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No Quarter!

by Mayne Reid · English · Gutenberg #35670 · 692,752 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: No Quarter!

Author: Mayne Reid


        
Release date: March 24, 2011 [eBook #35670]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/35670

Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NO QUARTER! ***




Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




No Quarter!
By Captain Mayne Reid
Published by Hurst and Company, New York.
This edition dated 1890.

No Quarter! by Captain Mayne Reid.

________________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________________
NO QUARTER! BY CAPTAIN MAYNE REID.



PROLOGUE.

There is no page in England's history so bright, nor of which Englishmen
have such reason to be proud, as that covering the period between 1640
and 1650.  This glorious decade was ushered in by the election of the
"Long Parliament," and I challenge the annals of all nations, ancient or
modern, to show an assembly in which sat a greater number of statesmen
and patriots.  Brave as pure, fearless in the discharge of their
difficult and dangerous duties, they faltered not in the performance of
them--shrank not from impeaching a traitor to his country, and bringing
his head to the block, even when it carried a crown.  True to their
consciences, as to their constituencies, they left England a heritage of
honour that for long haloed her escutcheon, and even to this hour throws
its covering screen over many a deed of shame.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Be a King?"

"Am I not one?"

"In name--nothing more.  Ah! were I a man and in your place?"

"What would you do?"

"Give your island churls a taste of kingship, as we know it in France.
My brother wouldn't let his subjects so beard him.  Oh, it's
abominable!"

"Ah, _chere_; for subjects your brother has a very different sort of
people to deal with.  In France they're not yet come to clamouring for
what they call their rights and liberties.  Here in England they've got
Magna Charta into their heads--to a craze."

"I'd have it out of their heads, or have their heads off.  _Ciel_!  I'd
reign King as King should, or resign.  No! not resign.  Sooner than that
I'd waste the country with fire and sword--make it a wilderness."

It was Henrietta, wife of Charles the First, who thus expressed herself
to her husband.  They were alone in the gardens of Whitehall Palace,
sauntering side by side on a terrace overlooking the Thames, the
afternoon being an unusually fine one.  As they made a turn which
brought Westminster Hall before their eyes, the angry fire in those of
the Queen flashed up again, and she added--

"Anything but be dictated to by that _canaille_ of a Parliament!
Anything but let them go on as now?"

"How am I to hinder it, Henriette?" the King timidly interrogated.

"Dismiss--send them packing back to their constituencies, and let them
prate away there as much as they please.  Dissolve and do without them,
as you've done before."

"That would be to do without the money we so much need.  My subjects are
determined to resist every tax levied under Privy Seal or otherwise.  I
can no longer raise loan or sell monopoly.  Your own secretary, Sir John
Wintour, has just been telling me how the people of Dean Forest have
been harassing him about the grant we gave him of its timber and mines.
Impossible now to obtain the most insignificant supplies without their
being sanctioned by this _cabal_ called Parliament."

"Then make the _cabal_ sanction them."

"But how, _chere_?"

"Have a score or two of them arrested--lodged in the Tower; and let
Monsieur Tom Lunsford take care of them.  He'll soon cure them of their
seditious inclinings."

"To do that were as much as my crown's worth."

"If't be worth no more, you may as well cease wearing it.  Fling it into
the Thames, or melt it down and sell it to the Ludgate Street goldsmiths
for old metal.  Shame of you, Charles!  You talk of kingly rights, yet
fail to exercise them--fear it?"

"My subjects talk of rights, too."

"Yes, and you encourage them--by your timidity.  Ever on your knees
begging this and begging that, when a true king would command.
Subjects, indeed! more like our masters.  But I'd teach them obedience.
What would they be without a king?  What were they born for but to
administer to our wants and our pleasures?"

Words worthy of a Medici; the sentiments of a queen two centuries and a
half ago.  Yet not so very different from those entertained by most
Royal personages at the present day and hour.  But few of them who would
not sit placidly upon their thrones, see subjects slain, and realms
reduced to desolation, rather than resign crown or yield up one iota of
what they are pleased to call their prerogative.  How could it be
otherwise?  Environed by sycophantic flatterers, heads bowing, knees
bending, tongues eternally bepraising; things in human shape giving them
adoration as to God Himself--ay, greater than to God--how could it be
otherwise?  Not so strange that this proud, pampered woman, from her
cradle accustomed to such slavish obedience, should verily believe it
but her due.

"_Their_ rights?" she continued, with a satirical laugh.  "An absurd
notion they've got into their Saxon skulls.  Ah! _mon mari_, were I you
for a month--for a week--I'd have it out--stamp it out--I would."

And to give emphasis to her speech, she stamped her foot upon the
ground.

A pretty foot it was, and still a handsome woman she, this daughter of
the Medicis, notwithstanding her being now somewhat _passe_.  Ambitious
as Catherine herself--"that mother of a race of kings"--intriguing,
notoriously dissolute, not the less did Charles love her.  Perhaps the
more, for the cuckoo's cry is a wonderful incentive to passion, as to
jealousy.  He doted upon her with foolish fondness--would have done
anything she commanded, even murder.  And to more than this was she now
instigating him; for it was to stifle, trample out the liberties of a
nation, no matter at what cost in life or blood.

Wicked as were her counsels, he would have followed them and willingly,
could he have seen his way clear to success.  Men still talk of his
kindly nature--in face of the fact, proved by irresistible evidence,
that he rejoiced at the massacre of the Protestants in Ireland, to say
naught of many other instances of inhumanity brought home to this
so-called "Martyr King."  He may not have been--was not--either a Nero
or a Theebaw; and with his favourites and familiars no doubt behaved
amicably enough; at the same time readily sacrificing them when danger
threatened himself.  To his wife his fidelity and devotion were such as
to have earned for him the epithet "uxorious," a title which can be more
readily conceded.  But in his affection for her--whether upheld by
respect or not--there was a spice of fear.  He knew all about the
scandals relating to her mother, Marie of France, with Richelieu, and
his own and father's favourite, the assassinated Buckingham, now
sleeping in his grave.  Charles more than suspected, as did all the
world besides, that this same Queen-mother had sent her husband--king as
himself--to an untimely tomb by a "cup of cold poison."  And oft as the
dark Italian eyes of her daughter flashed upon him in anger, he felt
secret fear she might some day serve him as had her mother the ill-fated
monarch of France.  She was of a race and a land whence such danger
might be reasonably expected and dreaded.  Lucrezia Borgia and Tophana
were not the only great female poisoners Italy has produced.

"If you've no care for yourself, then," she went on with untiring
persistence, "think of our children.  Think of him," and she nodded
towards a gaudily-dressed stripling of some ten or twelve, seen coming
towards them.  It was he who, twenty years after, under the seemingly
innocent soubriquet of "Merry Monarch," made sadness in many a family
circle, smouching England's escutcheon all over with shame, scarce
equalled in the annals of France.

"_Pauvre enfant_!" she exclaimed, as he came up, passing her jewelled
fingers through the curls of his hair; "your father would leave you
bereft of your birthright; some day to be a king with a worthless
crown."

The "pauvre enfant," a sly young wretch, smiled in return for her
caresses, looking dark at his father.  Young as he was, he knew what was
meant, and took sides with his mother.  She had already well
indoctrinated him with the ideas of Divine Right, as understood by a
Medici.

"_Peste_!" exclaimed the King, looking vexed, possibly at the allusion
to a successor; "were I to follow your counsels, Madam, it might result
in my leaving him no crown at all."

"Then leave him none!" she said in quick return, and with an air of
jaunty indifference.  "Perhaps better so.  I, his mother, would rather
see him a peasant than prince, with such a future as you are laying out
for him."

"Sire, the Earl of Strafford craves audience of your Majesty."

This was said by a youth in the official costume of the Court, who had
approached from the Palace, and stood with head bent before the King.

A remarkably handsome young fellow he was, and the Queen, as she turned
her eyes on him, seemed to recover sweetness of temper.

"I suppose my company will be _de trop_ now," she said.  Then facing
towards the youth, and bestowing upon him one of her syren smiles--slyly
though--she added, "Here, Eustace; bring this to my boudoir," and she
handed him a large book, a _portfeuille_ of pictures, she had been all
the while carrying.

Whether the King caught sight of that smile, and read something wrong in
it, or not, he certainly seemed irritated, hastily interposing--

"No, Henriette, I'd rather have you stay."

"_Con tout plaisir_."  A slight cloud upon her brow told the contrary.
"Charles, too?"

"No; he can go.  Yes, Trevor.  Conduct the Lord Strafford hither."

Eustace Trevor, as the handsome youth was called, bowing, turned and
went off, the Prince with him.  Then said the King--

"I wish you to hear what Strafford has to say on the subject we've been
talking of."

"Just what I wish myself," she rejoined, resuming her air of _braverie_.
"If you won't listen to me, a weak woman, perhaps you will to him, a
man--_one of courage_."

Charles writhed under her speech, the last words of it.  Even without
the emphasis on them, they were more than an insinuation that he himself
lacked that quality men are so proud of, and women so much admire.
Almost a direct imputation, as if she had called him "coward!"  But
there was no time for him to make retort, angry or otherwise, even had
he dared.  The man seeking audience was already in the garden, and
within earshot.  So, swallowing his chagrin as he best could, and
putting on the semblance of placidity, the King in silence awaited his
coming up.

With an air of confident familiarity, and as much nonchalance as though
they had been but ordinary people, Strafford approached the royal pair.
The Queen had bestowed smiles on him too; he knew he had her
friendship--moreover that she was the King's master.  He had poured
flattery into her ears, as another Minister courtier of later time into
those of another queen--perhaps the only point of resemblance between
the two men, otherwise unlike as Hyperion to the Satyr.  With all his
sins, Wentworth had redeeming qualities; he was at least a brave man and
somewhat of a gentleman.

"What do you say to this, my lord?" asked the Queen, as he came up.
"I've been giving the King some counsel; advising him to dissolve the
Parliament, or at least do something to stop them in their wicked
courses.  Favour us with your opinion, my lord."

"My opinion," answered the Minister, making his bow, "corresponds with
that of your Majesty.  _Certes_, half-hand measures will no longer avail
in dealing with these seditious gabblers.  There's a dozen of them
deserve having their heads chopped off."

"Just what I've been saying!" triumphantly exclaimed the Queen.  "You
hear that, _mon mari_?"

Charles but nodded assent, waiting for his Minister to speak further.

"At the pace they're going now, Sire," the latter continued, "they'll
soon strip you of all prerogative--leave you of Royalty but the rags."

"_Ciel_, yes!" interposed the Queen.  "And our poor children!  What's to
become of them?"

"I've just been over to the House," proceeded Strafford; "and to hear
them is enough to make one tear his hair.  There's that Hampden, with
Heselrig, Vane, and Harry Martin--Sir Robert Harley too--talking as if
England had no longer a king, and they themselves were its rulers."

"Do you tell me that, Strafford?"

It was Charles himself who interrogated, now showing great excitement,
which the Queen's "I told you so" strengthened, as she intended it.

"With your Majesty's permission, I do," responded the Minister.

"By God's splendour!" exclaimed the indignant monarch, "I'll read them a
different lesson--show them that England _has_ a king--one who will
hereafter reign as king should--absolute--absolute!"

"Thank you, _mon ami_," said the Queen, in a side whisper to Strafford,
as she favoured him with one of her most witching smiles, "He'll surely
do something now."

The little bit of by-play was unobserved by Charles, the gentleman-usher
having again come up to announce another applicant for admission to the
presence: an historical character, too--historically infamous--for it
was Archbishop Laud.

Soon after the oily ecclesiastic was seen coming along in a gliding,
stealthy gait, as though he feared giving offence by approaching royalty
too brusquely.  His air of servile obsequiousness was in striking
contrast with the bold bearing of the visitor who had preceded him.  As
he drew near, his features, that bore the stamp of his low birth and
base nature, were relaxed to their meekest and mildest; a placid smile
playing on his lips, as though they had never told a lie, or himself
done murder!

_Au fait_ to all that concerned the other three--every secret of Court
and Crown--for he was as much the King's Minister as Strafford, he was
at once admitted to their council, and invited to take part in their
conspirings.  Appealed to, as the other had been, he gave a similar
response.  Strong measures should be taken.  He knew the Queen wished it
so, for it was not his first conference with her on that same subject.

Strafford was not permitted time to impart to his _trio_ of listeners
the full particulars of the cruel scheme, which some say, and with much
probability, had its origin in Rome.  For the guests of the gay Queen,
expected every afternoon at Whitehall, began to arrive, interrupting the
conference.

Soon the palace garden became lustrous with people in splendid apparel,
the _elite_ of the land still adhering to the King's cause--plumed
cavaliers, with dames old and young, though youth predominated, but not
all of high degree, either in the male or female element.  As in modern
garden parties given by royalty, there was a mixture, both socially and
morally, strange even to grotesqueness.  The Franco-Italian Queen, with
all her grand ideas of Divine Right and high Prerogative, was not loth
to lay them down and aside when they stood in the way of her pleasures.
She could be a very leveller where self-interest required it; and this
called for it now.  The King's failing popularity needed support from
all sides, classes, and parties, bad or good, humble or gentle; and in
the assemblage she saw around her--there by her own invitation--such
high bloods as Harry Jermyn, Hertford, Digby, Coningsby, Scudamore, and
the like, touched sleeves with men of low birth and lower character--
very reprobates, as Lunsford, afterwards designated "the bloody," and
the notorious desperado, David Hide!  The feminine element was equally
paralleled by what may be seen in many "society" gatherings of the
present day--virtuous ladies brushing skirts with stage courtesans, and
others who figure under the name of "professional beauties," many of
them bearing high titles of nobility, but now debasing them.

Henrietta, in her usual way, had a pleasant word and smile for all; more
for the men than the women, and sweeter for the younger ones than the
old ones.  But even to the gilded youth they were not distributed
impartially.  Handsome Harry Jermyn, hitherto reigning favourite, and
having the larger share of them, had reason to suspect that his star was
upon the wane, when he saw the Queen's eyes ever and anon turned towards
another courtier handsome as himself, with more of youth on his side--
Eustace Trevor.  The latter, relieved from his duty as gentleman-usher,
had joined the party in the garden.  Socially, he had all right to be
there.  Son of a Welsh knight, he could boast of ancestry old as
Caractacus, some of his forbears having served under Harry of Monmouth,
and borne victorious banners at Agincourt.  But boasting was not in
Eustace Trevor's line, nor conceit of any sort--least of all vanity
about his personal appearance.  However handsome others thought him, he
himself was quite unconscious of it.  Equally so of the Queen's
admiration; callous to the approaches she had commenced making, to the
chagrin of older favourites.  Not that he was of a cold or passionless
nature; simply because Henriette de Medici, though a Queen, a beautiful
woman as well, was not the one destined to inspire his first passion.
For as yet he knew not love.  But recently having become attached to the
Court in an official capacity, he thought only of how he might best
perform the duties that had been assigned him.

Though there might be many envies, jealousies, even bitter heartburnings
among the people who composed that glittering throng, they were on the
whole joyous and jubilant.  A whisper had gone round of the King's
determination to return to his old ways, and once more boldly confront
what they called the aggressions of the Parliament.  These concerned
them all, for they were all of the class and kind who preyed upon the
people.  Groups gathered here and there were merry in mutual
congratulations on their fine prospects for the future; hoping that,
like the past, it would afford them free plunder of the nation's purse
and resources--ship tax, coal and conduit money once more, loans by
Privy Seal, and sale of monopolies--all jobberies and robberies
restored!

But just at that moment of general rejoicing, as a bombshell bursting in
the midst of a military camp or regiment of soldiers in close column,
came a thing that, first setting them in a flutter, soon seriously
alarmed them.  A thing of human shape withal; a man in official robes,
the uniform of a Parliamentary usher from the Lords.  He was announced
as waiting outside, rather claiming than craving an interview, which the
King dared not deny him.

Summoned into the Audience Chamber, where Charles had gone to receive
him, he presented the latter with a document, the reading of which
caused him to tremble and turn pale.  For it was a Bill of Attainder
that had been agreed to by both Houses against Thomas Wentworth, Earl of
Strafford.  The fluttering among the courtiers became fright, when the
King, returning to the garden, made known the usher's errand.  To his
familiars at first, but it soon passed from lip to lip and ear to ear.
None seemed so little affected as Strafford himself.  Sin-hardened, he
was also endowed with indomitable courage, and maintained a bold, high
bearing to the last of his life, even to the laying his head upon the
block--an episode which soon after succeeded,--the craven monarch
signing his death warrant as if it had been a receipt for one of his
loans by Privy Seal.

Far more frightened by the Parliamentary message was Archbishop Laud.
For him no more pleasure that day in the gardens of Whitehall.  His
smiles and simpering all gone, with pallid cheek and clouded brow, the
wretched ecclesiastic wandered around among the courtiers, seeming
distraught.  And so was he.  For in that Bill of Attainder he read his
own doom--read it aright.

Grand, glorious Parliament, that knew not only how to impeach, but
punish the betrayers of the people!  Knew also how to maintain its own
dignity and honour; as on a later occasion, when the King, once more
maddened by the stinging taunts of his wicked wife, entered the august
assembly with an escort of bullies and bravoes--Lunsford and Hide among
them--to arrest six of England's most illustrious patriots: an attempt
eminently unsuccessful--an intrusion handsomely resented.  As the
disappointed monarch and his disreputable following turned to go out
again, it was with a wonderful come-down in their swagger.  For along
the line of seats, on both sides of the House, they saw men with
scowling faces and hats on their heads; heard, too, in chorus clearly,
loudly repeated, the significant cry--"Privilege!"



CHAPTER ONE.

A SWORD DUEL IN THE SADDLE.

"He who is not a Republican must either have a bad head or a bad heart."

The speaker was a man of military mien, cavalry arm, as could be told by
his seat in the saddle--for he was on horseback.  Not in military
uniform, however, but dressed in a plain doublet of dark grey cloth,
with a broad Vandyke collar, high-crowned hat, buff boots reaching above
the knees, and turned over at the tips.  Nor did his wearing a sword
certify to his being a soldier.  In those days no one went without such
weapon, especially when on a journey, as he was.  Thirty, or
thereabouts, he looked a little older through his complexion being
sun-browned, as from foreign service or travel; which had also left its
traces in his hair, a strand or two of silver beginning to show in a
_chevelure_ otherwise coal-black.  His fine sweeping moustaches,
however, were still free from this betrayer of middle age; while his
well-balanced figure, lithe and tersely set, bespoke the activity of a
yet youthful manhood.  His features, oval and regular, were of a type
denoting firmness; handsome, too, with their tint of bronze, which lent
interest to them, lit up as they were by the flashing of eagle eyes.
For flash these did excitedly, almost angrily, as he so declared
himself.  By his speech he should be a Puritan, of extremest views; for
that he meant what he said was as evident from the emphasis given to his
words as from the expression on his face.  Still, his hair showed not
the close crop of the "Roundhead;" instead, fell down in curling
luxuriance as affected by the "Cavalier;" while a plume of cock's
feathers set jauntily on the side of his hat gave him more the air of
the latter than the former, in contradiction to the sentiment expressed.

There could be no mistaking to which belonged the personage to whom he
addressed his speech.  Of the Cavalier class sure, as the effect it
produced upon him would have told of itself.  But the style of his
dress, air, bearing, everything proclaimed him one.  A youth not yet
turned twenty, in garb of silken sheen; coat and trunks of rich yellow
satin, Cordovan leather boots, with a wide fringe of lace around the
tops; spurs gilt or of gold, and a beaver over which waved a _panache_
of ostrich feathers, upheld in a jewelled clasp.  His sword belt of silk
velvet was elaborately embroidered, the needlework looking as though it
came from the fingers of a lady who had worked with a will and _con
amore_; the gauntlets of his white gloves ornamented in a similar
fashion by the same.  Handsome he, too, but of manly beauty, quite
differing from that of the other, even to contrast.  With a bright,
radiant complexion, and blonde hair falling in curls over his cheeks,
yet unbearded, his features were of the type termed aristocratic; such
as Endymion possessed, and Phidias would have been delighted to secure
for a model.  Habitually and openly wearing a gentle expression, there
was, at the same time, one more latent, which bespoke intellectual
strength and courage of no common kind.  Passionate anger, too, when
occasion called for it, seeming to say, "Don't put upon me too much, or
you'll find your mistake."

Just such a cast came over them as he listened to what the other said; a
declaration like defiance, flung in his teeth.  Although meant as the
clincher of a political argument which had been for some time going on
between them, the young Cavalier, taken aback by its boldness, and
doubtful of having heard aright, turned sharply upon the other,
asking,--

"What's that you said, sir?"

"That the man who is not a Republican must either have a bad head or a
bad heart."

This time more emphatically, as though nettled by the tone of the
other's interrogative.

"Indeed!" exclaimed the youth reining up, for they were riding along a
road.

"Indeed, yes," returned the older man, also drawing bridle.  "Or if you
prefer it in another form, he who is not a Republican must be either a
knave or a fool."

"You're a knave to say so!" cried the silken youth, whose rising wrath
had now gathered to a head, his hand as he spoke crossing to the hilt of
his sword.

"Well, youngster," rejoined the other, seeming, on the contrary, to
become calmer, and speaking with a composure strange under the
circumstances, "that's speech plain enough, and rude enough.  It almost
tempts me to retort by calling you a fool.  But I won't; only, if you
value your life you must withdraw your words."

