DEFEAT

The court of Queen Elizabeth was well used to witness splendid shows and passages-of-arms, masques, and other entertainments organised by the noblemen chiefly, to whose houses—like Kenilworth—the Queen was often pleased to make long visits.

The Queen always expected to be amused, and those who wished to court her favour took care that no pains should be wanting on their part to please her. Indeed, the courtiers vied with each other in their efforts to win the greatest praise from their sovereign lady, who dearly liked to be entertained in some novel manner.

This visit of the French Ambassadors to London, headed by Francis de Bourbon, was considered a very important event. It was supposed that Elizabeth was really in earnest about the marriage with the Duke of Anjou, whose cause these Frenchmen had been commissioned by their Sovereign to plead. They were also to have a careful eye to his interests in the treaty they were to make with so shrewd a maiden lady as the Queen of England, who was known always to have the great question of money prominently before her in all her negotiations, matrimonial and otherwise.

The Earl of Arundel, Lord Windsor, Philip Sidney and Fulke Greville undertook to impress the visitors with a magnificent display worthy of the occasion which brought them to London.

In the tilt-yard at Whitehall, nearest to the Queen's windows, a 'Fortress of Perfect Beauty' was erected, and the four knights were to win it by force of arms.

All that the ingenuity of the artificers of the time could do was done. The Fortress of Beauty was made of canvas stretched on wooden poles, gaily painted with many quaint devices, and wreathed about with evergreens and garlands, which were suspended from the roof. It was erected on an artificial mound; and, as the day drew near, those who had to control the admission of the hundreds who clamoured to be allowed to be spectators of the tournament, were at their wit's end to gratify the aspirants for good places.

The ladies about the Court were, of course, well provided with seats in the temporary booths erected round the tilt-yard, and the Countess of Pembroke and her following of gentlewomen in attendance occupied a prominent position. Lady Mary Sidney and her youngest son, Thomas, were also present. Robert was in his brother's train. Lady Rich, blazing with diamonds, was the admired of many eyes—upon whose young, fair face might be seen the trace of that unsatisfied longing and discontent with her lot, for which the splendour of her jewels and richness of the lace of her embroidered bodice were but a poor compensation. Amongst Lady Pembroke's attendants there was one to whom all the show had the charm of novelty.

Lucy Forrester could scarcely believe that she was actually to be a witness of all the magnificence of which she had dreamed on the hillside above Penshurst. Her young heart throbbed with triumph as she saw Mistress Ratcliffe and Dorothy vainly struggling to gain admittance at one of the entrances, and at last, hustled and jostled, only allowed to stand on the steps of one of the booths by Humphrey's help, who was awaiting the signal from Philip's chief esquire to go and prepare his horse for the passage-of-arms.

Lucy had gone through some troubles that morning with Mistress Crawley, whom she did not find easy to please at any time, and who, seeing Lucy was in favour with the Countess of Pembroke, did her best to prevent her from taking too exalted a view of her own merits.

She had ordered that Lucy, as the youngest of the bower-women, should take a back bench in the booth, where it was difficult to see or to be seen, but Lady Pembroke had over-ruled this by saying,—

'There is room for all in the front row, good Crawley. Suffer Mistress Lucy to come forward.'

And then Lucy, beaming with delight, had a full view of the fortress, and found herself placed exactly opposite the window at which the Queen was to sit with her favourites to watch the show.

'Tell me, I pray you, the name of that grand lady whose jewels are flashing in the sunshine?'

Lucy said this to her companion, who bid her sit as close as she could, and not squeeze her hoop, and take care not to lean over the edge of the booth so as to obstruct her own view of the people who were rapidly filling up the seats.

'And forsooth, Mistress Forrester, you must not speak in a loud voice. It's country-bred manners to do so.'

Lucy pouted, but was presently consoled by a smile from Philip Sidney, who came across the yard to exchange a word with his sister, and to ask if his young brother was able to get a good view.

