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The White Gauntlet

by Mayne Reid · English · Gutenberg #35702 · 895,880 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The White Gauntlet

Author: Mayne Reid


        
Release date: March 28, 2011 [eBook #35702]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/35702

Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE GAUNTLET ***




Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




The White Gauntlet
By Captain Mayne Reid
Published by G.W. Dillingham, New York.
This edition dated 1892.

The White Gauntlet, by Captain Mayne Reid.

________________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________________
THE WHITE GAUNTLET, BY CAPTAIN MAYNE REID.

Volume One, Chapter I.

A woman in a wood--encountered accidentally, and alone.  'Tis an
encounter to challenge curiosity--even though she be but a gipsy, or a
peasant girl gathering sticks.

If a high-born dame, beautiful,--and, above all, bright-haired,--
curiosity is no longer the word; but admiration, involuntary,
unrestrained--bordering upon adoration.  It is but the instinct of man's
heart to worship the fairest object, upon which man's eye may rest; and
this is a beautiful woman, with bright hair, met in the middle of a
wood.

Marion Wade possessed all the conditions to merit such exalted
admiration.  She was high-born, beautiful, and bright-haired.  She was
alone in a wood.

It did not detract from the interest of the situation, that she was
mounted on a white horse, carried a hawk on her hand, and was followed
by a hound.

She was unaccompanied by human creature--hawk, hound, and horse being
her only companions.

It must have been her choice to be thus unattended.  Wishing it, the
daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade might have had for escort a score of
retainers.

Autumn was in the sky: and along with it a noon-day sun.  The golden
light straggling through the leaves was reflected upon a field of blue,
brilliant as the canopy whence it came.  It was not the blue of the
hyacinth gleaming in the forest glade, nor the modest violet that
empurples the path.  In October it could not be either.  More attractive
was that cerulean tint, seen in the iris of a woman's eye--the eye of
Marion Wade.

The sunbeams danced upon her yellow hair, with apparent delight, kissing
its tresses of kindred colour--kissing her radiant cheek, that, even
under the shadow of the trees, looked luminous.

What does she in the wild wood unguarded--unattended?  Is she a-hawking?

The kestrel perched upon her gloved hand should say, yes.  But more than
once game has sprung up temptingly before her; and still the hood has
been suffered to stay upon the hawk, and its jesses are retained in
leash.

Has she lost her way--is she wandering?

Equally unlike.  She is upon a path.  A noble park is in sight, with a
road that runs parallel to its palings.  Through the trees she can
obtain glimpses of a stately mansion standing within its enclosure.  It
is the famed park of Bulstrode--ancient as Alfred the Great.  As she is
the mistress of its mansion she cannot have lost her way?  She cannot be
wandering?

And yet, why does she fret her palfrey in its paces--now checking, now
urging it onward?  If not wandering in her way, surely is she astray in
her thoughts?

She does not appear to be satisfied with the silent solitude of that
forest path: she stops at short intervals, and leans forward in her
saddle, as if listening for sounds.

Her behaviour would lead to the belief, that she is expecting some one?

A hoof-stroke is heard.  There is a horseman coming through the wood.
He is not yet in sight; but the sound of his horse's hoofs striking the
solid turf--tells that he is riding upon the track, and towards her.

There is an opening in the forest glade, of some six roods in extent.
It is cut in twain by a path, which parts from the high road near one of
the gates of Bulstrode Park; thence treading over the hills in a
north-westerly direction.

On this path rides Marion Wade, straying, or dallying--certainly not
travelling.

She has entered the aforementioned opening.  Near its centre stands a
tree--a beech of magnificent dimensions--whose wide-spreading boughs
seem determined to canopy the whole area of the opening.  The road runs
beneath its branches.

Under its shadow, the fair equestrian checks her palfrey to a stand--as
if to shelter, hawk, hound, and horse, from the fervent rays of the
noon-day sun.

But no: her object is different.  She has halted there to wait the
approach of the horseman; and, at this moment, neither hawk, hound, nor
horse claims the slightest share of her thoughts.

She sits scanning the road in the direction whence the hoof-strokes are
heard.  Her eyes sparkle with a pleasant anticipation.

The horseman soon appears, cantering around a corner--a rustic in rude
garb, astride of a common roadster!

Surely he is not the expected one of Marion Wade?

The question is answered by the scornful exclamation that escapes from
her pouted lips.

"'Sh!  I might have known by the clattering it wasn't the footfall of
that noble steed.  A peasant!"

The despised rustic rides on--as he passes making awkward obeisance, by
a spasmodic pluck at his forelock.

His salutation is scarcely returned: or only with a nod, apparently
supercilious.  He wonders at this: for he knows that the lady is the
daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade--Mistress Marion--usually so
condescending to, and a favourite with, all of his class.  He cannot
guess the chagrin he has given her.

He is soon out of her sight, and equally out of her thoughts: for it is
not the sound of his departing hoof-strokes her ear is now re-quickened
to catch; but others of bolder bound, and clearer resonance awaking the
echoes of the wood.

These are soon heard more distinctly; and presently a second horseman
appears, advancing around an angle of the road.

A striking contrast does the new comer present to the rustic who has
just ridden past.  A cavalier of elegant carriage, spurred and plumed;
mounted on a superb steed, of jet-black colour--his counter clouted with
flakes of snow-white froth loosened from his chamfering lips.

A glance at the horse is sufficient to show that he is the "noble steed"
mentioned in that muttered soliloquy; and half a glance at the rider
proclaims him the individual for whom Marion Wade has been waiting.

As yet she has not given him half a glance.  She has not even turned her
eyes in the direction whence he is approaching.  She sits silent in her
saddle, and to all appearance calmly indifferent.  But this air of
_insouciance_ is only assumed.  The quivering of the kestrel, roosted
upon her wrist, tells that she is trembling; while the high heaving of
her bosom indicates the presence of some strong emotion.

Going at a gentle gallop, the horseman glides out into the opening.

Perceiving the lady, he checks his steed to a slower pace--as if to pass
more respectfully.

Marion continues to affect an air of non-observance--studied and severe:
though the cavalier coming forward, is at that moment the sole subject
of her thoughts.

Her reflections will disclose the character of these thoughts; and
enable us to obtain an insight into the relations existing between these
two splendid equestrians, whom chance, or design, has brought together
upon the lonely forest road.

"If he should speak to me," soliloquises the lady, "what shall I say to
him?  What can I?  He must know it is not accident that has brought me
hither--and now so often.  If I thought he knew the truth, I should die
of shame!

"I wish him to speak; and yet I fear it.  Ah! there need be no fear.  He
will not.  How many times has he passed me without a word!  And yet his
glances--do they not tell me that he would--Oh!--this etiquette of out
high life--that without shame strangers may not be civil to one another!

"Would I were a peasant--and he the same--only handsome as he is now!
'Tis cruel, to be thus constrained by silly social custom!  My sex, too,
against me.  I dare not speak first.  Even in _his_ eyes it would undo
me!

"He is going to pass me as before?  Is there no way by which this
painful reticence may be removed?"

The fair equestrian appeared to ponder on some plan--only half-formed
and half-resolved, as her muttered reflections indicated.

"Dare I do it?  What would my proud father say, if he were to know?
Even gentle cousin Lora would chide me?  A stranger whose name I only
know, and that's all.  Perhaps _not a gentleman_?  Oh--yes--yes--yes!
He can not be other.  He may not be a lord of the land--but he is _lord
of my poor heart_!  I cannot restrain myself from soliciting him--even
if it bring shame and repentance.  I shall do it--I shall do it!"

The speech betrayed a determination.  To do what?

The act itself, following close upon the words, answered the question.
With a quick jerk the lady dislodged the kestrel from its perch, tossing
the bird to the neck of her palfrey--where it clung, clutching the
snow-white mane.  Then drawing off her glove, a _white gauntlet_, she
dropped it negligently by her side--permitting it to slide down the
skirt of her riding-dress.  It fell into the middle of the road.

A short moment intervened.  The lady apparently unconscious of the loss
she had sustained, tightened the rein upon her palfrey, and with a
slight touch of the whip moved out from under the branches of the
beech--her horse's head turned in a direction opposite to that in which
the cavalier was approaching.

At first she rode slowly--apparently desirous of being overtaken.
Presently she increased the pace; then faster, and faster, until she
went at a gallop--as though by a sudden change of thought she had
determined to avoid an interview!  The thick tresses of her golden hair
escaping from the comb swept down upon the croup behind her.  The
natural red of her cheeks had become heightened to the hue of carmine.
It was the suffusion of burning blushes.  Her eyes were flashing with a
strange excitement in an expression that spoke of something like shame.
She had repented of what she had done, and dreaded to wait the
consequence of the act!

For all that she was dying to look back, but dared not.

A turn in the road, at length, offered her the opportunity.  As she
reined her palfrey around the corner, she glanced towards the spot where
she had abandoned her glove.

The tableau that saluted her eye was not displeasing.  The cavalier,
bending down from his saddle, was just lifting the gauntlet upon the
point of his glistening rapier!

What would he do with it?

She waited not to see.  Her palfrey passed behind the trees, and the
horseman was hidden from her sight.  On that splendid steed he might
easily have overtaken her: but, although listening, as she rode on, she
heard no hoof-stroke behind her.

She did not desire to be overtaken.  For that day she had submitted
herself to sufficient humiliation--self-administered--it is true; but
she slackened not the pace, till she has passed through the gates of the
park, and sighted the walls of the paternal mansion.

Volume One, Chapter II.

If tumultuous were the emotions of Marion Wade, as she let fall that
significant token, not less so were those of _Henry Holtspur_ as he took
it up.

Had the lady remained a moment longer looking back, she would have seen
her glove taken gently from the point of the cavalier's sword, pressed
with a wild fervour to his lips, and proudly placed alongside the plume
in the frontlet of his beaver.

She only saw that her challenge had been accepted; and, with a thrill of
sweet satisfaction, contending against a sense of shame, she had ridden
rapidly away.

The cavalier, equally gratified, appeared also perplexed: as if
hesitating whether he should follow.  But the abrupt departure of the
lady seemed to say that pursuit was prohibited; and, checking his
ardour, along with his steed, he remained by the tree, under the shadow
of which he had halted.

For some minutes he sate in his saddle, apparently absorbed in
reflections.  That they were not all of one character was evinced by the
expression upon his countenance, which kept continually changing.  Now
it betokened triumph, with its concomitant pleasure; anon could be
traced the lines that indicated doubt, accompanied by pain; and, once or
twice, an expression that told of regret, or _remorse_, was visible.
These facial changes will be better understood by giving in detail the
thoughts that were causing them.

Was it intended for a challenge?  Can I doubt it?  Had the incident been
alone, I might have deemed it accidental.  But the many times we have
met--and upon this lone road!  Why should she come this way, unless--?
And her looks?  On each occasion bolder, and _lovelier_!  Oh! how sweet
to be thus favoured!  How different from that other love, that has had
such unhappy ending!  Then I was prized but for my position, my
prospects, and my fortune.  When these fell from me, only to be
forsaken!

"If she love me, her love cannot rest on circumstances like these.  She
knows me not--not even my name!  That she may have heard, can suggest
neither rank, nor fortune.  _If she love me, it must be for myself_?
'Tis a thrilling thought--thus to believe!"

The eye of the cavalier lighted up with an expression of triumph; and he
sate proudly erect in his saddle.

Only for a short time did he preserve this high attitude.  Reflections
of a far different character succeeded, dissipating the happiness he had
for the moment experienced.

"She will know in time?  She _must_ know?  Even I, myself, must tell her
the terrible secret.  And then what is to become of this sweet, but
transient, dream?  It will be all over; and instead of her love, I shall
become the object of her hatred--her scorn?  O God!  To think it must
end thus!  To think that I have _won_, and yet can never _wear_!"

The features of the speaker became overspread with a deep gloom.

"Why did I enter upon this intrigue?  Why have I permitted it to
proceed?  Why do I desire its continuance?  To all these questions the
answer is the same.  Who could have resisted?  Who could resist?  It is
not in man's nature to behold such beauty, without yearning to possess
it.  As Heaven is my witness, I have struggled to subdue this unholy
passion--to destroy it--to pluck it forth from my bosom.  I have tried
to shun the presence of her who inspires it.  Perhaps I might have
succeeded, had not she.  Alas!  I have no longer the power to retreat.
That is gone, and the will as well.  I must on--on--like the insect
lured by some fatal light, to a self-sought and certain destruction!"

It was then that remorse became plainly depicted upon the countenance of
the cavalier.  What could be causing it?  That was a secret he scarcely
dared declare to himself.

"After all," he continued, a new train of thought seeming to suggest
itself, "what if it be an accident--this, that has made me at once so
happy, and yet so wretched?  Her looks, too--those glances that have
gladdened my heart, at the same time awaking within me a consciousness
of wrongdoing, as, too ardently, I gave them back--may I not have
misinterpreted them?  If she intended that I should take up this glove--
that I should restore it to her--why did she not stay to receive it?
Perhaps I have been misconceiving her motives?  After all, am I the
victim of an illusion--following but an _ignis fatuus_ kindled by my own
vanity?"

At the moment the look of remorse gave place to one of chagrin.  The
cavalier appeared no longer to regret being too much loved; but rather
that he might not be loved at all--a reflection far more painful.

"Surely!  I cannot be mistaken.  I saw it on her hand but the instant
before--with the hawk perched upon it.  I saw her suddenly fling the
bird to the neck of the horse, and draw off the gauntlet, which the next
moment fell from her fingers!  Surely it was design?"

He raised his hand to his hat; took the glove from its place; and once
more pressed it to his lips.

"Oh, that her hand were in it!" he enthusiastically exclaimed, yielding
to a sweet fancy.  "If it were her fingers I held thus to my lips--thus
unresisting--then might I believe there was bliss upon earth!"

A footstep, falling upon his ear, interrupted the enraptured speech.  It
was light, betokening the proximity of a woman, or rather the presence
of one: for, on turning, his eye rested upon a female figure, standing
by the side of his horse.

The cavalier saw before him a comely face--and something more.  He might
have deemed it beautiful; but for that other still present to his
intellectual eye, and altogether engrossing his thoughts.

It was a young girl who had thus silently intruded: and one worthy of a
gracious reception, despite the peasant garb in which she had presented
herself.

Both face and figure were such as could not be regarded with
indifference, nor dismissed without reflection.  Neither owed aught to
the adornment of art; but to both had nature been liberal, even to
profuseness.

A girl, closely approximating to womanhood, largely framed, and finely
developed--in arms, limbs, bust, and body, exhibiting those oval
outlines that indicate the possession of strong passions and powers.

Such was the creature who stood by the horse of Henry Holtspur.

But for their blackness, her eyes might have been likened to those of an
eagle; but for its softness, her hair resembled the tail of his own
steed--equally long and luxuriant; and her teeth--there could have been
nothing whiter, even among the chalk of the Chilterns--her native hills.

Robed in silk, satin, or velvet, it was a form that would have done no
discredit to a queen.  Encircled with pearls or precious diamonds, it
was a face of which a princess might have been proud.  Even under the
ordinary homespun of a rustic gown, that form looked queenly--beneath
those glossy plaits of crow-black hair--bedecked with some
freshly-plucked flowers--that face might have inspired envy in a
princess.

In the glance bestowed upon her by the cavalier there was no sign--
either of surprise or admiration.  It was simply a look of recognition,
accompanied by a nod, acknowledging her presence.

In the eye of the maiden there was no such indifference.  The most
careless observer could have told, that she was in love with the man
upon whom she was now gazing.

The horseman took no heed of her admiring glances.  Perhaps he noticed
them not.  His attention was altogether given to an object, which the
girl held in her outstretched hand, and which was instantly transferred
to his.  It was a letter, sealed and directed to himself.

"Thanks!" said he, breaking open the seal.  "Your father has brought
this from Uxbridge, I suppose?"

"He has, sir.  He sent me with it; and bid me ask you if there be an
answer to go back.  As you were not at the house, I brought it here.  I
hope I have done right, sir?"

"Oh, certainly!  But how did you know where to find me?  My tongueless
attendant, Oriole, could not have told you?"

"He made sign, sir, that you had taken this road.  I thought I should
meet you here; and father said it might be important for you to have the
letter at once."

The red blood mantled higher upon the girl's cheeks, as she offered this
explanation.  She knew she had exceeded her father's instructions; which
had been, simply, to leave the letter at "Stone Dean," the residence of
Henry Holtspur.

The cavalier, occupied with the epistle, noticed neither her blushes nor
embarrassment.

"'Tis very considerate of you," said he, turning gratefully towards the
girl, as he finished reading the letter.  "Your father has guessed
correctly.  It is of the greatest importance that I should have had this
letter in good time.  You may tell him that it needs no reply.  I must
answer it in person, and at once.  But say, Mistress Betsey; what return
can I make you for this kind service?  You want a ribbon for your
beautiful black hair?  What colour is it to be?  I think blue--such as
those flowers are--does not so well become you.  Shall it be a red one?"

The words, though courteously intended, fell with an unpleasant effect
upon the ear of her to whom they were addressed.  They were not the
speeches to which she would fain have listened.

"Thanks, sir," said she, in a tone that betrayed pique, or some other
unlooked-for emotion.  "A fine ribbon would scarce suit my coarse common
hair.  These flowers are good enough for it!"

"Ah!  Mistress Betsey!  Your beautiful tresses can bear this
disparagement: you know they are neither coarse nor common.  Nay; if you
refuse the ribbon, you must accept the price of one.  I cannot allow,
that the essential service you have done me should go unrewarded.  Take
this piece of gold; and make purchase with it to suit yourself--scarf,
gown, or gloves--whichever you please."

Somewhat to the cavalier's surprise, his liberal largess was rejected--
not with scorn, but rather with an air of sadness--sufficiently marked
to have been noticed by him, had he not been altogether unsuspicious of
the cause.

"Well--well," said he, putting back the coin into his purse, "I am sorry
you will not permit me to make some amends for your kindness.  Perhaps I
may find an opportunity on some future occasion?  Meanwhile I must be
gone.  The letter you have delivered summons me hence,--without delay.
Many thanks, Mistress Betsey, and a fair good morning to you!"

A touch of the spur caused his chafing steed to spring out into the
middle of the road; and the rider, heading him for the highway that
conducted towards Uxbridge, soon swept round the corner--at the same
instant, becoming lost to the sight of the dark-eyed damsel--whose
glance, full of passion and disappointment, had followed him to the
point of his disappearance.

Volume One, Chapter III.

The girl listened awhile to the departing hoof-strokes, as they came
back with clear resonance from the hard causeway.  Then, dropping her
eyes to the ground, she stood silent under the tree--her swarth
complexion still further darkened by sombre shadows, now overspreading
every feature of her face.

Not long did she continue in this silent attitude.

"I would have taken the ribbon," muttered she, "as a gift--if he had
meant it that way.  But it wasn't so.  No.  It was only as _wages_ he
offered it to me; and his money--that was worse.  Had it been a lock of
his hair.  Ah!  I would rather he gave me that than all the gold coins
in his purse, or all the silk in the shops of Uxbridge."

"He called my hair beautiful: twice he said so!"

"Did he mean it?  Or was it only mocking of me?  I am sure I do not
think so myself, though others have told me the same.  I wish it were
fair, instead of dark, like that of Mistress Marion Wade.  Then perhaps,
it would be beautiful?

"Blue don't become me, he says.  Lie there despised colour!  Never more
shall blue blossom be seen in the hair of Bet Dancey."

As she said this she plucked the bunch of hare-bells from behind her
comb, and flung the flowers at her feet.

"It was Will that gave them to me," she continued.  "He only gathered
them an hour ago.  What if he were to see them now?  Ah! what care I?
What should I care?  I never gave him reason--not the least bit.  They
were worn to-day, not to please _him_; but in hopes of pleasing one I do
care for.  Had I thought that that one liked not blue, there were plenty
of red ones in the old garden of Stone Dean.  I might have gathered some
as I came through it.  What a pity I didn't know the colour he likes
best!"

"Ha!" she exclaimed, starting forward upon the path, and bending down
over the spot where the flowers had fallen--and where the dust shewed
signs of having been recently disturbed.  "That is not the track of
_his_ horse.  That little shoe--I know it--Mistress Marion Wade!"

For a second or two, the speaker preserved her stooping attitude,
silently regarding the tracks.  She saw they were fresh--that they had
been made that morning--in fact, within the hour.

Her father was a forester--a woodman by calling--at times, a _stealer of
deer_.  She had been born in the forest--brought up under the shadow of
its trees.  She was capable of interpreting that sign--too capable for
the tranquillity of her spirit.

"Mistress Marion has been here!" she muttered.  "Of late, often have I
seen these tracks; and twice the lady herself.  What brings her along
this lonely road?  What has she been doing here this morning?--Could it
be to meet _him_?"

She had no time to conjecture a response to this self-asked
interrogatory.  As the words passed from her lips, her attention was
attracted to the sound of hoofs--a horse moving at a gallop along the
main road.

Could it be the cavalier coming back?

No.  It was a peasant, on a sorry steed--the same who had passed the
other way scarcely an hour before--the same who had given chagrin to
Mistress Marion Wade.

It was the woodman, Will Walford.

The girl appeared desirous of shunning him; but he had caught sight of
her crimson cloak, and an encounter was unavoidable.

"Aw, Bet! be it thee, girl?" he cried out, as he came within speaking
distance.  "Why it beeant all o' an hour since I left thee at thy hum!
What's brought thee this way?"

"Father got home, soon after you left.  He came by the wood path, and
missed you, I suppose."

