"Ha, Francis!" exclaimed Lord Walton, grasping the cavalier's hand with warm eagerness, as soon as he had received the embrace of his sister, "are you here before me? You must have used the spur from Worcester, if your letter left the good town before you."

"I have used the spur, Charles," replied his friend, "on purpose to outrun you, and introduce myself to this fair lady without your assistance. You know I was always the most impatient of mortals, and strange, I fear, she thought me; for I could plainly see that she had never heard the name of Francis Clare before." He spoke the last words with a gay laugh and some emphasis.

"Perhaps not," answered Lord Walton, with a grave smile; "but she must know you now, Francis, as one of her brother's dearest and oldest friends. However, I must send her away from us for a minute, for I have a task for her, sad, but pleasing to perform. I just now found poor Arrah Neil, dear Annie," he continued; "she was sitting by the Bishop's Well, dark and sorrowful, as well she may be. The poor old man Neil is dead. They dragged him as far as Devizes, where the lamp that has burned so faintly for the last two years went out, and the poor girl has found her way back hither. Something must be done for her, Annie; and till we can settle what, she must stay here. I left Langan with her to bring her up; so see to her comfort, sister, for by her dress I think they must have robbed her by the way."

"Poor child!" cried Annie Walton. "I was sure the old man would die. Can these really be Christians, Charles--for a few rash words, spoken in haste, to take a man of seventy from his sick bed?"

"His words meant more than they seemed, Annie," answered her brother; "at least, so I gather from their answer to my application for his release; but see to her comfort, dear girl, and then come back to us, for the poor thing spoke of some evil hanging over me here, and, though at times so strange, I have often remarked she speaks not lightly."

"No indeed, Charles," replied his sister, with an anxious look. "Evil hanging over you? What can she mean?"

"I know not, Annie," replied Lord Walton. "Nothing has happened to cause you alarm, has there?"

"Nothing," she answered. "Dry, of Longsoaken, was here this morning, but he was all smoothness and civility."

"That looks ill," said Sir Francis Clare. "He must be a Roundhead by his name; and whenever they speak smoothly, beware of the serpent in the grass."

"And he is a serpent, if ever the earth produced one," answered Lord Walton, thoughtfully. "Did he speak smoothly and civilly? So, so! What was the object of his visit, Annie? or had he any apparent object?"

"Purely, it seemed," replied Miss Walton, "to ask after my health during what he called your long absence. I told him your absence had not been long--only a week; and that you had already concluded your business with the committee, and would return to-day. So then he left that paper with me, which he said must be marrow and fatness to all well-disposed noblemen like yourself. But, indeed, he seemed well affected towards you, and said, I now recollect, something about the people of Bishop's Merton having encroached upon your land at Sarham, which he should be happy to set right for you, and which he could do, if you pleased, without your name appearing in the matter, so as not to affect your popularity with the God-fearing people of the place."

"Where did he learn I ever feared to have my name appear in any act I did?" asked Charles Walton, proudly. "'Tis but such low and creeping things as he is who do things they dare not own. He had some other object; this is all a pretence. But go, dear Annie; there is Langan with the poor girl: perhaps she will tell you more than she would say to me; but do not press her, Annie, if she be unwilling.--And now, Francis," he continued, as his sister left the room, "first, welcome after so long an absence; next, what is this serious business that you would speak with me upon?"

"Faith, but a little matter as this world goes," replied his friend; "and yet one which would have been considered mighty some ten years ago. Now men draw two straws for the longest, or toss up a crown-piece to know, which party they will choose; whether they will fight for their rightful king or his rebel parliament----"

"Not quite so, Francis," replied Charles Walton, seriously; "With me, at least, the question would ever be a serious one, whether I should draw my sword for the representatives of the people of England, when fighting for the just liberties of the land, or for a sovereign who has somewhat infringed them--even if the case stood exactly as the parliament puts it; but----"

"I am glad you have added those words, Charles," interrupted the cavalier; "for on them hangs all the rest. The king is willing to do ample justice to all men. Granted that he has committed faults--and who has greater cause to complain than I have?--granted that he has had bad advisers--granted that he sacrificed Strafford----"

"A terrible fault indeed," replied Lord Walton.

