When the poor preacher found that Burrell was really gone, and had left him a prisoner, without the remotest prospect of escape, he felt (to use his own expression) "rather mazed," and forthwith applied his hand to the lock, with the vain hope of extricating himself as speedily as possible: he found, however, the entrance closed firm and fast, and, moreover, of so solid a construction, that, with all his effort, he was unable to move it in the slightest degree. He would have welcomed the idea that the Master of Burrell did but jest; yet there had been that about his demeanour which excluded all thought of merriment, and Fleetword felt his limbs tremble beneath him when he reflected on the desperate character of the man with whom he had to deal. "The Lord can make a way for safety even from this den," he muttered, "yea, even from this fastness, which, of a truth, is most curiously fashioned, and of evil intention, doubtless." The little light that was admitted into the cell came through an aperture in the cliff at so great a height from the floor that it could hardly be observed, even if it had been left unprotected by a ledge of stone that projected a considerable distance under the opening, which was scarcely large enough to permit the entrance of a sufficient quantity of air. The atmosphere was therefore dense and heavy, and the preacher drew his breath with difficulty. The chamber, we should observe, was directly over that in which we have heretofore encountered the Buccaneer; for the interior of the cliff was excavated in various parts, so as more nearly to resemble the formation of a bee-hive than any other structure. It was filled, as we have stated, with a variety of matters, for which either there was no immediate demand, or that time had rendered useless. Of these, Fleetword piled a quantity one over the other, and standing tiptoe on the topmost parcel, succeeded in peeping through the aperture, but could perceive nothing except the broad sea stretching away in the distance until it was bounded by the horizon. As he was about to descend, one of the packages rolled from under the rest, and the hapless preacher came to the ground amidst a multitude of bales of cloth, logs of ebony, cramps, and spoiled martin-skins, and found himself half in and half out of a box of mildewed oranges, into which he had plumped, and which repaid the intrusion by splashing him all over with their pulpy and unpleasant remains. It was some time before he could extricate himself from this disagreeable mass, and still longer before he could cleanse off the filthy fragments from his garments. When he had done so, however, his next care was to bestow the papers he had rescued from Burrell into some safe place. "The Lord," he thought, "hath, at his own good pleasure, given Satan or his high priest dominion over me, and it may be that I shall be offered up upon the altar of Baal or Dagon as a sacrifice; but it shall be one of sweet-smelling savour, untainted by falsehood or dissimulation. Verily, he may destroy my body—and I will leave these documents, which by an almost miraculous interposition of Providence have been committed to my charge, so that one time or other they may be found of those by whom they may be needed."

He carefully sought and ransacked every parcel he could find in search of pencil, ink, or any thing by which he could direct a letter; but in vain. He discovered, however, some parchments, whereon the words "Oliver Lord Protector" were frequently inscribed: he cut off a slip containing this sentence, and having encased the papers he had seized, in many folds, pinned it upon the parcel, so that it might serve as a direction. He then corded it so firmly that it would require both industry and patience to dissever the several knots and twistings. Having performed so much of his task, he set himself to consider what possible means he could devise to secure its safe delivery. He had previously shouted and called with all his strength; but when he remembered the length of the passage he had traversed with his subtle guide, and the little appearance there was of any apartment near the one in which he was confined, he desisted, wisely determining not to waste, in such useless efforts, the breath that, perhaps, he would be suffered to retain only for a few short hours. Greatly he lamented his want of caution in accompanying Burrell; and bitterly wept at the fate that awaited his favourite, Constantia. At length, after much deliberation, he determined on building a more secure standing-place, mounting once again to the window, fastening the longest string he could find to the parcel, and merely confining it to the inside of the cave in so slight a manner, that it might be detached by the least pull. He would have thrown it down at once, trusting that some one on the beach would find it; but he was aware that the tide at high water washed up the cliffs, so that there was but small chance of its not being borne away upon the waters. He also remembered that there were sundry little pathways winding up the chalky rocks, where he had seen people walk; and that, by God's good blessing, the packet might be found by some one wandering there. Having accomplished this object, he took his seat on a pile of moth-eaten clothes, and drawing forth his little pocket Bible, set himself to read the Holy Scripture, with as much diligence as if he had never before opened the blessed and consoling volume.

