"He that you caught with the King's letter?"

"Aye—a trumpery missive, dealing with naught but summoning of the sheriff's posse and the like. There is more behind, could we but wait to get at it."

"The gallows may loosen his tongue. And how of the girl that was taken too?"

"I have her in safe keeping. This very evening I shall visit her, and make another trial to get some speech. Which puts me in mind—"

The Colonel tinkled a small hand bell that lay on the table.

The pause that followed was broken by the Earl.

"May I see the letter?"

The Colonel handed it, and tinkled the bell again, more impatiently. At length steps were heard in the hall, and a servant open'd the door.

"Where is Giles?" ask'd the Colonel. "Why are you taking his place?"

"Giles can't be found, your honor."

"Hey?"

"He's a queer oldster, your honor, an' maybe gone to bed wi' his aches and pains."

(I knew pretty well that Giles had done no such thing: but be sure I kept the knowledge safe behind my screen.)

"Then go seek him, and say—No, stop: I can't wait. Order the coach around at the barbican in twenty minutes from now—twenty minutes, mind, without fail. And say—'twill save time—the fellow's to drive me to Mistress Finch's house in St. Thomas' Street—sharp!"

As the man departed on his errand, the Earl laid down His Majesty's letter.

"Hang the fellow," he said, "if they want it: the blame, if any, will be theirs. But, in the name of Heaven, Colonel, don't fail in lending me this thousand men! 'Twill finish the war out of hand."

"I'll do it," answered the Colonel slowly.

"And I'll remember it," said the Earl. "To-morrow, at six o'clock, I set out."

The two men shook hands on their bargain and left the room, shutting the door after them.

I crept forth from behind the screen, my heart thumping on my ribs. Thus far it had been all fear and trembling with me; but now this was chang'd to a kind of panting joy. 'Twas not that I had spied the prison keys hanging near the fireplace, nor that behind the screen lay a heap of the Colonel's riding boots, whereof a pair, ready spurr'd, fitted me choicely well; but that my ears tingled with news that turn'd my escape to a matter of public welfare: and also that the way to escape lay plann'd in my head.

Shod in the Colonel's boots, I advanc'd again to the table. With sealing-wax and the Governor's seal, that lay handy, I clos'd up the King's letter, and sticking it in my breast, caught down the bunch of keys and made for the door.

The hall was void. I snatch'd down a cloak and heavy broad-brimm'd hat from one of the pegs, and donning them, slipp'd back the bolts of the heavy door. It opened without noise. Then, with a last hitch of the cloak, to bring it well about me, I stepp'd forth into the night, shutting the door quietly on my heels.

My feet were on the pavement of the inner ward. Above, one star only broke the blackness of the night. Across the court was a sentry tramping. As I walk'd boldly up, he stopped short by the gate between the wards and regarded me.

Now was my danger. I knew not the right key for the wicket: and if I fumbled, the fellow would detect me for certain. I chose one and drew nearer; the fellow look'd, saluted, stepp'd to the wicket, and open'd it himself.

"Good night, Colonel!"

I did not trust myself to answer: but passed rapidly through to the outer ward. Here, to my joy, in the arch'd passage of the barbican gate, was the carriage waiting, the porter standing beside the door; and here also, to my dismay, was a torch alight, and under it half a dozen soldiers chatting. A whisper pass'd on my approach—

"The Colonel!" and they hurried into the guardroom.

"Good evening, Colonel!" The porter bow'd low, holding the door wide.

I pass'd him rapidly, climb'd into the shadow of the coach, and drew a long breath.

Then ensued a hateful pause, as the great gates were unbarr'd. I gripp'd ray knees for impatience.

The driver spoke a word to the porter, who came round to the coach door again.

"To Mistress Finch's, is it not?"

"Ay," I muttered; "and quickly."

The coachman touched up his pair. The wheels mov'd; went quicker. We were outside the Castle.

With what relief I lean'd back as the Castle gates clos'd behind us! And with what impatience at our slow pace I sat upright again next minute! The wheels rumbled over the bridge, and immediately we were rolling easily down hill, through a street of some importance: but by this time the shutters were up along the shop fronts and very few people abroad. At the bottom we turn'd sharp to the left along a broader thoroughfare: and then suddenly drew up.

"Are we come?" I wonder'd. But no: 'twas the city gate, and here we had to wait for three minutes at least, till the sentries recogniz'd the Colonel's coach and open'd the doors to us. They stood on this side and that, presenting arms, as we rattled through; and next moment I was crossing a broad bridge, with the dark Avon on either side of me, and the vessels thick thereon, their lanterns casting long lines of yellow on the jetty water, their masts and cordage looming up against the dull glare of the city.

Soon we were between lines of building once more, shops, private dwellings and warehouses intermix'd; then pass'd a tall church; and in about two minutes more drew up again. I look'd out.

Facing me was a narrow gateway leading to a house that stood somewhat back from the street, as if slipping away from between the lines of shops that wedg'd it in on either hand. Over the grill a link was burning. I stepp'd from the coach, open'd the gate, and crossing the small court, rang at the house bell.

At first there was no answer. I rang again: and now had the satisfaction to hear a light footfall coming. A bolt was pull'd and a girl appear'd holding a candle high in her hand. Quick as thought, I stepped past her into the passage.

"Delia!"

"Jack!"

"Hist! Close the door. Where is Mistress Finch?"

"Upstairs, expecting Colonel Essex. Oh, the happy day! Come—" she led me into a narrow back room and setting down the light regarded me—"Jack, my eyes are red for thee!"

"I see they are. To-morrow I was to be hang'd."

She put her hands together, catching her breath: and very lovely I thought her, in her straight grey gown and Puritan cap.

"They have been questioning me. Didst get my letter?"

The answer was on my lip when there came a sound that made us both start.

'Twas the dull echo of a gun firing, up at the Castle.

"Delia, what lies at the back here?"

"A garden and a garden door: after these a lane leading to Redcliff Street."

"I must go, this moment."

"And I?"

She did not wait my answer, but running out into the passage, she came swiftly back with a heavy key. I open'd the window.

"Delia! De-lia!" 'Twas a woman's voice calling her, at the head of the stairs.

"Aye, Mistress Finch."

"Who was that at the door?"

I sprang into the garden and held forth a hand to Delia. "In one moment, mistress!" call'd she, and in one moment was hurrying with me across the dark garden beds. As she fitted the key to the garden gate, I heard the voice again.

"De-lia!"

'Twas drown'd in a—wild rat-a-tat! on the street door, and the shouts of many voices. We were close press'd.

"Now, Jack—to the right for our lives! Ah, these clumsy skirts!"

We turn'd into the lane and rac'd down it. For my part, I swore to drown myself in Avon rather than let those troopers retake me. I heard their outcries about the house behind us, as we stumbled over the frozen rubbish heaps with which the lane was bestrewn.

"What's our direction?" panted I, catching Delia's hand to help her along.

"To the left now—for the river."

We struck into a narrow side street; and with that heard a watchman bawl—-

"Past nine o' the night, an' a—!"

The shock of our collision sent him to finish his say in the gutter.

"Thieves!" he yell'd.

But already we were twenty yards away, and now in a broader street, whereof one side was wholly lin'd with warehouses. And here, to our dismay, we heard shouts behind, and the noise of feet running.

About halfway down the street I spied a gateway standing ajar, and pull'd Delia aside, into a courtyard litter'd with barrels and timbers, and across it to a black empty barn of a place, where a flight of wooden steps glimmer'd, that led to an upper story. We climb'd these stairs at a run,

"Faugh! What a vile smell!"

The loft was pil'd high with great bales of wool, as I found by the touch, and their odor enough to satisfy an army. Nevertheless, I was groping about for a place to hide, when Delia touch'd me by the arm, and pointed.

Looking, I descried in the gloom a tall quadrilateral of purple, not five steps away, with a speck of light shining near the top of it, and three dark streaks running down the middle, whereof one was much thicker than the rest. 'Twas an open doorway; the speck, a star fram'd within it; the broad streak, a ship's mast reaching up; and the lesser ones two ends of a rope, working over a pulley above my head, and used for lowering the bales of wool on shipboard.

Advancing, I stood on the sill and look'd down. On the black water, twenty feet below, lay a three-masted trader, close against the warehouse. My toes stuck out over her deck, almost.

At first glance I could see no sign of life on board: but presently was aware of a dark figure leaning over the bulwarks, near the bows. He was quite motionless. His back was toward us, blotted against the black shadow; and the man engag'd only, it seem'd, in watching the bright splash of light flung by the ship's lantern on the water beneath him.

I resolv'd to throw myself on the mercy of this silent figure; and put out a hand to test the rope. One end of it was fix'd to a bale of wool that lay, as it had been lower'd, on the deck. Flinging myself on the other, I found it sink gently from the pulley, as the weight below moved slowly upward: and sinking with it, I held on till my feet touch'd the deck.

Still the figure in the bows was motionless.

I paid out my end of the rope softly, lowering back the bale of wool: and, as soon as it rested again on deck, signalled to Delia to let herself down.

She did so. As she alighted, and stood beside me, our hands bungled. The rope slipp'd up quickly, letting down the bale with a run.

We caught at the rope, and stopp'd it just in time: but the pulley above creak'd vociferously. I turn'd my head.

The man in the bows had not mov'd.



CHAPTER X.

CAPTAIN POTTERY AND CAPTAIN SETTLE.

"Now either I am mad or dreaming," thought I: for that the fellow had not heard our noise was to me starkly incredible. I stepp'd along the deck toward him: not an inch did he budge. I touch'd him on the shoulder.

He fac'd round with a quick start.

"Sir," said I, quick and low, before he could get a word out—"Sir, we are in your hands. I will be plain. To-night I have broke out of Bristol Keep, and the Colonel's men are after me. Give me up to them, and they hang me to-morrow: give my comrade up, and they persecute her vilely. Now, sir, I know not which side you be, but there's our case in a nutshell."

The man bent forward, displaying a huge, rounded face, very kindly about the eyes, and set atop of the oddest body in the world: for under a trunk extraordinary broad and strong, straddled & pair of legs that a baby would have disown'd—so thin and stunted were they, and (to make it the queerer) ended in feet the most prodigious you ever saw.

As I said, this man lean'd forward, and shouted into my ear so that I fairly leap'd in the air—

"My name's Pottery—Bill Pottery, cap'n o' the Godsend—an' you can't make me hear, not if you bust yoursel'!"

You may think this put me in a fine quandary.

"I be deaf as nails!" bawl'd he.

'Twas horrible: for the troopers (I thought) if anywhere near, could not miss hearing him. His voice shook the very rigging.