"Granted that his exactions were unjust--ship-money a breach of the best and soundest laws--the star-chamber an iniquitous tyranny; still these errors were a part of his inheritance; and perhaps, if we looked closely, we should find that our fathers who suffered, and by suffering encouraged such things--who fawned upon the hand that pressed them to the ground--who bowed readily to tyranny whenever it stretched forth its rod--have as great a share of the responsibility as he has who only used the powers transmitted to him by his predecessors. But I came not to discuss such questions, Charles Walton. The king has committed errors; he grieves for them; he is ready to repair them; he has done all that man can do to remedy evils past, and provide security against their recurrence. He calls upon every loyal subject to aid him, not only in defending the throne itself, but the country, from those who would evidently shake its constitution to the ground, overthrow its best institutions, and establish, if not the reign of anarchy, the rule of a many-headed monster, which will, if tolerated, end in a despotism more terrible than any we have yet seen within the land. And will Charles Walton, gallant and chivalrous as he is known to be--will he refuse to obey that call? Or is he, who was wont to be so clear-sighted and so keen, one of those who believe that the pretences of the parliament are true; that they seek but to reduce the power of the crown within due limits, to lop the prerogative of those branches that bore oppression, and secure the freedom of the people, yet leave the stability of the throne? Or does he approve of hypocritical pretexts even to gain such ends? No, no! I know him better."

"Certainly," replied the young nobleman; "I neither approve the practices nor believe the pretences of the parliament. But I have hitherto trusted, my dear friend, though they may be now intoxicated with authority, the exercise of which is new to them, and in their pride may encroach upon both the prerogative of the crown and the liberty of the subject--for I can conceive a parliament to become a more terrible tyrant than even a monarch--yet I say, I have trusted that the wiser and the better members of that body will recover from the drunkenness that some have felt, and the fears that have affected others; and that, at all events, if any dangerous and outrageous exercise of power should take place, those who have never favoured the arbitrary use of the royal prerogative, or the licentious exactions of the commons, may have sufficient weight to counterbalance that authority which is but delegated by the people, and which the people can again resume."

"Fatal confidence," exclaimed the cavalier, with a dark and melancholy look, "which never has been, never will be justified! Yet it is one that in all civil strifes many wise and many good men have entertained, till they discovered, when too late, how cruelly they had deceived themselves; till, hanging between two parties and supporting neither, they saw the one sink lower and lower, and the other, which perhaps they most condemned, rise into power, and go on in evil; and then, when they strove to arrest the course of wrong, found themselves either carried away by the current and involved in wickedness they would fain have opposed, or sunk beneath the torrent with those who endeavoured to divert it while it was yet feeble, and whose efforts they might have rendered successful, had they joined therein in time. Let me tell you, Charles, that in the history of all contentions such as those that now shake the land, there is a time when the balance of sincerity and right is clearly on one side, and that it is then true lovers of their country should step in with their whole strength to turn the balance of power upon that side also. There is such a time, believe me; and now is the moment!"

"Perhaps it is," answered Lord Walton, thoughtfully. "I said, my friend, that I had hitherto felt the impressions I described. I did not deny that they are somewhat shaken, perhaps more than I believe."

"When that time has come," continued the cavalier, without appearing to mark his reply, "it is the duty of every man to ask himself, On which side is now the right? on which side is now the danger? and, casting away the memory of old faults and old grievances, to choose boldly and conscientiously between the two. If he chooses well, it will be easy for him at any after-time to guard against a renewal of errors on the part of those whom he supports; but if from any fear of such a renewal he turns to the side which he knows to be acting amiss, he commits himself for ever to the errors he supports, and can never hope to stop their course, or avert their consequences. What I ask you then to do is, to choose! I say not, join the king: I say not, oppose the parliament: I merely say, lay your hand upon your heart, forgetting mistakes that are past, ask yourself, which is now right, and which is now wrong? and choose as your conscience shall direct."

