J. S. Fletcher

Of our Adventures under the Bridge and the Privations we there Endured, and of my Interview with Fairfax and its Sad Results.

I.

The meadows were half under water: the Carleton Dyke had overflowed its banks, and ere we had well dipped into the low fields, our feet were sinking at every step into the marshy ground, or splashing loudly into some pool that stared at us in the faint light. ’Twas bad going, i’ faith, but neither of us paid much heed to it, our minds being set on gaining the road beyond. But when we came to the Dyke itself, which we were bound to cross, we found ourselves in a pretty position, for it had widened a good six yards, and there was no means of crossing it nearer than the ford, which was too near Hardwick village for my liking or our safety. “There’s only one way,” says I, “I must carry you over, cousin, otherwise you will not get across dryshod.”

“I have not been dryshod since we came into these meadows,” says she, “and methinks you’ll have no easy task in carrying me across there.”

“Why,” says I, “I don’t look for ease in adventures of this sort,” and I stepped into the Dyke and took her from the bank into my arms. “Faith!” says I, “I had no idea that you were so heavy, cousin. ’Tis well that I have but a half-score of yards to carry you.”

“Set me down!” says she, trying to slip out of my grasp. “I had rather be drowned——”

But what else she meant to say was lost to me, for at that moment there rang out a musket shot that had been fired somewhere in the fields over which we had already passed, and ere the sound died away, it was followed by another discharge.

“They cannot have discovered our flight!” says I, and pushed on through the water to set her down on dryer ground. “Now, cousin,” I says, taking her hand, “we must run for it. There’s so little shelter in these meadows that they can see us at fifty yards’ distance, but if we can make the road, we can hide behind the trees under Went Hill, if they follow us. And so run, cousin,” I says, “run, if you’ve no mind to fall into their hands.”

Now there was then but one field ’twixt us and the road, and that not a very wide one, but they had been stubbing trees in it that autumn, and as ill-luck would have it, I ran in my haste upon a root that had been left half-out of the ground, and so twisted my ankle that I fell, groaning with pain. “I believe my leg’s broke,” says I, when I could speak. “Egad, cousin, was ever aught so unlucky! And what shall we do now?”

“First find out where you are hurt,” says she, and kneels down by me in the wet grass. “Try to move your leg,” she says. “’Tis not broke, I think—you must have twisted your foot, cousin.”

“I am stopped,” says I, pulling myself up and trying to walk. “I am not good for twenty yards,” and I took her arm and endeavoured to step out, with no more effect than to make me cry out with the pain. “And hark ye there, cousin! We’re followed.” I heard the sound of voices beyond the Dyke. “We are undone!” says I, cursing our ill-fate to myself. “They will be upon us in a few moments.”

She stood supporting me and looking about her as if she sought for some means of escape. Suddenly she clutched my arm. “If you could contrive to get forward to the top of the field,” she says, “we might hide under the bridge for awhile. Nobody would think of looking for us there.”

“Egad!” says I. “The very notion—naught could serve our need better.” But when I tried to walk I found that I was crippled as surely as old Matthew that goes with two crutches and hobbles at that. If I did but set my foot to the ground I was like to scream with the pain of it, and though I leaned heavily on Alison’s arm, the agony I suffered was so great that the sweat rolled off my forehead, and I turned sick. “Alas!” says she, “If I could but carry you.”

“Why,” groans I, “I wish you could, cousin, but since you can’t, I must make other shift. Let’s see if I can’t crawl on my hands and knees,” I says, getting to the ground with some difficulty. And finding that I made progress in this lowly attitude, we went on to the corner of the field, pausing now and then to listen to the voices in our rear.

