Robin sung,—

"Now, while the night-wind loud and chill Unheeded raves around the door, Let us the wine-cup drain and fill, And welcome social joys once more— The joys that still remain to cheer The gloomiest month of all the year, By our own fire side.

"What need we care for frost and snow? Thus meeting—what have we to fear From frost and snow, or winds that blow? Such guests can find no entrance here. No coldness of the heart or air— Our little world of twelve feet square, And our own fire-side.

"I drink this pledge to thee and thine— I fill this cup to thine and thee— How long the summer sun might shine, Nor fill our souls with half the glee A merry winter's night can bring, To warm our hearts, while thus we sing By our own fire-side."

The song, however, produced a contrary effect to that the Ranger had intended. It pictured a fancied scene—one to which both Walter and the Buccaneer had long been strangers; and a lengthened and painful pause succeeded to the brief moment of forced merriment. It was broken by the Cavalier, who inquired—

"How long will it be before you return from this new trip? for remember, my good friend, that suspense is a——"

"Hell!" interrupted Dalton, in his usual intemperate manner: "but I cannot help it. It is not wise to pluck unripe fruit—do you understand me?"

"Perfectly—and I dare say you are right; but tell me, Dalton, how is it that, till lately, you so completely abandoned this island, and kept to the Devon and Cornwall coasts? I should have thought this the most convenient; your storehouse here is so well arranged."

"Ay, ay, sir; but this is over-near London, though it used to be a safe place enough; but now that Sir Michael Livesey—regicide that he is!—abides so continually at Little Shurland, what chance is there for any good to such as I? I tell ye, Cromwell's nose is ever on the scent."

"A great advantage to him, and a disadvantage to his foes," said Robin: "he has only to put the said nose to the touch-hole of the biggest cannon, and off it goes; it never costs the army a farthing for matches when he's with it."

"Pshaw, Robin! but is he indeed so red-nosed? You have often seen him, Captain."

"Ay, dressed in a plain cloth suit, made by an ill country tailor; his linen coarse and unclean; his band unfashionable, and often spotted with blood; his hat without a band; his sword close to his side; his countenance swollen and reddish; and, as to his nose, it looked to me more purple than aught else. But, sir, to see Cromwell, see him in battle—he is a right noble horseman; and the beast (a black one especially he was once so fond of) seemed to have been tutored by the evil one: its eye was as vigilant as its rider's. Cromwell sits his saddle not gracefully, but firmly, just as if he were part and portion of the animal; then, with a sword in his right hand, and a pistol in his left—— Sir, it was unlike any thing I ever saw! He must have managed the horse by the pressure of his heel; for I never could make out, such was the decision yet rapidity of hism movements, whether he held reins or not: now here, now there—firing—preaching—shouting—praying—conquering—yet everything done in its right place and time, never suffering the excitement of the moment to bear down one of his resolves. Had he been born a king——"

"He would never have been what he is," said the Cavalier; "for contention is the school of greatness."

"It's mighty fine to see you two sit there," exclaimed Robin, "praising up that man in the high place: pretty Cavaliers indeed! Well, my opinion is, that—but indeed it is rude to give an opinion unasked, so I'll keep mine to myself. You were talking of the conveniences of this place; why, bless you, sir, it's nothing to fifty others along St. George's Channel. 'Twould do your heart good to see those our captain has among the Cornish rocks; such comfortable dwellings, where you could stow away twenty people, never to chirrup to the sun again; such hiding-holes, with neat little trains of gunpowder, winding like snakes in summer, so that, to prevent discovery, one crack of a good flint would send the caverns and the cliffs high into the air, to tell stories to the stars of the power of man's skill to destroy the most sublime as well as the most beautiful works of nature."

"Robin, you ought to have been a preacher."

"No," said Robin mournfully, and shaking his head, as was his custom, "for I know nothing of your book-holiness; only I can't bear anything moulded and made by the hand of God to be ruined by that of man."

"What ails ye, lad?" inquired the Buccaneer; "I thought ye had got over all your shadows, as ye used to call them."

"Not all of them; only they do not come upon me as often as they used," he replied gravely; for poor Robin had one time been subject to periodical fits that bordered on insanity, and during such afflictions wandered about the country, without seeking repose or speaking word to any one. Constance Cecil, with her usual kindness, had him frequently taken care of at Cecil Place; and Barbara's kind attention to him during such fearful trials was the source of as strong, as unvarying, and devoted an attachment as ever human being manifested towards another.

By degrees the conversation sunk into low confidential whispers, as if caution, even there, was necessary. It was near four o'clock in the morning before the Buccaneer departed for his ship, and then Robin escorted the Cavalier to his usual chamber in the Gull's Nest.



CHAPTER VIII.

When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free, Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty.

LOVELACE.

"A blessing and a salutation, reverend sir! and may the sun, moon, and stars be sanctified unto you!"

"Ah! Solomon Grundy, would that the Lord had given thee sense to understand, as he hath bestowed upon thee talent to speak according to thy understanding! As it is, Solomon, I lament that thou art a fool, Solomon, a very fool, except in what regardeth the creature-comforts; and, of a verity, thou art worthy to send up a dinner even unto Hugh Peters, after he hath delivered a soul-converting oration before the chosen from among God's people."

"Which refection he would in nowise condemn," observed the cook of Cecil Place, whose closely-cropped head of foxy hair seemed to throw a proportionate quantity of glowing colour upon his rubicund countenance. He had all the outward marks that indicate a bon vivant, and words of piety came as awkwardly from his lips as sighs from the mouth of a seal or a salmon. His little grey eyes twinkled with affection for the said "creature-comforts;" and the leathern pouch he now carried over his shoulder was stocked with sundry good things appropriated from the larder for his own especial diet. He had received permission from Mistress Cecil to accompany some of his neighbours to see the grand company from London visit a first-rate man-of-war that had just arrived off Sheerness, bringing in a train of prizes which the veteran Blake had taken and sent home, himself proceeding to Vera Cruz, and which it was rumoured the Lord Oliver was about to inspect in person. This intelligence set the country in a ferment, and persons of all classes hastened to the island to witness the sight. For the English were, as they now are, a sight-loving people, who find pleasure in pageants; and then, as at present, they demanded economy; but when economy came, they designated it meanness.

The staunch Roundheads exulted at the idea of Cromwell's exhibiting himself thus openly after the upsetting of the Syndercomb plot; and the Royalists, depressed and disappointed, were content to let matters take their course, at least until they saw some prospect of a change; while the Levellers, the party most dreaded by the Protector, and which had been most fatal to the Stuarts, remained in that dangerous state of repose that is but the preparative for renewed activity.

The Reverend Jonas Fleetword had set forth from the sole desire of "beholding him who was anointed with the oil of the Spirit, and whose name among the nations was wonderful." Solomon Grundy, and such other of the servants of Cecil Place as could be spared, were impelled forward by the wish of hearing or of seeing something new; intelligence not travelling upon wings of steam in the seventeenth century, and newspapers being but rare visiters at Shepey. Occasionally, indeed, there did descend from the breakfast-room of Sir Robert, unto the servants' hall, a stray number or two of the "Mercurius Politicus," the "Perfect Diurnal," or the "Parliament Scout;" the contents of which were eagerly devoured by the several auditors, while one, more gifted than his fellows, drawled forth, amid ejaculations and thanks unto the Lord, the doings of the Commonwealth, and especially of him who was a master in the new Israel. But the information of the underlings of the house was generally gathered from the pious pedlars, who sought entrance at the gate, well stocked with wares of every possible description, and with "gifts" of which they were always abundantly lavish to those who hungered or were athirst.

The ladies of the family remained at home; the Lady Frances feeling assured that her father would not be present, as she had received no intimation to such effect from Whitehall. Constance, however, had heard too many tales of Oliver's sudden movements to feel satisfied as to the certainty of any matter in which he was concerned. It was no secret either that he had been displeased with his daughter for her obstinate attachment to Mr. Rich; and that he desired her, for the present, to remain in retirement and away from court.

We have said that Solomon Grundy had received permission to view the sight; and for a time he proceeded on his way, accompanied by the other domestics; but, under some sly pretext, he lingered behind them. The worthy preacher had not left Cecil Place so early, but, notwithstanding the ambling pace of his favourite jennet, he soon came up to Solomon, who, seated under a spreading elm by the wayside, was rapidly demolishing the contents of his wallet, freshened by frequent draughts from a black bottle of vast rotundity.

"Master Solomon Grundy," he observed, reining up his steed, "could not your stomach tarry, even for a short while? Ah! worthy cook, you have a most professional longing after the flesh-pots."

Solomon grinned, and applied himself with renewed diligence to his viands when the preacher had passed. He was now surrounded by a motley party, who had crossed from the main land, all bearing towards the same point. Puritans, whose cloaks were of the most formal cut, and whose hats emulated the steeple of St. Paul's; Levellers, with firm steps, wrinkled and over-hanging brows, and hard unchanging features, all denoting inflexibility of purpose and decision of character; Cavaliers, whose jaunty gait was sobered, and whose fashionable attire was curtailed in consideration that such bravery would be noticed and reproved by the powers that were; women attired in dark hoods and sad-coloured kirtles; some of demure aspect, others with laughing eyes and dimpled cheeks, who exchanged glances, and sometimes words, with youths of serious apparel but joyous countenances; while here and there might be recognised divines, whose iron physiognomies disdained to be affected by any of the usual feelings that flesh is heir to; and ladies on horseback, or in the lumbering heavy carriages, progressing from the horse ferry, "with stealthy pace and slow," towards the centre of attraction.

