

“Aye,” he says, “aye. Alison has told me as much—she praised thy generalship. I could like,” he says, “to know how all this came about. What led to it, nephew?—these women, they have no talent for telling a straight tale.”

“Why, sir,” says I, “there’s little to tell”—but I began and told him how I had chanced to come into possession of Anthony Dacre’s plot, and of what had befallen us since then. He lay there, very quiet, listening to what I had to say, and making no more comment than an occasional curse on Anthony for his villainy. And when I had finished, “Thou hast done very well, nephew,” says he. “’Twas well thought of to warn us of our danger. So thou didst join the rebels, eh?” he says with a straight look at me.

“Yes, sir,” says I. “Since my duty seemed to need it—though, indeed, I was sorry to do aught that was against your wishes,” I says, looking straight back at him.

“Well, well,” says he. “I must not reproach thee now, Dick; and, besides, I have known some good men that have thought as thou thinkest on these matters. But I wish thou hadst been plain with me—there was something of the lawyer in thy manner of departing, nephew,” he says, favouring me with another keen look.

“Why, dear sir,” says I, very loth, as you may conceive, to excite or vex him, “it was for your own sake that I so behaved myself. And besides,” I says, “you would have locked me up if I had dared to proclaim myself.”

“Swounds!” says he, with a spark of the old fire in him, “and so I would, egad! Well, well, ’tis too late now to kick sleeping dogs, and I’m pleased with thee, Dick, for thy recent conduct. The lass Alison seems mighty taken with thee.”

“I was afraid,” says I, “that Mistress Alison looked on me as a renegade, and could ill abide my presence.”

“Pish!” says he, “’tis a woman’s way. I’ll not deny,” he says, “that she has had no liking for thee, because the wench is all for His Majesty, and we love not to have a renegade in the family, nephew Dick. But thy conduct of the last day or two,” he says, “has changed her thoughts of thee, an I mistake not. There is a cordial by thee, lad; give me a drink—I grow somewhat faint.”

“Dear sir,” says I, “I am sure that it is not good for you to talk. Let me go away, and do you compose yourself to sleep.”

“Faith!” says he, making a wry face as he drank the cordial, “I shall have sleep enough enow, nephew. Let me talk while I can. What thinkest thou of thy cousin, Dick?” he says, giving me a sharp glance.

“Why, sir,” says I, “I think she is the handsomest woman I ever saw.”

“Ha!” says he. “Thou thinkest so, eh? I have left her all I have,” he says, still keeping his eyes on mine. “Every acre and every penny,” says he.

“I am unfeignedly glad to hear it, sir,” says I, “for I am sure she deserves it.”

“It would ha’ been thine,” he says, “if thou hadst behaved thyself.”

“One must pay for misbehaviour, sir,” says I.

“I am not sure,” says he, plucking at the bedclothes, “that I should not alter matters if there were a chance.”

“Pray you, sir,” says I, “don’t think of such a thing. I am very well provided for,” I says. And so I was, seeing that I was pretty sure to be either shot or hanged within the next few days.

“Well, well,” says he. “But things will turn out well. I wish thee to marry Alison, nephew Dick.”

“Sir!” says I.

“Swounds!” says he. “Thou art not already married?”

“No, dear sir,” says I.

“Then there is no need for astonishment,” says he. “And, egad, she is as proper a wench——”

“Sir,” says I. “She is the handsomest woman that ever I saw, but I fear she is beyond me. And besides,” I says, “I don’t think she likes me.”

“Pish!” says he. “Thou art but a lad, and therefore knowest naught of women. There is but one way of wooing, and that is to be masterful. Let ’em see that you’re master,” he says, with a chuckle that came very feeble, “and they’re won.”

“Faith!” thinks I. “If that’s so I must ha’ won my fair cousin already, for I have been masterful enough with her, in all conscience! I will bear your advice in mind, sir,” I says aloud.

“I would like to see it,” he says, as if to himself. “But my days are numbered, nephew. Howbeit, if I die before this trouble comes to an end, I trust to thee to see thy cousin in safety.”

