As I expected, there was a way of escape from the hiding-place. A big stone in the wall seemed to project unnecessarily; the last comer to that room had shut the door carelessly; otherwise I might never have found it. Seeing the projecting stone, I took it for a clue feeling all round it, till I found that underneath it there was a groove for finger tips. The stone was nothing more than a large, cunningly fashioned drawer, which pulled out, showing a passage leading down, down, along narrow winding steps, just broad enough for one man to creep down at a time. The stairs were more awesome than the room, for they were dark. I could not see where they led; but I meant to go through this adventure, now that I had begun it. So down I crept cautiously, clinging to the wall, feeling with my feet as I went, lest there should be no step, suddenly, but a black pit, far down, into which a man might fall headlong, on to who knows what horrors. I counted the steps. I thought that they would never end. There were thirty-seven altogether. They brought me to a dark sort of room, with damp earth for its floor, upon which water slowly dropped from some unseen stalactite. I judged that I must be somewhere under the bath-chamber, not more than ten feet from the abbot's old fish-pond. If there was a way out I felt that it must be to my left, under the garden; not to my right, which would lead back under the body of the house.

Very cautiously I felt along to my left, till I found that there was indeed a passage; but one so low that I had to stoop to get along it. A few steps further brought me with a shock against a wall, a sad surprise to me, for I thought that I was on the road to safety. When I recovered from my fear I felt along the wall till I found that the passage zigzagged like a badger's earth. It turned once sharply to the right, going up a couple of steps, then again sharply to the left, going up a few more steps, then again to the right up one step more, to a broader open stretch, lit by one or two tiny chinks, more cheering to me than you can imagine. I guessed that I was passing at last under the garden, having gone right below the house's foundations. The chinks of light seemed to me to come from holes worn in the roof by rabbits or rats. They were pleasant things to see after all that groping in the blackness of night. On I went cautiously, feeling my way before me, till suddenly I stopped dead, frightened terribly, for close to me, almost within touch as it seemed, some men were talking to each other. They were evidently sitting just above my head, in the cool morning, watching for me to come through my window, as I suppose. They were some of Sir Travers's sentries. A moment's thought told me that I had little to fear from them, if I moved quietly in my burrow. However, as my walk was often noisy, through stumblings on stones, I waited till they moved off, which was not for some minutes. One of the men was asking the other what was the truth about the Duke.

"Why," his mate answered, "they say as he got beat back coming towards London. They say he be going to Bridgewater, now, to make it a castle, like; or perhaps he be a coming to Taunton. They say he have only a mob, like, left to en, what with all this rain. But I do-an't know. He be very like to come here agen; so as us'll have to watch for our stock."

"Ah?" said the first. "They did say as there was soldiers come to Evilminster. So as to shut en off, like. I seed fires out that way, myself, like camp-fires, afore it grew light. They do say the soldiers be all for the Duke."

"Yes," the other answered, "he be very like to win if it come to a battle. He'd a got on to London, I dare-say, if the roads had but been dry."

"What do ee say to a bit of tobaccy, master?" said the first, after a pause.

"Why, very well," said the other. At this instant, without any warning, something in the wall of my passage gave way, some bit of rotten mortar which held up a stone, or something of the sort. At any rate, a stone fell out, with a little rush of rotten plaster, making a good deal of noise, though of course it seemed more to me than to the men outside.

"What ever in the world was that?" said one of them.

"I dunno," said the other. "It seemed to come from down below somewhere, under the earth, like. Do you think as it could be a rabbit?"

"It did sound like a stone falling out of a wall," came the answer. "I dunno. Where could it a come from?"

They seemed to search about for some trace of a rabbit; but not finding any, they listened for another stone to fall.

"I tell you what I think," said the first man. "I believe as there be underground passages all over these here gardens. Some of them walks sound just as hollow as logs if you do stamp on 'em. There was very queer doings here in the old monks' time; very queer. Some day I mean to grub about a bit, master. For my old grandmother used always to say as the monks buried a lot of treasure hereabouts in the old time."

"Ah?" said the other. "Then shall us get a spade quiet like, to see if it be beneath." The other hesitated, while my heart sank. I very nearly went back to my prison, thinking that all was over.

"No," said his comrade. "Us'll ask Sir Travers first. He do-an't like people grubbing about. Some of his forefathers as they call them weren't very good, I do hear, neither. He do-an't want none of their little games brought to light, like."