"Like enough for that part o' the story," replied the man, appearing to
suspect prevarication; "But that a'nt giein a answer to my question.  I
asked as how you yerself coomed this way?"

"Oh! me you mean, Will?"

"Ees--myself Bet!"

"Father brought a letter from Uxbridge for Master Holtspur.  He was
tired when he got home; and, as you had the old horse, he sent me over
to Stone Dean with it."

"But Stone Dean a'nt here--not by a good half-mile."

"I went there first.  Master Holtspur wasn't at home; and as the dummy
made signs that he was gone along the road, and would be soon back, I
followed him.  Father said the letter was important; and told me to give
it to Master Holtspur at once."

"You seed Holtspur then?"

"I did; Will.  I overtook him where he was stopping here, under the old
beech tree."

"And what did thee then?"

"Give him the letter--what else should I do?"

"Ay, what else?  Dang it, Bet Dancey, thee art too fond o' runnin' after
other people's business, an' this Master Holtspur's in particklar--
that's what thee be."

"It was my father's business.  What had I to do with the letter but
deliver it, as I was told?"

"Never mind about it then!" rejoined the surly sweetheart, whose
incipient jealousy was somewhat appeased by the explanation.  "Jump up,
an' ride behint!  I han't got the pillion; but you won't mind that:
since it's your own nag, and knows it's you, Bet.  He'll make his old
rump soft as a cushion for you.  Hi--hullo! where's the blue blossoms I
gied you for your hair?  Dang me if that beant them, scattered over the
ground thear!"

"Indeed!" said Bet, with a feigned look of surprise, "so it is!  They
must have fallen out, as I was fixing my comb.  Father started me off in
such a hurry, I hadn't half time to put it in its place.  This hair of
mine's a bother, anyhow.  It's by half too thick, and gives me constant
trouble to keep it pinned up.  I shall have it cut short, I think; like
those Puritan people, who are getting to be so plenty.  How would you
like that, Will?"

"Dang it! not at all.  It would never do to crop thy bonny locks that
fashion.  'Twould complete spoil it.  Never mind them flowers, lass!
Thear be plenty more where they coom from; an' I'm a bit hurried just
now to see thy father.  Yee up, then; an' let us haste home'rd."

The girl, not without some show of reluctance, obeyed, what appeared as
much a mandate as a request; and, climbing to the croup, she extended
her arms round the waist of him, who--though calling himself her lover--
was, to her, an object of fear rather than affection.

Volume One, Chapter IV.

Having re-entered the gates of the park, Marion Wade checked her palfrey
into a walk; and, at this pace, continued on towards the paternal
mansion.

The scarlet that late tinted her cheeks had become subdued.  There was
pallor in its place.  Her lips even showed signs of blanching.

In her eye there was a cowed look--as if she had committed crime, and
feared discovery!  But gazing on that face, you could scarce think of
crime.  It was too fair to be associated with sin.

She sate negligently in her saddle--the undulating outlines of her
majestic form rendered more conspicuous by the movements of her palfrey,
as it strained up the acclivity of the hill.

The hawk had been restored to its perch; but the gauntlet no longer
shielded her wrist; and the _pounces_ of the bird, penetrating the
tender skin, had drawn blood.  A tiny stream laced the silken epidermis
of her hand, and trickled to the tips of her fingers.

She felt not the wound.  She beheld not the blood.  The emotions of her
soul deadened the external senses; and, absorbed in the contemplation of
her rash act--half repenting of it--she was conscious of nought else,
till her palfrey came to a stop under the windows of the dwelling.

Giving her bridle to a groom, she dropped lightly to her feet; and
glided silently towards a side-door of the house--intending to enter
unobserved.  In her own chamber she might more securely give way to that
tumult of thoughts and passions, now agitating her bosom.

Her design was frustrated.  As she approached the portal, a clear voice,
ringing along the corridor, called her by name; and, the instant after a
fair form--almost as fair as her own--issuing forth, glided up by her
side.

It was Lora--the cousin spoken of in her late soliloquy--Lora Lovelace.

"Give me the little pet," cried Lora, reaching forward, and lifting the
hawk from its perch.  "Oh, Marion!" continued she, drawing back at sight
of the blood.  "What is this?  You are wounded?"

"Ah! indeed yes.  I did not notice it before.  The kestrel must have
caused it.  The wicked jade.  Her claws need coping.  Don't trouble
about it, child.  It's nothing."

"But where is your gauntlet, Marion?  If it had been on your hand, you
would not have got scratched in this fashion?"

"Ah! the gauntlet?  Where is it?  Let me see!"

Marion made search about her dress--in the crown of her beaver--
everywhere that might give concealment to a glove.  An idle search.

"I must have dropped it!" added she, feigning surprise.  "Perhaps it is
sticking somewhere about the saddle?  If not, I must have lost it upon
the road.  It don't signify.  I must buy me a new pair--that's all."

"Dearest cousin!" said Lora, speaking in a tone of earnest appeal, "the
sight of blood always makes me think of danger.  I am never happy when
you are out alone on these distant hawking excursions.  Marion, you
should take attendants with you, or remain within the enclosures.  I am
sure there's danger outside."

"_Danger outside_!  Ha!  Ha!  Perhaps you are right there, little Lora.
Perhaps it's that which lures me beyond the palings of the park!  When I
go forth to hawk or hunt, I don't care to be cooped up by enclosures.
Give me the wild game that has free range of the forest."

"But think, Marion!  You know what we've heard about the highwaymen?
It's true about the lady being stopped on Red Hill--in her carriage,
too.  Uncle says it is; and that these robbers are growing bolder every
day, on account of the bad government.  Oh, cousin! take my advice, and
don't any more go out alone."

"Good counsel, daughter; though it be given you by one younger than
yourself.  I hope you will set store by it; and not leave me under the
necessity of strengthening it by a command."

The tall middle-aged gentleman, of noble serious mien--who stepping
forth, had entered thus abruptly into the conversation--was Sir
Marmaduke Wade, the father of Marion, and uncle of Lora.

"Your cousin speaks truly," continued he, "and it's well I am reminded
of it.  There's no longer any safety on the roads.  Not much in one's
own house, so far as that goes: for there are two kinds of robbery just
now rife in this unhappy land--in the king's court, as on the king's
highway.  Henceforth, children, confine your rambles within the limits
of the park.  Even with attendants, you may not be safe outside."

"That is true," affirmed Lora.  "The lady who was stopped had several
attendants--I think you said so, uncle?"

"Six, of different sorts, escorting her carriage.  In sooth a valiant
escort!  They all scampered off.  Of course they did.  How could they be
loyal, with a corrupt administration, such as ours, destroying every
vestige of loyalty and honesty in the realm?  Men are sure to become
vile--if only to imitate their masters.  But come, my children!  Let us
hope for better times: and, to keep up the character of merry Old
England, I've planned an entertainment for you--one that all our friends
and neighbours are to take part in."

"What is it?" asked Lora, whose spirit was, at the moment, more highly
attuned to the idea of pastime, than that of her silent cousin.

"_A fete champetre_."

"Where?  Here?  In our own park?"

"In our own park, of course."

"And who are to be invited, dear uncle?"

"Everybody for ten miles round; and farther, if they choose to come.  I
don't mind an ox or two extra for the occasion."

"Occasion! what, uncle?  It isn't Christmas!--it isn't Whitsuntide!--nor
yet May-day!"

"Can you think of nothing except holidays?  What say you to a birthday?"

"Oh! true; Walter's will be next week.  But, papa, is brother coming
home?"

"That's it.  He is to arrive on the eve of his birthday.  Poor lad! he's
been a long while from us; not long enough, I hope, to get spoiled in a
dangerous school.  Well, we must give him a welcome worthy of old Bucks.
And now, girls! go to work; and see that you do your share in making
preparation for our guests."

With this parting injunction, the knight turned back into the house,
leaving his niece and daughter to discuss the pleasant subject he had
placed before them.

For some seconds, after he was gone, there was no exchange of speech
between the cousins.  Each was absorbed in her own thoughts.

"Oh! 'twill be a happy day: for Walter will be here!" was the secret
reflection of Lora.

Marion's, in a somewhat similar strain, were less affirmative:--

"Oh! 'twould be a happy day, if Holtspur should be here!"

Volume One, Chapter V.

Autumn was still in the sky; but it had passed its mid time, and the
beechen forests of Bucks were enrobed in their livery of yellow green.
The cuckoo had forsaken the copse; and the swallows were making
rendezvous on the spire of the village church.  The ringdove sate silent
in the dell; and the wood-quests were gathering into groups.  The
pheasant ventured with her young brood beyond the cover-edge; the
partridge carried her chicks across the stubble; and finch, sparrow, and
linnet were forming their respective families into full-fledged
cohorts--in preparation for those dark, chill days, when they should
need such companionship to cheer them.

In truth, it is a right fair land, this same shire of Bucks--lovely in
its spring-tide, fair in its summer bloom, and fairer still in its
October.  You may travel far, without beholding a spot more bewitching
than the land of the beechen "weed;" and embosomed within the undulating
arms of the Chilterns is many a spot worthy of wider renown.  The
mountain you meet not; the lake is rare; but the softly-swelling hill,
and deep romantic dale, are ever before and around you; and the eye of
traveller, or tourist, is continually attracted to scenes of sylvan
beauty, upon which it long delights to linger.

So thought a youthful stripling, astride a stout steed, as, emerging
from the town-end of Uxbridge, he rode over the old bridge crossing the
Colne.

The sun was just sinking behind the Chiltern hills, whose forest-clad
spurs stretched down into the plain--as if to meet and welcome him.

It was a fair landscape that unfolded itself before his eyes.  Upon the
ridge of Red Hill the rays of the descending sun slanted among the
leaves of the beeches, heightening their yellow sere to the hue of gold.
Here and there the wild cherry tree, of more radiant foliage, the green
oak, and the darker green of the holly, mottled the slope; while on
either flank, lying low among the hills, the valleys of Alderbourne and
Chalfont were gradually becoming shrouded under the purple shadows of
the twilight.

Right and left meandered the Colne, through meadows of emerald verdure--
its broad unrippled surface reflecting the sapphire sky; while on its
banks appeared herds of sleek kine, slowly lounging along the grassy
sward, or standing motionless in the stream--as if placed there to give
the last touch to a scene typical of tranquillity and contentment.

It was a scene worthy of Watteau or Cuyp--a picture calculated to create
a quiet joy even in the breast of a stranger.  So might have thought
Walter Wade, who, after long absence from this his native shire, now,
gazing on its wood-embowered hills and valleys recognised the _mise en
scene_ of his boyhood's home!

The young traveller felt such a happiness.  On cresting the high
causeway of the old bridge--which brought the Chilterns full before his
view--he reined up his horse in the middle of the road; while at the
same time an ejaculation escaped from his lips, indicative of the
pleasure which the sight afforded.

"Dear old Chilterns!" he exclaimed.  "Friends you seem, with arms
outstretched to receive me!  How bright and fresh you look to one coming
from that sooty London!  What a pity I did not start an hour earlier--so
that I might have enjoyed this fine sunset from the summit of Red Hill!
No matter.  There will be moonlight anon; and that will do just as well.
Sunlight or moonlight, give me a ride through the beechen woods of
Bucks.  Charming at all hours!"

"I 'faith, I wonder," continued he, becoming more reflective in his
soliloquy, "how any one can fancy a city life!  I'm sure, I've been well
enough placed to enjoy it.  The queen has been very kind--very kind
indeed.  She has twice kissed me.  And the king, too, has complimented
me on my service--only at parting he was very angry with me.  I don't
know why.  _I_ did nothing to anger him.

"I wonder why I'm summoned home?  Father don't say in his letter; but I
suppose he'll tell me when I arrive there.  No matter.  I'm only too
glad to get back to dear old Bulstrode.  I hope that inveterate
deer-stealer, Dick Dancey, hasn't killed off all our deer.  I mean to go
in for some grand stalking this winter--that do I."

"Let me see!  Three years--no; it will be three come Christmas--since I
took service at Court.  I shouldn't be surprised if cousin Lora is grown
a big girl by this, and sister Marion too?  Ah!  Marion was big enough
when I left.  Lora won't be as tall as she.  No: she wasn't the make for
that Lora would be what the queen calls _petite_.  For all that, I dare
say she's got to be a grown woman.  She was just my own age; and I think
I may say, that I'm now a man.  Heigho! how time passes!"

And, as if the reflection had suggested the necessity of making as much
of the time as possible, the young horseman gave the whip to his steed;
shot out from between the parapet walls of the bridge; and passed on at
a canter.

Though Walter Wade had pronounced himself a man--somewhat modestly it
must be admitted--the statement was scarcely correct; and the error must
be attributed to a very common and pardonable weakness of boyhood,
ambitious of entering upon manhood.

He was still only a stripling--a youth of nineteen--though well grown
for his age; and in point of size might have passed muster among men.  A
slight moustache already appeared upon his upper lip.  It was
light-coloured, like his hair--neither of which was red, but of that
Saxon "yellow" so often associated with eyes of blue, and which, when
met with in woman, presents the fairest type of female beauty.

The Greeks--themselves a dark people, above all others skilled in
feminine charms--have acknowledged this truth; though, by that
acknowledgment, ignoring the claims of their own race.

To the spume of the sea was the Cyprian goddess indebted for the
whiteness of her skin--to the blue sky for the colour of her eyes--to
the golden sun for the hue of her hair.  Among the classic ancients, the
dark-haired Venus elicited but little admiration.

And not very different is the _partiality_ of the moderns.  The belle of
the ball-room is invariably a _blonde_; and even the _nymphe du pave_,
who trails golden pennants from under the rim of her coquettish hat,
looks scornfully askance at the darker tresses of her sister in sin!

It is odd that blue eyes do not admire blue eyes--that light-coloured
tresses do not wish to be interwoven with those of a like hue.  Is there
an instinct of approximation between extremes?  Do contrasts possess an
innate desire for contiguity?  If so, it would explain the _penchant_ of
the dark Athenians for the fair-skinned Cytherea.

There are fair-haired youths whom man may admire, and woman love.
Walter Wade was such an one.

A forehead of fine expanse, crested with curling hair--a nose
sufficiently aquiline to exhibit the true aristocratic breed--a chin
prominent--lips typical of contempt for aught that was mean.  Such were
his features.

Gazing upon his face, you might not pronounce it handsome.  For a man,
it might appear too feminine.  But if you were at all skilled in Saxon
physiognomy, on seeing such a face, and knowing that the owner of it had
a sister, you might safely set _her_ down as a being of incomparable
beauty.

It was not necessary to have overheard his soliloquy, to tell that he
who made it was the scion of some distinguished house.  The good steed
he bestrode, caparisoned in costly fashion; the rich costume he wore;
his sharply chiselled features, and aristocratic bearing--all betokened
the _filius nobilis_.

He was, in effect, the son of Sir Marmaduke Wade, of Bulstrode Park; who
could point to an ancestry older than the Conquest; and whose Saxon
sires--along with the Bulstrodes, the Hampdens, and the Penns--had so
doughtily defended their beechen woods and broad fields against the
Norman invader, that the great Conqueror was pleased to compound with
them for a continuance of their tenure.  It was a family with whom kings
had never been favourites.  It had figured among the barons, who had
forced the tyrant John to set his signature to the celebrated Charter of
English liberty; and elsewhere have its representatives been found in
the front rank of the champions of Freedom.

It may be wondered why young Walter Wade had been in the service of the
Court--as declared in his soliloquy.  That, however, is easily
explained.  An ambitious mother, of queenly inclinings--an uncle in high
office near the throne--these will account for the son of Sir Marmaduke
having stood as a page in the Presence.

But the mother's influence was now at an end.  She was no more.  And
that of her brother--the uncle--was not strong enough to prevent Sir
Marmaduke recalling his son from a Court--whose immorality had become
the theme of every tongue; and whose contamination the fond father but
too justly dreaded.

This was why the stripling was on his return to the paternal mansion;
and why the king had shown displeasure at parting with him.  It was a
bold act on the part of the knight; and it might need all the influence
of his official brother-in-law, to avert from him the vengeance of
Charles--that most contemptible of tyrants.

It was not upon these things that Walter Wade was reflecting, as he rode
onward.  A pleasanter theme was the subject of his thoughts--his cousin
Lora.

It was love's young dream--by some deemed the sweetest in life; is,
perhaps, the most evanescent.

With Walter, it had not been so very fleeting.  Starting at sixteen, it
was now nearly three years old.  It had stood the test of a long
absence, and under circumstances most unfavourable to love's endurance:
amid smiling maids of honour, and dames of high degree.  Yes; Walter's
heart had nobly repelled the blandishments of more than one belle; and
this too in a Court famed for its _fair_.

That kiss, somewhat coyly granted by his cousin, "deep in a forest
dell," where they had wandered in search of wild flowers--that soft
pressure of Lora's little hand--those thrilling words, "Dear Walter,"
that on the same occasion had fallen from Lora's pretty lips--all were
remembered, as if they had been incidents of yesterday.

Did _she_ remember them with equal interest?  This was the thought upon
which Walter Wade had been dwelling, ever since parting from the portals
of Whitehall Palace.

During his two years of absence, he had not been left altogether
uninformed of what was passing at Bulstrode.  Though in those days
letters were written at long intervals--and then only on matters of
grand importance--Walter had kept up a correspondence with Marion; with
whom epistles had been exchanged regularly once a month.  He dared not
write to Lora--nor even _about_ her.  He knew what he said to his sister
would be communicated to his little mistress; and he feared to show
himself too solicitous.  Every word in his letters, relating to his
cousin, had been carefully studied--as to the impression it might
produce--for in this sort of strategy, young love is as cunning as that
of older hearts.  At times the boy courtier even affected indifference
about his cousin's affairs; and more than once there was danger of a
quarrel--or at least a coolness.  This was more especially the case,
when his sister--ignorant of the pain she was producing--spoke of Lora's
great beauty, and the havoc it was making among the hearts of the county
beaux.

Perhaps had Marion passed these pretty compliments upon herself, she
would have said nothing beyond what was true: for although Walter's
cousin was beautiful and a belle, his sister was at that time the
acknowledged "belle of the shire."

Volume One, Chapter VI.

For the first half-mile after crossing the Colne, the thoughts of the
young courtier had been given exclusively to his cousin.  He recalled
the old time--that scene in the silent dell--the kiss among the wild
flowers--that proved her partiality for him.  He remembered all these
occurrences with a strong confidence in Lora's loyalty.

His fanciful reflections were suddenly, and somewhat rudely,
interrupted.

On arriving at an inn that stood by the roadside, a spectacle was
presented to his eyes which turned his thoughts into a different
channel.

In a wide open space in front of the hostelry was a troop of horsemen.
By their armour and equipments, Walter knew them to be _cuirassiers_, in
the service of the king.

There were about fifty in the troop; and from the movements of the men,
and the condition of their horses--still smoking from the march--it was
evident they had come to a halt only a few minutes before.

The troopers had dismounted.  Some of them were still occupied with
their horses, helping them to provender; while others, who had already
performed this duty, were seated under a huge old elm tree--joyously, as
well as noisily, regaling themselves with such cheer as the hostelry
afforded.

A glance at these roisterers told the young cavalier who and what they
were:--a troop of the returned army from the north, that had been
lately, and somewhat clandestinely, brought southward by the king.

This corps had originally been recruited in the Low Countries, and among
them were several foreigners.  Indeed, the smaller number were
Englishmen; while there were many countenances of the true Gallic type,
and a still larger proportion of those famed hirelings--who figured so
largely in the wars of the time--the _Walloons_.

Amid the clamour of voices, with which the ears of the young courtier
were assailed, he could hear French and Flemish commingled with his
native tongue; while the oaths peculiar to all three nations, thickly
interlarding the conversation, told him that he was in the presence of a
remnant of that army that "swore so terribly in Flanders."

A crowd of the neighbouring rustics had collected around the inn; and
stood with mouths agape, and countenances expressing unlimited
astonishment at the sayings and doings of the strange steel-clad
cavaliers who had dismounted in their midst.

To Walter Wade there was nothing either new or surprising in the
spectacle.  He had seen the like in London; and often of late.  He had
been expecting such a sight--partly from having heard, in passing
through Uxbridge, that a troop of horse was before him; and partly from
having observed their tracks along the dusty road upon which he had been
travelling.

He did not know why they were going down into Buckinghamshire; but that
was the king's business, not his.  In all likelihood they were on their
way to Oxford, or some garrison town in the west; and were making their
night halt at the inn.

Giving but a moment's thought to some such conjecture, the young
courtier was about riding past--without taking notice of the coarse
jests flung towards him by the rough troopers under the tree--when a
voice of very different intonation, issuing from the door of the
hostelry, commanded him to halt.

Almost simultaneous with the command, two cavaliers stepped forth out of
the inn; and one of them, having advanced a few paces towards him,
repeated the command.

Partly taken by surprise at this rude summons--and partly believing it
to proceed from some old Court acquaintance--Walter drew bridle, and
stopped.

It was easy to tell that the two men, who had so brusquely brought
themselves under his notice, were the officers in command of the troop.
Their silken doublets--only partially concealed by the steel armour--
their elegant Spanish leather boots, with lace ruffles at the tops; the
gold spun upon their heels; the white ostrich plumes waving above their
helmets; and the richly-chased scabbards of their swords--all indicated
rank and authority.  This was further made manifest, by the tone of
command in which they had spoken, and their bearing in presence of the
troopers.

The latter, on seeing them come forth from the house, desisted from
their jargon; and, though they continued to pass their beer cans, it was
in a constrained and respectful silence.