"... An' o' my crew the half ashore gettin' drunk, an' the half below in a very accomplished state o' liquor: so there's no chance for 'ee to speak!"

He paus'd a moment, then roared again—-

"What a pity! 'Cos you make me very curious—that you do!"

Luckily, at this moment, Delia had the sense to put a finger to her lip. The man wheel'd round without another word, led us aft over the blocks, cordage, and all manner of loose gear that encumber'd the deck, to a ladder that, toward the stern, led down into darkness. Here he sign'd to us to follow; and, descending first, threw open a door, letting out a faint stream of light in our faces. 'Twas the captain's cabin, lin'd with cupboards and lockers: and the light came from an oil lamp hanging over a narrow deal table. By this light Captain Billy scrutiniz'd us for an instant: then, from one of his lockers, brought out pen, paper, and ink, and set them on the table before me.



I caught up the pen, dipp'd it, and began to write—

"I am John Marvel, a servant of King Charles; and this night am escap'd out of Bristol Castle. If you be—"

Thus far I had written without glancing up, in fear to read the disappointment of my hopes. But now the pen was caught suddenly from my fingers, the paper torn in shreds, and there was Master Pottery shaking us both by the hand, nodding and becking, and smiling the while all over his big red face.

But he ceas'd at last: and opening another of his lockers, drew forth a horn lantern, a mallet, and a chisel. Not a word was spoken as he lit the lantern and pass'd out of the cabin, Delia and I following at his heels.

Just outside, at the foot of the steps, he stoop'd, pull'd up a trap in the flooring, and disclos'd another ladder stretching, as it seem'd, down into the bowels of the ship. This we descended carefully; and found ourselves in the hold, pinching our noses 'twixt finger and thumb.

For indeed the smell here was searching to a very painful degree: for the room was narrow, and every inch of it contested by two puissant essences, the one of raw wood, the other of bilge water. With wool the place was pil'd: but also I notic'd, not far from the ladder, several casks set on their ends; and to these the captain led us.

They were about a dozen in all, stacked close together: and Master Pottery, rolling two apart from the rest, dragg'd them to another trap and tugg'd out the bungs. A stream of fresh water gush'd from each and splash'd down the trap into the bilge below. Then, having drained them, he stay'd in their heads with a few blows of his mallet.

His plan for us was clear. And in a very few minutes Delia and I were crouching on the timbers, each with a cask inverted over us, our noses at the bungholes and our ears listening to Master Pottery's footsteps as they climb'd heavily back to deck. The rest of the casks were stack'd close round us, so that even had the gloom allow'd, we could see nothing at all.

"Jack!"

"Delia!"

"Dost feel heroical at all?"

"Not one whit. There's a trickle of water running down my back, to begin with."

"And my nose it itches; and oh, what a hateful smell! Say something to me, Jack."

"My dear," said I, "there is one thing I've been longing these weeks to say: but this seems an odd place for it."

"What is't?"

I purs'd up my lips to the bunghole, and—-

"I love you," said I.

There was silence for a moment: and then, within Delia's cask, the sound of muffled laughter.

"Delia," I urg'd, "I mean it, upon my oath. Wilt marry me, sweetheart?"

"Must get out of this cask first. Oh, Jack, what a dear goose thou art!" And the laughter began again.

I was going to answer, when I heard a loud shouting overhead. 'Twas the sound of someone hailing the ship, and thought I, "the troopers are on us!"

They were, in truth. Soon I heard the noise of feet above and a string of voices speaking one after another, louder and louder. And next Master Pottery began to answer up and drown'd all speech but his own. When he ceas'd, there was silence for some minutes: after which we heard a party descend to the cabin, and the trampling of their feet on the boards above us. They remain'd there some while discussing: and then came footsteps down the second ladder, and a twinkle of light reach'd me through the bunghole of my cask.

"Quick!" said a husky voice; "overhaul the cargo here!"

I heard some half dozen troopers bustling about the hold and tugging out the bales of wool.

"Hi!" call'd Master Pottery: "an' when you've done rummaging my ship, put everything back as you found it."

"Poke about with your swords," commanded the husky voice. "What's in those barrels yonder?"

"Water, sergeant," answers a trooper, rolling out a couple.

"Nothing behind them?"

"No; they're right against the side."

"Drop 'em then. Plague on this business! 'Tis my notion they're a mile a-way, and Cap'n Stubbs no better than a fool to send us back here. He's grudging promotion, that's what he is! Hurry, there— hurry!"

Ten minutes later, the searchers were gone; and we in our casks drawing long breaths of thankfulness and strong odors. And so we crouch'd till, about midnight, Captain Billy brought us down a supper of ship's biscuit: which we crept forth to eat, being sorely cramp'd.

He could not hear our thanks: but guess'd them.

"Now say not a word! To-morrow we sail for Plymouth Sound: thence for Brittany. Hist! We be all King's men aboard the Godsend, tho' hearing nought I says little. Yet I have my reasoning heresies, holding the Lord's Anointed to be an anointed rogue, but nevertheless to be serv'd: just as aboard the Godsend I be Cap'n Billy an' you plain Jack, be your virtues what they may. An' the conclusion is—damn all mutineers an' rebels! Tho', to be sure, the words be a bit lusty for a young gentlewoman's ears."

We went back to our casks with lighter hearts. Howbeit 'twas near five in the morning, I dare say, before my narrow bedchamber allow'd me to drop asleep.

I woke to spy through my bunghole the faint light of day struggling down the hatches. Above, I heard a clanking noise, and the voices of the men hiccoughing a dismal chant. They were lifting anchor. I crawl'd forth and woke Delia, who was yet sleeping: and together we ate the breakfast that lay ready set for us on the head of a barrel.

Presently the sailors broke off their song, and we heard their feet shuffling to and fro on deck.

"Sure," cried Delia, "we are moving!"

And surely we were, as could be told by the alter'd sound of the water beneath us, and the many creakings that the Godsend began to keep. Once more I tasted freedom again, and the joy of living, and could have sung for the mirth that lifted my heart. "Let us but gain open sea," said I, "and I'll have tit-for-tat with these rebels!"

But alas! before we had left Avon mouth twenty minutes, 'twas another tale. For I lay on my side in that dark hold and long'd to die: and Delia sat up beside me, her hands in her lap, and her great eyes fix'd most dolefully. And when Captain Billy came down with news that we were safe and free to go on deck, we turn'd our faces from him, and said we thank'd him kindly, but had no longer any wish that way—too wretched, even, to remember his deafness.

Let me avoid, then, some miserable hours, and come to the evening, when, faint with fasting and nausea, we struggled up to the deck for air, and look'd about us.

'Twas grey—grey everywhere: the sky lead-colored, with deeper shades toward the east, where a bank of cloud blotted the coast line: the thick rain descending straight, with hardly wind enough to set the sails flapping; the sea spread like a plate of lead, save only where, to leeward, a streak of curded white crawled away from under the Godsend's keel.

On deck, a few sailors mov'd about, red eyed and heavy. They show'd no surprise to see us, but nodded very friendly, with a smile for our strange complexions. Here again, as ever, did adversity mock her own image.

But what more took our attention was to see a row of men stretch'd on the starboard side, like corpses, their heads in the scuppers, their legs pointed inboard, and very orderly arranged. They were a dozen and two in all, and over them bent Captain Billy with a mop in his hand, and a bucket by his side: who beckon'd that we should approach.

"Array'd in order o' merit," said he, pointing with his mop like a showman to the line of figures before him.

We drew near.

"This here is Matt. Soames, master o' this vessel—an' he's dead."

"Dead?"

"Dead-drunk, that is. O the gifted man! Come up!" He thrust the mop in the fellow's heavy face. "There now! Did he move, did he wink? 'No,' says you. O an accomplished drunkard!"

He paus'd a moment; then stirr'd up No. 2, who open'd one eye lazily, and shut it again in slumber.

"You saw? Open'd one eye, hey? That's Benjamin Halliday. The next is a black man, as you see: a man of dismal color, and hath other drawbacks natural to such. Can the Aethiop shift his skin? No, but he'll open both eyes. See there—a perfect Christian, in so far as drink can make him."

With like comments he ran down the line till he came to the last man, in front of whom he stepp'd back.

"About this last—he's a puzzler. Times I put him top o' the list, an' times at the tail. That's Ned Masters, an' was once the Reverend Edward Masters, Bachelor o' Divinity in Cambridge College; but in a tavern there fell a-talking with a certain Pelagian about Adam an' Eve, an' because the fellow turn'd stubborn, put a knife into his waistband, an' had to run away to sea: a middling drinker only, but after a quart or so to hear him tackle Predestination! So there be times after all when I sets'n apart, and says, 'Drunk, you'm no good, but half-drunk, you'm priceless.' Now there's a man—" He dropp'd his mop, and, leading us aft, pointed with admiring finger to the helmsman—a thin, wizen'd fellow, with a face like a crab apple, and a pair of piercing grey eyes half hidden by the droop of his wrinkled lids. "Gabriel Hutchins, how old be you?"

"Sixty-four, come next Martinmas," pip'd the helmsman.

"In what state o' life?"

"Drunk."

"How drunk?"

"As a lord!"

"Canst stand upright?"

"Hee-hee! Now could I iver do other?—a miserable ould worms to whom the sweet effects o' quantums be denied. When was I iver wholesomely maz'd? Or when did I lay my grey hairs on the floor, saying, 'Tis enough, an' 'tis good'? Answer me that, Cap'n Bill."

"But you hopes for the best, Gabriel."

"Aye, I hopes—I hopes."

The old man sigh'd as he brought the Godsend a point nearer the wind; and, as we turn'd away with the Captain, was still muttering, his sharp grey eyes fix'd on the vessel's prow.

"He's my best," said Captain Billy Pottery.

With this crew we pass'd four days; and I write this much of them because they afterward, when sober, did me a notable good turn, as you shall read toward the end of this history. But lest you should judge them hardly, let me say here that when they recovered of their stupor—as happen'd to the worst after thirty-six hours—there was no brisker, handier set of fellows on the seas. And this Captain Billy well understood: "but" (said he) "I be a collector an' a man o' conscience both, which is uncommon. Doubtless there be good sots that are not good seamen, but from such I turn my face, drink they never so prettily."

'Twas necessary I should impart some notion of my errand to Captain Billy, tho' I confin'd myself to hints, telling him only 'twas urgent I should be put ashore somewhere on the Cornish coast, for that I carried intelligence which would not keep till we reached Plymouth, a town that, besides, was held by the rebels. And he agreed readily to land me in Bude Bay: "and also thy comrade, if (as I guess) she be so minded," he added, glancing up at Delia from the paper whereon I had written my request.

