PROLOGUE.
"UNDER WHICH KING?"

One December evening, in the year 1648, the little town of Farnham showed unusual signs of life. Troopers were dismounting and leading their horses away to their stables, or were lounging at the doors of the houses where they were quartered, and a crowd of curious country folk and villagers gathered to stare at them, and even to put questions to the more affable-looking of the steel-coated soldiers.

The press was greatest round the entrance of a house of the better class that stood back from the street with all the dignity that a flagged forecourt and a couple of high brick gate-pillars could lend it.

There the sentries, who were stationed at the door, had some ado to keep back the curious throng, and many a sturdy country farmer shouldered his way into the house in the wake of his squire to catch a glimpse of his king, the ill-fated King Charles, who was to rest that night at Farnham on his last journey from the prison at Hurst Castle to the scaffold at Whitehall.

"Be there no chance of seeing his blessed Majesty this even, Master Clarke?" whispered an old woman, clutching the arm of a good-natured neighbour.

"No, dame, no, he be a-going to his supper, folks say, and they won't let none into his parlour but gentry, save these here lobsters as go where they please, and hold themselves as good as gentlefolk, rot 'em!"

These uncomplimentary remarks were not said in a loud enough tone for the sentry to overhear, but they gave great satisfaction to the old woman who nodded agreement, and wiped her eyes with her apron.

"Do'e think now they'll let us get a sight on him in the morning?" she quavered.

"Ay, ay, they can scarce stop it; he must needs pass out this way to come to his horse. But I reckon they must feel mighty vexed to see how the folk press to get a sight on him, God bless him."

"God bless him, and bring him safe out of their wicked hands," echoed the old woman, as she turned to hobble home.

Within the house, the hall and passages were thronged with servants and visitors, most of whom made no secret of their loyal sorrow at seeing their king brought among them as a prisoner. The officers who formed the escort appeared, however, to trouble very little about the sentiments of the crowd, and from good nature or contempt went about their own affairs, allowing the country squires and their wives to show their loyal devotion in any fashion they pleased.

In the panelled dining-parlour the supper-table stood ready, prepared for one guest only, but the room was as yet only lit by the fading gleams of the winter sunset and the dancing flames of the fire. The group of officers and visitors who were gathered round the hearth, spoke to each other in low tones as they glanced with looks of curiosity, and even covert amusement, at two gentlemen who stood in the recessed window, in earnest talk.

But a boy who stood near the door watched all with no amusement in his face. He stood erect, grave, watching with his serious untroubled childish eyes the great things that were passing before him. A bright, eager boy, whose brown hands one would think fitter to hold a top than to caress the hilt of his new sword; a boy young enough to be proud of his position, proud of his soldier's dress; to whom life was a very interesting but a very simple matter. He looked with a child's awe at the two men in the window, and they were worthy of his gaze. The slender, slightly bowed figure in the velvet coat and blue ribbon, with soft curls that flowed from beneath a plumed hat, the sad eyes, the regular features only marred by a look of weakness and almost peevishness about the mouth; the boy had seen them all often enough in pictures, but to-day he stood for the first time in the presence of a king, of King Charles the First of England.

Before the king stood an equally picturesque personage, although at first sight you hardly noticed the features or colouring that went to make up the gallant figure of the man. It was the erect, proud bearing, the vivid life, the eagerness of a high-strung nature, now controlled by the courtesy due to his companion. His buff coat and crimson sash were like those worn by the boy, and the velvet cap he carried in his hand left uncovered curls as brown; but instead of the childish calm of the boy's hazel eyes, the older man's glance now flashed with the fire of an eagle, now glowed with the exalted enthusiasm of a poet. It was no wonder that the boy watched him with a look of dog-like adoration that scarcely spared a glance for the king himself. Young Dick's king stood before him in truth, and his name was not Charles Stuart but Thomas Harrison.

"Show us thy new sword, Dick," whispered a young cornet, whose laughing eyes danced in very unpuritanical fashion.

Dick moved forward, and the firelight gleamed on the slender blade as he held it out.

"By my faith, a rare bit of steel! And how many king's men hast thou skewered with it?"

"None, sir," answered Dick, seriously. "My uncle hath only let me use the foils hitherto."

"Wise uncle!" laughed the other. "He would not expose even our deadliest enemies to the blow of such a paladin. But, hark 'ee, Dick, dost know the king hath sent for thine uncle to make him a duke?"

"No, no," broke in another young soldier, "'tis not a duke; he is to be sworn of the king's privy council, and have the Garter."

Dick looked gravely at the laughing speaker.

"It would be good if the king would make Uncle Tom a councillor," he said.

"Well said, boy," chimed in an older man. "If his Majesty took Major Harrison's counsel, our cause were won; but the stars will go withershins ere that come to pass."

The faces of the younger men changed, and one answered soberly enough—

"You say too true, captain."

Their voices were subdued lest they should reach the king's ears; but, respectful as was the bearing of all the members of the group by the fire, they clearly split into two halves: on the one hand, the officers of the escort who were teasing the boy, and on the other, a group of gentlemen, some wearing the conventional ribbons and laces of a cavalier, others in the rough cloth of country wear, stained with the mud of country lanes, while the master and mistress of the house moved from one guest to another, evidently nervous at the doubtful honour that such a royal visit had brought to their roof.

The lady turned to one of the king's gentlemen-in-waiting with a whispered word—

"I scarce hoped, Mr. Herbert, to see his Majesty in such pleasant spirits, for methinks his condition could scarce be more dolorous."

"Faith, madam," answered Mr. Herbert, "he bears each new change of fortune with the dignity of a king and the resignation of a saint. But I make no doubt that the sight of these your loyal neighbours whom you have called in, and the very blessings of the poor folk in the street, are somewhat of a balm to his heart, also I cannot deny that those gentlemen"—looking over at the officers—"have used us very civilly during the day's ride; methinks his Majesty finds himself more at ease with them than with those crop-eared parliament men and their preachers."

"I marvel, nevertheless, to see his Majesty expend his gracious word on such a rebel as that Major Harrison. We have heard strange and horrible things concerning him, and that he has even dared to plot against his Majesty's most sacred life!"

"'Tis for that reason, madam, that the king made an occasion to speak with him," answered Mr. Herbert. "He was pleased to say, to-day, when Major Harrison was riding behind him, that his aspect was good, and not as it had been represented to him, and I am assured that his Majesty did desire some discussion with him to try what his sentiments may truly be."

They stood in silence watching the strange interview between the royal prisoner and his republican guardian; but no word of the conversation reached their ears, till, in answer to some word of the king's, Harrison said very vehemently—

"Sir, I abhor the very thought of it."

The king's sad face brightened with a look of surprise and pleasure, and his manner towards the soldier took on an indescribable air of gracious dignity. But Harrison's expression did not respond; he continued to speak with grave, almost severe earnestness, and the surprise with which the king heard him quickly froze into a look of offence, and then abruptly his Majesty dismissed Major Harrison with a slight inclination of his head, and came forward to the supper-table; while Harrison, with a silent greeting to his friends by the fire, called Dick, and left the room.

Their horses were in waiting outside, and for a few minutes they rode in silence through the gathering twilight towards their lodging. Then Major Harrison spoke.

"Dick! the king even now asked me whether we do intend to murder him."

"To murder him?" echoed the boy, in horror.

"Ay, to murder him. There are some here that have whispered him that we wait to slay him privily, as we go to London! I told him, Dick, I did abhor the very thought of it." An indignant sincerity rang in his voice. "Nevertheless, I told him roundly that the law is equal for great and small, and justice hath no respect of persons. The blood of Englishmen hath been poured out like water at the word of this man, it crieth out against him unto God; the Cause needeth not the aid of any secret assassin; he shall render his account in public unto the high court of Parliament."

"But what can the parliament do to the king?" asked the boy, lowering his voice, as if the very stones in the road might cry out against the thought he did not venture to speak plainly.

"Do justice," said Harrison, with a sudden fire in his voice that made the boy's blood leap in response. "Justice in the name of the Lord to whom kings and peoples are but dust in the balance. The Lord hath owned us by marvellous victories, and the Cause is His, His day of reckoning is at hand, and Charles Stuart shall answer unto Him and His saints for the men he hath slain."

"But can they—dare they—touch the king? He is not as other men," hazarded the boy.

"Ay, will they," replied Harrison, sternly. "And if they hang back, the army will see to it that the work is done. In the face of the sun, in the eyes of all the world, shall the great deed be accomplished."

"The deed?" whispered the boy, with dilated eyes, "the judgment?"

"The execution," answered Harrison, solemnly, dropping his right hand on his thigh, and turning in his saddle, till he faced directly towards his nephew riding beside him. "And, Dick, if it be so ordained, and the people of England do justice on their king, thou shalt stand by my side, and share in my service. Thou hast set thine hand to the plough, boy, and art a partaker in our great work. See thou look not back. Forget it not, thou art pledged to secure the just liberties of the people of God to live and to die for it."

"Ay, uncle," answered Dick, earnestly; and the hand of the older man reached across in the darkness, and the boy laid his in it in the solemn clasp and pledge of fidelity.

"Nevertheless," went on Major Harrison, his voice rising to deeper earnestness, "it may so fall out that it may go hardly with the people of God; we may yet have to suffer hard things; but bear in mind, Dick, we must be willing to receive hard things from the hands of our Father, as well as easy things. Shall not the Lord do with His own what pleaseth Him? Therefore be cheerful in the Lord your God; hold fast that you have, and be not afraid of suffering, for God will make hard and bitter things sweet to all those that trust in Him. If I had ten thousand lives I would freely and cheerfully lay them all down to witness in this matter. Many a time have I begged of the Lord that if He had any hard thing, any reproachful task, or contemptible service to be done by His people, that I should be employed in it, and blessed be God I have the assurance within me that He will put such a service upon me. But whether I die or live, do thou go forward, and do valiantly as the friend of Christ, and may the Almighty Father carry thee in His very bosom."

He ended as they drew rein before the farmhouse where they were to pass the night, and the boy, thrilled and awed, had no voice to answer, but the grasp of his uncle's hand, and the memory of his uncle's words remained with him, as a consecration of his new life as a soldier, and moulded his doings and beliefs for all his life after.

CHAPTER I.
VÆ VICTIS!

"'Is there any hope?'
To which an answer peal'd from that high land,
But in a tongue no man could understand;
And on the glimmering limit far withdrawn
God made Himself an awful rose of Dawn."
TENNYSON, Vision of Sin.

It was October in the year 1660. The bonfires that had welcomed the Merry Monarch back to his father's throne were scarcely cold, the clamour of the joy-bells had hardly ceased, and London was still in a half-frightened, half-rapturous state of excitement. Everything was new; the better part of the people had never even seen a king, and now they had the daily sight of a live king, and a couple of royal dukes besides, walking about the streets and feeding ducks in the parks like ordinary human beings. The tension in men's minds suddenly gave way. To the winds with high-flown theories of government and religion, with ideals, and standards, and rules, and covenants! Let us all be comfortable, and hang any one who might trouble our holiday!

This popular fear of agitators who might disturb the rule of the Merry Monarch chimed in very well with the feelings of the old cavaliers, who felt that heavy amends were due to them for the sorrows and hardships of the last twenty years, and no doom could be too awful for the murderers who had laid sacrilegious hands upon the sacred person of the king. With relentless activity they hunted down the audacious rebels who had dared to send Charles the First to the scaffold, and few were so fortunate as to escape the fate decreed for a regicide.

Yet, full as London was of hopes and fears, of mad gaiety and black despair, the October day was as sweet and still as any day of any autumn; the late roses blossomed as of old in the gardens of the Strand, and vine-leaves wreathed the citizens' with their wonted coronals of ruby and gold.

An upper chamber above a mercer's shop in Watling Street was decked with all the pride of city housewifery; the pewter dishes on the sideboard shone like silver, and the marigolds and lavender in a great beaupot on the window-sill filled all the pleasant chamber with autumn fragrance. The room was that of wealthy people, and the rich silk gown and cobweb lawn of a lady who lay huddled up in the corner of a great settle were such as city matrons loved to wear. She was a plump and comely woman enough, but her soft brown hair was disordered, and her dainty cap awry; her eyes were closed, and her face white with the exhaustion of one who has wept till she can weep no more.

Near her stood the boy who had buckled on his sword eleven years before, to escort King Charles from Hurst Castle to his doom; a boy no longer, but a tall and handsome young man, with the bronzed complexion and alert eyes of one who has seen service.

He hesitated as he looked down at her; had she for an instant forgotten her sorrows in the sleep of exhaustion? But even as he paused, she opened her eyes and sprang to her feet, crying—

"What news, nephew—what news?"

"The worst," answered Dick, gloomily. "They are in haste to accomplish their work; he dies in two days' time."

She stared at him with dilated, half-comprehending eyes; he took her hands and drew her down gently to sit beside him on the settle. He paused, trying to steady his voice.

"It did not trouble him," he began; "indeed, General Harrison did seem to me to be as ready to break forth into thanksgiving as ever I have seen him on a battlefield when his enemies were put to flight. He bade me—my uncle bade me—say to you that to-day is as joyful to him as his marriage-day. He was borne up in a very ecstasy as it seemed to me, and when the judges railed on him for his share in the death of the king, he told them his conscience was clear, for in what he did, there was more from God than men are aware of. And when he said further that what was done, was done in the name of the parliament, which was the only lawful authority, for that the generality of the people in England, Scotland, and Ireland had owned it by obeying it, and foreign States by sending embassies to it, they were cut to the heart and desired to silence him."

Dick's voice failed suddenly; what use to torture the unhappy wife of the regicide with the story of his trial and condemnation? He could not convey to her the intrepid composure, the exulting pride with which Harrison justified the deed for which he was arraigned. Mrs. Harrison asked no question, she did not even answer his words; for a moment she doubted if she had heard him; but then she spoke: spoke with a calmness that startled him till he realized that she dreamt even yet that her husband might escape, and was too completely absorbed in devising schemes for his deliverance to have time to realize her own misery or measure her own powerlessness.

"Dick," she exclaimed, putting her hands to her temples, "I cannot think; I am half mazed without him, who always thought for me. Consider! I am very sure there are some we can move to help us! Count over your friends; there must be some one with a heart of flesh left in all England! General Monck loved you well once, though he wrote so wickedly counselling Oliver Cromwell to be very severe unto my beloved one when they threw him into prison at Portland. But what is a prison! A prison was ever to him the gate of heaven. Move but General Monck to have him cast once again into prison, and I will pray for him till my dying day! They say that blasphemer, Harry Marten, will but be imprisoned; why should my saint have a harder fate? Oh, let him but live, and though I never set eyes on him more, I shall be a happy woman!"

"Dearest madam," he said tenderly, "it is, indeed, of no avail to turn to Monck or to any in power. How can they forget that he of all men yet alive was most forward in the death of Charles Stuart; and he has but now justified his share in it. Whomsoever they let escape, they will never loose their hold on him. Not the new king himself could help us."

"Not even the king," she repeated dully; "nay, I know not if the king be merciful; but," she cried, suddenly starting up, "it hath come back to me; there is one near to the king who may be our advocate—Prince Rupert!"

Dick stared at her, aghast.

"Nay," she said, with a desperate smile, as she read the doubt in his face, "I am not distraught. God forgive me, I could well-nigh wish I were, so I might escape the knowledge of this misery. But, listen to me," she went on, with sudden self-control. "When Prince Rupert surrendered Bristol to the Parliament army, your uncle was among the officers who waited with General Cromwell at the port of the fort for his coming out, and waited on him to Sir Thomas Fairfax. And the prince had much discourse with Major Harrison, for so your uncle was then, and when he bade him farewell he gave him a gallant compliment, saying he never received such satisfaction in such unhappiness, and that if ever it were in his power he would repay it."

"But consider, madam, that was long years since. In good truth, 'tis madness to build any hope on such a compliment."

"Hope!" she shrieked. "I have no hope—no faith! I have nothing left in my bosom but despair! I am not worthy to be wife to a martyr. When he was with me I could be courageous with his courage, and catch the fashion of his heroic patience. Lacking him I lack all! Why did he not die when he was so sore wounded at Appleby! Cruel woman that I was to nurse him back to life for this!"

"But, dearest aunt, you saved him for many years of good service, and many valiant deeds."

"Ah, and I would have saved him yet again if he would but have listened to me. Do you mind, Dick," she went on, in a calmer tone, as her memory wandered back to happier days, "do you mind how I foresaw these evil times were at hand, and how I entreated him to flee? Do you mind, last spring, when that letter came from New England from excellent Master Perrient, how I prayed him to hearken to it?"

"Ay," answered Richard, humouring her quieter mood, "I mind well how he wrote, not knowing but that Richard Cromwell was yet Lord Protector, and how he said, if my dear uncle found no freedom for his religion in England, that there was a safe refuge in the Rhode Island Plantation, and the Lord's people there could serve him as their conscience did direct."

"And do you mind how Mr. Goffe, being then with us, said, 'He is a good man, and gives good counsel, and to my mind it were no hardship even to flee into the woods and dwell among the savage Indians, so we might have liberty to serve the Lord'!"

"Ay, and some folk say Mr. Goffe is indeed fled thither."

"Alas, alas! and did I not kneel and entreat my dearest husband to heed the words of those good men if he would not mine? How happy we might have been, even in a hut among the savages! And you, too, Dick," she said tenderly, "you would have liked well to follow Master Perrient's leading; and my dear husband was ready to have you go, seeing all he and Sir Gyles Perrient had set their minds upon for your happiness."

"Oh, think not of my matters," interrupted Richard, almost sharply. "How could I have left him? And how could we be urgent to him to fly when we could not know what extraordinary impulse one of his virtue or courage may have had on his mind? Forget not how he did answer to your entreaties, saying that he would not stir a foot, nor turn his back as though he repented he had been engaged in that great work, or were ashamed of the service of so glorious and great a God! We could not seek to change such a resolve."

"Ah, you are content to see him die! You men can satisfy your hearts with fine words, and so be that you can call it heroic or courageous, or so forth, you care naught, naught! That all comes of the evil men you fell among when you went north in the army of false General Monck. They it was who seduced you from the good old cause in which my dearest husband reared you up so faithfully. When you went to Scotland first, you and he were of one mind, one heart, but when you came hither again, your head was stuffed full of worldly wisdom and time-serving devices, talking of a Lord Protector instead of the glory of God, and hand and glove with that cruel Cromwell who did throw my saint into prison! Your heart was turned from those that reared you, and given to their enemies! And now you can stand by unmoved and see him you once loved haled to prison and death!"

"No, no, dearest madam," cried Dick, "you know in your own heart you do me injustice. What did it matter that in these latter days I did not share General Harrison's faith in the Fifth Monarchy being presently established, nor sit with him to hear Mr. Rogers' sermons? never did he find me backward in the day of battle, and that you, who tended my wounds, can yourself testify. 'Tis more than ten years back I swore to him to live and die for the just liberties of the people of England, and by God's help I have kept the vow. And as in the field, so at home, you know well, my love and reverence for him came little short of idolatry."

"Yes, yes," she murmured abstractedly; "who could fail to love him? so valiant and so goodly to look upon, so tender unto his friends, and to me his poor wife, and ever was the inward joy in his bosom breaking forth in praises to God—and yet"—turning wildly on Dick—"yet you will let him die! You are as hard as the nether millstone! Dick, do not shake your head, you must go! You must force Prince Rupert to hear you. He can—he shall be saved! Cruel! you will not refuse me!"—and she flung herself on her knees in agony.

"Madam, dearest aunt, this passion is indeed needless. I will do all you desire; but cherish not these wild hopes, they will but plunge you into deeper sorrow. Think rather that his passage to heaven, though sharp will be short; arm yourself with that confidence that already gives him a foretaste of the joys of the blessed."

Richard's eyes were raining tears as he raised the poor lady from the floor, but no persuasion could change the idea that was fixed in her mind.

"Go, go!" she cried, "there is no time to lose; inquire out the prince's lodging and make him hear you. Even the unjust judge was moved by importunity to pity a widow, and am not I in worse case than she?"

With a heavy heart Dick left the unhappy lady, and set out on what he knew was a hopeless errand. But this was not the first, nor the second, time that his love for his adopted mother had driven him to do what his feelings and common sense equally rebelled against, for the kind and rather foolish lady was but an echo of her husband's stronger nature; and Dick no longer followed General Harrison as his sole leader.

When the boy first left his father's house to become a member of his uncle's family, Harrison at once became the object of his youthful adoration. Handsome in person, gracious in manner, point device in dress, the brilliant officer lived in an ideal world, in which he believed all his companions were as simple-minded and heroic as himself. The sturdy independence he inherited from an ancestry of English tradesfolk and yeomen made him cherish the ideal of an English republic with religious fervour, while, whether leading a prayer meeting or heading a cavalry charge, his inspiring enthusiasm carried away all who were near him. No wonder that the boy saw with his eyes and heard with his ears and modelled himself as nearly as he could on the ideals of his hero; and when Colonel Harrison signed the warrant for the king's execution, the boy was as convinced a regicide as any of the judges whose names were written beside that of Harrison on the fatal parchment. Never a doubt nor a scruple entered Richard's mind, even on that memorable thirtieth of January, when on the scaffold at Whitehall the King—

"Bowed his comely head
Down, as upon a bed."

The boy had learned his uncle's lessons too thoroughly to dream of pity or remorse.

It was a complete change when, with his head full of Utopian dreams, "more of an antique Roman" than an Englishman, Dick was sent off to serve under General Monck in the army that was to administer as well as to garrison Scotland. The boy came out of Plutarch into modern life, or out of Paradise into common day. His character was naturally more logical and less high strung than that of his hero; and as the stern realities of life claimed the attention of the young soldier, the ecstatic glories of his uncle's visions faded from his mind, his work absorbed and satisfied him, and he forgot to dream of ideal republics, or even of the Celestial City, in the practical interest of helping to conquer and to govern Scotland.

But when he returned home on flying visits, he found to his dismay that his uncle's visionary hopes were growing instead of fading; and from desiring a merely republican England, General Harrison had begun to dream of a theocracy as complete as that of the early Jews, and to look forward to the immediate inauguration of an earthly Reign of the Saints, under the sceptre of Christ Himself, as the Fifth and last of the great monarchies of the world. Although General Harrison's strong personal fascination and unselfish ardour still commanded his nephew's affection and even admiration, the young man's irreverent common sense could not help viewing these new Fifth Monarchy opinions held by his uncle and his uncle's friends as fitter for Bedlam than for the pulpit or the parliament house. But when the Restoration brought the king's men upper-most, and General Harrison was arrested and carried to the tower, all differences were forgotten, and Dick saw in his uncle the first martyr to die for his share in defending the liberties of England. He accompanied Harrison's heart-broken wife up to her childhood's home in London, and waited with her during the slow months that crept on to the inevitable end.

He had hoped that the consolations of her minister, or the calm of despair, might have brought to her some amount of resignation; but now this wild trust in the power of Prince Rupert had suddenly inspired the poor lady with a crazy vehemence. Even if he had not known her hopes were vain, his proud spirit would have rebelled against crying for mercy to a German soldier of fortune!

"It is worse than folly," he muttered; "it is disgrace to drag General Harrison's name in the dust with fruitless entreaties. We did the great deed, and we abide by the consequences. Even could we say we repented, there yet were no mercy to hope for; but we do not repent! Were it to do again, we should not flinch. The poor flesh may shrink——"

He stopped short, with the irrepressible agony of realization. Death was easy enough to face among the high enthusiasms of the battlefield; but here, in the city, where the busy world was eating and drinking and making money among these sordid surroundings, what radiance of a celestial city could flash from opened gates to support a victim through a torturing death? Could faith win a victory even here?

CHAPTER II.
A NOBLE ENEMY.

"He was a stalwart knight and keen,
And had in many a battle been;
* * * *
His eyebrow dark, and eye of fire,
Show'd spirit proud and prompt to ire;
Yet lines of thought upon his cheek
Did deep design and council speak."
SCOTT.

Richard reached Whitehall, and inquired his way to Prince Rupert's lodging in the Stone Gallery, still half dazed with the rush of conflicting thoughts. Then he controlled himself, and knocked; and not till he heard that the prince was indeed arrived in London did he realize how heartily he had hoped that his search would be in vain.

He found with some surprise a negro boy, the only attendant in waiting in the ante-room. He had imagined that a royal ante-chamber must be thronged with courtiers and suitors, and his shy pride was relieved to find the way was at least not barred by gilded grooms-in-waiting, or fashionable loungers. The boy greeting him with a flash of white teeth, made no formality over admitting an entire stranger, but at once introduced him into a little book-closet on the ground floor, where a gentleman was busily engaged in unpacking folios from a great sea chest; and as he turned to receive the visitor, Dick, to his inexpressible relief, saw a face that had been familiar to him in Scotland.

"Zounds! Captain Harrison," cried the gentleman, merrily, "are you the first swallow that heralds a summer? I swear you are the first visitor that has crossed the threshold since we landed yesterday, and I thought you were anchored in Edinburgh. But all men meet in London! Well, and are you come to crush a cup with me in memory of the merry days we had in Old Reekie?"

"Nay, Mr. Cowth, it is as a suitor I come," began Harrison, rather awkwardly.

"A suitor! 'Tis admirable!" cried the lively youth. "Why, man, we scarce believe ourselves royal till some one comes to beg a favour! Good faith, 'tis but a poor trade this of royalty!"

"Why, sir," returned Richard, making an effort to respond to the geniality of the gentleman in waiting, "I thought you were on the sunny side of the hedge nowadays?"

"Ay, ay; but we had some shrewd blasts to weather before we got here! And I am not yet well assured which way the weather-cock will swing yet. Hark in your ear, 'tisn't every one in England that is glad to see us. There is a fat old fox they have just made Earl of Clarendon who makes my master mad every time he sets eyes on him, and that fox holds the weather-cock by a string, I fancy. Prim old self-seeking rascal. But we'll have some merry times yet, which ever way the wind sets, hey, Captain Harrison?"

"I fear," answered Richard, gravely, "the merry times are at an end for me and my friends."

"Say you so? I' faith, I was near forgetting that your party is down in the world, you have so little the cut of a square-toed roundhead! I am heartily sorry you are in trouble. But cheer up, man. There sits his Highness above stairs that has been wrecked and imprisoned and ruined a dozen times over, and yet here has he come full sail into port. And I'll warrant he'll sit at the king's table long after old Clarendon's sun has set."

"I fear my fortune is scarce like to be so good," answered Richard. "I have not a kins to my cousin."

"True, true; and 'mon cousin' is a very pretty fellow, and a right loving kinsman to boot when he does not forget! But to-day he is away a-hunting, and the Duke of York is making sheep's eyes at the fox's clever daughter Nan, so here we sit solitary."

"Do you think his Highness would grant me an audience?" put in Richard, endeavouring to stem the flood of the lively young fellow's gossip.

"Oh, Lord, yes; no doubt of it. Come your ways, come your ways—in faith, you have come in a good hour, for, with one thing and another, my prince is in a desperate bad humour to-day, and who knows but you may make a distraction."

And without more delay the young man bustled the half reluctant Harrison up the stairs, and into a great panelled room that looked out over the shining Thames.

The afternoon sun streamed in through the wide casement, and lit up a curious medley that showed no woman's hand might dare to bring order into his Highness's apartment. A beautiful portrait of the Queen of Bohemia, that could come from no meaner brush than that of Vandyke, hung on the wall, while beneath it a table was heaped with dusty bottles and jars, retorts, and powder-flasks. A casket of chased silver lay overturned on the floor, with a plumed hat tossed beside it, and a gorgeous paraquet clambered up and down a heap of sea-rusted armour tumbled in a corner.

At a table in the midst of this picturesque confusion, sat a man of middle age, whose thoughtful eyes and finely chiseled features still showed the beauty inherited from his mother, the luckless Queen of Hearts. But the face, overshadowed by the heavy curls of a fashionable periwig, was worn and roughened by exposure and hardship, and the weary gloom that darkened the noble forehead and drooped the haughty lips marked the years of disappointment that had changed the fiery paladin of 1642 into the sad and cynical Rupert of the Restoration.

The Prince was writing rapidly when they entered, and did not even raise his head as he exclaimed—

"Go away, Cowth! Did I not bid you leave me in peace till supper-time?"

Mr. Cowth's manner had become suddenly subdued on entering the room, and he crossed over and spoke to the prince in a low tone, with a deferential air that was a curious contrast to the airy swagger with which he had run up the staircase.

The prince flung his pen on the floor, and leaned back in his chair to look at the intruder, who stood by the door inwardly cursing himself for having been such a fool as to force himself into such a position.

"Sir," the prince's cold imperious tone rung like a bell in the silent, sunny room, "I hear you are kin to General Harrison this day condemned to death."

Richard bowed assent.

"You are to be pitied," continued the prince; "but I know not anything in which I can serve you;" and with a slight inclination of his head Rupert turned to his papers.

But he had forgotten the impatient movement with which he had flicked his pen to the other side of the room, and as he paused to search for it Dick caught the opportunity, and stepped over to the table.

"I entreat you, sir, to give me leave to say two words," he urged.

The prince looked up with cold surprise. "Say on, sir," he answered.

"Sir, when you delivered over Bristol to my Lord Fairfax, you said some words to General Harrison that his friends still bear in mind, and I would be so bold as to bring them back to-day to your Highness's memory. You said then that were it ever in your power to repay the satisfaction you had received from him in your day of trouble, you would do it."