“Sir,” says I. “I will defend her to the best of my power. Trust me for that,” I says, laying my hand on his own, which was very cold and white.

“Well,” says he, “that’s a comforting thought to me, Dick, for the lass has served my old age with much diligence and kindliness, though, egad,” he says, “she has the devil’s own temper, an you stroke her the wrong way. But there’s a thing that I want to say to thee, Dick—bend down to me—ye may both be in need of money ere long, for things wear a troubled complexion. Hark ye, lad, there is gold and jewels hidden away under the hearthstone of the room where my dry herbs are kept. Use them as you think fit,” he says, “there may be occasion to carry them about your person—there’s more families than one homeless at this time, and nobody knows what may happen.”

“Have no fear, sir,” says I.

“Swounds!” says he. “What’s the good o’t? A dying man hath neither fears nor hopes, nephew. And faith, I think I have maybe talked too much; call in the women, Dick,—Alison is the rarest nurse.”

So I hastened to the door for my cousin and Barbara, and bade them enter. Sir Nicholas turned his head to me again. “See to thy defences, lad,” says he. “Egad, I wish I could be with thee!” But there his face turned very white, and the women ran to him, so I softly closed the door and went off to see to my men.

II.

I was in some expectation during the rest of the night that a reinforcement of the besiegers might after all take place, and that we should be severely assaulted under cover of the darkness. The hours went by, however, without anything of this sort happening, and as it wore towards early morning I made up my mind that the night was to be utterly peaceful. We had kept such observation as we could upon the enemy, and it was my firm conviction that some of them at least had escaped from the stable during the night and withdrawn to more comfortable quarters. But since we had no assurance that an assault might not be made upon us at any moment, I kept the men to their posts, and myself patrolled the house ceaselessly, only pausing now and then to call at my uncle’s chamber-door and enquire for his health. About three o’clock in the morning as I stood at the head of the great staircase resting myself a brief moment, old Barbara came out of the kitchen and called my name softly. “What is it?” says I, going down to her in the darkness, which we preserved strictly, lest the besiegers should have any profit of our lamps and candles. “Is there aught afoot, Barbara?”

She beckoned me within the kitchen. “Master Dick,” says she, pointing to the door that stood open ’twixt us and the scullery, “there is the curiousest tapping noise on the little window by the horse trough. Tap-tap-tap, tap, tap, it goes,” she says. “I ha’ listened to it this ten minutes. It must be a sign, Master Dick,” she says fearfully. “To be sure, the blind in your poor uncle’s chamber fell this afternoon, but signs may come more than one at a time, eh, Master Dick? Hark you—why, ’tis there again.”

I stepped lightly towards the scullery door and heard the sound she spoke of. “Sign or no sign,” says I, “I’ll see what it is, Barbara,” and I stepped within. But the thought occurring to me that this might signify some message from Merciful Wiggleskirk I turned and closed the door. “Best not let in any light from the kitchen,” says I, “lest the enemy see it.” So I left Barbara there and went to the little window alone. After a time the tapping came again. Whereupon, keeping under cover of the wall, I put out my finger and tapped lightly in response. An answering knock coming from without, I undid the bolt and spoke. “Who’s there?” says I. But lest it should be some trick of the enemy I kept closely behind the wall, for I had no mind to show my face at the window and receive a bullet in eyes or mouth.

However, as I had conjectured, it was Merciful Wiggleskirk that stood without “’Tis I, master,” says he, “and I have tapped and tapped this half-hour. I do naught by halves,” he says, “and I could not ha’ rested until I had told you how I sped with my mission.”

“I am beholden to you,” says I. “You delivered the despatch in safety?”

“It is in the hands of Fairfax himself, master,” says he. “Great news or small, he knoweth every jot and tittle on’t.”

“That’s well,” says I, much relieved. “I thank you, Master Wiggleskirk.”

“Why,” says he, “I need naught of that sort, master, for you paid me excellent well. But I am new come from the camp, and since you are one of us——”

“What does that mean?” I says.