The English even now make a business of enjoyment; but in those days, what we designate pleasure, was known by no such unholy term; it was called "recreation," "the refreshment of the creature," "the repose of the flesh,"—by any name, in fact, except the true one. But in the particular instance to which we refer, it was considered a sacred duty to uphold and applaud the Lord Protector whenever there occurred an opportunity for so doing; and sound-hearted Puritans would make a pilgrimage for the purpose with as much zeal as ever Roman Catholics evinced in visiting the shrine of some holy saint. The ships rode proudly in the harbour, and groups of the gentry were occasionally conveyed on board by boats, that waited for the purpose both at Queenborough and Sheerness. It was an animated scene, but the soul of all was wanting, for neither Cromwell, nor any portion of the court, made their appearance. When it was noon, the people hoped he would arrive ere evening; but, as the evening advanced, and he failed to enter upon the scene, there was a general manifestation of disappointment throughout the crowd, although some few rejoiced at the occurrence, holding it a sign of fear on his part, as if he dreaded to be seen among them.

A party, consisting of ten or twelve persons, at Queenborough, had gathered round the trunk of a withered and hollow oak, growing in front of a public-house, that displayed the head of the Lord Protector—a political lure, that was certain to attract all Commonwealth people to the receipt of custom. The noble tree had been one of magnificent growth, but age or accident had severed the trunk, and within its heart decay had long been revelling. It was now perfectly hollow, and afforded a free passage; two enormous props had been found necessary, to prevent its making a last resting-place of the earth it had for ages triumphantly protected. The cavity that time had created was sufficiently extensive to afford shelter during a storm to three or four persons; and it was not unfrequently resorted to by the people of the inn, as a storehouse for fuel, or farming utensils, when a plentiful harvest rewarded the toil of the husbandman. Its branches, which had so often sheltered the wayfarer alike from the tempest and the hot summer's sun, had been hewn away, to serve the purposes of strife in the shape of spear-handles, or to the doom of the winter fire; one solitary arm of the blighted tree alone remained, extending its scraggy and shattered remnants to a considerable distance over the greensward which had been, from time immemorial, trodden by the merry morrice dancers, and broken by the curvetting of the hobby-horse and the Dragon of Wantley, sports it was now deemed sinful but to name. From a fragment of this dilapidated branch, hung the sign of mine host of the Oliver's Head; and right glad would he have been, if rumour had lied with each returning morn, so that the lie could but fill his dwelling with so many profitable guests. Thrice had the party, by whom had been appropriated the seat beneath the oak, emptied the black jack of its double-dub ale; and the call for a fourth replenishing was speedily answered, as the sun was setting over the ocean, and tinging the sails and masts of the distant vessels with hues that might have shamed the ruby and the sapphire.

"To have our day go for nothing, after a trudge of some twenty miles, to this out-of-the-way place,—Adad, sirs, it's no joke!" exclaimed a sturdy, bluff-looking man, to our friend little Robin Hays, who sat upon the corner of the bench, one leg tucked under (doubtless for the purpose of enabling him to sit higher than nature had intended,) while the other swung methodically backward and forward: "Adad, sir, it's no joke!" he repeated.

"No more it isn't, Master Grimstone; I never heard you joke yet," said Robin.

"And I aver it is an open and avowed doubting of God's providence," chimed in the cook.

"What! what!" exclaimed six or eight voices: "what do you mean by such blasphemy, Solomon Grundy? A forfeit and a fine!"

"Peace, silly brawlers!" returned he of the kitchen, who had discussed the good things thereof, until he had no room for more, and who had also quaffed largely of the forbidden beverage called 'strong waters;'—"I say peace, silly brawlers! I repeat it is an open and avowed doubting of Providence, that we should come thus far, and see nothing but a parcel of people—parcel of sky—parcel of water—parcel of ships—parcel——"

"Of fools!" grinned little Robin, pointing at the same time towards the oratorical cook, who so little relished the compliment, as to elevate the polished remnant of a mutton shoulder-blade, and aim a well-directed blow at the manikin, which he avoided only by springing with great agility through the aperture in the tree, so as to alight at some distance on the other side of the hollow trunk. This harlequinade excited much boisterous laughter among the crowd; and no one joined in it more mirthfully than young Springall, who, for some reason known best to Hugh Dalton, yet sanctioned by Sir Robert Cecil, had spent the last few days in the kitchens and buttery of Cecil Place. There was another youth of the same party, who perchance enjoyed the merriment, but who looked as if he could have still more enjoyed melancholy. He was seated next to Springall, on the rude bench; and the boy-sailor treated him with such marks of attention, as manifested that he regarded him more in the light of a superior, than as an equal. The stranger, however, remained with his hat so much slouched over his face, that his features were in complete shadow, while his cloak was muffled over the lower part of his countenance.

"I say, Robin," exclaimed Springall, "come out of your shell; you have remained there long enough to tell over a dozen creeds or paters, were they in fashion—Come out, are you bewitched? Robin the Ranger, I say, come forth, and give us a taste of your calling—a melody—a melody! But you should hear our Jeromio sing his lingo songs some night astern: and though I do hate that cunning rascal, yet, my eyes! how he does sing!"

"Singing," observed Solomon Grundy, whose potations had wonderfully increased his piety, "singing is an invention of the beast's, yea, of the horned beast's, of him who knoweth not a turtle from a turtle-dove, but would incontinently stew them in the same caldron, over brimstone and pitch; therefore shall my voice bubble and boil over against such iniquities—yea, and my tongue shall be uplifted against them, even in the land of Ham!"

"Go to sleep, Solomon, and you, youngster, give us a song yourself," growled Grimstone, who had all the outward bearing of a savage; "the evening is nigh closing, and the birds are gone to their nests. Nevertheless, the song must be right proper: so tune up, tune up, my boy!"

Springall, with due modesty, replied, "I could sing you sea songs, and land songs, but these I leave to Robin Hays, who beats me hollow. The clerk of our ship has translated one of Jeromio's lilts, so I'll tip you a bit of sentiment.

"O'er the clear quiet waters My gondola glides, And gently it wakens The slumbering tides. All nature is smiling, Beneath and above; While earth and while heaven Are breathing of love!

"In vain are they breathing Earth, heaven—to me, Though their beauty and calmness Are whispers of thee: For the bright sky must darken, The earth must be grey, Ere the deep gloom that saddens My soul, pass away.

"But see, the last day-beam Grows pale, ere it die; And the dark clouds are passing All over the sky. I hear thy light footstep, Thy fair form I see; Ah! the twilight has told thee Who watches for thee."

Towards the latter part of the ditty, which was but little relished by the company, it was evident that Solomon had followed Grimstone's advice, for his snoring formed a loud and most inharmonious bass to the sweet boy-like melody of Springall's ballad.

Robin had rejoined the party, but his face and lips were of a livid paleness, and he seemed labouring under evident distress.

"Art hurt, Robin?" inquired the stranger, who is known to us by the name of Walter, now speaking for the first time. Robin shook his matted head in reply.

"Something ails thee, man; something must ail thee—speak, good Robin."

"I'm neither sick, sad, nor sorry," he answered, affecting his usual easy manner; "so here's a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull altogether at the black jack, to the health—But pardon, I had forgotten the wickedness of such profane customs." Yet Robin evidently did not hold it profane to "swill the brown bowl" so eagerly, that but the lees remained at the bottom, as he laid it down, refreshed and strengthened.

"So you won't give us a toast, Master Robin," said Springall; "well, I'll not only give ye a toast, but I'll stand the price of a fresh jack of double-dub for you all to drink it in; and I'll fight any man that says it nay, besides."

"Hold your profaneness!" exclaimed Robin, with a solemnity so opposed to his actual character as to be absolutely ludicrous: "Springall, thou hast had too much already; let us depart in peace."

"A curse on me if I do—peace me no peace."

"I tell you what," interrupted Robin, with resolute spitefulness, "if you swear, I'll lodge information against you."

"Ah! ah! ah!" shouted several of the party, "Robin Hays turned preacher! Old Noll has sent the breath of holiness before him to supply his place, and made a sudden convert of the Ranger!"

"I entreat you most meekly to be silent; if not for my sake, for your own. My brethren, you know not——"

"That here comes the black jack," interrupted Springall; "and here's to the health—But Cavaliers——"

"We are not Cavaliers," interrupted Robin, in his turn; "as I hope for mercy, we are not Cavaliers:—hard—honest—pains-taking Commonwealth citizens are we; but not, I say not," and he elevated his voice to its highest pitch, "not Cavaliers."

"The devil's in the cards, and knaves are trumps," exclaimed Springall; "nevertheless I'll have my toast, and here it is.—Come, up standing,—'The fairest maid in Shepey, Barbara Iverk! and may she soon be a wife'——"

"To whom?" inquired Robin bitterly.

"To whoever can win and wear her," replied Springall. "Come, come, Master Bob, you're mazed by some devilry or other; the wind's in your teeth; you've been sailing against a norwester, or have met with a witch on a broomstick the other side of this old oak: Serves an oak right to wither up—why wasn't it made into a ship? But here's to Barbara Iverk, the fair maid of Shepey!"

"The fair maid of Shepey!" repeated Grimstone, after drinking the toast. "That title ought to be given to the mistress, not the maid; and I care not if I wind up the evening with a cup of Canary to the health of Lady Constance——"

"Peace, sir!" exclaimed the stranger, who had heretofore taken no note of their rioting: "I shall offer chastisement to any man who profanes that Lady's name at a vulgar revel."

"Adad! and adad, young sir, ye're a game one! What's in any woman, that a man can't name her? Flesh is flesh! and as to distinctions—we are all members of a Commonwealth! so I say a stoup of Canary to the Lady——"

"By holy Paul! if that Lady's name passes your unworthy lips, my good rapier shall pass straight through your unhallowed carcase!" exclaimed the Cavalier fiercely, at the same time throwing back his cloak, and drawing his sword more than half out of his scabbard.

"Hey ho! two can play at that: I never eat my words; so, the sword in one hand, and the Canary in the other—to the health of——"

His mouth was stopped by the application of the palm of Robin's broad hand to his unclosed lips; while he whispered some words into his ear, that had the magical effect of restoring the weapon to its sheath, and of inducing the braggart to resume the seat he had so hastily abandoned, grumbling, in an under tone, words that fell indistinctly upon the ear of his opposer.