She had been silent of late, beyond her wont, avoiding (I thought) to meet my eye: but answer'd simply,

"I go with Jack."

Captain Billy, whose eyes rested on her as she spoke, beckon'd me, very mysterious, outside the cabin, and winking slily, whisper'd loud enough to stun one——

"Ply her, Jack"—he had call'd me "Jack" from the first—"ply her briskly! Womankind is but yielding flesh: 'am an amorous man mysel', an' speak but that I have prov'd."

On this—for the whole ship could hear it—there certainly came the sound of a stifled laugh from the other side of the cabin door: but it did not mend my comrade's shy humor, that lasted throughout the voyage.

To be brief, 'twas not till the fourth afternoon (by reason of baffling head winds) that we stepped out of the Godsend's boat upon a small beach of shingle, whence, between a rift in the black cliffs, wound up the road that was to lead us inland. The Godsend, as we turn'd to wave our hands, lay at half a mile's distance, and made a pretty sight: for the day, that had begun with a white frost, was now turn'd sunny and still, so that looking north we saw the sea all spread with pink and lilac and hyacinth, and upon it the ship lit up, her masts and sails glowing like a gold piece. And there was Billy, leaning over the bulwarks and waving his trumpet for "Good-bye!" Thought I, for I little dream'd to see these good fellows again, "what a witless game is this life! to seek ever in fresh conjunctions what we leave behind in a hand shake." 'Twas a cheap reflection, yet it vex'd me that as we turn'd to mount the road Delia should break out singing—-

"Hey! nonni—nonni—no! Is't not fine to laugh and sing When the hells of death do ring!—"

"Why, no," said I, "I don't think it": and capp'd her verse with another—

"Silly man, the cost to find Is to leave as good behind—"

"Jack, for pity's sake, stop!" She put her fingers to her ears. "What a nasty, creaking voice thou hast, to be sure!"

"That's as a man may hold," said I, nettled.

"No, indeed: yours is a very poor voice, but mine is beautiful. So listen."

She went on to sing as she went, "Green as grass is my kirtle," "Tire me in tiffany," "Come ye bearded men-at-arms," and "The Bending Rush." All these she sang, as I must confess, most delicately well, and then fac'd me, with a happy smile—-

"Now, have not I a sweet voice? Why, Jack—art still glum?"

"Delia," answer'd I, "you have first to give me a reply to what, four days agone, I ask'd you. Dear girl—nay then, dear comrade—"

I broke off, for she had come to a stop, wringing her hands and looking in my face most dolefully.

"Oh, dear—oh, dear! Jack, we have had such merry times: and you are spoiling all the fun!"

We follow'd the road after this very moodily; for Delia, whom I had made sharer of the rebels' secret, agreed that no time was to be lost in reaching Bodmin, that lay a good thirty miles to the southwest. Night fell and the young moon rose, with a brisk breeze at our backs that kept us still walking without any feeling of weariness. Captain Billy had given me at parting a small compass, of new invention, that a man could carry easily in his pocket; and this from time to time I examin'd in the moonlight, guiding our way almost due south, in hopes of striking into the main road westward. I doubt not we lost a deal of time among the byways; but at length happen'd on a good road bearing south, and follow'd it till daybreak, when to our satisfaction we spied a hill in front, topp'd with a stout castle, and under it a town of importance, that we guess'd to be Launceston.

By this, my comrade and I were on the best of terms again; and now drew up to consider if we should enter the town or avoid it to the west, trusting to find a breakfast in some tavern on the way. Because we knew not with certainty the temper of the country, it seem'd best to choose this second course: so we fetch'd around by certain barren meadows, and thought ourselves lucky to hit on a road that, by the size, must be the one we sought, and a tavern with a wide yard before it and a carter's van standing at the entrance, not three gunshots from the town walls.

"Now Providence hath surely led us to breakfast," said Delia, and stepped before me into the yard, toward the door.

I was following her when, inside of a gate to the right of the house, I caught the gleam of steel, and turn'd aside to look.

To my dismay there stood near a score of chargers in this second court, saddled and dripping with sweat. My first thought was to run after Delia; but a quick surprise made me rub my eyes with wonder—-

'Twas the sight of a sorrel mare among them—a mare with one high white stocking. In a thousand I could have told her for Molly.

Three seconds after I was at the tavern door, and in my ears a voice sounding that stopp'd me short and told me in one instant that without God's help all was lost.

'Twas the voice of Captain Settle speaking in the taproom; and already Delia stood, past concealment, by the open door.

"... And therefore, master carter, it grieves me to disappoint thee; but no man goeth this day toward Bodmin. Such be my Lord of Stamford's orders, whose servant I am, and as captain of this troop I am sent to exact them. As they displease you, his lordship is but twenty-four hours behind: you can abide him and complain. Doubtless he will hear—ten million devils!"

I heard his shout as he caught sight of Delia. I saw his crimson face as he darted out and gripp'd her. I saw, or half saw, the troopers crowding out after him. For a moment I hesitated. Then came my pretty comrade's voice, shrill above the hubbub—-

"Jack—they have horses outside! Leave me—I am ta'en—and ride, dear lad—ride!"

In a flash my decision was taken, for better or worse. I dash'd out around the house, vaulted the gate, and catching at Molly's mane, leap'd into the saddle.

A dozen troopers were at the gate, and two had their pistols levell'd.

"Surrender!"

"Be hang'd if I do!"

I set my teeth and put Molly at the low wall. As she rose like a bird in air the two pistols rang out together, and a burning pain seem'd to tear open my left shoulder. In a moment the mare alighted safe on the other side, flinging me forward on her neck. But I scrambled back, and with a shout that frighten'd my own ears, dug my heels into her flanks.

Half a minute more and I was on the hard road, galloping westward for dear life. So also were a score of rebel troopers. Twenty miles and more lay before me; and a bare hundred yards was all my start.



CHAPTER XI

I RIDE DOWN INTO TEMPLE: AND AM WELL TREATED THERE.

And now I did indeed abandon myself to despair. Few would have given a groat for my life, with that crew at my heels; and I least of all, now that my dear comrade was lost. The wound in my shoulder was bleeding sore—I could feel the warm stream welling—yet not so sore as my heart. And I pressed my knees into the saddle flap, and wondered what the end would be.

The sorrel mare was galloping, free and strong, her delicate ears laid back, and the network of veins under her soft skin working with the heave and fall of her withers: yet—by the mud and sweat about her—I knew she must have travelled far before I mounted. I heard a shot or two fired, far up the road: tho' their bullets must have fallen short: at least, I heard none whiz past. But the rebels' shouting was clear enough, and the thud of their gallop behind.

I think that, for a mile or two, I must have ridden in a sort of swoon. 'Tis certain, not an inch of the road comes back to me: nor did I once turn my head to look back, but sat with my eyes fastened stupidly on the mare's neck. And by-and-bye, as we galloped, the smart of my wound, the heartache, hurry, pounding of hoofs—all dropp'd to an enchanting lull. I rode, and that was all.

For, swoon or no, I was lifted off earth, as it seemed, and on easy wings to an incredible height, where were no longer hedges, nor road, nor country round; but a great stillness, and only the mare and I running languidly through it.

"Ride!"

Now, at first, I thought 'twas someone speaking this in my ear, and turn'd my head. But 'twas really the last word I had heard from Delia, now after half an hour repeated in my brain. And as I grew aware of this, the dullness fell off me, and all became very distinct. And the muscles about my wound had stiffen'd—which was vilely painful: and the country, I saw, was a brown, barren moor, dotted with peat- ricks: and I cursed it.

This did me good: for it woke the fighting-man in me, and I set my teeth. Now for the first time looking back, I saw, with a great gulp of joy, I had gained on the troopers. A long dip of the road lay between me and the foremost, now topping the crest. The sun had broke through at last, and sparkled on his cap and gorget. I whistled to Molly (I could not pat her), and spoke to her softly: the sweet thing prick'd up her ears, laid them back again, and mended her pace. Her stride was beautiful to feel.

I had yet no clear idea how to escape. In front the moors rose gradually, swelling to the horizon line, and there broken into steep, jagged heights. The road under me was sound white granite and stretch'd away till lost among these fastnesses—in all of it no sign of man's habitation. Be sure I look'd along it, and to right and left, dreading to spy more troopers. But for mile on mile, all was desolate.

Now and then I caught the cry of a pewit, or saw a snipe glance up from his bed; but mainly I was busied about the mare. "Let us but gain the ridge ahead," thought I, "and there is a chance." So I rode as light as I could, husbanding her powers.

She was going her best, but the best was near spent. The sweat was oozing, her satin coat losing the gloss, the spume flying back from her nostrils—"Soh!" I called to her: "Soh! my beauty; we ride to save an army!" The loose stones flew right and left, as she reach'd out her neck, and her breath came shorter and shorter.

A mile, and another mile, we passed in this trim, and by the end of it must have spent three-quarters of an hour at the work. Glancing back, I saw the troopers scattered; far behind, but following. The heights were still a weary way ahead: but I could mark their steep sides ribb'd with boulders. Till these were passed, there was no chance to hide. The parties in this race could see each other all the way, and must ride it out.

And all the way the ground kept rising. I had no means to ease the mare, even by pulling off my heavy jack-boots, with one arm (and that my right) dangling useless. Once she flung up her head and I caught sight of her nostril, red as fire, and her poor eyes starting. I felt her strength ebbing between my knees. Here and there she blundered in her stride. And somewhere, over the ridge yonder, lay the Army of the West, and we alone could save it.

The road, for half a mile, now fetched a sudden loop, though the country on either side was level enough. Had my head been cool, I must have guessed a reason for this: but, you must remember, I had long been giddy with pain and loss of blood—so, thinking to save time, I turned Molly off the granite, and began to cut across.

The short grass and heath being still frozen, we went fairly for the first minute or so. But away behind us, I heard a shout—and it must have been loud to reach me. I learn'd the meaning when, about two hundred yards before we came on the road again, the mare's forelegs went deep, and next minute we were plunging in a black peat-quag.

Heaven can tell how we won through. It must have been still partly frozen, and perhaps we were only on the edge of it. I only know that as we scrambled up on solid ground, plastered and breathless, I looked at the wintry sun, the waste, and the tall hill tow'ring to the right of us, and thought it a strange place to die in.

For the struggle had burst open my wound again, and the blood was running down my arm and off my fingers in a stream. And now I could count every gorsebush, every stone—and now I saw nothing at all. And I heard the tinkling of bells: and then found a tune running in my head—'twas "Tire me in tiffany," and I tried to think where last I heard it.

But sweet gallant Molly must have held on: for the next thing I woke up to was a four-hol'd cross beside the road: and soon after we were over the ridge and clattering down hill.