After this, the men moved off, to some other part of their beat. I went on along the passage quickly, till suddenly I fell with a crash down three or four steps into a dirty puddle, knocking my head as I fell. I could see no glimmer of light from this place; but I groped my way out, up a few more steps further on into a smaller, dirtier passage than the one which I had just left. After this I had to crawl like a badger in his earth, with my back brushing against the roof, over many masses of broken brickwork most rough to the palms of my hands. All of a sudden I smelt a pleasant stable-smell. I heard the rattle of a halter drawn across manger bars. I heard a horse paw upon the ground quite close to me. A dim, but regular chink of light showed in front of me, level with my head as crawled. Peering through it, I saw that I was looking into a stable, almost level with the floor; the passage had come to an end.

By getting my fingers into the crack through which I peered, I found that I could swing round some half a dozen stones, which were mortared together, so as to form a revolving door. It worked with difficulty, as though no one had passed through by that way for many years; but it worked for me, after a little hard pushing. I scrambled through the narrow opening into a roomy old stable, where some cart-horses peered at me with wonder, as I rose to my feet. After getting out, I shut to my door behind me, so firmly that I could not open it again; there must have been some spring or catch which I could not set to work. Two steps more took me out of the horses' stalls into the space behind, where, on a mass of hay, lay a carter, fast asleep, with the door-key in his hand. By his side lay a pitchfork. He was keeping guard there, prepared to resist Monmouth's pillagers.

He slept so heavily that I was tempted to take the key from his hand. Twice I made little half steps forward to take it; but each time something in the man's look daunted me. He was a surly-looking man who, if roused suddenly, in a locked stable, might lay about him without waiting to see who roused him. He stirred in his sleep as I drew near him for the second time; so I gave up the key as a bad job. The loft seemed to be my only chance; as there was only this one big locked double door upon the lower floor, I clambered up the steep ladder to the loft, hoping that my luck there might be better, but resolved, if the worst came, to hide there in the hay until the carter took the horses to work, leaving the doors open.

I had hardly set my foot upon the loft floor, when one of the horses, hearing some noise outside, or being moved by some evil spirit, whinnied loudly, rattling his halter. The noise was enough to arouse an army. It startled the carter from his bed. I heard him leap to his feet with an oath; I heard him pad round the stable, talking to the horses in turn; I heard him unlock the door to see what was stirring. I stood stock-still in my tracks, not daring to stir towards the cover of the hay at the farther end of the loft. I heard him walk slowly, grunting heavily, to the foot of the ladder, where he stopped to listen for any further signal. If he had come up he must have caught me. I could not have escaped. But though he seemed suspicious he did not venture further. He walked slowly back to his bed, grunting discontentedly. In a few minutes he was sound asleep again; for farming people sleep like sailors, as though sleep were a sort of spirit muffling them suddenly in a thick felt blanket. After he had gone off to sleep, I took off my boots, in order to put them on under my stockings, for the greater quiet which that muffling gives to the tread. Then I peered about the loft for a way of escape.

There were big double doors to this upper loft, through which the hay could be passed from a waggon standing near the wall. These doors were padlocked on the inside; there was no opening them; the staples were much too firm for me to remove without a crowbar. The other openings in the walls were mere loophole slits, about four feet long but only a few inches broad. There were enough of these to make the place light. By their light I could see that there was no way of escape for me except by the main door. I was almost despairing of escape from this prison of mine, when I saw that the loft had a hayshoot, leading downwards. When I saw it I fondly hoped that it led to some outer stable or cart-shed, separated from that in which the carter slept. A glance down its smooth shaft showed me that it led to the main stable. I could see the heads of the meditative horses, bent over the empty mangers exactly as if they were saying grace. Beyond them I saw the boots of the carter dangling over the edge of the trusses of hay on which he slept. I stepped back from this shaft quickly because I thought that I might be seen from below. My foot went into the nest of a sitting hen, right on to the creature's back. Up she started, giving me such a fright that I nearly screamed. She flew with a cackling shriek which set all the blackbirds chippering in the countryside. Round the loft she scattered, calling her hideous noise. Up jumped the carter, down came his pitchfork with a thud. His great boots clattered over the stable to the ladder. Clump, clump, he came upstairs, with his pitchfork prongs gleaming over his head like lanceheads. I saw his head show over the opening of the loft. There was not a second to lose. His back of course was still towards me, as the ladder was mercifully nailed to the wall. Before he turned I slid over the mouth of the shaft down into the hayrack of the old brute who had whinnied. I lit softly; but I certainly shocked that old mare's feelings. In a second, before she had time to kick, I was outside her stall, darting across the stable to the key, which lay on the truss of hay, mercifully left there by its guardian. In another second the lock had turned. I was outside, in the glorious open fields again. Swiftly but silently I drew the key out of the lock. One second more sufficed to lock that door from without. The carter was a prisoner there, locked safely in with his horses. I was free. The key was in my pocket. Yonder lay the great combes which hid Taunton from me. I waved my hat towards them; then, with a wild joyous rush, I scrambled behind the cover of the nearest hedge, along which I ran hard for nearly a quarter of a mile.