"Let us home; it is a long and a dreary road to Cecil Place, and the night is upon us already! so up, good Solomon. Here, landlord! this fatted calf is unable to move: give him house-room till to-morrow; and mind you put him on his way in time for the dinner-hour," was Robin's parting speech. He then exchanged rough, but kindly salutations, with his boon companions; and soon the trio—Walter, Springall, and Robin had taken a by-path, leading to the part of the island in which Cecil Place was situated.



CHAPTER IX.

His rude assault, and rugged handeling Straunge seemed to the knight, that aye with foe In faire defence, and goodly menaging Of arms, was wont to fight.—The Faerie Queene.

The three young men pursued their way; at first laughing and chatting merrily upon the events of the morning; but gradually becoming more and more silent, as persons usually do when the first flush of revelling is over. The taller of the three, who has of course been recognised as the mysterious visiter at Lady Cecil's funeral and in the cave of the Buccaneer, although he bore himself towards them with all the courtesy of a true-born gentleman, received the deference of his more humble associates only as his due, and in a manner that showed he had been accustomed to more than merely respectful treatment. After traversing much low and marshy ground, they suddenly reached a spot where the road divided, the one path leading to Cecil Place, the other to Gull's Nest crag.

"Come with me, Robin; unless, indeed, the master wishes your company. I ask his pardon for not thinking of that afore," said Springall.

"Not I, good Springall," replied the gentleman. "I think you need a guide, for you walk the quarter-deck better than the dry land; and, if I mistake not, there are sundry pit-falls in the way to your present home. I know my path; and, besides, am a regular land-lubber."

"Save and bless your honour!" exclaimed the young sailor, holding all land-lubbers in thorough contempt: "that ye're not: land-lubber, indeed! I'll be at the Nest to-morrow early—if——"

"Hush!" said the more careful Robin, "never speak words of secret, openly—See ye yonder?"

"Yes," replied Springall, "two horsemen on the other road; too far off to hear my words, unless they had the ears of a hare."

"I had better go with you, sir," observed Robin earnestly: "I will go with you, that's the truth of it. Good night, Spring—steer to the left till you come to the red gap; after that, along the stone fence, on the right; it will lead you to the orchard, then you know your way."

"Why did you not go with him?" inquired the Cavalier, kindly; "it is a dark night, poor boy, he has small skill in land-steering."

"He must learn, sir, as I do," answered Robin; "and my duty calls me to attend on you, particularly when strange people are a-stir."

"You are to be my champion, Robin?"

"Your servant, sir. A servant who learned his duty before it was the fashion for servants to forget what they owe their masters. Alack! alack! service now, like liberty, is but a name, and servants do as they please."

"Did you so with the Master of Burrell?"

"But indifferently, sir; I fled, in a very servant-like manner, as you know, when he was in danger. But I had my reasons for it, as well as for going with him to London; only I'd rather not talk of that to-night, sir. It is a mortal pity that such a sweet lady as Mistress Constance should be forced to marry such a brute; for my part, I never could discover any wisdom in those contracts, as they call them. Ah, little Barbara is a discreet girl. But I have heard some one say, that, for all her fine lands, poor lady, her heart is breaking, and chipping away bit by bit. 'Tis very fine to be rich, but, being rich, very hard to be happy, because the troubles we make ourselves are less easy to be borne, than those that come upon us in the course of nature. If I had my wish, it is not gold I'd ask for."

"Indeed! What then, Robin?"

"Just enough of beauty to win one woman's heart; I think I have wit enough to keep it."

"Pshaw, Robin! though you may not be very comely, there are many worse."

"Ay, sir, apes and baboons; but they are like their kind—while I am a poor withered creature, that Nature, in spite, threw from her, coarse and unfinished."

"I wonder a person of your sense, Robin, should fret at such trifles. Remember, beauty is as summer fruits, easy to corrupt, and quick to perish."

"But for all that we look for them in summer, sir, just as youth seeks out beauty."

The stranger turned towards Robin, but made no reply; it is sometimes given to the simple to disconcert the wise, and that alone by their simplicity.

A long silence followed; each ruminating on his own prospects and projects: it was at length broken by Walter, who abruptly asked if Robin was sure he had taken the right path.

"Mercy, sir, am I sure of the sight of my eyes! Behind that tree runs the road we must cross, and then on to Stony Gap! Ah, many's the signal I've hung out for the Fire-fly from that same spot; but, if perilous times are past, and we live in days—as Master Fleetword hath it—of peace, poor Hugh's trade will be soon over. I wish he were back—the coast looks lonesome without him."

"So it does, Robin; but canst tell me what it was that made you look so dull, and astonishingly religious after the hop, step, and jump you took through the hollow oak?"

"Ah, master!"

"Well, Robin——"

"Why, you see, when I sprang through, 'thinking of nothing at all,' as the song says, I found myself on the opposite side of the tree, close—as close as I am to you, or nearly so—to——" As Robin had proceeded thus far with his recital, a sudden turn brought them to the high road, which led into a kind of hollow, flanked on either side by close brushwood. About a hundred yards from where they stood, three men were engaged in violent feud. The scene, at such a moment, and in such a place, seemed produced by the wave of a magician's wand. The Cavalier rubbed his eyes, as if to be assured of its reality; while Robin stood aghast, bewildered, and uncertain how to act:—the moon was shining in all its brightness, so that they could see as clearly as at noon-day.

"By heaven, 'tis two to one!" exclaimed the youth, casting off his cloak, and unsheathing his rapier with the rapidity of lightning.

"So it is!" gasped Robin; "but two to such a one! Save us, sir! you're not going to draw sword for him—?" But ere the sentence was concluded, his companion was in the thick of the fray. "Oh!" exclaimed Robin, as in agony, "that I should live to see true blood stirred in such a cause!—How he lays about him! Poor boy, he little knows who's who! What a noble thrust! hand to hand—how their swords glitter!—A murrain on my shrivelled carcase! they would but laugh to see me among them! O that I could be even with Nature, and hate her as she has hated me! Yet, to be thus without a weapon!—Ah! one murderer's down, and the arch-fiend with him—now are they entwined as with the coil of deadly serpents. Treacherous dog! the other would take advantage; but, ah! well done, gallant young gentleman!—he holds him back with most wonderful strength—And now—see, see—the combatants are separated—one stands over the other! Oh God! oh God! how he stabs!—hold! hold! Now, could the moon show through those deadly wounds, twenty at the least count; and only one such would let the life from out Goliath, or the strongest man in Gath.—But see, the other shows a fleet foot; and that silly boy flies after him! Alack! that he will not learn discretion! There they go, across the fields, and not towards the ferry."

When Robin arrived at this point in his comments, the man whose life had most probably been saved by the young Cavalier's interposition, called to him to come forward,—a summons the manikin obeyed at first but slowly: a second call, however, urged his alacrity; and he stood before one of whom he was evidently in much dread, with a bent head and a tremulous frame.

"Canst tell aught of that vile clay, whom the Lord hath delivered into my hand?" he said, pointing to the lifeless corpse, while his chest still heaved from the violence of the exertion he had undergone, although in other respects he appeared as composed as if he had gone forth only to enjoy the sweet breath of evening, and a ruder breeze than he anticipated had passed across his brow. Robin stooped to examine the distorted features of the dead, smeared as they were by the warm blood that issued from more than one mortal wound.

"He was one of thy party but three hours past," continued the stranger, speaking with energy and rapidity, "and thou knew'st him; heard I not his words beneath the oak? Ay, and if it had been left unto thee, verily I might have been given over to the destroyer, even as Hoshea was given unto Shalmaneser. Speak, thou deformity, lest, finding thy mind as base as its casket, I let it forth from its vile dwelling, even as a thing of nought."

"'Tis poor Grimstone," exclaimed Robin, rising from his scrutiny, and evidently affected by the loss of his boon companion on more occasions than one; "he was ever after some devilry—but his attack upon such as you——"

"Silence, sir. Did I not before intimate my wishes?"

"Well, then," muttered Robin, "his attack must have been purely a matter of plunder. Grim. was never ambitious—never looked beyond a purse of broad pieces;" adding in a lower tone, "he was always a fool."

"The carrion hath fallen in a pleasant place—so let the next comer look to it, and do thou fetch hither my horse. Had it not been that my saddle-girth gave way, I could have mastered twenty such footpads."

This was said in the tone of one who, however grateful for assistance, would have been much better pleased to have found it needless, and to have worked out the victory by his own hands.

Robin hurried to secure the animal, a well-trained war-horse, which had stood quietly in the centre of the road, calmly awaiting the issue of the combat: he observed that the saddle was turned completely round, and hung under the belly. The horseman adjusted his cloak, wiped his sword with the square cape, and had just replaced it in the scabbard, when the Cavalier returned from his fruitless chase. As he advanced towards the person to whom he had rendered such signal service, he noted that he was a hale, stout man, probably past the meridian of life, of a stern and awe-striking presence; and an involuntary feeling of respect made him lift his hat from his head, and even remain uncovered while expressing hopes "that he had received no injury from the cowards who had thus beset his path." The other gave no reply to the inquiry, but fixed a shrewd and penetrating gaze upon the young man's countenance. Apparently the scrutiny pleased him, for he extended his hand, and seizing that of his preserver, held it firmly within his palm for about the space of a minute, then pressed it within his mailed grasp so strenuously, that the youth felt the blood tingle to his finger-ends.

"I owe thanks and gratitude, and would fain know to whom: your name, young sir?"

The Cavalier paused for a moment, and then said,—

"You may call me De Guerre—Walter De Guerre."