“I heard that you were of the true political creed,” says he. “Faith, how could you be aught else, seeing that you carried a despatch from Cromwell?”

“I perceive your meaning,” says I. “Go on, pray.”

“Why,” he says, dropping his voice to a whisper, “as you are one of us I thought it well to tell you that ere sunrise there will be a troop here to reduce this place to submission. I was accompanied to camp,” he says, “by Master Dacre, who seems to have ingratiated himself with Colonel Sands, and now you are to be closely invested and reduced. And, hark ye, Master Coope,” he says, “if I were you I would——”

What more he would have said was lost to me, for at that moment Anthony Dacre’s voice called across the fold. “What the murrain, Wiggleskirk! does it take an hour to water thy beast?” says he, and we heard his steps on the frosted straw as he came towards us. I shut the window and the trooper moved away. I caught sight of his figure and of Anthony Dacre’s outlined against the darkness beyond, and for a moment was tempted to see whether a bullet from my pistol could not pick out the right man. But on second thoughts I refrained, and went back to the kitchen and thence to the upper storey to resume my patrol, encourage my men, make enquiry after Sir Nicholas, and wait for daybreak.

Now, when daybreak came there was ample proof that Merciful Wiggleskirk’s recent statement had been based on truth. The house was surrounded by troopers, who rode hither and thither as if to take observation of their position. There was an officer with them who plainly assumed command—as for Anthony Dacre I saw naught of him nor of his gang. I went round the posts which I had already established and exhorted my men to be brave and vigilant. The lads Peter and Benjamin were somewhat concerned because of the array now set before them, and so instead of leaving them together I made Peter exchange places with Humphrey Stirk, thinking that one tried man and a lad together was better than two untried lads. Gregory and Jasper I found unconcerned and ready—they had more faith in our defences, I think, than I had.

Having assured myself that all was in order for the struggle which I now saw we must quickly engage in, I went to Sir Nicholas’s chamber to see how he did. He was by that time sinking fast, having undergone a great change at cockcrow. Alison and Barbara were in close attendance upon him, and as there was naught that needed my immediate attention outside I prepared to stay with them for a little while. But then came John Stirk knocking at the door and asking if I were within. I joined him in the corridor on the instant. “The officer,” says he, pointing to the window overlooking the garden. “He is without there, flying a flag, and demanding to speak with you, Master Coope.”

“Did he ask for me by name?” says I, mightily surprised. “He must have meant Sir Nicholas.”

“He said Master Richard Coope,” says John. “There’s a fine lot of ’em without,” he says, as we went towards the garden window, and, faith, he was right there, as I saw when I looked out. Whether it was that he wished to make a brave show and frighten us into resistance, I cannot say, but he had drawn up all his men in the garden, where their horses’ feet made sad havoc with my uncle’s trim lawns. The officer himself sat his horse a little in advance of the rest, and when I appeared at the window was giving some order to a man who stood at his side bearing a white flag.

I opened the window and leaned out. “You have asked for Richard Coope, sir,” says I, looking down at the officer. “What is it that you wish with me?”

“You are Master Richard Coope?” says he, looking at me with some curiosity.

“The same,” says I.

“I would like to hold parley with you, Master Coope,” says he. “I am Captain Holdsworth, and am charged with your arrest, and with that of Sir Nicholas Coope and his niece, Mistress Alison French. Do you purpose to submit yourselves to me?” says he, as polite as if he asked me whether I preferred white bread to brown. “Or shall we be under the necessity of using force?” he says, first cocking his eye at the brave show of thirty odd troopers behind him, and then glancing at me with an arch expression.

“Why, sir,” says I, “I fear you will be under the necessity you speak of, for we have no mind to submit ourselves to you. Why should we?” I says, giving him back a smile as gracious as his own.

“This is Fairfax’s own hand,” says he, producing a paper, and pointing to some writing in the corner.

“I am so far away from it that I do not recognise it, sir,” says I.

He put the paper within his doublet. “Can we not talk matters over, Master Coope?” says he.