For a moment Prince Rupert's amazement kept him absolutely silent; then he burst out—

"How! you must be beside yourself to come to me—me!—Rupert! on such an errand! Because, forsooth, I exchanged civilities with one I held an honourable enemy, you dare to expect my interest on behalf of a regicide! I vow, sir, every man who even witnessed that most abominable and unnatural murder should swing, did it depend on me. Go to those of your own party, who have had the wit to secure their own necks; maybe they may also have the skill to juggle your kinsman out of jail."

Richard could hardly wonder at the tone of contempt, and he almost blessed it, for it aroused an answering anger that dispelled his shy reluctance to speak, and his answer came promptly—

"We count among our friends, sir, none who have secured their own safety."

"Faith, I might have guessed you were short of friends when you turned to me," replied Rupert, with a sneer.

"Sir," answered Richard, boldly, "you yourself taught us in the wars that 'tis better to trust to a noble enemy than to an unworthy friend!"

"Ha! well answered. Faith! I dare be sworn you have seen service; but, my good enemy," continued Rupert, in a perceptibly milder tone, "'tis not now war-time, and we soldiers have no say in matters of civil justice."

The change in the prince's voice encouraged Dick to make another effort.

"There can be no matter in which your Highness has not a say," he urged.

"Thinkst thou so?" answered Rupert, with a keen glance at the handsome and soldierly figure of the young man. "Now, sir, I warrant you know by experience that a broadsword is a good enough thing to have in your fist on the field of battle; but, the war over, 'tis neither fit for a lady's chamber nor for a courtier's duello; 'tis but a commodity of rusty iron to fling in the lumber-room."

"Sir," cried Dick, with a gleam of comprehension that almost amounted to reverence, "that may be London fashion; we country folk hang the broadsword in the place of honour, and account it the prime treasure of the house."

Rupert smiled. "Those be fashions of another time," he said. "Take the counsel of your preachers, and beat your sword into a pruning-hook, my good youth, else it will be apt to cut your fingers. Under whom have you served?"

"Under General Monck in Scotland, your Highness."

"Under Monck! Why, then, you must be a fool if you miss the good things showered on him and his friends by this heaven-sent Restoration!

"No, sir, I laid down my sword when the late—when Richard Cromwell left Whitehall."

Rupert's last remnant of ill-humour vanished in a peal of laughter.

"Good faith," he cried; "'tis worth an hour lost to learn that Tumble-down Dick had one follower, and, I warrant, a faithful one! Aller Teufel! thou art as good a lad as I have seen in this most virtuous and loyal city. Nevertheless, I cannot help thee."

"I have but to thank your Highness for your patience," said Dick.

"Yet stay," said the prince, who was indeed strangely taken by the young Roundhead, "stay; I am heartily sorry I cannot serve you. Are you in safety yourself? My credit is small, yet perchance it might stretch——"

"I thank you, sir," answered Dick, sadly; "I need nothing for myself."

The prince's interest seemed to grow. "I see not wherein I can move," he muttered, "and I would not if I could." He remained sunk in thought. "Harkye, sir, I am not one of those that love to deck out a city with carrion. I see naught gained by making war with the dead. Stone dead is the end of the story as far as it concerns a soldier. This healing and blessed Parliament, I hear, holds a gibbet a prettier sight than a stricken field; that is not my mind, and if I can move any of these valiant pantaloons to let General Harrison's body be delivered to his friends, I will do it. Good day to you." And, disregarding Dick's clumsy attempts at gratitude, the prince turned his back, and resumed his search for his pen.

Mr. Cowth, who had kept prudently in the background, took Dick by the arm, and pulled him out of the room.

"Take my thanks, Harrison," he chuckled, as he led him downstairs; "the black dog is off his Highness's back, and when he waits on his Majesty to-night, he will be worthy himself. Ah, Harrison; why art thou a Roundhead? Is not that a master worth serving?"

"Ay, indeed," answered Richard, heartily; "he is a most noble and generous gentleman—well-nigh as noble as him they will hang on Saturday"—he added bitterly to himself; "but my lot is cast, friend, and I may not change it."

"I am sorry to leave thee in such a mind," answered Mr. Cowth, with mock solemnity, "and I pray thee lay to heart my parting words. Forswear Square Toes; repent thee of Republicanism, and I'll stand godfather to thy new life! So go and get thee wisdom!" And the young fellow turned, laughing, back to his work, while Richard sadly retraced his steps to Mrs. Harrison's lodgings.

CHAPTER III.
THE END OF A REGICIDE.

"Sound, thou Trumpet of God, come forth, Great Cause, to array us,
King and leader appear, thy soldiers sorrowing seek thee."
CLOUGH, The Bothie.

A solid mass of people thronged the space where three roads met and Charing Cross once stood, and above the serried heads rose the black skeleton of the gallows and the executioner's fire crackled and leapt below. But the sight inspired little horror or pity in the throng: orange girls called their wares, squalid beggars beset beplumed gentlemen, burly ruffians shouldered back prim citizens in their broadcloth and silver buckles; the press, the smell, the noise of shouts and oaths and scraps of songs were much the same as had hailed the Second Charles's entry into London six months before; but the faces were changed, their coarse joviality was gone, and they were inflamed with the frenzy of the bull-fighter, the loathsome curiosity that will not miss one horrid detail, even if the gazer must trample down his own mother to get a better view of the butchery.

The shouts swelled into a deep roar of execration, as the sledge on which the prisoner lay bound neared the place of execution, and Richard Harrison, struggling to keep his place as close to the victim as he might, thought with grim bitterness of the day when this same mob, silent and cowed, had seen General Harrison ride back from the scaffold at Whitehall.

"The dastards dared not lift a finger then, though it was for their liberty we struck the blow. And this is the reward the people of England have reserved for their deliverers!" muttered Dick.

But no bitterness nor resentment darkened the prisoner's face, never had his glance been more serenely triumphant, and as he pressed nearer, Dick could catch above the yells and hootings, the rapturous words which he uttered, his hands and eyes raised to heaven.

"I bless the Lord," he said, "it's a day of joy for my soul. I do find so much of the joy of the Lord coming in, that I am carried far above the fear of death, going to receive that glorious crown which Christ hath prepared." And when one fellow cried out jeeringly, "Where is now your Good Old Cause?" he, with a cheerful smile, clapped his hand on his breast saying, "Here it is, and I am going to seal it with my blood."

Yet even the most callous were silent for a moment as the dying man spoke his last words from the ladder of the gallows, asserting once more that he was wrongfully charged with murder and bloodshed.

"I must tell you I have kept a good conscience towards God, neither did I act maliciously toward any person, but as I judged them to be enemies to God and his people."

And when his nephew came near for a last farewell, he repeated once more—

"It's hard for most to follow God in such a dispensation as this, and yet my Lord and Master is as sweet and glorious to me now as He was in the time of my greatest prosperity;" and then, embracing his friends in farewell, he committed his spirit into the hands of God and was, the bystanders declared, "not so much thrown off the ladder by the executioner, but went readily off himself."

The butchery of the sentence for treason was carried out to the bitter end, yet of the onlookers there were but a few women who sobbed hysterically or fainted, and but one or two men who pushed their way back, sick with the sight and smell of the shambles.

A smartly dressed little gentleman, with a carefully curled wig, had forced his way as near as possible to the place of execution. His bold curious eyes let nothing pass unnoticed, yet when the torture of the half-dead victim was ended even his lips were somewhat white, though he shouted and waved his hat with the loyal rabble who cheered and cheered again at the headsman's final speech: "So perish all King Charles's enemies."

"So perish all his enemies," he repeated, "a very just vengeance, and 'tis my chance to see it, as it was to see the king die at Whitehall. But Lord, 'tis a bloody business—and to see how cheerful he bore it!" He rapped on his snuff-box and hemmed away his emotion. "Gad!" he said, suddenly staring at a face that rose above the crowd near him, "I was almost fool enough to think the fanatic's prophecy was come true, and there was General Harrison come alive again! That young fellow yonder is the very marrow of him! Some one of his family, I dare be sworn, poor wretch, and doubtless of the same way of thinking. But 'tis as handsome a young sprig as I have seen this long time. Lord, how time flies, and how one forgets business when there is any pleasuring toward; my lord will be in a fine fume;" and Mr. Samuel Pepys walked off towards the Admiralty offices without wasting another glance at Richard Harrison.

He also pushed blindly on out of the crowd, with the groping step of a sleep-walker, but as he neared the outskirts of the throng a tap on his shoulder seemed to awake him, and he straightened himself as he turned sharply round.

"Come under this archway till the crowd be past," said a short man muffled in a horseman's cloak. "You are too noticeable, Dick, to walk abroad to-day."

"It is as safe for me as for you, Mr. Rogers," returned Dick.

"Nay, nay; I am not like unto Saul the son of Kish for stature. Moreover, none who look on you can question you are kin to the servant of God who hath even now borne his witness, and this rabble is thirsty for the blood of the saints. Yet I know you have security—the friends with whom you have cast in your lot sit now in high places, and General Monck loves you well."

"General Monck is no friend of mine," returned the young man sternly. "His friends are those only who sit in the king's court, and can carry honours to his house."

"I am glad to hear it; I am heartily glad to hear it," replied Mr. Rogers. "The friendships of this evil generation will avail us little when the trumpet of the Lord of Hosts doth sound the reveille, and those poor bones yonder live once more, ay, and that dead hand beckon us on to victory."

Mr. Rogers was quivering with excitement, and did not notice that Richard was leaning against the wall with set face, evidently quite deaf to his harangue. He went on with increased vehemence in the wildest strain of Fifth Monarchy eloquence.

"The night is dark, yet must we watch till the day dawn!—watch—ay, and not alone shall our lamps be burning, but our matches are alight and our muskets loaded. The artillery of the Lord is called out, the iniquity of this Babylon is full, the saints are even now assembled, and expect the call to arms. Truly your good aunt doth forget her widowhood in the expectation of the day that is presently to break. You also will join us; I know it is long since you have heard the words of pure doctrine, yet there is a blessing in reserve for the seed of the righteous, and the filth of the Presbyterian doctrines you learned in Scotland shall not cleave unto your feet to make them stumble in the way."

He paused, discovering at last that his eloquence was entirely wasted.

"Dick," he urged, shaking the young man by the arm, "you will not turn your back on those who shared your uncle's tribulation, and who do presently expect to share his triumph."

Richard withdrew his arm haughtily. "Mr. Rogers," he answered, "you mistake if you imagine that I can join you and your friends in any of your mad undertakings. What I have seen to-day doth but show the clearer that our cause was lost through our unhappy divisions and distracted councils. I hold that those that turned my uncle's mind against the Lord Protector Cromwell will not be held guiltless when the blame of this day's work is reckoned up."

Mr. Rogers started back, and then, with a violent effort to control himself—

"For the sake of him who hath even now rendered up himself as a martyr for the Lord's cause, I may not be angry with any word of yours," he answered sadly; "but I do entreat of you to take heed! Would you lay down your arms and live in peace among your cattle and your corn, coached and complimented into effeminacy and foolishness? Oh, for shame! Rub your eyes and look about you! What was the fate of the men of Sodom when they thought Lot was one that mocked when he warned them!"

"Nay," answered Richard, "you do but lose time in seeking to persuade me. God forbid I should think you mock, but I hold you to be grievously mistaken. I think not the Kingdom of God is to be brought to us by the sword; nor will I be a party to endangering any shred of liberty yet left to the people of England by breaking the peace whether by word or deed."

"Yet listen," pleaded Rogers, "seeing that even a criminal before the judge is given freedom to make his defence."

"Say on; I will not interrupt you," answered Richard, wearily.

"Then, let us leave those things that are behind, whether well or ill done, and leave also the late Protector Oliver Cromwell, seeing his judgment is in the hands of the Judge of all, who will surely avenge the tribulation that serpent did bring upon the suffering saints—and hearken to what is yet to come. We have the most sure word of prophecy that the Day of the Lord is at hand; therefore the persecuted remnant who do expect the coming of the Fifth and only Monarch, are even now assembled with their swords upon their thighs, to publish their glorious gospel and go forth conquering and to conquer. And in the train of Him who sitteth upon the white horse, we do confidently expect to behold General Harrison and those other saints who have died, either as at this time, or formerly, for the Good Old Cause, raised again in the flesh, that we and they may all triumph as one man. Mrs. Harrison doth lay aside her sorrow, and abides with the saints in Colman Street, to add her praises and prayers unto theirs. When all go forth, let not one who bears the honoured name of Harrison hang back. Sure thou art no coward, Dick?"

"Do I take you, that you and your friends do presently intend to raise an insurrection in this city? cried Richard, in horror.

"Ay, we trust to do our humble part in the great warfare."

"And my unhappy aunt is now at your place of meeting?"

"Ay; she even now expects till the fruition of our hopes be granted, and General Harrison doth arise from death to lead us on to victory."

"Then, Mr. Rogers, I will go with you. Hold," as the other raised his hand in an ecstasy of thankfulness, "I go not to join you, but to speak a word of common sense to your misguided followers, if they will hear it, and to remove Mrs. Harrison to a place more fitting her sex. You cannot wish to involve a woman in your schemes of bloodshed!"

"You err—you err," broke in the irrepressible fanatic. "Women have been but too much denied their just liberty: they have a right as men to their free course of speech, and to follow the way their conscience doth point. Nevertheless, you shall say to Sister Harrison all that is in your heart, and she shall act as the Lord shall direct her, and if she elect to go forth into desert places and await the consummation of our hopes afar off, in fasting and prayer, in that fashion also she may serve the Good Old Cause. Now that the crowd is dispersed, we may go forth in safety; let us therefore hasten to put the matter to the touch."

Richard followed Mr. Rogers in silence as he emerged from their place of shelter, and hurried cityward along the less crowded streets that lay northward of the Strand. He strode along behind the flying form of the little minister, inwardly furious at the saintly and exasperating person who forced him to seek out the company that was precisely the most painful and uncongenial to him, when his one sole idea was to hide himself in solitude like some wounded animal and there wrestle down the grief and horror that possessed him. Yet the grief and horror was still only in the background of his mind, his brain felt numbed, though an instinctive dread warned him that they lurked there ready at the first opportunity to spring out on him with overwhelming force. It was only by an effort that he could rouse himself to consider what steps he must take to remove Mrs. Harrison from the party of desperate men among whom she had thrown herself.

He knew that the extraordinary person in whose company he walked was completely deaf to the usual reasons that govern men's conduct; but, mixed up with his insane and even blasphemous beliefs, Mr. Rogers had occasional flashes of what can only be termed inspired common sense; and if he were judiciously approached, it was even possible that such an incalculable person might use his influence to restrain the old soldiers of his congregation from rushing on immediate destruction. Mr. Rogers was a gentleman by birth and a scholar by training, and was therefore accessible to arguments that did not affect the ruder members of his sect.

Richard had been familiar with Mr. Rogers from his boyhood, and had a strong personal liking for the affectionate and unselfish little man as well as a real admiration for the saner points in his doctrines. But the more he considered, the less he saw how to remonstrate with the excitable minister without irritating him afresh, and finally, in the very desperation of helplessness, he resolved to trust to his own influence over Mrs. Harrison, and hope that Mr. Roger's kindly feelings would prevent his interfering in any tyrannical manner with the poor lady's wishes. Having come to this conclusion, he controlled himself sufficiently to speak to his companion in a more friendly tone.

"By your leave, sir, I should like to stay and give orders as I pass our lodgings. Mrs. Harrison had set to leave London instantly, and a hackney coach will be now in waiting at our door. It will be the better to have it near at hand should she resolve to carry out that intention; so, if it please you, I will bid the coachman drive her woman to Colman Street and await near your meeting house till we know her will."

The minister readily assented, and they turned into Watling Street, where, as Dick had foretold, a hackney coach stood ready packed before the mercer's shop that had belonged to Mrs. Harrison's father, and a groom was leading a stout cob up and down beside it. A waiting woman in hood and cloak was peering anxiously from the door, but as Dick ran up the steps he was surprised to find she was not the only watcher. An officer in the gay uniform of the Coldstream Guards came forward holding out his hand.

"I have waited a round hour to catch you, Harrison," he said. "I bring you a message from my Lord Monck."

"I am sorry my lord should have troubled you," answered Dick, stiffly.

"Tut, tut, Harrison; what though we have forsworn our protectorate sins and got a batch of new ones to suit the new times, we are not all born to be play-book heroes like you. There are worse men than old George, and you were as well to listen to his message." And, taking Dick by the arm, the officer continued earnestly, in a low tone, "You remember that fellow, Patrick Keith, with whom you quarrelled in Edinburgh; he is here in London in my Lord Lauderdale's household, and he swears he will be revenged on you. He gives out he has sufficient evidence that you are corresponding with Johnson of Warriston and the other Scotch gentlemen under sentence of outlawry, and that he will see you at the gallows before he leaves you. Now, you know the fellow is quite able to forge or trump up evidence enough to be mighty unpleasant, so Lord Monck prays you give no colour to anything he may say, by frequenting the company of any suspicious or fanatical people. If you can keep private a while, his lordship makes no doubt it will all blow over, and he will use his influence to have Keith sent back to Scotland, or over sea on some errand."

"I caned Keith in the High Street of Edinburgh for that he kicked a woman who by chance stood in his way," answered Dick, hotly; "and if I meet him in Fleet Street, I will cane him once more there."

"That will doubtless be much to the advantage of Keith's manners," laughed the other, "but scarce to the furtherance of your safety! Now, I ride to Harrow to-night—why will you not bear me company and lie at my house, and so travel into the country for a while. On my honour, Keith is a dangerous man," he continued, seeing that Richard's expression of careless contempt did not change. "Every one of us at court finds his new seat so slippery that he dare not wag a finger for fear of being upset—and I know none there who dare meddle with my Lord Lauderdale's favourite. He can tell such a cursed lot of tales of us all and what we did in Edinburgh in the days when we were all saints and went to meeting!"

"You are very good," answered Dick, softening; "but I purpose to leave London within this hour. You see my horse there in waiting."

"I am right glad to hear it," answered the other, heartily. "Then, farewell, but I trust we shall meet and be merry many a year after Pat Keith is hanged," and shaking Harrison warmly by the hand, the guardsman turned on his heel and swaggered down the street.

Dick smiled grimly to himself as he directed the waiting-maid to follow her mistress in the coach to the Coleman Street meeting-house.

"I am to avoid the company of fanatical people," he muttered. "Heaven knows I have as little love for them as Old George can have! If I can but get Aunt Harrison safe into the coach, I give them leave to clap a Geneva gown on my back if ever I am found in their company again."

The shabby room in Coleman Street, where the Fifth Monarchy men were in the habit of assembling, was crowded with men, and the first glance showed with what ominous intentions the congregation were assembled. On a rickety platform at the end of the of the room a preacher in a Geneva gown was holding forth in the most violent language of the sect, and all around the grim listeners hung on his words with immovable attention, leaning on their pikes or holding their drawn swords across their knees. Many were old soldiers, their stained buff-coats and scarred faces telling tales of Naseby and Marston Moor, and contrasting with the prim bands and well-brushed cloaks of the citizen members of the congregation.

As the new-comers entered, the preacher paused in his harangue, and a hum of welcome went up from the armed ranks to greet their arrival. But one white-haired old soldier sprang up with a shout of exultation that was almost a scream.

"Glory, glory," he shrieked, "the General is risen from the dead! The power of Satan is broken!" and rushing forward he flung his arms round Dick in an ecstacy of welcome.

"Nay, nay, brother Day," said Mr. Rogers, stepping forward, "you mistake; this is Richard Harrison who fought beside you at Worcester; he is come to speak with his kinswoman. We must yet for a little possess our souls with patience," he continued; drawing the old man's hand on his arm, and leading him to a seat he sat down beside him, exhorting him in a low voice, while Dick made his way to the corner where Mrs. Harrison sat, her head bowed on her hands.

To his astonishment and relief, she did not immediately refuse his invitation to accompany him; a woman of gentle nature and rather dull intelligence, she naturally clung to her nephew as the dearest thing left to her in her sorrow, and although she pleaded at first faintly that he would not take her away from the comfort of Mr. Feake's exhortations and the expectation of the miracle he foretold, she showed herself quite ready to listen to his persuasions.

"Dearest madam," he urged, "when the Great Day of the Lord doth arrive, it will surely be of no moment whether it find you in London or in Newcastle; it will be as the lightning that shineth from the east even unto the west. But for to-day they are at an end of the preaching; you will hear no more if you tarry; you see these men have their weapons prepared, and are ready to burst out into insurrection; this is no fit place for you."

She murmured something of going back to her house in Watling Street.

"Nay, nay," urged Richard; "all our friends in Newcastle await you. Come home with me to Staffordshire, and await events there. Sure it is in General Harrison's own house that he would desire you to be?"

He took her hand to lead her from the room, and she rose obediently; but several of the congregation who sat near and observed his action, protested in audible tones, and those further off, only half catching what was going on, joined in even more loudly.

"Who is this man who is not of us, and hath forced himself among us?" cried one. "A spy! a spy!" cried another.

Mr. Rogers pushed forward.

"Shame, shame, brethren; let no man dare to call the kinsman of a martyr a spy! This is Richard Harrison, and it is but decent he have leave to come and go and speak with his kinswoman in liberty."

"Nay," broke in another, "as for our sister Harrison, let her go in peace, seeing the day of slaughter is near, and the women should abide in safety by the stuff. But as for this man, he shall remain. Shall he go forth and sit lazily while his brethren fight for Canaan? It may be that godly exhortation and the example of valiant men may turn him from the error of his ways ere it be too late."

"Ay," cried a grizzled soldier pressing forward, "he shall be snatched out of the fire! Even by force shall he be turned from the way of destruction, and be found in the Lord's ranks on the day of Armageddon."

"Gentlemen," broke in Richard, "let me but carry Mrs. Harrison to her coach, and upon my honour I will return and give you my reasons for not joining with you. Let us not fall into debate before a lady."

After a little hesitation his hearers agreed, and Richard led his trembling aunt out of the meeting-house, but two sturdy armed fanatics followed him closely to make sure he did not escape from the advantages they proposed to force him to accept.

The shouts and excitement in the meeting-house had warned the passers-by that something was in the wind, and a good many loiterers were hanging about the doors, who welcomed them with cries of "Whoop, Roundhead! whoop, crop ears!" and ribald parodies on the war-like psalms, whose sound could be clearly heard through the open windows of the room they had just left.

To Dick's vexation many of the idlers seemed familiar with the names of the leaders of the Fifth Monarchy sect, and not only shouted for Parson Rogers, but hailed Madam Harrison and her nephew with expressions of mock respect. Dick hurried her into the coach with all speed, and signed to his servant to lead his horse down a retired alley, but the aspect of the gathering crowd was so threatening, and that of his attendant saints so grim, that he began to suspect that his only escape from being stoned by the unbelieving mob, or run through by a Fifth Monarchy corporal, would be to be laid by the heels in a city jail!

But the rising commotion in the street was nothing to the commotion that greeted Dick as he re-entered the meeting-house. Some were clamouring for vengeance on the spy who had signalled the mob to gather round their door, others urging Richard to save himself from the fate awaiting impenitent sinners by immediately drawing his sword in the Fifth Monarchy cause, while others, of whom Mr. Rogers was chief, were clamouring for liberty for tender conscience and long suffering with those of feeble faith. The shouting was so violent that the congregation effectually deafened themselves to the knocking that began to make itself heard at the door of the room, and it was not till the knocking changed to the clang of crowbars, and the door gave way before the assailants, that the excited fanatics realized that their enemies were upon them. The doorways were filled with the pikes and muskets of a strong body of soldiers, and an officer pressing his way to the front called upon the principal leaders of the Fifth Monarchy men by name to surrender themselves. Feake, Powell, John Rogers, Courteney, Day, and Richard Harrison were the names that rang out above the shouts of the sectaries, who, crying out that the day of the Lord was come, charged outwards with such impetuosity that the soldiers were for a moment forced backwards.

Dick stood watching the conflict with a feeling of grim amusement. Fate had played into the hands of his Scotch enemy with a vengeance, and his presence among these desperate fanatics would corroborate any accusation that the ingenuity of malice could invent. His arm was caught by John Rogers.

"Fly, Dick, fly," he urged; "thou art not one of us, neither hast thou any part in our warfare. Save thyself; that window looks out on a lane they will scarce have thought to guard."

"Come you too, Mr. Rogers," cried Dick, endeavouring to draw the minister towards the open window.

"Nay, nay, I abide with my comrades to live and die with them. But begone—your time is not yet; none but the elect may abide the fury of the Lord's foemen. Begone."

Richard hesitated. It was impossible to escape and leave this heroic fanatic to his fate; but words were wasted on John Rogers, so, suddenly seizing the minister's slight form in his stalwart arms, Dick thrust him up on the high window-sill and, swinging himself up beside him, dropped with his prisoner into the soft mud of a back lane. Without waiting for the reproaches Mr. Rogers was too breathless to formulate, Dick hurried him down the dark road toward the corner where he knew his horse was waiting.

"Mount behind me, sir," he urged, catching the rein from the trusty servant.

"Nay, nay," replied Mr. Rogers; "thou art a good lad, Dick, and it may be the Lord hath reserved both thee and me for further service. I have many friends and hiding places in this city—go thy way, and God be with thee;" and he vanished into the shadows, while Dick, drawing in the cool night air with a long breath of relief, struck into the road for the north, and left the shouts and yells of the combatants far behind him.

CHAPTER IV.
THE PLEASANT ISLE OF AVÈS.

"And such a port for mariners I ne'er shall see again
As the pleasant Isle of Aves, beside the Spanish main."
C. KINGSLEY, The Last BuccÀneer.

For a while Richard Harrison found safety in his old county, not indeed in his father's comfortable town-house, nor in the widowed Mrs. Harrison's county home, but lurking among the potters' huts on the Staffordshire moors, and only venturing to visit his friends under cover of night.

The colour which his unlucky presence among the congregation at Coleman Street on the day of General Harrisons execution, had given to his enemy's accusations, had made his position perilous in the extreme, for General Monck, and his other secret friends, considered that he had wilfully disregarded their warnings, and were not inclined to exert their influence in his behalf. During those miserable months of hiding he had but one sad satisfaction—that of knowing that Prince Rupert had kept his promise and the mangled remains of Thomas Harrison were restored to his widow, and laid in decency in Newcastle churchyard. The dead was safe from further outrage, but the living were still at the mercy of private malice and public panic, and Richard found that to linger any longer near his old home would be but to draw suspicion on his friends, and even involve them in the fate that threatened himself.

His best chance of escape was to reach some seaport, but it took all the efforts of his father and his relatives to rouse him to decide on trying to make for one. Sick at heart, hopeless for the future of the country, all that had made life worth living—ambition, work, love, and even religion, seemed lost. He was practically alone in the world. Those of General Harrison's friends who had not shared the Regicide's doom, were scattered to the four winds, and even if Richard had known of their places of refuge, he had nothing to unite him to them, but the bond of a common sorrow. His own comrades either believed in the accusations that his enemy circulated with such industry against him, or were too busy and too selfish to trouble themselves about a man who was under a cloud. There was no one left alive who had the power to rouse Richard from the torpor that possessed him; the numb misery that had fallen on him when he saw General Harrison die had never again lifted from his heart and brain.

Till that day he had never realized how completely the warmth and enthusiasm of General Harrison's character had dominated his own life. While their opinions diverged completely, their feelings were in harmony, or rather the glowing faith and single-hearted idealism of the elder man had illuminated the being of the younger. Now a glory had departed from the earth. Richard's youthful wisdom had often grown impatient of his uncle's wild fancies, or smiled with affectionate mockery on his Utopian dreams; but unconsciously the young man had always measured his own thoughts and actions by the unworldly standard of General Harrison's ideal. He, with all who lived near Harrison, had seemed to catch a reflected gleam of the radiance that shone on his path; now, a light was gone. Where Richard had seen that noble figure treading the path before him, a sudden gulf yawned, the leader had vanished, the path was lost, and the blank fog was around him. The warm clasp was gone, only the memory of the dead hand would be with him to the end.

Richard's life had been one of activity. Whether fighting or administrating or farming, his simple and practical nature had found its natural outlet in work. Speculations on religion or forms of government had little attraction for him; there was always some work to be done, and that he found more congenial than meditation. Now, his occupations were gone, his career wrecked, the only subject for his thoughts was how to preserve his own wretched life, a matter which soon grew to him one of complete indifference. His relations painted to him in glowing colours the future that still opened to him in the New England plantations where their friend Parson Perrient was sure to offer him a warm welcome, and to satisfy their wishes, he made his way eastward, hoping to find a ship bound for Holland at King's Lynn, and so to take passage for the New World from Rotterdam. But the new life in the West that had once seemed so attractive, the day dreams that had woven themselves about the log cabin in a forest clearing, faded almost before he began to desire them. He was too heart-sick to hope, too weary to devise new ambitions, or even to recall the old ones that had kept him company from his youth.

In the dusk of a winter evening, Richard Harrison's tired feet turned to the door of a shabby little inn on the outskirts of Northampton. He had grown skilful in picking resting-places where he was likely to meet none but creatures as wretched as himself, wanderers and beggars too much taken up with their own misery to waste curiosity on the history of others. Wet and weary, the fire was grateful to him, though the room it lit up was as dirty and mean as could well be. But the rickety settle at least kept the wind from the tired traveller, and the bulging rafters supported a roof that kept the rain out. Richard crouched over the hearth, drying his wet clothes and awaiting without much expectation of satisfaction the supper the slatternly hostess promised, when a heavy step without, and a violent rattle of the door-latch, told that another wayfarer was coming to share his wretched lair. A tall burly fellow swaggered into the room, and flung into the elbow chair with a weight that made it creak.