Lucy was much elated by that recognition, and her companion said in a low voice,—

'You ask who yonder lady is? Watch, now, and I'll tell you.' For Philip had, in returning, stopped before the booth where Lady Rich sat, and she had bent forward to speak to him. Only a few words passed, but when Philip had moved away there was a change in Lady Rich's face, and the lines of discontent and the restless glance of her dark eyes, seeking for admiration, were exchanged for a satisfied smile, which had something also of sadness in it.

'That lady is Lord Rich's wife, and Mr Sidney's love. He will never look with favour on anyone besides. The pity of it! And,' she added in a low voice, 'the shame too!'

'But, hush!' as Lucy was about to respond. 'We may be heard, and that would anger my lady, who has no cause to love my Lady Rich, and would not care to hear her spoken of in the same breath as Mr Sidney.'

The waiting time for spectacles is apt to grow wearisome; and some of the spectators were yawning, and a few of the elder ladies resigning themselves to a quiet nap, their heads heavy with the ale of the morning meal, swaying from side to side, and endangering the stiff folds of the ruffs, which made a sort of cradle for their cheeks and chins. Lucy, however, knew nothing of fatigue; she was too much elated with her position, too earnestly employed in scanning the dresses of the ladies, and admiring the grand equipments of the gentlemen, to feel tired.

At length the blast of trumpets announced the coming of the Queen to the balcony before the window whence she was to see the pageant. A burst of applause and loud cries of 'God save the Queen' greeted Elizabeth, who, gorgeously arrayed, smiled and bowed graciously to the assembled people. Behind her was the Earl of Leicester, and Lord Burleigh and the French Ambassador at either side, with a bevy of ladies-in-waiting in the background. The large window had a temporary balcony erected before it, and those who occupied it were for a few minutes the centre of observation.

Lucy Forrester had never before had so good a view of the Queen, and her astonishment was great when she saw, with the critical eye of youth, the lady about whose beauty and charms so many sonnets and verses had been written by every rhymester in the land, as well as by the chief poets of the day. It was a generally accepted fact throughout the country, that the Queen was as beautiful as she was wise, and that her charms led captive many a noble suitor, who pined, perhaps in vain, for her favours.

Lucy whispered to her companion,—

'I thought to see a young and fair Queen, and she is old and—'

'Peace, I tell you!' said her companion sharply. 'You are a little fool to dare to say that! You had best hold your tongue!'

Lucy ventured at no further remark, and very soon the heralds came riding into the tilt-yard and proclaimed the coming of the four knights who were to carry the Fortress of Beauty by their prowess against those who defended it; and summoned the Queen to surrender her Fortress to the Four Foster Children of Desire.

The Earl of Arundel led the way with Lord Windsor, both magnificently attired, with a large following of attendant esquires. But Lucy's eyes dilated with an admiration that was too deep for words, as Philip Sidney rode into the yard in blue and gilt armour, seated on a splendid horse, on which he sat with graceful ease as it curveted and pranced, perfectly controlled by the skill of its rider. Four spare horses, richly caparisoned, were led behind him by pages, and thirty gentlemen and yeomen, amongst whom were Humphrey and George Ratcliffe, with four trumpeters dressed in cassock coats and caps, Venetian hose of yellow velvet adorned with silver lace, and white buskins. A silver band passing like a scarf over the shoulder and under the arm bore the motto—Sic nos non nobis. Lucy had no eyes for anyone but her ideal knight, and Fulke Greville, in his gilded armour, with his followers in gorgeous array, had passed by almost unheeded.

Speeches were made, and songs sung, and then the challengers marched up and down the yard, and at last proceeded to 'run tilt,' each in his turn, against an opponent, each running six times. The opponents were numerous, and the four, before nightfall, were seriously discomfited.

The show was over for that day, and the Queen commanded that the tilt should be run again on the following morning, which was Whit-Tuesday. After a great many more speeches and confessions of weariness, the four knights fell to work with such renewed energy that, we are told, what with shivering swords and lusty blows, it was as if the Greeks were alive again, and the Trojan war renewed—ending in the defeat of the Four Foster Children of Desire, who were, as was only probable, beaten in the unequal contest.