I stopped for a few minutes to rest among some ferns, while I debated how to proceed. I changed the arrangement of my stockings; I also dusted my very dirty clothes, all filthy from that horrid passage underground. "Now," I said to myself, "there must be many ways to Taunton. One way, I know, leads along this valley, past Chard there, where the houses are. The other way must lie across these combes, high up. Which way shall I choose, I wonder?" A moment's thought showed me that the combes would be unfrequented, while the valley road, being the easy road, which (as I knew) the Duke's army had chosen, would no doubt be full of people, some of them (perhaps) the King's soldiers, coming up from Bridport. If I went by that road my pursuers would soon hear of me, even if I managed to get past the watchers on the road. On the other hand, Aurelia would probably know that I should choose the combe road. Still, even if she sent out mounted men, she would find me hard to track, since the combes were lonely, so lonely that for hours together you can walk there without meeting anybody. There would be plentiful cover among the combes in case I wished to lie low. Besides, I had a famous start, a five hours' start; for I should not be missed until eight o'clock. It could not then have been much more than half-past two. In five hours an active boy, even if he knew not the road, might put some half a dozen miles behind him. I say only half a dozen miles, because the roads were the roughest of rough mud-tracks, still soft from the rains. As I did not know the way, I knew that I might count on going wrong, taking wrong turns, etc. As I wished to avoid people, I counted on travelling most of the way across country, trusting to luck to find my way among the fields. So that, although in five hours I should travel perhaps ten or twelve miles, I could not count on getting more than six miles towards Taunton.



CHAPTER XXIII. FREE

For the first hour or two, as no one would be about so early, I thought it safe to use the road. I put my best foot foremost, going up the great steep combe, with Chard at my back.

The road was one of the loneliest I have ever trodden. It went winding up among barren-looking combes which seemed little better than waste land. There were few houses, so few that sometimes, on a bit of rising ground, when the road lifted clear of the hedges, one had to look about to see any dwelling of men. There was little cultivation, either. It was nearly all waste, or scanty pasture. A few cows cropped by the wayside near the lonely cottages. A few sheep wandered among the ferns. It was a very desolate land to lie within so few miles of England's richest valleys. I walked through it hurriedly, for I wished to get far from my prison before my escape was discovered. No one was there to see me; the lie of the valley below gave me my direction, roughly, but closely enough. After about an hour of steady, fairly good walking, I pulled up by a little tiny brook for breakfast. I ate quickly, then hurried on, for I dared not waste time. I turned out of the narrow cart-tracks into what seemed to be a highroad.

I dipped down a hollow, past a pond where geese were feeding, then turned to a stiff steep hill, which never seemed to end for miles. The country grew lonelier at every step; there were no houses there; only a few rabbits tamely playing in the outskirts of the coverts. A jay screamed in the clump of trees at the hill-top; it seemed the proper kind of voice for a waste like that. Still further on, I sat down to rest at the brink of the great descent, which led, as I guessed, as I could almost see, to the plain where Taunton lay, waiting for the Duke's army to garrison her. There were thick woods to my right at this point, making cover so dense that no hounds would have tried to break through it, no matter how strong a scent might lead them. It was here, as I sat for a few minutes to rest, that a strange thing happened.