The two officers wore their helmets; but the visors of both were open;
and Walter could see their faces distinctly.

He now perceived that neither of them was known to him; though one of
them he thought he had seen before, a few days before--only for a
moment, and in conference with the queen!

This was the older of the two, and evidently the senior in rank--the
captain of the troop.  He was a man of thirty, or thereabouts; with a
face of dark complexion, and not unhandsome; but with that rakish
expression that drink, and the indulgence of evil passions, will imprint
upon the noblest features.  His had once been of the noblest--and still
were they such that a gentleman need not have been ashamed of--had it
not been for a cast half-cynical, half-sinister, that could be detected
in his eyes, sadly detracting from a face otherwise well favoured.
Altogether it was a countenance of that changing kind, that, smiling,
might captivate the heart, but scowling could inspire it with fear.

The younger man--who from the insignia on his shoulder was a _cornet_--
presented a very different type of physiognomy.  Though still only a
youth, his countenance was repulsive in the extreme.  There was no need
to scan it closely, to arrive at this conclusion.  In that reddish round
face, shaded by a scant thatch of straight hay-coloured hair, you beheld
at a glance a kindred compound of the stupid, the vulgar, and the
brutal.

Walter Wade had never looked on that countenance before.  It inspired
him with no wish to cultivate the acquaintance of its owner.  If left to
his own inclinations, the young courtier would not have desired ever to
look upon it again.

"Your wish?" demanded he, rising proudly up in his stirrups, and
confronting the officer who had addressed him.  "You have summoned me to
stop--your wish?"

"No offence, I hope, young gallant?" replied the cuirassier captain.
"None meant, I assure you.  By the sweat upon your horse--not a
bad-looking brute, by the way.  A good nag.  Isn't he, Stubbs?"

"If sound," laconically rejoined the cornet.

"Oh! sound enough, no doubt, you incorrigible jockey!  Well, youngster;
as I was saying, the sweat upon your horse proves that you have ridden
fast and far.  Both you and he stand in need of refreshment.  We called
to you, merely to offer the hospitality of the inn."

"Thanks for your kindness," replied Walter, in a tone that sufficiently
expressed his true appreciation of the offer; "but I must decline
availing myself of it.  _I_ am not in need of any refreshment; and as
for my horse, a short five miles will bring him to a stable, where he
will be well cared for."

"Oh! you are near the end of your journey, then?"

"By riding five miles further I shall reach it."

"A visit to some country acquaintance, where you can enjoy the balmy
atmosphere of the beech forests--have new-laid eggs every morning for
breakfast, and new-pulled turnips along with your bacon for dinner, eh?"

The choler of the high-bred youth had been gradually mounting upward,
and might soon have found vent in angry words.  But Walter Wade was one
of those happy spirits who enjoy a joke--even at their own expense--and,
perceiving that his new acquaintances meant no further mischief, than
the indulgence in a little idle _badinage_, he repressed his incipient
spleen; and replied in the same jocular and satirical strain.

After a sharp passage of words--in which the young courtier was far from
being worsted--he was on the point of riding onward; when the captain of
the cuirassiers again proffered the hospitality of the inn--by inviting
him to partake of a cup of burnt sack, which the landlord had just
brought forth from the house.

The offer was made with an air of studied politeness; and Walter, not
caring to appear churlish, accepted it.

He was about raising the goblet to his lips, when his entertainers
called for a toast.

"What would you?" asked the young courtier.

"Anything, my gallant!  Whatever is uppermost in your mind.  Your
mistress, I presume?"

"Of course," chimed in the cornet.  "His mistress, of course."

"My mistress, then!" said Walter, tasting the wine, and returning the
cup to the hand from which he had received it.

"Some pretty shepherdess of the Chilterns--some sweet wood nymph, no
doubt?  Well, here's to her!  And now," continued the officer, without
lowering the goblet from his lips, "since I've drunk to your mistress,
you'll not refuse the same compliment to my master--the King.  You won't
object to that toast, will you?"

"By no means," replied Walter, "I drink it willingly; though the king
and I have not parted the best of friends."

"Ha! ha! ha! friends with the king!  His Majesty has the honour of your
acquaintance, eh?"

"I have been nearly three years in his service."

"A courtier?"

"I have been page to the queen."

"Indeed!  Perhaps you have no objection to favour us with your name?"

"Not the slightest.  My name is Wade--Walter Wade."

"Son of Sir Marmaduke, of Bulstrode Park?"

"I am."

"Ho! ho!" muttered the questioner, in a significant tone, and with a
thoughtful glance at the young courtier.

"I thought so," stammered the cornet, exchanging a look of intelligence
with his superior officer.

"Son to Sir Marmaduke, indeed!" continued the latter, "In that case,
Master Wade, we are likely to meet again; and perhaps you will some day
favour me with an introduction to your sweet shepherdess.  Ha! ha! ha!
Now for the toast of every true Englishman--`The King!'"

Walter responded; though with no great willingness: for the tone of the
challenger, as well as his words, had produced upon him an unpleasant
impression.  But the toast was one, that, at the time, it was not safe
to decline drinking; and partly on this account, and partly because the
young courtier had no particular reason for declining, he raised the
goblet once more to his lips, as he did so, repeating the Words--"to the
king."

The cornet, drinking from a cup of his own, echoed the sentiment; and
the troopers under the tree, clinking their beer measures together,
vociferated in loud acclaim:--"the king--the king!"

Volume One, Chapter VII.

After this general declaration of loyalty, there was a lull--an interval
of profound silence--such as usually succeeds the drinking of a toast.

The silence was unexpectedly broken, by a voice that had not yet mingled
in the chorus; and which was now heard in clear, firm tones, pronouncing
a phrase of very different signification:--"the people!"

A sentiment so antagonistic to the one so late issuing from the lips of
the troopers, produced among them an instantaneous commotion.  The
soldiers, seated under the tree, started to their feet; while the
officers faced in the direction whence the voice had come--their eyes
angrily flashing under the umbrils of their helmets.

He, who had so daringly declared himself, was not concealed.  A
horseman, of elegant appearance, had just ridden up, and halted in the
middle of the road; where the landlord--apparently without orders, and
as if accustomed to the service,--was helping him to a goblet of wine.
It was this horseman who had called out: "The People!"

In the enthusiasm of their loyalty, his arrival had either not been
observed by the troopers,--or at all events no notice had been taken of
it,--until the emphatic pronunciation fell upon their ears like the
bursting of a bomb.  Then all eyes were instantly turned towards him.

As he gave utterance to the phrase, he was in the act of raising the
wine cup to his lips.  Without appearing to notice the effect which his
speech had produced, he coolly quaffed off the wine; and with like _sang
froid_, returned the empty goblet to the giver.

The defiant insolence of the act had so taken the troopers by surprise,
that they stood in their places--just as they had started up--silent,
and apparently stupefied.  Even the officers, after hurrying forward,
remained speechless for several seconds--as if under the influence of an
angry amazement.  The only sounds for a while heard were the voices of
the spectators--tapsters, stable-helpers, and other idlers--who had
clustered in front of the inn--and who now formed an assemblage, as
large as the troop itself.  Despite the presence of the armed
representatives of royalty, the sentiment of these was unmistakeably the
same, as that to which the strange horseman had given voice; and they
were emphatically complimenting _themselves_, when they clinked their
pewter pots, and in chorus, proclaimed: "The People!"

Most of them, but the moment before, and with equal enthusiasm, had
drunk "the King;" but in this sudden change of sentiment they only
resembled most politicians of modern times, who have been dignified with
the name of "Statesmen!"

But even among these tapsters and stable-helpers, there were some who
had refrained from being forced into a lip loyalty; and who echoed the
second sentiment with a fervent spirit, and a full knowledge of its
everlasting antagonism to the first.

When the ultimate syllable of this sacred phrase had died upon the ear
of the assembled crowd, it was succeeded by a silence ominous and
expectant.  Two individuals commanded the attention of all--the captain
of the cuirassiers, and the horseman who had halted upon the road: the
toaster of the "king," and the proposer of the "people."

The soldier should speak first.  It was to him that the challenge--if
such he chose to consider it--had been flung forth.

Had it been a rustic who had uttered it--one of the assembled crowd--
even a freehold farmer of puritanic pretensions--the cuirassier captain
would have answered him on the instant, perhaps with steel added to the
persuasion of his tongue.  But a cavalier, of broad bands, and gold
spurs buckled over Spanish leather boots--astride a noble steed--with a
long rapier hanging handy anent his hip--was an individual not to be
ridden over in such haste, and one, whose "argument" called for
consideration.

"Zounds, sir!" cried the captain of the cuirassiers, stepping a pace or
two forward, "from what Bedlam have you broken loose?  Me thinks you've
been tasting too freely of the Saint Giles's tap; and 'tis that which
makes your speech smell so rankly.  Come, fellow!  Uncover your head,
and tune your tongue to a different strain.  You go not hence, till
you've purged your traitorous throat by drinking the toast of every true
and loyal gentleman of England--`The King.'"

"Fellow, indeed!" exclaimed the cavalier, looking scornfully askance at
him who had dictated the insulting proposition.  "A fellow!" he
continued, in a calm but satirical tone, "not in the habit of drinking
toasts with strangers.  Yours is not to his liking, any more than your
fashion.  If he had the fancy to drink to England's king, it would not
be in the company of those who have disgraced England's fame--at the
ford of Newburn."

Gathering up his reins as he spoke, and giving utterance to a taunting
laugh, the strange horseman pressed the spur against the sides of his
splendid steed, and started off at a swinging gallop along the road.

It was only when that laugh rang in his ears, that the cuirassier
captain became roused to the full frenzy of rage; and, with eyes on
fire, and brow black as midnight, he rushed forward, sword in hand, in a
frantic attempt to strike down the insulter.

"Disloyal knave!" cried he, lungeing out to the full length of his arm,
"thou shalt drink the king's health in thine own blood!  Ha! stop him!"
he continued, as the horseman glided beyond his reach--"My pistols!"

"Ho, there!" shouted he to his followers.  "Your carbines!  Fire upon
him!  Where are your weapons, you careless vagabonds?  To horse, and
follow!"

"An ye take my advice, masters," put in the landlord of the inn--a
sturdy tapster of independent speech--"ye'll stay wheer ye are.  An ye
doan't, ye'll be havin' yeer ride for nothin'.  Ye mawt as well gie
chase to a wild goose.  He'll be two mile frae this, 'fore you can git
astride o' your nags."

"What, varlet!" cried the cuirassier captain, turning furiously upon the
speaker--"you presume--"

"Only, great coronel, to gie ye a bit o' sound advice.  Ye ma' folla it
or no' an' ye pleeze; but if ye folla him ye won't catch him--not this
night, I trow, though theer _be_ a full moon to light ye on his track."

The air of imperturbable coolness, with which the Saxon Boniface made
rejoinder, instead of increasing the fury of the officer, seemed rather
to have the effect of tranquillising him.

"You know him, then?" demanded he in an altered tone.

"Well, e-e's! a leetlish bit only.  He be one o' my customers, and have
his drink occasional as he passes by here.  I know his horse a bit
better mayhap.  That be a anymal worth the knowin'.  I've seed him clear
that geeat--it be six-feet-high--moren once, wee've seed him do it.
Ha'nt we, lads?"

"That we have, Master Jarvis," replied several of the bystanders, to
whom the appeal had been made.

"E-ees, indeed, great coronel," continued the landlord, once more
addressing his speech to the captain of cuirassiers, "an' if yer fellows
want to folla him, they maun be up to ridin' cross country a bit, or
else--"

"His name!" eagerly interrupted the officer, "You know where the knave
lives?"

"Not exactly--neyther one nor t'other," was the equivocal reply.  "As
for his name, we only knows him 'bout here as the _Black Horseman_, an'
that he belong som'ere among the hills up the Jarret's Heath way--beyond
the great park o' Bulstrode."

"Oh! he lives near Bulstrode, does he?"

"Somer bot theer, I dar say."

"_I_ know where he lives," interposed one of the rustics who stood by.
"It be a queery sort o' a place--a old red brick house; an' Stone Dean
be the name o't.  It lie in the middle o' the woods 'tween Beckenfield
an' the two Chaffonts.  I can take ye theer, master officer, if ye be a
wantin' to go."

"Jem Biggs!" said the landlord, sidling up to the last speaker, and
whispering the words in his ear, "thee be a meddlin' 'ficious beggar.
If thee go on such a errand, don't never again show thy ugly mug in my
tap room."

"Enough!" impatiently exclaimed the officer; "I dare say we shall easily
find the fellow.  Dismount, men," continued he, turning to some of the
troopers, who had sprung into their saddles.  "Return your horses to
their stalls.  We may as well stay here for the night," he added in a
whisper, to his cornet; "it's no use going after him till the morning.
As the old prattler says, we might have our ride for nothing.  Besides,
there's that little appointment in Uxbridge.  By the angel Gabriel!
I'll find the knave if I should have to scour every corner of the
county.  More wine, landlord!--burnt sack!--and beer for these thirsty
vagabonds!  We'll drink the king once more, with three times three.  Ha!
where's our courtier?  Gone too?"

"He's just ridden off, captain," answered one of the troopers, still
seated in his saddle.  "Shall I gallop after, and bring him back?"

"No," replied the officer, after a moment's consideration.  "Let the
stripling go his way.  I know where _he's_ to be found; and shall do
myself the honour of dining with him to-morrow.  The wine!  Come! fill
your cans, you right royal rascals, and drink--_The King_!"

"_The King!  Hurraw_!"

Volume One, Chapter VIII.

Desirous of escaping from the disagreeable companionship--into which he
had been so unceremoniously, as well as unwillingly, drawn--the young
courtier had taken advantage of the confusion, and trotted quietly away.

On rounding a corner--beyond which the road was not visible from the
inn--he put spurs to his horse, and urged the animal into a gallop.

Though he had given no offence, he was not without apprehension, that he
might be followed, and summoned back: for the brace of bullies, from
whom he had just parted, appeared quite capable of committing further
outrage.  He knew that, in the name of the king, excesses were of
every-day occurrence.  The Monarch's minions had become accustomed to
insult the people with impunity.  The soldiers in particular bore
themselves offensively--more especially those hungry troopers, who,
returning unpaid from the Northern campaign, were thrown idle upon the
country.  The disgrace they had fairly earned--by fleeing before the
Scots, from the ford of Newburn--had deprived them of the sympathies of
their own countrymen: as a natural consequence provoking towards the
latter a sort of swaggering and reckless hostility.

The incident which had occurred, and in which he had been an involuntary
actor, inspired Walter Wade with some emotions that were new to him:
and, as he slackened his pace, after a sharp canter, he fell into a
train of reflections very different from those hitherto engaging his
thoughts.

He was still too young to have entered into the politics of the time.
He knew that there was trouble between the king and his people; but,
breathing only the atmosphere of the "Presence," he could have no other
belief, than that the right was on the side of royalty.

He knew that the king, after an interregnum of eleven years, had
summoned a Parliament, to settle the differences between himself and his
subjects.  He knew this, from having been officially present at its
opening.  He knew, moreover, that this Parliament, after sitting only a
few days, had been summarily dismissed: for he had been also present at
its prorogation.

What should the young courtier care for such incidents as these--however
significant they might be to the patriot, or politician?

To do him justice, however, Walter Wade, young as he was, was not
altogether indifferent to what was passing.  The spirit of his
ancestry--that love of liberty, that had displayed itself at Runnymede--
was not absent from his bosom.  It was there; though hitherto held in
check by the circumstances surrounding him.  He had witnessed the
punishments of the pillory--by summary sentence of Star Chamber and High
Commission Court; he had been present at fearful spectacles, of
ear-croppings and other mutilations; and, although among companions, who
beheld such scenes with indifference--or often regarded them as sources
of amusement--more than once had he been profoundly affected by them.
Stripling though he was, more than once had he reflected upon such royal
wrongs.  Circumstances, however, had placed him among the ranks of
those, to whom the smiles of a tyrant were sweet; and he was still too
young and unreflecting, to give other than a passing thought to the
theme of Liberty.

That the enemies of the king suffered justly, was the belief that was
breathed around him.  He heard the statement on all sides, and from
pretty lips--from the lips of a queen!  How could he question its truth?

His encounter with the cuirassiers had produced an impression upon him,
calculated to shake his political sentiments--almost to change them.

"A scandal!" muttered he to himself.  "That these military bullies
should be allowed to act as they please!  I wonder the king permits it.
Perhaps it may be true what `wicked Pym,' as the queen calls him--said
in the Parliament House:--that his Majesty encourages their
insubordination.  Ah! if I had thought so, I should have joined that
brave fellow, who drank just now to _the people_.  By-the-bye, who can
_he_ be?  He's gone up the road--as if he lived our way.  A splendid
rider, and a horse worthy of him.  I never saw either before.  If he be
of Bulstrode neighbourhood, he must have come into it since my time.
Perhaps a traveller only?  And yet his horse looked fresh, as if he had
just stepped out of the stable.  He could not have ridden him farther
than from Uxbridge?

"I thought those fellows were preparing to pursue him," continued he,
glancing back over his shoulder.  "They must have given up the idea:
else I should hear them behind me.  If they come on, I shall slip aside
among the trees, and let them pass.  I don't want any more converse with
such companions as Captain Scarthe--that's what his cornet called him, I
think; nor yet with Master Cornet Stubbs himself.  Stubbs indeed!
Surely, there must be something in names?"

On finishing this series of reflections, the young courtier drew bridle,
and halted for the purpose of listening.

He could hear voices behind--at the inn--a chorus of rough voices in
loud vociferation.  It was the "hip hurrah," of the troopers responding
to the toast of "_the king_" There were no other sounds--at least none
to indicate that the pursuit was being continued.

"Good! they are not following him.  Prudent on their part, I should say.
If he has kept on, as he started he will be miles off by this."

"There's no chance of my overtaking him!" continued he, once more
heading his horse to the road.  "My faith!  I wish I could.  Now that I
remember the circumstance, I've heard there are robbers on this route.
Sister wrote me about them, not long since.  They stopped a lady's
coach, and plundered it; though they did no hurt to the lady beyond
stripping her of her jewels--even to the rings in her ears!  Only one of
them--the captain I suppose--came near the coach.  The others stood by,
but said not a word.  How very funny of the fellows to act so!  Well, if
it be my ill-fortune to encounter robbers, I hope it may also be my good
fortune to find them equally well-mannered.  I don't mind giving them
all I've got,--it's not much--if they'll only let me pass on, unmolested
like the lady.  I'faith, I've been a fool to leave London so late: and
that unlucky adventure at the inn has made it later.  It's quite right.
There's a beautiful moon, to be sure; but what of that, in this lonely
place?  It would only help to give light to the rascals; and enable them
all the more easily to strip me of my trappings."

Notwithstanding his apparent indifference to an encounter with robbers,
which these reflections might indicate, the young traveller was not
without some apprehension.  At the time, the roads of England were
infested with highwaymen, and footpads.  Robberies were incidents of
daily occurrence--even on the very skirts of the metropolis; and on the
highways, and byeways, the demand for your purse was almost as common as
the modern solicitation for alms.

In general, the "gentlemen of the road" were not sanguinary in their
disposition.  Some were even courteous.  In truth, many of them were men
who, by the tyrannous exactions of the Sovereign, had been beggared in
fortune, and forced to adopt this illegal mode of replenishing their
exchequers.  They were not all ruffians by instinct.  Still there were
some of them, with whom "Stand and deliver!" meant "Death if you do
not!"

It was not without a feeling of nervousness, that Walter Wade scanned
the long slope of road extending towards the crest of Red Hill--at the
bottom of which he had now arrived.  It was on this very hill--as stated
in the correspondence of his sister--that the coach had been stopped,
and the lady rifled of her rings.

The road running up the steep acclivity was of no great width--nothing
resembling the broad macadamised "turnpike" of modern times.  It was a
mere track, just wide enough for wheels--bordered by a beechen forest,
through which the path wound upward; the trees standing close along each
side, and in some places forming arcades over it.

The young traveller once more reined up, and listened.  The voices from
the inn no longer reached his ear--not even in distant murmuring.  He
would have preferred hearing them.  He almost wished that the pursuit
had been continued.  Little as he might have relished the companionship
of Captain Scarthe, or Cornet Stubbs, it would have been preferable to
falling into that of a party of highwaymen or footpads.

He bent forward to catch any sound that might come from the road before
him.  He could hear none--at least, none of a character to make him
uneasy.  The soft monotone of the goatsucker fell upon his ear, mingled
with the sharper note of the partridge, calling her young across the
stubble.  He heard, also, the distant barking of the watch-dog, and the
sheep-bell tinkling in the fold; but these sounds, though characteristic
of tranquil country life--and sweet to his ear, so long hindered from
hearing them--were not inconsistent with the presence either of footpad
or highwayman; who, lurking concealed among the trees, need not
interrupt their utterance.

Walter Wade was far from being of a timid disposition; but no youth of
eighteen could be accused of cowardice, simply because he did not desire
an encounter with robbers.

It did not, therefore, prove poltroonery on his part, when, proceeding
along the road, his heart beat slightly with apprehension,--no more,
when on perceiving the figure of a horseman dimly outlined under the
shadow of the trees, he suddenly came to a halt, and hesitated to
advance.

The horseman was about a score of paces from where he had stopped--
moving neither one way nor the other, but motionless in the middle of
the road.

"A highwayman!" thought Walter, undecided whether to advance, or ride
back.

