Few battlements now remain, of one of the best fortified castles that ever defended Lancashire, and the King. But two centuries ago, and Houghton Tower, situated at the distance of four miles and a half to the west of Blackburn, stood proudly, and seemed in itself, without the assistance of garrison or artillery, to be capable of maintaining a successful struggle with the power of any enemy. All around were peaceful vales, where primitive simplicity dwelt; and often has the traveller, at eve, laid himself down on the green knolls, beside the gently flowing stream of the classic Darwen, in order to become as happy as every object near him; to enjoy the gambols of the lambs frisking about; and to view the milkmaid, as, with a light step, and a merry heart, she tripped across the glen. He has then fancied himself, not only retired for ever from the theatre of war, but likewise from the mart of commerce; and happy has he been that there was an Eden sacred to his imagination, at the very time when the face as well as the heart of his country was blighted by civil strife, and stained by the blood of its own sons, shed by the murdering hand of their brothers. But suddenly—to jar upon all the rural sounds by which he was greeted—the shrill trumpet was heard loud and near, startling the silent echoes of the green woods on the banks of the river, and on emerging from the vale, the fortresses of Houghton Tower were seen, dark and sullen, against the fading light of the sky. The challenge of the warder, and the fastening of the draw-bridge, were of war, and entirely dispelled the previous calm. Who could have imagined that in the bosom of such beautiful vales there could be a mass of frowning rock, so huge as that on which the castle was built? or, that amongst a class of venerable patriarchs, distinguished for simplicity of manners and life, there could be the restless spirits of war to fortify and maintain it? And yet it seemed to be a castle of nature’s building, and not of art’s; for tall trees over-shadowed its turrets, and around its base the Darwen flowed over its deepest channel.

It had been erected by Sir Thomas Houghton, towards the beginning of Elizabeth’s reign, and the gallant knight had always supported a garrison in it, evidently for no other purpose than to fire a salute, at every anniversary of his birth day. But he died, and so did his queen: and upon the accession of the learned James to the throne, folios became the only battlements. His descendant, Sir Gilbert, was honoured with a visit from that monarch, in his celebrated “Progress” through Lancashire; and from the tower of Houghton, the modern Solomon fired his wit from an old Latin mortar. “Our opinion” said the grave fool and the merry sage, “whilk hath been kept for some time, as our jester Horace (the oyster eater should have lived in our court) recommends, in our desk,”—and here he pointed to his brow, with his usual self-complacency—“our opinion is,” he continued, “that Houghton Tower is just like a Scotch pudding—ha!—ha!—Sir Gilbert;—your castle is a pudding, and you are chief butler, and all your men are cooks! We say so.”

But another reign brought different scenes. Upon the disputes of Charles and the Parliament, a strong garrison was again supported in the tower, and the costly velvet which had decked the “Progress” of James, through the ponderous gateway, was removed from the trampling hoof of the war steed. The Parliamentary army besieged it, but it made a bold defence, until, by accident, the magazine of powder in the strongest battlement, was ignited; and as the assailants were making a vigorous effort, all at once three of the buttresses were blown up, and Cromwell’s troops were masters of Houghton Tower, having taken all the garrison as prisoners. Their governor, Sir Gilbert, had fallen in the assault. His son Richard was heir, and the rightful lord of the tower, but he was confined in a dungeon, along with his youngest daughter, Anne—for all her sisters were married. But the wily Cromwell, when he was compelled to lead his troops to Ireland, secretly advised his officers in the garrison to give out that they were willing to conspire against the Parliament, and to return to their allegiance, in order that he might be privy to every intended movement of the Royalists. The plot was successful. As soon as Cromwell had departed from England, (he never had resided in the tower,) this resolution was made known, and to prove its sincerity, Sir Richard Houghton was restored to his claims as governor of Houghton Tower, which was once more considered as a strong-hold of the Royalists; while virtually it was in the power of spies, who secretly conveyed all intelligence of any loyal movement which was, or had been concerting,—to the General.

The scene of our Legend opens in the year 1651, on a beautiful evening towards the end of August, when the setting rays of the autumn sun fell, with a luxurious light, on the grey fortresses, and the floating banner. The fair Anne was walking alone, on the eastern battlement which overlooked the valley. She was of slight proportions, and her age could not have exceeded sixteen, though she was possessed of a mind nobly accomplished, in which genius and passion were now beginning to develope themselves, in beauty and power. Her features were eminently noble, and beautiful; yet changing to every expression, as if they themselves thought and felt. In one mood, she might have sat to the painter, for a true image of the laughing and innocent Hebe; one who would have danced away an immortality in smiles, with no other wreathes than her own beautiful hair, and no other company than her own thoughts and love: more gay and gladsome than a child of earth,—the genius of witchery. In another, for that of Melancholy, her long dark locks hanging over a face so pale, with the colour and the life of hope dashed from it, as was hope itself, from her mind. Her form was moulded in the most perfect symmetry of beauty,—not luxurious, but spiritual.

The weeds of mourning for her mother, who had died a few months before, had been thrown aside; but the paleness of her cheeks, and the tremor of her lips, spoke the sorrow of her heart. Her locks waved to the breeze. Her eye kindled with enthusiasm, as, quickly placing her small hand upon her marble brow, she exclaimed, “how tranquil and how beautiful is earth now. Yonder cottages, with their ivy porches, around which children are sporting, appear as if they were the habitations of young spirits. England is blessed in her cottages—but ah!—in her palaces!—no crown for the sun’s rays to fall upon! Once the sun gleamed upon the crown placed carelessly amidst the state ornaments, in the palace:—without, upon the gory head of the king, which had once been invested by it; and last of all, upon his headless trunk. Oh! that his son—now returned, might be blessed with conquest.”

At this moment, her eye was arrested by a reflection of light in the distance. It was the gleam of arms, from a small body of soldiers; over whom the banner of Charles was waving.

In her joy, Anne Houghton clasped her hands, and fervently said, “Thank God! all are not traitors.” She turned round, and met the searching glance of Colonel Seaton, one of Cromwell’s spies.

“Fair lady—yonder troop is a loyal body. But—” and his countenance darkened with thought as he spoke,—“they have now encamped, and three horsemen leave the line, and are galloping in the direction of the tower. Well—for their reception!”

There seemed to be a concealed meaning in his tones, and in haste he strode away. Three men were now seen approaching the avenue which led to the gateway. The foremost seemed to have no armour, but a sword. He wore no helmet, but a low cap, with a white plume. He was clad in a mourning garb, and over his left arm his cloak was flung, as for a shield. Keen was his eye, though he had evidently passed the meridian of life, and the fair lady of the tower almost believed that she only stood at a short distance from him—so quick was its flash. Behind him was a handsome youth, equipped in light panoply, who seemed fitted either for contesting the battlefield—or for sighing, not unpitied, in a lady’s bower. Light was the rein which he passed over his charger, and yet, as it plunged furiously, the rider sat with indifference. The third horseman, who seemed altogether absorbed with papers on which he was glancing, was the most stalwart. His coat of mail was clasped over a breast, full and prominent, and his horse startled whenever his mailed hand was placed upon its mane, to urge it forward. His eye never sought the fortress of the tower, until they had arrived at the drawbridge—when the warder’s horn sounded the challenge, and Sir Gilbert appeared on the walls. The first horseman called out, “The Earl of Derby, with two friends, in the service of Charles.”

The drawbridge arose instantly, and, as they entered, Sir Richard gave the Earl a warm welcome. “In mourning, my noble friend? Is the Countess of Derby in health?”

“Yes,” was the reply—“But I wear these weeds for my late unfortunate master: and never shall they be exchanged—unless for a court dress, to appear with my heroic lady, in the palace of his son.”

“Never,” was the ejaculation of Colonel Seaton, who now bowed his homage to the loyal nobleman and his companions. The word seemed ominous—but it was intended to be more than ominous. A tear trembled in the Earl’s eye, and, although delicate was the hand which brushed it away, that hand seemed formed for the sword. “Excuse my weakness,” he added. “Loyalty costs me much; but for every tear which falls on the ground, that ground shall drink, till it be glutted, aye, dyed with the enemy’s blood.” This was said in no threatening tone, but, from its very mildness, was thrilling with the sternest revenge, and breathing the spirit of the deadliest resolution; as the still calm, sometimes truly announces the darkness and fury of the tempest.