"Walter De Guerre!—an English Christian wedded to a French surname!—'tis strange, but let it pass, let it pass: you have been an instrument in the gracious preserving of one who, though unworthy, is of some account; and instruments in the Lord's hand must be regarded. My companions had business in this neighbourhood, and had left me but a little time, when I was set upon by these cowards; but God is merciful, and inspired you with valour. And now, sir, whither wend ye? To Cecil Place?"

"No, sir," replied De Guerre, pondering what he should answer, or how he should designate his present abode.

"To the worshipful sheriff, Sir Michael Livesey, at Little Shurland? He must look to his ferry-warden and boatmen to prevent such villainies as have now occurred."

"To none of these, sir," replied Walter; "in fact, I am a humble traveller, lodging at a humble hostelry not far from hence."

During this dialogue, Robin had adjusted the saddle-girth, and led the horse to its master, who took the bridle from his hand, and held it, examining the girth as he spoke. Robin glided imperceptibly round to De Guerre's side, and standing behind him, pulled his sleeve, and whispered,—

"Don't tell him where."

The intimation was, perhaps, not heard, certainly not heeded, for the young man added,—

"At the widow Hays'."

"I bethink me; the house near East Church. It is called Nest—Nest—Nest—ay, Gull's Nest. 'Tis but a poor abode for one who bears a diamond-hilted sword, and bears it bravely too. An every-day person, Master De Guerre, would sell the diamonds and get a gayer lodging."

"Persons differ in this and all other matters, more or less," replied the young man somewhat haughtily: "I wish you good night, sir."

"Hot!" said the stranger, at the same time laying his hand upon the arm of De Guerre: "Hot and high! Well, it is an ill tree that needs no pruning; but the preserver and the preserved must not part thus. Come with me to Cecil Place, and though I have it not to offer golden recompense, yet I can assure to you a glad welcome; for my friends all love each other."

"Go with him, go with him; never say him nay: why should you not go when he desires it?" whispered Robin.

"But you are mounted, and well too, and I a-foot, and cannot pace it with you," replied De Guerre, hesitatingly.

"And your grey steed is too far away—even for that nimble squire to bring in good time," retorted the other, a kind of smile distending the rugged and untrimmed moustache that garnished his upper lip.

"My grey steed!" repeated Walter in astonishment.

"Yes, and a stout beast it is. But I will rein in my horse, and the Place is not so distant but we may keep together."

"Thanks for your proffered hospitality," said De Guerre; "but must we not do something with the fellow you have slain? His companion was too swift o'foot for me."

"Let the tree lie even where it fell," replied the other, looking on the body for an instant, and then mounting his horse with the greatest composure; "some one will cover it with decent earth in the morning: let us forward, my young friend."

De Guerre signified his consent, and walked, closely followed by Robin, at the stranger's side.

"And so," observed the horseman, turning to the Ranger, "you are accompanying us, uninvited, on our way. Wert thou ever engaged in any of the mummeries of Satan, denominated stage plays? Of all the tricks learned at courts, that of tumbling is the most dangerous; and as thy master, Sir Willmott Burrell, has not practised it yet, I am at a loss to understand how thou couldst be so perfect."

"I have served many masters, sir, and am now out of employ," replied Robin, whose ready wit appeared to have deserted him, and who kept as near as possible to De Guerre.

"Thou sayest truly; and lest one of them may have a demand upon thee ere morning, what say ye to wending onward to that unholy resort of cavaliers and smugglers, called the Gull's Nest, and leaving us to pursue our course unattended to Sir Robert Cecil?"

Robin bowed as respectfully as he could, and was about to whisper some words to De Guerre, when the stranger added, in a stern voice,—

"On, on! no whispering."

Robin held up his hands, as if he would have said, "How can I help it?" and sprang over the adjoining fence with his usual agility.

They proceeded some little time without speaking, De Guerre, discontented with himself at the power his extraordinary companion so strangely possessed over him, yet yielding to an influence against which he felt it impossible to contend.

"And pray, sir," at length inquired the elder, "what news may be now stirring in France? You have, I presume, but recently arrived from thence?"

"I have been in France, but not lately."

"In the Netherlands, then? for I take it you are given to the carnal follies of the times, and have been cherished in the heresies, religious and political, propagated by a person or persons assuming a particular rank, which the Almighty saw fitting to wrest from them now many days past."

"I have not, as I think, been brought up in any heresy," replied the youth, gently but firmly, "and I should be sorry so brave a gentleman and so expert a swordsman thought so: though I do not feel myself bound to give you any information touching my private opinions, which I hold to be as distinctly my own property as my hat or sword——"

"And which," said the stranger, "is, perhaps, the only property you are possessed of."

"Exactly so, sir; but persons of a lower estate than mine have lately risen to high places,—ay, and carry themselves as loftily as if they were born to lord it over not only empire, but empires."

"Ah! true: then, I suppose, you would fain seek service; and if so, I think my poor word would be of use. I am somewhat esteemed by the Protector and other props of this great Commonwealth, and would gladly tender my aid to you, to whom I am already strongly bound."

"I thank you for your bounty, sir; but at present I feel inclined to sheathe, not draw my sword."

"But why? A youth like you, gifted with courage, skill, and health,—the state demands some activity at your hands; 'tis ill to be a laggard."

"Nor am I one. Frankly, I like not innovation, and this state has been experimentalising lately:—in a word, I like it not."

"That is a candid confession, more candid than your former words would have led me to expect. But, young gentleman, it is not safe to trust such sentiments into a stranger's keeping: the Lord Protector has, it is said, his spies in every house; nay, it is reported the highways grow them as rife as blackberries."

"And you may be one, for aught I know or care," said the youth bluntly. "But what of that?—they say Old Noll likes in others what he hath not yet practised himself—a thing called honesty; and at worst, he could but take my life, which, after all, is little worth in comparison to those he has already taken."

A long silence followed this intemperate speech, which at last was broken by the mounted traveller.

"You spoke of innovations, and I also believe it is ill to try experiments in states, unless the need be urgent, and unless it be the reformation that draweth on the change, and not the love of change that urgeth the reformation. Is not time the greatest innovator?—is he not always changing? It hath been said that, as in nature things move violently to their place, and calmly in their place; so virtue in ambition is violent, in authority settled and calm. Steel sharpens steel; so one glory perfecteth another: and I am of belief, that they who are glorious, must have been factious. Yet are there degrees in honour, and amongst the first of them I should rank founders of commonwealths, or even states, such as we read of in history—Romulus——"

"And you would, I suppose, include the name of Cromwell in the list you were about to make?" interrupted De Guerre.

"And why not?" retorted the other proudly; "why not Cromwell? Is the oak to be despised because it was once an acorn? Remember what he suffers for his state; if, like the stars above us, he is much venerated, even like them he hath no rest."

"Nor doth he deserve it," said the youth.

"Ah! say'st so!" exclaimed the stranger, hastily, but instantly adding in a settled voice—"Walter De Guerre, or whatever be your name, beware, and use not such expressions when you know not your company. You said but now, your opinions were your property; then give them not away unasked where we are going. I know you to be brave, and generosity follows bravery as truly as one star succeedeth another; but discretion of speech is more valuable than eloquence. And, as to Cromwell, the people's shepherd has need to keep good count and careful watch; for wolves and foxes in sheep's clothing break into the pinfolds, kill and devour. Did he not act the part of Epimetheus (according to the profane but wise fable), who, when griefs and evils flew abroad, at last shut down the lid, and kept Hope in the bottom of the vessel, verily, indeed, his lot would be severe. We can know but little how hard it is to labour through evil report and good report. Charity in judgment is befitting in all, but most of all in the young."

They were now within sight of Cecil Place. De Guerre had to contend with many painful feelings, and a provoking consciousness of the strange ascendency his companion had acquired over him, so that he dared hardly speak his own words, or think his own thoughts. Nor could he trace this to any external influence: the man was plain almost to vulgarity; his dress common; and though his sword-blade was strong, the handle was perfectly devoid of ornament. His horse was the only thing in his appointments that indicated the station of a gentleman; but the saddle appeared so old and battered, and withal so ill-made, that De Guerre marvelled so noble an animal would condescend to carry such a weight of old leather and damaged flock. It is true, that towards the close of their conversation he had uttered some sentiments that, for a moment, startled the Cavalier; but then he had uttered them in so unskilled and confused a manner, and with such an unmusical voice, that it reminded him, not unaptly, of a blacksmith stringing pearls, so coarse was the medium through which these fine things came. He ventured to console himself, however, by the reflection, that a man of such cool and determined bravery must be, despite external appearances, a person of some consequence: an opinion confirmed by his being a guest, and evidently a privileged guest, of Sir Robert Cecil. He arrived at this conclusion as they passed the postern-gate; and, as the night was now far gone, the old porter lighted his flambeaux to escort them to the house.

As the old man walked some degree in advance, the elder took the opportunity to inquire of his companion,—

"Have you ever seen Mistress Cecil?"

"Seen Mistress Cecil!" repeated De Guerre, in evident embarrassment: "I have seen but few of the ladies of the country—have had few opportunities of doing so."

"Yet you resented the profanation of her name this afternoon under the oak—dost remember that?"

"I know not who you are, sir," retorted Walter, angrily, and at length fully roused from the respectful silence he had so long maintained, "that you should thus cross and question one who sought not your acquaintance. By heavens, if I were a friend (which, thank God, I am not) of him you call Protector, or King, or whatever it be, I would advise him of such persons; for it is the duty of every honest subject to watch over his ruler, as over his father, with the care and the duty—the tenderness and affection of a child. I should like to know how you knew I had a grey steed?"

"Or how I discovered your ruffle with Sir Willmott Burrell after the funeral," interrupted the other; "but be not afraid of meeting him: he left Cecil Place some days ago, to arrange some business. Nay, now, do not crow loudly your defiance, because I mentioned the word fear. What a game-cock it is! pity, that though there is no white feather, there should be no right feather in so gallant a crest!—Methinks the old porter is long in summoning the grooms, so I will enter in the name of the Lord; and do thou mind, 'Old Thunder,'" he added, in a gentle tone, at the same time patting the curved neck of the noble creature, who turned round his head at the caress, as if in appreciation of its value.