"Not one of them!  Never, so long as I wear a sword.  You shall eat
yours first?" and he whipped out his rapier.

Though journeying side by side, they were quite strangers to one
another, an accident having brought them together upon the road, both
going in the same direction.  It was up the steep declivity leading from
the town of Mitcheldean into the Forest, near the point where now stands
a mansion called "The Wilderness."  Nor were they altogether alone, two
other horsemen, their respective body servants, riding at a little
distance behind.  It was after surmounting the slope, and having got
upon level ground, that their conflict of words reached the climax
described, likely to end in one of blows.  For to this the fiery youth
seemed determined on pushing it.

Not so the other.  On the contrary, he still sat composedly in his
saddle, no sign of drawing sword, exhibiting a _sang froid_ curiously in
contrast with the warmth he had shown in the wordy disputation.  It
surely could not be cowardice?  If so, it must be of the most craven
kind, after that demand for withdrawal of the insulting words.

And as such the Cavalier conceived, or misconceived, it, crying out,--

"Draw, caitiff!  Defend yourself, if you don't want me to kill you in
cold blood!"

"Ha-ha-ha!" laughed the other, lightly and satirically.  "It's just
because I don't want to kill _you_ in cold blood that I hesitate baring
my blade."

"A subterfuge--a lie!" shouted the youth, stung to madness by the
implied taunt of his inferiority.  "Do your best and worst.  Draw,
sirrah, or I'll run you through.  Draw, I say!"

"Oh, don't be in such a hurry.  If I must I must, and, to oblige you,
will, though it dislikes me to do murder--all the more that you've a
spark of spirit.  But--"

"Do it if you can," interrupted the Cavalier, unheeding the compliment.
"I've no fear of your murdering _me_.  Maybe the boot will be on the
other leg."

Again that strange expression came over the face of the older man,
half-admiration, half-compassion, with a scarce discernible element of
anger in it.  Even yet he appeared reluctant to draw his sword, and only
did so when the opprobrious epithet _Lache_--for the Cavaliers spoke a
smattering of French--was flung into his teeth by his now furious
antagonist.  At this, unsheathing, he called out,--

"Your blood be on your own head.  To guard!"

"For God and the King!" cried the challenger, as he tightened grasp on
hilt and rein, setting himself firmly in the saddle.

"For God and the People!" followed the response antagonistic.

A prick of the spur by both, a bound forward, and their blades crossed
with a clash, their horses shoulder to shoulder.  But on the instant of
engaging, that of the Cavalier, frayed by the clink of the steel and its
flash in the dazzling sunlight, reared up, pivoting round to the right.
This brought his rider left side to his antagonist, giving the latter an
advantage: and so decided, it seemed as though he could bring the affair
to an end at the moment of commencement.  For his own better-trained
steed had stood ground, and wanted only another touch of the spur to
carry him close enough for commanding the bridle arm of his adversary,
and all under it, when with a lunge he might thrust him through.  Surely
he could have done this!  Yet neither spur nor sword were so exerted.
Instead, he sat quietly in his saddle, as if waiting for his adversary
to recover himself!  Which the latter soon did, wheeling short round,
and again furiously engaging; by a second misconception, unaware of the
mercy shown him.  This time as they came to the "engage" the Cavalier's
horse behaved better, standing ground till several thrusts and parades
were exchanged between them.  Clearly the silk-clad youth was no novice
at fencing, but as clearly the other was a master of it, and equally
accomplished as a horseman; his horse, too, so disciplined as to give
him little bother with the bridle.  A spectator, if a connoisseur in the
_art d'escrime_, could have told how the combat would end--must end--
unless some accident favoured the younger combatant.  As it was, even
the Fates seemed against him, his horse again rearing _en pirouette_,
and to the wrong side, placing him once more at the mercy of his
antagonist.  And again the latter scorned, or declined, taking advantage
of it!

When the angry youth for the third time confronted him, it was with less
fury in his look, and a lowered confidence in his skill.  For now he not
only knew his own inferiority as a swordsman, but was troubled with an
indistinct perception of the other's generosity.  Not clear enough,
however, to restrain him from another trial; and their swords came
together in a third crossing.

This time the play was short, almost as at the first.  Having engaged
the Cavalier's blade in _carte_, and bound it, the self-proclaimed
Republican with a quick _flanconnade_ plunged the point of his own
straight for his adversary's wrist.  Like the protruded tongue of a
serpent, it went glistening into the white gauntlet, which instantly
showed a spot of red, with blood spurting out; while the rapier of the
Cavalier, struck from his grasp, flew off, and fell with a ring upon the
road.



CHAPTER TWO.

FOES BECOME FRIENDS.

The young Cavalier was now altogether at the mercy of his older, and as
proved, abler antagonist; knew the latter could take his life, and had
the right, as well as good reason, from the great provocation given him
in that shower of insulting epithets--the latest of them "_Lache_!"  For
all, he quailed not, neither made attempt to elude the next thrust of
the victorious sword.  Instead, stood his ground, crying out,--

"You have conquered!  You can kill me!"

"Kill you?" rejoined the victor, with the same light laugh as before.
"That's just what I've been endeavouring _not_ to do.  But it has cost
me an effort--all my skill.  Had you been an ordinary swordsman I'd have
disarmed you at the first pass after engaging.  I've done it with
others, half a dozen or more.  With you, 'twas just as much as I was
able, without absolutely taking your life--a thing far from my thoughts,
and as far from my wishes.  And now that all's over, and we've neither
of us _murdered_ the other, am I to say `Surrender'?"

He still spoke laughingly, but without the slightest tone of satire, or
show of exultation.

"You can command it," promptly responded the vanquished youth, now
doubly vanquished.  "I cry `Quarter'--crave it, if you like."

It was no fear of death made him thus humbly submit, but a sudden
revulsion, an outburst of gratitude, to a conqueror alike merciful and
generous.

Ere this their attendants had got upon the ground, seeming undecided
whether to pitch in with their masters, or cross swords on their own
account.  Both had drawn them, and waited but word or sign, scowling
savagely at each other.  Had it come to blows between the men, the
result, in all probability, would have been as with their masters; the
Cavalier's lightweight varlet looking anything but a match for the
stout-bodied, veteranlike individual who was henchman to his antagonist.
As it was, they had not resolved themselves till the combat came to an
end.  Then hearing the word "quarter," and seeing signs of amity
restored, they slipped their blades back into the scabbards, and sate
awaiting orders.

Only one of them received any just then--he the heavy one.

"Dismount, Hubert," commanded his master, "and return his weapon to this
young gentleman, who, as you can testify, well deserves to wear it.  And
now, sir," he continued to the young gentleman himself, "along with your
sword let me offer you some apologies, which are owing.  I admit my
words were rather rough, and call for qualification, or, to speak more
correctly, explanation.  When I said, that the man who is not a
Republican must be deficient either in head or heart, I meant one who
has reached the years of discretion, and seen something of the world--
as, for instance, myself.  At your age I too was a believer in kings--
even the doctrine of Divine Right--brought up to it.  Possibly, when you
hear my name you'll admit that."

"You will give me your name?" asked the other, eagerly.  "I wish it,
that I may know to whom I am beholden for so much generosity."

"Very generous on your part to say say I am Sir Richard Walwyn."

"Ah!  A relative of the Scudamores, are you not?"

"A distant relative.  But I've not seen any of them lately, having just
come back from the Low Countries, where I've been fighting a bit.  In
better practice from that, with my hand still in, which may account for
my having got the better of you," and he again laughed lightly.

The young Cavalier protested against the generous admission, and then
went on to say he knew the Scudamores well--especially Lord Scudamore,
of Holme Lacey.

"I've often met his lordship at the Palace," was the concluding remark.

"At what palace, pray?" inquired Sir Richard.

"Oh!  Whitehall.  I did not think of specifying."

"Which proves that you yourself come from it?  One of the King's people,
I take it; or in the Queen's service, more like?"

"I was, but not now.  I've been at Court for the last few months in the
capacity of gentleman-usher."

"And now?  But I crave pardon.  It is rude of me to cross-question you
thus."

"Not at all, Sir Richard.  You have every right.  After being so frank
with me, I owe you equal frankness.  I've given up the appointment I
held at Court, and am now on my way home--to my father's house in
Monmouthshire."

"Your father is--?"

"Sir William Trevor."

"Ah! now I can understand why your blood boiled up at my strenuous
defence of the Parliament--the son of Sir William Trevor.  But we won't
enter upon politics again.  After blows, words are inadmissible, as
ungracious.  Your father's house is near Abergavenny, if I remember
rightly?"

"It is."

"That's good twenty-seven miles from here.  You don't purpose going on
there to-night?"

"No; I intend putting up for the night at Monmouth."

"Well, that's within the possibilities; but not with daylight, unless
you press your horse hard--and he looks rather jaded."

"No wonder.  I've ridden him all the way from Witney, in Oxfordshire,
since six this morning."

"He must be good stuff to stand it, and show the spirit he did just now.
But for all he seems rather badly done up--another reason for my having
got the better of you."

At this both smiled, the young Cavalier, as before, refusing to accept
the complimentary acknowledgment.

"A pity," ran on Sir Richard, "to press the poor animal farther to
night--that is, so far as Monmouth.  It's all of ten miles yet, and the
road difficult--pitches up and down.  You should rest him nearer, by way
of reward for his noble performance of the day."

"Indeed, I was thinking of it; had half made up my mind to sleep at
Coleford."

"Ah! you mus'n't stop at Coleford, much less sleep there."

"And why not?"

"The Coleford people are mad angry with the King, as are most others in
the Forest.  No wonder, from the way Sir John Wintour has been behaving
to them since he got the monopoly grant of what his Majesty had no right
to give--rights that are theirs.  Their blood's up about it, and just
now to appear in the streets of Coleford dressed as you are, cavalier
and courtier fashion, might be attended with danger."

"I'll risk--defy it!"

"Bravely spoken, and I've no doubt you'd bravely do both.  But there's
no need for your doing one or the other."

"If you describe these Coleford fellows aright, how can I help it, Sir
Richard?  My road passes through their town."

"True, but there's a way you may avoid it."

"Oh!  I'm not going to skulk round, taking bypaths, like a thief or
deer-stealer.  I'll give them a fight first."

"And that fight might be your last--likely would, Master Trevor.  But
no.  You've fought your way _into_ the Forest so gallantly, it behoves
him you all but conquered to see you safe out of it.  To do which,
however, I must ask you to give up all thoughts of sleeping either at
Monmouth or Coleford, and be my guest for the night."

"But where, Sir Richard?  I did not know that you had a house in the
Forest."

"Nor have I.  But one of my friends has; and I think I can promise you
fair hospitality in it--by proxy.  Besides, that little hole I've made
in your hand--sorry at having made it--needs looking to without delay,
and my friend has some skill as a surgeon.  I could offer some other
inducements that might help in deciding you--as, for instance, a pair of
pretty faces to see.  But coming from the Court of Queen Henriette, with
her galaxy of grand dames, perhaps you've had a surfeit of that sort of
thing."

The young courtier shifted uneasily in his saddle, a slight blush coming
over his cheeks, as though the words rather gave him pain.

"If not," continued Sir Richard, without heeding these indices of
emotion, "I can promise to show you something rare in the way of
feminine beauty.  For that I'll back Sabrina and Vaga against all your
maids of honour and court ladies--the Queen included--and win with
either."

"_Sabrina!  Vaga_!  Singular names!  May I ask who the ladies are?"

"You may do more--make their acquaintance, if you consent to my
proposal.  You will?"

"Sir Richard, your kindness overpowers me.  I am at your service every
way."

"Thanks!  Let us on, then, without delay.  We've yet full five miles of
road before us, ere we can reach the cage that holds this pair of pretty
birds.  _Allons_!"

At which he gave his horse the spur, Trevor doing the same; and once
more the two rode side by side; but friendly now--even to affection.



CHAPTER THREE.

BEAUTIFUL FOREST BIRDS.

In all England's territory there is no district more interesting than
the Forest of Dean.  Historically it figures in our earliest annals, as
borderland and bulwark of the ancient Silures, who, with Caractacus at
their head, held the country around, defending it on many a hard-fought
field against the legionaries of Ostorius Scapula.  Centuries after, it
again became the scene of sanguinary strife between the descendants of
these same Silures--then better known as Britons--and the Saxon
invaders; and still farther down the stream of time another invasion
wasted it--Norman and Saxon arrayed on the same side against Welsh--
still the same warlike stock, the sons of Siluria.  This conflict
against odds--commencing with the Norman William, and continued, or
renewed, down through the days made illustrious by the gallant
Llewellyn--only came to an end with those of the equally gallant
Glendower, when the fires of Welsh independence, now and then blazing up
intermittently, were finally and for ever trodden out.

Many a grand historic name is associated with this same Forest of Dean--
famed warriors and famous or infamous kings.  The Conqueror himself was
hunting in it when the news reached him of the rising in Northumberland,
and he swore "By the splendour of God, he would lay that land waste by
fire and sword!"--a cruel oath, as cruelly kept.  In its dark recesses
the wretched Edward the Second endeavoured to conceal himself, but in
vain--dragged thence to imprisonment in the dungeons of Berkeley Castle,
there to die.  And within its boundaries was born that monarch of most
romantic fame, Harry of Monmouth, hero of Agincourt.

And the day was approaching--had, in fact, come--when other names that
brighten the page of England's history were to fling their halo of
illumination over the Forest of Dean--those of the chivalrous Waller,
the brave but modest Massey, Essex, Fairfax, and greatest, most glorious
of all, that of Cromwell himself.  It was to be darkened too, as by the
shadow of death--ay, death itself--through many a raid of marauding
Cavaliers, with the ruffian Rupert at their head.

Dropping history, and returning to its interest otherwise, the Forest of
Dean claims attention from peculiarities of many kinds.  Geologically
regarded, it is an outlier of the carboniferous system of South Wales,
from which it is separated by a breadth of the Devonian that has been
denuded between--so widely separated as to have similitude to an island
in the far-off ocean.  An elevated island, too, rising above the "Old
Red," through successive strata of shales, mountain limestone, and
millstone grit, to nearly a thousand feet higher than the general level
of the surrounding _terrain_.  Towards this, on every side, and all
round for miles and tens of miles, it presents a _facade_ not actually
precipitous, but so steep and difficult of ascent as to make horses
breathe hard climbing it; while in loaded cart or wagon, teams have to
be doubled.  Just such a "pitch" was that on whose top the bitter war of
words between Eustace Trevor and Sir Richard Walwyn had come to blows.

But, though thus high in air, the Forest of Dean does not possess the
usual characteristics of what are termed _plateaux_, or elevated
tablelands.  As a rule these show a level surface, or with but gentle
undulations, while that of the Forest is everywhere intersected by deep
valleys and ravines.

A very interesting geological fact is offered in the surface formation
of this singular tract of country, its interior area being in most
places much lower than the rim around it.  The peculiarity is due to the
hard carboniferous limestone, which forms its periphery, having better
resisted denudation than the softer matrix of the coal measures embraced
by it.  The disintegrating rains, and the streams, often torrents, their
resulting sequence, have here and there cut channels of escape outward--
some running west into the Wye, some eastward to espouse the Severn.

Very different is the Forest of Dean now from what it was in those days
of which this tale treats--territorially more restricted, both in its
boundaries and the area once bearing its name.  Then it extended over
the whole triangular space between the two great rivers, from the towns
of Ross and Gloucester down to their union in the wide sea-like estuary
of the Severn.  Changed, too, in the character of its scenery.  Now,
here and there, a tall chimney may be seen soaring up out of its
greenery of trees, and vomiting forth volumes of murky smoke, in
striking disagreeable contrast with their verdure.  Then there was
nothing of this kind;--at least nothing to jar upon the mind, or mar the
harmony of nature.  Then, too, it was a real forest of grand old trees,
with a thick tangle of underwood, luxuriant and shady.  For the Court
favourite, Sir John Wintour, had not yet wasted it with his five hundred
woodcutters, all chopping and hacking away at the same time.  It was
only after the Restoration he did that; the robber's monopoly granted
him by the "Martyr King" having been re-bestowed by the "Merry Monarch."

There were towns in the Forest then, notwithstanding--some of them busy
centres as now; but the majority peaceful villages or hamlets; country
houses, too, some of pretentious style--mansions, and castles.  A few of
these yet exist, if in ruins; others known only by record; and still
others totally gone out of history--lost even to legend.

The Forest roads were then but bridle paths, or trackways for the
pack-horse; no fencing on either side; the narrow list of trodden ground
running centrally between wide borderings of grass-grown sward; so that
the traveller, if a horseman, had the choice of soft turf for the hoofs
of his roadster.  Only on the main routes between the larger towns, and
those going outward, was there much traffic.  The bye-roads had all the
character of green lanes, narrow, but now and then debouching into
glades, and openings of larger area, where the small Forest sheep--
progeny of the Welsh mountaineers--browsed upon pasture, spare and
close-cropped, in the companionship of donkeys, and perchance a deer, or
it might be a dozen, moving among them in amiable association.  The
sheep and the donkeys are there still, but the deer, alas! are gone.
Many birds that built their nests in the Forest trees, or soared above,
are there no more.  The eagle makes not now its eyrie in the Coldwell
Rocks or soars over Symonds' Yat; even the osprey is but rarely seen
pursuing its finny prey in the lower waters of either Wye or Severn.
Still, the _falconidae_ are to this day represented in the Forest
district by numerous species, by the kite and kestrel; the buzzard,
Common, Rough-legged, and Honey; by the goshawk and sparrow-hawk; the
hobby and harriers; and if last, not least, in estimation, the graceful
diminutive merlin.

Birds of bright feathers, too, still flit through the Forest's trees;
the noisy jay, the gaudy, green woodpecker, and the two spotted species;
with the kingfisher of cerulean hue; while its glades are gladdened by
the sweet song of the thrush, the bolder lay of the blackbird; in
springtide, the matchless melody of the nightingale--the joyous
twittering of linnets and finches, mingling with the softer notes of the
cushat and turtle-dove.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

On that calm summer evening, when the clinking of swords on
Mitcheldean-hill frightened the Forest birds, for a time stilling their
voices, on another hill, some three miles distant from the scene of
strife, the sweet songsters were being disturbed by intrusion upon their
wild-wood domain.  Not much disturbed, however, nor could the disturbers
be justly characterised as intruders.  Even the birds themselves might
have been glad to see, and welcome among them, things of brightness and
beauty far beyond their own.  Women they were, or rather girls, both
being under age--for there were but two of them.  Sisters, moreover,
though there was scarce a trait of resemblance to betray the
relationship, either in features or complexion.  She who seemed the
elder was dark as a gipsy, the other a clear _blonde_, with hair
showering over her shoulders, of hue as the beams of the sinking sun
that shimmered upon it.  For all, both were alike beautiful; in a
different way, but unquestionably beautiful.  And that they were sisters
could be learnt by listening to their conversation: their names, also,
as they addressed one another--that of the older, _Sabrina_; the
younger, _Vaga_.

They could not be other than the pair of pretty birds spoken of by Sir
Richard Walwyn; and, verily, he had not overrated them.



CHAPTER FOUR.

OUT FOR A WALK.

Unlike in other respects, the sisters were unequal in height--the elder
being the taller.  With some difference in their dress, too, though both
wore the ordinary outdoor costume of the day.  It was rather graceful
than splendid, for the hideous farthingale of the Elizabethan era was
then going out of fashion, and their gowns, close-fitting in body and
sleeves, displayed the outlines of figures that were perfection.  Theirs
were not charms that needed heightening by any adornment of dress.
However plainly attired, there was in their air and carriage that grace
which distinguishes the gentlewoman.  Still, the younger was not without
affectation of ornament.  Her French hood of bright-coloured silk,
looped under the chin, was so coifed as to show in a coquettish way her
wealth of radiant hair, and beneath the gorget ruff gleamed a necklet of
gold, with rings in her ears.  There was embroidery, also, on the bodice
and sleeves of her gown--doubtless the work of her own fair fingers.  In
those days ladies, even the grandest dames, were not above using the
needle.

Sabrina's hood, of a more sombre hue, was quite as becoming, and more
suitable to her darker complexion.  Her general attire, too, was
appropriate to her character, which was of the staid, sober kind.  Both
wore strong, thick-soled shoes--being out for a walk--but neither these
nor home-knitted stockings, which their short skirts permitted view of,
could hinder the eye from beholding feet small and finely-shaped, with
high instep and elegant _tournure_ of ankles.

Good walkers they were, as could be told by the way they stepped along
the Forest road; for they were on one.  It was that which ran from
Ruardean to Drybrook, and their faces were set in the direction of the
latter.  Between the two towns a high ridge is interposed, and this they
were ascending from the Ruardean side.  Before they had reached its
summit, Vaga, coming abruptly to a stop, said:--

"Don't you think we've walked far enough?"

"Why?  Are you tired?"

"No--not that.  But it occurs to me we may be wandering too far from
home."

That Sabrina was not wandering might have been told by her step,
straightforward, as also her earnest glances, interrogating the road
ahead at every turning.  As these had been somewhat surreptitiously,
though not timidly, given, the other had hitherto failed to notice them.
Indeed, Vaga was not all the while by her side, nor keeping step with
her.  A huge dog of the Old English mastiff breed more occupied her
attention; the animal every now and then making a rush at the browsing
sheep, and sending them helter-skelter among the trees, his young
mistress--for the dog was hers--clapping her hands with delight, and
crying him on regardless of the mischief.  It was only when no more of
the little Welsh muttons were to be seen along the road that she joined
her sister, and put in that plea for turning back.