"Que tiempo maldito!" he growled, shaking the wet from his hat brim. "Hullo, good mother, food and drink as quick as may be, most especially drink, and none of your small beer for me," he shouted, jingling a few coppers in his hand with the air of an alderman ordering turtle and venison.

"Pray Heaven my neighbour speedily drink himself drunk," thought Dick, withdrawing himself further into the chimney-corner.

The stranger shivered, coughed, grumbled out a few more oaths in bad Spanish, and hitching his chair nearer to the fire he lifted the tankard the woman of the house brought to him, and nodded over at Richard.

"Here's to thy health, friend, and our better acquaintance!"

Richard answered civilly, and pulling his hat over his eyes leaned back as one disposed to sleep; but the new-comer seemed to have no fancy for solitary potations.

"Take a pull at my ale, friend," he hallooed, pushing the steaming mixture under Dick's nose. "It's rare stingo, 'schrecklich gut' as the Dutchmen say, though it be a slut that brewed it. Folks in this country want something to warm their gizzards!"

The hostess who brought Dick's bowl of onion broth at this moment destroyed his chance of feigning sleep, and he had to resign himself to endure his companion's conversation which flowed on, garnished with oaths and cant phrases in three or four different languages, without any interruption, till by an unguarded movement Richard exposed his face to the light of the fire, and the stranger stared a moment, and then sprang up exclaiming, "Body o' me if it be not Measter Dick himself!"

Richard scanned the other's features with surprise and annoyance.

"You have the advantage of me, sir," he answered, stiffly.

"Whoy, Measter Dick, you ain't forgot me! But 'tis little wonder; time flies, time flies, and I bean't so slim as I was once. But you'll mind my name, Hodge Astbury from Penkull, that rode at the tail of your nag all the way from Hurst Castle to London, and many a day after."

"Can it be Astbury!" cried Richard, with a warmer feeling of pleasure than he could have imagined possible at finding a link with his old past in the drunken ruffian who claimed his acquaintance.

"Ay!" cried the other, seizing his hand. "Hodge Astbury I am, and right pleased to set eyes on you again, sir. But alack, alack, times is changed, and I hear tell they've hanged the Major?"

Dick nodded.

"Ay, dear, dear," meditated Astbury, in a maudlin tone of regret. "The Major, he was a fine soldier, and no mistake. I'd rather than a cup of strong waters ride behind him when fighting was toward, and see the pleasure he took in it! Seemeth, whatever the Major did, us was bound to do, whether 'twas fighting or praying; 'twas somehow catching, like as 'twas the plague. You may believe me, sir, I got afeared of keeping along o' him; he'd have turned me into a saint before I could wink. When he looked at you—why General Cromwell himself was put to it to say him nay! Aye, dear, dear, 'tis a pity."

Whether intentionally or not, the man had slipped back into his Staffordshire accent and dropped the strongest of his oaths, and Dick could not prevent a feeling of bitter amusement at seeing that this drunken ne'er-do-well, whom his uncle had persuaded to enlist in the hopes of drilling him into a decent life, had yielded to the influence of General Harrison's character just as he himself had done. But Astbury had broken loose from the charm; he himself had remained obedient till death dissolved the spell. Which of them had been the wiser—which was the better off? The fellow maundered on, taking a drink at his replenished tankard now and then.

"And seems as if times be not over good with you, Master Dick, if you'll excuse my making so bold."

"No," answered Richard, with some reserve; "I have not been altogether fortunate of late. But what has befallen you since we met last?" he continued, anxious to turn the conversation. "I think you were bound for Ireland, were you not?"

"Ay, ay, I've seen a siege or two, and a fight or two, and many a queer thing besides. Why, if I had the wit to put it all into rhyme, what I've seen would make a score of ballads! I've been across seas to Amerikey since last I clapped eyes on you, Maester Dick."

Richard hesitated to ask in what fashion Astbury had made his voyage, seeing that the usual way to dispose of thieves and vagabonds was to ship them off to the American plantations; but Astbury loved the sound of his own voice, and stretching out his legs towards the fire, took up his tale in the fashion of the professional story-teller. His history ran somewhat as follows, though it sounds bald enough without the expletives with which he garnished it, growing somewhat less shy of his Major's nephew as he went on.

"I went across seas first time along o' Lord General Cromwell to Ireland, and he gave us our bellyful of fighting, and no mistake; but it ain't fighting that I complain of, having been always held a valiant man of my inches;" and he puffed out his broad chest and looked a very crusader. "And you'll bear me out, sir, I wasn't one to call out at knocks. But here's what I complains of—'twas nothing but knocks over there. If so be you laid hands if it were but on a hen, if you 'scaped the gallows your back paid for your chicken, and as for kissing an Irish wench, they'd have hanged a colonel for doing of it! And they great woods! Now I've seen woods as is worth the seeing, chock full of monkeys and grapes and parrots and such like, but they Irish woods! Caramba! I'd sooner be hanged than set eyes on them again! So as I was saying, 'twas hard knocks and short commons and long sermons, and agues to boot; so when we come to Cork, I just turned my back on old Noll and padded the hoof to Kinsale, and there I shipped under Prince Rupert."

"I hope that suited you better," said Richard.

"Ay, there was a good deal to be said for Prince Rupert," answered Astbury, judicially—"a good deal. He were a proper man—a very proper man, and valiant. But, caramba, we had no luck! Luck don't run in his family, folks say. We overhauled a many good ships, and many a pretty bout of fighting we had; and when we went ashore, well, there wasn't any of old Noll's provost marshals after us. But for all the ships we took, we didn't seem to get no richer; so being a prudent man, I thought the time had come to shift for myself, and I slipped off one fine morning without troubling nobody. And there I found my luck! Those islands in the Caribee Sea are a very paradise, and no mistake! And all around there and down the Mosquito Coast the Indians are very good folk, and civil. And plenty to eat there—turtle and wild pigs, and pineapples and bananas, and more fruits than I can count; and drink too—wines very curious and hearty, made both of grapes and pineapples. And if we got tired of swinging in a hammock, and eating of fruit and smoking tobacco, why there was a many jolly fellows ready to whip into a little sloop we had handy, and off to—to—to spoil the papishers. There is a many papishers in those seas, sir—black idolaters all on 'em."

"Spaniards?" asked Dick, idly, amused by the ne'er-do-well's yarn.

"I reckon they were mostly Spaniards, or Portugees, or some such sort of outlandish cattle; but soon we got so as it wasn't only ships we made prize of. Why, I could talk all night if I was to start in telling you of all the brave sport we had! One time, I mind, we landed, there was a town, Santa Ysabel they called it, as it might be here"—arranging a tankard at the corner of the table—"with a good high road leading up to it from the sea, as it might be my tobacco pipe"—laying it down with care; "and if you'll believe me, sir, we took and run races, as it might be along my tobacco pipe, and as soon as them Spaniards was 'ware of our coming, they took and ran out by 'tother gate, and left the town empty! There was seven churches all chock full of gold and silver idols and candle-sticks, and such like: 'twas just who'd fill his pockets fastest!"

"But how is it you left such a prosperous life?" interrupted Dick, who had some recollection of Astbury's powers of imagination.

"Ay, indeed! There it was that luck was against me. Shipwrecked we was, me and four others, on a little sandy key, where there was nought to eat or drink, and the rest, they died, and a Bristol ship come along and took me off, and I wish I was back again!"

Half idly, Richard asked more questions and grew interested in the man's tales, for the fellow's varied experiences had given him a sort of shrewd cunning, which in a higher walk of life might have been almost worthy the name of diplomacy, and he knew how to fit his tale to his audience. It was obvious that he was nothing better than a pirate, but he managed to gloss over the barbarities of the life so well, and to dwell on its picturesque and adventurous side so successfully, that Dick began insensibly to soften in his judgment of the wanderer. As the night wore on, Astbury's description of a buccanneer's life grew more and more glowing; he exercised a good deal of rude art in his pictures of the career that awaited a gentleman of spirit among the keys of the Carribean Sea, and at last he burst out—

"Now, Measter Dick, I don't ask no questions, but seems to me pretty plain your luck's not of the best. Why don't you shout Westward Ho! and come along o' me? I know many a roaring blade that would be proud to ship under such a captain as you'd make!" Then leaning forward, he continued in a solemn whisper, "What though I seem no better than a beggar—cavado, cleaned out, as the Spaniards say—if I could but get a loan of as much as would carry me across sea, I'd be a rich man again. I have a nice little pot buried in a safe place on a certain key; I've got a map here"—and he thumped his broad chest—"here, sewed in the lining of my coat, and the place marked with a cross; and I tell you, sir, there's enough gold in that pot to fit out the snuggest little pinnace any man need want to see. Now, don't say nay in a hurry, sir, but turn it over abit. Why, I mind how the Major—General I should say—would be for ever talking of commonwealth. Why, you could make a commonwealth to any pattern you please on that Mosquito Coast, and learn all the Indians to be saints!" He chuckled. "Why, you might be a regular king among them, sir, like Solomon in his glory, sitting there in golden jewels among apes and peacocks, leastways currasows, and as many queens as you please." Harrison frowned. "Ask your pardon, sir; my tongue runs away with me sometimes, and thinking of Solomon made me say it, and 'tis all in the Bible, sir, now isn't it? But to go back to what I was a saying, you know well, sir, as no one would follow a chap like me as captain, but if we could get a real gentleman, and one used to command to lead us—why, hang me, sir, if we wouldn't be masters of St. Jago de Cuba before many months were out!"

It was all impossible, preposterous; yet the wild tales of the pirate began to exercise a curious fascination over Dick.

"What good do you gain by stopping here?" urged Astbury. "What did the Major gain by all his fighting and praying? Nothing but the gallows! Now, for me! I've been near the gallows a good few times, but I bean't hanged yet, and I've had a merry life of it; and I've got that pot of gold I told you of. Strike hands and join me, sir! What have you got to look for here, if you'd excuse me, but to hang like Major Harrison?"

Strange, that this ignorant man should once and again put his finger on the vulnerable spot in Dick's armour.

"Yes," he murmured to himself, "the wise man dieth as the fool dieth, and what hath a man for his labours but vexation of spirit. This also is vanity!"

Astbury caught the muttered words. "Very well said, sir, and sounds like Scripture! But I tell you gold's solid, that's no vanity; and if I could but get back to where I buried it——"

Dick was not listening. Something in his own bosom was arguing Astbury's cause, better than that vagrant could do it himself. Homeless, friendless in England, might there not yet be a career for him in the West? Not in cold, pious Rhode Island, but under brighter skies that offered fiercer pleasures. Good Parson Perrient had painted Providence plantation as a sort of paradise, where the liberty and toleration dreamt of by a few in England were the law for all; but was that refuge open to him? The good parson might be dead; his daughter wedded to some sturdy settler, who would have no fancy for such a compromising guest as one bearing the hated name of Harrison! To fly to New England would be but to begin his old life over again, and as Astbury truly said, What had it brought him? What had he gained? What had England gained by all they had done and dared? "If our cause was, as we thought, of God, why did He not own us? What were General Harrison's dreams of a pure republic, but vanity? Who can say if his dreams of heaven were any truer?"

A wild desire flashed across the young man to break once and for all with the puzzles and struggles of the past, and throw in his life with the ruffian who sat opposite to him. He knew his own powers, he could lead, he was cool and prompt; he might be a stupid enough fellow in many ways, but he was a born soldier. Astbury would get together enough of men to follow him; only too many good soldiers were then laying by their useless swords. Why should he not sail in the wake of Drake and Raleigh, and make himself a name? Ay, and found new commonwealths in the land of sunset?

"I must think it over, Astbury," he said, rousing himself. "Sleep brings council, they say; and we have sat our fire out."

"And starving cold it is, too," grumbled Astbury. "Best come to warm countries, Maester Dick!" and so flung himself on the wretched pallet in the corner of the room, and was snoring before many minutes were over. Dick wrapped himself in his cloak and stretched himself on the settle, but sleep was far from him. Many a man of good birth and education he had known driven to take the road and become a highwayman, and think himself none the worse gentleman for it. Pah! that revolted him—that was little better than common thievery. But to sail the South seas! to harry the Spaniard! to free the oppressed Indians! A sort of fever seemed to possess him, and rouse him from the apathy that had fallen on him. He tried to call up his cooler judgment, but in vain; pictures of sunny seas and waving palm groves, of gallant fights and sacked towns danced before him, and his broken slumbers only wove the fancies into dreams. The morning found him still undecided.

"I will go a mile or two along with you, Astbury," he said, "before I give my word. Which way are you bound?"

"Well," he answered, "the best seaport for our purpose would be either Bristol or London."

"No, no," answered Richard. "I may not venture on the back road so as to come to Bristol, and London were worse still. Is there no seaport this side of England would do as well?"

"Well, sir, if 'twas a matter of working my passage, I'd be bound to go where there would be ships trading the right way; but if I was with a gentleman as would oblige me with a loan, 'tis easy to take ship from Harwich, or find one lying in Yarmouth Roads that would carry us part way, and then we could take passage from some French or Spanish port. What do you say, sir, to Yarmouth?"

Richard assented, and they trudged on silently for some time. The morning air cooled Dick's fevered pulse, and the exercise shook off the sort of dream that had taken hold of him. His sober reason began to awaken, and then, almost with the distinctness of a living voice, the words flashed back on him: "It is to secure the just liberties of the people of God that thou art pledged to live or die for it."

What had possessed him? Was he running mad? Was he to draw that sword that had fought for justice and liberty as the comrade of murderers and pirates? Had he sunk so low that he was willing to choose the company of a drunken ruffian; he who had been the comrade of Thomas Harrison? The dead hand still held his. The Fifth Monarchy might be a dream, the hope of a Republic an idle fancy, but he had not been trained to fight for theories alone. Justice, law, liberty were solid facts; those were the watchwords General Harrison had taught him; for those he had lived, to those he would be true, whether good or evil fortune awaited him, whether there were, indeed, a heavenly reward for the victor, or but the abyss of forgetfulness at the end of the strife. He stopped short.

"I have come to my resolution, Astbury," he said. "I cannot go with you."

And, even as he spoke, he realized what a very fool he had been to let this fellow gull him with his talk of a pot of gold! The gleam of disappointed greed that shone in Astbury's eyes told what he might have guessed already, that it was no old affection or fidelity that had drawn the man to him, but merely the hope of making money. And that hope the fellow was not likely to relinquish in a hurry.

But in vain did Astbury implore and wheedle, swear and protest Dick was firm, till at last the rascal began to realize that his prize was slipping from him, and changed his tone and grumbling out—

"It wasn't like a gentleman to go back on his word after as good as promising a poor fellow his passage-money."

"Nay, I made no promise," returned Richard; "and I am a poor man myself. But, for the sake of old times, I will give thee twenty shillings to help thee on thy road to Bristol."

Astbury clutched the money, and then an evil grin came over his face.

"Fair and easy, Master Dick! Twenty shillings in hand is all very well, but you give me to expect more, and I do expect more."

"Then you will get no more, my man," returned Dick, sharply; "so good day to you. There lies your way, and here lies mine."

He was turning as he said, when Astbury, with an oath, sprang forward, flourishing his cudgel; but he had forgotten that the young officer was no novice at sword-play, and a turn of Dick's wrist sent the ruffian's stick flying over the hedge. Astbury, nothing disconcerted, rushed in and closed with him, and so heavy was the onslaught of the burly fellow that it staggered Richard, and he was put to it to hold his own. But, after a few blows had been exchanged, Dick's rising temper supplied the strength that had been lessened by hardship, while Astbury, unwieldy and out of condition, soon lost his breath, and, hitting out wildly, gave Dick an opening for a good straight left-hander, that sent his opponent crashing on the ground. Once down, he seemed in no hurry to get up, and Dick, having satisfied himself that the fellow was more frightened than hurt, left him sprawling in the mud with his twenty shillings scattered round him, and, as Bunyan would have put it, "went joyfully on his way, and was troubled no more by him at that time."

CHAPTER V.
HIDDEN WORTH.

"Here all things in their place remain,
As all were ordered ages since,
Come, care and pleasure, hope and pain,
And bring the fated fairy prince."
TENNYSON, The Day Dream.

Through the winter weather Richard Harrison wandered eastward.

The dull listlessness from which his encounter with Astbury aroused him for a moment, closed on him again as soon as he was once more alone; the glimpse of his old ideals that had revisited him had faded, and only left him with a dogged determination to do nothing unworthy of them, but with no pride or pleasure in his resolve. And as he grew more weary, more desperate of escape from his pursuers, he soon ceased to think at all; political dreams, sorrow for the dead, hopes of finding new friends and ambitions in a new world, all were forgotten, the spirit within him was dulled by suffering; only the poor body cried incessantly for rest, for food, for warmth, and most often craved in vain.

So one February evening found him struggling across the moorlands that fringe the coast of Norfolk between Hunstanton and Lynn. Thickets of russet fern and gorse stretched from the dark firwoods to the grey strand and the grey waters of the Northern Sea. The rooks croaked drearily to each other as they winged their way inland, and the gulls circled wailing over the heath before taking their flight to roost on some lonely sand-bank, and no other sound broke the monotonous plunge of the cold waves.

But across the heath a clump of trees rising against the pale sky seemed to shelter a group of buildings, where possibly some charitable hand might bestow broken meat on a beggar, or at least a corner in a rick-yard might afford a shelter from the bitter frost that was numbing his limbs. It was long since he had ventured into a town where he might be questioned and recognized—the hunted man had only dared ask food or lodging at solitary farms or lonely hamlets; and as he pushed forward, the gables and twisted chimneys of a mansion house, with garden walls and dove-cote, gave him hopes of help. He hurried on as fast as his weary limbs could carry him, with a terror of the icy darkness that was closing in like the shadow of death descending upon him, and almost at a run he reached his goal, and stood on the balustraded stone arch that crossed the ice-encumbered moat of the old house. Then, as he raised his eyes to the building, a groan of despair broke from him; it was but the mockery of shelter he could find there. The gates before him creaked on their rusty hinges, the gryffons that had ramped so proudly on the gate-posts, had fallen from their high estate, and lay grovelling among the dead flags that fringed the moat. Dead weeds bristled white with frost between the paving-stones of the once stately courtyard, and the great house beyond loomed dark and deserted in the twilight, with windows boarded up, or gaping black and empty through their shattered casements.

The strength that had carried him so far, failed as his hopes dropped. He stumbled, clutched with a last effort at the gate, and lay a huddled heap on the threshold of the empty courtyard. All was silent. The dry flags rustled, the ice cracked in the moat below, the wanderer lay quiet at last.

A very homely sound broke the ghostly stillness. The click of pattens on the paving-stones, and a carol hummed in the clear tones of a girl's voice, as her tall lithe figure came round the corner of the apparently deserted house. A greater contrast to the melancholy scene could not be imagined than her young face glowing with life and health, the ruddy coils of chestnut hair, and the bright hazel eyes that roved far and wide over the empty landscape, as she caught the swinging gates, and began to tie them in place with a piece of cord.

"Mercy on us!" she cried, suddenly catching sight of the motionless figure below her. "John! John! Old John! Come here! Here is one sick or hurt! pray heaven he be not dead," she concluded in a lower voice, as she stooped over the insensible man, and listened for sound of breath. "Sir! sir! rouse yourself," and she shook the helpless man gently by the shoulder. "Poor creature, this is no beggar, I warrant. He has the face of a gentleman, and his clothes were fine enough not so long ago. John, I say!" she called again. "'Tis just to vex me the old fool feigns himself to be deaf. Sir, I pray you rouse; can you make shift to stand, for here is shelter close by, if you can but walk a step or two. 'Tis more than like he is one of those poor gentleman in trouble with this new government, he has the very air of a hunted man. I cannot leave him here to freeze," she muttered. "Well, if John is too deaf or too cross to help, I must e'en manage the business myself." And without more ado she lifted the helpless man by the shoulders, and propped him up against the gate-post, and fell to rubbing his hands. He opened his eyes, and gazed dully at her. "Can you stand, and let me help you into the house?" she repeated.

"Mercy on us!" she cried, suddenly catching sight of the motionless figure. [page 74.
"Mercy on us!" she cried, suddenly catching sight of the motionless figure. [page 74.

"Yes, yes," he muttered thickly, and made an effort to rise.

"That's well begun," she said brightly. "Now another try, and I warrant you will find you can get the length of the court."

With the help of her strong young arm he stumbled to his feet, and let her lead him round the house. The back of the old mansion had a very different aspect to the front; a bucket of water stood by the well, brightly scoured milk-pans leant against the porch, and through the open door the glow of the fire streamed out into the twilight. The girl glanced over towards the cowsheds, and then, with an impatient shake of her head, and a murmur of "Lazy old John," she carefully guided her bewildered guest into a great kitchen, and deposited him in the corner of a settle by the fire. A minute afterwards she stood over him with a bowl of steaming broth in her hand. The warmth of the comfortable fire had already begun to thaw his frozen wits, and he made shift to stammer a word of thanks as he fumbled with the spoon.

"There, I will hold the bowl," she said; "you must say nothing till this broth is finished." And she watched, well pleased how the colour came back to his face, and the starved glitter in his eyes softened into gratitude as he met her glance.

"Madam," he said, when at length he laid down the spoon and straightened himself, "I do truly hold you have saved my life this night; and, indeed, not only have you delivered this poor body from danger, but the new spirit your kindness hath infused into me will go far to carry me to my journey's end. For all, I do tender my thankful acknowledgement."

And the bow with which he concluded his little speech confirmed his hostess in her assurance that she had to do with a man of position and breeding. But the effect of his courtesy was sadly marred by a sudden false step, as he rose to take leave.

"Nay, sir," she cried anxiously, "you must indeed not be in such haste; you are still faint," and she caught his arm as he clutched at the table and recovered himself.

"Indeed, kind mistress, little ails me but weariness. I have travelled far and not fared over-sumptuously; but now I am near my journey's end, and I must not linger on the way."

"Indeed, sir," she cried, "you will not lose time by resting a little longer in the warmth here. 'Twould be poor speed to faint again in the woods!"

"Ay," he answered, "and 'tis not very like I should there meet with a second good Samaritan to succour me; but I trust I shall go forward bravely now; 'tis but the warm room hath made me somewhat qualmish."

But the young lady was clearly accustomed to have her own way, and quietly ignored his answer, as she continued—

"You can rest here undisturbed if you fear not ghosts, for no one lives in the house. I do but come here by day to attend to the dairy, so"—she concluded with a somewhat meaning tone—"you can shelter here, to-night, without any one asking whence you come, or whither you go."

Richard looked at her. How came it that this girl had guessed his secret at once when most people passed him, taking him but for a sturdy beggar? What made her suspect him of being a fugitive? Was her offer of shelter but careless good nature, or a heroic endeavour to save a hunted man? At any rate he had not fallen so low as to draw suspicion on a woman, and a young woman to boot, although she was plainly no nervous, fanciful, fine lady, but a bright, resolute, country girl, with good health and high spirits gleaming from every flash of her bright eyes, and every turn of her auburn head.

"Madam," he answered at length, "'twere a poor return for your kindness, did I not tell you that there are many who are no friends to me, and 'tis best I should depart, as I have come, lest I bring trouble on your hospitable house."

The girl turned on him quick with a little stamp, of her neat foot on the sanded floor.

"Sir, I know not, nor do I greatly care, who you may be, or what may be your reasons for keeping private; but 'tis very plain you are in trouble, and 'tis not the fashion of the house of Perrient to let folk go unsuccoured from our door."

Richard sprang to his feet. "Perrient! for heaven's sake, madam, of what Perrients do you come?"

She looked at him with surprise. "I am Audrey Perrient of Hunstanton," she answered with a shade of coldness.

"Mistress Perrient! Mistress Audrey Perrient! Can it be possible you are here in the flesh, or has God sent a blessed spirit in your shape to succour my misery!"

She laughed with a puzzled scrutiny of his face. "Sir, how do you know my name? I am indeed a living woman, though this be a haunted house! It is sure no miracle to find me here at Inglethorpe, where my Aunt Isham lived for forty years past."

Richard still stared at her like a man in a trance. "Verily, God leadeth the blind by a way they know not," he said at length. "We all believed you in America. I can but admire the chance, or rather miracle, that hath directed my steps hither. Madam, my name is well known to your honoured father. I am Richard Harrison."

The girl's bright cheek paled. "Master Harrison!" she gasped; "the nephew of Major-General Harrison?"

"Ay, madam," he answered, "the nephew, and well nigh the son of that martyr now in glory."

There was silence for a minute, and then the girl recovered herself and the colour came back to her face.

"But, good sir," she cried, "why are you in hiding? How can you be in danger? I know General Harrison was very forward against King Charles, and sat among the judges who sentenced him; but you—you must have been a mere boy when—when the king died. 'Twas no concern of yours? Sure this new king is not a Herod that he should make war on men for what they did as babes in their cradles! You were but a child in those days!"

"Nay, madam, I was fifteen years old on the memorable day that the people of England did justice upon a king, even before the eyes of all nations. I was already a soldier, and had the honour of wearing a sword, when my uncle's regiment kept guard round the scaffold at Whitehall. Though in years I was but a lad, I do indeed believe I felt in my heart the terror of the presence of God, that was with his servants that day; and were that great deed to do again, I would with my heart's best blood set thereto my seal that it was just and right."

Prompt and decided came his words. The soldier had no questionings concerning the justice of the cause in which he had fought.

Audrey interrupted him hastily. "Oh, silence, sir! Why say such dangerous words?"

"Because, madam, dangerous words befit a dangerous man," he answered more gently. "And"—smiling sadly at his own excitement—"and there are many that will tell you I am a dangerous man."

"No, no; I am sure you are no evil doer, and, I am sure you can if you list, keep silence from such wild words."

"Ay, madam, 'tis easier to keep silence than to testify; and I would not willingly vex you, but I desire that you should know me in my true colours.

"I am not like to mistake the colours of Master Harrison—or Captain Harrison, is it not?" answered the girl; "and whatever differences did latterly divide us in mind, though not in love, from General Harrison, you must needs know we were all for the Parliament here—my grandfather, my father, and I; that is how I came to guess you for one in hiding from the king's men; but for your own sake I would have you careful, lest even walls should have ears."

"It is but too true," he answered. "I am no fit company for quiet folks and dainty maidens; but," he added rising, "it hath been a cordial to see the face of a friend, and the memory of it will abide long with me." And as he spoke, the sudden life that had flashed into his eyes, seemed to flicker and go out like a candle, the soldier was changed back into a dull and spiritless wayfarer.

Her face changed as quickly, the pained and alarmed look vanished.

"No, no," she cried merrily, stepping before the door. "No, no, Captain Harrison; you have betrayed yourself, and now you are my prisoner. You do not depart hence till you have my leave! Sit down!" she added peremptorily. "I am going to prepare supper, and you are in my way; and afterwards you must confess to me whither you are bound, and what are your plans for escape, if escape you must."

The charming masterfulness of her manner, the toss of her proud little head, might have quickened duller pulses than those of Richard Harrison. It was so sweet to him to be commanded, to meet this glowing life and kindliness after the weeks of dull solitude that had almost bereaved him of his wits. For a little while he might delay; let him have just a few moments more in the warmth and brightness; let him keep one fair memory to take out with him into the cold darkness.

He met her challenge with a flash of his old spirit. "Mercy, fair jailor!" he cried. "What torment have you in store for me should I refuse to plead?"

She seized a great ladle, and flourished it gaily. "I am a magician," she laughed, "and this is my wand. I make no doubt when my prisoner tastes my Norfolk dumplings even his hard heart will be softened, and he will make fair confession. And I have here besides a noble collar of brawn that would turn even a heathen to a better mind! But, indeed, sir," she added, changing her banter to a winning tone of apology. "I would not pry into your confidence, but whatever service I can render to General Harrison's nephew, that I am bound to give."

"Nay, madam," he answered, "I have no secret that I should keep from your kindness. There were some who were no friends to me in General Harrison's lifetime, and who would gladly have seen me share his fall. I need not particularize concerning their malice, as by God's help I have escaped it for the time. But should they lay hands on me, I run some chance of sharing the lot of poor Venner and the other Fifth Monarchy men they hanged last month."

"But are you indeed a Fifth Monarchy man?" cried Audrey, turning hurriedly from the great pot she was skimming and tasting.

"No, no, on my honour I am not!" he answered earnestly. "Perchance were I a better man, I were a greater fanatic! My dear uncle was often very round with me, accounting me no better than a luke-warm Laodicean where the Fifth Monarchy was in question. But truly, madam, I have in great part to thank your honoured grandfather that I was not carried away by the wild beliefs of one whom I did in all other matters desire to honour and obey. The last time I saw Sir Gyles Perrient we had much speech concerning my uncle's plans. Sir Gyles feared much General Harrison might be set on some rash action, and by throwing things into confusion, would leave the way open for the Cavaliers to join with the vile levelling party to root out all good in the land."

"When was that time?" cried Audrey, disregarding the young man's deep interest in his political story; "when did you see my grandfather?"

"When I was on my way to London in May two years ago," he answered flushing unaccountably.

"That was when my father was lecturing at Ipswich," she answered, "and I was with him, and we were there still when the tidings came of the fit that carried off my grandfather suddenly; so you saw him later than I," she concluded wistfully. "Can you mind any of the things he spoke of?"

