Volume Two—Chapter Six.

The domicile of Dick Dancey could scarce with correctness be called a house. Even cottage would be too dignified a name for the wooden hovel, in which the woodman and his family habitually found shelter from rain and wind.

To the latter the house itself was but little exposed: for, when a tempest raged, before striking on the frail structure, its fury was expended upon the giant beeches of Wapsey’s Wood, that stretched their protecting arms over and around it.

It was a cabin of rough logs, clayed between the chinks, and roofed with a thatch of rushes—such, excepting the roof, as might be seen at the present day in the backwoods of America.

A narrow doorway, barely wide enough to admit the big body of the woodman himself; two or three small windows, with diminutive panes of glass set in lead; an enclosure of limited dimensions, girt with a flimsy paling—designed for a garden, but grown into a weed bed; a stack of fire faggots; a shed that gave occasional shelter to a scraggy cob; a clay-bedaubed kennel containing a large fierce-looking mongrel—the cross between sheep-dog and deer-hound; these were the principal features in the external aspect of Dick Dancey’s domicile.

The interior view was equally rude, and equally simple. A kitchen with a clay floor, and clay-plastered walls—against which stood upon shelves, or hung upon pegs, a sparse collection of utensils; some dingy old prints on common paper, and in cheap frames; a string of onions; another of rabbit skins; and close by the freshly-flayed hide of a fallow deer. Traps, gins, nets, and other implements for taking forest game and fish, were visible in a corner by themselves; and in another corner lay a large wooden axe, the implement of the owner’s proper calling. On the floor stood a beechwood table, with half-a-dozen rush-bottomed chairs, and some culinary utensils of red earthenware; while in the cavity, representing a fire-place, two large stones did duty for andirons.

The kitchen was everything—the two rooms, the only others in the house—were both bedchambers; and both of very limited divisions. Each contained only a single bed; but one of the rooms was furnished a little better than its fellow:—that is, the bed had sheets and a coverlet; while the other was only a shakedown of straw rushes, with some rags of coarse grogram, and a couple of deer-skins for bed-clothes.

In the first chamber there was a chair or two, and a small table placed against the wait. Over this glistened a piece of broken mirror, attached to the plastered surface, by a couple of rusty nails bent against the edges of the glass. A cotton pincushion; two or three common side-combs for holding up the hair; a small brush of bristles; a pair of white linen cuffs, that showed signs of having been more than once worn since washing; with some minor articles of female apparel, all lying upon the table, told the occupant of the chamber to be a woman.

It was the sleeping-room of Bet Dancey—the daughter of the deer-stalker, and the only member of his family. The other apartment was the dormitory of Dick himself.

The bed-rooms, however, were of inferior importance: since both Dick and his daughter lived habitually in the kitchen. They were both to be found there on the fourth day after the fÊte, at which the beautiful Betsey had cut such a conspicuous figure.

Dick was seated at the table, engaged in the agreeable occupation of eating. A mug of beer, the fragments of a loaf of bread, and some ribs of roast venison, were the viands before him.

It was his breakfast; though the sun shining down through the tops of the beeches betokened it nearer dinner-time; and Bet had breakfasted some hours earlier. But Dick had returned home late the night before—fatigued after a long journey—and in consequence had snored upon his shakedown of straw, until the bells of Bulstrode were tolling twelve.

From the conversation carried on between him and his daughter, it was evident that, up to that hour, not many words had passed between them since his coming home.

“Ha’ theer be’d any un here, gurl?”

“Yes. One of the soldiers from the Park has been here—twice.”

“One o’ the sogers!” muttered Dick in a tone that betrayed unpleasantness. “Dang it, that’s queery! Did he tell thee his errand?”

“Only that he wanted to see you.”

“Wanted to see me! Art sure o’ that, gurl?”

“He said so, father.”

“Thour’t sure he didn’t come to see thee?”

The woodman, as he asked the question, gazed scrutinisingly upon the countenance of his daughter.

“Oh, no, father!” replied Betsey without flinching from his gaze. “What could he want with me? He said he had a message for yourself; and that his captain wished to speak with you on some business.”

“Business wi’ his captain! Hech! Did he say nothin’ o’ what it be’ed about?”

“No.”

“Nor made no inquiries o’ any kind?”

“He only asked me, if I knew Mister Henry Holtspur, and where he lived.”

“What didst thee tell him?”

“I said that you knew him; and that he lived at the old house at Stone Dean.”

The beautiful Betsey did not think it necessary to inform her father, that the cuirassier had said a good deal more: since it was in the shape of gallant speeches, and related only to herself.

“Makin’ inquiries ’bout him!” muttered Dancey to himself. “I shudn’t wonder if theer be somethin’ afoot. Muster Holtspur must be told o’t, an’ at once. I’ll go over theer soon’s I’ve ate my breakfast. Wull’s been here too,” he continued, once more addressing himself to his daughter, though not interrogatively. “I see’d him last night, when I got to Muster Holtspur’s. He told me he’d been.”

“Yes—he has been twice. The last time he came was when the other was here. They had some angry words.”

“Angry words, eh! What beed they about, gurl?”

“I am sure I can’t tell, father. You know Will always gets out of temper, when any one speaks to me. Indeed, I can’t bear it; and won’t any longer. He taunted me that day; and said a many things he’d no right to.”

“I tell thee, gurl, Wull Walford have a right to talk to thee as he pleases. He is thy friend, gurl; an’ means it only for thy good. Thou be-est too short wi’ the lad; and say’st things—for I’ve heard thee myself—that would aggravate the best friend thee hast i’ the world. Thou wilt do well to change thy tone; or Wull Walford may get tired o’ thy tricks, an’ go a speerin’ som’ere else for a wife.”

“I wish he would!” was the reply that stood ready on the tip of Bet’s tongue; but which from a wholesome dread of the paternal temper—more than once terribly exhibited on this subject—was left unspoken.

“I tell thee, gurl, I’ve seed Wull Walford last night. I’ve talked wi’ him a bit; an’ I reckon as how he’ll ha’ somethin’ seerus to say to thee ’fore long.”

The dark cloud, that passed over the countenance of the girl, told that she comprehended the nature of the “something” thus conjecturally foreshadowed.

“Now, Bet,” added the woodman, having laid bare the roasted rib, and emptied the beer-mug, “bring me my old hat, an’ the long hazel staff. I be a gooin’ over to the Dean; an’ as that poor beest be well-nigh done up, I maun walk. Maybe Muster Holtspur moat coom here, while I be gone theer. I know he wants to see me early, an’ I ha’ overslept myself. He sayed he might coom. If he do, tell ’im I’ll be back in a giff—if I doant find ’im over theer, or meet ’im on the way.”

And with this injunction, the gigantic deer-stealer squeezed himself through the narrow doorway of his hovel; and, turning in the direction of Stone Dean, strode off under the shadowy boughs of the Wapsey’s Wood beeches.

He was scarce out of sight when Bet, stepping back from the door, glided into her little chamber; and, seizing the brush of bristles, began drawing it through the long tresses of her hair.

In that piece of broken glass—with a disc not bigger than a dinner-plate—was reflected a face with which the most critical connoisseur of female beauty could scarce have found fault.