"So far from home!" repeated Sabrina, with feigned surprise.  "Why, we
haven't come quite two miles--not much over one."

"True; but--"

"But what?  Are you afraid?"

"A little--I confess."

"And the cause of your fear?  Not wolves?  If so, I can release you from
it.  It's now quite half a century since there was a wolf seen in this
Forest; and he--poor, lonely creature, the last of his race--was most
unmercifully slain.  The Foresters, being mostly of Welsh ancestry, have
an hereditary hatred of the lupine species, I suppose from that
mischance which befel the infant Llewellyn."  Vaga laughed, as she
rejoined:--"Instead of having a fear of wolves, I'd like to see one just
now.  Hector, I'm sure, would show fight; ay, and conquer it, too, as
did the famed Beth-Gelert his.  Wouldn't you, old Hec?  Ay! that you
would."

At which the mastiff, rearing up, set his paws against her breast to
receive the caressess extended; and, after these being given him,
scampered off again in search of more sheep.

"Then what are you afraid of?" asked Sabrina, "Ghosts?  There are none
of them in the Forest either.  If there were, no danger of their showing
themselves by daylight, and we'll be back home long before the sun goes
down.  Ha, ha, ha!"

It was as unusual for the older of the sisters to talk in such a light
strain as it was for the younger to speak otherwise.  Just then each had
a reason for this reversion of their _roles_.

Further questioned as to the cause of her fear, Vaga made answer,
saying,--

"You're merry, sister Sab, and I'm right glad to see you so.  But what I
meant isn't a matter for jest; instead, something to be really alarmed
about."

"When you've told me what it is, I'll give my opinion upon it.  If
neither wolves nor ghosts, what can it be?  Bipeds or quadrupeds?"

"Bipeds, and of the sort most to be dreaded--brutal men."

"Oh! that's it.  But what men are there about here deserving to be so
characterised?"

"None about here, I hope and believe.  But you know, sister, what's
going on all around the Forest: those mobs of lawless fellows down at
Monmouth and Lydney.  Suppose some of them to be coming this way and
meet us?"

"I don't suppose it, and needn't.  The malignants of Monmouth and Lydney
are not likely to be upon this road.  If they did, 'twould be at their
peril.  The men of Ruardean and Drybrook are of a different sort--the
right sort.  Should we meet any of them, though they may be a little
rough in appearance, they won't be rude.  No true Forester ever is to a
woman, whether lady or not.  That they leave to the foreign elements Sir
John Wintour has brought to Lydney, and the so-called Cavaliers on the
Monmouth side--those braggarts of their blood and gallant bearing, most
of them the veriest scum of the country, its gamesters and tapsters, the
sweepings of the alehouse and stable!  Cavaliers, indeed! who know not
politeness to man nor respect for woman; care neither for national
honour nor social decency!"

The enlightened young lady spoke with a warmth bordering upon
indignation.  With truth, too, as might one of her sort now about Tories
and Jingoes.  But, alas! now there are but few of her sort, youthful and
enthusiastic in the cause of liberty; instead, ancient maidens of wealth
and title, some of whose ancestors trod the stage playing at charity for
the sake of popularity; patronising play-actors and endowing homes for
strayed dogs! showing a shameless sympathy with the foul murdering Turk
and his red-handed atrocities; last and latest of all, having the
effrontery--impertinent as unfeminine--to counsel, ay, dictate,
political action to England's people, telling them how they should cast
their votes!

What a contrast between their doings and the sayings and sentiments of
that young Forest girl--all that lies between the mean and the noble!

"But," she went on, in reference to the _gentlemen_ of the gaming-house
and hostelry tap-room, "we needn't fear meeting them here, nor anywhere
through the Forest.  The Foresters--brave fellows--are for the
Parliament almost to a man.  Should we encounter any of them on our
walk, I'll answer for their good behaviour and kind-heartedness--
something more, if knowing who we are.  Father is a favourite with them
for having taken their side against the usurpations of Wintour; though
they liked him before that, and I'm proud of their doing so."

"Oh! so am I, Sabrina.  I'm as fond of our dear Foresters as you.  It
isn't of them I had any fear.  But, apart from all that, I think it's
time we turn our steps homeward.  We're surely now two miles from
Hollymead; and see! the sun's hastening to go down behind the Welsh
hills."

While so delivering herself, she faced round, the Welsh hills being
behind their backs as they walked towards Drybrook.

"Hasten as it likes," rejoined Sabrina, "it can't get down for at least
another hour.  That will give us ample time to go on to the top of the
hill and back to Hollymead before supper; which last, if I mistake not,
is the chief cause of your anxiety to be at home."

"For shame, Sabrina!  You know it isn't--the last thing in my thoughts."

Sabrina did know that; knew, also, she was not speaking her own
thoughts, but using subterfuge to conceal them.  It was herself had
proposed the stroll she seemed so desirous of continuing.  To her its
termination would not be satisfactory without attaining the summit of
the ridge whose slope they were ascending.

Thrown back by what her younger sister had said, but still determined to
proceed, without giving the true reason, she bethought herself of one,
false though plausible.

"Well, Vag," she laughingly pursued, "I was only jesting, as you know.
But there's one thing I hate to do--never could do, that's to half climb
a hill without going on to its top.  It seems like breaking down or
backing out, and crying `surrender,'--which our dear father has taught
us never to do.  Up to the summit yonder is but a step now.  It won't
take us ten minutes more to reach it; besides, I want to see something I
haven't set eyes on for a long while--that grand valley through which
meanders my namesake, Sabrina.  And looking back from there, you can
also feast your eyes on that in which wanders yours, Vaga, capricious
like yourself.  In addition," she added, not heeding her sister's shrug
of the shoulders, "we'll there get a better view of a glorious sunset
that's soon to be over the Hatteral Hills; and the twilight after will
give us ample time to get home before the supper table be set.  So, why
should you hinder me--to say nothing of yourself--from indulging in a
little bit of aesthetics?"

"Hinder you!" exclaimed Vaga, protestingly.  "I hinder!  You shan't say
that."

And at the words she went bounding on upward, like a mountain antelope;
not stopping again till she stood on the summit of the hill.



CHAPTER FIVE.

WAITING AND WATCHING.

Following with alacrity, Sabrina was soon again by the side of her
sister.  But just then no further speech passed between them.  Not that
both were silent.  On the crest of the ridge, treeless and overgrown
with gorse, Hector had run foul of a donkey, and after a short chase was
holding it at bay.  With his barks were mingled cries of encouragement
from his mistress, laughter, and patting of her hands, as she hounded
him on.  Possibly had the Forester, Neddy's owner, come up at that
moment, he might not have shown the politeness for which Sabrina had
given his fellows credit.  But the young lady meant no harm; nor much
the mastiff.  If he had, there was little danger of his doing it; the
creature whose ancestry came from Mesopotamia being able to take care of
itself.  The demonstrations of the dog--an overfed, good-natured brute--
looked as if being made either for his own amusement or that of his
young mistress; while the donkey, on the defence, with teeth, and heels,
seemed equally to enjoy the fun.

The elder sister, standing apart, had neither eyes nor ears for this bit
of hoydenish play.  If a thought, it was the fear of giving offence to
the ass's owner, should that individual unluckily come along.  As no one
came, however, she left Vaga to her vagaries, and stood intently gazing
upon the landscape spread before her.

A far and varied view she commanded from that elevated spot.  First, a
deep, wide valley below, trending away to the right, with a tiny stream
trickling adown it, and a straggling village, the houses standing apart
along its banks--Drybrook.  But not as the Drybrook of to-day, showing
tall brick chimneys--the monoliths of our own modern time--with their
plumes of grey black smoke; cinder-strewn roads running from one to the
other, and patches of bare pasture between.  Then it was embowered,
almost buried, in trees; here and there only a spot of whitewashed walls
or a quaint lead window, seen through the thick foliage.  Beyond village
and stream rose another ridge, with a gradual ascent up to the
"Wilderness"; and still farther off--so far as to be just visible--
stretched a wide expanse of low-lying champaign country, the valley of
the Severn, once the sound of a sea.  As the young girl gazed upon it,
the sinking sun behind her back, with the Forest highlands beginning to
fling the shadows of twilight across the Severn's plain, and the white
mist that overhung it, she might well have imagined the waters of ocean
once more o'erflowing their ancient bed.

She neither imagined this nor thought of it; in fact saw not the fog,
nor gave so much as a second glance to that valley she had professed
herself so desirous of viewing.  Instead, her eyes were fixedly bent
upon the face of the acclivity opposite--more particularly on a riband
of road that went winding up through woods from Drybrook to the
"Wilderness."  And still with the same look of earnest interrogation.
What could it mean?

Vaga coming up, after having finished her affair with the donkey,
observed the look, and it called forth a fresh display of that
persiflage she so delighted in.  Hitherto Sabrina had the best of it.
Her turn now, and she took advantage of it, saying,--

"Why, sister Sab, you seem to have forgotten all about what you came
here for!  You're not looking at the Severn at all!  Your glances are
directed too low for it.  And as to the glorious sunset you spoke of,
that's going on behind you!  Something on the road over yonder seems to
be the attraction; though I can see nothing but the road itself."

"Nor I," said Sabrina, a little confused, with just the slightest spot
of red again showing on her cheeks.  Enough, though, to catch the eye of
her suspicious sister, who archly observed,--

"Rather strange, your gazing so earnestly at it, then?"

"Well, yes; I suppose it is."

"But not if you're expecting to see some one upon it."

Sabrina started, the red on her cheeks becoming more pronounced; but she
said nothing, since now her secret was discovered, or on the eve of
discovery.  Vaga's next words left her no longer in doubt.

"Who is he, sister?" she asked with a sly look, and a laugh.

"Who is who?"

"He you expect to see come riding down yonder road.  I take it he'll be
on horseback?"

"Vaga! you're a very inquisitive creature."

"Have I not some right, after being dragged all the way hither, when I
wanted to go home?  If you called me a _hungry_ creature 'twould be
nearer the truth.  Jesting apart, I am that--quite famished; so weak I
must seek support from a tree."

And with a mock stagger, she brought up against the trunk of a hawthorn
that grew near.

Sabrina could not resist laughing too, though still keeping her eyes on
the uphill road.  It seemed as though she could not take her eyes off
it.  But the other quickly recovering strength, and more naturally than
she had affected feebleness, once more returned to the attack, saying,--

"Sister mine; it's no use you're trying to hoodwink me.  You forget that
by accident I saw a letter that lately came to Hollymead--at least its
superscription.  Equally oblivious you appear to be, that the
handwriting of a certain gentleman is quite familiar to me, having seen
many other letters from the same to father.  So, putting that and that
together, I've not the slightest doubt that the one of last week,
addressed to your sweet self, informed you that on a certain day, hour,
afternoon, Sir Richard Walwyn would enter the Forest of Dean by the
Drybrook Road on his way to--"

"Vaga, you're a very demon!"

"Which means I've read your secret aright.  So you may as well make
confession of it."

"I won't; and just to punish you for prying.  Curiosity ungratified will
be to you very torture, as I know."

"Oh, well! keep it close; it don't signify a bit.  One has little care
to be told what one knows without telling.  If Sir Richard should come
to Hollymead, why then six and six make a dozen, don't they?"

Sabrina turned a half-reproachful look on her tormentor, but without
making reply.

"You needn't answer," the other went on.  "_My_ arithmetic's right, and
the problem's solved, or will be, by the gentleman spoken of making his
appearance any time this day, or--Why, bless me!  Yonder he is now, I do
believe."

The exclamatory phrase had reference to a horseman seen riding down the
road so narrowly watched; though the speaker was not the first to see
him.  He had been already sighted by Sabrina, and it was the flash of
excitement in her eyes that guided those of her sister.

The horseman had not all the road to himself; another coming on behind,
but at such short distance as to tell of companionship--that of master
and servant.  He ahead was undoubtedly a gentleman, as evinced by the
bright colour of his dress, with its silken gloss under the sunlight,
and the glitter of arms and accoutrements; while the more
soberly-attired rider in the rear was evidently a groom or body servant.

As the girls stood regarding, the look in the eyes of the elder, at
first satisfied and joyous, began gradually to change.  The distance was
too great for the identification of either face or figure.  All that
could be distinguished was that they were men on horseback, with the
general hue of their habiliments, and the sparkle of arms and ornaments.

It was just these--their brightness and splendour--as affected the
foremost of the two, which had brought the change over Sabrina's
countenance.  Sir Richard Walwyn was not wont to dress gaudily, but
rather the reverse.  Still, time had elapsed since she last saw him.  He
had been abroad, in the Low Countries, and with Gustavus of Sweden,
battling for the good cause.  The foreign fashions may have changed his
ideas about dress and its adornments.  But little cared she for that so
long as his heart was unchanged; and that it was so she knew by the
letter which had betrayed her own heart's secret to her sister.

Almost simultaneously upon Vaga's features appeared a change too--almost
expressing doubt.  It became certainty on the instant after, still
another replacing it, as she again exclaimed, contradicting herself--

"Bless me, no!  That's Reginald Trevor."



CHAPTER SIX.

A CAVALIER IN LOVE.

Reginald Trevor it was, for Vaga was not guessing.  Something she saw
about the horseman, or his horse, had enabled her to identify him; as
she did so, that third and latest change coming over her countenance,
giving it also a serious cast.

But nothing compared with that which now showed on the face of her
sister.  The varied expressions of hopeful anticipation, surprise,
delight, then doubt, rapidly succeeding one another, were all past, and
in their place a dark shadow sat cloud-like on her brow.  In her eyes,
too, still scanning the distant horseman, was a look that betokened
pain, or at least uneasiness, with something of fear and anger.  In
truth, the expression on their face, though differing from each other,
would have been unreadable to any one who was a stranger to them and
Reginald Trevor.

Some knowledge of this gentleman and his antecedents will throw light
upon the grave impression seemingly produced upon the two girls by the
sight of him.

As the name might indicate, he was kin to the young courtier, late
gentleman-usher at Whitehall--his cousin.  Different, however, had been
their lots in the lottery of life; those of Eustace so far having all
come out prizes, while Reginald had been drawing blanks.  A dissolute,
dissipated father had left the latter nought but a bad name, and the son
had little bettered it.  Still was he a gallant Cavalier, as the word
went, and at least possessed the redeeming quality of courage.  He had
given proofs of it as an officer in that army sent northward against the
Scots, where he had served as a lieutenant under Lunsford.  _Per
contra_, as the father who begot him, he was given to dissipation, a
drinker, dicer, wencher, everything socially disreputable and
distasteful to the Parliamentarians,--far more the Puritans,--though
neither disgracing or lowering himself in the eyes of his own party--the
Cavaliers.  If latitudinarianism in morals could be accounted Christian
charity, none were endowed with this virtue in a higher degree than
they.

Reginald Trevor had the full benefit of their tolerance in that respect:
passed among them as a rare good fellow; no harm in him, save what
affected himself.  To use a common phrase, he was his own worst enemy.
Beginning life penniless, he was no better off at the commencement of
his military career; and his spendthrift habits had kept him the same
ever since.  At that hour, when seen coming down the road--save his
sword, horse, clothing; and equipments--he could not call anything his
own.  These, however, were all of the best; for he was a military dandy,
and, despite poverty, always contrived to rig himself out in grand
array.  Just now he was well up in everything, though possibly nothing
had been paid for--horse, clothing, nor accoutrements.  But he had got a
good post, which enabled him to get good credit, and that satisfied him
all the same.  Thrown out of commission--as Lunsford and others after
their return from the North--he had lived for some months in London as
best he could; often at his wits' end.  But swords were now once more in
demand, with men who could wield them; and Sir John Wintour, who had
commenced fortifying his mansion at Lydney to hold it for the King,
casting about for the right sort to defend it, chose Reginald Trevor as
one of them.

For some weeks antecedent to the time of his introduction to the reader,
he had been in Sir John's service; acting in a mixed capacity, military
and political, with some duties appertaining to the civil branch of
administration.  These had taken him all over the Forest of Dean,
introducing him into many a house where he had hitherto been a stranger.
But of all honoured by his visit, there was only one he cared ever
returning to.  It he could revisit again and again; had done so; and
would have been glad to stay by it for the rest of his life.  A lone
house, too, though a mansion, standing remote from anything that could
be called city, or even town; remote from other houses of its class.  It
may seem strange such a solitary habitation should have attractions for
a man of his character; but not when its name is given--for it was
Hollymead.  This known, it needs no telling why Reginald Trevor was
attracted thither; only to specify which of the two girls was the
loadstone that drew him.  Even this may be guessed--not likely Sabrina,
but very likely Vaga.  And Vaga it was.  He had fallen in love with her,
passionately, madly; and, stranger still, purely; for, in all
likelihood, it was the first honest love of his life.  Honest it was,
however; and honestly he had been acting so far; his courtship
respectful, and free from the bold rude advances which, as a rule,
marked the conduct of the Cavaliers.  For, despite all said to the
contrary, their behaviour to women was more "gallantry" than gallant,
and anything but chivalrous.

But, although behaving his best, Reginald Trevor had not prospered in
his suit; on the contrary received a check which brought it to an abrupt
ending for the time, and it might be for ever.  This in the shape of a
hint that his visits to Hollymead House were neither welcome nor
desirable, rather the reverse.  Not given him by the girl herself--she
did not even know of it,--but conveyed by her father privately and
quietly, yet firmly.  Of course it was taken, and the visits
discontinued.

That was but a fortnight ago, and yet Reginald Trevor was once more on
his way to Hollymead!  But very different the cause carrying him thither
now to that which had oft taken him before; different his feelings, too,
though not as regarded the young lady.  For her they were the same--his
passion hot as ever.  And yet was it a flame burning blindly, without a
word of encouragement to fan or keep it alive.  Never once had she
spoken to tell him his love was reciprocated; never given him smile or
look that could be interpreted in that sense.  For all this, he so
interpreted some she had bestowed on him.  Successes, conquests many,
had made him vain, and he deemed himself irresistible--fancied he would
conquer her, too.

Nevertheless, he felt less confident now.  That rupture of relations had
become a grievous obstacle.  Nor was he on the way to Hollymead with any
hope of being able to bind up the broken threads; instead, his errand
thither had for object that which was sure further to sever them.  It
was not of his own seeking, and he had entered upon it with reluctance.

Dark and gloomy was the shadow on his face as he rode under that of the
trees.  At intervals it became a scowl, with resentment blazing up in
his eyes, as he thought of that dismissal, so wounding to his
self-esteem, so insulting.  But he was armed with that which would give
him a _revanche_; make the master of Hollymead humble if not
hospitable--a document such as has humbled the master of many another
house, angering them at the same time.  For it was a letter of request
for a loan, signed and stamped with the King's seal.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

A YOUNG LADY NOT IN LOVE.

"I do believe it's Reginald Trevor."

Sabrina said this in rejoinder, now certain it was not the man she had
climbed that hill in hopes of meeting.

"I'm sure of it," affirmed Vaga, in confident tone as before.  "If I
couldn't tell him, I can the horse--the light grey he always rides.  And
that's his dress--the colour at least.  I don't think he has many
changes, exquisite as he is, or we'd have seen some of them at
Hollymead."

She made this remark with a smile of peculiar significance.

"Oh! yes; 'tis he," assented the sister, her eyes still upon him.  "I'm
sure now, myself.  The horse--yes, the dress too.  And, see! a red plume
in his hat--that's enough.  I wonder where he's bound for--surely not
Hollymead!"

It was then the grave look already alluded to showed itself in her eyes.
"Perhaps you can tell, sister?" she added, interrogatively.

"Sabrina! why do you say that?  How should I be acquainted with Mr
Trevor's movements or intentions--any more than yourself?"

"Ha--ha!  What an artful little minx you are, Vag!  A very mistress of
deception!"

"You'll make me angry, Sab--I'm half that already."

"Without cause, then, or reason."

"Every reason."

"Name one."

"That you should suspect me of having a secret and keeping it from you."

"Goodness gracious!  How just you are in your reproaches--you, who but
this very moment have been accusing me of that selfsame thing!  I, all
candour, all frankness!"

Vaga was now flung back, as a sailor would say, on her "beam ends."
For, in truth, she had made herself amenable to the charge.

"Oh! you innocent!" cried Sabrina, pressing her triumph.  "Though you
are three years younger than I, you're quite as old about some things,
and this is _one_ of them."

"This what?"

"This that; the thing, or man, if he may be so called, we see riding
down yonder road."

"You wrong me, sister; I've no secret concerning him.  I never cared for
Rej Trevor in the way you appear to be hinting at--not three straws."

"Are you serious in what you say, Vag?  Tell me the truth!"

There was an earnestness in the way the question was put--tone, air,
everything--that bespoke more than a common interest about the answer.

It came, causing disappointment, with some slight vexation.  For Vaga,
thinking she had been badgered long enough, and, remembering, moreover,
how very reticent the other had just shown herself, determined on having
a _revanche_.  It was altogether in consonance with her nature; though
she had no idea of advantage beyond that of mere fun.