"We spoke much of public matters," he answered evasively, flushing yet deeper. "Sir Gyles did earnestly desire to heal the breach betwixt my dear uncle and the Lord Protector, for he knew Oliver was ready to join hands with my uncle if he would but sit still and talk no more of a Fifth Monarchy rising. I believe 'twas all of Sir Gyles Perrient's good counsel that General Harrison took no more heed of the fanatics' desire he should be their leader."

"Ah, and is that also why you were too lukewarm a Laodicean to go out in Venner's rising last month?"

"Indeed, Sir Gyles' words were wise enough to turn a very fool from his folly; but I was not in London when Venner broke out, but in hiding in Staffordshire. Nevertheless, mine enemies found it an easy thing to bring witnesses to swear I was seen in Venner's company, and pressed hard on my hiding-place; so seeing I was not wealthy enough or easy enough to bribe their witnesses to refrain from lies, I e'en fled, and have the hue and cry after me for a dangerous plotter. One of my name can scarce hope for much mercy in the very loyal city of London this day!"

"But you have done wonders to reach so far as this. And whither now are you bound?"

"I thought perchance I might make my way to King's Lynn: there is a minister there, Mr. Marsham, who was a good friend of mine uncle: and I know hath often helped many in distress to escape to Holland. I thought he might help me to a ship to some Dutch port, and thence I can go forward to New England when the way seems open."

"'Tis an excellent plan," answered Audrey, thoughtfully, "and indeed I heard talk of the Little Charity sailing to Rotterdam the end of this week. But your plan may be so far amended that you will do best to stay here in hiding till the day before the ship may sail. I can send in a private message from you to your friend, but Lynn is so distraught with loyalty that it might fare ill with Mr. Marsham were he found harbouring you for many days."

"But how would it fare with Mistress Perrient, were she found harbouring me?" he asked, with a smile. "Methinks it smacks somewhat of cowardice to drag a lady into my peril?"

"Tush, there's no peril!" she answered gaily. "No one comes here save the crows and seagulls, or maybe a ghost. I trust, Captain Harrison, you fear not ghosts?"

"Nay," he answered earnestly. "If any blessed spirit did speak to me, it were indeed a grace and a light shining in darkness; but as they be evil spirits, they can scarce be more dangerous than when I withstood them in the flesh at Worcester fight and Dunbar. Nevertheless, I have no great desire to behold such wonders, for a man cannot tell, till the trial come, if he shall bear himself manfully therein."

"I did but jest," she answered; "but the common folk have much talk of ghosts in this house since it hath been left so desolate, and so they shun it; and if any man saw or heard you here, 'tis more likely they would hold you for some dead Cremer or Inglethorpe than for a mortal man. But here is my broth ready; and, in common courtesy, you must tell me my supper was worth waiting for!"

With housewifely pride, Audrey had dished up her country fare, and smiled to see her guest's enjoyment of it. The great logs roared on the hearth and lit up the shining pewter on the dresser and the one silver tankard that was Audrey's pride. Empty though the great kitchen was, its dainty cleanliness and the splendid solidity of the oak rafters and settle, saved it from any look of squalid poverty. Yet the simple surroundings could not fail to strike the stranger.

"Madam," he said at length, "may I pray you to resolve me the riddle how I find you dwelling in Norfolk? We heard you had departed to the New England plantations near two years ago, with your honoured father."

"My father, indeed, did sail to Rhode Island, but he left me here, with my great-aunt Isham, till he had prepared a home for me there. And then, when I would have followed him, my great-aunt was grown so old and failed, that he deemed it my duty to stay with her to the last. Now she is lately dead, and I am in haste to depart to join my dearest father. Right glad am I you chanced not here a few weeks later, or you might, in good truth, have found but a ghost to welcome you. Indeed, your visit came pat to the minute, for I was just shutting up for the night when you must needs get in the way of the gate," and she laughed saucily. "Had you but come five minutes later, I should have been away at my cowman's cottage, where I dwell now till I am ready to take ship. This house does but serve me for withdrawing-room, when I am weary of old Molly's clack and out of patience with her husband. My poor aunt Isham loved this ruined Inglethorpe too well to leave it till she was carried to the church-yard, but I have no fancy to awake some morning to find I am but another of the Inglethorpe ghosts, and my body buried in the ruins of Inglethorpe Hall. Therefore, I give the preference to the attic in the cottage below there for a state chamber."

"Madam," he answered slowly, "if, indeed, this house is held for uninhabited, and you do purpose leaving the country so soon, methinks it may truly not bring you into danger if I take your generous offer and hide here for to-night. You will scarce be questioned yonder in Providence Plantation concerning the malefactors you harboured in Norfolk, therefore will I thankfully close with your offer."

"That's well," she cried, springing from her seat, and clapping her hands. "I knew no man alive could resist the charm of my dumplings! Now, take patience but a little, and you shall see how well I order things for my visitor!" and she ran gaily out of the room.

A mighty noise above stairs of moving furniture and the patter of light footsteps came to Harrison as he basked by the great fire; and it was not till the evening was growing late that Audrey reappeared, and, dropping a curtsey with a charming air of demureness, prayed leave to marshal his worship to his bedchamber.

He followed her up the stairs to a chamber over the kitchen.

"The real guest-chambers I may not offer you," she sighed, as she poked up the logs that blazed on the rusty andirons; "seeing the rats have made such havoc in them, and 'tis many years since any one slept there. But the rats do not affect this chamber greatly, and the roof is sound; also my aunt's woman slept here and saw no ghosts. And if need comes you should hide—which God forbid—you see this little stair in the corner? It leads up to the great attic that is full of lumber, where you could play hide-and-seek with a regiment; and were you pressed there—see"—and she ran lightly up the stair and pushed open the door into the lumber-room. "Look at those bedsteads and chests and the great loom. They make a very rampart! And if that were forced, the ceiling is all broken at that end, so 'twere easy to scramble up on the rafters and lie hid under the tiles. There, surely no one would follow you; leastways, not our constables from hereabouts. They are too lusty for such mountebank scrambles! And now, sir, your fire burns bright, and I will wish you good night, and God keep you in safety."

CHAPTER VI.
AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.

"And ever at the loom of birth
The mighty mother weaves and sings,
She weaves fresh robes for mangled earth,
She sings fresh hopes for desperate things."
C. KINGSLEY.

Long after the light sound of Audrey's step had died away on the garden path, Richard Harrison sat and dreamed. Of late, exhausted by cold and fatigue, he had begun to lose control of his mind: he had sometimes found himself forgetting what dangers threatened him, and in what direction he had decided to turn his steps; and even when he could force himself to think, he had grown too desperate to care what peril might be in wait for him. It might be only the pestilential den men then called a jail; it might be the slave-ship, and the chain-gang in Barbadoes; it might be the gibbet, with the hand of the executioner scrabbling in his entrails. Well, let it be, if it must. His imagination seemed too dull to realize his danger, or work out any coherent scheme of escaping it. It could only brood over one horrible memory, till he felt he could have welcomed the pike thrust of a soldier or the lash of a slave-driver, if only they roused him from the dreams that bordered on insanity. Now, suddenly, he found himself awake. He was his sane self again. A girl's calm voice, a girl's clear eyes seemed to have exorcised the demon that had pursued him. He remembered with a surprise that was full of relief that he had talked to her for long that evening, and his words had been coherent—that he had actually jested! He was not mad! That horrible execution was true; it was no insane dream; but other things were real too. In what strange world had he been living? Had that sullen, desperate wretch been indeed Dick Harrison? He realized that he was alive; he could still enjoy the common comforts of food and fire; he could think; he could plan! His feet were once more treading solid earth; his brain began to spin anew the projects that had delighted him of yore; his heart began to stir with the hopes of old. Across the sea there were still battles to fight, new states to found. Liberty was not an idle word; love might still make life glorious. It seemed as if some healing touch had awakened him from a fevered dream, and recalled him to saner and earlier memories than those that tortured him; and when he stretched his weary limbs on the unwonted luxury of a bed, the old dreams awoke and bore him company all night long.

The sounds of a ballad carolled below, awoke him next morning to the knowledge that his hostess was already at the house, and about her morning tasks. He sprang refreshed from his pallet, and smiled as he recognized the voice.

"'Tis a miracle," he muttered; "'tis nothing short of a miracle to find her here. But how comes she to be alone in this ruined house, like an enchanted damosel of a fairy tale? 'Tis a strange plight for such a tenderly-nurtured maid, for old Sir Gyles guarded her as the very apple of his eye! And what state did not he keep, and Hunstanton Hall! And with what a retinue did he ride to visit us at Highgate! Yet here is his grandchild without man or maid to serve her, working with her hands like—was I about to say a farm wench? Fie, fie, like a nymph of Arcadia, rather! I cannot but call to mind the romances my master whipped me so soundly for wasting my lesson-hours over in Newcastle Grammar School! I wonder would she flout me, did she guess how like one of those enchanted princesses I deem her? But, in sad earnest, I must needs ask how this change of fortune is come about; 'tis unmannerly to ask questions, but she cannot look on me as all a stranger, even if she hold no memory of those old days at Highgate. Dare I ask her concerning them? That were a more perilous adventure; I must take more council with myself ere I can hold I am armed to dare it!"

He left his room, but such vehement sounds of sweeping and scrubbing sounded from the kitchen that, when Richard reached the foot of the stair, he held discretion the better part of valour, and strolled out of the door into the bright morning air. The little yard was so sheltered by walls and quaint outbuildings that the sunshine felt as warm as May, and the frost was gone from the cobble-stones. A clink of chains down the cart-track drew his attention, and in a minute more an old man hobbled into the yard carrying a couple of milk pails on a yoke.

"Sarvent, sir," said he, endeavouring to touch his forelock.

Harrison saw his own imprudence in standing about so recklessly, but put a good face on the matter, and answered the old man's greeting.

"Missis, her told us her'd got a visitor," continued the milkman, resting his pails on the top of a low wall, and straightening his shoulders; "her bides down at the cottage along o' we now—'tis too lonesome for a young maid here o' nights."

"Oh, then you are Mistress Perrient's cowman," answered Harrison with relief.

"Ees, sir, I be, and I was her grandfather's afore her. Ees—I minds her father's christening, and our young lady's christening; I minds a many things; but times is changed—changed terrible since then." He shook his old head solemnly.

"I suppose it was at Hunstanton you were in Sir Gyles' household?" asked Harrison, idly.

"Ees, sir; but you understand I was not rightly in his household, so to say; I was allers an outside man, and about the pigs and cows—but lawk! a man can see a lot if a man is only about the pigs and cows—beautiful cows they was too, beautiful! but they be all gone."

Richard made a movement to pass on, but the old man had no mind to miss his chance of a gossip.

"Seems to me as if I had seen 'ee afore, sir. You were a-visiting at Hunstanton, warn't 'ee, in the old squire's time? I reckoned I knowed 'ee—fine young gentleman you was then, but not so lusty as you be growed now. That was a fine house, now, warn't it? And kept as gentlefolks' houses should be."

"Yes, I suppose Sir Gyles was a very rich man."

"That he was—and respected. Why he might 'a been a king an' more than a king the way he was thought on in the country. And our young lady—she was always known by the name o' the Queen o' Hunstanton, even when queens was in no great favour in the country; but there—our parish clerk says, says he, there's a Scripture warrant for it—with Queen Esther and a sight more on 'em. So why not Queen o' Hunstanton!"

"You made an excellent choice of a queen," said Harrison, willing to humour the old man's desire for a talk.

"Ees, that us did; but things was mighty different then. A round dozen serving-men with blue coats there was, not to speak of the butler and the steward, and twenty or more in the stables; and where be 'un all gone—gone like the leaves!" And he spread out his wrinkled hands with a gesture that had a touch of pathos in it.

"Times are indeed changed. I suppose the wars brought troubles everywhere."

"'Twarn't the wars, 'twarn't the wars," broke in the old man, eagerly. "Squire was as big a man when the wars was done as when they begun—only older—older, you understand. And no one 'ud ha' laid a finger on ought belonging to him, not for gold untold; they had that respect for him, and they bore fear on him too. A very plain-speaking gentleman he was when he was pleased. But no—'twarn't the wars. He was a great man, and a rich man to the day of his death. He was took sudden, you understand—in some sort of fit like; and young master—that's Passon Perrient as they calls him, our young missis' father—and missis, they was away at Ipswich, and come back all of a scuffle and finds him dead; and by all I hear, not the value of a penny-piece in the house in money—plenty of silver and pewter you understand, but no money whatsumever. And when all come to be settled, why then Passon Perrient he was on the windy side of the hedge, and he just sold the horses and cows and the old house and went across seas, and our young missis, she come to her aunt, old Madam Isham, and Molly, that's my wife, and I, we come along on her; but 'twas a change—that it was."

"It was well that some of her old servants were so faithful as to stay by her," said Harrison.

"Ees, ees we'd surely stay by her; but 'tis no fitting place here for a young lady; why, there's no company—no coming and going; and the coaches as used to come to the old Squires's; and the quality; and they fare to have clean forgotten our young lady, dang 'em! And Squire's great house turned into an inn! You think o' that! If so be as you goo into Hun'ston, you'll see the name o' it, The Royal Oak, and a great oak tree drawed for a sign over the front door. How's that for impudence!"

"John, John!" called a clear voice from the door, "is that milk coming in to-day? Good morrow, Captain Harrison; methinks you look as though you had rested well."

No change of circumstances seemed to have saddened the bright creature who stood on the doorstep, her pretty head rising like a flower from a wide white collar, her coarse black gown pinned back under a great white apron.

"'Tis many a long week since I have rested so well, madam," answered Harrison, coming forward to greet her. "Methinks you have some spell by which you strew pleasant dreams on the pillows you make ready for your guests."

She laughed. "Well said; you pass compliments as nimbly as a courtier! And, now, if you will but help me empty John's milk-pails into the dairy-pans you shall taste farmhouse bread and butter for your wages."

"But have you no help in this work?" asked Harrison, as he lifted the heavy pails from the doorstep.

"Why, no! I was a fine lady till two years ago, but when fortune changes one is like to change with it. And so you find me a dairywoman!"

"But, pardon me, surely your father cannot know it? He cannot know you are working thus, and enduring the life of a peasant?"

"My dear daddy! He knows more of St. Augustine than of how many cows feed in the five-acre meadow. But he knows very well I have few pennies to jingle in my pocket, for he has fewer yet. But such matters never trouble him; he only desired money to buy books, and give him but a book and he would forget if he had eat his dinner or no."

She chatted away as she tripped from dairy to larder; it was a rare holiday for the lonely girl to find a companion, and a companion of her own age. Two long years of poverty and seclusion had not dulled Audrey's gay spirits, which only waited a chance to bubble forth. Old Madam Isham had sheltered her great niece out of family pride, not out of family affection; and Audrey had left the love and luxury of her grandfather's house to enter a life as dull and as cold as that of a nunnery. Madam Isham considered most of her country neighbours to be either parvenus or white-washed rebels, while she was too proud to show her poverty to the few gentlefolk she considered worthy of her acquaintance.

Old, sad, and sour, Audrey found the old lady's maundering lamentations over the good times of King James a sad contrast to her grandfather's discussions of public matters, or her father's learned conversation. Morning prayers in the chilly little church, an occasional airing in the shabby coach, with its moth-eaten cushions and patched harness, were the only varieties in Audrey's life. She became better skilled in the making of pickles and preserves than ever she could have been in the masculine household at Hunstanton, where the old servants would have broken their hearts if their little mistress had ever set her dainty finger to anything rougher than gathering rose-leaves and lavender to scent the best parlour. But the dull external life had no real effect on Audrey's spirits; she bore her great-aunt's peevishness and the monotony of her days with cheerful equanimity, for this all was but a parenthesis; soon she would join the beloved father whom she tended and petted and scolded and revered, and they would begin a new life in a wonderful country, where she should see live savages with painted faces and feather head-dresses, and valiant soldiers and frontiersmen, whose adventures were as romantic as those of Robin Hood, and saintly ministers who had fled from persecution, like the people in Fox's Book of Martyrs; her brilliant fancy painted the Western land with all the hues of the sunset. Full of healthful energy, it was a relief to her to help the solitary maid in her household work; that was the least dull part of her new life; and, in the kitchen, the Queen of Hunstanton could still rule imperiously over the old cowman, and make the dairywoman tremble before her royal displeasure.

But through the long dull hours of sewing in Aunt Isham's dressing-room, her unfailing treasure of consolation was in repeating to herself all the teachings she had received from her grandfather—words that could never be breathed aloud in Madam Isham's house; of liberty, and the rights of the people to representation and civil justice, teachings that were drawn from writings as far asunder as Bishop Taylor's "Liberty of Prophesying," and Mr. Milton's "Areopagitica." The narrow formalism of Madam Isham's creed drove Audrey more and more to dwell on the lessons she had loved, but hardly comprehended, and in her solitude she rediscovered for herself the reasonings which had led Sir Gyles Perrient to stand with Eliot and Pym against the encroachments of the Crown. Sir Gyles' own memories ran back to the time of Elizabeth, and he had taught his grand-daughter to reverence those golden days when a wise Queen and a loyal Parliament worked together for the good of the people. He loved the Church of England as he loved the Queen and the Parliament; and Audrey had wondered and admired as she realized how he had endured to see the downfall of one cherished institution after another, still full of hope in the future of England, and of faith that the Divine Providence would bring good out of evil.

As she told one story after another of her old life, Harrison could restrain himself no longer, and chimed in.

"I wonder," he cried, "if you can remember how, a many years ago, Sir Gyles carried you up to London, and you lay for a week at our house at Highgate? I had never seen his like! He seemed to me the very model of the old courtier of the Queen in the ballad; he was so worshipful an old gentleman, and carried such a train of old servants riding with him. And if he was like the old lord in the ballad, there was a little maid with him who seemed to me to have come straight from one of the fairy tales my nurse used to tell me away in Staffordshire, when I was a child."

"I trust the little maid behaved herself fittingly," laughed Audrey.

"Right royally did she bear herself, and rated me soundly for an overgrown boy with no manners," answered Harrison. "I have endeavoured ever since to lay the schooling to heart."

"Oh, this is past bearing!" cried Audrey, turning on him. "'Tis not fair to make up such tales."

"Indeed, 'tis true," he protested, "and—and I liked the rating."

"I am afraid I was a pert poppet," she confessed; "my dear grandfather spoilt me sadly, but I knew not that I had carried my bad manners up to London town."

"Don't you mind the garden?" he urged. "There were stone figures in it, of men blowing horns, and between them a little stone basin with lilies in it."

"I do remember!" she cried. "And I tumbled in! And who pulled me out? I do protest it was you! and right generous was it of you to risk a wetting for such a peevish brat!"

"You were not peevish; it was all of your grace and favour that you chid me, for you would say no word to any one else in the house at all! And when you had done with chiding I was as proud and happy as a king. I have never forgotten my little playfellow. But now, madam," cried he, rising with a sudden change of tone, "I pray you set me some task to do; I cannot lounge here in idleness and see you serving."

"Good lack," said she, "I know not what labours to set you to; for you must surely not go outside the house lest you should be noted."

"But I thought no one ever came here save the crows and the gulls," he answered.

"Human folk come not often, indeed; but of them one were too many. Also, latterly, there have been more strangers on the road, tramping from Lynn—pedlars, and fiddlers, and such like—and small pity have they on our hen-roosts. And if any such wandered hither and saw you, they might tattle."

"You are right," he answered gravely, "I will put you to no needless risks, yet somewhat I must do to keep——" He broke off suddenly. "Your pistols are in sorry case, Mistress Perrient," he went on in a gayer tone. "I pray you let me clean them."

"'Tis five long years since they were touched," she answered; "not since the day of the blue-coated serving-men you saw come riding out of a ballad. Take them, sir, the pretty toys may serve to while away a dull day."

The laughter faded from Harrison's face as he sat in his chamber oiling the pistols. The smooth touch of the trigger under his finger, and the click of the lock, brought back the memory of many a past fight when hope was high and blood was warm. "Truly we fought our best," he murmured, "and no man counted the cost or grudged his blood to the cause. Was it indeed in vain? What does this people care for liberty, when they are even now holding festival over the forging of their new chains!"

He was roused from his brooding by steps under the window. From the shelter of the curtain Harrison saw a swaggering figure in tawdry finery lurch into the yard where Audrey was scouring her milk-cans by the pump. It was a figure he remembered only too well. What cursed chance had brought that knave Astbury begging at Inglethorpe? And was it chance? The rascal might have dogged him. Richard pressed close to the window and listened.

"Good mistress," began the whining voice, "here is a poor soldier, come home after his blessed majesty, and hath ne'er a groat to carry him up to London to seek the king's grace."

Audrey's first words in answer were inaudible; but then her voice rose higher.

"I tell you I have nought here for you. Go down to the cottage yonder, and perchance the good wife may find you some broken meat."

The fellow persisted in his demands. His actual words were inaudible to the listener behind the curtain, but there was no mistaking the canting professional tone, the whine which presently grew to a bullying roar, when the ruffian found that no one else appeared about the place or came to support the girl. The sound of that threatening voice was too much for Harrison's prudence. Still holding the empty pistol in his hand, he darted downstairs and reached the door just in time to see the ruffian dash forward to seize the terrified girl, as he roared with coarse jocularity—

"As ye'll give me no meat, I'll e'en take the sweet."

Audrey sprang back with a shriek, but with one bound Harrison was out of the door and beside her, and his strong hand sent the ruffian staggering against the wall.

For a moment the bully stopped, uncertain whether to fight or fly, but then, discovering who his assailant was, he shouted— "You cowardly Roundhead, you played me a scurvy trick t'other day, now I'll be even with you," and pulling out a long sailor's knife, he rushed on Dick; but as he raised his arm, Dick's hand went up too, and Astbury found himself looking into the black muzzle of a great horse pistol.

"Back, cur!" roared Dick, "or I'll shoot you like a dog."

Astbury staggered back, stared a moment, and then with an actual howl of dismay the bold buccaneer turned and fled. He did not fly so fast, however, as to escape a kick from Harrison's boot that sent him blundering half across the yard.

"Be off, rascal," he shouted, "you are not worth powder and shot, but an' you stop before you have put ten miles between yourself and this door, the constable's whip and your back shall be the better acquainted."

The last words seemed to revive such vivid recollections in the pirate's mind, that he picked himself up and vanished down the lane at his best speed, without waiting for further parley, while Harrison lowered his empty pistol and turned to the girl.

"And, for the ways are dangerous to pass,
I do desire thy worthy company
Upon whose faith and honour I repose."
Two Gentlemen of Verona.

Harrison took Audrey's hand and led her back into the kitchen. For a minute he held her hand, and a curious memory came to him of how he had once picked up a little bird that had fallen from its nest, and how softly the little live thing had nestled in his palm. Then he spoke gently—

"Mistress Audrey, you must not stay here longer alone."

"No," she gasped. "No, I will go speedily. But no one was ever uncivil to me before in all my life. All the folk about here reverence our very name. I will keep down at the cottage with old Molly till I am ready to depart."

"May I ask you what delays your journey, madam?" he asked.

"Faith!" she answered, smiling through some tears, "because I liked my own company too little to travel forth with no better. I have delayed that perhaps I might hear of honest folk, travelling at least so far as Rotterdam, who would bear me company. But I may not tarry much longer or all my money will be spent, so indeed I will now be gone with all speed."

Harrison looked at her. Could any man, with a spark of chivalry in his breast, endure to think of this bright young creature going forth alone, to cross half the world, as ignorant of the perils that might surround her as though she were still the child he had pulled out of the lily pond? Could he forsake his little playfellow?

Richard was not in the habit of hesitating. "Mistress Audrey," he said eagerly, "why cannot you take your journey on Thursday when I do, and let me be as your brother to guard you? God do so to me, and more also, if I bring you not safe to your father's hands. Will you not take me for your brother, Audrey? For the sake of old times, and the memory of those we both did love and reverence, you will trust me?"

"In truth," she answered, "I knew not how sore I needed a brother till this very day."

She looked out of the door across the empty landscape, brown woods and russet fields; nowhere, save in the little white cottage below the copse, was there a friend for her in all the country. Who would burden themselves with a penniless girl? And if her kinsfolk were too careless or too proud to own her, she on the other hand, had been too closely kept in her own circle of well-born neighbours to have any acquaintances among the Nonconformists who were now flying from England. Her gay courage had always made her strive to ignore the difficulties that lay before her; but she knew only too well how difficult, nay almost impossible for a lonely girl, was the journey that lay before her; for those were days when a woman needed a strong arm and a ready blade to protect her among strangers. She had still kept putting off her inevitable journey, telling herself that companions might yet be found to share the perils of a voyage half across the world. But in the bottom of her heart she knew that she might linger in Inglethorpe Hall till she was grey-headed before the desired protector appeared. Now, by a sort of miracle, came a friend of old times, pat to the minute! Would it not be childish, nay wrong, to hesitate? Harrison's kind hand still held hers, his eyes were bent on her face in anxious waiting for her decision. She turned towards him, and he caught her meaning.

"Then shall it be so?" he cried gaily. "And you will be my little sister? I will indeed do all I may to make the rough ways smooth for you, and you will pardon your brother's lack of courtly fashions?"

"I knew not I was so very great a coward," she murmured, brushing away a tear that had stolen down her cheek; "but I am not of a fearful nature, and I will not be burdensome to you on the journey—good brother," she added softly.

"Then, now," he cried cheerfully, "we have no time to lose; we must dispose all for our flitting. What do you propose for our order of march? You are the lady commander."

"Oh, that will give no one a headache to plan. I am but roosting in the corner of this old house by the charity of Sir Frank Cremer, to whom it passed back when my aunt died; so I have but to lock the door, and give the key to old John, and have done with my housekeeping. John hath long desired to spend his savings on buying my cows, so they do not stand in the way of my journey; and what goods I desire to carry over seas can travel to Lynn by to-morrow's carrier, and he will see them aboard your ship. But"—she interrupted herself—"I do not think you should be seen in those clothes."

"Why?" he laughed rather ruefully, as he looked down at his tarnished lace. "I know my suit is too travel-worn for the champion of so dainty a lady; but methinks there is no sign of a Puritan about it to put me in danger. My uncle had no love for a godliness that depended on a plain band or a dingy cloak."

"Nay, 'tis too gay you are," she answered; "so fine a gentleman cannot pass unnoticed. Let me see"—she paused and considered—"I have it! The cowman John goes to-day on my errands to Castle Rising, and I will bid him buy me divers things that my father will need, so no one will wonder if he gets also a suit of country clothes, such as our yeomen wear. Then the ship-men may take you for one of the wool-merchants who are always passing to and fro to Holland, and no questions will be asked."

"Methinks, fair sister," he cried in admiration, "you were born a plotter! I have money enow, but may I trust old John's discretion to buy me fitting raiment?"

"Oh, you seem much of a height with my father," she said, eyeing him critically, "though you are broader in the shoulders. The suit shall fit you as well as fit the times. But I believe in your heart you are loth to change from a fine gentleman to the likeness of a country clown," she added mischievously: then, breaking into a laugh, "I know not what you will think of my father when we get to land! I misdoubt me sorely we shall find him clad like John the Baptist on the tapestries, for what clothes he hath not given away will be falling off him in rags!"

"Is it not strange that Sir Gyles' son should favour him so little?"

"Ah, but he is like my grandfather in that he is wise; only he is wise like a philosopher, and looks at the matters of this world as if he were sitting away high up with Greeks, and Romans, and saints, in the clouds. Grandad used to say father cared more for the laws of Plato's Republic than he did for English Acts of Parliament, and that some day he would be asking if Queen Bess sat still on the throne! While my grandfather was wise for everything, for the constables, and the soldiers, and the poor folks, and the Parliament; so when he died it was as though the sky had fallen, and no one knew which way to turn."

But there was little time to spare, even for such a chatterbox as Audrey to discourse in. She was soon flying round the house, searching and planning, emptying cupboards, and tying up bundles, and Richard found work enough to drive away all thoughts, save how best to defend bedding from salt water, and whether it were possible to carry the great brass warming-pan over seas. Not till evening drew on and the chests and bundles were piled ready in the entry, did the thoughts that had laid in ambush all day spring out and possess him again. The pleasant occupation, the novelty of the girl's bright society and ready sympathy, had charmed them to sleep for a while, but the sickness that lay at his heart was part of himself; it was only the more real that he could turn from it for a while, and come back and find it unchanged.

"Prithee, good brother," cried Audrey, crossing to the chimney corner, where he sat in sudden gloom, "why so sad? Are you already repenting of having chosen a hard task-mistress as a travelling companion?"

He started from his study. "No, truly," he answered; "'tis the pleasantest day I have spent since the troubles came upon us. I reckon I have laughed more this day than I have for a twelve-month past. But, sweet sister, is there not enough to make a man sad nowadays?"

"Yes," she answered gently; "but you must not grieve overmuch for General Harrison. Surely, though the way thereto was hard, now he hath attained to rest from his labours."

"Ay," answered Richard, bitterly, rising and pacing up and down the kitchen, "but do his works follow him? Indeed I grieve no longer for him of whom this land is not worthy. How may I dare to grieve, having witnessed his triumph over a death of agony? But what of the liberties of England for which he gave his life? If our cause had been of God would it not have gone forward? But He hath not owned us, and our labour was spent in vain."

