My readers will, doubtless, be more interested in visiting Robin Hays than in noting the preparations made and the order observed by the Protector for his intended journey. When Cromwell put his state upon him, he did it with all dignity; there was no sparing of expense, no scant of attendants, no lack of guards—boldly and bravely were his arrangements formed; for he wisely knew that plainness and simplicity, although they may be understood and appreciated by the high-minded, are held in contempt by the low and the uneducated, because imagined to be within their own attainment. Had Cincinnatus ruled in England, he would never have abandoned a kingdom for a ploughshare; such an act would have been looked upon, at least by more than half the nation, as proceeding from weakness rather than from true strength of mind. The English, notwithstanding all their talk about equality, have not enthusiasm enough to understand or to feel the greatness that slights, and even scorns, magnificence! a gilded pageant wins their hearts; and a title overturns their understandings. We will here hazard the assertion, that if Cromwell had listened to a very powerful party, and had accepted, instead of having declined the name, while he possessed the station of a "King," he would have conquered all the obstacles by which he was surrounded, and have bequeathed a throne to his son, that in all human probability would have been continued in his family, even to our own day. We must leave this sentence, startling though it may be, without the arguments necessary to support it; certain it is, however, that so thought the Protector himself, who considered that the people of England, like the Israelites of old, would never be at rest until they had "a king to rule over them."

It would be a vain attempt to describe the sufferings of Robin Hays, from the moment when the news of Barbara's death fell upon him like a thunderbolt, and he quitted the presence of the Protector without the power of reply. He was sensible of only one feeling—awake to only one emotion—his heart echoed but to one sensation—his eyes burned within their sockets—all things before him were confused; and there was but a single image present to his mind. As if in compassion to his personal deformity, Nature had endowed him with a degree of sentiment and refinement perfectly at war with his habits and pursuits. But in his case, such compassion was, if we may so speak, cruelty. Had he been born to a higher station, it might have been a blessing—in his present sphere it was a curse—a curse which the Ranger had felt most constantly and most acutely. He had been laughed at by such as Roupall, who exulted in the possession of mere brute strength; and he had been sneered and scouted at by the giddy and the vain, who, dreading his sarcasms, repaid themselves by finding out his one vulnerable point, and probing it to the quick. Barbara had stolen into his heart unconsciously, as a sweet and quiet stream insinuates itself through the bosom of some rugged mountain, softening and fertilising so gently, that its influence is seen and acknowledged while its power is unaccounted for and its source unknown. The belief that the young Puritan entertained an affection for him, was a belief he hardly dared to cherish; but there were times when he did cherish it; and it was at such times only that his turbulent and restless mind was enabled to find repose: then the memory of her kindness, her gentleness, her tenderness, would come upon him like sleep to the eyes of the weary—like a fresh well in a sandy desert—like a gentle spring after a stormy winter—in a word, like woman's love, where it is most hoped, but least looked for. Whenever he indulged the idea of her affection, he felt like one uplifted above the world—its base sorrows and still baser joys;—earth had for him but one sound of comfort—it was the name of her he loved! but one promise of happiness; and from her it was never for a moment severed—hope, love, faith, centred in her—she was his world, and though his wandering employments might summon him elsewhere, it was in her presence alone that he relished, or even felt existence. At times, when the acidity of his nature forced him to distrust her smiles, and he upbraided her though she deserved it not, hours of penitence could not blot out from his own remembrance the act of weakness and injustice: he pondered upon it long after the gentle girl had forgotten that ever unkind word had passed between them. Beings of a gross and fettered nature cannot conceive of a love so pure as that which Barbara felt for the mis-shapen Robin—so perfectly devoid of earthly passion, yet so faithful—so exalted—so devoted—so engrossing! She had looked so long on his deformities, that she had ceased to perceive them; and often paused and wondered what people meant by flouting at his plainness. But the excellent and gentle girl was now to the unfortunate Ranger only as a dream of the past—vanished from off the earth like a sweet perfume, or a sweeter melody, with the memory of which comes the knowledge that it can be enjoyed no more.