"Curiosity on the rack!" she triumphantly retorted.  "What you've just
been dooming me to!  How does it feel, sister Sab!"

"Sister Sab" made no response; in turn being fairly conquered and
cornered.  But her silence and submissive look were more eloquent than
any appeal she could have made.  And, responding to them, her conqueror
relentingly asked:

"Are you very, _very_ desirous of knowing how the case stands between
myself and Master Reginald Trevor?"

"I am, indeed.  And when you've told me, I'll give you the reason."

"On that condition I'll tell you.  He is nothing to me more than any
other man.  And when I add that no other man is anything either, you'll
understand me."

"But, sister dear, do you mean to say you _love_ no one?"

"I mean to say that--flat."

"And never have?"

"That's a queer question to be asked; above all by you, you who so often
preach the virtue of constancy, crying it into my ears!  If I ever had
loved man, I think I should love him still.  But as it chances, I don't
quite comprehend what the sensation is; never having experienced it.
And more, I don't wish to; that is, if it were to affect me as it seems
to do you."

"What do you mean, Vaga?" asked the more sage sister, bristling up at
the innuendo.  "Love affect me!  You're only fancying!  Nothing of the
sort, I assure you."

"Oh! yes; much of the sort; though you might not yourself perceive it.
Everybody else does, at least I do--have for a very long time--ever
since he went off to the wars."

"What he?"

"Again counterfeiting.  And vainly.  Well, I won't gratify you by giving
his name this time.  Enough to say that ever since you last saw him you
haven't been like you used to be.  Why, Sab, I can remember when you
were as full of frolic as myself, or Hector here.  Yet, for the last two
years you've been as melancholy as a love-sick monkey.  True, there's
been a little brightening up in you of late--no doubt due to that
letter.  Ha--ha--ha!"

Sabrina laughed too, despite the unmerciful way she was being bantered.
The allusion to "that letter" was not unpleasant.  Its contents, very
gratifying, had restored her heart's gladness and confidence.  Not that
she had ever doubted her lover's fealty, but only had fears for his
life.  She said nothing, however, leaving the other to rattle on.

"And now, Miss Prim-and-Prudery, I want your reason for prying into my
secrets, after being so chary of your own; I demand it."

"Dear Vaga! you shall have it and welcome.  After what you say, there
need be no shyness in my telling you now.  I was anxious about you on
father's account, and my own, too, as your sister."

"Anxious about me!  For what?"

"Your relations with yonder individual."

She nodded towards the horseman with the red feather in his hat.

"Very good of father and you to be so concerned about me; but don't you
think I can take care of myself?  I'm getting old enough to do that."

She was only a little over seventeen, but believed herself quite as much
a woman as Sabrina, who was three years her senior.  She had the proud,
independent spirit of one, and brooked no control by her older sister;
on the contrary, rather exercised it herself.  She was her father's
favourite; a circumstance that would appear strange to those acquainted
with his character.  Hence, in part, her assumption of superiority.

"Of course you can," returned Sabrina, assentingly.  "And I'm glad of
it."

"I suppose, then, it's owing to your and father's united solicitude on
my behalf that Master Rej Trevor hasn't shown his face at Hollymead for
the last couple of weeks."

"I've had nothing to do with it, Vaga."

"Which seems to say that somebody has, then.  I suspected as much, by
your having said nothing about it.  As you seem to know something, Sab,
you may as well tell it me."

"I will--all I know.  Which is, that father has forbidden his visits to
Hollymead.  I only learnt it from our maid Gwenthian.  It appears, that
the last time Mr Trevor was at the house, she overheard a conversation
between father and him; father telling him as much as that he would be
no more welcome there."

"And what answer did the fine gentleman make?  I suppose the
eavesdropping Gwenthian heard that, too."

There was such evident absence of all emotion on the part of her who
interrogated, she could not well be making believe.  The other, seeing
she was not, responded with confidence,--

"Nothing, or nothing much, except in mutterings, which the girl failed
to catch the meaning of.  But the nature may be imagined from the way he
went off--all scowling and angry, she says."

"Gwenthian has never mentioned the circumstance to me; which I take it
is a little strange on her part."

She thought it so, for of the two she was more a favourite with the
waiting maid than her sister, and knew it.  Between her and Gwenthian--a
Forest girl of quick wit and subtle intelligence--many confidences had
been exchanged.  Therefore her wonder at this having been withheld.

"Not at all," rejoined Sabrina, entering upon a defence of Gwenthian's
reticence.  "There was nothing strange in her keeping it from you.  She
supposed it might vex you--told me so."

"Ha--ha--ha!  How thoughtful of her!  But it don't vex me--luckily, no--
not the least bit; and Gwenthian should have known that, as you know
now, Sab.  Don't you?"

"I do," answered Sabrina, in full conviction.  For Vaga's laugh was so
utterly devoid of all regret at what had been revealed to her, no one
could suppose or suspect there was within her breast a thought of
Reginald Trevor, beyond looking on him in the light of a mere
acquaintance.  To prove this it needed neither her rejoinder, nor the
emphasis she gave it, saying,--

"_I don't care that for him_!" the _that_ being a snap of her fingers.

"I wish father had but known you didn't."

"Why?"

"Well, it might have saved him the scene Gwenthian was witness to; and
which must have been rather painful to both.  After all, it may have
been for the best.  But, worst or best, I wonder where Master Trevor is
making for now?  It can't be Hollymead."

"Not likely, after what you've told me.  But we shall soon see--at least
whether he be coming up this way."

Both were familiar with the Forest roads--had ridden if not walked them
all--knew their every turning and crossing.  Where that from Mitcheldean
descended into the Drybrook valley it forked right and left at the ford
of the little stream where now there is a bridge known as the "Nail."
Left lay the road to Coleford, right, another leading back out of the
Forest by the Lea Bailey.  And between these two branchings a third
serpentined up the slope for Ruardean, over the ridge on which they
stood.

While they were still regarding the horseman on the grey, and his groom
behind, two other horsemen came in sight, riding side by side on the
same slope, just commencing its descent.  Again Sabrina's eyes flashed
up with delight--that must be her expected one--riding alongside his
servant.

While indulging in this pleasant conjecture, she was surprised at seeing
still another pair of mounted men, filing out from under the trees, side
by side also, and following the first two at that distance and with the
air which seemed to proclaim them servitors.

"It may not be he, after all!" she reflected within herself, her brow
again shadowing over.  "He said he would be alone with only Hubert,
and--"

Her reflections were brought to an abrupt termination by seeing the grey
horse, after plunging across the stream, turn head uphill in the
direction of Ruardean.

There was no time to make further scrutiny of the _quartette_ descending
the opposite slope.  In twenty minutes, or less if he meant speed, he on
the grey would be up to them; and if Reginald Trevor, that would be
awkward, whether on his way to Hollymead or not.

It was Sabrina who now counselled hastening home; which they did with a
quick free step their country training and Forest practice had made
easy, as familiar, to them.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

A HOUSE IN TUDOR STYLE.

It would be difficult to imagine a more enchanting spot for a
dwelling-place than that where stood Hollymead House.  Near the
north-western angle of the Forest of Dean, it commanded a view of the
Wye where this beautiful stream, after meandering through the verdant
meads of Herefordshire, over old red sandstone, assaults the
carboniferous rocks of Monmouth, whose bold, high ridges, lying
transversely to its course, look as if no power of water could ever have
cut through them.  But the Wye has, in its flow of countless ages,
carved out--in Spanish-American phrase _canoned_--a channel with banks
here and there rising nigh a thousand feet above the level of its bed.
Between these it glides with swift current; not direct, but in
snake-like contortions, fantastically doubling back upon itself, almost
to touching.  Here and there cliffs rise sheer up from the water's edge,
grand mural escarpments of the mountain limestone, such as show the
"tors" and dales of Derbyshire.  The Codwell rocks below Lydbrook,
forming the base of the famed "Symonds' Yat," are of this character,
their grim facades seamed and broken into separate battlements, giving
them resemblance to ruined castles, but such as could have been
inhabited only "in those days when there were giants on the earth."

The view from Hollymead House--better still from a high hill or "tump"
above it--took in the valley of the river where it enters the
carboniferous _strata_ near Kerne bridge.  There was no Kerne bridge
then; the stream being crossed by ford and ferry, a mile further up.
Looking is that direction, in the foreground was Coppetwood Hill, an
oblong eminence embraced by one of the great sinuosities of the river,
more than six miles in the round and less than one across the neck or
isthmus.  At this neck, perched on a spur of the hill o'erhanging the
stream, stood a vast pile of building, the castle of Goodrich, on whose
donjon floated a flag long ere Norman baron set foot on the soil of
England.  For there the Saxon Duke Godric lorded it over his churls and
swineherds; his iron rule at the Conquest replaced by that of the
Marshalls, and later the Talbots, alike stern and severe.

Looking beyond, and north-westward, a wide stretch of country came under
the eye, thickly wooded and undulating, the ancient kingdom of Erchyn--
now called Archenfield--backed in the far distance by a horizon of
hills, many with a mountain aspect, and some real mountains, as the
curious Saddlebow, with a depression or "col" between its twin summits;
Garway, the Cerriggalch, and the long dark range of the Hatterals.

To the west was a very conglomeration of mountains, seemingly crowded
against one another, yet all apart, each distinguishable by an outline
and aspect of its own.  Most conspicuous of these, the conical
Sugarloaf, the two Skyrrids--one of them named Holy Mountain--and the
Blorenge, all towering above the town of Abergavenny, which is
surrounded and embraced by them as the arena of an amphitheatre by its
outer and more elevated circle.

Sweeping round the sky line, north and north-east the eye was met by
many a bold projection, as the Longmynds and Clee hills, with their blue
basalt, and the Haugh wood, summit of the famed Silurian upcast of
Woolhope.  Farther on to the east the Malvern Beacons of true mountain
aspect, remarkable from their isolation, but still more in that there
the geologist can see rocks the earliest stratified on earth, some
metamorphosed, and all trace of stratification destroyed; while there,
too, are visible the rocks of igneous agency, upheaved both by plutonic
and volcanic forces--the gneisses, basalts, syenites, and granites.

Eastward over the Forest edge could be seen, extending far as vision's
verge, the wide plains of Worcester and Gloucester--as said, an ancient
sea bed--through which now flows the yellow Severn; and on a clear day
bends and reaches of this grand river might be distinguished glistening,
gold-like, in the sun; the level expanse of its valley diversified by
several isolated and curious eminences--hills and ridges--as May and
Breddon due east, and, more to the south, the Mendips and Cotswolds.

Alone looking southward from Hollymead no mountains met the eye; in that
direction only the undulations of the Forest itself, clad in its livery
of green--all trees.  But immediately in front of the house, and sloping
gently away from it, was a wide and long stretch of park-like pasture
land, where the trees stood solitary or in clumps, a double row of grand
oaks bisecting it centrally, guarding and shading the avenue which led
to the public road outside.  This passed from Ruardean out of the forest
by a steep descent down to Walford, thence on to Ross.

Architecturally, Hollymead House was a singular structure.  For it was
in the early Tudor style, built when bricks were a scarce and dear
commodity, and timber, in the inverse ratio, plentiful and cheap.  The
walls were a framework of hewn oak--uprights, cross-beams, and diagonal
ties--due to the handiwork of the carpenter, only the spaces between
showing the skill of the mason.  And, as if to keep ever in record the
fact of this double yet distinct workmanship, the painter and
whitewasher had been now and then called upon to perpetuate it by giving
separate and severely contrasting colours to what was timber and the
interspacing material of mortar and brick.  The result a striped and
chequered aspect of the oddest and quaintest kind.  Sir Richard might
have had it in his mind when he made the figurative allusion to a cage
and pair of pretty birds.  Still it was not exactly cage-shaped, but
more like several set together, some smaller ones stuck against or
hanging from a large one that stood central; the congeries due to a
variety of wings, projecting windows, dormers, and other outworks.

Equally odd and irregular the arrangement inside.  An entrance-hall with
a wide stairway carried up around it, the oak balusters very beams, with
a profusion of carving on them; on each landing, corridors dimly lighted
leading off to rooms no two on the same level; some of them
bed-chambers, only to be got at by passing through other sleeping
apartments interposed between.  And, turn which way one would, along
passages, or from room to room, short flights of stairs, or it might be
but a step or two, were encountered everywhere, to the imminent risk of
leg or neck-breaking.

Though such a structure may appear strange to the modern eye, it did not
so then, for there was nothing uncommon in it Hollymead House was but
one of many like mansions of the day, though one of the largest and most
imposing.  Nor are they all gone yet.  Scores of such still stand
throughout the shires of the marches, and in perfect repair, to
commemorate the architectural skill, or rather the absence of it, which
distinguished our ancestry in the Tudor times.

The owner of Hollymead, Ambrose Powell, was a man of peculiar tastes and
idiosyncrasies, some evidence of which appears in the baptismal names he
had bestowed upon his daughters.  A fancy, having its origin in the fact
that from a hill above the house could be seen the two great western
rivers, Wye and Severn--poetically, _Vaga_ and _Sabrina_--themselves in
a sense sisters, nurslings from the same breast of far Plinlimmon.  From
the summit of that "tump" his elder daughter had looked on her
name-mother at a later date than she made pretence of when urging the
younger up the ridge between Ruardean and Drybrook.  It was a wild,
witching spot, the grey rocks of mountain limestone here and there
peeping out from a low growth of hazel, hawthorn, yew, and holly.  But
the summit itself was bare, affording on all sides a varied and
matchless panorama of landscape.  Being within the boundaries of their
own domain, Sabrina oft climbed up to it; not for the view's sake alone,
but because it was to her hallowed ground, sacred as the place where she
had made surrender of her young heart, when she told Sir Richard Walwyn
it was his.  There was a pretty little summer house, with seats, and
many an hour Ambrose Powell himself spent there, in the study of books
and the contemplation of Nature--his delight.  Not in a mere meditative
way, or as an idle dreamer; but an active observer of its workings and
searcher after its secrets.  Nor did he confine himself to this, but
also took an interest in the affairs of man, so strong as to have
studied them in every aspect--probed the social and political problems
of human existence to their deepest depths.  Which had conducted him to
a belief--a full, firm conviction--in the superiority of republican
institutions; as it must all whose minds are as God made or intended
them, and not perverted by prejudice or corrupted by false teachings.
He was, in point of fact, a Puritan, though not of the extreme stern
sort; in his ways of thinking rather as Hampden and Sir Harry Vane, or
with still closer similitude to a people then scorned and persecuted
beyond all others--the "Friends."  It is difficult in these modern days,
under the light of superior knowledge, and a supposed better
discrimination between right and wrong, to comprehend the cruelties, ay
barbarous atrocities, to which were submitted the "Friends," or, as
commonly called, "Quakers."  A people who, despite their paucity of
numbers, did then, and since then have done and been doing, more to
ennoble the national character of England than all the apostles of her
Episcopacy, with her political boasters and military braggarts to boot.
If neither the most notorious nor glorious, no names in England's
history can compare in goodness and gracefulness with the Penns of 1640
and the Brights of 1880.

Though not a professed "Friend," Ambrose Powell was a believer in their
faith and doctrines; and in his daily walk and life acted very much in
accordance with them.  But not altogether.  From one of their ideas he
dissented--that of non-resistance.  Of a proud, independent spirit,
despite his gentle inclinings, he would brook no bullying; the last man
to have one cheek smitten and meekly turn the other to the smiter.
Instead, he would strike back.  A scene we are now called upon to
record, and which occurred on that same evening, gives appropriate
illustration of this phase of his character.



CHAPTER NINE.

A RIGHT ROYAL EPISTLE.

The girls had got home, hard breathing, panting, from the haste they had
made.  But though supper was announced as set, they did not think of
sitting down to it, but instead, entered the withdrawing-room, a large
apartment, with windows facing front.  In the bay of one of these, their
dresses unchanged and their hoods still on, they took stand, with eyes
bent down the avenue, all visible from the window.  At intervals along
the road they had heard behind them the trampling of hoofs, and knew
from what horses it proceeded.  The sounds, at first faint and distant,
had grown more distinct as they reached the park gate, and they had come
up the avenue with a run, to the surprise and somewhat alarm of their
father, who at the time was outside awaiting their return.

Already in wonder at their being so late, he would have inquired into
the cause.  But they anticipated him by at once telling him where they
had been, what seen, and who, as they supposed, was advancing along the
Ruardean road.

This last bit of intelligence seemed greatly to excite him; and while
his daughters watched from the window, he himself was also keeping vigil
in the porch outside.  After hearing what they had to say, he had
remained there, letting them pass in.

For a time the gaze of all was fixed on the park entrance, at the lower
end of the long avenue, where a massive oak gate traversed between two
piers of mason-work, old and ivy-mantled.  Only for a short while were
they kept in suspense.  The flurried girls had barely got back their
breath when a grey horse was seen, with head jam up against the gate,
his rider bending down in the saddle to undo its fastenings.

In an instant after it was pushed open, and they saw Reginald Trevor
come riding on towards the house, for they were now sure of its being
he.  He was yet at too great a distance for them to read the expression
upon his face; but one near enough might have noted it as strange,
without being able to interpret it.  All the more because of its seeming
to undergo constant and sudden changes; now as one advancing reluctantly
to the performance of some disagreeable duty, wavering and seeming
half-inclined to back out of it; anon, with resolution restored through
some opposing impulse, as anger, this shown by the fire flashing in his
eyes.

Never had he ridden up that avenue swayed by such feelings, or under the
excitement of emotions so varied or vivid.  Those he had hitherto felt
while approaching Hollymead House were of a different nature.  Confident
always, or, if doubting, not enough to give him any great uneasiness.
Vaga Powell resist him!  She, a green country girl; he, a skilled,
practised Lothario, conqueror in many a love combat!  He could not think
of failure.  Nor would he have thought of it yet, believing the sole
obstruction to his suit lay in the father.  But now he had to face that
father in a way likely to make his hostility more determined--turn it
into very hate, if it was not so already.

In truth, a _role_ of a very disagreeable kind was Reginald Trevor
called upon to play; and more than once since entering on it he had felt
like cursing Sir John Wintour in his heart--the King as well.

As he drew near to the house, and saw the two fair faces in the window--
a little surprised seeing hoods over their heads at that hour--he more
than ever realised the awkwardness of his errand.  And, possibly, if at
that last moment Vaga Powell had come forth, as oft before, to give him
greeting, or even bestowed a smile from where she stood, he would have
risked all, forgiven the insult he had received, and left his duty
undone.

But no smile showed upon the girl's face, no glance gave him welcome;
instead, he saw something like a frown, as never before.  Only with a
glimpse of that face was he favoured; Vaga, as he drew up in front,
turning her back on him, and retiring into the shadowed obscurity of the
room, whither her sister had preceded her.

It may have been only a seeming rudeness on their part, and
unintentional.  Whether or no, it once more roused his resentment
against their father; who, still in the porch, received him with a
countenance stern, as his own was vexed and angry.

There was a short interval of silence after the unexpected visitor had
drawn up, still keeping to his saddle.  He could not well dismount
without receiving invitation; and that was not extended to him, much
less word of welcome.  Moreover his presence there, after what had
passed, not only called for explanation, but by all the rules of
politeness required his giving it before aught else should be said.

He did not, however; seeming embarrassed, and leaving the master of
Hollymead no choice but to take the initiative.  Which the latter at
length did, saying sourly, and somewhat satirically--

"What may you be wanting with me, Mr Reginald Trevor?  I take it your
business is with _me_."

"With you it is," brusquely returned the other, still further nettled at
the way he was addressed.

"Have the goodness then to tell me what it is.  I suppose it's something
that can be settled by you in the saddle.  If not, you may alight and
come indoors."

Speech aggravating, terribly insulting, as Ambrose Powell intended it
should be.  He had long ago taken the measure of the man, and wished to
drive him to a distance, even further off than he had already done.  His
last words were enough, without the contemptuous look that accompanied
them.  But, stung by both, the emissary of Sir John Wintour stood
proudly up in his stirrups, as he replied, with a touch of satire
too,--"No need, sir, to enter your very hospitable house, or even get
off my horse's back.  My errand can be accomplished by delivering this
at your door.  But, as you chance to be in it, permit me to hand it
direct to you."

While speaking he had drawn from under the breast of his doublet a
folded sheet, a letter, on which was a large disc of red wax, stamped
with the King's seal.

The master of Hollymead was not so impolite as to refuse taking the
letter from his hands; and, as soon as in his own, he tore it open and
read,--

"For Ambrose Powell, Gentn.