Now at that point there runs a narrow stream from the coppice on Went Hill into the Dyke in the valley, and it is carried under the road from Darrington Mill to Wentbridge by a bridge of stone, so deeply sunk into the ground that you might walk over it a thousand times and see naught of it. There is a thick hedgerow at each end of this bridge, and moreover another hedgerow runs along the side of the stream, going up to the coppice on one side and down to the Dyke on the other, so that the entrances are shielded from observation. You may stand there and see naught of the bridge itself, and if you find occasion to wonder how the stream comes under the road, you will tell yourself that ’tis by means of a pipe or culvert, or some such contrivance. But Alison and I knew of this bridge, for we had hidden in it in our boy and girl days, and there was room in it to hide a score of folk, though the quarters were damp enough to give a whole village the rheumatics.

I made shift to crawl through the bushes into the arch of the bridge, carrying with me sundry thorns and prickles, whose smart I regarded no more than a pin-prick, so acute was the pain which I suffered from my foot. The water rose high in the channel, but I managed to clamber to some stones that stood above the stream, and there I sat me down, groaning as loudly as I dared, while Alison stood at my side. And after a time, hearing no sound from without, and judging that our pursuers, if indeed we were pursued, had gone another way, I contrived to get off my foot-gear in order to examine my hurt. Then I found that my ankle was swollen to such a thickness as reminded me of Sir Nicholas’s gouty foot, and the remembrance of that, and how he used to curse it when it tweaked him, put me into a more hopeful humour. “Come,” says I, “there’s naught broken, cousin—’tis but a bad sprain. Let’s be thankful,” I says, “that there’s so much cold water at hand—’tis a good thing for a hurt of this sort.” I put my foot into the stream and found much relief, though the water was icy cold. “If I can but get the stiffness out of it,” says I, “we’ll make good progress yet.”

“It will be morning soon,” she says, glancing out of the bridge. “The sky is already growing light. We shall have little chance of escape in the daytime, shall we?”

“Why,” says I, “I had certainly meant us to be clear of Barnsdale ere day broke. But we must do the best we can. ’Tis the fortune of war—and yet I did not think to escape all that we’ve gone through these four days past, and be brought down by a tree-root. But it’s these small matters,” I says, with the air of a philosopher, “that lead to great results.”

“I am in no humour for speculations,” says she.

“Why,” says I, “you must certainly be suffering much discomfort, cousin, but I don’t see how we can help it. Will you not endeavour to sit down by me here?—’tis a dampish seat, this heap of stones, but I think you will prefer it to standing. And you have a flask of wine there, and some food—we shall neither of us be the worse for a drop of one and a bite of t’other,” I says. She made no answer for a while, but presently she contrived to seat herself at my side, and brought out the wine and food from beneath her cloak.

“You take everything in a very philosophical spirit, Master Richard,” says she, giving me the flask.

“Why, faith, cousin,” says I, “why not? ’Tis my humour to take things that way. There was my uncle, now, would fume and fret himself into a fever if all went not as he wished, but it never did him any good that I could see. Take things as they come, say I.”

“’Tis a poor fashion,” says she, “for it shows that you have no special care for aught.”

“Now methinks ’tis you that wax philosophic,” I says. “And, faith, I don’t follow you. As for caring for aught, why, I have cared for a deal o’ things, but as I never got most of them I came to the conclusion that it was better to want naught.”

“Oh,” says she, “and what, pray, did you care for and want that you didn’t get?”

“Why,” says I, “I wanted to be a country gentleman, with no more anxiety than the rearing of cattle and the making of an occasional ballad or sonnet.”

“Oh, a poet!” says she.

“Why, say a rhymester,” says I. “Heigh-ho! I was all for a quiet life—and here I am in a wet ditch, with a lame leg—plague take it!—and as good a chance of being hanged or shot as any man in England. Nevertheless,” says I, “there’s the present enjoyment of conversing with you, cousin, which is——”

But there, like a woman, she went off at a tangent.

“Master Richard,” says she, “what made you turn rebel?”

“Cousin,” says I, drawing my leg out of the water where I had kept it till it was numbed through. “Why do you ask me such a question?”

“Because,” says she, “you observed just now that you cared for naught, and I don’t understand how a man can join a cause unless he has some care for it.”