"No, no," she cried eagerly; "not all in vain! I am but a foolish girl, and should not speak of such high matters; but I mind my father often hath said that a great deed hath an immortality in itself and cannot die, even if for a time it seem to perish. He did not justify the death of the king, but doth bewail it yearly as the day comes round, in fasting and humiliation. He held that the cause of Liberty must triumph in the end by men's eyes being instructed to desire her for her beauty, for that she needs not the service of bloody hands. He is of so meek a spirit, he would rather endure to the uttermost than take the sword. Yet have I often heard him say that he did account all that the army had done for the liberty of England was so great, that the names of those who fought in it would, by-and-by, be numbered among the heroes of history."

"You are a kind comforter, my gentle sister, and I trust your prophecies may prove true. Yet, as a man may not read his own epitaph, 'tis but a lesson of patience to say that by-and-by matters may mend, while now they go from bad to worse."

Audrey could not, in the bottom of her heart, grieve as deeply as did the young soldier for the downfall of the Republican cause, but even in that lonely Hall she heard enough of public matters to understand that the new King Charles was not renewing the golden Elizabethan age she had been brought up to revere, and, moreover, she was a born hero-worshipper, and treasured the stories of Blake's victories, and of Cromwell's defence of the Waldenses all the more dearly now that the bones of those great Englishmen were torn from their graves and flung into a shameful pit under the gallows. She could give a good deal of sympathy, and still more of pity to the lost cause, but could she give consolation? She had seen her grandfather preserve his hope of the ultimate triumph of sober liberty through all the storms and tumult of the Civil wars; she knew how old men could sorrow and could endure. But this stranger's mind was still a sealed book to her. How did the young sorrow? What was the comfort that would appeal to him? How could she whisper hope to the man who sat with his head dropped in his hands, as if he feared to let any one see the burning tears of shame that were gathering in his eyes?

"If indeed the Lord spake to the Jews," Harrison went on, "did He not speak to us? Or was that also but a vain imagination, and did men fable when they wrote of the wonders done for the Jews, as they fabled concerning the Greeks and Romans?"

"I have heard my father and other clergymen of our English Church say they feared that some good men were apt to lean too much on the history of the Jews, as though we in England were their doubles, and bound by the same ordinances. He said he feared such reasonings, when they proved hollow, would make men run the other way and fall into unbelief. For he held that God hath His fashions of working, which differ for every nation, as one star differs from another in glory, and that He speaketh not to us in England by open signs, but for the most part, through our reason and our consciences."

Harrison rose with a groan and strode restlessly across the room.

"Ay," he answered, "your father is a wise man. But did not our reason and our consciences approve of that great work? Why then is it cast down and brought to nought, as though it were all folly and wickedness?"

She rose, and laid her hand on his arm; her eyes, too, were full of tears.

"Good brother, may it not be as in the days of the martyrs Mr. Fox tells of? I mind me of the words of Bishop Latimer concerning the flames that consumed him lighting a candle that should never be put out in England. Perhaps in this war you have set going a word of liberty that none may put to silence. Methinks, since the days of old Rome, there can have been no such talk of the government of the people by the people, as we have heard in these days, and as my father says, he beholds in very deed in New England. Mayhap, liberty is but departed across seas to renew her strength, and will come again to gather, not England only, but all the nations, under her wings."

Harrison turned and caught her hand. "In truth I were worse than a Jew did I not believe so fair a prophetess," he cried. "Yet——" he paused, and looked at her curiously, and a sudden impulse came on him to speak out all that was in his heart. "You seem very sure of it all?" he said.

Audrey blushed scarlet. She had grown up among people who were less outspoken on religious matters than the Puritans, and the young girl's feelings were locked in her own little holy of holies; but she was no coward.

"I doubt not I am often too sure of matters," she said. "My father was wont to say I had too much impatience to be a true philosopher; but on this I cannot but be sure."

All shyness was gone. She fixed her large eyes on him with the directness of a child.

"But," he said, leaning forward, "Mr. Rogers and my uncle were very sure, yet hath their Fifth Monarchy not appeared, nor have any miracles answered their faith."

"You will think me very bold," she answered, "but may not men be great saints and yet mistaken in the opinions which they hold within the bounds of our common faith? It seems scarce fitting for me to carp at the beliefs of General Harrison, yet you yourself did say he seemed to you well-nigh crazed concerning the Fifth Monarchy?"

Richard nodded assent.

"Then sure, if his prayers were not according to reason, 'twould be mercy that denied them? But indeed, as touching prayers, I have heard my father say we must be on our guard lest we pray like the heathen, holding our words as a charm that must needs bring an answer according to our desires, for that the prayers of a Christian do consist rather in carrying his matters into the presence of the great God, and leaving them there, for Him to deal with as He lists."

Harrison made no answer, and there was silence a long time; only the fire flickered, and the wind sighed softly without. Then Audrey rose up and wished the young man good night; but as he took her hand, there were tears in his eyes.

CHAPTER VIII.
THE QUEEN RETURNS TO HUNSTANTON.

"Yes! I love justice well, as well as you do;
But, since the good dame's blind, she shall excuse me
If, time and reason fitting, I prove dumb."
SCOTT, Old Play.

"I have been wondering," began Audrey next morning, "if there may not be danger of that fellow telling some one he saw a strange gentleman here? If any noise of it should come to the constables, 'twould be tragic."

"That rascal? Oh, he can have no acquaintance with the constables save when they put him in the stocks. I think not we need trouble over him! Yet, if indeed it would ease your fears, 'tis easy for me to go forward to Lynn to-day, and lie close at Master Marshman's till the ship sails to-morrow. I will presently don my new raiment, and when you have admired it, if you counsel so, I will set forth to Lynn in all my glory."

"I do believe 'twould be wise. I have been tormented by foolish fears ever since that man was here. You could lie hid aboard the ship perhaps?"

"Ay, but as to that, I think I had better order me by Master Marshman's counsel. And, methinks, if you do indeed drive me forth, it were well to set us a rendezvous in his house. And yet I know not—'tis scarce fitting to take you there! But you are a brave lady, and count to face bears and wolves in New England; perchance Master Marshman will not make you afeared. But, sweet sister, be warned, I pray you, and when you come there, heed not Master Marshman's looks and address, for his words are oftentimes harsh, but 'tis only the bitter rind of a most noble kernel. He is of a most generous spirit, and spends all his goods in alms, even bestowing his help on Quakers and Anabaptists, though he reproves their errors roundly. For indeed he is so very valiant for truth, or what he holds as such, that he never tempers his warfare with any of the softnesses of peace. Through fair weather and foul he has held fast to his Presbyterian doctrines, and for them did he suffer as much at the hand of Cromwell's men as he did in the old church days when the Bishop of Norwich cast him into jail for holding of conventicles. He doth rage at some for their love of bishops, and at others for heresy, and at others for the killing of the king, and as for his congregation, he holds them in such subjection that the rule of Archbishop Laud was tender to his."

"Oh, I know him well by report," laughed Audrey; "but if he gives my brother safe hiding I will forgive him some hard words. My grandfather never rode into Lynn without bringing back some tale of Master Marshman's supremacy, though, indeed, I think he must have invented the best part of them, for he had a merry wit. He loved above all things to carry such tales to our vicar, and he would always end with, 'Now, Parson Cholmondeley, confess that even a Roundhead spake truth when Mr. Milton wrote, 'New Presbyter is but old priest writ large;' and Parson Cholmondeley always answered pat, 'Ay, ay, Presbyterian and Independent, fight dog, fight cat.' Parson Cholmondeley could not abide Mr. Milton, and when Parliament turned him out of the vicarage and he came to live with us, I hid all Mr. Milton's poems in grandfather's chamber for fear the good man should vex himself to come on them in the study. He always read us the Church prayers morning and evening, and the folks said when Mr. Marshman heard tell—— Ah, see," she shrieked, breaking off, "they are coming! they are coming! my fears were true. Fly, fly to the attic. I will keep the constables at bay a while;" and Audrey rushed to the hearth and, seizing the tongs, she set up such a clattering and rattling among the great logs on the hearth that Harrison's flying footsteps upstairs were drowned as completely as were the repeated knocks at the door. After a while she condescended to notice the thundering blows, and crossing the kitchen leisurely she opened the door, and looked with somewhat contemptuous dignity at a little ferret-faced man in a black dress who stood on the threshold, backed up by a couple of stout constables, who pulled their forelocks and grinned recognition of the young lady.

"What is your will, sir?" asked Audrey, in a lofty tone.

"Mistress Perrient?" demanded the little man. "Ah, yes; I have a search warrant from Justice Tomkins of Hunstanton, to search, seek, apprehend, and bring in custody one Richard Harrison, a regicide and Fifth-monarchy man, accused of sedition, and raising a riot on the 5th of January last against the king's peace."

"How, sir!" cried Audrey; "know you whom you speak to? Methinks you are strangely ignorant of the country, that you dare come here with such papers! This house belongs to Sir Francis Cremer, the High Sheriff of the county!"

"Madam," answered the man, visibly startled, "'tis no offence intended to his honour the High Sheriff; but, as he is not dwelling here, he cannot take order to apprehend suspicious persons found roaming round his premises. And Justice Tomkins hath received a very sufficient description of a suspicious person seen here yesterday forenoon."

"Suspicious person!" broke out Audrey, with fresh wrath. "And do you dare to say that I, Mistress Audrey Perrient, harbour suspicious persons? Doubtless you think I keep a troop of highwaymen in the house, and share their spoils! And you"—turning on the constables—"Jack Catlin and Tom Abbes, you should take shame to come to the house of my grandfather's child on such an errand."

The constables shuffled and looked at each other, and one muttered with a grin—

"The lass is a masterpiece—might be old Sir Gyles himself a rating on us!"

"Come, madam," interrupted the man in black, "you must know a magistrate's warrant cannot be disputed. We would not be uncivil to a lady, but enter we must."

"Oh, come in, come in!" cried Audrey, throwing the door wide. "You can see all there is to see; and there are my keys," flinging them with a clash on the kitchen table, "only if you come on the Inglethorpe ghosts in searching the house, pray take it not as a sign that I am their murderer, neither if you find my father's clothes, hold them for the Sunday suit of a highwayman."

One of the constables picked up the keys with a subdued air, and looked at the leader for further direction.

"Yes, we must not delay. You know something of the house, Catlin; you lead the way;" and he prepared to pass into the front part of the house.

A thought struck Audrey; she could be sure that the constables would be too stupid and too much afraid of the well-known Inglethorpe ghosts to search over-curiously; but this little man with his ferret face and sharp eyes was dangerous; it might be wise to distract his attention.

"Stay, sir," she said, as he was following the men out of the kitchen. "May I ask to whom I am speaking? I see, of course, you are no constable."

"My name is Robert Reed, at your service, madam, clerk to Justice Tomkins," he replied.

He had regained some confidence on observing the shabby clothes of the young lady, and the poverty-stricken air of the house.

"Mr. Reed," she said, making a curtesy, "you are but late come to these parts, so I should ask your pardon for being so warm. 'Tis no fault of yours that Justice Tomkins is wanting in that courtesy due to a lady."

Mr. Reed bowed in some embarrassment. "But, madam, 'tis the duty of every magistrate to be on his guard against the pestilent knaves who are roaming through the land, plotting and contriving against the present happy settlement."

"Oh, doubtless, sir," interrupted Audrey; "and Justice Tomkins has my best thanks. Our hen-roosts have been twice robbed; and a party of gipsies passed last Tuesday se'night who took every rag from our clothes-line, even to my dairy-woman's great aprons!"

"Very sad, very reprehensible; it must be looked to," replied the clerk, pompously, falling at once into Audrey's trap, and laying down the hat he had been twirling impatiently.

"I am so glad to have the opportunity of telling you of it, sir," continued Audrey, artfully. What lawyer's clerk could suspect this affable young lady of double dealing? Yet her mind was only half given to diplomatizing with Mr. Reed; her ears were strained to follow the heavy footsteps of the constables as they creaked up the stairs and tramped from room to room. Would they suspect that the chamber above had been occupied? Had Captain Harrison remembered to close the door leading to his garret? Would they think of rummaging there? She lost the thread of her harangue, hesitated—Mr. Reed opened his mouth to speak, and she hurried to add, "for, indeed, it seemed as though the justices were taking little heed of the honesty of these hamlets."

"It shall be looked to—it shall be looked to! But pilfering is one thing, madam, and conspiracy and rebellion, and raising troops against the present most happy government of his sacred Majesty, is another!"

"Oh la, sir! Who can have told you that I had a rebellion and troops in my house? 'Tisn't likely now, is it?"

"No, madam," he answered, with another pompous bow; "doubtless you disturb the peace of the king's liege subjects after another fashion."

"Insolent little jackanapes!" thought Audrey. "I trust my new brother is not within hearing!"

"But," continued Reed, "'tis sure that this dangerous ruffian Harrison is lurking in these parts, and 'tis fitting a lady dwelling alone should be warned against such a character."

"But who has been so insolent as to say a person of bad character could be seen about my house? (Pray Heaven the person is well hidden among those old flock beds)," she mentally interpolated.

"A—a soldier who was passing on his way to London laid a complaint of a strong rogue who assaulted and beat him, who answers to the description we have received of this fellow Harrison."

"Now is the author of this mare's nest discovered!" burst out Audrey, with fine indignation. "Your soldier, sir, was a sturdy beggar who behaved saucily, and was chastised by one of my household. Justice Tomkins truly picks fair company when he holds conference with such a pick-purse instead of putting him in the stocks!"

"Then, madam," continued the clerk, pertinaciously, "you have seen no sign of the said Harrison lurking in this neighbourhood?"

"If Justice Tomkins had behaved like a gentleman and sent me a letter by his serving-man," she replied, with dignified severity, "I should have been happy to further his search; but when he knows no better than to send the constables and a search warrant to Inglethorpe Hall, he may do his work for himself, I trouble not myself about his business."

"But, madam, you must needs give aid to the ministers of the law; if you will not answer me, you will, no question, be asked to take oath before the justices. Well?" He broke off, as the constables tramped back into the room. "Have you seen any traces of the fellow?"

"Noo; us haven't seen naught, without it be rats," grinned Jack Catlin. "There be a main sight of rats, mistress."

"Very disappointing, very unsatisfactory," murmured the clerk; and Audrey could not refrain from a little gasp of relief which she converted into a prim cough at the constable's familiarity. "The description tallied to a hair. Now, madam, I must ask you upon your oath whether you have seen this Harrison, or have in any wise succoured or comforted him?"

"Nonsense," interrupted Audrey. "I will take no oath about such pure folly. As I told you already, Justice Tomkins hath not behaved him like a gentleman, and I shall say no word about his matters."

"But, madam, if you will not take oath, you put me in a strait," cried the perplexed clerk, divided between his pride in his responsible position and his alarm at this very impetuous young lady. "I shall be driven to cite you for contumacy before the justices."

"Oh, for that matter," answered Audrey, coolly, "I had as lief answer the justices as you. The most part of them are my kinsfolk, and will be as angered as I am at Justice Tomkins' cavalier treatment of me."

The clerk looked more and more distracted. "Madam," he cried, "'tis beyond my power to pass it over. You must needs return with me to Hunstanton and answer for yourself."

"Me! Take me to Hunstanton! Man, you are out of your wits! Do you forget who you are speaking to?"

"No, madam," stammered the unhappy man, "but even ladies are not above the law, and Justice Tomkins hath a hasty temper and I may not venture to go back without I can give him a sufficient answer."

"'Tis impossible—unheard of," she repeated. "You will bring yourself and your precious Justice Tomkins into trouble—he will be the laughing stock of the neighbourhood when this mare's nest gets wind!"

The clerk nearly tore his hair. This young lady was enough to dash any man's courage; but the justice—he was even more alarming. If he came back empty handed, the justice's language would be forcible.

"Madam," he repeated helplessly, "I have no choice; I must needs take you with me!"

Audrey's thoughts hurriedly summed up her situation. If, after all, they did carry her to Hunstanton, it might draw the constables off from Inglethorpe. And there would be at least this satisfaction when she was face to face with Justice Tomkins, she would have her revenge. "A miserable little ranting linen-draper," she muttered wrathfully. "I can tell a tale or two about his love of old Noll in old times, and his preachings and psalm-singings when they were the fashion, that will make him sorry he has ever meddled with me! But, good lack! 'tis to be hoped he is no wiser than his clerk, and does not know that every cousin I have is out of the country, so that I can fright him with their names. If I can but shuffle matters on for to-night, all will be well. Swear a lie I cannot, but by to-morrow Richard will be surely on the high seas, and then I'll swear all they please, and truly say I know not where he is, I must e'en keep my fit of the sulks for to-night. All will be well. I doubt not Richard will wait me at Rotterdam, and will see that my stuff is safe bestowed somewhere. Pray Heaven some maggot do not possess him to hang about here and double my danger! But anyhow I can swear with a good conscience I know not where he is!"

She consoled herself with these thoughts, and signified to the clerk that as he had brute force on his side she was not prepared to resist him; but it was with the offended dignity of a captured queen that she followed the men from the house, when, to her dismay, Reed suddenly turned to one of the constables.

"Catlin, you must abide here in possession. I cannot doubt our quarry hath been here, and 'tis very like that he will slink back to such a safe lair; therefore you must be in readiness to receive him. Mistress Perrient can have your horse to carry her to Hunstanton."

With a blank face the constable heard the order, and with a sinking heart Audrey was lifted on the spare horse as the cheerless winter twilight was falling.

"Now my device is naught," she moaned to herself, "and 'tis too late to change it! If Catlin were not such a very fool I should be clean desperate—but 'tis plain writ in his foolish face that he will think more of the Inglethorpe ghost than of any hunted Roundhead! So I must but go through with it, and hope for the best!"

A cutting east wind lay in wait for them as they came out from the shelter of the buildings, a wind that tore at Audrey's cloak, and wrestled with the black furze bushes on the heath, till they heaved and swayed like chained monsters striving to break loose. In spite of herself, Audrey felt her courage flag. So much of it was merely due to her natural buoyancy of health and spirits, and the sauciness of a petted girl who had seldom known reproof. Now that she had taken such a rash step, she began to doubt and fear. Her defiance had not drawn off the enemy's forces. Had it been of any advantage at all? Was she riding to prison for a mere fancy? Why should she scruple to tell a white lie for once? But the lie would only secure her own freedom; the constables would still hunt the country for Harrison, while now, she at least divided their numbers and their suspicions. But suppose Richard was so mad as to wait for news of her! Suppose he thought it cowardly to fly and leave her in the lurch! Suppose he fell into another of those despairing fits and threw himself into peril out of mere recklessness?

"Ah me!" she sighed, "I know not how to order my own life, and here I have a brother as well as a father to think for too!"

It was not an outburst of vanity; she had so long tended her grandfather, and her father, that the only attitude she could conceive to a new friend, was that of adopting him as some one else to be taken care of. Even while she trusted to his strong right hand to be her guard on her journey, she could not believe he could plan that journey without her help.

The sandy road across the heath was hard with frost, and the little party trotted swiftly on, and before an hour was past, the lights of Hunstanton twinkled before them. At Justice Tomkins' door there was a halt, and the clerk dismounted, and went to seek his employer's instructions; he came back in a few minutes with a perturbed face, and called the constable into the hall to a consultation. Tom Abbes' sturdy voice was audible to Audrey, as she sat outside.

"If so be as his worship won't be disturbed, 'tis no fault of ourn. And us can't put she in the lock-up; all the country would cry shame on us," grumbled the good-natured constable.

"If only I had seen the justice before he dined, and had taken his instructions!" sighed the clerk.

"See now, take her over to the Royal Oak; thee canst doo no wrong that way," councilled Tom. "If justice won't attend to business, why, justice must pay the bill."

A few steps more and the little party came out from the sheltered street, and the full force of the wind met them with a mingled dash of foam-flakes and sand. Half-blinded, Audrey was lifted from her horse, and staggered into the shelter of the deep porch—a porch she knew only too well. The Perrient arms were gone that once presided over the stately entrance to Sir Gyles Perrient's house, and a great signboard, daubed with a gaudy representation of an oak-tree, creaked as it swung in the shrill night wind, but in all else her grandfather's mansion was unchanged. Here was the home where she had reigned queen at Hunstanton—where she had loved and been loved! The house and its mistress had alike fallen on evil times; the mansion was an inn, and Audrey Perrient was a prisoner!

Mr. Reed's summons was answered by the buxom landlady, whose cheerful voice resounded through the house before she appeared at the door.

"Stars o' mine! what's that you say? Justice Tomkins in liquor? That's no new tidings! What! Mistress Perrient without, with Tom Constable! I'll never credit it! Stars o' mine! Justice must have been pretty drunk before he sent you off on such a fool's errand! You should see to him, Mr. Reed! But there! set a beggar on horseback, and we all know where he'll ride to! Come your ways in, Mistress Perrient, my dear, and don't you take on! 'Tis enough to make Sir Gyles get out o' his grave, it is! Why it makes me swimmy like! 'Tis a pity Justice Lestrange is out of town; but, for sure, 'twill be all right in the morning, when our fine new justice is out of his cups, and fine and shamed he'll be, I warrant! Will you please to come upstairs, madam. 'Tis strange to show you the way in your own house as should be; but times do change, and if 'twere your own house you couldn't have a cleaner hearth, nor fairer linen, nor one readier to serve you! And what will you take to your supper, my dear? Just a drop of mulled elderberry wine with a toast in it, to keep out the cold—and a wing of a capon, now, couldn't you seem to fancy? Or anything else you could give a name to, it would just be an honour to my house, Mistress Perrient, my dear—madam, I should say; and here's Sally with a hot posset, and that you shall taste whether you drink it or no. Why, Tom Constable, what are you a-doing of? Turn the key on Mistress Perrient? Do you reckon my house is a lock-up? That's a rare hearing! Not while I am missis here! What's that you are grumbling? Tell justice on me! Tell him and welcome; but stand out o' the way while Molly brings in the feather bed."

Mr. Reed had fled before the good woman was fairly embarked on her harangue, and she talked and worked, bustled about the room, and scolded the maids, and hustled the constable, who stood shame-faced but obstinate in the doorway. But by the time Mrs. Joyce had decked the chamber with every luxury she could invent to do due honour to her guest, her temper had cooled, and her prudence began to revive.

"Lackaday," she lamented, "if I meddle I may but make matters worse! Thou great fool"—turning viciously on the constable, "it would do my heart good to give thee a clout on the head! But I reckon 'tis treason or such like to lay hands on a constable! I be fairly 'mazed! But my dear—madam, I should say, do you take notice I lie in the next chamber, and if you feel a bit swimmy or afeared in the night, if you'll please to give a call, I'll up and serve you, spite of all the constables in creation!"

Audrey could only smile as grateful an answer as her trembling lips could muster, and the constable, catching a moment when Mrs. Joyce had fairly talked herself out of breath, bundled her out of the room without ceremony, and turned the key on the prisoner.

CHAPTER IX.
A PRECIOUS THING DISCOVERED LATE.

"One can't disturb the dust of years
And smile serenely."
AUSTIN DOBSON.

Audrey was left alone! And in what a room was she imprisoned! It was her grandfather's own chamber!

The firelight played on the panelled walls with which she had once been so familiar, and the figures on the tapestry curtains seemed to smile a grim welcome to the daughter of the house. Here she had sat on her grandfather's knee, and heard fairy tales and legends of old days; here she had often watched by him when he grew old, and knelt at his side when the vicar read prayers; here she had seen his good white head laid in the coffin, and kissed the cold lips that had never bidden her farewell. What a strange fate had brought her now back to say farewell to her old home!

She sank back in the great chair that stood in its accustomed place by the hearth, bewildered by the whirl of thoughts that chased each other through her brain. The five years that had passed since last she sat in that room, although they had dragged on slowly enough, seemed now to her only a sort of parenthesis in her life. As she had left her old home she had come back to it—the years of poverty and trouble seemed but a bad dream—it would have been most natural to her to find herself once more the mistress of Hunstanton Place.

In the cloister-like seclusion of Madam Isham's house Audrey had learned little more of real life than she had known as a child; and in that sheltered childhood what had she known? Her duty to God and to her neighbours she had learned, and many wise theories of civil government and of philosophy; but of the rough realities of life, of suspicion, of caution, she knew nothing. Petted by her grandfather, trusted by her father, adored by the servants and dependents to whom her slightest wish was law, she had learned to look with affectionate tolerance on the foolish ways of men, who being mostly old, or poor, or scholars, could not be expected to be as wise or as practical as such a young woman as Mistress Perrient. Now her little throne of feminine superiority seemed tottering. She had been frightened by a beggar, insulted by a jack-in-office, actually locked up by a constable! Her theory of life—if it had struck her to use such long words—seemed inadequate, and she did not see how to reconstruct it. She was tired—she was sad—her musings grew more confused; the grateful sense of being at home once more, the familiarity of her surroundings, the rest after the hurried ride through the storm, the luxurious chamber—so unlike the chilly attic where she had lain for many a winter night—all conspired to lull her into forgetfulness. Half dreaming, she murmured the words of the prayer said so often at her grand-father's knee: "Lighten our darkness we beseech Thee, O Lord, and by Thy great mercy defend us from all the perils and dangers of this night," and suddenly she was indeed a child once more. Such a weary little child, she could not keep her eyes open, it must surely be bedtime! Was that nurse's step on the stairs? She was not tired; she was no longer sleepy—that was forgotten! Nurse should not catch her! Here, under the great table, was a splendid hiding-place. The carved legs rose above her head like pillars, the Turkey carpet that covered it hung all around like a tent—if only grandad did not betray her! She would be quiet as a mouse, and he would never know she was there. He was walking up and down the chamber, with his hands clasped behind him; presently he turned and opened a cupboard, and brought out a leather box, and oh! such a lovely long string of shining beads. "Oh, grandad! grandad! be those for me?" she cried, springing from her hiding-place. "No, sweetheart, not yet awhile," answered Sir Gyles, lifting her on his knee; "these be the pearls good King Harry gave my grandmother; thou shalt wear them when thou art a great girl and goest to London town to see the king. But first thou must be tall—as tall as the chimney-piece!"

Audrey woke with a start. She could almost hear the echo of the last words in the air—"as tall as the chimney-piece." Was it a dream? "Oh, grandad, grandad!" she cried. "Could you but come back and let me be a little child once more. Never was there a girl so desolate in all the world!" The sweet dream of childhood had broken down her courage—and she burst into tears. And still the dream was with her. How vivid it had been! It seemed like reality. Could it be reality? Was it not a memory awakened by the sight of the old room? Yes—it must be a memory; it certainly had once happened. Forgotten for years, it came back to her now: how she had hidden under the table, and how she had cried when her grandfather had said the pearls must be locked up till she was a great girl, and how grandad had taken her on his knee and told her the tale of Tom Tit Tot, and she had forgotten all about the pearls, and set off next morning to hunt in the gravel pit for Tom Tit Tot and his wonderful spinning wheel.

She lay back lazily in the chair, smiling over the old memories, and her eyes wandered over the fire-lit room. It had been arranged differently in those days: grandfather's table stood by the window, and what cupboard was it he had opened? There was no room on that side for a great standing cupboard. It had been very big—big and black, like a closet. A closet! She started. Could it indeed not have been a cupboard, but a secret closet? What folly! If there had been a closet there she must have known of it! But the impression was so strong on her that she could not sit still. She lit the candles in the great pewter candlesticks and smiled as she stirred the logs to do so, and saw that her head just reached the carved chimney-board. "I am taller, by a head, than when I last lit a candle here," she thought. "Now I am indeed a big girl! But to reach just where grandfather's hand went, I shall need a stool and a tall one at that. Good, I reckon this will serve."

She mounted on the carved footstool, and candle in hand she surveyed the wall, drawing her finger carefully along the lines of the panelling, and pressing every little ornament that might conceal a spring. "I verily believe there was something here," she murmured. "Hereabouts he put his hand, and I have never thought on it from that day to this! It opened like a door," and as she said the words she thought the panel gave way a little, and her heart almost stopped beating. She pressed again, more firmly; there was a creak—the whole side of the room seemed swinging towards her. She sprang off the stool, and saw that a door had indeed opened before her. Audrey raised the candle and peered into the darkness within. The closet was indeed as large as a small room; opposite to her its back was panelled like the bedchamber, but on either side the walls were fitted with shelves and loaded with boxes, papers, and bunches of keys.

Audrey raised the candle and peered into the darkness. [page 135.
Audrey raised the candle and peered into the darkness. [page 135.

She stood gazing, the candle flickered, suddenly she caught sight of the well remembered red leather casket, and with a cry of delight she set down the candle and seized it. Here, indeed, was the long chain of pearls she had cried for so bitterly, and the curiously enamelled Tudor Rose hanging as a jewel from it.

"How strange that daddy knew not of this hiding-place," she cried; "yet, grandad never troubled him with such matters; he were likelier to have told me than daddy. This must be one of the priests' holes he often told me tales of, where the recusant gentlemen hid their priests, but he never said we had one in our own house! Doubtless here lies the record of how our money was lost, but I reck little of that now I have the Perrient pearls safe. Ah, but here is a purse of gold pieces! That will speed me well whether I escape Justice Tomkins' clutches, or he claps me up in jail! More wonders! Money bags! I shall lose my wits for wonder! Four bags! Five! Why 'tis a very treasure trove! And now for the papers. Alack what a many and how dusty! Why, to count them over would be half a night's work! And as for reading this crabbed hand, I doubt I shall make nothing of it, without I ask Master Reed's help, and that I am scarce like to do! Bills—more bills—they will not keep me long. List of ministers to deliver to the Triers, letters from Parliament men, news letters; why, what is this? "Note of monies lent to Master Vonsturm of Leyden," "Note of monies lent to Master Leyds of Amsterdam," "Note of half share in the ship Maria Dirk trading from Rotterdam." "That's where the money is!" she gasped. "Oh, cunning old grandad! You sent it over seas safe from both king and Parliament! Master—what's his name? Von Sturm, must have deemed us all dead! He'll be mightily disappointed! My faith, these papers must not lie hid here! Yet if they take me to jail, they may search me; the papers were safer here than in my pockets in that hazard. I must bethink me. But first I must needs rummage for more treasures. Here is my grandfather's great writing-box and his seal and pens; methinks I may find Master Tom Tit Tot himself next!"

