Revenge, at first though sweet,

Bitter ere long back on itself recoils.

But mercy, first and last, shall brightest shine.

—Milton.

Zachary was the only member of the household who slept that night. Hilary and Mrs. Durdle were too busy preparing what would be needed for the journey; the Vicar, full of anxiety, looked at his watch every quarter of an hour, and failed to find comfort even in ammonites or elephants’ teeth, while Gabriel, in the tower room, lay listening to the soft hooting of the white owl, and the unearthly stamping and knocking made down below by Harkaway. At the first glimmer of light he hastily put on the plum-coloured costume which had been laid by at Hereford since the early days of the war, and brought over by Dr. Coke for his journey. Then he filled his saddle-bags, and with a last look round the place which had made him so secure a refuge, stole down the ladder to feed and fondle his horse and saddle it in readiness for the journey. Zachary, with his head on the pillion, snored serenely, and Gabriel let him remain in peace till the first sparrow began to chirp, then cruelly roused him, unable to endure another minute’s delay.

“Lord! Lord! I’d but just closed my eyes,” groaned the old man. “You can’t be married in the dark, sir.”

“’Tis morning, Zachary. Come, fix on the pillion; we shall have the Vicar here in a minute.”

Yawning and stretching, the sexton struggled to his feet, and by the time the pillion had been strapped on, steps were indeed heard without, and on opening the door Gabriel was greeted by Mrs. Durdle in the choicest of white neckerchiefs, and her best Lincoln green hood.

“Good day to you and good luck to you, sir,” she said. “Vicar and Mistress Hilary be crossing the churchyard.”

His face was aglow.

“We have seen no more of Waghorn,” he said, blithely, breathing the delicious morning air with rapture after his long imprisonment. “But the owl hath hooted most dolefully. I have not slept a wink.”

Then catching sight of the Vicar in his college cap and black doublet and hose leading Hilary in the grey and pink gown he had specially begged her to wear, he hastened forward to greet them, and together they walked to the south porch, where, according to the old custom, the actual marriage was to take place.

Suddenly an ominous sound—the tramp of many feet close by made them pause and listen anxiously.

“Oh, sir, what is it?” cried Durdle, in great terror.

“Be still; let us hearken,” said Dr. Coke, holding up his hand.

Hilary, with widening eyes, clung to Gabriel.

“Don’t be afraid, dearest,” he said, reassuringly; “soldiers often pass through the village. They are not like to molest us here.”

The Vicar went forward a few paces, and, catching sight of the uniform worn by the men of the Canon Frome garrison, realised the peril they were in.

“Shelter in the church!” he cried. “’Tis you they seek.”

But even as he spoke he saw that it was too late. Another file of soldiers rushed round from the west of the church, where they had lain in ambush till the rest of the men arrived, and Norton, with a contemptuous smile on his face, shouted his orders: “Seize the Vicar! Arrest the rebel!”

Amid a scene of wild confusion Hilary was torn from her lover, while, with unnecessary roughness, which turned her faint and sick, the soldiers bound Gabriel’s arms. He saw that resistance was useless, and in the sudden revulsion from happiness to despair anguish overwhelmed him. Like one turned to stone, Hilary stood watching while the Vicar was also bound; and, roused by Durdle’s screams and the unusual confusion of voices in the churchyard, men, women, and children came hurrying from the neighbouring houses to see what was amiss.

As for Waghorn, in the excitement all his worst characteristics had started into view again, and like a maniac he stood shouting on the steps of the cross: “Now am I avenged on mine enemy! They that dally with malignants shall rot in dungeons! No longer shall they hinder the work of the godly!”

The Vicar turned indignantly to the Governor of Canon Frome. “What is the meaning of this outrage, Colonel Norton? You are interfering with me in the discharge of my duty!”

“Your duty, sir, was to sign Prince Rupert’s Protestation, and to refrain from aiding the King’s enemies,” said Norton, with a sneer.

“Sir, you are wrong,” replied the Vicar, firmly. “I hold the King in all due reverence, but my first duty was to tend the wounded and shelter the homeless. And my next duty was to shield my niece from your wicked schemes.”

“I’ faith, you are a bold and outspoken man,” said Norton, chuckling. “But I can bide my time, Vicar.”

He turned to watch Waghorn, who, in wild excitement, had sprung down from the cross and was shaking his fist derisively in Gabriel’s face.

“Ha! young bridegroom! I’ll warrant you wish now that you’d pulled down Bosbury Cross!”

The taunt had the effect of restoring Gabriel to a quiet dignity of manner which impressed the soldiers. He made no reply whatever, but looked Waghorn in the face till, with an uneasy sense of guilt, the man withdrew a little. But the fanatic’s place was quickly taken by Norton, and there was something in the malevolence of his smile which made the blood boil in Gabriel’s veins. He remembered what this man had made him endure at Marlborough.