“Lord!” says I. “You are too deep for me. I must have meant—nay, faith,” I says, “I don’t think I know what I did mean.”

She laughed merrily at that—I think it was the first time since I came to the Manor. “Why, let me help you to your wits,” says she. “Would you join the rebels to-morrow, if you were able?”

“Aye, indeed!” says I.

“And why?” says she.

“Because my sympathies are with them,” says I. “I am for liberty and against oppression. Being a true Englishman,” I says, “I hate this Star-Chambering and extortioning of honest folk’s money.”

“I wonder how much you know about it,” says she.

“About as much as yourself,” says I.

“God save the King!” says she.

“Faith, he needs it!” says I.

After that we sat in a miserable silence for full half-an-hour. It was then growing light, and the dawn came with a sharp burst of sleet that penetrated the bushes and stung our faces as we sat huddled under the bridge. “A dreary morning, cousin,” I says.

A low booming roar came echoing across the fields. I forgot my hurt and tried to start to my feet. “Cannon!” says I. “They are bombarding the old place after all. And yet surely——”

But she had rushed to the mouth of the bridge and forced her way through the bushes, and there she stood, gazing across the dank fields towards the old house. The roar of the cannon came again. She drew back within the bridge, and dropping at my side burst into a passion of bitter weeping.

“Come, cousin,” says I, laying my hand on her arm, “be comforted——”

She turned her face suddenly upon me, all aflame with anger.

“Comforted?” says she, “Shame upon you, Richard Coope! Oh, cowards that we are, to have skulked from the old place like rats from a sinking ship! Doesn’t it shame you,” she says, “to sit here in a ditch when you ought to be there defending your own?”

“Why, cousin,” says I, “considering that it’s through no choice of my own that I sit in this ditch, it doesn’t; and as to defending my own, why, there’s naught in the old house that’s mine save a book or two. It’s not my property,” I says, nursing and groaning over my lame leg.

“But it’s mine,” says she, drying her tears.

“Then go and defend it,” I says, sulkily. “You were better employed in that than in preaching to me.”

She turned her face and stared at me long and hard.

“You have the rarest faculty for saying insolent things,” says she.

“Faith, it’s a poor one in comparison with yours!” says I, testily enough.

She coloured up to the eyes at that. Egad, she had no liking for such plain talk! But she stared at me again and then at my foot, which was at that moment exceeding painful.

“Can I do aught to relieve you?” she says.

“I wish you could,” says I. “But you can’t, and so there’s an end on’t.”

“Oh,” she says, bridling, “if you don’t wish to talk with me——” and she drew herself away. But after a time she looked round at me again.

“Will they destroy the old house?” she says.

“I don’t know, cousin,” says I. “They seem to have given over firing at it, but these two shots will have knocked some lath and plaster about.”

She looked at my foot which I was dipping in the water again.

“What a misfortune!” she says. “I cannot abide this idleness. It irks me to sit here, doing naught, as if we were rats in a cage.”

But since we were helpless I made no answer to her, and so there we sat, miserable as you please, and without the grey dawn widened into a dull morning.

II.

The morning wore away in a sore discomfort until it came near to noon. Upon several occasions we heard folks pass along the road above our heads, and now and then a cart rumbled by, or a horseman made our hiding-place echo with the ring of his beast’s feet. But we heard no more of the cannon nor anything in the neighbouring meadows of our pursuers. As for my lame foot it was so damaged that I could see there was no chance of our going onward that day. The plentiful doses of cold water which I had administered to it had seemed to keep down the inflammation, but the swelling was still so great and the stiffness so stubborn that I could make no use of my leg from the knee downwards.

“Cousin,” says I, “look upon me as done for. I am winged as absolutely as a partridge that can only use its feet. It will be days before I can walk,” I says, groaning more with chagrin than with pain, though I had enough and to spare of that.

“Well?” says she.