I was sitting at the moment with my back to the wood, looking over the desolate country towards a tiny cottage far off on the side of the combe. A big dog-fox came out of the cover from behind me, so quietly that I did not hear him. He trotted past me in the road; I do not think that he saw me till he was just opposite. Then he stopped to examine me, as though he had never seen such a thing before. He was puzzled by me, but he soon decided that I was not worth bothering about, for he made no stay. He padded slowly on towards Chard, evidently well-pleased with himself. Suddenly he stopped dead, with one pad lifted, a living image of alert tension. He was alarmed by something coming along the road by which I had come. He turned his head slightly, as though to make sure with his best ear. Then with a single beautiful lollopping bound he was over the hedge to safety, going in that exquisite curving rhythm of movement which the fox has above all English animals. For a second, I wondered what it was that had startled him. Then, with a quickness of wit which would have done credit to an older mind, I realized that there was danger coming on the road towards me, danger of men or of dogs, since nothing else in this country frightens a fox. It flashed in upon me that I must get out of sight at once; before that danger hove in view of me. I gave a quick rush over the fence into the tangle, through which I drove my way till I was snug in an open space under some yew trees, surrounded on all sides by brambles. I shinned up one of the great yew trees, till I could command a sight of the road, while lying hidden myself in the profuse darkness of the foliage. Here I drew out my pistol, ready for what might come. I suppose I had not been in my hiding-place for more than thirty seconds, when over the brow of the hill came Sir Travers Carew, at a full gallop, cheering on a couple of hounds, who were hot on my scent. Aurelia rode after him, on her famous chestnut mare. Behind her galloped two men, whom I had not seen before. In an instant, they were swooped down to the place where the dog-fox had passed. The hounds gave tongue when they smelt the rank scent of their proper game; they were unused to boy-hunting. They did not hesitate an instant, but swung off as wild as puppies over the hedge, after the fox. The horsemen paused for a second, surprised at the sudden sharp turn; but they followed the hounds' lead, popping over the fence most nimbly, not waiting to look for my tracks in the banks of the hedge. They streamed away after the fox, to whom I wished strong legs. I knew that with two young hounds they would never catch him, but I hoped that he would give them a good run before the sun killed the scent. I looked at the sun, now gloriously bright over all the world, putting a bluish glitter on to the shaking oak leaves of the wood. How came it that they had discovered my flight so soon since it could not be more than six o'clock, if as much? I wondered if it had been the old carter, who had never really seen me. It might have been the old carter; but doubtless he drummed for a good while on the door of the stable before anybody heard him. Or it might have been one of the garden sentries. One of the sentries might well have peeped in at the window of my room to make sure that I was up to no pranks. He could have seen from the window that my bed was empty. If he had noticed that, he could have unlocked my door to make sure, after which it would not have taken more than a few minutes to start after me. I learned afterwards that the sentry had alarmed the house at a little before five o'clock. The carter, being only half-awake when he came after me, suspected nothing till the other farm-hands came for the horses, at about six o'clock, when, the key being gone, he had to break the lock, vowing that the rattens had took his key from him in the night. My disappearance puzzled everybody, because I had hidden my tracks so carefully that no one noticed at first how the chimney bars had been loosened. No one in that house knew of the secret room, so that the general impression was that I had either squeezed myself through the window, or blown myself out through the keyhole by art-magic. The hounds had been laid along the road to Chard, with the result that they had hit my trail after a few minutes of casting about.

Now that they were after me, I did not know what to do. I dared not go on towards Taunton; for who knew how soon the squire would find his error, by viewing the fox? He was too old a huntsman not to cast back to where he had left the road, as soon as he learned that his hounds had changed foxes. I concluded that I had better stay where I was, throughout that day, carefully hidden in the yew-tree. In the evening I might venture further if the coast seemed clear. It was easy to make such a resolution; but not so easy to keep to it; for fifteen hours is a long time for a boy to wait. I stayed quiet for some hours, but I heard no more of my hunters. I learned later that they had gone from me, in a wide circuit, to cut round upon the Taunton roads, so as to intercept me, or to cause me to be intercepted in case I passed by those ways. The hounds gave up after chasing the fox for three miles. The old squire thought that they stopped because the sun had destroyed the scent. With a little help from an animal I had beaten Aurelia once more. When I grew weary of sitting up in the yew tree, clambered down, intending to push on through the wood until I came to the end of it. It was mighty thick cover to push through for the first half mile; then I came to a cart-track, made by wood-cutters, which I followed till it took me out of the wood into a wild kind of sheep-pasture. It was now fully nine in the evening, but the country was so desolate it might have been undiscovered land. I might have been its first settler, newly come there from the seas. It taught me something of the terrors of war that day's wandering towards Taunton. I realized all the men of these parts had wandered away after the Duke, for the sake of the excitement, after living lonely up there in the wilds. Their wives had followed the army also. The while population (scanty as it was) had moved off to look for something more stirring than had hitherto come to them. I wandered on slowly, taking my time, getting my direction fairly clear from the glimpses which I sometimes caught of the line of the highway. At a little after noon I ate the last of my victuals near a spring. I rested after my dinner, then pushed on again, till I had won to a little spinney only four miles from Taunton, where my legs began to fail under me.