“Sir Thomas Tyldesley and a distant relation, whom he calls his nephew;—dear to me for themselves, as well as for their loyalty, accompany me,” said Derby, introducing them to Sir Richard; “we met at Preston, in the royal name, once more to try the cause of Charles.”

“My sword,” replied Sir Thomas to the praise of the governor, “once intervened between the king and death; and gladly would I have intervened myself, to save him from his shameful end. I can do the same for his son: my nephew will support me,” and he looked with emotion upon his young relative. They informed Sir Richard, that at the head of six hundred men, they were on their march to possess themselves of Wigan, and then to join the army of the king. Colonel Seaton councilled them to delay their march till the morrow, and then some of the garrison might be prepared to accompany them. Meanwhile, he assured them that a messenger should be sent to the camp, to make known this resolution. He stepped aside to one of his men, and, in a low and firm voice said, “Mount horse ere another minute is gone, and meet Colonel Lilbourne, and bid him haste to seize upon Wigan. Stay—” as he bethought himself, “your course may be seen at present; in half-an-hour you will be favoured by the night,—and ride, as from death!” “Perhaps,” he muttered to himself, as he moved on to join the Earl, “Lilbourne may give them a welcome, if his friendship be hasty, in these very walls.”

Sir Richard Houghton had now conducted the new comers up to the battlements, through ponderous arches, and had asked Derby’s blessing upon his beautiful daughter. Kind was the Earl’s language to the maiden, as, gently taking her arm, he put it within that of young Tyldesley; “Let the smiles of beauty always honour and reward the young and brave royalist!”

“Old soldiers likewise honour the youthful royalist,”—interrupted Colonel Seaton, who had joined them—“and perhaps high honours await him on the morrow.” These words were not heard by young Tyldesley, who was gallantly paying his compliments to the lady. Her eye never wandered from the ground, even to gaze upon the handsome cavalier, until they had entered the great hall, and she was led by him to a seat in the recess, with the casement opening upon the woody precipices of the tower. She then stole a glance at him, as he gazed upon the scene without. He seemed agitated with some remembrance newly awakened. Anne’s eyes were still upon him, until, at length, he broke from his reverie.

“Excuse my rudeness, fair lady:—the times prevent us from giving the attention we are proud to show. In the midst of courtesy, aye, and of tenderer duties, the trumpet calls us away, or some painful remembrance comes, like a cloud, over our joy. Three years ago I was cloistered within the walls of Oxford, striving successfully for literary honours. My sister,—fair and beautiful as the lady-love of a poet’s dream; and pure as an angel—for she transformed earth into a holy spot, and then fondly clung to every flower which grew there, of hope and love—came from home to visit me. It was towards sunset, in summer, when she entered my apartment. She rushed not forth to meet me, as was her wont. She was pale, and her golden ringlets were disordered;—but her countenance was intensely thoughtful, and she assumed all the affection of an elder sister, kissed my brow, and asked God to bless her brother Henry. Cold were her lips, as I fondly pressed them. I put her hand within my bosom, and encircled her slight frame with my arm. I begged her to tell me her distress. I had not a friend to inquire respecting; we were two orphans; and, therefore, I knew that the causes of her anguish were bound up in herself. ‘Oh! Eleanor,’ I said, ‘how different is this meeting from our last; in this very room, when you bounded in, all fondly and playfully, and gave me a kiss for every medal of honour I had won.—See,’ and I showed her many which I had won since—‘will you refuse me a sister’s reward?’ She bent forward—her arms were twined around my neck, when her head sunk on her bosom. ‘Oh! tell me!’ I exclaimed with an earnestness almost frantic, ‘why are you thus disturbed?’ She slowly raised her face, with a strange expression, and asked, ‘Does a nerve of my frame tremble, brother? do mine eyes drop one little tear? why, then, should ye suppose me distressed?’ Here a bell tolled suddenly—it was no requiem for the dead—but for a noble youth who was shortly to be so.

“She started up, and exclaimed, ‘it is time!—brother, ask me not a question, but silently accompany me.’

“‘Where?’ I inquired.

“‘To the place of execution!’

“The truth now flashed upon me. She took my arm and we left the room. It was a beautiful night, so like the present. I lamented the fate of him who must bid adieu to earth, when it was so lovely, and on a scaffold! and I longed to know the tie which bound my sister to him, but I dared not question her. We had already left the suburbs of Oxford, and the dense crowd was in sight at a short distance. She broke the silence, ‘Henry, do not hold me, when I quit your arm; do not, for my mother’s sake. That vow is sacred to us both!’ We had now reached the place of death. The sun gleamed upon the block. I thanked God that he was to be beheaded as a gentleman, and not hanged as a dog. He came upon the scaffold with a proud step, and a haughty mien. His head was uncovered, and dark were the beautiful locks, which hung over his neck;—but that head, which might have lain on my sister’s bosom, was to be as a piece of wood for the axe of the executioner! My sister never trembled, but gazed upon him. He started as he looked upon the block! He approached,—the executioner was about to unbuckle the sword of the condemned cavalier, when, with a proud glance, he forbade him. He knelt:—his lips moved in prayer. His eyes fell upon the marks of military honour on his breast. ‘Sir William,’ he said, ‘thou art no more.’

“At his name, my sister gave one scream of madness; he started up at the sound, and his eyes were upon Eleanor. ‘My Eleanor!’ he exclaimed: she rushed to the scaffold; but in a moment he was bound down to the block, and the axe fell, but not before a loud shout came from his lips, ‘God save King Charles!’ and there was my sister kneeling over him, and then attempting to snatch the head from the executioner, in her frenzy. I sprung forward—I heard a fall—Eleanor was dead upon the headless trunk! I rushed home with the lifeless body in my arms, and there pronounced a vow of revenge upon the rebels, by whom I had lost a sister.

“My books were disregarded, and I joined my brave uncle. But—this night is the exact type of that awful night! and I—have no sister!”

He buried his face in his hands. In sympathy, tears were flowing down the cheeks of Anne. He raised his eyes, and blessed her for one tear shed over the memory of Eleanor. He even ventured to take her hand—and it was not withdrawn—“Excuse me,” he said, “I cannot leave the subject soon, as I cannot leave her grave when I visit it, until the dews are falling upon my prostrate form. It is sacred. You remind me of her. And will the fair Anne Houghton refuse to be unto me what my Eleanor was?”

At this moment the warriors entered the hall, and a council was held, as to their future movements, when Sir Richard bade his daughter give orders to the domestics for the feast. In an hour the entertainment was ready, and the hall lighted. Sir Thomas Tyldesley sat at the table in full armour, and at every movement which he made, the clang of his armour was heard, amidst the sober mirth of the feast. Colonel Seaton inadvertently remarked “The Lord’s people of old were commanded to eat the passover with their staves in their hands, ready to depart; and his people, now, must eat with their swords in their hands.”

“Friend,” replied the knight, “that speech savours too much of a roundhead, who must always be quoting scripture. I once knew one of them, whom Cromwell advised to read carefully the account of Jael and Sisera; and after he had done so, he would inquire at every old woman whom he met, whether she had got such articles as a long nail, a heavy hammer, and a strong arm; and told her to operate upon the head of a cavalier, assuring her ‘that the Lord had delivered all such into her hand,’ and that she would henceforth be a mother in Israel. No, no, colonel,—I do not say let soldiers leave piety to monks, but let them, I say, leave sermons, homilies, and long faces.”

“Well spoken,” said Sir Richard Houghton, “but our friend hates the roundheads.”

“I do,” replied the Colonel, “God save King Charles.”

At this moment a blast was heard, and Sir Richard arose, when Seaton again interrupted them. “Keep your seat, worthy knight, and entertain your guests. I will go and parley with the new comer; it is the blast of a royalist.” He strode away saying in his heart, “God save Cromwell.”

In a short time he returned with the stranger, who was of an athletic frame, altogether destitute of grace, though not of dignity; for he strode into the hall with a commanding air. His eye moved restlessly over the forms of the warriors, when the Earl of Derby started up, with his hand on his sword.

Colonel Seaton stepped between them, “You behold a friend, noble Earl! the governor of a loyal castle, who has come to deliberate with Sir Richard Houghton, in reference to their garrison: not knowing whether they ought to join the King at Worcester, or keep to their castle.”

The Earl was satisfied, and only remarked that “he had been deceived by a resemblance.”