The features were of the true gipsy type—the aquiline nose—the wild, hawk-like eye—the skin of golden brown—and thick crow-black hair overshadowing all. There was a form, too, beneath, which, though muscular almost as a man’s, and with limbs large and vigorous, was, nevertheless, of tempting tournure. It was no wonder that Marion Wade had deemed it worthy the admiration of Henry Holtspur—no wonder that Henry Holtspur had deemed Will Walford unworthy of possessing it.

“He coming here! And to find me in this drabby dress, with my hair hanging like the tail of father’s old horse! I should sink through the floor for very shame!

“I trust I shall be in time to titivate myself. Bother my hair!—it’s a yard too long, and a mile too thick. It takes as much trouble to plait as would weave a hank of homespun.

“It’ll do now. Stick where I stick you, ye ugly comb! Will’s gift. Little do I prize it, troth!

“Now for my Sunday gown—my cuffs and ruffs. They’re not quite so grand as those of Mistress Marion Wade; but I flatter myself they’re not amiss. If I were only allowed to wear gloves—pretty gauntlets, like those I’ve seen on her hands, small and white as the drifted snow! Ah! there, I’m far behind her: my poor hands are red and big; they’ve had to work and weave; while hers, I dare say, never touched a distaff. Oh! that I could wear gloves to cover these ugly fingers of mine. But no—I daren’t. The village girls would laugh at me, and call me a —. I won’t say the word. Never mind for the gloves. Should he come, I’ll keep my hands under my apron, so that he shan’t see a finger.”

Thus soliloquised Bet Dancey in front of her bit of broken looking-glass.

It was not Will Walford who had summoned up her ludicrous soliloquy; nor yet the cuirassier—he who had called twice. For neither of these was the dark-haired damsel arraying herself in her flaunting finery. The lure was being set for higher game—for Henry Holtspur.

“I hope father mayn’t meet him on the way. He’ll be sure to turn him back if he do: for father likes better to go to Stone Dean than for him to come here. Luckily there’s two paths; and father always takes the short cut—by which he never comes.

“Ha! the dog barks! ’Tis some one! Mercy on me! If’t be him I’m not half ready to receive him. Stay in, you nasty comb! It’s too short in the teeth. Will’s no judge of combs, or he’d a bought me a better. After all,” concluded she, bending down before the bit of glass, and taking a final survey of her truly beautiful face, “I think I’ll do. Perhaps I’m not so pretty as Mistress Marion Wade; but I’m sure I’m as good-looking as Mistress Dorothy Dayrell. The dog again! It must be somebody, I hope ’tis—”

Leaving the name unpronounced, the girl glided back into the kitchen; and, crossing it with quick step, stood once more within the doorway.

As yet there was no one in sight. The dog was barking at something that had roused him either by scent or sound. But the girl knew that the animal rarely erred in this wise; and that something—either man or beast—must be approaching the hut.

She was not kept long in suspense, as to who was the coming visitor; though the hope, to which she had given thought, had well-nigh departed before that visitor came within view. The dog was making his demonstration towards the south. The path to Stone Dean led northward from the cottage. Henry Holtspur, if coming from home, should appear in the latter direction.

The girl knew of another visitor who might be expected by the southern path, and at any hour. In that direction dwelt Will Walford. It might be he?

A shadow of disappointment swept over her face, accompanying this conjecture. It seemed to say, how little welcome just then would Will Walford be.

Such must have been its signification: for at sight of this individual—the moment after advancing along the path—the shadow on her countenance sensibly deepened.

“How very provoking!” muttered she. “At such a time too—just as I had hopes of seeing him. If he should come too—even though his errand be to father—I shouldn’t wonder if Will was to make some trouble. He’s been jealous ever since he saw me give Master Holtspur the flowers—worse about him than any one. Will’s right there; though the other’s not to blame—no, no—only myself. I wish he were a little in fault. Then I shouldn’t mind Will’s jealousy; nor he, I’m sure. Oh! if he loved me, I shouldn’t care for aught, or anybody, in the wide world!”

Having made this self-confession, she stepped back into the doorway; and, standing upon the stoup, awaited the unwelcome visitor with an air of defiant indifference.

“Mornin’, Bet!” saluted her suitor in a curt, sulky fashion, to which “Bet” made an appropriate response. “Thou be-est stannin’ in the door as if thou wast lookin’ for some’un? I doan’t suppose it are for me anyhow.”

“No, indeed,” answered the girl, taking but slight pains to conceal her chagrin. “I neither expected you, nor do I thank you for coming. I told you so, when you were here last; and now I tell you again.”

“Wal, you consated thing!” retorted the lout, with a pretence at being indifferent; “how do thee know I be come to see thee? I may have business wi’ Mast’ Dancey, mayent I?”

“If you have, he’s not at home.”

“Where be he gone?”

“Over to Stone Dean. He’s only left here a minute ago. He went by the short cut across the woods. If you keep on, you’ll easily overtake him.”

“Bah!” ejaculated the woodman, “I beant in such a hurry. My bizness wi’ your father ’ll keep till he coom back; but I’se also got somethin’ to say to thyself as woan’t keep much longer. Thee be done up wonderful fine this mornin’! Be theer another fÊte to come off? ’Tan’t day o’ a fair, be it?”

“My doing up, as you call it, has nothing to do with either fÊte, or fair. I’m dressed no different from other days, I’m sure. I’ve only put on my new skirt and boddice—because—because—.”

Notwithstanding her readiness, Mistress Betsey appeared a little perplexed to find an excuse for being habited in her holiday attire.

“Because,” interrupted the woodman, noticing her confusion, “because thee wast lookin’ out for some ’un. That’s the because. Bet Dancey!” continued he, his increased jealousy stimulating him to bolder speech; “doant try to deceive me. I arn’t such a blind fool as you think I be. You’ve put on your finery to receive some ’un as you ha’ been expectin’. That swaggerin’ soger, I ’spose? May be the fine gentleman o’ Stone Dean hisself; or I wouldna’ wonder if’t mout be that ere Indyen dummy o’ his. You beeant partickler, Bet Dancey; not you. All’s fish as cooms to thy net—all’s one.”

“Will Walford!” cried the girl, turning red under his taunts, “I shall not listen to such talk—either from you or any one. If you’ve nothing else to say to me, you may pass on.”

“But I hev’ somethin’ else to say to thee; and I mean to say’t now, Bet.”

“Say it, then, and have done with it,” rejoined the girl, as if desirous of hurrying the interview to an end. “What be it?”

“It be this, then,” replied the woodman, moving a little nearer to her, and speaking in a more serious tone than he had yet assumed; “Bet Dancey, I needn’t be tellin’ thee how I be in love wi’ thee. Thou know’st it well enoo.”

“You’ve told it me a hundred times. I don’t want to hear it again.”

“But thou shalt. An’ this time, I tell thee, will be the last.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“What I be goin’ to say,” continued the suitor, without heeding her repeated interruptions, “be this, Bet Dancey, I see’d thy father last night; an’ he an’ me talked it over atween us. He’s gi’ed me his full consent.”

“To what, pray?”