“I am sorry, sir,” said the Colonel, with a sneer, “to spoil your highly virtuous device of holy matrimony, but as the proverb hath it, ‘Marriages are made in heaven,’ and we intend to send you there. Sergeant! the halter!”

A murmur of surprise and horror ran through the crowd. Gabriel felt as if a grisly hand had suddenly clutched his heart. He glanced anxiously at Hilary. Her face was marble white, she seemed scarcely conscious.

“Nay, sir, will you proceed so far?” cried Waghorn, with a troubled look. “This can be no hanging matter.”

“What is it to you, fellow?” said Norton, haughtily. And with satisfaction he saw the sergeant slip a rope about Gabriel’s neck, and noted that a spasm of pain passed over the prisoner’s face. He was too young and healthy to be without a most ardent love of life.

“Sir, sir,” cried the Vicar, with passionate indignation, “you cannot take so cruel a revenge! Captain Harford may lawfully be a prisoner of war, but——”

“He is a rebel, and I know for a certainty that he bore about him traitorous despatches. Is it not so?” said Norton, sharply turning towards the parliamentarian.

“If you know, why ask?” said Gabriel.

“Answer me!” cried the Colonel, angrily. “Did you not bear despatches?”

“Your own spy hath already answered you. And for the despatches,” said Gabriel, triumphantly, “you’ll not get them. They are long ere now delivered.”

“Away with him, sergeant! String him up to yonder tree,” said Norton.

But with a wild cry of despair Hilary rushed forward “Oh! no! no!” and she threw her arms round Gabriel. “You shall not take him! You shall not!”

The soldiers were touched by her anguish, the villagers made indignant murmurings, some of the women began to sob. As for Waghorn, he turned away, muttering: “Alack, poor lady! But nay, let me not falter! No weakness, Peter Waghorn! No weakness!”

Gabriel kissed the weeping girl with passionate tenderness; then, unable to endure the sight of her grief, began to crave only for an end of this torture.

“Go, my dearest!” he said, his voice faltering. “I pray you—go!”

But the Vicar stepped towards Norton.

“Sir,” he said, “I appeal to your better nature. As prisoner of war you have it in your power to send Captain Harford to gaol, but——”

“Why, that would be to make him your companion, dear sir,” said Norton, lightly. “No, no; I have quite other plans. You go to prison, he goes to Paradise. Come, you, as a parson, must own that I am giving him promotion.”

Waghorn meanwhile paced to and fro wrestling with himself, and muttering like a madman through his teeth: “Nay, nay; I will not relent. The enemies of truth must be punished. Let their habitation be desolate, and let none dwell in their tents! Add iniquity unto their iniquity.”

He was suddenly jostled aside by old Zachary, who, in deep distress, approached the Colonel.

“For pity’s sake, sir, hang me instead,” he pleaded, “’twas my silly old tongue betrayed him—that and the fourth tankard of cider—hang me instead, for I deserve it.”

Norton laughed noisily.

“Not at all—you have been a most useful tool. Come, get you gone! There will be work for you yet. You shall dig the grave, and Waghorn shall preach the funeral sermon. Why do you tarry, sergeant?”

They tarried because it was no easy thing for Englishmen forcibly to part the sobbing girl from her lover.

“Dearest,” said Gabriel, controlling his voice with an effort, “you must go. Let some of the women take you to the Vicarage.”

But as she raised her head and saw the rope about his throat, a new strength of resistance awoke within her. He should not die! She ran to Waghorn, and caught his hand in hers in eager entreaty.

“Waghorn! you are not wicked like that man—you mean well—I know you mean well—help us now! Show mercy!”

For a moment the wood-carver wavered. Then a grim expression settled down upon his features.

“Nay, nay,” he said, “Captain Harford hath but met with his deserts. What saith the Psalmist, ‘Let there be none to extend mercy unto him! Let the iniquity of his fathers be remembered!’”

“Oh, that was said by them of old time! But now we are bidden to be kind to one another—and tender-hearted,” pleaded Hilary.

But Waghorn, with a scornful look, exclaimed indignantly: “Do not teach me, Mistress! I well know that you are of a carnal mind. Did you not deceive us in the orchard? You are a liar!”

The villagers made angry protests at this plain speaking. Hilary, however, with a look that would have melted the hardest heart, continued her eager appeal.

“Yes, yes, I did speak falsely that day. But, oh—have you never sinned?”

