When Charles the First Was King

By J. S. Fletcher.

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It may be thought by some, who from prejudice or ignorance are not in a position to judge properly of the matter, that there is nothing in this part of England which is worth writing of or describing, so strange are the views held by outsiders of us Yorkshiremen, so peculiar the ideas which many people have respecting our land, people, and manners. There is an impression beyond our borders that we are never so happy as when engaged in a horse-dealing transaction, and it is quite true that we are fond of trade in that direction, and bad to overreach when it comes to a question of hard bargaining. Nevertheless, it is not true that we think of nothing else but horse-dealing, any more than that our county⁠—or, at least, some parts of it⁠—is not to be compared for natural beauties with other shires which have achieved more fame in that way. I have heard travelled men discourse of the fine scenery and beautiful landscapes of Cumberland and Westmoreland, and of the grandeur of Devon and Cornwall, not to speak of Derbyshire and some parts of Wales, comparing divers districts of these to the country in Switzerland and Italy, which is, I understand, as fair as anything this earth can show; but, in spite of that, it has always seemed to me that our own three Ridings can exhibit as many pleasing prospects as man need wish for; so that a Yorkshireman casting his eyes upon them must needs thank God that he has been placed to live his life amongst such delectable spots. For we have hill and valley, and broad tracts of luscious meadow-land where you may feed a thousand head of cattle and never hurt the luxuriance of the grass, and our rivers are comparable for quiet beauty with Trent or Severn, and our rocky defiles are oftentimes as wild as anything that you will meet in Scotland or Cumberland. Then, again, our seaboard is such as few countries can show the like of, consisting as it does of rough promontory and rocky headland, joined with long stretches of brown sand, across which the North Sea’s waves come tumbling cold and icy from Norroway. Nay, when I begin to think in good earnest of the matter, and to remember what I have seen in other days⁠—for I have travelled somewhat myself⁠—I am certain that for diversity of scenery you may roam the wide world over and never find a country so fair, so rich in Nature’s gifts, so pleasing to the eye, as my native Yorkshire.

And of all parts of this broad-acred land there is none which I so much love or admire as that in which the greater portion of my life hath been spent, though I indeed have seen the whole of the three Ridings, from Cronkley Fell to Featherbed Moss, and from Flamborough Head to Bowland Forest. There is a fine beauty about the dales of the North Riding, and I have seen sights upon the lonely wolds of Cleveland and Ryedale which did inspire me with feelings of awe and great wonder. And I have heard artists who understood these matters say that amongst those dales and hills there are scenes which not all the world can show the equal of. Howbeit I am no artist, though loving a good picture, but only a simple yeoman born and bred on the land, and never so happy as when breathing in the fresh air of a spring morning as it steals to your nostrils over the breadth of a new-ploughed field; and so, when it comes to a question of comparison between these districts, I give the palm to the broad meadow-lands and deep woods and gentle undulations of that corner of the West Riding where first I saw the light, where I have passed the greater part of my life to this present time, where, please God, I shall die and lie at peace.

If you will take your chart of Yorkshire and draw with your pen a straight line from Doncaster to Wakefield, from Wakefield to Wetherby, from Wetherby to York, from York to Goole, and from Goole to Doncaster again, you will have enclosed the tract of land of which I have spoken. I question if you can find throughout the length and breadth of England a similar piece of country more rich in historical associations, more odorous of national life, more beautiful in its own quiet way. Here we have no great mountains, no rushing rivers, no awesome valleys, but the land rolls along in richness of wood and stream, thorpe and hamlet, the gray spires and towers of village churches rising heavenward here and there, the red roofs of farmsteads, the tall gables of manors and halls peeping from the great groves of elm and beech and chestnut which stud the land everywhere in prodigal luxuriance. Right through this land runs the Great North Road like a silver streak, straight and direct, so that as I stand at my door o’ nights I can hear the carriers’ wagons rumbling north and south, and the quick gallop of horses hurried on by postboys fearful of highwayman and footpad, of whom in this year of grace, 1686, there are still many left amongst us. Branching from this noble highway go roads right and left, making communications between our villages and market-towns easy, and being in a general way of speaking well kept. Right merry market-towns, too, are they of which I speak, and not to be put down by any of their fellows in England. For there is merrie Wakefield, with its bridge and chapel, where battles have been fought, and a king’s son foully slain, and where in old times bows were made of right good Yorkshire ash or willow; and there is Pontefract with its great castle, now falling into ruins, and its mighty Church of All Saints, and half a score of ancient religious houses; and there is Selby, with its glorious Abbey, whose towers and pinnacles you may see for many a square mile round about; and there is Wetherby, and Snaith, and Sherburn, and Thorne, each a fair market-town; and there is Goole, whence along the Ouse and Humber go ships even to the ports of Holland; and at the southern point there is Doncaster, breathing the air and spirit of English freedom; and at the northern there is York, the proud and beautiful city, whose great Minster looks forth across the embattled walls upon the broad lands beyond, like a fair mother watching her children. And between these market-towns, fenced in by wood and stream and meadow, and embowered in leafy hedgerows, stands many a smiling village and hamlet, with its old church and great manor or castle standing in the midst of broad parks and pleasaunces. Here and there, too, you may come across some homestead standing alone in its meadows and closes, and yet never so far from a village that its occupants are entirely neighbourless. A fair land and a rich it is, and dear to me, as I have already said, because it bore and nursed me, and has smiled upon me, year in, year out, when human eyes did not smile, comforting me by its very beauty when life seemed dark and inexplicable.

It was within four miles of the ancient and historic market-town of Pontefract, where kings have been imprisoned and done to death, that I, William Dale, yeoman, was born in the year of grace 1621. The house wherein I first drew breath is that in which I now live; I trust in God it may shelter me to the end, and my children and grandchildren after me, for a right good house of stone it is, and was new tiled the year I came to man’s estate, by Geoffrey Scholes, the mason, of Campsall, who did good and honest work in whatsoever he undertook. As for situation, it lieth somewhat lonely, but at a good altitude, and the air round about it is exceedingly clear and pleasant to breathe. It stands on the left-hand side of the highway as you go from Doncaster to Ferrybridge, and is distant exactly one and a half miles from the crossroads at Darrington and about three-quarters of a mile from Wentbridge. There is no house stands near it⁠—save one or two cottages that I builded for convenience’ sake, it being somewhat of a long way for the men to walk from the neighbouring villages, and the road nothing like safe o’ dark nights⁠—nevertheless, we have never felt afraid of harm, albeit we were visited more than once in the troublous times by robbers, who thought to take advantage of our lonely position. However, they were but ill-requited for their pains, two of the rascals carrying away nothing better than a charge of lead in their persons, and the third being shot stone dead by my cowherd, Jacob Trusty, as he was striving to make forcible entry into the pantry window. Yet lonely indeed is the situation of Dale’s Field, and some more used to company might fear the long winter evenings which we spend here. No feeling of this sort ever came over myself, who knew that all around me lay my own good land, nigh four hundred acres of it, grass and arable, of which my fathers had reaped the harvest for many a generation. Dales of Dale’s Field there have always been since William the Conqueror came over; God knows whether there always will be, for I have seen ancient families dwindle away and vanish root and branch, so that even my own good old stock may possibly in time die out, and our homestead vanish from the face of the earth, and our acres, for which we have more than once stood much hard contest, even to blood-shedding, be swallowed up in the estates around them.1

I have said that Dale’s Field stands at a good altitude, which is indeed a grateful truth. For standing at my door of a clear evening, and looking east and northeast, I can behold the two great hills rising up near Selby, the one called Hambleton Haugh, the other Brayton Barugh, and beyond them the long nave and high tower of Selby Abbey itself. Between me and them stretches a wide country of wood and meadow, which I am never tired of gazing upon in the summer evenings when I sit in my window with pipe and glass. For it seems to smile and smile and smile, and the green of the woods blends with the brown of the soil, and the clear blue overhead looks down on both with a smile of benediction. Somewhat of a flat land it is, that country due east, but none the less fair, seeing that it holdeth many a fair village, whose spires shoot upwards out of the green and stand clearly defined against the sky. To the northward, too, we can see a fair distance, where the high ground rises beyond Ferrybridge and Brotherton, over whose slopes the road climbs on its way to York. A prospect of this sort is always most grateful to us who are born on the soil, and more to be preferred, because of its peaceful character and gentle undulations, than the bolder scenery which you will find in our northern dales. Nevertheless, if I am minded to look upon more diversified prospects, I am not far removed from such, for across my home meadows lies the Vale of Went, than which I never saw aught more picturesque in all our land. A beautiful valley and a charming it is, as you would say did you but enter it at Church Smeaton, or even further east, and follow it to the hamlet of Wentbridge, where it widens and spreads itself out in the broad meadow-lands that stretch at the foot of the long rise of ground called Went Hill. Along this valley is much diversity of scenery, for sometimes the sides slope gently towards each other, and sometimes they are dark and rocky and frown with beetling masses of gray crag, and here and there are wild and barren, and in other places they are covered with luxuriant woods and groves of fir and pine. Nought fairer than Went Vale have I ever seen, especially as it presents itself in the early days of June, when all the trees are in leaf and the birds sing, sing, sing from morning till night, and the little stream of Went runs babbling along to join the Don some twenty miles away. Many a twist and turn does Went make as it flows through the valley. Now it is straight and placid, as between the millhouse and the bridge, and anon it winds in and out in capricious fashion, so that there is one spot where I have often stood and hurled a stone that crossed the stream five times in the one throw. Wealth, too, it hath of birds’-nests, and many a time have I tumbled down its rough and gnarly crags or from the yielding branches of its trees when hunting for the haunts of magpie and jackdaw, thrush and blackbird.

If you will look at your chart again you will find that my farmstead of Dale’s Field is removed but little space from the head of Went Hill. How many times have I stood there in the early morning, when the valley beneath was full of mist, the long banks of which dispersed as the sun rose and shone upon the land! A fair prospect it is from Went Hill top, for in the wide valley beneath lie villages and hamlets and manors that relieve the eye from the long stretches of brown and green. Across the vale rises Upton Beacon, where they lighted the great bonfire when the Spanish Armada came to attack us. Beneath it lies the hamlet of Thorpe, and a mile away the square tower of Badsworth Church rises from the thick woods that shut that village in. Further away, in the direction of Wakefield, lie Nostell and Wragby and Hemsworth, and many another fair village, and nearer at hand, to the northward, stand Ackworth and East Hardwick. Right at the head of the valley, and just peeping round the corner of the hill, is the village of Carleton, where for a brief season slept Oliver Cromwell and General Fairfax during the time of the siege of Pontefract Castle. And beyond Carleton, situate on high ground that shuts in the head of the valley like an amphitheatre, is Pontefract itself, its Church of St. Giles, in the marketplace, standing out bold and distinct against the sky.

Now, to stand upon the summit of Went Hill and behold the prospect from thence is always a pleasant matter, for there is the land to look upon, and the villages, and the meadows are full of grazing cattle, and the sheep are feeding busily adown the hillside, and there is a manner of thanksgiving in the air which did always affect my heart mightily, though why it should do so I know not, having never in my life been given to rhyming or reading of rhymes, save only Mr. William Shakespeare’s folio of plays which my father did buy in York when I was but a lad. But of a Sunday evening when, the light lasting till a late hour, they did use to sing Evensong in the parish churches at six instead of three, as in winter and autumn, I have often stood there with bowed and bared head listening reverently to the bells which sounded from all sides of me. Far across the valley were the bells of Pontefract and Ackworth and Badsworth, ringing out their peal with regular swing, and the bells of Darrington sounded over the hilltop, and those of Womersley sent their sound across the level land, and sometimes in the deep silence that followed when these were still, I caught the last faint tinkle of the bells of Smeaton making music across the woods and meadows. A beautiful and a holy sound it was, and raised in me a solemn feeling which not all the exhortations of Master Drumbleforth, our parson, could ever produce, though he indeed at one time did talk much and long to me of my soul’s health, when it seemed as if my condition needed it.

It is amidst these scenes that my life hath been spent, and it is from them that what I have to tell must gain interest, if interest there can be in a plain chronicle of the doings of a simple farmer, whose lot it has been to live in somewhat troublous times and be dragged into the concerns thereof sorely against his will. It would best have suited me, as it suited my fathers before me, to have lived my life on the land undisturbed, to have had no greater matters to think of than the ploughing of the twelve-acre or the sowing of early wheat, to have taken no further journey than to York or Doncaster, and to have been free from affairs of State and difficulties of lawyers’ making. Howbeit, Providence, which hath many things to provide for, ordained that my life for awhile was to be neither quiet nor ordinary, and did hustle and bustle me hither and thither like one of my own haycocks in a gale of wind. For in my earlier days I saw what no honest Englishman cares to see, namely, the country divided against itself, Englishman fighting with Englishman, Parliament against the Monarchy, so that oftentimes father fought against son, and brother with brother, and the land was alive with Roundheads and Cavaliers, and peaceable citizens knew not what to make of things, and battles were fought, and the throne pulled down, and they laid siege to Pontefract Castle and dismantled it, and cut off the king’s head before his own palace of Whitehall, at which sad business I, William Dale, was present, and have to this day a memento of, to wit, a kerchief steeped in his Majesty’s blood. And in these declining years of my life⁠—though I am, thank God, as hale and hearty a man as you will find in the three Ridings⁠—I am minded, chiefly through the persuasions of my daughter Dorothy, who is fond of her book, to write down with such small skill as I have or she can lend me, somewhat concerning my adventures in those evil days that came upon us in the middle of this present century.

It would appear most fitting to the proper usages that, before going further, I should tell you something about our family and the mode of life we kept in my younger days, and also some particulars of our neighbours and friends, and likewise of our enemies, of whom you will hear no little before this history closes. And to begin with my own family first⁠—we Dales are of an ancient race, and have lived at Dale’s Field certainly since the time of the Conquest, and, I doubt not, even before that. That we are proud of our ancient birth and of the fact that age after age we have tilled our own land, goes without saying. It is, I think, an innocent pride, and not of the nature of that vainglory which we are commanded as good Christians to eschew.

There were four of us in family at Dale’s Field: my father, John Dale; my mother, Susannah Dale; my sister Lucy, and myself. To speak of my father first. He was a great man, a man of tall stature and broad shoulders, and his face was of the colour of a rising sun, red and healthy, and tanned with exposure to wind and rain and summer heat. A right hearty man he was, and was never known to refuse his meals. A healthy appetite, indeed, he always had, as most men have who, like him, are out of their beds and about their business ere ever Sol hath risen from the eastern horizon. Up and about was he at five in summer and six in winter, and would roundly rate any man that came to stall or stable a minute later than those hours. For he himself was abed by nine o’ the clock, and could not understand why a man wanted more than eight hours’ sleep. Once up, he would bustle about from stable to mistal, from barn to rickyard, urging on his men with cheery voice or honest scolding⁠—for he was a scrupulously fair master, and praised or blamed as need arose⁠—and seeing the day’s labour fairly commenced, until half-past seven, when breakfast was served in our great kitchen, and master and men sat down together. A custom, indeed, it hath always been in our family, and one which I have religiously preserved, for all under the roof to eat together, according to their various station of life. Thus my father and mother sat at a cross-table with Lucy and myself, and the men were placed in order at long tables set out on either side of the great kitchen. Nor did the meat served at our table differ from that served at our servants’, for it was my father’s opinion that master and man, who shared the toils of the land, should also share the produce thereof, wherefore no man of ours was ever stinted of beef or beer or bread.

My father’s mode of life was as simple and regular as well could be. After breakfast⁠—whereat he always drank no more than a quart of small ale, holding that no one should drink much liquor before noon⁠—he went forth to ride round his fields, mounted on a little white mare named Dumpling, which was an animal of exceeding strength though low stature. How many miles he had ridden upon Dumpling, I know not; yet Jack Drumbleforth, our parson’s son, did once compute it at some thousands. Nor was Jack far out in his reckoning, for my father and Dumpling were used to turn out of the yard as the kitchen clock struck nine, and did not appear again until noon, the intervening hours being passed in riding up one field and down another, or in cantering along the road to Darrington to give an order to blacksmith or carpenter. After dinner in the great kitchen, my father would smoke a pipe in my mother’s parlour, and drink a glass of strong waters, and maybe fall asleep for the space of half an hour, after which he would arise and shake himself, and go forth and mount Dumpling once more and ride out amongst his men. And at suppertime he would talk to my mother of the day’s doings and the weather, and would then smoke more tobacco⁠—which habit was then becoming popular⁠—and drink ale out of his own silver flagon, and at nine o’clock would lock up his house and go to bed, where he slept, as he himself hath often said, without dream or even turning over, until the cocks began to crow in the yard outside.

Upon Saturdays it was my father’s custom, having eaten a larger breakfast than usual, to attire himself in his second-best suit of clothes, and make ready to ride into Pontefract market. There were times when my mother went with him, and then the light cart was brought out of the shed, and Dobbin, the brown horse, harnessed in the shafts, for Dumpling would never abide other gear than a saddle. When my father went alone, however, Dumpling was extra well groomed, and wore the new bridle and stirrups, and the two departed about ten o’clock, my father carrying little bags of wheat or barley samples in his pockets, to show to them that dealt in such matters. Other produce which went to market, or stock like cattle or sheep, was taken thither by Jacob Trusty or Timothy Grass earlier in the morning. All day long would my father remain at market, dining at the farmers’ ordinary, and when business was done remaining an hour longer to drink with his friends and acquaintance. Nevertheless, he always strove to arrive at his home ere night fell, for the road was here and there of a lonely nature, and there were dangerous characters abroad.

Once, indeed, coming home from Pontefract market, my father did light upon an adventure which had been like to put an end to him forever. It chanced that Jacob Trusty, our cowherd, had that day driven four-and-twenty young beasts to market, and there my father speedily sold them to Richard Myles, the butcher, who paid him for the same openly in the street. And as they were counting the money my father took notice of two evil-looking men, habited like north-country cattle-drovers, who hung about in the crowd and cast longing glances at Dick Myles’s bag of money. Howbeit, he lost sight of them and thought no more upon the matter. But riding homewards, between the crossroads at Darrington and Dale’s Field, and being come to the great plantation which occurs ’twixt the milestones, two men mounted did suddenly ride out of the trees, and commanded him to halt and deliver. Whereupon, Dumpling, responding, shot out like an arrow and flew homewards, and my father, bending low over her shoulders, heard two bullets whistle above his head. And the men following hard, it became a question whether or not they would come up to him before Dale’s Field was reached. More than one shot did they fire, but Dumpling galloped fast, and outstripped the taller brutes ridden by the highwaymen. But when the yard gate was reached the pursuers were almost upon them, and if it had not been that my mother heard the unwonted clatter of Dumpling’s feet, my father had been slain at his own door. Howbeit, she, hearing the commotion, opened the house-door, and my father leaping off, entered, bringing Dumpling with him, and barred the door behind them. And while Dumpling and my mother, the one trembling and all of a lather, and the other frightened and fearful, stood in the great kitchen, my father took down his fowling-piece and ran upstairs, and there from a little window did let fly at the men to such purpose that one of them screamed and reeled, and both rode off as hard as their brutes could carry them. And the next morning there was blood on the paving of the yard, so that we judged that the villains had received more than they ever wished to have.

As for my mother, Susannah Dale, she was the daughter of Master Richard Challoner, the corn-miller of Ackworth, who left her a tidy portion at his death. She was a tall, fine woman, well suited to marry such a man as my father, of whom, indeed, she cherished a great affection, as he did of her, both thinking there was no such husband or wife in all the land. A capital housewife she was, and had a manner of preserving plums which was famous for twenty miles around, so that it became usual to say of a fresh-looking old man or woman that he or she was as well conserved as Mistress Dale’s damsons. For the other matters which appertain to good housewifery she had a natural turn, and found great occasion of delight in curing hams and flitches, and rearing poultry of various sorts, in making up butter into curious devices, and in seeing that the apples, pears, plums, apricots, and gooseberries were properly attended to. There was never a weed in the kitchen garden, and she would never have slept at night if she had not previously seen with her own eyes that the hen-roost and pigeon-cote were secured from the foxes, who are always prowling round to see what they can pick up. Nor was there ever a weakly calf that she did not nurture with new milk, feeding it with spoon or quill until it seemed likely to do for itself. As for sewing, and mending, and making of new garments, she was indefatigable at it, and had always her knitting in her hand as she sat by the wood fire in her parlour, which was an exceeding pleasant apartment where all the conserves were kept, and the white table-linen and napery, of which she had much store, and the six silver forks given to her by her father at her marriage, with other matters, over which she loved to keep a vigilant watch. Also in that chamber there was a deep window-seat, filled with plants in scarlet-coloured pots, which she watered and tended every morning. And over against my mother’s chair, in which no one else ever sat, there was fixed an oaken shelf, made by our carpenter, which held certain books, her own property, out of which she read much. There was the Bishop’s Bible, and King James’s Bible, which they had just begun to sell, and there was Mr. Francis Quarles’ Pentalogia, or the Quintessence of Meditation, and Raphael Holinshed’s Chronicle, and Purchas, His Pilgrimage, and Pattenham’s Art of English Poesie, and the Compleat Farrier, out of which my mother was wont to read a cure for horse or cow temporarily afflicted, and there was Mr. William Shakespeare’s Plays, and Master Latimer’s Sermons on the Ploughers, and various others, all of which she read, being a great scholar in her way. But my father read little, save a chapter in the Bible every Sunday night; nevertheless, he was a great admirer of my mother’s learning, and did often say that there was no clerk in the archdiocese of York who knew more of book-craft than she did. And, indeed, she did often divert us in the long winter evenings by reading to us out of Mr. Shakespeare’s folio, which she accomplished in a manner so remarkable that we were moved to tears or laughter as the case might be, over the woes or humours of Hamlet and Ophelia, Romeo and Juliet, Sir John Falstaff and Mrs. Page. At these times my father would get so interested that he would conceive the matter to be real, and if there came a fight or an argument would shout forth his counsel to the side he favoured.

Although our situation at Dale’s Field was somewhat lonely and retired, we were not without company. For the village of Darrington, as I have already told you, lieth but a mile and three-quarters along the highway, and to Darrington Church we were accustomed to proceed every Sunday morning, wet or fine, hot or cold, throughout the year, my father holding that attendance upon Divine service was good preparation for the coming week. A pleasant walk indeed it was in summer, between the tall hedgerows and under the shadow of the ancient trees that line the roadside, and we were accustomed to look forward to it. Upon reaching the village we were used to meet with a stream of villagers going churchwards, with some of whom, our acquaintances, we fell in, discoursing of various matters until we came to the churchyard, where the people always fell into groups to wait the arrival of the vicar. A pretty sight it was the old, worn church in the background, the groups of boys round the ancient sundial over against the porch, the farmers in their best, chatting soberly about the harvest prospects, their wives discoursing domestic affairs, the young maidens, very gay as to their garments, smiling and whispering amongst themselves, and the young men eyeing the maidens. Then there were old men and old women, who came slowly up the paths and blessed everybody they spoke to, and somewhere about the porch hovered the parish constable, with his appurtenances of office, striking terror into the hearts of all who were naughtily disposed. And high above these groups sounded the music of the bells, of which there are three. These, we always thought, did use to say, “Come to church, come to church, come to church,” but Jacob Trusty, our cowherd, said that they inquired, “Who beats us, who beats us, who beats us?” However, they made fine jangling music, and could be heard right away at Dale’s Field, ere ever we set out down the road.

At five minutes to eleven two of the bells ceased ringing, and the third rang all alone until the hour. Then did latecomers, hearing the solitary bell, hurry their movements, and then did the Reverend Nathaniel Drumbleforth, our parson, come through the vicarage garden and approach the churchyard. A fine figure, too, he made of a Sunday morning, being habited in cassock, and gown, and bands, and wearing his best silver buckles and four-cornered cap, and the bow he would make to the assembled groups, as he passed between them, was as fine as anything you can see at court. To be sure, he was a college man, and had much learning, and had, it was even said, once written a learned work, so that it was only likely he should excel in courtliness. And when he had greeted us all and we him, he led the way into church and put his surplice on, and went into the reading-desk, and Thomas Cludde, the sexton, made ready to give due answer, and the bell ceased ringing above, and the service began with “Rend your hearts and not your garments.”

As for myself, in my younger days I was chiefly occupied during the time of Divine service in thinking about other matters. For there were matters which did more easily claim a lad’s attention than the reading and discoursing of Parson Drumbleforth, such as the performance of the village musicians, who sat in the chancel and played hymn tunes, and the flying about of the swallows and sparrows, who came in through the open windows and twittered in the beams overhead. Likewise, in summer and spring, there came to our ears from the meadows outside the humming of bees and countless insects, who were flitting from flower to flower, mingled with the lowing of cattle and occasional neighing of horses. These things necessarily distracted my attention⁠—to wit, I used to wonder if there were eggs or fledglings in the swallow’s nest which I could see under the arch of the chancel, or if the sparrows were still building in the tower, or if that were Farmer Denby’s roan cow that mooed so loudly under the western window. To the musicians I gave great heed, for their performance was considered very fine. There was amongst them a violin, first and second, and a double bass, a couple of flutes, and a serpent, and when they were minded to exert themselves they made a brave show, and the hymns went trippingly.

When Parson Drumbleforth ascended the pulpit and gave forth his text, our churchwardens were used to take up their rods of office and leave the church for a visit to the two alehouses. This indeed is a time-honoured observance, and one that no churchwarden worthy the name will ever forego. For the churchwarden, bearing in mind that every able-bodied man should, in duty to God and the king, present himself at Divine office, must, when sermon begins, assume his rod and go forth to see that no idler tarrieth drinking and carousing in the taverns. It hath been said by persons of a suspicious nature that the wardens are not above taking a mug of small ale themselves when on these visits, but that is neither here nor there, for their vocation is one of much arduous duty, and small ale hurteth no man. However, when they have visited the inns and haled forth any that linger there, they return to the church, where the parson is just finishing his discourse, and do assist, if need be, in whatever matter is to be attended to.

Very often, upon a Sunday, one or other of our neighbours at Darrington would accompany us home to Dale’s Field, and share our dinner, remaining afterwards to smoke a pipe of tobacco with my father. And about once a week came Parson Drumbleforth to sup with us, and discourse upon the crops and news from London, which were great occasions, and served to relieve the monotony in which we had otherwise lived. Then, too, there were always farmers, or drovers, or cattle-dealers upon the road, and these would come in for half an hour and refresh themselves, so that we were not without news of the great world, which was also communicated to us by the passing coaches, post-chaises, and chariots continually hastening to or from London and York. Now and then my mother would take Lucy and myself, and pay a visit of ceremony to some farmer’s wife at Darrington or Wentbridge, upon which occasions we were used to play with the children of the house, and explore their orchards and gardens, and buildings, though we never saw any so good as our own at Dale’s Field.

As for enemies, we had none save the Watsons of Castle Hill, who were yeomen like ourselves, and had been on the land and in deadly feud with the Dales for many a century. Never did a Dale speak to a Watson unless provoked thereto by anger or wrong done, and then the word was as oft as not accompanied by a blow. And the cause of dispute was this⁠—between our land and that of the Watsons lay a broad strip of moorland, over which each family claimed a right, to the exclusion of the other. When, as often happened for years, neither house strove to take possession of the debatable piece of ground, matters were quiet between them, but when one drove thereon a herd of cattle or flock of sheep, then arose a conflict and hot argument, and heads were broken. So it had continued to be for many a generation, and so it was when I came into the world, so that people made the matter a proverb, and spoke of far removed things as being as widely separated as a Dale and a Watson. But out of that ancient feud and the ill blood and evil passions it engendered much misery was to result, as I shall show ere this story be brought to an end.

Upon a certain fine afternoon in the early spring of 1631, dinner being well over, and my father smoking his pipe in the chimney-corner, while my mother was busied elsewhere on some matter of domestic importance, I went out into the fold, and there came across Jacob Trusty, our cowherd, who was just then feeding twelve fat beasts intended for an approaching cattle-fair at Wakefield. And having nought to do I approached Jacob with a view of hearing him talk. Many an hour, indeed, had I spent with Jacob Trusty in and about the farmstead, listening to his stories of bygone days, of which he carried a various collection in his mind, side by side with much legendary lore concerning ghosts, fairies, and hobgoblins. My mother, to be sure, said that Jacob was never so content as when talking to me, which perhaps was a natural thing, seeing that he had nursed me on his knee almost as soon as I was born, and had always manifested a great interest in my doings. Nevertheless, to most other people Jacob Trusty was as cross-grained and surly as man well can be, and was hardly ever known to give a civil answer to any that made inquiry of him. He was even accustomed to give advice to my father, and to comment upon what things were done on the farm; and this, my father said, must be excused in Jacob, because he had been, man and boy, at Dale’s Field for a matter of fifty-three years, and had fed the cattle in our fold under three Dales. A tall, powerfully fashioned man was Jacob Trusty, with a great stoop in his broad shoulders, and a somewhat large nose which stood out of his face between the roundest and reddest cheeks that ever man had. As for his attire, it was always the same: a long smock that reached below his knee, and a round cap which was secured to his head by a woollen scarf that came over his ears, and was tied beneath his chin. From underneath his smock peeped Jacob’s gray stockings, terminating in large boots of undressed leather, the soles of which were of such prodigious thickness as to make me wonder. When Jacob’s duties took him to market at Pontefract or Wakefield, he added no more to his accustomed garb than a scarlet neckcloth which he had once bought of a mercer in York. With this round his neck, and his thick ash cudgel in his hand, Jacob considered himself fit for the best company in the land.

Upon this particular afternoon, Jacob Trusty, when I drew near, was engaged in throwing a cartload of turnips into the shed wherein his twelve fat cattle were then chained. Seeing me approach, he left off his work, and leaned both hands on the head of his four-pronged fork, looking waggishly at me across the turnip-heap.

“Well, Master William,” said Jacob Trusty.

“Well, Jacob,” said I.

“Hast had a good dinner, William?” inquired Jacob.

“Very good, Jacob,” I answered.

“That’s well, William. For if there be one thing to thank the Lord heartily for, ’tis a good appetite. Beef, lad, and beer; sound, home-brewed beer, is what a Dale wants, for the Dales are always big, great-boned men, and need support. Thy grandfather now⁠—ah, what a man was that!”

“What! bigger than father, Jacob?”

“Od, man, ay, by two inches all ways. Natheless, thy father will do⁠—only thou wilt be a bigger man than he is by an inch. At least, if thou dost thy duty with cup and trencher. Ah, as for good ale, well, there was never ale like ours at Dale’s Field. I have been through the Riding, and should know.”

Jacob wiped his mouth with his hand, and stuck one prong of his fork into a turnip that betrayed an intention to roll down the hill. On beholding Jacob’s hand pass across his mouth, I knew what he wanted.

“Shall I fetch you a pot of ale, Jacob?” said I.

“Why,” said Jacob meditatively, “a quart had I at dinnertime, and yet I do feel drouthy.”

Whereupon I went to the pantry, where my mother was counting out a sitting of eggs for the speckled hen to hatch, and begged a pot of ale for Jacob Trusty, the which I got with very little trouble, Jacob being an old and valued servant, and deserving of little comforts now that he was getting into years. “Ah!” said Jacob, leaning against the tail of his cart, and removing the pewter from his mouth. “That does me a power o’ good, William. What a pity ’tis that the Lord in His mercy didn’t make all the rivers run good ale! What beautiful drinking there would ha’ been then!”

“But you couldn’t make ale without water, Jacob; and then, if the rivers ran ale, what would the cattle do?”

“Ah, what, indeed!” answered Jacob. “Poor ignorant creatures! Mind thee, William lad, as thou goest through the world thou wilt see this difference ’twixt Christians and heathen men, namely, that the Christian man drinketh his ale like a man should, while your heathen cannot away with it! What did not Will Stripe, that went to the wars from Badsworth village, and did travel almost to the world’s end, come back and tell us in the alehouse there, that he had been in lands where there was no ale to be had? Wherefore be thankful, lad, that thou art a Yorkshireman. As for me, I have lived on good ale, and true-fed beef, and wheaten bread, and am now sixty-and-eight years old, come Martinmas, and a strong man.”

Whereupon he tossed off his pot, and, putting it down, turned to the turnips, and began to fling them into the shed with such energy that the air was dark with them, and the twelve fat oxen tugged at their chains in fear.

“An I were thee, Master William,” suddenly said Jacob Trusty, looking up from his task, and leaning his double-chin meditatively upon the crossbar of his fork⁠—“an I were thee, I should go a birds’-nesting this fine afternoon.”

“Birds’-nesting, Jacob! Why, there aren’t any yet, are there? Isn’t it too early?”

“Hist, lad! Dost know the old sheepfold in Went Vale yonder? I saw a stormcock’s nest in the elm above it a week since. There will be eggs in that, I doubt not. Mind⁠—”

But I was gone. I had not been a birds’-nesting that year, for it was but the second or third week in March, and with us the birds do not generally nest before April, saving the stormcock, or missel-thrush, as some call it, which builds in March, so that when Jacob spoke of the matter I was fresh and eager, and crossed the fold and was over the wall and running across the home meadows ere he could tell me to mind not to break my neck, with which counsel all his information usually ended.

It was a beautiful day, one of those perfect days which come in spring, and make us thank God for very joy of life. As I ran across the meadows that lie between Dale’s Field and the head of Went Vale, I noticed that the grass wore a brighter green, that the hedgerows were beginning to bud, that the ash and elm were already starting into new life, and that everything was foretelling the new arrival of what Master Herrick the poet calls “the sweet o’ the year.” Yea, as I ran alongside a great hedge seeking some convenient gap or opening, I became aware of the odour of violets, which is, I think, the most beautiful scent that ever delighted a man’s nostrils. And eager as I was to get forward to the old sheepfold, I could not but stop on smelling the violets, and gather a few. Only a country-bred lad, indeed, could find them so quickly as I did, for, mark you, the violets are a modest and retiring people, and love to hide themselves from the common eye. So you must turn up the glossy broad leaves which cover their retreat, and push aside the brambles under whose protection they love to grow, and then you will find them, heavenly blue and fragrant, nestling under the hedges like tender children that dread the rough world. And not only violets did I find that afternoon, but also early primroses, whose pale yellow faces met me as soon as I entered the wood. And at seeing them I laughed aloud for joy, for it is a saying with us that spring is fairly come when primroses flower. And, laughing and singing, I went through the woods that stretch along the right bank of Went, making a posy of violets and primroses, and thinking how pleased my mother would be when I took them to her, and how she would put them in a jar of fresh water, and place them in the windowsill of her own chamber. For we country folk, though some might not think it of us, are fond of the flowers and blossoms that are all about our homes, and do make as much of our first primrose or violet as a town-bred fine dame will of a rare jewel.

With the blue sky peeping at me through the trees, and the crying of newborn lambs (true and blessed sign that spring is come again) in my ears, I went along the woods. I passed above the mill at Wentbridge, where the stream was pouring through the wheelhouse like a cataract, and turned by a steep path towards the old sheepfold, which was a rough place of four walls and a thatched roof, where we had kept sheep at such times as they were out at pasture in the valley just beneath. There was a clearing all round the sheepfold, and this was hedged in from the wood by a straggling belt of trees, amongst which the most prominent was a great elm that had once been struck by lightning, and had since only blossomed in a few of its boughs. And it was in the thick of these, where the fresh green shoots were just beginning to bud, that I espied the stormcock’s nest of which Jacob Trusty had told me.

Now, I had never yet been daunted in the matter of climbing tree or tower, and as for fear, I knew not what it was, nevertheless I paused and meditated before climbing the elm that afternoon. For the stormcock, wise beyond his station, had fixed his house where the boughs were not strong enough to bear me or any boy capable of climbing. Nevertheless, I was not to be easily worsted, and spying a bough underneath the nest from which it seemed probable that I should be able to reach over, I took off cap and coat and began to climb up the rough trunk of the elm. This part of the business was easy enough, for a quantity of ivy grew round that elm, and the twisted strands made good purchase. Likewise, it was easy enough when, having done with the ivy, I clambered out along the bough towards the spot where the nest hung swaying in the twigs above. But being arrived there, I came to a standstill, for the nest was a good foot above the full stretch of my arm, and therefore out of my reach. This disconcerted me for a time, but I made up my mind to carry home an egg in triumph, and therefore cast about for fresh means. And nothing seeming better than to lay hold of an overhanging bough, and swing myself up to the level of the nest, I seized upon one that hung conveniently, and proceeded to climb it hand over hand, my body meanwhile swinging in midair, in what my mother, had she been there, would have considered a dangerous fashion. And dangerous indeed it proved to be, for I had no sooner got to the level of the nest and peeped over and seen four eggs lying therein, than my right hand slipped, and I went tumbling through branch and bough with a great noise, and came to earth with such a prodigious bump that my eyes flashed fire, and my senses went clean away from me.

It was perhaps due to the thickness of my skull and the strength of my neck and shoulders that I was preserved from broken bones, for in falling I had turned clean over, and so pitched right upon my crown, just as a cat will always fall upon her feet. However, my head is a thick and somewhat wooden one, and after a time I sat up, and by dint of hard rubbing brought back my wits to their proper place, not without a feeling that they had else gone a woolgathering, and a knowledge that my forehead and neck ached as though I had fallen from the church tower. Yet I minded the aches and pains not so much as that the stormcock’s nest still hung swaying in the branches high above me. For I had never, since being first put into breeches, liked to be beaten in anything, and I now reflected that the stormcock had proved itself my master.

While I sat rubbing my head, and wondering what Jacob Trusty would say to my tumble, I heard a sound which made me pause and listen. It was the voice of a girl singing in the wood close by, a pure, sweet, clear voice, though childish, and the words it sang were these:

“Spring is coming o’er the hill!
Primrose pale and daffodil,
Daisies white and rosy,
Now are springing from the soil.
Tread ye lightly, lest ye spoil
My Lady’s posy.

“Bring me, from some mossy stone,
Violets that all alone
Burst to perfect flower.
These, with snowdrops pure and white,
Wet with morning’s dew, shall light
My Lady’s bower!”

Now as this song went on, the sounds came nearer and nearer, and at length I saw, coming up the path by which I had climbed towards the sheepfold, a girl who carried a little basket of primroses and violets in one hand, and swung her little hood in the other. She saw me not as she came along the path, for I lay there still as any mouse, wondering who she might be. But when she came into the clearing and looked round her, she espied me, and stopped short as she was beginning another verse of her song. And so there we were, neither saying aught, but both staring wide-eyed at each other. And now if I were a poet or a spinner of fine words, such as they use in courts and fashionable places, I might perhaps tell you with justice how my dear love, as she came to be in after years, looked upon that afternoon when I first set eyes upon her. For though she was then but a child of eight years old, she was already so bewitching that I could not but gaze at her with something like wonder in my lad’s heart. She was like Little Red Riding Hood in the fairy tale, for her hood, swinging loosely from her tiny brown hand, was red, and the little cloak above her gray, homespun gown was red, and she had dainty scarlet shoes upon her feet such as I had never seen. As for her face, it was dark and gipsy-like, and her hair, black as night, tumbled loosely on each side, and fell across her shoulders; and her eyes, large and wondering as she looked at me, were darker than her hair. Yet can I give no true account of her with words, for it would need the brush of some great painter to represent her as she seemed to me then, and as I remember her to this day.

Now, when we had looked at each other for some minutes I tried to rise to my feet. But the buzzing in my head was by no means gone, and I was no sooner up than down again. Wherewith my new acquaintance cast down her basket and ran to me, and looked at me with pitying eyes.

“Oh,” cried she, “you are hurt, poor boy!”

“Nay,” quoth I, “ ’tis nought. I have tumbled from higher trees than yon elm.”

But she stayed not to hear me, but seized upon my cap and ran away, and presently came back with water in it, with which she wet my forehead like any skilled nurse, all the time telling me to lie still lest in rising 1 grew sick and fainted away. Howbeit, I, like all lads, grew restive under female treatment, and presently rose and put on my jacket, and gave myself a mighty shake and felt right again, save for a slight ache in the back of my head. And this done, I stood looking at the little maiden, saying nothing, but wondering a good deal.

“And now,” quoth she, “take hold of my hand, else you will fall again going down the path.”

But I laughed and shook my head. “I am all right now,” said I, and glanced up at the stormcock’s nest, half minded to try it again. But my head was still running somewhat, and I made a vow to come back next day, so that if I fell once more there should be none to witness my defeat.

“What is your name?” said the little maid presently.

“William Dale; and my father’s name is William Dale, too, and we live at Dale’s Field,” said I. “What is yours?”

“Mine is Rose Lisle.”

“Lisle? There are no Lisles hereabouts,” said I. “Where do you come from?”

“From a long way off⁠—near London. Father brought me on his horse to Wentbridge two days since, and in a day or two he will come and take me away again.”

Now, I know not why, but when Rose Lisle said that she was going away, there was a feeling of regret came into my heart. For indeed, I had never seen aught like her before, and might never, for aught I knew, see aught like her again.

“I am going to find primroses,” said Rose, picking up her basket.

“I know where they grow,” said I. “Come along, and I will show you the best places.”

And so we went through the wood, gay as the spring air that breathed upon us, and talking childlike about ourselves and our fathers and of such matters as children best love to dwell on. And presently the shyness wore off and we ran along hand in hand amongst the trees, and I showed her where I had climbed the crags for the jackdaw’s nest, and took her to the bank of the Went at the place where you can throw a stone across five times in one cast, and from thence we wandered down stream to the mill, where the miller and his men peered at us through a mist of dusty whiteness, and the Went ran howling through the great wheel and fled away in thick circles of spume. And I told her about our farm of Dale’s Field, and how many horses we had, and how many cattle and sheep, with many particulars concerning Dumpling the pony, and Jacob Trusty, and Timothy Grass, and other matters upon which I loved to talk. She, in return, told me that she lived in a town a long, long way off, as indeed it must have been, seeing that it was but an hour’s ride from London itself. As for mother, or sister, or brother, she had none, nor ever remembered having, nor any other relation save her father, who was called Philip Lisle, and had business that took him much from home. And at Barnet, which was where they lived, they stayed with Mistress Goodfellow, who, said Rose, was an old woman, and sometimes cross-grained. But her father, she said, was the most admirable man that ever lived, for he could sing and dance, and play music upon several instruments, and tell stories and legends, so that when he was at home they were as happy as the day is long. But sometimes, she said, he was away a long time, and she was lonely until he came again, bringing her various rare things which he had found in his travels, and then they were happy once more. And now and then he took her with him when the weather was fine, she riding before him on his great horse, and he telling her stories of the fine houses they passed, or the dark woods through which they rode. Much did she tell me, too, about her father’s horse, which understood him when he talked to it as if it had been a Christian, and would follow him about, and ate bread and sugar out of his hand, and had more than once saved his life, though how she did not know.

In discourse like this Rose Lisle and I passed the afternoon, and I forgot the ache in my head in listening to her conversation. But as it drew near suppertime I was forced to leave her, and said goodbye to her with much regret, and she went down the lane into Wentbridge while I climbed the valley slope and went across the meadows home. And though I told Jacob Trusty about my tumble from the elm-tree, yet I said nothing either to him or to my sister Lucy about Rose Lisle. Only I thought much about her, and wished that she was going to stay in our neighbourhood, so that Lucy and myself might take her with us when we went birds’-nesting, or blackberrying, or nutting.

Upon the next afternoon I set off again to the old sheepfold, determined to climb the elm with success. But I left Lucy at home, not being minded to let anyone see me tumble down again. However, as fortune would have it, the stormcock escaped once more; for I had no sooner got into the woods above Wentbridge Mill than I met Rose Lisle, who was once more gathering the primroses that were now springing up in every nook and corner. And so through the woods we went, as on the previous day, and rambled in and out all the afternoon until we came to the mill again, where we stood beside the stream and watched the bits of stick and twig race by.

While we stood there I became aware of someone calling to us, and looking across the stream saw a man on horseback, at sight of whom Rose raised a glad cry.

“ ’Tis my father!” said she. “Will Dale, ’tis my father. Let us run round by the mill-bridge.”

But I saw that the man was going to leap his horse across the stream, which is there about twenty feet in width. And calling to us to stand where we were, he turned his horse about and brought him at the Went, and the great brute tucked up his thighs and came clear across with a motion like a swallow flying. The man gave him an encouraging pat as he dismounted, and throwing the bridle loose, took Rose in his arms and lifted her up and kissed her.

“Well, my princess!” said he. “Here is thy father back again, safe and sound once more. Thy cheeks are the rosier, my beauty, for thy little outing.”

And then he kissed her again on both cheeks, and I saw his eyes sparkle as if it were a great delight to him to see Rose again. He was a tall, fine man, this Philip Lisle, and looked like the sort that order and command other men naturally. His greatness was not of the sort that I was familiar with, for he was not like my father⁠—tall and broad and big in every way, but rather slender and elegantly fashioned, and more like a willow-wand than an oak-tree. Nevertheless, there was that in his face which gave an impression of power; and I could not help noticing that his hands, which were very white and shapely, were also tense as bands of steel when he grasped anything. Looking at him I no longer wondered that Rose was dark, for Philip Lisle’s hair and moustachios were like jet, and the eyes were black as the delicate eyebrows above them. He was dressed very much finer than most in our parts, and looked, in fact, like one of the gay Cavaliers that sometimes rode by our gates along the Great North Road. His horse, too, was finely caparisoned, and there were two pistols peeping out of the holsters on each side of the saddle, which shone so in the sunlight that I was sure they were fashioned of silver.

“And who is this bonny lad?” said Philip Lisle, turning to me, with Rose still perched on his shoulder.

“It is William Dale, father, and he lives over the bend of the hill yonder,” said Rose, while I stood and stared at the man’s handsome face and fine clothes, and clean lost my tongue for admiration; “and he has shown me where the primroses grow best, and where the birds’-nests are, and where he fell down the crags from the jackdaw’s nest.”

“Ah, a Dale? Lad, I should have known thee. The Dales were always big men, as I have heard, though I never saw but two⁠—thy grandfather and thy father. Thou wilt be a big man like them, Will.”

“Does my father know you then, sir?” I asked, being surprised to hear him speak thus familiarly of my family.

He laughed and stroked his horse’s neck, the creature having come up to him and pushed his nose under Philip Lisle’s arm.

“There are few, lad, that do not know me. Howeever⁠—But what thinkest thou of my horse, Will? Is’t not a beauty? Ye have no horse in all the three Ridings like this. Caesar his name is, for he is the emperor of the horse race, as Caesar was of the human. However, he, too, like Caesar, may fall a victim to treachery. But thy master will be there, old friend, will not he? Yea, whenever death comes, let it be red death, or black death, in bed or afield, it will find thee and me together.”

The horse lifted its head and whinnied, and pushed its nose against the man’s face, and I stood dumb to see the marvellous understanding between them. For it seemed to comprehend exactly what he said, which was what I had never seen in a horse before, save that they learn and obey the few words of command by which men make known their desires.

“But what talk I of death,” said Philip Lisle, “with two such rosy faces before me? Children, would ye like a ride on horse Caesar’s back? Will, climb into my saddle, and I will put Rose behind thee. So, put thy feet in the stirrup-leathers. Thy legs are too short yet to reach the stirrups, though thou wilt quickly mend that matter. And now have no fear, but hold thy bridle tight; and Rose, my princess, cling firm to Will’s waist; and thou, Caesar, remember what thou carriest, and be on thy best behaviour. And now, off!”

And away we went over the ground on Caesar’s back at a swift canter, and yet travelling as safely as if we had been in an easy-chair. For I had but to keep my knees well pressed to the saddle, as my father had taught me, and Rose had but to circle my waist with her dainty arms, and beyond that we had no trouble to take. But never before or since have I crossed a horse which went over the ground as that did. For it was like the motion of a greyhound, which runs straight and smooth and swift, and makes never a sound as the soft feet touch the ground and fly onward. And so we circled down the bank and turned, and came round again to where Philip Lisle stood. And he lifted us down and patted Caesar’s neck.

“Thou hast never ridden horse like that, Will, eh?” said he. “Ah, this horse hath soul in him, and mind. Well, we must hence. Rose, I am going to take thee home. We shall sleep at Retford tonight, and so say goodbye to Will Dale.”

She came up to me where I stood silent and sad, and lifted up her little red rosebud of a mouth to kiss me. And, why I know not, I was so moved, that I put my arm about her neck and kissed her again and again, and then turned and cast down my eyes, and, I dare say, blushed as red as any June rose.

“Nay, lad,” said Philip Lisle, “be not ashamed. Alack, I wonder if ye will kiss next time ye meet? Who knows?”

“Oh, father,” cried Rose, “bring me again to see Will.”

“Wouldst like to see Rose again, Will?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, very much,” said I.

“Then thou shalt, but when I cannot say. Nevertheless, thou shalt. And now farewell, Will. Stay, there is a guinea for thee. Put it in thy breeches pocket, lad.”

He swung into the saddle, and, stooping down, lifted Rose before him and put one arm round her. And again he cried, “Farewell, Will Dale,” and again Rose kissed the tips of her fingers to me, and he called to Caesar, and the horse started forward like an arrow out of a bow, and away they went along the valley, and Rose’s voice came to me on the wind, crying, “Goodbye, dear Will, goodbye!” And then they were out of sight, and I turned away and climbed the hill, and went straight to Jacob Trusty, who was bedding down his twelve fat oxen for the night.

“Jacob,” said I, when I made sure that we were all alone in the straw shed, “Jacob, did you ever hear of a man called Philip Lisle?”

“Ay, marry,” said Jacob, sticking his fork into a great heap of straw, and lifting the latter on his back with a prodigious grunt. “Ay, marry, have I! What, man, and so hast thou. Did I never tell ’ee of Black Phil?”

“What, Black Phil the highwayman? Is he the same as Philip Lisle?”

“Od’s mercy, ay, and no other! Ay, Philip Lisle he was called once upon a time, but now Black Phil, by reason of his dark face. Natheless, ’tis a gentleman born, and hath rank and blood. But what matter⁠—he is a highwayman, and must finally swing on gallow tree. For look ’ee, William, boy, as you go through the world you will see one thing⁠—namely, that if a man give himself to evil courses he may prosper for awhile, but ’tis the gallows in the end that rewardeth him, even as it saith in Holy Writ.”

And Jacob went down the fold with his straw, and into the beast-place, and there made such a rattling and shouting amongst the fat oxen, that the whole place shook again. Which done, he came leisurely across the fold, picking up a fork full of straw here and there, and coming into the straw-shed again, continued his discourse.

“This trade of highwayman, William, boy, is a parlous one, and many a man that hath gone into it hath oft wished he could get out on’t as easy as he went in. For look you, lad, your highwayman, though he ride a good horse and wear fine clothes, doth neither at his own expense, but rather at the cost of them whom he robbeth. Likewise he is against the law, which is a bad matter for any man. Howbeit, I had liefer be robbed by a highwayman than a lawyer, for your lawyer laughs in your face while he turns out your pockets, but your highwayman is as courtly as any fine court-madam. These things have I noticed, William, boy, in going through the world; for, though I be of this parish born and bred, I have travelled, yea, I have travelled even to the city of Lincoln, and again as far as Brough Hill in the county of Westmoreland, which last is as heathen a land as ever man knew, and full of high mountains and deep precipices. But as for this Black Phil, now⁠—’tis a good heart, and the poor folk do think a deal of him. For if he rob a lord, or maybe a bishop, riding along the road in his own carriage, what doth he do but gallop off to some place where there is a hard winter or griping times, and there share the money? So that there is not a poor man ’twixt York and London that would not give Black Phil shelter and help if he were pursued by King’s officers. However, he hath not ridden in these parts this five year. And now, William, lad, go beg a mug of small beer from thy good mother, for my mouth is as dry as any limekiln.”

When I had carried Jacob his mug of small ale, I left him and went and walked by myself in the garden. And there I thought over the events of the past two days, which had been more astonishing than any that had ever come into my young life previously. I had seen a real highwayman, and had talked with him, and he spoke like other men, and was habited like a gentleman, and was, I was sure, a man of kind heart, by the way he caressed his daughter and spoke to me. And I felt very sorry for Philip Lisle, and wondered what little Rose would do when they hanged her father, as they would do in the end, because Jacob Trusty said so. However, I decided that in that case I would beg my father to let Rose live with us, knowing that she and Lucy would agree well. And I further thought that in that case Philip Lisle would leave me his horse Caesar, with the two silver pistols and fine saddle, but I did not wish the King’s officers to catch him for all that.

Now, while I walked round the garden with my hands in my pockets, I found my fingers clinging round Philip Lisle’s guinea, and fell a-wondering what I should do with it. I was very shy of speaking to anyone about my two new friends, and I knew that if I showed my money I should have to tell how I had come by it. It was not probable, I knew, that I should be allowed to keep the guinea if my mother knew whence it came. But, though I set no store by money, having no occasion for it, I was not minded to give up my guinea, for Philip Lisle had spoken kindly to me in giving it, and it might be that it really was his own to give. So I went into the house, and found a little leaden box which Jacob Trusty had once bestowed upon me, and I wrapped up the guinea within a sheet of paper, inside which I placed a primrose that Rose Lisle had pinned in my coat that afternoon, and I put the paper in the leaden box, and fetched a spade and dug a hole in the corner of my own patch of garden, and buried the leaden box two feet deep, and put stones above and below it, and stamped the earth well in, and so hid out of sight the connecting link ’twixt me and Philip Lisle.

Upon the very evening of the day whereon I had buried Philip Lisle’s guinea in a corner of my garden, there came to our house Parson Drumbleforth, who had walked along the highway from Darrington to hold converse with my father and mother. And our Lucy, seeing him approach from afar aff, ran quickly indoors, and told my mother, who immediately caused a fire to be lighted in the best parlour, the spring evenings being ofttimes chilly for old bones, and Parson Drumbleforth having got past his vigour. So presently he came in sight, and advanced along the garden walks, and was met at the door by my mother with a respectful courtesy. But he would have naught of the best parlour.

“Let me go into your own chamber, Mistress Dale,” said he, “where is, I know, such an easy-chair as would fit judge or bishop, let alone a humble clerk, and where the fire hath burnt all day. Your best parlour, sure, is very fine accommodation, but cold, mistress, cold.”

“Why, surely,” said my mother, “an I had known your Reverence was coming there should have been a fire lighted hours ago. However, my own parlour hath had a fire in it since noon.”

Whereupon she led him to the easy-chair in her own room, and Lucy and myself followed in and paid our respects to the Vicar, and admired his white bands and the silver buckles of his shoes, and looked at his staff, which was a clouded cane with a heavy silver knob of great value. And the Parson having stretched forth his hands to the blaze, and asked us how we did, and if we were faithful in our duties to our parents, I was sent forth into the yard to find my father, who had gone out awhile before to consult Timothy Grass and Jacob Trusty about certain yearlings which he had just bought at Wakefield fair. And finding him, he at once broke off his discourse and went into the house and greeted the Vicar, and brought forth tobacco and pipes, and they both smoked, and my mother went into the kitchen and made a pitcher of mulled ale, of which grateful drink Parson Drumbleforth was an admirer. And my father and the Vicar discoursed of the weather, and the crop of lambs, and the prospect of the coming harvests, hay and corn, and Lucy and I listened and strove hard to behave ourselves with propriety. And the mulled ale having been brought in and the glasses filled, the Vicar pledged us all and commended the drink mightily, after which the pitcher was put on the hob to keep warm, and my mother sat down to her needle.

“Master and Mistress Dale,” presently said Parson Drumbleforth, “I am come here tonight on an important matter. Ye have here a great lad⁠—stand up, William, my child, and let us look at thee; why, thou art nearly to my shoulder already!⁠—ye have here, I say, a great lad, who is fast growing towards manhood.”

“Oh, sir!” cried my mother. “Manhood! Why, ’tis but a child.”

“Softly, softly, mistress. I say manhood, and rightly. For before ye see the change he will be a youth, and then a man, ay, and a bigger man than his father.”

“He will, he will,” said my father. “Ay, he will be an inch bigger than I am all ways. However, I am six foot three in my stockings.”

“ ’Tis a fine lad, indeed,” said Parson Drumbleforth, measuring me with a critical eye. “Wherefore the greater responsibility resteth upon you.”

“Your own boy, sir, Master John, is a big-made boy, too,” said my mother, anxious to return the Vicar’s compliments.

“So, so. A sturdy knave is Jack, and strong enough, but rather broad than long. However, your mention of Jack, Mistress Dale, brings me back to where I set out from. It is time, Master Dale, that this great lad went to school.”

“He hath learnt from me, sir,” said my mother, looking anxiously at me. “What I could teach him he hath learnt, so that now he can read his Catechism in the Prayerbook, and knoweth his duty, and⁠—”

“Mistress Dale,” interrupted Parson Drumbleforth, “I know well that you are a scholar, and able to impart knowledge to your children. As for this little maiden, let her continue to learn from her mother. But as for Will here, let him to school, where men will teach him, and he will mix with his fellows.”

“But, sir,” said my mother, “there is no school at hand. For it is too far for him to walk twice a day ’twixt here and Pontefract.”

“Then he must board with the master, my good friend Dr. Parsons,” said Parson Drumbleforth. “He will not charge you overmuch for the lad’s eating and sleeping. On a Saturday let him come home, so that he may enjoy the benefit of my ministry on a Sunday, and on a Monday morning let him be off again bright and early.”

“He hath never slept away from home in his life,” said my mother. “And I always fear damp beds in strange houses. Our own, sir, if not slept in for awhile, are aired for days before we use them again, but all folks are not so particular.”

“Tut, tut, mistress, the beds will be aired I warrant. Mistress Parsons is a careful housewife. What say’st thou, Master Dale?”

“I am for the lad to go,” said my father. “ ’Twill do him no harm to live with others of his age.”

“ ’Tis a good school, the Queen’s School at Pontefract,” said the Vicar. “My own lad, Jack, hath been there since Christmas, and though somewhat of a woodenhead, he hath picked up a good deal. Wouldst like to go with Jack to school, Will?”

“Yes, sir, very much,” I answered.

And in the end it was decided that I should go; and my father promised to ride into Pontefract the next morning, and there make arrangements with Dr. Parsons about my board and lodging in the master’s house. And so overjoyed was I at the prospect that I could hardly sleep that night. But early next morning I rose and sought out Jacob Trusty, and told him the news.

“Thou wilt have to fight, William,” said he; “yea, thou wilt have to fight. However, I have no fear for thee. And when thou hast fought and beaten the biggest lad in the school, thou wilt be much respected. For in going through the world, William, boy, thou wilt see one thing, namely, that men never so much respect their fellows as when the same have shown their power. Wherefore remember to hit hard and straight, and to care nothing for what thou gettest in return.”

And then returned my father from Pontefract, with news that he had made arrangements with Dr. Parsons, and I was to go the next Monday; and he had seen Mrs. Parsons, who had promised faithfully to see that my bed was duly aired, upon which assurance my mother plucked up some small comfort, though she was not at all reconciled to the idea of parting with me. And after that all was hurry and bustle in our house, for my mother must see to my new shirts and handkerchiefs, and Lucy must broider my name upon each article, and there was repairing of garments and washing and ironing, so that, as my father said, I might have been going on a voyage to the Indies instead of only to Pontefract. But I have observed that mothers do take a pleasure in making a fuss after their children, and are never so pleased as when busying themselves in that way. It is something which a man cannot understand, but women with children to care for understand it readily.

And so the Monday morning came round, and Timothy Grass harnessed one of the horses to our light spring cart, and my box was put therein and my father took the reins, and I kissed my mother and Lucy, with many admonitions to the latter to take care of my dog Rover, whom I had perforce to leave behind me, and away we drove down the road. I felt an important personage that morning, for I had not only a new suit of homespun upon me, but in the pockets of my breeches there lay a new crown piece given me by my mother, and a shilling presented to me by Lucy, and Jacob Trusty had given me a knife which I had often envied him the possession of, and which had three blades, and a pick for taking stones out of a horse’s hoof.

On the road between Darrington and Pontefract we came upon Master John Drumbleforth, who was trudging his way to school. My father pulled up the horse, and civilly inquired if Master John would accept of a lift, a question which he at once answered by climbing into the spring cart.

“Why,” said he, “I had at any time sooner ride than walk, as you may well imagine, Master Dale. And so thou art going to school, Will? Well, I will look after thee, if need be.”

He was a rather solid, heavy-looking lad, this Jack Drumbleforth, with a round shining face, and big limbs, but no great height. Unlike his father, the Vicar, he was no deep nor apt scholar, but rather delighted in sports and games, and in an outdoor life. Nevertheless, he was not so dull as to lack observation, and knowing that learning is a thing which helps every man that strives to obtain it, he worked hard, in a plodding, laboured fashion, and acquired some knowledge. There were lads of his own age of more brilliant parts, who dashed ahead at a great pace, and could write Latin verses ere ever Jack Drumbleforth had mastered his hic, hæc, hoc, but in the end the tortoise caught the hare, for though Jack was undeniably slow he was very sure.

The new world into which I was now plunged furnished me with much matter of surprise and wonder. Until that time I had seen little of the world, my observations having been confined to an occasional visit to Pontefract market with my parents, which excursions had been great events in my life, and were eagerly expected and pleasurably regretted. Now, however, I was thrown into the company of some hundred and twenty lads, whose ages ranged from ten to fifteen years. Also I was brought under the rule of the Reverend Dr. Parsons, the headmaster, and his assistants, who were younger men, but also scholars and clergymen, and exceeding grave. There was also Mrs. Parsons, the doctor’s wife, who was a motherly lady, and took as much care of us who lived in the headmaster’s house as if we had been her own children. For if we needed it she dosed us with medicine, and if one did cut or bruise himself she repaired the damage with lint or oils, and there were poulticings for colds and gruel for such as were unfit for stronger meat, and the weakly were tended with much care. Because of all these things good Mrs. Parsons was much thought of by the lads, and highly respected by their parents. She was a little bustling woman, always cheerful and always ready, and I have since thought that she manifested the greater care for us because it had not pleased Providence that she should have children of her own.

As for Dr. Parsons, he was a little man, somewhat stout, very nimble and active, red-faced and smiling, a strict master, never sparing the birch, and always just in his decisions; wherefore there was hardly a lad in the school who did not feel that praise or punishment was properly meted out. For he confused not the sharp lad with the slow, and made a fine distinction between them that attained knowledge by leaps and bounds, and them that reached it by gradual and constant labour. The dull lad who plodded on patiently met in him a kind and indulgent master; the clever but idle boy received from him a vast amount of watching and of castigation. Half-done work he could not abide, and would rather have had a slow lad work at a task for two hours and know it than see a more sharp-witted one master it in ten minutes.

“Thou art a great lad, William Dale,” said Dr. Parsons to me, when my father had bidden me farewell and departed, “and I doubt not thy mind runneth more on birds’-nests and suchlike than on learning. Nay, lad, that is but natural, and none but a fool would have it otherwise. I shall not plague thee overmuch with learning. This counsel, however, I give thee⁠—what thou dost learn, learn well, and be not ashamed if it takes thee two days to master what a sharper lad would master in one. It is better to know why a thing is done than how it is done. Get to the bottom of everything. Let me see thee work steadily, eating thy meals with a good appetite, and behaving towards me and thy fellows as to thy parents and sister. So shall I be satisfied with thee, William. And now, perchance thou wilt get fighting with some of these lads of mine. Well, ’tis one of those things which our perverse human nature prompteth us to. However, William Dale, bear this in mind⁠—never fight until thou art bound to do so. Be not the aggressor. He that gives cause of offence deserveth punishing. So when thou art forced to fight, fight not in anger, but with cool temper, and remember that a shot straight out from the left shoulder is a wonderful thing to cool down thy adversary. And now let us to school.”

When I had had time to look round me, I discovered that of all my new associates there were but two of whom I had any knowledge. One of these was John Drumbleforth, the other was Dennis Watson, the son of that Watson of Castle Hill to whom I have already made reference as being the enemy of my family. This Dennis was a lad somewhat my senior, of a dark and rather forbidding countenance, very masterful, and apt to bear malice against any who fell under his displeasure. Save that I had now and then seen him about his father’s land I knew nothing of him. Between a Dale and a Watson there was never any speech. If we did but meet in the highways we passed each other without word or look. Wherefore I was not over-well pleased to find Dennis Watson amongst my schoolmates. For though I had been taught to hate no man, yet I had a hearty dislike to any representative of the race which had been our enemies for many a generation.

Out of consideration for my newness, Mrs. Parsons put me to sleep in the chamber in which slept Jack Drumbleforth and two other boys of a like age. With these three I naturally became closely acquainted. The name of one of my new roommates was Thomas Thorpe, the son of a steward on one of the neighbouring great estates; the other was Benjamin Tuckett, nephew of Mr. John Tuckett, the grocer in the marketplace. Ben Tuckett had neither father nor mother, and his uncle’s wife having an objection to great boys in the house, Ben was sent to Dr. Parsons until he should be of an age to be apprenticed to some trade. He was a round-faced, pleasant-tempered lad, always lively, always willing to do anyone a good turn, so that he was universally liked. Between Ben and me and Tom Thorpe and Jack Drumbleforth grew up a strong friendship, which lasted many years, until death severed it.

Now, from the very first day of my going to school, Dennis Watson made a dead set at me, pouring out upon me as it were all the hatred and malice which his house had for mine. Being somewhat more experienced of the world than I⁠—for he had been at school two years when I went there⁠—he had an advantage over me in some respects, and failed not to use it. He had a following of his own amongst the boys, all those who served under his leadership being noted as comprising the evilly-disposed portion of our little community. Presently it became the fashion among these lads to make sport of me, annoying me in whatever way their ingenuity could devise. Thus, if I were engaged in preparing my tasks, I should find a pot of ink spilt over my fair copies, or if I were playing with my fellows in the yard, someone would rudely knock me over, as if by accident. Howbeit, being of an easy nature, I took little notice of these matters until one day came when, by the advice of my three roommates, I determined to stand it no longer. So when one of Dennis Watson’s men, as if by accident, trod rudely on my toes, I seized him by the collar, and marched him up to where Dennis and his chief associates were standing together. And then I think the whole school saw that something was about to happen, for it gathered round us, and I suddenly found Jack Drumbleforth and Ben Tuckett at my elbow, and Tom Thorpe making his way to me through the throng.

“Now,” said I, shaking the boy, a small one, who had stamped upon my toes, “the next time you or any other treads on me, or spills ink on my paper, or makes other like mistake, I shall take his head and knock it against the wall! That is fair warning.”

Then Dennis Watson laughed in a sneering fashion, and his mates echoed him.

“Pooh!” quoth he; “we all know that William Dale has not heart to fight even a small boy, let alone one his own size.”

“Do you?” I said, going straight to him; “then, Dennis Watson, as you are older than I, and as big, I will fight you now.”

But he would have kept out of that if he could. Nevertheless, his own party edged him on to fight, and mine insisted on it, and presently we were all behind the school-wall, and our seconds were holding our coats. And I, remembering the doctor’s counsel to keep cool, kept cool as long as I could, and at the right moment I gave my opponent one from the left shoulder which spoiled his looks for many a day. And after that there was no more teasing of me, but I was much respected.

Two days afterwards came Dennis Watson to me, as I crossed the playground alone. “Will Dale,” said he, with a strange look of hatred on his face, “I hate you, and always shall. And however long I live, I will cause you such trouble as will make you wish you had never been born.”

Now at the time I made light of this threat, and laughed at it. But I remembered it many a time in the years which followed.

It was in the middle of spring when I was first taken to school, and my life till the end of the following summer was comparatively uneventful. On Saturdays I went home, to tell Jacob Trusty of my doings during the week, and to receive his counsel and admonition on various matters. Those weekend visits home were great events. On the Saturday I visited all my old haunts, took out my dog, saw to my garden, and went round the farmstead renewing acquaintance with man and beast. On the Sunday we went to church as usual. Then came Monday morning again, and I wended my way to school once more, generally catching up Jack Drumbleforth on the road. Having fought and beaten Dennis Watson, there was little else left me to do in that line, for no lad of my own age and size cared to fight with me, and the elder lads were, of course, above battling with their junior. So I went on with my tasks in a steady and laborious fashion, not being over-ready of perception, but still determined to do what lay in me. In this manner of life the months passed on quietly. But just as summer was over, and we had brought home the last load of the corn-harvest, there came matters which changed the whole course of my life.

I have already told you that between the Watsons of Castle Hill and the Dales of Dale’s Field there was an ancient root of contention in the shape of a piece of land lying between our respective estates. The ownership of this, which was but a strip of meadow, had been disputed ’twixt Dale and Watson for many a generation, though neither side had ever sought the aid of the law in order to settle matters once and for all. Formerly, if one house had sent flocks to graze on the debatable ground, the other had forthwith driven the offending animals away. Sometimes blows had arisen from this proceeding, and the servants from each farmstead had turned out with quarterstaff or cudgel, and fought fiercely one with another. But for nearly fifty years previous to my time neither side had claimed the land, though both were equally careful that no right of way should be established across it by third parties. Yet although matters had been quiet, the red spirit of dislike and resentment ran strong as ever, and of all men in that neighbourhood, Rupert Watson of Castle Hill was the only one that my father never held speech with.

It was the first week of September, 1631, and by permission of Dr. Parsons I had come home from school on the Thursday in order to be present at our harvest-supper, which was a great event, and not to be missed on any account. There were gathered together on that occasion all our servants, male and female, all that ever worked for us on odd days during the year, such as at turnip-hoeing or sheepshearing times, and with them came their wives and families, so that our great barn was well filled. There were also two or three farmers of our acquaintance from the neighbouring villages, and sometimes Parson Drumbleforth was present to hallow the ceremony, as he indeed was upon this occasion, and with him Jack, who had been permitted to beg off from school. Great doings there were at our harvest-supper, namely, an abundance of provisions and good cheer, and after that dancing to the music of the village fiddler, who sat on a tub in the centre, and played for all he was worth until neither man nor maiden could dance any longer. Nor were the horses forgotten, which had worked so hard during the harvest-month, for they on that night had each an extra feed of corn.