After he had been conveyed to another chamber, the physician ordered restoratives and immediate bleeding;—but time did more than the leech's art; and the first wish he formed was, that he might once more wend his way to the Isle of Shepey, and gaze again, and for the last time, upon the form of her he loved.

Once aroused from his torpor, the means of effecting his escape was the first thing he considered. He had been removed to one of the lower rooms, and his apartment could not be termed a prison, though the door was fastened on the outer side—for the window was not more than ten feet from the ground, and unbolted; it looked out into the garden, and the sentinel placed beside that portion of the building had a longer range than was usually allotted to the palace guard. Robin soon observed that the lawn beneath was planted with rich clusters of young trees. The hour for evening prayer had arrived; so that the household would be most probably engaged, and the garden free from visitors. He looked from the window; it was one of the loveliest days of summer—a day that at any other time he would have welcomed with all the enthusiasm of a true lover of nature; so warm the air, so sweet the flowers, so silently flitted the small insects, as if dreading to disturb the repose of the sunbeams that slept on the green turf. Nothing could be more unlike the vicinity of a court; the very sentry seemed to tread it as hallowed ground—his step was scarcely heard along the soft grass.

Robin did not attempt to assume any disguise.

"I shall walk boldly when I get out of the garden," he thought, "and if I am taken before Cromwell, I will say why I desire liberty; I only wish to see her once more, and then farewell to all! the red cross against my name, in Oliver's dark book, may be dyed still redder—in my heart's blood!"

Although his arm was stiff from the bleeding he had undergone but an hour before, he watched till the soldier's back was turned, and dropped from the window. He had scarcely time to conceal himself beneath a row of evergreens when the sentinel turned on his path. Robin crept on, from tuft to tuft—now under the shadow of a tree—now under that of a turret, until he found himself close to a high wall which flanked the side next the river; and then he became sorely perplexed as to the method of his further escape. To the right was a gate which, from its position, he judged led into one of the outer courts, and, notwithstanding his first resolve of braving his way, habit and consideration induced him to prefer the track least frequented or attended with risk. At the extremity of the wall, where it turned at a right angle to afford an opening for a gateway, grew an immense yew-tree, solitary and alone, like some dark and malignant giant, stretching out its arms to battle with centuries and storms; softened by no shadow, cheered by no sunbeam, enlivened by no shower, no herb or flower flourished beneath its ban, but there it towered, like the spirit of evil in a smiling world. The wall, too, was overgrown with ivy—the broad ivy, whose spreading leaves hide every little stem that clasps the bosom of the hard stone, and, with most cunning wisdom, extracts sustenance from all it touches. Robin's keen eye scanned well every nook and corner, and he then mounted the tree, conceiving he might, with little difficulty, descend on the other side, as he perceived that the branches bent over the wall. He had hardly reached midway, when a voice, whose tones he well remembered, fell upon his ear, and for a moment called back his thoughts from their sad and distant wanderings. He paused: the sound was not from the garden, nor the roof. After much scrutiny, he discovered a small aperture of about a foot square, that was originally a window, but latterly had been choked by the matted ivy which overspread its bars. The voice was as of one who has tasted the weariness of life, and would fain put away the cup that was all bitterness. It sung, but the song was more a murmur than a lay, sorrowful as the winter's wind that roams through the long and clustering grass in some old churchyard, telling,—

With a trembling hand the Ranger sought to disentangle the ivy; but this he found it almost impossible to effect in consequence of the pain arising from his left arm whenever he slung himself by it. At length he in some degree succeeded, but could see nothing, except that light came up from a chamber, which, he then believed, must be lighted from beneath, though the window did not look into the garden. The voice still continued; it was one of the songs of Provence that was sung—the wail of a young girl over the body of her dead lover, the burthen of which was that of the Psalmist of old:—

There was no poetry in the song, but the sentiment touched the heart of the afflicted Robin. His breast heaved and heaved, like the swell of the troubled sea, and then tears burst in torrents from his eyes, and relieved his burning and dizzy brain.