“With all the pleasure in the world, sir,” says I. “That is,” I says, “if you love to discuss matters in so public a fashion.”

He looked round him. “But I don’t,” he says. “Come, Master Coope, we are gentlemen and can trust each other. I will dismiss my men to a distance and you shall come down and talk with me—or I will enter the house and talk with you. I am quite indifferent,” he says.

“Why, sir,” says I, “’tis, I assure you, no easy matter for me to leave the house or for you to enter it. But if you will dismiss your forces, or give me your word of honour that you will not suffer them to molest or hinder me, I will come into the garden and talk with you right willingly.”

“I will do both, Master Coope,” says he. And therewith he turned and dismissed his men, bidding them retire into the meadow that lay beyond the garden. “You have safe conduct out and in,” he says, looking at me. “I await your coming with eagerness, Master Coope.”

As I passed my uncle’s door Alison came out of his room and laid a hand on my arm. “Barbara tells me you are going to hold parley with the enemy,” she says. “You will have no dealings with him in the way of surrender?” she says, looking at me very hard.

“Surrender?” says I, smiling. “Come, cousin, what do you take me for?”

“I have better thoughts of you than that,” says she. She turned and looked at the door that separated us from Sir Nicholas. “He is near the end,” she says sadly. “Let him die a free man, Richard, even if the old house is tumbling about his death-bed.”

“Give me your hand on it, cousin,” says I, strangely moved. She put her hand in mine and looked into my eyes. “I trust you,” she says, and withdrew her hand, and went back into Sir Nicholas’s chamber.

I called John Stirk to me as I ran down the stairs, and with his aid I moved sufficient of the barricade that secured the window in the herb-room to enable me to get out. “Wait there with your musket until my safe return, John,” says I, and hurried round the corner of the house into the flower-garden. The officer waited me there, leaning against his horse. “So we are to talk, sir,” says I, coming up to him.

“And I am glad of the chance, Master Coope,” says he, frankly. “This is a strange business, and to tell you the truth, though I must and shall do my duty as a soldier. I am loth to be mixed up in it.”

“Sir,” says I, “I am utterly at a loss to understand you.”

“Are you so?” says he. “Look you, Master Coope, how would you explain such things as these? Three days ago, Fairfax issues his warrant for the attachment of Sir Nicholas, your uncle, who has been mighty active of late in vexing and annoying the Parliamentarian forces now investing Pomfret Castle. In order that the thing may be done with as little violence as possible to the old knight’s feelings, he entrusts the warrant to your kinsman, Master Dacre, who on coming to the house, finds it already prepared to withstand a siege. Now within twenty-four hours of his sitting down before it——”

“Or skulking in the stable,” says I, “but I interrupt you, sir,” I says. “Pray proceed.”

“Within twenty-four hours of its investment,” he says, “you secretly hand a most important despatch to one of his troopers, bidding him——”

“Bribing him,” says I.

“Why, of course,” says he, laughing, “but at any rate, he was to carry it to Fairfax. And so he does, and it proves to be a despatch from Cromwell, of great moment. And so, naturally, Fairfax wants to know how you, the bearer, came to be in the house of a Royalist when you should have been making all speed to him with the despatch—and since he wants to know, he will know, and that, Master Coope,” he says, “is why I’m here.”

“Sir,” says I, “if I tell you the exact facts of the case, will you make Fairfax immediately acquainted with them? For I can assure you they are somewhat different to the representations made to him by that fox, Anthony Dacre,” I says, looking hard at him.“I will indeed fulfill your wish,” he says. “Faith, I thought there must be some other aspect of the case.”

“You shall see the true one,” I says, and I told him of all that had chanced since I came to the top of the road at Barnsdale. He listened attentively. “And a much more likely story than t’other!” says he, when I had finished. “I will repeat it to a trusty messenger and send him on to Fairfax at once. But, Master Coope,” says he, “why not submit yourselves and go with me to Fairfax? Tell him your tale with your own lips,” he says.