The stranger was invited cordially to partake of the cheer; during which he spoke but little, and yet seemed interested in the conversation. At length Sir Thomas Tyldesley proposed that a song should be sung, adding “that amongst royalists there were to be found the only true poets.”

“Nay, Sir Thomas,” replied the Earl of Derby, “the republicans can boast of one whose name shall be the boast of our country to latest ages, whose lays are wild and majestic. When in London, I was desirous of seeing the man who wrote so bitterly against the king; expecting to see a fiend in human disguise. His house was mean: I thought that he surely had not taken bribes, otherwise he might have lived in a magnificent mansion. As I entered, two females were writing, and the sound of an organ came from the further end of the room. I turned there, and beheld a beautiful man, seated behind the faded hangings, with a countenance so serene and angelic, and his eyes looking up to heaven, as if his soul was ascending on the breath of the music. He was dictating to the ladies, who called him father. He moved not his eyes: his face was pale, but every muscle seemed to vibrate with thought and feeling. His hair was parted in front, over a beautifully formed brow, and fell in brown ringlets over his shoulders. He could not be young—there was so much of thought:—he could not be old—there was so much of happiness. ‘Dorothy,’ he said, ‘I have given you the last sentence:—subscribe Joannis Miltonus.’”

“Milton!” exclaimed the stranger with enthusiasm. “John Milton!”

“His daughter,” the Earl continued, “beheld me; they told their father that an armed stranger was present. His sword was on the table—he grasped it—but instantly laid it down. ‘He is welcome, though I cannot see him. All is dark—dark—not even shadows. But your errand, sir stranger?’—and his sightless orbs seemed to turn upon me, with the sweetest, and yet most dignified expression. I dared not announce with what views I had come, but I went close to his side, and took the hand (it scarcely touched as if it were human) which was stained with my master’s blood, and I kissed it in profoundest admiration. I remained for hours, happy, useful hours. He arose, as I prepared to depart; I yet see his form; I yet hear his step. He led me to the door, and blessed me. I have often thought of the interview, and as I passed the Darwen a few hours ago, I repeated his lines—though they were commemorative of the king’s defeat,—

‘And Darwen’s streams with blood of Scots embrued.’”

Here the stranger was much moved, and frequently repeated to himself, “my Milton! my Milton!”

“Yes,” added Sir Thomas Tyldesley, “it was on such a night as this, three years ago, that Cromwell defeated the Duke of Hamilton.”

“It was,” replied the stranger, averting his gaze.

The conversation now began to turn upon their warlike plans, and Henry Tyldesley, conceiving that he might be more agreeably occupied, led Anne to a seat in the recess, where our fair readers, we doubt not, have been frequently wishing them to be, together and alone.

Music was heard from the battlements, through the casement; the moon shed her softening light upon the young hero’s armour, and he almost fancied that the rays were the fingers of his beautiful companion. They spoke not, though their eyes had met, and though the emotions with which they were lighted up, could not be mistaken. They loved fondly, and to them both it was that holy and rapturous thing—first love—which is for ever remembered, even in old age, as something more beautiful and real than a dream of earth. In war, love is seen only as in a glimpse, yet then it is most interesting. Does the dove ever appear so much the spirit of peace and hope, as when her silver wings are seen, like eternal types of light, through the darkness of the storm, ascending to heaven? How beautiful then is every flutter! Darkness is over all, except these wings, and they appear purer and whiter than ever! Thus is it with love, when it clings, fonder and fonder, in the midst of danger; and when slender arms twine themselves around the martial form, as if they could give a charm against wounds and death, which reach through corslet and shield.

Young Tyldesley had taken her hand, and she had not withdrawn it, when a shadow was reflected from the casement, at which they sat within hearing of the Darwen. Anne started, and on turning round beheld her maid, who motioned her to leave the hall. There was an unusual earnestness in her manner as she whispered “for God’s sake—for your own—not a moment’s delay, my lady!”

Her mistress silently obeyed her.

They were now both upon the battlement, at the eastern extremity.

“We are out of hearing,” said the maid, looking cautiously around; and gazing upon Anne, whispered with terror, “you are betrayed!—betrayed—and in the power of false hearts, but daring hands!”

“Never,” replied her mistress with energy, “who dares asperse his character and motives?—the stranger is true—”

“My young lady thinks of love,” returned her maid,—“but I refer not to a lover. Nay, blush not; I meant not, that falsehood, either to his king, or his lady-love, is in the heart of that young and handsome cavalier; no, he and his companions I could swear over my dead husband’s bible, are loyal and noble. But the new comer, whom Colonel Seaton admitted, is a traitor!—nay, start not, my fair mistress,—and Houghton Tower is now in the hands of Charles the First’s murderers!”

There was a fearful reality, thrilling in the voice of the attendant; so different from the gossiping tone, for which she was somewhat noted.

“Gracious heaven!” exclaimed her mistress, “and are we betrayed? I doubt the fidelity of Seaton. He had the countenance of an honest man until this day; but I now fear me, that his heart is deceitful and villainous. The stranger, too, seemed sullen; still, there was an expression of cunning. Yet why should we tremble? Let their heads grace the walls of Houghton Tower!—my father shall see it done.”

“Hush, hush, my lady,” replied her maid, “other heads than those of traitors may, ere long, grace the turrets. They are supported by the garrison. I learned as much from one of the sentinels, and a high admiration he expressed for the stranger, whom my husband, heaven rest his soul! would have addressed as an ungainly butcher, such is the villain’s appearance.”

Here she was interrupted:—she beheld two forms in the distance, approaching, and she whispered to her mistress, to screen themselves from view, behind the enormous engine posted on the battlements. Scarcely had they done so, before they heard steps near them, and instantly a dead pause was made. A stern voice now lowly broke upon the silence, and Anne recognized it to be that of the stranger, only it seemed more authoritative, even in its whispers. “Is all safe? Is every thing in readiness?”

“Yes,” was the short reply of his companion, Colonel Seaton; but it was given in an obsequious and reverential tone.

“But Derby, and his companions—”

“Your excellency,” returned Seaton, “they shall be taken care of. Though the night is not dark, still, dangers beset their way back to the camp; and since their health is valuable, we must not expose them beyond the limits of Houghton Tower. We are good nurses, and are generally able to lull all whom we love, into a long and sound sleep. Fear not—they are safe;”—and he laughed in scorn.

After a moment’s pause, the stranger replied, “Seaton, you speak of sleep; let us then think of a bed for them. I have heard of a deep draw-well in the court; they would not be disturbed there. ’Twill but keep them from a sea of blood, into which, heaven assisting me, the royalists must soon be plunged, and drowned, like Pharoah’s host, in the red sea,—aye, red indeed! But, Seaton, see that these three men do not quit the tower; their troopers shall be an easy prey—they are sheep without a shepherd.”

“Fear not,” the Colonel again said; “they are safe. They have been men of blood, and it is but befitting them, that they should undergo a cleansing. The ruffian Tyldesley pointed out to me some stains of blood upon his armour—aye, the blood of our companions: the well shall wash them out. Your excellency shall triumph over all your enemies.”

“Again,” interrupted his companion, “I charge it upon you. I am not wont to come unattended, but, at present, I have run every hazard, encountered every danger, to learn how our cause prospers. The enemy is in our power. Seaton shall defeat Derby at Houghton Tower, and his general shall defeat Charles at Worcester.”

The stranger here spoke in a soothing and flattering tone. He added a few more words, but they were inaudible. The speakers then trod to and fro, upon the battlements, conversing with each other in whispers. Sometimes the stamp of the stranger was heard enforcing his words.

The fair Anne, concealed with her attendant, behind the engine, had listened in terror to the preceding conversation. She saw that they were surrounded by the most artful plots, managed by powerful and experienced agents; that the cause for which she had so long implored the assistance of heaven, was in the greatest danger; that her father, and young Tyldesley, whom she did not now blush to think of as a very dear friend, with his uncle, and Derby, must perish; and that she herself was at the mercy of stern and unflinching ruffians. But how could she inform them of treachery, when the traitors were walking near the place of her concealment? Every moment seemed an hour; and, perhaps, it was then being determined that every royalist in the tower, should be dragged by the garrison, to a disgraceful end! She was almost frantic with impatience, and she knew, likewise, that one slight movement of her posture, as well as a whisper, might betray her.

Again the two republicans stood opposite to the place where the females were concealed, and their conversation could be heard.