The Queen was loud in her praise of the 'pleasant sport,' which had delighted the gentlemen in whose honour it had been all arranged; and she called up Philip Sidney for especial thanks, and, tapping him on the shoulder, bid him repair to the banqueting-hall and discourse some sweet music on his mandoline, and converse with the French Ambassadors. For, she said, speaking herself in fluent and excellent French,—

'This good Mr Philip Sidney, I would have you to know, has the command of many foreign tongues, and there are few to match him in Latin and Greek, as well as those languages spoken in our own time in divers countries.'

'Ah, madam!' Philip said, 'there is one who surpasses not only my poor self in learning, but surpasses also the finest scholars that the world can produce. Need I name that one, gentlemen,' he said, with a courtly bow and kneeling as he kissed the Queen's hand, 'for she it is who has to-day been pleased to give, even to us, Four Children of Desire—defeated as we are—the meed of praise, which is, from her, a priceless dower.'

This flattery was precisely what Elizabeth hoped for, and she was well pleased that it should be offered in the hearing of those ambassadors, who would, doubtless, repeat it in the ears of the Duke of Anjou.

In reply, one of the soft-spoken Frenchmen said,—

'Mr Sidney's fame has reached our ears, Madam. We know him to be what you are pleased to call him; nor will we for a moment dispute his assertion that, learned as he is, he must yield the palm to his gracious Sovereign.'

A few more flattering speeches were tendered; but a keen observer might have noticed that there was a touch of irony, even of distrust, in the tone, if not in the words, of the ambassadors' chief spokesman.

For if Philip Sidney's fame as a scholar and a statesman had reached France, his fame also as a staunch defender of the Reformed Faith had also reached it, with the report that he had been, a few years before, bold enough to remonstrate with the Queen when the proposal of her marriage with the Duke had been formally made, and that his opposition had been strong enough to turn the scale against it, at the time.

The silence of night had fallen over Whitehall, and those who had won, and those who had been beaten in the tourney were resting their tired, and, in many cases, their bruised limbs, in profound repose, when the porter of the quarters assigned to Philip Sidney's gentlemen and esquires was roused from his nap by loud and continued knocking at the gate.

The porter was very wrathful at being disturbed, and looking out at the small iron grating by the side of the gate, he asked,—

'Who goes there?'

'One who wants speech with Master Humphrey Ratcliffe.'

'It will keep till morning, be off; you may bide my time,' and with that the porter shambled back to his seat in a recess of the entrance, and composed himself to sleep again. But the man who sought admittance was not to be so easily discouraged. He began to knock again with the staff in his hand, more loudly than before.

The porter in vain tried to take no further notice, and finding it impossible to resume his sleep, heavy as it was with the strong potations of the previous night, he rose once more, and, going to the grating, poured out a volley of oaths upon the would-be intruder, which was enough to scare away the boldest suitor for admission.

His loud voice, combined with the thundering rap on the heavy oaken gate or door which still continued, roused Humphrey Ratcliffe from his dreams, on the upper floor, and he presently appeared on the stone staircase which led into the outer hall, where the porter kept guard, and said,—

'What is all this commotion about? Who demands admission? Open the gate, and let us see.'

'Open the gate, Master, yourself,' was the rough reply, 'and let in a parcel of murderers or thieves, for all I care. You're welcome.'

'Hold your tongue, you knave,' Humphrey said; 'you are half-drunk now, I warrant,' and Humphrey, going to the grating, asked,—

'Who craves admission at this hour of the night?'

'An it please you, Master, it is near cock-crow,' was the answer, 'and day is breaking. I have ill news for Master Humphrey Ratcliffe, and must deliver my message to his ear.'

'Ill news!' Humphrey repeated the words. His thoughts went first to his mother, and then he remembered that she was safe in lodgings with Dorothy and George.

'I am one, Ned Barton, cowherd to one Mistress Forrester. I've trudged many a mile at the bidding of Mistress Gifford, who is in a sore plight.'

Humphrey did not hesitate now, he drew back the heavy bolts, and turned the huge, rusty key in the lock, and threw open one side of the gate.

'Come in,' he said, 'and deliver your message.'