"I never thought to have wept again," he said, "and I bless God for the ease it gives me; yet why should I bless that which has cursed me?" And again his heart returned to its bitterness; the hand that so often had attuned it to gentleness, was cold—cold in death. Alas! resignation is the most difficult lesson in the Christian code; few there are who learn it to perfection—it requires a long and a melancholy apprenticeship!

Again he endeavoured to withdraw the ivy, and once ventured to speak; but he dreaded to raise his voice. "At all events," thought Robin, "I will send him a token;" and, extending his hand, he dropped the paper containing the lock of hair which had been given him by the blithe landlady of the Oliver's Head. The ringlet was received, for on the instant the singing ceased, and presently Walter De Guerre called aloud, "In the name of God, who sends me this?"

Bitterly did Robin regret that he was totally unprovided with pencil, tablets, or aught that could convey intelligence to Walter. At another time his active genius would have found some means of communication, but his faculties were only half alive, and he could but regret and listen. It would appear, however, that, as Walter spoke, he was interrupted by some one entering his chamber, for his voice suddenly ceased, and though Robin heard it again, it was in converse with another. He listened attentively for some time, but could catch nothing of the subject upon which they spoke.

As suddenly as the interview had commenced, so suddenly did it terminate; for, though Robin threw pieces of stick and fragments of mortar into the aperture, to intimate that he continued there, no answering signal was returned. The evening was drawing on, and persons passed and repassed beneath the tree—some of them with hurried, some with slower steps: at last the self-same page with whom he had jested rushed forward in company with the sentinel, and Robin heard him say,—

"I tell you, his Highness will wait no forms; he commanded you instantly to come to him. It is impossible that a cat could fall from that window without your seeing it, unless you were asleep on your post."

"I had no caution about the window, master; and, at all events, nothing, I am sure, could pass from it, except a spirit," replied the soldier.

Immediately after the guard passed for the purpose of replacing the sentinel; and about half an hour afterwards, there was a bustle in the courts, the tramping of brave steeds, and the rolling of carriage-wheels; then the braying trumpet sounded "to horse!" and soon the noise of much and stately pageantry was lost in the distance. Robin Hays cared not to move until the palace was more at rest; but his meditations were continually disturbed by the passers-by. Had he been disposed to listen or pay any attention to those who came and went, he could have heard and seen things, from which much that was bitter and much that was sweet might have been gathered. He might have observed that a plain coat or a simple hood changes not the nature of those who wear it; yet, on the other hand, he would have noted that the plain coat and simple hood preserve from outward vice, however the inward thoughts may triumph. But the watchful lynx-eyed ranger was changed, sorely, sadly changed; in four brief hours he had lived more than treble the number of years. He patiently lingered, till the shades of evening closed, to effect an escape, that had now become more easy, inasmuch as the inmates of the palace had nearly all retired to their apartments. Through the agency of the yew-tree, he arrived at the highest portion of the wall, and looking over, perceived that a roof descended from the large coping-stones on which he stood, in a slanting manner, and that the building communicated by an arched covering to the palace: the Thames was not distant from the base of the building more than sixty yards, so that once down, his escape was certain. Watching the movements of a sentry, posted at some little distance from the gate, he slid along the roof, stretching himself at full length, and without any further mishap crawled to the river's brink, plunged in, and arrived at the Surrey-side of the silver Thames in perfect safety. He resolved to cross the country to Bromley with as little delay as possible, inasmuch as he had friends there who would hasten his journey;—and as concealment was no longer needed, he thought that a good steed would be most valuable; he therefore availed himself of one who was enjoying its evening meal quietly among the Surrey hills; for the credit of his honesty, however, it is fair to record, he noted the place, so that one of his agents could restore the animal in the course of the following night. By this manoeuvre, and urging its utmost speed, together with the assistance he received at Bromley, Robin arrived at King's-ferry before the morning was far advanced. He did not now, as on former occasions, cross the Swale to Elmley or Harty, with a view to avoid observation, but threw himself into the boat of Jabez Tippet, the ferryman, to whom, as it may be supposed, he was well known.