De Guerre took the bridle almost mechanically in his hand, and at the same time muttered, "Left here, like a groom, to hold his horse! By the Lord! I'll groom it for no man—yet, 'tis no disgrace, even to knighthood, to handle a good steed; though I'd bet my poor Jubilee against him.—Ah! here they come—" and he was preparing to resign his charge right gladly to two servants, who advanced from a side-door just as the stranger had mounted the last of a series of broad and platform-like steps leading to the principal entrance. No sooner, however, had the first of the attendants caught sight of the horseman's cloak and broad-brimmed hat of the stranger, than he sprang up the steps, and seized the garment, as the wearer was entering the hall. He turned fiercely round at the assault; but the aggressor, whom De Guerre now recognised as Springall, hung upon him too firmly to be easily shaken off:—he drew his sword half out of its scabbard, and kept his eye fixed upon the youth.

"I was sure of it! I was sure of it!" shouted Springall; "the cloak, the hat—all! Now will I be even with thee for hanging me over the cliff, like a poor fish in a heron's claw, and all for nothing."

"Go to, Springall," said De Guerre, coming up, pleased at observing that the wrathful glance of the stranger had changed into a smiling good-humoured look at the boy's harmless impetuosity: "Go to, Springall; the double-dub and the Canary are in thine eyes, and in thy scatter-pate. What could you know of this strange gentleman?"

"I vow by the compass," replied the boy, suffering his grasp on the cloak to relax, as he gazed in no less amazement on the Cavalier; "we are bewitched! all bewitched! I left you, sir, on your way to Gull's Nest with wee Robin; and here you are keeping company with this very hey-ho sort of—But by the Law Harry! he's off again!" exclaimed Springall, whose astonishment had got the better of his watchfulness, and who perceived, on turning round, that the mysterious gentleman had disappeared.

"You are not going to be mad enough to follow any one into Sir Robert Cecil's hall!" argued De Guerre, at the same time seizing Springall's arm.

"Oh, Lord! oh, Lord! that I should ever live to see you, sir, in league with a bogle! Why, I vow I had the mark of that devil's hand on me in black lumps, just as if I was burnt with what our scourer calls ague-fortys. As I am a living man, he went from off the brow of the cliff, just like a foam-wreath."

"Pshaw! Spring; how can you or any one else tell 'who's who,' on a dark night?"

"Could I be deceived in the cut of his jib or mainsail, ye'r honour? to say nothing of the figure-head!—Am I a fool?"

"You are not over wise, just now, my gay sailor; so off to your hammock."

"And must I see no more of that old gentleman?"

"Not to-night, Spring; perhaps to-morrow he may give you satisfaction," added Walter, smiling at his own conceit.

The youth went off, not very steadily, to the little gate by which he entered; and a servant immediately announced to De Guerre, that Sir Robert Cecil waited for him in the supper-hall.

He followed the domestic through the great vestibule, which bore a more cheerful aspect than on the sad but memorable night of Hugh Dalton's most unwelcome visit. Although the spring was considerably advanced, the fagot blazed up the huge chimney, and illumined every corner of the overgrown apartment. The grim portraits which graced the walls looked more repugnant than usual in the red light that was thrown upon them by the glowing fire; while beneath hung the very suits of armour in which, if their most approved chroniclers are to be believed, they had performed feats of valour. Upon the table of massive marble were strewed sundry hawk's hoods, bells and jesses; some fishing-tackle, and a silver-mounted fowling-piece also appeared amid the melange; while a little black spaniel, of the breed that was afterwards distinguished by a royal name, was busily engaged in pulling the ears of a magnificent hound of the wolf kind, who, shaggy and sleepy, seemed little disposed to be roused from his lair by the caprioles of the diminutive creature that hardly reached to the first joint of his fore-leg. The lesser animal, in accordance with the general custom of his kind, ran yelping and barking at the stranger as he advanced up the hall; while the more sagacious and dangerous dog raised his head, shook his ears, stretched forth his paws, and elevated his broad chest, then sniffed the air so as to be able to remember De Guerre if ever he needed to do so; seeing that he was escorted by the servant, and therefore, doubtless, a person of respectability, he composed himself again to rest as De Guerre entered the presence of Sir Robert Cecil.

A few weeks had wrought a fearful change upon his countenance and form: the eyes were more hollow, the cheeks more pale, the hair ribanded with white, where but a little before there had been few grey hairs, and the shoulders were much rounded since his interview with the Buccaneer. He proceeded courteously to meet his guest, bowing, and expressing the honour he felt in being introduced (through the Lord's mercy) to the preserver of his friend. The baronet had approached slowly towards De Guerre during this salutation, but either his dim sight, or the obscurity of the further end of the room, prevented his being at first struck with his appearance. As the young man advanced, Sir Robert Cecil's gaze was fastened on his countenance with a gasping earnestness, that shook every fibre of his frame; his lips trembled, and remained apart, and he seemed for a few moments unable to move to the seat he had quitted.

The "friend" he had alluded to was seated in a carved chair near the fire, his foot placed upon a cushioned stool, and his arms folded over his bosom, his head rested on his chest, but his eyes were fixed on the beautiful face of Constance Cecil, who had risen on the stranger's entrance; nor did it escape the notice of so keen an observer, that the lady's cheek was suddenly suffused by a deep hue of crimson, as suddenly succeeded by a pallor and trembling, that made her cling to the arm of Lady Frances Cromwell for support.

"I beg to present," he rose, and said, "to my worthy friend Sir Robert Cecil, and to you, Lady Frances Cromwell, and to you also, Mistress Cecil, this young gentleman, by the name of Walter de Guerre, who, though of French extraction, hath doubtless had an English godfather, who hath favoured him with an English Christian name. And now, most worthy baronet, as master of this mansion, I pray you to present me to him who hath a swift arm and a ready hand for the defence of an attacked soldier."

"Major Wellmore, young gentleman; a tried and trusty friend to the English Commonwealth and its Protector!" said Sir Robert at last; adding, as if in apology for his emotion—"Constance! this strange megrim in my head!" And Constance, with the watchful care of an affectionate child, led him to his seat, presented him a glass of cordial; and not till he had declared himself quite recovered, did she return to her station on the low sofa, beside her friend Lady Frances Cromwell.

De Guerre was particularly struck, during the brief repast that followed, by the extraordinary change in the manner of his companion, who, from being an animated and sensible speaker, upon matters connected with the state, had become more like a mystified and mystifying preacher than a soldier, but whose out-pourings were listened to with reverence and attention by the company. The Cavalier felt himself ill at ease in his presence, and but for a governing motive, hereafter to be explained, would have withdrawn from the house when the supper was concluded, despite the specious invitation, and much pressing to remain; he, however, accepted the apartment provided for him by Sir Robert Cecil. The ladies, attended by their women, withdrew immediately afterwards, and, as Lady Frances kissed her friend's cheek, she whispered,—

"Didst see how Major—plague upon me to forget his name—eyed both you and the handsome stranger?" And then she whispered so as to be quite inaudible, ending by saying—while Constantia affectionately pressed her hand,—

"Ah! those holy eyes of blue, remaining so silent and so fixed, do more mischief than my poor little brown ones, that are ever roaming about seeking what they can devour, but securing no prey."



CHAPTER X.

With that smooth falsehood, whose appearance charms, And reason of each wholesome doubt disarms; Which to the lowest depths of guilt descends, By vilest means pursues the vilest ends. Wears friendship's mask for purposes of spite, Fawns in the day and butchers in the night.

CHURCHILL.

The dwelling of Sir Willmott Burrell was about eighteen or twenty miles from the island of Shepey, on the Kentish border. The mysterious companion of De Guerre had correctly stated, that at the period of his introduction to the Cecil family the youth had little chance of meeting with his treacherous antagonist of the evening on which the remains of Lady Cecil were consigned to the tomb; the knight having been, for some days previous, occupied upon certain weighty affairs within his own house. A bad landlord can never succeed in convincing his tenantry that he is a good man. The presence of Sir Willmott was by no means desirable to his poorer neighbours and dependents, by whom he was at once dreaded and disliked. Rarely, indeed, was it that a blessing ever followed the mention of his name; and, although his influence and authority were such as to render it dangerous to murmur against the one, or oppose the other, Sir Willmott had ample reason to know that he was nowhere surrounded by so many secret enemies as when residing upon his hereditary estate. The domestics who had served his progenitors had long been dismissed, and their places supplied by more subservient creatures, and more willing panders to the vices that had increased with his increasing years. Although he had taken especial care to surround himself with knaves of great apparent devotion, in order that his character might not suffer in the estimation of the few really religious personages by whom he was occasionally visited, it required considerable care to prevent their exposing, by their own depravity, the gross and iniquitous life which their master led. It is seldom that a uniform hypocrite is found among the uneducated; a more than ordinary degree of talent and prudence being necessary to sustain a character that is but assumed. Nature may be suppressed by habitual caution; but the meaner, though not the baser, villain, finds appetite too strong for even interest to control. The household of Sir Willmott Burrell was ill-governed, and the lessons which the master sometimes taught, but never practised, the servants neglected or—despised. The butler, the housekeeper, the steward, and the numerous insubordinate subordinates were evermore in a state of riot and debauchery: the evil had at length grown to such a pitch, that Burrell saw its danger, and more than once resolved to adopt the only remedy, and discharge them altogether; but upon such occasions, he overlooked one very important circumstance, namely, that he was in their power, and was consequently any thing but a free agent in his own house. Burrell knew himself in their toils, and at their mercy. Large sums of money might, perhaps, have purchased their silence, but such a mode of procuring safety was now beyond his reach; and although deeply desirous to rid himself of them before his marriage with Constantia Cecil, he scarcely conceived it possible to escape from their trammels, without subtracting from the fortune that was to accompany her hand. He dreaded the danger of confiding his difficulties to Sir Robert Cecil, by whom they were unsuspected; and his fine property was so considerably mortgaged, as to render an appeal to his ancient friends, the usurers, a matter of much difficulty, if not totally useless. Manasseh Ben Israel, indeed, he knew had an inexhaustible store, and a not unready hand, as he had upon more than one occasion, experienced; but, villain as he was, he shrank from the idea of applying to him for assistance, at the very moment when he was thrusting the iron into his soul.