"Trustie and well-beloved, Wee greete you well.  Having obserued in the
Presidents and custome of former times that all the Kings and Queenes of
the Realme, vpon extraordinary occasions, haue vsed either to resort to
those Contributions, which arise from one generalitie of Subiects, or to
the priuate helpes of some well affected in particular, by way of loane:
In which latter course Wee being at this time inforced to proceed, for
supply of some portions of Treasure for diuers publique seruices, and
particularly for continuing and increasing our magazins in some large
proportion in our Realme of Ireland, in our Nauie, and in our ffortes:
in all which greater summes have been expended of late, both in building
and repairing, and in making sundry prousions, than haue bene in twentie
yeares before: We haue now in Our Eye an especiall care, that such
discretion may be obserued in the choise of the lenders, and such an
indifferent distribution, as the summes that Wee shall receiue may be
raised with an equall Consideration of men's abilities: And therefore,
seeing men haue had so good experience of Our repayment of all those
summes which we haue euer required in this kinde, Wee doubt not but Wee
shall now receiue the like Argument of good affection from you (amongst
other of Our Subiects), and that with such alacrity and readiness as may
make the same so much the more acceptable, especially seeing Wee require
but that of some which few men would deny a friend, and haue a minde
resolued to expose all our earthly fortune for the preseruation of the
generall.  The summe that Wee require of you by vertue of these presents
is three thousand Pounds, Which we do promise in the name of Us, our
heires and successors, to repay to you or your Assignes within eighteene
monethes after the payment thereof vnto the Commissioner.  The person
that we have appointed to receiue it is our worthy servant, Sir Jno.
Wintour, To whose hands Wee do require you to send it within twelue days
after you have receiued this Priuy Seale, which, together with the
Commissioner's acquittance, shall be sufficient Warrant unto the
Officers of our receipt for the repayment thereof at the time
limitted.--Giuen under our Priuy Seale at our Pallace of Westminster.

"Carolus Rex."

So ran the curious communication put into the hands of Ambrose Powell.

A letter of "Loan by Privy Seal" even more execrable both as to grammar
and diction than the documents emanating from Royalty at the present
day--and that is admitting much.

Spoke the master of Hollymead, after perusing it:--

"Request for a loan, the King calls this!  Beggarly enough in the
beginning--a very whine; but at the end more like the demand of a
robber!"

"Mr Powell!" cried he who had presented it, his back now up in anger,
"though but the messenger of Sir John Wintour, at the same time I'm in
the service of the King.  And, holding his Majesty's commission, I
cannot allow such talk as yours.  It's almost the same as calling the
King a robber!"

"Take it as all the same, if you like, sirrah!  And apply it also to Sir
John Wintour, your more immediate master.  Go back, and say to both how
I've treated the begging petition--thus!"

And at the word he tore the paper into scraps, flinging them at his
feet, as something to be trampled upon.

At this Reginald Trevor became furious; all the more from again seeing
two feminine faces in the window above, by their looks both seeming to
speak approval of what their father had said and done.

He might have given exhibition of his anger by some act of violence; but
just then he saw something else which prompted to prudence, effectually
restraining it.  This something in the shape of three or four stalwart
fellows--stablemen and servants of other sorts belonging to Hollymead
House--who, having caught sound of the fracas in front, now appeared
coming round from the rear.

No need for Reginald Trevor, noting the scowl upon their faces, to tell
him they were foes, and as little to convince him of the small chance he
and his varlet would have in an encounter with them.  He neither thought
of it nor any longer felt inclined to take vengeful action, not even to
speaking some strong words of menace that had risen to his lips.
Instead, choking them down, and swallowing his chagrin as he best could,
he said, in a resigned, humble way,--

"Oh! well, Mr Powell; what you've done or intend doing is no affair of
mine--specially.  As you know, I'm here but in the performance of my
duty, which I need not tell you is to me most disagreeable."

"_Very_ disagreeable, no doubt!" rejoined the master of Hollymead, in a
tone of cutting sarcasm; "and being so, the sooner you get through with
it the better.  I think you've made a finish of it now, unless you deem
it part of this disagreeable duty to gather up those torn scraps of the
King's letter, and carry them back to the Queen's obsequious servant,
and your master, Sir John."

In the way of insult, taunt could scarce go farther.  And he against
whom it was hurled keenly felt it; at the same time felt his own
impotence either to resent or reply to it.  For the three or four
fellows, with black brows, advancing from the rear, had been further
reinforced, and now numbered nearly a dozen.

"I bid you good-evening, Mr Powell," said the emissary, as he turned
his horse round, but too glad to get away from that unpleasant spot.

"Oh! good-evening, sir," returned the master of Hollymead, in a tone of
mock politeness; after which he stood watching the ill-received visitor,
till he saw him go out through the gates of his park.

Then over Ambrose Powell's face came a shadow--the shadow of a fear.
For he knew he had offended a Royal tyrant, who, though now weaker than
he had been through the restraint of a Parliament, might still have
strength enough to tear him.

"My dear children," he said, as he joined them in the withdrawing-room,
"the trouble I've been long anticipating has come at last.  We will have
to leave Hollymead, or I must fortify and defend it."



CHAPTER TEN.

THE COUSINS.

The sun had set as Reginald Trevor rode out of Hollymead Park.  But he
did not intend returning to Lydney that night; instead, purposed passing
it in Ross, to which town he had also an errand.  By making free use of
the spur he might still reach his destination within the twilight.

Outside the park gate he was about turning in the Ross direction when he
saw a party on horseback advancing from the opposite, as he had himself
come.  Four there were--two gentlemen in front, with their respective
attendants a little behind.  He could have shunned them by riding
rapidly on before; but from the stylish appearance of one of the
gentlemen he took it they were Cavaliers, possibly might be
acquaintances; and after his long, lonely ride he was in the humour for
company.  It might help him some little to get over his chagrin.  So he
drew rein, and sate in his saddle waiting for them to come up.

There was a wide sweep of grass-grown turf between the park gate and the
public road, and he had halted at the end of it on the right.  Soon the
party approaching reached the other, and he saw, with some surprise, and
a little vexation, their horses' heads being turned in towards the gate.
Whoever the gentlemen might be, they were evidently bent upon a visit
to the house that had refused hospitality to himself.

With something more than curiosity he scanned them now.  Were they known
to him?  Yes! one was; his surprise becoming astonishment, as in the
more showily-attired of the two gentlemen he recognised his cousin
Eustace.

"You, Eust!" he exclaimed, drawing his horse round, and trotting towards
his kinsman; his glance given to the other being as that to a stranger;
for he was not acquainted with Sir Richard Walwyn.

"You, Rej!" was the all-but echo of a response, and the cousins came
together, Sir Richard passing on into the park.  The gentleman
tax-gatherer, still smarting under the rebuff given him, the smart
shared by his servant, had ill-manneredly left the gate open behind
them.

It was months since the cousins had met; though each knew where the
other was, or ought to be.  Hence Reginald's surprise to see Eustace
there, supposing him to be engaged in his duties at Court.  He spoke it
inquiringly, as they held out to shake hands; but, before the other
could make answer, he saw that which gave him a start--blood upon the
hand extended to him!  The white buckskin glove was reddened with it all
over up to the gauntlets.

"God bless me, Eust! what's this?  A wound!  Have you been quarrelling?"

"Oh! nothing much.  Only a little prick in the wrist."

"Prick in the wrist!  But from what?"

"The point of a rapier."

"The deuce!  Then you _have_ been quarrelling.  With whom, pray?"

"Speak a little lower, Rej.  I'd rather _he_ didn't hear us."

And Eustace nodded towards Sir Richard, who was not yet quite beyond
earshot.

"Surely you don't mean the affair was with him?"

"I do--it was."

"He got the better of you?"

"Quick as you could count ten."

"Zounds! that's strange--you such a swordsman!  But still stranger what
I see now, your being in his company.  Not his prisoner, are you?"

"Well, in a way I am."

"In that case, cousin, my sword's at your service.  So let _me_ try
conclusions with him.  Possibly, I may get you a _revanche_; at the same
time release you from any _parole_ you may be under."

Though, but the moment before, some little cowed, and declining a combat
with serving men, Reginald Trevor was all courage now; and feared not to
meet a gentleman in fair fight.  For he saw that Trevor blood had been
spilt, and, although he and his cousin Eustace had never been bosom
friends, they were yet of the same family.  The hot Cymric blood that
ran in the veins of both boiled up in his to avenge whatever defeat his
kinsman might have sustained, and without awaiting answer he asked
impatiently,--

"Shall I follow, and flout him, Eust?  I will if you but say the word."

"No, Rej; nothing of the sort.  Thank you all the same."

"Well; if you're against it, I won't.  But it edges a Trevor's teeth to
see one of his kin--full cousin, too--worsted, conquered, dead--down as
you seem to be.  All, I suppose, from your antagonist being a bit bigger
and older than you are.  He's that as regards myself; for all I've no
fear to face him."

"I know you haven't, Rej.  But don't be angry with me for saying, if you
did, it would end as it has with me--maybe worse."

The _ci-devant_ gentleman-usher spoke with some pique.  Notwithstanding
the generous offer of his cousin to espouse his quarrel, there was that
in the proposal itself which seemed to reflect on his own capability--a
suggestion, almost an assertion, of patronising superiority.

"What do you mean, Eustace?" asked the other, looking a little roughed.

"That yonder gentleman," he nodded towards Sir Richard, now well out of
hearing, "is a perfect master of both sword and horse.  He proved
himself _my_ master in less than five minutes after engaging; could have
thrust me in as many seconds had he been so disposed.  While fighting
with him I felt a very child in his hands; and he, as I now chance to
know, was but playing with me.  In the end he disarmed me--could have
done it long before--by this touch in the wrist, which sent my rapier
spinning off into the air.  That isn't all.  He has disarmed me in
another sense; changed me from angry foe to, I might almost say, friend.
That's why I've told you that I'm in a way his prisoner."

"It's a strange tale," rejoined Reginald, choking down his wrath.  "All
that, by sun, moon, and stars!  But I won't question you further about
it; only tell me why you are here.  I thought you were so fixed in the
Palace of Westminster, such a favourite of the grand lady who there
rules the mart, you'd never more care to breathe a breath of country
air.  Yet here I find you in the Forest of Dean--its very heart--far
away from court and city life as man could well get within England's
realm.  How has it come about, cousin?"

"I wouldn't mind telling you, Rej, if there was time.  But there isn't.
As you see, Sir Richard is waiting for me."

"Sir Richard who?"

"Walwyn."

"Oh, that's the name of your generous conqueror?"

"It is."

"I've heard of the individual, though never saw him till now.  But how
fell you into his company, and what brought about your quarrel?"

"Leave it, Rej, like other matters, till we meet again, and have more
time to talk over such things."

"Agreed.  Still there's time to say why you are going to Hollymead
House."

"Hollymead House?"

"Oh, you didn't know that was the name of Ambrose Powell's place!"

"Ambrose Powell?"

"What!  Nor yet the name of the man you're about to pay visit to?"

"I confess I do not."

"Nor anything else of him?"

"Nothing whatever."

He was on the point of adding, "Only that I've been told something about
a pair of pretty girls," when it occurred to him he might be touching on
a subject in which his cousin had a tender concern.

"'Pon my honour!" rejoined the latter, making an uphill attempt to
laugh, "the tale grows stranger and stranger!  You, of the King's
Household, on your way to make acquaintance--friendly, of course--with
one of his Majesty's greatest and most pronounced enemies--a man who
hates King, Court, and Church; above all, bitter against your especial
patroness, the Queen.  I've heard him call her a Jezebel, with other
opprobrious epithets."

"Odd in you, Rej, such a devoted Royalist, to have listened calmly to
all that?"

"I didn't listen calmly; would have quickly stopped his seditious
chattering, but for--"

"For what?" asked the other, seeing he hesitated.

"Oh, certain reasons I may some day make known to you.  Like yourself,
Eust, I have some secrets."

Eust thought he could give a good guess at one of them, but mercifully
forbore allusion to it.

"But," he said, with an air of pretended surprise, "you've been just
visiting this terrible king-hater yourself, Rej?  If I mistake not, you
came out of the park.  You were up to the house, were you not?"

"I was."

"And has it shaken your loyalty, or in any way weakened it?"

"On the contrary, strengthened it.  My errand to Ambrose Powell, with
the reception he vouchsafed me--the ill-grained curmudgeon--has had all
that effect."

"Then you've been quarrelling, too!  Have you any objection to tell me
what about?"

"Not the slightest.  I was the bearer of a letter of Privy Seal to him--
for a loan.  Sir John Wintour, as you may be aware, has been appointed
one of the King's Commissioners of Array for West Gloucestershire and
the Forest.  You know I'm in his service, which will make the matter
understandable to you."

"And you haven't got the money?  I needn't ask; there's the signs of
refusal in your face."

"Got the money!  Zounds! no.  Instead, the recusant tore the letter into
shreds, and flung them at his feet; defying me, Sir John, King, and all!
Ah! well; that won't be the end of it.  I shall be sure of having
occasion to visit Hollymead again, and ere long!  Next time the tables
will be turned.  But, cousin, after hearing what I've told you, are you
still in the mind to go on to that seditious den?  If you take my
advice, you'll turn your back on Hollymead House, and come along with
me.  I'm making for Ross."

"To take your advice, Rej, would be to do as rude a thing as a man well
could--ruder than I ever did in my life.  Disloyal, too--doubly so; I
should be traitor to gratitude, as to courtesy.  Indeed, I've trenched
scandalously on good manners now, by keeping yonder gentleman so long
waiting for me."

He nodded towards Sir Richard, who had halted at some distance up the
avenue.

"Oh, very well," sneeringly rejoined Sir John Wintour's emissary.  "Of
course, you can do as you like, Eust.  I'm not your master, though
yonder gentleman, as you call him, seems to be.  Good-evening!"

And with this curt leave-taking, the sneer still on his face, he dug the
spurs deep into his horse's ribs, and went off at a gallop along the
road for Ross.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

THREE CURIOUS CHARACTERS.

"Yee-up, Jinkum!  Yee-up!"

The exclamations were accompanied by the thwack of a stick over the hips
of a donkey half-hidden under a pair of panniers.

"Don't press the poor creetur, Jack.  It be a hardish climb up the
pitch.  Gie't its time."

"But you know, Winny, the panners be most nigh empty--more's the pity."

"True o' that.  But consider how fur's been the day.  Seven mile to
Monnerth--a good full load goin'--an' same back, whens we be home.  An't
han't had thing to eat, 'cept the pickin's 'long the roadside."

"All the more reezun for gittin' 'im soon home.  I'd lay wager, if the
anymal kud speak, 't 'ud say the same."

"Might.  But, for all that, him's rightdown tired.  If him want, there
wud be no need yer slappin' he.  Don't slap him any more, Jack."

"Well, I won't.  Yee-up, Jinkum!  I 'ant a-goin' to gi' ye the stick
agen.  'Nother mile, and ye'll be back to yer own bit o' paster in the
ole orchart, whar the grass'll be up to yer ears.  Yee-up!"

At which Jinkum, as though comprehending the merciful disposition
towards him, and grateful for it, seemed to improve his pace.

The speakers were a man and woman, both of uncommon appearance--the man
a diminutive specimen of humanity, who walked with a jerking gait, due
to his having a wooden leg.  The woman was taller than he, by the head
and shoulders quite; while in every other way above the usual dimensions
of her sex.  Of a somewhat masculine aspect, she was withal far from
ill-favoured--rather the contrary.  Her gown of coarse homespun,
dust-stained and _delabre_, could not conceal a voluptuous outline of
figure; while to have her eyes and hair many a queen would have been
glad to give the costliest jewel in her crown.  The complexion was dark,
the features of a gipsy type--though she was not one--the hair, a very
hatful, carelessly coiled around her head, black as the wing of a crow.
The first thought of one beholding her would be: "What a woman, if but
washed and becomingly clad?"  For both skin and dress showed something
more than the dust that day caught up from the road--smouches of older
date.  Despite all, she was a grand, imposing personage; of tireless
strength, too, as evinced by her easy, elastic step while breasting that
steep pitch on her twenty-second mile since morning.  The journey seemed
to have had little effect on her, however it may have jaded Jinkum.

Notwithstanding the disparity in size between the man and woman--a good
deal also in their age, he being much her senior--they bore a certain
resemblance to one another.  It lay in their features and complexion;
Jack having a gipsyish look, too.  Nor any wonder at their being some
little alike, since they were _not_ man and wife, but brother and
sister--both born Foresters.  There was nothing in the character of
either at all disreputable, though their business was such as usually
brings suspicion on those who follow it.  Known all over the forest, and
for miles around it, as cadgers, they trafficked in every conceivable
thing by which an honest penny might be made, though their speciality
was the transport of fowls, with other products of the farmyard, to the
markets of Ross and Monmouth--generally on freight account--taking back
such parcels as they could pick up.  Ruardean was their port of
departure and return; their home, when they were at home, being a
cottage in the outskirts of that elevated village.

Rarely, if ever, were "Jerky Jack"--the soubriquet his gait had gained
for him--and his big sister seen apart; Winny, or Winifred--for such was
her baptismal name--being a valuable helpmate to him.  Some said she was
more--his master.

That day they had been to Monmouth market, and now, at a late hour of
the evening--after sunset--they were climbing Cat's Hill on their return
homeward.  As already said, there was then no Kerne bridge, and they had
crossed by the ferry at Goodrich; a roundabout way to where they now
were, but unavoidable--making good the woman's estimate of the distance.

Up the remainder of the pitch, Jerky kept his word, and no more stick
was administered to Jinkum.  But before reaching the summit the tired
animal was treated to a spell of rest, for which it might thank a man
there met, or rather one who dropped upon them as from the clouds.  For
he had come slithering down a steep shelving bank that bordered the
road, suddenly presenting himself to their view outside the selvage of
bushes.

Notwithstanding his _impromptu_ appearance, neither showed sign of alarm
nor surprise.  Evidently they expected him; for but the minute before a
sound resembling the call of the green woodpecker--the "heekul," as
known to them--had reached their ears, causing them to turn their eyes
toward the direction whence it came.  From the wood, where, of course,
they could see nothing; but there was a peculiarity in the intonation of
the sound, telling them it proceeded not from the throat of a bird, but
was in some way made by a man.  That the woman knew how, and who the
man, she gave evidence by saying, "That be Rob!" as she spoke a pleased
expression coming over her countenance.

Whether Rob or no, he who so mysteriously and fantastically presented
himself to their notice was a man of aspect remarkable as either of
them.  In size a Colossus; dark-complexioned like themselves, with full
beard, and thick shock of brown-black hair standing out around his neck
in curls and tangles.  His coat of bottle-green cloth--amply skirted--
and red plush waistcoat, showed creased and frowsy, as if he had passed
the previous night, and many preceding it, in a shed or under a tree.
For all, there was something majestic in his mien, just as with the
woman--a savage grandeur independent of garb, which could assert itself
under a drapery of rags.

As the three came together, he was the first to speak, more particularly
addressing himself to Jerky.  For the sister had a little side business
to transact, plunging her hand into one of the panniers, and bringing
forth a basket, out of which the neck of a bottle protruded.

"Well, Jack!  What's the news down Monnerth way?" was the commencement
of the colloquy.

"Lots, Rob; 'nough if they were wrote out on paper to fill them panners,
an' load the donkey down."

Jinkum's owner was of a humorous turn, and dealt in figures of speech,
often odd and varied as his bills of lading.

"Tell us some o' 'em," requested Rob, placing himself in an attitude to
listen.

"Well," proceeded the cadger, "it be most all 'bout politicks there now,
wi' rumours o' war, they say be a brewin'.  The market war full o' them
rough 'uns from Raglan side, Lord Worster's people, bullyin' everybody
an' threetenin' all as wudn't cry out for the King."

"Ay;" here interposed the big sister, with a sneer, "an' you cried it,
Jack--shouted till I was afeerd you'd split yer windpipe.  That ye did!"

"And if I did," rejoined Jack, excusing himself, "how war I to help it?
If I hadn't they'd a throttled me; may-be pulled off my wooden leg, and
smashed my skull wi't.  An' ye know that, Winny.  A man who'd a said
word there favour o' the Parlyment wud a stud good chance o' gettin'
tore limb fro' limb.  Tho' I han't two for 'em to tear sunderwise, I
wasn't the fool to go buttin my head 'gainst a wall when no good could
come o't.  If I did cry `Long live the King!'  I thinked the contrary,
as Rob knows I do."

"That do I, Jack, right well.  A true free-born Forester, as myself, I
know you ha' no leanin' like as them o' Monnerth and Lydney; Royalists
an' Papists, who want to make slaves o' us, both body and soul, an' keep
us toilin' for them an' their fine-dressed favourites--devil burn 'em!"

Having thus delivered himself, the free-born Forester dropped
conversation with Jerky, confining it to the sister.  For which Jack
gave them an opportunity, shrewdly guessing it was desired.  Once more
saluting Jinkum with a "yee-up!" he started the animal off again up the
hill, himself stumping briskly after.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

A COMBAT IN A QUARRY.

The man and woman left behind, as they stood _vis-a-vis_, presented a
striking appearance.  Such a pair in juxtaposition were a sight not
often given to the eye.  He some inches the taller--though well matched
as regarded the distinction of the sexes; but both of towering stature,
with air so commanding that one, who could have seen them there and
then, would not have given a thought to the coarseness of their apparel,
or, if so, instantly forgetting it.  Looking at their faces, in their
eyes as they met in mutual gaze, he would have noticed something of a
nature to interest more than any quality or fashion of dress--the light
of love.  For they loved one another warmly, and, perhaps, as purely and
tenderly, as if their hearts had been beating under robes of silk.

No words of love passed between them now.  If they intended speaking
such, they held them in reserve till matters more pressing should be
disposed of.

Upon these the man entered at once, asking,--

"Heerd you anythin' 'bout me, Win?"

"Yes, Rob."

"What?"

"They have been wonderin' how ye managed to get out o't gaol, an' blame
Will Morgan for lendin' ye a hand.  Day afore yesterday a party came
over from Lydney wi' that young officer as be wi' Sir John Winter--
Trevor I think they call him."