Ned, in his coarse smock, which was much travel-stained and worn, pulled the lock of red hair which shadowed his forehead, in token of respect, and shambled into the hall.

He was footsore and weary, and said,—

'By your leave, Master, I would be glad to rest, for I warrant my bones ache.'

Humphrey pointed to a bench which was but dimly discernible in the dark hall, lighted only by a thin wick floating in a small pan of oil, and bid Ned seat himself, while he drew a mugful of ale from the barrel, which was supposed to keep up the porter's strength and spirits during the night-watch, and put it to Ned's lips.

He drank eagerly, and then said,—

'I've a letter for you, Master, in my pouch, but I was to say you were to keep it to yourself. Mistress Gifford could scarce write it, for she is sick, and no wonder. Look here, Master, I'd tramp twice twenty miles to serve her, and find the boy.'

'Find the boy! You speak in riddles.'

Ned nodded till his abundant red hair fell in more than one stray lock over his sunburnt, freckled face.

'Are there eavesdroppers at hand?' he asked.

The porter was snoring loudly, but Humphrey felt uncertain whether he was feigning sleep, or had really resumed his broken slumber. He therefore bid the boy follow him upstairs, first replacing bolt and bar, to make all secure till the morning.

When he reached his room, which was up more than one flight of the winding stone stairs, Ned stumbling after him, he struck a light with a flint and kindled a small lamp, which hung from an iron hook in the roof.

'Throw yourself on that settle, my good fellow; but give me the letter first. When I have read it, you shall tell me all you know.'

The letter was written on thin parchment, and was scarcely legible, blotted, as it was, with tears, and the penmanship irregular and feeble.

'To Master Humphrey Ratcliffe—My Good Friend,—This comes from one nearly distraught with grief of mind and sickness of body. My boy, my boy! They have stolen him from me. Can you find him for me? He is in the hands of Jesuits—it may be at Douay—I dare say no more. I cannot say more. Good Ned, Heaven bless him, will find you out, and give you this. Pray to God for me. He alone can bind the broken heart of one who is yours, in sore need.

'M. G.

'I lost him this day se'nnight; it is as a hundred years to me. Tears are my meat. God's hand is heavy upon me.'

Humphrey read and re-read the letter, and again and again pressed it passionately to his lips.

'Find him! Find her boy; yes, God helping me, I will track him out, alive or dead.'

Then he turned to Ned,—

'Now, tell me all you know of this calamity.'

Ned told the story in a few simple words. The black man had been skulking about Penshurst for some time. He had scared Mistress Lucy, and the boy had seen him near the house. Mistress Gifford had gone out early to look after the shepherd, who was seeking a lost lamb, and the black man had come out of a hollow. Then Mistress Gifford had run with all her might, and, worse luck, she stumbled and fell in a swoon, and when Jenkyns found her she had come out of it, but was moaning with pain, and grieving for the boy.

'And no wonder,' Ned said; 'there's not a soul at the farm that didn't think a mighty deal of that child. He was a plague sometimes, I'll warrant, but—' and Ned drew his sleeve across his eyes, and his low guttural voice faltered, as he said,—'Folks must be made of stone if they don't feel fit to thrash that popish devil for kidnapping him, and going near to break Madam Gifford's heart, who is a saint on earth.'

'You are a good fellow,' Humphrey said fervently. 'Now, take off those heavy boots and rest, while I tax my brains, till I decide what is best to do.'

With a mighty kick Ned sent his rough boots flying, one after the other, across the room, and then, without more ado, curled up his ungainly figure on the settle, and before Humphrey could have believed it possible, he was snoring loudly, his arm thrown under his head, and his tawny red locks in a tangled mass, spread upon the softest cushion on which the cowboy had ever rested.

Humphrey Ratcliffe paced the chamber at intervals till daybreak, and was only longing for action, to be able to do something to relieve Mary's distress—to scour the country till he found a trace of the villain, and rescue the boy from his clutches.

This must be his immediate aim; but to do this he must gain leave from his chief.

The tournament was over, but the Queen would most certainly require Mr Sidney's attendance at Hampton Court Palace, whither it was rumoured she was shortly to go in state, in the royal barge, with the French Ambassador.