Two classes of persons peruse the Sacred Book; one from pure love of, and entire dependence on, the words and precepts contained therein; the other from habit—"their mothers, grandmothers, and great-grandmothers did so before them—always on a Sunday—and sometimes (when they had time) during the week—and God forbid that they should ever be worse than their ancestors!" The Reverend Jonas Fleetword belonged partly to the one class, partly to the other: his progenitors, for upwards of a century, had been foremost in forwarding the religion of the Gospel; they had fought for it both with carnal and spiritual weapons, and he had followed in their footsteps without swerving either to the right hand or the left; but, to do him justice, he was stimulated to activity in his vocation by a better motive than that which arises either from custom or an estimate of hereditary right—he was at heart, as well as in word, a Christian, and the promises contained in, together with the prospects held out by, the book he perused so eagerly, had been, from the moment when reason dawned, the ruling principle by which his life was governed. We pause not to inquire whether he had duly weighed or correctly interpreted all its precepts—whether the hastiness of his nature was not at times opposed to the meek and unupbraiding example of his Divine Master—whether he did not now and then mistake bitterness for sincerity, and persecution for zeal; such errors were but too common to the age in which he lived, and with the church of which he was a member. Never did Gospel hope and Gospel consolation visit him with greater welcome than at the moment of which we write. He entertained little doubt but that his enemy meditated towards him some evil that placed his life in danger: such, however, was not the case; Burrell had agreed to defer the marriage until six of the clock that evening; and, after the ceremony had been concluded, he entertained no doubt that the preacher would retain the secret now in his possession for Constantia's sake.

At Cecil Place all was confusion, for the mind of its afflicted mistress was scarcely able to bear up against the weight of misery that pressed upon it; and Lady Frances Cromwell felt happy and relieved when, about eight in the morning, she fell into an apparently sound sleep. The preparations for the wedding devolved entirely upon her; but, like most persons of an exalted rank, although she knew when things were properly done, she was ignorant how to do them: she, therefore, contented herself with directing her women to make all matters in order; while they, proud and pleased at the commission, gave every body as much trouble as possible. Sir Robert wandered about the house like a troubled spirit, anxious, yet dreading, to see his child; while Sir Willmott, after using every precaution within his power against Zillah's appearance, endeavoured to find occupation by inspecting the carriages that were to convey them to his aunt's house in Surrey, where he had previously determined that they should pass many of the succeeding days—an object not only of convenience, but of necessity, inasmuch as he could thus gain time to arrange with his servants and tenantry at his own dwelling.

Mrs. Claypole had written to Lady Frances, stating that the Protector did not wish his daughter to accompany her friend to the abode of Sir Willmott's aunt, and would, therefore, send a suitable escort to conduct her to Whitehall immediately after the ceremony was concluded. Mrs. Claypole also added that she had left Hampton Court for the purpose of meeting her dear sister Frances in London, as her mother had been indisposed, and could not conveniently do so. The letter prayed for many blessings on the head of their sweet friend Constantia, adding that, from what she heard of her decision on the subject, she could hardly believe contradictory reports—as to her heart being given elsewhere, inasmuch as she must know it to be less evil to break a contract made in youth, with which the mind and feelings had no connection, than to register a solemn pledge of affection and faithfulness before the Lord, where in fact there could be no affection, and faithfulness must be a plant of forced and not of natural growth.

"Yet would they all wax marvellously wroth," said Lady Frances, "if I were to draw my own conclusions from this opinion, and act thereupon. I wonder, does my being the daughter of his Highness the Lord Protector make it less necessary for me to be true and upright? and can a woman be either, yet pledge her hand and faith to one for whom she cares not?——Yet—" She paused, for she had perused the letter within the chamber, and beside the couch on which Constance was still sleeping, and as her eyes fell upon her friend, she could pronounce no harsh judgment upon an act performed by one she loved so dearly, and of whose truth and uprightness there could be no doubt.

While the note was yet open before her, the door opened, and Sir Robert Cecil entered. Lady Frances motioned him that Miss Cecil slept, and the old man stooped over her bed with clasped hands, scarcely breathing, lest he should disturb her rest.

"Has she slept thus all the night?" he whispered.—"Has she slept thus soundly all the night, Lady Frances?"

"No, sir," was the reply; and it was delivered in a tone of unusual sternness; for it must be remembered that she entertained much anger against Sir Robert, for permitting the marriage to take place so manifestly against the inclination of his daughter. "No, sir, it is many nights since she has slept soundly."

"But, lady, see how sweet, how gentle her repose! Surely, she could not sleep thus with a heavy heart?"

"Sir Robert," replied Lady Frances, "the heart's heaviness will make heavy the eyelids; nay, with greater certainty, when they are swollen with weeping."

The baronet stooped down, as if to ascertain the correctness of what the lady had said, and at the instant a tear forced its way through the long fringes that rested on his daughter's pallid cheek. He groaned audibly, and left the apartment with the stealthy step and subdued deportment of a proclaimed criminal.