Her smile faded as suddenly as if the imp she spoke of had appeared. In the desk lay only one paper, endorsed in trembling handwriting: "Draught of my letter to Major-General Harrison concerning the marriage of my granddaughter. February ye first 1659."

"My marriage! Grandad never said a word to me of marriage! I was but sixteen! I marvel whom he proposed to marry me to?" And with rather a pale smile she unfolded the letter.

For my loving friend Major-General Harrison, these.

SIR,—As touching the question of the marriage whereof we have more than once held discourse, and whereof you as at this present write to me, my mind being as yours in the matter, I see not wherefor we should not come to a speedy settlement. Seeing that I am now a very old man, I do only desire, if it be God's will, to see my beloved child given happily in marriage, before I say my Nunc Dimittis. Your young kinsman, Richard Harrison, is but now departed from me, and as I judge, he doth in all respects uphold the report you have made me of him. He seemeth a godly and a gallant young gentleman, and a modest, and if it please God to dispose his heart and that of my granddaughter to an understanding, I doubt not but that you and I shall agree concerning the money to be settled. My desire being, to find for this child, who is my chief earthly joy and blessing, not so much a wealthy husband as an entrance into a godly family and one whereto I am so much bound in love as with yours. I desire not to defraud your good wife of any fortune you have gathered, neither any children whom it may yet please the Lord to bless you with, but as my granddaughter will have all that I possess, I do desire that it should be settled upon her and her children. It's no bad division that the man should bear the sword and the woman the purse, so she be one in whom her husband's heart may safely trust. When Captain Harrison is on his return to Scotland, if you will make him your messenger concerning your resolution as to settlements, he can then have speech of my granddaughter and shall understand her mind in the matter, for I do purpose she shall only be joined in marriage there where she is likewise joined in godly affection. I speak not of my son, as in the disposal and ordering of all such matters he doth dutifully submit himself unto me, and I doubt not he will be of my mind in this matter."

Audrey's face grew whiter and whiter as she spelt out the painfully written words, and, as she ended, she staggered back against the wall and covered her face with her hands. Any thought of marriage, save as a vague sort of fairy tale, was so remote from her mind, that this formal negotiating of her destiny struck her like a blow, and she felt absolutely sick with the shock. To her proud and virginal mind it mattered nothing that this was an old story, forgotten for two years past. It was nothing to her that marriages at that time were almost invariably a matter of family arrangement. She had been brought up with so much more personal liberty and independence than most girls of her day, that the idea that she had been talked over, bargained for, was unendurable! And gradually, as the whole plan came home to her, a burning flush crept over her face. She felt outraged, insulted. Wild indignation with every one filled her heart. Her grandfather, General Harrison, Richard, every one was detestable. No one was to be trusted! They had dared to talk of her, to dispose of her, as if she were a mere chattel! Better poverty, neglect, anything, than such an insult. But then there rushed back on her with a sudden revulsion of feeling, all that might have been, all she had once possessed, and she dashed the letter on the ground and burst into a passion of tears. Alone, friendless, she realized her position—she was brought face to face with all she had lost. While she looked on her grandfather as a feeble old man depending on her young strength, he had foreseen how helpless she would be one day, he had known what a woman needed, he had been planning her future for her. A future of wealth and dignity, a gallant and handsome young husband, loving kins-folk, all as gay as a fairy tale, and all vanished like a fairy dream!

Her tears were partly remorseful—that she could have been angered at any thought of his, shamed her! But she could not but give some sorrow to all that was gone—her grandfather dead and forgotten, her father in exile, she herself a prisoner, General Harrison—she shuddered to remember his fate, Richard Harrison—"Alas, I had not thought Captain Harrison was one of those summer friends who forsook us when our wealth was lost! 'Tis pity I should have discovered what he hath made such good speed to forget!" She stood a while sunk in thought, then she shook herself. "Fie, what a peevish maid I grow! This was but talk between grandfather and the poor general; and then grandfather died and the general ran mad on the Fifth Monarchy, and was put in prison, and, most like, Captain Harrison never heard a word of the matter! 'Tis midsummer madness to dwell on it now. Fie! Audrey Perrient, a modest maiden should not waste thoughts on such matters! But 'tis lucky I knew not of this when I found him fainting in the woods, or I protest I should have been too shamefaced a fool to have succoured him?"

CHAPTER X.
ESCAPE.

"Why, now I have Dame Fortune by the forelock,
And if she 'scapes my grasp, the fault is mine."
SCOTT, Old Play.

"Fie! Fie! Have I nothing more pressing to attend to than to weep over these old tales?" cried Audrey, as she looked round the crowded shelves of the closet. "It were more to the point to decide what I am to do with all these treasures. Are they best here, or can I carry the papers at least with me? So much hangs on what awaits me to-morrow. If they let me go free I can tell Mistress Joyce of my discovery, and she will let me have a cart to carry off my plunder! But if they clap me into jail? Good faith, I'll give them some trouble first! Who knows but I might make shift to escape on the road! For that matter, why do I sit mewed up here without making an offer to escape? This dear house is no prison that I should find no way out of it! How did distressed damsels do in the tale books? Methinks the favourite fashion was to make ropes out of the bed sheets. But I should be loath to tear up Mistress Joyce's best linen, and I am not well assured that I could climb down a rope even could I make it. That plan is naught! But I warrant some of these keys will undo the chamber door, and then it is but a small matter to slip downstairs and out of the hall door. But, good lack! if the bolts are as stiff as they used to be, the mighty creaking of them would awake the seven sleepers, and I should look a pretty fool, caught like a schoolboy breaking bounds! Yet forth I must, and will go! I may at least see if the chamber door can be fitted with a key. I suppose there are no more secret doors in this room to match this closet? After so many wonders, I am fit to believe Tom Tit Tot will unlock another panel and let me out! Stay. If this were indeed a priest's hole, surely they would have some fashion of escape if they were close pressed? I am sure grandfather has told me these chambers often led into a very maze of secret ways. Oh, you fool," she almost screamed, "to stand in the very draught of a sliding door and not see the chink! Down on your knees and thank the Lord who hath delivered you from prison as truly as He did Peter!"

It was true. In the back of the closet was a sliding panel that was actually partly open, only in the hurry and excitement of so many discoveries she had not paused to look for the origin of the draught that made her candle flicker. She pushed the panel cautiously, fearing that some dismal creak might awaken the house, but the woodwork was carefully fitted and the door slid back without a sound. Before her a corkscrew staircase wound down in the thickness of the wall. Carefully she stepped through the door, but the stair was of solid stone, and her light foot made no sound on it as she ran down. The bottom of the stair was guarded by a narrow door, locked and barred.

"Now, which of all those keys will help me here?" she wondered as she sped up again to fetch the great bunches that lay on the closet shelf.

One key after another she tried, and then came the turn of a key that hung alone on a slender silver chain. It fitted, it turned; hastily she drew back the bolts and the door swung open. A flood of moonlight poured through a screen of ivy and dazzled her eyes. Her prison was unlocked! The wind had dropped and the weather changed, the snow had ceased, everything seemed in her favour.

"My luck has turned," she laughed as she flew back up the stairs to prepare for her flight. All fatigue and bewilderment was over. She was as joyous and self-possessed as a child planning a new game.

"They must not blame Mistress Joyce for mine escape," she meditated; "nor must they set to hunting for secret passages and spy out my treasure chamber. If I unbar the shutter and leave the window open, they may amuse themselves by inventing how I found wings! Now! That was deftly done, that shutter has made never a sound! 'Tis well my pockets are new and strong. They must carry the principal of the papers. Now I must tie the money bags in my apron, and the pearls shall travel secure round my neck and tucked into my bodice."

With dancing eyes she made her preparations. Then she blew out the candles and pulled the closet door to behind her with a snap. Then she stood a moment and hesitated, and, with a hasty movement, she swept her grandfather's letter from the floor and thrust it into her bodice, and ran down the stairs as if she wished to forget what she had done.

She pushed the little door wide open and looked out. A thicket of leafless thorns helped the tangled ivy to entirely hide the secret entrance, but beyond the bushes lay a wide field of rough grass glistening white with hoar frost in the moonlight, and shut in by miniature cliffs and hills.

"Why, 'tis Tom Tit Tot's gravel pit!" she cried in delight. "How well to bring the stairs out in such a deserted corner! And, just beyond that bank, is the high road to Lynn. But this frost is unlucky; my pursuers will dog me as a hart by my tracks, and I shall betray them my treasure-chamber. What policy can I use to baffle them? Richard said I was fit for plots and stratagems! I have it!"

She slipped her cloak from her shoulders, and flung it from her over the grass as far as she could. Then, locking the door, she put the keys into her pocket, and sprang lightly from the threshold on to her cloak, leaving no sign of a footprint close to the door. The ivy screen fell back over the entrance and Audrey laughed with triumph as she picked up the cloak and shook the frost from it.

"I protest this last stratagem of mine hath crowned the record!" she laughed to herself. "No one will dream there is a door yonder, or that this trampled patch is the mark of my cloak. It looks as if some tinker's ass had made his bed here! And my steps are but those of his master's boy fetching him away! Now I can start forth with no fear of being tracked, and there goes nine on the church clock. I'll warrant the best part of the good folk of Hunstanton are abed by this, so I shall have the road to myself. But whither go I? Straight to Lynn? 'Tis a long trudge. I doubt my feet will carry me so far this night. Jack Catlin is sure to be abed and snoring by the time I reach Inglethorpe. What hinders my slipping into the stable and stealing my own horse? Richard is sure to be off long ago. He could easily drop from a window, or even walk out of the front door without Jack Constable knowing anything of it. Doubtless I shall find him at Master Marshman's, whistling for a fair wind! Had those fools kept me clapped up another twelve hours, I might have lost my travelling-companion."

The triumph of her escape and her recovered riches had raised her elastic spirits to their wildest pitch. Forgotten were her regrets, forgotten her shame-faced resentment, forgotten her vague fears of a cold and cruel world. She had, alone and unhelped, escaped from prison and recovered her fortune; she was once more queen of her own destiny. Gay, self-confident, hopeful, she danced along the hard, sandy path through the heather. The tide was out, no sound broke the silence but her own light footsteps, and soon she found she was singing aloud. She was free, she was rich, she was on her way to a land of freedom, all was delightful and rosy. Poor Richard Harrison! How she had misjudged him in her first rush of resentful surprise on reading her grandfather's letter!

"I must put a curb on this unruly temper of mine," she vowed. "Had any one been near to hear all I was ready to say in my rage, I might have lost my fine new brother. But all's well that ends well, and Westward Ho to-morrow!"

It seemed but a few minutes before her merry heart had sped her over the long miles of salt marsh and moorland, and she saw the tower of Inglethorpe church and the gables of Inglethorpe Hall rising dark against the moonlight. She passed softly in between the shattered gate pillars and crept round the house, crouching in the shadows which completely swallowed up her dark dress and wide dark hat. Then she paused in dismay. A bright light shone through the curtainless kitchen window, and sent a glaring beam across the yard and fell direct on the stable door!

"This is indeed disastrous," thought Audrey. "What possesses Jack Constable to keep such hours. Pray heaven he have not set the old house afire. I must needs peep, and see what prank he is playing."

Cautiously she stole up to the window. She heard a sound of voices, the clatter of pewter, then it was Jack Catlin who spoke—

"Well, young sir, I'm beholden to you for your company, not to speak of your ale. 'Twould have been uncommon lonesome to bide here by myself; and noo, if I weren't afraid of the bogles, I reckon I'd go to bed."

"Oh, surely you can have nought to fear from bogles," answered a voice. Could Audrey believe her ears. Could Richard be so mad as to sit hobnobbing with the very constable who was set to catch him? Yes—no question, it was his voice. "You can have naught to fear from bogles. By all they say, these Cremers have been always on the king's side, so the ghosts in their house are bound to respect the majesty of the law."

"Majesty of the law!" repeated the constable. "'Tis a fine saying! The Majesty of the law! Ay, ay, here I sit to uphold the majesty of the law. I reckon I'll goo to bed!"

"Shall I lend you a hand up the stairs, good sir?"

Richard's voice sounded dangerously demure, and then came a noise of scuffling and grunting that told the task of getting the representative of the law upstairs to be not altogether a light one.

She waited till she heard Richard return to the kitchen, and then she tapped at the window. He started and turned; she tapped again, and with eager hands he flung the casement back.

"In life or death, you are welcome!" he cried.

Audrey's laugh brought him back to common life. "I am no ghost!" she cried merrily; "but I am escaped like a bird from the snare, and I have mighty news to tell. Give me your hand, and help me in by the window, for I fear unbarring the door may awake your boon companion."

His face still white with agitation, Harrison leant out, and lifted her slight form to the window-sill.

"Truly I thought it was your spirit," he began, half apologetically; "your face was so white in the moonlight, and——"

"I am indeed no ghost, as yet," she laughed, as she slid down into the room. "Pluck up all your courage, good brother, for I have such a fearsome and wonderful budget of news to unfold, as is fit to make a fresh chapter to the 'Princess of Cleves!'"

The shamefacedness she had feared had vanished. Harrison's unexpected agitation had put all thoughts of her own feelings out of her head. Her only wish was to laugh him out of the bewilderment that still kept him gazing at her as if he feared to trust his eyes.

"I do solemnly declare to you that neither am I a ghost, nor did I ride hither on a broomstick; witness the mud upon my shoes! But my adventure is marvellous enough for all that. But before I tell it I must inquire into this strange fashion of housekeeping! What hours are these to keep, sir? Such junketings and revellings! Fie, fie! But in sad earnest, how dared you venture on such a wild prank! What blessed dulness was it that kept Jack Catlin from guessing you?"

Harrison's spirits rallied under her jests, and he laughed as he defended himself.

"Indeed, stern mistress, you forget that I am a soldier, and 'tis my profession to use stratagems to gain news of the enemy's movements. I have this night heard such a description of myself as, if scarce flattering, sets me free from all fear of being recognized. That drunken knave, Astbury, painted me very truly from his own looking-glass. But now, thanks to your wisdom in making me cut my hair short and change my clothes, a shrewder fellow than the good fool who snores overhead would not guess my true name. But to make a clear shrift, 'twas more by chance than by craft, that this all came about. When I saw you ride off, I dropped from a front window, and came round to seek for John and find what had happened, and so I stumbled on my friend the constable, who told me you were bound to Hunstanton to appear before the justice. You could not deem I should depart in full content, having got that news! So I patched up my acquaintance with master constable, and sent him over to the sexton's to get some ale, and we hobnobbed right merrily. I have all the news, they seek only for a swashbuckler somewhat like our rascal of yesterday, with curling hair, and a scarlet cloak, that's all they have to guide them! And they are well assured I shall take ship at Brancaster Staith, where all rogues and vagabonds seek to escape by the fishing-boats. And I heard further, what a tantrum the young mistress was in. 'Laws, she did give un a talking to!' I knew not, gentle sister, that you were such a virago."

"Indeed, I think I did somewhat dash them," answered Audrey, complacently; "and they will be yet more dashed to-morrow when they unlock their cage, and find their bird flown! But now, surely we should be on our road to Lynn?"

"No, no; 'tis of no use to reach Lynn before folks are up in the morning. You must rest a while here on the settle, and I will watch lest any of the ghosts should rouse our friend above from his snoring, and by-and-by I will saddle your pony, and we shall be at Lynn by daybreak. Now rest, sister; you must be wearied nigh to death! I will ask nothing of your adventures now. It suffices that you are safe, for which the Lord be praised.

"No, indeed, I must and will tell you my story, and you must see my spoil. Did you not foretell it all when you said grandfather was 'an old courtier of the queen'? Here's the end of the ballad come true—

"'Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his bounds,
And when he died gave every child a thousand pounds!'

Count that, and that, and that!" and she tossed her money bags into his hands in triumph.

Harrison gazed in astonishment when she brought out one after another of her treasures.

"It is indeed like a story of romance," he said, "or a miracle. But, alas, 'tis a pity the Perrient pearls should but come back to you when you are bound for the Plantations. Mistress Perrient should be queening it at court, instead of flying across seas to live among Indian savages!"

"Fie, fie, brother! You should not look so sad over worldly gauds! I must bid Master Marshman deal faithfully with you to-morrow for setting your heart on vanities, to make no mention of drinking strong ale with the parish constable at midnight."

"'Tis the way this fortune has come back to you, seems scarce within the bounds of nature," went on Harrison, in a graver tone; "you mind the old word Mortmain, the 'dead hand' as men called it, that still held the power over lands and goods, so that living men had to obey its will. I could sometimes persuade myself that on a certain evening, when I took General Harrison's hand in pledge of fidelity, that I had indeed given my being into his keeping; for, though I held him mistaken on many matters of religion and government, in every decision that I make, and every chance that befalls me, I do but seem to be following the beck of his hand, such power hath it, and lo! now hath the same fate befallen you, and for all that Acts of Parliament have forbidden Mortmain, a dead hand hath given wealth into your lap!"

Audrey grew suddenly scarlet. With an involuntary movement her hand flew up to her bodice, to guard the letter that lay hidden there. The dead hand had done more than he guessed. She held its last commands, and she knew what road General Harrison had beckoned his nephew on. But never, never should he or any man living, know that she knew.

CHAPTER XI.
A CANDID MINISTER.

"Love is a thing as any spirit free,
Women of kind desiren libertee,
And not to be constrained as a thral."
CHAUCER, Franklin's Tale.

The grey dawn was stealing over the land as Audrey and Richard halted at a cottage outside Lynn, and gave the pony into the care of an old countryman, that they might slip into the town without attracting notice. They stepped briskly on along the frosty road, pleased to feel that they were so near the end of their journey, when they were startled by a man bursting from the hedge and hurrying towards them.

Audrey could not repress a cry of dismay as she pulled up her cloak to muffle her face; but in a moment she was reassured by a call from the stranger which made Richard spring forward and catch him in his arms.

"Good, Mr. Rogers," he exclaimed. "Well met, indeed! What happy chance hath brought you hither?"

"No chance, Dick, but the care of that God who I trust will give us a speedy deliverance from our troubles. Right thankful I am to see thou hast escaped the snares that did beset thee. I have awaited thee here to guide thee to Brother Marshman's house by the garden way, for there is a ship unlading hard by his front door, and idle folk might spy on you did you go that road."

He turned courteously towards Audrey to include her in his words. Richard flung his arm round the minister's shoulders.

"Mistress Perrient," he said, "this is Mr. Rogers, who hath been my good friend since my boyhood, and hardly escaped from London when I was well-nigh taken."

Mr. Rogers bared his head with a courtly bow. "Madam," he said, "I have been familiar with the name of your grandfather and your learned father on General Harrison's lips, and I trust this fortunate meeting may be accounted a sign that the Lord doth intend to make a happy ending to the troubles that have beset this His servant."

Audrey could not repress a smile at this rather enigmatic compliment.

"I fear, good sir," she said, "we have rather added to your troubles, since you have been at the pains of waiting here for us before daybreak."

"Not a whit, not a whit," answered the minister, cheerily; "in truth, I thought not of my own troubles, but of my friend Dick's. Brother Marshman would have come himself to welcome you," he continued, turning to Richard, "but I persuaded him that I should the better recognize you if you should be disguised. Truly, Dick, I take it ill of this government they should be at such pains to seek thee out, and count me not worth pursuing."

Mr. Rogers was in unusually high spirits. Audrey wondered if he found it a relief to escape from the society of his brother minister; but the twinkle in his eye, when he looked at her, seemed to show his pleasure in the present meeting had something to do with his gay humour.

"I pray thee, Dick," he continued, as they walked on, "tell me somewhat of the history of thy journey, and how all hath fallen out so happily. Pardon me, madam, for being so bold. When my wife doth reprove me for curiosity, I tell her 'tis all due to my descent from Grandmother Eve, and therefore a woman should not blame it."

Audrey laughed, and assured him she would gladly listen to the story of Richard's adventures; and it was in a strangely merry fashion that the sad story was told and heard, and it was by no means ended when they entered the garden of the Presbyterian minister, and passed up the trim path to the door.

"Richard Harrison, you are welcome," said the grave voice of Mr. Marshman, as he took the young man's hand in his friendly grasp. "And is this your sister who bears you company? I knew not you would venture to carry her with you."

"This is Mistress Perrient, of Inglethorpe," said Harrison, rather hurriedly. "She is in danger of prison for the fault of aiding me, and is flying to her father in Providence Plantation."

Mr. Marshman stopped and eyed Audrey steadily; then saying shortly, "My housekeeper shall attend her," he ushered her into a parlour, and led Harrison down the passage to his study.

The kind and demure old woman who ruled Mr. Marshman's modest household looked on fugitives as the most usual and most welcome visitors to his house, and the gentle warmth of her reception made up to Audrey for the hardly expected severity of Mr. Marshman's manner. But after a little time the door opened, and the minister returned. His face was stern, but one who knew him would have detected an unusual expression of anxiety on his grave features.

"Deborah, you may depart for a little space," he said. "I have a word for Mistress Perrient's private ear."

Audrey rose, somewhat fluttered by this opening, and calling to mind the alarming reports she had heard of Mr. Marshman's dictatorship in Lynn, but she hardly anticipated the experience that awaited her.

"Mistress Perrient," he began, "I am acquainted with that learned gentleman, your father. He is one of a very tender and sanctified spirit, although, to my judgment, his eyes are not fully opened to the dangers of prelacy. Yet I doubt not that by him you were nurtured in the admonition and fear of the Lord."

"I trust so," answered Audrey, somewhat abashed by the solemnity of this commencement.

"Therefore," continued the minister, "seeing your father is not at hand, it is my duty to open thine eyes to see rightly the way thou art going. No question it hath been a misfortune that it has been your lot to abide in Meshec, in the dwelling of a prelatical woman, and have been given over to your own devices and the vain follies of youth. Nevertheless, I will believe you can yet call to mind the pleasantness of the paths of righteousness, and your ears having been once open to the words of wholesome admonition, your heart may not have wholly turned aside to folly and vanity."

"Indeed, sir!" cried Audrey. "Madam Isham was very strict with her household; there were no more evil ways there than——" She was prudent enough not to finish her sentence.

The minister paid no attention whatever to her interruption, but continued in the same tone—

"And because, as is mine office, I desire to snatch thee from the snares that do beset youth, and more especially womankind, I do hereby warn and exhort thee, and do thou give ear with docility and meekness. It is not fitting that you should go forth after this fashion with this young man, even Richard Harrison. Even among the careless walkers of this generation would such a thing be counted scandalous, and much more for the daughter of one of the Lord's people is it an open shame! Now, indeed, may the ungodly say, 'Lo, how their daughters have run eagerly to destruction! Is this that modesty and sobriety of which they were used to make their boast?'"

"Sir!" gasped Audrey, "what have I done? What can I do? I am in danger of jail if I abide at Inglethorpe."

"Better is it for thee to lose thy liberty than thy good name," answered the minister more sternly. "Tarry and bethink thee while there is yet time. What profit shalt thou have of thy pleasures when the end of them is death? Knowst thou not that the way of an evil woman is the path of hell, going down to the chambers of the grave. Call to mind the end of them that did bring a curse even upon the cause of the king by reason of their dicing and swearing and chambering and wantonness, and fear to go forth on this journey lest a like curse fall upon thee. Oh, bethink thee of the lessons thy father hath taught thee! And for his sake will I even yet have patience, and I will seek out fair words that I may persuade thee."

He paused, but Audrey's breath was so lost in anger and amazement that she could find no words to answer, before he resumed his harangue, but in a tone of studious calm.

"Thou hast indeed made thyself a mocking and a byword by this foolish adventure, nevertheless, there can be a way found by which thou mayst escape, if thou wilt obey my counsels. But answer not rashly nor in haste, for by thy resolution in the matter shall I judge what manner of woman thou art, and thy choice shall be as a winnowing fan to show if thou beest chaff or wheat. It hath come to my knowledge that there was an agreement made between Sir Gyles Perrient and Major-General Harrison, who I trust hath found pardon and acceptance, though, as I must needs hold, he waxed wanton, and fell away from the grace vouchsafed unto him, when he sacrilegiously laid hands upon the sacred person of the king, and received his due reward therefor by being given over to strong delusion and belief in a lie, concerning the Fifth Monarchy, on which it is not now convenient to enter at large. My friend, Mr. John Rogers, I say, who was with Major-General Harrison in his prison, hath made this matter of the agreement plain to me, and his testimony agreeth with that of Richard Harrison, who is an honourable and ingenuous youth. Mr. Rogers and Richard Harrison, I say, bear witness that there was an intention of marriage betwixt you and the said Richard Harrison, decided and agreed upon by your lawful guardians, which agreement was not carried out, by reason of the sudden death of Sir Gyles Perrient, and the imprisonment of Major-General Harrison. I ask thee now, Audrey Perrient, art thou ready to fulfil this agreement and contract in obedience to the will of thy grandfather, and presently take this young man for thy husband and lord, that in leaving this land thou mayst depart after a modest and godly fashion, even as Sarah did go into a strange country in the obedience and fear of her husband Abraham, when he was commanded to go forth from the land of the Chaldees."

"But, sir, does Richard Harrison know of this? What is his mind in it? He never said any word to me of such a thing."

"I am glad of it; I am glad of it," answered Mr. Marshman. "I judged he hath too much the ground of the matter in him to give rein to idle words. Nevertheless, he is ready as an obedient son, to do the will of his father by adoption."

"But, sir, this is too serious a matter—at least for me—to be decided in this hurry. I have no mind to be married because Richard Harrison was bidden to it by his uncle," replied Audrey, with rising spirit.

"Young woman, your words are lighter than befit your situation, nevertheless, I will have patience with you," said the minister, very seriously. "Bear in mind, that this marriage is not alone the will of General Harrison, but also that of your late grandfather, for whom you can scarce yet have lost all sense of duty and obedience."

"No, sir. But my beloved and honoured grandfather did only desire I should marry where I should both give and receive the affection fitting to such a state, and that being his will, my very duty to him forbids my marrying, without Captain Harrison hath more to say in the matter than doth at present appear."

"You have a nimble wit, mistress," replied Mr. Marshman, grimly; "yet can you not so easily beguile me. Do you deem this sober house is as the antechambers of Whitehall, a fitting place for idle lovemaking and lascivious compliments? Nay. If you will hear and obey, it is well. But if you remain stiffnecked and obstinate, beware! I will not permit thee to lay a snare to delude this young man from the right way, after the fashion of the wanton daughters of this evil age, neither shalt thou go forth with him to make him a shame and a byword and a laughing-stock before the multitude. Therefore, in one word, answer me. Wilt thou take this young man to thy husband?"

"No!" cried Audrey, her cheeks flaming. "It is a shame and an insult to speak so to me, a defenceless girl. Does Captain Harrison commission you to purvey him a wife in all haste for his journey, as he would send for a cloak-bag, or a pair of riding-boots? I will not be used so by any man!"

"Then is your journey at its end," answered the minister, coolly, and closed the door behind him.

In the study, Richard Harrison was pacing impatiently up and down, turning now and then in a sort of desperation to Mr. Rogers, who had sat down to his writing at the table.

"What can Master Marshman have to say to her that he went forth in such haste?" he cried. "What is he not capable of saying?"

"Take patience," answered the other, with a smile, though he himself looked hardly the right man to prescribe patience. His thin form was worn to a shadow by ill-health and privation, and appeared to be only sustained by a fire of inward enthusiasm, that glowed in his large light eyes with a brilliancy that almost betokened insanity. His soft fair hair floated like a cloud round his transparent features from under the small black cap of a minister, although the rest of his dress was the ordinary dark habit of any professional man.

"Take patience, Dick," he repeated, smiling. "Brother Marshman can scarce do so much mischief in ten minutes that thou canst not amend in five. Surely I can bear testimony to the power of thine arguments, seeing they carried me from the meeting-house in Coleman Street, when I was set to abide there!"

"But, good Mr. Rogers," cried Dick, impatiently, "you know well that he has never spoken to any one of Mistress Perrient's station in his life. God knows, she is not proud; she hath treated me, a butcher's grandson, with the gentleness of an angel. But any trifle may arouse Master Marshman to lecture her as though she were one of his spinners or huxters of Lynn! Even though it be his own house, he owes some courtesy to his guests. I must after him and see that he treats her fittingly."

As he said the words, however, Mr. Marshman entered the room. He stood for a minute or two in gloomy silence, and then, raising his eyes to Harrison, he said—

"Thou must content thee, Richard, she will none of thee. And well is it for thee, for a froward and rebellious woman can have no part in thy lot, neither shouldest thou take a daughter of Moab to thy bosom."

"This passes all!" cried Harrison, startled out of any attempt at patience; "you are mad, Mr. Marshman! You have not dared to open to her that tale of the overture for her marriage? I must explain——"

"Tarry yet a while," answered the minister, standing before the door. "Favour is deceitful, and what availeth her beauty to thee if it bringeth thee but shame and reproach? Even as a jewel of gold in a swine's snout——"

"Master Marshman, I pray you stand from the door; you have already meddled further in my matters than any other man could do with safety;" and, brushing past the minister, Harrison dashed out of the room.