I crept into the spinney, wondering if it contained some good shelter in which I could sleep for the night. I found a sort of dry, high pitched bank, with the grass all worn off it, which I thought would serve my turn, if the rain held off. As for supper, I determined to shoot a rabbit with my pistol. For drink, there was a plenty of small brooks within half a mile of the little enclosure. After I had chosen my camp, I was not very satisfied with it. The cover near by was none too thick. So I moved off to another part where the bushes grew more closely together. As I was walking leisurely along, I smelt a smell of something cooking, I heard voices, I heard something clink, as though two tin cups were being jangled. Before I could draw back, a man thrust through the undergrowth, challenging me with a pistol. Two other men followed him, talking in low, angry tones. They came all round me with very murderous looks. They were the filthiest looking scarecrows ever seen out of a wheat-field.

"Why," said one of them, lowering his pistol, "it be the Duke's young man, as we seed at Lyme." They became more friendly at that; but still they seemed uneasy, not very sure of my intentions.

"Where is the Duke?" I asked after a long awkward pause. "Is he at Taunton?" They looked from one to the other with strange looks which I did not understand.

"The Duke be at Bridgewater," said one of them in a curious tone. "What be you doing away from the Duke?"

"Why," I said, "I was taken prisoner. I escaped this morning."

"Yes?" they said with some show of eagerness. "Be there many soldiers hereaway, after us?"

"No. Not many," I said. "Are you coming from the Duke?"

"Yes," said one of them, "we left en at Bridgewater. We have been having enough of fighting for the crown. We been marching in mud up to our knees. We been fighting behind hedges. We been retreating for the last week. So now us be going home, if us can get there. Glad if we never sees a fight again."

"Well," I said, "I must get to the Duke if I can. How far is it to Bridgewater?"

"Matter of fifteen mile," they said, after a short debate. "You'll never get there tonight. Nor perhaps tomorrow, since we hear the soldiers be a coming."

"I'll get some of the way tonight," I said; but my heart sank at the thought; for I was tired out.

"No, young master," said one of the men kindly, "you stop with us for tonight. Come to supper with us. Us 'ave rabbits on the fire." Their fortnight of war had given them a touch of that comradeship which camp-life always gives. They took me with them to their camp-fire, where they fed me on a wonderful mess of rabbits boiled with herbs. The men had bread. One of them had cider. Our feast there was most pleasant; or would have been, had not the talk of these deserters been so melancholy. They were flying to their homes like hunted animals, after a fortnight of misery which had altered their faces forever. They had been in battle; they had retreated through mud; they had seen all the ill-fortune of war. They did all that they could to keep me from my purpose; but I had made up my mind to rejoin my master; I was not to be moved. Before settling down to sleep for the night I helped the men to set wires for rabbits, an art which I had not understood till then, but highly useful to a lad so fated to adventurous living as myself. We slept in various parts of the spinney, wherever there was good shelter; but we were all so full of jangling nerves that our sleep was most uneasy. We woke very early, visited our wires, then breakfasted heartily on the night's take. The men insisted on giving me a day's provision to take with me, which I took, though grudgingly, for they had none too much for themselves, poor fellows. Just before we parted I wrote a note to Sir Travers, on a leaf of my pocketbook. "Dear Sir Travers," I wrote, "These men are well-known to me as honest subjects. They have had great troubles on their road. I hope that you will help them to get home. Please remember me very kindly to your niece." After folding this very neatly I gave the precious piece of impudence to one of the men. "There," I said, "if you are stopped, insist on being carried before Sir Travers. He knows me. I am sure that he will help you as far as he can." For this the men thanked me humbly. I learned, too, that it was of service to them. It saved them all from arrest later in the same day.