“All is safe,” said the stranger. “A few hours will bear me to my men, assured that no enemy can annoy me in the rear; and before me is the hungry skeleton of a wandering king. Pity that the royal fool will not become my groom. He should be fed and clad, and I might, eventually, raise him to hold my stirrup.” There was intense mockery in his tones. He continued,—“aye, and when his time allowed him to sport, I might procure him a gilded staff for his sceptre, and he might crown himself, with straw from the manger—the Lord’s anointed!”

Not a smile passed over the face of the speaker, and Seaton, was silent. The words were too earnest to be taken as humourous sallies. The stranger resumed,—“He returns again to England. Poor fool! Nature seems to have beheaded him at his birth! and all that the Lord’s people can do, is to bury him.” The speaker’s scorn here seemed to increase, until he became silent. Colonel Seaton ventured to inquire—

“Your excellency departs early?”

“In a few minutes hence,” was the reply. “I may be suspected;—as I entered the hall, Derby seemed to recall my features. The dead, methinks, have a better cause to bear me in memory, than the living. Yet Derby should recollect me; I once crossed swords with him, disguised in habit, but not in countenance; and to a singular incident he owed his safety. He fought bravely, and I should have dispatched him gallantly, had—but this avails not now. He seems to know me.”

“Nay,” replied Seaton, “he spoke kindly to you after I explained the purport of your visit. Let us return to the hall for a little.”

“Why?” asked the stranger proudly;—“to be discovered? and then the stay of England’s army and England’s freedom would be broken! No, I mount horse instantly.”

“Your hasty departure may excite suspicion, and frustrate our schemes.”

“’Tis well. I go to bid them adieu, a long adieu; ’tis probable that I may never see them more. I am not in the habit of searching wells, there to renew old acquaintanceship.”

They passed on. Anne started up from her concealment. Not a moment was to be lost, after the republican disappeared in the distance. But alas! she could gain admittance to the hall by no other way than that which they had taken. She reached the hall door,—she heard her father, in a loud and merry tone of voice, pledge the health and safety of the stranger. For a moment she stood irresolute, when Seaton and his companion appeared. “Fair maid,” said the stranger, “receive my wishes and prayers, as I bid you adieu.” In a moment he was gone, and she rushed into the hall.

“Speak not! ask no questions, noble warriors!” she exclaimed. “We are betrayed! Yes, father, that stranger you have harboured as a guest, is a republican, and Seaton has been acting as his spy. The garrison are likewise traitors, and from us all escape is cut off—”

“I knew that it was Cromwell,” replied Derby, as he started from his seat, “but heaven grant that he is not yet beyond our reach; I’ll die in capturing him! My friends, let us pursue!”

He drew his sword, and every sign of feebleness left his frame. Attended by his two companions, and the governor, he rushed forth, exclaiming “treason! treason!”

Fiery and impatient were their spirits, and as hasty their steps. They came within sight of the drawbridge. It was up: and as they rushed forward, a horseman spurred his steed across it, and it again fell, and all communication was prevented. Cromwell had escaped! and in the bitterness of disappointment Derby and the governor stood bewildered, and thought not of securing the traitor Seaton. They returned to the hall without perceiving that Sir Thomas Tyldesley had left them, until the inquiries of Anne rendered them aware of his absence. When they were alternately expressing their disappointment at Cromwell’s escape, and their surprise as to what had befallen the knight, a shriek was heard, as coming from the nearest turret. Anne exclaimed, “the garrison are traitors, and they are now slaying Sir Thomas.”

“Nay, lady,” said the earl, “Tyldesley must first become coward, ere a shriek escape him, though tortured beyond endurance. He would express triumph even in death. But let us hasten. Fair lady, you may be safer under our protection than in the hall. Lean on Harry’s arm, it is the arm of a soldier—come;” and they hastened to the place whence the noise proceeded. The moon shone full on their faces, and gave them, to the gaze of each other, a strange mystery. A step was heard in the distance, and soon Sir Thomas Tyldesley stood before them, with his naked sword in his hand. He bade them follow. He halted at the distance of a hundred yards, and raising up an object which lay motionless, revealed the lifeless body of Seaton. He tossed it down; and there it lay, with ghastly features, all marked with blood, turned upon the spectators. A sword was beside the body: the knight grasped it, and said,—

“The traitor fell by his own weapon. Thrice through the heart I stabbed him with it, for I would not wound him with a sword which I received from our late master.”

“He richly deserved a thousand deaths,” ejaculated the governor.

“Richly indeed,” replied Tyldesley, “had all his villainy been comprehended in this night’s treachery. He lowered the drawbridge, and while we stood astonished and motionless with anger, attempted to retreat. I followed him. He muttered to himself, ‘Cromwell is safe, and now for the mutiny in the garrison.’ He reached the highest battlements. Rushing past him, I presented myself full on his path, and ordered him to stand on his defence, or die. He hesitated; entreated me for his life; wished to be thought a coward; and yet all the time was cautiously, and, as he thought, secretly, drawing his sword. He knelt, and then, imagining that I was bending over him, he made a furious thrust, which I foiled, and struck his weapon from his hand. Ha! it seems to pollute my hand as I now grasp it.” The knight approached the walls, and tossed it over. In its descent it glimmered in the moonshine, and the bloodstains were seen, until it fell into the river.

He returned, and taking up the body of Seaton, said, “let its master share the same fate,” and instantly hurled it over, and a heavy splash was heard.

“So much for a traitor,” said Derby, “but did not the young lady say that all the garrison were traitors also? What then is to be done? Let us leave the tower, for if they knew of the murder of their leader, all our lives would be sacrificed, and my troops could not advance to the assistance of Charles. What dost thou advise, Sir Governor?”

“I cannot leave Houghton Tower,” was the reply. “I am its owner, and must either live or die in it.”

“Perhaps,” interrupted his daughter, “the garrison, since Seaton is dead, and all other supporters are at a distance, may not openly rebel for some time.”

“Maiden,” said Derby, “thy counsel is good. Let them, moreover, be informed of Seaton’s just death, and should they revolt, it would be at the moment, and then Sir Richard might hang out a signal from the walls, and in a short time my troops would advance to the rescue. Meanwhile, Sir Thomas, it is necessary that we should instantly be at the head of our men, prepared for every emergency. Let us to horse!”

This proposal met the sanction of the warrior. Our young hero, however, turned pale; he was to be torn from the object of his fondest love, never, perhaps, to meet again. He committed his mistress to the care of her attendant, who now appeared.

“Nay,” said Sir Richard. “We part not thus; let my noble guests once more, in the hall, pledge the good old cause. Meanwhile your horses shall be prepared for the way.”

Young Tyldesley, as long as they remained in the hall, looked in vain for Anne to enter. He was obliged to leave without pronouncing farewell.

They had now reached the gateway, where stood their horses. A young page was likewise in waiting, who craved in a low, yet sweet voice, to accompany them, as he was of no use to his fair mistress, and might be the bearer of warlike messages, though a very unwarlike personage himself.

“Does your mistress know of your departure?” asked Sir Thomas Tyldesley.

“Yes,” was the reply.

“Then, nephew, he is but of slender form, and cannot burden your horse. Mount him behind you.”

When all was in readiness, the drawbridge arose, they spurred their horses, the moon shone upon the armed horsemen, and the pale face of the page, who clung fast to Henry Tyldesley, and soon from the tower their march could not be heard.

Sir Richard sat in the hall, considering in what manner he should best break his message to the garrison. Wishing to consult Anne, whom he fondly loved, and whom, young as she was, he used to call his premier, he retired to her private chamber, but she was not there. He was not at first alarmed, because he knew, that on a moonlight night, she was in the habit of walking on the battlements, and enjoying the sweet influences which breathed upon her from so many sources. But after an hour had passed, and still she came not, though she must have known the perplexed state of her father’s mind, occasioned by the strange events which that night had disclosed, he summoned her attendant.

“Where is my daughter?” anxiously asked the knight. The woman was silent, but some secret intelligence seemed lurking on her lips. Sir Richard became enraged; at length, she muttered, “She is not in Houghton Tower.”

“Not in Houghton Tower!” exclaimed the knight, half frenzied. “And she is lost to me! There she was born, there she has lived, the only flower of my hopes and love, which my own heart’s blood would have been willing to cherish; aye! and there she should have died! The little chapel, where she has so often prayed by my side, would have given her a holy grave, and the withered hands of her old father before they were stiff in death, would have gathered a few blossoms, and strewn them over it. She’s gone!—gone!”