“I don’t know what we’re to do next,” says I, sore perplexed. “There isn’t a house nearer than Darrington Mill, and you musn’t go there. If you go along the road to Wentbridge you’ll be seen. But when night falls you might try it, cousin. Dare you travel alone?” I says.

She looked round at me and laughed.

“Dare!” says she. “Dare, indeed!”

“Then will you?” says I.

“No,” says she, prompt enough.

“And why not?” says I.

“Because I shall not leave you,” says she.

“Why,” says I, “that’s very kind of you, cousin, but I wish I could see you in safety.”

“’Tis not my fashion to run away when things come to the worst,” says she.

“’Gad, mistress!” says I, somewhat nettled. “I don’t know which smarts the more—your tongue or this plaguey leg of mine. But you might be more civil,” I says.

“Was I uncivil?” says she, making a great show of innocence with her eyes.

“I know what you meant,” I says, turning surly again.

“Well,” she says, speaking very polite and gentle, “confess, cousin, that if you hadn’t persuaded me to leave the house, we should not have been burrowing in this ditch, half-starved to death.”

“No,” says I, “that’s true enough. But I would rather burrow in a ditch and have my life, than swing to the branch of a tree, or stand before a file of troopers with my kerchief tied about my eyes. And I think,” says I, regarding her narrowly, “that you would prefer your liberty even in a hole like this to being handed over to Anthony Dacre.”

She gave me a cool stare.

“And what harm would there be in that?” says she.

“What?” says I.

“I say what harm would there be in that?” she says.

“Oh, you did say so, did you?” says I. “Faith, I thought you did, but then I thought you didn’t.”

“And why shouldn’t I?” says she.

“Nay,” says I, “how do I know? I have given up trying to understand women.”

“Anthony Dacre,” says she, musingly, “is a handsome man, and a most devoted cavalier.”

“I wish I had my fingers at his throat!” says I.

“No man could be more attentive to ladies than he,” she says, still musing. “His manner is of the best.”

“Is it?” says I. “I wish he would come here and show us some of it.”

“He looks better in a withdrawing-room,” says she, giving the merest glance at my torn and mud-stained garments.

“I daresay he will grace some corner of hell,” says I, savage as a bear with a sore lug.

She turned and looked at me.

“You and I don’t seem to agree,” she says.

“Faith! I don’t care whether we do or not!” I says, like to weep with the pain of my foot, and the vexation into which she threw me.

She gave me a sharp glance, and suddenly I saw her eyes melt in the curiousest fashion. She was sitting near me on the wet stones and she put out her hand to mine with a quick gesture. But what she had it in mind to say or do——

There was a rustle at the mouth of the bridge, and we turned our heads to see a great hound glaring at us from between the bushes that his shoulders had pushed aside. “Tracked, by God!” says I, and without a thought I snatched a pistol from my belt and fired at the brute’s open jaws. He fell, a quivering heap, into the stream at our feet, and the noise of the pistol rolled and echoed along the bridge, “Oh, foolish!” she cried, “they will hear it—they cannot be far off.” She looked at the dog and I saw her eyes fill with tears. “Poor dog!” said she.

But now that danger was at hand I was quick to think and to act. I drew out the bag of gold that I had carried—she already had the jewels in another bag—and handed it to her. “Here,” says I, “take this, cousin—and cousin,” I says, “whether we’ve agreed or not don’t forget that I tried to serve you. A curse on this foot o’ mine!” I says, struggling to get into a standing posture, “I’d give anything——”

There came the tramp of feet without and the sound of men pushing their way through the hedgerows. “The dog headed this way,” says a voice. “Why, this is the old bridge!” says another. But by that time I had got to my feet and drawn the other pistol from my belt. “Behind me, Alison!” says I, “We’ll have a life or two ere we yield.”

The bushes were suddenly filled with men. I saw Anthony Dacre’s face amongst the throng, and Merciful Wiggleskirk peering round the corner. I levelled the pistol full at Anthony and laughed to see him duck his head. “Coward!” says Alison in my ear. “Spare your powder for better men, Dick.”