On this particular occasion, when the supper was well over, and Tom Treddle, the fiddler, had just got into the swing of his first tune, Will White, the miller, of Smeaton, drew my father aside into a corner, and began to talk to him.

“I am afraid, Master Dale,” said Will, “that you are going to have trouble;” and he nodded his head in the direction of the woods that bound our farm.

“What is it, Will?” asked my father.

“Why, certainly,” answered the miller, “ ’tis none of my business, and maybe I ought not to meddle with it. But you see my nearest way from home to your place here, Master Dale, lies across the fields. Now, as I came along tonight, I saw that Rupert Watson has turned out his horses into that piece of land which he says is his, and which you say is yours. So therefore I say, I fear there will be trouble.”

“Trouble there will be!” answered my father. “And I am sorry for it, for the old sore has lain unopened these fifty years, and should have healed for what I would have done. But Rupert Watson must not turn his cattle on my land. Well, join the dancers, good Will, and I will consider what’s to be done.”

Now, it was not easy to decide upon a course of action, because there was sure to be trouble, whatever conduct were pursued. For if my father patiently suffered Rupert Watson’s horses to occupy the land, it would amount to an acknowledgment that the land was not ours; and if, on the other hand, he drove them away, there would be resistance on the part of the Watsons, and then would come fighting. However, by the time the dancers had all tired, and the folks were nearly all gone home, my father had made up his mind. So he called up to him Jacob Trusty and Timothy Grass and Reuben Larkspur, and all our regular labourers, ten men and youths in all, and began to talk to them in the barn. “Lads,” said he, “ye know that there is a strip of meadow-land lying between Watson’s estate and mine which we both claim? Mine I believe it to be, else I would not claim it. It hath always been understood to be mine, as Jacob here will tell you.”

“Dale’s land it was, and is, and always will be,” said Jacob.

“Well,” continued my father, “for fifty years the matter has been quiet, but Rupert Watson has seen fit to break the peace at last. Tonight he has turned his horses into the land in question, thinking, no doubt, that our merrymaking would prevent us from noticing the matter. However, Miller White saw them, and told me of it. Now, I am not going to allow Rupert Watson’s horses to feed on my lands. Nor will I simply turn them out. I will take such measures as will lead, I doubt not, to a final settlement of this matter. What say you, Jacob?”

“It hath gone on long enough,” said Jacob. “Let it be settled and done with.”

“ ’Tis good counsel. Now, lads, there are ten of ye, and I make eleven. Take each of ye a good stout staff, lest we be attacked, and then follow me, and we will take Rupert Watson’s horses, and put them into pound at Darrington. Then he will have to settle with the pinder ere he can regain them, and if he likes to take the law of me, he is welcome.”

So the men, with much approval, went for their staves, and prepared to carry out my father’s wishes.

Now, as it happened, Parson Drumbleforth had gone home a good three hours before that, but Jack had remained to sleep at our house, and he and I had lurked in a dark corner of the barn to hear what my father said to the men. When we heard of the proposed expedition against Rupert Watson’s horses, nothing would content us but that we must go; and knowing that if we asked leave we should not get it, we waited till all had left the barn, and then ran away into the fields, and hid under a hedge until my father and his men came along, behind whom we followed in the moonlight until we reached the debatable strip of land, and saw the horses, twelve in number, cropping the grass. We had expected that some spy would have been sent by Rupert Watson to watch over the horses, in case of an attack; but he, fancying we should all be busy with the harvest-supper, had left them alone, and our men had no difficulty in surrounding them and driving them away. Then Jack and I ran home as hard as possible, and had only just retired to bed when my father came in to tell my mother that the younger men had taken the horses to the pinfold at Darrington.

The next day passed away peacefully enough with us, but towards night came one from Darrington, who told us that at noon Rupert Watson had ridden up in a great passion, and had demanded his horses of the pinder, and threatened all manner of violence against those who had impounded them. To whom the pinder, being in the right, and having the law behind him, made answer that he knew nought of the rights or wrongs of the dispute ’twixt Dales and Watsons, but that the horses being come into his pound, should not go thence until the pinning-fee were paid. Which fee Rupert Watson was forced in the end to disburse, and so departed, vowing vengeance on us Dales root and branch. When my mother heard this she was troubled, but my father bade her be of good cheer.

On the Saturday morning, I accompanied my father to market, my mother staying at home, which, as events proved, was a fortunate thing, for she would have been sore put about by the scene which followed our arrival in the marketplace. It was rather late when we reached the town, and, after putting up our horse and cart, went into the street to do our business, and the frequenters of the market were already gathered in full force about the Butter Cross and the Beast Fair. My father had said, as we came along, that he should probably have some words with Rupert Watson if they met, and I was therefore on the lookout for our enemy, but for a long time I saw nothing of him. In such a small place, however, we were bound to meet him, and meet him we did, as we went to dine at the ordinary. For there he stood on the steps of the inn, a tall, dark-faced man, with a look of anger and hatred on his countenance, which reminded me of his son Dennis.

Rupert Watson saw us coming along the street, and I saw him square himself so as to fill the doorway of the inn. There were some twenty or thirty farmers standing round, and they, knowing what had taken place, looked on with much curiosity as my father drew near.

“Keep by me, Will,” said my father; “thou shalt come to no harm⁠—nor shall I, for that matter.”

When we were a few yards from him, Rupert Watson broke out upon my father in a loud voice, so that men came running along the marketplace and from the shambles to see who it was that caused such a commotion.

“So, Master Dale!” shouted Rupert Watson; “so you dare to show your face here after your work t’other night! It were better, perhaps, that you were in gaol for a horse-thief. A pretty jest, to steal another’s cattle and clap them into pound! An you and your men had not been drunk with your rioting, I would take the law of you!”

Then my father stood squarely in front of him, and looked Rupert Watson in the face. “Master Watson,” said he, “when you talk of jest and riot, I understand you not. What I do understand is this that you turned your horses upon my land, from whence I removed them to the parish pound. And I warn you, Master Watson, in the presence of these gentlemen, that this I shall do again if ever you offend in like manner.”

Then the cloud on Rupert Watson’s face grew black indeed, and he poured upon my father a torrent of vulgar abuse. “Thy land!” quoth he. “Land of thine or thy fathers it never was. And I will turn my cattle upon it this night, and if thou, or any of thy men, dare to set foot upon the land, I will shoot the trespassers through the head!”

“Master Watson,” said my father, “I care nothing for your threats. What I can do for myself, I will do; what I cannot do, the law shall do for me.”

“Ay, ay,” said someone in the crowd; “law is a good word. Your two families have disputed this matter for generations; why not go to law and have done with it?”

“As for shooting of men through the head,” said another, “ ’tis poor talk, and I trow the magistrates would have somewhat to say to it.”

“Who asked thy counsel?” said Rupert Watson. “A man hath a right to defend his own, hath he not? The land, I say, is mine.”

“I neither know nor care whose the land is,” said an old farmer at our elbow; “but this I do know, Rupert, that thou hast never put cattle on it since Castle Hill came into thy hands. Why hast suddenly fallen in love with it? ’Tis but an acre or two at most.”

“The land, I say, is mine,” said Rupert Watson once more. “And mine it shall be. So look to yourself, William Dale, for if I find you or yours setting foot upon it I will shoot you, I say, as I would a dog!”

“I care not for your threatening, Master Watson,” answered my father. “You may take your own course. But if ever I find cattle of yours on my land again, into the parish pound they will go. And now stand aside, and let me and my lad pass.”

And therewith he strode up on a sudden, and Rupert Watson, with one glance at his great form and determined face, slunk out of the doorway, and we went inside the inn and dined at the ordinary. And while we were dining I saw Rupert Watson enter, and retire into a corner with a little person whose manners reminded me of a weasel. My father told me this was Lawyer Sharpe, of Wakefield.

“ ’Tis the most unscrupulous attorney that ever lived, Will, boy,” said my father, “and I doubt not he and Watson are contriving some scheme against me, which they are welcome to do. I care for nothing of their invention.”

It was vastly to my liking that most of those to whom we spoke that day sided with my father, and condemned Rupert Watson, both for turning out his horses on the debatable piece of land, and likewise for creating a disturbance at the inn door. For though no man, not even the oldest, could rightly say if the land belonged to Dales or to Watsons, they yet remembered that for fifty years the trouble had been allowed to rest, and that it was now revived through no fault of my father’s.

“Rupert Watson,” said the old farmer who had spoken at the inn door, “is in the wrong this time. Let sleeping dogs lie, say I. Now he has stirred the dog up, and must not complain if it show its teeth. But mind you, Master Dale, I know not if the land be yours or his.”

“It has always been held to be ours in our family,” said my father.

“Ay, marry, and to be theirs in their family. My advice is, go to law, if ye can settle it in no different fashion. Though law is but a parlous method of deciding a question like yon. Whether ye lose or win, the lawyers will have your money.”

“It is for him to decide,” said my father; “I shall do nothing⁠—only this, that if he sends his cattle on the land again, I shall again put them into pound.”

So we went home that Saturday, and that evening, and for many a following evening, strict watch was kept upon the narrow strip of meadow-land, for my father was determined that every inch of his acres should be protected. But Rupert Watson made no further movement, and the weeks passed by till it was October, and we heard no more of the matter.

Nevertheless our enemy⁠—for I can call him by no other name, considering his deeds⁠—was not idle in his efforts to vex and annoy us. For one Saturday, early in October, as I was talking to Jacob Trusty in the fold, there came riding in at our gate a man on a brown mare, whose face was strange to both of us, and who immediately hailed us with an inquiry if this were Dale’s Field. I said “Yes;” whereupon he consulted a paper which he drew from his vest, and then asked if William Dale were about, to which I answered that my father was at market, and would not be home until five or six o’clock.

“Then I must needs get off my horse, lad,” said the stranger, “and wait his return. Dost think a feed of corn could be found for my horse? He has carried me four-and-twenty miles this morning, and needs a rest.”

I handed the horse over to one of our lads, and conducted the stranger into the house, where he was received by my mother, to whom he made a very polite bow.

“Master Dale, mistress, is not at home, I understand, but will return anon. With your permission I will rest myself until he comes, for I cannot go away until I have seen him. I am a sheriff’s officer, and have a writ to serve upon him at the suit of one Rupert Watson.”

So it seemed that our enemy was going to have the law of us after all.

My mother, womanlike, was somewhat disturbed at the idea of having aught to do with law matters, and she looked exceedingly grave when the sheriff’s officer announced his mission. But my father, coming home a little later, made light of the matter, and bade the man sit down and eat and drink, and conversed with him on the weather and similar matters, so that the bearer of Rupert Watson’s writ presently departed much fortified in mind and body.

“It is the best thing that could have happened,” said my father, talking to my mother about the matter, “for now the question will be decided and done with. If the law says the land is mine, mine it will be forever; if ’tis Rupert Watson’s, then the law will say so. And perhaps the old enmity between us will die out. I have no wish to live in strife with any man.”

“For all that,” said my mother, “you will never be friendly with Rupert Watson. For he has a bad heart, and is a cruel man, and with such I am sure you will never agree.”

“Friends, perhaps not,” answered my father. “But it might come to us exchanging a good day like Christians, instead of riding by on the high-road as if we were sworn enemies. However, if this matter be settled, our children may live at peace, and even friendship, if Rupert and I never do.”

Now, I knew that could never be, because Dennis had sworn that he would hate me forever, and I knew he meant it. Nothing, I felt sure, would ever make Dennis forgive me for thrashing him, and I, on my part, felt no desire to make friends with him. I had an instinctive dislike for Dennis, and felt that oil and water would mix sooner than he and I. However, I said nothing of this to my father or mother.

When Jacob Trusty heard of the law proceedings, he exercised much thought upon the matter, and often discussed it with me of a Saturday afternoon.

“That the land is ours,” said Jacob Trusty, “is certain, and yet it would sore puzzle and moyther my head to give good reason for thinking so. Thy great-grandfather and thy grandfather, William, always claimed that land, and thy father claimed it after them. But then the grandfather of this black-faced Watson likewise claimed it. Wherefore the difficulty was the same in those days. Ah! many a bloody head there hath been over that strip of meadow-land. For sixty years ago either Dale or Watson was forever driving cattle on it; and if it were a Dale, then a Watson came forth and drove them off; and if it were a Watson, he had to reckon with a Dale; and first there were words, and then there were blows, and then there was a stiff fight, and if there were no heads broken, ’twas not for want of hard hitting. Howbeit, in thy grandfather’s time and in thy father’s matters have been quiet and peaceable.”

“Shall we win the day, do you think, Jacob?” I asked.

“Nay, lad, who can tell? One thing I can tell thee without doubt, and that is, that the men who will profit by this matter are the lawyers. Whether thy father win or lose, or Rupert Watson lose or win, the lawyers will fill their pockets. Wherefore, William, boy, as thou goest through the world, mark one thing, namely, that whenever two men fall out, there will always be a third man whose interest it will be to keep up the strife. For while John and Thomas are disputing as to which of them shall have the egg, Richard comes up and eats it out of hand. Such is law, out of which thou wilt do well to keep.”

Nevertheless, it was necessary that my father should employ the services of an attorney, and he therefore placed his case in the hands of Lawyer Hook, who had managed all his difficult matters for many years. Mr. Hook was considerably exercised in his own mind over this dispute ’twixt the Dales and Watsons, for he could not lay his hands on anything which served to decide the matter in our favour. Neither was he able to see how judge and jury could settle the matter. “For indeed, Master Dale,” said he, having ridden over one afternoon to talk with my father, “the evidence for and against is as conflicting as any I ever knew. You say on your side that your family hath always claimed the land, and you bring half a score of ancient gaffers and gammers to say the same. Now, Rupert Watson saith that it hath always been matter of certainty in his family that the land is theirs, and he too bringeth various old folk to support him. However, we shall, maybe, find light somewhere. In any case, I fear it will cost you a pretty penny, and unless you have some great love for the land⁠—’tis, I understand, but a narrow strip⁠—I would let it go.”

But my father would not hear of that. He had no mind to throw away his money in law, but he would not yield a yard of the land his fathers had left him. He must fight Rupert Watson on this point, whatever it cost.

A few nights after that we were sitting round the fire in my mother’s parlour, and my father was telling us of some incident at the market, from which he had just come, when one of our maids came in and said that Jacob Trusty was in the kitchen, and wanted to speak to the master. My father would have risen and gone to him, but just then Jacob himself appeared and stood within the doorway, having first pushed the girl out and closed the door.

“Master and mistress,” said Jacob, “there are some things best said without hearers, so I make bold to come in here where are no lads and lasses to hear us, save only your own, which have a right to hear all.”

“Sit down, Jacob,” said my father. “Say thy say, man.”

Jacob, however, remained standing, leaning on his thick staff. “Master,” said he, “I have been thinking about this matter of the land. Also the other day Lawyer Hook met me on the turnpike, and asked me some questions, and I could see that he had little confidence. Now it came to me to ask you if there are no papers. Papers always go with land, so I’ve heard.”

“Whatever I have, Jacob, are with Mr. Hook,” said my father. “And old as they are, they are no good on this point.”

“That brings me to what I want to say,” said Jacob. “I served your grandfather first when I was a lad ten years old. There were four of us, Tom Hodge, Anthony Boone, Dick Simpson, and myself, all slept in that chamber against the apple loft. There was an old chest in that chamber full of books and papers, and as never a one of us could read we used to wonder at them. Why not look in there, master?”

“The box is still there,” said my mother.

“But the papers were taken out when I was a lad,” said my father. “Mr. Hook has them now. However, ’tis good counsel, Jacob, and I’ll look in the box again.”

While Jacob went into the kitchen to drink a mug of ale, my father told me to get a candle and accompany him upstairs to the chamber mentioned, which was quite in accordance with my desires. So we ascended to the chamber, which was in a remote corner of the house, and had long been given up to the storing away of ancient lumber. Thus there was in it old saddles of curious fashion, and rusty bits and stirrup-irons, together with quaintly-carved chairs, broken and whole, and many other odds and ends accumulated in a house which has stood the brunt of some three hundred years. Amidst this mass of dust-covered lumber stood the oak chest spoken of by Jacob Trusty.

“It is empty, I fear, Will,” said my father, pulling it into the middle of the floor; “but we will examine it to please old Jacob, who means well. Ah! you see there is nothing at all in it.”

Nor was there, as far as we could see, for the interior was bare and empty, save for a thick coat of dust. I looked at the ancient chest curiously, holding the candle where the light would fall on its quaint carvings and the grotesque figures on the ends.

“My great-grandfather kept his papers and valuables in this chest, Will,” said my father. “See, here are drawers to put money in. And there is a secret drawer. See if thou canst find it, lad.”

But I could not, and did not make out where it was until my father drew out a drawer which had a false bottom, and this being removed, a small receptacle was laid bare.

“It is not very large,” said my father, “but it sufficed to store anything especially worth the keeping.”

Having admired the ingenious manner of the contrivance, I essayed to put the drawer in its place again, but found that it would not fit into the cavity prepared for it. Something seemed to lie in the way, and prevent the drawer from fitting properly. Putting my hand into the hole to discover the reason, my fingers encountered a thin packet of paper which I immediately drew out and held up to my father’s wondering gaze.

“What is this, lad?” said he. “Papers? They must have been placed in the secret drawer or behind it, and slipped underneath. ’Tis an ancient-looking packet, too.”

That indeed it was, for the cover was yellow with age, and the handwriting upon it was of such an ancient fashion that neither my father nor myself could decipher it. So we carried it downstairs, and having called Jacob Trusty into the parlour to see what his counsel had procured for us, my mother took the packet to see what she could make out of it. Having stripped off the cover, she found some large papers with seals attached to them, but despite her clerkship she could make naught out of any of them, save that on the margin of one there was somewhat written which appeared to be of more recent date than the body of the writing. This, after some pains, she made out to be as follows: “Ye cloase lying next to Wattson’s land at Castle Hill ys myne by this deede. W. D. 1510.” Which we took to show that one of our ancestors at least had something more than supposition to rest on when claiming the narrow strip of land. My father fastened up the papers again, and having charged us all to say nothing to anyone about them, the next day he carried them over to Lawyer Hook, and told him how we had come across them. Lawyer Hook, after having with much labour read various of the papers, and particularly the one bearing the marginal note, was much pleased, and informed my father that we now had a perfect case, and should give Masters Watson and Sharpe such a surprise as they had not reckoned for.

“For this deed, Master Dale,” said he, “proves that in the reign of Henry the Seventh the Watson of that day did sell to the then William Dale this bit of land in exchange for three acres of land which had belonged to your yeomanry, but was somewhat inconvenient of access to you, but easily come at by him. So now rest content, Master Dale, and say naught to anyone of this, and let Sharpe gather together what evidence he can, and when we are called on for our defence, we will produce our deed, and come away from the Assizes victorious.”

So the time went by until December, and in the second week of that month the judges came to hold the Assize at York, and it was necessary for my father to attend. Now, he had made me a promise just before the dispute with Rupert Watson, that the next time business took him to York he would carry me with him, so that I might see the great city and its Minster. You may be sure that I neglected not to remind him of his promise, now that I knew he was bound to go to York. And though it yet wanted a fortnight of the holidays, he stood to his word, and begged leave of Dr. Parsons to take me away from school earlier than usual, which leave the doctor granted when he heard whither we were bound.

On the 14th day of December, then, we set out for York, my father mounted on his brown mare and I riding Dumpling. We had but twenty-four miles to travel, and I was much set up at the prospect of riding along the Great North Road and forming one of the never-ceasing procession which was continually passing and repassing to or from London and York. So we said goodbye to my mother and Lucy and rode away, and having dined at Sherburn, which lies almost halfway between Dale’s Field and York, we journeyed forward to the city in the afternoon, and arrived there long ere darkness had set in. As I had never seen York before, I was much impressed by my first sight of that fair and beautiful city, which lies like a jewel in the midst of the rolling meadows and moors of Yorkshire, and I could do naught else but admire and wonder at its various sights. First, there was the Minster, which struck me with the most profound astonishment, being of such immensity in size and conception, that our church at home, though a fine one, seemed quite small in comparison. Then there were the city walls and the bars, through which we passed to enter the town, with their portcullises and guards and spikes over the towers, on which still stood the grisly heads of some that had been executed awhile before. And though the Minster seemed vast enough to hold all the people in the county, there were churches everywhere, some of them of exceeding great age. What with the Minster, and the churches, and the city walls, and the fine houses and people, I was thrown into a whirl of amazement, which did but increase the next day when Lawyer Hook conducted us to the Castle, where the Assizes were opened, and it was necessary for us to attend. There did I first behold the majesty of the law, and saw a judge sitting on the bench in scarlet robes and ermine, with many lawyers before him arguing and disputing, and the twelve honest men in the jury-box wondering which was right and which wrong. Now, indeed, I need say little about our case, which was not called for some three days after we had reached York, there being many matters to deal with before we could be attended to. When it came on at last it was speedily over, for when Rupert Watson’s side had put before judge and jury all they knew or could invent, our counsel produced the ancient deed, and the matter was settled, and the land ours forever without dispute. And the judge having said some sharp words about hastily rushing into litigation, ordered Rupert Watson to pay all the costs we had been put to, the business was over, and we were free to go where we pleased. I could have well done to stay awhile in York and see more of the city at my leisure, but my father was anxious to reach home and tell my mother of our success. So having dined at our inn and paid the score for ourselves and our beasts, we mounted the latter and set out homewards, well pleased with the result of our journey.

It was well on into the afternoon when we left York, and having paused awhile at Sherburn to give the horses a feed, the darkness came on suddenly, and speedily surrounded us. This by itself was no great matter, for the brown mare and Dumpling could both have taken their way homeward blindfold. But as Providence ruled it, there came upon us a heavy snowstorm as we descended the hill from Bryam into Ferrybridge, and this confused our cattle, so that progress was slow, Dumpling in particular objecting to the snow, which drove right against us as we pressed along and made our faces tingle with its sharpness. However, we gained Ferrybridge, and after a short stay there entered upon the last three miles of our journey, it being then eight o’clock in the evening and the snow coming down faster than ever.

Now, the road ’twixt Ferrybridge and Darrington is a lonely one, and never over-pleasant to ride along at any time of night. There were no carriages or coaches going along on this night, and we met nothing but a post-chaise going north. The snow increased at every step, and the beasts beneath us groaned with their efforts to keep their footing and persevere on their homeward way.

“ ’Tis a wild night, Will,” said my father, who rode on my right hand; “and thy mother will be anxious for us. We shall be home in half an hour an we keep at it. Shake Dumpling up, lad; she is half afraid of the snow, and will⁠—”

I never knew what more my father would have said. As he spoke, a figure seemed to rise up out of the storm right in our path. I heard a sharp report of firearms and saw the flash. My father fell from his horse without even a groan.

I was too much horrified by the sudden attack upon my father to cry out or even to move. I sat for what seemed an age without even drawing my breath. Dumpling quivered beneath me; I heard the mare shaking at her side. It seemed to me like some awful dream, from which I should presently awake to find myself in my little sleeping-chamber at Dale’s Field. And then I suddenly realized the horror that had come to overwhelm me and mine, and my heart seemed to burst into one terrible cry.

“Father, oh, father!”

Alas! there was no response. Trembling with fear I got down from Dumpling’s back and felt my way through the darkness to the mare’s bridle. She was shivering and quaking all over, and pushed her nose against my arm as if to ask protection. I fastened her by the bridle to Dumpling and bade them stand still. Poor brutes! what with the storm and the sudden attack they were thoroughly cowed and affrighted, and they huddled together and held their heads to the ground, as beasts only will when they are completely yielded up to fear. And then I began to search about in the snow, and presently stumbled over my father’s body.

He was dead⁠—I knew that as soon as I touched him. I knew it by the awful stillness that lay over him, by the perfectly rigid manner in which his tall form was extended on the snow. I laid my hands on him, on his face, breast, arms, and suddenly felt them bathed in something that ran fast and warm from his heart. And the touch of his blood overwhelmed me, and thinking of my mother waiting for us at home, and of Lucy and myself without a father, I broke down and threw my arms about him, and sobbed like any girl, while the poor beasts at my side sniffed at me and seemed to sorrow with my sorrow.

And then all of a sudden I sprang to my feet with a mad fierce thought newborn in my heart. My father had been murdered! This was no ordinary highway affair, no stoppage of unoffending travellers by highwayman or footpad. The man who had come upon us out of the darkness had discharged his deadly weapon and fled away as swiftly as he came. He had not waited to rob and plunder, as he might well have done for aught that I, a lad, could have done to prevent him. It was no murder for the sake of spoil, but committed out of hatred and envy. And in all the world my father had but one enemy, and that was Rupert Watson. It must have been his hand that had shot my father down; it could be none but his. And with this conviction strong in mind I knelt down in the snow and laid my hand on my dead father’s breast again, and swore solemnly never to rest until I had brought his murderer to a fitting end.

When I looked up again, perplexed as to what I must do next, I saw a light drawing near along the road from Ferrybridge. From the way in which it danced up and down in the darkness I took it to be carried by a horseman. I raised my voice and shouted loudly through the storm, and presently two men, cloaked to the chin, came cautiously up and turned the light upon me as I stood in the way, with the still figure behind me and the horses smelling at it in fear and wonder.

“God’s mercy!” said one, “what is this? Here seems foul work.”

They were looking past me at the group behind.

“Sir,” I cried, “my father is dead⁠—murdered! We were coming home from York-a man rode up to us here⁠—he fired⁠—my father fell⁠—he is dead, dead!”

Before I had finished they were off their horses, and one was kneeling in the snow at my father’s side. The other turned the lantern’s light upon his dead face. I turned away; it was more than I could bear, to see that.

“He is dead,” said the first. “He has been shot through the heart. A foul business. Somehow, methinks I know him.”

“It is William Dale.” I said. “William Dale of Dale’s Field.”

“And thou art my little friend Will,” said he, rising from his knees. “I thought I knew thee, poor Will. What, dost not remember me?”

Then I looked at him and saw that it was Philip Lisle. He laid his hand on my head, and patted it affectionately.

“Poor lad, poor lad!” said he. “I would we could have had a merrier meeting. This man, Will, where went he after he had fired upon thy father?”

“I cannot say,” I answered. “He seemed to ride upon us all in a moment, and I saw his pistol flash, and by the light of it he was a tall man on a great horse, but he was gone as quick as the flash when it was over.”

“What! stayed he not to rob? Then, Will, this is no common murder. Thy father, had he any enemies?”

“Yes, sir, one, and one only⁠—Rupert Watson, of Castle Hill.”

“Ah! I have heard somewhat of that old dispute. Lad, doubt not that whoever hath killed thy father will be punished in the end. And now let us see how we can get him home. Where is the nearest house?”

“There is a farmstead across the fields,” I answered. “We can get a cart there.”

“Then go there with me, Will, and my friend Captain Ready here will keep watch over thy father till we return. Stay, let us lift him to the hedge-side. Steady, Jack, thou and I have strong arms. Poor William Dale, ’tis a sad end for him, but I had rather be he than his slayer. And now for this farmstead.”

So we ploughed our way across the field, leaving Philip Lisle’s companion watching by my father, and after some difficulty we procured a cart, and a man to drive it, and returned, and the men lifted the body in, and we set off along the turnpike in the direction of Dale’s Field, I riding Dumpling and leading the mare by the bridle. At first as we went along Philip Lisle and Captain Ready conversed in low whispers, but presently the former came over to me and laid his hand on my arm.

“Will,” said Philip Lisle, “someone must needs ride forward and break this bad news to thy poor mother. What think you, Will, shall we leave him with Ready and ride onward? It will be well for her to have thee at hand when she hears this sad matter.”

So we rode forward through the falling snow, and the cart came rumbling after us with Captain Ready riding at the side. And as we rode along I could say nothing at all. I knew naught, and saw naught. Only there was a mist of red all about me and a fierce, burning desire to lay hands upon the murderer who had robbed me of a father and my mother of her husband. It was late when we reached the open gate at Dale’s Field and rode through it into the fold. In the house they heard our horses’ feet; the door opened, warmth and light came through it from the cheery kitchen. I saw my mother standing in the open doorway to welcome us, and Lucy peeped out from behind her gown, and beyond them was Jacob Trusty holding a mug of ale in his hand. And at the sight of the old familiar place the tears came rolling fast and hot and very bitter from my eyes.

“Be brave, Will,” whispered Philip Lisle. “Be brave, lad. Remember thy mother and be a man.”

We advanced into the light. My mother came a step forward to meet us with a cry of joy at our return. And then she suddenly stopped, for she caught sight of Philip Lisle’s face where she had expected to see her husband’s. And at that I could bear it no longer, but ran forward and threw my arms about her, and burst into such tears as I had never shed before and have never shed since.

“Will!” she said. “Will! what is it, my dear? Your father?”

“Oh, mother, mother, mother!” was all I could say.

I felt her arms suddenly tighten about me, and I knew she was looking at Philip Lisle.

“Madam,” said Philip Lisle. “Madam⁠—”

“Speak out, sir,” she said, “there is some evil happened. Tell me all, I pray you.”

“God in heaven knows, madam,” said he, “I would have suffered aught rather than bring you this news. I pray you be brave to endure it.”

“I am brave, sir,” she answered. “Tell me it all. My husband⁠—is he dead?”

But Philip Lisle could say no more. He bowed his head and turned away to hide his own emotion. My mother took the fearful blow bravely. She went indoors and sat down, still holding me in her arms and striving to comfort me. Never to the day of my death shall I forget that scene. My mother sat by the fire, and I leaned my head against her, striving to keep down the great sobs that seemed like to choke me, and Lucy had stolen up and was weeping softly at my mother’s side, and before us at the table stood Jacob Trusty, still holding his mug of ale, and one of the maids stood behind him, and the doorway into the back kitchen was filled with the scared faces of the ploughmen and boys, and through the door into the parlour I could see the table set with prodigal fullness in anticipation of our return. And in the middle of the kitchen stood Philip Lisle, his long black cloak spangled with snowflakes.

At last my mother raised her head and looked at him. “Tell me how it came about,” she said, in a calm, steady voice that frightened me, because it seemed so unnatural at that time. “Tell me, sir.”

But Philip Lisle shook his head and pointed to me. “Your son, madam, can best do that. Take him inside and let him tell you his news, and suffer me to make some preparations, for they are bringing Master Dale here and will soon arrive.”

And so we went into the parlour, and as soon as I could I told my mother all the sad story. And yet she could not weep, but held my hands between her own, and sometimes they gripped mine tightly, and sometimes they were hot and then cold, and there was a look came into her eyes and in her face which I had never seen there before. But soon they called for her instructions, and she had to go about and give orders, and presently came Captain Ready with the cart, and they carried my father across his own threshold, and⁠—But of that night I will write no more.

When it was noised abroad the next day that William Dale had been foully murdered on the highway between Ferrybridge and Darrington, there was such a commotion in the neighbourhood as no one ever remembered. Philip Lisle and his friend Ready had remained at the inn at Darrington, and they were questioned on all sides. As for our house, it was besieged all day, for my mother’s friends came from neighbouring villages, and men on horseback rode up to inquire if the bad news were true, and Parson Drumbleforth walked over early in the morning to comfort my mother. I think that all of us would have been happier if my mother had broken down and wept, but she maintained a calm spirit; only those who knew could see from her white face and fixed eyes that she was suffering more than anyone could imagine. Nevertheless, she kept her sorrow down, and comforted me and Lucy, and made arrangements for the burying of my father’s body, and did things so thoroughly that all admired her bravery.

“Nevertheless, lad,” said Jacob Trusty, who was talking with me on the second day, “I like not to see it, for ’tis not natural. If she would cry now, it would be a comfort and a thing to praise God for. I pray she may break down when they take him away. For it is a bad thing, William, boy, to keep one’s grief bottled up as it were. ’Tis like a dove which you may prison in a cage, and which will make no murmur, but will die silently. Howbeit, she will feel it badly when they fasten him up for burial.”

Jacob had felt my father’s death very keenly. When I could bear it he had taken me on one side and asked me the manner of it, and I had told him all I could think of. Jacob’s face grew grave and thoughtful as he listened, and he shook his head often.

“What do you think of it, Jacob?” I said at last.

“Nay, lad, nay, what can I think? Thy father had but one enemy in all the world. See how befriended he was! Have they not been here this past two days, gentle and simple, high and low, so that the doorstep hath never cooled of them? Hast hearkened how they praised him, how all had a good word for him? Nay, weep not, William, lad. Be proud that all men thought so well of thy poor father. But, William, one man hath not come, and only one of all the neighbourhood.”

“You mean Rupert Watson?”

Jacob nodded his gray head. “Ay,” said he, “him I do mean. Certainly, seeing that they had never been friends, and had lately had extra cause of unpleasantness, it might seem strange to some if Rupert Watson had come here. But I can remember that when thy grandfather died this Watson’s father was bidden to the funeral and came like a Christian. But this one stays aside, and hath never sent word of sympathy.”

“Jacob,” I said, “do you think it was Rupert Watson who did it?”

“I know not, lad⁠—I know not. Let it be.”

“Nay,” I said, “that I will not. If he killed my father I will fasten it on him and kill him.”

“Whisht, lad, whisht!” said Jacob Trusty. “Thou art too young to talk of killing. Rest assured that whoever killed thy father will be sorry enow for it. For there was never crime done in this world, lad, that did not come home to the doer. It may be long first, but come it will.”

I had to tell all I knew about the manner of my father’s death to the coroner and his jury, and they examined me at great length, and with me Philip Lisle and his friend Captain Ready. But there was nothing in our testimony that was clear, and they gave in a verdict that my father was murdered by some unknown person, and there was an end of it. And two days after that we buried him in the churchyard at Darrington, and there was such a throng of folk as I had never seen before, people coming from far and near to pay their respects to his memory. And Lucy and I went and followed after the coffin, and the people said kind things to us, but my mother stayed at home. Ah me! without him the house seemed shorn of all its light and life, and when we came back from the funeral and I realized that I never should again see him or hear him, never again touch his hand, or learn from him, I broke down utterly, and went to my mother’s side and laid my head on her knee and wept my heart out. And presently I felt her hot tears drop on my face, and so at last she wept and relieved her heart and was somewhat comforted.

Now, after my father had been buried, men began to talk of the manner of his death and to ask questions and give opinions. And knowing that he had but one enemy, and that enemy a man over whom he had just achieved a triumph, there were not wanting those who hinted in broad fashion that it was Rupert Watson who had slain my father, out of hatred and revenge. And little by little men began to look darkly upon him when they met him in high-road or marketplace, and some would hardly speak to him, and even his associates looked fearfully at him. So patent did these things become that he could not fail to notice them, for, indeed, people began to shun him as they would the plague.

But Rupert Watson was not the man to patiently suffer this, and setting us down as the originators of the feeling against him, he rode over one afternoon and drew rein at our door, and knocked thereon. And my mother having caught sight of him went out herself, and I followed, my heart beating against my ribs until it was like to burst.

“How now, dame!” said he, looking angry and black at us; “what is this that you are saying of me? Think you I have naught to do but slay men o’ nights? I would have you know that there is law for those that set malicious reports abroad.”

Then my mother looked straight at him. “Master Watson,” she said, “I have set no reports abroad, nor shall I. I know not who killed my dear husband. But I am very sure, Master Watson, that not all the sorrow and pain which I and these children have suffered will equal one tithe of the sorrow that God will bring down on the head of his murderer.”

And therewith she went inside and closed the door, and Rupert Watson rode out of the yard with his head bent down, looking, said one of our maids, as if he had seen a spirit.

After that time many years came and went and brought nothing of moment with them. It seemed, indeed, to me that however the great world’s affairs might go, naught disturbed us at Dale’s Field, where the seasons travelled round with monotonous regularity. Now it was winter and now spring, and with the latter came fresh flowers and the bleating of lambs, and summer followed only to be driven forth by apple-cheeked autumn, and so the year completed its cycle, and was in its turn compelled to give way to its successor. For I perceived at last that I was grown head and shoulders above my mother, who herself was a tall woman, and I was not a little proud to feel that I was approaching manhood.

I had pleaded hard after my father’s sudden death to be allowed to remain at home and help my mother in managing the farm, for I knew that she would need a helping hand and head where there was so much to do. There would, I foresaw, be many an occasion when she would need someone to carry messages and ride forth on business, and it seemed to me that I was the one to undertake such affairs. And for a time my mother, feeling the loneliness of her position, was minded to keep me at home to help her. But having taken counsel, as was her wont upon all important matters, with Parson Drumbleforth, she considered it best that I should go back to Dr. Parsons for a twelvemonth at least.

“Thou wilt do thy poor mother most good, Will,” said Parson Drumbleforth, “by going back to thy book and attending thereto. As to farm matters, she hath Jacob Trusty to assist her, and a wiser man in husbandry I know not. Go back, then, lad, to my good friend Doctor Parsons, and mind thy book for the space of a year, and get some strength into those great bones of thine against the time when thou wilt be master of Dale’s Field.”

And with that I was fain to be content, and returned to school, determined to do my duty there until such times as I was called to do it elsewhere. Yet I cared little about book-learning, for my head was always running after what things were going on at Dale’s Field, and I fear that my mind was often with Jacob Trusty and Timothy Grass when it ought to have been immersed in far diverse matters. It was, for example, a hard thing to sit in the ancient schoolhouse on a fine spring morning, staring at the grammar and remembering that at that very moment Jacob Trusty was probably counting the young lambs in the home meadow. At such times I used to wish that I could jump across the country and join Jacob for an hour, so inviting was the thought of the green fields and bright sunshine. However, I had a good deal of consolation in the weekly home-going, for I ran off homewards as soon as school was over on Friday, and did not return until Monday. By my mother’s pleasure I was often accompanied on these weekend visits by one or other of my fellows, Ben Tuckett or Tom Thorpe, and on the Saturday we were as often as not joined by Jack Drumbleforth, with whom we had many a royal day at birds’-nesting, so that the country round there became as familiar to us as the lines on our hands. And once or twice at holiday times I had all three lads to stay with me at Dale’s Field, and our merrymaking was great.

So the time went on, and I was growing every month and assuming vast proportions, so that people who knew me not stared in astonishment on learning my age, and thought me older than I was. For at my fifteenth year I was nearly six feet high and well-fashioned into the bargain, being broad-shouldered and properly proportioned, and having nothing of the beanstalk about me, as so many fast-growing lads have. Moreover, I was developing considerable strength, and could lift and carry a load of wheat or potatoes as easily as if it were a pikestaff. But Jacob Trusty would not allow me to do much in that way.

“Husband thy strength, William,” he was wont to say, “husband thy strength. For what good will it do thee to show folk how strong thou art now? ’Tis a fine sight, doubtless, to see so young a lad possess the strength of a grown man, but such things are, after all, but in the way of sightseeing, and afford only a passing curiosity. Keep thy strength, lad, for thy manhood, for thou mayst find a time of blows, and worse, coming.”

Now, when I was fifteen I told my mother with all respect that I thought it time I was busied about the farm and learning the active duties of life. And in this view I was supported by Dr. Parsons, who drove over to Dale’s Field one day during the holidays in order to talk with my mother about me. I can see him now as he sat in my mother’s parlour, a little round figure in sober black, with a bald head and gold spectacles, over which he would occasionally blink at me, as if wondering at my great height and breadth.

“Mistress Dale,” said the doctor, “as for your great lad here, I fear he must leave me. For look you, he is a man already in size, a regular Anak, and towers head and shoulders above his fellows.”

“As he does above me, sir,” said my mother with a smile.

“Yea, and above me, his master. Well, dame, but the lad’s heart is always with ye here, and his head is always running on sheep and cattle, turnip and wheat, sowing and reaping. And so now, having made him into a fair scholar, let him set to and make a better farmer.”

“I trust he has done his duty, sir?” said my mother.

“He hath been a good lad, mistress, a good lad indeed. For if he hath been slow he hath made sure, which is high praise. Yea, I am well enough pleased with thee, Will, and wish thee well.”

And so I was fairly entered upon my life’s business, which, as I understood it, was to do my duty to the land which my fathers had left me and hand it forward to my successors even better than when I found it. I need not tell you that I entered into my new mode of life with great eagerness. A proud lad I was when my mother bought me a new horse whereon to ride about the farm, and fitted me up in addition with a new saddle and bridle. My old schoolmates envied me not a little when they saw my new estate. They, too, were leaving school and going into the world, but none of them were thrown into such pleasant occupation as mine. I at least thought so, and so I believe did they. For Jack Drumbleforth was going to Oxford, so that he might in time become a parson, and Tom Thorpe had been articled to Mr. Hook the lawyer, and would henceforth have to live amongst the parchment and ink, while poor Ben Tuckett, meeting the worst fate of all, was apprenticed to a grocer of Pontefract, and liked the prospect ill.

“You are the one to be envied, Will,” said Jack Drumbleforth, “for you will be able to breathe fresh air every minute of the day if you are so minded, while I am poring over old books and while Tom is hunting ancient parchments and poor Ben is frying in the grocer’s shop. However, lads, ’tis all in a life and will be all the same a hundred years hence. I dare say we shall all meet again sooner or later.”

But with Jack Drumbleforth we did not meet often during the next few years, for he presently went away to Oxford and was entered at one of the colleges, and only came home to see his father once a year in the summer time. But Tom Thorpe and Ben Tuckett used to come to Dale’s Field often, for they were both apprenticed in Pontefract, and it was a pleasant walk across the meadows, so that they both took to coming every Sunday, and we made them heartily welcome and looked for them as a regular thing. And in the summer, when Jack Drumbleforth was at home, we had some gay meetings, for Jack was always full of life and suffered no one to be dull in his presence. He would come and stay all day in our harvest-field, eating and drinking with me and the men, and making merry with all until the sun set. And we always held our harvest-home supper before the time came for Jack to go back to his college, for he professed that he lived upon the remembrance of it for all the succeeding winter.

So the years went on, quietly and uneventfully for us at Dale’s Field. Time had somewhat healed our great sorrow, though it could never wholly destroy it. My mother had grown resigned, even happy again, and she took great pride in her children. Lucy was growing a fine girl by that time, and was a great help in the house, for she seemed to possess my mother’s clever ways, and was an adept at all domestic matters of preserving and baking and cooking and so forth. She was growing up not unlike my mother, that is to say, she was a tall, well-made girl with pleasant features and kind eyes and brown hair, which I believe Master Ben Tuckett learnt to admire even in our school days. For Lucy was Ben’s goddess, and he would fetch and carry for her like any dog. Nay, it dawned upon me as time went on that Ben had fallen in love with Lucy, such signs did he sometimes show of it. And I minded not, for I loved them both, and Ben was a good fellow. But I said naught of it even to my mother, being minded to let matters take their course.

In the year in which I came of age our harvest was an uncommonly favourable one. We had warm and nourishing rains in spring and abundant sunshine afterwards, and the corn had sprung and shot and ripened and was ready for the scythe by the end of July. And for many a week after that we had favourable weather, for day after day dawned bright and hot, and our men were in the fields early and late, cutting the grain with scythe and sickle, and binding and setting up the sheaves in long rows across the stubble. We had not, I think, a shower of rain during all that time of ingathering, and we were pleased and thankful that we should have such a favourable harvest. We were a little over a month in reaping and housing our crops, and it was getting near to my birthday in the second week of August, when our last field was ready to be cleared. So it seemed good to my mother that we should hold a merrymaking in honour of my coming to man’s estate at the same time as we held our harvest-home.

“For it will all be one trouble and one preparation, Will,” she said, “and we shall have but one asking of our guests. Yet we must have some extra merrymaking at a time like this, when you are going to enter into man’s estate and your own land at the same time.”

“Nay, mother,” said I, “what do I want more than to serve you?”

For, indeed, I cared not about their legal formalities, which would transfer the broad acres of Dale’s Field to me from those who had held them in trust. So long as they were ours and we were living upon them, I cared for nothing more.

“Nay,” said she, “my son must enter into his father’s possessions. Ah, Will, thou art so like thy father now. I think I see him in thee, just as he was two-and-twenty years ago. Well, but what shall we do at this feast, Will?”

“Nay,” said I, “I am no hand at that sort of thing, mother. Let us consult Jack Drumbleforth. He will know what we should do and tell us how to do it.”

And I went out and found Jack in our stackyard, where he was talking with Jacob Trusty, and carried him into the great kitchen, where my mother and Lucy were making fruit pies, and there we explained to Jack what it was we wished to do.

“Why,” said he, “what you want first of all, Mistress Dale, is to fill your larder with provisions. I warrant that everybody will be hungry and thirsty at a time like that.”

“If that be all,” said my mother, “nobody shall have cause to go away sorrowful.”

“Well, ’tis not all, but ’tis a great deal. What say you, now, if you have a great feast in the big barn? Or, come, ’tis fine weather, why not have it on the lawn outside here, and a dance to follow? You will ask all your friends, Will, and, indeed, make everybody who likes to come welcome.”

“Anyone shall be welcome who comes that day,” said my mother.

“We will have great things,” said Jack, rubbing his hands. “See to it that there is plenty to eat and drink, Mistress Dale, and I will do the rest. Come thou with me, Will, and we will talk matters over with Jacob Trusty.”

During the next few days Jack Drumbleforth was in his element. Naught pleased him so well as to be manager of a feast or entertainment, and he found vast delight in making plans how this or that should be done, and in what order the guests should sit, and so with a multitude of matters which would have caused me a great deal of discomfort. I was well pleased to have Jack close at hand at this time, for he took the weight off my shoulders and left me free, which was what I wanted.

The final arrangement come to between Jack and my mother, with Lucy thrown in as counsellor, was that we should have two entertainments, the first for the labourers and their wives and children, the second for our friends and acquaintance, and such of our own quality as might drop in upon us. This we thought to be better than entertaining all together, as it left us free to pay more attention to our guests than if they had all come upon one day. Again, said Jack, the men would feel more at home amongst themselves, and would cut their jokes and amuse themselves better than in the presence of their masters. So we fixed the entertainment for the labourers on the 24th of August, that being my birthday, and for our other friends on the 25th. These things being settled, my mother and Lucy set to work with a right good will, and very soon our larder began to look as if we were threatened with a siege. I was at that time always blessed with a good appetite⁠—indeed, I thank God, I always have been⁠—and it used to whet it to look through the latticed window and see the good things which their nimble fingers had shaped in honour of the coming feast. I used to call Jack Drumbleforth and bid him peep through the lattices too, at which Jack’s mouth would water, for he, too, was endowed with a healthy appetite, so that we were often forced to cut ourselves a great slice of cold pie, and wash it down with a quart of ale out of sympathy. Nor did we ever find that these slight refreshments interfered with our meals, though I have heard people say that to eat between breakfast and dinner is to spoil the latter.

It was no slight trouble to invite the guests to our entertainment, for my mother was anxious that all our acquaintance should come, and as many of them were hard to get at, I had no little riding about to do before I had got them all invited. As for the labourers, we decided that all who had ever done a day’s work for us at odd times should come, with their wives and families, and that all our present hands should have the privilege of asking a friend. In this way there was a goodly assemblage gathered together in our great barn when the day came. The barn, thanks to Jack Drumbleforth, had been very gaily decorated with boughs and flowers, and looked quite inviting as one entered it from the stackyard. My mother, indeed, said that she had never seen a prettier sight than it presented when all the company were met, and Parson Drumbleforth rose up to say grace before meat.

And indeed a pleasant sight it was, and one that did my heart good to see. For right down the centre of the barn ran a long table, which the carpenter had fixed up that morning, with benches on either side that would seat each over fifty persons. The walls were gaily spread with fresh-plucked boughs, and Lucy had ornamented the table with bunches of flowers, so that there was green, and red, and white, and blue everywhere. But if the flowers on the table looked well, what shall I say of all the goodly dishes that almost hid the snow-white cloth from sight? My mother, like all good housewives, loved hospitality, and nothing would satisfy her but that she must put before her guests all that she could devise or our larder command. I do not think that the daintiest epicure could have found fault with our table that night, for if the fare was homely, it was well cooked and pleasantly served, which is no small matter. As for the beef, it was of Jacob Trusty’s own feeding, and so was the bacon, and our people seemed to think that there was additional recommendation in that. At any rate, they praised both by sending up their plates time and again, and the carvers had a merry time of it, and so had Jack Drumbleforth, whose office it was to preside at the great barrel of ale that had been placed in the coolest corner of the barn. Everybody, indeed, was at his or her busiest attending to the wants of our guests, and my mother’s face beamed with satisfaction as she watched the men and their wives and children enjoying their entertainment.

Though I had somewhat hung back from it, being always loath to put myself forward, they had forced me, saying it was the proper thing, to take the chair at the head of the long table, and preside over this great feast. So there I sat in my best, feeling as if every eye was fixed upon me, and yet very proud withal of the honour, and Jacob Trusty and Timothy Grass, being our oldest men, sat one on either side of me, while Parson Drumbleforth sat at the foot of the table as vice-chairman. While the supper was being discussed, every man was too busily engaged to think of aught else; but when all had eaten their fill, and their minds had a chance, certain of the older men began to look at Jacob Trusty and cough in a significant manner, so that I immediately grew very hot about the ears, knowing right well that they wanted Jacob to propose my health, which would oblige me to make a speech in reply. For a time, however, Jacob Trusty did not choose to take the hint. Perhaps he was already composing his speech in his own mind, or waiting for an idea to come to him. However, the silence and the expectant looks continuing, Timothy Grass thought it well to call Jacob’s attention to the matter.

“I think, Jacob,” said Timothy Grass, “I think the folks expect a word or two from you, it being a great occasion, and you the oldest man present. So up, Jacob, and let us hear what hast got to say, man.”

I think that Jacob was secretly pleased with his mission, and felt his own importance in the matter, though, like other greater men, he pretended that he rose with diffidence, and was unprepared to sustain so difficult a part. Jack Drumbleforth, too, said that he was minded to believe that Jacob had been committing his little speech to memory, and practising it in spare moments; but I paid no heed to Jack, knowing of old that Jacob was a ready talker, and never fast for words. However, I question whether Jacob ever had so large an audience, or such an attentive one, as upon that occasion, for every eye was turned upon him, and the youngest stable-boy ran outside into the fold to drive away the hens which were cackling and clucking without the barn-door.

“Master William, and friends all,” said Jacob, when he had fairly gotten upon his legs, and Parson Drumbleforth had rapped loudly upon the table to command attention⁠—“Master William, and friends all, this is a great occasion, and has been honoured accordingly. I thank God that I have lived to see it, to see the lad grow into a man. And such a man! Friends, I have seen three generations of Dales, and they have all been big men; but this is bigger all ways, length and breadth, wherefore, I say, I am glad, because the old stock is as fine as ever. Now, there’s some among you who can remember Master William being born, and how he grew up to a lad, and you’ve seen him change from a lad to a man. All that I’ve seen too, perhaps a bit closer than most of you, because he’s been mine from the very first, and he’ll not deny it. Who showed him his first bird’s-nest but Jacob Trusty? Who made him his first whip, or gave him his first ride a-horseback, but me? I ha’ done a deal for him, child and boy, and I feel a sort o’ right in him. Well, friends all, Master William has come to manhood at last, and here he sits amongst us, master of the good old acres on which you and me have toiled. Here he sits for all to look at and admire⁠—a fine, big man, like his fathers, six foot four in his stockings, and strong as a bull. And so, friends, having seen him grow up to manhood, I have seen all I wished for, and can die happy. ’Tis but a poor way of saying it, but Master William knows how old Jacob loves him and the old place. So now, friends, young and old, fill your glasses. Fill ’em up, and drink ’em off to the health and long life of William Dale.”

I can see him now as he stood there, tall, erect, silver-haired, in his clean smock and gay neckerchief, his oldweather-beaten, wrinkled face shining with good humour, and a tear in his bright blue eye as he lifted his glass to drink my health. I can feel the clasp of his hard, horny hand as he grasped mine and said, “God bless thee, William, lad, God bless thee!” No heartier or truer handclasp ever met mine than that, for no man ever loved me more than Jacob Trusty.

There was quite a storm of shouting and cheering when Jacob had done, and I was outfaced with the warmth of the reception given to me. Then came Jack Drumbleforth to the back of my chair, whispering me to rise and speak while the iron was hot, and then I found myself on my legs, staring at the eager faces before me, and wondering what I was going to say. As to what I did say I cannot tell, though I can remember everything that old Jacob said. But I spoke from my heart, and thanked them for their kindly feeling to me and mine, and promised to be a good master to all who worked, and should work for me, and swore that no man who ever tilled my land should want food or shelter if any evil day fell upon him and his, which vow I have faithfully kept to this present. And after that there were more healths drunk, and Parson Drumbleforth made us a serious speech, after which his son Jack made us a merry one, whereat everybody laughed heartily. And then the whole company adjourned into the orchard, where the elder people sat about under the trees, and the children played at various sports, devised by Ben Tuckett and my sister Lucy, and everything went as merry as a marriage bell. As for Jack Drumbleforth, he was here, there, and everywhere, superintending this, and arranging that, while his father and my mother and I walked about from group to group, saying a word to everyone, and bidding all hearty welcome to Dale’s Field. When all were tired of further merrymaking there was more ale and refreshment served out, and then I stood at the orchard gate and shook hands with all as they went homeward, receiving their blessings as they passed away.

“Odd’s fish!” said Jack Drumbleforth, when the last was gone; “I am as dry as if I had sat before a limekiln this five hours. It is hard work this merrymaking, after all, Will. However, what matters a dry throat and tired legs, if other folk are pleased? Thy guests⁠—I think they all enjoyed their entertainment, Will?”

“That indeed they did, Jack, thanks to you.”

“Nay, man, no thanks to me. But I am so hungry that I must inside and persuade Lucy to give me a cut of game pie and a pint of ale. ’Tis suppertime already. Come in, Will, and join me.”

But I was in no humour for it just then. My head was all in a whirl with the events of the evening, and I was anxious to take a quiet walk round my meadows in the moonlight to get the heat and noise out of my brain. Already through the lighted window I could see my mother and Lucy and Ben Tuckett and Parson Drumbleforth gathering round the supper-table, well pleased with the day’s proceedings. I bade Jack go in and join them.

“I am going for a walk round the meadow, Jack,” I said. “Tell them I will come in presently when my head cools. The noise rings in it yet.”

So I went away through the orchard into the home meadows and wandered, thinking of many things, across the dewy grass in the direction of the woods. The harvest-moon was at its full, and the air was soft and warm. From the road beyond Dale’s Field came the sound of a post-chaise driven rapidly onward by the hurrying postboy. The sound of the wheels died away as I walked across the shining grass; and then the silence was complete. I lifted my hat and let the cool air sweep over my forehead. I thought of what good old Jacob had said, and of the hearty expressions of goodwill which had come to me on every side. These thoughts were serious and weighty, and made me think much of my new responsibilities. For I was now Dale of Dale’s Field, and the broad acres around me were mine.

I was in no hurry to turn homewards, and half unconsciously I passed into the wood and went down the path that led to the mill by the riverside. The wheel was turning slowly and the spray darted like silver in the moonlight. I stood in the lane and watched it for awhile, and then I turned down towards Wentbridge, thinking to reach home by the road. I remembered that I must say good night to Parson Drumbleforth and Jack before they drove homewards, and I hurried my steps, chiding myself that my thoughts had carried me so far afield. But as I reached the foot of the lane and was turning up the hill I came upon two figures in the moonlight, at sight of whom I stopped. A man, on horseback, evidently booted and spurred for a journey, sat bending down to speak to a female whose hand lay on his horse’s bridle. At sound of my foot the man looked up. I could not see his face, but the moon shone full on my own. He raised his hand.

“Ah!” said he, “an that is not Will Dale, I am dreaming! Will, is it not you? It is years since we met, lad, and ’twas a sad time; but, why, it is I, Philip Lisle, Will, and here is Rose⁠—thou wilt remember Rose, though she is no longer a little maiden, but grown almost a woman.”

Now, it seemed to me when I heard Philip Lisle’s voice, that I was walking in a dream from which I should presently wake to find myself elsewhere, so strange was it to meet with him and Rose standing almost where I had left them so many years before. Yet the strange thrill of pleasure which shot through my heart was no dream, and the clasp of Black Phil’s hand was warm and real as he bent from his saddle to greet me.

“Ha!” said he, “I am glad to meet thee, Will Dale. Rose, give Will thy hand. How many years is it, I wonder, since thou and he rode together down yonder bank on horse Caesar’s back? Ye have both grown somewhat since then, and I have grown older and grayer.”

Rose stretched out her hand to me and looked curiously at me in the moonlight. She must indeed have wondered to find the lad she remembered grown into such a strapping man as I was then. Yet she could not be more surprised than I was when I came to look at her in the full light of the moon. She had grown into a tall and stately maiden of gracious presence and rare beauty, in which I could still trace some resemblance to the child that had bent over me in the wood when I fell down from the stormcock’s nest. Now, I had never until then looked much upon maidens, always having my mind intent on other matters, but I felt that having once seen Rose Lisle I could go on watching her dark eyes forever. So we stood looking at each other in the moonlight, each no doubt wondering by what magic means time had so soon wrought this great change in us.

“Well,” said Philip Lisle, “and how goes the world with you, Will? I have never ridden this way since that sad night many a year ago, and I dare say ye have all well-nigh forgotten me.”

“That, indeed, we have not, sir. We have thought often of you and of Mistress Rose here, and wondered why you brought her not to see us as you promised.”

“Ah, lad, I have had much to do. My time has been spent far north, Carlisle way, this ten years. For dost know, Will, I had given up my old trade when I found thee kneeling by thy poor father’s body that night. I have been a King’s man since then; nay, I was even then upon the King’s business. Rose and I have had a quiet billet in Carlisle this many years.”

I was glad to hear that, and said so.

“But who knows, lad, how much longer it may be quiet? There is trouble afoot. You have heard of it, Will?”

“We have heard such news as travellers bring,” I answered.

“There is war at hand, Will,” said he. “War and no less. You have heard that the King and Commons are at daggers drawn. I fear it will be a great struggle, of which no man can yet see the end.”

Now, in our parts we knew very little of the discussion between the King and the Parliament, for news travelled slowly, and we had enough to do to look after our own concerns without troubling about those of our betters. Nevertheless, so unsettled had been the times during the past ten years that people had talked more than usual about the doings of those in high places, and we were thus somewhat familiar with certain great events which had lately happened. We had heard, for example, of the levying of ship-money on the port towns which had caused so much ill-feeling throughout the country, and travellers had told us of the resistance offered to it by Mr. John Hampden and others. We had heard, too, of the harsh punishment meted out to Prynne, the lawyer, and to his companions Burton and Bastwick, whose path from the prison to the pillory in Palace Yard the populace had strewn with flowers. Then had come to us news of the disturbances in Scotland, where the King was fighting against numerous malcontents. Nothing but trouble and sorrow, indeed, seemed to follow the King at that time, and every traveller brought bad news of great affairs. The Earl of Strafford had been executed. The House of Commons had passed its Grand Remonstrance against the King, who, in his turn, had impeached five of its members of high treason, and attempted to seize them in the House itself. Things, indeed, were in a sad state, and yet because we were a long way from London it seemed to us that we were out of danger and need do nothing but attend to our own matters and thank God that we had been born to quiet lives.

“Think you we shall hear aught of it in these parts?” I asked, thinking these matters over as I stood by Philip Lisle’s horse.

“Nay, lad, I cannot say. But, hark ye, Will, I am on my way to Nottingham, where is to be a meeting of the King’s friends this week, and I shall hear news there. And so little faith have I of returning to Carlisle yet awhile that I have brought Rose southwards with me. We came here but an hour ago, and Rose is going to stay with the old woman at the inn yonder for a couple of days until I return with more certain news.”

“Nay,” said I, “why should Mistress Rose stay at the inn when Dale’s Field is so near? Mistress Rose, persuade your father to bring you up to Dale’s Field. Come, sir, if you are in no great need to ride on, go up and sup with me. My mother and sister will be glad to see you once more, and they will welcome your daughter heartily.”

“Thou speakest kindly, Will,” said Philip Lisle. “What do you say, Rose? Wouldst rather stay with Mistress Dale than at the inn yonder?”

“I would rather stay with Mistress Dale,” said Rose.

“Then we will go up with thee, Will. Indeed, man, I should have come to see thee but for fear of waking sad memories. It was but a sad time when I saw thy poor mother last. But now, here is Rose’s horse at the inn stable. What shall we do with him?”

“I will send a man for him, sir,” said I. “Make yourself easy about that.”

So we went up the hill and turned in at the orchard gate of Dale’s Field and went into the house. Parson Drumbleforth and Jack had gone homeward, but Ben Tuckett had gotten himself a few days’ holiday and was to stay with us over the festivities, and we now found him making himself agreeable to my mother and Lucy. I led Philip and Rose into my mother’s parlour and fetched her in to them from the great kitchen, whispering to her who our visitors were and what I wanted. And she, receiving them with hearty hospitality, would not be content until they sat down and ate and drank, and she sent Lucy off to prepare a chamber for Rose, and herself pressed Philip Lisle to remain overnight with us and continue his journey next day. But to that he could not consent.

“Indeed,” said he, “I ought to be an hour on my journey now, and should have been, only I must needs linger on the bridge saying farewell to this maid of mine until Will yonder comes up and presses me to enjoy your hospitality, Mistress Dale. And glad enough I am, I assure you, to leave my Rose in such good hands for a day or two, for ’tis but poor work for young maidens to stay at a wayside inn, though well enough for old campaigners like myself.”

“We shall take good care of her here, sir,” said my mother, stroking Rose’s hand with her own as she sat by her. “Please God you will bring us back good news, for we need better than we have had lately.”

But on that point Philip Lisle could say nothing certain. Presently he rose and bid my mother and Lucy farewell, and kissed Rose, and I went out with him and walked by his horse’s side to the gate, where he stayed a moment to speak to me.

“I may return this way, Will,” said he, “tomorrow night, or next day. When I come I shall have news. Say naught to anyone, lad, but I fear that there are great things at hand.”

“You fear war?”

“Ay, and such war as is worse than war ’twixt two nations. It will be war of brother upon brother, which is a bad and sorry matter. However, let us do our best. Fare thee well, good Will, till I come again.”

And with that he shook Caesar’s bridle and rode away into the moonlight, and I stood there until the sound of the horse’s hoofs died away, and then went indoors to find Lucy and Ben Tuckett telling Rose about our doings that day, and of the grand entertainment we were to have on the morrow.

Now to see Rose Lisle sitting there in my own house by my mother’s side was to me the greatest delight I had ever known. For it seemed somehow as if Rose and I were old and familiar friends, though, indeed, we had only met once in all our lives, and that many years before, when we were but boy and girl. I could not choose but look at her as she sat there talking to my mother, and I wondered if there were any other maidens in the world who were half so fair as she. I had never forgotten how she looked that afternoon when I tumbled out of the elm-tree, having kept the memory of her fresh in my heart. Then she was a little dark-eyed, gipsy-looking maiden, with a merry laugh and an arch way of looking at you. Now she had become tall and stately and graver of face, but she was more beautiful, and when she smiled I saw the old arch look in her dark eyes. Very often she glanced at me as I sat watching her, and it seemed to me that a man could have no greater happiness than to have such eyes for his light all through life.

Now, Ben Tuckett was nothing if not softhearted, and when my mother and Lucy had taken Rose to her chamber, what must he do but pull his chair up to mine and begin to pour out his sorrows into my ear.

“Will,” said he, “I know you are in love with Mistress Rose yonder, for no one who is not blind could fail to see it.”

“You can see more than I can, then, Master Ben,” I answered. “Why, man, I have never seen her since she was a child until this night.”

“No matter,” said he. “Time is nothing to a lover. You see your sweetheart, and it is all over in an instant. Why, Will, your eyes were upon her every minute of the time!”

I made an impatient movement, not being inclined for this sort of conversation.

“However,” continued Ben, “I am not going to talk of that, having other matters which are perhaps more interesting to me. Will, dear lad, hast ever noticed how it is with me?”

I knew quite well what he was aiming at, but I was willing to jest with him a little.

“Nay,” I said, “what is it, Ben? You are certainly not so fat as you were, but ’tis the hot weather that has pulled you down.”

“You will jest, Will. But there are other matters than hot weather that pull a man down. Though as to being fat, I am not sorry to see myself going thinner. I had rather be a beanstalk than a butter-tub. But seriously, Will, have you any objection to me for a brother-in-law?”

“Nay, lad,” said I, “not a whit. I love thee, old Ben, just as I love Jack and Tom, which is to say, as if ye all three were brothers of mine already.”

He shook my hand heartily at that, and said he was sure of it.

“You see, Will,” he continued, “I am now out of my apprenticeship, and my old master, having had enow of trade, is minded to give up his business to me, so that I shall be my own master in future and doing for myself. And so, lad, having loved Lucy this many a year, I shall now ask her to marry me.”

“I wish you success, Ben,” I said. “You will get a good wife.”

“No better,” said he, “in all the world. Oh, Will, ’tis a rare thing to be a lover! The world seems a new place to a man in love, even if he be such a humdrum individual as I. Well, ye will not be long out of love yourself, Will. Mistress Rose’s dark eyes will be too powerful for you.”

But I dare not think of aught of that sort yet, for Rose seemed to me like a young goddess whom all might admire and reverence, but none claim for his own. Yet I thought much of her that night, for the excitement of the day had made me restless, so that I could not sleep, which was a rare thing with me. However, I paid for it next morning, sleeping two hours over my usual time, and waking to find that it was already seven o’clock, and the sun high in the heavens. When I went downstairs I found that Lucy and Ben Tuckett had gone into the barn to make some arrangements for the evening’s festivities, and that my mother and Rose were in the garden, which my mother was very fond of showing to her visitors. There I joined them, and found Rose more attractive than ever in the fresh morning light. Presently my mother went indoors to hurry on the breakfast preparations, and Rose and I were left together. And of what we talked I know not, save that it was about ourselves, and that I could have stayed there forever, listening to her voice, and watching the smiles come and go on her sweet face. And then I suddenly remembered the primrose she had given me years before, and led her to the corner of the garden where I had buried it in my lead box.

“Do you remember, Mistress Rose,” I said, “the primrose you pinned in my coat that afternoon, and the guinea your father gave me when he carried you away? Let us see if they are still where I put them.”

I got a spade, and began to turn up the soil, which had never been disturbed since the day I buried the lead box there. Presently I turned it up to the light, and placed it in her hands, and bade her open it, while I looked over her shoulder, to see how the treasures had fared.

“Oh!” she cried; “see, the primrose is still unfaded, and here is the guinea. And you have kept them all these years! But was it not a strange place to keep them, where you could never see them?”

“Why,” I said, “it was the only place I could call my own. Let me put them back, and do you put another flower in the lead box, and we will dig them up again at some future time, and see how they fare.”

“What shall I put in?” she said. “There are nothing but roses now, I think. This red rose?” and she put it with the primrose, and shut the box, and gave it back to me with a merry laugh, and watched me carefully bury it again. Then, as we were going back to the house, she said:

“I, too, kept some of the primroses gathered that afternoon, and they are pressed between the leaves of an old book at home. Some day, perhaps, I shall show them to you.”

That made me very happy, for I saw that Rose had not forgotten the day when she first met me in the woods above the old mill, but had thought sometimes of it and of me.

That day was an eventful one to us at Dale’s Field in more than one way. As soon as breakfast was over we had to commence our preparations for the evening’s festivities, which were to be on a larger scale than those of the previous day. Everybody was busily engaged, and there seemed some difficulty as to what should be done with Rose, until she offered to help my mother.

“For I know something about these matters, Mrs. Dale,” said she, “and will help you if I may, and you will command me. I dare say you will find me of some use where all are so busy.”

And therewith my mother furnished her with a large apron and set her to dust the best china, which was a great honour, as I presently told her, no one but my mother ever daring so much as to touch those priceless cups and platters.

“Then, indeed, I am highly honoured,” she said, while I stood there and watched her graceful fingers move about the things. “But you, Master William, is there nothing that you can do? For you seem to be the only one who is doing nothing.”

Now, I ought to have been riding round the fields at that moment, but I felt compelled to stay where I was⁠—why, I know not.

“There is nothing that I can do,” I said. “I am so awkward and clumsy that they trust nothing to me. If you like, I will help you to wipe these dishes, Mistress Rose.”

“Nay,” she said, “if you are so awkward as all that, I fear the poor dishes would come to the ground. But why do you not help your sister and Master Tuckett to decorate the barn? I saw them go across the fold a few minutes ago with a basket of flowers.”

“They will be as well pleased at my absence as with my company,” I said, “or better.”

“And why?”

“Because two’s company and three’s none, and Ben and Lucy are very fond of each other’s company.”

“But surely there must be something you can be doing,” she said. “A man should never be idle.”

“I am well enough here watching you,” I answered.

“If you watch me, I shall be sure to let the china fall, and then your mother will be sorry she entrusted it to my hands. Now, see, there is a young gentleman riding into the yard; you must go out and see him.”

“Nay,” said I, glancing out of the window, “ ’tis only Jack Drumbleforth, our parson’s son. He will find his way in here readily enough without my meeting him.”

And presently, indeed, we saw Jack striding across the fold in the direction of the kitchen-door, which he threw open a minute later with a cheery salutation. I can yet see his start of surprise and the astonished look on his face when he found me leaning against the wall talking to a beautiful young lady whom he had never seen before.