“Why, sir,” says I, “personally, I have no objection to going before Fairfax. But within the house, my uncle lies dying, and my cousin is at his bedside, and neither will yield to you except by force. And while they’re there,” says I, “there I shall stay.”

“Then our negotiations must fall through,” says he, regretfully. “Is there no chance, Master Coope—for look you, I must do my duty—Fairfax and Sands are stern men, and I am jealously watched.”

“Sir,” I says, “there is no help for it—we must each do our duty in our own fashion. Your bullets,” I says, with a glance at the old walls, “will find something to resist them.”

“Well,” says he, “’tis a pity, Master Coope, but—at least let us shake hands ere we fight,” he says, and held out his own.

“With all the pleasure in the world,” says I.

“We shall meet again, I think,” he says—and so I left him and hastened to rejoin John Stirk and make good the window.

As we were now to engage in operations to which those that we had already gone through were as child’s play, I thought it well to call all my men together and give them some inkling of what was about to take place. I had no doubt that Captain Holdsworth and his troopers would presently attack us with much persistence, but as my sentinels were already posted to the best advantage, and as we should mainly have to depend upon the strength of the old house itself and of the barricades that we had constructed, I reflected that a few moments given over to friendly consideration of our position would not be spent amiss. I therefore sent John Stirk to collect our forces, who presently met me in the great hall, each man bearing his weapon, and evidently agog with excited interest as to the result of my parley with the enemy.

“Now, lads,” says I, facing them, “we are at last in for some hot work. I have parleyed with the leader of the troops outside, and found him as reasonable a gentleman as ever bestrode a horse, but as firm in his notions of duty as I trust you and I are. He has to do his duty, which is to arrest Sir Nicholas, Mistress French, and myself. We have to do ours, and what that is,” I says, looking quickly from one face to another, “what that is, lads, you all know. So there’s naught for it but for him to attack, and for us to defend. But, lads, since we are all of us volunteers in this matter, so to speak, tell me whether I have done the right thing in refusing to submit? Have I done what my uncle would have done had he been elsewhere than on his death-bed? And have I done what’s good to all of you? Speak, lads.”

“’Tis what Sir Nicholas had done, and it is good to me,” says Gregory, grounding his musket with a bang.

“So say I,” says Jasper.

The three lads said naught, being of a shy disposition, but they nodded their heads and handled their guns, and looked from one to the other of us. John and Humphrey said “Yes—’tis good,” in one breath. But so that we might all know what we were after, I spoke again.

“Now, lads,” says I, “let’s understand matters fairly. We may all very soon be shot or slain in some other way—is there any of you that would like to make his escape while there’s a chance? If there is, let him speak.” I looked at the lad Walter who was youngest of all of us. “What say you, lad?” says I. “Come, speak out—we shall not think the less of thee if thou wouldst like to be free of this business.”

But the lad shook his head, and flushed as red as a peony. “I’m for biding where I am, Master Dick,” says he. “And me, too,” says Peter, “and me,” say Benjamin.

“Why,” says I, “I think we’re all of a mind. So now to our posts, lads, and let’s do our best. They will not break through our defences so easily, and we have the advantage of safe cover.”

And there I was right, and events quickly proved it. When we reached the upper storey, and I could keep an eye on the operations of the enemy, I perceived that Captain Holdsworth was putting his men at various points around the house, with the view of covering those of our positions which previous incidents had made Anthony Dacre already acquainted with. Thus he had placed a squad in the stable, and they were now engaged in piercing the wall at intervals from the inside; several men were in the summer-house across the garden, while others occupied the barn, and commanded the window on the right hand side of the courtyard. I made note of all these preparations, and bade my men observe them with care, but directed that no shot should be fired until the enemy actually came to the attack. I was somewhat curious to see in what mode they would do this, and felt that it would repay us to save our powder and ball until we knew just what was going to be done.