"Methinks, Brother Marshman, you have forgotten Æsop his fable concerning the sun and the wind!" said the writer, turning in his chair.

"Tush, Brother Rogers!" answered Mr. Marshman, whose temper had risen rapidly. "Soft words are but wasted on this wanton generation. Women who forsake the modesty of their sex and ape the stature of men! I know your pernicious doctrines concerning the liberty of women, a liberty that leads to licence, and to familiarism, and to anabaptism!"

"Hold!" cried Mr. Rogers, growing hot in his turn, "you shall not so pervert a pure doctrine. I deny not that the devil often makes women serve his turn, seeing that where they take, their affections are strongest, and he found out a Delilah for Samson and a Jezebel for Ahab. But as when they are bad, they are exceeding bad, so when they are good, they are exceeding good; and as gold will sooner receive the stamp than iron, so are women more readily wrought upon than men, and persuaded into the truth, and oftentimes take the fullest impression of the seal of the Lord, as witness the holy women of old."

"Ay," retorted Mr. Marshman, "the women of old, even as Eve, by whom sin and death did enter into the world! Well, did Hierome say——"

His tirade was interrupted by Harrison, who dashed back into the room with a distracted face.

"She is gone—she is fled!" he gasped.

"So, Brother Marshman, instead of leading the lambs into the sheepfold," cried Rogers, "thou scarest them with shouts into the jaws of the wolf!"

"She is departed from us because she is not of us," answered Marshman, gloomily.

"You are distraught," cried Harrison. "How will you answer it to her father, to the world that you have driven a lady of birth and breeding from your house—to heaven only knows what perils?"

Mr. Rogers had risen from his chair, and now snatched up his hat and walking-cane.

"Take comfort, Dick," he said. "Doubtless Mistress Perrient hath but gone down to the quay. It is the Little Charity, is it not, that her stuff is aboard? I will follow her there and bring you tidings of her safety with all speed. Methinks, Brother Marshman, you also might do worse than to seek for this strayed lamb, seeing it is not all of her own fault that she has wandered forth."

Mr. Marshman had by this time regained his ordinary manner.

"I will go forth instantly and make inquiries," he answered. "Nay, Richard, 'tis but folly for thee to come too. 'Twill but hinder our search if thou art taken by the constables. Keep private here, and doubt not we shall speedily overtake her."

The ministers departed in all haste, leaving the unhappy young soldier almost maddened by his impotence. He was roused from a sort of stupor of despair by the return of Mr. Rogers.

"Alas! they know nothing of her on the Little Charity, neither have the sailors seen any gentlewoman answering to her description on the quays. Her stuff is all aboard, and the captain is set to warp out in an hour's time. Therefore we must conclude on what we do in all haste. What do you purpose?

"Purpose? Can you imagine I can leave England While Mistress Perrient's fate is unknown? Am I a stock or a stone?"

"Nay, nay. Yet, remember, you can be of no assistance in the search, and you double the anxiety of our good host, to whom I have made the matter somewhat clearer, and who, I believe, is by now unfeignedly sorry for his roughness. Were you not, indeed, best safe out of the way in Holland?"

"Doubtless I were best out of the way—there or elsewhere. Best I should hang myself for very shame at having brought that angelic creature into such straits. Nevertheless, I cannot go."

"Well," answered Mr. Rogers, with a smile, "I can scarce blame you for abiding in England. But, if you do not sail, I had best take some directions to the ship concerning Mistress Perrient's goods. Shall I bid the sailors carry them to my wife's lodgings at Rotterdam, or are they best brought here till we can find her and know her mind? Methinks 'twill be best that my wife shall have them in her keeping. I will write her by the captain and give her fitting directions; and, when I have disposed all that, I will return and take council as to our further search. Await me, therefore, and I will return in haste."

"But it is not endurable," cried Dick, "that I, who brought Mistress Perrient into this strait, should sit here idle! Mr. Rogers, I must needs go forth! How can I hold up my head among honest men if I lie hid here in shameful cowardice, when God only knows what straits she may be in!"

"Now, give ear, thou foolish boy," cried Mr. Rogers, catching the distracted young man by the sleeve as he was preparing to dash from the room. "In primis, this charge brought against the gentlewoman by a foolish jack-in-office doth put her in no real danger, and most like he and his posse are by this time heartily ashamed of their folly. She stands in no danger unless thou art found, for there is no proof against her, but the word of that vagabond, which no man of gravity would hear. But, if thou art taken, she will indeed stand convicted of harbouring thee, and in no small peril. Thou canst now take no step without involving her in the charges brought against thyself. Consider, she would be held, for certain, a party to our rising under Venner, and what, to my mind, is far worse, idle folk love so well to charge us with anabaptist looseness that light tongues would be busy with her fair fame. Take heed, a maiden is a delicate creature, and a rough finger may do more evil than thou in thy very simplicity canst dream. But, to leave that, thinkest thou not that thou owest somewhat to this roof that shelters thee? If thou dost draw Brother Marshman under suspicion of Fifth Monarchy leanings, thou goest far to ruin, not only him, but all the poor folk that dwell in safety under his shadow. Be not a child, Dick; nothing but patience will serve this turn. Thy passion will ruin all."

It took all Mr. Rogers' powers of persuasion to induce Harrison to pause and reflect. But as his sober reason began to reawaken, the young man realized not only that Mr. Rogers was right in showing him that he would make bad worse by running into the arms of the constables; but a new thought dawned on him that filled him with sick dismay. He began to see that no rudeness of Mr. Marshman's could have so moved the girl; she was more likely to laugh at the ill-manners of one too far beneath her to be worth notice. No, it was the dread of an unwelcome suitor that had driven her from shelter, she imagined that he, Dick Harrison, had beguiled her there to take advantage of her helplessness and force her into marriage! Ingenious in self-torture, he saw ever new reasons for her flight. She was an heiress! She must believe he had entrapped her for her fortune. And more, Mr. Rogers had spoken of light tongues—he, he who would die for her had exposed her to evil report, so that she should not be able to avoid a marriage for the sake of her own credit! She had seen it all, she had fled from him in horror, and if he were to follow her, it would but drive her to some desperate expedient to escape him. It was not Mr. Marshman; he himself alone was to blame; he could never dare to see her again, and yet how could he endure to live under such imputations! With a groan he flung his arms across the table, hiding his face in them.

"Do as you think best," he muttered. "I am too great a dastard and a fool to be worthy to serve her."

It was late in the evening when the two ministers returned from a fruitless search through the town of Lynn. Mr. Marshman had learned a more merciful opinion of Audrey Perrient from Mr. Rogers, and had had time to recover from his indignation at finding his will withstood by a mere girl; he was now as anxious as the others concerning the fate of the fugitive.

"She is surely not in this town!" he said, entering the study. "My flock have aided the search to their best ability, and we are but too familiar with our hiding-places, for which we have had sad need in the past, and to all appearance shall have occasion in the future also. Had Mistress Perrient money with her for a journey?"

"Yes," answered Harrison; "she carried her grandfather's purse that was well filled with gold pieces. Other money she had, but she bade me carry it because of the weight; I have it in this little portmantel."

"Then, perhaps, she may have gone further than we thought. Had she any friends beyond the town who would hide her?"

"Sir Roger Lascelles of Hunstanton is of her kindred; but I heard her say he is in London," answered Harrison, thoughtfully. "She would never venture back to Inglethorpe Hall, and the parson of Inglethorpe Church is but newly come, and is a stranger to her. The old Vicar of Hunstanton dwelt with her grandfather, but he is newly dead; and Sir Frank Cremer, the High Sheriff, is not in the country now. I know not of a single friend she hath to turn to. The old Lady Cremer, I heard her say, is in Norwich—could she have gone thither?"

"She would never go so far without horse or waggon," answered Mr. Marshman. "She came by horse here this morning, did she not?"

"She only rode as far as a little farm at Gaywood, and left her pony there. Her old servant was to fetch it thence when he had leisure. I should have thought of that earlier."

"'Tis not too late," answered Mr. Marshman, rising briskly. "I will presently forth and see if her horse stands there still. If he is gone, she has surely ridden him to some friend's house, and is in safety."

When Mr. Marshman returned, he brought the information that the lady herself had returned to fetch her horse before midday, but that no one had noticed which way she went.

"Young Drake, the mercer, rides to Norwich early to-morrow," continued Mr. Marshman. "You were best give him a letter to Lady Cremer. I will let him know there will be an errand to do."

"If I rode thither myself this night, I should have the sooner assurance, and no one would notice me," hazarded Harrison.

"Nay, nay, this is pure folly," answered Mr. Marshman, as he left the room; and Mr. Rogers interposed.

"Consider, Dick, if Mistress Perrient were indeed there, the sight of you might but make her lie the closer hid. Send a messenger she knows not to Norwich, lest you fright her to fly further, and let me ride to-morrow down the other way, and ask if her servant hath seen aught of her at Inglethorpe. You cannot venture back there, yet to my mind that is the likeliest road to find her. I would start forth at once, but I fear I should scarce find my way in the darkness across the commons. I do, indeed, not hold myself guiltless in this matter, for that in my folly I deemed you had come to an agreement with the gentlewoman, and therefore spake unadvisably with my tongue of that contract of marriage, of which it would have been more fitting to be silent. Yet credit me, Dick, I did it but from folly, and not out of malice."

"Good, Mr. Rogers," cried Dick; "no one could blame you for this unfortunate mishap. It was but Mr. Marshman's unwarranted interference, or, rather, my unspeakable folly that exposed her to him."

"Nay, nay, of that we must say no more; but if you will pardon me my share in this trouble, you cannot refuse me the chance of making good the mischief I have done. As for thyself, good Dick, strive to arm your soul with patience. You have early learned to do; now must you learn the other mood, to suffer, and so win that perfection of patience that made Major-General Harrison find his prison a place of blessing, and a porch to the heavenly sanctuary. When we have done our best endeavours, the Lord takes the business in hand, and bringeth it to what conclusion seemeth right in His sight."

Richard had to resign himself to follow the good man's advice, and thankful was he that this agonizing time of waiting could be spent in the society of a sympathizing friend. With extraordinary patience did Mr. Rogers listen as he repeated again and again the story of Audrey's cheerful endurance of hardship, of her devotion to her grandfather, of her readiness of resource, her noble thoughts on religion and government, and all the wonderful things she had said and done since the day when she tumbled into the lily pond in General Harrison's garden.

But these confidences of Harrison's were interrupted pretty frequently by skirmishes between the two ministers, and if he had not been so distracted by anxiety, Richard would have found a mischievous amusement in the fallings out of the good men, who loved each other heartily, but could never meet without a battle; for the sudden impetus to individuality, given by the break-up of old forms of religion, and methods of government during the civil war, had made it rare to find two men who precisely agreed on matters of Church and State. The thorough going cavaliers, who believed in the divine authority of king and bishops, had little patience with the Presbyterians, who, though loyal to the Crown, abhorred Episcopacy and the Prayer-book; but both Anglican and Presbyterian looked with equal horror on the Independent sectaries, who had been Cromwellians, Republicans, Parliamentarians, or Fifth Monarchy men, and now saw the downfall of all their hopes in the re-establishment of Monarchy and Episcopacy.

For some little time that evening the Presbyterian minister was unusually subdued in his manner, for good Mr. Marshman was sorely perplexed and troubled by the result of his well-meant exhortations, and he did not join in the talk of the other two who sat quietly discussing their future plans, while Mr. Rogers urged Richard to travel with him as far as Leyden, and wait there for further news.

"It will be a well and a resting-place for you in this Valley of Baca; there is a little company of saints already gathered there, the love of whom has drawn me to dwell there awhile."

Then Mr. Marshman broke in: "I am, indeed, rejoiced that you have determined to study medicine while you are in Leyden."

"I have no other choice," sighed Mr. Rogers. "I must needs earn a crust of bread for my poor family, and seeing I am withheld from ministering to the souls of men, I can but fit myself to minister to their bodily needs."

"The life of a physician lends itself to a very Christian walk," answered Mr. Marshman "and I trust many comfortable experiences await you therein. Neither should you be over much cast down by the failure of your temporal and creaturely hopes, seeing the most glorious promise is yet yours, and the righteous shall rejoice in the abundance of peace."

The quotation roused Mr. Rogers like the sound of a trumpet.

"Nay, nay!" he cried, "there you err! Such forced interpretations are but the cloak of fearful and slothful spirits, who are loth to bear the reproach of Christ. It was by them that cried peace, peace, when there was no peace, that the good old cause was lost. And as the false prophets did deceive even the elect, behold, even Richard Harrison was carried away by their dissimulation, and hath taken part with the great green dragon Oliver that did persecute the saints."

"There I am with you," answered Mr. Marshman, "and I pray thee, Richard, take it not ill that I touch on this matter with thee. Surely in many things we offend all, yet may not a minister of the gospel hold his peace without the souls of his flock being required of his hand."

"Pray say on, sir," answered Richard, who was too miserable to resent blame from any one. "I promise you I will not take it ill."

"Then I do desire you to consider that the Lord doth not chasten idly, but for our profit, and when His hand is heavy upon us it beseems us to rummage in our bosoms, where may lurk the sin that hath brought His anger upon us."

"'Tis true," said Mr. Rogers; "nevertheless we must not join with the friends of Job to pass judgment upon the saints in their tribulation."

"I pray you peace a little season, Brother Rogers. I would not, truly, join with those that single them out for sinners on whom the tower of Siloam fell, but the judgments that come upon us be either for our learning or our chastisement. Therefore, we do suffer loss if we seek not out the Lord's purpose. I would not judge any man. I would desire every man to judge himself. But, behold now, what hath been the end of these men who have risen up against the king, set over us by the Almighty? Have they come to their graves in peace? Have not some of them been cut off in their strength, and have not the remnant of them come to a fearful end in their old age? For in this matter there can be no two opinions, seeing that the Word of Scripture is plain: 'Honour the king,' yea, though he be a very Nero! Therefore, Richard, I do lament that the stain of blood-guiltiness must needs cleave unto thee, seeing that thou wast consenting unto the death of the Lord's anointed king, even as Saul was consenting unto the death of Stephen; thou didst stand by even as he did, although thy hand was not lifted. And I do affectionately pray thee to take the chastisement that has fallen already upon thee as a warning."

Mr. Rogers' patience could hold out no longer. He burst in—

"In that, at least, did Richard well! and a glorious thing was it to be numbered among them that called the late Man to account for the blood he had shed."

But his interruption was unheeded. Mr. Marshman's steady harangue flowed on, as unmoved as is the bass of a mountain-torrent by the shrieks of the wind that may blow across it. Mr. Marshman appealed to St. Paul, and Mr. Rogers retorted from the Maccabees; the one instanced King David, and the other King Pharaoh, and quotations from the classics and early fathers flew as thick as hailstones in a winter's storm.

Richard sat half-stunned, half-amused, but knowing in his soul that no eloquence of either divine could go so far to shake his confidence in his own cause as the words of Audrey Perrient, "My father did not justify the death of the king."

It was as much to answer the sudden doubt that rose in his own heart, as to answer Mr. Marshman, that when he took advantage of an instant's lull in the debate to rise, he said—

"I thank you for your counsels, sir, and I will endeavour to profit by them, but give me leave to say one word. I do verily hold, that had the late Lord Protector, Oliver Cromwell, seen any way to secure a settlement, save by the death of the king, I am assured he would have embraced it. But to my thinking matters had come to that pass that no choice was left him."

"Ay," retorted Mr. Marshman, "when the Gadarene swine ran violently down a steep place into the sea, they had no choice but to drown; nevertheless, it was the devil that set them a running at the first."

"Talk not of the subtle reasons of that hypocrite, Oliver Cromwell," cried Mr. Rogers. "General Harrison held no such doctrines of fearful expediency. Cromwell did doubtless talk of expediency, but only as a cloak for his own ambitions, and thereafter catching at greatness he fell from iniquity into iniquity."

"Ay, as a punishment for that crime was he given space to purchase to himself greater damnation," retorted Mr. Marshman. But Richard escaped, and, at last, in the silence and solitude of his sleeping-chamber, could fling himself on his bed and give way to the misery he was ashamed any human eye should see.

CHAPTER XII.
THE GHOST OF HUNSTANTON PLACE.

"'Be brave!' she cried, 'you yet may be our guest;
Our haunted room was ever held the best.
If, then, your valour can the fright sustain
Of rustling curtains and of clinking chain.'"
SCOTT, Old Play.

Early next morning Mr. Rogers was on his way to Inglethorpe. For some distance his ride was uneventful; but as he entered Castle Rising, he was roused from his meditations by very doleful cries for help. No one in distress ever appealed in vain to the kindly minister, and he instantly drew rein, and perceived, sitting by the road, a man, whose tawdry finery was so covered with dirt and filth as to be hardly visible. His head was tied up with a rag, and one of his legs was fast chained to a heavy log. Several urchins stood round him, and the rotten apples and egg-shells that lay about, showed the boys had been taking an active part in vindicating the majesty of the law.

"Oh, good sir, kind sir!" wailed the miserable object; "you ride Hunstanton way. Do have pity, and let Justice Tomkins know of my plight!"

"Justice Tomkins?" asked Mr. Rogers, with some interest. "What have you to say to Justice Tomkins?"

"Oh, kind sir, 'twas I that first put him on track of the plot—the Fifth-Monarchy plot, and the conspirators in hiding at Inglethorpe. And these ignorant folk will believe none of it, and hold me clapped up here as though I were a strayed donkey, 'od rot 'em!"

"Why is this man chained up here?" asked Mr. Rogers, of the biggest of the grinning boys.

"He frightened Molly Kett into fits, yesterday, and he robbed parson's hen-roosts the night afoor," answered the boy, taking a final bite out of an apple before aiming the core of it at the prisoner's eye; "and so his worship have clapped him into jail!"

"Into jail! Is this what you call jail?"

"Why, this be Castle Rising Jail, all the world knows? This here log is Roaring Meg, and that be Pretty Betty. Us be main proud of our jail—us be!"

"Where is your magistrate, your justice?" asked the minister.

"The mayor? Why, there he be! Your worship"—raising his voice to a shout—"here be a stranger fares to see you!"

"Does stranger want a thatcher?" answered a voice. "If he wants a thatcher, I'll come down to he; but if he wants the mayor, he must come up to I!"

Mr. Rogers raised his eyes and saw a portly man standing on a ladder, with a handful of golden straw, putting the last touches to a thatched roof. The thatcher Mayor of Castle Rising was a well-known personage in the country, and, removing his hat, Mr. Rogers stepped to the foot of the ladder and bade the dignitary good morning.

"May I be so far troublesome, sir, as to ask if this fellow, who sits tied by the leg, is indeed the man who gave Justice Tomkins news of a plot?"

"I know nothing of Justice Tomkins, sir," answered the mayor, raising his hat in his turn, "neither does Justice Tomkins know aught of me. Castle Rising is my place of office, and thatching is my trade, and I meddle with no other man's business. That drunken knave hath frightened a woman and robbed a hen-roost, for which I have committed him to jail, as by my duty bound, and I know nothing more of him."

"Sir, your discretion does you great honour," answered Mr. Rogers. "But it is not from idle curiosity that I inquire concerning this man, but from interest in a young gentlewoman who, I fear, hath been frightened out of the country by his malicious tales."

The temptation to a gossip was too much for the mayor's dignity. He turned round on the top of his ladder, and settled himself leisurely and began—

"And who may this gentlewoman be, good sir?"

The man's face was sensible and honest. Mr. Rogers rapidly decided that his help would be worth seeking.

"Mistress Perrient, of Inglethorpe, the granddaughter of old Sir Gyles Perrient."

"Sir Gyles was a very worthy gentleman. There is no man nor woman in the country but will say a good word for Sir Gyles Perrient, and I've never heard that his grandarter has done aught to fly the country for."

"We are in great anxiety as to Mistress Perrient's fate. None of her friends know where she is hid. I suppose you can give me no help?"

"Mistress Perrient," said the mayor, meditating, and coming a step or two down his ladder. "I hope the maid's come to no harm. What are they charging her of?"

"Being party to some manner of plot; but I know not precisely how the tale runs."

"'Tisn't likely a young maid would go for to be party to a plot, is it now?" said the mayor, growing more colloquial as he grew interested; "leastways, without there was a young man in it. A discreet maid will go the length of her tether if there be but a young man in the matter."

Mr. Rogers was rather taken aback by the correctness of this guess.

"Sir, you show much knowledge of the world," he answered at last; "but I have no doubt that this story is entirely trumped up by that runnagate yonder, to gain favour in the sight of the justice."

"Ay, 'tis very like;" and then, lowering his voice, the mayor continued, "I knoo naught of Justice Tomkins, as I said, and I have no dealings with him; but if he wants that there fellow to bear witness again' Mistress Perrient, he will have to wait a while, we like him too well to spare him for a bit," and the mayor gave a solemn wink. "I knoo naught of Mistress Perrient, good nor bad, and I never said a word to her, good nor bad, all my days—but a gentlewoman, on a dapple-grey pony, rode across the common about noon yesterday. A great straw hat she had. I took heed on the straw hat, for I was fetching a load of straw across the common for to thatch this roof, and she made down the trackway towards Inglethorpe—the trackway through the woods. 'Tis bad going, but 'tis a short cut, and private."

"I thank you heartily," answered Mr. Rogers. "I shall doubtless now get news of her from her old servant at Inglethorpe. These seasonable words of yours have greatly lightened my heart, and I go on my way with much thankfulness to you, and to the Lord who hath directed my steps hither."

"I am glad to oblige you, sir," answered the mayor, civilly, and so they parted.

By midday Mr. Rogers had reached Inglethorpe, and found the old cowman pottering about his farmyard. John looked with stolid indifference at the stranger.

"Noo; Mistress Perrient bean't here. Constables have took her to Hunstanton, to the justices."

"The constables!" cried the minister, in dismay. "When did they take her?"

"Two days agone, and left Jack Catlin in the house here to keep watch."

"Oh, then, friend," answered Mr. Rogers, "I have later news than yours. I know she rode into King's Lynn yester morning, and left her horse at Goodman Nobbs's, for you to fetch home."

John grinned and looked the questioner over, as if to measure how many lies it was safe to tell him.

"And we know further," continued Mr. Rogers, "that she rode away from Goodman Nobbs' as if she would return here, and methinks that grey pony I see in your shed yonder doth marvellously resemble the one I heard of her riding."

"Ay, ay," grinned John, "the poor beast knows his road home right well; he comes back to his stable like a Christian."

"Then we are afraid some accident may have befallen the gentlewoman," urged the minister; "if the horse came back without her, she may have fallen off, and be lying hurt somewhere."

"Ise warrant her can take care of herself," answered the old man. "I never meddled with missis's business, nor never will. And if her choose to send her horse home, her has the right to please herself;" and he resumed his sweeping with an immovable face, and neither persuasion nor entreaty could win another word from him.

Mr. Rogers stood awhile in perplexity, and then turned to try his fortune at the Hall. But there the constable could tell him nothing that he did not know already, and he began to despair of finding any further trace of the fugitive. He ran over in his mind the places Dick had mentioned. It seemed mere folly to hope to hear of her at Hunstanton. But at the thought of Hunstanton the remembrance of Harrison's description of the good-natured landlady at the Royal Oak suddenly flashed on him. It was just possible that the girl might have fled there, and thrown herself on the protection of the only person who seemed to have had a kind word for her in her extremity. He turned his weary horse, and trotted forward to Hunstanton.

The great door of the inn stood hospitably open, but the usual air of joviality seemed to have forsaken the place. The stable-man stood idly by the horse-trough, gossiping with two scared-looking maids, and a knot of boys stared up at the windows of the great house as if they expected to see some strange sight to appear. The maids fled as the visitor drew rein at the door.

"Is there trouble in the house, friend?" asked Mr. Rogers, as he dismounted.

The hostler shook his head solemnly. "'Tain't for me to say if it be trouble, nor what it be. The less I says the better, if missus be in hearing; but here her comes, and her'll do all the talking, I reckon."

Mistress Joyce's voice indeed went before her as she bustled from the back regions to receive her guest, and if her face was somewhat pale and her cap was awry, her hospitality was as ready, and her tongue as voluble as ever. The newcomer could but partly state his errand when she launched forth—

"Desire news of Mistress Perrient, sir? Ay, dear, dear, dear! Poor, sweet young gentlewoman! Pray, sir, come in, and take a chair in my parlour. I am rare glad to see any one who is a friend to our young lady. John hostler, take the gentleman's nag. All the way from Lynn! You do fare to be wholly weary, and your nag, too. Mistress Perrient! Why, sir, I have known her since she was that high. My husband held one of Sir Gyles' farms when first we came into this country. A sweet young gentlewoman she always has been, and a Perrient from top to toe. They be all as proud as proud. Old Sir Gyles, now, he was like as it were a king in the county. But to think of the constables making bold to lock our young lady up. No wonder the spirit of her couldn't brook it!"

"But what did she do, good dame; how could she not brook it? Where is she now? Do you know aught of her?"

"I would I knew," answered Mrs. Joyce, shaking her head solemnly; "but I have my thoughts, whatever folks may say. All I can say is, I saw her locked up in my best chamber on Wednesday night, and next morning, when Tom Constable opened the door, he fared to be wholly stanned, for there was naught to be seen, no more than if her'd flown out of window. Some folks are so bold as to say she 'as made away with herself, but that I'll never credit. I fare to think if ever miracles are worked 'tis the time for such to come to pass when a sweet young gentlewoman, and one of the real quality, is locked up by them jacks-in-office! Don't you think so, sir? And all for to furbish up Justice Tomkins' new loyalty, and cloak his old treasons. That's why he's so set on finding Mistress Perrient. 'A plot, a plot,' says he, 'and Fifth Monarchy men, and what not, from London, and a conspiracy with Mistress Perrient for to kill the king.' A plot, it is sure enough, and Justice Tomkins' devising, for to make him a grandee! I can't abide that Tomkins. A mercer he was, in Norwich, and a kind of a preacher, and now he has made money, they've made him a justice, save the mark. And if he can furbish up a great enough plot, he is assured it will bring him his knighthood at the least. And so he goeth up and down, that maliceful to our young lady—only thanks be, she have escaped the claws of him. The only thing that troubles me is the noises. Leastways, they doesn't trouble me, not to say real trouble; I hope I can keep my wits about me. 'Tis but those idle huzzies that talk of ghosts and noises."

"The noises! What manner of noises?"

"Oh, like folks moving, and clattering, and steps, and rustling like of a gown, and I've heard a sobbing, I'll be sworn, and naught to be seen. If it betokens our young lady be lying dead somewhere, and desires a Christian burial, I do wish as she'd speak a bit plainer, for 'twould be my pride, and my husband's, to see everything done fitting, and pay for it out of our pockets, we would. But I cannot think a dear young lady, and as kind as kind, if she was a bit proud, would ever go to spoil an honest woman's business by making noises in her best chamber after she's dead, and frighting folks away from the Inn. So, as I said, I don't hold 'tis a ghost, not at all; and I should hope I knoo more o' quality's ways than those sluts in the kitchen!"

"This is truly a matter of great interest," said Mr. Rogers. "I studied such matters a little in my youth, and I should be glad, while my horse rests, if you would let me tarry awhile in that chamber."

"Ay, indeed, sir, and thankful shall we be for a learned gentleman to visit it. And 'tis very like—if it should be, I wouldn't have those hussies hear me say it—but if it should be the dear young lady, her may have more to say to you than to the likes of us. And you'll stop the night for sure, sir?"

"Nay, I thank you, I am in haste to return, so soon as my horse may undertake the road."

"Ay, dear sir, but the heath road is so mighty ungain at night, and 'tis dark so early now."

"Nay, I will but tarry till the moon be up, and then if this clear weather holds, I should be at Lynn by midnight. But I will gladly have some food and drink, good hostess."

"Ay, to be sure, sir. And glad am I 'tis baking-day, and a noble pie hot from the oven, and a brace of woodcock roasted, sir, and, maybe, you could fancy a dish of prawns, and a custard? And will a flask of Rhenish serve your taste?"

"Excellently well, good dame, 'tis a very feast you offer me, and I pray you have it set in this chamber you tell me of, and by God's help, I may perchance bring back quietness to your dwelling."

CHAPTER XIII.
A VISIONARY.

"Wenn der Lenzerwacht, und wenn Liebesmacht
Dich gefesselt hÄlt mit Leide,
Wandle nicht allein, Nachts im Mondenschein,
Durch die grÜne, grÜne Haide."
M. NATHUSIUS.

Mrs. Joyce ushered her guest up the wide staircase with due ceremony and volubility. He was aware that faces peered from half-open doors and whispered remarks went round as he came out into the hall with the landlady, and when he began to ascend the stairs in her wake, the household ventured forth and watched his progress with admiration and awe.

The maid, who carried in the sumptuous feast Mrs. Joyce provided, glanced nervously around as she deposited her dishes clattering on the table, and fled as quickly as she could, and Mrs. Joyce herself, who followed to superintend, was evidently ill at ease, and her hands trembled as she re-ordered the maid's hasty arrangements. But, in spite of her alarms, it was with considerable difficulty that Mr. Rogers cut short her scoldings and apologies, and induced her to leave him to himself.

When the good woman had at last been persuaded to depart, Mr. Rogers took a careful survey of the room, and then he softly bolted the door and drew a heavy tapestry curtain across it. Then he walked over to the great fireplace and stood at one side of it, close to the panelled wall.