She had never called me Dick before—at any rate, since we were children. I turned hastily to her. “Sweetheart!” I says, “this is the end, but by heaven, I love you!”

After that, I think I must have swooned and fallen. When I came to my senses again I was lying on the road above the bridge, with Alison and Merciful Wiggleskirk at my side, and Anthony Dacre talking to an officer on horseback close by. I strove to rise, half wondering where I was, and it was only the pain in my foot that suddenly reminded me of our position.

III.

Having fairly recovered my senses I looked round me and found that we were in the midst of a score or so of troopers, apparently under command of a middle-aged officer who seemed fierce enough to eat hot lead. This worthy, turning from Anthony Dacre, with whom he had been conversing, presently approached me and enquired if I were now in a condition to travel.

“Aye,” says I, “but not a-foot, sir.”

“You shall have a mount, Master Coope,” says he, and beckons a trooper to bring up a horse, upon which I clambered with some pain and difficulty. “We must make what haste we can,” says he, “for Fairfax is somewhat impatient to meet you.”

He gave me a curious, knowing look as he turned from me to Alison.

“As for you, madam,” he says, “I fancy that some arrangement has been made for you by your kinsman, Master Dacre; you are free, at any rate, so far as I am concerned.”

“If Mistress Alison will accept my poor protection as far as her father’s house—” says Anthony, coming forward. But half-a-dozen paces away he stopped, frightened, I think, by the look she gave him.

“Liar!” she said, and looked him up and down ere she turned away. She came up to me and laid her hand on my arm, “I am going with you,” she says in a low voice. “I am afraid—that man frightens me. What is it they will do to you, Richard?”

“Shoot me, I expect, cousin,” says I. There was naught to be gained by keeping the truth from her.

She went over to the officer. “Sir,” says she, “you will make me your debtor if you will carry me to Pomfret with you. I have a mind to go there,” she says, looking hard at him.

The man looked from her to Anthony. “Why, madam,” says he, “sure you are free to do what you please, and I should feel it an honour to give you any assistance, but——”

“You are to go with me to your father’s, cousin,” says Anthony, with a frown on his black face. “It was on these conditions only that I secured your liberty.”

But she paid no more heed to him than if he had been a stone. She still looked at the officer. “Then you will take me with you, sir?” she says.

“Faith, and so I will, mistress,” says he, “if you can make shift to ride on one of my men’s saddles.”

“You are wrong, Captain Stott,” says Anthony Dacre, “I agreed with Sands——”

“Look you, Master Dacre,” says the other, “the young woman is free, and I know naught of your arrangements with Sands or anybody else. And since she asks me for a lift into Pomfret,” he says, “why, she shall have it, and there’s an end.”

This matter being settled, much to Anthony Dacre’s chagrin and the further souring of his naughty temper, we presently set out for Pomfret, going thither by way of Darrington Mill and Carleton village, in passing through which the folk came out of their houses to stare at us. It gave me much pain to ride, and Captain Stott urged us forward at a brisk pace. But going up Swan Hill we came to a gentle walk and Stott brought his horse alongside mine and inquired after my condition.

“Why, sir,” says I, “I suffer somewhat smartly, I promise you, and this jolting does naught to help me.”

“Well,” says he, “you will have a speedy quittance of your pain, young gentleman, for as I am an honest man I believe Fairfax will shoot you.”

“I expect naught else,” says I.

“You’re mighty cool about it,” says he, “and I admire you for that. Lord! what is there that’s better than war for taking the sentiment out of a man? I am sure you’ll face a file of my troopers very brave,” he says, looking narrowly at me. “’Twill be but justice, young gentleman, for your offence was exceeding grave.”

“Sir,” says I, “you seem to know a deal more of my offence than I know myself. To tell you the truth,” says I, “I am in that state of mind which prevents me from caring whether I offend or not.”