The Puritan started back as if she had struck him. “I?” He hung his head, and in a flash it seemed as though his life with its bitter unforgiving lovelessness rose before him—a hideous vision. He crossed over to the Colonel, and put a hand on his sleeve.

“How now, scarecrow? What is it?” said Norton.

“You promised me that if I secured the despatches and Captain Harford, I might ask what I would of you.”

“Well, what do you want?”

“I ask for the life of yonder Captain.”

Norton stared at him. “Are you sure you don’t mean his head in a charger? That, I think, is more in your line.”

“I ask you to spare his life,” said Waghorn, sturdily, while all the people waited breathlessly for the reply.

Norton gave a short scoffing laugh.

“Well, well, you may ask what you will, but I shall not grant such a request. You shall be reasonably paid for your services, and must content yourself with that.”

Then the Puritan’s wrath burst forth. “Shame on thee for a promise-breaker! Dost think I served thee in this matter for filthy lucre? Nay, but to avenge the cause of truth, to save the land from the curse of those that break not down the high places, that destroy not the graven images!”

He walked a few paces from the group and stood silently watching Hilary, who had again forced her way to her lover. Clinging to Gabriel, she sobbed, pitifully, while he whispered in her ear words of love and comfort.

“Hearken, Mistress Hilary,” said Norton, striding across towards them, “with one word you can save Captain Harford’s life.”

“What must I do?” sobbed Hilary.

“Only promise to be mine,” he said, his eager eyes scanning her intently.

“I cannot!” she replied, clinging closer to Gabriel.

“Very well,” said Norton, with a shrug of the shoulders. “Sergeant, proceed!”

Hilary looked round at him in terrible agitation—then turned again to Gabriel, “What am I to do?” she cried, wildly.

“Dear heart!” he said, quietly, “remember what we agreed. Cost what it may—be true!”

“But—your life—oh, my dearest!—your life!”

“It will not be ended by the hangman,” he replied, with a strange vibration in his voice, “it will go on elsewhere. We have but to wait.”

Norton stamped his foot impatiently.

“Well, is your choice made?” he asked.

“Go, my beloved!” said Gabriel, tenderly, but with a firmness which steadied her failing powers. Then he gave her a long, lingering kiss, and she slowly took her arms from about his neck and staggered towards the Vicar, hiding her face on his shoulder.

Gabriel watched her in heart-broken silence, understanding for the first time what the bitterness of death meant. An awful stillness reigned in the churchyard. He turned towards Norton.

“Sir, I am ready,” he said, in a low, firm voice.

Norton watched him with mingled feelings. It was impossible not to admire his courage and dignity, yet never had he hated the man more.

“Fool! You would die in your youth?” he said, sneeringly.

Then into Gabriel’s eyes there suddenly came a light that was Divine.

“Why,” he cried, “I would live in hellish torments to save her from such as you—and shall I fear death? You think that when I am hung and the Vicar cast into gaol, you will be free to carry out your vile schemes—but I tell you, in spite of all, evil will not triumph. There is a God who hates tyranny, who loves mercy and justice!”

His whole face was transfigured. It was Norton whose cheek paled and who looked like the man about to die.

“String him up, sergeant. I loathe this cant,” he said. “Be quick, you fools—hang the rebel and have done with it!”

The soldiers threw the end of the rope over a branch of the tree under which they stood; the sergeant adjusted the noose more carefully round the prisoner’s neck, and Gabriel gave one last glance at the familiar scene—the tower of refuge clearly outlined against the roseate sky, the green churchyard, the old cross so curiously linked with his fate, the gabled houses in the village street, and the Vicar’s white head bent down over Hilary’s brown curls. Then the rope tightened about his throat, he closed his eyes and prayed, while through his brain there floated the old Psalm which he had last heard in Ledbury High Street

“In trouble and adversity,

The Lord God hear thee still.

The Majesty of Jacob’s God

Defend thee from all ill.”

Suddenly an exclamation and a sound of tramping feet made him open his eyes again. He saw that another detachment of Royalist soldiers was marching through the lych gate, but close at hand, having evidently approached quietly from another quarter, stood an officer whom he at once recognised as Lord Hopton.

“Hold, in the King’s name!” shouted the new-comer, and the sickening pressure about the prisoner’s neck was relaxed.

Hilary rushed forward and threw herself at the General’s feet.

“Oh, my lord,” she pleaded, “help us! Do not let them take his life.”

“Madam,” he said, raising her courteously, “be of good cheer. I heard your lover’s brave words. I also heard your words, Colonel Norton,” and he glanced sternly at the Governor of Canon Frome.

“Sir, if you had heard the whole case against Captain Harford——” stammered Norton.