Having bidden my hosts farewell, I wandered on, keeping pretty well in cover. I saw a patrol of the King's dragoons in one of the roads near which I walked. The nets were fast closing in on my master: there were soldiers coming upon him from every quarter save the west, which was blocked too, as it happened, by ships of war in the Channel. This particular patrol of dragoons caught sight of me. I saw a soldier looking over a gate at me; but as I was only a boy, seemingly out for birdsnests, he did not challenge me, so that by noon I was safe in Taunton. I have no clear memory of Taunton, except that it was full of people, mostly women. There were little crowds in the streets, little crowds of women, surrounding muddy, tired men who had come in from the Duke. People were going about in a hurried, aimless way which showed that they were scared. Many houses were shut up. Many men were working on the city walls, trying to make the place defensible. If ever a town had the fear of death upon it that town was Taunton, then. As far as I could make out it was not the actual war that it feared; though that it feared pretty strongly, as the looks on the women's faces showed. It feared that the Duke's army would come back to camp there, to eat them all up, every penny, every blade of corn, like an army of locusts. Sometimes, while I was there, men galloped in with news, generally false, like most warmews, but eagerly sought for by those who even now saw their husbands shot dead in ranks by the fierce red-coats under their drunken Dutch general. Sometimes the news was that the army was pressing in to cut off the Duke from Taunton; that the dragoons were shooting people on the road; that they were going to root out the whole population without mercy. At another time news came that Monmouth was marching in to music, determined to hold Taunton till the town was a heap of cinders. Then one, bloody with his spurred horse's gore, cried aloud that the King was dead, shot in the heart by one of his brother's servants. Then another came calling all to prayer. All this uproar caused a hurrying from one crowd to another. Here a man preached fervently to a crowd of enthusiasts. Here men ran from a prayer-meeting to crowd about a messenger. Bells jangled from the churches; the noise of the picks never ceased in the trenches; the taverns were full; the streets swarmed; the public places were now thronged, now suddenly empty. Here came the aldermen in their robes, scared faces among the scarlet, followed by a mob praying for news, asking in frenzy for something certain, however terrible. There several in a body clamoured at a citizen's door in the like fever of doubt. There was enough agony of mind in Taunton that day to furnish out any company of tragedians. We English, an emotional people by nature, are best when the blow has fallen. We bear neither doubt nor rapture wisely. Our strength is shown in troublous times in which other people give way to despair.



CHAPTER XXIV. THE END

Among all the confusion, I learned certainly from some deserters that the Duke was at Bridgewater, waiting till his men had rested, before trying to break through to the north, to his friends in Chester. He had won a bad name for himself among his friends. Nobody praised him. The Taunton people, who had given him such a splendid welcome ten days before, now cursed him for having failed; they knew too well what sort of punishment was sure to fall upon them, directly the fighting came to an end. Somehow all their despairing talk failed to frighten me. I was not scared by all the signs of panic in the streets. I was too young to understand fully; but besides that I was buoyed up by the belief that I had done a fine thing in escaping from prison in order to serve the cause dear to my heart. My heart told me that I was going to a glorious victory in the right cause. I cannot explain it. I felt my father in my heart urging me to go forward. I would not have drawn back for all the King's captains in a company riding out against me together. I felt that these people were behaving absurdly; they should keep a brave patient face against their troubles. Tomorrow or the next day would see us in triumph, beating our enemies back to London, to the usurper's den in Whitehall.

It drew towards sunset before I had found a means to get to Bridgewater. The innkeepers who in times of peace sent daily carriers thither, with whom a man could travel in comfort for a few pence, had now either lost their horses, or feared to risk them. No carriers had gone either to Bridgewater or to Bristol since the Duke marched in on the fourth day of his journey; nor had the carriers come in as usual from those places; the business of the town was at a standstill. I asked at several inns, but that was the account given to me. There was no safety on the roads. The country was overrun by thieves, who stole horses in the name of the Duke or of the King; nothing was safe anywhere. The general hope of the people was for Monmouth to be beaten soon, or to be victorious soon. They had lost quite enough by him; they wanted the rebellion over.

At last, just when I had begun to think the thing hopeless, I found an honest Quaker about to ride to Bridgewater with a basket of Bibles for the Duke's men. He did not ask me what my business at Bridgewater might be; but he knew that no one would want to go there at such a time without good cause. "Well," he said, "if you can ride small, you shall ride behind me, but it will be slow riding, as the horse will be heavily laden." He was going to start at eight o'clock, so as to travel all night, when the marauders, whether deserters from the Duke or ill-conditioned country people, were always less busy. I had time to get some supper for myself in the tavern-bar before starting. Just as we were about to ride off together, when we were in the saddle, waiting only till some carts rolled past the yard-door, I had a fright, for there, coming into the inn yard, was one of the troopers who had beguiled me from the Duke's army that day at Axminster. I had no doubt that he was going from inn to inn, asking for news of me. We began to move through the yard as he came towards us; the clack of the horse's feet upon the cobbles made him look up; but though he stared at me hard, he did so with an occupied mind; he was in such a brown study (as it is called) that he never recognized me. A minute later, we were riding out of town past the trench-labourers, my heart going pit-a-pat from the excitement of my narrow escape. I dared not ask the Quaker to go fast, lest he should worm my story from me, but for the first three miles I assure you I found it hard not to prod that old nag with my knife to make him quicken his two mile an hour crawl. Often during the first hours of the ride I heard horses coming after us at a gallop. It was all fancy; we were left to our own devices. My pursuers, I found, afterwards, were misled by the lies of the landlord at the inn we had left. We were being searched for in Taunton all that fatal night, by half a dozen of the Carew servants.