Burrell was seated alone in his library, musing over the labyrinth from which he saw no immediate prospect of escape; plan succeeding plan, as, unnoticed by him, the twilight had deepened into the night. His doors were ordered to be locked at an early hour—a command which, it is to be supposed, the servants obeyed or disobeyed according to their own pleasure.

The Lords' Commissioners, Fiennes and Lisle, who were travelling round the country on special business, had been his visiters for three or four days; and on the evening on which they took their departure, he was, as we have described him, musing in his library, upon no very amicable terms with himself, when his reverie was broken by a knock against the glass of an oriel window that was sunk deep into an embrasure of the wall. He started from his seat, and was so alarmed at perceiving the face of a man close to the fretted frame-work, as to draw forth a pistol, and present it towards the intruder. In an instant the shivered fragments of an exquisitely tinted pane flew into the library, and a voice exclaimed,—

"It's me!"

"And what is the motive of this destruction?" stormed forth the Master of Burrell, in an angry tone, proceeding at the same time to open the window; "were there not people enough below to bring up your message? and are there not doors enough for you to enter, without clambering twenty feet up a straight wall, and shattering this beautiful picture, the Marriage of St. Catherine, in a thousand pieces?"

"As to the marriage of St. Catherine," observed his visiter, stepping through the casement, "I wish I could break all marriages as easily; and as to the motive, your honour, I did not like to wait quietly, and see a pistol-ball walk towards my witless pate, to convince, by its effects thereupon, the unbelieving world that Robin Hays had brains. As to the domestics, the doors were locked, and they, I do believe, (craving your pardon, sir,) too drunk to open them. As to the wall, it's somewhat straight and slippery; but what signifies a wall to one who can be in safety on a tow-line, and only that between him and eternity? Thank God! there is nothing on my conscience to make my footing tremble—or——"

"Robin Hays," interrupted Burrell at last, "I have listened to you with much patience, because I know you love to hear the sound of your own voice; if you bear either message or letter from my worthy friend Sir Robert Cecil, let me have it at once."

"You are in error, sir, under favour."

"Indeed!—then to whom am I indebted for this visit; for I suppose you came not on your own account?"

"Ah, Sir Willmott!—you are always wise, Sir Willmott; truly it would be ill coming on my own account, seeing that I had no business of my own to bring me, therefore why should I come? and even if I had, Dapple Dumpling travels so slowly."

"This trifling is impertinent," exclaimed the knight angrily: "to your business."

"I hope it wo'n't end in smoke, as it begins in fire," replied Robin, slily presenting a roll of the tobacco vulgarly called pig-tail.

"Mis-shapen wretch!" retorted Burrell in a towering passion, flinging the roll directly in his face, "how dare you to trifle thus with your superiors? art drunk, or mad?"

"Neither, an please ye, Sir Willmott," replied Robin, replacing the tobacco in his bosom; "only since you wo'n't look into the pig-tail, perhaps you will tell me what I am to say to Hugh Dalton."

"Hugh Dalton! There, give it me; why did you not tell me you came from the Buccaneer? Robin, you are a million times worse than a fool! There, sit, good Robin—But, no, light me yon lamp; the fire burns dimly. A murrain on't, I can't see! There, that will do."

While Burrell read Dalton's communication, thus whimsically but carefully conveyed, Robin had ample time to moralise on and observe all around him.

"That table," thought the Ranger, "is just a type of the times. The Bible, it can hardly be seen for the heap of foolish expositions, and preachments, in the shape of pamphlets, that crowd upon it. O, Lord! O, Lord! take from the Puritans their vain opinions, wild imaginations, false valuations, and the like, which they hang over the book that Barbara says has so much good in it (just as the Catholics at San Eustatia trick out the Saviour's figure), and what poor shrunken minds they'd have! Then the bottle and glass: that, I'm afraid, typifies the Cavalier; the poor Cavalier! who clings so firmly to the worn, and lets go the stronger, rope. But mark how the filthy liquor stands beside the pure book!—even so are the just and the unjust mingled. Ah! he has been praying with the Lords' Commissioners; then drinking, and so forth, the instant their backs were turned! Yet, God hath made the double-faced villain of good proportions, so that a woman can look on him with love, though his heart—augh!—I wouldn't have his heart for his lands, no, nor for his fine person either. Barbara can't abide him; she always says he has a black look—and so he has. But hark! there's knocking at the gate, and loud knocking too—Sir Willmott, as the servants can't hear, so can't answer, shall I go down?"

Burrell was so much occupied with his letter, that he heard neither the knocking nor Robin's question, but sat, his eyes staring on the paper, as if the words were of fire. Nor was it a long epistle, though sufficiently important to rivet his whole attention. The contents were as follows:—

April the 6th, 1656.

"SIR,

"Agreeably to your instructions, I went to the house at St. Vallery, where you told me I was to meet the lady of whom we spoke; but she had left harbour a few hours before I entered. With much trouble I succeeded in tracing her to a very odd sort of dwelling, a little outside the town, yet not in time to overtake her or her attendant. Some said one thing, and some another; but I could gather no information to be depended on. I remained nearly nine days in the neighbourhood, watching every vessel that came in or went out; nevertheless, I am persuaded that she has embarked for England: how, is still a mystery.

"Yours, "FIRE-FLY."

"The fellow is careful enough: can it be possible he has played me false? Yet, where the motive, or what?" mused Burrell aloud. The knocking at the door was repeated, but was only answered by the loud baying of a brace of hounds. "And are the rascals really drunk?" inquired their master in a piteous tone, roused at last to a sense of what was passing around him.

"Ay, faith, sir; had I not as well go down? for, though ill-apparelled as a serving-man, methinks I could do the civilities better than the night-wind that howls so cursedly round the entry."

"Ay, go, go! only see that I be not disturbed, unless, indeed, it be some person I must see—some one of consequence."

"Ay," muttered Robin: "so much for modern hospitality!" and he hastened to undo the fastening.

As the chains fell, a small bent figure, completely enveloped in a fur cloak, entered the hall, closely followed by a swarthy attendant, whose high features, quick sparkling eyes, and downcast look bespoke him one of the tribe of Israel.

"Is Sir Willmott Burrell within?" inquired the stranger, letting fall the cloak that had been closely muffled round his face: he spoke, however, in so foreign an accent, that it was a moment or two before Robin could reply.

"I demanded of thee if Sir Willmott Burrell of Burrell was within?" repeated the old man; and as Robin observed him more attentively, he perceived that he was dressed in the peculiar fashion of the high-born Jews: his beard descended nearly to his girdle, and his head was surmounted by a perpendicular cap of yellow silk.

"Sir Willmott Burrell is not well," replied Robin; "but I will take your name, if it please ye, and return speedily with his commands."

"Manasseh Ben Israel demands instant parley with the Master of Burrell."

Robin did not bow, because, as a humble Cavalier and a proud Christian, he held it a point of duty to hate and avoid the despised race to which the stranger belonged; but he made a respectful answer, for the riches of the Rabbi and the favour of Cromwell were not to be contemned. He then proceeded along the hall, and up some narrow stairs, called private, as they led only to the library, and was crossing the apartment for the purpose of announcing Ben Israel, when the Jew, who had closely and unobservedly followed his footsteps with so light a tread as even to escape Robin's ears, passed him suddenly, and as suddenly Burrell of Burrell sprang from his seat, as if struck by a musket-ball. The old man stood before him, his features working, his lips moving, but no articulate sound coming forth—his entire frame agitated, almost convulsed; while Burrell, exerting every power of his mind to the contest, was the first to move. He stepped towards the Jew, extending his hand in token of amity. Ben Israel touched it not, but raised his arm, pointing his skinny and shrivelled finger towards Burrell, until it came on a level with his countenance; then, by a desperate exertion, the cracked, strained voice forced a passage through his parched throat, and he exclaimed,—

"My child!—my only one!—Zillah!—my beloved, my only, only child! Do ye remember your own mother, who travailed for ye, brought ye forth in pain, and carried ye, and nourished ye in her bosom? Do ye ever hope to have a child, who will tend, and serve, and watch over you, as mine once did over me? If so, tell, tell me where mine is!—I will bless you for the knowledge! I, an old man, whose beard is white, implore you, who have ruined her, to tell me where she is!"

The Jew flung his cap on the floor, and prostrated himself before Burrell, who immediately raised him, and in his most persuasive tone sought to soothe and assure the Rabbi he had been in every respect misled and misinformed.

"Sit, good Ben Israel, and comfort yourself; you have, I swear to you, been grossly imposed upon by some malignants whom I must—— Robin! hunt out the knaves, and bring some wine—the best in the old bin, for my good friend. How could you, sir, suppose me capable of betraying the confidence you reposed when you introduced me to the abode in which your fair daughter dwelt? But, granting I had the ascendency over her, which from your speech you seem to infer, how——"

"Sir Christian, stop!" interrupted Ben Israel, who, now his feelings had found vent, had composed himself, so as to meet his wily adversary with tolerable fortitude: "Sir Christian, stop! There are two classes of human kind your sect deceive without regret—betray without compunction—and destroy, body and soul, without remorse—women and Jews. It is nought, sir, nought—mere pastime—women's hearts and reputations, and old men's grey hairs! Alas! alas! and is such the religion of England!" The old man bent his head, and moaned heavily; then, after a little space of time, raised himself, and said, "In the name of the God of Jacob, I will take you point by point! Reply unto my questioning; and, if thou canst, acquit thyself."—A ray of hope darted over his expressive features, like a beam of light athwart a thunder-cloud. "But no," he continued, his countenance again darkening, "it cannot be—it cannot be."