“Come in, Jack,” said I. “Let me present thee to an old friend of mine, Mistress Rose Lisle. Mistress Rose, this gentleman is my old schoolmate, Master John Drumbleforth.”

Then I stood smiling upon them while Jack made his best bow and Rose curtsied to him in the finest fashion.

“Mistress Rose,” said Jack, still astonished of face, “I am your most humble servant. What Will here says of me is indeed true, for we were lads together. But he did never tell me of his old friend, Mistress Rose Lisle.”

“Master Dale is jesting with you, sir,” said Rose. “He hath nothing better to do this fine morning, when we are all so busy.”

“Nay,” said I, “ ’tis true enough. Did I never tell thee, Jack, of how I fell from the elm in Went Vale yonder and was ministered to by an angel?”

“But that is many years ago,” said Rose, “and the angel was a little girl in a red hood.”

“But, nevertheless, it was Mistress Rose Lisle. So that I was right in saying ‘an old friend,’ eh, Jack?”

“I am not sorry thou didst fall out of the elm-tree, Will,” said Jack, “if it made Mistress Rose friend of thine. I have had many a tumble myself, but I never fell in Fortune’s way. However, there may be a chance Will, what dost say if I go to the wars?”

“To the wars? Man, thou art to be a parson.”

“Time enough for that when we have done with fighting. For fighting there will be erelong, so sure as my name is Jack Drumbleforth.”

“Have you heard some fresh news, sir?” asked Rose.

“Nay, mistress, nothing very fresh, save that it is said the King and Commons have come to an open breach at last, and that blood will certainly be shed. Hah!” said Jack, taking down and looking lovingly at my ancient broadsword, “I am afraid there is more of the swashbuckler about me than the parson. I did ever love a fight, Will, as you know. Well, there will be heads broken.”

“But which side wilt thou fight for, Jack?”

But at that he shook his head. It was a question which puzzled many men at that time.

“Nay, lad, that I cannot answer yet awhile. I am for the monarchy, of course, for there is warrant for that. Yet I would hear something of the other side of the question before I take sword in hand. Mark thee, Will, there will be many a man in England take sides in this quarrel who knows nothing of what he is fighting for. It will be enough for such that they fight.”

Which saying was true enough as events proved. But we had no time to discuss it then, for my mother entered the kitchen, and bade us both begone for idlers, at which Rose laughed, and we perforce departed into the fold.

“Zounds, Will!” said Jack, when we were clear of the house, “it is not like thee to have kept the fame of Mistress Rose Lisle to thyself. Ah! thou hast a keen eye for beauty, my old friend Will. Well, I wish thee good luck. I will dance at thy wedding, an I be not killed first.”

“Why, man,” said I, “have I not told thee I never saw Mistress Rose yonder but once, when she was a little maid that high, and I a great boy with a thick head? It is soon to talk of weddings.”

“May be,” said he, “but if thou art not falling in love with her, call me a Dutchman. I know the signs, Will. What! I was in love myself at Oxford with Gillian, the pastrycook’s daughter. Poor Gillian⁠—the lightest foot, I think, that ever trod a measure, and could make you the sweetest tarts I ever set tooth in! Well, I am like to be happy with ye here at Dale’s Field, for there are Ben and Lucy looking unutterable things at each other in the barn, and thou wilt be sighing like a furnace erelong. As for me, I shall never marry, Will. An I survive the wars I will take orders and live in some sweet spot where I can compose madrigals and sonnets to Phyllis. I flatter me that I have as pretty a taste in that line as man need have.”

“Thou seemest resolved that there shall be some fighting, Jack.”

“Why, yes. For, dost thou not see, the land is now in such a state that heads must be broken ere ever things will heal? ’Tis a sad business, but war there must be.”

Then we went to our respective duties, Jack to superintend certain arrangements which he had taken upon himself, and I to ride round the farm on my horse, in which usual task I spent two hours, so that the morning was far advanced when I returned to the house. Ben and Lucy were still busied in the barn, in which we were to dance that evening, and very fine they had made it look when I put my head in at the door to peep at them. The walls were ornamented with green stuff; there were seats all round for the old folks, and such as did not dance; and there was a raised platform at one end for the fiddler to sit on. Calling my approval to Ben and Lucy, I went round the buildings to the garden, where I expected to find Jack. There, indeed, I did find him, leaning against the wall, with his coat off and his hat pushed back from his forehead, his kerchief in one hand, and a tankard of ale in the other. And there in front of him, laughing at some joke of his, stood Rose, bearing a trencher, on which was a jug from which she had just filled Jack’s tankard. When she saw me she set down the trencher, and ran away to the kitchen, returning presently with another tankard, which she filled and offered to me as I came up to them.

“Mistress Rose,” I said, “I know not why it is, but surely our ale never tasted half so fine as this.”

“Well said, Will,” said Jack. “That, indeed, is just what I thought. For mark you, I have been toiling so hard that my mouth was as dry as a bone, and I could not forbear imploring Mistress Rose to bring me a tankard of ale. And indeed ’tis nectar, and Mistress Rose is Hebe, and we are gods.”

But Rose laughed and ran away, and Jack and I were left alone.

“Jack, Jack!” I said. “I fear me thou hast a soft heart. What, dost not know the way to our cellar thyself long before this?”

“There is a deal in service, lad. I cannot away with your ugly waiter who sets down your pot with a scowl on his ill-favoured countenance. But a Hebe with eyes like violets, and a shape like Spring⁠—why, the liquor seems to leap divine in the pewter. ’Tis a beautiful maiden, though, Will, and a good, and will make thee such a wife as a man should pray for. Ah me! it must be a fine thing to be wedded to a good woman.”

“Thou speakest as if thou wert married to some old shrew,” said I.

“Why, in one sense, Will, I am, for I am married to myself, and what worse partner can a man have? I am neither fish, flesh, nor good red herring. However, I may be good enough to go to the wars and handle a pike.”

So the day wore on, and at last all my preparations were made, and it was time for our guests to arrive. We were all arrayed in our finest clothes, and looked, I think, very grand, especially Ben Tuckett, who had brought with him a new lace coat which was very fine indeed, and much admired by everybody. There had been much consultation during the day between Lucy and Rose, for the latter had brought but a simple gown and riding-habit with her upon her travels, and she was puzzled how to honour my coming of age in a fitting manner. However, she and Lucy were much of a size, and at last Rose appeared in a white gown that Lucy had lent her, and looked so beautiful in it that Jack and Ben and myself were struck dumb with admiration, and swore amongst ourselves that we had never seen so fair a maiden, though Ben immediately afterwards recanted, and said that he must on consideration give the palm to Lucy.

My mother had insisted on asking all our friends and acquaintance to honour us with their presence, and by six o’clock in the evening there was quite a large assemblage on our lawn, and our stables were full of horses ridden by their owners from a distance. When we were all assembled, we adjourned to the great kitchen, where we were able to accommodate nearly one hundred guests, and there we all sat down to supper, I again sitting at the head of the table, with Parson Drumbleforth on my right, and Lawyer Hook on my left. And after dinner there were speeches made, and my health was drunk, and I was loudly congratulated. But I thought somehow that Jack had the best time of it after all, for he sat next to Rose, and talked to her constantly. However, as I found out afterwards, the honest fellow was sounding my praises in her ears all the time, which was just like him. After supper was well over, we walked about on the lawn and in the orchard for a time, while Jack Drumbleforth and Ben Tuckett saw to the lighting of the lamps and candles in the barn. This done, we all went thither, and the fiddler, being supplied with a jug of ale, was bidden to ply his elbow merrily for a country dance. Then arose within me considerable wonder as to which of my guests I should ask to dance with me. This question Lucy settled to my satisfaction by saying that as Rose was the greatest stranger I should lead off the dance with her. So then I had the great happiness of leading Rose out into the middle of the floor, and Ben Tuckett led out Lucy, and the others followed in due course, and the fiddler scraped away with his bow, and we all felt as happy as children. But just as we were beginning the first steps, and Rose was laughingly showing me what to do next, for I was no great hand at it, I heard the sound of a horse’s feet on the stones in the yard. And then I saw Philip Lisle coming in behind the people, dusty, travel-stained, and tired. Rose and I made for him through the throng. The people gave over dancing, and the fiddler stopped with his bow in midair.

“What news?” I cried, for I saw that he had news. The people crowded round him to hear his answer. He stayed on the threshold, and raised his hat.

“God save the King!” he cried. “His Majesty raised his flag at Nottingham against his enemies the day before yesterday. God save the King!”

Now, there were some that echoed Philip Lisle’s cry heartily. But there were others who said nothing and looked very grave, while Parson Drumbleforth shook his head sadly, saying that the kingdom which is divided against itself shall not stand. And thus the red shadow of war suddenly loomed over all our merrymaking.

I think there was little more dancing amongst us upon that evening, for no one seemed to have much heart left for merrymaking after hearing Philip Lisle’s news. Certainly the country had not been so peaceful during the past few years as to make us feel that we were suddenly thrown out of a state of security into a condition of danger. No man, I suppose, had thought that the difference ’twixt King and Commons could have other ending than this. For so many years had the struggle gone on and always with so much increase of bitterness on either side that nothing but the shedding of blood could bring peace to us again. And yet civil war is a terrible and a fearful thing, for it is, as I think, a setting of brother against brother and father against son. Now, I think naught of one nation going to war with another, for that seems natural and is only to be looked for, seeing that human nature is what it is. Indeed, to fight with Frenchmen or Spaniards seems to be one of the chief duties of a true Englishman who loves his country. But for Englishmen to fight with Englishmen, that, indeed, is vastly out of place and ought never to be.

The assembly broke up into knots and fell to discussing the situation. Parson Drumbleforth, whose face had grown very anxious when he heard the news, drew near to Philip Lisle and began to question him. A group of others stood round us, hearkening to what was said.

“The King, you say, sir, hath raised his standard at Nottingham?” said Parson Drumbleforth.

“He hath, your reverence. On the 22nd of August he raised it, and is now gathering round him all that are loyal to his Majesty.”

“Hath the King much following, sir?”

“He hath the majority of the Lords, sir, and as for the Commons, there are large numbers of the members of that House who will serve his Majesty.”

“But the country, sir,” said Parson Drumbleforth, “how will the country go?”

“If the people do their duty, sir, will they not serve their King, to whom they owe allegiance?”

Parson Drumbleforth shook his head at that and said that these were sad days.

“For mark you, Master Lisle,” continued he, “I am a Royalist to my last breath and to the last throb of my heart, for so I am commanded by my conscience and my reason. And yet I do think that in this matter his Majesty hath not been well advised and will ultimately suffer. I agree not with them who clamour for the right of the people. I had rather be ruled by a tyrant than by Demos, for your tyrant is but one man, but Demos is a beast of many heads and dispositions. Nevertheless, it had been well, I think, to humour the popular mind somewhat in this case. For I fear me, Master Lisle, that if it come to a case of endurance ’twixt the throne and the people, the throne will come badly out of it.”

But Philip Lisle shook his head at that, and seemed to regard Parson Drumbleforth as a fainthearted Royalist at the best.

“We have taken to the sword,” said Philip Lisle, “and by the sword we shall put down this bad feeling towards the monarchy. What, are those who are ruled to say how they shall be ruled? It used to be said that power came from God, but according to these new teachers it cometh from the people.”

“Alas!” said Parson Drumbleforth, “there are many false teachers abroad, certainly. But, oh, sirs, it is a terrible matter, this civil war, and I would that we could see the end of it. For mind you, Master Lisle, these disaffected men will fight, ay, to the death. I hear they are smarting grievously under a sense of wrong, and such men will give and take many a hard blow ere the affair be settled.”

“The King hath his army,” said Philip Lisle.

“If the King hath the people against him, his army will stand him in little stead, sir,” said an old gentleman, Master Geoffrey Oldthwaite, who had listened attentively to the conversation between Philip Lisle and the Vicar. “Whether his Majesty know it or not, or whether or not they that advise him know it, there is a strong feeling against the King all through the land. For mark you, sir⁠—I speak freely⁠—we Englishmen, as you should know, being one yourself, do like that our liberties should be preserved and honoured, we being a free people and of a proud nature. Now, there are many who do not consider that the King hath conserved the liberties of the people. See what vexatious matters have come upon us in this reign. Hath his Majesty ever been at one with the members whom we send to represent us in Parliament? Have there not been disputes concerning tonnage and poundage, ship-money, and impropriations? We have also heard, sir, of the Star Chamber and of the sentences upon Masters Prynne and Bastwick, and now the King hath endeavoured to seize five representatives of the people sitting in their House. These matters, sir, do not find acceptance with Englishmen. I speak freely, being an Englishman.”

“It is true,” sighed Parson Drumbleforth; “it is true there have been grievances. Whenever was it not so? As for me, though I am a Royalist, I can never forget that Saul was anything but a blessing to his people. What we want, sirs, is mutual long-suffering. If the King hath his rights, so have the people theirs. If he hath his duties, so have they their duties.”

“His Majesty,” said Philip Lisle, “desires not to punish any that are well disposed, but only them that are traitorous. If any man have grievance against the State, let him make his grievance known.”

“What, to the Star Chamber?” said someone in the rear of the group. “Would he find justice there, think you?”

“At any rate,” cried Philip, “ ’tis poor work to fight against your lawful sovereign. Sir, you are a clerk and a learned man; tell us, now, is there Scriptural warrant for this rising against his Majesty? I am no saint nor much of a scholar, but I have read the Scriptures somewhat, and never did I find aught commanding men to rise up in rebellion against the lawful power.”

“It is true,” answered Parson Drumbleforth. “We are commanded to honour the King in the same precept which bids us to fear God. Moreover, we are bound as faithful servants to yield ourselves to the powers set over us, for all power is of God, who hath a fatherly care over His children, and would not allow evil to be done, though His ways do oft seem mysterious and inscrutable. Nay, truly, it is not in Holy Writ that any man finds warrant to rise up against authority.”

Now, Master Oldthwaite shook his head at this, not liking the turn of the conversation, for he was a Parliamentarian and supported that cause to his utmost; but Philip Lisle seized upon the parson’s statement eagerly, and began to appeal to us who stood round him to help in the King’s cause.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “ye hear what your vicar saith as to this matter. The King hath Scripture and reason on his side. Who can stand against these two? Gentlemen, in this contest no man can remain undecided. Ye must choose one side or the other. It must be either King or Parliament. As for me, I am for the King⁠—God preserve him!⁠—and whether the fight go well or ill I will stand by that until the end come. But you, sirs, will you not join me in serving under his Majesty’s banner? There are here young and lusty men of able bodies who might strike many a hearty blow for a good cause. Come, gentlemen, let me ride back to Nottingham with a goodly troop of horse behind me. Will Dale, what sayest thou? John Drumbleforth, thou art no traitor? Ben Tuckett, there is good stuff in thee. Francis Wood, thy great arms and broad shoulders should give many a swinging blow. Come, boys, say you will go forth like the men you are, to rally round your sovereign’s standard with the flower of England, and help him to subdue all his enemies. What! must I appeal in vain to you, lads of Yorkshire? In old times men were not slow in coming forward to fight for their king, and the Yorkshire lads were always in front.”

“Yorkshire favours not the King in this matter, sir,” said old Master Oldthwaite.

“Faith, sir, you are wrong, then,” said Jack Drumbleforth, “at least so far as one Yorkshire man is concerned. For here, Master Lisle, am I. I will go and fight for the King, an his Majesty will have me. I am not so tall, but I am exceedingly broad, and ye may rest assured that wherever I am there will be broken heads. So God save the King!”

“Oh, John, John!” said the Vicar. “And thou wert meant for the Church, for a man of peace.”

“Time enow for that, father, when peace comes. I shall make no worse soldier of the Church for first splitting a few skulls. Besides, I am a man of muscle, and of thew and sinew. Yes, I will go with you to the wars, Master Lisle, whether any others go or not.”

“And I will go with you,” said Francis Wood.

But beyond these two no one spoke. There were many there who were true to the throne, but they had their farms to think of, and their families, and their chief desire was that the tide of war might sweep aside and leave them and theirs untouched. So Philip Lisle at that time got small response to his pleading on the King’s behalf.

There was little more merrymaking that night, and erelong the guests had gone away along the quiet lanes. Philip Lisle, Jack, Ben, and I were left talking in the garden. The women were gossiping together in the house. As for Parson Drumbleforth, he had ridden home to his vicarage in his churchwarden’s cart.

“Will,” said Philip Lisle, as we strolled about the moonlit garden⁠—“Will, you must join us. Here is Jack, and young Francis Wood will go. You must make a third; and you, Ben, will you not make a fourth?”

Now, when I had heard Philip Lisle’s appeal, my heart had felt a great desire to go to the wars, and I was tempted to say so at the time. But there were so many hindrances in the way that I could not see my way to saying that I would follow the King’s standard. For if I went to fight, who would look after the farm and defend the women if such times arose as would lead to their danger? An I had been all alone in those days, I would have gone willingly enough, and would have served the King to my last breath. As for the rights and wrongs of the matter I knew little, nay, I say frankly enough that I was with the King all through that terrible time because he was the King, for I am a Royalist to the backbone. Wrongs there doubtless were, and maybe somewhat in the nature of oppression, but for all that he was the King, and we had sworn allegiance to him. Therefore, I say, I would cheerfully have followed Philip Lisle to fight under the royal standard but for the care of my mother and sister and the farm. What were the women to do without me to guard them; what would become of my farm and stock if I left them to the care of others?

“I would go willingly enough if it were not for that,” said I, explaining my reasons to Philip Lisle. “But it would seem that duty calls me to abide here presently.”

“Tut, lad,” said he, “duty calls thee to the King’s side. The women are safe enow here, and as for the farm and stock, why, thy mother and Jacob Trusty will take good care of it, I warrant. Come, go with me, Will.”

“Let me think the matter over,” said I. “I am much inclined to go with you. Think you the war will come this way?”

“Nay,” he said, “who can say? I think it will not be of long endurance. The King is getting him a strong army together, and should read these fellows such a lesson that they will quickly lay down their arms and submit themselves to his Majesty’s clemency.”

“Who leads the Parliamentary forces, sir?” asked Jack.

“That is not yet known, lad, but it is said the Earl of Essex will take command. ’Tis a sober and steady head, but he hath not the military genius. He will be prudent and wary, and will fight you a battle admirably on paper, but he will fail in those flashes of genius which show the great soldier.”

“And the King, sir, who hath he to advise him?”

“Why, lad, he hath Falkland, and he hath Prince Rupert, and he hath Hyde⁠—three counsellors from whom he will gain a diversity of opinions. It is on Rupert that I rely. There, lads, is a soldier for you! Full of dash and fire he is, and will lead a cavalry charge against whatever obstacle comes in his way. Hah! we shall have some fine times of it when Rupert falls upon these psalm-singing rascals.”

“Master Oldthwaite would say, sir, that these same psalm-singing rascals will show fight,” said Jack Drumbleforth.

“Master Oldthwaite, Jack, is a seditious old knave, or, if that term be too strong, he is not well disposed towards his Majesty. I fear he will do some harm about this district, that same Master Oldthwaite.”

“He is not alone,” said Ben Tuckett, “in his advocacy of the Parliamentary cause. For whether you know it or not, Master Lisle, this part of the land is not for his Majesty.”

“I know it well enough, Ben, and there is therefore the greater need of care in what those say who are for the King. No, lads, it is the north and west of the land that favours the King; the south and the east are against his Majesty, led away as they are by their agitating leaders.”

“I have heard say,” continued Ben, “that there will be trouble in our town, for whichever party holds the Castle, the other will not rest until it hath dislodged it. Alas! ’tis a sad business, and one that fills me with much concern.”

“Come with me to the wars then, Ben,” said Jack Drumbleforth. “I warrant that arm of thine can strike a blow for the King to some purpose.”

“I am not without some strength,” said Ben, shaking his fist, “but I shall not use it in this quarrel, Jack, unless it be to defend myself or my own. What, because Tom and Bill choose to fall out and fight, is that any reason why I should get my head broken between them?”

“ ’Tis a false parallel, sir,” said Philip Lisle.

“With submission, sir, ’tis a very true one. Did I do aught to encourage King and Parliament in going to war with each other? To tell the truth, I care no jot for either, being a free man and a burgess. Let them that made the quarrel settle the quarrel. God grant that in the settling they ruin not the land!”

This method of dealing with the matter did not seem to find much favour with Philip Lisle, who only regarded the subject from one point of view, and liked not that anyone should deal with it from any other.

“I am sorry, lad,” said he, “that thou hast so little loyalty to thy sovereign. Young men, however, are not what they were, for at one time a lusty fellow like thee would have seized his pike and struck a blow for Merry England.”

“An it come to striking a blow for Merry England, sir,” said Ben, “I am with you. Let Spaniard or Turk so much as set foot within the land, and I will show you whether or no I will fight. Yea, then I would fight till I could fight no more. But is this quarrel for England?”

“Yea,” said Philip Lisle, “for England and the liberties of the English people.”

In that he expressed the sentiments of the Royalists. It was the watchword of the cause, even as the King said years later on the fatal scaffold at Whitehall.

“At any rate,” said Jack Drumbleforth, “I am going, and woe be to the seditious knave that comes in my way! Who knows? I may carve my way to fortune. Sir John Drumbleforth would sound well, or even Baron Drumbleforth. Thou seest, Ben, what a chance thou art missing⁠—Baron Tuckett, or Sir Benjamin. Well, God send us all safe out of it!”

It can hardly be said that Philip Lisle’s appeal to those gathered together in our barn had met with much success, for of all the men he spoke to, only two had promised to go with him, and both these were men who, however brave, were somewhat of weathercocks, and apt to turn to whatever their humour tempted them at chance times. Not that I would say aught against my dear friend Jack Drumbleforth, who was as brave and valiant as any man could be. But he had a somewhat flyaway disposition, this Jack, and was apt to take sides in a quarrel without knowing much of the matter in dispute. As for Frank Wood, he had done little all his life but make love to the girls and crack jokes with whosoever would talk with him, and he was fond of excitement and adventure. Both, then, went to the war more from a liking of change than from inclination, and neither needed much converting to the King’s side. And yet there were no braver soldiers fought in that quarrel than these two, who showed their natural gallantry many a time, and endured privation and care for the sake of the cause they had espoused.

“I had hoped to take a goodly company from here, Will,” said Philip Lisle, “and yet we have got but two volunteers so far. What do you think⁠—shall I meet with any success in this neighbourhood?”

Now, I could not rightly answer him as to that, for I knew little of the feeling round about us, having rarely spoken to my acquaintance of matters concerning politics, which in my opinion were the natural concern of wise men, and not of humble folk like myself. But it occurred to me that Philip Lisle might easily satisfy himself on the subject by going with me to the market at Pontefract, and there making such inquiries among the people as he thought fit. Which project, when I mentioned it to him, he warmly commended, and promised to put in execution.

“Thou seest, Will,” said he, “his Majesty hath been exceeding gracious to me, who for many a long year carried on the trade of a robber and a highwayman, and thus forfeited my life many a time⁠—though, indeed, I never robbed a poor man in all my life, but only such as could well afford to disburse. I hold here a free pardon, and have also served the King faithfully these many years, and I would fain do something for my master, if only to show my gratitude. For ’tis a poor dog, Will, that does not lick the hand that feeds it. An thou wouldst go with me, Will, I should be content, though I had but ye three.”

“But, sir, what would my mother and Lucy do⁠—and your own daughter, Mistress Rose, too⁠—what would they all do left alone here without protection? And the farm? Jacob is old and he gets feeble, though none dare say so in his presence, and things would go to rack and ruin in my absence.”

“Why,” said he, “we must all risk something when duty calls. As for Rose, she is well used to taking care of herself, though indeed it hath somewhat puzzled me to know how she is to make her way back to Carlisle while I am away from her.”

“That she must not do, sir,” I answered. “Let her abide here with my mother and sister, so that she will have women with her. Maybe things will go on quietly hereabouts.”

“I fear there will be strife round here, Will. Yonder castle will prove a bone of contention. However, Rose shall abide where she is, and she will thank thee herself for thy kindness.”

“Nay, sir, we want no thanks.” Nor did we, for we were only too pleased to have Mistress Rose amongst us. As for me, what with seeing her daily and thinking about her when I did not see her, I was rapidly becoming more interested in Rose Lisle than was well for my peace of mind. Nay, I already looked forward to some occasion when I might perhaps show my devotion for her by protecting her from the dangers which seemed to threaten all of us.

But Ben Tuckett, if he would not go to the wars, was minded to win some glory by showing his valour at home, and it presently turned out that he desired nothing so much as to be the protector and defender of the women in our house, and more especially of my sister Lucy. This much I learnt from him in person the day after the merrymaking, when he was leaving us to go back to his shop in Pontefract.

“I can see, Will,” said he, “that thou wouldst like to travel to the wars, and I wonder not at it. If I were a King’s man like thee, I would go. But I am not. I am for neither⁠—only I wish they may soon get matters settled. But if I were thou, I would go.”

“The women, Ben, the women; and the farm! What is to become of them?”

“Why,” said Benjamin, scratching his head as if a fine idea had suddenly struck him⁠—“why, how should I do as a guardian and a caretaker? ’Od’s rats, I know a good deal about farming, and what I don’t know Jacob Trusty will teach me. And as for taking care of the women, ah, I am a famous hand with quarterstaff and pikestaff, and can strike a blow with anybody.”

“And what of your own affairs, Master Ben⁠—who is to look after them?”

“Why,” said he, “would it not be possible to combine the two, think you, Will? For surely ’tis but a step from Pontefract to Dale’s Field, and I do not see why I could not watch two birds at once. And then, Will, thou couldst go to the wars with a light heart.”

“Why, Ben, thou speakest as if it were a matter of joy to go and fight! Well, I like thy humour. Why, man, bethink thee! As for me, I see naught but sighs and sorrowing, tears and bloodshed for many a year to come.”

“What, do you think it will be as bad as that, Will? God forbid! However, if thou art minded to fight for the King, I will see to thy mother and Lucy, and to Mistress Rose, too. I am not a man of war myself, but I can defend them, I think, to some purpose.”

Now, it was certainly very kind of my old friend, Ben Tuckett, to make me so generous an offer, for there is no doubt that I was powerfully disposed to join the royal forces, being somewhat inclined to war from my boyhood, and having often thought over its glories and adventures as narrated to me by Jacob Trusty, who had a nice store of learning concerning Agincourt and Creçy. Again, there was the example of Jack Drumbleforth to influence me. I liked the idea of fighting shoulder to shoulder with Jack, who had a sure pluck, and would brave it out to the last gasp. In short, I was disposed to go with all my heart, but consideration for domestic matters held me back.

On the following Saturday, Philip Lisle, Jack Drumbleforth, and I rode into Pontefract, intending to see how certain of our acquaintance were disposed towards the Royalist cause. It was somewhat of a perilous thing to do, for the townspeople, taking them as a whole, were on the side of the Parliament, and we ran a risk of suffering some unpleasantness for our zeal. Nevertheless, we determined to do what we could, knowing that there were some at least amongst the men we should meet there who would hear us with favour, and maybe respond to our appeal. What Philip Lisle wanted was men who could turn out equipped and armed with a good horse apiece, likely to stand some wear and tear, and true enough to the Royalist cause to make the quarrel a personal matter.

Now, because it is the centre of a rich agricultural district, the market at Pontefract is always largely attended by the neighbouring farmers, so that on market or fair days there are several hundred people scattered together in the marketplace. There they meet and collect in groups, selling or buying various commodities of their trade, or talking together over subjects connected therewith. And in one part of the market swine are sold, and in another corn, and in a third cattle, so that certain streets and alleys are called Pig Market, Beast Fair, Corn Market, and so forth. In the centre of the Marketplace, and right against the church of St. Giles, stands the Butter Cross, round which the country wives congregate to sell their butter and eggs, and where there is a continual stream of chatter and gossip going on all day. A busy scene indeed it is on market-day; and as for the inns, they are as busy as the street, and do a good trade without intermission, for their doors are never shut, and the long-settles are always full of thirsty souls.

We had not been long in the town, and, indeed, had only just handed over our horses to the care of the ostler at the inn, when Ben Tuckett, who had returned to his shop on the previous day, caught sight of us in the crowd, and beckoned us to come to him. So we edged our way across the Marketplace at Ben’s shop-door, where he stood looking complacently about him, clad in a white apron, and appearing the very ideal of a prosperous tradesman. Jack laughed loudly at the sight of Ben in his apron, for he looked so consequential and so important that his pride seemed somewhat like that of the turkey. When we drew near him, however, Ben’s look of self-satisfaction changed to one of something like anxiety, and he drew us after him into his parlour, which lay behind the shop, and was out of earshot.

“Well,” said Jack, “thou lookest very mysterious, Master Ben. Art plotting something treasonable, or is there going to be a rise in candles?”

“There may be a rise in heads before long, Jack,” answered Ben, who was never put out nor annoyed. “Hark ye, gentlemen, I have news for you. Since I returned home last night, which, God knows, I did reluctantly enough, being so fond of Dale’s Field that I would⁠—”

“To the point, good Ben, to the point,” said I impatiently.

“Well, then, since I came home, as I said, I have been making some inquiry amongst my fellows as to how folks are feeling in this town. Lads, there is not overmuch good disposition towards the King here. I fear ye will find little encouragement. I went amongst them last night and heard them talk,” said Ben, shaking his head, “and I heard some mighty seditious language, Master Lisle. Star Chamber⁠—Strafford, Laud, Prynne, ship-money, tonnage and poundage⁠—these were the strings continually harped upon. So have a care, gentlemen, what you say here, for I assure you that the burgesses are pretty sore, and would, maybe, give a sorer head to anybody who offended them.”

“That,” said Jack, “is a game which two can play at.”

“What would three of you do against a crowd? And there is a strong party amongst the magistrates who are Parliamentarians to the backbone. So, an I were you, I should keep quiet and leave the King to fight his own battles.”

“You are a man of prudence, Master Tuckett,” said Philip Lisle, with a grim smile on his face, “but an indifferent partisan.”

“That’s true,” said Ben, “I am indifferent, because I care for neither party. As for me, I say, ‘A plague o’ both your houses.’ God send ye ruin not my shop in your quarrels.”

But in spite of Ben’s advice we went away from him still determined to do what we could. Nevertheless, as prudent men, we did not deem it advisable to draw upon us the notice of those who, as Ben said, favoured the Parliament. But we went amongst the crowd as if intent on our business or pleasure, speaking here to one and there to another, always selecting such as I knew to be well-disposed to the King, and doing what we could to induce likely looking fellows to join in with us. And amongst the yeomanry and the farmers, especially the younger men, we found many a man willing enough to join the Royalist army and to find horse and arms, but held back by the same obstacles which held me. There was a wife and child to protect, or an aged mother to care for; there were the farm and stock to manage, and so on. But we had many an expression of goodwill, and many a promise to do the right thing if occasion came that way.

Now, as we moved about amongst the crowd, I noticed that we were watched more than once by old Master Oldthwaite, who, as you will remember, expressed his sentiments somewhat freely at my merrymaking a few nights before. I knew Master Oldthwaite to be a strong partisan of the Parliamentary party, for I had heard him say that no king at all was better than a bad king, and he oft gave utterance to severe gibes and taunts against Laud and the bishops, saying that they were wolves which ate up the sheep, rather than shepherds that took care of their flocks. He was indeed somewhat celebrated in Pontefract for his sentiments, for as he carried on the trade of a corn-dealer in that town, he was often heard in the inn-parlours, where the tradesmen meet to discuss all sorts of matters. Nevertheless, since I and my father before me had had many a transaction with Master Oldthwaite, and always been good friends with him, I did not think he would do me an injury or conspire against any friend of mine. But it would appear that his political sympathies overcame his better feelings, for he took steps which presently resulted in much inconvenience to me and my companions.

It was drawing towards evening, and we three were standing in a quiet corner in the market square, conversing with a knot of young farmers, who were listening with great attention while Philip Lisle talked to them. There were a great many people round about us, and the noise and bustle of the market was as great as ever. Looking round I caught sight of Master Nicholas Pratt, a magistrate of the town, making for us through the crowd, followed in the rear by Master Oldthwaite and several others whom I knew to be stanch Parliamentarians. And then I felt that something was about to happen. In which presentiment I was not wrong, for Master Pratt, coming hastily to us, cried in a rough and insolent tone:

“How now, gentlemen, what do you mean by turning this public market into a recruiting-ground for the King? Do you not know that you are committing a breach of the peace?”

Now, we had all three, and those with us, turned upon him when he first spoke, and we now stared at him with astonishment. He was a large round-bellied man, with impudent manners and much pride, and as he stood swelling over us, I was reminded of our great turkey-cock at home.

“No, sir,” said Philip Lisle, “we do not know that we are breaking the peace.”

“Are you not recruiting for that traitor, Charles Stuart?” shouted the other, getting very red and fiery.

“We are recruiting for his Majesty the King, sir,” answered Philip Lisle, “as we have a right to do.”

“We will not have it in this free town, sir. Get you gone to where you came from. You are not known here. And you, Masters Dale and Drumbleforth, have a care what you do, and do not disgrace yourselves by associating yourselves with adventurers and braggadocios.”

“What, sir!” cried Philip Lisle, laying his hand on his sword, “do you dare to insult one of his Majesty’s officers?”

“Officers, quotha!” shouted a mocking voice from behind the magistrate. “Why, sirs, ’tis Black Phil, the highwayman. Pretty officer! If the King’s officers are of this kidney he must have scoured them from the gaols.”

Now, Philip Lisle was so much enraged at this insult that he instantly drew his sword, and rushed forward to wreak his vengeance on the speaker. This was the signal for an immediate raising of sticks and staves, and Jack and I, nothing loath, got back to back behind Philip Lisle and began to lay about us with energy, so that there was some very pretty fighting went on for the space of five or six minutes. But we were outnumbered by twelve to one, and presently Philip and Jack received such blows that they fell, and I was powerless.

“Carry them into my cellar,” shouted Pratt to his men, “and lock them up there till such time as justice can be done upon them.”

And therewith they haled us across the Marketplace and shoved us into the magistrate’s cellar, and locked us up with our bruises and our reflections, which just then were not at all pleasant.

Now, what with the noise and confusion of the last few minutes, taken together with a somewhat hard blow that lighted upon the back of my head, I was so dazed and astonished that it was some moments before I fully recovered my senses. However, when I became master of myself, there I was, sure enough, in the cellar underneath the worthy magistrate’s house. A remarkably dull and quiet place it was, and felt very damp and cold to my touch when I stretched out my hands and encountered the walls and floor on which we had been unceremoniously thrown. There was rather more than a little water trickling down those walls, and my fingers encountering it bred in me a feeling of much resentment against our captors for treating us in such scurvy fashion. Moreover, the hole was so dark that I could see nothing, and there was not a single ray of light penetrating through niche or crevice. A most disagreeable place it indeed was, and doubly so to me, who until that moment had never been curtailed of my lawful liberty.

While I was dimly recognising these matters, the rap on my head still troubling me somewhat, I was startled by a groan close at my left hand. This was succeeded by a succession of snorts and sniffs, as if some person were slowly awaking from a sound slumber, and presently my ears were saluted by the voice of Jack Drumbleforth, who had evidently been bundled into the cellar in a much more damaged state than myself.

“Plague on it!” said Jack, as if grumbling to himself; “my head hums like a church tower in ringing time. Where on earth are we that ’tis so dark? Methinks this couch is not of the softest. Will⁠—Will Dale!”

“I am near thee, Jack.”

“Hah!” said he. “Well, I knew thou wouldst not be far away. Where are we, Will? Fighting we were, I know; and some ugly crop-eared varlet gave me a foul blow from the rear, and then⁠—why, then, I remember little more.”

“Nor I, Jack, for someone treated me after the same fashion. But, Jack, where is Philip Lisle?”

“Plague on it! he was with us too. Nay, they may have killed honest Philip outright!”

“It may be that he is in this hole with us,” I said, beginning to feel around me in the darkness. “Stretch out your arms, Jack, and search for him.”

Now, the whole place was so black that I was almost afraid to get on my legs and explore it, lest I should fall down some sudden pit in the floor, and thus come to worse things. However, I rose up, and cautiously felt around me, meeting with naught but damp walls and a slippery floor. Further off I heard Jack grumbling at our fate, and uttering many condemnations upon those who had brought us to it.

“An I had his worship down here,” said Jack, “I would teach him better than to throw three gentlemen such as we into this vile foxhole. What, things are come to a pretty pass indeed when a round-bellied old butcher like yonder shallow-pated graybeard sits on the bench to administer justice! Where art thou, Will? As for me, I am wandering in Stygian darkness.”

“Do you feel aught of Master Lisle, Jack?”

“Nay, lad, I have felt naught yet save this greasy floor and these damp walls. This⁠—Ah, here is something, Will, under my foot. ’Tis a man! I swear ’tis poor Master Lisle.”

By that time I had felt my way towards Jack’s direction, and I stooped down and laid my hand on the body.

“Master Lisle it is, Jack, and none other. Pray God he is not dead! Nay, his heart beats, and he breathes. If we had but a cup of water!”

“God be praised!” said Jack. “I have a bottle of cordial in my pocket, which I bought of Master Sage, the apothecary, for old Deborah, our housekeeper. She useth it for the falling sickness, but ’tis my opinion that it hath somewhat of strong waters in it, and is not ungrateful to the palate. What do you say, Will; shall we pour a drop into his mouth?”

“Quick, Jack, uncork the bottle and let me try it. I am holding his head on my knee. Can you feel him in the darkness? Pour it gently between his lips.”

“Plague on this black hole!” said Jack. “I have poured a good half down his doublet. Hold his head steady, Will. There, good Master Lisle, how is it with you? ’Tis a fine cordial this, Will, and strong enough to bring a dead horse to life. There, thou seest, he is coming round. Shall I dose him again?”

“Gently, Jack, do not choke him. Thy cordial smells like strong waters.”

“Good faith, lad, ’tis little else. Shouldst see our old Deborah smack her lips over it! ‘A little drop, Master John,’ she says, ‘the leastest drop in the world, Master John, is a fine thing for a sinking heart.’ So ho! Master Lisle, pull yourself together, man!”

Now, the effect of the cordial was so praiseworthy that Philip Lisle began to cough and then to struggle in my arms, and finally raised his hand to his head and uttered a most fervent groan, which, though dismal enough in itself, was to me the sweetest music I ever heard. For I had feared he was mortally hurt, and then what should I have said to Mistress Rose if ever we got out of that black abyss again?

“How do you now, sir?” said Jack.

“Oh!” said Philip Lisle. “My head rings like is it you, Jack, and where are we, and where is Will Dale?”

“Here I am, sir, holding you up,” said I.

“And I am here, holding the cordial,” said Jack. “Try another drop, sir⁠—’tis, I assure you, the right sort.”

“They have clapped us into gaol, I suppose,” said Philip Lisle, having again drunk of the contents of Mistress Deborah’s bottle. “Well, ’tis dark enow for aught.”

“This is no gaol,” said Jack, “but only his worship’s cellar, and a damp hole it is. We are like to have the ague an we lie here much longer, let alone the rheumatics. However, ’tis the fortune of war.”

“Let me stand up,” said Philip Lisle. “Alack, lads, my head feels sore where yonder snub-nosed rogue struck me with his quarterstaff. Well, how long are we like to remain here, I wonder?”

“Till master magistrate can do justice upon us, I should think,” said Jack.

“Why, man, what breach of the peace have we committed? We are in the right; ’tis they who are in the wrong, rebels and traitors that they are!”

“Yea, surely,” said Jack; “but they have might on their side, and might, they say, is right all the world over. However, what care I? When I elected to fight, I did not expect to fight with a branch of asphodel. Let us be as content as possible. If we had somewhat to sit upon, and a little food and drink, I could live till morning.”

Now, it appeared as if our captors were going to leave us in that dark and uncomfortable lodging all night, for what seemed to be a long space of time went by before we heard aught of any of them. But at last, when we had despaired of any succour, the noise of a bolt and chain greeted our ears, and suddenly a door, somewhat above our heads, was opened, and a light streamed in upon us, revealing the figures of the choleric magistrate who had captured us, and of two or three of his men. This small group looked down upon us with something of triumph in their faces.

“So, my fine birds,” quoth his worship, “so ye are caged at last, and are like to have your wings clipped. A pretty pass we are come to, when such as ye incite honest citizens to war and bloodshed!”

“Sir,” said Philip Lisle, “I am an officer holding his Majesty’s commission, and⁠—”

But at this he was interrupted by a burst of violent laughter.

“Yes, indeed?” said the old man. “Thou art a noted highwayman, robber, and thief, fellow. An officer, eh? Methinks the King would have done better to set apart some officer to see justice done upon thee at Tyburn. And you, Master Dale, a respectable yeoman, how can you associate yourself with folk like these? Fie on you, Master Dale!”

“Sir,” I said, “I know not what you mean, but I am very sure that I shall punish those who have placed me here. Let us go at once about our liberty, sir. You have no right to detain us.”

“Nay,” quoth he, “if we have not right, we have power. We are for the Commonwealth in this town, lads, and will have no Star Chamber spies amongst us. Fie on you, Master Dale! And you, John Drumbleforth, fie on you! A parson’s son, and thus early led astray. But what can ye expect? These parsons are but wolves that rob the starved sheep, and their brood is no better.”

“Sir,” said Jack, “if you refer to my father, I make free to tell you that you are a liar. For my father is as good a shepherd as ever wore cassock and bands, though indeed he prayeth not at the street-corners, as I hear your worship is fond of doing.”

Now, it would appear that the worthy man was somewhat used to air his religion, so that Jack touching him in a tender spot, he presently withdrew in a great passion, bidding his men bolt and chain us up again until our proud stomachs were cooled. Which they with alacrity did, so that we were once more left to the damp and darkness of the cellar.

This sad fate seemed peculiarly hard to Jack and to myself, who had never known what it was to have key turned upon us in our lives, and who were, moreover, not accustomed to be treated in such summary fashion. The sound of the bolting and chaining of our prison-door grated very harshly upon our ears, and when the sound had died away and all was silent, we each gave vent to a dismal sigh.

“Nay, lads,” said Philip Lisle, “you must not give way at a trifling matter like this. What! ’tis nothing to be shut up in a hole like this for an hour or two.”

“With submission, sir,” said Jack, “it seems to me a good deal, and your hour or two is like to be all night at least. Moreover, where are we going to find food and light? A comfortable night’s lodging we are like to have, upon my word!”

“Courage, Jack,” said I. “We shall manage to keep ourselves alive, I doubt not. I pray there be no rats in these cellars.”

“Rats!” said Jack. “Ah! I see how it is. We are to be eaten alive. These cellars, now⁠—it seems to me, Will, that I remember something of them in our schooldays.”

“Why, of course, Jack. Do you not remember Samuel Penn, the stout lad, whose father kept the cooper’s shop over against the Cross? We played many a game of hide-and-seek with Sam under that shop. Five or six doors away from this it is, and I warrant these are similar cellars. If so, we might wander in here a good while ere we came at an end.”

Which was true enough, for the cellars under those ancient houses in the Marketplace at Pontefract are so extensive in size that you might easily mistake them for natural caverns. They are all hewn out of the solid rock, and have so many twistings and turnings and odd nooks and corners, that one might hide there with safety from a foe. Some of them, again, are connected by secret passages with various parts of the town, such as the Castle and the Priory of the White Friars, while others have secret staircases by which men could escape to the roof and leave no one the wiser. Designed for safety and protection they doubtless were in the ancient days, and being underground, they are still in the same condition as they were two hundred years ago.

Now, after we had remained some time in his worship’s cellar, we began to grow very weary, and would fain have reposed ourselves if there had been aught to sit upon.

“What scurvy dogs are these,” said Jack, “that will not give an honest enemy so much as a three-legged stool to sit upon! I never remember my legs aching so much before.”

“I am going to sit on the floor, lads,” said Philip, “and I advise you to follow my example. Take off your doublets and fold them into a cushion on which to sit. It will at least keep the damp away from you somewhat.”

“What!” said Jack. “So we are to sit upon our doublets all night, like a tailor on a table, without support for back or head. Fine work truly! However, we will lay it up against master magistrate, and charge him royally for it when pay-time comes.”

Now, it seemed to me that we should be much more comfortable if we all sat back to back, so that each would lean against the other. Which plan I proposed and carried out, so that in a few minutes we were all sitting in a triangle on the cellar-floor, with our knees drawn up to our chins. And after that the night seemed to pass on slowly indeed.

It might be about midnight, though indeed it seemed to me and my companions much later, when I became conscious⁠—for I had dozed somewhat⁠—of a very low voice whispering to us through the darkness:

“Hist! hist! hist!”

“Who calls!” I said in a low voice.

“Is it thee, Will?” whispered a familiar voice.

“Yes, and here is Jack and Master Lisle,” said I.

“ ’Tis I, Ben Tuckett,” said the low voice. “Are you watched at all, Will?”

“Nay,” I said, “there is naught to see us by here. Where are you, good Ben?”

“Hush!” said he. “I will show a light.”

Presently there was a faint glimmer of light through a niche above the wall at our right-hand side. We rose from our cramped position and drew near to it.

“There is a door here,” whispered Ben through the crack, “if only I can find the spring. Ye see, lads, his worship’s shop is next to mine, so when I heard that he had thrown you into his cellar and meant to detain you there all night, I came down into my own cellar and began searching about for this door, of which I had heard. Beshrew me! ’tis mighty hard to push back this same spring in the wall. Ah! there it is⁠—but come forth quietly, gentlemen, for I would not have them know how you got out for all I am worth.”

While he spoke he had found the spring and caused the stone to revolve, and we now passed out through a narrow slit in the wall, and found ourselves in worthy Ben Tuckett’s cellar, and at liberty once more.

Now, when he had brought us into a place of safety, and had seen us lodged in somewhat more comfortable fashion than that we had lately enjoyed, our deliverer sat himself down before us and looked at us with a severe countenance.

“Gentlemen,” said Ben, “you have truly brought misfortune upon yourselves, if not upon others. Did I not tell you that you would get sore heads if you strove to further the King’s cause in this place? Was I not right? For sore heads you have, if I mistake not; and as for me, here I am helping ye to sneak out of my neighbour’s cellar as if we were all thieves.”

“Peace, thou chattering knave!” said Jack. “Thieves, indeed! Why, Master Ben, what does this mean?”

“Like thieves, I said, Jack. Alas! you do not know what risks I am running, for the folk here are so bitter against Strafford and the Star Chamber that they would never buy of me again an it were known that I am a Royalist. For a Royalist I am, lads, if I am aught.”

“Dear lad,” said I earnestly, “be whatever you please, Royalist or Roundhead, but at present, for the love of Heaven, give us something to eat and drink, for we are nigh famished. At least,” I added, “I am, whatever my companions are.”

“Famished am I,” said Jack. “Hast got by any chance, Ben, a meat-pie? A meat-pie⁠—with eggs, hah? And ale, Ben⁠—a large can of ale.”

“Why,” said Ben, scratching his left ear as if the matter perplexed him, “I dare say I could find something of that sort, but, lads, how shall I hide your presence from my household? There are two ’prentices upstairs that might perhaps keep the thing secret, but the housekeeper⁠—alack, she would noise it abroad in a moment, and then where should we all be?”

“Show me the way to the pantry,” said Jack. “Let me fend for myself.”

“Why,” said Ben, still scratching his ear, “if you could put up without forks and plates, and could all drink out of one horn⁠—”

“Good Ben,” said Jack, “only produce the food and drink, and we will show thee what we can do without. Man, ’tis twelve hours since bite or sup passed these lips.”

Thus adjured, Ben went softly away to visit his larder, and erelong returned bearing a huge pasty of meat and a great jack full of ale, at sight of which Jack’s eyes glistened exceedingly, as no doubt did my own also. And after that there was silence for a space, during which our jaws made up for what our tongues lacked. As for myself, I was as hungry as a hunter, and felt greatly relieved when I had eaten and drunk. Then, too, I felt my spirits revive, and longed to meet the mob once more by whose overpowering numbers we had been beaten down and forced into the magistrate’s cellar.

“Ah!” said Jack, having swallowed the last mouthful of ale from the can, “I am myself once more. After all, there is naught like food and drink for setting a man up again. Master Lisle, how is it with you?”

“My head rings, Jack, my head rings yet. There is a lump the size of a hen’s egg on the back of it. However, let us be thankful. We have escaped, thanks to worthy Master Tuckett here.”

“Gentlemen,” said Ben, “I want no thanks, ’Twas well for you I knew the little secret. But now, lads, what are you going to do?”

“Do! Ride home at once,” said I.

“Ride home? But they have placed your horses under lock and key.”

Now, we had never thought of what might become of our horses, and when Ben gave us this news we looked at each other in amazement. Philip Lisle, indeed, jumped to his feet as if he would at once go forth to release his own animal.

“Perdition seize them!” said he. “I am naught without my horse, old as he is. He and I have had many a narrow shave, and have escaped all dangers. Where have they stowed our horses, Master Tuckett?”

“Nay,” said Ben, “they are where you left them⁠—at the Peck of Malt, but master landlord has had orders to give them to nobody save a magistrate’s man. Under lock and key they are at this moment.”

“Oh!” said Philip Lisle, “an that be all, we shall not have much trouble in releasing them. If you, Will, can show me the ins and outs of the place, I will engage to have them under us in half an hour.”

“And where will you go then?” asked Ben.

“To Dale’s Field,” said I.

“Better not at present,” said he. “For I heard tonight that they have sent there to search for papers, and it might go ill with you to present yourselves there. They have some mighty grievance against you, Master Lisle, and indeed I heard certain persons swear that you should hang ere two days went by, which God forfend, for ’tis a poor death.”

“Bah!” said Philip Lisle. “The rope is not spun, good Ben, that will hang me. However, Will, what Ben says is good. Let us absent ourselves for awhile from this part of the country and return later on. What say you; and you, Jack, what have you to say?”

“I am good for anything,” said Jack. “It matters not to me whether we are here or there.”

“But what shall we do about those at home?” I inquired. “How can we leave them? Who knows, indeed, what may have happened already?”

“Nay, man, let them search for what papers they will. They will find naught at Dale’s Field, either of yours or mine. And I will not believe that Englishmen will cause trouble to innocent women. When they find naught they will go away and leave the house in peace.”

“But they will not leave you in peace,” said Ben, “for I heard that they were determined, being strong Parliamentarians, to put a stop to your recruiting tactics, Master Lisle. So therefore I say⁠—take yourselves to some safe place for a season.”

“To the King’s camp!” said Philip.

“Agreed,” said Jack. “Come, Will, in for a penny, in for a pound. Let us with Master Lisle to the King and see what we can do there. You can return soon if you think it well.”

Now, my blood was somewhat heated by the exciting adventure of the day, and I felt mightily inclined to fall in with Philip Lisle’s counsel. I knew that Ben Tuckett would see to the safety of my mother and sister and of Rose Lisle; and as to the farm, my mother and Jacob Trusty would manage that. However, I did not anticipate any trouble in our neighbourhood, for I felt sure that matters would soon settle themselves, seeing that we were not fond of war and liked trading and moneymaking mightily better.

“Well,” said I, “then I will go with you, but I shall hold myself free to return homewards whenever I please. But now, gentlemen, there are our horses to consider. Are we to leave them where they are, and if so, how are we to get away on foot?”

But it was out of the question that we should leave the horses. Philip Lisle, indeed, would not have left Caesar for all the gold of Peru, and as the other two beasts were mine⁠—one of them my own mount and the other lent to Jack⁠—I did not feel inclined to surrender them to people who had no right to their custody. So we immediately set to work making some plan whereby we could rescue the three animals from the stable where they were secured.

“I am not fond of fighting,” said Ben Tuckett, “but I am a rare hand at a plot. Gentlemen, hearken to me. Jack, you know the house that lies amongst the trees, ’twixt here and Carleton, at the corner of the lane leading from Baghill?”

“Truly,” said Jack; “old Master Hull lives there.”

“That he doth not, because he is dead this three weeks, wherefore the house is shut up and desolate. Now, Jack, I will let thee out through my garden here at the back, and you must take Master Lisle across the fields beneath Friars’ Wood and lie by that house until Will and I bring the horses to you, which I promise you we will not be long in doing. And now, friends, you shall have another mouthful of ale and then away.”

Now, our task in getting easily away from Ben Tuckett’s house was a light one, for those ancient houses in the Marketplace have long outbuildings and gardens in their rear, and at the foot of them is Southgate, and beyond that there lies a stretch of open country, dipping down into a valley and then rising again until it reaches the village of Carleton a mile away. Across the garden and fields it would be easy enough to steal unobserved, and thereafter we should have no difficulty in riding away. To secure our cattle, however, was a difficult matter, for they were lodged at an inn which stood right in the heart of the town, and were, therefore, hard to come at. Nevertheless we were determined not to leave them without a struggle.

Presently, then, Ben conducted Jack Drumbleforth and Philip Lisle out through his rear premises and set them across the fields to the house lately occupied by Master Hull. A fairly dark night it was by good chance, and therefore gave us all the better prospect of escape. It was past midnight when Ben came back from letting them out at the rear gate, and everything was quiet as the grave.

“Now, Will,” said he, “we will go out by the same way, for it will not do for me to unbar my front-door at this time o’ night. Let us pass round the town to Church Lane and there see how the land lies.”

So we stole forth, climbing more than one garden wall in our desire to keep concealed from the sight of any who might be about at that hour, and presently we got round to the north side of the Marketplace and went quietly up the narrow lane that leads to St. Giles’ Church. In this lane were the stables which held our beasts, and as the lane itself was paved with rough boulders it was quite impossible to bring them out by that way.

Arrived in front of the stables we held a council of war. There was evidently no one on guard; they had contented themselves with locking the horses in a separate stable. Our work, then, was to find some means of picking the lock and afterwards getting the animals out without awakening the people of the inn.

“This is the stable,” said Ben, whispering with his lips close to my ear. “I sent one of my ’prentices round when I heard they had seized your horses, and bade him find out which they were confined in. This it is⁠—the door next to the great water-butt.”

“But how shall we pick the lock, Ben?”

“I have the necessary implements under my cloak.”

“But once inside, how can we bring out the horses without noise? Their feet will raise a clatter on these cobbles.”

“I am not sure,” said Ben, “but I have an idea that from this stable there is a door into a fold beyond. If it be so we can get away easily, Will. But if not⁠—why, we must chance cobblestones and everything and ride for it!”

While Ben spoke he had pulled out a great chisel, with which he forced out the staple to which the padlock was attached in the stable-door, so that we entered very easily, and presently stood by the horses, who were quiet and peaceful, as though they knew themselves to be in prison.

“ ’Tis as I thought,” said Ben, “there is a door that leads into the fold. From the fold there is a gate opening into the fields. There is another lock gone, anyway. And now, Will, let us get the beasts out. There is manure in this fold right up to the stable-door, so none will hear if we walk a troop of horses across.”

Now, my own two horses, knowing my voice and the touch of my hand, came readily enough with me, and I had them out of their stalls and in Ben’s hand in the fold in a moment; but Caesar, who was never harnessed by any other hand than his master’s, was somewhat frightened, and trembled as I strove to pacify him, so that I grew anxious lest he should make a stir and bring down the landlord and his men upon us. However, by dint of coaxing and free use of his name I got him out of the stable and led him myself across the fold, Ben following with the other two horses. And presently we were out in the open fields, where we both mounted, I leading Caesar by his bridle, and Ben riding Jack’s horse. Caesar was plainly frightened and suspicious, for he knew that his master was not with him, and would now and then stop and listen as he went along, so that our progress was interrupted continually. It was necessary, too, to make a long round in getting to the appointed meeting-place, for we had to skirt the town, passing round Tanshelf and the high ground over against the Priory, before we came to the lonely house where Jack and Philip waited for us. Then indeed there was much rejoicing ’twixt Philip Lisle and his horse⁠—nay, they could not have understood each other better if they had spoken a common tongue.

“And now, gentlemen,” said Ben, “I will go back and leave you to your own devices. Will, if thou goest to the war, I will see to the women at Dale’s Field. Make thy mind easy on that score. Jack, if thou seest fighting, remember thy old tricks. And so farewell, friends all, and God send ye good fortune and a safe return.”

And therewith he gave us a clasp of the hand and vanished into the darkness, while we, clapping spurs to our animals, set out in the direction of Dale’s Field, riding past Carleton and climbing the lower part of Went Hill, so that we might the sooner strike into the North Road.

Now, when we came to the old familiar homestead, and could just make out its roofs and gables in the darkness, a great wave of feeling came over me that I should do wrong to forsake it and those whom it sheltered. It was my duty after all to stay there and defend it and them. And so I turned my horse’s head to the orchard gate and drew rein.

“Gentlemen,” said I, “ride on and leave me here. I cannot go with you and leave all I have in these troublous times. It is best that you should go, but not that I should go with you. Go on therefore and let me stay.”

“You are right, Will,” said Philip Lisle, after a pause. “Yes, it is best that you should stay and that we should go. You shall hear of us soon. Take care of Rose, Will. And so, farewell.”

I grasped his hand and promised, and then gave my hand to Jack, who squeezed it between his own.

“Goodbye, Will,” said Jack. “I wish thou hadst gone with us, but ’tis best not, considering the women. Well, perchance we shall get news of thee. Farewell.”

And so they rode away, and I, standing at the orchard gate, heard the sound of their horses’ feet dying into silence far off along the road.

I cannot deny that when I heard the last ring of the horses’ feet, and realized that Philip and Jack were gone, perhaps to great adventures, I was somewhat downcast at the thought of being left behind, and once the notion did come into my mind to ride after and join them. But then I thought again of my mother, and sister, and Rose Lisle, and felt that it was my duty to protect them. And so I opened the orchard-gate, and went down the familiar paths and put my horse in his stable, and afterwards went to bed and slept soundly, being somewhat worn out with my doings that day.

Now I expected, when I awoke next morning, to hear that Master Nicholas Pratt had sent some of his men after me, for he had proved himself so very much in earnest about our capture that I did not think he would be content to let his birds fly without some attempt to regain them. But there were no magistrates’ men there when I left my chamber, and none came during the morning. Also it would seem that Ben Tuckett had been misinformed as to their having sent men to search for papers at Dale’s Field, for my mother had had no visitor of that kind on the previous day. So, having remained at home during the morning, so as to be in readiness if Master Pratt and his crew desired to ask questions of me, I considered that my duty was done; and in the afternoon I walked across the meadows to service at Darrington church, being accompanied by Lucy and Mistress Rose. And we had no sooner got into church than I beheld Ben Tuckett, seated in the corner of the nave and watching the door. When he saw me he pulled a wry face and seemed much surprised, but he was fain to keep his astonishment to himself until evensong was over, which he did with evident discomfort, his eyes constantly wandering over his book to make sure that it was really me whom he saw.

“How now, Will?” said he, joining me in the porch as soon as the last “Amen” was pronounced. “I thought thou hadst been a hundred miles away by this time. Where, then, are Jack and Master Lisle?”

“A good way on the road, Ben, I hope. As for me, I thought it best to stay here and protect the women.”

“I dare say you are right, Will,” he answered. “Nevertheless, I would have done my best in that direction. Yea, indeed, I was on my way now to see how they fared, having called in here to see if Lucy perchance came to service.”

“You were wrong last night, Ben,” I said. “There was no search for any papers at Dale’s Field. Neither has any person of Master Pratt’s sending been here this morning.”

“So I heard in town before setting forth,” answered Ben, “and I heard also that Master Pratt was somewhat exceeding his duty yesterday, and is now being heartily laughed at for what has befallen him. Certainly ’tis true that most of the magistrates and aldermen are for the Parliament, but the mayor is not, and he hath the military to support him. And so I fancy, Will, that you will hear no more of last night’s affair. And now I perceive that the girls have ceased greeting their acquaintance, Will, so let us cross the fields with them.”

And therewith he walked off with Lucy, having by that time arrived at a perfect understanding with her, while I followed after with Mistress Rose, with whom, you may be quite sure, I was not averse to walk and talk, being daily more attracted by her many virtues and graces. Only I was always somewhat tongue-tied when with her, for she seemed so far above me that I never knew what to say or how to say it.

Ben Tuckett was quite right in saying that we should hear no more of the previous night’s adventure. Nor did we, save that there were certain people in Pontefract Marketplace next Saturday who jested with me respecting my tenancy of Master Nicholas Pratt’s cellar, seeming to regard the matter as highly diverting. But there were others who looked upon me very blackly, and whispered each to other as I went along, these persons being persistent Parliamentarians who wished not well to the King and his servants. Also I met full face in the streets Master Pratt himself, and could not help smiling in his face, so diverted did I feel at the sight of him. Whereupon, he grew very red in countenance, and looked angrily at me.

“Have a care, Master Dale,” quoth he, “have a care! I may have thee in ward again presently, and thou shalt not escape then, I promise thee.”

But I laughed more at that, and went further along the street, where I met the mayor, Master Richard Oates, with whom I stayed to exchange a word.

“Do not vex Master Pratt,” said he, when I told him of my recent encounter. “It will not do, Master Dale, to recruit for the King publicly in our town. For see you, there is so much feeling about the Star Chamber and suchlike things, that I think the people are of Master Pratt’s way of thinking. To be sure, ’tis a choleric man and a zealous partisan, but it will be well not to vex him. Tut, man, what need to make more enemies than we can help? Do you attend to your farm, Master Dale, and leave politics alone. Your friend Lisle hath left these parts, I hear?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “He has gone to the King, and John Drumbleforth, our parson’s son, with him.”

“So Jack has gone? Well, well, ’tis a harum-scarum young lad, but with as good a heart as ever beat. Alas! I mind how skilfully he robbed my orchard. But do not thou go to the wars, Will Dale. There will be fighting, sure enow, and ’tis thy place to protect thy womenkind. But do not recruit here again, Will.”

I had no mind to do that, for it was plain to me that the burgesses of Pontefract, taken as a body, were much more in favour of Parliament than King, and were inclined to break the head of anyone who went against them. Not, indeed, that his Majesty had no supporters in these parts, for of the gentry and clergy he had plenty, in addition to the garrison of the Castle, under Colonel Lowther, a right valiant commander. For when the King erected his standard, and called upon all true subjects to aid him in subduing his rebellious Parliament, there were many gallant gentlemen showed themselves ready to espouse his cause, and give time and money to serve him. Most, indeed, of the great families in our parts did liberally contribute to the royal exchequer at this time, giving, according to their means, from one hundred to many thousands of pounds in money. Moreover, they formed companies of their tenantry and supported them at their own expense, and they provisioned the Castle against the siege which was expected, and formed themselves and their companies into a garrison, and in this and other ways did all they could to further the King’s cause. Such were Sir William Lowther, Colonel Middleton, Colonel Wheatley, Major Dennis, and many others, besides the gentlemen volunteers, which were formed into four divisions, commanded respectively by Colonel Grey, son of Lord Grey, of Warke, in Northumberland, Sir Richard Hutton, Sir John Ramsden, and Sir George Wentworth. These gentlemen volunteers had amongst them many great and honourable names, such as the Daveys of Lincolnshire, lords of thirty-three baronies in that county; Sir Edward Radcliffe, of Threshfield, in Craven; Colonel Portington, of Barnby Dun, who suffered great things for the royal cause; Captain Vavasour, of Haslewood, a man of old and noble family, and an adherent of the ancient religion, being a Catholic, as were also several of the gentlemen volunteers, such as the Crofts, the Sayles, the Hammertons, the Stapletons, the Annes of Burghwallis, the Pearrys, the Easts, the Emsons, and many others; Sir John Ramsden of Byram, Lieutenant Saville, Sir Richard Hutton, High Sheriff of Yorkshire, whom the King was used to call the honest judge, with many another gallant gentleman who was more minded to serve the monarchy than the democracy. All these helped to make the ancient Castle a stronghold for the King, and did there practise their companies in the art of war, so that there was good prospect of their being able to hold out in the event of the Parliamentary troops being led against them.

Now, for some time after that news came to us but very rarely, and was not stirring or eventful when it did come, so that our lives went on in much the old way. I went about my farm and did my work, riding into market every Saturday, and there transacting my business and hearing whatever gossip was afloat. There might have been no disturbance in the land, so smoothly did things go with us at Dale’s Field. To me, indeed, it was a pleasant time, for the presence of Rose Lisle seemed to cast a new light over the old house. She had made herself one of us already, looking up to my mother as if she were her own daughter, and busying herself about the household duties just as Lucy did. And so much did she win my mother’s heart that I believe she began to love Rose as a daughter, at which I was well pleased, being strangely rejoiced to see it.

Looking back upon that time, I cannot decide in my own mind when it was that I first began to love Rose Lisle. Nay, I do not think that there ever was a time when I did not love her, from the first moment in which I set eyes on her, coming singing along the path in the woods, for I thought of her from that day constantly, boy as I was. And yet when I met her again and found her grown a woman, and more beautiful than any woman I have even seen, I was conscious of a new feeling and a new hope springing up in my heart, so that I came to look upon her as the one desire of my life. To me she was always the same, a maiden to be loved and honoured and won if my unworthiness could win her. Yet there was nothing fiery or impatient about my love for her, for it was enough for me that I could see her and enjoy her presence. And I knew not whether in those days she saw that I loved her, as indeed I did.

But there were others who saw it, and of these none were quicker in seeing it than Jacob Trusty, whose old eyes, I think, could see through a millstone in anything that concerned me. I had often noticed him watching Rose and myself narrowly as we walked of an evening in the garden or orchard, and many a time I had come across him and Rose talking together on such matters as the rearing of poultry and feeding of calves and other similar subjects on which Jacob’s heart delighted. But for a long time he said nothing to me, though I could see that he was thinking a good deal, for he was one of those people who do not deliver their minds in a hurry, and this quality seemed to deepen in him as his years increased. However, he was at last minded to address me on the matter, which he did one day as we stood in the cow-house, where we had been considering the advisability of feeding the roan cow for market.

“Master Tuckett,” said Jacob, “seems to come courting very strong. A persevering young man as ever I saw.”

This was true. I suppose nobody was ever more slavishly in love than Ben was with my sister Lucy.

“The doorstep,” continued Jacob, “never cools of him. However, ’tis the way of the world. So long as there are lasses there will be lads to run after them. In going through the world, William, you will never see aught plainer than that. Who-ho! Stand over, lass.”

This last remark was addressed to the roan cow, whose stall Jacob was bedding down with straw. He poked and prodded the straw about her feet before he resumed his remarks.

“ ’Tis as natural to fall in love,” said Jacob, “as it is for schoolboys to fight. The most natural thing in the world it is. For in going through the world, William, what does a man see? He sees the birds a-mating and a-building their nests everywhere, and the doves making love after their fashion in every coppice. Wherefore, I say, it is a very natural thing that young men and women should pair off.”

“But, Jacob,” I said, “you never paired off with anybody, because you have never been married. Come, now, why didn’t you practise what you preach?”

“Why, certainly,” he said, “that’s true, but there’s a many people very good at preaching who are very poor at practising, William. True it is I have never been married.”

“Nor in love, Jacob?”

“Why,” he said, “as to that, there was a young woman in Badsworth parish that I did think of at odd times. A young widow woman she was, and as plump as a partridge. Ah! I once walked a matter of seven miles to see her. A fine figure of a woman.”

“And it never came to anything, Jacob?”

“No‑o,” said Jacob slowly, “no‑o. I never could quite give my mind to wedlock, though admiring it in others. It seemed beautiful at a distance, but I don’t know how it might be nearer at hand.”

“Oh, Jacob, and that is you who talk so finely about birds and doves and suchlike.”

“Ay, marry,” he said, with a twinkle of his gray eyes, “and why not? I am well pleased to see Master Tuckett come a-courting of our Lucy, and between thee and me and the post, William, I should like to see thee making towards a gold ring thyself. What, man, didst ever see a properer maiden than yond? I lay not.”

He pointed across the fold to the orchard, where Rose Lisle, fair as a dream of May, was gathering the ripe fruit into a basket and singing some old ditty softly to herself. I turned and watched her in silence.

“If I were thou, William,” said old Jacob, “I should thank God three times a day for such a wife as yond. Never in all this world wilt thou find so fair a maiden, nor so good. Let her not slip from thee. I speak, being old and anxious for thy welfare, having loved thee from thy birth upwards. I should like to see thy boy sitting on my knees before I go, William, even as thou didst sit there many years ago.”

Andhaving said that he immediately began to make a noise and bustle amongst the cows, shaking up the straw in their stalls and causing them to tug so at their chains that I escaped from the racket and joined Rose Lisle in the apple orchard, being half inclined to tell her there and then of my love for her; yet I refrained, for I was not minded to be too hasty, although I knew right well that I loved her as truly as if I had known her for twenty years.

During the first autumn weeks in that year we had little news of Philip Lisle and Jack Drumbleforth. They had sent us word soon after their departure of their safe arrival at Nottingham, where the King was gathering an army about him, but after that there came a long period during which we had no tidings whatever. We often made inquiry of the people travelling along the road, but received nothing but vague and indefinite tidings of the course of events. Some said that the King had gathered a great army about him; others reported that his Majesty had but a scanty following. Towards the end of September came news of a fight at Powick Bridge, in which the Royalist troops had been successful, and this naturally gave a feeling of encouragement to those who like ourselves were loyal to the monarchy. Then came another period of silence; and then, a month later, we began to hear rumours of a great fight at Edgehill, on the borders of Warwick and Oxford, at which, said our informants, many men on both sides had been slain and wounded. We were somewhat anxious at this, being in ignorance as to the safety of our own friends, and we made many inquiries of travellers coming from the south, hearing nothing, however, till well into November, when a horseman, covered with mire and mud, rode up to our door, and, asking for Master Dale, delivered into my hands a thick packet directed to me in Jack Drumbleforth’s writing.