“Oh, tired of life,” says he.

“On the contrary,” says I. “I want very much to live, and am cursing my fate as earnestly as I can. And yet,” I says, giving him a smile that was doubtless as grim as his own, “I am wise enough to know that all the cursing in the world won’t alter things.”

“You will certainly be shot,” says he.

“Well, sir,” I says, “then I will be shot. But if you would oblige a dying man—and you seem assured that I am one—say naught of it to my cousin there,” says I, pointing to Alison, who rode a little in advance, and out of earshot. “She has some inkling of it already, but you have such a cold-blooded style of saying things,” says I, “that she’ll look upon you as a butcher.”

“Why, ’tis my trade, lad,” says he, and laughs. “But I’ll respect your wish, seeing that it’s one of the last you’ll ever utter.”

We were now come to Pomfret, and for some moments I forgot my own affairs in looking about me and noting the evidences of warfare which were on every side. As we drew nearer to the marketplace I saw many houses that had been shattered by the Castle artillery and now stood in ruins. Beyond the Moot Hill we passed the Main Guard, which they had erected at the top of Northgate, and out of which came several Parliamentarians to see us pass, and inquire of their fellows as to our business. Captain Stott, however, hurried us forward along Skinner Lane, and so we presently came to Fairfax’s camp, which was at the rear of a great horn-work that they had thrown up for the beleaguering of the Castle. We were now in full view of the Castle itself, and occasionally noted the discharge of its cannon which chiefly played, however, against the fort on Baghill, from whence most annoyance was caused to the besieged. Fairfax and Sands were closeted together in a farmhouse close by the camp, and thither Captain Stott conducted us and bade his men help me down from my horse. I was making shift to hobble along, leaning on the arm of a trooper, when Sands himself suddenly came out of the house and met us. He looked from me to Alison and seemed resentful of her presence.

“What do you do here, mistress?” says he, rudely. “I cannot remember that we sent you for any woman, Captain Stott,” he says. “That matter, I think, was arranged with Master Dacre there.”

“She came of her own accord,” says Stott. “She was free to go where she pleased for aught that I know to the contrary.”

“What is your business here, mistress?” says Sands. But ere she could reply he fell into a sudden fury. “Come!” says he, “get you gone, mistress, get you gone!—what, have we not had enough of trouble with you Coopes this last day or two that you must give us more? See her out of the camp, Master Dacre,” he says, turning upon Anthony. “See her to her father’s house as you arranged with me.” He turned from them and looked at me with a severe displeasure in his eyes. “Richard Coope, eh?” says he. “Bring him within—we are anxious to make acquaintance with you, Master Coope.”

“Sir,” says I, as I hobbled into the farmhouse after him, “I claim your protection on behalf of my cousin, Mistress French, without there.”

“She hath another cousin to protect her,” says he, ill-temperedly. “We have given her safe-conduct to her father’s house, and there’s an end on’t.”

“But——” says I.

“I’ll hear no more,” says he, savage as a bear, and he walked forward and into a room, the door of which he closed behind him. The three troopers that had me in charge waited in the passage with me in their midst. I looked from one to the other, and recognising Merciful Wiggleskirk amongst them, I begged him to run outside and see whether Alison had departed, and if not, to entreat her from me to seek out some friend in the town rather than trust herself to Anthony Dacre. This he did, but presently returned, saying that Mistress French had ridden away, and Master Dacre and his two men with her, whereat I turned sick at heart, and cared no more as to what might happen to me.

After some little time the door of the chamber into which Sands had withdrawn was opened again, and an officer looked out and bade the troopers bring me within. I hobbled into the room and found myself standing at the foot of a great table, at the head of which sat a man whom I immediately took to be Sir Thomas Fairfax himself. Sands sat by him on his right, and two other officers were placed on his left, while Captain Stott stood half-way along the table. They all gazed at me with some curiosity, and faith, I daresay I was a pretty sight to behold, for I had had no time to smarten myself up for four days, and the mud of the ditch was thick on my clothes. However, I made my best bow, and was then forced to clutch and hold by the table lest I should fall, for the pain in my leg was turning me sick again.