“Why to ha’e thee for my wife.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed the girl, with a scornful laugh. “Ha! ha! ha! That’s what you had to tell me, is it? Now, Will Walford, hear me in return. You’ve told me a hundred times that you loved me, and you’ve now promised that it will be the last time. I’ve said to you a hundred times it was no use; and I promise you this will be my last saying it. Once for all then, I declare to you, that I shall never be your wife—never I never!”

The last words were pronounced with a stern emphasis, calculated to carry conviction; and the rustic suitor shrank under them, as if they had annihilated the last remnant of his hopes.

Only for an instant did he preserve his cowering attitude. His was not a nature to be stung without turning; and the recoil soon came.

“Then dang it!” cried he, raising his long axe, and winding it around his head in a threatening manner, “If thee doant be my wife, Bet Dancey, thou shall never be the wife o’ any other. I swear to thee, I’ll kill the man thee marriest; an’ thyself along wi’ him, if I ever live to see the day that makes two o’ ye one!”

“Away, wretch!” cried the girl, half terrified, half indignant. “I don’t want to listen to your threats. Away, away!”

And, saying this, she retreated inside the hut—as she did so, slamming the door in his face.

“Dang thee, thou deceitful slut!” apostrophised the discarded suitor; “I’ll keep my threet, if I ha’ to swing for it!”

As he gave utterance to this fell menace, he threw the axe over his shoulder; sprang across the broken palings; and strode off among the trees—once more muttering as he went: “I’ll keep my threet, if I ha’ to swing for it!”

For some minutes the door of the cottage remained closed. It was also barred inside: for the girl had been a good deal frightened, and feared the fellow’s return. The wild look that had gleamed from under his white eyebrows would have caused fear within the bosom of any woman; and it had even terrified the heart of Bet Dancey.

On barring the door, she glided up to one of the windows and watched. She saw him take his departure from the place.

“He is gone, and I am glad of it for two reasons,” soliloquised she. “What a wicked wretch! I always thought so. And yet my father wants me to marry that man! Never—never! I shall tell father what he has said. Maybe that may change him.

“Heigho! I fear he is not coming to-day! and when shall I see him again? There’s to be another fÊte at Michaelmas; but that’s a long time; and its such a chance meeting him on the road—where one mayn’t speak to him, perhaps. Oh! if I could think of some errand to Stone Dean! I wish father would send me oftener. Ah me! what’s the use? Muster Holtspur’s too grand to think of a poor peasant girl. Marry me he could not, perhaps he would not.—I don’t want that, if he’d only love me!”

The lurcher, that had kept silent during the stormy interview between Bet and her rustic admirer, now broke out in a fresh bravura of baying.

“Is it Will again?” cried the girl, gliding back to the window and looking out. “No, it can’t be him: the dog looks the other way. It’s either father coming back, or—’Tis he! ’tis he!

“What am I to do? I must open the door. If he sees it shut he may not think of coming in; I wish him to come in!”

As she said this, she glided up to the doorway, and pushing back the bar, gently drew open the door.

She did not show herself in the entrance. A quick instinct hindered her. Were she to do so, the visitor might simply make an inquiry; and, being answered that her father was not at home, might turn back or pass on. This would not suit her purpose: since she wished him to come in.

He was afoot. That augured well. She watched him through the window as he drew near. She watched him with a throbbing bosom.

Volume Two—Chapter Eight.

We left the beautiful Bet Dancey, with her eyes fixed on the man she admired—waiting his entrance into her father’s cottage, and with a throbbing bosom.

Hers were not the only eyes that were watching Henry Holtspur—nor the only bosom throbbing at his approach. There was one other beating as wildly as hers, though with emotions of a far different kind. It was that of her discarded suitor.

On parting with his cruel sweetheart, Will Walford had walked on among the trees, not caring what direction he took. The horoscope of a happy life, as the husband of Bet Dancey—which he had been long contemplating—had become dim and dark by the very decided dismissal he had just received; and the young woodman’s world, circumscribed though it might be, was now, to his view, a vast chaos.

For a time he could find no other occupation for either thought or speech, than to repeat the revengeful phrase with which he had signalised his departure.

Only for a short time, however, did he continue in this reckless mood. The fact of his sweetheart being done up in her holiday dress, once more recurred to him—along with the suspicion that she must be expecting some one.

This thought checked his steps—bringing him to an instantaneous halt.

Despite his ungracious dismissal—despite the hopelessness of his own suit—he determined on discovering who was the happy rival—who it was for whom that boddice had been buttoned on.

That there was such an individual he could scarce have a doubt. The girl’s manner towards himself—her air of anxiety while he stayed in her presence—the desire she had expressed for him to follow, and overtake her father—and finally the banging of the door in his face—all pointed to a wish on her part to get rid of him as soon as possible. Even the dull brain of the brute was quick enough to be convinced of this.

If he had any doubting hope upon the subject, it was determined by the baying of the lurcher, which at this moment broke upon his ear. The dog could no longer be barking at him? Some other arrival must have engaged the animal’s attention; and who could that other be, but the man for whom Bet’s black tresses had been so coquettishly coifed?

The jealous rustic faced round and commenced returning towards the hut—as if the bark of the dog had been a command for him to do so.

Very different, however, was the attitude exhibited on his backward march. Instead of the reckless devil-me-care swagger with which he had taken his departure, he now made approach with the instinctive caution of one accustomed to the woods; sheltering himself behind the trunks of the trees, and gliding from one to the other—as if afraid of being shot at, by somebody lying in wait within the cottage.

After arriving upon the edge of the open ground, that extended some yards outside the enclosure—he came to a final stop—crouching down behind a bush of holly, whose thick dark foliage appeared sufficient to screen him from the observation of any one—either in the cottage or in front of it.

The first glance which he gave, after getting into position, discovered to him the individual whose arrival had set the dog to barking. Had it been the coarse cuirassier—Bet’s latest conquest—or even the officer who at the fÊte had made so free with her lips, Will Walford would have been pained by the presence of either. But far more dire were his thoughts, on perceiving it was neither one nor the other—but a rival infinitely more to be dreaded—his own patron—the protector of Maid Marian.

Had it been any other who was making approach Will Walford might have sprung from his hiding-place, and shown himself upon the instant—perhaps commanded their instantaneous departure. But after witnessing that combat in the Saxon camp—combined with other knowledge he possessed of the character and qualities of the “black horseman”—a wholesome fear of this individual counselled him to keep his place.

The dog soon ceased his angry demonstrations; and, springing gleefully upon his chain, commenced wagging his tail in friendly recognition of the new arrival. It was evident the cavalier was not coming to the cottage of Dick Dancey for the first time!

As Walford reasoned thus, the cloud upon his countenance became darker—the agony in his heart more intense. Still more agonising were his emotions when he saw Henry Holtspur step inside the hut, and heard his voice in free conversation with that of the girl. The tones appeared to be of two persons who had talked in confidence—who understood one another!

The shadow of a fell intent showed itself on the beetling brow of Will Walford. Despite his dread of such a powerful adversary, jealousy was fast urging him to a dark deed—to do, or dare it. No doubt, in another instant, it would have stimulated him to the wielding of that terrible woodaxe, but for an unexpected incident that turned him from his intention.

The dog again gave out his howling note of alarm; but soon changed it into a yelp of recognition—on perceiving that it was his own master who was coming along the path.