Now, as good fortune would have it, Parson Drumbleforth happened to be in our house at the very moment of the arrival of Jack’s letter, and knowing that the latter would not fail to send news to his father, I asked the messenger if he had no communication for the Vicar of Darrington.

“Yea, troth have I,” he answered, touching his pouch significantly, “and here it is in my satchel. God send it be not out of my track, for me and my horse are tired enow, having ridden I know not how many miles this day, and being bound for the Castle at Pontefract with despatches for Colonel Lowther.”

“It is not out of your track, friend,” I said; “but here is the Vicar himself, and you can do your errand without further hindrance. And if your despatches are not too pressing, and if you will please to dismount, we will entertain both your horse and yourself with food and rest, which will do neither any harm, judging from your appearance.”

“You speak truly, master,” said the man, getting slowly down from his saddle as if he were stiff with long riding. “You speak truly indeed. Beshrew me if I have drawn rein since I passed Conisbrough Castle, as you may believe by looking at my beast. As for the despatches, I care not about immediate deliverance of them, so long as they fall not into the enemy’s hands.”

“We are for the King here,” I said, and led him into the kitchen, whither he followed me with great readiness, “and your despatches will be safe enough, for there has been no fighting in this quarter as yet, whatever there may be to come.”

“You are well off,” said he, sinking down like a tired man upon the long settle. “By the great Turk! but we had a fair brush of it at Edgehill yonder. A plague take this war, say I! If it were with one’s natural enemies, Spaniard or Turk, well and good, but as it is⁠—”

“Then Master Drumbleforth has been at Edgehill?” I said. “Is he well, and is Master Lisle with him?”

“They are both thereabouts,” he answered, “or maybe at this present they are on the road towards London, for his Majesty is minded to spend Christmas at Whitehall, and is pushing on thither.”

“Then the King hath won the fight at Edgehill?”

“Why that, master, is more than I can say. Myself, I should say ’twas a drawn game. However, Essex and his men have retreated southwards, and the royal forces are after them.”

By that time the maids had brought food and drink, and placed them before the messenger; so bidding him refresh himself and spare not, I carried the letters into my mother’s parlour, where she and Parson Drumbleforth and the two girls were seated conversing in the firelight. For it was now growing dark and cold o’ nights, and we were always glad to get the curtain drawn and the candles lighted, so that we might hear the wind and rain outside, and feel comfortable that we were safely housed.

“News from the wars!” I cried, holding up the two letters. “A messenger carrying despatches for Colonel Lowther hath brought them with him. Here is one for you, sir, from Jack, and another for me. Mistress Rose, there is naught from your father, but he is well, so the messenger says, and maybe he has enclosed somewhat in Jack’s letter.”

So I whipped out my knife, and cut away the cover, but there was no letter for Rose lying therein.

“He hath been too busy to write,” she said, smiling, “but he will have sent some message by Master Drumbleforth’s letter. So long as he is well I care not.”

Now, the Vicar had eagerly opened his own epistle, and was peering at it through his glasses, while my mother and Lucy stood eagerly by to hear the news.

“Are they well, sir?” inquired my mother. “Pray God they both be in good health, so far away from home and friends as they are. ’Tis poor work to be sick in a strange country.”

“Why,” said Parson Drumbleforth, “they seem to be well enough, mistress, judging from the manner in which my son writes to me. Nevertheless, his epistle is a somewhat short one, and dealeth in little news. But if ye will give ear I will read it to you, so that we may all share in it.”

So when he had cleared his voice, he read as follows:

“At the King’s Camp near Edgehill,
“October 26, 1642.

“To the Rev. Mr. Drumbleforth, M.A., Vicar of Darrington in the County of Yorkshire. These:

“Honoured Father⁠—There being a messenger about to carry despatches from our camp here unto Colonel Lowther at Pontefract Castle, I am minded to write these to your Reverence, in the hope that they may find you in as good health as I now enjoy, for which I thank God heartily. I would have you know that there hath been a great fight here at Edgehill, in which both Master Lisle and myself figured without hurt to ourselves, save that Master Lisle hath gotten a cut across the fingers of his right hand which doth prevent him at present from holding a pen. For this reason I am about writing a long letter to Will Dale, so that he may give news to Mistress Rose, and as I am no hand at much writing of epistles, I will beg you, honoured sir, to step along the highway to Dale’s Field and learn the news there. Only I will here tell you that I am now in very good health, and have as yet come in no great need of anything, though, indeed, my shirts are becoming ragged, and my half-hose are well-nigh worn through. Yea, indeed, you might say to Mistress Deborah that if she hath any linen or other body-clothes of mine stored away, she would do well to pack it up, and send it to me by the bearer of this, who will return hither shortly. For I wish not to be reduced to the condition of some who, having but one shirt, are forced to go without while what they have is washed⁠—”

“Poor things, poor things!” said my mother. “Alas! the war is a terrible matter. What would their mothers say if they could see them in such a plight?”

“I will resume,” said the Vicar.

“As to food, honoured sir, we have so far done fairly well, and I have grown no thinner. Likewise the life so far hath suited my mind very well, though I know not how it may be when the winter sets in. However, we have beaten back the enemy, and are now following him towards London, where the King means to spend Christmas. And so, sir, assuring you that I am well in body and mind, and do strive to fulfil all my duties as a Christian man, I will refer you to Will Dale for further news. Only I will beg you to believe that I am your very dutiful and loving son,

“ ’Tis a very right and proper letter,” said the Vicar, folding up the sheet with much pride, “and doth the lad great credit. I am rejoiced to think that in the midst of battles and conflicts he doeth his duty as a Christian man should. Yea, indeed, this letter hath much refreshed me. But now, William, let us have thy news, which I doubt not will contain a deal of war and bloodshed, and suchlike. Open thy paper, man, and read.”

“Why, sir,” said I, “there are the people without who have heard that news has come, and they are anxious to hear it. What do you say, mother, if we allow them to come inside here and listen to Jack’s letter being read?”

“ ’Tis a good thought,” said Parson Drumbleforth. “Yea, mistress, let us have them all inside.”

So my mother called them all to come, and presently they appeared⁠—Jacob Trusty, and the maids, and Timothy Grass, and the ploughboys⁠—and stood in a group at the door, ready to listen. Only the messenger stayed by himself in the kitchen, eating and drinking at his ease, with the firelight shining on his rough and weather-beaten countenance.

“Friends,” said I, when they had all assembled, “here is a letter which hath come from the wars, from Mr. John Drumbleforth. We thought you would like to hear what news he sends, so you shall hear it read.”

“Ay,” said Parson Drumbleforth. “Read on, Will.”

But I did not think of reading it myself, Jack’s writing being somewhat clerkly, and not like print. So I handed it over to Rose.

“Mistress Rose,” I said, “you are a greater scholar than I, and have a clear voice. Will you read us Jack’s letter?”

So she consented, standing up by the light, and looking mighty pretty as she stood there. And this is what she read to us:

“At the Camp beyond Edgehill,
“October 26, 1642.

“To Mr. William Dale, at his farm of Dale’s Field along the Great North Road, near Pontefract, in Yorkshire. These:

“Dear Will⁠—There has been a great battle fought at Edgehill here, and Master Lisle has had a cut across the fingers of his right hand, so that he is unable to write to Mistress Rose himself. However, you will tell her that he is quite well and in good health otherwise, and sendeth his dearest love and blessing to her, hoping that she too is well and that he may see her again erelong. Likewise that he will write unto her with his own hand so soon as he can use it once more, which will not be long, the wound being but insignificant⁠—”

“Thank the Lord for that!” said Jacob Trusty. “For the fingers are but tender things when all is said and done.”

“We came on here, Will, from joining the King’s forces near Nottingham, and we have had one other brush with the enemy before this fight at Edgehill, namely, at Powick Bridge, where we did vanquish the Parliamentarians with very great ease. This affair at Edgehill, however, was a matter of different complexion, and showed me what war is really like when it comes to it. For here was Essex with a considerable force of men, and some of them exceedingly well trained and officered, so that we knew there was some stiff and bloody work before us ere ever we drew sword. And now that it is over I cannot say that we have gained any decided advantage, for though the Parliamentarians are retreating before us, it is very slowly, and seems to savour more of caution than fear. However, the advantage, if any there be, is with us, for which we are thankful.

“I wish, Will, that you could have been side by side with me in this fight, for it was indeed hot work, and gave me many new feelings. I cannot describe to you how the bullets whistled past our ears, or how the cannon thundered, nor how the charges of cavalry shook the ground. Neither have I clerkship enough to tell you how it looked when dead and dying men strewed the ground in all directions. As for myself, there was at first a strange sensation came over me, but then I got hot and earnest, and thought of nothing but winning the day. I wish, too, that you had seen the charge of Prince Rupert and his cavalry, which swept the Parliamentarians away like chaff before the wind, for it was the finest sight ever I saw. Nevertheless, Will, many old campaigners do seem to think that this same Prince Rupert hath somewhat too much of haste about him for a great commander. Certain it is that he is headstrong and impetuous, and doeth everything as if he were a whirlwind rushing over the earth.

“We have heard considerable news of what is going on during these last few weeks, for there are couriers and messengers going and coming continually with tidings from all parts. We understand that there is hardly a town or village where they are not making preparations for war on one side or the other. As to how the land will be divided, they say that the nobility, gentry, and common people will be for the King, while the trading classes and the yeomen of the south and west are for the Parliament. But the common people of London are not for the King, for we have heard that no less than four thousand of them enlisted on the Parliamentary side in one day. Hampden has been down in Buckinghamshire and has there raised a band of two thousand men, whom he hath dressed in green coats, so that they make a brave show. We hear, too, that one Cromwell, a member of Parliament, is raising a band of men in the fen country, and is disciplining them in rare fashion, having boasted that with a thousand men of his own stamp he will put the King’s forces to confusion. And certain it is, Will, that some of these Parliamentarians are terribly in earnest over this matter, and are willing to back up their arguments by hard knocks.

“The King hath gotten himself a good army together, and at present his friends seem assured of victory, yet his Majesty hath not a happy look on his countenance, which is always sad and thoughtful. I hear that the Queen hath gone abroad to raise money for the war, and hath taken with her the Crown jewels and ornaments wherewith to further that object. How our army will fare about supplies I know not at present, but up to this time we have had no cause of complaint, and so long as we continue to be successful I think the men will live in good spirits. Moreover, we hope shortly to be in London, but there will be some sharp brushes ere we get there, for the trained bands will certainly oppose our progress, and they are commanded by General Skippon, who, I understand, hath had long experience in the German wars. Doubt not, however, that we shall give a good account of ourselves, for we are not lightly to be put down by these Roundhead knaves. Yet, indeed, Will, this war is a terrible matter, for there are families divided against each other, and it is easily done for father to kill son or son to kill father⁠—”

“Alas!” said my mother; “he is right⁠—a terrible matter it is indeed; would it were well over!”

“And now I have no more news for thee at present, old Will, save that Master Lisle is commander of a company of volunteers, and I am one of his men and likely to be promoted, being, so they say, of good stuff for a soldier. So when I come homewards again I may perhaps come as captain or colonel. Glad indeed I shall be to see ye all again, for in all my wanderings thus far I have seen naught that I liked so well as our own village, with its gray church tower and comfortable alehouse, nor have I met any face that I welcomed as I would welcome one of our own home faces. So thou wilt remember me to everybody⁠—to thy mother and sister and to Mistress Rose and to Jacob; and thou wilt tell Jacob that I have remembered his many admonitions and found them useful; and thou mayest tell Timothy that the horses in these parts are not like ours, and beg thy mother to make the autumn ale extra strong this year, for indeed I am looking forward to it. And now I will say farewell to all of you until another time, when thou shalt hear more, God willing, from thy old friend,

So the letter was read, and we were all glad to hear that our two adventurers were so far well and prosperous. And the servants having gone out, much pleased with what they had heard, I followed them to speed forward the messenger with his despatches for Colonel Lowther, bidding him call upon us the next day as he returned southwards, so that we might give him letters for our friends. And after he had gone we sat down with pens and papers and wrote news to them, assuring them of our joy that so far they had been spared amidst all their dangers.

During the next few months we heard little news of Philip Lisle and Jack Drumbleforth, for the war made but small progress, the rival armies being for the most part in safe quarters for the winter. Now and then, indeed, we had letters from both our adventurers, but they had little to tell us, nor could they give us any information as to what time we might expect to see them again. So matters went on during that winter, and there were many who prophesied that before spring the sad difference ’twixt King and Parliament would be adjusted, and the nation restored to peace and tranquillity. But there were others, men of keener sight and perception, who knew that the unhappy quarrel now in existence would only be terminated by the complete overthrow of one side or the other. Amongst these men, who proved the true prophets in the end, there were none more sagacious than Oliver Cromwell, the man of whom Jack Drumbleforth had spoken in his letter, and who afterwards came to enjoy great power, so that he ruled England for many years with sterner hand than any king had ever exercised. This Cromwell was a yeoman of Huntingdon, a man of the most surprising powers, so that those who favoured his views looked upon him as nearly divine, and obeyed him as surely no king was ever obeyed. As for his generalship, none will dispute that he was the central figure of this sad war, for he and his Ironsides turned the fortunes of the fight many a time when things were going against the Parliamentarians. Now, during that winter this Cromwell was training his men with a skill and conviction which speedily made his troop unrivalled for bravery and prowess in the field. Such a general, I suppose, never lived, for he refused to have men under him who fought not from conviction, so that his regiment became a body of troopers who struck each blow under the firm belief that their strength was increased by the powers of Heaven. Men who fought for fighting’s sake, old soldiers who fought because to fight was their profession, he would have none of; his Ironsides were men like himself, animated with the sense of a mission from on high. How these men did succeed in the Civil War all England knows at this present time. And though I could never side with them, being by conviction a Royalist, and believing that popular government is much more tyrannical than ever monarchical has been or can be, I did yet see enough of them to know that they were true Englishmen, and impelled to what they did by a sense of real patriotism.

Now, during that winter I had other matters to think of than the war, for I was much exercised in my mind over the peculiar conduct of Dennis Watson. I have said little of Dennis and his father lately, for indeed they have not come within my history, I having seen little of them since my father’s death. True, I constantly saw them at the markets, never holding speech with them nor being in their company, for I regarded them both with exceeding bitter feelings, being convinced that Rupert Watson was the murderer of my dear father, and not liking what I knew of Dennis. Many an hour did I pass in thinking over the events of that fatal night when my father was shot down at my side, and at such times my fingers itched to grasp his assassin’s throat and crush the breath out of him. But with all my thinking I could never get any nearer the heart of the matter, and so was fain to let it rest as it did. And yet I had no doubt that it was Rupert Watson who committed that foul deed, and I have often stood in Pontefract Marketplace watching his dark face and longing that I could fasten the full guilt upon him and bring him to task for his crime.

By this time Dennis Watson was grown up to manhood and took his full share in the affairs of his father’s business. He was a tall, fine-looking man, not by three inches as tall as myself, but exceedingly well proportioned and handsome in countenance, so that the maidens in that neighbourhood were used to say he was the best-looking fellow in the county. Yet for all his good looks there was something about his face, whether in eyes or mouth I cannot say, which made me feel that I could never have trusted or liked him, even if he had not been a Watson and therefore my rightful enemy. Some people may say that I had a prejudice against him, and that my dislike to him arose therefrom; but, as events proved, I was right in what I thought. For he was not only false and treacherous, but cruel and revengeful, as you will see in the course of this history. Yea, I think that if his father were possessed of bad qualities, they were increased and multiplied in Dennis.

It was drawing near to the end of winter, when I had occasion one Saturday to go to Doncaster market, instead of proceeding, as was my wont, to the market at Pontefract, and in consequence of this it was somewhat late in the evening when I reached home again, being further delayed by a heavy storm of snow, which came upon me as I rode between Barnsdale and Wentbridge. Now, when I came into the kitchen I found the two girls, Lucy and Rose, busied in drying many garments of female attire at a great fire, as if they had been out in the storm, like myself, and had got wet through, which I was not, being protected by my great cloak that has kept me dry and warm in all sorts of weather for half a century. So when I came to question them, it appeared that they had desired to go into Pontefract market that afternoon and had walked thither by way of Darrington. And there, as girls will, they had tarried so long looking at the goods exposed for sale in the mercers’ shops, that the darkness came upon them ere they were out of the town, and, to make matters worse, the snowstorm overtook them as they came over Swanhill.

“But there,” said Rose, who had told me all this news, “a good Samaritan was riding by in his light cart, and seeing our plight, he offered us a lift and brought us home to the very orchard gate, which was a kind thing to do, for we had been wet through else.”

“And who was your cavalier?” I asked.

“Nay,” she answered, “I know him not, but so far as one could see he was a handsome young man, and very well spoken, too, and did for us all that he could.”

“Did you know him, Lucy?” I inquired, turning to my sister, who was busied with some article of finery at the fire.

“Yes,” said Lucy, with something of reluctance I thought. “Yes, I knew him, Will, but I fear you will be angry if I tell you his name. For it was Dennis Watson, brother, who gave us a ride home.”

“Dennis Watson!”

“You need not look so much astonished,” said Lucy, who was half ready to weep. “If you had seen what a plight we were in you would have excused us.”

“Why,” said Rose, “for what are we to be excused, pray? Is there any harm, Master Will, in two young women accepting such timely help?”

“You do not understand,” I said. “This Watson is our deadly enemy, and Lucy knows that she should never have so much as speech with him. For shame, Lucy! You should have walked through a wilderness of snow rather than accepted help from him.”

Now, I spoke so sharply that poor Lucy, who was very tenderhearted, and had been completely spoiled for aught but soft speeches by that simpleton, Ben Tuckett, began to shed tears and otherwise exhibit much emotion. Of which conduct I took no need, continuing to upbraid her sharply, until I saw Mistress Rose’s cheeks grow red and her eyes bright, and presently she turned upon me very fiercely and looked at me so indignantly that I became silent.

“Go your ways, Master Dale,” she said. “You are too bad and too cruel, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself for speaking to poor Lucy in this unmanly fashion. A pretty thing indeed that we may not accept a little gallantry without being spoken to in this fashion!”

“Indeed, Mistress Rose,” I said, “I am not addressing myself to you, but to Lucy there, who knows⁠—”

“Lucy knows that if we had not accepted Master Watson’s kindness we should have caught our deaths of cold,” she answered; “but that perhaps would have suited you better, so that your naughty pride should not be injured. For shame, Master Dale! And now go away and let me comfort Lucy. You should have Master Drumbleforth to lecture you for your unkindness to your sister.”

And therewith she made up to Lucy and put her arms round her, turning her own pretty face towards me with such a look of injury that I was completely subdued, and stumbled out of the kitchen, wondering how it is that a woman can beat a man nine times out of ten. For there was not a man in all Yorkshire could have scolded me with impunity, and yet I dared not say a word to Mistress Rose Lisle. So away I went to my chamber to change my own damp garments, and returning after a little time found Rose alone in the great kitchen, Lucy having gone to assist my mother in some household duty. Now, they had left to Rose the task of giving me my supper, so there she was ready to wait upon me, which she did very dutifully. Perhaps I looked somewhat ashamed of myself for my recent conduct (though indeed, upon reflection, I know not what there was to be ashamed of), and Rose, seeing it, thought to give me some comfort, for presently, while I was eating and drinking, and she sitting near busied with some woman’s work of sewing or shaping, she gave me a timid glance and said that she feared she had spoken too sharply but a little while ago, and begged my pardon for doing so.

“Though indeed, Will,” she continued, “you were too hard upon poor Lucy, who meant no ill. Do you really think she did wrong to accept Master Watson’s help?”

“Yes,” I said shortly, meaning not to be forced from my position on any account. “Yes, because she knew that the man is our enemy.”

“To have heard him speak,” she said, “I should not have thought him to be anyone’s enemy.”

“I know not how he speaks,” I answered. “Rough-spoken or soft-spoken, our enemy he is.”

“But why should you be enemies?” she asked. “Surely it is best to be at peace with all, is it not?”

“I cannot answer that, Mistress Rose. I suppose Parson Drumbleforth would say that it is, and therefore I ought to say so too; but, you see, the Dales and Watsons have always been at enmity, and always will be.”

“Nay,” she said, “why should they? Must strife go on forever? Why do you not heal your differences and be at peace?”

“Mistress Rose,” I said, “did you never hear tell of my father’s foul murder? Slain he was, as cruelly as ever man was slain-shot down on the high-road as if he had been a dog.”

“Yes,” she said, “I have heard of it.”

“And did you not know that we believe Rupert Watson, the father of this. Dennis, to have been the murderer? Yea, that we do! And now you know why these Watsons are our enemies, and why we must have neither part nor lot with them.”

She was silent for a little time after that, and sat diligently plying her needle.

“But, Master Dale,” she said after a time, “do you really think that this Master Rupert Watson killed your father? Can any man be so cruel as to commit such a deed? Might it not have been the work of some robber who was alarmed at the coming of others, and rode away after firing upon your poor father? It seems so hard to think that any man could foully slay another like that.”

“It may seem so to one like yourself,” I said; “but so far as I have seen, a man will do anything for revenge. And Rupert Watson had need of revenge.”

“But if he did it,” she said, “his son had naught to do with the wickedness. And it is so much better to be at peace with one’s neighbours that it would seem more kind not to visit the father’s faults on the son. It is not right, is it, to blame one for what another has done, nor to think the son is bad because the father was?”

“I know not whether it be right or wrong, Mistress Rose,” I answered; “but this I do know, that Dennis Watson comes of a bad stock and is our enemy, and will always be.”

So after that she said no more, only she seemed to think that I was one of an unforgiving temper. But I could not find it in my heart to think well of any Watson.

Now, the next morning was fine and frosty, and in accordance with our usual custom we walked along the high-road to the morning service at Darrington church. And we had not long been seated in the church when I caught sight of Dennis Watson, who occupied a seat near our own, and who was looking boldly upon Rose. Thereat a thought struck me which sent me first hot and then cold, and made my blood tingle in my veins. What if this ancient enemy of mine had seen Rose Lisle only to covet her and wish to win her for himself? Indeed, there was no reason why he should not fall in love with Rose Lisle if his heart inclined that way. But I felt that if such a thing should ever come to pass as that he should win her, then⁠—But there I thought no more of it, only I made a great vow that Rose should be mine and mine only, whatever might come.

Dennis Watson, however, had evidently some project in his mind, for no sooner was the last “Amen” said than he hurried out of church and stood waiting us when we came through the porch, where he stood bowing and scraping to the two girls, who were going out first. He was dressed very fine, and his grand clothes looked gay and modish in comparison with my own sober garments. When I came up with them, he was already addressing the girls, Rose accepting his remarks with a polite air, but Lucy shrinking back as if frightened, as indeed she was, knowing that I was behind her.

“I was but too glad to be able to do a little service to two ladies,” Dennis was saying as I strode up behind. “Mistress Lucy, I trust, was⁠–⁠”

But there I spoke myself.

“Mistress Lucy Dale, sir, is grateful for the service you did her, as I expect she told you at the time, so that I know no need for more to be said.”

And with that I drew Lucy’s arm within my own and turned away. But I saw the same dark flush rise to Dennis Watson’s face and the same look come into his eyes which I remembered of old when we were schoolboys together.

“As you please, Master Dale,” said he. “You seem inclined for enmity rather than friendship.”

“Between you and me,” I answered, “there can be no friendship, Master Dennis Watson. There is blood between us.”

Now, I would not have said that upon reflection, but it had slipped my lips ere I was aware. His face went pale and he glared at me angrily.

“So you accuse us of murder, do you?” he whispered, walking close to my side. “There shall be more blood between us if you like. Meet me in Went Woods tomorrow at sunrise and let us settle our difference, Master Dale. The sooner the better, to my mind.”

“As you will,” I said, and walked onward. He had spoken in a low voice and the girls had not heard him. But I had heard, and comprehended, and now there I was face to face with the ancient quarrel, which it seemed that nothing could stamp out.

I suppose that I was very quiet and reflective during that walk home from church, for more than once Mistress Rose Lisle rallied me on my silence. And indeed I had cause for reflection, for I knew that what had passed between me and Dennis Watson meant serious business. I was not the man to draw back when he spoke of meeting to settle our difference, for I had no fear either of him or of death. But I do not think any man, however brave he may be, can choose but think seriously when he is about to fight a duel. There he is with a very great chance of being shot, and more chance, I suppose, than in a pitched battle. Now, if I were to be shot and killed it would be a very unpleasant thing in more senses than one. For the women would be left defenceless and the farm would be without a master, and everything would be at sixes and sevens, to say nothing of the grief that would result. However, what must be must be, and it was perhaps as well that the old quarrel had broken out again sooner than later. I knew right well that Dennis Watson and myself could never be other than enemies, and when there is a feeling like that betwixt two men, bloodshed is certain to result. So when I had come to that conclusion, I strove to put the matter from me and to talk and think of other things. But in spite of my endeavours I could not quite keep the matter out of my mind, and presently I found myself wishing that Jack Drumbleforth were at home so that I could ask his advice. For Jack was skilled in the conduct of all these sort of matters and would have been sure to give me wise counsel.

I was not, however, to go quite without an adviser, for when we reached home we found Ben Tuckett seated in the parlour, he having walked over the hill from Pontefract to pay his usual Sunday visit to Lucy. I was very glad to see honest Ben, and determined to confide in him. Yet I would much rather have seen Jack’s face, for Ben, though a true friend and a trusty, was very fond of preserving his own skin and other people’s too, and hated the sight of pistol or sword. Nevertheless, I determined to press him into service on this occasion.

After dinner I got Ben out of the house on pretence of wishing to show him a new cow which I had purchased the previous day at Doncaster. Ben was somewhat slow in responding to my invitation, for it was a bitter cold day outside, and the fire in my mother’s parlour looked very inviting. Moreover, there were some fine apples and walnuts on the table, and Lucy had picked out a remarkably large pear for Ben to try his teeth on, so that he gazed longingly around him as I led him forth, and shivered when we turned into the fold.

“Come, Ben,” I said, “you can surely stand ten minutes of cold weather. You did not notice the cold, I warrant, as you came along this morning!”

“No,” said he; “for then, Will, I was coming into Paradise, but now I am going away from it. Did you never notice that the schoolboy goes slowly to school and quickly from it? Likewise that a horse comes home from market faster than it goes? Show me this wonderful cow, Will, and let us go back to the fire and the girls.”

“Never mind the cow,” I said, “it is not worth seeing. Come in here, Ben, into the granary. It is warm enough here for anything. You see, I have something to tell you and could not tell it before the women.”

“Oh,” said he, “now I see what you would have. Well, out with it, Will, for your granary is, after all, but a draughty place.”

“Ben,” I said, “what would you say if I told you Iwas going to fight a duel?”

“Why, I should say more fool you,” answered Ben.

“That is just what I thought. Well, I am going to fight a duel.”

“Then I cannot say anything less, Will. A duel! Well, I had a better opinion of you than that.”

“Do you think I want to fight, man? Not I, indeed; but there are times when a man is forced to fight.”

“I do not believe it,” said he. “For, look you, Will, if a man wanted to fight me, I should tell him that I valued my life too dearly to expose it in that mad fashion. For life and liberty I would fight hard enow, but I would not put myself within twelve yards of another man’s pistol for him to shoot at in cold blood. That I call rank folly.”

“Well, so it may be, Ben, but you would not have me a coward?”

“I know thee, Will, for as brave a lad as ever stepped, but thou wouldst not wax braver in my estimation by fighting a hundred duels.”

“This one, however, I must fight, Ben. There is no question about it.”

“And with what other fool art thou going to fight, Will?”

“With Dennis Watson.”

Ben nodded his head significantly.

“Oh,” said he, “so that old sore is reopened, is it? The sleeping dogs will not lie, eh, Will?”

“They might have slept forever if it had rested with me, lad. And yet perhaps not. So far as I can see it is impossible for us Dales and Watsons to be at aught but enmity. Do you remember, Ben, that occasion when Dennis and I fought behind the high wall in the schoolyard?”

“Yea, very well.”

“After I had fairly beaten him he came up to me and told me that he hated me, and always should hate me, and would cause me such trouble as would make me wish that I had never been born. So that you see, Ben, hatred like that is not like to die out.”

“Lads,” replied Ben, “will say aught. You should have fallen upon him and given him another thrashing for his naughty speech. But this present disagreement⁠—how came it about?”

“In this wise. It would seem that Dennis Watson gave Lucy and Mistress Rose a lift from the market on Saturday evening, and I was very grieved on account of that, and did chide Lucy very sharply therefor, as indeed I had a right to, for she is not thy wife yet, Master Benjamin.”

“Go on, lad, go on. You were always masterful over your womenkind.”

“Well, then, up springs Mistress Rose and flouts me most unmercifully, so that I had never a word to say. Yea, and looked at me, Ben, like a queen, so that I was quite ashamed of myself, saying that I was unkind to Lucy, and I know not what.”

“I am glad she hath such a spirit,” said Ben.

“Then this morning we went our ways to church, and there was this Watson in fine clothes like a jay, and when we came out he must be bowing and smiling to the two maidens, until I cut it short by telling him that I supposed my sister had already thanked him for his service, and therefore there was no need to say more. And at that he asks if I am for enmity or friendship, or something to that effect, to which I replied that there could never be aught but enmity between us. So then he said that we had best settle our difference, and if I would meet him in Went Wood tomorrow at sunrise, we would settle it. And now, Ben, you know all about it.”

“And a poor tale it is,” said Ben. “Why should you reply that there must always be enmity between you?”

“Because his father murdered mine.”

“You think so, Will, but you do not know it. But even if Rupert did slay your father, what had Dennis to do with that?”

“He is a Watson.”

“Pooh! Am I to be blamed for all the vagaries that Englishmen are now carrying on because I am of the nation too? You are wrong, Will. ’Tis better to be at peace than at enmity. Again, why did you chide Lucy? Did Dennis do anything but a neighbourly act in giving the maidens a lift? Why, ’twas snowing heavy that night!”

“Lucy had no business to accept a favour from him,” I said.

“Why, man, that is, to my mind, pure folly,” said Ben. “However, we will not argue the point. Only, I should not like to be hated by thee, Will, for thou art a good hater. Well, can we go back to the fire now?”

“Not till I have told you what I want, Ben. You must sleep here tonight and go with me in the morning. You can do that at least for me, whether you think me right or wrong.”

“Very well,” he said; and we went towards the house again, but had not crossed the fold when I caught sight of a lad standing at the gate with a paper in his hand. He came over when he saw us and gave me the paper, saying that Master Dennis Watson had sent it.

“Let us see what he has to say,” I said, turning away with Ben and breaking the seal. “Listen, Ben.

“ ‘If William Dale is in the same mind that he was in this morning, let him bring a friend with him to meet Dennis Watson and his friend at the old sheepfold in Went Vale tomorrow morning at eight of the clock.’

“You see, Ben,” I said, “he is not minded to let things rest. So now we must fight. Tell your master,” I continued, turning to the boy, “that I will do what he wishes.”

“God’s mercy!” said Ben, sighing deeply. “What a state of things is this, where men grown do act like children! Well, I will stand by thee to the end, Will, and if you fall I will protect the women. Alas! you had much better have gone to the wars, for there you would have had some chance. And now let us inside to the fire.”

During the rest of that day I was very restless and unsettled in my demeanour, and I suppose that Rose Lisle must have noticed it, for she kept looking at me in a strange way. I could neither talk nor eat, but wandered about from parlour to kitchen and in and out of the house, so that my mother and Lucy both spoke of my restlessness. And this was from no fear on my part, but because I wanted the time to pass and the affair to be over.

Late that night in my own chamber I cleaned my pistol and made ready my powder and shot, placing them in readiness for next morning. Somehow, the sight and handling of them restored my calmness, and presently I went to bed and slept as soundly as was usual with me. And when I woke the gray light was struggling through the window, whereupon I rose and woke Ben, and finding that it was nearly time for our meeting, we wrapped ourselves in our cloaks and set forth across the snow to the woods. Now that the time was at hand I felt as cool and unconcerned as ever I did in all my life; but poor Ben, who neither liked the business we were on nor leaving his warm bed for the frosty morning, was woebegone and miserable, and did shiver and tremble so that I had to give him my arm.

“Why, Ben,” said I, “this is the wrong way about. It is you who ought to support me, not I you. You might be going to be shot at yourself, man.”

“It is all very well to talk, Will, but I had rather be shot at myself than see another man shot at. Fancy the suspense while you take aim at one another! Whew! it makes me run cold to think of it!”

“Then do not think of it. And, prithee, pluck up some courage, for see, here they are, and I would not that either of us should show any signs of fright.”

“Who is it that Dennis hath brought with him?” said Ben, as we stepped into the enclosure. “Is it anyone we know?”

“It is Tom Gascoyne,” I said. “Ah! that is another man I like not. Birds of a feather are these two, Ben. But see, here is Tom coming towards us. Go you to meet him, Ben, and settle your plans quickly. Let us have no tarrying, so that the thing may be over and done with.”

“Alas!” groaned Ben, and went to meet Gascoyne, while I stayed behind watching them. They met, conversed a moment, examined and loaded the pistols, and then fell to talking again. Presently I saw Ben exhibit decided signs of dissent, shaking his head vehemently at what the other said, and growing so decided in his non-agreement that he came away to speak to me.

“What think you, Will?” said he. “They want you to face each other at fifteen paces, which is reasonable enough, but they also want you to fire in turn, the first turn to be tossed for. Why, ’tis murder, say I!”

“Nonsense, man,” said I. “Let them have their own way about it. I have as good a chance of winning the toss as Watson hath.”

“ ’Tis naught but murder!” grumbled Ben. “I wish I had set the magistrates on you.”

But he went back, and presently he and Gascoyne took the best of three tosses, and then Ben, with a lugubrious face, came to say that Dennis was to have the first shot.

“And they say he shoots well with the pistol,” sighed Ben. “Heaven turn the bullet from thee, Will! You are to stand here. Oh, that I had never come into this murderous business!”

“Come, Ben, be a man. I do not think he will hit me. See, Gascoyne calls thee.”

So there I stood, a clear mark against the snow-covered trees, and Dennis Watson stood fifteen paces away, his pistol hanging down by his side. Somehow I had no fear that he would hit me. I only felt curious to know what would happen.

“Gentlemen,” said Tom Gascoyne, “are you ready? Then, when I say ‘Fire,’ you, Dennis, will raise your piece and fire instantly.”

“There must be no taking aim,” groaned Ben. “It were murder if he took aim.”

“There must be no taking aim,” said Gascoyne. “The pistol must be lifted and fired at the word. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” I called. “Quite ready.”

I looked straight at Dennis Watson as I spoke, and saw his eyes staring directly at mine.

“One⁠—two⁠—three,” said Gascoyne slowly and clearly.

But ere he could say the fatal word, someone cried, “Stop!” in a voice that made us all start and turn. And there we stood fixed and motionless, looking at Rose Lisle as she burst into the clearing, her face whiter than the snow, and her large eyes full of horror at the sight before her.

I suppose that a child which is caught in the very midst of some naughtiness feels pretty much as I did at that moment. There I stood, with the pistol hanging in my hand, first staring at Rose and then gradually dropping my gaze before the shocked and startled look which I saw in her eyes. Indeed, I felt remarkably ashamed of myself now that we had been interrupted, and did not think of the affair in the same light as before. When Rose came upon the scene Gascoyne was just about to speak, and he now stood staring at her, his lips still formed in readiness to give the word which might have sent me into another world on the instant. Seeing, however, that the affair was over, he drew himself up, and muttering, “A woman is always sure to spoil sport,” he went over towards his principal, who still stood covering me with his pistol. Rose came across the thicket towards us. I knew she was looking first at one and then at the other, but I dare not look at her. I pretended to be examining the lock of my pistol.

“Gentlemen,” said Rose, and I knew she was standing between us and again looking from one to the other with that gaze I dare not meet, “what is this you would have done? Fie upon you! Surely you do not call it manly to steal out here at this hour, as if you were thieves, so that you might fire at each other? Why, this is a coward’s action.”

“Oh,” said Ben, “what wise words! Just what I said myself. Go on, Mistress Rose; go on and spare not.”

“If I had not come when I did,” she continued, paying no more heed to Ben than if he had been a tree-stump, “one of you might now have been lying dead. What sort of news would that have been for his friends? Brave men, truly, to think so little of other people’s feelings.”

“Admirable!” cried Ben Tuckett. “Go on; sure-faith, I could not have said more myself.”

“Put up your pistols,” she said, “put up your pistols and go home, for pity’s sake. Let us have no fighting here. Pray God give you better minds of it.”

Now, I never wanted to fight, and wanted less than ever now, and I was ready enough to put up my pistol and go. But Dennis Watson was not minded to take Rose’s advice, neither was he slow in saying so.

“That is all very well, mistress,” said he with a sneer on his dark face, “but it is not agreeable to me. I came out here to shoot Will Dale yonder, and as fortune hath favoured me with the first shot, shoot him I will. So retire, mistress, if you do not wish to see blood spilt.”

She looked at him very steadily and sternly, for I think that speech of his had shown her what manner of man he was, and he somewhat blanched as he met the glance she gave him. But she came rather closer to me, keeping herself between me and the pistol in his hand.

“Then, sir,” she said, “you may shoot him through me. For I shall not stand aside whatever you say or threaten.”

“Stand aside, dear Rose,” I said, speaking for the first time since she entered the clearing. “Let him fire, if he will: I do not believe he can hit me.”

“Nay,” she said. “There shall be nothing left to chance.”

And there she stood facing Dennis Watson’s pistol, which he still held ready to discharge. And he, presently seeing that her purpose was firm, began to mutter threats and oaths, and then taunts and jeers.

“Ah!” he said, “I see how it is. A pretty plot is this, and mighty neat in its arrangement. We have been fooled, Tom Gascoyne. A pretty thing for a man who is going to fight a duel to arrange matters so that a lady stops the affair at the right moment. I warrant me Mistress Rose would not have stepped out so promptly if our enemy had had first shot.”

Now, this so incensed me that I started forward fiercely, intending to chastise Dennis for his insolence, but Rose barred my path and prevented me.

“Leave him alone, Will,” she said, and at the touch of her hand I restrained myself. “Master Watson,” she continued, turning to Dennis, “you are a poor, pitiful liar. If you were aught of a man you would know that a woman would not lend herself to such a poor trick as that. Do you think I could not find this matter out for myself?”

“Gentlemen,” said Tom Gascoyne, “this affair is at an end, I think. What say you, Master Tuckett?”

“I say yes,” said Ben. “And very gladly, for ’tis a cold morning and I am shivering. Let us withdraw our forces.”

“Come, Dennis,” said Gascoyne, “let us go;” and he took Watson’s arm to lead him away.

But Dennis went reluctantly, favouring me and Rose with many an evil glance. And at the edge of the clearing he turned and looked at us once more, and cried out, “I will hit you yet, Will Dale, and in your tenderest spot, too!” and disappeared in the woods, which echoed to his sneering laughter. And so the duel was over.

“Beshrew me,” said Ben, “but I am as cold as any icicle. I shall run homewards, with your permission, for I doubt not you will be able to bring Mistress Rose home by yourself, Will.”

And therewith he leapt the fence into the meadows and went homewards at a dogtrot, so that his short, sturdy figure was soon out of sight in the dim winter’s light, and Rose and I were alone. There we stood in the clearing for a moment or two, neither of us speaking. I think she was looking at me, but I am quite sure that I did not dare to look at her. Yet it was necessary to say some word or other, so at last I plucked up courage to speak.

“Mistress Rose,” I said, “I beg your pardon.”

After this was out I felt bold enough to meet her gaze. She was looking at me with reproachful eyes, and I noticed that she was very pale, and that her face bore an expression of pain which I had never seen there before. She said nothing when I spoke, but still looked at me. And yet I could see that she was not angry with me as she had been with Dennis, for her expression was more like that of a mother whose child had offended her by some act of naughtiness than of real anger at my conduct.

“I beg your pardon,” I said again. “I have brought you from your bed on a morning like this all because I am headstrong and foolish. If I had not been so fiery I should not have caused you so much anxiety. If I had taken Ben’s advice I should have done better. However, what is done is done. Only I hope you will forgive me for causing you so much trouble.”

“It was not that,” she said, “not that. Suppose you had been killed, Will⁠—suppose I had come here just in time to see you fall dead?”

She shuddered, and raised her hands to her face as if to shut out the sight she spoke of. I went nearer to her and laid my hand on her shoulder.

“And if you had, Rose, would you have been so troubled? There is many a better man than I shot in a duel. Would you have cared so much?”

She lifted her eyes to mine for an instant and looked at me, and then, somehow or other, my arms were round her, and her head was lying upon my shoulder, and our lips had met in their first kiss. It was all so sudden and so soon over, and without a word spoken by either, and yet I knew that she was mine forever. “My dear, my dear!” I said, “so you have some love in your heart for me after all my folly and thoughtlessness?”

“So much,” she whispered, “so much that it filled all my heart, Will. All my heart!”

“And it is mine?”

“Yours, if you will have it. And could you never see that before? Oh, Will, and I have loved you ever since you were a great boy and I a little maiden scarcely up to your shoulder. How slow you were to see it!”

“Why, my dear,” I said, “I never did see it, only somehow I fancied and hoped it might be so. And now that I know it is so, I can hardly believe it. Kiss me again, Rose, so that I may know it is no dream, but blessed reality.”

I can remember all that as if it were yesterday. It was a cold, gray winter morning, and the snow, six or eight inches deep under foot, hung from the trees around us in all sorts of fantastic drapery. There was a strange stillness in the woods now that we were alone, broken only by a robin that came hopping along the branches above our heads, and chirping at us or at his fellows that were trying to find something eatable under the firs and pines. Yet I felt nothing of the cold, and the wintry prospect might have been a fine summer night, so much summer had she put into my heart, this dear one of mine. For now all barriers were suddenly swept away between us, and there was her sweet face resting against my breast, rosy and full of life now, with the dear eyes looking shyly into mine, and the sweeter mouth ready to say, “I love you,” in unison with the eloquent eyes. But of this I need write no more, for every true and happy lover hath experience of what I might say.

So we went homewards across the snowbound meadows, feeling, I think, as if we were walking through some Paradise, rather than across the good old fields where every landmark was familiar to me. And all the way my heart was singing gaily to itself, and its song was of love and hope and happiness, and I forgot all about Dennis Watson and his threats, and had no memory of the sad strife then agitating the land, for I could think of nothing but Rose. And so hand-in-hand we went into the great kitchen, where Ben was warming his blue fingers against the fire and audibly lamenting his folly in going out on such a morning. “And on such an errand too,” growled he, when Rose had gone away to remove her snow-covered garments. “Yea, indeed, if I go on like this I shall soon let out my head for the crows to pick at. For indeed my brains must be soft enow when I go forth to see two fools shoot at each other.”

“Hold thy peace, chatterer!” I said. “What, man, this is the happiest morning I ever knew. Ah, old Ben, thou talkest about happiness! Why, man, thou knowest not the meaning of that word. Indeed, I think nobody was ever happy until now.”

“Oh!” said Ben, rising up and steadily regarding me with questioning eyes. “Oh! Ah! Why now, but really, Will, is thy brain turning? Nay, he is sane enough. Why, man, what has happened? Ah, now I see it all thou hast been making matters square with Mistress Rose. Am I right, Will?”

“Right indeed, Ben. Congratulate me. Is she not divine, eh? Is she not lovelier than a dream, eh, Ben?”

“There is a little mole in her left cheek,” said Ben. “ ’Tis a beauty-spot, man. But what knowest thou about beauty?”

“Enough to tell thee that thou hast got one of the fairest women in all the kingdom, old Will. Ye will make a grand pair. Will, what dost say if you and Rose and Lucy and I get married soon? All at the same time, eh? Say upon Easter Monday? Is it not a good idea, lad?”

“Good enough, lad, but the ladies must be consulted.”

“If only Jack would bring himself a sweetheart home from the wars,” said Ben, “we might all be married together. But I fear me Jack is not a man for matrimony. Yea, he will live and die a bachelor.”

Now, that day will always remain fresh and green in my mind, even though I live to be a hundred years old, for it was a day of rejoicing and gladness. First of all, there was the presenting Rose to my mother as her daughter indeed, in which new capacity she was welcomed warmly and gladly, for my mother had learnt to love her as if she were really her own. As for Lucy, she was as pleased as if Ben had brought her some piece of good news affecting their own prospects. And old Jacob Trusty, to whom I soon told my story, was so delighted that for that day he did little in the way of work, but remained giving orders to his assistant⁠—for he now had a boy to help him with the cattle⁠—and relating anecdotes concerning previous brides in our family, none of whom, he said, could quite compare with Mistress Rose Lisle.

“An I were thou, William,” said Jacob, “I should not delay matters very long. There is Master Benjamin and Lucy are ready enough for a ring, I warrant; why, then, should ye not all marry at the same time? ’Twill be a gay sight and a good one for sore eyes, that same wedding.”

“But these are troublous times to marry in, Jacob,” I answered. “And then, you see, Master Lisle is away at the wars, and we must have his consent before we settle anything.”

“Tut, lad, Black Phil I warrant will say naught against a Dale marrying his daughter. Marry, not he indeed! There is no better family than ours amongst all the yeomen of Yorkshire. Well, you have done well, William, to win such a bonny lass. But waste no time, lad. Let me see thy children on my knees before I die.”

“I hope my children, if I have any, will be well on in years before you come to die, Jacob. Why, you are a young man yet.”

“Young in mind, lad, but old in body. What! I was middle-aged when you were born. Ah, I remember that day very well indeed. We were harvesting in the twelve-acre. Then the word came along that a son was born. So I threw down my scythe and went over to the house and looked at thee, William, for the first time. As red as my Sunday scarf thou wert. But a real Dale, and weighing, I should think, about ten pound, or maybe eleven. Old Mother Eyre of Thorpe nursed thee⁠—now dead and gone is she. Thou couldst walk at twelve months, but thou didst not talk for six months after that. Well, but ’tis a long time ago.”

Now, this was not the only joyful event of that memorable day, for we had another great surprise before the evening was over. I had gone outside to walk round the buildings, as was my custom every night, for I liked to know that my horses and cattle were safely housed and fed, and as I crossed the yard from the stables to the house I saw in the dim light two horsemen endeavouring to open the gate of the paddock. And then all of a sudden the house door was opened and Rose was in her father’s arms, and we were shaking hands all round and all talking together, for Philip Lisle and Jack Drumbleforth were home again from the wars, safe and sound, and we were once more united round the old hearthstone.

You may be quite sure that we threw wide open our hearts and doors and welcomed our travellers with no little rejoicing. For though they had not been away from us for such a great length of time, having only been absent during the autumn and winter, yet it appeared a considerable season, and we were heartily glad to see their faces again. And so they were quickly in the great kitchen and everybody was shaking hands with them and the women were all talking together, so that you could not hear yourself speak for noise. Nay, so busied were they with asking questions and giving their own news as to what had happened during the travellers’ absence, that it was all Philip and Jack could do to get a word in or to swallow a mouthful of the food and drink which my mother and Lucy hastened to set on the table. But after awhile, when the first tumult of rejoicing was over and we were all sat round the hearth in the firelight, I was able to get a good look at my two old friends and notice how their adventures had fared with them. And I quickly perceived that even those few months of campaigning had changed Jack Drumbleforth in appearance, if in nothing else. For he was now bronzed and tanned like one who has been out much in all weathers, and he had grown a great beard and moustache, so that his face was much changed. But the same old eyes of honest gray looked out from above the same somewhat snubbed nose, and the eye twinkled when he said a sly thing just as in the old days. I could not think what Parson Drumbleforth would say to his son’s altered appearance, for Jack looked less like a learned clerk than ever. He had gotten himself a slight sword-cut on his right cheek, and this, while giving him a military air, also added something of distinction to him, according to the girls. Yea, indeed, in his scarlet coat and sash and great buff boots, with the sword at his side and his hair and beard trimmed in the Stuart fashion, Jack looked a very different fellow to the old Jack that used to make fun for us in the old days.

I suppose that nobody was more content that night than my mother, who, having a great horror of war and bloodshed, was only too well pleased to see our warriors home again with their heads and limbs still preserved to them. But she had been better pleased if Philip Lisle could have given her more satisfactory news about the war, which she wished to see terminate there and then, so dreadful a thing did it seem to her that Englishmen should fight with Englishmen. So she quickly began to make inquiry of Philip Lisle of the war and its prospects.

“What think you, sir?” said my mother. “Will the war soon come to an end?”

But at that he shook his head.

“Nay, madam,” said he, “I cannot answer that question, for I know not what to say. However, if I am to give an opinion, I should say that it will not. The issues are too great and the feeling too bitter for it to end yet. If it does end speedily it will only be by one party waiving its claims.”

“And neither will do that,” said Jack. “It will be war to the knife yet awhile. A sad enough thing it is, Mistress Dale, to have to cut your brother’s throat or fire an ounce of lead through his body, but that is what Englishmen are doing just now, and must continue to do, I fear.”

“Alas! a sad thing enough,” said my mother. “But what think you? Will the King prevail in this contest? We hear so much here that differs in opinion, some saying that the Parliament will win in the end, and some that the King will finally prevail over his enemies. What have you to say to it, sir?”

“A few months ago,” said Philip, “I should have answered your question with confidence, madam, for I could never have brought myself to believe that this land of England would have risen in open rebellion against the rightful monarch. Nay, I felt sure that his Majesty had only to erect his standard in order to secure the support of the greater portion of his people, before whose arm the malcontents would quickly yield. For Englishmen to rise against the throne they have built so carefully, seemed to me a most strange thing, and I felt assured that that bad feeling, if it did exist, could not exist long. And yet it would appear, madam, that the feeling of disaffection against his Majesty is deepening rather than lessening. I know not how it is: certain I am that he hath a kind heart and means well towards his subjects.”

“Yea,” said Jack, “a kind heart he hath, but a sad face. A sadder I never saw, and I have seen his some hundreds of times these last three months. He looks, Mistress Dale, as if he had no heart to smile, but is rather pondering on the fate that hath made him to be at war with his people. Now about politics I care naught and know little, but of this I am sure: I will fight for the King while ever there is any fight left in me, for it is my honest belief that he means well. Moreover, he is the King, which is good enough for a plain Englishman.”

“There are men nowadays, however,” said Philip Lisle, “who care naught for kings or priests, being persuaded that every man hath a right to judge for himself and please himself, and it is these men who are stirring up sedition against his Majesty. Now, I say this⁠—every man hath a right to judge for himself between right and wrong, between what is bad and what is good in his own heart, but he hath no right to judge between himself and lawfully constituted authority. For as Holy Scripture saith⁠—all power is of God, and according to that teaching, those who fight against the King do fight against God. I say this as a plain man who takes a plain meaning of Scripture.”

“Master Cromwell interpreteth not Scripture in that way,” said Jack. “Why, from what I hear he hath Scriptural warrant for everything he does. He is persuaded that the King is a common enemy to the people, and would, I doubt not, clap his Majesty into safe keeping, or even slay him as being such. They say that he fights with the Scriptures in one hand and the sword in the other.”

“Whatever the man is else,” said Philip Lisle, “he is a soldier and a great general. His regiment will make its mark whenever he leads it.”

“Yea, it will so!” said Jack. “It would do thee good, Will, to see these psalm-singing knaves who sing and slay with the heartiest goodwill. Finely drilled and equipped they are, and have their heart in their work, like Master Cromwell, their leader. I have heard that he will have no man in his company who does not make this war a personal matter. He wants naught of swashbucklers and suchlike, of which sort we have too many in our army⁠—men who fight for fighting’s sake.”

“And what, sir, will be done,” asked my mother, “if the King’s Majesty doth not prevail in this war?”

“Nay, madam, I know not. Perhaps we shall be ruled by a Parliament, or maybe some of those who are now stirring up the country against the King will assume the King’s place.”

“And what would they do with the King?” said Lucy.

“Marry, child, there are men in England this day who would gladly cut off the King’s head and have done with him altogether. Yea, and would compass land and sea to do it. But what if they do? The King never dies, and if they slay Charles the First, Charles the Second will arise in his place. But much will come to pass ere ever these things happen. Meanwhile, let us be thankful we are with you again, safe and sound, save for a scratch or two.”

“I have an old father at home,” said Jack, rising from his chair, “and it is time I sought him. Will, come with me to the gate and see me depart.”

“Nay, I will ride with you, I said, and went and saddled our horses. I wanted to have a word or two with Jack in private. So I bade them leave the door open for me and set out with my old friend along the highway towards Darrington. It was a dark night and a cold one, but not so dark nor so cold that Jack and I could not understand each other.

“ ’Tis a grand thing, Will, lad,” said he, as we rode along the familiar road, “ ’tis a grand thing to be home once more amongst the old faces and places. How goes everything with you, Will? Ben Tuckett⁠—how prospers worthy Ben? Is he in love as deeply as ever with Mistress Lucy?”

“Ben prospers exceedingly, Jack, and is growing sleek and comely. As for love, he is deeper and deeper in it every day.”

“I am glad of that,” he answered. “When once a man hath fallen in love with a maid, he doth well to advance in the sweet passion rather than draw back. But now, Will, hast thou not made some progress in this same art of love since last we met?”

“Enough, Jack, to have come to the conclusion that Mistress Rose Lisle is the fairest creature under God’s sun. Yea, Jack, and I have told her so some scores of times already. So there is another pair of us besides Ben and Lucy. It only needs for thee to find a mate, and then thy father could marry all three pairs at one time.”

“Nay, lad, you had best not wait for me, or you will put off your happiness a long time. Well, thy news is good news, old lad, and I am glad to hear it.”

But I had more news for him than that, and proceeded to tell him of my adventure with Dennis Watson, and of the latter’s threat to do me further injury, together with all particulars of the duel and its consequences.

“It would seem that the old sore has not yet healed,” said Jack. “Certainly you will have to reckon scores with Dennis sooner or later, Will. Be watchful, for he will do you an injury in an underhand fashion if he gets the chance. And hark ye, if you think that he hath a leaning towards Mistress Rose, watch him with both eyes. You will have your work set, for Dennis Watson is an ugly customer at any time, being, I take it, both cruel and ingenious in his contrivances.”

“Let him do his worst,” I answered; “I will account for him in the end.”

By this time we had come to Darrington, and rode quietly up the village street until we came against the vicarage, which is a plain, foursquare house standing at the foot of Church Lane and communicating with the church by a path that leads through the vicarage garden into the graveyard. Now, it being very late, and the whole village in quietness, we did not wish to make any great noise, so we stole round by the lane into the Vicar’s farmyard, across which we went very quietly, fastening our steeds to the stable-door meanwhile. There was a light shining through the latticework of the pantry, so that we judged Mistress Deborah to be awake. In this suspicion we were right, for presently, creeping up to the open latticework, we heard her soundly rating the cat, which in its haste to escape from the pantry had knocked over and spilt a bowl of cream.

“A plague on ye,” said Mistress Deborah, “ye nasty, good-for-nothing varmint, to waste all my cream that was meant for his reverence’s porridge in the morning! How am I to replace that, I would like to know, and not one of the cows yielding a quart a day! Sure there is nothing but worry and disappointment in this world!”

She was now close upon the lattices and, peeping through, we could see her. “She is just the same as ever,” whispered Jack. “Let’s tap the lattice and give her a fright.”

Whereupon he let his fist fall with such weight upon the lattice that Mistress Deborah uttered a scream and seemed likely to let fall her brass candlestick and leave herself in darkness.

“Mercy on us!” said she, “what’s that? More work of the cat’s, I warrant me. An Master John had been home, I should say ’twas him. Ah, poor Master John, indeed! ’Tis a poor trade, fighting, and him his reverence’s only son, too. Well, well, everybody to their likes.”

“Ho, Deborah!” said Jack, in a deep voice, “Deborah!”

Now, Mistress Deborah no sooner heard, her name pronounced than she whipped out of the pantry and flung open the kitchen door, so that in another instant she had seized Jack by the neck and was squeezing the breath out of his body.

“Ah!” quoth she, when she had welcomed him in this fashion. “As if I did not know your voice, Master John! I warrant me you have come up to yon lattice a thousand and one times and said, ‘Ho, Deborah!’ in just those tones. And you are safe and sound and no bones broken! The Lord be thanked! Is the wars over, Master John, and did⁠—”

“Good Deborah,” said Jack, “ask me naught now, but let me to my father. Where is he is he well?”

“Why, well enough but for a little cold in the nose, Master John, got by burying Gaffer Burton’s grandchild t’other day⁠—a wet, slushy day as ever I saw. Oh, why, he’s in his own chamber, Master John, with his books; but you must tread soft, for his reverence is like to be at his devotions.”

“Come with me, Will,” said Jack; and we passed through the kitchen to the room where the Vicar kept his books and composed his sermons and saw such of his parishioners as called upon him. The door was a little way open, and a broad beam of light shone through the opening into the hall. We stole quietly up to this and peeped through. True enough, Parson Drumbleforth was at his devotions, kneeling at a little desk with his great Prayerbook before him, and his white hair shining in the lamplight. And just as we came within hearing he was praying for his son, who was there within a yard or two of him.

“And take care, good Lord, of my son Jack, who hath gone to the wars, and bring him back to me, who have naught but him left to love⁠—”

“Father, father!” cried Jack, bursting in. “Here I am, father, back again, safe and sound.”

And so I left them looking into each other’s eyes, and went out and rode away in the darkness towards home.

Even as I had expected, Philip Lisle consented willingly to give up his Rose to my keeping. From our first time of meeting there had been a kind of fellow-feeling ’twixt him and me, and we had grown to love each other in more than ordinary friendliness, so that he felt that I was to be trusted with his daughter’s happiness. But neither he nor my mother would hear aught of marriage yet awhile. Better to wait, said they, even were it ten years, until the land was settled, than to marry in the midst of so much anxiety and trouble. For at any time, said Philip, the tide of war might surge round us with flame and bloodshed, and things might occur which would be harder to cope with married than single. Better to wait until the land was at rest and we could marry with peace all around us.

So now there was a double inducement to me to long for the ending of the war, and I looked forward to the coming of peace with a hot impatience. But peace was not to come upon us for many a long day yet. With the advent of spring in that year, 1643, the rival armies began manoeuvring once more, and both sides became active in soliciting help and assistance. The King had taken up his headquarters at Oxford in readiness for the campaign, and had there gathered his army around him. Thither, ere spring was over, repaired Philip Lisle and Jack, having remained but a short time with us, and from them, at irregular intervals, came news of the war. At first their news was not over good. The King lost Reading. But then came tidings of success. The royal army overcame its opponents at Roundway Down and laid siege to Bristol. By the end of June that great city was in the King’s hands, and the counties of Devon, Somerset, Hampshire, and Wiltshire came under his power. The Parliamentarians began to lose heart. Hampden, one of their principal leaders, had been slain in a skirmish. The royal troops laid siege to Gloucester and seemed likely to take it. Everything looked rosy for the King’s cause, and loyal people began to pluck up a good spirit. There was some serious talk amongst the Parliamentarians of a treaty, which no doubt would have been carried out but for the pressure put upon the Commons by the London crowds, who swarmed round the House and refused to have any treaty. Then, however, came reverses to the King’s cause. The Earl of Essex raised the siege of Gloucester. Turning away from that city, he found the Royalist army barring his path at Newbury. A battle followed which neither side could claim. Essex continued his march. If it had not been for the fine powers of the Parliamentary infantry he would have suffered defeat, but the foot had been finely drilled and officered and withstood the fiery impulse of the Royalist charge with rocklike firmness. In this battle Falkland fell, weary, men said, of the war and its horrors. So matters stood after the battle of Newbury, each side being pretty much as it was before the campaign began.

But meanwhile there were other matters at work, as we heard through various channels. On the first day of July in that year the Synod known as the Westminster Assembly began to sit. It had two objects⁠—to make England Presbyterian, and to bring the Scots to the help of the Parliamentary army. Perhaps the latter was the real object, as Parson Drumbleforth said, and the former the means whereby it was to be achieved. For with the Scots it was a case of no Presbyterianism, no Scottish army. Then came the making of that famous matter the Solemn League and Covenant, which was signed by members of Parliament who thereby bound themselves to bring the religion of England, Scotland, and Ireland into conformity. This Solemn League and Covenant became everywhere the test of faithfulness to the Parliamentary cause. Its effect began to be seen at once. The fierce, persecuting spirit of the Presbyterian broke out on every side. Anything that savoured of Episcopacy was ruthlessly destroyed or mutilated. The Cross at Cheapside was broken to pieces, and a similar fate soon overtook Charing Cross. The images, crucifixes, and altars of the ancient parish churches were destroyed; the painted windows were broken, and the spirit of wanton mischief seemed to be let loose throughout the land. The Earl of Manchester went to Cambridge and drove out from the University all who refused to fall in with the Covenant. There had been much talk about the persecution of the King, but under the new regime men were not even permitted to think for themselves. Anything more intolerant of other men’s opinions than the Presbyterianism of that day there could not be.

Now, however, rose up a new party, which combated the cruel intolerance of the Presbyterians, and finally vanquished it. The Independents, as they were called, were for liberty of conscience. They wanted it for themselves, and what they desired for themselves they were just enough to wish others to enjoy. They pleaded for full liberty for all men, Turks, Papists, Socinians, as for themselves. The Puritans, iron-bound and rigid in their love of mere outward uniformity, regarded this new doctrine with horror. They wished to keep the three kingdoms under their own rule, and to stamp out every other form of worship than their own Presbyterianism. They cried out loudly at the teachings of the Independents, and complained that such a dangerous doctrine as liberty of conscience should have arisen from a body which in a sense formed part of themselves. But the doctrine of liberty steadily gained ground. It was not probable that the gloomy religion of Scotland would ever be forced upon the English people, and men who saw their parish churches mutilated and destroyed by the fanatics of the League and Covenant, gained from what they saw an unconquerable aversion to the system which it was attempted to force upon them.

Now, at this time there were really three forces fighting for the supremacy in England⁠—the King, the Presbyterians, and the Independents, and men who had eyes to see and ears to hear looked on at the three-cornered contest with eager hearts. The Parliamentary leaders on their side watched it with more than ordinary anxiety, for the new force, the Independents, lay in their own army under the command of that extraordinary farmer of Huntingdon, Oliver Cromwell. Whatever were this man’s faults, and whatever his virtues⁠—and both have been doubtless exaggerated by his friends and enemies⁠—there was one thing about him in which he was great above all Englishmen, namely, his resolute determination not to allow the Presbyterians to stamp out national life and thought in this land which is our own. How he and his Ironsides put the Presbyterian power aside, and indirectly made for the restoration of the English spirit you will see as this history advances. Already Cromwell was becoming a power in the land. The counties of Norfolk, Suffolk, Essex, Cambridge, Huntingdonshire, and Hertfordshire had at his instigation bound themselves together under the name of the Eastern Association. In August, 1643, the Earl of Manchester took command of the associated forces, Cromwell being really his guiding spirit. Then within these counties Royalism was put down, and after beating the Royalist forces at Winceby on October 11, Cromwell held himself in readiness to attack the King’s army in Yorkshire.

But in Yorkshire at that time men were for the King, and the Royalist forces were largely spread over the county. The Marquis of Newcastle had raised the siege of Hull, and had succeeded in establishing a fair degree of power in many important districts and centres. In Yorkshire, Sir Thomas Fairfax, commanding the Parliamentary troops, was making a hard struggle to retain his ground, and was watching such towns as Leeds and Bradford, while at the same time he kept an eye on the fortified places, like Pontefract and Knaresborough. Little by little, however, Fairfax was being driven back, when an event happened which brought matters to a crisis. The Solemn League and Covenant was signed. A committee of Englishmen and Scotchmen were appointed to superintend the operations of the army. These arrangements duly carried out, the Scotch forces under the command of Leslie, Earl of Leven, crossed the border and advanced into Yorkshire. In June, 1644, Leven joined his forces to those of Manchester and Fairfax, and laid siege to the Marquis of Newcastle at York.

So now at last the red fire of war was close upon us, for the rival armies were, so to speak, but a stone’s-throw away. All day long we heard messages of some sort; now that the Scots were fifty thousand strong and would infallibly sweep away the King and all his army; now that the Royalist troops were on the march northwards to relieve Newcastle at York; and now that ere four-and-twenty hours had passed we should hear the booming of the rival artillery. But we heard no news from Philip or Jack; nay, we had no news of them ’twixt January and June in that year 1644, so that we were oft anxious about their welfare and wondered what had become of them. Those months indeed were remarkably trying ones to all of us, for my mother was anxious and afraid of the war coming our way, and Rose was troubled about her father, and Lucy fretted lest the enemy should shoot Ben in any of their skirmishes round Pontefract, which they seemed likely to besiege; and I was impatient and fretful, wishing that they would make an end of the matter, so that I might marry my dear one and live in peace on my land. For it seemed a long time to wait for her, and I was more impatient every day, and wished Roundhead and Cavalier could adjust their differences more speedily than they seemed desirous of doing.

But perhaps none of us were so anxious and troubled at this time as worthy Ben Tuckett, who, by reason of his residence in Pontefract marketplace, did hear much news on both sides of the question. For Ben never by word or deed let either party see that he favoured or disfavoured them, but talked little and listened much, saying in excuse that it is a deal better to be seen than to be heard, and that silence is pure gold, while speech is but ordinary silver. Nevertheless, whatever Ben heard he turned over in his mind with no little diligence, never forgetting anything nor letting any little matter slip. He mixed freely with men of both parties, each side curiously enough believing him to be one of themselves, and in this way he got to hear matters which ordinary folk did not hear of. But Master Ben’s love of knowledge ere long brought him into much trouble and perplexity of mind, for he presently found out that the Parliamentary troops would certainly besiege the Castle, which was now strongly garrisoned and equipped by the Royalists under Colonel Lowther. This news was disquieting to a peaceable and quiet tradesman like Ben, for he could not help foreseeing there would be bullets and cannonballs flying about the town, and sallies and skirmishes going on, and it occurred to him that a rough-handed soldiery might not be very nice about taking goods out of his shop without paying for what they took. What with thoughts like this and fears lest a stray bullet should some day find a billet in his brain as he stood at his shop-door, poor Ben grew careworn and anxious-looking, and lost a good deal of his sleek appearance. But he never abated one jot of his curiosity about coming events, and whenever he came over to Dale’s Field he had always some fresh scrap of news for us, gleaned from Royalist or Parliamentarian. And whatever it was, there was always one burden to Ben’s song concerning it⁠—the war was coming upon us.

And now, whether I would or not, I was forced into active participation in this war which was being fought out ’twixt Englishman and Englishman, and made to take a part in it which I had never dreamt of playing. It was the first day of July, 1644. A hot, cloudless day it had been, with never a speck on the sky that one could interpret into a sign of rain. We had got our hay in, and Timothy Grass and another man were busily engaged in thatching the two great stacks that we had built at the end of our stackyard. Early as it was, our corn was beginning to turn, and I looked forward to commencing harvest in three weeks’ time, feeling sure that the oats would then be ready. We had had no rain during the hay-harvest, and I hoped that we should be similarly favoured during the corn-harvest. If only the war would keep away from us until we got our corn in, I felt it would be well.

I walked out with Rose that evening through the meadows leading towards Went Vale. Unconsciously my feet turned in the direction I had taken that spring morning long years before, when I set out for the ruined sheepfold to find the stormcock’s nest.

“It was the first time I had gone bird’s-nesting that year,” I said to Rose as we came upon the scene. “I remember how quickly I ran off when old Jacob told me about the stormcock’s nest. It was in yonder tree; see, there is where I climbed up the trunk. Up I climbed and down I fell, lighting on my thick skull. And then came an angel clad in a red hood and cloak, and singing as she came.”

“And she found,” said Rose, “a sturdy-looking boy, sitting upon the ground and rubbing the crown of his head with both hands. A boy who evidently liked not to have anything done for him, for when the angel, as you call her, wanted to help him he would have no help. Nay, in those days, Will, if I had offered to kiss you better, as we do with children, I think you would have refused.”

“Did I refuse when you kissed me that day you went away with your father?”

“My father?” she said. “I wonder where he is, Will. And poor Jack? ’Tis a dreadful thing, this war, to separate loving hearts one from another.”

“It is, Rose, for it is separating you from me. How long, I wonder, shall we have to wait? Every moment seems a day, every day a year.”

So talking, we went down into the valley and turned along to Wentbridge by the road along which I had passed that night I found Philip Lisle and Rose on the bridge. We stayed there talking a few minutes, and then went slowly up the hill towards Dale’s Field. The Great North Road was quiet that night; quieter indeed than it had been for many weeks, for lately there had been a regular stream of folk along it in both directions. That night, however, we climbed the hill out of Wentbridge without passing or meeting aught more than a drover taking his cattle by easy stages to Doncaster.

“How quiet the road is tonight!” said Rose, as we came to the level against Dale’s Field. “Listen, there is not a sound to be heard.”

We stood still to listen. My ears, quick to hear anything in the open air, caught the faint sound of a horse’s gallop far off along the road.

“Yes, there is a horseman coming along,” I said; “I can hear his horse’s feet. He is a long way off yet⁠—somewhere between Barnsdale and Wentbridge, I think.”

“Let us stand under the trees here and watch him pass,” said Rose; “I like to wait in the darkness when all is quiet, and hear the horse’s feet come nearer and nearer along the highway.”