About half-past nine o’clock I perceived that we were about to enter upon the struggle. Some twenty-five troopers were arrayed at our front, finding such cover as they could in the summer-house, behind the wall, and in the rear of the trees. Captain Holdsworth, who had dismounted, was going hither and thither, but it was also evident that something was developing close to the house wall, which we, from our position in the upper windows were unable to see. “We must know what’s going on,” says I, “but how to do it I can’t think.” And, indeed, the thing was difficult, for all the windows on the ground floor were barricaded and strengthened, so that it was impossible to see out of any of them. “What of the garret windows?” thinks I. “I may get a peep from one of them without being seen,” and on the instant I ran up the stair and into a little place immediately above the garden door. I opened the casement, and pushed out head and shoulders, and as I did so I heard the report of a musket below, and felt a sudden sharp pain as if a hot needle had been laid against the skin of my forehead. I withdrew my head instantly, and as I did so another half-dozen of bullets came rattling about the window. “Too late, my masters!” says I and ran, laughing, down the stairs, satisfied with my endeavour. For in the rapid glance that I had taken of the garden below I had seen and comprehended what they were after. From the stackyard beyond the barn they had brought one of the great pieces of timber on which the foundations of a hayrick was laid, and a half-score of stalwart fellows were getting it into position, so that they might batter the door in. As I came to John Stirk’s post again we heard the first blow, and felt the old walls shake with its force. “Let them batter,” says I, and wiped away the blood that ran down my nose from the scratch on my forehead. “They will want a stout ram to break through our barricade,” says I, and I picked up my musket and prepared for action.

As our defences seemed to be most needed at the front of the house, I sent the lad Walter to fetch Humphrey Stirk from his post overlooking the fold, and Gregory from the courtyard window. There were now five of us in the corridor, and to each man I assigned a window, bidding all to shoot straight, and keep under cover as closely as was possible. “And since we’re all ready,” says I, raising my voice, and presenting my piece, “pick your man, lads, and let them have it.” And therewith, keeping behind the wall as well as I could, I knocked out a pane of glass, and took aim at Holdsworth, who was directing operations, partly covered by a tree. The others fired at the same time, and almost on the instant there came back a volley from the enemy, and the garden, from the high wall to our windows was filled with smoke that hung heavy in the damp air. And after that there was no need for us to knock out more panes of glass when we wished to point our muskets, for with the first fusilade the enemy shattered our windows to pieces, and the corridor was strewn with splinters of wood and glass, and fragments of the plaster that came tumbling from the wall behind us.

It was on this scene that Mistress Alison’s eyes fell when she suddenly opened the door of my uncle’s chamber, and came hurriedly towards me. “Back, cousin!” says I, rushing to meet her. “Your life——” But she came on, holding out her hands to me. “Quick!” she says. “Oh, be quick, cousin!” And then I knew what she meant, and threw aside my musket, and with a hasty cry to my men to stand to their posts I took her hand and hastened with her into Sir Nicholas’s room.

Faith! in the days that came afterwards I have often thought, always with a deal of softness, of the good old knight’s death-bed. He lay there, very straight and calm, with me on one side of him, and Alison on t’other, and poor old Barbara, weeping and bemoaning him, at his feet, and thanks to the stout door and the heavy curtain the chamber seemed peaceful, and yet through all its peacefulness there came the thump, thump, thump, of the battering ram and the crash and rattle of the musketry. When I first approached him I think he knew naught, but presently a fiercer discharge, that seemed like to bring the old house tumbling about our ears, called him back to life, and he opened his eyes, and looked at me.

“Ah!” says he, very feeble and low in voice. “So we are at it, Dick?” There was a sudden flash of fire in his old eyes, and a blot of colour showed itself on his cheek, that had grown thin and pale. He looked at Alison, and from her to me again. Another fierce rattle of musketry came from without, and one bullet, glancing from the casement in the corridor, struck and buried itself in the door of the chamber. My uncle made some faint show of raising himself in his bed. “To thy post, Dick!” says he, and suddenly drops back on his pillow, and died as quietly as a child goes to sleep.