At the same instant Walford recognised the old woodman. Instead of showing himself, he crept closer in among the glabrous leaves of the holly, and lay crouching there—more like a man who feared being detected, than one bent on detection.

It was not till the cavalier had stepped forth from the cottage, and, apparently entering into serious conversation with its owner, walked off with him into the woods, that Walford stole out from his hiding-place under the holly.

Then, shaking his axe in the direction in which they had gone—with a gesture that seemed to signify only the adjournment of his fiendish design—and, still keeping the bush between his own body and the windows of the hovel, he sneaked sulkily away.

He did not go in silence, but kept muttering as he went; at intervals breaking out into louder enunciations—as some thought especially exasperating struck into his excited brain.

Again he repeated the menace made on his first departure from the cottage.

“Ees, dang me! I’ll keep my threet, if I shud ha’ to hang for’t!”

This time, however, the “threet” applied to a special victim—Holtspur. It is true that he still mentally reserved a condition; and that was, should his suspicions prove correct. He was determined to play the spy upon his sweetheart by day and by night; and, should he discover good grounds for his jealousy, nothing should then stay his hand from the fell purpose already declared—to kill.

This purpose—fully resolved upon as he walked through the wood—had some effect in tranquillising his spirit; though it was far from giving it complete contentment.

His steps were turned homeward; and soon brought him to a hut standing only a few hundred yards from that of Dick Dancey—of even humbler aspect than the domicile of the deer-stealer. It looked more like a stack of faggots than a house. It had only one door, one window, and one room; but these were sufficient for its owner, who lived altogether alone.

The “plenishing” was less plentiful, and of a commoner kind than that in the cottage of the deer-stealer; and the low truck-bed in the corner, with its scanty clothing, looked as if the hand of woman had never spread sheet, or coverlet, upon it.

This appearance of poverty was to some extent deceptive. However obtained, it was known that Walford possessed money—and his chalk score in the tap-room of the “Packhorse” was always wiped out upon demand. No more did his dress betray any pecuniary strait. He went well habited; and could even afford a fancy costume when occasion called for it—to represent Robin Hood, or any other popular hero of the peasant fancy.

It was this repute of unknown, and therefore indefinite, wealth, that in some measure sanctioned his claim to aspire to the hand of the beautiful Bet Dancey—the acknowledged belle of the parish; and though his supposed possession of property had failed to win over the heart of the girl herself, it had a deal to do in making him the favourite of her father.

Already slightly suspicious of Bet’s partiality for the black horseman, what he witnessed that morning rendered him seriously so. It is true there was still nothing ascertained—nothing definite. The cavalier might have had some object, in visiting Dancey’s cottage, other than an interview with Bet; and Walford was only too willing to think so.

But the circumstances were suspicious—sufficiently so to make sad havoc with his happiness; and, had Dancey not returned at the time he did, there is no knowing what might have been the dÉnouement of the interview he had interrupted.

On entering his unpretentious dwelling, Walford flung his axe into a corner, and himself into a chair—both acts being performed with an air of recklessness, that betokened a man sadly out of sorts with the world.

His thoughts, still muttered aloud, told that his mind dwelt on the two individuals whose names constantly turned up in his soliloquy—Bet Dancey and Henry Holtspur. Though Bet was at intervals most bitterly abused, the cavalier came in for the angrier share of his denunciations.

“Dang the interloper!” he exclaimed, “Why doan’t he keep to his own sort? Ridin’ about wi’ his fine horse an’ his fine feathers, an’ pokin’ hisself into poor people’s cottages, where he have no business to be? Dang him!

“What’s brought him into this neighbourhood anyhow? I shud like to know that. An’ what’s he doin’ now? I should like to know that. Gatherin’ a lot o’ people to his house from all parts o’ the country, an’ them to come in the middle o’ the night! I shud just like to know that.

“Theer be somethin’ in it he don’t want to be know’d: else why shud those letters I carried—ay, an’ opened an’ read ’em too—why shud they have told them as I tuk ’em to, to come ’ithout bringin’ theer own grooms, an’ at that late hour o’ the night? Twelve o’clock the letters sayed—one an’ all o’ them!

“I shud like to know what it’s all about. That’s what I shud.

“Ay; an’ may be I know some’un else as wud like to know. That fellow as fought wi’ him at the feeat. I wish he’d run him through the ribs, instead o’ gettin’ run through hisself. Dang it! what can he be wantin’ wi’ me? Can’t be about that thwack I gin him over the skullcap? If’t are anything consarnin’ that, he wouldn’t a’ sent after me as he’s done? No, he’ a sent a couple o’ his steel-kivered sogers, and tuk me at once. Withers sayed he meeant well by me; but that Withers an’t to be depended on. I never knew him tell the truth afore he went sogerin’; an’ it an’t like he be any better now. Maybe this captain do meean well, for all that? I’d gie somethin to know what he be wantin’.

“Dang it!” he again broke forth, after pondering for a while, “It mout be somethin’ about this very fellow—this black horseman? I shud say that ’ere captain’ll be thinkin’ o’ him, more’n about anybody else. If he be—ha!”

The last ejaculation was uttered in a significant tone, and prolonged, as if continuing some train of thought that had freshly started into his brain.

“If’t be that;—it may be? Dang me! I’ll know! I’ll go an’ see Master Captain Scarthe—that’s what they call him, I b’lieve. I’ll go this very minnit.”

In obedience to the resolve, thus suddenly entered upon, the woodman rose to his feet; seized hold of his hat; and made direct for the door.

Suddenly he stopped, looking outward upon some sight, that seemed to cause him both surprise and gratification.

“I’ve heerd say,” he muttered, “that when the devil be wanted he beeant far off. Dang it; the very man I war goin’ to see be comin’ to see me! Ees—that be the captain o’ the kewreseers, an’ that’s Withers as be a-ridin’ ahint him!”

Walford’s announcement was but the simple truth. It was Captain Scarthe, and his confidant Withers, who were approaching the hovel.

They were on horseback; but did not ride quite up to the house. When within a hundred yards of the door the officer dismounted; and, having given his bridle to the trooper, advanced on foot and alone.

There was no enclosure around the domicile of Will Walford—not even a ditch; and his visitor, without stopping, walked straight up to the door—where the woodman was standing on the stoup to receive him.

With the quick eye of an old campaigner, Scarthe saw, that on the ugly face of his late adversary there was no anger. Whatever feeling of hostility the latter might have entertained at the fÊte, for some reason or other, appeared to have vanished; and the captain was as much surprised as gratified at beholding something like a smile, where he expected to have been favoured with a frown.

Almost intuitively did Scarthe construe this circumstance. The man before him had an enemy that he knew to be his also—one that he hated more than Scarthe himself.

To make certain of the justness of this conjecture was the first move on the part of the cuirassier captain.

“Good morrow, my friend!” began he, approaching the woodman with the most affable air, “I hope the little incident that came so crookedly between us—and which I most profoundly regret—I hope it has been equally forgotten and forgiven by you. As I am an admirer of bravery, even in an adversary, I shall feel highly complimented if you will join me in a stoup of wine. You see I always go prepared—lest I should lose my way in these vast forests of yours, and perhaps perish of thirst.”