We drew back into the shadow of the trees that overhung our barns, and waited, listening to the sound that came nearer and nearer, now sinking almost into silence as horse and rider dipped into some slight hollow, now growing louder as they climbed some little hill. After awhile we heard him coming down the road into Wentbridge; then the horse clattered loudly over the bridge, and the sounds grew fainter as his gallop dropped to a trot, and then to a walk as he mounted the stiff hill we had just climbed. And at last we heard the panting and blowing of the tired animal as it came out upon the level road again, and its rider strove to spur it forward at top speed.

“Here he comes,” said Rose, pointing through the dim light. “Poor horse, how tired it seems!”

Tired indeed the horse was, from the jaded way it stepped out. But what was the matter with the rider, who reeled in his saddle like a drunken man, clinging to it with one hand, while he grasped the reins with the other?

“On, good Diamond!” he was saying as he came abreast of us. “On, on, ere this devilish wound overcome me! O, Heaven! how the blood runs yet! Diamond, I say⁠—”

“Oh!” said Rose, clutching my arm. “See, he is falling!”

I started forward just in time to catch the man as he rolled heavily from his saddle. He sank into my arms and I felt something wet and warm as my hand touched his breast. The poor horse stopped, and stood panting and sighing in the middle of the road.

“Hold up, sir,” I said. “My house is near by; let me help you into it.”

“He has fainted!” cried Rose. “Oh, Will, carry him into the house. I will run before to warn them.”

She ran on, and I lifted the man in my arms and bore him across the orchard, his horse following behind me like a dog. I laid the man down on the great settle and looked at him. He had indeed fainted, and there was blood on his clothes and on my hands where I had touched him. A young man he was, of handsome countenance, and dressed like a Royalist officer. I wondered while my mother was attending to him what he was doing in such a plight.

“He is coming round,” said my mother. And presently he opened his eyes and looked at us.

“Do not speak, good sir,” said my mother. “You are amongst friends. Lie still and let us do what we can for you.”

And she began to cut away his garments to get at the wound, which she found to be a shot in the left shoulder, just high enough to have missed the heart. This she dressed and bandaged with rags and soft linen, so that the bleeding stopped and a little colour began to come into the man’s white face.

“Rest you there, sir,” said my mother. “We will not move you yet awhile, and we will put cushions under your shoulders to relieve the hard couch.”

The man shook his head sadly.

“I thank you, mistress,” said he, “warmly and truly, for you are a good Samaritan. But rest I cannot, for I must on and away at once. If only I had another horse!”

“Nay, sir,” said my mother, “you cannot go forward tonight except at peril of your life. Be content to rest.”

“I cannot, mistress,” said he, trying to rise. “Even if I die for it I must on. I am losing time here now. Let me up and away.”

“Sir,” said I, “I would not keep you for a moment against your will, but I tell you plainly that if you mount again you will be a dead man ere you have ridden half a mile.”

He looked at me with despairing eyes when I said this, and groaned sadly.

“Can I do aught to serve you?” I said.

He shook his head, but looked searchingly at me. “I do not know where I am,” he said presently.

“You are in the house of William Dale, yeoman,” I said. “I am he. If I can help you, tell me how.”

Then I bent lower and said in a low voice: “You look like a Royalist; we are all Royalists here, and you may trust us.”

“Ah!” said he. “Is that the truth, Master Dale? Do not mock me. I am near death, I believe.”

“It is the truth,” I answered. “See, yonder young lady is the daughter of Philip Lisle, who holds office under the King⁠—you may know him?”

“Indeed I do, Master Dale,” said he. “Well, I trust myself to your kindness, and more than myself. Look you⁠—I am carrying despatches to the Marquis of Newcastle at York. He must have them tonight or ’twill go ill with him. And here I am, winged in this way by some vile padfoot five miles back. What can I do?”

But I knew what was to be done ere ever he had finished speaking.

“Be at peace, sir,” I said: “I will carry the despatches to Lord Newcastle. Tell me what to do, and give me the packet and let me go. It is now close upon eleven o’clock: I shall be in York by two.”

“But you must avoid the enemy,” he said. “They are surrounding him, and you will have your work set. Well, here is the packet⁠—prithee keep it safely. Say that Captain Trevor was bringing it and was shot on the highway. And so farewell, and⁠—”

He had fainted again from overexertion, and my mother and Rose came forward to help him. I put the packet into my coat and went out. My horse, a great beast that could carry me a whole day without tiring, was in his stall, and uttered a little cry of joy as I put my hand on his neck. I lighted the stable lantern and saddled and bridled him quickly. And then a thought struck me, and I took the saddle off again and pushed the packet between the leather and the padding. If I was caught they would search me thoroughly, but my horse’s saddle might perchance escape.

I led Captain out into the paddock and went down to the house door and looked inside for a moment. My mother still bent over the wounded man. I beckoned Rose to me.

“Goodbye, my dear,” I said, and kissed her. “Kiss my mother and Lucy for me.”

And so I went out into the July night, the clasp of my sweetheart’s arms and the pressure of her lips fresh in my mind. I opened the gate and led Captain on to the broad stretch of turf that runs alongside the highway. The gate swung to with a little clash as I put foot in stirrup and leapt into the saddle. “On, Captain, good horse!” I whispered, and away we shot out into the darkness like an arrow out of a bow. The hedges and trees flew by me: I turned in the saddle and saw the last gleam of the farmhouse lights through the orchard trees.

How we rode along that night! The great horse might have known what mission he was upon. I can still feel the grand sweep of his legs as he went forward, the regular, smooth movement of his gallop as he tucked his great thighs under him for every stride. On and away we went past the Stapleton Woods that skirt the highway, down the road into Darrington village and up the hill beyond with hardly a break in the pace, along the highway past Grove and Castle Laith, on into Ferrybridge, across the river, and up the long hill past Brotherton and Byram, and so into the great level plain that leads to York. A fierce, mad feeling of delight seemed to come over me as we swept along in that grand gallop. I laughed and shouted and the horse beneath me heard and answered with a merry neigh. I sang to him, praised him, called him many a pet name, leaned forward and patted his great neck and shoulders, and promised him such delights as horses care for. And still on he swept, now stretching away at a raking gallop, now dropping into a trot, but never abating the speed that was drawing us nearer and nearer to York.

On, still on! Past Monk Frystone and Sherburn, through Barkston and Saxton, through Towton and Stretton, and so into Tadcaster ere yet it was an hour past midnight. I went steadily through the quiet little town, fearing lest some enemy should wonder at our great pace, but once outside we went on again past Bilbrough and Copmanthorpe until we came to Askham Bryan. And there I drew rein and pondered on what to do, for already the morning was beginning to break, and just before me the towers of the great Minster rose high in the dim light. I knew not where the Royalist forces were, nor where the enemy lay, and I feared to fall into the hands of the latter. But at last I went forward at a steady trot towards the city, intending, if I were questioned, to say that I was a farmer riding into market. And having skirted the city a little I went in at last through Mickle Gate, having met with no opposition on that side, and presently drew rein at my old inn, the Swan, in Pavement. And there came a great surprise, for I had no sooner leaped from Captain’s back than I saw Philip Lisle and Jack Drumbleforth leaning from an upper window in the courtyard, gazing at me with astonished faces.

I was something more than surprised to see my two friends staring at me from their upper window, for I had no idea but that they were hundreds of miles away. Nevertheless, so heartily glad was I to see them where I had not expected to meet aught in the shape of friends, that I immediately called to them in a loud voice, bidding them come down to me quickly. And so they were presently at my side in the inn yard, shaking my hands and asking a hundred questions at once about the folks at home.

“But what brings thee here, Will?” asked Jack. “Art come to help us against the King’s enemies? There will be fighting in these parts ere the day is over, or I am a false prophet.”

“I have ridden here on important business,” I answered, and drawing them aside, told them my story. “The letter,” I said, “is safe in my horse’s saddle. Let us take him into some stable and get it out.”

“Nay,” said Philip, “the city is in our hands and there is no fear of spying eyes.”

So I took the packet from its hiding-place and handed it over to Philip, who, having examined it, gave it as his opinion that it was from the King at Oxford.

“We must lose no time in delivering this,” said he. “Let us stable your horse, Will, and then find Lord Newcastle’s lodging. He is like to be in bed at this hour, but we will wake him quickly enough. Matters are come to a crisis here, but now this despatch may give a new turn to affairs.”

On going out again into the streets we found that the city was beginning to wake. Soldiers were hurrying about, and the inn yards were noisy with the clank of armour and the stamping of horses. Men were making preparations for the day. Here a trooper was repairing his harness or putting a new edge to his sword; there a foot soldier was examining his matchlock. To me, who had never seen aught of war, it looked a strange sight, that preparation for bloodshed on the fair July morning, with the peaceful towers of the great Minster looking down on the quiet city.

When we came to Lord Newcastle’s lodging, we found that the folks there were already astir, for men, richly attired, were passing in through the door and disappearing inside.

“Ah!” said Philip, “the Marquis hath called a council even at this early hour. See, that is Sir William Wentworth that is just now entering, and yonder comes Sir William Langdale. Thy despatch, Will, if it be important, comes in good time.”

We went into the hall of the house and there awaited awhile until, Sir William Langdale having entered the council-room, the doors were closed and a guard stationed before them.

“They have all arrived,” said Philip; “I had thought there were more to come. The Marquis likes not interruptions, but we must make our business known.”

And he spoke to an officer that just then passed across the hall, and whom he addressed as Colonel Eury.

“A despatch!” said the colonel, holding out his hand. “Give it to me and I will hand it to the Marquis. He hath the Prince and various commanders with him, but if the matter is important⁠—”

“With your pardon, sir,” I said, “I must hand the packet to Lord Newcastle myself. That I solemnly promised to the officer that gave it to my care.”

He looked at me for an instant, then nodded and went into the council-room.

“They will send for thee in, Will,” whispered Jack. “Hold thy head high and speak up.”

Now, I was not minded to go into the presence of a prince and of so many noble gentlemen, and would rather have handed the packet privately to Lord Newcastle. That, however, was not to be, for presently Colonel Eury appeared at the door and beckoned me. He drew me inside the doorway and paused with his hand on the curtains that shut it out from the room. Behind the curtains I heard many voices speaking. “What is your name, friend?” asked the colonel.

“William Dale, sir, a yeoman of Osgoldcross,” I said.

He drew back the curtains and pushed me gently into the room. I found myself looking at a party of men seated round a great table, at which one sat with writings and charts spread out before him. All were richly attired and fully harnessed, but one sitting at the head of the table on a slightly raised seat attracted my notice at once. He was a man of fine presence, with a handsome face and bright, restless eyes. His hair, long and dark, fell in great rings over his shoulders. On his breast were I know not how many crosses and shining stars, while from his left shoulder a broad band of blue passed across his breastplate. He looked up as I entered, and seemed to regard me with astonishment, for he gazed at me from head to foot and from foot to head again.

“Whom have we here?” he said.

Another officer, who had been bending over the table looking at a chart, looked up.

“Ah,” said he, “the messenger you spoke of, Colonel Eury. Give me the packet, sir.”

I held the packet in my fingers as I looked from one to another. “The packet, sir,” I said, plucking up courage, “is for the Marquis of Newcastle, and I promised to give it into no other hands than his.”

“That is right,” he answered. “I am Lord Newcastle.”

I bowed and gave him the letter. He sat down and opened it at the table. Before he had broken the last seal, however, he turned to me again.

“From whom did you receive this, Master Dale?” he asked.

“From Captain Trevor, sir.”

“He was hurt, I think, and fell by your house?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where is that?”

“At Dale’s Field, sir, four miles south of Ferrybridge.”

“And you carried this packet straight on to York?”

“Yes, sir.”

He seemed to consider a moment and then broke the seal. Another packet fell out of the cover, and with it a sheet of paper which the Marquis took up and read. Meanwhile the eyes of the officer at the head of the table were fixed on me.

“I like thy looks, Master Dale,” said he suddenly. “God’s mercy! why, thou must be six foot four in thy stockings. Am I right, eh?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered. “Only it is very nearly six foot five.”

“Ah! a right bred Englishman indeed. Hast thou fought, then, for his Majesty?”

“No, sir,” I answered. “At least, not as a soldier.”

“And why not as a soldier, with such thew and sinew as thine?”

“Why, sir,” I answered reluctantly, “I have an old mother and a young sister at home, and there is none to protect them if I went fighting. Nevertheless⁠—”

“Well, nevertheless⁠—go on, man.”

“I should like to fight well enough,” I said boldly.

“Ha! I believe you, Master Dale. You look⁠—Well, Marquis, what do you read there?”

“Little, sir, that concerns myself. This packet encloses a second one, which I am commanded to forward to your Royal Highness.”

“Ah! from his Majesty,” said the Prince, and took the packet. “ ’Tis from the King at Oxford. Your pardon, gentlemen, while I read.”

He opened the cover, and taking out the enclosure, bent over it.

Colonel Eury, who had remained at my elbow, touched me on the arm. “You can withdraw now,” he whispered.

I turned to go, but the Prince stayed me.

“Wait awhile, Master Dale,” he said: “I want thee presently.”

So I remained there while the Prince read his letter. Very soon he crushed the sheet together and turned to the officers around him.

“Now, gentlemen,” said he, “let us resume. I have here news from his Majesty which will bear weight. But, first, Marquis, tell us what you think. Do we fight or not?”

“I have already said, sir, that in my opinion it is not well for us to attempt anything yet upon the enemy. I hear there is some division amongst the generals of the Parliamentary forces, and prospect of their separation in a day or two. Again, in two days from now, Colonel Clavering will come in here from the north with three thousand men, and two thousand more are on their way from various garrisons. Will it not be well to wait for this reinforcement?”

The other officers uttered murmurs of approval at this, nodding their heads as if in echo of Lord Newcastle’s words.

“You think that wise counsel, gentlemen? Now, I have here positive and direct command from his Majesty to fight. We cannot go against that. Yes, to fight the enemy at once. So fight we must.”

There was a brief silence after the Prince had spoken. Then the Marquis of Newcastle spoke again.

“I am ready and willing, sir,” said he, “to obey your Highness as I would obey his Majesty, for I have no other desire than to do my duty as a loyal subject. What your Highness decides upon shall be done.”

“Then I decide for fighting,” said the Prince. “Nay, ’tis his Majesty that decides. Gentlemen, I doubt not we shall gain a glorious victory. And now let us to our duties.”

He rose from his chair as he spoke, and the others rising with him, fell into small groups and presently passed out talking one with another. The Marquis of Newcastle came across the chambers with bent head and grave face. He caught sight of me and paused.

“I have not forgotten you,” he said. “You shall be rewarded for your pains in bringing the packet.”

“Nay, my lord,” I said. “I want naught. I did it to serve the King.”

“I thank you, Master Dale,” he said, and passed out.

The Prince stood talking to the officer at the table, who was rolling up his maps and papers.

“Ah, farmer,” he said, suddenly breaking off his conversation, and advancing to me, “let me see⁠—will you fight for the King today? It will be a great victory⁠—come, man, share the glory.”

“I will, sir, if⁠—There are two friends of mine outside that are serving under your Highness. If I could be with them perhaps I should learn something of the manner.”

“And who are they?” he asked.

“Philip Lisle, your Highness, and John Drumbleforth.”

“Ah⁠—I know them both. Well, William, get thee to Philip Lisle and tell him to take charge of thee, and I shall see thee strike a worthy blow today. God’s mercy! we cannot spare stuff like thee at this time.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, and hurried out to tell Philip and Jack what had passed. I was eager to fly at the enemy, but Philip, when I told him what Lord Newcastle had advised, seemed grave and anxious.

“He is sage and wary in war,” said he, “and Prince Rupert is fiery and headstrong. However the die is cast. Yet there would have been no harm in waiting for a day or two, for the five thousand extra troops would have meant much to us. And now let us see about finding you some harness, Will.”

“It shall go hard today,” said Jack, “if we three do not split some Roundhead skulls. Hah! I would give a good deal to win a great victory today.”

There were a great many volunteers in the Prince’s army, men who like myself were farmers and yeomen, and who were minded to fight for the King, and it was to one of these companies that Philip Lisle and Jack Drumbleforth belonged. Presently, therefore, they took me to their headquarters and fitted me out with sword and breastplate, and with a great hat which had a gay plume in it, and this done we gave Captain an extra feed of corn so that he might be in good fettle, and the morning being then advanced, we went to such breakfast as we could get. This, indeed, was not stinted, for, despite the siege, provisions in York were plentiful, full preparation having been made by the beleaguered army before the investment closed in.

Now, the novelty of my position and the pride called up in me⁠—naturally, as I think⁠—by Prince Rupert’s admiration of my great figure, conspired to put away from my mind all thoughts of anything but the matter in hand. It never occurred to me that if I fell there would be a pretty to-do at Dale’s Field. Nay, the thought of falling in the fight never occurred to me at all. I was young and strong and could hardly understand anyone overcoming me. All I wanted was to get used to the swing of the long sword they had given me, and then to carve some record with it on the bodies of the rebels.

All that morning we stood to arms in readiness for the word of command. Bugles and trumpets were blowing all over the city; every few minutes some hurried horse and its rider came through one or other of the city gates with news of the enemy. Men posted on the great tower of the Minster observed their movements and sent down reports. And at last, just before noon was striking from the city clocks, the word was given, and our army moved away through the gates in the direction of Marston.

It was a wonderful and a striking sight to see that army, the flower of the gallantry and loyalty of England, go out across the smiling land to fight. There were fourteen thousand foot and nine thousand horse, with twenty-five pieces of ordnance. The Prince led on the right wing of horse, which had in it twelve divisions, consisting of one hundred troops of fifty men each. Sir Charles Lucas and Colonel Hurry were in command of the left wing, and Generals Tilyard and Goring, with Major-General Bute and the Marquis of Newcastle, led on the main body. We passed over the ferry at Poppleton and came on to the moor, from which the rebels at our approach hastily withdrew, so that we possessed ourselves of the greater part of the moor, and finally formed a long line extending from Marston village to Tockwith, the enemy meanwhile drawing up his force against us. Then those with me began to point out to me certain notable regiments of the Parliamentary army, such as that of General Cromwell, whose Ironsides were posted on the left wing, along with the regiment of Lord Manchester and the Scotch Horse. Upon these men, whose prowess had reached everyone’s ears by that time, I gazed with much interest, wondering how we should fare against them.

Now, by three o’clock both armies were fully formed for the battle, and there was general expectancy amongst all of us. Presently the great ordnance began to play on both sides; but these monstrous cannon did little damage beyond driving up clouds of dust and soil, and before five o’clock they had ceased firing, following which there was a long interval, neither party caring to begin the attack, for between the two armies there was a deep ditch, which was equally disliked of both. It did seem, indeed, that we were to have no fighting that day, but at seven o’clock we saw Lord Manchester’s foot advancing across the ditch, followed by the main body of the Parliamentary army, and so the battle began in dead earnest.

I do not suppose it possible for any man who has not actually seen bloodshed and war to form a proper understanding of what happens when two armies meet to give each other battle. Never, indeed, could I have believed that war was one half so awful as I found it when, the signal having been given, the royal army and its enemy closed and men strove like furies to kill and slay on every side. The roar of the ordnance, the shouting of the commanders, the continual babel of shrieks, shouts, exclamations, and oaths which filled the air, mingled with the groans and sobs of the wounded and dying, made an impression upon me which nothing has ever effaced. Add to this the sights which presently met one’s eyes at every turn: blood flowing like water; here a man writhing in agony on the ground, there another just falling from his horse as the sword-thrust of his antagonist transfixed him; yonder, horses and men rolling in awful confusion together; in front, a comrade struck down in the very act of shouting defiance to the foe; behind, another falling as he encouraged his fellows to come on⁠—such were the horrors that I saw around me ere the fight had raged half an hour.

Our company was in the first division of Prince Rupert’s Horse, and made a fine show, every man being well equipped and mounted, and apparently eager and anxious to fight. I sat between Jack Drumbleforth and Philip Lisle, being largely dependent upon them for guidance in nice matters of wheeling and turning. My horse, Captain, comprehended, I think, the nature of our business, for he neighed and snuffed the wind, and pawed impatiently at the ground. As the shouting of the main body of the Roundheads, led by Lord Manchester, came along to us on the wind, he tugged impatiently at his bridle.

“We shall soon be at it now,” said Jack, on my right. “Keep a firm bridle and a loose sword-arm, Will, until you are close in, and then let them have it, weight and all.”

Prince Rupert, his eyes flashing as he dashed forward, came sweeping along our line on his great warhorse. Right over against us were posted General Cromwell’s division of three hundred horse, looking like figures cut out of bronze and just as rocklike. We were to charge against these in front and flank, and the Prince was to lead us himself. The words of command came short and sharp, and with a great cry of “God and the King!” we were galloping over the rough ground in a rattling mass of steel and iron that flashed and clanked in the bright sunlight. The great sword in my hand felt like a switch. The fast pace intoxicated me, a red mist sprang up before my eyes; I had no other desire but to kill, and kill, and kill again.

“Steady, Will, steady!” said Jack. “Now for the crush!” and the two wings met with a sound that echoed and tingled in my ears. But above it all I heard the cry of the Parliamentarians, “God with us!”

I could no more tell you of what happened in that first few moments than I could describe the battle of Creçy. It was all confusion and tumult to me. Shouts, screams, groans, yells of pain and fierce oaths as a sword went home, the neighing of frightened horses and loud commands of the officers, made up an indescribable noise. When I came to my full senses I suddenly found myself as cool as if I were riding about in my own fields. I was slashing and stabbing and guarding with the rest of them, Jack at my right working away like a Trojan, while Philip Lisle on the left was fighting warily and coolly. Again and again we dashed on the front rank of the Ironsides, striving to break through them, but without success. They stood firm as a rock, giving thrust for thrust and cut for cut, and every now and then shouting out their battle-cry, “God with us!”

“They are like rocks,” said Jack, breathless, as we drew together to dash at them once more. “Like rocks of iron.”

The Prince, reckless and brave as a lion, was here and there in front and flank, encouraging and prompting his men. Beyond the Ironsides I saw a remarkable-looking man mounted on a hardy horse, very plainly accoutred, who gave his directions in a cool voice, as if knowing well how they would be obeyed. “See yonder, that’s Cromwell!” cried Jack, pointing to this man, and I looked again with wonder at the famous general. And then the two bodies closed once more, and once more we fought desperately to break the enemy’s line. The fighting became looser; the steady phalanx broke up on each side, and cutting and slashing became general. The Ironsides began to ride at us instead of allowing us to ride at them. A great trooper rode headlong at me, shouting his battle-cry and poising his long keen blade to cut me off forever. All my strength seemed to go into my arm and shoulder as I rose at him. My sword came down over his like a thunderbolt and shore its way through helmet and cap and head, while his own fell from his hand and rattled with him to the ground, where he lay a grim corpse and the tide of war rolled over him.

“Well struck, Will!” shouted Jack, who was parrying and thrusting on his own behalf. “A great blow. Ah, sir, your lunge was too low.”

His sword went straight through a man’s breast and came out behind. The trooper threw up his arms and would have fallen, but the sword, firmly fixed, held him up, let Jack tug at it as he would. Another trooper rode up to cut Jack down, thinking him defenceless. I reached over and hit him so true and full on the breastpiece with my sword that he tumbled over his horse’s crupper and lay kicking on the ground, while Jack tore his sword away from his antagonist, whose body immediately sank and was trampled into shapelessness by the hurrying crowd that pressed over it.

But the Ironsides, cool and intrepid, were breaking our ranks. Fast as a man fell another closed in, and their grim shout waxed more and more triumphant. A great gap opened in our midst, and they poured in amongst us, slashing and stabbing with terrible earnestness. A touch like lightning ran along my arm from shoulder to elbow, and I felt the hot blood run down it and saw it come trickling across the wrist. Jack at the same moment had his cheek cut open nearly from eye to mouth. But neither his opponent nor mine lived to make another stroke, for we cut them down ere ever they could raise their swords a second time. And yet the Ironsides swept on, and let Prince Rupert entreat and command as he would, he was powerless to stop the splendid work of those grim troopers, who did their work in silence, save when they opened their lips to shout forth the cry of “God with us!”

“We are beaten!” cried Philip Lisle. “See, Manchester has broken through our foot and is pursuing them. Confusion! we shall lose the day without doubt.”

“Look out, look out!” said Jack. “The Ironsides are on us again in new force. They ride like a whirlwind.”

And like a whirlwind they did ride, destroying all that came in their way. Flanked by the Scotch Horse under General Leslie, they rode through us, sweeping our companies away like chaff before the storm. Many men lost heart and turned and fled before that awful onslaught. For myself, I felt my heart like to burst with grief and rage, and would have ridden amongst the enemy to kill some half-dozen of them before I was killed myself, but Jack seized my bridle and steered his horse and mine through the mass of our own men, who had turned tail and were flying towards York.

“ ’Tis all over there, man!” he cried, as I strove to detach my reins from his grasp. “Let us where we shall be of some use. See, our left wing hath put the enemy to flight.”

And, indeed, what had happened to our right wing was equally happening to the enemy’s right, for Colonel Hurry had prevailed against them. At the beginning of the fight the Parliamentary troops under Sir Thomas Fairfax and Colonel Lambert were defeated, though Sir Thomas himself had fought his way with five or six troops through the Royalist army to his own left. And the brigade under Lord Fairfax, having given way, was further hampered by the cowardice of some newly-raised regiments under Sir Thomas, which, being panic-stricken, turned and fled in confusion on the troops in their rear, whom they threw into disorder and trampled underfoot. The right wing of the rebels thereupon broke up and fled for miles across country in the direction of Tadcaster and Cawood, crying as they went that all was lost. And so infectious was this panic that the other Parliamentary troops under Generals Manchester, Lever, and Fairfax gave way also, and were preparing to quit the field, when a sudden turn of fortune changed matters altogether.

For while our left wing was sweeping away the Parliamentary right, Cromwell came back from his pursuit of our right, and seeing the state of affairs, made haste to repair the damage. Sir Thomas Fairfax at the same moment rallied his horse, and Manchester’s foot, returning from the chase of our troopers, got into order with the other two divisions and came on again to attack our left wing, which by that time had pursued the Parliamentary right as far as the baggage wagons. So here was the battle to be fought over again, just when each side thought it won, our left having been victorious while our right was defeated, and the same thing having happened to the other side.

Now, Philip and Jack and I had wheeled away with several others when the Ironsides broke our ranks, and had gone over to our victorious left, so that when the rebels under Cromwell and Fairfax came on again to meet us, we fell in with a troop of horse and prepared to contest the matter once more. A fierce and terrible contest it would doubtless be, though there could hardly be more bloodshed, I thought, than had already taken place. For as we rode across the field, it was indeed pitiable to see the sights which met our eyes in every direction. Roundhead and Cavalier alike lay on the ground, dying or dead. Here a poor wretch implored us as we passed to dismount and put him out of his misery; there another with eyes starting from their sockets begged us to find him a drink of water. The dead lay in heaps in some places where the charge had been thickest.

Here and there the ground was literally torn up as if by the plough, and a hedge of dead and wounded on each side bore witness to where the cavalry had charged along and carried all before them. Horses, riderless, were galloping over the moor, some towards York and some towards Tadcaster, while others, apparently unconscious of the dreadful surroundings, cropped the herbage where it had not been trampled into waste. Over the whole field a mist of smoke seemed to hang, and far away in the twilight the great towers of York Minster rose towards heaven as if in witness against the scenes of violence on earth.

Neither Philip nor Jack nor I had come through the earlier part of the fight unscathed, for my arm was cut in a nasty manner and bled more than I liked, and Jack’s face was covered with blood from the wound in his cheek, while Philip had received a slash across the thick part of his sword-arm, which was fortunately not deep in extent. Nevertheless we went into the fight again side by side, resolved to do what lay in us to win the day for the King.

Now, that fight in the fast-falling shadows was twice more fierce and bloody than even the hot business of the afternoon had been. Our men fought well and bravely; yea, as the Prince himself said next day, no army could have fought more bravely. Many a time did we make ground and gain an advantageous position, only to be swept away again by these grim Ironsides, who rode on us to kill and slay without mercy, shouting their cry of “God with us!” For three hours the fortunes of the fight hung in the balance, but the superior tactics of the Parliamentary generals and the invincible powers of the troopers under Cromwell carried the day at last. There was no withstanding the onslaught of these men, who rode together like a wall and swept away whatever opposed itself to them.

And so as the darkness came on the King’s troops broke into hopeless confusion and fled away towards York, and the battle was over and we had lost. Philip and Jack and I were together till the end, and fought, I think, to the last. We spoke little as we rode into York that night, for we were dead beaten and our hearts were low within us. We had ridden out in the morning confident in our cause and hopeful of victory, and our cause was now in a worse state than ever, and victory was with the Parliamentarians. We had lost thousands of men, and the field looked more like a butcher’s shambles than the peaceful fields of England. Sir William Wentworth was slain, and with him Sir William Langdale, Sir Thomas Metham, Sir William Lambton, Colonel Eury, and Colonel Slingsby. Sir Charles Lucas, general of Lord Newcastle’s horse, was a prisoner, and Generals Porter and Tilyard, with nearly three thousand rank and file, were in the hands of the enemy, who had also secured twenty-five pieces of ordnance, a hundred and thirty barrels of powder, and several thousand arms. It was a defeat signal and undoubted.

The next morning there were rumours of a strange nature in York. It was said that Lord Newcastle and his friends, dissatisfied with Prince Rupert’s conduct, had resolved to leave the country and abandon all further part in the war. Nor was this rumour unfounded, for presently the Marquis set out for Scarborough, being conducted thither by a troop of horse, and accompanied by a distinguished company of officers and gentlemen who sailed with him from that port for Hamburg. It was sixteen years ere Lord Newcastle came into the land again, and then the Commonwealth was over and Charles the Second had come to the throne. As for Prince Rupert, he too immediately summoned what force he could and marched out of York to the northward, where at twelve miles’ distance from the city he awaited the coming of Colonel Clavering and his three thousand men, and with them went away into Lancashire. In this way York was abandoned to the care of its own loyal citizens, who continued to defend it against the Parliamentary army.

Now, I knew not what to do when Philip and Jack announced their intention of following Prince Rupert, but after some thought I decided to return home. The harvest was coming on, and it behoved me to attend to my own business. So I took a regretful farewell of my two friends and rode away through the gates southward, hoping to get home without let or question of any man. But in this hope I was wrong, for I had not ridden two miles out of the city, when I was seized by a troop of Cromwell’s Ironsides, who, in spite of all my remonstrances, carried me with them to the besiegers’ camp, and there put me into safe keeping.

The troopers into whose hands I had fallen were some twelve or fourteen in number, all of them sturdy fellows of the same type that I had seen so much of on the previous day. They were well mounted on strong serviceable horses, and had evidently been into the outlying villages in pursuit of fodder, for each man had a bundle of hay hanging from his saddle, while behind them came a peasant leading a load of straw, which was guarded on either side by more troopers. “ ’Tis rather hard treatment, masters,” I said when they told me that I must go with them as a prisoner, “that you should thus arrest me who am going home to my farm twenty miles away with no other thought than of getting my harvest. Surely you do not war with peaceable folk.”

“No, marry,” said one who rode by my side, “you are right there, and it would best please us not to war with anyone. But if I mistake not, friend, you yourself were fighting yesterday at Marston field. A man of your inches is not easily lost sight of nor forgotten.”

“Yes,” chimed in another, “ ’twas you, master, that slew Job Trotter. A great blow, that clove him through chin and chine.”

“If I had not slain him he would have slain me,” I answered.

“True, true,” said an old, grayheaded trooper. “We say naught, friend, against you on that score. God knows ’tis much pity that Englishmen should be killing Englishmen at this time. However, so it is, and prisoners we must make of our enemies whenever we can, for our own sake and defence.”

“Why, sir,” I said, “I am no man’s enemy, I hope, save where there is need that I should be, and I am quite sure that if I cut one of you in two presently I should be ready to shake his hand afterward. ’Tis true I was fighting yesterday, but what then? I am loyal to the King, having never been taught any different. I hope I am not to be blamed for doing my duty.”

“Nay,” he answered, “I blame no man for doing his duty, for what is to blame in a man is not doing it.”

Conversing in this manner, we drew near to the Parliamentarian camp on the southwest side of York, which city they were still besieging, and did continue to besiege for fourteen days more. I was somewhat concerned about being captured in this manner, for I did not know how long I might be kept prisoner, and was already anxious about my affairs at home. I quieted myself, however, by reflecting that harvest could not possibly begin for another three weeks, by which time all manner of things might happen. I was very certain of one thing, namely, that if the Roundheads meant to keep me prisoner they would have to watch me as closely as a cat watches a mouse. I was not used to having my liberty curtailed, and it galled me sorely to think that I was not able to turn my horse’s head in which direction I pleased.

We passed through the camp to a sort of fort from which the Parliamentarians were discharging some of their ordnance against the city walls. Here I was ordered to dismount, and Captain was taken away from me, at which sight I was exceeding sorrowful and vexed, because he was something more than a good horse, and I had given a good round sum rather than lose him. There was no help for it, however, for I had chosen to go a-fighting and must now abide by the fortunes of war; nevertheless I begged them to treat my beast with respect, because he had done no wrong, whatever his master had been unfortunate enough to do. I sat down sadly enough when they had led him away, and for a while did naught but stare at the ground under my nose, wishing that I was back at Dale’s Field. There were other prisoners near me, captured, I suppose, on the previous evening, and we were all under guard, but I spoke to none of them, not feeling at that time much disposed for conversation.

Ihad sat for some time in this way, thinking about Dale’s Field and wondering if Timothy Grass had gotten the haystacks properly thatched, and whether the sheep had been turned into the twelve-acre as I had given orders they should be, when the shadow of a man fell right before me and rested there. I looked up and saw standing before me a tall, stout-built man in a somewhat faded doublet, who stood with hands behind him staring at me. He was naught particular to look upon, for his face was coarse and red, and his nose somewhat bottle-shaped, and upon his forehead there was a wart which gave him a strange appearance. Moreover, there were blotches and pimples all over his cheeks, and the hair of his beard and face grew in patches and tufts more than in regular fashion, so that he had naught of personal beauty to recommend him. But there was that about him which made me return his staring looks with interest, for he was surely the most remarkable man that I had ever set eyes on. Whether it was his entire bearing, or the set of his square mouth and chin, or the keen glance of his eye that made me wonder, I cannot tell, being no scholar in these matters; but this I do know: he was a man whom no one could have looked at without wonder and admiration, for he was like what one fancies a king to be, namely, a master and leader of his people.

“Well, friend,” said he, “what do you think of?”

His voice was somewhat harsh and rough, but not unkindly. I looked again at him and saw that he was measuring my height and breadth, which, indeed, were matters that all strangers were astonished at.

“Sir,” I answered, “I was at that moment wondering if the folks at home have finished thatching our haystack, and if they have turned the sheep into a certain field.”

“Peaceable thoughts,” said he, and looked away across the camp towards Marston. “Yea, peaceable thoughts. Then you are a farmer?”

“A yeoman, sir.”

“Ayeoman, and a follower of the King? You were fighting in Rupert’s army yesterday.”

“Why, sir,” I said, “surely I have as much right to fight for the King as you have to fight against him. I never knew otherwise than that men were to obey the King, as indeed it saith in Holy Scripture.”

“Yea, yea,” he answered, still staring at me. “I doubt not he hath followers of your sort. ’Tis your misfortune, master farmer, that you know no better.”

“I have heard men say,” I answered, “that liberty was impossible to Englishmen while the King reigned, but I never could believe that, because I have always had my own until now, and once when Nicholas Pratt wrongly imprisoned me in his cellar. Besides, what is a king for, if we are not to obey him?”

“The King, friend, should be the high minister of the people⁠—not a tyrant nor an abuser of the nation’s laws. If you are a true Englishman you should know that.”

“I am a true Englishman enough, sir,” I answered. “Otherwise I should not be here.”

“How came you here, then?”

Now, I knew by that time who the man was, for I recognised him as the great leader I had seen yesterday⁠—Oliver Cromwell himself. And knowing this, I did not like to tell him how it was that I had come to York on the previous day, fearing that if I did so I should reveal some State secret or other and injure the King.

“Why, sir,” I said, “I was brought in by the soldiers, a prisoner.”

“Yea, because you are an enemy, and therefore to be taken care of. But how came you here, and fighting against us yesterday, if you are so anxious about those hayricks at home?”

“Sir,” I said, “I am a plain man and know naught of politics, only what I am told by my betters. I was fighting here yesterday because I chanced to be yonder in York and was pressed into service, whereby I got this cut on my left arm and lost some blood.”

“And slew certain of my troopers. Well, farmer, it would have been best for you to stay at home, and meddle not in these matters. And as to fighting for the King, why, man, you are fighting against your own liberties. Man, man, do you know what this England of ours will be when this is past? A fair land flowing with the milk and honey of peace, wherein every man shall have right and justice, and the poor shall no more be oppressed. And yet ye will set your faces against all that.”

He was walking up and down before me as he spoke, his face twitching as if under some strong emotion, and his hands restlessly clasping and unclasping themselves behind his back. His eyes were fixed on the ground, but there was such a faraway look in them that I do not think he saw the daisies at his feet.

“Yes,” he went on, “but there will be much tribulation first. Englishmen slaying Englishmen when they should have smitten hands in friendship. How long, how long? And even for us that were ordained to this mission there is bitter grief and travail. Mine own lad, and now my brother’s son; why then, and not only ours, but many another man’s children. Naught but blood, blood, wherever one turns!”

He was now standing still, with his face turned towards the city and his back to me, and I felt quite sure that he had entirely forgotten my presence, and was communing with himself. Presently, however, he turned on me again, and spoke once more.

“You have been in York this morning, friend. How fare they there? I hear that Newcastle hath ridden away and left them, and that Rupert is on his way northward again. So do the rats leave the sinking ship.”

“Sir,” I said, “I do not know how they fare in York, and if I did I should not tell you. You would think poorly of me if I were to betray my own friends. Whether my side be wrong or right, I must cleave to it now.”

He looked at me for a moment, and then walked away, his head bending forward over his breast, as if he were debating some great matter within himself, and so passed out of sight amongst the tents. A young gentleman who had lingered near now approached me, and entered into conversation. He was attired in the uniform of a King’s officer, and seemed highly disconsolate at finding himself a prisoner in the Parliamentary camp.

“You have been talking to Cromwell,” said he. “ ’Tis a strange man, and one that I cannot understand. Do you think, friend, that he hath his senses in full possession? Have not these troubles somewhat turned his brain?”

“Why, sir,” I answered, “so far as I can judge of him his brain must be a deal sounder than most men’s are. I did not see him lose his head in the fight yesterday, and he talks sensibly enough, to my mind.”

“ ’Tis a great and wonderful man,” said the young gentleman. “A man I begin to think, such as England hath not seen this long time. But see now, only last night, as I lay trying to sleep near yonder baggage-wagon, I saw him walking up and down, for his tent was near me, and he muttered and talked to himself like one possessed. Yea, and once I did hear him sigh sadly, like one in great sorrow, whereas he ought to have rejoiced over his victory. But what think you of these Roundheads?”

“They have only just laid hands upon me, sir,” I said, “and I therefore cannot say. They seem decent men, grave and sober, and rare soldiers.”

“I tell thee what it is, friend,” said the young officer, “these men will never be beaten. There is no rioting and drinking in the camp after a victory, as there would have been in ours. Indeed, they think of naught else but pursuit of arms and sober talk about drill and tactics and suchlike. Yea, and you could see how they fought yesterday. Specially raised and trained and drilled they all are, and General Cromwell moves them all like one piece. The King hath no such soldiers as these. Is it true, friend, that Prince Rupert has gone northwards?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered; “he marched away before noon, and Lord Newcastle hath gone to Scarborough with his friends, where he will take ship for the Continent.”

“Alas!” said he. “If only Rupert had taken Newcastle’s advice yesterday! The Prince is brave as a lion, but he hath no judgment. They say he received a despatch from the King early yesterday morning, bidding him engage the enemy, but he showed it to none of the commanders. I wonder what these Roundheads will do with us now. ’Tis poor work being taken prisoner. I had as lief be killed and done with.”

That, however, was not quite to my own liking, because a prisoner always has some chance of escape. As the night drew near I began to cast about me for some means of regaining my liberty, but saw none, for we were closely surrounded by guards, and I perceived no way of getting at my horse, Captain, without whom I was not minded to stir a foot. So, as it grew to dusk, I made myself comfortable against a truss of hay, and fell asleep, my rest not even being disturbed by the noise of an occasional discharge of the ordnance, which now and then fired a shot into the city. I know not how long I had slumbered in this manner, when one of the troopers who had brought me in awoke me by shaking my arm, and bade me follow him. I went after him towards a tent, from the door of which a light shone, given out by a lamp placed on a table, at which sat General Cromwell and another officer, whom I did not know then, but afterwards came to know well enough as Sir Thomas Fairfax. The latter was engaged in sealing a packet, and did not look up as I entered.

“Master farmer,” said Cromwell, “you would like to get back to that hayrick you spoke of. Will you take a letter to Sir Richard Lowther at Pontefract Castle, and so get your liberty, and go home?”

“If it be not against the King, sir,” I answered.

“I dare say the King is not mentioned in it,” said he. “ ’Tis a private letter from Sir Thomas here.”

“Will you deliver it faithfully, friend?” asked the other officer, glancing hard at me. “You look trusty, I think.”

“I will ride straight to the Castle with it, sir, if you will give me my own horse again,” I said, and held out my hand for the packet.

“Give him his horse,” said Cromwell, “and see him out of the camp.”

He followed me to the curtain of the tent. “Go home, lad,” said he; “go home, and do not come a-fighting again. The only son of thy mother, and she a widow! Go home, go home; there are enow of us that have lost children already.”

He pushed me out into the darkness, and, dropping the curtain, went inside the tent again, and left me wondering.

I was exceedingly well pleased to regain my liberty on such easy terms, and said so to the trooper who conducted me outside the camp, and who was the same grayheaded man that had brought me in earlier in the day. Also I was somewhat interested at the behaviour towards me of General Cromwell, whom I had previously imagined to be more likely to hang me from the nearest tree than to send me home again to my hayricks.

“You doubtless gained his favour, Master Dale,” said the old trooper, “by telling him that you had as much right to fight for the King as he had to fight against him. He liketh plain speaking, doth Master Oliver, whether it is in his own way or not. But it is not with such as you that our quarrel is. I dare say you do honestly fight for the King, knowing no better, and believing you do your duty thereby. Against that I have naught to say. But there are those about the King and in his army who do corrupt him with evil counsels, loving not the liberty and advantage of the nation, but rather thinking of their own selfish ends, and it is with these that our quarrel lies. Yea, and will lie until God hath swept them away from the face of the earth, and England is free again. And now, lad, you are outside the camp and can go without let or question, and so fare you well.”

In this way I took leave of the enemy, and rode away through Askham Bryan towards Tadcaster, glad enough to be free to go after my own affairs. My head was very full of my late adventures as I rode along. It was only forty-eight hours since I had left home, and yet I had seen in that time more than ever I had seen in all the previous years of my life. I had carried a despatch from the King to Prince Rupert and had heard a council held between the Prince and his generals, I had gone into battle and slain more than one man and got wounded myself, and I had been taken prisoner and had held parley with General Cromwell. Here was enough to make one think deeply, and I wondered what the people at home would say to it. Somehow it seemed a long, long time since I saw the farmhouse lights and the faces of those I loved. A whole age seemed to have gone by since I had ridden away on that errand to York. I wondered if the wounded officer still lay at our house, and if all had gone well since I left. I had seen enough of war to make me satisfied, and I resolved as we sped homewards that in future I should stay where my duty required me to be rather than go forth to seek adventures. And yet I should have done the same thing again under similar circumstances. The villages along the roadside were busy enough even at that late hour of the evening. Fugitives of the Royalist army had fled or crept along the highway all day long, wounded and weary, and were filling the inns by which I passed. The road itself was thronged with carts and wagons filled with wounded men, going I know not whither. For the first few miles I was stopped more than once by Roundhead soldiers, who let me go on at once on seeing a passport I had received from General Cromwell. Of Royalist troops I saw none; they were apparently dispersed in other directions.

When I came to Aberford I determined to take the road which runs through Castleford, rather than follow the usual route to Brotherton and Ferrybridge. This I decided upon for two reasons: first, the road through Castleford would take me in an almost straight line to Pontefract; and, second, it would probably be not so thronged as the other highway. So I went on and made good progress for a while, but before I had come to Kippax, Captain suddenly went dead lame and hobbled so sorely that I was forced to dismount and lead him by the bridle. Poor beast, he had gone through some sorely trying work since leaving home, and in addition to it had received a slight wound in his left shoulder from a pike-thrust aimed at him by one of the Roundhead foot. It was a most unfortunate matter, however, that he should fail me at this juncture, for I was then but five miles from Pontefract and eight from home, and should have been at Dale’s Field in two hours if all had gone well.

There was nothing for it but to give Captain a rest, and I accordingly led him a little way further, to where the wayside inn stands at the four crossroads beyond Kippax. That is a lonely house and hath no other cottage near it for some distance; indeed, the landlord there gets little custom, save from those who pass along that way, going from York to Castleford, or from Leeds to Selby, such being farmers and drovers with herds of sheep or cattle. The host at that time was one John Sanderson, a Pontefract man by birth, and a right good man for such a place, being brave and honest, as wayside landlords should be, for they have many dangers to confront, and more temptations to withstand than their fellows who live in towns or villages.

Honest John, when I went into the kitchen, was drinking his own health before the fire, which was not an unwelcome sight even in July, for the night was somewhat chilly. There was another man seated on the long settle whom I did not know, but who seemed from his appearance to be a cattle-drover that had put up there for the night.

“God save us, Master Dale!” said John Sanderson. “Is it really you, and what are you doing here at this time o’ night? Surely not from York market in these troublous times? Dear heart, the sight of wounded men that we have seen this day! and ’tis said that on the Sherburn road they be twice as thick.”

“Ten times as thick, John, and that is why I chose this road. But hark ye, John, my horse has gone dead lame and can go no further. ’Tis a great pity, for I would gladly have got home as quick as may be.”

“Let me see him,” said John, and followed me into the yard. “ ’Tis not the best of times to put a horse into our stables, Master Will,” he continued, when we were clear of the house, “for there are all sorts of folks about, and my wits are that moydered that I know not how to keep an eye on right and left. Ah, I see it is Captain, that you bought from the Wakefield corn-miller, and a good horse ’tis. So ho, my lad, stand over! Yes, lame indeed, but an hour or two’s rest, Master Will, an hour or two’s rest, you see⁠—why, ’twill put him to rights, I warrant.”

“But if your stables are not safe, John? And, hark you, I would not now lose Captain for a hundred pounds, for he hath been in battle and behaved himself like a hero. See, he hath gotten a thrust from a pikestaff in his right shoulder to show for his pains.”

“Lord, Master Will, and you have been fighting? Why, why; but now, William lad, do you bring Captain into our back kitchen, where we can keep an eye on him while he rests. There is enow straw on the floor to bed half a dozen horses, for there were four wounded men slept in it last night, that were fleeing to Pontefract Castle, only they could get no further along the road. These be sad times indeed, Master William. A pike-thrust, quotha?”

So we had Captain into the outer kitchen, and gave him a feed of corn to comfort him, after which I went and sat against the fire in the front kitchen until such time as he should be sufficiently rested to go on his journey again. And, indeed, I myself was not sorry to rest me a while, for, eager as I was to get home again, the fatigue and excitement of the past two days and nights was beginning to tell upon me and make me sleepy. So there I sat on the long settle, the drover having gone to his bed during our absence, and talked to John Sanderson about the great fight of the previous day, news of which had come to him in fragments all day long.

“Yes, indeed, Master Will,” said John, “we have had our ears warmed by this news, I warrant you. For some said that Prince Rupert and his army were cut to pieces, and that York was in flames, and Marston Moor sodden with blood. Ay, sad times indeed these be, William, of a surety.”

“You would have thought so, John, if you had been where I was yesterday,” I said, my mind dwelling on the faces of the dead men I had seen.

“Why,” said he, “I dare say it was terrible work, and old Mother Robey that lives at Church Garforth yonder, she foretold that something would come to pass ere long. For she had dreams, she said, of blood, and of horses flying through the air, which meant, she said, ill tidings and great disaster, and she saw the King’s crown fall from a pillar, all of which is sad things, Master Will, and disquieting to a sober man. Indeed, I know not what the world is coming to nowadays.”

So he went on talking, for he was glib of tongue, until his head began to nod, and presently he fell fast asleep in his chair, and left me sitting there alone in the inn kitchen. Sleep, too, was weighing down my own eyelids very heavily, and I could have stretched myself along the settle and fallen into slumber at once if it had not been for my anxiety about getting forward on my journey. However, that presently gave way under my great need of rest, and I was very soon as fast asleep as John Sanderson himself.

How long I slept I do not know, but when I awoke the fire had burnt very low, and there was a faint streak of gray light stealing in through the shutters. John Sanderson still snored heavily in his chair. I was rather cold and shivery, and was going to rise and draw the fire together, when I heard steps outside, followed by the pit-pat of a horse’s feet. A hand tapped at the door, and John not showing any sign of awaking, I went across the kitchen and undid the bolts. The morning light shone in fresh and strong as I threw the door open, and showed me the figure of a man standing outside the threshold, holding his horse by the bridle. He was turned away from me when the door opened, examining his beast’s knees, which were cut as if by a fall, but at the sound he faced round and looked full at me.

Now, I had never seen the man in my life before, and did not know him from Adam, and I was therefore something more than surprised when he started away from me as if I had been a ghost. He held up one hand to shield himself, as though I had motioned to strike him, and there came over his face such a look of terrible fear as I never saw on any other human countenance.

“God save me!” said he. “ ’Tis himself!”

“What is the matter, friend?” I cried. “It would appear that my presence causes you some uneasiness. Do I look so very dreadful, then?”

Now, a great look of relief came over the man’s face when I spoke, and he drew himself up from his frightened posture and stood staring at me curiously. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man of more than middle age, clad in clothes much stained with travelling, and wearing a large horseman’s cloak over his shoulders. His hair was gray, and his face much scarred and seamed, as if he had seen all sorts of weather and taken not a few blows.

“Sir, sir,” said he, stammering some words forth in his confusion, “I beg your pardon, sir⁠—you looked⁠—in fact, your honour gave me a great fright. You look so much like⁠—someone I once knew.”

He still stood and stared at me, examining my height and breadth, and glancing at my face as if he could not believe that I was other than a spirit. John Sanderson meanwhile had awoke and was standing behind me, looking at the stranger.

“Yes,” said the man once more, “so much like someone I once knew.”

“Marry,” said John Sanderson, “then you knew his father, friend, for this is the very spit of him as he was. But ’tis cold work standing here, so come in, master, if you want good accommodation for man or beast.”

The man tied his horse to a ring outside the porch, and followed us inside.

“I could eat some food,” he said, “for I have ridden a long way since night, and the horse would do with a feed of corn.”

“You shall have both,” said John. “Plague on it! who would ha’ thought the day was come already? Three o’clock, as I am a living sinner. But then, ’tis light nearly all night now.”

The stranger had taken his seat opposite me on the settle, and I noticed that he kept glancing at me in the same strangely curious fashion. I rose and went towards the outer kitchen, where Captain was still resting. The man’s eyes followed me as I moved. I looked round and caught them fixed upon me.

“You seem interested in me, friend,” I said, not exactly liking to be stared at in this manner.

“I ask your pardon,” he answered. “I have not been in these parts for many years, and I knew a man then⁠—perhaps it was your father, as the landlord said just now I could have sworn you were he.”

“And what made you afraid, then?”

“Because the man I took you for is dead,” he said. “Come, master, you would have been afraid yourself if you had suddenly met a man whom you fancied dead and buried these twelve years.”

“I suppose I should,” I answered, and went into the outer kitchen and led Captain forth. He seemed to have recovered by that time, and as I was anxious to be off, I laid down my reckoning for John Sanderson on the horse-block outside, and, mounting my horse, rode away out of the yard. Looking round at the gate, I saw the stranger staring at me from the window, one shutter of which he had put back to get another glimpse of me ere I departed. But as his queer fancies were naught to me, I rode away, and ere long drew rein at the Barbican in Pontefract, where I gave Sir Thomas Fairfax’s letter into safe keeping for Sir Richard Lowther, and talked a while with the guard on what things I had seen at York and Marston. They would fain have kept me there for some time, so that I might tell them more news of the battle, but I was anxious to be home, and presently set out again for Dale’s Field, where I arrived just as old Jacob, always first to rise, was coming out on the doorstep to see how the morning air smelt.

Now, although I had been away from home but a few days, I had in that short space of time passed through such strange and remarkable adventures that it seemed to me as though ages had elapsed since I had last seen the familiar faces that smiled in welcome at my return. I almost expected to hear that something wonderful had taken place during my absence, and felt, I think, surprised when Jacob Trusty told me that all was going on as usual, and that nothing worthy of notice had transpired while I had been away.

“Though indeed,” said he, as he walked by my horse’s side toward the stables, “since you left us, Master William, that rapscallion carpenter at Darrington hath again beaten his wife and made a beast of himself with strong drink, which, if the saying be true, is no news, being what he hath done many a time afore. However, he now lieth in the parish stocks, and hath been well pelted with mud and rotten eggs, so that he is paid for his naughtiness, say I; only thou seest, William, he had our new cart in hand, and now we must needs wait a while for it, that was badly wanted. But other news than that there is none.”

“What of the gentleman that I brought in wounded? Is he better, Jacob?”

“The women,” said Jacob, “have coddled and nursed him, I promise you. What, he hath lived like a fighting cock, and is now able to move about again. Yea, yea, the young lasses do hover round him like a parcel of hens round a young cock’ril. ’Tis a fine thing, I warrant ye, William, to wear the King’s uniform and fight in the wars.”

“Why, for that matter, Jacob,” I answered, “I have worn his Majesty’s uniform while I’ve been away, and have not only fought but got wounded.”

“What, thou hast fought, lad? With a sword, and in battle? And hast killed thy man, I warrant, eh?”

“I killed one or two poor fellows, Jacob,” I said, sighing at the thought of the dead men’s faces.

“God be praised!” said Jacob. “The King hath the less enemies. Yea, I will warrant thee for a right swashing blow. ’Twas I who taught thee, lad, eh? And John, our parson’s son, did he kill his man, too? Ay, ay, ay! Oh, if I had but been there to see it! Thank the Lord for all mercies, say I.”

I was somewhat proud of my achievements, of which I had to give a full and particular account to my mother and the girls as soon as they appeared in the great kitchen to give me my breakfast. Not a jot of my story did they lose, nor did I spare any of the details save when their faces showed such signs of fear that I forbore to trouble them further. Glad indeed were they all three to see me back, and embraced me one and all as if I had returned from the dead instead of from so short a journey.

“But what of your guest, mother?” said I, when I had eaten and drunk and had delivered to Rose certain messages sent by her father. “Jacob tells me he can move about again and seems somewhat recovered.”

“He kept his bed until yesterday afternoon,” said Lucy, “and then came down into the garden a while. Such a white face as he has. You would not think that he had much fighting in him.”

“He has been very ill,” said my mother, “for he has lost a deal of blood, and I insisted on his keeping quiet. But he is now somewhat recovered, and will, please God, do well under my nursing. He has asked to see you, William, when you can find it convenient to attend him, for he heard of the battle yesterday and he is anxious to hear your news.”

So I presently went up to the sick man’s chamber and there told him all that I had seen and heard, he meanwhile listening with much sorrow that the King’s cause had again suffered a defeat.

“This Cromwell, Master Dale,” said he, “is showing himself such a leader that I fear me he will obtain the upper hand in the struggle. Time and again he beats us by sheer persistence in his own methods. Yea, I cannot see aught but defeat in this matter. Newcastle and his following, you say, have gone, and our forces are therefore the weaker. Alas! and while men are wanted, here I lie helpless and naught but a burden to you.”

“As to that, sir,” I hastened to say, “burden you are none, for we count ourselves happy in being able to serve you, and I am very sure that my mother will not let you out of her keeping until you are cured and sound.”

And that indeed she would not, for it was her great delight to be nursing and healing of sick people, as all that neighbourhood knew. So, however impatient Captain Trevor was of the delay necessitated by his wound, he was bound to remain at Dale’s Field until he was sound again, for my mother treated him like a child and prescribed and ordered for him just as she would have done for me or Lucy had we been in like case. Now and then her patient professed to repine at his cruel fate, but I do not think that there was much reality in his sorrow, for he had all that man can want and was never lonely.

Our harvest began early that year, and it was nearly over by the middle of August, and Captain Trevor was still with us. He had then so far recovered from the effects of his wound that he was able to walk about the garden and orchard, and even into the harvest field, which he often did, accompanied by Rose and Lucy, who had not been behindhand in nursing him. These two, indeed, chiefly amused him and saw to his needs, for I was out all day in the land, and my mother was busily occupied about the house. These three, then, became great friends, and you might find them at any hour of the afternoon under one of the great apple-trees in our orchard, the two maidens busy with their needles, and the captain telling them stories of his adventures, of which he had a considerable store, having travelled in many lands and seen much service. For myself, I was pleased that he and they should be thus diverted; but Ben Tuckett, coming one day and finding them thus engaged, was somewhat disturbed, and came straight to me with a face as long as a fiddle.

“It seems to me, Will,” said worthy Benjamin, “that one of us two, or maybe both, had better look to our own business.”

“That, Ben,” said I, “is just what I am doing, for I have been in this barley-field since five o’clock this morning.”

“A fig for the barley!” said he. “What has that to do with it? Oh, I know what these grand Cavalier soldiers are!”

“Speak plainly, Ben.”

“Why,” said he, “here I come and find yonder fine gentleman, whom you picked up on the wayside, philandering under the apple-trees with our two sweethearts. Body o’ me! I like it not. Why, as I live, he was rendering to them a sonnet that he had written this morning. A sonnet!”

“How will that hurt them, Ben? Let the lasses be amused. I do not think thou couldst write a sonnet.”

“As to that,” he answered, “I do not know. I could, I suppose, make ‘eyes’ rhyme with ‘skies,’ and ‘dove’ with ‘love,’ and so on, but that is neither here nor there. I tell thee, Will, I like it not.”

“Thou art a fool, Ben, to speak plainly, if thou thinkest that Lucy would give her heart to another man when she has given it to thee already. Fie upon thee, Ben! Why, thou shouldst trust her all in all.”

“Yea,” said he, looking somewhat ashamed of himself, “and so I do, Will, so I do. God knows I do, old Will⁠—but, then, thou seest ’tis this way. ’Tis such a handsome gentleman, this officer, and hath such a mighty pretty manner of talking, and cannot even pass you a tankard of small beer without a bow and a compliment.”

“And what of that, man?”

“Why, as thou knowest, I have none of these airs and graces. I do not remember that anybody ever said I was handsome, for, indeed, my nose it is a snub, and my hair is red, and I have thought that my left ear was somewhat longer than my right. And when I stand up beside this fine gentleman, Will, I am at a disadvantage. Thou knowest that maidens do notice these things, and I am afraid that Lucy should make comparisons between me and Captain Trevor.”

“It is true,” said I musingly, “that thy nose is a snub.”

“It is, it is,” said he, turning very red. “Yes, it is, Will.”

“And that thy hair is somewhat red in colour.”

“Yes, yes; I said so just now.”

“And as for thy ears, I have myself noticed that one of them is bigger than the other.”

“I know it,” he groaned. “I thought somebody must have seen it.”

“And then thy mouth,” I continued, “is a good deal too wide, and one eye is set lower down in thy face than the other.”

“Oh!”

“In short, Ben, thou art not beautiful, but very plain.”

“Yes⁠—as plain as a hayfork.”

“But thou hast a good heart, and I think the womenfolk who know thee could put up with right-down ugliness for the sake of it. What, man! you are a despairing lover.”

So I rallied him, having no fears about my own sweetheart, whose heart, I knew without question, was mine, and mine forever. Nay, I think that if I had seen her amidst a crowd of gay gallants, and each one paying compliments to her, it would not have troubled me, for she had given me her word, and nothing could have made me doubt her. And then, only the night before, as we walked under the orchard trees in the moonlight, I had teased her about this fine gentleman, and had been answered according to my wishes.

“You will think your poor Will but dull company,” I said, “when Captain Trevor goes away from us. Can you not get him to teach me some of his accomplishments?”

“And what accomplishments would you learn?” she answered quickly. “Do you think, Will, that I should love you any the better if you could sing a French love-song or scribble a bad sonnet? It is you that I love, my dear, and you are enough.”

And with that I was content, and if it had not been plenty, I had only to look into her dear eyes to read double assurance of the great love that she had for me. So you see that I was only amused when poor Ben came to me with his doubts and fears.

But while I had not found it possible to believe that either Lucy or Rose should fall in love with Captain Trevor, I had not calculated on the effect they might either of them produce on him. It did not occur to me that, thrown into their society as he was, he would naturally fall in love with one of them. And yet, considering that they were both good and beautiful maidens, I ought to have thought of it, and probably should have done if I had not been inexperienced in such matters.

The morning after Ben’s complaint to me, Captain Trevor came up to my side, as I stood in the stackyard, and asked me to walk aside with him. I noticed that he looked somewhat careworn and haggard.

“Master Dale,” said he, “I am going to leave you today.”

“I am sorry, sir,” I answered. “You do not look fit to ride yet awhile. I am afraid my mother will not let you go.”

“Alas!” said he, smiling, “your good mother has spoiled me, I fear. Never, I think, has man had such kind treatment as I have had in this house.”

“Then stay, sir,” I said. “We shall be glad of your company as long as ever it pleases you to be with us. And you are not fit for service yet, I think.”

“No,” he answered. “No, I must lay up for a while yet. You are very kind. But it must not be.”

He went away from me a little space and walked a while by himself under the apple-trees, his head bowed and his hands clasped behind him, so that it seemed as if he were engaged in deep thought. But presently he came to me again and stood before me.

“Master Dale,” said he, looking me frankly and honestly in the face, “why should I not tell you all that is in my mind? You have been so kind to me, you and yours, that it would seem wrong to me if I did not open my heart to you. Do you know, Master Dale, it is not well for that same heart if I stay here!”

“No, sir?” I said, not understanding him.

“I have stayed too long,” he said, “too long already. And I do not think that when I have gone I shall ever forget one that I shall leave behind.”

Then my heart gave a great bound, for I knew what he meant, and for an instant something like fear came into it.

“Nay,” said he, perhaps seeing the apprehension in my face, “nay, Master Dale, there is naught that need disturb you. She is yours, and she hath never had the slightest cause to suspect how it is with me. But who, indeed, could see her and not love her? Let that be my excuse.”

Now, I knew not what to say, being inwardly much troubled that so honourable and gallant a gentleman should have given his love where no love could be given back to him. And as I could find no words, being always very tongue-tied when I most wanted to speak, I held out my hand to him so that the grip of my fingers might tell him what I felt.

“And now,” said he, after we had clasped hands and looked into each other’s eyes for a moment, “and now, Master Dale, if you will have my horse saddled, I will ride away. I was loath to be stopped by you, but I am more loath to go.”

And, indeed, he had hard work to get away from us, for my mother at first would not hear of his going, and the girls were very much cast down about it, having found him such good company. But he was firm in his resolution, and at last he had said farewell to each of us and to Jacob Trusty, and was mounted on his horse and at the gate. As for my mother, she had become so attached to him that she shed tears at his going, and the maidens were not far from sharing in her grief.

“Let us go down to the gate to see him off,” said I to Rose, and she went with me. “Give him a flower to put in his coat, Rose. He will remember us by it until it fades at least.”

But I knew that he would keep forever what came from her hands. She plucked a white rose from a bush that stood near and gave it to him, as he leaned from his horse to bid us farewell once more. He lifted it to his lips, like the gallant cavalier he was, and placed it above his heart. And then with one last word to us he rode away, and we stood watching him until he disappeared in the distance.

Ben Tuckett, I think, was somewhat comforted when he heard that Captain Trevor had ridden away, but he had hardly recovered his peace of mind when a fresh matter came to trouble him. This time it was not his heart that was threatened, but his pocket, and though Ben was a true and honest lover, he had a trader’s liking for his broad pieces, and cared not to see his substance threatened, nor his trade likely to suffer injury.

It was Ben’s way to come to me with all his doubts and fears, and I felt sure that something had happened, or was about to happen, when I caught sight of him coming along the highway one morning about a week after Captain Trevor had left us. His head hung very low, and his face was so doleful that I wondered if there had been a fire in his shop, or if thieves had stolen his goods.

“Why, how now, Ben?” said I. “What fresh matter hath come to trouble thee? Thou lookest as if all the woes of the world were settling on thy shoulders.”

“Alas, Will!” said he, and sat him down on the low wall that shuts out our fold from the house. “Alas! I think there is naught but trouble in this world. One down, and t’other comes on before you have got your wind again. Alas! and I had just painted my shop⁠—three pound did it cost, honest money, hardly earned. Yes, three pound did I pay to John Simpson for painting of it, and now I dare say shop and stock will be burnt up.”

“What, is there a fire in the town?”

“Nay,” said he, “but there will be fire⁠–⁠yea, and smoke and all.”

“It strikes me, Ben, that your wits are gone a-wool-gathering. What is all this talk of fire and smoke?”

“My wits are as sound as thine. What, man, have you not heard, then, that the Roundheads are going to besiege the Castle?”

“Yes, many a time during this last three years.”

“Ay, but the investment hath begun. Colonel Sands fell in with a foraging party from the Castle yesterday, and killed some, captured others, took all the cattle, and made forty horse prisoners.”

Now, this was news indeed, for though we had expected that Pontefract Castle would be besieged sooner or later, there had been such delay in the commencement of active operations that we had begun to think the enemy were never coming to decisive action in the matter. This Colonel Sands, indeed, had been sent by the Parliamentarians to invest Pontefract Castle soon after the great fight at Marston Moor, but his force was so small that he had done little more than keep an eye on the motions of the garrison.

“And now,” continued Ben, “they will be fighting and slaying night and day, and the soldiers will take what they please in the town without paying for it, and some of their bombs are sure to hit my shop, and perchance set it afire, and then where shall I be? Even if it is not set on fire, it will be dashed to pieces, which is just as bad.”

However, as things turned out, Ben’s sorrowful anticipations were not realized for another month or two, for Colonel Sands, getting no further reinforcement, was obliged to content himself by sitting down before the Castle, and waiting until such time as help came to him. After a time the castles of Helmsley and Knaresborough fell, and the troops that had besieged them being thus set free to pursue other service, they came to Pontefract under the command of Sir Thomas Fairfax, who early in December drove in the garrison, seized the town, and began a close investment of the Castle.

Now, at that time the Castle of Pontefract, which is now reduced to ruins, was one of the strongest fortresses in England, being almost impregnable on account of its situation It was built upon a great rock, from the summits of which are to be seen most diversified views of the surrounding country. Looking towards the northwest you will see the valley of the Aire, which winds in and out through meadow and sand until it is lost in the far distance amongst the hills of Craven. To the north and the northeast the land is flat, but extremely rich in woods, and beyond these rise the towers of York Minster. To the eastward, the Aire pursues its way towards the Humber, passing through a rolling country, and underneath the great hills of Brayton and Hambledon, which relieve the somewhat flat character of the land thereabouts. Southward the landscape presents a fine prospect of agricultural country, and to the southwest the hills of Derbyshire, in the neighbourhood of that great eminence which they call the Peak, rise up and shut out further prospect. How many villages and thorpes you may see from the height of this rock I cannot say; only I know that wherever you look you will catch sight of a gray spire peeping over the thick groves that shut in the red-roofed villages.

But if the prospect from the various towers and battlements was a fine one, the Castle itself was not less worth seeing. In my schooldays, indeed, I was never at a loss for something to look at and admire so long as I could run out of bounds to the great fortress built by the De Lacys, so many hundred years before. There I have spent many an hour in company with Jack Drumbleforth and Ben Tuckett, gazing at the towers and the drawbridges and the barbicans, where a watch was kept for the coming of an enemy. Once or twice, too, I had been admitted within the Castle, and had wandered about it, wondering at it more and more with every step I took. For there were so many curious nooks and corners in it that it was just the sort of place a lad likes to spend an afternoon in, especially if he be fond, as I was, of aught appertaining to war. Later on, when I had grown up nearly to a man’s estate, I became more closely acquainted with the Castle, and did often go there to see certain friends of mine who were attached to the garrison. Now, when I heard that General Fairfax had arrived in front of the Castle and intended besieging it, my first thought was that he would have naught but his pains for his gains, for the place was so exceedingly strong, and so favoured by its natural position, that I did not think any besieging force, however powerful, could dislodge a resolute garrison already in possession. I have told you that the Castle stood on a great rock, which, being raised to a considerable height, did tower high above the surrounding ground. Then there was a deep moat on the west side, and another on the east, and all round the battlements were towers from which active operations could be kept up against the enemy with great safety to the defenders. Round the great yard of the Castle stood seven larger towers, and beyond the western extremity of the yard was the keep, which was built of an extraordinary strength, as the thickness of the ruined walls will show you to this day. As there was no high ground in the immediate neighbourhood of the Castle, the highest being Baghill, some little distance away, the besieging force was naturally at a disadvantage, and likely to lose more men in carrying out its operations than were the besieged, who could keep up a steady fire upon their enemies without exposing themselves to much danger. Nevertheless, by making a close investment, it was possible to starve the garrison into a surrender, and this was what General Fairfax prepared to do rather than to seize the Castle by sheer force of arms.