Lord Walton paused for a few moments in deep thought; then giving his hand to his friend, he said, "I will! Ask me no more at present, Francis; nor inquire whether, when I say, I will, I might not say, I have. Resolutions such as these had better be spoken of as little as possible till they can be executed. Stay till to-morrow morning: then back to the king; your further presence here might be dangerous to yourself and hurtful to your cause. And now to other things: how long had you been here before I came?"

"Long enough to find it a dangerous abode, good friend," replied the cavalier. "In truth, Walton, if you have not got an angel here, you have what is more like one than any thing my eyes have yet seen."

"Oh! I know your gallant speeches," answered Charles Walton, with a laugh, his face losing the grave cast which was habitual to it, and brightening with cheerful light; "but Annie is well accustomed to hear sweet things, and I fear not the effect of any high-flown southern compliments on her little heart, which, however gentle, is firm enough to stand a longer siege than any you will have time to give it. But," he added, while his brow grew sad again, "I will own to you, Francis, it is her future fate that in these troublous times half makes a coward of me; and, though knowing what is right, that will I do; yet there is a hesitating fear within me, that in the course I am destined to pursue, I may bring down sorrow and misfortune upon that bright, kind being, who has been ever my sunshine and my hope."

"I can feel that it must be so, Charles," replied his friend, gravely. "Had I a sister such as that, it would be so with me. Therein I can do little to console, and perhaps less to counsel or to help you. But yet, Charles Walton, you know I am something of the ancient knight: my sword and heart for my king and my fair lady; and without any rash promising of love for one whom I have only known an hour, such as one-half of our gay courtiers would make, I promise you, that whatever befalls you, so long as life and strength last, my next thought, after my duty to God and my sovereign, shall be to care for the protection and safety of my friend's sister."

Lord Walton smiled, with a look in which pleasure and grief were strangely blended, but he replied nothing, merely once more pressing Clare's hand.

"Why do you smile, Charles?" asked the cavalier. "Is it that you think me too young, too light, too gay, to take such a task upon myself. My honour, my regard, you do not doubt, I know, and as for the rest, these are days when the old times of chivalry must revive, or the sun will set in darkness indeed; and in these ancient periods men young as I am have, with a holy devotion, been the safeguards and protectors of dames well nigh as fair and bright as this, if we may believe the tales we read."

"But those tales still ended in a marriage, Francis," said Lord Walton.

"Well there let it!" cried the cavalier, gaily. "Here I dedicate my heart and sword to her. Those bright eyes shall be my loadstars on the road to glory, her smile give double vigour to my arm, and fresh sharpness to my lance. There, Walton, is not that the true Orlando? But seriously, what meant your somewhat rueful smile just now? Was it that you thought the gay youth of former days but little fit to supply a brother's place in time of need; or, perhaps, still less, to take a husband's duties on him, if fate and circumstances should draw your sister's heart towards him? But let me tell you, Charles, these are times that make even the thoughtless think; and when I buckled me to the cause I serve, I cast away and left in foreign lands all but the higher purposes of the heart."

"No, no, Francis," replied Lord Walton, interrupting him; "it was neither doubt, nor fear, nor mockery, that made me smile. You do not suppose that, did I not know and see all that is noble and generous in your nature, and bright and keen in your mind, I would have taken you to my heart as I have done. That there might be some weeds in the garden I will not deny; but they were only such as an hour's labour would pluck out with ease, or such as would wither away under the first hot sun, and leave the flowers and fruit behind uninjured. I smiled but to think that some five years ago, when we were both in happier days than these, I often thought that I would gladly give my Annie to my early friend, but little dreamed that times might come when he himself would offer, ere he had seen her twice, to be her defender and protector in case of her brother's death: and who shall say, Francis, how soon such loss may call for such support. But here she comes again; let us say no more of this; but, thank you, thank you from my heart for all you promise. I know right well that promise will be kept, if it cost your last drop of blood."