As he approached the conclusion of this somewhat jocular peroration, he held up a flask—suspended by a strap over his shoulders—and unconcernedly commenced extracting the stopper.

His ci-devant adversary—who seemed both surprised and pleased at this brusque style of soldering a quarrel—eagerly accepted the proffered challenge; and, after expressing consent in his rough way, invited the cavalier to step inside his humble dwelling, and be accommodated with a seat.

Scarthe gave ready assent; and in another second had planted himself, on one of the two dilapidated chairs which the hovel contained.

The wine was soon decanted into a pair of tin cups, instead of silver goblets; and in less than ten minutes’ time Captain Scarthe and Will Walford were upon as friendly terms, as if the former had never touched the lips of Maid Marian, nor the latter broken a cross-bow over his head.

“The fact is, my bold Robin!” said Scarthe, by way of a salvo, “I and my companion, the cornet, had taken a little too much of this sort of stuff on that particular morning; and you know when a man—”

“Dang it, yes!” rejoined the rustic, warming to his splendid companion, who might likely become a powerful patron, “when one has got a drap too much beer i’ the head, he arn’t answerable for every bit o’ mischief in that way. I know ’twas only in sport ye kissed the lass. Dang it! I’d ha’ done the same myself. Ay, that I would.”

“Ah! and a pretty lass she is, this Maid Marian. Your sweetheart, I take it, Master Walford?”

“Oh! e-es;—Betsey be somethin’ o’ that sort,” replied the woodman, rather vain of the avowal.

“A fortunate fellow you are! I dare say you will soon be married to her?”

Walford’s reply to this interrogatory was ambiguous and indistinct.

“As one,” continued the captain, “who has a good deal of experience in marrying matters—for I’ve had a wife, or two, myself—I’d advise you—that is, after the fair Betsey becomes Mistress Walford—not to permit any more presents of flowers.”

“Dang it!” ejaculated the jealous lover, “what do you mean by that, master?”

“Why, only that I was witness to that little affair in the old camp; and, to say the troth, was not a little surprised. If any one deserved those flowers from Maid Marian, it was surely the man who first took up her quarrel. That was yourself, Master Walford: as my skull case—which still aches at the remembrance—can truly testify.”

“Dang me, if I didn’t! The black horseman had no business to interfere, had he?”

“Not a bit! You and I could have settled our little difference between ourselves; and I was just upon the eve of asking your forgiveness—for I felt I had been foolish—when this fellow stepped in. He interfered, for no other reason, than to figure well in the eyes of the girl. I could see plain enough it was that; though I knew nothing of either party at the time. But I’ve learnt something since, that puts the matter beyond dispute.”

“Learnt somethin’ since—you have?” gasped Walford, springing up from his chair, and earnestly stooping towards the speaker. “If thee know’st anything anent Maid Marian—Bet Dancey, I mean, an’ him—tell it me, Master! tell it me, an’—”

“Keep cool, Walford! Resume your seat, pray. I’ll tell you all I know; but, before I can make sure that I have been correctly informed, it is necessary for me to know more of this person, whom you style the Black Horseman. Perhaps you can tell me something, that will enable me to identify him with the individual whose name I have heard, in connection with that of Maid Marian, or Bet Dancey—as you say the beauty is called.”

“What do you want to know o’ him?” asked Walford, evidently ready to impart all the intelligence regarding Holtspur of which he was himself possessed.

“Everything,” replied Scarthe, perceiving that he need not take trouble to keep up even a show of reserve. “As for myself, I know only his name. After all, it may not have been him—who—”

“Who what?” quickly inquired the impatient listener.

“I’ll tell you presently, Master Walford; if you’ll only have a little patience. Where does this black horseman hold out?”

“Hold out?”

“Ay, where’s his hostelry?”

“I’ve seed him oftener than anywhere else at the Saracen’s Head—down the road nigh on to Uxbridge.”

“Zooks! my brave Robin, that isn’t what I mean. Where does he live?”

“Where’s his own home?”

“Ah! his home.”

“’Tain’t very far off from here—just a mile t’other side o’ Wapsey’s Wood—in a big hollow i’ the hills. Stone Dean the place be called. It be a queery sort o’ a old dwellin’—and a good lot out o’ repairs, I reckon.”

“Does he see any company?”

“Wal, if you mean company—sich as fine ladies an’ the like—I doan’t think he ever do hev that sort about him. And not much o’ any sort, whiles the sun be a-shinin’. After night—”

“Ah! his friends generally visit him by night,” interrupted Scarthe, with a glance that betokened satisfaction. “Is that your meaning, Master Walford?”

“No, not gen’rally—ye mout say altogether. I have been to Stone Dean more’n twenty times, since he coomed to live at the old house—at all hours I’ve been—an’ I never seed a soul theer i’ the day time, ’cepting myself an’ Dick Dancey. Theer be a’ odd sort o’ a sarvint he brought wi’ him—a Indyen they calls him.”

“But Master Holtspur has visitors in the night time, you think?”

“Ay! that he have—lots o’ ’em.”

“Who are they?”

“Doan’t know neer a one o’ ’em. They be all strangers to these parts—leastwise they appear so—as they come ridin’, kivered wi’ mud an’ dust, like after makin’ a goodish bit o’ a journey. There’ll be a big gatherin’ o’ ’em theer nex’ Sunday night—considerin’ the letters that’s gone. I took six myself, an’ Dick Dancey as many more—to say nothing o’ a bunch carried to the west end o’ the county by a fellow I doan’t know nothin’ about. It be a meeting o’ some sort, I take it.”

“On next Sunday night, you say?”

The question was evidently asked with a keen interest: for the revelations which Will Walford was making had all at once changed the jocular air of his interrogator into one of undisguised eagerness.

“Next Sunday night?”

“At what hour?”

“Twelve o’ the clock.”

“You are sure about the hour?”

“I ought to be; since I ha’ got to be theer myself, along wi’ Dick Dancey, to look to the gentlemen’s horses. A big crowd o’ ’em there’ll be for the two o’ us to manage: as the gentlemen be comin’ without theer grooms. But what was it, Master?” inquired the woodman, returning to the torturing thought that was still uppermost; “You sayed you knowed somethin’ as happened atween Bet Dancey an’ him? If he’s been an’ done it, then, dang me—I’ll keep my threet, if I shud ha’ to swing for it!”

“Done what?”

“Made a fool o’ Bet—that’s what I meean. What is it ’t ye know, Mister Captain? Please to tell me that!”

“Well, then,” replied the tempter, speaking slowly and deliberately—as if to find time for the concoction of some plausible tale. “For myself, I can’t say I know anything—that is, for certain—I have only heard—altogether by accident, too—that your Maid Marian was seen—out in the woods with a gentleman—and at a very unreasonable hour of the night.”

“What night?” gasped the woodman.

“Let me see! Was it the night of the fÊte? No. It was the next after—if I remember aright.”

“Damn her! The very night I war gone over to Rickmans’orth wi’ them letters. Augh!”

“I shouldn’t have known it was this fellow Holtspur: as the person who gave me the information didn’t say it was him. It was only told me that the man—whoever he might be—was dressed in fine velvet doublet, with a beaver and black plumes; but from what I’ve seen myself, and what you’ve just now told me, I think it very likely that the black horseman was the individual. It was in the woods—near Stone Dean—where they were seen. You say he lives there. It looks suspicious, don’t it?”