A rough tor had risen full in front, but the road swerved to the left and took us down among the spurs of it. Now was my last lookout. I tried to sway less heavily in the saddle, and with my eyes searched the plain at our feet.

Alas! Beneath us the waste land was spread, mile upon mile: and I groaned aloud. For just below I noted a clump of roofless cabins, and beyond, upon the moors, the dotted walls of sheep-cotes, ruined also: but in all the sad-color'd leagues no living man, nor the sign of one. It was done with us. I reined up the mare—and then, in the same motion, wheeled her sharp to the right.

High above, on the hillside, a voice was calling.

I look'd up. Below the steeper ridge of the tor a patch of land had been cleared for tillage: and here a yoke of oxen was moving leisurely before a plough ('twas their tinkling bells I had heard, just now); while behind followed the wildest shape—by the voice, a woman.

She was not calling to me, but to her team: and as I put Molly at the slope, her chant rose and fell in the mournfullest singsong.

"So-hoa! Oop Comely Vean! oop, then—o-oop!"

I rose in my stirrups and shouted.

At this and the sound of hoofs, she stay'd the plough and, hand on hip, looked down the slope. The oxen, softly rattling the chains on their yoke, turn'd their necks and gazed. With sunk head Molly heaved herself up the last few yards and came to a halt with a stagger. I slipp'd out of the saddle and stood, with a hand on it, swaying.

"What's thy need, young man—that comest down to Temple wi' sword a- danglin'?"

The girl was a half-naked savage, dress'd only in a strip of sacking that barely reach'd her knees, and a scant bodice of the same, lac'd in front with pack thread, that left her bosom and brown arms free. Yet she appear'd no whit abash'd, but lean'd on the plough-tail and regarded me, easy and frank, as a man would.

"Sell me a horse," I blurted out: "Twenty guineas will I give for one within five minutes, and more if he be good! I ride on the King's errand."

"Then get thee back to thy master, an' say, no horse shall he have o' me—nor any man that uses horseflesh so." She pointed to Molly's knees, that were bow'd and shaking, and the bloody froth dripping from her mouth.

"Girl, for God's sake sell me a horse! They are after me, and I am hurt." I pointed up the road. "Better than I are concerned in this."

"God nor King know I, young man. But what's on thy saddle cloth, there?"

'Twas the smear where my blood had soak'd: and looking and seeing the purple mess cak'd with mud and foam on the sorrel's flank, I felt suddenly very sick. The girl made a step to me.

"Sell thee a horse? Hire thee a bedman, more like. Nay, then, lad—"

But I saw her no longer: only called "oh-oh!" twice, like a little child, and slipping my hold of the saddle, dropp'd forward on her breast.

* * * * * * *

Waking, I found myself in darkness—not like that of night, but of a room where the lights have gone out: and felt that I was dying. But this hardly seem'd a thing to be minded. There was a smell of peat and bracken about. Presently I heard the tramp of feet somewhere overhead, and a dull sound of voices that appear'd to be cursing.

The footsteps went to and fro, the voices muttering most of the time. After a bit I caught a word—"Witchcraft": and then a voice speaking quite close—"There's blood 'pon her hands, an' there's blood yonder by the plough." Said another voice, higher and squeaky, "there's scent behind a fox, but you don't dig it up an' take it home." The tramp passed on, and the voices died away.

By this I knew the troopers were close, and seeking me. A foolish thought came that I was buried, and they must be rummaging over my grave: but indeed I had no wish to enquire into it; no wish to move even, but just to lie and enjoy the lightness of my limbs. The blood was still running. I felt the warmth of it against my back: and thought it very pleasant. So I shut my eyes and dropp'd off again.

Then I heard the noise of shouting, far away: and a long while after that, was rous'd by the touch of a hand, thrust in against my naked breast, over my heart.

"Who is it?" I whispered.

"Joan," answered a voice, and the hand was withdrawn.

The darkness had lifted somewhat, and though something stood between me and the light, I mark'd a number of small specks, like points of gold dotted around me—

"Joan—what besides?"

"Joan's enough, I reckon: lucky for thee 'tis none else. Joan o' the Tor folks call me, but may jet be Joan i' Good Time. So hold thy peace, lad, an' cry out so little as may be."

I felt a ripping of my jacket sleeve and shirt, now clotted and stuck to the flesh. It pain'd cruelly, but I shut my teeth: and after that came the smart and delicious ache of water, as she rinsed the wound.

"Clean through the flesh, lad:—in an' out, like country dancin'. No bullet to probe nor bone to set. Heart up, soce! Thy mother shall kiss thee yet. What's thy name?"

"Marvel, Joan—Jack Marvel."

"An' marvel 'tis thou'rt Marvel yet. Good blood there's in thee, but little enow."

She bandaged the sore with linen torn from my shirt, and tied it round with sackcloth from her own dress. 'Twas all most gently done: and then I found her arms under me, and myself lifted as easy as a baby.

"Left arm round my neck, Jack: an' sing out if 'tis hurtin' thee."

It seemed but six steps and we were out on the bright hillside, not fifty paces from where the plough yet stood in the furrow. I caught a glimpse of a brown neck and a pair of firm red lips, of the grey tor stretching above us and, further aloft, a flock of field fare hanging in the pale sky; and then shut my eyes for the dazzle: but could still feel the beat of Joan's heart as she held me close, and the touch of her breath on my forehead.

Down the hill she carried me, picking the softest turf, and moving with an easeful swing that rather lull'd my hurt than jolted it. I was dozing, even, when a strange noise awoke me.

'Twas a high protracted note, that seem'd at first to swell up toward us, and then broke off in half a dozen or more sharp yells. Joan took no heed of them, but seeing my eyes unclose, and hearing me moan, stopped short.

"Hurts thee, lad?"

"No." 'Twas not my pain but the sight of the sinking sun that wrung the exclamation from me—"I was thinking," I muttered.

"Don't: 'tis bad for health. But bide thee still a-while, and shalt lie 'pon a soft bed."

By this time, we had come down to the road: and the yells were still going on, louder than ever. We cross'd the road, descended another slope, and came all at once on a low pile of buildings that a moment before had been hid. 'Twas but three hovels of mud, stuck together in the shape of a headless cross, the main arm pointing out toward the moor. Around the whole ran a battered wall, patched with furs; and from this dwelling the screams were issuing—

"Joan!" the voice began, "Joan—Jan Tergagle's a-clawin' my legs— Gar-rout, thou hell cat—Blast thee, let me zog! Pull'n off Joan— Jo-an!"

The voice died away into a wail; then broke out in a racket of curses. Joan stepped to the door and flung it wide. As my eyes grew used to the gloom inside, they saw this:—

A rude kitchen—the furniture but two rickety chairs, now toss'd on their faces, an oak table, with legs sunk into the earth, a keg of strong waters, tilted over and draining upon the mud floor, a ladder leading up to a loft, and in two of the corners a few bundles of bracken strewn for bedding. To the left, as one entered, was an open hearth; but the glowing peat-turves were now pitch'd to right and left over the hearthstone and about the floor, where they rested, filling the den with smoke. Under one of the chairs a black cat spat and bristled: while in the middle of the room, barefooted in the embers, crouched a man. He was half naked, old and bent, with matted grey hair and beard hanging almost to his waist. His chest and legs were bleeding from a score of scratches; and he pointed at the cat, opening and shutting his mouth like a dog, and barking out curse upon curse.

No way upset, Joan stepped across the kitchen, laid me on one of the bracken beds, and explain'd—

"That's feyther: he's drunk."

With which she turn'd, dealt the old man a cuff that stretch'd him senseless, and gathering up the turves, piled them afresh on the hearth. This done, she took the keg and gave me a drink of it. The stuff scalded me, but I thanked her. And then, when she had shifted my bed a bit, to ease the pain of lying, she righted a chair, drew it up and sat beside me. The old man lay like a log where he had fallen, and was now snoring. Presently, the fumes of the liquor, or mere faintness, mastered me, and my eyes closed. But the picture they closed upon was that of Joan, as she lean'd forward, chin on hand, with the glow of the fire on her brown skin and in the depths of her dark eyes.



CHAPTER XII.

HOW JOAN SAVED THE ARMY OF THE WEST; AND SAW THE FIGHT ON BRADDOCK DOWN.

But the pain of my hurt followed into my dreams. I woke with a start, and tried to sit up.

Within the kitchen all was quiet. The old savage was still stretch'd on the floor: the cat curled upon the hearth. The girl had not stirr'd: but looking toward the window hole, I saw night out side, and a frosty star sparkling far down in the west.

"Joan, what's the hour?"

"Sun's been down these four hours." She turned her face to look at me.

"I've no business lying here."

"Chose to come, lad: none axed thee, that I knows by."

"Where's the mare? Must set me across her back, Joan, and let me ride on."

"Mare's in stable, wi' fetlocks swelled like puddens. Chose to come, lad; an' choose or no, must bide."

"'Tis for the General Hopton, at Bodmin, I am bound, Joan; and wound or no, must win there this night."

"And that's seven mile away: wi' a bullet in thy skull, and a peat quag thy burial. For they went south, and thy road lieth more south than west."

"The troopers?"

"Aye, Jack: an' work I had this day wi' those same bloody warriors: but take a sup at the keg, and bite this manchet of oat cake while I tell thee."

And so, having fed me, and set my bed straight, she sat on the floor beside me (for the better hearing), and in her uncouth tongue, told how I had been saved. I cannot write her language; but the tale, in sum, was this:—

When I dropp'd forward into her arms, Joan for a moment was taken aback, thinking me dead. But (to quote her) "'no good,' said I, 'in cuddlin' a lad 'pon the hillside, for folks to see, tho' he have a-got curls like a wench: an' dead or 'live, no use to wait for others to make sure.'"

So she lifted and carried me to a spot hard by, that she called the "Jew's Kitchen;" and where that was, even with such bearings as I had, she defied me to discover. There was no time to tend me, whilst Molly stood near to show my whereabouts: so she let me lie, and went to lead the sorrel down to stable.

Her hand was on the bridle when she heard a Whoop! up the road; and there were half a dozen riders on the crest, and tearing down hill toward her. Joan had nothing left but to feign coolness, and went on leading the mare down the slope.

In a while, up comes the foremost trooper, draws rein, and pants out "Where's he to?"

"Who?" asks Joan, making out to be surprised.

"Why, the lad whose mare thou'rt leadin'?"

"Mile an' half away by now."

"How's that?"

"Freshly horsed," explains Joan.

The troopers—they were all around her by this—swore 'twas a lie; but luckily, being down in the hollow, could not see over the next ridge. They began a string of questions all together: but at last a little tun bellied sergeant call'd "Silence!" and asked the girl, "did she loan the fellow a horse?"