The investment had no sooner begun than life was lost on either side, the Parliamentarians, however, suffering much more considerably than the Royalists. The siege having closely begun on Christmas Day, 1644, the first skirmishes took place around the ancient church of All Saints, which stands at the foot of the Castle on the west side. Now, the church was so valuable an outwork, both of security and defence, that certain of the besieged endeavoured to retain possession of it, and were soon resisted in that enterprise by the Parliamentarians, who came in strength and finally drove out the little garrison of the church, of whom they killed four men and wounded eleven. This victory, however, cost them dear, for the defence was kept up so gallantly that sixty of the attacking force were slain and forty more wounded.

After this preliminary engagement the siege went forward briskly enough, and at first the garrison had a distinct advantage and caused the Parliamentarians much annoyance by their steady fire from the towers of the Castle. Presently, however, Lord Fairfax, father of Sir Thomas, brought reinforcements to his son, and with him came the cannon which had been used at the sieges of Helmsley and Knaresborough, so that the attacking force became well equipped for their work. Before they began the erection of their batteries, however, Lord Fairfax despatched a message to Colonel Lowther, governor of the Castle, summoning him to surrender at once. To this epistle Colonel Lowther presently returned answer, that according to his allegiance he would defend the Castle to the utmost of his power, trusting to God and the virtue of his cause for assistance. After which there was no more to be said on either side, and the enemy, recognising this, began their cannonade from several quickly constructed batteries, built on the rising ground all round the Castle, and in the space of the next three days they poured over one thousand balls into the walls and towers which they were anxious to destroy. So well were their guns laid, that on the 19th of January the Pix Tower, which was one of the seven that surrounded the courtyard, fell down with a great noise and carried a portion of the Castle wall with it, whereby a breach was made and the besiegers’ hopes of a speedy victory considerably heightened. It was then expected by the garrison that an assault would be made upon them, and their fear of this was increased when they saw the enemy’s horse and foot drawn up as if in readiness to advance against them. The Governor, however, exhorted them with much confidence to the performance of their duty, and the whole garrison manned the towers and walls and made ready to defend their position with great cheerfulness. Lord Fairfax, however, thought it unwise to attempt an assault by way of the breach, and gave orders that the blockade should continue, so that the besieged might be starved into surrender. Shortly after this Lord Fairfax returned to York, leaving his son, Sir Thomas, in command, who in his turn was succeeded immediately afterwards by Colonel Lambert, under whom the further operations were carried out.

The garrison did not suffer the breach to be widened, but hastened to repair the damage already done, and so well did they work that presently the hole was filled up again, and all fear of a sudden surprise removed. The Parliamentarians, however, seemed not to favour an assault, and soon began to mine in the neighbourhood of the towers. One mine came from the hospital at the east end of the Castle, and was made in the direction of the King’s Tower. Another was begun in the house of one Ward, a burgess who lived near the Castle, and was directed towards the Round Tower. The besieged, however, speedily frustrated the designs of the enemy by sinking countermines, which ran from pits dug within the walls and proceeded in the direction of the besiegers’ works. Of these mines there were some hundred and thirty in and about the Castle, so that the ground in that quarter was like a honeycomb.

When February set in poor Ben Tuckett’s fears began to be realized, for the garrison commenced a regular fire against the besiegers and considerable damage was done in various parts of the town. Several houses in Micklegate were reduced to ruins, and there was none safe from receiving a cannon-shot through its walls. Fresh horrors were added to this state of things when certain houses in Northgate, which had been occupied by the Parliamentarians, were set on fire and left to destruction. Then, indeed, did Ben’s face grow long and sad, for he saw naught but ruin for him and his fellow-traders, who loved not the presence of the Parliamentarian troops in their midst and would have given a good deal to see them march away. This desire, however, was anything but gratified, for reinforcements kept coming into the town, so that the besieging force attained greater proportions.

Before the end of February the garrison were in dire straits for want of provisions, and the Governor, coming to the conclusion that he must soon be forced to capitulate unless help and supplies came, despatched messengers to the King, informing his Majesty of the condition they were in. This appeal was not in vain, for the King immediately despatched Sir Marmaduke Langdale with two thousand men to the assistance of the garrison at Pontefract. This army of succour came from Oxford by way of the Midlands and Doncaster, and passed our house at Dale’s Field about three o’clock in the afternoon of March 1st. They marched on to Darrington and there turned aside to Carleton, forming finally in the Chequer Field, immediately in sight of the Castle, where they gave battle to the enemy at six o’clock in the evening, the beleaguered garrison anxiously watching the progress of the fight. In this engagement the Royalists were victorious on every side, and the Parliamentarians were driven from the town and lost many men and a great quantity of arms. Sir Marmaduke Langdale, having pursued them as far as Ferrybridge, returned to the Castle at eleven o’clock that night, and was received with such gratitude as you may well conceive would be shown by a garrison which was already beginning to experience the pangs of hunger.

So, as Ben Tuckett joyfully said, the siege was over, having lasted little more than eight weeks, and the victory rested with the loyal garrison. No light victory was it either, for the Parliamentarians had lost five hundred killed and over one thousand prisoners, while the besieged had lost but a hundred men. The Royalists were overjoyed at the success of their cause at Pontefract, and Ben Tuckett had some thoughts of putting on a cheerful countenance once more, but the gladness of both was considerably damped before many days were passed by the appearance of a great Parliamentary force, which gathered round the Castle and set itself to carry out a second siege.

Now, those who rejoiced that the investment of the Castle had come to so speedy an end were considerably disappointed when they found that Sir Marmaduke Langdale and his men were under the necessity of speedily retreating southward again, which they did in a few days, thus leaving the relieved garrison once more to the mercy of the Parliamentarians, who at once began collecting in the neighbourhood and preparing for another siege. But those few days of relief were made full use of by the garrison, which set itself earnestly to the task of procuring such store of provision as should enable it to withstand further assaults of the enemy. Excursions were made every day into the surrounding country, and great stock of live and dead food exacted from the farmers in all the neighbouring villages. Here and there these contributions were given cheerfully, for the King had many followers in those parts; but the garrison, if they found any who were disposed to resist seizure, made a virtue of necessity and carried away grain or cattle without more to-do, and, indeed, the Parliamentarians did likewise. As for myself, I drove twelve good head of cattle into the Castle with my own hands, and, moreover, sent in twelve loads of my best wheat, for I had no mind to see those who were fighting for his Majesty reduced to starvation.

At this time it became a question with me as to whether or no I should join the garrison which was maintaining Pontefract Castle for the King. I was doing no good at home, for it was not a busy season, and I could do nothing single-handed against the Roundheads, who rode into my yard whenever they pleased and seized upon whatever they wanted, pig, horse, or cow. I had no fears on account of the women now, for the experiences of the first siege had shown me that the Parliamentary army was in the main sober and well conducted, and zealously watched by its officers, so that no excess of any kind might occur. Moreover, my mother, who was exceedingly loyal and spent many an hour praying for the success of the King’s cause, was all for me to go into the Castle and help its defenders, who, as I have previously told you, numbered amongst themselves some of the noblest and most honourable gentlemen of Yorkshire. But though my natural inclinations were all for volunteering, I lingered in some slight indecision until Ben Tuckett, who was always showing himself in some curious light, prompted me to make up my mind quickly.

For Benjamin, presenting himself before us one afternoon in the middle of March, 1645, announced with no little pride that he was about to distinguish himself.

“Will,” quoth he, as he stood before the fire in our great kitchen, and looked round upon all of us with a commanding air, “Will, I am going to do a great thing. Nay, but I am indeed, and it will be well for you if you do take example by me. I am going to join the garrison in the Castle.”

“Oh!” said Lucy, “he will be killed.”

“I hope not,” said Ben. “However, as well be killed inside as outside. It is no use attempting to do my own business with two armies fighting all round me. And between thee and me, Will, I love not these Roundhead knaves. Faugh! I cannot abide them, I tell you. For they are forever quoting Scripture unto me, and at the same time they will enter my shop and steal from it such goods as take their fancy, without so much as a ‘by your leave.’ So I am going into the Castle. What! there are four or five aldermen gone in already and have sworn to defend it. Can I do better than follow an alderman’s example?”

“No, Ben, certainly you cannot do better.”

“Why, then, I’ll tell thee what I have done, Will. I have conveyed all my goods into the Castle and handed them over to the Governor for the use of the garrison, merely hinting to him that if ever the King should have his own again I shall expect some little trifling reward, such as a knighthood or a baronetcy. ’Tis no slight present I have made them, Mistress Dale, I assure you.”

“I am sure you will have been kind to them, Ben,” answered my mother.

“Yea, indeed I have,” said Ben. “Twenty-four sacks of best flour, and sixteen York hams, all my stock of foreign spices and suchlike things, with fruits and preserves, and all that had been left to me by those Roundhead rogues, who, to tell truth, did pillage me very unmercifully, and made matters worse by exhorting me to repentance. Well, I suppose I shall have my share of what I have carried in to the garrison. But there will be many mouths to fill, and ’tis said the Roundheads will starve us out in the end. I like not that word starvation. But what can a man do? I have already had one cannon-shot through my roof, and there will be more to follow it presently. And thou seest, Will, from what I can make out, a man is not so liable to accidents within the Castle⁠—there are so many nooks and corners where one can get out of the way of a bullet.”

“Oh, fie, Master Ben!” said Rose. “You are surely not afraid of a bullet or two?”

“I am not afraid of ten thousand bullets,” answered Ben, “if only they do not come near me. Why any man should want to stand in the way of a bullet I cannot think. Nay, I am hoping to come off with a whole skin, and shall be wise and prudent. But now, Will, are you going to join the garrison?”

“If I do, Ben, I am afraid I shall be constantly in the way of bullets.”

“Oh,” said he, “you were always ready for fighting. However, if you get shot, I will nurse you.”

It was in this way that both Ben and myself joined the garrison at the beginning of the second siege, which began, as near as I can reckon it, about the 21st of March in that year. On that day a body of the Parliamentary forces took possession of the upper part of the town and engaged some of our troops in battle, whereby we lost one or two killed, while others were taken prisoners. For a while, however, the lower town was in our hands, and from it we drew further supplies of wood and provisions, thus strengthening ourselves more securely against the siege. It soon became evident to us that the Parliamentarians intended to force us to surrender by means of a blockade rather than by an assault. They commenced a regular series of entrenchments and outworks, and finally surrounded us with a complete circle of forts, guards, and trenches, from which their operations were zealously conducted. We did not suffer them to pursue the making of these works in peace, but continually hampered them with a heavy fire from our towers and battlements, so that there was hardly a day passed in which they did not suffer loss of their men.

Now, if I were to tell you all that happened during the time that I was in the Castle as one of its defenders, I should have to occupy your time somewhat more fully than you would expect, for there were fresh adventures every day, and from one reason or other I was always mixed up with them. Ben and I had joined the division of volunteers serving under Sir John Ramsden, and here we found some very good company, Mr. Shillito, the Mayor of Pontefract, being of us, together with Aldermen Lunn and Wilkinson and other gentlemen of the town, who had banded themselves together to defend the King’s cause. None of us, I think, were disposed to allow the enemy to blockade us in peace, and we were always ready to sally forth and attack them in their trenches and works. Even Ben Tuckett, growing braver every day, did pluck up such spirit that he was never behindhand, and fought with as much bravery as the rest of us.

As for the sallies that we made from the Castle during the next few weeks, they were legion, and in every one of them the enemy came off second best, invariably losing a goodly number of men. On the 4th of April we went out, ninety strong, and charged against Alderman Rusby’s house and killed an officer and three men, after which we set the house and barns on fire. The next day a great party of us, horse and foot, went out under Captains Walkington, Beale, and Smith, and had a brush with the enemy, during which we took two loads of fresh meat that were being carried into the town, and conveyed them safely into the Castle. On Easter Sunday a still greater body of us went out of the Swillington Tower and sallied up Northgate to attack the works situated there; while another party, equally large in numbers, went out from the lower gate and attacked the enemy’s trenches on the south side of the town by the Halfpenny house. In these encounters the Parliamentarians suffered considerably, for though we only lost two men ourselves, we killed one hundred and thirty of our enemies and took one man prisoner, together with a quantity of muskets and swords.

So the struggle went on, never a day passing that did not see some fresh development of hostilities. The Parliamentarians worked steadily at their trenches and forts, and kept up a steady fire at us, and we on our part never ceased to harass and worry them by resolute sallies, in which we always came off with success. Indeed, upon some of these occasions we had a good deal to fight for, for our store of fresh meat was quickly exhausted, and if it had not been for our occasional seizure of cattle we should have had to go without any. Now and then, however, we caught sight of small herds being driven into the town, and on these occasions a body of us would sally forth and fight for them, and we generally did so well that we brought the cattle safe into our courtyard and thus staved off starvation for a few days longer.

At these times nobody fought more keenly or fiercely than Ben Tuckett, whom necessity had succeeded in making a thorough man of war. He would rush upon the enemy with the most terrible cries and shouts, brandishing his sword so vigorously that the Roundheads often flew from him before he had well reached them. Then nobody would rejoice more than he did, and he would return to the Castle driving the captured cattle as if they were some great prize, as indeed they were, fresh meat being ofttimes rare with us.

“You see, Will,” said he one day, aswe stood watching the enemy from the Barbican, “I cannot abide to see cattle going as it were by our very door when we have such need of it inside, and I feel that I must strike a blow for the possession of it, or die. ’Tis such a terrible feeling, that hungering for a slice of good beef or mutton, and thou knowest there have been one or two days when we could not get even a thin shaving of either.”

“There will be a good many days, Ben, in the time that is coming, when I dare say we shall be glad enough of a crust of dry bread.”

“Alas!” said he. “ ’Tis sad to think of. However, what must be, must be. But when I think of thy mother’s larder, Will, and what I have often seen it contain, alack! I am like to weep. Dost thou remember, for instance, the meat pasties that Lucy makes? I would give the King’s crown for one of those meat pasties at this moment.”

I laughed to hear him talk in that fashion, but there was something in what he said, for provisions were not great, and they had to be given out very carefully or else they would not have lasted many days. For myself I cared little, for though I am a big man and have always been able to play a good part with knife and fork, I was never very nice about my food, and could satisfy my hunger on dry bread, whereas poor Ben had been so petted and pampered by the women that he had gotten a craving for all sorts of delicacies, and was forever sighing after the fleshpots of Egypt.

During April and May the siege went on as it had begun, the Parliamentarians surrounding us with a complete ring of trenches and forts, while we never ceased to harass them by our fire and by resolute sallies. They were constantly receiving reinforcements from various parts of the country. On the 18th of April six hundred Scotch arrived under the command of Colonel Montgomery, and received a warm reception from us, for we fired our cannon into their midst and killed several of their officers and men. On the 26th of the same month a hundred and fifty men came over the high ground beyond Ferrybridge to join the Roundheads, and about a fortnight afterwards they were further strengthened by a troop of horse, which came from Doncaster and joined the main guard at the New Hall. Reinforcements indeed were constantly arriving, so that the number of our assailants became considerably increased, and we were completely surrounded by them on all sides. Nevertheless our spirits never drooped, nor did we relax our efforts, and our hopes of ultimate victory were raised by the good news which we occasionally received. On the 22nd of May the Governor received letters from the King and from Sir Marmaduke Langdale, by which we learnt that an army was coming to our relief, which news was heartily and gladly welcomed by us. Then we heard from the garrison besieged in Sandal Castle that it had secured a fresh supply of provisions and would be able to hold out yet awhile, and from Scarborough Castle came news of a great sally there made by the besieged, who had driven away the Parliamentarians with great slaughter and had spiked all their cannon. This and other favourable news spurred us on to fresh endeavours, and raised our hope that we should be able to hold the Castle of Pontefract until help arrived. It was indeed only a question of food and provisions with us, for the place was so strong and so well fortified that an army of twenty thousand men could not have dislodged us unless hunger had come to help them in their work.

Now at midnight on the 27th of May, while I was sleeping in my quarters, there came to me Ben Tuckett, who had been on guard at the Barbican, and woke me somewhat hurriedly, saying that I must rise at once and go with him. Whereupon I rose from my bed, which was none of the softest, and began to rub the sleep out of my eyes, wondering what had happened.

“What is it, Ben?” said I, with a prodigious yawn between every word. “Hath the enemy departed, or are they going to assault us?”

“ ’Tis better news than that,” he answered, “for there is prospect, lad, of fresh meat for many a day to come.”

“Always thy stomach, Ben!”

“And why not?” he asked. “But hasten, Will, for here is Captain Wheatley, whom the Governor despatched to Sandal t’other day, just returned with good news. He hath brought fifty horsemen with him, and they have driven a herd of cattle before them, and are now guarding them outside the town while he contrives some means whereby to bring them inside the Castle. So hasten, lad, and let us help, for the cattle number over a hundred, and will stand us in fresh meat this many a day.”

This was indeed good news, and I lost no time in arming myself and hastening into the great courtyard where Captain Wheatley and the Governor were making plans for bringing the cattle in.

“How say you?” said the Governor, as I drew near to them. “The cattle number one hundred and thirty, and are in the Chequer Field. We must make a bold bid for their possession. Let us see now how we can manage this matter. Come, Will Dale, you are a farmer, and should have some good counsel for us. What do you say?”

Thus appealed to, I began to consider the matter, and having made myself familiar with it, I could do no better than suggest that Captain Wheatley should return to the cattle and drive them gently from the Chequer Field to the top of Baghill, and that, meanwhile, parties from the Castle should go out in various directions and prevent the enemy from interfering with our plans. This advice seemed good to the Governor, and Captain Wheatley presently went out of the Castle again and rode away to rejoin his booty, while the rest of us made preparations for carrying our project to a happy end. We were at that time entirely bereft of fresh meat, and there was not a man amongst us that did not resolve to do all in his power to bring this valuable herd into the Castle.

Everything being in readiness, Captain Flood went out with fifty musketeers, and advanced towards Baghill, having orders not to enter the enemy’s works, but to remain under the hill and direct a steady fire against the outposts. They were followed by Colonel Gilbreth and forty musketeers, who took their way to Primrose Close, under Baghill, where they dislodged the enemy from their trenches, and forced them to retreat. After them went Captain Smith, with thirty musketeers, who proceeded to Broad Lane End, and held the Roundheads in check at that point. A fourth party, under Captain Munroe, went out through the east gate, and took up a position against the enemy’s works below the church, so that none of them might come from the forts at Monkhill or New Hall.

When all this was done and the enemy held in check all along the line, Captain Walker and a small body of men, amongst whom were Ben Tuckett and myself, went out through the closes beyond the church, and met the cattle, which were on the top of Baghill, guarded by Captain Wheatley and the fifty horsemen who had come with him from Sandal Castle. It was a dark night, and we could barely make out the presence of these unknown friends, but we had scarcely advanced close to them when I heard a voice which made the blood leap in my veins.

“I and my companion, master sergeant, are going forward with these beasts here, for we have letters for Colonel Lowther, and shall maybe stay with him when they are delivered. So back to Sandal with you we shall not.”

“Jack! Jack!” I cried, for I knew his voice without doubt, “I am here, Jack, and so is Ben. What brings you here, and where is Philip Lisle?”

“Here, lad,” answered Philip; and in another instant Ben and I were shaking hands with both of them, right glad to meet them again, though we could not see their faces in the darkness.

“We have ridden across country from Lancashire,” said Philip, “with letters for Colonel Lowther, and fell in with this party from Sandal yesterday evening. But we will tell you more, lads, when we have helped you in with these cattle.”

“Yea,” said Ben, “let us get the cattle in first of all. I am glad indeed to see you, gentlemen, or to know you are there, for I cannot see you at all-but the prospect of roast meat! Alas! what shall we do if these cattle escape us?”

But the cattle did not escape us, for we presently drove them down the hill towards the Castle gates, guiding them between the lines formed by our men, who were now keeping the enemy back by means of a smart fusillade. And though by overhastiness we lost some thirty of them, which broke through and fell into the hands of the Roundheads, we succeeded in driving about a hundred into the Castle, whereupon our drums beat a retreat, and our men came in without having suffered any loss. Then indeed our spirits were raised to a high pitch, for we had now enough provision to last us a good while longer. Certain of our men, in order to testify to the general joy of the garrison, lighted bonfires on the towers, which made a brave show, while the gunners opened a brisk fire on the enemy, and kept it up for some considerable time.

During the following day Ben and I had many things to talk over with Philip Lisle and Jack Drumbleforth, and spent as much time with them as we could spare from our duties. Both were much diverted at the thought of Ben turning soldier, and Jack rallied him no little on his martial air and gallant deeds.

“Why,” said Ben, “indeed I see not why I should not be as great a warrior as any amongst you. ’Tis said that hunger will make a man do aught, and if that be true, I have reason enough to commit heroic acts. Alas! do you know, Master Lisle, I have lost nigh upon a stone of my weight since I came into this Castle! Yea, and can take my belt up three holes, which shows that I am naught like so bulky as I was.”

“That is all the better for thee,” said Jack.

“I am not so sure about it,” said Ben. “A fat man is always comfortable, save in summer, and then ’tis his own fault if he is not, for there is a cool corner in every alehouse, and a shady side in every street. Indeed, I cannot think of aught more delightful than being a well-fed, plump sort of man, with no care and a good appetite.”

“Talking of appetites, Ben,” said I, “the butcher hath killed some of the oxen this morning, and I dare say you will get a ration of beef ere the day is out.”

“And well it will agree with me,” he answered. “But now, lads, let me tell you something. ’Tis my birthday today, and I am minded to entertain ye all. What say you if we put our rations together and have a decent roast? The butcher, I dare say, would cut it for us all in one piece. And hark ye, gentlemen, I have a small cask of burgundy hidden away close by, so that you can wash your meat down with something better than small ale.”

“Agreed, Ben!” we all cried, and wished him long life and happiness, so that he went away mighty pleased, to make arrangements for his little feast and persuade the butcher to cut him a piece out of the sirloin. He was very busy all that day until suppertime, when he fetched us into a little apartment in one of the towers, where he had set out the birthday feast for our entertainment.

“ ’Tis not a very fine banquet, gentlemen,” said honest Ben, “for, as you see, there is naught but the beef and this loaf of wheaten bread and yonder bit of cheese, which came from my own shop when we fled to the Castle. However, here is the little cask of wine, which hath been hidden in a nice cool place, I assure you. So now, lads, sit down and fall to.”

This we did with a right good will, for food was not over-plentiful with us in the Castle at that time, and much eating of salt meats had whetted our appetites for something newly killed. As for Philip and Jack, they had not experienced over-good times during their recent adventures, and were hardly behind us in prowess with knife and fork. Wherefore in half an hour the table was cleared of food and we had naught to contemplate but the diligently scraped bone of the beef.

“Ah!” said Ben, “what a beautiful thing is a piece of fresh meat! And what a spirit it doth put into a man! I feel as if I could go forth and fight every Roundhead that ever was born, including Cromwell himself. However, I am not on duty tonight, and am well content to sit here, gentlemen, with my pipe of tobacco and my pot of wine⁠—I could not lay hand on any glass, Master Lisle⁠—and hearken to the lads outside firing at the crop-eared knaves that besiege us. But now, Master Lisle, what do you think of these matters? Which will prevail, Roundhead or Cavalier?”

“Nay, Ben,” said Philip, “ ’tis more than I can say. The prospect is not over-promising for us at present, I think, for the Parliamentarians are more resolved than ever. And yet I cannot think that this people of England will throw down the monarchy altogether. Thrown down for a season it may be; but if Charles the First is deposed, Charles the Second will reign in his stead.”

“Alas!” said Ben, “we are in a pretty coil. But come, lads, ’tis my birthday, so let us be merry. We shall have time enow for sorrow tomorrow. Jack, lad, give us a song such as you used to sing in the old days when neither Roundhead nor Cavalier vexed our souls.”

“Yes, give us a song, Jack,” said I. “It seems an age since I heard your voice.”

“I have but a poor voice,” said Jack, “for it hath had little practice of late and is grown rusty. However, you shall have a little song that I made one night recently as I sat by the campfire.”

He filled his mug with wine from the cask, and having drank, gave us the following verses:

“Pledge me, pledge me, Phyllis mine,
In this cup of rosy wine!
Drink to Life, to Love, to Laughter,
Drink to everything that’s jolly,
Hence with time and the hereafter,
And with aught that’s melancholy.
Let’s drive forth all care and sorrow
To the never-born tomorrow.

“Kiss me, kiss me, Phyllis mine,
While my eyes look into thine!
There I see two laughing fairies
Full of love and mischief making,
Whose emotion quickly varies,
Now with roguish laughter shaking,
Then with sudden seriousness
Asking for a long caress.

“Pledge me, pledge me, Phyllis mine,
While the liquor leaps divine!
Wreath the cups with showers of roses,
White and red and pink and yellow,
Weave them into fragrant posies
Round about the wine so mellow,
That with flowers and song we may
Lie and laugh the whole spring day.

“Pledge me, pledge me, Phyllis mine,
While the April skies are fine!
Spring’s the time for love and laughing,
Tender glance and shy caresses;
Wherefore let’s the bowl be quaffing
While the sun through these bright tresses
Shoots his amorous beams and tries
To catch the gold that in them lies.”

We had barely ceased applauding Jack’s song, when a knock came at our door and a voice inquired if Master Dale stayed within.

“ ’Tis Belwether’s voice,” said Ben. “He has returned from Newark. Come in, Master Belwether, and drink my health. We are having a party in honour of my birthday. Nay, man, be not bashful. Sit thee down and drink off thy pot.”

“Your good health, Master Tuckett,” said Belwether. “Nay, gentlemen, I had no idea of what you were at, but, as you know, the Governor sent me to Newark t’other day, and I am just come in again, and did wish for Master Dale there so that I could give him a letter that his mother entrusted to my care as I passed Dale’s Field an hour ago.”

“Are they all well there?” I asked, as he gave me the letter. “Indeed I am beholden to you for this service. We had had no news of them for a fortnight⁠—had we, Ben?”

“Open thy letter and read,” said Ben. “Master Belwether, another pot of wine for thy good news. Now, Will, read it aloud.”

But I had gone to the light and was reading the letter before he spoke, and all of a sudden I let the sheet fall from my hand and fell back against the wall, overwhelmed by the evil tidings I saw there.

“Bad news!” cried Jack, and seized me, while Ben picked up the letter and the other two came to my side. “Let me be, Jack⁠—see, I am all right again. Read, read, Ben, ’tis bad news indeed.”

It was but a short letter from my mother, telling me that all was well with them, but that three days earlier two messengers had arrived at Dale’s Field, bringing a note from Philip Lisle to Rose, saying that he lay wounded to death in Derbyshire and begging her to go to him at once. Whereupon, under the escort of the two messengers, she had set out in obedience to her father’s dying wish. That was all.

We looked into each other’s faces as Ben finished, and each saw dismay and fear on the other’s countenance. “Villainy, villainy,” muttered Jack. “The father is here, alive and well. Who hath done it?”

So we stood for a moment until Philip Lisle seized my arm and dragged me from the room. “We must follow!” said he. “Would God we had known of this three days ago!” And so presently we were on our horses and stealing through the enemy’s lines, and once clear of them we headed for Dale’s Field as fast as our steeds could carry us.

We rode in silence down the rough lane that leads from Baghill to Darrington, keeping along the stretch of grass at the wayside as much as possible, so that the sound of our horses’ feet might be deadened. Down the hill we went into Darrington, and past the crossroads, where two or three men still lingered at the door of the inn and watched us curiously as we sped along. All that time we had spoken no word, but both of us were full of rage and horror at the news brought to us by Belwether. I had ridden out at first half dazed at the strange tidings, comprehending nothing but that my dear love was in sore danger, and that I must go to her assistance. But as my head cleared with the long gallop I began to think of what the bad news meant. Rose had been entrapped and carried away. It was a snare meant for no good. Who had done it? Who had done it? Over and over again this question came into my head as we rode forward under the starlit sky.

“Whose hand is this, Will?” asked Philip Lisle at last, just as we came in sight of the lights at Dale’s Field. “I did not know that my poor girl had an enemy⁠—nor that I had either, for that matter.”

“I cannot understand it,” I answered, and said no more, knowing not what to say. And yet there was a suspicion in my mind that I might have spoken of to him if I had not felt some reluctance in coming to a decision about it. I tried to put it from me, hating even to think evil without due cause, but strive as I would the suspicion grew stronger, and at last I found myself thinking of it seriously.

Captain Trevor⁠—was it his hand that had brought us all this wrong? Do what I would I could not help but suspect him. He had been so frank and courteous, and had seemed so gallant and true a cavalier, that it went through my heart to think wrong of him. And yet I knew the ways of some of those fine gentlemen of the Court, how they think that all is fair in love and war, and will stoop to such deceit to win a fair maiden as they would not condescend to for aught else. I knew, too, because of his own confession, that Captain Trevor had conceived a deep passion for Rose, and it seemed to me very possible that absence from her had so strengthened his feelings as to render him forgetful of honour or of aught else save a desire to win her for himself. But it was hard to believe, for I could not think that one who had experienced so much kindness at the hands of me and mine would repay us by such base ingratitude and black treachery. Where else, however, to look for an explanation of this strange matter I knew not. Of one thing only I was certain, namely, that whoever had thus compassed evil against me and my dear love should pay for it with his blood.

The lights were being extinguished as we rode into the fold at Dale’s Field, for it was late, and we were always early to bed at our house. The window of the chamber occupied by Lucy and Rose was dark and cheerless, but there was a glow of light through the window of the kitchen, and we had barely knocked at the door before my mother opened it and gave us admittance.

“My dear,” said she, holding me very close in her arms, for I had not seen her for some weeks, “my dear, we had not thought to see you at this time of night! It was only this afternoon that I sent you a letter by the hand of Master Belwether.”

“Alas, mother!” I answered, “it is that very letter that hath brought us here.”

It was nearly dark in the doorway, and she could not distinguish my companion’s face through the gloom, but when I spoke she turned towards him anxiously.

“Who is it that is come with you, Will?” she said.

“It is I, Mistress Dale,” answered Philip.

“Master Lisle! Alas, I fear there is something wrong. Let us have a light, Will. I feared something when I heard your step at the door.”

I struck a light from the flint that always hung by the hearth, while Philip tied up our horses at the door, and threw our rugs across their steaming backs. The light from the lamp fell on our three anxious faces as we gathered round the dying embers.

“What is it, Will?” asked my mother.

“It is this, dear mother. Here is Master Lisle alive and well, and hath had no hurt whatever of late, so that the men who have carried off Rose to see him have deceived both her and you.”

She looked from me to him and from him to me, as if she could hardly understand what I had told her.

“Alas, Master Lisle,” she said, “I have been very, very foolish⁠—but, indeed, what were we to think, for the men were so very grave and earnest? And then, again, they brought a letter from yourself, so that we could not choose but believe them.”

“The letter, mother; let us see the letter.”

“Why, by good chance, Rose left it behind her, though she had at first intended to carry it with her,” said my mother, “and Lucy put it away after she had gone. But indeed, Master Lisle, ’tis so like your own handwriting that you will not wonder we were deceived by it.”

Nor did we when we had seen the letter, for it was very cleverly made to imitate Philip’s writing, so that we at once knew that whoever had hatched this foul plot was familiar with the man whose daughter it sought to injure. It was but a short letter, saying that Philip Lisle lay sick unto death at a day’s journey, and desired his daughter to go to him under care of the two trusty messengers who carried it.

“And these,” said my mother, “were two decent-looking serving-men, one of whom told us that he had known Master Lisle a many years, and was with him at the time of his hurt, which had been gotten during a fight with the rebels on the borders of Derbyshire where he now lay dying. And they were both so full of pity for Rose, and made so many compassionate remarks concerning her father, that we had none of us any suspicion of them, but regarded them as being what they professed to be.”

So now we knew all that my mother could tell us, and there was nothing for us to do but resolve upon some plan of action.

“They have three days’ start of us,” said Philip sadly. “And the land is wide enough for them to have gone in many a different direction before we can have news of them. However, we must to horse, Will, and do what we can to find my poor girl.”

“Which way shall we go?” I asked, feeling almost hopeless, so black did matters look.

“It was nine in the morning when they started out,” said my mother, “and they rode southward, going towards Sheffield, whereabouts, they said, Master Lisle lay dying.”

“Then towards Sheffield we must ride,” said Philip, “asking for tidings of them as we go along. Pray God we may be successful!”

We did not tarry long at Dale’s Field, save to eat a hasty meal and to put some food in our saddlebags, and soon we were in the saddle again and hastening through the night along the Great North Road. The toll-keeper at Barnsdale Bar was hard and fast asleep, but we roused him at last and made inquiry of him as to the three travellers we sought. His brains were somewhat confused at first, but after a while he remembered the three we spoke of, and told us they had gone forward without saying aught to him of their destination. Thus far we were right, and so we continued until we came near Doncaster, several toll-bar men and innkeepers remembering Rose and the two messengers passing that way.

“We are like to spend a good deal of time without result in Doncaster,” said Philip. “There are so many inns in the place, and when we have found the right one, there are so many various roads to choose from. How shall we find what road they have taken after passing through here, if, indeed, they have not turned aside before coming to the town?”

But I thought and said that the men, whatever their design might be, would have taken Rose towards Sheffield for the reason that she knew whither they intended professedly to conduct her and would have become suspicious if they had turned their horses’ heads in any other direction. And my conclusions in this matter proved correct, for we had little difficulty in finding news of them at Doncaster, where they had rested to bait their horses, afterwards resuming their journey towards Sheffield by the road that leads past Conisbrough and Rotherham. Along this road, then, we continued our pursuit, inquiring at every inn and toll-bar for news, which we sometimes got and sometimes failed to procure.

Now, it had been on my mind ever since leaving Dale’s Field to tell Philip Lisle of my suspicions respecting Captain Trevor, and I had only been held back from doing so by fear of unjustly coupling an honest man’s name with dishonourable conduct. But at last it seemed to me well to let Philip know of all that was in my mind, so when we stayed at Conisbrough to breathe our horses I took him aside and unbosomed myself, asking him to tell me candidly what he thought of the matter.

“Alas, Will,” said he, “I know not what to think. I know little of this Trevor, except that he hath been a brave officer and was formerly much about the Court in London. But, as thou knowest, these gallants are not always to be trusted, however brave they may be in battle, and ’tis possible that he hath done this, more especially as you sayhe conceived some passion for Rose before he left you. Nay, I know not what to say. We can only push our journey forward.”

So we went on towards Sheffield, now and then finding someone who remembered the passing of the three we sought. It was now afternoon, and our horses, which had been almost continually on the stretch since ten o’clock of the previous evening, were beginning to show signs of fatigue. We had not put them to any great amount of exertion, for we had spent much time in making inquiry at the roadside inns and toll-bars, but the day was exceedingly hot and they had had no proper rest or feed since leaving Pontefract Castle, where their rations had been none of the best for weeks past. At the next wayside inn, then, which stood halfway between Thrybergh and Rotherham, we drew rein and stabled our steeds, after which we entered the house to find some food for ourselves.

We had hardly entered the kitchen of the inn, when I suddenly started with surprise to see Dennis Watson, seated in company with another man, who was evidently a cattle-drover, at a little table near the window. But as I knew that the Watsons did something in the way of cattle-dealing in those parts, I reflected that Dennis was probably there on his own business, and went forward to another part of the kitchen, taking no more notice of him than to give him a cold nod of my head. While Philip and myself were resting and drinking, he and the drover completed their business, and the latter, having received some money from Dennis, shortly bade us all good day and went out. Dennis continued to sit and stare at us, bestowing the greater part of his attention on Philip Lisle, and after a time, when we gave signs of moving, he came over to the table where we sat and spoke to me.

“I would like to speak a word to you, Master Dale,” said he, bending over the table with his eyes fixed on mine.

“You can speak,” I said, little caring what he had to say, and not desirous of having aught to do with him.

“I don’t speak before strangers,” said he.

“I have no secrets from my companion,” replied I. “And I would just as soon there was someone heard what we have to say, Master Watson.”

His face grew dark when I said that, and he stood frowning at us both for a full minute before he spoke again.

“As you like,” he said at last. “I only wished to say, Master Dale, that I am sorry for you.”

“And for what?” said I sharply.

“Why, because you have lost your sweetheart.”

Now, it did not strike me at first that his words had any special significance, for I thought that he had heard that Rose was gone away and was simply taking occasion of the fact to sneer at me. So I said naught, but sat silent, looking, I dare say, very stupid and sullen.

“I suppose,” he continued, “that you two gentlemen are in search of the young lady, and if you are, ’tis a pity they have three days’ start of you.”

“They⁠—who?”

“Mistress Rose and the gay gallant that your good mother nursed back to health. It had been better if she had let him die of his wound, Master Dale.”

When he said this all the blood in my body rushed to my heart and thence to my head, and I felt a great singing about my ears as if I were going down in the midst of some whirlpool. And then I shouted, “Liar!” and would have leapt at Dennis and choked the sneering laugh that rose to his lips, but for Philip Lisle, who laid his hand upon me and restrained me forcibly.

“Let be, Will, let be!” said Philip. “We will soon know whether he be a liar or not. Now, sir,” he continued, turning to Dennis, “I am the father of Mistress Rose Lisle, and must ask you to explain yourself further. Where is it that you have seen my daughter, and in whose company?”

“Why, Master Lisle,” answered Dennis, “I do not know that I am bound to explain matters to you. However, I am no liar, as Master Dale there would make out. It would be better for him if I were.”

“Go on, sir, go on,” said Philip.

“Well, then, here I am in this part of the land, buying hogs, as is my custom at this time o’ year, as Will Dale there knows. Three days ago I was on the high-road ’twixt here and Sheffield, when I saw four travellers approach, two of whom rode in front while the other two brought up the rear. I thought I recognised Mistress Rose Lisle as one of the first, and slipped amongst the trees to watch. Mistress Rose it was, and with her, laughing and jesting, the gay cavalier who stayed so long at Dale’s Field. The others were decent-looking serving-men of a certain age.”

“If you met such on the road, sir, they passed here. The host will remember them. Call him in.”

The host did remember such a company. Nay, he remembered more; the young lady came there with the serving-men, and was there met by the cavalier, all four then proceeding southward.

“I am no liar, Master Dale,” said Dennis.

We went outside to our horses. What I felt I cannot describe. My heart and brain were on fire. I knew not what to think nor what to do.

“What do you think, what do you think!” I cried to Philip when we were out of the house. “For God’s sake say something to me.”

“My poor lad, what can I say? Only this, Will, that my dear girl would do naught against honour. She is the victim of some foul plot. Listen. This Trevor hath a country estate in the north of Derbyshire. Let us push on through Sheffield and see if we can find him there.”

So we paid our reckoning and rode away in the summer evening, and my heart was as heavy as lead within my breast.

We came shortly into Rotherham, where we found men busily engaged in the casting of cannon for the Parliamentarians, and on that account we tarried there but a short time, and succeeded not in learning any news of the party we sought. Neither did we hear much as we passed along the road betwixt that town and Sheffield, for we were now come into a more populous district, and the folks at the inns and toll-bars more than once told us that they had something else to do than observe what manner of travellers passed along the highways. Now and then, indeed, we came across an innkeeper or a toll-bar man who had some vague and misty notion that he remembered the company we described, but the answers of these people were usually so little to be depended upon that we could put no confidence in them.

“There is nothing for it, Will, but to push on towards Trevor’s estate, which lieth, I know, somewhere in the Peak country,” said Philip Lisle. “We shall most likely find him there, and can then make strict inquiry of him.”

“It shall be but a short inquiry,” I said meaningly, for I was by that time sure that the man whom we had befriended had wrought me this great wrong, and my heart burned to have him by the throat. “Only let me lay hands upon him and we will have the truth out of him whether he will or no.”

“Justice shall be done,” said Philip; and we rode on again in silence, for I had no mind to talk, being chiefly concerned with fierce thoughts of revenge and anger. My brain was on fire with these things, and I think that if Captain Trevor had suddenly appeared before us I should have slain him where he stood, without giving him the chance to beg for mercy.

It was well on in the evening when we came into Sheffield, for during the last few miles our horses had advanced at little more than a foot-pace. The poor beasts, in fact, were in anything but fit condition for a long day’s journey, being worn nearly to skin and bone by their privations and long fastings. It was abundantly evident that they could not go further without a rest, for the hour’s baiting they had already enjoyed at the wayside inn where we met Dennis Watson had done little more than spur them on to a brief effort, which was now at an end.

“We must dismount for a few hours, Will,” said Philip, “otherwise our cattle will go dead lame. My poor Caesar is not so young as he was, and I do not like to distress him. It is now seven o’clock; what say you if we dismount until midnight?”

It seemed a long time to me, for I was raging to push forward anywhere and anyhow, if only I could get news of my dear Rose Lisle, but I knew that we could do no less than he proposed. I had hoped we might get some news of her in Sheffield, but when we rode into it I found it to be a place larger than Pontefract, with many inns, and filled with smoke, coming from the furnaces of workers in iron and steel, so that I cared not how soon we got away from the bad air and clanking hammers.

“Mind what you do or say here, Will,” said Philip. “I fear we are amongst Roundheads in this place, and I have no mind to experience such treatment as we met in Pontefract marketplace, when old Master Pratt clapped us into his cellar. I know of a place where they are true to the King, so we will make for that and be safe until our horses are rested.”

We accordingly passed through the town, not entirely unobserved, and finally drew rein at a hostelry which stood in a retired situation over against the road which leads from Yorkshire into Derbyshire. Here we found an ancient landlord, who greeted Philip Lisle very cordially and bade us welcome. But neither he nor his could tell us aught of Rose, so we were fain to stable our steeds and sit down to wait with what patience we could. They set meat and drink before us, but neither felt inclined for eating, and I think a mouthful of bread would have choked me. At last, indeed, I grew so restless that I proposed we should go forth and make inquiry at some of the other inns in the town.

“We should surely do as well occupied in that fashion as sitting here doing naught,” said I; “and as for me, I can bear this idleness no longer, and shall go mad if I am not occupied.”

“Agreed,” said Philip; and we set out into the town and proceeded as cautiously as possible to make inquiries at such inns as travellers usually put up at. No news, however, did we hear, and received many a scolding for our foolishness in asking folks to remember what had happened four days before. They had too much to do, said all that we spoke to, to remember every stray party that paused to water their horses. So we did no good in that direction, and presently returned to our own inn, which we left shortly after midnight, the horses being somewhat recovered by their rest and rations.

It was a bright moonlight night, and the country to the west, which we were now traversing, rapidly assumed shapes and forms with which until then I had never been familiar. The ground began to rise until it was shaped in high hills, more or less steep, with long valleys, now wooded and now barren, winding away between them. To my eyes, which had never seen aught higher than the hills at Brayton and Hambleton, nor any valley wider than that of Went, this scenery was very awful, and brought over me a curious feeling of admiration and wonder. It was so silent and lonely, with no sound save the clank of our horses’ feet, or the clatter of our swords against the stirrup-irons, and the clouds that floated over the moonlit hills looked so weird and ghostly, that I could almost have imagined myself in some of the fairy haunts that I had heard folks talk about.

Through these dales and over the passes that cross the surrounding hills we rode for some hours until we had climbed over Derwent Edge, and were drawing near to the country round the Peak. Here the hills assumed rougher and wilder shapes, and the valleys became deeper and darker. Presently the road along which we had ridden became less well defined, and we found ourselves traversing what was little more than a bridle-path that wound up and down the hillsides. It was now morning, and the sun was rising above the hills to the westward, and our horses once more began to show signs of fatigue. However, I could see nothing in the shape of human habitation whichever way I turned.

“It seems as if we had lost our way,” I said, drawing rein until Philip Lisle came abreast of me. “The path grows narrower and narrower, and bids fair to be lost altogether presently.”

“I have been this way once before,” said he, pulling up his horse and looking round, “and it runs in my mind that there is a farmstead close by. Let us push on over yonder hill and see if we cannot discover it.”

When we came to the top of the high ground he had pointed out, the farmstead lay exactly beneath us⁠—a lonely and desolate-looking group of buildings, round which I could see no sign of life. On the steep hillsides that rose about it a few mountain sheep strayed hither and thither, but there were no cattle in the valley, and no smoke came from the chimneys of the house.

“It looks as if its inhabitants were all gone to the wars, Will,” said Philip Lisle, as we descended the hillside and drew near to the house. “Nevertheless, it shall go hard with us if we cannot find something for our horses. This used to be a house of call for travellers twenty years ago.”

When we came up to the door of the house and knocked loudly thereon we received no answer for some time, and were thus obliged to come to the conclusion that the place was deserted, which idea was strengthened when we saw that the farmyard was empty, and that there was no fodder in any of the barns or sheds. The outbuildings, indeed, were falling to pieces, the damp and the dry rot having conspired to finish them off, both inside and out. From what we could see of the house through the dirty windows, it was in a similar state, and looked as if it had no tenants other than rats, mice, and vermin.

We were turning away from this uninviting place, when we heard the sound of a bolt being withdrawn from its staple, followed by the rattling of a chain, and presently the door was opened to us by a tall old man who looked more like a wild animal than a human being, so fiercely did his eyes glare through the knotted and tangled mass of hair which grew all over his face. He was clothed in little better than rags, and his arms and feet were bare, while his shoulders⁠—which he shrugged as if he were cold, though it was a fine warm summer morning⁠—were covered with a sheepskin rudely dressed, and left with the feet and tail still hanging to it.

“God save you, master!” said Philip, drawing nearer to the door. “This was a house of call, an I mistake not, in former days.”

“Yes, yes,” said the old man, whose fierce eyes were examining our persons and our horses as if he had never seen aught like us before. “Yes, yes; do your horses want a feed? I am very poor, but there is a little corn in the stables.”

“Then they shall have it,” said Philip. “Come, Will, let us dismount. The cattle will be all the better for an hour’s rest. Your homestead does not seem to be in very good condition, master,” he continued as the old man went before into the stable. “What hath happened here of late?”

“It was robbed, robbed,” piped the old man in his cracked voice. “Those Roundhead knaves sacked it of all I had⁠—grain and straw. Pray God ye be not of their following!”

“Nay, we are for the King,” said Philip, “and will pay handsomely for whatever we eat. Have you no food or drink for us, master, as well as for our horses?”

“There is a little ale, just a little,” said the old man, “and some cheese and bread, if that will content you, gentlemen. Once upon a time travellers fared well with me, but, alas! I have naught left for myself nowadays, save yonder two or three sheep which I am too infirm to catch.”

While we had been talking he had led the way to a stable which was somewhat less dilapidated than the rest of the buildings, and was fairly well fitted with two stalls, in which we placed our horses. This done, he produced a feed of corn for each from a bin that stood in the corner, afterwards going before us back to the house.

“Come in, noble gentlemen, come in,” said he as we reached the threshold. “ ’Tis a poor place, but if you will pass through the kitchen you will find a parlour more suited to your quality. ’Tis indeed the only apartment in the house where I can entertain you, for all else hath been cleared off.”

We went through the desolate-looking kitchen into a smaller apartment, wherein the sole furniture consisted of a deal table and two or three rough chairs.

“Marry!” quoth Philip. “You seem to have fallen on sore times, friend, of late years.”

“Yes, yes,” said the old man. “Yes, sore indeed⁠—but you need refreshment, gentlemen. I will bring you what I have. It is not often that travellers pass this way nowadays.”

He presently returned and set before us a platter of bread and cheese and a great jug of ale, the sight of which was not unwelcome to us, sharp set as we were by our long ride through the night.

“You have a deep cellar, master,” said Philip, tossing off his pot at a draught. “Your ale is cold as an icicle.”

“Ay,” said the old man, “deep enough, but poorly furnished, sir, since all these troubles came upon me.”

“Ay,” said Philip, “these be troublous times, ’tis true. Tell us, master, do you know where the estate of one Captain Trevor, an officer in his Majesty’s forces, lieth? It is somewhat near the Peak, so I have heard, and we are now in that neighbourhood, if I mistake not.”

“Yes,” answered the old man, “you are now at the foot of the Peak, and Squire Trevor’s estate lieth before you at a distance of seven miles. Follow this bridle-path along the valley until you come to the road again, and then ride straight on till you reach the park gates.”

“Have you seen aught of Captain Trevor lately?” inquired Philip. “Is he much seen in these parts?”

“Nay,” said the old man, “not since the war began, gentlemen. But I see you have drunk all the ale⁠–⁠shall I fetch you another stoupful?”

“Why,” said Philip, “I am certainly thirsty this morning, so fill up again, master, and then you might give our horses a drink of water. I dare say the poor brutes are as dry as their riders.”

We continued eating and drinking while the old man went out to the stables. I ate little, being in no frame of mind for food, but I had grown strangely thirsty since leaving my horse, and took deep draughts of the ale, which was cool and refreshing.

“Beshrew me, Will,” said Philip Lisle suddenly, “I have turned vastly sleepy since we halted. My eyes keep winking against my will.”

“So do mine,” I answered. “I have nodded more than once since we sat down. ’Tis the long ride through the fresh air.”

“Bethink thee, lad,” said he, “we have had no sleep these two nights. ’Tis hard work to go without sleep, and ride all the time too. Indeed, I could lay my head down on this table and be off in⁠—”

Now, before he had finished speaking he leaned forward, and, resting his head on his arms, dropped suddenly off into a sound slumber. I leaned my head against the wall and watched him. There was a bee humming outside. Its monotonous buzz, buzz, buzz, sounded pleasantly in my ears. My eyes closed gently, and I was suddenly as sound asleep in my corner of the wall as Philip Lisle with his head on the table.

How long we slept I cannot tell, but I suddenly woke with a start to find myself lying on the floor of the little room. It was evidently night, for the light had gone, and through the window I could see a star peeping over the top of the hill which towered up above the house. My head ached in terrible fashion, and my eyes, having once opened, continued to blink at the starlight while my senses were collecting themselves. I suddenly tried to raise my hand to my head. It was fast bound to my side! and the other was similarly secured. Then my senses came back to me rapidly enough and I saw what foors we had been. The old man had drugged us, and bound us while we slept, probably to rob and murder us for the sake of our horses and our money.

I tried to move, and found that I was securely fastened at shoulders, waist and feet. I could do naught but roll about, and I turned over, hoping to strike against Philip in the darkness. I had heard him breathing when my senses came back to me, and concluded that he must be somewhere near me and in like plight to myself. But I had not taken more than two rolls across the floor in the direction in which I fancied him to be, when I heard sounds outside the window which made me hold my breath and lie as motionless as a log of timber.

The noise I heard outside the house was caused by the trampling of a horse’s feet on the pavement in front of the door, followed by the jingling of steel and harness as the rider alighted. Then came the sound of footsteps on the threshold, and a man’s voice said, “Hollo, there! what, is the old knave asleep?”

“Nay, nay, noble captain, nay; did you ever know me to fall asleep when there was grist to bring to the mill? But speak low, captain dear, for there is somewhat inside that must not be waked.”

“Ah, and what is it this time, Benny? A fine fat Sheffield merchant? Will he bleed well?”

“Nay, nay,” quavered the old man. “ ’Tis two of those accursed Cavaliers⁠—Heaven’s malediction be upon all of their sort!⁠—that came wandering by this morning.”

“Ah! and drank of thy ale, eh, Benny?”

“Yes, and deeply, I assure you. Oh, I made it strong enough. But now hark ye, captain dear, there are two of them, and one is a great giant of a fellow, yea, head and shoulders taller than Long Dick, but more woodenheaded, I warrant, for he never spoke a word and let his companion do all the talking⁠—oh, a great fellow, but stupid enough.”

“Ay, and the other?”

“Why, the other is an ordinary being, and methinks I have seen him before somewhere. Perhaps it was⁠—”

“Ay, but hast drawn their teeth, Benny?”

“Yes, indeed, captain dear, oh yes. Their swords and pistols are safe stowed, I warrant you.”

“Well, and the booty? You searched them, of course, when they were safe and sound?”

“Yes, and bound,” said the old man. “The great man had thirty guineas in a bag, and a breeches pocket full of crown pieces; and the other had twenty guineas, but no silver. Then there are their horses safely bestowed in the stable, and their trappings, and the men’s clothes and arms, so that old Benny hath not done so bad a day’s work, eh, captain?”

“Excellent, Benny, excellent. And the money, my cock of Egypt, where hast bestowed it?”

“In the usual place, captain dear; oh, in the usual place,” said the old villain, with so much craft and subtlety in his voice that I could almost see his rascally old eyes glinting and gleaming through his white hair.

“Well, but what are we to do with the fellows, Benny?” asked the other man. “The usual thing⁠—four inches of cold steel, and drop them into the well?”

“I should have done it before now,” said the old man; “but the big man is too heavy for me to drag, and then I might have been seen from the hillsides. Shall we do it now, captain dear?”

“Why, is there any hurry, Benny? Will the fellows wake soon?”

“Not they,” laughed the old man. “Not this side of Doomsday, I warrant me.”

“Why, then, let me eat and drink, Benny, and then we will do the necessary deed. Besides, there is Long Dick coming up the valley, and he can bear us a hand if need be. So set out meat and drink, my Trojan, while I stable my steed. Fifty guineas, quotha? ’Tis well, Benny, excellent well.”

Then the sound of horses’ feet went across the yard, and I heard the old man moving about with pots and pans in some apartment next to our own. As for me, a great sweat had sprung out all over me when I heard these bloody murderers so calmly discussing our fate. What was to be done? There I was, tied hand and foot so that I could not move, and Philip Lisle lay still sound asleep at my side, equally powerless with myself. If only I could have freed myself from the ropes which bound me, I would have risen and gone forth, and then and there screwed the old man’s head round until his further chance of maltreating travellers had been gone. But there I was, big enough and strong enough to fight three men of ordinary size, and yet helpless as a child because my arms were tied.

Presently the other man came back from stabling his horse, and I heard the two conversing in low tones in the next room. I heard, also, the clatter of dishes, and wished fervently that the food would choke them both. I thought of all manner of things in those dreadful moments⁠—of my mother, of Rose, of Jack Drumbleforth and Jacob Trusty, of Lucy and Ben Tuckett, and of matters which had happened many a year before and had been forgotten until then. I could see no possible way of escape. Presently the men would come in and run their knives into us, with no more compunction than if we had been sheep, and after that they would throw us into the old well, and leave us to rot. I would have given all I had in the world for the use of my arms at that terrible moment.

After what seemed a long time I heard another horse enter the yard in front, and presently a third voice was joined to the two already engaged in conversation. Then the sweat came out on my brow in great beads, and at every sound as of feet coming our way I trembled with anger and helpless rage. I strained at the cords that bound me, and felt them nip the flesh beneath.

And then an idea suddenly flashed across my mind like a ray of hope. I remembered once being at Doncaster Fair, and watching a man of enormous strength who was showing the people what he could do with his muscles and sinews. First of all he lifted weights, such as bars of iron and lead, and after that he swung heavy clubs about as if they had been mere willow wands. But what the people most admired was the following trick: the man produced a long strand of rope, and bound it tightly round his chest, after which he drew a deep breath, and then, sending out his chest to its full extent, he snapped the rope as if it had been a bit of straw or a woman’s strand of worsted.

Now, I was at that time as strong and mighty of muscle and sinew as any man of the age, and I knew that for every pound the strong man at the fair could lift, I could lift two. And at this terrible moment it occurred to me that now was the time to put forth my great strength and burst the bonds that bound me, so that I might at least have a blow at the villains in the next room before they threw me and my companion into the well.

I contracted my chest and arms as far as I could, and then suddenly expanded them so that the rope cracked again under the pressure. But, alas! there were more strands than one, and they cut into the thick part of my arms so cruelly that I almost cried out with pain. Nevertheless, I was spurred on to make another effort by the voices in the next room, so I drew breath once more, and once more tried to burst the bonds that bound me. I strove and strove and strove until the fire flashed from my eyes, and my chest was like to split, while the straining cords cut into my arms till the blood started and the sweat poured down my face. And then with one last effort the rope snapped sharply, and I sank back exhausted but free.

But there was no time for rest, and I immediately set to work to untie the bonds which confined my feet. This done, I crept over to where Philip Lisle lay asleep, and hastened to release him also. He was so soundly wrapped in slumber that all my tugging at his bonds and rolling him about did not suffice to wake him, and I did not dare to shout in his ear lest the men should hear me. So I withdrew him into the darkest part of the room, and then stole stealthily over to the door, with the intention of crushing the life out of the first man who entered. I had not stood there many minutes, when I heard very soft footfalls approach the door, which was presently unbolted from the outside and then gently opened to the extent of two or three inches. I held my breath and waited, yet my heart thumped so violently against my ribs that I feared it would be heard. However, my hands and arms were ready, and my fingers twitched to be at somebody’s throat.

Then the door was opened a little wider, and I heard the old man whispering as if to someone behind him.

“Fast asleep, captain dear, fast asleep! Don’t you hear how regularly they breathe? Aha, what a nice sleep they’ll have at the bottom of the old well, eh? You made the knife sharp enough, captain dear?”

“Sharp as a needle,” growled the other man. “Go in, Benny, and get it over.”

“Oh yes,” whispered the old villain. “Oh yes, I’m going. Do you hear them breathing, eh? Like children. Eh, eh, eh, how the warm blood will bubble under old Benny’s knife, captain dear! Eh⁠—, sh⁠—sh, my children⁠—sh, here’s old Benny with his⁠—”

As he came stealthily round the door I seized him by the throat and drove his head straight and true against the stone wall behind. I felt the skull crack under my hand, and the man’s body fell limp and lifeless at my feet, without ever a sound passing his lips. Then I caught the glittering knife from him as he fell, and turned on the other two men, who were crowding into the doorway after him, and whose forms I could just make out in the dim light. As I struck out at them they fell back into the kitchen through which we had passed in the morning, and I, following them up with my weapon, was upon them before they could reach the door. But here I lost the knife, which I drove into the doorpost with such force that I could not withdraw it. By that time, however, they had opened the door, and we all three went rolling out on the stone pavement with a hideous clatter. But I was topmost, and before they could rise I had each by the throat and was wondering if I could manage to squeeze the life out of both of them at the same time.

Now, they were both big men and of brawny build, and they no sooner found my hands at their throats than they began to fight desperately for their lives, so that one of them presently forced my hand away from his neck and strove to regain his feet. But my wits were now thoroughly at work, and as this man forced my hand away, I raised his fellow-villain’s head with the other hand and gave it such a knock against the stones that it cracked like an eggshell, and the man stiffened out and lay still. The one who had thought himself free had meanwhile drawn a knife, and I rose just in time to escape a blow aimed at my back. He came at me again as I got to my feet, but there fortunately lay close to hand a thick bar that had once been used as a swingletree, and with this I laid about the fellow’s head and shoulders to such purpose that he suddenly dropped his knife and ran howling for mercy towards the hills.

So now the fight was over, and it had all happened in very much less time than it has taken me to write down this account of it. I went into the house, and finding a lamp burning in a room where the men had evidently been eating their supper, carried it to Philip, who, sleeping amidst all the noise and clatter, had just begun to wake up and rub his eyes.

“Beshrew me, Will!” said he, as I bent over him with the lamp, “I fear I have slept a longer time than I thought to. Where are we, and what am I doing on the floor?”

“Wake up, sir,” said I impatiently. “We have been drugged and well-nigh murdered, and we have lost a whole day.”

He was on his feet in an instant then, and listened attentively while I told him what had happened. Then he took and shook my hand very earnestly.

“Well done, Will, well done indeed!” said he. “Alas! I am much to blame. We ought to have been more cautious of that old man. But let us have a look at our enemies.”

As for the old man, he was dead enough, and I could not for the life of me feel sorry for him, so villainous and crafty had been his conduct towards us. The other fellow lying outside was in bad case too, but not dead, so we lifted him inside the house and put him into a comfortable position, after which we left him and began to hunt for our money, finding it after considerable search hidden under a flag in the cellar. This done, we made for the stables, and lost no time in saddling our horses, for we were both impressed with the idea that there might be more of these murderers, and that the third fellow had fled to seek assistance.

When we led the horses out of the stable and mounted them at the gate, the moon had just risen and the valley was full of clear, silver light. We were about to ride away, when we suddenly caught the sound of horsemen advancing along a bridle-path that lay to the west. Soon we heard the sound of voices, mingling with the clank of bit and stirrup, so that we felt sure there was a troop of horse upon us.

“Draw behind the wall, Will, and let them go by,” said Philip. “If they are of our own party we will hail them: if not, we will let them go in peace.”

So we drew behind the wall of the granary, and the troop came along at a smart walk, and we heard the men laughing and talking.

“Old Benny’s farmstead,” said one of the foremost, “is going to rack and ruin. Let us whistle him out.”

“Nay,” said another, “let the old fox sleep in his hole. I had as lief set eyes on the devil as on his evil face.”

“Forward, lads, forward!” cried a voice from the rear.

“We are not making such speed as we ought. Trooper Baxendale, lead on a little faster.”

Now, I had no sooner heard that voice than I gave a great start, and would have leaped forward if Philip Lisle had not held me with a strong hand. For the voice was the voice of Captain Trevor. “Silence, Will, silence!” whispered Philip. “Do naught rashly. Leave it to me and command thyself. See, here he comes.”

And looking out from the barn wall we saw Captain Trevor distinctly enough in the moonlight, as he rode at the tail of his little troop of twenty men. He passed by us, and then Philip rode out into the lane and hailed him.

“Hola! Captain Trevor.”

He turned sharply and stared in our direction, and his men drew rein and the horses stopped and stood champing their bits.

“Who calls?” said he, as we drew nearer.

“ ’Tis I, your old acquaintance, Philip Lisle, and here is with me Will Dale.”

“Master Lisle⁠—and Will Dale, my dear Will Dale! Gentlemen, indeed I cannot think what brings you into this wild region, but ’tis for my better fortune, I am sure.”

And he leapt from his horse and came hastening to take our hands, and I knew, and was glad to know it, that the terrible suspicion we had fostered against him was groundless. But since he was innocent, who was it that was guilty?

“Alas, Will!” whispered Philip, as Captain Trevor approached us, “we are on the wrong track. This man is innocent enough. We have been fooled somewhere.”

“And what brings you here, gentlemen?” asked Captain Trevor, shaking hands with both. “Are you on some similar mission to my own? I am taking a troop of horse to Newark⁠—’tis my first adventure, Master Dale, since I left you.”

“Alas!” said Philip, “we are on a sad adventure indeed, and just now our prospects look black enough. However, there is one load off our minds, as you shall hear;” and he forthwith proceeded to give an account of all that had befallen us from the time that Belwether brought us the bad news to Pontefract Castle even to that moment.

Now, while he spoke Captain Trevor gave evidence of the keenest interest and of the liveliest indignation, and when Philip Lisle told him of our meeting with Dennis Watson, and of what Dennis had said respecting him, his face flushed and his hand grasped the hilt of his sword in a way that boded no good to his false accuser.

“But you believed him not, gentlemen?” he said earnestly. “I trust you believed him not. And yet why have you come here if you did not believe him? Alas, gentlemen, I should have thought you had known me better than to believe me guilty of such black conduct!”

“Sir,” said I, “let me tell you that in my heart I did not believe it, but there were two witnesses against you, and we were bound to satisfy ourselves in justice to ourselves and to you. Besides, we thought it possible that some terrible mistake had arisen.”

“Yes, yes,” said he; “but, oh, gentlemen, it is you who have made a terrible mistake. Can you not see, Master Dale, that the man who so falsely accused me is the man who hath wrought this mischief?”

“Dennis Watson?”

“Dennis Watson of a surety. Did I not hear, when I was at Dale’s Field, that he was your enemy and had more than once vowed to do you an injury? Rest assured, Master Dale, that it is he who hath planned and carried out this matter.”

Then I saw what fools we had been, and how easily Dennis Watson had duped us, and I swore a great oath that whenever he and I next met, whether in highway or byway, street or marketplace, in church or court, there one of us two should go forth no more. And that oath I kept, even as God willed it.

“And now, gentlemen,” said Captain Trevor, “you must back to yonder wayside inn that you spoke of, for it is there that you will find the key to this mystery. Yea, I am convinced that the host who bore out Watson’s statement is implicated with him in this plot against you. Now, it will not be so much out of our way to go with you, for we can make Newark by way of Retford, so mount, gentlemen, and let us push on.”

“But these men?” said I, pointing towards the farmstead, which now stood white and clear in the moonlight. “Shall we not see to the one that is living?”

“Nay,” said Trevor, “his companion will presently return when he sees us ride away, and we have no time to attend to cutthroats. I have long known that this gang needed stamping out, Master Dale, and am obliged to you for what you have done. So now let us away.”

And with that we got into our saddles and departed, soon leaving the ruined farmstead far behind; and from that day to this I have never heard whether the man died or whether he recovered, nor did I much care, considering what trouble of mind he and his companions had put me to.

We rode along through the valleys between the hills during the whole of that night, and came in sight of Sheffield about six o’clock in the morning. But into Sheffield Captain Trevor would not go, because it was principally in the hands of the Parliamentarians, and we therefore took a roundabout direction southwards of the town, and went towards Rotherham by way of Beauchief Abbey and the villages of Woodhouse and Whiston. At Rotherham we stayed to bait our horses, it being then almost noon and the march having lasted nearly twelve hours. Here we heard news of his Majesty’s success at Leicester, which was communicated to us by a messenger going north from Newark. Here, too, we learnt that the King had expressed his hopes of shortly achieving a great victory over the Roundheads, which hopes, however, were unfulfilled, for the battle of Naseby, which took place a few days later, routed the Royalist army forever.

It was about two o’clock in the afternoon when we left Rotherham and proceeded along the highway in the direction of Thrybergh. The wayside inn where we had seen Dennis Watson lay halfway between these two places, and it was not long before we came in sight of it and drew up to confer amongst ourselves as to what plan of action we should pursue.

“Leave it to me,” said Captain Trevor. “If matters are as I suspect, I will bring them to a successful ending. Do you, gentlemen, lie behind a little, while I and my men ride forward. We will call for drink, and while we are busy with our tankards at the inn-door you will ride up and presently begin to soundly rate the landlord for falsely directing you the other day. After which leave matters to me.”

Acting upon this advice, we let Captain Trevor and his men ride on until they came to the door of the inn, where they were presently waited upon by the host, whom we took to be the man that had lied to us two days previously. This person brought out to them stoups of liquor, and while he stood at the door waiting their pleasure, Philip and I rode forward and suddenly made our appearance between him and the troopers. And we had no sooner drawn rein than I perceived that the fellow instantly recognised us, for he changed colour and gave a sharp backward look over his shoulder, as though he contemplated a retreat into the inn.

“How now, sirrah!” cried Philip. “A fine dance you have given us with your false news. You shall account to us pretty heavily for it, I promise you.”

“I know not what your worship means,” stammered the man, beginning to look very much afraid.

“What, hast thou the impudence to say so? Hark ye, sirrah, did not my friend here and myself call at your house for refreshment but two days ago?”

“Yes, sir, yes, certainly.”

“And did we not make inquiry of thee, and didst thou not affirm that a young gentleman and his two servants had lately met a young lady at this inn and gone forward with her?”

“Yes, your worship, but ’twas only truth.”

“Hah, truth quotha! And did not Dennis Watson that was here at the time, and whom I doubt not thou knowest over-well⁠—did he not tell us in thy hearing that the young gentleman was one Captain Trevor?”

“I believe Master Watson did say so,” faltered the man “Yes, I remember it very well.”

“Then thou liest, villain, and so did he,” struck in Captain Trevor, “for I am the man he spoke of, and it is months since I rode by thy rascally dwelling. And I would have you know, sirrah, that I am a magistrate and bear the King’s commission to put down naughty conduct such as thine.”

Now, when the man heard this he began to shake somewhat, but presently, plucking up courage, he replied that he feared naught, having done no wrong, and that there was law to protect him as well as another.

“As to what Master Watson said,” he continued, “what have I to do with it? Did I mention Captain Trevor’s name? Marry, I never heard it before this day. What I said, gentlemen, was out of my own knowledge, nor do I know whether what Master Watson said be true or not!”

“Master innkeeper,” said Captain Trevor, “thou art a pitiful liar and a knave. Now, we will tell thee for thy further information that there hath lately been a young lady kidnapped, whose friends we are, come hither to avenge her. And so we are like to have the truth out of thee, master innkeeper, for we think thou knowest something of this matter.”

Now, the man by that time was very much affrighted and began to shake in his limbs, but once more plucking up courage, he answered that he knew naught of kidnapping and was not to be bullied by any man.

“What, dost dare answer me, a King’s officer!” cried Captain Trevor. “Here, men, dismount and seize him!”

“ ’Tis at your peril!” said the man, struggling violently to free himself from the clutches of the two stalwart troopers who had seized him on either side. “You have no warrant to lay hands on me.”

“Warrant or no warrant, thou wilt find we shall treat thee as we please,” said Captain Trevor. “Come, sirrah, tell us presently what you know of this Watson that conspired with you here. And speak trippingly, or we will find means to help your tongue.”

“You dare not use violence,” said the man, half struggling between fear of us and defiance of our presence.

“Dare not? Friend, thou knowest not what thou art saying.”

“There is law for me as well as anybody,” said the man.

“Yea, and we are come to execute it. We will be counsel and jury and judge all in one. Now come, sirrah, speak.”

But the man did naught but shake his head and grumble, whereat Captain Trevor bade them bind his eyes and tie him to his own pump, at the same time ordering his troopers to make ready their pistols.