"Worthy Ben Israel! excellent Rabbi!" replied Burrell; "dissect me as you will; and if I answer not thy expectation——"

"Too truly wilt thou answer my expectation," said the Jew. "The Lord of Hosts be praised that these iniquities are unpractised by the children of my people! The innocent lamb torn from the fold; or, what is worse, decoyed from the tents of her fathers! Had she been dead, I could have said, 'The Lord's will be done,' He hath taken the child back into her mother's bosom. But answer unto me these points—Didst often see Zillah?"

"I certainly did see your daughter at times, during my stay in Paris."

"And why, having delivered my messages? Of what importance ought thy visits to have been to one of the despised race?"

"You surely would not impute evil to my inquiring if your daughter wished to write to her father when I forwarded despatches to England?"

"Strange, then, she should never have availed herself of such kindness. Did she give no reason for this neglect of her parent?"

"I saw so little of her," replied Burrell carelessly, "that I really forget."

The Rabbi shook his head.

"Perhaps, then, Sir Willmott Burrell, you can remember this trinket, and inform me how it came into my daughter's hands: it was forced from her previous to her flight."

Burrell started, for it was a miniature of himself, which he had given her in the bud of his affection. At last he brazened out an assurance that, however like, it was not his; that he could not tell how young ladies obtained miniature pictures; that, if the Rabbi would look, he would observe the hair and eyes to be much lighter.

"Man!" exclaimed the Rabbi, fixing his keen black eye upon Burrell, "away from before me! Guilt and falsehood are on your lip. Your eye, the eye of the proud Christian, quails before the gaze of the despoiled and despised Jew; were you innocent, you would stand firm as I do now, erect in your Maker's image. Do you not tremble lest God's own lightnings blast you? Did you ever read, and reading believe, the Christian story of Ananias and Sapphira!"

If Burrell had possessed an atom of human feeling, he would have sunk abashed to the earth, and entreated the forgiveness of the Rabbi, whose flashing eyes and extended features glared and swelled with indignation; but the only two emotions that at the time contended within him were cowardice and pride. Had he the power, gladly would he have struck the Jew to death, as a punishment for what he deemed his insolence; but he feared the protecting and avenging hand of Cromwell, who never resigned a cherished purpose or a cherished person, and whose esteem for the learned Rabbi was perfectly known, and much talked of about the court.

"You cannot avoid crediting me for meekness, Ben Israel," he said, without, however, raising his eyes from the ground (for his blood boiled in his veins, though he spoke in a gentle tone); "you have come into my house, rated me upon a foul charge, and will not permit me to speak in my own defence. Take a cup of this wine, and then I will hear, if you can adduce it, further proof than that false portrait."

The Rabbi touched not the proffered beverage, but withdrew from his vest sundry letters, which he unfolded with a trembling hand: they were the communications he had received from the Polish Jew, with whose family at Paris his daughter had remained. He stated Burrell's extraordinary attention to Zillah, during his residence abroad—the frequent letters that passed between them under pretence of a correspondence with her father—her having received others from England since Burrell's return—her total change of manner—and, finally, her having quitted his house, and his being unable to discover where she had gone. Strong suspicions were added that she had followed Burrell to, and was now in, England; and there was a long and formal expression of regret from the Polish Jew that he had ever admitted the Christian beyond the threshold of his door.

The villain breathed more freely when he ascertained that the fugitive had not been traced from St. Vallery; and he felt he could have braved the affair with perfect ease and indifference, but for the information conveyed by Dalton's letter, and the consequent dread of Zillah's appearing before him, perhaps at the very moment that the often-asserted, and sworn to, lie passed his lips. It was now more difficult to dissemble than he had ever yet found it; he saw clearly that his oaths and protestations made but little impression upon the mind of Ben Israel, who filled up every pause either by lamentations for his daughter, execrations on her seducer, or touching appeals to one whose feelings were centred in self, and who therefore had little sympathy for sorrow that would have moved a heart of stone. Burrell was so thoroughly overpowered by the events of the evening, that the only point of exertion on which his mind rallied was a strong wish to rid himself of the Jew as speedily as possible, so that he might find opportunity to collect and arrange his thoughts—it therefore occurred to him to assume the bearing of injured innocence, as protestations had been of no avail; he accordingly said, in a tone and with a manner so earnest, that at the moment it almost destroyed the suspicions of the Rabbi:—

"Sir, I have over and over again asserted enough to convince any rational person that I know nothing of the crime you impute to me; having, in my own estimation, performed all that could be required, I must now withdraw. If you please to lay your statement before his Highness, I will defend myself, as I have now done, and let him judge between thee and me."

"I have not been yet able to gain speech with the chosen in Israel," replied Manasseh: "he hath been much from home on secret service for the good of his people."

Burrell exulted at this knowledge, and again protested his innocence in the strongest terms. Manasseh rose to depart. Burrell pressed him to remain; but the old man resolutely refused.

"I am about to go forth from your dwelling. If you have not been the seducer of my child, I crave your pardon in deep humility, and will do penance in sackcloth and ashes for having wrongfully accused you; but," he added, bitterly, "if you have wronged me, and devoted her soul to destruction, may the curse of the old Jew enter into your veins, and curdle the red blood to a hot and destroying poison!—may the flowers of the spring be to you scentless and revolting!—may the grass wither under your footsteps!—may the waters of the valley be even as molten lead unto your parched lips!—may——"

"Dog of an unbeliever!" exclaimed Burrell, whose temper could no longer brook the taunting curses of the old man, and whose coward spirit quailed beneath them, "hold thy foul tongue, lest I pluck it from between thy teeth. Had I been a circumcised Jew, and thou a Christian, I could not have listened with more humility; and this is the reward of my forbearance—curses deep and bitter as the waters of the Dead Sea."

"They cannot harm if thou art innocent. I have neither broken bread nor tasted salt within thy walls; and now I shake the dust from off my feet upon thy threshold. Thy words at first were of honey and the honey-comb, but now are they as gall. Others must deal with thee. The prayer of the bereaved father was as a tinkling cymbal in thine ears; but the curse—the curse knocked at thy heart, and it trembled. Others must deal with thee."

Manasseh Ben Israel repeated the curse with terrible energy; then shaking the dust from his sandals, he passed, and entered, with his attendant, the carriage that awaited him at the gate.

Burrell was convinced, and humbled by the conviction, that an irresistible impulse had compelled him to desert his sophistry, and stand forth in his real character before one who had the ear of the Protector, and whose religious persuasion had not prevented his advancement, or his being regarded as a man of extraordinary mental attainments, even in a country, the prejudices of which, always deeply-rooted, were at that time peculiarly directed against the Jews. This people were devoted in their attachment to Cromwell; and it was believed that they would not have scrupled to declare him the Messiah could they have traced his descent in any degree, however remote, to the dwellers in Judah. Manasseh had mixed so much with Christians, and had been treated by the Protector so completely as an equal, that he retained but little of the servility of tone or manner, and less of the cringing and submissive demeanour, that characterised his tribe; he therefore spoke boldly to Sir Willmott Burrell, after a burst of strong and bitter feeling. He knew himself protected by the ruler of England, and felt undaunted in the presence of one he could easily destroy; but then he was a father, and as such impelled by nature to adopt every expedient that might promote the disclosure of a secret on which almost his life depended, and which, he doubted not, was, in some shape or other, in the keeping of his wily opponent.

"A pretty scrape my villanies have brought me into!" thought Burrell, as he returned to his chamber: "the girl will come over—that stops a wedding. Suppose I were to take Zillah to wife—the old rascal would not give me a maravedi. Suppose, before I have secured Constance, Cromwell listens to the Rabbi's tale, he will forbid my marriage to please the accursed Jew, and I—may blow my brains out. Suppose I marry at once—But how? Lady Cecil not many weeks dead! I must manage it, however," he continued, pacing the apartment, while Robin, who had ascertained the impossibility of rousing the ill-governed menials from their state of hopeless debauchery, amused himself by counting the number of times the Master of Burrell walked up and down the room. At length, finding such dull watching wearisome, he ventured to enter, and inquire if he were to remain at Burrell House, or return to the Gull's Nest.

"Well thought on, Robin Hays," said the knight, as if roused, and not unpleasantly, from himself and his thoughts; "you will rest here to-night, and accompany me to Cecil Place on the morrow. See to these rioters, of whom I must rid my house."

"You had better do it, then, immediately," retorted Robin, "or they will save you trouble by ridding you of your house."

"True, good Robin; you are ready-witted."

"And, to keep up my character, I'll back to Cecil Place this very hour," muttered Robin, as he closed the door; "there is one there who must not tarry the coming of Sir Willmott Burrell."



CHAPTER XI.

But such it is: and though we may be taught To have in childhood life, ere love we know, Yet life is useless till by reason taught, And love and reason up together grow.

SIR W. DAVENANT.

"And, indeed, my grave Lady Constance plays with the poor fish in a very sportsmanlike manner; only, methinks, a little too shy, and a trifle too sensitive! Marry, girl! what a most yielding, docile, and affectionate wife you would make!—like one of the heroines in the ancient Spanish romances; or such a one as—Judith!—no—for you would never venture to chop off a man's head—Stay—did she so?—or—Barbara! you are well read in Scripture history; and, though you ply your needle so industriously, that will not prevent your calling to mind some of the holy women in the Bible, to whom your mistress may be compared."

Barbara Iverk, who had no other duty at Cecil Place than to wait upon the young heiress or assist in her embroidery, was considered and treated more as a humble companion than a menial; and Lady Frances Cromwell talked just as freely to Mistress Cecil in her presence as if they were perfectly alone. Nor was such confidence ever abused by the gentle girl. She moved within her small circle like an attendant satellite upon a brilliant star—silent and submissive—yet ever in her place, ever smiling, innocent, and happy,—

"A maid whom there were few to praise, And very few to love."