Jabez carried about him all the external distinctions of Puritanism—a cropped head—a downcast eye—a measured step, and a stock of sighs and religious exclamations. There was one maxim that found a ready response within his bosom. "He was all things to all men;" could aid a smuggler, drink with a Cavalier, pray with a Roundhead. He was, moreover, a tall, powerful man—one who, if he found it fitting, could enforce a holy argument with a carnal weapon; cutting a man's throat, while he exclaimed, "It is the Lord's will! it is the Lord's will!" There was nothing peculiar in his dress, except a huge pair of loose boots, of the thickest untanned leather, that reached considerably above his knees, and from frequent immersion in the tide had assumed a deep brown hue. His hat was conical, and only distinguished by a small dirk glittering in the band, which he carried there as a place of safety from contact with the sea-water.

"My gay Ranger travelling in open day, when there is such wild news abroad!" he said.

Robin made no reply; and Jabez, who was pulling at the huge cable, which then, as well as now, towed the boats across, stopped and looked at him.

"My bonny Robin, what ails ye, man? Hast been cheated by the excise, or plundered by the Roundheads, or does the strange trouble they say has come upon Hugh Dalton affect ye so much?"

Robin turned his head away; his grief was too deep to covet witnesses.

"There's a guard of Ironsides at Cecil Place by this time," continued the man, who began to think that Robin was relapsing into one of his taciturn fits, "and Noll himself on the road, which I heard, not an hour past, from two soldiers, who have been sent on with his own physician to Sir Robert, who's gone mad as a March hare; and they do say that his Highness has a plan of his own to destroy all free trade on the island for ever: but I'm thinking Hugh has scented it, and is far enough off by this time."

Robin looked inquiringly into the man's face, but did not speak.

"Some time or other, master," continued the ferryman, whose boat now touched the strand, "you'll maybe condescend to unriddle me how Dalton could have a daughter brought up by——"

Robin Hays did not wait for the conclusion of the sentence, but sprang right on the land, with the air of a man bereft of reason, confirming Jabez in the idea that he was again labouring under his old infirmity.

The Ranger took not the direct road to Minster, which he ought to have passed on his way to the Gull's Nest, where he resolved to ascertain if Barbara's body was at Cecil Place; but after crossing the downs, that were brightening in the summer's sun and alive with multitudes of sheep, wound round the base of the hill on which the mansion stood, and as its mixture of ancient and modern architecture became developed, he paused to look upon a spot so endeared by many affectionate recollections. The trees that encircled the fairy ring were conspicuous for their height and beauty of colour; there, too, was the casement window which he had so often watched, knowing that Barbara must pass it in her morning and evening attendance on her lady; there, peeping from beneath a turret, the lattice admitting light to Barbara's own little chamber; there, the window of Constantia's sitting-room; there—— But he could gaze no longer, his heart sickened within him, and covering his face with his hands, he rushed into a narrow glen that skirted the hillside, and was completely overshadowed by trees, whose unpruned branches were matted and twined together in most fantastic and impervious underwood. He pursued this track, with which he was well acquainted, as leading directly to the back entrance, where he more than once resolved to inquire where Barbara's remains were placed; but he had scarcely proceeded a dozen yards towards the house, when his attention was excited by a sudden and loud rustling amongst the bushes, and on looking towards the spot, he saw first one and then another raven mount in the air, uttering, at short intervals, the peculiar dull and complaining cry of rapacious birds when frightened from their prey. The creatures evidently meditated another descent, for, instead of betaking themselves to the neighbouring trees, they circled round and round in the air, now higher, now lower, mingling their monotonous notes with an occasional scream—thus inharmoniously disturbing the sweet solitude by their unholy orgies. In the mean time, the rustling beneath was renewed, and then as suddenly ceased; but the birds, instead of descending, whirled still higher, as if the object they had sought was for a time hidden from their sight. The Ranger proceeded more cautiously than before, and peering into the bushes, descried one whom he immediately recognised as Jack Roupall, unfastening something of considerable bulk that was contained in a handkerchief, and had apparently lain there for some days, as the grass from which it had been taken was completely levelled by its pressure. Roupall's ears were nearly as quick as those of Robin, and an exclamation of recognition escaped his lips as he turned round to where the Ranger stood.