“For indeed,” said he, with a roguish wink of the eye in our direction, “we shall be forced to resort to extreme measures, master landlord, unless you speak without more delay.”

Now, the innkeeper’s wife, who had been washing or baking at the rear of the house, at last came to the conclusion that there was something wrong at her front door, wherefore she left her work, and came upon us just as the men were fastening up the protesting landlord to the pump. And she, seeing him blindfolded, and the men standing around him with pistols in their hands, immediately set up such a screaming that the horses began to rear and prance.

“Ah!” said Captain Trevor, “there is a more powerful instrument than any we have used so far. Come, mistress, an you would not see your husband slaughtered before your eyes, tell him to speak.”

“Oh, speak, good Gregory, speak, good, kind Gregory! Oh, masters, spare him! Gregory, dost not hear, thou woodenhead? Alack-a-day, I knew thou wouldst cause ill out of yond business, only thou wouldst not hearken tome. Did I not say ’twas a shame and a sin⁠—and as sweet and gentle a young lady as ever breathed?”

“Take off the bandage,” said Captain Trevor. “Come, Master Gregory, we would hear something further about this young lady. Speak out, man.”

Now, the landlord, having darted a glance at his spouse which boded her no good, stood angrily regarding us until a trooper lifted his pistol to his forehead and touched the trigger, whereupon he suddenly said that he would lead us to where the young lady was if we would molest him no further.

“As to that we will promise naught,” said Captain Trevor, “for thou art in our power. Tie him up with your halter, Trooper Whiteman, and drive him wherever he wants us to go.”

Upon this the man set off surlily enough, and we followed him, Philip and myself anxious and eager now that we knew Rose was near at hand. The innkeeper turned into the meadow at the rear of his house, and crossing it, led us into a thick belt of wood where the only path was a narrow one, so that we were bound to ride in single file.

“Come hither, gentlemen,” said Captain Trevor, dismounting and taking up a position by our prisoner. “This fellow shall tell us what he knows. Now, sirrah, speak plainly.”

Thus adjured, the man confessed, with much reluctance, that himself and another, instigated by Dennis Watson, had brought away a young lady from Dale’s Field, and had secured her in a lonely house beyond the belt of wood we were now approaching, where she had since been guarded by the other man and his wife.

“But, indeed, gentlemen,” he said in conclusion, “indeed there hath no harm befallen the maiden, and no insult hath been offered her. Of a surety I should not have meddled with the matter if there had been aught evil. Nay, Master Watson did warrant us ’twas naught but a love affair, and that he was rescuing the young lady⁠—”

“Hold thy tongue, sirrah!” commanded Captain Trevor. “A villainous pack are ye all, and shall be punished soundly for your pains. Is yond the house thou speak’st of, sirrah?”

The man answered humbly enough that it was, and we filed out of the wood and went across a clearing towards it. But we had not gotten within fifty paces of it, when one of our vanguard cried out that there was a man escaping from the house into the fields beyond, and at the same moment another announced the flight of a woman in another direction.

“ ’Tis Tom Porter and his wife,” said our guide. “They have seen us coming and are fleeing for their lives.”

“A crown piece to the men who first lay hands on them,” said Captain Trevor, and forthwith the leading troopers went galloping over hedge and ditch after the fugitives, while the rest of us went on to the house.

And now I need hardly tell you with what joy Philip Lisle and myself found our dear Rose, who was busy unfastening the door when we reached the house, her gaolers having left her when they saw us approaching. Then our terrible anxiety was relieved, for she hastened to assure us that she was no worse for her adventures, and had kept up her courage by telling herself that we should ere long come to her assistance.

Now, by that time the soldiers had brought back the man and woman, and Captain Trevor and I went out to them, leaving Rose with her father.

“What shall we do with these knaves, Master Dale?” said Captain Trevor. “We cannot whip the woman, so let her go, men. But as for you, master innkeeper, and you, master innkeeper’s brother villain, we will make you dance to such a tune as you ne’er heard before.”

And with that he caused his men to tie the two men up to a stout oak, one on each side, and having stripped them to their waists, the troopers gave them such a sound thrashing with their halters that the wood reechoed with their unheeded cries for mercy. But I regretted very deeply that Dennis Watson was not there to settle his account with me, which I would have exacted of him in a still more stringent fashion.

When we had sufficiently rewarded master innkeeper and his companion in villainy according to their several deserts, we thought it time to be moving on our way, and one of the troopers fetched Rose’s horse from the inn, where it had been stabled during her imprisonment. So presently Philip Lisle brought her forth, ready for the ride, and we departed, assuring the two men whom we left tied to the tree that we had not yet done with them, but would see that the law punished them for their naughtiness in proper fashion.

“And as to your master and instigator,” said Captain Trevor, “tell him, when he returns hither, that it will be an ill day for him if we come across his path. For what we have done to you is naught to what we will do to him.”

Now, I was in fiery haste to return to Dale’s Field, because the men had told us in response to our questions that Dennis Watson had gone homewards only that morning, promising to return in two days at the latest. When I heard that, I was resolved to seek him at his own place, and there settle matters between us once for all, and with this object in view I spurred on my companions so that I might get the business over. Captain Trevor, however, was of opinion that the best way to catch Dennis was to wait for him at the point where we then were, because, said he, the villain was certain to return to that place, whereas he might get wind of our coming to Castle Hill and give us the slip. But I was not willing to take this counsel, arguing rather that it would be better to proceed straight to the Watsons’ farmstead, where Dennis would certainly be found that day. So we proceeded towards Doncaster, to which town Captain Trevor and his men accompanied us, and as we journeyed thither Rose told us of how she had fared since the day she left Dale’s Field, which history did but serve to increase my great anger against Dennis Watson.

When the two serving-men, who were none other than the villains we had just whipped in the wood, presented themselves at Dale’s Field with the letter from her father, Rose had not seen reason for doubting their word, for the letter was cunningly made to represent Philip Lisle’s handwriting, and the two men wore a sober and seemly air, and spoke of Philip with much solicitude and regard. This appearance of concern for him they kept up, she said, as they accompanied her along the road, telling her how he fared, and giving her many false accounts of how he had come by his hurt. For they said that he had come over from Lancashire with certain troops, and had been engaged in a skirmish with the Roundheads near the place where they professed him to be lying wounded, together with much more falsely invented matter, put into their heads, no doubt, by the cunning and malice of Dennis Watson. And at all this news she had no suspicion aroused, because she did not know of her father’s whereabouts, none of us having heard from him or Jack Drumbleforth for some time. Moreover, the two men were so civil in their behaviour and so constant in their professions of regard for Philip Lisle that she felt perfectly safe in their company, and was even thankful to them for the care they took of her during the journey.

“Alas!” quoth Captain Trevor at this part of Rose’s story. “An I had known this, Mistress Rose, an hour ago, we would have given the smooth-tongued knaves a dozen extra stripes apiece. I cannot abear your foxy villains that say fine things to your face and are plotting against you in their hearts. However, we made their backs smart.”

All went well, continued Rose, until they reached the wayside inn between Thrybergh and Rotherham, which was towards the end of the afternoon. When they had come to this point they informed her that the house where her father lay was now close at hand, and that they would stable their horses at the inn, and then conduct her to it across the fields. Even then she had felt no suspicion, and followed the men with confidence to the house in the wood. When they were at the door, one of the men, namely, the innkeeper, retired, and the other took her inside and put her in charge of the woman. Rose now wished to be taken immediately to her father, but the woman put her off with the excuse that he had fallen into a deep slumber, from which he must not be disturbed at that time. After this she conducted Rose to an apartment and left her, promising to fetch her to the sick man as soon as he should give signs of waking. The woman, however, had no sooner gone away from the chamber than the door opened and Dennis Watson appeared before her.

Now, it did not at first so much surprise Rose to see Dennis, because she thought that he had chanced to be in the neighbourhood and had been made aware of her father’s condition, and she therefore immediately made inquiry of him as to Philip Lisle’s health. He answered this question by assuring her that so far as he knew her father’s health was in the best of conditions, and begged her to forgive him for the trick he had played upon her in order to bring about that meeting. For he was, he protested, dying with love for her, and believing that all things were fair in love and war, he had not scrupled to resort to stratagem to secure her. After which he renewed his professions and besought her to fly with him out of the country.

Now, when Rose fully understood how she had been served, her indignation rose to such a height that she told her mind very plainly to the villain before her, and informed him that she now knew him to be a liar and a very sorry knave, finally commanding him to stand out of her path and let her go out of his presence, which did but offend her. At which, she continued, he grew very red with passion and altered his tune, threatening her as much as he had formerly coaxed her. For she must remember, he said, that there was no help for her, because she was entirely in his power, and could count on help from no earthly being. Wherefore he bade her consider matters afresh, and then retired, locking the door behind him, so that she was a prisoner. In this way she continued until the next day, seeing no one but the woman of the house, who brought her food and waited upon her, and whom she tried to bribe with promises of reward, but with no effect. Nevertheless, she did not lose heart, knowing right well that her friends would come to rescue her sooner or later.

The next day Dennis again appeared before her, and again made many protestations of his passion for her, to which she answered that his actions gave the lie to his words. After that he again resorted to threats, which she scorned as before, telling him that she did not fear him and promising him, moreover, sound punishment for his misdeeds. This caused him to withdraw again, having first told her that she should be kept in close confinement until she was more reasonably disposed towards him. In this way the succeeding days passed, Rose being strictly guarded by the man and his wife, while Dennis appeared at least once a day to plead his evil cause, hoping that the imprisonment would eventually break his captive’s resolution. But though Rose became anxious and concerned, she did not cease to rate him soundly for his misdeeds, and upon the day previous to our arrival she let him know how much she abhorred and despised him; whereupon he swore an oath that he would use foul means if he could do naught with fair, and bade her take two days to decide whether she could give him no better answer. After which he left the house, telling the men that he was going to Castle Hill and should return on the second day at the latest.

Now, this story did but serve to increase our resentment against Dennis Watson, and Captain Trevor regretted that he could not accompany us homewards and go with us to do justice upon our enemy. And we had indeed been glad of his company, and were sorry to part with him and his men at Doncaster, where they went southwards to Newark, while we pursued our journey along the Great North Road.

It was far into the evening when we arrived at Dale’s Field and gave Rose into the hands of my mother and Lucy, who were so overjoyed to see her that they laughed and cried at the same moment, and made a great to-do in the way of preparing a feast for our refreshment. But, tired as I was, I had no mind for rest or food until I had settled my account with Dennis Watson. And, indeed, I dare say my dear love wondered that I had so little to say to her at that time, but the truth was that I was so full of hatred and revenge that I could neither eat, sit, sleep, nor talk until I had done somewhat to satisfy my heart. Wherefore we had no sooner arrived than I sent off one of my men on horseback to Darrington, bidding him find three trusty friends of mine there, whom he was to bring back with him on the instant. While he was gone I went into the yard and talked with Jacob Trusty, who was very bitter against the Roundheads that night, a party of them having ridden into the fold on the previous day and seized two of my best bullocks.

“Yea, marry,” said Jacob, “and had the assurance to sing psalms over the poor beasts as they drove them along the road! Oh, an I had had my old musket I would have given them a taste of cold lead. For thou knowest, William, I had meant those bullocks for Doncaster market, and now, I suppose, they are roast meat. However, ’tis a world of disappointments.”

Presently my messenger returned from Darrington, bringing with him my three friends, who were all stout and sturdy young farmers. I led them into the house, where Philip Lisle was eating his supper, and to him and them I shortly explained what I wished to do. To settle with Dennis Watson, I said, was my affair, and I desired no man to be with me in the matter. But so that we might come at him, I proposed to go in a body to Castle Hill and there oblige him to come forth and account to me for his doings. And having said this, I begged my friends to refresh themselves, and meanwhile I went out and provided my four ploughmen with a stout cudgel apiece, so that there were nine of us ready to seek Dennis Watson. Presently, then, we set off, leaving Jacob Trusty and Timothy Grass looking wistfully after us, for they would have much liked to go with us but for their increasing infirmities.

Now, the farm at Castle Hill lieth beyond the Stapleton woods on a rising ground halfway between Darrington and Kirk Smeaton. Why it is called Castle Hill I know not, unless it is because there was at some time a fortified tower on the spot where now stands the farmstead tenanted by the Watsons. It is a lonely place, being surrounded by deep woods, and the house itself is old and gloomy and here and there in a ruinous state. As we left the woods and drew near to it that night, the moon shone clearly on its roofs and chimneys and lighted us beneath the trees to the door. There was no light to be seen in any of the windows, and we saw no men about the yard, so that the whole place looked deserted and dreary.

We left our little force within easy call, while Philip and I went up to the door and knocked loudly at it. The noise echoed through the house inside with a hollow and empty sound, and no one answered our summons. We had knocked three times in this way and received no response, when an old woman came round the corner of the house and asked fearfully what we wanted.

“We want Master Dennis Watson,” I answered. “Where is he, dame?”

“Alack, master!” she answered; “that I cannot say. He was here this morning, yea, indeed, but he rode away before noon, and since then his father hath been well-nigh mad, so that I pray you go your ways, lest he come out and do you an injury.”

But at that moment the door was flung open and Rupert Watson himself appeared on the threshold, a tall, weird-looking figure with white hair and beard. I had not seen him for many a year, and it startled me to see the change that had come over him, for in former days he had been a sturdy, square-shouldered man, but now was old and somewhat bent and looked fiercer than a wolf.

“Who are ye?” he asked. “Is this a time to come knocking at honest men’s doors?”

“Ay,” I answered, “if there be such excuse as we have, Master Watson.”

And I stepped back a pace or two so that the moon shone full upon my face and figure. He started as he saw me, and I knew that he noted the resemblance to my father.

“William Dale’s lad!” he said. “William Dale! What should a Dale want of me?”

“Your son, Master Watson.”

He lifted his hands and shook them in the moonlight, and his eyes gleamed through his bushy eyebrows.

“My son? I have no son! Son? He that was my son hath robbed me⁠—me, his father! A thousand guineas that I had saved and hidden⁠—do you hear?⁠—he hath taken them all and fled, like a thief. My son⁠—my only son. Begone, William Dale, begone. Nay, stand there, stand there, and hear me curse him!”

We stood silent and horrified, watching the old man as he shook his trembling hands in the air and cursed his son in the name of God. The men behind us crept up and listened and trembled; the old woman, weeping and sobbing by the house wall, shivered and quaked as the terrible white-haired figure lifted his arms in the moonlight and cursed his son with awful words. And then suddenly the old man paused in the midst of his denunciation and fell down on the ground as if he were dead. Truly the wrongs that himself had done were returning to him in tenfold measure.

So Dennis Watson had escaped me, and there was naught for it but to wait with what patience I could for some future opportunity of settling matters with him. We left the wretched old man his father to the care of his own people, and returned to Dale’s Field. Until that moment our recent adventures had not brought me any feeling of fatigue, for I had thought of naught but punishing my enemy, but when we found Dennis flown beyond our immediate reach, a reaction came over me, and I was glad to get home and into my bed, where I slept as soundly as a bear in winter.

It was now the first day of June, and we had been away from the castle four days. During our absence no news had come to Dale’s Field of any change in the position of affairs, only, said Jacob Trusty, who took a keen interest in the siege, the cannonading had been much more vigorous than previously. We were not inclined to remain longer away from the scene of hostilities than we could help, and we therefore determined to make an attempt to pass the enemy’s lines that night. We passed the day at Dale’s Field, resting after our exertions, and receiving many messages from my mother and Lucy for Ben Tuckett, who they imagined must by that time have suffered exceedingly from his long privation. Also in the afternoon of that day I went round my farm with Rose, whom until then I had not seen for a long time, and did not know when I should see again.

We left Dale’s Field after dark, and pushed on towards Pontefract, hearing now and then the sound of a solitary gun fired by besiegers or besieged. It was no easy matter to pass the enemy’s lines, for they had begun to keep a very zealous watch; but by the exercise of care and patience we eluded their vigilance, and were admitted to the Castle again about an hour before midnight. Then we learned that the Governor had that day received letters from Sir Marmaduke Langdale to the effect that the King’s forces had been successful at Derby, and that success was everywhere attending the royal arms. This joyful news had raised the spirits of the garrison to a high degree, for now there was good hope of his Majesty’s coming to sweep away the Roundheads and raise the siege.

To no one was this prospect more grateful than to Ben Tuckett, whom I perceived to have grown at least two inches less in girth since I had left him, notwithstanding the fact that there was now plenty of fresh meat in the Castle. The fact was, poor Ben was beginning to feel the effect of the confinement, and he was also pining for a sight of his sweetheart. He was in a very dolorous mood when we found him, in spite of the good news from Derby.

“Thou hast been to Dale’s Field, Will?” said he, having heard all we had to tell him concerning our adventures.

“Indeed we have, Ben. We lay there last night, and passed the day there into the bargain.”

“Ah!” said he, sighing deeply, “it must have been exceeding pleasant. Did they speak of me at all, Will?”

“There was a time, Ben, when they spoke of naught else. I am charged with a thousand messages for thee, only the mischief is that I have forgotten them. I remember that Lucy sent thee her dearest love and duty, and my mother bade me tell thee to mind and not take a chill after thou hast gotten warm with fighting, but what else they said I cannot now think of. However, thou canst imagine it all.”

“ ’Tis very kind of them,” he answered, “very kind indeed to remember such an unfortunate mortal. Do not forget to tell them that I always thought of them, Will.”

“ ’Od’s mercy, Jack!” said I, “what is he talking about? One might suppose he was going to die before ever he got out of the Castle.”

“And what have I to live for?” groaned Ben. “I am a ruined man. Alas! thou knowest not what terrible things have happened since you and Master Lisle there rode away.”

“Nay,” said Philip, “we have heard of naught particular.”

“ ’Twas but day before yesterday,” said Ben, “the Roundheads went up town and occupied my house in the Marketplace. You must know, gentlemen, that I have always kept an eye on my house, having gone up to the Round Tower three or four times a day to see if it still stood. Well, ’twas bad enough for these rogues to go and occupy my house, for between you and me I had hidden a pretty stock of goods in it before I fled to the Castle, hoping they would not be found until the siege was over, but what was my horror to find that our gunners were playing the cannon from the Swillington Tower full upon it! Yea, and continued to do so in spite of my prayers and admonitions, saying that they cared not whose house it was as long as they drove the Roundheads out of it. And now my house is a ruin, and as for the goods that I had hidden⁠—”

“Never mind, Ben,” said I; “you will find another house easily enough.”

“And shall I find my stock and my furniture?” he groaned. “Alas! I am a ruined man. However, they have not destroyed my money, lads, because Lucy and I buried what I had under the hearthstone at Dale’s Field.”

“I thought it would be a wonderful thing if they had burnt all thy ships, Ben,” said Jack Drumbleforth. “Why, you old miser, you ought to have given that money to the King’s cause.”

“Will the King set me up in business again?” asked Ben. “I trow not, lads. Every man for himself, say I. If his Majesty would but come and relieve us, I would not object to parting with some of my store, but he delays so long that I fear he will never come at all.”

On the 3rd of June, however, there came to us letters from Newark, conveying intelligence of a great victory achieved by the King at Leicester. His Majesty had made a vigorous assault upon that town, and had finally carried the siege, making the garrison prisoners to the number of fifteen hundred, and securing an immense booty, which was instantly divided amongst the Royalist soldiers. Upon learning this news we were all greatly pleased, and Ben Tuckett so far plucked up his fallen spirits as to offer to lead a sally against the Roundheads in their trenches.

We now lived in daily hopes of seeing the arrival of a great force charged with the mission of relieving us, but we heard of nothing until the 6th of June, when a prisoner taken in the Castle mill informed us that the King’s troops were coming to our relief, and had already reached Tuxford. He further said that the Parliamentary forces were retreating northward before the King, and would probably assemble in our neighbourhood, where a great battle was therefore to be expected shortly. This information we believed to be true, for two days later there came a great body of Parliamentary horse from the southward, which had been obliged to quit their quarters about Doncaster and Tickhill. The next day, too, we heard heavy firing in the direction of Sheffield, and from this circumstance augured that our friends were drawing near. Two days, however, passed away, and no relief force appeared, so that we knew not what to think. Nevertheless, we were so far from being cast down by the delay, that on the 11th we made a great sally from the Castle in different directions, and prevailed so mightily against the enemy that we left forty of them dead upon the field, and brought eleven prisoners into the Castle, together with a great supply of muskets, pikes, and ammunition, which we found in their trenches and outworks. As for our own losses, they were but very slight, for none of our men were killed, and only two wounded.

We heard no more news until the 16th of June, when General Poyntz, commander of the Parliamentary forces at Pontefract, sent a drum to the Castle with a letter for Sir William Lowther, in which it was stated that a great battle had been fought at Naseby two days previously, whereat the King had been utterly routed, nearly two thousand Royalists having been left dead on the field and five thousand taken prisoners, together with all the King’s artillery and baggage. The letter further summoned us to surrender at once, saying that it were best policy to do so while mercy was yet to be hoped for, for there was now a great Parliamentary force at hand, and we should shortly be obliged to submit whether we would or not.

Now, we did not believe this news, because we had but a little time previously received letters from Newark, dated June 14th, in which Colonel Washington informed us that his Majesty was at that time at Melton Mowbray, and was preparing to march forward to our assistance. We therefore regarded General Poyntz’s letter as a trick of the enemy, and Sir William Lowther immediately informed the officer who had brought it that he neither feared the forces that might come against us, nor valued the mercy which was offered, and bade him begone with that answer to his commander. We were subsequently strengthened in our belief that General Poyntz’s news was false by the reception of more letters from Newark, in which the King was still spoken of as advancing to succour us. But as the days passed on no help came, and we presently began to wonder whether our information was correct or not. Shortly, however, we received news from our own friends of the battle of Naseby, but their account differed vastly from that given us by General Poyntz; for whereas he had represented the affair as a Roundhead victory, our informants told us that the fight had been resumed after the defeat of the King, and that our forces rallying had put the Parliamentary troops to flight, routing them utterly and slaying thousands of them, including General Cromwell.

We continued in this fashion for many days after that, now hearing one thing and now another, and hardly knowing which rumour to believe. Meanwhile, our enemy often received reinforcements which came marching from north or south as the case might be, and formed fresh obstacles to our success. The siege went on in the same fashion, each side doing its best to cripple the other. But while we were able to slay many of the Roundheads, they did us little damage owing to our secure position. Nevertheless, we had an enemy inside the Castle whose power we feared far more than even the terrible Cromwell himself. This was starvation, which now began to creep upon us slowly but very surely. By the 27th of June, we had no fresh provisions whatever, and there was no prospect of relief coming to us from any quarter. This scarcity of food bred discouragement and discontent amongst our men, several of whom deserted at this time.

We were now indeed in a sad plight. The help which had been so constantly promised to us, and the thought of which had lifted up our hearts in the struggle, came not, and we were therefore not only hungry but heartsick. Nevertheless we were resolved, or at any rate the majority of us were, to hold the Castle in the King’s name until the last moment. About the beginning of the second week in July we had more letters from Newark, one of which named the day and hour when Sir Marmaduke Langdale would come to our aid, and this good news was presently confirmed by another letter from Sandal Castle, wherein we were told that the relieving force was at hand. But we had barely read these letters when definite tidings reached us of the complete defeat of the Royalist forces under Goring and Langdale, and of the approach of further reinforcements to the Parliamentary army already surrounding us.

So now our last hopes were fled, and there was naught for it but to make an honourable surrender. We had defended the Castle for a space of five months, and during that time we had slain over a thousand of our enemies with very little loss to ourselves. If we had been able to secure provisions we could have held out for the King forever, for the place was so strong as to be well-nigh impregnable. Food, however, we could not get, and we could do the King no good by starving to death. At this point the besiegers made us honourable offers as to our surrender, which we presently accepted, marching away from the Castle at eight o’clock on the morning of July 21, 1645. The major portion of the garrison went forward to Newark, but I and my companions stayed at Dale’s Field, and were not sorry to see somewhat in the way of home comforts after our long and serious privations.

It was now drawing near harvest time, and I determined to see my crops gathered and garnered before I did aught else. To tell truth, I had lost a good deal during the recent hostilities, for the Roundheads had levied contributions on my cattle many a time while the siege was in progress, so that when I came back to Dale’s Field I found myself poorer by some fourteen or fifteen head of cattle, to say naught of a score or so of sheep. However, I was thankful to find that they had not burnt my house or my buildings, which was what I had feared more than once.

I took Philip and Ben home with me to Dale’s Field when we left the Castle, while Jack Drumbleforth went to his father’s house, where the Vicar was much delighted with the sight of his son. Now that we were all at home again the women made much of us, for they were all agreed that we looked like half-starved rats. Naught would suffice them upon the day of our coming home but that we must have a feast, and to this joyful event a messenger was despatched to bring Parson Drumbleforth and Jack. We were very merry that night, and Ben Tuckett, having found his spirits again, amused us with stories of his own prowess during the siege, which, to hear him talk, was exceeding great and wonderful. Cause for rejoicing, however, we had little beyond the fact that we were all safe and sound. Our party was defeated on all sides, and we knew not what would happen next.

“I shall to the wars again,” said Jack, when we began to discuss the future. “Beaten we are, no doubt; but I will go fight for the King until the last blow has been struck.”

“Well said, Jack,” said Philip Lisle; “I will go with you. We seem to be vanquished at this present time, but all is not lost yet.”

“Gentlemen,” said Ben Tuckett, who sat in the chimney-corner near Lucy, “if you only knew how warmly I approve your sentiments you would be delighted. I love to see brave men. However, my duty forbids me to further engage in warfare. I have looked after the King’s business so long that my own hath suffered. As for my house, it is in ruins⁠—and ’twas a Royalist cannon did it, too⁠—and I suppose my stock which lay hidden there is lost.”

“Thou art not the only man that has lost something,” said Jack. “It will be worse for many than for thee, Ben. God send they do not fine all of us that have taken part with the King.”

“That is what I expect them to do,” said Philip Lisle.

“What!” cried Ben. “And will they fine me, too, after all I have lost? Then I had best do naught in the way of reopening my shop. They cannot fine me if I have naught, can they?”

“They can clap thee into gaol, lad,” said Jack. “Yea, and hold thee there until thou hast paid the piper.”

“Alas!” cried poor Ben, “was ever man so unfortunate! However, if only it be a small fine⁠—”

And with that he began to look hard at the hearthstone under which he and Lucy had buried his money, and after that he said no more, but seemed to think deeply. But when my mother and the girls had gone to bed and Jack and Philip were talking their plans over, he drew me into a corner and began to talk confidentially.

“Will,” said he, “I have been thinking tonight that it is high time you and I were settled. We are neither of us as young as we were.”

“Speak for thyself, Ben. As for me, I am four-and-twenty.”

“Is it so little? Well, to be sure I am thy junior. Somehow I had thought myself twoscore at least. It is, I suppose, because I have passed through so much tribulation. However, to the point. It is, I say, time we were settled.”

“Are we not settled already?”

“A man never is settled,” said Ben wisely, “until he be married.”

“Oh! now I see what thou art driving at, Master Benjamin. I suppose you and Mistress Lucy are so smitten with each other’s good looks that you wish to hasten the wedding?”

“Put it as you please,” said he. “For my part, I do not see why Parson Drumbleforth should not marry us as soon as harvest is over. I tell thee what I think, Will. Lucy and I have gotten two hundred guineas in gold hidden under yonder hearthstone, which is a sum that no man may despise. I want not to lose it in fines and penalties. Now, if I open my shop again, these Roundhead rogues, seeing me a man of substance, will levy a heavy fine upon me, and I shall lose all. So let me lie quietly here, working in thy harvest-field until matters have blown over somewhat. Then we will all be married and my money will be safe. What do you think?”

“I think, Ben, that thou art a second Solomon. However, these are not over-pleasant times for marrying. You would not like Lucy to be a widow within a month of her wedding.”

“Heaven forbid!” said he, turning pale at the thought. “Why should she?”

“Because thou hast been such a bold assailer of the Roundheads that they may desire to cut off thy head. Wait a while, Ben, till the country be settled.”

But when I came to consider what Ben had said, I began to think there might be some reason in his notions. Come what might, it was my intention to go no more to the wars: let the King and the Commons do what they would, I meant to stay at home and mind my own business. And since I had made up my mind to that, why should I not hasten my wedding, and so have a better right than ever to protect my dear love? The more I thought of the matter, the more I liked the idea, so that before I slept that night I resolved to see what Rose thought of it. The next morning I rose early and went out to look round my farm, and, finding Rose already risen, I asked her to go with me, as had been her custom in the days before I went a-fighting. So we went hand in hand through the fields, which were already ripening unto harvest.

“How strange it seems,” said Rose, as we walked slowly along, “not to hear the sound of the cannon! All day we used to listen to it, and at every shot we prayed God that none of ours should suffer. Not a day passed that we did not think of you, and wonder what you were doing, and whether you were ill or well; and many a time did old Jacob take his staff and walk across the fields to the hilltop, so that he might come back and tell us that the King’s standard still floated over the Castle. And now here you are safe and sound once more.”

“Yes,” I answered; “and I shall never go away again, Rose, of my own free will. Let those fight that will: if I had stayed at home and minded my own business, that villain had not vexed you.”

“Hush, hush!” she said. “Let that be; I am none the worse for such vexation as that.”

“Nevertheless,” I said, “here I am and here I stay. These times of trouble are not over yet, and I shall do better to protect my own than to go a-fighting for the King. You had rather I stayed at home than that I went to the wars, Rose?”

“Why,” said she, laughing, “is not that a strange question to ask of me, considering that I do not care to trust you out of my sight, Master Will?”

And she smiled so archly in my face and looked at me with such eyes of love that I took her into my arms and told her of all that was in my mind, namely, that I wanted her to marry me as soon as harvest was in, so that in future I could watch over her even more closely than before. To which she answered honestly and fondly that she was mine and mine only, and would do whatever I pleased. So that matter was settled, and we went homewards across the fields to acquaint Philip Lisle of our desires; and if there were any people in all God’s world who were happier than we were at that moment it is a marvel to me, for our happiness was much too great for words.

We found Philip and Jack busied in cleaning their harness, while Ben sat by and lectured them on the folly of war in general and of this war in particular. Whether they attended to his remarks I know not, but at the moment of our arrival they were conversing together in undertones, so that I think Master Ben’s discourse flew above their heads.

“War,” quoth Ben, as we came up, “was first of all invented by the evil one, and therefore no wise man ought to engage in it. As for me, I only went into the Castle to defend myself, because, gentlemen, every honest citizen hath a right to take up arms when his own good estate is threatened. But as to fighting for a⁠—”

“Good Ben,” said I, “you ought to have been a parson, for your tongue is ever ready;” and I came close to him and asked him if he had sounded Lucy as to his plans of the previous night. To which he answered that he had not, but he knew Lucy’s mind on that matter as well as he knew his own. So with that I bade him find Lucy and take her to my mother, and to them I brought Philip and Rose, and we there and then arranged matters for a double wedding, which was to take place as soon as we had got harvest over, if nothing contrary happened in the meantime.

“Only, my children,” said Philip, “do not wait for my coming, for if I am not here at the appointed day it will be because urgent business keepeth Jack and me elsewhere. I shall be with you in spirit if not in the flesh. For you know, Will, that his Majesty hath been very generous to me in the past, and I will not desert him now that he hath fallen low.”

And with that he gave us his blessing and kissed Rose many times and shook my hand, and later in the afternoon he and Jack rode away, promising to return in six weeks’ time so that they might see us married.

“We are for Newark first,” said Jack, “but after that God knows where we shall go. However, lads, it shall go hard with us but we strive to ride northward when you are made Benedicts.”

And so they rode away and we settled down to our quiet farm life. With the fall of the Castle, military operations in our parts were almost over, and people were permitted to attend to their own matters in peace. Sir Thomas Fairfax had been appointed Governor of the Castle by the House of Commons, and for a while he busied himself in making strict inquiry as to those of our neighbourhood who had resisted the Parliament, and in dispersing such Royalists as gathered together in any numbers. Us, however, he was pleased to let alone, probably because he found that we were engaged in our own pursuits and had no mind for further fighting. This suited Ben and myself, for with August the harvest began and we were at work early and late. Nevertheless, we were watched pretty closely by the Parliamentary authorities, as were all men who had retired to their own homes after leaving the Royalist army.

As the harvest drew to an end the two girls were busily occupied in preparing much finery for the wedding. My mother, who had many old-fashioned ideas on this subject, had set apart a chamber for them, wherein they shaped and sewed and had the help of a woman who was skilled in fine sewing. Into this chamber Ben and I did often try to peep, but were jealously excluded, all the comfort we got being an assurance that we should see our brides very fine on the wedding-day. Presently it became time for us to put the banns up at church, and Ben was mightily tickled at hearing his own name read out in conjunction with Lucy’s. Indeed, as the time drew near there was no prouder man than Ben Tuckett in all the country.

Upon the third day before the wedding, Ben and I were coming from Wentbridge, when we heard a horse climbing the hill behind us. It was drawing towards night, and there was a thick mist in the valley, so that we could not make out the face or figure of the horseman until he was close upon us. But when the horse and its rider came out of the mist a great sinking of heart stole over me, for I saw that it was Jack Drumbleforth, and he was alone. He recognised us at the same moment, and spurred his tired horse forward. Then we saw that he himself was careworn and in evil plight, for one arm hung loosely at his side, and there was a wound across his cheek that had lately bled.

“Jack!” I cried, as we ran up to him. “Jack, you have evil news?”

“The worst, Will,” he answered, speaking with difficulty. “The worst. Philip Lisle is dead. He was killed last night near Newark, and so was Captain Trevor and many another.”

And with that a great darkness seemed to fall across us, and I could only think of what my dear Rose must suffer when she heard the sad news.

“I am hurt,” said Jack. “My arm is broke, I think. Let us go on, Will, for I am like to fall off my horse.”

We went homeward sadly enough, Ben leading Jack’s horse, while I walked at the side and let Jack lean on my shoulder. We were debating how we should break the news to Rose, when she and Lucy suddenly came out of one of the fields by the roadside and ran to meet us. Suddenly Rose caught sight of Jack’s face, and all the colour went out of her own. But she came forward and laid her hand on his, and looked at him with such pleading eyes that I saw the tears start into his own as he looked down at her.

“My father?” she said. “My father?”

“Dear Mistress Rose,” he answered, “I would rather have died myself than have brought you sad news. Your dear father was a brave man, and he died a brave man’s death.”

So there was no more talk of our marriage at that time, and I went sadly enough to tell Parson Drumbleforth that it would not take place, and that his son Jack had got a grievous hurt. And thereupon arose a stout controversy between the Vicar’s housekeeper and myself, for Mistress Deborah was for having Jack brought home at once, so that she could nurse him, while I was all for keeping him at Dale’s Field, where I knew he would have better care taken of him than in the Vicarage. In this matter I carried the day, for the Vicar agreed with me, albeit he had hard work to convince his housekeeper, of whom he stood in no little fear. So at Dale’s Field Jack remained, and Parson Drumbleforth used to walk out there to see him every day.

Now, at first my dear Rose would not trouble Jack to tell her the manner of her father’s death, because she knew that he himself was badly hurt, and she feared to do aught to increase the fever into which he had fallen. But when they had nursed him into something like his old self she took me by the hand one afternoon and led me into Jack’s chamber, where the Vicar was sitting with his son, and there she asked him to tell us all that had happened.

“And do not fear, Master John,” said she, “to tell me everything, for you can say nothing that will hurt me more than what I already know. Only I shall be better and happier to know how my dear father died.”

So she sat and listened to what Jack had to tell us of this sad matter, and she held my hand in her own all the while as if she got some comfort from knowing that I was near her.

It was not a long story that Jack had to tell. They had followed the garrison to Newark, and had there found many Royalists who had fled from the Parliamentarians after the fight at Naseby, and in this company they had remained some time, scarcely knowing what to do next. For some talked of one thing and some of another, but nobody seemed to know whether the King would again rally his forces or not. Here and there in the Midlands were houses still fortified against the Parliamentarians, and at various places were gatherings of Royalist troops, but there was no one to direct them, for the King’s army had been entirely disorganized at the battle of Naseby. The Parliamentarians were meanwhile continually engaged in surrounding and disarming the scattered Royalists, and in reducing to subjection such fortresses as the country gentlemen had retreated to, and it was in riding forth to relieve one of these houses that Philip Lisle and Captain Trevor had met their death. For the place was one that was well protected, being naturally strong and surrounded by a deep moat, but the Roundheads had well-nigh starved, the garrison into subjection, when Captain Trevor organized a relieving party and set out to give help to his comrades. Between this expedition and the Parliamentarians a stout fight had resulted, but the enemy vastly outnumbering them, his own party, said Jack, had been beaten, and the garrison subsequently obliged to surrender.

“There were very few of us left to fight in the end,” said Jack, “and Master Lisle and Captain Trevor and myself were cut off from the rest, so that the enemy bade us surrender while there was hope of mercy. But we would have naught of that, and continued to engage them as best we could. And then Master Lisle’s horse was killed under him, so that he was brought to his feet, and Captain Trevor was shot through the heart immediately afterwards, leaving me and Master Lisle fighting back to back. Then I heard him shout behind me, ‘For God and the King!’ in a hearty voice, but presently I felt him reel against me and fall across his horse, and at the same moment my arm was shattered and the pain was so fearful that I fainted and knew no more. But when I came to myself after some time, the fight was over, and Captain Trevor and Master Lisle lay near me, both dead, and with such a peaceful look on their faces that I knew they had felt no pain in their death. By that time the Roundheads had passed away to another part of the field, so I watched my opportunity and captured a horse that was grazing near, and because the enemy was thick between me and Newark I came north, knowing that I could do no more in those parts.”

So that was all that he had to tell us, and my dear love, though she shed many tears while he spoke, was comforted somewhat because she now knew all. However, she often sat near Jack after that, and would ask him to tell her of all that had befallen her father since she had last seen him; whereupon Jack would strive to remember all that Philip had said and done, recalling many incidents that he thought would be pleasing to her.

Now, although it was out of the question for us to be married at that time, both Rose and I felt that our sorrow ought not to stand in the way of Ben’s and Lucy’s happiness, and after a time we begged them to arrange with Parson Drumbleforth for their wedding. But while honest Ben was greatly pleased with us for thinking of him, he would not listen to our proposal.

“Nay, Will,” quoth he, when I told him what we wished, “indeed, neither Lucy nor myself would consent to joys which you and Rose cannot share. Do we not feel for poor Rose as keenly as if it were our own trouble? Marry, and so we ought, for are we not all as one family? So let us wait until spring, when Rose’s first grief will have gained some comfort, and then we will all be married together.”

And with that he wrung my hand and hastened away to his work; for he had become an ardent farmer, and was forever busying himself amongst the sheep or the cattle.

So the time passed on until the spring of 1646, and until then we were allowed to live peaceably upon our land, minding our own business as we did before the war began. There was no fighting, or next to none, that winter, and we were in hopes that the King and the Commons might adjust their differences, and rid the land of that hateful war. We heard little at that time of what was going on. Some said that the Scotch were coming to rescue the King; others, that the Presbyterians and the Independents were about to fight between themselves for supremacy. In the first week of May, 1646, we heard that his Majesty had entered the Scottish camp at Newark, and soon afterwards we learned that the Scotch army, carrying the King with them, had retreated to Newcastle. But we had little time to think of these matters, for there were fresh troubles gathering round ourselves.

When the second siege of Pontefract Castle was over, the Governor, Sir Thomas Fairfax, in pursuance of orders from the Commons, occupied himself in pursuing such of the Royalist forces as were still banded together, and in reducing the various manor-houses in that neighbourhood which were still fortified, and that he might not be hindered in this work he appointed one Colonel Cotterel to be his Vice-Governor, and gave him a force of a hundred men wherewith to occupy the Castle. For a while Colonel Cotterel left the Royalists of his neighbourhood pretty much to their own devices, doing no more than keeping his eye upon them so that they might not band themselves together again. But when the military power began to make itself felt⁠—for at that time Cromwell and his army were the real rulers of England⁠—he, taking his orders no doubt from his superiors, began to harass the Royalist gentlemen of his neighbourhood with exceeding severity. It was known which of us had helped to hold the Castle against the Parliament, and we presently found ourselves narrowly watched, and treated in such a fashion as was hard for flesh and blood to bear. But ere long even sterner measures were employed against us.

It was, I think, one evening about the middle of May, 1646, that a party of troopers, headed by an officer, rode into our yard at Dale’s Field and called for me. I went out to speak to them, and found the officer to be one John Campion, a man that I had known many years for a stout Roundhead.

“Well, Master Dale,” said he, “we have come to request you to take a little ride with us this evening. Colonel Cotterel desires your presence at the Castle.”

Now, I could not at first understand why Colonel Cotterel should send for me, who wished not to have aught to do with him or his; but I reflected that I could not help obeying his summons, seeing that he had sent twenty armed men to fetch me, and I therefore saddled my horse and bade my friends farewell, telling them not to fear if I did not return that night. So we rode away, but came to a halt at Darrington, where Campion delivered a similar message to Jack Drumbleforth, who was then living with his father. What they wanted with us at the Castle neither Jack nor I could make out, but we agreed that we were being fetched thither for no good. And this turned out to be the case, for we were no sooner inside the Barbican than our horses were taken from us and we were shown into the Governor’s presence, who informed us that because of our resistance to the Parliament we were condemned to pay a fine, which in my case amounted to two hundred pounds, and Jack’s to half that sum. Moreover, continued Cotterel, he had received proof that we and others of our way of thinking were meditating a fresh rising in these parts, and we must therefore consider ourselves prisoners until such time as he saw fit to release us.

Now, we felt this to be very harsh and overbearing conduct, for it proved that the Roundheads were not willing to let us be at peace when we had no intention of being at aught else; and as for the fines, we felt it unjust to thus punish us for having done what we believed to be our duty. However, we were in their power, and could not help ourselves, and we therefore took up our quarters in the Castle with what patience we could, only begging them to inform our friends of what had happened to us. This they speedily did, for they shortly sent to Dale’s Field, and seized upon my cattle and sheep in satisfaction of the fine they had imposed upon me, so that I had neither horse, ox, nor sheep left, and poor Jacob Trusty was well-nigh beside himself with grief and anger.

We soon found that we were not the only prisoners in the Castle, for Colonel Cotterel had sent out and apprehended many Royalists of these parts whom he supposed to be inventing plans for another rising on behalf of the King. As for fines, he now busily employed himself in levying them upon all who had formerly defended the Castle. Some he obliged to compound for their estates, others he sentenced to the payment of fines such as he had imposed upon me, so that there was not a Royalist gentleman or yeoman in all Osgoldcross that was not cruelly made to pay for his loyalty. Some, indeed, paid great amounts. Sir George Wentworth was fined three thousand pounds; Sir Nicholas Yarborough paid six hundred pounds; Francis Neville paid a thousand pounds; Sir George Dalston paid seven hundred pounds; Sir William Lowther, the late Governor, paid two hundred; while Sir John Woolstoneholme of Nostel, who had given his plate to the King, was fined the value thereof, namely, ten thousand pounds.

We remained prisoners in Pontefract Castle for more than two years, during which time we saw naught of our friends, and knew little as to their welfare. But during that time a movement began amongst the Royalists of our parts, which ended in the Castle being surprised and wrested from the possession of our enemies. There was in the Castle at the time of our imprisonment a gentleman named Morrice, who had lived a somewhat adventurous life, and had fought on both sides during the war between King and Commons. In his youth he had been page to Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford, and had subsequently entered the King’s service and fought as an officer. For some reason, which no one clearly knew, he quitted the Royalist forces and transferred his services to the Roundheads. In their cause he speedily distinguished himself, and was advanced to the rank of colonel. His private character, however, was not pleasing to Cromwell, who would have none but sober and godly men in his army, so that, when the New Model was formed in 1646, he was left unemployed, in consequence of which neglect he retired to his estate in Yorkshire, and began to form plans for revenging himself upon the Parliamentary leaders by surprising Pontefract Castle. This he was all the more easily able to do because he was a very intimate friend of Cotterel, who was always inviting him to his table, and made much of his society. Morrice took advantage of this confidence to further his own designs. He contrived to entice certain of Cotterel’s men into his own service, and he made such arrangements for surprising the Castle as seemed most suitable.

The Royalists at that time were accustomed to meet at the house of Mr. Beaumont, the Vicar of South Kirkby, some four miles from the Castle, and to them Morrice communicated his designs as occasion arose. While he worked towards the end in view inside the Castle, they secretly made arrangements for bringing their men together at a convenient time. During these operations Cotterel had no notion that Morrice was actively working to betray him, and he continued to hold out to him many professions of friendship, to which Morrice suitably responded. Finally, after an abortive attempt, a successful recapture of the Castle was effected on the 6th of June, 1648, and Colonel Cotterel, and such of his men as were not killed or wounded, were strictly confined to the quarters where they had lately detained their Royalist prisoners.

The Castle was now once more in the hands of the King’s friends, and those of us who had been imprisoned therein were free, and had the choice of remaining to garrison it against the Parliamentarians. Several of my companions elected to follow this course, and went actively to work to provision the Castle, where there was now gathered a force of about six hundred men, who, on Morrice’s recommendation, chose Sir John Digby to be their Governor. But for my part, I was filled with anxiety about my friends, of whom I had heard but little for over two years, and I accordingly left the Castle and betook myself straightway to Dale’s Field.

I drew near to my house with many anxious feelings, not knowing what news might be in store for me. We had been so jealously watched during our confinement in the Castle that it had been almost an impossibility to gain any knowledge of what was going on in the outside world. Once during the first few months after my arrest I had received tidings from Dale’s Field to the effect that all was well there, and that Ben was seeing to my affairs. But after that I had no more news, for Colonel Cotterel imposed many strict rules upon his captives, and would permit no letters to pass either in or out, fearing lest somewhat of a treasonable and dangerous nature should be communicated. Whether they were all well and alive at Dale’s Field, or some ailing and, perchance, dead, I did not know, which uncertainty often caused me many sad and weary thoughts.

It was towards the close of a summer evening when I drew near my house. Nothing seemed changed, so far as I could see from a hurried glance round the familiar objects. I thought as I stood at the orchard gate that I had never seen aught so beautiful as this homestead of mine, which my eyes then beheld for the first time for two long years. For the soft light of evening fell upon the house and the red-roofed buildings beyond, and the apple-trees in the orchard were in full bloom, and the great bushy lilacs were loaded with delicate clusters of blossom, and the honeysuckle that grew over the porch was covered with yellow flower. Everything was very still about the house, and I passed through the orchard unobserved, and speedily gained the window of my mother’s parlour. There I stole cautiously across the flowerbeds and peeped into the room, hoping to see some face that would light up with welcome at the sight of me. But the room was empty, and I stood at the window examining it, and marvelling to find that it had changed in nothing since I had last seen it. For there was my mother’s chair and table by the broad window-seat, and upon the table lay one of her religious books, and by its side some knitting work that she had evidently laid down on being called away to some household matter. Everything in that room, indeed, was just as it always had been, and it only needed her presence to make the picture spring into real life.

I left the window and went round the corner of the house, intending to enter by the kitchen door. But I had no sooner got round the great bushes of holly, with which our walls are surrounded on that side, than I saw a little group immediately before me, at sight of whom I stood still. There were Ben and Lucy and Rose, and they were listening to Jacob Trusty, who was leaning over the low wall of the fold and talking to them very earnestly. My footsteps had made no sound on the soft grass path, and they were unconscious of my presence. I stood for a moment watching them. Jacob was the only one whose face was towards me, and I noticed that he looked old, and aged, and careworn. Suddenly he lifted his head and saw me. The girls turned and gave a little cry of wonder and surprise, looking at first as if they did not know me⁠—which would have been no wonder, for I had grown a great beard during my captivity. But Rose suddenly sprang forward with a great cry of “ ’Tis Will!” and in another moment they were all round me, laughing and crying over me, and shaking my hand and clapping my back all at once.

“Dear heart!” said Jacob, “I thought I saw a ghost when I lifted up my head and caught sight of thee standing there. No finer sight have I seen this many a day.”

“Alas!” said Rose. “You have changed, dear Will, since we last saw you, for you look pale and worn, and oh, so much older!”

“Why,” said I, “that is just what I was thinking about all of you, for you all have a sad look that I like not. Yea, even thou, old Ben, lookest more sad than merry. But come, let us inside to my mother, and we will forget all our sadness for a time at least.”

And I made a move towards the house, leading Rose with me. But Rose laid her hand on my arm as if to stay me, and the others hung back, while Jacob Trusty shook his head.

“Rose,” I cried, “what is it? What ails you all? Ben, speak. My mother?”

“Oh!” groaned Ben, “tell him, Rose.”

But I knew it already. Something had told me there was sadness and sorrow for me at Dale’s Field as I came along the highway in the summer twilight. Something in the sight of the empty parlour went to my heart and confirmed my sense of coming trouble. And now, when Ben spoke, a great wave of grief rose up in my heart and shut out past and future, so that I only knew that I was suffering as I had suffered that night, many years before, when my father was shot down before my very eyes.

I sat down on the low wall and covered my face with my hands and said naught. Only I heard the others go away, and felt Rose sit by me and place her arm within mine as if she would comfort me, for which comfort I was exceeding grateful, my heart being like to burst with trouble. And after that she told me very gently that my dear mother had died a month before, after a short illness that occasioned her very little pain, and was now buried by my father’s side in Darrington churchyard. So then I knew the worst, and rose up to face my great sorrow manfully, but the heart within me was cold and heavy, and would have been empty of aught but grief if it had not been for my dear love, who did all to comfort me that a woman can do.

“ ’Tis a sad homecoming for you, my poor Will,” said Rose, as she stood by me, “and I am afraid that Ben and Jacob have more sad news in store for you.”

“They can tell me naught like what I have heard already,” I said. “But let us go in, Rose, so that I may hear it and have it over. My heart is full of sorrow tonight, and I should be in a poor way if it were not for you, sweetheart.”

But with that she put her hands in mine and lifted up her face to kiss me, so that the love in her eyes gave me some new life, and I went inside with her to hear what bad news Ben had in store for me.

“We have had sore times, Will,” said Ben, when the girls had found me something to eat and drink, and I was back in my old place at the head of the long table. “You need not marvel that we all look careworn and troubled.”

“No, marry,” said Jacob, who was seated inside the kitchen, comforting himself with a mug of ale. “No, for ’tis indeed a troublous time for honest folk. Such times, such times!”

“What hath happened?” I asked, somehow caring little how great or terrible the news was. It could not be worse than the blow that had already fallen upon me.

“Shall I tell him what hath happened since he was taken away from us, Jacob, or will you?” said Ben.

“Nay,” answered Jacob, shaking his white head. “Nay, ’tis too much for me. Say on, Master Benjamin, say on.”

So Ben proceeded to tell me of all that had occurred at Dale’s Field since the evening, two years before, when the body of troopers fetched me away to the Castle. “Soon after that event,” said Ben, “more troopers appeared at Dale’s Field and carried away all the live stock and what grain and wool there was stored about the place, saying that they were levying distress upon thy goods in satisfaction of the fine imposed upon thee. So thoroughly did they carry out their business that they left naught but three of the horses and certain of the milch cows, all else in the shape of oxen and sheep being driven away before them, leaving fold and fields as bare as if the land had been tenantless.”

“Well,” said I, “I cannot help it. We are in strange times and must wait till better come.”

“Ay,” said Ben, “but that is not all, Will.”

“No,” said Jacob, “not by a long chalk.”

“We might have brought matters round,” continued Ben, “if they had left us in peace after that, but the mischief was that they put in another appearance soon after harvest, and forced us to thresh the corn, the grain of which they immediately carted away, saying that thy fine was not yet satisfied. Presently they came again and took away many loads of straw, and this they repeated so often that we never knew when to expect them. As to resisting their demands, we could not, for they were always a strong force and made much show of arms.”

“Nevertheless,” said Jacob, “they heard my mind upon the matter more than once.”

“Well,” continued Ben, “they kept up this continual raid upon thy goods, Will, until very recently, so that they have made the place as barren as a clay-field. We could not get a little live stock together but that they came and seized it, nor have we had a harvest the fruits of which they have not claimed. Horses, cattle, sheep, all these have they got; nay, indeed, they have had all thy substance since the time they took thee to the Castle. Nevertheless, we did what we could, for whenever Jacob and I got the chance, we sold what stock and produce we conveniently could, and hid the money in safety for thee. But it has been a hard time, and we are well-nigh worn out with anxiety and sorrow.”

And that I believed, for poor Ben’s face was pinched and pale, and the merry look that was always in his eyes even when he was in his doleful moods was now gone, so that I saw the honest fellow had suffered more for me that I was aware of.

“Have patience, Ben,” I said, trying to cheer them all; “they will rob me no more, for the Castle is once more in the hands of the King’s friends, and these Roundhead knaves will not come cattle-lifting hereabouts yet awhile. Levying distress in satisfaction of my fine, did they say? Marry, the fine was but two hundred pounds, and they must have taken the value of that a dozen times over. However, we will see if there be not some justice left in England yet, for I will have redress, if I have to fight for it.”

“Ay,” said Jacob approvingly, “justice is a good word; but I fear me there is little of that same justice abroad at present, for ’tis these soldiers that administer everything nowadays. However, we will fight a whole body of Roundhead troopers an they come here again reaving and racking. Oh, an thou couldst have seen the young bullocks I had fed for market last winter twelvemonth! A plague on fines and levies, say I!”

But what was done was done, and we had to content ourselves for that time, being powerless to do anything. Yet it made my heart sad to go round my granaries, and barns, and stables, in which I had always taken such pride, and to find them empty and lifeless. Still, it was no use to sit down and lament, and we accordingly set to work to restock the farm and get things into order again. Only I was a much poorer man when all was done than I had ever looked to be.

So now matters were very different from what they had been, and there was such gloom and sadness in our house as I had never known before. For wherever I went and whatever I did I missed my dear mother’s presence, and often started to think I heard her voice calling me as in the old days. Nay, indeed, I could not at first believe that I should never see her again nor hear her speak, and only realized my great loss when I went in at nights from the fields and saw her chair empty. As for her parlour, we left it just as it had been when she was last in it, her book lying on the table, with a sprig of faded lilac marking the place where she had last read in it, and by its side the knitting which she had put down never to take up again. And into that room none of us went save when we wished to be alone with our own memories of her. Sometimes Parson Drumbleforth would come along the highway and go into the little room and sit there by himself, thinking, as he told us, of the days when he had sat there with my father and mother, and he would afterwards come out with a great look of calm and peace upon his face and bless us solemnly, and go his way homewards. And sometimes Jacob Trusty would go to the little window and peer over his horn spectacles at the book and the knitting still lying on the little table, and then go back to his work as if he had seen some holy sight. And, indeed, I believe he saw more than we did, for he once told me that it seemed to him that when he thus visited the little parlour he could see his old mistress still sitting in her elbow chair reading her book, while the bright needles clicked against each other as they went in and out through the wool.

“Yes,” he would often say to Rose and Lucy, “ye see, lasses, what a holy and a blessed thing it is to have been a good woman. As for us men, we are rude, and fierce, and stern, and need a good woman to set us an example. Yea, and see what store is set by her, so that her good deeds work after her death.”

Now, I was very busily engaged during the rest of that summer of 1648 in repairing so far as I could the damage done by the depredations of the Roundheads, who had so basely robbed me. Then came the corn harvest, and we made haste to gather and garner our crops, being firmly resolved that when they were once housed nothing but force should despoil us of them. All this time the last siege of Pontefract Castle had been in progress, for the Royalists under Colonel Morrice, having seized the Castle and released us who were confined there, were holding out against the Parliamentarian troops once more. This third siege continued during the remainder of the summer and into the autumn, by the middle of which season it was rumoured that General Cromwell himself was coming to aid in forcing a capitulation. When I heard this news I resolved that I would now endeavour to gain some redress for the wrongs put upon me. I had already been to my old friend Lawyer Hook, and had told him all that had happened. But to my story he had given little heed, saying that at present England was under military law, and that Cromweil and his troops were above all ordinary statutes. Now, I believed that General Cromwell was a just and honest man, and I resolved that I would go to him, if he came into our parts, and tell him how I had been treated by Cotterel and his troops, for I was not minded to sit down calmly and suffer my serious loss without protest on my part.

It was in November that Cromwell came at the head of his troopers to take part in the siege of Pontefract Castle. Soon after his arrival he took up his quarters at Knottingley, which lies on the riverside over against Ferrybridge. It was now my time to act, and I accordingly attired myself in my best and rode along the road to his quarters, where I presently found him, and was admitted to his presence. He remembered me at once, and listened patiently to my complaint, bidding me speak freely to him. So I took heart and told him all my story, confessing that I was willing to pay the fine imposed upon me though I acknowledged not its justice⁠—but complaining strongly that ten times its value had been taken from me when I could not help myself. Moreover, I said that if he and his friends were anxious to do justice they would give me back my own. To which he answered that it was for justice he and his men were fighting, and that they would rob no man unjustly. Nevertheless, he continued, all must be done in a proper manner. He then counselled me to go to London, where he himself would shortly be, and to there prosecute my claim in due form, promising me that he would do what he could to aid me in securing compensation for what I had been despoiled of over and above my fine; and that I might travel in safety, he gave me a safe-conduct.

Thus it came about that I made my journey to London at a time when great events were stirring. It was not to my liking to leave home again so soon, but there was Ben to look after my affairs for me, and it was winter, when things are quiet on the land; so I decided to go, and ultimately set out for the capital on the 1st of December, 1648.

I spent five days in travelling to London, riding my own horse all the way, and keeping him up to his five-and-thirty miles a day by letting him have his fill of good food and a long night’s rest between each stage of the journey. To me this adventure was full of novelty and incident, for I had never been further south than Sheffield, and knew nothing of England outside my own county, save what I had seen in the neighbourhood of the Peak when we went in search of Rose. My eyes, therefore, had plenty of occupation as I rode along the Great North Road, which busy highway I followed all the way to London, passing through the market-towns of Doncaster, Newark, Peterborough, Huntingdon, and Hatfield, in each of which I saw something worthy of notice. My mind, indeed, had never any occasion to be idle, for there was always some new object or matter claiming my attention⁠—now a troop of soldiers passing along the road, or a country squire and his family going to their seat, now a company of drovers taking their cattle to Smithfield, and now a Cavalier riding along with dejected looks. At the inns where I rested o’ nights there was always plenty of company and no lack of conversation, but in this I engaged little, being minded to hold my tongue and let other folk do the talking. Nevertheless, I kept my ears open to what was said, being anxious to know what news was being noised abroad. The talk at all the wayside inns was of the King, men asking all travellers from London what tidings there were of his Majesty and what it was intended to do with him. Anxious, however, as all men were for news, there were few that ventured on giving their opinions on these great matters, for the army was at that time all-powerful, and a man hardly dare speak what was in his mind for fear of being heard by someone who might do him an injury.

It was late in the afternoon of the 6th of December when I came in view of the capital, and passed by the villages of Edgware and Tottenham on my way to Westminster. Then indeed I began to wonder exceedingly at the mightiness of the great city, where everything was new to me. The crowds going in and out along the streets filled me with amazement, and the great buildings by which I rode made me wonder at their size and appearance. Coming to a halt at the end of the Strand, I was forced to inquire my way to Westminster, where I intended to lodge, and was presently conducted by a boy past Whitehall to a street over against the ancient abbey, where I found the home of one Master Goodfellow, who had been recommended to me by Parson Drumbleforth. There I dismissed my guide, and having aided my host in stabling my horse, I sat down to my supper in my lodging, feeling very strange in the middle of that great city where I knew no one.

Now, this Master Goodfellow with whom I had taken up my lodging was a verger at the great Abbey of Westminster, and had been recommended to me as a good Royalist by our Vicar, who had known him in times past and had abode with him at the time of his own visit to London in the year 1637. Master Goodfellow was now an ancient man, and looked with much sadness on present events, as he told me while I sat at supper, having begged him to favour me with his company. Presently, being convinced that I was faithful to the King, he began to tell me such news as he had heard during the day.

“ ’Tis the army,” said he, “that rules everything nowadays, Master Dale, so men are finding out. For, look you, the administration of laws is now but an empty show, for these Roundheads do as they please with every ancient institution. You have not heard what they have done today?”

“Nay, sir,” I answered, “I am but newly arrived, having ridden straight to your door.”

“All London is ringing with the news,” he said, shaking his head sadly, “and the sober citizens know not what to make of it. For yesterday, Master Dale, the Commons declared for a reconciliation with the King his Majesty, which they had a right to do, being the lawful representatives of the people. But this was not to the liking of the army, and this morning one of its leaders, Colonel Pride, went down to the House with a body of men, and prevented all such members as were displeasing to the army from entering to their duties. Yea, and now men are saying, Master Dale, that the remainder of the members will obey the army in everything.”

Thus, indeed, matters turned out, for within a week the Commons passed a resolution that the King should be brought to justice, and he was removed from Hurst Castle, where the army had had him in safe keeping, to Windsor, where he was strictly guarded. And after that men were talking at every street corner and in all the alehouses of what would be done with his Majesty.

For the first day or two of my abode in London I did naught but wander about that wonderful city, admiring the strange sights and places of which I had often heard travellers talk. Many a time had I listened to Parson Drumbleforth as he told Jack and me of the great things he had seen in London town, and now that I saw them for myself, I was bound to confess that our good Vicar had not made too much of his story. What London is like at this present time I know not, for I have never been near it since that first visit of mine, and after that it was almost consumed in the Great Fire of 1666, but I have very clear memories of how it looked in the year 1649. So many places of historic interest were there to see, that I hardly knew which way to turn when I set out to view the city, but by Master Goodfellow’s advice I first inspected the Tower of London, a great and awful place, strongly guarded and surrounded by impregnable walls and deep moats, and with the Thames running at its south side. At this wonderful place I looked many an hour, only turning from it to admire the great bridge across the river, upon which houses and shops were built, and at each end of which stood high, battlemented gates furnished with portcullises. From this bridge, too, I watched the river, crowded with ships and vessels of all sorts and of all nations. Or, passing from that part of London through crooked, narrow streets, enclosed by high wooden houses, I made my way to the great church of St. Paul, whose spire rose high into the air. Here, too, I was lost in admiration of the famous cathedral, but I could not avoid thinking that it was not so beautiful as our own York Minster. All round St. Paul’s were streets which I was never tired of exploring and wandering in, such as Cheapside and Bread Street, where were many shops and houses of citizens, and inns over whose doors some sign hung to show that accommodation was there provided for man and beast. For city life was quite new to me, and the contemplation of it afforded me much food for my mind, in which, however, there was always a strong conviction that I much preferred my own homestead and the green fields around it to the crowded and narrow streets of the city.

My admiration did not prevent me from attending to my business, which was to prosecute my claim for compensation from those who had despoiled me of my goods. On the day following that of my arrival I went under Master Goodfellow’s directions to Westminster Hall, where I found as many lawyers as would have made a regiment of foot, and by one of these I was directed to some office where such matters as mine were attended to, and where, according to General Cromwell’s instructions, I made a presentation of my case. Now, I had thought that I had naught to do but state my grievance and have it redeemed, but I speedily found that there were many formalities to go through before an end came. For I was sent from one official to another, and from this office to that, so that I grew well sickened of the whole affair, and was minded to return home and forego my claim. But upon reflection I decided that it would be an unmanly thing to let myself be robbed in that way, and I therefore determined to stay and see the matter out. By the time I had arrived at that conclusion, however, it was close on to Christmas, and I was informed that naught could be done for me until the New Year was come. So there I stayed, wanting and yet not liking to go away, and spending my time in walking about London and Westminster, seeing such sights as the great city had to show. And I spent my Christmas with Master and Mistress Goodfellow, longing very much on Christmas Day morning for a sight of home and the dear faces I had left there.

Now, when the New Year came, there were new affairs of state to be adjusted, and these were so important that no man thought of his own business, but watched the great drama which was being played out before his very eyes. I could prosecute my own claim no further, for all the answer I got was that it was under consideration; but though I was anxious to return home, my curiosity about such events as were then happening kept me waiting in London. Those events truly were awful in themselves, for each led to the deposition and execution of the King. On the 1st of January the Commons, or rather that portion of them left by Colonel Pride, appointed a new tribunal, which they called the High Court of Justice, to try the King’s majesty on a charge of high treason against his subjects. Four days afterwards the same body put forward a declaration that the people of England were, under God, the source of all just power, and that the Commons, being the representatives duly elected of the people, had no need of approval from either the House of Lords or the King. On the 9th this High Court of Justice was formally constituted and the trial of the King definitely arranged for.

There were many who all this time doubted that the King would really be put upon his trial, for they held that the sovereign is above the law, and that the army after all would shrink from carrying matters to such extremities. But during the next ten days affairs went forward, and on the 20th his Majesty was brought to Whitehall for his trial. Then indeed London was in a state of great excitement, for it was rumoured by some that the King would be put to death, and by others that he would be banished across seas. As for all those who had been true to his Majesty, their hearts were filled with sorrow to think of his sad condition.

On the morning of the 21st of January Master Goodfellow and I rose early and made our way to the entrance of the great hall, where his Majesty was to appear before the men who had constituted themselves his judges. There were great crowds about Westminster and Whitehall, and the Roundhead soldiers were assembled in much force, as though to check any demonstration in the King’s favour. By dint of hard work and much pushing through the crowds we managed to secure places near to the door by which his Majesty was to enter, and there we abode very uncomfortably for two or three hours, swayed hither and thither by the crowd, the members of which kept up a continual talk and chatter as to what would take place before the judges. As for me, I wished I was well out of it, for I was squeezed and shoved against more than I had a mind for. But at last a great hush fell over the crowd around us, and a way being made by the troopers, there appeared a small body of guards, in whose midst walked the King. And then for the first time I saw his Majesty Charles the First, in whose cause I had fought and suffered.

Now, there was a perfect stillness as the King came along, and the great crowd was motionless save where some man tried to lift himself high enough to look over the shoulders of those before him. The King held himself very erect, and looked into the faces of the crowd with a calm and serene gaze, so that to me he seemed the very picture of a highborn gentleman, who knew naught of fear nor asked for favour. Yet there were deep lines upon his face, and his hair was thickly sprinkled with gray, and his eyes had a look of suffering in them. And so he and his guards went quickly by, and as they passed there were one or two in the crowd, myself included, who said heartily, “God save your Majesty!” upon hearing which the King inclined his head in our direction and smiled upon us, and entered the hall. We hung about the entrance that day, listening to such scraps of news as came from the trial chamber. First we heard that of the hundred and thirty-five members of the court only sixty-seven were present, and that one of these was General Oliver Cromwell. Then came news that when they called on Fairfax to answer his name, his lady answered from the gallery that he was not there and never would be, and that they wronged him to name him. After that we heard that the King, on being called upon to answer the charges brought against him, did deny the authority of that tribunal and refused to plead. Upon that the trial became naught but a formality, for the judges had it all their own way, and finally, on the 27th, they sentenced the King to death.

It was on the morning of the 30th of January that they beheaded the King before Whitehall. We rose before it was light, and at once made our way across the gardens and parks lying between Westminster and Whitehall, so that we might come near to the scaffold on which his Majesty was to die. This they had caused to be erected in front of the windows of the banqueting hall, and the carpenters were busy finishing it when we arrived. There were already great crowds of people gathered together, and when the sun rose it shone on as sad a scene as ever I saw. For there was the palace of Whitehall, its roofs slightly covered with snow, and the trees in its gardens and courtyards silvered with frost, and against all this whiteness the black drapery of the scaffold made a dark blot. Then came the soldiers, musketeers, and pikemen, and troopers, stern-faced and resolute, and set themselves to surround the scaffold and to drive the people back from coming too near it. But I and my companion had worked our way into a corner at the foot of the scaffold, and there we were permitted to remain. And after that an hour went by and the scaffold was empty save for the block that stood in its midst, and the soldiers stood motionless and grim, and the great crowd behind them increased in size until it filled the ground from Charing Cross to Westminster.

At last a window, looking upon the scaffold, was thrown open, and a little group of men stepped out and drew near to the block in the centre. A tall man in dark clothing, with a mask over his eyes and nose, carried an axe; another similarly attired accompanied him, and with these two were several musketeers and an officer, who posted themselves at the corners of the scaffold. And then a great and awful silence fell upon the crowd, for the King appeared at the open window and stepped upon the scaffold, followed by the Bishop of London and Colonel Hacker, who had had his Majesty in keeping. The King was calm and confident, and he smiled as he looked up at the sky and let his eye travel across the great multitude, where many a head was bared. He removed the jewel from his neck and handed it to the Bishop, to whom he said some last words; then he stretched himself upon the scaffold, and the uplifted axe fell swiftly. A deep sigh rose from the great crowd, and there were hundreds around me that uttered sobs and cries.

We were close upon the scaffold. A bright jet of blood spurted across the boards near to me. I raised my kerchief and dipped it in the King’s blood, and have it to this day⁠—a memento of that terrible event.

It was about the middle of the afternoon of that eventful day that I set out from my lodging in Westminster, and walked by way of Whitehall towards Charing Cross. Whither I was bound or with what aim I do not now remember; most likely I had neither aim nor definite destination in my mind, but was simply moving about to calm myself, for the scene of the morning had wrought upon me heavily. Whatever most of his friends felt, none of them could exceed me in sympathy for the unfortunate King; and my heart had been further wounded during the morning by an account of his last interview with his two youngest children, which must indeed have been a bitter matter, and worse to face than the death which so soon followed. All these matters we had spoken of at Master Goodfellow’s, until I could bear no longer to talk of the subject, and had gone forth to walk about the city. I was half minded to saddle my horse and ride away from London, for it seemed to me, who from my birth had been trained to pray for the King’s good estate, that a curse must rest upon the city that had witnessed his murder. But I reflected that I had a duty to perform to myself and my friends⁠—namely, the recovery of my money⁠—and I resolved to stay a while longer, but made up my mind that if I got no redress within reasonable time, I would go home and trouble myself no more in the matter.