“Master Richard Coope,” says Fairfax, looking at me.

“The same, sir,” says I.

“You seem to be in some distress,” says he, not unkindly.

“Sir,” I says, “I have hurt my foot, and the pain is exceeding sore at this moment.”

“Give Master Coope a chair,” says he.

“I thank you, sir,” says I, very polite. “Faith!” thinks I, “he is surely going to shoot me, or he would not be so attentive.” And I sat down and tried not to groan at the agony which every movement gave me.

“Now, Master Coope,” says he, “we have had you brought here after much trouble and annoyance to question you of your late doings.”

He paused and looked at me.

“Sir,” I says, regarding him steadily, “I am prepared to answer any question you are pleased to put to me.”

“Are you so?” says he. “Be assured, Master Coope, that we shall deal justly with you. And since we are sitting in court-martial upon you, you shall know what it is that you are charged with.” He took up a paper from the table. “You are charged,” he says, looking at it, “with a grave offence, namely, that you, being duly entrusted with the conveyance of a despatch from General Cromwell to me, Sir Thomas Fairfax, did desert your commission, and, attaching yourself to the enemies of the Parliament, did do, and cause to be done, many things hurtful to the cause which you had sworn to further. What say you to that, Master Coope?” he says, regarding me keenly.

“Sir,” says I, “if you will listen to my defence I shall hope to make myself clear to you.”

“You shall have all the consideration that is right,” says he. “So tell us your story, Master Coope, without fear.”

“I am a poor hand at it,” says I, “but this is a plain tale and the truth,” and I pulled my wits together and put the matter plainly before them. I told them how I had lost my horse, how I had chanced to overhear Anthony Dacre’s plot, how I had gone to the Manor House to warn my uncle, and had been trapped there ere I could leave, and how I had contrived to forward the despatch by Merciful Wiggleskirk. “And that,” says I, coming to an end, “is the truth of this matter, wherein, if I have done wrong, it has been for the sake of folk that were dear to me. And, gentlemen,” says I, looking from one to the other, “if there were need I would do it again—and I have no more to say.”

After I had finished none of them spoke for awhile, but at last Fairfax looked at Sands. “I wish,” says he, “that we knew more about this man Dacre and the plot which his kinsman Coope alleges against him.” But Sands shook his head. “’Tis neither here nor there, Sir Thomas,” says he. “What have we to do with plots about carrying off a young woman? Here is Richard Coope confessing, yea, and glorifying himself because of it, that he deserted his commission, and joined himself to his uncle in resisting our warrant. A clearer case,” says he, “I never heard.”

Then the four of them withdrew into another apartment, leaving me there with Stott and the troopers. “Thy foot will not pain thee much longer, young man!” says Stott. “Faith,” says I, conceiving a great dislike to him all of a sudden, “’tis well for you, sir, that I am unable to use it!” And there might have been a pretty row between us but that Sir Thomas and the others came back and took their seats. I glanced at Sands, and knew what was coming.

Fairfax looked at me with some kindness as he began to speak. But there was naught kind about his words. I had deserted my commission, and thereby caused great annoyance to the Parliament; I had joined myself with the Royalists, and had brought about the death of a useful officer, and it was impossible that my serious offence could be overlooked. And so I was to be shot at daybreak of the following morning.

I think I got to my feet and bowed to him when he made an end. And I must have winced with the pain that every movement gave me, for he looked at me with some consideration. “I am sorry that you suffer,” says he. “I will send my surgeon to see to your hurt.” “I am greatly your debtor, sir,” says I. And so we parted with much politeness on both sides, and the troopers helped me out, and presently installed me in a neighbouring cottage, with Merciful Wiggleskirk as a guard, and my own thoughts for amusement.