"But no, it can scarce be that?  A robber would not take stand so
conspicuously.  He would be more likely to conceal himself behind the
trees--at least until--"

While thus conjecturing, a voice fell upon his ear, which he at once
recognised as the same he had late heard so emphatically pronouncing
"_The People_!"

Reassured, the young traveller determined to advance.  A man of such
mien, as he who bestrode the black steed--and actuated by such a
sentiment, as that he had so boldly announced--could scarcely be a
disreputable person--much less a highwayman?  Walter did not wrong him
by the suspicion.

"If I mistake not," said the stranger, after the preliminary hail, "you
are the young gentleman I saw, a short while ago, in rather scurvy
company?"

"You are not mistaken: I am."

"Come on, then!  If you are my only pursuer, I fancy I shall incur no
danger, in permitting you to overtake me?  Come on, young sir!  Perhaps
on these roads it may be safer for both of us, if we ride in company?"

Thus frankly solicited, the young courtier hesitated no longer; but,
pricking his horse with the spur, rode briskly forward.

Together the horsemen continued the ascent of the hill.

Half way up, the road swerved towards the south-west.  For a short
distance the track was clear of trees, so that the moonlight fell full
upon it.  Here the two travellers, for the first time, obtained a
distinct view of one another.

The stranger--who still retained his _incognito_--merely glanced towards
his companion; and, seemingly satisfied with a slight inspection,
allowed his eyes to wander elsewhere.

Perhaps during his halt before the hostelry, he had made a more
elaborate examination of the young courtier.

Walter, on the other hand, had at the Inn caught only a glimpse of the
black horseman.  Now, though out of courtesy, looking furtively and
askaunce, he proceeded to examine him more minutely.

The personal appearance of the latter was striking enough to court
examination.  Walter Wade was impressed with it--even to admiration.

He saw beside him, not a youth like himself, but a man in the full prime
and vigour of manhood--perhaps over thirty years of age.  He saw a
figure of medium size, and perfect shape--its members knitted together,
with a terseness that indicated true strength.  He saw shoulders of
elegant _tuornure_; a breast of swelling prominence; a full round
throat, with jaws that by their breadth proclaimed firmness and
decision.  He saw dark brown hair, curling around a countenance, that in
youth might have appeared under a fairer complexion, but was now
slightly bronzed, as if stained with the tan of travel.  He saw eyes of
dark hazel hue--in the moonlight shining softly and mildly as those of a
dove.  But Walter knew that those same eyes could flash like an eagle's:
for he had seen them so fired, on first beholding them.

In short the young courtier saw by his side a man that reminded him of a
hero of Middle Age romance--one about whom he had been lately reading;
and whose character had made a deep impression upon his youthful fancy.

The dress of the cavalier was in perfect keeping with his fine figure
and face.  It was simple, although of costly material.  Cloak, doublet,
and trunks were of silk velvet of dark maroon colour.  The boots were of
the finest Spanish leather, and his hat a beaver--the brim in clasp
coquettishly turned up, with a jewelled front holding a black ostrich
feather that swept backward to his shoulder.  A scarlet sash of China
crape, looped around the waist--an embroidered shoulder-belt crossing
the breast, from which dangled a rapier in richly-chased sheath;
buff-coloured gloves, with gauntlets attached; cuffs of white lawn
covering the sleeves of his doublet; and broad collar of the same
extending almost to his shoulders.  Fancy all these articles of costly
fabric, fitted in the fashion of the time to a faultless manly figure,
and you have a portrait of the cavalier whose appearance had won the
admiration of Walter Wade.

The horse was in keeping with the rider--a steed of large size and
perfect proportions--such as an ancient paladin might have chosen to
carry him upon a crusade.  He was of the true colour--a deep pure black,
all except his muzzle where the velvet-like epidermis was tinged with
yellowish red, presenting the hue of umber.  Had his tail been suffered
to droop, its tip would have touched the ground; but even while going
into a walk it swung diagonally outward, oscillating at each step.  When
in the gallop, it floated upon the air spread and horizontal.

The spotted skin of a South American jaguar, with housings of scarlet
cloth, caparisoned the saddle; over the pommel of which hung a pair of
holsters, screened by the thick glossy fur of the North American beaver.

The bit was a powerful mameluke--about that time introduced from the
Spanish peninsula--which, clanking between the teeth of the horse,
constantly kept his mouth in a state of foam.

This beautiful steed had a name.  Walter had heard it pronounced.  As
the young courtier rode up, the horse was standing--his muzzle almost in
contact with the road--and pawing the dust with impatience.  The short
gallop had roused his fiery spirit.  To tranquillise it, his rider was
caressing him--as he drew his gloved hand over the smooth skin of the
neck, talking to him, as if he had been a comrade, and repeating his
name.  It was "Hubert."

After exchanging salutations, the two horse men rode side by side for
some moments, without vouchsafing further speech.  It was the silence
consequent upon such an informal introduction.  The rider of the black
steed was the first to break it.

"You are Walter Wade--son to Sir Marmaduke, of Bulstrode Park?" said he,
less by way of interrogative, than as a means of commencing the
conversation.

"I am," answered the young courtier, showing some surprise.  "How learnt
you my name, sir?"

"From your own lips."

"From my own lips!  When, may I ask?" inquired Walter, with a fresh
scrutiny of the stranger's countenance.  "I don't remember having had
the honour of meeting you before."

"Only within the last half-hour.  You forget, young sir, having given
your name in my hearing?"

"Oh! true--you overheard then--you were present--?"

"I rode up just as you were declaring your identity.  The son of Sir
Marmaduke Wade has no need to conceal his name.  It is one to be proud
of."

"In my father's name I thank you.  You know him, sir?"

"Only by sight and--_reputation_," answered the stranger, musingly.
"You are in the service of the Court?" he continued, after a pause.

"No longer now.  I took leave of it this very morning."

"Resigned?"

"It was my father's wish I should return home."

"Indeed!  And for what reason?  Pardon my freedom in asking the
question."

"Oh!" replied the young courtier, with an air of _naivete_, "I should
make you free to the reason, if I only knew it myself.  But in truth,
sir, I am ignorant of it.  I only know that my father has written to the
king, asking permission for me to return home; that the king has granted
it--though, I have reason to think, with an ill grace: since his Majesty
appeared angry with me at parting; or, perhaps, I should say, angry with
my father."

The intelligence thus communicated by the _ci-devant_ courtier, instead
of eliciting any expression of regret from his companion, seemed rather
to gratify him.

"So far good!" muttered he to himself.  "Safe upon our side.  This, will
secure him."

Walter partially overheard the soliloquised phrases, but without
comprehending their import.

"Your father," continued the stranger, "is likely to have good reasons
for what he has done.  No doubt, Master Walter, he has acted for your
best interests; though it may be rather unpleasant for you, to exchange
the gay pleasures of a royal palace for a quiet life in the country."

"On the contrary," replied the youth, "it is just what I was desiring.
I am fond of hawking and hunting; not in the grand ceremonious fashion
we've been accustomed to at Court--with a crowd of squalling women to
fright away the game--but by myself on the quiet, among the hills here,
or with a friend or two to take part.  That's the sport for me!"

"Indeed!" said the strange horseman, smiling as he spoke.  "These are
heterodox sentiments for a courtier?  It's rather odd to hear one of
your calling speak disparagingly of the sex, and especially the ladies
of the Court.  The maids of honour are very interesting, are they not?
I have understood that our French queen affects being surrounded by
beauties.  She has a long train of them, it is said?"

"Painted dolls!" scornfully rejoined the ex-courtier, "tricked in French
fashions.  Give me a genuine English girl--above all one who keeps to
the country, and's got some colour.  And some conscience besides; for,
by my troth, sir, there's not much of either about the Court--except
what's artificial!"

"Bravo!" exclaimed the stranger, "a Court satirist, rather than a
courtier.  Well!  I'm glad to hear my own sentiments so eloquently
expressed.  Give me also the genuine English girl who breathes only the
pure air of the country!"

"That's the style for me!" echoed Walter in the warmth of youthful
enthusiasm.

"Well! there are many such to be met with among these Chiltern Hills.
No doubt, Master Wade, you know some; and perhaps you have one in
particular before your mind's eye at this very moment?  Ha! ha! ha!"

The colour came to Walter's cheeks as he stammered out a reply, which
only partially repudiated the insinuation.

"Your pardon!" cried the cavalier, suddenly checking his laughter.  "I
don't wish to confess you.  I have no right to do so.  I have given you
reason to think me unmannerly."

"Oh! not at all," said Walter, himself too free of speech to be offended
by that quality in another.

"Perhaps you will excuse the curiosity of a stranger," continued the
black horseman.  "I have been only a short time resident in this part of
the country; and one is naturally curious to know something of one's
neighbours.  If you promise not to be offended, I shall make bold to ask
you another question."

"I shall not be offended at any question one gentleman may ask of
another.  You are a gentleman, sir?"

"I have been brought up as one; and, though I have parted with, or
rather been deprived of, the fortune that attaches to such a title, I
hope I have not forfeited the character.  The question I am about to
put, may appear rather trivial after so elaborate an introduction.  I
merely wished to ask, whether you are the only member of your father's
family?"

"Oh! dear no," frankly responded the youth; "I have a sister--sister
Marion."

"Grown up, like yourself?"

"She should be by this.  She wasn't quite grown, when I saw her last;
but that will be three years come Christmas.  She's older than I; and,
i'faith I shouldn't wonder if she be taller too.  I've heard say she's a
great, big girl--nearly the head taller than Lora."

"Lora?"

"Lora Lovelace--my cousin, sir."

"'Tis his sister--'tis Marion.  I thought as much.  Marion Wade!  A
noble name.  It has a bold clarion sound--in keeping with the character
of her who bears it.  Marion!  Now know I the name of her who for weeks
I have been worshipping!  Who for weeks--"

"My cousin," continued the candid young courtier, interrupting the
silent reflections of his travelling companion, "is also a member of my
father's family.  She has been staying at Bulstrode Park now for many
years; and will remain, I suppose, until--"

The heir of Bulstrode hesitated--as if not very certain of the time at
which the stay of his cousin was to terminate.

"Until," interrogated the cavalier, with a significant smile, "until
when?"

"Really, sir," said Walter, speaking rather confusedly, "I can't say how
long our cousin may choose to remain with us.  When she comes to be of
age, I dare say, her guardian will claim her.  Papa is _not_ her
guardian."

"Ah!  Master Walter Wade, I'd lay a wager, that before Mistress Lora
Lovelace be of age, she'll choose her own guardian--one who will not
object to her staying at Bulstrode for the remainder of her life.  Ha!
ha! ha!"

Instead of feeling indignant, the cousin of Lora Lovelace joined in the
laugh.  There was something in the insinuation that soothed and
gratified him.

Conversing in this jocular vein, the two travellers reached the summit
of the sloping declivity; and, continuing onward, entered upon a wild
tract of country known as _Jarret's Heath_.

Volume One, Chapter IX.

Jarret's Heath--now Gerrard's Cross Common--was at the time of which we
write, a tract of considerable extent--occupying an elevated _plateau_
of the Chiltern Hills, and one of the largest.  Commencing at the brow
of Red Hill, it extended westward for a distance of many miles--flanked
right and left by the romantic valleys of Chalfont and Fulmere.

At that time only the adjoining valleys showed signs of habitation.  In
the former stood the noble mansion of Chalfont House, with its
synonymous village; while on the other side, quaintly embowered amid
ancient trees, was the manorial residence of Fulmere.  About two miles
farther to the westward, where the plateau is broken by a series of
rounded indications, stood the magnificent mansion of Temple Bulstrode,
the residence of Sir Marmaduke Wade.

The elevated plain, lying between the above-named lordships, bore scarce
a trace of human occupancy.  It's name, Jarret's Heath, would indicate
the condition of its culture.  It was a waste--upon which the plough had
never broken ground--thickly covered with high gorse and heather.  Here
and there appeared straggling groves and copses, composed chiefly of
black and white birch trees, interspersed with juniper and holly; while
on each side towards the valleys, it was flanked by a dense forest of
the indigenous beech.

Lengthwise through this waste trended the King's highway--the London and
Oxford road--beyond it impinging upon the Park of Bulstrode, and running
alongside the latter towards the town of Beaconsfield.

In the traverse of Jarret's Heath the main road was intersected by two
others--one passing from the manor house of Fulmere to the village of
Chalfont Saint Peter's: the other forming the communication between
Chalfont and the country towards Stoke and Windsor.  These were but
bridle or _packhorse_ paths, tracked out irregularly among the trees,
and meandering through the gorse wherever it grew thinnest.  That
running from Stoke to Chalfont was the most frequented; and an old inn--
the _Packhorse_--standing upon the Chalfont side of the waste, betokened
traffic and travel.  There was not much of either; and the hostelry bore
only a questionable character.

Such as it was, however, it was the only sign of habitation upon
Jarret's Heath--if we except the remains of a rude hovel, standing by
the side of the London road, just at the point where going westward from
Red Hill, it debouched upon the waste.

This hovel had been long untenanted.  Part of the roof had fallen in: it
was a ruin.  An open space in front, through which ran the road, might
once have been a garden; but it was now overgrown with gorse, and other
indigenous shrubbery--only distinguishable from the surrounding thicket
by its scantier growth.

It was a singular spot to have been selected as a residence: since it
stood more than a mile from any other habitation--the nearest being the
suspected hostelry of the Packhorse.  Perhaps it was this very
remoteness from companionship that had influenced its original owner in
the choice of a site for his dwelling.

Whether or no, it had been at best but a miserable tenement.  Even with
smoke issuing out of its clay chimney, it would have looked cheerless.
But in ruins, with its roof falling piecemeal upon the floor, tall weeds
standing close by its walls, gorse overgrowing its garden, and black
birches clustering thickly around, it presented an aspect of wild and
gloomy desolation: the very spot where one might expect to be robbed, or
even murdered.

Conversing as we have described them, the two travellers had arrived
near the edge of the opening in which stood this ruined hut.  The moon
was still shining brightly; and through the break in the brushwood,
formed by the cleared causeway of the road, they could distinguish--
though still at the distance of a mile or more--the tops of the
magnificent trees, oaks, elms, and chestnuts, that crowned the
undulating ridges of Bulstrode Park.  They could even see a portion of
the noble mansion of Norman architecture, gleaming red and white under
the silvery sheen of the moonlight.

In ten minutes more Walter Wade would be at home.

It was a pleasant anticipation for the young courtier to indulge in.
Home so near, after such a long protracted absence--home, that promised
the sweet interchange of natural affection, and--something more.

The cavalier--whose journey extended farther up the road--was about
congratulating his companion on the delightful prospect; when a rustling
noise, heard to the right of the path suddenly stopped their
conversation.  At the same instant a harsh voice, sounded in their ears,
pronouncing the significant summons:--"stand and deliver!"

The two travellers had already ridden into the open ground, in front of
the ruined hut, out of which the voice appeared to proceed.  But they
had no time to speculate as to whence it came: for on the instant of its
utterance, a man was seen rushing forward into the middle of the road,
and placing himself in a position to intercept their advance.

His threatening attitude, combined with the mode in which he manipulated
a long-handled pike--the point of which he held close to the heads of
their horses--left no doubt upon the minds of the travellers that to
stop them was his determination.

Before either could make reply to his challenge, it was repronounced in
the same loud tone, and with a fresh gesture of menace--in which the
pike played an important part.

"Stand and deliver?" interrogated the cavalier, slowly repeating the
stereotyped phrase.  "That's your wish, is it, my worthy fellow?"

"It is!" growled the challenger, "an' be quickish, if ye've any consarn
for yer skins."

"Well," continued the cavalier, preserving the most perfect _sang
froid_, "you can't say but that we've been quick enough in obeying your
first command?  You see we have both come to a stand _instanter_?  As
for your second, it requires consideration.  Before _delivering_, we
must know the why, and the wherefore--above all, to whom we are to
unburthen ourselves.  You won't object, to obliging us with your name--
as also your reason for making such a modest request?"

"Curse your palaver?" vociferated the man, with an impatient flourish of
the pike.  "There be no names given on the road, nor reasons neyther.
Yer money, or yer blood!  It be no use yer tryin' to get out o' it.
Look thear!  Ye see there be a dozen o' us!  What's the good o'
resistin'?  Ye're surrounded."

And as he said this, the robber with a sweep of his formidable weapon
indicated the circle of shrubbery--near the centre of which the scene
was being enacted.

The eyes of the two travellers involuntarily followed the pointing of
the pike.

Sure enough they _were_ surrounded.  Six or seven fierce-looking men,
all apparently armed with the same sort of weapon as that in the hands
of their leader, stood at equal distances from each other around the
opening--their forms half concealed by the trees and gorse.  They were
all standing perfectly motionless.  Not even their weapons seemed to
stir; and not one of them had as yet spoken, or stepped forward; though
it might have been expected they would have done so--if only to
strengthen the demand made by their spokesman.

"Keep your places, comrades!" commanded the latter.  "There's no need
for any o' ye to stir.  These are civilish gentlemen.  We don't want to
hurt them.  They bean't a-goin' to resist."

"But they _be_" interrupted the cavalier, in a mocking but determined
tone, at the same time whipping a pistol from its holster--"_I am_ to
the death; and so too will the gallant youth by my side."

Walter had drawn his slender rapier--the only weapon he possessed.

"What! yield to a pack of cowardly footpads?" continued the cavalier,
cocking his pistol, as he spoke.  "No--sooner--"

"Your blood on your own head then!" shouted the robber, at the same time
rushing forward, and extending his pike so that its steel point was
almost in contact with the counter of the cavalier's horse.

The moonlight shone full upon the footpad, showing a face of fierce
aspect--features of wild expression--black beard and whiskers--a thick
shock of dark hair matted and tangled--eyes bloodshot, and gleaming with
a lurid light!

It was fortunate for their owner, that the moonlight favoured the
identification of those fear-inspiring features--else that moment might
have been his last.

The cavalier had levelled his cocked pistol.  His finger was upon the
trigger.  In another second the shot would have been discharged; and in
all likelihood his assailant would have been lying lifeless at the feet
of his horse.

All at once, the outstretched arm was seen to drop; while at the same
instant from the horseman's lips issued an exclamation of singular
import.

"Gregory Garth!" cried he, "you a highwayman--a robber?  About to rob--
to murder--"

"My old master!" gasped out the man, suddenly lowering the point of his
pike.  "Be it you?  Pardon!  O pardon, Sir Henry!  I didn't know 'twas
you."

And as the speaker gave utterance to the last words, he dashed his
weapon to the ground, and stood over it in a cowering and contrite
attitude--not daring to raise his eyes to the face of him who had
brought the affair to such an unexpected ending.

"O Master Henry!" he again cried, "will you forgive me!  Brute as I am,
'twould ha' broke my heart to a hurted a hair o' your head.  Curse the
crooked luck that's brought me to this!"

For some moments there was a profound silence--unbroken by any voice.
Even the companions of the robber appeared to respect the _situation_:
since not one of them moved or made remark of any kind!

Their humiliated chief was himself the first to put a period to this
interval of embarrassment.

"O Master Henry!" he exclaimed, apparently in a paroxysm of chagrin.
"Shoot me!  Kill me if ye like!  After what's passed, I doan't desarve
no better than to die.  There's my breast!  Send yer bullet through it;
an' put an end to the miserable life o' Greg'ry Garth!"

While speaking, the footpad pulled open the flap of his doublet--laying
bare before the moonlight a broad sinewy breast, thickly covered with
coarse black hair.

Advancing close to the cavalier's horse he presented his bosom, thus
exposed--as if to tempt the death he had so strangely solicited.  His
words, his looks, his whole attitude, proclaimed him to be in earnest.

"Come, come, Garth!" said the cavalier in a soothing tone--at the same
time returning the pistol to its holster.  "You're too good a man--at
least you _were once_--to be shot down in that off-hand fashion."

"Ah! _once_ Master Henry.  May be that's true enough.  But now I desarve
it."

"Spare your self-recrimination, Gregory.  Your life, like my own, has
been a hard one.  I know it; and can therefore look more leniently on
what has happened now.  Let us be thankful it's no worse; and hope it
will be the means of bringing about a change for the better."

"It will, Master Henry; it will!  I promise that."

"I'm glad to hear you say so; and doubt not but that you'll keep your
word.  Meanwhile give orders to your trusty followers--by the way a
well-behaved band--not to molest us.  To-morrow morning there will be
travellers along this way, upon whom I have not the slightest objection
that both you and yours should practise your peculiar avocation; and to
your heart's content.  Please desire those gentlemen to keep their
distance.  I don't wish them to make any nearer approach--lest I might
have the misfortune to find in their ranks some other old acquaintance,
who like yourself has fallen from the paths of virtue."

As the footpad stood listening to the request, a singular expression was
observed to steal over his fierce features--which gradually gathered
into a broad comical grin.

"Ah!  Master Henry," he rejoined, "I may order 'em, to obleege ye, but
they woant obey.  Yer needn't be afeerd o' 'em for all that.  You may go
as near 'em as you like--_they_ an't a-goin' to molest you.  You may run
your sword through and through 'em, and never a one o' 'em's goin' to
cry out he be hurt."

"Well, they seem patient fellows in all sincerity.  But enough--what do
you mean, Gregory?"

"That they be nobodies, Master Henry--reg'lar nobodies.  They be only
dummies--a lot o' old coats and hats, that's no doubt done good sarvice
to their wearers 'fore they fell into the hands o' Gregory Garth--ay,
and they ha' done some good sarvice since--o' a different kind, as ye
see."

"So these fellows are only scarecrows?  I had my suspicions."