It was beginning to grow dark when I came over against Whitehall, where groups of people still lingered about the scene of the King’s death. The scaffold had by that time been removed, and there were no traces of the terrible scene of the morning. I was hurrying past the banqueting house, when a man in a cloak came across from the gardens which lie between Whitehall and the river, and walked behind me for a short space. Suddenly his steps quickened, and he gained upon me and tapped me on the shoulder. I turned quickly to look at him. There was an oil-lamp burning close at hand, and by its light I saw that the man was General Cromwell. His hat was drawn down over his face, and his uniform was hidden by a large horseman’s cloak, but there was no mistaking him when he lifted his head to look at me.

“Well, farmer,” said he, “I knew you, although I could not see your countenance. There are not many Englishmen that stand six feet four. Have you finished the business that brought you hither?”

“No, sir,” I answered, and stood watching him and wondering what thoughts ran in the mind of this remarkable man, who, in my opinion, had been the chief instrument in bringing about the King’s death.

“And how is that? For you have been about your business some time, I think?”

“Two months, sir, all but a day. And, indeed, I cannot waste more time upon it, and must presently return home and suffer the loss of my money rather than hang about in London.”

“Softly, farmer, softly. It will do the Commonwealth no good if its citizens suffer loss. As for your fine of two hundred pounds, that you must lose, being bound for it by reason of your opposition to the nation’s welfare, but you shall have returned all that was taken from you over and above.”

“Why, sir,” said I, “I am much obliged. You would not have me say that I acknowledge the justice of any fine, for I don’t, but I shall certainly be glad to have the value of my stock returned to me. But I have been so sent from one office to another, and from this man to that, that I have grown impatient of the whole matter, not being used to aught but plain yes and no until this time.”

“Ay,” he said, as if talking to himself, “these lawyers with their quibbles and quips! However⁠—well, but hast thou heard aught from thine own country of late? Thy friends at Pontefract Castle, Master Dale, still hold out against us. Beware, and join them not when you go home.”

“Nay, sir,” said I, “there is no cause to join them now. If ever I left my farm it was to fight for the King’s Majesty.”

He looked at me steadfastly and inclined his head.

“And that cause is now gone? Indeed it is so. Well, man, I respect an honest heart. But come with me a moment.”

He laid his hand on my arm and turned me in the direction of a doorway in the side of the palace. We entered and passed along a dark corridor which led to a small courtyard where a picket of soldiers was on duty. From this we passed into a gallery hung with fine pictures, such as I had never seen before, and from that through many great apartments richly decorated, and looking very vast and magnificent in the dim light, until we paused before a door where stood two pikemen on guard. My companion took a lamp from a table that stood near and advanced to the door, which was thrown open by one of the soldiers.

“Follow me,” said Cromwell, and entered the room. I stepped in after him, and the man shut the door again. The apartment was in darkness, and its proportions were so vast that the lamp shed but little light in it. Cromwell advanced to the centre, and, setting down the lamp upon a table, beckoned me to draw near. And then I saw that upon the table stood a coffin, covered over with a dark-coloured pall. While I wondered what this meant my companion turned the pall back, and I suddenly started with amazement.

“Sir, sir!” I said. “It is the King!”

For truly it was the body of the dead monarch that lay there in the coffin before me. His face was calm, and bore no trace of pain; he seemed, indeed, to be asleep rather than dead. I stood bound to the spot with horror, looking from the dead King’s face to the man who had brought me there, and who was beholding his fallen enemy with impassive countenance.

“Yea,” said Cromwell at length; “it is the King⁠—the King that betrayed his great trust. Mark you, Master Dale, what fate is in store for a monarch that opposeth the just demands of his people. Do you know what this day hath done for England and the English nation? It hath made her and them free forever from tyranny.”

“Alas, sir,” said I, “I know naught save that he had children that are now weeping his death.”

He gave me a swift, deep glance, and drew the pall gently back over the dead King’s face.

“Yea,” he said, “there have been many children weep their father’s death of late years, and many fathers that have wept their children’s death. Come, let us go.”

He took up the lamp, and touched the dark pall here and there where it had become disarranged. Then he looked at me curiously.

“Farmer,” said he, “you see that we have treated him with all courtesy and respect. What think you, if they had taken off my head outside this morning, and the heads of my companions, would they have given us decent burial? Alack, more like Tyburn and the gibbet, and the kites to feed upon us.”

I remembered that saying in after-years, when Charles the Second came back to the kingdom, for then they disinterred Cromwell and his friends, and subjected their dead bodies to many foolish and cruel indignities.

We passed out again, and he preceded me through the great halls and apartments until we once more came into the space before Whitehall. There he suddenly turned upon me.

“Get you gone home, Master Dale,” he said, almost fiercely. “You are better in the country than in this city. There are more than you that are longing for a quiet life amongst the woods and fields, but the Lord hath appointed them to other work. Get you gone, get you gone, and keep clean hands and a right spirit. As to your business, it shall be done.”

Without another word he turned away sharply and disappeared in the direction of Westminster, while I, full of wonder and excitement at what I had heard and seen, went forward to Charing Cross, and along the Strand towards St. Paul’s. The streets were thronged with people, and every tongue was discussing the event of the day. The Roundhead soldiery were at every street corner, and bodies of troopers rode about as if in readiness for any rising. Here and there in the crowd was to be seen a Cavalier, distinguished from those among whom he walked by the difference in his garments and his long hair. Such, however, were suffered to pass in silence and unmolested, for the people seemed in no mood to create disturbances that day.

When I came to Ludgate, I was somewhat faint and weary with the excitement I had passed through, and I turned into the inn which has for its sign a holly bush, and called for ale wherewith to refresh myself. In the parlour of the inn there was gathered a numerous company of men⁠—most of them shopkeepers from the surrounding streets⁠—who had come there to drink their glass and smoke their pipe of tobacco. Amongst them I took my seat and listened to the conversation, which ran entirely on the King’s execution. When I entered, the whole attention of the company was being given to two men who were arguing the matter with great heat, the one being a tall, dark-visaged person of grave air, and the other a little stout man with a very red face and quick manners.

“But I say,” said the little man, “that the King’s execution was illegal; yea, and care not who hears me, for ’tis well known I have ever been on the side of the Parliament, and am, moreover, a freeman of the City, and have a right to say what I think. Yea, I say ’twas against the liberties of the people, and that I will uphold forever.”

“But thy arguments, dear sir, thy arguments,” said the tall man.

“Marry, here they are. As the law stands, ’tis the Commons that rule England; which is just law, for, as I say, away with Princes and Lords, and let the people have their rights. But if the Commons are to rule, it must be by a majority of the members. Yea, but what does Colonel Pride do but shut out all such as were unfriendly to the plans made by those in command of the army, so that the remaining members were as wax in the army’s hands.”

“And rightly,” said the tall man, “for the army hath saved England, and could not stand by to see the Commons peril the people’s salvation.”

“Ay, now, there I am with you,” said the little man. “Yea, I am for the army; but what I say is that, while the matter was right, it was, also, as a nice point of law, illegal.”

At this there was a shout of laughter, and the dark-faced man smiled in spite of his gravity.

“Ah, Master Truelove,” said he, “I see thou art naught but a stickler for fine points. Thou knowest well enow that we must look to greater issues at a time like this, and not stop hairsplitting until opportunities are lost.”

“That is right enough, neighbour,” said the little man, not to be beaten out of his argument; “but then, as I say, the matter is⁠—Hallo, friend, thou seemest to be in some haste.”

It was I who interrupted him. I had suddenly leaped to my feet, and my hurried movement upset the tankard at his side. He looked at me with a half-angry, half-curious expression, but I had no time to explain matters to him, and with a hasty expression of regret I strode across the room and out at the door, where but a minute sooner I had seen the face of Dennis Watson.

That it was he I had no doubt. I was looking towards the door of the parlour, listening to the talk of the little stout man, when I saw Dennis’s head and shoulders appear round the doorpost. He looked cautiously into the room, as if in search of someone. His eyes travelled round the company until they met mine; then he gave me one swift glance and drew back his head and vanished.

I was out of the room and in the passage that led to it almost as soon as he disappeared. He was gone, but a serving-wench, bearing a trencher full of tankards, was coming from a room further away, and towards her I darted impetuously. She gave a little scream as she saw me advancing so hastily upon her.

“Nay,” said I, “there is naught to be frightened of. Hast seen a man leave this passage just now?”

“A tall young man, master, with black hair?”

“Yes, yes,” I cried. “Which way has he gone, girl? Tell me, quick!”

“He went through yon door,” she answered, pointing to a door at the end of the passage. “Follow the lane; it will take you to the river.”

I had opened the door before she finished speaking, and running into the night, found myself at the head of a long narrow lane, enclosed by houses on either side, the walls of which were so near together that I could have touched them easily by stretching out my arms. At the far end of this lane hung a lamp, the feeble rays of which shed but a small light on the stones beneath it. All the rest of the lane was dark, and I could see naught of my quarry, but I heard his feet running swiftly along the pavement, and immediately set off after him. Presently I saw him cross the narrow patch of light underneath the lamp, and I gave a shout and went forward at a greater speed. In another instant I, too, had reached the lamp. As I darted into the glare of it I heard the crack of a pistol, and felt a bullet whiz past my ear. I gave a fiercer shout at that, and redoubled my speed, and as I ran I heard my enemy’s feet sounding before me. The lane was very dark after that, but I ran on, and presently came out on a little wharf alongside the river. There was a lamp burning there, but I could see naught of Dennis, till a gentle splash of the water drew my attention to the river, and then I saw that he had leaped into a boat and was rowing away into the darkness.

Now, I could neither swim nor row, and had never been in a boat in my life, so that I stood on the edge of the water cursing my ill luck, while my enemy was rapidly disappearing. But as fortune would have it, there just then came along a stout fellow, who, catching sight of me, made up to my side and asked me if I wanted taking across to Southwark.

“Nay,” said I; “but do you see yonder boat⁠—there, just getting out of sight? Follow that, and land me where the man who is in it lands, and I will pay you well.”

“Jump in here then, master,” said he. “There is no better boat than mine on Thames side, nor a stouter pair of arms. Do you keep t’other boat in sight, and I’ll engage to catch her up.”

So we shot out into the darkness, and I strained my eyes to keep sight of Dennis, urging my boatman to row hard, and promising him a liberal reward if he did not allow the other boat to get away from us. For my heart was all afire by that time, and I was resolved that my enemy should not escape me. He was armed and I was not, for I had naught upon me but a stout oak staff, which I had carried with me everywhere in London; but much as this placed me at a disadvantage with him, I was determined that I should settle with him once and for all.

“Are you a sheriff’s man, master?’ asked the boatman presently, as he strained and tugged at the oars.

“No, friend,” I answered. “I am nobody’s man. Yonder man is my enemy, and he hath done me bitter wrongs, to avenge which I have been seeking him this long time. So pull hard, friend, and don’t let him escape me.”

“He shall not escape Tom Drewitt,” said the man.

“Not if he pulled like two men. Do you still see him, master?”

“Yes,” I cried. “We are gaining on him. He is altering his course⁠—more to the left.”

“He is making for London Bridge, master,” said the man, swinging his boat round to the north bank of the river. “Make your mind easy; we shall reach the stairs as soon as he.”

So we went along the dark river, in and out between the craft that lay at rest there, but never once did my eyes leave the boat in front, upon which we were steadily gaining.

So strongly did Dennis row that he reached the stairs on the north bank of the river, close upon the head of the bridge, while we were yet some four boats’ lengths away. He leaped from his boat and was at the head of the stair before we reached the foot, and so he disappeared through an archway that gave access to the bridge.

“Quick, friend!” I cried, as I saw my enemy getting beyond my reach. “If he is once out of sight I shall never find him in this great city.”

“He is not escaped yet, master,” said the boatman. “He cannot pass the north gate without being observed, and if he turns t’other way you can follow him.”

He bent himself earnestly to the oars as he spoke, and in another instant the boat grated against the slimy steps, over which the water was lapping dismally. I was fumbling for my purse, when the man followed me from the boat and hooked his craft to a ring in the wall close by.

“Run on, master,” said he. “Lord love you, I am all for a bit of adventure myself, and will help you with this matter. Up the stairs and through the archway.”

We ran to the head of the steps, and, turning through a deep arch in the great wall, found ourselves on the bridge immediately beneath the north gate. The keeper had already closed the portcullis, and was seated in his lodge half asleep.

“Rouse him up,” said the boatman. “Hallo, Master Grice, are you already slumbering? Come, has a man passed through the lodge just now?”

“Not this half-hour,” answered the keeper, “neither north nor south.”

“What, man, bethink thee! One ran through the archway from the river steps but this moment.”

“Then a’ turned towards Southwark end,” said the keeper, and laid his head back against the hood of his chair; “a’ came not through my lodge, Tom Drewitt.”

“Come,” said the waterman. “We waste time there, master. Let us go down the bridge.”

We left the lodge and walked quickly away in the direction of the south gate, looking hither and thither as we passed between the houses for some sign of the man we sought. The bridge was but badly lighted, and there were few people on it, for a light snow had begun to fall and the cold air was keen and biting.

“He will probably have turned into one of these houses,” said I, by that time despairing of seeing him again.

“Maybe so, master,” said the boatman; “but ’tis my opinion that he will have made for the other end of the bridge. Let us get down to the gate as sharply as we can. But stay; let us use some little craft in our design. Do you, master, walk first and make straight for t’other gate, and I will come after at a few paces’ distance.”

In this way we pressed forward, I going first, grasping my staff and looking narrowly into every nook and corner as I passed. I felt sure that we had lost Dennis, for the doors of several shops and houses stood open, and there was naught easier than for him to run inside one of them and hide himself until we had gone by. It was impossible for us to search every house; but even if we had done so, the buildings were so full of holes and corners that our man might have hid in one room while we were seeking him in another. Great wooden houses they were on that bridge, with high gables that projected over the roadway beneath, so that the eaves formed a sort of shelter and kept rain and snow from those who walked beneath them.

I had reached the centre of the bridge, and was beginning to redouble my pace, when a shout from the boatman brought me to a halt. As I turned he ran up, pointing to the door of a tavern which stood open on our right hand.

“He came out from there as you passed,” said the man, “and when I shouted he ran across the bridge and into yon door,” pointing to a house opposite the inn. “So now, master, we have him caged.”

“Will he escape at the back?” I said.

“Not unless he goes into the river,” answered the boatman. “Come, we have him now. He has closed the door behind him, but we will soon remedy that.”

Saying this, he advanced to the house in which Dennis had taken refuge, and began to knock loudly at the door, to which there presently came an old man, who opened it and looked fretfully out at us.

“What do you beat my door so violently for?” he asked, regarding us with anything but favourable glances.

“We are sorry to disturb you, master,” said I, “but there is a man run into your house just now whom we are in pursuit of, so we will thank you to let us search for him.”

When I said that the old man looked at us more suspiciously than ever, and shook his head as if he had no trust in our tale.

“There is no man run into my house,” said he, and made as if he would shut the door in our faces. But the boatman, not to be outdone, placed his foot within the threshold and began to push his way in. Now, at this the old man set up a violent clamour, calling for help, and shouting to those near at hand that thieves were breaking into his house, so that we presently found ourselves in the centre of a crowd, every member of which was asking at the same time what all the uproar was about.

“Friends,” said I, trying to quiet the old man, who was still calling out that we were thieves and designed to rob him, “we are peaceable men enough, and have no intention of robbing anybody. We are in pursuit of a man who must be punished for his misdeeds, and we followed him upon the bridge here and have traced him to this house, into the open door of which he ran but a few moments ago. Because we want to search for him this ancient gentleman calls us thieves.”

“What hath the man done?” asked several near me.

“As much wickedness as half a dozen ordinary men, sir,” said I, “and hath robbed his own father into the bargain.”

“Give the rogue no quarter,” said a great burly man. “Come, let them in, Master Bradley; ’tis poor work standing against justice. What, man! they will do thy house no harm.”

“I saw no man run into my house,” said the old gentleman. “If any man entered he hath run up the stairs.”

“Let us turn him out of his hole,” said the big man. “Keep an eye on the windows, some of you, lest he escape that way. Robbed his father, quotha! Alack, a rope is too good for such.”

We pressed forward and entered the house and ran up the stairs, some going into one room and some into another, while the old man toiled behind us, wringing his hands and begging us not to harm his goods. But in none of the sleeping chambers, nor in any nook or corner on the stairs, could we find a trace of Dennis. I made my way to the windows overlooking the river, and, pushing the casement open, looked out. Underneath me at a great distance lay the water, splashing and lapping the piles of the bridge, with here and there a faint gleam of light reflected from the lamps which gleamed through the windows of the houses. There was no way by which he could have escaped in the rear of the house. We turned to the last flight of stairs, which seemed to lead into the roof of the house, and terminated in a trapdoor. Up these we pushed, only to find the trap closed and evidently barred from above.

“I warrant me he hath run up here and bolted down the trapdoor,” said the burly citizen, who was blowing and panting at my side. “He thinketh to escape by the roofs, no doubt. He⁠—God’s mercy, what voice is that?”

A great shout came up from the people who had gathered on the bridge below.

“They see something,” said the boatman. “To the windows!”

We scrambled down the ladder, and running to the window which looked upon the bridge, threw it open and pushed out our heads. Then we saw that the road beneath was full of people, and that they were all looking up to the roof of the house opposite that which we had entered, where stood Dennis Watson, who had evidently leaped across the gulf that yawned between, and was now bracing himself for a climb along the tiles on the other side.

“Ah!” said the boatman, “I see what he is after, master. He is making for the rear of the tavern, where there is a stair which leads to the river. There are always boats fastened to the pier underneath the tavern, and he will go down the stair and escape in one.”

And with that he ran down to the bridge and made for the inn, while I and the men that had followed us in remained at the window watching my enemy’s movements. He was climbing along the roof of the opposite house with very careful steps, for the tiles and the woodwork were slippery with snow, and the roof sloped dangerously. Presently he came to a part where there was naught to hold by, and rose to his feet and balanced himself on the uncertain edge of the roof. When I saw him in this perilous position I was minded to shout to him to return and meet me in fair fight, for I had no wish to see him dash himself to pieces. But before I could open my lips there was a sudden gust of icy wind blew down the river and caused him to stagger. His foot seemed to slip on the snow-covered roof; he made a great effort to recover his balance; then he slipped further and further, and finally fell over the edge of the gable, and came to the bridge beneath with a heavy sound that turned me sick.

“He hath escaped you, master,” said the big man at my side. “He is gone where you cannot catch him.”

We hurried down the stairs and found a crowd surrounding the body. Dennis Watson was dead enough, for he had fallen some fifty feet and lighted upon his head. Bitterly as he had wronged me and mine, I could not avoid feeling sorry for him as I saw him lying there with the folks pushing their way through the crowd to stare at him. But there was little time for feelings of that sort, for the watch had now appeared on the scene, and when they had removed the dead man’s body I was forced to go with them and say what I knew about him, upon which business I was detained some time, and did meanwhile learn some particulars concerning Dennis Watson’s history since the time of his flight from our neighbourhood. For it seemed that the people of the inn to which his body was carried were somewhat acquainted with him, and reported that when he first used to come to their house he was gaily dressed, and did make much show of money and led a dissolute life, but that of late he had lived a precarious existence, and had been suspected of being concerned in the doings of a band of thieves who infested the riverside. From which news I gathered that the money he had stolen from his father had done Dennis Watson no good, and that he had been amply punished for that and all his other misdeeds. Now, they found no money on his body, and were for burying him like a pauper, but I did not like to think that the son of a Yorkshire yeoman should have no better burial than what is given to a dog, and I accordingly paid for his grave myself and saw him decently interred, having no quarrel with him now that he was dead.

I was busied with these matters during the next two days, but on the 2nd of February, being the third day after the King’s execution, I said farewell to Master Goodfellow and his wife and set forth upon my journey homeward, being well satisfied to depart from London, which great city I admired vastly, but had no very pleasant memories of. You may be sure that I was glad enough at the thought of seeing Dale’s Field and my dear love again, and as I rode along the road I made up my mind that we would waste no more time, but call Parson Drumbleforth’s services into requisition and be married out of hand. And that done, I would leave my home no more, neither for King nor Commons, but would attend to my business and find my pleasure in my own land and my own house as a yeoman should. For by that time I had had enough of war and turmoil and of adventures here and there, and it seemed to me that there was naught like a quiet life. And therewith I fell at meditating on what General Cromwell had said to me about there being other folk than myself that did desire to live peaceably on their farms but were called to other things, and I decided that such were more to be pitied than envied.

I spent the first night of my homeward journey at Hitchin, and went forward the next day to Huntingdon, where I slept the second night, and until this point I met with no adventure worth recording. As for the talk at the inns, it was of naught but the King’s death, respecting which every man was willing to converse, but few to venture an opinion. I said naught on the matter, being anxious to escape questions, which would certainly have been showered upon me if I had admitted that I was present at the scene before Whitehall. That scene, indeed, was never out of my mind, and I dreamed of it more than once during the next few weeks.

On the third day of my journey, when I was drawing near to Peterborough, I saw before me on the roadside the figure of a man who lay stretched out on the bank as if he were ill or dead, while his horse stood near him cropping the grass. It was a cold, raw afternoon, and I immediately concluded that the man had fallen from his horse and was now insensible, or he would never lie there in such peril of his life. So I rode up to him, and, dismounting, bent down to see what it was that ailed him. There was something familiar in his countenance, but I took little heed of it at the moment, for the man was insensible and blue with cold, and looked deathlike to my mind. Now, I had in my saddlebag a small flask of strong waters which Mistress Goodfellow had pressed upon me, and I immediately produced this and poured a little of its contents between the man’s lips. At first there seemed to be no effect, but presently he sighed deeply and opened his eyes somewhat, so that I redoubled my exertions and strove hard to bring him to. While I was thus engaged I had leisure to study his face, and then I saw that he was the man who had knocked at the door of the wayside inn between Aberford and Castleford, and had manifested such uneasy symptoms at sight of me.

In a few minutes the man opened his eyes and looked at me. The light was already failing, but it was sufficiently strong to allow of his recognising me, and again I saw the horrified look come into his face which I had first seen when I opened John Sanderson’s door to him that morning after my release from the Parliamentarians’ camp before York. It was a look of such fear as I never saw on any other man’s face, and was all the worse to me because I did not understand it.

“Come, master,” said I, “there is no need to look so frightened; I am neither thief nor cutthroat, and desire naught but your good. Have you fallen from your horse that you lie here like this?”

“Ay,” said he faintly. “I am ill, dying, sir, I think, this three days. Ride on, good sir, and leave me.”

“Nay, friend,” I answered, “I shall not leave you till you are in some safe hands. Come, we are but a mile or two out of Peterborough, so let me help you to your horse, and I will walk by your side till we reach the town.”

And therewith I raised him up and made him take another drink of the strong waters, and so got him to his horse at last, and walked by his side to support him, leading my own horse by the bridle. In this way we went forward to Peterborough, the man now and then groaning with pain, and at times looking at me with the same look of fear in his face which had come there as soon as he had opened his eyes and seen me bending over him.

By the time we reached the inn where I had stayed when I passed through Peterborough on my journey to London, the stranger’s illness was much increased, so that it was all I could do to keep him upright upon his horse. The host of the inn was at first opposed to admitting him; for the man, he said, looked like death, and he wanted no death in his house. Upon my promising to pay him well for whatever trouble he and his were put to, he altered his tone, and we presently carried the sick man to a chamber which they had hastily made ready for him, and there he was laid in bed while the ostler went to seek the apothecary.

Having thus seen my charge comfortably disposed of, I made my way to the inn parlour and gave orders for my supper, for which I had gotten a keen appetite. While they made it ready I fell amusing by the hearth, my mind being full of the strange events of the last few days. Never had I passed through such exciting incidents as those which occurred on the day of the King’s execution. To see his Majesty suffer was terrible enough, but I think the death of Dennis Watson had moved me even more than the scene before Whitehall. For bitterly as he had wronged me, and bound as I was to punish him, I could not help reflecting upon the change which had come over him since the time he left his father’s house. In the old days he had been a fine-looking man, whom the maidens were wont to admire for his handsome countenance, and at that time I do not think he would have run away from me or from any other man. But when I saw him dead at my feet I noticed that his good looks were gone, and his face was worn and discoloured by hard living and drinking, and his hair was thickly shot with gray; and I reflected that he had not had spirit to meet me fairly, but must needs fly from me like a thief, whereby he met his ignominious death. Yet his old craft and malice had been strong in him till the end, for he had striven to shoot me as I followed him down the dark alley. However, he was now dead, and had come to his end in a shameful manner, and so he would never more trouble me or mine.

While I thus mused the apothecary came downstairs from visiting the sick man, and made his way to me. He was a short, stout gentleman, carrying a snuffbox in his hand, the lid of which he frequently tapped while he was speaking. He took a seat near me and spread out his plump legs to the fire.

“Your friend, sir,” said he, “is very sick. How long hath he been in his present state?”

“Indeed, sir,” I answered, “I know little more about him than you do. I found him lying by the roadside two miles away, with all his senses gone, and had hard work, I assure you, to get him to his horse again.”

“Then, he is no friend of yours?” said he.

“No,” said I. “I once saw him, some four years ago, at a wayside inn, but more than that I know not. I neither know his name, nor where he comes from, nor where he was going.”

“Ah!” said the apothecary. “Well, sir, the man is going to die. He will be dead before the afternoon is over.”

“Yea,” said the landlord, who had come over to where we sat. “That is just what I said. However, master, you will see that I am paid for my trouble?”

“I shall keep my word,” I answered, and set to work at my supper, which was just then placed before me.

“I can do naught for the man,” said the apothecary. “So if you will pay me my fee, master, I will go home again.”

And therewith, haying got his money, away he went, and I was left with the sick man on my hands, and the prospect of being delayed a day or two on my journey. This was not agreeable to my wishes; but I remembered that I could not have left the man on the roadside to die, so I ate my supper in peace and resolved to see the matter out.

When the apothecary had gone his ways, I had persuaded the hostess to go up to the sick man’s chamber and stay with him, for it seemed hard to me that he should be left alone when death was so near him. So away she went, but came back before I had finished eating to tell me that the man was in a sad way, and wished to speak with me at once.

Upon entering the chamber in which we had put him to bed, I found the sick man sitting upright against his pillow. His senses had now come back to him, and he seemed as much alive to what was going on around him as I was. But when I drew near to the bedside and inquired what I could do for him, the same look of horror and fear came into his eyes which I had noticed on other occasions, and he shrank away from me as though he feared that I was going to strike him.

“Now, friend,” said I, speaking as kindly as I knew how, because he was a dying man, “what can I do for you?”

He opened his lips to speak, and then closed them again and gasped for breath, his eyes all the time keeping themselves fixed on me with the same frightened look.

“Come,” I said, “there is no need for fear. Tell me what you want, and I promise you shall have it.”

“Alas, Master Dale!” said he, “you are very kind to me, and I deserve none of your kindness. Sir, fetch me some clergyman, and let me talk to him. I cannot die until I have eased my mind.”

“If that be all,” I answered, “your wishes shall be gratified on the instant;” and I went down to the host and told him what was desired.

“Why now,” said he, “let me see, there is Master Budgett and Master Brewer, that are both godly men and have their churches close at hand.”

“Let it be Master Brewer,” said the hostess.

“ ’Tis an elderly man and hath the prettiest way with him, sir, at a deathbed. La now, our Marian shall run for his reverence in a trice, and I lay he will come at once, whether he be at prayers or meat.”

So the girl ran straightways for good Master Brewer, and I went back to the sick man, who sat plucking at the bedclothes with his fingers.

“There,” said I, “we have sent for a clergyman, and he will come to you presently, so you may make yourself easy on that score;” and therewith I sat down in the window to wait until the parson came, so that the man might not be alone. But all the while I sat there he said no word, only his eyes continually rested on me, and his fingers never ceased plucking at the sheets.

Now, the girl Marian let no grass grow under her feet, but ran quickly to Master Brewer’s vicarage, which was not many hundred feet away, so that but a few minutes passed before the hostess came up the stairs and ushered the worthy Vicar into the sick man’s presence.

“This way, your reverence,” quoth she. “Alas! the poor gentleman hath been very particular to see your reverence and talk with you for his soul’s health. Pray God he make a good end⁠—as, indeed, he cannot fail to do with your reverence to attend him. But here is the poor gentleman⁠—how do you find yourself now, sir?⁠—so I will leave your reverence to talk with him for his benefit.”

“Good mistress,” said I, for she showed no signs of suspending her remarks, “let us go downstairs, as you say, and leave this good gentleman and the sick man alone together;” and therewith I got her out of the chamber and conducted her downstairs, so that the parson and the stranger should be private.

“Alack!” quoth she, as we reached the parlour, “I fear me the poor man is not long for this world. Will it be a crowner’s quest matter, think you, master?”

“Nay, mistress, I cannot say. The man is not dead yet.”

“An a’ hath not death in a’s face I never saw one that had,” said the host. “Yea, and may think a’s self lucky that a’ died not by the roadside.”

While the clergyman was occupied with the sick man I sat in the chimney-corner and smoked a pipe of tobacco, which habit I had contracted during my stay in London, having been inducted into it by Master Goodfellow. For many a time when I was in that great city I felt lonely and needed something to warm my heart, for which complaint Master Goodfellow recommended tobacco-smoking as being a capital remedy. And such I truly found it, and carried home with me a great supply of that blessed herb, which is one of man’s chiefest treasures, whatever King James may have said to the contrary.

Now, Master Brewer was engaged with the dying man for a long time, so that I smoked two pipes, and was just thinking of filling a third, when he came down the stairs and approached me. Then I noticed that his face was very grave, and that he looked at me narrowly, as if he wished to know what manner of man I was.

“Let us go into some private room, Master Dale,” said he. “I have something of consequence to say to you.”

“Come you into the little parlour, your reverence,” said the landlady. “I warrant you might talk secrets there for a month o’ Sundays without anyone being the wiser.”

So into the little parlour we went, and closed the door, and the clergyman, who was old and gray, and not unlike our own parson in soberness of appearance turned to me.

“Master Dale,” said he, still looking gravely at me, “Master Dale, I trust you are a Christian man.”

“Why, sir,” said I, “I trust I am, though I dare say there is room for improvement in me. Certainly, I have always tried to do my duty.”

“You will need to exercise a very Christian virtue,” said he, “when you hear what I have got to tell you.”

“What virtue is that, your reverence?”

“The virtue of forgiveness, Master Dale. Yon poor soul, that is near drawing his last breath, would have you forgive him before he goes before his Great Judge.”

“Would have me forgive him, sir? Alas! the poor soul, he is out of his mind. He hath never injured me.”

“Are you so sure of that? Is there no wrong ever done to you and yours which presents itself to your mind?”

“No, sir,” I said, shaking my head, “I cannot say that there is⁠—at least, not that this man could have aught to do with. The poor man must be out of his mind, your reverence. I have seen him but twice in all my life, and upon each of those occasions he manifested lively fear of me⁠—why, I know not.”

“Master Dale, look back. Is there nothing in your past life that is as yet an unsolved riddle? Did it never strike you that this man had some reason for showing such signs of fear when he set eyes upon you?”

“Sir,” I answered, “I am, I dare say, very stupid and thickheaded, and, to tell the truth, I troubled myself very little about the man and his fancies.”

“Did it never strike you that he feared you because of your extraordinary resemblance to some other person?”

“The only man, sir, that I resemble was my own father, who was my very image. But why should that make the man afraid? I dare say he has seen my father at some time or other, but why should my resemblance to him frighten the poor soul?”

“Why, indeed? Because of a guilty conscience. Master Dale, be strong to hear what I have to tell you. The man who is dying in yonder chamber is your father’s murderer!”

My father’s murderer! The words sounded in my ears as if they were not real. The walls seemed to fall away from me, my brain went round in a sickening whirl. I stretched out my arms to save myself from falling.

“Come, Master Dale, be brave, and quit you like a Christian man. Oh, I promise you this most unfortunate wretch hath paid dearly for his fell crime.”

“Sir, sir!” I cried. “I cannot believe it⁠—it seems impossible. What had my father done to offend this villain?”

“Alas! naught. Master Dale, the man upstairs was paid to murder your father by one who was your father’s enemy⁠—Rupert Watson.”

At last! Thank God, the secret was out at last! Now I knew whom I had to thank for the foul deed that made me fatherless and my mother a widow. Whose hand it was that fired the fatal shot mattered little: I knew at last, after all those years of waiting, whose devilish malice it was that prompted the deed; I knew in whose evil mind the devilish plans were worked out and put in operation. It was as I had always thought. There was no surprise in my mind at the news. But at last I knew my enemy without doubt or question, and could go to my revenge with a clear purpose.

My mind was clear once more, my nerves strung themselves like quivering steel. I moved to the door.

“Where are you going, Master Dale?” asked the clergyman.

“To the magistrate, sir, ere yonder villain dies.”

“Master Dale, bethink you! This is no time for earthly feelings of revenge⁠—the man is dying.”

“Sir, if he were at the very gates of hell, and the evil one were waiting to receive him, he should not escape me now! On my dead father’s body I swore to God in Heaven that whoever had part or lot in that foul murder should account to me for it with their lives. Shall I forget my vow? God forbid!”

“Alas! Master Dale, your words are hard. Oh, my son, think, I pray you, of the terrible bar before which this unhappy wretch must shortly plead. What is any earthly tribunal in comparison with that of God? What good purpose can you serve by tormenting your father’s murderer for an hour or two before death seizes him? Master Dale, this unhappy man hath made full confession to me of his whole life, and hath charged me with the duty of imploring your forgiveness. Already you have heaped coals of fire upon his head by your good treatment of him.”

“Sir,” said I, “an he had been my worst enemy, Rupert Watson himself, I should have done no less for him. But justice must surely be done on such as he. Think of the foul deed he did.”

“I think of naught else, Master Dale, and it is because his sin hath been so great that I plead for your great forgiveness. Will you not die easier yourself for the knowledge that you forgave all your enemies?”

Before I could answer him there came a great knocking at the door, and the hostess entered, looking very scared, and begged us to go up to the man at once, for he was at his last gasp.

We entered the room, I with such feeling at my heart as I cannot describe. The man lay gasping for breath; his eyes were closed, and his face was covered with great drops of sweat. We bent over him; he suddenly opened his eyes and saw me, and across his features there came the same look of awful fear. He half raised himself in his bed and made as if he would speak; then he fell back dead, and so passed to his great account.

That night Master Brewer told me such particulars as the dead man had desired him to make known to me, and thus I learnt the true history of my father’s murder. The man in his youth had been a wild and lawless character, and had committed many crimes, for which the law had punished him in various ways. At the York assizes, whereat our case with Rupert Watson was tried, he had been charged with horse-stealing, and had gotten off. Riding southward from York, he had fallen in with Rupert, who found him a willing abettor of the foul plot he had devised as he followed my father homeward. At Ferrybridge Rupert had shown him the man he wished to slay, and thereupon the murderer rode forward to the lonely piece of road, where he lay in wait for and slew my father, being at that time of such a disposition that murder was naught to him. But if all that he confessed to Master Brewer were true, he had been punished hard enow for his sins in the years that followed that horrible deed.

I entered upon the final stages of my homeward journey with very different feelings from those which had filled me when I left London. When I rode away from Master Goodfellow’s house I thought of little else than the gladness of being at home once more with the dear familiar faces of my friends around me. But when I left Peterborough I had no thought of them, or of the joys of reaching home again. All I wanted and all I thought of, was to come at Rupert Watson and settle my account with him. My heart was filled with impatience because of him. Every mile seemed the length of three miles, and never until then had I dealt so unsparingly with my horse. I pushed forward at a quicker rate than when I had ridden southwards; and though I was forced to stay one night at Newark, I got no benefit from it, for I spent the hours in walking my chamber floor, and was in the saddle again long before the people of the inn were stirring.

Until that time, indeed, I had never known what it was to be so completely filled with the passion of revenge that there was no room for any other feeling or thought in my heart. So resolved was I to do justice to my father’s murderer that I put everything else out of my mind. I thought of the sorrow brought upon me and mine by that foul deed. I recalled every incident of the horrible scene on the snow-covered highway, until the picture became present to my eyes, and would not be shut out. I saw my father laid rigid and lifeless in the snow, myself bending over him in an agony of fear and grief, while the horses stood by with their heads bent towards us as if they shared in my sorrow. I saw my mother standing in the open doorway with the warm firelight glowing behind her, and remembered the awful woe that stole like a shadow across her face as she heard the news of her husband’s murder. These matters filled my mind to the exclusion of every other thought as I rode homewards, and above them rose a fierce determination to meet Rupert Watson and pay him the debt I had owed him for all those years.

It was about the middle of the afternoon when I got my tired horse up the hill out of Wentbridge, and came in sight of the tall chimneys of my house. I had grown in impatience as I drew near home, but my horse, wearied by the hard work I had given him, had turned lame, and it was all I could do to push him forward over the last two or three miles. If I had never met the strange man, and had never learnt his secret, I should have had no other thought, on the nearing my house, but of my sweetheart, and the pleasure of reaching home again. But with that story in my breast, I could think of none of those things. Not a single thought of Rose nor of homecoming was in me as I drew near to Dale’s Field. My heart was dead to all but its one desire.

I drew rein at the orchard gate and dismounted. As I lifted the latch Ben Tuckett, who was busied in the fold, caught sight of me, and came over the wall to welcome me.

“Well met, lad!” said Ben, his face all aglow at the sight of me. “Thou art come at a good time. There is Parson Drumbleforth in the house, and it is not five minutes since we were all talking of thee, and wondering when thy travels would come to an end. All is well, thank God, and we have been as quiet as mice since thou didst ride away. And now let me take thy horse and get thee into the house. Hah! thou seest the lasses have already caught sight of thee.”

And so they had, and now came running out of doors to meet me, with the Vicar following in their rear. Then for one moment I forgot the black sorrow that was eating out my heart, for what man could resist loving looks and the welcome of rosy lips and bright eyes? But when I had greeted them all round and followed them into the house, the passion that filled me asserted itself again, for it seemed to me that the place was filled with memories of my dead father, and that his ghost cried in my ears for vengeance on his murderers.

Presently in came Ben, full of talk as usual, and began to question me. But quick as his tongue wagged, I heard naught of it, being lost in those sad memories, so that at last he ceased to speak, and sat staring at me in wonder. Then I saw that the girls were watching me with surprised looks, and that Parson Drumbleforth regarded me with a wistful glance, as if he wondered what ailed me.

“Beshrew me, Will!” said Ben, suddenly breaking the silence, “what is the matter with thee? Hast not had a smile for one of us since thou didst ride in at the gate, nor a word either. Here we have been talking to thee, and questioning thee, and begging for news of what thou hast seen and heard, and there thou standest and takest no heed. Hast seen a ghost, man, that thou lookest so strangely!”

Then I came to my wits, and begged their pardon, and told them that I was glad enough to see them all again, and would tell them all my news when I had gotten a terrible weight off my mind. And then, while they all stood round with wondering faces, I told them all that I had learned concerning my father’s death.

“So now,” I said, when I had come to the end of my story, “you see why I looked and behaved in such a manner. Indeed, I can neither eat nor drink nor sleep until I have met my father’s murderer face to face. Let me see my vengeance satisfied and I shall be myself again.”

“Lad, lad!” said Parson Drumbleforth, “remember what is said in Holy Writ: ‘Vengeance is Mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.’ Truly He will give to every man according to his deeds.”

I turned my face away impatiently. I was in no mood for conversation of that sort. Holy Writ or no Holy Writ, nothing on earth should cheat me of my revenge.

“That is all very well, sir,” I answered somewhat impatiently, for I was in no mood for counsel. “But I vowed to God at my dead father’s side that I would avenge his murder, and now no power in heaven or earth shall prevent me.”

“God forgive thee thy impious words, lad,” said the old man. “Thou art young and of hot blood, and dost not think of what thou art saying. Will, Will, what can vengeance of thine do? Can it bring the dead to life? Can aught that thou canst invent of torture equal the horrors of conscience which yonder guilty wretch hath carried in his bosom all these years? Remember, lad, that we are commanded to forgive all our enemies, even as we would be forgiven.”

“Sir, sir!” I cried, being well-nigh stung to madness by the conflicting passions in my breast, “you are asking more of me than man can do. If I were a saint I might forgive, but I am a man. Forgive? Not till I have seen him suffer for his crime. Yea, and then it would be harder than I could bear.”

“Canst thou not, then, trust in God to punish thy enemy?”

“Let God make me the means! Sir, you mean well, but I will not be put off from my work. Whether it be the will of God or not, naught but death shall stay me from this matter.”

I moved towards the door, but before I reached it I turned back. Over the great fireplace hung the pistols which my father had carried on that fatal ride from York. One of them was stained with his blood. I took it down and loaded it carefully, while the rest stood round with never a word to say. Then I put it inside my coat and turned to the door.

With my hand on the latch there came a touch on my arm. I looked down and saw Rose looking pleadingly at me. Her eyes were full of entreaty.

“For my sake, dear Will! Listen to what the Vicar says. For my sake!”

She had never looked one half so beautiful as at that moment, and the touch of her gentle hands about me almost drove me to repent of my fierce anger. But then my hand touched the pistol stained with my father’s blood, and my passion welled up again with tenfold force. I put her from me gently, but firmly.

“Not even for thy sake, dear heart!” I groaned. “Not even if thy love were the price I must pay.”

And with that I raised the latch and would have left them and gone on my mission, for my feelings had overpowered me and turned me into a murderer. But the Vicar cried “Stay!” in a loud voice, and I paused and stood staring at him.

“Lad,” said he solemnly, lifting his hand as he spoke⁠—“lad, thou couldst not trust in God to avenge thee. Learn, then, that while thou wert speeding hither to wreak thy vengeance, God’s hand hath forestalled thee. The vengeance of God hath already fallen. Rupert Watson is beyond thy reach!”

“Dead!”

I scarcely knew my own voice as I cried out. It was a voice of baffled rage, of passion that had fed on itself and found itself baulked of its purpose.

“Dead to thee. Dead to repentance. Dead⁠—unless God give him grace to any chance of atoning for his sins. Go, Will⁠—go across yonder woods to Castle Hill. Ask for thy enemy. Thou wilt find an old man, blind, deaf, and mad. He hath lost sight, hearing, and senses.”

Then a mist swam before my eyes, and I sank into a seat and hid my face. Truly the hand of God had been beforehand with me, and had taken from me the work I had set myself to do. And so my father was avenged; and I learnt that, whether men believe it or not, there is naught done in this world, either good or evil, the results of which do not in time come back to the doer.

After my return home some weeks passed by in an uneventful manner. The Royalists were still defending Pontefract Castle against General Lambert and the Parliamentarians, having proclaimed Charles II as soon as they heard of the death of Charles I. Jack Drumbleforth was with them, and naught had been seen or heard of him since I set out for London. By the beginning of March in that year⁠—1649⁠—the defenders of the Castle saw that they had no chance of holding out against the Roundheads, and they began a series of negotiations with the besiegers, the result of which was that the Castle was finally surrendered to the Parliament before the end of the month. It was the last place in England to hold out for the King, and after its surrender the victorious army resolved that it should no more be available against their cause, for they demolished it with no mercy, so that it is now naught but a great heap of ruins.

So now the land in our neighbourhood was fairly quiet, and the townsfolk in Pontefract began to repair the damage done to their property during the course of the siege. Things began to assume their old appearance, and life was pretty much what it was before the war broke out. Then Ben Tuckett grew restless and uneasy, and finally declared that he would go home and repair his house, and buy in a new stock, and devote himself to his own trade once more.

“And when my house is all ready, Will,” said he, “we will be married, and I will take Lucy home, for, indeed, it is high time we were settled down to the sober business of life. I think the wars are safely over, and that I may dig up my money from under the hearthstone.”

So it was duly settled amongst us that we would be married on the coming Easter Monday, and thereupon everything was bustle and preparation for the wedding. As for Ben, he went away to his home in the Marketplace at Pontefract, and inspected the damage it had suffered during the siege, which was not quite so great as he had feared, though a cannon-shot had indeed passed through the roof and caused much falling of bricks and mortar. Honest Ben, however, set to work with a right good will, and laboured so hard that his house speedily resumed something of its ancient air of solid respectability. When the outside was finished and the whole place made weathertight, Ben moved into it his furniture, which had been carried over to Dale’s Field when he went into the Castle, and with it were sent such things as my mother had promised Lucy against her marriage, these being matters of chairs and tables and bedding, together with such piles of linen as you would have thought they could never wear out. Then there was much arranging of chambers and parlours, and Lucy and Rose were at Ben’s house for a day together, so that finally Ben was in a grand state of readiness to receive his bride.

As for me, there were no great preparations to make at Dale’s Field, for the house was already fitted for its new mistress. There was not a corner of it that she did not know by that time, nor an acre of the surrounding fields and meadows that she had not crossed in company with me. The old place was as familiar to her as to me, and when she came home from church with me on the wedding-day it would only be in name that there would be any difference in the new mistress of Dale’s Field. Yet those last few weeks before our marriage seemed long to me, who had waited a long time for my love and had often been parted from her for long intervals. Bit by bit, however, they slipped away, and at last the day drew near which was to make us one.

Now, all that week before the wedding they were as busy as bees at Dale’s Field, for there was the wedding dinner to think for and provide, and Jacob Trusty insisted on having the great barn cleared for a dance and a supper to the men and their families, and Timothy Grass worked hard to have the garden put in order, and the maids scrubbed and swept until neither Ben nor I could find a corner wherein to rest our weary limbs. Much of that week, indeed, we spent at Pontefract with the tailor, who was making us exceeding fine raiment wherein to be married. The tailor, indeed, was as busy a man as you could have found in the three kingdoms that week, for he was also making new garments for Jack Drumbleforth and Tom Thorpe, who were going to act as best men. But with all this business and preparation it was a long week, and seemed to move with tender feet until Easter Sunday dawned upon us.

It was one of the most beautiful days I ever remember to have known, that Easter Sunday of 1649, for it was all sunshine and springing of flowers, and yet it went by surely in slower fashion than ever day did before. I was out and about early in the morning, and found the dew lying bright on the grass and the sunlight flooding the woods and meadows that stretch before my house. The trees were bursting into new leaf, and the garden⁠—looking very smart and trim, thanks to Timothy Grass⁠—was gay with primrose and crocus. I wandered about the fold and the buildings, thinking of what great happiness the morrow was to bring me, until the house door opened and Ben Tuckett came out and joined me.

“Heigho!” said Ben. “It seems a long time until tomorrow, Will. Would that old Father Time could jog on a little faster!”

“Have patience, Ben,” said I. “ ’Twill soon be noon, and soon it will be night, and then morning will dawn again and the great day will arrive.”

“Yea,” he answered, “but these last few hours seem exceeding long. I do not think I have slept three hours this night, and I am very sure I shall not sleep at all this coming night, for I shall lie awake considering of my new responsibilities. ’Tis a serious matter, this marrying business, Will.”

“Art thou afraid?”

“Marry, not I. But for all that ’tis, as I say, a serious thing. Thou seest, a man till he marries hath but himself to care for, but when he is wed he never knows to what extent his care will go. However, I am willing enough to offer myself a victim at the altar.”

“I believe you, Ben. You have been a faithful wooer.”

“Ever since I was a lad and used to come home with thee at holiday times. Yea, I have served my apprenticeship to this same love for as many years as Jacob served for Rachel. But the last days of the apprenticeship go very slowly, lad, and I would it were tomorrow, and Parson Drumbleforth had tied us up as securely as ring and book can do it.”

Not all the wishing in the world, however, could make the day go a whit faster, and we were fain to get it over in such patience as we could. For my own part, I would have spent it in wandering about my land, alone with my own thoughts, but Rose and Lucy were for going along the road to church, and insisted upon Ben and myself accompanying them. Now, Ben was not quite easy on this point, for it was the day of reading out the banns, and he was somewhat afraid of hearing his own name announced in such a pointed fashion amongst a congregation that would certainly be much interested. I was not without some dismay at the prospect myself, and had absented myself from Divine Service for two Sundays running on those very grounds. The girls, however, had no fears on this point, and would hear no objection that we could make.

“Not go to church indeed!” said Lucy. “Am I, then, going to marry a heathen? What would the Vicar say an he missed your face today, Master Benjamin? So go straightways and put on your best coat and lose no time, for I can hear the bells ringing now.”

“And what shall I do, and where shall I look,” said poor Ben, “when the parson reads out our names? I shall feel fit to drop through the floor. Everybody will look at me. I can stand a good deal, but to have a churchful of folk staring at me as if I were a prize bullock is more than a man ought to stand.”

“Will they not stare at you tomorrow?” cried Lucy. “Quick, I say, and make ready to go with us. Surely if we can stand hearing the banns read out, you ought to.”

So away we all went, and on coming into the village street at Darrington fell in with many of our acquaintance, who wished us joy and happiness so heartily that the girls blushed for pleasure, and Ben hung down his head and looked as if he were a criminal that had been caught in the commission of some awful deed. It was indeed very hard on Benjamin that the girls had insisted on his presence at church that morning, for the nave and aisles were filled with people, and we had no sooner got to our seats than everybody turned to look at us, so that Ben’s face glowed like a red rose, and I felt far from comfortable myself. Here, however, I could not but admire the wonderful self-possession of our sweethearts, who seemed to be wholly unconscious of the eyes turned upon them, but gave their attention entirely to the service, and looked as demure as cats that bask in front of a warm fire. So the service went on until the time came for reading out the banns of such folk as were to be married, and then indeed I felt that every eye in the church was upon us, and that the ploughboys in the dark corners under the belfry were smiling and the village girls laughing. As for me, I know not how I looked, but I professed to be mightily interested in Rose’s Prayerbook, while poor Ben, after turning red and then white, finally folded his arms and fixed his eyes desperately on a certain corner of the roof, until Parson Drumbleforth had made an end of our names for the third and last time, and went forward to the next part of the service.

Now, after morning prayer and sermon was over, and Holy Communion had been celebrated with such ceremonies as they use on Easter Day, we went out into the churchyard, and were there joined by Jack Drumbleforth, who brought us a message from his father to the effect that we must dine with him at the Vicarage, which invitation we straightway accepted. So Jack had us into the best parlour, where the Vicar kept his books, and his father shortly appearing in his cassock and gown made us heartily welcome and gave us good advice upon our future enterprises, until Mistress Deborah called us to dinner. After the meal was over we amused ourselves with various matters until the time for afternoon service, when we all went to church again, Ben this time looking as bold as brass, and carrying himself with exceeding great dignity. And towards the end of the afternoon we walked homewards across the fields with many good and holy thoughts in our minds, which had been prompted by the influences of that great day. And there was only one regret in my heart, namely, that my dear father and mother were not there to see our happiness, but were lying side by side in their quiet graves in the churchyard which we had just left.

So the day had passed well enough until then, and it went better in the evening, when Rose and I went for a long walk across our fields, and talked, as lovers will talk, of past and present and future. We were happy enough, and I doubt not Ben and Lucy were the same, for they seemed on good terms with themselves when we went back home. The girls went early to bed that night, for there were many matters to be attended to in the morning. Ben and I therefore were left to ourselves by nine o’clock, and for a good half-hour we sat staring at the fire with never a word to say.

“Heigho!” sighed Ben at last. “I wish it were tomorrow! I cannot rest for thinking of it. What are you going to do, Will?”

For I had risen and was going towards the door.

“I am going for a ride in the moonlight, Ben. ’Tis better than sitting over the fire and hearing thee sigh like a furnace.”

“Marry, and a good notion, too. Lend me a horse, and I will go with thee.”

We made fast the house-door, and, going to the stables, saddled and bridled our horses and rode away into the meadows. The moon had risen over the woods, and everything was filled with a silver radiance. Spring as it was, there was yet a slight touch of frost in the night air, and the keenness of it seemed delightful as we put the horses to a canter and went merrily across the land. Here and there a hare or a rabbit scudded out of our way; now a fox was roused from his couch and made off for the woods. Ben’s spirits rose as we dashed along, and he laughed and sang until the woods echoed back his voice. Presently we left the meadows, and went into the darkness of the long wood that stretches across country from Stapleton to Went Vale. There all was still and silent, save when some animal, fox, badger, or hare, broke cover and hurried away, or an owl, perched in a dead tree, uttered its dismal note. The trees were thick overhead, but here and there the moonlight flickered through some opening, and fell trembling on the bridle-path which we were traversing.

“Ah!” said Ben, “I am somewhat fond of my bed as a usual thing, but this is better than sleep. Come, let us spur up our steeds for another gallop.”

So away we went under the dark roof of the woods until we had passed two miles of them and found ourselves in the high-road that leads from Darrington to Smeaton. We drew rein and looked round us.

“There is Castle Hill,” said Ben.

I looked at the pile of buildings rising above us to our left. I had never set eyes on the place since the night when Philip Lisle and I visited it in search of Dennis and found him flown. I had desired nothing so much as to see it and its master when I rode away from Peterborough; nay, not even my own homestead and those it sheltered. But now my passion was dead, for Rupert Watson was beyond my reach. The Almighty vengeance had descended upon him in no scant measure.

“They say Rupert’s madness increaseth,” said Ben. “His nephew hath come to manage matters, and is doubtless whole and sole master now. They say, too, that⁠—”

“My God, Ben!” I cried suddenly. “What is that? Look⁠—by the gate of the fold.”

Out of the gate right before us came a figure all in white, leading a gray horse by the bridle. My blood turned chill as I watched it, it looked so ghostly in the moonlight. As we stood rooted to the spot the figure leaped to the horse’s back and came across the paddock in our direction.

“Will!” said Ben. “ ’Tis Rupert Watson! He hath risen from his bed⁠—see, he hath his nightclothes on⁠—and has come a-riding in his madness. A blind man riding! See, ’tis the old gray horse he used to ride to market.”

“And it is blind, too,” I whispered back. “It hath been blind this two years. Ben, what shall we do? Must we not stop him and rouse his friends?”

“Hush!” said Ben. “Make no sound⁠—let us see what he is after.”

We stood silent and breathless at the roadside until that ghostly pair were close upon us. Then we saw that it was indeed Rupert Watson, clad in his nightclothes, with his white hair and beard falling about his face, and his sightless eyes burning with a fierce light. I shut my eyes and shivered, for the sight was a terrible one⁠—a blind man riding a blind horse!

He passed us at a yard’s distance, chattering and muttering to himself and the horse. When he had got to a little distance we turned our horses and followed him on the soft grass. In this way we rode up the hill. When we reached the summit we found the blind horse and its blind, mad rider standing on the highest bit of road, with their heads turned across the land as if they could see. Perhaps they had been used in other days to come there and gaze at the view. For before them in the moonlight stretched a long, level piece of moorland, nearly a mile across, with neither wood nor hedge to bar their progress, and at its furthest limit a great drop of a hundred feet over Smeaton Crag.

“What are they doing⁠—they can see naught?” whispered Ben fearfully, as we drew near. “Hark⁠—how he raves, Will!”

Rupert Watson had risen in his saddle and was shouting and gesticulating with fierce words and motions.

“A last ride, good Greyfoot!” he shouted. “A last ride together across the land. Let all the ghosts, and the dead men, and the devils of hell follow us. On! on!”

He drove his spur into the blind horse’s side as he screamed out the last word. The horse neighed, rose on its hind feet, and then darted across the land like a mad thing, its rider shouting and yelling.

“Ride, Ben, ride!” I cried, and drove both spurs into Captain’s sides. “Ride, man! The Crag! They will be over the Crag!”

Never in all my life did I ride as I rode that night in the moonlight after the awful figures that went before, screaming and yelling like demons of hell. The wind flew by me and cut my face, the horse shivered and quivered as I drove the spurs again and again into his sides; Ben, urging his steed with voice and whip, was left behind and out of sight in a minute. But not a yard did we gain on the mad rider and his mad horse. On, on, on they went like the wind. I rose in my stirrups and shouted after them, and still they flew forward. And then suddenly they came to the smooth, broad surface of the Crag, and beyond it the deep blackness of the valley, and beyond that the village of Smeaton sleeping in the moonlight across the vale. The awful figures in front abated nothing of their speed, but were over the Crag like a flash of lightning and lost in the abyss below.

I pulled up my own panting and suffering beast, and, drawing near to the Crag, laid myself along the ground and looked over. Far beneath me lay the gray horse and its rider, and beyond them the tiny Went ran babbling by with the moonbeams dancing on its rippling waters.

Thus came Rupert Watson to his end.

It was long past sunrise when I rose on the morning of my wedding-day, for the excitement of the previous night’s adventure and the task of carrying Rupert Watson home had wearied me no little, and I had slept as soundly as a tired dog. When I went downstairs all was bustle and hurry in our house, for various female acquaintances of the family had arrived and were already busied in dressing the brides, which matter seemed likely to be a long operation, judging from the importance they all gave to it. As for Ben Tuckett, he had been up and about for an hour or two, and was busy studying his attire in the mirror when I found him, for he had taken exceeding great pains in making himself fine.

“I thought thou wert going to sleep forever,” said he, as I came behind him. “What, man, ’tis nine o’ the clock now, and we are to start for church at ten. Had we not best be seeing to our horses?”

“Time enough for that, Ben, in an hour. As for my horse, he will not be able to go out. Last night’s work took too much out of him for that.”

“Alack!” said Ben. “I have been dreaming of it all night. Never again shall we see such a sight as that. ’Twas no pleasant matter to be engaged in on the eve of a man’s wedding.”

“Have you told the girls of it?” I inquired.

“Yea, they and I were down here eating our breakfast by seven o’clock and I told them the whole story,” answered Ben. “I feared lest they should hear of it elsewhere. All the guests will be full of it, thou wilt see, when they come hither.”

Then he fell to work smoothing his fine coat and arranging and rearranging his neckcloth, and staring at himself in the mirror, so I left him and went to see that all things were in order for the marriage-feast, which was to be held when we came back from church. Now, we had no room in the house large enough for this, and we had therefore had one of the granaries swept and garnished for the occasion, and there the maids were laying out the feast under the orders of Mistress Deborah, who had come over to give us the benefit of her experience for that day. From the granary I went to the stables, where I found Jacob Trusty, who was busied in decorating all the horses with gay-coloured ribbons. Jacob himself was very fine, for he had gotten himself new garments from the tailor, and wore a hat with a great plume in it, which was extravagance I never knew him guilty of before. Now, I no sooner appeared at the stable door than Jacob seized me by the hand and greeted me warmly, and gave me his fervent blessing, with a wish that I might live long and happily and see my children’s children around me. No more earnest wish had I that day than this of Jacob’s, for he meant every word of it.

“ ’Tis a great day this, lad,” said Jacob, still busied with his ribbons. “I could die happy now that thou art taking thyself a wife. However, let me see thy son before I die. Then shall I have known four generations of Dales. Only one regret have I this day, lad, namely, that thy father and thy mother are not alive to see it.”

“That is all that troubles me, Jacob.”

“We cannot have all we would in this world,” said he. “I doubt not they are better off where they are, lad. Master Benjamin hath been telling me of what ye were at last night. Did I not tell thee, William, long ago, that thy father’s murderers would reap the fruit of their misdeeds? Thou seest how it hath come about. When I spoke our house was full of woe and death; today it is full of joy and life, and Rupert Watson lieth yonder dead, and there is none left of his name. He and his have received ample reward for their sins.”

There was yet another task I had before me ere I returned to the house to receive the guests, who were already arriving. I took a spade and went to the corner of the garden where, many a year before, I had buried the little box containing Philip Lisle’s guinea and the primrose which Rose had given me at my first parting from her. I soon brought the box to light, and opened it and took out the guinea and the flowers, which, because the box was of lead and airtight, were still preserved. There was the primrose which she had given me down in Went Vale, and with it the rose she added to it years after. Faded as they were, I pinned them carefully in my coat, and so went back to the house to look for Ben.

By that time there had already arrived a considerable number of our guests, who were all very gaily attired, and had decorated their horses with ribbons. Now, too, came Jack Drumbleforth, who immediately constituted himself master of the ceremonies, and set to work to marshal everybody into his or her proper place. By the time I had gone round and shaken hands with everybody it was ten o’clock, and time to set out for the church. Then came the brides from their chamber, and all the women ran to see them in the parlour, and Ben and I wanted to see them too, but were prevented by Jack, who vowed that we should not set eyes upon them until they joined us at the altar. So we were forced to be content, and went out to our horses with our friends, and were duly arranged in a grand procession by Jack and Tom Thorpe. First of all rode twelve young farmers, my friends, whose horses were gaily decorated with ribbons and flowers; then came Ben and myself; after us followed several other of our friends, all similarly mounted and decorated, and after them rode Jack Drumbleforth and Tom Thorpe, escorting the brides, who rode on pillions behind them, and these were followed by four young gentlemen, escorting four young ladies, who were to act as maids to Rose and Lucy; and winding up the procession came Jacob Trusty and Timothy Grass, mounted on my two best carthorses, and carrying great boughs of green stuff, so that the whole affair was quite magnificent, and delighted Ben so greatly that he sat his horse like an emperor.

Now, when we got into the village street at Darrington, we found that the folks there had been very busy since early morning, and had prepared us such a welcome as showed that they wished us well. For there was a great arch of green stuff across the high-road at the inn, and another at the entrance to the churchyard, and the church porch was gay with flowers. Here there was a great concourse of people gathered together, and we were saluted with right hearty cheers as we left our horses and walked into the church, where Parson Drumbleforth waited, book in hand, to receive us in the presence of a congregation which filled every corner. So Ben and I took up our places, and our friends stood round us, and presently appeared Jack and Tom leading the brides, and the Vicar began the solemn service that was to make us one for life. And when he came to that part where it is necessary that someone should give the woman to the man, I stayed him and beckoned Jacob Trusty to come forward, and it was Jacob’s hand that put my wife’s in mine. So the service went on, and presently the last words were said, and we went out into the sunlight with the bells clashing and clanging joyously from the old tower above.

Now, we had no sooner emerged from the porch with our wives than we were surrounded by the crowd and greeted with such warmth as deeply touched us. Then Ben and I threw away all our small money for the children to scramble for, and sent more to the ringers in the belfry, so that they might refresh themselves and ring their merriest. And all this done, we mounted our horses and reformed our procession to return home, but now our wives rode at the head with us, and Parson Drumbleforth, very fine in his best cap and cassock and silver-buckled shoes, rode at our side on his white mare. So we returned to Dale’s Field and were greeted with much affection by those who had remained behind, and I lifted Rose from my horse and took her across the threshold for the first time as mistress of my house.

Then followed the wedding-feast, whereat almost every friend we had was present, and the tables were crowded. Whether Ben or I felt most proud I know not, but he did often say in after-years that I looked as if I had conquered a city and won a rich treasure⁠—as indeed I had. As for him, he plucked up his courage wonderfully now that the ordeal was over, and laughed and joked with everyone, and made a speech that caused everybody to laugh exceedingly. We had plenty of speechmaking indeed, for the Vicar had some grave remarks to make, and Jack some humorous ones, and old Jacob, whom I had caused to sit near me in an honoured place, addressed a few words to us, and there were toasts proposed and spoken to until everybody’s health had been drunk. But there was one toast drunk in solemn silence and received with sad feelings by all of us, and that was to the memory of my dear father and mother and of Philip Lisle.

When the feast was over nothing would content Jack but a dance, and very soon he had sent for the fiddler and was arranging matters for country dances on the lawn before the house. So all the young folks danced and the old ones sat round the garden and watched them, and whenever the fiddler stopped playing we heard the joyous jangle of the bells ringing out across the fields. So the afternoon wore away to evening, and at last the shadows fell across garden and meadow, and our guests prepared to depart. And first of all Ben saddled his horse and made ready the pillion, and brought forth his wife, between whom and Rose there was much embracing, and they, too, rode away, with half a dozen cavaliers to escort them to Master Ben’s house at Pontefract. Then followed the others, in twos and threes and fours, their laughter ringing out happily along the highway. And last of all went Jack and his father, with many a wish for our happiness, and many a pressure of our hands, and we stood at the garden-gate, listening to the dying away of their horses’ feet in the distance, and to the last merry peal of the bells in the church tower.

The last sound died away, the bells ceased with a final note of triumph; the twilight deepened, and the moon rose above the dark woods. We stood for a moment and looked across the familiar fields; then, hand in hand, we went into our house and closed the door and left the land sleeping in the moonlight.

And now if I had my own way I would add nothing more to this history, because in all such matters that I have read there was no more written after the marriage of the folks most concerned. But my daughter Dorothy, who knows more of these things than I, insists that we must add somewhat to our narrative, because those who read it will want to know what became of all the people we have mentioned. Wherefore I must set down some particulars of them, according to her desire. Certainly I cannot say all that I might, because it is now near forty years since I was married to my dear wife, and in that time there have been all manner of things happen to me and my friends. But some particulars I can give, and will now proceed with my task.

And first as to Ben and Lucy. It was commonly said that there were no people in all England who were so exactly suited to each other as these two, for they seemed to understand each other to the smallest degree, and never had contrary thoughts on any matter. What Lucy liked Ben liked; what Ben wanted Lucy was sure to want. So they walked the path of life, each thinking the other to be well-nigh perfect. They had no less than twelve children⁠—five boys and seven girls⁠—all of whom lived. Ben grew stout and rosy, and got prouder every time Lucy presented him with a new infant. He did well in his business and made money. Then he became a Councillor, and afterwards an Alderman. And in due time matters so prospered with him that they made him Mayor of his native town, and a prouder man I never saw than he was on the day of his election. He continued to grow stouter and rosier, and of more importance, until he died at the age of sixty, leaving Lucy to mourn him with sincere affection, which she did for nearly ten years, when she went to join him in a better world.

As for Parson Drumbleforth, he lived many years after my wedding, and remained hale and hearty to the very end. Until the last week of his life he was used to come out to Dale’s Field now and then and talk with us of the old bygone days. He was invariably accompanied by Jack, who had remained at home studying with his father, and who was, as the Vicar said, very comforting to his declining years. Now, upon the Easter Sunday of 1658 the Vicar had celebrated the Holy Communion in his parish church, and had kneeled down to make his thanksgiving, at which devotion he was so long engaged that Jack went to his side and touched him, only to find that the good old man was dead and had gone to finish his prayers in heaven. So then there came another Vicar to Darrington, and Jack said farewell to us and rode away to London. It was many years before I saw him again, and then he stayed two nights at Dale’s Field on his way north, and told us that he was now become a clergyman and was going to a living in the North Riding. Likewise he had printed a little book of verses which had gained him some fame, and he gave a copy to Rose. So he went to his living and now abideth there, being an old man and a faithful minister, and amuseth himself with his garden and his verse-making, having never married.

Jacob Trusty, who was as true and loyal a friend as ever man had, lived until he was eighty-five years of age, and when he died we wept his loss as sincerely as if he had been a very near relation. For years before he died he did no work, but sat in his armchair by the fireside in our great kitchen. When my first boy was born, which was about a year after our marriage, Jacob’s delight knew no bounds, and from that moment he gave over attending the cows and took to the chimney-corner, so that he might watch the baby. He would sit there and rock the cradle for hours, and for the boy’s sake he recalled many an old song, and sang it in his cracked voice as the lad sat on his knee. He saw more children of mine before he died, but it was my eldest son, William, that he worshipped, and the boy’s hand held his when he died. I think that in him Jacob used to see me, for I often found them talking as Jacob and I had talked in the old days. It was a beautiful spring evening when Jacob died, and he had just said to me that though he had seen a good deal, he had never set eyes on aught so fair as our own acres. Then he laid his head back on the pillow, and holding my boy’s little hand in his own for they had carried the lad up to say “Good night”⁠—he fell asleep, to wake in another world. And in him I lost one who had loved me and mine with a love which no words can do justice to.

And now for myself and my dear, dear wife, whom truly I believe to have grown in every grace and virtue as the years have gone by. We have had six children, three boys and as many girls, and so far God hath taken none of them from us. In all our married life there has been no cloud, for we have been so happy in our love that nothing has seemed powerful enough to touch us. The years have come and gone, and every day she has grown dearer, and, as I think, more beautiful. It is true that she is now old, and that her once dark hair is gray; but to me who have loved her since she was a child, she has never changed. As I write these last words she is walking in the orchard with my eldest daughter, who is the very image of what her mother was many a year ago, and as I watch her my heart thanks God for His mercy in having given me so good and gentle a companion throughout my life. Truly, indeed, I have been favoured not a little. I have had good friends, and loving friends, and there has been more of sunshine than of storm in my life. I have seen my children grow up around me, and at this moment I can hear the voices of my grandchildren playing under the apple-trees in my orchard. So let me bring this story of my life to an end by thanking God for all that He has done for me and mine, and above all for the true and gentle love that has been my guiding-star from first to last, that has made this world a heaven to me, and has never ceased to point my heart to all that is good, and holy, and eternal.

Endnotes

1. William Dale’s fears on this ground were ultimately realized. There is now no trace of house or farmstead on the spot where he and his forefathers lived, and their acres are swallowed up in the neighbouring estates. Nevertheless, so strongly do old associations cling to the soil which reared them, that the meadows and closesthere are called Dale’s Fields to this day. ↩

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When Charles the First Was King
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