Here I will quote her again:—

"'Sir, to thee,' I answer'd, 'no loan at all, but fair swap for our Grey Robin.'

"'That's a lie,' he says; 'an' I won't believe thee.'

"'Might so well,' says I; 'but go to stable, an' see for thysel' (Never had grey horse to my name, Jack; but, thinks I, that's his'n lookout.)"

They went, did these simple troopers, to look at the stable, and sure enough, there was no Grey Robin. Nevertheless, some amongst them had logic enough to take this as something less than proof convincing, and spent three hours and more ransacking the house and barn, and searching the tor and the moors below it. I learn'd too, that Joan had come in for some rough talk—to which she put a stop, as she told me, by offering to fight any man Jack of them for the buttons on his buffcoat. And at length, about sundown, they gave up the hunt, and road away over the moors toward Warleggan, having (as the girl heard them say) to be at Braddock before night.

"Where is this Braddock?"

"Nigh to Lord Mohun's house at Boconnoc: seven mile away to the south, and seven mile or so from Bodmin, as a crow flies."

"Then go I must," cried I: and hereupon I broke out with all the trouble that was on my mind, and the instant need to save these gallant gentlemen of Cornwall, ere two armies should combine against them. I told of the King's letter in my breast, and how I found the Lord Stamford's men at Launceston; how that Ruthen, with the vanguard of the rebels, was now at Liskeard, with but a bare day's march between the two, and none but I to carry the warning. And "Oh, Joan!" I cried, "my comrade I left upon the road. Brighter courage and truer heart never man proved, and yet left by me in the rebels' hands. Alas! that I could neither save nor help, but must still ride on: and here is the issue—to lie struck down within ten mile of my goal—I, that have traveled two hundred. And if the Cornishmen be not warned to give fight before Lord Stamford come up, all's lost. Even now they be outnumber'd. So lift me, Joan, and set me astride Molly, and I'll win to Bodmin yet."

"Reckon, Jack, thou'd best hand me thy letter."

Now, I did not at once catch the intent of these words, so simply spoken; but stared at her like an owl.

"There's horse in stall, lad," she went on, "tho' no Grey Robin. Tearaway's the name, and strawberry the color."

"But, Joan, Joan, if you do this—feel inside my coat here, to the left—you will save an army, girl, maybe a throne! Here 'tis, Joan, see—no, not that—here! Say the seal is that of the Governor of Bristol, who stole it from me for a while: but the handwriting will be known for the King's: and no hand but yours must touch it till you stand before Sir Ralph Hopton. The King shall thank you, Joan; and God will bless you for't."

"Hope so, I'm sure. But larn me what to say, lad: for I be main thick witted."

So I told her the message over and over, till she had it by heart.

"Shan't forgit, now," she said, at length; "an' so hearken to me for a change. Bide still, nor fret thysel'. Here's pasty an' oat cake, an' a keg o' water that I'll stow beside thee. Pay no heed to feyther, an' if he wills to get drunk an' fight wi' Jan Tergagle— that's the cat—why let'n. Drunk or sober, he's no 'count."

She hid the letter in her bosom, and stepp'd to the door. On the threshold she turned—

"Jack—forgot to ax: what be all this bloodshed about?"

"For Church and King, Joan."

"H'm: same knowledge ha' I o' both—an' that's naught. But I dearly loves fair play."

She was gone. In a minute or so I heard the trampling of a horse: and then, with a scurry of hoofs, Joan was off on the King's errand, and riding into the darkness.

Little rest had I that night; but lay awake on my bracken bed and watched the burning peat-turves turn to grey, and drop, flake by flake, till only a glowing point remained. The door rattled now and then on the hinge: out on the moor the light winds kept a noise persistent as town dogs at midnight: and all the while my wound was stabbing, and the bracken pricking me till I groaned aloud.

As day began to break, the old man picked himself up, yawned and lounged out, returning after a time with fresh turves for the hearth. He noticed me no more than a stone, but when the fire was restack'd, drew up his chair to the warmth, and breakfasted on oat cake and a liberal deal of liquor. Observing him, the black cat uncoil'd, stretch'd himself, and climbing to his master's knee, sat there purring, and the best of friends. I also judged it time to breakfast: found my store:* took a bite or two, and a pull at the keg, and lay back—this time to sleep.

When I woke, 'twas high noon. The door stood open, and outside on the wall the winter sunshine was lying, very bright and clear. Indoors, the old savage had been drinking steadily; and still sat before the fire, with the cat on one knee, and his keg on the other. I sat up and strain'd my ears. Surely, if Joan had not failed, the royal generals would march out and give battle at once: and surely, if they were fighting, not ten miles away, some sound of it would reach me. But beyond the purring of the cat, I heard nothing.

I crawl'd to my feet, rested a moment to stay the giddiness, and totter'd across to the door, where I lean'd, listening and gazing south. No strip of vapor lay on the moors that stretch'd—all bathed in the most wonderful bright colors—to the lip of the horizon. The air was like a sounding board. I heard the bleat of an old wether, a mile off, upon the tors; and was turning away dejected, when, far down in the south, there ran a sound that set my heart leaping.

'Twas the crackling of musketry.

There was no mistaking it. The noise ran like wildfire along the hills: before echo could overtake it, a low rumbling followed, and then the brisker crackling again. I caught at the door post and cried, faint with the sudden joy—-

"Thou angel, Joan!—thou angel!"

And then, as something took me by the throat—"Joan, Joan—to see what thou seest!"

A long time I lean'd by the door post there, drinking in the sound that now was renewed at quicker intervals. Yet, for as far as I could see, 'twas the peacefullest scene, though dreary—quiet sunshine on the hills, and the sheep dotted here and there, cropping. But down yonder, over the edge of the moors, men were fighting and murdering each other: and I yearn'd to see how the day went.

Being both weak and loth to miss a sound of it, I sank down on the threshold, and there lay, with my eyes turned southward, through a gap in the stone fence. In a while the musketry died away, and I wondered: but thought I could still at times mark a low sound as of men shouting, and this, as I learn'd after, was the true battle.

It must have been an hour or more before I saw a number of black specks coming over the ridge of hills, and swarming down into the plain toward me: and then a denser body following. 'Twas a company of horse, moving at a great pace: and I guessed that the battle was done, and these were the first fugitives of the beaten army.

On they came, in great disorder, scattering as they advanced: and now, in parts, the hill behind was black with footmen, running. 'Twas a rout, sure enough. Once or twice, on the heights, I beard a bugle blown, as if to rally the crowd: but saw nothing come of it, and presently the notes ceased, or I forgot to listen.

The foremost company of horse was heading rather to the eastward of me, to gain the high road; and the gross pass'd me by at half a mile's distance. But some came nearer, and to my extreme joy, I learn'd from their arms and shouting, what till now I had been eagerly hoping, that 'twas the rebel army thus running in rout: and tho' now without strength to kneel, I had enough left to thank God heartily.

'Twas so curious to see the plain thus suddenly fill'd with rabble, all running from the south, and the silly startled sheep rushing helter-skelter, and huddling together on the tors above, that I forgot my own likely danger if any of this revengeful crew should come upon me lying there: and was satisfied to watch them as they straggled over the moors toward the road. Some pass'd close to the cottage; but none seem'd anxious to pause there. 'Twas a glad and a sorry sight. I saw a troop of dragoons with a standard in their midst; and a drummer running behind, too far distracted even to cast his drum away, so that it dangled against his back, with a great rent where the music had been; and then two troopers running together; and one that was wounded lay down for a while within a stone's throw of me, and would not go further, till at last his comrade persuaded him; and after them a larger company, in midst of whom was a man crying, "We are sold, I tell ye, and I can point to the man!" and so passed by. There were some, too, that were galloping three stout horses in a carriage, and upon it a brass twelve pounder. But the carriage stuck fast in a quag, and so they cut the traces and left it there, where, two days after, Sir John Berkeley's dragoons found and pulled it out. And this was the fourth, I had heard, that the King's troops took in that victory.

Yet there were not above five or six hundred in all that I saw; and I guessed (as was the case) that this must be but an off-shoot, so to say, of the bigger rout that pass'd eastward through Liskeard. I was thinking of this when I heard footsteps near, and a man came panting through a gap in the wall, into the yard.

He was a big, bareheaded fellow, exceedingly flush'd with running, but unhurt, as far as I could see. Indeed, he might easily have kill'd me, and for a moment I thought sure he would. But catching sight of me, he nodded very friendly, and sitting on a heap of stones a yard or two away, began to draw off his boot, and search for a prickle, that it seem'd had got into it.

"'Tis a mess of it, yonder," said he, quietly, and jerk'd his thumb over his shoulder.

By the look of me, he could tell I was on the other side; but this did not appear to concern him.

"How has it gone?" asked I.

"Well," says he, with his nose in the boot; "we had a pretty rising ground, and the Cornishmen march'd up and whipp'd us out—that's all—and took a mort o' prisoners." He found the prickle, drew on his boot again, and asked—-

"T'other side?"

I nodded.

"That's the laughing side, this day. Good evening."

And with that he went off as fast as he came.

'Twas, may be, an hour after, that another came in through the same gap: this time a lean, hawk-eyed man, with a pinch'd face and two ugly gashes—one across the brow from left eye to the roots of his hair, the other in his leg below the knee, that had sliced through boot and flesh like a scythe-cut. His face was smear'd with blood, and he carried a musket.

"Water!" he bark'd out as he came trailing into the yard. "Give me water—I'm a dead man!"

He was stepping over me to enter the kitchen, when he halted and said—-

"Art a malignant, for certain!"

And before I had a chance to reply, his musket was swung up, and I felt my time was come to die.

But now the old savage, that had been sitting all day before his fire, without so much as a sign to show if he noticed aught that was passing, jump'd up with a yell and leap'd toward us. He and the cat were on the poor wretch together, tearing and clawing. I can hear their hellish outcries to this day: but at the moment they turn'd me faint. And the next thing I recall is being dragged inside by the old man, who shut the door after me and slipp'd the bolt, leaving the wounded trooper on the other side. He beat against it for some time, sobbing piteously for water: and then I heard him groaning at intervals, till he died. At least, the groans ceased; and next day he was found with his back against the cottage wall, stark and dead.

Having pulled me inside, Joan's father must have thought he had done enough: for on the floor I lay for hours, and passed from one swoon into another. He and the cat had gone back to the fire again, and long before evening both were sound asleep.

So there I lay helpless, till, at nightfall, there came the trampling of a horse outside, and then a rap on the door. The old man started up and opened it: and in rushed Joan, her eyes lit up, her breast heaving, and in her hand a naked sword.