“’Tis over, cousin,” I whispers across the bed. Alison looked from his face to mine, and I saw that the girl had a rare faculty of keeping her feelings in control. “Leave us now, cousin,” she says. But since that might be the last chance that I should ever have of seeing my uncle again, I took another look at him and laid my hand on his. Then I turned to the door, and passed from the quietness of the death-chamber into the hell that raged without.

The corridor was thick with smoke: my feet kicked against the splintered wood and glass, or stumbled over the heaps of plaster that were being rapidly piled up along the floor. Faith, the enemy were making hot work of it! But my men were unhurt, save that John Stirk had been struck in the side by a half-spent bullet, and that Peter’s face was scratched by a shower of falling glass. “Stand to your posts!” I cried to them, and ran downstairs to see how the garden door had withstood its battering. I found it safe as a rock—what it might have suffered without I know not, but within, its heavy bolts and bars, supported by the mass of furniture that we had piled against it, still held the thick oaken frame sound, and I felt assured that naught less than a cannonade would break through it.

While I stood in the hall, examining our defences, there came the thump, thump of the battering-ram from the other door leading to the courtyard. I laughed when I heard it, for the enemy might as well have tried to break in through a twelve-foot wall as through the barricade which he was now attempting. The door opened into a porch, and the porch was filled with heavy flagstones that we had hastily torn up from the scullery and pantry floor, and disposed in such a fashion that the whole formed a tight wedge between the door itself and the stout wall facing it on the inside. But secure as I felt about the door, I was not so sure of our ability to direct a smart fire upon the men engaged in battering it. I hastened to the window on the right hand side of the courtyard, and found that Holdsworth’s troopers, stationed in the barn, were keeping up such a fusilade upon us as rendered it impossible for my men to do more than get an occasional shot from a sharp angle of the casement. I accordingly withdrew them to the window on the other side, and from this point we did considerable execution, until Holdsworth brought up a number of men behind the low wall of the orchard that ran between the gable end of the house and the village street, and there directing their fire upon us, we were compelled to retreat to safer cover. However, the door remained as impregnable as that leading into the front garden, and presently the men drew off and there was an interval of peace, after which the fight was continued by the interchange of occasional shots on either side, both of us keeping a sharp lookout, and discharging our pieces whenever besieged or besiegers drew out of cover. And as we were in a much better position than they, we succeeded in effecting much damage amongst them at no cost to ourselves.

About the middle of the afternoon Captain Holdsworth himself was shot dead by Humphrey Stirk as he incautiously made across the garden, where he was evidently going to give orders to the men posted in the summer house. I was sorry to hear this news, for he had parleyed with me in the frankest manner, and had shown some solicitude for our position, but, after all, ’twas the fortune of war, and might have been my own fate, or Humphrey’s. However, there was no doubt that it made matters still more difficult for me, in one respect—if we managed to escape with our lives and fell into Fairfax’s hands, he would not deal any the more mercifully with me because one of his officers met his death in the effort to apprehend me.

We continued to exchange shots with the enemy until night fell, when a cessation of hostilities took place, save for an occasional fusilade when either side showed a light. That was a sad night, for everybody in the house knew that Sir Nicholas lay dead in our midst, and there was none that did not mourn him with much sincerity. As for me I was sore concerned as to what was to come, for I felt sure that Fairfax would eventually reduce us to submission, and the thought of what might then chance to Alison made me anxious. But here again I was somewhat helped by that curious fellow, Merciful Wiggleskirk, who came tapping in the darkness at the little window pane in the scullery, and bade Walter fetch me to him.

“You here again?” says I. “What is it, friend?”

“Master Coope,” says he, “you paid me nobly, and I’ll give you a hint. If you can get out o’ the house,” he says, “do so on the instant. Captain Blackburn is coming in the early morning with more men, and they are bringing cannon with them. Make your way out o’ the house during the night, Master Coope.”

He ran off across the fold, and I shut the window and stood musing in the dark scullery. If they were bringing cannon against us it was all over. “We shall have the old house heaped in ruins over us ere noon!” I says. But since I was not yet weary of life, I sought my cousin, intending to take counsel with her as to our next step.