Bridgewater had not gone to bed when we got there. The people were out in the streets, talking in frightened clumps, expecting something. After thanking the Quaker for his kindness in giving me a lift I asked at one of these clumps where I could find the Duke. I was feeling so happy at the thought of rejoining my master, after all my adventures, that I think I never felt so happy.

"Where can I find the Duke?" I asked. "I'm his servant, I must find him."

"Find him?" said one of the talkers. "He's not here. He's marched out, sir, with all his army, over to Sedgemoor to fight the King's army. It's a night attack, sir."

I was bitterly disappointed at not having reached my journey's end; but there was a stir in the thought of battle. I asked by which road I could get to the place where the battle would be. The man told me to turn to the right after crossing the river. "But," said he, "you don't want to get mixed up in the fighting, master. There be thousands out there on the moor. A boy would be nowhere among all them."

"Yes," said another. "Better stay here, sir. If the Duke wins he'll be back afore breakfast. If he gets beat, you'd be best out of the way."

This was sound advice; but I was not in a mood to profit by it. Something told me that the battle was to be a victory for us; so I thanked the men, telling them that I would go out over the moor by the road they had mentioned. As I moved away, they called out to me to mind myself, for the King's dragoons were on the moor, as a sort of screen in front of their camp. By the road they had mentioned I might very well get into the King's camp without seeing anything of my master. One of them added that the battle would begin, or might begin, long before I got there, "if the mist don't lead en astray, like."

It took me some few minutes to get out of the gates across the river; for there was a press of people crowded there. It was as dark as a summer night ever is, that is, a sort of twilight, when I passed through, but just at the gates were two great torches stuck into rings in the wall. The wind made their flames waver about uncertainly, so that sometimes you could see particular faces in the crowd, all lit in muddy gold light for an instant, before the wavering made them dark again. Several mounted men were there, trying to pass. Among them, in one sudden glare, I saw Aurelia on her Arab, reined in beside Sir Travers, whose horse was kicking out behind him. I passed them by so close that I touched Aurelia's riding habit as I crept out of the press. They were talking together, just behind me, as I crept from the town over the bridge above which the summer mists clung, almost hiding the stream. Aurelia was saying "I only hope we may be in time." "Yes, poor boy," said Sir Travers. "It will be terrible if we are too late." It gave me a pang to hear them, for I knew that they were talking about me.

I crept into the shelter of the bridge parapet while they rode on past me. The mist hid them from me. The town was dark above the mist like a city in the clouds. The stars were dim now with the coming of day. A sheep-bell on the moor made a noise like a nightbird. A few ponies pastured on the moor trotted away, lightly padding, scared, I suppose, by the two riders. Then, far away, but sounding very near at hand, for sound travels very strangely in mist, so strangely that often a very distant noise will strike loudly, while it is scarcely heard close to, there came a shot. Almost instantly, the air seemed full of the roar of battle. The gun-fire broke out into a long irregular roar, a fury of noise which roused up the city behind me, as though all the citizens were slamming their doors to get away from it. I hurried along the road towards the battle, praying, as I went, that my master might conquer, that the King's troops had been caught asleep, that when I got there, in the glory of dawn, I might find the Duke's army returning thanks in their enemy's camp. I pressed on along the rough moor road until the dawn came over the far horizon, driving the mists away, so that I could see what was doing there.