"Yes; that's the name.  I know him well enough--too well.  'Twas he as
took me in the High Meadows."

"Oh! it was.  Well; he hev taked Will, too, an' carried him away to
Lydney, where Sir John ha' now got a gaol o' his own.  There wor some
trouble 'bout it; the Lord Herbert, who's governor at Monnerth, claimin'
him as his prisoner.  But the other sayed as yours wor a case o'
deer-stealin' in the Forest, an' Will had helped, ye ought both be taken
before Sir John an' tried by him, he bein' head man o' it.  Then Lord
Herbert gave in, an' let them take him off.  Will did help ye a bit,
didn't he?"

"More'n a bit.  But for him, liker than not, I'd now be in theer lock-up
at Lydney.  Well, if he be goed there he mayn't ha' so long to stay as
they think for--won't, if what I've heerd be true."

"What's ye heerd, Rob?"

"Some news as ha' just come down from Lunnun.  It's sayed the King's
been chased out o't, an' the Parlyment be now havin' it all theer own
way.  Supposin' that's the case, Sir John Winter won't hae it all his
own way much longer.  We Foresters'll deal wi' him diff'rent from what
we've been a doin'.  An' 'bout that I ha' got word o' somethin' else."

"What somethin'?"

"A man, they say's comin' down here--from Lunnun too.  One o' the right
sort--friend o' the people.  Besides, a soldier as ha' seen foreign
service, an' is reckoned 'mong the best and kindest of men."

"I think I know who ye mean, Rob.  Ain't it Sir Richard Walwyn?"

"That's the man."

"He wor at Hollymead fore he went away to the wars.  I've seed him
many's the time.  He used to often ride past our place, an' always
stopped to ha' a word an' a joke wi' Jack.  That makes me remember him;
an' if I beant mistook somebody else ha' remembrance o' him in a
different way, an' ain't like ever to forget him."

"Who?"

"One o' the young ladies o' Hollymead--the older 'un, Miss Sabrina.  I
ha' heerd as much from the house sarvints theer."

Just the shadow of a cloud had shown itself on Rob's brow as Win
commenced giving her reminiscences of the knight who had been visitor at
Hollymead and used to crack jokes with Jerky.  It passed off, however,
ere her relation came to an end.

"Well, dear Win," he said, speaking more tenderly from consciousness of
having harboured an unjust suspicion; "they say Sir Richard be comin'
down to raise soldiers for the Parlyment.  If that be so, one o' the
first to join him'll be Rob Wilde; an' maybe the biggest, if not best,
in the fightin' line."

"You'll be the best, Rob; I know you will.  Who could equal you?"

At which she threw open her arms, then closed them around his neck,
covering him with kisses.

In all probability, many soft words and much tender concourse would have
succeeded this outburst of admiration.  But the opportunity was not
allowed them.  Just then they heard a clattering of hoofs, horsemen
coming down the road from Ruardean, at a gallop.

Rob, setting his ears to listen, could tell there were two of them, but
nothing more--nothing to admonish him whether they were friends or
enemies.  But with the consciousness of having stolen deer and broken
jail, twenty to one on their being the latter, reflected he.  In any
case prudence counselled him hiding himself, and letting the horsemen
pass on.

His first impulse was to spring back up the bank, leaving the woman in
the road.  They could have nothing against her, whoever they were.  But
they were near now, still riding rapidly, and before he could scramble
to the summit of the slope would be sure to see him.  Just then, a
hiding-place handier, and more easily accessible, came under his eye; a
break in the bank just opposite, which he knew to be the entrance to an
old limestone quarry, long abandoned.  He would be safe enough in there,
at least from observation by any one passing down the road.  Whether or
no, it was now Hobson's choice with him; the trampling was louder and
clearer; and but for an abrupt bend of the road above he could have seen
the horsemen, as they him.  No alternative, therefore, but to cut into
the quarry; which he did--the woman with him.

Scarce were they well inside it, when the hoof-strokes ceased to be
heard.  The horses had been suddenly pulled up; a colloquy ensuing.

"Hullo, Jerky!" it begun.  "On your way from Monmouth market, I
suppose?"

"Yes, yer honour; jist that."

"But where's your big sister?  I've met you scores of times along the
roads, though never without her.  I hope there's nothing amiss?"

"Oh! nothin', sir.  She be wi' me now, close by, coming up the pitch,
only ha' legged a bit behint."

"Well, Jack, I won't detain you; as I must not be lagging myself.  I
want to reach Ross before the night's on.  Good-bye, old cadge!"

At which the dialogue came to an end, and the hoof-strokes were again
heard, now coming close.

Only for a minute or so, when a second colloquy was entered upon, this
time one of the voices being different.

Rob Wilde knew them both; had long ago recognised the one that held
speech with the cadger, and had reason to feel keenly apprehensive as he
listened.  Far more now, as the words of the later dialogue dropped upon
his ears.

"Old Timber-toes said his sister was just behind.  I don't see anything
of her; and certainly she's not one there should be any difficulty in
making out--even at a league's distance.  Hey! what the deuce is that?"

And Reginald Trevor again reined up.  For it was he, with his servant.

"A basket, it appears to be, Captain," answered the man, "with a bottle
in it.  Yes," he added, after drawing closer, lifting it from the ledge,
and peering into it.  "Something besides the bottle--bread, cheese, and
bacon."

"Where there's so much smoke there should be some fire," reflected his
master, who had halted in the middle of the road.  Then, thinking it odd
he saw nothing of the cadger's sister, and noticing the gap leading into
the quarry, it occurred to him she might be there.  Partly out of
curiosity, and partly from an intuition, which the basket of provisions
had done something to inspire, he headed his horse at the opening and
rode in.

Soon as inside, an exclamation rose to his lips, in tone which told of
more than surprise.  There was triumph, exultation, in it.  For there
saw he, not only the woman missing from the road, but a man, the same
who had been for some time missing from Monmouth Gaol.  The bushes in
the old quarry were not thick enough, nor tall enough, to give either of
them concealment; and they were standing erect, without further attempt
at seeking it.

"Ho--ho! my giant," cried the officer.  "It's here you are; making love
to Jerky's sister.  And a pretty pair of love-birds too!  Ha! ha!  That
explains the basket of eatables and drinkables.  What a pity to
interrupt your billing and cooing!  But I must.  So master Rob,
deer-stealer and jail-breaker," he added drawing his sword.  "Come along
with me!  You needn't trouble about bringing the basket.  In the Lydney
lock-up I'll see to your being fed free of expense."

"When you get me there," rejoined Rob, in defiant tone, as he spoke
pulling from under the breast of his doublet a long-bladed knife, and
setting himself firm for defence.

This was unexpected by the King's officer, who had not thought or dreamt
of resistance.  It was there, however, in sure, stern shape, and he felt
himself committed to overcoming it.  With a prick of his spur he sprang
his horse forward, and straight at Rob, as though he would ride over
him, his sword held ready for either cut or thrust.

But neither gave he, nor could.  As the horse's head came close to him,
the Colossus lunged out with long arm, and sent the point of his knife
into the animal's nostrils, which caused it to rear up and round,
squealing with pain.  This brought its rider's back towards the man who
had pricked it; and before he could wheel again, Reginald Trevor was in
the embrace of him he had jokingly called giant--realising that he had
the strength of one, as he was himself dragged out of his saddle.

But they were not the only combatants in the quarry.  For, following his
master, the servant had made to assist him in his assault against the
big man, taking no note of the big woman, or fancying she would not
interfere.  In which fancy he was sadly mistaken.  For in scrimmage his
back becoming turned upon her, as if taking pattern by Rob, she sprang
up, caught hold of the lightweight groom, and jerked him to the ground,
easily as she would have pulled a bantam cock from out one of the
Jinkum's panniers.

In less than threescore seconds after the affair began, Reginald Trevor
and his attendant were unhorsed, disarmed, and held as in the hug of a
couple of bears.

"I'll let ye go," said Rob to his prisoner, after some rough handling,
"when ye say you won't take advantage o' my gen'rosity by renewin' the
attack.  Bah!" he added, without waiting for response, "I'll put that
out o' yer power."

Saying which, he caught up the officer's sword, and broke it across his
knee, at the same time releasing him.  The blade of the attendant was
treated likewise, and both master and man were permitted to rise to
their feet, feeling vanquished as weaponless.

"You can take yourselves off," sneeringly said the deer-stealer; "an' as
ye talked 'bout bein' in Ross 'fore nightfall, you'll do well to make
quick time."

Not a word spoke Reginald Trevor in reply, nor thanks for the mercy
shown him.  Too angry was he for that; his anger holding him speechless
because of its very impotence.  In sullen silence he regained the bridle
of his horse--like himself having lost spirit by copious bleeding of the
nose--climbed back into the saddle, and continued on down Cat's Hill,
his varlet behind him, both swordless, and yet more crestfallen than
when they rode out through the gate of Hollymead Park.

"We're in for it now, Win," said Rob, to the cadger's sister, after
seeing them depart.  "An' we've got to look out for danger.  I'm sorry
'bout you havin' to share it; but maybe 'twon't be so much, after all.
Once Sir Richard gets here, an' the fightin' begins, as it surely must
soon, trust me for takin' care o' ye."

"I will--I do, Rob!"

And again the great arms were thrown around his neck, while upon his
lips were showered a very avalanche of kisses.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

LOOKING FORWARD TO A FIGHT.

Some truth was there in the report that had reached Rob Wilde, of the
King being chased out of London.  Though not literally chased, after his
display in the House of Commons, ludicrous as unconstitutional, he found
the metropolis too hot for him.  Moreover, there was a whisper about
impeaching the Queen; and this arch _intrigante_, notwithstanding her
high notions of Royal right, was now in a fit of Royal trembles.
Strafford had lost his head, Laud was in prison, likely to lose his; how
knew she but that those bloodthirsty islanders might bring her own under
the axe?  They had done as much for a Queen more beautiful than she.
Mobs daily paraded the streets, passing the Palace; the cry, "No
bishops!" came in through its windows, and Charles trembled as he
thought of his father's significant epigram, "No bishop, no king."  So
out of Whitehall they slipped--first to Windsor to pack up; the Queen,
in fine, clearing out of the country, by Dover, to Holland.

It was a backstairs "skedaddle" with her; carrying off as much plunder
as she could in the scramble--chests of jewels of unknown but fabulous
value, as that represented as having been found in the isle of Monte
Cristo.  Enough, at all events, to hold Court abroad; maintain regal
surroundings; even raise an army for the reconquest and re-enslavement
of the people she had plundered.

It is unpleasant to reflect on such things, far more having to speak of
them.  Sad to think that though England is two centuries and a half
older since Charles Stuart and Henrietta de Medici did all in their
power to outrage her people and rob them of their rights, this same
people is to-day not a wit the wiser.  The late Liberal victory, as it
is called, may be urged as contradicting this allegation; but against
that is to be set the behaviour of England's people, as represented by
their Parliament for the last six years, sanctioning and endorsing deeds
that have brought a blight on the nation's name, and a cloud over its
character, it will take centuries to clear off.  And against that, too,
the spirit which seems likely will pervade in this new Legislative
Assembly, and the action it will take.  When the Long Parliament
commenced its sittings, the patriots composing it never dreamt of
letting crime go unpunished.  Instead, their first thoughts and acts
were to bring the betrayers of their country to account.  "Off with his
head--so much for Strafford!"

"To the Tower with Laud and the twelve recalcitrant bishops!"

"Clear out the Star Chamber and High Commission Court!"  "Abolish
monopolies, Loans of Privy Seal, Ship-tax, Coal and Conduit money, with
the other iniquitous imposts!"  And, _presto_! all this was done as by
the wand of a magician, though it was the good genius then guiding the
destinies of England.  Off went Strafford's head; to the Tower was taken
Laud; and the infamous royal edicts of a decade preceding were swept
from the statute-book, as by a wet sponge passed over the score of a
tapster's slate.

What do we see now?  What hear?  A new Parliament entering on power
under circumstances so like those that ushered in the "Long" as to seem
almost the same.  And a Ministry gone out who have outraged the nation
as much as did the Straffords, Digbys, and Lauds.  But how different the
action taken towards them!  No Bill of Attainder talked of, no word of
impeachment, not even a whisper about voting want of confidence.
Instead of being sent to a prison, as the culprits of 1640, they of 1880
walk out of office and away, with a free, jaunty step and air of bold
effrontery, blazoned with decorations and brand new titles bestowed on
them--a very shower, as the sparks from a Catherine wheel!

Verily was the lot of Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford, laid in
unlucky times.  Had he lived in these days, so far from losing his head,
it would have been surmounted by a ducal coronet.  And Laud, already at
the top of the ecclesiastical tree, with no possibility of hoisting him
to higher earthly honours, would have had heavenly ones bestowed on him
by being enrolled among the saints.

Though merely writing a romance, who will say that in this matter I am
romancing?  The man that does must be what Sir Richard Walwyn pronounced
him who is not a Republican; and back to Sir Richard's _dictum_ I refer
him.

Soon as Charles had got his Queen safe out of harm's way, he betook
himself to York, there to enter upon more energetic action.  For there
he felt safer himself, surrounded by a host of hot partisans.  In
political sentiment, what a curious reversion has taken place since then
between the capitals of the North and South--almost an exchange!  Then
York was all Royalist, and as a consequence filled with the foes of
Liberty; London full of its friends.  Now the former has mounted to the
very hill-top of Liberal aspiration; the latter sunk into the slough of
a shameful retrogression!

But the thing is easily explained.  Those who dwell in the kingdom's
capital are nearer to the source of contamination.  There Bung and
Beadledom, with their vested rights, hold sway; there the scribblers who
wear plush find encouragement and promotion; while the corrupting
influence of modern finance has nursed into life and strength a swarm of
gamblers in stocks, promoters of bubble companies, tricksters in trade,
and music-hall cads--a sorry replacement of the honest mercers and
trusty apprentices of the Parliamentary times.

Once separated from his Parliament, the King had an instinct that all
friendly intercourse between it and himself would soon be at an end;
this nursed into conviction by the Hertfords, Digbys, and other like
"chicks" who formed his _entourage_.  Active became he now in adopting
precautions, and taking measures to sustain himself in the struggle that
was imminent.  And now more industrious than ever in the way of money
raising; anew granting monopolies, and sending letters of Privy Seal all
over the land, wherever there seemed a chance of enforcing their
demands--for demands were they, as we have seen.  To Sir John Wintour
had been entrusted some scores of these precious epistles, with
authority to deliver them, collect the proceeds, and send them on to
replenish the royal exchequer; and it was one such Reginald Trevor saw
torn into scraps on the porch of Hollymead House.

This same Sir John was what Scotchmen would call a "canny chiel."
Courtier, and private secretary to the Queen, he had come in for a
goodly share of pilferings from the public purse; among other jobs
having been endowed with the stewardship of the Forest of Dean, with all
its privileges and perquisites.  Appointed one of the Commissioners of
Array for West Gloucestershire, he had built him a large mansion in the
neighbourhood of Lydney--the White House as called--though it is not
there now, he with his own hand having afterwards set the torch to it.
But then, on the clearing out of the Court from London, Sir John had
cleared out too, going to his country residence by Severn's side, which
he at once set about placing in a state of defence.  None more clearly
than he foresaw the coming storm.

It seemed to him near now when Reginald Trevor returned to the White
House and reported his reception at Hollymead, with the defiant message
to himself and his King.  But Sir John was not a man of hot passions or
hasty resolves.  Long experience as a courtier had taught him to subdue
his temper, or, at all events, the exhibition of it.  So, instead of
bursting forth into a furious display, he quietly observed,--

"Don't trouble yourself, Captain Trevor, about what Ambrose Powell has
said or done.  It won't help his case any.  But," he added reflectingly,
"there seems no particular call for haste in this business.  Besides,
I'm expecting an addition to the strength of our little garrison.
To-morrow, or it may be the day after, we shall have with us a man, if I
mistake not, known to you."

"Who, Sir John?"

"Colonel Thomas Lunsford."

"Oh! certainly; I know Lunsford well.  He was my superior officer in the
northern expedition."

"Ah! yes; now I remember.  Well; I have word of his being _en route_
hither with some stanch followers.  When he has reported himself,
allowing a day or two for rest, we'll beat up the quarters of this
recusant, and make him repent his seditious speech.  As for the money,
he shall pay that, every pound, or I'll squeeze it out of him, if
there's stock on the Hollymead estate, or chattels in his house worth so
much."

There was something in the "recusant's" house Reginald Trevor thought
worth far more--one of the recusant's daughters.  Of that, however, he
made no mention.  To speak of it lay not in the line of his duties; and
even thinking of it was now not near so sweet as it had been hitherto.
Little as he liked Colonel Lunsford, he would that night have been glad
of him for a boon companion--in the bowl to help drown the bitter
remembrance of his adventures of the preceding day.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

A HAWKING PARTY.

"Hooha-ha-ha-ha!"

The cry of the falconer, followed by a whistle, as the hawks were
unleashed and cast-off.

Away went they, jesses trailing, and bells tinkling, in buoyant upward
flight.  For the heron that had risen out of the sedge, intending
retreat to its heronry, at sight of the enemy after it, suddenly changed
direction, and was now making for upper air with all its might of wing.

The hawks were a _cast_ of "peregrines" of the best strain.  In perfect
training, it needed no repetition of the _hooha-ha-ha-ha_ to encourage
them; for, as soon as their hoods were off, they had sighted the enemy,
and shot like arrows after it.

At first their flight was direct--a _raking off_--but in drawing nearer
the doomed bird it changed to gyrations as they essayed to mount above
it.  The heron, in a phrenzy of fright, uttered its harsh "craigh,"
disgorged the contents of its crop, with a view of lightening itself,
and made a fresh effort to escape skyward.  In vain!  The falcons, with
quicker stroke of wing, notwithstanding their spiral course, were soon
seen soaring over it.  Then the foremost--for one was ahead--having
gained the proper height, with spread "train," and quivering "sails,"
poised herself for the "_stoop_."  Only a second; then down swooped she
at the quarry, "arm" outstretched and "pounces" set for _raking_ it.

The attempt was unsuccessful.  Rarely is heron touched at the first
stoop.  Unwieldy, and sluggish of flight as the creature may appear, it
has a wonderful capacity for quickly turning, and can long elude hawk or
falcon, if there be but one.  When doubly assailed, however, by a
_cast_, of trained peregrines, it is at a disadvantage, not having time
to recover itself from the stoop of the one till the other is upon it.

So was it with this.  In an instant after, the second shot down upon it
with a squeal, the heron again giving out its "craigh," and then the
two, hawk and heron, were seen clinging together.  For this time the
bird of prey had not attempted to _rake_ but _bind_; and bound were
they, the pounces of the falcon stuck fast in the flesh of its victim.
Then followed a convulsive flapping of wings, the two pairs beating
against one another, soon to be joined by a third; for, meanwhile, the
first falcon having soared up again, once more poised herself and
stooped, she also binding to the common quarry.

The aerial chase was now at an end, but not the combat.  Unequal as this
was, the heron still lived; and, when the three should come to earth,
might impale either or both its adversaries on that long lance-like beak
it but unskilfully wields in the air.  To prevent this, the falconer
hurried off for the spot towards which they were descending.  Slowly
they came down, upheld by the united fluttering of their wings, but
reached the ground at length, luckily not far off.  And when the
falconer got up he gave out a loud "whoop," signal of the quarry killed.
For he saw that the heron was dead, and the peregrines had already
commenced depluming it.

Other voices joined in the _paean_ of triumph; one of sweet, silver
tones, accompanied by the clapping of a pair of pretty hands.  They were
the same voice and hands that on the top of Ruardean Hill had hounded on
the dog Hector in his half-playful demonstration against the donkey.

"I knew my pair of `Pers' would do it in good style!" cried Vaga in
exultation, for she was the owner of the peregrines.  "Did any of you
ever see a kill quicker than that?"

The interrogatory was put to a trio of individuals beside her, on
horseback as herself--one of them her sister, the other two Sir Richard
Walwyn and Eustace Trevor.  There was an _entourage_ of attendants, the
falconer with his helps, mounted grooms, and dogs quartering the sedge--
in short, a complete hawking party from Hollymead House.  For,
notwithstanding his gentle inclinings, Ambrose Powell was no foe to
field sports--rather favoured them when not unnecessarily cruel; and,
though rarely indulging in them himself, put no restraint on his
daughters' doing so.  The younger was passionately fond of hawking, and
the elder also relished it in a more sober way--it being then regarded
as a proper pastime for ladies.

The hawking party, whose incidents we are chronicling, came off some ten
days after the arrival of Sir Richard Walwyn and Eustace at Hollymead;
the scene being a strip of marsh with a stream filtering through it,
here and there a pool where the moor-hen coquettishly flirted her tail--
a favourite haunt of the heron, as of teals, widgeons, and wild ducks.
That the knight was still sojourning at Hollymead House need be no
matter of surprise; but why the son of Sir William Trevor had not long
ere this reported himself under the parental roof, by Abergavenny, may
seem a very puzzle.  Its explanation must await the record of after
events; though; an incident occurring there and then, with speech that
accompanied, may throw some light upon it.

Vaga's question was rather in the way of an exclamation, to which she
did not expect reply.  Neither waited for it; but giving the whip to her
palfrey trotted off to where the falconer was engaged in releasing the
dead heron from the pounces of the hawks.  She went not alone, however;
Eustace Trevor having pricked his animal with the spur, and started
after, soon overtaking her.  The other pair stayed behind as they were.