"Ah! our little Ranger," said the man, extending his rough hand, "it charms me to see you! I feared you were nabbed somehow, for I knew you'd be cursedly down in the feathers from what the whole island is talking of.—Hast seen the Skipper?"

"Where is he?"

"That's exactly what I want to know; but no one has seen him, that I hear of, since he seized the poor girl, dead as she was, and carried her through the midst of the soldiers, who had too much fear or too much nature in 'em to touch him—I don't know which it was. I'm thinking he's off to the Fire-fly, for he said he'd bury her in the sea;—or hid, maybe, in some o' the holes at the Gull's Nest—holes only known to a few of the sly sort, not to us strappers."

"Good God!" exclaimed Robin.

"Ah! you may well say, good God," said Roupall, putting on a look of great sagacity, "for I'm come to the determination that there's much need of a good God in the world to circumvent man's wickedness. Why, look ye here now, if here isn't the head of that infernal Italian, Jeromio! and what I'm puzzled at is, that, first, it's wrapped in a napkin which I swear is one of them Holland ones I had o' the Skipper, and which he swore I could have made more of, had I took them on to London, instead of tiffing them at Maidstone; and this, outside it, is Sir Willmott Burrell's—here's the crest broidered in goold:—it's the finest cambric too," he added, relieving the muslin of its disgusting burden, and folding it with care, "and 'tis a pity it should be wasted on filthy flesh; so I'll take care of it—ah! ah! And the napkin's a good one: it's sinful to spoil any thing God sends—ah! ah! The fellow used to wear ear-rings too," he continued, stooping over the festering head, while the ravens, whose appetites had increased when they saw the covering entirely removed, flapped the topmost branches of the trees with their wings in their circling, and screamed more vigorously than before.

"How came it—how happened it?" inquired Robin, perfectly aroused to the horror of the scene, to which Roupall appeared quite indifferent.

"I know no more than you," replied the good-humoured ruffian, holding up a jewelled ear-ring between his fingers—"I know no more than you;—Gad, that's fit for any lady's ear in Kent!—Only I heard it was believed among the sharks, that my friend Sir Willmott excited a mutiny aboard the Fire-fly, which this fellow, now without a head, headed—and so, ye understand, lost his head, as the Skipper's punishment for mutiny. How it came here—where it may stay—I know not. There, Robin, there are a pair of rings fit for a queen: maybe, you'll buy them; they're honestly worth two dollars. Well, you would have bought 'em if she'd ha' lived."

"Me!—her!" exclaimed Robin, closing his teeth, and glaring on Jack Roupall with fiendish fierceness.

"Keep off!" ejaculated Roupall, securing the ear-rings, and placing himself in a posture of defence—"Keep off! I know ye of old, Robin Hays, with your griping fingers and strong palms! Never quarrel with a man because he doesn't understand ye'r delicacies, which are things each makes in his own mind, so that no one else can taste 'em. I meant no harm; only, mark ye, ye sha'n't throttle me for nothing the next go; so keep off; and I'm off, for sides o' flesh and sides o' iron are astir up there; so this is no place for me. I shall be off, and join King Charlie: he's much in want of strong hands, I hear, and who knows but the time is coming when 'the king shall enjoy his own again?'"

"Do but bury that!" said Robin: "I would stay and do it, but that I must to the Nest at once."

"No, no," replied Roupall, striding away in an opposite direction; "let it stay where it is, to poison ravens and the carrion-birds. It is fitting food for them. They had nobler banquets at Naseby and at Marston."