Simple and single-minded, her soul had never been contaminated by the idea, much less the utterance, of falsehood. Even to Constantia, the fulness of her worth and fidelity was unknown; although the bare contemplation of Barbara's ever parting from her was one of actual pain.

She replied to the lively question of the Lady Frances in her usual straightforward and unpresuming manner: a manner that afforded considerable amusement to the merry trifler, by whom the little Puritan was commonly spoken of, while absent, as "the fresh primrose."

"Indeed, my lady, I do not like mixing up profane and holy things together."

"Fie, Barbara! to call your mistress profane. Constance, do put down those heavy poems of Giles Fletcher, and listen to your bower-maiden, describing you as one of the profane."

Constance looked up and smiled; while poor Barbara endeavoured to free herself from the charge with earnestness and humility.

"My Lady Frances, I ask your pardon; but I can hardly, I fear, make you understand what I mean. I know that Mistress Cecil is always aiming at the excellence to which the holy women of Scripture attained—but——"

"Then she has not attained their holiness in your estimation? She is too earthly still?"

"She is my dear and noble lady, and to know her is to love her," replied Barbara, her brown, affectionate eyes swimming in tears at the wilful perversion of her words. "May I beg, Lady Frances, that you will condescend not to question so poor and simple a girl as myself on what I know so little of?"

"There you are again in error, Barbara," retorted her tormentor, who, like most wits, cherished a jest more than the feelings of those she jested with; "I condescend when questioning, not when silent."

Barbara made no reply, and Lady Frances, who was, at the same time, pulling to pieces a superb fan of ostrich feathers, proceeded to open her light battery against Constantia.

"How is Sir Robert this morning? I wish he were rid of the rheumatism, and with us again. I have hardly seen him since the valiant De Guerre made his appearance among us, except at dinner; and, indeed, he looks ill, though—heigh ho!—I wish all papas were as accommodating, and let their daughters flirt with whom they like."

"Flirt, Lady Frances?"

"Yes, flirt, Mistress Cecil! Is there any thing appalling in the word? though I believe it somewhat of the newest. Now, poor I have no skill in these matters! If I see a pretty fellow, I care not who knows it; I like a jest, a laugh, tempered with all rightful modesty. I do not prim my mouth, tutor my eyes into sobriety, nor say Amen, like old Will's Macbeth, to those who say 'God bless us!' I laugh my laugh, and look my look, and say my say, though I am youngest, and, by God's grace, wildest of his Highness the Protector's children."

"Where got you your gay spirit, Lady Frances?" said Constantia, rising and stepping towards her.

"My mother is a discreet matron as need be, but my father was not always one of the gloomy rulers of this gloomy land: he had his wild days, though it is treason to speak of them now; and, in sooth, he sometimes forgets that young blood runs swifter than old—How he lectures poor Richard!"

"The Lord Richard is not cast in his great father's mould; he is a gentler and a feebler spirit; one who loves to hear of, or to read of, great deeds, rather than to act them. Lady Fauconberg is more like your father."

"My sister Mary would certainly have made a fine man. It was one of nature's blunders to convert such coarse clay into a woman."

"She has a noble mind, Frances, though not so holy a one as the Lady Claypole."

"Well, dear Constance, you are very good to bear with me. Suppose, now, my father, instead of sending me here, had commanded that I should sojourn and mystify with that righteous Mrs. Lambert, whom he magnifies into a model of holiness; what a time I should have passed! Why, the nuns, whom the holy Sexburga placed up yonder, had not as much loneliness; don't you think the place was admirably adapted for an elopement? I am certain—nay, you need not smile—for I am quite certain, that every one of the seventy-seven maidens, of whom history tells us, including the charming Ermenilda herself, fully made up their minds to run off with the Danes before they came to the island. I wish, though, that your father could be persuaded to consider this only a summer residence, for it must be a little dreary, I think. Not that I feel it such, for you are so kind; and just as we were beginning to grow a little dull or so, a flourish—and enter Walter De Guerre, under the auspices of Major Wellmore! Ha! ha! ha! Well it has amused me so much. He certainly is a most charming person; and if one, who is not here, were here, I should be inclined to tease him a little by my vast admiration of this gentleman. By the way, Sir Willmott Burrell has little reason to thank Major Wellmore for this new introduction; though it must be quite delightful to make either a lover or a husband jealous. Ah, I see you do not agree with me—I did not expect you would; but, do you know, I have taken it into my head that this De Guerre is not De Guerre."

"Indeed! who is he then?"

"That, Constantia, is exactly what I want to know—and I think you could unravel the mystery."

"My dear Frances, you are a very unaccountable person; always playing false yourself, you hardly ever give people credit for being true."

"You are vastly complimentary. Ah, Constance, when you come to Hampton, you must learn some court observances. When we were children together, we spoke truth."

"Were we not very happy then?"

"We were," said Frances, drawing a heavy sigh; "but how changed the times since then! Constance, those who walk along a precipice may well dread falling. Gay, giddy as I am, Cromwell has not a child who glories in him more than I do."

"And well you may," added Constance, whose dignity of soul led her to appreciate, with as much judgment as enthusiasm, the extraordinary man who commanded the admiration, not only of England, but of Europe. "Well may you be proud of the most successful statesman, the most resolute general, the most useful Christian that ever governed a state. By his power he holds our enemies in subjection; and guides our friends by his wisdom. I am but a poor politician, yet, methinks, I could almost worship your father for the spirit and humanity with which he succours those poor persecuted Vaudois, who have kept their faith pure as the breath of their native valleys: when I think of this, even the conqueror is forgotten in the man."

"You are a dear noble creature," exclaimed Frances, as she gazed with admiration upon the animated and expressive countenance of her companion; then encircling her neck, and kissing her cheek, with that delightful warmth of manner which can spring only from warmth of feeling, she continued, "I wish, my love, that flush were always on your cheek. You nourish some secret sorrow, Constance; nay, I am sure you do; and I will write and say so to my sister Claypole, who is worthy to be your confidant, as well as your godmother, though I am not. Nay, nay, I know it well: I admire, but do not quite understand you. The heavens are given us to hope for, and the sun to look upon, and—but dear me! that would be—a simile! I vow that sounded like rhyme; but here comes reason, in the shape of our new knight. Adieu! dear Constantia!—Barbara! that is surely Robin Hays, groping among the slopes like a huge hedgehog. Did you not want to consult him as to the management of the peewits' eggs?"

"In truth, yes, my lady," replied Barbara, rising from a half-finished carnation:—"May I go, mistress?"

Constance assented.

"May I go, mistress?" repeated Lady Frances, mimicking Barbara's tone and courtesy, in her light-hearted gaiety.

"Yes," replied Constantia firmly, "I would rather you did; for I have something particular to say to Major Wellmore's friend."

"Now, is not that just like Constance Cecil?" thought Lady Frances, as she left the room; "another would have said any thing rather than the truth—yet is truth a noble thing: something to venerate as well as love—the best of virtues, the wisest of counsellors, and the firmest of friends."

Constance rose from her seat as the Cavalier entered; but there was an expression of deep sorrow over his whole countenance, that was almost immediately communicated to hers. What an extraordinary and undefinable tie is that which binds souls and sympathies together—the voice, that is heard only by the ear of affection—the look, that only one can understand—the silent thrill of happiness or of anguish, communicated by a smile or by a sigh! The world may sneer at, or may condemn; yet most true it is, that they who love with the most purity and the most truth, draw nearest to that great Spirit who is the perfection of both!

"I am come," said De Guerre, "to bid for awhile farewell to Mistress Cecil; to thank her for the kindness I have received under this roof; and to assure her that it can never be forgotten."

"You have received but little attention—too little, indeed; yet, my father's health—our recent heavy affliction—will, I am sure, plead for us, and win an excuse. I was not, however, aware that your departure would come so suddenly. Is my father apprised of it?"

"He is not:—forgive me, lady; but I could not avoid saying how much and how truly I have felt the kind consideration you have bestowed upon one who, however worthy, I hope, in many respects, has nevertheless deceived you."

"De Guerre may deceive me," replied Constance, with considerable emotion, extending one hand as she spoke, and covering her face with the other, "De Guerre may deceive me, but Walter—dear Walter—never."

The young man took her offered hand, and pressed it affectionately to his lips. "Ah! how soon you saw in the Cavalier the companion and playmate of your childhood, though you believed him dead! Women have quick eyes, and warm hearts for old friends. Unrecognised by my nurse—by your father—yet discovered by you—by you only, Constance! I need not say, do not betray me; do not breathe, even to those walls, who it is that has entered within them; let it remain secret as the grave. But I need not urge you thus, for treachery is not in your nature; let me talk of other things, and ask by what token, Constance, did you trace me through the disguise that years, and the burning sun of many a parched land, have thrown over my features and my form?"

"It was your voice that struck me first—some tones and modulations, that I well remembered when you called my dog:—then the unforgotten locket which you placed in my hand, which, when I had seen you, I knew could have been placed there by no other:—then——" Constance paused and blushed; she ought to have felt angry at the liberty that had been taken with her tresses, but she gave no expression to such a feeling; and the pause was broken by the Cavalier, who drew from his bosom the beautiful braid of which the maiden had been robbed.

The colour on Constantia's cheek was succeeded by a deadly paleness.

"Ah! what a moment it was, by that old temple, the lily triumphing over the rose on your fair cheek, even more than now, yet with such mild and gentle triumph, one scarce could wish it less; your eyes veiled by those soft lashes:—well, no more—I will say no more of this. I tried my poor skill to call you back to life, and, just as I succeeded, your companion and attendant came in sight. Since then, this dear memento has nestled near my heart, a shield against evil, and against evil thoughts. What! still so pale? you must be ill, my sweet friend," he inquired tenderly.