“’Twar him! I know it—I be sure o’t. Augh! If I don’t ha’ revenge on him, and her too! Dang the deceitful slut! I will! I will!”

“Perhaps the girl’s not so much to blame. He’s a rich fellow—this Holtspur, and may have tempted her with his money. Gold goes a great way in such matters.”

“Oh! if’t were only money, I could abear it better. No! It an’t that, master, it an’t that! I’m a’most sure it an’t. She’s done it, damn her!”

“Perhaps we may be mistaken. Things may not have gone so far as you think. At all events, I should advise you to let the girl alone; and confine your revenge to the villain who has wronged her.”

“Him first—him first! And then, if I find she’s let herself be made a fool o’—”

“Whether or not, he deserves no thanks from you for having made the attempt.”

“I’ll thank him!—I will, whenever I gets the chance. Wait till I gets the chance.”

“If I am not mistaken, you may have that—without waiting long.”

Misinterpreting these words, the woodman glanced towards his axe with a significant and savage leer, that did not escape the keen eye of Scarthe.

“True,” said the latter, in a tone of disapproval, “you might have that chance almost at any hour. But there would also be a chance of failure, with a considerable risk of your getting run through the ribs. If what you’ve told me be as I suspect, there will be no need to resort to such extreme measures. Perhaps I may be able to point out a surer and safer method for you to rid yourself of this rival.”

“Oh! Mister Captain! If you would only do that—only tell me how—I’ll—I’ll—”

“Have patience! Very likely I may be able to assist you,” interrupted Scarthe, rising to take his departure. “I’ve something in my mind will just suit, I think. But it requires a little reflection—and—some preliminary steps that must be taken elsewhere. I shall return here to-night, after sunset. Meanwhile, stay at home; or, if you go abroad, keep your tongue behind your teeth. Not a word to any one of what has passed between us. Take another pull at the flask, to keep up your spirits. Now, Walford, good day to you!”

Having pronounced these parting words, the officer walked out of the hut; and, returning to his horse, leaped lightly into the saddle, and rode off—followed by his attendant Withers.

He did not communicate to the latter aught of what had transpired between him and the woodman. The muttered words that escaped him, as he trotted off among the trees, were spoken in a slow, measured soliloquy.

“No doubt one of the very meetings of which his Majesty has spoken so opportunely in his despatch? Richard Scarthe shall make one at this midnight assembly—uninvited though he be. Ah! if I can only find a fair opportunity to play eavesdropper, I promise Master Holtspur a more substantial dwelling than he now inhabits! Ho! have no fear, kind King Carolus! Right willingly shall I play the spy! Ha! ha! ha!”

Elated by the high hope with which his new-gained knowledge had inspired him, he gave the spur to his grey, while Wapsey’s Wood gave back the echoes of his joyous laughter.

Volume Two—Chapter Ten.

The astonishment of the cousins, at seeing two travellers starting forth so late, and upon such a dismal night, might have been increased, could they have extended their vision beyond the palings of the park, and surveyed the forest-covered country for a mile or two to the north-west of it.

On the ramifications of roads and bridle-paths—that connected the towns of Uxbridge and Beaconsfield with the flanking villages of Fulmer, Stoke, Hedgerley, and the two Chalfonts—they might have seen, not two, but twenty travellers; all on horseback, and riding each by himself—in a few instances only two or three of them going together.

Though upon different roads—and heading in different directions—they all appeared to be making for the same central bourne; which, as they neared it, could be told to be the old house of Stone Dean.

One by one they kept arriving at this point of convergence; and, passing through the gate of the park, one after another, they rode silently on to the dwelling—where they as silently dismounted.

There, delivering up their horses to three men—who stood ready to take them—the visitors stepped unbidden within the open doorway; and, following a dark-skinned youth—who received them without saying a word—were conducted along the dimly-lighted corridor, and ushered into an inner apartment.

As they passed under the light of the hall lamp—or had been seen outside during the occasional flashes of the lightning—the costume and bearing of these saturnine guests proclaimed them to be men of no mean degree; while their travel-stained habiliments told that they had ridden some distance, before entering the gates of Stone Dean.

It might have been remarked as strange, that such cavaliers of quality were thus travelling unattended—for not one of them was accompanied by groom, or servant of any sort. It was also strange, that no notice was taken of this circumstance by the men who led off their horses towards the stables—all three performing their duty without the slightest exhibition either of curiosity or surprise.

None of the three wore the regular costume of grooms or stable-servants; nor had any of them the appearance of being accustomed to act in such capacity. The somewhat awkward manner in which they were fulfilling their office, plainly proclaimed that it was new to them; while their style of dress, though different in each, declared them to belong to other callings.

Two were habited in the ordinary peasant garb of the period—with a few touches that told them to be woodmen; and as the lightning flashed upon their faces it revealed these two personages to be—Dick Dancey and his coadjutor, Will Walford.

The dress of the third was not characteristic of any exact calling; but appeared rather a combination of several styles: as though several individuals had contributed a portion of their apparel to his make-up. There was a pair of buff-leather boots, which, in point of elegance, might have encased the feet and ankles of a cavalier—the wide tops turned down over the knees, showing a profusion of white lining inside. Above these dangled the legs of a pair of petticoat breeches, of coarse kersey, which strangely contrasted with the costly character of the boots. Over the waistband of the breeches puffed out a shirt of finest linen—though far from being either spotless or clean; while this was again overtopped by a doublet of homespun woollen cloth, of the kind known as “marry-muffe”—slashed along the sleeves with the cheapest of cotton velveteen. Surmounting this, in like contrast, was the broad lace collar band of a cavalier, with cuffs to correspond—both looking, as if the last place of deposit had been the buck-basket of a washerwoman, and the wearer had taken them thence, without waiting for their being submitted to the operations of the laundry.

Add to the above-mentioned habiliments a high-crowned felt hat—somewhat battered about the brim—with a tarnished tinsel band, but without any pretence at a plume; and you have the complete costume of the third individual who was acting as an extemporised stable-helper at the dwelling of Stone Dean.

Had there been light enough for the travellers to have scrutinised his features, no doubt they would have been somewhat astonished at this queer-looking personage, who assisted in disembarrassing them of their steeds. Perhaps some of them, seeing his face, might have thought twice before trusting him with the keeping of a valuable horse: for, in the tall stalwart figure, that appeared both peasant and gentleman, in alternate sections, they might have recognised an old, and not very trustworthy acquaintance—the famed footpad, Gregory Garth.

In the darkness, however, Gregory ran no risk of detection; and continued to play his improvised part, without any apprehension of an awkward encounter.

By the time that the great clock in the tower of Chalfont Church had ceased tolling twelve, more than twenty of the nocturnal visitors to Stone Dean had entered within the walls of that quaint old dwelling; and still the sound of shod hooves, clinking occasionally against the stones upon the adjacent road, told that an odd straggler had yet to arrive.

About this time two horsemen, riding together, passed in through the gate of the park. Following the fashion of the others, they continued on to the front of the house—where, like the others, they also dismounted, and surrendered their horses to two of the men who stepped forward to receive them.