"Nothing more nor less, master.  Harmless as I once was myself, but
since that time--you know--when the old hall was taken from you, and you
went abroad--since then I've been--"

"I don't want to hear your history, Garth," said his former Master,
interrupting him, "at least not _since then_.  Let the past be of the
past, if you will only promise me to forsake your present profession for
the future.  Sooner or later it will bring you to the block."

"But what am I to do?" inquired the footpad, in a tone of humble
expostulation.

"Do?  Anything but what you have been doing.  Get work--honest work."

"As I live, I've tried wi' all my might.  Ah!  Sir Henry, you've been
away from the country a tidyish time.  You don't know how things be now.
To be honest be to starve.  Honesty an't no longer o' any account in
England."

"Some day," said the cavalier, as he sate reflecting in his saddle.
"Some day it may be more valued--and that day not distant Gregory
Garth!" he continued, making appeal to the footpad in a more serious and
earnest tone of voice, "You have a bold heart, and a strong arm.  I know
it.  I have no doubt too, that despite the outlawed life you've been
leading, _your sympathies are still on the right side_.  They have
reason: for you too have suffered in your way.  You know what I mean?"

"I do, Sir Henry, I do," eagerly answered the man.  "Ye're right.  Brute
as I may be, and robber as I ha' been, I ha' my inclining in that ere.
Ah! it's it that's made me what I be!"

"Hear me then," said the cavalier bending down in his saddle, and
speaking still more confidentially.  "The time is not distant--perhaps
nearer than most people think--when a stout heart and a strong arm--such
as yours, Garth,--may be usefully employed in a better occupation, than
that you've been following."

"Dy'e say so, Sir Henry?"

"I do.  So take my advice.  Disband these trusty followers of yours--
whose _staunchness_ ought to recommend them for better service.  Make
the best market you can of their cast-off wardrobes.  Retire for a time
into private life; and wait till you hear shouted those sacred words--

"God and the People!"

"Bless ye, Sir Henry!" cried the robber, rushing up, and, with a show of
rude affection, clutching the hand of his former master.  "I had heard
o' your comin' to live at the old house in the forest up thear; but I
didn't expect to meet you in this way.  You'll let me come an' see ye.
I promise ye that ye'll never meet me as a robber again.  _This night
Gregory Garth takes his leave o' the road_."

"A good resolve!" rejoined the cavalier, warmly returning the pressure
of the outlaw's hand.  "I'm glad you have made it.  Good-night,
Gregory!" he continued, moving onward along the road; "Come and see me,
whenever you please.  Good-night, gentlemen!" and at the words he lifted
the plumed beaver from his head, and, in a style of mock courtesy, waved
the dummies an adieu.  "Good-night, worthy friends!" he laughingly
repeated, as he rode through their midst.  "Don't trouble yourselves to
return my salutation.  Ha! ha! ha!"

The young courtier, moving after, joined in the jocular leave-taking;
and both merrily rode away--leaving the footpad to the companionship of
his speechless "pals."

Volume One, Chapter X.

An incident so ludicrous could not fail to tickle the fancy of the young
courtier; and bring his risible faculties into full play.  It produced
this effect; and to such a degree that for some minutes he could do
nothing but laugh--loud enough to have been heard to the remotest
confines of the Heath.

"I shouldn't wonder,"--said he, recalling to mind the contents of his
sister's letter; "not a bit should I wonder, if this fellow be the same
who stopped the lady's coach.  You've heard of it?"

"I have," laughingly replied the cavalier.  "No doubt, Gregory Garth and
the coach-robber you speak of are one and the same individual."

"Ha! ha! ha! to think of the six attendants!--there was that number, I
believe, escorting the coach--to think of all six running away, and from
one man!"

"You forget the band?  Ha! ha! ha!  It is to be presumed, that Gregory
had six scarecrows rigged up for that occasion also.  Truer men, by my
troth, than the cavaliers who accompanied the lady.  Ha! ha!  But for
the immorality of the act it's an artifice worthy of my old instructor
in the art of _venerie_.  After all, I should have expected better of
the ex-forester than finding him thus transformed into a footpad.  Poor
devil! who knows what may have been his trials and temptations?  There
are wrongs daily done upon England's people, in the name--ay, and with
the knowledge--of England's king, that would make a criminal of the
meekest Christian; and Gregory Garth was never particularly
distinguished for the virtue of meekness.  Something may have been done
to madden, and drive him to this desperate life.  I shall know anon."

"One thing in his favour," suggested the young courtier, who
notwithstanding the rude introduction, appeared to be favourably
inclined towards the footpad.  "He did not ill-treat the lady, though
left all alone with her.  True, he stripped her of her jewellery; but
beyond that he behaved gently enough.  I have just heard the sequel of
the story, as I came through Uxbridge.  Ha! ha! odd as the rest of the
affair.  It appears that before leaving her, he caught one of her
runaway attendants; forced him back upon the box; and, putting the whip
and reins into the varlet's hands, compelled him to continue the
journey!"

"All as you say, Master Wade.  I heard the same story myself; though
little suspecting that the facetious footpad was my old henchman Gregory
Garth.  That part of his performance was natural enough.  The rogue had
always a dash of gallantry in his composition.  I'm pleased to think
it's not all gone out of him."

"He appears very repentant after--"

"After having been within an inch of taking the life of one, who--rather
should I say of losing his own.  It was a lucky turn that brought the
moonlight on that bearded visage of his: else he might now have been
lying in the middle of the road, silent as his scare-crow companions.
By my troth!  I should have felt sorry to have been his executioner.  I
am glad it has turned out as it has--more especially since he has
promised, if not actual repentance, at least some sort of reformation.
It may not be too late.  There's good in him--or was--if his evil
courses have not caused its complete eradication.  Well!  I am likely to
see him soon; when I shall submit his soul to the test, and find whether
there is still in it enough of the old honesty to give hope of his
regeneration.  The entrance to your father's park?"

The speaker nodded towards a sombre pile of ivy-grown mason-work--in the
centre of which could be seen a massive gate, its serried rails just
discernible under the tall chestnuts, that in double row shadowed the
avenue beyond.

The heir of Bulstrode did not need to be thus reminded.  Three years of
absence had not effaced from his memory the topographic details of
scenes so much loved, so long enjoyed.  Well remembered he the ways that
led towards the paternal mansion; and already, ere his fellow traveller
ceased speaking, he had pulled up opposite the oft-used entrance.

"My journey extends farther up the road," continued the cavalier,
without having made more than a momentary pause in his speech.  "I am
sorry, Master Wade, to lose your agreeable company; but we must part."

"Not sir," said Walter, looking earnestly towards him, "not, I trust,
till you have given me an opportunity of thanking you for the service
you have rendered me.  But for your companionship, the adventure, as
well as my day's journey, might have had a very different termination.
I should certainly have been plundered--perhaps impaled on the long pike
of your quondam servitor.  Thanks to you, that I am to reach home in
safety.  I hope, therefore, you will not object to my knowing the name
of one, who has done me such an essential service."

"I have but slight claim to your gratitude," replied the cavalier.  "In
truth not any, Master Wade.  By the merest accident have we been thrown
together as _compagnons de voyage_."

"Your modesty, sir," rejoined the young courtier--as he spoke bending
gracefully towards his companion, "claims my admiration equally with
that courage, of which I have now witnessed more than one display.  But
you cannot hinder me from feeling gratitude; nor yet from expressing it.
If you deny me the privilege of knowing your name, I can at least tell
my friends, how much I am indebted to _Sir Henry the Unknown_."

"_Sir_ Henry!  Ah!  Garth styled me so.  The old forester is fond of
bestowing titles.  My father was so called; and honest Gregory, in his
luck of heraldic skill, thinks the title must be hereditary.  It is not
so, however.  I have not received the honour of knighthood from the
sword of sacred majesty.  What's more, it's not likely I ever shall.
Ha! ha!"

The words that concluded this speech--as well as the laugh that
followed--were uttered in a tone of defiant bitterness: as if the
speaker held such royal honours in but slight estimation.

The young courtier thus baulked in obtaining the name of his protector,
remained for a moment without making rejoinder.  He was thinking whether
in the matter of names he could not claim a fair exchange of
confidence--since he had freely given his own,--when the cavalier, as if
divining his thoughts, again accosted him.

"Pardon me," resumed the latter, in a tone of apology.  "Pardon me,
Master Wade, for my apparent want of courtesy.  You honour me by asking
my name; and, since you have treated me so frankly, I have neither the
right nor the wish to conceal it from you.  It is plain Henry Holtspur--
not _Sir_ Henry, as you have just heard me designated.  Furthermore,
Master Wade; if you know anything of a rather dilapidated dwelling
yclept `Stone Dean,'--situated in the heart of the forest, some three
miles from here--and think you could find your way thither, I can
promise you a welcome, a mouthful of venison, a cup of Canary to wash it
down; and--not much more, I fear.  During most mornings I am at home, if
you will take your chance of riding over."

"Nay, you must visit me first," rejoined Walter, "I should ask you in
now; but for the lateness of the hour.  I fear our people have retired
for the night.  You will come again; and permit me to introduce you to
my father.  I am sure he would like to thank you for the service you
have done me; and my sister Marion too."

A thrill of sweet secret pleasure shot through the heart of Henry
Holtspur, as he listened to the last words.  Thanks from Marion!  A
thought from her--even though it were but given in gratitude!

Love! love! sweet art thou in the enjoyment; but far more delicious is
the dream of thy anticipation!

Had the young courtier been closely observing, he might, at that moment,
have detected upon the countenance of Henry Holtspur, a peculiar
expression--one which he appeared endeavouring to conceal.

The brother of his mistress is the last man, to whom a lover cares to
confide the secret of his bosom.  It may not be a welcome tale--even
when the fortunes are equal, the introduction _en regle_, and the
intentions honourable.  But if in any of these circumstances there
chance to be informality, then becomes the brother the _bete noire_ of
the situation.

Was some thought of this kind causing Henry Holtspur a peculiar
emotion--prompting him to repress, or conceal it from the brother of
Marion Wade?  On returning thanks for the promised introduction, why did
he speak with an air of embarrassment?  Why upon his countenance, of
open manly character, was there an expression almost furtive?

The young courtier, without taking note of these circumstances,
continued to urge his request.

"Well--you promise to come?"

"Sometime--with pleasure."

"Nay, Master Holtspur, `sometime' is too indefinite; but, indeed, so has
been my invitation.  I shall alter it.  You will come to-morrow?  Father
gives a _fete_ in our park.  'Tis my birthday; and the sports, I
believe, have been arranged on an extensive scale.  Say, you will be one
of our guests?"

"With all my heart, Master Wade.  I shall be most happy."

After exchanging a mutual good-night, the two travellers parted--Walter
entering the gate of the park--while the cavalier continued along the
highway, that ran parallel to its palings.

Volume One, Chapter XI.

After seeing the two travellers ride off, the disappointed footpad stood
listening, till the hoof-strokes of their horses died upon the distant
road.

Then, flinging himself upon a bank of earth, and, having assumed a
sitting posture--with his elbows resting upon his knees, and his bearded
chin reposing between the palms of his hands--he remained for some
moments silent as the Sphinx, and equally motionless.

His features betrayed a strange compound of expressions--not to be
interpreted by any one ignorant of his history, or of the adventure that
had just transpired.  The shadow of a contrite sadness was visible upon
his brow; while in his dark grey eye could be detected a twinkle of
chagrin--as he thought of the pair of purses so unexpectedly extricated
from his grasp.

Plainly was a struggle passing within his bosom.  Conscience and
cupidity had quarrelled--their first outfall for a long period of time.
The contending emotions prevented speech; and, it is superfluous to say,
his companions respected his silence.

In the countenance of Gregory Garth, despite his criminal calling--even
in his worst moments--there were lines indicative of honesty.  As he
sate by the roadside--that roadside near which he had so often
_skulked_--with the moon shining full upon his face, these lines
gradually became more distinctly defined; until the criminal cast
completely disappeared from his features, leaving only in its place an
expression of profound melancholy.  But for the _mise en scene_, and the
_dramatis personae_ surrounding him, any one passing at the moment might
have mistaken him for an honest man, suffering from some grave and
recent misfortune.

But as no one passed, he was left free to indulge, both in his sorrow
and his silence.

At length the latter came to an end.  The voice of the penitent
footpad--no longer in the stern accents of menace and command, but in
soft subdued tones--once more interrupted the stillness of the night.

"Oh lor--oh lor!" muttered he, "who'd a believed I shud ha' holden my
pike to the breast o' young master Henry?  Niver a thought had I to use
it.  Only bluster to make 'em yield up; but he'll think as how I
intended it all the same.  Oh lor--oh lor! he'll niver forgi' me!  Well,
it can't a' be holp now; an' here go to keep the promise I've made him.
No more touchin' o' purses, or riflin' o' fine ladies on this road.
That game be all over."

For a moment the dark shadow upon his brow appeared to partake slightly
of chagrin--as if there still lingered some regret, for the promise he
had made, and the step he was about to take.  The strife between
conscience and cupidity seemed not yet definitively decided.

There was another interval of silence, and then came the decision.  It
was in favour of virtue.  Conscience had triumphed.

"I'll keep my word to him," cried he, springing to his feet, as if to
give emphasis to the resolve.  "I'll keep it, if I shud starve."

"Disband!" he continued, addressing himself to the silent circle, and
speaking in a tone of mock command.  "Disband! ye beggars!  Your
captain, Greg'ry Garth, han't no longer any need o' your sarvices.  Dang
it meeats!" added he, still preserving his tone of mock seriousness, "I
be sorry to part wi' ye.  Ye've been as true as steel to me; an' ne'er a
angry word as iver passed atween us.  Well, it can't be holp, boys--that
it can't.  The best o' friends must part, some time or other; but afore
we sepperates, I'm a-goin' to purvide for one an' all on ye.  I've got a
friend over theer in Uxbridge, who keeps a biggish trade goin' on--they
call it panprokin'.  It's a money-making business.  I dare say he can
find places for o' ye.  Ye be sure o' doin' well wi' him.  Ye'll be in
good company, wi' plenty o' goold and jeweltry all round ye.  Don't be
afeerd o' what'll happen to ye.  I'll take duppleickets for yer
security; so that in case o' my needin' ye again--"

At this crisis the fantastic valedictory of the retiring robber was
brought to a sudden termination, by his hearing a sound--similar to
those for which his ear had been but too well-trained to listen.  It was
the footfall of a horse, denoting the approach of a horseman--a
traveller.  It was neither of those who had just passed over the Heath:
since it came from the direction opposite to that in which they had
gone--up the road from Redhill.

There was but one horseman--as the hoof-stroke indicated.  From the same
index it could be told, that he was coming on at a slow pace--a walk in
fact--as if ignorant of the road, or afraid of proceeding at a rapid
rate along a path, which was far from being a smooth one.

On hearing the hoof-stroke, Gregory Garth instinctively, as instantly,
desisted from his farcical apostrophe; and, without offering the
slightest apology to his well-behaved auditors, turned his face away
from them, and stood listening.

"A single horseman?" muttered he to himself, "Crawlin' along at snail
pace?  A farmer maybe, who's tuk a drap too much at the Saracen's Head,
an' 's failed asleep in his saddle?  Now I think o't, it be market day
in that thear town o' Uxbridge."

The instincts of the footpad--which had for the moment yielded before
the moral shock of the humiliating encounter with his old master--began
to resume dominion over him.

"Wonder," continued he, in a muttered tone, "Wonder if the chaw-bacon
ha' got any cash about him?  Or have he been, and drunk it all at the
inn?  Pish! what do it matter whether he have or no?  Ha'nt I gone an'
promised Master Henry 'twould be my last night?  Dang it!  I must keep
my word.

"Stay!" he continued, after reflecting a moment, "I sayed that it shud
be my last _night_?  That's 'zactly what you sayed, an' nothin' else,
Greg'ry Garth!  It wouldn't be breakin' no promise if I--

"The night be yooung yet!  'Taint much after eleven o' the clock?  I've
just heard Chaffont bells strikin' _eleven_.  A night arn't over till
_twelve_.  That's the `law o' the land.'

"What's the use o' talkin'?  Things can't be wuss wi' me than they is
arready.  I've stole the sheep; an' if I'm to swing for't, I moat as
well goo in for the hul flock.  After all, Master Henry ha'nt promised
to _keep_ me; an' I may starve for my honest intentions.  I ha'nt enough
silver left to kiver a spittle with; an' as for these rags, they arn't
goin' to fetch me a fortune.  Dash it!  I'll stop chaw-bacon, an' see
whether he ha'nt been a sellin' his beests.

"Keep yeer places, lads!" continued he, turning once more to his
dummies, and addressing them as if he really believed them to be "lads."

"Keep yeer places; and behave jest the same, as if nuthin' 'd been sayed
about our separatin'!"

Concluding his speech with this cautionary peroration, the footpad
glided back under the shadow of the hovel; and silently placed himself
in a position to pounce upon the unwary wayfarer, whose ill-luck was
conducting him to the crossing of Jarret's Heath at that late hour of
the night.

Volume One, Chapter XII.

The robber had not long to wait for his victim.  The necessary
preparations for receiving the latter occupied some time--enough for the
slow-paced traveller to get forward upon the ground; which he succeeded
in doing, just as Gregory Garth had secured himself an ambush, within
the shadow of the hovel.  There stood he, in the attitude of a hound in
leash, straining upon the spring.

When the horseman, emerging from under the arcade of the trees, rode out
into the open ground, and the moonlight fell upon him and his horse, the
footpad was slightly taken by surprise.  Instead of a farmer, fuddled
with cheap tipple obtained at the "Saracen's Head," Garth saw before him
an elegant cavalier, mounted upon a smoking but handsome steed, and
dressed in a full suit of shining satin!

Though surprised, Gregory was neither dismayed, nor disconcerted.  On
the contrary, he was all the better satisfied at seeing--in the place of
a drunken clod-hopper, perchance with an empty wallet--a gentleman whose
appearance gave every promise of a plethoric purse; and one also, whose
aspect declared to the practised eye of the footpad, that compelling him
to part with it, would be an achievement neither difficult nor
dangerous.

Without losing an instant, after making this observation, the robber
rushed out from under the shadow of the hut; and, just as he had hailed
the two horsemen half-an-hour before, did he salute the satin-clad
cavalier.

Very different however was the response which he now received in return
to the stereotyped demand, "Stand and deliver!"  Such travellers as the
black horseman were rare upon the road; and he of the smoking steed, and
satin vestments, instead of drawing a pistol from his holsters, or a
sword from its sheath, threw up both hands in token of surrender; and,
in a trembling voice, piteously appealed for mercy.

"Hang it, Master!" cried Garth, still keeping his pike pointed at the
breast of the frightened traveller.  "Doant be so skeeart!  They woant
hurt ye, man.  Nee'r a one o' 'em's goin' to lay a finger on ye--that
be, if ye doant make a fool o' yerself by showin' resistance.  Keep yeer
ground, boys!  The gentleman han't no intention to gie trouble."

"No--I assure you, no!" eagerly ejaculated the traveller.  "I mean no
harm to anybody.  Believe me, friends!  I don't, indeed.  You're welcome
to what money I've got.  It isn't much: I'm only a poor messenger of the
king."

"A messenger of the king!" echoed the captain of the robbers, showing a
new interest in the announcement.

"And, if I may ask the question," proceeded he, drawing nearer to the
traveller, and rudely clutching hold of his bridle-rein, "Whither be ye
bound, good Master?"

"O sir," replied the trembling courtier, "I am glad I've met with some
one who, perhaps, can tell me the way.  I am the bearer of a message
from his gracious Majesty to Captain Scarthe, of the King's Cuirassiers;
who is, or should be, by this time, quartered with Sir Marmaduke Wade,
of Bulstrode Park--somewhere in this part of the county of Buckingham."

"Ho, ho!" muttered Gregory Garth, speaking to himself, "message from his
Majesty to Captain Scarthe!--Sir Marmaduke Wade!  Bulstrode Park!  What
the ole Nick be all this about?"

"You know Sir Marmaduke Wade, do you not, good friend?"

"Well, Master Silk-and-Satin," scornfully drawled the footpad, "without
havin' the pleasure o' knowin' you, or the honour o' bein' your good
friend eyther, I think as how I mout say, that I does know somethin' o'
that very gentleman, Sir Marmaduke Wade; though it be news to me that
theer be such a individable as Captain Scarthe, either in the county o'
Bucks, or in the kingdom o' England--to say nothin' o' a troop o' King's
Kewrasseers being quartered at Bulstrode Park.  All o' that there be
Greek to Greg'ry Garth."

"Good friend!  I assure you it's nothing but the truth.  Captain Scarthe
and his troop have certainly arrived at Bulstrode Park by this time; and
if you will only conduct me thither--"

"Bah! that arn't my bizness.  Conduct yerself.  Bulstrode Park aint a
step from here.  As to Captain Scarthe, or the King's Kewrasseers, I
shud n't know eyther one nor t'other from a side o' sole leather.  If
ye've got e'er a message, ye can hand it over to me, an' along wi' it
whatever loose cash ye be carryin' on your fine-clad carcass.  Fork
out!"

"Oh! sir; to my money you're welcome--my watch also and the chain.  But
as you love our good king, let me ride on upon the errand, on which he
has despatched me!"

"Maybe I _don't_ love `our good King,' so much as ye think for, ye
spangled flunkey!  Come! out wi' all ye've got, or these fellows'll
strip ye to the skin.  Ne'er mind, boys!  Keep yer ground; he an't
a-goin' to be troublesome."