"Mistress Perrient," he said, in a low but clear voice; "Miss Perrient, I pray you let me speak with you. I am John Rogers, and I promise you, on my faith as a minister of the gospel, I will betray you neither to your enemies not yet to your friends. I have come hither to pray you to let me be instrumental in your escape, and seeing that I also have often times been both fugitive and a prisoner, I pray you to trust me as a friend."

He stood and waited, and all was silent. Then he spoke again—

"Mistress Perrient, I take God to witness I am a true man. I pray you trust me and be not afraid. There is no one here but I; if you will but speak with me, no one shall be told. Your secret is indeed safe."

There was a sound of a bolt shot back, and then a panel swung slowly forward. There, in a doorway, stood Audrey Perrient, a very deplorable sight, with her tear-stained face and disordered dress.

"My poor child!" cried the minister, stepping hastily forward and taking her hand. "You are indeed in a sorry plight! Madam, it goes to my heart to see you thus! I pray you come forth and sit by the fire—the door is safely fastened. Why, you look well-nigh as white as did my wife when she lay sick in Carisbrook Castle. Before I say aught further, you must eat and drink." And he poured out a cup of wine and carried to her.

"How did you know I was here?" demanded Audrey, with a scared face, disregarding his hospitable care.

"It was but a guess; but a guess I am right thankful to have made, and that no one knows of but myself. Why, madam, you would have perished of cold and hunger had you stayed long in that hiding-place."

"Oh no," she answered, with a wan smile. "I have a great cloak, and an old man will bring me provisions as soon as 'tis dark to-night."

Mr. Rogers remembered the description Harrison had given him of Audrey Perrient's fertility of devices; but he was too wise to make any comment, and contented himself with establishing her in the great chair, and pressing all Mrs. Joyce's dainties upon her.

"But, sir," said Audrey, a faint colour creeping back into her white face; "I know not why I should let you so trouble yourself in serving me. You have doubtless travelled far and are weary enough."

"Yes, by your leave I will willingly share your dinner, Mistress Perrient. They say 'tis ill talking between a full man and a fasting, and when we have dined I hope you will let me unfold the proposals I have for your escape."

"I thank you, sir," said Audrey, drawing herself up, "I have made my own plans for my journey. I care not to join company again with strangers."

"Nay, madam, I do entreat you not to count me as a stranger, for not only am I a minister of the gospel, so that it is mine office to seek out any of Christ's flock whom I may serve and tend. And further, it is now many years that I have known your name and even exchanged letters with your learned father. And so much as five years agone, when I was snatched from my congregation and thrown into prison by the late tyrant, who did rage and devour in England, in the same chains did lie my precious friend Major-General Harrison. And as we lay in bondage and comforted our souls with savoury discourse concerning holy things, so did we also speak of worldly concerns as casting our care concerning them on Him who careth for us. And then did General Harrison tell me of his excellent friend, Sir Gyles Perrient of Hunstanton, and also of his granddaughter Mistress Audrey——"

"Oh!" interrupted Audrey, a flash of angry comprehension coming across her face. "Then it was you who told that uncivil old gentleman at Lynn of the talk of my marriage?"

"To my sorrow I did. And for that indiscretion of my tongue I do heartily ask your pardon. But, indeed, I spoke of the matter in the simplicity of my heart with Dick Harrison, nor did either of us know that brother Marshman noted what we said. But I am all the more bound to amend that evil I did ignorantly. And, therefore, have I sought you, madam, to pray you to honour me with your company on my journey to Rotterdam, for I go there, God willing, by the next ship that sails from Lynn, to meet my wife, who waits for me there with our little lads."

Audrey cast an eager look at him. "Oh!" she cried, with a wild burst of weeping, "have I one friend in the world, can I trust any one?"

"Take comfort, my child," answered the minister. "I do verily believe I have been led hither, that I should be an instrument for your deliverance. Therefore I bid you take no further thought concerning your journey, seeing I will bring you to my wife, and you shall abide with her till we hear of honest folks undertaking the New England voyage, with whom you may cross the ocean. 'Tis but a small matter, you see," he added, jestingly. "We poor ministers are so well used to fleeing from one place to another, that we take little thought how to compass our ends, and yet doth the Lord bring us in safety to the haven where we would be."

Audrey gave a sob, and then suddenly springing up, she threw herself on her knees before him.

"I do believe you have been sent direct from heaven to succour me in my extremity of body and soul," she cried.

"Nay, nay," answered the good man, raising her and placing her in her chair. "Take not the matter with such passion. I partly guess it is the precious balm of Brother Marshman that has been like to break your head, for the true wisdom of his counsel is often times lost by reason of the bitter husk in which he doth enfold it. But the fear of man worketh a snare, therefore be of good courage and, by God's help, you shall come safe to your father."

Audrey sat silent awhile, passively enjoying the relief from terror and fatigue. The physical warmth and food that had refreshed her, seemed a sort of outward sign of the comfort that flowed into her soul from the good man's simple words of encouragement. Mr. Rogers saw she was almost at an end of her strength, and drawing his bible from his pocket, he proceeded to read and write notes without seeming to pay any attention to her. So they sat in silence for some time. At last Audrey spoke, hesitatingly, her eyes fixed on the fire—

"I am afraid I have been very fantastic and perverse."

"Nay, nay," said Mr. Rogers, laying down his pen and drawing nearer to the hearth. "There must be no more hard words, whether from ministers or yourself. You do well to defend your liberty, even with your life. If you feared that any man should arrogate a sovereignty over you, for which none hath any warrant, or to hinder your liberty of choice and force you by star-chamber admonitions into the bonds of a marriage you like not, you did well to flee. Hold fast your liberty, keep your ground that Christ hath got and won for you, and maintain your lawful rights."

"I do believe my grandfather gave me more liberty than many women enjoy," said Audrey, thoughtfully. "But I fear his goodness hath encouraged my natural pride and self-will most mightily."

"Then take the greater heed," said Mr. Rogers. "While I desire that men despise not women, neither wrong them of their liberty in voting and speaking in common affairs, yet I do also desire women to be cautious in the use of their liberty. Festina lente. First be swift to hear, slow to speak; your silence may sometimes be the best advocate of your orderly liberty, and the sweetest evidence of your prudence and modesty. And yet you ought not by your silence to trouble your conscience nor lose your privileges. But be not too hasty, nor too high, for"—he concluded with a smile, pointing to the writing that filled every blank corner on the pages of his Bible—"as the notes that come too nigh the margin are in danger of running into the text, so spirits that run too high at first, may soon fall into disorder and irregularity."

Audrey smiled. "I will lay your words to heart, sir," she said. "It would not be in nature, methinks, that I should forget anything that has happened this day, and the remembrance of my miseries, and of your goodness, should be a beacon to point me to the thought of your counsels."

They sank into silence once more. Audrey lay dozing in the great chair, and her companion was soon completely absorbed in his own thoughts. His Bible dropped on his knee, and his thin features worked with excitement, as broken vows of meditation and prayer escaped him now and again. "The Lord's muster-day is at hand—then, by the grace of God, the proudest of them shall know we are engaged on life or death, to stand or fall with the Lord our Captain-General on his red horse." "Though we may suffer hard things yet he hath a gracious end, and will make for His own glory and the good end of His people. God will give testimony unto what He hath been doing."

The early winter evening drew on, the shadows gathered in the corners of the great chamber, but still there was no sound but the crackling of the fire, and the murmured soliloquy of the minister.

At last the silence was broken by the deep note of the church clock. Audrey sprang up.

"That must be six," she said, "and old John awaits me below in the gravel pit. I must go down to him."

Mr. Rogers looked at her blankly for a moment, and then suddenly came down from the visionary regions in which he had spent the last two hours.

"And what order shall we take for your journey?" he asked, in quite a businesslike tone. "If you will honour me with your company so far, I pray you ride with me, to-night, to Lynn. I know an excellent poor woman," he hastened to add, "in whose house you may lodge till I hear when the Good Hope sails."

"Thank you, sir, I will gladly embrace your counsel. When do you purpose to start? Perhaps it were safest I should meet you without the town if you will set me an hour and a rendezvous."

"I think we may begin our march as soon as the moon rises. All that troubles me is to find you a horse without awaking notice, for if I should go afoot to Lynn, I fear it will somewhat delay your flight."

"Oh," cried Audrey, "did you, indeed, think I would consent to steal your horse! No, no, my servant hath for sure ridden my pony hither, and I will bid him tramp home and let me ride into Lynn. We can tarry as we pass Inglethorpe to shift saddles; old Molly will fetch me mine out without rousing the constable. Then, sir, may I await you about a mile out on the road? There is a pond there, screened by bushes. I can keep close there till you come."

When Mr. Rogers was aroused a second time from his meditation, by the message that his horse was in readiness, the whole household was on the watch to see him come forth from the haunted chamber, and as he passed down the stairs, his large eyes still bright with the vision that had occupied his hours of meditation, whispers went round from maid to man: "I'll warrant he has seen somewhat!" "A' looks mighty ungain." "A' might be a ghost hisself, and I'll be sworn I smell sulphur!"

The landlady bustled forward, but Mr. Rogers hardly noticed her.

"Pray, pray, good sir, tell me, have you seen aught?" she urged, in a loud whisper, catching his sleeve as he passed through the hall.

He turned his eyes vaguely upon her. "Have I seen aught?" he repeated. "Surely, surely, I have seen the glory of the Lord for many a year, and the vision is not for me alone, but for all! All flesh shall see Him, and shall walk in the light of His light."

"But, dear sir," she cried in great perturbation, her voice rising from a whisper in her urgency, "have you seen aught of our young lady—of Mistress Audrey Perrient?"

"Oh, ay, I crave your pardon, good hostess. My mind was set on certain words of promise that have been borne in on me while I read the Scriptures. Your young lady? She is in safety; she will speedily be with her friends."

"But the noises, good sir?" urged Mrs. Joyce; and the maids, encouraged by her open curiosity, ventured near to listen.

"The noises? They matter not—they are nothing; you will not be further troubled, you need have no fear! Nevertheless," he said, stopping suddenly, and turning with his hands raised to face the household, "ye do well to fear, seeing that the day cometh when all shall fear, both great and small. Therefore I warn you to seek a sure refuge while it be time, and turn unto the Lord to-day; for those that be his saints dwell in safety, neither fear they any terror by night, and the pestilence that walketh in darkness shall not come nigh them."

So saying, he walked out of the door.

Half an hour later, the bright moon that lit up the open moorlands that bordered the sea showed two figures riding along the bridle-path that led from Hunstanton to Lynn. Audrey led the way, and guided her companion down lonely little bye-paths and sandy lanes that were seldom used, save by the few fishermen or broom-binders, who lived on the borders of the moorlands.

It was one of those rare nights that sometimes come in an English February and carry with them the promise of May. The soft air brought wafts of fragrance from the balmy fir-woods and yellow gorse-blossoms, and the full moon shed a golden haze over the lonely heath. They rode in silence, the horses' hoofs scarcely making a sound on the sandy way. Mr. Rogers was still wrapt in dreams. Eager as he was to assist any one whom he considered was the victim of tyranny or cruelty, as soon as the immediate need of action ceased to press on him, he relapsed naturally into his habitual train of thought and returned to that visionary world that was far more real to him than the material one that lay around him.

The spiritual powers of evil, and the human persecutors of the Fifth Monarchy men, rose marshalled before him in the one great host that followed the dragon, mustering for the final conflict of Armageddon; and to his vivid enthusiasm there could be but a little time to wait before that conflict must end in the crowning victory of the saints, and the establishment on earth of the visible kingdom of Christ—the last and greatest of the monarchies of the world. He rode on, his head raised, his light hair floating back from his ecstatic face, riding, as he ever hoped it might be, to join the host of angelic horsemen, who might appear to him at any moment.

To Audrey, that night-ride seemed the strangest thing she had ever known. The silent, hazy landscape, the flood of golden moonlight, her own wild fears and resentments so suddenly stilled. It seemed to her as though the words she caught from time to time, half-chanted by her companion, were less strange and dreamlike than the events that were passing around her.

Silently Audrey led the way. Mile after mile they rode, now threading a cautious way through the dark aisles of the fir-woods, and then making better time on the delicate turf that bordered the waste of sand-hills to seaward.

"We must venture a little way on the road here,", said Audrey, at length. "I fear the Babingly brook is too much swollen by the rains for safe fording, and we must cross the bridge."

They turned on to the main road and reached the bridge, when a man suddenly sprang out from the bushes by the road, and barred their way. With a stifled cry Audrey turned her horse.

"All's well," cried the stranger, "'tis only I, Dick Harrison. I have waited here for you, thank Heaven, you are safe!" He stood between them, his hand on Mr. Rogers's saddlebow, and spoke rapidly. "The hue and cry is out after Mistress Perrient, and all the ways into Lynn are beset. I could not go out of the south gate without a scuffle; she must not try to enter. But I have a boat here, and if Mistress Perrient can endure a night on the water, 'twill be easy to board the Good Hope to-morrow morning, when she is safe out of Lynn harbour."

Mr. Rogers did not answer. Richard laid his hand on his knee.

"I have a boat here, good sir," he repeated. "We must not venture into Lynn for fear of the constables."

Mr. Rogers did not seem to hear. He still gazed away into the distance with the ecstatic expression that had illuminated his face during the silent ride; then, as he caught the last word, he started.

"Fear," he echoed, "what do we know of fear? is it not for the soldiers of the Most High to fear when the trumpet sounds?"

"No, sir," urged Richard, "but there is no fighting towards now; it is only that Justice Tomkins desires to hinder Mistress Perrient's journey."

The minister was too entirely absorbed in his own dreams to attend to the words of Harrison, except when they fell in with his own train of thought.

"Tomkins," he repeated, "Tomkins, ay, he doubtless hindereth. He that letteth will let, till he be taken out of the way. Nevertheless, his time is short, and the day of repentance is well-nigh at its end. I will back and warn him."

Audrey looked at him in dismay. "Dear sir," she ventured to say, "you had set to take me to Rotterdam by this ship."

"Cast not a stumbling-block in my way!" cried Mr. Rogers, more wildly. "Shall I have the blood of this man Tomkins on my head? Shall he go down into the pit suddenly without warning? The great beast Oliver is cast down, and the remembrance of him is a scoffing; so shall it be also to all them that have followed him. The Lord's muster-day is at hand; his magazines and artillery, yea, his most excellent mortar pieces and batteries are ready. We wait only for the Most High to fall on——" His voice died away in murmurs like those of a man talking in his sleep.

Audrey's heart died within her. What had befallen her half-angelic guardian? Was her confidence once more given amiss? If he had failed her, who indeed could she trust? Astonished and alarmed, she looked from one to the other. Where could she go? She was once more as helpless and unfriended as she had been before Mr. Rogers had found her. Nay, she was even in some ways in a worst plight; her self-reliance and self-confidence were shaken, for her calmer reason told her that Mr. Marshman's comments on her adventurous journey were perfectly just, that her grandfather would have said the same, though in more polished terms, and that no words at all would have been equal to expressing Madam Isham's horror at such an unconventional proceeding.

That silent night-ride had calmed her spirits, and she could judge her life with a curious sense of detachment, as though she had risen for a while to look down on it from some starry height. She read her own heart with a new clear-sightedness, and she knew now that it was not the dictatorial manner or the cruel candour of Mr. Marshman that was the true cause of the wild revolt that had filled her soul. She had discovered why the thought of such a usual thing as an arranged marriage with Richard Harrison had stung her so bitterly, why the bare thought that he might have overheard the brutal plainness of Mr. Marshman's words brought back the wild desire to fly anywhere, so that she might hide herself.

If it had not been for the strange quiet that had descended on her soul from Mr. Rogers's half-inspired words at Hunstanton, she would not have had courage to face this new discovery, for she knew now that this ache in her heart would never leave her and what its true name was. Well, this pain must be endured with the other troubles of life, and endured in silence.

Harrison turned to her, and she met his eyes without flinching. She was relieved to find there was no intimacy, no claim to familiarity, only courtesy and the cool readiness of a leader.

"Mr. Rogers is overwearied," he said, under his breath. "We must rouse him."

"Dear sir, you must come this way," he continued, laying his hand on the minister's rein.

"Stay me not, stay me not," he answered, wheeling his horse so abruptly that Harrison had to step quickly out of the way. "I must back to Hunstanton lest destruction come upon him even as a thief in the night."

Harrison caught his bridle once more. "You would not go alone to him," he said, in a cheerful voice, "Remember, it is written that two witnesses shall establish a matter. You will seek Mr. Marshman, and go together to warn this man."

"You say well, you say well," answered the minister, hurriedly. "There shall be two witnesses, and two prophets before the great day of the Lord. I will go seek Brother Marshman instantly," and setting spurs to his wearied horse he dashed forward along the road to Lynn.

Audrey looked at Harrison in dismay. "Is he mad?" she asked.

"I sometimes fear he must be near it," he answered. "But, in truth, I believe it is but that he is very high-flown concerning the Fifth Monarchy and such matters, neither do these fits last long with him, I have never seen him so near distraught. Yet Mr. Marshman knows how to handle him and will not let him run into any danger, and, I doubt not, will see him safe aboard in the morning." He noticed that Audrey was still silent. "Even if anything should befall the good man, which God forbid," he said, "we had set us a rendezvous at Mrs. Rogers's lodging at Rotterdam, so if you will do me so much grace, I will bring you thither; 'tis but a short voyage to come there."

He looked at her. Her face was white in the moonlight, and looked thin and drawn. When might he dare to ask what had happened during the last two days? When might he ask for her pardon?

"I entreat of you to come to the boat," he said. "Most like you know the old fisherman who owns it, Job Hamont? He waits below for us. I fear though the road is too bad for riding."

Audrey made no answer in words, but slid from her horse and stood waiting in the road.

"Shall I lead the pony down to Job's hut?" asked Harrison.

"Oh, no, Dapple knows how to take care of himself," answered Audrey, at last. She tied up the reins, and then with a sudden movement she laid her cheek beside the pony's. "Farewell, old friend," she murmured, "I shall scarce find one more faithful. Now home, little horse, home!" she cried, recovering herself and clapping her hands, and the docile little beast trotted off in the direction of Inglethorpe.

"All precious things discovered late,
To those that seek them issue forth;
For love in sequel works with Fate,
And draws the veil from hidden worth."
TENNYSON, The Day Dream.

Harrison led the way down the path across the heather. Soon the narrow lane grew deeper, and the sand softer under their feet. The tiny glen was dark, and Harrison turned, and offered his hand to his companion; but she shook her head in silent refusal, and they plodded on, till suddenly the dark banks broke away, and they came out on the empty moonlit beach. The firm shining sands seemed to stretch away to a limitless distance, the far-off sea was only vaguely visible and no sound came up from it. Down across the wide strand the silent pair rapidly passed, and then Richard halted.

"Here the water begins," he said. "It is too shallow for the boat to come nearer. You must let me carry you to it."

He knew with pride that he had made his tone as cold and formal as her own.

"There is no need," protested Audrey. "I have often waded here, gathering cockles."

"Ay," he answered; "but not when starting on a sea voyage;" and without further question he stooped and lifted her in his arms, and waded in.

A wild feeling of triumph possessed him. So of old might some sea-rover have felt, bearing off his prey from that very shore. His sweetheart was in his arms, he alone could save her from her pursuers; surely her icy pride would melt now. So sweet, so cold, so near him, and yet so far off!

Slowly he splashed forward, the water deepening as he went. Audrey said no word, her little hand rested on his shoulder, she did not move. It seemed to him all too soon, breathless though he was, that they reached the boat, and old Job lifted the precious burden over the side. Harrison climbed, dripping, after, and shook himself like a water-dog, before venturing to approach his lady. Then he took her hand, and led her to the stern of the boat, where he had prepared a heap of cloaks and sails.

"We must do our best to shelter you from the night dew," he said, as he folded the cloak round her, and made an awning of the sails over her head.

So warm and cosy was the little nest, so lulling the slow rocking of the boat, and her lazy creak as she leant over, that Audrey suddenly discovered she was unable to keep her eyes open, and before she could utter the formal speech of thanks she had been conning, she was fast asleep.

She awoke to find the darkness past, and gay sunlight dancing on the ripples, and gilding the brown sail and weather-beaten mast. All was blue around her, a clean pale blue, like a world fresh made, that had not yet bloomed into its full colour. Pale blue was the sky, pale blue the sea, only fringed to the south by a narrow line of gold that showed the sand-hills that hid her home. Close above her stood Harrison, keeping the swaying tiller steady with his knee, a handsome, soldierly figure, in spite of his rough clothes and great sea-boats.

At the other end of the boat the old fisherman was busy with his lines, only laying them down now and again to give a stroke with one oar or the other, and keep the boat's head steady.

As Audrey sat up, Harrison's grave face broke into a smile. Who could think of misunderstandings, regrets, even of repentance, on a spring morning, with a face as fair as the spring dawning on him?

"Good morrow," he said; "you have slept sound."

"Indeed," she answered, "I feel as though I had slept the clock round. What time is it, and what day is it?"

"'Tis Saturday, and our ship will soon be in sight, for the sun is high."

"I am indeed a sluggard!" cried Audrey, looking at the little watch that hung in a silver ball at her waist. "'Tis eight o'clock."

"And Job hath no provisions, save bread and cheese and a flagon of small beer," said Harrison, regretfully. "I would I could have been a better caterer, but my flight was so sudden."

He knelt with one arm over the tiller while he rummaged out the fisherman's store. He thanked the chance that let him serve her on his knees, and lay his offerings at her feet, when, poor fellow, he would so gladly have laid his heart, would she but give leave.

She ate, and drank, and laughed. The colour came back to her cheeks, and the light to her eyes. The sunbeams caught her disordered curls, and played hide and seek in the golden web. Her voice was cool, but not icy, as on the previous evening, only cool, and fresh, and dainty, like the cool air that came in delicate wafts across the water.

But time was flying, flying cruelly fast, he knew. Soon the sails of the Good Hope would be in sight, and never again might he kneel so near his lady. Now or never, before this last chance was snatched from him, he must tell his tale.

"Madam," he began, "this is, perhaps, the last time I may have a word with you in private. Will you give me leave to speak, and entreat your pardon for much that has passed?"

Audrey's head was turned away; it rose a little more proudly, but no answer came for a minute. Then, "I think you have need to ask it," came in muffled tones.

He paused, doubtful what to do. His line of action ought to depend on her state of mind, and who could guess what that might be? She could hardly fail to be indignant with Mr. Marshman, but on which of the many counts was she angry with him? He had argued over the case so often in his mind that he had become desperate of any conclusion, and out of his very desperation a wayward hope began to whisper that possibly, just possibly, as she now knew through Mr. Marshman of the marriage contract, she might even accuse him of carelessness, and hold him to be but a laggard in love. Was she now punishing him for having exposed her to Mr. Marshman's misapprehension, or was she merely troubled and cast down? Who could guess anything while she kept her head turned stiffly away. A wild desire seized him to take her by her pretty shoulders, and turn her round.

"Will you not let me see your face?" he pleaded. "What prisoner would dare sue for mercy if the judge turned his back?"

His voice was not used to the tone of deference, even when he entreated there was something of command in it. He leaned over, and took her hand, and slowly she turned her head towards him.

"I know not," he said gently, "what Mr. Marshman may have dared to say to you, but I do entreat of you to believe whatever he said was without my knowledge or leave to meddle with matters of such privacy. I knew not that he understood anything of my matters; but I have to ask your pardon for having spoken unadvisedly in his presence."

"I am glad he was not your ambassador," answered Audrey, rather coldly.

"And more I have to confess," he continued. "I see now how cowardly a thing I did in hiding in your house, and bringing you into all this peril—for that also I do most heartily ask your forgiveness."

"It was by my asking you came to my house," she answered, in rather a lofty tone. "If I chose to run risks, it was by mine own will; in that matter there is not anything to pardon."

"You are very generous," he answered, so humbly that Audrey was disarmed, and turned to him with all her old sweetness.

"We women are forbid to fight or to speak for our country," she said. "You will not grudge us the right to suffer somewhat for her liberties."

He looked at her with tender admiration. "Methinks you are on the road to be one of Mr. Rogers's disciples," he said.

She laughed, and for a moment forgot her coldness. "Ay, 'tis perilous to spend so many hours with a madman; very like 'tis catching."

"I was of Mr. Rogers's mind in some things before I even knew him," said Richard. "May I tell you how I learned to be of his mind concerning the liberties of women?"

"I knew not any one else preached such doctrines," she said.

"I learned them from a little maid who fell once into a lily pool," he answered. "I learned from the thought of her to honour all women after another fashion than that which I saw common. I will not boast 'twas constancy; very like it was because so few children came to our house, save my uncle's babes, who died ere they left their nurse's arms; but the memory of that little maid abode with me, and sat with me by camp fires, and kept me company on marches, and the desire to be fit for her company taught me some of the things which Mr. Rogers dares to preach. And she abode with me till last Sunday, and then she vanished, because I knew then that the desire of mine eyes was no more a little maid, but a woman grown."

"Oh," she cried, "this is, indeed, madness, for it was by chance only that you came to Inglethorpe."

"Ay, it seems as though it were chance on the face of it. But that kindly chance, perchance the beckoning of the dead hand, hath but hastened the meeting I sought, for I was on my way to seek you in the plantations. Here is my witness," he continued, taking a letter from his breast. "When I fled from London I carried this with me, that it might be mine advocate with your father. It seemed to me scarce honourable to show it you in England, and force myself on you after such a fashion; but seeing the turn things have taken, it is your right to see it. It will at least bear me witness that this chance is but the sequel of what hath gone before."

The letter bore the address: "To my loving friend, Major-General Harrison. These——" It was sealed with the Perrient coat-of-arms. The letter from the dead man to his dead friend had come back.

A sudden memory flashed across Audrey. "You say all this because your minister bade you," she cried.

"Do you, indeed, think me so docile?" he answered, with a laugh that was almost angry.

"I know not what to think of any one," she answered piteously, while two great tears ran down her face.

"Think nothing, save that I desire to live and die for you," he cried. "Audrey, when I parted from your grandfather, he gave me leave to come again, and endeavour to win your heart. But when I would have come, I heard you were departed to New England. That letter is two years old—tell me not that my day of grace is past! And yet, if you bid me tear the letter, I will upon mine honour strive to guard you as a brother on this journey. But there is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother, and to be such a friend to you, I will serve as many years as Jacob served for a wife. May I carry this letter to your father? You will not bid me tear it?"

A rainbow smile flickered over Audrey's face. "'Tis no use to tear it," she said. "I have here its fellow;" and she pulled out her letter and held it to him.

He gazed at it, dumb with surprise. "You have its fellow!" he said at last. "You knew all! And while I was tormenting myself to keep silence, I was but playing the part of a laggard wooer!"

"I only found the letter at Hunstanton the other night," she said.

"And you kept it! You were as kind to me as before! You were not unwilling to hear of the design! Audrey, you know you have all my heart; I can be content with nothing less than yours in return."

"I fear you are no honest man," she murmured. "You stole it before ever you asked my leave."

His arm was round her. "My dear heart, believe that I have waited half my lifetime for this kiss."

"Oh, Dick! Remember old Job! He will be making a mock of us!"

"Tush! he is busy with his oars and lines; he heeds us not!"

"Luff, sir, luff!" shouted the maligned fisherman, with a twinkle in his eye. "Here be the Good Hope a bearing down on us. 'Tis a pretty name, the Good Hope, and I hope as she'll bring 'ee luck."

"Thank you, friend; methinks few men can have such good hope to carry on a voyage as I! There is Mr. Rogers signalling with his hat. Wave your handkerchief, and show him we are here! And, sweetheart," he whispered, "Mr. Rogers must make us one as soon as we land in Rotterdam, that you may despatch the bride ribbons to good Mistress Joyce by the ship on her return."

And this was how Richard Harrison learned that he might still follow the path marked out for him by his Lost Leader, and received his bride from the hand that had cherished his childhood. And with the knowledge, the hopes of his childhood came back to him, and he gathered faith that as the wanderings of his dark days had brought him to the door of his love, so the dark ways of earth may be but the shortest road to lead the pilgrim to the Celestial City, if but he follow close his Divine Leader.

NOTES.

PROLOGUE.

1. The interview between the king and Major Harrison is described by Anthony Wood.

2. There is no historical evidence of Major Harrison adopting a nephew; but as none of his own children lived to grow up, while several families in the United States of America believe they can trace their descent to this, "the most single-minded of the Regicides," the existence of an adopted son is suggested as a theory to meet the difficulty.

CHAPTER I.

1. The history of Major-General Harrison's life is founded on "The Life of Thomas Harrison," by Charles H. Firth, Proc. Amer. Antiq. Soc., printed at Worcester, Mass., 1893.

2. For Prince Rupert's acquaintance with Harrison, see Moderate Intelligencer; Friday, September 12, 1645.

CHAPTER III.

1. John Rogers's conversations throughout the book are taken almost verbally from his sermons and letters printed in "Life and Opinions of a Fifth-Monarchy Man," by Rev. E. Rogers.

2. The account of the last words and death of Harrison are taken from a contemporary pamphlet: "Rebels no Saints," by a Person of Quality, London, 1661.

CHAPTER V.

The ghost of Inglethorpe Hall is well known in Norfolk tradition.

CHAPTER XI.

The thatcher Mayor of Castle Rising and the unique jail of the little town were matters of local celebrity.

PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.