The faces of both gentlemen were grave when Annie Walton joined them, and on hers too there were traces of some tears. "Poor Arrah Neil!" she said; "hers indeed has been a hard fate. She has made me weep with the tale of the old man's sufferings, so mildly and so sweetly did she tell it. But I could obtain no further information in regard to the danger she apprehended might befall you, Charles; and I cannot but think that her words were spoken in one of those strange dreamy moods that sometimes fall upon her."

"I think so too," answered Lord Walton; "at least it may be so. Where have you lodged her, Annie?"

"She is with good dame Rachel now," answered his sister; "but to-night she is to have the little room near the west tower, and to-morrow you must tell me more of your plans for her, Charles."

"I will, I will," replied Lord Walton, "to-morrow; ay, to-morrow," and he fell into thought, without concluding the sentence.

The evening passed more cheerfully than the conversation which has been detailed seemed to promise. All were anxious to snatch a few hours from the gloomy thoughts that hung over the times, and few allusions were made to the circumstances of the day; but any other subject which minds full of rich stores could produce was chosen, as if to exclude more sombre topics. From time to time, indeed, both Annie Walton and their new companion would for a moment or two look grave and sad, as some passing cloud of thought swept over them; but the young lord, whose power over himself was great, kept the same even tenor, not gay, for such was not his disposition; not gloomy or meditative, for he did not choose to be so, but calm and easy, conversing without apparent effort on a thousand varied things, and never for an instant showing the least absence or forgetfulness. Yet, perhaps, all felt that there were dangers and disasters abroad on every side, though they sat there as a cheerful party, with the windows of the heart closed against the storm that raged without.

There was but one moment when a shadow seemed to fall upon all, and that too was produced by a song. Charles Walton had asked his sister to sing before they parted for the night; and after some thought, seeking in vain for a livelier strain, she chose--perhaps from the irrepressible anxieties of her own heart--a little ballad, which had been a favourite of her mother's, to the following effect:--

Each kept silence for a minute or two after the song was done, and each gave a sigh; but then the cavalier would fain have persuaded Miss Walton to sing again, for her voice was one of those full of native music, which the ear longs for when once heard, as the weary heart of manhood thirsts to taste again the fearless joys of infancy. But she declined, saying she was somewhat weary; and shortly after the little party separated for the night.

Charles Walton shook his friend's hand warmly as they parted, at a yet early hour, and adding to the good-night, "We will speak more before you go to-morrow," he himself retired to his chamber, to pass several hours in meditation ere he lay down to rest.

As soon as he was alone, the young lord sent away a servant who was waiting for him, and then leaned his head upon his hand for some ten minutes without moving. At length he raised his eyes to a heavy sword that hung above the old carved mantel-piece, rose, took it down, drew it from the sheath, and gazed upon the blade. There were some dents and notches in the edge; and saying in a low tone, "It has done good service--it may do more," he thrust it back again, and hung it up as before.

"I will go to my cabinet and write two lines to the king," he added, after a short pause; but then again he stopped and meditated, murmuring, "No, it were better not to write: such documents are dangerous. I will send a message. I see they suspect me already. It were as well to destroy the commission and those other papers, and, if at all, at once. I will do it now. What is the matter?" he continued, as some one knocked at the door.

"Charles, Charles!" cried his sister, coming into the room; and as he sprang to meet her, he saw that her face was very pale.

"There is a terrible smoke," she exclaimed, "and a rushing sound like fire."

"Where? where?" asked her brother, eagerly hurrying towards the door.

"In the corridor, beyond my room," answered Annie, "towards the west wing. Oh, bid them ring the alarum-bell!"