"No, no, good friends.  I promise you I shall not.  I yield up
everything.  Here's my purse.  For your sakes I'm sorry there's not more
in it.  Here's my watch.  I had it a present from our most gracious
Queen.  You see, sir, it's very valuable?"

The footpad eagerly clutched at the timepiece; and, holding it between
his great horny fingers, examined it under the light of the moon.

"It must be valleyable," said he, turning it over and over.  "It appears
to be kivered all over wi' preecious stones.  A present from the Queen,
ye say?"

"I had it from her majesty's own hands."

"Dang her for a French--.  This be the way she spends our English money.
She be a bigger robber than Greg'ry Garth--that she be--and ye can tell
her I sayed so, the next time you ha' the chance o' palaverin' to her.
Go on!  Emp'y your pockets o' everything."

"I've only this penknife; these tablets, and pencil--that's all, I
assure you."

"What's that glitterin' thing," asked the footpad, pointing to something
the courtier appeared anxious to conceal, "as hangs about yer neck?
Let's have a squint at it?"

"That, sir,--that is a--a--a locket."

"A locket; what be that?"

"Well, it's--it's--"

"It be wonderful like a bit o' a watch.  What be inside o' it?"

"Nothing."

"Nothin'.  Then, what do you carry it for?"

"Oh, there is something inside; nothing of value, however; it's only a
lock of hair."

"Only hair.  A love-lock, I s'pose?  Well, that arn't o' much valley
sure enough--leastwise to me it arn't--and yer may keep the hair.  But
I'll trouble you for the case.  It look like it mout pawn for somethin'.
Quick, off wi' it!"

The terrified courtier instantly complied with the demand--in his fright
not even taking advantage of the permission granted him to preserve the
precious love token; but delivering both lock and locket into the
outstretched fingers of the footpad.

"O sir," said he, in a supplicating tone, "that is everything--
everything!"

"No it arn't," gruffly returned the robber, "you've got a niceish
doublet thear--satin spick-span--trunks to match; boots an' spurs o' the
first quality; a tidyish hat and feathers; an' a sharpish toad-sticker
by yer side.  I doant partickler want any o' these things for myself;
but I've got a relation that I'd like to make 'em a present to.  So,
strip!"

"What, sir! would you send me naked on my errand?  You forget that I'm
the bearer of a message from the king?"

"No, daang me if I do; and daang the king, too!  That ere's potery for
ye.  I've heerd ye be fond o' it at Court.  I like prose better; and my
prose be, dismount an' strip."

Notwithstanding the tone of raillery in which the footpad was pleased to
express himself, the unfortunate courtier saw that he was all the while
in serious earnest, and that there would be danger in resisting his
demands.

Spite of his reluctance therefore, he was compelled to slide down from
his saddle, and disrobe himself in the middle of the road.

Not until he stood stark naked, did the relentless robber suffer him to
desist--leaving to him little else than his shirt and stockings!

"O sir! you will not mount me thus?" said the wretched man, appealing
with upheld hands to the footpad.  "Surely you will not send me in this
guise--the bearer of a royal message?  What a figure I should cut on
horseback, without my boots--without my hat or doublet--without--"

"Stash yer palaver!" cried Garth, who was busied making the cast-off
clothes into a bundle.  "Who said ye war goin' to cut a figger
a-horseback?  Whar's yer horse, I sh'd like to know?"

The courtier gave a doubting nod towards the steed.

"Oh!" responded the footpad, coolly continuing his task, "moat a been
your horse ten minutes agone.  He be myen now.  I've been a-foot long
enough, while you an' yours ha' been ridin'.  It be my time to mount for
a bit.  That's only fair turn an' turn, ar'nt it?"

The dismounted messenger made no reply.  Though surprise and terror had
by this time well-nigh deprived him of his senses, he had enough left to
admonish him, that all remonstrance would be idle.  He said nothing,
therefore; but stood with shivering frame and teeth chattering like
castanets: for it chanced to be one of those chill autumnal nights, when
the cold is felt almost as sensibly as in December.

The footpad took no further notice of him, until he had completed the
binding of the bundle.  Then straightening himself up, face to face with
his victim, he surveyed him from head to foot with a half-quizzical,
half serious look.

The latter at length predominated--as if some suspicious thought had
come uppermost in his mind.

"Cowardly as ye be, ye king's minion," said he, addressing the trembling
messenger in a tone of scornful bitterness, "thear mout be cunnin' an'
mischief in ye.  I'll take care that ye doant go furder this night.
Come along into the house here!  Ye woant object to that--seein' as
ye're so starved-like outside.  Come along!"

And without waiting for either the assent or refusal of the individual
thus solicited, the robber seized him by the wrist; and half led, half
dragged, him over the threshold of the hovel.

Once inside the ruin, he proceeded to bind his unresisting victim with
cords, which he had taken in along with him.  He had plenty of light for
his purpose: for a portion of the roof had fallen in, and the moonlight
shone brightly upon the thatch-strewn floor.

Expert in the handling of ropes, his task was soon performed; and in a
few minutes the King's messenger stood with his arms bound behind his
back, and his ankles lashed as tightly together, as if he had been a
dangerous felon!

"Now," said the robber, after securing the last loop, apparently to his
satisfaction, "you woant come loose till somebody lets ye; and that arnt
goin' to be me.  I ha'nt no wish to be cruel to ye--tho' ye are a king's
flunkey--an' as ye'll be easier lyin' down than stannin' up, I'll put
you in that position."

As he said this, he let go his hold, and permitted the unfortunate man
to fall heavily upon the floor.

"Lie thear, Master Messenger, till somebody lifts ye.  _I'll_ see to the
deliverin' o' yer message.  Good-night!"

And with a mocking laugh Gregory Garth strode back over the threshold--
leaving the astounded traveller to reflections that were neither very
lucid nor very pleasant.

After passing out of the hut, the footpad hastened to take his departure
from the spot.

He led the steed of the messenger out into the middle of the road, and
tied the bridle he had made to the cantle of the saddle.  He then glided
up to the near side of the horse; and caught hold of the withers--as if
about to mount.

Something, however, caused him to hesitate; and an interval elapsed,
without his making any effort to get into the saddle.

"Daangit, old partners!" cried he, at length--addressing himself to his
band of dummies, whom he had been for sometime neglecting--"'twon't do
for us to part this fashion.  If Greg'ry Garth are promoted to be a
_highwayman_, he arn't goin' to look down on his pals o' the _path_.
No!  Ye shall go long wi' me, one an' all.  Though the hul o' ye put
thegither arnt worth this shinin' ticker I've got in my fob, for all
that I can make better use o' ye, than leavin' ye here to scare the
crows o' Jarret's Heath.  Come along, my boys!  I'se boun', this stout
charger from the royal mews be able to carry the hul on us, an' not
think it much o' a looad neyther.  I'll find room for all o' ye--some on
the crupper, and the rest on the withers.  Come along then!"

Without waiting for any reply to his proposal, he glided around the edge
of the opening: and, rapidly dismantling the dummies one after the
other, he returned towards the horse with their ravished vestments.

Hanging the "old clo'" across both croup and withers--and there
attaching them by strings--he at length climbed into the saddle lately
occupied by the king's messenger, and rode gleefully away.

Just as he cleared the crossing of the roads, the clock of Chalfont
Saint Peter's tolled the hour of midnight.

"Exact twelve!" exclaimed he, in a tone of congratulation.  "Well! 'twur
a close shave; but I've kep' my word to Master Henry!  If I had broke
that, I could niver a looked him in the face again.  Ha!  Hear them old
church bells!  How sweet they sound on the air o' the night!  They mind
me o' the time, when I wur innocent child.  Ring on! ring on! ye bells
o' Peter's Chaffont!  Ring on, an' tell the world that _Greg'ry Garth is
biddin' good-bye to the road_!"

Volume One, Chapter XIII.

Were the Chiltern Hills stripped of the timber, to this day screening a
considerable portion of their surface, they would present a striking
resemblance to those portions of the great North American Steppe, known
in trapper-parlance as "rolling prairies."  With equal truthfulness
might they be likened to the Ocean, after a great storm, when the waves
no longer carry their foaming crests, and the undulations of the swell
have, to a certain extent, lost their parallelism.  If you can fancy the
liquid element then suddenly transformed into solid earth, you will have
a good idea of the "shape" of the Chilterns.

From time immemorial have these hills enjoyed a peculiar reputation.  In
the forward march of England's agriculture, it was long ere their
sterile soil tempted the touch of the plough; and even at this hour vast
tracts of their surface lie unreclaimed--in "commons" covered with
heath, furze, or forests of beechwood.

At various periods of our history, their fame has not been of the
fairest.  Their wild woods, while giving shelter to the noble stag, and
other creatures of the chase, also served as a choice retreat for the
outlaw and the robber; and in past times, it became necessary to appoint
a "steward or warden," with a body of armed attendants, to give
safe-conduct to the traveller, passing through their limits.  Hence the
origin of that noted office--now happily a sinecure; though, unhappily,
not the only sinecure of like obsolete utility in this grievously taxed
land.

Near the eastern verge of the Chiltern country, is situated the noble
park of Bulstrode.  It is one of the most ancient inclosures in
England--older than the invasion of the Norman; perhaps as old as the
evacuation of the Roman.  In the former epoch it was the scene of
strife--as the remains of a Saxon encampment lying within its limits--
with a singular legend attached--will testify.

Extending over an area of a thousand acres, there is scarce a rood of
Bulstrode Park that could be called level ground--the camp enclosure,
already mentioned, forming the single exception.  The surface exhibits a
series of smooth rounded hills, and undulating ridges, separated from
each other by deep valley-like ravines--the concavities of the latter so
resembling the convexities of the former, as to suggest the idea that
the hills have been scooped out of the valleys, and placed in an
inverted position beside them.  The park itself offers a fair specimen
of the scenery of the Chilterns--the ocean swell suddenly brought to a
stand, the waves, and the "troughs" between, having lost their
parallelism.  The valleys traverse in different directions, here running
into each other; there shallowing upward, or ending abruptly in deep
romantic dells, thickly copsed with hawthorn, holly, or hazel--the
favourite haunts of the nightingale.  The ridges join each other in a
similar fashion; or rise into isolated hills, so smoothly coped as to
seem artificial.  Belts of shrubbery and clumps of gigantic trees--elm,
oak, beech, and chestnut--mottle the slopes, or crown their summits;
while the spaces between exhibit a sward of that vivid verdure--only to
be seen in the pastures and parks of England.  Such was Bulstrode Park
in the seventeenth century; such with but slight change, is it at the
present day--a worthy residence for the noblest family in the land.

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

It is the morning of the fete arranged by Sir Marmaduke Wade--to
celebrate the anniversary of his son's birthday, and at the same time to
commemorate his return to the paternal mansion.

The red aurora of an autumnal morning has given promise of a brilliant
day; and as if to keep that promise, a golden sun, already some degrees
above the horizon, is gradually mounting into a canopy of cloudless
blue.

His beams striking obliquely through the foliage of the forest, fall
with a subdued light upon the earth; but in the more open undulations of
the park they have already kissed the dew from the grass; and the
verdant turf seems to invite the footstep--like some vast carpet spread
over the arena of the expected sports.

It is evident that the invitation of Sir Marmaduke had been extensively
circulated, and accepted.  On every road and path tending in the
direction of his residence, and from a distance of many miles, groups of
rustics in their gayest holiday dresses, have been seen from an early
hour in the morning, proceeding towards the scene of the fete--old and
young, fair and dark, comely and common-looking, all equally joyous and
gleeful.

Within the lines of the old Saxon encampment a large company has
assembled.  There are thousands in all--some roaming over the ground,
some seated under shady trees on the summit of the turf-grown moat.
Here and there may be seen large numbers forming a "ring"--the
spectators of some sport that is progressing in their midst.

Of sports there are many kinds carried on at the same time.  Here is
played the game of "balloon:" a huge leathern ball, inflated with hot
air, and bandied about amidst a circle of players--the game being to
keep the ball passing from one to the other.

There you may see another party engaged in a game of "bowls,"
fashionable as the favourite of Royalty; and further on, a crowd
clustered around a contest of "single-stick," where two stout fellows
are cudgelling one another, as if determined upon a mutual cracking of
skulls--a feat, however, not so easy of accomplishment.

Not far off you may behold the gentler sport of "kiss in the ring,"
where blue-eyed Saxon girls are pursued by their rustic beaux, and
easily overtaken.

At other places you may witness a wrestling match, a game of foot-ball,
or quoits, with "pitching the stone," racing, leaping, and vaulting.

At a short distance off, and outside the encampment, may be seen an _al
fresco_ kitchen, on an extensive scale; where the servants of Sir
Marmaduke are engaged in roasting immense _barons_ of beef, and huge
hogs cleft lengthwise.  An hour or two later, and this spot will be the
roost attractive of all.

Not alone does the peasant world appear in the park of Sir Marmaduke
Wade.  Cavaliers picturesquely attired, in the splendid costumes of the
time, along with high-born dames, are seen standing in groups over the
ground.  Some are spectators of the sports, though not a few of both
sexes occasionally take part in them.  The _fete champetre_ is a
fashionable mode of amusement where rank is, for the time, surrendered
to the desire for simple enjoyment; and it is not altogether _outre_ for
the mistress of the mansion to mingle with her maidens in the "out-door
dance," nor the squire to take a hand at "single-stick," or "bowls,"
with his rustic retainer.

Even Royalty, in those days was accustomed to such condescension!

Such was the gay spectacle exhibited in the park of Sir Marmaduke Wade,
to celebrate the anniversary of that happy day that had given him a son
and heir.

Volume One, Chapter XIV.

The bells of Uxbridge were tolling the hour of noon.  Scarthe's
Cuirassiers were still by the roadside inn, though in full armour, and
each trooper standing by the side of his horse, ready to take saddle.

It was a late hour to begin their march; but they had been detained.
The freshly rasped hoofs of the horses might declare the cause of the
detention.  The forges of Uxbridge had been called into requisition, for
the shoeing of the troop.

There was no special need for haste.  They had not far to go; and the
duty upon which they were bent, could be entered into at any hour.  At
twelve they were all ready for the _route_.

"To horse!" was uttered in the usual abrupt tone of command; and at the
same instant, the two officers were seen issuing from the doorway of the
inn.

The clattering of steel, as the cuirassiers sprang to their saddles,
could be heard on the calm air of the autumn noon, to the distance of a
mile.  The shopkeepers of Uxbridge heard it; and were only too glad when
told its interpretation.  All night long Scarthe's royal swashbucklers
had been swaggering through the streets, disturbing the tranquillity of
their town, and leaving many a score unsettled.

No wonder they rejoiced, when that clinking of sabres, and clashing of
_cuisses_, declared the departure of Captain Scarthe and his following
from the hostelry of the Saracen's Head.

Their men having mounted, the two officers betook themselves to their
saddles, though with less alertness.  The cornet seemed to have a
difficulty in finding his stirrup; and, after he had succeeded in
getting into his seat, it appeared an open question whether he should be
able to keep it.  Stubbs was intoxicated.

His superior officer was affected in a similar fashion, though to a less
degree.  At all events he did not show his tipsiness so palpably.  He
was able to mount into the saddle, without the hand of a helper; and
when there, could hold himself upright.  Habit may have given him this
superiority over his comrade: for Scarthe was an old soldier, and Stubbs
was not.

The carouse of the preceding night had commenced at the roadside inn--
early in the evening.

The incident that had there occurred--not of the most comforting nature,
either to Scarthe or his subaltern--had stimulated them to continue at
their cups--only transferring the scene to the inns of Uxbridge.  A
stray cavalier or two, picked up in the town, had furnished them with
the right sort of associates for a midnight frolic; and it was not till
the blue light of morn was breaking over the meadows of the Colne, that
the wearied roisterers staggered across the old bridge, and returned to
their temporary quarters at the roadside inn.

While the horses of the troop were in the hands of the farriers, the two
officers had passed an hour or two, tossing upon a brace of the best
beds the inn afforded; and it was close upon twelve at noon when Scarthe
awoke, and called for a cup of burnt sack to steady his nerves--
quivering after the night's carouse.

A slight breakfast sufficed for both captain and cornet.  This
despatched, they had ordered the troop to horse, and were about to
continue their march.

"Comrades!" cried Scarthe, addressing himself to his followers, as soon
as he felt fairly fixed in the saddle.  "We've been spending the night
in a nest of rebels.  This Uxbridge is a town of traitors--Quakers,
Dissenters and Puritans--alike disloyal knaves."

"They are by Gec-gec-ged!" hiccuped Stubbs, trying to keep himself
upright on his horse.

"They are; you speak true, captain--they're all you say," chorussed
several of the troopers, who had come away without settling their
scores.

"Then let them go to the devil;" muttered Scarthe, becoming alike
regardless of Uxbridge and its interests.  "Let's look to what's before
us.  No--not that.  First what's behind us.  No pretty girls in the inn
here.  Ah! that's a pity.  Never mind the women, so long as there's
wine.  Hillo, Old Boniface!  Once more set your taps a-flowing.  What
will you drink, vagabonds?  Beer?"

"Ay, ay--anything you like, noble captain."

"Beer, Boniface; and for me more sack.  What say you, Stubbs?"

"Sack, sa-a-ck!" stammered the cornet.  "Burnt sa-a-ck.  Nothing like
it, by Ge-ged!"

"Who pays?" inquired the landlord, evidently under some apprehension as
to the probability of this ultimate order being for cash.

"Pays, knave!" shouted Scarthe, pulling a gold piece from his doublet,
and shieing it in the landlord's face.  "Do you take the king's
cuirassiers for highway robbers?  The wine--the wine!  Quick with it, or
I'll draw your corks with the point of my sword."

With the numerous staff, which an inn in those times could afford to
maintain, both the beer and the more generous beverage were soon within
reach of the lips of those intended to partake of them.  The national
drink was brought first; but out of deference to their officers, the men
refrained partaking of it, till the sack was poured into the cups.

Scarthe seized the goblet presented to him and raising it aloft, called
out:--

"The King!"

"The King, by Ge-ged," seconded Stubbs.

"The King--the King!" vociferated the half hundred voices of their
followers--the bystanders echoing the phrase only in faint murmuring.

"Goblets to the ground!" commanded the captain--at the same time tossing
his own into the middle of the road.

The action was imitated by every man in the troop--each throwing away
his empty vessel, till the pavement was thickly strewn with pots of
shining pewter.

"Foorward--ma-r-ch!" cried Scarthe, giving the spur to his charger; and
with a mad captain at their head, and a maudlin cornet in the rear, the
cuirassiers filed out from the inn; and took the road in the direction
of Red Hill.

Despite the wine within him, the captain of the cuirassiers, was at that
moment, in a frame of mind, anything but contented.  One of his reasons
for having drunk so deeply, was to drown the recollection--yet rankling
in his bosom--of the insult he fancied himself to have suffered on the
preceding night, and which he further fancied to have lowered him in the
estimation of his followers.  Indeed, he knew this to be the case; for
as he rode onward at the head of his troop, his whole thoughts were
given to the _black horseman_, and the mode by which he might revenge
himself on that mysterious individual.

Scarthe was on the way to country quarters--near which he had been told,
the black horseman had his home--and he comforted himself with the
thought, that should these prove dull, he would find amusement, in the
accomplishment of some scheme, by which his vengeance might be
satisfied.

Could his eye at that moment have penetrated the screen of foliage
rising above the crest of Red Hill, he might have seen behind it, the
man he meant to injure--mounted on that sable steed from which he
derived his _sobriquet_.  He might have seen him suddenly wheel back
from the bushes, and gallop off in the direction in which he and his
cuirassiers were marching--towards Bulstrode Park--the residence of Sir
Marmaduke Wade.

Though Scarthe saw not this, his midday march was not performed without
his meeting with an incident--one worth recording, even for its
singularity; though it was otherwise of significant interest to the
cuirassier captain.

In front of a dilapidated hovel upon Jarret's Heath, both he and his
troop were brought to a sudden stand, on hearing a strange noise which
appeared to proceed from the ruin.  It was a groan--or rather a series
of groans--now and then varied by a sharp scream.

On entering the hut, the cause of this singular _fracas_ was at once
discovered: a man lying upon the floor--stripped to his shirt, and bound
hand and foot!  This semi-nude individual informed them, that he had
just awakened from a horrid dream; which he now feared was no dream, but
a reality!  He proclaimed himself a courier of the King, bound to
Bulstrode Park, with a despatch for Captain Scarthe!  But the despatch
was lost, with everything else he had borne upon his body--even to the
horse that had borne _him_!

After the full explanation had been given, Scarthe's chagrin at the
failure of the King's message, was counterbalanced by the amusement
caused by the misadventure of the messenger; and, after remounting the
unfortunate man, and sending him whence he had come, he continued his
march, making the wild waste of Jarret's Heath ring with a loud and long
continued cachinnation.

Volume One, Chapter XV.

The great clock in the tower of Bulstrode mansion, was tolling the hour
of noon.  The sports were in full progress--both actors and spectators
at the maximum of enjoyment.

Here and there a knot of sturdy yeomen might be seen, standing close
together--so that their conversation might not be overheard--discussing
among themselves some late edict of royalty; and generally in tones of
condemnation.

The arbitrary exactions, of which one and all of them had of late been
victims, the tyrannous modes of taxation--hitherto unheard of in
England--_ship_, _coat_, and _conduct_ money--forced loans under the
farcical title of _benevolences_; and, above all, the billeting of
profligate soldiers in private houses--on individuals, who by some
slight act or speech had given offence to the king, or some of his
satellites--these were the topics of the time.