"They are all mystery, one and all, mystery from beginning to end," thought Lady Frances, as with a heavy heart she went in search of her women to ascertain how they were fulfilling her directions.

In one of the passages she met Barbara weeping bitterly.

"Tears, tears! nothing but tears!" said the Protector's daughter, kindly. "What ails thee now, girl? Surely there is some new cause for grief, or you would not weep thus?"

"My lady, I hardly know what is come over me, but I can scarcely stanch my tears: every thing goes ill. I sent two of the serving maidens to gather flowers, to help to dress up the old chapel, that looks more like a sepulchre than any thing else. And what do you think, my lady, they brought me? Why, rue, and rosemary, and willow boughs; and I chid them, and sent them for white and red roses, lilies and the early pinks, which the stupid gipsies brought at last, and I commenced nailing up the boughs of some gay evergreens amongst the clustering ivy, that has climbed over the north window—the lower one I mean; and just as I had finished, and was about to twist in a garland of such sweet blush roses, an adder, a living adder, trailing its length all up the fretted window, stared with its dusky and malignant eyes full in my face, and pranked out its forked tongue dyed in the blackest poison. Oh, madam! how I screamed—and I know the creature was bent on my destruction, for, when I jumped down, it uncoiled, and fell upon the earth, coming towards me as I retreated, when Crisp (only think, my lady, of the wisdom of that poor dog!)—little Crisp seized it, somewhere by the neck, and in a moment it was dead!"

"You should smile at that, not weep," observed Lady Frances, patting her cheek as she would that of a petted child.

"Oh, but," said Barbara, "it was so horrid, and I was almost sorry Crisp killed it! for it is an awful thing to destroy life, yet it was wickedly venomous."

"Ah, my poor maid! you will have worse troubles soon than that which bids you mourn over an adder's death."

"Do not say so, sweet lady," interrupted Barbara: "ah! do not say so: for I feel, I can hardly tell how, so very, very sad. My poor lady, and my poor self! and you going away, madam—you, who keep up the life of every thing; and, though your waiting maids seem so rejoiced to get back to the court! I don't know what I shall do, not I. I only wish——" She paused abruptly.

"Tell me what you wish, my pretty Barbara—a new cap, kirtle, hood, or farthingale? What, none of these!"

"I was only wishing that Robin Hays was come back, because he would understand my troubles."

"You pay a poor compliment to my understanding, Barbara," observed Lady Frances, with whom Barbara was at all times an especial favourite.

The simple maid courtesied respectfully, while she replied, "My lady, it would ill become me to make free with such as you, but I have many small causes of trouble, which, even if you did hear, you could not comprehend. The brown wren would not go for counsel to the gay parrot, however wise and great the parrot might be, but seek advice from another brown wren, because it would understand and feel exactly the cares and troubles of its own kind."

"What a little fabulist thou art, pretty Barbara! But, if you had been at court, you would not have likened a lady to a parrot."

"Not to a parrot!" repeated Barbara; "such a beautiful bird! that looks so handsome and talks so well!"

"No: but here is a parting present for you, my fair maid; a chain of gold. Stay, I will clasp it on your slender neck myself; and listen to me, Barbara. The daughters of the Protector of England would be ill worthy their father's name or their father's honours, did they not seek to protect the women of their country, and to keep them in virtue and innocence, as he protects the men, and guides them to war and victory, or to peace and honour! Would to God, fair girl, that, notwithstanding your simplicity, the maidens of Britain were all as right-minded and gentle as yourself! As a proof how highly I value your faithful and true affection, I bestow upon you an ornament I have long worn, not to feed your vanity (for we are all vain, more or less,) but to strengthen your principles. If ever you should encounter real sorrow, and I can aid you, send me the clasp of this chain, and I will attend to your request, be it what it may." Lady Frances turned from her with more gravity of aspect and more dignity of demeanour than was her custom, and proceeded to look after the arrangements for her friend's nuptials.

Barbara stood for some time after the lady's departure, holding the gift upon the palm of her small and beautifully formed hand, which no rough labour had hardened or sullied. Her eye brightened as she gazed upon the rich gift; but, in a moment, her thoughts reverted to those with whom were the best feelings of her happy and innocent heart.

"Oh, that Robin had but been here!" she said, "to have heard it all. To think of her who is as great as a princess! What was it? 'faithful and true,' and, oh! how proud—no, I must not be proud—how grateful I am! If my father, my father, too, had heard it; but I can show this to them both. I will not again think of that horrid adder." And with this resolution she crept softly into the chamber of her still sleeping lady.