These animals, like the others, were led back to the stables; but their riders, instead of entering the house by the front door—as had been done by all those who had preceded them—in this respect deviated slightly from the programme.

As soon as the two grooms, who had taken their horses, were fairly out of sight, they were seen to act in obedience to a sign given by the third; who, whispering to them to follow him, led the way, first along the front of the house, and then around one of its wings, towards the rear.

Even had there been moonlight, it would have been difficult to identify these new comers, who were so mysteriously diverted from making entrance by the front door. Both were muffled in cloaks—more ample and heavy—than the quality of the night seemed to call for. Scarcely could the threatening storm account for this providence on their part?

On rounding the angle of the building, the man preceding them made a stop—at the same time half-facing about.

A gleam of lightning disclosed the countenance of their conductor. It was the woodman—Walford.

His face was paler than wont—of that ghastly hue that denotes the consciousness of crime—while his deep-set watery eyes shining from beneath his white eyebrows and hay-coloured hair, gave to his ill-favoured features an expression almost demoniac.

The countenances of the two cavaliers were also for an instant illuminated. One was the handsome face of Captain Scarthe—appearing like that of the guide—unnaturally pale under the unearthly glare of the electric light. The other was the stolid, but rubicund, countenance of his subaltern, Stubbs.

While the light lasted, Walford was seen beckoning them to follow fester.

“Coom on, masters!” muttered he, in an earnest, hurried tone, “There’s ne’er a minute to be lost. That ’ere dummy o’ an Indyen has got his eyes everywhere. If he sees ye, he’ll want to take ye inside among the rest; an’ that won’t answer yer purpose, I reckon.”

“No! that would never do,” muttered Scarthe, hastening his steps; “our presence inside would spoil this pretty pie. Go on, my good fellow! We’ll follow you—close as the skirt of your doublet.”

Without another word the trio moved on—the guide keeping a pace or two in advance, Stubbs clumsily staggering in the rear.

In this order they continued around the right wing of the house—all three making their way with as much silence and caution, as if they had been a band of burglars about to enter upon the ceremony of “cracking a crib.”

The almost amorphous darkness would have hindered them from being observed, even had there been any one in the way. But there was not—no one to see them stealing along that sombre-coloured wall—no eye to witness their entrance within the private side door that admitted them by a narrow passage into the unused apartments of the house—no eye to behold them as they stood within that small dark chamber, that communicated by a window of dingy glass with the large hall in which the guests of Henry Holtspur were assembled.

“Just the place!” whispered Scarthe, as, glancing through the glass, he saw the forms of men, moving confusedly over the floor of a well-lit apartment, and listened to the murmur of voices. “The very observatory I wished for. Now go, my good fellow!” he continued, transferring his whisper to the ear of Walford. “In twenty minutes from this time steal our horses out of the stables, and have them ready. We shall go back by the front entrance. Your worthy confrÈres will never know but that we’ve issued from the hive inside there. If they should suspect anything, I’ve got two sorts of metal upon my person—one or other of which will be sure to keep them quiet.”

Half pushing his late conductor bade into the passage, Scarthe quietly closed the door behind him; and drew Stubbs up to the cobweb-covered window. Behind it both silently took their stand—crouching like a pair of gigantic spiders, that had placed themselves in expectation of prey!

Neither made the slightest stir. They no longer talked to each other even in whispers. They were well aware of the danger they would incur—if detected in their eavesdropping—aware that they might have to pay for it with their lives, or at the very least, suffer severe punishment, by a castigation upon the spot, and the consequent disgrace due to their dastardly conduct. The act they were committing was of no trifling character—no child’s play of hide and seek; but a bold and dangerous game of espionage, in which not only the personal liberty, but even the lives of many individuals might be placed in peril—these, too, among the highest in the land.

Scarthe was conscious of all this; and, but that he was impelled to the act by the most powerful passion of man’s nature—the promptings of a profound jealousy—he might have hesitated before placing himself in such a position. His mere political proclivities would never have tempted him to the committal of such an imprudent act. Much as he inclined towards the king, he was not the man to play spy over a conference of conspirators—such as he believed this assembly to be, from motives of mere loyalty. The thought stimulating him was stronger by far.

He had not placed himself in that position blindly trusting to chance. Like a skilled strategist, as he was, he had well reconnoitred the ground before entering upon it. His coadjutor, Walford, acting under a somewhat similar motive, had freely furnished him with all the information he required. The woodman—from an acquaintance with the old “caretaker,” who had held charge of the house previous to Holtspur’s occupation—had a thorough knowledge of the dwelling of Stone Dean—its ins and its outs—its trap-doors and sliding panels—every stair and corner, from cellar to garret. Walford had assured the spies, that the chamber in which he secreted them was never entered by any one; and that the glass door communicating with the larger apartment could not be opened, without breaking it to pieces. Not only was its lock sealed with the rust of time, but the door itself was nailed fast to the post and lintels.

There was no fear of their being seen. The cobwebs precluded the possibility of that. As to their being heard, it would depend upon their own behaviour; and under the circumstances, neither captain nor cornet were likely to make any noise that might attract attention.

For the rest the affair had been easy enough. Among a crowd of unknown guests arriving at the house—even under the supervision of a staff of regular domestics—it was not likely that a distinction should be made between the invited and those unasked; much less under the outrÉ circumstances foreseen and well understood by Scarthe and his companion.

Neither Dancey nor Garth were supposed to know the persons of either. Nor had Oriole ever seen them; though Walford was far more concerned about the instincts of the Indian, than the observations of his fellow-helpers.

So far, however, he had succeeded in baffling both.

Scarthe commenced by wiping off enough of the cobwebs, to give him a clear disc of vision, of about the size of a crown piece.

With his eye close to the glass he commanded a view of the adjoining apartment, as well as the company it contained.

As to hearing, there was no difficulty about that. Even the ordinary conversation could be heard plainly through the panes; but, when any one spoke louder than the rest, every word could be distinguished.

Scarthe had not been very long occupied in his surveillance, before perceiving that he was playing the spy upon a company of gentlemen. None present were of the peasant type.

Soon also did he become acquainted with the general tenour of the discourse, and convinced of the correctness of his conjecture: that the meeting was an assembly of conspirators. This was the name given to it by the royalist captain; though rather did it merit to be called a conference of patriots—perhaps the purest that ever assembled on the earth.

The subjects discussed were various, but all relating to two matters of chief moment:—the liberty of the subject, and the encroachments of the sovereign. Out of doors, or inside, these were the topics of the time.

Three or four of the speakers appeared to be regarded above the rest; and when one or other of these stood up, an air of silent respect pervaded the assembly.

Scarthe had no personal knowledge of these distinguished individuals. He little suspected, when that man of noble mien rose up—he for whom the hum of conversation became suddenly hushed—and upon whom every eye was turned with a regard that seemed that of a brotherly affection—little suspected the sneaking spy of a Court, that he was listening to the most disinterested patriot England has ever produced—that glorious hero of the Chilterns—John Hampden.

As little knew he that in the speaker who followed—a man of mature age, and perhaps of more eloquent tongue—he beheld the future accuser of Stafford,—the bold prosecutor who successfully brought this notorious renegade to the block.