Humphrey grew feverishly anxious for the time when he could see Mr Sidney, and hailed the noises in the courtyard and the voices of the grooms, who were rubbing down the tired horses after the conflicts of the previous day, and examining their hurts received in the fray, which were in some cases very severe.

Mr Sidney's rooms were reached by another staircase, and as the big clock of the palace struck five, Humphrey went down into the porter's hall and inquired of one of the attendants if Mr Sidney was stirring.

'He isn't stirring, for he hasn't been a-bed,' was the answer.

'Then I shall gain admittance?'

'Most like,' was the reply, with a prolonged yawn.

'Those are lucky who can slumber undisturbed, whether a-bed or up. Yesterday's show fell hard on those who had to work at it.'

'I hear you let in a vagrant last night, Master Ratcliffe. The porter saith if harm comes of it he won't take the blame. Most like a rascally Jesuit come to spy out some ways to brew mischief.'

'A harmless country lout is not likely to brew mischief,' Humphrey said sharply. 'The man came on urgent business, in which none here but myself have concern,' and then he crossed to the door leading to the apartments occupied by Mr Sydney and Sir Fulke Greville.

Humphrey Ratcliffe had not to wait for admittance to Philip Sidney's room.

He answered the tap at the door with a ready 'Enter,' and Humphrey found him seated before a table covered with papers, the morning light upon his gold-coloured hair, and on his beautiful face.

Humphrey Ratcliffe stopped short on the threshold of the door before closing it behind him, and how often, in the years that were to come, did Philip Sidney's figure, as he saw it then, return to him as a vivid reality from which time had no power to steal its charm.

Philip looked up with a smile, saying,—

'Well, my good Humphrey, you are astir early.'

'And you, sir, have been astir all night!'

'Sleep would not come at my bidding, Humphrey, and it is in vain to court her. She is a coy mistress, who will not be caught by any wiles till she comes of her own sweet will. But is aught amiss, Humphrey, that you seek me so soon? Hero, my good horse, came out of the fray untouched. I assured myself of that ere I came hither last night.'

'There is nothing wrong with Hero, sir, that I know of. I dare to seek you for counsel in a matter which causes me great distress.'

Philip Sidney had many great gifts, but perhaps none bound his friends and dependants more closely to him, nor won their allegiance more fully, than the sympathy with which he entered into all their cares and joys, their sorrows or their pleasures.

Immediately, as Humphrey told his story, he was listening with profound attention, and Humphrey's burden seemed to grow lighter as he felt it shared with his chief.

'You know her, sir! You can believe how sore my heart is for her. In all the sorrows which have well nigh crushed her, this boy has been her one consolation and joy, and he is stolen from her.'

'Yes,' Philip Sidney said, 'I do know Mistress Gifford, and have always pleased myself with the thought that she would put aside the weeds of widowhood and make you happy some day, good Humphrey.'

'Nay, sir; she has given me too plainly to understand this is impossible. She is as a saint in Heaven to me. I love her with my whole heart, and yet—yet—I feel she is too far above me, and that I shall never call her mine.'

'Well, well, let us hope you may yet attain unto your heart's desire, nor have it ever denied, as is God's will for me. But now, as to the boy—it puzzles me why any man should kidnap a child of these tender years. What can be the motive?'

'I know not, sir, unless it be the greedy desire of the Papists to gain over, and educate in their false doctrines and evil practices, children likely to serve their ends. Mistress Gifford's husband was, so it is said, a Papist from the first moment that he married her, but hid it from her, and played his part well.'

'I do not doubt it. While in the service of my Uncle Leicester, it was his policy to profess the Reformed Faith. Failing to obtain what he wanted, he threw off disguise, and, as I understand, after an intrigue with another man's wife, had a fierce fight with the injured husband, so deadly that both lost their lives in the fray.'

'Some said this Gifford, fearing disgrace, had left the country, others that he died. Mistress Gifford must believe the last to be true or she would not, methinks, have clothed herself in the weeds of widowhood.'