"On no account! on no account!" cried her brother, darting out. "Call all the servants, Annie! Run, Alice!" he continued, to one of his sister's maids, who had followed her, pale and trembling; "send Hugh and Roger here, and then call the rest. Smoke, indeed! There is fire somewhere! Quick, girl! quick! Go back, my Annie, and dress yourself again. I will soon tell you more." And thus saying, he hurried on through the wide gallery, upon which the door of his bed-room opened, and then along the corridor beyond.

The smoke grew thicker at each step he took; the crackling and rushing sound of fire soon became audible, and then a fitful flash broke across the obscurity, like that of a signal-gun seen through a heavy mist.

In a minute he was at a large door which closed the end of the corridor, and, through the neighbouring window he could see the projection of one of the flanking towers, with a small loophole showing a red glare within.

"Here is the fire," he cried, "in my own cabinet! How can this have happened?" and he laid his hand upon the latch. The door was locked. He tried to turn the key, but it was embarrassed. "Bring me an axe!" he exclaimed, hearing several of the servants following him rapidly. "Bring me an axe directly--quick--quick!--all the papers will be burned," and again he tried to turn the key.

"The charter chests were removed, my lord, to the next room," said the good servant Langan. "I moved them myself by your own order, just before we went, that the floor might be repaired."

The young lord laid his hand upon his brow for an instant, and then said, "Let the rest perish then! It is no matter; and just as he spoke, the alarum-bell rang loud and long.

"What fool has done that?" exclaimed Charles Walton. "Ah, Francis! is that you?" he continued, speaking to Sir Francis Clare, who was up and following him fully dressed. "A word in your ear: mount your horse quickly and begone," he whispered. "We shall have all the country on us in half-an-hour. See, there are some twenty on the terrace already. Langan, here--go the round with this gentleman to the stables by the back way, then through the wood with him till he is beyond the grounds. Francis, say I am determined!" he added again, lowering his voice. "You shall see me soon. Away, away, good friend! You know not the people here."

By this time servants were hurrying up with buckets of water, and with axes to break down the door; but before he suffered that to be done, Lord Walton turned to one of those behind, saying, "See to poor Arrah Neil; she is in the chamber just beneath us. Take her to your lady's room. Now, Roger, you and Dick move out the chests from the place where Langan says he put them. Take them down to the terrace; but set some one to watch them. Hark! there is something fallen within."

"The great case of books, my lord, by the sound," said one of the men.

"Now give me an axe," cried the young nobleman, and with a few blows he dashed the lock off the door, and pushed it open, bidding the men throw in the water as he did so.

Out burst the flames and smoke, however, as soon as the obstruction was removed, with such fury, that all were forced to run back; and as it somewhat cleared away, the frightful scene of destruction that the interior of the tower displayed, too plainly showed that there was no possibility left of saving that part of the building.

"Now, my good men," cried the young lord, "let as many as can find buckets keep pouring on the water. The others help me to cut away the woodwork between the tower and the rest. Some of you run up to the corridor above, break down the panelling, and throw it back away from the flames. Fear not, but at all risks cut off the tower from the rest of the house. Call some of those men up from below. Why do they stand idle there?"

The scene of hurry and confusion that succeeded can be imagined by those who have witnessed the consternation produced by a fire in a rural district, where few of those means and appliances which in great towns exist in plenty, but often are found ineffectual even there, are to be met with at all. To prevent the flames from extending to the rest of that wing was found impossible, notwithstanding all the efforts of the noble master of the mansion, and the strenuous exertions of his servants, who speedily recovered from the first confusion of surprise, and recollected the old military habits which they had acquired in former days. The tenantry, too, who flocked up at the sound of the alarum-bell, gave eager but not very efficient help, as well as a number of the townsfolk; but still the fire gained ground, extended from the tower to the rooms in the wing, ran along the cornices, caught the beams, and threatened the whole building with destruction, when a tall, grave stranger in a black cloak and hat walked calmly up to Lord Walton, who had come down to the terrace to give directions to the people below, and said in a low tone--

"A few pounds of gunpowder, my lord, and a linen bag laid above that doorway, and under the coping-stone, will separate the fire from the building. The stone passage cuts it off below; there is but a narrow gallery above, and if you can but break up the corridor----"

"I see! I see!" cried Lord Walton. "Thanks, sir, thanks. Run, Hugh, to the armoury; you will find some powder there."