A hundred yards or so round the edge of the marsh, and the two who had
ridden off came to a halt.  For, by this, the falconer having rehooded
the hawks, and retrieved the quarry, met them, heron in hand, holding it
out to his mistress; as would one, first up at the death of a fox,
present Reynard's brush to some dashing Diana of the field.

A splendid bird it was; the white heron or great egret, a rare species,
even then, though not so rate as now.

"Give it to the pers, Van Dorn!" she directed, after a short survey of
it; despite its rarity, showing less interest in it than under other
circumstances she might have done.  "Unhood again, and let them have it.
We forgot to bring the doves for them, and they deserve reward for the
way they both _bound_ it--so cleverly."

Van Dorn, a Hollander from Falconswaerd--whence in those days all
falconers came--bowing, proceeded to execute the command, by removing
their hoods from the hawks.

"Before he surrenders it to their tender mercies, may I ask a favour?"

It was Eustace Trevor who interrogated, addressing himself to the young
lady.

"Of course you may.  What is it, sir?"

"Leave to appropriate a few of the heron's feathers."

"Why, certainly!  The falconer will pluck them for you.  Van Dorn, pull
out some of its feathers, and hand them to this gentleman.  I suppose
you mean those over the train, Mr Trevor?"

"Yes, they."

"You hear, Van Dorn."

Without that the man knew what was wanted; the loose tail coverts so
much prized for plumes; and, drawing them out one by one, he bound them
into a bunch with a piece of cord whipped round their shanks; then
handed them up to the cavalier.  After which he went off to attend upon
his hawks.

There was a short interregnum of silence as the falconer turned his back
on them, and till he was out of earshot.  Then the young lady asked,
with apparent artlessness,--

"But, Mr Trevor, what do you intend doing with the heron's feathers?"

"Pluming my hat with them."

"Why, it's plumed already! and by far showier ones!"

"Showier they may be; but not prettier, nor so becoming.  And certainly
not to be esteemed as these; which I shall wear as souvenir of a
pleasant time--the pleasantest of my life."

There was a pleased expression in her eyes as she listened to what he
said; still more when she saw what he did.  This, to whip the hat from
his head, pluck the _panache_ of ostrich feathers from its _aigrette_
and insert those of the heron in their place.  Something he did further
seemed also to give her gratification, though she artfully concealed it.
Reproach on her lips, but delight in her heart, as she saw him tear the
displaced plume into shreds, and toss them to the ground at his horse's
feet.

"How wasteful you are, Mr Trevor?" she exclaimed, reprovingly.  "Those
foreign feathers must have cost a great deal of money.  What's worse,
you've spoiled the look of your hat!  Besides, you forget that those now
on it came from a conquered bird?"

"All the more appropriate for a plume to be worn by me."

"Why so, sir?"

"Because of my being vanquished, too."

"_You_ vanquished, Mr Trevor!  When? where?  By whom?" she asked, at
the same time mentally interrogating herself.  Could he be alluding to
that combat in which he received the wound brought with him to
Hollymead, the story of which had leaked out, though not told by either
combatant.  Or, was he hinting at conquest of another kind?

There was an indescribable expression on her countenance as she sat
awaiting his answer--keen anxiety, ill-concealed under an air of
pretended artlessness.

"Vaga!"

It was not he who pronounced her name; though "Vaga," with "Powell"
adjoined, were the words nearest to his lips.  She would have given the
world to hear him speak them.  But it could not be then.  Her sister had
called to her, at that moment approaching with Sir Richard.  Most
ill-timed approach, for it interrupted a dialogue which, allowed to
continue, might, and likely would, have ended in declarations of love--
confessions full and mutual.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

"DEAR LITTLE MER."

"Turn and turn, sister," said Sabrina, as she rode up.  "You've had
sport enough with your great eagles.  Suppose we go up to the hill, and
give my dear little Mer a cast-off?"

"Dear little Mer" was a merlin, that sate perched on her left wrist, in
size to the peregrines as a bantam cock to the biggest of chanticleers.
Withal a true falcon, and game as the gamest of them.

Why its mistress proposed changing the scene of their sport was that no
larks nor buntings--the merlin's special quarry--were to be met with by
the marsh.  Their habitat was higher up on the ridge, where there was a
tract bare of trees--part pasture, part fallow.

To her sister's very reasonable request Vaga did not give the readiest
assent.  The petted young lady looked, and likely felt, some little
vexed at her _tete-a-tete_ with Eustace Trevor having been so abruptly
brought to an end.  It had promised to make that spot--amid reeds and
rushes though it was--hallowed to her, as another on the summit of a
certain hill, among hazels and hollies, had been made to her sister.
Whatever her thoughts, she showed reluctance to leave the low ground,
saying in rejoinder,--

"Oh! certainly, Sab.  But won't you wait till the dogs have finished
beating the sedge?"

"If you wish it, of course.  But you don't expect them to find another
heron?"

"No; but there may be a widgeon or wild duck.  After such an easy
victory, I'm sure my pers would like to have another flight.  See how
they chafe at their hoods and pull upon the jesses!  Ah, my beauties!
you want to hear the _hooha-ha-ha-ha_ again--that do you."

"Oh! let them, then," said the more compliant Sabrina, "if the dogs put
up anything worth flying them at; which I doubt their doing.  We've made
too much noise for that."

The conjecture of the sage sister proved correct.  For the marsh,
quartered to its remotest corners, yielded neither widgeons nor wild
ducks; only moor-hens and water-rails--quarry too contemptible to fly
the great falcons at.

"Now," said Sabrina, "I suppose you'll consent to the climbing?"

Her motto might have been _Excelsior_; she seemed always urging an
uphill movement.

But there was no longer any objection made to it; and the canines being
called out of the sedge, all entered the forest, riders and followers
afoot, and commenced winding by a wood-path up the steep acclivity of
Ruardean's ridge.

When upon its crest, which they soon after reached, the grand panorama
already spoken of lay spread before their eyes.  For they were on the
same spot from which the young ladies had viewed it that day when Hector
harassed the donkey.  Neither of them bestowed a look upon it now; nor
did Sabrina even glance at that road winding down from the Wilderness,
off which on the former occasion she had been unable to take her eyes.
Its interest for her no longer had existence; he who had invested it
with such being by her side.  Now she but thought of showing off the
capabilities of "dear little Mer," as in fondness she was accustomed to
call the diminutive specimen of the _falconidae_.

Ere long Mer made exhibition of her high strain and training--for the
little falcon was also a female--sufficient to prove herself neither
_tercel_ nor _haggard_.  First she raked down a lark, then a corn
bunting; and at the third cast-off overtook and bound on to a
turtle-dove, big as herself.  For all she speedily brought it to the
earth, there instantly killing it.

Just as she had brought this quarry to ground a cry was heard, which
caused interruption of the sport,--

"Soldiers!"

It was the falconer who so exclaimed; for now that they were
merlin-flying his services were scarce required, and one of his aids did
the whistling and whooping.  Left at leisure to look around, his eyes
had strayed up the road beyond Drybrook, there to see what had called
forth his cry.

Instantly all other eyes went the same way, more than one voice
muttering in confirmation,--

"Yes; they're soldiers."

This was evident from their uniformity of dress--all alike, or nearly--
as also by the glancing of arms and accoutrements.  Moreover, they were
in military formation, riding in file, "by twos"--for they were on
horseback.

At sight of them all thoughts of sport were at an end, and the hawking
was instantly discontinued.  Mer, lured back to her mistress's wrist,
was once more hooded, and the leash run through the _varvels_ of her
jesses; while the falconer and his helps, with the other attendants,
gathered into a group preparatory to leaving the field.

Meanwhile, by no accident, but evidently from previous understanding,
Sir Richard Walwyn and Eustace Trevor had drawn their horses together,
at some distance from the spot occupied by the ladies, the knight
saying,--

"It's Wintour's troop from Lydney, I take it.  What do _you_ think,
Master Trevor?"

"The same as yourself.  Nay, more, I'm sure of it, now.  That's my
cousin Rej at their head, on the grey mare, with the red feathers in his
hat.  You remember them?"

"I do.  You're right; 'tis he.  Somebody beside him, though, who appears
to be in command.  Don't you see him turn in his saddle, as though
calling back orders?"

"Yes, yes;" was the repetitive rejoinder, Eustace Trevor, despite his
late sojourn at Court, still retaining some of the idiomatic forms of
Welsh colloquy.  "But who are those in the rear?" he added,
interrogatively.

His question had reference to a number of men afoot, neither in uniform
nor formation, who were seen coming behind the horse troop, pressing
close upon its heels.  Women among them, too, as could be told by the
brighter hues and looser draping of their dresses.

"People from Mitcheldean," answered Sir Richard, "following the troop
out of curiosity, no doubt."

The knight knew better; knew that, but for himself, and some action he
had lately taken, the people spoken of, or at least the majority of
them, would not have been there.  For, since his arrival at Hollymead,
he had made many excursions unaccompanied--save by his henchman,
Hubert--to Mitcheldean, Coleford, and other Forest centres, where he had
held converse with many people--spoken words of freedom, which had found
ready and assenting response.  Therefore, as he now gazed at that crowd
of civilians coming on after the soldiers, though his glance was one of
inquiry, it was not as to who they were who composed it, but to make
estimate of their numbers, at the same time comparing it with the
strength of the troop.

There was no time left him to arrive at any exactitude.  The horsemen
were on the way to Hollymead, for sure; and he must needs be there
before--long before them.

So the hawking party made no longer stay on Ruardean Hill, but a start
and return homeward--so rapid as to seem retreat; the understrappers and
other attendants wondering why it was so--all save Hubert.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

TROUBLE ANTICIPATED.

On return for Hollymead, the hawking party did not pass through
Ruardean, as it would have been round about.  Nevertheless, Sir Richard
went that way.  At a forking of the forest paths the knight excused
himself to the ladies, leaving Eustace Trevor to escort them home; he,
with his own servant, turning off towards the village.

Some matter of importance must have influenced him to deviate from the
direct route; and that it was pressing might be deduced from the speed
to which he put his horse.  Soon as parted from the others, he and
Hubert made free use of their spurs, going in reckless gallop down the
steepest pitches, nor drawing bridle till they had reached Ruardean.  A
small place then as now, of some two hundred houses, contiguous to a
fine old church, and ancient hostelry opposite, the streets all
declivities, with some scattered dwellings that radiated off into quaint
nooks and by-ways.

The clattering of hoofs had brought faces to every window, and figures
into every door; for this had been heard long before the two horsemen
made their appearance.  And now, as these came to a halt in front of the
inn, their horses breathing hard, all eyes were bent upon them with
inquiring curiosity.

"Wind your horn, Hubert!" commanded the knight, in an undertone, without
waiting for any one to come up to them.

A command which Hubert instantly obeyed by drawing a small cornet from
under his doublet, clapping it to his lips, and sounding the "Assembly."
He had been troop-trumpeter in "the army that swore so terribly in
Flanders," and so understood the cavalry calls.

No cavalry, however, answered this one, nor soldiers of any arm; though
it was answered by what looked the right material for making soldiers.
Before the cornet's notes had ceased reverberating from the tower of the
church, and the walls of the old castle--then in ruins--men could be
seen issuing from the doors of the nearer houses, others hastening along
the lanes from those more remote, all making for the spot where the
horsemen were halted.

In a few seconds nearly twenty had gathered, up and grouped around the
horses; the expression on their faces showing that they understood the
signal in a general way, but not the reason for its having been sounded
to summon them just then.  All looked inquiry, one putting it in the
form of speech,--

"What belt, Sir Richard?"  He who interrogated was a man of gigantic
size, inches taller than any of the others.  But something more than his
superior stature privileged him to be first spokesman, as could be
deduced from Sir Richard's answer.

"A troop coming from Lydney, Rob.  They're through Drybrook by this,
making for Hollymead.  You and your friends will, no doubt, be there,
too, curious to see how the soldiers behave themselves?"

"We'll be there, sure, Sir Richard.  Rob Wilde for one, an' belikes a
good many more."

"So well," rejoined the knight, with a satisfied look.  Then leaning
over on his saddle he whispered some words of a confidential character
into the ear of the deer-stealer.  After which, setting himself straight
in the stirrups, he again set his horse into a gallop, and rode out of
the village as rapidly as he had entered it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I hear they're coming, Sir Richard?"

"They are, Mr Powell.  By all signs, it's the party you've been
expecting.  Indeed, there can be no doubt about its being Wintour's
troop.  One of the officers at its head we made out to be Master
Trevor's cousin, as you've heard, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes.  And of their purpose there can be as little doubt--to levy
for that 3,000 pounds the King facetiously terms _loan_.  A downright
robbery, I call it."

"I too."

"What ought I to do, Sir Richard?  I have the money in the house, and
suppose I must give it to them.  But if you say the word, I'll refuse."

"Let me leave the word unsaid till I see what sort of following is after
them.  There appeared to be a good many from Mitcheldean, likely to be
joined by more at Drybrook, to say nothing of the contingent from nearer
home.  Everything must depend on their numbers and the spirit we find
them in."

"I understand," said the other, with an assenting nod, "and will trust
all to you."

This brief dialogue was at the door of Hollymead House, its owner
standing in the porch, Sir Richard still on horseback, just arrived from
that passage at courier-speed through Ruardean.  It ended by his
dismounting and giving his horse to Hubert, with directions to take both
their animals round to the stable-yard, and there keep them under saddle
and bridle.  Some other instructions were delivered to the same _sotto
voce_.  Then to the symphony of clanking spurs the knight ascended to
the porch; and after a few more words exchanged with the master of the
house, he passed on into the withdrawing-room.

His entrance was a welcome intrusion, as the company inside consisted of
the awkward number three.

And soon they paired, each pair passing into the embayment of a window,
and there taking stand.  Not to talk of love, or even think of it;
though something equally serious occupied their thoughts--something less
agreeable.  All were alike imbued with an instinct of danger drawing
nigh, and so close, their eyes were now on the alert, apprehensively
gazing down the oak-shadowed avenue.

A few seconds more and they saw what they were expecting--horses, plumed
hats, and the glancing of armour--a troop outside the park gate halted
till its fastenings could be undone.  In an instant it was dashed open,
and soldiers seen filing through--the same as they had descried on the
hill beyond Drybrook.

On came they up the avenue, without making stop till within fifty yards
of the house, where they were again brought up at the entrance to the
ornamental grounds.  These were enclosed by a _haw-haw_; the causeway
which crossed it having a gate also.  And while this was being got open
all four looking from the windows had now no difficulty in identifying
Reginald Trevor in one of the officers at the head of the troop; while
two of them at the same time recognised the other.

"Why, bless me!" exclaimed the ex-gentleman-usher, "that's Colonel
Lunsford."

"As I live, Tom Lunsford!" was the almost simultaneous exclamation of
the knight.

"Colonel Lunsford?" interrogated Vaga, addressing herself to him by her
side.

"Tom Lunsford?" in like manner questioned Sabrina, but with more
earnestness as she saw Sir Richard's brow suddenly darken.  "Who and
what is he?"

"One of the most notorious--but never mind, now.  By-and-by we'll talk,
of him.  Like enough he'll favour us with a taste of his quality before
leaving Hollymead.  But," he added, the cloud upon his brow becoming
darker, "if he do--."

The knight did not finish what was evidently intended to be a threat,
partly because he saw fear coming over the face of his betrothed, and
partly that the man for whom his menace was meant had got through the
gate, and, with Reginald Trevor by his side, and the soldiers filing in
behind them, was now close up to the house.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

NEW FACES AND OLD FOES.

While Colonel Lunsford and Captain Trevor were waiting for the haw-haw
gate to be opened, they had seen the figures of two ladies outlined in
the withdrawing-room windows--one in each.  As yet the two gentlemen
were not visible to them; these being behind and half-hidden by the
arras curtains.  As the officers came closer, with eyes still upon the
windows, those of Lunsford, after a hasty glance at Vaga, remained fixed
upon Sabrina in steadfast, earnest gaze, as on one for the first time
seen, but eliciting instant admiration.

Trevor had eyes only for the younger of the sisters, his thoughts going
back to the last time he had been there.  He remembered it with
bitterness, for he had fancied himself slighted; and, if so, the time
had come for retaliation.

"What a beautiful woman!  By the Cestus of Venus, a Venus herself!"

It was the ex-Lieutenant of the Tower who thus exclaimed.

"Which?" queried Reginald Trevor, with more than common interest.  Well
knew he the flagitious character of the man who was once more his
commanding officer.

"Which?  What a superfluous question!  The tall--the dark one--of
course.  Yellow hair isn't to be compared with her for a moment."

"Perhaps not," rejoined Trevor, pretending assent, glad to think his
military superior was not likely to be his rival in love.

"_Certes_, both seem beauties in their different styles," ran on the
reprobate.  "Who'd ever have expected such a pair in this out-of-the-way
corner of creation?  I wish Sir John had given us orders to take up
quarters in Hollymead House for a week or two.  That may come yet when
the devil!"

His final ejaculation had nought to do with what preceded.  The mention
of his Satanic majesty was due to his having caught sight of a face
behind that he was in the act of admiring, but the face of a man.  A man
well-known to him--one he hated, yet feared, as could be told by the
scowl instantly overspreading his countenance, along with a whitening of
the lips.

Nothing of this observed Reginald Trevor, whose features changed
expression at the same time, his thoughts all absorbed in what he saw
for himself--the face of another man at the other window in close
proximity to that of Vaga Powell.

"Eustace still here!  What the deuce can that mean?"

Both exclamation and question were unspoken, though accompanied by a
sharp pang of jealousy.  Some presentiment of this he had felt before,
on the evening when he met his handsome cousin at the gate of Hollymead
Park, going on to the house.  And here was Eustace yet, when by all the
rules he should have been gone days ago, standing by the girl's side,
apparently on terms of the most friendly familiarity!

He was not permitted to see them side by side much longer; nor Lunsford
the other pair.  For Sabrina, becoming indignant at the bold glances the
latter was directing upon her, moved away from the window, Vaga doing
the same; the two finally retiring from the room.

Another change of tableaux took place by Sir Richard appearing at the
window occupied by the ex-gentleman-usher--which was that nearest the
door--as he did, saying,--

"Master Trevor; I want you to be witness--see and hear for yourself how
your Cavaliers and King's officers comport themselves.  If I mistake
not, you'll have an opportunity now."

In the words, as well as tone, was conveyed an insinuation which, ten
days before, Eustace Trevor would have resented by drawing sword; all
the more that his own kinsman came in for a share of it.  He had no
thoughts of doing so now.  Since then his sentiments, social as
political, had undergone a remarkable change; and he but answered the
observation by pressing in to the window, till his face almost touched
the glass.

By this Lunsford had halted, and formed his troop from flank to line,
fronting the house.  The movement brought the cousins face to face at
close distance, Eustace bowing in a frank, familiar manner.  The cold,
distant nod vouchsafed in return would have surprised and perplexed him
but for a suspicion of the cause.  His own conscience had whispered it.

All this while was Ambrose Powell standing in the porch, just as when he
gave reception to Reginald Trevor delivering that letter of Privy Seal
so contemptuously torn up.  Nor looked he now repentant for having torn
it; instead, defiant as ever.  For he had cast his eyes over and beyond
the men in uniform, taken stock of those out of it, compared numbers,
and made mental estimate of the chances for a successful resistance.  A
word, too, had reached him from inside; spoken from the door of the
withdrawing-room by Sir Richard Walwyn.  So that when Colonel Lunsford
approached, in the swaggering way he had been accustomed to in the Low
Country, he was met with a firm front and look of calm defiance.  It all
the more irritated the King's officer, thinking of him he had observed
inside; and with the soldiers at his back, supposing himself master of
the situation, all the more determined him to show his teeth.

"You are Ambrose Powell, I take it?" were his first words, spoken
without even the ceremony of a salute, as he brought his horse's head
between the supporting columns of the porch.

"Ambrose Powell I am, sir," responded the Master of Hollymead.  "If you
doubt my identity," he added, in his old satirical tone, "I refer you to
the gentleman by your side.  He knows me, if I mistake not."

This was a shaft shot at Reginald Trevor, further stinging him, too.
But it was not his place to reply; and he bore it in sullen silence.

"Oh!" lightly ejaculated Lunsford, "it don't need the formality of
Captain Trevor's endorsement.  I'll take it for granted you're the man I
want."

He spoke as might a policeman of modern days about to "run in" some
unfortunate infringer of the laws.

"The man you want!  And pray what for?"

"Only to pay your debts."

"Debts, sirrah!  I have no debts."

"Oh, yes, you have.  And right well you know it, Master Powell.  Maybe
you'd prefer my calling it your dues.  Be it so."

"Nor dues, neither; I owe no one anything."

"There I beg leave to contradict you.  You owe the King three thousand
pounds; just dues for maintenance of the State; your share of Supply for
its necessary expenses.  As I understand, you've been asked for payment
already, and refused.  But now--"

"Now I do the same.  The King will get no three thousand pounds from
me?"

"He will."

"No--never!"