“What! ’tis Captain Harford?” cried Lord Hopton. “Ay, to be sure I recognise you now, sir, and remember that ’tis to your kindly offices when I lay wounded at Lansdown that I owe my life. Sergeant, remove that halter and unbind Captain Harford.”

Hilary, radiant with joy, ran to her lover, and—his bonds removed—he clasped her in his arms with a rapture which made them utterly oblivious of the thronged churchyard. They only felt that life laid down had been wonderfully renewed, and that every heartbeat was a wordless thanksgiving.

Lord Hopton meanwhile had turned to the other prisoner.

“What! you also bound, sir?” he exclaimed, indignantly.

“What is the meaning of this, Colonel Norton?”

“The Vicar of Bosbury,” said Norton, sullenly, “hath for weeks, sir, sheltered this rebel, and he is but a lukewarm supporter of His Majesty.”

“His Majesty would fare better were all parsons such kindly peacemakers,” said Lord Hopton, himself cutting the cords which bound the Vicar’s arms. “’Tis men like you, Colonel, who are the ruin of the King’s cause. Oh, I have heard of your cruelties, and I know how the whole country-side has cause to hate you.”

“If you give ear, sir, to the complaints of an aged gentlewoman like Dame Elizabeth Hopton, and the murmurs of a pack of peasants, you will hear strange tales.”

Lord Hopton frowned.

“I intend to examine into matters later on, and you can then make your defence. Meanwhile I hold a letter from the King depriving you of your Governorship, and appointing Colonel Barnold. And I shall be obliged to you now, Colonel Barnold, if you and a detachment of the soldiers from the garrison will escort the ex-Governor to Canon Frome. I shall be with you anon.”

“You pardon a rebel despatch-bearer, sir, and overlook the persistent way in which Dr. Coke hath refused to sign Prince Rupert’s Protestation,” said Norton bitterly, “but give me scant justice.”

“I hope to show you not only justice but clemency,” said Lord Hopton. “What of your despatches, Captain Harford?”

“Massey entrusted me with letters, my lord, to Fairfax and Cromwell,” said Gabriel, “but as I was sorely wounded they were borne to Windsor by another hand some weeks ago.”

A shade of relief was visible about the General’s lips.

“That matter is ended, then,” he said, “and with regard to what you say against Dr. Coke, I hold, sir, that he was bound to set the safety and honour of his niece before any matters of State, and that as a Christian he had a perfect right to shelter and tend a wounded man, whatever his political views.”

Norton was led away, and the Vicar eagerly thanked Lord Hopton for all that he had done for them. Then, seeing the expectation in the faces of the villagers, he added, “Betwixt Hilary and Captain Harford, my lord, there was an attachment of long standing, and this very morning I was to have wedded them.”

The women in the crowd smiled and nodded at each other, and Lord Hopton, catching sight of the radiant faces of the lovers, smiled too.

“Now what a happy thing it was,” he said, “that I chose to make a night march, and reached Canon Frome at dawn! Finding the Governor absent, I was minded to see for myself what pranks he was after, and arrived in the nick of time.”

“You were in time to save a life, my lord,” said the Vicar, “and now, an you will, may witness a wedding; we keep to the old custom here and wed at the church door.”

“I’ll not only witness it, but will give away the bride if that is agreeable to you, sir,” he said, glancing at Gabriel.

“My lord, the memory of your kindly dealing will long outlast the bitterness I have just passed through,” said Gabriel.

His face aglow with happiness, and still shining with that spiritual light which had arrested even Norton’s notice, touched the Royalist general.

“I very well know,” he said, laying a kindly hand on his shoulder, “that you were the first to show considerateness in the matter of Bosbury Cross, and till people of widely differing views act with the good sense and moderation shown by you and the Vicar, we shall never have true peace in England.”

He turned to offer his arm to Hilary, when she suddenly perceived Waghorn gravely watching them from a little distance. Running towards him, she took his hand gratefully in hers.

“I shall never forget, Waghorn, that you tried to save Captain Harford,” she said, warmly.

“Mistress,” said Waghorn, earnestly, and with a quiet manliness wholly unlike his former manner, “he was right. In spite of all, evil did not triumph.”

And now the psalm which had rung in Gabriel’s ears as he awaited death, sounded indeed through the churchyard as Hilary walked towards the porch between Lord Hopton and her lover.

The villagers drew together in a group close by them, but little Nan and Meg being on the outskirts chanced to look back, and saw Waghorn standing afar off as though he had no part or lot in the service. With a kindly impulse they ran towards him.

“Don’t stand there so all alone,” said Nan, coaxingly, “come nearer!”

“Yes,” echoed Meg, “come nearer!”

Waghorn’s stern face relaxed. He sighed, but let them take him by the hand and draw him in with the rest.