"I beg, sir, that I may be permitted to make the saucisson," cried a tall man in flaunting apparel. "At the celebrated siege of Rochelle I constructed the famous petard wherewith we blew in the----"

"I thank you, sir," replied the master of the mansion, looking at the person who addressed him from head to foot with a quick but marking gaze; "I will make it myself;" and without further notice he proceeded to give the necessary orders, and to take precautions both to ensure the safety of all persons near, and to guard the building as much as possible from damage by the explosion.

When all was ready, he went into the house to bring his sister forth, lest by any chance the rooms in which she had hitherto remained should be shaken more than he expected; and then, after having placed her at a distance, he himself fired the train, which, being unconfined, except at one part, carried the flame in an instant to the bag of powder, causing it to explode with a tremendous roar. A quantity of brickwork was thrown into the air; the gallery above fell in the moment after; and then, after a short pause, a tall neighbouring tower between the place where the powder had taken effect, and that where the fire was raging, bulged out about half-way up, and then crashed down, strewing the terrace with a mass of broken ruins.

In the anxiety and excitement of the moment, Lord Walton had observed little but what was passing immediately before him; but as he marked the effect and was turning round to look for his sister, in order to tell her that the rest of the mansion was saved, the stranger in black who had spoken to him before, once more addressed him in a low voice, saying--

"You had better look to those chests, my lord; Colonel Thistleton is eyeing them somewhat curiously. As for me, I will wish you good-night; I love not the neighbourhood of parliamentary commissioners; but if you want good help at need, which perhaps may be the case soon, you have only to send a trusty servant to inquire for Martin Randal at Waterbourne, ten miles hence, and you will have fifty troopers with you in two hours."

"I understand, I understand, major!" replied Lord Walton. "God speed you with my best thanks Colonel Thistleton! What came he here for?"

"No good," replied Randal, walking away and beckoning to his tall companion, who followed him with a pompous stride, while Lord Walton turned towards the spot to which he had directed his attention. He there perceived for the first time, three men on horseback, and one who had dismounted and was speaking with a servant who had been placed to watch the two large chests of papers which had been removed from the wing of the building.

As Lord Walton gazed at him, he stooped down once more to look at the chests with a curious and inquiring eye; and striding up to him at once, the young nobleman demanded, in a stern tone--

"Who are you, sir? and what do you want with those cases?"

"My name, my lord, is Thistleton," replied the other; "a poor colonel, by the permission of Providence, in the service of the parliament of England; and when matters are a little more composed I will inform your lordship, as my errand is with you, what excited my curiosity in regard to these cumbrous packages."

"Oh, Colonel Thistleton! That is a different affair," answered Lord Walton. "As soon as I have ascertained that all further danger of the fire spreading is past, I will have the honour of entertaining you as far as my poor house, half destroyed as it is, will admit."

The parliamentary colonel bowed gravely, and the young nobleman then proceeded to give further directions to his people, mingling with commands respecting the fire and the security of the rest of the mansion, sundry orders spoken in a low tone to those servants on whom he could most rely, and to some of his principal tenants.

When he had assured himself that all was safe, and had set a watch, he returned to his sister's side, and led her back to the house, whispering as he went--

"Keep two of your maids with you in your chamber tonight, Annie. See to poor Arrah Neil; and at dawn tomorrow, dear girl, make preparations for a journey. Ask no questions, sweet sister, but pack up all that you most value--all trinkets, jewels, gold and silver, for we may, perhaps, have to go far."

Annie Walton gazed at him with a look of sorrowful, half-bewildered inquiry; but he added, "I cannot explain now, dear one; I will tell you more to-morrow;" and she followed him silently into the house, where he left her, and at once went back to show as much courtesy to Colonel Thistleton and his companions as the feelings of his heart would permit.