"Yes, now!  This day; this very hour.  If you don't give it willingly,
why I must take it from you; must and shall.  Possibly you haven't so
much money in the house.  No matter for that.  We can levy on your
plate, of which, I'm told, you've got good store--glad to know it.  I'm
in earnest, Master Ambrose Powell, and mean what I say.  When Tom
Lunsford has a duty to do, he does it.  So make no mistake; I'm not the
man to go back empty-handed."

"If you be Tom Lunsford," sneeringly retorted the Master of Hollymead,
"not likely.  I've heard of you, sir.  Robbers as you rarely leave any
place empty-handed."

"Robbers!" cried the colonel, now furious.  "How dare you apply such
epithet to me--an officer of the King?"

"I dare to the King's self--if he stood there beside you."

"A curse upon you, caitiff!  You shall rue your rash words.  Know, sir,
that I have the power to punish sedition as recusancy.  But I won't
palter speech with you any longer.  Do you still refuse to lend the
money--pay it, I should rather say?"

"Oh! you needn't have taken the trouble to correct yourself.  It's a
demand all the same.  The `stand and deliver' of a highwayman.  But you
shall have an answer.  I still refuse it."

"Then it shall be taken from you, sirrah?"

"If so, _sirrah_, 'twill be under protest."

"Under protest be it.  As you like about that; devil care I.  Ha-ha-ha!"
and Lunsford laughed again.  Then turning to the troop, he called out to
his first sergeant,--

"Dismount, Robins, and follow me with a couple of files?"

Saying which, he flung himself out of the saddle, and made to ascend the
steps of the porch.

"You don't enter my house by an open door," cried the Master of
Hollymead, stepping backward.  "You'll have to break it in first," he
added, gliding into the hallway, dashing the door to behind him, and
double-bolting it inside.

Almost immediately after strong oaken shutters, moved by invisible
hands, were seen to close upon all the windows of the lower story, till
Hollymead House looked as though its inmates had suddenly and
mysteriously abandoned it.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

"RESIST!"

In his defiant refusal the Master of Hollymead, as already said, had
received encouragement by a word spoken from the withdrawing-room.  It
was after the ladies had passed out of it; Sir Richard, who had followed
them to the door, simply saying, "Resist!"  It was said in a significant
tone though, and loud enough to be heard by him who stood in the porch.
For the knight had now made up his mind to some sort of action, as yet
known only to himself; and but returned to the window to get further
informed of the chances in favour of it.

Judging by the sparkle of his eyes, they seemed satisfactory, each
moment becoming more so.  He had already taken stock of the soldier
troop, counted its files--less than twenty--saw that half of them were
but "Johnny Raws" in uniform; while the crowd beyond them numbered nigh
two hundred.  Not all men; but such women as were among them had the
look of being able to do man's work, even in the way of fighting.  Nor
were they all unarmed, though no warlike weapons were conspicuously
displayed.  Here and there could be seen hands holding hedge forks, or
grasping hatchets, bill-hooks, and hay-knives; others carrying
long-shafted hammers and mattocks--tools of the mining industry peculiar
to the Forest.  All implements denoting peace; but readily convertible
into weapons with which could be dealt deadly blows.

Sir Richard had taken all this in, as the soldiers came to a halt at the
haw-haw gate.  And now that they were inside it, looking over their
heads from the high window, he saw something else, for which he had been
anxiously watching--another crowd on its way up the avenue, smaller than
that already arrived, but more compact, and apparently under discipline.
All men these, with one at their head, taller by inches than any of
those behind him, easily recognisable as Rob Wilde.

The deer-stealer had been true to his promise, and done his work well;
for not only was the Ruardean contingent a large one, but carried real
war weapons--here and there a matchlock and _snap-hans_, with pikes and
halberds held high above their heads--a bristling array of them.

It was just then, on catching sight of these, that Ambrose Powell
retreated from the porch, and in, dashing to his door.  For Sir
Richard's doings in the days past were all known to him, and why he had
gone out of his way, and lingered behind the hawking party at Ruardean.

At the same moment the knight made a hasty movement away from the
window, as he did so saying,--

"Now, Master Trevor!  Time's come for action.  I'm not going to let our
good host be plundered without an effort to prevent it.  Of course you
can do as you like--remain neutral if it so please you."

"But it don't so please me," promptly responded the ex-gentleman-usher.
"If there's to be fighting, I draw swords too."

"On which side?"

"Oh, Sir Richard!  Why do you ask that?  After what I've just seen and
heard, you might know.  Never was I aware that the King sanctioned such
doings as these, nor will I be the one to abet them.  Besides, you seem
to forget my debt to yourself--my life; and I've been longing for an
opportunity to pay it.  My sword is at your service, as my heart, ever
since you conquered both."

"Eustace Trevor!" exclaimed the knight, with more than ordinary warmth,
"I now know that you are not only my friend, but the friend of our
cause, which is that of country and humanity.  Your generous offer of
alliance delights me, and I am grateful for it.  But all the more
reluctant you should compromise yourself with your father--your people.
Reflect before drawing you sword!  Among those we are to fight with--if
it come to that--is your own kinsman, your cousin, and you may have to
cross blades with _him_."

"Be it so.  I have reflected, and well, before espousing your cause.
'Tis now more to me than cousin--a matter of conscience.  Reginald's on
the wrong side--I the right one; and if we must cross swords, let him
take the consequences as will I."

Not often in man's face might be seen such expression as came over that
of Sir Richard Walwyn while listening to these determined words.  The
handsome youth he had made chance acquaintance with on the road, liking
him at first sight; continuing to like him notwithstanding their adverse
political faith; reluctant to quarrel with him; refusing it till there
was no alternative with honour--this youth, now no more enemy either to
him or his cause, but friend of both, professed and sure of proving
true--at thought of all this the eyes of the soldier knight sparkled
with an ecstatic joy which they alone can feel who fight for country,
not king.

"Enough!" he said, grasping the youth's hand and warmly pressing it.
"Glad am I to think you will be with us.  Swords such as yours were an
accession to any cause; and ere long, even now, there may be fine
opportunity for you to prove it--baptise your new faith in the blood of
Freedom's foes.  Come with me!"

Their dialogue had occupied but a brief interval of time; and as the
knight brought it to an end, he strode hastily out into the hall, spurs
still on and clanking.  There to encounter their host, also hurrying
about, and shouting to his domestics to shutter the windows.  The door
he had already made secure.

In the hallway the three came together, but only for a few moments to
remain so.  The occasion called for quick, instant action, allowing
scant time for speech.  Nor was there much said; Sir Richard hurriedly
saying to their host,--

"Tell the ladies not to be alarmed.  Say that Mr Trevor and I have gone
out to reason with those rude visitors of yours, and see what terms we
can make with them.  If they won't listen to--"

Whatever the alternative meant he left it unspoken, for chancing to turn
his eyes up the stairway, he there saw that he was being listened to
already.  On its lowest landing were the sisters, who had overheard all.

They were coming down, and now came on; Sabrina gliding forward to the
knight, and laying her hand on his shoulder.  He had stepped a little
apart to receive her, with anticipation of something she might have to
say confidential, and with her, he, too, wanted a word of that kind.

"Oh, Richard!" she tremblingly exclaimed, "what are you going to do?
Nothing rash, I hope?"

"Certainly not, dearest.  Have you ever known me to act rashly?"

"No; but now--"

"Well, now.  I'm not likely to change my ways.  In what I intend there
may be no danger after all.  A little risk true, but for a big stake.
No less than three thousand pounds these royal miscreants demand from
your father, and will have it if we don't do something.  But we will,
and they won't get it--not this day, unless I'm mistaken about the men
who are gathering outside.  Ah! we'll match them, never fear."

He then spoke some words in a whisper, not to be overheard by the
servants still rushing to and fro, which seemed further to reassure her.

"Now, love! let me go," he said, in conclusion.  "There isn't a second
to spare.  Mr Trevor and I must out."

She neither questioned nor tried to detain him longer.  Whatever he
meant doing, she could confide in him; if to fight, believed him capable
of conquering the whole world, and wisely ruling it after.  For the
woman who loves there is no fancy too wild, no feat seeming impossible
to him who has her heart.

More constrained was the speech passing neat at hand, for there were
three taking part in it.  Yet not less anxious than her sister seemed
Vaga,--if anything in greater distress about the danger apprehended.
Possibly but for her father being beside her, she would have addressed
Eustace Trevor in a strain similar to that of Sabrina appealing to Sir
Richard.  As it was her looks were eloquent of fear for him, mingled
with a confidence in his power to hold his own, whatever was to happen.

The scene was short--of not more than a minute's duration--and ended by
the two gentlemen guests of Hollymead House making all haste out of it--
not by the front door, but one at back, which opened into the
stable-yard.

Soon as on its stoop, Sir Richard called out,--"Horses, Hubert!  Quick!"
And quick they came.  In an instant after, Hubert was seen leading two
out of their stalls, another pair being led behind by the servant of
Eustace Trevor.  Saddled and bridled all; for word had been sent out
before, and everything was ready--even to the varlet having been warned
by the veteran and gained over to the good cause, now his master's.

In twenty seconds' time all four were in the saddle, men as masters
setting themselves firm in the stirrups, taking tight hold of the reins,
with a look to their swords to see there was no entanglement against
unsheathing them.

Then, at a word from Sir Richard, the yard gate, hitherto shut, was
thrown open, and out they all burst, spurring to a brisk canter as they
rode round for the front of the house.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

IN THE MIDST OF A MOB.

The people who had followed the soldiers were still outside the haw-haw;
a file of troopers having been stationed by its gate to prevent their
passing through.  They could easily have sprung over out of the _fosse_,
but for some reason seemed not to care for it.

Lunsford, after dismounting, had rushed up into the porch, but too late
to hinder the shutting of the door; at which he was now thundering and
threatening to adopt the alternative he had been dared to.

"We shall certainly break it in," he cried out in a loud voice, "if not
opened instantly."

This elicitating no response from inside, he added,--

"Burst it in, men!  Knock it to pieces!"

At which the sergeant and a file of troopers, now also in the porch,
commenced hammering away with the butts of their dragon-muzzled muskets.
But they might as well have attempted to batter down the walls
themselves.  Not the slightest impression could they make on the strong
oaken panels.  They were about to desist, when something besides that
caused them suddenly to suspend their strokes, Lunsford himself
commanding it.  He at the same time sprang down from the porch and back
to his saddle, calling on them to do likewise.

Odd as might seem his abrupt abandonment of the door-breaking design,
there was no mystery in it.  A cry sent up by the crowd of people had
given him notice of something new; and that something he now saw in the
shape of four horsemen sweeping round from the rear of the house.  These
were also outside the haw-haw, having crossed it by another causeway at
back.  A second shout greeted them as they got round to the front, and
drew bridle in the midst of the crowd--a cheer in which new voices
joined; those of the Ruardean men, just arrived upon the ground.

"Foresters?" cried Sir Richard, as they gathered in a ring around him,
"will you allow Ambrose Powell to be plundered--your best friend?  And
by Sir John Wintour--your worst enemy?"

"No--never!  That we won't?" answered a score of voices.

"Well, the soldiers you see there are Sir John's, from Lydney, though
wearing the King's uniform?"

"We know 'em--too well!"

"Have seen their ugly faces afore."

"Curse Sir John, an' the King too?" were some of the responses showered
back.  Then one, delivering himself in less disjointed but equally
ungrammatical phrase, took up the part of spokesman, saying,--

"We've niver had a hour o' peace since Sir John Wintour ha' been head
man o' the Forest.  He've robbed us o' our rights that be old as the
Forest itself, keeps on robbin' us; claims the mines, an' the timber,
an' the grazin' as all his own.  An' the deer, too!  Yes, the deer; the
wild anymals as should belong to everybody free-born o' the Manor o'
Saint Briavel's.  I'm that myself, an' stan' up here afore ye all to
make protest agaynst his usurpins."

That the speaker was Rob Wilde might be deduced from allusion to the
deer, pronounced with special emphasis.  And he it was.

"We join you in your protest, Rob; an'll stan' by you!" cried one.

"Yes!  All of us!" exclaimed another.

"An' we'll help enforce it," came from a third.  "If need be, now on the
spot.  We only want some 'un as'll show us the way--tell us what to do."

At this all eyes turned on Sir Richard.  Though personally a stranger to
most of them, all knew him by name, and something more--knew how he had
declared for Parliament and people, against King and Court, and that it
was no mere private quarrel between him and Sir John Wintour which had
caused him to speak as he had done.

"Theer be the gentleman who'll do all that," said Rob, pointing to the
knight.  "The man to help us in gettin' back our rights an' redressin'
our wrong.  If he can't, nobody else can.  But he can and will.  He ha'
told some o' us, as much."

Another huzza hailed this declaration, for they knew Rob spoke with
authority.  And their excitement rose to a still higher pitch, when the
knight, responding, said,--

"My brave Foresters!  Thanks for the confidence you give me.  I know all
your grievances, and am ready to do what I can to help you in righting
them.  And it had best begin now, on the spot, as some one has just
said.  Are _you_ ready to back me in teaching these usurpers a lesson?"

"Ready!  That we be, every man o' us."

"Try us, an' see!"

"Only let's ha' the word from you, sir, an' well fall on 'em at once!"

"We're Foresters; we an't afeerd o' no soldiers--not sich raws as them,
anyhow."

"Enough!" cried the knight, his eyes aglow as with triumph already
achieved; for he now felt assured of it.  Over two hundred of the
Foresters against less than a sixth of that number of Lunsford's
hirelings, he had no fear for the result, if fight they must.  So, when
he placed himself at their head, with Eustace Trevor by his side, their
two armed attendants behind, and rode up to the gate guarded by the two
troopers, he made no request for these to open it and let them pass in,
but a demand, with sword unsheathed, and at back a forest of pikes to
enforce it.

The guards at once gave way.  Had they not, in another instant they
would have been hoisted out of their saddles on the blades of weapons
with shafts ten feet long.  Alive to this danger, they briskly abandoned
their post, giving the Foresters free passage through the gate.

During all this time the ex-Lieutenant of the Tower had scarce moved an
inch from the spot where he remounted his horse.  When he saw the four
horsemen coming around the house, heard the enthusiastic shout hailing
them, at the same time caught sight of the pikes and barbed halberds,
whose blades of steel gleamed above the heads of the huzzaing crowd, his
heart sank within him.  For this brutal monster, "Bloody Lunsford" as he
afterwards came to be called, was craven as cruel.  He had swaggered at
the front door as inside the Parliament House by the King's command; but
there was no King at his back now, and his swaggering forsook him on the
instant.  He knew something of the character of the Foresters--his raw
recruits knew them better--at a glance saw his troop overmatched, and,
if it came to fighting, would be overpowered.  But there was no fight,
either in himself or his following; and all sat in their saddles sullen
and scowling, but cowed-like as wolves just taken in a trap.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

"NO QUARTER!"

Straight on to the soldiers rode Sir Richard Eustace Trevor by his side,
their mounted servants behind; the men afoot following close after in a
surging mass.  These, soon as well through the gate, extended line to
right and left, turning the troop until they had it hemmed in on every
side.  Nor was it altogether the movement of a mob, but evidently under
direction, Rob Wilde appearing to guide it more by signs and signals
than any spoken words.  However managed, the troopers now saw themselves
environed by pikes and other pointed things--a very _chevaux de frise_--
held in the hands of men whose faces showed no fear of them.  For the
country had not yet been cursed by a standing army, and in the eyes of
the citizen the soldier was not that formidable thing as since, and now.
Rather was the fear on the side of Lunsford's party, most of whom,
Foresters themselves of the inferior sort, knew the men who stood
confronting them.

Up to this moment no word had been spoken by their commanding officer,
save some muttered speech he exchanged with Reginald Trevor.  Nor did he
now break the silence, leaving that to the intruders.

"Captain, or, as I understand you are now called, Colonel Lunsford,"
said Sir Richard, drawing up in front of him, "by the way you're
behaving you appear to think yourself in the Low Countries, with rights
of free forage and plunder.  Let me tell you, sir, this is England,
where such courses are not yet in vogue; and to be hoped never will be,
even though a King authorise, ay, command them.  But I command you, in
the name of the people, to desist from them, or take the consequence."

Under such smart of words it might be supposed that a professional
soldier and King's officer would have dared death itself, or any odds
against him.  It was of this the muttered speech had been passing
between him and Reginald Trevor, the latter urging him to risk it and
fall on.  Whatever else, _he_ was no dastard, and, though he had once
given way on that same spot, it was not from cowardice, but ruled by a
sentiment very different.

In vain his attempt to inspire his superior officer with courage
equalling his own; no more would he have been successful with their
followers, as he could see by looking along the line of faces, most of
them showing dread of that threatening array of miscellaneous weapons,
and a reluctance to engage them.

In fine, the ex-Lieutenant of the Tower made lip his mind to live a
little longer, even at the risk of being stigmatised as a poltroon.
But, not instantly declaring himself--too confused and humiliated for
speech--Sir Richard went on,--

"No doubt, sir, your delicate sense of humanity will restrain you from a
conflict in which your soldiers must be defeated and their blood spilled
uselessly--innocent lambs as they appear to be."

The irony elicited laughter from the Foresters; for a more forbidding
set of faces than those of the troopers could not well have been seen
anywhere.

"But," continued the knight, "if you decline to withdraw without showing
how skilfully you can yourself handle a sword, I'm willing to give you
the opportunity.  You've had it from me before, and refused.  But you
may be a braver man, and think yourself a better swordsman now; so I
offer it again."

The taunt was torture itself to the man in whose teeth it was flung.
All the more from the cheering and jibes of the Foresters, who seemed
thoroughly to enjoy seeing Sir John Wintour's bullies thus brought to
book.  And still more that in the window above were two feminine faces,
one of them that he had been so late admiring, the ladies evidently
listening.

Notwithstanding all, Lunsford could not screw up courage for a combat he
had once before declined, and now the second time shunned it, saying,--

"Sir Richard Walwyn, I am not here for the settlement of private
quarrels.  When the time fits for it I shall answer the challenge you
say is repeated, but which I deny.  My business at present is with Mr
Ambrose Powell, as Deputy-Commissioner of Array, to collect the King's
dues from him.  Since he's refused to pay them, and I have no orders,
nor wish, to use violence, so far as shedding blood, it but remains for
me to take back his answer to my superiors."

It was such a ludicrous breakdown of his late blustering, and withdrawal
of demand, that the Foresters hailed it with a loud huzza, mingled with
laughter and satirical speech.

When their cheering had ceased, so that he could be heard, Sir Richard
rejoined,--

"Yes; that is the best thing you can do.  And the sooner you set about
it the better for both yourself and your men, as you may be aware
without further warning."

It was like giving the last kick to a cur, and as a cur Tom Lunsford
took it, literally turning tail--that of his horse--upon Hollymead
House.

Out through the haw-haw gate rode he, his troop behind, every man-jack
of them looking cowed and crestfallen as himself.

Alone Reginald Trevor held high front, retiring with angry reluctance,
as a lion driven from its quarry by hunters too numerous to be resisted.
But he passed not away without holding speech with his cousin, on both
sides bitterly recriminative.

"So you've turned your back upon the King!"

It was Reginald who said this, having spurred up alongside the other
before parting.

"Rather say the King has turned his back upon the people," was Eustace's
rejoinder.  "After such behaviour as I've just been witness to, by his
orders and authority, I think I am justified in turning my back upon
him."

"Oh! that's your way of putting it.  Well; it may justify you in the
eyes of your new friends here--very warm friends all at once?"--this
with a sneer--"but what will your father think?  He won't like it, I'm
sure."

"I daresay he won't.  If not, I can't help it."

"And don't seem to care either!  How indifferent you've grown to family
feeling! and in such a short space of time.  You used to pass for the
most affectionate of sons--a very paragon of filial duty; and now--"

"And now," interrupted the ex-courtier, becoming impatient at being thus
lectured, "whatever I may be, I'm old enough, and think myself wise
enough, to manage my own affairs, without needing counsel from any one--
even from my sage cousin, Reginald."

"As you like, Eust.  But you'll repent what you're doing, yet."

"If I should, Rej, it won't be with any blame to you.  You can go your
way, as I will mine."

"Ah!  Yours will bring you to ruin--like enough your neck upon the block
or into a halter!"

"I'll risk that.  If there's to be hanging and beheading--which I hope
there will not--it needn't be all on one side.  So far, that you are on
hasn't had the advantage in the beheading line, and's not likely.  They
who struck off Strafford's head might some day do the same with the
King's own.  And he would deserve it, going on in this way."

"By Heaven?" cried Reginald, now becoming infuriated, "the King will
wear his head, and crown too, long enough to punish every traitor--every
base renegade as yourself."

The angry bitterness of his speech was not all inspired by loyalty to
King or throne.  Those fair faces above had something to do with it; for
the ladies were still there, listening, and he knew it.

Never was Eustace Trevor nearer to drawing sword, not to do it.  But it
was his kinsman--cousin; how could he shed his blood?  That, too, late
so freely, generously offered in his defence!  Still, to be stigmatised
as a "base renegade," he could not leave such speech unanswered, nor the
anger he felt unexpressed.

"If you were not my cousin, Rej, I would kill you!"

He spoke in a low tone, trembling with passion.

"_You_ kill _me_!  Ha-ha!  Then try, if you like--if you dare!"

And the King's officer made a movement as if to unsheath his sword.

"You know I dare.  But I won't.  Not here--not now."

It was with the utmost effort Eustace Trevor con

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