"Church and King, Jack!" she cried, and flung the blade with a clang on to the table. "Church and King! O brave day's work, lad—O bloody work this day!"

And I swooned again.



CHAPTER XIII.

I BUY A LOOKING GLASS AT BODMIN FAIR: AND MEET WITH MR. HANNIBAL TINGCOMB.

There had, indeed, been brave work on Braddock Down that 19th of January. For Sir Ralph Hopton with the Cornish grandees had made short business of Ruthen's army—driving it headlong back on Liskeard at the first charge, chasing it through that town, and taking 1,200 prisoners (including Sir Shilston Calmady), together with many colors, all the rebel ordnance and ammunition, and most of their arms. At Liskeard, after refreshing their men, and holding next day a solemn thanksgiving to God, they divided—the Lord Mohun with Sir Ralph Hopton and Colonel Godolphin marching with the greater part of the army upon Saltash, whither Ruthen had fled and was entrenching himself; while Sir John Berkeley and Colonel Ashburnham, with a small party of horse and dragoons and the voluntary regiments of Sir Bevill Grenville, Sir Nich. Slanning, and Colonel Trevanion, turned to the northeast, toward Launceston and Tavistock, to see what account they might render of the Earl of Stamford's army; that, however, had no stomach to await them, but posted out of the county into Plymouth and Exeter.

'Twas on this expedition that two or three of the captains I have mentioned halted for an hour or more at Temple, as well to recognize Joan's extreme meritorious service, as to thank me for the part I had in bringing news of the Earl of Stamford's advance. For 'twas this, they own'd, had saved them—the King's message being but an exhortation and an advertisement upon some lesser matters, the most of which were already taken out of human hands by the turn of events.

But though, as I learn'd, these gentlemen were full of compliments and professions of esteem, I neither saw nor heard them, being by this time delirious of a high fever that followed my wound. And not till three good weeks after, was I recover'd enough to leave my bed, nor, for many more, did my full strength return to me. No mother could have made a tenderer nurse than was Joan throughout this time. 'Tis to her I owe it that I am alive to write these words: and if the tears scald my eyes as I do so, you will pardon them, I promise, before the end of my tail is reach'd.

In the first days of my recovery, news came to us (I forget how) that a solemn sacrament had been taken between the parties in Devon and Cornwall, and the country was a peace. Little I cared, at the time: but was content—now spring was come—to loiter about the tors, and while watching Joan at her work, to think upon Delia. For, albeit I had little hope to see her again, my late pretty comrade held my thoughts the day long. I shared them with nobody: for tho' 'tis probable I had let some words fall in my delirium, Joan never hinted at this, and I never found out.

To Joan's company I was left: for her father, after saving my life that afternoon, took no further notice of me by word or deed; and the cat, Jan Tergagle (nam'd after a spirit that was said to haunt the moors hereabouts), was as indifferent. So with Joan I passed the days idly, tending the sheep, or waiting on her as she ploughed, or lying full length on the hillside and talking with her of war and battles. 'Twas the one topic on which she was curious (scoffing at me when I offered to teach her to read print), and for hours she would listen to stories of Alexander and Hannibal, Caesar and Joan of Arc, and other great commanders whose history I remember'd.

One evening—'twas early in May—we had climb'd to the top of the grey tor above Temple, whence we could spy the white sails of the two Channels moving, and, stretch'd upon the short turf there, I was telling my usual tale. Joan lay beside me, her chin propp'd on one earth-stain'd hand, her great solemn eyes wide open as she listened. Till that moment I had regarded her rather as a man comrade than a girl, but now some feminine trick of gesture awoke me perhaps, for my fancy began to contrast her with Delia, and I broke off my story and sigh'd.

"Art longing to be hence?" she asked.

I felt ashamed to be thus caught, and was silent. She look'd at me and went on—

"Speak out, lad."

"Loth would I be to leave you, Joan."

"And why?"

"Why, we are good friends, I hope: and I am grateful."

"Oh, aye—wish thee'd learn to speak the truth, Jack. Art longing to be hence, and shalt—soon."

"Why, Joan, you would not have me dwell here always?"

She made no answer for a while, and then with a change of tone—

"Shalt ride wi' me to Bodmin Fair to-morrow for a treat, an' see the Great Turk and the Fat 'Ooman and hocus-pocus. So tell me more 'bout Joan the Frenchwoman."

On the morrow, about nine in the morning, we set off—Joan on the strawberry, balanced easily on an old sack, which was all her saddle; and I on Molly, that now was sound again and chafing to be so idle. As we set out, Joan's father for the first time took some notice of me, standing at the door to see us off and shouting after us to bring home some account of the wrestling. Looking back at a quarter mile's distance I saw him still fram'd in the doorway, with the cat perch'd on his shoulder.

Bodmin town is naught but a narrow street, near on a mile long, and widening toward the western end. It lies mainly along the south side of a steep vale, and this May morning as Joan and I left the moors and rode down to it from northward, already we could hear trumpets blowing, the big drum sounding, and all the bawling voices and hubbub of the fair. Descending, we found the long street lin'd with booths and shows, and nigh blocked with the crowd: for the revel began early and was now in full swing. And the crew of gipsies, whifflers, mountebanks, fortune tellers, cut-purses and quacks, mix'd up with honest country faces, beat even the rabble I had seen at Wantage.

Now my own first business was with a tailor: for the clothes I wore when I rode into Temple, four months back, had been so sadly messed with blood, and afterward cut, to free them from my wound, that now all the tunic I wore was of sackcloth, contrived and stitch'd together by Joan. So I made at once for a decent shop, where luckily I found a suit to fit me, one taken (the tailor said) off a very promising young gentleman that had the misfortune to be kill'd on Braddock Down. Arrayed in this, I felt myself again, and offered to take Joan to see the Fat Woman.

We saw her, and the Aethiop, and the Rhinoceros (which put me in mind of poor Anthony Killigrew), and the Pig-fac'd Baby, and the Cudgel play; and presently halted before a Cheap Jack, that was crying his wares in a prodigious loud voice, near the town wall.

'Twas a meagre, sharp-visag'd fellow with a grey chin beard like a billy goat's; and (as fortune would have it) spying our approach, he picked out a mirror from his stock and holding it aloft, addressed us straight—

"What have we here," cries he, "but a pair o' lovers coming? and what i' my hand but a lover's hourglass? Sure the stars of heav'n must have a hand in this conjuncture—and only thirteen pence, my pretty fellow, for a glass that will tell the weather i' your sweetheart's face, and help make it fine."

There were many country fellows with their maids in the crowd, that turned their heads at this address; and as usual the women began.

"Tis Joan o' the Tor!"

"Joan's picked up wi' a sweetheart—tee-hee!—an' us reckoned her'd forsworn mankind!"

"Who is he?"

"Some furriner, sure: that likes garlic."

"He's bought her no ribbons yet."

"How should he, poor lad; that can find no garments upon her to fasten 'em to?"

And so on, with a deal of spiteful laughter. Some of these sayings were half truth, no doubt: but the truthfullest word may be infelix. So noting a dark flush on Joan's cheek, I thought to end the scene by taking the Cheap Jack's mirror on the spot, to stop his tongue, and then drawing her away.

But in this I was a moment too late; for just as I reached up my hand with the thirteen pence, and the grinning fellow on the platform bent forward with his mirror, I heard a coarser jest, a rush in the crowd, and two heads go crack! together like eggs. 'Twas two of Joan's tormentors she had taken by the hair and served so: and dropping them the next instant had caught the Cheap Jack's beard, as you might a bell rope, and wrench'd him head-foremost off his stand, my thirteen pence flying far and wide. Plump he fell into the crowd, that scatter'd on all hands as Joan pummelled him: and whack, whack! fell the blows on the poor idiot's face, who scream'd for mercy, as though Judgment Day were come.

No one, for the minute, dared to step between them: and presently Joan looking up, with arm raised for another buffet, spied a poor Astrologer close by, in a red and yellow gown, that had been reading fortunes in a tub of black water beside him, but was now broken off, dismayed at the hubbub. To this tub she dragged the Cheap Jack and sent him into it with a round souse. The black water splashed right and left over the crowd. Then, her wrath sated, Joan faced the rest, with hands on hips, and waited for them to come on.

Not a word had she spoken, from first to last: but stood now with hot cheeks and bosom heaving. Then, finding none to take up her challenge, she strode out through the folk, and I after her, with the mirror in my hand; while the Cheap Jack picked himself out of the tub, whining, and the Astrologer wip'd his long white beard and soil'd robe.

Outside the throng was a carriage, stopp'd for a minute by this tumult, and a servant at the horses' heads. By the look of it, 'twas the coach of some person of quality; and glancing at it I saw inside an old gentleman with a grave venerable face, seated. For the moment it flash'd on me I had seen him before, somewhere: and cudgell'd my wits to think where it had been. But a second and longer gaze assured me I was mistaken, and I went on down the street after Joan.

She was walking fast and angry; nor when I caught her up and tried to soothe, would she answer me but in the shortest words. Woman's justice, as I had just learn'd, has this small defect—it goes straight enough, but mainly for the wrong object. Which now I proved in my own case.

"Where are you going, Joan?"

"To 'Fifteen Balls'' stable, for my horse."

"Art not leaving the fair yet, surely!"

"That I be, tho'. Have had fairing enow—wi' a man!"

Nor for a great part of the way home would she speak to me. But meeting, by Pound Scawens (a hamlet close to the road), with some friends going to the fair, she stopp'd for a while to chat with them, whilst I rode forward: and when she overtook me, her brow was clear again.

"Am a hot headed fool, Jack, and have spoil'd thy day for thee."

"Nay, that you have not," said I, heartily glad to see her humble, for the first time in our acquaintance: "but if you have forgiven me that which I could not help, you shall take this that I bought for you, in proof."

And pulling out the mirror, I lean'd over and handed it to her.

"What i' the world be this?" she ask'd, taking and looking at it doubtfully.

"Why, a mirror."

"What's that?"

"A glass to see your face in," I explained.

"Be this my face?" She rode forward, holding up the glass in front of her. "Why, what a handsome looking gal I be, to be sure! Jack, art certain 'tis my very own face?"

"To be sure," said I amazed.

"Well!" There was silence for a full minute, save for our horses' tread on the high road. And then—

"Jack, I be powerful dirty!"

This was true enough, and it made me laugh. She looked up solemnly at my mirth (having no sense of a joke, then or ever) and bent forward to the glass again.

"By the way," said I, "did you mark a carriage just outside the crowd, by the Cheap Jack's booth?—with a white-hair'd gentleman seated inside?"

Joan nodded. "Master Hannibal Tingcomb: steward o' Gleys."