Conjoined with these grievances were discussed the kindred impositions
and persecutions of that iniquitous council, the Court of High
Commission, which for cruel zeal rivalled even the Inquisition--and the
infamous Star Chamber, that numbered its victims by thousands.

These truculent tools of tyranny had been for ten years in the full
performance of their flagitious work; but, instead of crushing out the
spirit of a brave people--which was their real aim and end--they had
only been preparing it for a more determined and effective resistance.

The trial of Hampden--the favourite of Buckinghamshire--for his daring
refusal to pay the arbitrary impost of "ship money," had met with the
approbation of all honest men; while the judges, who condemned him, were
denounced on all sides as worse than "unjust."

To its eternal glory be it told, nowhere was this noble spirit more
eminently displayed than in the shire of Bucks--nowhere, in those days,
was the word _liberty_ so often, or so emphatically, pronounced.  Shall
I say, alas! the change?

True, it was yet spoken only in whispers--low, but earnest--like thunder
heard far off over the distant horizon--heard only in low mutterings,
but ready, at any moment, to play its red lightnings athwart the sky of
despotism.

Such mutterings might have been heard in the park of Sir Marmaduke Wade.
In the midst of that joyous gathering, signs and sounds of a serious
import might have been detected--intermingling with scenes of the most
light-hearted hilarity.

It may be wondered why those sentiments of freedom were not more openly
declared.  But that is easy of explanation.  If among the assemblage who
assisted at the birthday celebration, there were enemies to Court and
King, there were also many who were not friends to the cause of the
People.  In the crowd which occupied the old camp, there was a liberal
sprinkling of spies and informers--with eyes sharply set to see, and
ears to catch, every word that might be tainted with treason.  No man
knew how soon he might be made the victim of a denunciation--how soon he
might stand in the awe-inspiring presence of the "Chamber."

No wonder that men expressed their sentiments with caution.

Among the gentlemen present there was a similar difference of opinion
upon political matters--even among members of the same family!  But such
topics of discussion were studiously avoided, as unbecoming the
occasion; and no one, carelessly contemplating the faces of the fair
dames and gay cavaliers grouped laughingly together, could have
suspected the presence of any sentiment that sprang not from the most
contented concordance.

There was one countenance an exception to this general look of
contentment--one individual in that brilliant throng that had as yet
taken no pleasure in the sports.  It was Marion Wade.

She, whose smile was esteemed a blessing wherever it fell, seemed
herself unblessed.

Her bosom was a chaos of aching unrest.  There was wanting in that
concourse one whose presence could have given it peace.

Ever since entering the enclosure of the camp, had the eye of Marion
Wade been wandering over the heads of the assembled spectators; over the
fosse, and toward the gates of the park--where some late guests still
continued to straggle in.

Evidently was she searching for that she failed to find: for her glance,
after each sweeping tour of inquiry, fell back upon the faces around
her, with an ill-concealed expression of disappointment.

When the last of the company appeared to have arrived, the expression
deepened to chagrin.

Her reflections, had they been uttered aloud, would have given a clue to
the discontent betraying itself on her countenance.

"He comes not--he wills not to come!  Was there nothing in those looks?
I've been mad to do as I have done!  And what will he think of me?  What
_can_ he?  He took up my glove--perhaps a mere freak of curiosity, or
caprice--only to fling it down again in disdain?  Now I know he cares
not to come--else would he have been here.  Walter promised to introduce
him--to _me_--to _me_!  Oh! there was no lure in that.  He knows he
might have introduced himself.  Have I not invited him?  Oh! the
humiliation!"

Despite her painful reflections, the lady tried to look gay.  But the
effort was unsuccessful.  Among those standing near there were some, who
did not fail to notice her wan brow and wandering glance; dames envious
of her distinction--gallants, who for one smile from her proud, pretty
lips, would have instantly sacrificed their long _love-locks_, and
plucked from their hats those trivial tokens, they had sworn so
hypocritically to wear.

There was only one, however, who could guess at the cause; and that one
could only _guess_ at it.  Her cousin alone had any suspicion, that the
heart of Marion was wandering, as well as her eyes.  A knowledge of this
fact would have created surprise--almost wonder--in the circle that
surrounded her.  Marion Wade was a full-grown woman; had been so for
more than a year.  She had been wooed by many--by some worshipped almost
to idolatry.  Wealth and title, youth and manhood, lands and lordships,
had been laid at her feet; and all alike rejected--not with the proud
flourish of the triumphant flirt, but with the tranquil dignity of a
true woman, who can only be _wed_ after being _won_.

Among the many aspirants to her hand, there was not one who could tell
the tale of conquest.  More than once had that tale been whispered; but
the world would not believe it.  It would have been a proud feat for the
man who could achieve it--too proud to remain unproclaimed.

And yet it had been achieved, though the world knew it not.  She alone
suspected it, whose opportunities had been far beyond those of the
world.  Her cousin, Lora Lovelace, had not failed to feel surprise at
those lonely rides--lonely from choice--since her own companionship had
been repeatedly declined.  Neither had she failed to observe, how Marion
had chafed and fretted, at the command of Sir Marmaduke, requiring their
discontinuance.  There were other circumstances besides: the lost glove,
and the bleeding wrist--the fevered sleep at night, and the dreamy
reveries by day.  How could Lora shut her eyes to signs so significant?

Lora was herself in love, and could interpret them.  No wonder that she
should suspect that her cousin was in a like dilemma; no wonder she
should feel sure that Marion's heart had been given away; though when,
and to whom, she was still ignorant, as any stranger within the limits
of the camp.

"Marion!" said she, drawing near to her cousin, and whispering so as not
to be overheard, "you are not happy to-day?"

"You silly child! what makes you think so?"

"How can I help it?  In your looks--"

"What of my looks, Lora?"

"Dear Marion, don't mind me.  It's because I dread that others may
notice them.  There's Winifred Wayland has been watching you; and, more
still, that wicked Dorothy Dayrell.  She has been keeping her eyes on
you like a cat upon a mouse.  Cousin! do try to look different, and
don't give them something to talk about: for you know that's just what
Dorothy Dayrell would desire."

"Look different!  How do I look, pray?"

"Ah!  I needn't tell you how?  _You know how you feel_; and from that
you may tell how you look."

"Ho! sage counsellor, you must explain.  What is it in my appearance
that has struck you?  Tell me, chit!"

"You want me to be candid, Marion?"

"I do--I do!"

The answer was given with an eagerness, that left Lora no wish to
withhold her explanation.

"Marion," said she, placing her lips close to the ear of her who was
alone intended to hear it, "_you are in love_?"

"Nonsense, Lora.  What puts such a thought into your silly little head?"

"No nonsense, Marion; I know it by your looks.  I don't know who has won
you, dear cousin.  I only know he's not here to-day.  You've been
expecting him.  He hasn't come.  Now!"

"You're either a great big deceiver, or a great little conjuror, Lora.
In which of these categories am I to class you?"

"Not in the former, Marion; you know it.  Oh! it needs no conjuring for
_me_ to tell that.  But pray don't let it be so easy for others to read
your secret, cousin!  I entreat you--."

"You are welcome to your suspicions," said Marion, interrupting her.
"And now I shall relieve you from them, by making them a certainty.  It
is of no use trying any longer to keep that a secret, which in time you
would be sure to discover for yourself--I suppose.  _I am in love_.  As
you've said, I'm in love with one who is _not_ here.  Why should I feel
ashamed to tell it you?  Nay, if I only thought he loved me as I do him,
I'd care little that the whole company knew it--and much less either
Winifred Wayland, or Dorothy Dayrell.  Let them--"

Just then the voice of this last-mentioned personage was heard in
animated conversation--interspersed with peals of laughter, in which a
large party was joining.

It was nothing new for Dorothy to be the centre of a circle of laughing
listeners: for she was one of the wits of the time.  Her talk might not
have terminated the dialogue between the cousins, but for the mention of
a name--to Marion Wade of all-absorbing interest.

Walter had just finished relating his adventure of the preceding night.

"And this wonderful cavalier," asked Dorothy, "who braved the bullying
captain, and frightened the fierce footpads--did he favour you with his
name, Master Wade?"

"Oh yes!" answered Walter, "he gave me that--Henry Holtspur."

"Henry Holtspur!  Henry Holtspur!" cried several in a breath, as if the
name was not new to them, but had some peculiar signification.

"It's the cavalier who rides the black horse," explained one.  "The
`_black horseman_,' the people called him.  One lately come into this
neighbourhood.  Lives in the old house of Stone Dean.  Nobody knows
him."

"And yet everybody appears to be talking of him!  Mysterious individual!
Some troubadour returned from the East?" suggested Winifred Wayland.

"Some trader from the West, more like," remarked Dorothy Dayrell, with a
sneer, "whence, I presume, he has imported his levelling sentiments, and
a savage for his servant, too, 'tis said.  Did you see aught of his
Indian, Master Wade?"

"_No_," said the youth, "and very little of himself: as our ride
together was after night.  But I have hopes of seeing more of him
to-day.  He promised to be here."

"And is not?"

"I think not.  I haven't yet encountered him.  'Tis just possible he may
be among the crowd over yonder; or somewhere through the camp.  With
your permission, ladies, I shall go in search of him."

"Oh! do! do!" exclaimed half a score of sweet voices.  "By all means,
Master Wade, find the gentleman.  You have our permission to introduce
him.  Tell him we're all dying to make his acquaintance."

Walter went off among the crowd; traversed the camp in all directions;
and came back without the object of his search.

"How cruel of him not to come!" remarked the gay Dayrell, as Walter was
seen returning alone.  "If he only knew the disappointment he is
causing!  We might have thought less of it, Master Walter, if you hadn't
told us he intended to be here.  Now I for one shall fancy your fete
very stupid without him."

"He may still come," suggested Walter.  "I think there are some other
guests who have not arrived."

"You are right, Master Wade," interposed one of the bystanders;
"yonder's somebody--a man on horseback--on the Heath, outside the
palings of the park.  He appears to be going towards the gate?"

All eyes were turned in the direction indicated.  A horseman was seen
upon the Heath outside, about a hundred yards distant from the
enclosure; but he was _not going towards the gate_.

"Not a bit of it," cried Dorothy Dayrell.  "He's changed his mind about
that.  See!  He heads his horse at the palings!  Going to take them?  He
is in troth!  High--over!  There's a leap worth looking at!"

And the fair speaker clapped her pretty hands in admiration of the feat.

There was one other who beheld it with an admiration, which, though
silent, was not less enthusiastic.  The joy that had shone sparkling in
the eyes of Marion Wade, as soon as the strange horseman appeared in
sight, was now heightened to an expression of proud triumph.

"Who is he?" asked half a score of voices, as the bold horseman cleared
the enclosure.

"It is he--the cavalier we have just been speaking of," answered Walter,
hurrying away to receive his guest, who was now coming on at an easy
gallop towards the camp.

"_The black horseman!--the black horseman_!" was the cry that rose up
from the crowd; while the rustics rushed up to the top of the moat to
give the new comer a welcome.

"_The black horseman! huzza_!" proclaimed a voice, with that peculiar
intonation that suggests a general cheer--which was given, as the
cavalier, riding into their midst, drew his steed to a stand.

"_They_ know him, at least," remarked the fair Dayrell, with a toss of
her aristocratic head.  "How popular he appears to be!  Can any one
explain it?"

"It's always the way with _new_ people," said a sarcastic gentleman who
stood near, "especially when they make their _debut_ a little
mysteriously.  The rustic has a wonderful relish for the unknown."

Marion stood silent.  Her eye sparkled with pride, on beholding the
homage paid to her own heart's hero.  The sneering interrogatories of
Dorothy Dayrell she answered only in thought.

"Grand and noble!" was her reflection.  "That is the secret of his
popularity.  Ah! the instincts of the people rarely err in their choice.
He is true to _them_.  No wonder they greet him as their God!"

For Marion, herself, a sweet triumph was in store.

The curiosity of the crowd, that had collected on the arrival of the
black horseman, was passing away.  The people had returned to their
sports; or, with admiring looks, were following the famous steed to his
stand under the trees.  From an instinct of delicacy, peculiar to the
country people, they had abandoned the cavalier to the companionship of
his proper host--who was now conducting him towards the promised
presentation.

They had arrived within a few paces of the spot where Marion was
standing.  Her face was averted: as if she knew not who was advancing.
But her heart told her he was near.  So, too, the whisperings of those
who stood around.  She dared not turn towards him.  She dreaded to
encounter his eye, lest it might look slightingly upon her.

That studied inattention could not continue.  She looked towards him at
last.  Her gaze became fixed, not upon his face, but, upon an object
which appeared conspicuous upon the brow of his beaver--_a white
gauntlet_!

Joy supreme!  Words could not have spoken plainer.  The token had been
taken up, and treasured.  Love's challenge had been accepted!

Volume One, Chapter XVI.

A glove, a ribbon, a lock of hair, in the hat of a gentleman, was but
the common affectation of the cavalier times; and only proclaimed its
wearer the recipient of some fair lady's favour.  There were many young
gallants on the ground, who bore such adornments; and therefore no one
took any notice of the token in the hat of Henry Holtspur--excepting
those for whom it had a particular interest.

There were two who felt this interest; though from different motives.
They were Marion Wade, and Lora Lovelace.  Marion identified the glove
with a thrill of joy; and yet the moment after she felt fear.  Why?  She
feared it _might be_ identified by others.  Lora saw it with surprise.
Why?  Because it _was_ identified.  At the first glance Lora had
recognised the gauntlet; and knew it to have belonged to her cousin.

It was just this, that the latter had been dreading.  She feared not its
being recognised by any one else--not even by her father.  She knew the
good knight had more important matters upon his mind, and could not have
told one of her gloves from another.  But far different was it with her
cousin; who having a more intelligent discrimination in such trifles,
would be likely, just then, to exercise it.

Marion's fears were fulfilled.  She perceived from Lora's looks that the
gauntlet--cruel and conspicuous tell-tale--was under her eye and in her
thoughts.

"It is yours, Marion!" whispered the latter, pointing towards the plumed
hat of the cavalier, and looking up, with an air more affirmative than
enquiring.

"Mine! what, Lora?  Yonder black beaver and plumes?  What have I to do
with them?"

"Ah!  Marion, you mock me.  Look under the plumes.  What see you there?"

"Something that looks like a lady's glove.  Is it one, I wonder?"

"It is, Marion."

"So it is, in troth!  This strange gentleman must have a mistress, then.
Who would have thought of it?"

"It is yours, cousin."

"Mine?  My glove--do you mean?  You are jesting, little Lora?"

"It is you who jest, Marion.  Did you not tell me that you had lost your
glove?"

"I did.  I dropped it.  I must have dropped it--somewhere."

"Then the gentleman must have _picked it up_?" rejoined Lora, with
significant emphasis.

"But, dear cousin; do you really think yonder gauntlet is mine?"

"O Marion, Marion! _you know it is yours_?"

Lora spoke half upbraidingly.

"How do you know you are not wronging me?" rejoined Marion, in an
evasive tone.  "Let me take a good look at it.  Aha!  My word, Lora, I
think you are right.  It does appear, as if it were my gauntlet--at
least it is very like the one I lost the other day, when out a-hawking;
and for the want of which my poor skin got so sadly scratched.  It's
wonderfully like my glove!"

"Yes; so like, that it is the same."

"If so, how came it yonder?" inquired Marion, with an air of apparent
perplexity.

"Ah, how?" repeated Lora.

"He must have found it in the forest?"

"It is very impudent of him to be wearing it then."

"Very; indeed, very."

"Suppose any one should recognise it as yours?  Suppose uncle should do
so?"

"There is no fear of that," interrupted Marion.  "I have worn these
gloves only twice.  You are the only one who has seen them on my hands.
Father does not know them.  You won't tell him, Lora?"

"Why should I not?"

"Because--because--it may lead to trouble.  May be this strange
gentleman has no idea to whom the glove has belonged.  He has picked it
up on the road somewhere; and stuck it in his hat--out of caprice, or
conceit.  I've heard many such favours are borne with no better
authority.  Let him keep it, and wear it--if it so please him.  I care
not--so long as he don't know whose it is.  Don't you say anything about
it to any one.  If father should know, or Walter--ah!  Walter, young as
he is, would insist upon fighting with him; and I have no doubt that
this _black horseman_ would be a very dangerous antagonist."

"Oh!  Marion," cried Lora, alarmed at the very thought of such a
contingency.  "I shall not mention it--nor you.  Do not for the world!
Let him keep the glove, however dishonourably he may have come to it.  I
care not, dear cousin--so long as it does not compromise _you_."

"No fear of that," muttered Marion, in a confident tone, apparently
happy at having so easily escaped from a dilemma she had been dreading.

The whispered conversation of the cousins was at this moment interrupted
by the approach of Walter, conducting the cavalier into the midst of the
distinguished circle.

The youth performed his office of introducer with true courtly grace,
keeping his promise to all; and in a few seconds Henry Holtspur had
added many new names to the list of his acquaintances.

It is no easy part to play--and play gracefully--that of being
conspicuously presented; but the same courage that had distinguished the
cavalier in his encounter with Garth and his footpads, was again
exhibited in that more imposing--perhaps more dangerous--presence.

The battery of bright eyes seemed but little to embarrass him; and he
returned the salutations of the circle with that modest confidence,
which is a sure test of the true gentleman.

It was only when being presented to the last individual of the group--
strange that Marion Wade should be the last--it was only then, that
aught might have been observed beyond the ceremonious formality of an
introduction.  Then, however, a close observer might have detected an
interchange of glances that expressed something more than courtesy;
though so quickly and stealthily given, as to escape the observation of
all.  No one seemed to suspect that Marion Wade and Henry Holtspur had
ever met before; and yet ofttimes had they met--ofttimes looked into
each other's eyes--had done everything but speak!

How Marion had longed to listen to that voice, that now uttered in soft,
earnest tones, sounded in her ears, like some sweet music!

And yet it spoke not in the language of love.  There was no opportunity
for this.  They were surrounded by watchful eyes, and ears eagerly bent
to catch every word passing between them.  Not a sentiment of that
tender passion, which both were eager to pour forth--not a syllable of
it could be exchanged between them.

Under such constraint, the converse of lovers is far from pleasant.  It
even becomes irksome; and scarce did either regret the occurrence of an
incident, which, at that moment, engaging the attention of the crowd,
relieved them from their mutual embarrassment.

Volume One, Chapter XVII.

The incident, thus opportunely interfering, was the arrival upon the
ground of a party of _morris dancers_, who, having finished their
rehearsal outside the limits of the camp, now entered, and commenced
their performance in front of the elevated moat--upon which Sir
Marmaduke and his friends had placed themselves, in order to obtain a
better view of the spectacle.

The dancers were of both sexes--maidens and men--the former dressed in
gay bodice and kirtle; the latter in their shirt sleeves, clean washed
for the occasion--their arms and limbs banded with bright ribbons; bells
suspended from their garters; and other adornments in true _Morisco_
fashion.

There were some among them wearing character dresses: one representing
the bold outlaw Robin Hood; another his trusty lieutenant, Little John;
a third the jolly Friar Tuck, and so forth.

There were several of the girls also in character costumes.  "Maid
Marian," the "Queen of the May," and other popular personages of the
rural fancy, were personified.

The morris dancers soon became the centre of general attraction.  The
humbler guests of Sir Marmaduke--having partaken of the cheer which he
had so liberally provided for them--had returned into the camp; and now
stood clustered around the group of Terpsichoreans, with faces
expressing the liveliest delight.

Balloons, bowls, wrestling, and single-stick were for the time forsaken:
for the morris dance was tacitly understood, and expected, to be the
chief attraction of the day.

It is true, that only peasant girls were engaged in it; but among these
was more than one remarkable for a fine figure and comely face--
qualities by no means rare in the cottage-homes of the Chilterns.

Two were especially signalised for their good looks--the representatives
of Maid Marian and the Queen of the May--the former a dark brunette of
the gipsy type--while the queen was a contrasting _blonde_, with hazel
eyes, and hair of flaxen hue.

Many a young peasant among their partners in the dance--and also in the
circle of spectators--watched the movements of these rustic belles with
interested eyes.  Ay, and more than one cavalier might have been
observed casting sly glances towards Maid Marian, and the Queen of the
May.

While those were bestowing their praises upon the peasant girls, in
stereotyped phrases of gallantry, some of the stately dames standing
around might have found cause to be jealous; and some _were_ so.

Was Marion Wade among the number?

Alas! it was even so.  New as the feeling was, and slight the incident
that called it forth, that fell passion had sprung up within her heart.
It was the first time it had been touched with such a sting: for it was
her first love, and too recent to have met with a reverse.  A pang never
felt before, she scarce comprehended its nature.  She only knew its
cause.  Holtspur was standing in the front rank of spectators--close to
the ring in which the morris dancers were moving.  As the beautiful Bet
Dancey--who represented Maid Marian--went whirling voluptuously through
the figures of the dance, her dark gipsy eyes, gleaming with amorous
excitement, seemed constantly turned upon him.  Marion Wade could not
fail to observe the glance: for it was recklessly given.  It was not
this, however, that caused that pain to spring up within her bosom.  The
forest maiden might have gazed all day long upon the face of Henry
Holtspur, without exciting the jealousy of the lady--had her gaze failed
to elicit a return.  But once, as the latter turned quickly towards him,
she fancied she saw the glance of the girl given back, and the
passionate thought reciprocated!

A peculiar pang, never felt before, like some poisoned dart, pierced to
the very core of her heart--almost causing her to cry out.  In the
rustic belle she recognised a rival!