The woman stood speechless at the ravings of her master. His mind had always before been calm, as the stillest lake embosomed in a summer glen. Even when his lady died, the composure of a feature was not disturbed. Amidst treachery and private grief he had been unmoved. But now, what agitation amidst the silent thoughts of an old heart! Beautifully was it fabled by the ancients, that should the sleeping waters of Lethe, on whose fair breast, no breeze came to silence the murmur of its loving waves, which were only heard by young spirits revelling there—be stormed into fury by any influence, no trident of Neptune could assuage them. The young, when their hopes are blasted, know nothing of the grief felt by the aged, when their last hope dies, and when winter is over their feelings.

At length Sir Richard recovered himself, so far as to inquire where his daughter was. “She has gone,” was the reply, “with the Earl of Derby. The young horseman has avowed his love for her.”

“Eternal curses on them all!” thundered forth the knight. “Thus it is. These old men have conspired to ruin her. Derby pressed her upon the youth’s notice, and has persuaded her to accompany them. They are pledged against her innocence! aye!” his rage still increasing,—“so have I heard of the unlicensed conduct of cavaliers—but I will be revenged!—and henceforth, I am the bitter enemy of all royalists!” In a moment, passion and love for his daughter had brought him to this conclusion. He invoked curses on Charles. Every prepossession in favour of the cause which he hitherto supported, was gone, and in its place, inflexible and active hate had entered.

He left the hall, and acquainted the garrison,—who, we have seen, were well disposed to Cromwell, with his daughter’s flight, and instantly inspired them with deadly revenge. They all loved Anne; she had listened to the tale of war which the very humblest of them had to recite; and many of them had almost been compelled to acquaint her with the plot of the Parliamentary officers. But at present they were cool enough to observe, that it would neither be prudent nor safe to make a sally upon Derby’s followers, to whom they were inferior in number. It was, therefore, agreed, that at the hour of midnight, fifty men from the tower should accompany Sir Richard Houghton, to join the army of Captain Lilbourne, who was then supposed to be marching from Manchester, to seize on Wigan, and defend it against the royalists. Thus, Sir Richard Houghton, formerly a true, though by no means an active, defender of Charles, became a zealous supporter of Cromwell.

Long before morning had dawned upon the camp, the Earl of Derby was stirring about, and ordering all to be in readiness for departure. No signal had been seen from Houghton Tower. It was, therefore, concluded, that there had been no mutiny in the garrison. In a short time, the trumpet was sounded, and all were mounted, waiting the command to march. Derby rode into the centre, in full armour, accompanied by his faithful servant, a Frenchman, who was proud to behold his master once more arrayed for the field, where he should distinguish himself. Every lock of his dark hair was concealed beneath his steel-front beaver, and the mournful expression usual to his features, was now exchanged for that of sternness. A loud shout was raised for “King Charles and Derby.”

The trumpets sounded, and in triple rank, with the earl in front, and Sir Thomas Tyldesley and his nephew, accompanied by the young page, in the rear, they hastily marched on. Lord Widdrington, and Sir Robert Throgmorton, with a few soldiers, rode in different directions, to give the alarm, should the enemy appear, though that was not considered as at all likely.

The page kept close by young Tyldesley, in the march; yet he spoke little, even when Anne Houghton, his mistress, was introduced to be praised. Upon giving expression to a beautiful and earnest prayer, that Charles might return to his own, young Tyldesley took his hand; it shrunk timidly from his grasp. “Poor page,” and as he spoke, he drew his arm around his slender form, “thou seemest to be but ill nerved for this day’s work. Thou tremblest.”

“I have left many dear friends behind me, and I am here alone.”

“But not unbefriended,” was Tyldesley’s reply. “Keep by me; I will avert danger from thee. Be merry, gentle youth, and thou shalt yet dance a gay measure with your mistress,—when she is my bride.”

“But—” the crimson colour which mantled his features, changing to a deadly paleness as he spoke, “should you fall, what is for me?”

“A safe return to your mistress.”

No answer was given; the page turned away his head, but not before a tear had fallen upon Tyldesley’s hand.

They had now marched for two hours, and the town of Wigan was seen in the distance. As they advanced, the reapers were busy in their quiet occupations, amidst the richly waving crops. The Earl of Derby was, in his own mind, contrasting the joys of peace, with the miseries of war, when, all at once, Lord Widdrington and Sir Thomas Throgmorton were galloping towards him. The earl spurred from the lines, and met them.

“The enemy is approaching—the day must be lost,—they are some thousand strong.”

Derby turned pale at the intelligence. He had hoped to possess Wigan as a strong-hold, until he had cleared a way to Worcester, to join his Sovereign. But his paleness soon fled. “Dost see,” he proudly exclaimed, “these few reapers cutting down whole fields of corn,—and shall we not take courage from them?”

Without ordering a halt, he wheeled round to the Tyldesleys, and announced to them the movements of the enemy.

“They have even taken possession of Wigan,” he said, “the strong-hold of loyalty.” The earl then uncovering his head, looked round upon his troops, and solemnly bade every soldier ask the blessing of the God of battles. The helmet was raised from every head, and every eye was fixed upward, as the small army prayed.

“Let your prayers,” interrupted Derby, “be sincere; and even that youthful page, whose cheek is pale for coming danger, may be nerved to deal havoc among the enemy. Now let the march be sounded, and let us, with all possible haste, scour to Wigan. And when we encounter, as soon we must,—you have children,—there is strength in your arm; you have wives—the thought is worth a hundred swords; you have a king—fight, therefore, in their defence! Less than an hour’s march must bring us front to front with the enemy, and they are reported to be numerous.”

“Front to front!” exclaimed Sir Thomas Tyldesley, “sword to sword! let us meet them!”

“Poor youth,” said Derby, as his eye rested on the pale face of the page, “thou hast neither a soldier’s form nor heart, thou shouldst have remained to amuse thy mistress. And yet” he added, as if entirely absorbed in his own remembrances, “my countess never required such a companion! heaven bless her, and guard her, should I never see her more!”

“Nor does my mistress, noble earl,” replied the page, quickly, while his dark and beautiful eye glowed keenly: “and I too, whatever my form and look may bespeak, am ready to lose a life for my sovereign. I shudder to draw a sword, but I will not shudder to receive it,—aye, in my bosom!”

Never did the most herculean form appear more warlike, than did the youthful speaker. His firmly chiselled mouth was pressed together with a deadly expression of resolve, and the soft eyelash was arched, as if it could slay.

“Bravo,” exclaimed the elder Tyldesley, “a true knight; and yet fair sir, a maiden speaks of bosom,—a hero speaks of heart!”

Unconsciously, at this moment, the page had spurred his steed, which plunged furiously. Like lightning, a slender arm reached over the proud mane—grasped the bridle—and in a moment, he was quiet as before. The strength of a giant horseman, could not have so tamed him. In the suddenness of the motion, the plumed beaver of the rider had fallen, and like some young and beautiful spirit of power, with dark ringlets, curling over a brow of glistening thought and love, and as if quelling the furious tempest, the page leaned forward, on his steed.

“Nay, nay,” said the earl, “spur on, and let us not delay to meet the foe.”

The gallant army marched on rapidly, and in a few minutes, as the sun streamed from the eastern clouds, the rays fell upon Wigan, seen in the distance. Only one sound was borne to the ear, and it was the trampling of horses. “They come,” was the general cry. “On, on,” exclaimed their leader, “let Charles’s banner be unfurled, and soon we shall plant it, to wave over the church tower!”

A few minutes more brought them to the entrance of the town. A strong hedge skirted both sides of the road. The windings were many and abrupt, and the sharp angular view, was over the rocky heights on the banks of the Douglas, and almost suggested the appearance of traitors, so unexpectedly were many of the scenes brought before them. The scenery of the country around, was wild, and marked that here, war would not be out of keeping. Young Tyldesley took his uncle’s hand, to bid him farewell, for now the impression rested on every mind, that from the unusual stillness, the stern sounds of combat might soon be heard. Silence seemed to be the soft whispers of a traitor! secret, but sure. A tear stole down the hardy cheek of the veteran, as he blessed his companion.

“This parting,” he added, “seems ominous. ’Twas thus your gallant father bade me adieu, for the last time. Yet, Harry, another grasp of your hand. Farewell, my brave boy.”