"What!"

I jumped in my saddle, and with a pull at the bridle brought Molly to a standstill.

"Of Gleys?" I cried. "Steward of Sir Deakin Killigrew that was?"

"Right, lad, except the last word. 'That is,' should'st rather say."

"Then you are wrong, Joan: for he's dead and buried, these five months. Where is this house of Gleys? for to-morrow I must ride there."

"'Tis easy found, then: for it stands on the south coast yonder, and no house near it: five mile from anywhere, and sixteen from Temple, due south. Shall want thee afore thou startest, Jack. Dear, now! who'd ha' thought I was so dirty?"

The cottage door stood open as we rode into the yard, and from it a faint smoke came curling, with a smell of peat. Within I found the smould'ring turves scattered about as on the day of my first arrival, and among them Joan's father stretch'd, flat on his face: only this time the eat was curl'd up quietly, and lying between the old man's shoulder blades.

"Drunk again," said Joan shortly.

But looking more narrowly, I marked a purplish stain on the ground by the old man's mouth, and turned him softly over.

"Joan," said I, "he's not drunk—he's dead!"

She stood above us and looked down, first at the corpse, then at me, without speaking for a time: at last—-

"Then I reckon he may so well be buried."

"Girl," I call'd out, being shocked at this callousness, "'tis your father—and he is dead!"

"Why that's so, lad. An he were alive, shouldn't trouble thee to bury 'n."

And so, before night, we carried him up to the bleak tor side, and dug his grave there; the black cat following us to look. Five feet deep we laid him, having dug down to solid rock; and having covered him over, went silently back to the hovel. Joan had not shed a single tear.



CHAPTER XIV.

I DO NO GOOD IN THE HOUSE OF GLEYS.

Very early next morning I awoke, and hearing no sound in the loft above (whither, since my coming, Joan had carried her bed), concluded her to be still asleep. But in this I was mistaken: for going to the well at the back to wash, I found her there, studying her face in the mirror.

"Luckily met, Jack," she said, when I was cleansed and freshly glowing: "Now fill another bucket and sarve me the same."

"Cannot you wash yourself?" I ask'd, as I did so.

"Lost the knack, I reckon. Stand thee so, an' slush the water over me."

"But your clothes!" I cried out, "they'll be soaking wet!"

"Clothes won't be worse for a wash, neither. So slush away."

Therefore, standing at three paces' distance, I sent a bucketful over her, and then another and another. Six times I filled and emptied the bucket in all: and at the end she was satisfied, and went, dripping, back to the kitchen to get me my breakfast.

"Art early abroad," she said, as we sat together over the meal.

"Yes, for I must ride to Gleys this morning."

"Shan't be sorry to miss thee for a while. Makes me feel so shy— this cleanliness." So, promising to be back by nightfall, I went presently to saddle Molly: and following Joan's directions and her warnings against quags and pitfalls, was soon riding south across the moor and well on my road to the House of Gleys.

My way leading me by Braddock Down, I turned aside for a while to examine the ground of the late fight (tho' by now little was to be seen but a piece of earthwork left unfinish'd by the rebels, and the fresh mounds where the dead were laid); and so 'twas high noon—and a dull, cheerless day—before the hills broke and let me have sight of the sea. Nor, till the noise of the surf was in my ears, did I mark the chimneys and naked grey walls of the house I was bound for.

'Twas a gloomy, savage pile of granite, perch'd at the extremity of a narrow neck of land, where every wind might sweep it, and the waves beat on three sides the cliff below. The tide was now at the full, almost, and the spray flying in my face, as we crossed the head of a small beach, forded a stream, and scrambled up the rough road to the entrance gate.

A thin line of smoke blown level from one chimney was all the sign of life in the building: for the narrow lights of the upper story were mostly shuttered, and the lower floor was hid from me by a high wall enclosing a courtlage in front. One stunted ash, with boughs tortured and bent toward the mainland, stood by the gate, which was lock'd. A smaller door, also lock'd, was let into the gate, and in this again a shuttered iron grating. Hard by, dangled a rusty bell- pull, at which I tugg'd sturdily.

On this, a crack'd bell sounded, far in the house, and scared a flock of starlings out of a disused chimney. Their cries died away presently, and left no sound but that of the gulls wailing about the cliff at my feet. This was all the answer I won.

I rang again, and a third time: and now at last came the sound of footsteps shuffling across the court within. The shutter of the grating was slipp'd back, and a voice, crack'd as the bell, asked my business.

"To see Master Hannibal Tingcomb," answered I.

"Thy name?"

"He shall hear it in time. Say that I come on business concerning the estate."

The voice mutter'd something, and the footsteps went back. I had been kicking my heels there for twenty minutes or more when they returned, and the voice repeated the question—-

"Thy name?"

Being by this time angered, I did a foolish thing; which was, to clap the muzzle of my pistol against the grating, close to the fellow's nose. Singular to say, the trick serv'd me. A bolt was slipp'd hastily back and the wicket door opened stealthily.

"I want," said I, "room for my horse to pass."

Thereupon more grumbling follow'd, and a prodigious creaking of bolts and chains; after which the big gate swung stiffly back.

"Sure, you must be worth a deal," I said, "that shut yourselves in so careful."

Before me stood a strange fellow—extraordinary old and bent, with a wizen'd face, one eye only, and a chin that almost touched his nose. He wore a dirty suit of livery, that once had been canary-yellow; and shook with the palsy.

"Master Tingcomb will see the young man," he squeak'd, nodding his head; "but is a-reading just now in his Bible."

"A pretty habit," answered I, leading in Molly—"if unseasonable. But why not have said so?"

He seem'd to consider this for a while, and then said abruptly—

"Have some pasty and some good cider?"

"Why yes," I said, "with all my heart, when I have stabled the sorrel here."

He led the way across the court, well paved but chok'd with weeds, toward the stable. I found it a spacious building, and counted sixteen stalls there; but all were empty save two, where stood the horses I had seen in Bodmin the day before. Having stabled Molly, I left the place (which was thick with cobwebs) and follow'd the old servant into the house.

He took me into a great stone kitchen, and brought out the pasty and cider, but poured out half a glass only.

"Have a care, young man: 'tis a luscious, thick, seductive drink," and he chuckled.

"'Twould turn the edge of a knife," said I, tasting it and looking at him: but his one blear'd eye was inscrutable. The pasty also was mouldy, and I soon laid it down.

"Hast a proud stomach that cometh of faring sumptuously: the beef therein is our own killing," said he. "Young sir, art a man of blood, I greatly fear, by thy long sword and handiness with the firearms."

"Shall be presently," answered I, "if you lead me not to Master Tingcomb."

He scrambled up briskly and totter'd out of the kitchen into a stone corridor, I after him. Along this he hurried, muttering all the way, and halted before a door at the end. Without knocking he pushed it open, and motioning me to enter, hasten'd back as he had come.

"Come in," said a voice that seem'd familiar to me.

Though, as you know, 'twas still high day, in the room where now I found myself was every appearance of night: the shutters being closed, and six lighted candles standing on the table. Behind them sat the venerable gentleman whom I had seen in the coach, now wearing a plain suit of black, and reading in a great book that lay open on the table. I guess'd it to be the Bible; but noted that the candles had shades about them, so disposed as to throw the light, not on the page, but on the doorway where I stood.

Yet the old gentleman, having bid me enter, went on reading for a while as though wholly unaware of me: which I found somewhat nettling, so began—-

"I speak, I believe, to Master Hannibal Tingcomb, steward to Sir Deakin Killigrew."

He went on, as if ending his sentence aloud: "... And my darling from the power of the dog." Here he paused with finger on the place and looked up. "Yes, young sir, that is my name—steward to the late Sir Deakin Killigrew."

"The late?" cried I: "Then you know—"

"Surely I know that Sir Deakin is dead: else should I be but an unworthy steward." He open'd his grave eyes as if in wonder.

"And his son, also?"

"Also his son Anthony, a headstrong boy, I fear me, a consorter with vile characters. Alas? that I should say it."

"And his daughter, Mistress Delia?"

"Alas!" and he fetched a deep sigh.

"Do you mean, sir, that she too is dead!"

"Why, to be sure-but let us talk on less painful matters."

"In one moment, sir: but first tell me—where did she die, and when? "

For my heart stood still, and I was fain to clutch the table between us to keep me from falling. I think this did not escape him, for he gave me a sharp look, and then spoke very quiet and hush'd,

"She was cruelly kill'd by highwaymen, at the 'Three Cups' inn, some miles out of Hungerford. The date given me is the 3d of December last."

With this a great rush of joy came over me, and I blurted out, delighted—

"There, sir, you are wrong! Her father was kill'd on the night of which you speak—cruelly enough, as you say: but Mistress Delia Killigrew escaped, and after the most incredible adventures—"

I was expecting him to start up with joy at my announcement; but instead of this, he gaz'd at me very sorrowfully and shook his head; which brought me to a stand.

"Sir," I said, changing my tone, "I speak but what I know: for 'twas I had the happy fortune to help her to escape, and, under God's hand, to bring her safe to Cornwall."

"Then, where is she now?"

Now this was just what I could not tell. So, standing before him, I gave him my name and a history of all my adventures in my dear comrade's company, from the hour when I saw her first in the inn at Hungerford. Still keeping his finger on the page, he heard me to the end attentively, but with a curling of the lips toward the close, such as I did not like. And when I had done, to my amaze he spoke out sharply, and as if to a whipp'd schoolboy.

"'Tis a cock-and-bull story, sir, of which I could hope to make you ashamed. Six weeks in your company? and in boy's habit? Surely 'twas enough the pure unhappy maid should be dead—without such vile slander on her fame, and from you, that were known, sir, to have been at that inn, and on that night, with her murderers. Boy, I have evidence that, taken with your confession, would weave you a halter; and am a Justice of the Peace. Be thankful, then, that I am a merciful man; yet be abash'd."

Abash'd, indeed, I was; or at least taken aback, to see his holy indignation and the flush on his waxen cheek. Like a fool I stood staggered, and wondered dimly where I had heard that thin voice before. In the confusion of my senses I heard it say solemnly—-

"The sins of her fathers have overtaken her, as the Book of Exodus proclaim'd: therefore is her inheritance wasted, and given to the satyr and the wild ass."



"And which of the twain be you, sir?"

I cannot tell what forced this violent rudeness from me, for he seem'd an honest, good man; but my heart was boiling that any should put so ill a construction on my Delia. As for him, he had risen, and was moving with dignity to the door—to show me out, as I guess. When suddenly I, that had been staring stupidly, leap'd upon him and hurled him back into his chair.

For I had marked his left foot trailing, and, by the token, knew him for the white hair'd man of the bowling-green.