'But now, my good Humphrey, you would fain have leave to prosecute your inquiries. God speed you in them, and may they be successful. Mistress Gifford's reference to Douay makes me think she may have some notion, to connect this centre of the Papists with the disappearance of her boy. At any rate, see her, and, if it is advisable for you to repair to Douay, go, but beware you are not entrapped by any of those Jesuits' snares.'

'I am loth to leave you, sir,' Humphrey said, 'yet I feel bound to do what in me lies to rescue this boy. A goodly child he is, full of spirit, and, though wild at times as a young colt, obedient to his mother. Alack!' Humphrey continued, 'his poor bereft mother. Would to God I knew how to comfort her.'

It was then arranged that Humphrey should set off, without loss of time, for Penshurst, stopping at Tunbridge on the road to institute inquiries there.

George Ratcliffe was also returning home with several horses which had been over-strained in the tourney of the day before, and both brothers left London together, with Ned on the baggage horse with the serving-man, before noon, George scarcely less heavy-hearted than Humphrey, and too much absorbed in his own troubles to be alive to his brother's. What was the loss of little Ambrose when compared with the utter hopelessness he felt about Lucy.

George rode moodily by his brother's side, scarcely heeding what he saw, and torturing himself with the careless indifference with which Lucy had treated him.

He had asked her to come to his mother's lodgings, and she had refused, saying,—

'You have Mistress Dorothy here, you cannot want me. Besides, I am under orders, and Crawley must be obeyed.'

Then, in the intervals of the tournament, George had seen the eyes of several gallants directed towards Lady Pembroke's booth, and heard one man say,—

'There is a pretty maiden in the Countess's following. I lay a wager I will get a smile from her.'

'Not you,' was the reply; 'she has eyes for no one but Mr Sidney. She follows him with admiring glances; no one else has a chance.'

While George was inwardly fuming against the two men, one rode up to the booth, and bowing low, till his head nearly swept his horse's neck, he presented a posy, tied with a blue riband, to Lucy, who smiled and blushed with delight, quite indifferent to the scowl on George's face, as he sat grimly on his horse at the further end of the tilting-yard, where he was stationed, with several others, with a relay of horses in case fresh ones should be wanted by the combatants.

Unversed in the ways of the Court, George did not know that it was the habit of gallants to present posies, as they would have said, at the shrine of beauty. From the Maiden Queen upon the throne to the pretty bower-woman at her needle, this homage was expected, and received almost as a matter of course. But George, like many other men of his age, had his special divinity, and could not endure to see other worshippers at her feet.

All these memories of the two days' tournament occupied George Ratcliffe during his ride by his brother's side, and kept up a sort of accompaniment to the measured trot of the horses as they were brought up in the rear by the servants in charge of them. After a long silence, George said,—

'Did you see Mistress Lucy ere we started, Humphrey, to let her know of her sister's trouble.'

'No,' was the answer. 'No; I could not get permission to do so, but I sent a letter by the hand of one of Lord Pembroke's esquires, which would tell her of her sister's trouble.'

'It was an ill day for me,' George said, 'when Lucy Ratcliffe came to the Court. I have lost her now.'

'Nay now, George, do not be a craven and lose heart. You may win yet. There is time, and to spare, before you.'

Thereupon George gave his sturdy roan steed a sharp cut with the whip, which surprised him greatly. He resented the indignity by plunging from side to side of the rugged road, and by his heavy gambols sending the other horses off in a variety of antics.

When the horses were quieted down again, Humphrey said, laughing,—

'Poor old fellow! he doesn't understand why his master should punish him for the offences of Mistress Lucy Ratcliffe.' Then, more seriously, 'My own heart is heavy within me, but I try to ease the burden by doing what I can to relieve the pain of her whom I love. Action is the best cure for heart sickness.'

'But action is impossible for me, Humphrey. I have only to endure. Here am I, riding back to our home to eat the bread of disappointment, leaving her, for whom I would gladly die, to the temptations of the Court. She will listen to the wooing of some gallant, and my Lady Pembroke will abet it, and then—'

'Then bear it like a man, George; nor break your heart for a maiden, when there are, I doubt not, many who are worthier and—'

'That's fine talking,' poor George said wrathfully. 'What if I were to tell you there are many worthier than the widow of Ambrose Gifford. There are some who say that she was not—'

Humphrey's eyes had an angry light in them as he turned them full on his brother.