They rode on without exchanging another word, when the young soldier felt himself gently touched, and, on turning round, beheld the page, who, with averted face, said—“Excuse me, but farewell, Harry Tyldesley, should I see you no more.”

“We part not thus, for your mistres’s sake. Ride by my side, and you may command this arm to strike for your safety.”

At this moment the small army heard some half-concealed movement made, behind the hedges, and instantly a close fire of musketry;—only a few were wounded.

“The foe are in ambush!” exclaimed Sir Thomas.

“Nay,” replied the earl, “the greater part are before us,” pointing to a large army which now appeared. “Let us advance. Sir Thomas, take the half of the band, and I shall lead the others. Let a halt be sounded. We can do nothing against those who fire from the hedges. Let us cut through the main body.—A halt!”

Ere the signal had been given, many a brave fellow, had indeed, halted, never more to advance, as a second volley, directed with a steadier aim, was poured in upon them.

Derby, in a moment, was at the head of his detachment. “Soldiers of Charles!” he said, with energetic eloquence, “there are his enemies and yours; and where are your swords? Be mangled—be slain—but yield not. Hear your leader’s vow. Upon this good sword, I swear, that as long as steel can cut, flesh shall wield.—Charge! Upon them! The king! the king!” and they dashed on to meet the enemy.

Colonel Lilbourne, who commanded the enemy, instantly arrayed his men, to bear up against the attack, and a dense square was formed from hedge to hedge, of the regular troops, while the militia of Lancashire and Cheshire were formed into a wing, to close in upon the royalists, when they engaged with the main body.

Derby, with his three hundred men, spurred on with incredible fury, until they found themselves hand to hand with the regular troops. They were instantly surrounded, for the militia wing had wheeled, and now assailed them in the rear. A shout from the Parliamentary army was raised, as the three hundred seemed to be bound in their power, when Sir Thomas Tyldesley, with his men, advanced; and so furious was the onset, that the enemy were literally trodden under foot, and Derby and the knight were riding abreast, at the head of their respective bodies, fighting to cut a passage through the dragoons. Heedless of danger, the royalists followed every direction of their leaders, who, themselves, fought, as well as commanded. They had now almost reached the extremity of Lilbourne’s forces, and bloody was the passage which they had made.

“One effort more,” said the earl to his men, “and all is gained!—On!” The battle raged more furiously—Derby’s sword, at every thrust and plunge, was stained with fresh gore; but, all of a sudden, he stood pale and surprised—for there was Sir Richard Houghton advancing to meet him, from Lilbourne’s guard, with drawn sword. Could he have turned traitor? The earl’s weapon was as ready for a blow, as his heart was for a curse upon a false knight, and instantly they would have crossed swords, had not Derby’s steed been shot from under him, while that of the recreant knight carried his rider beyond him, safe and unharmed. On foot the earl fought with as much execution as when mounted; but his voice could not be heard, as he addressed his men, from amidst the hoofs of the enemy’s horse. An officer of the enemy approached. In a moment he was dragged from the saddle, pierced as he lay on the ground, and as his dying eyes were raised, he beheld Derby mounting his horse. Many blows were then showered upon the gallant nobleman, and some deadly thrusts were made in the direction of his breast, but he seemed to escape unhurt.

The next moment placed Derby at the extremity of the opposing lines. “King Charles and England’s royalty!” was the shout that burst from his lips, and, although it was heard by the enemy, for a few moments they fell back from the single arm of the loyal nobleman. There seemed something supernatural in his bearing, so calm, and yet so furious. Taking advantage of their inactivity, he dashed through the rear. A gleam of sunshine flashed on his armour, and hope entered his soul, as he found himself at the top of the steep and sweeping descent which leads to the town. It was then rocky and precipitous, but his horse never stumbled. For a moment he wheeled round, and no followers were near, except young Tyldesley, and the page. Stern was the expression on the countenance of the former; but the latter, though pale, displayed a heroism still wilder. And yet his sword had not, throughout the battle, been unsheathed, and he had forced a passage without giving a wound.

“Brave page!” exclaimed the earl. “Still, thou oughtest to have used thy sword; thine arm might have sent the blow with power sufficient to wound—aye, to kill!”

At this moment two of the enemy, who had pursued the leader of the royalists, rushed on him. His horse plunged furiously, and turned himself altogether on one of the assailants—thus exposing his rider. Instantly that assailant sprung forward with a loud shout of joy; but that shout was ended in a dying shriek, as the sword of the page passed through his body. The other fell by the earl’s own hand. For a brief space the page looked with something of satisfaction on the blood-stained sword. But as a drop fell upon that small hand, a shudder passed over his frame, and his eye was fixed, with unnatural light, on the spot.

“It is of a foul colour!” he exclaimed. “Good God! and have these fair hands been stained with human blood? What will Anne Houghton,” he added in a low tone, “think of me now?”

“Nay, nay,” hastily replied the earl, “repent not the deed at the sight of blood. I thank thee, brave youth. But now, what movement is to be made? Shall we rush upon Wigan without our followers?”

“I’ll defend the church,” said the page, “as the brave countess defended her home.”

But before Derby had decided—for all that we have related took place in a few moments—a cry arose from his men in the rear, who, overpowered by numbers, could neither fight nor advance. The dragoons, headed by Sir Richard Houghton, had so surrounded them, that they must either surrender, or die to a man. That knight conducted himself most valorously, for, in every enemy who approached, he expected to recognize those whose perfidy (such he thought it) he burned to revenge. At every attempt of the small band of royalists to rally, by shouting “Derby and Tyldesley,” he dealt his blows more fiercely. Still, the royalists did not call for quarter; and soon, in this awful emergency, they heard the voice of Derby cheering them on, as he came to their succour. So sudden was the assault, and so much impetus was given to it, that the enemy, in the terror of the moment, crowded to the hedges, over which many of them leapt their horses. But Sir Richard Houghton kept his station, at the head of a few followers, who remained firm; when his eye, falling upon young Tyldesley, he spurred his horse forward, aiming a blow at his enemy. A shriek, at that moment arising from the page, arrested his arm.

“No! no!” exclaimed Sir Richard, “it cannot be; and yet, so like in sound!” Ere he had uttered these words, his arms were gently grasped by the page; but a follower of the knight soon freed him from the encumbrance, and the wounded youth fell into the arms of Harry Tyldesley, who bore him forth, himself fatally wounded. Bloody was the harvest which the royalists now began to reap, as they charged the fugitives, with impetuous fury. The earl, and his brave fellow-leader, Sir Thomas Tyldesley, met, having literally cut down, and cut through the intervening troops of the enemy. Several officers had been slain, and Sir Richard Houghton had been carried from the field by his men, faint from wounds.

“Again!” was the exclamation of the loyal leaders, as they separated to lead their followers once more to the work of death.

Success attended every blow, and many were the bodies which they rolled over mounds, and charged into the river, entirely routing their array. But soon they were vigorously repulsed by Lilbourne’s guard, who closely engaged them. After a long struggle, the gallant royalists made their way to the farthest line of the enemy. “Again!” was now not only the exclamation of the leaders, but likewise the war-cry of their men, and they wheeled and dashed through the centre of the dragoons. Here the scene of battle widened, the enemy had been driven from their ranks, and the royalists had left theirs to follow them; and now the fate of the battle seemed altogether changed. The combat was almost single, and then six were opposed to one. Derby was unhorsed a second time, and his brave and faithful servant, who had, in his youth, followed him from France, fell in warding off some blows from his master. Lord Widdrington was pursued by a whole rank of dragoons, and slain on the banks of the Douglas. In vain did the royalists attempt to rally. Their leaders saw that the battle was lost. The earl had, himself, received many wounds, and was faint from the loss of blood. His sword was heavy for his arm, and he could attack with difficulty, since he was on foot. He stood, for a moment, bewildered, when he heard Sir Thomas Tyldesley, at the head of about twenty men, exclaim, “through, or die!” Instantly the brave knight was in the thickest of the engagement. His plume waved long, and his arm plunged furiously. At length he fell, pierced by many weapons, but his head lay proudly in death, upon a heap of those whom his own hands had slain, forming a monument more lasting than that which the gratitude of a follower has erected, on the same spot, to the hero’s memory.