I saw a great sweep of moorland to my left, with a confused crowd of horsemen scattering away towards a line of low hills some miles beyond. They were riding from the firing, which filled all the nearer part of the moor with smoke, among which I saw moving figures, sudden glimpses of men in rank, sudden men on horseback, struggling with their horses. The noise was worse than I had expected; it came on me with repeated deafening shocks. I could hear cries in the lulls when the firing slackened; then the uproar grew worse again, sounds of desperate thuds, marking cannon shot. I heard balls going over my head with a shrill "wheep, wheep," which made me duck. A small iron cannon ball spun into the road like a spinning top, scattering the dust. It wormed slowly past me for a second, then rose up irregularly in a bound, to thud into the ditch, where it lay still. I saw cannon coming up at a gallop, with many horses, on the bare right flank of the battle. Another ball came just over my head, with a scream which made my heart quite sick. I sat down cowering under a ruined thorn-tree by the road, crying like a little child. It must have been a moment after that when I saw a man staggering down the road towards me, holding his side with both hands. He fell into the road, dead, not far from me. Then others came past, some so fearfully hurt that it was a miracle that they should walk. They came past in a long horrible procession, men without weapons, without hands, shot in the head, in the body, lacerated, bleeding, limping, with white drawn faces, tottering to the town which they would never see again. I shut my eyes, crouching well under the tree, while this fight went on. It was nothing but a time of pain, a roaring, booming horror with shrieks in it. I don't know how long it lasted. I only know that the shooting seemed suddenly to pass into a thunder of horse-hoofs as the King's dragoons came past in a charge. Right in front of me they galloped, hacking at the fleers, leaning out from their saddles to cut at them, leaning down to stab them, rising up to reach at those who climbed the banks. Under that tide of cavalry the Duke's army melted. They fought in clumps desperately. They flung away their weapons. They fled. They rushed down desperately to meet death. It was all a medley of broken noises, oaths, stray shots, cries, wounded men whimpering, hurt horses screaming. The horses were the worst part of it. Perhaps you never heard a horse scream.

That morning's work is all very confused to me. I remember seeing men cut down as they ran. I remember a fine horse coming past me lurching, clattering his stirrups, before leaping into the river. I remember the stink of powder over all the field; the strange look on the faces of the dead; the body of a trumpeter, kneeling against a gorse-bush, shot through the heart, with his trumpet raised to his lips, the litter everywhere, burnt cartridges, clothes, belts, shot, all the waste of war. They are in my mind, those memories, like scattered pictures. The next clear memory in my mind, is of a company of cavalry in red coats, under a fierce, white-faced man, bringing in a string of prisoners to the King's camp. A couple of troopers jumped down to examine me. One had the face of a savage; the other was half drunk. "You're one of them," they said. "Bring him on." They twisted string about my thumbs. I was their prisoner. They dragged me into the King's camp, where the white-faced man sat down at a table to judge us.

I will not talk of that butchery. The white-faced man has been judged now, in his turn; I will say no more of him. When it came to my turn, he would hear no words from me; I was a rebel, fit for nothing but death. "Pistol him" was all the sentence passed on me. The soldiers laid hands on me to drag me away, to add my little corpse to the heap outside. One of the officers spoke up for me. "He's only a boy," he said. "Go easy with the boy. Don't have the poor child killed." It was kindly spoken; but quite carelessly. The man would have pleaded for a cat with just as much passion. It was useless, anyway, for the colonel merely repeated "Pistol him," just as one would have ordered a wine at dinner. "Burgundy." "No, the Burgundy here is all so expensive." "Never mind, Burgundy." So I was led away to stand with the next batch of prisoners lined against a wall to be shot. My place was at the end of a line, next to a young sullen-looking man black with powder. I did not feel frightened, only hopeless, quite hopeless, a sort of dead feeling. I remember looking at the soldiers getting ready to shoot us. I wondered which would shoot me. They seemed so slow about it. There was some hitch, I think, in filling up the line; a man had proved his innocence or something.

Then, the next instant, there was Aurelia dragging the white-faced man from his table. I dimly remember him ordering me to be released, while Sir Travers Carew gave me brandy. I remember the young sullen-looking man's face; for he looked at me, a look of dull wonder, with a sort of hopeless envy in it, which has wrung my heart daily, ever since. "Mount," said Aurelia. "Mount, Martin. For God's sake, Uncle Travers, let us get out of this." They were on both sides of me each giving me an arm in the saddle, as we rode out of that field of death through Zoyland village towards the old Abbey near Chard.

I shall say little more, except that I never saw my master again. When they led him to the scaffold on Tower Hill I was outward bound to the West Indies, as private secretary to Sir Travers, newly appointed Governor of St. Eulalie. We had many of Monmouth's men in St. Eulalie after the Bloody Assizes; but their tale is too horrible to tell here. You will want to know whether I ever saw Aurelia again. Not for some years, not very often for nine years; but since then our lives have been so mingled that when we die it will be hard to say which soul is which, so much our spirits are each other's. So now, I have written a long story. May we all tell our tales to the end before the pen is taken from us.