'Not a word more, George, of her. I will not brook it; her name is sacred to me as the name of any saint in Heaven.'

George felt he dare say no more, and, after another silence, Humphrey asked,—

'When does our mother propose to return?'

'Not for a month. She has made friends with a draper in the Chepe, who is a relation of our father's. He has a little, ill-favoured son, and I think I saw signs of his wishing to win Dorothy Ratcliffe's favour. I would to Heaven he may do so, and then I shall at any rate have peace and quiet, and be free from hearing my mother lay plans of what she will do when I bring Dorothy as mistress of Hillside. Marry Dorothy, forsooth! I pity any man who is tied to that shrew for life.'

'Even the ill-favoured cousin you speak of in the Chepe,' Humphrey said, laughing in spite of himself. 'Nay, George, bear yourself as a man, and I dare to say little Mistress Lucy will come round to your wishes.'

'I would that I could hope, but despair has seized me ever since the day of that tourney. Did you ever see anyone look fairer than she did that day seated amongst all the grand folks? There was not one to compare with her, and I caught words in several quarters which showed me I am not wrong in my estimate of her.'

'Ah, George,' his brother said, 'we are all wont to think our own idols are beyond compare; it is a common illusion—or delusion. But we are nearing Tunbridge. Here we must part, for I must tarry here to pursue inquiries, while you proceed homewards. The horses must be baited, and we must get some refreshments at the hostel. It may be that in the inn kitchen I may pick up some information that may be of service. I shall not ride to Penshurst till nightfall, or may be the morrow, but I must confide a letter to the care of that trusty Ned who I see coming up behind us but slowly on yonder sturdy steed.'

Humphrey dismounted in the yard of the hostel and gave orders to his groom, while George went into the kitchen and bid the hostess spread a good meal for the whole party.

Humphrey waited outside till the baggage horse, on which Ned was seated came up.

Poor Ned was entirely unused to travel on horseback, and had found jolting and bumping on the sturdy mare's back over the rough road far more painful than his long march of the previous day and night. He was the butt of the other servants, who laughed more loudly than politely as he was set on his legs in the yard.

He was so stiff from the confined position, that he staggered and would have fallen, amidst the boisterous jeers of the spectators, had not Humphrey caught him, and, trying to steady him, said,—

'Peace, ye varlets; this good fellow has done me a real service, and deserves better at your hands than gibes and scoffs. Come hither, Ned. I have yet something further for you to do for me.'

Ned followed Humphrey with halting steps, shaking first one leg and then another, as if to assure himself that they still belonged to him.

'I'll do all you ask, Master,' Ned said, 'but ride a-horseback. I will walk fifty miles sooner. My legs are full of pins and needles, and it will take a deal of shaking and rubbing before I can call 'em my own again.'

Humphrey could not resist laughing, for Ned's face was comical in its contortions, as he stamped his feet and rubbed his shins with muttered exclamations that, as long as his name was Ned, he would never get upon a horse's back again.

'You've got a fit of the cramp,' Humphrey said, 'it will soon pass. Now, after you have had a good meal, take this letter which is tied and sealed, and put it into the hands of Mistress Gifford. It will tell her all I can yet tell her in answer to the letter you brought me. At least she will know by it that I will do my utmost to serve her, and find her son.'

Ned took the letter with his large brown fingers, and, putting it into the pouch in the breast of his smock, he said,—

'I'll carry it safe, Master, and I'll be off at once.'

'Not till you have broken your long fast in the kitchen of the hostel.'

'An it please you, Master, I would sooner be off, if I get a cake to eat on the way, and a draft of ale before I start; that will serve me. Do not order me, I pray you, to sit down with those gibing villains—no, nor order me, kind sir, to mount a horse again. If I live to be three score, I pray Heaven I may never sit a-horseback again.'