Derby now stood alone:—after great exertions he could only rally a few men. These persuaded him that he could only die, did he choose to remain. He perceived then that his death should be in vain, that it could not change the fate of that day’s battle. They mounted him on a horse, and scouring over the hedges together, were hotly pursued to Wigan.

Let us re-visit the field of battle towards sunset of the same day. All was then still. The departing rays showed the ghastly countenances of the dead, crowded together promiscuously, without the distinction of roundhead or cavalier. They lay in such perfect repose, that Nature seemed to have brought them there, without the help of man, herself to bury them, with her own funeral rites. The breeze sighed over them, and occasionally moved some of the locks, which had escaped from the helmet, and these were thin and silvery with age, or dark and clustering with youth. Here and there a venerable head lay naked on the ground. Here and there young lips were pressed to the cold and bloody sod, in the kisses of death. Such a scene, at such an hour, when every thought is of quiet peace, and love, with such a beautiful sun, shedding a mellow light around, might have given rise to a notion entertained by the Persians of a former age, that in some sequestered spot, near to the gentle flowing of a river, the most highly-favoured of our race shall undergo a transformation, and for days lie on the grass, apparently dead, even with symptoms of bloody violence, until the last touch shall have been given to the passive clay; and, amidst the light and music of heaven resting there alone, with those of earth, hovering like dreams about them, they shall rise up pure and lovely spirits, above misery and mortality.

Leaning upon the arm of a servant, who supported with much care, his halting steps, one of the Parliamentary leaders was now groping his way through the slain, and occasionally stooping to examine the features.

It was Sir Richard Houghton. His countenance was pale, bearing traces of anguish within, more than of bodily fatigue. The excitement which had sustained him in the engagement, seemed to be gone. Years of sorrow, since then, might have passed over him, without producing so great a change. His spirit seemed to have been more deeply wounded than his body. Long was his search amidst the slain. As he stooped, a shade of the deepest anxiety was over his face, but the glow of his eyes showed that he looked for an enemy, and not for a friend; and as he rose disappointed, his lips quivered with deadly emotion.

“Nay, nay, ’tis in vain. They have both escaped—uncle and nephew. And I have left my couch, wounded and sickly, to come and gloat on my own disappointment. But they must be found, dead or alive!”

“But surely, Sir Richard,” interrupted his servant, “not to-night; the air is chill.”

“Not for me,” muttered the knight, “revenge will warm it. I feel not the blast. Is the tempest loud? Why, the night is calm, and still as the dead; and though it raged as if every sound was the united shriek of a thousand demons in pain or joy, I could not hear it. No, no, my soul is on fire; cold!—cold!—mock me not. If my revenge is not satisfied, I shall lie down here, stripped, naked, and shelterless, in order that I may be cool.”

“But consider your wounds.”

“Aye!” fiercely answered Sir Richard,—“consider my wounds; a daughter lost, deceived, polluted;—my hospitality returned by the foulest treachery. Consider these wounds! aye, and revenge them too!”

“But still,” returned his follower, “the shades of night are fast descending. We cannot remain here long.”

No answer was given, and he perceived his leader kneeling over a heap of bodies. The light was streaming upon that point. An awful silence ensued, when in a tone which seemed the very voice of satisfied revenge, Sir Richard exclaimed, “Here is the elder villain!” He held his face close to the lifeless body of Sir Thomas Tyldesley. No sound escaped him; but there he gazed, like a mad spirit, exulting, yet miserable, that the object of his revenge could not open his eyes, and know his fate. His face was pressed close to that of the dead, as if the unholy embrace was sweet to the very senses, and thrilling even through the frame of the aged. Hate did not prompt him to trample, with profane foot, upon the unresisting body, or to mar the calmness reposing on the stiff features, but he even kissed the cold lips in ecstacy, and drew the head into his bosom. At length he suffered himself to be led away. “The young man,” after a short silence, he added, “the young man must be here likewise, and I go not before I have seen him.” They sought in vain, until reaching the banks of the Douglas, they stumbled on two bodies, lying at the foot of a tree. They were those of young Tyldesley and the page. What a shriek of madness was uttered by the knight, as he recognized in the page, his own beloved Anne! Her breast was naked, and on it lay the head of her dead lover, while his arms were encircled around her, as if their love could never die. Sweet and beautiful was the expression of her countenance in death. Her dark ringlets were moved by the breeze from the river, and richly they waved, under the radiant moon, gleaming through the foliage. Calm they lay, as in the sleep of love, which a single murmur may disturb, and affection seemed awaking on their countenances, to assure them of each other’s safety, and then go to rest. Sir Richard’s grief, was gradually subsiding and ebbing, but only to feel the barren, dry waste, over which it had rolled, and the wreck which its waves had borne along. Without a word, he quietly prepared to sit down on the little mound where the head of Anne was reposing. The father once more blessed his child. Attempting to raise her lover’s head, and make them divided in death, a shudder passed over him, and he again restored it to its place, and put the cold, stiff arms, even more closely around Anne, with as much fondness, as if, like a heavenly priest, he wished to bind them in eternal wedlock. But over such a scene of sadness we draw the curtain. Long after, that tree marked out the spot where the young lovers died, in each other’s embrace. It has now, however, entirely disappeared; but if the Chronicler has drawn forth from his readers one tear for their fate, they still have a proud monument.

But softened as was the heart of Sir Richard Houghton, by the fate of his daughter, the desire of revenge on the Earl of Derby, whom he regarded as her destroyer, was now inspired above every feeling, and he formed a resolution of immediately returning to Wigan, and searching out the earl, who was reported to have found shelter there, after his flight from the battle.

An hour before midnight, the portly landlord of the Dog Inn, Wigan, was roused from a comfortable sleep, beside the fire, not by the cravings of thirst for the contents of a jug, which he held in his hand, as firmly as if it contained the charm of forgetfulness, and was the urn from which pleasant dreams vapoured out—but by a loud knocking at the door.

In those days, the inhabitants of the good town here mentioned, were not so careful, as they are at present, of the digits of their visitors, and had not substituted brass or iron knockers. Fair ladies, however gentle in disposition, were obliged to raise their hand in a threatening position, and, horror on horrors!—strike the hard oak. Still the blow was generally given with a strength, of which their sentimental successors must feel ashamed, and wonder how they could venture upon such a masculine course of conduct, degrading the softer sex. What! they will exclaim, did the lily hand, which ought for ever to have slept amidst perfumes, unless, when it was raised to the lips of a lover, in his vows, profane itself by becoming a battering ram!

The Dog Inn, at that time, presented a somewhat different appearance than it does at present. The part of the building in front, next to the street, was low, and seemed to be appended, as a wing or covert, both to the interior and exterior of the other parts, and was parallel to a line of small shops. Behind, another story had been added, and there, on a transverse beam, was placed the dog, which the landlord had, a few days before, baptized as Jolly, in a good can of ale. The Inn was the resort of two classes; the one consisting of those who were regularly thirsty of an evening, in reference to wit and news; and the other, of those who could only ask for a draught of ale, and then amuse themselves by rubbing the bottom of the jug round and round a small circumference, in full view of themselves, after quaffing the contents. Their merry host could satisfy the appetites of both. But he displayed a decided preference for the former class; and for such, the door of admission was the one at the end of the building, directly leading to the large fire, which generally burned bright and long, in the hall, and it had been known to be open long after midnight, to the visitors; while the others had only the honour of the low one in front, and that not after nine o’clock.

The knocking now made, was at the last-mentioned door. The landlord awoke, and rubbed his eyes till they opened and expanded to their proper focus; but they fell first upon the foaming ale in the tankard, which tempted him to a draught. In the act, however, the knock was repeated. Still, though his eyes gazed in the direction of the door, it was also evident that his mouth was not altogether idle in paying due attention to the liquor.

“Ho! knave!” exclaimed he, as soon as he had obtained liberty of speech—“a warrior and a roundhead, doubtless! So thou hast not got a belly-ful of fighting in the lane, but must come to my door! Why dost not thee speak, Jolly? Last week John Harrison painted thee alive, and made thee as young as thy mother’s whelp, put thee upon a beam over the door, to bark at those who might come at unseemly hours, or for improper purposes, and hung a chain round thy neck, lest thou might be too outrageous. Not one word, Jolly, for thy dear master? But,” he added in a whisper, as he went to the door, “all’s safe!—yes.”

The door opened, and Sir Richard Houghton and his servant entered. The latter announced the name of his master.