The pain was not the less poignant, from its being her first experience
of it.  On the contrary, it was, perhaps, more so; and from that moment
Marion Wade stood, cowed and cowering, with blanched brow--her blue eye
steadily fixed upon the countenance of Henry Holtspur--watching with
keen anxiety every movement of his features.

The dark doubt that had arisen in her mind was not to be resolved in
that hour.  Scarce had she entered upon her anxious surveillance when an
incident arose, causing the morris dance to be suddenly interrupted.

Amidst the shouts, laughter, and cheering that accompanied the
spectacle, only a few who had strayed outside the enclosure of the camp,
caught the first whisperings of a strange, and to them, inexplicable
sound.  It appeared to proceed from some part of the road--outside the
main entrance of the camp; and resembled a continued tinkling of steel
implements, mingled with the hoof-strokes of a multitude of horses--not
going at will, but ridden with that cadenced step that betokens the
passage of a squadron of cavalry.

They who first heard it, had scarce time to make this observation--much
less to communicate their thoughts to the people inside the camp--when
another sound reached their ears--equally significant of the movement of
mounted men.  It was the call of a cavalry bugle commanding the "Halt."

At the same instant the hoof-strokes ceased to be heard; and, as the
last notes of the bugle died away in the distant woods, there was an
interim of profound silence, broken only by the soft cooing of the
wood-quest, or the shriller piping of the thrush.

Equally within the camp was the silence complete.  The cheers had been
checked, and the laughter subdued, at that unusual sound.  The ears of
all were bent to listen for its repetition; while all eyes were turned
in the direction whence it appeared to have proceeded.

There was something ominous in the sudden interruption of the sports, by
a sound unexpected, as it was ill understood; and some faces, but the
moment before beaming with joy, assumed a serious aspect.

"Soldiers!" exclaimed several voices in the same breath; while the
crowd, forsaking the spectacle of the morris dance, rushed up to the top
of the moat, and stood listening as before.

Once more came the clear tones of the cavalry trumpet, this time
directing the "Forward"; and, before the signal had ceased to echo over
the undulations of the park, the first files of a squadron of
cuirassiers were seen passing between the massive piers of the main
entrance, and advancing along the drive that led towards the mansion.

File followed file in regular order--each horseman, as he debouched from
under the shadow of the trees, appearing to become a-blaze through the
sudden flashing of the sunbeams upon the plates of his polished armour.

As the troop, riding by two's, had half advanced into the open ground,
and still continued advancing, it presented the appearance of some
gigantic snake gliding in through the gateway--the steel armour
representing its scales, and the glittering files answering to the
vertebrae of the reptile.

When all had ridden inside, and commenced winding up the slope that
conducted to the dwelling, still more perfect was this resemblance to
some huge serpent--beautiful but dangerous--crawling slowly on to the
destruction of its victim.

"_The cuirassiers of the king_!"

There were many in the camp who needed not this announcement to make
known to them the character of the new comers.  The cuirass covering the
buff doublet--the steel cap and gorget--the cuisses on the thighs--the
pauldrons protecting the shoulders--the rear and vam-braces on the
arms--all marked the mailed costume of the cuirassier; while the royal
colours, carried in front by the cornet of the troop, proclaimed them
the cuirassiers of the king.

By the side of this officer rode another, whose elegant equipments and
splendidly caparisoned horse announced him to be the officer in
command--the captain.

"The cuirassiers of the king!"  What wanted they in the park of Sir
Marmaduke Wade?  Or what was their business at his mansion: for thither
were they directing their march?

This question was put by more than one pair of lips; but by none less
capable of answering it than those of Sir Marmaduke himself.

The spectacle of the morris dance had been altogether abandoned.  Both
actors and spectators had rushed promiscuously towards the moat--on that
side fronting to the park--and having taken stand upon its crest, were
uttering exclamations of astonishment, or exchanging interrogatories
about this new interlude not mentioned in the programme of the
entertainments.

At this moment the bugle once more brayed out the "Halt"; and, in
obedience to the signal, the cuirassiers again reined up.

As by this the head of the troop had arrived opposite to the old camp--
and was at no great distance from it--some words that passed between the
two officers, could be heard distinctly by the people standing upon the
moat.

"I say, Stubbs," called out the captain, spurring a length or two out
from the troop, and pointing towards the camp, "What are those rustics
doing up yonder?  Can you guess?"

"Haven't the most distant idea," answered the individual addressed.

"They appear to be in their holiday toggery--best bibs and tuckers.
Is't a Whitsun-ale or a May-making?"

"Can't be either," rejoined Stubbs.  "Isn't the season.  No, by Ged!"

"By the smock of Venus! there appear to be some pretty petticoats among
them?  Mayn't be such dull quarters after all."

"No, by Ged!  Anything but dull, I should say."

"Ride within speaking distance; and ask them, what the devil they are
doing."

The cornet, thus commanded, clapped spurs to his horse; and, after
galloping within fifty paces of the fosse, pulled up.

"What the devil are you doing?" cried he, literally delivering the order
with which he had been entrusted.

Of course to such a rude interrogatory, neither Sir Marmaduke, nor any
of those standing around him, vouchsafed response.  Some of the common
people in the crowd, however, called out--"We're merry-making.  It's a
fete--a birthday celebration."

"Oh! that's it," muttered the cornet, turning and riding back to
communicate the intelligence to his superior officer.

"Let's go up, and make their acquaintance," said the latter, as Stubbs
delivered his report.  "We shall reconnoitre these rustic beauties of
Bucks, giving them the advantage of their holiday habiliments.  What say
you, Stubbs?"

"Agreeable," was the laconic reply of the cornet.

"_Allons_! as they say in France.  We may find something up yonder worth
climbing the hill for.  As they also say in France, _nous verrons_!"

Ordering the troopers to dismount, and stand by their horses--their own
being given to a brace of grooms--the two officers, in full armour as
they were, commenced ascending the slope that led to the Saxon
encampment.

Volume One, Chapter XVIII.

"So, good, people!" said Scarthe, as soon as he and his companion had
entered within the enclosure, "holding holiday are you?  An admirable
idea in such fine weather--with the azure sky over your heads, and the
green trees before your faces.  Pray don't let us interrupt your
Arcadian enjoyment.  Go on with the sports!  I hope you have no
objection to our becoming spectators?"

"No! no!" cried several voices in response, "you are welcome, sirs! you
are welcome!"

Having thus spoken their permission, the people once more dispersed
themselves over the ground; while the two officers, arm in arm,
commenced strolling through the encampment--followed by a crowd of the
lower class of peasants, who continued to gratify their curiosity by
gazing upon the steel-clad strangers.

Sir Marmaduke and his friends had returned to their former stand--upon
the elevated crest of the moat, and at some distance from the causeway,
where the officers had entered.  The latter saunteringly proceeded in
that direction; freely flinging their jests among the crowd who
accompanied them; and now and then exchanging phrases of no very gentle
meaning, with such of the peasant girls as chanced to stray across their
path.

The host of the fete had resolved not to offer the intruders a single
word of welcome.  The rude demand made by the comet, coupled with the
coarse dialogue between the two officers--part of which he had
overheard--had determined Sir Marmaduke to take no notice of them, until
they should of themselves declare their errand.

He had ordered the morris dance to be resumed.  In front of where he
stood the dancers had reformed their figures; and, with streaming
ribbons and ringing bells, were again tripping it over the turf.

"By the toes of Terpsichore, a morris dance!" exclaimed the captain of
cuirassiers, as he came near enough to recognise the costume and
measure.  "An age since I have seen one!"

"Never saw one in my life," rejoined Stubbs; "except on the stage.  Is
it the same?"

No doubt Stubbs spoke the truth.  He had been born in the ward of Cheap,
and brought up within the sound of Bow-bells.

"Not quite the same," drawled the captain, "though something like--if I
remember aright.  Let's forward, and have a squint at it."

Hastening their steps a little, the two officers soon arrived on the
edge of the circle; and without taking any notice of the "people of
quality," who were stationed upon the platform above, they commenced
flinging free jibes among the dancers.

Some of these made answer with spirit--especially Little John and the
Jolly Friar, who chanced to be fellows of a witty turn; and who in their
own rude fashion gave back to the two intruders full value for what they
received.

Bold Robin--who appeared rather a surly representative of Sherwood's
hero--bore their sallies with an indifferent grace--more especially on
perceiving that the eyes of the cuirassier captain became lit up with a
peculiar fire, while following Maid Marian through the mazes of the
dance.

But the heart of the pseudo-outlaw was destined to be further wrung.  A
climax was at hand.  As Marian came to the close of one of her grandest
_pas_, the movement had inadvertently brought her close to the spot
where the cuirassier captain was standing.

"Bravo! beautiful Marian!" cried the latter, bending towards her, and
clasping her rudely around the waist.  "Allow a thirsty soldier to drink
nectar from those juicy lips of thine."

And without finishing the speech, or waiting for her consent--which he
knew would be refused--he protruded his lips through the visor of his
helmet, till they came in contact with those of the girl.

A blow from a clenched feminine fist, received right in his face,
neither disconcerted nor angered the daring libertine; who answered it
by a loud reckless laugh, in which he was joined by his cornet, and
chorussed by some of the less sentimental of the spectators.

There were others who did not seem inclined to treat the affair in this
jocular fashion.

Cries of "Shame!"  "Pitch into him!"  "Gie it him, Robin!" were heard
among the crowd; and angry faces could be seen mingled with the merry
ones.

The idol of England's peasantry needed not such stimulus to stir him to
action.  Stung by jealousy, and the insult offered to his sweetheart, he
sprang forward; and, raising his crossbow--the only weapon he carried--
high overhead, he brought it down with a "thwack" upon the helmet of the
cuirassier captain, which caused the officer to stagger some paces
backward ere he could recover himself.

"Take that, dang thee!" shouted Robin, as he delivered the blow.  "Take
that; an' keep thy scurvy kisses to thyself."

"Low-born peasant!" cried the cuirassier, his face turning purple as he
spoke, "if thou wert worthy a sword, I'd spit thee like a red-herring.
Keep off, churl, or I may be tempted to take thy life!"

As he uttered this conditional threat, he drew his sword; and stood with
the blade pointing towards the breast of bold Robin.

There was an interval of profound silence.  It was terminated by a voice
among the crowd crying out:--"Yonder comes the man that'll punish him!"

All eyes were turned towards the elevated platform, on which stood the
"people of quality."  There was a commotion among the cavaliers.  One,
who had separated from the rest, was seen hurrying down the sloping side
of the moat, and making direct for the scene of the contention.

He had only a dozen steps to go; and, before either the pseudo-outlaw of
Sherwood-forest, and his mailed adversary, could change their relative
positions, he had glided in between them.

The first intimation the cuirassier had of a true antagonist, was, when
a bright sword-blade rasped against his own, striking sparks of fire
from the steel; and he beheld standing in front of him, no longer a
"low-born peasant," clad in Kendal Green, but a cavalier in laced
doublet, elegantly attired as himself, and equally as determined.

This new climax silenced the spectators, as suddenly, as if the wand of
an enchanter had turned them into stone; and it was not till after some
seconds had elapsed that murmurs of applause rose round the ring,
coupled with that popular cry, "_Huzza for the black horseman_!"

For a moment the captain of cuirassiers seemed awed into silence.  Only
for a moment, and only by the suddenness of the encounter.  Swaggerer as
he may have been, Scarthe was no coward; and under the circumstances
even a coward must have shown courage.  Though still under the influence
of a partial intoxication, he knew that bright eyes were upon him; he
knew that high-born dames were standing within ten paces of the spot;
and, though hitherto, for reasons of his own, pretending to ignore their
presence, he knew they had been spectators of all that had passed.  He
had no intention, therefore, of showing the white feather.

Perhaps it was the individual, who had thus presented himself, as much
as his sudden appearance, that held him for the moment speechless: for
in the antagonist before him, Scarthe recognised the cavalier, who in
front of the roadside inn had daringly drunk--

"To the People!"

The souvenir of this insult, added to this new defiance, furnished a
double stimulus to his resentment--which at length found expression in
words.

"You it is, disloyal knave?  You!"

"Disloyal or not," calmly returned the cavalier, "I demand reparation
for the slight you have offered to this respectable assemblage.  Your
free fashions may do for Flanders--where I presume you've been
practising them--but I must teach you to salute the fair maidens of
England in a different style."

"And who are you, who propose to give the lesson?"

"No _low-born peasant_, Captain Richard Scarthe!  Don't fancy you can
screen yourself behind that coward's cloak.  You must fight, or
apologise?"

"Apologise!" shouted the soldier, in a furious voice, "Captain Scarthe
apologise!  Ha! ha! ha!  Hear that Cornet Stubbs?  Did you ever know
_me_ to apologise?"

"Never, by Ged!" muttered Stubbs in reply.

"As you will then," said the cavalier, placing himself in an attitude to
commence the combat.

"No, no!" cried Maid Marian, throwing herself in front of Holtspur, as
if to screen his body with her own.  "You must not, sir.  It is not
fair.  He is in armour, and you, sir--"

"No--it arn't fair!" proclaimed several voices; while at the same
moment, a large fierce-looking man, with bushy black beard, was seen
pushing his way through the crowd towards the spot occupied by the
adversaries.

"Twoant do, Master Henry," cried the bearded man as he came up.  "You
mustn't risk it that way.  I know ye're game for any man on the groun',
or in England eyther; but it arn't fair.  The sodger captain must peel
off them steel plates o' his; and let the fight be a fair 'un.  What say
ye, meeats?"

This appeal to the bystanders was answered by cries of "Fair play! fair
play!  The officer must take off his armour!"

"Certainly," said Walter Wade, at this moment coming up.  "If these
gentlemen are to fight, the conditions must be equal.  Of course,
Captain Scarthe, you will not object to that?"

"I desire no advantage," rejoined the cuirassier captain.  "He may do as
he likes; but I shall not lay aside my armour on any account."

"Then your antagonist must arm also," suggested one of the gentlemen,
who had accompanied Walter.  "The combat cannot go on, till that be
arranged."

"No! no!" chimed in several voices, "both should be armed alike."

"Perhaps this gentleman," said one, pointing to the cornet, "will have
no objection to lend his for the occasion?  That would simplify matters.
It appears to be about the right size."

Stubbs looked towards his captain, as much as to say, "Shall I refuse?"

"Let him have it!" said Scarthe, seeing that the proposal could not well
be declined.

"He's welcome to it!" said the cornet, who instantly commenced
unbuckling.

There were hands enough to assist Henry Holtspur in putting on the
defensive harness; and, in a few minutes' time, he was encased in the
steel accoutrements of the cornet--cuirass and gorget, pauldrons,
cuisses, and braces--all of which fortunately fitted, as if they had
been made for him.

The helmet still remained in the hand of one of the attendants--who made
a motion towards placing it upon Holtspur's head.

"No!" said the latter, pushing it away.  "I prefer wearing my beaver."
Then pointing to the trophy set above its brim, he added, "It carries
that which will sufficiently protect my head.  An English maiden has
been insulted, and under the glove of an English maiden shall the insult
be rebuked."

"Don't be so confident in the virtue of your pretty trophy," rejoined
Scarthe with a sarcastic sneer.  "Ere long I shall take that glove from
your hat, and stick it on the crest of my helmet.  No doubt I shall then
have come by it more honestly than you have done."

"Time enough to talk of wearing, when you have won it," quietly retorted
the cavalier.  "Though, by my troth," added he, returning sneer for
sneer, "you should strive hard to obtain it; you stand in need of a
trophy to neutralise the loss of your spurs left behind you in the ford
of Newburn."

The "ford of Newburn" was Scarthe's especial fiend.  He was one of that
five thousand horsemen, who under Conway had ignominiously retreated
from the Tyne--spreading such a panic throughout the whole English army,
as to carry it without stop or stay far into the heart of Yorkshire.
Once before had Holtspur flung the disgraceful souvenir in his teeth;
and now to be a second time reproached with it, before a crowd of his
countrymen, before his own followers--many of whom had by this time
entered within the camp--but above all, in presence of that more
distinguished circle of proud and resplendent spectators, standing
within earshot, on the moat above--that was the direst insult to which
he had ever been subjected.  As his antagonist repeated the taunting
allusion, his brow already dark, grew visibly darker; while his thin
lips whitened, as if the blood had altogether forsaken them.

"Base demagogue!" cried he, hissing the words through his clenched
teeth, "your false tongue shall be soon silenced.  On the escutcheon of
Captain Scarthe there is no stain, save the blood of his enemies, and
the enemies of his king.  Yours shall be mingled with the rest."

"Come!" cried Holtspur, with an impatient wave of his weapon.  "I stand
not here for a contest of tongues; in which no doubt the accomplished
courtier Scarthe would prove my superior.  Our swords are drawn!  Are
you ready, sir?"

"No," responded Scarthe.

"No?" interrogated his antagonist with a look of surprise.  "What--"

"Captain Scarthe is a cuirassier.  He fights not a-foot."

"You are the challenged party!" put in Stubbs, "You have the right of
choice, captain."

"Our combat then shall be on horseback."

"Thanks for the favour, gentlemen!" responded Holtspur, with a pleased
look, "My own wish exactly; though I had scarce hoped to obtain it.  You
have said the word--we fight on horseback."

"My horse!" shouted Scarthe, turning to one of his troopers.  "Bring him
up; and let the ground he cleared of this rabble."

There was no necessity for the order last issued.  As soon as it had
become known, that the combat was to be fought on horseback, the people
scattered on all sides--rushing towards the crest of the moat, and there
taking their stand--most of them delighted at the prospect of witnessing
a spectacle, which, even in those chivalrous times, was of uncommon
occurrence.

Volume One, Chapter XIX.

From the commanding eminence, on which were clustered the "quality
folks," the preparations had been watched with a vivid interest, and
with emotions varying in kind.

"Splendid!" exclaimed Dorothy Dayrell, as the sword-blades were seen
clashing together.  "Beats the morris dancers all to bits!  Just what I
like!  One of those little interludes not mentioned in the programme of
the entertainment.  Surely we're going to see a fight?"

Lora Lovelace trembled, as she listened to these speeches.

"Oh, Dorothy Dayrell!" said she, turning upon the latter an upbraiding
look, "'Tis too serious for jesting.  You do not mean it?"

"But I do mean it, Mistress Lovelace.  I'm not jesting.  Not a bit of
it.  I'm quite in earnest, I assure you."

"Surely you would not wish to see blood spilled?"

"And why not?  What care I, so long as it isn't my own blood; or that of
one of my friends.  Ha! ha! ha!  What are either of these fellows to
you, or me?  I know neither.  If they're angry with each other, let them
fight it out.  Foh-poh!  They may _kill_ one another, for aught I care."

"Wicked woman!" thought Lora, without making rejoinder.

Marion Wade overheard the unfeeling utterances; but she was too much
occupied with what was passing on the plain below, to give heed to them.
That incipient suspicion, though still unsatisfied, was not troubling
her now.  It had given place to a feeling of apprehension, for the
safety of him who had been its object.

"My God!" she murmured in soliloquy, her hands clasped over her bosom--
the slender white fingers desperately entwining each other.  "If he
should be killed!  Walter! dear Walter!" she cried, earnestly appealing
to her brother, "Go down, and stop it!  Tell him--tell them they must
not fight.  O father, _you_ will not permit it?"

"Perhaps I may not be able to hinder them," said Walter, springing out
from among the circle of his acquaintances.  "But I shall go down.  You
will not object, father?  Mr Holtspur is alone, and may stand in need
of a friend."

"Go, my son!" said Sir Marmaduke, pleased at the spirit his son was
displaying.  "It matters not who, or what, he be.  He is our guest, and
has been your protector.  If they are determined on fighting, see that
he be shown fair play."

"Never fear, father!" rejoined Walter, hurrying down the slope.  "And if
that drunken cornet dare to interfere," continued he, half speaking to
himself--"I'll give _him_ a taste of _my_ temper, very different from
what he had last night."

As he gave utterance to this threat, the ex-courtier passed through the
crowd, followed by several other gentlemen; who, from different motives,
were also hastening towards the scene of contention.

"Come, Mistress Marion Wade!" whispered Dorothy, in a significant way.
"It is not your wont to be thus tender-hearted.  What is it to us,
whether they fight or no?  It isn't _your_ quarrel.  This elegant
cavalier, who seems to set everybody beside themselves, is not _your_
champion, is he?  If any one has reason to be interested in his fate, by
my trow, I should say it was the Maid Marian--_alias_ Bet Dancey.  And
_certes_, she does seem to take interest in him.  See!  What's she doing
now, the modest creature?  By my word, I believe the wench is about to
throw herself upon his breast, and embrace him!"

These words entered the ears of Marion Wade with stinging effect.
Suddenly turning she looked down upon the sea of faces, that had
thickened, and was swerving around the two men; who were expected soon
to become engaged in deadly strife.  Many of the cuirassiers had arrived
upon the ground, and their steel armour now glittered conspicuously
among the more sombre vestments of the civilian spectators.

Marion took no note of these; nor of aught else, save the half score
figures that occupied the centre of the ring.  Scarthe and his cornet,
Henry Holtspur, Robin Hood, Little John, and the Friar were there; and
there, too, was Maid Marian!  What was _she_ doing in the midst of the
men?  She had thrown herself in front of the cavalier--between him and
his adversary.  Her hands were upraised--one of them actually resting
upon Holtspur's shoulder!  She appeared to be speaking in earnest
appeal--as if dissuading him from the combat!

"In what way could the daughter of Dick Dancey be interested in the
actions of Henry Holtspur?"

The question came 

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