"Master Hannibal Tingcomb," I spoke in his ear, "—dog and murderer! What did you in Oxford last November? And how of Captain Lucius Higgs, otherwise Captain Luke Settle, otherwise Mr. X.? Speak, before I serve you as the dog was served that night!"

I dream yet, in my sick nights, of the change that came over the vile, hypocritical knave at these words of mine. To see his pale venerable face turn green and livid, his eyeball start, his hands clutch at air—it frighten'd me.

"Brandy!" he gasped. "Brandy! there—quick—for God's sake!"

And the next moment he had slipp'd from my grasp, and was wallowing in a fit on the floor. I ran to the cupboard at which he had pointed, and finding there a bottle of strong waters, forced some drops between his teeth; and hard work it was, he gnashing at me all the time and foaming at the mouth.

Presently he ceased to writhe and bite: and lifting, I set him in his chair, where he lay, a mere limp bundle, staring and blinking. So I sat down facing him, and waited his recovery.

"Dear young sir," he began at length feebly, his fingers searching the Bible before him, from force of habit. "Kind young sir—I am an old, dying man, and my sins have found me out. Only yesterday, the physician at Bodmin told me that my days are numbered. This is the second attack, and the third will kill me."

"Well?" said I.

"If—if Mistress Delia be alive (as indeed I did not think), I will make restitution—I will confess—only tell me what to do, that I may die in peace."

Indeed, he look'd pitiable, sitting there and stammering: but I harden'd my heart to say—-

"I must have a confession, then, written before I leave the room."

"But, dear young friend, you will not use it if I give up all? You will not seek my life? that already is worthless, as you see."

"Why, 'tis what you deserve. But Delia shall say when I find her—as I shall go straight to seek her. If she be lost, I shall use it— never fear: if she be found, it shall be hers to say what mercy she can discover in her heart; but I promise you I shall advise none."

The tears by this were coursing down his shrunken cheeks, but I observ'd him watch me narrowly, as though to find out how much I knew. So I pull'd out my pistol, and setting pen and paper before him, obtained at the end of an hour a very pretty confession of his sins, which lies among my papers to this day. When 'twas written and sign'd, in a weak, rambling hand, I read it through, folded it, placed it inside my coat, and prepared to take my leave.

But he called out an order to the old servant to saddle my mare, and stood softly praying and beseeching me in the courtyard till the last moment. Nor when I was mounted would anything serve but he must follow at my stirrup to the gate. But when I had briefly taken leave, and the heavy doors had creaked behind me, I heard a voice calling after me down the road—-

"Dear young sir! Dear friend!—I had forgotten somewhat."

Returning, I found the gate fastened, and the iron shutter slipp'd back.

"Well?" I asked, leaning toward it.

"Dear young friend, I pity thee, for thy paper is worthless. To-day, by my advices, the army of our most Christian Parliament, more than twenty thousand strong, under the Earl of Stamford, have overtaken thy friends, the malignant gentry, near Stratton Heath, in the northeast. They are more than two to one. By this hour to-morrow, the Papists all will be running like conies to their burrows, and little chance wilt thou have to seek Delia Killigrew, much less to find her. And remember, I know enough of thy late services to hang thee: mercy then will lie in my friends' hands; but be sure I shall advise none."

And with a mocking laugh he clapp'd—to the grating in my face.



CHAPTER XV.

I LEAVE JOAN AND RIDE TO THE WARS.

You may guess how I felt at being thus properly fooled. And the worst was I could see no way to mend it; for against the barricade between us I might have beat myself for hours, yet only hurt my fists: and the wall was so smooth and high, that even by standing on Molly's back I could not—by a foot or more—reach the top to pull myself over.

There was nothing for it but to turn homewards, down the hill: which I did, chewing the cud of my folly, and finding it bitter as gall. What consoled me somewhat was the reflection that his threats were, likely enough, mere vaporing: for of any breach of the late compact between the parties I had heard nothing, and never seem'd a country more wholly given up to peace than that through which I had ridden in the morning. So recalling Master Tingcomb's late face of terror, and the confession in my pocket, I felt more cheerful. "England has grown a strange place, if I cannot get justice on this villain," thought I; and rode forward, planning a return-match and a sweet revenge.

There is no more soothing game, I believe, in the world than this of holding imaginary triumphant discourse with your enemy. Yet (oddly) it brought me but cold comfort on this occasion, my wound being too recent and galling. The sky, so long clouded, was bright'ning now, and growing serener every minute: the hills were thick with fox- gloves, the vales white with hawthorn, smelling very sweetly in the cool of the day: but I, with the bridle flung on Molly's neck, pass'd them by, thinking only of my discomfiture, and barely rousing myself to give back a "Good-day" to those that met me on the road. Nor, till we were on the downs and Joan's cottage came in sight, did I shake the brooding off.

Joan was not in the kitchen when I arrived, nor about the buildings; nor yet could I spy her anywhere moving on the hills. So, after calling to her once or twice, I stabled the mare, and set off up the tor side to seek her.

Now I must tell you that since the day of my coming I had made many attempts to find the place where Joan had then hidden me, and always fruitlessly: though I knew well whereabouts it must be. Indeed, I had thought at first I had only to walk straight to the hole: yet found after repeated trials but solid earth and boulders for my pains.

But to-day as I climb'd past the spot, something very bright flashed in my eyes and dazzled me, and rubbing them and looking, I saw a great hole in the hill—facing to the sou'-west—in the very place I had search'd for it; and out of this a beam of light glancing.

Creeping near on tiptoe, I found one huge block of granite that before had seemed bedded, among a dozen fellow-boulders, against the turf—the base resting on another well-nigh as big—was now rolled back; having been fixed to work smoothly on a pivot, yet so like nature that no eye, but by chance, could detect it. Now, who in the beginning designed this hiding place I leave you to consider; and whether it was the Jews or Phoenicians—nations, I am told, that once work'd the hills around for tin. But inside 'twas curiously paved and lined with slabs of granite, the specks of ore in which, I noted, were the points of light that had once puzzled me. And here was Joan's bower, and Joan herself inside it.

She was sitting with her back to me, in her left hand holding up the mirror, that caught the rays of the now sinking sun (and thus had dazzled me), while with her right she tried to twist into some form of knot her tresses—black, and coarse as a horse's mane—that already she had roughly braided. A pail of water stood beside her; and around lay scatter'd a score or more of long thorns, cut to the shape of hair pins.

'Tis probable that after a minute's watching I let some laughter escape me. At any rate Joan turned, spied me, and scrambled up, with an angry red on her cheek. Then I saw that her bodice was neater lac'd than usual, and a bow of yellow ribbon (fish'd up heaven knows whence) stuck in the bosom. But the strangest thing was to note the effect of this new tidiness upon her: for she took a step forward as if to cuff me by the ear (as, a day agone, she would have done), and then stopp'd, very shy and hesitating.

"Why, Joan," said I, "don't be anger'd. It suits you choicely—it does indeed."

"Art scoffing, I doubt." She stood looking heavily and askance at me.

"On my faith, no: and what a rare tiring-bower the Jew's Kitchen makes! Come, Joan, be debonair and talk to me, for I am out of luck to-day."

"Forgit it, then" (and she pointed to the sun), "whiles yet some o't is left. Tell me a tale, an thou'rt minded."

"Of what?"

"O' the bloodiest battle thou'st ever heard tell on."

So, sitting by the mouth of the Jew's Kitchen, I told her as much as I could remember out of Homer's Iliad, wondering the while what my tutor, Mr. Josias How, of Trinity College, would think to hear me so use his teaching. By-and-bye, as I warm'd to the tale, Joan forgot her new smartness; and at length, when Hector was running from Achilles round the walls, clapp'd her hands for excitement, crying, "Church an' King, lad! Oh, brave work!"

"Why, no," answered I, "'twas not for that they were fighting;" and looking at her, broke off with, "Joan, art certainly a handsome girl: give me a kiss for the mirror."

Instead of flying out, as I look'd for, she fac'd round, and answered me gravely—-

"That I will not: not to any but my master."

"And who is that?"

"No man yet; nor shall be till one has beat me sore: him will I love, an' follow like a dog—if so be he whack me often enow'."

"A strange way to love," laughed I.

She look'd at me straight, albeit with an odd gloomy light in her eyes.

"Think so, Jack? then I give thee leave to try."

I think there is always a brutality lurking in a man to leap out unawares. Yet why do I seek excuses, that have never yet found one? To be plain, I sprang fiercely up and after Joan, who had already started, and was racing along the slope.

Twice around the tor she led me: and though I strain'd my best, not a yard could I gain upon her, for her bare feet carried her light and free. Indeed, I was losing ground, when coming to the Jew's Kitchen a second time, she tried to slip inside and shut the stone in my face.

Then should I have been prettily bemock'd, had I not, with a great effort, contrived to thrust my boot against the door just as it was closing. Wrenching it open, I laid hand on her shoulder; and in a moment she had gripp'd me, and was wrestling like a wild-cat.

Now being Cumberland-bred I knew only the wrestling of my own county, and nothing of the Cornish style. For in the north they stand well apart, and try to wear down one another's strength: whereas the Cornish is a brisker lighter play—and (as I must confess) prettier to watch. So when Joan rush'd in and closed with me, I was within an ace of being thrown, pat.

But recovering, I got her at arm's length, and held her so, while my heart ach'd to see my fingers gripping her shoulders and sinking into the flesh. I begg'd off; but she only fought and panted, and struggled to lock me by the ankles again. I could not have dream'd to find such fierce strength in a girl. Once or twice she nearly overmastered me: but at length my stubborn play wore her out. Her breath came short and fast, then fainter: and in the end, still holding her off, I turned her by the shoulders, and let her drop quietly on the turf. No thought had I any longer of kissing her; but stood back, heartily sick and ashamed of myself.

For awhile she lay, turn'd over on her side, with hands guarding her head, as if expecting me to strike her. Then gathering herself up, she came and put her hand in mine, very meekly.

"Had lik'd it better had'st thou stamped the life out o' me, a'most. But there, lad—am thine forever!"

'Twas like a buffet in the face to me. "What!" I cried.

She look'd up in my face—dear Heaven, that I should have to write it!—with eyes brimful, sick with love; tried to speak, but could only nod: and broke into a wild fit of tears.

I was standing there with her hand in mine, and a burning remorse in my heart, when I heard the clear notes of a bugle blown, away on the road to Launceston.

Looking that way, I saw a great company of horse coming down over the crest, the sun shining level on their arms and a green standard that they bore in their midst.

Joan spied them the same instant, and check'd her sobs. Without a word we flung ourselves down full length on the turf to watch.