“So,” said the landlord, addressing the knight, as he led him to a quiet corner, near the fire, “you are the warrior who so nimbly changed parties to-day? Perhaps you are desirous of changing occupations likewise, and would be glad to throw off your titles and dress, for those of an innkeeper. I’faith, your lean face, and what call you these?” as he pointed to the legs of the knight, “would thank you for the wisdom of your choice. If so, I am ready for the barter. There is my apron. Ho—ho—you’ll get a complete suit out of it, and a winding sheet into the bargain! Be patient, oh! wise knight—who must be knight no more—for I shall be Sir John.”

In truth he would have been a worthy successor to the knighthood of the famous Falstaff, if any super-abundance of wit and fat could ever embody Shakespeare’s prototype.

“Where,” exclaimed Sir Richard, in a high passion, “where is the Earl of Derby?—surrender him.”

“So, so,” was the reply, “you are again disposed to return to your allegiance, and be one of the earl’s party!”

“Surrender him into my hands,” interrupted the knight, in a soothing tone, “and a large reward shall be yours. You will then be able to exhibit a golden dog on your escutcheon. Refuse, and a strict search shall instantly be made, and woe to the wretch, who has harboured the traitor!”

“Search, brave Dick,” rejoined the merry host, “and I’ll assist you. Here’s a bottle; can the traitor be within? search,—storm the castle!” and here he broke it, while the contents were thrown into the knight’s face. “Is he there, Sir Richard, is he there?”

“To ensure our safety and dignity,” said the enraged knight to his servant, “give the signal, instantly.” A shrill whistle was made, and a number of armed men entered.

“Search every corner,” exclaimed Sir Richard “and let the host beware, lest a sword should search his person.”

“Search my person!” rejoined the landlord, while he swelled himself out to his fullest dimensions, “Sir Richard, could you walk round me in less than twenty four hours, and without long rests? you might as well think of searching the continent of America! Come to me, before service on Sunday, when I have donned my great coat, and then search me, or even walk around me, ‘Twould be, as Cromwell’s servants might say, ‘a sabbath day’s journey.’ My good wife was just my fellow, and her daily exercise, for some years before she died, was to walk round me, and brush my coat, and then she went to rest, satisfied with a day’s hard labour. She was, truly, a help meet for me, and we became fatter with looking on each other. When indisposed after travelling to the ale cellar too frequently, she got me conducted to the chair opposite to her own, and she smiled so lustily upon me, that I soon recovered. But Sir Richard,” he added in a solemn tone, “how many gallons of oil, shall I bring from the cellar, to light you in your search? ha! a lucky thought now strikes me. Would’st be the better of a quick scented hound?”

“Aye,” exclaimed some voices, “where is he?” “standing over the door;” was the reply, “shall I bring Jolly?” “if so, it is on the express condition, that you nail him up, in time for to-morrow. A ladder, friends; bring me a ladder. But I must keep my hands from off his hide—not that he will bite—but since he is fresh from the painter, and may be pleased, in good humour, to mark me with his wit. A ladder!”—and Richard the Third, even assisted by the lungs of a modern actor, did not shout forth more lustily for “a horse! a horse!”

“Regard not the laughing ox,” interrupted the knight, as he motioned to his men, who stood bewildered at the conduct of the landlord.

The soldiers commenced their assigned duty, but, Sir Richard expecting that, every moment, Derby should be apprehended in his presence, kept his seat, thinking over the orders to be given, in the event of such a discovery. Perhaps feelings of awe, which would be awakened by a view of the loyal nobleman, likewise threw their shadows, amidst other emotions of a sterner nature. True it is, that he became paler; and the only expression on his features seemed to be the most abject despair, and misery. Like an exquisitely moulded image, when the light has expired which gave the animation of life and thought to its coldness, no longer shows what, but a moment before, seemed its only natural appearance; so the events through which the knight had passed, and which served to give a new character of feeling and action, left not a shade by which it might be known, that he had been an avenger, a few hours ago, and a mourner over his last hope.

Meantime the host of the Inn, continued to annoy the men with his wit. In the most serious voice he would exclaim “He is here;” when all instantly rushed to the place where he pointed. “Tarry but a moment till I bring a light—my nose does not shine as a torch to-night.” He then procured a light, and, as he hurried amongst them, was sure to bring it into a disagreeable proximity with some faces, and all that the light could fall upon, was a broken pot, into which the host peered most anxiously. “Can he be there? I fancy that I should not remain in it long.”

After many similar tricks, he went to a black cupboard, at the further end of a small room adjoining, and asked them to inspect it also. “Can the rebel,” he said, “lurk in the butter?”

From experience, this they thought to be a sufficient reason why they should not search there.

“Unwieldy bull of Bashan!” exclaimed one of the soldiers; “keep within thine own enclosures—a prisoner of hope! The avenger may be nigh!”

“Ha! ha!” retorted the landlord, “where is he? Thankee, friend, for pointing him out. He will, indeed, avenge my thirst!” and he seized upon a bottle of ale, which stood solitary upon a shelf. “The rogue’s a bachelor, friends;—he stood alone; and he is so cross, that he may well be called ‘cut-throat!’”

After an hour’s search, towards the end of which the landlord had contrived, first to lull his tongue asleep, and then himself, the knight commanded the soldiers to desist. They awoke the host, who, starting to his feet, after a difficult balancing of himself, looked eagerly around.

“Where is the earl?”—and as he spoke, he approached one of the men, and bringing a light to bear rather closely upon the grave countenance of the roundhead,—“is this his lordship? take the rebel from my house,” and he gave a hearty kick, so far as his heart could reach, down to his foot. It was in vain to resent the blow, for the humour of mine host had altogether disarmed them.

But we choose to pass over the details of their unsuccess, not being desirous that the mournful remembrance connected with the young and the ill-fated characters of the Legend should be obliterated from the mind of the reader.

The tyro in Lancashire history knows well, that in that very cupboard to which the landlord pointed, the earl was concealed; and that early in the morning he left the Dog Inn, leaving behind him, as a small token of gratitude for the shelter he had received, a part of his armour.

“I cannot wear it,” said the jolly landlord, when it was presented to him, “though you are a warrior, yet, noble earl, you are not a giant. But it shall be preserved as none of the least of the treats for a traveller at the Dog Inn.” The earl shook his humble friend cordially by the hand. Yet even then, wit and light repartee had not forsaken the host.—“Wont shake a paw with Jolly?”

Over the earl’s countenance, a melancholy smile passed, which was unseen by mine host, who was not long in resuming, as he stepped over the threshold and gazed up at the dog—

“Well, well, Jolly will excuse you, and wont even bark; he’s a sensible dog, and knows, or ought to know, how long your lordship has been confined in the cupboard. So, you are bound for Worcester? Well, for my sake, if you meet Cromwell, scratch the ugly wart on his face. But stay, earl, for a moment; there your horse comes, and you must take the stirrup cup, from my hands. My wife would have been proud to have wiped her mouth for a salute, but it is not the fashion of men, towards each other,” and he ran in, and in a minute returned with a glass of wine, which the earl took, and quaffed the contents to the luck of the Dog Inn, Wigan. There was a serious expression on the landlord’s countenance, not as if it were caused by the present farewell, but by some remembrance. “It was at this hour, some years ago, that my wife died, and closed her eyes upon ale, and a husband. I had broken up the best barrel in the cellar, and was raising a jug of it to her lips, and I was obliged to drink it myself.—But excuse me, farewell Derby.”

We pass over the account of the earl’s escape to Worcester, and of the literal overthrow of all the hopes of the royalists, by that disastrous battle; of the earl’s capture, and subsequent execution; all of which, like the rapids of the last act of a tragedy, passed with heightened and speedy horror to the bloody end.

One thing merely we shall notice, that amongst the names of those who recommended his lordship to be beheaded, was that of Sir Richard Houghton.

All historians and biographers have agreed in speaking of that knight as “the rebel son of a very loyal and worthy father,”—but they have not thrown light over the circumstances and events which dethroned Charles and all royalists from his affections. Tradition gleams upon them with steadiness and fearful distinctness, and the Chronicler has accurately detailed them.

For the sake of the Antiquarian, who may be desirous of reading the Inscription on the monument which stands in Wigan Lane, the Chronicler appends it. In his more youthful days, when passing through Wigan, by the assistance of a ladder, and his grandmother’s glasses, he obtained a transcript of it, which he vouches to be accurate.