Neither did Scarthe recognise in that young but grave gentleman, who spoke so enthusiastically in favour of a nonconformist religion, the self-denying nobleman, Sir Harry Vane; nor in him who had a quick answer for every opponent, and a jest for every occasion, the elegant, whose appearance of superficial dandyism concealed a heart truly devoted to the interests of English liberty—Harry Martin of Berks.

From his concealment Scarthe saw all these noble and heroic men, without identifying them. He cared not for one or the other—what they did, or what they said. His eye was set, and his ear bent, to see one who had not yet presented himself—to hear one who had not yet spoken.

The host of the house—he who had summoned these guests together—was the man whom Scarthe desired to see and hear. Though the Royalist spy felt satisfied, that what had passed already would be proof sufficient against Holtspur, he wanted one speech from his own mouth—one word that would more surely convict him.

He was not disappointed. In that congregation Henry Holtspur was not expected to be silent. Though regarded more in the light of an actor than an orator, there were those who waited to hear him with that silent eagerness that tells of a truer appreciation, than the mere ebullition of a noisy enthusiasm. As the host of the house he had hitherto modestly remained in the background, until forced to take his turn; and his turn at length came.

In a speech which occupied more than an hour, Pym had set before the assembly a full list of the grievances under which the nation groaned—a sort of epitome of the famous oration that afterwards ushered in the attainder of Stafford. Its effect upon all, was to strengthen them in the determination to oppose—with greater energy than ever—the usurpations of the Court; and many of the gentlemen present declared their willingness to make any sacrifice, either personal or pecuniary, rather than longer submit to the illegal exactions of the monarch.

“Why,” said Holtspur, rising to his feet and standing conspicuously before his guests, “why should we continue to talk in enigmas? I, for one, am tired of keeping up this pretence of hostility towards the subordinates, whilst the real enemy is allowed to escape all accusations of criminality. It is not Stafford, nor Laud, nor Finch, nor Mainwaring, nor Windebank, who are the oppressors of the people. These are but the tools of the tyrant. Destroy them to-day, and to-morrow others will be found to supply their place—as fitting and truculent as they. To what end, then, are our protests and prosecutions? The hydra of despotism can only be crushed by, depriving it of its head. The poisonous tree of evil is not to be destroyed, by here and there lopping off a branch. It can be rendered innoxious only by striking at its roots!

“Some gentlemen here seem to think, that, by surrounding the king with good counsellors, we may succeed in bringing him to rule with justice. But good counsellors, under the influence of an unscrupulous Court, may any day change their character; and then the work will have to be done over again. Look at Stafford himself! Ten years ago, had we met as we meet to-night, Thomas Wentworth would have been with us—foremost in our councils—See the baneful effects of Royal favour! It will ever be so—as long as men set up an idol, call it a king, and fall down upon their faces to worship it!

“For my own part I scorn to palter with words. I see but one criminal worthy our accusations; and he is neither councillor, nor secretary, nor bishop; but the master of all three. In my mind, gentlemen, it is no longer a question of whether we are to be ruled by a good king, or a bad king; but whether we are to have a king at all!”

“My sentiments!” cried Henry Martin, and several others of the younger and bolder spirits; while a general murmur of approbation was heard throughout the room.

These were wild words—even within that secret assemblage. The question of king or no king, had begun to shape itself in the minds of a few men; but this was the first time it had risen to the lips of any one. It was the first spoken summons invoking the dark shadow that hovered over the head of Charles Stuart, until his neck lay bleeding on the block!

“Enough!” gasped out Scarthe, in an almost inaudible whisper, as he recovered his long suspended breath, “enough for my purpose. You heard it, Stubbs?”

“I did, by Ged!” replied the subordinate spy, taking care to imitate his superior in the low tone in which he made answer.

“We may go now,” said Scarthe. “There’s nothing more to be seen or done—at least nothing I need care for. Ha! who’s speaking now? That voice? Surely I’ve heard it before?”

As he said this, he placed his eye once more to the disc of cleared glass.

Suddenly drawing himself back, and clutching his associate by the arm, he muttered:

“Who do you think is there?”

“Can’t guess, captain.”

“Listen, then!” and, placing his lips close to the ear of his companion, he whispered in slow syllables, “Sir Mar-ma-duke Wade.”

“Do you say so?”

“Look for yourself: look and listen! Do both well: for the words you hear, may yet win you your sweetheart.”

“How, captain?”

“Don’t question me now,” hurriedly replied the latter, at the same time returning to his attitude of attention.

It was in truth Sir Marmaduke Wade, who was addressing the assembly. But his speech was a very short one: for the worthy knight was no orator; and it was nearly finished by the time Scarthe and the cornet had succeeded in placing themselves in a position to have heard him.

Enough reached the ears of the former to give him all that he required for a fell purpose; which even at that moment had commenced taking shape in his diabolical brain.

In the few words that dropped from the lips of his host, Scarthe could discover sufficient evidence of disloyalty. Indeed, the presence of Sir Marmaduke in that place—coupled with, perhaps, something more than suspicion which the king already entertained towards him—would be proof enough to satisfy the Star Chamber.

“We may go now,” whispered Scarthe, stealing towards the door, and drawing his subaltern gently after him. “Softly, cornet!” continued he, as hand-in-hand they retraced the dark passage. “Those boots of yours creak like a ship in a swell! Fancy you are treading on eggs!”

As he made this facetious remark, they emerged into the open air; and, whispering mutual congratulations, went skulking onward, like a brace of felons making their escape from the confinement of a prison.

“If this fellow,” said Scarthe, “can only succeed in extricating our horses, I think we may flatter ourselves, that we have made a successful job of it. Come on.”

And Scarthe led the way along the wall, towards the front of the dwelling.

They proceeded with as much caution as ever. Though outside, they were not yet safe from having their presence discovered, and their purpose suspected. The sky was clearer than when they had last looked upon it: for the thunderstorm, now over, had scattered the clouds, and deluged the earth with rain.

At the angle of the building they could make out the figure of a man, standing under the shadow of a tree. It was Walford. On seeing them, he stepped forth, and advanced to meet them.

“Theer be nobody by the front door,” he muttered, when near enough to be heard. “Stay by the steps, but don’t show yer faces. I’ll ha’ the horses round in a twinkle.”

Saying this, the traitor left them, and disappeared in the direction of the stables.

Obedient to his instructions, they took their stand; and, still conversing in whispers, awaited his return.

True to his promise almost in an instant the two horses were brought round—one led by himself, the other by Dancey.

The latter was too much occupied by the gold piece, glistening within his palm, to think of scrutinising the countenance of the giver.

“Odds luck, Wull!” said he, turning to his comrade, after the two horsemen had ridden off; “stable keepin’ appear to be a better bisness than windin’ the woodaxe! If they be all as liberal as these ’uns we shall ha’ a profitable night o’t.”

Walford assented with a shrug of his shoulders, and a significant grin—which in the darkness was not noticed by the unsuspicious deer-stealer.

Just then, Gregory Garth coming up armed with a tankard of ale—perhaps surreptitiously drawn from the cellar—interrupted the conversation, or rather changed it into a different channel: for it was still carried on to the accompaniment of a copious imbibing of the homebrew.